The late afternoon sun bathed the outskirts of Mumbai in a warm, golden glow and painted the sprawling film set of The Shadow Warrior 2: Voyage of Time in shades of amber and fire. Fabric banners snapped lazily in the breeze, bearing the stylised sigil of the Shadow Warrior—a fox entwined with a sword.
A fake stone courtyard sprawled across the main lot, complete with crumbling ramparts, ivy-draped towers, and an ornate fountain that had long since gone dry. Against the backdrop of the vivid sunset sky, Kingo knelt, broken and battered, atop a cracked balcony facade, off-screen industrial fans sending his shimmering golden cape swirling dramatically around him. His hair was artfully tousled, his eyes intense. Across from him scowled the villainous Warlord Kurat, a huge man in layered crimson armour.
Kingo pointed an accusatory finger. “Tumne Chhaya ke Sankalp se vishwasghaat kiya, Kurat!” he shouted, voice carrying across the set. You betrayed the Creed of the Shadows, Kurat! “Tumne apni talvaar dushmanon par nahin, balki apne hi khoon par chalaayi!” You turned your blade not against our enemies, but against our own blood!
The actor playing Kurat sneered, lifting his fake warhammer with a theatrical flourish. “Sankalp ab mar chuka hai, Chhaya Yoddha—and tumhaara kartavya bhi. Is yudh ka ab koi arth nahin. Hat jao mere raaste se.” The Creed is dead, Shadow Warrior—and your duty along with it. There is no point to this battle any longer. Stand aside.
Kingo’s jaw clenched in perfectly calibrated determination. He rose to his feet, slow and deliberate, sun gleaming off his black armour, golden cape billowing behind him like a banner. “Jeevan ka sabse bada kartavya hai apne parivaar ki raksha karna!” he declared, every syllable weighted with heartbreak and fury. Life affords no greater duty than to protect one’s family!
“Cut!” the director bellowed, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. “Shandaar! Kingo, tum hi ho is film ki dhadkan! Coverage ke liye reset karo!” Sensational! Kingo, you are the heart of this movie! Reset for coverage!
Kingo held the pose a moment longer, basking in the feeling, then broke into a grin and gave the assembled cast and crew a flourishing bow. Scattered applause rippled through the courtyard. He hopped down from the balcony with an easy spring to get back into position for the start of the scene again, already imagining the trailers, the posters, the international press tour where he’d graciously accept Best Actor awards with a winning smile—
—and then froze as a ripple of commotion passed through the set.
Because walking casually onto the lot, eyes partially hidden behind dark sunglasses, hands thrust into the pockets of his charcoal-gray jacket, was none other than Tony Stark.
Tony Stark. Iron Man. Real-life, billion-dollar, world-saving, tabloid-covering Tony Stark.
The director scurried over, looking one bad moment away from a heart attack. Kingo caught snippets of panicked conversation—permits, security, scheduling—but Stark waved him off like he was brushing away a mild inconvenience.
“Relax, Scorsese,” Stark said smoothly. “I'm just here to talk to the star.”
Kingo blinked. He barely remembered meeting Stark at that party in Calcutta a few years back—just enough to know that he had been charming, slightly drunk, and the centre of every room he entered. But what was he doing here?
Stark sauntered right up to him, wearing a faintly amused smile. “Kingo. Big fan.”
Kingo blinked again. “Uh—thank you, Mr Stark. Big fan of yours, too. I mean—obviously. Who isn’t? You’re like, Iron Man. And also Tony Stark. And also…” he trailed off helplessly, throwing up his hands in a ‘you get it’ gesture.
“C’mon, walk with me,” Stark said, tilting his head toward the side of the lot. “Got something I want to run by you.”
The director made a helpless squawking noise as Stark clapped Kingo on the back and started steering him off the set, past confused extras and bewildered production assistants. Kingo shot the director an apologetic smile over his shoulder and hurried to keep up.
Karun, Kingo’s valet, caught his eye and gestured to himself with an enquiring look, silently asking if he wanted him to come along. Kingo indicated a negative with a short, sharp cutting motion and shake of his head. Karun’s head bobbed in acknowledgement, then he shot him two big thumbs-up—good luck! Internally, Kingo’s mind was racing, trying to work out why Tony Stark would want to speak to him. Did he want a cameo in Shadow Warrior 2? That would be amazing. Or maybe… maybe this was bigger?
They headed off the main set, the fake scenery thinning out to make way for stacked lighting rigs, prop trucks, and half-built stage sets. The sun was slanting low, turning everything into long shadows and gold.
“So,” Stark said casually. “You ever think about expanding your brand?”
Kingo’s heart nearly exploded. This was it. Tony Stark was stepping into producing. He wanted a cinematic universe—a Kingo Cinematic Universe. The KCU. “I mean, yeah, all the time,” he said smoothly, hoping he didn’t sound like he was hyperventilating. “Streaming, merchandising, maybe a prestige TV series on Netflix. Something tasteful. Emmy bait, you know?”
Stark raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Tasteful. Right.”
As they stepped into an empty lot—nothing but cracked pavement and a few abandoned backdrops—Kingo’s eyes widened slightly. Waiting for them, silent and gleaming, was the Iron Man suit itself, standing there like some vigilant sentinel. Red and platinum metal caught the dying sunlight, and in the centre of its chest pulsed the gentle blue light of an arc reactor.
King glanced rapidly around as they walked up to it. There was no one else here… it was a little unusual, actually. Normally he would expect there to be at least some staff messing about with props or extras who’d snuck off for a smoke—not to mention gawkers who’s be keen to catch a glimpse of the Iron Man suit—but it seemed like the lot was completely empty.
They came to a stop in front of the armour and the multi-billionaire glanced around, surveying the lot. Meanwhile, Kingo stepped lightly around it, eyes drinking in details from every angle. “Man, that is… so cool,” he said, clapping his hands together, a wide grin splitting his face. “Sorry, sorry. Just an actor here. I’m used to seeing fake versions of stuff like this. Seeing the real thing up close is just—wow.”
Stark smirked. “Glad you approve.”
Kingo’s nervous energy dialled up another notch and he smiled awkwardly back, not sure what to say. What was this for? Tony Stark hadn’t led him over here for a casual Suit Appreciation Hour. Maybe not movies… what, then? Was he looking to do some sort of joint merchandising deal? Hm. Maybe a Kingo/Iron Man limited edition watch? ‘Time waits for no hero’? Oh, that was good, he should really write that down.
“So, like I said,” Stark said, tipping his head to give Kingo a once-over over the top of his sunglasses. “I’m a huge fan of your work.”
“Any particular favourites? Phantom Gun was—”
The other man cut him off, voice casual. “I was more referring to the whole, y’know, millennia-old guardian of the planet, shepherding humanity through the ages, thing. That whole deal.”
Kingo froze, smile still plastered on his face. “…Whaaaat?” he asked, wincing as his voice cracked a little. Internally, he started immediately and viciously kicking himself. As good an actor as he normally was, that had caught him completely totally off-guard. There was no way that Tony Stark knew he was an Eternal, was there? How would that even be possible? “I think maybe you’ve been watching way too many movies, Mr Stark.” He let out a small, nervous laugh.
Stark flicked his wrist and a gauntlet detached from the Iron Man suit with a soft mechanical whirr—it shot across the gap and landed neatly over his hand and forearm. He flexed his fingers, testing the fit like a golfer limbering up at the driving range. “I hear you’ve got some impressive guns. Care to show ‘em off?”
“Guns?” Kingo echoed, heart starting to pound. “I mean, sure, I’ve been working out. You know, cardio, a little—”
“Guess not,” Stark said, clicking his tongue in disappointment. “Probably not as impressive as mine, anyway.”
As he spoke, he took a step away and gestured with his gauntleted hand, the repulsor in the palm letting off a whine as it charged. Next to Kingo, there was the sound of a mechanism firing and, suddenly, a half-dozen tiny metal discs shot from a compartment in the suit, zipping upward like clay pigeons. Tony snapped off a series of pinpoint repulsor blasts, picking each of the discs out of the air, one by one, with bright blue bursts of light.
Kingo’s brain was doing somersaults. “Wow! Wow. Very impressive. So cool. Man, the special effects budget on this conversation must be insane,” he joked, laughing a little, trying not to show how much he was sweating.
“Not bad, huh?” Stark said, blowing on the repulsor gauntlet like it was a six-shooter. “Think you can do me one better?”
Kingo laughed nervously, stepping back, hands up like a man trying to calm a wild animal. “Me? Oh, no no no. You've clearly got this covered.”
"Oh, c’mon. Just us heroes here. Unless you’re worried you might miss,” Stark taunted gently, waggling his eyebrows. “I get it, I get it. Wouldn’t want to embarrass yourself if you couldn’t, uh, perform.”
“Mr Stark, I—”
The suit fired another volley of targets skyward.
Kingo’s hands twitched. No. He needed to resist. Resist the urge. He was an Eternal. He was a man of mystery and poise and—
A lattice of golden lines flickered over the backs of his hands, chaotic balls of glimmering cosmic energy forming in his palms as he whipped them upwards and aimed with his fingertips. His instincts took over and he loosed a series of precise, rapid blasts, perfectly vaporizing each target with a brilliant golden staccato flash. Pew-pew! Pew-pew, pew!
Silence hung in the air for a beat.
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Kingo cleared his throat, shaking out his hands. “Really, Mr Stark,” he said, trying for dignity as he mock-polished his nails on his jacket. “I’m a little insulted that you’d think I wasn’t—”
There was a whirr and the suit fired a third volley of targets—they were faster, this time, the formation looser and wider. Kingo grimaced, cursed under his breath in Sumerian, and snapped his hands up again.
Pewpewpewpewpew!
“—a much better shot than you,” he finished smugly.
Stark stared at him for a moment, one eyebrow raised. Then he pointed, deadpan. “Literal finger guns. Seriously?”
Kingo couldn’t help smiling and blew a little imaginary smoke off his fingertip—echoing Stark’s earlier motion—before ‘holstering’ both his hands at his hips. “Okay, fine. You got me,” he acknowledged, though his chest was still tight with anxiety. This… this wasn’t too bad, right? Karun already knew who he was, after all—one more human in the know wasn’t that bad. Uh. Unless Stark knowing meant all the Avengers knew. Which of course it did. But… “How’d you know?”
The other man shrugged. “Let’s just say I’ve got my sources. The real question is… Ever think about doing something bigger than Bollywood? How would you feel about suiting up?”
Kingo’s heart skipped a beat as he finally realised what was going on. This was a recruitment. Tony Stark was trying to get him to join the Avengers. Oh, man, Ikaris would be so jealous. He managed to keep his expression cool, tossing a casual shrug. “I mean, that’s… very flattering. Really. Super flattering. But I can’t.”
“Can’t?” Stark said it like it was utterly distasteful, like it was ridiculous that Kingo would ever say that he can’t do something.
“It’s a Prime Directive sort of thing,” Kingo hedged. “We—we’re not supposed to interfere in human conflicts. Something like the Avengers is a no-no. Orders from management.” He gave a little apologetic shrug.
Stark’s nose wrinkled briefly. “Ajak’s, right?”
Kingo blinked. It was one thing for Tony Stark to know about him, given how public a figure he was, but… “You know about Ajak?”
“Told you. Sources,” Stark said with a small smile. Stepping over to Kingo, he slipped an arm easily around his shoulder and started to gently guide him toward the back end of the lot. “Easy fix. We’ll just go talk to Ajak, right? Let me have a chat to her, clear this whole thing up. I mean, it’d be nice to get to know you all, anyway. Maybe you can introduce me to everyone. That okay with you? Jet’s already warming up.”
“Uh…” Kingo laughed a little too loudly, his mind racing. “Wow! Spontaneous international travel! Just like that! Wild! Crazy!”
Inside, some part of him was screaming that Ajak would absolutely murder him if he rolled up to her farmhouse with Tony Stark like he was bringing a new boyfriend home to meet the parents. She’d murder him, then she’d somehow find a way to retroactively erase his filmography.
Stark just smiled that winning, utterly terrifying smile. “C’mon! It’ll be fun. A few hours, tops. We’ll pop out, have a chat to Ajak, and I’ll have you back here before you can say ‘the Shadow Warrior joins the Avengers!’.”
Kingo hesitated. For a fleeting, insane second, he considered running for it. Just ducking out from under Stark’s arm and straight-up sprinting back onto the movie set and disappearing into a cloud of prop smoke like a stage magician. Poof! No Kingo here, Mr Stark. Just a humble actor with no ancient secrets whatsoever. So sorry.
But… Arishem help him… another part of him—the dumb, reckless part that had fought deviants across ten thousand battlefields and done absolutely nothing responsibly for seven thousand years—was thrilled by the idea. Glory. Publicity. The Shadow Warrior revealed.
He flashed his most dazzling, movie-poster grin. “Alright, Mr Stark. Let’s roll. But if I miss golden hour lighting for tomorrow’s big stunt scene, I’m blaming you personally.”
Stark clapped him on the back. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
This was probably fine.
--
Natasha sat at one of the Quinjet’s secondary consoles, her eyes scanning the satellite map of West Virginia.
Steve’s voice came in over the comms. “What’s the situation?”
“Ross isn’t in DC,” Clint said from the pilot’s seat, his fingers resting loosely on the yoke as he guided the aircraft low over the forested terrain below them. They were running in stealth mode, engines humming quietly, trying to keep as low a profile as they could in the middle of the day. “No explanations in his calendar and he’s due back in the office for a meeting this afternoon. We tracked his car. He’s on his way back from a location in the middle of nowhere, West Virginia.”
“We cross-referenced the coordinates,” Nat added. “Only thing we managed to pull up was a name. Camp Echo One. No available satellite imagery. Away from air traffic. Surrounded by national forests. No infrastructure for miles.”
“Military black site.” Bucky stood behind Clint, his arms folded, his jaw set in a grim expression. “We’re already on our way.”
“Sounds about right,” Steve agreed. He didn’t sound overly thrilled. “Be careful. We can’t afford to jump to conclusions here. We don’t know that Ross is responsible. This could still be a coincidence.”
“The timing lines up,” Bucky argued, giving a small shake of his head even though Steve couldn’t see him. “Yesterday Wanda vanishes, today Ross visits an off-the-books black site next door? We’re going in. Now.”
“Now?” Steve asked, a note of concern in his voice. “You’ve still got about seven hours of daylight. You should wait until nightfall. Better cover.”
“We aren’t leaving her in there a second longer than absolutely necessary,” Bucky said sharply.
“We don’t even know she’s there, Buck,” Steve pointed out.
“It’s not just for Wanda’s sake, Steve,” Nat spoke up, shooting a considering glance over at Bucky. He seemed agitated—much more so than she would have expected him to be. “If she is there, the longer we leave it, the more chance this all goes sideways. You know as well as I do that Wanda can react badly when she feels trapped. She managed to get away from HYDRA on her own when Strucker nabbed her, but she’s not going to be able to just waltz out of a US military base, especially if her head’s fuzzy. It could get violent.”
“If we get her out clean, we can still negotiate with Ross,” Clint said, flipping a couple of switches on the console. “If Wanda burns the place to the ground trying to escape, that won’t be on the table.”
There was a brief pause. “All right,” Steve said after a moment. “How’s your approach looking?”
“We’ve got the terrain for it,” Clint said. “Between that and the stealth systems I can get us close. Just need to find a safe place to bring her down—far enough to not get spotted, close enough to not be awkward if we need to carry Wanda out.”
Nat tapped a location on the screen in front of her, setting a waypoint to flash up on Clint’s HUD. “There’s a clearing northeast of the target. Narrow ridge, heavy trees. Right near Barton Knob,” she said, catching his eye and raising an eyebrow, a small smile on her face. “Tony’ll be a little jealous to know you’ve got a mountain named after… yourself.”
He shook his head. “Wanda’s rubbing off on you.”
“Not right now she isn’t,” Bucky muttered, completely po-faced. Despite the joke, he still looked incredibly tense, his shoulders tight.
“All right. Quick and quiet, in and out. Don’t get spotted, don’t start a fight,” Steve confirmed, ignoring the chatter. “Keep us updated.”
“Not exactly our first rodeo, Cap,” Clint said wryly.
“Copy that. We’ll be careful,” Nat confirmed.
She cut the comms, then leaned back and closed her eyes for a moment, wishing she’d gotten a bit more sleep last night. The stress of worrying about what had happened to Wanda was starting to get to her. Adrenaline had done a good job of papering over her exhaustion so far, but she needed to be sharp if they were going to break into a military base without getting caught. She needed to text Yelena again to update her, as well—though her sister wouldn’t admit it, Nat knew she was worried, too.
Nat opened her eyes again just in time to see Bucky abruptly turn and head toward the rear of the Quinjet without a word. Nat exchanged a significant look with Clint, brow furrowed slightly, then stood and followed. The rear of the Quinjet was wider and more utilitarian—ribbed walls with modular equipment racks and lockers, sealed crates lashed down to floor hooks, and a gear bench along one side with magnetic clamps. Fluorescent strips in the overhead panels lent a cold, bluish hue to everything. The space hummed faintly with the sound of engines and filtered airflow.
Bucky had his back to her and was methodically strapping on his tac vest. His vibranium arm gleamed in the half-light, the segmented plating flexing as he tightened a strap.
“Hey,” she said, giving him a firm but gentle tap with the back of her hand. “What’s up? Where’s your head at?”
He didn’t turn around. “I’m fine.”
“Bullshit.” She stepped around him, ducking slightly to try to catch his eye. He avoided her gaze. “You’re rattled. You need to get a handle on it before we hit dirt. What’s going on?”
He exhaled, then turned halfway toward her, his jaw tight. “Nat, I…” Bucky trailed off, like he didn’t want to give voice to what was running through his head.
Ah.
Honestly, Nat was a little surprised that she hadn’t caught it before now. Maybe she was getting a little rusty, or maybe it was just because the connection that Wanda and Bucky shared had always been pretty privately intimate, so it had masked things to a degree. Either way… she let out a small huff of amusement, a half-smile touching her lips. “When this is done—when Wanda’s back home safe,” she said, her tone gentle. “You should tell her how you feel about her.”
He froze.
“It’s okay,” Natasha said. As she spoke, she turned to one of the lockers and retrieved a matte black compression suit, custom-fitted and woven with a lightweight carbon mesh. She started to strip out of the civvies she’d worn for the State Department infiltration. “We don’t need to talk about it, if you don’t want to—it’s between you and her.”
“It’s not…” he started, then trailed off. “I don’t know how to have this conversation.”
Nat grinned at him as she pulled her suit on, the smooth panels zipping into place. “I generally find that putting one word in front of the other until you’ve completed your thought works well enough in most cases.”
“This isn’t something that matters right now,” he said, shaking his head. “We just need to get her back.”
“Okay.” Nat strapped her utility belt to her waist, then stepped over to retrieve her bracers from their magnetic wall mounts. The Widow’s Bites locked into place around her wrists with a quiet hiss, the conductors warming against her pulse points. She checked their power levels—full charge. “But we can talk about it, if you need to.”
He gave her a small nod. It was masked by the tension, but she caught a hint of gratitude in the gesture.
“Let’s go get our witch,” she said.
Clint brought them down carefully behind the ridgeline they’d identified, the Quinjet’s hull brushing dangerously close to the upper branches of the treeline before settling onto a narrow stretch of mossy stone no wider than a tennis court. The rear ramp hissed down, and the three of them disembarked without a word.
They disappeared into the thick forest, passing through tangled oaks and scrub pines. Natasha was at the front, picking their path carefully through the undergrowth to minimise visibility, while Bucky took the rearguard. Clint kept a satellite tracker live on a wrist display, occasionally tapping in course corrections as they angled south-southwest through the forest. The hike was short, under a mile, but the incline was rough.
Camp Echo One came into view quickly, the site proper made up of a main bunker plus a pair of auxiliary buildings sporting huge SATCOM dishes. The perimeter was enclosed by a three-meter-high chain-link fence, topped with inward-curved barbed wire. Standard military design, with fifty feet of clear, open ground between the fence and the nearest cover. They surveyed the camp for half an hour, taking careful note of guard patrols and camera locations, before they found a blind spot: a path in.
They had a 28-second window between guards and a lot of ground to cover—it was tight, but doable. Nat used a laser cutter to get them through the fence. The outer door to the main facility entrance had no guards posted, just a biometric pad and a security camera Clint looped with a portable scrambler. Inside, the three of them moved quickly through narrow corridors washed in harsh fluorescent lighting.
Clint handled the surveillance—cameras, motion sensors—while Bucky and Nat neutralised security personnel as they encountered them, taking them down and concealing them out of sight as best they could, hoping no one would find them and raise an alarm before the team had managed to exfiltrate. They needed to be quick.
The building’s main security control room was well-secured and heavily staffed, so there wasn’t any opportunity for them to hijack the main camera system or sneak a peek at a prisoner manifest or any other files. On the plus side, the bunker’s layout was fairly standard for a facility of this type, so it was a relatively simple matter to secure their path down to the sub-basement level where the primary holding cells were. If Wanda was here, that was where she’d be.
A short elevator ride later, they were passing through concrete-walled hallways lined with cells, ventilation fans spinning lazily overhead. Quick checks showed that every single cell they passed was empty—it didn’t seem like anyone else was being held here, which made Natasha feel a little uneasy.
Then they reached the door.
It was sealed with a steel plate thicker than anything they’d seen so far, huge bolts sunk deep into the heavily reinforced concrete walls. No windows, no keypad, no indication of what might be inside—only a heavy mechanical lock. The corridor was otherwise clear, the walls layered with soundproofing foam and thermal baffles. It screamed Enhanced containment.
“This is it.” Clint swept his scanner over the doorframe. “No heat leak. Shielded six ways from Sunday. If they’re holding someone dangerous, it’d be in here.”
“It’s her. It has to be,” Bucky said grimly, his jaw set.
Nat gave a small nod. “Open it.”
