Lost and Found

In highly unusual circumstances, Agent Coulson finds a treasure.

"Jarvis," said Coulson. "Do we have to do this again?"

"As I told you, Agent Coulson, my security protocols only allow a very small number of people into the Stark house," said Jarvis. "And I regret that you are not on the list."

Coulson held up a device that looked like a very sophisticated cellphone. "You know that I can over-ride your protocols," he said. He took out his gun and held it before Jarvis' camera lens. "Or I could shoot you in the eye, if you prefer." Or, he thought, I could simply walk around to the back of the house where there is a large hole in the wall.

There was a long pause. Then, if computer security systems could sigh, Jarvis sighed. "Very well, Agent," it said. The front door opened. Coulson went in. "I believe that Ms Potts is in Houston, if it is her you are looking for. Mr Stark is downstairs, in the workroom," Jarvis said.

"I am only here to check that Mr Stark is staying on the straight and narrow," said Coulson, as he went down the steps and into the cavernous room.

"Of course I am, the straightest and the narrowest," said Stark, from the hi-tech table where he was manipulating a 3-D image. "Come in, come in, have a drink. Do you drink … hey, what is your first name, anyway?"

"Agent," said Coulson. He looked around. "Pepper mentioned that you were having the place re-modelled, again," he said. There was scaffolding, paint and plaster everywhere, as well as the miles of cables and circuitry that usually hid in the walls of the house. And, of course, the standard wreckage that went with Stark's experiments and constructions, including the remains of the centrifugal ARC mini-reactor he had built a few days before.

"Yes, but as she's away I gave the drones the day off," said Stark. "How goes the dismantling of Mr Hammer's rickety little empire?"

"Fine, according to the accountants," said Coulson. "And since you are not lying drunk in a gutter, I will report back that you are, well, not lying drunk in a gutter."

"Right, do that, but remember that the day is young. Uh, wait a second, did you just say 'Pepper'? As in 'Pepper Potts'? My Pepper Potts?"

"No, another Pepper Potts," said Coulson.

"Sirs," broke in Jarvis. "The workmen have arrived for the painting."

"I told them not to come today," said Stark.

"They have the appropriate security passes, sir," said Jarvis.

"Huh," said Stark. "I guess Pepper cancelled my cancellation. Let them in, Jarvis."

"Why," said Coulson, "did you give Jarvis an English accent?"

"It's English!" said Stark. "I always thought it was Canadian."

There was the sound of four men coming down the stairs. They were carrying large kitbags.

"Hey, you're not the usual guys," said Stark to the one in the lead.

"No, we're the other guys," said the man. He turned to show the sign on the back of his overalls. It did, indeed, say THE OTHER GUYS.

"Huh," said Stark. "How about that."

"Tell me," said Coulson to the man. "Are you going to do the Navaho Sunset White today, or the Morning Cloud Cream?"

"The, uh, Cream," said the man.

In an instant, Coulson had his gun in his hand. But the 'painters' had realised he was onto them, and they scattered, pulling weapons from their bags and ducking for cover.

"What's – " said Stark. Then Coulson, diving, knocked him down. They landed behind a heavy bench. There was a burst of machine-gun fire, splintering the wood and metal sheltering them. Coulson fired back – not with much hope of hitting any of the attackers, just to give them something to think about.

"So what you're saying is that this is not an ordinary home decorating crew," said Stark.

Coulson lifted the cuff of his trouser leg and pulled out another gun – his back-up weapon – from a holster. He handed it to Stark.

"And what does this fire?" said Stark.

"Bullets," said Coulson.

"You mean, lumps of metal?"

"Sorry, I don't carry lasers in my socks."

"Well, maybe you should think about it. I have three Iron Man suits right here in the workshop that will turn these guys into curry-coloured paste."

"Where, exactly?"

"Over there."

"You mean, on the other side of the room? Behind the guys trying to kill us?"

"Ah, I think I see the problem. Well, I can get Jarvis to operate one by remote." He tapped the mini-phone wrapped around his ear. "Jarvis? Are you there?"

There was only static. Presumably, the 'painters' had brought something with them to block any local communications.

"Who are these guys!" said Stark.

"From the nature of their weapons, I would say mercenaries," said Coulson, as another burst of machine-gun fire raked the bench. "Have you pissed anyone off?"

"Well, let me see," said Stark. "There's the oil companies, Middle Eastern terrorists, the Colombian drug cartels, the Russian Mafia, the Italian mafia, the Swedish mafia – they're the worst, the Chinese government, Greenpeace, a number of people in the US military, Daiwa Heavy Steel, several factions of the CIA, the Trilateral Commission – "

"How about recently?" said Coulson.

"That is recently," said Stark.

"I suppose that it doesn't much matter," said Coulson. "The bottom line is that these guys are good. They're moving to flank us, slow and steady, and then we won't be able to hold them off."

"Not really fair, attacking a guy when he doesn't have his super-powered armour and energy weapons," said Stark.

"It's a hard world," said Coulson.

"I know how to solve this," said Stark. He called out: "How much are you guys being paid?"

There was a pause. A voice came back: "Ten million."

"Ten million!" muttered Stark. "That's almost an insult." He called out again: "I'll give you twenty million if you'll go and kill the guys who gave you the ten!"

There was another pause. Then another call: "We have our professional pride, you know!" And then there was another burst of machine gun fire.

"Great," said Stark. "Mercenaries with a work ethic."

"This is not a good situation," said Coulson. He had tried to call for back-up from SHIELD but the call had been blocked. Then one of the 'painters' made the mistake of jumping up to fire at the wrong time. Coulson shot him in the head. One down.

"Good shootin', Tex!" said Stark.

"Please shut up," said Coulson, as he watched the other three steadily work their way into better positions.

"You know, there's a manual remote control to the Iron Man suits on that shelf over there," said Stark. He pointed: the shelf was a good twenty feet of open space away.

"Then perhaps you should go and get it," suggested Coulson. Another burst of machine-gun fire smashed into the bench. It would not last much longer.

One of the attackers threw a grenade. It exploded, blowing Stark's centrifuge/reactor to pieces.

Something landed with a metallic clang a metre away from Coulson. He stared at it.

"Is that what I think it is?" he said.

"That depends on what you think it is," said Stark. "It was in my Dad's collection of old bits and pieces. I was using it to raise the ARC plasma tunnel 2.794 centimetres."

Coulson took off his belt. He threw the end with the buckle towards the round object. The buckle hooked it, and he pulled it back. He picked it up and held it.

"Never thought I would get to do this," he murmured. "Now, where is that remote control you mentioned?"

Stark pointed. "So you're going to use this thing like a shield, right?" he said.

"Yes," said Coulson. "Like a shield."

Coulson held the shield up, and ran for the control. The 'painters' immediately fired. Their high-velocity bullets scraped at the red and blue paint, but otherwise bounced off.

In a few moments, Coulson had reached the shelf. He picked up the control and threw it back to Stark.

"Aha!" said Stark as he began to push buttons. "Now for some fireworks."

One of the Iron Man suits on the other side of the room turned in its alcove, and lifted its arm. It fired a repulsor beam, smashing into the gunmen and sending them flying through the air. They lay stunned.

Stark came out from behind the bench. He leaned over the leader. "And the moral of the story," he said, "is that you should, er … let me think … uh, you should never … okay, I'm not good with morals. Leave it with me."

One of the men started to get to his feet. He was behind Stark. He drew a pistol.

Coulson threw the shield. It sliced through the air, spinning, and knocked the man down. It bounced off a wall and sailed back to Coulson, landing at his feet.

"You know," said Stark, "with a bit of practice you could probably learn to catch it."

"Probably," said Coulson. He picked it up.

"So now," said Stark, "I suppose that I have to thank you, and say 'is there anything I can do to repay you', et cetera. How about your own helicopter? How about a holiday on a Caribbean island? Or how about your own Caribbean island?"

"Since you mention it," said Coulson, "there is one thing – "

His phone buzzed. The blocking device must have been destroyed when the 'painters' went down. It was a text message. He read it, and then nodded to himself.

"I have to go," he said. "And as for thanks, I'm taking this." He held up the shield.

"Sure," said Stark. "What are you going to do with it?"

"It isn't for me," said Coulson.

Steve Rogers sat in the bare room, in a studiously anonymous building in New York. A few hours ago, he had awoken in a hospital bed. He had escaped – if that was the right word – and found himself in a Times Square he could hardly recognise, with a big one-eyed black guy telling him that he had been asleep for a long, long time.

He could not remember anything from his years – decades – of slumber. No, wait, there was something: a faint pulse of cello music, and a voice speaking calmly to him.

But there was nothing else to hold on to. Nothing in this world that was known. If there was just one thing, one solid thing –

There was a knock at the door, and it opened. A man in a dark suit came in.

"Good to see you, Captain," said the man. He sounded … familiar. "I have something for you. Something that is yours."

And he handed him his shield.

END