Chapter One: Harley's POV

All Harley had done was write the paper about his Christmas vacation. Though, to be completely honest, it wasn't even this Christmas he'd written about. He'd written about two years ago, when Tony Stark was dead and living in his garage. Which was exactly what the assignment said he could do, only Harley had known that Mr. Lemmons wouldn't believe a thing he wrote, so he really should have expected this instead of being optimistic.

Optimistically he'd assumed his teacher would read it and give him a passing grade (yes, only passing, because writing wasn't actually something he was good at) with a nice 'good imagination :)' comment somewhere. What actually happened was an ominous 'stay after class'.

"You wanted to see me?" Harley asked hesitantly, fidgeting with the straps on his backpack. Mr. Lemmons looked disappointed, not annoyed. He was used to both, but disappointment always left a bitter taste in Harley's mouth.

"Harley...your paper...It's very...unique. Imaginative? Definitely. Truth? No. The assignment was the write about your own experience, Mr. Keener, your favorite Christmas break. What you wrote about was five pages about Iron Man squatting in your garage." Mr. Lemmons raised his eyebrows expectantly. "Why would you lie about something like this?"

Harley pursed his lips and stared at the ground pointedly. Mr. Lemmons sighed. "Go on, I don't want you to miss your bus. Expect a phone call to your mother about this, though, okay?"

Harley nodded frantically and left in a dead run. He made it to his bus with only seconds to spare, sliding into a seat three behind his sister.

Travis Johnson bared his teeth at Harley like he was a rabid dog. "Look who showed up, boys! Keener must have a death wish!" His friends crowed and whooped as if that would make them cool.

Harley turned his head away and tried to ignore them.

"Keener! Don't fucking ignore me!" Travis snarled, leaning his chubby upper body across the aisle to put his fat face right up in Harley's personal space. Harley glared out the window, imagining having lasers for eyes. Then he could look straight at Travis and laugh as he burned in half.

"Leave him alone, Travis!" Michael Reese demanded from the back of the bus. The high-schooler was notorious for sticking up for the underdog, who was Harley.

"Fuck off, Reese!" Travis shot back, standing up tall like that would make him bigger. At sixteen, Michael was a good foot and a half taller than Travis and they all knew it. To make sure that he stayed away, Michael sat next to Harley.

"You don't have to do that, you know," Harley grumbled. "They'll get bored eventually."

Michael shook his head. "Why do you let those idiots walk all over you?"

Harley sighed and didn't answer.

They rode the rest of the way in silence.

"See ya Monday, Keener!" Travis called out the window as the bus pulled away. Harley flipped him off without looking.

The thirteen year old went straight to the kitchen, where he ravaged around for something to eat. Finding some mostly fresh bread and ham, Harley went to work on making sandwiches for two.

"Get started on your homework," Harley instructed a few minutes later. His sister whined but shut up after he set down a sandwich in front of her.

They spent an hour at the dinky dinner table doing homework together before he let her on the tv in the living room. "Yell if you need anything, okay?" Harley asked. She nodded absently, already lost in the world of Disney.

Harley huffed. "Okay, then," he muttered, leaving his crappy house for the equally crappy looking garage.

Of course, the inside looked amazing. Spare parts were scattered all over the place, mini bots charging in their little mini charging stations, his potato launcher Mk. 1 displayed in a glass case on his work desk. Tony had fixed up the stairs and added a cozy area above the sitting area, which Harley used to sleep in. There were so many things he could do in here, create things, tinker, maybe learn some guitar, but lately Harley just...wasn't feeling it.

Ever since his mom's newest boyfriend had moved in with them, Harley had taken to sleeping in the garage more often than not. He knew it was only a matter of time before Barney would follow him in one day and ruin everything he'd built. Barney Barton had a knack for destroying everything Harley loved, not that his mom noticed. It was nearly impossible to see his mom anymore, what with her double shifts at the diner and sleeping all the time. How could she have time for a boyfriend but not her own kids?

Harley yawned and shook his head. He didn't understand adults.

He couldn't say what woke him up. One second, he was sound asleep at his workbench and the next he was jerked awake.

Maybe mom's home? he wondered, blinking at the alarm clock floating next to his face. Too early for that.

Something about how quiet it was gave him the chills. Like the world was holdings its breath.

"Is someone there?" Harley asked the still air.

"Yes," someone said behind him. Then the world went dark.

How is this even my life? Harley asked himself. No one answered.

The pre-teen sighed as much as he could around the cloth in his mouth and tried to wiggle around on the hard floor, which succeeded in making his wrists hurt like hell. Harley groaned. The idiots had tied him up with zip ties. "Am I too much of a threat for some quality treatment?" Harley demanded, only it came out like "Ahm uh oo uuch uh uh fet or um alidy feetmet?" and kind of shrill. The guy holding the gun in the seat across from Harley snorted. Harley glared at his shoes, the only part of the guy that he could see from his position curled up against the floor. Then he took a moment to calm down and take stock of himself. Was he alive? Yes. Was he hurt? Kinda. Was there anything he could do to get away?

Harley looked around and saw three pairs of combat boots attached to people, and guessed that there were probably two more in the front, and just to be safe make sure to count them all with at least three knives each, along with two loaded guns.

Was there anything he could do to get away? Not with his life.

Harley groaned and rolled to his side, feeling the sharp edge of the plastic dig into his wrists. Not that he necessarily needed his hands to get the damn rag out of his mouth, it just would've been incredibly convenient. They hadn't even thought to put duct tape over the rag, like total amateurs. A minute of silent struggling later got his mouth freed, but his wrists were already aching. Thankfully they hadn't put them on tight enough to cut off circulation.

Then they drove over a pothole, and Harley's head smacked against the floor boards with an audible thunk. He couldn't have stopped the small scream he gave when that sharp pain added to the headache he'd gotten during Gym, when everyone made Dodgeball into "Who Can Hit Keener the Most Times?"

"You wouldn't shoot me, right?" Harley asked nervously, referring to the guns the men were holding, cowering against the floor but trying not to look like he was cowering against the floor. "I'm obviously needed alive. Can-can you stop pointing that gun at me? It's making me nervous," Harley stuttered, a sudden rush of who-the-hell-know-what overriding his practically already non-existent self-preservation. The guy across from him dug the barrel of the gun into Harley's cheek, the message very clear, talking was a no no, and Harley tried to help by biting the inside of his mouth hard.

And he tried to stop, he really did, but something about being kidnapped by strangers with guns (would it be more comforting if it was someone he knew?) and he was already probably going to die and a gut feeling told Harley that no matter what he said the total outcome wouldn't change and the next thing he knew he was saying, "Did-did you shove me into a creeper van? Does it say "free candy" on the side or is that too much even for you guys? What are you guys going to do to me? No, I don't care, don't tell me, but whatever it is can I have some Tylenol first or something? My head really hurts, and I'm already going to be in so much trouble when I get home because today is laundry day and I completely forgot to make dinner," and something hit his temple hard. He couldn't have stopped himself from blacking out.

Harley came to in a place that was not a car. His head pounded every time he moved, or tried to think, or breathed, and it took him longer than he'd ever admit to gather up the courage to open his eyes.

Right at the gun pointed at his face.

He jerked backward with a yelp, which succeeded in doing absolutely nothing. He was tied to a wooden chair, arms around the back and his ankles strapped to the legs, and the entire position made him feel off-balance and vulnerable.

Not that he'd ever show it, of course. He was a man now, and he had the chest hair (singular) to prove it.

"Oh good. You're awake," a gruff voice came from somewhere behind the chair, and a man in military clothes walked around the circle of gunmen to face Harley, waving off the guy pointing the gun at his face. "No need for that, now. I'm sure we can come to an agreement," the man drawled around an unlit cigar. His hair was short and white and his mustache looked big enough to have it's own zip code. His shiny name tag read "General Ross". Harley was willing to bet his car (the one he wasn't even legally allowed to drive for another two years) that he wasn't a real General. He also wondered just how often he cleaned the name tag to be that shiny.

His head pounded.

"I'm hoping that you can help me with a little snag we found ourselves in," "General Ross" said. He took the cigar out of his mouth and held it loosely, his mustache wiggling like a living thing. "The suit that Colonel James Rhodes uses can't be looked at as closely as the US military wants. Every time someone not authorized tries to open it, they get an electric shock that puts them in medical for a couple days. That suit could save millions of American lives. I'm asking you about what powers it."

Harley didn't move a muscle. For once, his head and his mouth were in agreement.

"General Ross" was not deterred. "I know that you think that Tony Stark is your friend. You've probably looked up to him as a role model. Here's something new for you to think about: Tony Stark doesn't have friends. He has toys, which he builds from scraps of junk and tinkers with until they can fly around or clean his house for him. He only cares about himself. Nick Fury even said that he wasn't full-time Avenger's material. That's why Stark is only a consultant, not an Avenger. That's why he didn't go to them when he needed their help with the Mandarin. It's how he ended up sleeping in your garage."

"I can't help you," Harley said with a mouth as dry as the Sahara. "All I know is that it runs on electricity."

"You've just turned thirteen, correct? A couple weeks ago?" "General Ross" asked, holding a hand out. Someone put a folder in it, which he opened. Then he turned it around and showed Harley. "This is your family. There's your sister––" he pointed at her "––and your mom. Now, I'm not saying that I'll hurt them if you don't cooperate. I'm saying that I do have men following them. It'll be a few days before I resort to anything that could be considered drastic, of course. But...desperate times call for desperate measures. So, I'll ask again, what powers the Iron Man armor?"

This guy is insane.

Holy shit, this is the US military.

Oh my God, I'm going to die.

My family is going to die.

In the seconds following the question, all these thoughts flew through Harley's head, but it was the last one that fueled his anger.

"Don't you touch them," he spat, and tried to ignore the crack in his voice. That was just puberty.

When "General Ross" saw that that was the only answer he was going to get he sighed (it must be so stressful kidnapping children these days) and gestured to someone to Harley's left.

Before he could move, a large hand gripped his right shoulder and held him still. Another was pointing a needle at his neck. It was quick and relatively painless, but Harley still opened his mouth to scream because they'd just injected him with something holyshit what if he had AID's now, he was only thirteen and his life was over––

"Tell me everything you know about the Iron Man armor," "General Ross" ordered, and Harley talked.

He woke up to the wonderfully shrieking sound of metal moving against metal. Cool terror paralyzed him (not that he had much mobility in the first place) in place. He focused on steady breathing, in and out in and out, just like Tony did. He did not want to have a panic attack right now. When he was alone it was fine, but it wasn't like he was ever really alone here, what with the armed body guards and the patrol outside his door at all times.

It had been awhile (hours? days?) since he'd last seen "General Ross". He hoped that his family was okay. After all, "General Ross" said that hurting them was pretty much a last resort, but he had a feelings that last resort meant something different for Harley. He'd left in a huff after finally realizing that Harley wasn't going to say anything relevant, lighting the cigar and leaving Harley alone with his goons. He'd been expecting that ever since he'd first seen them though, so the pain wasn't a shock.

What did he even use? Harry kept wondering. The way "General Ross" had acted after Harley was injected, it was like he expected Harley to answer him. Only Harley hadn't felt compelled to answer, only to talk. Which led to the question of how the hell did they get their hands on cheap Veriterserum?

He was given the bare minimum of food (he never ate it. He knew enough about villains to know that it was drugged) every few hours along with potty breaks. The breaks were quick, five minutes at most, and he kept moving slower every time because everything hurt. He wasn't allowed showers, so he had to clean everything quick with the sink water and no mirror. His hair was a lost cause. Grease and blood he hadn't gotten out congealed and made it the perfect bird's nest. They'd courteously replaced the zip ties with rope, but Harley would've preferred no bindings at all.

It was after the second bathroom break on the first day that Harley returned and saw the camera in the left corner of the room. The red light taunted him ("Hi, I'm Mr. Peeping Tom, look at me!") every time he tried to sleep. Unsuccessfully, might he add. It wasn't exactly comfortable in the chair with his wrists and ankles still tied up. He always lost feeling in his hands after a few minutes returning from the bathroom, and there wasn't enough wiggle room to even move his legs a little, so he couldn't exactly feel those either.

After an indeterminable time had passed, his door slid open fully, revealing the grim face of "General Ross". He walked forward a step then waved at one of the men flanking him.

"Take off the tape," "General Ross" ordered him, and he dutifully removed the duct tape from Harley's mouth with a swift yank. He hissed at the pain.

"What now? Want me to explain the mysteries of the universe? That one on your upper lip is––"

The punch to his face wasn't as unexpected as it probably should have been. He groaned weakly and tried to straighten up, the corner of the chair digging into his shoulder painfully. Another blow knocked him right back down. Blinking rapidly against the black dots in his vision, he moved his jaw back and forth to help with the pain. Punches to the face weren't new to Harley, who faced bullies daily at school. That's all that this guy was: an overgrown bully.

"Are you going to answer my questions now, boy?"

Nope.

Somehow these guys were immune to his puppy-dog eyes, solidifying Harley's belief that they were pure evil.

"General Ross" glared. "I didn't want to have to do this," he said gruffly, mustache twitching irritably. Harley panicked, thinking that he'd just signed his family's Death Certificate, but the older man turned around and gave the camera an insincere smile.

"Hello, Mr. Stark," he greeted. "I have a friends of yours. Actually, I'd say that he was your son, if I didn't know any better. He's proven...quite resistant to get answers from. Which is why I'm going to be sending this video straight to Ms. Pepper Potts, who will watch and then make you watch, and I will expect a response––"

"Tony, don't, I'm fine––" Harley yelled. "Don't find me, I can handle this! Don't––"