Eleven in the morning, and the cave was starting to warm up.
Marcus could feel the temperature shift as sunlight filtered through cracks in the rock ceiling, thin shafts of light cutting through the dusty air. Outside, the Afghan desert would be baking under a merciless sun. Inside, the stone walls held onto the morning chill a little longer, but not much.
He sat cross-legged on the floor near the makeshift kitchen area, watching Yinsen portion out their lunch. Flatbread, some kind of stew that smelled like lamb and cumin, water from a jerry can. Simple food, but Marcus had eaten worse in the slave barracks.
"Think he'll wake up soon?" Yinsen asked quietly, glancing over at Tony Stark.
Marcus followed his gaze. Stark lay on the operating table they'd converted into a bed, his chest wrapped in layers of bandages and gauze. The arc reactor—that crude disc of copper and palladium—was visible through the dressings, a dull metallic gleam. Wires snaked out from the device, connecting to a car battery sitting on the floor beside the table.
The soft hum of the electromagnet was constant now. Background noise that Marcus had already learned to tune out.
"Soon," Marcus said. He kept his voice casual, unconcerned. "We've been giving him glucose, hormones, antibiotics—everything to speed recovery. His vitals have been getting stronger all morning. Could be any time now."
In truth, Marcus knew exactly when Stark would wake up. His enhanced hearing had been tracking the subtle changes in Stark's breathing for the last hour. The shift from deep unconsciousness to lighter sleep. The occasional muscle twitch. The way his eyelids had started to flutter under closed lids about twenty minutes ago.
Any second now.
But Marcus didn't say that. That would be showing off. That would be suspicious.
Instead, he accepted a bowl of stew from Yinsen and ate slowly, keeping one ear on Stark's breathing, the other on the guards outside.
The Ten Rings had left them alone after the surgery. No forced labor, no harassment. Marcus suspected Raza had given orders—these three prisoners were valuable now. Stark especially. And the two "doctors" keeping Stark alive were valuable by extension.
Which means I've bought myself three months of relative safety, Marcus thought. No more hauling rocks in the sun. No more beatings. Just play the helpful medical assistant and wait for Stark to build his way out of here.
It was almost funny. Two weeks ago, Marcus had been the lowest of the low—nameless slave labor, worth less than the bullets it would take to execute him. Now he was sitting in relative comfort, eating hot food, with a genius billionaire five feet away who didn't even know Marcus existed yet.
Funny how things change.
Movement.
Marcus caught it in his peripheral vision. Stark's hand, twitching. His head turning slightly on the makeshift pillow.
"Mmm..."
The sound was barely audible, but Marcus and Yinsen both looked up immediately.
Tony Stark was waking up.
The first thing Tony registered was pain.
His chest felt like someone had driven a railroad spike through it. Every breath was agony, a sharp, stabbing sensation that made him want to stop breathing entirely.
The second thing was thirst. His mouth was desert-dry, his throat raw like he'd been swallowing sand.
The third thing was the tube in his nose.
What the hell?
Tony's hand came up instinctively, grabbing at whatever was shoved up his nostril. He yanked it out—an oxygen tube, he realized dimly—and immediately regretted it as his lungs struggled to pull in enough air on their own.
He tried to sit up. Bad idea. His body screamed in protest, muscles weak and uncoordinated. His arms felt like wet noodles. The world tilted sickeningly.
Where am I? What happened?
Memories came back in flashes. The Jericho demonstration. The convoy. Laughing with the soldiers. Then—
Explosion. Fire. Flying backward. Impact. Pain.
Oh God. The attack.
Tony's heart rate spiked, panic clawing at his chest. He had to get up. Had to move. Had to—
"I'd advise against moving around," a voice said calmly from somewhere to his left. "Unless you want to undo all the work we put into keeping you alive."
Tony froze.
Slowly, carefully, he turned his head.
Two men sat about ten feet away, eating from bowls, watching him with varying degrees of concern and wariness. One was middle-aged, Middle Eastern features, glasses, tired eyes. The other was younger—early twenties maybe, Asian, with an unnervingly steady gaze that didn't match the supposedly helpful tone of his voice.
Neither of them looked like terrorists. But they didn't look like rescuers either.
Tony looked down at his chest.
What the—
His shirt was gone. In its place were layers of bandages, stained with old blood and antiseptic. And in the center of his chest, visible through the gauze, was some kind of metal disc. Circular, crude, with wires coming out of it.
Wires that connected to a car battery sitting beside him.
What. The. Hell.
Tony's hands moved automatically, peeling back the gauze, needing to see, needing to understand. The bandages came away easily—too easily.
The device in his chest was exactly as horrifying as he'd imagined.
A hole. Right over his heart. Maybe four inches across, packed with metal and wiring, the edges of the wound held together with crude stitches that looked like they belonged in a horror movie.
Tony stared at it for a long moment, his brilliant mind trying to process, trying to understand, trying to reject what he was seeing.
That's inside me. That's in my chest. That's—
He stumbled to his feet, ignoring the protests from his body, and found a small mirror propped up on a nearby table. Someone had left it there deliberately, he realized. So he could see.
Tony held the mirror up with shaking hands.
The reflection showed exactly what he'd feared. The device, the wires, the battery hanging from his chest like some kind of grotesque jewelry. His face was pale, gaunt, dark circles under his eyes. He looked like a corpse that hadn't gotten the memo.
"What did you do to me?" The words came out rough, accusatory. Tony turned to face the two men, and some part of him knew he was being unreasonable—they'd clearly been trying to help—but panic and shock were making rational thought difficult.
The younger one—Asian kid, couldn't be more than twenty—set down his bowl and stood up. His expression was calm, almost clinical.
"What we did," he said evenly, "was save your life."
There was no emotion in his voice. No pride, no defensiveness. Just stating facts.
The older man stood too, moving more slowly. When he spoke, his accent was educated, European-trained. "We removed as much shrapnel as we could during surgery, Mr. Stark. But there were too many fragments—dozens of them, some less than a millimeter in size. They were in your bloodstream, moving toward your heart."
The younger one picked up the explanation. "So we built an electromagnet. It generates a field that holds the shrapnel in place. Stops it from traveling. Keeps you alive."
He reached into his pocket and tossed something to Tony.
Tony caught it on reflex. A small glass bottle, the kind you'd use for medication samples. Inside, floating in a small amount of what looked like blood, were several pieces of metal. Shrapnel. His shrapnel.
"Souvenir," the kid said dryly.
Tony stared at the bottle for a long moment, watching the metal fragments shift and settle. These had been inside him. These would have killed him.
These are from my own missile.
The realization hit like a physical blow. He'd been hit by his own weapon. A Stark Industries product. The logo was probably stamped on every fragment.
Tony looked up, meeting the younger man's eyes. There was something unsettling about that gaze. Too calm. Too knowing. Like he was watching an experiment rather than a person.
"Where am I?" Tony asked, his voice hoarse.
Before anyone could answer, heavy footsteps echoed in the tunnel outside.
Three sharp knocks. Pause. Two more knocks.
The older man straightened immediately, his expression shifting from concerned doctor to wary prisoner. "Get up," he said urgently, moving toward Tony. "Stand up. Like us."
Both men raised their hands, placing them on their heads. The universal gesture of surrender.
Tony looked between them, confused, but some instinct made him copy the movement. Hands up. Head down. Don't make trouble.
The door crashed open.
Raza walked in, followed by four armed guards with AK-47s.
Tony's engineering mind registered the weapons automatically. Soviet-era, well-maintained, probably smuggled in from—
Wait.
He looked closer at the rifles. At the markings on the side.
No. No way.
Those weren't Russian weapons. Those were American. Specifically, those were Stark Industries M-16 variants. He recognized his own company's modifications—the enhanced barrel length, the improved firing mechanism, the distinctive grip design he'd personally signed off on.
His weapons. In the hands of terrorists.
"Isn't that my gun?" Tony heard himself say. "Why do they have my weapons?"
Neither of his fellow prisoners answered. The older one—the doctor—just shook his head slightly. Not now. Don't provoke them.
Raza approached, his scarred face stretching into what might have been intended as a smile. It looked more like a death threat.
He spoke in rapid Arabic, his tone almost cheerful, and the older doctor translated quietly.
"He says... welcome, Tony Stark. The most famous mass murderer in American history."
Tony's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Raza kept talking, and the doctor kept translating, his voice getting quieter with each sentence.
"He wants you to build them a missile. The Jericho. The one you demonstrated."
One of the guards handed Raza a photograph, which he thrust toward Tony. It showed the Jericho in all its glory—the missile that could level a mountain, the weapon that had made him famous, the pinnacle of modern military technology.
Tony looked at the photograph. Looked at Raza's expectant expression. Looked at the guards with their fingers on triggers.
Every instinct screamed at him to comply. To play along. To survive.
But Tony Stark had never been good at doing what he was told.
"I refuse."
The words were out before he could stop them. Flat. Defiant. Stupid.
The temperature in the room dropped about twenty degrees.
Raza's smile vanished. The guards shifted, weapons coming up slightly. The doctor beside Tony made a small, distressed sound.
The younger prisoner—the kid who'd barely said anything—shook his head almost imperceptibly. Idiot, his expression said clearly.
Raza said something sharp in Pashto.
Two guards grabbed Tony before he could react, hauling him forward. There was a large bucket of water in the corner—Marcus had noticed it earlier, had wondered what it was for—and now he knew.
They shoved Tony's head into the water.
Held it down.
Tony thrashed, bubbles erupting as he tried to scream, tried to breathe, tried to do anything other than drown. His hands clawed at the bucket's edge, but the guards were strong and practiced.
Marcus watched impassively.
He had to learn sometime, Marcus thought coldly. Better now than later.
Thirty seconds. Forty-five. A full minute of Tony's head underwater before they yanked him up, gasping and choking.
"Will you build it?" Raza asked through the doctor's translation.
Tony coughed up water, his whole body shaking. "I—"
They shoved him under again.
This time they held him longer. Tony's struggles got weaker, more desperate. When they finally pulled him up, he was barely conscious, water streaming from his nose and mouth.
"Will. You. Build. It."
It wasn't really a question.
Tony, shaking, water-logged, barely able to breathe, nodded weakly.
"Good," Raza said, satisfaction clear even through the language barrier.
They dragged Tony outside.
Marcus and Yinsen followed, hands still raised, as Raza led them through a tunnel and out into the open air.
Marcus had to fight to keep his expression neutral.
The Ten Rings base was bigger than he'd realized. Much bigger. From the slave barracks, he'd only seen a small section—the living quarters, the workshop where they'd made him haul supplies. But this... this was an operation.
The cave opened onto a natural plateau, ringed by rocky hills that hid it from aerial surveillance. Dozens of tents and improvised structures dotted the area. Weapons were everywhere—crates of ammunition, rocket launchers, machine guns, all bearing the distinctive markings of Stark Industries.
Guards patrolled in groups of three or four, all armed, all alert. Marcus counted at least forty fighters visible, probably more inside the caves and buildings.
This is a military installation, he realized. Not just a terrorist cell. This is organized, well-funded, well-equipped.
No wonder Rhodes can't find them. You could hide an army up here.
Tony Stark stood in the center of it all, dripping wet, staring at the arsenal with an expression of dawning horror.
"How do you feel?" Raza asked through Yinsen's translation. His tone was almost conversational now, like they were discussing the weather.
Tony didn't answer. He was too busy staring at a pallet of missiles—Jericho prototypes, by the look of them—stacked like cordwood.
"These are all the materials you need," Raza continued. "Everything required to build the Jericho missile. You will make a list of additional supplies. You will begin immediately."
He stepped closer to Tony, his smile returning. That predatory, empty smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"When you finish, we will release you."
The lie was so blatant that Marcus almost laughed. Even Tony, concussed and traumatized as he was, didn't believe it.
But Tony reached out and shook Raza's hand anyway, forcing a smile onto his face.
"No, he won't," Tony said quietly in English, the smile never slipping.
"No, he won't," Marcus agreed, just as quietly.
"Definitely not," Yinsen added.
But Raza didn't understand English beyond a few basic words. He saw the handshake, saw the smile, and assumed compliance.
"Good!" Raza clapped Tony on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. "Work begins tomorrow. Rest today."
He gestured to the guards, who herded the three prisoners back toward the cave.
Marcus caught a glimpse of Raza before they entered the tunnel—standing on a ridge above the compound, watching them with cold, calculating eyes. The real leader, not the bearded subordinate who'd done all the talking.
That's the one I need to kill personally, Marcus thought. The poisoned needle is too good for him. I want him to know it's coming.
Back in the cave, Tony collapsed into a chair.
Water still dripped from his hair, pooling on the stone floor. His hands were shaking—adrenaline crash, probably, mixed with the lingering oxygen deprivation from being waterboarded.
Marcus and Yinsen gave him space, moving back to their corner of the room. Letting him process.
For a long time, Tony just sat there, staring at nothing.
Marcus watched him from the corner of his eye, pretending to be busy organizing medical supplies. This was the moment. The break point. Where Tony Stark stopped being the arrogant genius who thought he controlled the world and started being the man who would become Iron Man.
Come on, Marcus thought. You're smarter than this. Figure it out.
"Tony."
Yinsen's voice was gentle, almost fatherly. He moved closer, crouching down so he was at Tony's eye level.
"Your friends are looking for you. I'm sure of it. But this place is hidden. It could take them weeks to find you. Months, even." He paused, letting that sink in. "You need to find a way to help yourself."
Tony didn't respond. His eyes were distant, unfocused.
Marcus decided to add his voice to the mix. Keep it light, keep it casual. Don't sound too invested.
"The Tony Stark I've heard about doesn't give up," Marcus said from across the room. He didn't look up from the medical supplies he was organizing. "Genius inventor, right? Youngest CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Built his first circuit board at four years old."
That got Tony's attention. He looked up, meeting Marcus's gaze.
"You've seen what's out there," Marcus continued. "All those weapons. Your weapons. Your company's logo on every crate." He let the words hang in the air for a moment. "Your entire life's work, in the hands of murderers."
Tony's expression darkened.
"Is that really how you want it to end?" Marcus pressed. "Tony Stark, killed by his own creation, remembered as the man who armed terrorists?"
"Marcus," Yinsen said warningly. Too harsh.
But Marcus ignored him. Sometimes you needed harsh. Sometimes people needed a verbal slap to snap them out of shock.
"Or," Marcus said, his voice softening slightly, "you find a way to save yourself. Use that genius brain. Build something. Do something. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and start thinking."
Tony stared at him for a long moment. There was anger in his eyes now. Good. Anger was better than despair.
"Who the hell are you?" Tony asked finally.
"Marcus." He gestured to Yinsen. "That's Yinsen. We're the guys who kept you alive. You're welcome, by the way."
"I didn't ask to be saved."
"Yeah, well, tough shit," Marcus said bluntly. "You're alive. Now do something with it."
Yinsen looked scandalized at Marcus's tone, but Tony... Tony almost smiled. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it was there.
"You're kind of an asshole," Tony observed.
"And you're kind of a drama queen," Marcus shot back. "We all have our flaws."
That surprised a short laugh out of Tony. It turned into a cough—his lungs still recovering from the waterboarding—but when he looked up again, there was something different in his expression.
Focus. Purpose.
There it is, Marcus thought with satisfaction. There's the Tony Stark who builds Iron Man.
Yinsen, seeing the shift, pressed his advantage. He pulled a chair over and sat down facing Tony, his expression serious.
"You've seen the weapons outside," Yinsen said quietly. "Every single one is stamped with your company's logo. Stark Industries. These people have been using your technology to kill innocents for years."
Tony's jaw tightened.
"How do you think I ended up here?" Yinsen continued. "My family—my wife, my daughter—they died in a bombing three years ago. The missile that killed them had your name on it."
The silence was crushing.
Tony looked like he'd been punched in the gut. "I... I didn't know. I didn't—"
"I know you didn't," Yinsen interrupted gently. "You were in your workshop, building. In your lab, inventing. You never saw where your weapons ended up. Who used them. What they destroyed."
He leaned forward, his voice intense but not angry. "But now you know. Now you've seen it. You're living in a cave, surrounded by your legacy. So the question is—what are you going to do about it?"
Tony was silent for a long moment, his mind clearly racing behind those sharp brown eyes.
Finally, he spoke. "They want me to build them a Jericho missile."
"Yes," Yinsen confirmed.
"And if I refuse, they torture me. Kill me. Kill you."
"Most likely."
Tony looked around the cave—at the rough stone walls, the minimal equipment, the surveillance camera in the corner watching everything.
A slow smile spread across his face. Not a happy smile. A dangerous one.
"Then I guess I'd better start making a list of materials I'll need."
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "You're going to build it? Just like that?"
"Oh, I'm going to build something," Tony said, and there was a gleam in his eye now. That spark of inspiration that Marcus had been waiting for. "Just not what they're expecting."
Yinsen caught on immediately. "Tony, that's—"
"Insane? Impossible?" Tony's smile widened. "Probably. But I don't have a lot of other options right now." He looked down at the arc reactor glowing in his chest. "They want me to build them a weapon. Fine. I'll build a weapon. Just not the one they ordered."
Marcus felt a cold satisfaction settle in his chest.
And there it is. The plan. The armor.
The escape.
He schooled his expression into something appropriately concerned and confused. "What are you talking about? What are you going to build?"
Tony looked at him, and for a moment, Marcus thought he saw suspicion flash across Stark's face. Like he could sense something off about Marcus's performance.
But then Tony just shook his head. "Best you don't know. Plausible deniability. If Scarface out there starts asking questions, you can honestly say you have no idea what I'm doing."
"Tony—" Yinsen started.
"I'll need your help," Tony interrupted. "Both of you. But the less you know about the details, the safer you are. Trust me on this."
Yinsen looked uncertain, but he nodded slowly.
Marcus kept his expression neutral. Inside, though, he was smiling.
Oh, I know exactly what you're going to build, Stark. I've known since the moment you woke up.
I'm just waiting for you to catch up.
That Evening
The guards brought dinner—more stew, more flatbread, lukewarm tea that tasted like dirty socks.
Tony ate mechanically, barely tasting the food. His mind was clearly elsewhere, already designing, already planning. He'd asked for paper and pencils, and now crude sketches were scattered around the cave. Schematics that probably looked like gibberish to the guards watching through cameras, but Marcus knew better.
Repulsor technology. Miniaturized arc reactor upgrades. Armor plating calculations.
The birth of Iron Man, taking shape one sketch at a time.
Yinsen watched Tony work with a mix of hope and worry. He'd pulled Marcus aside earlier, speaking in low tones while Tony was distracted.
"What do you think he's planning?" Yinsen had asked.
"Something brilliant or something suicidal," Marcus had replied. "Probably both."
"We should help him."
"We will." Marcus had met Yinsen's eyes. "But carefully. These people aren't stupid. If they realize Tony's building something other than a missile, they'll kill all three of us."
"I know," Yinsen had said quietly. "But what choice do we have? Stay here and die slowly? Or help Tony and die quickly trying to escape?"
"Who says we have to die at all?" Marcus had asked lightly.
Yinsen had given him a sad smile. "Optimism. That's good. Hold onto that."
But there was something in his tone that suggested Yinsen had already accepted his fate. Already decided that he wasn't leaving this cave alive.
I can't save you, Marcus thought, looking at the older man now. Even if I wanted to. You're going to sacrifice yourself for Stark in three months, and there's nothing I can do to change that without breaking the timeline.
Sorry, Doc. But your death is already written.
Marcus pushed the thought away and focused on his own food, his own plans.
Three months. Just three months of playing the helpful assistant, the scared survivor, the nobody who got lucky enough to have medical skills.
Then Tony would build the armor. Tony would escape. And Marcus would slip out in the chaos, with a hundred doses of NZT and enough knowledge to become whoever he wanted to be.
Patience, he reminded himself. Just a little more patience.
Across the cave, Tony Stark continued sketching, his hands moving with frantic energy, the arc reactor in his chest glowing faintly in the dim light.
The timer had started.
Three months until freedom.
Marcus could wait that long.
(End of Chapter 14)
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