Tony leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he processed the name. "The Tesseract. I've heard of it, but mostly in the context of my father's old war stories. It was supposed to be the prize that went down with Captain America in the Arctic. A mythic battery that everyone spent decades looking for."
Leander nodded, his gaze fixed on the glowing blue core of Tony's holographic arc reactor. "In 1942, the All-Father Odin left the Tesseract in Norway as a safeguard. HYDRA found it, tapped into its infinite energy, and used it to fuel their war machine. But after Rogers crashed into the ice, your father, Howard Stark, was the one who pulled it from the ocean floor. He spent years researching it. That's how he discovered the blueprint for the new element you used to save your life, Tony."
Tony stiffened. The mention of his father always hit a nerve, but the technical connection felt right. "So it's a battery. A really big, really old battery."
"It's more than that," Leander said, his voice dropping an octave. "It's a Space Stone—one of the six singularities that condensed during the Big Bang. It holds the most mysterious power in the universe. And right now, S.H.I.E.L.D. is keeping it in a basement. Meanwhile, another stone is being guarded by a Sorcerer Supreme in Nepal. The rest? They're scattered across the stars, and people far worse than Loki are looking for them."
Tony looked at Leander, his scientific skepticism warring with the cold, hard evidence he had just seen on the monitors. "And what am I supposed to do with this information? Join a cult in Nepal? Build a space-faring suit?"
Leander realized he had overstepped. He saw the flicker of anxiety in Tony's eyes—the same anxiety that would eventually lead to the creation of Ultron and the paranoia of "a suit of armor around the world." Tony was a man of action, but giving him the endgame spoilers this early was like handing a child a detonator.
"Actually," Leander said, forcing a lighthearted laugh, "you should probably just finish the wiring for Stark Tower and maybe take a nap. Everything I just said was a joke—a wild sci-fi story I cooked up while flying over the ocean. I think the high altitude got to my head."
Tony didn't laugh. He stared at Leander, his face unreadable. "A joke. Right. The flying kid who walks through walls is telling me tall tales about magic rocks."
"I'm serious, Mr. Stark. Just a bit of creative world-building," Leander said, standing up and heading toward the guest room to change out of his vibranium gear. "But it's true about the alien in New Mexico. If you meet him, watch out for the hammer. It packs a punch."
Leander swapped his silver-black suit for the casual jeans and hoodie he had left there weeks ago. He felt the fabric pulling at his shoulders. "Man, I've definitely grown an inch or two. This stuff is getting tight."
When he walked back out, a sleek, translucent glass device was sitting on the workbench. It was the Stark Phone—a masterpiece of design that hadn't even been announced to the public yet.
"Consider it a late Christmas gift," Tony said, his voice regaining its usual snarky rhythm. "It's a custom build. Only two in existence, and you've managed to lose the first one. Don't make me build a third, Hayes. I have a company to run."
"Thanks, Tony. Really. I'll try not to let this one get vaporized by a cosmic energy field," Leander said, slipping the phone into his pocket. He glanced at the vibranium block he had left on the table—the remains of his training gear. "I'm heading home. If I don't show up in Queens in the next hour, Aunt May is going to start a grassroots movement to have you arrested for kidnapping."
Tony waved him off with a smirk, but the moment the bay doors hissed shut behind Leander, the smile vanished.
"Jarvis, pull the transcripts," Tony said, his eyes turning cold. "Extract the keywords. Cross-reference 'Tesseract,' 'Norway,' 'Gems,' and 'Sorcerer.' And I want every satellite we have pointed at S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Project Pegasus site."
"Extraction complete, sir," Jarvis replied. "The data suggests a high probability of extraterrestrial involvement and a potential security breach at the federal level."
Tony didn't respond. He just stared at the empty space where Leander had stood, the weight of a universe he didn't understand pressing down on his chest. Insomnia was going to be an old friend tonight.
The flight to Queens was short. Leander stayed low to the ground, enjoying the familiar sights of the New York skyline. When he landed in the alleyway behind his house, the smell of street food and car exhaust felt more welcoming than the sterile air of Wakanda or the high-tech hum of Malibu.
Inside the house, the atmosphere was a bit more... explosive.
"George, I'm telling you, it's been sixteen days! His phone is dead, Stark's office is giving me the run-around, and I haven't slept more than four hours a night!" May was pacing the living room, her phone clutched in her hand.
"May, the boy is an intern," George said, trying to remain the voice of reason while nursing a cup of coffee. "Tony Stark is a billionaire. They probably have him in some high-security lab where signals don't reach. He's fine."
"He's sixteen, George! You've called Tony nineteen times! If you won't book the tickets to LA, I'll take the bus!"
"Aunt May, Uncle George! I'm back!" Leander shouted as he burst through the front door.
The silence that followed was deafening. Then, the "bombardment" began. For the next two hours, Leander was subjected to a flurry of hugs, scoldings, tears, and enough questioning to make a S.H.I.E.L.D. interrogator blush. He stuck to the story Tony had provided: an intensive, off-the-grid workshop in Malibu.
By eleven at night, Leander finally managed to retreat to his room. He flopped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling fan. The quiet of Queens felt strange after the chaos of the last few weeks. He thought of Shuri, of the Zangetsu blades he'd forged from fighter jets, and of the weary, brilliant doctor hiding in India. But mostly, he felt the warmth of home. In a world full of gods and monsters, this small room was the only place he felt truly safe.
The next few days were a blur of "normalcy." He took Peter out for pizza, played hours of video games, and helped May with the New Year's decorations. He was just a kid again, and he savored every second of it.
While Leander was arguing with Peter over a game of Street Fighter, a different kind of history was unfolding in Washington D.C.
Inside a S.H.I.E.L.D. safehouse designed to look like a 1940s apartment, Steve Rogers opened his eyes. The room was bathed in the warm glow of an artificial afternoon. A small wooden radio on the nightstand was playing a Dodgers game—Ebbets Field, May 1941.
Steve sat up, his muscles feeling stiff, as if he had been sleeping in a block of ice for a century. He looked at the ceiling fan, then at the radio.
"...Rizzo scores, Reiser runs to third base! The Phillies have kept the game at four-four, and the Dodgers are looking for a miracle..."
Steve's brow furrowed. He remembered this game. He had been there. But more importantly, he remembered the plane crash. The cold. The silence.
Outside the door, a nurse in a vintage uniform checked her earpiece. "He's awake. Vital signs are spiking. Proceed with the plan."