Chapter 7: Stark Industries' First Beneficiary
New York after the Chitauri invasion looked like someone had taken a giant cheese grater to the city. Roads were cratered, buildings were missing chunks like half-eaten birthday cake, and there were still alien scorch marks on the sidewalks. This wasn't something a couple of private contractors could fix—not unless they had cranes that doubled as magic wands. And when you added in the fact that alien tech was scattered everywhere, it became obvious that clean-up required more than just bulldozers and overtime pay.
After all, in America, we legalize firearms, not extraterrestrial death sticks. At least, not yet.
Big-picture decisions always hurt someone's wallet, but when you're in charge of saving the city, the idea is to look at the chessboard, not just your pawn. Sure, some people would lose out, but they'd get their compensation packages eventually. That was the theory, anyway.
Tony Stark didn't lose a minute of sleep over the politics of it. His approach was simple: he provided the money, other people did the grunt work, and everyone smiled for the press. If corruption happened along the way? Not his problem. The CEO of Stark Industries was his girlfriend, and the company's internal systems were run by his AI butler. Try skimming funds from that setup—you'd be found in an alleyway with a Jarvis-generated invoice stapled to your forehead.
So, for the past two weeks, Tony's only real concern hadn't been alien scrap, public contracts, or media spin. It had been one thing and one thing only: Had Ethan Miles woken up yet?
Every single day, he built armor, tinkered with prototypes, and then showed up at the hospital to check on the kid who had saved his life.
"Listen," Tony said one afternoon, standing in the doorway of Ethan's ICU room like he owned the place. "If you doctors can't handle this, I'll bring in my own. Better ones. Smarter ones. Shinier ones."
Like clockwork, another visitor stepped in behind him—Nick Fury, wearing that perpetual I'm-surrounded-by-children look. "For the past two weeks, you've repeated that exact sentence every single time I've seen you."
Tony spun on him, mock-offended. "Because I don't want my money wasted on medical experiments or, I don't know, alien autopsies. I'm watching you." He jabbed a finger at Fury's chest. His voice had gone low, almost dangerous.
"What exactly are you implying?" Fury's one eye narrowed.
"It's simple," Tony said, leaning in. "I don't want anyone reverse-engineering alien weapons. I see one glowing blue gun in an alley, I'll know who to call."
And with that, he stormed out—not out of the hospital entirely, but just far enough to duck into the men's room. Inside, he pulled a crumpled paper bag from his jacket pocket and started breathing into it like a man trying to hyperventilate in style.
"Hh-hohh—hh-hohh—"
It wasn't exactly dignified, but anxiety didn't care about dignity. Every time Tony closed his eyes, he saw Ethan hitting the pavement in a spray of sparks, saw himself flying through a portal with a nuke strapped to his back. His armor had always been his safety net. Now it felt like a tin can against the memory of that cold, infinite void.
He'd have talked to Steve about it—Captain America had faced worse and lived—but the guy was currently cycling across America like a patriotic Forrest Gump. As for Fury? Tony would rather choke on that invisible hand at his throat than admit he needed help in front of him.
Fury, meanwhile, didn't miss much. He'd been studying the readouts from Ethan's hospital bed every day, and everything looked… normal. Too normal. Muscle density, bone strength, even height—Ethan had improved physically during his coma. His body was doing CrossFit while his brain took a vacation.
If Fury didn't have the nutritional supplements tested by a full S.H.I.E.L.D. team, he'd have been tempted to drink a couple himself. Who wouldn't want to get stronger just by lying around?
The DNA tests had come back human—completely, frustratingly human—which shot down conspiracy theories that "enhanced warriors" were back in play. The shadows of New York's criminal underbelly, which had been slinking away during the alien crisis, were starting to creep back in.
And then, finally—two weeks after the Battle of New York—Ethan woke up.
The doctors were thrilled. The researchers were disappointed. They'd wanted more time to poke at him and maybe publish something in New England Journal of Weird Medical Miracles.
Ethan blinked at the ceiling, squinting at the tubes, wires, and blinking machines around him. "Was I… seriously that injured?" he muttered. He remembered the pain, sure, but the ICU felt like overkill.
His hands instinctively patted himself down. Nothing missing, nothing replaced with chrome. Good. Then he caught his reflection in a monitor. His brown eyes now had the faintest ring of violet, like some special-effects artist had gotten bored.
Unbeknownst to him, something deep in his blood had clicked into place—a dormant Titan heritage unlocking itself. Along with it came a new talent: Lightning Perception. He couldn't quite explain it yet, but the air felt different, like every static charge in the room whispered its presence to him.
"Oh-ho! Sleeping Beauty's finally up!" Tony was the first through the door, practically throwing his arms out like he expected applause. "How you feeling? Hungry? I know a great Arabic barbecue place—"
"I'll take Chinese," Ethan said quickly. If Tony meant the shawarma joint from the Avengers' post-battle binge, hard pass. Everyone had looked like they were chewing through boot leather in that scene.
Before Tony could protest, Fury stepped in, his tone that special mix of polite and commanding. "I think he should be evaluated by a doctor first."
"Great, more tests. And here I was thinking my money was being used wisely," Tony shot back, already annoyed.
"What exactly are you doing here so often, Stark?" Fury asked.
"I have money and a girlfriend," Tony replied with the casual smugness of a man checking both boxes before breakfast. The line earned a subtle wince from Ethan, who was now wondering what it was like to live in Stark's world.
Eventually, they let the doctors finish the final round of checks. The verdict: Ethan was good to go.
He'd barely started stuffing his things into a bag when Tony swooped in, hands raised like a traffic cop. "Whoa, slow down there, kid. I don't even know your name yet, and you saved my life. How do you want me to repay you? Seriously—anything. I can make it happen."
Ethan's brain stalled for a second. Rich people really do live in a different dimension.
"Uh… Ethan Miles. High school student."
Tony squinted. "A strong high school student," Ethan added quickly.
"Ethan… Miles…" Tony tried the name out, then shrugged. "Alright, Ethan, here's the deal—"
"Before you close the deal," Fury cut in, "I'm Director Fury of S.H.I.E.L.D. I'd like to formally invite you to become an auxiliary member of the organization. We'd look at full membership after a trial period."
"Auxiliary member? What is this, a temp job?" Tony scoffed. "Come work for me, I'll make you head of a department."
"He's a minor," Fury reminded him, "and last I checked, child labor is illegal."
"Is it?" Tony said innocently, stepping closer.
While the two alpha personalities locked horns, Ethan raised a timid hand. "Uh… does this auxiliary position… pay?"
Fury opened his mouth. "Of course—"
"I hereby declare you the first official beneficiary of the New York Relief Fund," Tony announced, cutting him off. "Three years, one hundred grand per year, plus a corporate internship. Stark Industries, obviously."
Fury's face darkened like a storm cloud. "Funny. I haven't heard of this fund."
"That's because I just created it three seconds ago," Tony said, removing his smartwatch and flipping the display toward them. Ethan's name and a newly minted account with $100,000 sat there, freshly verified.
Ethan stared. "That's… insane." But not bad insane. Good insane. The kind of insane you could use to pay off your debts and still have enough left over for decent takeout.
"Director Fury," Ethan said carefully, "I think I'm too young for the job you're offering. But if you need help with something that's within my… personal capabilities, I'll consider it."
Fury's mood lightened a fraction—until Ethan added, "For a fee."
Fury pinched the bridge of his nose. He wasn't about to argue payment terms with a teenager. No, this called for something better. Like a full audit of Stark Industries' taxes.
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