Sweat: An Iron Man story by the Biker Chapter 1: Adrenaline
I'm sweating and hyperventilating under the helmet. The hyperventilation is just another redundant after-effect of Extremis, the extremely powerful drug that sees the function of your body as incorrect and makes, so to speak, a completely new blueprint. Once the subject is injected, there's no way out. Someone axes the Exit sign. When I got injected, it was the most agonizing thing I've ever felt and believe me, it has a lot of competitors. Well, it does reinvent your body I suppose. I had it injected cos this guy, Mallen, got sky high on the stuff and my armour (even upgraded at its fullest) couldn't react fast enough. The dose was specific; I wanted to be my armour, like it was a second skin.
When it was done, I could even communicate with other people by thought. I could push pieces of my armour from different angles to gravitate towards me. I could put a stop to Mallen. And I did, but the professor who invented Extremis, ex friend Maya Hansen, a doc at Futurepharm, got jailed. Too bad, even though she kept bringing up my weapons department that I'm trying desperately to put behind me. Life isn't fair.
At the moment I'm working on my speed and flight accuracy, not that I need to. I feel the heat of my boots through the dozen layers of safety materials and insulation on my sole. I wish this suit had adjustable heat settings; I'll be an Iron Man fry by the end of today. I take a steep dive, at least five inches away from the glass wall of the Chrysler Building, and smile at my burnished reflection. Hey good lookin' I think abstractedly. How you doin'?
Not much my other half replies, I just have a really disastrous love life. I sigh, and realize that I'm ten feet from the ground. I pull my fists up and the rest of me follows, my foot glancing off the ground. Too close. I need to be more careful. If I wasn't dosed up on Extremis I would've been halfway to China by now. Instead I'm rising steadily from tarmac level, avoiding gleaming yellow taxis. I can't be so cocky. Snap out of it. Maybe Extremis…? No, it couldn't be that. I had always had a cocky streak. Suddenly I'm spinning wildly out of control, mind and body. Something had hit me in the face with a loud clang, and I had lost my bearings completely. "Jarvis!" I gasp. I clear my throat and push the panic out of my system; something that had taken me years to master with the help of Steve Rogers.
"Jarvis," I say again in a calm, clear voice. "Yes, sir," the computer drones. "Horizon lock," I shout. "Now!" Wait a sec. Why am I asking my computer? I mentally control every inch of this armour, each function waiting somewhere in my subconscious like files in a filing cabinet; waiting to be rooted through. "Wait," I say, half to Jarvis, half to myself. I search my mental filing cabinet for that one function. It sticks out like a sore thumb, as if my need of it is making it glow contentedly. I open it, and it engages horizon lock.
Six white lines flash across the blue screen, disappearing every time I roll in the air a different way. When I tumble in the direction I want, it takes but a moment to kick start my jet boots into overdrive. I swear, this time I feel the flames burning the sole again. "YEEEEEEEEEE-HAAAAAAWW!" I scream at the top of my voice as I shoot past dazed onlookers. Let them onlook. I'm king of the world, Jesus in metal form. I eventually land on a roof somewhere and pull my helmet off. The cracks in the polystyrene tug at my hair as I do. The inside is so dark and gloomy, and when I look at the glimmering red and gold exterior I can't believe that was what I was wearing. I gasp. On the left cheek of the helmet was a jumble of numbers, faint as they were, imprinted it. I looked at my left fist. The jumble of numbers matched. I frowned. I couldn't have hit myself in the face, could I?
To be continued………………..