Chapter 6: A Rejection and a New Path
The sleek black lockbox felt cool and heavy in Talon's hands. After Natasha departed, he entered the code—123456, hardly the pinnacle of S.H.I.E.L.D. security—and found the promised contents inside: a pristine American ID, a S.H.I.E.L.D. consultant badge, a rugged satellite phone, and a black credit card. A note, written in elegant script, informed him that one million dollars had been wired to the associated account as an advance.
Natasha's final words echoed in his mind: "S.H.I.E.L.D. has already contacted Tony Stark. He has agreed to a meeting tomorrow morning."
"Efficient," Talon murmured, a flicker of anticipation cutting through his exhaustion. He found a hotel nearby and collapsed onto the bed, the day's immense physical and mental strain pulling him into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next morning, he awoke feeling restored. After a quick shower, he dressed in the suit from the previous night and took a taxi to the towering, modern edifice of Stark Industries. The receptionist, after a brief call, directed him to a waiting area. Within minutes, a composed woman with strawberry-blonde hair approached him.
"Mr. Reeve? I'm Virginia Potts, Mr. Stark's personal assistant," she introduced herself with a professional smile. "You can call me Pepper."
"A pleasure," Talon replied, shaking her hand. "Is Mr. Stark available?"
"He is. He's expecting you. Please, follow me."
Pepper led him to a private elevator that ascended directly to the penthouse. The doors opened not into a sterile corporate office, but into a sprawling, chaotic workshop that smelled of engine oil, welding, and expensive cologne. Blueprints and holographic schematics floated in the air, and the skeletal frame of a red and gold suit stood in the center.
"Tony, Mr. Reeve is here," Pepper announced.
Tony Stark, hunched over a workbench, didn't turn around. His voice was laced with a bored arrogance. "So, you're S.H.I.E.L.D.'s new pet. What's this 'collaboration' you want?"
Talon ignored the dismissive tone. "I can help you pioneer true living machinery."
Stark let out a short, derisive laugh, finally swiveling in his chair to face Talon. "Living machinery? That's a new one. Let's see your proof. Show me a working prototype."
"The proof lies in a unique process," Talon explained, his voice steady. "If you willingly allow me to extract a genetic sample, I can acquire the foundational knowledge to build it for you."
Tony stared at him for a moment before bursting into louder, more genuine laughter. "You want my DNA? Do I look like a naive trust-fund baby to you?" He shook his head, the amusement fading from his eyes, replaced by cold skepticism. "This isn't a collaboration. It's a shakedown. No deal."
"It's a transaction. Your genes, in exchange for technology that will redefine the future."
"I am the future," Stark retorted, his ego firmly in the driver's seat. "And I don't need your parlor tricks. Sorry, kid."
"I can also cure the shrapnel embedded near your heart," Talon stated, shifting tactics.
That gave Stark a momentary pause, but it was quickly replaced by disappointment. "JARVIS has run every medical simulation known to man. There is no safe extraction method. The arc reactor is the only thing keeping me alive. You're just a convincing liar. Get out."
"Nanotechnology could disassemble the shrapnel particle by particle. A regenerative cradle could repair the damaged tissue without a scar," Talon pressed, revealing just enough to demonstrate his knowledge.
"And where is this miracle tech?" Stark shot back, growing impatient. "If you can't produce it, your words are worthless. You're selling vaporware. Either you leave now, or I have security escort you from the building."
The finality in his tone was unmistakable. A hot flush of anger rose in Talon's chest. He needed Stark's genius, but he would not debase himself for it. He had his own power, his own dignity.
"This decision," Talon said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous calm, "will earn you a formidable enemy." He turned on his heel and strode out, leaving the threat hanging in the air-conditioned workshop.
In the elevator, his mind raced. The Marvel universe was overflowing with brilliant minds. There was Dr. Helen Cho and her regenerative cradle. There was Shuri of Wakanda, whose technology made Stark's look primitive. There was Otto Octavius and his revolutionary neural interface. There was Hank Pym and his reality-defying Pym Particles.
He had chosen Stark because the man had a clear, desperate need. But Stark's arrogance had blinded him. Fine, Talon thought. I'll find another way.
As he stepped out onto the bustling New York sidewalk, a new, more macabre question formed in his mind. He focused inward. System, can I extract a genetic template from a deceased subject?
The answer was immediate and sent a jolt of excitement through him. "Ding. A corpse offers no conscious resistance. Extraction from a humanoid corpse is possible, provided sufficient cellular integrity remains."
A grim smile touched Talon's lips. "Perfect," he whispered to himself. "Why bother with the pride of the living when the genius of the dead is there for the taking?"
He immediately walked to a nearby luxury motorcycle dealership and bought a powerful, blacked-out sports bike, paying in full with his new S.H.I.E.L.D. card. The engine roared to life beneath him, a satisfying thrum of power. Then, he pulled out the satellite phone and called the only number programmed into it.
Natasha answered on the second ring. "Talon. That was quick. How did it go with Stark?"
"About as well as expected," he replied, the wind whipping past him. "I need a favor. I need the coordinates of the secret military base where Captain America underwent his training during World War II."
There was a pause on the other end. "Why?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.
"That's my business. Get me that location," he said, his tone leaving no room for negotiation, "and you'll have a favor from me. A significant one."
Another beat of silence, then her reply, crisp and efficient. "Understood. Stand by. I'll send you the coordinates."
The line went dead. Talon revved the engine, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Tony Stark wanted to play hardball. He would soon learn that Talon Reeve didn't just hit back harder; he built a better arsenal.