Scales, Sparks & Stats

[AirBreather]

New fic time!

Setting Details:
- Mainly canon MCU (Marvel Cinematic Universe).
- Removed (or Notably Absent): Talokan (RE: "Black Panther: Wakanda Forever", but other details from that movie remain), Inhumans.
- Added or Extras: Marvel Netflix Series (Daredevil, Jessica Jones, Luke Cage, Iron Fist, The Punisher, The Defenders), Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (*altered to fit MCU canon if needed), Runaways, Cloak & Dagger.
- Special Mention: The Time Variance Authority exists. Spoilers how they 'fit.'
- Any cross-over into the larger Marvel multiverse, let alone other settings, would be a (very) far time coming (and require lots of narrative setup).

Writing Styles and Technical Notes:
- 1st person perspective/POV, past tense.
- Primarily writing only from the perspective of the MC.
- Chapters, plot arcs, and timelines are loosely planned out in advance.
- No set release schedule at this time; plan for at least one chapter a month (likely more).
- Cross-posting: Here, Space Battles, and Sufficient Velocity.

Main Character:
- Self-Insert/Original Character hybrid.
- The MC is 'meta-aware' and knows setting/canon details (but not automatically what is 'true' or not).
- Starts off as a fantasy dragon with no shape-shifting abilities. (*The first time I've done a dragon MC!)
- A custom homebrew LitRPG/Gamer-ish system I made up (and which this writing will be a 'live test' for it).

Custom Homebrew LitRPG Interface/Gamer System:
- Original concept based on the TV Tropes 'Super Weight' entries.
- Points are based on 'altering a setting's canon' (NOT word count, in-setting passage of time, etc), which mostly includes individuals and timeline events.
- Full write-ups for the base system, and the dragon-specific 'addon' I'm using, are featured in (likely too extensive!) detail HERE (on SpaceBattles).

Enjoy!

 

[AirBreather]

1. April Fool's Arrival

---

I had a few seconds of confused disorientation before I crashed, face-first, into cool sand.

My unexpected bulk was felt as a shuddering tremor, and that sand sprayed outward as I slammed down. Some skips and bumps had me tumbling through bushes and cacti, all far less painful than I expected.

Once I had stopped moving, I took a moment to get my bearings.

'...I have absolutely no idea what is going on. Desert? Sort of?' The bits of scraggly greenery suggested a not *quite* desolate region, with rainfall to a degree somewhat more regular than endless dunes would imply.

It was about that moment that I had a better look at myself: the arms that I had been using to clamber about were thick, trunk-like lengths of near silver-scaled limbs, tipped with a set of five clawed fingers. Near-mindlessly, one of my foreclaws was already idly clicking against a half-buried rock, the sound helping me realize how truly different my new limbs were. I had also defaulted to a crawling position, a tad off the surface of the ground, and - I tilted my head to either side - I had wings, too.

'Well. This is interesting. Don't think I've had a 'I'm a dragon, rawr!' dream in quite a while.'

Experimentally, I let out a little roar, startling a few rodents that had been hiding in nearby bushes. My very surprisingly good sight was able to lock onto each fleeing critter, and an inner unconscious impulse led to a fiery belch.

Rapidly, my chest and throat seemed to tighten and heat up, like I was forcing air through a furnace. The resulting thin cone of fire blackened a stretch of plants, along with the unfortunate target. Shifting closer with my four limbs - 'how am I already used to this?!' - I easily noted that while my fiery breath appeared to have burnt a selection of the once-living flora and fauna, it wasn't so extreme as to melt the sand into improvised volcanic glass.

A flick of a claw tossed the over-barbequed tidbit into my mouth. My fangs made short work of it, a single powerful bite that felt surprisingly effortless.

'So,' I contemplated, sitting back on my haunches. Some further experimental patting confirmed the expected long snout and a pair of backwards-angled horns. 'This is real? I'm a dragon? And I'm pretty okay about that?'

I allowed my self a body-rumbling laugh, then sighed. 'There has to be some mind fuckery going on here, I just know it!' I sprawled down onto the sand, then flopped over, staring at the black, starry sky. Comparing the dark expanse to my view of the grounds, it also looked like I had some minor degree of darkvison or similar. 'Yay?'

'I might as well do the usual tests in this scenario...' I then spent a few minutes going through every strongly willed version of gamer commands and variants I could dream up, all of them giving me a fat load of *nothing*. However, strangely enough, I *did* get some near borderline clear mental messages that 'things would happen' when I fell asleep - so that was something to look forward to, at least.

'Huh.' I let out a harsh snort. 'Time to find out where I am, I guess?'

---

'I can fly! Wooo!' This round of exultant cheering was short-lived as my imperfect wing control began to slip, and another face-first dive began towards the comfortably padded desert.

'Not this time, too?!' I half-pleaded, massive leathery wings flapping madly to no avail, my end results being another tumbling roll into the bush-dotted sands.

'Yes! Truly, I am an awesome and majestic being. A draconic agent of power and glory!' A claw flick tore through a half-teetering cactus, messily tearing the plant apart. 'Fear me! Rawr!'

Another snort, then I let out a paltry cone of fire against my 'target.' Picking up pieces of the poorly cooked and slightly burnt greenery, I chewed the relatively tiny warmed chunks while thinking further. However, any serious deliberations were put off by the first rays of sunlight over the distant horizon.

'I'll work on flight more, later,' I mused, sighing. 'Its time to find something I could pretend is half-decent shelter.'

A length of minutes traipsing over the cool sands brought me to the best option yet: a tilted pillar of reddish stone, large and angled just enough that I could barely pretend that it was better than nothing.

Loudly sighing, I pushed and prodded around the collection of rocks in an attempt to make something comfortable. Once I had dug out a reasonably large pocket - and assured myself that the whole thing wasn't going to collapse on me - I scrunched into the space and attempted to get a bit of shut-eye.

Before that, however, this attempted moment of peace and quiet kept on drawing my attention to how my new body felt - extra joints in a tail, that I kept on shifting, and the broad stretches of sensitive wings that were far more durable than I feared. I was lucky enough to not get cramps or pins and needles, but random itches still flared up. Annoying.

Eventually, my attempt at a sleep-drenched time-skip came up - and then was immediately lost when I 'awoke' into a completely different place.

The best way I could describe it was a mist-shrouded plain, whose center hosted a rough-sculpted statue of... me? Maybe?

Padding closer to that one interesting feature, I was able to understand that, one, it was much bigger than myself; two, it was very roughly carved; and three, a massive slab of clear polished crystal was held in one of those clawed paws.

A moment of staring at the smooth-side of the columnar crystal had its interior morph through a foggy, indistinct mess to a twisted collection of sharp, jagged lettering. Those unreadable words then shifted again, but this time into something far more clear and understandable.

'Ah, here is my LitRPG experience!' I inwardly cheered, beginning to read the text.

[PATH OF THE DRAGON ASCENDANT

POINTS: 0 [Muggle] / 0 [Super] / 0 [Cosmic]

TIERS: [Fragile → Muggle → Iron] → [Extranormal → *SUPER* → Hyper] → [World → Cosmic → Author]

DRACONIC CATEGORIES:
- BREATH: Exhalations and breathing.
- BODY: Internal workings.
- CLAWS & FANGS: Melee and close-quarters.
- EYES: All senses.
- HEART: Internal wellspring of energy.
- LAIR: Home and hoard.
- MIND: All mental operations.
- MINIONS: Followers and familiars.
- PRESENCE: Intangible aura.
- SACRIFICES: Traded in cast-off discards.
- SCALES: Outermost defences.
- STOMACH: Devouring and processing.
- TYPE: Fundamental essence.
- WINGS: All mobility functions.]

Mentally focusing on each cluster of details, I began to get impressions and feedback from what each meant.

Text and imagery explained the meanings, beginning with what the 'Points' were.

In this case, they were kind of like pools of karma, possibilities, and interference in original fate. 'Muggle' points were about mundane or mortal-scale achievements; 'Super' were, naturally, about superheroic or large-scale feats; and 'Cosmic' dealt with planetary or multiversal-scale endeavors.

Just from those, I could deduce that there was some kind of 'canon', or otherwise original timeline, and the only way I'd be able to progress in this particular system would be to 'interfere' in it. However, how far I could be 'at a remove,' or directly in the 'thick of it,' would need to be discovered.

The tiers were also self-explanatory, though they did remind me of something I browsed through online in the past. That I was 'super,' and still felt so weak, was most curious. I'm just glad that I didn't start lower!

Some more skimming through the mostly descriptive categories also gave me a slightly better idea of my own abilities.

My size and strength were compared to that of a great white shark, with enough exterior scales armouring to withstand most small-arms fire. Any injuries I'd take should recover in hours to weeks, depending on their severity. Less impressive were my clumsy flight ratings, and a basic 'flamethrower' cone that would only be effective against unarmoured beings.

The only abilities that I'd consider moderately exotic were telepathy, planar acclimation, and undetectable presence.

The telepathy was the weakest version I've ever seen, limited to 'one way speech' only, and that at a line of sight limit of under one hundred feet.

The Planar Acclimation ability was somewhat more familiar, reminding me of an 'always count as a planar native' ability I remember seeing on a few creatures as well as a pair of boots. The only direct benefit I could imagine coming from it was that I'd no longer be vulnerable to planar banishing, the removed risk of such being - I considered the instants of blurred confusion before I appeared above this desert with intense apprehension - somewhat reassuring? Hrm.

The last one, Undetectable Essence, was curious in that it gave me the option to choose to be immune to all divination spells and effects. Again, the risk of being somewhere horrible with ever-present scrying entities - most notably, Earth Bet of the Wormverse sprung to mind - nearly had me me attempt carving STAY ON ALWAYS into the crystal's flat surface until a nifty little 'locked on' icon appeared beside the words.

Then, lacking any of those 'Points' to even attempt to begin to see what could be 'bought' with them, I curled up near the base of the giant dragon statue and tried to sleep.

Again? In my dream lair? Erm? How does this work? Should I...

...wake up?

An unnaturally long blink later, I was back to the desert-slash-savanna landscape. In the distance, the sun was setting behind more reddish rock formations, slowing fading into the cooler night.

I kept mostly still, waiting, until the rainbow like shades and hues had fully transformed into a black, star-filled night.

A sigh, then, 'I guess its time to try flying again... I feel like a giant, stuffed, waddling turkey. Dammit.'

To improve my chances, I clawed my way to the top of the pillar-like stone I had been resting under. It was not even as tall as my body-length, but the additional height gave some wing-flapping clearance.

'Erm... how does that song go? I Believe I Can Fly?' I let out a hissing laugh, then let out my wings, pushing them free in a tension-relieving stretch. Gripping the stone top with all four of my paw's claws, I began pumping my wings faster and faster.

'I am not a hummingbird!' I shouted into my mind, wings catching air. 'The principles of lift I follow break physics that I don't even know the math of!' Tension began to build under my claws, as upward pulling force accumulated. 'Gimme that supernatural flight, dammit! GIVE IT TO MEEEEEE!!!'

A slight relaxing of my paws, and I shot upwards with a scattering of rocky fragments, still flapping my wings madly.

Thankfully, whatever my draconic strength was about, it was not weak - every beat of my wings was simple and easy, as if I was waving around arms that weighed less than nothing.

'Now what?' I mused to myself, ascending in a lazy spiral. The obvious answer came to mind with a hint of ground-based city lights in the distance, a small enough cluster that vaguely suggested a small town more likely than any serious metropolis.

Not wanting to dive so fully into urban insanity, I aimed a bit off to side, in the hopes of reaching something a tad less high profile.

The farther towards those points I flew, the more clearly distinct they were. The bigger cluster of lights was likely a few hundred points of illumination, and darkened lines - roads or highways, all without streetlights - stretched out from it.

I focused on a smaller collection, down away from that probable town, and angled my flight towards the connecting road.

Thankfully, this time I didn't end up plowing into the dirt snout-first. Instead, my landing kicked up dried dirt as all four paws touched down, wings half-furled so I wouldn't snag them on the dense, scrubby bushes.

Crouched almost down low enough that my belly skimmed the ground, I stretched my head over the plants.

I was directly beside a small drainage bridge that went across an old, dusty streambed, barely a foot deep. The two-lane road was modern-looking - paved, black, with painted lines and reflective spots - but had no streetlights. I could only guess that this place was low traffic enough to not be worth the investment.

Further past the 'bridge' was... an RV park? Paleo Varde RV Park?

Oh boy. An RV park. How much stereotypes would I have to deal with here?!

Inwardly, I debated giving up on this idea, and going a touch more public. Maybe even trying for that larger town, farther down this two lane highway. Still, I was here now - fate and unrealistic flight dynamics brought me to this little corner of scraggly greenery, dammit, and I'd make the best of it I could.

'...how long is one hundred feet again?'

I stared at the road, the RV park, and attempted to gauge distances. After a few minutes of eyeballing everything I could, the conclusion was this: 'I'm not good at math.'

'Well. This is awkward.' I pulled my head back, mostly hiding behind the dense screen of bushes again, and pawed through the ground. Some decent sized stones were uncovered, but none so large that I wasn't able to get a grip on them.

Lightly tossing a few back and forth, my thoughts wandered towards throwing them. But... no. That way was only violence. Comedic violence, yes, but still... violence. I'd skip it for now.

Instead, I'd wait for things to get even darker, and the signs of activity to meander down a tad. After all, it was only a touch past sunset, and there were a fair number of people eating outdoors and enjoying the mild weather. They came with distinct and different patches of music, loosely orientated to different sections of the RV park.

Occasionally, the random car also passed by, partially obscured headlights skimming over my mostly greenery covered position.

Eyes half-slitted, I settled in to wait.

---

'Dog smell? Mmm?'

I didn't really know how to describe the association I had that linked the newly strong and present musty smell with 'dogs.' It was just there, like the sky is blue, and the ground is down - innate, automatic knowledge.

Some further huffed breaths had me narrow down the direction - to my right, incoming - and I shifted my neck to aim my eyes where the expected pitter-patter of light steps were approaching.

"Yip?"

'Heya lil doggo!' I sent, attempting to will my mental voice towards the... chihuahua? I guessed?

It tilted its head to the side, perhaps confused, and I attempted a wide smile, sending, 'Hello!'

The pupper went bat-shit crazy - barking, yowling, spinning around in circles, jumping up and down - and didn't stop even when I shuffled backwards a half-pace.

"Peanut! PEANUT! What did you find, my widdle princess?!"

How could someone name a female chihuahua 'Peanut'?! That's insulting!

I attempted to get a better look at the dog's 'bits,' but... well... they were even tinier than the dog was. Not much of a chance, especially with the critter going micro-berserk. However, another sniff all-but confirmed that the dog was, in fact, a male, via the same sort of automatic intuition.

"Peanuttttt! Where are youuuuuu?!" Light steps came closer, soon crossing the road, and then into the light foliage on my side.

'Greetings, human!' I sent, slightly more confident in my telepathic 'voice.' 'Are you the one which the prophecies have foretold?'

"...Ah?" The epitome of average American south-western, middle-aged woman dumbfoundedly froze, staring up at me, while her dog - Peanut - ran circles around her shorts and and flip-flop wearing legs. "What?"

'Yo?' I attempted a two finger peace sign, silvery clawed digits aiming into the night sky, even as my tail lightly twitched in an aborted impulse to whip-crack. The little critter's noise was more startling than threatening.

"...I'm not high..." She stared at her hands, as if expecting something there, and flexed her fingers a few times. Blinking, shaking her head, she scooped up Peanut, and started to walk away. "...bad trip. Holy moly..."

'Hello?'

She froze again, hunching her shoulders, and looked back at me. "AHH! DRAGON!"

'Ah! Human!'

She fell back onto her behind, clutching the still-yipping chihuahua the whole time. It'd be amusing if it wasn't so sad. Still, I eased my head lower, trying not to loom too high above her. Even so, my shoulder line stood well over the woman's height.

At the beginning of what sounded like a very deep breath, I quickly sent another mental message. 'Bet you a hundred dollars you'll shout again!'

Whatever she was expecting, that wasn't it. Instead, she went into a sort of coughing, choking fit for a short while, with Peanut - now blessedly silent - licking the woman's face.

'Are you done? Can we have some sort of rational conversation? Or do you need to get some more theatrics out of your system?'

She hugged the little dog a bit closer, then peered my way. "Do you even have one hundred dollars, mister... uh... dragon?"

'...at the moment, I am limited to trade and barter,' I replied, awkwardly shifting in place. 'However,' I continued, shrugging with both a set of shoulders and where my wings met my body, 'I'm sure I'll establish a notable treasure hoard, in some time or another.'

"...okay?"

---

"Another one!" This time, she held up Peanut with one hand, while extending her flip-phone away from us. I did the best to smile without teeth, the tiny flash a relatively bright dot of white.

This last picture she took was one of dozens, all small quality on what appeared to be a blocky, early generation phone prior to the 'smart' versions. She - Barbara Bayley - had set up a rickety folding chair and light table, along with an LED lamp, all the better for me to go through a newspaper she had brought. In recognition of the night's temperature plunge, she had also changed into sweat pants and a shirt, along with bringing a light blanket to serve as an improvised shawl.

The chair was for her, obviously, and she nuzzled the tensely vibrating chihuahua who almost constantly stared at me, growling from under the tented blanket. His only suffering was the cute little sneezes he underwent as Barbara steadily burnt through a near-constant line of exotic-smelling smokes.

In truth, her back and forth traffic was more of a risk than my own ground-squeezed self: a few calls to her phone, along with curious neighbours, had all needed to be dissuaded by the RV park local.

My difficulties were more of a size scale issue, being that my efforts to go through the newspaper were challenged by the differences of the pages versus my clawed paws, likely larger than a bear's. Still, very careful pinching, along with polite requests, had been enough to work though this local Arizona newspaper without tearing it to shreds.

The two most significant pieces of information I were able to pull out of the pages was the date, which was April 2nd, 2008 - apparently I had come into this world on April Fool's day, how wonderfully appropriate - and that Tony Stark, of Stark Industries, had been missing since February 11th of this year. Pessimists declared his violent passing a foregone conclusion, while optimists hoped for the 'Merchant of Death's' timely return.

What I was most concerned about now was figuring out if this world was the canon Marvel Cinematic Universe, one of its alternates, or something much worse, like Marvel Zombies. The mere thought of that particular set of horrors was enough to generate a full-body shudder, from snout to tail-tip.

'Turn, please,' I sent, and Barbara flipped the newspaper to the last page, shaking her hand-wrapped cigarette off to the side. The end cover was just ads, and not of any brands or makes that prompted insights or flashes of paranoid caution.

I let out a rumbling sigh.

"What's the matter, mister dragon?" My host asked, turning up from the flashing lights of her latest cell-phone game.

'I would sincerely like to get in touch with some individuals from Stark Industries,' I sent, gesturing with a claw-tip towards that company's name. 'However, one of the three people involved are missing. The second is likely sleeping, and the third is... iffy.' I shifted my wings, shifting in place. 'Do you think you could make a collect call to a Malibu house if you know the address?'

"Sure? I mean, why not? What's the address?"

'It's likely a private number: 10880 Malibu Point, Malibu, California 90265. Ask to be connected to Edwin Jarvis.'

While Barbara went through a number of holds, transfers, and various operators, I shifted my head closer to the phone, wary of spooking the little chihuahua.

"Please leave your message after the beep," came from the phone's speakers, "and all details will be forwarded to Mr. Stark upon his return." A forced cough was sounded, then the polite British voice continued, "Any and all fees based on collect calls will be forwarded to the relevant authorities or collection agencies."

After the beep, I began sending a message to Barbara, beginning with, 'Please repeat what I'm saying. Start with...'

She began echoing my mental comments to the AI, our shared efforts focused on bypassing any attempts at leaving a standard message.

"Um, hi? Shoot! ...Jarvis, I know you're more than just a rather very intelligent system. I'm in a bit of a situation here, using an intermediary to talk, and I don't want to say much of anything on public lines. Can you escalate this call? Let me list some keywords if it helps justify things."

I began throwing out every single non-intrinsically 'top secret' term I could think of, beginning with names. "Edwin Jarvis, butler. James Rhodes, US Air Force. Happy Hogan, security. Pepper Potts, personal assistant. Yuma Proving Ground, the 'A.W.E.' Afghanistan, Jericho. Not yet? How about -"

"...One moment, please, Miss."

Another series of clicks, then, a feminine voice, "It's past two AM. Who am I speaking to?"

"My apologies Miss Pepper Potts," Barbara replied, voicing out my thoughts. "Part of that answer lies in this phone. Feel free to check it, if you - or Jarvis - happen to have the means to do so."

She stared at me, then the phone, puzzled, but I just gently shifted my head from side to side.

"...Stay on the line."

Nothing obvious happened for a minute, though the light levels on Barbara's phone might have flickered the smallest amount.

"If you have something worth speaking about," Pepper's voice came back on, continuing, "what do you want for them?"

"A more controlled environment," I had Barbara say, "Along the lines of Edwards Air Force Base in California. However, the 'cargo' in question is about the size of a great white shark. Any handlers would need to be discreet, calm, and used to handling crazy situations."

"Is that all?"

"An appreciative finder's fee for Barbara Bayley, here, of course, but nothing in advance. That's it."

Peanut let out a little yip of surprise as my host squeezed the chihuahua, and an amused huff came from the phone.

"I'll text you the details," Pepper said, then disconnected. Barbara looked at me, and we both exchanged shrugs in our respectively different size scales. The blond went back to giving her pet attention, accustomed enough to myself to tune me out as I remained still.

There was nothing else to do for the moment.

This turn of fate was remarkably convenient. It was only due to Tony Stark's home address being stated in canon - and myself remembering it - that made this chain of events possible. Additionally, if Jarvis hadn't picked up, I'd have to escalate in a completely different manner, like going through corporate channels in Stark Industries or the HYDRA-corrupted SHIELD.

However, the longer I went without official patronage, the greater the risk of some sort of black-ops organization doing their best to nab me.

I gave a scraggly tree in front of me a poke, causing the whole thing to sake. Very limited cover, and only valid at night. I probably shone like a spotlight under thermal vision, as well.

A glance at the cloud-lined, starry sky confirmed no trace of dawn - there was still plenty of time.

---

Less than an hour of silent waiting later, Barbara's phone buzzed with a text, waking her from a light doze. Disconnecting it from a portable power pack, she turned the screen towards me.

[Kaerny Airport. 8 AM.]

"I guess that's it, mister dragon?" She said, pocketing the device. Head rubs were given to her little doggy, whose beady eyes glared my way.

My reply was a chest rumbling agreement, nodding towards her, then, 'What do you know about traditional leather curing and all natural fertilizer?'

"Not much, why?"

My stomach grumbled. 'I had thoughts to give you something more substantial as additional payment...'

---

When dawn rolled around, my slightly lightened self had already secured a heavily forested cover area that was in close line of sight to the Kaerny Airport's main hanger.

A check at the pink and green kid's wristwatch strapped (and glued!) to my smallest paw-finger - 'I really need some consistent naming for my own anatomy!' - confirmed that eight AM was still over a hour and a half away.

I used the free time to adjust my cheap 'camouflage': multiple seasons' worth of bedsheets and light blankets, attached together with duct tape. The coverings were sort of enough to cover my form, but only if I scrunched up my wings close to body, along with curling in my much longer tail. I was grateful that my scales were more of the smooth variety than razored armour, as otherwise this plan would have been a complete wash.

The other accessory I had 'bought' was a length of scrap metal, to which a more plain white sheet was attached to. Its function was the classical white flag, in the hopes of catching some non-violent attention.

I was still fiddling with my cheap body coverings when eight AM neared and the repetitive whumps of a helicopter grew in volume and proximity.

The first sight of that aircraft was of a dark grey helicopter with the side-lined star of the US Armed Forces, as expected, but its dual rotor setup, along with its size, was a surprise.

Before it began its descent, I carefully waddled forward, out of the tree cover, at the edge of the open paved spaces near the main hangers.

There was a lengthy pause when the flight helmeted pilots caught sight of my flag waving self, along with a rush of more viewers to the windows, but it soon ended and the aircraft shifted my way.

In the seconds it took, however, I realized that I made a rather large error in being this close: helicopters generate wind, and wind blows things away.

'Goodbye, camouflage,' I thought, watching the duct-taped collection of sheets get scattered back into the treeline. A small attempt was made at catching them, but my pinching claws merely tore the fleeing fabric into even more useless strips. 'So much for a low profile.'

Giving up any pretenses at subtlety, I more confidently straightened up, still holding onto the madly fluttering white flag. Eyeing the sky, I offered a wave to any spy satellites whose view I catched, then remained mostly still - tail immobile, wings pinned tight to my sides - until the copter's rotors had slowed into immobility.

For some tense moments, nothing happened. I 'planted' the flag into the soil that edged the tarmac, yawning, and then the rear cargo door of the helicopter opened.

Four troopers - militia men? Soldiers? - jogged down the wide rear ramp, while two others remained within. I also estimated that another one or two were pilots, as I didn't see any activity coming from the front cabin.

"Weapons at low ready - engaging as a last resort!"

The interior of the helicopter had been converted into a mix of seats and open cargo space, with the red-fabric framed seating all near the front.

'Hello,' I sent, tilting my snout towards the man I recognized as James Rupert Rhodes. He, like the others, were wearing active duty camoflage uniforms. All of them also had holstered sidearms, but only the other three on perimeter duty had assault rifles that were held steady in their downward-facing slings.

The moment he fully took in my size was a tense instant, his eyes widening paired with a quick cough. Still, whatever impact I had on him was quickly shook off.

Amusingly, he saluted me, then, "Lieutenant Colonel James Rupert Rhodes, United States Air Force, here for a diplomatic courier mission. The cargo would be...?"

I tapped my scaled chest, producing a clinking sound. 'Myself. No set name, presently, unfortunately.' I shrugged, then my head shifted to the other three, standing in a loose outer perimeter. 'Please let them know I am speaking via telepathy. I'd rather not create any cringe-worthy surprises.'

He blinked, then, "Arthur! Isakov! Carra!"

A chorus of "sir!" answered him as they turned his way, and I noted the small matching fabric name patches on each.

"Our VIP here stated that he communicates via... telepathy. Maintain weapon discipline if you... hear voices in your head. Understood?"

Only a brief hesitation preceded a slightly staggered round of "yes sir!"

"Anything else?" Rhodes asked, unflinchingly focused on my much larger eyes.

I peered into the depths of the helicopter, then tilted my head back over myself, shaking my wings, before returning my attention to him. 'Do you have a preference to face a dragon's breath or their gas?'

---

A/N: One more chapter incoming.

 

[AirBreather]

2. Couchsurfing Without Furniture or Waves

---

He choose to risk my breath instead of the alternatives, which would also allow me to observe our flight through the pilot's windows.

My onboarding was relatively swift, as the helicopter - a CH-47 Chinook - was rated to carry much larger and heavier cargo than my 'great white shark' size estimated self. The other reason for the rushed timing was all the background scheduling and polite bribes needed for the small airport to shift the morning's plans and normal staff.

In flight, background commentary was enough for me to discern the route taken, with the starting point in rural Arizona and destination the prior agreed upon Edwards Air Force Base in southern California. The total travel time was a touch over six hours.

No stopovers were needed, as auxiliary fuel tanks were present on the helicopter, and it had those topped off shortly prior to its arrival at Kaerny Airport for my pickup. The flight experience was mostly pleasant, the vibrating thrum like a low-level message that came through my scales, even as my tail unconsciously swayed as a balance aid against the turbulence.

"Raptor One to Edwards Tower, we're inbound with special cargo, request priority landing. Over." With only flight uniform arms visible through the opening leading to the pilots' cabin, I had to guess at the base's responses.

"We'll be on the ground under five," the right-side pilot said, tilting their helmeted head to be visible. "Secure all loose gear."

Rhodes' check-in of me was limited to a glance, which I responded to with raised eyebrow ridges. 'I'm secure. Enough.'

Soon, the stubby air traffic control tower swung into view, fighter jets and other aircraft lined up in neat rows contrasting with larger hangers and buildings.

The final descent was aimed towards one of the biggest hangers, massive doors open far enough that this helicopter could land partway through that threshold. Dust and loose gravel was kicked up, more visible the closer we were, and the final landing was marked with a dull thump. A slight shudder ran through my limbs as the Chinook settled, a reminder of my own mass pressing into the deck.

"Raptor One, on the ground, powering down to idle."

The twin rotors wound down, eventually silencing, and seatbelts, clips, and other attachments began to be removed. I personally did not need any, being big enough to lightly press against the sides, with my arms and wings, if I needed to be 'secured.'

Rhodes was the first out, opening and jumping down from the lone cabin door on this side of the cockpit. The same three who stood watch before I was loaded on followed him - I had already tossed their names from my memory - with the last lucky two remaining seated.

From the outside, I heard my recent host speak, "Perimeter Team, fall in with the site guards. Weapons on safe, but be ready. Over."

The triple chorus of "yes sir!" came as expected - no surprises there.

Other, far more muted dialogue followed, providing hints of security checks, confirmations, and intense, hushed conversations.

'Time to show them my best side, hmm?' I sent, echoing the mental comment to the two of them.

"No gas, please, sir!"

I only smiled, careful to not flash my teeth. These 'wingmen' only knew my stomach grumbles, and were thankfully spared any 'diplomatic chemical accidents.'

The rear cargo ramp soon lowered, the ambient temperature change and wind presence easily felt, and I exceedingly slowly pulled my long tail out from beneath me. Using it like a blind old man's cane, I gingerly tapped around the ramp, the ground, and the rear of the helicopter, and began to wiggle myself backwards. Each step was an experiment in subtle vibrations, my weight lightly stressing the length of the inclined, textured grip of metal.

On ground, I carefully shifted around in place, claw tips' echoes mixing with the quiet thumps of my paws' padding.

The ramp-side of the Chinook had been positioned so that I was already inside the hanger, and there was no need for camouflage or other sky-based interference.

"Never thought I'd see a dragon on my shift..." The distant voice was quickly silenced before I could make out its source.

The most threatening presences were multiple pairs of military Humvees, each with stubby, vehicle-grade weapons of different make. Thankfully, they were all pointed everywhere but my direction, and any operators for those vehicles were oh-so-casually leaning against them, 'at rest.'

Otherwise, greeting me were a small contingent of heavily armed 'honour guards' - just far enough away to be out of my reach, bulky weapons holstered - and a few medal bedecked officers of some sort. Rhodes was at the end, just finishing whispering to one of them, when they all straightened up.

Again, I was surprised by a round of salutes, but I did dip my head in recognition, keeping it low in an attempt to not aggressively loom over them.

"On behalf of the US Air Force and the United States government, welcome to our country and Edwards Air Force Base," the most grey-haired officer spoke. "We don't usually host foreign dignitaries, but... special allowances have been made. Your Stark Industries contact should be arriving shortly. Also," he sighed, adding, "by order of the Department of Defense, you are temporarily under our hospitality until further notice. We, uh... hope you'll remain... cooperative?"

'Thank you,' I sent to the speaker, nodding again, eliciting only blinks in reply. 'That is my intention.' Then, changing my focus to Rhodes, 'Wait, this isn't Disneyland!?'

I used his cough-covering chuckle to begin to carefully step around the delegation, smelling an extensive mix of cooked meats and spices.

"We don't have protocols for this. My entire schedule for the day is shot," the senior officer muttered, falling in behind me with Rhodes at his side.

"Welcome to my world, sir," he said, flatly enough to elicit a snort of amusement.

---

The main hanger door had already been mostly closed, left open only enough for civilian vehicle traffic. It brought to mind the whole cliché of 'I'm not locked in with you - you're locked in with me' trope, but my resistance to this world's weaponry was not something I wanted to test in the here and now.

The Stark Industries security contingent didn't arrive until I had gone through dozens of restaurant-sourced catering tins.

My fangs crunched through the foil lids with absurd ease, every new container a quick snack. Most of the time, I kept my wings half-tucked to avoid knocking into other people or the tables. After the first two, I gave up on identification attempts and strictly went for volume.

Catering trucks had been driven in by soldiers, the last leg of the on-base travel co-opted for, most likely, security reasons. Another one - I hadn't been keeping track - was unloading another round of food-stuffs onto just recently cleared tables.

Loosely surrounding me, at a comfortable distance, were the same people from earlier - now in a guise of greater relaxation, additionally 'armed' with loaded paper plates courtesy of corporate catering budgets.

"Imagine this guy at a buffet!"

I let out an amused snort at the idea, then gave it some further thought: what were the rules and bylaws in that situation? I'd have to consider it - later.

The floor was randomly splattered with the results of failed composure - small blobs of barbequed meat stuffs that slipped down when flashes of my teeth, or merely my sheer size, became enough for momentary freak-outs. Thankfully, there were no full-blown panic attacks or frenzied shouts of "demon!"

People might have continued to wander to and from the military Humvees, but at least those vehicles were never turned on, or had their heavy weapons aimed my way. Plenty of loaded glances were given to them, though, as too was my own wary vigilance.

The barely heard rumbles of car engines was the first sign of the Stark Industries security convoy. They passed by the far, narrowed hanger door opening, a cluster of armed airmen blocking the way until windows were rolled down and paperwork passed back and forth. Any weapons they had had were likely deposited prior, and only one vehicle eventually entered the hanger.

Rhodes was the one to flag down that black, bulky SUV, slowly driving around the perimeter of this impromptu gathering, before it stopped closer to one of the far corners. He gestured towards the vehicle once he caught my eyes, and, seeing my nod, began to jog over to it.

Looking at the loaded tables, I lifted up another four tins - each still sealed under a layer of aluminum foil - and casually threw them into my mouth. Chewing, I carefully began making my way across the spot-light illuminated floor.

A flash of white light marked a phone picture, along with the expected bark of, "No photos! This is classified, soldier. Hand it over!" It wouldn't be the first time a senior officer had to step in.

Before I could loom over the dark window tinted SUV, the side doors opened, revealing a customized interior which had changed the seating into a sort-of circular ring that had the side effect of disabling the opposite doors.

A somewhat familiar face was clambering over the seats within, moving from the driver's spot to the rear.

'Hello, Mister Hogan.' I sent, causing the former boxer to fall onto the cushions.

"What? Hello? ...wow, that's a big lizard!"

'Dragon,' I corrected him, my tail involuntarily thumping the hanger floor in an amused gesture. 'And no, I'm rather small for my species. The larger examples wouldn't fit in this hanger.'

"Did you just...? That's so weird!" Happy replied. He poked his head out, panning over the hanger's interior, then pulled back in. Throwing on a nervous smile, he said, "Then I'm glad its just you -" He glanced from me to Rhodes, then hissed, "what's his name??"

Rhodes shrugged, smiling at the flustered figure, then said, "We've been going with 'Mister Dragon' so far. It seems appropriate."

"Sure. Mister Dragon. Right," Happy said, running a hand over his hair. "Hold on a sec. Let me get this thing set up..."

The SUV's interior was briefly blocked by his figure as muttering continued, and soon a flat-screen television screen emerged behind him. It turned on, displaying a slowly spinning Stark Industries logo, which was replaced by the harried face of Pepper Potts.

I offered the partially hidden screen - and its likely camera setup - a wave, prompting a thin smile and return of the same.

"Happy," Pepper said, the well-masked tension of her voice coming from multiple speakers, "To the side, please."

"Oh, right, Miss Potts," he said, scooting over onto the other seats, and attempted to straighten his suit and posture.

"So. Mister Dragon, was it?" Pepper said, implying that microphones were already active, continuing with, "Its been something of an intense day to get us all into this position. Not that it wouldn't have been worth it for publicity's sake alone, but I believe you had more intentions in trying to reach me?"

I nodded, adjusting myself so that my head was mostly lined up with the opened double doors and whatever cameras were inside.

'Which of you would prefer to act as my speaker?' I sent to Rhodes, repeating my comment to the seated Happy.

"I'll do it," the airman quickly said, speaking before Happy could even put two words together.

'Excellent,' I sent, adding, 'then if you could please pass on my words.'

"All three of you have the common interest in Tony Stark's well-being," Rhodes repeated for me, continuing, "while I can't simply magic him into existence," I waved a clawed paw for emphasis, "I can say a few things."

"For example, the country that he was kidnapped in was..." I let my statement trail off, focusing my sight on Rhodes.

"Afghanistan," he answered, and I nodded, resuming sending him my mental speech.

"Yes, exactly. Now, in regards to information security, Miss Potts - where exactly are you engaging in video conferencing with us all?"

"Stark Industries Headquarters, in Los Angeles. Why?"

"Ah." I shifted my head back and forth, considering how to play this. "Would you be able to ensure that no live or delayed records of this all exist? No transcripts, backups, hard copies - absolutely, totally zero?"

"Maybe...?"

It seems like she needed more convincing. I continued to relay words to Rhodes, with him saying, "Corporate leaks are an issue, from the highest level on down. It wouldn't do to say anything that could be a risk."

"But -," She shook her head, perhaps about to dismiss the implications, before she changed her mind. "Hold on."

The screen was momentarily replaced with the Stark Industries spinning logo again, before Pepper's face returned. "Done."

"Thank you," I conveyed through Rhodes, dipping my head in recognition. "Now, without saying anything too dramatic, I fully expect Tony to make his own method of escape within the next two months. That can be greatly assisted by constant monitoring of Afghanistan's airspace, which I believe is already being done...?"

My focus shifted to Rhodes, who nodded in reply.

"That could be vaguely reassuring, but I don't understand why exactly such good news should be kept from others in Stark Industries... Mister Dragon?"

I shrugged, the action rippling through my shoulders and wing attachment points, then continued to relay words through Rhodes. "Security and redundancy, Miss Potts. If, by some unlucky measure of fate, people hear about his possible freedom, efforts would be made to minimize that 'risk.' Otherwise, things would proceed... not so much as 'decreed by fate,' but due to optimistic belief in Tony's skills - even when stuck in a cave."

"Fine. Thank you, then," she said, "but I don't get where you fit into all of this. Are you absolutely sure you have reliable information on Tony's escape?"

"For the latter point, I'll only state how nothing in the future is certain, only possible and probable - my apologies. Otherwise, two things, mostly basic," I continued sending. "The first, assuming everything goes well, involves Tony being rescued and stopping over at this base before he returns home. I want to ensure he has - at least - a few minutes conversation with myself. The worth of that talk should prove very valuable in the short and long term, and any deserved recompense would be up to shared negotiation, beyond what is already paid for my lodging and catering here."

Pepper exchanged a concerned glance with Rhodes, but neither said anything.

"The second point is far more pessimistic," Rhodes continued relaying. "If everything goes FUBAR by some means or another, and Tony is not freed in under two months, I'd welcome some sort of... contractual connection to you, Miss Potts, individually and personally. Ten years or so, depending on... other factors. But I'd prefer to not dwell on how bad things can get."

"And till then, what? You eat a few trucks' worth of barbeque every day?"

I shrugged, sending, "I'd prefer sleeping - hibernating in some means or another. There will likely be some annoying red tape, and the combined sort-of conflicting interests of Stark Industries and the US military should prevent any overt black bag attempts. If it helps, consider your actions along the lines of investing in professional athletes, except I have a much higher ceiling - flight ceiling, even." I flashed the cameras a close-mouthed smile at the joke.

Pepper let out a huff, but didn't immediately reply. "Happy? Rhodes? What do you think?"

"I'll follow whatever you recommend, Miss Potts," the ex-boxer said, scratching the side of his head. "I don't know much about dragons - real or not! - but having one on your payroll would be a major win."

He turned to Rhodes, who nodded, adding with a panned-over gaze, "I can guarantee that the red tape is going to be a headache. Classification alone - is he a foreign national, a diplomat, an example of an endangered or extinct species, or more - would all have different departments shouting about jurisdiction and access rights. The Department of Defense has already stepped in." He gestured towards the hanger and its scattered military presence. "Staffing costs? Keeping mouths shut? Beyond your contributions, this is going to leak, and leak hard. It's better to keep on top of things, as far in as advance as possible."

"What about what 'Mister Dragon' has said about Tony?"

Rhodes scrunched his face up. "Its optimistic, sure. But it remains a vague prophecy at best. Tony's a friend — I'll do everything in my power to get him safely out of Afghanistan - but that's all I can really say. If you're looking at things from a monetary angle, though, any benefits already outweigh your expenses. At least - I think so?"

"There might be some tax write-offs..." Pepper half-muttered, looking off to the side, then downwards - maybe towards her desk, or paperwork? The microphones didn't convey anything for a moment. "Doesn't matter. I'll convince someone to sign off on it. Maybe Mr. Stane?"

I gave her a clawed thumbs up to hide my wince at the traitor's mention, the action prompting a huff of amusement.

"And, Mister Dragon? Please come up with a better name. You sound like... like a Saturday morning cartoon character, or something."

"...does he even know what those are?" Happy whispered to himself.

"I'm open to more contemporary aliases," I again conveyed through Rhodes. "Without getting into the particulars of true names or other dramatics, something local - and locally picked - would be agreeable. It'd be interesting to see what gets proposed."

"Sure. Thanks." Pepper appeared to glance at the two others. "I think I'm good here. Are you okay if I have a more private conversation?"

I tilted my head in a nod, sending a last message through Rhodes before carefully turning around. "Thank you all, and I look forward to what the future brings."

Slowly walking around, I found a large stretch of empty space on the hanger's floor. There, I curled up relatively tightly, and marked two even circles around me in a comfortable distance.

Around the outermost line, I carved in a happy smiley face; the space in-between the two circles with a neutral face, along with a bunch of question marks; and the innermost line a frowny face, crossed through with a deep 'X.' The universal language of emoticons would be my iconic runes - at least for now.

Then, choosing to tune out everything else, I curled up and attempted to fall asleep once more, tuning out any further attempts at communication.

---

The visit to my inner mindscape revealed a minuscule amount of 'Muggle' points. Not wanting to bother with such paltry sums, I kept popping in and out of sleep, pushing the amount slightly longer each time.

The first change to my exterior 'bunker' environment were high-hanging fabric walls. My next waking had them replaced by a large U-shaped ring of cargo storage containers, lined up around my outer 'circle,' with the more temporary structures on the far open side. There, two aircrew soldiers were present, seated on stiff folding chairs. I also noted a camera facing my way, and I idly gave it a wave as I listened to the casual chatter.

"...the Vegas odds of Stark's return are -"

'What's the date, please?' I sent to the nearest on-duty guard, the surprise enough to nearly make him jump out of his seat.

Eventually, he - soon, the both of them - worked through their shock, and I obtained the answer of "April 7th."

Not all of the surrounding installations were purely for my benefit, of course. Those sealed together cargo containers weren't open to me but the military staff, and likely studded with pinhole scanners, sensors, and every possible electronic gizmo they could cram in, all aimed my way. As I never hinted at the full extent of my hearing, the hums of power and different muffled voices weren't something they considered hiding.

I'm just glad they didn't stuff them full of explosives, sniff-detectable or otherwise.

The next waking time was April 11th, which I stayed awake long enough for a solitary catered feast, then the 15th.

By that date, one of those nifty little page-a-day flip-over calendars had been placed in my line of sight, convenient enough that I didn't need to bother anyone by telepathically asking them. Additionally, there was a mostly cleaned white-board on a stand, with signs of many prior messages being scribbled on, and erased off, from it.

Now, only one sentence was visible: US Government Agency: Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division: Wants to interview you ASAP.

Any sign of prior guards had disappeared, though their uncomfortable folding chairs remained. The other change included more complicated cameras, all pointed towards my wonderful self.

Testing my watchers' responsiveness, I blinked at those distant lens and gave them a clawed wave.

Less than what I estimated to be two minutes later, a fresh pair of aircrew soldiers came jogging into sight, the leader already holding a bulky phone of some sort against the side of their head.

Just as I heard what could be a speech-preceding inhale, I sent a message to the phone-holder, being, 'Phil Coulson, Maria Hill, or Clint Barton of SHIELD, only, please. I'll be waiting.'

Immediately tuning out other entreaties, I returned to my master-class studies of the art of napping. In that half-dozing state, my wings drooped at my sides in a half-folded sprawl, tail occasionally twitching whenever a voice rose above the general hum.

My rest was eventually interrupted by a polite greeting. "Excuse me? Mister Dragon, was it? I'm agent Phil Coulson, of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division - SHIELD. Thank you for being receptive to this meeting."

My eyes opened fully, and I let out a wide yawn, partly covering the fanged expanse with a clawed paw. 'It's no trouble, Agent Coulson,' I sent to him, shifting into a slightly more comfortable position. 'What topics are you interested in bringing up?'

He scribbled onto a notepad after my messages, likely with the intent of capturing my inaudible 'words.' The agent didn't appear visibly armed, whatever weapons he had somewhat artfully concealed under the almost good-fitting suit, but it was likely that rapid response forces of some kind were close by.

He moved closer, bringing one of the folding chairs a few paces outside the outer-most floor carved circle, and seated himself before continuing.

Matching his polite actions, I folded in my wings for a less imposing silhouette.

"As this hanger has been partly co-opted by the Department of Defense, I am obligated to inquire if they have been treating you fairly. Do you have any complaints, problems, or any other forms of grievances? Perhaps some special requests or dietary needs? Are you comfortable? We want to be sure there's no misunderstandings, or imply that you are held here against your will." His words were punctuated with pen gestures, vaguely pointing out the cargo container walls and bright, ceiling-based lighting.

My head shifted from side to side, then, 'No serious problems. I've avoided complications by simply being unconscious most of the time, thereby denying any polite requests. Rude requests have yet to appear.' I traced over a stretch of my inner carved circle with a claw tip, slightly deepening the groove. 'No black bag attacks, false flag operations, sudden doses of exotic poisons or chemicals... very professional. Commendable, even.' I didn't mention anything possibly in the cargo containers, as I wasn't 'supposed to' know about them.

Coulson let out a polite chuckle, writing as he spoke, "Nothing like that should happen to you while you're here, under our protection. We do have agents outside, should anything unexpected occur — but please don't be alarmed. Protocol is protocol. Following such, are there... more beings like you?"

I blinked. 'I'm assuming you mean dragon-kind, and on this Earth, yes? Otherwise the question gets rather impossibly large in scope.'

"Yes, that's what I meant."

'Less than a hands worth, then,' I replied, showing my own as a visual aid. 'And no, they are likely much more private, insular, and introverted than myself. Much bigger, too. Even attempting to search for them might aim their intense irritation my way.'

That was enough to silence him for a moment, though he continued to jot down notes. "No homeland to contact, or formal policies for your treatment?"

'Sink or swim, Agent Coulson, though I'd add 'fly' to my options. While we could be friendly with each other, it is also possible for us to be very much... not. Very much so. Success on our own merits - kind of like the American dream, isn't it?'*=

He nodded, then continued with, "Now, regarding SHIELD, you asked for three agents by name - myself among them. Could you say where you obtained those details?"

I nodded. 'Yes. But simply stating 'I read it somewhere' isn't very helpful for you, is it, agent?'

"Not at all, unless you had more specifics to share...?"

I shook my head from side to side again.

"Unfortunate," he added, returning to writing down some more notes.

Technically speaking, what I sent him was a partial truth. On one side, I didn't want to get into the meta-narrative of omni or multiverse theory, and on the other, I could hardly explain the existence of fully documented SHIELD wiki-like web-pages. In fact, even for my own comfort levels, I preferred to keep those lines of deeper inquiry buried far into the sunken depths of my unexplored psyche.

"We've also heard of your talks with Tony Stark's aide, Miss Potts, through Colonel Rhodes, but those details have been sparse. You seem to be waiting - expectant, even - for his rescue and return, to this particular base. Is that correct?"

I nodded. 'I'll add that too much sharing at this point runs the risk of ruining what could be Tony's almost careful escape. The same goes for mindlessly flying over the wilds of Afghanistan, either as myself or with any other assortment of air forces.' Shifting my head to aim it at the cameras, I added, 'Loose lips sink ships, agent.'

"Indeed..." He spent a few moments writing, then turned back up to face me. "Changing topics, what would you say are the most personal details you are willing to share? It's likely that this would go into your growing profile, but you could shape the way we obtain it, or any particular emphasis you want added."

I let out a body-rumbling hum of contemplation, then blinked. 'I'm a dragon, apparently.' Splaying a clawed paw out in front of me, I added, 'Of the silver scaled variety.'

"Yes," he dryly replied. "We have those details already."

Adjusting my posture, I considered what else to add. 'I can fly, at a moderate rate - though nothing near the speed of your modern aircraft - and breathe out a length of flame. It's not impressive... more embarrassing than anything, actually.' I snorted out a sharp gust of air. 'I tentatively label myself as small, but still growing, and mildly sleepy. My appetite is mostly managed, and mostly carnivore-aspected... what else...'

I waited for him to stop writing before I continued. 'Those are the highlights I'm willing to share, I suppose.' The full implications of my inner mindscape and the growth possibilities there weren't even something I'd consider hinting at. 'I hope that SHIELD is managing the obvious publicity leaks, citizenship status, and other such troublesome nonsense?'

"It's what we do," Coulson said, smiling, then turned serious again. "Apart from your planned involvement in Stark Industries, would you be willing to engage with cooperative ventures with any US-based, governmental organizations? The Air Force seems appropriate, but I wouldn't want to presume, and SHIELD could always use... subject matter experts?"

My shrugged reply was relaxed, sending, 'I'll see what happens over the next two months.'

"Yes, of course," he replied, then more clearly straightened his posture. "I want to thank you for your cooperation, again, and hope you'll be in touch. If there was nothing else...?"

'A hint, to give your organization something to dig into: start the deepest, most covert investigation you possibly can, into Stark Industries from the top. Management and executives. Follow the money. Compile your results, and put together some widely different slanted press releases. If you're amenable to some cooperation on how those releases pan out, you'll find plenty of willing allies... or suitable targets. Its a toss up.' I quickly flashed a toothy smile, foreshadowing the possible chaos.

"I'll pass it up the chain, see what I can do," Coulson said, standing. He picked the back of the chair, and moved it back to its original place. "Have a good rest, Mister Dragon."

My last sight of the suited SHIELD agent was his wave. Time will tell what comes out of this.

'I really need a better name, dammit...'

---

A/N: 2nd of 2 chapters! Any & all feedback appreciated.

 

[AirBreather]

3. Tastes Good With Ketchup

---

The page-a-day flip calendar marked today's date as May 2nd, 2008, and the sounds of increased traffic within this hanger hinted at Tony Stark's imminent arrival. Listening, I adjusted my long tail and shifted into a more upright posture, the actions akin to a light stretch.

Public address announcements were mixed with parade-like footfalls, along with the movement of vehicles and scraped heavy machinery.

Within my U-shaped cluster of sealed together cargo containers, the most immediate change was the return of armed crewmen, a pair of them standing at attention near where the partitioned-off section presumably led to the rest of the hanger.

My first official guest of the day was Happy Hogan, the suited man power-walking in with a mix of relief and bravado.

"Great job, you two," he said, speaking to the guards. He momentarily offered to shake their hands, but quickly realized his mistake and turned to me instead. "Mister Dragon! You're still here! That's great! You... ah... doing alright?"

'Mostly, yes,' I sent to him, shifting the full length of my scaled presence into a slightly more comfortable posture on the bare flooring. A thump of my tail was paired with the friendly mood. 'I've also gone over the names that were sent my way: Miss Potts' choice of 'Argent' was my pick. Now, would your presence suggest Mister Stark is also nearby?'

"You got it, big guy," he replied, pushing out his chest with a smile. "He's here to kick ass and take names, just... ah... as soon as he recovers from... you know. That horrible time in Afghanistan."

I nodded.

"So! Don't you dare stress him, or... um." He swallowed, reconsidering his words. "Just don't, okay?"

'I wasn't even thinking of it.'

"Fine. Hold on then..." He fished out a phone, tapping at it, then held it to his ear while waiting. "Yeah... yes sir... Everything is good here. The... ah... 'big eater' - tell Miss Potts he picked Argent! - he's here too. One minute? Two? Okay. Got it. Bye, sir."

The phone was then slipped back into his suit blazer, and he took another look around. Spotting the folding chairs off to the side, he moved one so that it was directly lined up with myself, but still quite a distance from my floor-marked circles.

He fiddled with the back of it, constantly making slight adjustments, all the while he kept on looking over to the entranceway.

Soon, the sounds of slow steps marked another arrival, and the as-of-not-yet Iron Man himself came into view.

Tony was already wearing a fitted suit, the only blatantly noticeable concessions to his recent ordeal being an arm sling, a few partially healed wounds on his face, and a rather limp, defeated mop of hair. More hidden, the slight scent of freshly cleaned blood also revealed itself, along with patches of stale sweat and lingering fear.

"When they said dragon," Tony began, very slowly sitting himself in the chair Happy carefully guided him onto, "I didn't think they actually meant..." He waved towards me with his free hand.

'An actual dragon?'

I settled back on my haunches, letting my wings fold close against my sides. The bodily posturing to appear non-threatening came near instinctively, the results of continuing to get ever-more familiar with my new self.

"Yeah." He tapped Happy's side, the man almost crowding over Tony. "You didn't hear that?"

"Yes... no? Sir? I didn't hear anything."

"That's the telepathy, too, right," Tony said, nodding. "You're the reason the Air Force picked me up so quickly, so... thanks." He leaned back in the chair, checking its balance, taking the time to better inspect me. It changed into an intense stare. "Testing, testing... You picking this up?"

I shook my head, letting out an amused snort.

"Well. You're real. My day officially cannot get any weirder."

'Lets hope not, Mr. Stark,' I sent, 'I'll state that in a more perfect world, I'd have been able to track you down myself. But I'm sure you can imagine the problems inherent in my... search attempts.'

His laugh prompted a wince, Tony hunching forward for a moment as he waved off Happy. He then adjusted the minor slippage of his sling, thinly smiling through any pain.

'As you need to decompress and deal with your return, I'll attempt to pass over some very critical intelligence in as brief a time as possible. I hope you have some means of short-hand or coded info entry, and are quite capable of double-speaking to the massed recording devices all around us...?'

"So this meeting is not a social call, or autograph request?" He joked, his answer being expressed with the pulling out a sleek black flip-phone. "You might like pickles on burgers, or pineapple on pizza. I'm not one to judge." Pulled open, he tapped at it, muttering, "Solid bars, for once."

'To begin: your Malibu mansion. As appealing as it is, that residence is an utter failure in external and internal security. Please imagine how it would counter even a single attack helicopter, or something as bluntly simple as a tank air-dropped onto it from a high altitude.'

"Gingerbread houses," Tony grumbled, tapping at his phone, "everybody's a critic. More icing, more candies. Fine."

'Internally, it has no panic or anti-personal features, or even means to assist you if you'd be tased, paralyzed, rendered comatose, and so on.' I lazily waved a paw before returning it to the ground, the act intently watched by the combined three guards. 'If you were to rebuild your security systems, consider a blind fake-out with passwords that are instead biometric prompts.'

"Mister Dragon -"

"Its Argent now, boss," Happy chipped in.

"Argent," Tony said, grimacing, "You sure seem to know a lot about things that, well, I can't imagine you knowing about, like..." He let out a fake cough, which was met by a more genuine grimace of pain, then, "Far too many kinds of food, and details about myself. I didn't know my stalker fanbase extended to mythical creatures."

'Agreed,' I sent back, nodding, 'but the extent and limitations of my knowledge is a large, complicated topic in itself, and you're far from a state suitable to verbally grill me. If it helps, consider everything I'm saying as the words of a consultant - it's up to you to verify, confirm, and implement them.'

"How much would that consulting cost, then?"

I gave a slow, deliberate blink, emphasizing my nonhuman focus, even as my scaled shoulders rippled into a shrug. 'Currently, I have no set fees. However, you can imagine what meanings the extremes of a single dollar or an endless rain of blank cheques would communicate. To be even more bluntly clear, this all is both a free sample and investment in you. I have much more to offer, and you will remain my first pick on this planet until you earnestly reject my offerings - or become so brokenly twisted that I'd leave.'

A part of myself cringed at how overly dramatic I was being, but the situation - Tony's recent freedom from captivity, and the opportunity for a good first impression - made the choice to stay old-man-oracle serious much easier. I'd just have to be quick.

Following another quip by the genius inventor, I continued the info dump.

The topics included information security, mostly focused on his chest-based arc reactor and the repercussions of going 'public'; how the pieces of his first power armour suit should be recovered - which, due to his early rescue, had already happened - and only brought back to his mansion; the high altitude icing problem, along with the gold-titanium alloy solution; his just-started palladium poisoning and PTSD, with assistance for the latter possibly through Pepper or Rhodes; and the different approaches of having Stark Industries turn away from weapons, or not, with the potential of SHIELD, and Jarvis', assistance in either role.

The back-and-forth communication was relatively rapid, but Tony had given up on subtle, misdirecting replies into something far more over the top, even as his skin paled and beads of sweat accumulated.

"Argent," Tony said, shaking his head, "I don't think you truly understand the ramifications of a dragon proctologist. The instruments... the lube... the hazard pay. There might be a documentary there - maybe a horror movie? - but..."

'The person in your company who authorized the sale of weapons to the Ten Rings terrorists is the same person who arranged your kidnapping. In truth, he would have preferred that you simply died that day, instead of coming back.'

"Let me hear it," he said, almost looking in pained constipation himself.

'Mister Obadiah Stane,' I sent. 'He is also equipped with a small, hand-held paralysis inducing device - a 'sonic taser.' SHIELD might have already done some investigations into him, but I doubt they have gone so far as checking his personal work computer.'

For the first time since we started this conversation, there was no flippant quip in return. Instead, Tony numbly tapped at the small buttons of his phone while he seemed to sink further into himself.

I could almost scent his tension in the air, my tail giving an uneasy flick against the weight of the conversation.

"I never dreamed that I'd have to search those sewers," he eventually said. "Always expected them to be squeaky clean." He straightened up, adjusting to face me. "It's the history of them, you know. Family. Blood, sweat, and tears, in every damned brick."

'Yes. So verify, investigate, and confirm, for yourself, and for the sake of whatever evidence exists. Just note that any time you take could be used to sell further weapons to the Ten Rings and others.'

"I get it." He bumped into the side of Happy with his shoulder, the bodyguard standing there attentively though the 'one sided' conversation.

"You alright, boss?"

"Nope, but I'll manage," Tony said, then, directed my way, "Assuming nothing else?"

'That will do for now,' I sent in reply. 'I look forward to your success.'

There were years - decades! - more of details to share, but I didn't want to overwhelm him. Additionally, I had no way of guessing how he'd manage the intel I'd already passed over.

"Me too, big guy. Me too." With a helping arm from Happy, Tony unsteadily rose from his seat.

Pepper Potts was partly visible around the threshold, giving me a wave that I returned, and was already fussing over Tony as Happy walked him out. The only hiccup in his formal exit came from the sharp bang of some dropped heavy equipment, out in the larger hanger, prompting a full-body flinch that could have been a stumble if he wasn't supported.

Minutes later, the two armed guards also departed the same way, curious glances the extent of our interactions.

Settling in for another series of long naps, I mentally reviewed the conversation with Tony. The main reason I had for doing things the way I did was to test if my inner LitRPG system could accumulate 'points' even when I was not personally involved with events. Even confirming the 'negative' would be useful, as the full extent of my losses would be weeks of napping and the gratitude of a billionaire genius.

Whatever results cropped up would shape how active I'd need to be in this world.

For now? I'd sleep. With that thought, my tail curled around my forelimbs as I slowly lowered my head onto folded claws, letting out a low, resonant rumble of contentment.

---

My simple, lazy routine of long-term napping, mixed with indulgent eating, was only interrupted by a new addition beside the whiteboard: another stand, which featured cut-out newspaper articles taped to it, all focused on Tony Stark, his corporation, and any related events.

My first thought was to thank him for the idea, but more realistically, it was likely arranged by Pepper instead.

The slow passing of days into weeks generated a wide selection of interesting headlines, which included:

May 3rd: Tony Stark Returns: Billionaire Weapons Mogul Found Alive!

May 4th: Merchant of Death No Longer? Tony Stark Pledges Halt to Weapon Manufacturing!

May 5th: Stark Industries' Stocks in Freefall, Brokers Urge Mass Sell-offs

I had to wonder how much of an active role SHIELD played in the stock value crashing, if any. As far as I knew, Tony maintained majority ownership, so the 'direction' of the company wasn't at a terrible risk. Still, some 'buy backs' could help with future busy-bodies' interferences.

May 15th: Stark Industries Board Shakeup? COO Stane Escorted Off Site by Security!

After the first mention of Obadiah, I passed on a request for international news - especially from around Afghanistan - but nothing noteworthy appeared apart from some pieces about agriculture.

The next article explained more exactly why that was the case.

May 20th: Obadiah Stane Under Fire: Investigations into Questionable Arms Deals

Now, nearly every time something I considered memorable had appeared, I made sure to dive back into my sleepy mindscape to better assess how much - or if any - points had appeared. Typically, however, the verdict remained nearly the same: minimal income, stupid expensive powers.

When the latter Obadiah Stane related article was put up, I knew that I had to bite the bullet and figure out how to get the most out of my paltry gains.

Sleeping, the now very familiar mist-shrouded plain of my mindscape greeted me, and I plodded over to the rough-sculpted dragon statue and the clear polished crystal it held.

A moment of focused intention later, that surface held the most current display of my 'status.'

[PATH OF THE DRAGON ASCENDANT

POINTS: 36 [Muggle] / 4 [Super] / 0 [Cosmic]

TIERS: [Fragile → Muggle → Iron] → [Extranormal → *SUPER* → Hyper] → [World → Cosmic → Author]

DRACONIC CATEGORIES:
- BREATH: Exhalations and breathing.
- BODY: Internal workings.
- CLAWS & FANGS: Melee and close-quarters.
- EYES: All senses.
- HEART: Internal wellspring of energy.
- LAIR: Home and hoard.
- MIND: All mental operations.
- MINIONS: Followers and familiars.
- PRESENCE: Intangible aura.
- SACRIFICES: Traded in cast-off discards.
- SCALES: Outermost defenses.
- STOMACH: Devouring and processing.
- TYPE: Fundamental essence.
- WINGS: All mobility functions.]

So. All I had to my name - the sum total of my intense power napping, and wise old man speechifying towards Tony Stark - was 36 Muggle and 4 Super Points. At least it wasn't nothing. Frankly, my landing in the middle of the tiers as Super was already a massive leg up, letting me skip whatever 'killing fifty rats' phase the earlier tiers required.

As I had already gotten an idea of what I was able to do already, it was time to see what I could newly buy or upgrade...

---

'What is this horrible garbage?!'

If I had the ability to do so, I'd be spitting blood in outrage!

The simple ability to speak - to merely utter audible, understandable words - cost a whole 5 Muggle Points! Hot! Flaming! Garbage!

I rolled around the floor of my mindscape lair, moaning and thrashing in mental anguish!

'Where are my cheats!? Where is my epic, broken, awesomeness?!' I let out a disheartened roar, mindlessly thunking my horns' tips back into the mist-tinged ground. 'I worked! So! Damn! Hard! And... and...'

Hrm. I blinked. '...No, I actually didn't work that hard, truthfully.' Sighing, I plodded back to in front of the crystalline surface.

'Blah! Sacrifices? What sort of discounts could be pulled from there, I wonder?'

---

At the end, I choose four powers, along with two severe personal 'sacrifices' that served to reduce those picks' costs, as well as many others in the future.

The first gave me the ability to speak once again.

[AUDIBLE SPEECH:
- CATEGORY: Dragon's Breath.
- DESCRIPTION: The production of speech or speech-like sounds.
- TIER: Tier 2 - Muggle.
- COSTS: 5 Muggle Pts - 50% = 2 Muggle Pts.
- HIGHEST APPLICABLE DISCOUNT: Solitary (50%).]

Ignoring how the rounding down benefitted me, I also examined the related discount.

[SOLITARY:
- CATEGORY: Sacrifices (50%).
- DESCRIPTION: The total inability to create, summon, animate, or otherwise conjure additional beings; no minions, clones, illusions that become 'real,' or anything else similar.
- APPLICABILITY: Self-empowerment; powers that enhance yourself or your personal arsenal.]

It wasn't as extreme as it could be. If I had gone to such lengths as being a perpetual 'lone wolf,' combined with, maybe, refusing all options to enhance others, the final discount would easily push past 70%.

The next was the absolute cheapest version of true supernatural healing.

[FAST HEALING:
- CATEGORY: Dragon's Body.
- DESCRIPTION: Accelerated and constant natural healing. It does not restore damage due to starvation, thirst, or suffocation, or the regrowing of lost body parts. It stops functioning at death.
- TIER: Tier 3 - Iron.
- COSTS: 20 Muggle Pts - 50% = 10 Muggle Pts.
- HIGHEST APPLICABLE DISCOUNT: Solitary (50%).]

As I was unwilling to trudge through such plebian activities as prolonged training or practice, I opted into the most expensive form of quick study I could afford.

[SUPER LEARNING:
- CATEGORY: Dragon's Mind.
- DESCRIPTION: Near 'peak human' learning capacity. Time and effort required is reduced down to about 10% of original. Can't learn truly superhuman skills or talents at this tier.
- TIER: Tier 3 - Iron.
- COSTS: 30 Muggle Pts - 50% = 15 Muggle Pts.
- HIGHEST APPLICABLE DISCOUNT: Solitary (50%).]

The last ability was another necessity in superhero worlds: speed. Not much at the chosen tier, but it was better than what my default self provided.

I was given the impression that it was about Captain America levels - a touch below Black Panther - while appropriately remaining leagues away from Quicksilver and other 'true' speedsters.

[SUPER SPEED:
- CATEGORY: Dragon's Wings.
- DESCRIPTION: 'Peak human' speed and reflexes, within plausible real-world extremes.
- TIER: Tier 3 - Iron.
- COSTS: 30 Muggle Pts - 70% = 9 Muggle Pts.
- HIGHEST APPLICABLE DISCOUNT: No teleportation (70%).]

The already used 'Solitary' discount could apply, but I went substantially higher for greater benefits: completely removing any ability to ever teleport. Still, I fully intended to make up that deficiency with speed and portals.

'Everything is better with portals, right?!'

[NO TELEPORTATION:
- CATEGORY: Sacrifices (70%).
- DESCRIPTION: The total inability to utilize instant point-to-point and teleportation travel forms.
- APPLICABILITY: All forms of regular movement and travel, as well as non-teleportation-based exotic travel abilities.]

Reaching out with a claw tip to tap the final confirmation on the slab of crystal, one more prompt appeared.

[CHOOSE ONE OPTION:

1) FREE:
A) Spend 36 hours in a comatose sleep to incorporate 36 Muggle Points worth of changes. CAUTION: Interruption of sleep can result in lost powers or points!

2) ACCELERATED INTEGRATION:
A) Tier Cost: Spend 1 Super Point to instantly incorporate all changes.
B) Muggle Freebie: Instantly incorporate all changes.
CAUTION: One time only, and only possible if only Muggle powers involved.
C) Super Freebie: Instantly incorporate all changes.
CAUTION: One time only, and only possible if only Super powers involved.]

'Hmm...' Obvious answer was obvious: cancel my confirmation, and redo my choices to start with the lowest costing - and shortest sleeping! - options. In fact, to make doubly sure, I should wake first and warn my ever-present stalking voyeurs about potential 'odd energy readings' or other such wiff-waffle actions.

'...Eh? I can't move? There is no cancel option?! Crap!'

Now, in a better world, I'd 'trust' my Department of Defense - and SHIELD, probably HYDRA, maybe some other international organizations - watchers to remain at a polite distance, and wait for me to wake before bothering me. Their apparent adherence to my engraved ground circles had somewhat convinced me of that happening.

However, I had no idea of what would happen to me when this 'comatose sleep' was active: would my vitals slowly, or suddenly, crash? Would I emit some form of exotic energies? Or, more alarmingly, would some sort of physical change, like a cocoon, be generated? Would I shed scales?! Each and every one of those possibilities could give 'concerned watchers' enough of a reason to yell their concerns in my direction, or perhaps even poke me... with a very long stick.

Unable to even sigh, I choose the 'Muggle Freebie' option... and instantly woke up.

---

A/N: Per my signature, I have a working copy of the homebrew rules system available (hosted on SpaceBattles).

 

[AirBreather]

4. See You Later, Flyboy

---

My choice of the instant integration of chosen powers was proved to be the right one when the very same night prompted a visitor and a polite demand to 'leave.'

"I've received orders from higher up, Argent," Rhodes said, his dress uniform spotless under the glaring ceiling lights of the hangar. "I wasn't told how it happened, but you've been cleared to leave the base." He tapped a courier's bag tucked under his shoulder. "Various marching orders, special requests, documentation and permits - it's all here."

Accompanying his familiar figure were another pair of guards, faces known enough that I was sure I had seen them on the base already - but not enough to bother committing their names to memory.

A blinked through moment later, I sat upright, back onto my haunches, and sent out a mental query in reply. 'This departure: is it an option, or a requirement?'

Rhodes coughed, not meeting my much larger eyes, then scratched the back of his head. "Look, I've been told they really want you to go. I'd love to pretend it's your choice, but I can't. I picked up a lot of nervous tension, but none of the brass said anything. They just wanted you gone, and gone fast, so everything had to fall into place as soon as possible."

A rumbling sound of contemplation emerged from my throat as I considered the shift in circumstances. I've been in this Edwards Air Force Base for months now, barely even stretching my wings past the ground-engraved circles I made. If I had been any other creature, or even a human 'guest,' my quasi-chosen self confinement could be assessed as a form of cruel and unusual punishment.

Thankfully, I was made of sterner stuff, and my lack of access to a larger environment hadn't caused muscle atrophy or any form of mental anguish. Additionally, I had the odd chat to pass the time, and my napping skills were superb.

'Very good, then,' I finally sent, my nod of agreement matched to Rhodes relieved smile. 'How is this going to work? Another clandestine flight on a Chinook? Perhaps to a newly 'restricted' natural heritage site or similar?'

"Not quite," he said, chuckling with a touch of exasperation. "You've been cleared for a night-time flight to Malibu, to Tony Stark's mansion."

'Oh. Huh.' I shifted my head from side to side, blinking. 'I certainly wasn't expecting that.'

"I don't think any of us were," he replied, shrugging. "Still, Tony has been given a script to follow to help minimize the fallout. He's already scheduled a press conference, coming up in the day after tomorrow, and your situation will be folded into it. He personally negotiated your big reveal."

'Ah. I see.' The tone of my mental reply was excessively flat, as I could already imagine how horribly 'off the rails' the future Iron Man would go. Beyond that, I still had no idea if that mass media inspired title had been applied to him, or if any of the events that prompted his power suit-wearing escapades had occurred or not.

"Is that all right?" Rhodes asked, clarifying, "I'd been given the impression - from Tony, at least - that you two had a worthwhile connection."

I rumbled out an agreement, flicking away the idea of objections with a gestured claw tip. 'No problems. Now, how do we make this happen?'

"Great!" He said, walking closer, then pointed to the ominously engraved lines I was encircled by. "About them...?"

'Not an issue right now, Rhodes,' I sent, shaking my head. 'What do you need?'

Rather than immediately answer, he opened the courier bag he was holding and fished out a roll of duct tape. "This was the best result the egg heads had for securing the packet to you. I've got three rolls here. If you'd point out where you want it taped to...?"

Six rolls of duct tape later, the courier bag was securely locked against the scales of my front-right upper limb. Another two, and I had an improvised radio setup against the side of my head, near a backwards-angled horn.

With each new attachment, I stretched my wings carefully, mindful of the nearby personnel as each leathery span shifted. More than once, the downbeat of air ruffled the guards' uniforms.

Finally, the only other major hurdle that remained was a series of very tense chats with some very self-important military people. I just hoped it wouldn't take too long.

---

The late night flight to Tony Stark's cliff-side, coastal mansion had me accompanied by a much smaller helicopter than the Chinook I originally was carried inside.

Noticeably, the massive disparity between vaguely physics-limited draconic wings and modern aircraft was still very dramatic, even with my new additions of peak human 'super speed' and 'super learning.' The combination of both did allow my prior stumbling, inexpert efforts to be gradually smoothed out as I better mastered my sense of self, and I felt leagues better than my very first face-planting attempts.

The escort and myself approached Tony's mansion from the Malibu coast, at a level slightly below where the cliff's upper surface resided. The rhythmic crashing of waves provided a background murmur that was mostly drowned out by the copter's rotors, though the sea salt scent was pleasant.

The view of the residence was substantially different than what I remembered from the MCU movies and wiki trawls: instead of the sharp melding of modern architecture onto the bare natural stone, there were various emplacements and oddities that either suggested brutalist concrete artwork or hidden defenses.

The most blatantly obvious change was a hangar door opening carved directly into the cliffside, large enough for fixed wing aircraft and more than plenty for myself. Already open, it was ringed by a series of coloured lights, which changed into multiple rotating clusters of green dots as we neared it.

"Biggs One, this is Falcon One," the radio strapped to the side of my head squawked. "Land site has confirmed visuals and your entry. We're done. Safe travels!"

Not being able to audibly reply with the current setup, I instead only waved at the departing helicopter as I glided through the cliffside opening into Tony Stark's unknown sub-basement levels. Subsonic humming and a full-body, rapid laser scan both passed over me nearly the whole time, while the pervasive presence of cameras' glinting lenses were visible nearly everywhere I looked.

Seconds after I touched down on the fine mesh metal flooring, a soft shudder beneath me the only sign of my weight, the sounds of smoothly moving machinery prompted me to look back. As I loosely tucked my wings against my sides, a thick slot in the ceiling had opened up, feeding down segmented, garage-door-like panels that quickly blocked off any sight of the coastal exterior.

"Please step further in, Mister Argent," a polite British voice sounded from an assortment of speakers. "There are additional security measures required."

Nodding in reply, I kept on walking, though with my head pointed backwards in curious anticipation. I wasn't disappointed: an entire, slab-like section of the floor tilted up, supported by thick columns of gleaming steel, until its surface met the inside lining of the 'garage door' panels with a final, dull thunk.

At nearly the same time, another layer of metallic mesh-work moved out to cover the substantial gap that had been formed, creating a nearly perfectly even flooring replacement.

'Neat!' I thought, approvingly. 'It looks like Tony substantially invested in security measures - at least down here.' The counterpart to those musings was that I was far more contained and restricted within this 'so-called' civilian basement than I had ever been in the US Air Force hangar. None of my current capabilities had any hope of breaching that ultra-heavy door-stopper I just saw being deployed. The most I could really hope for was scratching the surface, maybe even damaging the paint with some draconic flames.

Any further panicking was defrayed by the assumed voice of Jarvis speaking, "Your suite is to the left, Mister Argent, while the route to Mister Stark begins on the right." Lines of blinking LED dots, green and blue, respectively, marked the paths. "He is currently indisposed, but still accepting messages."

The near-cavernous size of the civilian-made pseudo air hangar was evident here, as well as to both directions the lights marked. Putting off connecting with Tony for the moment, I followed the short left hand path, absent-mindedly gauging the dimensions of the comfortably large passage with casually extended and retracted wing-tips, along with exploratory tail movements.

The entrance to my 'suite' was blocked by a mid-split door of thick, polished black glass, the two panes swishing into the walls as I approached, then closing again when I passed by.

Beyond them was a large, domed-ceiling room, the size of a luxuriously large hotel lobby, or perhaps a college gymnasium, but relatively bare and featureless. I lifted my snout, scenting the professionally recycled air as my tail lightly swept the bare floor, testing the space's dimensions.

"This is the largest of the three main rooms assigned to you, Mister Argent," Jarvis' voice announced. "Furnishings and other features have yet to be decided. To your right and left are other rooms of similar design, but reduced in scale, to which you can assign any purpose. Directly opposite are a trio of bathing facilities for yourself and any human-scale guests you might host."

The AI had given an honest assessment, as the empty space produced little except echoes as I walked around. The far side had three doors - marked with cute little symbols for male, female, and 'dragon' washrooms - and the same style of black glass doorways led off in the two directions as was described.

Settling down for the moment, I spent some time painstakingly removing the radio and courier bag that were still taped to me. The effort was more tedious than painful, but it did leave me with spots of sticky residue.

Lacking anywhere else to put the items, I simply stacked them together near the walls.

"Ah-hem... eh..." I tried vocalizing for the first time since I picked up the overpriced 'power.' Some throat clearing and coughs later, I was ready for a more serious attempt as a subtle rumble began to resonate in my chest. "Hello? Jarvis?"

"Yes, Mister Argent? How may I be of assistance?"

"...I can talk?"

"Yes, sir, congratulations. Did you want to convey any messages to Mister Stark, or do you have any inquiries for myself?"

Erm? I didn't actually think that far ahead. How about... "Do you realistically expect Tony to be free in the near future, or would he be more likely to work until he collapses into exhaustion?" I had to clear my throat a few times at the end, newly broken in vocal cords tingling as the fast-healing ability proved its effectiveness.

"While I would never presume to speculate on Mister Stark's personal habits, my suggestion - if you wanted to reach him before he possibly succumbs to overwork - is to attempt communications as soon as possible. It is already past two AM."

"Mmm. True." I stretched behind a wing joint, more for the experience than any real itch. "Then... please check if he is open to live messaging or an in-person meeting."

"Right away, sir."

I used the lull in our conversation to wander around the barren room some more, speculating on some of the integrated devices.

By the time Jarvis spoke again, my only plausible guess was a ceiling-based projector, though that was mostly due to the absence of any sort of visible television or monitor screen setup.

"I'm sorry, sir. It appears that Mister Stark is unable to connect with you at this time. However, he hopes you enjoy the features and amenities of your suite, and has also passed on congratulations about your newly realized speaking ability."

How much of that was Jarvis versus Tony I was unwilling to stress over, as I easily imagined the AI politely 'translating' any errant words of the genius inventor into full-fledged speeches.

"Oh well," I said, chest rumbling into a sigh. I briefly inwardly debated about whether to try and watch a show or news, or maybe query Jarvis about the odd subject, but instead decided to catch some more sleep.

"Please wake me up when Tony is free, Jarvis," I said, slowly curling myself into a comfortable position.

Eyes closed, his reply caught my ears before unconsciousness claimed me, being, "Certainly, sir. Have a pleasant rest."

---

"-ent? Hello, Mister Argent?"

"Ehhhh?!" I thrashed for a second, pulled out of my dreaming mindscape, then realized where I was. "Yes? Jarvis? What?!"

The dimmed ambient lights grew to more conventional brightness as I blinked into wakefulness.

"Mister Stark's press conference begins in less than five minutes. He was curious if you have any statements for the public when he announces that a dragon is living with him."

"Uh." I stared at the walls, their features as blank as my mind. "...What? Press conference? What? I thought that was over a day away!?"

"It was, sir. However, you have slept over that entire duration, and no decision was made to wake you during that interim. Mister Stark believed you needed proper rest after your cross-state flight and your time on base, and preferred you well-rested before the media circus."

What the AI said made sense, even if it wasn't personally ideal.

Thinking, I shifted back onto my haunches, half-slitting my eyes to... peer at nothing in particular, really. A low snort marked my mild irritation. "I don't remember being briefed about this. Did I miss something?"

"Perhaps, sir. It was my understanding that details were part of the documentation supplied to you by Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes. Did you have a chance to review them?"

My eyes locked onto the courier bag half-buried by reams of cut-off duct tape, pushed against the far wall. I coughed, a puff of smoke accidently paired with the action. "...No?"

"That is unfortunate, sir. Perhaps you can come up with something before Mister Stark gets to announcing your presence during the press conference?"

"Maybe?" I squeaked out.

While my mental gears were failing to produce anything awesome, fabulous, or fabulously awesome, my earlier guess about the projector's role was confirmed as light came out of it to turn a stretch of featureless wall-space into a large display.

Audio was paired with the central focus of Rhodes, his dress uniformed figure standing behind a podium as the watermarks of WHiH World News dominated the bottom of the screen, silently blaring out related, scrolling headlines: Stark Industries Shares at Lowest Point in 20 Years! The Da Vinci of Our Time Promises Solutions! Tony Stark's Press Conference: Earth-shaking Revelations Planned!

'Crap! It's happening! It's really happening!' I was all but vibrating with stress-filled, nervous tension.

"...I like flying. And long walks on the beach. And woks on the beach...? With brisket? ...Pulled pork? BBQ sauce?" At this point, I was just mumbling out anything that came to mind - anything and everything that didn't sound too obviously stupid.

On screen, and unlike the original canon events, Rhodes had no need to comment about 'robots rampaging' or similar to cover up for a power-suited Iron Monger. Instead, he spent a few minutes reminiscing about Tony, ending his statements about how he recovered his kidnapped friend from the deserts of Afghanistan.

I only tuned into what was said when the airman stepped to the side, introducing the main personality of this event. "...and now, Mr. Stark. He has prepared a statement, and will not be taking any questions."

"Thank you." Tony's voice came from the speakers, matching his on-screen presence, and he looked over the assembled members of the press and other reporters as he stepped behind the podium. "Ah... been a while since I was in front of you. Now, I know there has been some concerns about the directions I want to take Stark Industries, as well as what exactly happened to Obadiah Stane."

He paused, letting the shouted questions die down into silence, then flashed the crowd a smile. "I won't be talking about them. Instead, I am here to amaze you."

At an unspoken prompt, visuals popped into visibility on the canvas screen beside the genius inventor. The glossy, glowing picture of an arc reactor was slapped, then, "This? Right here? The solution to the entire world's energy needs."

He paused, smiling without talking, as bullet points and graphs prompted more shouted questions, and the noise kept on growing.

"...nnn... this is hard..." I ground scaled knuckles into the sides of my head, in a poor attempt at pushing out some great ideas. "People are nice? I like cute fuzzy animals? ...I don't always eat them?"

My tail thrashed behind me, and I forced it still. "Jarvis? Help! Anything?!"

The AI's voice cut over the screen's chatter, momentarily silencing it. "I'm sure whatever Mister Stark has chosen will be more than sufficient to represent you, sir."

My throat seized up as the implications hit me. "Oh fuck no! No... um. Ideas? Brain, doing the thing, where it things. The things!" I stared at the screen, mentally going over the last few minutes, and the faintest glimmer of a possibility emerged.

"Jarvis: quick question," I began, staring all around, "does this room have video conferencing features? Could it be patched in to the press conference?!"

"Indeed it does, sir. Would you be wanting to avail yourself of them?"

"Yes...?" I was attempting to convince myself. Poorly, perhaps. "Maybe display a screen-in-screen so I can see exactly what it looks like?" A claw gestured towards the wall, and another rectangle immediately popped into existence on it, showing off my side profile.

Some shuffling around and posture adjustment finally squared my handsome, silver scaled self directly in the middle. It was just in time for another set of pictures to be displayed on the canvas beside Tony: an extensive collage of articles, headlines, and pictures, all referring to a 'mysterious flying armoured figure' that had participated in acts of emergency assistance and vigilante justice over the last month. More than one of them had nick-named the character 'Iron Man.'

Rhodes stiffened at the sight, then leant behind his friend, saying something. The microphones didn't pick it up, but Tony's reply still came in. "Relax, I got this."

"Okay. Yeah," he continued, rubbing at the top of his dress shirt. "There's no official story to these articles," he said, gesturing towards the mixed pictures. "A modern-day superhero, here, this... 'Iron Man.' But I'm just not the hero type. A laundry list of character defects, all the mistakes I've made, largely public..."

"The truth is..." He paused, taking a breath, then ripped open the top of his shirt to expose the arc reactor. "*I* am Iron Man... and I live with a dragon."

The canvas display suddenly cut to the live figure of me, replacing whatever Tony had originally planned for. After a near microscopic surprise, he added, "World, Argent. Argent, world. He's all yours."

---

An assortment of news channels and sites retained the full transcript of the improvised interview that followed, through the various uproars the public and media made. The only real minor loss was regarding which member of the press said what, as the near-endless deluge of questions was only stopped when the power was suddenly cut.

P: "What is your relationship to Tony Stark? Are you romantically involved with him?"
A: "Ha ha! No... wait? You're seriously asking that?! Beyond 'no comment,' I'll officially state that a few members of the press sitting right here should be more than familiar with Mr. Stark's preferences. Next question!"

P: "Are you really a dragon?"
A: "Yes. Next -"
P: "Can you prove it?"
A: "Prove what? How?! How about you prove you're a human, first? How do you even know you're real, and not hooked up to a machine somewhere, and this is all a simulation?! You might even be a shape-shifting alien! Or a robot! How would I know!?"

P: "Is this some elaborate PR stunt? Are we sure you're not just a very advanced Stark robot?"
A: "At this exact time, given the interface, any answers I give you will likely prove insufficient - along the clichéd lines of having to 'prove a negative.' Please look forward to more directly live demonstrations and so on."

P: "Are shape-shifting aliens real?"
A: "No comment."

P: "Are you a shape-shifter?"
A: "By species sub-type? No. By ability? ...No, not yet."

P: "Are you an alien?"
A: "Technically... yes? I'm not from this Earth."

P: "Which Earth are you from?"
A: "That is beyond the scope of this interview."

P: "Is Tony Stark harboring other 'extraterrestrial pets' in his basement?"
A: "I... certainly hope not?"

P: "Argent, What's the US Government's stance on letting an 'alien dragon' roam free? Are we looking at new immigration laws here?"
A: "Immigration policy is also beyond the scope of this interview, in addition to being a headache. I only will state that I am very excessively documented - perhaps too much so."

P: "Are you aware of a rumored 'giant green monster' in the American Southwest? Have you ever met him?"
A: "Yes and no. Also, no further questions on that topic."

P: "Have you eaten any people?"
A: "Not yet? I mean... no, of course not. Next question!"

P: "Do you want to eat any people?"
A: "Um... Only sexually? And when I'm angry. Next question!"

P: "By 'sexually,' do you mean -"
A: "Next! Question!"

P: "How would that even work, I mean the size differences alone -"
A: "Change the topic! Next question!"

P: "Have you tried any California cuisine yet? What do you eat day-to-day?"
A: "Due to my biology limited constraints preferring quantity over quality, I can only honestly state that I'm a big fan of meat-laden BBQ dishes. Exact brands and subtle nuances get largely lost during the... ah... 'intake process.'"

P: "Are you planning a memoir or personal biography?"
A: "Hoh? While quite an interesting idea, nothing like that is planned by myself."

P: "Could we see you in a bikini photo shoot? Our magazine would pay top dollar!"
A: "How even...? What? I don't even want to know what magazine you're talking about! Next question!"

P: "What is your involvement with the recent events Stark Industries has gone through? Are you a shareholder?"
A: "No to the latter, and for the former, I'll only state that I've advised Mr. Stark in a consulting capacity."

P: "Do you declare your income, and pay taxes?"
A: "...ask my accountant."

P: "Do you have an accountant, and if so, who are they?"
A: "No. Next question."

P: "Argent, dragons traditionally have treasure hoards. Do you have one, and where is it located?"
A: "...Do I seriously come across as being that stupid?! Next question!"

P: "What can you tell us about the so-called 'Iron Man' suits' technology?"
A: "I believe they are made of metal, and use electricity."

P: "Tony was unwilling to comment on the fate of Mr. Stane. Can you share any further details on the former Stark Industries COO?"
A: "I haven't eaten him... yet. Next question!"

P: "When you say you want to 'eat him,' do you mean -"
A: "Security? Him, please? Now? Thank you. Appreciated."

P: "Do you breathe fire? Can you demonstrate?"
A: "Yes and no. I am indoors, currently, and do not wish to test the sprinkler systems, or stress the environmental controls. My apologies."

P: ""Are you required by law to register as a 'weapon'? Will you appear before Congress?"
A: "Many expert martial artists are examples of 'living weapons.' If those many thousands of individuals aren't required to register, I'll contest any need for myself doing the same. As for Congress... I'll wait and see. Thank you for asking."

P: "Are you looking for an agent or sales rep? I have connections in branding and PR, and -"
A: "That subject is beyond the scope of this interview. Any related interests I have, if any or ever, will be stated at a future time."

P: "Does the government see you as a threat? What arrangements, if any, have you made with them?"
A: "I can only speculate that the US Government, and others, would see intelligent ants as a threat. That I am larger than a great white shark implies my case files would be much more extensive. However, whatever experiences I had with them were positive enough that I'm willing to still say that, even when securely outside of their militaries' immediate presence."

P: "Do intelligent ants exist?!"
A: "Honestly? ...I have no idea. Probably? Somewhere? Next question, please."

P: "Mr. Argent, do you have any comment on the environmental implications of your presence - like, are you an invasive species?"
A: "Invasive species implies out-eating and/or out-breeding the locals. Humans have done an admirable job of that already, including to each other, with... Um. ...this is all being recorded, isn't it? Something something, apex predator? Hibernation cycles? I'm really surprised I haven't been cut off already, considering that -"

Cutting off my umpteenth rereading, the wall's display suddenly updated, replaced with two different sets of images. The first was of Tony's self-satisfied smirking face, and the other an exterior camera view of the Stark's mansions' exterior, where a recognizable eyepatch-and-black trench-coat wearing man was fiddling with a side door.

"Argent," Tony began, his eyes flicking in different directions, "Thanks for the comedy routine at the press conference. It helped pull some of the following pressure off."

I snorted, loudly. "Everything I said was true."

"Oh? Huh. Never mind that. This guy here - the world's most intense pirate cosplayer," the other screen helpfully circled the figure with a glowing set of lines, creating multiple inset profile pictures of his face. "Maybe a month ago, whatever he was doing could slide right through my security - maybe even tamper with Jarvis'. Now, I have more options. His ID..."

A representative of a SHIELD photo identity card popped up, listing Nicholas Joseph Fury's credentials.

"He seems like someone halfway important, trying to meet someone actually important - me. Maybe you, too, since you're a guest." Tony's focus aimed more directly my way, offering me a nod. "Thought I'd grant you another chance to prove your consulting chops: you got a read on him?"

"Likely to dump a whole mess of very important things your way," I answered, adding, "it probably involves the Avengers Initiative and other world-shaking revelations."

"What's - no, don't tell me. I'll figure it out myself. See you soon."

With that, the dual split display returned to the earlier view of my interview transcript.

However, there was no more need to review it, and some other important talks were coming up shortly.

"Jarvis?"

"Yes, Mister Argent?"

"Please shut those down, for now," I said, gesturing towards the screens, "and let me know what the meeting plan for Nick Fury involves."

"Certainly, sir," he replied, "To begin with, please proceed to Mister Stark's rooms by following the indicated lights..."

---

A/N: Some text has been quoted directly from the Iron Man (2008) movie, specifically from the pre-end press conference.