[for Tony and Pepper] Red Riding Prologue

[daretodo]

The date hasn't escaped my notice. Even if I wasn't a New Yorker, born and raised, even if I hadn't picked my way through the rubble of the World Trade Center, today would have some meaning for me, though it's hardly comparable. Nearly getting killed by a friend on a bender isn't exactly on the same scale as flying airplanes into buildings, after all, and just putting them in the same sentence feels cheap. They share an anniversary; that's more or less where the similarities end.

Consequently, what also shares an anniversary, give or take a couple of days, is Tony's sobriety. In AA, they give out these medallions for certain milestones; they're about the size of a poker chip, nothing too conspicuous. I've made one for the occasion from a piece of scrap metal that I shaped, engraved, and painted -- red and blue, with gold detailing -- over a few weeks between working on other projects. It's on the table in front of me, in plain view so I don't forget it whenever Tony decides to grace me with his presence.

It's rare that I actually ask him for help with something, preferring to keep most of my private stuff, well, private, but one of those other projects I've been working on needs a second pair of hands.

See, I've been working on this one thing, on and off, for the better part of a year: a spider-sense that's technologically based, allowing me a facsimile of the power I relied on more than I would've ever realized if I'd never lost it to start.

It's been little more than a series of glorified motion sensors until recently, each one carefully threaded throughout the material of the quote-unquote 'Vespa' suit that I designed with supplies given to me by whatever forces are in charge of the mysterious presents passed out every January. A part of me thinks it's a bribe to keep us all appeased just a little bit longer, but I've long since passed the point where I'm appeased by much of anything this place has to offer. This is a petri dish of a prison -- an experiment. And even if I don't spend my every waking moment clawing at a way out of here, trying to find a way home, I never forget that one single fact. Not since MJ disappeared.

But still, bribe or not -- experiment or not -- the raw materials I received have proven useful. Sure, things would've gone a heck of a lot faster if I'd had better facilities to work with, or had been less distracted with my mess of a personal life, or had listened to my own speech about impossible problems needing time to solve, but as it stands, I've finally got something workable on my hands. Something a bit better than a bunch of glorified heat and motion sensors.

In an effort at recreating the sensation of my old ability, the current network relies on localized pulses that increase in strength depending on the threat -- basically, the bigger the pulse, the more whatever's about to run into me is gonna hurt if I don't get out of the way, fast. To make the whole process a little less subjective, though -- and to make swinging through the trees a heckuva lot easier -- I've got it connected to a HUD in the left eye piece that analyzes the surrounding environment, increasing my spatial awareness up to 100 feet in all directions so that I don't run into anything. I've even managed to repurpose most of my old spider-tracers to work on the new frequency, and though I doubt I'll have much need to track people on an island this size, you never know when technological breadcrumbs'll come in handy.

Provided it all actually works, I'd say I'm kind of a genius. I mean, it's impressive, really, even if it's not perfect. Eventually, I'd like to upgrade the HUD to something more sophisticated, something with more processing ability to analyze a greater variety of threats -- ones that don't just involve what's out there to hit me -- but I'm working with scraps salvaged from a homicidal space station and a limited power source, here, and arc reactors don't grow on trees. Still, it's functioning enough to warrant further testing, which is why I'm in the workshop decked out in full gear, sweating like a pig and waiting for Tony to show up.

Or, well, a boar, I guess. We don't have pigs here, and I like to keep my references apt. It's a thing.

Anyway, sweating like a boar and growing impatient, I've long since pulled off my mask, and am about to ask Jarvis if Tony's even in the mansion, when the guy finally strolls in.

"There you are," I say on a sigh. "I was about to send out a search party."

Comments

[notawastedlife]

Tony was not a man to let frustration show, in general. Right now, this was because he didn't really have any. Terrible was up and running and doing the job, which meant he didn't have to watch the scrapyard personally as much as he had. So he could do a little more work around the place, and a little more scouting for improvement projects. And the Aperture tech was starting to give way on being a conundrum.

So. Things were better than, say, last year.

He hopped over the last few steps to the workshop and settled into a stroll, blinking at Peter, who was... geared up.

"If you're having private time in the get-up, I could come back..." he said, indicating the stairs.

[daretodo]

"What--? No, actually, I need your help," I say, taking a step towards him before I rethink that plan, and in a rush of nervous energy, wave him over instead. Now that he's here, I realize there are still about fifty different little things that still need doing, pushed aside before in favor of stroking my own ego for longer than was strictly necessary.

"C'mere. And grab that frying pan over there while you're at it, wouldja? We're gonna need it in a sec."

[notawastedlife]

"...are we- cooking?" Tony said, but headed over anyway, pausing by said frying pan, looking between it and Peter. "If you feel like you need more firepower, I'd recommend something a little less... culinary."

[daretodo]

"Elections are coming up in a couple of months," I point out, voice deadpan, not sparing him so much as glance up as I fit together a couple of wires in my mask that I'd forgotten about in my initial pass. "If I run again, well... I figured, what the heck, right?"

[notawastedlife]

"Bashing them around the head with a frying pan is not the answer," said Tony, who was frankly at a loss for the connection, there, so made one up all on his own. "Tempting, but, not... viable. Are you? Running."

[daretodo]

"Dunno," I say, frowning a little, and the extent to which I do not know the answer to that question is enough to make me slow down a little, my mind grinding to a halt. It's not something I've actually given much thought to, partly because I'm not sure I expected to still be around for the next election when I made that speech of mine. I wish I could say it was because I was so convinced we'd have found a way off by now -- though, uh, to be fair, I'd be lying if I said it wasn't, at least partly -- but the truth is probably closer to me not being able to picture tomorrow clearly enough, let alone six months into the future. Even two months strikes me as stretching it, for one reason or another. Maybe I'll be sent home before I have the chance to discover my own way back, the same way as I was brought here in the first place.

There's a depressing thought for ya.

"I haven't offered myself up for a public lynching in a while. I'm probably due."

[notawastedlife]

"Did you offer yourself up, last time? Seem to remember... someone else staying up there," Tony said, picking up the frying pan and turning it over by the handle a couple of times.

He was kidding. It'd been fun, and he probably had more experience at that whole bit than Peter. At least, at doing it without a mask on.

"Anyway, it's politics. People have short memories."

[daretodo]

It had felt good, in the moment, to explode. To just get even a fraction of my frustration out in the open, and make my stance known. But while I still believe in everything I said up there, the more time passes, the more I wonder if I couldn't have voiced my beliefs a teensy bit more diplomatically. I mean, it's really no shocker that I didn't win last time; I kinda implied everyone was an idiot. Or most of everyone, anyway.

Admittedly, that still holds true for a lot of them. Maybe science works differently where they're from. I mean, math is the universal language in my world, but who knows what it is elsewhere. Maybe it's the language of giving up instead.

"That they do," I concede, and it's funny that he should mention people having short memories, because it's only in looking back down to finish what I'm doing that I remember I haven't given Tony his gift, so to speak. I'm about to pick it and hand it over when again, I think better of it, and instead nod at the medallion on the table while I prepare to tug my mask on.

"Happy anniversary, by the way."

[notawastedlife]

Tony paused, then reached over and picked it up with his left hand, the one not currently weighed down with a random frying pan.

"You shouldn't have," he said, "probably. This is sweet, it's a nice... piece of... metal? It's awkward, I didn't get you any scrap."

Mostly because he was trying to cast his mind back and figure out what the hell was going on. Anniversary of what? Also, anniversary? Well, clearly Pete was kidding a little, as he did.

There was that date, but Peter wouldn't be making a joke about that.

Pretty sure he wouldn't be celebrating the other thing, actually, either. Was that a year past?

[daretodo]

We don't do this very often. Moments. Heart-to-arc reactors. We skirt around them, occasionally flirting with the idea before backing right off. Sometimes I wonder if actual emotion is the only thing that Tony Stark's cautious about. Not that I'd blame him, if that is the case. These days, I'd sooner take another rock through the chest than open myself up to the kind of hurt that follows a broken heart. There's an advantage in being shut off, in compartmentalizing.

There's a danger, too, of course, because there's always a danger. Closing yourself off to the world so much that you stop caring, for example. That's the kind of thing that breeds supervillains, and I should know; I've met plenty of 'em. By design, I've been distant lately, but I'm still careful to avoid crossing that line, even if, at this point, it'd be a hell of a lot easier to just not care.

"Don't worry about it," I say, expression sobering a little. Apt turn of phrase, all things considered. "You gave me something better, anyway. Read the engraving."

[notawastedlife]

Tony held the piece of metal -- medallion, he supposed, would be accurate -- a little closer, and it registered. He was familiar with AA. He went to the meetings they had on the island, although he had his doubts as to whether any of that actually helped, because it hadn't seemed to get a whole lot easier.

Then again, it had only been... a year. And while he knew they gave out tokens for that, he'd never been much for sentimentality along those lines. So he claimed, anyway. He'd never seek it out, say that much. But here it was, formalized. One year, not one drop, Tony Stark could function day by day without drink in him.

The thought kind of made him want to have a drink. The chip reminded him to get annoyed at having the thought.

"Hunh," he said, rubbing his thumb over. "A year? That long? I'm -- frankly, let's face it, we all are -- kind of amazed."

[daretodo]

"Shocked," I agree, with a slight, crooked smile. Less so, now, than I would've been this time last year, granted, but it's still surprising, that he's managed so well. I can only hope he'll keep going, for his sake, if no one else's, but I don't have much hope to spare, and I know the statistics for this kind of thing. Still, if there's anyone who's good at beating the odds...

"Glad, obviously, but..."

I shrug, eyebrows lifting.

[notawastedlife]

"But you wouldn't have put money on it," Tony concluded, nodding, turning it over another time or two, and then pocketing it. He shrugged, with an equally crooked half-smile. "I wouldn't have. Maybe that's why it's a chip."

[daretodo]

"No, but I'll tell you what: we're both still here next year, I'll find you an actual piece of currency instead," I say, and it's weird, saying things like that, even half-jokingly.

"But, uh, fair warning: it might be a coconut."

[notawastedlife]

"That's very... scarce," Tony said. "Does anyone even use those- why am I holding a frying pan, again?"

He hefted it.

[daretodo]

"I want you to hit me with it," I say, like this is the most reasonable thing that could come out of my mouth right about now. As far as segues go, it's a bit of a non sequitur, I guess, but it is, nevertheless, the answer to his question.

"Or, well, try to hit me. I'm running a test. I figured a human would be a better opponent. More unpredictable."

[notawastedlife]

"...if this is a masochism thing, I don't know if I'm comfortable participating," Tony said, nontheless essaying a practice swing with the frying pan, as if it were a tennis racket. "It'd explain a lot about the costume and the mouthless mask, true, but, not in my workshop. Well, not you in my workshop."

[daretodo]

I fix him with a flat look.

"You want me to call Pepper instead?" I ask, not missing a beat. I don't specify if I mean to swing the pan or wear the suit; the suggestion's so ludicrous it doesn't need a heckuva lot of explanation, is my thinking.

[notawastedlife]

"That's a job for a wig, not a mask," Tony said, "and I'm not going to bean Pepper with- what are we testing? Reflexes? Thickness of your- are we roadtesting the Vespa? Why didn't you just say that. Mask up."

[daretodo]

"I was planning to," I tell him, biting back a laugh. "Then you went on some weird tangent about God only knows what, and I got distracted scrubbing my brain out from the implications."

[notawastedlife]

"Scrub up, then, come on," Tony said, now taking some more enthusiastic swings, one of which came very close to knocking several pieces of equipment off a nearby desk. "Where do you want it? Surprise?"

[daretodo]

"Surprise," I confirm, tugging on the mask as I head away from the workbench, and into a clearer area. It fits differently than I'm used to, and I take a second to adjust it, pulling at the fabric until the lenses sit comfortably over my cheekbones. I blink a couple times, waiting for the HUD to boot up; blue lines stretch out in front of me, then fade so they're barely visible, providing me with a clear line of vision. There's enough going on in a fight that I won't want to be struggling to see through a bunch of data just to make sure I land a punch in the right place; this suit's still more man than machine, after all.

Thing is, I want to run a blind test to make sure that machine's going to work if the man's otherwise distracted. My reflexes don't hold a candle to what I'm used to, but even so, I don't want them interfering with the results. I'm faster than Tony; if I see where he's going to hit, I'm going to react, plain and simple. Hence the length of cloth to tie over my eyes; once I shut off the infrared that kicks in with a muttered vocal command, I'm left in the dark.

"Don't suppose Jarvis has any mood music?"

[notawastedlife]

"Jarvis, cue us up something, you should have something in the library," Tony said, flipping the frying pan in the air and catching it by the handle, walking around Peter as Jarvis murmured a very well, sir and hit the speakers.

"So, you just want me to go ahead and lay you out?"

[daretodo]

I honestly don't know how Matt does it. Between the music and the blindfold, there's no way I'll able to tell when Tony's about to hit me without technological assistance, let alone where -- well, provided he stops talking in the near future, of course. That, though, is the point; I've had too many close calls in the past two years, and I'm sick and tired of having my butt handed to me when a fraction of a second's worth of warning, at just the right moment, might have saved me a world of hurt.

If this works like I want it to -- and it should, 'cause I've been tinkering with this for months, now, and I never have that kind of lead-up time for anything -- I could be giving myself back an edge that's always proved invaluable.

"You're missing a key word," I say over the dulcet tones of Freddie Mercury, dropping into a casually defensive posture. "I want you to try."

[notawastedlife]

"Right," Tony said. "Well, just tell me when you're-"

He swung the frying pan at Peter's head, bottom side first.

"-ready."

The swing wasn't hard and abrupt; he wasn't about to damage the guy, it was a frying pan. So a long, rapid arc across distance, to get some speed; it was a reflex and reaction test, after all.

So maybe a little hard, if it did connect. But the tech was probably sound, he figured.