A/N: Gasp! A story! Yes, it's a one-shot, but it's still something. Please review- it motivates me to actually post stuff.
In other words, I had a really random idea, wrote it, and destroyed the timeline of basically everything for it. Welcome to the restart of my little one-shot kingdom.
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1876
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He starts out as James Howlett.
No one wants to begin their epic as a kid, that's for sure, but it happens somehow. He doesn't even know about the shitload known as destiny that's going to dive straight into his path- or at least not yet.
When he's fourteen and sickly, he gets fucking bone claws. Real claws that rip and tear at his skin when then cone out, lightly yellowing as the protective layer of something is sadistically soothed by the air for the first time. Blood drops to the floor from between his knuckles and before he knows it, he's spearing one of the men he considered a father.
He runs away with Victor after that. Joins the army, gets involved with the fucking government, is betrayed by Victor, becomes one fucked up mess- the sob story of any possible hero, right?
Then his head gets blown off by a motherfucking missile with an S etched on it.
He's one hundred two the first time he dies, even if he only appears to be twenty four.
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1978
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The second chapter of his story starts out as fucked up as the first. He's the son of some fancy scientist this time- who dies in a plane crash. It was all his father's fault for meddling in medics ahead of his time- not his own little four-year-old, war scarred brain's fault. No one's to blame except the dead man.
He grows up with his aunt and uncle this time. Fate's not so cruel as to give him a screwed up brother with a lust for revenge for the second time- it's somewhat of a relief.
Life goes on and he's dubbed a smart little cookie. He's safe this time; isn't it only what he deserves after living through his last little adventure of a literal lifetime?
Destiny, however, has different plans and intervenes when he's sixteen- later then last time, but it still happens. It's the entire fault of one little fucking spider and a man immersed in the world of genetics. It wasn't all sunshine and rainbows this time this time either; nightmares plague him all night and half threaten to rip him apart.
Then his Uncle dies because of some fucked up man's money craze. In result, his teenager portion of mind chants at him to become a superhero.
It works out pretty fucking smoothly until the Octopus faggot deems it nice to put an arm through his side.
He was only two days away from his eighteenth birthday too.
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1995
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Third time's the charm, right?
That's all he can think as he takes a new breath in a new body.
Surprisingly, he doesn't have to start out from the beginning here; thank whatever god's actually looking out for him at this point for small mercies. He's also a billionaire's son and future owner of a Fortune 500 company, so more kudos to said god- multiply that by one hundred when his parents combust in a car accident.
It might seem insensitive of him to think this, but there's fleshed out reasoning behind it. He doesn't want to get attached; he doesn't want to deal with the shitload of emotions that have hit him thousands of times over. He just wants to have the entire fucking world under his fingertips without a second thought- and no, he doesn't have an explanation for it.
Then Afghanistan happens.
What he wouldn't give for his healing abilities at the moment where a metal cylinder is being inserted into his chest. Hell, even having the 'Spider' portion of his life's abilities would have been worth something. But he doesn't have either.
Iron Man and other related shit rolls in. He's find with that- ain't too much of a problem compared to what he's gone through so far.
Extremis?
He's got to admit that one's new; his lack of creativity is failing him as more and more crape piles up in this life.
He swears, SHIELD is out to get his ass for the shit he's pulled while in the Avengers- and beforehand.
He lives a long life after retiring from the whole superhero boy band- over a good two hundred years, thanks to Extremis. He knows that this life's his last though- somehow he knows; he isn't sure how. So for once, he decides to relax and not die in the field.
In his later years as 'Tony'- over the one twenty milestone, he can give up that world conquering dream as well as that impersonal facade- he realizes fate's capacity of irony can never be judged. That fucking Stark label tended it the first time and now he's the owner of it.
He's finally dead at three hundred forty because the Extremis
program falters for a second. That's all it takes- a second to kill him.
At least he's able to die happy this time.