The digital forensics were swift and brutal. Aaron's consciousness, merged with the city's data streams through his Network Interface Protocol, was a scalpel dissecting a digital cadaver.
The photographs on the official sites—the gymnastics championship, the boxing trophy presentation, the firearm qualification certificate—were authentic. The pixels held no traces of crude editing. The awards were legitimate, the databases they linked to were unbreached at a surface level.
But the devil, as ever, was in the chronological details.
He isolated the images. The 'Adeline' in each one smiled with the same calibrated, photogenic perfection. The angle of the lips, the crinkle at the corners of the eyes, the tilt of the head—it was a static mask, copied and pasted across years and different lighting conditions.
Human expressions evolve, carry the wear of different days. These were frozen, identical. Only in the older, genuine high school photo and the more recent firearm permit did he see variance—a genuine, younger grin and a sober, bureaucratic mugshot.
Half-truth, half-fiction, he concluded.
A classic overlay technique. Take a real, verifiable person with a modest background, then graft a spectacular, fabricated history on top of it.
His access dove deeper, bypassing firewalls to touch the raw timestamps and backend logs of the sports federation and competition websites. The code compilations for the pages displaying 'Adeline's' recent awards were less than forty-eight hours old. The image files, though dated correctly in their metadata for public view, had insertion timestamps that glowed with the fresh heat of the previous night.
Aaron leaned back in the plush leather seat, a cold, knowing smirk touching his lips.
"Adeline…"
"Fury, you bald, paranoid son of a bitch. Using your own agents as probe darts?"
The pieces snapped together. This wasn't just a talented instructor. This was Barbara Morse. Mockingbird. A S.H.I.E.L.D. operative of considerable skill, though strictly within human limits—no super-soldier serum, no high-tech enhancements. A master of staff-fighting, close-quarters combat, and tactical espionage. The codename Kate had tossed out as a joke days ago had now manifested in flesh and bone.
Barbara's skillset was real; the awards verifying it as a civilian identity were a hastily assembled digital ghost.
The speed of the response was what impressed him, in a grim way. He'd been active in this universe for barely two days. For a sprawling intelligence apparatus like S.H.I.E.L.D. (or whatever acronym they were currently using) to not only flag him but to design, fabricate, and deploy two distinct penetration attempts in under forty-eight hours spoke of either terrifying efficiency or a profound, pre-existing paranoia. Likely both.
He didn't know that 'Natalie Rushman's' near-simultaneous appearance was a happy accident for Fury—a resource already en route to infiltrate Stark Industries, diverted on a whim to test the new variable at Osborn. Aaron's arbitrary dismissal had merely accelerated the contingency.
Both identities—Natalie and Adeline—were works of art in the spycraft tradition: a bedrock of truth supporting an elaborate fiction. Natasha's linguistic and legal skills were genuine. Barbara's combat prowess was unquestionable. Their civilian backstories, carefully cultivated over years, were watertight for all but the most invasive, supernatural scrutiny. 'Adeline' had been a S.H.I.E.L.D. prospect since her teens, her exceptional abilities nurtured and her record meticulously sanitized and enhanced for such eventualities.
Fury wasn't playing games. He was sending a message with his best pieces. An enigma arrives and in one day functionally conquers a Fortune 500 company, bending its legendary, stubborn CEO to his will?
That wasn't a person of interest; that was a potential extinction-level event in a business suit. Tony Stark was a known quantity—a brilliant, self-destructive ego they could predict and, to some extent, manage. Aaron was a blank page that had just written its own alarming first chapter. The director's priority calculus was brutally clear: Stark could wait. The man who moved like a shadow and commanded like a king could not.
"Sir? Is everything alright?" Felicia's voice, tentative, broke his reverie. She had noticed his prolonged silence, the focused intensity in his eyes that saw nothing of the traffic around them.
Aaron blinked, the digital world receding. "Just considering the complexities of corporate recruitment," he said dryly. "Keep your eyes on the road. And for what it's worth, your driving is adequate."
The faint, persistent tingle of his Precognitive Sensory Array had remained at a low, non-threatening hum. It was a backhanded compliment to Felicia's focus; she hadn't put them in imminent peril.
Pulling up to the pristine townhouse, Aaron exited the vehicle.
"Bring everything inside," he instructed, gesturing to the trunk laden with spider enclosures and pilfered lab equipment.
Felicia paused, then nodded. Of course. Secretary. Errand-runner. Pack-mule.
She began the arduous task of hauling the heavy, delicate containers into the expansive living room, followed by the smaller but precision-crafted microscopes and analyzers. Her arms burned with the unaccustomed strain. So much for a glamorous executive assistant role.
Aaron watched her efforts from the comfort of a deep sofa, giving an approving nod as she set the last case down. "Efficient. I appreciate a proactive attitude."
Felicia managed a slightly breathless smile, wiping a bead of sweat from her temple. The praise, however delivered, felt like a win. "Thank you, sir. What would you like me to prioritize next? Perhaps… arranging dinner?"
Aaron's gaze swept over her, taking in the slight flush of exertion, the focused dedication in her posture. A different kind of appetite stirred, one far removed from the biological hunger of the Furnace.
"A qualified executive assistant," he began, his voice taking on a leisurely, instructive tone, "must learn to anticipate needs beyond the calendar and the inbox. To read the subtleties of mood and moment. So, Miss Felicia, observing the current… climate, what should your next initiative be?"
Felicia's mind, sharp and adaptable, processed the cue—his relaxed posture, the shift in his gaze, the ambiguous phrasing. Her heart rate picked up, a mix of nervousness and a thrilling, calculating ambition. This was a test of a different kind.
"I… believe I understand, sir," she said, her voice carefully modulated.
"Wait," Aaron raised a hand, stopping her. "First, an appreciation for the arts. A palate cleanser, if you will. You listed proficiency with a certain woodwind instrument on your resume. I find myself in the mood for something… evocative. Something with passion and tension." He settled back, his expression one of expectant connoisseurship. "España Cañi. The Spanish bullfighting song. Let's see if your talents extend beyond filing and driving."
Felicia stood frozen for a second, the request so bizarrely specific it looped back to making a strange kind of sense in the context of this utterly inscrutable man. The job description had definitely not mentioned musical performance. But then, it hadn't mentioned hauling live spiders either.
She took a slow breath, pushing down the surreal absurdity of the moment. A test was a test. And she was determined to pass. "Of course, sir. I'll… see what I can do."
The hunt for a flute in a sterile, billionaire's townhouse began, the echoes of a fabricated Mockingbird's smile still lingering in Aaron's mind, now overlaid with the far more immediate and intriguing puzzle of the woman before him.