A/N: Hi guys! Clint and Natasha are introduced in this chapter. Please R&R! I'll update more often now, I'll try to, at least, since it's the hols and all.

Tony was floating.

He felt incredibly light, as if someone had just removed the effects of gravity with a snap of their fingers or had done something to disrupt the gravitational field strength of the Earth. He was still on Earth, right? It was like he was lying on a bed of fluffy things. Clouds, maybe. He'd been on his father's jet a couple of times before he turned three, and he'd always asked his father if he could open the window for a teensy little while to stretch out his hand and grab a fistful of clouds because damn they looked so terribly fluffy. Of course Howard had always said no, otherwise the 'nice airline stewardess' wouldn't give him dessert.

I must be dreaming, he thought, because he only saw white. White, billowy clouds. Yeah, maybe he was floating on a mattress of clouds after all. The sensation was so incredibly comfortable, as if he could fly or something. He couldn't move his limbs, though, much less any other part of his body. Not that he wanted to. This was such a wonderful feeling, the way the clouds were enveloping his body, caressing his skin. Just like one of those spas his mother would always bring him to, except this was much better.

Tony exhaled, content. He never wanted to get up. The last day of school had been yesterday, right? That day when he went to that stupid field trip because Rhodey had persuaded – forced, more like – him to go? Yeah, that meant he had nothing to do for the rest of the day, no classes and none of that school shit, so he could stay up here as long as he pleased, without Pepper or Rhodey or heaven forbid, Phil, calling him at ungodly hours in the morning and telling him to wake the fuck up because there's school today, in case you forgot Tony, it's seven in the morning.

Where was he anyway? In some day spa, perhaps. Pep brought me here. As a treat for being such a good boy during the museum trip. Yeah, that had to be it. He deserved it, anyway, after enduring through the tour guide's terrible droning about some weird Chinese king. Whatever. He couldn't even remember half of what that dull tour guide had been talking about yesterday. He was too busy ribbing Rhodey, and occasionally Phil. And then there had been lots of running, which he didn't like, not one bit, because even though Tony Stark had a hot body (it was the truth), he was rather lazy.

Running?

There had been running.

Running from what? Tony frowned, shaking his head to try and clear the clouds, even though the action hurt his neck. What had he been running from? His mind was obviously telling him that he needed to remember what had happened because it was important, but as it was he couldn't even recall the theory of relativity right now.

Ow, my head.

Blinking rapidly, his vision blurred, and then automatically corrected itself to reveal a series of royal purple foam tiles. They were moving slowly, though, as if he was staring at a conveyor belt – like the one at the sushi place that Pep always brought him to, and how there would be little plates of sushi lined up neatly. Tony could wolf down thirty plates at one go, because the servings were so freaking tiny.

This didn't look like the sushi place. This didn't look like a spa, either. (What kind of spa would have purple foam tiles? Blue was a much more relaxing colour, duh.) So if he wasn't staring at some sort of conveyor belt, then he was staring at a floor, perhaps. He couldn't really process information properly at this point in time. His head hurt so much, like that time when he'd accidentally downed half a glass of his dad's vodka when he was twelve, thinking that it was white wine. His head had hurt for months to come.

If those foam thingies weren't moving, then he was, and that meant that someone was carrying him, the logical part of his brain deduced. Why would anybody be carrying him? He didn't need to be carried, he was fourteen-years old for goodness sake, not a baby any longer. Perhaps it was his dad. Perhaps he'd fallen asleep on his sofa after watching the second season of Sherlock on BBC and yelling at the television screen for John to just fucking kiss Sherlock already, and his dad had decided to be kind for once and had carried Tony to his room instead of letting him snooze on the couch.

Nah, that was impossible.

It didn't seem like he was going to find out where he was, anyway, because his head and neck would send him simultaneous bursts of pain to his poor, addled brain every time he tried to turn his head slightly. His mouth wasn't cooperating, either. His tongue felt thick and swollen, and Tony was pretty sure whatever he said was going to come out garbled anyway.

What did he do to deserve such a hangover? He was pretty sure it was a hangover, because nothing else could give him such a migraine. He needed to clear his head. If Tony Stark's brain was not fully functional, then he was in danger, because his genius was his weapon, just like what his parents had told him many times. He'd speculated enough about his whereabouts – now was the time to actually find out where the hell he was and whether or not Rhodey was involved in giving him this horrible headache (because if Rhodey was indeed behind all this, he'd kill him.)

His body jerked, and for a moment Tony thought he was actually going into convulsions, when the logical part of his mind told him that he'd bumped something, and he was actually being dragged on the ground – which explained the swishy sounds near his ears and the feel of friction on his back – and two people were currently gripping his legs and they were moving.

What?

Tony paused, and then lifted his neck up slightly. Encouraged when his muscles didn't send twinges of dreadful pain to his central nervous system, he continued easing his neck upward till he could just see two backs, clothed in black, each holding a leg none too gently and walking briskly down the purple corridor.

Something bubbled up in his lungs, and then he had to cough. It started as soft, choking coughs before they progressed to violent hacking, lifting a hand weakly and curling it into a fist to thump at his solar plexus, trying to get whatever was in his system out. His throat and trachea were burning. Possibly inflamed, then. He hadn't been smoking, had he? His extensive memory could not provide him with a single moment where he had even touched a cigarette, so, nope not smoking. Something else then. Maybe he'd eaten too much junk food – possible explanation for his throat, but not his trachea. Food didn't go down the trachea. So no again, then.

The two blokes dragging him hadn't even bothered to turn around to check on him when he'd started coughing. So…not friendly, perhaps. What, had they kidnapped him or something? Oddly enough, he didn't feel panicked. Despite his father's constant appearances in the newspapers, Tony hadn't been featured in any news article so far – Howard had done a good job to keep his family members out of the limelight, to mitigate possible threats like harassment and kidnapping (well, obviously it didn't work since he was currently in hostile territory.)

Perhaps these goons had no idea that he was Tony Stark. Perhaps they'd kidnapped him, some random guy on the streets of New York, for…oh, heck, he didn't know. His brain couldn't even conjure up coherent thoughts right now – oh, shit.

The fog. Lots of fog. The weird stone thingy, on display at the museum. Ribbing Rhodey and Phil, being threatened with Pepper's stilettos. Reading the description engraved on the slab, being able to comprehend the weird writing even though Rhodey did not. Being knocked out by the fog. The fog was the last thing he could remember, anyway, so he could safely conclude that it must have been some sort of chemical similar to chloroform (though it did not smell sweet in the slightest) to knock him out for so long. Ah, yes, there was also a vague memory tucked away in his mind, something about him fumbling for his phone and managing to call Rhodey.

Phone.

Clumsy fingers danced around his pockets, feeling for the telltale bulge that would be his Starkphone – though his efforts were fruitless. Those two goons must have frisked him and found his phone. Hopefully, like any other pair of guards in the movies he always watched, they would be buffoons and he would be able to trick them and escape.

Squinting at their backs, he managed to make out the wiry, slim frame of a girl on his right. Her leather suit clung to her body, a perfect fit for her size, and auburn curls – they looked more brownish under the dim light – bobbed slightly whenever she moved. Clearly fit, because she maintained a surprisingly bruising grip on Tony's ankle and he could see half of a holster on the right thigh. An assassin of some sort, then. And her companion. A guy, dressed in a suit made of the same type of leather, though probably of a different design, whole body well-padded in muscle. A collapsible bow slung over his shoulder – nice, Tony had handled a few before in his father's archery range, although this guy's bow didn't look anywhere near as good as the ones he owned. Both his captors were about his age, though, judging from their heights and stature. Not even at their prime teenage years yet and they were already involved in delinquent acts like kidnapping? Tony rolled his eyes. He could talk to them, convince them to release him. How hard could it be?

They halted at the same time, the jerk seizing Tony's attention, and in a single, coordinated move, both lugs had thrown him forward with only one hand each, Tony crashing to the floor in a manner most ungracious. The impact to his head was hard enough to potentially concuss – and he groaned softly, shifting his hands and moving to his knees to try and regain his bearings.

Finally mustering the energy to move his body so that he was sitting up and facing his captors, palms on the floor and his weight rested through his hands to maintain his upright position, he gave them the once-over. The girl was Russian, huh, and attractive, too, in the terrifying sort of way. Under the brighter light of the well-lit cell that he'd just been thrown into, he could see now that her curls were not just auburn, they were the exact same colour of the leaves in autumn. Her mouth was set in a grim line, lipstick carefully applied to her lips, deep green eyes staring back at his, as if she was staring into his very soul. And her friend, a handsome golden-haired boy with calmer sea-green pupils. More than likely American.

"Wanna tell me what I'm doing here?" It was supposed to be a nonchalant tone, but his voice was an octave higher than it usually was. If these guys were trained, and they probably were, despite their youth (Tony had learned not to misjudge people no matter how young or old they were) then he'd probably given away the fact that he was feeling slightly worried about the whole situation.

The girl continued glaring at him for another five seconds before averting her eyes and stalking off, her stilettos clacking each time they struck the marble tiling. (They were at least three inches higher than any of Pepper's heels.) Her companion shot him an apologetic glance before trailing behind her, closing the maroon door behind him. Tony heard the metallic clicks of the automatic locks engaging.

No, these two were definitely not the masterminds behind his kidnapping. They were henchmen, of a sort. Tasked to bring him from the museum to this cell…uh, room. He hadn't even come close to meeting his true captor yet.

Sighing softly, he tilted his head to each side, hearing the satisfying cracks of gas bubbles popping before attempting to stand up to examine his new surroundings. A room, probably about twenty metres long and fifteen metres wide, enclosing him within with four tall walls, each adorned with at least two framed portraits as well as a birch bookshelf across each length. The wall opposite him had a grand fireplace built in (exactly like the one at home, Tony was beginning to think his captors must be some sort of secret architects) and a large, comfy-looking cushioned sofa. And in the middle of the room, a long mahogany table that could easily seat Tony's whole family, extended and immediate. Right beside his door was a four-poster bed, with at least fifteen monogrammed silk cushions, and a stuffed polar bear tucked into the sheets.

His captors had style, he'd give them that. This room was bigger than Tony's bedroom, and almost as large as his lab.

Speaking of his lab, the best part of the room was built into one of the surrounding walls. A large alcove had been installed, providing him with a small white marble lab bench, a wooden lab stool, and there were three shelves holding every single tool Tony had ever held in his hands within his short fourteen years of existence. Wielding torch. Wrench. Fifteen different types of screwdrivers. A whole box full of screws. Chainsaw. A fire extinguisher. Some pieces of scrap metal littered here and there. And under the bench, two boxes filled with metal parts.

This wasn't captivity, this was heaven.

Crossing over to one of the bookshelves, Tony noted the titles displayed. Perhaps this would give him an indication of what his captor actually liked. Making deductions now, all those hours of watching Sherlock on BBC haven't gone to waste then, Stark. There were a myriad of genres on the wooden shelves, and they had to have been read often, seeing as there wasn't a speck of dust on the books. Star Wars, Alice in Wonderland, the whole series of the Encyclopedia Britannica, World of Warcraft, Journey to the Centre of the Earth, Mechanics for Dummies.

Okay, he was not going to be able to deduce anything from that.

"Someone who cares a great deal about comfort." Yes, that was it. No kidnapper who wanted to ransom a child would bother so much about the details of the prison cell holding the victim. Whoever this was wanted Tony to do something for him. His main talents were in mechanics – building and calibrating stuff – so perhaps whoever this was wanted him to build something for them.

What he could do now was wait. He would wait till whoever he was that captured him showed up, and then he would demand to head home, otherwise Howard would get angry, and then he would be out of here in no time. Yes, that would be it. For the moment, though, he could do nothing else but sit himself down on the sofa and try not to doze off.

"We did as you requested," the girl with the auburn curls stated bluntly, folding her arms and fixing her signature glare on the man seated before her, grinning smugly. "Delivered him all the way from the museum to the headquarters, with no witnesses. Our part of the deal is done – so we want what we've bargained for, now."

She had to clench her fists, her nails digging into her pale skin, to prevent herself from ripping out the man's throat in anger and frustration. This guy, who'd had her in his service for eleven years as an assassin, someone trained to do dirty jobs. Even though he was dressed immaculately, complete with a designer black suit and tie, gold watch on left wrist, manicured nails and styled hair, she would always think of him as lower than the scum of the earth.

This man, who she would kill on sight if she could. This man, the only person that she could not slaughter, unlike millions of others that she had before.

She could see Clint beside her in her peripheral vision, his back straight and his left arm at his side, hand also balled into a fist. His right arm was resting on his bow, a comforting weight slung across his shoulder, as if to serve as a reminder that he could always take it off and shoot this man in the face with it. He couldn't, of course, but both of them could always enjoy imagining what it would be like to kill the idiot in front of them.

The man in front of them was dangerous, of course, far more dangerous than both of them combined – not because of his ability to fight. No, she could easily beat him in a hand wrestling match in a heartbeat. He was dangerous because of the organization behind him. Because of the organization that both of them had been forced to be a part of. Honestly, she would rather shoot herself in the foot and jump off into the Pacific rather than work for him, but she had no choice.

Neither of them had a choice, not when lives of people they loved were at stake.

"No witnesses?" The man – no, the scum – steepled his fingers, settling back into his comfortable chair, raising an eyebrow. "Are you absolutely certain, Miss Romanoff?"

"I am. I covered our tracks myself. Uphold your end of the deal, Obadiah." The man remained perfectly unmoved by her glare – and she had made full-grown men cry before just by glaring at them. Of course, he had nothing to fear. She would not dare put even a toe out of line, not when he held precious lives at stake.

"If I recall," he smirked, "our deal was that I would promise to try a friendly approach with our latest addition, as well as allow both of you brief contact with your families, only if nobody ever noticed that the boy was kidnapped."

"We know what we promised," Clint growled beside her. "No witnesses. There were none."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that." Obadiah reached into Clint's suit pocket, extracting the Starkphone that had been found on their prisoner, and plugging a spherical device into the charging port to allow them to bypass the fourteen numbered password that the boy had set on the phone. "Sure, nobody saw you. That doesn't mean nobody knows that something's up." When the light on the sphere had flickered from red to green, Obadiah unplugged it, tossing the phone to Clint, who caught it expertly with one hand. "Why don't you check the call history?"

Clint frowned, hesitating for a moment before selecting the call app. The most recent outgoing call was to a 'James Rhodes', timed at five-thirty three. A green icon near the name told the archer that the call had been received.

"I watched the tapes myself, Mister Barton. You only began to administer the gas at five-twenty nine. The prisoner realized that something was wrong only at five-thirty. He took out his phone, fumbled for a bit, before he gathered his bearings and called his friend. His friend picked up. This James Rhodes knows that something is wrong. He could have called the police by now, Miss Romanoff, Mister Barton. The police could be scouring the museum as we speak."

"But?" Natasha knew there was something else.

"We got lucky. The prisoner got knocked unconscious by our special substance before he could get a word out. This James Rhodes believes that the call was just due to bad connection. I had the techies send a fake text to him, to make sure he wouldn't get suspicious for another twenty-four hours, at least."

"Then no harm has been done," Clint snapped, "and we'll be more careful next time. Now, our end of the bargain, please."

"I'm afraid not," Obadiah took the phone from him, throwing it into a drawer and closing it, turning the lock. "You have not fulfilled the agreement. I cannot allow you contact with your families. I will, however, take up your suggestion on using different tactics with our latest addition, though if that fails, I shall send him straight to the interrogation department. If he refuses to spill anything, though, one of you will be sent to talk to him and give him his choices. If he chooses the chemical labs, then the chemical labs it shall be. You know the usual protocol for newcomers. We've had four of them already."

"You disgust me," Natasha breathed, nostrils flaring and mouth set in a feral snarl.

"Tell me something I do not already know," Obadiah leaned forward, still smirking, far enough for Natasha to catch a whiff of his expensive cologne. "It would do you a world of good to remember your place, Miss Romanoff, Mister Barton. I can and will execute my threats if the two of you dare try anything."

Sensing that he had nothing more to say, and knowing that if the both of them stayed any longer in the same room as Obadiah they might say something that they would regret sooner or later, Clint herded Natasha out, keeping a firm grip on her wrist and elbow. He had enough experience with Angry Natasha to know that if anyone was in the same room as her when she was having her bouts of anger – except for himself, of course – there was a high possibility that nobody would leave the room without at least fifteen broken bones and five compound fractures.

"Hey, hey," he murmured to her, once they were out of Obadiah's hearing range, safely nestled in the air vents – the only place where there were no cameras or bugs in the whole headquarters. "Calm down, Nat."

"I have fifty different types of knives with his name engraved on the handles," Natasha snarled. "He's taken our childhood away from us and now he denies us the right to see our families."

"I know," Clint's tone was hushed. "I know. But at least it's not a complete failure. He did agree to try new tactics with this new guy. Hopefully more humane tactics that he used previously, with the other four guys."

"That's it," Natasha snapped. "Don't you see? He's been after something. A weapon of some sort, most likely. He's kidnapped four kids just to find out the location of this secret weapon. He's tortured four kids just to find out the location of this weapon. And now he's got a fifth kid. Whatever this weapon is, it has to be really powerful if none of the kids he's tortured so far is willing to tell him where it is. He's keeping us in the dark about all of this because he knows we'd never agree to it, and that we would do anything and everything to stop him even though we know that he could eliminate every single one of our family members."

Clint frowned. "You're certain."

"I know I'm right. All the kids he's had us kidnap for the past year have all been kidnapped in the same museum, in the exact same hall, and all of them have been looking at the exact same artifact. If we're going to find out what it really is that he's after, we're going to have to visit this museum and take a look for ourselves."

Blinking slowly, blearily, Tony groaned softly, waving his arm in a pathetic attempt to bat at the hand placed on his shoulder – a gesture that demanded him to wake up. He must've slept so late Rhodey had personally come to wake him up himself. Not that Rhodey could ever get him to wake up, of course. Rhodey had tried, once. He had gotten kicked off the bed and towards the door and had nearly tumbled down four flights of stairs in the rotunda had he not grabbed the banister in time.

And then it came back to him – this was not his house, and the hand on his shoulder did not belong to Rhodey, and there had been these kids dragging him down a hallway and throwing him into a room that looked like it belonged to someone in the royal family in Britain – well, except for the small lab built into the alcove. And something about books, of course. The only book title he could remember was Star Wars – Death Troopers, but hey, there had been books.

Now fully awake, Tony sat up immediately, alert of the presence of another in the same room as he. A man sat beside him – not the blond-haired teen he'd seen earlier, in fact much older – slightly overweight, but damn well-dressed in a tailored designer suit, pants and tie, hanky halfway tucked into a vest pocket, a pen that must have cost more than his whole outfit clipped to his shirt. A businessman of some sort, Tony supposed. Maybe he knew that Tony was Howard's son and wanted him to reveal Stark Industries' secrets. Well, he wasn't going to be successful with that. Tony wasn't just going to blab about his father's billion-dollar plans and gadgets-in-development to some weirdo in a suit. He wasn't like other rich brats – he wouldn't spill anything to anybody even if he was beaten to within an inch of his life.

The man did look familiar, though.

"Good morning," said the man, his strong cologne making Tony want to retch. What was he doing, trying to wrangle answers out of Tony using death-by-perfume? If that was his ulterior motive, he was succeeding. Tony could withstand being hit physically, but his nose was especially sensitive, and he really needed to sneeze, right now. Oh, god, did this guy even know how to use cologne? He was supposed to spray just a little on himself, not bathe in it.

"What do you want from me?" Tony asked bluntly, trying very hard not to think about the smell, one hand reaching behind his back where this man couldn't see and curling his fingers into the soft material of the cushions. He was starting to get a little worried about the whole situation. He'd never been kidnapped before – and even though Howard had done his best to keep Tony out of the way of the public eye, his father had still thought it fit to give him a briefing about what to do should he ever get kidnapped.

Pity he was daydreaming throughout that lecture.

"I was just about to get to that, actually," the man stood up, perambulating away from the sofa and toward the fireplace, back facing Tony, watching the flames dance eagerly, consuming the logs. Someone must have come in and lit it while Tony was sleeping like a pig on the sofa. "You have a gift, my lad. A gift I need."

"Nobody's given me presents since last Christmas, if that's what you're getting at," Tony mouthed off. He definitely wasn't going to make this easy. Don't tell him anything. "I don't even know you."

The man paused, glancing at the poker leaning upright against the wall, just beside the fireplace, almost wistful, as if he was briefly contemplating whether or not he should just knock Tony out with it. "Stane," he said at last, and Tony frowned. Yes, that was indeed very familiar. "You can call me Stane."

"Tony," he said automatically. Ah, what did it matter? As long as he didn't know his full name, he wasn't in that much trouble.

"Well, Tony," Stane grinned condescendingly. "As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted, you have a gift that I need. One of the only few in this world who have this special ability, as a matter of fact."

Tony kept silent, willing him to continue.

"Remember the slab at the museum?"

Oh, fuck it. The weird codes engraved on the stone, something about an ultimate weapon capable of mass destruction called the Aether. He had been wondering whether or not to actually take it seriously, but if someone had kidnapped him because of it? It was definitely real. Tony squeezed the cushions. Nope, he was definitely not in a dream. This was getting weirder and weirder by the minute. Yesterday, he would have gladly scoffed at the idea of something like magic. Today, though? He was starting to have his doubts.

"I have no idea what you –"

"Please, Tony. Don't take me for an idiot." Stane glanced at one of the numerous wall portraits, moving to examine it. "I watched the tapes myself. You stood in front of the exhibit for nearly twenty minutes. Obviously, that would mean that you can actually understand the code chiseled into the stone. Any old museum guest wouldn't even cast a glance at it."

We have another Sherlock fan here, it seems. "And you can't read the glyphs?"

"No, I can't," Stane admitted with little hesitance, clasping his hands together behind his back. "I need you to do it for me. I wouldn't have brought you all the way here otherwise. We're nearly two hundred meters underground, you know."

"So what makes you think I'm just going to do it for you?" Tony crossed his arms, leaning back into the sofa. "You did just knock me out and kidnap me, and two of your goons just dragged me down the hallway like I was a garbage bag to be taken out."

"I'll tell you what happens when I don't get what I want."

"Ooh, threats now, is it? Go on, I actually wanna hear this." What was it again? The warning on the stone thingy? People who want the Aether must want it for all the wrong reasons – something 'bout greed and evil and all that jazz. Clearly, whoever had written that code thousands of years ago had intended to warn those who could understand it, to tell them not to reveal anything about it – it had to be so dangerous it was capable of causing the deaths of millions.

Yesterday, I was having a discussion with JARVIS about making strawberry jam. Today, I'm involved in a potential threat to the world. Fuck my life.

Stane chuckled. "I'll introduce you to my interrogation team. They're extremely efficient, if I do have to say so myself. They use tools, too, like you, since you're a mechanic of some sort, aren't you? Tony Stark?"

What the hell. He knows.

Tony didn't say anything.

"I knew who you were the moment I watched the tapes. Your father does a good job of keeping his family away from the prying eye of the media, I'll give him that. Well done. If I were just any old person off the streets I wouldn't know who you were." He paused, smiling to himself, looking away for a moment before turning back and leaning in closer, invading Tony's space.

"Fortunately, I am not any old person. I know things. I've seen you before. Your father had a meeting with some of his board directors, and invited you to give a lecture on Stark Industries' latest smartphone. I happened to be...listening in."

"You mean spying."

"I do feel the need to keep constant tabs on everybody, Stark. Especially the upper classes."

"If you're thinking of ransoming me-"

"Ransom? Absolutely childish. I have my eye on things bigger than money. After all, I make millions every day." Stane gestured to the room. "You would know. Anyway, like I was saying, tools. A lot different than your inventor's tools, though. Tools of torture. I'm sure you wouldn't want to experience that." A pause, and when no response came from Tony, he continued. "And even if you still refuse to tell us what secrets the stone holds, then we'll send you to the chemical labs."

"How terrifying," Tony deadpanned.

"It's not something you'd ever want to go through," Stane affirmed. "Now – you have your choices. Either you tell me everything I want to know, and I'll let you go, or I send you to my interrogation team."

I'd rather not stay alive to see the complete destruction if I ever did tell you where the Aether is, Tony thought, and shook his head once. "It's a hard decision, Stane," he managed to sound sarcastic without smiling, "but I think I'll take the second one."

Almost immediately after the words left his mouth, four strong hands clamped down on him, two per arm, in crushing vice-grips. Tony grunted, looking up, and there, another two burly men dressed in identical silk suits. Neither of them were the two teens he'd seen earlier, though – though he was still curious as to why Stane would ever employ teenagers to help him in his dirty work – and they were a lot less intimidating than the red-haired Russian girl he'd seen. That was a tiny consolation, if anything.

"As you wish," Stane nodded, waving a dismissive hand to the two men. Tony felt a handkerchief covering his nose, and the sweet smell of chloroform hit him almost immediately before he was out cold again.

Just his luck.

A/N: So Clint and Natasha are both working for Stane, if any of you are confused. (I'll develop more on the whys and hows later.) In the next chapter, Tony whump! :D Yay, the part we've all been waiting for. Oh, yes, and Tony also meets Steve in the next chapter. Sorry if any of them seem a little OOC (okay fine, a lot OOC). Stony ftw! XD

UPDATE: As of 12 February 2014, I've updated this page. Read through to see if you can find what changed ;)