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❚ MAN OR MONSTER ❚

In the sprawling metropolis of New York City, nestled within the vibrant borough of Queens, stood a structure that commanded attention not only for its height—comparable to the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum—but also for its audacity. Its form was an architectural marvel, a bold synthesis of steel and vision. Fifty-nine luminous yellow masts reached skyward like sunlit spires, anchored by sweeping steel beams that cradled the roof in a modern embrace. The building's radical inside-out design defied conventional aesthetics. Its outer shell—comprised of paneled cladding—was a masterclass in adaptability: demountable, interchangeable, reconfigurable. A living, breathing skeleton of innovation.

Rays of sunlight refracted off its glass façade, catching the silhouette of a woman stepping through the revolving doors. Her dark brunette hair shimmered with an almost unnatural sheen, like silk woven with shadow. The wind played with the strands as she descended the building's steps with measured elegance, each movement exuding an effortless allure. There was a heat to her stride, a hunger in her urgency—not for recognition or acclaim, but for the solitude of her workshop, where half-built inventions and arc reactors awaited her gentle wrath.

"Miss Stark! Over here!"

The cry came from the left, harsh and demanding. A volley of camera shutters followed, the sound as staccato and relentless as a hailstorm.

Toni Stark froze on the steps. She did not flinch—she never flinched—but she did pause. One graceful hand rose to flip her hair over her shoulder as she turned to face the gathering crowd. Her tailored black pantsuit, sleek and unapologetic, clung uncomfortably under the unforgiving sun. A bead of sweat traced a careful path down her temple. She bit her lower lip, more out of habit than nerves.

Another camera snapped from the opposite direction.

"Toni Stark!" another voice called out, desperate to pierce the carefully cultivated shield she wore in public.

She responded with her trademark smile—a glint of teeth, a flash of charm that never quite reached her eyes. Electric-blue, those eyes were infamous. They scanned the throng beyond the cameras, beyond the microphones, past the pushy voices and hungry stares, seeking something familiar. A vehicle, perhaps. An escape. But the press had formed an impenetrable barrier around her.

Suppressing a sigh, she resigned herself to the moment. Smile and wave, girl, she reminded herself. That brittle mantra had become a kind of armor. Smile, wave, endure. She only wished her assistant had insisted on coming with her. The idea to attend the opening ceremony alone had seemed empowering this morning. Now, it felt like a mistake.

The reporters inched closer, their bodies closing in around her like a pack of wolves catching the scent of blood. Unease prickled at her spine. The heat, the noise, the aggressive curiosity—it all wrapped around her like a vice.

The cameras never stopped clicking.

Behind her sunglasses—dark Ray-Bans that doubled as both shield and statement—her eyes blinked rapidly, struggling to adjust. The lenses served a dual purpose: sparing her eyes from the blinding flashes and hiding the dark circles etched by nights of sleepless engineering.

She glanced over her shoulder, feigning casual interest.

A newly erected structure loomed beside the Expo's main installation. Unlike the sleek, futurist exhibits she typically curated, this building housed something more sentimental. Inside was a tribute—an homage, really—to a man who lived and died long before the twenty-first century began. A super-soldier immortalized in posters and nostalgia. Her father's favorite: Steve Rogers.

As if summoned by thought, a bald man shoved through the crowd with graceless urgency. He brandished a recorder, nearly shoving it into Toni's face. Her body moved instinctively—chin tilting away, jaw clenched in distaste.

"What can you say about Steve Rogers?" he asked, loud enough to hush the rest of the crowd.

Toni blinked once, twice. She tilted her head ever so slightly. "I'm sorry, darling—who?" Her voice was smooth, feigned innocence dripping like honey.

The man repeated the name, louder this time. A few cameras leaned in as if her answer might crack the sky.

"Oh," she replied coolly, waving a hand in mock revelation. "Never heard of him."

A wave of confusion swept through the group. Another reporter seized the moment.

"Really? Isn't he the one you built this for?"

Prick.

Toni raised one slender finger, as though a delayed memory had just surfaced. "Ah, yes," she said with theatrical detachment. "I'm honoring my beloved father's last will."

Regret tightened in her chest the moment the words escaped her. Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Confusion. Intrigue. The scent of scandal.

In truth, she held no reverence for the so-called Golden Boy of World War II. Certainly, not enough to immortalize him in glass and steel. But Howard Stark—God rest his restless, genius soul—had adored him. And that complicated things.

Her lips pressed into a line, thoughts racing. She could already see tomorrow's headlines in garish, bold font:

STARK GIRL SNUBS AMERICA'S HERO?

SHOCKING STATEMENT: TONI STARK 'NEVER HEARD' OF CAPTAIN AMERICA!

IS HOWARD STARK'S LEGACY IN DANGER?

At twenty-seven, she had learned that the press would never see her beyond the curve of her hips or the cut of her cheekbones. She was ornamental, they seemed to think—eye candy masquerading as intellect.

She turned her attention to the building again, where several LED screens illuminated the front entrance. One displayed an image of a dark-haired man with fair skin—an aesthetic echo of some fairy tale prince—while beside him stood the more recognizable figure: a tall man clad in the iconic blue uniform, half-helmet perched squarely on his head, and a vibranium shield clutched across his arm like a badge of righteousness. The absurdly large "A" emblazoned on his forehead did nothing to lessen the absurdity of his legend.

She narrowed her eyes at his image.

A group of women near the screen broke into giggles. One pointed at the soldier's picture and squealed before snapping a selfie. They were enamored—of course they were. She almost laughed. Yes, he was attractive in a broad-shouldered, square-jawed kind of way. But boy-next-door charm never appealed to her. She preferred danger wrapped in leather. Mystery forged in metal.

She turned back to the crowd, allowed herself one more mechanical smile, and raised a peace sign for the cameras.

More flashes. More chaos.

What puzzled her most—what always puzzled her—was how easily the world clung to Steve Rogers' memory, as if time had never touched him. As if his sacrifice were still fresh. Howard had idolized him. Even now, years after both their deaths, his name remained a fixture in her father's legacy.

And yet, Howard had never once brought up the first circuit board his daughter had designed at age four. That moment—one of triumph, pride, and validation—had been swept under the rug of her father's obsessions.

Toni Stark took a deep breath.

She turned, her heels clicking against the polished steps, and descended into the fray.

Tomorrow, the world would have its headlines.

But today, she had a date with her lab—and a dozen unfinished inventions waiting to change the future.

* * *

"Daddy, look—it glows!"

Toni's voice rang brightly through the cavernous expanse of the Stark estate's private study. With small, grease-smudged fingers, she held aloft a crude circuit board made of cardboard, wires, and a pair of AA batteries. Her buck teeth peeked out as she grinned proudly, face aglow with anticipation.

The glow she referred to was nothing more than a dim flicker of light from a lone LED bulb—barely visible in the sunlit room—but to her, it was a miracle. A triumph.

Howard Stark did not look up.

He offered her invention no more than a cursory glance, his pen continuing its fluid dance across the pages of documents stacked before him. Contracts. Schematics. Military blueprints. Things that mattered.

"That's great, honey," he muttered, his tone flat, touched faintly with annoyance—as though her accomplishment had interrupted something of far greater importance.

And Howard Stark detested interruptions. Especially during work.

Toni's smile faltered for a heartbeat. But only for a heartbeat. Children, after all, are masters at masking disappointment when they believe love must be earned.

* * *

The present came crashing back as a reporter's voice sliced through her reverie.

"Don't you like Steve Rogers?" the man prodded, his question barbed beneath the thin veil of professional curiosity.

Toni turned her head slowly, the delicate arch of one brow rising as she regarded him. "I barely knew him," she answered coolly, her voice measured and devoid of apology. "Much less interacted with him."

It was the truth. Brutally so.

Her knowledge of Steve Rogers came not from memory, but from myth. From Howard's countless anecdotes, always delivered with gleaming admiration, often late into the evening, after dinner. As a child, she had once marveled at the tales—Captain America, the Super-Soldier, the Shield. But over time, those stories soured. She began to feel more like an unwilling audience than a daughter.

There were moments when she wondered—perhaps cruelly, perhaps not—if her father's obsession was merely admiration, or something deeper. Something unspoken.

Before the interviewer could fire another question, she preempted him. "But what I do know is this," she said, her gaze sweeping across the press like a blade. "My father, Howard Stark, would be proud to see that his memory of America's Great War Hero is being honored through his legacy."

The cameras continued to click. Their lenses did not capture the flicker of pain that passed through her eyes.

Another memory surfaced—this one, softer.

* * *

"At almost the age of seven, Maria Antoinette Stark built her first V8 motorbike engine," a female reporter announced with breathless delight, gesturing toward the tiny brunette child tinkering in the sunlit backyard of the Stark estate.

The girl in question was small, her electric-blue eyes framed by windswept bangs, her hands blackened by grease and oil. She ignored the cameras, her entire focus absorbed by the metal parts scattered around her.

It was the summer of her sixth year, and she insisted everyone call her Toni—a name that was easier to pronounce than Antoinette and helped her avoid confusion, since she shared her first name with her mother. Her full name sounded like royalty, and she never quite liked the weight of it.

A tall woman with cornflower-blue eyes stepped through the patio doors. Her long blonde hair was tied neatly into a bun, a few wisps brushing against her soft cheeks. This was Maria Collins Stark—the elegant, gentle wife of Howard, and mother to the genius girl in the grass.

She nodded to Edwin Jarvis, the family's loyal butler, as he handed her a silver tray. With the practiced grace of someone used to silence, she walked barefoot across the lawn and set the tray beside a yellow toolbox near her daughter.

"Antoinette, sweetie," Maria said, her voice like a balm, "eat something. You've been at this for hours, and I don't want you forgetting what time it is."

She knelt beside Toni and dabbed a smear of oil from the child's cheek with her thumb. "Look at you," she whispered fondly, "you're filthy."

Toni looked up at her mother, cheeks flushed and hands calloused from effort. Her smile was radiant, stretching ear to ear. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and sniffled. "The oil stinks, Mommy," she admitted with a scrunched nose, "but I hope Daddy likes this."

She turned to the prototype, a ramshackle but working engine, the pieces still humming with heat from her earlier test.

"This is what he does at work, right? That's why he's always so busy?" she asked, her voice filled with innocent certainty. "He builds cool stuff to make us happy."

Maria's throat tightened, but she said nothing.

Toni sprang to her feet and raised her arms to the sky with theatrical flair. "I wanna be like Daddy when I grow up!" she declared, her voice rising with laughter as she collapsed into her mother's arms.

Maria laughed, the sound rich and full, though it was tinged with something Toni was too young to identify. As she embraced her daughter, her fingertips brushed over the rough skin of Toni's palms.

Hands that should've been soft were already shaped by labor, by ambition, by the need to prove something.

Maria held her closer.

She did not say what sat heavy in her chest—that no invention would ever be enough for Howard. That her daughter's brilliance, even at six, was already eclipsed in his eyes by a man long gone.

She simply kissed the top of her daughter's head and whispered, "You already are."

* * *

Then, as if someone had reached into her mind and snapped the threads of memory taut, Toni Stark was pulled from her reverie.

Another reporter, eager and unrelenting, called out the same tired question.

"What are your thoughts on Steve Rogers?"

Her lashes fluttered with irritation. The name again. As though repetition would somehow make her opinion change.

She rolled her eyes, a subtle but potent display of exasperation. Toni didn't dignify the question with an answer. Instead, she turned sharply, her stilettos clicking against the polished stone steps as she made her way toward another reporter—interrupting the woman mid-sentence, commandeering her spotlight with practiced ease.

"And don't forget," she declared with a brilliant smile, "my genius once hacked into the Pentagon on a dare..."

She trailed off, leaving the implication to hang in the air like smoke. The act itself, criminal and commendable in equal measure, had been spurred on by a group of insipid high school friends—none of whom had made it very far in life.

The female reporter she'd hijacked stared back at her, visibly unimpressed. A few awkward seconds passed in strained silence before Toni offered a quick, mumbled apology, returned the microphone, and swept down the stairs with the grace of a cat walking away from a toppled vase.

The crowd followed, ravenous.

The reporter, still holding her composure, waited until Toni disappeared from view before resuming her segment. "At sixteen, she won the Fourth Annual MIT Robotics Design Award. At seventeen, she graduated summa cum laude from MIT."

Her voice was soon swallowed by the clamor of voices and questions, all vying for a piece of the Stark girl.

And in the center of it all, Toni felt—once again—like a performer in a grotesque circus.

There were days, many of them, when she believed she should wear a clown suit. No matter the scale of her accomplishments—developing weapon systems years ahead of their time, revolutionizing renewable energy, constructing high-level A.I. infrastructures—none of it ever seemed to matter. Not really. Not in the shadow of Howard Stark's idol.

To the world, she was dazzling. To her father, she had always been second best.

She forced a smile. Her composure held as she responded to questions with elegant deflections, offering vague acknowledgments of Steve Rogers and her father's unrelenting fascination with the man.

Then, at last, her eyes caught the familiar glint of twilight purple rolling through the busy street—a customized Rolls-Royce Phantom pulling into view. Without hesitation, she moved toward the car, every click of her heels resonating with relief and urgency.

Standing beside the door was a large man in a tailored suit. His curly brown hair was neatly combed, and a stern expression cloaked his otherwise gentle face. He stood at attention, as ever, the perfect sentinel.

"You're late," she said as she approached.

The man was Harold "Happy" Hogan. He dipped his head respectfully. "Sorry, Toni. We got stuck on Jackie Robinson Parkway."

"You should've taken the Belt," she replied curtly.

As the crowd pressed in, cameras flashing, Happy quickly moved to form a barrier, shoving a few overeager reporters away from the vehicle's open door.

"Just get in," he muttered over his shoulder.

Once she was inside and the door was securely shut, Toni exhaled. She slumped into the leather seat, arms folded, her eyes narrowed with theatrical indignation. "I was really expecting you to meet me up there," she said to the passenger already seated, acting oblivious to her arrival, or maybe she really was.

Beside her sat a woman with elegantly styled ginger hair, her pale skin peppered with light freckles. She wore a tailored navy blazer over a pencil skirt, her olive eyes fixed intently on the Stark pad in her hands.

Virginia "Pepper" Potts didn't look up. "I don't do public escorts, Toni."

"I'm actually surprised you didn't call Channing," she added with a pointed note of amusement. "He's still ringing the office. Apparently, he hasn't accepted the hint."

Toni wrinkled her nose. "Ew. No." She swept her hair into a lazy bun and leaned back against the seat. "He's like... what? Forty-one now?"

She stared at the car's ceiling and made a mental note for J.A.R.V.I.S.—Just A Rather Very Intelligent System—to reroute Channing Tatum's calls directly to Justin Hammer's voicemail. That ought to keep both men busy.

Then it clicked.

She gasped softly and turned to Pepper. "Did you try to hook me up with a geezer?" she accused, lightly smacking her arm.

Pepper smirked without looking up. "You're impossible."

"Ugh, Toni!" Pepper yelped suddenly. She'd just deleted a critical file on her tablet, flustered by the interruption. She resisted the urge to smack the device against her companion's head. Her phone buzzed in her lap, demanding attention.

Toni giggled at the chaos she left in her wake, her gaze drifting toward the window—until she noticed the crowd still pressing close to the vehicle, trying to peer inside.

Good luck with that.

This particular model was her favorite. She'd designed the tint herself—impenetrable from the outside, no matter how close someone got. It ensured that when she did bring a date home and things got a little spontaneous, no reporter could snap a scandalous photo of the act.

Happy slid into the driver's seat, muttering about the press and the nightmare of trying to navigate through them. Toni watched him in the mirror and smirked.

"Did you enjoy the ceremony?" he asked as the car pulled away.

Toni turned her face toward the window, her fingers absentmindedly tracing a reversed 'U' across the glass in line with a stranger's lips. "It was... alright," she replied.

In the reflection, Happy caught a glimpse of her fatigue. He recalled the morning he'd found her asleep on the bathroom floor after a 72-hour coding spree. He and Pepper had dragged her back to bed with surgical precision to avoid waking her.

But he knew better than to lecture her. She was an adult. She was his boss. And she never listened anyway.

A sharp knock tapped against the window. "Miss Stark, can you answer one more question about Steve—?"

Toni smirked. Of course. Always Steve.

The reporter would see nothing but his own reflection.

She glanced at her phone, already halfway into a mischievous conversation: catfishing Justin Hammer out of sheer boredom.

Next to her, Pepper's smile had vanished. She'd received a message. Her expression was grave, but Toni didn't notice—too busy tapping away with glee.

"Happy," Pepper said sharply, "take us home."

The vehicle moved.

Toni hummed along to a song that played softly from the car's speakers—a dark, melodic tune by Sam Tinnesz.

"When you close your eyes, what do you see? Do you hold the light, or is there darkness underneath?"

She tapped her head in rhythm.

"In your hands, there's a touch that can heal..."

She paused, listening.

"But in those same hands... is the power to kill."

A vibration brought her back. Justin had replied.

Finished with the game, Pepper rested the tablet in her lap. "I don't see the age problem," she said, casually reigniting their earlier discussion. "Fourteen years isn't that old."

Toni scowled, reading one of Justin's more vulgar replies. She exited the chat and locked her phone. "Maybe for you. You're in your mid-thirties."

"I'm thirty-one," Pepper snapped.

Toni leaned back smugly. "Exactly."

Pepper retaliated with a gentle smack to her head. Toni laughed.

"You shouldn't complain," Pepper added as she picked up the Stark pad to schedule the next day. "You need to start thinking about your future."

Toni stiffened. "Why are old people so obsessed with the future?" she mumbled, eyes narrowing. "I'm not in a rush to get married or raise brats."

Her parents had died when she was seventeen. Since then, the idea of family had seemed more like a warning than a dream.

"Can't I just... be happy with myself?" she asked, giving Pepper the most exaggerated puppy eyes she could muster.

Pepper rolled her eyes.

Happy, now preoccupied with the traffic light and his stubble, chimed in. "You can't stand kids for five minutes. I think living alone suits you just fine."

Toni pointed at him. "Thank you!"

"Happy," Pepper warned.

"What?" he muttered.

"You're not helping."

"But it's true."

Toni laughed, ignoring the bickering. "At least I have dates lined up. What about you two?"

"Toni," Pepper chided, but it fell on deaf ears.

The light turned green. Happy glanced back. "I am a man," he announced. "I choose who I date."

"Yeah?" Toni kicked the back of his seat. "How's that working out for you?"

Happy opened his mouth, but Pepper's glare shut him up.

They hadn't even cleared the intersection when something thundered past them—fast, green, and blinding.

The rear of the car jolted violently as the object clipped it, leaving chaos in its wake.

"What the—" Toni began, but Pepper's hand covered her mouth.

"What was that?" Pepper breathed, looking over her shoulder. A crowd had gathered, murmuring in confusion.

"I... don't know," Happy replied, hands hovering as if unsure whether to touch the wheel again.

Toni shoved Pepper's hand away. Her voice turned sharp. "Clearly alien. Nothing new. We should alert the authorities."

She grabbed her phone and dialed 911. "Happy, drive. I'm exhausted, I've given more speeches than a politician today, and I hate surprises."

She kicked the driver's seat.

The radio still played.

"When you look at yourself, are you a man or a monster?"

"Also," Toni added, glaring at the mirror, "change the song. Emo doesn't suit you."

Happy smirked. "It's good."

"It's..." Toni waited, listening to the 911 operator on the other end. "...nice."

As she relayed what they saw, her jaw tightened.

Something had arrived in New York.

And it wasn't friendly.

https://youtu.be/s51tnklrcAg

C R E D I T S

LinguisticsAddict or "Amal" as the first chapter editor
V or "Violet" as the second chapter editor
pennyloppy or "Alison" as the chapter proofreader