Saturday afternoon, October 30, 2010
Russell stepped out of the Ancient One's office once again, five days after his last visit.
Back then, he'd accepted her condition: deal with the vampire outbreak, and in return she'd cure every innocent who had been infected. He could still see the faintly mischievous smile she'd given when he agreed—the satisfaction of someone who'd gotten a bargain for free.
Not unlike the way he felt when he offloaded the grunt work of surveillance onto Gwen.
---
At the bookstore, Gwen sat behind the counter, chin in her hand, looking half-asleep. Russell tossed out a question casually:
"How's the intel coming?"
Her head snapped up, the fatigue in her eyes replaced by focus. "I found their nest. More of them showed up last night. Their numbers keep climbing. At this rate, there could be ten thousand already."
Every night since, she'd gone hunting for their trails until dawn, returning only when the sun chased the creatures underground. Russell had given her paid leave from the bookstore. At eighteen, she still had growing left to do—and sleep was supposed to help with that.
Gwen bit her lip. "Do you have a plan? If we can't wipe them all out at once, and they go after civilians…"
Russell frowned. "Prepared right, we can hit them head-on. Sunlight's their weakness—it's not impossible to break them in a fight. But if we want them all in one sweep? That's beyond us. If they scatter, we can't contain them."
He exhaled. "Time to make a phone call, Gwen."
Her brows knit. "The NYPD? Do you honestly think they can handle vampires?"
"Of course not. Odds are the department already has some fangs on the payroll."
"Then who?"
Russell met her eyes. They both knew.
"Let's go see Tony Stark."
---
Stark Tower.
They were ushered into Tony's lounge, where he lounged in casual wear, swirling a glass of scotch.
"Sleeping Beauty," Tony drawled the moment Gwen stepped in. "About time. Ready to cash in your wish? Owing favors is a terrible habit."
His gaze slid to Russell, and his mouth twitched. "And what's this—your stand-up partner? You brought the comedy relief too?"
He lifted his glass. "Drink? Wine, coffee, something with an umbrella? I stock everything."
Russell only smiled back. Save the banter. I'll settle the score when you're dying of palladium poisoning.
Gwen cut straight to the point. "It's vampires. They're real, and they're gathering in New York."
Tony raised an eyebrow. "Vampires. Cute. I always thought those were just bedtime stories. JARVIS?"
"Yes, sir."
"Run a check."
"Of course, sir."
While the AI sifted through data, Tony sipped his drink. "This better not be a waste of my afternoon. He's fast—give him a minute."
The wall screen came alive, streams of data flashing past at dizzying speed before resolving into dossiers, maps, photographs.
"Located in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s archives," JARVIS intoned. "Records of the vampire race trace back beyond documented history. During World War II, German forces encountered them. Due to inherent biological weaknesses, the vampires suffered catastrophic losses—nine out of ten destroyed."
Images flickered: old photographs, shadows of creatures in uniform, classified reports.
"A handful of clans fled Europe for the Americas, where they appear to have struck a bargain with authorities in exchange for protection."
The screen zoomed on a portrait—sharp features, cold eyes.
"One such clan is based in New York. Their leader: Deacon Frost."
Russell leaned in, adding, "He's preparing a ritual—something called the Blood God's Descent. He needs twelve purebloods and one Daywalker: Eric Brooks, also known as Blade. With the rite, Frost intends to summon the Blood God and use it to re-sire the vampire race, purging their genetic weaknesses."
Tony rolled his eyes. "Sounds like a bad B-movie plot. Why isn't this just their problem?"
"Because Frost isn't just after survival," Russell said. "He's a radical. He believes vampires are the true apex and humans nothing more than cattle. He wants war."
Gwen nodded. "There are thousands of them already in the city. I've linked them to several recent disappearances."
Tony's smirk faded. He glanced at the holographic feeds again, frowning. "This is big. And you're telling me the FBI, NYPD—hell, even S.H.I.E.L.D.—have said nothing?"
"Sir," JARVIS cut in smoothly. "Intercepted transmissions suggest both S.H.I.E.L.D. and the military are aware."
Gwen blinked. "Then why haven't they acted?"
Tony shrugged. "Saturday. Maybe the army's on weekend leave."
"JARVIS, get me Nick Fury."
---
High above the East Coast, a massive helicarrier drifted invisible against the clouds.
Inside, Nick Fury was fuming. "Son of a— The Pentagon's telling me to wait until Monday? We're on the edge of a vampire apocalypse, and they're 'out of office'? Unbelievable."
He jabbed a finger at his agents. "Keep eyes on every last one of them. Quietly build containment lines. Tell the boys it's overtime—next month's pay doubles."
An agent approached. "Director, Tony Stark is requesting a line."
Fury blinked. Stark? Finally decided to join the team?
"Patch him through."
Tony's face appeared on the screen, leaning casually on his sofa. "Nick Fury. Heard about the vampire problem yet?"
Fury's single eye narrowed. "I'm aware. Where'd you hear it?"
"Doesn't matter. What matters is, you knew, and you're still sitting on your hands. Why?"
Fury clenched his jaw. If not for the military stonewalling him, those leeches would already be ash. But he kept his face unreadable. "S.H.I.E.L.D. has taken action."
"I don't see it." Tony's tone sharpened.
"Classified," Fury snapped. "No comment."
The silence between them thickened.
Coulson stepped into frame, calm where his boss bristled. "Mr. Stark. Believe me, we're doing everything we can. But our resources are limited. If we work together—share intel, coordinate—we can stop this before it spills into the streets."
Tony tilted his glass, considering. Finally, he inclined his head. "Fine. But this time, no stonewalling. We trade information. No more 'classified.'"
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