Chapter Text
Newly Crowned EUROPE’S FINEST PLAYERS having performed before SEVERAL ROYAL DIGNITARIES to great praise and adulation in a whirlwind tour of the Continent The Drury Lane Boys are now returned to Mother Britannia once more! Appearing in a limited engagement, “From the Ashes: The Great Iron-Man” being an original play of great drama at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane! Laugh and Cry with The Boys as the story of Britain’s great hero is retold! Gasp in wonder at the IRON-MAN! For tickets, inquire at the Box Office.
It has often been said that if you wished to speak to the famed Anthony Stark the great industrialist (and the rumoured man inside of the Iron-Man, though this last fact was never remarked upon in polite company if one could help it), the only method that had any probability of success was to apply to his secretary, Miss Virginia Potts.
His offices at his manufacturing plants were sure to be deserted of his presence, though full of any number of harried and diligent clerks, any of which might be willing to tell you off in no uncertain terms, or even (it was suggested), to laugh quite uproariously and more than a little madly if you inquired as to the whereabouts of Mr Stark or his return to the office1. It seemed that Mr Stark did not value courtesy or respect chief among the desired traits of those in his employ, and any person who had acquaintance with Mr Stark in any capacity would never suppose that he would.
Appointment cards dropped at his home in Hanover Square were largely ignored, and in fact, if one were to view the parlour where he had instructed they be left, one would see that they table they were placed one had long since overflowed, and his maids had taken to strewing them casually about the floor. The oldest cards in the lot were from many years ago, and indeed, while his servants knew full well that Mr Stark had no intention of replying to, or even viewing the cards, they also did not quite dare to throw them out or to even approach their master on it (like all proper English servants, they were timid of those they served, and it could scarcely be blamed if they were more in awe than most, for the man they served was, after all, one of the most respected in the realm2).
Callers were summarily dismissed, and it could never be stated with any amount of certainty whether or not Mr Stark would be attending this engagement or the other. He was accustomed to simply arriving at a cards party or at a ball, or even occasionally at strawberry picking parties, and seemed not at all cognizant of the amount of consternation this caused his hosts. In fact, it was remarked that Mr Stark was being willful a-purpose, that in order to cultivate the rich air of mystique he went quite out of his way to be obtuse. The truth was (it was rumoured), he spent a great number of hours every day deciding which gathering to present himself in order that he make the most stir when he arrived, and so no group of individuals could ever grow stale with his presence, seeing him more than once a quarter. In fact, if one had put the question to Mr Stark himself, which admittedly no one ever worked up to courage to do so, he would have been most puzzled, it having never even occurred to him that he need do such a pedestrian thing as confirm an appointment.
So really, the best thing to do if one needed to speak to the eminent Mr Stark would be to make an appointment with his secretary.
Though in fact, while she was called such, no one really had any idea who she was, or what title she held. Certainly her relation to Mr Stark was all in murkiness. Secretary was a term of convenience, though everyone agreed (in private) that she could be no such thing, since, after all, she was a woman. And an unmarried one at that, who spent a great amount of time cloistered and unchaperoned with Mr Stark, also unmarried. The rumour was that she was his mistress, though it was often said that there were no observable acts of tenderness between the two, Miss Potts given to fits of exasperation and Mr Stark given to fits of mischief.
Ah, if only Miss Potts had been long of face and unappealing in nature, this entire controversy might never have existed! But alas, Miss Potts was the very picture of grace and beauty, with a most agreeable nature (unless it was with Mr Stark) and none who ever had the pleasure of conversing with her could ever report any signs of the lowliness which her birth must suggest.3 This only made the mamas of England despair all the more, for if Miss Potts could parade around London in fashionable and expensive outfits, and hold witty conversation with many distinguished and interesting men, and be invited to any number of important gatherings besides (which she attended in lieu of her employer, frequently on the arm of no one at all), all while wholly unattached and unchaperoned, what were they to tell their daughters! Miss Potts when confronted with angry mamas only laughed and suggested gently that they told them the truth.
Due to her scandalous nature and her utter unsuitability as a woman in the employ of a man’s tasks, many of the more conservative men in England refused to come into contact with her at all, and spent their time dropping by Mr Stark’s offices, or home, etc etc. Mr Stark had long ago declared himself quite without need of men who did not wish to conduct business with Miss Potts, and Miss Potts declared nothing at all, for all her many accomplishments aside, she was also a most unusually clever woman, who knew the value of silence.
All these hurdles faced Phillip Coulson, agent of His Majesty’s Bureau of Secret and Clandestine Affairs, more commonly known as Secret Affairs for England4 in his want of an audience with the elusive industrialist, and much more besides, for he was intimately acquainted with both the man and lady in question, and furthermore, knew that his presence was not wanted.
However, Mr Coulson was to secure an appointment on official, not personal basis, and was known to be a very professional man. The slightest squaring of his shoulders was all that he allowed in his iron clad self-control before he presented himself upon the door of Mr Stark, who was commonly known, if discussed, to be the Iron-Man5.
The door was opened by a curious contraption. It was of the size and figure to be a tall man, and was wearing the fine garments that announced it was a butler of an eminent household, and wore upon its face the slightly frowning aloofness common to all butlers of eminent households, but all the same, it could not have been said to be a man. its limbs and features were fashioned out of a queer shiny silver metal, that moved and stretched over its oiled joints most smoothly, and behaved in many accounts like that of human skin. Mr Stark had declared it an alloy of his own devising.6 In fact, all of his butler was of Mr Stark’s own devising, for the metal man was an automaton, capable of movement and thought seemingly all of its own, and besides performing all the tasks of a butler most admirably, was rumored to be a hardy opponent in chess besides. Mr Stark had given it the unlikely name of Jarvis, and it attended to all his needs with the utmost attention and devotion of the best of England’s serving class, though with the addition of an acerbic tongue that all those in his employ seemed to possess.
“Mr. Coulson,” it said now, its tinny voice showing just the appropriate amount of surprize and delight, “how good of you to stop by.”
Mr. Coulson now entered and returned Jarvis’s pleasantries, handing over coat and hat with no visible signs of discomfort. As you are sure to know, gentlemen do not often waste time conversing with the serving class unless it was to convey a desire for something or to deliver a scolding, or at least, not in the City, but it was found that all who had the pleasure of meeting Jarvis quite overcame any natural reticence in favour of experiencing something quite novel, and it was no wonder that upon this occasion of meeting again after a parting of some months man and automaton engaged some minutes in pleasant conversation.7
Eventually, a young woman emerged from a room down the hall and approached man and machine with a most pleasant smile.
“Mr Coulson,” she said, holding out her hand in welcome, “how good of you to drop by. And so soon! Last we had heard you were still on the Continent.”
Mr Coulson straightened from his position over her hand with a wince. “Ah yes. The Bonny Mae conveyed me back this morning. Is he in?”
“So soon? But you must be tired after your voyage. Come and sit with me a spell. We have much to catch up on.”
Miss Potts was excellent at question dodging, and Mr Coulson followed her down darkened halls gamely. It was a game that one often had to play to be granted the honour of seeing Mr Stark, and not one that he was unaccustomed to. Miss Potts was always pleasant and welcoming, no matter who the guest, and Mr Coulson knew from experience that she could keep up the small talk for hours on end and never drop a single fact that she did not mean to drop.8
They were soon situation in a handsome parlour that had among its only flaw a window quite overgrown with ivy from the outside (a particular specification of Mr Stark’s, not a defect of his servants), but seeing as a great number of the unnatural lights Mr Stark called electric burned brightly within and the curtains were drawn besides, this was hardly even a fact to be remarked upon.
Miss Potts rang for an elegant tea service, and served her unexpected guest. Mr Coulson gulped down his tea with unbecoming haste, then stood and begun pacing the room. Mr Coulson was old fashioned and the type of gentleman ill at ease in a room alone with an unmarried young lady, and as always, Miss Potts has paid it no mind.
She endeavoured, for the next thirty minutes to engage him in some manner of conversation that could be deemed safe in an effort to put him at ease. She asked after his family, (“They are well.”) after a number of his fellow agents that she had become acquainted with in the course of a number of previous alarming events (“They are well.”), after a few mutual friends they had on the Continent who she knew he had always made it essential to visit, (“They are well.”), delicately, about a young lady she knew him to be courting (“She is well.”), and finally, about the War.
At first mention of the War he grew agitated in the extreme. “It goes poorly!” He declared, “Extremely poorly. It is upon that matter that I have visited you today. I must know if he is in. Miss Potts, you know me to be a man not given unduly to alarm, and that you shall pardon my brusqueness. So when I say that the matter is of grave, nay, national importance, I trust that you will do me the kindness of fetching your benefactor at once.”
Miss Potts was just beginning to protest that surely Mr Coulson was exaggerating, and besides which, she had not even gotten close to finishing her lovely conversation with him, she wanted to hear all about the fashions on the Continent, when a sardonic voice drawled from the doorway, “I thought I told you never to darken my doorstep again, Agent Coulson.”
Miss Potts closed her mouth, and merely shrugged, pouring a cup of tea for the man who was just joining them. Mr Coulson, who was not widely considered to be one of the most dangerous men in the employ of His Royal Highness for little reason, turned to face the doorway of the room with no outward motion of surprize and merely said, “Mr Stark.”
The man made a bow in reply.
“Don’t be silly Tony9,” Miss Potts said mildly, “Mr Coulson is always welcome here.”
Mr Stark raised his dark brows. “I thought I just said that he was not,” he rejoined, equally mildly, but strode into the room to accept the tea that Miss Potts offered him. As always, he was dressed at the cut of fashion, with his entire suit likely costing as much as fifty guineas, but he was missing his jacket and had rolled up the sleeves in his shirt so that his arms showed quite to the elbow. The queer light that burned over his heart at all times also shewed through his shirt, he having lost his cravat some time during the day.
This was often his attitude when working on some pet project or another, but as he often forgot to realize that Miss Potts sometimes entertained guests of the more fair variety, it had caused no little manner of controversy, and only fueled rumors that Mr Stark walked around his household half nude10.
“Trust me, Mr Stark,” Mr Coulson said, not at all offended by the other’s manner of speaking, “I come here on an errand, not for personal pleasure.”
“The war, is it? How is the thing not yet won? I have shewn the French the might of England; I have even heard there is a play about me which Pepper and I have designs upon attending, and yet—“
“And yet Bonaparte grows bolder apace, and much of Europa is swayed to his power.”
“Through no fault of mine, you must own to that. In fact, it is just the opposite. I had thought I handed over the means to win the war and here it is two years on and nothing has changed but our prospects are lower.”
“No fault of yours? Our navy can hardly be said to have flourished once you ceased your manufacture and design of warships.”
Mr Stark had no reply to this, merely set his jaw, and Mr Coulson paused briefly to savour the sensation of having scored a hit.
“You know nothing of the intricacies of War,” he continued after a moment had passed. “A single man in a battle-suit can hardly turn the tide so easily.” He then proceeded to gently explain the matters of the War to Mr Stark, taking care to moderate his language in the presence of a lady, though Miss Potts could hardly be claimed to be the sensitive type. The matters, as it stood, were not good ones. Bonaparte was shrewd and clever, and was proving much more adept in ocean warfare than even they had feared. And worse yet, for it seemed that the Frenchman had set his sights upon England next.
“So you need me to fight him off,” Mr Stark said mulishly, “though you say the battle-suit is not enough to turn the tide of war. Well which is it then? Shall I do a few maneuvers in front of the Channel? Shall I sink a ship?”
“D— the Channel!” Mr Coulson immediately regretted his outburst, and made his bows to Miss Potts, who only hid her smile behind her tea cup, not even deigning to blush at the strong language. “It is not just about that; our men are still worth ten of his on the sea. I do not think it has come to such desperate measures that you are required to scare them off. It is something else entirely.”
He withdrew from his jacket a folded sheet of paper, unfolded it carefully, and shewed it to Mr Stark.
The other man, for his part, shewed little displeasure at being sworn at and berated so soundly, and exhibited no hesitation in examining the sketch eagerly. Miss Potts stood and gathered a number of small decorative pieces of amber that had been gifted to them on behalf of many a delighted geologists which contained within them the petrified remains of leaves and insects and a great many wonderful things besides, and weighed down the edges of the sketch.
It was a picture of a cube, drawn hastily, but the artist had managed with a few deft strokes of the pen, to produce the curious effect that the cube was glowing. It was all in all a queer sort of sketch, since it seemed to behold something very plain, but all gathered in the room regarded it most closely.
“This item was recovered to us by the HMS Valiant not two weeks ago. She had been hit by a storm at sea and the captain claimed this washed up upon the ship in the midst of it. Luckily for us he had the presence of mind to stow it safely away.”
Mr Stark’s brows were furrowed in concentration. “But this is...” he sprang from his seat abruptly and flew from the room.
Miss Potts and Mr Coulson, both used to this kind of outburst, merely regarded each other calmly. By the by he picked up one of the curious pieces of amber and remarked upon it, and by the by she answered him.
He was just reaching for a sandwich when Mr Stark returned, all in a flurry, holding within his hands sheafs of paper. “I knew it!” he declared, “The cube is spoken of in my father’s writings. He said it was lost many years ago, when he was but a young man serving in the Navy, and that its loss was felt keenly by all of England, for we had lost the chance to have within our grasp the item that would make her permanently great. In fact he mourned the loss all his days and wrote on it thereafter with great frequency. I would have thought of it sooner, but, forgive me, the sketch is very crude. He called it—“
“The Tessaract,” Mr Coulson finished, “Yes. We know.”
“But you have recovered it! That is great news indeed. If you should want I will start examining it immediately. My father had barely the chance to conduct but the briefest of tests though he claimed the thing was capable of great power. Where is it?”
Mr Coulson sighed, and as he did so, appeared to deflate entirely. Lines that had seemed not to be present before became etched in his face, and though he was a relatively young man of only a few years above thirty, looked for a moment to be ten years older. Miss Potts handed him a jam sandwich with great sympathy, this by far the best sandwich they had to offer11, and he ate it in two bites before continuing.
“We have lost it,” he said wearily, “it was taken back from us quite suddenly in the dead of night from Vice-Admiral Nelson’s very bedroom. He claims that the perpetrators appeared suddenly from thin air, attacked many a member of his household indiscriminately, and vanished again with the cube in front of his very eyes.”
“But who could have done such a thing?”
“Vice-Admiral Nelson has remained adamant on the fact that of the pair of thieves, one among its number was Bonaparte himself.”
Mr Stark exclaimed over this fact and Miss Potts fixed Mr Coulson with her steady eyes. “Who was the other?” she asked quietly.
“The other was a man who claimed to be a god.”
--
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Alas, for now we must leave our tableau of players at their moment of greatest of shock and travel far away. We mustn’t linger on the exquisite widening of Miss Potts’ eyes, or the great slackness in Mr Stark’s jaw, or the bowed defeat in the intrepid Mr Coulson’s shoulders, but instead turn to a different avenue.
A far, far different avenue in fact. For this next scene we must travel across the ocean, not to the Continent as one might suppose, but further still, over the tops of the heads of the French, who would be very startled indeed to see us. We haven’t even the time to peek in on what Bonaparte and his new friend may be doing, but I’m sure you shall have no hesitation in believing me as I assure you that it is very wicked indeed. Ah yes, past France and skirting around the great expanse of Africa, we reach—
India.
Important in many in international matter for time out of mind I regret to inform you that it shall not be the principal setting of this tale, which is to be the sea (for as I’m sure you know, many a great war is fought and won upon the sea, not to mention many a great battle), but rest assured that it is the setting of the next scene.
And what a setting. India was balmy and hot whereas London, far, far, away was still wrapped in the midst of a foggy, cold, and wet New Year, and in this country it was not at all out of the ordinary to see an English gentleman walking about on the street with his shirt sleeves rolled up, and it was nothing at all to be remarked upon. For in fact, many of the men and women native to this area wore far less than that, something that would have made many a young lady in the London we had just left behind blush very hotly indeed to behold.12
Englishmen were not that rare to behold upon the streets. Many worked for the Company and though the problems in the region were severe, most Englishmen back in Britannia would be hard pressed to name a single other conflict than the one against the French. The Marathan Empire’s quarrel with the British East India Company was mostly over and done with, and though those involved in the War were quick to say it was more than just a quarrel, the attacks on the homeland were a more pressing and romantic matter.
Even Wellesley, who of course lived on in great infamy, was no longer present at the time, having just returned back to England some months ago. It is doubtful that even if he had been present he would have figured into this tale, for we leave aside the spoils of war and instead travel to a small village a day’s journey to the north of Kolkata, where Dr. Banner was to be found, as always, attending to needs of the ill and infirm13.
A great number of the village were stricken ill with a particular virulent strain of Influenza, coupled together with the fact that the illness was so little seen in the tropical climes that Dr Banner was kept quite busy enough as it was, and in fact, had little time even to sleep. He often rose as soon as the sun and would be kept awake late into the night attending to his patients or sitting in on consultations14. He had deputized many of the women to serve as his nurses, though the language was ever a barrier, he was able to, with clever pantomime from both sides, ascertain any distressing symptoms and their preferred method of treatment fairly quickly.
This particular day Dr Banner had been attending his patients even before dawn, and in fact had sat vigil on the bed side of a youth whose fever finally broke sometime around when dawn too had broke in the valley, which was likely due to the good doctors diligence, though he would have been greatly distressed to hear anyone remark on it.
One of his nurses brought in with his breakfast of mango fruit and cocaunut milk a young girl who immediately began ran to him in great distress. The woman had great difficulty in calming her down while Dr Banner ate quickly (he had long since dispensed with the niceties of English toilette in front of his patients, and ate with his fingers as the natives did) and then when she could not be prevailed to lower her voice, Dr Banner, the nurse, and the child were forced to quit the sickroom, on reluctance to wake any of their sleeping patients.
Having broken his fast Dr Banner turned his attention to the child, who by turns had buried her face in his nurse’s sari and his own khakis, and prevailed upon her to explain using pantomime. But the child was too young for this method of communication, and scarcely had she begun before she gave it up to talk rapidly at the nurse again. This too dissolved rather quickly into tears, and the child sobbed into Dr Banner’s shirt.
The nurse said the word for father very slowly and carefully, so that Dr Banner could catch it. He sighed and began to pantomime the symptoms of fever and weakness to the nurse. The two of them had been working together for some time, and the nearly silent dialogue was thus concluded quickly. The nurse went back inside and returned with the doctor’s Kit, rather the worse for the wear with his travels15, which she handed over. It was understood that one had to remain to watch over the patients, and it was generally understood that the women were better at this. They were able to converse with those well enough to sleep, and soothe those poor enough to know they were dying.
The girl blew her nose briskly on the doctor’s shirt-tails, which he accepted with bemused grace, and led him by the hand to the outskirts of the village. Dr Banner had had little time for exploration of his home for two months, indeed he had come because he had heard of the illness, and had been put to work almost immediately. He had had a curious impression that the huts there were empty though had never caught the reason, and was thus surprized to see her leading him there. But as he had never fathomed why they were standing empty, Dr Banner accepted the likelihood that he was wrong in this matter with the easy grace in which he accepted anything, and which had made him so popular with his peers16.
She led him to a particularly dilapidated one, and suddenly shewing a reluctance that had hitherto been nonexistent, dithered about the door until finally Dr Banner, concerned of his patient within, entered without her.
The hut was dark inside, though by no means cool, and Dr Banner passed a hand over his eyes to wipe away sweat and to acclimatize his eyes to the dark. The door closed behind him, and in the sudden darkness he heard the unmistakable sound of a match being struck. The sudden glow resolved to settle itself on a candle, and revealed a woman.
The woman was European, it was no doubt, though to the practiced scientific eye of Dr Banner she did not appear to be English. She had red hair of a shade not often seen in the Isles, and a smattering of freckles across a complexion that otherwise was exceedingly fair. She wore trousers, which was not as shocking as it might have been to the doctor (skirts were often unmanageable in the jungle, and he applauded all of the fairer sex who had cast them off), but stood like a man in them, with an easy confidence that seemed to suggest she had worn them for years. She was also exceedingly beautiful.
But Dr Banner had never been one to be taken in by mere beauty (a highly regulated mind rarely is, but it is said that when they do it is a sight to behold) and simply greeted her with an ironic smile. “I suppose that there is no patient here for me to treat.”
She favoured him with a smile. “Hello Dr Banner.” He immediately decided that she was Russian, though there was no trace of it in the accent.
He performed a short bow. “But you have the advantage of me. For you know my name and I have not yet had the pleasure of knowing yours.”
To his faint surprise she bowed back, with the easy grace of a prima ballerina17. “My name is Natasa Romanova. I had you brought here in order to beg of your assistance. I’m sure you remember your meeting with Mr Fury?”
Dr Banner had remembered. He winced. It had not been a pleasant one18. “Ah, you must be a spy then,” he said, not very pleasantly. “Was that girl child a confederate of yours then Miss Romanova? How young they are twisted against their country.”
Miss Romanova only shrugged, his cutting words having had no effect on her. “Whyever not? I started at that age.19”
Dr Banner immediately regretted his choice of words and begged for her pardon most prettily. She gave it easily enough, and then they were both left staring uneasily at each other.
“There has been a certain incident and Mr Fury asked that I convey his wishes that you join him in London at your earliest convenience.”
Dr Banner’s smile was more a twisting of his features that made his affable face into something suddenly ugly. “Is that all? I am to be thrust back into a battle?”
She looked at him most curiously. “Why do you assume that, Dr Banner?”
“Because that is all that I am good for to you people!”
Miss Romanova had her pistol out of her trousers and into her grasp in a trice, she held it steady in her grip and did not flinch at the thing before her20.
The thing that had been Dr Banner looked at her for a moment, the smiled and became a man once again. The man apologized, again, very prettily, for having upset her, and this apology was duly accepted, again very graciously, by Miss Romanova, who nevertheless never lowered her weapon.
She reached into a pocket with one hand quite casually, and removed a sheaf of papers, closed with a curious green seal. Upon it was pressed a stylized F with no other adornment or crest. Dr Banner received the papers and broke the seal with great interest, and put on a pair of spectacles.
He moved towards the light to better see his subject. She moved with him, always keeping five long paces twixt the two, and he, being the perfect gentleman, feigned not to notice a thing, and read the documents with a carefree manner that most men would not be able to affect, should a pistol be trained at their head.
“I believe you are wanted in a strictly professional capacity,” she said when he had finished. Her voice did not waver a bit. “As a scientist. Not as...”
His smile again twisted, though his face remained wholly human. “Not as a monster?”
“No.”
Dr Banner looked at his Kit considerably, and stowed his spectacles. “I have many patients remaining.”
“You have Mr Fury’s assurances that they shall be looked after most admirably.”
Dr Banner sighed very heavily. “You come here purporting to offer me a choice, yet it is no choice at all, is it? I shall come with you.”
She stowed her weapon finally and smiled. He fancied that it was her real smile, as it was a small thing, and rather sad at that. “You mistake me, Doctor. I never purported to offer you a choice.” She offered her hand to him to shake, exactly as a man would.
He looked at it ruefully, then at her. The shadows cast from the single candle threw both their faces into shades of shadow, and in that instant, they both saw The Devil reflected in the other. Dr. Banner looked away first 21.
“May God have mercy on our souls,” he muttered, then clasped her hand. She was about to rejoin when he suddenly pulled her forward to stare intently in her eyes. She was startled to note that whereas before his eyes had been a dull brown, they were now a bright green22.
“I have killed many men you know,” it hissed at her, “Are you sure you would not like me to do so again?”
She closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them again Dr Banner again stood before her, and he had dropped her hand. She spoke before he was able to make any such apologies and addressed her words to both of them. “With luck, you shall never have to kill again.”
He said nothing to her for a long while, then smiled one to match hers, small and sad. “I have never been blessed with much luck, Miss Romanova.”
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1. In fact, both these unfortunate things happened to Lord Ashbury, who had made the mistake of presenting himself at Mr Stark’s offices one morning in July 180—and declaring his great need to consult with the man. Lord Ashbury was not a man used to being treated rudely, nor laughed at, and had never in his life been shown to the door without so much as a by-your-leave, which was exactly what happened next. In fact, the most that Lord Ashbury received for his troubles was one clerk who managed to say in the harassed manner of all the clerks in Mr Stark’s employ, that his Lordship may wish to save himself the journey next time.
This affronted Lord Ashbury so much that he immediately turned a most unattractive mauve (it is said) and threw himself in a towering rage which the hapless clerk (who had only been trying to help) cheerfully ignored. Thus misused, Lord Ashbury returned home much insulted and spent a great portion of his free time (which much be confessed was quite a lot, since Ashbury not a man much given to scholarly pursuits, or, truth be told, pursuits of any manner whatsoever, besides that of strong drink and the card-table) crying out against the man.
Lord Ashbury soon proved himself very unpopular in Society due to the length and vitriol (and lack of originality) of his rants, and had to resort to sending a number of very strongly worded letters to The Times, ordering them in no uncertain terms to censure Mr. Stark, as well as letters to Mr Stark. Mr Stark received those letters (it is said) with a great deal of confusion, having never made Lord Ashbury’s acquaintance, and largely ignored them. By and by the full extent of his humiliation was made known to the gentleman, whereupon Mr Stark laughed long and cruelly, not unlike the clerks he employed.
The Times interestingly enough, did print several of the letters, though it was in the spirit of satire, and Lord Ashbury, never having understood irony, and like many great men faced with a thing they did not understand, promptly decided it did not exist, and was much afire by his success and wrote a good deal more. He eventually died a very old and rich man, who was widely considered to be a bit of a joke, and not a very funny one at that.
2. And given to a number of queer practices besides. All servants know that gentlemen, especially those of the bachelor persuasion, and most of all bachelor gentlemen who were also by all accounts, quite brilliant, were given to fits of eccentricity. But none could have predicted or prepared for the eccentricities of Mr Stark who often declared that he wanted complete silence in the household, and couldn’t stand even the sound of washing. He burned lamps at all hours of the night and used electricity and current in any number of queer experiments, was fickle in his comportment, and it was not uncommon for bangs and explosions of any calibre to be heard throughout the house. And this was not even including his automatons.
3. All those except those who petitioned for an appointment with her employer. With those men she could be quite fierce and most immovable.
4. Which is to say, not commonly at all, it being a secret bureau.
5. Of course, the door which he presented himself at was not the front entrance, the reasons for which should be clear since I have just spent much time recounting all of the ways that that would be a fruitless endeavour. And, as I had already stated, Mr Coulson was well aware of Mr Stark’s numerous eccentricities. No the door upon which he knocked was a side entrance, hidden round the house most ingeniously, so that all who gazed upon it were immediately convinced it was nothing but a shabby doorway for the servants use. For in fact, that had been what it originally was, when Howard Stark I, who was grandfather to the Mr Stark of this particular tale, had first built the house. It was Howard Stark II, the current Mr Stark’s father, who first turned it to his personal use. Beyond the shabby door now lay a most intricate series of rooms, which comprized Mr Stark’s laboratory and workshop.
6. In fact, he had declared it quite publicly, in an open letter printed in The Times that foreshadowed quite heavily the letter he would publish in the same newspaper just a scant four years later claiming to be the man behind Iron-Man.
Mr. Stark applied for and received patents on the alloy most rapidly, and much of England, and indeed, the world, held its breath, waiting to see what wonders he would create with it. The Ministers of Parliament had been heard to declare to one and all that they each had a great many ideas for its use in the War, and many an eligible young lady delayed her coming-out that Season, wanting her debut gown to be made of the material. In fact, in keeping his letter spirited but vague, Mr Stark had succeeded in stirring up all of England’s fires of invention with no practical outlet for any of it. The ideas of what the material could be used for ran the gamut from bullets to shovels, and a great many curiosities in between.
Then, as soon as he had got the patents in hand, Mr Stark disappeared with them, and the alloy, and to this date the only confirmed use of it was on his butler. Nothing at all could persuade him to loose the plans, not even a plea from Parliament. Paradoxically, while this increased the ire that government officials in general felt for the man, it raised his esteem in the eyes of all others immensely.
7. Conversing being one of the myriad of things Jarvis was quite at ease to do. In fact, the automaton could be reliably found to be the equal to any number of topics of discourse, and could engage in lengthy talks and even argue, if one wished, on a seemingly endless categories of minutiae, and never gave the slightest inclination that it was being anything but a man.
This delighted a number of stuffy academics who had long desired a conversation partner who would never tire and who could endlessly discuss and debate the finer points of fifteenth century English law, for example, or geology, both topics I’m sure you and I find intolerably dull, but which Jarvis seemed in no way indisposed to speak of. In fact, those academics spent a great portion of their time petitioning Miss Potts and whenever Jarvis was not needed on some business for its master it could be reliably found in one of the entertaining parlours up-stairs, holding any number of audience members (some still in their academic robes) enthralled on some lecture so dull I have not even the energy to comment on here.
However, this upset quite a number of the clergy, for when word reached them of an automaton who could reason like a man, began to mutter of dire things and portents, and sent quite a number of their fellows around to observe The Devil’s Instrument. They invariably either got into great arguments with Jarvis, debating round and round the existence of God or Heaven or The Devil or the wording in the such and such passage of the Bible or some such thing, and left shouting a number of dire threats masquerading as warnings, or passed an hour or so in the company of the automaton in nervous silence, only breaking it once or twice to remark on the weather or the health of its master. These young men were too unnerved by Jarvis to do more than mutter their threats, but it all came to the same.
(Notably, Jarvis changed the mind of one young clergyman, a Mr Samuel Adams, originally of Yorkshire, who passed his time with Jarvis first in towering rage, then in quiet debate then finally left his appointment in thoughtful silence. He renounced his vows, and in fact, all religion in general, went back home to Yorkshire, married his cousin who kept a pig farm, and grew moderately wealthy off its returns. He died peacefully surrounded by his doting children and grandchildren and his adoring wife, though the Church remarked quite pragmatically that he was sure to be burning in Hell now, since he was a sinner and a heretic. The eternal fate of Mrs Adams, who quite happily married a sinner etc etc, and who bore him many children besides, they never made clear, though it can be presumed that she is also burning in Hell.)
The Church declared Jarvis to be the work of The Devil, which arose a Great Debate in the country, with half agreeing with the Church and calling for its public burning, and perhaps that of Mr Stark as well, sure to be a witch himself, and the other half calling such acts barbarous and hasty. After all, if a machine can think like a man, and reason like a man, is it not a man? And man, after all, possesses a soul, does he not? This so incensed the side of the first argument that they retorted with a great many dire predictions of the Decline of England and the probable lack of piety of its detractors besides, which inflamed the other side of the argument greatly.
What could have started as a reasonable and intelligent discourse of the nature of humanity dissolved quickly into a rather disgraceful example of name calling and poor sportsmanship that many worried was sure to turn to a Riot on the streets of London, and the Parliament ready to declare a State of Emergency. But Mr Stark and his automaton ignored all these proceedings, as they were wont to do, and as time passed and Jarvis never emerged to entice man to sin or to declare his possession of a soul, its fervor eventually died out for want of dramatic action. Those who knew Mr Stark said privately that the real wonder was that any creation of his was capable of conversing civilly at all, which no doubt helped deflate the debate. Meantime, Mr Stark carried on as he always did, and Jarvis continued to have a number of lengthy discussions with stuffy academics, something that all parties enjoyed immensely.
8. Mr Coulson had upon one occasion begged to his superiors to recruit Miss Potts to among their own number, she possessing of so many qualities important to that of a spy. The request was never seriously considered, for it was generally known that Mr Stark could never bear to part with her, but it was a valiant thought nonetheless. If Miss Potts had known of it, she would have affected the utmost surprize at her consideration, but then would have likely suggested any number of young women who were just as subtle as she and suited to the task. Let it never be said, however, that the Secret Affairs for England did not count women among its numbers. It employed quite a few, as we shall soon see.
9. The man’s Christian name was Anthony, a most unusual choice that could be attributed to his father Howard Stark II, who had always felt Howard a stuffy name to bear, and who had been rather given to flairs of dramatics besides. He had ostensibly named his heir after Marc Antony, wherein the origin for the curious pet-name that Miss Potts was given to calling Mr Stark must lie. It need hardly be said that if Howard the Second had known of the pet name he would likely be so offended by it that he would come marching out of the family crypt and up to Miss Potts to bade her desist at once. Miss Potts always claimed that that image helped hold the pet name in extreme favour to her, though many suggested that it was retaliation for the pet-name he had chosen to inflict on her.
10. It was in part this inattention to his dress that Mr Stark could never be considered the height of fashion. On his best days he was every inch the dandy, with a most complicated knot set in his cravat, that only Jarvis was capable of fashioning, and which, in typical fashion, Mr Stark named after himself. But his best days were few and far between, and he was as likely to be seen leaving his house with his cravat undone, or his jacket creased, or one time, famously, with only one boot on at all.
The other part of it was, of course, the curious device on his chest. It shewed quite strongly in all but the brightest of lamps and, truth be told, lent him quite a distinguished air. But because it could never be successfully replicated since only Mr Stark’s house was equipped with that miracle of light (yet another of his secret patents), most had to peevishly declare that it was a glaring mark against him instead. Beau Brummell had once been known to famously remark that he couldn’t decide whether or not the orb was the most pleasing sight he ever beheld or the most repulsive, but either way it was an unsightly accessory.
Since this particular accessory kept Mr Stark alive, it could be said that Mr Brummell made the remark in bad conscience. But since Mr Stark possessed the easy confidence that made any outfit he chose to wear, no matter how complete, look like the height of fashion, it was usually said instead that Mr Brummell was simply being clever.
11. The jam was of extremely high quality. Jarvis had as a hobby (if it could be said that automatons had hobbies) a great love of preservation, and in its spare time made many a jar of jam, and pickles, and a great many things besides. As in all things, this it did very well, and it and Miss Potts often made presents of its efforts to their particular friends. It was counted no small favour to receive such a present, and it was often only used in the best of company or upon Christmas in many households.
Jarvis also pressed a great deal of flowers, and made excellent potpourri, the house always smelled wonderful as a result of it. It drew the line at preservation of live creatures though, perhaps knowing how unnerving it would appear, an automaton surrounded by any number of creatures in jars or mounted on walls that it had done itself. Though one can imagine using little strides of supposition that if Jarvis had thought to lend a hand to that as well, it would have accomplished it excellently.
12. It likely would not have even been the bared skin round the torso, for English young ladies, on the whole, are made of hardier things than many a man would suppose, but instead it would be the bare feet. For the men and women of India walked around with sandals that showed large swathes of skin, and many, even more scandalously, wore no shoes at all.
13. Dr Banner, of course, served for many years as a lecturer at Oxford. Though he never held a formal practice, during his tenure there he instigated a number of measures and published a number of treatises that became quite the vogue in England, back when it was still popular to use the phrase. There is no doubt he helped many by advancing such practices, and saved many a life indirectly. Among which he advocated the necessity of clean instruments in examining patients and suggested that those ill in spirit should be treated with refreshing doses of exercise.
Curiously enough, Dr Banner became reluctant to apply leeches after he left Oxford, something that his fellow practitioners found cause to mention in the same breath as his name henceforth when he was brought forward in polite conversation. “Oh, Dr Banner, of course such a distinguished figure, and you must know I agree with him utterly in all things, though he is loathe to bleed his patients, I can’t imagine why...”
Of course, such pronouncements were never made to his face, for Dr Banner was notoriously rumoured to be quick to anger, and shy of company after he had quit Oxford. The reason for his refusal to use leeches is probably self evident, but those gentlemen in the drawing rooms and gossiping in their clubs never could wrap their minds round it.
14. His efforts were not for naught, and he saved many a villager, so much so that coupled with the curious way in which he had arrived (in the dead of the night with nothing save his Doctor’s Kit) and the curious way in which he shall depart (which we shall soon come to), the villagers there began to revere him a bit as a god.
Dr Banner never realized this, and if he had known it, would have been embarrassed by it greatly, and luckily never had cause in the future to return to the spot, for the villagers had carved his likeness into a cocaunut and were given to worshipping it surreptitiously.
15. By his own reckoning he had been to Spain, Russia, China, Greece, Egypt, Jamaica, and a dozen countries in between without ever sitting foot back in England in the interim. His admitted favourite would have been Greece, though he would be quick to add that any such place he visited had been charming in its own way, though the citizens of China had not taken kindly to him.
16. Indeed, it was said that nothing in the world could induce Dr Banner to quarrel with you, and nothing in the world could induce him to even try. It made him a popular figure among drawing rooms, and he had belonged to a number of clubs without quite knowing how or why.
But Dr Banner was always game, and when he lived in London he could be seen out almost every night, frequenting one of the clubs that he was a member of, or dining with some particular friends. Wherever he went he was sure to be surrounded by admirers, though by his own account he himself could never think of why.
When he still lived in London it seemed that every person he met instantly became a particular friend, and though Dr Banner was only every comfortably well off, he never lacked in influential friends or important parties to attend, and his sphere held many more than just the Scientific community. There was a consensus, it seemed, that a more agreeable man one could never meet. Though it was general knowledge that he possessed a short temper, most of his closest peers had never seen any evidence of it, and those who had were not given to idle chatter.
17. Indeed, in her youth Miss Romanova was an accomplished ballerina and danced in Moscow for many dignitaries, including the King of both Russia and England. Though she had the training to pass herself off as any number of aliases, still that fluidity in her movements remained through all her days. Her handlers invariably worried greatly about this. It was highly suspicious, for example, to have an uncommonly graceful London flower girl. With extreme concentration Miss Romanova was able to coach herself to move gracelessly, though in times of duress she often forgot.
She used her career in the ballet to perform a number of assassinations, and was so successful at it that the Bureau used it as a cover for their female agents for many years to come. Dr Banner did not see Natasa dance, but when he still lived in London he had had the great privilege of seeing her successor do so. She was trained by Natasa and was an assassin also, though thankfully Dr Banner had no notion of this and had simply enjoyed the ballet for its own sake.
It is said that even in her old age Miss Romanova was still able perform a perfect pirouette, and that no matter how loudly her joints ached she was still able to stand en point on the slightest whim. For you see though it was not the norm, or even the oddity, Miss Romanova was one of the rare spies who was able to retire from the Bureau and live to a ripe old age. Because it was so rare, I thought to mention it now in case you had become too alarmed at her ‘tell’, so casually revealed a scant few paragraphs above. You need not worry. Natasa lived. And more importantly, and far more rarely, she lived happily.
18. The meeting was a small part of a much larger tale, one that will not be delved into overly much here, but explained the circumstances of Dr Banner’s sudden leave of absence from Oxford and indeed, from England entirely.
To present the meeting here, without the framing of that other tale is a disservice that I, as the author, am loathe to perform. Suffice it to say that Mr Fury had warned Dr Banner in no uncertain terms about the consequences of his actions, damned him and called him a hero all in the same breath, and then had warned him that one day he would call upon the good doctor for a favour. And upon that day, the good doctor shall oblige him.
19. That was a lie. She started much younger.
20. The pistols she had were her favourite, with an ivory grip, and quite beautiful. They were always what she chose when she heading into an uneasy situation. They had been gifted to her by a great friend of hers and never failed to raise her spirits.
Her friend, while he did not favour the use of guns, was himself a great eye at chusing a pistol, and his fate, unfortunately, was more in line with that of a typical spy. That is, he died quite young. Though the circumstances of his death were very curious, and it cannot be said that his life was an unhappy one, it pains me to speak on it now to you. Sufficei it to say he does not die in this tale, and let us speak of it no further.
21. Natasa knew The Devil, and had much more to fear than merely he.
22. There never was a name for the man who was not Dr Banner, though many in idle moments tried to cast their mind at finding one. Most in the end just called it what Dr Banner did—that is, a monster. There could be little question of that fact, at least. The other man could scarcely even be called such a thing, for it was a cold, cold, creature, and hungered for blood always.