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kitcat992 · 1 month ago

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Identity Within︱Moments That Matter: Chapter 13, Unlikely Alliance

As Identity Within progresses, I'm finding that each chapter gets more dense and packed with fanficy goodness; and at this point there's not an single soul in the world who can tell me I need brevity in my writing — because for years this saga has played out in my head like movies without a screen to watch them on. And I refuse to shorten things now for the sake of brevity.

That said, with the wild ride that life is taking me on — and with my lack of free time to write killing my speed for updates, I understand there can be a bit of a memory gap for the average reader who doesn't spend every waking moment of her day thinking about this fic like I do 😅

So I decided that as I go about writing, it'd be fun to refer back moments that matter in the next chapter to come.

This story finally has its foundation to stand on, and getting to develop all the plots that were planted as seeds many chapters ago brings me so much excitement. I wanted to share that excitement with you as I write the most recent chapter, "Unlikely Alliance."

#Brevity is for the weak.

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Identity Theft︱Chapter 15: Parker Luck

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Peter ran — fast and hard. He took two turns before finally deciding on entering a room.

When he slammed the door shut, he allowed himself a second to catch his breath, chest heaving as he rested his forehead against the cold metal.

His chest burned and his legs trembled, threatening to give out and collapse beneath him. ‘Can’t stop now. Gotta keep going. Gotta get out of here.’

Adrenaline sent energy coursing through his body, but it didn’t provide him the answers on how to escape. His sweat-drenched suit trapped the chill to his skin. The place felt colder than New York in the winter time, no hallway or room free of the frigid air that hurt his lungs.

‘Things gets colder the further in the ocean you go...and this entire building is underwater. Really deep underwater.'

Peter's face crumbled with the sickening realization that he was truly, actually, totally under the sea.

There was no walking out of this building.

And there was no changing that fact.

Frantically looking around, Peter was desperate to find anything that would help him. His focus came at a struggle; fear making his heart beat ten times too fast. Definitely putting him at risk for a juvenile heart attack.

‘If this place is in the ocean, that means they needed a way to get down here, right?’ Peter began to feel his way around the room. It was too dark for him to see anything aside from outlines of lab equipment. The only light he had to work off of was the large tank across the way, glowing eerily green with the substance still inside. ‘Maybe they have diving suits laying around or something.’

One step at a time, he began to walk down a flight of stairs. The metal creaked beneath him, making his shoulders jolt from paranoia with every step. Slowly, carefully, Peter explored the room with a tiny bit of interest that rapidly morphed into growing alarm.

He was right in assuming the place had been abandoned, but for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why so much tech was left behind.

“I wonder if anyone even knows this place exists...” he murmured under his breath.

Peter looked to the corner of the room, walking towards the large tank that reached from ceiling to floor. He quickly determined that whatever the substance was – a thick eerie goop floating inside– it couldn’t be safe. The glowing was almost nauseating to see. The green reminded him a lot of Adrian Toomes.

Peter shook the thought away. He really didn't want to deal with that right now.

And that’s when Peter saw it. Engraved on the cement portion of the tank, illuminated over the green glow and clear as day was the company logo OsCorp.

‘Crap.’ Peter's breath halted in his chest. ‘OsCorp. That’s not good. Not good at all.’

The walls groaned under pressure.

KkkkrrrrreeeAAAAKKK!

Peter spun around with his fist out in defense. Chains suddenly rattled loudly from above, echoing everywhere, drawing nearer and nearer. His mouth dried, the fog made it impossible to see five feet ahead of him.

‘Shit, shit, shit! Where—’

The harsh kick to his chest sent him flying into the nearest wall.

───────

Identity Theft︱Chapter 17: Smoke and Mirorrs

───────

They had made slow progress after Strange ditched them. Every room they searched was a bust, most just being dinky offices or small labs that would hold three, four men tops. It was dark, disconcertingly quiet, and dust notably filled the air in competition with the fog, thick and of the abundance.

Clint vocalized a theory that Tony wasn’t fond of — between the deserted rooms and the ominous flickering lights no longer in their path — their perimeters had gone untouched for months. Which meant Peter wouldn’t be found anywhere here.

Luckily, they finally caught a break. The next room they had entered was huge — at least compared to the ones they had come across so far. It was a laboratory of sorts, that much was obvious.

But this one held higher importance.

The light from Tony’s helmet landed across computers, incubators, tanks — equipment that they hadn’t seen anywhere else in the bunker.

“Jesus Christ," Clint murmured, pushing the door shut behind them. "It’s like a scientist’s playground."

Tony couldn’t disagree. They were getting closer to the interesting stuff, for sure. That was a good sign.

Plus, no one had emerged from the shadows to attack them yet — which meant they still held the element of surprise. The muscles in Tony's throat constricted at the very thought. Exactly how long would they be blessed with that small feat?

Tony hurriedly jogged down the metal stairs leading to a lower floor, the metal creaking with each hasty step he took. He spun around, rapidly taking in everything he saw. While the multitude of equipment had him nervous, he felt relief that most were covered by dirty white sheets or completely untouched altogether. It was just another area the freaks hadn’t utilized.

OsCorp had, obviously. That thought still made him grimace. But at least Dmitri and Klum hadn’t.

Making his way across the room, heavy chains from the ceiling caught his attention. He looked above; they swung slightly, back and forth on their own accord. Tony determined that at one point, more than likely, they held up the disturbingly large tanks surrounding them. All but the one that caught his attention — built into the wall, reaching from floor to ceiling.

The substance inside gave enough light to see at least five feet around the room. It glowed that brightly. It was disgustingly green; a luminous, sickening chemical he didn’t want to mess with.

Clint approached him, standing right at his side. “What do you think it is?”

The eerie green glow reflected against both their faces.

Tony stiffly shook his head. “I think it's not good.”

It was either a very good thing or very bad thing that OsCorp left it behind in their abandonment of the facility. Tony wasn’t sure which would make the most sense.

Nothing this company was doing made sense to him anymore. And Osborn himself? He was just a can of worms waiting to be opened.

───────

Identity Theft︱Chapter 29: Breaking the Cycle of Shame

───────

Rhodey and Tony looked to their left, Natasha taking long strides in her walk with the entire group hot on her tail, even Steve having rejoined. They converged together towards the room’s entrance in a clearly unconspicuous way.

Steve shot a look into the kitchen, eyebrows dipping in worry. Though Wanda seemed to be doing a decent job at distracting Peter, he knew the whole enhanced-hearing deal made it difficult for private conversations. Plus, even he could feel the strung-out, high electricity tension building between them all.

Peter was a smart kid, there was no keeping him in the dark for long.

“Guys, we should discuss this at a later time,” Steve pressed.

“You’re right,” Tony said, arms crossed over his chest. “You’re absolutely right, we should definitely discuss the nitty gritty details at a later time. But for now — and please pardon my impatience building on the anticipation of the United States Air Force weapons procurement liaison division filing a subpoena against OsCorp industries so that they could explain, on the record, how their increasingly dangerous experiments are justified under research standards — I’d like to hear what the court had to say.”

Rhodey bit back his response, all the eyes staring his way putting him at a brief loss. Even Bruce was seemingly curious for an answer.

Though he wanted to say something about Tony expending all the air that inflated his ego down to his lungs for such a ramble, Rhodey instead let out a long, drawn-out sigh.

“The case was thrown out. It’s in their favor.”

Tony physically balked, his body practically jolting forward. “What do you mean it’s in their favor?”

“That’s messed up,” Clint muttered.

Tony shook his head. “You’re telling me I get grade-a shit for building the Iron Man armor and yet these ass-wipes are free to create sentient beings like the damn rock android, no repercussions whatsoever? Not to mention SHIELD knew they were performing highly illegal experimentation’s like Klum’s teleportation abilities and the flying Chitauri heads. How —”

Rhodey held two hands in the air. “The judge declared that the indictment we sought out doesn’t have grounds for reason. OsCorp claims they’ve reconstructed their projects into a more educational stand-point.”

Bruce scoffed. “Gotta give them points for thinking on their feet,” he said, removing his glasses to clean the lenses with the bottom hem of his shirt.

“That’s horse shit,” Tony hissed. “You can’t just slap an ‘educational’ sticker on something and call it a day.”

Rhodey nodded. “I don’t disagree. But they have a valid point, we don’t have ground to stand on. Everything we have against them is mostly hearsay, those documents you found are word of mouth. No solid evidence.”

“Tony has a point,” Natasha chimed in, ignoring Tony’s exaggerated look of shock towards her agreement. “What about the rock android nearly destroying the Collar City Bridge, or the reassembled Chitauri heads that blew a hole near Main Street Park? That should be enough cause for concern.”

Clint winced, half-shrugging. “Think about it, though. The most damage those freaky flying Chitauri heads managed to do was blow up St. Annes, which was already an abandoned building.”

“Yeah, thanks to us,” Sam reminded them, his tone indignant. “We contained that catastrophe before it blew up all of Brooklyn Heights.”

Bruce slid his glasses back onto his face. “And OsCorp proceeded to pay the damages and fines caused by Awesome Android. Not to mention, SHIELD still hasn’t come out and said one way or the other who stole and reassembled the Chitauri heads.”

“Rhodey and Bruce are right.” Steve sighed, his chin low to his chest. “According to Doctor Strange, Francis Klum was sent to another dimension. And we all know what happened to Dmitri. They’re getting away with this on the same grounds we got away with lying to SHIELD about the undersea bunker rescue mission. There’s no proof.”

Rhodey pessimistically nodded, no happier than the others at what he had to say. “Scientific research. That’s what they’re calling it. Nothing they’re doing right now can be deemed illegal.”

“But risky,” Peter spoke up.

Everyone turned to look at him, all seemingly at once.

Peter had stepped forward, Wanda not far behind. Her expression fell guilty, silently speaking an apology to Tony for not being able to hold him back.

Even if he wanted to, Tony didn’t have time to berate her. Steve was already crossing the path to the kitchen, failing stupendously at acting nonchalant.

“Hey, champ, why don’t you —”

“My class went on a field trip there. To OsCorp.” Peter came closer to the threshold, fingers fidgeting together. “They uh, they are actually...pretty educational. Showed us a whole bunch of stuff. Regenerative cloning of animal limbs, unlimited solar energy, bio-cable mechanisms…radioactive spiders.”

Tony shot his head over fast enough to give himself whiplash.

Steve froze in his steps, head cocking to the side at the realization. “That’s how you got your abilities.”

Peter nodded, the small movement timid and jerky. “One of them got loose. Bit me.”

Tony’s jaw clenched painfully tight, the words giving him pause.

“OsCorp gave you these powers?”

The unwelcome bitter edge that coated his question had Peter suddenly feeling uncomfortable. Even from the distance they stood, Tony’s barely contained anger emitted a heat only matched by his sharp glare.

Peter knew he wasn’t directly mad at him, yet he couldn’t help but feel guilty nonetheless.

“The spider they were experimenting on did, anyway,” he explained shyly, head down low. “It’s uh...it’s dead now.”

The conversation died out briefly, a blanket of tense silence piercing through the room.

Clint brought his festive, colorfully fringed party horn to his mouth, a second away from blowing into the toy. Natasha smacked his hand down before he could.

To Tony’s credit, he managed to suppress the increasing urge that wanted him to focus only on the new and very unsettling information he had just heard. His subconscious told him to wait, or perhaps that was Rhodey harshly whispering his name — he could never tell the difference, they both sounded alike.

“Trust me, we’re going to discuss that later, in excruciating detail.” Tony turned away from Peter and back towards Rhodey. “Did you at least get any more information on the Oz Formula I told you about?”

Tony turned away from Peter and back towards Rhodey. “Did you at least get any more information on the Oz Formula I told you about?”

Sam’s brow wrinkled with confusion. “Oz Formula?”

“Barton,” Tony snapped his fingers twice at Clint, “you remember that green glowing tank we came across?”

“I know what you’re talking about!” Peter excitedly spoke up before anyone else could.

They turned to look at him, baffled.

He shrunk a little under their gaze.

“The..tank, anyway. Came across it. Didn’t know what was in it.” Peter kicked his shoe against the floor, his voice low as he murmured, “Fun times.”

Rhodey went from side-eyeing Peter to looking directly at Tony.

“They were willing to tell us that it’s something originating from their epidemiology department. In fact, most of their funding has gone into this project since the beginning of the year. They call it ‘the next cure for any human malignancy or ailment modern medicine has yet to come across.’ You ask me though?” Rhodey shifted on his feet. “Sounds like a humble way of dodging how dangerously close they are to reaching Strucker levels of science.”

“Why do you say that?” Natasha asked, frowning.

Rhodey turned to look at her. “Because the way they proceeded to explain it — ‘man would become immune to even the destruction of his own molecular structure’ — they made it seem like they’re out to create the next Captain America.”

“You think they’re trying to recreate the super soldier serum that I received?” Steve stiffened, paling at the mere possibility.

Rhodey shrugged. “Hard to say without more information.”

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose, warding off the migraine threatening to sneak up towards the back of his skull. With a rattled sigh, his hand moved into his hair as he managed quite well at keeping his breathing even and calm. It was a feat for him, considering how his insides felt like they were being ripped apart organ by organ, slowly consumed by the monster that was his anxiety.

He had known for weeks now that they were approaching a troublesome juncture with OsCorp, long before Peter’s kidnapping, around the same time he witnessed the Hulk take on a sentiment rock being that the twisted corporation had birthed to life. This only intensified the feeling in his gut that screamed a crisis would soon culminate.

And if there was one lesson he valued the most in his life, it was to trust his gut when something seemed wrong.

Tony took a deep inhale, back ramrod straight as he said, “Looks like we have our work cut out for his, ladies and gentlemen.”

“You sure about this, Tony?” Steve took a step towards him, hesitate to get too close. “We could be starting a war here.”

Tony turned on his heels to face him, brow creased, lips pressed in a firm line. He fixed his gaze squarely to the blue eyes reflecting back at him.

“Possibly. But whatever Norman Osborn is up to, it can’t be good. The depravity is clear as day and proof or not, we’ve come across enough evidence to know that he’s heading down a path of destruction. It’s time somebody puts a stop to his mad scientist game before more people get hurt.”

The pause that followed came with heavy contemplation. The team surrounding the two glanced between both men, awaiting a response.

Finally, Steve nodded, outstretching his hand to bridge the gap between them.

“Okay, you’re right,” he acquiesced. “We’ll follow you on this one.”

Despite the bubbling anger that still sat deep underneath his skin, Tony gripped firmly onto Steve’s hand, giving it a hard shake.

───────

Identity Crisis︱Chapter 15: Slithered Here From Hell

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Speaking of the devil — in more ways than one — Tony locked eyes on the man of the hour, at his desk against the far end of the room.

Norman didn’t bother to lift his head, focused intently on the tablet in his hands.

“Stark,” he dryly greeted, no louder than the sound Natasha’s heels made as she entered the office. The glow from the tablet’s screen highlighted the wrinkles and stress lines engraved deep into his skin, an unflattering light in an otherwise dark room. “Should I invite you to take a seat, or do you think this meeting will be brief?”

Tony turned his back to the desk, stuffing his hands deep into his blazer pockets, casually strolling in without further invitation. He occupied himself by taking in the smaller details of the office — the floor to ceiling bookcases, the collection of fountain pens put neatly on display; he held the tip of his finger against antique globe nearby and spun it for amusement.

Anything to keep his eyes off Osborn.

“Should let some sunshine in here,” Tony mentioned in lieu of answering, looking towards the large yet covered windows of the room. Heavy, vintage curtains were drawn on them on, barely a creak of light sneaking in through the corners. “Vitamin D is good for your mood.”

Natasha hummed low in her throat, taking a place quietly against the door frame of the office. Her hands were clasped in front of herself, no doubt already having thought of five different ways to discreetly rid a body and any fingerprints left behind.

It was a disturbing comfort for Tony, knowing she held the same disdain for the man as he did. That if given the chance, they’d both serve him the punishment that was long overdue for the hell he’d put them through.

At the same time, he knew — and so did she — that they had one opportunity for this. One chance to get it right.

Tony wasn’t about to blow that in favor of giving Osborn the black eye he deserved.

“I’m not sure if my assistant made you aware,” Norman failed to hold back a sigh, the sound mixed with the opening of a drawer to his desk where he put the tablet away, “but I do have other meetings planned in my agenda today. Ones that were booked properly, with advance notice.”

Tony barely paid him any mind, peaking through the weighted curtains to catch a glimpse of the Manhattan skyline from outside.

“Mhm. A beaut.” Tony offered him a brief glance, drawing the curtain closed but pointing a finger towards it at the same time. “You just don’t get that view upstate. One of a kind, this city is. Nothing like it.”

Norman kept his gaze straight-on, never looking Tony’s way, going so far as to intentionally clear his throat with growing impatience. “My time today is limited, so if there’s something you’d like to discuss with me —”

The shrill ring of a cell phone interrupted him, catching him off guard. Even Tony had to admit that the noise was humorously loud, especially contained in such a small space.

Norman placed two firm fingers to his temple, eyes squeezing shut as the sound blasted through his office. Tony knew that look from a hundred miles away — a migraine. A pretty bad one, from how it appeared.

“I...as you say, apologize.” Natasha clumsily reached into her purse, finding and clutching onto her cell phone with a blooming tint of pink covering her cheeks. “I must take this call.”

Noticeably aggravated, Norman waved a hand in her direction, keeping his head low as he rubbed gingerly at his forehead.

“That’s not a problem, thank you.” The words didn’t seem to match his gruff tone, his fist gripping tighter with each click her heels made leading out of the office.

Tony watched discreetly from his place at the window, his fingers playing idly with the tassels of the curtain. Natasha closed the door on her way out — Natalie, he should say. The guards followed her out, leaving just the two men in the room.

Clucking his tongue, Tony made his way to the bookcases lining the walls, unable to deny the fact that the open decanter of scotch was smelling better by the second. The edge he felt was getting sharper, and from the look of it, the feeling was mutual.

Now he was starting to remember just how unpleasant those brief meetings at conventions always were, the forced handshakes and fake smiles for the cameras. Osborn had always been scum to him, long before these inhumane experiments ever came to the surface.

Scanning the bookcases, Tony plucked out the first title that caught his eye, grabbing the book by its spine and pulling it out from its cramped spot in-between numerous other collections.

“The Art of War.” Tony flipped the book over to its back cover, his index finger trailing down the printed design. It was a limited copy edition, cloth-bound with a dust-jacket, kept in pristine condition. “Hm. Have a lot of memories with this one.”

Leaning over his desk, Norman poured himself a modest glass of amber-tinted scotch, barely managing a passing glance to Tony as he did. Norman's disinterest didn’t keep Tony at bay; rather, he found himself walking closer to the desk Norman sat at. His eyes never wandered from the book in hand.

“Not long after the folks passed, Obie made it mandatory to read this puppy front and back, five times over.” Tony cracked the book open, shuffling through it without much thought. The smell of old ink and dry, dated pages was more potent than the cedar and leather encompassing the office. “Had me studying it before I could even consider dipping my toes in the corporate world. Pretty sure I can still quote parts in my sleep.”

As quickly as he opened the book, he closed it shut.

“Let’s see…” Tony’s fingers tapped ceaselessly on the hardcover, his eyes looking far-off in thought. “The whole secret lies in confusing the enemy, so that he cannot fathom our real intent. Only once knowing both your strengths and weaknesses, as well as those of your adversary, can you begin to form a strategic plan.”

Norman moved to take a sip from the mountain glass in his hand, eyes meeting Tony’s squarely, green irises shrouded in the dim light.

“If your opponent is of choleric temper, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant. Momentum is the life force of any conflict. When momentum is on your side, you have the advantage.” Norman set the glass down on the surface of the desk, condensation leaking onto the mahogany wood. “Sun Tzu was a wise man, a military strategist ahead of his time.”

Tony shrugged, chucking the book onto Norman’s desk, taking a seat in the empty chair on his opposite end.

“I tossed my copy,” he flippantly said, brushing some non-existent lint from his suit jacket. “Got tired of looking at it.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Norman drawled out, managing the slightest shake to his head. He placed both hands in his lap, casually and loosely folding them together. “Are you aware that your significant other paid your way in to see me today, Stark?”

Tony was sure the verbal reminder had been said with a sting, some kind of subdued implication for him to feel embarrassed by — going so far as to reach for emasculation. He refused to let it crawl underneath his skin, opting instead to simply nod his head.

“So I have been informed, yes.”

Norman met his gaze with a straight face, unamused and impassive.

“What do you want?”

Tony could have laughed; had honesty been something he intended to rely on, there still wouldn’t be enough time in his day to go down that road. Not even the riches in both their bank accounts could buy what he wanted, their pockets deep in stocks and market exchanges not nearing close enough to provide the peace of mind and security he desperately fought for.

Leaning back casually in the chair, Tony lifted both his hands in an open gesture, plastering a press-winning smile over his face.

“A lot of things,” he started. “World peace would be a great. End to all poverty. No kid hungry, no kid left behind, that sorta thing.” Tony’s face fell flat, the facade beginning to weaken at the fringes. “A tête-à-tête works, too. Heart-to-heart, one-on-one. You, me — none of those pesky lawyers we keep overpaying to do our dirty work. Just a good old conversation between like minded individual’s.”

Norman arched an eyebrow high into his hairline, his hardened gaze unwavering on the man sitting across from him.

The beat that followed felt toxic, inundated with palpable tension. If Tony didn’t know better, he’d say the air in the room had gone stale, stiff and thick from the negative energy stemming between them.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss ongoing lawsuits with you,” Norman finally responded, every bit as calm as Tony expected. “If that’s the only reason you came here, I hate to disappoint.”

“No lawsuits, last I checked,” Tony countered innocently. “No convictions that I’m even aware of. I mean, hell, you know how the Senate Armed Services Committee can be — always keeping themselves busy, soaking up those taxpayer dollars. They go after my Iron Man suits, they go after you with those experiments —”

“This isn’t about my experiments,” Norman cut in, professionally laced tone sharper than a knife. “It’s about your ridiculous claims, ones that you keep taking my company to court for. And you’ll have to pardon my forbearance when it comes to accusations that I can’t entertain. I have much more important things to do in my day than defend myself against such absurd allegations.”

Tony gave an exaggerated shrug. “Are they absurd, though? Can anything be considered absurd now that aliens have attacked New York and Gods have roamed the streets of New Mexico?”

Norman cocked his head to the side, failing to emulate the same grin that twitched at Tony’s mouth.

“Your case on OsCorp continues to be dismissed by the courts based on the grounds that you don’t have proof. It will never be upheld by a judge based solely on your conspiracy theories.” His words were seamless, practiced. Downright methodical. “Quite frankly, the longer you extend this feud, the sooner the public will begin to speculate that OsCorp is a threat to Stark Industries. Is that really a look you want for your company?”

“I have proof,” Tony forced through his teeth. The sting that he’d been keeping at bay started to burn in his chest, germinating with each passing second. “I just can’t use it.”

“Then that isn’t proof,” Norman rebutted, managing to pull of the most contrite look Tony had possibly ever seen. It didn’t look well on him, stretching the crows-feet over his eyes and adding years to his face. “It’s heresay.”

Tony shouldn’t have been surprised by his blatant denial. In a way, he wasn’t. But it didn’t stop his jaw from tightening, or his hand from clenching tightly into a fist.

Despite everything, Tony hadn’t been prepared for just how difficult it’d be to bench the searing hate that congealed in his veins. How challenging it was to sit quietly, play dumb despite all he knew. All he experienced first-hand.

“You know,” he cleared his throat, feigning casual conversation. “There’s a lot about the inner workings of my career you could never familiarize yourself with. SHIELD, the company I'm contracted out to work for —”

“Work for?” Norman tsked, reclining against his plush chair and staring over the expanse of the mahogany desk at Tony. “Is that what you call your vigilantism?”

Tony chose to ignore that statement.

“They have strict security clearance,” he continued on as if uninterrupted. “Information I know doesn’t get shared with the public, not unless I want to wake up in bed with a horses head next to my pillow. Doesn’t mean I don’t know things. Who they’ve gone after, who they’ve shut down in the past…”

As Norman reclined back, Tony leaned forward, his elbows pressing firmly on his knees.

“What sort of...surreptitious buildings floated in the Atlantic ocean…”

An uninvited friction washed across the room, belligerent in spite of the silence that fell between the two.

Tony savored the whisper of surprise that crossed over Norman’s face. It was almost nonexistent — a twitch of his cheekbones, a look in his eyes — blink and it was gone.

But Tony saw it.

He relished in it.

“Six months ago one of your experiments got loose and nearly destroyed the Collar City Bridge,” Tony reminded him. He mimicked Norman’s position, leaning back in his chair, flexing and then folding his hands into his lap. “You paid the city hush money to pretend it never happened. I know it did. I was there, I cleaned up your mess. And I know you’ve been doing worse than that rock android.”

As much as it pained him to admit, Tony and Norman had one thing in common — they were born in the corporate world, taught how to bullshit the same day they were taught how to walk.

So it was no surprise to see Norman appear indifferent, turning a blind eye as if he knew nothing more.

“How so?” he casually asked, reaching for his glass of whiskey.

A mirthless laugh almost broke free of Tony’s throat, managing instead to stay tightly restricted between two pursed lips — clamped shut with brewing anger. He watched wordlessly as Norman took a sip of the amber drink, his eyes never leaving Tony’s, not even as the glass returned to the surface of his desk.

Tony popped his lips, the sound echoing throughout the office. “No one finds it coincidental that a teleporting magician appeared in the same week?”

Norman smirked. Just a little. Just enough.

“And gone the next,” he regarded Tony evenly. “There were no ties with that incident and OsCorp.”

It was the tone of deceptive innocence that got to Tony, so immaculately perfected that it could fool anyone’s ears — surely pass any lie detector, win over any judge. Tony imagined that had it not been for the hell they’d been through earlier in the year, Norman’s act of virtue might have even instilled some doubt in his accusations.

But there weren’t accusations to have. Not anymore. They knew the truth — Tony knew the truth. The truth was nightmares that woke him up at three a.m. Panic attacks he could barely stave off at the smell of salt water and ocean life. The endless reminders of sleepless nights in his compound’s medical bay, praying relentlessly to a God he didn’t believe in at the bedside of a kid too young to experience the trauma he’d been put through.

He didn’t need to hear the truth directly from the fool’s mouth to feel vindicated.

He just needed to buy the time until they had their proof.

“Hm. So you claim,” Tony said, his voice still calm, still leveled. They could both play the game of bullshitting some professional nonsense. “Just as you claimed that your numerous east-coast research facilities were all up to code and legally abiding. Yet the case of one Max Dillon, circa 2008, might see things differently.”

Norman hadn’t looked away from Tony, not even as his fingers began to dance across the plush leather armrest of his chair.

Tony stared right back into his eyes, refusing to be intimidated.

“Remember him?” Tony flippantly waved a hand, dismissing a response. “Of course you don't. He was just another college student, Montclair State University, too desperate for a couple bucks to know what participating in your underpaid studies would do to him.”

Tony leaned in, just an inch, the soft tapping of Norman’s fingers audible in the quiet space between them.

“Amazing how an incident that put a nineteen-year-old boy into a coma brought on by high-voltage electrical shock could just be...tossed out of court like some suburban soccer mom suing their neighbor for leaving Christmas decorations up past New Years.” Tony's voice grew harder, his need to remain reserved slipping between the cracks where his emotion began to surface. “But you claimed — sorry, let me rephrase that — you ‘claimed’ that your study participants were subjected to the highest level of care and consideration in your faculties. Just as you claim now that you’ve had nothing to do with the Collar City Bridge incident. Or the magician in Times Square. Or the revived, modified Chitarui remains that attacked Brooklyn.”

Tony said nothing for a moment; he wasn’t sure if it was to add suspense to his lingering words, or to control the growing pit that started to claw its way into his throat. He could feel his lip twitch, the memories all too vivid, too personal. Close enough to his chest that he was sure each hammering beat of his heart kept them alive and present in his mind.

Norman stared at him, face so expressionless it was as if he knew nothing of the pain he’d cause Tony.

Or worse, simply didn’t care.

“Among other events I can’t list, of course,” Tony finally added, managing a nonchalant shrug that took more effort than it appeared. “But like I said...security clearance. Not sure if I’d be able to get horses blood out of Egyptian Cotton bedsheets. And I would rather not have to try.”

The false image of calm and collected pervading every fiber of Norman’s persona hadn’t taken a hit. His fingers finally stopped moving across the armrest, his hands settling on the smooth surface of his desk not far from where the mountain glass sat, condensation still leaking onto the wood below it.

“And it would be ill-advised to discuss anything further without a lawyer present,” Norman pressed. “That is, so long as you continue to throw subpoenas on my desk every other week.”

A full blown grin pulled tightly at Tony’s cheeks, the phony act coming back just as quickly as it left.

“Hey, it’d stop if I got my answers.”

───────

Identity Theft︱Chapter 19: When The Bad Things Happen

───────

Steve spared a quick glance to Clint, who leaned back into the sofa with an exasperated sigh. He knew the man was more upset at the situation than he was at Helen, they all were.

Though it was a twisted thought, he was glad they didn’t have to be there when this happened to Peter.

Fists hitting skin, bones breaking, gasping and choking on water — he already found himself constantly fighting the sounds out of his head. He couldn’t take more.

“His wrists?” Steve quietly asked. “They...Tony and I saw...”

“They’ll be okay. Hairline fractures,” Helen told him. “The orthopedic department here has been making vast enhancements in 3D printed technology to utilize for limb immobility situations such as this. Unfortunately, they haven’t advanced to the point where it would benefit his leg, but it’s working well on his hands. Barely noticeable, doesn’t even wrap around his forearm, simply a band around the wrists.”

She demonstrated with the smallest smile her mouth could manage, a visible strain that Steve didn’t have the energy to match. He curtly nodded, acknowledging her response.

Sitting next to him, Natasha had locked her gaze on Bruce, never taking her eyes off him throughout the discussion. If she hadn’t been looking directly at him, she would have sworn that she heard the man talk.

‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ rang in her ears, words that he never actually spoke, a personality normally so predictable faded underneath the stress of the situation.

It disturbed her how quiet Bruce had been. It disturbed them all. He was usually one to pitch in with giddy enthusiasm about how this type of technology functioned, proceeding to bore the team with details that they never asked for and could never understand.

Instead, he sat quietly, chin in the palm of his hands and elbows on his knees.

Natasha’s brows pulled together, concerned. “Bruce?”

His head snapped up, as if he now suddenly remembered where he was. Bruce looked at her, the deep lines across his face echoing her exhaustion.

Almost immediately he bowed his head again, taking his glasses off and pinching the bridge of his nose tightly.

“I’m sorry, it’s just...” Bruce heavily sighed, “this is bad.”

Wanda leaned forward, wrapping the blanket tighter around herself. “How bad?”

“His blood is...well, it’s mutated,” Bruce said. “Beyond what’s compatible with any other cross-match. On the surface he still has a normal B positive blood type, but beneath that it...it’s more. The antigens and protein markers have been so abnormally altered by that spider bite that he’s...he’s essentially developed an ABO incompatibility.”

Sam was the first to catch on. “He can’t receive blood.”

Bruce nodded. Clint audibly cursed under his breath, and Rhodey scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief.

“It’s...incredibly unfortunate in the current situation, but yes. We had to stop transfusing the universal O negative to prevent a hemolytic reaction,” Bruce explained.

Natasha stayed neutral. “So what now?”

Steve sat up a little straighter. “Doesn’t he have accelerated healing?”

“Yes,” Helen simply answered. “And that healing factor has certainly kept him alive this long.”

“Where’s the but?” Clint asked, arms crossed and all but rolling his eyes.

Bruce didn’t seem to have the willpower to answer the question. The tension grew twice as thick between them, and Steve was silently appreciative when Helen finally took over.

“He can only regenerate so fast. With his injuries, with the hypovolemia...he spent days dehydrated, malnourished — his body needs twice as much intake as that of a normal individual, and consequently he loses it twice as fast,” she explained. “It’s not as if he’s been stripped of his healing factor. It’s that his body is simply too weak and injured to utilize it.”

Rhodey leaned into the side of the couch, his temple resting between two fingers that rubbed at his forehead. He appeared to be able to keep up with the medical details up until now. It was typically the case for him though, superpowers always had a tendency to complicate things.

“So what does all that mean?” he asked.

Bruce put his glasses back on. “Think of it like a muscle. It takes energy to use. The hematology department has a theory — one I’m inclined to agree with — Peter used a lot of strength in just trying to stay alive. It’s not a...pleasant thing to think about, but his body more than likely went into hypovolemic shock multiple times. A normal person loses a certain amount of blood, they go into shock and if not treated, their heart gives out. Peter's body lost a certain amount of blood, fell into shock and began to regenerate the blood that was lost, until it couldn’t anymore. And then the process repeated.”

His hands spun and twisted around each other, mimicking a moving wheel.

Natasha frowned. “Until now.”

Steve didn’t need to see Bruce nodding to know the answer. He felt the cushions of the sofa lighten as Natasha stood up, her only response being that she walked away from the group. By the time Steve looked up, she was standing across the room and over the stairway banister.

They all knew her well enough to leave her be.

“I would like to reiterate what I said before,” Helen cut in. “By all accounts, he should be dead. He’s hanging on by the skin of his teeth but...he’s hanging on.”

Steve really didn’t know what to say to that. Of course the kid was hanging on. He was a hell of a fighter, a soldier beyond what they could have ever expected.

He was also just a kid.

“We’re not soldiers,” Tony had once told him, the words resonating in his ears.

Steve was starting to agree with that sentiment.

───────

Identity Theft︱Chapter 29: Breaking the Cycle of Shame

───────

Tony sighed, subconsciously clenching the box harder underneath his arm.

“Scoot,” he demanded, waiting until Peter wiggled to the side before plopping down on the couch next to him. “You were never officially or legally dead, kiddo. Stick to the Paris story.”

Peter nodded enough times that Tony was sure his head would roll off his shoulders.

“Right, right...”

They sat side-by-side, Peter with an open textbook in his lap, Tony with a square wrapped box settled near the sofa’s armrest. For longer than he knew could have been comfortable, Tony stared ahead with unfocused eyes, his only movement the jittery tapping from his foot to the floor.

It got to the point where Peter tried to figure out what was so interesting about the stairway banister he was looking at, curiously craning his neck forward to get a better view.

Just when he opened his mouth to speak, Tony swiftly and wordlessly swapped out his textbook for the gift box, tossing the offensive World History textbook on the coffee table.

“What’s this?” Peter frowned, hands hovering over the box.

“I believe they call this a birthday present,” Tony said wryly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes by instead running his hand through his goatee.

Peter’s eyes widened with shock. “Mr. Stark, you didn’t have to —”

“Kid, keep it up and you’re going to give me an aneurysm. I can feel the blood vessels in my brain weakening as we speak.” Tony turned to face him, pointing his hand towards the red box. “Open it.”

Despite the instructions, Peter didn’t move to unwrap the gift. His hands hovered over it tentatively like it was porcelain glass, afraid it would break.

Only after Tony once again gestured to the gift with eyebrows raised high did Peter begin to unwrap it, and Jesus, was this kid saving the wrapping paper to sell on E-bay? He unfolded each edge with an annoyingly slow precision that had Tony’s blood pressure skyrocketing through the roof.

By the time Peter had folded the glossy red wrapping paper in a neat little square and set it aside, Tony had popped the lid off the box for him. God only knew how long that would have taken him otherwise.

Peter stared down below at his lap with an expression that made it look like he had stepped straight into Narnia.

“Holy sh—”

“Don’t curse in front of Rogers, he’s got a thing about bad language.”

The joke fell flat, especially considering how little Steve had been present throughout most the evening. Tony did a quick glance around; the soldier seemed to have stepped outside, again.

Tony couldn’t help the twinge of guilt that settled in his stomach, knowing he was the reason why.

He turned his attention back to Peter, willing himself to stay in the moment.

“Mr. Stark, this is — I can’t accept this,” Peter stammered, in true Parker nature. “This is — I can’t — this cost — this is —”

“The Canon EOS-1DX Mark II?” Tony interrupted airily, nodding. “Yep, that’s what it is. It’s yours now, treat it well.”

Peter kept shaking his head, to the point where Tony worried he might rattle his skull loose.

“I can’t. Take it back.” Peter pushed the box towards him, refusing to look at it. “Please, take it back.”

“Mhmm, no can do.” Tony swiped his thumb across his nose, giving a hard sniff as he refused to take the box Peter held out for him. “You see, I sorta have this thing about people handing me stuff so..it’s all yours now.”

He was sure to follow his words up with a smile, all charm.

Peter looked to be one second away from screaming or passing out, Tony wasn’t sure which. The last time he saw the kid so excited had to be the day he revealed the Iron Spider suit to him.

There was no denying how much he loved that look, the sparkle in his eyes, the struggle to speak a single coherent sentence. It felt even greater knowing he was the reason for it.

Peter kept shaking his head, his brown locks falling right in front of his eyes. “Mr. Stark —”

“Pete, please,” Tony said, finally taking the box from him only to plop it right back down into Peter's lap again. “Don’t think I haven’t seen you snapping pictures all the time with that dingy little thing you call a phone. You have a knack for photography, not to mention an interest in it. And you know me — I have an irresistible urge to nurture potential. Take the camera, take some damn photos with it, have fun. It’s honest to God the least you could do for me.”

Peter gulped hard, looking down at the box and back up at Tony once more. He still seemed timid as he grabbed the camera into his hands, acting as if its weight was too heavy for even his spider super-strength. Holding the object seemed to perk him up a little though, and he finally let his shoulders relax with a bit more delight.

“You’re the best, Mr. Stark.” Peter grinned, his words laced with an airiness normally reserved for when he had been hopped up on Cho’s good drugs.

Tony chuckled – even sober this kid acted like anything he did for him was extraordinarily superior.

“That’s debatable,” he muttered, leaning back into the sofa with a shake of his head.

“Can I...” Peter lifted the camera shyly, sitting forward a bit further on the couch. “For my first picture?”

Tony shook his head, deadpanned, looking straight ahead as he answered, “I don’t do selfies.”

“Oh, uhm...” Peter lowered the camera slowly, eyes glued to the floor. “Right, sorry, that’s stupid —”

“I’m kidding,” Tony said with a little more firmness than necessary. “Christ, you’re like a kicked puppy. Come here, bring it in.”

All traces of offense vanished from Peter’s face as soon as they had come, his smile widening each time Tony motioned for him to scoot closer. He fiddled with the camera for a brief moment, setting up a timer and proper ISO before holding the device out in front of them both.

Tony wrapped his hand around his back, pulling him in. It was too late for Peter to notice he had taken the opportunity to throw up bunny ears behind his head of hair; the camera flashed and the moment the photo popped up on the display, Tony was snickering like a mad man.

Peter wasn’t insulted, if anything he grinned wider. Besides, there would be plenty of opportunities to get him back.

“Awesome!” Peter looked satisfied as he reviewed the display of the DSLR camera. “You know, I’ve been thinking about taking some candid photos of Spidey, maybe selling some to the Daily Bugle for some extra cash—”

“Alright, hand it back over,” Tony waved his hands in a ‘give me’ motion, “it’s mine again.”

Peter broke out with surprising laughter, even as Tony relentlessly stared him on.

“Okay, okay! Jeeze,” he chuckled, setting the camera aside on the coffee table, bending over to place the box underneath.

“Hold up.” Tony stopped him, his hand outstretched before he could go any further. “You might want to look a little further in that box first.”

Bent over with the box between both hands, Peter craned his head up at Tony, his brows furrowed. Tony had gone back to staring at the stairway banister, the attempt at managing his discomfort more than obvious.

Slowly and cautiously, Peter sat up straight, letting the box rest against his thighs. The two lapsed into silence as he rummaged around the bundles of red and blue tissue paper, his fingers scraping the bottom of the cardboard. He froze when he finally gripped onto the additional item inside, carefully and slowly bringing it out to see.

It was a sleek, thin black watch — or at least, it looked that way. But there was no case to the band, no circular or even square window where a clock could be displayed and time could be shown.

Peter tilted his head to the side, turning the bracelet over in his hands. “What's this?”

Tony cleared his throat, sniffed his nose in a way that sounded painful, drummed his fingers against the armrest of the sofa — all the things he normally did when uncomfortable. He even went to push up the sunglasses he hadn’t been wearing, his hand smoothing back his hair to cover for the mistake.

“I was inspired by that little Starkbits illusion you had going on,” he eventually explained.

Peter frowned, glancing up at Tony before looking back down at the thin, metal bracelet. He vaguely recalled the memory, most of the details having come second-hand from sources like Mr. Stark and Bruce, the two sharing the story with a hearty chuckle.

Still, those had been high-tech casts for his broken wrists. Bone stabilizing devices, Tony had called them. What could this possibly be —?

“It’s a panic watch, directly connected to me,” Tony answered, as if reading his thoughts. He lifted his arm, showing off the same sleek, black bracelet strapped around his wrist. “So if anything happens to you — earth, wind, rain or shine, you can reach out to me.”

The information floored Peter, his throat tightening in a way that made it hard to speak.

“Wow, this is...I-I don’t know what to say...” his voice cracked, forcing him to swallow hard before looking up at Tony. “Why?”

“Why?” Tony echoed.

Peter quickly shook his head.

“Not that I’m not flattered! Or-or appreciative, ‘cause I am. Like, this is awesome, really. I’m just...confused,” his tone swirled in the same pattern that his head spun. “You can monitor the suit, right? Or is this about that nanite mist in the base? Would this even work with that nanite mist? Or is this —”

Tony held a hand in the air, desperate to stop the rapid-fire onslaught of words.

“I’m going to give this to you straight, Pete. No chaser. You good, you able to handle that?” Tony didn’t even let the kid respond before jumping right back in. “Good, that’s what I thought.”

With one fluid motion, he lifted his arm in the air again, his other hand tapping on his own wrist bracelet.

“This works both ways,” he diligently explained. “It’s not just about me keeping tabs on you — you hit a dead ringer, we got the suit for that. This is for non-Spider-Man business. If you’re in trouble, it reaches out to me. And if I’m in trouble, it’ll reach out to you. I want you to feel a part of the team, to feel safe. And I don’t mean that solely to the physical concern.”

The recognition seemed to hit Peter long before Tony had finished, his eyes clouding over in a way Tony could really only describe as shame. He almost wanted to hit the metaphorical back button, undo what he had said and go back to laughing at stupid bunny ear photos.

And yet Wilson, the naggy little shit he was, pestered relentlessness in his ear that this needed to be done, these things needed to be said.

Peter seemed to take it a like a champ, and exactly how Tony expected him to — by deflecting.

“Oh! That’s — I’m-I’m good, Mr. Stark,” he insisted, still twirling the bracelet in his hands. “I’m fine, really. Everyone’s been, ya know...checkin’ up on me. I’m fine, really.”

Tony nodded, firmly. He pretended not to notice the bob in Peter’s throat, or the way he fidgeted with the bracelet as he fidgeted with anything else he could get his hands on during times of high anxiety.

There was no point in calling him out on it right now — it was his birthday, or so they celebrated the day as such.

Wilson was right, the kid needed to go at this on his own pace. Tony searched Peter’s eyes, those wide, absurdly trusting eyes that stared back at him as if he could solve all the problems in the world.

“That’s okay, that’s great. If you’re fine today, that’s great. But on the days you’re not, I’m here to help. We all are.” Tony dipped his chin low, hand braced against Peter’s arm to gain his attention. “And I’m not the best listener, Peter. But I’m here. I understand.”

The words came out with more ease than Tony ever could have anticipated, much smoother than the numerous practice talks he had with FRIDAY in his lab. He distantly wondered if it was premature to declare how natural this felt for him now, this whole mentor nonsense he took on finally gaining the right trajectory it had needed.

For the sake of not jinxing things, Tony decided to push the thought away. He was just happy the bout of nerves he'd initially felt when beginning the conversation seemed to vanish, or at the very most transfer over to Peter.

The kid nodded with a sense of insecurity pouring through every fiber of his begin.

───────

Identity Crisis︱Chapter 8: Infected

───────

With much reluctance, Peter finally looked up, lips as thin as ever as he forced out,

“I need a new backpack.”

Tony blinked. “What?”

“I...” Peter forced eye contact as sheepishly admitted, “I need a new backpack.”

“How?” Tony asked, pulling a face. “I just bought you one before school started.”

The exact conversation Peter was dreading to have landed straight in his lap faster than Mr. Delmar’s cat would do the same. Rubbing the back of his neck, he shrugged, and shrugged, and — jeeze, if he didn’t say something soon, his arms were going to fall right off.

“Yeah, it, um...there was this —”

“Can it.” Tony held a hand in the air, his eyes closed as if he was willing the patience to continue. “It’ll be on your doorstep in the morning.”

Peter sighed in relief. Oh. Well, that was easier than he thou —

“C’mon!” Tony exclaimed, slapping down a hand onto the armrest of his chair. “I just saved you from having to spew out some weak, poorly thought excuse of how you saved a kitten from a tree in Brooklyn and ripped a brand new backpack on the climb down. I deserve a little something for that, don’t I?”

“Huh?” Peter stammered, knitting his eyebrows tightly together. “It wasn’t a cat — I mean, that’s...actually a pretty good story, but it wasn’t —”

“You’re never this quiet, kid.” Tony’s admission was soft, softer than Peter had heard him talk all week, heck, all month it seemed.

For Mr. Stark to sound...well, like that — it never meant anything good.

“I’ve just been busy with school,” Peter insisted. “I’m getting some tutoring in history class, that’s all.”

Hey, it wasn’t a total lie. Between patrolling, after school activities, and now tutoring, he had been incredibly busy. But the fact that Peter had to tell himself it wasn’t a lie — that was a little concerning.

“Right,” Tony nodded, huffing a hefty amount of air through his cheeks. “Wouldn’t happen to be Osborn’s kid helping you out, would it?”

The question blew through the room like a bomb.

Peter snapped his neck up, his stomach doing a back-flip strong enough to make the nine slices of pizza he ate earlier creep up into his throat.

“How’d you know that?” he asked, his voice thinning out at the end.

Tony sniffed, hard, and flicked his thumb across his nose.

“I try and make it a point to stay up to date on things happening with your school. Lunch menus, funding getting cut in the visual arts curriculum — which let’s be honest makes sense. It’s a STEM school, not Juilliard.” Tony sat a little straighter in his chair, his brows furrowed tightly together. “And a billionaires son of a questionable company joining your class right as the semester starts. Kinda makes my list.”

Peter swallowed past the digested pizza that began creep into his mouth. He wasn’t sure why his heart was pounding, or why his palms had gotten slick with sweat — there was nothing to be nervous about.

Well, aside from Mr. Stark’s stare, eyes so narrowed and stern that Peter finally had to look away.

“Yeah, he’s...he’s helping me,” Peter explained, clearing his throat quietly. “What’s the big deal?”

The sound of wheels rolling against the ground flooded Peter’s ears. He didn’t need to look up to see Mr. Stark had moved closer towards him; he could practically feel the man’s body heat against his forearms.

“Oh, I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me,” Tony’s casual tone failed to match the energy he put out. “Because it feels like the story doesn’t end there.”

Peter spared him a glance before shaking his head. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s something,” Tony insisted. “My gut’s telling me that.”

Peter shrugged, unable to look Tony head-on as he argued, “Well, you can’t always trust your gut.”

Even that felt like a lie, spoken straight through his teeth.

Tony rolled his chair back a few feet, squinting his eye slightly as he gave them a bit more breathing room. Wordlessly, he watched Peter organize a couple of nails into the pile meant for screws. A beat passed by before he realized the kid hadn’t even recognized the mistake.

“Then prove me wrong.”

Peter raked his fingers through his hair, twisting his mouth in an odd way that any other time, Mr. Stark would have made some sarcastic joke about.

He didn’t know why this was so difficult for him to answer, it wasn’t like he was in trouble. All he needed was to muster up a little bit of confidence so he could admit the truth — which again, wasn’t a problem. He just had to keep telling himself that he wasn’t doing anything wrong.

And ignore Mr. Stark’s stare, which made him believe otherwise.

“Harry and I go back a little bit,” Peter mentioned, a little too quiet for his faux confidence to take hold of.

For a suspended moment, Tony stared at him, quiet and unmoving.

“You what?” he finally balked, confusion getting the best of him. “You’re sixteen. Going ‘back a little bit’ would mean you were a fetus in the womb.”

Peter’s ears reddened. “C’mon on, Mr. Stark —”

“You friends with this guy or something?” Tony rushed to ask, working his jaw.

Peter took notice, scrunching up his face at whatever attitude Mr. Stark was throwing his way. What was his deal? Whatever hostility he had going on was making him anxious, and that was just completely uncool. Lab nights and workshop hangouts were supposed to be fun, chill.

This was so not chill.

“We grew up together,” Peter tried to play off the fact like it was nothing. “Went to the same elementary school, went to middle school together. We were friends. He got transferred freshman year and we...drifted apart.”

“Drifted apart?” Tony echoed back, a line forming between his eyebrows. “That’s...as many years as I have fingers on one hand. That’s not drifting apart — by law of time, babies are not able to drift apart.”

Peter rolled his eyes, electing to ignore the latter half of Tony’s comment. “Maybe. I don’t know. He seems like he wants to be friends again, so...we’re hanging out. No big deal.”

There was something about Mr. Stark that Peter had come to figure out not long after they started spending time together — real time together, the kind that May would joke about, saying it made her jealous. The man had an aura; he spoke with his demeanor, with the energy that poured out of him. With or without intention.

So with that in mind, it didn’t take long for Peter to notice the thick, suffocating blanket of tension that began to whirl around them. It was swift, a tornado that wrecked everything in its place.

Peter knew long before ever looking up that the eye of the storm had originated from Tony.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Pete?” he asked, concern etched deep into the contours of his face.

Peter chewed roughly on his bottom lip, the twinge of pain enough to ground him. It was stuff like this that made him feel like he was in trouble.

“I...didn’t feel like I needed too.” Peter shrugged for what felt like the millionth time.

“Yeah, you did,” Tony argued, a strict boom of authority lacing his tone. “With everything going on with OsCorp —”

“What! What’s going on with OsCorp!?” Peter spun around in his stool, so quickly that the wheels beneath him jostled the workbench. “I don’t know, you don’t tell me these things!”

A look of realization fell over Tony. His face dropped almost as quickly as the handful of screws that fell to the floor. They chimed against the concrete ground, one after another, all while he clearly worked his brain for a response.

“It’s nothing you need to get involved in,” he finally managed, after a pause too long.

“Why?" Peter didn’t let even a millisecond go by without pushing the issue. “What’s the big deal?”

Tony huffed in exasperation. “Listen to me, Pete —”

“You’ve kept everything secret from me, and I don’t even know what’s going on!” Peter was breathless, agitated impatience leeching into his every word. “If things are such a big deal that you don’t want me being friends with Harry all because of OsCorp, shouldn’t I get to know why!”

“You do know why, kid,” Tony bit back sharply, addressing Peter with stern eyes. He stood up from his chair, letting it wheel away from him without a second thought. “Sentient rock androids? A maniac running around wearing a fishbowl on his head? An entire bunker built under the sea? Radioactive spiders? Any of this ring a bell?”

The room went quiet, if only for a second. Peter seemed to shrink down in his stool, unintentionally hunching over to make himself look smaller.

“I just thought—”

“No, that’s the problem, you didn’t think,” Tony’s knee-jerk anger dissipated almost as quickly as it came, his entire body softening a mere moment after his retort. He sighed loudly, running a grease-stained hand down along his face. “Because you didn’t have to. This isn’t your battle. The Avengers will deal with OsCorp and whatever shit they’re spewing out of their ass. But you? You need to stay on the ground, that’s where you belong. That’s where we need you.”

“But I’m able to help!” Peter perked right back up, unable to keep containing the frustrated eagerness he had been suppressing for months now. A part of him knew he should be approaching this in a much different way, that he should be acting more calm and patient. But finally talking about all these things had him way too excited.

And Tony could tell. He pinched tightly at the bridge of his nose. “Christ, kid —”

“I can be a part of this, I can do things for you guys!” Peter stood up from his stool, the wheels pushing it far behind him. He didn’t care, approaching Tony with wildly excited hands. “Especially if I’m friends with Harry! That’s like, an inside source, right?”

Tony looked him straight on. “Reel it in, kiddo —”

“I can get access to places!” His arm gestured to nothing particular. “Like OsCorp, I’ve already been inside OsCorp!”

“Yeah, I know.” Tony marched wide steps to close the distance between them, more intimidating now than he ever could be with the Iron Man armor on. “And that’s not happening again.”

Peter’s brain shuddered to a halt.

His arms dropped down to his sides with a smack, confusion coloring his face so brightly that he could feel the heat reddening his cheeks.

“You....” he cocked his head to the side, as if it would better assist in gauging Mr. Stark’s expression. There was something noticeable in it, as if the man realized a second too late what he had said. Like he had blurted out a secret not meant for Peter to know.

Peter didn’t like how that made him feel.

“How do you know these things — are you spying on me?”

Tony sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the accusation. He looked away, noticeably debating on a response, shaking his head tightly.

After a short, heated glare directed at the walls, Tony lifted his arm in the air. Immediately after, he used the other to point his finger sharply at his wrist, and the watch strapped around it.

The same watch that Peter wore.

Looking down at his own hand, Peter furrowed his brows, eyeing the nanite technology wrapped tightly around his skin. It took a second, but once the realization sunk in —

“This thing tracks me!?”

If Tony wasn’t pissed off with the accusation before, he definitely was now.

“No,” he curtly rebutted. “Not until it’s removed.”

Stumbling a bit on the uptake, Peter made a face, mentally re-tracing his steps. Now it just felt like they were both accusing each other of things — Peter never took the watch off. Hell, most of the time he forgot he had it on. It was like a second skin, nanites so advanced he only noticed it when someone pointed it out.

When someone pointed it —

Of course.

He closed his eyes and held them shut, cursing inwardly.

“I took it off for security,” Peter mumbled, the realization pummeling down on him, hard.

“It’s a panic watch.” Tony’s jaw clicked as he crossed his arms, his weight shifting from one foot to the other. “What did you think was going to happen if you took it off?”

Peter should have known better. He should have known better, he should have known better, he should have —

Damn it, what was he thinking?

───────

Identity Crisis︱Chapter 14: Correlation vs. Causation

───────

The sound of his disapproval was drowned out by the glass doors of the workshop sliding open, though not loud enough to overtake the continuous clicking of Tony’s mouse. While Rhodey turned his head to greet the newcomers, Tony didn’t budge an inch. His attention on the screen was laser-sharp, problematically hysteric.

Not even the stomping footsteps from behind could break his focus.

“Didn’t you say you were going to back off Peter for a bit?” Clint’s accusation tore through the room, a frustrated edge to his voice bouncing off the walls.

“Yeah, about that,” Tony dryly cut in, eyes unwavering from the monitor, “that’s not a thing anymore.”

Steve was less than two feet behind him, heavy exhaustion wearing on his face. “Clint, we went over this —”

“That’s Peter’s camera.” Clint froze in place, jaw unhinged. His eyes bounced from the computer monitor to the camera sitting on the desk where Tony sat, the plastic of the expensive model reflecting under the workshops overhead lights. “You get permission to take that?”

Rhodey gave a slight shake of his head. “Clint, man, don’t —”

“Yeah, about that,” Tony stressed again, his clicks becoming faster. “Don’t you know me by now? I don’t do well with needing permission.”

Rhodey rubbed aggressively at his temple, and Steve leveled Clint a look, practically imploring the man not to start a fight.

Clint didn’t back down. “What, you don’t know how to handle some off-the-wall behavior from a teenager — so now you’re just going to spy on him?”

“He already thinks I’m spying on him!” Tony spun his chair around, arms thrown in the air as he faced the group for the first time.

Clint stomped ahead. “So you’re going to prove him right?”

Steve turned away, looking up to the ceiling as he mentally forced himself the patience needed to approach the situation. Meanwhile, Rhodey hadn’t let go of his forehead, close to scrubbing the skin away with the pressure of his fingertips.

Tony eyed Clint intently, staring him down for a second that felt too long. Finally, he spun back around in his chair back, the glow of the computer screen highlighting the stress lines on his face.

“No,” he curtly threw back. “I’m going to figure out what the hell is going on with him.”

Rhodey sighed. “Devils advocate here —”

“The devil can’t help you now.”

Natasha’s voice was an unexpected sound that caught them all off guard, though Tony had little interest in her sudden presence. The remaining three turned around, watching as the glass doors slid shut on their own accord —the noise of them opening over was never heard over their bickering.

Though knowing Natasha, she’d find a way to sneak in even if they’d been dead silent.

Clint turned to face her, hand outstretched with frustration. “Nat, this is ridiculous! You can’t seriously believe —”

“I meant what I told you,” she insisted, her voice low, edged with coldness. “I meant every word of it. Regardless of who believes me.”

As quickly as she turned to face him, Natasha turned to Steve, who leaned his backside against the nearest desk. His khakis wrinkled against the metal table, and the button-down shirt he wore ruffled when his arms crossed over his chest. His exhaustion didn’t deter him from the situation at hand. He locked eyes with Natasha as she stared him down.

“I know when to trust my instincts.” Natasha took a deep breath in, eyes flickering back to Clint only for a brief second. “And I know better than not to.”

The unspoken didn’t need vocalized. Steve nodded back to her, his belief and support steadfast and solid.

Clint, however, shook his head, aggressively fast. “You guys are full of shit!”

Rhodey dropped his hand down to his side. “Clint, man —!”

“You train this kid to fight like, what, an assassin like you, Natasha? A soldier like you, Steve?” Clint grabbed the back of Tony’s computer chair, forcing him to spin and face them. The look he received in return was hot enough to burn. “You took a teenager and put him in a war-zone. You wanted him trained for combat, trained like SHIELD operatives, and the moment he starts behaving like us, you lose your shit on him. You’re a hypocrite.”

Tony looked up at him from where he sat, the shadowy bags underneath his eyes somehow darkening underneath the overhead lights.

“You done yet?” he dryly asked.

“I’m just getting started,” Clint sneered in return.

“Stop it.”

Steve’s command was far from robust, exhaustion sinking its teeth deep into his words. Slowly, and one by one, they turned to look at him. He didn’t meet their gaze, his head bowed low to his chest, his eyes locked intently on the floor.

He chewed on his thoughts before speaking again.

“This isn’t the time for disagreements. Whether we all believe it or not, one of our own may be in trouble. If there’s even a one percent chance that something could be wrong with Peter, it’s in our best interest — and his — that we act on it.” Steve straightened his back, lifting his head while managing to lock eyes with everyone at once. The determination behind the blue irises was prominent. “Though I don’t agree with Tony’s methods, I think he’s right to take action. Especially after what happened last night.”

A soft sheet of confusion seemed to wash over Clint, one that visibly took him aback. He released his grip on Tony’s chair, his head bouncing between the group slowly but surely.

“No one told me anything about last night.” A beat passed as Clint unknitted the tight crease to his brow. “Is that why we left D.C in a rush? What happened?”

Natasha pulled her jacket closer around her waist, barely looking Clint in the eye when she turned towards him. “We felt it was only right if Tony told you himself.”

Clint narrowed his eyes as Tony rolled his.

“Of course,” Tony drawled out, immediately turning back to his computer screen. “Because I haven’t dealt with enough in the past forty-eight hours.”

The clicking of a mouse resumed, though not nearly at the same pace as before. Tony fiddled on the computer, the flat-screen monitor pulling up a different array of screens, some minimized, some enlarged — all keeping him intently focused on the task at hand.

Clint’s impatience grew by the second. “Are you going to tell me or —?”

“Hold your horses, Barton.” The lack of any snark or humor in Tony’s tone was enough to create a thick, suffocating course of tension.

Even Rhodey seemed concerned, his head cocking slightly to the side as he examined Tony.

A few moments later, and Tony pushed his chair away from the screen, giving full access to the others for viewing.

“Five months ago, I designed this device specifically for Peter. It’s an emergency signal — a panic button. It’s tied directly to the one I wear. If he’s ever in trouble, he knows to activate it. I get the alert, and I respond.” Tony showcased the black bracelet strapped around his wrist, eyeing it himself before dropping his hand back into his lap. “It’s a no questions asked kind of deal. I don’t care what trouble he’s in. Burning building, hostage under the sea, or upset that he bombed a math quiz. He’s got a way to seek help. At all times.”

The raw, almost breakable crack in Tony’s voice was enough to shake the room. The confidence he usually carried on his back had been rattled, and it was obvious.

Clint noticed. His demeanor took on a change, softening around the corners as he stuffed his hands into his jean pockets.

“Didn’t know that,” he settled on saying, briefly clearing his throat. “No questions asked...that’s a good way to go about things with teenagers. Smart thinkin’.”

Tony gave him a look, though the heat behind it was halfhearted at best. “I may not be Farmer Joe raising six kids on the prairie, but I was a teenager once. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know how they act.”

Clint made a face. “I don’t have six kids —”

“He activated the panic alarm last night.”

Clint’s eyes grew wide, and he did a double-take to the others to make sure he had heard things correctly. Their lack of surprise was instead filled with a distressed confirmation. Clint turned back to Tony, who seemed equally as upset.

“Oh shit,” he mumbled. “Is...you know, is he okay?”

Tony didn’t hesitate to shake of his head. “No.”

Clint arched an eyebrow high.

“He told you he wasn’t okay?”

Tony stopped shaking his head, opting to turn back to the computer instead.

“No.”

“For the love of —” Clint made a noise that stayed locked in his mouth. “Tony, is there any possibility Peter activated the alarm by accident?”

Craning his head over his shoulder, Tony bluntly — and curtly — stressed, “No.”

The blueprints of the design began to flicker away, one by one, as Tony closed them out and resumed his search through the SD card slotted in the console. 3D outlines of the device were instead replaced with candid pictures, each scrolling along faster than anyone could keep track of.

───────

Identity Crisis︱Chapter 16: Web of Lies and Deceit

───────

“So what’s the plan?” Sam was quick to ask, his bold tone ripping right through the room.

Steve whirled his head around, just as Sam crossed the threshold of the workshop with Natasha closely following at his side. Despite their entrance, Tony didn’t budge an inch. His taps on the keyboard were starting to severely endanger the structural integrity of even his own devices.

“Nothing that requires an overly mechanical Big Bird,” he said without looking away from his screen. “Do us all a favor — go meet up with Elmo back down at Sesame Street.”

Sam stopped dead in his tracks. Natasha quickly walked pasted him, never once letting up her pace.

“Excuse me, Tin-Man?” Sam looked to Steve, his face questioning if what he heard was actually — legitimately — what he had heard. The apologetic look Steve offered said enough.

Before Sam could rebut, Natasha held a hand in the air. It was her only free hand, the other tightly clutching a folder by her hip.

“Don’t take it personally,” she pressed, her voice uncharacteristically clipped. “Tony’s pissed at me and has decided to take it out on everyone else instead.”

After a few moments, Sam’s huff of disbelief became the only source of sound in the room — other than Tony’s vicious keystrokes.

“What, because you didn’t want him marching into some high-school and manhandling a student right after he nearly killed the principal?” Sam took the silence as an answer, his eyes somehow widening even further. “C’mon, Stark, no way could you have possibly thought that would’ve ended well!”

Tony rubbed his temples, his stock of patience quickly depleting.

“Up until an hour ago, the damn kid went off the grid,” he said, his attention falling back to his screen. “If Romanoff hadn’t dictated our destination when we clearly should have gone straight to Peter —”

“I talked some sense into you,” Natasha objected. “A superhero billionaire showing up to high-school right after a paranormal assault —”

“He’d be here.” Tony pursed his lips tightly. “Under our watch.”

“And you and him both would be prime suspect number one,” Natasha admonished.

“Yeah, okay, that —” Sam pointed a wagging finger in Natasha’s direction before quickly turning back to Tony, despite the man having his back to them all. “That mostly, but also — how’d he go off the grid if you’ve got a tracker in that panic watch of his?”

A growing headache had definitely bloomed into a full blown migraine, and this time, Tony couldn’t resist the eye roll that followed.

“It’s not a tracker unless he activates it.”

Steve’s response was instant. And firm.

“We know Peter’s home now.” With a deep breath, he adjusted his stance into a parade rest, hands locked tightly and securely behind his back. “We’re getting May Parker somewhere safe — he’ll be alone, we won’t have to worry about anyone else getting hurt. And until we figure out a plan, Clint’s got an eye on him. This is lining up to be in our favor. Like Tony said...we just have to act, and fast.”

The tension in the room didn’t ease. If anything, it grew.

───────

Identity Crisis︱Chapter 29: Rebirth

───────

Peter let out an exhale so hard, he swore it was part of the breeze that blew the curtain forward.

“Holy...cow.” It was the most he could manage. Words weren’t wording, and if he didn’t get his shit together in time for Decathlon, MJ was going to have his head.

Which she could do. Because it was over.

They could go back home. He could go back to Decathlon, go back to school, go back to his life —

Peter looked away as fast as he could, hiding the quiver the worked the muscles of his chin before Tony could see.

It was finally over.

“It’s been a while since you were...up and about,” Tony began saying, his head noticeably tilting to the side. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Peter cleared his throat — again and again, discretely rubbing at his eye and hoping the shine of liquid against his fingers wasn’t too noticeable. The question was an easy one, and yet he found himself thinking far longer than he expected — to the point he was chewing on his bottom lip, gnawing away at the skin.

His memories weren’t coherent, weren’t linear. They were scrambled in a way that put May’s morning hash browns to shame. He mostly remembered bits and pieces, but they were covered in a hazy fog.

Some were recent, like rushing to the Quinjet to leave the compound before SHIELD caught on to what was happening.

Some were old, like hearing Mr. Stark’s voice all the way back at his birthday party, months ago now. Playing in his head like they were just spoken.

He mostly remembered feeling safe, hearing those voices. They had echoed through his ears in a way that stifled the fear he felt, bringing a sense of protective calm where he needed it most.

Tony cleared his throat and Peter realized he had yet to answer the question.

“You, uh...you said you had to go back to New York for a little while,” Peter finally spoke up, clearing his own throat along the way. “I woke up and...and you weren’t back yet. I think…”

The longer he thought about it, the thicker the fog got.

Peter shook his head. “I don’t remember anything after that.”

Tony nodded like he expected the answer from the get-go. He took a pause, allowing himself a deep breath in before exhaling with a hard sigh.

“You wouldn’t,” he explained, lifting slightly from his chair as his good arm dug into his back pocket. He rummaged around the pocket as he spoke. “That night, you escaped the Citadel. The symbiote began full possession of your brain by then. It...took over. Like we were warned it would do. But something in you was still around.”

A muted grunt sounded from Tony’s throat as he re-positioned himself in the chair, sitting back down with an item clutched tightly in his hand.

He looked down at his closed fist before unraveling his fingers.

“I wasn’t able to get to it right away. Went back into the jungle a few days ago — found a couple of anacondas playing with it,” Tony said, lifting the sleek device where Peter could see it; dangling between his thumb and forefinger. “But there was enough of you left in that big brain of yours that you knew...you knew what to do.”

The moment Peter saw the watch, he immediately looked down at both his hands. It was the first time he realized he’d been missing the device, always so seamlessly sealed against his skin that he forgot he was wearing it.

As quickly as he looked down, he looked back up at Tony and the watch dangling between his fingers.

“I took it off.” Peter gave a ghost of a smile. “It activated the tracker.”

Tony didn’t nod. Only smiled in return, closing his hand once again and sealing the device away.

“I’ll hold onto it,” he mentioned, gesturing the closed fist in Peter’s direction. “You’ve been onto something — I’ve been hovering on you a bit much, been a bit too overbearing —”

“No, I —” Peter reached out, suddenly, his hand reaching for Tony’s before he’d even realized it. “I’d – I’d like it back. Please?”

Tony’s expression softened, and he nodded, handing over the watch without restraint.

Peter let the sleek device sit idly in the center of his palm, eyeing it no different than the first time it’d been handed to him. It didn’t have a single dent, clean as a whistle — looking exactly the same as he last remembered.

But at the same time, it didn’t. The story it held altered its appearance — not on the outside, no, the nanotech hadn’t been altered in the slightest bit. Not even a scratch — or bite marks — Peter’s eyes went slightly wide when he realized Mr. Stark said anacondas. All things considered, the device looked untouched.

───────

Identity Crisis︱Chapter 10: Something Wicked This Way Comes

───────

“What is it?” Steve asked, leaning forward with interest.

Rhodey folded his arms across his chest, stuffing his hands deep into his armpits. “A few months back — after the courts tossed out the subpoena that the Air Force Weapons Procurement Liaison Department submitted against OsCorp industries — Natasha and myself created an algorithm. It took a while to perfect, but we eventually snuck it into their systems.”

“We wanted to latch onto any words, codes, cryptography — anything that may possibly lead us to where they’ve been hiding their experiments since SHIELD shut down the clandestine bunker in the Bermuda Triangle,” Natasha added, wrapping an arm tightly around the leg pulled high to her chest.

“What did it find?” Bruce looked around the room, as if asking anyone nearby. “The program, what – what did it find?”

Steve squeezed the fold on his hands, watching with intent interest as Tony’s technology lit up the kitchen with an artificial glow. The once marble stone of the table was now a display case for translucent screens.

“Not much.” Natasha shrugged. “Rhodey and I were starting to wonder if they’ve given up the game, gone straight after a good scare from Director Hill and her team.”

“You don’t think Fury was involved in all that in any way?” Sam brushed cookie crumbles away from his shirt, swallowing hard as his demeanor fell serious. “Shutting them down and all?”

Natasha shook her head, barely glancing his way. “I don’t know what Fury is up to these days, aside from lurking in the shadows where he sees fit.”

“It’s the man’s favorite past time,” Tony muttered, not once looking away from the multiple screens that he waved and flicked around in the air, a conductor of intangible images only made touchable by his technology. “And you’re spewing fairy-tales and folklore, Romanoff. There’s no way they’d stop cold turkey, not this far into their game. They’ve gone too deep.”

“Pun intended?” Rhodey dryly joked, a tight smile creeping across his face.

Tony gave him the side-eye and nothing more.

“You’re right,” Natasha remarked, nodding towards the holograms ahead. “Something else has taken precedence.”

Tony tapped twice on the table, the glowing imagery beaming as it lifted upwards. His fingers pinched tightly together until the tips of his nails made contact. With one smooth move, he spread his arms wide apart, enlarging the document with ease.

It rotated, spinning around to show those facing the other way. Tony walked the length of the kitchen island to keep up with it, eyeing it with a line deepening between his brow.

“What the hell is this?” Sam asked, adjusting himself on the stool to get a better look.

The images littering the document weren’t hard to distinguish — scans of the human brain, detailing the different matter and components, looking like pictures straight out of an antonym book. With it were diagrams of DNA strands and cell structure, each moving in animation, trial and error to a hypothesis that detailed alongside the report.

“A formula,” Tony stated, finding conclusion faster than anyone else. The look in his eyes said one thing; he was studying it, absorbing the information in ways no one else could even consider doing.

Rhodey’s eyes drifted over his friend, watching as he kept up with the spinning hologram, the reflection mirroring directly onto his face.

“The Oz Formula, to be exact," Rhodey said.

Tony came to a screeching halt. He snapped his head over to Rhodey, his eyes wide, the whites shining blue from the image gleaming in the air.

“Well, stone the crows and strike me pink…I’ll be damned.” He pointed to the document, his finger shaking multiple times, practically wagging at it with excitement. “Rhodey —”

“I know,” Rhodey immediately cut in, calm and cool, collected despite Tony’s heightening emotion threatening to overtake the room. “I told you...I believed you.”

To all the others, it looked as if Tony’s mind had short-circuited. As if the information was too heavy to handle, too much to process.

For Tony, it was his brain running a mile a millisecond, only having stopped wagging his finger to tap it endlessly against his chin. The thoughts came too fast to keep up with, a head-rush of realization opening a gate of closed-off questions that he hadn’t let himself ask until now.

Months of searching, months of digging — finally they had something.

OsCorp could pay their employed scum the worlds worth in money to keep their mouths shut. It didn’t stop the Avengers from finding out the truth.

It wouldn’t stop the Avengers from finding out the truth.

“It came through on the algorithm a few days ago,” Natasha spoke up, addressing the team. “I back-traced it within the servers to a Doctor Lucas Murphy, a scientist employed at Oscorp for over three decades. Multiple PhD’s, doctorates — holds more degrees in biochemistry than anyone in this entire facility.”

“And he’s working for OsCorp?” Sam scoffed, incredulous disbelief lacing his tone. “They must have some amazing pension plans there.”

“So this Doctor Murphy is the one creating the formula?” Steve looked to Tony for an answer, only to see the man had immediately returned to swiping through screens and pulling up new ones. He instead cranned his head behind him. “Rhodey, didn’t you say they claimed it was a cure for any human sickness?”

Rhodey nodded curtly. “Immune to the destruction of one’s own molecular structure and some additional bullshit verbiage, yeah. It sounded too Strucker-ish for me. Like they wanted to create the next super-soldier serum, or something damn close to it.”

The screech of a chair against tile floor cut through the room.

“That’s not this,” Bruce said in one breath, standing from his seat and slowly walking over to where the document floated in the middle of the kitchen table. It was his turn to wag his finger at the screen. “That’s not this at all.”

Natasha straightened up in her stool. “Use your big boy words, Bruce.”

“He doesn’t have to,” Tony cut in. “FRIDAY just analyzed the entire document. While you all were sorting the puzzle pieces, she put the puzzle together.”

Tony took a step back, further away from the table than anyone else. As he did, an array of different screens began flickering to life, one by one, each brighter than the last.

“It’s an artificial biogenic mutagen,” he stated. “They didn’t lie about one thing, It’s definitely being designed to augment the cell structure of the human body.”

The animation in the reports played in a seamless loop, 3D designs pivoting with smooth agility.

Steve realized not long after silence had taken their conversation that the funky-looking DNA strands had circled a total of five times.

“How?” he finally asked.

Bruce pointed a stern, straight finger to the hologram. “This here? It’s a string of different chemical compounds and nucleotides. Adenine, thymine, phosphate-dexyribose — uh, that there is guanine, and cyosine. There’s an entire study here on ribonucleic acid and it’s connection to cytoplasm —”

“It’s the CRISPR technique,” Tony interrupted, offering Bruce an unapologetic smile. “Sorry, Brucey, you were going to put them to sleep.”

There was a pause as the others struggled to understand the information. Natasha tilted her head to the side, pressing her chin against her knee with an attentive look. Steve, Sam, and Rhodey waited for further explanation, eyeing the two men that stood at the head of the table with tense impatience.

“I’ve never...I’ve never seen anything like this,” Bruce awed.

“What’s this?” Steve all but demanded. “What are we looking at?”

“Clustered Regularly Interspaced Short Palindromic Repeats,” Tony smoothly explained, not a stutter in his words. “Otherwise known as the molecular biology’s version of copy and paste.”

“It’s fascinating,” Bruce drawled on. “It’s based on how bacteria protect themselves from foreign viruses. When viral DNA is detected, the bacteria sends out two single strands of RNA — a nucleic acid present in all living cells. It then uses a protein called Cas9, which locates the section of that DNA with the same code. The RNA then locks onto that piece and cuts it there, disabling it.”

Bruce carefully removed his glasses, cleaning the lenses with the hem of his shirt as he continued. “The same process can be used to add or delete information from any organism, including humans. The CRISPR technique can edit genomes — it can deactivate some gene, but at the same time it could also cut DNA and provide another copy. A mutated copy of that gene to change the way its expressed. It can completely alter someone’s cell structure, create a whole new strand of DNA in the process. A whole new person.”

The only immediate response was a mildly disconcerting silence, tense and stifling in the air.

Sam leaned back in his chair, blinking more than once. “That didn’t put me to sleep...but it sure as hell confused me.”

“I think I get it,” Natasha bemused, setting down her leg to lean closer towards the hologram. “You’re saying that this formula will target sections of DNA and replace it with a completely different strand?”

Bruce nodded a few more times than necessary. “Essentially.”

───────

Identity Crisis︱Chapter 31: In a Quiet Lagoon, Devils Dwell

───────

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Norman didn’t hear the doctor’s apology. For once, though, it wasn’t due to the raging pain that had found permanent occupancy in his head. It wasn’t even in fault to the pain that coursed through his body, a disease beyond his control long since taking his flesh and bone hostage to its corruption.

“Get out,” Norman sneered, the words slipping through the cracks of his teeth — his jaw clenched so tight his molars were at risk of grinding to dust. “Now.”

Only a few footsteps sounded, his eyes clenched too tight to see their departure. It wasn’t enough, not for a lab filled to the brim with scientists. He could still feel the heat of their bodies surrounding him; one body in particular drawing closer, until a hand touched down on his arm.

“Perhaps we can try —”

“I said get out!” Norman shouted — his eyes ripping open, bugling with rage. No sooner did after he throw his arm out, gesturing wildly around him. “All of you! Out! Now!”

He was still yelling when the men and women scampered to the exit, all but pushing one another out of the way to clear the room. Their footsteps were like wild animals running in fear; prey that ran from their predator.

It left just Norman. Standing in the middle of the lab, center to his work. His chest heaving with the exhaustion of his anger — exhaustion of his failure.

And one lone scientist at his side; his hand no longer making contact, but still close enough that he could return the touch if desired.

He didn’t, of course. Norman didn’t need to protest the act of sympathy for him to know better.

“Norman…” Doctor Frye began to say. His voice got lost halfway into saying the man’s name, and he allowed the departure, letting silence take the place of anything he may have spoken.

For a long moment, neither said anything. Norman’s heavy breathing was the only thing to sound between them, with a strikingly noticeable wheeze inside each inhale from his lungs.

Finally, Doctor Frye returned his touch. “How long did Adler give you?”

It wasn’t a question asked with compassion. Barely any condolence laced the otherwise clinical tone of the scientist. And yet something migrated into his voice that Norman noticed. Something that had his jaw twisting to work through clenched muscles keeping his response at bay.

Something akin to pity.

Norman had to clear his throat before he answered.

“The cancer has migrated into every red blood cell of my body,” he said, taking the towel from beside him and smearing the cooling gel across his hand. “Treatments have been ineffective for weeks. Chemo and radiation were never on the table to begin with, not with how aggressively the cells mutate.”

From his peripheral vision, Norman could see Doctor Frye’s eyebrows practically touch the high ceilings of the laboratory.

“You have weeks, then?” he asked, barely stepping aside in time when Norman tossed the wet towel his way. It landed somewhere far off to the side, disregarded as Norman began to head for the exit.

“I had weeks, Doctor Frye.” Norman didn’t give the scientist so much a second glance on his way out. Each pounding step of his retreat bounced off the sleek floors with an echo that reached all four corners of the room, speaking the anger that he kept tightly concealed.

The glass doors had just slid open when a voice stopped him cold in his tracks.

“We restructured the formula.”

Norman froze, lingering for so long that the doors slid shut once more. Though he didn’t turn around, he did cock his head ever-so-slightly to the side. Giving his ear a better chance at hearing the man speak.

Doctor Frye took timid steps forward as he re-approached Norman.

“Doctor Murphy and I. We...we went back to formula,” he explained — cautiously. As if each word he spoke was a threat to his well being. “We stripped the Oz serum of its need for the spider DNA — completely restructured it without Arachnid Number 00.” Doctor Frye swallowed, hard, before saying, “It’s finished.”

A beat.

Followed by two more.

Norman turned around, twisting at his hip and spinning on the balls of his feet. His eyes found Doctor Frye’s and didn’t let up — and yet he didn’t say a word.

The expression on his face said enough.

“Adler didn’t want me telling you.” Doctor Frye stopped walking towards him, suddenly, leaving enough length that it took time for his words to reach Norman.

When they did, Norman wasn’t hesitant on breaking that distance with three large strides.

“Doctor Adler strictly told me that the Oz formula was my last chance,” he reiterated, each line engraved in his face deepening with the same aggression that coated his tone.

For every step he took forward, Doctor Frye took one back.

“She insists…” Doctor Frye stumbled on his own tongue, and tripped over his own feet. “She insists it’s not suitable for trial.”

Norman came to a halt — and just in time. If Doctor Frye had taken any more steps back, he’d have collided with the wall behind him.

For a second that stretched on into many, the only sound between them was the blast of the air conditioning from above. The vents were high up in the ceiling, but low enough that the blast of cold air ruffled the frazzled hair on-top of Doctor Frye’s head.

“This isn’t a trial, Doctor Frye…” Norman started to say. His chin tilted low and his eyes narrowed, staring intently at the man in front of him. “This is my life.”

Doctor Frye’s only response was a swallow that shook his throat. Hard enough to quiver the nodule in the middle.

Norman tilted his head to the side. “You agree with her?”

It wasn’t so much a question as it was a statement. A realization.

Doctor Frye didn’t let himself blink, barely taking in a breath of air when it was needed. The tension in the lab only grew without a direct answer to the question.

“The initial trials weren’t...the most promising, sir,” Doctor Frye sounded hesitant to explain, slow to talk, with each word being carefully chosen. “Without using the birth host of Arachnid Number 00, you were beginning to show onset signs of schizophrenia, of – of dissociative identity disorder. Split personalities.”

Norman kept his gaze; his shoulders pulling back tautly and his chest puffing out slightly. Underneath the harsh laboratory lights, the impression of aging skin looked all the more crude.

And a face that normally held little to no emotion suddenly grew thick with building, simmering animus.

Doctor Frye took the moment of silence as permission to continue speaking.

“The formula…” he cleared his throat, multiple times, until coming to terms with the fact that the words would need to be forced out. “The formula, as it stands...could very well come at the cost of your sanity.”

If Norman was the least bit bothered by the disclosure, he didn’t let it show.

“You have the qualitative reports?” he was quick to ask.

Doctor Frye gave one short, sharp nod.

Norman arched an eyebrow. “The tentative analysis?”

Again — one nod, concise.

Norman arched his other eyebrow. “The quantitative data, the conditional studies?”

Doctor Frye hesitated. But nodded, nonetheless.

Norman paused.

“You have the formula.”

Doctor Frye took those final steps back, colliding into the wall behind him and pressing himself there as if it could hide him away. His hands, pocketed deep in his lab coat, dug deeper — any further and his fingers would’ve touched the floor.

“Norman, listen,” Doctor Frye began, forcing his voice to stay firm. “I’m inclined to believe her —”

Norman closed the distance between them. “And yet you taunt a dying man with his means to live.”

The fabric of Doctor Frye’s lab coat pulled tightly as he sunk his hands deep inside the pockets, noticeably clenching the white material on his left side.

Norman immediately shot his head down towards it, eyeing the hand hidden inside the pocket, clenched so tightly into a fist it began to tremble. The longer Norman stared, the more he swore he could see the tight lines around the man’s knuckles, surely the same color as the lab coat he wore.

With his head still low, Norman peered his eyes up.

“You wouldn’t bring the formula here if you didn’t have an inkling of a notion to passing it off,” he stated, the animosity in his tone gone — colored instead with something vivacious in its nature. “Why?”

Doctor Frye didn’t let the change in Norman’s voice have any effect on his expression. But his hand did squeeze tighter, threatening the structure of the lab coat pocket and risking every seam that had been sowed neatly together.

“It’ll do what it’s intended to do,” Doctor Frye evaded a direct response for a more clinical approach. “In all trials, damaged cells were repaired to incredible strength. Mimicking the original super-soldier serum created by Abraham Erskine, almost identical to its properties.”

The excitement in his answer, as slender as it was, didn’t get far with Norman.

“Where’s your hesitations stem from, Frye?”

The question was as tight as the scientists grip inside his pocket.

A second turned into a minute. And for a moment, both men wondered if the conversation had any fuel to keep going. The only thing colder than Norman’s stare was the A.C that blasted from above.

Doctor Frye’s minuscule hope that the topic would be dropped was destroyed with the time that passed — and the growing expression on Norman’s face. Morphing his otherwise detached, emotionless, controlled features into something completely unrecognizable.

Desperation.

“Your cells are beyond mutation from the cancer, sir,” he tried to explain. Norman’s stare didn’t let up, and he looked elsewhere in an attempt to get away from the choleric gaze. “It could repair them. Or it could…”

Doctor Frye didn’t just swallow — he gulped.

Norman grounded his teeth, accompanied by two more steps forward. Easily, and seamlessly, breaching any personal space the doctor may have had.

“I’m listening.”

There was an unspoken behind his words. Doctor Frye had been working alongside him long enough to hear what he didn’t outright say. It wasn’t just that his ears were willing to take on the information. It was that he demanded to be told.

And if there was one thing they knew about the man — all of them. From the scientists down to the janitorial staff — it was that when Norman Osborn wanted something, he got his way.

“Rats with cancer used in the clinical trials turned into...into mutated creatures.” Doctor Frye returned his gaze to Norman, and locked on hard. “They turned into beasts.”

If it were at all possible, Doctor Frye’s emphasis on his final word took over even the blast of A.C from the ceiling vents. It was the only word he spoke that had any firmness to it, steady and stiff with every syllable that crossed his lips.

There was just barely a flicker of uncertainty that crossed Norman’s face. Gone no sooner than it passed by.

“You’re telling me…” he slowly started, a frown deepening the line between his brows. “That your hesitation for...for possibly the cure to any mortal illness,” Norman let that linger for a second, “all has roots in a few sick rats and an overly cautious oncologist?”

A grimace pulled harshly at Doctor Frye’s mouth, twisting his lips into a mess that couldn’t be undone. There wasn’t any space for him to get away from Norman, not with him inches to where the man stood. He could smell the cologne on him no different than the smell of lidocaine gel coating the burns on his hand.

“Adler’s right,” Doctor Frye insisted. “Between the initial signs of schizophrenia shown before your cancer progressed, and what the trials showed us with cancerous rats and their mutated cells turning them into...into…”

Doctor Frye shook his head — just once, but hard enough to rattle his vision.

“It could do the exact same to you.”

The cold air from above poured down on them both in heavy drafts, but it did nothing to take the hot air away from the breath that parted through Norman’s lips. Each puff struck directly against Doctor Frye’s face; the moisture it left behind was just added to the dampness of sweat that started to layer ontop of his skin.

Norman paid it no mind. His eyes fixated staunchly on the arm that Doctor Frye pocketed away — and the clenched fist concealed inside the pocket.

“My life is not in your hands, doctor.” Norman outstretched his arm, open palmed — ready to take what was given to him. “It’s in my own.”

The air conditioning from above shut off, leaving the laboratory to bathe in utter silence.

Slowly, Doctor Frye unclenched his fist.

───────

Identity Within︱Chapter 3: R.S.V.P

───────

“Oh my, my, yes, it’s been…it’s been quite the few months, for sure. A lot of preparation has gone into this, many things occurring behind the scenes — and now that OsCorp has reached the point of publicizing this announcement, well…I won’t lie, it’s a bit of a burden off the back.”

As Peter threw open the front door to the apartment, the first thing he heard was the distant voices coming from the living room television. It was at a volume that told him May wasn’t really paying attention, just using it for background noise. Yet it was loud enough that it reached over her struggle with pots and pans all the way inside the kitchen, and certainly quick to grab his attention.

Anything OsCorp related had a tendency to do that these days.

Peter hadn’t even crossed the threshold of the front door to living room when he looked over at the TV, frowning deeply.

“But of course, things are just beginning. We have a long future to look forward to, one that’ll far exceed my time on this earth.” The voice of the man sounded professional, each word said with a sharp precision and clarity to his statements. “It’s all about legacy, after all. And the Osborn dynasty has yet to untap their full potential in what lays ahead. I’m excited to be apart of these unfolding developments with them.”

Whatever channel was playing, Peter quickly deduced it was a news station. Something where someone was being interviewed — an old man, that much was obvious. He wore a business suit that Peter was sure cost five times May’s rent, and his grayish white hair matched perfectly with the deep wrinkles that dug harsh lines into his skin.

And yet, despite talking about OsCorp, the man was most definitely not Norman Osborn. Peter wasn’t sure he’d actually ever seen him before. Granted, he never paid much attention to these things until recently, but still.

He approached the back of the sofa, watching the TV and moving almost in a trance. So much so that he completely forgot his laundry detergent soaked socks were still gripped in his hand, and his bare feet still sticky with the residue they’d encountered.

“You sound quite optimistic about the longevity in OsCorp’s future, Mr. Symthe,” the interviewer said, his tone as serious and straitlaced as the much older man sitting across from him. “Does this mean you’re not worried about the dissolution of partnership with Bio-Labs? Their upstate, New York facility alone brought in OsCorp over thirty percent of their shares and profits last year.”

The man being interviewed gave a light chuckle — Spencer Symthe, Peter discovered, right as the lower third graphic appeared on the screen, displaying his name in whole.

It also gave him a title. Peter furrowed his brows as he quickly read it. Right next to his full name were the words, Co-chairman.

The man may have not been Norman, but there was no doubt that he was right up there in hierarchy.

“Last year is behind us, OsCorp looks only to the future,” Spencer simply answered, as smoothly as the words that came before him. “Bio-Labs served us well in the past, but OsCorp is moving forward with their endeavors in other ways. We have something quite exciting happening here very soon. I’m not at liberty to discuss the details just yet, but our separation with Bio-Labs has made way for something far better. Both for us and for mankind.”

The interviewer looked down at his lap and the sleek notepad in his hands. “Is it true OsCorp purchased that facility from Bio-Labs?” he read off his notes.

“We did, yes,” Spencer answered so quickly, the camera didn’t cut to him until mid-sentence. “We came to an agreement with Bio-Labs on a price, and OsCorp is hoping to utilize the facility for further expanding their research studies across the east coast.”

Peter suddenly looked left and right, and then down to the sofa — finding the TV remote stuck in-between the armrest of the cushions. Discarding his socks, he grabbed the remote and hit the first button his thumb could get a hold of. It displayed the title of the show over the screen — ‘Executive Insights with Mark Mitchell.’

“There’s been…quite the controversy regarding those research facilities, Mr. Symthe,” Mark Mitchell, Peter correctly assumed, went on to say. “I’m sure you’re more than aware of the legal trial that took place this afternoon — any comment?”

Slowly, Peter dropped the remote down onto the end table next to the couch. All the while, he never looked away from the TV.

“Ridiculous claims made by ridiculous people.” Spencer waved his hand right alongside his answer. “Despite his rank in the air force, I assure you that Colonel Rhodes has no interest in the safety of this country. He sides with his interest and his team alone — that is, the Avengers. The only people we seem to allow to live above the law.” For a man who had kept his tone even and unwavering, there was a slight hitch in words that heated them up, something Peter couldn’t ignore. He suddenly sounded frustrated, angry. To the point where a pause followed, and he noticeably cleared his throat. “These claims made by him and subsequently, the team he participates with, are as foolish as they are deranged.”

Mark simply nodded. “It’s been no secret that Stark Industries very own Tony Stark has been pushing this case, advocating for the entire revocation of OsCorp’s funding and participation with the Institutional Review Board. He states that compliance with regulatory requirements have been, in his words, the biggest disgrace to not only the field of science but to humanity as a whole.”

“And yet Judge Whittaker has made it very clear today that he disagrees with those claims,” Spencer answered the question that had yet to be asked. “Tony Stark’s efforts to shut down OsCorp have been nothing but a blip on our radar. The court system sided with us on that today, making it very clear that there’s no grounds to the absurd accusations put forth by rumors and heresay.”

Mark cocked his eyebrow high, and so did Peter. Both of them for different reasons. “Is that your way of saying OsCorp’s research studies haven ’t been neglecting proper codes and regulations, and remain to demonstrate due diligence in maintaining public safety standards for both their participate and employees? ”

“By all means, yes,” Spencer easily answered. So easily, Peter went to fold both arms over his chest, the look that pulled at his face causing lines he was far too young to be dealt with. “If all goes well, the former Bio-Labs facility will be up and running within a few months, once converted into one of OsCorp’s technological facilities. And it’ll foster not only the community and development of science careers, but also expand the boundaries of research to pave the way for a brighter tomorrow.”

“Oh, gosh!”

May's shout reached over the low volume of the TV, and her frantic footsteps out of the kitchen did just the same. Peter twisted at the hips to see her waving and flapping a dishtowel at the open door of the stove.

“I cannot get that smoke out of here!” May chuckled with a bit of a cough, roughly clearing the smoke out of her throat as she turned around to Peter and asked, “Did you get the mail?”

Peter suddenly frowned. “The mail — huh?”

“The mail,” she repeated, throwing the dishtowel right over her shoulder. When Peter didn’t respond, May let one hand rest firmly on the bone of her hip. “I asked you to get the mail on the way up.”

With a smile so tight that it practically thinned his lips out to nothing, Peter sheepishly admitted, “My phone died.”

The look he got in return was the exact look he expected to receive.

───────

Identity Theft︱Chapter 9: Down Came The Rain

───────

"Don’t forget," Rhodey started to say. "We've still got OsCorp tech on the loose.”

Bruce immediately shot his head towards Rhodey.

“Awesome Android? Wasn't that just one incident?” Bruce furrowed his brows with confusion. “Or...has there been...more I don’t know about?”

Tony shook his head.

"Nope, just the rock head." Reaching into the front blazer of his pocket, Tony pulled out his cell phone, swiping down on the touchscreen with a single finger. "But over the weekend, I had FRIDAY do some digging on good 'ol OzzyCorp."

With a hard shake directed at the empty space in front of them, he brought to life a large holographic image.

“Turns out, they’ve been working on technological dampeners for the past three years.”

The hologram spread out in the empty space of the lounge, pages among pages of detailed project data so extensive that not even Tony could keep up with it.

Bruce leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his whole body practically oozing with a sense of fascination. Any other day and Tony may tossed in a joke or two about it.

While Banner worked mainly with biochemistry experiments, and Stark Industries focused on mechanical technology, OsCorp Industries was a research corporation. And a sketchy one at that.

So, skimming through the documents, none of them weren’t surprised to see an array of under-the-table experimentation programs funded by OsCorp themselves, a handful already shut down by higher government officials.

Tony said it before and wouldn't hesitate to say it again — he wouldn’t trust OsCorp if his life depended on it.

Rhodey's hum cut right through the silence.

"Technological dampeners..." he mused aloud. “The security feed shut off the night the chameleon helmet was stolen."

Tony immediately noticed that Rhodey didn't ask the question — he made it a statement. Fitting the puzzles together no differently than Tony had.

“And," Tony raised a finger, "Times Square went dark the night before."

Bruce looked between them both — and then again, before setting his sights on Tony.

“My-mysterio?" Bruce creased his forehead with confusion. "You think it’s the crazy magician?”

Tony tapped his fingers in a drumming pattern against the armrest of the sofa, his eyes looking somewhere far beyond the holographic display in front of them. Though he couldn't see it, he could feel Rhodey's stare on him — the kind that warned him not to jump to conclusions without any proof.

Unfortunately for Rhodey, Tony already made that jump a while ago.

“He lets out this smoke. A fog, almost,” Tony explained, idly, thinking out loud more than anything else. “Times Square hasn't been dark since 2003. No way is that a coincidence. Everything that had a chip, a battery, an LED screen — the moment that fog came out, everything shut down like a bad play on Broadway."

“That — that doesn’t make any sense," Bruce insisted, the shake of his head almost hard enough to knock off his glasses. "Fog is vapor water. Tiny liquid droplets suspended in the air — there’s no way it could interfere with technology like that.”

Scientifically speaking, Tony knew Bruce was right. His fingers moved from the armrest of the couch up to his chest, tapping against his sternum and clucking his tongue in thought.

It didn't make sense, and yet...

A beat of silence passed before Tony straightened his back and snatched the scrap piece of paper off the table.

“Could be a way," Tony began to say. "Could always be a way. Never doubt science, am I right, Brucey?"

Bruce watched him pocket away the paper with a frown. "Tony —"

"Nanotech," Tony seamlessly cut in, adjusting his jacket after shoving the scrap piece of paper inside his inner pocket. “The chameleon helmet — that’s nanorobots. Every little nanoguy working on a molecular surface-bound level, nanotechnology at its finest. I even have a new suit in the works. Mark 37, pure nanites, head to toe. Haven't gotten it off the ground yet, but the goal is for nano-machines to create a second layer of artificial muscle — Iron Man armor, purely nanotech.”

Rhodey briefly rubbed at his temple before looking towards Tony.

“What’s your point, Tones?”

Tony met his gaze straight on.

"Think about it," he started. "Technological dampeners? If there’s any trace of nanites in that fog Disappear-O the Magnificent uses, even trace element of nanites — and if those nanites contain technological dampeners —”

A shrill alarm blared through the compound, stealing Tony's words right out of his mouth.

───────

Identity Theft︱Chapter 13: Man Behind The Mask

───────

Down the hall and a few corners to the left, the double doors to Tony's workshop automatically opened for him.

“FRIDAY?” Tony hadn’t even reached the nearest computer console before he was speaking to his AI.

“Yes, boss?”

He collapsed into the nearest chair, the wheels sending him rolling across the floor until he reached his U-shaped steel table.

“Mark 37— tell me, what are the statistics, where do we stand with it?”

Tony was quick to rattle off demands. Luckily for him, he built his AI to respond even faster.

“The project is currently 87% percent complete. Would you like me to bring up journal data to review the remaining requirements that will need to be completed before the suit can become functional?”

"No need, FRI." Tony shook his head, already at work on the holographic keyboard beneath his hands. "Take the project and copy it to a new hard-drive, and bring up the schematics and blueprints for the original design. We’re going to be tweaking it around a little bit.”

He watched as the blue holographic screens appeared in front of him, one at a time.

“Project data copied. Would you like to rename the original file folder?”

Tony pursed his lips to the side. “What ideas was I throwing around?”

A pause gave way. Long enough that Tony could hear the hum of his own technology; wires embedded into the walls taking the silence from the workshop. Even the brief second that passed without any noise was too much for him. He was at risk of falling into his own thoughts if he didn't keep his hands, and mind, busy.

"Multiple names have been found," FRIDAY finally answered. “Extremis 2.0, Badassium Nanosuit, Bleeding Edge —”

“That one.” Tony snapped his fingers. And then again, desperate to keep the silence at bay. “Bleeding Edge. I like it. Keep it.”

“And the copy?” FRIDAY asked. “Would you like to name it as well?”

The question had Tony scrubbing at his face, hard enough to shave off the extra growth on his beard that needed a trim. It wasn't the only thing he needed; coffee. Tony needed a lot of coffee to pursue this project tonight.

───────

Identity Theft︱Chapter 26: Building Blocks

───────

Peter laughed and Tony couldn’t help but chuckle with him, the moment carefree and void of the suffocating stress he had been consumed with over the past couple of weeks.

It was nice, a little breather from the pressures of the real world he had been struggling to deal with.

Even as he went on to explain the finer details of their rescue mission, the room lacked any tension. It helped greatly that Peter wasn’t immune to the pure star-struck wonderment at hearing Tony’s stories, listening intently to how they had increased the tensile strength on his web fluid, how a magical wizard got them in and out of the place, and most of all —

“You finished the nano-suit!?” he exclaimed, nearly jumping out of bed with excitement. “Can I see it!?”

“Sorry, bud.” Tony gave a small shake of his head, his finger lazily pointing down to Peter’s leg. “It’s on you.”

Peter frowned, looking down at his leg before back up at Tony. “What?”

“What was left of it — used it for that sock you’re wearing,” Tony explained. “It’s a nanite cast, designed to promote bone healing. I’m sure Bruce will be thrilled to show you the x-rays of how mangled your leg was. He said it was in eight pieces or something, shattered like a stale piece of peanut brittle.”

Peter didn’t seem to be paying attention. As Tony rambled on, he removed the blanket that covered his leg to better stare at the thick black and silver device that he wore around his calf. It was every sense of the word futuristic, conforming around his leg from the knee down, fitting snugly like his suit.

“No way,” Peter lamented, looking over at Tony sadly. “But you put so much work into that!”

Despite Peter’s protest and remorse for the forsaken project, Tony couldn’t muster up a will to care.

“Well, you’re more important,” he answered honestly. “Besides, I can make another suit. I can’t make another Peter Parker.”

───────

Identity Within︱Chapter 1: Prolouge

───────

“FRIDAY!” Tony clapped his hands twice as he all but leaped across the workshop, sparing no ounce of energy along the way. “Let’s go, sweetheart, it’s hardware time!”

It was nothing short of a miracle that FRIDAY heard him, what with the way music thundered from every corner of the room. Which was appropriate for the song currently blasting through the surround sound, AC/DC’s Thunder Struck echoing against the walls with enough volume to rip the compound in half.

“Alright, neural network installed and running at full capacity,” Tony rattled off, speaking aloud for his own benefit — though if he could even hear his own voice was up for debate. “Multimodal augmentations at slight field variance. Nanometers passed every algorithmic calculation — because of course they did, my math is never wrong.”

Tony eagerly hopped onto the circular platform stationed center of his workshop, plating both feet firmly in place once there.

“I’d say you’re long overdue for a test trial, my dear.” With both hands interlaced, Tony pushed his arms outward and crackled his knuckles — the music, once again, stealing the noise away.

Disentangling those same hands, he pulled his elbows back in, tapping his fingers against the housing unit sealed onto his chest.

It was hard to tell what caused the tingling vibrations running through his toes, into his calves, and across his kneecaps. It could’ve very well been the blasting bass from the music overhead, casting into the walls and rumbling onto the floors of his workshop. Or for all he knew it was his giddy schoolboy excitement, building into a crescendo that had him jittery with anticipation.

Whatever the cause, Tony didn’t let it lessen his smile.

“Come on, baby, you got this!” Tony watched enthusiastically as the arc reactor lit to light, filling the workshop with a blue glow that grew brighter with time. “Come on, come on…come on!”

It took a beat, and what Tony swore was a few missed beats of his heart along with it, but there was no mistaking when the housing unit released the nanites. Within seconds they poured out, all at once, tiny particulars working in tandem to form over the structure of his body.

The spark from each microscopic piece of red and gold shimmered underneath the workshop lights, coalescing around him with an animation only outmatched by Tony’s exhilaration.

“Yes!” The nanites hadn’t even reach past Tony’s hips when he cheered — and he didn’t stop with just one shout. He kept going. “Yes, YES, that’s what I’m talking about!”

The air crackled with energy as the nanobots worked at lightning speed, and Tony’s body was surrounded by a glowing aura of light as the suit began to take shape; sleek and streamlined, with glowing repulsor beams in the palms of his gauntlets.

His laugh easily reached over the music.

“Tony!”

And so did that.

Tony shot his head up, his grin so large his back molars caught the ceiling lights. It didn’t fade, not even as Pepper came storming into the workshop, bursting through the automatic doors before they’d fully parted for her.

“Oh my god!” Pepper practically screamed against the blaring music, immediately smothering both palms against her ears to protect her hearing. “Tony, what are you doing!?”

Tony threw Pepper a bewildered look.

“What does it look like I’m doing!” he shouted right back, the nanites still building around the length of his legs as he gestured enthusiastically to himself. “I’m re-building the nanosuit!”

For once, not even the usual sound of Pepper’s high-heels clicking against the floor could be heard. She stormed forward with enough frustration in her step that it should’ve rattled the whole earth, but each stomp was muted underneath the bass of the music.

“You’re what!?”

Tony gestured even more enthusiastically to himself.

“The nanosuit!” He paused. “Bleeding Edge?” Another pause, and Tony made a face. “I told you about this, we talked about this! It’s nanotech! Each piece works on a molecular surface-bound level — check this out!”

Tony turned at the hips, and then again on the other side, motioning to the nanites that covered his body with a polished shine. His grin blew wide open as he admired his work.

“It’s taken some time to reconstruct all the nanites from scratch, but since I made sure to copy the blueprints after dismantling Mark 37 for complete magnetic use when Ivan the Terrible forced us to —”

“What!?” Pepper interrupted him with a shout that was more of a scream than anything else.

Tony shot his head up, frowning.

“What part of that didn’t you understand?” Tony guessed the answer based off Pepper’s expression. “The nanosuit? The one I took apart to get Parker back from — did you hear anything I said?”

“I can’t hear you!” Pepper shook her head so vigorously that her ponytail came loose. “I can’t — Tony, turn down the —!”

“FRIDAY, turn down volume.”

Dutiful as ever, his AI complied at the request immediately, lowering the soundtrack of rock music to a near-muted volume.

It became so quiet, so suddenly, that the sound of Pepper’s frustration was audible with each huff of air that blew right through her flared nostrils.

Tony hopped off the platform, pointing a lax finger towards her.

“You looked stressed.” Even as Tony walked towards her, the nanites kept building around his body, already creeping up along the edges of his neck. “You stressed?”

Pepper gaped, staring him down with a look that he tried often not to be on the receiving end of.

“Am I — yes, Tony, I’m stressed!” Despite the lack of blaring music, Pepper still yelled. “The wedding is in two weeks! And you’re down here being...being…” As Tony closed in on Pepper, she brushed right past him, physically jostling his shoulder and sparking a light against the nanites still forming against his arm. “Well...you!”

───────

Identity Crisis︱Chapter 10: Something Wicked This Way Comes

───────

“Back to the, uh, the original point...” Bruce said, one single digit raised in the air. “I’d make sure Pete doesn’t have anymore interaction with...well, anyone related to the Osborn’s. If Norman is the brains to all this...who knows how dangerous he could be.”

Sam furrowed his brows. “I don’t think a high-schooler could do much damage, regardless of their namesake.”

“No, maybe not...” Natasha trailed off, contemplative in a way she normally didn’t share with the group. “But being close Norman Osborn’s son is being one step closer to Norman himself.”

“Is it really fair to assume the kid is trouble because of his bloodline?” Sam was quick to rebut.

Natasha threw him a cold look. “People judged me based off my bloodline, and they were smart to do so.”

“Bruce is right,” Steve needlessly stated, putting an end to the dispute. “Peter’s already been a target before, we don’t want that happening again. Until we can get a grasp on this situation, he needs to keep his head low, stay far away from this.”

“Trust me, I’ve been trying.” Tony massaged the bridge of his nose, disdain coating his tongue, leaking deep into his words. “It’s like pulling teeth with the kid, he doesn’t want to do anything he’s told. I might as well be talking to a deaf monkey.”

The frustration Tony emitted was palpable, visible despite the sunglasses he used to hide his face. What once was a jab at his overly-strict parenting had quickly turned somber.

No one dared to make a joke now.

Despite his berating, no one had forgotten about what occurred only a handful of months ago. When a young, naive kid showed up at their door playing super-hero. Tony may have been the one to buy the casket, but they were all involved in one way or another.

It would be impossible to forget; it was a lesson learned that they all took to heart.

Possibly going through that again — it was a vast precipice to wrap their minds around.

“We’ll make sure that we do our part on this end,” Steve assured, looking Tony straight on. “We took Peter under our wing, we took on that responsibility. It’s our job to make sure he’s safe, make sure we protect him. Whatever happens here, whether he gets involved or not, he’ll be protected.”

Something clenched deep in Tony’s stomach as his gaze latched onto Steve’s, his doubt ebbing into a fierce fury of determination.

Steve reflected that determination right back at him.

“We will protect him, Tony.”

Tony nodded.

He had nothing more to add.