[The Cave]
Pain.
It was the only thing Tony knew. It was a sharp, biting cold in the center of his chest. He gasped, his eyes snapping open. Darkness. Damp stone. The smell of rust and unwashed bodies.
He tried to sit up, but a strange tug on his chest stopped him. He looked down.
Wires. There were wires coming out of his chest, leading to a car battery sitting on a crude wooden table next to his cot.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
Tony jerked his head toward the voice. A man in glasses was shaving in front of a small mirror, calmly scraping a razor against his cheek.
"Where..." Tony's voice was a rasp. "Where is Sebastian?"
The man paused. "Who?"
"My... my butler. He was... he wasn't there." Tony's memory was fragmented. The explosion. The sand. The phone call he didn't make.
"There was no butler, Stark," the man said, wiping his razor. "Just you. And a lot of dead soldiers."
Tony looked at the battery again. He felt the panic rising, a tsunami of fear. He ripped the bandages aside to see the metal circle embedded in his sternum.
"What did you do to me?"
"I saved your life," the man said. "Though I suspect you might wish I hadn't."
[30 Miles East. The Wreckage Site.]
The desert wind howled, burying the charred remains of the Humvee under a layer of fine sand. The bodies of the soldiers had been recovered by the US military hours ago, but the site was still hot.
A figure stood in the center of the blast crater.
Sebastian Michaelis looked out of place. His black tailcoat was buttoned perfectly. His white gloves were spotless. He looked like he was about to serve hors d'oeuvres at a gala, not standing in a war zone.
He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply.
He could smell the propellant of the missile. He could smell the dried blood of the soldiers. And faintly, very faintly, he could smell the lingering scent of expensive cologne and fear.
He was here.
Sebastian opened his eyes. They were glowing a vibrant, hellish violet.
He knelt down and picked up a piece of jagged metal. It was a fragment of the missile casing. He recognized the alloy. He had filed the paperwork for the patent himself.
"Stark Industries," Sebastian whispered. The irony was not lost on him.
He stood up, scanning the horizon. The bond—the soul contract that tied him to Tony—was usually a bright, burning thread in his mind. Now, it was muffled. Dull. Like a radio signal under heavy static.
Lead? Deep underground? Or perhaps magic?
It didn't matter. He would burn this entire desert to glass if he had to.
"Hey! You!"
Sebastian turned. A jeep with three men approached, machine guns mounted on the back. They weren't US military. They wore mismatched fatigues and scarves. The Ten Rings.
They pulled up, aiming their weapons at him. The driver shouted in Pashto/Arabic dialects (a mix typical of the region). "Who are you? Hands up!"
Sebastian smiled. It was a polite, customer-service smile.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said in perfect, fluent Pashto. "I seem to have misplaced my master. Perhaps you could direct me to the nearest cave system?"
The gunman blinked, confused by the British accent and the suit. "Shoot him!"
The machine gun roared.
Sebastian didn't move. He simply wasn't there anymore.
The gunman felt a tap on his shoulder. He spun around. Sebastian was standing on top of the jeep, holding a silver dinner knife.
"That is no way to treat a guest," Sebastian sighed.
[The Cave. Two Days Later.]
Tony stared at the fire. The shock had worn off, replaced by a dull, aching misery.
They had shown him the stockpile. His weapons. His legacy. Thousands of missiles, mortars, and guns, all bearing his name, being used to kill the people he was supposed to protect.
"You have everything," Yinsen said, stirring a pot of beans. "And yet, you have nothing."
"I have a plan," Tony muttered.
"To build the Jericho missile for them?"
"No." Tony looked at the sketches on his paper. It wasn't a missile. It was a suit of armor.
"Yinsen," Tony asked quietly. "Do you believe in demons?"
Yinsen chuckled. "I live in a cave surrounded by terrorists, Stark. I see demons every day."
"No. I mean... real ones." Tony stared at the flickering flames. "I have this... friend. He's weird. He can do things."
"If your friend could do things, he would be here," Yinsen said gently. "We are on our own, Stark."
Tony gripped his pencil tighter. Yinsen was right. Sebastian wasn't coming. Maybe the contract was void if Tony was captured. Maybe Sebastian finally got bored.
Fine, Tony thought, a spark of the old arrogance igniting in his chest. If the Devil won't save me, I'll have to become the Iron Man.
[The Ten Rings Outpost #4. 10 Miles North.]
The encampment was silent. Too silent.
Raza, the leader of the Ten Rings, walked through the tents. He had come to check on his men.
"Ahmed?" he called out.
No answer.
He pushed open the flap of the command tent.
Raza froze.
His men were there. All twelve of them. They were dead. But there was no blood on the floor. There were no bullet holes.
They were seated around the table as if having a meeting. On the table, arranged neatly in front of the dead captain, was a silver platter.
On the platter was a single note, written in elegant cursive script on stark white paper:
To whom it may concern,
I am looking for a Mr. Tony Stark. He is about 5'9", has a goatee, and is likely being quite difficult. If you have him, please return him. If I have to visit another camp, I shall be forced to be less... tidy.
Sincerely,The Butler.
Raza stared at the note, his hands shaking. He looked at the "corpses." Upon closer inspection, he saw that they had been killed with... forks?
Small, silver dessert forks were embedded in their necks with surgical precision.
Raza crumpled the note. "Move the prisoner," he hissed to his lieutenant. "Move Stark deeper. And double the guards."
"Sir? Against one man?"
"That is not a man," Raza whispered, looking at the devastation. "That is a ghost."
[End of Chapter 3]
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