Earth-444. Thor Odinson.
Dragging a wounded leg, feeling Mjolnir weigh down his weakened arm, Thor trudged through the embers strewn with the corpses of enemies and friends. The Son of Odin winced, blaming himself for his slowness and blindness; as a future ruler, he was obligated to foresee that old enemies would sooner or later form an alliance and strike with all their might. He should have, but he didn't, too occupied with momentary problems.
Unacceptable for a future king.
Thor was walking toward a specific place and a specific person, a friend and comrade-in-arms who had long since become something like a brother. Iron Man lay propped against the corpse of Thanos, breathing heavily and unable to rise, but his will was enough to keep from falling into unconsciousness and to use the remains of his suit to ward off the crazed spawns of Knull, who sought to seize another host to continue the slaughter. The fear of fire among the creations of the god of darkness was still just as strong.
With a slight mental effort, streams of lightning incinerated the sparse spawns of darkness, and Odinson himself heavily knelt before his comrade, inspecting him. The red-and-gold armor was covered in soot, gaps gaped here and there that the smart automation was unable to seal, an arm was missing up to the shoulder, the left leg was melted and likely fused directly into the suit, but the most terrible wound was in the chest, revealing to the Aesir's divine sight a spasmodically fluttering heart, still alive only because of the nanorobots and implants that the eccentric billionaire had inserted into his own body, striving to overcome his weaknesses. Tony had once shared with them that his body had ceased to cope with the loads that the new suit models were capable of outputting; apparently, that was how he had solved the problem, strengthening the essence of his technologies.
"You look like hell," a muffled voice came from the helmet. Even without seeing Stark's face, Thor was certain that an ironically mocking smile now graced it.
"Look who's talking," Thor tried to force a smile, but it turned out pathetically.
He knew that this time Death had caught up with Stark for good; neither consciousness copies uploaded into clones, nor resuscitation technology, nor magic would help. The Divine Sight of the God of Thunder looked into the very essence of Stark, into his soul, cast in metal and the energy of the arc reactor, covered in a network of cracks and chips. The Mad Titan was more than proficient in magic, having come to the battle prepared and striking at the very soul. If not for Stark, perhaps all the protectors of Earth would have fallen to a final death.
"Tony, this time you won't be able to come back," Thor announced in a sad voice.
"I know," came the calm reply. "Funny, I've died so many times, yet I still can't get used to it."
With difficulty raising his remaining arm, Tony opened the visor, revealing a whole, though excessively pale face.
"At least we took the main threats with us," he stated, casting a gaze of blurring eyes over the battlefield. "It will be easier for you."
"I cannot save you, friend," said the heir to Asgard, lifting Mjolnir. "But I can bestow a final mercy."
Placing his weapon against Stark's chest, Thor concentrated, gritted his teeth harder, and separated a microscopic piece of his own soul. The divine essence immediately began to fill the cracks and chips, striving to restore what was damaged and improve it, awakening the divine within Stark. In any other situation, Thor would never have granted Stark even a chance at divinity. Not because he didn't trust him, but because for such a thing he personally needed special conditions, like missing pieces of a soul, so it wouldn't tear him apart. And well... Odinson feared granting his friend even a shadow of a chance to become a god, for Stark had already been in that state once, in his pride bestowing his genius upon all of humanity.
Nothing good came of it, but at least he had enough sense to reverse everything and renounce the powers clouding his vision. Now... now his soul would go into the River of Souls, escaping the hands of Hel and Death herself, heal its wounds there, and be reborn again, protected from astral beasts by his power. But most importantly... most importantly, Tony Stark would retain his memory and personality, his great knowledge, against which even a sage of Asgard seems like a young fool, and along with them, his unique way of thinking. The way of thinking that once forced the proud Thor to respect the weak and short-lived inhabitants of Midgard, showing all their potential.
"Sleep peacefully," said the God of Thunder, experiencing terrible pain from the self-severed piece of his soul, saying goodbye forever to one of his closest brothers-in-arms. The transfer of the divine spark was the final straw for the wounded soul, barely maintaining its connection to the mortal shell.
Tony Stark died, only to continue his journey in another world and another life.
***
Poland. Warsaw.
The prestigious private clinic received many personalities into its interior—good and bad, smart and not so much, healthy ones just seeking a check-up, and the sick who had neglected their health, coming only when it became unbearable. But more than anything else, it saw children. While all other departments were housed in one large building, two full blocks were allocated for the children's department, each of which could easily turn into a sizeable warehouse.
"Congratulations, you have a healthy boy. I would say, extremely healthy," Olgierd Wozniak, head and founder of the Red Apple private clinic, smiled while looking through his ocular augments at the report coming directly from the depths of the genetic laboratory.
The name was thought up by his young son, and it was he who inspired the far-from-bad man, an idealist to some extent, to radically expand the children's department of his own creation. After all, unlike adults, children are innocent, and if the sins of their parents stain them, it is only in adulthood. A kind of compromise between conscience and the desire for a good life.
"Thank you, doctor," a beautiful blue-eyed blonde with very impressive features smiled tiredly. Characteristically, everything was natural, except that her skin had been replaced with an implant, once and for all freeing the happy mother from the problems of maintenance and the imperfections that appear with age.
"The newborn will be brought to you shortly, but in the meantime, would you like to discuss gene correction?"
"Didn't we already perform it?" asked the black-haired, brown-eyed giant over two meters tall with an impressive build.
He was far from a steroid-pumped bodybuilder, but Olgierd personally wouldn't have bet a broken coin on them. He knew anatomy well, and where ugly bodybuilders clumsily lumbered because of their own muscles, the new father moved smoothly and practically silently; the very well-defined muscles of his arms and neck clearly hinted at no less strength in their owner.
"We eliminated malignant genes responsible for hereditary and dormant diseases, yes," the doctor nodded readily. "But now that the fetus is formed and the risks of malignant mutations are minimal, something new and very useful can be added to the child. Increase intelligence, make him stronger, partially program growth and appearance, set the traits that you have, or that your parents and even their parents had. There is also an option to increase the newborn's body loyalty to implants! It won't guarantee he becomes a borg, but it might protect him from something like cyberpsychosis."
"We'll think about it," the young mother replied, but it was clear she wasn't very interested in what she heard.
Wozniak sighed in disappointment, both because of the lost profit and because of the parents' reluctance to make their children better, pre-purchasing them a chance for success. But he was powerless here; genetic modifications had become relatively affordable only recently, having previously been the prerogative of truly high-ranking officials, and public trust in them had not yet formed. The head of the clinic did not insist, seeing that his client-patients were not up for it, and the newborn had already been brought in by then.
"He looks like a peach," Claire commented, smiling with a tender motherly smile.
"Is this normal?" the father asked concernedly.
He had reasons to worry; both he and Claire were modified humans of a high level, and he didn't know how all of this would affect the child. Still, for certain reasons, they didn't have a list of all their improvements, and undergoing a full examination meant putting themselves and their son at risk.
"Absolutely," the doctor stated confidently. "The baby is, of course, premature by a month and a half, but this is within the norm for first-time mothers. Plus, he's an accelerate; he had nothing left to do in his mother's womb, and some liver problems will be resolved with a complex of the simplest vitamins within the first year after birth. As I said, your baby is completely healthy, perfectly healthy, and minor consequences of early birth occur in every third newborn."
"Good," he sighed with relief.
Robert Stark, formerly known as Oleg Bykov, former deputy head of internal security of the KGB department in Leningrad, had gone through many wars and battles. In the process of preparing for field service, he received more than one genetic enhancement. After all, improving the flesh, though more difficult, is more reliable, autonomous, and much more inconspicuous than the common and ubiquitous implants. This was why Oleg-Robert truly worried about the health of his descendant, ultimately agreeing to gene correction to clean the genome of harmful pathologies. Nor did Larisa add to the peace of mind; she was also a high-class netrunner, highly valued by her former homeland, which is why she received not only chrome tailored personally for her but also a series of body improvements allowing her more than any other runner on the net. Originally, it was planned that they would have a child from a genetic material bank where Robert's sperm and Claire's eggs had been deposited, but the escape from the USSR, which after the war had finally become an appendage of SovOil, made such a thing impossible, as was obtaining the couple's full medical records, which is why they had to make do with an elite but civilian clinic. Fortunately, everything turned out well, and their son was born completely healthy.
"What will you name him?" Olgierd inquired, preparing to enter the new patient's name into the clinic's database.
"Tony," the happy father smiled briefly. "Tony Stark."
***
Poland. Warsaw. The Stark family home. A few years later.
An ordinary house in the old quarter of the capital city of Poland, quite large, but far from a mansion. Just a reasonably decent house... at first glance. In fact, it was made of especially strong chemically enhanced concrete that could withstand a tank shot, wouldn't let gas into the house, and the particularly strong windows could withstand large calibers. Plus, a pair of guard robots, about five cameras, and seven hidden turrets outside the house, as well as one for each room and an impressive underground floor, comparable in its characteristics to a bunker. Former KGB agents didn't suffer from paranoia; they enjoyed it.
The young heir of the fortress disguised as a cozy home was currently sitting in the garage, completely occupied by the young engineering genius, having finally evicted his father from there, turning a well-lit and equipped room with several machines and a lot of tools into his sanctuary, where he slept, ate, and worked. Currently, an eight-year-old boy was mounting his first netrunning chair, making disgruntled faces, while Robert and Carol watched all this, touched by their very serious little toddler.
The migrants from the Soviet Union couldn't say for sure if they were just lucky with the child or if their genetic enhancements had affected him, but for his eight years of age, the blue-eyed boy was distinguished by remarkable intelligence and wit, surpassing adults and far from the most foolish people in some things. Little Tony mastered the school curriculum at four years old, greatly surprising his parents and the specialists invited afterward, who confirmed that the small toddler had consumed the eleven-year curriculum from a simple brain-dance and didn't even hiccup, calling for more.
It is worth taking a digression on the topic of modern education.
In modern schools, if they are truly modern, there are no desks, pens, notebooks, and other atavisms of the last century. Why? There is only one answer, and its name is Braindance—a special device that allows one to absorb huge volumes of information at an accelerated pace, receiving not only theoretical knowledge but also quite real experience. Want to be proficient with a sword? No problem, buy a full course of braindances and in a couple of months you'll become a confident user, and if you shell out more, even a master; the main thing is at least occasionally not to forget to practice in real life.
Or put synthetic muscles in yourself and upload the necessary movements into them. Today's schools have almost completely replaced institutes in their essence, giving children not just a base of subjects taught in them, but a full higher education of a confident specialist capable of repairing household items, improving a car, quoting an ancient classic, composing a thesis on the advantages of various forms of state government, and designing an architectural blueprint for a simple building. And much, much more. Simply put, after eleven years of study in modern schools, children turn into people with an extremely broad outlook and an impressive list of skills. And the better the school, the better their equipment, which accelerates the learning process, and the better their knowledge bases, and as a result, the final outcome of the education. Now imagine a picture where a small toddler absorbs this entire volume of knowledge intended for eleven years of study with a bunch of additional equipment, using only a basic, albeit modern, braindance. It's as if a six-year-old entered an institute and passed a diploma a year later; in theory, perhaps such precedents (or close ones) existed in real history, but it is still amazing and unique.
Tony had been a good, calm child even before this, not being capricious, crying only when he soiled his diapers, catching everything on the fly, and generally being a gold child, not an infant, for his parents. But after the disclosure of his genius, the Stark couple took their son seriously, obtaining first-class knowledge bases for him and supporting his creative impulses in every way. The only thing that caused concern was his socialization, but due to the child's young age and the parents' professional deformation, they didn't worry much about it, teaching their son methods of control and securing loyalty instead of friendship. Albeit gradually and in the form of a game. Both Robert and Claire knew the price of friendship, not believing in it much for a number of reasons. And generally, they could hardly be called models of virtue and human values; two former operatives, and then leaders of one of the most secret, ruthless, and bloody intelligence agencies in the world, wouldn't have lived a year at their job if they considered human lives, freedoms, and well-being as anything more than what they actually are—dry statistics in casualty reports.
"Isn't he just precious?" Claire continued to be touched. "Takes after his mother." And now it sounded proud and self-satisfied. A neat nose tilted up, the gaze of blue eyes looking with superiority at her beloved man, who only rolled his eyes and scratched his black stubble, ready to turn into a beard at any moment. This didn't offend Robert; they both knew she was joking and teasing her spouse, kindly and lovingly. But he still didn't respond to avoid it, letting her have her fun. Moreover, the first thing Tony took up was mechanics, assembling a full internal combustion engine of three hundred horsepower, and he used almost junk. And he also improved his father's fabricators together with Robert, increasing the speed of work and their efficiency by twenty-three percent. Not that Robert needed them much, especially in Poland, where a quarter of the population feeds off the black market, but if he needed to get something illegal quickly, it was easier to assemble it himself. It turns out cheaper and of higher quality. He and Claire, although they work for President Skalk, receiving a very decent salary and full maintenance, sometimes simply don't have the time to process everything properly.
Robert and Claire worked as Harbingers in Poland. Of course, fugitives from their own country, where "shush-shush" is also extremely common, were not destined to get into an analog of the Oprichnina in a modern way, but the Starks were always clever with inventions—others simply didn't reach managerial positions in the KGB—and instead of fake names and faces, they stole someone else's. In those times, a crisis was flaring up in Poland, the economy was in ruins, people were leaving cities and settling in villages, switching to subsistence farming, and those who remained were ready to work for food because the national currency had depreciated. The future Claire and Robert had a choice: join the Russian immigrants who founded the Russian diaspora, or steal other people's identities and live someone else's life. Considering that the modern Russian mafia, born among that very diaspora, is almost guaranteed to be connected to the Russian intelligence service, the choice was a non-choice, since Robert had participated in an attempted coup d'état.
The last desperate attempt by ideological KGB agents trying to prevent the USSR from turning into what it has become now. As it is not hard to guess, the attempt was unsuccessful, and almost all participants were purged, while those who remained alive either fled or completely sold themselves to the corporation. And then, two skilled modified agents with decades of experience under their belts easily integrated into the new realities, weren't greedy, didn't stand out much, but proved themselves to be reliable enough cadres to be brought close to power, being invited to work in the newly formed "Harbinger" department. Technically, it's a shadow structure, originally intended by the current President of Poland to fight banditry and corruption, but being a realist, President Skalk quickly realized that his personal guard was too small, there were many problems, and almost a quarter of all Polish citizens were connected to the black market. He had to accept it and use the Harbingers to control gangs, corrupt officials, and clean up particularly arrogant individuals who were losing their boundaries. And this brought a peculiar result. Although today's Polish cities are almost entirely surrounded by rapidly growing slums full of gangs, cyberpunks, and smugglers, the country's cities are clean and almost as safe as in the old days.
"We have negotiations soon," Robert noted, bringing his wife down to earth.
The Harbingers have an irregular work schedule; as a rule, it is almost completely filled with a bunch of tasks because there are really few of them, but Robert and Carol were relatively lucky. Carol, being one of the best netrunners in the organization, could work from home in a specially equipped data center in the basement having advanced military-grade equipment, which made her practically omnipotent in the Net. Robert, on the other hand, is currently overseeing one of Arasaka's projects, which was invited to Poland years ago and has finally begun to invest significant amounts into its economy, which was destroyed and has not yet fully recovered from the Datacrash.
In fact, their country doesn't have a developed economy; instead, it has a shadow one, attracting almost all more or less successful cyberpunks. Because due to its location and established problems on the Polish black market, you can get anything you want, from relics of the last century to advanced corporate developments. And a corresponding structure has grown around all this: top mechanics making the best custom weapons in Europe to order, netrunners who can code combat scripts up to AI viruses, skilled ripperdocs with improved implants, quite capable of saving one from cyberpsychosis in the early stages.
All of this brings huge money into the country's budget, even if it prevents it from developing and solving internal problems. And this is exactly what attracted Arasaka's attention to open its branch and start a project extremely important to them, which Robert was appointed to oversee on behalf of the state. And Claire, as a specialist in programming and cybersecurity.
"Oh, why did you have to remind me?" Claire scrunched her nose. "That Kusanagi is such a careerist scumbag. I even feel sorry for that poor girl they put under him."
"The work of our colleagues is not our business," Robert replied noticeably more coldly. "Our task is to find a place, ensure security, solve local problems, and gain benefit for the state from this whole venture. And the benefit promises to be significant, as you know."
"I know, I know," Claire sighed, "an advanced academy for training netrunners from an early age, uncovering all their potential, it even sounds impressive. If we get even a stripped-down methodology..." Claire glanced at her son.
"Exactly," Robert nodded readily. "A runner on the net will always be able to earn his bread and butter, and if he also has brains, he won't be exposed to danger, living a good, quiet life."
"Do you really think our Tony will stay put?" the matriarch of the family raised an eyebrow, recalling the same washing machine disassembled to the last bolt or the "modified" refrigerator, which quite successfully began to act as an air conditioner for the kitchen and adjacent rooms... simultaneously covering everything in frost within a three-meter radius.
"No one stops me from hoping," Robert smirked almost imperceptibly.
He was too used to keeping a straight face and wearing masks, which made his facial expressions extremely lackluster. To outsiders, he seemed like a piece of ice, and only close people could distinguish human emotions on his face.
"Well, well," the mother of one restless toddler breathed somewhat sadly.
Unlike her husband, she worried about her son much more because, despite all of Robert's positive sides, he was quite an insensitive blockhead. Not to say she was better, but unlike her hubby, she retained at least some semblance of empathy. And she wants grandchildren. And without his own company where he can meet other people, it will be extremely difficult for Tony to meet a good girl.
"Okay, I'm going to get ready, and you make sure Tony doesn't set our house on fire... again."
"Mm-hmm," her husband replied, sitting in his favorite spot and opening a fresh issue of a newspaper.
They didn't want to bother their son; when Tony's creative frenzy begins, although he doesn't lose touch with reality, he gets extremely irritated. He isn't rude, he doesn't snap, he doesn't throw tantrums, but a pair of blue eyes (from mom!) look with such reproach that the pair of quite hardened killers feel like the ultimate villains taking candy from a baby.
Young Stark himself, as mentioned, was busy. With what? He was trying to realize an idea that came to him in a dream. What kind of idea and dreams? It's hard to answer here, but the fact was that little Tony had been self-aware from the very moment of birth, knew several languages, including programming languages, history, engineering, and a number of other pieces of knowledge that, theoretically, have no place in a newborn whose brain is not yet fully formed. And he also had an understanding that this was not normal at all, and it was better to keep quiet about such a thing, even from his parents. They love him and all that, but they still won't be able to do anything about their son's oddities, so why fray their nerves once more? So the young genius and future playboy, billionaire, and philanthropist kept quiet, not suffering but enjoying his uniqueness.
As for the dreams, everything was simple: every time he fell asleep, he saw colorful, vivid, and so attractive dreams about another life and a world where heroes and villains fight in an eternal confrontation with each other—a struggle of order and chaos, the present and the future, the old and the new. And he, a simple man, a bug in armor, going into battle on par with titans. Tony was proud of this. He didn't know for sure if these were dreams or reality, he didn't even know the theory of reincarnation, but that didn't stop him from being proud that he, a simple man, through his own mind and genius, was able to stand on the same level as gods, mutants, super-soldiers, and sorcerers. Well, and specifically now it was being decided whether this was the delirium of an inflamed consciousness—his dreams—or something truly worthwhile, something that needs attention and time to figure out.
In the young Stark's head, there were many schemes, blueprints, projects, and scientific discoveries, but due to his physical, financial, and material limitations, the young son of the Stark couple had to limit his desires. He wouldn't be holding nanotechnology in his hands anytime soon, nor armor made of a mixture of gold and titanium. Or tungsten. Or adamantium. But he had almost everything necessary for another project.
Adjustment of brain functions for body optimization.
In a dream, this allowed prescribing new health criteria in his own mind, seriously increasing Tony's physical capabilities and strength. Strength, agility, speed, endurance, memory—everything rose to peak values, equaling Olympic champions; excess fat stopped accumulating on his sides and cheeks; organs were in ideal condition with proper nutrition, and regeneration jumped three times from the norm, and his lifespan promised to reach one hundred and fifty to two hundred years. But most importantly, no scars, skin problems, wrinkles, or consequences of injuries, even the most severe. And also, by the same calculations, the effect will be much higher if applied to a child from six to ten years old, until the body has begun the transition to the adult stage—rigid, but much stronger and more stable.
Little Tony already imagined how he, already brilliant and ahead of all his peers, would be taller than everyone, stronger than everyone, faster, healthier, and more beautiful. Such thoughts made something in his stomach tickle pleasantly, causing a desire to squeal with delight and hold his nose higher, while looking down at everyone else condescendingly.
Actually, that's why the heir of the Stark couple was rummaging through his own netrunning equipment. The reconfiguration would happen quickly, from one to three seconds, but collecting information, recording and storing it with subsequent transfer to a biological carrier is not the most trivial task, requiring careful preparation and appropriate equipment. Fortunately, Tony had all of this, and what he didn't have, he created on home fabricators. You can't create anything particularly large on them, and then the internals need to be refined, because it's just simpler than writing the necessary software from scratch, but skilled hands, the help of a father who understands engineering well (and most importantly, is strong), and a segmental structure solve all problems. All that remained was to assemble and configure it all... and then perform a bunch of calculations.
***
Tony Stark. Same place. Four months later.
"Seriously?" Tony asked with eyes round from shock, looking at a Militech combat droid painted in neon pink, with a holographic interface instead of an armored plate, which displayed a sickeningly sweet anime emoji with cat ears and a tail.
"Yep," Claire replied with a satisfied grin, proudly puffing out her chest and putting her hands on her hips.
She had done her best on her project for a robot-nanny, took several days off, after thoroughly checking everything and ultimately writing such a complex program that it has every chance of developing into a full-fledged AI over the years. An AI whose main task is Tony's well-being and development. The hardest part was harnessing Robert, forcing him to set aside his favorite shooting iron pieces and properly improve the coordination, speed, strength, and durability of her creation. Or as she likes it better, a metal shell for the soul she created, when she fools around and pretends to be not an extremely skilled programmer-hacker, but a witch from a fantasy manga.
"Da-a-ad, influence your wife," Tony immediately requested support, already imagining how much freedom he would lose and how many problems he would acquire.
"..." In response Robert, a huge buff guy capable of tearing metal with his bare hands... cowardly turned away from his own son in a difficult life situation. Yes, he's henpecked, so what?
"Traitor," Tony commented.
"You, young man, need supervision. And since we are often away for work, Omnissia will look after you and your destructive impulses," yes, the lady of the household was not only an anime fan but also a lover of Warhammer.
"They are not destructive at all!" the undeservedly oppressed tried to rebel.
"You blew up the garage," but the rebellion was harshly suppressed before it even started.
"Well... I didn't exactly blow it up."
"Not up for discussion," she cut off with her hand in response, severing all objections and attempts to soften the sentence.
"Maybe... maybe..." Tony thought frantically. For he knew his mother; if something didn't change now, this hunk of iron would be permanently assigned as his nanny! "Maybe we could ask Mrs. Kusanagi? She's on maternity leave with her daughter anyway! And a living person is always more reliable than an unproven machine in field conditions. What if it breaks? Or if an error crept into its program?"
"There are no errors in my programs," she informed him in a rock-solid tone.
"..." Robert remained silent in response, but he glanced at his wife VERY significantly.
Just a week ago, she was scolding her son for an untested project that ended up blowing up their garage and almost killing Tony himself. And now after that, she asks where their son gets it from?
"We can combine them," he suggested a variant that generally suited him.
Unlike Ryu Kusanagi, whose unprincipled ambition and callousness had become legendary, but with whom leaving his son with a raw prototype wasn't very desirable, the girl who recently gave birth had a responsible character and grew up in a family where the word "safety" is not a synonym for "boring" or "just a little risky," but a guarantee of survival and prosperity.
"Hmm..." the blue-eyed blonde thought. "Okay." She nodded graciously. "We'll negotiate." And she smiled mischievously, looking at her son. Alas, Tony only realized after the fact what he had condemned himself to with his long tongue.