Disclaimer: Sadly, Marvel owns the characters, not I. Written for entertainment only, no profit made, and no infringement intended.

Prologue: Dirty linoleum

There is a scuff of shoes on dirt, but it's the voices that wake him. Men. He doesn't recognize them. Arguing? The muted clang of a heavy door closing pulls him further into fuzzy awareness. He takes a deep breath and coughs violently at the dust he pulls in.

When he can breathe again, that's when a horrible feeling of "Where the hell am I?" grows from recognition to dread.

Tony opens his eyes. The grime coating the linoleum floor he's lying on is nasty. The tile looks decades old, and he doesn't even want to guess at those stains. His stomach turns over. No, he doesn't need to know anything about the dark, rust colored one just in front of him. As it is, he's getting too good a look at it.

He turns his sight away from the floor and sees he's in a large room. It looks like an old warehouse and smells of oil, dirt and disuse. The sole source of light is one small window about twelve feet up with dim sunlight filtering through the film encrusting it. His mind supplies the thought, which he doesn't question: It's morning. He stops to look at the beam of light, blinking and trying to clear his head, watching dust motes float through it.

Why can't I think?

He shifts, to turn his head and see the rest of the room, when a hiss of breath escapes. Pain blossoms across his skull and spots swim through his vision as he becomes painfully conscious of the spot on the back of his head calling for attention ... but he can't reach up and feel the area to see if it is bleeding.

His hands are tied behind his back.

He pulls at the chords. They don't give. But the movement is enough to unbalance him, and he rocks back, his head contacting the floor hard. He nearly blacks out as pain blinds him and pushes him past rational thought. Fear explodes in his chest, dark and horrible, choking him. No, no, no…this can't be happening. Fighting not to lose control, he is helpless against the memories of pain, fear and torture that surge to the surface…he gasps for air as the visions flood in.

Even knowing that it is a warehouse, not a cave, the pain is not a shrapnel wound, his chest is long healed - his heart hammers as he strains for the sound of rough voices in a language he doesn't understand. Somewhere, his mind knows, but his body is too busy reacting to listen.

No, no, no, no…Tony, stop! Finally, just as it did in that dark, cold cave, reason steps in. He closes his eyes against feelings spinning out of control and breathes. No. This is a warehouse, Tony, not a cave. A warehouse. Not…a…cave. It's not the same people. They're dead. Finally, agonizingly, the tightness in his chest loosens and his heart begins to slow.

He opens his eyes. What in the hell happened?

Frustration grows as he continues to pull on the ropes, but he's back and thinking again. Of course the ropes won't give. He's just Tony. He's not wearing the Ironman suit, only the chest piece and back plate. The easy strength that he's used to having when he needs it (that would snap these ropes like thread) is not there. Now the armor serves only to remind him of the strength he doesn't have … the edges of the back plate cut into the backs of his arms, bruising, as he struggles.

He has to stop pulling at his wrists when the pain at the back of his head fades and the shriek of muscles in his side remind him of his other injury. Oh. Yeah. Forgot about that. Ironically, it is this ache that helps most to bring him back to now.

He tries to remember the previous day, and chunks of it come back. He hasn't gotten very far when he forgets everything else, one memory screaming to the surface.

A horrible twisting starts in the pit of his stomach as he replays it in his mind's eye – a stranger, holding his assistant. Her arms twisted cruelly behind her back, her eyes fearful, catching his … and her voice calling his name before a shadow falls into his view – and everything goes black.

No. …Pepper!

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