Worthy
By Rey

Chapter notes:
At last, by the coaxing and wheedling and cajoling of lots of people, my muse bowed down to the populace and got me this new chapter. So, kudos to you who got this story going!
The rating has been bumped up to PG-13 approaching R, though, kind folks, so please beware. Tony Stark refused to cooperate with me and defiantly thought a few too adult thoughts plus swore more than before, that's why. The rating is also (for this chapter) discovery about body modification and non-sexual body exploration.
Additionally, please pay attention to the warnings and info in the tags, folks. This chapter is definitely more colourful, characterful and odd than the previous one.
Oh, and the bolded words/phrases in the usual dialogues are spoken in a foreign language, while the all-bold dialogues are written via text messages. Also, the bits of different language you will find in this chapter are interpreted as the hearer (Tony) thinks, so they don't really match the real deal – not till he gets to learn that language, at any rate.
All said, I hope you'll enjoy the ride!

Chapter tags: Tony Stark Feels, Past Character Death, Reincarnation, Past Lives, imposter syndrome, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Past Domestic Violence, Past Child Abuse, Protective Siblings, Unexpected Family Relations

Chapter summary: If Tony Stark is inside Iron Man, then what is inside Tony Stark? And how in the universe is it triggered to come out only after 40 years of being sort of normal?

Chapter 2

The nuclear bunker, which could become a shelter in case of other kinds of disaster as well, had been built, kitted up and stocked for a lengthy seige before the tower was even erected. People may say I'm reckless, spontaneous, fickle, selfish and the like, and they are true on some level, but I always take care of those under my responsibility with all my best. My people should have easy access to safety during shitty things like this, and I don't regret the expenses I shelled out for the best equipments and long-lasting stocks for this place before it's ever needed.

I do regret the lack of ample and comprehensive medical support and supplies, though, even after my two Big Buddies have scrounged up all medical and survival items from all the remaining floors.

As it is, we have to queue one by one for the use of the single medical scanning room I designed and set up here last year. And worse, there are only two life-support systems available.

"We're still alive, you know," Cap says quietly, as I clumsily try to hook Reindeer Games – who is, somehow, miraculously, still alive, and whose eyes are now closed – up to one of the two life-support systems, cursing to myself all the while. He raises his eyebrows when I give him a scathing glare, and continues to insist, "Pessimistic view has its merits, Mister Stark, but not always."

I scoff, but don't reply. Got the excuse, too: Brucey is stirring on the bed to the right, groaning softly. Time to help him come back to the waking world and have some water.

I relinquish my paltry attempt at being a paramedic to the field expert, when he's not so woozy anymore. Got the excuse, too, this time, by way of JARVIS' preternaturally calm report: "The collapser has reached the eightieth level, sir."

The eightieth level. The level where we were just ten minutes ago.

"He works fast," I comment in the same tone, while tucking the thermal blanket round Bob's still trembling frame, lying on the next bed over to the left, the only other place which also features a life-support system. "What's the status outside now, Jay? Is our escape hatch on ground level still good?"

"The thunderstorm is still pouring, sir, and visibly focused on Stark Tower. Flooding is nearly a certainty by now. I would advise that you use the underground tunnels to vacate the premises should it be necessary, rather than the escape hatch on ground level."

"Oh great," I mutter gloomily, wishing I could stomp my feet while making a beeline to the large viewscreen mounted opposite the hospital corner, in front of which the two SHIELD agents are gathered, apparently finished with the scanning cubical already. "They're gonna blame it all on me."

"Well, you're the one who chatted with that third alien, for all you rarely made a sound," Agent Legolas snarks, just as I reach the viewing bench. "Regret that yet, Stark?"

"I regret many things today, but not that," I snark back, as I park my bottom on the very end of the bench, opposite Agent Pretender. "Regret following me down here yet? Could always join the collapser upstairs if you want."

He flips me a tired bird and snorts. "Was there, you know, when he's here the first time," he says in a more neutral tone, with his eyes glued on the scene of the courtain-like rain outside of the tower that the viewscreen is displaying. "Was in New Mexico. Heard he's made 'mortal', however it happened. I'm… not really surprised. But yeah, this is kinda extreme, even for him."

"Tell me 'bout it," I huff bitterly. "My tower survived Loki and the Chitauri, but it doesn't survive one of its own invited guests."

My eyes have strayed away from the viewscreen, and now got glued on Agent Pretender, who is seated past Agent Legolas. She notices my attention and doesn't like it; not in her usual politely or distantly hostile manner, at that. She's regarding me with surprising tell-tale tenseness on the corners of her eyes and overblown pupils, as if I were some nightmarish monster come to finish her off now that she's brought to her weakest point in our whole acquaintance. And indeed, she can't even sit fully on her own power, leaning so heavily against the wall beside her like that. Adrenaline crash coupled with accumulated injuries and exhaustion, doubtless.

I'd prefer her pretences over this… this… humanity of hers, still. My expectation – faith? Hope? Bleh – has already been badly shaken with how Cap was frightened by the Berserker's ravages. And now… this.

I look away, get back up and shuffle my way to the scanning room. – The time to break down is not now, if ever there's one in my life. (Stark men are made up of iron, after all, as dear Dad said.)

Well, but, regardless, the results of the scans are aweful, and I can't help wondering to myself how am I still vertical despite everything, made of iron or not.

Of course, then, my body chooses to collapse.

For that, I blame those cold, cold details provided in the scanning room's report of my present health.

Noises and sensations drift in and out of my awareness, like a badly out-of-tune radio, and I vaguely notice that somebody – or maybe two? Three? – is carting me away from the scanning cubical, fumblingly, before a softer horizontal surface greets my battered body. I let out a groan when I feel a brush – or maybe a pat? – on my shoulder, but can't do anything else.

Pathetic.

What would the world do with a broken Iron Man?

Well, maybe, what they always do with other broken tools. I'm not special, after all, when all is said and done; I do know that.

My mind blanks out for a while. I notice it only because, suddenly, there's a certain pressure along my right side, and it shifts, without me ever realising that it has been there in the first place.

"Wha?" I mumble – or mean to mumble, anyway, since I can't even do that much.

But, apparently, the message somehow gets across, because someone – an increasingly familiar someone – is speaking now, as if in response to that response: `Rest, Amma. Amma is safe, for now. There is yet time. Rest and heal, Amma.`

"Amma? Who?" I want to ask, to think on, to demand. But all that I can do is apparently slipping back into oblivion, because things have… changed, again, when next I'm more or less awake. I don't know why I can sense it, or how, but the ambience has gone tenser instead of more relaxed, though nobody seems to be speaking or making a sound.

And there's no longer an inexplicable weight set against my right side.

The feeling of loss that ambushes me on that realisation is equally inexplicable.

And the lack of pain and ache and soreness, too, as I try to move and find it all too easy, as if I just fell asleep in my bed after a good day of tinkering.

I sit up, blink open my eyes.

And the view that immediately greets me is the guarded gaze of a stranger. One similar-looking to Bob in more ways than two, but still a stranger.

How did a stranger sneak in here? From where? When? Why? For what purpose? Are they insane? People fled New York City when the Chitauri poured out from that hellhole! And there's also the collapser….

The collapser!

My eyes widen, as they didn't in response to looking at this brand-new complication in the shape of Bob's probable relative.

And they widen even more when I notice that, past the shoulder of the stranger, the viewscreen shows the rain still pouring outside.

And I can feel the room tremble…. Or is it just me?

I look round. – Nope. Not just me. Everyone's unnerved. And speaking of whom, so glad to see, too, that there's just one single addition to the rag-tag crew I've accrued.

Sarcastically speaking, of course.

"Anybody wanna explain what's going on now?" I ask the room at large.

But… my voice….

"Huh?" I frown. My voice! Not even a sliver of a bed-croak in it, as if I were just gone for a literal minute's worth of shut-eye. And it's changed, too; still mine on some level, but smoother, rather androgynous, and something else that I can't really grasp. This can't be true… can it?

"J, how long was I out? And while you're at that, who carted me here? … And, where's Bob? Think I saw'em…. – Oh."

A light brown eye briefly, shyly peeks from behind the shoulder of the latish teen that's still standing at the foot of the bed I've been involuntarily occupying all this while. And it's been–

–"Five hours, twenty minutes and forty-five seconds, sir," or so JARVIS says.

And then he goes on to say that Bob, who is hiding behind their… elder sibling?!… was one of the pairs of hands I dimly remember carting me out of the scanning room, other than Cap and Agent Legolas.

Well, to all that, what I can say is: "Huh."

And perhaps most appropriately, there's a sudden – if short – explosion of mirthless laughter from the viewing bench, from Agent Legolas who seems to have been there all these hours.

I shake my head, wipe a hand across my eyes, and, "Huh," comes out again. (But then, that's also what my current mental state is, still.)

Apparently, things have been too bizarre even for my most unusual mind, lifestyle and expectations that, for once in recallable history, I've been made speechless both externally and internally, for an extended length of time.

"Huh."

Awkwardly, I get up from the bed, wander about the little bunker hall we're in, pretend to note where all the bots and humans – and non-humans – are, try to ignore all the attention trained on me.

And try to ignore how my centre of balance has shifted, as well, plus how oversensitive my senses have become. (It's like being drunk while half-concussed, like that one time at uni, but being painfully sobre at the same time!)

But in the end, there's nothing else to do that doesn't require me to think or to say anything, and the inexplicable attention still doesn't let go, forget all the other changes.

"Sthere something on my face?"

I park my bottom huffily on the nearest seatable area… which happens to be the foot of Reindeer Games' bed… who happens to be still unconscious, though thankfully with eyes closed instead of the blank-eyed stare he firstly sported.

"What happened after I conked out? Anybody?" I insist when, even after a while, everyone just stares at me. "Did me conking out create some havoc I didn't know? Or did somebody paint something on me?"

Nobody lets out a peep, still.

"J?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Wanna explain?"

"About what, sir?"

Great. Even JARVIS acts blatantly evasive.

"Don't get smart on me, old boy," I growl at the nearest CCTV camera.

"I am not, sir," comes the calm, cool-as-cucumber answer, which just raises my hackles up and makes me more nervous.

"Agitation is not good for your health, Mister Stark," Brucey quietly interjects, just as I'm readying myself to berate my wayward boy. "Maybe not usually," he amends when I give him a look, "but certainly now. It's a marvel that you managed to get us all here, when you yourself were in such condition."

"So, we can begin from that," I drawl, gritting my teeth and unable to prevent my right leg from jigging a little, even as the hands that I hide behind my back curl into fists. "I read that report from the scanning booth. What happened – what kind of miracle got me that I managed to recover in just five hours?"

"Even better than I was before," I want to say, but refrain. Any leverage, however freaky it is, is a good leverage to have.

Silence answers me, even though Brucey still looks at me steadily, with Hulky's green tinge lurking passively behind his brown eyes.

The SHIELD duo refuse to meet my irritated stare. Cap's the same. Selvig….

Well, Selvig looks shocked, and awed, and a little bewildered, and quite intrigued, as if he dug idly in his backyard and found some precious, rare gem instead of more dirt.

Or as if me drunkenly messing up with coding and programming and dreams and imagining and hopes and all and getting JARVIS as the result.

I raise an eyebrow at him in pointed question: Why the surprise? After all, much of my life has been gossip fodder for the public since me being a bump in my mum's belly, and there's nothing new about me that I've revealed thus far, accidentally or not.

But in response, he clamps up, visibly.

That only riles me up to new heights.

Leaving my perch on Reindeer Games' bed, I stalk up to the scientist's seated self on the viewing bench and glare down at him from my vantage point of wapping 160 centimetres. (Maybe… but he does look small from up close here….)

"Why the surprise?" I repeat out loud. "Something funny on my face?"

He shakes his head.

I lean forward.

He leans back.

I poke the tip of his nose with a finger.

He cringes. As though I were going to punch him. And he does look terrified.

"What's wrong with you?"

He shakes his head, even more vigorously than before.

I scowl at him, now exasperated and confused, not only irritated.

But before I can poke him or demand things or whatever else, a tiny, timid, quavering voice sneaks into my hearing: "Amma?"

This word again… and in Bob's voice, at that.

I whirl round, abandoning my fruitless interrogation on selvig to stare at… well, to try to stare at Bob, to be exact, since the only one I find where their voice originated is the yet nameless newcomer…

…Who is tight-faced, with an odd, blank expression that's typically plastered on the face of terrified underlings who tried so hard to be brave in the face of my ire, when I got dragged to some SI factory after a major machine got smashed by careless or ignorant fingers.

And when I stalk up to them, the expression that they sport now is one that a few sticky-fingered SI employees sported when I sicked myself and my lawyers on them.

But somehow, I find it nauseating when that chalk-white, I'm-entirely-dead look is plastered on the face of this teen – this total stranger.

It's even worse when I spy their overall – this one dark green-brown, like their widened, petrified eyes – being tugged back on the sides, as if someone got a death-grip on it from behind.

Because, last I knew, Bob was somehow hiding behind this one. And Bob should not be terrified of me. Hell, they acted like some fairy-tale royal prince the first time we met!

This situation is getting weirder and weirder by the second, and I don't like it.

"Bob? Where're you?"

A squeak answers me, sounding so scared and helpless that I find myself move to where it comes from without any conscious decision.

But the newcomer moves with me, keeping Bob hidden from view, away from me.

"Not gonna harm the kid, y'know," I snap at them, but the heat and bite are absent from it, alongside the irritation that firstly propelled me to try to interrogate Selvig.

Only the confusion remains, and it keeps growing.

Especially when, after giving me a glare that seems to be a mixture of terror and distrust, the newcomer does step aside, and I clap eyes once more on Bob.

Only to find a little kid in Bob's place, with Bob's face and Bob's clothes and Bob's hair and Bob's eyes. (Minus the terror in them. That wasn't present before.) They're barely nine – if even that!

"Ah, Bob?" I squawk, then wince. I meant to be… professional; a good host, as Mom always drilled in me since before I'd known what "host" means.

"Amma?" the kiddy Bob squeaks in reply, in the same timid, wavering tone that I don't care to analyse deeper. But I notice it anyway, and see for myself how half of them is leaning towards their supposed elder sibling while the rest seems to lean tentatively towards me.

My shoulders slump, despite my best attempt to salvage my bearing. The vitality that greeted me on awakening seems to drain away past the bare soles of my feet, past the granit-tiled floor into the faintly trembling earth.

Things are even more confusing, now. – Why's Bob so small? Why do they keep calling me "Amma"? What happened in the quarter of a day I spent involuntarily snoozing? What should I do now? What can I do now? What's with this addition to our rag-tag bunch? How did they get in here? From where? What for? Do they mean us – though maybe not their little sibling – harm? Do they wish to cart Rock Of Ages back to their homecountry to face justice or something, like Thor? – So many questions!

So, to hopefully simplify matters, I choose to refocus myself on something more… mundane; and a little less confusing, too, not to mention probably the root of all the tangled questions.

Or rather, I choose to focus on someone, namely the stranger Bob's still clinging to with all their might.

"Who are you? What's your name? When did you come here? How? Why? What for? Anybody coming after you? Do Mummy and Daddy know the both of you are here?"

The stranger straightens, like some soldier at attention. They still look terrified out of their mind, though, so the effect is like some righteous soldier facing the evil firing squad with decorum.

I feel even more nauseated than before.

But then they talk, and I force myself to watch and listen – to the undercurrents and hidden meanings and mismatched expressions, like Dad and Mom and Obi – dear traitorous, murderous, damn ruthless Obi – taught me.

Not that it helps much, it turns out ….

"I am the first womb-child of Farbauti Faukkistr-childe, spouse of Laufey Bergelmir-childe, Monarch of Ýmirheim. I am Helblindi Farbauti-childe," They say. Monotonely delivered. Odd emphasis. Odd address of their… mother?

"I came when… when… about 'five hours, twenty minutes and forty-five seconds ago', when Matya was… asleep," they continue. Valiantly. Ignorant, but still trying to be exact, but trying to play down my bout of weakness – huh? And my name is not "Matya"!

"I Walked along one of the passages leading to this realm and proceeded to Think myself here, with Býleistr as the guiding beacon… because… because… Helblindi did not know yet that Matya was here – shletara, Helblindi did not manage to sense Matya being here." The neutral explanation is now a personal plea. "Helblindi Farbauti-childe" is obviously terrified of… my wrath? What the–!

"Helblindi came because Býleistr called. Helblindi did not know that Matya would be here. Helblindi would have prepared… something… to welcome Matya back, if Helblindi knew. But please, this is not Býleistr's fault! Býleistr just did not have… time… to tell Helblindi. Please, Matya," they desperately tries to explain themself, while defending themself and their little sibling from… me? Or their mum? Or their mum that they – the both of them – have rather convincedly mistaken as me? – But Bob concealed their name for a reason! Won't this jeopardise Bob? And Helblindi, too? Can I call Bob with that supposedly secret name, then?

And then, a split second later, they plod on. "Helblindi came to… to… to assist in retrieving… the little one." But why not say the name and relationship outright like Bob did? Didn't Bob update their big sibling once they're here, if not before?

With a mental shrug, I continue to listen and observe, despite – or maybe because of – my mounting alarm and trepidation.

And Helblindi continues to be baffling, as well as increasingly desperate and terrified.

"As far as…. Erh, Helblindi meant, nobody tracked Helblindi here, but Helblindi could be mistaken, because Helblindi came in s-somewhat of a haste here." They're trying too much to be firm and exact, again, and far too scared to be blamed for a random chance. Their mum must be – or have been – quite a piece of work.

"Pabutya and the others did not know that Helblindi is here… nor did they know that Býleistr is here. We meant it to be secret." They tell that last word as if it should be meaningful to me, that I should be pleased about all the secrecy and exactness and formality and avoidance of certain topics.

They tell it all for me, not only to me; trying to stroke my ego, trying to convince me, trying so hard to be likeable. But I'm not… whoever "Amma" or "Matya" is! And I don't know who Helblindi is – or even Bob!

And who – outside of not so real of a story – ever answers all the questions with such precision and thoroughness? In one go, at that?

For all the unholy things in the world…! They've just made me more confused!

I swipe a tired hand over my face, straighten up, take a deep, deep breath, then ask my question; the question that, in all the terrified narration, hasn't been answered: "Why do you and your sibling think that I am your… that I am 'Matya', or 'Amma', or some such? I don't even know what those words mean!"

Both of the kids flinch on my exclamation. But unfortunately, other than that, and some fish-on-dry-land mimicry by Helblindi, nobody speaks. Just like before.

"Is that so hard to answer?" I grit out after a few heavy intakes of breath, trying to curb my exasperation and impatience for the sake of the rapidly paling Helblindi.

"Amma is… Amma," Bob offers tentatively, at last, and continues when my attention is on them, "Býleistr and Helblindi grew in Amma's womb, and Amma nursed us … after we… the both of us… umm, Býleistr and Helblindi were born … and we … umm … Býleistr and Helblindi belong to Amma's line, although in the Royal House? Erh, Bý means, although we – all of us – belong to the Royal House…."

Helblindi lets out a squeak on the mention of "all," and takes a few stumbling steps back, dragging their little sibling with them, when my head swings towards them on that mousy sound.

They seem ready to faint – the both of them.

Huh. Farbauti is… or was… truly a piece of work, to induce this level of petrification in their own children. Worse than my parents, by far.

But speaking of children…. "You know," I say, in my levellest, most unantagonistic tone and – hopefully – facial expression, "I don't have any womb." – There's a stifled snort of laughter from somewhere in the congregation of the bafoons I've been forced to call my teammates that I ignore. – "I don't have any girl bits, period. My name is also Anthony Edward Stark, Tony for short, and not 'Amma' or 'Matya' or 'Farbauti'. You've got the wrong person, kids."

Instead of feeling mollified, though, the poor, miserable pair of siblings huddling before me look as if they're doomed to a very, very, very unpleasant fate; worse than facing my irritated, exasperated, impatient self in the perception of the mistaken identity, even.

Thankfully… or not… Cap butts in, again, going as far as coming up to me from the side and tugging lightly at my left elbow. "Come on, Mister stark," he says. "You're frightening them." (But hey! Why does Cap's voice come from… lower than it used to?)

Bob… or Býleistr… stiffens, although I can't rightly guess what's going on in their head right now.

And partly, currently, I don't want to know.

I shake Cap's hand off and, while making my way to the insensate Reindeer Games to distract myself, ask JARVIS for the latest status update of the tower and its surroundings.

And, meanwhile, I try very, very hard to ignore the fact that Bob and their elder sibling seem to be following me wherever I go like little ducklings, and why I know it without any sound audible to my ears.

The news that the collapser has finally spent his berserker rage on the seventy-sixth story isn't as comforting as I thought it might be, it turns out.

The further news that Reindeer Games' numerous injuries – which would be fatal on a human – haven't shown any improvement is even more daunting.

And then, timidly, in a tiny voice that I imagine a small, scared bunny would sound like, "Helblindi Farbauti-childe" tells me that their "Pabutya" is contacting them, no doubt suspicious of their whereabout.

Damn. Crap. Fuck. Hell.

Did I sin so much in another life that I'm punished this way now?

Wait… wrong question.

A very, very, very, very, very, very wrong question.

Flinging oneself on a stool is way less satisfactory than flinging oneself into a sofa, my fucked-to-hell brain dimly notes as everything jostles for immediate attention in my mind. (And the stool crieks, too, as if I weighed a ton. Why?)

The motion's way more graceful than it ought to be, at that, the same useless piece of junk informs me, and I really, really, really can do without that unwanted self-commentary right now… or later… or ever.

Narcissism may be one of my vises, as many say, but not when it can drive me mad so easily.

"J," I can hear my mouth flap about, "don't let anybody in here, or anywhere else in the tower but the ones who are supposed to be there, if there's any still. Scout out our routes, too." But I can hardly process what's spewed forth from it.

And then, a ball of meager flesh and heavy, jabby bones deposits itself on my lap, and it's all that I can do not to instinctively fling… them… away.

Judging from the alarmed and worried look that quickly passes over Helblindi's widened eyes, this elder sibling of the said "ball" has the same thought.

Strangely enough, even stranger than many things so far but strangely fitting anyway, the teen's low opinion of me hurts more than any rejection they might deliver to my perceived self, or Cap's insults to me on the hell-e-carrier, or Agent Pretender's "Iron Man, yes. Tony Stark, not recommended," or… well… so many other things.

Okaaay, so, I, and me, and myself, should decide on which self to acknowledge, to use in this situation. Because something that's derived from a mistaken identity shouldn't hurt this much, or even at all.

And then I'll need to temporarily block other identities out, and think only on the currently most relevant one…

…Like putting on some garment when the occasion requires it, as Mom used to lecture me….

Oh, crap. When did my life turn into garments – with a big plural s on it – that I must change back and forth for the sake of my own sanity?

Okay, Stark. Baby steps, baby steps, baby steps. Baby steps, even when the world wants you to take a flying start to the fastest, most endless sprint ever. You already asked your faithful AI to secure the tower, no? Much good as it's been so far… but it can only help, right? So… now… erm….

"Okay, kids, we don't have much time. I'd like to know how," `In the universe,` "you came to the conclusion I'm whoever you said, and why these people," I glare at the battered but alive Timebomb Team – plus one – that's still congregated on the viewing-screen bench, "knew 'bout it before I did. But it must wait. Now let's just secure ourselves an exit from this place with Reindeer Games in tow. Then you need to go elsewhere, probably back home, n'I'll deal with Thor."

Helblindi's mouth opens, as if for a reflexive protest or a retort, or even a suggestion.

I glare at them.

Their mouth shuts back up, right away, complete with an audible click of teeth.

Eh, sometimes, being feared has its perks… although it makes one feel pretty nauseated at the same time….

Doesn't hurt to reiterate an important point, though, right? So, "You need to be elsewhere, 'kay? N'I mean you, Bob and Reindeer Games. My bots can keep you company, but I can't risk Point Break meeting the three of you again."

Well, to be exact, it's the two of them, Bob and Loki, who fit the description of meeting Point Break "again," but there's no room for pernicketiness right now. And anyway, Bob's already tensing up on my lap – as strange as it feels, having a little kid on my lap for a totally platonic reason, instead of a beautiful woman as the prelude of a good sex! – and I can't afford them lapsing into PTSD-induced reaction when the situation is already so… fragile.

And then, it's all a whirl of busy, confusing action.

And all the while, Bob clings to me like a baby monkey to its mum, mid-jump from tree to tree.

Great. Awesome. Nice. Good.

Anthony Edward Stark: genious, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, reluctant member of Fury's superhero boyband, monkey mum.

"Drunken super nanny" is added to the titles as we arrive in our new destination: yet another bunker, but placed miles away from the first one, after a standing ride on the longest and fastest underground conveyer belt ever – I checked! – and a screen of subsonic sound that's meant to confuse everyone's sense of direction. Because, go figure, the pair of siblings and the unconscious Reindeer Games, and also Captain bloody America and Brucey, have an adverse reaction to the said screen.

Me, too, and the implication is terrifying.

Well, I don't puke, and nobody pukes on me, or on the carpeting of this far less crude, far more luxurious hideout, but it's a very, very close thing.

I've got to mix anti-nausea shakes for the six and a half affected people (including myself!), based on dear, poor, late old-man Jarvis' recipe, ASAP, and it's nearly not enough time. Well, hopefully I'm helping, instead of poisoning the aliens…. But, anyway, I've got to run here and there: fetching the "secret ingredients" from the kitchenette cupboards despite my own nausea and dizziness and ringing ears; fetching barf bags for the conscious "patients" and bringing one with me anywhere I go just in case; rushing to help Brucey who is half-way a drunkenly irritated Hulky right now prop Reindeer Games up, so the latter won't choke on his own vomit in case he can't hold it in; and rushing to prevent Dum-E, You and Butterfingers from trying to "help," too.

And all the while, the two SHIELD agents watch me from the sidelines, and Agent Legolas keeps laughing at me.

Somehow, at length, I end up nestled on a huge cushion on the far corner opposite the tunnel-mouth, along with Helblindi, Bob, Brucey-and-Hulky and Reindeer Games. – Helblindi (I think I'll call them D!) is leaning heavily against the wall by my right, tilting closer and closer to me before jerking themself back up into a more or less straight sitting position. Meanwhile, a quarter-lucid Reindeer Games, who is still propped up by a concerned Brucey (and a no longer so drunkenly irritated Hulky), is to my left. And Bob's still clinging to me, now perched once more on my lap.

Cap's sprawled on the cushy carpet beside the cushion along with the two SHIELD agents. But, interestingly enough, Selvig has chosen to remove himself from their huddle, although he was a part of that group while we're in the bunker beneath the tower. He's now seated in a no less comfy desk chair on the adjacent corner of the underground foyer we're in.

Alarmingly, he's looking blankly at the two double-layer lead boxes containing the two alien thingamabobs, which starred in the battle we've recently won, which somehow got placed on the desk before him. – A new kind of mind control? A burgening interest in the power that he might take for himself? But I feel too exhausted to wonder about that for long.

And we are waiting…. For what, I don't know, but we are waiting. And the tension is back in the air. I wish I could push a pause button on the reality so that I could have some rest from it all, even just for a minute. Or at least, before reality throws me yet another – or, hells forbid, a bigger – bucket of smelly brown waste with its accompanying mysteries, I'd like to know the answers to the previous questions.

Heh. If only…. Nobody seems to be inclined to do anything, or say anything. And sadly I can't fault them, with how thick and brittle the atmosphere is feeling.

Besides, my head and ears and stomach are still killing me, although with less intensity.

But we aren't totally safe yet, are we? And I've still got to know what's going on with the tower. (My tower, damn it Thor.)

So, "J? Status of the tower?" I request, ignoring how weak my newfound voice has been reduced by the sonic attack turned friendly fire.

His report is, as usual, delivered in a familiar, soothing timbre, and a British accent that never fails to remind me of old-man Jarvis. And I let it lull me into a much-needed respite.

But then, one of the titbits jolts me out of the reverie, with almost instinctive alarm.

Damn. It brings my physical misery back to life, not to mention waking a previously dozing Bob, who now distracts me again by whining and clinging closer. And it's just… all too soon.

"Repeat that, J," I ask, while awkwardly patting Bob's back, hoping they'll let go of me soon.

And the AI dutifully says, "On another note, sir, Miss Potts is flying to new York from Los Angeles together with Mister Hogan. The both of them were highly concerned about the news covering the battle. They persisted to come despite all objections. They would like to ascertain the veracity of the news by themselves, as well as assuring themselves of your continued well-being. They will arrive within the next two hours at the tower. Shall I redirect them here, sir?"

`Pepper and Happy!` is all that I can think of for a long, long moment. And then, `It'll be complete with Rhodey here. He can be the Air Force's eyes for all I care. We can go elsewhere for a little while. To somewhere safer, and fun. A bit of normalcy. Screw Fury's plans. I nearly died today, twice.`

But then Bob stirs in my lap, and my mind screeches to a halt, dragged back into reality. `Oops. Damn. The kids! What am I going to do with the kids? What am I going to say to Peps and Happy about them?`

Well, come to think of it again, though, Brucey can take care of Reindeer Games and the kids for a while, can't he…? And the others can definitely take care of themselves. I doubt Thor knows where we are, at that, so I don't even have to bother with him right now.

Just to make sure, though, I fish my Starkphone out of my trouser pocket and text JARVIS, with one thumb and a liberal help of predictive text: "Where is Thor right now?"

"The collapser flew away using his hammer without saying anything moments ago, Sir," is the immediate answer. "He is possibly going to try to find Jane Foster, an astrophysicist, who became acquainted with him the first time he came here, according to the SHIELD file on him."

`My. Apparently you are miffer than I am about the uber hole in the tower's floors, J. But oookaaaaay then.` "Prepare a hot shower for me in the bathroom here. Get Pepper and Happy to buy me clothes and lots of food too. Basically delay them until it's really safe in and around the tower. And get the measurements of the others here if they want to change too once I'm in the bathroom."

And then, it's wranglingBob-off-me time.

Suffice to say, the bathroom at the opposite corner of the little hall, the crammd, humble little one that it is, is a heavenly haven after that. Opposite the plane, flimsy door, the wall boasts just a small shower cubical, a generic toilet seat beside it, and a cabinet of generic – and mostly disposable – bathroom necessities beside the toilet, with a cold-and-warm-water sink on top plus its paraphernalia. And along the wall where the door is, there are just a full-length mirror opposite the sink, and a tiny vanity table with its own mirror beside it, and a wastebasket under the vanity table, opposite the toilet. But here in this tiny room I am alone, and it's unbelievable how I need it at present, after everything and with so many questions still unanswered.

No wonder, then, that for a long, long, long time, I just lean heavily into the cool, hard, snug surface that's the nook between the full-length mirror and the tiled wall running perpendicular to it.

I so need a holiday. A long, long, long holiday. With Pepper. And Happy. And maybe Rhodey, too, if I can pry him out of the Air Force for a while. Oh, and with Brucey as well. And maybe also with the kids if I have to. But without SI and SHIELD matters coming along for the ride.

But, right now, if I take too long in here, it's possible that Bob will just barge in, checking on "Amma" and clinging to me again.

Well, then, bye-bye cooling-down session. See you again later. Hopefully very, very, very soon.

"J, make sure the door's locked, 'kay? And turn on the shower."

Sadly, there's no other clothes to change into. But at least there are disposable underwear in the cabinet drawers, among other things. There's a row of pegs behind the door, too, to hang the current ones.

One second under the supposedly warm water, though, and I'm already leaping out again like a scolded cat, wet and feeling like a boiled lobster. "What the–! J, how hot did you set it to?!"

"Your usual prefered temperature, Sir," the AI dares to protest. I give the CCTV above the sink a mighty scowl.

"Your baseline temperature has gone down two degrees Celsius. Maybe that is the cause of your heat intolerance, Sir?" he offers further, and my scowl deepens. – This again!

"And you kept refusing to say what happened to me. Are you going to refuse again now?" I bite out, as I snatch a towel from the cabinet and dab quickly but gingerly at my oversensitive skin.

Unfortunately, I don't get to know what my wayward AI might decide. My hurried hand is quicker than the length of his hesitant pause.

"J, how–. Humans can't grow bits! Mom would've known if I was also a girl! And I certainly would know! And where's all the hair? I don't have boobs but I have… this?! Where are my balls? Did someone operate on my bits when I was knocked out? Why didn't you prevent it! How can I turn back? Turn me back! I'll rip out the balls of whoever–!"

JARVIS – the traitor – cuts in before I can finish the sentence, though, let alone the very, very, very deserved and long overdue rant.

"A Miss Laufey is upstairs and asking after her children Helblindi and Býleistr, Sir. Should I let her in?"

"What the fuck, J," I demand, in a strangled voice a few octaves higher than normal, which tips the sound scale from "androgynous" to – NO, no no no no no no no no no. "What changed? Tell me!"

"If you stepped into the scanning room by the bathroom, Sir, we could find out together what changed, before you decide on what to do with Miss Laufey," JARVIS says, and I hate him currently for being so calm in this horrible, horrible situation.

And he continues, in the same tone that makes me feel like a chastised kid after a tantrum, despite my most scathing glare aimed squarely at the eye he has in this bathroom. "The equipment here is older than the one under the tower, however, sir, so the result may not be as thorough as if we conducted the scan in the other room. Or would you rather travel back to the tower and conduct the scan there?"

I don't reply with words. I can't. Instead, I jam myself back into the appropriate holes in my clothes and stalk out of the bathroom.

Slamming the bathroom door shut behind my back is quite satisfying.

The thought of having to repair the just-broken door later, and why has such a simple slamming motion broken it, is less so. But I can't care less about it right now, or about the looks trained on me from more than three pairs of wide eyes.

I snap the door to the scanning room shut behind me with exaggerated restraint, all the same.

The scanning equipment comes to life as soon as I stand still.

Neither JARVIS nor I break the silence long, long after the machines and lights have died down.

I can't unstick my jaw for anything, including speaking, and neither do I wish to.

The evidence that's displayed right in front of me makes me want to puke, that's why.

My height has shot up four feet. My weight likewise, although much less drastically. As though I had an extra-quick growth spurt.

Or as though I got injected with a supersoldier serum.

The face that looks back at me from the small viewing mirror in this room can be an indication, in addition to my sudden sensitivity to the subsonic screen in the tunnel leading to this safehouse. I can recognise the general features, sort of, especially my eyes and hair, but to call it truly my own face would be a ridiculous idea. It's… bigger, wider, more feminine, far younger and smoother than before, and I don't have any hair on it too except for my eyebrows.

It's like Brucey and Hulky, or like skinny Rogers and Cap, though thankfully not like Schmit and Red Skull.

The only silver lining in the situation.

Because, how am I going to face Pepper and the others like this? What do all these readings mean, exactly? What does this mean to my Iron Man suits? Why didn't all these changes heal my literal heart? What does this mean to my health? What does this mean to SI and my personal estate? What does this really mean in the long run? How if Bob and their sibling keep tagging along because of this new look? What am I going to say to the "Miss Laufey" waiting upstairs in the warehouse that's supposed to obscure this safehouse?

How could she pinpoint this particular place as where her wayward kids went to, anyway? The current sanctuary of the Timebomb Team plus-plus, this particular bunker, sprawls below a complex of warehouses that SI owns and uses. It's located just outside NYC proper, at that, in a bigger complex of more warehouses and a few small factories. The place is bland and obscure and privately owned, to boot. And it's closed to visitors unless they are SI employees of this specific warehouse complex. So who let her onto the property? – If she came here on her own past the tight security check, why hasn't she just barged in down here and abscond with D and Bob with no one else the wiser? Or at least popped in here directly for a visit, like Bob did when we're on my tower?

But… wait… her kids.

"J, did the kids tell you about Loo-Fee when I was out of it?" I croak out in a whisper, as if it's been ages since last I spoke.

And, "Only that she is their sire, sir," is the answer, unfortunately.

Damn. It's nothing that I haven't heard before. I even heard more than that, myself, from Bob, ages ago in my ruined penthouse. It feels so strange, for JARVIS to know less than I do, with the internet and various databases in his virtual fingertip.

This must be straightened up first, then, before everything else. We should discuss this, put the both of us on the same page, then make up a game plan. But with many curious ears out there, I can't trust anything spoken out loud.

Well, this means lab-time. And not because I'm making anything there. Joy. The PCs there will really help us exchange info and brainstorm, though, if nobody has hacked into it.

My shoulders slump. There are too many ifs, whats, hows, whos and whys to make even a half-decent game plan.

Still, I trudge out of the scanning booth and across the foyer, ignoring all the eyes trained on me and the murmured conversations gone silent. Fighting the best that I can is better than not fighting at all, that's why, and I've ever experienced something like this before, anyway.

Let's just hope this is not a second Afghanistan.