Work Text:
A STOLEN LIFE
Tony jerks awake with a start to find nothing about him – only black void. He blinks slowly and painfully, crushing his eyes together and forcing them open once more, desperately, but there is nothing still. Fat, scalding tears stream down his cheeks before he can bite them back. His heart quivers uncomfortably in his chest, twisting and wrenching bitterly at the thought that his seeming passing might have only been the vivid hallucination of a fever addled and psychologically traumatized mind.
Then, to Stark’s infinite surprise, a figure flickers to light in the dark. It is a woman, elegant and trim. To his great confusion, she glows in vibrant, pale gold and copper tones. Her hair is long and tangled, piled up in twisted locks before cascading down about her kittenish face. She wears a plain, cream colored flightsuit, nothing special truly. She approaches calmly, almost serenely, stepping without a sound towards him and bringing her inner illumination. She beams upon the man, and her radiant smile is enough to light the familiar bed upon which he rests.
“Mr. Stark,” she greets softly, her voice but a gentle whisper and hushed breath in his ear, smooth as silk and sweet as honey.
He opens his mouth and tries to speak, to greet her with a cocky smile and joke as he might have, but the words fail him. Instead, all that rises up is a hacking, debilitating cough. Something slaps wetly at the back of his throat, a disgusting wad of sputum, likely.
The stranger shushes him. “Please, do not try to speak. I have alerted Dr. Tate that you are conscious.”
Tony tries to make a sound, to ask how in the world this woman could ‘alert’ someone while standing there without making a noise. Then, it comes to him. Even as she draws near and Tony realizes he can see right through her to the wall and shelves beyond her. She shimmers as she moves, seemingly transparent, as gossamer as spider-spun silk. Of course she can communicate with someone else without outward signs; she is a program as much as Jarvis.
When she speaks, Tony feels himself tightening strangely. “Mr. Stark, I am designated Nimue.” She smiles, so real and yet so fake as she delicately annunciates her own name. “It is my very great honor to meet you.”
Tony shakes his head, suddenly desperate to get away. His body, however, refuses to cooperate. He cannot seem to muster the energy to do anything more than twitch away from her. What little energy he can summon is lost in uncoordinated fumbling by muscles too atrophied for the sort of directed effort Tony needs.
“Mr. Stark,” Nimue croons sweetly. “Please stay calm and still. Your body has deteriorated due to extended immobility and starvation. Please wait for assistance from Dr. Tate.”
But he cannot. Tony fights and struggles to move. The simulation closes her eyes slowly, tipping her head down, and, in time, a warm flush meets Tony’s veins. He grits his teeth as chemicals flood his circulatory system and drag him back to the embrace of dreamless unconsciousness.
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When Tony next awakens, it is to the sound of voices speaking over him. One is gruff, male, and entirely dominate. For a moment, Tony almost mistakes the voice for Fury’s deep, rumbling tones. That man speaks to a droning, artificially male voice.
“And you are certain he will live?” the deeper of the two asks.
“I am. He is past the worst of it,” the second, almost computer-like voice responds. “The fever is down.”
Tony forces his eyes open; the lashes stick uncomfortable, pulling apart painfully where they have crusted together. His vision is blurred by slumber and sickness, but it is clear enough to spy the shimmering Nimue standing at polite yet quiet attention to a hulking man that Tony has never seen before in his life. The stranger towers over Nimue, dwarfing her. He stands erect, with the same sort of ram-rod stiff posture of the Capsicle and the perfectly pressed uniform to match. He bears olive tan skin and dark eyes as black as pools of ink. His uniform is black from head to toe, starched to sharp creases and adorned with medals and symbols at the lapels.
The other stranger, with the buzzing mechanical voice is too short for Tony to see beyond the bed.
The decorated soldier nods in consideration before asking flatly, “When will he be ready?”
The mechanical stranger does not answer. “I will not be a part of this.”
“Dr. Tate, the Captain has considered your comments and respects them, but his decision stands.” The soldier gazes down, too low for Tony’s comfort. “When will he be ready?”
“Too soon to say,” the false voice answers.
The soldier gives another terse nod. “Keep him under until then.”
Chemicals flush Tony’s veins once more with comforting warmth, stealing the world away.
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When Tony is finally allowed to wake – fully wake – he is surprised to find that, while weak and tired, he feels remarkably well, all things considered, free of the illness in his chest that weighed him down so. However, he cannot move; to his surprise and mounting horror, his frail, bony and bandaged body is simply too weak, too wasted. Additionally, he is bound by sturdy leather cuffs and gleaming locks. The thought alone should be enough to send Tony into a full blown panic attack, yet it seems the chemical restraints still play some effect upon him, preventing the fear from rising too sharply.
While it is clear that escape is not an option, Tony forces himself to look about, to survey his situation with the same critical eye that had spared him in Afghanistan. Yet, there is nothing to see. The room is purposely dark, lit only in a small ring about his bed. A distant part of the hero’s mind gives due credit to whomever saw fit to know better than to offer the great Tony Stark a glimpse of anything he might use to his advantage.
Then, a deep voice booms in his ears, nigh deafening. “What did you give to the Red Flag?”
Tony furrows his brow. “The Red Flag?”
“Yes. What did you give them?”
Tony shakes his head, confused now. “I didn’t give anything to anyone.”
“You were found in the company of the Red Flag.”
Something rings in Tony’s mind. The tapping. The chains. The welding holding down the suit. The strangers beyond the safe confines of the helm who cared not for his many cries and pleading.
Tony gives another shake of his head and grinds out, “Not willingly.” He bites his lip and peers into the depths of the shadows, looking for his accuser. “I never knew who they were. I don’t even know who this Red Flag is.”
“Yet, you served.”
He feels stupid, absolutely gobsmacked by the situation and utterly frustrated by it. “I did nothing.” He blinks, feeling dizzying and almost sickened by this. “I did…. nothing. I gave nothing.”
“This is a lie. You were found in the company of the Red Flag and in direct connection with their primary generator operations after our intelligence discovered a shift in radioactive tracer signature accompanied by an increased power signature.”
Tony gasps bitterly, “The arc reactor.”
“You made this available to the Red Flag?” his unseen accuser demands.
Tony gives another violent shake of his head. “They took me. They used it.” He stares out into the darkness, as though he can by sheer force of will convince whoever interrogates him that he has done nothing wrong. “I did not let them use it.”
“And, yet, you did nothing to stop the Red Flag.”
That is the one statement that cuts to the quick. Tony sags at the thought, as though the determination and fire that just poured through his veins a moment ago has burnt out in a flash. He feels the fight flee from him, replaced by a cold, dead sensation. Instantly, he is back in that place, locked in his own armor and trapped with only his thoughts, his program, and his own suffering.
Tony blinks slowly, cautious to gain control of his own sorrows before speaking once more. “I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t stop them.” He closes his eyes and sighs heavily. “I couldn’t even save myself.”
There is a long pause in the darkness. Tony feels himself trembling slightly against his uncomfortable, emotions, against the bonds that hold him securely. He is helpless once more, at the mercy of an unknown, unseen captor. He can do nothing to save himself or to stop another person from using the arc reactor to whatever devices they see fit. It is unbearably humbling.
He finally pulls himself together enough to growl under his breath, “I didn’t do a goddamned thing right…. but that doesn’t mean I did anything worth this interrogation B.S.”
And, with that smart remark, they put him out again.
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The next time Tony is allowed to surface from the dark, dreamless confines of a chemical induced slumber, it is to the same interrogation tactics. It is to the shadows and the singular, bright light bathing over him. It is to the same bed and the same leather restraints holding him down.
This time, when the deep, bass voice rumbles in the dark, it is to ask, “There is a device implanted in your sternum, penetrating the pleural cavity nearly two and three quarter inches. It is emitting an electromagnetic signature. Due to the metallic components, our medical staff cannot image the device properly. What is it?”
“It’s an arc reactor,” Tony grinds out between clenched teeth.
“An incendiary?”
Tony feels himself bristle strangely at the question, almost indignantly. “Incendiary? Who says things like that anymore?”
“Is it an explosive device?” the faceless voice presses.
Tony chews on his lower lip, considering his answer carefully before responding, “Not directly.”
“Elaborate.”
Tony shakes his head. “It’s a power source. It doesn’t do anything by its self…. except for maybe keep me alive.” He smirks slightly, unable to resist. “Although, I’d have ripped it out myself if I knew I’d have to put up with this film noir crap.”
Again, he is put under swiftly before Tony can say another sarcastic word.
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The third time Tony slowly drags himself awake to the darkness of the interrogation, he could just spit. He is tired of this. Tired of waking to questions. Tired of having no answers himself. Tired of the entire situation. He shakes his head and curses his captors mentally – these strange, hidden individuals who have seen fit to keep him, to tend to his sores and sickness, to heal him, and, then, to demand answers he cannot give.
Before another question can be fired at him, Tony heaves, “I’m not a lamp. You can’t keep turning me off and on like this.”
“I am aware.” This voice is different than the stranger who has interrogated him in the darkness, strong and deep yet soft and almost lamenting. “As is the Captain and our Chief Medical Officer.”
Tony blinks and finds that, when he focuses, really focuses and peers into the dark, he can see a person lingering there. As he stares, the stranger steps into the light, revealing the decorated soldier Tony has spied only once. Those dark, intense eyes bore into Tony, black as the night. They seem somber in a way that sends shivers down Tony’s spine.
“You will have to forgive the Captain,” the soldier intones gently, perhaps too politely. “It is in the nature of any captain to be protective of his ship and his crew.”
Tony’s blood runs oddly cold, freezing in his veins and burning his heart with an icy chill. He does not understand what has him so unsettled, but there is something about this stranger’s composure and overly polite bearing that dredges up unnatural fears. Perhaps it is his calm, quiet, the gentle grace with which the hulking man moves – an elegant bearing to which no man his size has any right. Tony holds his tongue, mindful of the virtual predator in his gaze and his vulnerable situation, waiting for the soldier to address him.
When he does, it is with a queer distance. “The Captain sends his regrets about our interrogation methods, but he did have be certain that your presence would be of no harm.”
“And?”
The soldier levels a stern gaze upon him. “We have been assured that you are no danger.”
Tony would sigh, but he cannot. The tension still holds him still, catching his breath. His heart races, thumping heavily in his chest. He would be relieved, but there is something else, something this man knows but is not sharing.
He finally forces out, “What now, then?”
The stranger smiles, an odd and frighteningly placating gesture. “The Captain has made a decision.”
Tony’s mouth goes dry inexplicably; he croaks hoarsely, “And?”
“You cannot be allowed to leave.” Tony’s eyes go wide, but the decorated soldier continues, “Even with your limited knowledge, it is enough for a clever man to determine who we are and how to find us again.” The stranger’s smile widens, flashing teeth like a wolf on the prowl. “And the Captain has been assured that you are a clever man, indeed.”
Tony’s heart skips a beat there, as though the whole world grinds to a halt – his body included – with the same, frigid dread. “What are you going to do?”
The stranger purses his lips together. “Generally, the Captain would offer the choice to you; join the crew or be humanely euthanized.” Tony’s breath catches at the thought of being put down like a dog after everything that has happened in his unusual life – after everything he has survived. “However, one of the more senior crew has spoken for you.” The blood floods back into his veins, but the worry does not leave him as the soldier goes on, “Tales of your gallantry and heroic deeds have swayed the Captain’s decision. Therefore, you are to be conscripted to his service.”
Tony laughs – honestly hoots at the thought. “Listen, I’m not all that great about serving and following.”
The stranger’s smile never falters, never gives a millimeter. “You have no choice in the matter.”
Tony snorts. “People are looking for me. They’ll find me.”
“Not likely.”
The inventory shakes his head, still chuckling to himself. “Man, you’re pulling this on the wrong guy.” He rolls his eyes petulantly, chortling at the utter stupidity of these people. “The last time someone tried to lock me up and put me to work, I built a power-exoskeleton suit and fought my way out of there like an ‘80s action flick. I told you I don’t do work.”
The soldier does not even flinch. “We know.”
Tony blanches. “Then…. What?”
“Every member of the crew sacrifices their life, their aspirations and their entire world when they come into the service,” the soldier announces delicately. “A man with no past has no loyalties to bind him, to cloud his judgment and bias his decisions. He has only his present and future to serve.” The darkness fills Tony once more, but the soldier plucks something small from his pocket and goes on, “You will have your prior memories purged by neural-link.”
“No…” Tony gasps, pulling away and tugging feebly at the straps that hold him.
The soldier draws close, so close that Tony can smell him. He smells of motor oil and ozone – scents that should be comforting to a mechanic and inventor like the great Tony Stark. However, Tony cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot do anything save stare at the approaching hand and the tiny, innocuous, dime shaped device in his hand.
“Shh, shh,” the stranger croons.
Tony swallows hard, forcing himself to speak to draw up some semblance of the man he was once. “Why?” He shifts away uncomfortably even as the soldier cups his jaw in a vice like grip. “Is this the part where you tell me this won’t hurt a bit?”
“Don’t be daft,” the soldier taunts. “This is going to hurt very much indeed. Trouble is, you aren’t going to remember it anyway.”
Then, the little device comes into contact with Tony’s temple, and searing lightning strikes through his brain. He screams – oh how he shrieks and wails from the pain – and the stranger does nothing but wait and smile that awful, terrible grin. The thing tightens down, as though clamping to the skin, and, then, something penetrates with a horrifying, meaty crunch.
The world blinks out once more, and, this time, Tony welcomes the void that comes rushing to him.
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When he wakes, the implant in his temple stings and throbs painfully, a stark physical reminder of what these utter assholes have done to him. Tony remembers the threat and scans back through his memories. He draws up as many faces and names that are important to him and finds, to his surprise, that they remain, along with his all too sarcastic monikers. Point Break. Capsicle. Big Guy. Legolas. Even Pepper. It all remains.
Tony breathes a sigh of relief, but, then, as he thinks back, he finds there are gaps here and there. He does not remember how this all started. He remembers Pepper ordering him playfully to start building the suit again, but Tony does not remember why he stopped. He remembers New York, but he cannot name the man in the green suit and hideously tacky, golden horns. He remembers his parent’s funeral – practically a state affair – but the cause of their death is lost to him.
Somehow, Tony knows that these are important things that he has forgotten, and it gnaws at him.
Fortunately, a shimmering, shining female with scarlet hair tells him to sleep and allow the neural-link to function.
He refuses, gritting his teeth and struggling to stay awake as the chemicals pump into him.
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The years between high school and college are among the first things to go. In a queerly meta moment in his life, Tony knows they must not have been kind years for him. He remembers telling Pepper about those days, about the teasing and the bullying, but he cannot actually recall the events themselves. It is a mercy he hardly understands and, for which, he is not entirely grateful.
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The next things to slip away are the dates. He remembers his parents passing, but Tony knows he should know when his own parents died. It terrifies him.
Tony resolves to keep fighting. Before the artificial intelligence can notice him, he passes the time by going through the names and the faces.
The pretty lass with the brass-balls to stand up to both a master spy and a giant robot driven by a psychopath is Pepper Potts. The love of his life. The center of his universe. The only lady to ever hold his heart other than his mother.
The smoking-hot red head with the devilishly dangerous moves is Natasha Romanov. She called herself something different before. Tony reminds himself that it does not matter that he does not remember.
The boy-scout with the star-spangled tights is Captain America. No. Steve Rogers, Tony recalls.
The wannabe sci-fi film extra with the armor and blonde locks from an Herbal Essences commercial is Thor. No last name. Son of Odin. Asgardian.
The quiet, fumbling man with the green, hulking horror behind his eyes is Bruce.
On and on it goes before the program – Nimue, strange that he should recall her name – puts him under once more.
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To his horror, the gaps widen by the next time he wakes. Tony’s life has been reduced to snapshots of horror, of waste, of suffering, and exquisite romance. The extremes of his life are what little remains clear and focused. It unnerves him, but he is not conscious long enough to consider the implications as the device at his temple pulses with electric lights behind his own eyes and the world greys.
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The memories bleed from him now, hemorrhaging out even in conscious spells. He call feel it, like the tide moving out to sea, or like sand through a sieve. The more Tony clings, the more the device at his temple sings with an electric spark.
He takes to reciting the names, muttering them almost incoherently amid the white-hot pain. He stumbles over them again and again. Tony cannot tell for certain whether or not it is from the searing fires spreading from the device altering his concentration, or if it is from the device actively pillaging his mind. He trip over the names until all that is left are first names. The last names have already been obliterated from his mind.
He drifts away, murmuring them to himself. “Pepper. Happy. James. Natasha. Steve. Clint. Nick. Thor. Bruce. Pepper. Happy. James. Natasha. Steve. Clint. Nick. Thor. Bruce.”
The thing at his temple burns at the names even as consciousness slips from him once more.
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The names are gone, but the faces remain. Tony rolls them over in his mind again and again. He knows they will be lost to him as well shortly. He holds tight to those faces, determined, fierce, and caring in turn. Tony knows they are important; they are the last vestiges of his time.
He screams then. Tony bellows every profanity and every obscene, cutting jibe to his personal lexicon. The list of insults he is capable of is quite lengthy and diverse, yet it is all for naught. The people who have done this to him – are doing this to him – stealing his memories, his history, and his life – care not for his verbal lashings. Still, despite a keen knowledge of precisely how useless the endeavor remains, Tony continues to sling his abuse; it is the only means he has to fight back now against the insidious neural-link fused to his temple.
It is the only vengeance Tony may seek for the names he has lost already, for what he knows he will lose in the time to come. He knows this as the memories of each of his more recent friends and acquaintances dim through the time.
Yet Pepper remains. He could never forget her face or her name. That small fragment gives him hope. Tony refuses to lose her.
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When he awakens next, the man’s world is reduced to a name. Anthony Edward Stark. He knows he is educated. He can identify the glowing woman as a holographic personification of an artificial intelligence. He is capable of complex mathematics and design schematics in his mind. Yet, he knows next to nothing about his past.
All that remains is the image of a woman – with bright eyes and a blue dress. He does not know her name, but he remembers her. He remembers kissing her, holding her, making love to her.
He shivers at the loss of her name and cries, sobbing over the loss of the memory.
He cries even as he feels the rest of the memories slip away, until there is nothing, until everything is gone and he is left hollowed out inside.
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Nimue’s voice, soft and lurid, wakes him almost tenderly from his slumber.
“Five more minutes,” he groans, rolling over onto his side.
Nimue is sweet, yet chiding. “You have slept enough.”
He tries to sit up and finds his body fails him. It is curious. He knows of no reason for his body to be so frail, so weak and spent. His arms slip out from beneath him, and he flops to the mattress beneath him with an oaf. He furrows his brow and glares almost accusingly at the pale, gangly limbs and knobby joints that stick out from beneath his white scrubs.
“I don’t…”
A second voice speaks to him, a male with a strong, deep tenor. “Let me help.”
He turns his gaze to the stranger and blinks stupidly, feeling he should know this man with his dark eyes, olive skin and gleaming medals; he instantly regrets the sudden movement as his head swims and nausea fills him. “Who….?”
“Shh,” the stranger whispers, gathering him up in broad, muscular arms that make him feel dizzy and small before setting him in a wheel chair. “The neural-link is still creating the final blocks between your residual emotional driven memories and the formation of new memories. The disorientation and discomfort will pass.”
“I don’t….”
The stranger crouches before him and places a hand on his bony knee. “I know this is very difficult for you to understand, but you were rescued from captivity from the Red Flag and brought here to recover from wounds received during interrogation. You have surrendered your personal memories and volunteered to join the crew of the Nautilus in our fight against the Red Flag.”
He opens his mouth, gaping as a fish out of water for a moment. At lost for words, he curls in on himself, hugging himself as though for dear life. However, something stops him – something hard, round, and seemingly attached to him. He paws at the thin garment covering him and pulls down the chest, revealing a curious device implanted there, sunken into his ribcage and glowing faintly. He gasps and looks to the soldier for answers.
“Do not worry yourself,” the soldier shushes him, drawing his hands away from the thing in his chest. “Our scientists and engineers have examined the device closely and found no signs of danger.” The soldier levels a stern gaze upon him and announces grimly, “The Red Flag did this to you.”
He swallows slowly, carefully. The words ring in his ears, but not with truth, no matter the conviction of the soldier speaking them. He does not know the truth of the matter, but, somehow, this tale of torture does not seem right to him. Something tingles at the back of his mind, something discomforting. He says nothing, though; somehow, he knows better than to say a damned thing.
The military man pauses to let this sink in, evidently unaware of the skeptical thoughts brewing in the nameless man’s mind. “You wished revenge on the Red Flag; this was your only option.”
The words even taste acutely wrong.
The soldier gestures to himself. “I am First Mate Donovan Nolan.” For a frightening moment, he cannot think of his own name, but Nolan interjects smoothly, “Do not worry. The Captain will be able to get you sorted.”
“My name….” is all he can muster, too shocked and too worried to manage much more.
Nolan smiles warmly. “It is of no matter.” He pats the nameless man on his knee and states, “The Captain will find you a new name to fit your new life.”
He shakes his head, feeling sour at it all and more than slightly queasy. “I don’t understand…:
The First Mate nods slowly. “I know. But you will. In time.”
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She is called Weatherlight. It is something of a bad pun at her expense, but she bears it with as much grace and nobility as possible. It is, after all, the name with which her Captain saw fit to dub her.
Weatherlight stares at the helm stolen from the Red Flag and marvels. It is a work of supreme beauty and skill befitting the hand of a master engineer in tandem with a master craftsman. The helm is a smooth, singularly exquisite piece of craftsmanship. Every bit of the gold and crimson plating moves together sinuously, seemingly without attachment or pinning. All bracing and fixtures have been concealed and tucked away, leaving nothing but a streamline exterior that she imagines must absolutely carve the wind like a razor.
The interior is too large for her, but Weatherlight has tried it on several occasions, sticking her head in and reveling in the fine details to the interior. It is not powered, not anymore, but she can still spy the minute mechanizations and parts to illuminate the interior and create the displays. Without that light, the only sight she has are by two eye slits, narrow and calculating.
It is all that remains of the once glorious, gleaming armor.
“What do we do with it?” Weatherlight asks respectfully of her Captain.
He considers briefly before ordering, “Destroy it.”
“Right away, Sir.”
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