@thehotmessnow; closed starter
Tony jerked awake with a gasp, his whole body flinching into dull, angry awareness. There was a frantic Irish girl yelling in his ear. It was really distracting. Really painful, actually. Of course, that could just be the bone-deep ache absolutely everywhere. Even his hair hurt. “Mute.” Immediately, blessed silence. His voice didn’t sound great, though. His throat felt raw. Like he’d been busy screaming.
Well, that didn’t paint a very optimistic picture.
Neither did the fact that he couldn’t quite remember where he was or why he was there. The inside of his mouth was dust-dry, his eyes itched, and despite the suit’s air filtration system, he was pretty sure he smelled. He felt like he’d fallen asleep on the beach, at noon, in the middle of July. Or spent months dying by inches in the desert.
Bad thought. Terrible thought. Disregard that thought. Omit it.
Groaning softly, Tony pushed himself to his knees, then staggered onto his feet. The suit, at least, was still responsive, even if there did seem to be a lot of really concerning energy damage to the plating, and most it was aimed center mass. “Unmute. Hey, Irish.”
“Boss, I initiated the Lazarus Protocol! It’s been six hours, twenty-three minutes since initialization.” Then, hesitantly, “Did it work?”
Lazarus. Yeah, that wasn’t ominous or anything.
“Must have.” Tony clenched and flexed his fingers. He certainly felt like he’d been through something potentially upsetting. Through something and right out the other side. Definitely upsetting.
“I recommend we head home, Boss,” Irish girl said. “As per protocol, I’ve alerted Miss Potts and Medical is ready to receive you.”
Home. Tony scanned his immediate surroundings. Or tried to. All he could really see was the triangular silhouette of treetops against a glittering night sky. Nothing to really say where he was. Could be upstate New York or fucking Europe. All he really knew was that he was standing in a small but deep crater, and under the heavy scent of salt and metal, everything smelled faintly of heat. And burning.
Which seemed to be the wrong thing to think.
His brain snagged hard on the word, the idea, the sensation, and everything unraveled like a knit sweater. His vision went spotty at the edges and closed in, his chest horrifically tight. He couldn’t breathe.
Irish was yelling again, this time from very faraway.
“Backseat Driver Protocol initializ—”
Tony woke up in a hospital bed that was far more comfortable than it had any right to be. Probably because this wasn’t a hospital. He could just see his company logo on a wall beyond all the glass and glitter of the room he was currently occupying. Only one problem with that, really: Tony couldn’t remember them having a Medical Division.
This was new.
“Boss, Miss Potts is on her way.”
Irish again. Tony wet his dry lips, his answer pure habit: “See her up.”