Long Island, New York—one of the world's most prestigious bay areas—homes the city's wealthy, and it's where Tony Stark was born.
On a Friday morning, in a Long Island mansion, Tony slouched groggily on an oversized sofa, unwashed and already cradling a drink, bleary eyes on his unexpected visitor.
"Sorry—could you repeat that?"
He yawned, then knocked back a mouthful.
Agent Phil Coulson smiled patiently at the seemingly unreliable playboy and repeated himself:
"Mr. Stark, I'm—"
"Skip it. Get to the point," Stark cut in.
Coulson kept the smile. "Your father's organization—the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division—needs a firewall upgrade. We're hoping you can provide technical support."
If the Director hadn't ordered a personal visit, Coulson would've avoided this skirt-chasing wastrel entirely. But S.H.I.E.L.D. had been brazenly hacked two nights ago by Batman, who made off with a trove of Tesseract data. Multinational or not, not everyone inside was world-class—especially on the cyber side.
They needed someone at the sharp edge of tech to harden the network—before Coulson found himself waiting on a rooftop again while Batman rifled their systems from a precinct below.
"I don't handle operational requests. Talk to my assistant, Pepper—not me, and certainly not first thing after I wake up," Tony said.
Coulson said nothing this time, just kept smiling at Stark until the playboy squirmed.
"Give me two days," Tony sighed. He could tell if he didn't agree, this agent would just keep smiling at him indefinitely.
"This is a one-time security token from S.H.I.E.L.D. Plug it into the server to begin," Coulson said, handing over a small chip.
"Finally decided to shorten that mouthful of a name?" Tony asked, not even looking at it.
"It's just the initials," Coulson chuckled. "S.H.I.E.L.D."
"Tell your boss it's not bad," Tony waved him off and all but shooed him out of the mansion.
Rolling the disposable token in his fingers, Tony had zero intention of doing the upgrade himself. He planned to toss it to Peter Parker—anyone who could deliver a mature, half-finished AI could handle a firewall tune-up in his sleep.
…
Meanwhile Peter Parker—Batman—was busy at Parker Industries.
The plant couldn't yet produce the true Bat-cape material—multiple fibers had to be blended with specialized processes—but it could turn out a second-tier composite.
He was only building samples now—enough to hook potential clients, then feed a stream of orders.
"Mr. Parker, the motorcycle you asked for is at the gate."
Leaving the shop floor with a stack of sample tiles to hand off, Batman heard his new and slightly nervous assistant—Alice, on only her second day—call out.
"Ship those samples. The client list is on the CEO's desk," he said.
He'd already run background checks on every retained employee by dipping into NYPD systems; Alice was the cleanest, and the one who most needed the job.
He wouldn't always be at Parker Industries. He needed hands to carry the business plan. For now, no one fit better than Alice.
Watching her trot toward the CEO's office, he headed for the doors.
Waiting there: a Harley-Davidson V-Rod he'd had Alice buy.
The Batmobile alone wouldn't cut it. He slotted a Bat-bike into the schedule and would refit it soon. He might not roar it around the city, but he refused to go without a backup to the car.
Before the mods, it would do as transport. He swung on, cracked the throttle, and headed for Manhattan PD.
Silver Sable and the attorney would be at Oscorp today to file charges against Kingpin. Peter Parker had no reason to be there.
Batman did.
He'd mapped out today's meeting last night. It wouldn't be only a commercial hit—there'd be a physiological one for Kingpin, too.
Oscorp Tower—after the B3 murders and B2 human experiments—had been locked down. A multinational HQ couldn't stay sealed forever, though. With the B1–B3 levels and the garage still closed, the aboveground portions were back to normal.
Oscorp ran sixty floors; 53 and up were the Osborns' private levels. In Batman's sweeps, half of those were unfinished shells; Norman only used the very top as an office. The rest were barely touched.
The 50th floor was almost entirely meeting rooms. The largest was packed with board members: Oscorp executives, Wall Street heavyweights, even a scientist-director.
Everyone was present—except Norman Osborn.
For a bioscience multinational, a scientist on the board was essential; Norman himself was such a figure. Today, it wasn't him. It was a stern-faced, graying man with an empty sleeve: Dr. Curtis "Curt" Connors.
Beside him, shareholder Valentin sat stiffly, eyes flicking to the door again and again—like a few others who couldn't stop glancing that way.
"We've been notified: someone has acquired thirty percent control of Oscorp and has tendered offers to buy all or part of our remaining shares.
"Valentin, do you know who?" Connors asked.
Gulp.
Valentin swallowed. He couldn't forget the knife tip at his ear canal; nightmares still snapped him awake, sure the blade would slip into his skull.
He shivered.
Creak—
The door opened. In a white suit, leaning on a cane, shoulders so broad he had to turn sideways, Wilson Fisk walked in.
Valentin stood by reflex. Under the puzzled looks of his peers, he forced himself forward.
"…Under the bylaws, we welcome our new principal shareholder—Mr. Wilson Fisk—to the board."
~~~
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