The Mark I was in pieces.
Well, not pieces exactly. More like... aggressively disassembled. Scattered across fifty yards of desert in a trail of scorched metal and shattered dreams. The attempted flight had lasted approximately seven seconds before physics remembered Tony Stark wasn't supposed to be airborne and introduced him to the ground at terminal velocity.
The landing had been... bad.
Tony sat in the sand, staring at what used to be his left boot thruster. It was now a very expensive paperweight. "Three months," he said to no one in particular. "Three months of work. Gone in seven seconds."
"You tried to fly?" Percy was examining a chunk of chest plate, turning it over in his hands with the careful attention of someone who had no idea what he was looking at. "In a suit you built in a cave. With car batteries."
"Car battery. Singular. And yes." Tony dragged a hand down his face. The arc reactor in his chest hummed its constant reminder that he was alive by the thinnest of margins. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."
"And now?"
"Now I'm reassessing my life choices."
Calypso appeared from behind a dune, her golden armor catching the late afternoon sun. She'd been scouting. Making sure the Ten Rings hadn't sent anyone to investigate the explosion. So far—nothing. Just desert and heat and the distant smoke from what used to be a terrorist stronghold.
"We need to move," she said. "The sun will set in a few hours. We should cover ground while we can still see."
"Move where?" Tony gestured at the endless sand. "I don't even know where we are. Yinsen said the nearest military base was north-ish, but that was based on overheard conversations and torture-induced delirium, so forgive me if I don't have GPS coordinates."
"North-ish is better than nothing." Percy was still examining the armor piece. "This is really impressive, by the way. The engineering. I don't understand most of it, but I can tell it's impressive."
"Thanks. I'll put that on my resume. 'Impresses demigods with my metalworking.'" Tony pushed himself to his feet, wincing. His entire body was one giant bruise. "We can't just leave this here."
"The armor?" Calypso raised an eyebrow. "It's destroyed."
"It's *Stark Industries technology* destroyed," Tony corrected. "Big difference. This suit—even in pieces—represents weapons capability that I do not want ending up in terrorist hands. Again. Because that's how I got INTO this mess in the first place."
Percy and Calypso exchanged another one of those looks. The silent communication thing they did that made Tony feel like a third wheel in his own rescue.
"He's right," Percy said finally. "We can't leave it. Even if it's broken, someone could reverse-engineer parts of it."
"So we carry it." Calypso didn't make it a question. Just stated it like it was obvious.
"It weighs about two hundred pounds," Tony pointed out. "Distributed across fifty yards of desert. We'd need a truck."
Percy grinned. It was the first time Tony had seen him smile, and it was deeply unsettling. Like watching a friendly golden retriever suddenly remember it was descended from wolves. "We don't need a truck. We need a sled."
Twenty minutes later, Tony was watching two people who claimed to be from another universe—a destroyed universe, which, Jesus Christ, his brain was NOT ready to process that—solve an engineering problem with what could only be described as bullshit magic.
Percy had pulled water from the ground.
Actually pulled it. From underground. In the middle of a desert.
Tony had watched—brain blue-screening, engineer instincts screaming—as the kid had knelt in the sand, pressed his glowing gauntlets against the ground, and *pulled*. Water had erupted from the sand like someone had drilled into an aquifer. Not a lot. Maybe ten gallons. But enough.
"How," Tony had said. Just that. How. His vocabulary had temporarily shut down.
"I'm the son of Poseidon," Percy had replied, like this explained everything. "God of the sea. Water's kind of my thing."
"Poseidon. The Greek god. Who doesn't exist."
"Existed. Past tense." Percy's expression had gone dark. "They're all dead now. But yeah. Son of Poseidon. Which means I can control water. Pull it from sources, manipulate it, use it as a weapon. Pretty handy in a desert."
Tony had opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "I'm having a stroke. This is a stroke. I'm lying in that cave and this is a dying hallucination."
"You're not dying," Calypso had said gently. She'd been gathering pieces of the Mark I, stacking them efficiently. "Though I understand why this is difficult to process. Percy—maybe ease him into the whole 'gods are real' thing?"
"How do you ease someone into that?"
"I don't know. I've been imprisoned on an island for three thousand years. My social skills are rusty."
And that had been ANOTHER thing Tony's brain had tried to process and failed. Three thousand years. This woman—who looked twenty-five—had been alive since before Rome was founded. Had watched civilizations rise and fall while trapped on a magical island.
Magic. Gods. Immortality. Other universes.
Tony's worldview was taking a sustained and comprehensive beating.
But the water was real. He could see it, pooled in a depression Percy had shaped in the sand. Could reach out and touch it. And when Percy had used it to wet sand and stone, creating a makeshift sled with the consistency of concrete, Tony had to admit—grudgingly—that whatever was happening, it worked.
Now they were dragging two hundred pounds of salvaged armor through the desert on a sled made of water-hardened sand, and Tony was trying very hard not to think about the impossibility of his current situation.
He was failing.
"So," Tony said, because silence gave him too much time to think about Yinsen and grief and the arc reactor slowly draining in his chest. "Other universe. Yours got destroyed. By a thing called Galactus. That about right?"
Percy, pulling the sled with literally no visible effort, nodded. "That's the short version. The long version involves titan wars, prophecies, a lot of people I loved dying, and a cosmic entity that eats planets for breakfast."
"Sounds like a party."
"It wasn't."
They walked in silence for a while. The sun was lower now, painting the desert in oranges and reds. Beautiful, in a way that made Tony angry. The world had no right to be beautiful when Yinsen was dead. When these two had lost everything. When Tony's chest had a glowing reminder of mortality literally bolted into it.
"The glowing thing," Tony said, gesturing at his chest. "The arc reactor. It's keeping shrapnel from shredding my heart. I have maybe—optimistically—a year before the palladium core starts poisoning me. So if we're doing the whole 'share traumatic backstory' thing, that's mine. I'm on a timer."
Calypso stopped walking. Turned to look at him. "The device in your chest is killing you?"
"Slowly. But yeah."
"And you built it. In a cave. While being tortured."
"With a box of scraps," Tony added. "Don't forget the box of scraps. That's important to the narrative."
Percy was staring at him with something that looked like respect. Or horror. Possibly both. "That's the most impressive and terrifying thing I've ever heard."
"Thanks. I'm full of impressive and terrifying things." Tony adjusted his grip on the piece of armor he was carrying. His arms were screaming. "So. Magic. You've got water powers. She's got—what, exactly? Besides the three thousand years of experience and the armor that looks like it was forged by a god?"
"It was forged by a god," Calypso said. "Hephaestus. The god of the forge. He used the last of his power to make this armor. And Percy's. Right before he died."
"Right. Gods. Dead gods. Forged armor. Magic weapons." Tony felt his brain trying to slip into hysterics again and wrestled it back under control. "And the staff that appears and disappears? That's also god-forged?"
"Coin-activated." Calypso pulled out what looked like an ancient Greek drachma. "Heads: sword. Tails: staff. Hephaestus had a sense of humor."
"Apparently."
They kept walking. Tony's legs were lead. His chest hurt. His everything hurt. But stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering Yinsen's face as the light went out of his eyes.
*Don't waste it.*
"Your friend," Percy said quietly. "The one who died. You want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Okay."
But of course, now that Percy had mentioned it, Tony couldn't NOT think about it. "Yinsen," he heard himself say. "Doctor Yinsen. Ho Yinsen. He saved my life. Put this—" Tony tapped the arc reactor, "—in my chest when the Ten Rings kidnapped me. Kept me alive while I built the suit. And when we escaped, he stayed behind. Drew their fire. Bought me time to power up the armor." His throat was tight. "I asked him to come with me. He said no. Said his family was dead. Had nothing to live for."
"I'm sorry," Calypso said. And she meant it. Tony could hear it in her voice—the weight of real grief. Someone who understood loss.
"He told me not to waste my life," Tony continued. "His last words. 'Don't waste it.' And I'm trying, you know? I'm trying to figure out what the hell that means. But mostly I just feel like I'm walking through the desert carrying pieces of metal that got a good man killed."
"The metal didn't kill him," Percy said. "The terrorists did. And maybe—" He hesitated. "Maybe he wanted to make sure you lived because he saw something worth saving. Something worth dying for."
Tony barked a laugh. It came out wrong. Bitter. "You don't know me, kid. I'm a weapons manufacturer. Merchant of death. I've built the bombs that kill people like Yinsen. So if he saw something worth saving, his judgment was seriously impaired."
"Or maybe he saw someone who could change," Calypso offered. "Someone who just needed the right push."
"Well, he pushed. I'm changed. Now what?"
"Now you keep walking." Percy adjusted his grip on the sled. "That's all any of us can do. Keep walking. Keep surviving. Figure out the rest as we go."
They walked.
The sun set. The desert went from hot to cold with the kind of dramatic temperature shift that made Tony's engineer brain appreciate thermodynamics while his body just really wanted a blanket. And a shower. And about seventeen hours of sleep.
Percy pulled more water from underground. Apparently, there were aquifers all over this desert, and the kid could sense them like some kind of human divining rod. The water was warm—gross warm, not pleasant warm—but it was drinkable after Percy did something with his hands that made it glow briefly.
"Purification," he explained at Tony's questioning look. "Gets rid of bacteria and parasites. Probably. I'm not a scientist."
"You're literally manipulating water at the molecular level and you're saying 'probably'?"
"I'm a high school dropout who learned everything about my powers through trial and error. So yeah. Probably."
"High school dropout?"
"It's a long story involving a lot of monsters and a camp for demigod children and me being really bad at standardized tests."
Tony drank the definitely-probably-safe water and decided he was too tired to unpack that statement.
They made camp—if you could call it that—in the shadow of a rock formation that offered some protection from the wind. Calypso did something with her hands, and suddenly there was light. Actual light. Golden and warm, emanating from her gauntlets like someone had captured the sun.
"Magic," she said at Tony's expression. "The armor has multiple enchantments. Light is the least impressive one."
"The least impressive," Tony repeated. "The LEAST impressive is creating light from nothing. What's the MOST impressive?"
"I haven't figured that out yet. Hephaestus didn't exactly include an instruction manual."
They sat in a rough circle, the salvaged armor piled nearby. Tony's arc reactor provided additional light—cold and blue, the opposite of Calypso's golden glow. Percy was drinking water, his eyes distant, and Tony recognized that look. The look of someone replaying trauma on an endless loop.
"Your world," Tony said. "When it ended. Were you there?"
Percy's jaw tightened. "No. We were on Ogygia. Calypso's island. It was protected. Isolated. We felt it though. Felt the moment it happened. Reality just... tore. And then Hephaestus showed up, dying, and told us everyone was gone."
"Everyone?"
"My mom. My friends. Everyone at Camp Half-Blood. The gods. Every pantheon—Greek, Roman, Norse. All dead. Eaten." Percy's hands clenched into fists. "Galactus consumed the Earth. Consumed the gods. And we escaped because they used the last of their power to send us here."
"Here being..."
"We don't know. Different universe. Different Earth, maybe. Or same Earth, different timeline. Magic and divine power work differently in different realities, so it's hard to say."
Tony processed this. His brain—exhausted, traumatized, running on fumes—tried to fit it into a logical framework and failed completely. "So you're telling me that somewhere out there, there's a cosmic horror that eats planets and kills gods. And it might find this universe. This Earth."
"Maybe," Calypso said. "Or maybe the gods sent us somewhere it can't reach. Somewhere outside its normal hunting grounds."
"That's not comforting."
"It's not meant to be. It's realistic."
They fell silent. Around them, the desert stretched endless and dark. Stars overhead—different stars, Percy had said. Different constellations. Everything was different here.
"I need to get home," Tony said finally. "Back to the States. Back to civilization. I have things to do. Changes to make. Yinsen told me not to waste my life, and sitting in a desert waiting to die of thirst or get recaptured by terrorists seems like a waste."
"Agreed," Percy said. "So we keep walking. North-ish. Until we find something. A base, a city, other people. Something."
"And then what?"
"Then we figure out what's next."
Tony looked at these two impossible people—a demigod with water powers and a three-thousand-year-old titaness with magic armor—and felt something shift in his chest. Not the arc reactor. Something else. Something that might have been hope.
"Okay," he said. "We walk. We survive. We figure it out."
"Together," Calypso added. "Since apparently the universe has decided we're a team now."
"Worst team ever," Percy said, but he was smiling slightly. "Traumatized billionaire, depressed demigod, and an immortal with no social skills."
"I have social skills!"
"You threatened the last hero who landed on your island."
"He was annoying."
"You still threatened him."
"He DESERVED it."
Tony found himself laughing. Actually laughing. It was small and broken and probably inappropriate given the circumstances, but it was real. "You two are insane."
"Says the man who built a flying suit in a cave," Percy pointed out.
"Fair."
They settled in for the night. Tony took first watch—he couldn't sleep anyway, his brain too wired, too full of Yinsen and guilt and impossible people with magic powers. Percy and Calypso curled up together, and Tony tried not to feel envious of their closeness. Of the way they fit together like two pieces of a puzzle that had been separated and finally reunited.
He stared at the stars—wrong stars, alien constellations—and touched the arc reactor in his chest.
*Don't waste it.*
"I won't," Tony whispered to the ghost of a good man. "I promise. I'll figure out how to make this mean something."
The desert wind picked up, cold and cutting. Tony pulled his torn jacket tighter and kept watch.
Behind him, the son of Poseidon and the daughter of Atlas slept fitfully, dreaming of a world that no longer existed.
And ahead of them—north-ish, somewhere in the endless dark—lay whatever this universe had in store for three people who had lost everything and were too stubborn to stay lost.
Tony Stark smiled grimly.
Time to find out what not wasting a life actually looked like.
Starting with one step. Then another.
Through the desert. Toward something that might be hope.
Or might be just another fresh hell.
Either way—they'd face it together.
—
Percy spotted it first.
Years of fighting monsters had given him reflexes that bordered on paranormal—which, given that he was literally the son of a god, made sense. His head snapped up, tracking something in the sky that Tony couldn't even see yet.
"Helicopter," Percy said. "Maybe three miles out. Coming fast."
Tony squinted at the horizon. Saw nothing but heat shimmer and blue sky. "How can you possibly—"
"Demigod senses. Also, really good eyesight." Percy was already tense, one hand drifting toward his pocket where the pen-sword lived. "We need to talk. Now."
Calypso was on her feet, staff appearing in her hand before vanishing again. Her expression had gone from relaxed to tactical in a heartbeat. "They'll have questions. About us. About how we survived. About—" She gestured at her armor, which was currently gleaming white and gold in the morning sun. "—this."
"Yeah," Tony said slowly, his engineer brain finally catching up to the problem. "That's going to be hard to explain. 'Oh, don't worry about my two heavily armed friends with glowing magical armor, they're from another universe that got eaten by a space god.' That'll go over great."
"We can't tell them the truth," Percy said flatly. "Not the real truth. Gods, demigods, magic—people don't believe in that stuff. And even if they did, we'd end up in a lab somewhere getting dissected."
"Studied," Calypso corrected. "They'd study us. Probably for years. Figure out how our powers work. Whether they can be replicated." Her eyes were hard. "I spent three thousand years imprisoned on an island because of divine punishment. I'm not spending another three thousand locked in a government facility because humans are curious."
Tony held up his hands. "Okay, I get it. No truth. But we need a cover story, and we need it in approximately—" He could see the helicopter now, a distant speck growing larger. "—two minutes."
Calypso's expression went distant. Thoughtful. Then her eyes widened slightly. "The armor. It's god-forged. Divine. Which means..." She trailed off, lifting one hand and staring at her gauntlet. Her brow furrowed in concentration.
The armor shimmered.
Tony's brain tried to process what he was seeing and failed completely. The white and gold metal—solid, real, impossible to fake—was *flowing*. Reshaping itself. The breastplate elongated into a tactical vest, torn and stained. The pauldrons flattened into jacket shoulders. The gold accents faded to look like worn patches and old blood.
In less than ten seconds, Calypso was wearing what looked like military fatigues. Desert camo, ripped in places, covered in grime that looked three months old. The kind of clothes someone would wear if they'd been held prisoner in a terrorist camp.
"Holy shit," Tony breathed.
"Divine craftsmanship." Calypso examined herself, tugging at the fabric. It moved like real cloth. "Hephaestus made this armor to adapt. To protect in any situation. I just... asked it to look different."
Percy was already concentrating, his face scrunched up in that way that made him look about twelve years old. His blue-green armor rippled, shifted. Within seconds, he was wearing similar tactical gear—torn, dirty, bloodstained. Like he'd been through hell.
Which, Tony supposed, he had. Just different hell than the cover story would suggest.
"Okay," Tony said. "Okay. So the armor can disguise itself. That's... that's good. That's helpful. But we still need a story. You can't just be random people who happened to be in the desert."
"We were part of your convoy." Calypso said it with the kind of confidence that made Tony think she'd done this before. "Soldiers. Security detail. Captured with you. Held in the same camp."
"And they'll believe that?" Percy asked. "Just like that? Won't they check records, manifests, military rosters—"
"They will." Calypso's smile was sharp. "Which is where the Mist comes in."
"The what?"
"The Mist." Calypso gestured vaguely. "It's a veil between the mortal and divine worlds. Makes humans see what they expect to see instead of what's actually there. Turns a sword into a baseball bat. Makes a monster look like a dog. Makes records appear that were never written."
Tony felt his brain starting to overheat. "You're telling me there's a magical field that alters perception and somehow creates false documentation."
"Essentially, yes."
"And you can control it."
"I can manipulate it. I've had three thousand years to learn. Percy can too, though he's less practiced."
Percy shrugged. "I usually just hit things with my sword. The Mist manipulation was more Annabeth's specialty."
Annabeth. The name came out heavy. Weighted with grief. Tony filed that away—another person Percy had lost—and focused on the immediate problem.
"So you'll make them see what they expect to see," Tony said slowly. "Make them think you were part of the convoy. That you were captured with me."
"Exactly." Calypso was watching the helicopter, which was close enough now that Tony could make out the markings. US Air Force. "We'll need names. Backgrounds. Simple ones—easier to maintain under pressure. I'll go by Calypso Atlas."
"Calypso Atlas," Percy said with a snort. "Real original."
"Atlas is a perfectly reasonable surname."
"Your father is literally the Titan Atlas. You couldn't think of anything else?"
"I've been imprisoned on an island for three millennia. I haven't needed a cover story."
"Fair point."
Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay. Calypso Atlas. And you?" He looked at Percy.
"Percy Jackson. I'll keep my real name—less to remember under interrogation."
"And what's your story? Soldier? Mercenary? Private security?"
"Private security," Calypso said decisively. "Both of us. It explains why we're not in military databases but were still part of the convoy. We were hired by Stark Industries to provide additional protection during the weapons demonstration."
It was actually a good cover. Simple. Plausible. The kind of thing Stark Industries would do.
Tony's expression must have shown his approval because Calypso nodded. "We'll keep the details vague. Three months of captivity explains memory gaps. The Mist will handle the rest—make them not question too deeply, fill in blanks with what makes sense."
"There's one problem," Tony said quietly. The helicopter was maybe a mile out now. "You're a woman. You were held captive by terrorists for three months." He didn't spell it out. Didn't need to. "They're going to think—assume—"
"That I was raped." Calypso's voice was flat. Emotionless. "Yes. I know."
"I'm just saying, there will be questions. Medical exams. Psychological evaluations—"
"I'll handle it." Her eyes met his, and Tony saw something ancient and cold lurking behind them. The kind of look that reminded him she was three thousand years old and had survived things that would break normal humans. "I've survived worse than awkward questions from military doctors. And if anyone pushes too hard..." She smiled, but there was nothing warm about it. "The Mist is very good at making people forget what they wanted to ask."
Percy was watching her with concern. "Calypso—"
"I'm fine." She touched his arm briefly. A gesture of reassurance. "I know what I'm doing. Trust me."
The helicopter was close enough now that Tony could hear the rotors. Could see the side door opening. A figure leaning out, binoculars raised.
"Rhodey," Tony breathed. Because of course it was. Of course his best friend had come looking for him. Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes, who'd probably been tearing apart the desert for three months trying to find Tony's stupid ass.
Guilt twisted in Tony's chest. Another person who'd suffered because of him.
"Okay," Percy said, tension in every line of his body. "So we're security contractors. Captured with Tony. Held in the same camp. We escaped during the explosion."
"Correct." Calypso's eyes were already going slightly unfocused. The Mist, Tony realized. She was already working it. "Let me do most of the talking initially. I'm better at this."
"You've done this before," Tony said. Not a question.
"Many times. Every hero who landed on Ogygia had to be explained somehow. The Mist made sure no one asked too many questions when they left." Her expression flickered—pain, quickly buried. "Or would have, if any of them had taken me with them."
"I took you," Percy said softly.
"You did." She squeezed his hand. "And now we're here. In a new world. With new problems. But together."
The helicopter was setting down fifty yards away, sand whipping up in massive clouds. Tony could see Rhodey jumping out before it even touched ground, running toward them. And behind him—more soldiers. Medical personnel. Weapons trained on the area, checking for threats.
Tony raised his hands. Made himself visible. "RHODEY! Over here!"
His voice was hoarse. Raw. Three months of screaming and smoke and torture had done a number on his vocal cords. But it carried.
Rhodey's head snapped around. Even from this distance, Tony could see his friend's expression shift—shock, disbelief, hope.
"TONY!" Rhodey was sprinting now. Full-on sprinting across the sand. "TONY!"
Then he was there, grabbing Tony in a hug that probably would have cracked ribs if Tony wasn't currently held together by sheer stubbornness and an arc reactor. Rhodey was shaking. Actually shaking.
"You stupid son of a bitch," Rhodey choked out. "Three months. Three MONTHS. We thought you were dead. We thought—" His voice cracked.
"Takes more than terrorists and caves to kill me," Tony managed. His own voice wasn't steady. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I tried to—we tried to—"
Rhodey pulled back, keeping his hands on Tony's shoulders like he needed to confirm Tony was real. His eyes swept over Tony's face, cataloging injuries. Then dropped to the arc reactor visible through Tony's torn shirt.
"What the hell is that?"
"Long story. Involves a car battery, shrapnel, and some very creative engineering. I'll explain later." Tony gestured back toward Percy and Calypso, who were standing at a respectful distance. "We need medical evac. All three of us."
For the first time, Rhodey seemed to notice the other two. His expression shifted—confusion, then shock as he took in Calypso. Young woman. Torn clothes. Visible bruises (how had those appeared? The Mist? Or had Calypso made them?).
"Who—" Rhodey started.
"Security contractors," Tony said, falling into the cover story. "Percy Jackson and Calypso Atlas. They were part of the convoy. Captured with me. Held in the same camp."
Tony felt it then. The Mist. Like a warm pressure against his mind, gentle but insistent. Making the lie feel true. Making Rhodey's confusion smooth over into acceptance.
"Jackson. Atlas." Rhodey's eyes were slightly unfocused. Tony wondered if he was seeing false records, false memories, being inserted in real-time. "Private security. I remember now. You were—" He frowned, trying to recall details that had never existed.
"We were hired to provide additional protection," Calypso said smoothly. Her voice was steady. Professional. "During the weapons demonstration. When the convoy was attacked, we tried to protect Mr. Stark. Obviously, we failed."
"But you survived," Rhodey said. His eyes kept drifting back to her. To the implications of a young woman held by terrorists for three months.
"We survived," Calypso agreed. Her expression gave nothing away.
Percy stepped forward. "Sir, with respect, we've been walking through the desert for a day and a half. We're dehydrated, exhausted, and really need medical attention. Can we do the full debrief somewhere with air conditioning?"
It was the right thing to say. Practical. Immediate. Rhodey's military training kicked in, overriding his questions.
"Right. Yes. Medical evac." He turned, started shouting orders. "I need medics! Three survivors, potential dehydration, unknown injuries! Move it!"
The next few minutes were chaos. Medical personnel swarming them. Checking vitals, shining lights in eyes, asking questions Tony barely registered. Someone wrapped a thermal blanket around Calypso. Someone else tried to take Percy's pulse and looked confused when it was abnormally slow (demigod biology, Tony guessed).
And through it all, Tony felt the Mist working. Subtle. Pervasive. Making everyone accept the presence of two people who shouldn't exist. Making them not question too deeply. Making records align with a story that was complete fabrication.
It was terrifying and impressive in equal measure.
They were loaded onto the helicopter. Tony ended up between Percy and Calypso, with Rhodey across from them, still staring at Tony like he might disappear.
"We looked everywhere," Rhodey said as the helicopter lifted off. Had to shout over the rotors. "Every cave system, every possible location. How did you survive? How did you get out?"
Tony's hand went to the arc reactor. "I built a suit. Armor. Used it to fight our way out."
"A suit." Rhodey's expression was flat. "You built a suit. In a cave. While being held by terrorists."
"With a box of scraps," Percy added helpfully. At Tony's look: "What? You keep saying that. Figured it was part of the story."
Despite everything—the trauma, the exhaustion, the weight of Yinsen's death still crushing his chest—Tony almost smiled. "Yeah. With a box of scraps."
Rhodey looked between them. Tony could see the questions stacking up. Could see his friend trying to figure out how any of this made sense. But the Mist was there, smoothing over the impossible parts, making it just plausible enough.
"Where's the suit now?" Rhodey asked.
"Destroyed. Most of it. Crashed when I tried to fly." Tony gestured vaguely back toward the desert. "We salvaged some pieces. Left them back there. Didn't have the strength to carry them."
"We'll send a team to retrieve them." Rhodey was taking notes now. Officer mode. "Secure the technology. Make sure nothing falls into the wrong hands."
"Good. Because that's how this whole disaster started." Tony's voice went hard. "Stark Industries weapons in the hands of terrorists. Weapons I built. That I designed. Being used to kill American soldiers."
Rhodey's expression softened. "Tony—"
"I'm shutting it down." Tony said it firmly. Decision made. Yinsen's death demanding something, anything, to make it mean something. "The weapons manufacturing division. All of it. No more guns. No more missiles. No more merchant of death bullshit."
"That's—Tony, that's going to cause serious problems. The military contracts, the board, Obadiah—"
"I don't care." Tony met his friend's eyes. "A good man died to get me out of that cave. Died so I could come home and do better. And I'm going to do better. Starting with not making the weapons that almost killed me."
Silence. Just the helicopter rotors and the wind and three people processing impossible information.
Calypso spoke quietly. "Sometimes surviving means changing everything. Becoming someone new. Because the person you were before died in that cave."
She was looking at Tony, but Tony got the sense she was talking about herself too. About losing her world. About being forced into a new universe with new rules.
"Yeah," Tony said. "Yeah, that's exactly it."
Percy was staring out the window, watching the desert disappear behind them. His expression was distant. Haunted. "Everyone I knew is dead," he said quietly. "My mom. My friends. My whole world. And I'm here. In a place that shouldn't exist. With people who don't know what's out there." He looked at Tony. "You lost someone. We lost everyone. So yeah. Change. Become someone new. Because the alternative is lying down and giving up."
"And we don't do that," Calypso added.
"No," Tony agreed. "We don't."
Rhodey was looking between the three of them with an expression that suggested he thought they'd all lost their minds. Which, fair. They probably had. But sometimes losing your mind was the only sane response to an insane situation.
"When we get back to base," Rhodey said slowly, "there are going to be a lot of questions. Debriefs. Medical exams. Psychological evaluations. For all three of you."
"We understand," Calypso said.
"And—" Rhodey's eyes flicked to her, then away. Uncomfortable. "—Ms. Atlas. There will be specific protocols. For female prisoners. To ensure you receive proper care."
Calypso's smile was brittle. "I appreciate your concern, Colonel. I'll cooperate with whatever medical procedures are deemed necessary."
The lie hung in the air. Because of course there would be no evidence of assault. Because Calypso had never actually been a prisoner. Because this entire scenario was being held together by magic and willpower.
Tony wondered how she was going to handle that. Then decided he didn't want to know. The Mist would handle it. Somehow. And if it didn't—
Well. They'd deal with that when they came to it.
The helicopter flew on. Carrying three survivors toward an uncertain future.
Behind them, the desert stretched empty and vast. And somewhere in that desert, pieces of the Mark I lay scattered and broken—the first armor Tony Stark had ever built.
But not the last.
Not by a long shot.
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