Most powerful Hunter in Marvel Universe - Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Retirement Plans and Underground Revelations

The hotel room was modest by any standard, and absolutely spartan compared to what someone with two hundred and ninety-five million dollars could afford. Single bed, small bathroom, a mini-fridge that hummed at a frequency designed to prevent sleep, and a window that overlooked a parking lot. It was perfect.

Veer sat on the bed, his laptop open in front of him, staring at flight booking websites that seemed determined to make the process as unintuitive as possible. This was 2008—the internet existed, certainly, but user-friendly design was still a concept most companies were actively resisting. Every airline had a different booking system. Every system required creating an account. Every account demanded information that seemed excessive for the simple act of buying a seat on a plane.

He missed the streamlined apps of his original world, where you could book international flights in thirty seconds while half-asleep. But that world was gone, replaced by this one where everything required patience and multiple browser windows.

Two hundred million from Tony Stark, transferred in three separate payments to avoid triggering too many financial alerts. Ninety-five million from The Continental, deposited into an account accessible from any of their worldwide branches with proper credentials. After The Continental’s five percent fee on the original hundred million contract, he’d netted out at two hundred and ninety-five million dollars total.

Two hundred and ninety-five million dollars.

The number still felt abstract, like a typo the universe hadn’t corrected yet. In his previous life, with his previous salary, he would have worked until his body gave out and still never seen that kind of money. He’d calculated it once during a particularly depressing late-night bout of insomnia: even if he saved aggressively and lived frugally and got lucky with investments, he might—might—have retired at seventy with enough money to not be a burden on his family.

One month. It had taken one month in this new world to achieve financial independence that would last multiple lifetimes.

Was it worth three hundred and fifty-one lives?

Veer pushed that thought away before it could take root. He’d had that internal argument enough times over the past forty-eight hours. The answer never changed, and the bodies stayed dead regardless of his philosophical wrestling.

Focus on the practical. Focus on the future. Focus on—

Someone knocked on his door.

Veer’s hand moved to the knife he kept under his pillow before his conscious mind caught up. Old habits. Or rather, new habits from old instincts that had been burned into his muscle memory through the merger with Zeno’s template. He forced himself to relax, checked the time—just past two in the afternoon—and moved to the door.

The peephole revealed a figure in a baseball cap and sunglasses, dressed in what was probably expensive casual wear trying very hard to look like regular casual wear. The attempt failed spectacularly, mostly because the clothes fit too well and looked too new.

Veer opened the door.

Tony Stark stood in his hallway, looking simultaneously ridiculous and oddly vulnerable in his disguise. His eyes—barely visible behind the sunglasses—tracked immediately to the packed duffel bag sitting by the bed.

“Going somewhere?” Tony asked without preamble, his tone carrying genuine confusion. “Please tell me you didn’t already get another job killing terrorists. I was hoping you’d take at least a week off before the next mass casualty event.”

Veer stepped aside, gesturing for Tony to enter. “No new jobs. I’m retiring.”

“Retiring.” Tony walked into the room, his gaze sweeping across the space with the kind of analytical assessment that probably happened automatically whenever he entered new environments. “You’re what, twenty-two? Twenty-three? That’s not retiring, that’s giving up before the game starts.”

“Twenty-two,” Veer confirmed, closing the door and moving to the mini-fridge. He pulled out two beers—cheap local stuff that would make Tony’s refined palate cry, but it was what he had. “And I’m not giving up. I’m cashing out while I’m ahead. You paid me extremely well. Well enough that I never have to work again if I don’t want to.”

He tossed one of the beers to Tony, who caught it with the reflexes of someone who’d done a lot of catching expensive things thrown by frustrated assistants. Tony examined the label with an expression that suggested he was reading a death threat.

“This is… beer?”

“It’s what passes for beer when you’re staying in a hotel that charges by the hour and doesn’t ask questions.” Veer cracked open his own bottle. “Don’t judge. I’ve had worse.”

“I genuinely don’t know how that’s possible.” Tony opened his beer with visible reluctance, took a sip, and his face went through several expressions that suggested he was reassessing his life choices. “Oh God. That’s… that’s definitely a beverage of some kind. Beer-adjacent, perhaps.”

“It gets better after the third one.”

“That’s what people say about terrible decisions right before they make them.” Tony took another drink anyway, either out of politeness or some kind of wealthy person’s challenge to slum it with the common folk. “So. Retiring. At twenty-two. What’s the plan? Sit on a beach somewhere and watch the world burn without you?”

Veer settled onto the bed, his back against the wall. “Pretty much. Travel the world. See places that aren’t actively trying to kill me. Watch beautiful women on beaches. Live like a normal person who doesn’t murder people for money.”

“Living the dream,” Tony said, but his tone was complicated. He sat in the room’s single chair, which creaked ominously under his weight. “You really think you’ll be happy with that? The quiet life? After what you can do?”

“What I can do is dangerous,” Veer said carefully. “To other people and to myself. The smart move is to walk away while I still can. Invest the money wisely, live off the interest, and never have to think about Zetsu or Silent Gait or how many people I can kill in thirty minutes ever again.”

Tony was quiet for a moment, staring at his beer like it held answers to questions he hadn’t asked. “Must be nice,” he finally said. “Having that option. Just walking away.”

There was something in his voice—a weight, a weariness, a frustration that ran deeper than surface level. Veer recognized it from the movies, from the post-cave Tony who’d realized his weapons were being used to terrorize and couldn’t just pretend that was someone else’s problem anymore.

“The press conference,” Veer said. It wasn’t a question.

Tony’s jaw tightened. “You heard about that?”

“Hard to miss. ‘Tony Stark Announces Closure of Stark Industries Weapons Division’ is kind of a headline that penetrates even cheap hotel rooms with terrible WiFi.” Veer took a drink. “How’s that going?”

“About as well as you’d expect.” Tony’s laugh was bitter. “The board thinks I’m having a breakdown. Pepper thinks I’m self-destructing. Rhodes thinks I’m betraying everything my father stood for. The media thinks I’m either a genius or an idiot, and they can’t decide which. Stock prices are tanking. Investors are panicking. And my business partner is definitely planning to either have me committed or removed from power.”

“Obadiah Stane.” Again, not a question.

Tony’s eyes sharpened behind the sunglasses. “You know him?”

“I know of him. Weapons dealer. Been with your company for decades. Probably doesn’t love the idea of his income stream shutting down.” Veer shrugged. “Basic research. Know your client’s business relationships.”

It was a reasonable cover, and mostly true. Veer had done research on Stark Industries, if you counted watching Iron Man multiple times as research. He knew Obadiah would eventually betray Tony, build his own armor, and try to kill him. But he couldn’t say that without revealing knowledge he shouldn’t have.

Tony studied him for a long moment, and Veer could practically see the gears turning behind those sharp eyes. Then Tony seemed to decide something, taking another drink of terrible beer and making another face.

“I need to get out,” Tony said abruptly. “Out of my house, out of my life, out of the constant chorus of people telling me I’m making a mistake. I need…” He gestured vaguely with the beer bottle. “This. Whatever this is. A shitty hotel room with a guy who kills people for a living and doesn’t judge me for making business decisions that apparently destroy everything.”

Veer considered. He should say no. Should politely refuse, finish booking his flight, and disappear before he got any more entangled in the MCU’s main storyline. Getting close to Tony Stark was the opposite of keeping a low profile.

But there was something in Tony’s expression—vulnerability poorly hidden under sarcasm and bravado—that reminded Veer of his own isolation. He’d been alone in this world since arriving, carrying secrets and knowledge that separated him from everyone around him. Tony was alone in a different way, carrying decisions that separated him from his entire support structure.

Maybe they could be alone together, just for one night.

“I know a place,” Veer said, making a decision he’d probably regret. “But you need a better disguise. That hat and sunglasses combo screams ‘celebrity trying not to be recognized.'”

“What’s wrong with my disguise?” Tony looked genuinely offended.

“Everything. Come here.”

Tony approached suspiciously. Veer grabbed the baseball cap and adjusted it, pulling it lower over Tony’s face. Then he removed the expensive sunglasses and replaced them with a pair of cheap knockoffs he’d bought at a gas station. Finally, he grabbed a worn hoodie from his bag and tossed it at Tony.

“Put this on. And slouch. Rich people have posture. Regular people are too tired to stand up straight.”

Tony pulled on the hoodie—which was slightly too small and definitely didn’t match his aesthetic—and attempted to slouch. The result looked like a robot trying to imitate human casualness.

“Better,” Veer lied. “Try not to talk unless absolutely necessary. Your voice is too recognizable.”

“My voice is distinctive and refined.”

“Your voice sounds like money. Which is great for boardrooms, terrible for where we’re going.”

“Where exactly are we going?”

Veer grinned, and it felt good to smile about something that wasn’t darkly ironic or tinged with guilt. “Trust me. You’ll love it or hate it, and either way it’ll be memorable.”

—

The underground fighting club was exactly what it sounded like—underground, fighting, and very much a club in the “organized crime” sense rather than the “membership benefits” sense. It occupied the basement of what had once been a warehouse and was now officially abandoned but unofficially very much in use.

Getting in required knowing the right entrance, saying the right words to the right person, and not looking like you’d narc to the cops the moment you saw something illegal. Veer had learned about the place from one of his Continental contacts who’d mentioned it as a good spot to find muscle-for-hire or just blow off steam in a environment that didn’t ask questions.

The entrance was through a rusted service door in an alley that smelled like things had died there and been left to contemplate their life choices. Tony wrinkled his nose but followed Veer down metal stairs that rang with each footstep, leading deeper underground until they reached another door guarded by a man the size of a small building.

“Password,” the guard rumbled.

“The house always wins,” Veer said—this week’s password, according to his contact.

The guard looked them over, his eyes lingering on Tony’s too-new hoodie and expensive shoes that the disguise hadn’t addressed. But apparently their combined appearance was sketchy enough to pass, because he jerked his thumb toward the door.

“No phones. No weapons. No starting shit unless you’re in the cage.”

“Define ‘starting shit,'” Veer said.

“Don’t.”

Fair enough.

The door opened onto chaos given form and sound. The space was larger than expected, stretching back into a converted basement that must have connected to multiple buildings above. At its center was a cage—actual chain-link fencing forming a fighting ring—where two men were currently beating each other bloody while a crowd screamed encouragement and money changed hands at speed.

The rest of the space was organized anarchy. A bar that served drinks in plastic cups because glass became weapons too easily. Tables and chairs that had seen better decades. A DJ booth blasting music at volumes designed to prevent coherent thought. Clusters of people ranging from obvious criminals to people who just wanted to watch violence and drink cheap alcohol in an environment where the cops didn’t venture.

It was loud, dirty, violent, and probably violated about forty different health and safety codes.

Tony stood frozen in the entrance, his eyes wide behind the gas station sunglasses.

“What,” he said slowly, having to shout over the noise, “the hell is this?”

“This,” Veer shouted back, “is where people come when they don’t fit in normal society. Welcome to the underground, Mr. Stark. Try not to look rich.”

He grabbed Tony’s arm and pulled him toward the bar before the billionaire could process objections. They squeezed through the crowd—which smelled like sweat, beer, and poor decisions—until they found a relatively clear section near the cage where the current fight was reaching its violent conclusion.

Veer flagged down someone who might have been a waiter or might have just been stealing drinks from the bar, it was hard to tell. “Two beers. Whatever’s cheapest.”

“And food?” Tony asked, then immediately looked like he regretted the question.

“Kitchen’s been closed by health inspectors three times,” the maybe-waiter said helpfully. “But we got hot dogs that are probably fine.”

“Probably fine,” Tony repeated faintly.

“Two hot dogs,” Veer confirmed. “With everything.”

Money changed hands—actual cash, because this wasn’t the kind of place that kept electronic records—and they were left with plastic cups of beer that made the hotel’s selection look premium and hot dogs that were either a health hazard or a culinary adventure depending on your perspective.

Tony stared at his food like it might attack him. “I own restaurants. Multiple restaurants. With Michelin stars. And you brought me here to eat mystery meat in a basement.”

“Thought you wanted to get out of your life for a while,” Veer said, taking a bite of his hot dog. It was exactly as terrible and wonderful as expected. “Can’t get much more out than this.”

Before Tony could respond, three men approached their spot. Large men. The kind whose size suggested either excessive gym time or genetics that favored intimidation. The leader—distinguished by having slightly more teeth than his companions—gestured at their claimed section of railing.

“You’re in our spot,” he announced, his voice carrying the casual certainty of someone used to people moving when he told them to.

Veer looked at Tony. Tony looked at Veer. Some unspoken communication happened, the kind of wordless understanding that happens between people who’ve survived traumatic experiences together.

“Punch him,” Veer said.

“What?” Tony blinked.

“Punch him. Right in his smug face. I promise it’ll feel great.”

The large man looked between them, his expression shifting from threatening to confused. “The hell you say?”

“He said,” Tony said slowly, apparently deciding to commit to whatever was happening, “that I’m going to punch you. In your face. Which is smug.”

Then he did it.

To be fair to Tony Stark, billionaire genius playboy philanthropist, he’d been trained by Happy Hogan, who despite his cheerful name was a former professional boxer. Tony’s form wasn’t perfect and he definitely telegraphed the punch, but it connected solidly with the man’s jaw with a satisfying crack.

The large man staggered back, more from surprise than damage. His companions immediately moved forward, which is when Veer discovered that Tony apparently decided “in for a penny, in for a pound” applied to impromptu bar fights.

What followed was not elegant. Tony fought like someone who’d learned the mechanics of fighting but rarely practiced against people who hit back with intent. His footwork was decent. His guard was acceptable. But he definitely wasn’t ready for the chaotic reality of multiple opponents in a space full of obstacles.

He also didn’t need to be perfect, because the crowd absolutely loved it.

There was something inherently entertaining about watching a smaller guy—Tony without his armor was not physically imposing—take on three larger opponents with more courage than sense. The shouting around them intensified. People started cheering. Someone started taking bets.

Tony managed to get one of the companions in a headlock, purely by accident based on his expression of surprise. The other companion moved in, and Tony kicked backward, connecting with something that made the man grunt and double over.

The leader recovered and charged, and Tony sidestepped at the last second—more luck than skill—sending the man crashing into a table.

Three opponents down, in various states of groaning on the floor. Tony stood there breathing hard, his hoodie torn, his cheap sunglasses somehow still on his face, looking simultaneously terrified and exhilarated.

The crowd erupted. People were clapping, laughing, shouting encouragement. Someone slapped Tony on the back hard enough to make him stumble. Money was changing hands as bets were settled.

Veer raised his beer cup in salute. “Not bad for a billionaire.”

“I think I broke my hand,” Tony said, flexing his fingers experimentally. “Also, I think I’m going to throw up. But also, that was amazing. Why was that amazing?”

“Because you’ve probably never been in a real fight where the stakes were just bruised ego and bar territory,” Veer said. “How does it feel?”

“Terrifying. Stupid. Incredibly stupid.” Tony grabbed his beer and downed half of it. “Let’s never do it again. Let’s do it again immediately. I can’t decide.”

The three would-be territorial enforcers picked themselves up and, to their credit, seemed more bemused than angry. The leader actually laughed, shook his head, and gestured that their spot was conceded. Some unspoken rule of the underground had been satisfied: they’d challenged, been answered, and lost fair enough.

Veer and Tony claimed their hard-won section of railing, and for the next several hours they stayed there. They drank cheap beer and ate terrible food and watched fights that ranged from skilled to disasters and talked about nothing important. Tony never mentioned Stark Industries or his decisions or his fears about the future. Veer never mentioned his system or his knowledge of what was coming or the weight of three hundred and fifty-one deaths.

They were just two people existing in a space that didn’t care about their backgrounds or their destinies or their complications. It was liberating in a way neither had expected.

As the night wore on, Tony’s commentary on the fights became increasingly colorful and decreasingly coherent. He’d had too much to drink—way too much, given that he was still recovering from two months of captivity—and Veer eventually had to physically support him as they made their way out of the club.

“You’re a good friend,” Tony slurred as they climbed the stairs back to street level. “Even though you’re terrifying and probably a sociopath.”

“Thanks. You’re a good friend too, even though you’re arrogant and definitely a narcissist.”

“We’re terrible people.”

“The worst.”

“But like… terrible together. That’s friendship, right?”

“That’s definitely one definition.”

Getting Tony back to the hotel required a cab ride where the driver kept shooting them suspicious looks in the rearview mirror, probably trying to figure out if the drunk guy in the torn hoodie was actually the Tony Stark or just someone who looked like him. Veer tipped well enough to discourage questions.

Back in the hotel room, Tony immediately collapsed onto the sofa, still wearing his disguise, already half-asleep.

“You’re gonna regret this tomorrow,” Veer said, pulling off Tony’s shoes and throwing a blanket over him.

“Worth it,” Tony mumbled into the cushions. “Best night I’ve had in months. Maybe years. You’re fired from retiring. Un-retire. Come work for me.”

“You can’t afford me.”

“I’m a billionaire.”

“You were a billionaire. After closing the weapons division, jury’s still out.”

“Still can’t afford you?”

“Definitely can’t afford me.”

Tony made a noise that might have been agreement or might have been snoring. Within seconds, he was completely unconscious, dead to the world in the way only drunk people and the truly exhausted could manage.

Veer looked at him for a moment—Tony Stark, genius and disaster, curled up on a cheap hotel sofa wearing gas station sunglasses and a torn hoodie. He looked young like this, vulnerable, more human than the larger-than-life persona suggested.

“You’re going to be fine,” Veer said quietly, knowing Tony couldn’t hear him. “You’ll build the armor, save the world a few times, make Pepper finally admit she loves you back. You’ll be fine.”

He hoped it was true. Hoped that his interference—saving Tony early, changing Ho Yinsen’s fate, killing all those terrorists—hadn’t derailed the timeline too badly. The universe had a way of course-correcting, or so he told himself. The major events would still happen. Tony would still become Iron Man. The Avengers would still form.

Probably.

Veer collapsed onto his own bed, not bothering to undress, too tired to think about flights or retirement plans or anything beyond the immediate relief of horizontal surfaces.

He fell asleep to the sound of Tony’s snoring and the distant hum of Los Angeles traffic, and for the first time since arriving in this world, he didn’t dream of dead terrorists or system notifications or the weight of futures he couldn’t prevent.

He just slept.

And when morning came—with its inevitable hangovers and regrets and the return to complicated reality—at least he’d have this one night to remember. One night where he wasn’t a mercenary or an assassin or a walking mass-casualty event.

Just a friend who’d taken another friend to a sketchy underground fight club and watched him punch people in the face for territorial bar space.

It wasn’t much, in the grand scheme of world-ending plots and cosmic threats and destinies that demanded sacrifice.

But it was something.

And sometimes, something was enough.