The first sunrise of 2011 was a soft, pale orange that struggled to break through the heavy overcast sky. Inside his room, Leander slowly opened his eyes, feeling the familiar hum of energy receding. In his palm, the seventh and final Vibranium Maker II reactor he had been using for his New Year's training was completely spent, its internal structure collapsed into a dull, gray slag.
With a lazy flick of his wrist, the remaining metal from the dead reactor, along with the scraps of the previous seven he had consumed over the week, swirled into the air. Under his mental command, the atoms rearranged themselves, merging and hardening until they formed a perfect, triangular model of a Mark VI chest piece.
He stood up and placed it on the shelf of his small cabinet. The cabinet was getting crowded now—dozens of miniature models of Iron Man suits, vibranium weapons, and even the small bust of Bruce Banner he had made in India. Each one represented a milestone in his control over the metal.
Thump, thump.
The bedroom door flew open, and Peter's head popped in, his eyes bright and his cheeks still flushed from sleep. "Leo! Wake up! The snowplows finally finished the main street. Everyone is outside building snowmen. It's like a movie out there! Come on, let's go before it all melts!"
Peter looked like a completely different person from the grieving boy on the balcony the night before. His spirit was resilient, a trait Leander knew would serve him well in the years to come.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," Leander laughed, grabbing a thick jacket.
Stepping outside was like walking into a postcard. The air was crisp and biting, and the world was muffled by a thick blanket of white. Two massive snowplows were chugging down the main road, their yellow lights flashing against the snow. Neighbors were out in force, the rhythmic scrape-scrape of shovels providing the morning's soundtrack.
Uncle George was already halfway through the driveway, leaning on his shovel and waving as they stepped out. Peter didn't wait; he immediately sprinted to a corner where the snow had drifted high, his small hands already busy packing a base.
Leander leaned against the porch railing and pulled out his new Stark Phone. The screen lit up with a flood of notifications.
'Happy New Year, Leander. You should really drop by Malibu more often. Tony's been… moody. I think he's actually more productive when you're around to challenge his ego. Best wishes for the year. --Pepper.'
'Leander, the mission was a success. The Director is pleased, and I'm just happy to be back in a climate that doesn't freeze my ears off. Happy New Year. --Phil Coulson.'
'Happy New Year, kid. Stay out of trouble. Or don't. It makes for better stories. --Natasha.'
He scrolled down to find a long message from Darcy Lewis. 'Hey, Leo! Didn't think you were the "texting" type. Happy New Year! I'm currently stuck in Colorado. Jane is driving me insane—she's obsessed with finding a way to track "atmospheric anomalies," which is just science-speak for "where did my hot thunder god go?" She probably hasn't seen your text yet. Also, Dr. Erik got head-hunted by some big-shot government agency. Any idea what's going on? --Darcy.'
There were short, professional notes from Dr. Erik Selvig asking about Thor's hammer, and a surprisingly prompt one-word reply from Dr. Banner: 'Happy.'
Leander chuckled as he began typing out replies, his thumbs moving in a blur. But as he scrolled, he noticed a glaring absence. No text from Tony.
"Strange," Leander muttered. "The man lives on his phone. Maybe he's actually sleeping for once."
While New York played in the snow, a different kind of awakening was happening in the Gobi Desert.
Deep beneath the parched earth, in a secret military facility that didn't exist on any map, the New Year's celebrations were strictly functional. The high-ranking officers were away, and the skeleton crew of guards was gathered in the cafeteria, distracted by a rare meal of steak and real potatoes.
The same guard from the night before was walking the "Freak Row"—the high-security wing housing the military's failed experiments. He passed the cells of men with oversized, distorted limbs and others who had lost their minds to botched serum injections.
He stopped in front of the innermost cell, a reinforced chamber of leaded glass and tungsten steel. Inside, Emil Blonsky remained suspended, his head bowed, his body looking gaunt and withered under the harsh fluorescent lights.
"Still hanging in there, wretch?" the guard asked, his voice echoing in the sterile hallway. He had heard the rumors—Blonsky was a hero once, a captain who had volunteered for the serum. Now he was just a specimen, a project General Ross had discarded after the Harlem disaster.
Blonsky's head twitched. He slowly looked up, his bloodshot eyes locking onto the guard's face. He opened his mouth, revealing a row of jagged, bone-white teeth that seemed to have grown overnight.
"You're... the wretch," Blonsky rasped. His voice sounded like grinding stones.
"What was that?" The guard leaned in, pressing his face against the cold, bulletproof glass. "You want to say that again, freak?"
"You... are... nothing," Blonsky whispered.
Suddenly, the air in the hallway seemed to vibrate. Blonsky's body didn't just move; it erupted. His muscles swelled with a violent, sickening wet sound, expanding so rapidly they tore through his skin. The steel restraints—tested to hold ten tons—snapped like brittle twigs.
The bone spikes on his spine lengthened, stabbing into the metal pillar behind him and tearing through the structure. In a matter of seconds, the withered man had vanished, replaced by a yellowish-brown, four-meter-tall titan of pure, unadulterated hatred.
The guard's jaw dropped. His knees gave out, and he collapsed onto the floor, his rifle clattering away. "No... no, oh my god! HELP! HE'S OUT!"
The Abomination didn't roar. He just smiled, a terrifyingly human expression on a monstrous face. He stepped forward, his massive weight causing the reinforced floor to buckle and groan. He didn't use the door; he simply walked through the wall, the leaded glass shattering into a million shimmering diamonds.
A huge, clawed hand reached out and plucked the screaming guard off the floor as if he were a rag doll.
"Wretch," Blonsky growled.
He closed his fist. There was a sickening crunch, and the screaming stopped.
Blonsky dropped the mangled remains and looked at the hallway leading toward the surface. He could smell the fear of the soldiers in the cafeteria. He could feel the power surging through his mutated veins, stronger than it had ever been in Harlem.
"Ross... I'm coming for you," the monster hissed. "And I'm going to find that kid."
With a single leap, he shattered the ceiling, his massive form tearing through the desert sand and into the blinding sunlight of the New Year.
Back in Queens, the "monster" was the furthest thing from Leander's mind. He was currently busy helping Peter attach a carrot nose to a snowman that was nearly six feet tall.
"Perfect!" Peter cheered, wiping his cold-reddened hands on his jacket. "It looks just like a real person. Leo, take a picture! I want to show Aunt May!"
"Stand back, Pete. Give me your best 'hero' pose," Leander said, raising his phone.
"Wait! Let's get someone to take one of both of us!" Peter looked around and spotted a chubby boy standing on the sidewalk, watching them with a mix of curiosity and shyness. The boy looked to be about Peter's age, with dark hair and a friendly, round face.
"Hey! You! Can you help us out?" Peter called out.
The boy startled, then pointed to himself. "Me?"
"Yeah! Just one photo!"
The boy walked over, looking a bit timid. "Sure. I can do that." He took the phone from Leander with practiced care. He stepped back, framing the shot like a professional. "Okay, on three! One... two... three!"
Flash.
"Thanks, man," Leander said, taking the phone back. He looked at the boy and felt a strange sense of familiarity. "You're new around here, aren't you?"
"Yeah," the boy said, sticking his hands in his pockets. "My name is Ned. Ned Leeds. My family just moved from Brooklyn yesterday. I was just... exploring. It's a lot quieter here."
Leander blinked. Ned Leeds. The "Guy in the Chair." The future best friend of Spider-Man was standing right in front of him, three years early.
"I'm Leander, but everyone calls me Leo. And this is Peter," Leander said, gesturing to the grinning kid beside him. "So, Ned, you starting school here on Monday?"
"Yeah. Sixth grade at the elementary school down the block," Ned said, his eyes lighting up. "Do you guys go there?"
"I do!" Peter shouted, stepping forward. "I'm in fourth grade, but I know all the best places to hide in the library. We can walk together if you want!"
Leander watched as the two boys immediately fell into a conversation about Star Wars and LEGOs. It was a fixed point in time, a friendship that was destined to happen, and seeing it start so naturally brought a smile to his face.
Suddenly, his phone vibrated in his pocket. It wasn't a text this time. It was a direct call from a private number.
He stepped away from the boys and answered. "Tony? Everything okay?"
Tony Stark's voice came through, but it wasn't the usual confident drawl. He sounded sharp, focused, and uncharacteristically grim.
"Leo, skip the New Year's pleasantries. Do u have the time to come over?"