#like sir I will literally maim and kill you if you don’t leave me alone

[violetbudd]

working in retail is basically being tortured every day of your life

[terrorhqs]

[tw: blood, major character death]

A week after the takeover, the Promethean is well on its way to finish its trek. Cutting through calm and complacent waters, the crew and guests note that the ice that had once held them hostage has dissipated overnight with the dark and the gloom. Perhaps the deaths of the soldier and the girl sated the beast, some whisper — it’s leaving us alone. No, their comrade scoffs. Too easy. You heard the French - the thing killed a boatload of them before it left them alone! Two people are nothing but crumbs to it. It’ll be back.

“You’re all buffoons”, another chimes in. “The Agathe? Mutineers all along. It’s as Estrada said. They killed their crew and are killing ours too.” 

Amid the new tension borne of the mutiny, suspense heavy as wool hangs over the ship as it resumes its course. Lookouts are silent as they watch the ice, dread fraying their nerves, the same thought trawling across their conscience. Surely, it will reappear. After everything, it will come back.

But nothing parts the ocean, not even the breeze. An uneasy quiet descends upon the ship as those with an interest in completing the passage outnumber those who seek to return now that the waters promise an easy journey. An end to all of this is feasible — the only question remains: will all that’s been lost have been worth it? Is there any end that justifies the means?

It’ll be weeks, months yet before the Promethean reaches Hong Kong, but a call rings out in the midst of the morning. Wick and Bastien, high atop and on lookout, wave down wildly at the deckhands below. 

“Land! Land ahead!”

A seaman relays the message, bursts into the captain’s quarters where Marcus waits, in covenant with Hugo. Both men snap their heads at once, when they see the rallied cry that’s being picked up among the ranks. Both men, yes, to the slack curl of their jaw, can hardly credit it. It cannot be, their dark eyes say, pupils flashing. Even down to their mannerism, they have begun to look the same. 

“Land, sir. Lookout’s caught sight of land. Of a city - and its harbor!”

The vice-admiral-made-captain starts in his seat, brow furrowing, skeptical. “You’re joking. Even you must have looked at a map, we’ve got quite a way before even—”

“I swear it!” In his haste, he doesn’t mind his manners. As frantic as anyone’s ever seen, even Estrada cannot deny the truth from his eyes. “The lads are calling for you up-deck, Sir. The whole world is. A port awaits us.”

The rest of those onboard join the watch on the upper deck, curious clamoring seizing even those under the watchful eye of a musket barrel. There is no mistaking it - an oceanside city perched on low, rocky stone worn by lapping waves is clear through the spyglass. Slender, shimmering buildings of white spiral towards the sky in spires; others buildings are lower to the ground, and all are built with the same stone upon which the city sits and all are half-hidden behind a mist. 

“Make plans to dock.”

—

“Don’t stand up, Dowling. It’s only me. I come bearing news.”

Silence. In the space between the bottom of the floor and the door, Malachy’s silhouette shifts. 

“Too much of a coward to face me, Estrada?” Ragged voice tears through the air like a dagger, muffled through the door. “State your peace and leave.”

“Is that an order, captain?” A humorless, hollow laugh. “This is a gesture of goodwill, Dowling. I’d mind yourself until I’ve said what I’ve come to say.” He pauses. Perhaps to hide his own disbelief. Perhaps to spite Malachy. “We’ve fucking crossed it, Dowling. We think we’ve found the passage and we’ve found a way through. Hell, we might have already crossed it. We’ve got a city in sight and we’re making plans to dock in their harbor.”

A long pause. “No. No, that can’t be. It’s far too soon. A week, that’s not enough.”

“Say it as much as you want. By the time we lay anchor, you can come see for yourself. I reckon, see, that it won’t even be a day. As a truce, I’ll let you out—supervised, of course, and never too far from my sight. But freedom, Dowling. You’re to partake in it as well.”

“Thrilled, are you?” A soft thump on the other side of the door as Malachy leans against it. “How neatly this all transpires for you as soon as you seize the helm. Should’ve mutinied sooner, I bet you’re thinking.”

“Not here to question it. For your sake, I hope you don’t either.”

— 

Up close, the mist that cloaks the city shifts with every step taken. Appearing transparent once, then cloudy with a thin, greenish film next, then shimmering with an opalescent, abalone sheen. It is cold, but not cold enough for the thick coats that have proven imperative for standing outside in the Arctic. A strange humidity permeates the air - it is thin and thick, at once, and one feels a shortness and a swelling in every inhale - not painful, nor is it natural. The luster visible from the sea is procured from shells embedded into the foundation of every building, in between the stone and plaster - old and weathered, they glint in the light that parts through the mist. Perhaps the first thing that can be glimpsed, like a maroon carpet of colour, is the red sands on the eastward beach. Ground to a fine point, blanketing uniformly around the village until the paved streets begin to stretch on, it resembles a carpet of leaves or clipped gems as much as a natural phenomenon.

No other ships are docked at the silent harbor. Cobblestone lines the path up the crumbling seawall and into the city where townsfolk mill about in the marketplaces and town square, a vast space eclipsed by grand, towering edifices - a spindly cathedral demarcated by an unfamiliar brass symbol of the very tallest of its spires; an ancient, squat tavern; an inn with patrons streaming in and out like shoals; a surfeit of various shops of every variety, marked not by words or names, but by images painted into the overhanging signs. As the sun begins to dip below the horizon, one realizes there is an absence of gas lamps that dotted London in abundance. Instead, white wax candles spill over every ledge, every crook and cranny, their bases melted into the stone and bedrock and wood. 

Townsfolk cast strange, curious glances at these newcomers, but their gazes never linger long before they carry on with their businesses. The accents are implacable, though they speak English - not even a mishmash of any known dialects, but entirely unfamiliar. Not even the Promethean’s most well-traveled guests can narrow their tongue or the origin of their accents down. 

The shops and inns here refuse currency - one takes what they need, and they carry their debt with them until it's repaid, metaphorically or literally. 

— 

Malachy emerges from the boiler room a fragmented man, gaze trained on the multiple barrel ends that follow his every movement. Every breath he takes lifts his entire body in a heaving pulse-thrum. Hair unkempt and eyes wild with animal fury, his lips lift into a sneer as he finds Marcus in the crowd of muskets.

“Is this where I’m supposed to thank you for your mercy, Estrada?” He appraises the armed crew. “And your lackeys, for their restraint?” 

“Chin up, Dowling.” The vice-admiral’s lips curl into a grimace. “Even you cannot deny this good fortune. Certainly this justifies some of the trouble.”

“It justifies nothing. If you’re wise, you’ll not let me out of your sight.”

No more is exchanged between the two men before Malachy is ushered up the main ladderway, up to the upper deck and onto the dock, one armed escort in front and behind him. The rest of the crew begin to disembark, all who aligned with Malachy closely followed by another who wasn’t. 

The dock creaks beneath their feet, and the procession is slow, tentative, upon reaching this new port. Everything is familiar, and yet nothing is - not even the screech of a gull to announce their arrival.

Then, a scream, feral and hoarse. 

Behind them, Jules takes advantage of the momentary awe and sweeps the legs of her captor, knocks them into the harbor waters. A musket fires. The narrow dock doesn’t allow much in the way of room, and those who have not yet made it out of the ship clamber back on. Captors shout for their captives to STAND STILL, MOVE BACK down into the lower deck, but the chaos and the overlapping shouts overpower them. Smaller squabbles break out as the rest milk the opportunity given to them by Jules’ commotion. Ahead of them all, Malachy slams himself into the guard in front of them, tackling them both to the ground. His second escort scrambles for a clear shot, musket trembling - only to lurch back, struck in the shoulder. Behind him, Ephraim had broken free and wrestled the gun from his warden, his aim true then and now as he holds it steady on Malachy’s escort, who wordlessly surrenders his own weapon to Malachy. 

On the boat, chaos descends. Roi has easily overtaken his guard, pinning them to the side of the boat. Before he can hurl them into the water, Mariah throws himself onto his back, pinning the steward’s neck into the crook of his elbow. A flash of silver in his free palm - but then Laurents is on him, twisting their arm back until the knife drops to the ground with a clatter, and drives his fist into the mercenary’s gut, allowing Roi the chance to break free. Elias dives for the dagger and slashes at the ankles of Fahra’s guard, who had her wrists firmly in their grip. He cuts deep, cuts an unthinkable and irreparable gash over both calves; enough to maim, perhaps, if another one of Estrada’s hounds had not stepped in. The second man, bigger, wrangles the steward into a deathgrip. They both take the fall, tumbling several paces across the teak. In the somersault, the snowfall of movement and limbs, Ayla Dowling steps in with a lifeline. A physical rope, no time for metaphor, no time for anything but the hard gnashing of the present. The doe loops the rope around the guard’s neck, and, with a vicious tug that no one would’ve wagered on, pulls him off Elias and onto the planks. She waits no second before helping Elias up, and together they join Jack, the sergeant’s dagger blocking Violet’s aim on August.

Some paces away, Noemie leads the rest of the Agathe survivors through the skirmish and off the ship - they start down the docks, but Katja blocks their way, and it’s her musket to their none. She grabs Tristan by the arm, presses the musket to his stomach - if you want him alive, you’ll do as I say. A gun close by goes off, causing all of them to flinch. In that instant, Nyima breaks from the hostage group to lunge at Katja. The two scuffle, until Nyima gets a grip at the barrel of the musket, shoves it into the air - it goes off. Tristan tries to pin Katja down, and she hisses, points the gun at him - Nyima yanks the barrel back. It goes off again - whether by accident or as a result of the scuffle or by intention, it finds its mark. 

A wail cuts through the air, and for a moment, the bedlam stills. Nyima clutches a weeping wound on her chest, collapsing into Tristan’s arms. Ever the protectress, she is restless still even with her grievous wound, tries to force herself before the rest of the Agathe survivors as they fall to her side. This is one of the last attempts, the last slingshots of action in her muscles and spirit: to interpose between her friends and Katja. The translator backs away, wide-eyed, but still in possession of her wits - weapon poised to fire again if they tried to seek retribution. 

“Call Jonathan! Casimir! Help her!” Emma begs to no one in particular. She is quick to kneel, had already torn off half the scarves she was wearing, and is pressing dry palms, wet cloth, crimson sash to Nyima’s blooming chest. The petal spreads, swallows the entire front of the amulet’s dress. For all her time spent in gardens, for all that she turned stem and stalk to see the wonders of the world, this is a flower Emma cannot understand. Cannot weed out, or stall, or even conceive of. The blood flows, pours, goes over easy; a swell like the motion of waves, on what was once a ferocious, then a frozen, now an utterly becalmed sea. Nyima’s hand raises to Emma’s cheek, and, like the curl of a gentle claw, wraps around the jawline. Tristan falls to her other side. She whispers something to both of them, a voice that doesn’t carry, a wisp already flattened into velvet by the winds. Then she presses her own face into Tristan’s thigh. Her Judas, her Captain; it’s hardly appropriate, isn't’ it, that he’s the one that has been betrayed again—that he’s the one left behind. Perhaps this is why the cook smiles to him, last. To assure, as much as assuage. To promise there is another turn to this story, even as her own is already fading. 

By now, Malachy and his officers and Marcus and his loyalists have found the source of commotion and gathered, wordlessly. Jonathan weaves through to reach Nyima - there’s shifting, the subtle sounds of men taking aim,  and Ephraim immediately raises his gun to Marcus. It takes his own Captain’s voice to make him lower it, hip level, eyes murderous.

“Let them go. Let her…” Malachy pauses, swallowing through his hoarseness. There is no doubt as to the injury’s severity - the bleeding has not abetted, thick rivulets seeping through Emma’s fingers and pooling on the fallow ground. Malachy Dowling was a man of many wounds; some borne within, some hidden, but most of all witnessed. He knows what a death mark looks like. Nyima’s body is a canvass of carnage.

Not much for Jonathan to do, no, not much for anyone to do at all. Doing has led them here; the rough, loud, prideful fall of it. The impossible tally. The Captain, the former Captain, rises his voice once more. “Let them care for her in peace. You’ve had the upper hand, and now - now neither of us do.”

It’s Tristan’s cry that announces it; the death, the finality. Emma’s face is as white as the sky above them. Hands as rusty as the sands on this beach, on this strange place of salvation. Ayla and Noemie huddle closer to lift her up, lift her away from Nyima, but she won’t go. It seems no one is going anywhere, anymore — the whole possibility of it has been culled. Bones resting as slack as burlap; as unconscious as the flotsam left after a flood. 

Behind him, Edward and Jaya usher those they knew to be aligned with the old command off the docks and into the city. Marcus watches, impenetrable, his own musket held limp at his side, unmoving, unspeaking. 

Then he extends a hand to Katja, like a faraway tyrant, the stone hewn statue of one, calling home its acolytes. He waits until the thief, once-translator, now trembling toll paid in blood, comes into his shadow. Lays a hand on her shoulder, protective and proprietary all at once. Lays a gaze, then, like the snag of a chain; drags it over all of them that remained up deck. Only then he begins to speak.

“So that is how these things end: the pointless brutality of it. Man’s obsession to keep a code of honour that has long stopped serving. Has everyone seen it, looked their fill? Good. I am nothing if not prophetic, hm? Now. Now. Let us make sure no other prediction of mine will see the garrish, gruesome light of day. Have you all had enough of mutiny and cockfights? Are you ready to make something of your life?”

His body turns to the rest of the crew, a full recoil, almost a repose.

“Seems to me this is as good a place to start as any.” 

To his own, Malachy offers his own words. Exhaustion permeates his words, weighs them heavy as lead - the fight is over, all there is left to do is rest. Regroup. Loss, they all know by now, regardless of their alignment, is consumptive. It eats and it steals and it offers nothing in return. “Let us not forget the dangers that have led us here. Betrayals. Mutinies. Guns at our heads as we lived and slept. A beast that knows not of compassion nor mercy. Just because we are alive does not mean we are safe - do not let your guard down. Rest, and we will regather. Salvation, whether it be here, or home, awaits us in unity.”

OOC: We hope you enjoyed today’s plot drop, lovely members and lurkers! The Promethean has landed in strange new lands where nothing is at it seems, with tension aboard boiling over into a chaotic climax. The crew has mostly dispersed into the city, with each side of the mutiny looking to gain their bearings and regain control. 

A poll will be posted in the discord so that you can choose if your muses retreated with Malachy Dowling or stayed anchored with Marcus Estrada. Please remember that everyone who helped Mal/Jules stage the insurgency is no longer a crew member. However, if your character has motives for staying (a loved one, a status as double agent, suddenly undecided etc.) you are welcome to have them remain on the Promethean. Just be sure to keep us up to date if any major loyalties have shifted, and, as always, to have a blast writing & plotting through these little rats’s conflicts. 

There is, of course, much to explore in this nameless port city, including NEW LOCATIONS, listed below, and new NPCs with which to interact as sideblogs. These will be ran by the admin team: K., Venli, and Rhi, and will be strangers to the rest of the crew, each bringing their own motives, mysteries, and intricacies into the interaction. Keep an eye out for the follow post within the next few days! More locations will also be added as the plot and exploration of the area progresses. As of now, THE CAPTAIN is an active muse and may interact with the rest of the characters. Have fun, and happy writing!

AT HANGMAN’S TRINKETS.  

At the other end of the port, pushed far enough from the seaside that it almost looks like any other village, splays the tight, narrow venue of the store. If most buildings on the docks look comely, a peace that alludes to most corners of the world where the ocean laps the shore, this one has a marked touch to it. It draws the eye, the firm painted a gaudy russet, as red as the sands that litter the eastward beach. Despite its hue, the sign has been battered into something closer to dried blood by the gale, and the marks on it are illegible. Could be any human language, or not at all. Perhaps what makes the shop stand out even more is the absence resounding in the harbour. The maroon posts are entirely devoid of any other ship, not even small fishing vessels anchored at half-length on the wharf. It should make the Promethean loom, but instead it diminishes it; could be soothing, could be dangerous, the way the quiet waves knock it about, with very few inhabitants coming to stare at it, to help tie it to the pier, or even to barter. Yet there is plenty of bartering to be done further inland. The rest of the expanse might be barren, but the shop is bright and bundled up, like an old woman sat by the fire. A string of fairy lights are hung over it in a diagonal row, the sash of it lolling slack enough to catch a taller sailor’s head and dapple it with warmth. At the counter, a young, plucky clerk spreads their arms in welcome. Behind them, vials, jars, and tinkling bottles litter the entire front wall. It is such a kaleidoscope of size and color that any customer might be more dazzled than tempted to purchase. From camphor oil to whale teeth necklaces, from silk handkerchiefs  to beads of black glass, everything seems ready to be displayed, bartered, and doubted. The clerk is nothing but exhilarated to have someone to talk to at last. Their bronze face is dappled with the hanging lights, and a nose ring stretches from their septum to their ear. That golden chain makes them look both older and younger at once — as they chuckle and lapse into chatter, already ready to soak up all the information visitors might bestow, it becomes more and more difficult to gauge their age. Or their intentions…. How much will you share?

HIGHWAYMAN’S REST.

Perhaps the most striking front belongs to the port’s hotel, a polished three-tiered complex that occupies the main street. Oddly enough, despite the fact that the port seems all but deserted, the building has the most upkeep in the area. The outer walls are painted olive green, in a stark contrast with the houses’ cream-colored front and the greyed, saltwind-bitten outstretches of wood along the pier. The double doors allow a glimmer of light to cross the threshold, since its glass panels are painted with scenes that resemble the stained glass on churches and temples all over the world. Once inside, the vista opens on a waiting room decked with paintings and sculptures, with works of art that don’t seem to resemble anyone in particular. In order to ring the receptionist’s bell, you have to wrangle your hand through a number of small statutes. One bust on the receptionist’s counter, reads king sylvester stuart. Another, an effigy that seemed carved in filigree, depicts josephine robespierre.  On the usual, there is no one in the waiting room, and no noises pour from above. For all intents and purposes, it feels as if the entire establishment is deserted; or perhaps never used in the first place, simply spruced, polished, and displayed for the hollow beauty of it. On the fourth clanger of the bell, the receptionist finally walks into view. A door in the wall opens, and they step through with a merry gait, not allowing anything to be glimpsed behind them. At once, they are ready to sort the visitor with the best sets of chambers for their disposition. They try to strike up a conversation, one hand already on the ledger, and do not even presume to ask for money until after the end of the stay. Their demeanor might almost foster the sense of a homecoming; only their remarks, and the parental, proprietary style of their speech, makes it feel more like a transaction instead. For all the luxury that defines the hotel, a visitor may wonder if, in fact, they’re being sold something else underneath. However, after such a long journey of darkness and water, who can say no to even a few hours in an ivory bedroom—for a dalliance, a tumble into unconsciousness, or just to experience the decadent beauty of those who’ve had easier lives?

THE SIREN’S SORROW. 

Coming up from the docks, the hard-teak stairs lead into a bulky tavern, a building more squat than inviting, which carries a barrack’s efficiency about it. The place’s foundation looks rooted into the scaffolding itself, the moldy, barnacled pillars somehow supporting the weight of the place. At the ground level, the dingy, round windows open up into the street, but it’s difficult to peer through the grime crusted over the glass pannels. At the upper level, which the two-storied construction seems to be bowled over, the blinds are drawn shut, their velvet dusted a bile-yellow even from afar. Yet through it all, what actually grabs the visitor’s by the throat, is the strange allure of the place. Not a disparaged charm, mind you—most of these sailors have spent their pay and day in shindigs far worse than this. It is not much, in way of grotesque, just as it is not much in way of poetry. But a certain shimmer permeates throughout, like mist gathering over the shingles, and it renders the place noble and faraway. One might almost expect to see a lighthouse cave around it. When the doors open, the interior is low-ceilinged and vast, the chambers burrowing further than the outside lets on. Depending on how the sunlight, which is still paltry further off the Arctic glare, the main room of the tavern looks both too hollow and too overcrowded, all at once. Truth be told, no one can be certain if it’s not the most beautiful place they’ve ever seen; if only because it peals out to a sense of humanity, a sense of being rooted down. It takes a while to realize that the humanity, for all its urgency, is slightly skewed at the corner. Takes a while to gather up the questions, rather than just gawk at a bar stool that isn’t nailed down into the ship’s timber floor; at a glass that isn’t canister, but actual earthenware, tangible and frail. When the questions do gather, the barkeep is there for the tending. Jaded, old, he seems to have borne both the glow and the gloom of the place, allowed it to mantle them from brow to navel. They seem, also, like the kind of man who has heard a story for every life the sailors wished upon, for every lie they cast over dice. What will you ask him?  

[intothestarkerverse]

The following does contain Endgame spoilers!  It is also going to be have more than one part because I’m a long winded bitch, okay?  This also took on a life of it’s own ridiculously quickly so it may deviate a teensy bit...

The Time of Our Lives  (Pt 1)

Read on AO3

It began with a dream.

Peter had not been sleeping well since he returned from dust and watched his mentor die saving the universe. There were so many things left unsaid, so many regrets, and so much that he felt he had missed out on in his absence. He was surviving on a cocktail of energy drinks and melatonin that kept him awake when needed and lulled him into a deep sleep when he found his own fatigue was too great to withstand any longer.

He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had a dream that wasn’t a pulse pounding nightmare that left him dripping with tears or sweat when he finally pulled himself out of the terrors his own sleeping mind created. This night, he found himself facing something completely different than his average night terrors and, at first, he had trouble even differentiating it from the real world.

“Mr. Stark?”

The lab felt cold, as if the a/c was cranked to its highest setting. The lighting was too dim, the shade too warm. It smelled…wrong, almost clinical. There was no smell of warm metal and oil on the air. Peter paused, searching the room for his mentor. The moment his eyes landed upon him, Peter dropped his backpack, heavy with textbooks and homework and rushed forward, eager to begin whatever task Mr. Stark had for him that day. Instead, he came to an abrupt stop, staring at the man he loved so dearly.

Tony Stark was standing completely still, staring at Peter but not moving, not so much as breathing. It was so unlike the man that it was freaking Peter out. “Uh…Mr. Stark? You okay, Sir?”

The man blinked, finally, gaze slowly moving to lock with Peter’s and the teenager shifted uncomfortably under the weight of it. There was something wrong with his eyes. They were not the deep brown that Peter remembered, instead they shone a shifting hue of gold. “Our sincerest apologies for the nature of this meeting, Peter Parker.” While the voice sounded like Tony, there was a lack of warmth to the tone and a stilted nature to the words that reminded Peter of a poorly developed computerized voice from some non-Stark AI.

Peter’s eyes widened at the strangeness of his mentor’s behavior. “M…Mr. Stark?”

“No. We have assumed a form we know to be important to you, Peter Parker, but we are not Anthony Stark.”

“Then what are you?”

“The singularities. The Gems. The Stones of Infinity.”

“Wait…what?” Peter looked around at the lab, realizing now why nothing seemed exactly right. It was a dream. It was all a dream. While Peter wasn’t an avid lucid dreamer, he did become self aware in dreams with enough frequency to relax somewhat at the truly outrageous nature of what he was experiencing. Speaking with Infinity Stones wasn’t as terrible as most of his nightmares. He’d heard that overdosing on melatonin caused vivid and often nonsensical dreams, clearly he was going to need to drop his dosage. “Thanos destroyed the Infinity Stones.”

“The mind of Anthony Stark considered you a man of science, Peter Parker, what then does the first law of your thermodynamics teach you?”

Peter chewed his lower lip momentarily, he knew exactly what his dream was referring to, but he didn’t like what it was implying. “The law of conservation of energy. It can be transformed or transferred but it cannot be created or destroyed.”

“And what are the Stones if not energy, Peter Parker?”

Letting out a long sigh, he scored a hand through his hair. “Okay…so the Stones changed into a dream vision of Tony Stark? That seems…unlikely.”

“No. We lost our physical form. Our energy is no longer contained. It is spreading throughout space and time. Soon, it will reach the Heart of the Universe. When this occurs, your world…and every world, will cease to exist.”

Peter froze, his mouth falling open. Scratch everything he’d thought before, this was worse than any of the nightmares he’d had yet. “Okay…let’s say…let’s just say I believe you, why are you talking to me? You know I’m just a kid from Queens, right? There are like…gods and aliens and geniuses and people way better qualified to keep the universe from imploding or exploding or just plain ploding than me. Why enter my dreams…what’s the point?”

“We have an intimate knowledge of three minds, three souls. Thanos. Bruce Banner. And Anthony Stark. It was Anthony Stark’s sacrifice which impressed us most. Through the Vision, the Mind Stone was able to gain access to his brain patterns, his thoughts. He was a worthy hero, and of all those with whom he interacted in his lifetime…it was you, Peter Parker, in whom he had the greatest trust, hope, and faith. That is why we seek you out and why we ask you to aid us in saving ourselves and all that lives and exists in your plane.”

Peter blinked at the thing that was wearing Mr. Stark’s face, using his voice. He was the one that Mr. Stark trusted most? Him? His mentor had a strange way of showing it. “You must be confused…”

“There is no confusion. We require your assistance, Peter Parker, and we believe based upon our knowledge of Anthony Stark that you will not refuse us…and for the task that we require completed, we believe you are the least likely to fail.”

Peter didn’t know what to do. This was by far the strangest dream he’d ever had, but try as he might, he couldn’t seem to wake himself up. “You have enough power to snap away half of the universe, me included, why can’t you just create your own bodies?” Picking apart the logical discrepancies in his dream seemed his last avenue towards wakefulness.

“We cannot wield our power on our own and you are not strong enough to wield us collectively without perishing as Anthony Stark did.”

“Okay…let’s just say…let’s say I’m going to help you. What…what do you need me to do if you don’t want me to make you bodies by snap?”

“There is a device in Anthony Stark’s memories. A ‘prototype’ that was created by his father. With modifications, it can be used to collect our energy and confine it much in the way the Stones did.”

“So you need me to get the device? I can do that. Tell me where it is…”

“It was destroyed.”

“Can I make another one?”

“No. Anthony Stark did not see the plans for this device, neither does he know how to recreate it without them. They died with Howard Stark.”

This was incredibly frustrating. “Okay…so…what do you expect me to do, then? I can’t snap. I can’t get the device. I can’t build it. What good am I to you guys?” Peter pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to combat the headache that was building behind his eyes. “You’re not making any sense.”

As if sensing the frustrations of the boy in front of them, the figure shifted. “We have been attempting to save you from distress, Peter Parker, but we are failing to connect with you through methods of the Mind. It is imperative that you assist us and we will use any means necessary to gain your allegiance. Allow us to attempt the use of Soul.”

“What?” Peter was about to try scaling the building and jumping off the roof to try to utilize the falling sensation to wake up from his dream when he saw the change in the figure’s eyes. Gold to orange. But it wasn’t just the eyes, it was something else, the way the figure was standing, the life behind the eyes.

“Kid…”

Peter froze, his hands beginning a small but noticeable trembling at his sides. “Muh…Mr. Stark?”

“Yeah, Kid.”

Peter surged forward, throwing his arms around the man, forcing himself not to hold on too tightly lest he literally crush him in a super powered embrace. Hot tears formed in his eyes and he could feel them falling down his cheeks. There were so many things he wanted to say, so many things he wanted to do, but all he could manage at the moment was to ask a simple question into the now damp fabric of Tony’s shirt. “Soul. Using Soul means using your soul?”

“Yeah, something like that.” Tony squeezed the kid back and Peter no longer had any desire to wake up ever again. “Look, Kid, we don’t have a lot of time here…You leave REM sleep and the window of communication is gone without potentially harming you with the Infinity Stones. As much as I want to make this more sentimental, we don’t have time.” Tony rested his hands on the kid’s shoulders, giving them a tight squeeze as he pushed him back to look him in the eye. “You can’t wield the Stones together, but they can allow you to use them separately and for simple, isolated tasks within reasonable intervals. With the power spreading through the universe, they don’t have enough backlash to kill or maim you…they don’t even have enough power to make this job easier for you, just enough to get the job done.”

“But what job, Mr. Stark? What…what am I supposed to do?” As much as Peter wanted to relish being close to Tony once more, he understood the urgency and forced himself to return to the task at hand. He really didn’t want to fail Mr. Stark now, not after everything they’d been through.

Mr. Stark gave him a sad smile. “You’re going to go back in time to a point before the device was destroyed. Steal it…and bring it back here where we can modify it and save the universe one more time.”

“B…back in time?”

“Yeah, it’s not as bad as it sounds. I mean it is…paradoxes and all that jazz, but I did it and nothing terrible happened. Your odds are pretty good not to muck this up. I’m just sorry they won’t be sending anyone with you.”

“I’m going alone?” Peter didn’t know when he’d gone from believing this was an elaborate dream to absolute truth. Well, no, he did. It was the second he’d actually started talking to Mr. Stark. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“I do.” Tony gave him an apologetic half smile. “You’re going to a gala at Stark Industries in 1992. There’s security, but it won’t be a match for Spider-Man. You get in, you get the device, and you get out. The Stones will return you to the present and I will try to help you determine how to modify the device through your REM sleep cycle. Simple.”

“Simple.” Peter scoffed. “Whatever you say, Mr. Stark. I don’t even know what it looks like…”

“Like this.” Tony stepped back, holding out his hand before a metal object, roughly the size of a retro lunchbox, materialized in it. Peter studied it. It wasn’t much to see, really. Small and angular with moving parts, what appeared to be gold and crystalline components and a very rudimentary circuit board. They did say it was going to need to be updated. “It was going to be destroyed the following business day, so you’ll find it in the company’s incinerator.”

“Of course, I will, and I can’t go get it before it’s in a giant furnace?”

“No, security will be too tight.” The object in Tony’s hand vanished again and he reached out instead to cup the side of Peter’s face. “Pete, you can do this. I hate to ask it of you, but there is no one else I trust. You gotta do it.”

“Fine.” Peter sighed. “Fine.” No sooner had the words left his mouth than Tony’s eyes glowed again, this time taking on an emerald green color, flashing red, purple, and blue periodically before the world went black.

The first thing Peter became aware of as his dream faded was the sound of a string quartet and the low murmur of voices all around him. Blinking open his eyes, the teenager was assaulted by several things all at once.

He was no longer in his bedroom in Queens.

Instead, he was standing in the middle of an ostentatiously decorated foyer of what appeared to be Stark Industries headquarters…on the west coast…and not in 2023. Hair, makeup, and fashion was all reminiscent of very old 90’s movies and in a very unfortunate way. Struck by abject terror, he looked down at himself to make sure he was not wearing the over-sized Iron Man t-shirt and boxers he’d collapsed in the night before. Instead, he was both relieved and shocked to find that he was now dressed in a tuxedo complete with bow tie and shiny black dress shoes. He smoothed one hand over the jacket and wondered idly what the rest of him looked like. If only there was a mirror nearby so he could see. His gaze swept the room, finally noticing the mirror behind the temporary bar they’d set up for the gala. Peter was going to head in that direction just to satisfy his own curiosity, when he drew up short in the middle of the room looking far too conspicuous and neither noticing nor caring.

He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t think.

All he could do was stare.

—

Tony Stark had a reputation as the kind of young man who enjoyed a good party, probably a little bit too much…but unfortunately for him, this was not a good party. He swore he could practically taste the Ben-Gay, Old Spice, and cigar smoke in the air, the aroma was so strong. Everywhere he looked there were old men and their gold-digging wives. Every conversation was about business, stocks, politics…it was mind numbingly boring. There wasn’t a worthwhile scientist in the bunch, so there was no hope for intelligent conversation at all…and the only people at the party that he found even mildly attractive were the caterers. Tony had parked himself at the bar, drowning sorrows in expensive Scotch and doing his best to avoid the sycophants who hovered around the youngest Fortune 500 CEO in history, anxious to curtail some kind of favor. Maybe he should have let Obie run the company a little longer? Or, at the very least, be his ‘face’ at events like this one. Clearly, one of the first things Tony needed to do now that he was in charge was hire some younger, more attractive people into the upper echelon of the business.

He was in the process of flirting with the bartender, the guy wasn’t half bad. He was no male model, but Tony could at least pass the time with the guy… Then, something far more interesting caught his eye.

It wasn’t that the kid looked out of place. Well, no, he did. He totally and completely did. He was by far the youngest person in the room and Tony could have sworn he hadn’t seen him an hour ago, nor had he ever seen him before. He’d remember this one.

Tony drained his Scotch and tapped absently on the side of the empty glass as he leaned against the bar and observed.

The kid was standing with his eyes closed. That alone seemed a little strange. His reaction when he opened his eyes was just as peculiar. He looked…startled? Not just by where he was, but by his own tuxedo. Tony found himself laughing softly at the way the kid examined his clothes as if he hadn’t put them on himself just a few hours ago. Then, his gaze was sweeping the room and he was heading in Tony’s direction.

Maybe Tony’s luck was about to change?

They locked eyes across the room and Tony had trouble reading the expression in those captivating doe eyes. He looked…frightened, surprised, perhaps even overjoyed. He could work with all three of those emotions, actually. They’d make for a delightful cocktail later.

The bartender had returned with Scotch to refill his glass but Tony waved him away without taking his eyes off the kid who was now frozen like a young buck on the highway. “Two flutes of champagne.” He held out his hands for the objects, determined not to break eye contact lest the kid get away. He really didn’t want to let this one get away.

When the crystal flutes were pressed into his waiting hands, Tony started across the room. He broke eye contact but didn’t look away from the kid. Instead, his gaze raked over the boy. Slimly muscular. He looked…elegant in his tuxedo. Lovelier than any of the women in their evening gowns. His hair was styled with just enough gel to tame what Tony hoped were usually unruly chestnut tresses that would look deliciously attractive after he’d run his fingers through them, mussed them up, and given them a good tug.

Tony was only a few feet away from the boy when the kid seemed to snap out of his trance and looked as if he was going to make a break for it. The young CEO of Stark Industries rushed forward the last few steps, holding out one of the flutes of champagne with a lascivious grin. “Don’t even think about it, sweetheart. I didn’t come all the way over here to watch you walk away…although, I’m sure that’s a sight I’d enjoy.” The boy’s eyes had grown ridiculously wide at the statement. Somehow, he managed to both pale and blush at the same time. Tony found that absolutely irresistible. “Go on. Take it. Something tells me your nerves could use a little alcohol.”

“I’m not old enough to drink.”

Tony laughed, “I won’t tell if you don’t, baby.”

The boy’s adam’s apple bobbed noticeably with a gulp as he took the flute of champagne and stared at it as if he was uncertain about what do with it.

“Go on. Put it against your lips, sweetheart. Open your mouth. Swallow. I promise, you’ll like it.”

Damn. The kid almost dropped the glass. It was only Tony’s quick response and the hand that had lingered within the boy’s personal space that kept the glass and it’s contents from hitting the floor. His cheeks were absolutely on fire now and Tony was loving every minute of it. “You want me to keep calling you by pet names, beautiful, or are you going to tell me your actual name?”

“Peter. Peter Parker.” Tony pressed the glass back into his hands and guided them up to press the lip of the glass against his mouth. Peter took a small sip, his nose crinkling at the bubbles and probably the taste of the champagne.

“How old are you, sweetheart?”

“Seventeen…” His answer was lost in the glass as he drained the contents on his second drink.

Tony glanced at his own glass and held it out to the kid. “Go on, baby, I’m nothing if not a generous lover.”

Peter coughed but took the glass and swallowed it’s contents in another quick gulp. Now holding two empty champagne flutes, he looked around nervously for something to do with them, and Tony graciously took both only to deposit them on a caterer’s tray.

“Who am I going to have to promote for bringing you here tonight, Peter? I thought this was going to be a complete waste of my time…but here you are like a princess from a fairy tale ready to bring a little magic to my night. I want to make sure your fairy godmother is adequately rewarded.”

“Does…does that make you Prince Charming in this scenario?”

“That is what I was going for, yeah. And don’t think you can avoid answering my question by distracting me with my analogy, dear. Who brought you?”

“No one. I mean…well…” Peter was stuttering and Tony was enjoying the hell out of it. Really, the kid couldn’t be any more adorable. He was ready to lead him to the executive elevator and blow off more than just this party. “No one you know? I…kind of…I’m crashing, I guess. I wasn’t really invited. Someone I know…kind of snuck me in.”

“Well, I consider myself a very lucky man then, Peter. Since you’re not here with anyone, it means I can steal you away without anyone noticing you’re gone.”

Peter was staring at Tony’s lips as he wet them with his tongue in a less than innocently suggestive way. He’d bridged the distance between them and slipped an arm around the boy’s waist with practiced ease, steering him towards the elevator bay. Peter allowed himself to be directed for several steps before he gave a little start and tried to pull away.

“I can’t. I have…something I need to do.”

“Something you need to do at a party you weren’t invited to?”

“Yeah? I mean, I didn’t just crash for shits and giggles, Mr. Stark.”

Tony stepped backward, clutching as his chest with both hands. “Did you just ‘Mr. Stark’ me? C’mon, beautiful, what the hell did I do to deserve that? Do I look like a Mr. Stark to you? Really? So many things I want you to call me tonight…that is not one of ‘em. Now, stop playing hard to get and let me show you a good time…I promise you won’t regret it.”

“No, Mr. Stark,” Again with that hideous moniker. Tony might have thought it was an innocent blunder, but there was a new fire in the kid’s eyes that had him a little surprised. “I have things I have to do…and you’re not nearly as charming as you think you are.”

Tony’s brows rose in surprise. The kid had spunk. God damn, that only made him want him more. “Oh, I don’t know, I think I’m pretty damn charming…”

“Not surprising.”

Tony cocked his head at the kid. “I’m digging your idea of foreplay, sweetheart, keep it coming.”

“What?!” Peter’s voice rose in octave and volume and several nearby people turned to look at them. Tony didn’t care, but Peter seemed to because he dropped his voice and stepped a little closer to Tony. “It’s not…it’s not foreplay, Mr. Stark. Geez…I have important things to do, okay? Way more important things than flirting or making out or…whatever you have in mind. I have to go and you have to leave me alone. You really, really have to leave me alone.”

Tony held up his hands in mock surrender. “If you can look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want me, I’ll let you go.”

“I don’t want you.”

“You’re looking me in the nose, Peter.”

“UGH! Why do have to come on so strong?! It’s so exhausting. Give it a rest. Gosh. Too much. It’s all too much. You’re too much. You’re not at a freaking night club. You know, I never understood how you got your bad reputation…but I kinda have to say that I’m seeing how the whole playboy thing came about and I gotta say…it’s accurate. I…I like the other you better.”

“Other me?” Now Tony was intrigued. “What ‘other me?’”

“Scientist, for one.”

Peter wanted the scientist over the playboy? Tony frowned. Damn. If Peter thought that was going to turn Tony off, he was dead wrong. The pretty package, the hard to get, the apparent love of science…Tony had no intention of letting this one get away. Peter was only succeeding in turning mild interest into full on infatuation. “Whatever you have to do can wait until after I’ve had my way with you in the elevator. The party’s not going anywhere.”

“The party’s not, but I am.” Peter’s tone was full of his exasperation at Tony and the situation. Turning around, he practically shoved his way through men that could have bought and sold entire American towns on a whim.

Tony was left chuckling to himself. Oh, his night had gone from boring to one of the best he’d had in ages…and he had no intentions of letting Peter Parker get away from him that easily.

This was going to be fun.

He loved a good chase.

@geekymarvel