Tony leaned against the workbench, eyeing Li Ming like the man had just announced Disney World was his next stop. "Tourist trap? That's your cover story?"
Li Ming only smirked.
Tony turned to the half-charged arc reactor. Good enough. He snapped the old, crude unit back into his chest and pulled on a jacket to hide the glow. He hated it—felt like bolting a lawnmower engine into a sports car.
He jerked his chin toward the garage. "Come on."
Li Ming followed, eager to reclaim his house-on-wheels.
From the outside, the RV looked the same. Inside, Tony unveiled his work: stealth baffling to spoof sensors, geometry tweaks that made the cabin feel bigger, and every creature comfort short of a butler in a tux.
Li Ming's mouth curved sideways. "Creature comforts rot the will. Focus is practice. Practice is focus."
Tony's pitying look could've flattened a god. "That's you being soft. I multitask—pleasure and progress. I've got trophies I could melt down for scrap and cover your living expenses for a decade. And awards shows? I don't even RSVP anymore."
He swung open a compact kitchen. "Real work in here. Kreacher can do Chinese, Western, pastries, burgers—you name it."
"Burgers?" Li Ming arched a brow.
"We're friends," Tony said, righteous as a priest. "If I drop by starving, you're not letting Kreacher flip me a burger or two? That's called preparing for a rainy day. Been learning idioms. For the friendship."
Li Ming rolled his eyes. Not for friendship. For my grimoires.
Tony let it slide. They both knew the dance.
He guided Li Ming to a squat unit. "Microbrew rig. I know you love beer. Carve a spatial expansion rune inside and you'll have an endless tap. You wanna bathe in beer? Go wild."
That one landed. Of all the upgrades, this hit dead center. Li Ming thought about the mountain of empties he'd tossed over the years and nearly teared up.
At the driver's seat, he frowned at a laptop-sized display. "What's this—Netflix for long drives?"
Tony resisted the urge to pinch his nose. "Your RV flies. I've seen you do it blind, and that's why I'm going gray. One goose, and boom—cloak gone, crash landing. So—radar for traffic and birds, altitude, coordinates. Comms with ground control, so next time the Air Force spots you, they text instead of sending a missile."
He tapped the bezel. "This isn't just a screen. It's the RV's digital brain. TV, phone, all routed here. Auto-transcribes everything."
Li Ming considered, then nodded. Sensible. He dropped to the ground.
Behind him, Tony exhaled. He hadn't mentioned the tracker baked into the unit. Fuel tank would've been perfect, but magic drive meant no tank. The hub was safer—if Li Ming sniffed for signals, it'd blend.
Li Ming wasn't fooled. Tony's curiosity was gravity. Let him know where the RV parked—so what? The real secrets were locked away.
That night they feasted, then Li Ming opened a portal, drove the RV into the desert, and let the sun bake off the buzz. When dusk fell, he slipped into the lab Kreacher had already arranged, clamped a Dementor to the slab, and got to work.
By nature, Dementors fed on emotion. The Kiss skimmed the edge of soul magic. Primitive. Li Ming wanted more—push their perception deeper, from feelings to the presence of souls themselves. Upgrade the Kiss into a weapon.
Their cold aura? Worthless. His affinity leaned fire. Ice magic in his hands had one purpose: keeping beer perfect. He wasn't about to reinvent that wheel. Not yet.
The first subject went rough. His hands clumsy, timing off. So he called Kreacher in as scrub nurse and scribe. Every cut, every sigil, every mark was recorded like scripture.
Three days later, both running on fumes, the altered Dementor shrieked with new vigor and dove back into the scythe.
Kreacher's ears drooped, eyes wide. "Master… is it done?"
Li Ming, wired and exhausted, nodded hard.
"Master… can Kreacher sleep now?"
The question hit him like a hammer. He almost sprawled on the spot. But first—
"You memorized the sequence?" he asked through a yawn.
Kreacher managed a shaky nod. "Kreacher remembers."
"Great." Li Ming tossed him the scythe. "Then the rest are yours."
He dusted his hands and wandered off to bed, leaving Kreacher frozen in a sandstorm of panic.
Three days for one Dementor.
Three hundred sixty-four left.
Call it… three years.
Riiiing. Riiiing.
Li Ming was face-down, dead to the world, mouth open, snoring like a freight train. Days without sleep had left him in a coma only caffeine or catastrophe could break. Unfortunately, the RV's sound system had other ideas. An old-school phone shrieked like a banshee, its analog scream bouncing around the cabin like surround sound.
He tried the classics—pillow over head, palm over ear, selective denial. No luck. Phones, unlike enemies, didn't retreat when ignored.
Finally, he cracked one eye and sat on the edge of the bed, spiritually jet-lagged. Since arriving in this universe, he'd barely used electronics—portals beat phones every time. He could hardly remember his own number.
The shriek kept drilling. He squinted at the wall-mounted handset like it belonged in a museum. "What number even is this?" he muttered, snapping his fingers. The phone floated into his hand.
"Sorry," he yawned, "the number you've dialed is not in service. Try again later."
On the other end, Director Nick Fury felt his jaw tighten. A sat-line, and this clown answers like a comedy sketch? That minute costs more than my coat.
"It's me," Fury said flatly.
The voice was familiar, but not Stark. Li blinked. "Uh… which 'me' are you? And how'd you get this number?"
Fury assumed recognition. Wrong. Li Ming's brain was still in sleep mode. "Where are you? We need to talk."
Li conjured a cool sphere of water, dunked his face, and came up sputtering. "Thought you were a telemarketer," he said, finally awake. "What can I do for you at this lovely hour, Mister… Fu?"
Fury glanced out his office window—broad daylight over Manhattan. Lovely hour, huh? If it was night on Li's end, Afghanistan again? He flagged a trace.
Li Ming caught himself. Of course Fury would latch on to the slip. Fine. Let him guess. Let him even be right. "Where else would I be?" he said. "What, you imagine I'm lounging in your bedroom, whispering sweet nothings?"
"I want to buy something," Fury said, eyes on the triangulation feed. "When can we meet?"
Finally. Took him long enough. Li Ming grinned, stretching like a cat. I thought you people didn't care about the Fountain or my 'fake' resurrection act. Glad I oversold it.
"You want the Fountain of Life," he drawled. "Hate to break it to you—you couldn't afford it if you sold your underwear. One drop, one life. Life is priceless, love is—how's that saying go?"
Can't afford isn't won't sell, Fury noted. He pressed. "When can we talk in person?"
"Sure. Where's convenient?"
"Pick a restaurant. We'll eat while we talk."
Li Ming froze. That wasn't the script. "Discussing the Fountain in public is… suboptimal."
Fury leaned back, gears turning. The wizard hadn't flaunted his power by accident—he wanted the door open. "How about the Triskelion?"
Li rubbed his nose. From the tone, the Director had pegged him. So what? Let them think talk was the point. He'd do the talking. His other "guests" could do the walking.
"Well, since you insist," he said breezily. "I'll reluctantly swing by your lair for a tour—after I finish this nap."
He dropped the handset, let the dial tone hum, and flopped back onto the mattress. Out cold in seconds.
In Manhattan, Fury pressed his intercom. "Send Coulson to my office."
Moments later, Coulson arrived, wearing his usual brand of professional worry. "Director?"
"Figure out how many of Austin's people can vanish," Fury said.
Called it, Coulson thought grimly. "Sir, we don't even know where he is, let alone who he's employing. Every lead says he lives alone."
Fury laced his fingers, nodding at the monitor. "That—" he pointed at the pulsing red dot in a sea of sand—"is where he is."
"Afghanistan," Fury added. "Same sector we scanned during the Stark recovery."
He leaned back. "I know he has a shadow. A servant. Always nearby. Always invisible."
"The child-sized footprints?" Coulson asked.
Fury nodded. "Name's Kreacher. A house-elf. Exclusive aide. Don't know how he fights, but invisibility alone is a headache."
Coulson frowned. "But earlier you picked up his prints with a sensor. That means, with the right equipment, we can—" He stopped. The penny dropped. "You think Kreacher has more than one way to vanish. Something that beats our current detection."
"That's exactly my concern." Fury's jaw set. "And Kreacher wasn't an accident. Austin let me see him. A nudge. Which tells me there are probably other invisible assets I didn't see."
Silence stretched.
"Remember when he showed you the Fountain and his 'resurrection' trick?" Fury asked.
Coulson grimaced. That moment had shredded his worldview.
"Wizards are ghosts," Fury said. "Too good at staying off the board. But Austin flaunted power in front of you and Stark. That wasn't for free. After this call? I'm sure. He's coming for the Triskelion."
Coulson's brows furrowed. HQ didn't even hold the strangest artifacts—those were buried deeper, elsewhere. Why would a mage—
"I just invited him," Fury said dryly.
Coulson blinked. "Director… what?"
Fury stood, clapped his shoulder. "Your job is to receive Kreacher. I'll speak with Austin alone."