[center][b][u][H1]B[color=fff79a]aldur Angstrom[/color][/H1]
Department of Damage Control Warehouse
Somewhere near New York[/u][/b][/center]

It was pretty quiet around the warehouse. Guards patrolling the outskirts of the storage area were rather relaxed, expecting nothing out of the ordinary, a this moment at least. There was news of an engagement between the Mutant Response Division and some mutants in the docks down in New York City, but other than that, there wasn't much to be alerted by. The latest sweeps had revealed nothing of note, and work continued as normal. It was just like any other day; another day of cataloguing and classifying the artifacts taken from the ruins of battlefields wrought into being by warring empowered forces. Perhaps superheroes of the Ultimates, if they were truly heroes, had handily crushed some upstart villain with petty ambitions to take over. Or some wielders of magic had been seized, their trinkets and books taken in. 

At a certain section of the warehouse, though, were numerous stasis pods, cryogenic weapons, and all sorts of advanced technology that would initially seem to be the progeny of Stark or Pym Industries. These were, however, not built by those titanic enterprises; instead, these were products of Angstrom Defense. This company, operating out of Sweden, had been completely destroyed forty years earlier by Jean Grey's global rampage as the Dark Phoenix. All of their factories, save for a single one, had been known to have been obliterated. The sole surviving facility, bereft of what would be a presumably slaughtered leadership, was turned over the Department of Damage Control, all of its product given over to that venture between Stark and the government.

Or so they thought.

[hr]

"Sir, this is a restricted area. A civilian shouldn't be out here. How did you even get here?"

Baldur Angstrom stood there, unamused. It has been forty years since he first went into that stasis pod, and a few months since he woke up. During those several months of wakefulness, he had learned that one of his company's production facilities survived, only to be nationalized by the government. That was to be expected when he disappeared in the middle of what could easily have been the apocalypse. But now... he wants his property back.

"It stands to reason that some of my property has been interred there for the last forty years," the scrawny man with a rather suspicious suitcase said. "Now, if you could simply escort me inside and let me get what's mine..."

Right, that's not going to work. Not when Baldur wanted to keep his identity secret, as he was known to have been married to a mutant woman all those years ago. His mutant son and wife, both of whom are long dead because of another mutant's rampage, would be murdered all the same in this day and age.

"Sir. You should leave."

Baldur sighed. "Oh well..." he quietly muttered. "I tried, at least..."

A pair of golden beams of energy streamed out from wristworn devices under his sleeves, licking the weapons of the two guards and turning them into tiny toy guns. Shocked and surprised, they fell back, only to be snatched away by a pair of drones that seemingly came out of their guns. 

Baldur then took a stasis orb out of his pocket, hurling it upward. The ball of plastic split in half, and out came at least a dozen attack drones, their design suspiciously close to that of Stark Industries. Were these just copied from existing machines?

Quietly, he then placed the suitcase on to the ground, which quickly began to turn into a suit of armor, covering his otherwise completely human body. It came with a robe, too. Baldur really liked those.

"It's time," Baldur muttered, his cohort of drones following him into the warehouse doors, which he would immediately shrink down and plop down to the ground with those same wrist drawn beams. He wants his property back, and has no time to be nice about it.