Nobody noticed.
The white light faded, and Marcus found himself right back where he'd started—lying on the filthy floor of the slave barracks. One and a half years of his life compressed into a single instant. No time had passed here at all.
The stench hit him first. God, he'd forgotten how bad it was. Unwashed bodies packed into a concrete room with no ventilation, the sharp tang of urine from the bucket in the corner, the metallic smell of old blood ground into the stone floor. After eighteen months of clean sheets and temperature-controlled labs, the assault on his senses was almost overwhelming.
Marcus kept his eyes closed for a few seconds, just breathing. Reorienting himself. His body felt strange—compact, lean, humming with coiled strength that hadn't been there before. Four hundred pounds of grip strength in his hands. Knowledge of six martial arts systems. The muscle memory of ten thousand hours of training.
And absolutely none of it could show.
Through barely-opened eyelids, Marcus scanned the room. Bodies everywhere, lumped shadows in the darkness. Thirty or forty men crammed into a space meant for maybe twenty, all of them passed out from exhaustion after another day of forced labor. The air was thick with the sound of snoring, the occasional whimper from someone's nightmares, the rattle of chains when somebody shifted position.
The two guards outside the door were exactly where they'd been—slumped against the wall, heads nodding as they fought to stay awake. The fluorescent light above them flickered, casting everything in sickly yellow-green.
Marcus let his breathing stay slow and steady. Just another slave. Just another broken man too tired to do anything but sleep.
I'm back, he thought, and something cold settled in his chest. Time to finish this.
He checked his internal clock—a habit from the Limitless world, where every hour on NZT was precious. Call it midnight, maybe a little after. He'd crossed over at night and returned at night. The symmetry was almost poetic.
The plan was still good. Three months from now, Tony Stark would finish building the Mark I armor in that cave. Three months of waiting, of playing the part of a beaten slave, of keeping his head down and his real capabilities hidden. Then, when Stark made his break for freedom, Marcus would slip out in the chaos. Maybe even hitch a ride if he could sell the genius billionaire on owing him a favor.
Getting back to civilization from this godforsaken corner of Afghanistan on his own would be... complicated. The Ten Rings controlled everything for a hundred miles in every direction. No roads, no phones, no way out except through them. Better to wait for his ticket.
The only hitch was the system notification that had popped up the moment he'd thought about jumping back to the Limitless world:
[Time travel is cooling down. Cooldown period: one month to one year]
So he was stuck here. At least for a month, maybe for a full year before he could reality-hop again. Which meant no emergency escape hatch if things went sideways.
Doesn't matter, Marcus thought. I've got a hundred pills of the good stuff, poisoned needles, and eighteen months of training. These terrorists don't know it yet, but they're already dead men.
He settled back down, letting his muscles relax into the stone floor. Somewhere in the compound, Tony Stark was probably getting operated on right now. Dr. Yinsen working frantically to save his life, pulling shrapnel out of his chest while the clock ticked down.
Marcus had met the man briefly—Yinsen, not Stark. A quiet, thoughtful doctor who'd tried to help the slaves when he could, back when he'd had his own freedom. The Ten Rings had been holding him for months, using his medical skills when they needed them.
Good man. Shame he was going to die in three months when Stark made his escape.
But that's not my problem, Marcus reminded himself. I'm not here to save anyone. I'm here to survive, get home, and burn this whole operation to the ground on my way out.
His hand drifted to his pocket, feeling the reassuring weight of the pills he'd brought back. The needle case was strapped to his inner thigh, invisible under his tattered clothes. Everything he needed to survive was on him.
Now he just had to wait.
Ten Rings Base
Dr. Ho Yinsen was exhausted.
More than twelve hours. Twelve hours of surgery in a cave that barely qualified as sterile, with improvised instruments and a single flickering light bulb, trying to save the life of a man who probably should have died in the blast.
Tony Stark lay on the table in front of him, wrapped in gauze, his face the color of old paper. The chest wound was massive—a hole you could fit your fist into, packed with blood-soaked dressing. The arc reactor they'd rigged up was the only thing keeping the shrapnel fragments from reaching his heart.
The only thing keeping him alive.
Yinsen peeled off his surgical gloves and dropped them on the tray with the other contaminated materials. His hands were shaking. Exhaustion, adrenaline crash, the knowledge that if Stark died, the Ten Rings would probably kill him too.
And if he lives, Yinsen thought darkly, they'll force him to build weapons.
He stepped back, looking at his handiwork. Stark's breathing was shallow but steady. Pulse thready but present. The worst of the bleeding had stopped. The shrapnel was contained. Against all odds, the man was going to survive the night.
But the infection risk was astronomical. This cave was filthy. He'd done his best to sterilize everything, boiling instruments in water from a jerry can, scrubbing surfaces with industrial solvent, but it wasn't enough. In a proper hospital with proper antibiotics, Stark's chances would be good. Here?
Fifty-fifty at best.
Yinsen looked down at Tony Stark's unconscious face and felt a strange mix of emotions. He'd met this man once, years ago at a technical conference in Bern. Stark had been drunk, arrogant, holding court with a group of admirers while Yinsen had watched from the sidelines. A brilliant mind wrapped in layers of ego and money.
"You were so proud of yourself that night," Yinsen muttered. "Now look at you. Broken and bleeding in a cave, dependent on a man whose name you probably don't even remember."
The irony was bitter. The great Tony Stark, weapons manufacturer to the world, brought down by his own creation. A Stark Industries missile had done this. The shrapnel in his chest was stamped with his own company's logo.
How does that feel, Mr. Stark? Does your genius seem so impressive now?
But Yinsen was still a doctor. Whatever he thought of Stark personally, his ethics wouldn't let him walk away. He'd taken an oath. First, do no harm. Even in a cave in Afghanistan, even with terrorists holding guns to his head, that oath still meant something.
Still, he was just one man. He'd been functioning as both surgeon and nurse for the entire procedure, and it was taking its toll. His back ached from hunching over the table. His eyes burned from staring at small wounds under inadequate light. His hands cramped from holding instruments for hours on end.
I need help, he admitted to himself. Or Stark's going to die anyway, and it'll be because I was too tired to notice something going wrong.
He walked to the heavy iron door and knocked. Three sharp bangs that echoed in the cave.
"Hello? I need to speak with someone!"
Silence. Then the metallic scrape of a bolt being drawn back.
The door swung open. Three guards stood in the tunnel outside, all of them armed, all of them looking at him with the kind of flat hostility that suggested they'd be perfectly happy to shoot him if he made a wrong move.
Yinsen kept his voice steady, speaking in Arabic. "I need another person with medical training. A nurse, an EMT, anyone with basic knowledge. I can't guarantee Mr. Stark's survival otherwise."
The guards exchanged glances. None of them spoke, which was typical. They were foot soldiers, not decision-makers. They couldn't authorize a request like this on their own.
The tallest one pulled out a walkie-talkie and stepped away, speaking in low tones that Yinsen couldn't quite make out.
Minutes ticked by. Yinsen waited, trying not to think about Stark's blood pressure dropping, about infection setting in, about all the things that could go wrong in the next few hours.
Finally, footsteps echoed down the tunnel. Heavy boots on stone.
Raza emerged from the shadows.
The leader of this Ten Rings cell was impossible to miss—bald, his face a map of old scars, his eyes flat and cold. He looked like someone who'd been chewed up by life and spit back out meaner. His gaze swept over Yinsen, then past him to where Stark lay unconscious.
Yinsen felt his stomach tighten. Raza scared him in a way the regular guards didn't. The guards were just doing a job. Raza enjoyed this.
"So," Raza said in heavily-accented English. "The American still lives?"
"For now," Yinsen replied carefully. "But he needs proper care. I'm only one man. If he dies from infection or missed complications because I was too exhausted to notice—"
"You are asking for help?" Raza's scarred face twisted into something that might have been amusement. "How touching."
"I'm asking to keep your investment alive," Yinsen corrected. "Mr. Stark is worth more to you healthy than dead. Yes?"
That hit home. Raza's expression shifted, calculation replacing mockery. He looked at Stark again, measuring the billionaire's worth like a merchant examining merchandise.
"Fine," Raza said after a long moment. He turned to the guards and rattled off something in Pashto.
One of them nodded and hurried off down the tunnel.
Yinsen only caught part of it—his Pashto was rough—but he heard enough. Something about the slave camp. About finding someone suitable.
His heart sank. They were going to pull someone from the slave barracks. Some poor soul who'd claim medical knowledge just to get out of the mines for a few hours, whether they actually knew anything or not.
It's better than nothing, he told himself. Maybe I'll get lucky. Maybe they actually have someone with real training in there.
But he wasn't optimistic.
Raza gave him one last flat stare and walked away, his boots echoing down the tunnel. The door slammed shut behind him, the bolt sliding home with a heavy clank.
Yinsen turned back to his patient, checking Stark's pulse, his breathing, the security of the dressings. Everything was holding. For now.
All he could do was wait and hope they sent him someone useful.
Slave Camp
Marcus's eyes snapped open.
Footsteps. Multiple sets, coming fast. Military boots on concrete.
His enhanced hearing—a gift from eighteen months of discipline and NZT-optimized training—picked up the details before anyone else in the room stirred. Three men. Armed, judging by the rattle of equipment. Moving with purpose.
Something's happening.
Marcus stayed perfectly still, but his mind kicked into high gear. His internal threat assessment system—honed through countless hours of tactical training—ran through possibilities. A raid? A random inspection? Someone getting pulled for punishment?
No. The rhythm was wrong. This wasn't violence. This was... urgency.
Stark, he realized. They need medical help for Stark.
Of course they did. Yinsen would be exhausted after operating for hours. He'd need an assistant, or Stark wouldn't survive the night. And the Ten Rings wouldn't give a damn about the quality of help—they'd just grab whoever was convenient.
The door crashed open.
Harsh fluorescent light spilled into the room. Bodies jerked awake all around Marcus, people groaning and cursing in a dozen different languages.
Three guards stood silhouetted in the doorway, AK-47s hanging from their shoulders. The lead guard swept his flashlight across the room, the beam cutting through the darkness like a blade.
"On your feet!" he shouted in Arabic. "Now!"
Marcus made a show of stirring slowly, blinking like he'd been dragged out of deep sleep. He sat up with exaggerated grogginess, rubbing his eyes, his face blank with confusion.
Around him, the other slaves were doing the same. Some faster than others, depending on how well they understood Arabic. The ones who didn't just stared at the guards with wide, terrified eyes, trying to figure out what fresh hell was about to rain down on them.
The guard's flashlight stabbed across faces. Men flinched away from the light, holding up their hands to shield their eyes.
"Who here is a doctor?" the guard demanded. "Anyone with medical training, speak up!"
Dead silence.
Most of the men didn't understand what he was saying. The ones who did understand were too scared to respond. Admitting you had skills made you useful. And useful meant being worked harder, being kept alive longer, being given responsibilities that could get you killed if you failed.
Marcus watched through half-closed eyes, staying low and nonthreatening. His mind raced through the calculus.
If I volunteer, I get access to Stark. I can establish myself as helpful, useful, nonthreatening. Build trust. Play the long game.
If I don't volunteer, someone else might. Or no one will, and they'll just start shooting people until someone confesses to having medical knowledge.
And if no one helps Stark, he dies. Which means no armor. No escape plan. No ticket out of here.
The guard's frustration was mounting. His hand tightened on his rifle, finger drifting toward the trigger guard. The kind of body language that said he was about three seconds from deciding that making an example of someone would be more productive than waiting.
Decision time, Marcus.
He took a slow breath. Centered himself. Then, before the guard could do something stupid, Marcus stood up.
Every eye in the room turned to him.
Marcus made himself look small. Shoulders hunched, head down, hands fidgeting nervously. His face was a mask of barely-controlled fear—eyes wide, mouth trembling just slightly, the picture of a man terrified but forcing himself to speak because the alternative was worse.
"I—I'm a doctor," he stammered in Arabic, letting his voice shake. "I know some medical skills. Not much, but... but maybe I can help?"
His accent was perfect. Not too polished—that would be suspicious. Just good enough to get by, with the slight hesitation of someone translating in their head, someone who'd learned the language but wasn't native.
The performance was flawless. Eighteen months of training in social engineering, body language manipulation, acting. He knew exactly how to project weakness without overdoing it. How to make himself look harmless.
The guard's flashlight fixed on him. Marcus squinted into the light, raising one hand to shield his eyes—the universal gesture of submission. His other hand hung at his side, fingers twitching slightly. Fear. Vulnerability. Please don't hurt me.
The guard looked him up and down, clearly unimpressed. Marcus could practically read his thoughts: This skinny Asian kid is a doctor? Looks more like a scared rabbit.
Perfect.
"You?" the guard said with obvious disdain. "You're a doctor?"
"I was," Marcus said, letting his voice crack. "Before. I was studying medicine. I didn't finish my degree, but I learned enough to... to help with basic things. Wounds. Infections. I can assist, at least. If that's what you need."
The lie came easily. All the best lies had a foundation of truth—and Marcus did know medicine now. Graduate-level physiology, pharmacology, trauma surgery. He could probably out-perform most doctors in a modern hospital, let alone this hellhole.
But letting them know that would be catastrophically stupid.
The guard stared at him for another long moment. Marcus kept his eyes down, his shoulders hunched, his whole posture screaming I'm no threat, I'm nobody, please just let me help and don't hurt me.
Finally, the guard sneered.
"Fine. Yellow monkey, you're with me."
The slur hit like a slap. Marcus felt his jaw tighten involuntarily—but he forced his face to stay blank. Kept the fear in his eyes, the tremble in his hands.
Inside, though? Inside, something cold and dark uncoiled in his chest.
Remember that face, he told himself. Remember those words. You're going to make him regret them.
He shuffled forward, head down, moving with the careful steps of someone expecting a boot to the ribs at any moment. As he passed the guard, he made sure to flinch slightly, shoulders hunching even more.
The guard smirked, clearly satisfied with the display of cowering fear.
Marcus's hand brushed against the man's arm. Just for a second. Just the lightest contact—steadying himself as he stumbled slightly on the uneven floor.
Nobody saw the needle.
Marcus had spent six months training sleight-of-hand with NZT-enhanced perception. He could palm cards, lift wallets, plant tracking devices, all without anyone noticing. A needle thinner than a hair, coated with slow-acting poison?
Child's play.
The guard didn't even feel it. The puncture was too small, the nerve endings too spread out. By the time the toxin spread through his bloodstream, he'd already forgotten Marcus had touched him.
The poison was one of Marcus's favorites—something he'd synthesized back in the Limitless world, designed for exactly this kind of scenario. Slow-acting, impossible to trace. The symptoms would look like a normal illness. Fever, weakness, organ failure. Death would come in four to six weeks, maybe sooner if the target was in poor health.
And by the time this asshole started feeling sick, nobody would connect it to a scared slave who brushed against him in a dark hallway.
One down, Marcus thought coldly. Thirty more to go.
"Move," the guard barked, shoving Marcus toward the door.
Marcus stumbled, catching himself with exaggerated clumsiness. Playing the part. The terrified slave, in way over his head, just trying to survive.
Behind him, the other men in the barracks watched with pity and relief. Pity for Marcus, getting dragged off to God-knows-what. Relief that it wasn't them.
The door slammed shut, cutting off the light. The bolt slid home with a metallic clang.
Marcus followed the guards down the tunnel, head down, steps shuffling. His whole body language screamed submission.
But inside? Inside, he was smiling.
Game on.
(End of Chapter 12)
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