#i can take these pills every twelve hours according to my psychiatrist and every eight according to the rheumatologist

[eldritch-bisexual]

Internet at home decided that No, so guess who's going to be high on painkillers at the office tomorrow???

[tonystarktogo]

Tiny Tony Overlord Part 2

Part I | Read on AO3

Betaed by the amazing @folklejend. All remaining mistakes are my own. Enjoy! :)

Chapter 2: Recap

.Helicarrier.

“Everybody shut up!” Nick Fury yells and finally, for the first time in twelve long, frustrating hours, blessed silence reigns in SHIELD’s headquarters.

With a deep sigh, Fury closes his eye, opens it again, and lets his gaze wander over the assembled people, all of whom belong to the best of the best SHIELD has to offer.

At 4:12 am, his entire organisation is on the brink of total mayhem, all because of one man. Or rather the disappearance of one man. It shouldn’t surprise anyone that said man is Anthony Stark.

“We’ve got a room filled with some the best hackers, analysts, profilers, tacticians and spies in the world,” Fury says after a long moment, just barely restraining himself to keep from screaming. “Now can someone, anyone, explain to me how we’ve lost Iron Man in the middle of New York City with no ideas as to where he is or who might’ve taken him? Anyone?”

This time, the silence is a lot less blessed and a lot more tense.

[continue under the cut]

Fury rubs his temples. “Alright then. Hill! What do we know about the attack?”

Maria Hill straightens in her seat. “Oliver McWalker, age twenty seven, studied micro-biology until he dropped out of college after he was accused of regular misuse of the equipment and several cases of theft. No suspicious activity after that, no arrests, nothing that pinged our radar.” Hill clicks her tongue, obviously displeased by that oversight.

“Yesterday at 2:39 pm, McWalker set off a couple of small explosive devices in a park.” Hill presses a couple of keys on her keyboard and the screen to her left flares to life, depicting the surveillance footage from the park in question. “The authorities were first alerted at 2:42. A domestic terrorism special unit was supposed to handle it, with the support of the local police force. McWalker proceeded to use a device similar to a flamethrower that appears to contain a violet, highly flammable substance, as well as several other weapons the officers on the scene assumed to be magical. Our lab is still working to identify them all. The Avengers’ assistance was requested at 2:54. Captain America, Hawkeye, Black Widow and Iron Man were sent in and arrived at 3:01.”

Hill pauses for a moment to take a gulp of the huge cup of coffee in her hand. An unsubtle reminder that even Fury’s always impeccably dressed and composed assistant is running on less than four hours of sleep.

“Captain America engaged McWalker with Black Widow as back-up whilst Hawkeye and Iron Man helped with the evacuation. Now this,” Hill points at the screen, where the images flicker and turn black almost simultaneously, “is where things get spotty. It appears that before being subdued by Captain America, McWalker managed to set off an explosion of sort that disabled any working technology within two miles of the blast. According to Hawkeye, Stark was forced to leave his suit, which we have been unable to recover. Hawkeye then lost sight of Stark when a group of armed men in black combat uniforms attacked them. Black Widow and Captain America never saw Stark thorough the entire battle.”

Another screen flares to life, this one displaying a map of the location of the attack.

“This,” Hill points at a side street near the park’s back-entrance, “is Stark’s last known location. In his direct vicinity, one grocery story, two cafés and a house have been damaged by the fight.”

“So we know he’s been there,” Fury muses. “The rest of the team?”

“Captain America and Black Widow didn’t leave the park until near the end of the fight. Hawkeye appears to have started out on the other side of the road and then moved towards the main street.”

Three dots appear on the map. The fourth one remains a single question mark.

Fury frowns at the screen. “Was Stark intentionally separated from the others?”

“It’s possible.” Hill tilts her head in consideration. “But we don’t have the necessary data to confirm it.”

“Was the electrical wipe-out intentionally used to make Iron Man vulnerable?”

“It’s possible, but we don’t have the necessary data to confirm it.”

“Was Stark taken or killed?”

“It’s possible.” Hill pauses.

“But we don’t have the necessary data to confirm it?”

“You’re a quick learner, sir.”

Fury glowers at his cheeky assistant. “In short, we don’t know if Stark was the intended target, we don’t know if McWalker was working alone or if this was a coordinated attack, we don’t know what weapons he used, we don’t know where Stark is or whether or not he’s alive, we don’t know what happened to his armour, we don’t know who the enemy forces were working for, and we don’t know about anything that happened within a two-mile radius from that damn park.”

“That about sums it up, sir.” Hill takes another gulp of her coffee.

“What about the bodies?” Fury stares at the headshots of the men that didn’t live to tell the tale after facing of against the combined force of three of SHIELD’s most dangerous agents.

“None of them appear in any of our databases,” Hill denies with a shake of her head.

“So another dead end then.”

Hill sends him a half-hearted smirk. “I’m afraid so, sir. Our techs are tracking McWalker’s movements to figure out how he got a hold of the components of these weapons, but so far they haven’t made much progress. Our only lead is the three surviving, unidentified men we have in our custody. They are likely to wake up sometime in the next 48 hours.”

“Mother fucking Stark and his god damn drama!” Fury pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Alright, Wesley, get me Romanov on the line. Last thing I need is for the Avengers to go and make this mess even worse. Hill, take care of our wannabe villains. Nobody sees them, nobody talks to them, nobody who isn’t already in this room even knows they exist. Got it? The rest of you, get out of my sight, catch some sleep, and if you aren’t back at eight o’ sharp, you will live to regret it!”

“But sir!” a newbie protests. “That’s in less than four hours!”

Luckily for everyone involved, another techie manages to drag him out of the room before Fury gets the chance to make an example. Under the man’s baleful, slightly deranged glare, the room is cleared in record time.

* * * * *

.Zach’s B&B.

Tony stares down at the newspapers titled “PURPLE WIZARD ATTACKS NEW YORK” in bold, black letters. He doesn’t know what the most confusing part is: That an official publication uses the word ‘wizard’ seriously, that the date appears to be 02/09/14 or that none of this seems as weird to him as it should be. The picture on the front page shows Captain America in mid-strike and just looking at it makes Tony’s head hurt even more.

It has to be a fake because Captain America went down in WWII, everyone knows that. His father has been searching for the body forever. At the same time though, it looks completely accurate to Tony, even provokes a fond ‘Always has to solve a problem with his fist. Some things just never change,’ somewhere in the back of his mind. Conflicting facts and memories are warring in his head, things he knows to be true and things that can’t be false contradicting each other, pulling him into opposing directions.

For one thing, Tony is ten. He knows he is. Yet his body feels smaller than it should be, imbalanced and just plain off. It’s also 2014, which should freak him out but doesn’t. The technology around him, the fashion, the events, it is all wrong and so awfully familiar at the same time.

Perhaps the oddest part is that Tony isn’t panicking. He isn’t afraid. He isn’t feeling anything at all. It’s like his mind is processing the facts around him, contradicting as they are, but the link to his emotional side is—broken. Cut off. In some way that is perhaps a good thing. It allows Tony to acknowledge with a calm certainty he can’t logically explain that he is misplaced but not out of place. In his time but not.

What is maybe the most frustrating though, is that Tony knows he is aware of the answers to every question his current situation raises, he just can’t seem to access them. They’re right there, lodged in his mind somewhere, yet beyond his reach. And he can’t even seem to feel afraid because of that.

“Fuck.” Tony drops his head into his bandaged hands with a moan. He hates not understanding anything. Especially when it directly involves him.

Unscrewing the cap of the bottle of pain medication Goggle-Guy has produced from who knows where, Tony almost dry-swallows two pills out of habit before he remembers one is more than enough for his current size and weight. He’s not sure what possibility should worry him more, that his body might have been shrunken or that his mind might have been replaced in his younger self. Yet, for some inane, inexplicable reason, he isn’t worried over either of them.

On that note, Tony turns his head towards the darkest corner their cheap but homey motel room has to offer, from where his masked stalker watches him. It’s disconcerting how quickly Tony has gotten used to that sensation. To all of it, really. Even having a man die in front of him doesn’t seem that terrible anymore, now that the shock has faded and Tony has gotten a few hours of sleep.

Jesus, he really makes for a fucked up kid, doesn’t he? Maybe his parents should have sent him to a psychiatrist after all.

Of course, if there had been one thing Howard hadn’t tolerated near his heir, it had been doctors. He’d seen too much of the damage they were capable of, or so Jarvis always says. Complimentary memories of experimentations, trial runs and the mortality rate of the subjects flash in front of Tony’s eyes. They aren’t relevant now though, so he pushes them aside.

“Alright,” Tony addresses his murderous companion, “Care to explain why you and your friends tried to kill me? And why you killed them instead? Is there a bounty on my head? Because that would be cool!”

“No,” the word is muffled by the face mask.

“Oh.” Tony deflates. “What about a name then?”

“The Asset has no name.”

Cue the creepy, robotic voice again.

“Technically I suppose ‘Asset’ could count as a name,” Tony disagrees on principle. Then promptly wrinkles his nose. “Not an acceptable name of course, you’ve got me there. And really, talking about yourself in third person? That’s some wacky disassociation shit you’ve going on there, sweetums.”

So maybe Tony is a bit more comfortable with this complete stranger than he should be.

“Can you at least lose the mask and goggles? Honestly, I can’t believe nobody has called the cops on us yet!” Tony doesn’t remember much of how they’ve gotten to this little bed and breakfast, or how they got a room for that matter, but walking around with a muzzle isn’t what he’d call inconspicuous.

Goggle-Guy doesn’t bother with a verbal answer, simply lifts one hand and pulls first the goggles and then the mask off. Tony blinks at the uncharacteristic—and how would he know that?—compliance.

“Holy shit, you’re hot,” is probably not the appropriate reaction, certainly not from a ten year old kid, but Tony will later maintain that it’s still true. Clear, blue eyes, wild hair, a sharp jawline that could do with a shave. All of which is oddly familiar. In more ways than one.

I know you.

“Okay. Right.” Tony clears his throat, tries to shake off the unsettling feeling of having forgotten something important. Something essential.

He needs more intel.

“Can you get me a phone?” Tony blurts out, half wondering whom he’s supposed to call, the other half clearly remembering the tiny devices with a connection to a world wide web filled with information, if only one knows how to use it.

“Acknowledged,” Dead-Eyes—because that’s what they are, as pretty as they look—responds, thankfully distracting Tony from the mess inside his head for the moment.

He’s gone before Tony has the chance to say anything else.

Weird guy. Ignoring the strain on his aching shoulder, Tony folds his arms on the table and rests his burning forehead on top of them. I missed him.

He wishes those painkillers would kick in already.

* * * * *

Tony doesn’t realise he has nodded off until he opens his eyes to find his cheek pressed against the smooth wood of the table. There is a rectangular plastic case lying next to his right elbow, the only sign of Dead-Eyes’ return. Tony turns around but he needn’t have bothered. As expected, a blank-faced Dead-Eyes has once again resumed his position in the strategically most advantageous corner of the room.

“Thanks for this,” Tony rasps, awkwardly waves the phone around. Then, because his brain is gearing up again and he finally notices the bright pink phone case with the colourful flowers and emoji stickers all over it, “Do I even want to know where you got this from?”

Dead-Eyes doesn’t twitch, much less answer in any other way.

“Why did you get it though?” Tony can’t help but ramble. “Hours ago you pointed a gun at my face, and don’t get me wrong, I think we’ve come a long way. I’m just not sure where the change of heart stems from.”

If possible, Dead-Eyes stands even straighter. “Disobedience is punished,” he states without inflection.

“O-kay,” Tony drawls. “But why obey me?”

“The Asset obeys the handler’s commands,” Dead-Eyes answers mechanically. “Disobedience is punished.”

Tony blinks. “I know you’ve answered the question, but that doesn’t really explain anything, you know that, right?”

He receives no response.

After a long moment, Tony decides this is all he’s going to get from his cooperating, yet strangely uncooperative assistant for now and busies himself with googling his own name instead. Which admittedly yields more results than Tony has expected.

“DEAD OR ALIVE: TONY STARK MISSING,” “The Fate of Iron Man: Defeat or Disappearance?” and “Who Will Save Our Hero?” are among the first headlines to pop up, all of them less than a couple of hours old.

To Tony’s disappointment, they don’t have any new information on the attack he’s found himself in the middle of. There aren’t even any mentions of the men in the black combat gear. Everyone seems focused on that Purple Wizard who apparently initiated the fight. Even the fifteen hurt civilians haven’t earned more than a side note so far.

There are quite a few pictures of the Iron Man suit and Tony Stark though. Well, the forty-something version of Tony Stark at least.

Tony frowns.

So another wannabe villain has attacked the city. That still doesn’t explain why he’s woken up in the middle of a battlefield, without his armour, in a body that appears to be around ten years old. Now that he isn’t so busy staying alive, just looking at his tiny hands is freaking him out a little.

He remembers the odd, purple light balls that had been shot around and the way the air around him crackled when he first came to. Is it possible, Tony wonders, that one of those light balls had hit him and reduced his body to that of a child? But for what purpose? And could something like this even be done? Considering what he’s seen magic do and the fact that his body is a whole lot tinier than it’s supposed to be, he admits with a disgruntled grimace that the conclusion isn’t that unlikely.

Tony hisses when a sharp spike of pain disrupts his thoughts for a moment. Perhaps he is more injured than he has assumed because his headache doesn’t appear to abate and so far, the painkillers have proven to be entirely useless. Or could this be a side-effect of the violet energy?

What has that stuff even done exactly? Has his body been shrunken? Has his younger body been ripped from his time and immersed into this day? But then what has happened with his grown one? And why does his mental state not fit the age of his physical self? The possibilities are endless, and frankly, they don’t ease the building ache behind his temples at all.

Tony curses. This is why he hates magic.

As much as he doesn’t like any of this though, for now, the “how” isn’t all that important. What matters is that it has happened and he is currently in the body of a child, in a cheap motel room with only a hitman for company. He really needs to come up with a plan. Preferably one that involves him as a grown-up again.

To achieve that, Tony is going to need help. The magic sort of help. Unfortunately, the people who have that sort of expertise aren’t just few and far in between; they also aren’t known for being easy to track down. In fact, there is only one whose location is both publicly-known and easily accessible to Tony in his current state.

“Prepare yourself, buddy,” Tony calls out softly and averts his eyes from the screen which is lit so brightly it hurts his eyes. “We’re going to pay the Avengers a little visit.”

* * * * *

.Secret Research Facility.

“What the fuck do you mean you’ve lost the Soldier?!” the commander’s flabbergasted cry sounds from his office, causing all recruits in hearing distance to exchange wary glances.

A moment later, the door his thrown open.

“Rosewell!” The commander yells, incensed.

“Sir?” A rapidly-paling recruit jumps up from his workstation.

“Activate the Soldier’s tracker!”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Rosewell stutters, causing the commander to roll his eyes.

“Useless, the lot of you,” he snarls, spittle flying everywhere, and lifts his phone to his lips again. “And you, White, better be back with the Soldier and Stark’s body in six hours or the state isn’t gonna waste money on your retirement!”

With that, the commander slams his phone onto the table hard enough to cause the screen to crack. Then he suddenly stills and turns back with an unholy gleam in his eyes. “Who in here was responsible for the Soldier’s activation phrase?”

A moment of silence passes before a college-aged kid clears their throat. “I-I believe that was Agent White’s job, sir.”

“Knew I should’ve drowned that whelp when I had the chance,” the commander spits and palms his gun with a hateful expression. “Bloody Star Wars fans.”

Sooooo... What do you think?