[ 𝟏 ] 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 | 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐟𝐟

𝟎𝟔.

The morning following the confrontation with Ultron carried an air of defeat. I awoke belatedly, still reeling from the realization that the room where we had celebrated was now a chaotic mess of shattered glass and debris—the very space where Ultron had come to life. I assumed the Avengers were accustomed to abrupt conflicts and likely handled such situations far more adeptly than I did. It made me ponder whether their lives were consistently entwined with strife and despair. Even if that were true, could I genuinely assert that my existence differed significantly from a life marked by dissent and hopelessness?

I extricated myself from the bed and squinted at the clock—10 AM. It was a given that the team had already convened to discuss a strategic plan. I yearned to be part of the deliberations but hesitated, feeling it wasn't my place to intrude. Ultron's primary target was the Avengers, and I harbored no desire to exacerbate their troubles by attempting to assist.

I peeled off the bandages from my hands, noting that the cuts from the glass were nearly healed. Even in the first aid here, the level of sophistication is remarkable. Exiting my room and strolling down the hall, my singular focus at this time of day was on waffles. However, as I approached the entrance, my waffle dreams were shattered by the sight of about fifteen boxes of files scattered across the room. Natasha noticed me first, shooting me a quizzical 'Where have you been?' glance. The rest of the team followed suit, all sporting concerned parent expressions, and my choice of monkey pajamas didn't improve the situation.

"Good morning, Stella," Steve greeted politely, his serious expression belying the politeness. "Can you help us sort through these files? We'll fill you in on everything you missed once we have things organized."

The word "help" resonated, sending a mix of confusion and warmth through my stomach. Did this mean I was on the verge of becoming a team member? I quickly ignored the thought, not wanting to raise my hopes too hastily, though Steve's words provided some comfort. I was content that they trusted me enough to assist. That, in itself, sufficed for me. Too weary to respond verbally, I nodded and settled beside Natasha, claiming a solitary box of files.

"Well, these people are all horrible" Bruce declared as he sifted through another box of files.

"Wait. I recognize that guy," Tony interjected, pointing at a file in Bruce's hand. "From way back when. He operates off the African coast, dealing in the black market for arms."

Steve shot him a skeptical look.

"There are conventions, okay? You meet people. I didn't sell him anything," Tony replied defensively. "He was talking about finding something new, a game-changer. It was all very Ahab."

"This?" Thor questioned, eyeing the photo of the man in the file, with his attention fixed on the mark on the man's face.

"Ah, it's a tattoo. I don't think he had it."

"Those are tattoos. This is a brand," Thor pointed to a peculiar red mark on the man's neck.

"Banner, see what you can find on that brand."