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Chapter Text

Until she was eight, Tony liked to tell everyone her real birthday was one month and seven days later than everyone celebrated. She was impressionable, loved soap operas and almost genuinely believed that her parents lied about her date of birth so that pesky journalists wouldn’t spoil the young heiress’s party. But the truth was revealed, and her birthday was what the country celebrated on the fourth of July. Jarvis, unable to upset his beloved moppet, added fuel to the fire by leaving little gifts on her bedroom table every night of the fourth.

Howard was the one to blame — Tony added ‘naturally’ to this phrase since she was fifteen and prohibited Rhodey from taking Freud’s name in vain. But Daddy did once tell her, pointing at the colourful firework, that it was ‘for you and for Captain America’. Later, Tony discovered that ‘for you and for Captain America’ was Howard’s legitimate excuse to go on a month-long either work or alcohol binge (later, Tony discovered how to combine, but Pepper scared her to death with the incurability of women’s alcoholism, and Tony started to hide her bottles better).

Her father needed the binges either because he had a daughter instead of a son, or because of the dwindling number of people who understood the effort he had put into the new serum by the time of her birth — even Aunt Peggy turned from ‘hey baby, would you save me from the clutches of justice?’ into a married businesswoman, and now, they only discussed SHIELD and domestic life, two things father tolerated only under the influence. He threw chic parties for Tony and spent them hobnobbing with big wigs (to be a genius workaholic seemed more practical than a good father), and even joked with other guests sometimes if he recalled that twenty years ago, he was the main socialite of the city, and look, how family life made a man out of a monkey.

The fireworks on the fourth of July always were all stripes and stars, and Tony was getting gifts exclusively at the end of May — she remained blue for two days when realised there was no conspiracy behind her date of birth. The last time she told this tale was to a new head of the engineering department; the poor fellow, so sure of his boss’s omnipotence, went pale, prompting Maria to tell Tony off. But Tony didn’t remember Mum ever being angry.

Instead, she remembered one spring day when she knocked on her parents’ bedroom door to show her mother a drawing. Mum was brushing her long blonde hair by the dresser mirror, pale Californian sunlight sliding through the folds of her gown. She smelled of salt and berries and smiled warmly asking what Tony wanted for her birthday. Tony said she wanted ‘to lay with you on the bed the whole day’, and Mum’s laughter echoed like ringing bells.

That year, her parents gave Tony a red dress with golden accents (she put it on once in her life) and her first set of tools (father remarked that now she may stop snatching his screwdrivers from his workshop). And then, Tony was sucking a frozen juice, lying on the scratchy blanket spread across the parents' bed, catching sun bunnies on her knees, and for the first time, she thought it was nice to be born at the beginning of the summer. The days grew longer, the nights were warm and friendly, and the summer and life itself seemed endless. 

And who would’ve thought? Tony Stark was a good girl from a good family, and she couldn’t imagine she would die at the hands of a purple arsehole thousands of miles away from Earth.

It was in the two thousandths, though, when an old lady at the station foretold her she’d die in the stars — it would’ve even been funny if the hole in her stomach didn’t stop Stark from laughing. FRIDAY somewhat sillily got out of order with the torn-out helmet, but on the other hand, Tony could pretend she wasn’t bleeding into her lungs if no one mentioned it. And what kind of obits would there be? ‘She cowardly died before saving the world’. 

‘She did her best in space’. 

Thanos patted her on the hair (bastard Obadiah did the same before leaving her to die), stepped back and aimed at her with the gauntlet. It hummed like an old warming-up boiler. Tony spit blood on the red sand.

“I hope they will remember you.”

“Stop!” someone called hoarsely. “Let me... save her… and I’ll give you the Stone.”

Stark’s chest flared with fury. She was always armed with arguments to counteract any sudden surge of altruism, and she had a separate speech prepared specifically for the wizard, ready even on the flying doughnut, yet now, all she could manage was an indignant wheeze. And what about ‘the choice between you, the boy and the Stone is obvious to me’? Tony turned to him, but Strange stared at her drearily, and Thanos, watching their silent “We didn’t fight our asses off for—” – “I have a plan” – “If you give him the Stone, I’ll rip your head off”, seemed to interpret it in a drastically wrong way. What a shame. Tomorrow, all intergalactic headlines would be proclaiming, ‘We lost because of the humans: they snatched the Stones but turned out to be a race of sentimental idiots’.

But Thanos put the gauntlet down and nodded to Strange, “No tricks.”

Tony coughed up blood.

She slid down on a cold metal, her palm on the wound. The blood felt hot and slick; Tony was certain she’d built a nanite spray into the suit, but she lacked the energy to even raise a hand. Adrenaline numbed the pain but muddled her thoughts, and the cocktail of rage and relief had an unusual taste. No, sure, she felt better when there weren’t four atom bombs aimed at her head, but a few extra minutes of life seemed like a meaningless gift. The wizard didn’t expect her to beat Thanos a second time, did he? 

As he approached, thought, it became evident that Strange was no longer putting on airs, too. Shocked, disheveled, covered in scratches, red soil smeared across his face, he pinned her down with his weight, and, alright, fine, he got his ass beaten too. But at least he wasn't choking on his own blood, so score one for Tony, then? Comradeship didn’t suit Strange, and after all the special effects he had showed, let him try to say he wasn't bluffing — Tony would burn with shame.

He covered her palms with his on the wound. Strange's hands were warm and trembling; a green mist occurred from under his cloak, and green rings lit up over his wrists as he leaned to Stark's ear, “Bleecker Street one-seven-seven-a, remember, Stark, Bleecker Street—”

The green fog was thickening, Strange seemed almost guilty, and when Tony opened her mouth, blood ran down her chin. Instead of a perplexed ‘what?’ she only managed to groan.

“There’s no other way.”

Perhaps it was exactly what it seemed: they were stuck in space, failed, and the wizard challenged fate. But fate usually was ready for such things and raised stakes in response — if it didn’t settle for bombs, greedy jerks, and faceless armies, it reserved something unimaginable for Tony. Well, fine. Tony’s imagination wasn’t enough even for ‘thousands of miles away from Earth’. 

She had many questions, but her ears got blocked, and the green mist swallowed her up – the last thing she heard was Strange's scream as he shielded her from the purple wave that struck him in the back.

***

“Boss?”

Tony gasped and clutched the leather armrests. The cold air poured into her head — the engine was buzzing, the headlights flickered into a colourful kaleidoscope, and Stark pressed herself against the back of the seat, “Stop the car!”

“What, why?”  

“Stop the car, I’m gonna—”

Yeah. That.  

Happy turned the steering wheel; Tony opened the door and threw up on the black concrete before the car stopped.  

“Holy shit, Tony! What’s going on?!”

Good question, a great one. As Stark was spitting the sourness out, Happy forcefully pulled her seat down, and Tony slumped onto the cold leather, exhausted. She stretched her legs, the heels against the floor. A tight watch band encircled her wrist, the scent of hairspray lingered in her hair, and the elastic waistband of her chiffon trousers was constricting. She probed her stomach where the hole had been just moments ago. The absence of pain tingled at her fingertips, and Tony clutched her left wrist.

“Ma'am,” FRIDAY greeted, “you’re showing the symptoms—”  

“Tony? How are you?” Happy handed her napkins. Stark wiped her lips, soaked her forehead and touched the comm, rejecting Friday’s request. “Talk to me, Tony.”

Talk. Yes, to talk — conversations always saved her, and it was the thirty-first of May in the ‘date’ column on the dashboard. But Tony wasn’t with Happy on the night highway the last time it was the thirty-first of May. She was on her morning run in Central Park, going to Katz’s Deli for pastrami and accidentally found out Earth had a Sorcerer Supreme. The last time it was the thirty-first of May—

“The Falcon Heavy test flight, you remember?” her voice was weak and trembled. She took the water bottle from Happy. “He said he’s gonna launch humanity into space one day, and the Daily Bugle made an article about panic attacks and Mars development. After InSight, there are rumours they have informants at NASA, and if I’m honest, that Willis guy always seemed like a dark horse to me,” she quacked with a flimsy chuckle, but Happy still looked at her with concern and confusion, and Stark almost burst into tears. She pressed her cheek against the seat. “What about the Commonwealth Games, the fifteenth of April? Are Shady Acres demolished already?” 

She was busy moving, turned Euronews on in a Sydney hotel while cutting a broken nail and remembered about the nursing home only because of the South Park reference, but Happy looked even more perplexed. 

“You’re scaring me, boss.”

Touché. 

“Tell me you at least have a chocolate bar here.”

He did it. The damn wizard really did—

She was in Hogan's Audi on Earth, on a bustling New York night, and she remembered that evening very well. Spider-boy, having researched the complexities of heroism and responsibility, refused to take a new nano-suit, and at the following press conference, Tony discussed the Avengers Compound, and how she “yes, really” had broken up with Steve, and her recent subpoena, prompted by rumours of his return (but actually, due to his acquisition of Raft’s code locks and Vision’s subsequent flight from the country — Tony shrugged and pretended she didn’t see the connection). As the realisation sank in, she felt a sour taste of champagne in her mouth, the smell of sweat emanating from her shirt, and she burst out laughing when Happy gave her a roll of golden foil.

“I told you Parker’s a good lad,” she squeezed Happy’s hand. “Drop me at Bleecker Street. I have a doctor's appointment.”

“Twenty to midnight?”

“He’s a weirdo.”

Luckily, Happy knew when not to ask questions.  

Tony had twenty-three arguments as to why time travel was impossible (in terms of physics) and wrong (in terms of human logic), yet she couldn’t even grumble to FRIDAY because FRIDAY would hardly explain the paradox without making a few notes for psychiatric evaluation. And not that Tony was afraid, on the contrary, the prospect of closing herself in a room with padded walls seemed rather appealing. She pulled down her tight jacket.

Perhaps she had overrated her well-being when assuring Happy that she was fine, but now, all she had left was to munch on a chocolate bar. Perhaps she was heading to the wrong place. The wizard would kick her out. But maybe, he would really have nothing more to explain — time travel was a self-evident explanation on its own. Was it worth pursuing a strategy, then? Gathering everyone? Going against Thanos the old-fashioned way? Rogers. ‘Old-fashioned way’ meant ‘Rogers’. No, personal feuds faded in the face of a worldwide threat, and Tony knew very well how and where she should shove her pride, but crossing the road to the wizard’s porch seemed far easier than looking for Steve now — over the past year and a half, he’d mostly been spotted near Wakandan woods, remote and heavily guarded. How convenient. And if not for that, perhaps, neither space nor time travel would've happened at all. Or at least, he would have sent her a card — Tony turned forty-five two days ago. Or forty-four? Oh, the wizard had better have a satisfactory explanation for where a year of her life had vanished.

She quickly ran out of chocolate and still needed to offer someone her therapeutic right hook (therapeutic — for herself and a hook — for the first one who comes up). The Sanctum doors opened before her.  

The wizard stood on a wide staircase, looking surprisingly out of place amid the interior’s rich neoclassicism in his insultingly modern T-shirt and sweatpants, with a greased pocket of French fries in his hands, the golden necklace hanging from his neck. Tony noticed a flash of surprise in his eyes before his gaze attentively sharpened, “You?”

“No, you!” her voice pitched; Tony pointed her finger at him. The foil cracked in her fist. “You and your damn laws of nature, high stakes and millions of futures! Hey, I don’t hear your remorse, come on, repeat after me, ‘You were right, Tony! If I had done as you said, none of this would have happened!’ No? Won’t even try? Oh, 'course, who am I talking to.”

The triangular frowning fold deepened on Stephen’s forehead, but Stark marked the room with a wide gesture. “And this is your plan? Start over like — hi, Wong — it’s some fucking video game? And don’t make this face, we both know: either you broke the physics, or I lost my mind, but since reality hasn't collapsed, and I still understand what I’m saying, alright,” she waved her hand, not so much pointing as trying to brush the familiar cold off of her chest. “Get the Stone out. Let’s end it once and for all.”

Wong looked at the staircase, even more bewildered than Happy's been, but Strange only sighed and raised his fingers, turning his home clothes into the multilayered blue suit. A box of fries disappeared in a cloud of golden sparks. “Nice to meet you too, Stark.”

“No, don’t you dare! Your goddamn not-my-business attitude is not gonna work, doc, because you saw the future, and you said there was no other way, and I know for sure that you... that you... don’t... you—”

The air suddenly vanished from her lungs. As far as she remembered, all the wizard ever did was flaunt his wondrous omniscience, and judging by his overly preoccupied expression now, he really didn’t understand anything. What an asshole. Took the saving oblivion for himself. Tony closed her eyes, clenched her wrist, and FRIDAY reported on the panic attack. 

“Shit.”

The heels were too high. Tony swayed to the table and grabbed the back of a high chair — it turned around and welcomed her in the tight jacquard of its seat. Tony slid down half-lying, covered her face with her palm, and heard Strange telling Wong something about water. Then the wizard appeared before her, crouching, his cold blue eyes studying her with such attention as if her thoughts were written on her face and Strange was reading them. 

“We didn’t get along, obviously.”

“Obviously.”  

“Argued a lot?”

“Broke the record.”

“I’ve heard you tend to overreact.”

“Yeah, I remember you taller.”  

“Crave sweets?”

“Extremely.”

“You’ve travelled in time.”  

“No, I’m on my period.”

“Really?”

She pursed her lips, and Strange gave her a glass. Tony sipped water, then scooped it with her fingertips and patted herself on the cheeks. The cloudy veil before her eyes started to vanish, and she smelled sour notes of apple scent.  

“What happened, Stark?”

What. Half an hour ago, she was on a dead planet in space, the kid she was responsible for was lying with his neck broken before her, a gang of space idiots was cut into smooth blocks, and an overgrown grape stabbed her with a sword from her suit — she was already going into the light, but a scared sorcerer decided to role-play Back to the Future. He gave her a year. Minute to minute. And Tony didn’t really care about the space-time continuums — those were the last things on her mind after being yanked through them against the grain — and if it weren’t for the sand creaking on her teeth or phantom wound aching in her stomach, she wouldn’t even believe it all happened for real.

Oh, and one more thing: the only person she could’ve discussed any of this with (because the teenager who got there by mistake and Star Idiot with his ridiculous team didn’t count) hasn’t experienced any of it. Which was incredibly insensitive of him, by the way — to say about the inevitable and die — and Tony was envious of how timely he left the stage. No, she had enough. Next time, he would lock himself one-on-one with a living nightmare in a time paradox.  

But if fate didn’t settle for bombs and faceless armies…

“Thanos, Infinity Stones,” Tony rubbed the bridge of her nose. “End of the world, a bit bigger than usual. There, in the future, none of this would've happened if you’d just listened to me, damn it.”

She looked at Strange with helpless rage — she wanted to be angry with someone, but this Strange was guilty of nothing. Tony raised her chin and poked his necklace. “We destroy the Stone, and it doesn’t destroy us. As simple as that.”

The necklace swung like a pendulum, but Strange pressed it to his chest. “Is that why I turned back your time?”

No — he did it because her death on Titan didn’t lead to a win, obviously. Their loss did, though. 

But the loss led to her death.  

Tony didn’t like antinomy and avoided abstract philosophising, but she found herself grappling with it now — the equation simply didn’t add up. There weren’t enough explanations on the one side; on the other, there were three hundred and sixty-five extra days. And there was no way a stolen (or gifted?) year could be the answer to all her questions; it was more likely that some crucial intermediary information had died with Strange in the future. If time management had a physical form, it would be turning in its grave.

Tony squeaked her fingers against the wooden armrest, “It’s funny you asked, ‘cos I had the same question for you. Decided to take an in-advance revenge?”

“Such a major jump in time violates the laws of nature too crudely for this lyricism. I must’ve had a good reason for it.”

“And an even better reason not to discuss your reasons with anyone else. Hey, Wong, has he always been a snooty secretive ass, or is it just with me?”

Wong snorted, and Strange glanced at him frowning, but his expression had already changed from tense to restlessly thoughtful. He looked at Stark like she was an unexplored substance that could either cure all illnesses or blow up the planet, and he seemed concerned with something other than violating the laws of nature. Like it wasn’t enough.  

Tony didn’t like his look — as if she was a bag with a bomb — and she pulled away, remarking how close to each other she and the wizard froze during the conversation. He got up, gestured to the leather chair. Wong disappeared in the kitchen doors, and the Cloak landed on its master’s back; Strange sat on the edge of the chair and locked his hands. The necklace hung invitingly on his chest, grab it and run. 

“You're gonna drink your tea, Stark, and tell me everything. From the very beginning.”

“Since my birth?”

“Let’s not force it.”

Tony twitched her lips but swallowed the quip. Her stretched-out nervous system was hissing indistinctly, like a broken radio, and this, too, would have been funny if it hadn’t been so. Tony didn’t believe in destiny, clinging to scientific scepticism, but as a scientist and sceptic, she couldn’t ignore the facts: she had a year in reserve, anxiety for the future that’s already happened, but hasn’t yet, and not a hint of a plan. And she had the Stone, and the snobby sorcerer, and a couple of time paradoxes, too, and only one thing Tony knew for sure: fate hadn’t allowed a purple asshole thousands of miles away from Earth to kill her because it had better options.

And, okay. One breath in, one breath out. 

It could’ve been worse.

“I’m speaking, you’re silent,” Tony clenched her teeth at his nod. She pulled herself up by the armrests, thought about taking the heels off and pushed the sorcerer away with a not-very-convincing disaffection. “Get out of my personal space.”

The origami of blue fabric on his chest was way softer than it looked.

Chapter Text

When Stephen mentioned Kamar-Taj, Stark, fixing the white robe he’s given her (“no, Doc, I’d rather die than spend another minute on heels”), mumbled something about comfortable caves in a mountain forest, but Stephen only bit his tongue. He was itching to respond, but he knew better than to prove to people that he was sane. He picked up the Teaching of Time, the detailed records of Agamotto’s disciples, and promised not to gloat but couldn’t help but smirk when he noticed Stark’s astonishment as she stepped onto the Kamar-Taj roof.

Golden daylight glossed over the round marble tiles and stabbed the eyes after the pitch-dark New York night. Stephen helped mop the training rooftops yesterday, but the light stones on the ground seemed dusty when dry anyway. Masters Nimah and Xiong, who were running the afternoon combat sessions, nodded to Stephen, and Stephen nodded back.  

“I’m starting to understand,” Stark’s tension faded under the curiosity, her eyes pinned to the disciples. “The first rule of the occultism: don’t tell anyone about the Fight Club—”

“Boring pop.”

“First of all, it’s an immortal classic; secondly, damn it, Doc. If I know anything about martial arts — and I do know a couple things — you have a proper army here.”

“Physical exercise produces endorphins. We’re a therapeutic community, not a military school.”

“Really? I can’t remember them teaching us kung-fu at AA meetings.”

Stephen shook his head.

The thin collar of his yellow haori slipped down while walking and now sank into his neck. Stephen shrugged. The obligatory garments of the Sorcerer Supreme were about his size only on the first fitting; since then, the silk jacket felt too big no matter how often he put it on. Whatever it meant — because, firstly, patience and dedication would make up for it, and, secondly, Strange had enough expressive clothes in his life. The Cloak, wrapped around his belt as a red scarf, tightened itself on his waist. Stephen gave it a gentle slap.  

He led Stark down the stairs and then, from under the brick canopy leading to the greenhouses and living quarters, into the courtyard. There, chairs and boxes were stacked by the tree, several masters carrying them away through the portal. The reconstruction of the London Sanctum was progressing rapidly, nearly complete, with relics to be retrieved and defenses renewed. And although neither this nor the renovation of the New York Sanctum, nor the restoration of the Hong Kong library saved Strange from new grey hair, he did his best to encourage the masters’ inspiration. The shadow of the Zealots massacre still hung over Kamar-Taj, and it was almost ironic how the sorcerers, accustomed to outlandish threats, turned out so utterly unprepared for a backstab. While they easily dismissed the invincible Dark Dimension from their list of concerns, the sudden loss of librarians, two Sanctum Masters, and the Sorcerer Supreme caught them off guard.

Stark slowed down, staring at the giant tree’s blue flowers, and Stephen coughed politely to get her attention. A couple masters sat on the benches, their faces up to the warm sun, and students crowded by the library door. Stephen welcomed his first seven novices with sensitivity and almost sincere interest but then stopped messing around, and as they cried and confessed in front of him, he studied their consciousness just like people check broken eggs in the tray in a shop. Over the last four months, only two of the twenty who came turned out reporters; seven others were likely to stay in Kamar-Taj after recovering, and Stephen considered it good statistics — people healed, the number of the reality defenders grew, and life went on. 

The masters nodded to him but said nothing. The yellow colour on the Supreme informed everyone that the council meeting was about to begin, so it was no time for small talk. In case Stark would ask why on Earth they defiled all the way around. Stephen hid a yawn in his shoulder — his body adapted slowly to fatigue multiplied by the time difference — and glanced at Stark. But she remained suspiciously quiet even when the Council room doors opened before her.

The elders bowed to the Supreme and continued their conversations without paying attention to the guest, the buzzing of their voices crushing Strange. He pulled off the collar of his blue robe hidden underneath the jacket, his hands trembling again. Though the room wasn’t particularly large, it appeared spacious due to the arrangement of low tables around the perimeter. The wooden planks on the floor formed a herringbone pattern, framing a square of thick glass, and light from narrow windows illuminated red runes etched on the glass surface. There stood only a wooden pulpit and a massive silver chandelier, its long candles stretching all the way up to the ceiling. Strange counted eight lit candles; Master Ling was lighting his one in the upper row, and three more sorcerers waited on the stairs; all council members were present. Stephen tossed a glance around the room. It seemed packed with all its buzz and stewards fussing with the trays. 

“And not a single plasma lamp from the Volmart? Are you really sorcerers?” Tony arched her eyebrow, her hands in the pants pockets. “What a scam.”

“Answer when you are asked. The rest of the time, try to behave — we are not in a courtroom, and you won’t get into CNN prime time.”

“Then I see even fewer reasons—”  

“Stark.”

“And he’s angry! I’m sorry, does your ‘behave’ mean to keep my mouth shut? After you dragged me back in time without even asking? Are you kidding?”

Stephen pursed his lips but said nothing. He left the book on the pulpit, gave the senior steward incense sticks and joined masters on the stairs. They immediately fell silent, all their attentive gazes pinned to him. Stephen looked away. He never considered himself antisocial, but here, now, with a fatal threat on the horizon, standing before people to whom he was responsible for each step, all his communication skills narrowed down to a dry nod.

Master Ray, a new guardian of the main library dressed in a green robe with a high collar, was the next in line to light the candles. The years took the volume from her hair and added sedateness to her friendly gaze, but her figure retained energetic vigour, and her face seemed ageless. Ray glanced at Stark with curiosity and distrust and shook her head as if putting a final dot in a recent conversation. Her tight tail swung after her head movement. “Either way, I may only hope that the suddenness of the meeting will be justified by the announcement of the name of a new Counsellor. Would you please us, Master Strange?”

“The reason for the suddenness is different but no less important.”

Master Prune, an elderly man in a blue robe, let Ray to the candles and smiled at Stephen warmly. “Threats come and go, Master Strange; the authority cycle must remain uninterrupted. Who will carry the knowledge to the next Sorcerer Supreme when you are gone?”

“Well, I wasn’t planning on dying just yet.”

Master Caton, a thin scar across his face, was one of the chief dhyana teachers and only clicked his tongue in response to Stephen’s words. “We should thank the Ancient One for strengthening the protecting spells after Kaecilius’s withdrawal — it’s the only reason they haven’t dissipated yet! The magical shield is going through a rough patch after Sanctums’ desecration, and the inner barrier will soon be completely worn out if your trustee doesn’t add their spell by the end of the next month.” 

“Master Caton,” Stephen said through his teeth, “even if you repeat it a hundred more times, I won’t find a Counsellor sooner.” 

“Stephen,” Ray stopped by him, her palm motherly on his shoulder, “don’t think me tactless, but maybe you should end the present Bond. It may not cloud your judgement, but it burdens your soul.”

His soul! Nothing burdened his soul. The bitter smell of mint tickled his nose; Stephen waited for Ray to come down, counted the candles again, and only then raised his fingers to throw a fire — the Supreme’s thick white candle traditionally stood above the others. The wick flashed, and the flame stretched out abnormally, its cold tip touching the ceiling. Then the flame fell down, and Stephen sighed. The meeting could be started.

Master Naama, the new Master of the London Sanctum, had already settled on the soft cushions and discussed something with Wong in sign language, the wide sleeves of her golden robe slipping down to her elbows, exposing the graceful arms of an ex-ballerina. As soon as she folded her hands on her lap again, Caton, also watching her, waved his hand away. 

“Everyone knows it’s him,” he turned to Stephen, coming down. “But the Sorcerer Supreme wouldn’t punish the thief, for he wishes to remain the most forgiving man of all — standing on the ruins of Kamar-Taj.”

“Sneaky attacks are painful, but an honest punch in the face would be much fairer,” Stephen stopped at the pulpit. A thick mint smoke rose from the burner at the table. “If you want to accuse me of incompetence, Master Caton, speak your mind. If you’re insinuating that I’m covering for Mordo because of some special attitude, then you’re wrong — by violating our library’s impregnability, he challenged me in the first place. But unfortunately, at the moment, I know no more about him than anyone else in this room.”

Naama raised her hands again, and after listening to her, Stephen shook his head. “Don’t forget, the library is open to everyone.”

“Master Strange,” Malek exclaimed, her dark eyes gleaming: she was an excellent fighter, but her teenage-like rigidity was hard to get used to, “you refuse to cut off the Bond but accuse us of complicity?”

“I know Mordo preaches against us, and I know that from you. Facts are a stubborn thing, Master Malek, and I mean nothing else. I only ask you to be careful and interview everyone again in case one of the disciples forgot to return the book.”

“Master Strange,” Master Ben called carefully, “Mordo preaches against you.”

Stephen gave him an icy look. Someone either snorted or coughed; Wong frowned, masters Tina and Hamir leaned to each other to whisper. 

“Whatever he does, there are no flock of henchmen anywhere near Mordo,” Ling remarked, looking at Ben with a gentle warning. “We hardly have anything to fear, my friends. Moreover, Mordo doesn’t even come close to our walls.” 

“Except when he steals our books,” Master Tina glanced at Ling coldly, and Stephen swept the dust off the pulpit. 

“Anyway, it’s not the time to discuss it.”

“Yeah, thank you,” Tony crossed her arms on her chest. “Your local games of thrones are very amusing, but we kinda have a real problem here.”

Because of either swallowed resentment or imposed shame, Stephen felt his neck colouring up and gave Tony an angry look. But masters finally turned their heads to her for the first time. They studied her briefly, and Ray shrugged, “Honestly, Master Strange, we shan’t call the Council meeting every time we encounter a mystical anomaly, shall we?”

“The mystical anomaly is here, by the way, hello, and she has a name. It’s ‘Tony’ or ‘Miss Stark’ or ‘Iron Man’; nice to meet you,” she raised her eyebrows. “In case you don’t watch the news.”

Everything was wrong about her turned-up head and shamelessly raised voice, but Stephen admitted a swift, out-of-place warm approval touched his chest. “Take your seat, Miss Stark,” he asked, and Tony, perhaps only because she heard no hint of command in his tone, sat down. Stephen then turned to the Council. All the masters settled, the stewards left the hall, and everyone was waiting for Strange. He cleared his throat. “First of all, I want to thank you for the prompt reaction. I know how busy each of you is, and I am glad to see everyone was able to respond to my request. I suppose there won’t be objections if we skip the news part, and I’ll explain the urgency of the meeting.”

He turned to Stark again, and she frowned at his outstretched hand. Stephen tried to keep an expression of honest friendliness on his face, noting how the wings of her nose trembled and how she glanced behind his back at the twelve pairs of eyes scanning her.

But then she nodded reluctantly, “You have five seconds before I change my mind.” 

Stephen closed his eyes and put two fingers on her forehead. Curiosity was of little help in telepathy, and he touched Stark’s thoughts carefully — her mind was dishearteningly open and pulsated painfully. A blurry vision flashed before his eyes, but Stephen nearly stumbled into a hole at the center of the vision — red sand overlapping with a jumble of blue walls from a wrecked spaceship, bleak scarlet sparks dancing on the edges of the rift. Stephen shuddered as the witch’s magic nipped at the tips of his fingers, but, regaining his composure, he redirected his focus back to Tony’s vision, the magical electricity warming his palm. Soon, a familiar tremor followed, and as Stark’s memories poured thickly into his fist, he casted them onto the floor in front of the pulpit.

A cloud of golden pollen exploded silently, and Stark’s memories flashed over the floor like a film in fast-forward mode. They showed Benner telling about Thanos, and a spaceship shaped like a ring, and the scorched ground of Titan. Some masters watched the memories with frowns, others kept unreadable expressions; Stark gave the memories a gloomy glance and then covered her face with her palm. The slideshow ended with a flash of green light.  

A heavy silence fell in the room. Stephen came to the pulpit, his fingers on the Eye, checking if it was in its place, and spoke again, “In the future, I compromised the integrity of space-time by returning Miss Stark one year back in time. But I was driven by some computation.” He opened the book and ran his finger over the page. Then raised his head again. “At the dawn of the mystical arts, Agamotto’s disciples experimented with the Stone. And so they wrote, ‘When travelling back in time for more than three days, any master becomes a link between two timelines. Thirty days since the moment of arrival in the past determine a new future: either the traveller doesn’t change the past, and his memory about the future becomes a prophetic reality, or he does change it, and in case of success, the future events, known to the traveller, do not affect the new reality’.”

“Long story short,” Stark took the palm off her face, “if we don’t figure this mess out in a month, either a half of humanity’s gonna be wiped out by a space psychopath or we’re all gonna be stuck in a time loop, and hell knows what’s worse. But if we don’t wanna end up at the crossroads of such attractive prospects — and we don’t — we must get rid of the Stone. Now.” 

The room exploded with discontent. Some masters jumped up; the others turned their indignant expressions to Stephen; in the mix of raised voices, he heard angry ‘unbelievable’ and ‘who let her here’. Stephen rubbed the bridge of his nose, noticed with some irritation how Stark jumped from her seat, agitated, to get into an argument with Ray, and finally raised his hand, calling for silence. The flame of his candle stretched to the ceiling again, and the quarrel immediately died down.

Stephen looked at the masters with reproach. “These walls shouldn’t listen to useless disputes.” Then he turned to Stark, “We’ve heard you; now, be so kind, calm down and take your seat.”

She opened her mouth but changed her mind. She plunged into the chair and put her hand up her cheek, her finger tapping nervously on her temple. As soon as Stephen turned back, Wong got up and bowed his head, asking for permission. Stephen nodded without enthusiasm.  

“What does the book say about Absolute Points?”

Stephen traced the page down with his finger. “‘In every two tests out of ten, according to the travellers, the change of the past has not led to the change of the future; we assume it is somehow connected to the Unbreakable, also known as Absolute Points in time and the law of causality’. Masters, we can’t say that Thanos's attack is—”

“You saw fourteen million futures,” Malek remarked without batting an eyelid at his warning glance. “And in each of them, you spoke of a war with Thanos.”

“Because I saw the future from where he had already attacked.”

“So why don’t you look into the future again, now?”

“Because,” Stephen raised his eyebrows, “reality doesn’t seek self-destruction, and, according to the law of causality, in the next thirty days, I’ll be able to see only one future — the same one you all have just seen.”

Sorcerers leaned towards each other, whispering. Changing the future meant destroying the Stone, not changing it — voluntarily giving it to Thanos eventually.

Finally, Master Eve, sitting right in front of the pulpit, stood up, her hands folded together. Her head of blonde curly hair jumped up as she got up. “Yet it’s not the Stone that causes the destruction the future foretells. Thanos is the cause, and the Infinity Stones are no more than his shortcut.”

“To hide the Stone better,” Hamir agreed, “would be a solution equal to its destruction.”

“The loss of the Stones in the twenty-twelfth didn’t stop the Black Order,” Malek remarked, and Stark gritted her teeth. “Not to mention the long-term danger of destroying the Time Stone.”

“But if the inevitability was so unambiguous, I doubt we would have gathered here today,” Eve said, her penetrating gaze on Stephen. “What else is troubling you, Master Strange?”

The jacket’s collar has stuck into his neck again. Stephen shrugged, brushing off the stinging on the skin, and caught Tony’s wary gaze before yet again wiping the dust off the pulpit. “I had a vision in my last meditation with Vishanti spells. Kamar-Taj was on fire, green fire. But as soon as I approached it, the vision changed: sunlight was filling our courtyards; the rooms were cleaned, and the walls painted new. According to my calculations, I got this vision about the same time I decided to turn the time back in the future.”

Stark clicked her tongue and rubbed her forehead wearily, but this time, none of the masters said a word. They looked at each other silently until Caton finally got up, his fingers around his tight belts, “Who else, but I think the solution is obvious. The Time Stone has protected this reality since time immemorial. The vision is a direct illustration of what might happen if we destroy it.” 

A worm of doubt twisted in Stephen’s chest, but Ben also got up and remarked, “All the more so, the proposal came from a stranger.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Tony raised her eyebrows with fake laziness, her voice vibrating angrily, “but you think it’s not worth trying to stop a psycho who wants to weed the world because you suggest he’s some kind of untouchable non-scientific value?”

“We don’t suggest it; we know it for sure,” Ray argued, “and you know it as well: he’ll come to Earth no matter what, either for the Stone or the weeding. There are some things we can’t interfere with, Miss Stark, and perhaps you find it difficult to understand, but—”

“Perhaps countless lives all over the universe is a concept too vague for you, but I’ll clarify: out of the seven billion people on Earth, only three and a half will be left, while all the rest — men, women, children — will die and die for nothing, because some jerk decided it’s for the best, and you refused to stop him.”  

“If you want numbers, very well then: without the Time Stone, out of the seven billion people, no one would have been left four months ago. And this, too, is narrowed down to Earth statistics.”

“So we’re all sheep, and you’re our wise shepherds? Deciding on who’s for wool and who’s for the slaughterhouse?”

“It’s your guilt talking right now, Miss Stark, but the world is bigger than the iron suit, and you’re not yet guilty of anything.”

“Isn’t your conceit tight?”

“Enough,” Stephen barked, the heat of the fight touching his face, and the flame of his candle raised again. Stark leaned to the back of her chair. “This argument is not only offensive, but it will also not solve anything. I’ve called you here to decide on the role of the Stone in a conflict we cannot avoid, and Miss Stark has provided valuable information on the trajectory with which reality will now try to align.” Master Ling raised his hand, but Stephen shook his head. “Let’s vote.” 

While masters were writing their decisions, Stephen glanced at Tony. She froze on the chair, sparkling with desperate anger, but as soon as she caught his gaze, she yawned. Stephen bit his cheek but couldn’t help a response yawn anyway, and Stark’s lips twitched with a smirk. He could almost hear her snide, ‘we be of one blood, thou and I…’, but he just pulled down the jacket. 

Twelve votes were against, and none were for. Nobody wanted to lose the Stone.  

The candles went out as the masters were leaving the room. Stephen closed the book, took the Eye off and ran his fingers over the rough curved lines. The sorcerers were talking again, and Strange sighed with relief, hearing not a mention of Mordo or a Counsellor among their quiet discussions. Ben even came over to apologise for the intemperance, and Stephen let him go in peace.  

The runes under Stark’s feet flashed red. After watching Caton and Naama leave the room, she swung on her heels. “It’s me who travelled in time, yet the decision is made by a bunch of grumpy old boys.”

“An interesting way of saying ‘I don’t know how to accept defeat’.”  

“He said, after turning back time to cover up his shameful failure,” she crossed her arms on her chest. “And don’t make this face. You know, too, that leaving it as it is is a suicide.”

Her tone lost its sarcastic playfulness. Strange frowned — he knew what she meant. There are more chances of defeating Thanos, who didn’t have one of the Stones, than Thanos, who collected them all, but the concept of duty wasn’t loose; by breaking the oath, Stephen would’ve immediately admitted his short-sightedness, and the council meetings were carried for a reason: if twelve of the most judicious sorcerers on Earth didn’t see any threat, the Supreme’s position obliged—

“Your fatalistic mindset is to Thanos's advantage,” Stark turned away. “When he needs the Stone, no matter how hard you hide it, he will wipe this place out. There, in the future, it wasn’t just me who lost to him.”  

“But so did you.”

“That’s why of all the options, I choose to push reality beyond the event horizon!”

“The Time Stone stays here.”  

“There are others,” Stark twitched her shoulder. “Another. One. On Earth. Let’s suppose I believe,” waved her hand, “this vision of yours is about the Stone, and let’s say it complies with Novikov self-consistency principle, which means it works within a closed timelike curve, which in turn means that none of the other five Stones are restricted by physical causality—” 

She broke off and pursed her lips. Strange wasn’t sure whether it was the speed of her train of thought or simply the words he didn’t understand — the ease she reasoned with was both astonishing and humiliating. 

Stark tapped her fingers on her elbow and sighed patiently. “You think you should write either ‘choice’ or ‘predestination’ on the chair you sit on, but I say you can write both because there are two chairs.”  

“Because there are a few Stones." She nodded. "Go on.”

“Another Stone... is on my friend’s keeping, my ex-friend’s, more of an acquaintance, really, and the problem is, I don’t know yet if it’s safe to remove the Stone, but I have a mock-up and a couple ideas—”

—and there are more chances of defeating Thanos, who didn’t have one of the Stones, than Thanos, who collected them all. Stephen clenched his fist, the Sling Ring pressing hard against his knuckles. “Do you know where he is? Where’s Vision?”  

“I know how to find him if the Stone can be safely removed.”

Stephen nodded, a brief excitement shivering in his chest. Perhaps the disturbing vision of Kamar-Taj's future was about the Time Stone, making a particular future inevitable, yet maybe, the inevitable was avoidable if they could get rid of another Stone. But instead of thrilling determination, Stephen felt a dull stiffness on his shoulders and barely managed to hide another yawn in his elbow. 

The fifth rule of the Fight Club: one fight at a time. He couldn’t remember why he kept the quote from the book in his memory, and for a moment, he thought it was Tony’s thought, not his own. But she just raised her eyebrows, and her eyes, shining with a weary friskiness for the first time since her arrival, seemed enormous against the whiteness of her clothes. 

“Bring me home, Fairy Godmother, before you turn into a pumpkin and come in the morning — and shall your ego not be hurt, it’s a business proposal, not an order.”

Chapter Text

Neither the night nor the morning shower took a heavy anxiety off of Tony’s chest but at least she smelled like grapefruit now. The dark cotton of her tracksuit, just taken from the dryer, was pleasantly rubbing against her skin, and together with the laundry detergent’s fresh smell, the combination of scents created a convincing illusion of cheerfulness and eagerness.

Strange wasn’t long in coming.

A portal opened in the corridor, and the wizard stepped onto the glossy black parquet. A couple feet off. No, if they had to work together, she’d need to activate motion sensors — though she doubted Strange would appreciate it, she was ready to overlook his outrage just to see the expressions on his face change when FRIDAY threatened him with a couple of laser pens. Just like in low-budget spy movies. Tony twitched the corners of her lips: sometimes, she was such a five-year-old.

Hidden behind a pile of the newest equipment, she swept off a hologram of news footage (the morning’s highlight was an overnight death of more than a hundred bamboo rats in Pokhara) and hid a yawn in a mug while the wizard briskly inspected the corridor. That’s how one could tell which of them two didn’t have to wake up at the first light to get to the Hudson River without traffic (“and who thought it was a good idea to build the Compound three hours drive from the centre!” – “you, ma'am”). And, no, Tony loved driving, but, hey, when did waking up at six in the morning bring any kind of joy?..

“Stark?”

“You’re terrible, absolutely terrible,” she removed the cold tea bags from under her eyes, “‘cos it’s forbidden by law to look so alive after four hours of sleep.”

The wizard slid the glass doors open and entered the workshop. He was dressed in a generic tracksuit — an interesting alternative to a carnival costume — with the Cloak resting on his shoulders. And the necklace on his chest. Interesting. Strange glanced at her with a pretend boredom, his eyes pinned to the top arc of the reactor on Stark’s cleavage seen in her unzippered jacket’s neckline. But then he turned away, as if decided not to comment, and tossed a picky glance at the capsule where the Mark LXXXV was being developed. Dum-E lifted its claw to him.

“Ever tried sleeping more than four hours?”

“Nah, can’t remember. Make him coffee, FRIDAY, and don’t you dare argue, doc, I don’t even wanna know there are people who don’t need a cup of double espresso to function this early. And take an apple, Snow White.”

Tony put the mug next to a transparent bowl, berries and red apples glistening in the morning light, and approached the tablet by the wall with a handful of grapes. The loading bar was nearing the edge; Tony's eaten all the bananas on her way here and filled the fridge with the rest of the fruits. Before sleep, looking for something to take the pills with (whether the ones for the heart or for hormones; Tony took a couple in the evenings, and judging by the headache and mild arrhythmia, yesterday she confined herself to contraceptives), she found only a slice of cheese and two eggs in the fridge. Ah, the good old days when she’s been too busy selling the Tower and babysitting a super-powered teenager to get her groceries on time.

Fortunately, Happy, bless his soul, left her a bag from Whole Foods and a note asking her to take care of herself. However, instead of taking care of herself, Stark wanted a chocolate cake but found just an old pack of Oreo in the cupboard. Pepper’d have strangled her for the empty fridge, and she really did miss how angry he used to get at her domestic negligence, but he’d been dead for five years — or was it four now? — and maybe it was time she stopped thinking about it at all.

Tony locked the tablet with some extra abruptness and caught Strange’s gaze. On the table, a red arc of the shield was peering from under the sheet of iron, but the wizard ignored it politely; he straightened up in front of the window, and it seemed as though a red-leaf apple tree was growing right from the shoulders of the Cloak. 

Tony chewed a juicy grape. “So, you didn’t leave the Stone in your monastery after all.”

“It’s fake,” he tapped on the necklace’s convex edge, and it answered with a glass tinkle. “What do you have here, Stark?”

She threw the grape branch out and called FRIDAY.

“Ninety-six per cent sorted, boss.”

“We have about three minutes,” Tony sipped the cold coffee. It had a slippery milky aftertaste soiled with a non-consumable dose of sugar, and she, wincing, gave the mug to Dum-E. Then nodded at Strange’s chest again. “Where’s the real one?”

“Hidden. In a safe place.”

“Yeah, right. And aren’t you afraid your mysterious library raider will steal the Stone during his next heist?”

“No.”

“You sure? Bet your life?”

A quick arrogant smile appeared on his lips and made Tony’s fists itch. No, she was a well-known pacifist, but on the other hand, she almost died for the world yesterday, and now, she couldn’t even rightly blame the sorcerer for the mess, and that expression of his — which hasn't been followed by anything good so far — naturally made her vibrate angrily. 

She took a screwdriver, “Who is he, by the way? Oh, no need for dramatic sighs, I really don’t care; I’m just trying to avoid awkward silence.”

“And this is a fiasco.”

“You know, as the one whom you’ve taken back in time without asking, I think I have every right to—”

Strange clicked his tongue, and Tony shut her mouth. But in response to her indignant look, he only took an apple from the bowl. “You’ll get over it, Stark.”

“Get over? Like nothing happened — is this your all-time tactic? Or just a mantra?”

His expression shifted, an icy warning flashing in grey eyes. But then Strange looked away, putting the apple on the table, and Tony blinked and turned away, too. She tapped her elbow with the screwdriver, a pang of vague guilt instead of satisfaction in her chest, and mentally told herself off.

Stephen spun the apple and nodded. “Mordo. He was the man who opened Kamar-Taj’s door to me. Literally.”  

“Ah. The spiritual teacher.”

“Kamar-Taj isn't a cult,” Stephen objected habitually, “and Mordo wasn’t my teacher. He was rather... my supervisor. And friend.”

“And what happened then, he couldn’t handle the pressure of your excessive niceness? Milk, sugar?”

“Two spoons, no milk,” Strange watched distrustfully as Dum-E took the cup out of the coffee machine. “We didn’t see eye to eye. He left.”

“Pretty short-sighted since he’s coming back regularly anyway; he could’ve stuck his principles deeper and stayed to read all he wanted. Maybe, you should open a book club?” Tony put a spoon on the saucer and froze, her eyes on Stephen’s hands. But he took the cup tactfully, some coffee splashing out, and Stark took an apple from the bowl. “Put a donation box by the entrance, and you’ll make a fortune in a month. Think about it.”

Stephen wiped the brown smudge off the cup. “Mordo left because he’s always been quite... uncompromising.”

“Not the best mindset for teamwork.”

“You tell me.”

It almost sounded like a rebuke. Or did she hear it that way? Tony scratched the notch on her clavicle, turned the apple with its whole half and raised an eyebrow at the sorcerer’s glance. “And what’s all this mystical Bond between you about, is it like the Force in Star Wars? And you are the reverse Obi-Wan and Darth Vader—”

“No, Stark. It’s not like in Star Wars.” 

He put the cup down, his lips pursed at her sly smile. The Cloak, as if also chuckling, bent its collar under Stephen’s cheekbones.

“The Bond is not an omnipresent field or a special power, it’s an energy thread between the Sorcerer Supreme and the Counsellor. By the thread they define each other, find each other in space, and the Bond connects them to the shield formed around the Earth from intersections of occult energy.”

“I can’t decide what’s funnier — the fact that you seriously analysed Star Wars world-building, or that the ancient magical cult chooses their government by intuition. And a Counsellor is like an heir?”

“A Counsellor is like a counsellor.”  

“Right. So, why don’t you cut that Bond off if your Counsellor had left you?”  

“Why do you keep Captain America’s shield?”

Tony frowned. Well, because. Because science, because cultural heritage, because dad, because—

“Ready, boss.”

Stephen looked up, and Tony threw out the apple core. She gestured, summoning holographic scans, reports, photos, and a three-dimensional Vision projection woven from the lines and pixels to the centre of the room. “That’s all the information for now,” Tony took the brain model out and swept it to Strange. “Had to scrape the barrel, but it was worth it.”

The sorcerer, encased in a cocoon of holograms, looked around with careful curiosity. His fingers twitched as he extended them towards the brain projection, the Mind Stone flickering yellow in the web of neurons, and FRIDAY enlarged the image. Strange hesitated briefly before reaching out once more, a hint of newfound courage in the gesture; Tony watched him, adjusting to the technology, with unwavering fascination. Welcome back to the future, doc. Progress was relentless.

The new Avengers Compound was equipped with all state-of-the-art technology and this time, no one complained to Stark about too clever coffee makers or non-working ACs. But if the Avengers in general preferred to keep quiet about money, Rogers, the mascot of their financial ignorance, never concealed his distrust towards the joys of the twenty-first century, and his favourite tale was the world’s takeover by the machines-murders. Tony joked about senility for some time but then got angry for real. No, but what was she supposed to say? She understood machines better than people. And these fights with Steve were always pointless and rarely ended before they got offensive, too — Steve knew surprisingly much, and Tony couldn’t keep her mouth shut. And then, drunk as a kite, she threatened to knock him back into the ice coma if she hears a word about the Reptilians from him — FRIDAY blocked Rogers’s access to all channels with conspiracy crap, and Bruce couldn’t stop laughing.

Bruce. He was a Hulk’s slave on some distant planet somewhere in the middle of nowhere now, or perhaps Thor had already picked him up? Was it worth telling Strange? Could they play it all back? However, that would mean she’d have to explain to everyone (about nightmares and Thanos; about how she remembered and hasn’t forgiven yet) and endure that sad Rogers look. Tony found herself envisioning it too vividly and averted her gaze from the phantom of Steve. These memories carried with them a weight of introspection, yet Tony had no desire to self-reflect; she wanted no part of it, no explanations or yearnings stemming from those recollections. Nothing, except perhaps a fleeting drop of warmth. And a hint of joy from the semi-family gatherings, the ones with biscuits, champagne and betting on the Asgardian throne. Stark shifted her shoulder.

“He’s... Polymorphic,” Strange turned from the hologram, and Tony nodded.

“His body’s a combination of advanced synthetic biology and vibranium; the Stone’s been integrated from the beginning.” She grabbed a brain model Stephen was holding and enlarged it. The net spread over the floor with the contour of the Stone right in the centre. “It’s connected with about three trillion neurons. Each synapse is attached individually.”

“Oh. No,” Stephen chuckled. “No, Stark. Even if we had the tools to affect vibranium, the time it’d take to manually detach—”

“What a lucky coincidence that I’m producing most of the latest medical equipment, and I just happen to have a spare piece of vibranium here. Say I have the technology to perform the surgery quickly. The Stone’s reaction? Unpredictable.”

Stephen looked at her, frowning, but eventually turned back to the hologram. There was a shaving cut on his cheek, and Tony, her fingertips on her earlobe, looked distractedly at his trembling hands.

“The Stone gives him consciousness and energy. Energy isn’t a problem, but the mind…” he clenched his fists, and a net of pale scars stretched on the back of his palms. Stephen looked around. Then his eyes pinned to Tony again. “What is JARVIS?”

“An artificial intelligence. Vision’s programming and neural network, we uploaded it as a basis for personality.”

“And with its help, Vision thinks and makes decisions. Regardless of the Stone.”

Tony nodded, her fingers propping her cheek. Stephen went silent staring at the hologram, but when he spoke again, his speech’s speed revealed his excitement, “The Stone is at the centre of his neural network, but if it’s replaced with an object of the same shape and mass as, for example,” he folded his arms, and golden light flashed between his palms, “a magical replica that would provide him with infinite energy—” the light took the Stone's shape and fit perfectly into the central contour on the hologram, “—I think we can remove the Stone without compromising his personality.”

He raised his chin. It was somewhat fascinating — the way he smiled, smugly, with his eyes only. All things being equal, Tony could’ve liked him. She loved brilliant men, as for the ones she really did love. Pepper was a brilliant secretary, a brilliant businessman and friend (and brilliantly sincere when he met her at the plane ramp in two thousand eight); Rogers was, as expected, brilliant at everything (except, perhaps, everything humane). Strange was… not bad, at least. 

Tony smirked. “Good job, Watson.”

“Am I Watson?”

“Yeah, ‘cos you’re a doctor and I’m a genius,” she reduced the hologram’s size. A silent unease swelling in her mouth, Tony rinsed her teeth with salvia and crossed her arms. “Hypothetically speaking. What about the freedom of choice? Self-determination and all that. Not to underrate me, JARVIS is learning constantly, but on the bigger scale, it’s only a bunch of codes.”

“Did I mishear you, or did you just admit there’s something bigger than you in the universe?”

“Hey. Hypothetically.”

Stephen grunted and took another apple. “Neighbouring the Mind Stone for so long, your AI must’ve already understood the freedom of choice.”

“Understanding it and memorising behavioural patterns isn't the same thing.”

“Isn’t behaviour a result of a choice?”

“In AI’s case, it’s a simulation of a choice,” Tony shrugged. “It’ll always follow the algorithm.”

“As if you’re not following the algorithm.”

“But I'm aware of it, at least! And I’m gonna be really sad I wanna drink coffee but can’t ‘cos my blood pressure is too high — the artificial intelligence could never understand this dilemma.”

“For the best.”

“Let me remark, ma'am,” FRIDAY intervened, “you usually drink coffee even when it’s not recommended due to your blood pressure rates.”

“Even more so! I’m making a difficult choice, FRIDAY, and you only know ‘recommended’ and ‘not recommended’.”

“I do a thorough analysis of all the options and give the most effective advice.”

“I know, I know, you’re doing great,” Stark waved away and raised her eyebrows at Strange. “And the futures from the Stone? Weren’t you the one choosing from fourteen million?”

“I can only see short intervals.”

“Scared?”

“The human brain doesn’t have enough capacity to cover periods longer, and not a psychiatrist would ever believe me,” he grumbled gloomily. “Three of the five options usually foresee the future accurately.”

“And the other two?”

“Are a pain in the ass.”

“So, just because we’re in shit whatever future we pick, we should consider predestination not a limitation, but an advantage?”

“You do coding. You tell me.”

Catching sparks of laughter in Stephen’s eyes, Tony snorted. “Silly bluff: I’ll gladly take my suit to scrap once I figure out how to program humanity to fulfil the Hippocrates oath.”

“Mm. Doesn’t sound particularly humane.”

“No? I thought you’d like it.”

“The goal isn't bad, but the means—”

“Mass hypnosis.”

“Utopian cyberpunk, then?”

“What if I’m a robot myself?” Tony shook her head at his chuckle. Stephen threw the apple core in the trash can. “He thinks I’m joking, but the Times wrote I’m ‘quite literally an iron man’ back in two thousand nine.”

“Your heat radiation is way too chaotic for the one of a robot.”

“Oh! Really? Sounds too scientific for magic.”

“Because magic is science.”

Tony moaned and squeezed the bridge of her nose. “I can’t believe you said it. And not somewhere, but here, in my workshop, in my sanctum sanctorum!.. FRIDAY, now is the time to please me with a report on how far you got with our automated holographic surgery.”

The Cloak bent like a cat away from Dum-E’s claw, and Stephen stroked the red lining. Graphs and formulas appeared next to the model of Vision. Some of it Tony had already seen as she started thinking it through before bed yesterday, somewhere between the eggs and the shower, but FRIDAY had developed the analysis well overnight.

“Do you need help finding Vision?” Stephen coughed politely. Tony swept a formula away, then put a couple others in its place.

“Did I tell you about Wanda? She and Vision are all lovey-dovey, so you’ll get to know her. She’s our personal witch. Kind of. Something like you, but without medicine; in the team, she was famous for being unstable; in the world, for an occasional terroristic accident in twenty-sixteen. So, if you catch a sudden energy burst on your sorcery radars, there’s a chance that this, too—”

“That’s why you invited me.”

Tony clenched her teeth. No, objectively, let the wizards figure it out by themselves. Her finger on the formula, Stark turned her head to Stephen – he didn’t, however, seem angry or disappointed, but looked like she had to explain herself. She blinked. “The neurosurgeon’s opinion on a complex surgery is very valuable.”

“And I wondered.”

“I need to take the Stone measurements. Its density and other properties to know which material—”

“Did you come up with this plan this morning or yesterday, when you first mentioned the Mind Stone?”

“In my case, ‘yesterday’ is a somewhat debatable concept.”

“Stark.”

“Sorry, I don’t really get it: are you trying to accuse me of something or compliment me?”

“Ma'am,” FRIDAY inserted, “there is a subject on the terrace.”

Tony pulled away. The CCTV broadcast revealed a red and blue silhouette covered in pixilated haze — Spider-Man knocked on the window. Tony grabbed hold of the table, not sure what she related to more: panic or anger.

“Shit,” Tony scratched her left wrist but waved her hand as soon as Stephen changed to his usual multi-layer suit. “Hey, get that cruft out of my sight.”

He twitched his eyebrows, confused, but Stark hurried into the corridor and pushed the flap of the panoramic window. Parker jumped in and, without letting Tony open her mouth, pulled off the mask, “Miss Stark, you won’t believe what happened — May knows everything! I got your suit yesterday — I mean, not yours, but mine, the one you sent me — and I was so happy, and I got back from a patrol this morning, and May was standing at the door, and now she knows... She—” he broke off. Clenched his teeth and turned to Strange, his shoulders tense. “She knows... I’m not Spider-Man.”

Tony face-palmed, and Stephen frowned. “You were putting the missing dog posters on Sanctum’s door.”

“No.”

“I was taking them off, and you were putting them back on”.  

“It wasn’t me. If you’re talking about Spider-Man, then—”

“Yeah, okay,” Tony crossed her arms, “you’re literally in the suit, Parker.”

“These are my pyjamas,” he reached his palm to Stephen. “I’m Peter, by the way.” 

“Dr Strange.”

“You- you’re the surgeon, right? I was referencing your paper on neuro modelling in my presentation on electronic engineering, we were talking about electrode design optimization back then, and we– I mean, you know all that, I should stop rambling.”

His lips pursed, Parker scratched his neck. Tony glanced at Strange, his eyes narrowed with interest, but Parker suddenly straightened up, the red spandex outlining his muscles – Tony zipped her jacket and hurried after him into the workshop. Oh, no. She wasn’t returned back in time to let the kid—

“Is it the artificial synapse project you told me about?” he turned to Tony, and FRIDAY wisely removed the hologram. 

“No, it’s not. It’s another project, a new one, it’s called ‘Peter Parker is prohibited to stick his nose into it’.”

“Was that Vision’s brain?”

“Smart kid,” Stephen grunted, but Stark pointed a finger at him.  

“Just quickwitted.” 

“Hi,” Peter patted Dum-E on the claw and shifted from leg to leg. “May I stay?”

“No, you may not.”

“But I have a progressive biology test—”

“No, no, shh!” Tony clenched her wrist. “No tests, no biology, no— wait, did you come to tell me about your aunt?”

“You see, she was really angry, but we talked, and she kind of made up her mind and even started to joke,” Peter tossed an embarrassed glance at Strange, “but it’s not as much fun as it sounds.”  

“There are two stages of acceptance left, have some patience.”

“She called my Spider Senses a ‘Peter Tingle’.”  

“Deadly sin.”

“I had to confess to her my backpacks were being stolen while I was changing.”

“Not the worst price for good deeds.”

“May said she’d rip your head off for Germany.” Tony opened her mouth indignantly, and Peter straightened up. “B-but I said I was on a field trip to the Berlin branch of the Stark Industries, and- and I didn’t fight, it was just… a coincidence. I think she’s much more worried about me now.”  

“As she should.”

“But it’s an attempt on my privacy!”  

“It’s the most typical parental instinct, and you have the most typical teenage rebellion. So, summing it up,” Tony rubbed her eyebrow with her finger, “your auntie is fine, you have your suit with you and five months of paid internship left, and your workday begins,” she checked her watch, “at twelve.”  

“Actually, at nine, ma'am.”  

“Then why are you here?”  

“We were looking for some blueprints, and Mr Russell said they might be in the old warehouse, and I volunteered—”

“FRIDAY, give him access to the basement and make sure he doesn’t break anything. Go work, kid, don’t embarrass me. And take off the suit, it’s not a Halloween party. What did we agree on about Spider-Man in public places for no reason?”

“Nothing, ma'am.”

Damn time travel. Tony patted Peter on the shoulder. “That’s right,” pushed him to the door. “Go now, do your work. Drop by later.”  

Parker tripped over her warning glance and shut his mouth – said his goodbyes and disappeared from the workshop like a good boy. Tony crossed her arms again and rolled her eyes at the sorcerer’s arched eyebrow. “Never hire teenagers—” 

“Can he help? It’s not a good time to be presumptuous, Stark, we only have a month to create a technological miracle—”

“I’ll manage in a week and a half,” she cut off. Stephen narrowed his eyes, and Tony unzipped her jacket again. “Okay, fine. Listen. This kid – he really is talented, and he often ends up in places he mustn’t be in, and under no circumstances should he be involved in the whole Stones mess. Alright? Let sleeping dogs lie.”

“He’s Spider-Man.”  

“He’s sixteen!”  

—and children, as commonly known, aren’t a good addition to the ancient relics that decide the world’s fate. But instead of clarifying, Tony clenched her wrist again, and Stephen’s eyes pinned to her trembling fist with medical attention. 

But then he nodded. “You need the Stone’s measurements.”  

He opened the portal, an empty stand in it. Stephen called Ray, but no one answered; he called once more and vanished behind the arch of the portal. The Cloak waved Tony welcome. 

The room smelled of cloves, and a massive globe was leisurely rotating beneath the dome on the ceiling. A remarkably... realistic globe, as if even geographically accurate. Little golden lights shimmered across the continents, somewhere brighter, somewhere dimmer. Tony nonchalantly tucked her hands into her pockets, adopting a posture of casual curiosity. Moonlight streamed through tall windows, casting shadows across the columns in the room corners; Tony would give each around a hundred and fifteen feet.

The symbol from the Sanctum's window adorned the wall behind the stand, its curved lines gleaming in the light. Stamped shelves lined the walls, and behind the portal, a corridor led to the library halls, devoid of anyone inside save for the turned on yellow lamps and books and records scattered on a few tables. It felt as if the midnight bibliophiles had gone out for coffee (one wouldn't consume energy drinks in the monastery in the middle of the night, right?), and would soon be back. But Tony just cleared her throat - Stephen returned to the rack without a word. He pulled out a heavy volume, and Tony, biting her cheek, reached for the bookshelf, too. 

Electricity bit her fingertips.

“Ouch!”

“Careful, it may shock,” Stephen informed courteously, his lips in a derisive smile, as Stark clenched her fist.  

“Very funny, yeah. Did you draw a map to the Stone in the book?”

Stephen held his hand over the leather cover, a symbol of the lock lighting up under his palm, and as a heap of sparks, like from welding, flew out of the book, it transformed into a necklace in the shape of an eye. But Stephen frowned suddenly, like from a headache, his fingers pressed to his temple. 

Tony turned to the books. “You know, I touched Thor’s hammer once — a literal one, not what you might’ve thought — and it didn’t shock me, although I’m pretty sure it’s a bit more serious than any of your—”

“Something’s wrong,” said Stephen, squeezing the necklace. But Stark only raised her eyebrows.  

“And all this clever disguise is to not induce a new sin on your beloved counsellor-thief, or from great trust towards your other associates?” 

“As a preventive measure. Stark.”  

His persistent, reprehensible gaze remained on her, and adrenaline erupted in Tony’s chest in response to the vague understatement. But she didn’t have time to answer as a voice called from the portal, “Wow!”  

“Don’t touch anything!” Tony and Stephen turned around simultaneously. Peter stared at the globe in amazement.  

“Do you live here, sir?”

“Get out!” Tony barked. “You’ve nothing—”

But Peter suddenly froze, and she froze, too – the kid raised his hand to his eyes. The blond hairs on his elbow, as if electrified, rose up.  

“Danger,” Peter looked at her, then at Strange. “Okay, I– I’m Spider-Man. And I have Spider Senses that react to danger.”

“They aren't wrong.”

Tony frowned with either a question or a frightened indignation, but Stephen raised his palm above the necklace, the golden symbol of the lock appearing before him again, then covered the necklace with his hands and pulled a flash stick out of the glimmer of sparks. He handed it to Peter, “Put it in your pocket and go to the house where you put the posters on. Ask Wong and give him—”  

“Don’t you dare!”

“—this, tell him I’ve sent you. Now!” Frightened by his threatening tone, Peter nodded and backed away, activating his suit. “Keep an eye on him,” Stephen whispered into the collar, and the Cloak followed the boy into the portal. Tony hesitated before the red sparks, deciding whether to rush after the kid or to kick the sorcerer's ass.

The second one was closer.

“Are you crazy?! A second ago, I asked you not to get him involved, and now you—”

“It’s temporary.”

“The integrity of your nose is temporary!”  

“It’s a precaution, Stark. Go with the kid.” 

“No, you’re not getting rid of me,” Tony waved her hand dismissively. “If there’s something threatening him here now, I’m staying and rooting the problem out.”

Stephen straightened up, displeased. But the stiff impenetrability of his face was distorted by another burst of pain — Stephen closed his eyes and touched his temple again. 

Tony stepped towards him, “What’s going on, Strange?”

“It’s Mordo.”

“Paying a friendly visit?”

“Great timing.”

“Is it as it should be? In your future?”

“You tell me!” he snapped, rubbing his temple, a tense nodule under his cheekbone. “He’s here. And he’s intruding on my energy shield right now.”

“What’s that, a mutiny?”  

He didn’t answer, and Tony pursed her lips. Seemed like the algorithms of Mr Everything-Is-Under-Control faced an unfamiliar task: even Squidward from the future didn’t provoke such a reaction, and it did mean something for sure. Oh boy. That’s all that was needed. Tony touched the comm, and FRIDAY confirmed the combat readiness. 

The portal closed behind her.

Chapter Text

The doors with the Vishanti symbol opened, and Stephen swiftly crossed the energy barrier.

The emptiness of the library was unsettling on its own — while Ray, of course, didn’t monitor it around the clock, there was always at least one master present, even at the latest hour. Intrusive anxiety prevented Strange from imagining that no one today was combating insomnia with a philosophical treatise or that no novice was delving into astral projections. Anxiety gnawed at him, and he chastised himself for the recklessness of sending the Cloak with the boy.

Stark also radiated hot tension. “What’s the plan?”

“I’ll find out what he wants,” Strange slipped on the Sling Ring, “and try to bargain.”

“And when that doesn’t work?” Tony grabbed his elbow by the door, but Stephen immediately pulled free. “Look, your bargaining won’t help me save your ass if this unparalleled strategy goes south.”

She stood so close he could feel her breath on his lips. Strange clenched his fists, his fingers trembling with nervous excitement. “He’s an experienced sorcerer, adept with relics, and incredibly skilled in hand-to-hand combat. And he’s also a great telepath, so don’t look him in the eyes for too long.”

“Did you really just put telepathy at the end of the list?”

Stephen pushed the door open.

The blossom scent grew denser in the warm summer night, and a silty smell emanated from the pond behind the archways. Stephen held out his hand to stop Stark from rushing ahead, his palm pressing the folds of her shirt against her warm belly. The yard was empty. The wind chased blue petals over the brick tiles and rustled the ivy on the wall. Stephen looked up and noticed movement behind the low roof edges, the golden dome of Kamar-Taj shimmering. Well, right. Only a fool wouldn’t have taken advantage of the Bond, and the dome naturally hadn’t resisted. This wasn’t exactly why Stephen had left the door open, but maybe if he caught Mordo in the act, he could reason with him. It was possible. One could quarrel, slam doors, and cook dinner in silence, the house reeking of fish, only to face more anger in a hungry pair of eyes. But one couldn’t light the same candle twice, and at the end of the day, Stephen always managed to negotiate a ceasefire. Well, maybe not so ‘always’. But it was worth a try.

He turned around, his finger pressed to his lips, and Tony closed her mouth. It was hard to predict what to expect from Mordo, but for now, it seemed wiser to keep the ace that was Iron Man up his sleeve a little longer. Stark stared at Strange for a second, then nodded, and Stephen was sure she shared his view on strategy. He pointed to a spot on the stairs where she wouldn’t be seen, and as Tony clenched her fists, Strange turned away.

When he stepped onto the training rooftop, Mordo was tilting a thick flaming torch into the bowl by the bell. The fire gleamed on the bronze; the oil-smeared bowl flashed with a warm red. Stephen frowned. Eight bowls stretched across the rooftop in two rows, and fire was already burning in seven of them.

Mordo smiled. “Strange, my friend. Good evening.”

He had a crew cut and his face skinned down to angular cheekbones, but his figure retained a strong elasticity and his posture was confidently firm. Only the jeans and short coat looked out of place on him; always clad in a worn-out complex multi-layer suit, he was the last person Stephen could imagine in a city crowd as a casual passerby. And yet—

“Mordo,” Strange raised his eyebrows. “Come to return the books?”

“I hear anger in your voice. But these walls welcomed me warmly.”

“And you seem to abuse their welcomeness. What did you do? I haven’t ordered to light the fires.”

Stephen waved his hand, and the flame beside him faded. He passed between the bowls, extinguishing each one; the darkness thickened, and the shadows pulsed. Stephen felt Mordo’s gaze on his back like a whirlwind between his shoulder blades, and he barely restrained himself from shifting his shoulders. The rooftop and the courtyard below were empty, and Strange stopped at the stairs to the cella. He was in front of Mordo, Tony behind. Not bad.

“These walls are welcoming to everyone these days, aren’t they?” Mordo tilted the torch into the bowl again. “I heard you brought Tony Stark here yesterday.”

The fire flared up in the bowl, and Stephen narrowed his eyes. Well, five months ago, Mordo hadn’t minded allies. Or did he get worried by the rumours of time travel? He hadn’t reacted with enthusiasm when Stephen manipulated the Stone last time. Strange glanced at the column below: dishes for spells, a saucer and iron cups, lay on the flat capital. Flashes of flame glowed on the ground here and there, oil paths spilt over the masonry.

Stephen frowned, and Mordo caught his gaze. “You’ve certainly heard of the Flames of Con-Nul.”

“Nullification of contamination. The spell from the Book of Dark Times; it was used during the plague to dispose of the bodies of the infected.”

“It takes a drop of infected blood... for the flame to find an identical strain in the specified direction.”

There was no point in elaborating on the obvious. And no desire to accept it. Stephen pulled back as heat swept over his face, the flames rising from the last bowl to a height of three feet. Mordo tilted his head back, and for a couple of moments, the bright red reflection filled his black eyes. Then the fire sank to the level of the bowl’s thin sides, and all eight flames turned purple.

Mordo placed the torch on a separate dish — the fire hissed as it stirred the water, but it quickly extinguished — and straightened his back. “The Council considered the Flames a weapon of mass destruction, but knowledge of any kind is dangerous in the wrong hands. Why do you think they left a detailed description of the ritual in the Book of Dark Times?”

“It’s a chronicle. Oh, come on, you picked the worst topic for speculation — the Flames got banned from use in the fifteenth century.”

“But we both know there always are masters who think the law doesn't apply to them. Isn’t it too reckless to leave a bone before a hungry dog?”

“Why did you come?”

Unlikely for philosophical discussions… — but Strange bit his tongue. The unfamiliar warmth touched his mental barrier, and Stephen whipped the telepathic touch like it was the hand of a thief. 

Mordo smiled. The smile was familiar, mentor-like, but not a wrinkle appeared on his face. “Wrong question. But I’ll give you an answer.”

“Be so kind…”

“I wandered. Yearned to escape as far as I could… but running proved futile. I could find no peace anywhere in the world without a home, without faith... without purpose. A broken trough offers little solace, and I longed to cleanse myself of the abomination,” Mordo’s upper lip twitched. “I wanted to sever my ties with magic, that nefarious tool for violating the laws of nature, but!” he raised a finger, “it wasn’t all so easy. Magic... grew into me like a second skin. And I was prepared to erase myself along with it.”

He left the confession hanging in the silence between them, his still eyes revealing nothing more. Stephen tightened his grip on the Ring. This rhetoric was hopeless — Mordo would soon finish and walk away, leaving another grim warning as a farewell. Yet, Stephen couldn’t blame him for the intrusion or the arbitrary fires. Kamar-Taj, serene and well-fed, had energy to spare and would lose nothing by sharing a bit with an old friend in such desperate need. But anxiety cast dark silhouettes at the edge of Stephen’s vision, and it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to hide behind his naive serenity.

But Mordo continued, “And then came an epiphany. I realised it’s not magic that makes the world vulnerable, it’s not magic that bends the course of creation. Magic is not the problem. Magic has a purpose.”

“To protect reality. From invisible threats.”

“There are much more threats inside than outside, Strange. You were branded a lie,” Mordo waved away, “and I was, and so were the others. False doctrine is a deadly bacteria and spreads just as quickly; erroneous thinking is the plague of our time. For hundreds of years, the Ancient One was methodically burying many truths under her malicious altruism, and the initial purpose of Kamar-Taj was, alas, among them. But I am grateful for the lie. Without it, there would’ve been no realisation. I saw the future, Stephen. It spoke to me. And it’s beautiful.”

“Where is everyone?”

“Now, that’s the right question.”

The darkness flickered as if a veil had been lifted from reality, revealing Ray and Ben standing beside Mordo. Shadows deepened in the courtyard below, where a dozen masters, cloaked in dark robes with hoods, spread out. A couple of figures, one resembling Master Ling, appeared on the roof across the yard. Then the temple doors opened, and Stephen discovered three more masters behind him.

Malek removed her hood, and Stephen clenched his fists, but she immediately gripped the handle of her gold dagger, a gesture mirrored by the other two.

Strange grunted. It was almost flattering that they had assembled an army against him, but they clearly overestimated his arrogance if they thought he would engage in a fight.

He turned back to Mordo. Stark was nowhere to be seen, which was somewhat reassuring — Strange hadn’t counted on her help but hoped she had managed to escape. He doubted anyone would dare harm her, given the patient looks everyone directed at Mordo.

Stephen looked Ray in the eyes, “How long?”

“We never cut off contact,” Mordo shrugged. “Didn’t you know? Well, no wonder: in a year and a half, a young master could have hardly acquired closeness and trust, whereas old friendships are not easy to break.”

Stephen’s fists twitched as he glanced at Ray again. He wasn’t surprised. He had no illusions about his own warm-heartedness and had always prioritised learning over communication. Inexperienced and cool-tempered, he’d gained neither authority nor approval in his five months as the Supreme. Though no one openly pressured him, whether out of loyalty to the Ancient One or respect for the rank, the underlying annoyance was palpable. The masters had no valid grounds to reject him — the magical signs pointed to Strange, and no charter defined the threshold of the Supreme’s mastery or the required time they must spend among others as an ordinary master. So, it was no surprise that some of them turned their backs on Strange, but Mordo? Emotional speeches about forsaken destinies didn’t sound right next to mass murder spells.

Stephen counted seven masters on the rooftop, including the three behind him. Bad. He had hoped for at most five.

“There’s a whole orchestra here, huh?” Strange raised his chin. “What are you playing tonight? Something like The Revolution Will Not Be Televised or closer to Ghost Town? ‘We danced and sang, and the music played in a de boomtown’–”

“Funeral march,” Malek cut off.

“Your sense of humor is lame. And so are your principles, as I see it; and your praised devotion to Kamar-Taj is not all so strong, considering you’ve given up on it in some silly few months.”

“We are motivated solely by our devotion to Kamar-Taj. Your problem is that you don’t understand it.”

“But, Stephen,” Ray called, her lips in a familiar gentle smile, “didn’t you keep the Bond because the remains of light in your soul are seeking to bring deliverance to Kamar-Taj?” Stephen opened his mouth, but she continued, “The world is changing, and it’s time for us to take responsibility that the Ancient One let us forget about. Today, nature is more vulnerable than ever because our masters break its laws for their unnecessary victories.”

“And these unnecessary victories are, presumably, life without pain? Or the elimination of enemies who would otherwise eliminate us? Yeah, right, because we’re either martyrs or dead, but at least all holier-than-thou.”

“Magic must be protected, not given away as humanitarian aid.”

“We all needed humanitarian aid — otherwise, none of you would’ve stood here today.”

Ray’s expression shifted to pure indignation. It was breathtaking how convinced such a kind and prudent person was when defending ideological intolerance. Ray leaned forward, but Mordo raised his hand, and she squared her shoulders, letting him step toward Stephen himself.

“The poisonous seed nurtured by the Ancient One’s connection with the Dark Dimension has taken root in the minds of the masters. These perverted ideas have taken such firm hold in their hearts that mere words cannot uproot them. But in the future, there is no room for one-sided output.”

“Unselfishness, you mean?”

“I mean that Kamar-Taj should be led by a sorcerer, not a doctor.”

“And this is your association with unselfishness? You’ve never received bills from American hospitals, and it shows.”

Mordo twisted his lips into an insincere smile — okay, enough, he used to like Stephen’s jokes. But Stephen clenched his teeth and stepped back from the wave of hot anger that swept at him from Mordo.

“Kamar-Taj has rotten because of selfish renegades who grabbed the prize and fled at the first hint of higher duty; because of the outsiders we shamefully call our allies... and because of masters trained in disrespect and defiance to the mission of magic. Masters like you, Stephen,” his voice finally stopped boiling with hate, and Mordo stepped closer to Strange. He looked him straight in the eyes and spoke quietly, almost whispering as if the shell of a long-held grudge had cracked, “What did you give Dormammu?”

“Nothing.”

“Yourself, perhaps?”

“I didn’t give him anything, Mordo.”

“Don’t lie to me, Strange. Do you think you’ve fooled everyone if they made you the Supreme? No. You haven’t fooled anyone. It’s you who’s been fooled. After all the casualties and fights, the council had to pretend things had eventually worked out, but not for a moment did anyone ever believe that the Dark Dimension let you go just like that.”

Stephen looked at Ben and Ray. It was clear by their strict expressions that it wasn’t the first time they heard these accusations, and their conviction in their reasonableness was beyond doubt, too. Mordo planted the seeds of his maximalist paranoia into the very fertile soil.

Stephen arched an eyebrow, “Bold accusations, don’t you think?”

“Your word against common sense.”

“I explained everything, Mordo. Dormammu and I had made a deal. And if you had asked me right away, I would’ve—”

“You shook hands with the devil, Strange. And the devil doesn’t sign a contract he doesn’t profit from. Tell me one thing,” Mordo stepped closer. “Did he torture you?”

Marks of blows flashed across Stephen’s body — on his back, chest, and stomach — but he only raised his chin defiantly. Of course. With that kind of evidence, it wasn’t hard to conclude the logical chain with a favorable deal. Stephen brushed off the quick but sharp touch to his memories, and Mordo nodded.

“As expected. Keep quiet,” Mordo raised his hand. “We know you’re connected to Dormammu just like she was before you. A worthy successor, wouldn’t you say?”

“Your resentment at the Ancient One is pathetic.”

“I always thought,” Mordo raised his voice, “she let you get away with too much. And finally, we see the results. That’s why we’re here today. We’ll free the magical world from the plague.”

“Right now?”

“We’ve all seen the future you’ve brought Kamar-Taj to. We’re not waiting for it.”

So, Stephen had to act quickly. He raised his hands, a golden flash burning his palm, and lightning crackled over Kamar-Taj’s dome. A shimmering, gasoline-puddle-like shield covered the sky; Stephen created a golden shield to deflect the attack from the masters behind. But as he turned around, the torch’s stick struck him right in the solar plexus.

The world narrowed to a tiny black dot.

Strange suffocated, his legs went weak. He couldn’t inhale, and panic gripped his chest as someone grabbed his elbows and dragged him down the steps, the stone tiles smashing into his knees. Strong hands pressed down on his shoulders, ripped the Ring off his fingers.

“Careful with his hands,” Mordo cautioned. Stephen gasped finally and twitched, but the firm hands on his shoulders held him down, allowing him only to raise his head to see the sky darkening again. Mordo threw the torch away, retrieved the extra Ring from Stephen’s belt and took off the Eye. “Where’s the Cloak of Levitation, Strange?”

“I lost… it.” 

“That’s a lie,” Mordo held the Eye up to the fire. Then he clenched his fist, the glass necklace shattering in his grasp, and let the shards fall from his palm. “And here’s another lie.”

Stephen twitched again, but the masters pushed him back. Pain responded with a hot imprint under the ribs and a rapid wave of nausea. But there was no fuss nearby, meaning, no one had been woken up. Not good. Or was it? Where did Stark go?

A portal opened near Mordo, and Ray stepped onto the rooftop, “It’s not in the library.”

“Of course it’s not. Stephen Strange isn’t a fool; he knew immediately when things started to smell of fried.” Mordo squatted. “Where’s the Stone, Strange?”

“I don’t know.”

Mordo ran his finger through Stephen’s grey hair, then squeezed his temples with his fingers. It felt as if long claws pierced his mind — Stephen shrivelled, but a hand from behind grabbed him by the hair, not letting him dodge away.

“I think you overworked your rebellion,” Strange bent his back, but Mordo pressed his forehead against his, smiling.

“I think you’re in no position to tell us what you think.”

With his teeth clenched, Stephen tried to push Mordo out from the inside, but the telepathic grip was tight, and he hissed with pain. It felt like his skull was being slowly crushed with the hydraulic press.

“So, the Stone... is under a concealment spell. Very well. Where is it?”

“Stop it, Mordo.”

“Where’s the Stone?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did the third one take it? Who’s the boy?” Mordo’s lips twitched as Stephen tried to wriggle out. The claws in his mind moved, poking the mental wound, and the pain made his hands shake intensely, returning the phantom cold of metal pins under the scars on his fingers. “Does he have the Stone?”

“I do not know!”

“Where’s it?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know!”

Stephen squinted. He was pushing Mordo out with the despair of a trapped prey, and his telepathic barriers were defending him well, but Mordo was rather persevering — he pushed on, and the torture became almost unbearable. But suddenly, the mental grip loosened. Mordo stood up, and Stephen dropped his head on his chest. He wanted the relief to linger, but a warm migraine almost immediately pressed his forehead.

“Leave the masters alone, Mordo,” Stephen sighed, “they’re not guilty of anything.”

Mordo linked his hands behind his back and turned away. “Maybe Miss Stark would tell us then? Please, get out of there at last. Such an anomaly on the fabric of spacetime cannot be overlooked.”

Stephen’s shoulders tensed. From the uncomfortable position, he couldn’t see where Mordo was looking, but there were few places to hide, and after a short pause, Tony appeared from behind one of the columns. A couple of masters aimed their bows at her, but Stark just pursed her lips. She had her hands in her pockets, and if not for her stillness — Stephen had noted her amusing teenage fuss in the workshop — he would’ve believed she hadn’t felt anything about the scene that had just revolved before her. 

“Ten points to Slytherin for attentiveness. Very scary, yeah,” she stopped by an archer. Frowned at the blue flame at the tip of the arrow, then turned to Mordo. “Sorry, I can’t help but put a finger in your pie too — your desire to bring back the original ideas of your club of interests is sweet, but the part about wrong thinking kinda stinks of extremism, which I can’t support.”

“At least someone,” Stephen growled into Mordo’s back, and Tony snapped her fingers agreeably. She looked at Strange, and he glanced at the bell.

But Mordo didn’t even turn, a dry smile in his voice. “We’re fighting a canker within the community. Your mundane moral viewpoints call it evil, but someone has to save magic.”

“Is there a way to save magic without loss of lives?”

“Is it possible to raise a pacifist in a family of convinced soldiers? It’s about thinking as well.”

The hand from behind grabbed Strange by the hair again. Ray leaned towards him with a saucer, a fragment of the mirror dimension appearing out of the sparks in her palm. Kamar-Taj banned blood rituals six centuries ago. Was it worth reminding the brave saviours of magic—

Strange tried to dodge away, caught Tony’s quick glance, but Malek shushed into his ear, her cold fingers closing on his chin, and Ray cut his cheek with the shard. Pain pricked and then blossomed like a paper cut. Ray held the saucer to the wound, and Malek let Stephen’s face out only when the convex runes of the saucer turned red.

“Vyāna vāyu^* does not only form the aura,” Mordo continued, going around Tony, her eyes pinned to him. “It protects against negative influences, is responsible for the movement of muscles, the functioning of the circulatory and nervous systems... I can sense your resistance, but no need to deny the obvious,” Mordo stopped before her. He took her jacket’s clasp in his fingers and zipped it up. “Thought equally influences our actions and body.”

“Stop it, Mordo,” Stephen barked, “enough! Accuse me of whatever you want, but leave the others. Their blood won’t wash away your disappoint—”

“Shut your fucking mouth!”

Mordo appeared before him in an instant, his fingers gripping Strange’s cheeks with painful force, and pressed the curved tip of his Scythe Dagger’s blade against Stephen’s face — it went into his lower lip like in warm butter. Stephen squinted, blood flowing down his chin.

“I swear, I’ll cut off your tongue if I hear one more word. Rat,” Mordo finally withdrew the Dagger and wiped it clean off Stephen’s chest. “Don’t get excited by our old acquaintance, Strange. You’re still alive only because there’s much more to demand from the Supreme.”

Mordo got up, and the moment the shock faded, Stephen heard the hum from above. Stark, full of angry determination despite a dozen arrows pointed at her, was aiming at Mordo with the repulsor, but he had only raised his eyebrows. “Interesting friendship.”

“We’re not friends, it’s a work debt. And a bit of sentiment: some guys had already tried to set others on fire a couple of centuries ago, though I can’t remember why mankind decided it was immoral. You seem to know better.”

“I like your courage, Stark, although it’s useless now. You have a role to play in the future, so your life’s valuable, and thus I’ll save it, one way or another. But to save the life of the boy you’re trying so hard not to think about, you should tell me where he is.”

Stark put the glove down.

“Is his name Peter Parker?” Mordo smiled as she gritted her teeth. “Does he have the Stone?”

“No.”

“Where is it then?” 

“What do you need it for?”

“Such power shouldn’t be kept in a cage.”

“I’m a little confused about our moral compass,” Stark turned to Ray, who stood by the bell, and Stephen saw Malek leaning forward. “Didn’t you agitate so emotionally against destroying the Stone just yesterday?”

“No one speaks of destruction,” Mordo corrected, “but of the liberation of the power that’s hidden within. It’s unnatural for it to be constrained; time obeys neither men nor other beings... isn’t it what you came for yourself, Miss Stark?”

“I came to save people, not support a terrorist attack.”

“I consider it a fair sabotage.”

“I don’t think it is. And, unfortunately for you, I’ve learned the difference far and wide — terrorists are my area of expertise.”

Tony raised her hand. A repulsor’s blast fell on the bell, and the hum spread across Kamar-Taj, a flock of birds screaming. Golden shields flared here and there; Tony aimed at Mordo, but he fled through the portal, and the next blast came towards Strange. He reacted quickly. He broke out from the grip and conjured a fog that covered him and tossed the enemies away. The temple’s glass doors shattered from the blast wave; Stephen shielded himself with mandalas. Blue blasts kept hitting the bell, and it was impossible not to wake up, which meant it was only a matter of time before backup arrived.

With his shields up, Stephen got up, but Ben jumped on him suddenly. He was taller and skinnier than Strange, and Stephen might’ve given in to his dexterity, but a frightened fever prevented Ben from thinking tactically, and Stephen easily dodged away from his punch. He twisted Ben’s hand behind his back and wrapped a leg around his, preventing Ben from escaping.

“You could have just talked to me!” Strange hissed into the back of his head.

“What would we talk about?!”

Ben hit him under the ribs, and Stephen bent down with a groan, his arms over his stomach. Ben bounced back, rubbing his elbow.

“I don’t wanna fight you,” Stephen raised his glance to him. “You taught me Bak Mei; you brought me books that Wong didn’t allow to take. I can’t swap gratitude to hatred in a snap of the fingers.”

“Stephen,” Ben sighed with unexpected sincerity, “we’re doing this not out of personal animosity. Our duty is higher and more important. The philosophy of Kamar-Taj asks us to look at the world wider, but the Ancient One has deliberately given us access to limited knowledge. Don’t you see? We’ve trained masters in disrespect and defiance—”

“These aren’t your words, Ben.”

“Kamar-Taj is fatally ill since its Supreme is corrupted,” Ben narrowed his eyes, but Stephen shook his head.

“Do you believe that? Really?”

“Enough of delusion, Strange. Only a fool denies logic, and those who deliberately turned a blind eye are incurable from cowardice.”

“And that’s a reason to kill everyone?”

“Casualties are unavoidable in the fight for the truth,” and Ben fled into a portal before Stephen replied.

Everything around was spinning and swirling, and golden sparks were everywhere. Stephen ran his tongue over his lip, the wound burning and a metallic taste blooming in his mouth, and saw red and grey robes among the dark figures. The saucer with blood was still sitting on the column. Stephen rushed there, but Ray blocked his way, an electric field around her. She jumped at him, but Stephen didn’t recognise her end run, and she hit him on the legs. He fell, and a heavy chain blow landed on his shoulders. But no more blows followed. Stephen put his hands down and saw Prune above him, his blond hair sticking out like bird feathers and his blue eyes shining.

“Stephen?” He outstretched his hand to help him stand up.

Strange looked around: Stark was shooting back from above, backup portals were opening here and there in the yard, and Mordo was nowhere to be found. Stephen raised his hands to straighten the dome - there was no need to get the city involved. A portal opened behind, and Wong jumped out of it, his face sweaty, the burgundy robe skewed. How many of them were there? Wong looked worried but turned to Stephen with confidence in his eyes.

“Strengthen the Sanctums’ shields,” Stephen ordered and turned to Prune. “They are preparing the Flames of Con-Nul. Let’s get everyone outta here.”

“But whose blood are they gonna use?” Wong pursed his lips when Stephen arched his eyebrow. “Ah.”

The iron suit landed near them, the nanites quickly patching the curved burns on the red shoulders. “Open the portals to Compound. Your crazy friends definitely aren't there.”

Stephen nodded. His ears rang, and he didn’t catch half of her words, but combining the ‘Compound’, ‘friends’ and ‘aren't’ was an easy logical puzzle. Stephen created the shields, and Wong and Prune did the same.

He fought off a few more attacks, and some steps away from the column, Stephen created a magic whip and hit the tray - the cups dropped on the rocks, the saucer rolled to Stephen’s feet. He whipped it, cutting it in half. The purple flames swayed, and Strange, not without a triumph, pushed the piece of the saucer away with his shoe. Then he wiped the blood from his chin, his fingers trembling.

But then Stephen looked up, and his ears rang, and a golden whip seemed too bright, and the world suddenly narrowed to two people in front. Mordo knocked Eve down, his knee in her back. She was trying to get up, but her palms were sliding on the oil, and Mordo was holding her by the hair, whispering something in her ear, keeping an eye on the saucer’s fragment. Then he pulled Eve’s head up and in a quick and precise movement slit her throat open. 

Her body, as if in slow motion, fell on the ground with some terrible excruciating grace, and a desperate plea for life poured out into her last convulsion as dark blood mixed with oil on the rocks. It was only when his chest collapsed with a sharp emptiness that Stephen realised he wasn’t breathing — instead of air, his lungs were filled with terrible, familiar despair.

He caught Mordo’s gaze, and he, wiping his blade off his coat, raised his chin proudly.

No.

The shock still held his throat, but Stephen rushed to the bowls of fire. The flame seemed to stretch to his fingers - he conjured an impressive brick of ice into the bowl. The fire moved, hissed, but then covered the ice and ate it in seconds.

Stephen was distracted by the hot red fetters that gripped his arms. He cut them off with a shard of magical crystal and faced Malek. She raised her hands, summoning a new weapon, but Caton attacked her from behind with a choke hold. Malek grabbed him with both hands and set her foot for a turn, but Stephen distracted her, and Caton’s grip on her became tighter. Seizing the moment, Stephen grasped his stomach and bent down to breathe.

When Malek passed out, Caton put her on the ground with undue care — no one wanted to fight with their yesterday’s friends. No one but those friends themselves. 

Stephen shook his head, chasing away the vision of Eve falling, and grabbed Caton by his elbow, “I need you here.” A wreath was pulsing on Caton’s forehead; the chest of his blue robe was sliced, and pale blood stains covered his sweaty neck, and Stephen’s heart sank. “We must help those who they capture.”

Caton blinked but then nodded. Stephen squeezed his shoulder in gratitude and rushed to Prune, several masters surrounding him in a tight circle.

Strange waved a dozen of his copies around them, then caught one master with a golden lasso and knocked him down. He grabbed another’s hand and knocked her on the ground, too, while Prune punched the third one in the stomach and conjured a sleeping mist over the opponents. Only then did he turn to Strange and, suddenly losing all his strength, fell upon him — wobbling under the weight, Stephen put Prune on the ground.

A patch of blood spreading over Prune’s light robes, Stephen rubbed his palms and pressed them against Prune’s stomach — a stabbing wound, near the liver, didn’t portend anything good. But neither the flow of regenerative energy nor Stephen’s quiet plea saved Prune. He touched Stephen’s palm, and his hand had dropped, lifeless.

Stephen gasped. A repulsor shot went off right next to him, and he turned to the sound — the air was still smoking in front of Iron Man. Stark asked something, repeated the question, and Stephen nodded to her absent-mindedly. He didn’t know what she was talking about. He was deaf.

But among the disorderly flashes of the portals, he suddenly caught a constant fire — Mordo stood on the staircase before the cella, a torch in his hand again. Stephen got up slowly. Mordo’s fingerprints flashed on his temples, his mind crushing again, and Mordo’s voice appeared in his head, “Time for rebirth.”

And he let go of the torch.

All the oil paths lit up with a purple flame.

It stretched up to the dome, and the masters rushed away. Tony hit the fire with two foam jets, but it ate them and ran further down the oily paths.

“What the—”

“Check the rooftops,” Stephen shouted. “Get everyone out!”

He rushed to the staircase. He reached the awning just as the path lit up in front of the arch. Hungry for his blood, the fires reached for him, but Stephen jumped over a low flame and ran into a crowd of confused newcomers. With silly jackets over their sleeping clothes and their few belongings pressed against their chests, they froze in horror in front of the wall of fire that burnt behind Stephen’s back.

“Don’t panic! Put the Sling Rings on and head to Sanctums; come on, now,” Stephen spread his arms, and a mirror shield separated him from the fire. But the disciples kept blinking distractedly, and he shook Laurie — who stood the closest to him — by her shoulders. She reached into her pocket, some of her red hairs wrapping around the Ring as she tried to fit her fingers in it, and others followed her. “Put your Ring on, then help those around you. Great job guys, keep it up.”

The golden spirals whirled around; Caton came up to the crowd, taking over the shield. The fire cut off the way to the living rooms and spread to the greenhouse — the first one to burst into flames was a rose bush, a gift from Christine. Stephen rushed up the stairs.

The fire grew behind him, licking the brick walls, but it didn’t reach the second floor yet, so Stephen pushed the door with his shoulder and stumbled into the room. It was messy, piles of clothes and dishes on the floor, and Stephen reproached himself for not paying enough attention to the masters’ everyday life. The out-of-place thought sobered him up; Strange took a pile of books from the table and rushed to the next room. He managed into four more rooms, but as soon as he left the last, he froze.

The flames flooded the courtyard, stretched to the dome, and it shimmered, not letting the fire break into the city. The Bond gave Mordo a head start on infiltrating Kamar-Taj, but five spells of his followers against eight... seven, six... Stephen shook his head and, fixing a stack of books in his hands, strengthened the dome’s spell.

A red wave rolled over it, and the flames attacked it with new anger. No doubt, they had already eaten the greenhouses; they grasped the brick arches, and even the huge tree had already been crushed with a loud crack, its crown burning. Stephen twisted the cold spell on the tree — heavy objects kept it on well, so maybe it wouldn’t die completely... — then he pushed the next room’s door open and ran to the table.

“Strange!”

He collected a few notebooks, but the scrolls fell from the top of the pile, and Stephen knelt. Books slipped down as he picked up scrolls; small relics fell out, too — forgotten Rings, belt buckles, pendants. The heat of the flames licked his back, and Stephen pressed the books to his chest.

“Strange, goddamn it!”

Iron gloves wrapped around his waist. Stephen kicked and wriggled, and hissed in response to Stark’s thoughtful grunting, but as the fire poured into the room, she pulled him back, a golden arc of a portal opening above them. With his boots creaking against the Compound’s parquet, Stephen froze and pressed his back against the cold metal of Tony’s suit.

The purple flame in the portal engulfed the entire room.

____________

(Sanskrit for “enveloping” or “covering”) a key form of life energy within a person return to text

Chapter Text

It was crowded at the Compound.

Tony couldn’t remember the last time there were so many people here — a party she threw in the ex Avengers Tower in the twenty-fourteenth came to mind, but, firstly, it was a small almost-family-like circle gathering, and secondly, it didn’t end well, to say the least. The memories spawned some unbearable longing, and Tony out of place thought of the lost unity that the sorcerers had in excess.

The buzzing of their voices was deceptively calming. The New York sky was covered with faceless greyness, but the mandalas’ glimmer reflected cosily on the windowsills. The sorcerers gathered around the healers dressed in dark brown, the masters in burgundy handing out blankets, and those in colourful clothes comforting the dazed ones verbally. The members of the Council observed everyone from the distance, frowning and silent, yet replied to their comrades with caring friendliness.

Tony tried to clench her fist, but the iron glove, stuck, didn’t give in. Her hand became stiff and cold, and Stark shook it violently. Then answered to the awkward break-off in the comm, “Giant carriages, yeah. Go on.”

Peter — train, Peter — business class, Peter — Pittsburgh (Pittsburgh... Pennsylvania?), Peter — “it-was-the-furthest-of-the-soonest-trips”, Peter — the Cloak... the Cloak. Did it turn into a jacket? No, into a sweater. Did it turn into a sweater on Strange, too? Tony tried to mentally dress the wizard in the red one, with the Coca-Cola logo, but failed to envision it. She blinked.

Stephen assembled some masters in the living room. Everybody was in the crowd: white and burgundy clothes and other colours. A giant octagon, woven of magic bands, hung under the ceiling, its lights sliding around the room like some arthouse installation. In front of the bookcase, there was a portal to the New York Sanctum's staircase, sorcerers scurrying about there, too.

Stephen walked inside the crowd, showing ones at the portal and sending others to healers. Some blood was still on his face, and golden threads covered the cut on his lip like a knotted seam. Tony glanced around for a towel.

“—Miss Stark?” Peter called timidly in her ear.

“Yeah, make sure you visit the buffet car and try the chocolate pudding, you’re gonna love it. I’ll transfer you more money, and you send me every station you pass, okay? How many are left?” Tony covered the mic with her finger and leaned to Rou: dressed in a brown tunic with golden patterns, she was treating Wong’s wounds. “Can I—?” Rou nodded, and Tony took the first-aid kit from Dum-E. It clanked its claw and handed Rou a clean roll of bandages.

“Uh-um... around seven, I guess. Miss Stark, I– I’ve one– well, it's not really a problem, but my phone's kinda dying.”

“There’s an extra charger in the suit; tell Karen, and she’ll hook you up. Just not out there in the open.”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember. Don’t talk to anyone, stay out of sight.”

“Good boy.”

“Miss Stark? Is everything okay?” a metal clink distorted Peter’s voice, and then the sound was gone for a while. Unbelievable. What if it was the only way to communicate at the mission? Stark had gotta give the kid new earphones. For work, of course. “It’s because of the flash drive, isn’t it? I mean, I don’t wanna pry into what I mustn't, but I thought, since I have it, maybe I should—”

“Yeah, Peter. You’re right. You’re absolutely damn right, and I’ll explain everything, but for now, just keep quiet and don’t take the flash drive out. And don’t mention it or even think about it,” Tony touched the comm. “Alright, stay in touch. And don’t forget the pudding.”

She clutched the first-aid kit more comfortably, and the old box, a faint iron smell emanating from it, clanged against the armour.

Finally left alone, Stephen untied his belts. His hands trembled violently, so he did everything slowly: opened the floors of the tunic, pulled the twisted corner of the vest and pulled the blue shirt out from his pants. There was a bright bruise over his solar plexus and smaller purple patches around it. Stephen covered them with his palm, magical light streams scattered across the bruises like the veins on a leaf plate. 

Tony put the first-aid kit on the table. “Peter’s heading to Pennsylvania.”

Still holding the shirt with his fingers, Stephen glanced at the first-aid kit with an uncanny scowl. Then looked at Tony’s arm. “What’s up?”

“Magnetic influence, your friend’s work. Nothing serious, but the field is locked, so I’ll run it through the adapter—”

Stephen touched the iron sleeve and pressed his fingers against it as if he wanted to grasp the relief of nanites. A golden ring lit up on his elbow, and Tony suddenly felt her stretched-out arm relax, and the nanites rushed into the bracelets-generators.

She clenched her fist a couple of times. The warmth in her palm soon changed to a cold cramp, and Stark twisted her wrist. “Are there rheostats in your fingers?”

“I can control moving particles.”

“The amperage.”

“That one. Yes.”

“Control.”

“Program.”

The shiver faded, and Tony glanced at him playfully. “When you’re done with your magic tricks, send a letter to the SI — we’ll bring you in for the renewable energy research. Food and accommodation provided; I promise no inhuman experiments.”

Stephen shook his head and raised his hands. A golden square in human growth appeared before him, the corners of it joined by a complex pattern, and in the centre, as if scorched by fire, Strange's silhouette emerged. Tony closed her fingers on her earlobe, right on the bump of the earring hole. “What’s this?”

“A spatial duplicate. Some of my energy will stay in the runes for a while; it'll confuse anyone who tries to track it.”

“Even Mordo?”

“Him in the first place. Where’s your boy now?”

Stephen tucked his shirt back into his pants, and Tony blinked at her watch. “He’ll be at the Lewistown station in twenty minutes.”

“Bad,” Stephen said, trying to put the belt through a ring. “We won’t intercept him.”

“What do you mean ‘won’t intercept’?”

“I mean that we won’t get to the station before him unless you have a teleport somewhere here.”

“You,” she pointed at the two-finger ring on his belt, “have.”

His fingers trembled, the belt passing by again. Strange, irritated, released the belt, waved his arms and the golden curl tightened it on his waist properly. Stephen looked at Tony again, his eyes shining feverly, “We’ve concentrated all our magic inside the new dome, and if even a drop of it ends up somewhere out, we’ll be meeting the boy together with Mordo.”

“Why don’t you cut off that Bond of yours so he doesn’t follow you around?”

“And so we lose any idea of where he is, too?”

“Yeah, right, ’cos if it wasn’t for that, he’d probably have attacked you.”

Stephen’s gaze sharpened, but Tony only raised her chin. Okay, it wasn’t fair, but she had to pull him out of the transcendent shock somehow. She knew it had not yet worn off, and Strange had spent this couple of hours with his masters and had not even had time to wash his face, and he still smelled of this bitter chilly burning, but Tony was filled with angry helplessness — neither the logic of his words, nor his detachment, nor his ultimatum-like tone made it any easier, and they had to make some decisions, and preferably come up with protection stronger than the shields of the mythical energy of other dimensions, and there was no time for a panic attack, and Peter was going to bloody Pennsylvania with the bloody Stone in his pocket, and seriously, if Stephen continues to ignore the first-aid kit—

“Strange?” Wong called. Prickly discontent rolled down her back; Stark backed away, and Stephen turned his head. Wong came with Naama, her twirling a napkin, and Tina. “We lost Kamar-Taj’s shields. Their spells remained, but they destroyed all ours.”

“We have twelve dead bodies,” Tina added, and Stephen closed his eyes. “Five our masters and seven those who had left Kamar-Taj long ago.”

“A dozen former masters have come to London Sanctum seeking shelter,” Wong glanced at Naama, and she nodded. “They’re as unwanted to Mordo as we are.”

“How many were injured?”

“Not many. Luckily. Most are just scared.”

“If you need extra space,” Tony kicked the table’s leg with the nose of her sneaker, “you may stay here as long as it takes.”

Stephen scowled and turned to her in a dry rage. “I’m afraid we can’t afford such generous kindness.”

“I’m afraid you’ve no reason to refuse a purely charitable offer.”

“If the charity is as transparent as it's painted.”

“Why,” Tony raised her eyebrow, “is there always a catch?”

“Why,” Stephen stepped towards her, his eyebrows raised in the same manner, “is it really a philanthropic handout and not a multi-pass deal?”

“Must be sad to live in a world where the only motivations are egocentrism and commerce.”

Stephen narrowed his eyes and glanced at her from top down. Tony crossed her arms, and the corners of Strange’s lips twitched in a virulent cold smile. “Oh, yeah. Right. It’s the Earth greatest hero I’m talking to, its main maecenas. How much compassion accumulated in one person. Except that, behind all the philanthropy crap, you’re a trader, Stark,” he stepped closer, poked her reactor. “You may personally heal everyone here and rebuild my house from scratch, but I'm not gonna give you the Stone.”

His furious gaze was pinned to Tony, but she didn’t take her eyes off, only squared her shoulders. “Done deal, Doctor.”

She finally pulled away, his gripping cold glance still on her. She swept the message off her watch. 

“I hope you can get over one more philanthropic handout from a hypocritical trader,” she covered her hand with another and swung on her heels. “Please, love and favour, James Rhodes, Air Force Colonel, Iron Patriot and Tactical Advisor at the Joint Terrorism Task Force.”

She pointed her hand the exact moment Rhodey stopped by the bookcase. He glanced at the portal with interest and didn’t look bad — as much as someone in his situation could — but paler and thinner than Tony remembered since their last meeting. Meeting in a year. And — the walking stick. Rhodey used it for a couple of months after he started standing without support, and, Rhodey, damn it. How could she not tell him? How could she have told him?

“I’m on medical leave, actually, but already consulting,” he shook hands with the masters and turned to Strange. “Doctor.”

Strange gently squeezed Rhodey’s palm. The tremor of his own hands didn’t calm, and a faint, colourless chuckle flew off his lips. “I feel like I owe an apology.”

“Please, we’re in the same boat—”

“Stephen.”

“Stephen. You’re in charge, aren’t you? I need to ask you some questions if you’re ready. And this isn’t a call to bravado — no one expects you to be calm and cool considering the circumstances.”

Stephen blinked. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m ready.”

Clutching the napkin with two fingers, Naama raised her hands. Her thin wrist was wrapped in a bandage soaked in blood and golden light, and a pair of scratches – thin and pale, just like her facial features — were scattered about her cheek like pencil strokes. Tony frowned, focusing on her gestures, only to not look at Rhodey’s legs. Did it hurt? Not anymore?

As soon as Naama hid her hands inside the loose sleeves again, Tina glanced at Stark with vague reproach. Her face was smooth and uncomfortably young as if she’d been canned at fifteen, and inactive, making it seem like she was constantly judging people around. The serious scowl didn’t suit her, but the gaze of her dark eyes showed traces of many losses and sorrows. “She says we appreciate the support, but it’s ridiculous that outsiders get involved in our business. I can't agree more. Never before have we obeyed any government, and we won’t now.”

Rhodey folded his hands on the stick, “With all due respect, you’re currently on United States territory. Our civilians may be affected by a new attack, and their lives are my prior responsibility.”

“I doubt Mordo wants to harm ordinary people,” Wong muttered.

“He set an entire village on fire out of ideological beliefs.”

“He wanted to scare us. He didn’t—”

“He wanted exactly what he’d done,” Stark cut off with confidence, and Rhodey nodded.

“And, unfortunately, I don’t think any of you can guarantee that ‘ordinary people’ won’t get hurt by his next attack.”

Wong and Naama exchanged gloomy glances. Caton leaned to the bookcase, the skin around his scar red, his muscular shoulder bandaged — he looked weird in a white sleeveless shirt without the suit. Frowning, he was rubbing his Ring’s rib. 

Tina crossed her arms, the hood of her robe falling down her shoulders with a velvety rustle. “We’ve been protecting this reality and its inhabitants for a very long time, Colonel. We don’t need help.”

“Perhaps we do.” Masters turned to Stephen with equally surprised expressions. He glanced at them briefly and opened his hand. “We don’t know how far Mordo will go, and we’ll have to talk to the government when he attacks somebody in the city.”

Naama raised her hands, but Stephen interrupted her, “He wouldn’t touch the masters either, but he killed Eve! He slit her throat open in front of my eyes! And set Kamar-Taj on fire and would’ve done so anyway, had we reacted or not.”

“They’re not expecting a blowback,” Caton remarked, but Wong frowned even more.

“Disarming them would be wiser than escalating the conflict.”

“We must defend ourselves. Not out of pride or as vengeance, but for the sake of the disciples, the ones we are obliged to protect. Mordo made it clear he wouldn’t negotiate, and shall we not obediently watch him kill us. You know that I always encourage resolving things peacefully, but it’s a different case now, and although you may not want it, Wong, nothing will stop me from taking the gun again and fighting back when Mordo comes after us. And did he not challenge the magic itself by questioning the choice of the Supreme? With the Ancient One, he never allowed himself to even think of such frivolity.”

“Until he learned about her connection with the Dark Dimension,” Stephen corrected, and Tina snorted.

“Fairly, by the way — it is a criminal connection. And no need to bristle. Everyone knows that the scale of the threat as well as the community’s appearance is commensurate with the Supreme’s spiritual potential, but Kamar-Taj has never before been desecrated, not to mention being destroyed. What is that if not an indicator?”

Tony leaned forward, resentful, but Rhodey stopped her — his weightless touch gave her a shock, and she froze. 

Stephen narrowed his eyes. “I see Mordo’s shadow in your words, Master.”

“I believe you shouldn’t make such big statements.”

“Nor should you. Or do you want to explain to me why, knowing what ideas Mordo was preaching, it didn’t concern you that your friends kept meeting him? Or tell me how you didn’t notice they were planning an attack?”

“We mustn’t judge Masters’ choices. That is the essence of the Council of Elders.”

“You say it as if, all things being equal, you would’ve followed Mordo yourself. What, didn’t wanna get your hands dirty?”

“Your provocations—”

“You have to choose a side, Minoru.”

“I chose a side, Strange. But that doesn’t mean I have to or will agree with anything you say. I don’t know what you mean by ‘made a deal with Dormammu’, and I can’t check if you have any connection to him, but it’s completely on you. The Ancient One has been feeding from the Dark Dimension for hundreds of years, and it never prevented her from defending Kamar-Taj and being a wise mentor to us all.”

“What is this, trust in advance?”

“Mordo’s always seen the world in black and white,” Caton put the Ring on, “and you, Strange, waste too much energy on sentimental rage. The fact that we didn’t see eye to eye at a particular point didn’t mean we should’ve started a war in the Council. We are all grown-ups.”

“Do you think they’ll leave you alive for being so open-minded?”

“Enough, Strange, your sarcasm is no longer exquisite — we all know there’s no place for excuses, and we’re equally responsible for the deaths of our friends. And Mordo with his flock is as guilty as Zealots were.”

“Except Zealots didn’t burn Kamar-Taj down,” Tina noted, and Stephen stared at her coldly. But she raised her hand. “No, Strange. Kaecilius also was our friend and her favourite, and you think she wasn’t waiting for his repentance? Wasn’t ready to take him back at any moment? But she didn’t keep the Bond, didn’t let her emotions weaken the shields, and he knew Kamar-Taj doors were closed for him.”

“So he destroyed each Sanctum instead,” Stephen snapped. “Not to mention, his anger still was enough to kill the Ancient One, despite all her prudence. And after tonight, do you think extra caution will stop Mordo?” The masters stood silent, and Strange twitched his lips in a snarky chuckle. “Oh, you really do think so. You say nothing like that happened when the Ancient One was alive; you claim our enemies are the Supreme’s reflection, but since your Supreme is so weak that Kamar-Taj faces its greatest decline, it should be quite easy to defeat Mordo, shouldn’t it?”

Caton covered his face with his palm; Naama and Wong looked down. A wreath pulsating on her temple, Tina only gritted her teeth. 

Sensing the argument’s over, Tony cleared her throat and waved her hand, “A retaliation, unless it’s fatal, won't solve much. I’ve met a couple of fellows just like your buddy, and they usually go to the end – not that they’re troubled by empathy or reflections on conventional morality.”

Masters lifted their heads, and Stephen tossed a glance at them. “We cannot promise that Mordo won’t attack civilians.” No one objected, and he turned to Rhodey, “But we must come to an arrangement right away, Colonel. We understand the army's participation is necessary, but due to the knowledge we keep, we can’t barter with the government even as a form of gratitude.”

Rhodey looked at Tony with curious approval. She frowned, and he nodded, “I think we can sort this out. How many of them are there?”

“About two hundred.”

“Two hundred battle-trained ideological fanatics with a deadly arsenal of magic sound like a credible threat. Shall we take a seat?”

They decided to call the Council — or the ones who were left, at least. Tony received a message from Peter but swallowed the frustration: it was unlikely these five minutes would help much, and to rebuke the sorcerers for wanting to imitate the former stability would be sacrilege. She pushed an office chair to Rhodey (mesh backs and narrow armrests, really? What did she say about Thor?), grabbed a stack of books from the table (everything that Stephen saved from the fire and some of the Avengers' readings, why drag it here anyway?) and went to the bookcase. She was pretty sure there somewhere must be a box of biscuits and milk—

“General will want to see the recordings,” Rhodey tilted his head. “Stark. Sit.”

Her lips twitched. She put the books away and, followed by Rhodey's attentive gaze, settled in a chair. She swayed with an exaggerated scowl as if testing the flexibility of the seat, and Rhodey threatened her with a finger. “And change that long face of yours, or I’ll redirect Ross to you, and your last conversation, if you remember, ended with you asking him to kiss your ass and calling him the most unbearable cu—”

She burst out laughing – quietly but sincerely. Rhodey grinned, too, a familiar frail worry in his dark eyes. 

Tony shook her head. “I’m glad to see you.”

“Is something wrong?”

“So it seems.”

“Apart from this,” he nodded at the sorcerers dashing about behind the racks. The golden of the portal glittered on the transparent lid of the father’s turntable; Tony linked her hands. A lot happened apart from that, but what did Rhodey need to know? And did he need to know any of that at all?

In the future, the army base still has the worst coffee in the country, and Tony is sure to present them with a proper coffee maker at some point. There, in the future, Rhodey walks without sticks and crutches. He even runs. Even puts an iron suit on. The part of it that’s not screwed into his legs. There, in the future—

The future. Doc said she’d get over it. Yeah. Sure.

“Tony? Hey. Come here.”

She blinked distractedly, looking at his outstretched hand – she didn’t get it immediately, but then she pursed her lips and pushed herself into Rhodey’s arms. She closed her eyes, her cheek warmly and comfortably on his shoulder. 

He sighed. “I heard Clint and the new one, Ant-Man, are on house arrest.”

“These idiots! They scarcely knew what the fight was about, and now, they live under the supervision of authorities who didn’t bother to squeeze even a droplet of information out of them,” Tony tripped over Rhodey’s gleeful gaze and snorted. Put her palms up. “Okay! Okay. They both have kids, I’m a pushover, and Steve Rogers is the most irresponsible prick I’ve ever met.”

“You don’t have to atone for his sins, Tony.”

“As long as his sins are linked to my credit card—”

“They aren’t after he became an outlaw.”

Tony pshawed. Sorcerers returned with Hamir and two other masters, whom Tony didn’t know but saw tonight — a bearded man in a robe made of colourful patches and a tiny woman with light, almost transparent eyes — they settled in the office chairs in complete silence. Stephen childishly dodged away from Rou as she reached to him with a towel — she gave up on him but had to be given her credit: the blood from his chin had been wiped clean, and there was only a dark spot left under the cut on his cheekbone.

He took the last chair at the other end of the table and adjusted the collar of his robe with his shaking hand. He looked amusing, trying to hide embarrassment, and Tony couldn’t help a quick smirk. Strange frowned with reproach, but his expression was more of a boy bravely denying he was stealing sweets after being caught stealing sweets. Tony knew those – desperately principled but conscientious. She was like that herself (Ana carefully scrubbed the cream off her cheeks, and Jarvis wouldn’t stop lamenting, but not a single time did her parents find out).

The conversation progressed as fast as it could. Rhodes asked about and recorded everything — the nature of the attack, details, suspects. Strange was the one answering, brief and dry, his hands locked on the table. His neck, exposed without the Cloak, looked absolutely defenceless, and dark sleeves stretched over his tense shoulders. He held his back straight with such obvious effort that Tony’s lower back hurt. She bent her back, stretching, and shivers of relief ran down her spine.

Naama and Wong undertook lists of the masters who had left Kamar-Taj, and the others shared their observations from the battlefield. Tony kept silent. She also noticed that some of Mordo’s henchmen, who were not occupied with the performance for Strange, had spread out in the aisles under the arches by each and every door. They didn’t rush to get their hands dirty but had their weapons on standby. Not the machine guns, of course, as Tony was used to, but readable analogues: long blades in scabbards familiarly hanging from the shoulders, thick arrows on stretched-out bowstrings. Not to attack — but to stop, let it be by force. They had a clear strategy. And the only thing that scared them off was the fire that would have caught their not completely washed— purified thoughts.

It was even funny how people who came to kill didn’t even hide their intentions.

Angry indignation exploding in her chest, Tony stood up. Ignoring Hamir’s polite break-off, she walked around the table and poured herself warm water, the disposable cup trembling in her hand like a jelly. Tony leaned against the cooler. 

The sorcerers finished with the answers, and Rhodey knocked his pen on the notebook. “The attack is certainly a threat to everyone, but I must ask,” he looked Stephen in the eyes, “whether it was triggered by... some personal conflict?”

Strange moved his shoulders and looked around as if the question could concern someone else. Then he leaned back in the chair, “Mordo won’t quit if he kills me.”

“And yet, he didn’t kill you when he had the chance. Is it because of the Stone?”

“He needs me for a ritual sacrifice. They are forbidden, but so is any other murder,” Stephen greeted his teeth. “All the more, he knows where the Stone is. But as long as the boy moves at high speeds, it’s impossible to open a portal to him.”

“Sooner or later, he’ll get off the train though. How fast can you get to him?”

“In seven hours if we don’t hit traffic,” Tony said, crushing the empty cup. “I’m going.”

“Tony,” Rhodey objected, but she shook her head.

“It’s gonna be fine.”

Meaning— well. He knew. The boy was there. And the boy was under her supervision.

Her one eye closed, Tony threw the cup to Strange — he caught it without hesitation and squeezed it in his fist. Good reactions. Would be useful.

And without letting anyone argue, Tony waved her hand, “Let’s go, Doc, time to find something inconspicuous in my humble motor show. And for heaven’s sake, change your clothes — I’m not sharing a car with Jack Sparrow.”

Chapter Text

She changed her tracksuit to a softer, comfortable-for-a-long drive one and zipped her bag. The last time Tony went on a purposefully long trip was, lo and behold, before the Ten Rings. Before Iron Man. The Italian sun was warming her neck, her body aching after a long pleasant night, a rented cabriolet flying down an empty highway, and Freddie was mimicking baby talk in Radio Gaga—

She bumped into Strange at the stairway. He finally washed his face and combed his hair, only cuts on his cheeks and a fresh scar under his lip. He was dressed in a well-worn cardigan on a dark T-shirt and carried a hardcover book and a half-empty backpack. And, no, nothing personal; it was just that he seemed like a man who looked after himself, and Tony knew that kind very well. And she loved to dress up her men — Steve blushed amusingly (“come on, Tony, it must cost a fortune–” – “America’s main treasure deserves fortune worth clothes!”); Peps flirted (“I’m not a doll, Tony” – “you’re better! I can bring you to a dinner party, and no one will give me a side eye”), and Strange would look drop-dead handsome in Prada suits.

A small bag with sand was hanging from his neck, and he held a matte lunchbox that glowed dimly from the inside in his hands. 

Tony grunted, “So, Mom gave you a juice and two apples?”

“It’s a Celestial citrus salad.”

“Something new from Dirt Candy?”

“Do you really consider yourself witty?”

“Yeah. So, is the salad your comfort food or just delicious?”

“Tastes like wet chips. But it’s made of enchantments that quickly renew energy and ethereal plants that leave no spatial trace.”

“What about a scent trace? You know, I don’t want my car to smell of metaphysical lemons.”

“I’m not hungry.”

She nodded and pointed at the bag. “And this? Magical dressing?”

“Sands of Nisanti. Magic blockers.”

“Is it you not trusting yourself, or your friends from the Council aided?”

He didn’t answer.

The Compound’s garage was anything but humble, two jets comfortably settled in the spacious hangar and a dozen trucks lined up at the entrance, ready to be deployed. Happy was rescheduling the moving works, despite Tony’s inability to fully explain the situation, and she honestly didn’t know what he made out of a combination of magic, Tibet and terrorism, but Happy just sighed loudly into the phone and for the time being, put questions aside. Tony had to offer him a wage bonus once everything was resolved. And a well-deserved vacation week — he must have accrued enough vacation time to last for five years.

Beneath the windows, a collection of sports cars and a tinted Jeep, Natasha's toys, were parked. In front of them sat Clint’s red rectangular Dodge Challenger and a pair of Mercedes ready to get out in the world. Stephen looked around, his eyebrow up. The selection of cars was indeed absurd. Tony put on her glasses, “No need for scepticism. Everything you see is the Avengers’ property.”

“And why would the Avengers need the Mustang Fastback of nineteen seventy-three?”

He pointed at the yellow crocodile face, but Tony didn’t even turn her head. “First of all, it's nineteen seventy; secondly, the Avengers have nothing to do with it — it was my birthday gift.”

“From a crazy fan?”

“Worse, from me myself. This place used to be a Stark Industries warehouse, and the men I lived with were very annoyed by the lack of room for their jalopies in the home garage.”

Stephen said nothing in reply; Tony approached the matte green Camaro. It was a vintage masterpiece with chrome trim and smooth curves, glossy spots glistening all over its hood. Stephen leaned to the window, and Tony frowned — with the convenience of a bucket, the car was no match to the expensive supercars that responded to every sneeze, but still, it could make a worthy addition to a connoisseur’s collection; after all, there was no such thing as 'former car enthusiasts'.

“What year is it?”

“The model’s of sixty-seven, design’s individual. It has most of the joys of modern car engineering, but we tailored the interior to the forties’ style. It was a gift, too,” she threw her bag inside and slammed the door. “Not for me, but still from me. Don’t worry, it doesn’t bite.”

He looked at her reproachfully, and Tony settled in the driver’s seat. A sharp smell of first-class leather and juniper hit her nose. The seat was stiff, and a stupid star in a circle of red and white stripes marked the horn. The air freshener shaped like a fir tree hanging from the rearview mirror had long turned yellow and lost its scent, but Tony couldn’t bring herself to remove it. Labels were just sentiments, and objects didn’t hold as much memory as people put onto them — if she removed everything Rogers had touched from her life, she would be left on the street naked, and it wouldn’t ease the ache in her chest anyway. She considered acceptance a sign of psychological progress. Though life would be much simpler if the problem of inappropriate nostalgia was confined to physical objects.

She tossed the drawing pad from the passenger’s seat to the back where Strange placed his backpack and clutched the steering wheel. It was too thin, and the dashboard was insultingly simple, but the three pedals ensured she wouldn’t get bored — Tony hadn’t driven a manual in years. Stephen raised his hand, creating a golden lock on the windshield.

Stark rolled the window down, “You think we’re followed?”

“They’re watching us for sure,” he closed his eyes. “Mordo’s not around, but there are others. There really is... a concealment spell on the Stone; it puts a barrier for the portals. The kid’s safe while the Stone’s nearby.”

“Are we now, too?”

Stephen shifted his shoulder in response to her half-ironic, half-curious glance. “The spell is a simple trick, a change in the matrix of reality, but only magical objects can sustain this distortion; otherwise, the illusion quickly disappears,” he glanced at Tony again and clicked his tongue. “The spell’s a program, and the relic’s a powerful processor. If I put the spell on your car, it’s the same as trying to send an email from the oven.”

“So, how do we get out of here without being seen?”

“Well, the spell can sustain itself for an hour or so. I won’t be able to renew it once we leave the dome, but since we won’t be shining your name from the car plate, there’s a chance we won’t be followed.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“It is one.”

He finally sat beside her, the leather creaking. Tony turned the key, moved the gearshift lever, and glanced at Strange with annoyed awkwardness — he squeezed into the back of the seat, electrically uptight. A quip to lighten the mood nearly slipped from Tony’s lips, but the echoes of sensitivity kept her silent. It really was much easier when the responsibility for problems could be passed onto physical objects. Tony touched the comm and took Strange’s hand, red nanites assembling into a bracelet-generator on his wrist.

Stephen looked down. Then looked her in the eyes with cold, sardonic curiosity — as if he wanted to say about compassion again. Or prove something. Or blame her. 

She turned away, “Whatever they say, I’m a neat driver.”

“What are you doing, Stark?”

“FRIDAY’ll look after you,” she started the car in a couple of quick moves. “It’d be a bit tricky for me to watch the road and your panic attack simultaneously.”

“I don’t have panic attacks.”

“Yeah, that’s what I used to say, too, and then the kid in a café drew a hole in the sky, and I’m still on the pills. When was the last time you got in a car?”

He turned to the window, and Tony set a transparent tablet on the dashboard. Not the best start. Okay. Nevermind. If they’d got through twenty-four hours in outer space once, they could last seven hours in a car, too.

They got to the I-87 S tollway without any stops. Without any communication, too, but not that Tony needed chatter that much. She wanted to pick up Peter, blow the Stone and say her farewells, but the sorcerers’ ideological squabbles now seemed as troublesome as the threat from space. To say the least. With Thanos, things were clear, and Vision was to be found, and a month was still in reserve, but a storm hit the magical world unexpectedly. And hell with that, no one was safe, but the worst part was that Tony couldn’t shake off the guilt. If the fanatics hadn’t heard her talk about the future, would they have postponed their rebellion? Did Strange think about that?

The uncertainty was uncomfortable, but she couldn’t be angry at Stephen’s ingratitude either. He knew how to offend, Tony figured it out on their very first meeting, and his arrogance had pissed her off since then. Yet, all resentment vanished when she glanced at him. His hands trembled, but he looked ahead with a cold confidence, too stiff to be natural, and his profile was sharp like a glass shard. Tony’d seen him wounded and defeated before, but never frightened, depressed, and desperate-angry. Like that. From the inside.

The road was surprisingly empty; the traffic light turned green, and Stark released the pedal, but the car didn’t move. She shifted gears, and Stephen, a velvet laugh barely hidden behind his smooth tone, raised his eyebrows. “It’s time to engage the clutch and change gears. Not bad; now release the clutch and carefully apply the accelerator.”

The car moved. Peter sent Tony five photo attachments, and half an hour was left till road 17.

“I’m about to believe you were moonlighting as a driving instructor.”

“I’ve been driving a tractor since I was thirteen. There, however, are questions for you.”

“Well, when I was thirteen, I build a gearbox for the first time – my father never threw anything away from his workshop, so he had a dime a dozen of needless junk there. He didn’t notice for a month, but when I presented him the box, he made a scene. Also, I took a driving test on a manual, but it was about twenty years ago. Don’t dare to count.”

She switched the gear and looked at Strange, but he didn’t tense after the speed change. So Tony leaned against the armrest with a satisfied grin. “Where did you get a tractor at thirteen from?”

“I grew up on a farm. Not everyone is born with a silver spoon in their mouth.”

The brakes cracked. Tony leaned onto the dashboard to see the traffic light better; Strange clutched the armrests and turned to her, indignant. She shrugged, “Old bolt bucket.”

“If you keep doing this, you’ll lose your licence.”

“Then, I’ll buy a new one. 'Cos I have money.” She hooked the glasses on the collar of her shirt. “Remember money?”

Stephen turned away. Knocked on the window as the light turned green, and Tony pulled the gear. “I heard you were one hell of a spendthrift before becoming a monk.”

“Well, look who’s talking.”

“I mean, early hedonism is something we have in common. Like a shared ex,” she glanced at him, but Stephen just twitched his eyebrow. “I’d never peg you as a cowboy, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

“Wanna tell?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No,” he looked at her as she rolled her eyes. “Keep your hand on the gears.”

“If it makes you feel better.”

He shook his head.

Over the next four hours, they struck up a conversation nonetheless — apparently, the car’s narrow interior and the annoying radio ads encouraged chatter more than an enemy spaceship ever could. Post-thrill fatigue loosened their tongues; Stark lazily made fun of the announcers, and Strange joined in naturally. Turned out, he had a good sense of humour — surprisingly good for a man who acted like he had a bayonet up his ass. He laughed sincerely at the bayonet.

Tony sped up and tried to find out more about the farm, but Stephen guarded his borders well. There was something paradoxically unifying about her probing into his past and his benevolent yet firm rebuffs. He didn’t ask about Tony’s childhood, but sparks of the cheerful discernment in his gaze kinda implied he knew everything. Unlikely, of course, but Tony liked to believe it. It added a layer of mystery to his sorcererness.

It was hard to admit, but lowering their defenses proved not to be fatal.

At a petrol station, Tony even managed to feed Strange — not intentionally, but over-fatigue wouldn’t be of any help, and Tony’d only seen Strange eat two apples. Feeling her stomach painfully swirling, even though she was snacking all day, Stark could vividly imagine how the wizard’s stomach was eating itself.

Stephen barked at the unsolicited pity, but Tony deflected it with an honest offer of help. Strange got wildly confused, but gobbled a couple of hot dogs without thinking twice. He even ate some of his magical salad — it looked like jelly with pieces of dried fruit, glowing like a fluorescent lamp, and had no smell. Tony yawned, grinned, and kept eating nuts from a jar.

The sky never cleared, the air thickened, and it finally started to rain. They had about an hour and a half left to Road 28 and another hour and a half to Pittsburgh when Peter called. He’d just gotten off the train and was bouncing around the posh Union Station. Stephen texted him the address.

“It’s not far from the station. You hear me, Parker? Find George Parton at this address and tell him you’re from me,” he unlocked his phone again, “I’ll text him, he’ll shelter you for a while.”

“O– okay, sir, thank you. And May– is she alright?”

Tony exchanged glances with Strange. “Why wouldn’t she?”

“No, no reasons at all, she’s just– I mean, I thought, what if someone found out I have the Stone and tried to—”

“Nobody knows you have the Stone. How?”

“Well, it’s just that—”

“Peter, trust me, I’m always happy to see your criminally beautiful aunt, but it’s too early to call for an alert. You wanted some independence: well, enjoy the delights of adult life.” She massaged the bridge of her nose. “Okay, listen. Everything’s under control, Happy looks after her, and you know Happy — she’s safe. Find this Parton guy and eat something nice. ‘Nice’ as in ‘something healthier than a pack of chips’, you get the idea?”

She didn’t lie — it was too early to panic, and from a practical point of view, it made no sense for the kid to worry: even if May was in imminent danger, he could do nothing to help her, being one hundred and thirty miles away. But as soon as Parker hung up, Strange remarked, “It’s unlikely your friend will be much help if Mordo gets to her.”

“But it’s unlikely my friend will be why Mordo gets to her. Have you ever heard the expression ‘give a head start’?”

“If it makes you feel better.”

Tony snorted, her eyes on the scar under his lip. She grabbed the last nuts from the jar. “It’s almost as if you’re proud of him.”

“I just know what he’s capable of.”

“But you don’t know what Happy’s capable of,” Tony raised her eyebrows but decided not to continue about Hogan’s boxing past. She turned away from the condescending smile. “Don’t you wanna sprinkle Mordo with your magic sand?”

“I do, but it’s not him only.”

“You think you don’t have enough?”

“I think of how much they can manage to do before.”

“And is that Parton guy — too? You know. One of yours.”

“Parton? Oh, no, I operated on his daughter a couple of years ago. She was born with a rare combination of Chiari malformation and Sturge-Weber syndrome. During one surgery, we wanted to both fix the malformation and remove the abnormal blood vessels; I operated for fifteen hours and don’t even remember coming home. But then I wrote an article on complex neurovascular conditions, and Parton still sends me Christmas cards.” He twitched his eyebrows at Tony’s laughter and pursed his lips. “Hey. What now?”

She shook her head, unable to stop. “Your patient’s father!” Stark wiped tears away and sighed. “Amazing. Never wanted to return?”

“As long as I keep saving people—”

“I mean, to the farm.”

He chuckled, “Stop it, Stark.”

“Okay,” she pressed her palms open against the steering wheel. “I don’t deny it’s working, even though I don’t yet know how. Note, FRIDAY, it wasn’t for the record. But I wanna ask you, as a scientist asks a doctor, don’t you think that, out of all philanthropic activities, magic is a little... too much?”

“Saving life isn’t always about what’s on the wishlist.”

“But it’s not about self-harm either.”

“No,” Stephen agreed but added nothing.

Thunderclouds were trying their best, but the downpour hadn’t started yet. But the light rustle of rain was a good lullaby too. Tony was getting tired: the coffee from the petrol station, more invigorating for its disgusting taste of water-diluted ink than caffeine, had lost its effect about an hour ago; steel tension gripped her shoulders, and a familiar, dangerous sensation tingled behind her ribs. Rubbing her left side, Tony turned at the first sign to the hotel.

The concierge recognized her, jumping in front of the desk with a wide smile. He was an elderly man in a light shirt with a mint-coloured name tag that read ‘Stanley’ in blue marker. Tony left an autograph on the hotel card; the concierge refused to take any money for parking, offered her a discount on a bottle of wine (if she hadn’t been on the wagon, she’d have taken three — Daddy had taught her to put her soul into getting wasted), and nodded understandingly when she introduced herself by a different name (‘Maria Potts’ was a fantasy fiasco but better than ‘Tony Stank’). He offered Strange a sly smile and handed them the key to a room with a large double bed.

“Do I look like—” Tony waved her hand vaguely and clicked her tongue when Stephen tossed a sad glance at the narrow old armchair. “I beg you, Doc, forget affectations. My side’s by the window! Alright, Imma shower.”

Not that she wanted to hide, desperate bravado had long become her second skin, but when Tony locked the door, she finally breathed out with unwitting relief. Let herself grab hold of her heart and count her breath — the painful sensations seemed to be an acute anxiety rather than a pre-heart attack; big luck. All things being equal.

She dropped her clothes on the floor and covered herself with the peach gel from the dispenser on the wall. Layer by layer, the hot water washed away everything collected throughout the day — lack of sleep, dense battle adrenaline, driving tiredness, brave laxity of road conversations — washed away until nothing was left. Tony pressed her forehead against the wall. The tile was covered with steam and slid. Hugging herself on the shoulder, Tony pressed a flat shower head to the bottom of her stomach, the stiff jets massaging her skin. No pleasant tension appeared between her legs.

She was wrapped in thick humidity, the water pouring on her feet — so hot it was barely perceptible — and Tony couldn’t contain the tears of exhaustion anymore. 

Titan and the stomach wound, left the day before yesterday, so vivid in the morning, already faded, and the events at the sorcerer’s place got all mixed up, too. The universe was never merciful enough to give her time to process things or take her life with the others’ — no, it threw tragedies at her, one after another, and Stark should've gone crazy a long time ago and saved herself from heroism, but she could only boast of incredibly steady nerves. Even though she felt like that poor Jenga, that miraculously didn’t fall apart by the end of the game. Okay. Breathe in, breathe out. It was almost over. She provided the sorcerers with patronage and warned them about Thanos; she would now return Peter to his aunt and flee. Preferably to an island somewhere far far away, where not a soul lived, and if they did, they didn’t know about aliens, magic, and other joys of superhero life. Did she own such an island? She had to check.

Tony cried silently and without strain. Tears poured like tap water, salt pinching scratches on her face. If Dad hugged her now, she would’ve burst into a real cry — but it must’ve been Dad (Howard’s form that was as likely to see as unicorns); not Mom or Jarvis, who never skimped on care. No. Dad. Tony remembered him different, mainly unreachable, demanding and strict, but the ice portrait had cracks, and through the cracks, Tony saw her crying when she fell off the bike and Dad squeezing her with his big dry hands, patting her injured knee; or saw her running away from school and crying in the living room after a classmate tore her notebook and called her a nerd and Howard hugging her tightly, having no good reasons to scold her for being too sensitive.

But a suddenly clear thought sobered her — a realistic Howard wouldn’t have been generous enough to pity her. Would he have reproached her for cowardice? Most likely. He had peculiar views on nobleness, and Tony didn’t even try to compete with the perfect Rogers.

The tears stopped as abruptly as they started. Tony shook the heavy steam off her shoulders, wrapped herself in a terry towel and wiped the mirror. Her blurry reflection appeared on the muddy islet: two black eyes, a reddened neck and a bright reactor light on her chest. The most advanced device in the world against the most primitive threat. Tony dried her hair and talked to Parker, who’d found Parton and had a good meal, the Cloak still disguised as a sweater. Tony put on a bathrobe as harsh as an old washcloth and shrugged from the temperature change as she opened the door.

It stopped raining, and stripes of the red sunset shone through the grey sky. Tea candles stood on the table forming a weird shape — Tony counted twelve of them and looked up. His finger on the yellow book page, Stephen was stirring sugar in a mug and moving slightly to the rhythm of a guitar strumming from the window. By the sound of it, the bucket was the drum, the vocals were husky and smoky, and Stark tapped herself on the temple, trying to grasp the flash of memory. “No, don’t tell me. Is it Bowie?”

“Something In The Air from Hours,” Strange closed the book, “year ninety-ninth.”

“Oh. I’m dealing with an expert?”

“I was at his concert. This album’s premiere in New York.”

“Are you a fan?”

“Someone in my circle liked him a lot. I had to work hard to get tickets — especially for those prices back then — but I managed to.”

“Did she appreciate it? Your ladylove.”

Stephen caught her sly gaze but turned away. Tony twitched her eyebrows, puzzled and a bit embarrassed.

Stephen took the spoon out and handed Tony the mug at last, “Lost her voice.”

“I don’t take things handed to me,” Tony tapped the table. When Stephen set the mug down, she grabbed it. “And how about you? Come on, fess up: Bowie or Bob Dylan?”

“Stevie Wonder. My only CD was Talking Book, and within a month, the first sounds of Superstition caused vomiting in the whole family. The same with The Stone Roses.”

“So, you’ve been cranky meticulous since you were a kid.”

“When I got the collectable Radioheads—”

“No, not them! Tell me at least AC/DC were saved from the abuse of your tediousness.”

“Yes, they passed by me. I preferred alternative rock at the time.”

“And Britpop.”

“Teenage rebellion at its best.”

“Well, I rebelled with the fun ones. The Police and Van Halen—”

“And U2 and Steely Dan, must be.”

“And Peter Gabriel, of course. Solo.”

“Of course.”

“Hey! Have you ever heard Red Rain?”

He smiled.

Tony took a sip from the mug with a proud sense of accomplishment but immediately winced, “Ew, sweet abomination. Did you stash gingerbread cookies there? I see it all.”

“The effects of your time travel are subsiding.” Stephen changed her mug while she unpacked the cookie. In the new tea, Tony tasted not a single ounce of sugar. “New Absolute Points appear on the timeline and define the new reality.”

“Points like Mordo’s attack?”

“Like the fall of Kamar-Taj.”

“So, what now?” She waved her hand over the candles. “With all that.”

“We shall figure out Mordo's deal first,” he turned to the table again. Glanced at Stark as she cracked her biscuit and extended his hand with the nanites bracelet to her. His fist trembled. “Take it off.”

“Don’t like the design or the size’s wrong?”

“I don’t want your AI to record every breath I take.”

“It also counts your pulse and blood oxygen saturation.”

“I’m not ready for such frankness.”

She snorted, watching the nanites move from his wrist onto hers. All the unspoken things sparkling, Tony cleared her throat, “I’m not a therapist or anything, but it's not your fault.”

“Whose fault is it then?”

He got it right, an angry powerlessness in his voice, and Stark pulled away. “Your pal’s fault. Incitement to hatred is a matter for the courts.”

“You don’t know the context.”

“Okay, go on! Tell me why you’re defending him.”

“I’m not defending him,” Stephen snapped, “but all of that could’ve been avoided had I not let him leave Kamar-Taj back then.”

“And would he've let you not let him leave? It's a rhetorical question.” Tony took another sip. “I’m sure you’re an exemplary babysitter, but to gather people into a cult that’s willing to kill others, you've to have, uh, what do you call it? Special thinking. What did you say about being uncompromising?”

Stephen looked down. Tony reached for another cookie, and he said quietly yet firmly, “Mordo must not get the Stone, let alone get me.”

She nodded. Caught Stepehn's stubborn glance and patted him on the shoulder, “I’m proud of your honesty. I personally never have the courage to admit that I—”

“If he gets me, Stark, he won’t only get my power and the Supreme’s mark, he’ll consume my soul. And by absorbing me, he’ll be able to subdue the deepest layers of magic that, in turn, will allow him to connect to anyone who uses that energy.”

“And control everyone in the gang,” Tony nodded, and Stephen nodded, too.

“If ‘liberation’ of the Stone is the conclusion of his philosophy, killing of the Supreme is part of his strategy.”

“Well, preventing him from carving your heart out on the sacrifice table was already on my to-do list. ‘Cos you wouldn’t be smart enough to just stay away, obviously.” She cracked a cookie in response to his arched eyebrow. “And then? When he doesn’t threaten y’all anymore. Hogwarts has fallen.”

“Kamar-Taj is a power place, and people always need help. We’ll have to restore the household. Build new greenhouses,” he glanced at the book, “get new chickens, find new fabrics—”

“And after? I mean, after magic heals them, what do people do?” 

“It’s not magic that heals them. They do it themselves.”

“How many of them can leave?”

“Everyone can. It’s their choice.”

“I mean, after a long period of isolation in such therapeutic autonomy, it must be difficult to return to the ordinary world. As in... pay taxes... not run red lights... communicate with others.”

“That’s why so many stay,” Stephen nodded with a short, all-knowing smile, and Tony tilted her head.

“You too? Couldn’t come back.”

“I chose not to.”

“So, you haven’t even tried?” But Stephen just twitched his shoulder. Tony took another sip of tea, “Still a bit sweet, by the way.”

“It’s honey. Not the worst, although I wouldn’t recommend buying it from the stores: there were dozens of apiaries in Kamar-Taj, Master Eve is responsible for them. Was responsible.”

“I knew it! The honeycomb patterns on her clothes kinda alluded.”

“She loved her work and was a strict supervisor, and I spent enough time with her to be able to distinguish the varieties a little. I... didn’t mean what I said at the Compound. Thanks for Rhodes.”

The revelation — and sudden fragility — took Tony’s breath away. She quaked with an indistinct chuckle and waved anway almost sincerely, “He sleeps and dreams of how to get back to work. And I’m not that easily offended, forget it — you can’t tell me anything more hurtful than I already tell myself.”

But Stephen didn't avert his eyes, accustomed as he was to hearing other people’s confessions, and Tony had to look away herself. His genuine and unexpected sympathy itched everywhere, but she had no armour to shield her from it.

Bowie’s mashup was still heard from outside, and water rustled in the bathroom, and Tony arched her back, stretching in the bed. From the soft pillow’s perspective, everything looked a bit better: the anxiety helped only in inventing technological innovations, the twenty-nine days was still a decent period for the plan to work, and Tony must’ve looked not absorbed by the inhuman horror but just rather unsatisfied since the concierge didn’t even question her dragging a lover to a crappy hotel in the middle of nowhere for one, not even a three-star night.

And it was funny. Suddenly actually funny — compared to other reasons for laughter through tears.

The mattress bent as Stephen lay beside her. She felt the warmth of his skin under the shared blanket — he now smelled of peach, too, and Tony clenched her hands on her stomach. “I thought you sleep topless.”

“I thought we have business here.”

“Hey, Doc,” she turned her head with the most serious expression, and he frowned. Tony’s glance stayed on his lips. “I’m not gonna get laid with you because you made me some tea.”

“I’m not gonna get laid with you because you didn’t get us into an accident while being behind the wheel.”

And she laughed, “It's a deal.”

Chapter Text

“Right! Burger.”  

“What burger, Stark?”

“Well, there’s a seven-hour trip ahead, so a double one, obviously.” 

There were no other options — not only did a hazy memory of a photo from articles about Afghanistan remind Strange of Tony’s sacred connection with burgers, but also in the vicinity, there was no place that could offer anything faster and healthier than McDonald’s. The prospect of returning to New York sooner seemed more appealing than having a steak for breakfast.

It was the first time Stephen had ever left a fast-food restaurant with so many bags.

They stowed them in a portable heater on the backseats and set off. Parker was twenty minutes away, New York — half a day. The morning was surprisingly clear, yet the outlines of bins and lampposts blurred before Stephen’s eyes. It felt as though there was sand beneath his eyelids, urging him to scratch them mercilessly, but instead, he only closed his eyes. He didn’t sleep well tonight. Exhausted from adrenaline and shock, he fell into a dream immediately, though it felt more like a fevered delirium. He dreamed of flames, gunshots, and screams — whether commands or pleas; dreamed of Mordo in a dark cloak, fleeing into a crowd that grew thicker and angrier the more Stephen tried to reach him. The heat of the fire wrapping his hands and back, Strange was convinced that by tearing off Mordo’s cloak, he could save Kamar-Taj, but he always ended up a half-step behind. Among the crowd, there were his masters, the Avengers, and even Strange’s parents, deep wounds across their throats with viscous blood bubbling on them.

Stephen woke up drenched. His heart pounding, the sheets twisted around his legs, he rubbed his face with his palms before focusing on the breathing exercises — the very first thing the Ancient One had taught him. They served to still his trembling hands, set up his inner energy, and teach him obedience (“I am flattered by your enthusiasm, Doctor, but a clear mind is needed now more than greedy emotions: you are too excited to understand me”). After all, Stephen was a good student, so, with his typical pragmatism, he dissolved his panic in the silence of the night now. 

A faint scent of sweet soap hung in the air, and the AC hummed softly amidst the rain’s relentless pounding on the gutter outside. But the curtains suddenly flashed red, painting walls and ceiling red too, and Stephen jumped on the bed, startled. The light moved slowly across the room from one edge of the window to the other, and Strange realised with belated embarrassment that he got scared of nothing more than the glint of passing headlights from the outside.

Stark lay with her back to him, the dark top of her head sticking out from under the white blanket. For a moment, Stephen feared she wasn’t breathing. He held his breath, his gaze fixed on her till his eyes ached, but eventually discerned the gentle rise and fall of the blanket — Stark was in deep slumber. Tea with honey worked wonders. And so did sleeping pills. Stephen recognised the box immediately, but Tony only threatened him with her raised finger (“a word about meditations over pills, and Imma bite you” — “bite me?” — “on the shoulder” — “you should buy me a drink first”).

Stephen envied her tranquillity — fear mixed his thoughts, disrupting any semblance of calmness and pushing him back into cold wakefulness. He didn’t want to face the uncomfortable anxiety growing within. But his hands were trembling, adrenaline gnawing at his stomach, and Stephen wasn’t sure he was where he was supposed to be. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the masters — it would’ve been an unforgivable insolence on his part — but his absence during a critical time did little to bolster his standing. The Stone was the Supreme’s primary concern, but how could an artefact compete in importance with real, breathing humans? Breathing yet.  

He was separated from Tony by a thick layer of blanket and leaned against it with his back. The closeness of another human being — alive, warm, of flesh and blood — grounded him as expected, and, trying out a couple more sleeping meditations, Stephen fell into a new half-slumber. 

He dreamt of his father’s hands. It was one of his earliest memories, emerging like a faded photo — these hands, weathered, dirty and strong, with fingernails trimmed to the root; one gripping a sheep by the throat while the other deftly cutting yellowed curls from its chest. There was a palpable sense of confidence in these rough actions — a blend of precision and harshness that young Stephen struggled to comprehend. The pasture smelled of hay and wet metal that day; his father cooed into the sheep’s ear and painted visions of his son’s brilliant farm future, but Stephen stared at his own hands, the small hands of a five-years-old with long fingers like his mother’s, scared he would never be able to master this miraculous skill because of his child clumsiness.

Years later, Stephen realised that his father’s hands, despite their remarkable dexterity, weren’t suited for every task. With hands like those, one couldn’t tenderly pet someone else’s hair, soothe an aching stomach with a gentle stroke, or perform surgeries on the human brain. But could chop wood. And trim the goats’ horns, and clap one’s shoulder with distant pride. And pull the dogs out of the ice-holes. 

In the dream, however, the father’s hands belonged to Stephen himself — he combed Pistachio with them. Father had strictly forbidden naming the cattle destined for slaughter, but four-year-old Donna, sheltered from the farm’s harsh realities by an unspoken family agreement, didn’t know this rule when she encountered the thin-legged red goat. Secretly, Stephen allowed her to feed Pistachio with carrots and scratch behind its ear, but when he accidentally referred to it by the name instead of ‘number fifty-five’, his father slapped him. Not for the first time — Stephen was around ten when he chose science over cattle breeding, but Father was never impressed by the dissected frogs and didn’t spare Stephen for carelessness — but for the first time, he slapped him like this. To a burning mark on the cheekbone. With an inexplicable fierce fear, as if a foolish blooper foreshadowed a calamity, an endless sorrow of doomed closeness, and only pain could have prevented that pain. 

Stephen didn’t cry. It was the first time he swallowed his tears. But he remembered Father’s distracted glance and how he silently left the barn instead of apologising. Stephen often compared, but even at the top of his callous insensitivity, he couldn’t match his father’s unwavering rigidity. Pistachio proved profitable, but when Stephen attempted to console Donna with a fairy tale about the goat running to the sky, his father intervened with the truth. Donna cried for a long while, but Father remarked that every child must go through this — the sooner, the better.  

Stephen, however, couldn’t recall going through ‘this’. At least not with tears and resentment stuck in his throat, not to mention Victor who never even displayed any regard for animals — a true heir of his father. They both knew how to retaliate in response when they were hurt.

Either dreams or memories, these faded images from his childhood plunged Stephen into the drowsy warmth, and he squinted reluctantly, when the time to wake up came. 

Stark opened the heavy curtains and, as Stephen sat in the bed, remarked over the shoulder, “I overslept the alarm.”

Alarm. He hadn’t even thought to set an alarm. His quartz watch (not a gift from Christine; that was a symbolic reminder but completely useless for telling time) showed half past ten in the morning. His close contact with the Stone had sharpened Stephen’s sense of time to the accuracy of seconds, but apparently, relying on the artefact had thrown his biological clock out of order, considering it failed to wake him up for the usual morning meditation at six. Or perhaps it was six when he only had drifted off to sleep.

The three-in-one coffee offered in the hotel room was a distasteful concoction in every sense, so it was clear from the start that a stop at McDonald’s would be inevitable. Now, the car smelled of fried oil, French fries and meat; Pittsburgh’s morning traffic paled compared to the New York monsters but still threatened to add another fifteen minutes to their journey to Peter. Tony glanced up from the satnav.  

She frowned in the sun, and her profile looked like a statue carved from diagonals. But despite being so focused, she held herself with effortless grace as though the steering wheel was a piano keyboard under her hands. Sipping her coffee, she caressed the shabby skin of the steering wheel with her thumb, the light sliding down the scar on her thumb’s pad and her wrist bone. Tony drove smoothly and calmly as if she had spent her whole life navigating these roads in this car — Stephen could barely feel the movement. He thought she was an aggressive driver, but maybe he was wrong. Maybe, she changed her driving style — long ago or for the occasion — Stephen, grown in his parents’ limitations and fears, loved speed and believed in his immortality. And was grateful Tony didn’t remind him of it. 

Maybe he should’ve stopped staring. 

Something fell against the backseat door with a dull thud before landing on the rug, and Stephen shuddered. Chiding himself for inappropriate jumpiness, he retrieved the fallen notebook from the floor. He noticed Tony’s quick glance but found only harmless pencil drawings inside.

The first dozen pages were filled with Brooklyn Bridge sketches — part architectural exploration, part artistic anguish — and only one unfinished female portrait was on the back of one of them. The round face with a sharp chin and large curls styled in the forties fashion bore a clear resemblance to Margaret Carter, but the strokes lacked confidence as if with each new line, the artist’s memory of the face blurred, preventing him from capturing it entirely.

“I didn’t know he draws,” Strange commented at last, and Tony returned the coffee to the cup holder.  

“Not Rembrandt, of course, and not even Picasso, but still, if I tell them who the artist is, any museum will buy it without even looking.”

“And you’ll be able to sell it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Sentiments?” he turned the notebook to her, a sketch of Tony herself in a very unambiguous nude on the open page. 

Stark’s lips twitched in a quick smirk. She put on her glasses, the lenses turning blue against the sunlight. “Looks better in real life.”

“I saw something like this in Playboy in the late nineties.”

“Maybe you saw me.”

“Part-time job?”

“Oh, please! Charity.”

Her eyes sparkled with joy, red splatter in them seen even behind the translucent blue lenses. Stephen threw a notebook in the glove box. He couldn’t cater to Stark’s pride – meaning, no, he would’ve admitted he liked it if she asked; he had vivid sexual fantasies, particularly convincing after pills and a long period without a partner and ability to masturbate, but now, his thoughts were consumed by Kamar-Taj, and the turmoil wasn’t exactly conducive to his libido.

The masters had a hundred ways to contact him, and since no one did, there was hope the night was quiet. With Kamar-Taj occupied, Mordo may have held his horses to carefully formulate his strategy. Getting rid of the sorcerers, who were prepared for the new attack and spread over three countries, was a more complicated challenge than striking the concentrated first blow, and Stephen contemplated the possibilities of reinforcing the new dome. 

As the Statler Brothers’ country song faded out, FRIDAY informed on the incoming call. Stark took a sip of her coffee and poked a switch on the radio, “Tell me something good.”  

“CIA joined us,” Rhodes’s voice came through the speakers, “and reached out to Interpol. We’ve mobilised a military force around the Compound, beefed up security at the homes of former sorcerers, and so far, Ross hasn’t made a peep about your drones.”

“Sounds too good to be true.” 

“Wait till he sues you for using unauthorised equipment during the international operation.”

“Only if he proves they weren’t just passing by and minding their own business. Will you have my back?”

“No, you’ll have to make something up yourself. But that’s not all — am I on speakers?”  

“Good morning, Colonel,” Stephen greeted.  

“It is good indeed, Doctor. Your men repelled two attacks last night, and an hour ago, we foiled an attempt on one of the former sorcerers here in the Upper East Side. Your guys have her in custody — female, fifty-something, medium height, dark hair, dark eyes.”

Kamar-Taj had more than a dozen women of such appearance and age, which could be described as ‘fifty-something’. Who of them had followed Mordo? And who of the ones who had was caught in the failed attack? The new attack was expected, but Stephen, eager to bury himself in saving denial, couldn’t imagine any of the masters willing to commit cold-blooded murder in the name of ideology. The image of Master Ray naturally came to his mind — but Stephen could only recall the gentle kindliness of her gaze and the sweet scent of sandalwood.

He looked at Tony, but she shook her head, “Seems a bit early for them to fall apart.”

“Can I talk to them?” Strange asked.  

Rhodes cleared his throat before answering quieter. “We’re not done with the search and the formalities, but I’ll try not to let the interrogation happen without you.”

“Thank you, Colonel.” 

“Okay, Colonel,” Tony switched gears, “we’re approaching the kid, I’ll be in touch. And don’t overdo the coffee because Happy is mad it’s running out too fast.”

She hung up, slid her glasses onto the collar of her shirt. They waited silently for the traffic light to change, Stark tapping her fingers on the steering wheel before reaching for her coffee cup again. “General won’t hand her over to you. I bet he’ll wanna drag us all to court to officially document the attack.”

“Mordo isn’t attacking civilians yet—”

“Yet.”

Stephen turned to the window. “So be it. Kamar-Taj is not a court. I just wanna talk.”

“Not ‘talk’, doc, but ‘find out where the rest is’. We have a couple of excellent Nutcrackers for particularly introverted ones, and—”

“It’s not a given that resorting to force will be necessary.” 

“No? Oh, right. ‘Cos we have a plan. Remind me, it involves you going to the guys who sleep and see how to kill you and talk them out of radicalism?” Tony whistled sarcastically. “Wait, do you really wanna negotiate?”

“And what do you suggest?” Strange snapped. “Public execution?”

“Well, Mordo’ll certainly do that with you.”

“I’m not him.”

“You know, Doc, sometimes you gotta forget chivalry and answer the bastards in their language.”

“Is it the Avengers’ motto?”

Tony shifted gears too quickly, and Stephen grabbed the leather armrests. Instinctively rather than out of need. Stark glanced at his fingers. “That’s the reason the Avengers saved so many lives. If we were to civilly negotiate with someone like Loki, we’d have lost the Earth while reciting the Miranda rights.”

“Do the Sokovian refugees know?”

"Well, figuring out how to handle this without casualties is next-level. One day, you’ll learn."

Stephen narrowed his eyes, but the dryness of her tone was a reliable barrier against any of his potential responses. The tension lingered in the air, but the opportunity to argue about ethics seemed to dissipate, and Stephen swallowed his reduced militancy.

Stark clicked the lever under the steering wheel, silencing the blinker, and FRIDAY announced, “The address is on the right, ma’am. I’ve already texted Mr Parker to come out.”

“Good girl.”

“Aren’t you scared?” Stephen nodded at the radio. “It’ll outsmart you one day.”

“I thought you were all for progress. What about the neuromodeling article?”

“It was three weeks before my payday, and Rolex released a new model.” He touched his wrist, but instead of Rolex, there was only a cheap alternative. And — quite expensive Stark’s nano-bracelet. Stephen pulled his sleeve down and clicked his tongue in response to her cheerful look. “I was offered generous advance. Peter Parker is your son?”

He was expecting anything — malicious quips at the uncomfortable truth, jokes, honest indignation — but not Stark bursting out laughing.

“Of course! Twenty years ago, I had a wild night, but I was three months along when I found out the condom had broken. I gave the baby to a nice childless couple, and now, nearly kicking the bucket a few times, I’m actively atoning for my sins. Is that how you think of me, then?” she winked. Shame reddened Stephen’s cheeks, and he looked away, only for Stark to smirk. “No, Doc. I take high-quality birth control pills and prefer to give out my own condoms, reliable ones, so Peter is not my son. I don't have children. But I do have generational trauma and a strong desire to work it through, and the boy needs someone to babysit him anyway.”

He nodded. Stark had plenty of straightforward honesty.

By the time they pulled up, Parker was already on the porch, petting a red setter behind the ears. There was a bracelet on his wrist similar to Tony’s generators and the red sweater tied around his neck. 

The dog wagged its tail, and Parton appeared in the doorway, his hand raised in a greeting. In the years since Stephen had last seen him, Parton had lost his vigour — his blond hair had receded, his complexion got a yellowish shade, and his clothes now covered his softened figure tightly. But Parton’s gaze remained warm, and he smiled with his familiar, hospitable innocence.

“Bye, Tucker,” Parker patted the dog on the head and waved Parton goodbye. “Thanks for breakfast, sir!”

Tony greeted him near the car, examining him with anxious attention, while Stephen glanced back tensely at the honking from the driveway as he made his way to the porch.

Tucker stretched his head out, sniffing Stephen’s leg, and Parton smiled, “Good boy.” The question of whether he meant the dog or Peter almost slipped off Strange’s lips, but he bit his tongue. As they shook hands, Parton gripped Stephen’s palm with both hands as if afraid he might vanish, his gaze fixed on the scar under Stephen’s lip. "Doctor! How are you? I’m sorry I haven’t sent you any gifts in the past year. Dr Palmer mentioned that you moved out but couldn’t give me your new address—”

“I travel a lot,” Stephen freed his hand from the grip. “But I do find myself in New York ever so often.”

“I heard you are now into... well—”

“Magic.”

“So, it’s true?”

“How’s Alice doing?”

“She’s in Europe, getting ready for her wedding! Sends you her best regards,” Parton glanced at Stark. His eyes flashed, and he whispered, “Tell me, Doctor... are you an Avenger now?”

Genuine laughter rattled in his chest, and Stephen tilted his head down to hide his smile. It was good Tony hadn’t overheard this, otherwise, she would have teased him relentlessly till they got to New York. But then again, what else Parton could have thought? 

“No, George. We were at a scientific symposium. I’m collaborating on a project with Stark Industries, but it’s confidential.”

“Sure, Doctor. I understand.”

Stephen pursed his lips at Parton’s expressive wink, mentally thanked Tony for honking from the car and hurried off.

The car’s interior now smelled of french fries and a little — of dog hair. The cautious intimacy that had been warming between him and Stark seemed to dissipate in the presence of the child — Peter’s naive innocence must’ve been shielded from the harsh facts at all costs. Tony took off before Strange could fasten his seatbelt and something heavy fell onto his shoulder.

“Hi there,” he leaned forward, allowing the Cloak to slip onto his back. It embraced Strange’s shoulders and touched his scar with the corner of the collar, non-verbal indignation pouring into Strange’s thoughts. He turned away. “Don’t start. I know.”

“Wanna get a room, you two?” Tony raised an eyebrow, and Parker giggled. “We can step out of the car for a bit.”

“Watch the road, Stark.” Stephen outstretched his open palm to Parker. “The flash drive.”

“Oh, yeah, right, wait a sec, here– here you go, sir. So, what’s wrong with it?”

Stephen clenched the flash drive tighter in his trembling fist. His stance regarding the Stone didn’t change, and the kid’s curiosity seemed too casual for truthful answers, but Tony tossed a glance at him, and Stephen turned his head too — his elbows against the front seats, Peter hung between them. “Miss Stark, you promised.”

“Okay, yeah. Well,” she glanced in the rearview mirror, “at least two psychopaths are after it at the moment.”

“What?!”

“One is like an eco-active Darth Vader, and the other is a modern Saruman. Or vice versa. Was Saruman the magician?”

“And I carried it with me the whole time?!”

“There’s a spell on it,” Stephen cut off sharply but then sighed. “No one would have been able to detect it, unless, of course, you started waving it around and screaming that you have an ancient magical relic.”

“I didn’t do that,” Peter pursed his lips. “Well, I mean– yeah, okay, it makes sense. So, the necklace you turned into the flash drive is a cool artefact? And what does it do? Is it the reason there was a fight at your house in New York? Sir, for your information, I’m not getting off of you until you answer.”

“He’s not, Doc,” Tony confirmed, and Strange shifted his shoulder with unconvincing displeasure.

“The Time Stone. One of the six Infinity Stones that contains... well, all the time of the universe.”

“All the time... of the universe,” Peter repeated slowly. “But, like, how? And wait, do you mean it was just in my pocket? All the time of the universe?” 

"Yeah, I also found it amusing when I first discovered the transformation spells.”

“But I might have accidentally sat on it and crushed it!”

“No. I don’t think so. But let’s not test it,” Stephen rubbed the bag with the Sands in his fingers. “Fasten your seatbelt, Parker; safety rules exist for a reason.”

“Have you seen Final Destination, kid?” Tony asked, checking him in the rearview mirror before tossing a cheerful glance at Strange. He grunted but then frowned as a message rang from behind; Stark also turned her head.

“Sorry,” Parker said, “it’s Ned. You know, my friend, he—”

“I remember. Gives useless flirting tips and hacked my suit.”

“Technically, ma’am, it was my suit at the time, so—”

“Don’t be sassy. I hope you didn’t mention the Stone to him?”

“He thinks I’m on the Avengers’ mission,” but Parker’s proud pose was gone the moment he saw Tony’s questioning frown in the mirror. “But, Miss Stark! He asked me why I’m not at school, I had to say something! And he knows that ‘internship’ is Spider-Man’s cover.”

To call it the Avengers’ mission was a bit of a stretch considering there weren’t enough, well, Avengers here — Tony, with her obvious discomfort when talking about them, didn’t count, and something suggested that Spider-Man was as far from being an Avenger as the Moon was from the Sun. But with Stark’s unpredictable impulsiveness, it was hard to know for sure. Stephen stroked the floor of the Cloak on his knee, “That’s a lot of involved people for someone trying to keep his identity secret.”

“Every time it just... silly happens somehow. But everyone who knows helps me a lot!”

The help was topsy-turvy — the ‘a secret to the whole world’ tactic hardly contributed to the protection of loved ones. However, Stephen himself listened to nothing but personal experience, so any moralising from his side would be hypocritical. Now, the main task was to inform Mordo that the kid no longer had the Stone. Stark’s friend, Happy, who was watching May, hadn’t signalled any danger, but how long would it take before Mordo acts again? Despite all their desire to help, the army couldn’t be relied upon — an experienced master would have no problems disabling the equipment and distracting the soldiers.

Rhodes called when they were on I-76. The thick trees on both sides of the road had just given way to a wide green valley, the interior smelling of wildflowers, and the warm sun lit the peaks of distant mountains — the serenity of the landscape was lulling, and Stephen didn’t want to wake up to the bloody reality. But Stark shook the salt from fries off her fingers, answered the call, and Rhodes announced, “We’ve reached special arrangements to bypass standard interrogation procedures.”

“Which means—”

“That, as an exception, we will conduct an interrogation right now. Doctor,” he paused for a moment, and Stephen exchanged frowns with Tony, “I’ve established you as a specialist who can help us find out where the others are. Don’t let me down.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

Stark looked at her watch, “Where are you taking her?”

“The Compound. Or SHIELD’s headquarters — but we surely don’t want interference from the outside.”

“Half of Kamar-Taj is now at the Compound,” Stephen objected, and the Cloak raised its collar. But Tony shook her head.

“No, no, trust me, Doc, you don’t want leeches from SHIELD to find out you have a Hogwarts department thriving in the Nepalese countryside. Tell him, Rhodey.”

“First of all, stop pushing me into malfeasance. Second, but only between us, Doc, she’s right. SHIELD is gonna suck the life out of you. And I have official authority at the Compound.”

“Being an Avenger is sometimes very practical, huh?” Stark bit into a long fry, and Stephen vividly imagined Rhodes rolling his eyes.

“Fifteen minutes, Tony,” and he hung up.

“We won’t get there in fifteen minutes, Stark. Stark?”

“And what’s the Time Stone here for?” She led the car into another row and turned off the blinker. “Of course, y’all are wizards on words, but as soon as it gets to the point... hey, kid, close your ears,” she grinned and took the glasses off her shirt. “Ever heard of virtual reality technology?”

“I heard it’s a helmet.”

The Cloak curved its collar disapprovingly, but Stephen took the glasses. They looked no different than any other pair, aside from the thin SI logo on the lens, but Peter gasped, and Stephen, with a tinge of unexplained jealousy, put the glasses on. The pixels shimmered before his eyes, and the model name, year of issue, and the owner’s name appeared over the passing cars.

“Is this legal?”

“This is what the army uses on their spy missions,” Stark reproached. “And it’s still my invention. The lenses have ultra-thin displays and sensors to track gestures, and stabilisers that create a full immersion experience so you won’t get motion sickness on my dashboard. And this,” she retrieved the second pair of comms from her pocket. “Dolby Atmos sound. Like in the cinema.”

As soon as Stephen inserted them into his ears, FRIDAY greeted him cheerfully. The pixel wave washed away the road — the immersion was actually full, and Stephen looked around. The glasses transported him to a small room with smooth grey walls and LED stripes along the ceiling. A round table occupied the centre, and FRIDAY told about the restraining mechanisms hidden in the armrests and showed dozens of cameras and sensors monitoring every inch of the room. Below him, Stephen discovered a holographic chair — the projection mirrored his position in the car.

Peter’s excited voice sounded very close, “There’s an interrogation coming up, right?”

“Peter Parker watching cartoons in his headphones is coming up,” Stark cut off.

“But I’ve never seen a real interrogation!”

“Have you ever thought about the phrase ‘the less you know, the better you sleep’?”

“But, ma’am–”

“Parker.”

“Yeah, okay.”

From the noise, Strange guessed that Peter was settling back into the backseat. The blinker ticked, the car changed the row again, and Tony called, “Hey, kid. There are burgers in the bag. And choose some new headphones for yourself.”

“Really?”

“Silently, Parker.”

“Yes, ma’am. Got it.”

Their voices sounded as if they came from the speakers on the ceiling, and Stephen looked up in curiosity. “Where am I, Stark?”

“Enhanced interrogation facilities at the Compound. ‘Enhanced’ because now there is a triple biometric access control, soundproof walls, and other state-of-the-art crap according to safety measures' protocols.”

A hologram of Rhodes appeared by the table, covered in a blue haze. Stephen nodded at him as Stark continued, “Loki’s cage was the prototype, but this is a new generation — the rooms are meant for guests with a wider spectrum of abilities, too. Hi, Colonel!”

Rhodes waved to her, and Stephen bent over to check the gap between the door and the floor. “A couple days ago, I pulled a Limbo parasite out of my drainpipe. It turns into gas the second you look at it.”

“That’s why we need to work together, doc.”

“So, nothing for guests from other dimensions here, then.”

“To be fair, of all the guests that came to conquer Earth, none have ever turned into gas. And isn't ‘Limbo’ something from Nolan’s movies?” She rummaged in the fries box again, and Stephen shook his head. “In my defence, the room is equipped with all available technology to safely contain, um... different life forms.”

“Only measures against telepathic influence are left,” Rhodes added, and Tony picked up on the thought.

“Ah, good old mind reading! We had no one to test it on, but the projectors in the walls generate a static field in a given area and it disturbs psycho-frequencies and creates interference for telepathy. And we also have strategic amounts of inhibitor reserves.”

“Static field,” Strange echoed. “How did you come up with it?”

“Randomly made it up a second ago. Everything except inhibitors, we actually have them in the basement.” Her voice vibrated with laughter, and Stephen frowned. “I can’t believe you fell for ‘psycho-frequencies’.”

Rhodes also chuckled and shrugged, his arms crossed, “She’s been doing this ever since she was fourteen. And you’re lucky you’re a doctor — she thinks you’re smart.”

The heavy lock opened with a thud, and a short blonde man in a light suit and folders in his hands entered the room. He had an upside-down badge on his chest with a black card.

“Everett Ross, Deputy Commander of the CIA task force,” Rhodes introduced, and Stephen nodded.

“Doctor St—”

“I know who you are,” Ross smiled quickly and unreadably. “Doctor.”

Stephen narrowed his eyes at the demonstrative disregard but swallowed the desire to bite in return – they were here to prevent a massacre; nobody promised to be nice. As Ross prepared the room for the interrogation, a hologram of Naama appeared near the table. Stephen was glad to see her, her hair neat again and her clothes ironed, though her expression was still troubled. She reported that the masters were fine and then, her hands locked together, turned to the door. Everyone was anxious about the upcoming meeting.

When Ray was escorted into the room, all the frowning FBI agents and masters who accompanied her looked at Strange. Nobody expected to see a new face in the interrogation room, but Stephen was interested in Ray only. He gritted his teeth until his cheekbones went numb, and his nostrils twitched, a phantom pain evoking the pinching in the cut on his cheek.

Ray smiled at him with an understanding friendliness as if she found him late at night buried under stacks of books, and she resembled neither a prisoner nor a terrorist. It was as if she had just sunbathed in the sultry Nepalese sun, peaceful and sleepy; her hair was put in a small low bun, her cheeks pink, and only her wrinkles seemed deeper — the mark of either fatigue or destructive fanatical conviction. Unknown symbols had been embroidered on the narrow sleeves of her dark linen shirt, but the bag with the Sands of Nisanti on her chest promised safety — without it, the magnetic handcuffs keeping her wrists together would have been useless.

Five masters positioned themselves around the room. Wong and Tina peered cautiously from behind the soldiers on both sides of Ray, their faces displaying clear mistrust towards the room’s reliability. They glanced at Strange briefly, but it was enough for him to notice their fatigue, born, however, from gruelling anxiety than battle. They were neither injured nor even dishevelled, and it was a good start.

Agents recited Ray her rights, everyone introduced themselves. Ray examined them with the dry interest of a senior master, able to quickly and accurately evaluate the newcomers. Then, she shifted her gaze to Strange and shook her head. “You shouldn’t have involved people from outside.”

“Is this a confession?” Everett Ross inquired, and Ray turned to him. Her expression became pungent and judgmental, her tone strict.

“Your enthusiastic cooperation tells me you’re either recklessly brave or just a fool. Don’t think me rude, but it’s unlikely a man of your rank does not understand — when two dogs are fighting, the third better stay away.”

Ross raised his eyebrow. “You know what you’re accused of, don’t you?”

“With all due respect, your law means nothing to me. Our moral dogmas differ too drastically, and I am not touched by causal reproach.”

“And what a war without victims,” Stephen snapped. But Ray smiled, not surprised at his participation, and a shiver ran over his hands, a belated frustration that he had stepped in too early.

“You came to us like a hedgehog bristling with needles, but I remember how desperately your mind and undisclosed power strived for knowledge. It was gratifying to watch it: years of diligence and endless possibilities of the old soul... but reality surrendered to the audacious assault.” A shadow crossed her face. “You weren’t the one meant to become the Supreme, Stephen. Such a talent should serve magic, not feed the leader like a battery.”

“Then offer your leader a negotiation.”

The agents froze, but Ray let out a weary laugh. “I know you’re ready to trade your loyalty for the lives of your masters, but we’re not looking for compromise here, Stephen. We’re going into the future, and resisting it is pointless. I’m sorry.”

“You should be sorry when you kill your students.”

“Stephen,” she looked him in the eyes with unprecedented seriousness. “I am sorry.”

He felt a sucking tingle in his stomach, a vague sense of inevitable calamity — an echo of the past that Stephen knew all too well but didn't want to admit.

And then it rang in his ears.

With annoying clarity, he heard the scratch of an agent’s pen on paper and the loud sigh of someone nearby — he had no doubt it was Stark but couldn’t remember how she got so close to him. The golden sparks glinted in slow motion as the masters in the room put their hands up, but before they opened their shields, reality returned to its usual pace.

The air vibrated with an excess of electricity, and then its burst, quick like the discharge of a defibrillator, blinded Strange — the pixel world exploded into a bright red zigzag and went black.

Chapter Text

Tony’s voice reached Strange as if from underwater, “What the—”

“The Сolonel hung up, ma’am.”

“Sir?”

An electric crackle drowned out the voices. Pain gripped Stephen's forehead, and some drops of the healing energy, suppressed by the Sands, feebly splashed into his head; his fingers numbed, yet he pressed on his temples with determination. White spots flickered before his eyes.

“I have to—” he leaned back in the seat, gasping for air and tearing the Sands bag off his chest, his other hand fumbling for a Sling Ring. “I must go there—”

Words — questions and objections — were hurled at him from various voices, and suddenly Stephen found himself unable to reach his pants pocket. Tony’s bracelet secured his wrist against the armrest, while the Cloak constricted around his other arm. With a surge of fury, Stephen began to twitch and twist until sharp pain shot through his wrist, and his shoulder throbbed with the impending threat of a sprain.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Don't you dare, Stark!”

“Okay, take a deep breath—”

“Let me go!”

“Yeah, and what do you want? Open the portal? Fine, go ahead!” She gestured towards the windshield. “Open it right here so the car plows through and there are three dead bodies in a wall. ’Cos that’s indeed a great plan, Doc, a brilliant one, and it’ll solve so many problems! Did I get it right? Is that what you want? Doc? Strange? Fuck.”

Lights flashed before his squinted eyes: white, yellow, red. Shards of glass, branches’ whips, burnt concrete. “Stark— damn it.”

His rib cage seemed to shrink tenfold, and his heart barely had room to pound inside. There was no air to breathe, his palms sweaty with fear, and it wasn’t only his hands that trembled — Stephen shook with his whole body. He should have counted his pulse. Focused on breathing. But the panic was exacerbated by an energy void within: the Sands created an uncomfortable feeling that magic was once again buried beneath physiological processes, woven into muscles and blood, cut off from his consciousness. Stephen hadn’t felt so helpless in a long time.

Barely acknowledging it, he attempted to draw upon the healing energy buried in his stomach beneath the Sands, but Tony suddenly touched his wrist. She placed a bag of Sands in his palm and squeezed it — either to ground him or to soothe her own anxiety — and he instinctively clenched her hand in response.

“I’m sorry, okay? Alright, Doc, it’s all fine. Do you hear me? You’re here, and it’s all okay here. Hey, buddy. Michael Jackson’s magic jacket, or what’s your name.” The Cloak raised its collar. “Yeah, you. Come on, give him a hug! Yeah, good job. Do you feel it, Doc? It looks heavy. What is it made of?”

The Cloak enveloped him, pressing him against the back of the seat as if it were a wall. Stephen’s unruly fingers caught the lining, the silk cloth smooth and cool to the touch, and the compulsive stroking of the threads, assembled in diamond shapes, proved very soothing. Silk and perhaps some special kind of glacé? Legends spun tales of the Cloak, suggesting it was woven from threads drawn from the very fabric of the multiverse, but noting more about its origin could be found in the books, although Stephen had exhaustively scoured every tome in the library. Well, not solely because of the Cloak, but certainly in part. Because, well, on a few occasions, he found himself with free nights, and the library always offered something he hadn’t yet read, and—

“Miss Stark?” Peter called. “How can I help?”

“Know anything by Wonder, kid?”

“Um… I Just Called To Say I Love You?”

“Did you hear that, Doc? Amateur.”

“Isn’t She Lovely?.. oh, oh, and this one! Mm—” He mumbled, picking up the sound, and then hummed the chorus of Hotel California. Stephen, despite the weight in his chest, inhaled loudly. “What?”

“That’s... a different band... Parker.”

“Really? But it sounds the same!”

“Poor Frey has turned in his grave,” Tony squeezed his palm tighter, and Stephen, trying to take a breath through his nose, focused his attention on the dry warmth of her hand. “Try not to worry, Doc. Pretend he didn’t say that.”

It wouldn’t be the first time for him: Victor, for instance, couldn’t tell Bowie from Eagles, considered Imagine a creation of Gary Numan, and recognised Queen songs only because Freddie was ‘way too loud’ in his opinion. Stephen believed that Victor deliberately flaunted his musical ignorance, confusing only those performers whom Stephen loved, frustrated by his own tone-deafness, and hysterically jealous of his siblings for sharing a hobby he couldn’t understand. He had a phenomenally quarrelsome personality, and his quips were too targeted for mere coincidences. However, Parker’s genuine confusion was far from Victor’s provocations. And what could one expect from a teenager anyway? Stephen, at his fifteen, also was neither clever nor particularly docile.

He opened his eyes. The crumpled bag stuck to his wet palm, and Stephen sighed; it felt like every cell of his body had fallen asleep, but at least the panic-inducing void wasn’t crashing through his skull anymore. As luck would have it, the Hotel melody continued to play in Stephen’s head.

Tony glanced at him, “You better?”

“Mhm.”

Peter handed Stephen a water bottle. Strange struggled to open it at first and shot Tony an angry look, but she just tapped her comm. “FRIDAY?”

“No,” he placed the bottle in the holder and tossed the bag beside it. “I must know, too.”

She wasn’t thrilled by his determination, pursing her lips in annoyance. But then she shook her head and grumbled to FRIDAY to unlock Strange’s channel.

“It was a high-intensity electrical-like explosion, boss. There are localised damages in the interrogation room, and the surveillance systems were affected, too, so I can’t ascertain the status of the people inside. Zero casualties outside. Security protocols have been activated.”

“Damage nature?”

“Electromagnetic pulse. The eddy currents disabled the system like a lightning strike.”

“Lightning?” Tony frowned, and Stephen nodded.

“It’s the unfiltered energy of another dimension. The Sands block earthly forces, but I couldn’t imagine they—”

—would dare to use others. Especially with the Sands in effect — allowing chaotic, overwhelming energy from another dimension to pass through oneself was confident suicide. It burned beneath Stephen’s ribs; he grabbed his chest, and Tony placed her hand on his leg, a warm imprint on his thigh.

Any energy from another dimension in its pure form was inherently destructive, but the colour hinted at the Crimson Cosmos — the Book of Cagliostro detailed the intensity of its energy in several chapters. All the Sanctums had artefacts powered by this dimension, and Stephen knew at least fifty-six spells that used its energy, but the Book warned of the unpredictability of these resources many times. The issue wasn’t that Ray had inadvertently unleashed and passed such a dangerous force through herself, but that there was no way she didn’t know what she was doing: even though everyone expected a catch, a prisoner turning into a suicide bomber caught them all by surprise.

“Ma’am,” FRIDAY said, “Colonel Rhodes had just entered the basement.”

“Report.”

“All twelve people in the room were injured. Eight are confirmed deceased, including the prisoner, four are in critical condition.”

“Who?” Stephen interjected.

“Agent Ross, Master Tina, Xiong and Wong, sir. Magical shields softened the impact but didn't fully absorb it. The medical team is on standby.”

So, Master Enzo was dead. He had a weak heart, and it had likely left him defenceless against... Stephen blinked. “Preliminary diagnosis?”

“Keraunoparalysis and moderate burns, based on my initial assessment. There’s a ninety-nine percent chance of internal traumas and damage to the central nervous system.”

“I need MRIs of their brains as soon as they’re available.”

“Copy that, sir.”

“Um, Miss Stark?” Parker called. “I’m sorry, but– erm, who is Mordo?”

Tony clenched her teeth. “What?”

“It’s just that– well, May texted me that some Mordo guy had come to her and is waiting to see me. But I don’t know him,” he looked up from his phone. “Why are you looking at me like that, sir?”

“Right exit, boss.”

Tony suddenly turned the steering wheel, causing the car to sway slightly. A surge of panic, sharp as a scalpel, pierced Stephen’s head, but he only inhaled through his teeth. If he could count to ten with even breaths, he would—

“Miss Stark, I don’t like your silence, I really don’t—”

“Your aunt is fine.”

Her nostrils twitched, and Stephen noticed her profile stiffen. Deep wrinkles crossed her high forehead, her lips pursed, and a faint pink hue tinged her cheeks; Stark put on her glasses as if attempting to shield herself from Parker, but her remark, delivered with the steely speed of a hammer striking an anvil, was directed clearly not at the boy. “There are people out there, Doc.”

“He’s trying to get us away from the Compound, but why?”

“From the Compound with a dozen medics and a couple thousand wizards who can heal with the power of thought—”

“It’s not the time to bargain, Stark.”

“I’m not bargaining, Strange, because, if you’re not familiar with the terminology, it’s called ‘taking hostages’. No, let me reiterate so you understand clearly — your Mordo took hostages. Not at the Compound.”

“Wait,” Peter unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned between them, “are you saying May’s been taken hostage? That’s it, I’m calling her—”

“No!” Tony and Strange objected simultaneously and exchanged frustrated glances. But then, Stephen averted his gaze, and Tony continued, “Look, Peter, I know you’re worried, but calling her won’t save her, and it might make things worse. Bless the unaware…”

His phone still in hand, Peter clenched it tightly as if he could crush it with a bit more effort. His shirt outlined his tense shoulders, and a complex emotion flashed in his eyes, darkening them. “Only you knew that I have the Stone.”

The steering wheel in Tony’s hands squeaked. “It’s not that simple—”

“You said they wouldn’t find out.”

“Neither of us has said a word about it.”

“Mordo’s a telepath,” Stephen explained. “It’s not always... controllable.”

“Sorry, sir, are you really mentioning telepathy just now?”

Tony gave Strange an inappropriately perky look, and he redirected his attention back to Parker with a soft sigh. “I’m sorry, kid.”

Parker gritted his teeth. But then a spark returned to his eyes, and he stowed the phone in his pocket before raising his head again. “What’s the plan then?”

“Now that’s the Avengers spirit, kid. Very good.”

The lonely gas station stood closed under the midday sun, casting long shadows across its weathered walls. The wet road dust squeaked under the wheels, and Stephen cleared his throat, feeling the reawakened magic sparking within him, filling him with renewed strength.

“Alright,” Tony switched off the engine and gestured towards Strange. “You open the portal to the FEAST for me to evacuate people and head back to the Compound with all those visual effects of yours: your robespierres will think three times before launching a raid if they wanna get you alive. The kid goes home.”

The last point was the only indisputable one, and Stephen was about to dismiss the rest when Parker exclaimed, “No!”

Stark turned to him, but the kid’s determination didn’t falter. “No, no, please, Miss Stark, I– I have to be there! I promise I’ll follow your lead and stay out of harm’s way, and I–” he leaned closer, “I can assist with the evacuation, too, but I have to be there, you know? If anything happens to May, if she’s in danger, and I’m not there, I’d never forgive myself!” He clasped his hands in a prayer gesture, “Please, Miss Stark, I’m beggin’ you!”

Stephen looked at her with a stern warning, but Tony clicked her tongue. “Okay. Persuaded. But you stay right by my side.”

“An interesting educational measure,” Strange quipped, and Tony retrieved the ignition key. A metal star hit the keychain with a ring.

“Don’t you dare condemn me, Doc.”

“No, this is important, Stark, and you have to understand: if it comes to the safety of my masters—”

“You won't hesitate to sacrifice both me and the kid,” she stepped out of the car. “Old song, new verse.”

Stephen, somewhat ashamed, suddenly thought about the version of himself from the future that Stark came from. It wasn’t that her humble resentment towards him bothered him all so much — he did have to make a choice, after all — but—

“I’ll distract him,” he slammed the door shut. Tony glanced at him over the car’s roof.

“Sorry?”

“Mordo won’t let anyone go until he gets what he wants — I’ll distract him.”

“I thought you weren’t planning on dying today.”

“I thought you were planning on evacuating people quickly.”

“Firstly, I can handle it myself, and secondly, the last time you faced Mordo, he didn’t exactly put much effort into—”

“He’ll turn you into a tin can within the first five minutes, Stark. He wasn’t interested in you then, but he won’t hold back now,” Strange tilted his head down, his eyes still locked on her. “You have no idea about the power you want to challenge, but I do: I fought alongside him and I know his tricks. At least I have a defence capacity equal to his attacks, and you’re going to have to evacuate people really quickly.”

It was clear from how Stark’s cheeks tensed that the question teetered at the tip of her tongue — what if Mordo also tapped into the energy of another dimension? But Stephen had no doubt that Mordo didn’t plan to die yet. Having conquered Kamar-Taj and remotely taken seven more lives, he had no reason to give up; nothing prevented him from seizing Strange and finishing the job. Stephen envisioned how simple it must seem — from the perspective of an easy victory, marred only by the unplanned Iron Man’s intervention — and didn’t notice how his nostrils flared and fists clenched.

Tony locked the car. “Stick close to me and don’t play a hero,” she instructed Parker. “If you see strangers, shoot a web, but don’t get into the thick of it.”

Despite his trembling fingers and the uncomfortable tightness in his chest, Strange felt the energy coursing through him again, tickling his stomach and spreading over his temples, amplifying his thrill like an adrenaline shot. He retrieved the Ring from his pocket. Tony touched the reactor; Peter activated his armour, and Stephen also changed into the blue suit — the flash drive transformed into the Eye and hung around his neck, its weight familiar. The Cloak raised its collar, and Stephen double-checked the extra Ring on his belt before opening the portal.

It was a pleasantly cool summer day in New York. The sky was overcast, and the numerous puddles suggested that the rain had been heavier here than in Pittsburgh. The only vehicle on the quiet street was a sleek coal-grey sedan, too posh for such a modest neighbourhood. Across the road stood a two-story building with an unremarkable yet clean facade, a small ‘FEAST’ sign on its door. There seemed to be no imminent danger, and Strange raised his hand for a quick energy check, which revealed nothing of concern either.

Stark, however, rushed to the sedan, “Happy!” The iron glove appeared on her arm, and Tony almost ripped the car door off its hinges. Happy blinked as she shook his shoulder. “Happy, do you hear me?”

“Boss?” His gaze snapped to her, and he quickly straightened up, adjusting his shirt. “I wasn’t sleeping. I was keeping watch. Definitely not sleeping.”

Stephen waved his hand before Happy’s face, but only a weightless ripple of deep peace tingled his palm. Happy flinched back, and Strange clicked his tongue, “No telepathic influence. He’s fine.”

Peter waved a greeting but tilted his head down when Stephen shot him a strict look.

Tony crossed her arms, “Keeping watch then, huh. With your eyes closed.”

“Tony, we’ve already talked about this. I’m the head of your security, not some spy from—”

“Who was the last to enter the building?” Strange interrupted impatiently.

“No one... no one special. Just some homeless guy in a dark raincoat. And who are you, by the way? Tony? First, that strange midnight doctor of yours, then terrorist monks, and now this — can someone explain to me what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” she shoved her hands into her pants pockets. “Nothing, except you let a psycho wizard slip through. You know. The one thing you shouldn’t have let happen.”

“Since when do psycho wizards look like the homeless?”

“Since they decide to sneak into a homeless shelter, Happy, use your imagination!”

“You—” He smoothed out his tie. “Are you gonna fire me?”

“Fat chance. Anyway, our little magic team will start the evacuation, and you call Rhodey and ask him to send reinforcement.” She pointed her finger at Happy, “And under no circumstances come inside, got it?”

“Yes, boss.”

Two women peered out from FEAST’s window, the younger one speaking nervously to the elder. The latter, completely grey-haired, barely reached her colleague’s shoulder and held her elbow tightly, either leaning on it or preventing her from rushing outside. Stephen narrowed his eyes. A bright red rope of the Bond stretched towards FEAST’s door, and Mordo must’ve sensed the proximity, too. “He’s up there.”

Stark tilted her head up, her glasses reflecting the white of the clouds. “There are twenty-seven people inside; five on the second floor, all the rest on the first. The exits aren’t blocked. Did you catch that, Parker?”

But Stephen’s brain itched as if there was something else in all that, something important and obvious, but he couldn’t quite grasp what. Reasoning rationally — because any other approach would lead to a long hysteria — he acknowledged that a new attack was to be expected. Mordo had clearly explained his goals and a partial failure couldn’t deter him: no one would attempt mass murder without a backup plan. But beyond eliminating the masters, they needed the Stone and the Supreme’s mark. Thus, a provocation. To isolate Strange from the others and launch a two-pronged attack, leaving no chance for anyone.

“Did you warn Rhodes they’ll be attacked again soon?”

“They already are. The Secretary is furious: not only have the agents been injured, but also consider how much funding the government has poured into the Compound...”

“FRIDAY?” Stephen touched his coom, heading towards the entrance.

“Yes, sir.”

“Make sure no one enters the Compound and look out for any abnormal energy bursts. Inform the masters to remain within the new dome and reinforce it regularly; they should place artefacts around all Sanctums, especially in London, have them cover half of the mirrors and adjust the rest to detect attacks and keep them under constant observation. Tell Caton to instruct the masters on anti-illusions and counterspells and Naama and Hamir to assemble patrol teams to monitor the astral dimension. Are you following?”

“Do you think,” Tony crossed her arms, “the army and CIA can’t handle two hundred jerks?”

“Firstly, all the jerks are experienced and powerful masters, and secondly, their numbers are far greater.”

“How much ‘greater’, by the way? I’m asking only ‘cos when you talked to Rhodey — and it was yesterday, incidentally — you said that there were just—”

“At the time of the attack, there were two hundred. In fact, I believe there are about two thousand of them — I confirmed with the Sanctum Masters before we left.”

“So, they just miscounted. Two thousand people. Happens all the time.”

“Sorry, I don’t get it,” Parker sounded perplexed, “how many of them are there now?”

“There,” Stark nodded at FEAST’s door, “is just one. But he’s as much of a pain in the ass as you are when you don’t obey adults.”

Peter crossed his arms and Strange rolled his eyes. He touched the comm again and called FRIDAY, “The army equipment will quickly break down, and I want Ling to keep an eye—”

“Sorry, sir, but Master Ling is not on my list. I assume he followed Mordo.”

“Of course he did,” Stephen rubbed his forehead. “Okay. Well, then, let Robert handle it. Tell him I emphasised that it's not a competition, but cooperation. The others should revise spatial blockage techniques, and I insist on localised reality distortions to fend off attacks. Rou is with the victims, isn’t she?"

“That’s right. Seven other masters are with her.”

“Then tell Ayana to supervise the novices. Have her identify safe areas and prepare them for evacuation. That's all for now.”

FRIDAY responded with an appreciative ‘roger that’, and Tony slid her hands into her pants pockets as they approached the FEAST’s doors. “I see you’re getting the hang of interacting with intimidating technology.”

“I don’t have time for snobbery.”

“But what if FRIDAY has read your mind? What if she’s controlling you now? And the next thing you know there are these scam diet pills in your online basket on fake Welgreens website—”

“Science doesn’t know the properties of a thought, Stark.”

“How many discoveries do you think we don’t take out in public?”

“Had you known the frequency at which people think, the astral dimension would be too crowded,” Stephen raised his eyebrows. “And scientists would never keep quiet about it. You in the first place.”

“Professional pride, you think?”

“No — free ad space.”

“Sorry,” Peter shifted from leg to leg, “can we- you know, discuss it later?”

Irritated with his fair reproach, Stephen clenched his teeth and nodded. A wave of playfulness swept over him from Stark. She tilted her head, hidden beneath the iron helmet, and Stephen opened the door, allowing her into the building.

Chapter Text

As soon as they stepped through the door, the younger of the two women grabbed them by the arms and ushered them inside. “Come in, come in! Are you okay?”

She looked a lot like Christine, with her plain uniform, clear anxious glance, and hair tied into a neat ponytail, but her name tag read ‘Jenny’.

“How’s it out there?” the older woman asked, slightly breathless. Stephen glanced at Stark.

“And what about... out there?”

“Danger, great danger!” Jenny replied, clumsily brushing her hair away from her lips. “You are very, very lucky!”

Her eyes shifted from one guest to another, but her expression remained surprisingly blank. Stephen raised his hand in front of her — she didn’t even notice — and his warm palm encountered an invisible wall. Hypnosis, then. So low.

His eyes closed, Stephen probed Jenny’s mind, searching for the crude stitch of coercion. It felt like an inept surgical suture, and he pulled at the thread. Angry frustration heated his chest as golden magic gleamed on his fingertips, dispelling the hypnosis, but once Jenny regained her free will, she lost consciousness. The Cloak swayed, but Peter was already there to catch her.

“What’s going on?” Tony helped to arrange her in Parker’s arms.

“They are hypnotised.”

“So, when you said ‘utopian cyberpunk’—”

“Yes.”

Laura — the name on the older employee’s badge — looked at them distractedly. Social habits required her to participate, but hypnosis made everything feel like a fever dream: time slowed down, reactions dulled, and nothing seemed more important than the imposed idea.

Peter gently placed Jenny on the guest couch, and Stark, her helmet down, turned to Laura, “Where’s May Parker, ma’am?”

“In her office. With the prophet.”

“The prophet! No, did you hear that? And then I get accused of immodesty,” Stark arched an eyebrow. Stephen waved his hand in front of Laura, and, as she passed out, Peter dragged her to the couch, too. Tony watched them, her arms crossed. “I don’t wanna say anything, but evacuating a building is easier when people can walk out on their own.”

“I know,” Stephen glanced at the staircase. “I’ll distract Mordo and try to weaken his control. Use force to get people out if necessary.”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, Doc.”

“I’m not telling you, I’m commanding you.”

Stephen shot her a warning look, but she raised her eyebrows, a playful indignation in her eyes. He wasn’t sure what to make of it — he had been expecting some causticity, not this — but before he could respond, the iron helmet covered her face again, and Tony’s cheerful voice came through the comm, “I can’t yet decide if your anger turns me on or pisses me off.”

“I’m not angry.”

“Careful, Doc. That’s exactly what he’s waiting for.”

As if confirmation was needed, the Bond splattered against the office door with hot sparks. May’s friendly energy mixed with Mordo’s calm and thick one, creating a feeling of a deceptively warm welcome, but the resentful vibration in the air intensified as Stephen approached the door.

The office was cosy and modest, with papers and folders scattered on the floor and chairs as if mid-move, and a small bookshelf behind the desk filled with books bathing in sunlight. Photo frames glittered, and a vase of freshly cut flowers stood on the table. May glanced at the door, moved a bowl of chocolate chip cookies towards Mordo, hesitated, but eventually got up from the table after receiving his nod of approval.

A question lingered on her face, and Stephen, pushing aside his confusion about the atmosphere’s fake peacefulness, explained, “Doctor Strange. I’m Peter’s friend. Parker’s.”

“Doctor? Where’s Peter?” May stepped towards him. “Is he okay?”

“Yes, he’s waiting for you in the car.”

“But to come down—” she fidgeted with her badge, turning to Mordo. “We can’t go down, no. Oh! Why don’t we wait for him here? I think it’s a great idea, isn’t it? The pot’s full, and I’ll get us another pack—”

“Mrs Parker,” Stephen gently closed his fingers around her elbow, “would you allow me, please?”

He waved his hand in front of her as he did with Laura and Jenny, but May suddenly cringed in pain. She grabbed her head with a short scream; Stephen swiftly tossed a folder off the chair and helped her sit down. His hand raised again, the magic, unsure of where to go, amplified his palms’ natural tremor, but May only squinted tighter.

Mordo shook his head, taking the teabag out of the mug. “I wouldn’t recommend doing this to her. You must have been inattentive when reading about mental manipulations, so here’s a little lesson: compulsion is not hypnosis. It works four levels deeper and acts like a swamp — the more you resist, the more it pulls you in.”

And that seemed to be true — pale, May was pressing her hand against her forehead as if she had a migraine exacerbation. Stephen touched her shoulder, “It’ll be alright,” and then turned to Mordo. “Let her go. I’m here, and I have the Stone.”

“Do you surrender to me, Strange?”

“Release her first.”

“Fair trade, but Stark and the kid are already evacuating people, and I need guarantees,” Mordo stirred the sugar in the mug and shot Stephen a sideways glance. “Of the two of us, it was you who wronged her. Just saying.”

“The delay only aggravates your situation, Mordo. You're sentenced to face a tribunal and endure rigorous imprisonment for attempted mass murder, hostage-taking, and assaulting Kamar-Taj.”

“So, am I facing a tribunal or imprisonment?”

“You invaded Kamar-Taj in the dead of night and murdered people. There’s no room for debate.”

“A fair trial by a bribe, then? However, we all knew this system would fail, sooner or later: not every Supreme is fit to judge. And when poison infiltrates the root, the plant withers quickly... Speaking of Kamar-Taj,” Mordo sipped his tea, raised his eyebrows. “Do you want to know what happened to it after you fled? Do you want to know what the righteous fire didn’t touch? The library. Isn’t it ironic? The books, the source of your knowledge, didn’t align with the energy signature of your worldview.”

“You mean the ancient manuscripts so complex and profound that a person cannot comprehend in a lifetime? Yeah, that’s a good average, Mordo.”

He wanted to point out that it wouldn’t be different with Mordo’s signature either, but Mordo’s contemptuous expression made Stephen clench his fists. And immediately reproach himself for the wave of helpless frustration. He had to resist the provocations. Not to give in. Not to grant him the satisfaction of an easy victory.

Mordo moved the mug aside and stood up. In this stillness, he seemed as peaceful as Stephen remembered him in Kamar-Taj — a well-fed carnivore on its land, condescending when explaining and impatient when demonstrating. His raincoat’s upper buttons were fastened, the golden knob of the Staff of the Living Tribunal peeking from behind his shoulder. Mordo circled the table.

“Hurts?” he touched his lower lip with two fingers, but Stephen narrowed his eyes. With a brief smirk, Mordo clasped his hands. “Maybe I’d like to talk, but I see no master worthy of attention here. You lost, Strange. Admit it and surrender, and I will lead the world of the mystic arts into the future.”

“You have blood on your hands.”

Mordo laughed quietly. “You lack imagination, Strange. I’m not doing this for power or personal ambition.”

“Ah yes, because soulless bloodshed best ensures purity of prāṇa and thoughts.”

“No, but it does cleanse the world’s egregore.”

“And what about your biofield?”

“My biofield needs no spiritual crutches — I serve a higher purpose.”

“You made Ray kill herself!” Stephen waved his hand. “Only to have her take a few more lives, not even the masters’!”

“No one made her do anything, Strange. Do you really think I could? Ray was a seasoned master, one of the oldest prāṇāyāma^* teachers, and certainly, I wasn’t bossing her around. But she was always fiercely loyal to Kamar-Taj and left this world serving her duty to it. She knew that every effort brings the prophesied future closer.”

“That you all have a hyper-fixation on justifiable mass murder, I already noticed.”

“You’re trying to insult me like it’s going to make a difference. But we both know that it won’t.”

“You can stop this, Mordo.”

“You still don’t understand, do you? There are no commanders and executors. The future guides us.”

“What a convenient position. It’s like the burden is off you.”

“We’re not afraid of responsibility, but the winners are not judged. And we won. Already won. Because the future is with us.”

“And I thought,” Stephen took the Eye in his fingers, “it’s here.”

Mordo’s expression subtly changed: his nostrils flared, and an angry warning darkened his glance. Well. It didn’t take much to push him from bravado into rage. 

“You beg the future to speak to you, but with me, it speaks at will!” Mordo’s lip curled into an animalistic grin. Then he squared his shoulders again and unbuttoned his raincoat. “I remember the times when you couldn’t open portals. The reason you couldn’t. So much selfishness... the Ancient One never saw the problem with it. Neither in Kaecilius nor in you.”

“Nor in you.”

“I dedicated my life to serving Kamar-Taj!”

“I dedicated my life to it too, Mordo, but this isn’t a competition.”

“You’re right. It’s a done deal. We just need to figure out if you’re going to lay in the grave alone or with me.”

“How about I avoid the grave altogether?”

Mordo smiled. “That’s what I thought.”

He grabbed the Staff, but Stephen raised the shield. Sparks splashed at the impact; the Cloak lifted Strange just in time as Mordo aimed for his legs, and May clutched the back of the chair, ready to attack or defend. In fact, the chair wouldn’t help much if a careless spell hit her, so, yeah, okay, she should have been the first person here to get protection. Stephen threw the Cloak at Mordo.

The artifact tightened around Mordo’s fist holding the Staff, yanking him aside. Stephen reached out to May. “It’s time for you to leave.”

“No, don’t come any closer!” she exclaimed, pulling out a chair in front of her. Her gaze was expressionless as she shook her head. “That’s crazy! I can’t just go there!”

“You can. I promise nothing will happen to you — close your eyes and go!”

With enough formidable authority in his tone, May’s weakened mind yielded: she took Stephen’s fingers. Her touch was dry and timid, and Stephen out of place thought of Tony’s warm hand in his. He pointed to the door. May stood leaning against the wall, but Stephen had no doubt she would soon move towards the exit — she feared a magical battle more than whatever Mordo made her believe awaited outside.

The whoosh of the Staff’s whip rang in Stephen’s ears. His intuition, honed to impeccability since his arrival at Kamar-Taj, hinted at a distortion in the fabric of space-time — if Stephen were a cat, his fur would have stood on end. Looking around, he found the room engulfed in mist. Grey clouds rose from the floor, twisting reality; nearby, May gasped, but Stephen couldn’t see her. The Cloak returned to his shoulders.

“I know where you are anyway, Mordo,” Stephen shouted, displeased, the reddish glimmer of the Bond predicting an attack from behind.

But Stephen attacked first, and the fog trembled and cleared. He unleashed Eldritch’s whip-like fangs, intertwining them into a lattice in front of Mordo, and the air buzzed, the pattern pulsed, and rage seared. But within moments, Mordo burned a curved hole through the improvised cage, the Staff of the Living Tribunal still smoking in his hands. Stephen raised his shields.

Yet Mordo’s next blow shattered the air, and the crack began spiralling around Strange, threatening to rupture the walls of reality. A spell of such force required more energy than a man could summon, but Stephen only realised this in hindsight — he instinctively threw a patch on the rift first, and the crack, absorbing energy, tightened around him like a belt.

The Cloak swayed, struggling to break free, and the phantom of Mordo’s fingers squeezed Stephen’s temples again. The room seemed to flip upside down, and a thin blanket descended on his mind. Disoriented, Stephen reached out for the table, knocking a couple of books to the floor, and Mordo gently assisted him in lowering himself.

The sounds of the repulsor blast spread like a plane turbine’s roar. The ethereal restraints vanished, and the hypnosis leaned against Stephen’s mental defences like a heavyweight, no longer pressing down on them. Stephen tried to get up, but his concentration slipped away, his hands trembling, and a white noise still enveloping his thoughts. He rolled onto his back.

“Hey, Doc!” The iron glove’s slap landed on his cheek. The drowsy haze began to dissipate: Reiki hurried to his cheek with its curative cold, and Stephen grasped his face, his gaze sharpening as he looked up at the red-and-gold helmet. “Wow, that worked well. Are you okay? Look, I don’t wanna be the one who always says the annoying ‘I told you so’, but I did tell you—”

“Don’t... start it, Stark.”

He vividly imagined her smirking under the helmet and even felt the urge to smile back, but instead, he grabbed onto her iron shoulders and pulled himself up. Mordo, stunned, was tinkering under the broken bookshelf.

“You forgot something in the car,” Tony dropped the Sands bag, and Stephen nodded. It was unlikely he’d be able to make Mordo wear it, but even a few minutes of his distraction would be enough to get May out and escape themselves.

Still holding Stark’s shoulders, Stephen peered into the blue eye-slits on the helmet, “Take... May and the kid... out.”

He glanced behind her — Peter had just jumped onto the window sill.

“Wow, you guys really destroyed the place,” Parker tilted his head, studying the fight’s aftermath. The crescents on his mask narrowed when he spotted Mordo under the bookshelf. “Is that that wizard of yours? Hey! You better not try reading my mind, sir, because there’s nothing good about you there!”

“Parker!” Tony barked. “Get back downstairs right now! Who’s gonna meet the reinforcement?”

“May!”

The iron armour suddenly shocked him, and Stephen recoiled. Stark froze in an unnatural position, akin to a muscle spasm, and Strange fell backwards, a mirrored abyss opening beneath him.

The Cloak opened its floors, holding him in the air, but Stephen suddenly found a table under his feet. The unexpected hospitality was laced with poison: in the middle of the mirrored mosaic, Stephen was like on a golden saucer on that isolated ledge.

“Doctor Strange! Sir!”

The boy, one hand holding his aunt by the wrist, the other clutching a spider web attached to a glass shard on the ceiling, was desperately trying to maintain his balance. Stephen opened a portal beneath them, but the space bent, the portal crumbled, and Stephen slipped down the concave mirror crescent, dropping the Ring.

“What do you have there, Strange?” an out-of-breath voice sounded in his ear, and Stephen pressed the comm with his trembling finger.

“Tony?”

“He zapped me with electricity, unoriginal but effective. And everything around is doubling and multiplying, and as I recall, there wasn’t a recursive chasm here a second ago—”

“It’s a mirror dimension, he controls it.”

“Really? He got scared?”

“Are you hurt?”

“No, just part of the suit got disabled. Is the kid with you?”

Stephen stood up and, rubbing the rib of his palm, looked around. Both Peter and May had their eyes on the ragging spiderweb but then suddenly, the mirrored floor unfolded beneath them like a red carpet.

After hesitating for a moment, May sank onto it. She helped Peter down and then, visibly worried, reached for his face, but the boy, babbling something to her, turned away and put his hand before her in a defensive gesture.

“Mr Strange, sir?”

With his hands clasped behind his back, Mordo approached them, the mirror walls trembling along with the mockery in his tone. “He won’t help you, young man. But fear not: I mean you and your aunt no harm, and I take no pleasure in holding you here. It’s merely a precaution. I must retrieve something stolen from my home, and Strange refuses to give it back,” Mordo glanced at May, “doesn't he?”

She nodded, her face clouded with deep and genuine confusion, and magic tangled in Strange’s palms, poised for defence, when a soft but insistent wave of compulsion emanated from Mordo’s side. Peter shook May’s shoulders, but she blinked as if unable to recognize him.

“Sir, please!” The boy turned to Strange. “Whatever it is, give it to him!”

Oh, Stephen knew what it was. Not the Stone, not even Kamar-Taj. It was all about talent — about how Stephen had a natural predisposition for magic; how the Ancient One prophesied him to become the greatest sorcerer, not Mordo. Mordo craved these magical instincts, the ones he had been mastering with varying degrees of success over the years, in their entirety; he wanted to absorb them, to wield them without hindrance, to pontificate from the tribunes with the righteous authority. To transform from a self-proclaimed prophet into a legitimate one.

Nah. He’d do fine without it.

“I own nothing that isn’t rightfully mine, Mordo,” Stephen barked. “And taking my life won’t make it yours.”

“It was me who convinced the Ancient One to let you in Kamar-Taj; thanks to me you discovered your prāṇa! Don’t pretend you gained this power on your own.”

“You may have provided the tools, Mordo, but I learned to wield them myself.”

“To only betray them for a better deal with the Dark Dimension!”

“Your fantasies about my betrayal—”

“You don’t deserve a single spark of this magic!”

Mirror walls sprung up around Stephen with a metallic clang, enclosing him in a narrow, jar-like space. He cautiously touched the wall with his palm, but the transparent surface seared, making him recoil. The Cloak put up its floor to gently meet Stephen’s fingers.

Peter had already begun moving in Stephen’s direction, but Mordo raised his hand, “Please, a man who dragged you and your auntie into this vicious confrontation isn’t worth the emotion. Stephen Strange only ever thinks of himself and his own gain.” A teacher’s smile appeared on Mordo’s lips as Peter turned to him. “Stand back, Parker. Stay out of this, and I promise you no one will get hurt.”

It was about his aunt’s safety, and Stephen wouldn’t fault the kid for making the obvious choice. But Peter shot Mordo with his web, binding his hands, and leapt towards the mirror cage. “Ouch!”

“Don’t burn yourself, kid.”

Parker pulled back, rubbing his palm. “What should I do, sir?”

The red mask elongated comically in a series of reflections, and Stephen twitched his eyebrows. Hidden and quiet yet palpable power coursed through the tense boy’s shoulders, and, well, perhaps it was the right thing for a hero to do, but Parker owed him nothing — where did this desire for reckless sacrifice come from?

“Can you buy me a minute?” Stephen glanced at Mordo, who had already torn the web apart. “Be careful.”

Peter turned, and Stephen focused his power in his hands. He closed his eyes, pressing his palms against the wall again: the glass burnt his skin but quickly cooled and began to tremble. Just as the Ancient One had taught him. Stay calm. Concentrate. Apply force. All the materials in the Earth dimension could be disassembled into particles. Just penetrate between them and disrupt their fluctuations...

Streams of magic seeped into the wall, splitting it from the inside with a glimmer of gold.

“So, that’s how it is,” Mordo nodded. He raised his palms, waving the surface beneath Parker’s feet, causing him to tumble into a mirrored crack. “Peter Parker — a boy who refuses to heed adults and doesn’t know his limits.”

“Hey,” Tony interjected, and Stephen raised his head, the iron suit descending with a soft buzz, “only I can lecture him.”

Everything happened simultaneously. Tony fired at Mordo, the glass walls cracked, and Stephen opened a portal beneath Peter, hurling him out near his aunt. The effect of the compulsion dissipated again, and May caught Peter, holding him tight.

“On your left, Doc,” Tony warned, and Stephen barely managed to raise his shield, deflecting the lightning of a spell.

The flash ricocheted off the shield, and before anyone could react, May turned around with Peter in her arms. The beam of light struck her right between the shoulder blades. Her back and neck flashed white as her chiffon blouse fluttered from the shock wave; May froze in an uncomfortable position and then suddenly collapsed.

Tony shot Mordo again, and Stephen, throwing her a mental gratitude, opened the portal to the Parkers.

Peter had just broken free from his aunt's frozen embrace, “May, May! Can you hear me? Please, May, answer me, talk to me! Wh-what’s wrong with her, sir?”

Her expression turned perplexed, her eyes darting from side to side and lips moving as if she was reading an invisible text. Stephen outstretched his hand towards her, but the warm magic coursing through his palm never passed through the thick barrier of the spell.

“A Luminor Strike.”

“How– how bad is it?”

It was fraught with insanity, and May exhibited all the classic symptoms: deep trance and disturbing visions that would worsen over time. This, however, was something the boy didn’t need to know. Stephen gently closed May’s eyes, “Minimise external stimuli. Light, sound, smell; quickly!”

Parker nodded and placed his hand on May’s forehead, the nanites from his bracelet forming a mask over her face. Strange turned at the sound of the repulsor blast.

Mordo ducked away, focusing a charge of a ball lightning in his hands, and hurled it at the iron suit. Blue discharges crackled through it, extinguishing the eye slits and then the reactor. Tony crashed to the floor, the suit collapsing into the golden nanites. 

She tried to get up, but Mordo struck her face with the Staff in a roundhouse blow.

“Miss Stark!”

“No!” Stephen grabbed Parker by the shoulders, holding him tight.

Mordo hit Tony hard in the stomach, making her curl up on the floor. In the terrifying silence that followed, he pushed her onto her back with the toe of his boot and knelt over her. Time seemed to freeze as Tony exhaled sharply and opened her eyes.

Mordo laid down the Staff, rolled up his sleeves. Tony caught his fist before it reached her face, holding it for one second, two seconds... but he easily wrenched her hands away and punched her in the face with his other fist. Then again. And again. And again.

Parker struggled furiously in Stephen’s embrace, but Stephen directed a wave of calming energy at his back, so intense his palms burned. Overwhelmed with his senses, the boy shivered in his grasp. Mirror reflections multiplied the bag of Sands, making it difficult to distinguish the real one, and Stephen rubbed Parker’s shoulders.

“Parker. Parker, focus!” He shook him slightly. “I’ll open a portal to that corner. You find the real bag and bring it to me. Okay?”

Peter glanced at his aunt and then tried to turn towards Stark, but Stephen held his cheek with trembling fingers. “I need your help, Parker. We all do.”

Peter nodded. The nanites covered his face once more, and he jumped into the portal. But as Stephen stood up from the mirror shard, it cracked like ice on a lake — quickly, he scooped May into his arms, and the Cloak lifted them just as the transparent floor shattered, collapsing into a mirrored abyss below.

May’s unconscious body felt unnaturally heavy, her life energy radiating an ominous cold. Every time Stephen tried to set her down and leave, the floor cracked. He placed her on another piece of mirrored glass and turned to Stark in frustrating helplessness.

Mordo tightened his grip on her cheeks, eliciting coughs and blood bubbling on her lips. Finally releasing her, he stood up to shake off his jeans, and Tony rolled onto her side, her arms pressed to her chest.

Grabbing the Staff, Mordo pressed its knob forcefully into her shoulder. “Shall I remind you, Miss Stark, of what else happens when you disobey those stronger than you? Or was this sufficient?”

Stephen swung the red lasso at him, but the sparkling tip struck the mirror shield in front of Mordo’s palm. With a gloating look, Mordo rubbed his fingers. Tony whined faintly, her cheek pressed into the floor, and the reactor flickered as she clenched it in her hands.

“The iron suit isn’t as impenetrable as you like to imagine, is it? You think you’ve ascended to the top of the world, and technology will grant you power,” Mordo reproached, “but magic is far greater and older than your toys. You do realise it won’t take me an eye blink to let that little shrapnel reach your heart, right? I’m not doing this only because I value the future’s promises over my victories. This isn’t your war, Stark. Don’t get involved.”

“Sir?” Peter called. Hanging upside down, he showed Stephen a bag of Sands.

As Mordo turned towards them, Stephen grabbed the bag with an energy wave, but Mordo disappeared behind the portal’s red spiral the moment before the Sands exploded onto him. The Bond blindly stuck into a mirror wall, following Mordo beyond this dimension, and Stephen gestured to Peter, “Stay with your aunt.”

The kid gave Tony a brief glance but, confused either by her helplessness or his own curiosity, rushed to May.

“Stark? Stark.”

Stephen went around the Sands’ cloud and knelt beside Tony, her breathing heavily. Blood streaked her face, her nose swollen, a darkening laceration marking her cheek. Gently, Stephen stroked the wound, cooling it with his touch, then placed his other palm on Tony’s stomach and released the healing energy. Her exhausted body absorbed it eagerly like a sponge. Stephen rarely used his magic to treat others, and with discomfort, he noticed the veins on the back of his palms swelling and his scars becoming more prominent, but, despite the impulse to hide his hands, he closed his eyes.

Tony exhibited mild arrhythmia, shortness of breath suggestive of a panic attack, and had a dislocated shoulder. Her muscles were strained, and a bruise throbbed on her abdomen; her thoughts sparkled chaotically like a bare wire, but neither of the symptoms were life-threatening. She began to relax a little under Stephen’s palms.

He hesitated for a bit but then touched Tony’s consciousness. Her awakened memories flooded his mind: a dark cave ceiling, the scent of sweat and stagnant water, crackling of torn buttons, hot palm prints, and an overwhelming sense of suffocating doom. Stephen quickly withdrew his hand.

Tony spat blood and propped herself up on her elbow. Stephen offered her assistance and held her by the waist as she leaned against him, his breath gentle against her ear. Tony froze, her nose in his shoulder. Oh, he did warn her to stay away, didn’t he?.. Stephen felt her shallow breaths beneath his palm and moved his hand onto the back of her head, pouring a steady stream of sedative magic down her.

“Did you evacuate everyone?” he whispered, and she nodded. “It’s time to go.”

And it really was time to go as a portal sparkled nearby, and Mordo returned. The Sands were now glittering over the mirror floor, and Stephen reproached himself for short-sightedness — the vivid emotion that flared in him in response to the violence had again failed his strategic caution. He stepped in front of Tony, and she squeezed his palm before letting it go. The nanites quickly assembled into the glove on her hand, and she fired.

Mordo deflected the blue blast as effortlessly as brushing off a fly. Then another one. “It’s a pointless struggle,” he snapped, deflecting yet another charge. Stephen raised his hand, and Tony ceased firing but kept the iron glove up. “You can flee, you can even kill me, but it won’t change a thing. The future is inevitable. I want you to understand that our ideas will endure: we will persist until we restore our home.”

“Then we’ll kill you all, one by one,” Tony growled, and Mordo nodded.

“I don’t doubt you, Miss Stark, but I don’t think our common friend will permit it.”

Stephen narrowed his eyes but then tossed a glance at Peter. The boy, holding his aunt’s hand, was watching them, waiting for a signal, and Stephen slipped his fingers into the spare Ring. He twisted the portal beneath May, sending her to the street where the soldiers had arrived (they’d know to pass her to the masters, wouldn’t they?), but the next moment the portal collapsed in front of Peter — Stephen gasped. A huge glass shard pierced his back.

Time seemed to freeze as pain bloomed gradually. Stephen squeezed his limp fingers around the shard’s top protruding from his stomach, feeling an adrenaline surge spreading heat over his body. Stephen directed magic to his stomach, examining the wound with detached curiosity. It was penetrating, damaged skin and layers of abdominal muscles, tore the Cloak, but the tissues around the entry and exit wounds remained intact. So, Mordo didn’t want to kill him. Well, fair enough — for the sacrifice, he needed Stephen safe, not necessarily sound.

The anaesthetic energy emitted by the shard dulled the pain, and a mixture of relief and fear washed over Stephen. The shard hadn’t hit any vital organs, but being impaled on a magical weapon like an olive on a skewer was a crappy alternative.

“Stephen?” Tony’s voice sounded strangely distant; his ears only now started to unblock after the shock. Stephen shook his head and covered the Eye; his fingers didn’t obey, and he concentrated on directing the power into them. “Hang in there, Doc.”

A repulsor charge thundered, and Mordo’s irritated voice echoed from the other side, “Miss Stark, this is no time for revenge—”

“Hey, kid, what’s the Archimedean spiral telling you?”

Peter raised his head, studying the tightening spiral of furniture and its reflections. The siren’s howl grew louder nearby; Stephen clenched his fingers around the Eye, the bleak green rings quivering around his wrists.

Then, all at once, Peter shot webs into the shards on the ceiling and leapt, the net tightening around Mordo, ensnaring him like a fly with each bound, and Stephen unleashed the power of the Stone. Time focused on him, coursing through the wound in his abdomen and healing it, extracting the shard from his back and repairing the damaged tissues.

But then Mordo burnt the web, and the mirror dimension collapsed. Tony caught Peter as the distorted space collided with the liberated time, creating a dazzling white flash that froze everything in front of Stephen’s eyes.

The energy of the Time Stone permeated visible reality, turning it green and jelly-like, creating a sense of weightlessness within. Reality felt like an open wound, torn apart by the collapse of two dimensions, trembling and reverberating. Something propelled Stephen forward like he was a bead drawn along a string.

A whirlwind of memories flooded his mind — a green boat drifting on murky water, an iron suit, an open brain, his father's hands, blue butterflies — landscapes and faces melded, fractured, and morphed. Then, everything turned purple.

A surge of energy struck Stephen from behind like a crashing wave, and the Cloak enveloped him as an unknown force pulled him into a golden crack, following Tony. Multiversal energies erupted in pink fireworks, inside and outside, and then a bright flash swallowed the world.

__________

(Sanskrit for “to control/stop breathing”) breathing exercises aimed at regulating and purifying life energies) a key form of life energy within a person return to text

Chapter Text

Yinsen was a miracle.

Tony didn’t know why the universe had brought him into her life, but she knew he deserved better — and that she wouldn’t have survived if it wasn’t for him. Because, firstly, nobody survived with shrapnel in the heart, and secondly, his support was unmatched. Although his unwavering optimism infuriated Tony at first. From her perspective, it seemed absurd: life on a borrowed time hardly felt like a gift for someone whose hands were stained with blood; the choice between immediate death and a delayed one was stupid; and the magnet, cobbled together of mud and straw, that kept her heart beating could fail at any moment, so, frankly, what was the point of fighting?

But Yinsen believed in her for some reason. At first, Stark thought it was a heartless jest, but then it occurred to her that Yinsen was sincere. He really did consider her a brilliant scientist, looked at her as if she was a new wonder of the world, and never doubted she could escape from anywhere if she set her mind to it. Stark grew attached once she realised there was no judgement in Yinsen’s tone and no trace of resentment in his actions; then, the mutual need for familial closeness united them even more. Without any Freudian undertones. It was just that Tony, shaped by Howard’s coldness and Obadiah’s sycophancy, readily accepted sympathetic men as father figures, and Yinsen was careless enough to take care of her, allowed himself a mentoring tone and was risking his life in a distinctly parental (and thus stupid — he could’ve been killed for that at any moment) urge to protect her.

She was a commodity to the terrorists, and they made no secret of their intentions. Tony quickly grasped the gravity of her situation, but having her head dunked in the toilet didn’t particularly lift her spirits. Raised in a greenhouse of wealth and indulgence, used to the bodyguards close at hand, she had no idea what awaited her in captivity. And neither years of boxing nor regular visits to the shooting range with the boys from the engineering department could’ve prepared her for the opponent who held a literal button to her heart.

Stark would’ve probably died of shame on the first day, but Yinsen convinced the bastards that if they broke her now, they’d never get the damned missile. So there was no penetration — that was how Tony summarised it to the doctors upon her return, knowing they would discover the rest during their examinations anyway.

Yinsen told the terrorists that she had a weak heart (partially true) and a colourful array of venereal diseases (completely untrue). Tony joked about it a lot, but he only shook his head. ‘It seems to me, Stark, that your humour is an armour sturdier than this suit can ever be.’

She was offended by this comment and laughed it off. Yinsen smiled affectionately — leaving her nothing to say in response.

And now, in this dazzling green moment, he was smiling at her like that again. They were surrounded by the half-light of a damp cave, a soldering iron heating up in the corner, and it wasn’t all too bad because they hadn’t been beaten or insulted for a few days in a row, and as long as there was hope, there was life too. But then, the past dissolved into a vivid, three-dimensional present as if someone had switched a channel in Tony’s mind, and she blinked, disoriented.

A bruise pulsated under her eye, and her ears were blocked, but her vision remained clear. May’s office was intact, unnaturally intact. Birds chirped outside the window, the cold light reflected brightly off the printer paper, and the modest furniture stood untouched and neat in its usual place.

The nanites swiftly returned to the bracelet generators, and Stark glanced around. “FRIDAY?”

“Searching for a server connection, boss. The suit was deactivated for your safety.”

“Strange?” Tony turned around. “Strange!”

Bent halfway, he gripped the table’s edge with one hand, his other hand on the Stone, but when Tony squeezed his shoulder, he suddenly raised his head. Green smoke slipped from his eyes into the necklace, and he blinked as if roused from sleep, scanning his surroundings. The Cloak swayed, and Stark withdrew.

“Now you see you can’t bargain with people like this?”

“Do you really wanna discuss it now?” Stephen snapped feebly, and Tony snorted with both irritation and relief. The wizard ready to quip was more useful than he’d be in any other condition.

But before Stark could reply, digital distortion suddenly covered Strange. For a second, his face and body got contorted with neon stripes — electric blue, red, and green — stretching and twisting, only the Cloak keeping him upright. Then, the pixels flattened. Stephen’s skin and clothes returned to normal, and he slumped onto the table, gasping for breath. Tony reached out to him but found herself unable to move.

Digital noise of every colour covered the room. It flickered and shifted, the distorted noise hissing in Tony’s ears, and disorientation overwhelmed her — she felt as if she was ascending at airplane speed while simultaneously sinking into a swamp. Her body was pulled in a hundred directions at once.

And then, the bad trip ended, and reality snapped back into place.

“What the—” Tony took a wheezy breath and finally felt someone’s hands on her shoulders.

“You all right?”

Stephen stared at her with a mixture of worry and curiosity. Tony stepped back but swayed from sudden weakness.

“Migraine?”

“No, just dizzy. For the last two days,” she put her palm to her forehead. “Let me guess: something magical happened, and I’m not gonna like it.”

“I have a hunch, but you won’t believe it.”

“Go on.”

“There is a book in Kamar-Taj, Echo of Worlds. It’s considered an ancient collection of legends, but it describes something like interdimensional glitches — describes them exactly like this.”

He gave her a meaningful look, but Tony only arched an eyebrow. Stephen twitched his fists in annoyance and explained, “The space-time jump. I unleashed the power of time, and Mordo destroyed the mirror dimension. The collision exploded into a supernatural burst of energy, thinning the walls of reality to the point where they touched neighbouring ones.”

The comm crackled and then fell silent again. Strange’s confident seriousness implied that he wasn’t joking, and Stark, although open to compromises when faced with something she didn’t fully understand, always kept seeking answers — and she didn’t like answers like that. She was a practitioner and loved certainty (the kind that could be expressed in formulas and integrated into an iron suit), and she didn’t accept assumptions, especially ones bold enough to challenge the laws of nature with their hypothetical truthfulness. In any case, reversed time was enough.

There was no need to tease fate again.

“I meant the stalactite sticking out of your stomach,” she gestured to where the wound should’ve been, but the wizard’s suit was intact. Frowning, he covered his stomach with his palm. “Are we still there? In the mirror dimension? Where’s Mordo?”

“Escaped, likely,” Strange raised his another hand as if wanting to touch the air. Then caught Stark’s glance and shook his head. “He was testing me. A master can’t transform a mirror dimension opened by someone else, but the connection to the Dark Dimension expands the possibilities.”

“Yours too?”

“Stark.”

“So, now your psycho friend believes not only that you have this connection but also that you’re an unscrupulous asshole who will never reveal this terrible secret?”

“I suppose he’s more concerned with where I’ve gone now.”

“Don't look at me like that.”

“It thinks so too,” Stephen gestured at the Cloak that swayed its collar as if nodding.

“A flying gown, really? Isn’t there a more reliable source?”

“The artefact’s origin is tied to the multiverse, Stark, which is why the glitch didn’t affect it. And official science also speculates about the multiverse.”

“Merely speculates. All theories are unfalsifiable. Where’s the kid?” Stark turned her head, and Stephen also looked around, his hand raised once more, fingers moving. Tony tapped her comm. “Parker?”

“Sorry, boss, trying to find a connection.”

“Still?”

“He’s downstairs,” Stephen said, and Tony hurried after him.

Stephen knocked on his wrists, but the red mandalas faded away as he stopped on the stairs and held his arm out to stop Stark. In the narrow corridor near the front door, Peter was talking to Jenny who wore the nondescript uniform, her dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. She glanced at the stairs, but Peter grabbed her shoulders, “They’re with me, Jen, please focus. Where’s May?”

“On a meeting with the Department of Social Services,” Jenny gently lowered Peter’s arms and looked over at Tony and Strange again. “She said you were doing fine, and we’ve been trying to arrange this meeting for many months, so—”

“Yeah, okay– who’s she with?”

“Joe and Patricia. Peter, honey,” Jenny called with gentle firmness, adjusting his shirt pocket. “If you know anything that might affect the well-being of those present, now is the time to tell me.”

Peter turned to Stark, confusion and helplessness on his face, and she raised her hand, “Don’t worry, it’s a personal matter.” She caught Stephen’s cautious glance and swiftly descended a few steps. “Peter skipped his internship, and we’re displeased with his behaviour. Do you have a first aid kit?”

—and immediately regretted drawing attention to it. Though it was unlikely her blood-soaked face was unnoticed — but now, under Jenny’s pitying gaze, the bruise under Stark’s eye and each fresh wound on her cheek warmed up with shame, one by one. Tony clenched her fists.

“Sure,” Jenny nodded. “I'll bring it.”

“I’m calling May,” Peter took out his phone.

Stephen approached quietly, but Tony sensed his presence like a warm breeze entering the hallway. She turned to him and, before he could speak, raised her finger. “Not a word about the multiverse.”

He blinked but then said with unexpectedly genuine softness, “You don’t need a first aid kit, Stark.”

“If that’s a compliment, it’s sweet but a bit out of place — they’ll pity me and judge you.”

“I can heal.”

“Out of compassion or guilt?” Tony snapped and rubbed her suddenly-sweaty neck with her palm. Turned away from his disappointed gaze. “Bear in mind, both options are stupid, so unless you want to embarrass yourself—”

“No connection!” Parker clicked his tongue. “I– I mean, Miss Stark? Are you okay?”

Tony pursed her lips in a wide smile. Too disturbed about his aunt, Peter took it as a satisfactory answer and turned to Jenny, who returned with a red first aid kit. “S-sorry, can I borrow your phone? Just for a minute.”

Jenny’s connection was fine, and Tony turned away. The restroom sign indicated it was to the right, but before she could move, Stephen grabbed her elbow, “Stark. Changes in the vibrations of subtle energies that pierce reality — if I can detect them, your AI certainly can, too.” He raised his eyebrows pointedly, honesty being his trump card in the argument. “I’ve read about quantum fluctuations. Magic isn’t as different from science as you might think.”

Annoyed by his perspicacity and conviction, she pulled her arm away and pointed with her chin, “Keep an eye on the kid.”

She didn’t want to be left alone with her thoughts, but even more, she didn’t want to face the sympathetic glances that awaited around the corner to the right. After locking the door behind her, Tony finally looked in the mirror.

It turned out not as bad as she had imagined: the wounds were visible, but not a single ‘blood-soaked face’; it even wasn’t swollen, yet she still wanted to joke about magic rather than take it seriously. And anyway. There were times when it was worse.

There were times when she didn’t even have band-aids after the beatings, let alone magic. Sometimes, treating them was meaningless in general — disinfect the worst ones and carry on because more of them were yet to come. Band-aids and cotton pads had to be rationed; Yinsen’s medical resources were limited to easing Stark’s pain after the surgery, and they’d run out of painkillers within the first month anyway.

Not that the terrorists had a legitimate reason to torment them, in fact, it was largely impractical. Yet, they seemed to believe the prisoners were becoming too relaxed at times and needed reminders of whose mercy they were at. Sometimes, it was to force them to work faster, other times to blow off steam. Afterwards, Yinsen would always sit in the Lotus pose and share stories from his life as an academic professor. Tony couldn’t grasp it.

How could he remain so composed and optimistic?

‘They hate your vulnerability, Stark.’

‘They’ll get angrier if they see us showing pain.’

‘Don’t give them the satisfaction of witnessing your defeat.’

A multiversal glitch struck Tony abruptly — the FEAST’s toilet exploded in a cascade of rainbow colours, making her shake.

“Ma’am, you’re experiencing severe heart palpitations,” FRIDAY’s voice, although robotic, conveyed genuine concern. “I recommend rinsing your face with cold water.”

Tony would’ve loved to, but returning to reality didn’t provide any relief. The brief, involuntary trip only intensified her already overwhelming sensations: her heart, aching physically, as if it was wrapped in cling film, pounded like a bird’s; cold panic tightened her lungs, and Tony cursed through her gritted teeth. Leaning against the wall with elbows, her forehead pressed to her arms, she started counting to ten.

Her breathing gradually returned to normal, and FRIDAY noted, “Cold water would still be beneficial, ma’am.”

“Yes, mommy.”

Stark opened the tap. Her hands trembled slightly, but the cold water pleasantly stung her burning cheeks and the untreated wounds. Tony retrieved the peroxide from the kit and glanced at the mirror frowning as if expecting her reflection to stare back with reproach. The reflection, however, looked at her without criticism.

“What do you have for me?”

“I’ve downloaded the MRIs that Doctor Strange requested.”

“Good job. What about your connection?”

“There was a clash with another AI in the local network, ma’am. My attempt to communicate triggered security protocols, resulting in a conflict, and I had to deactivate the suit.”

“What kind of conflict?”

“An endless loop of activating and deactivating protocols. I suspect it was due to our identical programming.”

“What do you mean, ‘identical programming’?” Tony hissed, a cotton pad pressed against her cheek. She gritted her teeth, waiting for the stinging to subside, then gently wiped the blood around the wound. “FRIDAY, you're a unique creation. I spent eighteen days on you, which, by the way, is ten more than it took to create the world. Have some decency.”

“I understand, boss. But despite exhaustive analysis, I can’t determine the origin or purpose of the other AI. I dare to assume that in an alternate reality with an identical version of you, there exists an identical version of me.”

“Et tu, Brute?”

“Please, ma’am. I’ve been collecting data from sensors integrated into the suit and, although Doctor Strange spoke in esoteric terms, I can confirm his findings with my initial analysis. Atom energy levels are slightly different, and I discern subtle changes in the colours of objects—”

No, Stephen was good with words and even better at shooting in the dark, but quantum fluctuations had nothing to do with any of it. On the other hand, Mordo, who had been standing mere four feet away from them, had inexplicably vanished. Or, in terms of facts, he wasn’t around now, and recent events didn’t line up in any convincing chain of causality.

The liquid soap dispenser was leaking, emitting a sour apple scent. Tony secured the cotton pad on her cheek with a couple of band-aids and looked around for a bin. It was tucked under the sink, and alongside it, a crumpled newspaper with a boot print on the front page lay — her own surname in the headline caught Tony’s attention.

“—electron behaviour shows deviations, affecting electronic devices accordingly; I detected a change in quantum oscillation frequency and magnitude at a microscopic level—”

The fact that the press never forgave her for weapons manufacturing wasn’t news to her, but ‘The Merchant of Death pays off his sins even from heaven’ was a bit extra poisonous. Tony didn’t recall publicly donating to anything recently, so she delicately opened the newspaper’s stuck pages with her fingertips.

A blond woman in a formal jacket, very slender and very tired, looked at her with a restrained smile from a rectangle on the fifth page. She bore an uncanny resemblance to someone else. Actually, Tony knew who exactly that ‘someone else’ was, and, as much as she wanted to dismiss Strange’s theories and FRIDAY’s analysis, she would’ve surely remembered if she had a wife — especially if that wife had become a widow.

And she always said Potts would’ve made a beautiful woman.

Or rather, she used to say she would’ve loved him even if he’d been a woman — not just because Tony had a wild period of experimentation in bed twenty years ago, but because she truly loved him that much. Potts was a steel fortress — his grey eyes always focused, his handshakes firm, his voice measured, and his expensive suits impeccable — but beneath the tough exterior concealed a lump of genuine worry. And if it wasn’t for all that (with ‘that’ being Stark’s heroism and unfulfilled promises), they would’ve been sitting at a corner table at Duryea’s Montauk today, gazing at the Atlantic Ocean.

Tony used to order a bowl of vegetable salad and eat up half of Potts’s dish — he loved fried salmon, always cut a juicy slice for Tony, and never ate French fries. On Friday evenings, the wine was so potent it didn’t taste sour, freshly baked bread rolls seemed to never cool, and after the second glass, Potts practised witty banter, stroked Tony’s leg under the table, and looked criminally handsome in his white weekend suits against the backdrop of flaming sunsets.

And if it wasn’t for that, she wouldn’t have lost him — and the time travel, crazy aliens, and multiversal paradoxes would’ve been easier to bear.

If it wasn’t for that—

“—I also managed to briefly connect to a local server, and rates of radioactive decay and behaviours of quantum mechanical systems revealed by the databases were different from what I’m familiar with.”

—perhaps she would have surrendered to his persuasions and given up Iron Man long ago. Meaning, she wouldn’t have gotten in trouble now. The wrong, unscientific... completely irrational trouble. Unfalsifiable. Until this day.

Glancing at the date at the end of the article, Tony rubbed her forehead. “FRIDAY, remind me, what year is it?”

“Good thing you asked, boss, because the data is conflicting. My default information doesn’t match the local sources — they indicate today is November twelfth, year twenty-fourth.”

“Local sources.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Local.”

“That’s correct.”

She crumpled the newspaper and tossed it into the bin with the empty box of band-aids. Then bit her cheek and gazed at the green tiles framing the mirror. Tapped them lightly with her knuckles. Hm. Felt like those at home.

Well, this time, Strange wouldn’t be able to hide behind ignorance — Tony was determined to share at least a third of the daunting prospects with him. It was worth discussing. Meaning, well, not issuing ultimatums or bickering like on the way to Titan, and not showing off with wit like at all other times, but actually discussing. No one had faced such a problem before, so there was no proven track record; they needed to pool all their resources to find a solution. And Tony had to prevent the wizard from both withholding important information again and trying to solve everything alone.

As Stark returned, Peter hung up the phone and turned to her, visibly worried. “She’s– she’s with him, I’m sure of it. She’s hypnotised, doesn’t remember anything, and they’re heading to The Bean Gallery.” He swallowed loudly and glanced at Strange. “We need to go there right now.”

Tony flashed a faceless smile at Jenny, gripping Peter’s shoulder and urging him toward the door. “It’s really cosy here, but we must go — the internship won’t finish itself.”

Peter didn’t resist, and Jenny didn’t protest — didn’t manage to — Tony heard Stephen throw a hurried farewell before joining them at the door.

The street welcomed them with the typical New York clamour — the cacophony of cars and rustling leaves. The crisp autumn air kissed Tony’s cheeks, carrying a faint aroma of roasted nuts, and she looked around. Of course. Food was such a versatile tool. A distraction, a remedy for permanent hunger, and an excuse for unobtrusive team building.

“I need an Americano, a Snickers bar, and a table,” Tony pointed with her finger, “on tha-at Costa’s terrace. Has it always been there?”

“But—”

“That’s not your aunt, kid.”

“I— I don’t understand, ma’am,” Peter rubbed his palms. “Is this a joke?”

“A powerful surge of particle energy. Magic held the edges of the wormhole, and we were at the junction.”

“You mean... you mean what I think you mean?”

She crossed her arms, shrugging as if there was nothing special about it, and Peter’s expression changed — his frown still betrayed anxiety, yet his eyes glimmered with familiar excitement. He opened his mouth, his gaze shifting between Tony and Stephen.

“So it’s... possible? And wait, what’s the truth then: the many-worlds interpretation, ultimate ensemble, or— wait,” he clenched his fists. “Does that mean that May, my May, the real May, is still out there? She’s hurt, she’s in danger, and we can’t just—”

"Hey, hey. Kid!"

A sudden wave of the glitch covered Peter, almost knocking him off his feet. Tony caught him, and as Peter regained himself, he snuggled against her, his face into her shoulder. 

“It’s okay, kid, it’s over,” Stark patted him on the back. “It was a collision of different frequencies.”

She glanced over Peter’s head and caught Strange’s gaze. He stood frozen, his hand extended toward Peter but not daring to touch. For a few seconds, his and Tony’s eyes remained locked until Stephen finally clenched his fist.

“Mordo won’t harm your aunt anymore, Peter. He’s at odds with me and has little interest in the mundane world.”

His tone was inappropriately calm, but Tony couldn’t deny the logic — taking hostages served no purpose without someone to leverage. Or profit to be made from the hostages themselves.

Still, she tossed Stephen an expressive, he-is-just-a-child glance, and Stephen shifted his shoulder, “The masters will take care of her.”

“Happy and the army also were there, and the police were coming. You hear me, Pete? May’s not alone.”

“I- I’m sorry,” he murmured, rubbing his eyes. “I’m okay, I’m fine. Really.”

Tony squeezed his shoulder and put on her sunglasses. “So. How about Costa?”

As if the solution lay in something as simple as a chocolate bar and a cup of coffee.

But Stephen’s gaze sharpened, “Stark. Stark!” He grabbed her elbow again, letting go when she turned to him with irritation. “What happened?”

“Space-time jump. Just as you said—”

“No, Stark. Five minutes ago, you didn’t wanna hear a word about it, and now you’re talking about wormholes like it’s nothing, so I’m asking again — what happened?”

She pursed her lips. Glanced over Strange’s shoulder and raised her eyebrows. “This.”

The bronze Iron Suit, identical to Stark’s armour, glittered in the sunlight behind a low fence near the ATM. The date, October twenty-third, was inscribed on the monument’s platform, and fresh bouquets of roses and forget-me-nots lay at its base — abundant hints. Peter sobbed, and Tony crossed her arms.

“And a wormhole really is nothing — I’m much more interested in the exotic matter that allowed it to exist long enough for us to get sucked in.”

But Strange remained fixated on the monument, his expression serious yet lost, as if the local Stark’s death had shattered some promise or foretold a fateful omen. Tony greeted her teeth.

“Can you get us back, sir?” Peter raised his head. “I mean, with your magic and all that.”

Stephen twitched his eyebrows, torn from the whirlwind of thoughts, and clenched his fists. “Summoning a force capable of removing the barriers between realities, even for a moment, is extremely dangerous.”

“With the summoner’s death,” Tony specified, but Stephen shook his head.

“With the potential collapse of the multiverse. We’re prohibited from experimenting with these spells.”

“And what about we use, erm,” Peter pointed to the eye-shaped necklace, “that magical stone of yours? If it contains all the time in the universe, why can’t we turn it back and—”

“It contains all the time of our universe, Parker. Here, the Stone is useless.”

“But you called it the Infinity Stone? How can infinity be limited?”

“Our universe is infinite, but the multiverse is even more... infinite.”

“My brain’s about to explode.”

“Yeah, mine too.”

“Miss Stark?” Peter shifted impatiently from foot to foot, and Tony snorted.

“Bullshit.” 

She stepped towards the monument, picked up a cap with a purple crow, the Ravens logo, on the visor, and after shaking off the dust, put it on backwards. But in response to the two confused glances, she explained, “I’m a Steelers fan in any reality. By the way, I have your friends’ MRIs.” With a quiet click, she removed the watch from her wrist and handed it to Strange. “Oh, look! The table’s free.”

And she headed decisively towards the cafe. A couple of teenagers and office clerks occupied the terrace, the creaking of the wooden boards under Tony’s feet blending with their chatter. Would her card work here? If the phones were out of range, the banks might be disconnected, too.

Beyond the transparent door, a small queue had formed, and behind the bar stood a familiar elderly man in a light shirt. The concierge from the hotel. Tony zipped up her jacket to conceal the reactor and crossed her arms, the teenagers at a nearby table eyeing them with curiosity when Stephen joined her on the terrace.

“Anyone looks familiar?” Tony nodded at the door. “What do they teach about coincidences at Alfea?”

“That they don’t exist. But this is a different reality. Or you think only you can have a doppelganger here?”

“And you have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

“We good?” Peter squeezed between them, and Tony tossed an angry glance at Stephen’s slyly raised eyebrow.

But then he suddenly reached out and plucked a spider off Tony’s cap. The tiny black bug spun on an invisible thread, dangling from Strange’s finger, and Tony grunted. “Look, kid, Doc found your doppelganger too.”

“Oh, put it away!” Peter shivered, but Stephen, a glint of amusement in his eyes, brought the spider to his face.

The kid recoiled, ducking behind Stark, but Stephen persisted, waggling the spiderweb in front of him again. “Are you afraid? You’re Spider-Man.”

“Sir!”

Tony rolled her eyes. “And this is how I ended up in a parallel universe with two five-year-olds.” She swiped the spider away at last, and Peter peeked from behind her shoulder, frowning at Stephen’s chuckling. “Go find yourself your own teenager for sublimation and mess with them as much as you want.”

“I don’t— yeah, right. Okay,” Stephen sighed. Pulled a couple of crumpled banknotes from his pocket and handed them to Peter. “I’ll have an Americano, too; get yourself a candy.”

“Actually, handing out money is my thing,” Tony replied mechanically.

Stephen pursed his lips, somewhat uncertain, and the fist in which he held the watch trembled. “Thank you.”

Stark felt her face warming up. They stood on the brink of one of the greatest scientific discoveries of all times, and who knew what it entailed — perhaps they wouldn’t even last half a day in this universe — and that Stephen’s fragile, personal gratitude was so out of place. Maybe it was because Tony never quite knew how to handle gratitude, feeling it always came at the wrong moment. Like now, for instance.

Yinsen would’ve said it was because she was more accustomed to blame than thanks. Tony would’ve laughed at that.

She turned away. “Get us a table.”

Chapter Text

Tony rubbed her knuckles forcefully under her collarbone. The damn chronic pain that shot through her chest wasn’t particularly surprising, but Tony’d already forgotten how she once managed without FRIDAY’s hormonal sensors and painkillers. Not like it was completely unbearable. But definitely unpleasant. And as usual, at the very wrong moment. All these memories, reminders and chronic pains flared up at the wrong moment.

Tony inhaled, held her breath for a moment, and then exhaled slowly. Sensed Parker’s anxiety and took over, relieving him of the need to talk to the staff — took the money and sent him to examine the cafe’s other offerings. If she couldn’t pay by cash here, she’d have to rely solely on her charm.

So she prepared her brightest smile as the elderly bartender raised an eyebrow at the banknote she handed over. “Already?” He glanced at Tony with a cheerful click of his tongue. “My shift is over! Once you leave,” he pointed his long, dry finger at the door, “someone else will take my place.”

“That’s typically how shifts work,” Tony retorted bleakly, and, okay. Fine. Multiverse, by the right of seniority, occupied all her mental space.

The bartender-concierge shook his head with a sly smile, took the money, and started the coffee machine.

He flattened the handful of coffee grounds and tamped them down. Pressure increases density— boom! A star collapses under its own weight, warping the space-time continuum around it. Its gravitational field becomes so strong that even light can’t get through it. An irresistible singularity. An infinite singularity. 

Perhaps they’d created a black hole after all — Tony could only speculate about magic, and speculation could only take her so far — but manipulating time and space had consequences. Not because of cheap lyricism but because every action had a reaction. Sooner or later, physics would take its revenge. Perhaps it had already taken it. Tony turned to the fridge stocked with sandwiches — why was she surprised? Just days ago, time had reversed. The multiverse fit the clinical pattern.

Everything fit now because impossible theories had tangible proofs, and Stark had to admit, although reluctantly, that they were true. And magic was a rather convenient element — unexplained, unstable, and unexplored. But instead of the thrill in the face of the groundbreaking discovery, Tony felt only a dull constriction in her chest and an itchy restlessness. Here, beyond the event horizon, was another universe, but what was left on the other side? Had the black hole consumed everything? Was the universe they came from gone?

Perhaps reality had split into two: one where the black hole incinerated them and another where they passed through unharmed. Such things were possible at a singularity point. Everything was possible at a singularity point. Equally likely, they might’ve gone mad when time collided with space, plunged into a collective magical hallucination, and were about to wake up in padded rooms very soon. Or, at best, all of this could be a pre-death fever dream. Maybe old man Einstein had grasped something fundamental back then and denied quantum physics not out of spite—

“Ma’am?”

The bartender-concierge pointed to the cups on the counter, and Tony forced a smile. It was unusual not to be recognised. Even stung her ego a bit. Even a lot. But there was no logic to it, and she let it go — dumped a handful of coins on the counter for a sandwich, dismissed the question about change, and winked at Parker. He was waiting in line for the restroom, pursing his lips and twirling the button on his shirt.

Stephen took a seat at the far table on the terrace. The Cloak’s collar was down, unusually calm, and the watch on the table projected a bleak blue hologram of MRI scans. FRIDAY politely displayed a keyboard before Strange, and he typed quickly and effortlessly, a slight frown on his face, his expression so… serious.

No, he almost always looked serious but now, there was something inexplicably captivating about his tense face, the same allure that makes people spend hours staring at Greek statues in museums. His imperfect features — full lips, and small eyes; his thick eyebrows and fading wounds — only heightened this keen fascination. The tense muscles from his clenched teeth darkened under his cheekbones, and a black strand of hair fell gently into the deep triangular fold between his eyebrows. Tony felt an urge to brush it away. To touch his marble-like features, stroke them, press them to test their strength. She frowned even more.

And realised she was shamelessly staring when caught Strange’s expressive glance from beneath his eyebrows.

Tony placed the cups on the table, sank into the wrought-iron chair, and pressed the cold sandwich pack against her chest. The moisture quickly soaked through her jacket, slightly dulling the pain near the reactor. But as soon as Stephen glanced at her hand, Tony shifted the pack to her throbbing eye. “So, we’ve got some news — good ones and bad ones. The good news is that they have the same currency as us here, the physical and historical structure of this world mainly matches ours, and we’ve just proven the existence of a hyperverse. The bad news is that there’s no me in this world, local physics is similar to ours, and we’ve just proven the existence of a hyperverse.”

“Is energy the problem?” 

“It’s that our reality was eaten by a black hole.”

Stephen raised an eyebrow and rubbed his fingers as if testing the air density. Then he shook his head. “I don’t think so. I would have felt it.”

“Felt it. Really? That’s your argument?” 

“I’m still the Sorcerer Supreme, Stark. The places of power in our world feed me, so I would’ve felt if they were gone. And I wouldn’t be able to do,” a few sparks flashed at his fingertips, “this.”

The sparks died out, and Tony pursed her lips. She had no counter-argument to the magical reasoning. Well. One less headache to deal with.

Stephen narrowed his eyes, “Other problems?”

“Space for experiments, time for calculations, and the absence of exotic matter.” She removed the pack from her face and nodded at the hologram. “What about you?”

He blinked. Tightened his clasped fingers on the table. “Ross is gonna make it. His brain is intact, and he probably got just some moderate burns — a week or two of conservative therapy, and he’ll be as good as new.”

“What about your masters?” Stark added sugar to Stephen’s cup.

“I—”

He broke off, blinking absent-mindedly, and lowered his head as if choosing his words. The street noise blended into a soft background hum, and the spoon clinking against the cup became too loud, so Tony started stirring the sugar slower.

Finally, Stephen sighed and brought a napkin in front of him. “The injuries are severe. The count goes by the hour.”

“There are five surgeons at the Compound, and their arms grow out of their shoulders.”

“I hope so.”

“Is that professional scepticism?” Stark bit her tongue, reproaching herself for the inappropriate quip, and moved Stephen’s cup towards him. “And how about magic? Can your guys quickly fix some tissues or—”

“You don’t do brain surgeries ‘quickly’, Stark.”

She looked up at him, her eyebrows arched, and Stephen clacked his teeth but decided not to continue. He adjusted his wristwatch and explained, “It’s a difficult task, and they don’t have the most important thing at the Compound.”

“You?”

“The Time Stone. Things would be easier if they had an extra couple of hours, but now, the consequences are inevitable.”

“How bad is it?”

“Lesions in the occipital lobe, central nervous system damage, haemorrhaging — they could lead to a range of outcomes, from blindness to cognitive dysfunction. If they can be saved at all.”

“But could you? Have saved them.”

He pursed his lips tightly, his eyes narrowed with a cold warning. FRIDAY turned off the hologram, and Stephen looked down at his hands.

“I don’t perform surgeries anymore, Stark.”

“Doctor Strange? Is it really you?”

A blonde girl from the nearby table, no older than twenty, clutched her notebook, her eyes shining with admiration as she gazed at Stephen. He frowned and gave her a sharp, top-to-bottom glance, his expression a mix of confusion and irritation.

“Can I get an autograph?” she asked in a small voice.

“No.”

The girl looked at Stark, puzzled.

“He won’t give me an autograph either,” Tony played along, taking a sip of her coffee. This was definitely outside her jurisdiction. Even though she found the girl cute, albeit too young.

“Are you gonna stand here all day?” Strange raised his eyebrows, and the girl, blushing pink with embarrassment, retreated.

Tony set the cup on its saucer. Her voice sounded matter-of-fact, “You should be nicer to your fans sometimes, you know. Someone’s gonna have to defend you in the comments when the press starts digging into you.”

“I don’t care about the press.”

“Is that ‘I’m so stupid and brave I don’t recognise the power of the media’ or ‘I’m so full of wisdom the trivialities of this world don’t bother me anymore’?”

“It’s ‘they’re unlikely to come up with anything worse’,” he arched an eyebrow, sparks of laughter in his grey eyes. Tony snorted.

All right. She also had come across a few snide articles about how the neurosurgery guru got into a religious cult and other borderline scandalous matters about his life. She didn’t delve into the details — airing of someone else’s dirty laundry didn’t interest her — but a quick glance at the text was telling. The journalists had torn Strange’s reputation apart, and Tony could understand how, after such public thrashing, there was little left for him to fear. Or for them — to target.

And so, Stephen clearly saw arguing as a waste of time, and verbal sparring with gossip mongers didn’t appeal to him even as a fun game — though Tony could’ve taught him a thing or two. Arguing with the press was her favourite pastime.

Stephen leaned back in his chair. He was close enough to touch her leg with his. But he didn’t.

“Tell me about exotic matter.”

“It’s a substance that defies the laws of physics.”

“So, it doesn’t exist?”

“It’s hypothetical,” Tony broke the sandwich in half and licked mayonnaise off her pinky. “For me, it’s just a concept in theories about wormholes, but wormholes also were merely a concept until very recently.” She gestured with the bread’s top towards Strange. “By the way, for someone who just travelled to another universe, you’re a bit too calm; it’s kinda embarrassing.”

“I can’t change it anyway.”

“Ah! The famous Eastern acceptance. Is it… wait, is it Taoism that teaches non-action? No, that’s fair, embracing the flow does reduce stress, though I’m not sure if in the current circumstances—”

“The multiverse isn’t news to me, Stark. If that’s what you mean,” he smiled, but briefly, as if got ashamed of his calm omniscience. He quickly took a sip of his coffee. “Magic knows no bounds; we draw energy from the multiverse, even if we don’t acknowledge it consciously every time.”

“What do you think went wrong this time?”

“The collision created a microscopic fracture between the mirror and real dimensions. Normally, it self-repairs quickly, but this time, it seems that the Stone’s energy entered in and prevented it from closing. I— I can’t explain it, but that’s what happened.”

Chewing, Tony shook off crumbs from her hands over the empty sandwich wrapper and leaned her elbows on the table.

“Yeah. Well, unfortunately,” she rubbed her eyes with her fists, “unfortunately, that makes perfect sense: reversed time in a black hole can create a white hole, which is exactly what’s needed for theoretical multiversal travel.”

Stephen frowned, and Tony pulled the watch closer to herself. The blue holographic canvas unfolded before her, and she drew a half-circle with her finger, connecting the arcs with a line down the middle.

“These portals of yours are wormholes. This is their model in a single space-time. But we’re talking about two different realities.” She made a new drawing, illustrating a wormhole across two different universes. “There’s a theory that at the singularity point beyond a black hole,” she highlighted the connecting line, “there exists a white hole. And there is another theory: that the Big Bang originated from a state similar to that of a white hole.”

“So... there’s another universe on the other side of the black hole.”

“It’s a simple calculation.” Tony swiped the hologram away and leaned back in her chair. “And our experience just proved it. According to general relativity, to open a wormhole, you should create a black hole, connect it to a white hole, and boom! A tunnel through space-time is there. Such a thing was opened by the Chitauri in twenty twelve. It’s not magic,” she cut off at his raised eyebrow, “but an efficient way to distribute energy.”

“What’s the catch then?”

“The wormhole is unstable. Its gravitational forces tear it apart in a matter of moments, and only exotic matter can keep it open. Temporarily.”

“Magic, then.”

“If magic was a substance, but magic is energy. So, it either influences something and creates the necessary matter, or it’s something entirely different from what I think it is.”

“Or it’s not subject to the laws of physics at all.”

“All your magic can be replicated with advanced technology, and you can’t convince me otherwise.”

“It’s not how Clarke’s third law sounds.”

“It doesn’t matter because Clarke was a science-fiction writer, and we deal with facts: something in your magic can stabilise a wormhole, something that the Tesseract has, too.”

She touched the reactor with her fingertips. Not that she hadn’t considered it before, but experiments with black holes were too dangerous, given their scale and unpredictability. Once, Tony made her choice between not pursuing the groundbreaking scientific discovery and the potential of destroying the world, but did she have a choice now? Did she ever have it, really?

“New Element?” Stephen asked, and she snorted.

“Stupid name, I know. I had another suggestion, but the committee lacked a sense of humour.” She tucked her dark curly strands back under her cap. “The structure of the Element partially replicates the energy of the Tesseract, and multiversal travel will make sense when I describe the relationship with a new formula that no one has ever dreamed of. But to ensure I don’t accidentally tear the world apart, you’ll need to have my back with all your magic.”

“And then you can do it? Open the wormhole?”

“We’re talking about a bridge between realities, Doc. Twenty minutes ago, it was impossible, and now you’re asking me to turn The Chronicles of Narnia plot into reality.”

“So, can you do it or not?”

“Give me at least an hour for calculations,” she waved it off. Warm steam still rose from their cups, and Tony glanced at Strange slyly. “‘Cos you’re a different kind of doctor.”

“I have a PhD, actually.”

“Well, I have three of them, and still, nobody calls me ‘Doctor’, but—”

“Boss,” FRIDAY interjected with gentle reproach, “if you prefer—”

“—quantum fluctuations? Hold that, FRIDAY, we’re in the middle of something important here.”

Stephen cleared his throat. “I read a lot.”

“And the fluctuations slipped into The Lancet? Or an ancient textbook on lucid dreaming?”

“Fine,” he surrendered suddenly, “I bluffed.”

“Where did the analogy come from? ‘Vibration of subtle energies’ sounds insultingly plausible for a mere coincidence.”

“I sense it.”

“Ah! Again.”

“It’s a skill, Stark.”

“How do you sense it, then? Calculate if the frequency of the oscillations was three hundred metres per second but then became—”

“Magic isn’t an intellectual task but intuitive,” Stephen interrupted gently, his smile cautious. Tony tilted her head sideways, and he tapped his fingers lightly on the table. “You read molecular changes with special sensors, while I feel them with my own skin because I was trained to perceive alterations in the fabric of reality. Take this table,” he pressed his palm against it, “and the chair, the cups, even the napkin. You might’ve not noticed, but they’re all slightly cooler than solid objects in our world. And our bodies,” he rested his elbow on the table, “are warmer thus.”

Tony studied his open hand. “Is this an experiment or your way of saying you like me?”

“What would my answer change?”

It caught her off guard.

Tony flirted mechanically, but the realisation that Stephen might’ve not caught her off guard. And sent a faint tremor through parts of her body that hadn’t felt much for a long time. Whether it only flattered her or filled with joy, Tony couldn’t tell.

But she leaned across the table and pressed her hand to his. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to feel, but—”

Stephen lowered his fingers between hers, gently and cautiously, and Tony bit the tip of her tongue. And intertwined her fingers with his. Her fingertips glided over his calloused skin, barely touching the uneven scars. The inside of his palm was unexpectedly smooth, marked with a few scars in the middle, and actually very warm.

“I must warn you right away that serious heart-to-heart conversations fill me with terror,” Tony deflected, but Stephen squeezed her hand.

“The shrapnel. Why?”

“Why what? Why got into me?”

“Why is still in your chest.”

“It’s a memento.”

“Tony.”

“So, I’m ‘Tony’ now?”

“Why are you stalling?”

“Why didn’t you remove the scars?” she unconvincingly tried to pull her hand away, but Stephen didn’t let her go.

“They’re not killing me.”

“Are we talking figuratively or—”

“The shrapnel in your heart is quite literal.”

Tony gritted her teeth. The chest pain increased, an evil mockery, and she tensed as if trying to both crush her chest and crush the discomfort away. But Stephen’s stubborn gaze pinned her down, and she resigned to a quick, dissatisfied grimace before turning away.

“I’d rather die from it than a hole in my chest right after surgery.”

“I’m genuinely amazed at how carelessly you let fate gamble with your life.”

“Feels nice to pass responsibility onto someone else for a change — try it; you’ll love it.”

“You know you don’t have to have your whole chest cut open to remove the shard? You just need a good surgeon.”

“It’s not just a shard there. There’s a whole magnetic system.”

He glanced down at the reactor and asked with caution, “Was it—?”

“Torture? No, no, it saved my life. It was made by Yinsen. Ho Yinsen. How many people named ‘Ho’ do you know? By the way, he was also a surgeon; a very good surgeon, from what I can tell—”

And in the evenings, he told her about camping trips he used to take with his daughter — how she loved swimming in mountain lakes and eating the sandwiches he prepared before they set off. He shared how he met his wife and about their honeymoon in Greece. In the first month and a half, he told her everything and then often repeated himself, but Tony never complained.

“—and a great man—”

He shared his food with her (they were given just enough to stave off fainting, but in three months, Tony had lost around thirty-three pounds) and gave her his clothes (large, but much less revealing than what the terrorists had provided). On the day Stark finally woke up with excruciating pain in her lower abdomen, helpless against nature without painkillers, Yinsen pleaded for medication — or at least a day off. He was taken away. 

Some time later, Tony was given a glass of murky water with something dissolved in it, but not like she had a choice with a man, armed with a machine gun twice her size, staring at her from the doorway. Luckily, it wasn’t as dire as she feared: she didn’t kick the bucket, managed a couple of hours of sleep, and no one disturbed her.

She vividly remembered dreaming about Jarvis that day, the dream being a very real recollection from her childhood. She was seven, had a sore throat, and he sat by her bed reading about dinosaurs. The soft yellow glow of a night light illuminated his face, casting long shadows. The room smelled of medicine and her mom’s perfume (her parents had fled to the Stark Expo in Switzerland just in time), and in the dream, Edwin’s face seemed to glow from within.

In captivity, Tony’s sleep was always shallow, and the faintest sound, let alone the door creak, momentarily woke her up. Yinsen returned in the evening with fresh bruises on his face and four cubes of rahat-lokum in his hands. He sat on the edge of her bunk, his warm palm on her shoulder, and offered her the rahat-lokum with a look of guilty, sympathetic understanding. The treats were tough and tart, but Tony was moved to tears.

“He’s dead,” Stephen concluded.

A sudden irritation at his nonchalant perceptiveness welled up from deep within her, but Tony only nodded. Stephen narrowed his eyes, as if he truly saw both her irritation and the wave of longing washing over her, but his expression quickly shifted to one of detached focus.

“Yinsen,” he repeated, thoughtful. “Short, Afghan, a Cambridge professor?”

“He was taller than me.”

“That’s not unusual.”

“I’ll remember that,” Tony arched her eyebrow eloquently. “You knew him?”

“He gave a couple of lectures on field traumatology at my college back in the late nineties.”

“He was a natural at it.”

“Quick with answers and full of jokes.”

“Sounds like him.” Tony raised her eyebrows. “And you’re still holding my hand.”

“I am.”

And, all right, it was worth discussing. She wanted to bring it up. It felt as though they stopped at a red light, and Tony, with all her passion for experimentation, did consider another reality the most unconventional setting for getting laid. But suggesting a casual fuck — partly desperate, partly angry — felt somewhat inappropriate after everything they’d been through.

And anyway. Man shall not live by sex alone—

Stephen awkwardly released her hand. “It’s been a while since the last glitch.”

“Is that bad?”

“Suspicious.”

“How much? Statistically speaking.”

“I don’t know,” Stephen shifted his shoulder in frustration. “And Parker’s been gone for too long.”

“For a pee, definitely.”

A warm tingling still lingered in her palm, and Tony tapped her fingers against the table. Then crumpled the empty pack, pressed it under the saucer, and got up. “I’m gonna grab something else to eat. You want anything?”

“He’s a big boy, Stark,” Stephen remarked with condescending irony, but she raised her eyebrows.

“And this is another reality.”

Because, well, it did explain her concern — who knew what the laws were here. Was it okay to leave a teenager alone in a public place? If the multiverse was real, why couldn’t some bizarre rule be, too? Tony mentally braced herself for anything.

She pushed open the transparent door. A bell rang, the familiar scent of coffee enveloping her, but the cafe was empty. Bleak light reflected off the metal chairs, but when Tony glanced outside the wide window, there was no sign of Strange — and no table where they had sat, and no tables at all. A weightless cold touched her.

“Strange?” She turned back, but instead of the door, she found a milky white void behind her. The air shimmered, and Tony clenched her fists.

Sparks melted the walls, revealing giant green quartz blocks, around three hundred feet tall each. The blocks alternated with granite columns etched with runes just like those in the wizards’ library. In seconds, the unremarkable coffee corner transformed into a vast ballroom. The ceiling was vanishing into the darkness above, and golden light seeped through the quartz, casting rainbow glare on the mirrored floor.

The nanites turned into the iron glove on Stark’s tense arm.

“Miss Stark!”

She turned at the voice — a distorted reflection of Iron Spider appeared simultaneously on three quartz surfaces before the real Parker emerged between them, putting his mask down. He looked confused but unhurt.

The light refractions gave his skin a greenish hue, but as he approached, Tony noticed a healthy blush on his cheeks and sighed with relief. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I—” he broke off.

Sparks flickered at the edges of Stark’s vision. She raised her repulsor, and the mask quickly covered Peter’s face again, but in the golden glow, a brocade red collar appeared and then Strange himself. He froze, frowning, his shields up.

“Quite the scare,” Stark clicked her tongue, lowering the repulsor, and Stephen also removed his shields.

“Are you two all right?”

“Not sure how to ask—”

“We’re kidnapped. Good that together, bad that kidnapped.”

“By whom?”

“The energy comes from a master of mystic arts, but it’s distorted. The spell is too powerful, I can’t identify its imminent trace.”

“No?”

In response to her raised eyebrows, Stephen slipped on the Ring.

“Um, I— I have an idea,” Peter called hesitantly, and Tony raised her head to see.

Beneath the pulsating blackness above, an even darker inhuman shadow hovered. Its massive wings swayed languidly, tentacles twisted on its sides, and jagged horns jutted from its head.

The creature flicked its broad, scaly tail like a cartoon dragon, and FRIDAY wisely encased Tony in full armour.

Chapter Text

“You may put your weapons down,” the creature said in a low, familiar voice.

Human speech was... unexpected. Could Chthonic monsters be sentient? Stark had no idea, but Strange, who was clearly more experienced with infernal beings, kept the shields up. Tony extended her hand before Parker.

But as the creature finally descended into the golden beam of light, its tentacles, tail, and horns vanished. What remained was a silhouette of a human — or something that looked like a human — except for a pale blue eye without an iris and a pupil that still glowed on the forehead. When the human-creature stepped down on the ground, the eye also disappeared.

Tony twitched her eyebrows. Glanced at Stephen, who lowered his shields with a hint of surprise, and turned back to his twin. Obviously.

Obviously.

“I am not your enemy,” he opened his palm in a welcoming gesture.

Yet he bore no resemblance to Strange — rather, he looked like a sick bird of prey. His greasy hair, streaked with grey from his sideburns to his forehead, framed a face lined with deep wrinkles, his pronounced cheekbones jutting out over his hollow cheeks, giving him a gaunt, predatory look. The collar of his black Cloak, trimmed with gold embroidery, was harshly angular, and a blue symbol resembling a three-pronged fork was sewn onto his dark caftan. His voice was rough, like a lifelong smoker’s, and though he might’ve eaten on occasion, he looked as though he hadn’t slept in ages: the dark bags under his eyes were large and vivid, like smeared mascara.

His thinness and pallor were more unsettling than repulsive, evoking an instinctive urge to pull back much like the feeling one might get from an encroaching abyss. Tony glanced at her Stephen then, noting the healthy red flush on his cheeks and the nice sheen of his hair. He radiated thin tension but no menacing power, and Tony kept her reactor aimed steadily at the stranger. “Yeah? You don’t look particularly friendly.”

“Ouch. That’s first. Second,” the twin raised an eyebrow, “simple politeness? I bet you also wouldn’t appreciate being threatened in your own home.”

To be fair, Stark understood — and yeah, she’d given the address to Mandarin herself back then, but Happy was injured, Pepper grumbled, she was angry, and who could have thought? Still, the sentiment wasn’t enough to convince her. But Stephen, her  Stephen, lowered his shields and gestured to her to remove her weapons as well. No, her suspicion might have seemed paranoid, but Tony’s experience had taught her that it was always better to be safe than sorry, and she was impressed by the wizard’s unwavering commitment to diplomacy.

On the other hand, he knew himself better. So, he took a step forward, and Tony lowered her hand; FRIDAY removed her helmet. Stephen gestured gently, as though speaking to a child, “My name is Stephen Strange, and I'm the Sorcerer Supreme of my world. Another world. We got here by mistake.”

“I know.” 

“The only thing we want is to return home.” 

“I know that as well. And fortunately for you, our goals align: moving between realities not only distorts the energy geography, but also triggers a series of terrifying actions and reactions across the multiverse. According to the Book of Veils.”

Tony barely managed to suppress a sigh — magical enlightenment was the last thing needed — but Stephen tilted his chin in uncertainty, “In this world... you found the Lost Library of Cagliostro?”

“What world? There’s no world,” the twin spread his arms. “If you’re talking about the one I brought you from, then no, Cagliostro’s works aren’t available there. But I’m just as much a guest there as you are. Oh. We got off on the wrong foot.” He shook his head, chuckling at his own joke, and intertwined his fingers — fingers without a single scar. “Sorry for the trick. I haven’t designed realities in a while, wanted to relive the old days.”

“Everything was—”

“An illusion — from the moment you stepped into the cafe! I thought Tony Stark might wanna contemplate one of the greatest scientific discoveries with a cup of coffee.”

He looked at her with a smile, his features softening into a look of genuine friendliness. It didn’t make the kidnapping any less troubling, though, so Tony raised her nose, “You know me?”

“Not personally. In my world, Tony Stark is a man.”

“A dead man.”

“To keep it short, yes. My apologies for the mix-up.” He tapped his forehead as if saluting and Tony removed the cap. “I improvised on the fly.”

The purple raven from the logo on the visor came to life: it opened its beak and flew out of the golden frame. Then the cap dissolved in the golden sparks, like cotton candy in water, but Tony had seen enough magic by now to be unimpressed by such tricks. 

Peter, however, gasped in awe from behind her, and she crossed her arms. “By the way, the coffee was watery.”

“But if you’re not from that world, sir,” Peter frowned, “where are you from?”

“Many worlds have me, but I have none. I only have time in a place where it multiplies from its absence—”

“No!” Tony raised her hand. “No, no more cryptic sayings and ominous prophecies. Enough with the riddles for now, dial down the degree of mystery.”

The twin shot Tony an angry glance, but the irritation quickly faded. He approached Tony with cautious curiosity. The corners of his lips curled into a crooked, unnatural smile, and his eyes narrowed with a uniquely Strange’s prideful slyness. “I am an Informant. A Watcher Informant.”

“Bluff,” Stephen dismissed.

“Okay, one of them.”

“No one has ever met the Watchers.”

“No one has ever died and been resurrected a thousand times, but here we are.” The twin raised his eyebrow too high, almost comically high. “It’s curious how life in the service hasn’t yet shaken that sceptical rigidity out of you. Did it ever occur to you that the Supreme’s garments don’t fit for a reason?”

“We weren’t talking about me.”

“Oh, I completely forgot. Help yourself!”

A red flash on the side revealed a table near the column. It was covered with a light green tablecloth, a vase of apples, bowls of fruit salad, plates with sliced cheese and toast, and an assortment of jams. The only thing missing to complete the pastoral European breakfast was a vase of flowers, and the grotesque scene made Tony’s cheeks cramp. The sour taste of coffee and the recently eaten sandwich poured into her mouth, and she found the mere look of food unappetizing.

Stephen also wrinkled his nose, but Peter eagerly approached the table. His suit reverted to its nano-generators, so Tony reluctantly tapped her reactor and also removed her suit. She then shifted her reproaching gaze from the first aid kit peeking from under the table to the twin.

“You can help yourself to all this,” he promised, “I have a very real kitchen here.”

“Did you cook it yourself?”

“Not in the slightest,” he shook his head. “I want to show you something.”

The blue third eye reappeared on his forehead, thin arcs of the eye embedded in his cracked skin like a burned mark. Peter bit into a toast. “Wow, sir, that– that’s creepy. Do you also read thoughts?”

“I just ‘read’. Everyone else adds the ‘also’. And this,” the twin gave Stephen a pointed glance, “I heard too.”

“Sounds a bit like schizophrenia,” Tony scooped strawberry jam with her pinky. The third eye was fixed on her.

“And who said I’m sane?” 

He winked — not at all playfully — with one of his human eyes before turning away. Tony licked the jam off her finger and glanced at Stephen. He snorted, clearly unimpressed, but still: despite his resemblance to a city madman, this new Strange didn’t evoke the chilling discomfort as Mordo did. He had a sense of humour — or at least some self-awareness — both worked in his favour. And, no, it was awful, of course, but maybe a little less awful than it first seemed.

The twin threw out his arms, plunging the room into darkness. Pale blue lines, just like a projection of a multidimensional hypercube, spread across the floor. Quartz blocks began to move with a creaking sound, causing the thin cracks at their joints to realign, making the walls resemble a fractured mirror. The twin stepped onto a golden platform in the centre of the room, and Tony raised her head.

A blinding dot shone in the pitch-black darkness above.

Then it exploded silently. White light and heat surged across the dome, sending a burst of energy that shattered the air. Then light shifted to red and splintered into a full spectrum of colours — quark-gluon plasma. Tony observed it as though in slow motion: high-energy particles, like tennis balls, collided and bounced off each other, flashing vivid red, orange, and white. Moments later, the flames swirled, evolving into new colours, blue and purple, as they began to cool. Tiny dots collided and merged in miniature fireworks. Tony looked at the twin, who spread his hands with delight before she even asked, “I knew you’d like it — the Big Bang! Or something similar. It’s only seen at the intersection of realities.”

The dots began to attract one another, forming the first atoms, and light waves spread across the dome, creating a mesmerising, ever-shifting pattern. The Big Bang... hydrogen gas clusters... the first stars and galaxies… the multicoloured clouds of gas and dust slid down onto the quartz walls, and within each fragment on them, landscapes and faces appeared, twisting and transforming so quickly that it was impossible to focus on any.

“I’m recording significant anomalies,” FRIDAY reported, and Tony noticed how Stephen, puzzled, touched the comm, “from thermodynamic to gravitational waves parameters. I’m also detecting distortions in electromagnetic radiation and the presence of particles that aren’t registered in my database.”

—and, given that everything was registered in FRIDAY’s database, the conclusion seemed obvious. Exotic matter now had a set of properties that were no longer just theoretical but practically confirmed. Tony glanced at Stephen, but he didn’t seem to grasp the significance of the measurements. He and Peter were captivated by the expanding wall, even the Cloak had raised its collar, but Tony felt dizzy from the swirling kaleidoscope of images and turned away.

The hall had expanded as well, revealing a mirrored corridor beyond. Bookshelves stood on both sides interspersed with walls adorned with bubbles resembling modern wall lamps. Something flickered within the bubbles, but Stark couldn’t make out what it was from a distance.

“Sanctum Infinitum.” The twin puffed out his chest with pride and gestured around the room. “My home.”

“Minimalistic decor to compensate for an inflated ego?”

“Is that it?” Peter interrupted, and the twin raised an eyebrow. “I— sorry, I mean, is that the multiverse? I’m just— sorry, I don’t seem to have fully grasped the moment—”

“It’s a given, Peter Parker. You shall thank your consciousness for its effective defences. A limited human mind cannot fully comprehend the multiverse without risking implosion.”

“And where would we be without good old hazing,” Tony repelled, but Peter only clenched his fists tighter.

“Can you take us home?” 

“I can. And I will, but—”

“Do you know what’s with my aunt, sir? Is she okay?”

“—we will, of course, start with questions. Though this one was expected. Your aunt, Parker, is in a safe place, but I have no knowledge about the safety of her life. I see many outcomes, but none are set in stone for your world. And relying on uncertain predictions is like giving anaesthesia to the dead.”

“You know, don’t you? And you don’t wanna tell me.” 

“That would be very cruel of me, wouldn’t it?”

Peter narrowed his eyes, clearly unconvinced, but refrained from pressing further. Perhaps the twin was telling the truth. Perhaps, he wasn’t — but Stark couldn’t blame him for either. After all, the wounds from evil spells (meaning, Mordo’s spells) would likely take forever to heal, and the multiverse on its own was overwhelming enough, so there was no need to add crushing revelations on top of it.

Tony gave Peter a quick, supportive squeeze on the shoulder and turned to Strange. “Who are these Watchers, why are we only learning about them now?”

“They’re the Guardians of the Cosmic Balance. Keeping the multiverse in check, holding all the cosmic wisdom, all that.”

“So, aliens? Jafar,” she pointed at the twin, “is an alien?”

“Watchers don’t live in space, Stark, they exist beyond it. Beyond the Nine Realms and any dimension we know. They’re described as transcendent beings beyond mortal perception, except they’re bound by an oath of non-interference… and yet, we are here.”

“Sorry, is that all that worries you now? I mean, sounds like you’ve been misled about your career prospects. Should we tell Mordo? Let him revisit his life goals.”

“Stark.”

“Oh, am I ‘Stark’ again?” 

“He’s right,” the twin agreed cautiously. “My situation is an exception, not the rule. And we’re different people,” he gestured to Strange, and Tony crossed her arms. “Between us is a millennium of my ongoing learning.”

“And what exactly do you need to learn to get beyond mortal perception?” 

“It... wasn’t planned.”

“Ah, I see. You were aiming for the horse.”

Tony was, too, but apparently, had inadvertently hit a nerve. The wizard’s eyes turned cold with anger, and she tensed, ready for a confrontation. But to her surprise, the twin’s voice carried only a bitter, dry spite. “The famous Stark’s arrogance. A multiversal constant.”

“Maybe it’s the foundation of it.”

“I doubt that. But I always find it amusing.” He smiled with a semblance of friendly approval. A truce, then. But the Cloak raised its dark floors to touch its master’s shoulder, and the wizard’s features sharpened again as he turned. “Parker! Do you want to get yourself killed?”

Peter flinched away from the bubble, his fist pressed to his chest. “I didn’t touch anything!” He turned to Stephen, who was also studying the bubbles nearby. “Sir!”

“It’s not a toy store, Parker,” the twin barked, “these are some of the most dangerous anomalies in the multiverse! They’re capable of levelling entire worlds, not just hurting a mortal snot.”

“But they’re behind the glass!”

“And if you accidentally zap the glass with your electricity?! No,” the twin rubbed his temples, “wait. You’re another Spider-Man. I forgot.”

“About what?” 

“About Miguel.”

“Miguel is Spider-Man?” Peter inquired with curiosity, but the twin merely frowned. “Another Spider-Man?”

“There are many of you, but all are equally problematic.”

“Do I really have electricity in some other world?” 

Tony snorted. Stephen was studying the book spines on a high shelf, focused, his fists behind the red floors. Tony felt a tingling sensation in her palm, as if the imprint of Strange’s touch was there again, and the bruise under her eye warmed. She shook her hand, but the shivers persisted. Maybe it was the difference in oscillations and energy flows he mentioned (she reluctantly acknowledged the first and still didn’t believe in the second), but she found herself irresistibly wanting to approach him.

And as she drew closer, she was enveloped in a familiar warmth, like bringing her face to a gentle fire.

“Are you alright?” Stephen asked quietly as Tony shoved her hands into her pockets.

“Define ‘alright’. On a scale from zero to a hundred? Three and a half. A very solid three and a bit… questionable half.”

“Not bad.”

“Not bad.”

Suddenly, the Cloak wrapped itself around Tony, pulling her in close, perhaps a little too close. But Stephen flicked it away with a quick, practiced snap. “Sorry.” He cast an exasperated glance at the red collar. “It has a mind of its own. I don’t always control it.”

“‘Mind of its own’, right. That’s what we’re calling it these days?”

“Would you have preferred it was me, then?”

“Guess you’ll have to spend forever wondering, Doc.”

“Ah. Care to try me?”

“Depends. Do you want me to ask nicely, or are you the type who likes them begging?”

Stephen smirked, his voice dropping lower, clearly meaning something different from his actual words. “Behave, Stark.”

“Yeah, well, that’s never been my strongest suit.”

“Hasn’t it? I’ll do my research.”

Tony smirked in reply, casting a playful glance over Strange, and damn him, he winked back. But before she turned away, she noticed the faint flush colouring wizard’s cheeks — and damn her if that didn’t make her smile just a little wider.

The glass bubble that Peter had almost touched appeared as a sphere of shimmering, transparent honeycombs. Water splashed and swirled inside. Stephen gestured toward it with his chin, “Eldritch Flood. An endless flow of water of unknown origin, is believed to be tied to ancient dark magic. Possibly witchcraft.”

He stood on his tiptoes to reach a thick book from the high shelf. Blowing off the dust, he carefully opened it with trembling fingers, slightly bending the pages. Out of the corner of her eye, Tony noticed the twin watching them with a steely intensity.

Stephen held the book up to his face. “It’s funny how, regardless of the reality, we never seem to take our oaths seriously. What happened to your world?”

“None of your business,” the twin snapped the book shut with a hand gesture.

Stephen sneezed as a cloud of dust erupted from the book. The twin, now standing with rigid rigour, returned the book to the shelf with another authoritative wave of his hand. His voice was laced with a scornful coldness, “Confining anomalies to an infinite second out of space is the only way to neutralise them and thus save multiple worlds. Besides, I’m not bound by any oaths. Capturing and containing is dirty work; the Watchers don’t deal with it.”

“That’s why the containing leaves much to be desired.” Stephen nodded at the wall. “Do you often remind yourself of the dangers?”

“Do you ever remind yourself that a less experienced master should bow to the more experienced one?”

“Yeah, I read the charter every night before bed.”

The twin raised his fingers, and Stephen bent into a theatrical bow as if an invisible force had pushed him down. The Cloak swirled around him to lift him up and pulled him away as he opened his shields in response.

“Hey, girls,” Tony interjected, “can we keep the self-loathing in our pants for a bit? Someone here is really looking forward to getting home.”

Stephen creaked his teeth, but the twin abruptly shifted his focus to Tony with a sudden, strange enthusiasm. “Time anomaly.” 

“What?” 

“This place is a point of infinite present. In your earthly world, you perceive space-time as a continuous line. But beyond realities governed by material laws, space is billions of points, and time is a loop, infinitely moving through them.”

He raised his hand, and a golden rope unfurled from beneath it. The rope shimmered with a cold light and red dots like a sparkler, gradually twisting into the shape of an infinity symbol. The twin pointed to the intersection point. “Here, the past becomes the future. All causes and effects converge at this point, multiplying probabilities and endlessly expanding the multiverse.” 

Golden streams flowed from his fingertip, connecting the dots along the symbol and intertwining into a massive tree. It glistered in green and gold, its branches growing further and further. Peter reached out toward them, and Tony tilted her head back to see the top of the crown, but it stretched so high that it was lost from view.

She waved a hand in front of her. Mechanics linked movement with space and time, but space without time? But then again, what was impossible in her world didn’t necessarily apply to others, and Tony knew that when in Rome, do as Romans do. She scratched her cheek and suddenly realised that none of this really impressed her. How had he put it? Thank the consciousness for its effective defences?

It wasn’t that she was downplaying the grandeur of the multiverse, but the infinite expansion of infinity was giving her a headache, and Tony was exhausted, anxious, and wanted to go home. Back there, the problems were smaller but more important, and she was ready to settle for something simpler. And after all. What was the multiverse — a tree or glass shards?

“It depends on the viewer,” the twin replied, and Tony bit her tongue. What a good moment to show off. “And angry sarcasm about telepathy is inappropriate. Yggdrasil is a metaphor.”

“And since when do Asgardian tales make any sense outside of human mythology?” 

“Since humanity indulges in its own egocentrism. Come on, where’s the recognition of the causal hierarchy? The Asgardians spoke of Yggdrasil long before the concept trickled into human dimensions. But then again, it’s only a metaphor. The multiverse can be anything — a cell, a network, even a human.”

The tree continued to grow, its golden branches hovering over Peter like a biometric photograph.

“And if you watch closer, you can see the Webs of Life and Destiny, the Canon Events, the Absolute Points—”

“So,” Peter raised his hands, watching as the golden web repeated every line on his palms, “out of all the theories about the multiverse, the true one is the many-worlds interpretation? And the universe is described by one wave function? And does— does that mean all dimensions and interactions are local?”

"Yeah, boring quantum decoherence^* dressed up as world division.” Tony clicked her tongue. “How did we not see that right away.”

“For a scientist, Stark,” the twin reproached, “you’re too sceptical of the facts.”

“And that's not true: I’m just sceptical that centuries of physics would boil down to the universe being described by Schrödinger's equation. Not to mention, the Everett interpretation is a dead end — any schoolboy will tell you that if you assign different probability amplitudes, the vector can’t—”

“I’m not a physicist, Stark, I can only show, not prove. But you should be more condescending toward the human mind. Science has always strived to achieve more than it could — reducing ancient knowledge to mere formulas is simply insulting.”

“Sorry, weren’t you a doctor before you read the Necronomicon?”

The twin took a deep breath, his neck tensing as if the randomly thrown quip had stirred up some painful memories. But rather than respond, he turned back to the tree.  “There are many types of worlds: alternate, parallel, distant, accessory. All realities arise from the Cosmic Root,” he gestured toward the trunk, “the clusters of Designs. There’s nothing material there, only the Idea. You asked what magic is, Stark, and this is it: the force that holds your body’s atoms together.”

“Electricity?” 

“Gravity, magnetic force, nuclear force, and any other, you name it. We call it prāṇa. It is the life energy woven into the fabric of every reality. It triggers all the processes at the molecular level. The early masters had different name for it, but not all those original terms have survived through the ages, and, oh, when the Ayurvedic canons reached Kamar-Taj—”

“But a rose is still a rose,” Stephen interrupted, and the twin nodded.

“The root is where prāṇa comes from and where it all begins. Most realities form naturally in it, born from the collision of countless possibilities and probabilities. It’s a constant process. But the Time Stones also have an influence — they shape the growth of the multiverse, turning their worlds into Core Worlds.”

As he spoke, a branch on the tree turned a deep purple, and nearby branches leaned toward it, their colour shifting to match.

“The Stone links accessory worlds to the Core one. Foreseeing creates a cluster of universes so intricately intertwined that any rupture could trigger a cataclysm.”

“So that’s your job?” Stephen asked. “Keeping tabs on cataclysms?”

“And abducting unsuspecting mortals for multiverse lectures,” Tony snorted, but the twin’s eyebrow shot up sharply.

“To expand their understanding. We have a problem, no, you have a problem. You treat the Time Stone like a toy, blind to the vastness of its impact.”

“Is it just me, or are you accusing us of something?”

“There’s no way to prevent a future once it’s been seen. Every time you look ahead to learn what’s not meant to be known, you make all those potential futures real.”

“What about freedom of choice?” 

The twin’s eyes narrowed. That cold, scornful look Tony recognized all too well — only Howard had looked at her that way. And usually when she was truly in the wrong. At least, she thought so. “Don’t throw around concepts you don’t understand, Miss Stark,” the twin admonished at last. “Everything in this world is a matter of choice. Using the Time Stone to see the future is a choice, and every choice has consequences.”

“Kamar-Taj has used the Stone for centuries,” Stephen argued. “No one’s ever tried to put a stop to it.”

“Consider this a first.” 

“But the experiments from the Teachings of Time—” 

“A diversion game! You can choose a reality where something didn’t happen, but walking one path won’t erase the other. The outcome is always predetermined.”

“Just because of one glimpse into the future?”

“‘Just’,” the twin spat out with sudden snarl, his voice full of scorn, “because you’re challenging the fundamental principles of existence! Who do you think you are? Some dropout master from one of the countless Earths! Time isn’t yours to control!” His tentacles spread ominously. “Death isn’t yours to control! These forces are beyond anyone’s grasp! Silence!” 

He barked the last word to the side as if addressing an unseen listener, and Tony quickly stepped between the wizards, raising her gloved hand. The repulsor hummed softly. “Take a deep breath, Marilyn Manson. Chill out and tell us why we need to hear this.”

The twin’s gaze shifted to her, the red in his eyes dimming as his shadow receded. He sighed heavily, slumping as if the Cloak had suddenly become a weight too heavy to bear. It was clear he wasn’t kidding about not being quite sane; his moods shifted so quickly as if someone was flipping a switch in his head, and now it seemed like the fuse had blown.

He ran a hand over his face. “It’s to show you how futile and dangerous your attempts to alter the future really are.”

“To stop Thanos?” 

“To prevent casualties. At least, that’s what he had in mind,” he nodded toward Stephen, “when he reversed your time.”

“Reversed?” Peter turned to Tony. “Miss Stark, are you from the future?”

“A little bit.”

“Did you see The Last Jedi?”

“Seriously?”

“Or the new Predator?”

“One more pop culture question, and I’m taking away the suit.”

“When were you going to tell us about this?” 

“She wasn’t,” the twin interjected dismissively, “but that doesn’t matter now. What matters is that your manipulation of time isn’t a magical second chance, not a favour to sentimentality. It’s just a reckless gamble with odds of one against infinity.”

“But—” Stephen’s eyebrows twitched. “I saw different outcomes, and—”

“And yet, you chose to bring back in time a smart and desperate unit — someone who would undoubtedly try to change things. But not yourself.”

“I knew the future I saw was unfixable,” Stephen guessed, his fist trembling slightly.

The twin tilted his head, his dark Cloak swaying. “Come on, it’s not that hard a puzzle to solve.”

“I didn’t like what I saw.”

“Because?”

“Because the Stone didn’t show that victory was impossible without breaking the timeline. It showed that victory,” Stephen glanced at Tony, “couldn’t be achieved at all.”

That… didn’t clarify anything. In fact, it made things even more confusing. And, seeing her lack of understanding, the twin clasped his palms. “If he’d kept that knowledge to himself, the future would’ve been determined, and all your attempts to prevent it would’ve been not worth a dime. But he sent you back — you of all people — because he knew that after facing your biggest nightmare once, you wouldn’t allow it to happen again. Emotional but predictable people work perfectly in long-term strategies.”

Okay, that was rude. That brought back memories of the bunker and Zemo, and that damn footage from the ninety-one — memories Tony didn’t need right now. But the black-and-white situation with the wizard’s blatant lack of basic team etiquette was beginning to take on more shades, and, well, perhaps there was a certain nobility in Strange’s actions, although Tony still resented the feeling of cards being shuffled behind her back. But they were at war and made choices hoping to win. It was clear now that choices had been taken from them — stolen by the damn multiversal inevitability — yet, at that moment on Titan, when Strange had bet everything on her, he had come closer to victory than anyone else.

The trust had a peculiar taste. New one. No, Tony had never doubted her own unhealthy readiness to sacrifice, but Strange’s admission settled in her chest with a warm discomfort. He hadn’t shifted all the responsibility onto her, he’d given her a carte blanche for the next move. Tony reconsidered her words about the snooty secretive ass. Well. Half of them.

Stephen clenched his teeth, a triangular fold deepening between his eyebrows. Okay, Tony would’ve braced herself for a blow after that, too. But she just turned to the twin and shrugged, “Teamwork requires delegation.”

“You’re surprisingly condescending for someone who’s been manipulated so many times.”

“Maybe if they’d tried saving the world with that, I’d appreciate it. Curse him all you want, but he bought us a whole month from your multiverse.”

“The room is full of wisdom, but the key is lost,” the twin quipped. His newfound resolve merged with visible annoyance on his face. “I nearly reported you, but then Mordo showed up. Not gonna lie, I was hoping he’d hold you off — just a month’s delay and no harm done. But no! Instead, you two have opened the multiverse! You are a volatile mix, but the magical world in any reality would be better off if you weren’t fighting without good cause.”

“The oath of non-interference.” The twin spread his hands, shrugging. “Your personal struggles aren’t my concern, but the danger they pose to the multiverse is.”

“So, the implications of your oath also depend on the viewer?” Tony snapped, but the twin waved his hand dismissively.

“Your world is doomed to lose. Searching for loopholes in the laws of the universe isn’t just cowardice, it’s dangerously foolish. Even physics understands this — otherwise, there wouldn’t be a causal loop. You can’t create and erase millions of realities without facing consequences.”

“But that I who created these worlds doesn’t exist anymore.” Stephen covered the necklace with his palm. “That was the whole point.”

“Yes, but you didn’t finish reading the section. And you didn’t think! Because you rely on intuition rather than analysis. Do the traces of the outer matrices tell you anything?”

Stephen looked at Tony, shaking his head in doubt. “She doesn’t know anything.”

“Her conscious mind doesn’t, but what about her subtle centres? Her biofield holds physical information about the future — not the ones you saw, but the one from which you saw them. And space-time doesn’t tolerate paradoxes.”

“I can adjust it, there’s nothing—”

“Enough!” The twin’s eyes flared red. “You’ve already pulled her from death. Do you think it won’t come back to claim what’s its?”

Well, Tony knew death — a bit on Earth, a bit in space. A bit her own, a bit more others’. Death had tossed her around like a ping-pong ball, and maybe blaming Stephen was an exaggeration: the universe had its own plans for Tony, and the wizard was unlikely something more than another player in the grand scheme. The guess made sense, but—

“I’m not shooting in the dark,” the twin argued. “I’ve seen Tony Stark die a billion times, and nine times out of ten, it’s because of Thanos.”

Tony knew that the life of a superhero rarely ended peacefully in the forest houses. And she knew all too well the reality of death in battle. She loved her ill, chaotic world, silly life, and peculiar humanity but was ready to accept whatever conditions the already too-generous fate had dealt her — after Chitauri and Sokovia, death no longer scared her. What did, though, was dying for nothing. And dragging half the world down with her.

She did her best in space.

She hadn’t signed up for this.

“And in how many of those billions did we win?”

“All of them.”

“Here we go. Must tally up the statistics.”

Tony stared blankly at the tree. It was almost insulting not to be surprised — to face the inevitable without even the chance to jab someone in the ribs with an ‘I told you so’. To know all of this ahead of time and be proven right. Though, if someone had told her some ten years ago, right after they’d blown the generator in Stane, that things would end up like this, she would’ve just laughed. Because, like, seriously? Aliens and the multiverse? Like cheap sci-fi?

It felt like a ridiculous joke even now, what to say about the past. And back then, she had more pressing concerns: the metaphorical knife under her ribs, the titanium plate stuck in her elbow, and Pepper. Pepper was a whirlwind of excitement and shock, and Tony was cracking unfunny jokes about the roof’s insurance and how seductive his ass looked in those black pants. She only knew she’d said that because Pepper had told her later (her post-battle memories were always a blur unless they involved the shawarma team-building), but she remembered the pants clearly. They fit Pepper perfectly and were quite annoying with that crooked zipper when Tony was trying to distract both Potts and herself from the shock by doing what she was best at, aside from engineering. On the other hand—

On the other hand, maybe this was what Mordo had meant by the role she was destined to play in the future. It was strangely amusing how multiversal providence could reveal itself through someone losing his mind. Perhaps, before he went completely nuts, he had glimpsed some blurry image of victory? After all, probabilities multiplied every moment and since relying on uncertain predictions was stupid—

“A man can dream,” the twin sighed with compassion. 

But Strange frowned. “I don’t understand. If we destroy one of the Stones, that will prevent the future on Titan.”

“But Thanos will come even without the Stones. The specifics don’t matter.” The twin turned to Tony. “Your biofield attracts events that you’ve experienced, it’s called ‘energy manifestation’. It’s like an ouroboros projection into the material world.”

“Is that also a metaphor?” 

“It’s a serpent eating its own tail.”

“Sorry,” Peter called, stepping instinctively between Tony and the wizard, “but what if we do change the future? If– if there are no Stones, or if Miss Stark stays home — if any of the conditions change? Won’t the future be different? Won’t we actually change it?”

“This is a dangerous theorising, young man,” the twin warned, but Stephen touched Peter’s shoulder with his fingertips.

“The kid’s right,” he nodded. “The changes will outweigh the manifestation. Reality won’t try to enforce what it cannot.”

The twin clenched his teeth, visibly frustrated and suddenly uncertain. After a moment, he mumbled, “I don’t know.”

“What?”

“I don’t know what will happen if you change the future. Most likely it’ll trigger an infinite paradox, scattering your reality across the multiverse into a handful of atoms.”

“But we’re not violating any Absolute Points.”

“Death is an Absolute Point!”

“In time, not in space.”

“Who are you trying to convince?”

“I’m just pointing out that being near death and actually dying are two different states.”

“Death is death! When will you stop questioning everything you’re told?!” The twin’s third eye flashed, but Stephen shrugged with casual defiance.

“When I’m no longer fit to be the Supreme.”

“Okay, let’s say,” Tony gestured with her hand, “let’s say I die. No points violated, Earth stays in its orbit — but! Before that, we destroy the Stones and send Thanos with all his Malthusian ideas packing. How’s that for a plan? Seems workable to me. By the way, Doc! Hypothetically speaking. Would I end up in Valhalla after I die?”

“Stark,” Strange chided.

Tony bit her tongue to not retort and turned her attention back to the twin. “So, what the multiverse’s gonna say to that?”

“It’s gonna say your reality is still one of those that must endure its sacrifices. And it must endure them because that’s what the Core world witnessed. Through the Stone.”

“And this town is too small for the two of us,” Tony nodded towards the tree and waved her hand vaguely. “By the way, why don’t you kidnap that Strange from this Core world or whatever and tell him off? ‘Cos it’s kinda messed up that, when he condemns our world, it’s totally fine, but when we look into the future, it’s—”

“We?” Stephen asked with a touch of surprise. Tony shook her head.

“Not the time for defending your ego, Doc.”

“You’re bargaining for something that’s not your concern,” the twin sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. “There’s only one world in your cluster that emerges victorious, and yours can’t take its place.”

“Even if we try hard enough?”

“Your world will end up outside the multiverse.”

“You’re just making that up now, aren’t you?”

The twin looked at her through his fingers, then removed his hand from his face. He touched the edge of his robe’s collar as if wanted but reconsidered pulling it and shrugged with visible reluctance. Maybe he was right — yes, they were bargaining, and, yes, the choice of fate was beyond their control. But it was worth a shot.

“A case’s described in the Book of Veils.” The twin gritted his teeth. “It involved masters from a reality connected to a Core one, much like yours. They tried the same approach: looked ahead, recoiled, reversed time, and spent their thirty days attempting to alter their fate. That world’s trace is now lost.” One tree branch flashed: the farther it extended from the trunk, the more it paled until it vanished into darkness. “We have no connection to that reality anymore. The founders of Kamar-Taj believed that such a reality could take two paths, and disintegration into molecules was one of them.”

“And the other?” 

“Complete detachment. Such world forms a Cosmic Root around itself and… creates a new multiverse.”

Peter chuckled, glancing at Tony, his arms crossed. “Infinite recursion of infinite multiverses? Sounds cool.”

“No, not cool! Not at all!” the twin exploded, his voice echoing angrily. The Cloak flared out like a predatory bird ready to pounce. “Such a universe falls outside the Watchers’ sight! No one will share cosmic enlightenment, resolve external conflicts, or offer help! Not to mention that only a truly great Sorcerer Supreme can channel energy from the Cosmic Root, and you are far from that.”

“And yet,” Stephen countered patiently, “it’s a chance to win.”

“Win now to condemn the world to a future tragedy? You wouldn’t last a week!”

Peter, raising his hand as if addressing a classroom, interjected, “Sorry, I don’t understand. Why are you so sure we won’t succeed? We can save everyone, we’ve done it before. And we have the Avengers and– and other wizards. And that reality,” he gestured at the fading branch, “doesn’t look dead, ‘cos if it were, it wouldn’t be on the tree at all, right? I mean, we have to try, don’t we? It’s our job. And Mister Strange is a good sorcerer.”

“This one?” The twin raised an eyebrow. “He hasn’t even become a full Supreme yet. How many months you yet have until the Fusion, huh?”

Tony resisted the urge to deflect the obvious poison in the twin’s voice — nothing personal, just no time for bickering — but Stephen himself only clicked his tongue. “You’re so… annoying.”

“Sorry?”

“You’re annoying,” Stephen repeated louder, his hand cupped around his mouth like a megaphone, “was that clear?” He let his hands fall to his sides, his expression unchanging and his tone heavy with bitter snarkiness. “I might not have spent millennia studying, but using the Stone to extend time isn’t a difficult trick. You must know it from the times before—” He gestured around. “All of this. And from the Kamar-Taj founders I’ve learned two things: first, only fools are certain of their own correctness, and second, my reality wouldn’t let us play with time if it meant its destruction.”

“The quantum systems always show resistance to external interference,” Tony raised her eyebrows casually, and Stephen smirked slightly. “The possibility of superpositions, quantum entanglement — the desire for stability at such a level is something even physics understands. Hear that, Maleficent? That’s a checkmark.”

“But it’s easy to talk about humility when it’s not your world being destroyed because some all-powerful maniac wants to change it.”

“You don’t know anything about my world!” the twin barked, but Stephen shrugged.

“Of course not, you don’t share. But you know my duty: to protect my world from tampering with the laws of nature.”

“You’d first protect your masters from being wiped out,” the twin snapped, and Stephen clenched his teeth. His jaw tensed for a moment but then relaxed again. 

“Thanos places himself above nature. Didn’t you think you and us are on the same side?”

“I think,” the twin stepped closer, “that no world should suffer from our arrogance.”

“Your arrogance.”

“You stubborn fool!”

“Hey, seriously,” Tony crossed her arms. “What are you, three? One more name-calling and I’m using a shocker. On you both.”

The twin wrinkled his nose as if from a sudden headache. He touched his temple, waiting for the pain to subside. The shadow around him tightened into a more human shape, and his face smoothed out to an unreadable expression, and he turned back toward the multiverse hall, seemingly forgetting them.

“Hey!” Tony waved at him. “What are you planning there?”

“Planning?” The twin turned around. “Please. I’d be happy to take you home, as promised.”

“And you told us all this to— what?”

“Oh. Just stalling. Didn’t I mention that time never stops?”

“You said there’s no time here.”

“Here — no, there — is. Depends on the viewer.” He smiled sourly. “We’ve been talking for something like half an hour by earthly standards, but in your world, five days have passed. How much longer until the end of the month? Twenty days? Hey, no need to panic. I’ll get you home, I promise. The portal’s already prepared.”

He gestured, and they found themselves back in the dark room. The quartz walls were now enormous doorways framed in blue with enchanted symbols. The openings were pitch black, like space itself. Like the hole. The one opened in New York.

Tony stepped back, but the twin extended his hand. “Don’t be shy! It might be useful for future research.”

“In the dead world?”

“Please, only half of your world will die. It’s a small price to pay compared to renouncing the Cosmic Root.”

Tony gritted her teeth — of the two, only Rogers could defend the ‘we don’t trade lives’ line convincingly — but when Stephen placed a familiar, approving hand on her shoulder, her urge to argue suddenly faded.

“Maybe he's right,” Stephen squeezed her shoulder lightly before withdrawing his hand and looked at Tony eloquently as she frowned. “Maybe we should accept the inevitability.”

“But—” Peter protested from the hallway, but Stephen shushed at him and turned back to the twin.

“How do you choose the reality in the portal?”

Tony turned to the cosmic darkness beyond the doorways. Muttered a curse about Strange under her breath, then slammed her watch and bit her tongue when FRIDAY chimed in with a brisk, “analysing, boss”. It was itching between her shoulder blades. They had no choice, of course, and teamwork requires delegation, but if the wizard’s plan backfired again—

“The energy field of the multiverse portal must be bigger than ordinary,” Stephen clarified, blocking her thoughts.

“Fair enough, but there’s no time here, so it may exist without additional constraints. We just need to enter its field and control it by surrendering to it.”

“Just like we were taught.”

“Just like we were taught,” the twin said, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at Tony. She caught Peter’s gaze and raised her hand in a subtle gesture-signal while adjusting her generator bracelet. “If anything, you won’t be able to talk your way out.”

Tony shrugged, “Yeah, we’re not really trying to.”

“Go, kid!” Stephen shouted, and Peter slammed one of the bubbles with his iron glove.

The flood gushed out, sending Peter leaping to the ceiling. An angry wave crashed into the opposite wall, mingling roar with shattering glass. Stephen grabbed Parker through the portal and flung him near Tony. As the Flood surged towards the twin, he threw out his hands, and his Cloak unfurled to form an invisible barrier.

“Wait!” he shouted over his shoulder. “You don’t understand what you’re doing!”

“Don’t we?” Tony tapped the reactor, and FRIDAY activated the armour around her. “I thought we know what’s best for our world. How long do you need, Houston?”

“Shut up, please,” Stephen snapped tersely. With his eyes closed and legs crossed, he floated above the platform in the middle of the hall, the Cloak swaying rhythmically as it held him aloft. Within seconds, a golden cloud enveloped them, and the symbols on the doors froze in place.

“Stark!” the twin yelled, his voice filled with a terrible despair. “It’ll be Sokovia on a universal scale!”

“It won’t,” Stephen cut in before Tony could respond. He landed on his feet, his eyes glowing with a golden light. With a quick, intricate gesture, he opened a massive portal in the doorway behind him, revealing a bright summer street on the other side. “This time, there’s a backup.”

The twin quickly cast a spell, making the Floods freeze pointedly over him. Then, his form twisted and expanded — shoulders broadening like a bull’s, his face elongating into a snarling animalistic one, thin antelope horns sprouting from his head. He lunged at Peter, spewing fire, but the Cloak swooped in to shield the boy. 

The twin reached out with a clawed hand, but it morphed into a writhing tentacle, and, distracted by the sudden transformation, he howled in pain. Stephen shrouded him in thick fog and turned to Tony, "Get out!"

“You know where you can shove your nob—” But before she could finish, a massive, monstrous face emerged from the fog, growing larger and larger. The portal behind them flickered, the image of a bright street shifting back and forth to a dark nightscape. The golden symbols on the doors started to blink erratically.

Suddenly, the Cloak, still gripping Peter, wrapped itself around Tony and yanked her into the portal, and, entangled in the red fabric, she tumbled painfully onto wet concrete on the other side.

__________

uncontrollable changes appearing in the state of a quantum system as it interacts with its environment return to text

Chapter Text

Stephen rushed toward the portal after them, but a massive tentacle struck him, a powerful blow to his solar plexus. Stephen was thrown several feet across the floor, the bruise left by Moro flaring with a sharp, searing pain that spread from his stomach up to his chest and down to his groin. A wave of magic immediately rushed in, bringing a soothing chill to the hematoma.

“Damn it, damn it, damn it!” the twin shouted. He had transformed into a monstrous creature the size of a truck: thick tentacles writhed between its giant wings, and a jagged tail lashed angrily against the floor. The twin reached for the door frame, but only scarlet sparks erupted from beneath his claws.

Stephen pushed himself up to his knees. “Where... did you send them? Can you bring them back?”

The twin turned to him, his face now one of a scaly dragon with curved horns and yellowish fangs jutting from its lower jaw. Several pairs of eyes burned on his cheeks and forehead. “They were drawn into the spell of forgetting! I can’t interfere!”

“Really? Just half an hour ago, you didn’t even blink an eye—”

“Half an hour ago, I could’ve helped you! Shut up!”

“But I didn’t—”

“I wasn’t talking to you!”

“Look, if you see anyone else here besides me—”

“You idiot! If you try to change reality, you’ll become me!”

The twin spat fire at Stephen, but he quickly raised his shields. The rage lasted only a few seconds. As the lava fell to the ground, hissing from freezing into a black stone, the twin let out a deep sigh, lowering his head, and began to shrink. The tentacles and tail withdrew into his back, and human features returned to his face.

“I’m trying to save your world,” he said, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Why don’t you understand? I can’t intervene. I just— no,” he suddenly opened his eyes. “I still can help.”

As if by command, the dark Cloak, reverting to its form from the twin’s wings, flew off his master’s shoulders. Stephen raised his shield again, but the Cloak whipped his feet and wrapped itself around him like a cocoon.

Stephen struggled fiercely to break free, but the Cloak’s grip was unyielding. So, Stephen relaxed, directing the energy into his palms, pressed against the cold satin lining. If he could at least burn it a bit... harming relics was always a last resort, but he had no other choice. He turned his gaze toward the approaching twin.

“I’m sorry,” the twin pursed his lips as he grasped the rope of the Eye with his fingers. “No, don’t worry. I want to bring it home where it belongs.”

The twin gently removed the Eye from Stephen’s neck and sent it toward the portal, which displayed a rainy night once more. But as soon as the Eye fell through, the scene in the doorway shifted to a sunny street. To Stephen's confusion, the twin, now looking genuinely penitent, frowned deeply. “I have no choice. Forgive me. I’m really sorry about what I’mabout to do.”

“What does that— hey!” A sharp, prickling pain, like one from a thousand needles, spread through Stephen’s palm as the Cloak resisted his struggle to break free. “No!”

But the Cloak lifted him with ease and hurled him into the portal.

For a split second, Stephen was blinded. All his senses felt entwined, like a rope woven from fatigue, curiosity, and fear, tightening around his throat and stealing the air from his lungs. The wormhole pulsed, stretching and squeezing him with a disproportionate force until he was expelled into the fresh air, tumbling onto the grass.

His bruised shoulder throbbed, and pain shot through his hands as though every nerve in his fingers had been jolted with electricity. Groaning, Stephen rolled onto his back, pressing his trembling hands against his chest. His heart raced so wildly it felt on the verge of stopping, a dull ache settling in his collarbone. He tried to visualise the reiki wrapping around his heart like an elastic bandage, sinking into his cells and steading the frantic beat, but no matter how hard he concentrated, the image slipped away — the healing energy washed over him like a wave, never quite reaching his heart. Stephen tried to catch his breath.

Sometimes, magic resisted control like a sheep refusing to leave the pen, no matter how hard the rope tugged it. And while Stephen could prod cattle forward with a shepherd’s staff, trying to rush magic was not only futile but came with far worse consequences than father’s scolding — the ancient force drawn from the heart of the universe could sever his connection to life energy entirely. The fear of spending his days like a hollow, blind shell taught him patience better than any mentor ever could.

Yet, he wasn’t sorry for associating magic with a stubborn sheep: honestly, this force, timeless and absolute, should be beyond such childish defiance. But the moment Stephen thought it, the pain in his collarbone flared. He pressed his fists harder against his heart and forced himself to clear his mind.

His hands remained steady most of the time, though he didn’t cure them — the tremors were like a whip that an experienced rider keeps ready to rein in a rebellious stallion. Stephen refused the very idea of magical healing, unnatural both physiologically and metaphysically. It seemed like the Ancient One had, after all, ingrained in him a deep respect for powers far wiser and bigger than himself. And if some two years ago, someone had told him that he’d trade the finest American operating room for a dusty monastic cell in Kathmandu, he would’ve found the joke tasteless and the teller foolish. But now, Stephen was less inclined to scoff at such a notion.

Magic had only replaced painkillers and antidepressants for him because this way, it was far more cost-effective and less embarrassing than popping pills at Kamar-Taj. Through long meditations and intensive concentration exercises, he started to learn to channel energy to soothe his nerve endings, and within six months, directing magic felt as natural and automatic as breathing. But, like the pills, it merely alleviated the symptoms. In hand-to-hand combat, Stephen was practically useless without a secondary weapon — he could only defend himself, and every time he landed a strike, his fingers would flare with sharp, burning pain.

And now, as he impacted the ground, that pain surged. But soon, it began to subside, and with the silence in his thoughts came a sense of rest for his body. Gradually, his sensory perceptions returned: the cold, firm earth beneath him, the sour smell of damp grass in the air. His kaftan and pants were likely stained with dirt. His shoulder felt scabbed (with his eyes closed, he envisioned a golden wave of magic washing over the bruise from within), and his lower back ached. The sun warmed his face slightly, and sensation returned to his hands, so he touched the ground nearby — the short grass brushed against his palm.

In the shallow hole beside him, he spotted his fallen comm. Stephen sat up and brushed the soil off it.

“Tony?” he called, bringing the comm to his ear. “Stark?” But the comm responded with predictable silence. A nervous lump formed in Stephen’s chest as he tucked the comm into his pocket and checked for the Eye on his chest. It wasn’t there, of course. “Asshole,” he mumbled, as if his eternal twin could hear him, and shook the dirt off his pants. Swiping sticky blades of grass from his cheek, Strange glanced around.

He found himself on the lawn at a T-shaped intersection, where the main road stretched along a wide street lined with private homes. Closest to him stood a snow-white mansion, its tall columns rising majestically on the porch. Beyond the fence, covered in wild grapes, there was a flower bed with golden poppies (once, back in university, he’d boasted about his eidetic memory, betting that he could remember all the state flowers within an hour — he had been drinking at others’ expense for a whole year then, and still, just one glance at those flowers evoked their names in his mind). Across the road stood villas like at European resorts, with tiled roofs and wrought-iron balconies; such homes continued down the street.

Stephen quickly connected the dots: the golden poppies indicated California, while the European-style houses pointed to San Francisco. He recalled attending one of his first conferences here after earning his PhD, hosted on the picturesque Lombard Street. Back then, however, his mind had been consumed by two things: optogenetics and sex. He was either working on his presentation or chasing Christine, getting worked up by her playful teasing, which often stretched into the late evenings. She used to say his bitter impatience was particularly seductive. But now, those memories felt like a half-forgotten dream. He and Christine had weathered many storms together, but they’d long since drifted apart, and those youthful passions no longer stirred even a hint of nostalgia in him.

Stephen checked the remaining Sling Ring on his belt and pushed himself up. Without the Cloak, he felt out of place — only now did he realise how used he’d grown to the wordless hum in his mind that forged a mental connection. It was too quiet in his head now. Still, his hands didn’t shake, and he knew he needed a plan. Why had the twin thrown him here? How could he get home? With Tony, they could’ve worked out—

Something shrieked nearby, making Stephen jump. A brake? A gunshot? Mordo could be lurking behind a tree or hiding just out of sight beyond a fence. The space felt too wide open — there was nowhere to run. Stephen opened his shields instinctively, but the sound repeated, followed this time by a long rattle, and embarrassment coloured Strange’s cheeks. He clenched his fists. Being afraid of a lawnmower didn’t exactly fit the image of a Sorcerer Supreme. A cheerful and gentle quip from Stark would’ve been welcomed now — he couldn’t afford to be kind to himself. Yes, his paranoia had a legitimate cause, but the part of his mind responsible for emotional sensitivity had shut down after meeting the twin, and now, his sudden alarm felt almost... pathetic.

Stephen tried to remind himself that no one here wanted to sacrifice him on an altar, but that seemed a daunting task. This was an unfamiliar world though, and he had no enemies here. And no allies either. The latter was an even bigger problem than the former. Strange had never needed Tony more than he did now — well, not in that way. He was fully capable of solving any problem, but he’d always respected collaboration, and Stark’s expertise would indeed help avoid the destruction of— oh.

Stark. If he was lucky, he would find her in this world. And if he was even luckier, she would turn out to be a genius scientist here, too. Stephen turned his suit into a shirt and jeans, and for credibility, he created a pair of sunglasses on the top of his head and made his way toward the sound of the lawnmower.

Another villa stood down the street, surrounded by a low decorative fence. The sweet scent of freshly cut grass mingled with the delicate aroma of jasmine, and in the courtyard, a tall athlete manoeuvred the lawnmower over the emerald grass, sweat glistening on his broad shoulders. Nearby, a girl in a pink bikini lounged on a plush chaise, her bronze skin and long red hair glowing in the sunlight.

“Excuse me,” Stephen called, leaning against the fence. The man turned to him, and Stephen continued, “Can you tell me what street this is? I think I’m lost.”

“Who the hell are you?” The stranger’s hostility was palpable. He glanced at Stephen’s hands, and disgust twisted his uncanny symmetrical features. “Who even let you in here?”

“I—”

“How did it get here?” the girl shrieked.

“Hey, get outta here!” came another shout from across the street. Stephen turned to see a man with long hair waving his fist from a porch.

From the neighbouring yard, a little girl, her blonde hair framing her face like an angel’s halo, emerged. Her mother raised her head from the flower bed as the girl wrinkled her nose, “Oh, Mommy, what is it?”

“Don’t look there, dolly.”

“I don’t understand—” Stephen began, turning just as something sharp prodded him in the back. The man with the lawnmower had abandoned it and was now threatening him with garden shears.

“You heard that? Get the hell out of here! Trash belongs behind the fence!”

A chorus of agreement rang out from the others, and Stephen squared his shoulders, exhaling slowly. “Alright. I wanted to handle this quietly.” He slashed the sidewalk with a glowing crimson whip. The men recoiled, and the long-haired one scrambled back into his house. Red sparks scattered across the pavement, and Stephen surveyed the stunned onlookers strictly. "Now, can we talk?"

The girl in the bikini clutched her friend’s hand, but he still refused to lower the garden shears, his scowl deepening — until a smug smirk spread across his lips. Following his gaze, Stephen turned around just in time to see the long-haired neighbour kick open the door, machine gun raised and aimed straight at him.

“Wasting bullets on these again—” he muttered, cocking the weapon.

A wave of panic surged through Stephen as he opened his shields. But before the trigger was pulled, a familiar low hum filled the air.

“Friends!” boomed a voice from above, and a silver Iron Man suit landed between Strange and the shooter. “Is this how we welcome dear guests?”

A wave of relief flooded Stephen, and he removed the shields as the anger inside him shifted into a shaky excitement. He tilted his head, staring openly at the armour before him — the same sleek shape, same curves, but the polished silver chest, glossy black plating over the abdomen, and the glowing blue reactor tracing the solder lines—

And a male voice. Male?

“But, Mr Stark…” the long-haired man protested, still holding the machine gun up, but the suit turned calmly toward the girl in the bikini.

“Barbara! You look stunning, as always.”

“I’m Vanessa, Tony.”

“Are you? Well, then you’ll have to introduce yourself again, Vanessa.” The girl, trying to hide a smile, blushed, and the suit’s silver hand wrapped around Stephen’s shoulder. He attempted to pull away, but the iron fingers tightened their grip. “Put down the gun, Harry, you’re getting on my nerves. Didn’t y’all recognise him, really? This is Stephen Strange, our good friend!"

The man with the garden shears snorted. “I thought he croaked some ten years ago—”

“That’s why I’m the one doing the thinking here, Jackson. So, what do we have to say now? Honestly, you’re worse than kids.”

Jackson clapped his garden shears, drawing the attention of the others, who looked at him with either fear or anticipation — as if they were a hungry crowd eager for gladiatorial battles. But today, a bloody confrontation was not on the menu. Averting his furious gaze, the man spat out, “Sorry.”

“Good job, Jackson. See? It wasn’t that hard!” The suit turned around. “And you’re waiting for a personal invitation, Harry?”

“You don’t have to—” Stephen began, but the iron glove raised in a decisive gesture.

“No, no. Let them know their place. Don’t make me wait, Harold.”

Reluctantly, Harry lowered his machine gun, humiliation washing over his pale face and neck with a pink hue. He looked rattled. “Sorry.”

“Very good. Okay. This time, we’ll do without fines. Relax your buttocks, everyone!” The suit turned to Stephen. “Cast a portal to my place, Doc. Huge penthouse in the centre, you won’t miss it.”

The white plate on the helmet and the thin slits for the eyes appeared completely indifferent. Not that Stephen expected much expressiveness from the iron suit, but he couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling of emptiness. He tried to reach out to the person beneath the armour, but his astral projection passed through, the absence of a biofield sending an unsettling chill down his spine. With a sigh, Stephen opened the portal.

The penthouse greeted them with a wide access road, flanked by manicured lawns adorned with sculpted bushes. The suit led Stephen through the gate beneath an archway. “How did you find me?” Stephen asked, glancing up at the house. The facade’s minimalistic monotony was broken by terraces on several floors and panoramic windows gleaming in the sunlight.

“Well, I’m your goddamn fairy godmother, Doc. You think it, and I’m already here!”

The porch led to a red wooden door that stood out prominently, easily visible from a distance, yet stylistically mismatched with the rest of the building. Stephen narrowed his eyes to examine the carving, but before he could take a closer look, the door swung open. A short man stepped onto the porch, his torso bare, water drops glistening on his tanned chest. A white towel was draped over his shoulder, and his damp hair was tousled.

“Stra-a-ange!” he called out, a grin spreading on his face. Stephen clenched his fists. The man’s laughing tone, open gestures, and crooked yet sincere smile felt achingly familiar, sending a shiver down Stephen’s spine.

The man had the same nose and chin, and despite his goatee, the strikingly similar facial features, and all that made his resemblance to Tony, to his, Stephen’s Tony, uncanny. Even their hair was identical, though Stephen thought the boyish haircut added an authentic, wild charm to his Tony’s appearance. The only distinguishing feature of this Stark was his transparent, crystal-blue eyes, which seemed to glow from within as if illuminated by the reactor. Those eyes, sharp and penetrating like a scalpel, were now fixed on Stephen’s face, leaving him with a vague sense of unease, something between fear and enchantment. He cleared his throat.

“Stark,” Stephen greeted, his voice half questioning as he watched the armour move toward Tony. The moment Stark reached out, the suit melded seamlessly into his skin, disappearing in his palm as if it had never existed. Stephen frowned, but Tony just hopped lightly off the porch.

“I can’t believe my eyes!” He gripped Stephen’s shoulders, but Stephen quickly pulled away. “Copied my goatee, huh?” 

“It’s not what you think, Tony.”

“Don’t worry, I have plenty of copycats—”

“I’m not the Stephen Strange you know. I’m from another universe.”

Curiosity flickered in Stark’s eyes as he narrowed them. “Multiverse?”

“Yes. I know how this sounds, but you’ll have to believe me: on the other side of the black hole—”

“Stephen,” Stark interrupted gently but firmly, his hand resting warmly on Stephen’s shoulder. “I know you well, and in all the years we’ve known each other, you’ve never been one for jokes. And you’ve certainly never explained yourself. Come on.” He gave Stephen a reassuring pat on the back. “I know a quiet place where you can tell me everything."

The railing beneath Stephen’s palm felt smooth like crystal, and his frown deepened as Stark threw casually over his shoulder, “And for now, keep your hands hidden. Better yet, keep yourself hidden.” Stephen immediately wanted to bridle at it, but before he could respond, the door swung open, and Stark beckoned him inside with a welcoming gesture.

The scent of alcohol filled the spacious bright hall. In the background, hip-hop beats pulsed, blending with the cheerful hum of the crowd and the crack of disposable cups. People in swimsuits crowded around the bar, their wet footprints glistening on the marble floor all the way to the sliding doors to a glass veranda with a swimming pool. Tropical foliage framed the scene, casting speckled shadows on the water, where dozens of people splashed or lounged on air mattresses. The only reminder that this oasis was nestled in the heart of the city came from the distant sound of car horns, which hardly bothered anyone.

“Wait there,” Stark nodded toward a white piano under the stairs. Surrounding it like a small amphitheatre, were chairs and sofas of soft leather, all seemingly abandoned amid the swimming party. When Stephen turned back, Tony was already stepping onto the veranda, his red-lens Ray-Bans concealing his eyes. “Friends! I’ll have to leave you—”

The crowd whistled and called Stark back into the water, their voices sparkling with adoration. A couple of girls glided past Stephen, their eyes lingering on him for a fleeting moment before they dashed off to the pool, playfully leaving kisses on Tony’s cheeks as they went by. Stephen knew popularity, but he had never been a star of such magnitude, and the proximity to such profligate luxury made him feel uncomfortable.

He pressed a key on the piano soundlessly with his pinky. Then pressed it again, closing his eyes as a familiar small tune lingered in his memory. His mother had played beautifully. She gave private lessons to neighbourhood schoolchildren and sometimes played for herself. Stephen would sit at the dinner table, pretending to read or study math while secretly watching her. She closed her eyes when played, losing herself in the gentle melodies of Bach — music as airy and fragile as she was. She was sentimental and simple-hearted and often fell into melancholy when her feelings became so deep she feared to embrace or confront them. She didn’t know rudeness, but she could end any argument with a single look. Calm and quiet, she sometimes seemed withdrawn, as if she had drifted far into her thoughts, but she always came alive again when teaching her children or settling in front of the old piano. Even when she didn’t acknowledge his presence, Stephen could always see the smile blooming on her thin, pale lips as he watched her play. They rarely played together (the rarer, the older he got), but he treasured those moments, especially because of how Donna enjoyed watching them. Even his father encouraged the music, busying himself in the kitchen, nodding his head in time with the tunes—

“Stephen Strange?” a female voice called, breaking his reverie.

He turned to see a woman descending the last step. Dressed in a tailored black jacket and a pencil skirt, she carried herself with an air of royal poise, effortlessly balancing on frighteningly high heels. She didn’t look like a casual guest at Stark’s party. Her red hair was slicked back into a perfect tight ponytail, and her bright eyes probed Stephen with such a keen, suspicious interest it made him unconsciously adjust his belt. “I—”

“There she is!” Tony announced from behind, pointing at the woman with a cocktail glass. “My irreplaceable Pepper Potts! The high priestess of this chaos! Surprise-surprise.” He took off his sunglasses and gave her a cheeky wink. “Aren’t you thrilled to see our old friend, Peps?”

She gave Stark a disapproving glance, her arms crossed, and the white nanoparticles immediately formed a T-shirt over his chest.

“I didn’t expect to see him again.”

About a man called Pepper Potts, Stephen knew only two things: he ran Stark Industries and was romantically involved with Tony Stark. Their paths had never crossed — back then, they existed in different worlds, and Potts never lived long enough to see Stephen’s rise as a superhero. The stories of his relationship with Tony had been retold so often that fact and fiction blurred, but Stephen had never cared for celebrity gossip anyway. They were people from a different world — sure, the elite knew the top neurosurgeon’s name, but they were too wealthy to concern themselves with him and too busy for him to think about them.

What little he knew about Potts’s death was tied to Iron Man and one of the terrorist attacks she had been fighting off a few years ago, and a wave of shame washed over Stephen as he suddenly realised he’d never acknowledged Stark’s loss, despite all the time they had spent together recently. He wasn’t even sure if she and Potts had merely been living together or if they were engaged. He faintly remembered catching whispers of a wedding in the tabloids.

And all this made thinking about the Rogers mess feel even more burdensome.

However, judging by the absence of a ring on this Pepper’s finger — who, of course, was a woman beside a man-Stark — it didn’t even smell of engagement.

Stark plucked one of the olives from his drink and handed the glass to Pepper. She sighed but took it without question. “Where did you find him?” 

“He dropped in on me like winter snow. Could you prepare a room for us, darling?”

“No need to—” Stephen protested, but Tony raised his hand, silencing him with a casual authority.

“It wasn’t a question. Stephen, my dear,” he tugged at the blue folds of Stephen’s kaftan, smoothing it. “The deal is very simple: I run the show, and you bask in my infinite grace. Okay? There you go.” He lightly slapped Stephen’s chest. “Please.”

Without waiting for a reply, Tony went down the nearby staircase, and Stephen watched him go with his eyes narrowed in suspension. Just as he had once watched Mordo before crossing the threshold of Kamar-Taj. A heavy sigh escaped Stephen’s lips, his fingers briefly touching his heart: the thought of Mordo shackled the left side of his chest. But Stephen caught Pepper’s curious gaze as she sipped her cocktail and, clearing his throat, followed Tony down the stairs.

Stark’s demeanour ignited a flicker of irritation in Stephen, but he only clenched his teeth — this was Stark, after all. There was a natural charm and unobtrusive authority about him, and resisting either was pointless — even without magical probing, Stephen could sense the quiet but authoritative wilfulness beneath the casual exterior. It reminded him so much of his Tony, the same resolve she had shown when talking about Mordo. There was no fear or hesitation in her, only the uncompromising confidence of someone who had gone through hell. She had every reason to be harsh and convinced in the absurdity of courtesies during critical moments, and Stephen couldn’t help but wonder how, despite it all, she managed to nurture that gentle, guilty humanism within her.

Perhaps, if she was a bit more cynical and a bit less altruistic, she would’ve gripped the world in an iron fist, but she wasn’t too good at managing her restlessness and only became aggressive in response to aggression. But the stubbornness on its own wasn’t surprising. It seemed like Stark’d always possessed a fair amount of foolish defiance, and Stephen would’ve been more surprised if her twin had turned out to be anything other than an eccentric, headstrong jerk as well. And oddly enough, that was... charming. In a way.

Stephen felt a sharp flush of embarrassment warm up his neck, and his grip tightened on the railing as he quipped, “The genius scientist and his dark basement — sounds like something straight out of Mary Shelley. Planning to torture me?”

“If you consider a bottle of Macallan from twenty-six a form of torture, then it’s going to be a long one,” Stark replied, his grin illuminated by the reactor glow on his chest.

“Tony, I don’t have—”

“I’ll never believe you’re not even slightly curious about the parallel world.” Stark raised an eyebrow, and Stephen pursed his lips. Touché. Pleased with himself, Tony took the last few steps and threw a grand gesture, “Welcome to the bachelor’s den! My former workshop, now a modest guest room.”

“For the chosen ones?”

“For me, when I need to get away. And whoever I decide to bring along. Sometimes I... well, need to escape the chaos.”

“‘Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown’,” Stephen mumbled. And squinted when Stark turned on the lights.

The room that came into view was unexpectedly plain. There was no furniture except a small kitchen nook with a bar counter, a few chairs, and a rug with Warhol’s Marilyn Monroe print. Soft, warm light from a few decorative wall lamps bathed the space in a cosy, intimate glow, in contrast to the harsh, sterile white light spilling in from a long corridor off to the side. The corridor stretched out of sight, bending at one point as if it led into an endless tunnel.

Stark tossed his sunglasses onto the counter and pulled open the fridge. Distracted by the warmth radiated by the nearby lamp, Stephen raised his hand to it. The energy from the light felt almost alive, soothing, like it was gently cradling his palm. “Why so many lamps?”

“Do they bother you?”

“No, it’s just... in my world, you’re all about going green.”

“How sweet! Don’t worry, Lisa Simpson, we’ve cracked the energy code here. And by 'we’, I mean me, with a little help from a bunch of your friendly wizards. We’ve figured out how to recycle life force itself."

“How?”

“Well, that’s a military secret,” Stark chuckled. He placed a bottle of whisky and a platter of smoked salmon on the table. Tiny white particles, like droplets of mercury, trickled from Stark’s fingertip, swirling into the shape of a kitchen knife on his finger. “But you’re a smart one, Stephen,” Stark carefully sliced into the fish. “I bet a hundred bucks your wildest guess isn’t far off.”

“You… commercialised Kamar-Taj?”

“Something like that. Ever seen Monsters, Inc.? Conceptually, it’s that.”

“I don’t get it.” Stephen narrowed his eyes. “The knowledge the masters have guarded for thousands of years is sacred for a reason.”

“For those who guard this knowledge, it’s natural to see it as elitist, but we, futurists, believe knowledge should be shared, just like resources. And, by the way, the wizards didn’t put up much of a fight when I offered them cooperation. In the end, only together can we build a perfect world.”

“Sounds more like a fantasy utopia.”

“I didn’t expect you to believe me,” Stark pointed the knife at Stephen with a playful reproach. “Yet, here we are. Everyone has access to unlimited energy now. No electricity bills, no water bills, no pollution and whatnot. ‘Cos we’re not selling air here, you know. We found an inexhaustible energy source and created what we should have — an ideal world.”

“Where do you get this energy from?”

"That, I can’t say, but be sure, it comes from the most natural sources. The best ones."

“On neutral ground?”

“You mean geopolitics?” Stark popped a piece of fish into his mouth. “The whole world’s been a neutral ground for a while now. But the energy is sourced locally, very close to here, actually. You’d be surprised at just how much.”

“Because you’re involved in this too.”

“I’m but a humble knight, marching under the flags of altruism.”

“Unlikely ‘humble’.”

“Oh!” Stark clutched at his heart dramatically. “Hit.”

Stephen chuckled. He ran his fingers over the stone counter and took an apple out of the bowl when Tony nodded at it. The fruit was crisp and juicy, and a stream of juice dripped down his chin. With a flick of his wrist, Stephen wiped it away, noticing Tony’s playful gaze. Feeling the need to defend himself, Strange asked, “Aren’t you worried that whoever controls all of this could just pull the plug one day?”

“Not entirely impossible.”

“So it’s not a utopia then — it’s more like autocratic totalitarianism.”

“Oof, these awfully grown-up words! But I agree, it would be a disaster if the wrong people were in charge. Right, J?”

“Indeed, sir,” came a smooth British voice, polite and composed, from the ceiling.

Tony tapped the knife against the cutting board, and the nanoparticles zipped back into his hand. “But we haven’t exactly had any complaints yet.” 

“Totalitarian regimes tend to rely on the perspective of the privileged.” Stephen took another bite of the apple, and Tony threw his hands up with a laugh.

“Alright! You win. I’ve got nothing to counter your aces with. By the way, this is JARVIS, my assistant. Even more irreplaceable than Pepper, because unlike her, he doesn’t complain about me putting my feet on the table and is immune to all human flaws. Spiritual ones included.”

“If I had eyes, sir, I assure you, I would also find the feet on the table rather distasteful.”

“In my world,” Stephen interjected out-of-place, “your AI has a female voice.”

“Oh, I thought about making J a girlfriend, too, but to be honest, I’m way too jealous, and I’d be completely lost without this little gem. So, what we were talking about?”

As Stark rearranged the apples and fish on the counter, Stephen made his way to the sink. “About how your people are throwing each other around.”

“Ah! That was an exceptional case. Did you see the drones outside? It’s called Iron Sight. It practically eliminates crime before it even starts.”

“They can still be taken down.”

“For each one that gets knocked out, ten more show up, and someone from the Iron Legion is always on the way to the brave soul who took it out. The best part about employing robots is that they don’t take vacations.”

“Aren’t you afraid you’re putting too much faith in your intellect?” 

“But what else could I put my faith in, Stephen?” Tony grinned. “It’s my intellect that’s saved me — and this glorious little planet — more times than I can count. You’ve got to give it some credit.”

“People here keep machine guns at home,” Stephen remarked, tossing the towel onto a nearby chair.

“We’re in San Francisco, Doc. You know how many crocs there are around here? Or, wait— are crocs in Florida?” Tony waved his hand dismissively. “Anyway, none of them would’ve shot. Harry’s a pushover and crybaby. It’s just that people are petty, and they hate anyone who reminds them of their shortcomings.” He pulled a face, glancing at Stephen’s hands and the pale scar on his lip. “Like that horror on your face and hands—”

Stephen clenched his fists. “Ideal humanity, huh? The one that can’t look at scars without vomiting.”

Stark smiled as he removed the wrapping from the bottle. “We are sinners, Master Oogway, forgive us. Opportunities spoil people. But they also inspire others to strive for greatness!”

“But what for?”

“The cult of pleasure, my friend. What is life if not the pursuit of pleasure?” Tony poured whiskey into their glasses, gesturing vaguely with his free hand. “Forget the elements, let me tell you the real foundations of the world: beauty, health, longevity, and hedonism.”

“Paradoxically, it sounds… profoundly human.”

“Any pro-life theory sounds human until it’s put into practice.” Stark handed him a glass. He didn’t pour too much, and Stephen hesitated to ask for ice. “But theory can only take you so far. To the meeting!”

They clinked glasses, and Stark took a hearty gulp. Stephen attempted the same, but the whiskey burned down his throat, tears springing to his eyes, and he coughed and patted his chest, trying to catch his breath.

“Too strong?” Stark raised an eyebrow, nudging the plate of snacks closer. Stephen adjusted the collar of his kaftan, feeling his cheeks flush from the warmth of the drink. A slow, heated sensation spread through his stomach, and Stephen, confused, hurried to chop some fish with a little skewer.

“I haven’t had a drink in a while.”

“The people who attacked you there are the cream of society. They can’t stand seeing the pain, the bruises, the scars; it’s like waving a red flag at a bull.”

“And since when you aren’t the cream of society?” 

“Got me!” Stark smirked. “But someone has to stay sane. Once people have tasted the perfect life, they quickly forgot where they came from. And I can’t blame them — wouldn’t you give up everything for a model appearance and perfect health?”

Stephen chuckled softly. “Life has no cheat codes, Tony.”

“Merlin said.”

“Magic isn’t a quick fix for everything, it’s a skill. It won’t give you wealth, but anyone who’s not a fool will find a way to make it work for them. Cheating the system is impossible. But this artificial perfection you're creating is a dangerous rivalry with nature.”

“Well, nature’s already lost then. No one can resist me.”

“You’ve never been denied anything, have you?” Stephen took another sip, this time the whiskey flowed smoothly, licking his chest with a warm refreshing wave. 

“Happened a couple of times, but with my ambitions and money, I’m here anyway, and they…” Stark spread his hands, shrugging, and Stephen snorted.

“How do people even put up with you?”

“Ah! Genius makes up for all the flaws. Plus, I’m charismatic, handsome, and generous; self-respect doesn’t stand a chance against this combination. Your Stark isn’t like that?”

“Kindness goes a long way,” Stephen shook his head. “You’re a woman in my world.”

“Oo! A pretty one?”

“A brilliant one.”

Strange realised a little too late that a smile had crept onto his lips. Stark, skewering a piece of fish, raised an eyebrow with a grin. “Oh, you sly cat! Look at you! No need to blush, we’re all friends here. Chocolate fondant.”

“What?”

“My favourite dessert. Might come in handy.” Stark licked the fish off the skewer. “If I were her, I wouldn’t let this nice ass slip away.”

He jabbed Strange in the hip, making him flinch. Stephen clenched his teeth, frowning, but Stark tossed the skewer into the bin with a laugh. “And what does she think about Extremis?” he asked, pulling another dish from the cabinet and pouring some nuts into it.

“We… never talked about it. What is that?”

“The serum. Though in my case, it’s more of a lifestyle.” Tony placed the nuts on the counter and reached for the bottle to refill their glasses. “A bit of nanotech, a bit of cell reconstruction stimulators, grit, spit and a whole lot of shaking done by ambitious youth from the biosynthesis department. Under my watchful guidance, of course.”

“Since when are you into biotechnology?” 

“Ever since I found the technology in it.”

With a wink, Stark raised his glass, and Stephen raised his one, too. He knew downing it all at once was risky, but he still managed an impressive sip. Warmth spread to his cheeks, and his magic flickered a little brighter within him. Swallowing a cough, Stephen reached for a handful of nuts. “Why didn’t you remove the reactor if you can heal any wound?”

“Sometimes, it’s good to remind yourself of who you are.”

“What about the bliss of a perfect life?” 

“Oh, the flaws of the human world are limitless, just like the universe itself. Or multiverse, if you prefer. Someone’s gotta fix things, and by chance, I happen to be a great mechanic.”

“And, presumably, you have fixed people already?” Stephen took another sip. Tony leaned forward, his blue eyes gleaming.

“Well, people don’t want to be unique, they want to be perfect. Who am I to stand in their way?”

“It’s a strange kind of charity.”

“Oh no, it costs a hundred bucks a day. Come on, Doc, we’re adults here. People love talking about how much they want freedom, but they’re always looking for a leash, and I’m just making a living.”

“You’re promoting targeted segregation, Tony.” 

“How much do you need to drink to mispronounce ‘segregation’? My dear Stephen,” Tony rested his chin on his fist, “you’re so impressionable. ‘Behind the fence’ is just a metaphor. No one’s taking away anyone’s rights, it’s just that not everyone can claim the same wealth. But the desire for a better life drives people to reach for the best slice! The world’s always been this way. People would be beasts, with or without me. I even feel a bit sorry for them.”

“You’ve only invested your modest share.”

“Guilty! But a brilliant idea can’t be held back. Who would’ve thought people would actually like it?”

“That’s... not right.”

“Unfortunately — or fortunately — nobody asked for your opinion.” Stark’s smile turned sharp, his eyes narrowing as a warning that the limit of patience for this topic was nearing. Stephen could see the irritation piercing through Stark’s composure, but he turned away, cutting Stephen off his biofield. One of the lamps flickered, drawing Stephen’s distracted gaze.

Tony poured himself some more whiskey and moved the bottle toward Stephen’s glass. But Stephen covered it, not finished, with his palm. 

“I had a friend,” Stark said, “Matt. He shared your sentiment. He never understood the psychology of the crowd or the little lie needed to make the world better.” He downed his drink in one gulp.

“For a philanthropist, you’re surprisingly cynical about people.”

“I’m a pragmatist — and I’m not afraid to face the truth.”

“What happened to that friend of yours?”

“He changed his mind. What can I say? I’m very good at convincing people.” Stark smiled smugly. He refilled his glass and playfully brushed Stephen’s hand aside to pour some into his glass as well. “To success and evolution! Drink or I’ll be offended.”

They clinked glasses and took a sip. Stephen covered his eyes. He felt the heat rushing down his neck and his head aching a bit as he touched his temple. The magic surged like angry waves against his recently aching heart and bruised stomach, and Stephen shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. For a brief moment, the room swayed before his eyes. Instead of Stark, all he could see was a glaring white spot throbbing with cold irony, and the lamps morphed into living orbs of light.

A wave of inexplicable panic surged down Stephen’s throat. He blinked a few times until his vision cleared. No more spots clouded his sight. Setting his glass down, he turned to Stark with newfound seriousness. “I… I need to get home, Tony. It can’t wait, and I need your help.”

“To open a wormhole?”

“Yes. You’re not surprised at all?”

“After I chained death to the fence in my backyard?” Stark smirked as he skewered another piece of fish. “Stephen, sweetheart, you’re so narrow-minded, but I’m flattered that you’re kinda trying to impress me. Show me what you’ve got.”

Stephen placed one hand over the other, and between them, a golden pattern appeared — a model of the interdimensional wormhole Stark’d sketched in the café. It felt like ages ago... but as soon as Strange paused to reflect, the projection between his palms flickered. He refocused, grateful that his eidetic memory never failed him, even when he was tipsy. “My Stark imagined it this way,” he explained, glancing up as the lamp directly above them blinked.

Tony followed his gaze, his chin resting on his fist. “Looks like your magic is wreaking havoc on my electrical grid. How curious. Go on.”

“She mentioned exotic matter, maybe something like the Tesseract that could be catalysed by magical energy—”

“Of course! That’s brilliant! Stephen, what a gift!” Tony exclaimed, grabbing his face and planting a quick kiss on the top of his head.

Stephen pulled back — perhaps more sharply than he intended — but the clicking of heels drew his attention. Stark turned toward the stairs while Stephen ran a hand through his grey hair. At the top step, Pepper paused. “Everything is ready.”

“Pepper, you’re the best.” Tony looked back at Strange. “You look so tired, Stephen.”

“Tony, I’m—”

“No, I insist. This is perhaps the last thing I can do for a friend — or someone who looks like my friend but with a beard. You need to eat, drink, and sleep. And don’t worry, real food is on the way. I bet all that magic of yours requires a lot of energy, and honestly, you look like you’ve been wandering in the desert for days.”

Tony’s face dissolved into a blur, the glow of his reactor stretching into sharp-edged rays. Stephen blinked, struggling to focus. “I… don’t have time, Stark.” His eyes briefly cleared, but Tony’s features blurred once more. Shaking his head, Stephen managed to say, “My universe… is dying—”

“You’re so out of focus, Stephen. It’s like you’re about to pass out. What’s going on with you?”

His throat felt dry, and he turned away but couldn’t quite steady himself. Gripping the edge of the table with one hand and the barstool with the other, Stephen closed his eyes, trying to visualise a golden light absorbing the dryness in his throat. Yet, his thoughts remained heavy and unwieldy, and he exhaled sharply. “I… I don’t know…”

“Had a bit too much to drink, huh? That’s fine. Pepper’s already set up a comfy table in my lab for you. Oh,” Tony winced slightly. “Guess I ruined the surprise. Oops.”

Stephen lifted his head. Tony regarded him with lazy curiosity, his blue eyes sharp and piercing. The rest of him seemed enveloped in a luminous white haze, and the flickering red lamps created a surreal ambience, making everything around them appear smeared, like a low-quality photograph.

“Wh—what…?”

“I think I might’ve lied a little when I said your sorcerers didn’t resist,” Tony remarked, cracking a peanut. “To be honest, they were quite dissatisfied. But I mean, it’s just inconceivable to harness such powerful, pure energy every day and not share it with anyone. Wouldn’t you agree? Well, they didn’t want to negotiate, so I had to apply a little force. Kinda like this.”

Stephen pushed himself away from the counter, but his legs betrayed him, and he collapsed onto the floor. The rug pressed against his cheek, and he clenched desperately to his sensations. The energy coursing through his veins felt warm, speeding up and clearing his blood.

Tony’s voice echoed above him. “You’re scared, but that’s okay. The fear of the unknown is the most natural thing there is. And your inner defences are impressive; I admit, I underestimated you. How long do you think you can last? Three hundred years? Five hundred? That’s a sleeping drug, by the way. Is there scopolamine in your world? It’s part of the formula — a spasmodic and sedative. I know what you’re thinking: we drank from the same bottle, I saw it with my own eyes… care to guess why I’m not affected?”

“Dosage—”

“E-xtre-mis. Remember? I have a perfect metabolism. I’m perfect. Superior Iron Man, that’s what they call me. You see, there are advantages in rivalling nature.”

Stephen pressed his forehead against the floor. The healing energy surged within him, intense enough to feel like it was burning his skin. As the drug dissolved, the magic fought back, desperately trying to suppress the invasion. Clenching his teeth, Stephen pushed up on his elbows. He just needed to put on the Ring: it would open the portal, and he could escape. He could run to a desert or even Everest — the Iron Army wouldn’t reach him there immediately, giving him some precious time—

“Plotting your escape already?” Stark asked casually. It dawned on Stephen too late that Stark had already removed his Ring and was now fidgeting with it between his fingers. “I’d love to play catch-up with you, but I have other plans for you in mind.” Stephen tried to grab the Ring from his hand, but Stark leaned back, slipping just out of reach. “Shh.”

A wave of weakness washed over Stephen, forcing his head to droop again as his body betrayed him. “You… can’t—”

“No? But who’s to stop me, Stephen? The sheriff? The judge? The king? It’s a shame I play all those roles here. Whoever controls the resources controls the world. How did you put it? Autocratic totalitarianism! I wouldn’t label it so rebelliously, but ‘autocratic’ is right on target. You’re remarkably perceptive, aren’t you?”

“Winning… the nuclear race... wasn’t enough for you?”

“Oh, no, making the world a better place is a full-time job. It’s not something you retire from. And by the way, I’m putting you on a noble cause too.”

“Don’t... Tony—”

“Why not? What’s good for me is good for the world.” One of Stark’s fingers traced down Stephen’s cheekbone, lingering on his bristle. Then Stark’s voice shifted slightly as if he turned away to address someone behind him. “I like the goatee. We’ll keep it. And the hair, too.”

Stephen barked, “Stop it.”

“Why? Who are you, Stephen? Doctor? Wizard? Son? Brother? Yeah, I know about that too.”

Stephen concentrated on his trembling fists, perhaps even encouraging the tremors. The more he focused on the sensations coursing through him, the more he felt the magic fighting back, the red light tingling in the scars on his fingers. But that focus shattered when Stark’s voice sounded nearby, “Poor little Donna will never know that her silly brother was crawling at my feet, begging me to transfer her consciousness to a digital medium. See, I would’ve done it for free, I don’t mind helping out a friend, but when he asked about the price and said he was ready to pay anything... I just couldn’t resist!”

“You did... what?”

Stephen looked up, his gaze suddenly clear and his expression shifting to one of genuine confusion, but in Stark’s eyes, a cold, red fire flickered. He smiled. “Would you say the infinite energy I can draw from you and your masters for as long as I please is sufficient compensation for bringing her back from the dead?”

“You... deceived him. Me.”

“No, it was a deal. He offered it willingly. He was a doctor far more than a sorcerer, and now, all the hospitals in the world are feeding off him — and they will for another two hundred years. Haven’t I fulfilled his dream?”

The world around Stephen blurred completely, the dryness gripped his throat tighter, and a dull ringing echoed in his skull, drowning out coherent thoughts. Stephen squinted, and magic erupted in golden sparks before his closed eyes. But Stark, as if sensing the burning power rising within him, pressed on, “But who are you, Stephen Strange from another world? You’re a mistake — a glitch in the system. Just a fly caught in a web. And where there’s a web, there’s also a spider. But don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”

Magic washed away the panic as Stephen rolled onto his back, gasping for breath. But Stark raised a finger, and a silver droplet fell onto Stephen’s chest, activating the nanoparticles into iron armour within moments.

The armour clamped down on Strange, encasing his chin and mouth. He tried to turn away, but the helmet secured his head, and a sweet vapour filled his nostrils. As if on command, all his muscles relaxed, and the healing energy within him dissipated under the weight of a paralysing weakness. His face felt swollen, and his jaw grew heavier. He couldn’t move a single finger — nor even his eyes. His head spun in a dizzying haze.

In a desperate attempt to cling to the last remnants of magical warmth, Stephen noticed a pulsing white spot leaning toward him from above.

“I’m so glad you fell into my world, Stephen Strange. Sleep well. You’re in safe hands.”

Chapter Text

Tony shoved the heavy red lining aside, and the pouring rain hit her instantly. The nanoparticles returned back into the reactor with a faint blue shimmer. Stark raised her head, but her vision blurred — she suffocated, as if someone had punched her under the ribs, and froze on her knees, clutching her heart. Pressure, again. As always.

The dizziness lingered for several suspiciously long seconds, but Stark didn’t complain. A little hypotension wasn’t the worst that could’ve happened to her. And if she could still joke about it, it wasn’t even fatal. She inhaled slowly, feeling a ringing in her right ear as rainwater streamed down her face.

With her eyes shut, she out-of-place imagined the rain drumming as the sizzling of meat on a pan. A big, juicy, medium-rare wagyu—

“Miss Stark, Miss Stark!” Peter squeezed her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, extending her hand, which Peter immediately took. His wet hair clung to his forehead in long curves, and his eyes, suddenly wide and bright, shone with concern. Tony felt an irresistible urge to pull him into a tight hug, and from the thought that he was, after all, dragged into this mess, her heart ached — either with fear or guilt. On the other hand, having Peter out of harm’s way would’ve been an unimaginable blessing. Tony couldn’t have wished for that. So, shaking off the wave of scattered remorse, she squeezed his hand tighter, letting him help her to her feet.

“You okay?” She nodded when Peter nodded. “Where’s Strange?”

“I— I don’t know, he wasn’t here.”

“Stephen? Doc?” Tony tapped the comm, but there was no answer. A sudden bright flash flickered in her peripheral vision, and she snapped to attention, instinctively aiming — only to see the Cloak unfurling before her as if surrendering. Tony clicked her tongue. “Damn it. Keep sneaking up on me like that, and you’ll end up with a hole in your lining. And don’t give me that look — you’ve got a master already, and I’m not taking on another stray.”

“Did you mean me, ma’am?”

“Can you get in touch with him?” Tony narrowed her eyes, but the Cloak shook its collar. “Of course not.”

Meaning, of course. As if it could’ve been that simple.

The street suddenly felt too real as if a multidimensional cinematic image had snapped into sharp focus. The slick sidewalk mirrored neon signs, the silhouettes of street lamps stood out crisply, and the towering, blue high-rises loomed like monstrous giants above the tiny human at the base. The space seemed to contract to a painful, unfamiliar tightness, and the interdimensional glitch swallowed Stark whole.

Just what she needed, right.

When she regained consciousness, she was wrapped tightly in the Cloak. And, okay, its weight on her shoulders was grounding. Despite all logic, the collar seemed to carry a deep scent of wine and warm sand — Strange’s scent — and Tony shrugged, ignoring the sting of sadness and fear in her chest. Which one was stronger — sadness or fear — she also ignored; the last thing she needed was to feed the flames. The Cloak drifted away.

Pushing her wet hair out of her face, Tony scanned her surroundings. Peter was already moving toward the soft neon glow cutting through the rain: the circular intersection ahead looked distinctly like Columbus Circle, so, at the very least, this world had a version of New York, and at the most, this New York resembled the home one. Which meant they had a chance to make sense of this place. That was a good start.

But unease was creeping up behind her ribs, although there was no time for a panic attack. To be fair, there was never time for human frailty, but not that Tony had ever been given a choice. She massaged her left wrist. Her bruised knee ached, and her clothes clung to her back, and her palms tingled, as if a thin, slimy layer of grime vibrated on her skin — Stark wiped her hands off her pants and tapped the comm again.

“FRIDAY, you with me?”

“With variable consistency, boss. I can’t connect to the local network, but I’m detecting frequency oscillations and comparing quantum data. You’ve experienced another multiversal shift.”

“How perceptive.”

“I’m starting to see why people find your sarcasm tactless.”

“Extra nerve there, FRIDAY.”

“Roger that, ma’am. I’m picking up an unusual curvature in the fluctuations — on your right.”

A red portal — thinner and darker than Tony’d seen from Strange — cracked open above her head. The Cloak darted toward it, but the eye-shaped necklace slipped through, and the portal snapped shut. Tony glanced up.

“What about the rest of the sorcerer?” 

But the black sky offered no reply. Stark frowned, picking up the necklace. It felt surprisingly heavy in her hand. The gold was worn but still gleamed richly, and with a bit of magical context, Tony would’ve guessed it was solid twenty-four carats (though she immediately bit back the thought: relying on sight and touch for metallurgical analysis was a rookie mistake, especially since gold could be masking so many other materials — magical relics didn’t have to conform to basic logic).

She traced her finger along the slippery, curvy lines she saw in the Sanctum; probed the runes and signs engraved on its surface. Funny how all of this happened because of this thing. Or rather, how none of it would’ve happened if not for it. The Time Stone, securely hidden inside, didn’t radiate any ominous aura — there was no malevolent pull from it, no predatory teasing, no heavy calmness of infinite power. It barely had any meaning in this world, and the absurdity of it forced a silly chuckle out of Tony. A green stone, the size of a button, was determining the fate of her world, yet here, it would’ve been of no interest to the local sorcerers, let alone the local Thanos with his deadly collection.

But Tony still clung to the hope of getting home. With a lie and a victory in her pocket, or with the old plan to seek out the Mind Stone? Not a single sorcerer bound by a sacred oath to protect the relic was around, but Stark knew everything about the New Element, and, if the Time Stone was anything like it, she knew how to synthesize explosives. She’d even bet on a controlled chain reaction — although the risk zone would need to be two or three times larger than planned since the blast wave from—

The Cloak momentarily snatched the necklace from her hand and darted away, hovering at a safe distance with its floors open, like a bird of prey spreading its wings. Stubborn. Just like its owner.

“Nobody asked you,” Tony pointed a finger at it, frowning, but the Cloak’s silent disapproval pressed in on her temples, and she shook her head, brushing off the intruding thoughts. “You know what? This is a bit much!”

The Cloak curved its collar questionably, and Stark sighed with helpless irritation. Okay, fine, they’d already agreed on everything with Strange. And no, she didn’t want to let him down. Like, she really didn’t want to — the sorcerers were already looking at him with skepticism, and who knew how this wound would unfold if they found out he’d lost the Stone. Sure, the fate of the world was always more important than personal drama, but they had a backup plan, so Tony’s fluttering came more from despair than gloating or determination. Or rather... definitely not out of determination, and certainly not out of gloating.

The Cloak approached her again, hovering just above her, and gently placed the necklace around her neck again. It settled with an odd weight against her chest, and Tony’s hand instinctively covered it. All right. Would come in handy. Besides, the looming threat of a purple megalomaniac felt like a forgotten childhood tale at this point — after dealing with obsessed fanatics and a rather unfriendly multiverse, Tony found herself nostalgic for the familiar nightmares of the past decade about the Stones and corpses. And she was nothing if not good at prioritizing. But still.

“Miss… Stark?” Peter’s voice crackled over the comm. “Could you… come over?”

Columbus Circle was usually empty, with only the occasional flicker of headlights piercing the downpour. Parker’s dark shirt clung to his tense back, his hair plastered to his head. Standing hunched, fists clenched tight, he looked heartbreakingly fragile against the dim glow of a media façade in front of him. Tony reached out to his back but didn’t touch him. Instead, she glanced up at the screen.

The news replayed aerial footage of the ruins of a building, firefighters and rescue workers pottering about the mass of concrete and twisted metal. Rogers had shown her similar footage from Lagos once (and he never understood that her anger was not about him defending Wanda but about him talking about her when the focus should’ve been on the real victims of a real tragedy). That had been the beginning of the end. People started carving the names of the dead into Tony’s forehead, Wakanda was one breath away from declaring war, HYDRA played their strongest hand, and the Avengers weren’t just losing credibility — they hadn’t been able to hold their grip at all. Tony didn’t have money to return dead kids to their parents, Rhodey was forced to choose between career and friendship, the government balked at taking in more refugees or rebuilding cities, and Steve fucking Rogers was too busy with his fucking missions and defending fucking Wanda — but, of course, it all wasn’t only his fault.

The images on the media façade shifted from wide shots to close-ups; the elderly reporter’s voice stuttered through static. Tony’s blood ran cold as she caught a familiar name in the running line. 

Peter whispered, “Now.”

On the screen, paramedics carried a single figure on a stretcher, draped in a white sheet, and never — never — the words “May Parker”, "died”, and “because of Spider-Man” should’ve been part of the same sentence in this order. Tony glanced at Peter, who was standing completely still, staring at the screen without blinking, only his hands trembling, barely noticeably, from the tension. He seemed to be diminished a couple times, and Tony looked away, unable to bear the raw dread in his frozen gaze.

“The damage, the destruction. You saw it with your own eyes.” A rain-soaked reporter stood in front of the debris. “When will people wake up and realize that everywhere Spider-Man goes, chaos and calamity ensue? Everything Spider-Man touches comes to ruin. And we, the innocents, are left to pick up the pieces. J Jonah James—”

“That’s May,” Peter’s voice cracked. Tony finally clutched his stone shoulder. “It’s her.”

“This isn’t our world, kid.”

“Not yet.”

“Hey, where’s all this pessimism coming from? We’ll find the local Doc, crack open a few wormholes, and we’ll be home before you know it.”

“What does it change?” 

“Clarity gives peace of mind.”

He sobbed. “But what if there… what if May really—” 

“Well, we are not there yet, are we?”

“Why didn’t that, other, Strange tell what happened to her?”

Tony clenched her teeth against the wave of anger in Parker’s voice and released his shoulder. There was so much bitterness in his tone, so much pain in his eyes that it felt like it was vibrating on her skin. 

Peter gestured desperately at the screen. “You think I’m too young to know? Too young to understand? But it’s you who don’t understand it: May is all I have—”

“I think hysterics aren’t going to help us right now.” 

“Hysterics? Is it just hysterics to you!? That’s– that’s my aunt! There, on the stretcher, dead, it’s her! She’s my only family, and I— I can’t do this, Miss Stark, it’s too much for me, I— I’m so sorry but I’m not some cool, resilient superhero who can handle everything, I’m— I’m just— I’m not you.”

“That’s right. You’re not.”

If only he knew.

Pepper had died in her arms, and Tony was guilty twice (first, for failing to prevent it, and second, for failing to save him), and she’d sworn she’d never touch the iron suit ever again. But Steve’d been particularly persuasive back then — after going through his own unbearable loss, he’d known exactly what words she needed to hear. It was just that afterward, everything flipped inside out. And, yeah, fine, Tony hadn’t promised that she wouldn’t run away with Peps if there’d been even a sliver of a chance of him coming back from dead, but she had some basic understanding of objectiveness and politeness, and it wasn’t about sex, the hell with it—

“It’s not always about resilience, okay?” Tony reached out her hand. “Come here, kid. It’s okay.”

“No! No, it’s not! I’m not okay, and nothing is! I don’t know where we are, I don’t know what’s happening with May, and I can’t do anything about it, and– and the worst part is that you— you can’t either! No one can! And I—I—”

He suddenly cut himself off. His hands were shaking badly when he put them up to his face and pulled back as if wanted to escape his own hands.

“Kid?”

“I- I feel it again; it’s like the senses, but so much stronger—ouch!” Peter winced, hands gripping his head.

“Peter!”

A colorful glitch swallowed him whole, distorting the air like shattered glass. The Cloak swirled around him, its edges stretching and folding like living origami. When Peter reappeared, trembling, Tony instinctively pulled him and the Cloak in.

The fabric of the Cloak was rough under her touch, the edges brushing against her cheeks, but she tightened the embrace — not quite a hug, but close enough. Okay, fine. It was a hug, but not in that sense. She was more like a pillar keeping Peter upright — the functional support could bring only as much joy as a bandage over a bleeding wound.

“It’s okay, kid. Breathe,” she muttered, running a hand over his damp hair. Peter finally moved; gasped warmly into her shoulder, and his sheer vulnerability made something clench painfully in her chest.

“You’re from the future,” he whispered. “You should know.”

It was just that knowledge didn’t provide a solution — only a point to run from. And Peter clearly asked about something else.

“It was... different.” 

“But is May alive? In that future of yours?”

Tony’s jaw tightened. As far as she knew… (and her knowledge meant nothing in a universe that was constantly rewriting its data) — although there, on Titan, drowning in her own blood, her foresight was rather narrowed. But Peter asked, and she couldn’t bring herself to explain the truth.

“Yes.”

Peter pulled back, scrubbing at his eyes. “Good. Good, because that means she’ll be okay now. That’s... that’s good.”

He looked up at her, and the hopeful plea in his glance nearly broke her, but as much as it hurt to see his expression shifting to disappointment, she only pursed her lips.

“Listen, kid... that future doesn’t really matter.”

“Because you want to outsmart this Thanos guy, right? The one you and Mr Strange talked about?”

“Yeah, exactly. That’s the plan.”

“Is it really that serious?”

“It’s worse than serious,” Tony scratched her left wrist, and Peter wiped his face against his shoulder. 

“But... you didn’t ask for help.”

“Because this is Avengers-level— no, Avengers-squared-level bad guy stuff. Not something a friendly neighbor deals with.”

“And for one victory, you’re ready to risk breaking the causality of the multiverse?”

Tony almost gagged. “You’re entering dangerous ground, Parker.”

“I– I just think—”

“And I think that you shouldn’t be commenting on decisions you don’t make.”

“Because you and Mr Strange had already decided for us?”

“First off, it’s Doctor Strange, not Mister. And second, yes, we had decided because that’s our job, and that accusatory tone? Out of place and only reminds me that you’re fifteen, and you know how much I don’t like to be reminded of that.”

“But it’s not fair! You’re leaving us without a choice!”

“You don’t need this kind of choice! No.” Tony gestured her palm in a ‘zip it’ motion, “Now shut it, Parker, because I’m angry, and you don’t even know what you’re talking about, and no! Shush. Don’t you dare argue. You’re a child, and you don’t know anything, and I hope — I really, really do — that you’ll never have to know. Damn it. I sound like my father again.”

“But– but it was you who found me—”

“And I’m trying! Trying to protect you! And trust me, you wouldn’t be in danger right now if you’d just listened to me and stayed with the evacuees.”

“And then what? Never found out about the alien threat?” 

“Was with your aunt right now.”

Peter recoiled, and Tony clenched her wrist again. Throwing her fears onto the boy was a cowardly move, but she could neither allow herself to admit her helplessness nor bear the accusation. Unfair accusation, by the way — who would reproach her for not doing enough? Well, of course, she wasn’t doing enough, but she was already her own worst critic, thank you very much, and didn’t need Peter piling on. 

And yeah. If he didn’t know about Thanos — neither now nor back then — her chest wouldn’t feel so tight. At what point had she failed this time?

“Don’t you think,” Peter said, his fists clenched, “that this has gone too far for the what-ifs?”

Tony exhaled, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I don’t wanna fight, okay? We’re changing the future because we have no other choice. Your aunt shouldn’t have been dragged into this, but now we’ll have to deal with things as they come. That’s it.”

“That’s why that other Stephen Strange didn’t want you to continue. To interfere.”

“Sorry, did you really bring this up a second after I told you we’re done with this?”

“That’s what he meant: if we don’t change the future, reality will go back to its original trajectory, and then— then May—”

“You skipped the part where the ‘original trajectory’ ends with billions dead.”

“Why are they more important to you than she?”

Tony arched her eyebrows pointedly, and Peter’s hand shot to his mouth.

“That’s a serious accusation. Peter.”

“I... I didn’t mean it like that—”

“There you go. As to be shown. No, that’s it.” Tony waved her hand dismissively, cutting him off just as he opened his mouth to explain; the rain slapped against her open palm. “Your concern is justified, I get it, but when we’re talking about the fate of the entire world—”

“You can’t—  May’s there because of you! If he hadn’t known I had the Stone, none of this—”

“The what-ifs, Parker.”

Peter turned away, dragging a hand over his face. “That Strange said that death is an Absolute Point. Yours is, and hers is, too.”

“And our Strange said, ‘in time, but not in space.’”

“But if time goes back to the way it was—”

“You want to save one life at the expense of a billion others!”

“But we can save everybody because we— we’re the Avengers, and the Avengers—”

“You’re not an Avenger!” Tony pointed a finger at him. “And the ones who are couldn’t even save their own team, let alone the world! You think I like this? We’re lost, Stephen is missing, and we don’t even know how long it’s been in our world — for all we know, there might be nothing left to save at all.”

Peter opened his mouth but closed it again, no words coming. Clenching his fists, he looked up at the screen again — the rain-soaked reporter had been replaced by a Coke commercial, and Tony ran her hand through her damp hair. The surge of anger suddenly ebbed away, leaving her arms slack and heavy at her sides. The rain seemed to wash the fury off, leaving hollow anxiety instead, and belatedly, Tony scolded herself for letting her despair spill over onto the boy. 

Peter sobbed. “We... we have to open a wormhole, right? And find Mr Strange for help.” He looked at Tony. “To get home.”

“Kid? How are you?”

“I… I’m afraid, ma’am. For May.” His eyes brimmed with tears as he looked at her. “You want me to sacrifice her, but I can’t.”

“No! I didn’t say that. I said it was a terrible accident, and we’ll figure things out as we go.”

“But you know she’d survive if you stopped changing the future.”

“It’s just a theory.”

“It can be tested.”

The determination in his gaze made Tony narrow her eyes — Peter’s breaths were quick and shallow, but his eyes stayed fixed on hers, unwavering.

Tony tilted her head with a cautious but firm warning. “Peter. Listen to me. I haven’t told anyone this yet, so listen very carefully — because as much as I hate to admit it, we evaluate casualties not by their names but by their numbers. It’s monstrous, I know. But we’re not on a holiday, okay? We try to avoid casualties whatsoever, but when you can prevent bloodshed—”

“No!”

Peter shot a web at her, and Tony’s hand was yanked back, stuck to the rain-slicked wall. She tugged against it, shaking her wrist hard, but the thick layer of webbing held fast. She frowned and, to a momentary confusion in Peter’s eyes, protested, “Parker.”

He swallowed hard, and Tony, feeling outrage flaming up inside her again, waved her free hand impatiently. “Enough. Take it off.”

“No,” Peter straightened and met her furious gaze with his chin lifted in defiance. “I’m sorry, Miss Stark.”

Before Tony could react, he shot another web — this time at the necklace.

“Don’t even think about it.” 

“I—I have to save her.”

“Peter!”

“I’ll fix everything, I swear, I just need to make sure—”

“Parker!”

“I’m sorry.”

With that, Peter yanked the necklace free. The Cloak darted toward him, but Peter fired a web at the high-rise across the street, vanishing behind the thick curtain of rain before Tony could blink.

“Parker! No! Damn it.” She yanked at the web on her hand, but the movement only made her wrist ache. The Cloak hovered indecisively before turning to her, and Tony waved her hand. “Follow him!” 

As the Cloak sped into the rain, Tony felt a cold stone pressing against her chest. Oh no. She couldn’t afford this luxury now — neither to lose the kid nor to lose herself in despair because she had already lost him. She must be more careful with words with him, okay, she took notes.

“Touché, boss,” FRIDAY quipped playfully.

Tony pressed the generator bracelet to the web: the nanites worked quickly, freeing her hand. “Connect to any local Wi-Fi and track him down.”

“One moment, ma’am.”

As her hand was finally free, Tony pushed her damp hair back from her face, and nanites gathered into glasses over her nose, a shimmering wave of pixels covering the rain-soaked street. “Suit, FRIDAY.”

“Deactivated, boss, for your safety. Since there is an identical AI in the local network, risk of losing control—”

Another glitch came unexpectedly.

The next thing Tony knew, she was slammed against the wall. When she came back to her senses, she clenched her chest, her heart hammering so furiously as though it might punch through her ribs. She cursed under her breath, wiped rainwater from her face, and her gaze finally landed on the Cloak.

It levitated nearby, its floors draped across its front in a mockery of crossed arms. Droplets of rain slid off its edges in steady streams, and it had even tilted its collar, exuding a patience that was almost smug. He learned that from Stephen, that’s for sure. Tony sighed.

“Alright,” she muttered, patting her shoulder. “But only this time.”

The Cloak wasted no time, swooping in to lift her. Tony clung to its broad red shoulders, and it froze, hovering, to let her get used to it. She carefully put her arms down. Moved back and forth. The sensation was jarring — she swayed her legs lightly but didn’t feel her weight at all. All the rest felt like one of her early test flights with Mark II: shaky, dangerous, and weird. And the sensitivity markers were too high. But what unnerved her most was the distinct feeling of a living, intelligent presence guiding her movements. Adrenaline surged, and a faint thrill crept into her chest.

“I detected a localized anti-gravity field,” FRIDAY informed, “and some force that’s counteracting inertia. I assume the magical object uses telekinesis.”

“It’s the Cloak.”

“You seem to be getting along.”

“Don’t be jealous.” Tony leaned to the collar. “Peter’s heading for the Sanctum, but we can intercept him before he gets there. What do you mean ‘no’?” She frowned as the Cloak suddenly veered. “Hey, gentler, will you?”

The Cloak lifted above the rooftops and gestured — FRIDAY highlighted a list of streets leading toward Bleecker Street. A ninety-minute walk, Peter’s got a few minutes head start anyway, and—

“Alright, magic carpet, you’ve got this. Let’s meet him at the door.”

“Great plan!” FRIDAY agreed, and the Cloak dove through the rain. Tony could only hope the layout of this New York wasn’t too different from the home one.

The cold wind brushed against her face with surprising delicacy, unaffected by the speed of the flight. The Cloak carried Tony through the towering high-rises and skyscrapers, maneuvered gracefully between buildings. Rain smeared the glow of windows and neon signs, casting shimmering streaks of color onto the slick, wet walls. The only real signs of motion were the shifting scenery and the whir of the wind, but Stark’s face quickly numbed from the lack of protection, and she caught herself longing for the warm, enclosed comfort of her last Mark.

Her chest still felt tight, whether from panic or lingering angel. Sure, she admitted her pedagogic fiasco, but it didn’t stop her from being mad at Peter’s stubbornness — the nerve! On the other hand, she understood her father now. The man used to always roll his eyes at her tantrums (though to be fair, he’d always been petrified of her tears and never quite figured out how to handle her pain, but she filed that in brackets). No wonder he preferred the company of iron and documents, especially since, compared to young her, Peter was practically a saint. But, Tony swore, as soon as she caught up to the kid, she’d let him have it. She’d give him a scathing lecture he wouldn’t forget, then tie him up, shove him in a box, and deliver him straight to May’s doorstep — maybe she’d even add a little caring earful of her own.

May.

What a great woman — with all that steadfast, absolute support of hers. No, Aunt Peggy had also texted her praisings when Tony repurposed Stark Industries, but she had also suggested, with all her elegant tact, that Tony step back from hero business after the Chitauri mess, and then she died, and Tony didn’t go to the funeral. Well. She had her reasons. For one, Steve’d found out before she had, and they’d been at odds then, and she didn’t want to fly on the same plane as him (the thought of mixing his Peggy-who-I-wanted-a-family-with with her Peggy-who-used-to-change-my-diapers was terrifying) and didn’t want to meet Peggy’s sons, and — if Tony was being brutally honest — maybe she’d been even a little bit angry at Peggy, because who else, if not her, could’ve defied death and lived to two hundred years out of sheer stubbornness? And, after all, pretending nothing had happened was easier than explaining herself.

It wasn’t as though she and Peggy had been very close (quite the opposite, actually, after her parents died). Their communication was rather formal — symbolic birthday congratulations and polite inquiries about health — so Tony didn’t even feel the difference. Back then, it seemed like a simple solution. The only solution. Send a couple of condolence messages, check it off the list. Life moved on. There were Lagos, the Accords, and refugee crises on the agenda, and at the end of the day, the living were always more important than the dead. Only Rhodey gave her that soft reproaching look (he remembered Peggy from the day she’d easily rolled him, a rookie army recruit, onto the Stark mansion lawn when he was climbing the fence to visit Tony who’d just returned from France).

And, perhaps, a representative of the Stark family should’ve sobbed at her funeral, after all, but Tony hated cemeteries and always was her father’s biggest disappointment. So, she let herself delay facing the truth as long as she could. After Siberia, though, she had to run somewhere far, so she brought the most beautiful forget-me-nots she could find in London to Peggy’s grave. 

Back then, Tony thought a lot about what Peggy would’ve said if she’d known. Until it hit her — Peggy had known. She couldn’t have not known. She was the head of SHIELD, and maybe she didn’t know who the bullet was, but she must’ve known who pulled the trigger — and she never said a word in the next twenty-five years. Not that Tony asked, but letting her believe it was on Howard all that time—

“The rain is coming to an end,” FRIDAY remarked, and Tony blinked. “Twenty-three minutes to the destination.”

Tony adjusted her posture, trying to ease the ache in her lower back. The clouds had begun to disperse, revealing the faint glow of dawn. Streaks of purple fissured across the sky like creeping mold (who knew what kinds of sceneries they had in this reality?..), and the city below was bathed in bright pink and gold.

Frankly speaking, Tony was sorry. She failed, and Peter had every right to blame her, especially since his train of thought wasn’t without reckless courage. Tony… could understand. The cold resolve that had driven her to attack her parents’ killer (as if revenge could’ve brought them back or made their death less horrendous, or given her even a shred of peace) proved better than anything that if she’d been in Peter’s shoes at eighteen, she would’ve done exactly the same thing.

But her situation had been more prosaic, and running from bad news had been her habit ever since. When Jarvis first told her, she didn’t believe it. Didn’t even understand what he said. She had a terrible headache after too much drinking at night, her fragmented thoughts bubbled inside her head like a porridge on a stove, and her hands itched to build something — anything. So she’d nodded absently, shoved a piece of toast in her mouth, and disappeared into the shop for the rest of the day.

When her mother didn’t message her upon arrival — a ritual she never skipped — Tony thought it odd. But she was too busy with perfecting Dum-E to call Mom herself. And then, when she came for dinner, Tony found them all gathered in the living room — the entire Carter clan, Obadiah, and a parade of her father’s lawyers — and that wasn’t exactly how she imagined being handed the reins to the nation’s leading weapons empire.

The realization came to her slowly. Tony bandaged the wound with layers of alcohol, questionable experiments with consciousness expansion (how hadn’t she joked about that with Strange yet?), and inventions, but the truth had a way of bleeding through it, dark and unrelenting. It came through in everyday trivia — in how nobody frowned disapprovingly at her tinkering in the shop or in the absence of her mother’s knocks at the bedroom door to wish her goodnight. There was, of course, Jarvis, who did more for her than he could, and he and Ana almost replaced her parents but ‘almost’ only went so far. Howard, relentless and demanding, was like a black hole, pulling in all the attention with his authority, sharp intellect, and lively charm, and Maria always created the mood, like a breeze on a stifling day, too pretty to be taken seriously, but exclusively educated; a queen of philanthropic causes and healthcare reforms, delicate yet resolute in contrast to her impulsive husband. They were so big, so loud, so ever-present, and their absence turned the world into an echoing isolator.

Tony didn’t even kiss her mom goodbye.

When the tears finally dried, every sob triggered vomiting, and the bed she hadn’t left started stinking really bad, Tony locked herself in the shop and didn’t leave until she finished her first-ever bomb with Highway to Hell at full blast. Back in the nineties, ten kilotons of explosives might’ve not raised eyebrows, but ten kilotons compact enough to fit in a briefcase? Now that was something. Portable weapons had always been her specialty, and the explosion tests became a reason for her to finally leave the house.

She watched the fireball outshine the sun. The mushroom cloud rose with horrifying majesty, a dense column of smoke and flame coiling upward like some ancient titan roused from its slumber. Swollen, pulsing with an angry grace, the cloud shimmered in black, red, and orange. And then, the deafening shockwave hit, scattering debris and ash all over the many miles of flat barren land. That was when Tony realised: fire was the most primal, powerful force on Earth. And it was hers to command.

She had never felt so free in her life.

A few years later, Ana succumbed to the aggravation of an old bullet injury, and Jarvis, hollowed out by unbearable loneliness, turned into Tony’s shadow. He became tireless in his devotion, washing and ironing her clothes, preparing lavish meals three times a day, even when she vanished for weeks. His concern grew sharper each time she returned: her gaunt frame, the pallor of her skin, the cryptic rhythm of her days. But she never took anything in front of him, and her erratic sleeping schedule had another reason. 

She remembered those nights with aching clarity. The searing pain in her chest, her heart hammering like a trapped bird in the oppressive silence. Blankets and pillows suffocatingly hot, and her eyes so dry it felt as though they might crack like parched earth. But she couldn’t sleep. The fear was too strong — the fear that, if she closed her eyes, she might wake to a world where Jarvis, too, was gone.

“Three minutes, ma’am,” FRIDAY reported.

Tony blinked away the last drops of rain clinging to her lashes. The Sanctum’s round window loomed ahead. The green shingles of its roof glistened in the golden morning light, and the cool, fresh air carried a faint whiff of ozone. And, well. At least the building looked the same as the one at home.

And for the record, nobody said that losing loved ones was the necessary price of becoming a hero. If Tony had any say, she’d have been the first to rush to Peter’s aid. Strictly speaking, they were in the same boat: for all they knew, May and the sorcerers, and Rhodey, and Happy (he’s been so close to the whole thing — Tony wouldn’t survive another attempt on him) could have been dead for days, and if Tony somehow managed to dodge overthinking it all before, now, she had to finally face it. The choice wasn’t fair. It never was, but she couldn’t let Stephen down. Couldn’t leave him lost somewhere in the multiverse like a forgotten toy, and honestly? She was the only one on the roster with half a chance of bringing him back.

Stephen, damn it. How the hell was she going to find him?

The purple cracks in the pink sky bubbled ominously, dark silhouettes appearing inside them like dimly colored phantoms. Yet sunlight spilled like honey over the cobbled streets of Greenwich Village, silent and deserted at such an early hour. Tony felt the solid ground creaking beneath her sneakers and sighed with relief. 

Heavy droplets from trees with white leaves splashed at the porch of the Sanctum, its stone facade dark and unwelcoming.

“Hello. Ay. Open Sesame!” Tony crossed her arms when the Cloak gave her thigh a gentle slap. But as it floated to the porch and tried nudging the door itself, it too met silence. Tony snorted. “Score draw?”

The Cloak suddenly raised its collar, and Tony turned around — and saw Peter across the street on the wall of a building, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

“Hey! Get down here, now!” Tony shouted as FRIDAY magnified the image in her glasses. But instead of complying, Peter fired a web at the Cloak, sticking it to the Sanctum wall before retreating back to the rooftop. “Hey, we don’t hurt our smaller brothers! That’s against the rules!” 

“I won’t let May die!” 

“Nobody’s asking you to— oh, kid.” Tony sighed heavily, rubbing her forehead. “Peter, listen. We’re on the same team. Okay? Now you’re gonna come down, hand over the sorcerer’s trinket, and we’ll go home and figure it all out. You don’t have a plan, anyway.”

“I—I just wanted to make sure May was alive, and then I was gonna come back for you and—”

“You were gonna what, excuse me? You wanted to abandon me here? Unbelievable.”

“That’s how the future wouldn’t change, and May’d get better! It—it wouldn’t have harmed anyone, I’d have brought you back right after, and we’d have saved everyone!”

“Yeah? And how exactly were you planning to bring me back? You have no calculations, nothing.”

“I’d have thought of something, and FRIDAY would’ve—”

“Where’s Stephen Strange, Peter?”

At Tony's sudden question, Peter’s mouth snapped shut. But when the meaning of it dawned on him, his head dipped, brows furrowing deeply, lips pursed in a thin line, and Tony raised her eyebrows.

“What? You don’t know? Oh, great. Maybe he’s in a world where magic doesn’t work? Or in some alternate medieval reality, tied to a stake and waiting to be burned alive? Or, hey, maybe he’s floating in outer space in a dimension where Earth was blown to bits by a couple of hydrogen bombs centuries ago. I don’t hear your options, Parker.”

Peter muttered something under his breath, and Tony cupped a hand around her ear mockingly. “What’s that? I can’t hear you.”

“I don’t know,” Peter repeated louder, tossing her a glance full of anger and bitter shame. 

Tony narrowed her eyes. “Oh. And you don’t want to know either, obviously, because I haven’t heard Strange mentioned in your brilliant, unparalleled plan, but this seems to not matter to you much, huh? Now, repeat what you said about saving everyone, Peter Parker. Don’t rush. I’ll wait. And if your memory fails, FRIDAY’s got the recording for playback.”

Peter’s shoulders slumped, his figure bathed in the purple glow of the sky, alone on the rooftop. The frustration bubbling in Tony’s chest gradually burned out, and tired, apologetic desolation took its place. She covered her face with one hand.

“We can’t save everyone, Peter,” she said at last, meeting his gaze again. “We can only try. You save the ones, I save the others, and the real question is whether we’re on it together or not. But only together we’ve got the best shot at sparing more lives, so are you with me on this?”

Peter clenched and unclenched his fists a couple times when a sudden vibration jolted Tony’s shoulder. FRIDAY didn’t have time to warn her, and Tony didn’t have time to react before golden light surged up her arm, crackling and foaming like a luminous sea wave.

A blinding flash of white streaked across the sky.

“Miss Stark!” 

But she couldn’t respond to the Peter’s desperate cry. A glitch swallowed her, and then a whirlwind of energy yanked her — for a moment, she floated weightless in a kaleidoscope of images, but then something shoved her out, and she plummeted downward at breakneck speed.

Chapter Text

—and opened her eyes to a warm New York day.

Tony stood on the dry sidewalk across the street from the Sanctum. The sky was vivid blue, birds chirped, and the crowds hummed peacefully on nearby streets. Tony noticed a couple of soldiers at the end of the block. The small trees in front of the Sanctum rustled their leaves as she inhaled deeply: the air smelled sweet, a mix of flowers, sun-warmed asphalt, and wilted vegetables. Stark scratched her nose against her shoulder.

Her throat itched with an odd, misplaced joy, the kind that usually comes with a rush of adrenaline. Tony glanced around, feeling certain she’d lost something important — like something forgotten mid-sentence — but the city offered no clues, and her memory was equally blank. Something was off. Where was the Cloak?

“Detecting another multiversal travel, boss,” FRIDAY reported. “This time, the catalyst, I assume, was forced magical interference. I’m analyzing energy fluctuations across realities and calculating parameters for creating a wormhole.”

“That was quick,” Tony murmured, rubbing behind her ear, almost brushing the comm. “Where are we?”

“Home, boss. And you have forty-seven missed calls from—”

The air in front of the Sanctum cracked. Before Tony could back away, a wave of fiery orange sparks erupted from the fissure, engulfing her and spitting her out somewhere else an instant later.

Oh, come on, she gritted her teeth.

She found herself in a dim chamber where the flickering light of torches reflected off stone walls and golden glyphs, glinting off daggers that lay beside a bowl near the wall. The torches illuminated a big platform, resembling a hotel double bed, draped in golden fabriс. Thin black candles and iron hooks gleamed ominously at the platform’s corners, while some symbols kept flaring briefly on its smooth surface. A circle drawn on the floor, filled with runes, smoldered faintly, and a leather-bound grimoire perched on a wooden pupitre was completing the gloomy still-life.

“Spider-Man and the Cloak are on your right, boss,” FRIDAY informed, but the shadows were so thick that nothing beyond arm’s reach was visible.

The nanites reacted instantly, encasing Tony in her suit. She aimed instinctively. 

“It wasn’t you who I expected to see,” Mordo’s voice was tinged with mild disappointment.

Well, obviously.

He stood on the other side of the altar. The torches near him flared brighter, their flames — this time real — burning red against his dark skin. Mordo tapped his lips with a napkin as the shadows behind him merged into sinister shapes, seemingly sentient, watchful, patient. Tony turned her head, catching movement behind her as well. There was no doubt that Mordo’s silent army of loyal followers was lying in wait. FRIDAY registered movement, but the faces remained obscured.

“Did I interrupt your lunch?” Tony arched an eyebrow.

“A little, yes.”  

“How about you send me back, and we pretend this never happened?”  

“I think we’ll wait for Strange together.”  

So, she’d have to find her own way back. FRIDAY began analysing the surroundings as Tony tilted her head toward a pair of transparent vases on her both sides. Inside, shimmering sand swirled like a lava lamp. Sands.  

So that was their plan — surprise and attack. A curious mix of brilliant strategic simplicity and cowardice.  

“Your little toys don’t work on me.”  

“You think so,” Mordo smiled. “The West is full of empty chatter about chakras and energies, keeping you blind to the truth. Destined for energetic impairment, you will never recognize yourself as Ātman, and you neglect the central nodes of your nāḍīs and thus fail to notice them being manipulated.”  

“Actually, I made a conscious decision not to notice them being manipulated when I was about twenty-two. Around the time I first mixed a speedball.”  

“Your flippancy insults not me but nature itself.”  

“By the way, I’ve been wondering: are you preaching Hinduism or—”  

“We preach nothing, Stark, least of all religion. The etymology of the terms doesn’t matter when the essence is what’s important. Feeling a little nauseous?”  

“Hate to disappoint, but I just got spat out by a black hole.”  

“A couple of centuries ago, that would’ve earned you a hanging.”  

He wiped his fingers between the rings on both hands, and the napkin dissolved in a golden glow. Only now did Tony notice the faint scars on Mordo’s forehead — or realise she’d never actually seen him in traditional sorcerer’s attire before.  

His deep green kaftan, with its high collar, was symmetrically adorned with golden patterns. The draped cloak flowed from his broad shoulders, partially covering the purple sleeves. Beneath the triangular cut on his chest was a tunic made of coarse fabric, and his waist was cinched with a wide belt of colorful plates. Over his shoulder, the hilt of a weapon with a crystal pommel was visible, leaving her uncertain: was he dressed for a battle or a date? What kind of manic-depressive bond did he and Strange have, anyway?  

“Remind me why I haven’t blown your head off yet?”  

“Threat to the suit, ma’am,” FRIDAY answered for him. Tony glanced at the indicators. “The Thor’s Gone Rogue Protocol is activated. Initiating shielding for your pacemaker, medical nanobots on standby.”  

Her repulsor flickered and then powered down, the helmet retreating into the suit. The sudden wave of strong cinnamon and smoky incense hit her nose as Mordo clasped his hands in front of him.  

“Humanity has forgotten how to look each other in the eyes, don’t you think?” He smiled when she didn’t answer. “I was referring to the interdimensional jump. So powerful, the fabric of reality isn’t just trembling — it’s nearly torn. Did you see the dammara in the courtyard?” He raised his eyes as if indicating the courtyard above. “There used to be a gallows there.”  

“Looks better without it.”  

“Even unconscious contact with the wisdom of the mystical arts was once considered a crime punishable by death. Let alone the masters who knowingly spread it — or twisted it for personal gain.”  

“Familiar story. Prometheus stole fire from the gods—”  

“We all have faith in humanity, but boundaries exist for a reason.”  

“That’s a lot of justification for a self-assured prophet.”

Mordo shook his head like a teacher chastising a gifted student for an ill-timed joke. Oh, how he tried to mimic Strange with that theatrical air of authority and the raised collar, but. He wasn’t Strange.

FRIDAY complained about unstable electromagnetic field and reported issues with loading geolocation data.

“There’s no signal here,” Mordo remarked casually. “And even if there were, we have all the time in the world to talk. Unlike the previous ones, our shields are actually impenetrable.”

“Bragging about betrayal? Le Roi est mort, vive le Roi!”

“Where have you been all these days, Stark?”

Honestly, she wished she knew. Tony’s hand twitched in an instinctive urge to mask her simmering frustration with a blast, but the suit didn’t respond. FRIDAY warned her about a field that was securely restraining the Mark, and Tony, her teeth greeted, cast a critical glance at the altar, “What’s with all the knives?”

“Do you like it?” Mordo raised an eyebrow with amused courtesy, picking up a black dagger. He ran two fingers along the blade, slowly and carefully, admiring it as though he might kiss it. Then, his fingertips brushed over the stones in the hilt, so dark they seemed to absorb the light. “Hands are a useful tool in any master’s arsenal. Optional but valuable. There is no clearer symbol of authority over primal power than mastery of one’s hands. Moreover, in many traditions, bodily integrity is essential for resurrection, making the removal of hands both symbolic and practical — though it usually occurs posthumously. However…” He pressed the pad of his finger against the dagger’s point and glanced up at Stark from beneath his eyebrows. “Depends on the customs.”

“And has the anointed saviour of the Land of Oz ever stopped to think why he has to seize the title, the hands, and all the rest by force from the previous Supreme?”

“Because recognition gained through deceit and criminal service is worthless.”

“Ah, so reality is dumb enough to choose the wrong sorcerer to lead its favourite cult, but wise enough to call you in to overthrow him? I’m not quite following.”

“Reality is powerless in the present. It’s exhausted and succumbs to violent changes. In the future, however, there are no criminals left. That’s why it speaks to me. Someone has to take responsibility — you of all people should understand.”

He pointed the dagger’s tip at Tony with a mocking sympathy, but a sudden web splattered across his hands. Spider-Man leapt down from above, but Mordo, his bound hands raised, conjured a glowing purple mandala.

A bolt of lightning erupted from the wide stone floor, striking Spider-Man directly. It flung him like a ragdoll against the table, then slammed him into the ground, pinning him like a butterfly under a needle. It happened so fast that Tony couldn’t react before a cloud of dust rose from the pothole.

Mordo brushed webbing off his hands as it dissolved into purple light. The Cloak swooped past with a heavy rustle, darting around the pothole, and Tony arched an eyebrow as Mordo turned toward the sound of coughing. Poor Spidey. Ten feet at twenty-five miles per hour was hell of a drop, if FRIDAY’s report was accurate.

“I’m done,” came a weak, boyish voice over the comm. “I’m out, I’m out…”

Right. She’d deal with that later.

From behind Mordo, Ling emerged along with a master Tony didn’t recognise — a short, stocky woman with dark skin. Mordo raised two fingers, and both figures obediently froze in place. The way he shifted all his attention to the Cloak sent a sharp sting of helpless frustration through Tony, and yes, she’d known from the start that the trap wasn’t meant for her, but losing even the faintest hope of negotiation was never easy to swallow.

Mordo tapped the flat of the blade against his palm. “Artefacts are remarkable creations. Some trace their origins to long-forgotten civilisations, while others, according to legends, were crafted by the first masters or gifted by cosmic entities. They act as conduits for energy, deepen our understanding of the cosmic order, and open paths to higher states of consciousness.”

Setting the dagger down on the cloth-covered altar, he raised his hand. The space around the Cloak wavered. It quivered as a rectangle materialized around it, like a stretched embroidery frame holding a multicolored macramé. Threads pierced the fabric of the Cloak, suspending it in the frame like a puppet on strings.

“One of the sacred vows every master takes is to protect and honour artefacts.”

The Cloak struggled against its bonds, but the threads pulled tighter. It was unlikely that Mordo relied on artifacts to subdue his fellow sorcerers, but a collection of obedient relics fit neatly into his vision of a new magical order.

Tony’s stomach tightened with dread as she realised the sorcerer’s necklace was missing from her neck. Not that she had ever promised Stephen to keep it safe, but it was humiliating to think Mordo might exploit it — especially like this. Without a fight.

Mordo’s gaze swept over the Cloak with contemptuous indifference before he signalled to the waiting masters. Like racehorses straining at the gate, they lunged toward the pothole and yanked the boy to his feet by his elbows, jerking him back as he slumped in a feeble attempt at resistance. Eventually, he sank to his knees, compliant.

Another figure slipped past Tony toward the boy — a tall man whose skin was so pale it seemed almost translucent under the dim light. Tony moved instinctively, but the sorcerers held her suit firmly within the magnetic field, so her repulsor coughed feebly, the blast contained within the armour, slamming a painful shock against her shoulder. An old injury flared with an unforgiving sharpness.

“Leave the boy alone,” Tony snapped. Something important sparked in her mind and vanished just as quickly, like a word on the tip of her tongue that refused to surface, leaving her brain itching with frustration.

While two sorcerers pinned the boy’s arms behind his back, the pale man grabbed the edge of his iron mask. The boy whimpered, a pleading half-whisper spilling from his lips, but it took less than two seconds for the mask to crumple like a tin can beneath a boot. The pale man ripped it off with insulting ease.

“Hey, that thing’s worth more than your organs on the black market!” Tony barked, but no one even turned her way. The discarded piece of tech lay smoldering on the floor, diodes and wires fizzing as the nanites struggled, and failed, to mend the scorched zigzags across its surface.

The boy’s face was a mess of injuries — angry bruises swelling his nose, blood streaking from over cracked lips. Each prominent bone on his face was outlined by deep, jagged cuts, leaving him looking like he’d just been dragged from a car wreck that had rolled over itself three times at best. His eyes barely opened under the purpling flesh.

“Please, I don’t know anything, I don’t know,” he muttered weakly, his breath hitching. Ling grabbed him by the hair, yanking his head back with cruel efficiency. The pale man continued tearing off fragments of the suit, while the woman prodded him like an airport security scanner.

“Enough,” Tony cut in sharply. Her eyes locked on Mordo, who stood, observing the boy’s humiliation with an eerie, probing anticipation. He gave Stark a quick, disinterested glance, but she pressed forward as far as the restraints allowed, lifting her chin defiantly. “Hey! You want the Stone? You’re looking in the wrong place.”

Mordo turned his head fully this time, his eyes narrow. Her voice was steady, and for a moment, she almost believed her own bluff. Tension coiled in her chest as she braced for another telepathic assault, yet judging by Mordo’s frown, she guessed the necklace was still under a concealment spell. Her words were the only hint Mordo had to go on.

He barked an order in Sanskrit. The sorcerers stepped away from the boy; Ling let go of his hair, and his head lolled forward, limp. The pale man drew a small folding knife from his belt, ran a hand over it, and transformed it into a long, polished saber. He pressed the blade’s edge against the boy’s throat, forcing his head back up. Swallowing hard, the boy tilted his chin higher, trembling with visible effort.

At Mordo’s gesture, the glowing rectangular frame holding the Cloak shifted behind him, shrouded by creeping shadows. FRIDAY relayed sensor data: air particles within the frame vibrated at a fraction of unusual speed, effectively immobilising the Cloak. Tony nodded, directing FRIDAY to manipulate the charges. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it was the only one she had.

“By the way,” she threw out, “kidnapping doesn’t exactly scream ‘honour and protection’.”

“It’s in your best interest to surrender the Stone willingly.” 

“It’s in your best interest.” 

Mordo’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He spoke another command over his shoulder, and the pale man withdrew the saber from the boy’s throat. He reversed it, striking the boy’s back with the blunt edge. The dull crack of the impact echoed sharply, and the boy let out a muffled cry through gritted teeth.

The pale one struck again — under the boy’s ribs, then across his shoulders. On the fourth blow, the boy screamed, a raw, hysterical sound, and Tony turned her head away, unable to watch any longer.

“Stop it. Stop it!”

The pale man paused mid-swing, waiting for Mordo’s nod before lowering the saber. The boy hung limply in the sorcerers’ grip, shivering and whimpering faintly. 

“Now that we’ve settled the question of interests, where were we? Ah, yes.” Mordo waved at the Cloak. “It must remain unharmed in this conflict. But no need to worry — it can do no damage to itself or anyone else while safely confined.”

“A gilded cage, huh?”

“Artefacts have purposes. Yet the bond they form with their masters often transcend physical contact. They are sensitive to the emotions of those they favor. Despite carrying ancient power, many artefacts are surprisingly indiscriminate in their loyalties…. much like you, Stark.”

“Just say it, you’re jealous the shawl didn’t choose you?” Tony barked, and Mordo’s gaze darkened, a poorly veiled surge of anger washing the light from his eyes.

Tony glanced at the boy but then Mordo narrowed his eyes complacently and his face settled into an unnervingly composed mask. “Give me the Stone.”

“Unlock the suit, and I will.”

Mordo hesitated briefly, then tilted his chin upward. “Where is Strange?”

“Today, I’m in charge.”

“This could all be avoided—”

“I don’t think so.”

Mordo sighed. “I will be honest, your poor taste in allies disappoints me, but I won’t hold your shortsightedness against you. It won’t stop you from fulfilling your destiny. There’s no reason for us to be enemies.”

“Except for one: the sorcerers are under my protection. Each one of them.”

And yes, Tony knew all too well what loomed ahead of her — a one-way fight, a terrible purpose like she was some damned Paul Atreides. Her death was supposed to doom the world — or offer it a chance at survival. Whatever Mordo planned, it likely wasn’t to launch a bloody coup and fade away on the high, right? His ego wouldn’t settle for that.

Mordo’s sudden smile caught her off guard — warm and sincere. “Strange has charmed you too, I see. I understand it. I was charmed by him, too. His cleverness and spontaneity lend a certain flair to the centuries of wisdom he wields with the ease of a sharpened knife slicing an apple. But step outside the glow of his charisma, and you’ll see the self-satisfaction, the volatility — vices unbecoming of the master he believes himself to be. Have you considered that all his skills might be nothing more than an elaborate deception?”

“No, I’ve seen him in action.”

“As you’ve seen me.”

“I just get along better with people who aren’t fans of mass murder.”

“You place too much value on the lives of those who commit unforgivable crimes against nature.”

“I place much value on lives full stop.”

Mordo chuckled without malice. “Stephen Strange adapts so easily to circumstances that he has no concept of steadfast principles. Either he’s too foolish to realise it, or his arrogance blinds him, making him deliberately lead the great community into darkness with his false doctrines.”

“Do you people ever are wrong?”

“We can’t afford such luxuries. And Strange struggles with that as well.”

“But it feels so nice to be charmed by someone, doesn’t it.”

“I bow to no master but the law, Miss Stark. If that’s what you mean.”

“Oh, no. I mean how you have a kink on Strange.”

Mordo’s lips twitched in a crooked semblance of a smile.

And maybe they had encountered two different Stranges, but Tony found the idea of his volatility not only wrong but fundamentally alien — if there was anyone more stubbornly rooted in their principles than Strange, Tony couldn’t name them. Well, except for Rogers, but Steve wouldn’t just compete in the hardheaded idealist contest; he’d be on the judging panel. Tony respected commitment to one’s beliefs, but, damn it, it was why they ended up in this mess to begin with. If Strange hadn’t been so singularly devoted to fulfilling his mystical duties, none of this would have ever happened.

The glowing frame holding the Cloak remained in place, as if the sorcerers didn’t trust leaving Mordo alone with Stark. Nanites projected focused electromagnetic beams at it, and FRIDAY reported faint signs of movement from the Cloak. Tony glanced at the boy, whose swollen face had subsided just enough for him to crack his eyes open. They were wet and bloodshot, glistening with silent desperation. Sweat-matted hair clung to his forehead. The sorcerers still gripped his arms tightly, while the pale man idly twirled the saber, its tip grazing the floor beside the boy’s face.

“Amateurism makes him vulnerable,” Mordo continued, as though rebutting her unspoken thoughts. “When the future is at stake, a teacher kills the student.”

“And who kills the teacher when he stumbles?”

“I appeal to the remnants of your objectivity,” Mordo chided. “We pursue the same goal.”

“Which one? The mass slaughter or the coup?”

“Ridding the world of the Stone.”

“And you’ll do that better because…”

Mordo raised his hand, and a steady, persuasive power radiated from him. Tony felt its heat against her cheeks, reminding her of the bruise, making it throb as if she’d been struck anew.

“A masterless tool loses its purpose.” Mordo folded his hands in a prayer-like gesture, eyes closed. “The future warned of this. The attempt to explain an inexplicable world fosters unbridled arrogance — especially when it yields success.”

“You should be more consistent in your approach to progress.”

“The great Tony Stark tamed the quantum world and revolutionised energy, but still hasn’t understood why she’s compelled to always be at the center of the storm. But I’ll tell you: great responsibility grants even greater power.”

“Got it,” Tony clicked her tongue. “Call me when you’re done projecting.”

Mordo’s lips twisted into a sardonic sneer, but his expression hardened, sharp with poisonous menace. His voice dropped into a silken cadence laced with condemnation, “Save the Earth a few times, and it’s easy to fancy yourself an Atlas bearing its weight on your shoulders. But contributing to the world’s safety doesn’t place you above it. You aren’t doing the universe a favor by donning a suit and pushing progress. The universe is doing you a favour, granting you a place in its plan for survival. Every victory and defeat of yours was predetermined long before you were born. You’re still just a quark on the grid of the cosmos. Submit.”

“Because another quark is barking orders?”

“Because you’re a cog in a well-oiled machine, and cogs are easily replaced. And because your iron suit relies on forces I can command.”

“Except for the ones you can’t.”

“I believe we’ve covered this.”

Tony cast a wary glance at the boy, and for an instant, it wasn’t him there, but Yinsen, his face flickering like an old film reel overlaid on reality. The shadows of torchlight painted darkness across her vision, unfurling a massive red banner with black rings. Tony turned away abruptly, squeezing her eyes shut. Her left hand trembled faintly, but the magnetized suit kept her immobilized.

And that’s when she knew — it was over.

She couldn’t breathe. The world had shrunk to a few inches around her face, every shallow breath failing to fill her lungs. Her heart stuttered, each beat a warning that it could stop any moment. She needed to collapse, to curl up, to shrink herself to need less air. Desperately, she opened her mouth to inhale deeper, but no air came.

For a moment, her vision blackened. Then she felt a warm hand on her cheek, grounding her. She blinked and focused on Mordo — he was smiling softly, disarmingly, and the panic receded as if someone had ripped away the veil smothering her mind.

“It’s not I who haunts you with nightmares, Miss Stark,” Mordo stepped back, his tone almost apologetic. “Whether you believe me or not, telepathy has nothing to do with this. You’re the one projecting these associations onto me. All I can do is press on your fear.”

Oh, sure. And when he’d beaten her back before the multiverse mess, he hadn’t wanted to evoke those associations either. Tony’s gaze flicked over her shoulder, scanning the shadowy figures. FRIDAY detected at least five sorcerers. Mordo seemed to be baiting her.

Unlike magic — infinitely renewable but bound by countless ancient laws — science was constrained only by the limits of age and ethics. And if Mordo wanted to discuss unlocking energy potential, Tony had plenty to show him. And it wasn’t gentle little bursts of thermonuclear fusion energy she thought about.

“In Sanskrit, the primordial element is called mahābhūta,” Mordo remarked, his voice tinged with annoyed caution. “The essence of all existence. You only see one aspect, tejo-dhātu, and you mean to frighten me with it?”

“Tejo-what now?”

“Fire.”

“Fire! No, no, I see more than just fire.”

“For millennia, masters of the mystic arts have studied the primal substance, the power and knowledge at the heart of creation itself. And you think scientists have conquered it by building a few atomic bombs?”

“Have they not?”

“Science has only desecrated that power, finding no better use for it than destruction.”

“And also non-invasive disease diagnostics, environmental monitoring, isotope hydrology, clean and accessible energy—”

“And destruction. You don’t have water pistols there, do you?” His eyes flicked from her arc reactor to her iron gauntlets.

“I’m a realist.”

“And we live in a cruel, wicked world — as you should know better than anyone. Surely your iron suit is a tempting prize for military industries? How long until they recreate it themselves?”

“About four years, practically speaking. Legally, never — I have the patent.”

“Have you considered, Miss Stark, what will happen to your iron army after your death? Will you let such a monumental scientific leap be lost to self-destruction, depriving the world of — how did you put it? Progressive medicine and isotope hydrology. Or have you already chosen a successor?” Mordo’s gaze darted to the boy, who watched him with a sullen, wary stare. Mordo smirked. “Not him, I hope?”

Tony glanced at the boy just as he began thrashing wildly, struggling to break free of the trap. With surprising agility, he shoved the woman behind him away with a sharp shoulder thrust, but the dull edge of a saber struck his face almost immediately. The blow sent him reeling, and he slumped into Ling’s grasp, his head hanging low. Blood dripped steadily from his chin, and Tony flared her nostrils in helpless rage as Mordo turned to her.

“Aren’t you afraid that one day your suit will become the reason you die?” he asked.

“The suit is the only reason I’m still alive. And with the associations I project onto you, you’d do well not to forget that.”

“Are you certain, boss?” FRIDAY hesitated. “The radius of potential impact could—”

But Tony just nodded curtly. She’d spent enough time testing weapons in lead-lined rooms to trust in the effectiveness of the tech that had been her signature since two thousand eight. FRIDAY activated the enhanced synthesis, and the arc reactor hummed to life, glowing brighter as the repulsor charged audibly.

Mordo’s eyes flicked to something behind her, a fleeting glance questioning whether the electromagnetic containment had failed. His expression sharpened, and he held out his hand, "Stone."

"Come and take it," Tony replied coldly, the glow of her repulsor reflecting stark white on his face.

He narrowed his eyes, a tense smile tugging at the corners of his lips. From the shadows, his sorcerers emerged, spreading out silently across the room, and Tony could now clearly see Malek and a couple of other mages she didn’t recognise. Their eyes gleamed in the darkness, like stars in a night sky, unreadable and fixed on her, ready to strike at any moment.

The boy’s soft whimper broke her focus. Ling had seized him by the hair again, yanking his head back, while a pale blade pressed against his throat. The edge was so close that the thin skin beneath his Adam’s apple turned white.

“Touch the boy,” Tony warned, “and I’ll blow up everything.”

“Yearning for your father’s glory?” Mordo quipped, raising an eyebrow strictly. “I’d advise against rash moves. This is one of the oldest places of power in the world.”

“You’re the one who let the fox into the henhouse.”

“You’re unprotected, boss,” FRIDAY argued, and Mordo seemed to echo her, “You wouldn’t dare unleash that power in a sacred place, Stark.”

“I don’t have anything sacred.”

Everything happened at once. FRIDAY signaled, and the Cloak tore free from its loosened bonds, darting toward Spider-Man to wrench him from his captors. At the same moment, the reactor fired.

A concentrated beam of energy cut through the room, blindingly bright. The sorcerers raised their shields, but the unexpected strike rendered them useless. The blast tore through them in an instant. Mordo dodged, but the edge of the beam clipped his shoulder, yet his cry was swallowed by the thunderous roar of explosions.

Tony dialled down the power and blasted the table, which shattered into a hail of splinters. She fired another shot, this time at the ceiling.

Ancient stones came crashing down with a deafening rumble, engulfing the room in a dense cloud of dust. Flickering orange flashes danced through the chaos as the freed nanites enveloped Tony in her armor in an instant. She raised her tungsten shield, ready for the next move.

“Holding up there, kid?” she called over her shoulder.

The boy nodded vigorously, flailing his arms to keep his balance as the Cloak swept him toward the gaping hole in the ceiling. Tony followed close behind.

Even from above, the courtyard of Kamar-Taj looked desolate — like a photograph of a city after a bombing. Debris lay scattered across the scorched flowerbeds, once-bright tiles on the rooftops darkened with ash. The stonework of the courtyard was still streaked with dried blood, and crooked blotches of soot marred the brick walls. The towering ancient tree, once majestic, stood charred, its few remaining branches twisted and blackened. A deep crater in the center of the courtyard completed the picture of total devastation.

The sorcerers scattered, flinging pale mandalas and foaming enchantments over the cracked stones. Some worked to disperse radiation and excess energy (because, truly, no one carried the whole time of the universe in their pocket without some contingency plan), others cast their shields toward Tony.

She looked up. The protective dome of Kamar-Taj sparked ominously, powered by the masters below.

FRIDAY reported no civilians or hostages in the area, and Tony fired blue repulsor blasts at the dome. It pulsed, absorbing the energy and distributing it, but the impact zones rippled like water disturbed by a stone. Tony upped the power.

The dome flickered more erratically, chaotic flashes of light spiderwebbing across its surface like veins. Stark could hear an ominous creak, like fabric tearing, as the fractures deepened. Magic crackled along the edges of the fissures until, with a deafening crash, the shield shattered. The dome burst into radiant shards, scattering like molten glass, and the sorcerers scattered in all directions.

Tony darted through one of the gaps just as a hesitant cry rang out beside her.

A crimson lasso had coiled around Spider-Man’s waist, pulling him downward, though the Cloak held him aloft. Covered in dust and blood, Mordo had just been dragged out from under a pile of rubble. He coughed, clutching his shoulder, the tattered remains of his burned sleeve sticking to raw, torn skin. Blisters wept blood on the scorched red flesh, and a white burn streaked from his chin to his cheek. Golden light pulsed faintly around his arm as he struggled to speak, his words strained and garbled.

Tony narrowed her eyes, focusing energy into a laser, and with surgical precision, she severed the red tendril holding the boy.

Mordo shouted something, his face contorted with pain, but in his furious, darting gaze, Tony caught a glimmer of unfiltered fear — pure, absolute terror. She couldn’t help the grim satisfaction that flickered inside her. A small part of her chided her for taking any pleasure in it, but honestly? She was playing by his rules.

Perhaps it wasn’t entirely ethical, but with someone like Mordo, Stark had little patience. It wasn’t as if she relished measuring her strength against anyone — this wasn’t about ego. It was about responsibility, about picking a side, keeping her promises, and holding the line long enough to get Strange back. Plus, trusting that a killer might change their mind was hardly strategic, but knocking them off their high horse had its uses. And besides, Mordo could’ve prepared better — his future might’ve warned him, after all. Now? One–one.

Behind her, sparks danced along the jagged edges of the shattered dome. The Cloak darted into the nearest crack, and Tony followed, diving headlong through the welcoming glow of a portal.

She landed unevenly on the sidewalk in front of the Sanctum Sanctorum, her descent less graceful than she would’ve liked. As she steadied herself, a blurred face loomed into view — it was Caton, she thought, dressed in dark robes. 

“There’s a child, he needs help—”

“Did you just nuke Kamar-Taj?”

“First, thermonuke, second, it was the gentlest air kiss, third, I sent it to Mordo — and let’s be honest, he deserved it.”

“Do you know what consequen—”

“Enough!” a familiar voice barked. “We’ll deal with it later. Tony!”

She blinked, momentarily disoriented. She realized FRIDAY had already retracted the nanites into the generators. Her ears were ringing, and her mind felt like a void. Someone was pulling her back from the edge of the sidewalk, where the asphalt was marked with parallel white stripes. The mention of a magical dome flitted through her memory. Right, Stephen had talked about it. They didn’t waste their time here, did they. But neither did they with Strange. Things had been going smoothly, and Strange was supposed to follow her through the portal, and then he—

“Tony?” The voice was louder now, and she forced her focus to snap back into place. Rhodey gently touched the bruise on her cheek with his thumb. “Tony…”

“There’s… a kid…” 

“The sorcerers are with him, the medics are here. Tony, focus, damn it!”

She frowned in confusion. Rhodey gripped her shoulders and gave her a light shake. His movements were strangely measured, deliberate in a way she didn’t often see from him. He was dressed in rumpled military fatigues. “Tony, you with me? Are you hurt?”

“Nice hat,” she muttered, flicking the brim of his white Air Force cap.

Rhodey caught her hand. “Tony.”

“I’m fine.”

She tilted her head as a subtle pain squeezed her temples. It felt like a shard of glass was lodged in her throat, and her lungs ballooned with air — leaving her neither able to inhale nor exhale. The sorcerers murmured anxiously, moving around the Cloak, which was dodging their outstretched hands; Rou, in her sand-coloured clothes, always standing out amidst the other more colourful robes, was stitching magical seams onto Spider-Man (how small he was, damn), and the soldiers glanced at Stark with curiosity, but she didn’t find the energy to even nod to them.

Rhodey leaned in, gently pressing his forehead to hers — a small island of reliability in the chaos of the storm. At least, they weren’t in the middle of a desert now. That was progress. Tony huffed softly and, ignoring his attempts to maintain composure in front of the soldiers, slid closer — pressing herself into Rhodey’s chest, hands still tucked into the pockets of her jacket. After a brief pause, Rhodey tightened his hold, his large hands warm on her back through the damp fabric.

“Colonel?”

Tony didn’t open her eyes, and by his voice, she guessed the soldier was no older than thirty. Rhodey called for FRIDAY, who immediately reported her condition — troubling, but nothing critical. Tony could feel Rhodey’s hesitation, but FRIDAY had always been reliable, and it was the only information he had, so—

“No immediate threats. Medical checkup in a few minutes. Send patrols inside the dome with the sorcerers.”

Oh no, checkup. That meant a security review, a debriefing, and blah-blah-blah. Rhodey wouldn’t let her go until he was sure she was out of danger, which she understood, but frankly, she’d rather pop a Tylenol pill (or rather three) and lie down in some soft, quiet darkness. She winced. “No, seriously. I’m fine.”

“I know your ‘fine’, Stark. What happened to your face?”

“Tripped over ideological fanaticism.”

Rhodey snorted and whispered into her hair, “I hate you. Tell me no one touched you.”

“I’m telling.”

“Five days, Stark. Five days with no signal, no word. I went gray, damn it.”

“Yeah, we were... kind of... in another world.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It wasn’t a reality distortion, it was a hole,” Rou guessed, short and wiry, with bronze curls tied in a ponytail. Her gaze was clinical as she scanned Tony, though there was also a glimmer of feline curiosity in her eyes. “Forced ejection. The rift in the fabric of spacetime sealed quickly on its own.” She gestured toward the Cloak, “And relics don’t often leave their masters for this long out of free will.”

“So that’s where the ‘forced’ came from.”

“Your body has traces of the closest contact with the multiverse we’ve seen in the last three thousand years. I’ll handle your examination personally.”

“Great. Love me a good examination.” Tony adjusted Rhodey’s chest pocket, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks under the piercing gazes of the sorcerers. “And, yes. Sorcerer. Strange. Stephen. I... lost him.”

The sorcerers grumbled, but Stark only scratched her wrist. What was she supposed to add? That he just vanished? That he didn’t show up when he was supposed to? That she couldn’t push him through the portal first? That he was so confident in his idiot Strange-like way that he sent her through first, and she fell for it? Yeah, she’d made a mistake. Miscalculated. Her eyes burned with exhaustion, and Tony pressed her lips together.

“You need rest,” Rhodey squeezed her shoulder, and she pulled her hand away from her nose. “You can tell everything later.”

“Miss Stark! Miss Stark!” called a thin voice, and Tony caught the anxious gaze of the boy. His face was still swollen, with dark blood drying on his forehead and cheeks, but golden light flickered over his wounds now. The boy fumbled through his jeans pocket, and Naama stood behind him, hands cupped around her mouth, a few blood stains on her blue sleeves. “M-Miss, please take this.”

He offered her the eye-shaped necklace.

“Where did you get this?”

“M-Mister Strange gave it to me…”

Rhodey measured the boy with a steel gaze, but Tony waved him off, “He was with me. This is Spider-Man.”

“Spider-Man is a child?”

“One thing at a time, right? Oh, no, don’t look at me like that. First time I see him without the mask, too.”

“Is this a joke?” Peter hugged himself, forcing a crooked smile.

“He’s got traces of another reality on him too,” Caton noted, turning to Stark. “He really was with you.”

“What’s your name, kid?” Rhodey asked with a gentle warmth.

“Peter. Peter Parker. M-Miss, please—” His voice cracked desperately, and his eyes glistened with impending tears. “Please, it’s not funny. Miss Stark!”

Tony frowned, staring into the boy’s eyes — a powerful déjà vu swept over her, like she’d seen a glimmer of memories just out of reach. Where had she seen this face before? A fan? A passerby in the crowd? One of the gifted kids who sent her video proposals for grants? Tony vaguely remembered he was from a one-parent family, maybe a poor neighbourhood — Brighton Beach? No. Steve was the Brooklyn boy. The boy reminded her of him, but he wasn’t him. Everything had gotten so tangled.

“Where are your parents, Peter?” Rhodey asked softly, and the boy sniffled.

“My... my aunt, uh, May Parker, she should be with you. Is she— she’s alright?”

“She’s with us.” Rhodey nodded to a pair of soldiers who had approached from behind the boy, and Tony clicked her tongue. The puzzle was coming together.

“Spider-Man evacuated the FEAST with us when Mordo attacked,” she remembered. “He got caught in the blast when Doc and I were transported.”

“Miss Stark, please! It’s me, I— I’m your protégé, please!” 

The soldiers moved toward the boy as he stepped closer to Stark, and Naama clenched her fists, but Rhodey stopped them with a quick gesture and turned his gaze to the boy. 

“You’ll have to go through a couple of checks, kid. Just a formality, okay? Then you can see your aunt.”

Peter looked around distrustfully as he was flanked, lifting an imploring gaze to Tony, but she just pressed her lips together. The deep, jagged wounds from hitting the asphalt looked disturbingly severe on his young face, and an uncomfortable heaviness touched Stark’s heart but quickly faded.

“I’m next," she said, vaguely gesturing to her own face. “You’ll wash.”

The boy blinked, bewildered, then nodded, slouching in reluctant, tense submission. A few sorcerers followed him, and once they had moved far enough away to be out of earshot, Rhodey leaned closer to Stark, who was still rubbing the numb muscle under her collarbone.

“Just be honest. Did you know?”

“Honestly? No.”

“I don’t remember him being registered under the Accords.”

“I don’t remember Spider-Man ever revealing his identity.”

“Tony, this will be his safety cushion.”

“But will it protect him from the government’s curiosity?” Tony clicked her tongue. “You know what I mean. At best — at best! — he’ll get a reception like Bruce. I’ll bet you a hundred bucks that no ethics will stop them from turning a kid into their next lab rat. Did you know the serum development program is still active?”

“If his abilities affect vital signs, all the officials above me will get the results of his medical checkup faster than you say ‘active’.”

“Did you hear that, FRIDAY?”

“Tony, I’m serious. Do you know where he got his powers from?" Stark shrugged, irritated, and Rhodey glanced around before leaning in closer. “What if HYDRA is behind him? It’s possible. Steve didn’t just—”

“I know about Steve,” she cut off, rubbing her heart with her palm. “This... Parker. He’s a minor.”

“Wanda Maximoff also—”

“And tracking her connection to HYDRA was a piece of cake. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“What’s that about, Tony?”

She pursed her lips. “Spider-Man. My protégé.”

“Maybe he doesn’t remember. You read Barnes’s file,” Rhodey shrugged when she shot him a gloomy gaze. “I mean, it wouldn’t be your fault.”

“So it’s that easy to fool me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“And you didn’t bring up Barnes for no reason either. You’re thinking what I’m thinking.”

It wasn’t a question, and the subtext wasn’t sitting well with Tony, just as it wouldn’t sit well with Rhodey, yet she raised an eyebrow pointedly, and he raised his hand, “No, Stark. Without supervision, no one’s letting you anywhere near him, and if you start asking questions about the kid in front of some soldier, Ross and Fury will be tearing the boy apart in an hour.”

“A transcript of the interrogation will be enough. For starters,” she glanced at Rhodey again. “He’s a minor.”

“A minor!” Rhodey repeated with a mixture of surprised irritation, as if he still couldn’t believe it. “If his aunt is his only guardian, things are bad. We need to run checks, and he’ll have to sign a consent form,” he sighed. “I’ll personally draft the form, Stark. No one’s letting big guys in white coats to the kid. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Good. Remember the green Camaro I gave Rogers on his birthday once?”

“What?”

The daylight became unbearably sharp, and Tony covered her eyes with her palm. “It’s at an abandoned lot somewhere between Pittsburgh and New York. We need to get it back. It’s important to me as a memory.”

FRIDAY predictably reported the symptoms of a migraine, and Rhodey, with a fragile concern at her suddenly weak voice, pulled Tony back into embrace. She slumped when the pain finally seized her in a cold spasm dangerously close to the pacemaker, and Rhodey sighed.

“Damn you, Stark.”

Chapter Text

First came the smell.

Acrid and searing, like red-hot coals shoved up his nose. Familiar.

Ammonium carbonate.

Stephen let out a hoarse groan. The salt fumes forced deep breaths from his lungs, and fluorescent light speared into his eyes. He turned away.

A hand patted his cheek, but the touch barely registered. A voice drifted down to him, muffled and distant, as if spoken through a wall. Strange couldn’t make out the words — only the insistence in their tone. But he obediently opened his eyes, latching onto a blurred figure drifting past, indistinct. His face felt wrapped in gauze, the world swallowed by white light.

His head throbbed with merciless pain until a golden firework exploded there—energy seared against his forehead, sweat beading at his temples. A faint, familiar, electronic hum reached his ears—a good sign. His hearing was coming back, and his vision was, too.

“Check, check,” a voice rang out, sharp enough to make him wince. “How you reading, Houston?”

“Tony—”

“Welcome back!”

His throat burned, raw as if he’d swallowed a handful of sand.

Sand…

His father often took Stephen to the lake, teaching him how to fish. Every trip felt like an expedition — backpacks packed, silly hats strapped under their chins. Sometimes, they rode there on horseback, Stephen clutching a litre-sized thermos and a kilo of apples.

His father had a green boat, which he repainted every month, coating it with varnish so its wooden sides gleamed flirtatiously in the sun. Then he’d tuck it away in the lakeside bushes, though there was little need — tourists only came to sunbathe, and the locals never ventured there at all. A smaller, cleaner lake lay nearby, where neighbors splashed carelessly in clear waters, but Stephen’s father taught his son patience instead — seating him in the middle of the lake at the peak of a sweltering day, fishing rod in hand, forbidding even the swat of a mosquito.

But afterwards, as if rewarding a well-trained dog, his father would give a silent pat on the shoulder, tip his hat over his face, and Stephen would dive in with a splash. The water embraced his sweat-slicked skin with a gentle chill, washing pollen from his hair. Uncaught green-and-gold sunfish scattered at his approach as he sliced through the murky depths with his tanned arms. In moments like these, he was certain — paradise was here, in the cool green lake, where so much sand swirled up from the bottom that it would take three days to wash it all off.

Sand… water…

“Don’t sleep,” Stark patted his cheek again, and Stephen cleared his throat.

“Glitch—” he rasped in warning. The numb, bloated sensation that had filled his entire body eased the moment magic touched it.

“You mean the colorful seizure? Don’t worry, you’ve got a nano-implant. Seamless biocompatible materials, quantum sensors, micro-emitters that adapt to any resonance signature. Minimal invasion and no post-op hell! Basically, when chakras and all that mystical mumbo-jumbo fail, this baby corrects any energy desynchronization. And it’s worth more than both of our organs combined on the black market.”

Nano-implant… black market… and why would chakras be insufficient for resonance? But Stephen nodded. Or at least, tried to. A crushing weakness pinned him down, every muscle leaden, his thoughts drifting, sluggish and unsteady.

Stark tightened a strap along his hairline. Stephen instinctively tried to turn away, but his head was already secured. Stark pressed a suction cup against his forehead, then another at the crown of his head.

Medical electrodes.

The first sting of panic crept in, but Strange forced himself to focus.

He could see. Hear. He didn’t know where he was, but his arms and legs were intact. Cold steel pressed against his back. A dull ache tugged at a bruise on his stomach, and a cottony tension hummed through his damaged nerves. He tried to move his hand. Ice prickled at his fingertips — nothing more. 

He couldn't move.

He was restrained.

Stretched out on a table, slightly wider than an operating one, arms and legs splayed apart, strapped down. The restraints, deceptively smooth and almost pleasant to the touch, held firm, locking his flexor muscles — his hands, his fingers. Another set of straps bound his shoulders, chest, and thighs. Not even the slightest room for resistance.

As if that wasn’t enough, he was completely naked.

Heat flared up his neck in an instant.

“Oh, don’t be shy, Doc,” Stark purred, giving his chest a light pat. “First off, we’re all friends here. Second, you’re in great shape — I almost forgot what kind of body you’ve been hiding under those ancient rags. Big mistake! Hey, relax. No plans to rape you.” 

Stephen’s cheeks burned, but he chastised himself for such childish embarrassment.

Escaping the restraints wouldn’t be hard, but where would he go? Where in this world would be safe? He didn’t fully understand the extent of Stark’s influence, but he was ready for the worst. Especially since, without the Slingy, his mobility was limited. The Vapors of Valtorr could conceal and transport him, but their range was restricted. He could risk summoning the Crimson Bands to tear through dimensions, but… no. He didn’t know this reality well enough to predict where he’d end up.

The implant might be another problem. Stark’s paranoia was hard to overestimate — his Iron Legion would track Strange anywhere in the world. That meant he’d have to deal with it somehow. Disrupting electromagnetic fields? They’d still detect him. Stark had said the materials were biocompatible, which meant dissolving the implant by accelerating his metabolism could work — but how long would he be stuck here? With chaotic interdimensional glitches already marking him as a target, he’d be just as conspicuous as if there were a tracker under his skin. Neither option was appealing.

But his thoughts still hadn’t regained their full sharpness, scattered by Stark’s voice like dandelion seeds in the wind.

“By the way, congratulations,” Stark flipped through a stack of stapled papers, rubbing a finger over the patch of black beard beneath his lip. “You’re healthy as a horse. Well, almost. Mild exhaustion — elevated norepinephrine, subpar cortisol and serotonin levels. Also, increased activity in the amygdala, decreased in the prefrontal cortex. But other than that — stallion!”

Exactly as expected. His brain was processing fear while suppressing other emotional responses, a natural reaction alongside hypervigilance and his body’s erratic attempts to metabolise the biochemistry of shock. But he’d have time to analyze that later.

How were the other Masters handling this?

“But your oxytocin levels — off the charts! Didn’t expect that from such a brooding loner.”

“I talk to you a lot,” Stephen snapped, and with an inevitable pang of uneasy longing, he thought of his Stark.

“That’s sweet.”

Sweet.

His cruel imagination picked at his ridiculous nudity and helplessness, dragging him back to a space he knew all too well. But it was unlikely Stark was here for a chat about postgraduate residency. The sharp, stinging cynicism cut through him, like a slap to the face, snapping him back to the present in an instant.

Bolts of Balthakk. A universal spell, burning through any fabric and shattering any metal, cast without the need for hands. A quick incantation, an instant release — no earthly material had ever withstood the discharge of this energy. Unless… that was exactly what Stark had planned for.

In addition to the two electrodes on his head, five more were placed with deliberate precision: the hollow of his collarbone, the centre of his chest at heart level, his solar plexus, just below his navel, and his perineum. Strange might have laughed at the absurdity if Stark weren’t so — exquisitely, ingeniously — brilliant when it came to manipulating energy. The seven main chakras were printed on every souvenir stand in Nepal, and it would have been easy to dismiss this as theatrical mockery, but Stephen couldn’t afford to be naïve.

Wires snaked from the electrodes to consoles that looked like energy generators.

That meant any summoned power would be immediately converted. But if this was a trap, it was surprisingly crude, considering how easily Stephen had seen through it. But Bolts of Balthakk no longer seemed like a simple solution, and he disliked how complications kept stacking up.

Distract Stark, cast the spell, and bank on the element of surprise? It might buy him a few seconds, but freeing his hands had to come first. And from there—

“It’ll hurt, but not for long.” Stark let a pair of nanite-assembled probes slip from his fingers onto Stephen’s chest, where they latched onto his skin. “Then I get myself a brand-new battery, and that’s another hundred, maybe two hundred years of pure energy… you know, we don’t even measure energy in joules anymore? We measure it in hours.”

Stephen didn’t need the monitors to tell him what was changing — blood pressure, temperature, oxygen levels. Standard pre-op readings. Which meant one thing: he was running out of time.

On a tray by the sink, scalpels and disinfectant solutions sat waiting.

“I’d love for you to be unconscious,” Stark continued, “but unfortunately, through good old empirical testing, we’ve found that your magic is at its most intense when you’re fully awake. And I’ve got high hopes for you.”

“Stark.”

“Oh! Not long ago, I was just ‘Tony’.”

“It’s time for you to stop.”

“Stop? And deprive an entire world of energy? And then what, force humanity back into coal mines? No, Doc. No.” His blue eyes glinted. “Or do you want to talk about the moral side of the question?”

He gestured, and Stephen heard the soft hum of an Iron Suit. It was positioned somewhere behind his head — he couldn’t see it, only hear it. Then followed the quiet roll of wheels over the smooth floor. The faint clink of glass.

An IV. Without a doubt.

As if to prove it, Stark began feeling along Stephen’s arm, peeling back the cotton from an earlier blood draw and tracing the vein with deliberate pressure. Stephen tensed, following the motion with his eyes, and gritted out, “There’s no point in talking if the other person isn’t listening.”

“Aren’t Masters in your world sworn to service? Isn’t the whole thing about casting aside your egos and happily dissolving into the boundless cosmos?”

“You’re confusing monasticism with spiritual self-discovery.”

“Words, words, words!” Stark waved his hand dismissively. “I’d make a damn good Hamlet, don’t you think? Anyway, call it what you want, but I respect commitment to a philosophy. That’s why your bodies serve the world, and your souls get to experience nirvana. By the way, I’m not a doctor — more of a passionate hobbyist. So, apologies if it hurts.”

Stark rubbed antiseptic over Stephen’s veins and inserted a catheter. Lacking a doctor’s finesse, the puncture flared around the cold steel (Stephen had sensitive skin, and after blood tests, he was always bruised). Stark connected the catheter to the IV and secured it with clear tape.

The next step: cefazolin. An antibiotic for pre- and postoperative prevention, or a local alternative. With Stark’s technology, the drug could reach peak concentration in the blood in under an hour, but not faster than five minutes, even in the worst case. That was something. If Stark wanted to protect him from infection, he wouldn’t proceed until the drug had taken effect. And that meant precious time — time Stephen had to use.

“Isn’t it the greatest joy,” Stark injected the antibiotic through a syringe, “to merge with the source of all existence? Or whatever you guys call it.”

“Doesn’t your conscience bother you?”

“If only I had one,” Stark smirked, checking his wristwatch. “J, let’s show him.”

He loosened the strap around Stephen’s forehead and turned his head to the side. His cheek pressed against the cold steel; the silver suit shifted a monitor aside, revealing the glass wall that separated them from the adjacent hall.

Beyond the glass, rows of identical operating tables stood in a sea of consoles and monitors. On each table lay a motionless, naked figure.

On the one closest to the glass lay another Stephen Strange.

“No.” Stephen tried to turn away, but Stark pressed a palm to his cheek, holding him in place. “You started this — now watch. Let’s look for my conscience together.”

An unkempt dark beard, overgrown to his cheeks, obscured the twin’s face. His features, sharp to the point of sickness, jutted out like a bare skull. His lips were parted, as if they had never spoken a final word, but his expression was vacant, lifeless — like that of a corpse. Only the golden shimmer beneath his translucent skin and the diagrams on the monitors hinted that he was still alive. Or at least, his body was.

The twin’s hair had turned grey and grown to his shoulders, and dark circles pooled beneath his eyes. His skin was a pale, oxygen-starved blue — circulatory failure, total depletion. He could’ve easily slipped his thin hands from the straps that now seemed purely symbolic; his ribs and hips protruded, skeletal, with electrodes and wires tangled all over him.

But what burned brightest were the seven thick tubes attached to his padmas — through them pulsed a fiery orange light. Unflickering. Unyielding. The very essence of life.

And the most terrifying thing wasn’t even the sight of Stephen’s own twisted reflection — a cruel prophecy — it was the utter hopelessness of the twin’s condition. He looked so drained that he could barely lift a finger, even if he was conscious. And Stephen didn’t sense even the faintest trace of his astral form.

He didn’t sense anything.

The twin was an empty shell, a bio-conduit for an energy so pure, so absolute, that it had burned away every trace of his identity. No aura. No warmth. Nothing.

The idea of stealing power from the Masters wasn’t new. They had been abducted, tortured, and murdered for it, but resistance was always mandatory, and surrender was considered one of the gravest crimes against the mystical arts. Kamar-Taj condemned violence, warned its Masters against self-mutilation and despair, but when it came to revealing the oldest secrets to an enemy, the Order demanded self-sacrifice.

It was never about some elitist mysticism. Careless manipulation of the fabric of space-time was no harmless joke — it carried consequences that could ripple through millennia. The first Masters had written in their journals that it was better to reveal less — to feed a novice only as much as necessary — and only with time, after verifying loyalty and understanding, to grant deeper knowledge. Never should it all be given at once, only to deal with the catastrophic fallout later.

And suddenly, the thought struck Stephen: perhaps Mordo, defending the purity of intentions and the exclusivity of the skill, was... right. In some way.

Leaving a room full of tortured, hollowed-out Masters behind disgusted him. But he had to choose. He had to return home, no matter what. Because his Masters were waiting for him, and he couldn’t betray them. Couldn’t abandon them.

Stephen’s upper lip curled involuntarily. Otherworldly electricity seared through his skin from the inside.

Bolts of Balthakk… Bolts...

“He was the first,” Stark straightened Stephen’s head again, tightening the strap with a deliberate click. “And, as they say, you’ve got to toss the first pancake. But I’m still happy with him. How’d it go? One small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind—”

“Who knows about this?”

“Everyone does — but only as much as they want to. For ten years, people have been dropping flowers at your Sanctum and then heading off to eat their burgers. Don’t kid yourself, Doc, people aren’t built to care — they don’t wanna think about the cost of their favourite progress.”

Ten years.

“What have you done to this world?”

“I’ve saved it.”

Ten years.

“Yeah, no more electricity bills. I remember.”

“The infinity of your energy made it free, destroying the entire global energy market. Oil crashed, gas became obsolete — the only thing left was water, but controlling it isn’t so difficult when you sell the most advanced filtration tech on the planet. The truth is, I’ve always held the reins; we just made it official.”

“Imperative approach.”

“And there shouldn’t be that many authority figures — too many cooks spoil the broth. And I do this for the people! In just a few years, no political squabbles, no oil waste; we — and by ‘we’ I mean humanity — solved global pollution, global warming, all the issues environmentalists were up in arms about. Whales are back in the Hudson—”

“What about the armies?”

“What can they do against an Iron Legion powered by thermonuclear fusion?” Stark snorted, handing his Iron Suit a scalpel so it could begin disinfecting. “The government hated me not just for the show.”

“And you’ve justified all their fears. What a hero.”

Stark leaned back and grabbed him by the groin — Stephen gasped. The straps held him in place, and adrenaline flooded his head, scattering white sparks before his eyes.

“For someone tied to the table, naked, you really aren’t watching your mouth, Stephen.”

“For someone so… overconfident, you really lack self-control, Stark.”

Stark snorted, tightening his grip, causing Stephen to wince.

“I think you haven’t quite understood the situation,” Stark’s grip on his groin suddenly disappeared, but before Stephen could exhale, he felt a demanding pressure on his anus. He tensed, pulling away as much as he could, growling desperate ‘no’, but two of Stark’s fingers relentlessly pushed inside. “Oh, don’t sulk. Don’t you like it? Well, your twin and I shared a few hot memories. The trust was earned. Yeah, here you go.”

Stephen arched, numb from the straps biting into his skin, hissing as he tried to twist away, but Stark only pushed a third finger in. “You have no power left, Doc. No control.” Stark bent his fingers, and Stephen choked on a guttural growl. “Did you think no one would care about the growing energy reservoir in the Tibetan wilderness? Did you think no one would notice how you’re secretly gaining more power than our silly little nuclear endeavours? Did you think you could take over the world with subtle, unquestionable terror? No, dear,” Stark pressed harder, moving his hand back and forth, and through the stretching pain, Stephen felt Stark pressing the electrode with his thumb. “Not a spark of your magic will ever be a threat to my world. All you can count on now is the favor of a couple of fingers in your ass.”

No. This wasn’t true.

None of this was real.

No.

The energy of Balthakk burned in Stephen’s palms, splashing into the scars with biting electricity, but Stephen, gathering his will, finally opened his eyes. Now was the best moment.

The air between them seemed to thicken — a mental connection was like a pipe, leading from one pair of eyes to another, and Stephen charged his thoughts so strongly that even the sensors on the computers flickered, let go, let go… Stephen wasn’t great at hypnosis; any manipulation of consciousness seemed barbaric to him, but he had no problem transferring theory into practice when needed.

The hook worked. Tony’s gaze unfocused for a moment, his fingers hesitantly pulling out, leaving only a tight pulsing inside, but as if uncovering the mental game, Stark turned away.

“Anyway, fine,” Stark pulled off his glove and changed it, pulling a new one on with his teeth. “A hanged man’s last wish, after all.”

Stephen mentally dismissed the pain between his legs and called upon the Balthakk spell again, feeling his energy gather in his lower abdomen. But it seemed insufficient — the magic stretched toward the growing tightness but didn’t reach it, like blood unable to flow through a narrowed vein.

Nothing. Nothing happened.

Nothing.

His mind would forget — his body would, too.

Stephen closed his eyes.

“Your world’s improvement, Stark, isn’t about philanthropy; it’s just you trying to substitute for your fear.”

There was a brief surprised pause, then a low chuckle. The scalpel clinked against the tray. “Well, look who’s talking. You trusted me, but now it’s me who’s the one substituting... by the way, anything going on in your world between you? I mean, us. Oh, I see — nothing, right? What a shame. I’ll be sure to pass on your regards when I head to the multiverse.”

“Leave the multiverse alone, Stark, you know nothing about it.”

“But I wanna know! Why else would you tell me how to open it? Do you remember?”

“I thought you’d help.”

“Yeah, yeah, substitution. Wanna see your sister?”

Stephen’s nostrils flared, but he pushed the vague bitterness away. No. This Stark was nothing like his Tony. And this Donna was not his Donna. Bolts of Balthakk...

“She’s a smart one,” Stark remarked casually, circling Stephen’s table. “Took after you. A very promising researcher, no doubt. I brought her on because she was the first we digitised so young, but between you and me, I’m saving her a spot in one of my biochem labs. And if she’s interested in transferring consciousness to a digital medium—” He slapped Stephen’s cheek lightly. “I’ll just give her you. After all, I already lost you once through carelessness.” He patted Stephen’s hair, but Stephen only closed his eyes, masking his reaction to the mock admiration in Stark’s voice. “But the universe gave me a second shot. Medicine would never forgive me for losing a mind like yours.”

So, both the body and the brain would be used. No wasted resources. What was the mechanism? His AI must have been studying reactions, scanning the brain, analysing biochemical processes to map behavior and recreate consciousness. In a world that had achieved such technological progress, anything was hardly impossible.

And damn it. He and Tony had discussed this so many times — a fascinating mental exercise, always overshadowed by its ominous implications. Just as Strange never joked about hypnosis, Tony had never been entirely lying when he talked about programming humanity.

Trembling fingers dug into the straps again, but Stephen forced himself to ignore the physical pain, focusing instead on the magic.

“You’ve seen many horrors, Tony, but how many of them have you lived through? Power won’t save you from an asteroid destined to destroy Earth, nor will it shield your loved ones from death. The universe doesn’t tolerate competition, and you know that yourself — if someone decides to take off your crown, it’ll fly off with your head.”

“Ah, the sermons, how I’ve missed them! Doom, inevitable punishment… and where are they now? The anti-asteroid field around Earth is getting better every day. And Extremis — doesn’t grant immortality, but it does give you quite the extended life. For those chasing more, they just upload their consciousness. People adore me, Doc. I’m their one true religion. And your perceptiveness is a bit off today — it’s not power that calms my fears, but my genius. And I’m gladly sharing that with the world.”

“Total control isn’t the extent of your dreams. You can do more than just bring the world to its knees.”

“But I can do that too! Besides, you’re in love. Your opinion doesn’t count.”

“I’m trying to help,” Stephen snapped, but Stark looked at him with interest. Bolts of Balthakk… “It’s not magic that’s being protected from you, it’s you being protected from it. It’s born in the Cosmic Root, passing through countless dimensions, some of them hostile, before it reaches us. And it still hasn’t torn the fabric of space-time, only because we drink it in drops. If you keep drilling holes in the dam, sooner or later, it will burst.”

“Oh, I know! It’s like sex with a virgin. Too much insistence, and it won’t be as pleasant anymore.”

“Yes, Stark. It’s like sex with a virgin — except inside her sits a megalomaniac, yanking your dick with a rope. You can neither pull out nor cum.”

Stark grinned widely.

Stephen… had messed up.

The sharpness of the toothless jab shattered any illusion of confidence. He shouldn’t have let even a sliver of tension slip through and hated himself for the lack of restraint. Stark traced a light finger from Stephen’s ribs down to his thigh, and it took all of Stephen’s composure to maintain an unreadable expression. Nothing has happened. He forced himself to stay calm.

“You’re a master of metaphors, Doc.” Stark checked his watch. “Usually, I’m the funniest one in the room, but—”

“By killing the masters, you strip your reality of its only protection — listen, your technology will be powerless against other dimensions, whose combat potential you can’t even imagine, because you don’t know how physics works in a world without physics.”

“Well, I have a good imagination. And a great research center.” Stark put on a medical mask. “Shall we begin?”

Bolts of Balthakk!

Lightning surged along Stephen’s arms — but like a ball thrown against a wall, it rebounded off an unexpected barrier and shot back into his veins. Electricity exploded through his arms, his skin burning white-hot from the flash. The excruciating pain in his fingers made his vision darken.

He arched his back sharply, the straps pulled tighter. The electrical discharge dispersed into his bloodstream, leaving only a faint crackling sensation. His fingers throbbed painfully, forcing a soft groan from his lips as he winced. Reiki shot to where it was needed — however much of it was left.

“This is etherium,” Tony said, rolling the tool table closer and tapping one of the straps. “Feels like silk, but stronger. Do you have anything like this in your world? We developed it from the New Element — you know, the latest trend and all that. Couldn’t pass it up. Then I added those… sands of yours that block magic. What are they called again? Anyway, the material got even stronger. It can withstand a falling truck now. Gotta admit, I didn’t think to use it here right away, but, well, even Homer nods.”

The lights in the laboratory flickered out.

It was still no time to panic.

A white beam fell across Stephen’s chest,  the Iron Suits glove hovering above him, as Stark leaned in. He wiped the left side of Stephen’s chest with gauze, measuring a few fingers below his heart. The wet trace burned against his skin.

“I won’t give you this power,” Stephen hissed.

Stark snorted under his mask. “You think you’re the first one like this here?”

“You were kidnapped once, Stark. You were tortured. Doesn’t anything stir inside you now?”

“Ah! Nothing at all.”

There was no time to come up with a new plan. He’d have to enter the astral dimension — detaching from physical pain would make it easier. Stephen could feel the Nishanti Sands in the straps, preventing energy from circulating freely through his skin, but there wasn’t much of it. They couldn’t restrain his astral form.

Stephen closed his eyes.

“Wanna know what I did to them?” Stark’s voice cut through his focus, pulling him back. Malicious amusement radiated from Stark’s astral plane like heat off metal, and Stephen shifted uncomfortably. “The terrorists,” Stark clarified. “I erased them from the face of the Earth. All of them. The message is simple — don’t upset the guy who controls all types of nuclear weapons.”

“You… dropped a bomb on Afghanistan?”

“Think bigger. The entire East! Near, Far, Middle, all of it. It’s all different culture, different history — who am I to interfere with that?” He waved a hand dismissively. “Of course, we evacuated a couple hundred decent artists and scientists, but the rest? Swept away by a ruthless, big, big boom.” He spread his arms wide, mimicking the extent of the explosion. “The mushroom cloud stood for two weeks. Two weeks, Doc! The iron armor around the world proved itself beautifully.”

“That’s not armor. It’s an iron fist.”

“The world doesn’t care.”

“That part of it you decided to spare.”

“Well, I’m not greedy — I didn’t need that much.”

No, Tony. No. How far things had gone.

Stark turned toward him with a scalpel, and only then did Stephen feel the first icy shiver, followed by a wave of panic-inducing heat. He was disarmed, immobilised, alone with someone he no longer knew what to expect from. What was left in his arsenal?

He needed to summon the Bolts of Balthakk again. What if he changed tactics — not striking the straps with full force immediately, but disrupting the molecular resonance in the material itself? Then he could escape. Stephen focused.

“J,” Tony called, “the vibe sucks.”

“One second, Mr. Stark.”

The annoying buzz of Thunderstruck began to pick up speed. Stark nodded approvingly to the rhythm.

“By the way, Doc, still trying to figure this one out — Reiki, is it the channel or the juice? I hear it kicks in when a wizard’s running on fumes. Took it for a spin a couple of times, but I need better data.”

The scalpel slid smoothly into Stephen’s chest. He gritted his teeth as cold spread across his skin, pulsing around the incision. The blade moved deeper.

“Though I’ve always been more of a Star Wars guy.” Stark pulled the scalpel out, his blue eyes gleaming with detached amusement, looking at the blood slicking the thin blade. “That a thing in your world? Classic sci-fi, by the way. Real pillar of pop culture.”

The golden Reiki surged instinctively — Kamar-Taj masters took their vows knowing that channelling healing energy to damaged tissue would become second nature. It was a vital reflex in battle, though few had considered how easily it could be turned against them.

His chest, suddenly emptied of air and organs, ached more from anxiety than pain. But the cut’s proximity to his heart sharpened everything — his nerves stretched to their limit, his body hyper-aware. Stephen fought to suppress the Reiki. It sizzled in his lungs, restless, but didn’t touch the wound. A drop of blood slipped down his ribs onto the cold table. 

Then Stark twisted the scalpel, probing the incision.

“May your Force be with me—”

“Nice reference, boss. You look like a true mad scientist now.”

“Oh, save the commentary, J.”

“As you wish, sir.”

Holding back a groan, separating mind from body, suppressing the magic — doing all three at once was impossible. The blade plunged deeper, its movement unhurried, almost curious, like it was held by a cruel child playing with something breakable. Stephen gave up.

He glanced at the wound. Cold detachment swallowed the pain, and he saw Reiki, burning over the gash like molten gold. Sparks sprayed like a Bengal fire, flickering inside a wide, transparent tube extending from his chest. What was the plan? Bolts of Balthakk?

The light in the tube flickered green. A rush of raw power funneled into his heart chakra, and Stephen shuddered — not from pain, but something dangerously close to exhilaration. Anahata, the heart chakra, was green. The Time Stone was green. The past, the future; heart — time… time… air—

Someone knocked. The sun was rising. Over the rasping wail of either Malcolm or Angus, figures moved — faces Strange didn’t recognize, voices calling his name, some praising, some pleading, Tony, Tony, don’t leave, no… He had to open the door. What if it was his father? What if it wasn’t?

For a moment, formless spirits surrounded Stephen. Then he opened his eyes in the car. Then he was climbing the steps to Kamar-Taj, the doors open, the summer cool settled into the hall’s shadowed corners, as familiar as breath.

Tony’s — his Tony’s — pupils were edged with jagged golden sparks. Mordo was approaching from above. A voice, youthful and half-remembered, told him everything would be fine. Take the pills and it won’t hurt.

The light in the tube flashed gold again. The surgical lamps above flickered, their glow turning warm, unsteady.

Tony’s voice was distant, like sound through water, “Look, Doc. It’s you.”

Stephen surfaced from the hallucinations with a sharp gasp. Crimson Cosmos. He could tear this dimension apart and direct the energy burst outward, straight into the strap fastenings.

“That’s not enough, Doc.” Tony tapped Stephen’s shoulder with the scalpel. “I need more. I need it all.”

The scalpel clattered into a tray. Something rustled. Only then did Stephen register the antiseptic’s cold sting as it wiped over his forearm.

“Tony…” His breath barely made it to words. “This power… it’s hidden for a reason.”

“Of course it is! If your magic was just a trick, someone less smart and expensive would’ve debunked it by now. But we’re talking real energy here.”

“Which you steal.”

“Which you stole from poor, sick humanity. I’m the damn Robin Hood, Doc! And they agree with me. Your whole sacred little institution was just a fancy excuse to hoard knowledge.”

“What did you do… to the others?”

“Buried them. Their last big get-together ended in a mass suicide — not much use to me. And as for the ones who ran or tried to bargain, they’re cowards, not worth any respect anyway. Another hundred or so are hiding in Greenland now, but they’re stuck. Can’t open portals in a constant magnetic anomaly.”

“You’ve really thought of everything.”

“I just drew the lines. They think they still have power. Every six months, they even take in fresh recruits. What can I say? Good for them. More for me later. Unlike energy, human bodies burn out in what? Fifteen years? But just think of what we could accomplish in that time.”

“You’re kidnapping and killing people, Stark.”

“They’re in suspended animation, actually.” Tony flicked his fingernail against the syringe needle. “A better world requires sacrifices. Are you ready for sacrifices, Doc?”

Stephen closed his eyes.

Infinite energy. Infinite— fine. He had no choice.

He imagined magic pulsing within him, rising like storm waves — surging, roaring, licking against his skin with every breath. Goosebumps rippled through every chakra as he let go. Heat throbbed from the base of his skull down to his cheeks, his throat thick with mucus, his heart hammering against his ribs in steady, metronomic beats. His stomach clenched. Shameful warmth curled deep in his gut. He was open now — like a sponge, ready to drink in the ocean until it overflowed.

In his mind, a vortex formed — a spiraling, restless sea. A deeper, darker current surged up, thick and violent, like blood welling from an open wound. The energy understood. It seeped into every cell, flooding his eyes, his lungs, his—

The song cut off.

“That’s so sweet, Doc,” Tony’s voice echoed from somewhere just out of reach. “I know what you’re trying to do here — gather all your little magic and blow us all to bits. Noble, really. But not part of my plan. J, where’s the music?”

The first chord of Back in Black slammed through the speakers just as Tony drove the needle into Stephen’s vein on the other arm.

“Ouch—” Stephen jerked violently, fingers twitching against the straps. “Fuck you—”

“Warned you.”

The sea shattered. Pain dragged him back, ripped him from the current. Stephen tried to recoil, but Tony pressed the plunger. Hot liquid burned into his bloodstream, and Reiki lunged to intercept it — only for the collision to ignite a fire inside him, real and consuming. His arm burned. Itched. And the restraints held.

“Do you remember Extremis?” Tony withdrew the syringe, pressing a cotton ball to the injection site. His voice was so casual, like this was just another chat over coffee. “Genetic manipulation serum — I told you about it. Like your magic, it can heal just about anything. Regenerates cells, even whole organs. But, you know how the testing goes — trial and error.” He twirled the spent syringe between his fingers. “One version needed so much energy to keep regenerating that it just… built up. And boom. Took the host with it.”

A violent tremor shot through Stephen’s hands, rattling his bones. He clenched his teeth, swallowing a strangled groan. Extremis was tearing into his energy — splitting it apart — but the intelligent force inside him fought back, surging with a burst of white-hot light. He saw it, fire pulsing through his veins, tiny drops of Extremis spreading like molten metal through his bloodstream.

“The bad version of Extremis is insatiable. And your energy is infinite. So what happens? A perfect feedback loop. They’ll just keep feeding off each other.” Stark tapped his temple. “Wasn’t it smart of me? Science versus magic: one-zero.”

Reiki moved to intercept, to absorb, distribute, and fight back — but the virus didn’t stop. It spread, replicating itself, regenerating faster than the magic could burn it away. Energy flooded from his wide-open chakras, but the battle burned across his skin, an unbearable itch burrowing into every nerve. Heat climbed his throat, seared over his face, until his thoughts exploded into chaotic, disjointed images. Too much. Too fast. His mind reeled, unable to process the firestorm flashing behind his eyes.

A gasp tore from him. “Hot, too hot—”

“I know, sweetie,” Tony patted his cheek. “Have some patience.”

“Tony—”

“J, crank the volume.”

The bassline of Back in Black shook through his skull, drowning everything else out. Stephen writhed, jerking against the restraints, helpless to escape — the shackles, the heat, his own body turning against him. Sweat dripped down his temples.

He needed something to hold onto. Something real. His thoughts spiraled toward oblivion, slipping into a flood of light, but he grabbed onto whatever he could. Metal instruments clanging. The rush of water. Stark’s voice — slightly off-key, smug, singing along.

A strangled, breathless laugh almost bubbled up in Strange.

That son of a bitch had great music taste. His Tony would’ve approved.

She would’ve understood.

The lyrics of the song spun in his mind like a broken record, the last fragile barrier between Stephen and the source of universal energy shattering. It was tight. Hot. A naked skull, an exposed wire, a constant, burning pressure — every point in Stephen’s body had become a hypersensitive nerve. One touch, and he would snap, unravel. The force was overwhelming, twisting his senses, pulling him apart. It was so intense, it almost hurt, but it also made him crave more, like a sharp pleasure that clawed at his insides.

The sensation looped back into his body, a spiralling tide of energy filling him, drowning him, pushing him to the edge. He couldn’t contain it. His thoughts dulled as his nerves screamed — release was all he wanted, but it never came. His body was tired, exhausted, but when it seemed like he would finally break from the overstimulation, another surge hit. Another wave of energy.

A cold breeze swept through him, soothing for a split second, before an unnatural calm settled over him. He could feel it — he was not alone, but no one was truly there. In the neighboring labs, there were four thousand three hundred and fifty-seven people. All dead. Outside, summer twilight stretched across the sky. The roads were full of cars; distant voices, laughter.

He was trapped in Stark’s mansion, deep in a bunker-like basement. The party was over. Upstairs, VIP guests lounged in their rooms — some high, some gossiping, others lost in their distractions. Pepper Potts was there too, tired but focused, deciding where to allocate their new battery.

Mars. They should be focusing on Mars. Stark’s domes weren’t enough to shield the planet from radiation, and the detection systems would fail before anyone could react.

In the silence, somewhere distant, a child cried. A dog barked. The champagne cork popped.

The Time Stone flickered faintly, buried beneath layers of the scorched, radioactive rubble.

He and Tony had a month. A month to fix everything, or there would be nothing left to fix. No world to save. No them. Or maybe — maybe they’d survive. Maybe they’d build something new, something strong, over the fresh graves. Maybe the world would go on, after it had shed its weak skin and grown anew. Maybe. The future, Stephen realized, was always in motion. He could see it. Touch it.

And Tony… Tony was there too.

Then, in the shifting space between time, between endless probabilities and the cold certainty of absolutes, the Ancient One appeared. She was either humming along — don't try to push your luck…. just get out of my way… — or asking if he could hear her at all.

And why her? On his deathbed, Stephen had imagined seeing Donna or his mother, but no — magic had dug so deep into his veins that even at the edge of death, it was his mentor who reached out to him, looking at him with that usual ironic expression of hers. How did he earn this?

With the next drumbeat, the long-awaited euphoria finally crashed through Stephen, and he drowned in the bottomless, golden light.

Chapter Text

“Tony, you can’t just drop a thermonuke wherever you feel like it.”

“Oh? I can’t?”

“I’m afraid to even start counting how many treaties that violates.”

“You know what’s different between now and our little Gulmira getaway back in two thousand nine? This one is not sanctioned. But people? They love watching me give the government a live migraine. Did you see that stream’s stats?”

“People are chucking bricks through SI’s windows because of it.”

“I thought those were Steve’s fans.”

“If this stunt makes it to Nepalese officials, you’ll be banned from so much as school assembly, let alone public broadcast.”

“As convinced as you are that I’ve gone off the rails, I would never use something that dangerous unless I was absolutely sure it would hit the target — and only the target.”

“Why can’t you admit you screwed up?”

“Because I nearly took out a fanatical lunatic with zero collateral, Rhodey.”

He sighed. “I know.” Then leaned on the table, lowering his voice as the sorcerers entered the room. “But you know too — either the mission’s sanctioned or ‘nearly’ means nothing.”

They were dressed like they were headed to a harvest festival.

Tony took a thoughtful bite of what was left of her corndog and turned to face the sorcerers. Naama, Caton, and Hamir, the only Council members who could still talk, had changed their usual bright costumes for pale, simpler ones. Hamir had worn light colours before, but Naama looked almost spectral in grey, while Caton’s sharp cheekbones and black beard, conversely, stood out prominently above the chalk-white collar.

They were joined by Master Dahlia, who was introduced to Tony as Kamar-Taj’s head seamstress. She was a short, strong woman with a square face and thin lips, always pressed into a tight line. Her hair was tucked under a gold scarf, braided into a thick plait, the end pinned neatly beneath a sheer veil that half-revealed a moss-green suit underneath. From the round wooden buckle of her belt, the same as Stephen had, hung several woven ribbons of fabric of different colours, all intricately knotted. Tony counted six knots, each marked by a small wooden bead. 

Whoosh. A falling beam strikes the surface and reflects off at the same angle. Beer–Lambert law. Basic stuff.

Tony was a mechanic — hands-on, solder burn, trial-and-error type — but Howard, intolerant to silent contemplations (unless they were about math) or emptiness in the head, that reflected with a similar emptiness on the face, treated the brain like a muscle: if it wasn’t flexing, it was slacking. Random tests were his version of a gym membership. Faraday’s law? The Gibbs free energy change? The Fourier transform? Einstein’s field equations?

He quizzed her at breakfasts and before bed, when she was riding horses and punching the bag at the gym; he asked instead of greetings after long business trips and cutting her off mid-sentence. Tony picked things up quickly and had a solid grasp of the recursive chain of hypotheses and theorems, but for Howard, that wasn’t enough. He saw genius as the baseline and never praised her for it — quite on the contrary, taking her extraordinary mind for granted, he demanded more than just the use of an innate gift.

Tony never did figure out exactly what her father had been so concerned about. Was it the idea that a girl — a fragile, emotional creature, doomed to screw it all up just by virtue of being one — might inherit the crown jewels of American militarism, or was it that the girl was his only child and might’ve done something worse than let down the country — embarrass the Stark name? But, although the implications stung, looking back on the boot camp he called parenting, Tony had to admit, however grudgingly, that it worked. She’d never had the patience for theory, and Howard made sure she would never need it. The fundamentals were drilled so deep into her brain they showed up in REM sleep. 

MIT didn’t stand a chance. All they could do was gasp admiringly and shake hands with the ‘naturally gifted’ heir of the main weaponsmith of the country.

And, well. That was fair. Howard knew how to raise a genius. He just didn’t know how to raise a daughter.

Howard, Howard. Thinking about Father was a good sign — it meant her brain was stitching itself back together. No more spiralling into those sharp-edged thoughts she couldn’t even verbalise, let alone explain, no matter how many metaphors she threw at them. The migraine meds had knocked her out for a short but blissfully deep nap, then she was brought back to life by a cold shower and the smell of freshly laundered tracksuit (she especially liked the black joggers in this set: they outlined her hips just right, and, looking in the mirror, Tony thought maybe she should ditch the whole world-saving gig and go start a family, ‘cause those hips were built for childbirth, clearly, why else would they be so full and so healthy, and maybe her heart wouldn’t survive a pregnancy, but these hips absolutely would), and traditional fast food break and a magical check-up rounded it all out.

She spent about two hours sprawled on an unmade bed in one of the Compound’s guest rooms, which somehow felt a little like a visit to a spa. But Rou only touched her once during the whole thing: she rubbed Tony down with warming oil, worked every tense muscle as she meant it, then laid a golden mandala over her chest and let the spell soak in while she went to light candles. The room smelled faintly of cloves, probably left over from one of the sorcerers’ previous unauthorised binges, but Rou added a new incense to the mix — warm heavy saffron and bitter ginger. Weird combination. But Tony didn’t have the bandwidth to question it.

Rou moved her hands slowly over her, pausing at the wounds, hovering at the chakra centres — Tony didn’t really buy into all that, but about twenty years ago, she’d dated a guy who was into Sting and tantric sex (in that order, as he always insisted, claiming the causality was key), so she knew the lingo. Rou’s fingers moved with precision like she was probing her, and Tony could feel the warmth of her palms, the pressure of her touch, the release of tension in her muscles — even though Rou wasn’t touching her. Then Rou talked about Reiki symbols, asked about Strange and what Tony felt during the session, but Tony was too fascinated by the light show to pay attention to her words. 

Rou kept pulling ribbons of light out of her chest, them twisting in Möbius strips, shimmering like an oil slick, iridescent, hypnotic. The loops swirled into reddish vortices, and from those, Rou tugged strands of gold and began weaving them into floating shapes. At first, they looked like Chinese characters, but then they grew, fragmented, spiralled — patterns that refused to be read. Almost-language. Anti-language.

Before Tony could even ask, Rou explained that they were multiversal signatures made visible through a script and no, it was impossible to read. She said it in the driest, most matter-of-fact tone imaginable, and Tony politely shut up.

For a while, she watched the energy being drawn out and, in line with old yoga teachings, tried to tune in to her sensations — but those traitors were few and far between. Her body treated Rou’s massage as something as natural as breathing, and honestly, that was a little insulting to the inquisitive mind, which was used to digging down to the atomic level of everything. Now it was witnessing something completely outside its usual frame of reference and had nothing to latch onto for analysis.  

So Tony quickly got bored of staring at the informationless magical glow, and the massage lulled her into a peaceful doze.

She dreamed of a leather seat in a private jet and a distant island outside the window. Stephen was sitting beside her, holding her hand, and Tony could feel his grip — firm and insistent as if it was real. His skin was dry and calloused, toughened by countless surgeries, like an old fisherman’s, weathered by salt and sun. These weren’t Pep’s cool hands, his touch always gentle but firm, nor Steve’s — soft and warm, always squeezing with tender sympathy. No, Stephen held her like no one ever had before, and a crystalline green shimmered in his transparent blue eyes, and he was so close — close enough to get into her personal space, yet not enough to make it feel like a deliberate move — and Tony, shamelessly, felt a pulse of desire between her legs.  

She woke up from shifting restlessly on the bed, but the excitement evaporated the moment she caught Rou’s condescending smile. Damn it.  

Sexual fantasies about an arrogant wizard lost in the multiverse were wildly inappropriate.  

And not because he was arrogant, or a wizard, or lost in the multiverse — but because… well. Because Tony had issues with not promising things to people. She got involved too fast, and her tendency to feel too much for anyone who so much as left a dent in her orbit had already started to cost her. Not to mention the lingering dissatisfaction still buzzing through her body. Quieter now — just an echo of that first electric hit — but still there, heavy, unresolved, and annoyingly persistent. And, frankly, Tony didn’t want to unpack it at all.

She crossed her legs and leaned against the bookshelf.

The dark wood panelling made the Compound’s living room look more like a box than a meeting space — cramped, distinctly unwelcoming. The portal, now connected to the New York Sanctum, sparkled faintly in the corner of the workshop. Rou entered the room through it, tightening a silk ribbon around her robes just as Rhodey wrapped up the first half of his briefing.

“The last multiversal breach was triggered by the Runes of Kof-Kol,” Rou joined the rest of the Council. They exchanged curt nods — no emotion on their faces, but the stiffness in their shoulders gave them away. “It’s the only thing we were able to extract from the astral residue,” Rou added, dipping her head slightly. “Apologies, Colonel.”

Rhodey gave a small gesture for her to continue, and when Tony glanced at her with a silent question, Rou lightly touched her thick bronze curls, silver beginning to show at the roots.

“It’s a spell of forgetting. Not well-documented, but we know it works at the seams between realities. So it’s not exactly surprising the Runes tore a hole into the multiverse.”

“And Strange wasn’t with you?” Caton asked for a hundredth time, and Tony shook her head. But seriously? At this point, why even bother lying? Having a sorcerer around would’ve made navigating parallel universes a lot easier, and Tony, despite what people thought of her, was much more pragmatic than petty. And if she’d wanted Stephen dead, she’d have found a much simpler way than losing him in the multiverse.

“There’s reason to believe,” Rou added, “that everything is unfolding as it should. Miss Stark encountered the Informant. The astral trace contained complex, unreadable symbols, and I have no reason to doubt what she saw.”

The masters turned toward Tony, their bright eyes focused on her, their expressions eager. Dahlia leaned in slightly, her voice low, nearly a whisper, “What was he like?”

“Stubborn as a mule,” Tony bit down on the stick she was still chewing and shrugged. “Looked like a regular guy. Maybe a bit mental, you know, like the kind you see on the street talking to a mailbox, but other than that — a perfectly regular one.”

A perfectly regular multiversal twin of the Earth’s Sorcerer Supreme. Fantastic. Like things weren’t already weird enough.

“Since the Informant got involved…” Caton sighed, eyes closed. “He’s been pointing us in the right direction.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you.”

“You’re not us, Miss Stark.”

She clacked her teeth, a sharp little sound. Caton’s lips twitched in an almost-smirk, but the moment crackled with enough tension that Rou stepped in before it turned into something uglier.

“Please, Colonel,” she nodded to Rhodey. “Go on.”

“Yeah, right,” he leaned on the table with both hands, “now comes the difficult part.”

He’d ditched the military coat ages ago, left now in a crisp white shirt that hung a little loose around his shoulders. The light flooding in through the panoramic windows behind him washed out most of his face, but it didn’t do much to hide the exhaustion written across it. Not a single button undone, either — even with the sweat gathering at his temples.

In front of him stood a half-finished bowl of almonds, Tony’s third coffee cup, and the sorcerers’ necklace — perched dead center on the table, neatly balanced on a black iron stand like some kind of museum exhibit, supposedly unremovable (not that Tony had tested that, obviously…). The magic crew had locked it in the moment they got their hands on it. 

Rhodey’s eyes lingered on the necklace for some time, then he finally cleared his throat. “FRIDAY?”

“Ready, sir.”

A holographic screen flickered to life above the table. Footage from one of the Compound’s internal security cameras played: in a wide corridor, sunlit and spacious, a handful of sorcerers sat in a loose semicircle around Caton, listening intently. Down the hall, another group — dressed in jackets and travel-worn clothes — kept glancing over their shoulders before slipping, one by one, out through the fire exit.

“In the week after the evacuation,” Rhodey commented, “a lot of the masters were under serious psychological strain. Ten of them walked out on their own.”

Now, a grainy image from an exterior camera showed the courtyard. Tiny dark figures moved across the dull grey lawn, heading from the main building toward the hangar — they kept low and made it to the edge of the magical dome. Probably trying to slip through the forest: smarter than crossing open ground; there were houses a few miles out, so on foot, it wasn’t impossible, but.

The moment the figures crossed the dome, white portals ignited in their path — blinding, sudden. Tony shut her eyes. Her teeth sank into the corndog stick, a bit too hard, and the bitter taste of splintered wood filled her mouth. She opened her eyes again.

The hologram switched to footage from a camera mounted near the hangar — closer to where it all went sideways. Cloaked figures moved out of the portals, hoods drawn low, dragging limp bodies across the scorched concrete. One by one, they disappeared back into portals like it was just a cleanup after a show. Maybe Tony hadn’t imagined the blood she thought she saw pooled at the base of that burned-out tree in Kamar-Taj.

“That same night,” Rhodey went on, “twenty people at the Compound took their own lives. We had psych teams on standby, but it wasn’t enough. Interpol says the Hong Kong and London Sanctums lost fifteen more each. Same way. Same night.”

FRIDAY shifted the projection again. Footage rolled: the Compound’s main foyer, where sorcerers stood near stretchers covered with white sheets, some weeping, others silent. Then photos of cramped beds with lifeless bodies. Quiet vigils held in the common areas, flickering candlelight. 

Tony massaged the bridge of her nose. The timestamp in the corner read June 4th — around that time, she and Stephen had been sitting outside a café, sipping coffee. Or was it when they talked to an alternate Jenny in a parallel version of F.E.A.S.T.? 

“The specialists we brought in said a lot of the masters were already in a manic-depressive state,” Rhodey shared, guilt tugging at his voice. “Some already in manic, others still in depressive.”

The sorcerers immediately sharpened their glances at him. Dahlia alone remained composed, and her remark came out with polite reproach, “People don’t come to Kamar-Taj because life’s been kind to them, Colonel.”

“We did what we could,” Caton added.

Tony rolled the corndog stick in her mouth with her tongue, “You could’ve tied them up and locked all the doors.”

“Tony,” Rhodey warned, but she waved him off. 

“Or stashed them in that — what was it? Mirror Dimension. You’re a therapeutic community, aren’t you? You knew the risks.”

“We did,” Caton repeated firmly, “what we could.”

“Then what you could wasn’t enough.”

Something sharp flickered in Caton’s eyes. Tony met it with a slight lift of her chin — but before the tension could ignite, FRIDAY showed the next recording, casting cool light between them.

A recording from a camera near the Compound’s gates showed figures in dark cloaks standing just shy of the parking lot — motionless, ominous. “This isn’t all,” Rhodey explained, pulling on his shirt’s collar. Tony pressed her tongue against the splintered edge of the corndog stick, jaw tight. Rhodey continued, “After some... escalation and a few poorly thought-out orders, they managed to capture seven soldiers.”

One of the cloaked figures stirred. Even before he threw back his hood, Tony knew it was Mordo — the way he stood, still and sure, telegraphed his arrogance. A curved blade shimmered in his hands, the metal wrapped in glowing runes that twisted like vines. He held it against a soldier’s chest — the boy didn’t even flinch. None of the other six did. Disarmed, blank-eyed. Hypnotised.

“We tried to negotiate, and according to their terms, several of the masters offered their lives to free the soldiers.”

A tight group of masters crossed the brightly lit parking lot. How many of them were there? Fifteen? Twenty? Among the blurry figures, Tony spotted the bearded man with the long face and the woman with wide, light eyes — the ones Stephen had brought in to take the place of the deceased on the council. They moved slowly, each step deliberate, as if considering the risks. And rightly so: as soon as they crossed the dome, Mordo’s followers surrounded them. They bound the masters, and with swift, practised movements, sliced strips of fabric from their robes — sleeves, collars, cloaks — and tossed them onto the ground. Tony’s eyes flicked to Dahlia — there was no doubt where those colourful ribbons on her belt had come from.

Then, two hooded sorcerers shoved two soldiers forward, toward the waiting medics and guards. Mordo shouted something over his shoulder, waving his hand.

“What did he say?” Tony glanced at Rhodey. He gave her a grim look.

“That they have good intentions.”

Of course. A human nature expert didn’t change his ways.

The other five soldiers remained frozen in place. And in the next few seconds, everything unfolded: portals ripped open, and Mordo and his followers unsheathed their swords, ready to execute both the soldiers and the masters who had offered themselves.

Tony shut her eyes. Her left hand trembled slightly as she clenched her fist. “Any more hostages?”

“No, fortunately or not. We don’t allow soldiers to leave the dome anymore, and any masters they encounter, they kill immediately.”

“Honour and praise to the frank murderer,” Caton snapped, and Tony pulled the stick from her mouth.

“They let two go.”

“And they’re almost fine,” Rhodey nodded. “Almost.”

“Mind control? I’ve noticed they’re really committed to that bit.” Tony turned to the sorcerers. “How is it that none of you have figured out a way to counter it yet?”

"Why do you think we haven’t, Miss Stark?" Rou raised an eyebrow. “But tearing something down is always faster than rebuilding it brick by brick.”

Tony gritted her teeth. She pushed off the bookshelf, flicked the corndog stick onto the saucer under her empty cup, and ran a finger along the rim like she was drawing a circuit. Then she looked up at Rhodey, “Total casualties?”

“Including Strange? One hundred and three.”

“Strange isn’t dead.”

“But he’s not here either.”

“What’s the plan?”

Rhodey crossed his arms, shoulders tight. “Compound’s sealed. We’ve doubled military presence, got rapid-response on standby, constant surveillance at every Sanctum—”

“No, no, those are fire drills. What’s the long-term plan? Strategy, not sandbags.”

Rhodey glanced at the sorcerers, slapped his elbow — a rare sign of discomfort — and gave a reluctant nod. “The General and Homeland are... weighing options.”

“We’re not stupid, Colonel,” Caton cut in like he’d been lying in wait all along. His voice stayed level, but he stepped forward, spine solder-straight, posture crisp. “We know deportation is on the table. No, we actually know it’s already past the table — the decision is made, and you’re just figuring out how to break the news.”

“Interpol’s flagging coordinated attacks — criminals posing as cops, ambushes during extradition exchanges like ours, and already forty dead in Hong Kong and London in total. We’re finding civilians murdered daily with ritual setups, candles, blood sigils, and it means only one thing — your extremists have started a witch hunt. They’re targeting anyone who left your fold and tried to live a regular life. You know what they’re saying?” Rhodey turned to Tony, his hand jerking up in a desperate gesture. “‘Too many sorcerers’.”

Caton opened his mouth, but Naama gently reached out, laying a hand on his shoulder — a quiet warning.

Rou spoke up then, “The people in your medical quarters are civilians.”

“Unfortunately, our jurisdiction only extends to American citizens.” Rhodey pressed his palms together, fingers steepled, “Look, I don’t back this policy. And I’ve made it clear that I think that protecting everyone involved has to be the priority. But in that particular arena, my voice doesn’t carry much weight.”

“Your voice, or the Patriot’s?”

“Neither.”

Rhodey’s tone remained steady, but there was a touch of regret behind it — a quiet note Rou caught. Her eyes narrowed, not in anger, something… softer. Pity, maybe. She sent the same look to Stark then.

A prickling unease crawled across Tony’s chest, and she scratched at it with her nail. It wasn’t that simple. And she hated having to think everything through, trace every consequence to the bitter end, make calls that always broke something in the process. Sometimes, she envied Steve for that paradoxical (genuine on one hand and exclusively selfish on the other) naivety that let him move without pause, live in the present, no past dragging behind and no future looming ahead. No thoughts heavier than a momentary reaction. No decisions that go against what he believed. No regrets.

Maybe that made his life easier. Maybe not.

“No, that’s right,” Tony waved her hand in a loose gesture. “We’ve got veto power on international interventions. This kind of mess shouldn’t be up to a handful of half-sleeved mercs with saviour complexes, it’s a government problem.”

“It was you who gave us shelter here, Miss Stark.” 

“And I don’t regret it. But my legal power ends where my legal obligations start. Because we’re the Avengers, you know? Not the Preventers.”

“So what was the rush with the Stone about then?” Caton arched an eyebrow, spinning the ring between his fingers in a familiar gesture. “Or was that a special case of prevention, when your legal obligations magically evaporated?”

“Well, magic’s your department.”

“Excuse me?” Rhodey frowned. “Prevention of what, exactly?”

“A nightmare future, Rhodey! ‘Nightmare’ ‘cause it crawled straight outta my nightmares; ‘future’ ‘cause that’s where I’m from, did I forget to mention it today?”

“You need sleep, Stark.”

“By the way,” she scooped a handful of almonds into her mouth, gesturing vaguely toward Caton, “why aren’t you fighting back? You’ve got the best defensive capabilities among us all.”

“A dog doesn’t bite its own tail.”

“Unless the tail is stuck in a bear trap. You’re in the trap.”

“We lost the strongest magical shield on the planet. The current one’s a patchwork stand-in — a copy that needs constant babysitting without the Supreme or the Counsellor to anchor it. If we go after Mordo head-on, we put hundreds of unarmed masters at risk. What you call cowardice is, in fact, controlled self-preservation.”

“There are fewer of them than you.”

“There are just as many if you count the ones who can fight.”

“So do you need reinforcements or a better shield?”

Hamir spoke then, voice quiet and calm, “Only the Supreme can answer that question.” He tilted his head slightly as if the Supreme appeared right before him. The weight in his tone made Tony go still — something in it like a reprimand wrapped in calm. “We, too, Miss Stark, know the power of obligations.”

“Aren’t you a body of power yourselves?”

Hamir glanced at Naama with a surprised expression, as if even being addressed so bluntly were beneath him, and Caton suddenly lifted a hand, “One thing we’re bound to do is keep hearts and minds open to what the universe offers.” He gestured toward the necklace. “Artifacts aren’t burdens. They’re tools. Allies.”

“Speaking of allies,” Tony cut in, “where’s the Cloak?”

“In the Hall of Relics, where it belongs.”

“Yeah? ‘Cause from where I’m standing, it belongs here as part of this fight since day one, no?” She turned to Rhodey. “Back me up.”

Rhodey gave her shoulder a light squeeze. “They heard you, Tony.”

“And they’re not gonna do a damn thing.”

Hamir returned to the matter at hand, serene as ever, “Only the Sanctum Masters and the Supreme are entrusted with the Eye of Agamotto.”

“That never stopped Strange,” Caton crossed his arms, “and we called it providence. Besides, there’s a Sanctum Master among us today.” His gaze settled on Naama. “Which means we can use the Eye by right.”

Naama lifted her hands in a cautioning gesture, discomfort written across her face. But Caton cut off, “We have the strongest weapon imaginable at our disposal. We can stop time and strike first.” Naama shook her head, gesturing quickly, but Caton only clenched his teeth, the muscle in his cheek twitching. “And attacking in the dark wasn’t a dirty trick?”

Hamir folded his hands calmly, eyes closed beneath heavy eyebrows. “Perhaps we are meant to choose a new Supreme.”

“It’s bad luck to perform the ritual while the current one is alive,” Dahlia objected, “especially before six full moons have passed.”

But Caton pressed on, “As far as we know, Strange hasn’t gone through the Fusion and hasn’t earned the wisdom of the Supremes yet, so Vishanti might well favour us. Masters, I want his living mind leading this community as much as any of you — but we have sorcerers here just as capable. More experienced, in fact.”

“Do you already have someone in mind, Master Caton? Or is that just the sound of old ambitions stretching their legs?” Dahlia raised a hand before he could answer. “Either way, the next Supreme won’t be yours to appoint. And don’t forget — our enemies include masters every bit as experienced and capable. Not to mention we still have a duty not just to tradition, but to the Counsellor currently in place.”

Rou added, “If Mordo comes demanding obedience instead of blood, we’d have to break every rule.”

“The Vishanti would never allow—”

“Why are you so certain you know the ways of Vishanti?”

Caton gritted his teeth again, fists curling. “Then we take what fate gives us.”

“Vishanti pointed clearly at the new Supreme, and the Codex commands the Council to guide the Supreme for their first six full moons. Why are you so eager to reject that fate?” Rou gave Caton a brief smile. “Or do you doubt Strange’s natural gift? The potential the Ancient One saw in him?”

“I don’t doubt her insight, but she saw that same potential in Kaecilius.”

“And in me.”

Tony let out a low whistle, eyebrows arched as she glanced sideways at Rhodey who immediately gave her a look that said don’t. 

Caton fell silent, and Rou continued, “Let us not forget that half of today’s masters were shaped by her faith. And not all of them were granted the prophecy she gave to Strange.” She smoothed a crease on her tunic with slow, deliberate care, letting the pause stretch just long enough to make her words land with weight. Then she looked up again, gaze sharp. “And let’s not forget the basics. While Strange holds the title, we retain decision-making power as members of this Council. Neither our precaution nor your, Master Caton, suggestion to use the Stone will even make it to a vote if the next Supreme decides so. Do you want to risk throwing away your seat at the table?”

Caton tilted his head, either considering or conceding defeat, and Tony ran her tongue across her teeth. The reverence for tradition was admirable, but the quiet pragmatism underneath it all  resonated with her more. She got that so well: delegation, chain of command. The banality of choosing the lesser evil. And for a brief moment, these cloistered, mystical sorcerers became entirely, startlingly familiar — they, too, passed decisions through tangled layers of governance, they made pacts behind closed doors, wove politics into ceremony, and plotted not only for the intangible greater good but also for something a little more honest: survival. 

Not that Tony was delusional. But deep down, she had a soft spot for a little religious reverence and fatalistic mysticism (as in, she genuinely wanted to believe fate had a plan tucked away somewhere, and all this crap was a part of it, not just a series of random coincidences), and Stephen was so convincing while pretending to be the kind of guy who knows more than everyone else— 

Naama raised her hands again, but Caton met her with a colder stare this time.

“Don’t mistake strategy for becoming alike,” he said. “The Stone wouldn’t have returned to us without cause. This is a sign.”

“Or,” Tony tapped her fingers on the table, “just another cosmic jackass playing dice with the universe.”

“Nothing in this world happens by accident,” Rou countered, and Tony snorted.

“Well, then I’ve got a reading of that sign of yours but you’re not gonna like it.”

She lifted her hand toward the necklace as if wanting to feel something — warmth, chill, anything, really — to recall the Stone’s destructive power or fateful significance. But she felt nothing through the iron bars. Just a dull phantom ache twisting in her gut. Tony’s hand dropped to her side before she realised it, and the purple maniac and his horde of alien monsters suddenly flared to life again in her mind, solid, heavy, absolutely real in all their imposing materiality.

“The Stone remains under our protection, Miss Stark,” Caton reminded her pointedly.

Tony shoved her hands into her pockets. “So does this reality, I guess.”

“What was it you said about the Preventers?”

“Don’t be greedy, the sign has enough meanings to go around.”

Meaning, well, how much less of a sign was it, really, that the Supreme had ended up separated from his precious jewellery? And what would it even take to destroy the Stone now? A weekend in the multiverse was just a weekend in the multiverse, and a full-blown intergalactic crusade seemed a bit more like a burning issue. And sure, magical doctrine probably had a dozen reasons to keep the Stone intact, and it was undoubtedly a game-changing tactic against Mordo (if the sorcerers would be prepared to use it), and Stephen obviously wouldn’t love that idea, but the Earth spiritual sentinels had to understand the stakes, no?

No matter how much Tony resisted it, she reluctantly squeezed the thought from the back of her mind: a couple thousand sorcerers, with maybe a fifty-fifty shot of surviving the trap, against half the universe? The math didn’t lie. They had no chance.

She clenched her jaw. Maybe it was for the best that Stephen was lost in the multiverse.

Numbers. Not names.

She had to talk herself into it now.

“We swore to protect the Stone,” Caton cut in. “That was the Supreme’s final will.”

“Oh, just me?” Tony looked around at the sorcerers with a wide, exaggerated blink, voice dripping with theatrical disbelief. “Because he sure said it like Doc was dead. Thought we had a house rule — no panic till there’s a body. Did I miss a memo?”

“Sorry, Miss Stark, but are you, after all, respecting our principles, or lobbying for the destruction of the Stone?”

Tony pursed her lips. Touché.

“Strange’s healing rune is still active on her,” Rou added offhandedly.

Tony’s fingers went to the fading bruise beneath her eye, already painless under the spell’s influence. Caton’s eyebrows lifted, “So he’s alive.”

“For now.” 

Tony grabbed her coffee cup and wandered over to the kitchen corner. She was deliberately brushing away the thought clawing at the back of her mind, but still: if Strange was alive, and FRIDAY had all the data, and the sorcerers, with all their portals and dimensions folded into coat pockets, were around, and there was just enough New Element in storage—

When she’d asked Rou whether Strange could be located using the multiversal signature she pulled from her, Rou had said the symbol was a chronicle, not an instruction. Tony had nodded, sure. But she could’ve said. The instruction was in her head.

She flipped on the backlight, pulled the last coffee capsule from the box, and slid it into place. The machine purred to life, soft and even, its sleek black casing catching the muted yellow glow from the wall lamp. Behind her, she could feel the sorcerers watching — attentive, calculating — so she turned, arms folded, a defensive line across her chest.

Rhodey adjusted the nanobracelet on his wrist and offered, “We’ll ask the General for a delay. Humanitarian grounds — refugee status, medical necessity. Your help in the med bay’s been critical, and we’ve got our people down there, too.”

“Speaking of,” Tony turned back to the machine just as it clicked. “Stephen left notes. Surgical drafts. FRIDAY already sent them over to the team.”

Rou looked up, “May I take a look?”

Tony didn’t answer, just flicked her fingers to project the file mid-air. A series of MRI scans appeared, layered with Strange’s handwriting in the margins — annotations, corrections, little flickers of genius — and just like that, she saw him again, hunched over those same scans on the café terrace. Tony shifted, pressing an elbow against her ribs, and took a long drink from her coffee, eyes hidden behind the cup. 

Rou shook her head, scanning the projections. “High-dose corticosteroids to bring down intracranial swelling? Risky… but clever.”

“You were a doctor, weren’t you?” Rhodey asked, interest genuine. “I mean, before this whole… magic school.”

“I didn’t have a ‘before’, Colonel,” Rou offered him a small smile. “I was born in Kamar-Taj. Raised there. My parents were healers like theirs were, and theirs before that.”

Tony set her cup down with a gentle clink. “So, no celibacy then?”

“If you needed confirmation.” 

Rou shot her a wry, sparkling glance, and Tony snorted, cheeks flushing with involuntary heat. 

“Ma’am,” FRIDAY cut in. A new projection bloomed into the air — security cam feed from the yard. “There’s an object outside the dome. Attempting breach.”

The hologram displayed the landing pad in front of the hangar. Beyond it, trees clustered like oversized broccoli heads. A tall figure — definitely a sorcerer, judging by the robes — stood pressed against the shimmering barrier, his long silver hair gleaming faintly in the light. The dome pulsed gold where he touched it, reacting like water against static. Just a ripple. Not a break. Not yet.

They should’ve answered the provocation with full force — no hesitation, no questions. But something about the figure twisted a knot in Stark’s chest. The posture was wrong. Slouched. The robes hung awkwardly, like they didn’t belong to him or like he didn’t belong in them. Tony rubbed at her left wrist.

“Do I know him?”

“Yes,” Caton didn’t even look up as he spun a portal into the courtyard. “It’s Master Ling.”

Chapter Text

The warm breeze and the salty scent of the Hudson greeted them as they stepped outside. Tony felt the familiar weight of the iron glove wrap around her hand but quickly realised the suit was unnecessary — the elderly master was in a devastating state.

What had once been a vibrant red robe now hung from his frame in tatters. The intricate golden embroidery on his shoulders was streaked with dried blood, and beneath the charred edges of his sleeves were the stumps of severed arms,cut off just below the shoulders. Bandages, dark and soaked through, clung to the cauterized flesh beneath. The brutality of it bordered on mockery — he could barely stand, wracked with pain, yet there was no mess, no uncontrolled bleeding. And what had Mordo said about hands? The source of power? Of resurrection?

“Ling?” Caton stepped forward. “Can you hear me?”

The old man struggled to lift his head, silver hair matted with blood, clinging in greasy strands to his forehead. His beard, usually neat and narrow, now jutted out in clumps. Tony hesitated, but Ling’s pale eyes still held that stubborn spark of will.

“Let him through,” she said, forcing herself not to meet Rhodey’s disapproving gaze.

But before Rhodey’s frustration turned into words, the sorcerers raised their hands to the transparent dome. It shimmered faintly, weakening under pressure, something that Tony assumed rather than analysed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rhodey reach for his walkie-talkie. She couldn’t catch the words, like a broken earpiece hissing in her ear, but the sharp edge of his tone was unmistakable. Distracted and suddenly tense, she clenched her fists without realizing it.

Then Ling collapsed, dropping to his knees just beyond the dome’s edge, and Tony lunged forward.  

“Look!” he barked, pulling away and crumpling helplessly into the grass. “Don’t— don’t touch. No hands.”  

“Animals,” Rou muttered under her breath. She waved a hand over Ling’s body, and a glowing red stripe appeared beneath her palm, sharp as the edge of a cube. “A touching curse?” she asked. Ling didn’t nod, merely closing his eyes in weary confirmation.  

“If we touch him, he dies,” Rou explained, casting a glance at Tony over her shoulder.  

“And explosion,” Ling rasped. “Death triggers a blast.”

The other sorcerers, having reinforced the dome, gathered around the wounded master, exchanging grim looks. Rhodey, gripping his walkie-talkie, went pale, “Did he just say what I heard him saying?”  

The sorcerers spread out, two on either side of Ling, their hands hovering above his body, careful not to make contact. Tony activated her scan. The HUD lit up with vital signs: severe blood loss, critical stress, but surprisingly stable brain activity. Then the confirmation of the explosives flashed across the screen: a high-density energy field centred in the chest, frequency reading over a hundred gigahertz, anomalous spikes across the EM spectrum, elevated neutron flux—

“The barrier’s under a concealment spell,” Caton said, lowering his hands. “There’s more underneath, likely an explosive matrix.”

Rhodey crouched beside Ling. “Any of you trained in bomb disposal?”

“You mean for clearing farmland? Or disabling Dao Mandalos? We heal people, Colonel, not prepare them for war.”

“And what exactly does an explosive spell heal?”

“Any spell can become a weapon in creative hands.”

Tony glanced at her HUD — energy signatures and frequency readings were fading out — and cut in, “Can you take out the barrier?”

Caton shook his head. “Even minimal interference would likely trigger detonation.”

“How likely is ‘likely’?”

“Ninety-nine percent, Stark.”

Only Stephen called her like that — with that particular kind of bite. But she didn’t snap back. Instead, she nodded. “One percent’s enough for me.”

“You need backup?” Rhodey called, and Tony blinked. 

“You sure?”

“Wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.”

He nudged her elbow lightly, trying to ease the tension, and she smirked. The smirk was not the most convincing one, but genuine enough. “Then take the other side. Quick, quick.”

Rhodey shifted around Ling just as silver nanites spiralled into his glove. Ling stirred with a faint groan, and the sorcerers lifted their hands again, ready. Rou reached for the trembling stumps of his arms, but Naama caught her eye and gave a slight shake of her head. Rou pulled back, her jaw tight.

Tony’s HUD blinked with updated readings. She gave FRIDAY a quick command to calibrate for a narrow EMP and dropped into a crouch, aligning her glove with Ling’s chest. Rhodey mirrored her on the opposite side. Between them,Caton conjured a red mandala and carefully slid it beneath the concealed barrier. Tony fired.

As FRIDAY thinned the barrier, the sorcerers worked to keep the spell from collapsing entirely. The pulse hummed out, and when the tremor in her glove faded, Tony flexed her hand, tingled with cold chills. But the sorcerers didn’t lower their hands. Faint glyphs began to glow beneath their palms — fine red lines looping outward and overlying each other like a palimpsest. They flickered, pulsed, twisted into each other like fighting snakes.

Caton moved his hand over a particularly dense knot of symbols — then recoiled with a sharp breath, fingers curling as if burned. He then turned to Rhodey, deadly calm. 

“Colonel, get word to every unit — if they find any more bodies near the dome, no one touches them. Any of them.”

“And tell ’em not to stare,” Tony added, cutting a glance at the soldiers and sorcerers watching from the landing pad. Was this a one-off? Or had they rigged more people into living bombs? “Psychological terrorism still is terrorism.”

“Start astral recon patrols,” Caton told Dahlia, who gave a tight nod. Then he looked to Rou. “And let’s begin evacuation prep.”

They opened their portals in perfect sync and disappeared.

Rhodey stepped aside, voice low and clipped over the comm. Caton knelt beside Ling in his place, lips drawn tight as he traced a sigil in the air with both hands. A square mandala flared to life — dim, shifting like wind over a lake, its runes drifting through each other in a slow, silent orbit.

Hamir, expression unreadable until now, finally spoke. “What do you see, Master Caton?”

“Four spells, all braided together, malignant. Energy reservoir, trigger mechanism, a feedback loop. And a tactile activation ward. Kidneys, heart, throat... and occipital cortex. They wired the whole damn body.”

“How does it detonate?” Tony asked, stepping closer.

Caton scratched at his beard, then nodded toward the elevated projection Naama and Hamir held steady above Ling. “This right here’s the matrix — all these spells unified in one. The energy flows through it according to the caster's instructions.”

“Like a custom circuit board? And no master switch? No red wire to cut and save the day?”

“Risky,” Caton nodded. “But they’re not playing for points, this is kill or be killed.”

“Obviously.”

“If someone touches him, it’ll pull an energy surge from the reservoir. But that surge will reactivate the trigger and pull more, and more again, and so it’ll loop into a magical chain reaction.”

“If you consider magical classical nuclear fission.”

Caton frowned at her in confusion, and Tony gave a one-shoulder shrug, “If you can defuse a bomb by disabling the right inputs in the right order, you can break the loop here before it starts, too.”

“Are you sure that’s how it works?”

“Well, I'm still alive, aren’t I?”

Caton blinked, not quite following, and Tony turned away, her arms folded across her chest. This wasn’t just some trap. It wasn’t even strategy. It was a goddamn message. One they’d sent in her language. Eye for an eye, bomb for a bomb, and all that bullshit. And only one question lodged in her chest — would they have ever thought to turn a dying man into a magical A-bomb if she hadn’t threatened them with one first?

Caton finally spoke again, “To defuse spells like these, the calculations have to be flawless.”

Naama clicked her tongue and gave Stark a meaningful look, but Caton just huffed irritably. His cheeks flushed with a rush of adrenaline. He pulled the double ring from his fingers, wiped it against his white sleeve with out-of-place irritation, and clipped it to his belt.

“Fine,” Tony rocked back on her heels. “I’m in.”

“Come again?”

“I’ll help. With the defusal.”

Rhodey gave a slow shake of his head. “General’s not gonna like that.”

Caton snorted, “What, the detonation? Or our attempt to prevent it?”

Rhodey pursed his lips in quiet reproach, and Tony nodded at Ling. “Wouldn’t it be safer to move him into the Mirror Dimension?”

“The spells are already charged. Any shift in space or time risks triggering the whole matrix.”

Mechanical tension, then. Tony scratched her cheek with a metal fingertip, then pinched at her earlobe. FRIDAY chimed in a second later — shields were up, the hangar sealed, main Compound building secure.

The sorcerers raised their hands again, and the glowing red lattice flared back to life above Ling’s chest. As Hamir stabilised the fused spells, Naama and Caton moved in, working to separate them, carefully, slowly. The compressed weave began to expand, runes stretching from a flat plane into floating, intricate glyphs. Symbols spiralled and unfolded mid-air.

Ling groaned, his body jolting. Caton paused, eyes flicking down as he coaxed a thin thread of red light free from the cluster. “Too much or tolerable?”

“Much… but tolerable.”

Naama shot Caton a look, and for a second, he looked like he wanted to answer her. But then he turned his gaze away.

“Be careful,” he said at last, quietly and vulnerably, and Naama nodded.

She rubbed her palms together, then settled near Ling’s head. Her face, calm and composed, held the focus of a professor mid-lecture — deep in thought, undistracted. Fine lines etched her broad forehead, soft hair pulled back into a low knot at her nape, and for the first time, Tony caught herself wondering how old Naama really was. Her elegant features and luminous skin were ageless — could’ve been good genes, could’ve been magic — but the fine web of wrinkles hinted they were closer in age than Tony thought. Maybe she should ask Strange for a few rejuvenating meditations?

Strange. Strange. 

Where the hell was he?

The spells, split across four distinct layers, kept shifting, colours bleeding into new hues, shapes warping at the edges, but all of them still tethered by crackling threads of light.

“That’s the trigger,” Caton nodded toward the jagged crimson runes above Ling’s head.

They pulsed rhythmically, and with every beat, they exhaled a veil of ominous black smoke. Tony transmitted the frequency patterns FRIDAY was detecting, and Caton exhaled through his nose, eyes fluttering shut as his hands moved, working on the runes. His palms glowed faintly. Ling tensed, body arching with a muffled groan, and under Naama’s hands, the red mandala pulsed brighter. To reinforce the neutralisation, FRIDAY sent counter-frequencies through Tony’s repulsor, syncing the waveform with Rhodey’s suit on the opposite side.

Finally, the runes began to fade above Ling’s head. He kept groaning with every breath, and Tony cast a quick glance at him — across his face, crimson zigzags flared, hot and wild, burning white trails into his skin like living scars. Naama tightened her rune.

Still not looking, Caton lowered one hand to the second layer of glyphs. “Chain reaction cycle,” he murmured.

The runes in the second layer formed tight, electric-blue spirals, spinning erratically in place. Together, they looked like miniature gears crammed into a clock face, grinding against each other to keep moving, and thin arcs of golden light coiled between them, their patter like the one on Strange’s necklace. The endless motion suggested something dangerous, self-propagating. As if the magical gears were… alive. Caton studied them, then, after a beat, he extended one hand and released a cautious golden spark toward the spirals. They accelerated instantly.

Ling arched his back, crying out. A jagged spiral flared across his chest, then scorched itself into his skin, leaving behind an angry red welt.

“Start with low frequencies,” Tony advised. “Ease it down first.”

She passed a refined data set to Caton, and he sent out two smaller sparks — slower this time, almost hesitant. For several long minutes, nothing changed — but nothing worsened either. Then FRIDAY pinged a decrease in oscillation speed. As the runic pattern destabilized, the energy between the joints began to bleed out, thread by thread. Tony opened another containment field, catching and redirecting the bleed-off safely into the upper shield array. Rhodey mirrored the action.

As the energy was settling, Caton lowered his hands. He flexed his fingers, rubbing them together, sweat beading along his hairline. He wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

“All right,” he let out a long breath and put his hands up to the remaining spell layers. “Now the core.”

The core was a single glyph — silver, ovoid, and written in no script Tony recognised. It hovered above Ling’s kidneys, wrapped in a translucent cocoon of gold, thin and shimmering like chiffon, glowing soft and low.

“Too dense,” Caton muttered through clenched teeth. “If it blows, it folds inward.”

“Can you reroute the discharge?” Tony called up a heavy shield. A second snapped into place beside Rhodey. “Push it out.”

But Caton’s scowl tightened, and Tony explained, “The shield will pull the excess energy. Just direct it our way, I’ll track the destabilisation and give the call.”

Rhodey nodded too, locking the second shield with his repulsor. Even with Naama’s steady hands, Ling writhed in the grass, back arching, voice cracking as he begged, “Please, stop, please—”

Caton’s lips pressed into a thin line, and Tony clicked her tongue. “Okay, pop quiz — are you doubting me or yourself? ‘Cause if there was ever a time to keep hearts and minds open to what the universe offers, it’s right now, Master Caton. Not ‘cause I’m dying to impress you, but because we’re officially out of better ideas.”

He clenched his jaw, eyes flicking to Naama. She gave a single, calm nod.

Caton exhaled hard. Closed his eyes.

FRIDAY pinged the exact moment magical energy tipped into thermal. Caton raised his arms. The light fabric of his robe clung to the tension across his shoulders— and then the shields caught the blast.

Ling arched in pain, letting out a long, guttural scream, his stumps of arms knocking on the grass frantically. But as the last of the white tendrils of energy slipped from the glyph into the shields, he collapsed onto the grass, utterly spent. Caton, too, doubled over, bracing himself on his knees, his breath ragged, and Naama finally rested her hands gently on Ling’s burning forehead. Meanwhile, Hamir made a couple quick sweeping gestures, and the radiant light of the shields unravelled into threads, drawn into a large aether crystal.

The crystal trembled in the air, glowing like a living ember. With a brief flick of his fingers, Hamir compacted it, and it dropped softly onto the grass, glowing steadily from within. Just now Tony suddenly realised she’d never seen Hamir’s hands before — they were always hidden beneath those long, flowing sleeves. She bit her cheek, her gaze drifting unprompted back to Ling.

The bloody bandages around the stumps of Ling’s arms were soaked through with fresh, dark stains, but Naama’s golden magic shimmered gently across them, steady and precise. More worrying, though, were the ghostly white glyphs coiled tightly around Ling’s throat like a collar. They pulsed and twisted like living webbing, and with every faint groan Ling let out, they flared brighter — tightening, judging by the red blooming beneath them.

Hamir stepped in without a word. With a broad sweep of his hand, he conjured a golden film — thin and glimmering, like enchanted plastic wrap threaded with soft orange sparks. “This will sting,” he said gently. Ling gave the faintest nod.

Hamir lowered the film onto the glyphs, and the symbols hissed the moment it touched them, writhing under the magical seal. Then they cracked and dissolved, vanishing in seconds. Ling let out a hoarse rasp, thin curls of smoke slipping from his mouth — but it all ended almost as soon as it began.

The nanites retracted from Rhodey’s suit, curling neatly back into his bracelet. He staggered, catching himself with both hands on his knees, sweat dripping from his forehead, dark stains spreading beneath his shirt. He sank into the grass, head tilted back, lungs dragging in air.

Tony dropped beside him, resting a hand on his knee. “You good?”

“There’s still fuel in the tank,” Rhodey managed with a weak smile, giving her shoulder a squeeze.

Caton reached out a hand, and together with Tony, they helped Rhodey back to his feet.

Then Caton threw Stark a sideways glance, the corner of his mouth twitching with the ghost of a smile. “Not the Preventers, huh?”

“Depends on the day.”

“Maybe Strange wasn’t so wrong bringing you to Kamar-Taj.”

“‘Maybe’,” she mimicked, grimacing theatrically. But this time, she felt it — a warm flicker in her chest she didn’t brush off.

On the grass, Ling wheezed, blood still dripping from the stumps of his arms. Naama gently brushed sweat-damp hair from his face and looked up, shaking her head.

Ling turned slightly, cheek sinking into the flattened grass. Beneath his shredded robes, deep cuts slashed across his chest in a brutal X. The wounds didn’t bleed, but with every shallow breath, they gaped wider, exposing dark clots and just how deep the damage ran. Around the injuries, faint silver runes flared and flickered, casting pale light over his skin.

“Another?” Stark tensed. “Is this going to blow, too?”

Caton shook his head. “No, this one’s poison. This spell has been forbidden for centuries.” The silver glyphs flared again, and Ling groaned, breath catching. Caton asked, “The Swords of Testing, right? Mordo did this?”

“I… didn’t want it…” 

“Wouldn’t that be nice to believe.”

Naama shot Caton a disapproving look. But then she raised her hands, and Hamir nodded as he listened. Caton, absently spinning the ring from his belt, turned to Rhodey. “She says we can help him. Get him to the med bay, to our healers. There’s still a chance.”

Rhodey hesitated, uncertain if the risk was worth losing his rank, but after a moment, he sighed hopelessly and waved a hand. Caton slid the ring onto his fingers, and Naama with Hamir quickly conjured a magical stretcher beneath Ling. But Ling thrashed, panic in every movement. “No… no—time… left.”

The sorcerers stepped back, watching him with calm, quiet patience. Ling turned his head again, his clear gaze landing on Tony, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

“Tell Strange… he’s… not to blame.”

“He knows,” Tony cut off, and the words landed heavily. The sorcerers were still watching her — like she was the tether, like her connection to Strange meant more than she’d ever let herself think. As if being the last person to see him wasn’t a coincidence, but a kind of burden or honour or as if it imposed some obligations on her… as if it also meant she was the last person he saw. But then there was his twin and the kid— what was his name again? Peter. 

“Why did Mordo do this?” Caton asked at last, and Ling’s eyes slipped shut. 

“Maybe… the Ancient One was… was—”

His breath hitched, he gasped for air, shallow and quick, before his body sagged, going limp in the grass. Head turned to the side, expression softening into peaceful indifference.

Naama placed her palm gently over his eyes and bowed her head.

“He passed peacefully,” Caton murmured and unclenched his fists with a soft sigh. “So be it.”

Naama exchanged a glance with Hamir, and Tony caught a flicker of it — relief? Whatever chances Mordo’s folk had at redemption had burned with the first blood spilt, and the ideology that led them here was no revelation — just a ruinous truth they’d all already known well. And maybe the sorcerers even wanted to honour their dying ex-friend’s last wish, but forgiveness was already out of reach. Tony didn’t blame them.

Rhodey’s walkie-talkie suddenly crackled to life. A voice cut through the static. He lifted it to his ear, frowning — then came another burst of static, followed by a clearer transmission, and Rhodey clicked his tongue. “Just as expected.”

“Ross?” 

“En route. Calling an emergency meeting.” He offered the sorcerers a tight, bitter smile. “And you’re all on the guest list.”

Chapter Text

“But ple-ease!”

“Buzz off.”

“Come on, Stee-viee!”

Donna flopped down on his duffel bag, stretching herself sideways across the bed to let the cat into the room. The cat flicked a glance at the open window and went on licking its paw.

The cat was sleepy, full of barn mice. Dust sparkled around it in the sun; its black fur stuck out in patches from washing, and where its left ear should’ve been was a bald, crooked stump. The cat still had no name (Stephen just called it the Cat in his head), and sometimes it came to nap on the roof, but it never tried to come inside. Their father fed it, encouraging it to catch mice, but forbade the kids from petting it: the Cat was a stray and surely sick with who-knows-how-many different things — and from the future-doctor side of his squeamishness, Stephen wholeheartedly agreed with the rule. At first, the Cat used to look through the window with mild curiosity, but after Victor got good with the slingshot, it lost all interest in the house.

Stephen hoisted Donna up by the arms and toppled her onto the pillow. She burst out laughing and kicked at him — he dodged a hit to the stomach, turned his baseball cap backwards, and zipped up his bag.

“Stevie!”

Barry White rumbled from the tape player — a prize bought with science fair money (Stephen had won it five years ago for a report on the impact of sports on adolescent cognitive performance; the judges were floored that a thirteen-year-old farm boy had used the word ‘cognitive’ correctly). He slung the bag over his shoulder. The red square button on the tape player always stuck, so he jabbed it extra hard to stop the music.

“Stephen!”

The old wooden stairs creaked, but Donna moved like a gnat — silent and fast. One second she was behind you, the next she’d zipped to the far end of the room. At fifteen, she was still childlike awkward and skinny, but the first traces of womanhood were starting to show — her hips rounding out, her round face beginning to narrow ever so slightly, carving out those sharp family features. From their father she’d inherited her height and those wide-set little eyes, but not the chill of his haughty stare — in her case, it had been replaced by a mischievous spark. Her green glance flashed between playfulness and quiet thought, and a scatter of bright freckles lit up her cheeks, adding to her youthful charm. Donna’s thick red hair was brushed back and held in place with a headband patterned with blue butterflies. She smiled often, kept her nose up and her back straight, always on edge, vibrating, like a spring wound too tight — ready to bolt at any second.

Donna didn’t believe in compromises and didn’t know how to lose, but she never pushed if she sensed even a drop of their father’s sternness in someone. In Stephen, she never did. Which is why now — in her faded shirt and ripped jeans, jangling a bracelet made of beads and rusty washers strung on burlap thread — Donna slipped under Stephen’s arm and declared, “If you don’t take me with you, I’ll tell Dad how you got the gas money.”

“Oh yeah? And how’d I get it?”

“You skipped school and washed cars.”

“Get lost!” 

He pinched her side, and Donna shrieked, “Hands off! Tyrant! Terrorist!”

“Donna!” thundered a voice from the kitchen. Stephen flinched, and Donna instantly pulled herself together. “Are you screaming because you already walked Trusty?”

“On it, Daddy!”

She skipped two stairs at a time. Trusty was an old dog, a bale of hay on skinny legs. One ear stuck straight up while the other flopped sideways; gray from snout to brow, with huge black mats on his back, Trusty looked like a failed border collie impersonation. But he was clever, and the moment Donna grabbed the leash off the hook, he bounded to her side. Pausing in the doorway, she bit her lower lip with her big front teeth and winked. Stephen rolled his eyes.

Heavens, how much he wanted to get out without running into Dad—

The parents were in the kitchen listening to the radio. A plain black box sat on the shelf beside Mom’s favorite spice jars, and through the static and scratches, the muttering voice of NPR was barely audible. Probably the weather. Or something about land taxes, which got Dad all worked up about rent hikes. The bitter smell of coffee bubbling on the stove hung in the air.

Breakfast, as always, was eaten over the clear plastic tablecloth with those idiotic roses — the dining table was real wood, expensive, and Mom lived in fear of spills, stains, or scratches. On Dad’s plate, the omelet and fat sausage were still steaming — looked like Mom had just pulled them off the stove — and he was reading, the newspaper lifted to his face. Mom was rubbing pink jam into a burnt piece of toast, and Victor slurped an apple, smearing the buttery remnants of his oatmeal around his plate. When he saw Stephen, he kicked his legs up with a grin, his sandal toes thumping the underside of the table — prompting Dad to give the paper a loud shake.

Raking his fingers through his long, curtain-like bangs, Stephen pulled cheese and a loaf of bread from the fridge and dropped a few slices into the toaster. The thing stank of burnt metal every time it was used, but his parents refused to throw it out. Probably waiting for it to burn the whole house down. Same with the stove — ancient, covered in grimy streaks — sometimes it lit at the first match, sometimes it wouldn’t catch at all, and you’d go through an entire box just to boil the kettle.

Stephen was slicing the cheese when he felt — rather than saw — his mother glance at his back with that worried look. He could picture her pale, delicate face turning toward him. “Eat something, sweetheart.”

“No time.”

Father flipped a page of the paper. “Did I mention I got a speeding ticket the other day? Even though I haven’t driven all week.”

The light brown foam on the surface of the coffee started to bubble over — Stephen thought his own frustration fizzed up the same way. He flexed his hand into a fist, then relaxed it, and wrapped the cheese in a napkin. 

“I’m right here.”

“One more stunt like that, and I’ll rip up your license, Stephen.”

The toaster stank of scorched crumbs.

“Wasting money on tickets keeps me in shape better than your threats, Father.”

“Ah, yes. Money. That mountain of cash you earn wiping old people’s asses.”

The response was right there, sharp on his tongue, but Stephen clenched his teeth like he could grind the anger to dust, and poured himself a glass of juice. The toast would pop up any second, and then he’d leave, and everything would be fine.

The juice was sour. Stephen wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, wincing. His moustache was still sparse and coarse, but the girls at school had started to notice it — and it absolutely drove his father nuts. 

“Is it true?” Victor piped up, swinging his legs. “Is it true you’re going to New York?”

“That’s right. You know what they say? Big city, big opportunities.”

“Opportunities, huh,” Father echoed, and Stephen shot him a sharp glance.

“Yeah. Opportunities.”

“Well, if being a caretaker is the biggest ‘opportunity’ they’ve got… and it can actually pay for your college—”

“Ever heard of a study on neuroplasticity related to post-trauma rehabilitation?”

“Surely a handful of words for an excuse.”

At last, Father looked up from the paper, curling his lips. The contempt in his eyes hit Stephen like a live wire, charging every muscle in his body.

“Believe me, sir,” Stephen said, his voice hard with mock politeness, “if I really were making money the kind of way you think I do, selling myself, I’d have paid for my college and chipped in on some of your precious bills. Or are you accusing me of lying? How much would you pay for an ass like mine, Dad?”

“You spoiled brat!” Father leapt up, slamming the table with his fists, and Stephen recoiled.

“Enough!” Mom cried, pulling Victor into her arms and shielding his head. “Both of you! Not in front of the child, for heaven’s sake.”

Stephen felt the sting of shame heat his cheeks as his tense muscles finally let go, and he lowered his hands from their defensive hover. But the irritation flared again as soon as he caught Victor’s gaze — those bright blue eyes peeking out from their mother’s embrace, sharp and excited. It wasn’t the wide-eyed fear you’d expect from a thirteen-year-old witnessing a family fight, but something more like thrill, like a gambler watching the roulette wheel spin.

“Whatcha staring at?”

“Stephen,” Mom warned, and he turned away. But not without a flicker of satisfaction — Victor dropped his gaze too.

Father dropped back into his chair. “Your oldest always had a taste for cheap drama.”

“Your husband never knew when to keep his mouth shut.”

“What kind of example are you setting for your brother?”

“And you?”

“You love this, don’t you? Throwing gas on the fire.” Father slammed his fist on the table again. “If it weren’t for your mother, I’d have whipped you so hard you wouldn’t be able to sit for a week.”

“And lose all my job prospects?”

The toaster popped with a loud snap — their mother jumped up from her chair. Before either could spit out another mouthful of venom, she snapped, “Stephen! Eugene!”

That quieted them both, though Stephen didn’t unclench his fists until his father raised the paper again.

The charred toast burned his fingertips, and Stephen yelped, tossing the slices onto a napkin. He swept the crumbs into the trash and tucked the wrapped breakfast under his arm.  Leaning down to kiss his mother on the crown of her head, he whispered an apology. She stroked his cheek gently, “Be careful.”

Straightening up, Stephen grabbed an apple from the table and glanced at his father over Victor’s shoulder. “Do what Dad says and you’ll never disappoint the family.”

His mother shook her head in weary dismay, but Stephen was already gone — jammed his bare feet into a battered pair of sneakers and, like a mantra, repeated to himself five times that he wouldn’t turn back, wouldn’t turn back, wouldn’t react to the poison trailing behind him: “Let him talk. No one’s gonna listen to his crap outside this house.”

The street wrapped him in the thick stillness of summer heat. The sky was high, but the air had grown heavy. A storm was coming. Biting into the apple, Stephen tossed it through the open driver’s window and slung his bag into the back seat of his father’s black pickup. A loud huffing sound came from the rear wheel.

“Are you walking Trusty under the car, Donna?”

Hearing its name, the dog wagged its tail and pressed a damp nose against Stephen’s leg.

Donna appeared from behind the trunk, chewing on her thumbnail. A couple of daisies stuck out of her hair. “How’s Dad?”

“Said he’s proud of me and wished me a safe trip.”

“So, you two fought again,” she said in that softly disapproving tone she’d recently picked up from their mother. Stephen snorted.

“That was one of our better chats. Stop biting your nails, it’s gross.”

Donna folded her arms with a scowl, then leaned against the truck and gave him a mock-innocent look — eyes pure angel, smile pure mischief. 

“Well, I’m proud of you.”

“I’m not taking you with me, Donna.”

“Oh please! Stevie! Stee-vie! What am I supposed to do here all summer without you?”

“What do you mean, ‘what’? Keep Victor from poking around in my stuff.” He sighed when Donna kicked a stone with genuine frustration. “You know how it is. Mom needs help.”

“You’re the oldest, it’s you who were raised to help.”

She puffed out her cheeks. But catching Stephen’s reproachful look, she quickly changed the subject, “What if I start getting seizures again? Oh! Who’s going to save me if my all-knowing doctor-brother isn’t around?”

“You won’t start getting anything, Donna, because you’ll drink plenty of water and do your exercises. And you’ll stop smoking.” She didn’t even have time to open her mouth before he pulled the pack of cigarettes from her shirt pocket. Donna reached for it, but Stephen rose onto his toes and raised his fist — just out of her reach. “Which one of your admirers bought these? Jack? Larry? Larry. Tell him he has three months to flee the state, because when I get back, I’m tearing his head off.”

“Stephen!”

“Nope!” He grabbed her wrists and easily batted her hands away. “Not happening.”

The door flew open — Donna instantly stood at attention, and Stephen hid the pack of cigarettes behind his back — but it was only Victor on the porch, hair a mess and a blob of porridge on his cheek.

“Stevie! Take me with you too!”

“That’s all I need,” Stephen clicked his tongue and exchanged a glance with Donna. “No, Victor. Go back home.”

“But why?”

“Because I’m not going to some kindergarten party, I’m going to work! What are you gonna do there? Tag along at the hospital? Finish writing my scholarship proposal? Or sit sucking your thumb in a room the size of a shoebox for three months?” Stephen pointed at the door. “Home. Now.”

Victor’s lip trembled — his pale eyes welled up in an instant, not from sadness, but from pure, childish fury. He was a moody little brat, and Stephen couldn’t shake the image of that quiet, calculating look Victor gave him during the fight with Father. 

“You’re the worst! I hate you!”

“As you wish.” Stephen didn’t lower his hand, and Victor slammed the door loudly. 

Donna shook her head. “What a wonderful father you’re gonna make one day, Stevie.”

“The ‘home now’ includes you too. Trusty, no!”

The Cat had leapt with a crash onto the roof of the pickup, arched its back, and Strange tugged Trusty back by the collar. He waved an arm to shoo the Cat and got into the car despite Donna’s pleading protests.

“Wait, listen!” She gripped the window frame so he wouldn’t close it, and whispered, “I have a Radiohead tape. The new album, The Bends. Jimmy just brought it from New York. You take me with you, I’ll bring it along. No! Okay!” She pressed against the glass when Stephen started cranking the handle to roll it up. “I’ll give it to you. Forever. Deal? Come on, Stephen, please. I can’t make it through the summer without you! Just for a month. Three weeks. Two!”

Stephen sighed. Pulled an apple from behind his back and shook his head. “Go ask Mom.”

Donna lit up with a grin and, giving the car door a triumphant slap, took off running toward the house. Stephen rolled the window up.

Their parents didn’t let her go that summer — or the next — but Stephen had wanted so badly for her to come. So there’d be more warm, careless days to look back on, ones they’d shared. That was their second-to-last summer. Her second-to-last summer.

The next year, Stephen would finish high school and spend one last summer at home before heading off to college. By then, he’d have a thick moustache and a scholarship in his pocket; the end of August would be chilly, and one evening Donna would invite him to a lakeside party — she’d brag about her smart big brother in front of her friends, light a cigarette off the bonfire, drink beer from a green glass bottle, sit awkwardly on Larry’s lap, and then Stephen would dive, and dive, and dive—

A sharp pain under his ribs yanked him out of the memory. He couldn’t have known. He was seventeen, getting ready for a university placement, supposed to finish a research proposal for a scholarship and—

Awareness bit down suddenly, and the landscape outside the windshield blurred like an overexposed photo. Where the crooked-roofed doghouse had stood, an endless desert now stretched. The family home — a modest two-story farmhouse built from pale stone on borrowed land — shimmered like a mirage, and Stephen, gripped by dread, reached for the door handle. But there was none.

He slammed down the pedal, quickly twisted the ignition key, grabbed for the gearshift — but scars were already rising on the back of his sun-darkened hand, surfacing like scraps of cloth rising through water.

“No, no, no, please…”

The engine, of course, didn’t start. Stephen squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the back of his head into the seat, as if the transformation could stop if he just pretended it wasn’t happening. But he knew — it couldn’t.

“You will not find what is yours in the past, Master Strange,” the Ancient One said gently, yet firmly. “You are in the stream. The time has come.”

He knew. Had known from the start, right as he got here — in the upper egregore, his astral form always filled with dense, eldritch force. But right now, that was the last thing he wanted. His spirit was in a state of heightened agitation, all his senses turned up to full, and all he wanted was to run back to his safe, simple, earthly past.

Stephen didn’t blame himself for the cowardice. He had learned well: when the brakes fail, you don’t hit the gas — hell, you don’t even get in the car. And who would dare fault him?

But now the egregore’s energy burned through him again. It swept him into a separate channel, like a fish funneled through some inverted ecosystem — from the sea to the estuary — exactly as described in the volumes of The Path of the Sorcerers Supreme, that exhaustive how-to guide for title-seekers.

When Stephen opened his eyes, he was standing before the Ancient One. Death hadn’t changed her a bit: her expression was still implacably calm, her green eyes just as piercing. Only her robes had changed — she now wore a flowing, loose suit, shimmering in the colors of sunset: gold, rose, blue, tangerine. Intricate embroidery on the sleeves glowed faintly, and the hem of her wide mantle rippled across the ground, giving the illusion she was hovering.

Stephen looked down at his hands. Waves of golden light licked his palms, softening the scars, and he muttered in protest, resigned, “This is a forced path. A wrong one.”

“Only because it chose you, and not the other way around?”

“I read—”

“A billion inexplicable events brought you to this specific place at this specific moment, and you still believe any of it is up to you?”

He snapped his mouth shut at the sparks of laughter in her eyes. He knew she was right, resented that she’d caught him in such a foolish slip, and wasn’t even sure what annoyed him more — that he’d hidden behind vague wording, or that she, deliberately or not, had failed to read the real protest between the lines.

Stephen found nothing to reply. But to his brooding silence, the Ancient One only asked with gentle indulgence, “Did you truly think you could hide from me in your memories?”

“Not from you.”

Closing his eyes, Stephen unclenched his fists and at last let the image woven from the memories of youth fully dissolve into the astral form he truly was in.

The space transformed along with him: the desert — the final echo of the comforting illusion that the past had been real — turned into a long white road surrounded by shimmering rainbow light. There was no air here, only light, broken into the full color spectrum, like a sunbeam cast across a table through a drinking glass. Stephen’s astral body shimmered as well. Saturated with pure pranic concentration, it was as dense as the Ancient One’s spirit, not at all translucent. His subconscious generously projected every fold of his multilayered robes, which rippled in deep blue waves.

Only the hole in his chest disturbed the ethereal serenity of his form. A clean split, straight from the center of his breastbone, one half to each side. The jagged edges glowed with a fiery red, and dull orange sparks leapt from edge to edge like fleas over an abyss, as if trying to stitch the incorporeal fabric shut with invisible thread.

Their jumping quickened, and Stephen shut his eyes. He’d experienced this before — that was why he’d built his shelter of warm memories in the first place. But now, once again, he was a balloon, and the energy being pulled from him was air, too much air, just enough to burst the taut latex walls. Awareness crashed into him like an inevitable tsunami, and Stephen scattered across the entire dimension — across all dimensions. He was every atom of every element, every sound, every particle of light; he was himself and he was the Ancient One, watching her, himself, and both of them at once from the outside. He could feel every point of light clinging to another, how they clustered into threads, into waves, from which his astral body was woven.

And he could feel every cell of his physical body — his poor, poor body, so very unfit for such strain. The stupid human brain wasn’t built to operate at full capacity, to break past the four-dimensional world where it could process even a fraction of the all-encompassing information Stephen’s awareness was gathering, stretched as it was across the multiversal space-time like beads on a string.

And yet, his consciousness was still bound by knowledge, while awareness was pulling him beyond it. To where there were no boundaries. To where human perception could not exist. Toward absolute cosmic unknowing, which tamed all pride with its universally-right unpredictability and granted peace.

But it was all too much — too much light, too much sound, too much knowledge — and Stephen felt he was on the verge of drowning in the microscopic points and lines that he was made of, dissolving into them. Becoming them — and losing himself. Becoming everything in the universe, the multiverse, in equal measure, and never again being Stephen Strange any more than he was everything else.

And then the Ancient One raised her hand — or did he raise her hand? or his own? — and in an instant he was twisted back in on himself like a party whistle. Warmth flooded his astral form again, and the calm of such overwhelming energy seemed to staple his consciousness back into his astral body. The transformation passed so quickly and easily it was as if it had never happened at all.

The Ancient One was studying the hole in his chest with quiet attention. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes. And no. I see, hear, and feel too much if I think about it for more than a second.”

“Obviously.”

At her didactic tone, Stephen shrugged. He was himself again, but he still saw the particles of light around him, like sand scattered in the air, and saw how they formed waves of different colors. It wasn’t a typical experience, not even for the astral dimension. Stephen could choose whether the light appeared as particles or waves, could touch them. Could make them a part of himself — or become a part of them; within awareness, there was no difference.

Every word and movement shifted billions of those tiny points, and Strange saw and felt it as if he were underwater, each motion rippling through the space around him. It was beyond his comprehension. He raised his hand, and the entire cosmos rose with it. Stephen could feel the weight of countless atoms that moved and breathed in tandem with him. He looked at the Ancient One’s cloak, purple now, and he was the cloak itself and could unravel it thread by thread, if only he focused.

Casting a casually appraising look from head to toe, the Ancient One offered, as if in passing, “Your heightened awareness is the result of a force from the Cosmic Root destroying the chakra-sealing mechanisms and now continually acting on your indriyas — your sensory faculties and the mind that interprets them. Or are you more concerned about the difficulties this might cause in your relationship with Tony Stark?”

Stephen frowned. The Ancient One smiled. 

“Master Strange, you spoke quite freely about your twin in your head but didn’t allow yourself more than a half-sarcastic insult in reference to hers, not even in the heat of the moment.”

“I don’t approve of it,” Strange objected, brushing his fingers lightly over the edge of the hole in his chest.

“Of course you don’t.”

“Tony Stark has nothing to do with this.”

“She does.”

“Not my Tony Stark.”

“Ah. So we’re bargaining now?”

Embarrassment washed through Stephen in a golden wave, from the crown of his head to his shoulders, and he looked away. That is, no. He wasn’t resisting the obvious, but dissecting emotions in his current state was dangerously immersive, and now was not the time — and the Ancient One’s gently mischievous expression was unbearable.

“It was my twin who sent me to another universe,” Stephen protested, half-heartedly. “If it weren’t for him—”

“If it weren’t for you.”

He gave her a dry chuckle. “And you were talking about my capacity for goodness.”

“The steeper the mountain, the sharper the fall. But your twin acted with good intentions. I was talking about your capacity,” she shrugged, “and he is an Informant.”

An Informant… one of them. That’s what he’d said. Until now, Kamar-Taj had only known of one Informant or rather merely the fact of their existence. How many were there, truly? What kind of bond with magic did it take to move beyond human perception and survive? How much pain — and resolve — must a soul contain to renounce all mortal life, any life, and seal itself away forever from joy and sorrow alike? And what kind of debt must one owe the universe to offer up such a soul as collateral?

Stephen suddenly felt like a grain of sand in the face of an incomprehensible universe. And an even more incomprehensible multiverse. How little he knew. But how much he could feel.

His astral body shimmered, and the hole in his chest grew slightly larger — thin tendrils of smoke rose from it, as if energy was burning through the very fabric of the ether. Stephen instinctively clasped his hands over it, but the touch brought no relief. 

Frowning, the Ancient One assessed, “This will kill you, Master Strange. But it will kill you the sooner the harder you run from it. Right now, you’re at least holding it back.”

Stephen looked at her with tentative hope. “Could Fusion help?”

“No, not at all.”

“Yet you still want to make me the Supreme.”

“These are unrelated matters.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“Oh, you know best, Master Strange.”

“Are you mocking me now?”

The Ancient One smiled, as if she’d been waiting for the sarcasm in his voice. No matter how much her omniscience and therapeutic insight — how she pressed all the right buttons, as if he were a simple old remote — irritated him, he was grateful for the change of subject.

She shook her head, motioning for him to follow, and began walking along a white path. “Fusion means experience and knowledge for the karana sharira, but it has nothing to do with either the physical body or the astral one. The awareness granted by direct contact with the Root manifests only in the latter two. But you feel this yourself, don’t you?” She glanced back, unfazed by him not moving along, and raised an eyebrow at his frown and clenched fists. “You’re being so stubborn as if you’re not interested at all. Not even one bit.”

Well, maybe one bit. Maybe even more than that… but inside, he was being shredded by the endless energy from the heart of the cosmos, and that was probably cause for more concern than anything else. If Stephen could still endure the Ancient One’s playful gaze, he predictably gave in to her gentle, mentoring softness — that reminder that not everything must have meaning.

He fell into step beside her. Space shifted again, and Stephen felt himself unraveling and folding back together with it. He looked around distractedly, mouth slightly open, and saw through a translucent wall of light a dense dark matter beginning to form.

A corridor unfolded around them. The walls looked hewn from stone, but were actually filled with ancient energy, which resonated at the same frequency as Strange’s astral body. The vibrations, synchronized, focused that energy. Everything here was tuned to Stephen, so he wouldn’t have to waste concentration trying to understand and accept new information, but instead could devote himself wholly to one thing — accepting his new title. That was how it was explained in The Path, at least.

Gradually, emotions and tactile sensations faded away. Stephen was losing sensitivity in perfect resonance with the world around him, with only his sight remaining intact. A vision neither clouded by others’ opinions nor his own feelings. Such radical shedding of categories was hard for Stephen to grasp, and his thoughts inevitably stumbled over complex philosophy. He had to absorb everything the ritual offered without judgment — “without pity, but with understanding”, quoting the book — but what use was understanding if he had lost the ability to judge? Could he call a hot iron hot if he himself could not be burned by it? What made him think that understanding, whether someone else’s or his own from the past, applied to the present? And which judgment of the iron was objective: the pitiless one of the man who felt neither heat nor cold, or the compassionate one of the rest of the world that did?

His brain itched but not from the pleasant complexity of the questions, but from the endless flood of correct answers. Stephen preferred precision. And it was better not to test the universe’s patience. But there was no one to ask — disclosing the secrets of becoming Supreme was forbidden, and everyone’s experience, from reading of The Path to the very Fusion itself, was unique. Stephen glanced at the Ancient One but bit his tongue. Of all the masters, she alone could reproach him with a clear conscience for lack of humility.

The walls stretched up to a vaulted ceiling, and the soft etheric light whitened as if the air itself was its source. Stephen’s head spun in the vast tunnel, and the inability to grasp this infinity surrounding him with superficial, verbal consciousness overwhelmed him with vague claustrophobia. Sparks above the hole flickered more actively, and he braced himself to be torn apart across the dimension in another bout of awareness — but the Ancient One’s voice restored the stability of his astral form.

“This is the Vishanti channel. You cannot enter here without their permission, but this is where you reach out to when you seek visions in meditation. There are no emotions here, no forms, no space — only knowledge. This place is stitched from spells and mantras, ancient wisdom and prohibitions.”

“Have the Vishanti decided I am ready?”

“They have decided so, yes.”

“And you?”

“Want to know if I agree that you’re ready? Absolutely not. But you’ll quickly catch up on what’s missing, and if you survive, you can still become the best of us.” She looked at him with a strange, learned smile that only emphasised her inhumanity. Stephen felt, as if for the first time, that overwhelming force emanating from this fragile woman, as heavy as a stone slab. “I have watched your path from the very beginning, Master Strange, but I did not raise an heir in you, nor did I choose you as the next Supreme. All of that is entirely your own achievement.”

“Yet none of it stopped Mordo.”

“None of it could. But you owe him nothing. You can blame yourself only for carelessness: to overlook a conspiracy with the most obvious premises right under your nose required—” She raised an eyebrow, choosing the words. “A certain talent.”

“He blames me.”

“Because you are brothers. Raised by different mothers, but united by infinite knowledge without earthly origin or human morality. You two were meant to be one.”

“My flexibility for him, and his strength for me, I remember.”

“You both suffer because every body hurts if it severs its own arm. Only because you are one does your fight become so cruel.”

“What is this future he talks to?” Stephen narrowed his eyes. “An evil spirit? Twisted visions?”

“Mordo talks to himself. He performs forbidden rites, drinks ritual water, and calls it a conversation with the future because he fears himself. He also, uh, abuses mushrooms quite a lot.”

“Thought so.”

The Ancient One didn’t continue, and Stephen pursed his lips, studying her again. Something about her relaxed stance — hands shoved deep in her pockets, the thoughtful expression — irritated him, and finally he squeezed out his confusion from the discomfort.

“You don’t condemn him.”

“What’s the point? I could condemn him for the bloodshed, and you — for your shortsightedness. But my body has long been dead, and my spirit doesn’t know human categories.”

“It’s easy not to understand,” Stephen reproached, and the Ancient One lifted a steely gaze to him.

It was the gaze of an old man who had survived wars, who had raised and sent his children to their deaths; an old man who had endured so much joy and sorrow that among the jumble of emotions no place remained for indignation at a childish reproach: only sadness and solemnity.

“Mordo was taught to believe, but not to know. You, on the contrary, to know but not to believe. Yet, in a year at Kamar-Taj, you have grasped more than he did in decades. I should have foreseen that.”

“They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” Stephen arched his eyebrows, but lowered his gaze at the Ancient One’s unexpected smile. “Sorry.”

“You were taught a few tricks.”

“I didn’t—”

“People forgive you straightforward judgments only because they are true,” the Ancient One chided gently. “Mordo turned from one faith to another but never truly learned anything.”

“And me? I believed only after I learned.”

“You still know nothing, Strange, yet you believe. Isn’t that a miracle?”

He had no time to reply: the space trembled, and Stephen again felt his very essence shift with the world. The walls, once filled with energy so strong they seemed tangible, dissolved into ethereal light.

Chapter Text

Her chin propped on her fist, Tony watched a particularly gory episode of Grey’s Anatomy, except Rou was the surgeon and her instruments were glowing golden runes instead of scalpels. A crosshatch of deep wounds that had sliced through Ling’s chest all the way down to the bone had faded and no longer looked quite so terrifying – and if not for that, his torso could’ve been on the cover of some collegiate swim team calendar.

The corner of the medbay, partitioned off with frosted glass, had been hijacked by the sorcerers for an autopsy. Turns out ‘magical autopsy’ was basically a code for ‘data dump’: extract the entire biofield into a cloud of runes, chant some vaguely ominous mantras, and boom, cause of death, last meal, maybe even horoscope.

As soon as Rou surfaced from her meditative half-trance, a few masters in brown robes (healers; Tony had learned to tell them apart by colours) moved in to prep the body for burial. Outside, a few others had already burned Ling’s bloodstained clothes under an apple tree; Rhodey muttered about OSHA violations, but Tony waved him off. 

Without Kamar-Taj, Caton explained, they couldn’t do the full mystical send-off, but they tried to follow what customs they could. In the way he said that they’d store the body in a pocket dimension and hope someday it found its way to their communal cemetery, Tony heard so much regret and shame that she felt embarrassed for even hearing it.

“No residual traps,” Rou reported, drying her elbows with paper towels. “Surprising.”

“They underestimated us,” Caton replied, and Tony snorted.

“Or we overestimated them.”

Naama, cross-legged on the couch, smiled without opening her eyes.

“He could’ve broken the spell himself, so they took his hands.” Caton poured tea from a round clay pot. “We work with such injuries too, but it’s a long process: weeks, months. His wounds were too fresh. The Blades spell was already eating him alive — he would’ve exploded either way. Flawless plan.”

“That your way of saying ‘thank you’?” Tony arched an eyebrow, but Caton just knocked back the tea like it was whiskey.

Through the frosted gap, Tony had a panoramic view of the medbay. Along the wall, directly opposite, a cluster of masters weaved golden threads of spellwork around Tina, now dressed in a purple tank top and loose pants. Ray’s attack had stolen her sight. Now, pale blue lightning scars ringed her eyes, like someone had made her a tattoo of lightning.

And yet Tina sat perfectly composed, like the whole thing had happened to her ages ago. Only her thinning hair, tucked into a neat ponytail, revealed a hospital patient within her. Her posture was confident, her head turning toward each sound with sniper-like accuracy. But her stiff stillness gave her away – tense and quiet, she held her arms and torso too tight, still learning to navigate the world without vision. The light, dancer’s grace she once carried had been replaced by cautious inertia. 

Master Xiong couldn’t be saved – internal injuries had taken her, despite a dozen sorcerers burning through every trick in the book. Wong wasn’t too well either. Critical condition, brain damage of some sort: neural pathways scrambled, heartbeat regulation compromised. Tony hadn’t caught all the details. Strange’s notes sent the medics sprinting into another round of surgery – still ongoing, but assistants kept popping out to toss some good news and hope that Wong might finally be stabilised.

Agent Ross, on the other hand, was the day’s lottery winner. According to the sorcerers, he had just a couple of burns and a pretty bad scare, but magic was successfully doing its fast-forward healing thing on him. He’d already set up a mini command centre on his bedside table, fingers machine-gunning over his laptop. Tony could see the faint scar trailing from his cheek down his neck, etched over with faintly glowing runes. The sight evoked a flash of Mordo’s face, twisted in pain.

On the far bed by the window, May Parker lay. Tony half-recalled she’d gotten stuck in the Mirror Dimension during Mordo’s stunt, though the why escaped her. Either way, the spell she had been hit with was going to take several more days to unravel. For now, May lay unconscious, pale and thinned by illness. Her brows twitched occasionally, and her expression was focused, like she was working through a complex equation in her sleep.

Beside her sat Peter, her nephew or a cousin, Tony wasn’t sure and hadn’t asked. But the sight of the boy made her throat dry. In just a day, the boyish roundness of his face had been sanded down by exhaustion and worry. Every time Tony glanced his way, his hand stayed on May’s, his grip gentile but firm. He watched from under heavy eyelids, his eyes dulled by sleeplessness but flashing with reflexive alertness whenever someone moved too close to the bed.

Tony rubbed her collarbone with the back of her knuckles.

“If they don’t have any more surprises in store,” Rou sighed, and Tony blinked absently, barely remembering what they’d been talking about. 

Caton clicked his tongue. “They’ve got respected and seasoned masters on their bench. You don’t waste that kind of talent – unless, of course, they’re about to defect.”

He glanced at Ling’s covered body. Rou’s assistant had already drawn the sheet over his face. Rou laid a hand on Caton’s shoulder, “We won’t know.”

“Dissent in a rigid ideology mustn’t survive.”

“You make me glad, Master Caton, that you’re on our side.”

“It’s just common sense. Every army runs on iron discipline.”

“Were you military?” Tony finished her tea. The herbal sludge clung to her tongue like spite, and she swirled it away with saliva.

“Foreign intelligence.”

“Which country?”

“Irrelevant.”

“You don’t know either?” She turned around. Hamir and Dahlia were helping move the body away, Naama still hadn’t opened her eyes, and Rou shrugged. “Seriously? No one?”

“Kamar-Taj doesn’t care where the river begins,” Caton said, his eyes glittering with mischief.

“So what made you wade in?”

Caton looked over the other sorcerers, like a man seeking clearance to open a locked drawer. Tony was about to let the subject drop when he looked back at her and gave her the faintest smile, “The same thing that has happened to you, Stark. Seventeen weeks in captivity. In my case, though, the term was ‘prisoner-of-war camp’.”

Tony leaned back in her chair, feeling that rare, bristling jolt of recognition – meeting someone who suddenly understood. Not in the broad, human way. Not simple sympathy. The real thing, in its literal, physical sense. The wired-to-the-bone inability to relax in a crowd, to surrender control, to offer anyone the same tenderness as before. The bone-deep certainty it would never scrub off.  

Tony studied Caton’s face more closely, as if she could take it apart and reverse-engineer it. Only now did she notice that his features – the deep creases around his nose and mouth, the knife-edge lines – weren’t age but impact damage. He looked like a man firmly in his sixties, but Tony wouldn’t have been surprised if he said he was her age. And that look – in one blink, he let her see it, and she caught it clean: the hollow detachment she’d seen staring back from her own mirror every now and then. How had she missed it before?

“But you got out.”

Not quite a question, not quite a statement. 

Caton shrugged, “My unit got me out. Raided the camp the day before they planned to execute me. Sadly, they gave me no wrenches or hammers – didn’t want my inventions, just the intel.”

Tony nodded, recognising the ease with which he switched to that special language of abstractions and sidesteps. A language from the time when the only pronouns were ‘me’ and ‘them’.

“How… long ago?”

“Decades. Many decades. Including years of ops, rehab, and interrogations in between.” 

Tony sighed. So, not the same age after all.

“It’s always hard for a soldier to come back from a long war,” Caton added.

“But there’s no war at Hogwarts. At least, not until, you know. Recently.”

“‘Hard to come back’ doesn’t mean ‘longing to return’. My government rebuilt me from scratch: gave me new eyes, teeth, body, but up here,” he tapped his temple, “nothing changed. I wanted to forget and couldn’t. My door back to service was shut, so I took what savings I had and went travelling. Got sick off the coast of Africa. The doctor who patched me up told me not to waste time chasing normal life. He told me to find a place where I could be—”

“Needed?”

“Like everyone else. He saw me considering it and scribbled an address in Kathmandu on the back of a cough syrup prescription.”

“That simple? The former spook didn’t even ask questions?”

“Oh, I asked plenty,” he smiled. “But every time, he just pointed me back to the address. And something about that lit something primal in me. First spark I’d felt since captivity. I was poor and desperate enough to roll the dice.”

“You skipped the part,” Rou cut in in a warmly mocking tone, “where you tried to sell the Teachings of Time to every major world religion within a month of arriving.”

“We all have chapters we’d rather shred.” Caton turned back to Tony, “But don’t think that years behind Kamar-Taj walls turned me into a saint. That place pulls flawed, broken and desperate people in like light does to moths.”

“The ones lucky enough to hear about it.”

“Unlucky ones, rather. It’s the last stop, refuge for the hopeless.” He refilled his cup without looking down. “The masters born inside Kamar-Taj are called its earth, and those who come from the outside its fire. The Ancient One would ask every newcomer: will you warm us, or will you burn us?”

Beyond the partition, two nurses passed in blurred silhouettes. Tony leaned back, legs stretched and crossed, letting the chair take her weight.

Caton let out a dry chuckle. “And the more you learn, the less you want to answer.”

“Mordo did.”

“Ah… Mordo.”

His jaw locked, face tightening into a mask of stone, upper lip curling in a brief, involuntary snarl. But then, he exhaled, shut his eyes, and just like that, the steel drained away. His face smoothened, the lines easing into something older, softer, like sorrow that had burned itself clean of bitterness. It was like watching Caton flip a switch inside his head, swapping one emotion for another.

“He served Kamar-Taj well and faithfully for many years. We fought shoulder-to-shoulder, shared rations, and trained apprentices together. Neither of us was lying when we called him our brother. But the truth is, he never really understood Kamar-Taj’s philosophy. He clung to the sincerity of his belief, the righteousness of our mission, but neither of the two could’ve taught him flexibility of mind. And what doesn’t bend is doomed to break.”

“Or to transform.”

“Not his case.”

Tony scratched her chin. “With that kind of rabid devotion to gurus and missions… where does the sense of personal destiny come from?”

“Mordo was always different. In a way. Born of a mixed marriage, never quite like his neighbours, something of an outcast, if you like. There wasn’t formal oppression in his country, but the street he grew up on never accepted him. But they feared his father, a war veteran. His mother wasn’t local and left so early he doesn’t remember her, and the father raised him with cruelty and in cruelty.”

“How do you mean? Having a lousy dad with a wall of medals doesn’t exactly guarantee a future in cult management.”

“He was a drunk who laid hands on his child,” Tina cut off.

Tony flinched at her sharp tone and pursed her lips, catching Tina’s blind gaze locked on her. Stark tapped her fingers on the steel table, where Ling’s body had been minutes ago. And yeah, she got it. Without her mother and the Jarvises running interference, Howard’s love for expensive liquor wouldn’t have ended at display bottles in a vintage bar cabinet. And she wouldn’t have inherited even the faintest chance of turning into someone society could tolerate. Not that she had it now, though. Not the bar cabinet. That she did have.

Rou gently took Tina’s hand and eased her into a chair. Tina crossed one leg over the other with practised composure and picked up where she’d left off, “He came back from war with weapons, a bottle in his hand, and visions, a cocktail of unprocessed trauma and drunken rambling. That’s what he raised Mordo on. Is it true that you have met The Informant, Stark?”

“Yeah, overhyped nonsense. So we’re talking family traditions of prophesying over the dinner table? I already figured Mordo isn’t just a glory junkie but a dyed-in-the-wool ideologue.”

“His father pulled at him like the moon pulls the tide,” Caton shrugged. “Mordo said that himself. As a kid, he was withdrawn, flunked school, picked fights instead of friends, had three trips to juvie by fourteen. The only authority he recognised was his father, and not in that sense. He hated him. But imagine what tales of a baronial title stolen during wartime could do to a boy with zero prospects in life when his father repeats them all the time.”

“My father taught me that whatever I invent tomorrow is already obsolete, and that while I’m crying over the past, someone else is making the future. And he also said: ‘No amount of money ever bought a second of time’.”

“Mordo’s father couldn’t have given him a moment worth even a handful of coins,” Tina cut off. 

Caton gave her a gentle look, then coughed, embarrassed, and set his cup aside. “In any case, Mordo had neither. And even if the title had been real, what would it have changed in a communist country in the seventies? But he learned ambition and blind obedience, not critical thinking.”

As Rou’s fingers traced golden sigils above Tina’s head, Tony forced herself to stop staring at the pale blue lightning scars around the master’s eyes.

“Ideal recruits are cowards. Usually.”

“It wasn’t a cruel world that taught him to fight, Stark, it was the conviction that violence was the only way to restore justice.”

The hardest choices require the strongest wills. Of course. Titan’s sand ground between her teeth again, and Tony’s shoulder jerked before she could stop it.

“In one of his drunken visions,” Caton went on, “his father decided the ‘enemy’ was hiding in a Tibetan monastery. He drank himself to death before Mordo turned seventeen, leaving him with a pitiful inheritance, a thirst for blood disguised as justice, and an address.”

“Kathmandu.”

“Mordo robbed a couple neighbours to fund the trip, made it to Nepal, but he wasn’t exactly a chess master. A month later, he was sleeping on the streets, and hunger made him reconsider his priorities. Master Tejas caught him stealing at the market. Said he fought like an old soldier but thought like a street brawler. The Ancient One had him brought in. Mordo showed up with broken fingers, angry at everything and everyone. She fed him, cleaned him up, put him into her own quarters. Gave him English dictionaries.”

“No one thought to, I don’t know, call the local cops about the stray teen? You know, like, normal humans?”

“Like it or not, the Supreme decides who stays. And the Ancient One always knew more than she said.”

“And just handed you a live grenade.”

“A blade of fanatical devotion is only dangerous when it’s pointed at you,” Rou cut in. “But how useful it can be if you hold the hilt.”

“Pragmatic.”

“Mordo was looking for a guru, and you can never have too many defenders of reality.”

Tony tilted her head. Maybe it was for the best – otherwise, Mordo would’ve been another street criminal instead of a cult-zealot in robes. At least this way, he’d been useful to Kamar-Taj. And he must’ve been good if Stephen still couldn’t let go of him.

And still.

A bad topic to contemplate the what-ifs. Peter Parker’s face flashed in Tony’s mind, uninvited. Heat pooled at her temple, and she rubbed her forehead.

Caton cinched the belt on his kaftan. “Near the end of his first month, Mordo spotted a golden compass on the Ancient One’s desk. Needle points to mystical energy concentrations – artefacts, ley lines, things like that. He thought to steal it and run for the hills, but the Ancient One tossed him into the Mirror Dimension and flattened him without breaking stride. Then, gave him a choice: leave or serve.”

“And this time, he gathered some strategic thinking.”

“He decided magic was the weapon he needed. The Ancient One sent him to the fields – shovelling chicken coops, sewing masters’ robes. Only once he stopped eyeing other people’s bowls and swiping shiny buttons did she start training him. He was eager, quick to learn. After a year, he vowed to renounce the past and show mercy in thought and battle. When she named him Master, she handed him the compass. He became her loyal friend, her aide.”

“Her guard dog.”

“Her Councillor. In every sense.”

“But then Strange took the big chair, and Mordo spiralled back. New enemies, old crusades.”

“A blade, even dulled, is still a blade. The Ancient One added white to his black world, but he had to find the greys himself.”

“Disillusionment,” Rou added, “is the deadliest enemy of blind faith.”

Caton smoothed his robe, gaze narrowing at Tony. “Which makes it all the more interesting — why didn’t he kill you?”

Because she might be useful.

Because in some possible future, she was the safety pin in the grenade.

Because, obviously, she was too valuable to be a trash-bin trap only and also too much of a trouble to be only a trash-bin trap. Yet, nonetheless. Tony wrinkled her nose.

“I don’t know. But that was his biggest mistake.”

Rou smiled but said with a serious edge, “I’m glad you’re on our side too, Miss Stark.”

Caton grinned in agreement.

Beyond the frosted glass, a tall shadow slid toward the door. Tony rose, “The eaglet is in the nest!”

“And he’s hungry,” Rhodey said grimly, scanning the room like he was clocking targets before a firefight, and shot Tony a warning look.

But before they could leave their corner of the medbay, two soldiers stepped through the door – and from the shift in Rhodey’s expression, Tony knew immediately that this was not part of the plan.