Black Light

The sound of the propeller was dull through the large and clunky orange earmuffs on your head, like bass through walls. You weren't plugged in to whatever channel that allowed Mr. Adams and his associate—a man you'd never seen before—to talk to each other through the small mics that hovered beside their faces off of their own earmuffs, and you suspected that the rest of the muscle team wasn't either by the looks of boredom on their faces.

Slowly the city faded away, the soft glow of lights replaced by stars and hills, the occasional town passing by underneath in the distance. And then you were landing on cracked tarmac, pine trees surrounding the area, a dark square building peaking over the top of the treeline in the distance. The helicopter touched down with a surprisingly gentle thump, and then everyone was unbuckling and taking off their earmuffs as the sound died down, hopping down to the ground out of the open door. The three bodyguards exited first, followed by Mr. Adams and his associate. You unbuckled finally, hands shaky. You paused to check your belt, make sure everything was still in place, and disembarked as well.

About thirty feet away, Mr. Adams and his associate were shaking hands with a few men in suits. The night vision filter showed you that they were nearly as immaculately dressed as Mr. Adams, and quite serious, though enthusiastic. You couldn't hear what they were saying over the slow whoosh of the now quieting propellers above you, but you didn't miss the way that two of the four stopped and stared at you as you approached. For each of the four men there was an additional guard accompanying.

“Mr. Adams,” one of them said, clearly the highest ranking. “Вы не сообщите мне вы были в ... Одаренных прав с вами.”

“Она была с нами в течение некоторого времени. Господа, я хотел бы представить черный свет.” Mr. Adams replied, smiling broadly with cold eyes, gesturing at you as a presenter might gesture to a special guest mounting the stage.

You didn't know what they were saying, but you knew it was Eastern European, likely Russian. You stopped a few feet behind Mr. Adams, crossing your arms, feet shoulder width apart. Power stance, you thought. Don't let them see how freaked out you are right now.

Fortunately for you, the Russians looked impressed.

“I am impressed,” the leader confirmed, accent almost comically thick. “Big secret to keep, having your own hero to do your bidding.”

“Without secrets, we would be out of business, Mr. Kuznetsov,” Mr. Adams associate replied.

“How well put, Mr. Jones,” Kuznetsov replied.

“Я уверен, вы все жаждем видеть какие вы пришли все это путь для. Пожалуйста, таким образом.” Mr. Adams gestured towards the looming building just behind the tree line, and the group began walking along a small gravel road beside the landing strip, which then connected to a larger road and some sort of parking lot just around a cluster of trees. Everything was completely surrounded by tall chain link fences topped with barbed wire. You had a feeling it might be electric, as well. The gravel road led straight to the front of the large warehouse building, broad and flat in shape. There was a single large garage door on the face, along with a smaller set of double doors to the side. It was through these doors that your group went, three guards followed by Mr. Adams, Mr. Jones, Mr. Kuznetsov, and the three other unnamed Russians. Behind them was you, walking along in your heavy boots, arms clasped behind your back to hide your nervousness, and behind you the other four guards. It was quite the impressive parade.

Down a few hallways you went surrounded by the heavy thumping of boots and the soft tap of mens dress shoes underneath the conversation you couldn't understand. Kuznetsov seemed to be domination the Russian side of the dialogue, the others only speaking up once or twice total before you arrived at your destination, stopping before a pair of steel doors.

Вы не возражаете ужасно, если охранники держаться за пределами?” Mr. Jones turned towards Kuztnetsov, his tone polite but quite clear that there was only one correct answer.

Kuznetsov paused, only briefly, before turning towards his guards. “Остаться здесь.”

The four Russian guards saluted Kuznetsov and turned away from the door, as if taking up watch. Mr. Adams opened the door, and the six men stepped through. Mr. Jones gave you a look, as if to say 'Well? Are you coming?'

You quickly followed behind, hands still clasped firmly behind your back. The doors slid shut behind you.

You were in a large, but admittedly clean, concrete room. Suspended from the ceiling in the center was The Heart, now completed, from Noble's lab oh so long ago.

“Ah, Mr. Adams! Mr. Jones! How wonderful to see you,” called out a familiar voice. “I see our guests have arrived.” You looked towards the source to find Professor Noble, tablet in hand and white lab coat spreading behind her as she strode up to the group. She raised her eyebrows when she saw you. “And is this the infamous Black Light?”

“Yes, it is, Professor Noble. I would like to introduce you today to our guests...”

You tuned out the introductions carried out in English, both accented and otherwise, as you gazed up at The Heart. It's exposed wiry mass was no longer exposed and wiry, it's surface now covered in smooth silver plates. It no longer carried the shape of a heart, and now more closely resembled a giant silver egg, with a window on the bottom, facing the floor. Looking closer, you saw that the window was actually the windshield of a cockpit.

“Gentlemen, what you are looking at is the Mark One, all new all improved A.I.M. rendition of the Hydra-Bot. It has been my personal project for many years to construct a vehicle strong enough to withstand the collective power of the Avengers, and strong enough to take each of them down if put under control of a good enough pilot. It is fully submersion-capable, heat-resistant, pressure-resistant, and the hull can theoretically withstand the force of the Hulk himself. Though, being the Mark One and seeing as we have no Hulk to test it on, that is not yet a guarantee.”

You gazed in awe at the sleek silver mass before you, barely registering the impressed Russian muttering around you.

“But how does it move? The original Hydra-Bots had legs, this vehicle looks like a floating egg.”

Noble opened her mouth, but Mr. Adams interrupted. “Of course, we weren't expecting to have you sold right away. We will be having a demonstration, shortly, of the new A.I.M.-Bot's abilities.” Mr. Adams said, nodding at Noble who nodded back and scurried off. “If you gentlemen would be so good as to accompany me and Mr. Jones back outside?”

The group made it's way out back of the warehouse where a large training ground was spread out, with a few more buildings off to the side in the trees.

Professor Noble joined the group behind a large panel of bulletproof glass, speaking into a walkie-talkie.

“Audience ready behind shield, Mark One may enter the field, over.”

“Roger that, Mark One powered on and entering the field, over,” came a crackly voice through the black and yellow speaker on the walkie-talkie in Noble's hand.

All of you turned to look to the right as the sound of a large garage door sliding open echoed across the field, though you could see nothing past the glare of the floodlights. Suddenly, loud whirring and thumping, like a giant robotic beast with two many legs approached, and the Mark One A.I.M.-Bot appeared on the edge of the roof of the warehouse, and kept walking past the edge and down the wall with ease. Approaching the ground, the legs zoomed back into the body of the shell and it dropped at least twenty-five feet to the ground, rolling in a blur to the edge of the demonstration field. The legs reappeared, shooting out of the body of the shell and raising it from the ground.

“Beginning agility demonstration, over,” came the crackly voice, and the A.I.M.-Bot started running, jumping, and rolling with intense momentum across the field, dodging equipment and climbing walls with tremendous ease.

“Begin firepower demonstration, over,” Noble spoke into the walkie talkie. The A.I.M.-Bot, mid roll, immediately stopped in it's tracks without so much as a jolt, turning around to face a number of targets you had somehow missed at one end of the field.

The pilot began cycling through a number of weapons hidden inside the bot's smooth outer shell, starting with the smallest and building up to a rocket launcher.

“End firepower demonstration, over.”

“Roger that, over.”

“That's all?” One of the shorter Russians asked, incredulous.

“I cannot safely display the rest of the Mark One's abilities here, sir, without risking all of our lives and the entire compound,” Noble said back, a note of pride in her voice. “The Mark One A.I.M.-Bot has the destructive capabilities of at least three Iron Man suits, for perspective.”

“Where did you get the design for the tentacles?”

“I drew some inspiration from the recently departed Doctor Octavius, a dear friend of mine. His pioneer work developing an efficient and precise brain-computer interface is a large part of the basis for the piloting technique of Mark One. I made some improvements, of course, but the brain-computer interface is the main part of what makes the Mark One such an efficient and agile vehicle. The only function that must be carried out manually is the fire button.”

“У вас есть несколько действительно замечательных ученых на работу здесь, Mr. Adams,” Kuznetsov said, voice light with excitement. “Это будет большая честь для партнера с вашей организацией.”

The men all shook hands, and the Kuznetsov shook Noble's hand as well.

“Congratulations, Professor. You have just secured A.I.M. the allies of a lifetime,” Mr. Jones congratulated Noble, just as Mr. Adams and the Russians began to walk back to the warehouse after watching the A.I.M.-Bot climb back up the side of the warehouse and disappear.

Mr. Jones left to follow Mr. Adams and the Russians, but you lingered behind with Professor Noble for a minute, who was checking her tablet.

“Professor-”

“What did you think, Y/l/n?” She looked at you, glancing up.

“It came out amazing. This is why our lab sessions have barely been happening?”

She positively beamed. “Thank you. And yes, I'm sorry. Between teaching, and this... But you're quite busy yourself, I hear, what with this and your new job with Stark.” She paused, looking over your shoulder. “You'd better go catch up with those men, now. I trust that I'll see you soon, if not in person then surely on TV.”

You nodded. “Bye, Professor.”

She waved you off and you jogged quickly over the pavement to the back of the group. The next few hours were spent in a conference room, Mr. Adams and the Russians drinking and presumably working out a deal while you stood menacingly in the corner, though you weren't sure. You didn't speak Russian.

“Again.” Barked the voice over the speakers.

You stood, panting, in the center of the training room, and began the drill over again, mind wandering as your muscle memory carried you through the movements. Punching, turning, kicking, jabbing with elbows. Secretly you imagined that you looked like an earthbender from Avatar: The Last Airbender, as you cycled yet again through the same series of blunt and powerful movements. You pretended that you weren't actually practicing moves to use on Iron Man, your new boss that you were secretly growing fond of. The whole trick Tony Stark into developing a familial soft-spot for you in order to bait him later if need be plan was starting to backfire, as much as you hated to admit it, you started to see him as a bit of a father figure. That was something you'd never had. You seemed to feel guiltier about your duplicitous plot than Harry, who had known Tony Stark much longer than you. Though, of course, you shouldn't be surprised, as the outcome of everything was far more personal for Harry than it was for you, in a way. Harry actually wanted Spider-Man dead, you just wanted to take down Spider-Man in order to keep Stacy, and especially Peter, safe from harm.

“If we're going to let you train with Venom, you need to drill everything so deep that you have to make an effort to even fuck it up. Again.” Came the voice of your new martial arts trainer.

You took a deep measured breath, spinning around and punching a fist through the air, beginning the drill again.