Volatile

My Thursday started very normal, thank you very much.

{Normal for me, anyways.)

My dad, my boyfriend, and the rest of the merry band of superheroes were out investigating a rapidly growing terrorist cell down in Florida, which was a short flight by supersonic jet. I was supposed to be at a meeting, but it turned out that the other guy, an Eliseo Franco – Italian business man – had 'prior engagements' and 'would have to reschedule in two months'.

I didn't want to know what he was doing that would take two whole months, but at least it gave me a day off.

So I planted myself in the workshop, dragged out my bike, and slid under it to tweak a few things, enhance a few other things, and a small thing here and another there; not to mention it was covered in fingerprints and desperately needed a polish.

And everything was going just swimmingly until some song by The Ramones was interrupted by the one – and only – Jarvis. "Ma'am? You have an incoming transmission."

"Mm?" I remove a screwdriver from where I was holding it in between my teeth. "Where from, J?"

"…it's untraceable, ma'am."

I frown slightly as I slide out from under my bike, tapping a screen to lower it back down onto the ground and keep it there before making my way over to my desk chair. "Do you know what it is?"

There's a slight pause. "No, the content is locked to all but you."

"Okay…" I lean back slightly in my chair. "So whoever sent it must either be computer literate or know someonethat is." I sigh. "Play it on monitor 7."

"Yes, ma'am."

I grab one of the screens nearest to me as it's cleared of all data, which was replaced by a video.

The footage starts, the screen lightening to reveal a man with buzz cut black hair, dark brown eyes, and mocha brown skin. "MissStark."

I frown at him. "Who the hell are you?"

The man chuckles darkly, sending alarm bells off in my head. "Now, now, Stark, where are your manners?"

I paste on a fake smile. "I'm sorry, can you please tell me who the freaking hell you are?"

The man glares at me. "If you insist…my name is Ansari. Or, at least, that is what you will be calling me. I am a part of the Blood Moon. I trust that you have heard of us-"

I frown – the name sounded familiar, but I couldn't put my finger on it.

"-because we have heard so much about you. You and your team of cretins."

I stay silent despite the barb, wanting to know who this man – Ansari – was and why he had called me.

"The Blood Moon is an honorable organization. We serve only to do what is right. Those who stand in our way shall feel our wrath-"

"And burn in the rotting pits of hell, yadda, yadda, yadda," I cut off his rambling, twisted-patriotic monologue. "Old news, buddy. I'm not interested."

"Oh, but you will be," he smirks. "Once you learn that we have something you desperately need. Or…six things, actually."

Six things…crap. I lean forward in my chair. "Is that so?"

He nods, a sick, gleeful twinkle in his eyes. "It is, Miss Stark. I have to say, they are not as useless as they seem. The redheaded one is feisty, just how we like them…Mr. Stark is incredibly irritating though; maybe we should squish him like the pest he is…" he trails off in a bored, nonchalant tone.

I suppress a growl as I stare him down. "Where? Where do you have them?"

I wasn't really surprised when he laughed. "Oh, no, why would I tell you that? But, since I'm nice-"

I snort quietly. Nice? Right, and Natasha's making daisy crowns.

"-I will give you this little piece. You will not be able to hide behind your metal mask, Miss Stark, because the energy would not have made it one inch inside."

And then I'm left staring at an empty hologram.

"Jarvis?" I whisper shakily.

"Ma'am?"

"Okay…" I rub a hand over my face. "So…this Ansari guy has the team. Has Dad."

"Yes, ma'am, unfortunately," the Ai replies, his voice almost sounding sorrowful.

I nod and bite my lip, leaning back to study the ceiling. "What do you think he meant when he said that I would 'not be able to hide behind your metal mask,' because 'the energy would not have made it one inch inside'?"

"Well, ma'am, the most common deflection type for electronic devices is the Electromagnetic Pulse, or EMP. Other types include magnetic fields and other force field technologies which have not be on the consumer market yet."

"So you're saying it's probably an EMP?"

"Yes, ma'am," he confirms.

"And how do my shields look on the suits?"

"Almost nonexistent, ma'am," Jarvis almost-sighs. "The after effects of the battle in Connecticut last month."

I groan softly as I remember the battle that not only completely disabled the shields on the Betta III, which I had been in at the time, but also sent a virus over the network the suits use to interconnect, therefore purging all the other shields too. "So there's no suit tech? At all?"

"None suitable for a rescue mission involving these circumstances, Miss Stark."

I swear softly and slam a hand on the table as I grit my teeth. "How's the backup looking?"

"There is none, ma'am, seeing as Sir and the Avengers are the subject of this operation."

"No-freaking-way, Jarvis." I snap at the ceiling. "I had no idea. What I meant was the obscure resources. War Machine. Falcon. Anyone like that?"

There's a slight hesitation as he searches for the two mentioned. "No, ma'am. Colonel Rhodes is currently on a top-secret mission in a location that appears to be African and Mr. Wilson is currently assisting Dr. Richards and his team in another dimension."

"Good god," I groan, "my luck is utter crap. Do we have any other options?"

"No, Miss Stark, I'm afraid not."

"So I'm stuck with saving all of their sorry butts," I surmise.

"It would appear so, ma'am."

I huff and spin myself in the chair. "Fine. Prepare plan B-19-16-1-18-18-15-23."

There's a slight hesitation again. "Ma'am, are you sure-"

"Yes. Now, Jarvis, we don't know how much time we have."

"…yes, of course, ma'am. It is being assembled in lab 6."

I nod curtly. "Thank you. And while I'm busy with that, I need you to find that compound. I don't care where you have to look, J, just get it done – hack first and seek forgiveness later, you know the drill."

"Of course, ma'am."

.

About an hour later, Jarvis informs me that, out of all the world's population, he's found six heat signatures meeting those of the team. They're in Jennings, Florida; a small Northern town near the border with Georgia. It would take me approximately six hours at top speed on my bike – which was about two hundred miles per hour – to get there from here.

I nod silently as I swipe a card that allows me access to lab 6 – a smaller, almost unused lab on the thirteenth floor, which nobody really used at all (superheroes were oddly superstitious); in other words, the perfect place to prefect a whole new alias.

Plan B-19-16-1-18-18-15-23, or Sparrow for short, was my back up plan. My dad had one too – just in the form of almost forty or so suits.

The problem with that was that if one suit failed for some reason, his backup plan just got kicked out the window with it because those failed too.

So, instead, I created something else, something with as little technology as possible. It relied on my skill as a combatant, using guns and knives and armor.

Don't get me wrong – I was still Iron Beta. And proud. And I would still dropkick you into next month if you insulted my family, team, or tech.

But in the rare, rare, extremely rare instances in which I couldn't be Iron Beta because of technical difficulties, I would be Sparrow instead.

The suit I had made for myself – which was now resting in a glass case across the room – started with a long sleeved black shirt and pants that covered about half my ankles. This layer was snug but not too tight as to restrict my movement. They were slightly thicker than the black spandex undersuits Dad and I wore, but still flexible. Padding was also placed on my chest to hide the telltale glow of the reactor.

The next layer was the armor, still pure black – a mixture of Kevlar, adamantium sheeting, and all infused with steel. It could very well be the strongest cloth on earth, but it was still only ¾ of an inch thick and flexible enough for me to roll up like a newspaper. I had padding on my knees, elbows, stomach, upper back, shoulders (like epaulets), the outside of my forearms, and from my collar bone down to the curve of my chest. The armor also formed a stiff yet flexible two inch collar to protect my neck.

The final pieces were the accessories –the sunglasses, belt, and boots.

The sunglasses looked like the ones Clint wore – slim and wraparound, black with slightly purple lenses. Mine, however, had a targeting system and translator for written languages.

The belt was made up of tiny pockets (like Batman's utility belt, only so much cooler). Pockets that housed four grappling hook that collapsed to about four inch long rods, extra magazines, tiny but powerful flashlights, extra earpieces, a Taser, batteries, and two gun and knife holsters, one of each on each hip.

The boots were a matte black, made of thick leather that reached just past my ankle. They had sound absorbing foam on the inside of the bottom, to aid in my steps being completely silent. Each shoe had a little secret compartment in the sole, made to hide various items that didn't need to be found.

Once I'm all suited up, I slip my pistols into their holsters on my hips and hide four knives in various spots.

"Jarvis? How do I look?"

"Positively terrifying, ma'am," he assures me, and if he didn't sound proud then I wasn't a Stark.

"Aw, thanks," I smirk, "you make my day. Now can you get my bike ready?"

"It's already loaded in it's storage compartment, ma'am."

"You're amazing, do you know that Jarvis?"

"Of course, Miss Stark."

Fifteen minutes later I'm speeding south on some rural backroad at nearly one hundred and fifty miles an hour, quickly approaching two hundred as I follow Jarvis' direction, which echoed inside my helmet.

I was Sparrow, and I had a mission.

Was I alone?

Yes.

Was I still only nineteen?

Yes.

Was I out for Ansari's blood?

Yes.