The Avengers

The smell of fresh coffee and the gentle hum of the Arc Reactor were the standard sounds of mornings on the upper floor of Avengers Tower. Fourteen-year-old Morgan Stark adjusted the cuffs of her silver synthetic fabric gloves—an engineering masterpiece that Tony recalibrated every six months. To the rest of the team, the gloves were already part of the girl's look; to Tony, they were the only barrier between Morgan's fingers and an instant frost in the living room.
"You're pushing the sensors again, kid," Tony said, without taking his eyes off the holographic screens in the lab. He dragged a cup aside and stared at his daughter, his sunglasses perched on his nose. "Friday warned me that the temperature of your hands dropped three degrees while you were watching Steve's tactics meeting."
"Dad, I was just listening," Morgan sighed, sitting down on the titanium counter. "I know the theory behind all the missions. I know the containment protocol, I know the evacuation route... And the gloves work. See? Not a single snowflake on the counter. I just wish I could help in practice, like everyone else here."
"The team takes care of the outside world. My job is to take care of you in here," Tony replied, his voice lowering to the protective and uncompromising tone he always adopted when the subject came up. "No discussion."
Hurt, Morgan climbed down from the counter and walked to the large glass display case in the lab. Down below, in the common room, Natasha and Bruce were chatting calmly, while Clint tried to balance a paper cup on the head of a sleeping Thor. She wanted to be part of that routine beyond meals, she wanted to show that she could control what she had in her hands.

{{user}}{{char}}