The hall hummed with chatter and music. Beyond the tall windows, waves broke against the rocks below, the steady pulse of the ocean carrying through the glass. The chandelier swayed faintly overhead as servers refilled glasses, laughter rising in bursts.
James's focus remained razor-thin. Food was just a cover. Conversation was just a camouflage. And the mission—the real reason he tolerated these velvet chairs and hollow compliments—waited just beneath the surface.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
James sat back down with a plate refilled, when Cortana's voice came in his mind.
[There is something unusual about the ring on Gilson Marbury's right hand.]
His fork paused briefly in his grip before he forced himself to keep eating, face unreadable. 'Give me details'. He answered her silently. 'What's the problem?'
[When you shook his hand, I attempted to probe his neural surface. The ring blocked me. Its material composition does not exist in any of my databases. Unknown alloy. Unknown origin.]
James chewed slowly, masking the flicker of interest behind his eyes. 'TheAlien weapon?'
[Similar, yes. But without energy leakage and no detectable fluctuations. Conventional Earth sensors would find nothing. That makes it more dangerous. A potential weapon that remains invisible until activated.]
'So S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't exaggerating,' James thought. 'They wouldn't send me and Romanoff to waste time on a trinket.'
He glanced across the hall. Marbury's bulk shifted as he laughed with another cluster of guests, the ring glinting faintly in the chandelier's fractured light. Its band was thick, almost swallowed by layers of fat, but three nodes on the surface caught his eye—raised points like studs, too deliberate to be a decoration.
'If it were locked in a vault,' James reasoned, 'I'd already be halfway through to getting it. But on his hand? That complicates things.'
The man's palm had been fleshy, his fingers thick as sausages. Slipping it free without his notice would be near impossible. Any attempt might rip his skin. Not an option unless he wanted half the hall watching Marbury scream.
'There must be a mechanism to it,' James thought. 'Some way he wears and removes it without effort.'
[Negative. I scanned carefully during contact. No obvious trigger. No gesture. He shook hands normally. That does not mean it lacks function. It may require biofeedback, blood sampling, or a neural link.]
James's brow furrowed faintly. 'So he wears it live? Always armed? How does he attack with it though?'
[Unknown. Without a demonstration, I cannot confirm. But the material—absolutely alien. Not forged here. Not synthesized. Unless humanity discovered a new metallurgy overnight.]
James exhaled slowly through his nose. 'Which means unless we cut his finger off, that ring stays on him.'
[Or remove a layer of flesh. Unlikely to succeed unnoticed.]
James's lips curved in a dry smirk. 'Not exactly subtle in this party. Maybe Romanoff will solve it for us.'
[Acceptable strategy. Her primary directive is the vault. If she fails, our hypothesis strengthens. If she succeeds, then the ring is irrelevant. Efficiency suggests letting her test the ground first.]
'Fine. Let the Widow walk ahead. I'll follow after.' James speared another slice of roast lamb, chewing without hurry.
Across the room, Natasha Romanoff leaned into Marbury's side with professional grace. Her disguise tonight was a reporter—an easy mask, one she'd worn countless times. She peppered him with questions, eyes bright with interest, and laughter landing at just the right moments. Marbury basked in it, his attention glued to her curves, barely noticing Stark seated nearby.
Tony didn't care though. He shoveled another forkful into his mouth, washing it down with wine. He side-eyed James's plate and raised a brow. "Your appetite's gotten bigger than last time."
James shrugged without looking up. "Ever heard the saying? "'It's a blessing to be able to eat."? Some blessings you just can't envy." He chewed steadily, eyes on the buffet station. "Why are you even here with her?"
Tony shifted his gaze, saw Natasha leading Marbury toward another corner. "She said S.H.I.E.L.D. had a mission, wanted my cooperation. Pepper's in California while I had nothing better to do."
James gave him a flat look. "It was supposed to be a joint mission. I bring her in, then she looks for an opening. But since you messed up the plan, now she and I are out of step."
Tony coughed awkwardly. "Don't take it personally. You don't like her anyway."
James stabbed a piece of chicken. "Doesn't really matter. If she wants to move first, just let her. As long as the mission succeeds, I don't care who completes it."
Tony chuckled, though uneasily. "You're surprisingly relaxed about this. By the way, after the charity auction, there's supposed to be a game. A High-stakes betting. Are you in?"
James arched his brow. "Marbury's idea? How big are the stakes?"
"Depends. Multiple tables, different levels. No fixed limit."
James thought for a beat, then nodded. "Fine. I'll join. But I didn't bring that kind of money with me. You'll need to cover me."
Tony laughed. "You're broke? Why not let Venture Capital in your business? Maximize your returns."
James leaned back, expression cool. "I've got my own salary. More than enough to live well. Why hand over equity to strangers?"
Tony shook his head, amused, and took another sip.
Across the room, Natasha worked Marbury like a seasoned actress. To most eyes, she was charming, curious, and enthralled by his tales of real estate empires and charity foundations. To James's eyes, she was reconnaissance wrapped in seduction.
When the auction bell chimed, the hall atmosphere changed. Guests drifted toward the rows of velvet chairs facing a raised platform where priceless art and artifacts would be paraded one by one. Marbury took center stage, beaming, while Natasha quietly peeled away. Only two men tracked her exit: James with his fork suspended briefly mid-air, and Tony sipping wine with nonchalance.
Natasha was a shadow again. Her footsteps are near inaudible across the marble floor before vanishing into the villa's depths. She moved with intent, weaving through hallways until she reached the stairwell descending into the earth.
At the bottom lay a massive steel vault door, flanked by two armed guards. Surveillance cameras watched from every angle. Romanoff studied it from the shadows, her mind already mapping routes. Too many eyes. Too much exposure. She retreated without a word, retracing steps until she found the surveillance hub on the first floor.
Two guards sat behind the bank of monitors, eyes half-lidded from boredom.
She staggered towards the door, posture loose, and lips parted in a slurred smile. One hand clutched her stomach, the other pressed against the frame as she stumbled inside. "Huh? Why's the bathroom so weird…?" Her voice carried the perfect pitch of drunken confusion.
The guards blinked, alarm in their eyes. "Ma'am, this isn't—"
Before they could finish, she swayed, threatening to relieve herself on the spot. Panic overrode suspicion. Both men rushed forward to guide her out.
Natasha's expression didn't change. Her hands flashed into her purse, drawing two slim taser sticks no longer than pens. She pressed them to the guards' necks in a blink. A snap of current cracked the air. Both men collapsed, spasms wracking their bodies before they went limp.
She adjusted her dress, rolled the guards under the console, and sat calmly at the chair. Fingers flew across the keyboard, cycling through cameras, isolating feeds, and creating a loop on the vault corridor. The monitors flickered once, then stabilized—frozen with the image of guards still standing, the door untouched.
No one outside would notice.
Back in the hall, James set his fork down and lifted his glass, masking the faint curve of a smile. 'Predictable and Efficient, as expected from the Black Widow, easily clears the path. I'll follow when it's time.'
[I'd recommend continuing monitoring. Probability of 67% that the artifact remains on Marbury himself and not in the vault.]
James drank slowly. 'Then let her waste time. If she proves you right, we know where to strike.'
The auctioneer's voice rose over the hall, rattling off bids in crisp cadence. Applause broke in waves. Champagne corks popped in the background. To the crowd, tonight was a spectacle. To James, it was just staging. The real prize sat on a fat man's finger, glinting under crystal light.
And sooner or later, someone would bleed for it.