Skybound

Ash.

It’s everywhere.

The bitter particles fill his mouth, clinging to his throat and covering his eyes. His rage mixes with his tears as a gust of wind swipes the last flakes from his hands, billowing them away until there’s nothing to grasp, nothing to hold on to even though he tries. Gods, he tries and his hands stay as empty as he feels.

”He did it,” Nebula chokes out from behind him. ”He actually did it.”

And then she growls, ”I’m going to kill him.”

He doesn’t care. 

He staggers back a couple of steps and falls heavily to sit on a broken piece of statue, grips his hand with the other, hoping the dull pain in his shoulder will remind him he’s still alive, he’s still here. But his mind warps back and reminds him that he’s alone, everyone else is dead, and he has no way of going home.

Home.

Does he even have a home anymore?

What about his friends and family? What about Pepper and Happy? Rhodey?

What about Steve?

He closes his eyes and rests his forehead on his palms.

He doesn’t try to hold back tears.

He doesn’t turn to look as he hears something clink and whir painfully forced to life, and he doesn’t react when Nebula asks, ”My ship still flies. Are you coming?”

He doesn’t bother looking up when the remaining pieces of the broken moon rain down on Titan, burying Nebula and her ship under the rubble. 

What’s the point of witnessing everything falling apart?

The last thing on his mind before the darkness is, Steve, I’m so sorry.

And then, nothing.

He wakes up slowly, lying naked on his back on a soft surface. He’s pleasantly warm, surrounded by a low, pulsating hum and a distinctive feeling of being safe even though he has no idea where he is or what happened. Through his closed eyelids, he can see strange lights swim around him and he tries to pry his eyes open, wanting to gather up some semblance of coherence to his surroundings.

//Careful!//

”What?” he croaks, and can’t help a twitch of surprise. The small movement shoots a flare of agony through his body and a spike of sharp pain lights up his spine, bursting into his brain.

//Don’t try to move. You are still badly hurt.// 

The voice is gentle and soothing, feminine, and seems to come from inside of his head and from all around him at the same time, bewildering and familiar. With careful effort, he manages to pry his eyes open and tries to look around while keeping his head still because moving seems like a stupidly painful idea. 

It’s difficult to gauge the exact size or shape of the room he’s in but it feels cavernous. For some reason, he senses it should terrify him —caves are bad bad bad cave is death Yinsen no— but instead, the dim space feels like a nest, a safe place to curl into and sleep.

”What—where am I?” He forces out through a parched throat.

//You have been through a lot, Lost One,// the voice hums. 

”I’m not—” he starts and attempts to shake his head, confused. The aborted move results in another flash of pain, this time with added nausea and vertigo that leave him reeling. 

//Isn’t that what you are? Lost?//

He’s not sure what to answer so he says nothing.

After some time, the voice lets out a non-committal sound. //You are a peculiar one. I’m not sure I’ve ever encountered a being like you. You seem so…fragile. Tiny. Like you could be broken with just a snap.//

Something about that terrifies him and he twitches in a futile attempt to get away, but manages only letting out a whimper.

The light changes, turns softer and soothing, and something brushes his cheek like a caress. He swallows and closes his eyes, enjoying the touch despite himself. It reminds him of…something from a long time ago.

//I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you upset,// the voice apologizes. //Sleep now, I will watch over you.//

He doesn’t have it in him to say anything more, so he closes his eyes and drifts off.

When he comes back to, the low hum sounds a lot like a song. He blinks his eyes open and slowly turns his head, relieved by the absence of pain or nausea. Deciding to be brave, he moves his hand tentatively along the smooth surface he’s lying on and pushes. It gives a little under his palm, not unlike a sponge, but offers enough support for him  to sit up slowly. The light tunic he has on ripples like water before gradually settling back against his skin like it has a mind of its own.

The walls around him are smooth, opaque, and rise up into the ceiling in one blank structure with no windows or doors. It gives a sense of being part of something infinitely bigger even though the space itself feels almost…cozy. He feels at peace and, for some reason, that makes him nervous. It’s almost like he shouldn’t be comfortable in a closed environment like this but he has no idea why.

”Hello?” He says tentatively.

//Hello, Lost One,// the voice answers. 

”Why do you keep calling me that?” He asks, wondering why it feels so familiar to talk to a disembodied female voice.

//What should I call you then? What is your name?//

”I—” he starts and frowns. ”Huh. I don’t know.”

//Where are you from?//

He blinks and tries to remember. ”I don’t know that either,” he says after a moment.

//Yes,// she agrees. //That’s why I’m calling you Lost One.//

”Makes sense,” he mutters. 

He twitches when his feet gently touch the floor and, for a moment, he’s sure his knees will give out. Then something clicks and he remembers how it feels to stand up. Slowly, he draws himself to his full height —all five feet eleven inches— and breathes in deeply, taking in the oddly spicy, humid air. It feels strange to stand up after floating for… —how long have I been here?— but it’s a good strange. Grounding.

The floor is smooth and warm under his bare feet and when he takes a couple of careful steps, it reverberates under him, like it’s hollow. He cocks his head and tries to listen before slowly sitting back down. He presses his hand against the surface and feels the thrum of something immense beneath his fingers. It’s familiar and comforting. 

It sounds a lot like a heartbeat.

//I take it you’re feeling better?// 

”Yeah,” he says and rolls his shoulders. ”I mean, I’m a bit stiff still but there’s almost no disorientation or nausea.” He breathes out as he raises his hands up against his head and presses his palms together, then opens his hands and bends back before gently rotating sideways. It’s a sequence so familiar he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until he bends to the right and his left side twinges.

He hisses and straightens himself, lifts up his tunic and—

”What the hell?”

There’s an angry red scar on his left side just under his ribs but that’s not what makes him swear because in the centre of his chest rests a triangle of glowing bright blue light. He taps the surface —it used to be reinforced glass with a chilled diamond core but this doesn’t sound right— trails his fingers along the sides where the ornate edges embed into his skin effortlessly like it belongs there. A multitude of scars travel across his chest, crisscrossing and intertwining like an elaborate embroidery. 

Something about the light tugs at his memory and despite his utter bewilderment, he feels…safe?

//You had it on you when I found you,// she explains. //It is powerful, and even though I’m not sure of its function, I’m quite certain it is the reason you’re still alive.// She pauses. //Or, part of the reason.//

He raises a brow. ”How’s that?” He asks as he lets his tunic fall down and billow on his lap.

//The power source emitted a field that kept you safe after whatever happened. I’m not sure how long it could’ve kept you alive.// She falls silent, contemplating. //The true reason you are still alive and I’m here, is because…There is a residue of something I recognize.//

He blinks. ”A what now?

She lets out a sound much like a sigh. //Long ago, there were others like me. We drifted across the space and time and, over time, grew separated from each other. Some of us got lost. Others lost their minds. I haven’t met them in eons and, until I met you, I thought my siblings were all gone.//

His mind shies away from the implications of space and time and eons. ”I might be a lot of things but I’m pretty sure I’m not your brother,” he says, trying to lighten the mood and failing.

//I know that,// she says, amused. //But you carry a trace of my brother. Perhaps he was your creator.//

He winces. ”I’m sorry, I have no idea.”

//It doesn’t really matter,// she says, her voice somehow conveying the impression of a shrug. //From what I remember of him, he was an egotistical maniac.//

He opens his mouth, ready to offer —he sounds like me— another apology when, instead, his stomach lets out a loud grumble.

//Oh, my apologies,// she says. //You must be hungry.//

A section of the floor to his left pulses with a soft green light and then gradually slits open to reveal a gelatinous glob approximately the size of his fist.

”Uh,” he says, eying it uncertainly.

//It’s just nutrients and fluids. It’s perfectly safe.// She falls silent before adding, //You are not actually eating me, if that worries you.//

”How the hell was I supposed to know that?” he grumbles before digging in.

The lights around him flicker and dance and it feels like laughter.

He falls asleep in the sound of the soft thrumming, his hand pressed against the warm, smooth surface of the blue light in his chest and he dreams.

He dreams of red and gold, of flying through the air with laughter in his ears and joy in his heart. He dreams of steel and glass, of a red, blue, and white sphere, of clear skies and green grass, of soft beds and fingers on his skin, of pain and betrayal. He dreams of bright, blue eyes and someone sighing Tony.

He wakes up with tears in his eyes and he doesn’t know why.

”Where are we?” He asks once.

He’s not sure how long or how far they travel. He doesn’t even know how they travel exactly, and he’s oddly fine with that. He spends his time in the cavern, talks with…whatever his host is, eats the odd glowing globs, and sleeps. He feels better every time he wakes up and, without a conscious thought, his morning routine evolves, getting longer and more elaborate. Sometimes he ends up in interesting positions, like on a headstand with his legs crossed like now.

//Does it matter?// She asks mildly.

”I don’t know,” he says, tries to shrug, and loses his balance. ”But I think I’d like to know anyway,” he says and rolls effortlessly to sit down.

The voice hums and then the wall in front of him ripples and a scattering of dozens of tiny lights burst in front of him and slowly arrange themselves into patterns. It’s a star chart, he realizes. 

//We’re in the Sixth Quadrant of Lorrrach Morr, heading towards Hayang 73,// she says spinning the pattern move.

He tilts his head and nods slowly. ”Yeah, no, that didn’t help at all.”

She snorts. //You’re welcome.//

Something about the way she says it makes him happy but he can’t quite put his finger on it. Why would he enjoy someone talking back at him?

”What’s in Hayang 73?” He asks instead, trying to distract himself.

//Your stop,// she answers. 

”What?”

She expands the star chart. //Hayang 73 is a relatively stable system. It’s a small enough so that you can land safely without alerting The Sartoi Empire,// another section of the star chart flashes, //but it has an established government and several public docks that will provide you with the means to take off.//

”But—”

//I can’t carry you forever,// she says softly. //You need to move on and find your way back home.//

”But I don’t even know where to start looking!” He snaps, frustrated.

//Then that’s what you need to find out.//  

He tries to reason with her of course but she stays adamant. He contemplates on begging but abandons the idea because that would just be embarrassing. Instead, he asks her to teach him as much of the star chart as she can. 

It turns out, he loves it. He falls in love with the patterns and configurations and learns to navigate the increasingly difficult schematics she presents him in a surprisingly short time and with ease that should make him —brilliant genius that I am— suspicious. 

//Perhaps you were a pilot,// she muses.

”Perhaps,” he says distractedly and cocks his head. ”FRIDAY, rotate that 147° to the right and expand.”

Wordlessly, she obeys.

”What’s your name?” he asks before he leaves.

//You can call me Ummu,// she says after a long pause. //Safe travels, Lost One. May the Stars guide you home.//

As he enters the atmosphere and the black of the space gives way to light, the opaque white walls of his small traveling pod turn pink. There’s barely any turbulence and he doesn’t feel a thing when the pod touches down, coming to a stop with a gentle sway. A short moment later, the side of the pod slowly grows thinner and thinner until there’s a gradually widening gap, revealing an eerily silent sight of a strange combination of pink, purple, and green vegetation. 

Curious, he peers through the gap at the red sky —like on Mars, less Rayleigh scattering— and takes a deep breath. The air is humid, warm, and full of scents. Some of them tickle his throat, making his nose itch, and he scrunches it, wondering if he should sneeze or clear his throat.

Around him, the pod slowly melts into the ground and he feels a pang of…something. Fear? Wistfulness? Anticipation? He knew this was a one-way trip from the start but it still doesn’t stop him from hoping for something more, something tangible, some sign that he isn’t alone.

He sighs and shakes his head. No point in wallowing; Ummu gave him what she could, leaving him with two sets of clothes, a handful of pinkish pearls, and a small bag to carry it all. It isn’t much but it’s more than he woke up with. He shrugs, mutters, ”Well, here goes nothing,” and takes a step into the lush vegetation. 

With the last remains of the pod gone, the bushes come alive with a cacophony of clicking and chittering sounds, oddly mechanical trills, and a rustle of leaves that sound more like clapping of hands. He realizes he doesn’t really mind the noise —Bruce would love this— in fact, he’d like to find out what makes it. An insect? A plant?

Perhaps he’ll find out. 

He takes a look behind him and sees a small bush with unassuming, white flowers blooming at the place where his pod had been just moments before. ”Thank you,” he says quietly and smiles.

Then he turns and starts to walk. 

He finds a small trail that gradually winds its way into a path and then into a gravel road. The landscape around him changes from a lush forest into a more open valley and fields on both sides of the road. The thin, long stalks sway gently in the breeze and he closes his eyes as he walks, feeling oddly calm. There is a certain kind of peace walking along a lazily curving road without a destination in mind. He wonders if he’s done it in his previous life?

The bright red sun is way over the horizon when he sees a watermill on the left and he stops, cocks his head, and watches. The slowly rolling the motion is almost hypnotic and he stays staring at it for some time before he blinks and frowns. Something about it feels off but he doesn’t quite get what. Without thinking, he starts walking, and doesn’t stop until he’s standing right next to the structure. 

”Yeah…something’s definitely off,” he mutters under his breath and frowns. ”I mean, I probably could figure it out if I just crawled under you but I guess that’s inappropriate?” He places his hand against the sun-warmed wall and pats it gently.

”I better find your owner, then,” he says cheerily and turns around to head back to the road, missing a lithe blue form watching him from around the corner.

A short time later, the road climbs up a small hill and there—in the next valley—lays a small settlement of narrow houses with straw roofs, animal pens, and long lines of colorful laundry billowing in the breeze. The villagers are —like the Avatar aliens had a go with Thor’s people— tall and stocky with bluish skin and dark hair adorned with braids and colorful beads. Some of them are smaller and shorter but —whoa, could I see this clearly before?— he can’t make out if it’s a gender or an age thing.

He’s not even halfway down the hill when they freeze and turn to stare at him in one, synchronised move.

”Well, that’s not creepy at all,” he mumbles but walks hesitantly closer anyway, pulling on a small, friendly smile. 

”Hi there!” he says, greeting one of them and winces when it earns him a frightened squeak. The others draw a bit more together and whisper among themselves. He catches several unfamiliar sentences and then words like ’stranger,’ ’star traveller,’ and ’is he here to eat us?’

”I saw your watermill down the road,” he continues conversationally. ”A fine structure but it lags a bit.”

One of them takes a step forward. ”Really?” They ask and tilt their head in a bird-like move. Their voice is deep and carries a musical undercurrent, like the words were just waiting to burst out in a song. ”Show me.”

He shrugs. ”Sure,” he says. 

On their way back to the watermill, his companion introduces themselves as Radek. He doesn’t offer a name back but they don’t seem to be offended by it. They also don’t seem to be bothered by the silence and he’s fine with it.

When they reach the mill, he takes a cursory once-over of the building before entering. He purses his lips and stares at the mechanism for a moment, his mind drawing the schematics over the visible gears and expanding them as he figures out the angles as they disappear into the shadows. He cocks his head and narrows his eyes, momentarily annoyed at the eluding irregularity, and then he finds it.

”Ha, knew it!” He says with a wide grin, pointing at the part on his right. ”See? That gear is slightly off. It causes just enough traction to affect that gear leading to the runner stones which makes them lag. It might be because of a shoddy workmanship when this was originally built or because structural exhaustion but I’m more inclined to—” 

He pauses as he takes in the interior of the chamber. ”Did you have a flood in here recently?”

Radek opens their mouth. 

”Yeah, that’s it. See, your sluice gate failed and the lag is the result. You almost got it back but it needs a bit of tweaking still—” 

He continues with his explanation as he crawls under the small space to examine closer, ignoring the startled protests of his companion and loses himself in the process of figuring out the mechanics. It feels familiar —Daddy’s home!— and somewhere in his mind, a small piece slots into place.

Later that night, after he’s cleaned up and had a hearty portion of stew and tough, nutty bread, he wanders outside to look at the stars. They are pale above his head and he can just make out some of the constellations Ummu had taught him. None of the names feel familiar but he traces them out anyway, wondering if his home is somewhere behind The Ch’arad or if he should turn around and reach for Arang G’an instead.

”Feeling homesick?” Radek asks. 

Somewhere in between aligning the third gear, recalculating the proper angle of the new, improved sluice gate, and rambling about a completely new construct that would significantly improve the watermill’s efficiency, he’d let it slip that he doesn’t actually know who he is or what happened to him. They’d taken it with calm acceptance, which he truly appreciates.

He shrugs. ”Something like that,” he says and fiddles with the hem of his shirt. It’s thicker and coarser than the cloth Ummu had provided for him but it also feels sturdier. More real, somehow.

Radek beckons at him and they sit down by a partially dismantled vehicle. ”You know, perhaps you are a Wanderer,” they muse.

”A what now?”

Radek leans back to lie down on the deep purple grass, crosses their hands under their head, and looks at the sky. ”Our people have this belief,” they start slowly, ”that every now and then someone passes through our world. Someone special.” They fall silent and glance at the blue glow faintly visible through the fabric over his chest. ”It’s not our business to ask who they are but it is our duty to help them on their way.”

He bites his lip and fiddles with a selection of scattered metal pieces on the ground. 

”A Wanderer is someone who is trying to find…well, something,” Radek continues. ”Either they are trying to find themselves, on a spiritual journey, or looking for the meaning of life—”

”Forty-two,” he mutters absently while his hands keep on working.

”What?”

He shakes his head and frowns. ”Nothing, sorry.”

”Huh,” Radek hums. A moment later they say, ”You seem like a Wanderer.”

They fall silent, the only sounds being the rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze and the soft tinkling of the parts he’s handling.

”How did you do that?” Radek asks after some time. 

He blinks and looks at his hands. Not counting some grease stains, the ground is clear of spare parts and the vehicle is neatly reassembled, looking like there never was anything missing.

He shrugs. ”I just know,” he says. 

Radek nods. ”So you are an engineer,” they muse. 

It’s not a question so he decides to say nothing.

”You’re not going to stay here, are you?” Radek says and raises a hand in a placating move before he can protest. ”It’s okay. You don’t seem like a man who intends to stay at a qwha farm anyway. My nest-cousin has a small transport business. Their previous mechanic stood them up which has led to nothing but trouble: not only are they grounded in Pangor, they also have way too much time in their hands to vent out their frustrations at me.”

”But…why would they hire me?”

Radek gives him a wry smile. ”Because that was their favorite hover and they’ve been trying to fix that for ages.”

Pangor is a bustling city with a fascinating infrastructure that takes his breath away. Radek’s small home village had in no way prepared him for three-tiered hoverways or two monorails high in the air. It tugs something in his memory but he can’t say what. Has he seen something like this before? Does he live in a place like this? He gapes at the bright colors and overwhelming sounds as Radek steers the hover deeper into the city, perfectly happy that he can just watch. 

As they make their way towards the shipyard, the city infrastructure slowly gives way to lower buildings and wider compounds until all the skyscrapers are behind them. After some time, Radek parks the hover by a bright red compound, kills the engine, and hops down. 

”Follow me, they’re in here,” they say, inclining their head toward the side of the red construct.

He’d barely makes it down when he hears a screech and a small, blue form tackles Radek. They roll around the ground in a blue blur, finally ending up with Radek pinned down.

”What the frell, Radek?” They yell. ”How did you—why are you using my hover?”

Radek grins from under them, not in the slightest fazed by the set of sharp nails on his throat. ”Saraan, meet your new mechanical engineer,” they say smugly and nod at his direction.

Saraan whips around and he feels pinned down by their sharp gaze that seems to find every nook and cranny inside of him. It feels surprisingly familiar. Yet another thing to think about later.

”You’re the one who fixed my hover?” They ask.

He shrugs. ”Yeah. It wasn’t a big deal.”

They narrow their eyes and cock their head. ”You’re not from around here,” they say. ”Where did you learn our language?”

Radek taps at Saraan’s temple, reminding them of their position. They roll their eyes and move off of Radek in a graceful, fluid motion that seems oddly familiar —I wonder who would win, Widow or Saraan?— and helps them up. 

”He’s a Wanderer, nest-cousin,” Radek says. ”Show some respect.”

Saraan snorts. ”You and your beliefs, Radek. I don’t care if he was whelped by Thanos himself if he can do his job.”

He flinches at the name and squeezes his eyes shut as a flare of pain shoots through his head. That name… where has he heard it before? He grits his teeth and bites back a whimper, grateful that Radek and Saraan are too focused on their bickering to notice his reaction.

”—does he get the job or not?” Radek asks.

Saraan rolls their eyes. ”That depends on how well he manages my precious,” they say and incline their head. ”This way, I’ll introduce you.”

It takes him eleven days to take the ship’s engine apart and build it back up and Saraan watches him the whole time. He doesn’t talk much, just loses himself in the fugue of schematics, welding, blueprints, and the mechanics of an elaborate engine. It’s freeing, exhilarating, and wonderful, and when he’s finally done, he feels mostly sad.

Saraan purses their lips, raises a brow, and shoos him out of the engine room and into the cockpit. ”Let’s take my precious for a ride,” they say. ”And then I’ll decide if you can stay.”

He stays.

It’s a nice life, he thinks. Saraan is a tough boss who takes no-one’s shit and can out-stubborn anyone. They fly around Hayang 73 and the nearby star systems, meet new people, and transport cargo, and he spends the majority of his time covered in engine grease, sweat, and a face-splitting grin. Sure, the food could be better and he wouldn’t say no to a bigger bed, but he likes what they’re doing there. 

It feels a lot like a home.

When he dreams, it’s of clear skies and warm skin, of strawberry blonde hair and spiders, of warm smiles and strong arms around him. 

And one day when he’s barely awake, he absent-mindedly doodles a five-pointed star within blue, red, and white concentric circles, and then doesn’t understand why his heart hurts like it was split in two.

”I know you’re not happy here,” Saraan says one day. 

They’re on Ferna, an artificial moon a short jump from Hayang 73, sitting on a rock, and gazing at the rings and flares of Irnea, the gas giant Ferna is orbiting. It’s quite a show.

”I’m okay,” he deflects and takes a sip of his drink. It’s hot and bitter and the mug feels like it belongs in his hand.

”Not what I asked,” they retort dryly. ”You’ve been with me for… how long? Seventeen cycles? I’d like to think I’ve learned to know you pretty well by now and when I say you’re not happy, I mean it.”

Happy. The word jolts something in the vicinity of his blue chest-stone, something aching and warm. He isn’t sure what it means. He still doesn’t remember his name or where he’s from but every day he regains more bits and pieces: faces, words, feelings—Happy. Friday. The letter ’A’ inside a circle. A yellow glowing stone against a purple background, tendrils of red dancing around delicate fingers— Saraan touches his shoulder, jolting him out of the spiral of his thoughts. 

”What do you need, Wanderer?” Their voice is soft and there’s no mocking in their eyes. Hasn’t been in a long, long while.

He gives them a helpless shrug. ”Answers.”

They nod. ”I think I know where to find them. We’re going to Knowhere.”

Except that Knowhere is no more.

He stares at the dark, burned out remains of what one was a bustling safe haven for outlaws and doesn’t know what to think. Saraan stands beside him and swears. 

”What now?” He asks quietly.

They shrug. ”Let’s go and see if anyone is around.”

”But it’s dead.”

Saraan snorts. ”Honey, Knowhere has been dead for eons. That’s the reason it’s here in the in the first place.” They raise a brow. ”It’s the severed head of a long dead Celestial, you know.”

”Right,” he says. He doesn’t but decides to keep silent.

They fly slowly into the massive cavern. The place is deserted and in the headlights of their ship, he sees blackened remains of buildings, landing docks, and avenues but no people. After some circling, they find an area relatively clear of debris and land with a thud. For whatever reason, the air inside Knowhere is still breathable and they cautiously exit the ship to take a closer look. 

From up close, Knowhere is even more desolate. Ash and rubble cover all surfaces and black soot billows up on their footsteps. Something about it tickles the back of his brain and makes him shudder and he blinks, trying to clear his head. 

”What the hell happened here?” Saraan mutters under their breath.

”Thanos,” says a garbled voice from behind them.

He whirls around in sync with a bright blue flash that leaves him with black spots dancing around his field of vision. He hears a startled yell and someone scrambles away from him but he’s too busy being bewildered about the shimmering blue force field that surrounds him like a shield. It’s the color of the light in his chest and when he concentrates, he can actually feel it, warm and pulsing like a living thing.

What the hell is going on?

”So that’s what it does,” Saraan muses.

”—the fuck?” A voice shouts out. ”What are you?” 

The syllables sound like grinding gravel and glass. They make his ears hurt and he shrugs to mask his flinch. ”I’m”—Iron Man—”just a Wanderer,” he quips, turning slightly away from the voice. The sphere turns with him but it also stretches to cover him from the source of the voice. 

Interesting. 

He concentrates on the feeling in his chest and tries to turn the force field off. It doesn’t work: the sphere flickers slightly but stays on. He cocks his head and tries for a different approach, tries to draw the light back into his chest. He feels a reluctance, like the force field wants to stay put, but when he nudges it a bit, it yields, flows back into him, and settles into his chest with a contented hum.

”Huh,” he says. Interesting indeed. 

”Yeah, no, you’re not just a Wanderer,” the voice snorts and with the blue shield gone, he can see the speaker is a ragged-looking man. ”That’s some high-tech level shit you got there, man.”

”Never mind his high-tech shit,” Saraan interjects. ”What did you say about Thanos?”

His head throbs and he shakes his head. That name again.

”The name is Lask,” the man says and splits his lips into a grimace-like grin that reveals a row of blackened teeth. ”You know how he promised to halve the population of the whole universe? Well, he did a bit more here,” he says bitterly spits to the ground. 

”Why?” Saraan asks.

”Who the fuck knows?” Lask says, throwing his hands in the air. ”Because he felt like it? Because he wanted to punish The Collector? Because he thought he should be the Master of the Universe and Knowhere was a reminder of beings older than him?”

”The Collector is dead?” Saraan whispers.

”Well, unless he teleported his ass away from here, he is because he sure as fuck isn’t here,” Lask says. ”I guess trying to collect Infinity Stones finally bit him in the ass.”

A searing pain laces through his head and he drops to his knees, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. He hears startled noises but he can’t raise his head, doesn’t want anyone to touch him, go away and stay away, don’t touch me—

—Without thinking, he throws his right hand up and even through closed lids, he sees a blinding blue light shooting from his palm. His head is pulsing with white-hot pain and someone’s screaming, he’s not sure if it’s him or someone else, and it hurts and hurts and —You’re not the only cursed with knowledge—

When he comes back to, he’s lying in his cot and Saraan is giving him their most unimpressed glare. Their left eyebrow is singed and they have a bright red gash on their cheek like they were hit.

”Care to explain me what the fuck just happened out there?”

”I honestly have no idea,” he says meekly.

They give him a long look and shake their head. ”Thing is, I actually believe you.” 

”I did that, didn’t I?” he asks after a moment, pointing at their face and tells himself he isn’t hurt when they flinch.

”Yeah. Lask wasn’t as lucky,” they say.

So, on top of everything else, I’m a murderer, he thinks. The thought feels as familiar as the blue light in his chest and the dreams he’s been having. Have I done it before? 

How many people have I killed?

”So…do you always get blinding headaches when someone mentions Thanos?” Saraan asks conversationally.

As the answer, he closes his eyes against the pulsing pain behind his eyes.

”So, now you know,” they say softly.

”Know what?” he asks.

They take a deep breath and let it out slowly. ”You’re no longer a Wanderer. You have a purpose now. That makes you a Seeker.”

So what’s my Golden Snitch? He wonders and then wonders what the hell is a golden snitch.

Saraan gives him a ride to Kirnu in the Second Quadrant of Lorrrach Morr, and takes him to the Temple of Seekers. When he tries to confront them about it, they shrug and avert their eyes.

”I know I mocked my nest-cousin about his beliefs,” they say with a stilted smile. ”But when half of the population of the entire universe just winks out of existence because a Mad Titan has a god complex, well…it does give you some perspective. I’m not one of spiritual conscience, as you might have already noticed but I can understand the drive behind the need to look for knowledge, to learn. And that’s what this place is,” they say, inclining their head to the building they’re standing in front of.

”So is that what they worship? Knowledge?” he asks, raising a brow.

”No idea,” Saraan says. ”That’s for you to find out.”

Before they take off, they buy him a drink that makes his eyes water and his breath hitch in his chest, and wishes him luck.

”You have a brilliant mind,” they say. ”You understand prints, charts, and engines with an ease I can only dream about. Now you must find a way to understand your own mind.”

”Why do I feel like you’re dumping me?” he asks, frowning into his glass that still holds the last dregs of his fiery drink. He contemplates buying another like it but rejects the idea because it might actually kill him.

Saraan laughs, a throaty chuckle that warms him from his toes up. ”You silly man,” they say. ”To dump you I’d have to be into you in the first place and believe me, even though you fascinate me, you have way too few dangly bits for my liking.”

He blinks and offers her a grin. ”I could always make arrangements?”

”Idiot,” they snort fondly and tap him on top of his head.

He wonders why it makes him wistful.

As it turns out, the Temple of Seekers is just a fancy word for a bunch of obsessed people. He doesn’t think he has much in common with the few others he meets but he figures it’s kind of nice to know there are others with single-minded purpose in mind. 

He does some small talk mostly to not put people off, but dedicates his time to researching the Temple’s archives and when he’s through with them, he turns to other databases he can access (and quite a few he can’t…until he can). However, Lorrrach Morr is still a minor star system and it doesn’t take him long exhaust his options. So when he learns about a flight to Xandar, he uses one of Ummu’s pearls to buy himself a ticket.

While the pearl is more than enough to get him private quarters and relative peace, it doesn’t change the fact that interstellar travel as a mere passenger is boring. He tries to remedy that by redesigning the ship in his mind and then searching the ship, which ends up in him being escorted politely but firmly back into his quarters. He lets that slow him down for an hour or two before he’s exploring again.

To alleviate his boredom, he experiments with his force field and learns to control it to the point he can keep it on him like a second skin without paying attention to it. He also learns that he has an eidetic memory and that something about his ability to switch languages without a conscious thought unnerves the crew. Apparently, they’re not accustomed to a passenger swearing back at them in the rarer Hurctarian dialect.

Interesting.

He’s asleep when he gets violently thrown from his bunk right before an alarm blares on full volume and a harried voice informs them through the intercom that they’re under attack. The announcement goes silent mid-sentence as the ship trembles with explosions. 

”Shit shit shit shit,” he mutters under his breath as he stuffs his belongings into his bag and stumbles into the corridor. All around him, the crew and other passengers are pushing and shoving each other in their panic and, for a moment, he wonders whether he should stop and tell them about the shortcut he found out during one of his explorations. Then another explosion tears the hull almost in two and his contemplations are literally shot to hell as people and debris get sucked into the vacuum of the space. 

”Fuck it,” he swears, throwing the force field around himself and diving into the vents. It takes him a bit of manoeuvring and too many moments of pure terror to reach the life pods but he makes it inside, seals the pod, and hits the eject button.

He shoots through the debris, the shimmering blue shield covering the pod itself, and the G-forces rattle him to the bone. He allows himself a short moment of self-hatred for not staying and helping but then he sees the seven-pointed flame painted on the hull of the attacking ship, and sighs. 

”Fucking Ravag—,” he starts and then gets knocked out cold when his pod hits something. 

Consciousness returns to him like a splash of cold water and he jerks awake, trying to flail in the small, closed space, and then he sees the infinite empty space around him and —no no no no not again not the space I can’t die in here the wormhole must be still there please don’t close it please please— 

He draws in a ragged breath and tries to calm his racing heart. His throat feels raw and when he groans, his voice sounds like he’d screamed himself hoarse. He takes a couple of deep breaths —in through the nose, out through the mouth, just like that, honey— steels himself, and forces his eyes open. 

He’s still surrounded by the vacuum of space but —I survived Afghanistan, I’m not gonna die here— he grits his teeth and wills himself to stay calm. The constellations are unfamiliar apart from one that brushes something on the back of his mind but he can’t name any of them. 

Great. 

The transport had been attacked by —space pirates! How about that, Clint?— Ravagers and the only reason he’s still alive is because he knew the shortcut to where the escape pods had been, which led him to this moment, floating around in space in a goddamn capsule.

He squeals when the back of his pod hits something and he’s sent spinning with the momentum. 

”This is getting real old!” He spits out, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, fighting back the nausea the spinning induces, and wishing it was all over already. 

The pod trembles and takes a couple of smaller hits before slamming into something hard and big enough to stop him. Then everything is silent, but he doesn’t see it, slumped unconscious in his pod with blood slowly dripping down his forehead.

”Thing is, I’m not used getting visitors,” a rough voice says. ”Not anymore.”

He stirs and groans, slowly lifting his hand to touch his forehead. He hisses at the sharp pain and his fingers come away bloody.

”Yeah… sorry about that,” the voice says. ”I’m not good with tending wounds.” 

A large shape moves slowly forward, the dim light reflecting from—

”Are those metal hands?” He blurts and pushes himself to sit up, ignoring how his head spins. 

The shape pauses. ”You speak our language? How?”

”Um… not really sure? It’s just something I can do,” he says, even though he’s figured it out. Apparently, whatever Ummu used to feed him also granted him the ability to speak and understand any language. (Like Thor!)

”You have Allspeak even though you are definitely not Asgardian,” the shape muses. ”In fact, I don’t think I’ve met another of your kind.”

”I think I’m one of a kind,” he says, the quip easy on his tongue. Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, his mind whispers.

The shape barks out a laugh that sounds like a mountain shook loose a shoulder. ”That’s right. I’m Eitri, the last of the Nidavellir Dwarves,” he says and steps forward. ”You could say I’m also one of a kind.”

He grins. ”You’re the biggest Dwarf I’ve ever seen.”

”And how many have you seen so far?” Eitri asks, amused.

”Well—” He frowns. ”I guess you have a point.”

Eitri cocks his head and says nothing. Instead, he walks back into the shadows and rummages for something. He returns after a moment, carrying a flagon. ”I’d offer it to you but my hands aren’t that nubile,” Eitri says apologetically as he gently lowers it on the ground beside him.

He drags the flagon to him and pries the cork open and sniffs. The liquid is odourless but when he lifts the flagon to his lips and takes a hearty gulp, he nearly chokes as it burns his tongue and lights him on fire from the inside out.

Eitri lets out a howl of laughter and slaps his thigh with his massive metal hand. ”Not everyone can handle three-hundred-year -old Asgardian mead!” he grins. ”Packs a punch, doesn’t it?”

”Yeah,” he wheezes out, gasping for breath. ”That’s quite something.” I bet it could get even Steve drunk, his mind whispers. He blinks and tries to reach out for the thought but it’s gone.

”So, what’s your story?” Eitri asks as he sits down and maneuvers the flagon up in between his hands to take a long pull. ”How did you end up in my humble domain?”

He sneaks a look around. The place—Nidavellir?—isn’t humble by any means even though it’s dark and silent. He can’t even begin to imagine how it looked in its former glory.

”I was actually passing by,” he says. ”I was on my way to Xandar when Ravagers attacked the ship and, well…” he shrugs. ”It was either to die there or jump an escape pod.”

Eitri nods slowly. ”But I asked what your story is,” he repeats. ”Not how you crashed here.”

He looks into the Dwarf’s eyes and realizes with a pang that he’s in the presence of an ancient being who has seen much—and probably lost even more—than he can even imagine. He swallows and glances at his hands, illuminated by the blue light, and wonders if he can trust Eitri. Something about him tells him that he can and the fond way he talks of Asgard tugs at something in his chest. 

Besides, he doesn’t have anything to lose, does he?

He blows out a long breath. ”I don’t know who I am or where I’m from,” he starts. ”I woke up inside a living ship—no, a living entity who healed my injuries and provided me with means to move forward. She left me on a remote planet where I made some friends and got myself a job. 

”At first, they said I’m a Wanderer,” he continues. ”But then my Captain—” (Captain, my Captain, hey Cap!) ”realized I got pretty awesome migraines every time someone mentioned Thanos and they promoted me to a Seeker. So that’s the road I’m on,” he concludes, glances at Eitri, and freezes.

The Dwarf is leaning forward and his eyes burn with frightening intensity as he asks, ”What did you say about Thanos?”

The gauntlet mold gives him a splitting migraine attack that leaves him reeling and forces him onto his knees, dry-heaving into the ground. He knows that gauntlet, remembers the awful feeling of hopelessness and dread, the impending doom and then dust and ash and loss, empty, empty, empty…

He flinches violently when he feels the heavy, cool hand on his shoulder and almost tumbles face-first to the floor.

”Are you alright, Seeker?” Eitri asks.

He lets out an unhumorous chuckle. ”Not even by a long shot.” He wipes a slightly trembling hand over his face, ignoring the cold sweat on his brow, and lets out a long huff of breath. ”I need a suit,” he mutters to himself. ”A metal suit.” 

”What?”

He frowns to himself. The suit and I are one. ”A suit,” he repeats slowly. ”I need to forge myself a suit.”

Eitri shakes his head. ”Not possible. The forge is—was—powered with the force of a dying star. The mechanism is broken.”

”Then we need to fix it.”

”You don’t understand,” Eitri snaps. ”Thanos broke it after the gauntlet was finished and I cannot fix it alone. Thor barely managed to keep the eye open just long enough to create the Stormbreaker and it nearly cost him his life. And he’s a god!”

He shakes his head at the image of lightning and booming laughter and mutters, ”The god of thunder.”

”Yes, he is! You know him?”

He frowns. ”I’m not sure. What happened to him?”

”After the Stormbreaker was finished, he opened the Bifrost and traveled to Midgard to face Thanos,” Eitri says. ”I hope he is well.”

Midgard, one of the Nine Realms of Yggdrasil, the World Tree, his mind whispers. He shoves the thought back and pushes himself to stand up. His legs wobble slightly but he grits his jaw and faces the Dwarf. ”We need to reignite the star and re-lit the forge,” he repeats.

”I told you—”

”And I tell you that we can and we will!” He interrupts. ”I know I’m not a god but I’m something and I know a pretty goddamn lot about engineering.” He pauses and takes a deep breath. ”What do you have to lose, Eitri? Your honor? Your people? Thanos already took them from you. You only have your life and this frozen rock, and somehow I don’t think you’re enjoying your time here right now. I’m giving you a chance to spit in that purple assclown’s face!”

Eitri is silent for a moment, giving him a considering look. ”How did you confront Thanos and survive?”

He frowns. ”I—what?”

”You called him ’a purple assclown,’ so you’ve met him,” Eitri points out. He falls silent for a long moment, contemplating. Then he shakes his head and sighs. ”I don’t know which of us is crazier but…fine. Let’s go.”

Reverse-engineering the elaborate, massive mechanism that controls the forge’s rings and the eye of a star is easier said than done. The scale of the thing is huge and he’s man enough to admit he’s having having serious trouble understanding it from the inside. He wishes he had a way to go see it from the outside so that he could get a clear picture of the whole, to see the design as it was supposed to be.

Then again, at the same time, it’s surprisingly easy. It might be designed to revolve around a fucking star, but it’s still engineering, it still follows a logic, it still has a design. It takes him some time but when he finally sees how Nidavellir works, it’s a child’s play to figure out the needed repairs. 

What is tricky, however, is how to replace the broken parts.

”You’ll die,” Eitri says bluntly. ”Not-god-but-something aside, your body cannot withstand the power of the star.”

”Can you do it alone?” He shoots back.

”No. But—”

”Then we’ll do it together,” he interrupts. ”Look, I only need to be there for a split second,” he reasons. ”The eye can be closed until I’m right there, and I’ll open the seals and replace the broken gears while you force the eye open just a bit.”

”Yes. And then you’ll be just a bit dead.”

”Nah, my barrier will shield me” he says with nonchalance he doesn’t really feel and taps at his chest.

”Hard to avenge anything if you’re dead,” Eitri says dryly.

—won’t be a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man if there’s no neighborhood—if we can’t protect the Earth, you can be damned well sure we’ll avenge it!

He hisses as the fractured bits of memories flood his mind, images of gold and red, of something green and angry, of intricate webs of light, laughter and exasperated groans—

”Seeker?” Eitri asks softly. ”You remembered something, didn’t you?”

”I’m not sure,” he croaks out, lightheaded and disoriented. ”Let’s get to work.”

Eitri stares at the frozen rings of his forge for some time, a faraway look in his eyes and a frown in between his brows. Finally, he shakes his head and says slowly, ”I still don’t like this plan. It leaves you too vulnerable and that’s not something I’m comfortable with. But I also know this is the only way. You are right: I can’t do this alone and while my hands are capable of doing my job, they’re too clumsy to fix the eye mechanism.” He raises his head and and gives him a grim nod. ”Let’s go.”

After the forge finally lights back up and the rings groan to life, he dives into designing the suit. What he draws reminds more an armour but he keeps calling it a suit, ignoring Eitri’s raised brow. He draws the schematics on a paper Eitri hands him and misses the chance to draw into the air.

”JARVIS, my man, how I wish you were here,” he mutters under his breath, frustrated as the paper runs out on the right side when he’s not even near the middle of that particular diagram.

”Who’s Jarvis?”

”Huh?” he asks, distracted and still in the fugue where nothing else matters but the sleek lines on the chart and the way his design flows seamlessly together just as it’s meant to be. 

”Nothing,” Eitri says after a moment. ”So, how does it look?”

He cocks his head and gives his schematics an appraising look. ”I think I need a bit more hands-on approach next. Where do you keep your hammer and anvil?”

”You’re not strong enough to—” Eitri starts and then stops. ”Why do I even bother?” he asks no-one in particular. ”I guess that next you want to start melting Uru, right?”

”Oh yes,” he says with a sharp grin. ”Wait, what’s Uru?”

Hammering the metal plates feels familiar and he loses himself in the repetitive moves. He misses his soldering iron but he figures he can get by with what Eitri has in his forge. The result won’t be as sleek as his old suit but it will do for now. It doesn’t have to be fashionable, it just needs to get him home.

”How are you going to power it?” Eitri asks when he takes a break to get something to drink.

”The arc reactor will provide the necessary power,” he answers absently, waving his hand across his chest. ”I still need to figure out what to do with the thrusters, though…I don’t have all the equipment I have in my shop but I should be able to come up with something to go by.” He wipes sweat from his forehead and rolls his shoulders a couple of times before clapping his hands together. ”Okay kids, back to work!”

Eitri helps him with the larger pieces of the suit but mostly stays out of the way. When the suit is assembled and he takes a step back, Eitri hums a noncommittal sound before asking, ”Seeker, have you noticed that working with this…suit brings back some of the memories you’ve lost?”

He snaps his eyes to the Dwarf. ”What?”

”So far, you’ve mentioned Jarvis, arc reactor and thrusters, your shop… and when I mentioned avenging, it triggered something.”

He shakes his head once, confused by the chaos in his head. ”I guess this is something I do,” he says weakly. 

”You are clearly a genius,” Eitri says slowly. ”You understand mechanics and forging metal. You handle designs with ease born with years of experience and you’re not a stranger to war.”

Merchant of Death. 

He grits his teeth and flashes Eitri a tight smile. ”Well, the more you learn…”

”What I mean,” Eitri says, his voice laced with exasperation, ”is that you are much more than meets the eye.” He stands up, examines the metal armour, and nods. 

”Yes. So much more than meets the eye.”

Midgard—Earth—is beautiful: a shining blue-and-green orb wrapped in soft fluffs of white. He hovers for some time and just takes it in, relishes the familiar-but-not feeling of home. He sees the Moon in her proper place and the Sun exactly where it should be. There are no giant space spheres hovering around, which makes him irrationally relieved. The only thing hovering about is the the usual space junk. 

At least my satellites actually work.

Beside him, the rip in the fabric of space and time ripples like oil on water and he nods to himself. Right. Time to say goodbye. He raises his hand and waves and, on the other side of the rip, Eitri raises his hand in return. Then the rip winks out, leaving behind just the clean sector of space.

”Okay then,” he says. ”Here goes nothing.”

He turns back around to face the Earth and heads down. The small adjustments to move the suit come naturally and he lets out a small whoop of pure joy when he enters the atmosphere and surfs through the clouds. The suit crackles and blue sparkles from his barrier dance along its surface but he ignores them. He knows it’ll hold.

Of course it will, his mind whispers. I made it.

He blinks and shakes his head a bit. The motion sends the suit on a sideways tumble that makes his breath hitch and his heart flutter under the core of the blue light. It takes barely 20 seconds to get it under his control again but it is enough to get him swearing a blue streak under his breath.

The suit crackles again, but this time it sounds different, a bit like trying to find the right radio station through significant interference.

”Boss…is that you?” A hesitant female asks, her words partially broken by the static. It sounds oddly familiar.

”Um,” he says.

”Boss?” The voice sounds hopeful.

”I’m not…” he answers slowly. ”Who is your boss?”

She falls silent for a moment before asking, ”Would you like me to authorize protocol Bruciebear?” 

He has no idea what to say to that.

”Or would you prefer protocol Platypus instead? I’m afraid protocol Cyclops is unavailable but…” the voice hesitates. ”There’s also option Spangly-Ass?” She finishes tentatively.

”They all sound very enticing,” he offers. ”Why don’t you choose for me?”

Silence.

He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do next, so he keeps flying onward under the clouds and takes in the landmass below. It’s green and brown, a patchwork that stretches under him like a quilt, with snow-covered mountaintops on one side and a blue river on the other.

”What’s the square root of 1867?” The woman asks suddenly.

”43 and pocket change,” he answers immediately.

”Is 5000 a prime number?”

He snorts. ”No. 4999 and 5003 are.” 

”List the first 57 decimals of pi, please.”

The numbers come easily, without thinking.

”How many times did you use a fire extinguisher?”

”It was dummy and more times than I can count,” he answers and then mouths a bewildered, What?

She pauses before asking,”What’s your name?”

He doesn’t know what to say and the voice falls silent again.

After some time, she says, ”I’ve initiated project Lazarus. Please correct your course 17° to the East and wait for more instructions.” She sounds subdued. 

For some reason, he feels like he’s let her down.

She guides him to a conveniently empty, grassy plain. The only structures he’d seen before landing were a cluster of yurts a way back. He’d passed them too fast for a good look but he was pretty sure they’d spotted him.

”You can land now,” the woman says. ”The plane isn’t far behind. Please stay calm. They’re friends.”

”Okay,” he says slowly and looks up, shielding his eyes from the bright sun with his gauntlet. Not long after, a sleek aircraft approaches. It slows gradually down until it’s hovering in place and it slowly descends until it touches gently down. A short moment later, the hatch opens and a man in a suit and shades steps out, holding a gun. He walks a couple of steps forward and stops, keeping his posture easy and relaxed which probably means he can kill a man with his tie.

”Who are you and what is your business on Earth?” The man asks calmly. 

He doesn’t say anything. 

”You can either identify yourself or I can shoot you, your choice,” the man continues conversationally. ”We’ve had a rough couple of, well, years, and if you think I won’t shoot you, you should think again.”

The man sounds familiar —I won’t hesitate to tase you and watch Supernanny while you drool in the carpet— and something in the back of his mind rights itself.

”Hold on,” he says. ”I’m gonna take off my helmet so keep an eye on that trigger-happy finger, okay?” He raises his hands slowly, opens the latches that keep his helmet on, and removes it.

”Stark?” The man asks, incredulous.”We had a hunch you were alive but we weren’t sure. How did you get back?”

He blinks and cocks his head. ”Stark?” He asks. ”Is that my name?”

The man opens his mouth and then closes it, giving him a sharp look. ”My name is Director Phil Coulson. I’m with SHIELD,” he says, ignoring his question. ”We’ve worked together before. You should come with us.”

The inside of the ship is sleek, compact, and pretty neat, he has to admit. It looks like it could fit more people but he only sees Coulson. 

”My team is currently down to two, me and Agent May,” Coulson apologizes, noticing his curiosity. ”Everyone else was…” he sighs.

”I know,” he says quietly. ”Thanos.” He expects pain but only feels a twinge.

Coulson narrows his eyes. ”How much do you remember?”

He shakes his head. ”Bits and pieces from before the… whatever it was that happened to me. I believe Thanos was directly involved.”

Coulson lets out an agreeing sound and beckons him towards a room on the right. ”Thanos was involved in a lot of things,” he says darkly. ”He left this world in shambles and we’re still trying to pick up the pieces.”

”You’re not the only ones,” he mutters under his breath as he starts stripping the suit off. Coulson stands to the side, head cocked and a sharp look in his eyes, but doesn’t offer to help. It’s a relief. Even though he was okay-ish with Eitri helping him due necessity, the idea of more strange hands on him makes him queasy.

He’s taken off his gauntlets, chest and back pieces, and his left foot piece when he senses a threat behind him. The blue light on his chest flashes brightly as he reacts on instinct and throws the force field around himself before he even starts turning around.

”Well, that’s new,” Coulson says mildly.

There’s a woman standing on the doorway, pointing a gun straight at his chest. Her face is stern and her eyes cold and as dangerous as Coulson might be, she’s infinitely more lethal.

”That’s not Tony Stark,” she says, never taking her eyes off him. 

”Really?” Coulson asks.

”He’s too tall, he can project an energy shield around him, and his eyes are white.”

”I have to agree with Agent May,” the woman he’d heard earlier says from the…ceiling?

Coulson closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, and sighs. ”FRIDAY. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Stark’s AI is in my plane.”

”Nope, Agent Agent,” FRIDAY says cheerily. ”I detected him as soon as he entered the atmosphere. His basic life signs match the Boss but there’s something…more.”

”Explain,” Agent May says flatly.

”Your initial assessment was correct,” FRIDAY says. ”He seems to be about six inches taller and has gained a significant amount of mass. The blue sphere in his chest bears a resemblance to the old arc reactor but I think it’s the chest piece from Mark L instead.” She hesitates for a moment before continuing, slower, ”It seems that his body has somehow absorbed the chest piece and its nanites as a permanent part of his body.”

”How is that possible?” Coulson asks.

”What about the energy shield?” Agent May asks.

”I’m sorry but I can’t tell you much more without a thorough scan,” FRIDAY says. ”And nothing in this ship is even remotely suitable for that. If you fly him to the Compound, I can—”

”No!” Agent May snaps. ”It’s too risky. We don’t know if he’s Stark or if he’s some sort of advanced LMD. Or a Skrull! Letting him enter the Compound might present a serious threat to us—”

”You know, you can’t actually keep me here,” he interrupts conversationally and takes a step forward. ”I know from experience that this—” he taps a finger against the force field and it ripples before settling with a smug hum, ”—will stop whatever you shoot at me but I’d rather not test what a ricocheting bullet would do in a closed space like this. It might hit you or Agent Agent there, which would be pretty stupid considering he already did the Lazarus thing once.”

They both stare at him and then Coulson says, very carefully, ”I had no idea you were fluent in Mandarin, Stark.”

He frowns. ”Huh,” he says. ”Well, in my defense, I have no idea what I’m saying most of the time.”

”Well, that’s definitely pure Stark,” Agent May mutters and finally lowers her gun.  

”You went on full Babelfish mode there, Boss!” FRIDAY says. ”I’m going to have so much fun scanning you.”

During their flight, Coulson briefs him of what has happened on Earth after Thanos. The Rogue Avengers, or what is left of them, were pardoned and permitted back in the US if they wanted. SHIELD is just a shadow of what it once was, but it’s still standing. 

The names make whispers and images swirl in his mind and he has to close his eyes and lean back against the gently vibrating hull of the plane to ground himself. 

”Who am I?” He wonders softly.

”We’ll find out soon,” Coulson says calmly. 

He opens his eyes to take a look at the man and wonders if this is what he always is: unflappable, calm, and in control. 

He wonders if he was always the same.

In the Compound, the thorough scans confirm FRIDAY’s initial assessment; despite being taller and heavier, having nanites embedded into his body and his neural network enhanced in ways FRIDAY isn’t fully sure of yet, he is still Tony Stark. 

He has no idea what it means.

”Would you like some time alone?” Coulson asks, not unkindly.

”Yeah,” he says.

Coulson nods and leaves the room, closing the door behind him, leaving him with the scans and his churning mind.

”Show me what you have on Tony Stark,” he says.

”That’s quite a lot,” FRIDAY answers. ”Would you like me to narrow it down for you?”

”Yeah, sure.”

The space in front of him lights up with several folders. He starts with the one that says AVENGERS INITIATIVE.

A short moment later, he decides he doesn’t like what he reads.

Iron Man, yes. Tony Stark, not recommended.

The body scans hover in mid-air, his previous scan beside the new, enhanced one. They glow eerily blue like the nanite chest plate embedded in the middle of his sternum. He sits down, leans his elbows to his knees, and watches them slowly rotate side by side. The striking differences are easy to spot and he wonders what they really mean. 

Is he going to change even more? 

Will he ever remember who he really was?

Does it even matter anymore?

He pushes himself to stand up, grabs the scan of the previous him from the air, and throws it aside with an absent-minded flick of his wrist. It lets out a soft chime and vanishes but his focus is already on the scan of his enhanced self. 

”FRIDAY, separate the skeleton, nervous system, and musculature,” he says and nods when the scan splits into three. ”Can you show me the major concentration of the nanites? Bones?”

”Actually, no,” FRIDAY says and the nervous system lights up. ”Most of them are stored in the chest plate until they’re needed but the ones floating in your system reside in your neural network.”

”Interesting,” he says and cocks his head. ”How about—”

He’s interrupted by a commotion outside the lab. 

”Where is he?” a distraught male voice shouts and after a short pause, the continues as a growl, ”Don’t give me that crap, Coulson.”

He frowns and starts toward the door.

”Captain, he doesn’t remember,” he hears Coulson trying to explain but the other man interrupts him.

”I don’t care! I have to see him, please. I need to see he’s okay.”

He pushes the door open and sees Coulson trying to hold back a man from the shoulders. ”Um,” he says and the man turns around, revealing a face that feels familiar and strange at the same time.

”Tony?” the man says, his voice broken and soft.

Something shifts in his mind, like the last piece of a puzzle that slots into place.

”Steve.”

He’s finally home.