The Last Avenger [What If...? x DCAMU Crossover]

27. Impromptu BDSM

Indiana Stark, A.K.A. Tony Stark's little sister, became the deadliest woman known to man.

And there came a day unlike any other when, Earth's Mightiest Heroes found themselves united against a common threat. On that day, she joined the Avengers.

This is what she does now that they're gone.

Last time: protecting a building once again in thrall to a tracksuit gang of unspecified Eurasian origin, Indiana found herself in over her head. While letting The Outlaws crash as her place, Indiana gets targeted by a hitman hired by the Tracksuits.

The first strike left a resident dead. The second left Indiana with profound damage to her ears.

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The sky is the colour of 1989, and the sky is the colour of spring break. It was the night-time sky over a frat house at the MIT campus.

Fourteen-year-old Indiana was a fucking disappointment, unable to meet the great expectation set for her. Poor little Stark girl, people called her. Mad little Stark girl. Which was why she was hiding out at her brothers party, at a house that smelt like stale pizza and beer. She sat on the roof, watching the purple and blue neon lights flash below her and brought a cigarette to her lips.

"TONY!" she heard Rhodey shout over the music. Man had lungs, she had to admit. "Turn up the Sabbath!"

Indiana mightn't have even been a thought when "Iron Man" was released, but that didn't mean the mad little Stark girl wouldn't drop everything to become a Black Sabbath groupie.

It was half way through the second chorus when the window to the roof slid up. Out climbed a pair of women in beer-stained clothes: a black woman with long tied back locks who wore shorts, a dark green T-shirt, and combat boots, and a tall, Olive Oyl—thin redhead in a big maroon MIT sweater and jeans that were covered with marker stains and little holes, like she spent her free time poking them with a fork. Indiana sank further into her bomber jacket, trying to bury herself in the fabric the same way she buried secrets alive inside herself. The were both older than her, like everybody else here.

"Look at that, Babs. Kid had the same idea," Olive Oyl said, taking off her sweater to reveal the spaghetti-strap tank top underneath. "I'm Ethel Flint from Virginia. Engineering." She reach for Indiana's hand and shook it aggressively, like cocking a rifle. "This here is Barb Johnson, bio mechanic, from a one-stoplight town in Georgia. She's mean as a dang snake. Made the last kid she met cry."

"That isn't true, Ethel, and you know it," the black woman said, pulling the damp T-shirt away from her chest. "Good God, it's hot down there."

Indiana stared at Barb. Honestly, she didn't know many black people and could count the ones she did on one hand. Rhodey, of course. Gabe Jones grandson, Trip, when Aunt Peggy took her to the bi-annual Howling Commando reunions in London. And Bill Foster, who chased her across the country last year.

But something about the way Barb started back, her eyes narrowed and assessing, made Indiana feel like a kid who'd wondered into the wrong class room.

"I'm Goose," she said. Her voice gave out halfway through the introduction and she had to start over.

"Well, Top Gun, mind if I borrow a light?" Ethel asked, putting her hand down her tank top and pulled out a packet of smokes. The movement the silver beaded chain of dog tags around her neck.