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"We have another number."

"Good morning to you too, Finch." John rounded the table laden with Finch's five computer screens, to where the smaller man had paused before the glass display board. Blue eyes drifted across a picture taped precisely over the large crack arcing down through the center of the pane. "Just one this time?" Instead of five?

Finch heard the unspoken question. He's good at that. Too good, for a man who had never been trained. "I assure you, Mr. Reese, that our last venture was not the norm," he said, just the slightest bit sour.

Explosions, mafia dons, Carter… being Carter. Coffee rolling richly over his tongue, John swallowed. "Seemed pretty typical to me." A fleck of white against the deep black of his sleeve caught his eye, and he flicked the speck of lint away.

Reaching up, Finch secured another sheet of paper just below the picture, thumb pressing scotch tape down firmly. "Let's hope it doesn't become so." Shifting right, the slighter man limped the short distance to his computer chair.

From the corner of one blue eye, John tracked his progress. Today's brown suit was ever-so-slightly looser than the usual cut, and a little older, from the wear at the hems; atypically, the smaller man had foregone his usual waistcoat. Stiff. Not moving as quickly as I've seen. It didn't bode well for the state of his employer's sleep the previous night. Given the outcome of the last set of numbers, not surprising. He'd have to wait to see if that was all it was.

Finch kept speaking as he walked. "Beyond the implications as to Elias's actions, I'm not sure we have the resources to adequately deal with multiple numbers on a near-daily basis."

Which reminds me. "Why was that?" John turned, eyes briefly skimming book-laden shelves before landing on his employer.

A pause. "What do you mean, Mr. Reese?" Finch didn't look at him.

Back to the board, John took another sip of coffee before continuing. "Well, Harold, your Machine could have given us Elias's number. It has before. But instead, it gave us the dons." Which was very interesting. Long fingers tensed briefly on the warm cup. "Now, there's no way the Machine could know all the dons were in danger and not know that Elias was the perpetrator." It had been near-immediately obvious, given their prior knowledge of Elias.

Finch settled into his chair, eyes flicking between monitors, hands coming to rest at the base of his primary keyboard. "You're saying the Machine chose to give us the dons' numbers rather than Elias's."

"I'm saying that the last time we got Elias's number, we confused our perpetrator for our victim. We wouldn't make that mistake again." The cup in his hand was noticeably lighter than it had been at the start of this conversation.

"But?" Finch had split his attention between three of the monitors, and their conversation. The steady clack of one of his keyboards became a soothing undertone to John's words.

Five steps brought him out of the enclosed nook that housed Finch's technology. John rested one hand against the wooden tabletop. "But it's a guarantee that Elias had more balls in the air than just his plan to consolidate – or eliminate – the dons. So the Machine knew we'd figure it out faster if it gave us all the victims, obviously connected, rather than making us take the time to pull apart all of Elias's schemes."

Not that having the time seemed to have made much difference in the end. Of the five numbers they had received, Elias had successfully eliminated four – two of which he accomplished after being imprisoned. Not including the collateral damage.

But that wasn't the point. Elias isn't predictable. Not precisely; not to John. What he was, was understandable. Which is just different enough to make a difference. At least when it came to human analysis, of necessity usually based on limited knowledge. But the Machine sees everything; it has to, to predict when people are going to be involved in violent crimes. That's the whole point.

But this was a step beyond connecting, beyond predicting. This was reasoning. The Machine was a computer. A vast, all-seeing, bank of code. Is that even possible?

Windows opened and minimized rapidly across the screens that held Finch's attention, even as characters appeared with every keystroke. John tracked the reflections, spotlessly mirrored in Harold's glasses.

His employer didn't bother to look up. "It's a program, Mr. Reese. Not a person. It calculates, analyzes, and compiles. It doesn't think."

"Are you sure?"

The smaller man finally twisted, as much as his fused cervical spine let him, to meet John's gaze. "To make the Machine do what I needed it to do, I had to teach it about people. But in order to teach it, I had to make it able to learn. And with learning, comes…." He paused, eyes down as he searched for a word.

"Evolution," John asserted.

That got him a flat stare. "I wouldn't put it quite that way."

"How would you put it, Finch?"

"Growing, Mr. Reese," Finch said gently.

Blue eyes met blue, neither conceding. "Semantics, Finch?"

Finch gazed at him, expression almost unreadable. Almost. Thinking. Good. Harold was a genius; the man's intelligence shone through even when his employer didn't mean it to. He had built the Machine, and in some ways, it was his child. That's the thing about kids. They're always surprising you.

He'd said his piece. "Our new number." John moved back to the board, tapping his index finger on the edge of the photo. "What's her story?"

"Elena Cardenas." When Finch pushed himself out of his chair and returned to the display board, he did so with more pictures in his hands.

"Sixty-three years old, living in a tenement at 44th and 11th, in Hell's Kitchen. Immigrated from Guatemala in 1978 with her husband Arcelio. He died in a car accident in 1994. She has three children, all grown and with families of their own. One moved upstate, another to Florida, and the last went back to Guatemala." Three pictures went up, of two men and a woman. The trio all looked more similar to one another than to Mrs. Cardenas, though John could see hints of her in the slope of noses, and the line of her daughter's chin. Finch's voice was quiet. "All the rest of her family is distant, and in Guatemala."

John assessed the main photo, cropped from a candid still of a church group. Small, slight, with fading hair that had once been dark and lines where years of laughter had marked her face. Thin lenses perched on her nose above a flash of bright red lipstick, with touches of gold hanging from her ears in thin hoops; a small cross visible high on her neck, where the top button of her flowered shirt was undone. Everything about her said harmless. "Any reason why the Machine gave us her number?"

"Nothing obvious," Finch murmured, smoothing down the last pieces of tape with one finger. "Her financials are extremely modest. She has no criminal history – not even any parking tickets, since she doesn't own a car." Short brown hair tipped in a nod. "No connections, not even remote ones, to any suspicious businesses. No online activity, computer or smartphone as far as I can tell. I should have all the information about her past in Guatemala within the next two hours. At the moment, I think it's safe to say she's more likely the victim than the perpetrator, in this instance."

The Agency had taught John that everyone had enemies – the numbers they worked had proven it. So who are hers? "Seems innocuous," he mused, eyes on the smiling face beaming out at them from the display board. "Who would want her dead?"

Finch didn't shrug – the fusing of his cervical spine precluded his body from moving in certain ways. "I suppose you'd better go find out."

A single glance told him everything he needed to know. "It didn't go well."

Fury clenched his teeth, muscles tightening around his eye and pulling at the faint scars stretching from the edge of his black eyepatch back toward his temple. "No, it did not."

Wheeling on one foot, the Director marched back down the corridor away from the conference room designated for WSC meetings. Coulson picked up his pace, a mere two steps behind. "I apologize, sir, if any of my actions complicated the situation."

Fury snorted, not slowing down. "It's not your actions that were the issue, Coulson. What's the status?"

"Nothing from the files retrieved from Nelson & Murdock," he pulled up the most recent reports on his tablet as he paced the Director. "They work quickly, I'll give them that."

The Director pressed a palm to an otherwise innocuous section of matte metal wall plating. Level 8 access. Coulson noted the location as a concealed panel slid open to reveal a deserted hallway terminating at an elevator's closed doors. Fury barely slowed. "It's likely that anything they had was minimal anyway."

"Even so. I'm sure there are notes we didn't find. The secretary in particular seemed…" Phil searched a moment for the right word to encapsulate the blend of nerves and confidence coming from the young blonde. "Competent."

"They know where he is." Fury stopped, shoulders slumping under his black shirt.

Pulling up alongside, Coulson risked a sideways glance. "Almost certainly."

"That's going to be a problem." Reluctance painted every word.

"Surely the World Security Council isn't going to have them brought in." Two lawyers fresh out of law school, starting up their own firm in Hell's Kitchen; and their secretary. Not an intimidating group, and not an obstacle to SHIELD's process – normally. Nelson has connections in higher places than immediately apparent. And Murdock, in lower.

Between the two of them, there was the potential for more problems than the norm. Ms. Page was less of a concern, but had something of a history of stirring up and squeaking out of trouble. Recruitment to Sci-Tech has been negatively impacted because of the buzz in the scientific community about SHIELD intervention for 084's; the last thing we need is to stir up the lawyers. A demographic typically difficult to intimidate and not shy about their opinions, with Murdock and Nelson demonstrably appearing to fall into that mold. Stir up enough Bar Associations across the states, get enough word generated… Not ideal.

But dealing with these two was still a significant distance away from those type of consequences.

Fury heaved a sigh, beginning to move once more. "I managed to convince the Council, given the profiles worked up, that that would be more trouble than it's worth, for now. But I won't be able to keep that from happening without results. General Ross's name came up as an individual able to get them."

The man had tracked Bruce Banner across two continents – and created the Abomination in his single-minded zeal. Give him a crack at potentially getting his hands on the only living sample of the successful super-soldier serum, rather than a knock-off… "That would be a disaster."

"Agreed. It's off the table, for now." The unconcern in Fury's voice was the same tone he'd had when discussing Stark's palladium poisoning; and just as false. "We need to keep it that way."

According to protocol… Phil kept his eyes on his tablet. "Persuasion would be the next viable option."

That got him a short laugh. "That might work better if we hadn't gone in and pissed them off by taking their files. For all the good that did us." The elevator opened soundlessly as they approached; Fury backed into a corner, hands braced on the rails.

Phil blanked out the tablet screen, looking ahead as the elevator rushed upwards. Fury remained staring down at the floor, mouth a thin line. Which leaves only one option. "We have passive surveillance in place. It would probably be best to give them some time to settle back into their routine before introducing a more active element." Not too much time, though, if the WSC is chomping at the bit.

"Mmm-hmmm." From the creases on his brow, Fury was running through names. "When is Agent Romanov's extraction?"

Phil frowned. That's a very particular skillset. "Six weeks, at most. Do we have that much time?" And why Natasha, out of all the agents available?

The elevator doors opened, disgorging them into a small entryway. The Director pressed his hand to the wall at waist-height, and a door slid open to the right, revealing a familiar office. Phil followed as his supervisor made his way to the desk, settling into the leather chair waiting there. Fury's good eye met Phil's gaze. "We're at the 48-hour mark. That timeframe alone has pushed this op down from Level 1 to Level 3, and I've convinced the World Security Council that we need to appropriately adjust our expectations for a more long-term retrieval."

"Hence Romanov?" He didn't disagree. But. "It's underutilizing a significant portion of her skills."

"That remains to be seen."

Phil held back a frown. What does he know that I don't? Nelson & Murdock was a small law firm barely scraping by, staffed by two lawyers remarkable only for their legal acumen at such a young age, and a secretary whose street smarts were the only thing that had kept her from an unfortunate end. I'll have to look into it more closely. For the Director to hint at even that much, there was significantly more going on under the surface than was immediately apparent.

Fury rested one hand on his desk, and leant back in his chair. "Slate Romanov for it on her extraction and debriefing. The setting's not unfamiliar to her, and Natalie Rushman has the appropriate qualifications."

And a little shadowing in Manhattan would be practically a vacation, after her current assignment.

Which left them six weeks to preempt Natasha's involvement. "And in the meantime?"

"That's the bad news." Fury met Phil's eyes, resignation in the rub of fingers over his mouth.

"I'm not going to like this, am I," Phil sighed. He lowered himself into one of the plush chairs opposite the Director's desk, unable to convince his spine to relax from ramrod-straight posture into the welcoming leather.

"Probably not," Fury said bluntly. "The Council is prioritizing finding Rogers over maintaining his good press."

Tension ached in Phil's temples; he unclenched his jaw. I already don't like the sound of this. "What does that mean?"

That got him an I know you know better look. "Exactly what it sounds like. I've been ordered to alert the appropriate intelligence authorities to prevent him from potentially leaving the country."

Or getting any further than he already has. "Do you really think that's likely?" Linking his fingers together, Phil leant over, forearms across his knees.

"Doubtful. Then again, it's clear we don't know what to expect from him."

The profile had been large on the man's strategic genius and short on pertinent behavioral information to form any solid analyses. Not exactly the thing people focused on memorializing in the 40's.

Of course, there was another problem. With the WSC's directives, there usually was. "Sir – how can we put Captain America on a terror watch list and still expect him to be able to perform as desired following reacquisition?"

"He's not going on FBI's Most Wanted, Coulson. Just the no-fly list." Of course Fury had thought about it; the team he was contemplating needed a captain – preferably one with good press. Or at the very least better than Stark's.

Carefully cultivated or not, Stark's PR was focused on spinning his temperamental genius into something profitable – especially given his unfortunate tendency to deliberately antagonize anyone he pleased, from reporters to Congressmen.

Leaning back, Phil rubbed briefly at the building pressure in his temple. "With all due respect, sir, that's not much better. We have no idea how he's going to interpret that, when he finds out." It didn't need to be said that the no-fly list was the mildest aspect of the alert that was going to cross the desks of agents in every law enforcement agency in the country.

"He's not going to." Fury let out a controlled breath. His eye locked on Phil's, gravity in every line of his face. "What I'm about to tell you goes no further."

Phil's spine straightened at the gravity in the Director's voice. "Understood."

One dark eye scanned him, but the moment of assessment was brief. They'd been working together for years, each other's measure long since taken. "I have a contact in the ISA who's working with a sophisticated surveillance program that, as far as I can tell, has tapped into the NSA feeds across the nation."

Interest prodded him upright. I've never heard of it. Which meant it was above his paygrade; far above, it sounded potential of such a surveillance program was… staggering. Think about it later. "Someone who owes you a favor, sir?"

"No. Someone who wants me to owe one. But," Fury raised a hand as Phil opened his mouth in protest.

I don't like the sound of this. But Fury hadn't made it to Director of SHIELD without knowing what he was doing. Phil subsided, forcing his shoulders back against his chair.

"This is the only way I can avoid having to alert the alphabet soup agencies and still potentially return results. Whatever the World Security Council thinks, getting more agencies involved is only going to muddy the waters."

And it neatly circumvented explicitly labelling Rogers as a criminal or terrorist to government agencies who wouldn't look further for an explanation. But given the scope of that kind of surveillance, the manpower required to return results… Six weeks couldn't be enough time. Could it? "Contingencies, sir?"

"I thought I'd leave that to you." Fury raised an eyebrow. "That is, if you have any ideas?"

Phil breathed a silent sigh of relief, powering up the tablet again. "One or two, sir."

"Good. Let's hear it."

"Resize to original." The hologram twisted in a streak of blue as he flicked his wrist, sending the image into a tailspin even as JARVIS shrank the design.

"Sir, initial calculations indicate that the current design will increase the weight of the right gauntlet by 2.54 kilograms. Accordingly, the right repulsors will need to compensate for weight and drag by a minimum of 107% of unmodified output."

"Keep your pants on, JARVIS." Sticking out a palm, Tony jolted the spinning image to a stop. A quick slide, and the hologram slipped over his right forearm and settled into place. "I'll figure something out." Blue shadows faithfully tracked each flex of his fingers. "That's why this is a prototype." Hmm. Smooth out the lines here, and … here. Aerodynamics with a trade-off in weight… "What about when the laser itself is engaged?" Tart-sweet burst over his tongue as he popped a blueberry's skin with his teeth.

Subtle displeasure in every word, JARVIS intoned, "Power expenditure will increase to 132% of baseline."

Even with the reduced tube size the beam should be powerful enough to cut through most alloys – the number JARVIS quoted suddenly registered, and Tony looked up blankly. "We only need it for flame-cutting, there shouldn't be that much of a draw." The hologram tracked his movements as he bent his elbow, twisting his wrist to examine the flexion in the joint with the additional components packed in along the ventral forearm.

A sibilation of pressurized air announced Pepper's arrival in advance of her voice. "- right now." His workshop door closed behind her with a pneumatic hiss.

He could hear her smile, even before he looked up to catch the slight curve of pink-painted lips. Today's number was a flowing, draped blouse tucked into a high-waisted pencil skirt, cinched with a thin belt; the entire ensemble did wonders for her figure, every slim curve accentuated. Bright copper hair fell loosely to her shoulders, framing high cheekbones and a slender neck. Allowed to look, Tony took a moment to preen. All mine, folks.

Whatever she saw in his face made the hidden smile blossom. Her hand came up to take the phone that she'd pressed between ear and shoulder when she keyed open the door. Tony side-eyed the tablet in her other hand. "Thanks, Flynn. You too."

Flynn? Curiosity reared. "Flynn?" He didn't – quite – straighten in his seat. Grabbing the gauntlet with the opposite hand, Tony peeled the image off to crack open the hologram and expose the incorporated laser design. Dark eyes never left her.

Pepper glanced at him, and he saw the smile fighting to grow even as she rolled her eyes. "Give Charlene my best? Okay. Thanks. Bye."

Something in him that had been thinking about bristling in jealousy subsided. I know what you just did there. It didn't work. It kind of did, though; but he still didn't bother to wait for her to finish hanging up the phone before asking, "Who's Flynn?" In two motions, he'd enlarged the image to reveal the laser's inner workings, and begun modifying the design to reduce power draw.

She didn't look up until she'd slipped the phone into a discreet pocket. When she did, he could see her working to push away the upward curls at the edges of her lips. "We went to college together. He was going for his Ph.D. in Museum and Curatorial Studies."

It took a moment for her words to register, he was so focused on her mouth. Oh. Tony sniffed, playing up the obligatory sneer as she moved closer. "Ugh. Humanities."

Blue eyes were focused on the tablet. "It's a Ph.D. -"

Yeah, and? "I have two." Tony folded the gauntlet's casing closed between his palms, compressing it back to original size with a pinch of two fingers.

Pepper looked up, amusement now only in her eyes. The glow of the tablet in his dimly lit workshop cast her pale skin in pure white, a faint shadow following the line of one wavy tendril of hair. "Yes, I know you have two. He has more than one as well."

That made Tony blink for a second, pausing with his hand half in the gauntlet. "How many?"

"I didn't keep track." One pale brow lifted. "Does it matter?"

"Not if the other's in something as boring as – what did you say?" He finished fitting the hologram into place, fingers spreading reflexively. Can't really get a feel for the weight difference until the prototype stage…

Pepper's attention slid back to the tablet. "Museum and -"

"- Curatorial Studies. Right." Sitting wasn't working for him; Tony popped up, blue hologram following his hand as he rounded the bank of computers toward the center of the projection space. "And I said: boring."

"Well, it's not." Pepper trailed him, heels clicking against the floor. In the far glass wall, her reflection focused entirely on the tablet in her hands.

Tony stopped short a few steps into the projection space, turning sharply on his heel. "How would you know?" Studied nonchalance coated every word. Pepper had double-majored in economics and mathematics at Stanford, and her MBA was from Wharton. He'd seen her transcripts, at some point. No "Museum and Curatorial Studies." "JARVIS, save changes."

"Very good, sir."

She didn't even look up. "We talk."

Tony redirected to the gauntlet on his wrist, turning the hologram inside out as he peeled it off. "What about?" Brown eyes darted up just in time to recognize a gimlet glance; and much too late to do anything about the too-intent tone in his voice.

That got her attention; the tablet ended up perched on a corner of his workbench, and Pepper ended up with her arms folded under her breasts, one hip cocked. "Art, Tony. Modern Art, even, sometimes."

Right, the minor in art history. He couldn't hold back the wince. "Is this about the art collection again?"

"No, but it could be."

Stepped right into that. In an effort to save face, he opened his mouth. "Because the Boy Scouts sent me a thank-you note. It was really, very…" Jaw moving, Tony faltered on the numerous adjectives available to describe the massive, four-foot high card slathered with handprints, notes, and signatures in every shade of the rainbow and several more that were decidedly not. Decisions, decisions. Snapping his fingers to cover the silence, the blue projection fluttered with every movement, flapping ridiculously.

Pepper pounced. "Very what?"

"… Grubby," he blurted. The gauntlet vanished into a folder with a flick. Saved. And, next… "Lots of fingerpaint. Possibly some snot." It had been dotted with a few suspicious streaks.

"It was not grubby." Pepper's lips thinned, the line of her neck straightening.

Uh-oh. "Did I say grubby?" He tried a smile, backpedaling. "I meant thoughtful. But that's beside the point."

A tilt of her head feathered copper-gold strands across the pale pink silk covering her shoulders. "You had a point?"

Tony reached for – something, turning away from the irritation in blue eyes. His hands found a multi-tool, fingers working to unfold greased metal. Casual. Confident. Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. Versus a museum curator. "I did, and my point is, Flynn. Why was he calling you?"

He must have missed some sort of shift while he was glancing down, because Pepper's next words came out more gently than he probably deserved. "He's trying to put together an exhibit."

"An exhibit, at a museum. Shocking," Tony sniffed, dropping the multi-tool to flick open another folder projected alongside the back of his desk. He occupied his hands and eyes rifling through files projected around him in blue. "He does work at a museum?"

Pepper's voice was moving closer, accompanied by the familiar click of her heels. "He works at the Metropolitan Public Library."

The what now? Never pausing in his perusal of half-finished projects in the "Fun" folder, Tony didn't let a muscle in his face carry anything into his expression. Have to have JARVIS dig it up. "Never heard of it." Which means it can't be that-

"It's an arm of the Metropolitan Museum of Art." A touch of warmth crossed the space between them as Pepper stopped at his side.

Or it can. Okay. "Yeah, still not ringing any bells." He didn't look up, one hand reaching out to fiddle with the scaled model for the converter that would take Stark Tower off the grid when affixed to the mains running under the Hudson. "What did he want, a suit? It's proprietary tech, I feel like I just told Congress that-"

"No, he doesn't want the suit." Pepper didn't even look up from her tablet. Out of the corner of one eye, Tony could make out a company-wide memo on recent stock fluctuations, complete with helpful graph. Looks like the last six quarters…

Then what she'd said registered; vague effrontery reared up, and started to gather steam. "What? Why doesn't he want the suit? Everyone wants the suit." Hammer, North Korea, Iran, Pakistan, Iraq -

"Not the Met."

Tony snuck a glance at her face; beautiful, and placidly in keeping with her perpetual level-headed calm. Well, he wants something. Time for the indirect approach. He darted his gaze away just as her eyes started to shift up from what was probably minutes from yesterday's Board meeting. Two fingers resized the converter, and he started to fiddle with the connectors that would redirect current into an alternate loop. "What's it about? The exhibit."

Down went the tablet, at long last. "Well, that depends."

"On what?"

There was a moment, while she watched him fiddle with blue holographic wiring, before Pepper spoke. She still wasn't looking at him; and Tony was outright staring now, fingers moving thoughtlessly over the model. Note to self - don't save any of these changes.

"On what items they get from auction next week, and from what donors are willing to contribute."

Huh. Tony pulled his fingers back from the hologram, resetting to the prior save with a few taps, before he folded it all away in favor of a blank screen. "I feel like you answered my question without answering my question at all."

That won him a smile. "That's because I did."

It had to be money. Maybe because he was a friend of hers… "He called to ask for a donation, right, that's the only reason why he would call you for an exhibit." Crossing his arms over his chest, Tony turned and propped one hip against the edge of one of his workbenches.

She finally turned to meet his eyes. "Not the only reason, no."

"Well. The modern art collection is with the Boy Scouts, so-"

"Is that really something you want to be reminding me about, Tony?" Still warmth, there, but rapidly cooling.

"No, definitely not." The amount, then. Pepper was the corporate end of Stark Industries now; it would take a significant number of zeros to make her this uneasy. "How much did he want?"

"He didn't ask for money." Her tone held surety that this Flynn never would; not for that, at least. But he did ask for something. And the way Pepper was dancing around it….

"I'm not going to like this, am I." Only two things make her act like this; something she really wants, and something she knows is going to-

On the heels of a suppressed sigh, she said, "He wanted to know if you'd be willing to loan any of your father's materials from his work in the war." Pepper even ripped off the metaphorical band-aid delicately.

Knew it. Tony pushed down the too-familiar twisting in his gut that flared up at the conjunction of father and war. Just because he could feel his arms tensing, the tightening of his fingers around his own biceps, didn't mean he could stop it. "Dad was a scientist, he made weapons. That's not art. It's definitely not going to end up in a public library. So why do they care?"

She tilted one shoulder in a low shrug. "There's some excavation that recently turned up some artifacts from World War II. From what information's available about the discovery and the items up for auction, he thinks your father could have been involved in their development. He wants to see if any of the papers corroborate that theory."

A short laugh barked free. "Good luck with that. Three quarters of his stuff is classified or proprietary, and the rest is crappy ideas that never went anywhere. Flying cars, a gas that would keep soldiers up for days, that kind of thing. Anything he generated was either a completed weapon that got used and patented, or a prototype that never went anywhere. Usually for good reason." Tony had to turn away, back to the "Fun" file that JARVIS had obligingly reduced, though his mood was now too sour to even want to re-open the hodgepodge of old ideas. Probably in seventy years someone's going to want to pick over that, too.

When Pepper spoke, her voice was wonderfully neutral. "Would you let them look?"

It was only that neutrality which clamped down on Tony's knee-jerk refusal. He took a moment to unclench his teeth, two fingers rubbing briefly at his temple. "I thought the Met didn't do artifacts. Not like this."

"They don't," she shook her head. "There's a collaboration with the Smithsonian, I think, to get the items from auction. There's still some debate over final ownership, though that wouldn't impact any objects on loan. The plan is for a travelling exhibit, though it would premier in New York first since the auction is here."

She wasn't saying he owed her, even though he probably did. She wasn't saying it would make her happy, even though it probably would. Besides. I've been through everything that he had packed away. And hadn't that been a fun few days under house arrest by Super Nanny. Most of his father's junk was just that, jumbled into a disorganized mess at best. And the chance that he even finds anything connected? That he can afford?

He'd take those odds.

Tony barreled past the twisting in his gut, and narrowed his eyes. "What do I get out of this arrangement?"

She read him perfectly and the slight tension around her mouth disappeared, only noticeable in its absence. Something fond took its place and shone through in her voice. "The satisfaction of aiding cultural growth and contributing to the preservation of knowledge for future generations not enough for you?"

"Not even slightly." He eyed her critically. "But if you were to take out that blue number, with the draped back, that I bought you a few years ago. You know the one."

"You mean my birthday gift, from you?" Her sly humor peeked out at him.

Warmth suffused him, and he didn't bother to hold back his smile as it chased away the last of the chill in his belly. "That's the one."

One copper brow arched high, even as his arm snaked around her waist. Fingers spread over the small of her back, the thin pink silk of her blouse luxurious to the touch. Tony kept his face impressively bland.

"When, exactly, would you expect me to wear it? There aren't any events coming up in the next month." Pepper could play hard to get with the best of them.

"This would be a private showing." Tony pulled her close, needing to feel her pressed to him.

She leant in for the briefest moment of contact, her arms warm on his shoulders. Her smile overcame the kiss. "I could be persuaded."

Tony quirked a smile back. "JARVIS, take note of the auction, would you?"

"In your calendar, sir?"

"You got it."

She leant near even after he let go. "Why do you want to know that?"

An ounce of prevention. Two ounces, even. Which of course he couldn't say. "Well, if this… Flynn is going to come knocking at my door, I want to have an idea when I can expect to be annoyed."

"Mmm-hmm." She nodded, not believing him in the slightest, he could tell. But she left it alone in favor of picking up her tablet from where it had been discarded on his workbench. "So you're giving permission to loan the papers out to the Met for the exhibit?"

Tony coughed. "There are no papers, there's nothing there to find." One hand flapped, and a nearby hologram mistook the gesture as a command to explode across the room into a variety of sub-folders. Three spilled open, leaving old prototypes virtually scattered across and through two work benches and a sleeping DUM-E. "It's a bunch of junk."

"Then there's no problem if they take a look, is there?" She turned to follow him as he headed back to his chair, kicking holograms back into their folders as he went.

Tony twisted to walk backwards for the last few steps. "Did you do something different with your hair?" He tilted his head. "I feel like you did something different. It's – smooth. Bouncy."

Pepper smiled. "I'll let Flynn know you said yes."

"Yes?" He plopped down onto his chair. Springs bobbed beneath him, the entire motion unkind to his lower back. Ow. Crap. "That was not a yes. How did you hear a yes in that?"

"I heard a subject change." She stopped just at the risers to the workspace, declining to step up into the cluttered area. Light flickered as the tablet woke up; Pepper flicked through the screens at speed, though he caught her glancing up at him with a hint of caution in her eyes.

A packet of dried blueberries spilled over the glass worktop. Popping one in his mouth, Tony chewed and focused on sweeping the last of his projects back into their appointed folders. Mmm. Silence sat between them, comfortable despite its rarity.

After a minute, Tony broke the stillness and swiveled to look at her. "It's important to you, that your – friend – get this exhibit together?"

That got Pepper's attention, and propelled her up the few steps into his workspace. She found a clear section of his worktop and perched on it, bending to catch his eyes squarely. "Flynn is just an acquaintance, Tony."

"Not even a friend?" He just needed to check.

She shook her head. "Not even a friend."

"Okay," Tony muttered through a mouthful of blueberries.

Pepper brightened, her back straightening. "Okay, he can have the papers?"

Honesty was a thing they did. Sometimes he wasn't so great with it, but this seemed important. Besides. He was going to win this, on his terms. Tony held up a finger. "Okay: if he can win a bid on any of the items up for sale that my dad actually worked on, he can look. No promises on if he can have anything."

"I'll take it." Pepper heaved a silent breath; Tony saw her body move with the strength of it, though she didn't make a sound. The tablet's screen went dark in her hand. "About the project for the Tower. How's it going?"

"Swimmingly." Leaning back in his chair, Tony huffed a sigh, then remembered. Ah. Right. "Speaking of. How do you feel about Cambridge?" The blueberries didn't lose their deliciousness no matter how many he ate at once. Tilting back his head, Tony funneled a handful into his mouth.

"Cambridge, Massachusetts?" Pepper blinked, copper strands whirling as she refocused with a brief shake of her head.

Through a mouthful of mashed blueberry, he mumbled, "Cambridge, England." Despite being difficult to swallow, the taste was still worth it.

"Why England?"

"Why not England?" He popped another handful of blueberries, talking through the required chewing. "I mean, the Queen; David Beckham; Cadbury – mmm, fish and chips."

"Why Cambridge, England, Tony?" That was her I'm-less-amused tone.

"Well, there's this neat little company headquartered in Cambridge. England," he specified.

Pepper closed her eyes, face turned down as she suppressed a smile.

Tony turned back to his workbench, avoiding her eyes in favor of playing with the near-empty packet of blueberries. Plastic crinkled under his fingertips. "Turns out they're prosecuting a patent for an underwater cutting laser kind of like the one I'm putting in the suit."

He could practically hear the smile disappear.

"'Kind of like'?" Cloth shifted as Pepper looked up, scooting further back on the worktop. "How 'like' is kind of like?"

Tony didn't glance her way. "Very like, in fact."

"Very like patent infringement?"
"Who said patent infringement?" He blinked, going for innocent. "I didn't. That was you."

"Tony-" Exasperation, bleeding into genuine irritation.

A calm voice with a now regrettably English accent cut in. "I will send the company's information to your tablet, Miss Potts."

He winced.

"Thank you, JARVIS." She stood, heels clicking down the steps.

Tony straightened, popping to his feet and following her to the workroom floor. "Wait, where are you going? We're having a conversation here."

In a blink she turned, one hand braced on her hip, voice strident. "You want the underwater cutting laser?"

"Ah." He stopped short, one finger raised. "I need the underwater cutting laser. Subtle difference."

"Well, I need to avoid a lawsuit." Heels clicked ominously as she advanced on him. "Yesterday, if you're already in design."

Tony held up both hands, palms out in a silent stop. "I'm not in design."

"Good." Pepper folded her arms under her breasts, face mere inches away.

He focused on the bridge of her nose. "I mean, do you know how long it takes to miniaturize an underwater cutting laser? Months."

Her mouth dropped open for a brief second before she found words. "Tony, you didn't."

He kept his eyes moving down and across her cheekbones, refusing to meet her gaze, mouth running away with him. "And you're on a schedule, I know you're on a schedule, you sent me the schedule -"

Not that it mattered; one slender hand rubbed at her brows, blocking her expression even as her face turned upward. "Of course you did," Pepper muttered to the ceiling. "What prototype are you on?"

"- twice. May Day, wasn't it? Ushering in the newest sustainable initiative along with the ancient spring festival-"

Her hand shifted to her temple, fingers pressing just above her ear. "It's the Mark 6, isn't it?" she asked. A disbelieving laugh escaped her. "It is."

On damage control, his mouth kept moving. "And it's not like anyone's going to know, I mean, it's for underwater cutting. Not such great visibility, at the bottom of the Hudson."

She speared him with a glare. "Until you need to use it somewhere other than the bottom of the Hudson, and someone catches you on camera."

Tony swallowed, and took a breath. "That's not going to happen." Supremely confident.

"Really?" Copper brows arced in disbelief.

"Really." Tony tilted his head, considering. "Probably."

Even though he could see her eyes rolling, she leant in for a quick kiss before striding to the door. "If you need me, I'll be in Legal."

"Nelson and Murdock." Ear pressed to the receiver, Karen circled her desk to perch on the end of her chair.

"This is Alex, with Consolidated Edison's Billing Department."

"Yes?" Movement at the top of her field of vision pulled her head up, attention veering from the phone conversation to the reporter at the door.

A bored drone assaulted her ear. "I'm calling regarding your statement issued in February, 2012. The bill is now sixty days past due."

Oh, shit. Karen fumbled for a pen. "What is the date of that statement, please?"

Ben tipped his head toward the door, one hand on the knob already.

She nodded, palming loose blonde strands back from her face and reaching for a drawer by her knee.

"February 12, 2012."

Refocusing on the voice on the other end of the line, Karen cleared her throat. "One moment please, while I locate the paperwork." She glanced up in time to see the door close behind Ben with a gentle click.

Foggy snagged the copy of the Bulletin off the edge of her desk with a frown. Ignoring him, she rifled through the folders that she'd reorganized only days ago. Lease, phone, internet, where's – ah!

"What's it say?" Matt, following the rustle of newsprint to stand at Foggy's side.

Karen separated out the statement, and one late notice – with interest. Damn. She plugged her opposite ear briefly, to block out the low murmur of Foggy reading the article to Matt.

"Ma'am?"

"Yes, I'm here," she checked the bill again, frowning at the numbers on the thirty-day notice. "What's the amount due?"

"$284.72. The initial amount due was $274.83, subject to a 1.8% interest rate."

And they had exactly $412.95 in the company checking account, which had to cover not just the next electric bill, but rent, internet, phone, and MetroCards for Matt and Foggy. And we'd all like to be paid enough to eat. "Is there any way we could pay that in installments?"

"I can set up an installment plan, however, interest will continue to accrue on the unpaid principal until the total amount is remitted to your account."

A headache was looming at the promise of more time trapped on the phone with the monotone worker bee at the other end. Suppressing a sigh, she clamped the receiver between ear and shoulder, and grabbed a pad to write down whatever relevant details the drone was about to throw at her. "Let's do that, then."

Ten unnecessarily complicated minutes later left her with an installment plan and fifty less dollars in the firm's checking account, but no headache. Yet. "I need coffee," she muttered.

A steaming mug, with what looked like just the right amount of milk and a hint of sugar, appeared almost under her nose. Karen blinked, and looked up at Matt's quirked smile. "You're a saint," she breathed, easing the mug away from him. Fingers curled around warm ceramic, she took a moment just to close her eyes and breathe in the scent of black caffeine and sweetness.

Her moment of peace was broken by Foggy's startled, "What are you-"

Karen opened her eyes to Matt holding her desk lamp upturned in one hand, and a quarter in the other.

No. Not a quarter. The same size, pale, but its surface was dotted with circuitry and microchips and something that looked like a miniature microphone–

The bitterness of coffee washed over her tongue, and she almost choked. When she found her voice, it emerged too high, too loud. "What the hell is that?"

Foggy stepped to the end of her desk, shoulder-to-shoulder with Matt. "It's a bug."

A quick breath lifted Matt's chest. "Roaches? I thought we had exterminators come through." He settled her lamp back into its narrow slot between piles of paper without a hitch.

Swallowing hard, Karen pulled her eyes from the device in Matt's hand and met Foggy's eyes, finding a match for her worry there. She said, slowly, "That was for the rats."

"Not sure they cover this," Foggy murmured. One hand fisted briefly at his side.

That won him a shrug from Matt. "Then we'll have to do something about it ourselves."

Foggy sputtered, "Like what?"

The little device settled gently against her desktop, drawing her gaze and refusing to release it. Innocuous, for all the frightening things it represented.

Matt tilted his head side to side as he moved to the potted plant she'd tucked into the corner of the windowsill. When he turned back to them, he had another device pinched between thumb and forefinger. "I don't know, put some traps around?"

Two in here alone? Or more than two… She fought back a shudder. "Do you think they're in every room?" Karen gritted. Unease creeped down the back of her neck, pulling up goosebumps on her arms.

"Probably," Foggy spun around, following Matt's stuttering progress from the window to the sidebar where their coffee machine resided. His recovery was a beat late. "I mean, in an old building like this?"

Teeth denting her lower lip, Karen glanced Foggy's way. "You think that's why?"

"Why?" One hand digging in the mechanical guts of the Keurig, Matt frowned.

She flapped a hand at the disconcerting little device perched on the edge of her desk. "Why we have – roaches."

"I can think of at least one reason," Foggy turned his head deliberately toward the conference room where Steve had spent most of Wednesday afternoon.

Scrambling to cover to the slight bitterness Foggy hadn't suppressed, Karen blurted, "I cleaned up." Yesterday, the men in suits had tossed the entire office; though nothing seemed to have been taken outright, Foggy had reported seeing them taking pictures and making copies. Luckily, they hadn't stayed long after her arrival.

The few pages of notes from Steve's initial consult had been folded between old notes on Ed the Electrician's latest escapade with the police, and another plea to Matt from the bar association for dues. They… didn't look like they'd been found. Unfortunately, that didn't mean they hadn't been. "I didn't leave anything out."

A gulp put her stomach back where it belonged, but didn't stop its uneasy churning.

"Well, something attracted them." Foggy's lips tightened and he looked at Matt.

Strong fingers fumbled over the corner of her desk as Matt felt along it for the tiny pile of electronics. "They usually like bathrooms and kitchens," he murmured, stepping back to the narrow countertop that constituted the office kitchenette with a handful of circuitry.

She frowned a little as he pulled out their tiny stash of dishtowels.

"We just have to make a habit of wrapping everything up." Spreading one flat, Matt placed the tiny devices in the center of the cloth, before beginning to fold. A few swift moves hid the bugs in layers of threadbare cotton. "And putting it away."

Karen exchanged a glance with Foggy, as Matt knelt to tuck the towel and its tiny burden in the back of the cabinet. "Is that going to be enough?" What if we just…. Smashed them? Flushed them? Something? "Could we get an exterminator in? Get rid of them?"

On his feet again, Matt turned to face them and shook his head. "It's the city. They probably wouldn't stay gone for long."

"Besides. I'm pretty sure we can't afford what they would charge." Foggy rubbed his face, pressing at the lines of the frown as if trying to forcibly push it away.

Matt leant against the countertop at his back, arms propped out on each side. "Not unless we get more clients."

"Clients that can pay," Foggy specified. His next words were bright with forced cheer. "Speaking of, what's on our docket for today?"

What about – Karen stilled, looking from Matt to Foggy, aborting the half-wave of her arm at the cabinet hiding the hopefully-muffled bugs. They're listening.

But if they didn't behave normally, that would be signal enough to whoever was eavesdropping that they knew something was wrong. And they were already listening to our discussion about Fisk when Ben was here. So the listeners had a baseline for normal.

Or as normal as it ever got around here.

And they might not only be listening.

Muscles that had started to relax jerked taut at the thought. Sucking in a silent breath, she shook her head. "Aside from Mrs. Cardenas's tenement?" Which they would have to be… very careful discussing, given who was hiding out there. "Court appearances this afternoon. A few tickets – one reckless driving, one cell phone use while driving."

"Traffic court." Foggy grimaced. "Hurrah."

Her smile was barely forced. "It'll pay the overdue electric bill."

Foggy, slightly more enthusiastic, pumped a fist. "Traffic court. Hurrah!"

Matt huffed a quiet laugh. "I'll take that, if you want to follow up on the tenement. Starting with Westmeyer-Holt -"

"- Confed, and Fisk," Foggy nodded. "I'll check into Tully and work backwards through to Westmeyer-Holt."

Karen nodded. "I'll research the link between Westmeyer-Holt Contracting and Confederated Global. See if I can find a chain of proof connecting to Fisk."

"Sounds good." In the space of a few steps, Matt disappeared into his office. The sound of his feet filtered into their reception area as he moved through the room.

Foggy paused at the entrance to his own office, glancing back. "Where are you going to look?"

Karen shrugged. Resettled more comfortably in her chair. "I figured I'd start online, and then see if there's anything I need to dig up in person." A skim of one finger across the mousepad startled her computer awake.

"I'll check with Marcie, I suppose," Foggy shrugged when Karen glanced up. "See if there's anything she can tell me."

Wryness pressed out of her in the shape of a crooked smile. "Be careful."

Foggy tilted a grin her way. "Me? You're the one heading into the wilds of the internet. Don't get yourself put on any watch-lists."

"Yeah, well." The mix of emotions churning within her soured. She stared at her computer screen, calling up an internet browser, and swallowed. "I think it's too late for that."

"Too right," Foggy muttered. His sigh as he strode through his office doorway was just barely perceptible. "Big Brother's always watching."

SOUTHEAST CAM 15
11:17:29

"Mr. Reese."

In the window taking up one corner of his fourth computer screen, Harold saw John lower his binoculars, one hand coming up to his ear. The ex-CIA agent didn't move otherwise, body angled toward the apartment building across the street from his chosen vantage point. His voice came through the microphone with crystalline clarity. "What did you find, Finch?"

"Something interesting." He maximized the original screen that had collated his results, scanning the lines of information. "The landlord is a man named Armand Tully. He owns a dozen properties all across the island of Manhattan."

"Tully. 'Slumlord' is probably the word you want," John muttered.

There was distinct familiarity in the other man's tone. Harold blinked, refocusing on the display board where he'd linked Tully to Mrs. Cardenas. "You know him?"

"Know of him." The familiarity was shaded with John's faint disgust. "Met more than a few people who used to live in his apartments. He's spent the last couple of years kicking tenants out any way he can, remodeling, and renting for a higher price. Making way for bigger and better."

It went unsaid that the only place John would have met anyone in the last few months was living on the street.

Coupled with what Harold had already found, the picture was all too clear. He nudged his glasses higher on his nose. "It looks like this may be more of the same." A few keystrokes confirmed it. "About two weeks ago, he offered all his tenants in Mrs. Cardenas's building $10,000 each to leave."

"For these people, that's a lot of money." John said grimly. In the feed from the security camera tracking him, the ex-CIA agent stood preternaturally still.

And the total was not unimpressive; given the number of people living there, even only ten thousand a unit encroached on three-quarters of a million dollars. But in context of the numbers pouring in from other properties and the cost of running Mrs. Cardenas's tenement… "For Tully, it's pocket change."

"And it's not enough to live in Manhattan."

Brutally true. Harold redirected his attention to the security cameras in the neighboring buildings, checking each feed for a better view of the tenement. "Certainly not enough for some of these families to find similar space for any significant length of time."

"Really?" From his tone, John's interest was piqued.

Harold nodded once, comparing closing documents with lease agreements. "The property is rent-controlled; it existed before he bought it and was a condition of the original purchase when he acquired the tenement in 1998. By today's standards, the rent is ridiculously low."

In the feed from the camera, John raised his binoculars once more. "Did anyone take the buy-out?"

An ATM across the street boasted a camera with a full view of the tenement's front entrance; as Harold watched, two teens burst through the doors one after the other, mouths moving rapidly. Cutting class, or dropped out entirely? "No. They've presented a united front. Even when Tully brought in thugs to destroy the place."

Or so said the letters in Landman and Zack's file on Tully, from one Franklin Nelson. Tunneling past the firm's firewall had been ridiculously easy. Given the condition of the building's exterior, along with the complete lack of any internal security cameras to hijack, I'm inclined to believe it.

A soft huff. "That takes guts. These people have a lot to lose." It was easy enough to see John was looking at the families, many of whom had young children. The building floorplan showed apartments spacious by the standards of 1970's Manhattan; luxurious for people just barely scraping by. "And they're not fighters."

"At least one of them is."

Minutes after the teens exited, a lanky man in overlarge clothes was propelled out onto the street. The shiver in his limbs was more than rough pixilation in the image. Drugs. He stumbled when he hit the sidewalk. Looks like Landman and Zack also had a point about the tenement being unsafe.

"Mrs. Cardenas," John sighed.

As the man turned back to the tenement's main entrance, Harold caught a glimpse of long, mangy beard and dark shaggy hair. He kept watching, even as he answered. "She went to a law firm to get representation and advice to oppose the sale. She's united her neighbors against accepting Tully's offer."

The camera's angle prevented him from seeing who was standing just inside the doors, but the man on the street had stopped dead in his attempt to get back inside. Within moments he was slinking away.

John's voice in his ear redirected his focus. "What's the firm?"

Harold settled further back in his chair. "Nelson & Murdock. They're new; small. Don't even have a website."

"And Tully?"

"He's a long-time client of Landman and Zack." He skimmed Landman and Zack's paperwork again. "There wasn't a suit filed." Yet. Nelson hadn't bothered with subtlety in his discussion of that possibility. "But Mrs. Cardenas's attorneys seemed pretty convinced that the tenants have the law on their side. It doesn't look like they were planning to give up and go away any time soon."

"Sounds like a stalemate." Mild amusement colored John's tone.

"It might have been. But Tully managed to find a buyer." At his words, Harold could almost feel John snapping to attention.

"When?"

He glanced one more time at the dated entered next to Tully's electronic signature: April 13, 2012. "The sale closed this morning."

"Who's the new owner?" John had lowered the binoculars again, in favor of the digital camera that was his near-constant surveillance companion.

This was where it started to get interesting. "Wilson Fisk."

It never did take John very long to put the pieces together. "The guy on the news yesterday? With a redevelopment plan for Hell's Kitchen?"

"Yes." Harold kept typing, ignoring the assistive menus the program pulled up as he did. One began re-playing the previous morning's broadcast, captioned. "Developer Wilson Grant Fisk, only child of William and Marlene Fisk, born in 1960. Lived in Hell's Kitchen until about 1973. His father, William Fisk, ran for Third District Council of New York City in '72."

"He win?"

"Lost," Harold quirked his lips. "Quite spectacularly, in fact. Hmm."

An inquisitive silence.

"It appears -" he clicked between two windows, double-checking, "- that William Fisk disappeared not long after the election. The timeframe is difficult to pin down; looks like he might have been missing for some time before anyone bothered to report it."

John was quiet for a moment. "Surprising, given he had a wife and son."

The quick history Harold had managed to compile explained. "The wife died about a year later. But before she did, she sent Wilson Fisk to live with relatives outside New York. He finished his teenage years there, and was able to get a scholarship to the University of Minnesota. He attended, but there's no record of graduation. Dropped out, in his third year. Then nothing, until 2005 when he's listed as sole owner of the start-up Confederated Global Investments." A few keystrokes pulled up several documents that made Harold's brows rise. "And Confed Global didn't just buy Mrs. Cardenas's tenement; they purchased all of Tully's properties."

A number in the closing documents caught his eye, and Harold felt bemusement carve lines into his face. "There's something odd here."

"What?"

The assessment, versus the sale amount, versus Tully's books… "The numbers." Harold sucked in a breath. "It's a rent-controlled property. Tully started having to use the proceeds from other properties to keep this one afloat three years ago, because it costs more than it generates. But the amount he sold it for is too high. No one would pay that much for a tenement in Hell's Kitchen, especially since the rent control provisions survive the sale."

"No chance Fisk got taken?" John's frown was audible.

The lack of degree would support that theory, if the books for Confed Global didn't show a consistent upward trend without falling into the red at any point in the past seven years. "Not if his business acumen is half as good as his reputation suggests."

On-screen, John packed the camera away with economical movements. "So it must have some value beyond the obvious."

Harold tended to agree, but – "Not if it stays as it is."

"Which gives Fisk motivation to change the status quo." John was always thoughtful in his silences. "What's the likelihood that the sale is what made the Machine give us her number?"

Better than even odds. "The timing is probably more than coincidental." Which meant he really had only just started digging into the question of who would want Elena Cardenas dead.

John nodded. "Let me know what else you find on Fisk. If the sale prompted the Machine, then maybe the new owner is the reason why."

"And in the meantime?" Harold stared at the view of the rooftop where John had set up his stake-out. Always one to travel light, John had packed away the little equipment he found necessary into a single small bag. As Harold watched, he tucked it between an air conditioning unit and the short wall bordering the rooftop.

"I want a closer look."

Exasperation bubbled up and Harold didn't quite succeed in keeping it out of his voice. "John, you do know that all the tenants are immigrants from Central America?

"Your point?" Supremely unconcerned, as usual.

"You won't exactly blend." Harold shook his head minutely. "Not that that ever seems to be a problem for you."

The security camera he'd hijacked was clear enough to catch Reese's smirk.

"Permiso." Mrs. Valdez's voice rose above the babbling of her three children, warm and brisk in the way of harried mothers.

"Oh. Excuse me."

The English words pulled Steve's attention to the entrance four floors below. Peering through the gaping hole in the railings, he could just make out movement as the man who'd spoken maneuvered past the chattering group of Mrs. Valdez, Fatima, Luis, and Fernando crowding through the doors. Dark hair. Dark clothes.

Quick steps; smooth soles tapping against diamond-plate stairs.

Both eyes on his work, Steve listened as the man continued to move steadily upward. His hands moved smoothly, braided nylon slipping between his fingers as he wove and tied rope to span the space where railing had once been.

He doesn't live here. The past twenty-eight hours in Mrs. Cardenas's tenement had been a crash course in Spanish; everyone spoke it. The English words fell oddly into his ears, taking a split-second longer than they should to register.

He shifted up against the rapidly-closing gap as the steps drew nearer; then passed by, without faltering.

Hands never stopping, Steve stole a glance. Suit. Then another. Huh. No wrinkles. Clean lines through the shoulders, and collar. No bunching; as he turned the corner at the landing, Steve could see the jacket was buttoned, but still lying smoothly against the chest underneath. Stitching uniform in size and thread around the ankles and wrists… Expensive. Very expensive.

Steve hadn't known before meeting Howard Stark that some people spent more on one set of clothes than he did on six months' rent. This… was one of those people.

No one who lived in this building could afford anything near what this man was wearing.

So who is he, and what is he doing here?

Brown eyes caught his, cool and impenetrable. Steve matched the man's gaze until his progress up the stairs cut off their line-of-sight. He can still see me. The angle would keep them from making eye contact, but he would know if Steve stopped working.

Of course, that went both ways.

The noise of the man's progress continued for two more flights, before fading. Sixth floor. Mrs. Cardenas's floor.

Pushing to his feet, Steve tied off the last of the rope into a solid knot. The net he'd woven across the gap wasn't anywhere near as good as the original railing, but it would hold for a little while. He took the stairs two at a time, but even so, the sixth-floor hallway off the landing was empty.

Along with most of the apartments on this floor, Steve thought grimly. Mid-morning on a weekday, the only people still at home were too old, sick, or young to work. But around the next corner, he'd taken Mrs. Cardenas's front door off its hinges. The repaired jamb was waiting on the loan of some kind of drill from Mr. Castillo on the next floor up, before he could replace it.

Habit quieted his steps against the linoleum floor enough that the man who'd invited himself into Mrs. Cardenas's apartment didn't hear him until he spoke. "Can I help you?"

Caught fiddling with one of the freestanding lamps, the man twisted; just abruptly enough to give away the shock that didn't show in his face. Side-on, solid stance. Left hand dominant. And trained to fight, from his position and the way he didn't tense.

Within half a breath he'd shaken it off and stepped forward, one hand dipping into his jacket. "Detective Stills, NYPD." A monstrosity of brass on leather, of a size with a regular billfold, flashed Steve's way and disappeared. That's a badge? "There was a report of a disturbance at this address."

Was there really? Steve carefully re-checked the brief assessment he'd managed on the stairs. That suit, on a cop's salary? Not unless the last sixty-eight years had wrought more change than Officer O'Leary from the apartment next door to Bucky's had ever dreamed about. Frustration tightened his jaw. Damn it, I just don't know!

Brown eyes dropped; sharp irritation with himself flared through Steve, and a little deliberate effort relaxed his stance – too late to avoid the maybe-Detective's observation. Steve knew the impression he made. Not a tenant. Too pale, despite his newly-dyed hair and the dark stubble coming in after more than two days without shaving. Destitute. No matter how clean, the pants and shirt Ms. Sandoval's last boyfriend had left behind hung wide on him, hiding Mr. Asturias's worn belt and the top of the duct-taped boots that he'd had to salvage from his original set of clothes, since no one had anything to give that fit.

In seconds the man's eyes had moved to take in the rest of the room. That's what he's letting me see. Stills's attention was locked on Steve; he'd bet his life on it.

But the officer's face was too blank – not just devoid of questions, but absent the assumptions and classifications that would have him dismissing Steve, and moving on. Whatever he really feels, he doesn't show. Unease curled in Steve's belly. Too blank for just a policeman. Intelligence officers in the field were the only people who came close to that studied blankness, when you caught them in those brief moments before they masked themselves with the emotions they wanted you to see.

Stills' feet followed his gaze, stopping before the fresh swathe of white on the wall and ghosting tanned fingers across pale plaster. At his feet lay cans and brushes Steve had stacked last night, still waiting to be used. Someone less controlled might have nudged the pile with a toe; the Detective's head bent as he looked down, before he turned to catch Steve's eyes. "Something happen?"

Agent Coulson hadn't hesitated to identify himself as SHIELD, or bothered dissembling. Something's off.

So. Probably not a cop; probably not HYDRA. There'd be no need for conversation if the latter was the case. Possibly not SHIELD. Definitely dangerous. And the last thing he could afford right now was more attention. Playing along it is.

"A week ago. Ten days, maybe," Steve offered. Which was another tick under the not-a-cop column. Or maybe … not a clean cop. Which might fit with the suit, the reactions, or his studied blankness; and was a whole different set of problems.

The other man shook his head. Silver frosted the black strands at his temple and near the skin of his neck. "This would be more recent," Stills countered.

Shrugging, Steve folded his arms, hunching a little. Smaller. The clothes will help. He didn't have a chance of looking harmless based on height and breadth alone, but baggy cotton and sloppy posture could help confuse muscle for fat. Easier now than it was in France. "I had to get someone out of the building about twenty minutes ago."

Stills hmm'd. He paced toward the couch, soundless on the rug. "Drugs?"

"Probably." Especially given the relief on Ms. Sandoval's face as she watched Steve hustle him out the door. Pinprick pupils. Flushed skin. Shaky hands. Runny nose. Confused and unfocused. Between the Germans' Eukodol and Pervitin, and the Allies' Benzedrine sulfate, plus cocaine, morphine, and opium, Steve had seen his fair share of addiction during the war. This was more of the same. Though anyone that far gone in-theater usually didn't see the next fight… "He keeps getting in the building."

"Seems like a nice place, otherwise." He sounded genuine, turning to take in Mrs. Cardenas's apartment. Cross on the wall with lovingly dusted pictures of her family, decorative touches scattered across the furniture, a curio of carefully kept glass pieces. "Anyone complain to the landlord about security?"

Steve lifted a shoulder. "Probably."

Picking up a frame from the side table by the couch, Stills spoke to the photograph in his hand. "He do anything about it?"

Something about the other man's decision to handle Mrs. Cardenas's belongings grated on Steve's sensibilities; the care with which the Detective replaced the photo sparked the faintest beginnings of alarm. What is he doing? Straightening, Steve sharpened his tone. "Pretty sure he doesn't care."

Beyond raising a brow, Stills gave no indication of noticing. "You think he's going to be as bad as the last one?"

A frown narrowed Steve's eyes before he could stop it. Fisk. He's talking about Fisk, not Tully. Not that either of them had been specific, but… Mrs. Cardenas only found out an hour ago. That had prompted her to grab her purse, check for subway fare, and head to Nelson & Murdock's. She said the sale happened this morning. So how do you know already?

The only people who would be aware of the transaction before the tenants would be the people involved in the deal. Tully was out with the sale, so he wouldn't bother sending anyone. Which meant… A cop – or something else – with Fisk.

Whoever he was, he breathed violence.

Lips compressed in a tight line, Steve didn't waste energy glaring.

Miss Page's voice rang in his ears, thick with anger and suppressed tears. "Long story short, the company's owner set me up for Daniel's murder." It wasn't right, it hadn't succeeded, but that someone had done it at all… "My boss took the fall for the money laundering, and then he apparently overdosed -" and she hadn't believed it was an accident at all, not from the flush of frustration high on pale cheeks. "… Union Allied is gone. Problem solved."

If not for Miss Page's stubbornness, a business would have gladly paid two lives to correct the mistake of sending evidence of its crimes to the wrong person. As it was, she'd hinted that the owner was still free and unhindered by the murder and machinations that had gone into obscuring the truth.

And what is Mrs. Cardenas – encouraging her neighbors to hold out, going to lawyers – but a problem? The building's draft didn't explain the chill creeping through Steve's limbs.

"Mrs. Cardenas doesn't always feel safe."

The Detective's face, with its high cheekbones and thin nose, could have been carved from granite.

A timid, sweet voice cracked the silence. "Esteban?"

Turning, Steve got a quick glimpse of long dark hair and a heart-shaped face atop a flowing pink blouse and navy denims. Peeking into Mrs. Cardenas's apartment from the open doorway was Ms. Sandoval from next door, almost unbelievably petite compared to the size of clothes she'd given him from her last boyfriend.

"Sí?" The word came easily now.

Her face stayed cast down, most of her body hidden by the wall. "Quién es?"

Who is he? Steve met the Detective's eyes squarely; they were of a height. "Detective Stills, señorita." Steve gentled his voice, seeing fright in brown eyes that darted to his own, then as quickly, away.

Her chest rose in a quiet gasp. "La policía? Qué occure?" One hand clenched over her heart. "Está Elena bien?"

Police was easy enough; what… occurred? Is Elena good? "Sí," Steve rushed out. He couldn't answer more, not enough to reassure her, not with Stills right there, expression bland enough that he might understand nothing, or everything. Steve locked eyes with the Detective. "I think you should go."

The bare tilt of the other man's head was hard to interpret; his leisurely stalk toward the door was not.

Habit slipped Steve between the unknown quantity and the civilian. Quiet footsteps at his back tracked Ms. Sandoval's retreat to her apartment. She didn't close the door entirely – Steve kept pace with Stills down the hallway, but it was the Detective's muted "Ma'am" to Ms. Sandoval that clicked her door closed.

The noise of the deadbolt wasn't quiet enough to go unnoticed in a hallway empty of all but the two men.

"I don't think I got your name." Stills moved ahead as they turned the corner.

Steve fell back out of arm's reach for the turn, awareness spiking. Past it, two long steps brought him apace with Stills for the short distance to the stairs. "Don't think you did," he said evenly.

At the top of the stairs, Stills asked, "You live here?"

Steve brought his foot down harder than necessary on bare diamond-plate. For all the rubber and duct-tape, he could still make a respectable thump. Loud enough, as he let gravity have a say in his speed, to drown out any attempt at conversation for six flights.

The other man didn't try again until after Steve ushered him onto the sidewalk.

"Oh." A handful of steps down the street, Stills turned. Glass door cracked just enough to hear the noise, Steve paused in the building's narrow entryway. The Detective fumbled with a billfold, clumsiness uncharacteristic of someone as controlled as he held himself out to be. Affected.

The question was why.

A small square of white, extended at the end of a black-jacketed arm. "My card. For Mrs. Cardenas." Reading the refusal on Steve's face, Stills smiled briefly and kept talking. "In case there's another disturbance. Have her give me a call."

But he didn't come any closer.

A lure could be anything that pulled a target where you needed it to be.

The sidewalk was almost empty. Look up. Hundreds of windows, easily; concealing any number of threats.

If they – whoever they are – had that capability, best to learn it now. And if they're willing to risk acting in broad daylight…

Three steps brought him close enough to pluck the card from Stills' grasp. The Detective nodded, turning on his heel even as Steve stretched out his senses, looking for the attack. Just because you can't see them doesn't mean they're not there…

Nothing.

Cardboard stock thick between his fingers, Steve turned back to the tenement. From the corner of his vision, a lanky figure with scraggly hair held up the wall a few feet away from a gray machine embedded in the bricks, under a bold sign reading ATM. Hand on the door, Steve paused.

Him.

Steve didn't know his name, and for all the time he spent slumped in various corners and hallways, no one in the tenement knew it either. Long brown hair swung his way; the man saw Steve staring, and stiffened. After a moment, he slunk along the wall toward the end of the block.

Gone, for awhile.

A glance back showed Detective Stills disappearing around the corner in the opposite direction.

He'll be back.

In the space of two breaths Steve was inside the building again, headed toward the stairs. Have to get that door installed.

ATM TG7593
11:35:02

TEMPORAL SUBDIVIDE
COLLECTING DATA
.0268% REAL TIME

IDENTIFYING SUBJECT…
VOICEPRINT IDENTIFICATION…
FACIAL RECOGNITION…
GAIT ANALYSIS…

ACCESSING DATABASES….
DOJ - NO RESULTS
FBI - NO RESULTS
DHS - NO RESULTS
CIA - NO RESULTS
DOD - 1 RESULT
= DOD: ARCHIVES

IMAGE BASED VISUAL ANALYSIS…
ENTERING DATABASE: DOD ARCHIVES
SEARCHING…
HEURISTICS: PCA
HEURISTICS: UDA
HEURISTICS: UBGM
- UBGM HEURISTICS BEING MODIFIED ON THE ORIGINAL SCAN TO FIND A MATCH
- - PROBABLE MATCH FOUND: 87% CORRELATION
= MILITARY SERVICE PHOTO ID

OBTAINING DEMOGRAPHICS:

NAME: REDACTED
SSN: REDACTED
DOB: REDACTED
POB: REDACTED
ADDRESS: REDACTED
OCCUPATION: UNITED STATES ARMY
FUNCTION: REDACTED
MSN: 09263894
STATUS: REDACTED
DOL: REDACTED

ACCESS: PROHIBITED
REVIEWING…
SEARCH SOURCE FILE
LOCATION: DOD ARCHIVES

FILE: NOT FOUND

ACCESSING DATABASES….
DOC - NO RESULTS
DOS - NO RESULTS
NSA - NO RESULTS
DEA - NO RESULTS

INSUFFICIENT DATA
STATUS: UNKNOWN

DECISION MATRIX:
STATUS: RELEVANT = COMMAND: CONTACT CONTROL
STATUS: NON-RELEVANT = COMMAND: CONTACT ADMIN

CURRENT STATUS: UNKNOWN
REVIEWING…
SEARCH: THORNHILL ARCHIVES
- MSN: 09263894

SEARCHING….