Chapter Text
Kunar Province, Afghanistan
They’d given Tony control of the playlist. He hadn’t given them a choice, but the soldiers didn’t argue. Smart guys, because Tony had a whole roast prepared about the music taste of a bunch of guys dressed up in matching costumes.
So here he is, sitting in the back of a military Humvee with Back in Black playing a little quieter than he wished but he’ll give the kids a break because they have to live in this god forsaken desert and he gets to fly back to California in a couple of hours on his private jet.
Even though music is playing the silence pushes in on Tony. He hates when he can hear himself think.
The soldier to his left looks at him. Tony pretends not to notice and holds back from rolling his eyes. The soldier in the seat in front of him glances back and Tony barely bites back a sigh. Well, this is no fun.
And if there’s one thing Tony believes in, it’s that a drive through an Afghan desert in a Humvee with a glass of scotch should be fun.
“I feel like you’re driving me to a court martial. This is crazy, what did I do?” Tony finally asks, trying to put some life into the people around him. Jesus, it’s like they’ve never been this close to royalty before or something. “I feel like you’re going to pull over and snuff me,” he continues, looking at the soldier to his left and seeing the younger man smirk. Progress. “What, you’re not allowed to talk?” Tony teases, “Hey, Forest!”
“We can talk, sir,” Forest says.
“Oh, so this is personal?”
“No, you intimidate them,” the driver speaks up.
Good god, a woman just spoke. The driver is a woman. The driver is a soldier who is a woman. Well, look at that. “Good god, you’re a woman,” Tony announces. “I honestly… I couldn’t have called that. I mean, I’d apologize, but isn’t that what we’re going for? I thought of you as a soldier first.”
The man beside him and in front of him both turn to look, smiles on their faces.
“I’m an airman,” the woman responds wryly.
He can’t quite tell if she’s offended or not (usually Tony at least knows when he’s pissed a woman off), so he does some light damage control. “You have excellent bone structure. I’m kind of having a hard time not looking at you now, is that weird?” Tony says. He does take a closer look. Pretty for a soldier, but he wouldn’t sleep with her. Well, if he had to he wouldn’t put up a fight, but he can afford to be picky.
The whole car laughs, so once again his wit is the star of the show.
The guy in the front half raises his hand, like they’re in school and Tony is the teacher. Ugh, like Tony would ever be a teacher. Can’t imagine someone that would make a worse teacher than him. “Sir, I have a question.”
Tony takes a sip from his scotch, “yes, please.”
“Is it true you went 12 for 12 with last year’s Maxim cover models?”
Tony takes off his sunglasses to discuss this serious matter. Maybe he should consider a career in teaching. After all, he has so much wisdom to share. “That is an excellent question. Yes and no: March and I had a scheduling conflict but fortunately the Christmas cover was twins. Anything else?”
The young man beside him also raises his hand.
“You got to be kidding me with the hand up, right?” Tony admonishes.
The kid takes it on the chin, “is it cool if I take a picture with you?”
“Yes, it is very cool,” Tony replicates how the kid said ‘cool’ because Tony is nothing if not ‘cool.’ He may not be as young anymore but in this humvee only one person has been on the cover of Time and Playboy.
The kid digs in his pocket and pulls out a camera before handing it to the soldier in the passenger seat and scooting closer to Tony, throwing up a peace sign.
“I don’t want to see this on your MySpace page. Please, no gang signs,” Tony dead pans.
The kid drops the peace sign immediately.
“No, throw it up. I’m kidding.” Kids these days can’t take a joke.
The kid puts up the peace sign immediately.
“Yeah, peace,” Tony says, “I love peace. I’d be out of a job with peace.”
The guy in the front seat keeps the camera up and Tony’s not sure what the hold up is. It’s a good thing he’s pretty much a captive audience or he would be out of here.
“Just click it,” the kid snaps at his buddy, “don’t change the settings, just click it, it’s not that hard–”
The humvee in front of them explodes.
Tony’s screeches to a halt as the soldier in the passenger seat drops the camera and scrambles for his weapon. The driver yells, “Contact left!”
“What’s going on?” Tony asks but no one answers him. No one even acknowledges he said anything (which is a first since his dad was around). Even from inside the vehicle the world is loud with the sounds of gunfire.
The driver throws open her door and starts returning fire but she’s hit and goes down with a pained sound.
Tony feels his heart rate climb higher and higher. Or maybe it’s been this high since the explosion and it’s just not going down.
“Jimmy!” the soldier in the passenger seat yells, “stay with Stark!”
Jimmy pushes Tony down as the other soldier also gets out. The sound of gunfire increases and for the first time in forever Tony wishes he could melt into the floor, or go invisible, or rewind time, he just wants out of here. He was not meant to be in battle, or around battle, and definitely not around any of his weapons outside of demonstrations.
Tony sees the soldier lean on the hood of the Humvee to fire his weapon. He only gets three rounds out before a bullet takes him down and shatters part of the windshield in one blow. Tony jerks, clutching his heart, feeling to make sure no part of the glass punctured his chest.
Beside him, Jimmy loads his gun, “son of a bitch!” He shouts, getting out of the vehicle.
“W-w-wait, give me a gun!” Tony shouts fruitlessly as the door slams closed and Jimmy yells at him through the bulletproof glass to stay in the car.
The kid barely gets to turn around before something goes off that sends a spray of bullets off, through Jimmy, and through the walls of the vehicle. It’s close enough that it hurts Tony’s eyes and sets his ears ringing, the world’s natural soundtrack going out with one detonation, leaving only static in its place.
Tony fumbles for the door handle and stumbles out before another charge can hit his Humvee. An explosion goes off close to him and he throws an arm over his head as a less than manly sound escapes and heat singes his arm through his blazer. The world tilts and explodes but he picks a spot and starts sprinting, trying to put as much distance between himself and the chaos around him.
Find cover. Find cover. Find cover until Rhodey gets here. That’s all he has to do. Word will have gotten out about this attack and then Rhodey will come for him. He’s probably already on his way.
Tony hears the air whiz and yelps as he dives for cover on the other side of a rock just before a wall of flame goes up where he just was. Dirt stings his eyes
He gasps for breath, his heart pounding furiously against his chest, like it wants to escape. Me too, buddy, he tells the organ, me too. He yanks his phone out of his pocket to send a message to Rhodey to hurry his ass up when something solid lands beside him.
He whips his head, getting face to face with his own name. Stark Industries is written in bold lettering on the surface of the grenade.
Fuck.
He scrambles to his feet, yelling in fear even as he tries to run as fast as he can away.
In the end, he only has time to stumble back a few steps before the bomb goes off.
**
Light slowly floats in, and Tony focuses on the ball of it in front of him.
Suddenly, it gets so bright so intensely he flinches. He tries to cover his eyes but he can’t.
Sound comes next, but it makes no sense. Vowels and consonants grating against his ears and his brain and it’s gibberish next to the persistent ringing.
This is much too uncomfortable for heaven.
Is he in hell?
He finally gets the wherewithal to look around, and he tries not to panic at what he sees. Men stand around him. Men with military grade weapons and masks over their faces. He turns to one side and startles slightly when he finds himself staring down the barrel at one of those weapons.
The movement sends a spike of pain that almost permeates the ringing in his ears. Something is wrong. Well, lots of things are wrong, but the slowly spreading ache in his chest and his recent memory of exploding means something is definitely wrong.
Straight ahead, he finally spots the camera. He looks to his left and the harsh sounds are coming from the man reading from a paper to the camera.
He has a feeling he might be in hell.
**
He wakes, once, with a scream. It’s a horrible sound, like vocal chords cracking under the weight of pain and terror.
He realizes he’s the one screaming.
He feels his body tense, a great weight on his chest, a flash of light, and then mercifully nothing.
**
The next he wakes it feels more real. Less like a vivid dream –nightmare– and more like coming back to life. He’s on a mattress, a pillow under his head, but it’s not his mattress or his pillow. He’s not at home, or on his jet, or hell, in a military suite. The air around him is cold, and damp, and it stinks.
Flashes of the explosion explode behind his eyes and he flinches, then groans at the soreness in his body. The weight on his chest that makes it hard to move, hard to breathe. He cracks his eyes open, blinking dried tears out of the corners. Wherever he is is dark, except for a small lantern light to his right.
He looks to his right and tries to grab a bowl of water, but his arm doesn’t respond quite right and he knocks the bowl off the table. He gives another pained, frustrated groan at how much effort it’s taking just to move, just to be awake.
What the hell happened?
Oh right. Afghanistan. Explosion. Camera. Pain. He coughs and it racks his whole body, especially his chest.
He tries to turn over and reach for more water with his other arm but he’s stopped by a pulling in his chest.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” an accented voice tells him gently.
Tony blinks up at a man across the room. He’s tall but wiry, in a dirty suit, but the fabric hangs off him in a way that tells Tony the man is underfed.
Tony doesn’t have the energy to wrestle with who the stranger is or if he’s one of the bad guys. So he grasps at his chest, finding a wire and following it until he finds a…car battery?
He starts shaking his head. No, no, no, no… he starts clawing at the jacket he’s wearing, his hands heavy and unfocused, but it gets the job done. There’s gauze wrapped around his chest and torso but he rips at the fabric, his breathing quickly turning from deep breaths to hyperventilating.
No, no, no, no, no…
The gauze gives way to a device, embedded in his chest, where his heart should be.
“Hey, hey,” the man says, just as gently, his voice piercing through Tony’s panic. “It’s alright, let’s get you up.” He crosses the room and reaches to help Tony sit up but he flinches, his breath still coming in quick, heaving gasps. “Breathe, Mr. Stark, just breathe,” the man demonstrates by taking a deep breath, holding it in, and then blowing it out, “just like this. You’re no good to anyone if you don’t breathe.”
They sit like that for who knows how long, the man reminding Tony how to breathe, until the fuzziness in the corners of Tony’s vision starts to clear as oxygen comes back to his brain.
“A-alright,” Tony stutters, swallowing, “I’m alright.”
The man tries again, slower this time, to help Tony up, and this time Tony accepts the help. The world tilts, but the man keeps Tony from keening over.
When Tony swats the man away, he keeps doing deep breaths, fighting off the nausea that comes from the knowledge of being a captive in some random cave in Afghanistan with not very nice men and something that looks like a bomb buried in his chest.
Jesus, Pepper’s going to kill him.
The man starts a fire, carefully stoking it so it grows and starts to ward off the chill of the cave. He then opens a can of beans and pours it into a pan to place over the fire. Tony takes another deep breath and steels himself to look at the thing in his chest again, gently prodding around the inflamed area.
“What the hell did you do to me?” Tony whispers.
“What I did?” The man chuckles, “what I did is to save your life. I removed all the shrapnel I could, but there’s a lot left, and it’s headed into your atrial septum. That,” the man points to the spherical tool in Tony’s chest, “is an electromagnet hooked up to a car battery and it’s keeping the shrapnel from reaching your heart.”
Not a bomb. Well, that’s one worry to cross off the list. Only nine million more things to take its place. Tony zips up his jacket, suddenly feeling exposed, and looks around the cave that serves as their cell.
A few work tables. A bucket in the corner. The firepit, some cans of food and jug of water. And up in the corner Tony spots a security camera.
The man sees what Tony is looking at. “That’s right. Smile,” he stirs the pan of beans, “we met once, you know, at a technical conference in Bern.”
Tony doesn’t look away, but a small flame of shame does itch at his fingers. “I don’t remember.”
The man just chuckles, “no, you wouldn’t. If I had been that drunk, I wouldn’t have been able to stand, let alone give a lecture on integrated circuits!”
That does kind of sound familiar. Tony thinks there was a hot brunette involved as well.
The solid metal door to their cell makes a loud clang and Tony jumps. A harsh man’s voice yells something in a language Tony can’t understand, but his new friend seems to, because he jumps up from the fire and gestures for Tony to do the same. “Up! Up! Quickly! Hands behind your head!” He hisses.
It’s the first time Tony’s seen his cellmate look afraid, so he follows the instructions.
The doors open and three men with guns walk in. With Stark guns. “Those are my guns, how did they get me guns?” Tony mutters.
More men filter into the cave and one man, larger, the boss, steps forward, raising his arms and starting to proclaim some great statement. Not that Tony has any idea what he’s saying or what language he’s saying it in, but it seems very ceremonial.
His cellmate does understand though, and translates. “He says ‘welcome, Tony Stark, the most famous mass murderer in the history of America.’”
Which is a lie. Tony’s never killed anyone, but he’s not going to talk back to his captor. Contrary to what Obadiah thinks, Tony does know when to shut up.
“He is honored,” his cellmate continues to translate, “he wants you to build the missile. The Jericho missile that you demonstrated.”
Jericho missile. The reason for Tony’s visit. A missile with the capability to take out entire towns, the newest and best technology from Stark Industries for the US military. A missile this guy most definitely cannot get his hands on.
There’s silence as everyone looks at Tony.
“I refuse,” Tony says simply.
There’s a single, tense beat as no one moves, and Tony has time to see his cellmate’s eyes fill with sadness, before two men grab Tony, wrenching his arms behind his back, and another man drags over a bucket of water.
Tony struggles as they force him to his knees but it’s no use. His head goes under. He thrashes, trying to come up for air, but they keep holding him down.
Down so long Tony stops thrashing so much, his lungs burning…
And they wrench him up and he takes a deep gasp of air–and that’s all he has time for before he’s submerged again.
And again.
On the fourth gap between his waterboarding, Tony coughs out a pathetic, “stop!” and the men toss him to the ground unceremoniously.
Tony heaves on the cave floor, choking on the water in his lungs and taking grateful mouthfuls of air. Hands grip his arms and get him to his feet again, supporting most of his weight. He doesn’t fight as someone puts a bag over his head and the car battery his heart is attached to is shoved in his arms.
He stumbles as they drag him forward, tripping over his own feet in their hurry, still coughing from the torture. He’s not sure if his cellmate is with him, or where they’re taking him, but all he can do is follow. At least they’re not drowning him anymore.
Eventually they stop, and the men on either side of Tony have to brace themselves as he almost collapses to the ground while he gets his feet under him again.
The bag over his head is ripped away and Tony has to squeeze his eyes closed against the harsh sun, the most light he’s seen since he was taken. He blinks, trying to clear the stars from his vision. Tony looks around at the clifftops of dirt around them and the small camp set up below.
The man in charge gestures him forward and someone slaps the back of Tony’s head to get him to move. Tony stumbles down the small hill to reach the camp, clutching his car battery to his chest. It’s not much, but it’s all he has. His lifeline.
As he follows the boss he gets a closer look at what’s under the tents. People mill about, most with guns, but some are carrying gear and depositing them into designated piles under tents. Everywhere Tony looks he sees his name.
Stark Industries. Stark Industries. Stark Industries.
Missiles. Guns. Ammunition.
It’s not right. This isn’t right. How did these people get his weapons?
Everyone is dressed in clothes made for working in the sun or military uniforms. Hats, scarves, head coverings, sturdy pants.
Except one.
Tony focuses on the one man in torn trousers and an untucked button up and blazer because Tony’s trying not to panic again and let his captors know just how uncomfortable he is, and also because besides his cellmate, this guy is the only one who looks like he came from church. (He might’ve walked through a sandstorm from church, but still not desert approved workwear). If he’s American and somehow found his way to this camp too, maybe he can help Tony. Or at least Tony can persuade him to help.
This could be good. It–
Tony doesn’t pick his foot up enough on the next step and trips as he watches the man carry a box of ammunition to a pile and then turn to wipe his face with his forearm. All hopes of aid flee from Tony’s mind, because now that he can see his face, he can see it’s not a man at all.
It’s just a boy. A child.
A boy with a bruise on his jaw, torn pants, a filthy shirt, and eyes looking right at Tony.
Usually Tony doesn’t pay attention to kids. He tries not to be in their vicinity. Grubby little hands and awkward limbs and attitude and ugh they always smell. Granted, this one looks past the age of spit up but you never know.
In any other circumstance, Tony wouldn’t give him a second look, but the way the kid has his gaze trained on Tony it’s hard to look away. Because Tony knows that look. The intense concentration of unraveling a particular knotty math problem even when there are a million distractions happening around.
In any other circumstance, Tony might ask the kid if he’s got the answer to whatever problem he has, but he has a feeling he won’t get time to chit chat with fans.
The group stops walking when they reach the center of the camp. The boss says something and Tony’s cellmate translates. “He wants to know what you think.”
Tony feels a little sick but he’s not going to let the bastard know that. “I think you got a lot of my weapons,” Tony replies neutrally. He looks to the side, where the boy is still standing, not following the line of other men going back to wherever the cargo their transporting is stored. The kid is still watching.
The boss gestures around them, getting Tony’s attention again.
“He says they have everything you need to build the Jericho missile–”
A small commotion interrupts his cellmate. Tony hears a small scuffle, a shout in the foreign language of what sounds like a threat. He turns and sees the kid on his knees in the dirt, and one of the soldiers pointing the barrel of the gun at his head.
The kid covers his head with his arms as the man continues to yell. He slaps the kid’s arm away and then presses the barrel hard against his head.
“Hey, hey,” Tony finds himself yelling and taking a step closer.
Which is the wrong move.
Around him, all the soldiers draw their weapons and aim them at Tony. His cellmate puts his hands on his head but Tony is still carrying the car battery so all he can do is freeze.
The boss chuckles and waves a dismissive hand, saying something. The soldier with the gun to the boy’s head takes a step back.
Tony’s cellmate swallows, “he says to relax, the boy just tripped.”
Tony and his cellmate exchange a look. Tripped. Sure.
The boss says something else and the soldiers around him laugh. Tony sees the boy grimace.
“He says once we’re done, the men will,” his cellmate hesitates, “make sure the boy is okay to return to work.”
Tony works his jaw, glaring at the ground to avoid glaring at the scary men with guns. It’s a nice gesture for his cellmate to lie, but Tony’s not an idiot. No, people can call him lots of things, but stupid isn’t one of them.
The men around them lower their weapons and most go back to what they were doing before, or watching Tony passively. At a word from the boss, his cellmate goes back to translating. “He wants you to make a list of materials. He says for you to start working immediately and when you’re done, he will set you free.” His cellmate’s voice is heavy.
The boss extends a hand for Tony to shake. Even as his heart sinks, Tony smiles and shakes the man’s hand. “No he won’t.” He says it still facing the boss but he’s talking to his cellmate.
“No, he won’t,” his cellmate agrees, also pasting on a smile.
The boss grins and claps and a cheer goes up at Tony’s agreement. But even in his happiness, the boss’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. It adds a wicked gleam to his expression, a promise that his happiness means more suffering from Tony.
The boss barks something else and Tony’s cellmate makes a strangled sound. Something innate tells Tony where to look and he whips his head to the side in time to see that same soldier slam the butt of his gun to the kid’s head. The kid hits the ground with a groan, holding his head with his hands and curling his body in to protect his vital organs, like he’s expecting more blows to follow.
Tony jerks but his hand is stuck in the handshake. The boss grins once more, says something else to his comrades that his cellmate doesn’t bother to translate, then shoves Tony back in the direction of the cave.
He gets one more shove in the back to get him moving. Not that it’s really necessary, Tony thinks as he stumbles, climbing back up the embankment where soldiers wait with the bag they put over his head. Two sets of hands grip his biceps, half leading and half dragging him back to the cave.
They toss him in, letting him take the bag off himself this time. Tony bites down on a snappy insult as they shove his cellmate in after him then slam the metal doors closed.
The lock pings as it slides into place, the metallic sound echoing in the cave.
Tony gingerly sits down on his cot, still clutching his car battery like a safety blanket, all his energy sapped. “Fuck,” he mumbles.
His cellmate takes off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “Fuck,” he agrees. He sits down with a sigh on his cot, “what are you going to do, Tony?”
Tony doesn’t answer. He can’t
Because he can’t make these men a missile.
As lacking as his moral compass is, he draws the line at working with war criminals. Even if he could stretch his conscience to allow it, they’ll kill him when it’s done. They’ll kill both of them no matter what Tony does, so what’s the point?
They both jump when the lock slides and the doors open again.
What now? Tony thinks. Come back for another thrilling waterboarding session just for fun?
Tony’s tempted to just remain sitting, staring off into space, but his cellmate yanks him up and hisses to put his hands up. Tony does it blankly. He wants to go to bed. He wants to go home.
His stomach sinks further as the boss shoves someone in, their body rolling on the ground.
The kid pushes himself to his knees, rocking dangerously with vertigo and maybe from the cut on his temple that has blood flowing down the side of his face.
The boss yells something and smirks, giving Tony a mock salute before closing and locking the doors again.
His cellmate immediately drops beside the kid to help him up, but Tony just sits back down. He knows he should help. That’s what a good person would do. They’d see a child injured and scared and try to offer some reassurance or a bandaid.
But Tony’s never really been a good person.
His cellmate helps the kid to his cot.
“What’d he say?” Tony asks lowly.
“He said think of this as a gift. Because he saw how attached you were outside,” his cellmate answers.
Tony closes his eyes briefly. His head hurts. He sighs. “Welcome to hell, kid.”
“Thanks for the parade,” the kid shoots back, startling Tony enough to look him in the eyes for the first time since they were all outside.
The kid has blood on his face, a cut on his temple, a bruise on his jaw, but his eyes glint, like he hasn’t given up. Like he hasn’t gotten started.
Hm.
Maybe Tony can use that fire.