"Today we are crushed by the sheer weight

of the mechanized forces hurled against us,

but we can still look to the future in which

even greater mechanized forces will bring us victory.

Therein lies the destiny of the world."

- Charles de Gaulle

media:

"Concerto for Orchestra: Finale"

by Bela Bartok
blend by eosophobic

Casablanca, Morocco; October 15, 1941

The refugee train to through Europe terminated in Casablanca. From Paris to Marseilles to the shores of Morocco, the downtrodden masses filled the city until it couldn't hold any more, spilling over the sides in a tide of hopelessness and despair that threatened to choke out the life of the city. Portugal promised freedom, but visas were as rare as diamonds to the godforsaken hordes, and so godforsaken hordes they remained, cluttering the already cluttered city until it was full to bursting. Real pleasant.

People in the city were equally interesting: Nazis and the ones who were running from them, crooks and resistance fighters, the odds and ends of Europe tossed together in one large melting pot. A melting pot that reeked, Tony might add.

The streets of Casablanca were nothing like those of London or even New York. Narrow alleyways that could hardly fit Tony's shoulders ended abruptly, draped with the still-wet laundry of a Moroccan housewife, and the cobbled streets looked like they hadn't been paved since the fifth century. The broader lanes were packed with masses of sweating merchants balancing their wares on their heads, rickety stalls boasting pungent spices, and irked soldiers from every country imaginable.

There were more than a few Germans in the mix, failing miserably to look incognito – since the Reuben James had struck a deal with the Vichy government and was docking far from the main port, Hitler's men wouldn't be tipped off for their arrival. It had taken the sailors two full days to paint over the ship's identifying numbers, and the barracks had reeked afterward.

Clint and the sailors were under strict orders to remain on the ship, but shore leave was granted to officers with a laundry list of regulations. Dress in civilian clothes at all times, leave anything befitting their duties on the ship, follow elaborate plans to report back to the Reuben James without alerting anyone of their true intentions... Most of the sailors had elected to sit around the deck and play cards for the duration of the docking, but Tony had donned a suit and tie and fled the ship as quickly as he could.

As he put on a pair of wide-framed sunglasses, Tony wondered if his decision had been too rash. Trying to find a pay phone in the damned town had been as colossal an effort as getting Steve to drink, or smoke, or do anything remotely entertaining. Neither had come to fruition yet, and Tony was tiring of the humid heat pressing down on his shoulders and the constant jostling of sharp-elbowed citizens.

An English cafe beckoned to him from the side of the street, and he dodged the wide bumper of a dusty truck to reach the sidewalk. The blaring car horn followed him through the doors and into the marginal cool of the shade. The cafe's drab exterior matched its mood perfectly: a few dreary-looking Englishmen sipped watery tea and flipped through the Times, flies buzzed about the flickering lightbulbs, and the whitewashed walls had aged to a sickly yellow. Every newspaper Tony spied had the grainy images of Steve shooting down German planes plastered across their pages, a sort of running mystery. A dark-skinned waitress looked up from toweling off a greasy table and cast him a bored look.

"Can I 'elp you?" she asked in broken English, tossing the towel over her shoulder.

"Yeah, do you have a phone?" Tony smiled and tilted his hat in her direction. The fine silk suit he had picked up in London (on Howard's tab, of course) was distinctly out of place in the town of Casablanca, and the waitress didn't seem impressed. She huffed and pointed to a sheltered corner, where the blue emblem of a telephone was painted in rough strokes on the wall.

Tony thanked her and hurried to the phone, fishing through his pocket for change and Dasch's most recent contact number. His fingers brushed against the parcel in his suit pocket and he rolled his shoulders back, feeling the lighter weight of the package pull on the fabric of his jacket. Being apart from any of his designs was torture, and sending them off in London without being detected was trouble enough. Dasch had better have good things to say this time around.

Taking in a short breath, Tony punched in the numbers Dasch had relayed to him and cradled the handle of the phone on his shoulder. The line connected on the first ring.

"Dasch."

"This is Tony Stark. You wanted me to call you at this time?"

"I wanted you to call me thirty-seven minutes ago. Tell me, is the U.S.S. Reuben James lacking timepieces? Or are you adjusting to a time change in Casablanca?"

Tony closed his eyes, forcing his emotions back as he gripped the parcel in his suit jacket. Dasch was always one step ahead of him, of course. Just like another Howard. "Sorry, traffic was a nightmare. Are we to proceed?"

"Yes. I have shown your plans to members of Uranverein and Gestapo, and both expressed interest."

"They did? That's great!" Tony let out a sigh of relief, but Dasch's clipped tone muffled any elation he was feeling at the moment.

"Not so fast, my friend. This is a mutual agreement, is it not? And I need some information from you before we are to proceed."

Tony scowled and pressed his palm against the wall, wishing for nothing more than to sock the sleazy German across the jaw. What sort of bargain was this? He sent his designs to the Germans, knowing full well they could simply copy them and put his machines into action, and now Dasch was demanding more from him? "Fine. What do you want?"

"The German High Command is planning a mission that will deliver a handful of troops on American soil. We need to know where an optimum location for our landing site is."

Howard's words thundered in Tony's head. Treason. "Why do you need to get to the States? What are you going to do?"

Tony could hear Dasch's sneer from the other side of the line. "That I cannot tell you on a public line. I am tired of these questions. Where can we land without being spotted?"

Panic crawled up Tony's throat as a thousand thoughts darted through his mind. "I-I don't know! I'd need at least a day to collect data, tap into some signals and get maps to plan out the landing site. You can't just ask me where to land on a whim!"

"Are you not the boy who can find out any military secret with a radio? Or was that another one of your lies? I will ask you one more time, or I will ask you no longer. Where can we land?"

Tony pounded his fist against the wall of the cafe, earning a few strange looks from the customers behind him. "Okay, look, just give me a minute. Let me think about things for a second. Just a minute, okay?"

"Your designs were indeed promising. Our top scientists were impressed. Do you really wish for all of your work to be for naught? To have these remarkable plans rotting in some government cellar?"

Blood pounded in Tony's ears, electricity crackling up his spine as Dasch drawled in his ear. His worst fear was laid bare before the Nazi man, who knew precisely how to press his buttons. Tony was being played, and he knew it. But he could not – would not – let his work go to waste. Dasch had just confirmed his designs were worth something, which was more than anyone in the States had ever done. This was his chance, and there was no way in hell he was going to lose it.

"Long Island!" Tony blurted out, dragging a hand through his hair until his scalp stung. "Land on Long Island!"

Dasch paused for a moment, a crack in his impassive facade. "Landing on the coast of one of the largest and most heavily guarded cities in the United States? How wise is that?"

"I've sailed and flown over Long Island more times than I can count. There's nothing on this stretch of beach for miles, and there's a railroad station for you to catch a ride anywhere you need to go. There's an airport and ferries into the city for you to make a getaway, if you have to. I'd recommend submarine infiltration."

The line buzzed for a moment while Dasch mulled over Tony's proposition. Sweat slicked Tony's palms and his stomach crawled with nerves, the line humming for what seemed like an eternity before the German broke the silence. "I see. And where on Long Island would you recommend, exactly?"

"There's a beach – Amagansett. Eastern part of the island." Tony had taken a trip to Amagansett once, and had crashed Howard's newest prototype for a self-flying plane into the beaches there. He elected not to tell Dasch about his history with the area.

The line hummed again, with Dasch making a thoughtful sound on the end of the line. "Hmm... Interesting. And you're sure there will be no military personnel?"

"They won't be expecting anyone from the sea, certainly not a submarine." Tony was talking so fast his words slurred together. "Look, what about my designs? I expect you'll be paying me for them, of course. I'd like them back as well, if you can bear to part with them. They're my property."

"You'll receive a telegram from the waitress in the cafe. Lovely girl, by the way. Your designs have already been shipped," Dasch's chilling reply buzzed over the line.

"And my money?"

"Wired to your private account. Unless you'd like it sent to your father's..."

Tony slammed the phone into its place with a loud clang, bracing his hands against the walls and groaning softly. Heat pulsed behind his eyes and he clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms as he forcibly restrained the urge to kick over a table.

Of course, just when he thought his work was finally appreciated, he was back in this same mess again. People never believed in him until it was beneficial for them to do so, and even then he was swindled. Tony was pretty sure Howard wanted to have a child just for the tax break.

When he turned back to the cafe, the eyes of every customer were trained on him. They quickly turned back to their newspapers and books, their moment of entertainment finished. The waitress, who had been smearing the dirt around the front windows in the impression of cleaning them, poked her head through the door and called, "Telegram for Tony Stank?"

"Stank, huh? That's rich, Dasch," Tony growled, fishing in his pocket for change to pay the fare.

The temperature soared to a stifling heat. Tony felt as though he was breathing through a damp towel, and the crush of people pushed in at him on all sides until he was pinned to his place. The papers from the post office box Dasch had designated in his telegram were tucked safely in his pocket, folded over to disguise their obvious Nazi postmark and Reichsadler from any prying eyes. Dasch had kept his word, but Tony was still fuming from their meeting.

"Papers, papers! Mystery man shoots down Nazi planes over London!"

"A true hero for the face of Allied resistance!"

"Could this be a turning point in the war? Get your papers here!"

Newspapers in every language were propped on the sidewalks, with hawking newsboys flailing them around like flags. Flowing Arabic, chunky Cyrillic and good ol' Times New Roman stared back at Tony, each one showing Steve's feat of heroism back in England. Tony couldn't help but scoff at them. A turning point in the war? Tony was actually doing something for the war effort, and all Steve did was shoot down a few planes.

As much as Steve, Howard, and seemingly everyone else in the world seemed to think, Tony could actually change something. And he was.

The drone of an airplane motor hummed over the sky, dappling the streets with a spot of shade for a moment before it flew away. The thought of Tony's work up in the sky... Then everyone would be paying attention. They would go back on what they said in an instant, begging Tony for his help, and he would give them a taste of their own medicine.

The thought was enough to put a spring in his step as he forced his way through the crowds, muttering apologies as he elbowed past plump Moroccan merchants and skinny French soldiers to the less congested side roads. As soon as he stepped away from the main throng and into the shade of the side alleys the crushing head diminished.

The trip back to the Reuben James was winding and long, but Tony allowed himself to dawdle as he wandered through the city streets. The bustle of the main roads was muffled by the quiet alleys, where time seemed to hang suspended in a lazy manner. An amber sunrise glanced off of the thatched rooftops, painting the whitewashed buildings in varying shades of gold. Tony peeled off his suit jacket and hung it over his shoulder, ambling past the wafting smells of African cuisine drifting from apartments and the impromptu games of children as they raced barefoot through the streets. For just a moment, Tony could imagine there wasn't a war going on. It was a rather boring moment.

Ships loomed above the tops of buildings as Tony approached the port, and the Reuben James blended in surprisingly well with the other craft in various stages of disrepair. A mottled paint job and limited activity on deck drew little suspicion, that Tony could give Edwards credit for.

But Dasch knows you're here, he thought to himself. Not so safe after all.

Even in the shadow of American might, guns bristling from the Reuben James' gundeck and a crew of sailors waiting for the signal to attack, Tony knew he wasn't safe.

Nowhere was.

Reichsadler - "Imperial Eagle," the symbol of Nazi Germany

Vichy - New capital of the nominally free southern region of France not occupied by Germany. Also references the weak government that characterized by the pseudo-occupation.