Upgrades #37

The night was warm, and the lights of New York City twinkled like a thousand stars. Peter Parker and Gwen Stacy strolled out of the movie theater, hand in hand, their steps in sync as they walked down the bustling street. They had just seen a new romantic comedy, and Peter had spent most of the film sneaking glances at Gwen, captivated by her laughter and the way her eyes sparkled in the dim theater light.

But as they walked, Peter couldn't help but notice that Gwen seemed distant, her usual bright demeanor replaced by a pensive expression. She hadn't laughed as much as she normally did, and now she was unusually quiet.

"Hey, Gwen, is everything okay?" Peter asked, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

Gwen sighed, looking up at him with a small, forced smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just... thinking about some things."

Peter stopped walking and turned to face her, concern etched on his face. "You seem really stressed. Is there anything I can do to help?"

She shook her head, her eyes dropping to the sidewalk. "No, it's not something you can fix. It's about my dad and his job."

Peter nodded, urging her to continue.

"He's been under a lot of pressure lately," Gwen explained. "There's this criminal he's been trying to capture for a while now. The police finally had him cornered, but then some government agents swooped in and took over the operation..."

Peter's eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "Isn't that a good thing? I mean, if the guy's in custody, your dad doesn't have to worry about him anymore, right?"

Gwen shook her head again, her frustration evident. "That's just it, Peter. There was no trial or anything. These agents just told the police that the criminal would be placed under their custody and confined in a maximum security facility. It feels wrong, like they're hiding something."

Peter's curiosity was piqued. "Who is this criminal, anyway?"

Gwen looked at him strangely, as if trying to gauge his sudden interest. "Why do you want to know? You're not usually this interested in my dad's cases."

Peter shrugged, trying to play it cool. "Well, you know me. I might just be a photographer, but I'm also part journalist. Maybe I can get someone at the paper to write a story about it. It sounds interesting."

Gwen hesitated for a moment, then relented. "His name is Vito Moretti, I think... I'm not really sure..."

Peter's heart skipped a beat. The name triggered a memory of a night not too long ago when he had rescued a man being chased by gangsters. The man had introduced himself as Vito. He kept his thoughts to himself, masking his surprise with a casual nod.

"Vito Moretti, huh? That does sound like a mafia name," he said, forcing a light tone to deflect his racing thoughts.

Gwen sighed, her shoulders relaxing a bit. "Yeah, it's been a mess. I just hate seeing my dad so stressed out."

Peter pulled her into a comforting hug. "I get it, Gwen. It sounds really tough. But your dad's one of the best. He'll figure it out."

She rested her head on his shoulder, drawing comfort from his embrace. "Thanks, Peter. I needed that."

Peter kissed the top of her head, his mind still buzzing with the revelation. "Anytime, Gwen. Anytime."

They continued their walk, the weight of the conversation lingering between them. Peter's thoughts were already racing ahead, wondering if this criminal was the same one he met in that dark alley not too long ago.

Peter decided to look into it, But for now, he remained focused on Gwen, determined to make the rest of their evening as normal and comforting as possible.

The questions and investigations could wait until he put on the suit.

...

I called the Tombat back to its sphere and retrieved the metallic armor and helmet it had crafted from the workbench. I examined the pieces, trying to suppress the skepticism creeping up.

The armor wasn't a single piece but consisted of several separate parts: a leather tank top and pants made from tough Pal leather, and various metallic plates designed to cover my upper torso, right shoulder, wrist, and left thigh. The helmet, if I could even call it that, looked more like a chunky tiara that barely covered my forehead.

I sighed, turning the armor over in my hands. "What kind of protection can this offer?" I muttered to myself. Determined to see for myself, I decided to test it out.

I walked over to the mannequin in the corner and began to dress it in the armor. The leather tank top fit snugly, and the metallic plates clicked into place, forming a patchwork of protection.

The helmet—well, the tiara—sat awkwardly on the mannequin's head, making it look more ridiculous than intimidating. Stepping back, I retrieved my Desert Eagle pistol from a nearby table.

As I took aim, Vito materialized beside me, a smirk on his face. "I thought you didn't like that gun. What was the word you used for it? Too clichéd?"

I sighed, keeping my eyes on the target. "I still stand by my opinion. But I can't deny the gun has firepower, perfect for testing this armor." I steadied my grip, preparing to shoot.

Just then, the door to the workshop creaked open, and Dugan walked in. "We did as you asked," he announced, "Got you a property in the middle of New York. An abandoned theater, fairly spacious but still inconspicuous."

Lowering the gun, I turned to Dugan. "Did you install the trackers as I asked?"

Dugan shook his head, looking exasperated. "We're working on it, but it's not easy to install trackers on someone like Tony Stark. The man's a tech genius."

I shrugged, holstering the pistol. "I won't push it if it's impossible, but getting those trackers on Stark before he heads to Afghanistan would help SHIELD deal a massive blow to a terrorist organization."

Dugan rubbed the back of his neck, clearly frustrated. "We're doing our best. It's just... Stark is always surrounded by his tech. It's like trying to sneak a tank into a New York apartment guarded by an army of sensors..." he trails off, shaking his head. "Why the sudden interest in Stark anyway, and what's he got to do with some terrorist organization?"

I gave Dugan a look that bordered on incredulous. "Tony Stark is one of the most successful arms dealers in the country, Dugan. He has everything to do with terrorists."

I paused, shaking my head. "Well, his company does anyway. Someone on the inside has been selling Stark weapons outside the US, and that same someone isn't too happy with letting Tony Stark keep the reins of the company."

Dugan winced and let out a curse. "Bloody hell, you just like dropping bombs on people's laps, don't you?"

I chuckled, the sound echoing in the workshop. "Not as much as the people targeting Tony Stark... litterially. Anyway, it doesn't matter if we can't install the trackers; Stark will find his own way out of that mess. The point is, both SHIELD and I would be wasting a golden opportunity to get him in our debt."

Dugan looked both concerned and exasperated. "First Captain America, and now Tony Stark... what are you plotting, anyway?"

I laughed, a genuine sound that felt good after the tension of the conversation with Steve. "It wouldn't be much of a plot if I told you, now would it? If that's all, I do have some actual work to do..." I raised my gun and aimed at the mannequin again.

Dugan followed the barrel of the gun with his eyes and noticed the armor. "Fancy but minimalistic.. not something I'd personally take to the field..." he muttered.

I said nothing as I squeezed the trigger, the loud gunshot echoing in the room. Both of us watched in amazement as the bullet hit the mannequin's stomach. Instead of penetrating, the bullet flattened on impact and fell to the ground, stopped by the thin leather tank top.

"Well, I'll be damned," Dugan muttered, stepping closer to examine the armor. "Did that piece of leather just stop a bloody bullet?"

I couldn't help but smile. "Certainly seems like it." I knelt before the mannequin and lifted the shirt to inspect the damage.

Much to my surprise, there wasn't so much as a dent beneath the leather, not even a scratch. The armor must have some sort of kinetic energy absorption function, I mused, noticing that the mannequin hadn't even moved an inch, and that fact that the bullet lost all momentum and fell to the ground rather than bounce away after the impact.

Dugan leaned in closer, his curiosity piqued. "Where'd you come by this thing anyway...?"

I smiled again, feeling a sense of pride. "The armor, and almost everything else you see here, was made in this very workshop."

Dugan's eyes widened as he scanned the room. He glanced at the spears hanging on the wall, the numerous quivers filled with arrows and bolts, and finally settled his gaze on the workbench.

It was nothing more than a wooden table, something a middle-aged man might keep in his garage, containing only the simplest of tools. He turned back to me, and said one word: "How?"

I shrugged, maintaining an air of mystery. "A magician never reveals his secrets."

Internally, I sighed, knowing I couldn't tell Dugan that all of this was made possible by the strange wristwatch I wore. It could transform matter and energy in ways that defied the laws of common sense and science. 

Standing up, I stored the armor in my inventory with a simple thought, the pieces vanishing from sight.

Dugan, clearly bursting with a thousand questions he knew he wouldn't get answers to, shook his head in bewilderment. I couldn't help but chuckle at his expression.

"I'll head out to take a look at the property you got for me," I said, changing the subject.

Dugan nodded, still processing what he had just seen. "Yeah, you do that. It's an abandoned theater in the middle of New York. I'll text you the details in a minute..."

I gave him a pat on the shoulder as I made my way to the door. "Cheers, mate."

...

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