Disaster at “Clean Water” fundraising

Location: Los Angeles

Date: July 26 2008

It had been a long and emotional week, and the feeling under my skin promised a disastrous ending. I still falsely hoped it would end on a positive note.

When the morning began with Pepper showing up at my place early on Saturday morning, I started to suspect that hope was futile.

Even though I was already awake — or more accurately, hadn't slept yet — I was still in my baggy T-shirt with nothing underneath. I was planning to have a calm weekend, staying home and seeing nobody, after all the events of this shitty week.

So, when I opened the door to an energised Pepper, she was greeted by a clear picture of someone who was not in the mood or state to go anywhere.

She flicked her eyes down and up my half-naked body without losing her cheerful expression and said:

"Morning, Natalie! I'm sorry I didn't call — I was in the area anyway — but do you remember what day tomorrow is?"

"Morning, Victoria. Sunday?" I tried, not hiding a yawn.

I realised we were still standing at the open door, so I gestured for her to enter.

"Well, yes, but it looks like Tony isn't the only one who forgot it. Tomorrow is the fundraising!" She took off her shoes and went further inside the house as she spoke. I had a moment of mental short-circuiting.

"What does that have to do with me?" I asked, closing the door and following her inside.

Today, she didn't look like she was dressed for a workday. She wore a lovely yellow summer dress that ended just above her knees, and the sandals she left in the hall matched in both colour and style.

"Because you are going — I hope you didn't forget — and I'm here to see that you have an appropriate outfit!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together as we entered the living room.

"Right, that fundraising. I thought it was happening, like, next week?" I tried to remember. No one had specified an exact day, but they implied there was still time.

"Oh, you're as bad as Tony. Well then, put something on," she started, and her eyes again involuntarily scanned me from top to bottom. "Let's see what we can find for you to wear tomorrow. I know this nice place — I bought a great pair of shoes there — we must definitely visit it! Now, stop standing here, go-go — clothes won't find themselves for you," she said as she dared to turn me around and give me a gentle push.

It had already been a long week, and it just got longer if Pepper's enthusiasm was anything to go by.

🕷

We had been shopping for at least four hours already, and I ended up with more than just one outfit for tomorrow. Pepper insisted on buying many other things that I had neglected to have — I really didn't feel like buying all this unnecessary stuff before.

I had my sports outfit and some casual clothes, and if I needed something for work, I would buy it at the moment of need. But having my closet full of clothes that I might never wear just because they looked good on me was not something I was used to — the Red Room and SHIELD were not places for that, nor was the time on the run after the Sokovia Accord disaster or the time after the Snap.

And all this time, while we had been shopping, Pepper kept giving me cryptic glances. At first, I ignored them, but then I started trying to figure them out and quickly got tired of doing so.

"What is it?" I asked Pepper.

"What are you talking about?" she tried to deflect, but I pressed: "You know, so say it already."

"Well," she dragged it out, "you are not what I expected."

When I raised my eyebrow at that, she continued: "You know, you have the build and look of a supermodel — and yes, I remember you are not one — but you look like one, and, well, you're not acting like them. Believe me, I've seen too many supermodels around Tony to count. I still expect you to act like them, but you don't."

Ah, that's what it was about. Go figure.

I shrugged my shoulders and replied, "Having long legs and a pretty face doesn't mean you have to spread them — while dressed in nice fabric — for wealthy men or women. I'm sure you know that." As I said my piece, I gave her an appraising look, glancing down and up, emphasising that she is no slouch herself when she's not in business attire.

"You're right," she agreed, then jumped off the uncomfortable topic: "Look at this scarf — it would go nicely with your eyes."

🕷

By the time Pepper dropped me back home, it was already after 5 p.m. I swear I'll never go on a shopping spree with her again — it was more exhausting than my endurance training. Anyway, I now have more clothes than I know what to do with. And shoes — I shouldn't forget about that impractical and easy-to-break row of shoes occupying the bottom of my closet.

And the outfit for tomorrow's fundraising event — I had to fight with Pepper over the dress. While I agreed that it had to match Stark's outfit, I didn't want to wear anything that would compromise my mobility.

In the end, we settled on a light lavender slit dress with an opening that went too high. Of course, that meant we had to find proper undergarments for that dress alone.

The matching high heels were a compromise that I threw in Pepper's direction; at least I knew how to make them deadly. I didn't think about the need for accessories, which was apparent when Pepper learned that I didn't have any. When I complained that I didn't have much to spend on that, she reminded me that Stark was paying and, yes, for my accessories as well.

I couldn't wait for the week to end — I was already done with it. But it looks like it was not done with me.

🕷

"Show time," said Stark, putting on his sunglasses as our car stopped at the red carpet leading to the venue where today's fundraising event was being held.

I wished I could do the same; camera flashes were quite bright, and I had to be careful not to get blinded. I smiled my fake smile, held Stark's hand at the elbow, and just followed his lead.

According to Stark's PR plan, I'm here today to show token support as a "friend" and have to say the same if anyone asks me. I don't know why I care or why they need it. It's not like it was Stark's first time in the newspaper with a scandal or two, but Pepper was insistent, and I still don't know how I agreed to that — I blame my drunken state that morning.

At least I told them that I am not responsible for any shit that is going to happen during or as a direct result of my presence here.

Pepper was already here and had probably spent hours supervising, preparing, and making sure that every duck was in a row.

The evening was progressing as planned. I walked with Stark around, and he introduced me as his friend to a few people, and I clapped at his speech. Eventually, I retreated to the bar while Stark was deep in conversation, doing his social voodoo.

"So, how do you like his dick? I definitely enjoyed it." My mellow mood was interrupted by an unexpected female voice from my right while I was in the middle of drinking a tonic (no more vodka or even beer, thank you very much). She was doing it on purpose — I realised this when I finished coughing and turned to look at the suicidal bitch.

It was a blonde with long legs and a short dress that barely covered her lower assets.

"Ah, you, that reporter from Iron Man's press conference," I replied.

"Christine Everhart for Vanity Fair," she corrected, falling right into my trap.

"See if I care," I said, turning away and silently snickering in my head. She wouldn't leave it at that.

She stood there for a second but then sat next to me, gesturing to the bartender for a drink. "Moscow Mule, please," she said, then turned back to me.

"Now, I wonder if you don't care that I fucked him or if you don't care to fuck him," she continued, gesturing to Stark, who was in the middle of sweet talk with Pepper.

I shrugged, sipped more of my tonic, and said, "Why not both?"

"Huh, and here I was, ready to go with a romantic story about our own local hero saving Stark in the sands of Afghanistan and falling in love with him while running away from terrorists," she replied. In the bar mirror, I saw how she carefully watched my expression, trying to catch any answers in my body language or facial expressions.

I left her unsatisfied with another shrug.

"You're a tough one and very secretive, you know? I tried to dig into your past but found very little about it. Special forces? Marines? Or even better, some secret agency that you retired early from? You know they almost erased everything from USC records, but that didn't stop me — I found your records in the archive." She pulled a picture from her purse and showed me an old group photo, where someone who looked like a younger version of me stood among them. "I even talked to your alums. Did you know they barely remember you?"

"I'm a dropout," I replied uninterestedly, pondering when and how Jarvis had planted that.

"But I bet they wish they were in your shoes now! You saved Stark, the Iron Man! And not just once, but twice! Yes, yes, I found out about Las Vegas as well," she continued with delight in her voice.

"He even paid you enough to buy a Ducati! At first, I thought it was to silence you, you know, for getting pregnant, but I see a theme here. A very down-to-earth private investigator who saves people no matter who they are. I can work with that, too. So, why didn't you fuck Stark? I can see him falling all over himself to get to 'know' you better," she even air-quoted the word "know" in the process.

"Why should I?" I gave her a side glance and smirked.

At that moment, I sensed danger; the hair on my arms and the back of my neck stood on end. Everhart's gaze shifted past me, her expression turning to one of fear. I immediately entered accelerated perception, using the bar's reflections to assess the threat on my left side.

There was someone about fifteen feet away, arm extended, likely holding a gun aimed in our direction.

As he raised it, I was already in motion — flipping myself backward, arching into a half-backbend.

BANG

In slow motion, I saw Everhart's cup deform at the edge, forcefully torn from her hand. It spun in the air, splashing its contents in a glistening arc. The metallic clang and whistling zing echoed in my ears, stretched by my accelerated perception.

I lost sight of her and focused on the assailant — I recognised him instantly as the man who tried to kill me in Phoenix.

He was already adjusting his aim, the revolver's cylinder halfway turned for the next shot. I twisted to the side, shifting most of my weight onto one hand, moving out of his line of fire.

BANG

With the bridge of my right foot, I caught the airborne copper cup from the Moscow Mule and used my momentum to catapult it as a projectile at the guy's face.

By the time my legs reached the floor again, the cup had hit him, and—

BANG

The next shot went entirely off target — too high. I twisted again to keep him in my field of view, ready to dodge another shot. I was lucky enough to hit him in the left eye with the cup, and he was now holding his face with his left hand, struggling to aim at me again.

When the revolver's cylinder was halfway to the next shot, I twisted in the middle of my first step towards him.

BANG

I avoided getting shot again, already gaining momentum to close the distance between us. Panic began to build on his face, and he turned to run, pointing the gun in my direction but completely off-target.

BANG

He was a good runner — I barely kept pace with him. When he passed the door to the hall and turned right, I had to slow down and carefully peek over the door frame.

BANG

I was right to do so. That was the last bullet, so I ran after him again. Unfortunately, the delay cost me, and he was gone by the time I reached the next room that the hall led into. People were in a panic, trying to get out through another door, making it impossible for him to use it, and I couldn't see him anywhere.

I looked around for another door he might have used — there was a barely visible service room door on the far side — but when I reached it, it was locked and didn't budge when I tried to force it with my shoulder.

Damit.

I glanced around, searching for any sign of him hiding somewhere, but he was gone.

Damit. Ушел, сука.

🕷

It was less than a minute later when I returned. Everhart was on the floor, bleeding — she had taken a bullet that was meant for me.

There was less blood than I expected, but she was still bleeding from the right side of her chest — a mess spread under her right breast, with a long strip of blood trailing down her chest.

To my surprise, I saw pieces of plastic and electronics instead of the raw open wounds I expected. The bullet had impacted whatever she had hidden there, embedding shards into her body and carving deeper into her breast.

"I am dying," she said dramatically as I sat next to her, examining her wounds.

"Tell me the truth," she begged. "Did you fuck Stark or not?"

I looked at her in surprise.

"What? I don't want to die without knowing!" she dramatically exclaimed. People and their priorities.

I didn't dignify it with a response and focused on what I could do.

"Try to stay still and thank your little trinket — it saved your life."

It was a lucky coincidence: the bullet had enough power to be lethal, even after it chipped a cup and glanced off it. Instead, it shredded her dictaphone to pieces and went along her ribs without penetrating deeply. I bet she's in a lot of pain already, and it won't go away anytime soon.

I quickly stood and went to the bar, grabbing a clean towel to apply pressure on the open part of the wound to minimise bleeding — luckily enough, it wasn't extensive. She really got lucky today, or perhaps unlucky; if she hadn't decided to question me, she might have avoided it altogether.

"And a Moscow Mule and my lucky American Eagle," she murmured, a bit unfocused as I returned. Is she hallucinating? I checked for any other dangers and pressed the towel carefully against the gaping wound along her ribcage, right under her arm. She seemed to regain her focus and asked, "Who was that? Did you catch him?"

"No, he ran away," I replied, completely ignoring the first part of her question — I didn't need her starting to dig into that.

"How is she?" I was still on high alert, so Stark's approach with Happy looming over him wasn't a surprise to me.

"Oh, Tony, you're here too!" Everhart started but then grimaced from the pain.

"Stay still, Christine. The ambulance is already on the way," he said, placing his hand on her shoulder to prevent her from moving. Then he turned to me, silently asking for the answer.

"Stable. She's in shock, and the shot wasn't lethal. I'd check for internal damage — a rib or two might be broken, and there's a risk of internal bleeding."

"Tony, why didn't you fuck her?" asked Everhart.

It's going to be a long wait.

🕷

I was standing over the dead body of the guy in the morgue.

"Do you recognise him?" asked the officer in a bored tone.

That was a problem here — it was the guy who had tried to kill me in Phoenix, but something was wrong — I just couldn't pin it down.

"Have you done dactyloscopy¹ already?" I asked instead.

"I'm not sure I can answer that," the officer replied, but I could tell they had.

"Then you already know it's him. I assume you've alerted the FBI?" I turned to look at the officer. His face showed surprise, but he quickly connected the dots.

"Yes, they're picking him up soon. So it wasn't a random attack?" He became curious now.

"I'm not sure I can answer that," I replied with a smile, and he chuckled, giving me a thumbs up.

"Fair enough."

I turned and left the morgue, thinking about what was bugging me about it.

They found him with his throat cut open, covered in blood, in an alley one block away, half an hour after the shooting happened. Why he was here, how he was here... My phone buzzed, and I checked the caller ID.

"Dabber," I greeted him as I accepted the call.

"I just learned that our runaway showed up and crashed your party," he replied with a hint of humour, but there was worry in his voice.

"Something like that. How did he get away?" I asked, voicing my concern.

"Four hours ago, he disappeared from the hospital — someone helped him. The stationed police post outside his room saw nothing, heard nothing. They're being questioned right now. Nobody even thought he would go after you," he answered, frustration in his tone.

"Hold on, hospital? What was he there for?" This is important.

"Well, you don't remember? You broke his nose and gave him a concussion."

Here's the thing: the guy I fought at the fundraiser didn't have a broken nose, but the guy in the morgue? He did.

That's what had been bugging me all this time — the question is, what does that mean?

🕷

¹Dactyloscopy - is a term used in forensic science, specifically referring to the study of fingerprints for the purpose of identification. While it may not be common knowledge to everyone, it's familiar to those with an interest in criminology, law enforcement, or forensic science.