The Irony of it All

26

        Tony was in his lab, hands in his hair, as he went over the records from the FBI for the millionth time. Evidence included Winchester 9mm bullets, choice ammo of the FBI. And a lot less of 9x19 mm parabellum bullets, which were introduced in 1902 by a German Weapons manufacturer. They also happened to be the standard ammunition for a Glock 18.

      Tony knew Glock 18s were hard to get. You couldn't just buy one at your local fishing tackle and gun store, or even pay big bucks for one on a black market. These things were used by CIA special agents, or High Level Shield Agents. That wasn't the disturbing part. The disturbing part was that the winchester bullets had been found in the walls in the hotel and in the alley way. The parabellum bullets on the other hand, were found in the bodies of FBI agents that didn't make it.

        He breathed out a shaky, ragged breath, as his fingers pulled at his scalp. He was getting too old for this. Aliens, Psychopathic Robot killers, creepy twins, teens with spider DNA, Shrinking Bug guys, Civil Wars, and now lethal assassin/Avenger gone rogue. A never ending cycle, and one he was getting pretty tired of.
     
        He'd just flipped to the next page, when he thought he heard a faint ringing sound. He paused, but the sound disappeared. He turned back to the evidence list when he heard it again. He swiveled his chair around. 'That was definitely something ringing.' He got up, and started shuffling through papers and mechanical parts, looking under tables, slowly moving around the room, following the faint sound as it grew louder. He found a set of drawers on one of the desks, and started shuffling through each one. When he got to the third drawer and opened it, the sound suddenly got really loud. He shuffled through the absolute junk that he was pretty sure he'd never seen before (A mixture of old pictures, scrapped prototypes, rusty parts, chinese takeout cannisters and old cheeseburger wrappers.), before he pulled out a small black flip phone. "Huh. Forgot I had that," he mumbled, more to himself than his trusty AI. He vaguely remembered tossing it into a random drawer after receiving it and a letter from Steve. It rang once more before he flipped it open and pressed it against his ear.
   
      "I'm sorry, the number you dialed has been changed, disconnected or is no longer in service. Goodbye." He said, and hung up.
 
       He snapped the phone closed and threw it back in the drawer, kicking it shut and then walking away. He only made it a few feet before be heard the ringing again. He groaned, turned around, sifted for the phone, flipped it open and pressed it to his ear. Again.
      
      "I'm really busy passively ignoring you so this better not be a waste of my time," He said in a deadpan tone.

      "It's good to hear your voice Tony."

      "Spare me the sentiment."

      "Is Clint alive?"

      "His heart hasn't given out yet, but I wouldn't call it living."

      "How's Laura and the kids?"

      "They'd be a lot better if you hadn't dragged him out of retirement."

      Steve didn't reply, instead he said, "I received news that Romanoff was captured about a week ago in Africa."
   
       Tony's brow furrowed. "Hold on," he said, covering the speaker with his hand. "Friday?"

        "Yes boss?"

         "Was Agent Romanoff captured?"

          "There are no official records from any countries that prove Natasha Romanoff has been apprehended. However, she was taken off all alarms and priority lists last Tuesday."
 
           He took his hand off the speaker. "According to Friday, her capture hasn't been made official yet."

           "I know. Everything's quiet. Tony, I need to know what really happened."

           "I'm pretty sure it's illegal to tell  a fugitive of 117 countries, confidential information belonging to the FBI."

          "Tony. Please." He said, in a voice that sounded more like Steve Rogers than Captain America. Ironic.

           "Nobody knows what really happened."

            "What does that mean?"

          "The official reports from the FBI Agents that cornered her and survived all say the exact same thing. Which is kind of sketchy in itself, but the reports are all very vague. There's no details. The excuse is that they were either in shock, wounded, or too busy to have a proper debriefing.

         Besides that, the only proper abnormality is that the reports say Natasha shot Fine before jumping out of the hotel window. But a body matching Fine's description was found on the other side of the Hudson Bay. I only know cause I hacked into the NYPD's 911 call records. All reports of that particular call and the body were erased soon after."

       "What about Clint?"

        "Officially, that's pinned on her too. But he's not physically injured in any way we can tell."

         "What? How's that possible?"

          "I have no clue. Banner's trying to figure it out. The only physical explanation is the extremely high amounts of cortisol in his blood. But that just makes us more confused."

         "What's cortisol?"

         "It's a hormone that we release when we're stressed. When we're young, we produce low levels. The older you get, the more you produce. High levels for long periods of time shrink the brain and organs. Clint has an amount of cortisol equivalent to how much a hundred and thirty year old man would have."

           "That doesn't make any sense, he's only a couple years older than Nat."

            "Exactly. And I thought you only referred to her as Romanoff," he said, his tone only slightly suggestive.

           "Tony, focus." Now that sounded like Captain America.

            "Captain America, and Black Widow, Star Crossed Lovers of District Senior Living."

            "Save your Hunger Games jokes for Barton."

             "I did not expect you to understand that reference. Romanoff make you watch it?"
 
             "If you find any more information, will you call me?"

             "I'm pretty sure this is treason." He didn't ignore the fact that Steve had completely ignored his question.

              "Please."

               He was quiet for a moment. Weighing his options. "No promises." He said, and closed the phone. He meant it. He wasn't making any promises. But this time, instead of throwing the flip phone back into the black hole of the junk drawer, he slipped the phone into his back pocket. Some things were worth holding on to.