The dinner had been a surprising success. Against all odds, Adrian Toomes had actually found himself liking the nervous, overly-polite teenager sitting across his dining table. The kid was earnest, quick to offer a hand, and looked at Liz like she hung the moon. Even with the lingering, bitter suspicion that the boy might actually be Norman Osborn's flesh and blood, Adrian felt a rare sense of peace settling over him.
If this was the kid Osborn had raised, then the billionaire had managed to do exactly one good thing in his miserable life.
After clearing the plates, Adrian left Liz and Harry chatting quietly on the living room sofa. He poured himself a glass of cheap bourbon and stepped out into the attached garage, pulling the heavy metal door shut behind him. The air out here was thick with the smell of motor oil, soldering iron flux, and cold concrete. It was his sanctuary.
He walked over to a massive, steel-reinforced workbench and reached out, gripping the edge of a heavy canvas tarp. With a swift tug, he pulled the canvas back, sending a cloud of dust dancing into the harsh fluorescent light.
Resting on the metal rack was a marvel of modern engineering.
Adrian's name had once carried weight in the defense contracting world. He was the chief architect of the EXO-7 "Falcon" initiative—a bionic, individualized flight harness originally commissioned for the United States Air Force parajumpers. The prototype had worked, but it was brutal. The G-forces generated by the localized propulsion system were too extreme for the human body to handle over sustained periods. Most of the elite pilots the military trained ended up suffering catastrophic spinal injuries during the field tests. The exorbitant manufacturing costs, combined with the lethal casualty rate, had forced the Pentagon to mothball the entire program.
As far as Adrian knew, there was only one operational EXO-7 rig left in existence, and its sole surviving pilot, a man named Sam Wilson, had long since retired from active duty.
But the rig sitting on Adrian's workbench wasn't the EXO-7. It was the V2. The second-generation prototype. It was the culmination of thousands of hours of Adrian pouring his blood, sweat, and dwindling savings into solving the G-force problem. He had developed a revolutionary localized anti-gravity matrix to dampen the physical toll on the pilot.
And the military had rejected it anyway.
If Oscorp had simply beaten him with a cheaper, more efficient design, Adrian could have swallowed his pride and moved on. That was capitalism. But Norman Osborn hadn't beaten him. He had stolen the anti-gravity matrix straight from Adrian's schematics, slapped the Oscorp logo on a bulkier, less elegant flight platform, and secured the DoD contract without offering Adrian a single dime in compensation.
A sudden, sharp clatter broke the silence of the garage.
Adrian turned around. Harry was standing awkwardly near a towering rack of spare parts, a heavy crescent wrench clutched defensively in his hands. The boy had accidentally kicked over a metal bucket of lug nuts.
"Sorry," Harry stammered, his face flushing red. He hastily set the wrench down on a nearby shelf. "I didn't mean to snoop. Liz just mentioned that you were an inventor, and... well, I really wanted to see what you were working on, Mr. Toomes. I'm actually pretty interested in mechanical engineering."
Adrian's stern expression softened. He offered a kind, tired smile. "It's alright, kid. No harm done."
Harry took a few hesitant steps closer to the workbench, his eyes widening as he took in the sleek, metallic wingspan of the V2 harness. "Wow... are those actual wings? Can this thing really fly?"
"Right now? Not a chance," Adrian chuckled dryly, running a calloused hand over the cold steel of the primary turbine housing. "The anti-grav matrix requires a massive electrical current to achieve lift. If I plugged this thing into the wall outlet right now, I'd black out the entire block and drain my bank account just to hover for thirty seconds."
Adrian sighed, pulling up a battered wooden stool and sitting down heavily. He swirled the bourbon in his glass.
"My family isn't exactly swimming in cash," Adrian explained, staring at the wings. "I built this rig hoping to win the military's bid for their next-generation airborne infantry platform. It was supposed to be our golden ticket. Unfortunately, the Pentagon didn't bite. Oscorp Industries handed them a proposal that won the brass over. So, this masterpiece just became a very expensive paperweight."
Harry stiffened at the mention of the company name. He looked down at his polished shoes, his brow furrowing. "Did Oscorp... did they compete fairly?"
Adrian paused, the glass stopping halfway to his mouth. He looked at Harry, a sharp pang of surprise hitting his chest. Why would the kid ask that? "Because... well, you know," Harry stammered, trying to cover his tracks. "There are always rumors about those massive tech conglomerates. Shady business practices and stuff."
Harry bit his lip, debating internally for a split second whether he should confess that his last name was actually Osborn. He looked at the tired, hardworking man in front of him and swallowed the truth.
Instead, Harry looked back at the wings, a small, genuine smile touching his lips. "You know, even if you can't sell them to the military, maybe you could use them for something else. You could strap those wings on and become a superhero. I bet Spider-Man could use the backup."
Adrian let out a loud, genuine laugh, shaking his head.
"It's not that simple, kid," Adrian said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "This is just a propulsion platform. To actually survive flying that fast through the city, I'd need a fully articulated exoskeleton just to keep my bones from snapping. I'd need localized life-support, reinforced armor plating, and weaponry. And I definitely don't have the capital for any of that."
Adrian looked back at the wings, the faint, wistful smile fading into helpless resignation. "Besides. I'm just a salvage engineer. I don't know the first thing about fighting. I'm afraid I don't have the stomach for the vigilante life."
"Ladies and gentlemen, let us welcome the ultimate protectors of this great nation. I present to you: U.S.Avangers!"
The next morning, the smell of cheap, burnt coffee filled the kitchen. Adrian sat at the small linoleum table, scrolling through endless job boards on his laptop, trying to find a mid-level engineering position that wouldn't immediately reject him for being overqualified.
He glanced up at the small television mounted under the cabinets. The morning news was broadcasting live from Washington, D.C.
Adrian almost choked on his coffee. It was equal parts hilarious and deeply depressing.
A stiff, decorated Pentagon spokesperson was standing at a podium, officially unveiling the Department of Defense's newest geopolitical weapon: a fully government-funded, government-regulated team of superheroes. They possessed the exact same operational authority as the real Avengers, but with a massive, glaring difference.
"The United States has secured its own sovereign superhero team before any other nation on Earth," the spokesperson boasted, his chest puffed out in pride.
That is incredibly stupid, Adrian thought, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.
He didn't know exactly what was happening behind the closed doors of the Pentagon, but the political subtext was deafeningly loud. The military was clearly terrified of the real Avengers. Sure, Captain America and Iron Man had saved New York, but they refused to wear a leash. Even with the Black Panther joining their ranks, they were a rogue entity.
By creating a publicly funded team literally named "U.S.Avangers," the government was aggressively marking its territory. They were trying to tell the American public that masked vigilantes and shadowy spy agencies like S.H.I.E.L.D. were untrustworthy. By revealing the true, legal identities of their new soldiers on live television, the Pentagon was screaming: Look at us. We are compliant. We follow the rules.
It was a blatant, desperate pissing contest. And it was going to end in a disaster.
Adrian took another sip of his bitter coffee, watching the B-roll footage of the new recruits. But as the broadcast shifted to highlight a soldier named Chris Powell, Adrian's eyes narrowed.
The news anchor described Powell's loadout—an extraterrestrial, high-tech suit of pitch-black armor. But what completely captivated Adrian's engineering brain were the massive, razor-sharp mechanical wings mounted to the back of Powell's suit.
...maybe you could strap those wings on and become a superhero. Harry's innocent, half-joking comment from the garage echoed in the back of Adrian's mind.
Adrian set his coffee mug down. A strange, sudden jolt of electricity surged through his veins. He didn't have a job anyway. He didn't have a corporate lab breathing down his neck. He was completely untethered.
He pushed his laptop aside, grabbed a mechanical pencil, and pulled a fresh pad of graph paper toward him.
His hand moved furiously. He began sketching a reinforced, lightweight exoskeleton meant to integrate seamlessly with the V2 flight harness. He drew articulated leg braces to absorb heavy impacts. He sketched aerodynamic, armored plating to protect the pilot's vital organs from high-altitude wind shear. He even roughed out a specialized, pressurized helmet with integrated oxygen scrubbers.
If Oscorp and the Pentagon didn't want his wings, fine. He would build the upgrade himself.
Right as he was shading in the reinforced, talon-like gripping mechanisms for the boots, his cell phone vibrated violently against the table.
Adrian didn't recognize the sleek, out-of-state area code. He picked it up, pressing it to his ear. "Hello? Is this Adrian Toomes speaking?"
"Yeah, this is Toomes," Adrian said, not looking up from his sketch. "How can I help you?"
"Mr. Toomes, an absolute pleasure," the voice on the other end was smooth, polished, and carried the unmistakable cadence of a man who owned multiple yachts. "My name is Aldrich Killian. I am the CEO of Advanced Idea Mechanics."
Adrian finally stopped drawing. "A.I.M.? I'm sorry, Mr. Killian, but I don't believe I've submitted my resume to your HR department yet."
Killian chuckled, a rich, warm sound. "You haven't. But you didn't need to. We keep our ears very close to the ground, Adrian. We are fully aware of your... unfortunate entanglement with Norman Osborn and Oscorp Industries. A.I.M. petitioned the U.S. military to review the sealed design specs of your V2 flight harness."
Adrian's grip tightened on the phone. "And?"
"And while the brass may have lacked the vision to select your design," Killian said smoothly, "I certainly do not. Your talent is staggering, Adrian. A.I.M. is currently holding several deep-cooperation contracts with the Pentagon, and we are actively looking for brilliant minds to help us completely crush Stark Industries and Oscorp in the private sector. We want you on our team."
Adrian stared at the crude sketch of the winged exoskeleton on his table. "Why are you calling me personally?"
"Did you happen to catch the news this morning?" Killian asked, a smug, highly satisfied tone bleeding into his voice. "The Pentagon's little dog-and-pony show?"
"U.S.Avangers? Yeah, I saw it."
"Then you saw Citizen V," Killian replied. "The robot. Of course, 'Citizen V' is just the shiny PR name the military slapped on it for the cameras. Internally, my engineering division calls it the Super-Adaptoid. A.I.M. built that machine, Adrian. We own the future of mechanized combat."
Killian let the weight of that revelation hang in the air for a few seconds before delivering the final hook.
"If you are interested in working with a company that actually respects your genius and possesses the capital to build whatever you can imagine... my office is open. Come in for an interview tomorrow, Mr. Toomes. Let's build something that makes Norman Osborn sweat."
PS: For those tracking the lore drops—Aldrich Killian and A.I.M. (Advanced Idea Mechanics) are heavily adapting their corporate, cutthroat vibe straight from Iron Man 3! Plus, the inclusion of the Super-Adaptoid (disguised as Citizen V) is a massive flex. In the comics, A.I.M. created the Super-Adaptoid to mimic the powers of the entire Avengers roster.
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