Chapter 5.
I took a sip of tea to collect myself and looked Stark directly in the eyes. "Nerves of Steel" and "Iron Discipline" kept the panic from taking over.
"Before I begin, Mr. Stark," I lowered my voice almost to a murmur, "can you confirm the house is clean? I mean — no outside ears. No secret government organizations listening in, for instance?"
Tony smiled broadly, with a slight air of condescension, and took another drink.
"Oh, kid. In my house, the only one who listens to everything is me. And occasionally Pepper, when I've done something stupid. JARVIS — tell our guest how paranoid we are."
"All active and passive scanning systems are operating within normal parameters," the AI's voice responded immediately. "I assure you, Mr. Vetrov, this room is one of the most thoroughly shielded locations on the planet."
"Satisfied?" Stark took another sip. "Your turn. Mystery, intrigue, all of that. I'm starting to enjoy this. It reminds me of a bad spy thriller."
"All right." I took a deep breath. "You're not in great shape right now, Mr. Stark. After that incident with the portal. You're having nightmares. Panic attacks. You're not sleeping — instead you're building. An entire army. Forty-one prototypes, or forty-two, if I'm not mistaken."
His smirk vanished instantly. His gaze sharpened and became searching. He set the glass down slowly on the bar.
"JARVIS?" he said quietly, but clearly.
"No, Mr. Stark. I categorically rule out any leak from our internal databases. There are no traces of external interference."
"Continue." Stark fixed his eyes on me. What I read in them now wasn't curiosity — it was wariness.
"An old acquaintance of yours is going to come to you soon. Someone connected to your past. And he'll bring serious trouble with him. Very serious. The kind that will hit not only you, but someone you care about. Miss Potts. And we won't be talking about nightmares — we'll be talking about her life."
I watched him swallow. His hand tightened around the glass involuntarily.
"You sound like a con man who wants my money. Except you're speaking with way too much confidence for a beat-up kid in beat-up jeans."
"I understand," I said with a nervous half-laugh. "Hell — if I were in your position, I'd have already called security to throw me out. A reasonable person doesn't talk like this. But I'm not crazy. I simply have access to information. A source I'm forced to trust."
"And what source would that be?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest.
"That's something I can only share once there's at least some degree of trust between us. And it has to go both ways. Right now I'm just a strange Russian kid talking nonsense, as far as you're concerned. And as far as I'm concerned, you're a brilliant but unstable man who might decide I'm a lunatic and forget I was ever here. We're at a stalemate."
Stark was quiet for a couple of seconds, studying me. Then he nodded, as though settling something for himself.
"Fine. Let's say I'm listening. You've warned me. What's next? You didn't come all the way out here just to ruin my day with gloomy forecasts."
"I have information for the Avengers. And specifically for Captain America. It's extremely personal and important to him, but I simply have no way to find him — and even if I did, I couldn't just walk up to him on the street. They'd either not listen to me or treat me as a threat. The information concerns his past. And his best friend."
"His friend?" Stark frowned. "All of Steve's friends are either very old men or they're already… in a better place."
"Not all of them." I shook my head. "One is alive. But he's in trouble. And he can be saved. The name is James Buchanan Barnes."
I said the name quietly, deliberately. Stark's face gave nothing away — he simply filed it.
"And what am I supposed to do with that? Pass along greetings from a mysterious Russian kid?"
"If you decide to inform Captain Rogers of this," I lowered my voice slightly again, "do it somewhere you can be absolutely certain no one is listening. And tell him that the information comes from someone who knows his friend is alive — but in the hands of an enemy. An enemy hiding in the shadow of SHIELD."
"In the shadow of SHIELD?" Stark gave a short laugh, but something flickered in his eyes — a spark of genuine interest. "You're suggesting that our friendly folks at SHIELD aren't entirely who they claim to be?"
"I'm suggesting that right now, no one can be fully trusted. Especially those who offer their help too insistently. The events of the near future will prove it. And then — then you may believe the rest of the information I have."
Tony looked at me intently for a moment, then laughed quietly.
"You know what? You're either a brilliant con artist or — I don't even know what. But you're definitely not boring." He walked back to the bar, pulled a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills from a drawer, and counted off several without looking. "Here."
He held the money out to me. I stared at it.
"That's… what's this for?" I managed.
"For the performance. You entertained me. Also, JARVIS informs me that your recent life has resembled a roller coaster into open space. Consider this humanitarian aid — and an advance payment, in case your fairy tales turn out to be even one percent true. If they do…" he shrugged, "we'll definitely be seeing each other again."
I took the money slowly. It was a lot. A great deal, for where I stood right now. For Stark, the sum probably didn't register as pocket change.
"Thank you," I said, and meant it. "And please remember the warning."
"Don't teach your grandmother to suck eggs," he waved a hand and turned back to the bar. The conversation was over. "JARVIS — call a cab for our Russian oracle."
"Already done, Mr. Stark. The car will arrive in three minutes."
I left the house the same way I'd come in. The air hit my face again, but now it smelled not only of the ocean — it smelled of possibility. I slipped a hand into my pocket and felt the stack of bills.
*I did it. I didn't choke, and I didn't back down. I got my point across, and more importantly — I made him curious. Stark didn't believe me, that was clear. But he'll remember. And when the events start playing out exactly as I said, he'll think of me. That's my real trump card.*
The taxi pulled up, and I settled into the back seat. Only when the car moved did I let myself exhale and lean back against the headrest.
*Well. First contact established. Now I just have to wait for the world to start confirming my words. And in the meantime — I have money for decent food and a gym. Heh. Life is actually starting to look up.*
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The moment the door closed behind the strange Russian kid, all of Stark's performed lightness and ease dropped away at once. His face went taut and focused.
"JARVIS — full analysis. Now," he said, moving to his workstation. Holographic interfaces bloomed across the desktop immediately.
"Already running, Mr. Stark. Recording of the conversation is being processed. Analysis of micro-expressions, vocal timbre, galvanic skin response — though the latter is difficult to assess; we didn't scan the visitor at that level."
"And? What's the verdict? Was he lying?" Tony dragged a tired hand across his face, feeling the ache in his shoulder from today's operation beginning to make itself known.
"No direct falsehood detected, to the best of my assessment. I cannot guarantee 100% certainty, however. Mr. Vetrov was extremely tense, but that is consistent with ordinary anxiety. More interesting is this: the patterns in his speech and his reactions indicate that he was deliberately withholding a portion of his information. He did not lie to you, Mr. Stark. He said what he himself believes to be true. But far from everything he knows."
"Damn," Stark muttered, scrolling through the holographic breakdown of Alexei's background. "An orphan, an immigrant, worked as a delivery courier. No connections, no access to information above the level of ordinary press coverage. Where could he have learned about… forty-two prototypes, JARVIS? That is completely classified data."
"An internal leak is ruled out, Mr. Stark. External intrusion into my systems is also improbable to a degree approaching zero."
"Approaching zero is not zero. After Loki and his scepter, I'm not certain of anything anymore. Too much has surfaced over the past few years. Mutants, gods, aliens, a soldier from a block of ice…" Tony fell silent, turning over an idea that had arrived unexpectedly. "What if it's not nonsense? What if he actually knows something? About Pepper…"
"Mr. Stark, there is one additional fact," JARVIS's voice was level, but Stark caught a faint emphasis on its importance. "I've run a cross-reference. Mr. Vetrov is the same civilian you extracted from beneath a falling automobile during the incident involving Dr. Banner."
Stark went still. A clear image surfaced in his memory: a face contorted with terror and drained of color, a bruise under one eye, complete paralysis from fear — the kid had stood like a post, rooted to the spot.
"So he's the same…" Tony paused. "The rabbit in the headlights?" He replayed the recording of today's meeting, zooming in on Alexei's face. "The bruise is gone. But it's him. Back then he was on the edge of hysteria. And today… Today he was nervous, yes. But he spoke clearly and held eye contact. With conviction. What kind of transformation is that, JARVIS? In just a few days? Normal people don't recover from an assault and that level of trauma that quickly."
"It is an anomaly, Mr. Stark. His behavioral patterns have undergone significant change in an extremely short period. I also analyzed his digital footprint over the past week. After the attack, his activity shifted sharply. He stopped searching for standard employment and redirected to programming freelance work. And his productivity on those platforms has increased by three hundred and seventy percent. He is taking on tasks that were previously beyond his skill level and completing them rapidly, using unconventional approaches."
The new information lit a familiar fire in Tony's eyes — the fire of a curious genius confronted with an interesting puzzle.
"All right. Let's rule out the theory that he's a brilliant spy. Too clumsy for that. The theory that he's just a lucky kid who overheard something — also out. He couldn't have overheard forty-two prototypes. What's left?" Stark looked at the ceiling, as though consulting himself. "Mutation? Powers that suddenly manifested? Some kind of… clairvoyance? Absurd. But no more absurd than a god from Asgard with a hammer."
"The theory has merit, Mr. Stark. SHIELD's database contains references to individuals with anomalous cognitive abilities."
"And he's seeking a meeting with Steve. Because of this Barnes." Tony pulled up the file on James Buchanan Barnes. "Killed in 1944 on a mission with Steve — but our Russian oracle claims he's alive. If that's true… it rewrites a piece of history. And why is this Russian kid from the outskirts of New York wading into waters this deep?"
"His motivation is unclear, Mr. Stark. He may be expecting a reward, or the patronage of Captain America."
"Maybe… But there's something else underneath it. He was too… focused. Not on the money — on the necessity of meeting Steve specifically." Stark stood and began pacing the room. "All right. For now, all we have is strange hints and behavioral anomalies. But if even one of his 'fairy tales' comes true — especially the one about Pepper — then he's not a con man. He's a source. A source of information about the future. And that, JARVIS, is worth a great deal. Worth its weight in all the gold in all my suits."
"What are your instructions, Mr. Stark?"
"Set up the closest possible surveillance on him. Invisible. Every movement, every transaction, every call, every search query. I want to know what he has for breakfast and what color socks he puts on. If he sneezes — I want to be the first one to say 'bless you.' Clear?"
"Perfectly, Mr. Stark. Protocol 'Silent Warden' has been activated. Also — I remind you that you have a scheduled video call with Miss Potts in fifteen minutes. And, if I may insist, you should also have the contusions from today's incident treated."
"Yes, yes, Mother," Tony sighed, but turned and headed downstairs toward his lab and medical station. Along the way, he replayed Alexei's words again and again in his head.
*An army of suits… Pepper in danger… Barnes alive… Danger from within SHIELD.*
Nonsense. And yet, for some reason, this particular nonsense wouldn't let him go. It was too… structured. Too precise. As though someone had assembled a puzzle from his greatest fears and delivered it to him in the form of a ragged kid with determined eyes.
*All right, Mr. Vetrov,* he thought, settling into the chair as a robotic arm began attending to his cuts and scrapes. *Let's see what kind of bird you are. And where you got feathers that color.*
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The following week passed in an intensely pressured rhythm. The money Stark had given me was a small fortune as far as my current circumstances were concerned, but I understood clearly that I couldn't spend it on anything trivial. This was my starting capital. And the first thing I did was search online for the nearest gym that was cheap but functional. Not some trendy fitness club — a proper iron gym for people like me, with worn equipment, the smell of sweat and metal. I even called ahead to ask what time of day had the fewest people in it. Early morning turned out to be ideal.
Then I spent a couple of days studying the basics of proper nutrition and beginner training plans. "Structural Thinking" was enormously helpful in filtering out the obvious nonsense and identifying the rational core underneath. It became clear that the goal wasn't simply to push until something tore — it was to do that with intelligence. Otherwise I'd earn an injury and possibly set myself back. Though the last part was something the Development System would likely protect me from.
Parting with the money was painful, but I treated it as an investment. A down payment on my own future. I went to the gym, bought a membership, and then hired a trainer for a few sessions. The guy wasn't stupid — one look at my gaunt frame, combined with what I told him about the recent beating, and he didn't try to load me up immediately. He put together a reasonable program: basic exercises with light weights, heavier focus on technique and stretching. He also helped me put together a simple, cheap grocery list for proper nutrition: chicken, buckwheat, eggs, vegetables. Nothing fancy.
The Traits kept me on track. "Iron Discipline" dragged me to the gym at seven in the morning even when every part of my body ached and begged for one more hour of sleep. "Nerves of Steel" muted the post-workout muscle soreness, reducing it to a tolerable background hum rather than a grinding torture. And "Structural Thinking" broke down each movement and analyzed it, helping me absorb correct technique faster. I knew there would be no quick results — that this was long, unglamorous work. But I was focused on simply learning my body, understanding how it functioned.
And no — I wasn't driving myself to the edge in pursuit of Will Points. Honestly, the thought scared me. I was only just beginning to recover. The idea of bringing myself back to the state of a half-dead vegetable, the way I had with the push-ups or the park run, produced genuine internal resistance. But I knew perfectly well — that moment was coming. Putting it off indefinitely wasn't an option. I just needed to get a little stronger first.
I also had no doubt that Stark had put me under surveillance. Digital surveillance, certainly. JARVIS was surely watching every search I made about gyms and nutrition. And I didn't see that as a problem. Let him watch. Let him see that I hadn't blown his money — I'd invested it in myself. It only added credibility to my story.
And so, a week later, after my morning workout, I was getting ready for my usual run. I'd already laced up my worn sneakers when there was a knock at the door. Firm and clear.
I took a slow breath, made myself settle, and opened the door.
Two people stood in the hallway. A man and a woman. In civilian clothes. But their "civilian" looked too carefully chosen. Simply put: he wore jeans and a leather jacket, she wore fitted black trousers and a leather jacket of her own — but everything fit like it had been tailored to the millimeter. And their posture. They stood easily, casually — but I could see the coiled readiness underneath.
The man was tall and broad-shouldered, with a direct, honest gaze. Familiar down to the bone from every Marvel film I'd ever seen. The woman stood out by her red hair and her attentive, faintly amused eyes, which scanned me and my modest apartment in about two seconds flat.
Captain America. Steve Rogers. And the Black Widow. Natasha Romanoff.
She spoke first, with a light and easy smile.
"Alexei Vetrov?" Her voice was calm and almost friendly.
I nodded, unable to get a word out.
"We'd like to talk. May we come in?" She glanced quickly past my shoulder into the apartment, assessing for threats.
Everything inside me knotted up — but there was no panic. There was understanding. They came. Which meant Stark had passed along the information. And Steve hadn't come alone — he'd brought a SHIELD agent with him.
"Yes… of course," I said, stepping back to let them through. "Please come in."