To Escape That Prison

Since well over 50% of all Fate xovers involve Shiro (any of his incarnations) and/or Saber, I decided to make a quick story involving a lesser known Servant in an uncommon xover category. And since Edmond's event just ended in Grand Order, I had him on my mind and came up with this. This story isn't even somewhat Fate cannon compliant, but Edmond also kind of does whatever the heck he wants in Grand Order anyway, so I figured this would at least make some sense if you squint. This was also meant to be like 2k words max, but that shows what I know.

This story can be adopted by anyone who wants it, and can be taken in pretty much any direction you wish. You can continue from where I leave off (though you can't repost this first chapter as-is) or you can just use the basic idea. You can change the timeline up so it takes place anywhere in the Marvel timeline, and he doesn't have to be summoned by Tony, which is why this is in Avengers and not Iron Man, and there may or may not be a Grail war: the idea is flexible.

Tony Stark has always been special.

Most people will assume it's his ego talking, and really, some of it probably is, but that doesn't make it any less true. He's been building machines ever since he could read the instructions, making his own creations only a year or two after that, and has been a rising star ever since. Machines are nothing but an extension of himself, and he builds and builds until not one person can object when he inherits the company at such a young age, his bad habits aside. He's going to get in trouble one day, even Tony can see that, but he's sure that his wits and money will see him through, just as it always does. And failing that, he always has his special gifts.

Tony Stark is special, not because he is rich, or a genius to define the generation, but because he can see what no one else can: the heart of the machine. Whenever he simply lets go of his inhibitions and buries himself in a project, whenever he reaches that perfect "zone" all artists seek, he can see the pulsing inner lights of a machine. He sees how the pieces overlap, how the wires should connect, how the different parts of any machine hum lowly, and the ways he can make them sing with just a few adjustments. It's a difficult state to reach, which is why he's so particular with his working conditions, but once he's found it, burning his eyes with fantastic possibilities, he's unstoppable.

Once upon a time, he thought it was magic. But his father had beaten that mindset out of him with books and tutors and hard logic. And so Tony, like any self-respecting scientist/physicist/engineer (with several different degrees in the works if he ever got bored) would do: changed his hypothesis. Instead, he decided that he was gifted with an inner sight that allowed him to imagine better, greater, than anyone else. It was that sight that let him invent newer, better weapons. It was that sight that let him build an arc reactor out of little more than scraps of his own weapons and piece together the suit that would free him.

But his sight couldn't see how humans worked.

The escape plan failed. There were too many guards with patrols that lined up a little too closely, and Yinsen ran with a gun in hand to buy Tony in time only to be shot dead before he cleared the doorway. The guards stormed the room and Tony could do nothing but await his own death, trapped in the suit that hadn't even begun to hum its song.

Maybe it would have been better if they shot him.

But no, the terrorists dragged him out kicking and screaming, and took one look at the suit he's crafted and decide they want their own, as well as more miniature arc reactors to sell. Tony resists, he really does try his best, but they beat him, nearly drown him, starve him, break his bones, rip off his nails, take pieces of his flesh, and inflict a thousand other horrors on his body until he simply breaks. He isn't even allowed to die, because they realize that while one arc reactor might be valuable, the man who can create them is even more so, and so they leave the tiny electric heart in his chest.

Tony thought his working conditions couldn't get any worse, but he was wrong.

He has no bed, no chance to bathe, and at least two guards with only a rough grasp on English (close to a preschooler's vocabulary and temperament in fact) keeping an eye on him every second he works. If he can't answer their questions as to what he was doing at any given second, they beat him. If he does something they don't like, they beat him. And sometimes they beat him just because they can. His only small mercy is that they don't starve him unless he gets really defiant or mouthy, and don't ever touch his hands or head when they beat him: a broken machine is a useless one after all. Instead, they break his legs again and again, until Tony is forced to hobble everywhere, and he seriously doubts he'll ever walk right again. The guards happily 'help' him with his work, as it lets them keep a closer eye on what he does. But the work is still slow, and Tony often runs out of the materials he needs, so he is forced into his new tiny cell for weeks, maybe months, at a time while the terrorists steal more weapons, his weapons.

After this, Tony wants to never see another weapon in his life. In fact, first chance he gets, he's stopping all Stark weapons manufacturing and will move to something like…clean energy. Or maybe a brewery.

In his quiet and empty cell, Tony spends hours upon hours trying to use his sight for something other than seeing the web of a machine's innards, but nothing works. He can feel something bubbling under his skin, white-hot and electric, but it always slips away from him like grains of sand, leaving behind nothing but burning pain and he can't figure out why. Maybe if he has someone he could talk to he could figure it out, but on his own any experimentation only brings pain.

Pain, that was what his life has become. Pain and suffering that only varied in degree, never fully disappearing. His head pounds and his legs vary from agonizing to a dull throb of something not healing right. He hates these men that have locked him away, only bringing him out to preform his tricks like some sort of dog. He hates them, wishes that the military would find him already and save him, because surely someone had to be coming for a billionaire, right? He didn't care who saved him from this hellhole, so long as he got out and back home he'd pay them whatever they wanted. Hell, he'd write them into his will if they wanted, he just wanted to be free already!

God, he missed everyone so much it ached even more than the literal hole in his chest. He missed Pepper and her nagging because she kept him on track, he missed Stane, tightass that he was, he still was willing to cover for Tony's recklessness. Hell, he missed his damn chauffer, Happy, who put up with his shit and impulsive cravings for ice cream or burgers right before a meeting. He'd do anything to see them again, or even anyone who spoke coherent English and didn't hit him the first chance they got. And he would see them again; it was only a matter of time before Stane sent a task force to rescue him! Tony had only tried to break out because he sure as hell wasn't some damsel locked in a tower who needed a big, strong knight to save him, but he was willing to take the blow to his masculinity if it meant getting out now. All he had to do was wait. He would be rescued eventually.

Tony told himself this every day. And everyday that he awoke in his dark prison, he would repeat that mantra to himself again and again to settle his nerves.

He pretended that the words didn't ring more and more hollow with every day that passed.

(Somewhere, something that should not be, resonated)

Tony Stark dreams.

He dreams of happier times, of his perfect life that has been ripped away, and pretends, deludes, himself into believing he is still there, if only for a moment. Even a fleeting instant is enough to give him strength for the next day, and so he spends as much time as he can sleeping. But one day that dream is snatched away by curling shadows and cruel laughter he doesn't recognize, and then he is reliving his torture and punishments. He cannot escape the dreams invaded by reality, and so instead he dreams of the escape that will never happen now with his destroyed leg. He dreams that he finds that his strange sight and intuition is just the surface of some great bubbling power that he destroys his captors with, and that he kills them, violently, messily. Maybe he should be horrified with himself the first time he fantasizes of driving a knife into a guard's heart, but instead he feels nothing but a dull rage.

At some point, he dreams of a shadow of malice and hatred. But he isn't afraid of the shadow, because it, like him, is confined to a prison of stone and metal. This prison isn't real, and Tony passes through the walls and bars as if he were the shadow, because that which isn't real cannot confine what is. But the shadow is still trapped, and even if it is the embodiment of an evil, Tony wishes it could be free. Because nothing should be trapped like this, like an animal, and the hatred he feels from the shadow mirrors his own.

Night after night, Tony visits the shadow, sometimes for seconds, sometimes for hours. They do nothing but stare at each other, but Tony can feel something crawling under his skin, trying to latch onto his very soul like a leech. He can reject it easily for it is very weak, and he does for some time because he's eccentric, not insane. But eventually his curiosity wins out, and Tony lets the thing in just a tiny bit. It crawls up his spine, through his coppery veins and frayed nerves, day by day latching more and more tightly to his soul. It is disgusting, but the sheer kinship he feels with the shadow has him returning night after night.

Tony refuses to even entertain the idea that the shadow is the one drawing him to it and that he has no control, never had any to begin with. Because if Tony ever tries to pull away, the shadow retreats and the connection is broken like a spider's thread. Therefore, he is the one in control.

He has to be.

One night, the shadow, looking more solid than usual, finally speaks to him.

"If you want to escape, then you must-"

On the floor is a magic circle, tainted with lines and script and symbols. It is red, like blood, and he knows this is simply a delusion. It is fake promise, just like his dreams and ambitions and rights, nothing but a fleeting thought in the wind.

Tony's eyes still memorize it.

The shadow, the wraith of a sin, smiles cruelly and laughs at his weakness. And it may be a cruel smile, but it is still far kinder than any face he has seen for a year now.

The new shop Tony works in ever since he tried to escape is heavily armored with a locking door that can be sealed remotely to trap him if he ever tries anything again. But the very door meant to enslave him will now be his salvation. He's been trapped here long enough, and today is the day he either finds his freedom or dies trying.

(It's been fourteen months now, he somehow knows, and that is significant, somehow)

"You will need blood, preferably blood you've shed for in anger." The shadow had whispered.

Tony can get more than enough of that easily enough.

A simple tap activates the trap he had set up in the door's mechanisms weeks ago. The steel door locks shut, and he yanks a key piece free and it loses power completely. The guards are confused and slow (so, so, slow) to act, and Tony tackles one, driving the power drill in his hand and into a soft throat without hesitation. Hot and sticky blood gushes forth, but Tony can't look at his work or dwell on the primal satisfaction he feels at killing the man (it feels better than the rush he got when he invents something people declared impossible). Instead, he goes for the dropped gun and turns it on the other two guards, who had been stunned still by the sheer brutality of their supposedly-broken prisoner. The first one dies easily enough, but Tony ends up with a bullet in his shoulder before he manages to put three in the second's heart and head.

It hurts, but pain has become Tony's life now, so his ignores it, compartmentalizes it away to some place it can't bother him, and gets to work.

The circle is no different from the blueprints he's been forced to draw over and over again, simply overlapping lines and shapes that form a greater whole. Drawing in blood with nothing but his own fingers suitable to be a brush is difficult and disgusting, but he pushes through, meticulously cutting the dead guards' veins open as he needed more blood. He is surprised at how little he feels about butchering someone, but distantly he realizes he stopped seeing his captors as humans long ago. They are nothing but animals to him, just as he was nothing but a machine to them, and he's going to have to fly in the best therapist he can find when he gets back to his tower, and then three more when the first inevitably quits on him. The circle is messy and unreadable in some places, but Tony is out of time and blood to make a new one, the pounding on the steel door echoing his heart and head.

He knew it would be fine, so long as he drug the bodies to the center like a sick offering.

A display of hatred.

There was the sound of tools cutting through the door, so Tony stood unsteadily, his bad leg threatening to give out, and began to chant. Chanting words he only knew from his delusions, and he must be going crazy to even consider: the torture finally broke him so deeply even he was unaware of it, and yet he continues. He chants nonsense that has been whispered in his ear for months and months until he had found himself muttering it while he worked, until that nonsense had engraved itself into his very soul.

His body lights up like a circuit board and it hurts, burns like tiny electrical impulses are running rampant in his coppery blood. But he doesn't stop chanting his madness, because he has nothing else left. If his insanity does not, impossibly, prove fruitful, then he will die. He won't allow himself to be taken captive again and beaten until broken even further, no, today he will be free no matter what. And if he has to die in a fire fight with his captors, then so be it.

At least he was able to kill a few of them. Even if he didn't get to kill those truly responsible, even if his revenge wouldn't be complete, he could be happy that he had hurt them. It might be unsatisfactory, it might not be enough to sooth his burning heart, but he would…settle.

Never settle, never forge, never forgive.

The circle lights up terrible bright, red light bleeding into black as the bodies he's offered start to crumble, and Tony knows something has gone terribly wrong. The shadows lacing his soul snap taught and pull at something on the other side, until nothing but that can come through. Something deep in his very soul screams that he should stop before he commits sin, but Tony can't stop, not here, not now! He has nothing left-!

Then wait and hope.

The power burst free at the same time as the door, and suddenly Tony is falling. He's so very tired, drained dry of some energy he never knew he had, and he doesn't even care that guards must be filing into the room, or that he's about to crack his skull open on stone floors. The floor is already covered in blood, so it's not like he'll even make that much of a mess.

He hits something, but it is soft, and for a moment he wonders if he fell face-first into a body. But no, he's being held up by warm hands and he would have laughed bitterly if he had the energy. That's right, can't have your head 'engineer' cracking open and spilling that oh-so valuable head on the floor. How so very kind of his captors to care for his health.

"Now, now, Master. You can't possible die just yet. Not when you've only just begun to act that wrath that called me to you in the first place!"

There's angry shouting, both English and foreign phrases, but Tony ignores them and tries to focus on the voice of the stranger holding him. The accent is faint to the point that Tony can barely make it out, but he swears it's the smooth curl of French, something he hadn't thought he'd hear out in a middle eastern war zone. But he can't be sure, not with the other shouting, and he just wishes they would all shut up-

"Hmm, it seems you lot are bothering my Master. Be silent."

There's screaming, the sound of gunfire, and sudden silence. It might have worried Tony if he had the energy to care, but instead he forces his eyes open when he feels himself lowered to the ground with surprising care. He's been laid awkwardly so he can't see much, and he can hardly move his eyes, much less turn his entire head, so it takes a moment to make sense of what he sees. The blue-green blur he can just barely see from the dark room is a cloak of some sort, and definitely nicer than anything any of the terrorists would wear, and the hat is something meant more for fashion than any sort of practicality. So either there was some sort of costume party he hadn't been told about, or-

The stranger looks over his shoulder at him, and he realizes his hair is off white, his eyes yellow and cat-like and sharp as a knife. And Tony understands that whatever the man is, it isn't human. Blackness sparking with vile energy erupts from the devil's hands (Tony swears the magic circle he used wasn't that pentagram-y, but he also just saw a man light his hands on fire with pure evil, so what did he know?), and he's talking to Tony, telling him something about Masters and fighting and dying, but Tony can't hear anything but the ringing of his ears and it all sounds like nonsense being spoken underwater. He also can't concentrate at all and keeps wondering when the man will sprout wings and horns already- and who knew the devil looked good in green- and realizes that he's loopy from blood loss and pain. More guards rush the room, and the devil, no, the shadow from Tony's dreams turns to meet them. It is one against nearly a dozen, but it is clear from the way the stranger's hands ignite with black that the fight had already been decided.

Tony lets himself drift to sleep, the sound of ripping flesh and crackling flames his sick lullaby.

Tony wakes up, aching and with a splitting headache, but that isn't anything new. What is new is the soft bed he's lying in- a far cry from his ratty blanket masquerading as a cot he's had for months. In fact, the entire room is much nicer than he remembers his cell being. It's still made of dreary rock and stone, but there's a worn desk and chair, a ratty rug, and other personal touches to make it feel at least habitable. His shoulder burns something fierce, but it's been wrapped and smells strongly of what he hopes is some sort of foreign disinfectant and not a wound rotting him away. But there is something more in the room, Tony can feel it pressing down on him, and he turns, ignoring the mystery of the nice(ish) room to look into the far corner, away from the weak lamp light.

For a moment, Tony swears he sees the shadow from his dreams lurking there, watching him. But no, it is a man in a finely tailored, if not a very dated, suit and cloak. The man is as pale as a ghost, and Tony would have thought him an albino with his off-white hair, but those eyes are golden and bright. So bright, in fact, they seem to glow in the dark corner the stranger stands in, sharp and cutting into his very soul when the man looks over and-

"I was wondering if you'd ever awaken, Master. You've been asleep for nearly two days now."

The voice is low and smooth and vaguely French, and Tony remembers.

"Who-" Tony tries to say, but he breaks off into a fit of coughs and feels as though he's swallowed half of the that's desert outside. A plastic bottle of water is presented to him by the man, which he takes gratefully, only realizing later that he didn't even hear shadow-made-real (by Tony's own hand, and oh boy, he murdered people in cold blood. One of them was even with a power drill of all things, and no, no, no, bad Tony, compartmentalize that until later) move across the room.

Tony drinks the entire bottle, partly because he's thirsty and partly to buy time putting off dealing with what he's done. Plus the bottled water was clearly fresh, which is something he never gets, and when did he clean water become a delicacy to him? Maybe if he uses his imagination hard enough, he can trick his body into think he'd downing pure vodka like a real Russian and get drunk. He's been tortured, shot, and now passed out for two days, he deserves a drink. A good one, with olives and tacky umbrellas.

The man he…summoned (and magic was apparently very much real) gave him a smirk that clearly said he knew exactly what Tony was doing, but he was going to be 'generous' and allow it. It wasn't like Tony was going anywhere without some crutches.

"Any longer and I would have had to take drastic action, lest your weak human body expire." The man sneered, mocking and all prickly thorns that just screamed danger and arrogance. But Tony's been in a room with board members and shareholders out for his blood, and he knows when someone really wants to hurt him, if they could only get away with it. And this man is dangerous, yes, hateful, yes, but none of it is specifically directed at Tony, just a general distain for the world as a while. And someone had to treat his shoulder, however messily the job was done.

"Alright…Alright, I'm good." Tony rasps when he finishes, testing his voice and glad that it only sounds like he's sampled a sand sandwich, "Ok, first order of business: Master?"

"You have summoned me, the contract has been made, and so you are my Master and I, your Servant."

"That was completely unhelpful and you know it. Now, just what are you?" It might have been a blur, but Tony still remembers that black power, and the man just feels terrible and wrong. And he somehow managed to keep Tony alive even when the guards stormed the workshop, so even if the shadows weren't real, the man is still dangerous. "A fancy mercenary? No, no, you're dressed too nice for that, so a magician? A vampire? A demon? The devil here to give me back all that luck he stole from me?"

The man snorts, but Tony can tell he's at least amused even if he's going to refuse to crack a smile, "No, I am a Heroic Spirit, summoned by you, my Master, to fulfill your wishes."

"Ok, Master, that's a new one. And vaguely kinky, but that is a nasty glare you have, so I'll focus. So, since you're still being really vague I guess I'll just get specific: just what is a Heroic Spirit? And who are you specifically, since I'm assuming you aren't actually a demon like I thought when I was dying of blood loss."

Maybe Tony shouldn't have asked, because the man smirks, and, with great flourish, launches into an overdramatic speech about Masters and Servants, and magic rituals to grant miracles. Tony only understands about half of what's being said, not because he's sudden gotten a case of stupid, but because he's seriously lacking the foundations to properly understand something this complicated. But he understands enough to put the pieces together, even if the picture is incomplete and sloppy, he still sees what it should be. It may be ridiculous, but Tony can remember the burning in his eyes and the things he sees, and so it becomes easier to accept.

"So, what class are you? I don't see any weapons on you and you don't really look like a warrior. So maybe a Caster since that creepy darkness stuff you used seems like it would be a good fit. A whole 'dapper dark mage' schtick."

"Oh, so you were actually remember that? I hope my performance was to your liking, Master." The Servant says, obviously proud with himself.

"Sorry, I passed out after you set your hands on fire. So, Caster, right?"

"No, I am not any of the seven classes. Instead, I am an extra class, Avenger."

"And like that, I know I've probably made a mistake summoning you." Tony says casually and he can feel the Avenger narrowing his eyes at him. But with a class name like that, Tony knows the man, er, Servant is going to be only slightly less trouble than a Berserker probably would be (though he's always wanted his own Hulk. Shame). But, "But you haven't killed me, you must have protected me, and even tried to play nurse even if that kind of breaks the dark and brooding persona you're going for. By the way, what did happen to all the guards?"

"They threatened you, so I killed them." It was said as easily as the weather.

"So you killed them all?" There were (or had been) a lot of angry men with guns and grenades in this base, so the idea that the Avenger had taken care of all of them was impressive to say the least. Maybe there really was something to this whole 'Heroic Spirit' thing.

"Well, not all of them. You are my Master, and so I've done you the favor and saved the commander and some others for you to exact whatever vengeance you wish. See, on the table over there, I've left you some tools to pick from, and-"

Tony has to stop him right there, because he really doesn't want to know what someone classed as an Avenger would call a 'tool for vengeance', "I'm not going to torture anyone! I don't want any sort of sick revenge or- "

Avenger hisses, rounding on Tony and trapping him against the cold stone wall with his gaze, "Don't lie to me, I know your heart, for it was your very soul that cried out to me! Yes, your soul is filled with a deep animosity for those that have wronged you and locked you away like a beast. They have robbed you of your freedom and a piece of your life, and have even taken away your ability to walk strongly on your own two feet! Your resentment may only be a pale grey flame to my own jet-black hatred, but it is still there. And so long as that desire for revenge is there, I shall serve your faithfully, my Master."

Tony is shaken, not only because the man is right in his personal space and glaring at him with crazed eyes, but because the words ring true. They're true and he knows it, just like he knows all the insults his board and the press hurl at him are true: he is too carefree, he is too much of a playboy, and he's just shy of becoming a functional alcoholic. And he also knows he still hates whoever locked him away here, wants to hurt them like he was hurt, and it scares him that he isn't more disgusted with himself.

But Tony is nothing if not good at ignoring the problem, "Wow, overdramatic much? Watch it, you might cut yourself on all that edge." Tony quotes the things he's read on blogs because he's nothing if not relevant and topical, but he belatedly realizes that he's probably incredibly out of date. Is 'edgy' still a thing?

Well, if it isn't then he'll singlehandedly bring it back into style, if only because there really isn't a better word to describe the… 'Servant'. And if Tony can't laugh at how ridiculously the man is, then he might actually start getting scared. But only a little bit.

"Fine, run away from the truth like the coward you are if you wish, but you can't escape your own soul."

"Hey, I am not a coward! I killed three men and used their blood for your little art project," Don't think about it, don't think too hard because they must have deserved it, "And I regularly stare down the press and my assistant whenever she gets mad at me! And she's terrifying when she gets that 'Tony-I-am-very-disappointed-in-you' look in her eyes. Which is a lot."

"I don't doubt that, you seem like a very troublesome Master indeed. But be glad you have such a woman who cares for you." Maybe Tony was projecting his feelings onto something so not-human, but the Avenger seemed almost…wistful. But the moment was gone like morning dew. "However, you would be wise to not trust anyone too closely anymore."

"And why's that?"

"Because, one of your 'friends' has betrayed you."

Something thick and fat and foul is in the back of Tony's throat and he can barely breathe around it. "No. No, no one's betrayed me."

"Are you so sure? I've seen into your soul and memories while our bond was nurturing, and I know that you were once a rich and powerful man. You should have never been captured by dogs like these, and even if you were, someone should have come for you. Greed rules the hearts of men, and the thought of the wealth you could have offered a savior should have attracted plenty." The Avenger waxes on, almost poetically. And Tony would have rolled his eyes at the monologue if the words weren't stirring something nasty in his guts, something he'd been trying to deny was growing and festering for a while now, "And yet, not one came. Not a single person heard your cries, cries so loud they stretched beyond the very world and reached me! Me, nothing more than an incarnation of revenge became your savior from this bleak Château d'If. Someone left you to rot away, my dear Master."

"Just who the hell are you?" Tony doesn't know what sort of answer he's looking for, but his heart is pounding, and he needs a distraction before his feelings explode.

"I am nothing but an incarnation of revenge, but the figure I most closely resemble would be Edmond Dantes."

"Who?"

'Edmond' looks aghast, "Do you not read? I am the Count of Monte Cristo!"

"The count…? Oh! Oh, you mean from that book I've heard about? Sorry, I don't tend to read anything that isn't directly related to my job. Or just seems interesting. Sorry, I guess your book didn't make the cut."

The flat look Edmond is giving him could have leveled mountains. In fact, Tony is sure he can see the flicker of shadows between his fingers, and ok, he might have gone a little far, but the tension is practically killing him. And a Servant can't kill their Master, right?

Tony thinks back to all the famous stories of the rich and powerful being killed by their butlers and the lower classes, and realizes he really shouldn't take obedience for granted.

"Decide on what you will do with the men I've left alive for you." Edmond starts, low and dangerous, "Then we will leave this prison. And from there, it is for you to decide, my dear Master. Just as you will decide those men's fates. Will you be greedy and wish to pretend you are still an innocent man? Or will you be wrathful and kill them for all the horrors they have inflicted on you? You have no need to kill them except to satisfy your vengeful heart, but would you show such mercy to the person has betrayed you when we find them?"

Tony snapped, spitting angrily, "Do you ever shut up, or is monologuing part of your job description?"

Edmond takes the insult with a smirk, and Tony realizes that provoking a self-declared spirit of vengeance wasn't a very good idea. He might not kill Tony outright, but there were other small things that could be done, like pressuring for a decision, or digging at his weaknesses that were effectively physically harmless, but also small horrors in their own right. Tony had summoned something cruel, and though it might be loyal to him, it was far from harmless.

Edmond moves away from his bedside, and places something next to him, "Take your time to think, Master. I will be waiting outside."

Like a phantom, the Avenger is gone.

It takes some time for Tony to settle his nerves and thoughts (killing, blood, but they hurt him and trapped him, they were bad, bad, deserved-) and to look at what the menace that was his only hope had left.

It was a simple wooden cane.

It took a moment for Tony to realize that Edmond had alluded to his crippled leg before, and a bit longer to figure out that the Servant had been carrying the cane under his cape this whole time. It wasn't hard to figure out how he knew, and Tony couldn't help but grimace when he caught sight of his bad leg: it was bent oddly at the knee from where a shattered kneecap had healed poorly and still black and blue with plenty of scars. His other leg wasn't much better, but at least it still bent properly, even if there was a pretty nasty scar down his calf.

Tony fingered the bandages around the bullet wound, and thought for a long moment about just what his Servant was.

When he was done thinking, Tony pulled himself from the bed, glad for the low height, and braced himself on the cane. It was simple but very sturdy and with a comfortable grip wrapped in cloth. A bit short for him, but beggars couldn't be choosers, and slowly Tony hobbled over to the desk he had spotted before. There were many things there, including the 'tools' Edmond had tried to describe before, though it was all surprisingly tame. A knife, a gun, and a key.

Well, it was easy enough to figure out what each was supposed to symbolize. Edmond really did have a flair for the dramatic, as if the monologs on suffering and the soul weren't enough of a hint.

Tony ignored the choices laid out and looked at what else was on the desk. There wasn't much: a cracked mirror that was surprisingly clean, a necklace of some sort, and, at the very center, a photo. It was so cliché, really, Tony wanted to laugh at how dumb it was, but he was too busy feeling dread settle in his stomach. For the photo was exactly what one might expect a terrorist to have: a low-quality picture of what had to be the terrorist in question with two young children and what was probably his wife.

Tony knew if he flipped the photo over he would see something scribbled on the back in a foreign language about "hope" or "never forget" or something equally cliché, and he hated clichés. He hated them because now he knew just what, or who, Edmond would lead him to, and that was so much worse than not knowing. A choice had to be made, and Tony really wished he could freeze time and never move from this spot.

Tony wasn't the best person, but he wasn't evil.

And yet he'd been hurt so bad, so much so he'd never be the same.

So.

So he…

Slowly, a hand reached towards-