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2008

RICHARD MONTGOMERY HAD A LIMP. Of course, this wasn't a hindrance to him, other than having the mild inconvenience of slowing him down a bit. He was a General. He learned not to let trivial matters like a slight step imbalance impede him from doing his job.

     That, however, didn't change the fact that it irritated him when people stared. The eyes of his employees, coworkers, and bosses always flickered down to his left leg as he passed by; even those who'd known him for years would glance down during conversations, as if double-checking to make sure his leg hadn't fixed itself since their last discussion.

     "General Montgomery." A voice spoke from behind him, and Richard turned to see a tall woman with shoulder-length brown hair and a stern gaze approaching him. She was younger than Richard by about ten years, but he respected her as an equal. She had just as much experience in this line of work as he did, if not more. And, moreover, she was one of the few who never drew attention to his limp.

     "Commander Hill," he returned with a nod. Hill slowed to match his speed as they walked down the length of the hall together, side by side, towards the main conference room. Long, thin fluorescent lamps along the bottom trim of the walls illuminated the dark hallway in harsh, blue light that flashed on and off as pairs of feet strode by, covering the lights for just a moment as they stepped in front of them. Other agents and officers passed Richard and Hill in the hallway, nodding respectfully as they walked by and always pausing to glance down at Richard's leg. Richard sucked in a tight breath as he continued his imbalanced, heavy-footed stride towards the conference room, willing himself not to snap on any of his inferiors.

     When they reached the end of the hallway, Hill opened the conference room door, ushering the two of them inside. Richard walked in to find the darkly lit room completely devoid of people, except for one figure standing at the other end of the conference table, which sat in the middle of the room. As Commander Hill shut the door behind them, Richard saw that the figure's back was turned to them, instead facing a projection on the rear wall that provided the only light in the otherwise pitch-black room. In the projection, several muted videos played, all showing a dark-haired man in a suit giving speeches at press conferences and interviews for news outlets.

     "Ready for your briefing, General?" The figure said, now turning to face Richard, who hadn't moved from his spot since entering the room. As the figure turned, the light from the projection briefly illuminated part of his face, revealing several heavy scars and a black patch covering his left eye.

     "As always, Director. What am I doing this time?" Richard answered, nodding his head towards the projection that was still running behind the Director. The news tickers all titled themselves differently, but all of them shared one name in common: Tony Stark, CEO of Stark Industries.

     "Have a seat and we'll begin," said the Director, nodding towards the table, the projection behind him fading away as the overhead lights turned on above them.

     Richard and Hill took their seats at the conference table, and the Director slid them both a manila file folder before taking a seat as well. Richard opened the folder to find various documents and photographs, all concerning Tony Stark and missile designs and the Bagram Air Base.

     "Stark's set to make a business trip to Afghanistan later this week," said the Director, leaning back in his chair. "He's going to be demonstrating the latest weapon of Stark Industries: the Jericho Missile. As Stark's on our list of high-profile, high-risk individuals and he's going to be entering a hostile military zone, it will be necessary to have extra reinforcements there in case things go sideways."

     "I thought that was what the military escort was for," Richard interrupted, folding his arms on the table. Hill nodded slowly in agreement, reaching for one of the documents from the folder.

     "I want one of ours out there, too," the Director responded, holding his arm out to stop Hill. "Look, odds are, nothing's going to happen. But in the off-chance that something does, I want to hear about it immediately and from someone who I can trust to hold their own out there. And that someone's going to be you." He pointed at Richard, who nodded sharply.

     "Your plane ticket's in the folder, flight leaves tomorrow morning. You'll have direct contact with Hill through your earpiece, where she'll provide updates accordingly."

     "Understood," Richard said, kicking his chair back and standing up from his seat. "Anything else?"

     A small smirk spread across the Director's marred face. "Watch out for explosives."

     Richard laughed dryly. "You don't want another Budapest?"

     "I'd rather not deal with the paperwork," the Director shot back, though Richard noticed the Director's gaze glance briefly down at his bad leg and his wry smile disappeared.

     "Right," Richard said coldly. "I'll see you in a few days. Hill, I'll be in touch." And with that, Richard turned and marched out of the conference room as well as he could, fury bubbling up inside as he limped back down the hallway towards the elevator.

     Watch out for explosives.

     Richard and explosives, as a pair, had never gotten along well.

     It was an explosion that had taken away his mobility and cursed him with hushed whispers and pitying stares.

     It was only a matter of time before one took the rest of him along with it.

JACQUELYN MONTGOMERY SAW THE NEWS REPORT. She sat on the couch in the middle of her living room, staring up at the TV screen, her calculus homework abandoned on the coffee table in front of her.

     "Mom!" She yelled. Her eyes never left the screen, instead rereading the news ticker over and over again each time it crawled by.

     "Mom, come here!" She called again. "You've got to see this!"

     Jacquelyn's mom Rebecca, an eccentric woman with short brown hair and choppy bangs, appeared from the hallway, gripping a paint roller in one hand and a paper plate in the other. Golden-yellow paint dripped from the roller onto the plate below, which was already covered in layers of various yellows and blues.

     "Hey, Jack, what's going on?" Rebecca asked. Jacquelyn finally broke her gaze with the TV to see her mom moving over to the kitchen to set the roller and plate down on the counter.

     "Come here!" Jacquelyn repeated. As she turned back to the TV screen, she saw her mom emerge from the kitchen and walk over to stand behind the couch.

     "Oh, my God," Jacquelyn heard her mom whisper from behind her.

     The news reel showed footage of a massive explosion in a bunker in the Middle East and a roughed-up businessman walking down from a plane before cutting to a very awkwardly casual press conference, where the same businessman sat on the floor in the front, eating a burger. Through the entire report, the ticker along the bottom read:

BREAKING NEWS: TONY STARK FOUND ALIVE

Rescued after three months missing in Afghanistan

     "I thought he was dead," Jacquelyn said, looking over her shoulder at her mom, whose brown eyes were fixated on the screen and dried-paint-covered fingers tapped anxiously on the back of the couch.

     Rebecca shook her head. "They just assumed he was, there was never any confirmation."

     Jacquelyn bit her lip before turning back to the TV, her heart racing a mile a minute. Tony Stark emerged from the deserts of Afghanistan after everyone thought he was dead. Why was he allowed to make it out alive, when...

     Her eyes drifted over to the far wall where an American flag, folded neatly into a triangle with its white stars pointed upward, sat in a display case on a high shelf.

     "I know, honey," Jacquelyn heard her mom say softly from behind her, as if reading her thoughts. "I miss him, too."

     Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she felt frustration build in her chest. Losing a father at eighteen was difficult. Not even having a body to bury was unfathomable.

     And yet, Tony Stark got to come home, alive and uninjured.

     Jacquelyn knew Tony Stark wasn't the one to blame for what happened, and even though it felt easier to place the blame on him, someone far away and easy to hate, she knew who the real culprits were: the ones who sent her dad to Afghanistan in the first place.

     There was no denying it. Her dad was gone, shot down in a helicopter trying to protect the man who now flaunted his own impossible survival.

     And S.H.I.E.L.D. was to blame.