In Queens, New York, a gray Toyota Corolla was stuck in traffic on the Van Wyck Expressway.
Inside, a little girl with pigtails leaned against the window, gazing listlessly at the gray sky outside. The driver was a white woman in her early thirties, currently asking her boss for time off over a Bluetooth headset, her voice full of exhaustion.
"Mommy, traffic is so boring."
"Sweetie, Mommy's on the phone."
"I want to watch cartoons."
"The phone's dead."
"Then I'll watch the clouds for a while."
The little girl pressed her face back against the glass and started counting the few scattered clouds in the sky. One, two, three-
Then she saw a black shape. Looking closer, she realized it was a person. He was flying. Really flying!
The man flew toward her from the distance, wearing an Arab robe, a gaudy square scarf covering his face, sunglasses perched on his nose, and a head of brown hair. He carried a flag over his right shoulder. The pole was a mop handle, the flag an old bedsheet, with eight crooked Chinese characters painted across it in red: "Uphold heaven's justice, rob the rich to help the poor." Beneath them was a line of smaller, even more distorted writing, though it was still barely legible: "Advertising space available."
The little girl's eyes lit up. She sprang out of her seat, pointing her little finger out the window, her voice shrill enough to shatter the glass. "Mommy! Superman! Mommy, look! Superman's flying!"
The woman's shout nearly made her throw her phone. She hastily told her boss, "I'll call you back," removed her headset, and looked out the window in the direction her daughter was pointing. She saw a masked, burly man in an Arab robe, carrying a flag, fly past less than twenty meters above her car.
The woman's expression made three leaps in rapid succession-from "My daughter's acting up again" to "What the hell is that?" to "Oh God, that's a terrorist! A flying terrorist!"
She shoved her daughter's head down with one hand and slammed the window lock with the other, her voice trembling. "Sweetie, don't look, duck! That's not Superman, that's a bad man, a bad man!"
"But he's wearing a cape-"
"That's not a cape! That's a robe! A robe bad men wear!"
"Then what does his flag say?"
"Mommy can't read it! Mommy can't read that language!"
Despite her mother's hand pushing her head down, the little girl stubbornly turned and continued peering outside through the gaps between her fingers. The man flying through the sky seemed to notice her gaze. He glanced down at her and freed his left hand to wave.
The little girl grinned and waved back.
The white woman nearly went into cardiac arrest on the spot. She floored the accelerator, forcing the Corolla a car length forward through the jammed traffic, drawing a chorus of horns and friendly greetings from the surrounding cars. A mother's distraught roar could faintly be heard from inside. "Don't wave at him! What did Mommy teach you? Don't interact with terrorists!"
Up in the sky, Lin Xiao lowered his hand, a little unhappy.
"Doupao, she said I'm a bad man. Do I look like a bad man?"
"Ding-Host's current attire: face covered with an Arab scarf, eyes concealed by sunglasses, brown afro, loose robe, and one homemade flag carried over the shoulder, with distorted, sloppy lettering. Overall assessment: approximately 87.3 percent overlap with the terrorist image held by Western rednecks."
"They just don't get it." Lin Xiao shifted the flag to his other shoulder and adjusted his flying posture. "This outfit was hard currency in Afghanistan. Those tribal elders took out their wallets the moment they saw me."
"Ding-Those tribal elders only took out their wallets after you beat them to the ground."
"Those were tuition fees," Lin Xiao corrected. "Moral and legal education, reasonably priced. You wouldn't understand."
Putting on this classic "Super Earthling" skin again had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. He was going to do a good deed anyway, so why hide? He couldn't expose his S.H.I.E.L.D. identity for now, but this alternate identity was perfect. Apart from Tony and the people at S.H.I.E.L.D., who knew who he was? He could even squeeze in some advertising after doing his good deed. Perfect! He had hastily added the words "Advertising space available" to the flag. Who wouldn't want a future superhero endorsing their products?
What he didn't know was that, in the mere three minutes he spent flying over the Van Wyck Expressway, the New York Police Department's emergency lines had already been flooded. Seventeen calls, all reporting essentially the same thing: a flying Arab was parading over Queens, carrying a flag bearing suspected terrorist slogans and waving to minors along the road.
When the dispatcher passed this information to the counterterrorism department, the supervisor on duty fell silent for a long while before speaking. "Are you sure this isn't some lunatic who wandered out of a comic convention?"
"Not sure, but he really is flying."
"...Fine. Notify S.H.I.E.L.D."
The Triskelion, the director's office.
Nick Fury sat behind his desk. The screen in front of him was playing live satellite footage. The image was blurry, but the contents were clear: a masked, burly man in an Arab robe was flying over Queens with a flag over his shoulder, his posture relaxed and his speed considerable. As he flew past, he even looked down and waved at the camera.
The office stayed quiet for about three seconds.
Fury shifted his gaze from the screen to Coulson and Hill, who stood before his desk. His lone eye was wider than usual, and his face was several shades darker.
"That's Lin Xiao," Fury said, slapping the desk.
Coulson opened his mouth, hoping to offer some diplomatic words to ease the atmosphere, but wisely closed it after seeing Fury's expression.
"That's fucking definitely Lin Xiao!" Fury repeated through clenched teeth. He pressed the communications button on his desk and dialed Lin Xiao's number.
A busy signal.
He dialed again.
Still busy.
Fury narrowed his lone eye. He placed the phone on the desk, switched on the speaker, and dialed once more. Busy. He glanced at the masked, burly Arab still flying across the screen. The man hadn't touched a phone the entire time. He wasn't talking to anyone at all.
Fury was silent for several seconds, then hurled the phone onto the floor and slammed the desk, swearing:
"Motherfucker."
The corner of Coulson's mouth twitched ever so slightly. Beside him, Hill simply turned her face away, her shoulders giving a suspicious shake.
Fury missed these details. He leaned back in his chair and took three deep breaths.
Truthfully, he had originally intended to commend Lin Xiao.
Just yesterday, two letters of thanks had arrived on his desk. One came from New York Police Department Commissioner George Stacy. It began with heartfelt thanks for the assistance provided by an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. during the incident at the docks, then spent two entire paragraphs describing the agent's behavior of "collecting bottles" near the crime scene. It tactfully asked whether S.H.I.E.L.D.'s internal training included environmental education, adding that, if relevant course materials were available, the New York Police Department would like to learn from them.
Fury's brow had throbbed several times as he read that passage. He had someone review that night's satellite surveillance to track Lin Xiao's movements. It turned out the bastard had emerged from the direction of Obadiah's mansion carrying an enormous backpack, then vanished midway, mysteriously disappearing beneath the satellites. When he finally reappeared, he was with Tony again and had changed into a suit before the police arrived. What the backpack contained went without saying. Collecting bottles? Did he think the director was a three-year-old he could fool?
The second thank-you letter had been written by Tony Stark himself. More precisely, it read less like a thank-you letter and more like an enthusiastic letter of recommendation. Tony had used twelve adjectives to praise Lin Xiao's "bravery," "loyalty," and "reliability," without once mentioning S.H.I.E.L.D.'s chain of command. The entire letter sang the praises of Lin Xiao's personal abilities, with only a passing mention that "an organization capable of cultivating such an outstanding agent must surely be outstanding as well."
The wording was polite, but after reading it, Fury couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. The subtext was probably: Lin Xiao is my guy. You at S.H.I.E.L.D. are basking in his reflected glory, so don't forget your place.
Still, whatever else might be said, the two letters had indeed made S.H.I.E.L.D. look good in front of the military and Stark Industries. Fury had planned to summon Lin Xiao today, give him a few words of praise, then rein him in a little and make sure he at least knew to report in before taking action.
Well, so much for that.
Words of praise? The brat was flying around carrying a homemade flag, putting on a piece of performance art, while countless citizens reported him as a terrorist. Rein him in? He had blocked Fury. The director of S.H.I.E.L.D. himself couldn't reach his own subordinate.
The muscles in Fury's face twitched. He sat upright again, folded his hands on the desk, and began issuing orders in an extremely calm voice.
"Notify Finance. Lin Xiao has been late ten times this month and has acted without authorization or reporting in. Dock his entire bonus for the month."
Coulson opened his mouth, intending to offer some pretty words about how Lin Xiao deserved credit for his effort, if not his achievements, but instinctively shut it upon seeing Nick's increasingly dark expression.
"Coulson." Fury turned his lone eye toward him. "This is the man you recruited. What was it you wrote in his interview report? Mild-mannered and a good communicator?"
Coulson's expression didn't change, his voice as steady as though he were giving a briefing. "Director, you were in the surveillance room during the interview too. Your words were-keep him settled for now and see what his terms are."
The office fell silent for a moment.
"I wanted you to observe him, not worship him like some treasure."
"Director, just last month you said he was worth prioritizing for development."
"Enough." Fury raised a hand to cut him off and turned to Hill. "Hill, initiate media control procedures immediately. Suppress every video and post about the 'flying Arab' online. Coordinate with the New York Police Department and get our stories straight. Say it was a performance artist playing a prank with a jetpack, and that he's already been given a warning."
"Yes, sir." Hill nodded and turned to leave.
"One more thing," Fury called after her. "You're the deputy director. Keeping new recruits' thinking on track is part of your job."
Hill paused. She turned back and replied in an exceptionally professional tone, "Director, that requires the other party to be willing to speak to you. As far as I know, Agent Lin Xiao currently won't even answer your calls."
Fury's lone eye widened further. Before he could erupt, Natasha pushed open the door and walked in.
"Perfect timing." Fury turned his fire on her. "Lin Xiao is the agent under your supervision. You're fully responsible. Go find out right now why he can fly. Has Tony Stark slipped him some more ridiculous equipment? What does 'Advertising space available' on his flag mean? And just what the hell is he trying to do?"
Natasha folded her arms, her expression cool. After Fury finished, she merely tilted her head slightly. "Director, I have no problem going to find him. But you just docked a month's bonus. Are you sure you want me going now, considering what might happen if he finds out?"
"That's your problem. Go, now!"
Natasha's expression darkened too, but she still withdrew without a word. I'll remember this. Lin Xiao, just you wait!
The office fell quiet again. Fury leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, the vein on his forehead still bulging. Coulson and Hill stood where they were, exchanging looks and tacitly maintaining their silence.
About ten seconds later, Fury opened his eyes again, picked up the encrypted phone on his desk, and dialed a number.
"Barton." Once the call connected, Fury's voice returned to its usual low, steady tone. "How much do you know about Lin Xiao? Did you seriously consider what you wrote in his evaluation?"
On the other end, Hawkeye fell silent for two seconds.
"...Director, I'm on vacation."
"I know you're on vacation."
"I'm in Hawaii."
"I know you're in Hawaii."
"Reception's bad. Talk later." Hawkeye hung up at lightning speed.
Fury stared at the phone in his hand, listening to the busy signal, his expression quite a sight.
Coulson finally couldn't help asking cautiously, "Director, what did Agent Barton write in Lin Xiao's evaluation report last time?"
Fury set down the receiver and was silent for several seconds.
"It was all praise," Fury said, a trace of exhaustion in his voice. "An A-plus rating, with an additional note: deeply loyal and devoted to his friends. I thought something was wrong even then-with that mouth of Barton's, when has he ever praised someone like that?"
He didn't continue. Coulson didn't ask any further questions either. Both reached the same conclusion in their minds: Hawkeye had probably been won over by Lin Xiao long ago. The method remained unknown.
Meanwhile, at Midtown High School.
Scar-Eye huddled behind a row of bent metal frames at the edge of the school field, wishing he could burrow into the ground.
He was in a very awkward position.
His boss had sent him to obtain Dr. Curt Connors's Lizard Serum formula. The plan had been perfect: infiltrate the lab, copy the data, blow up all the backups while he was at it, and get out clean. But at the last moment, that old lunatic Connors had plunged the only finished dose of serum straight into his own arm.
His missing limb had regenerated, but he had also turned into a three-meter-tall giant green lizard.
Scar-Eye had watched helplessly as Connors-no, he ought to call him Lizard now-smashed a huge hole in the lab's blast-resistant wall with one slap, then roared and charged into the classroom building.
Screams followed! Then the crashing and banging of things being smashed!
Scar-Eye was certain this had gotten out of hand.
He huddled behind the metal frames and began working out an escape route. Just then, he noticed a strange kid.
The kid was hiding behind a flower bed opposite him. He looked like an ordinary high school student, skinny as a bamboo pole. But something was wrong with the sand on the ground around him. It was slowly flowing toward Lizard.
Scar-Eye rubbed his eyes. He hadn't imagined it. The sand was moving on its own. Grains curled up from the edge of the lawn as though alive, creeping up Lizard's ankles and trying to bind his legs. Though Lizard scattered it with nothing more than a shake of his legs, the sand was definitely moving.
Scar-Eye narrowed his eyes. A mutant? Whatever he is, the boss needs to know.
He raised his phone and took a photo of the boy. Just then, a white figure descended from the sky.
It was someone in a white, skintight combat suit, slender, with a few strands of hair sticking out from the edge of her hood and a white spider-patterned mask covering her face. She leaped down from three stories up and kicked Lizard in the face, knocking the three-meter-tall monster back two steps.
"Hey! Big guy!" Her voice was deliberately lowered into a rasp, but it couldn't conceal the clear tone beneath. "Wrecking the school isn't what good students do! Do you know how much that kick is going to cost the school in repairs?"
Lizard shook his head, let out a low roar, and lunged at her. The girl in the white bodysuit dodged sideways, caught a broken steel pipe frame overhead, and used it to flip through the air. She planted both feet on Lizard's back, pressing him down half an inch.
"Whoa, whoa-calm down, I'm doing this for your own good. Keep this up, and someone's going to come give you a lesson in morals and the law!"
Watching the girl who had descended from the sky, Scar-Eye felt an intense wave of déjà vu, but couldn't for the life of him remember where he had seen her.
Forget it. Report first.
He dialed his boss's number and had just raised the phone to his ear, not yet managing to speak, when something else fell from the sky.
No, it wasn't falling. It was flying down.
A masked, burly man in an Arab robe descended from the sky with a flag over his shoulder, landing in the middle of the field and stamping two deep footprints into the ground. The flag in his hand fluttered in the wind, its eight large Chinese characters especially glaring in the sunlight: "Uphold heaven's justice, rob the rich to help the poor." Below them was a line of smaller writing. Scar-Eye squinted at it for a long while before recognizing it as Arabic: "Advertising space available."