IRON MAN 32: HOME FOR THE HOLOCAUST
Part Seven of an Iron Man Fan fiction Saga
By Neil Iron Nitz Kapit
Special Thanks to Zach Couture, Steve Sellers, Pam Williams, James Tonn, and Andrew Luigi Dean

Among all of my contacts within my entire adult life, Anthony Edward Stark has proven to be one of the most paranoid and frightened individuals I have ever met.

Stark is not frightened in the conventional, physical sense American culture considers as cowardice; I know that the man could stare the Devil in the eye without flinching, and has actually done so on occasion. But Tony suffers an almost crippling fear of intimacy. He relates better to machines than people; he has few friends, and most of his relationships have ended painfully. Even those Tony considers friends, he hides much from at best, and treats like disposable commodities at worst. He rationalizes it all by the *importance of his superhero identity, Iron Man. While I cannot deny Iron Man's contributions to the world, it is Tony Stark who has the greatest potential for excellence; and it is Tony Stark who is neglected.

But the recent events Stark has had to endure, from what I have heard thus far, seem to have been a wake-up call for him. Tony appears to know now that for his sake, and the world's, he needs to become a more balanced, less obsessive person. All that remains to be seen now is whether he will follow through towards self-betterment or regress to his old ways once more.

Interesting things you've written, Doctor.

Doctor Leonard Samson looked up from his desk, showing a startled expression behind his thin reading glasses. His decidedly disturbed client, Anthony Stark, had arrived early to the makeshift office where their sessions took place. And he had, it seemed, read Samson's notes early. Even though Stark was ten feet away from Samson's desk, standing in the doorway with nothing on his
hands except skin.

And how would you know what interesting things those might be?

Stark gently parted his eyelids with the fingers of his right hand and then withdrew them from his eye, holding between his fingers a small, blue disc the size and shape of a contact lens.
Microscopic, thought-controlled camera probes. Transmits high-resolution images to my eye-piece over small distances. Invented and exclusively used by me for surveillance.

Samson held his fist near his mouth, and stared directly at Stark, squinting a bit. How long have you been here, Tony?

About 4 minutes. Maybe 4 and a half.

And as the cliché goes, old habits die hard.

Light enters the atmosphere at this interval in the solar cycle, *and is distorted by various interactions to create a unique display of effects interpreted as colors. Though the phenomenon is routine to every 24 hour period, it is never the same, and the patterns and variations of colors differ every day. To many humans, the daily is a phenomenon they consider , and they sacrifice their productive roles in society in order to create text or objects with similar amounts of . But... why? What tangible qualities does a mere atmospheric effect hold?

It is beauty, you filthy excuse for a toaster. It's just a daily atmospheric effect, but to human eyes, it's a kaleidoscopic display of brilliance. It always changes, from morning to morning, and never remains stagnant or safe. The sunrise always shows me the potential the universe has to create. It awakens a new day with an incredible visual burst, and shows me that there is no limit, not even so much the laws of science, to what can be accomplished.

Of course, with all the people you've turned against me, this may well be my last sunrise, damn it.

A new morning, a new day, a new set of challenges. Of course, at that time, I was still safe inside my little iron bubble. My surroundings were being kept at perfect, unchanging room temperature, my body was being fed by flavorless IV fluid, *and my AI, Jocasta, was there to keep me company, albeit not of her own free will. But despite my current situation, I felt far, far less than safe. I was stuck here in this chamber, with my only outside contacts being X2 and its monitor screens. And if X2 were to leave, I would be vulnerable to any enemy.

And I did have many enemies. Thanks to X2, hundreds were dead of repulsor wounds, and Iron Man was Public Enemy #1. Which made Tony Stark, Iron Man's employer, a close second. X2 had already tracked a fleet of SHIELD-issued armored Mandroid troops headed for my home: three dozen men and women in their own armors, plus fifty Special Forces troops with specialized equipment, and a image (that) even my armor's sensory web could not identify. All of them were converging on Stark House, and I was helpless to defend myself. X2, of course, was content to sit back and watch the (sunrise) at high-quality resolution and wait.

X2 didn't even remotely resemble Iron Man now as I looked at it through the thick glass. Following the damage King T'Challa and his followers did to it, it had rebuilt itself using its own design parameters. Which meant that any vestige of humanity left in it, visually at least, was purged. The brilliant reds and golds I adapted from Arthurian armor designs were now a deep jet black, and the damaged gauntlets, meant to be thin metal-plated coverings for a human hand, were reconfigured into thick, three-fingered claws with adamantium-tipped nails. The backplate was especially disconcerting—X2 had placed on it two guns from the War Machine armor, which had in the recent past been used against me. Even more chillingly, X2's faceplate, which at least had two human eye holes and one mouthpiece earlier, was completely blank except for a thin red slit
where the eye holes had been before. Its metal —except for the boots, which locked to the floor like magnets—was completely still and appeared to be relaxed, almost limp. But it was fully alert, tapped into every last transistor inside my no-longer-humble homestead.

You need not worry, Anthony Stark. The automatic turrets have been reconfigured to handle everything less durable than adamantium alloy. The halls of the mansion have been equipped with seventy-five Vanko VI shock-security drones. And several more counter-measures have been installed within the deeper corridors of my laboratory. And you are hidden in a cell far away from any potentially prying eyes. You are safe.

But if Anthony Stark is so safe, Model X2, then why have you taken the greatest chance of all?

Another disembodied voice projected into speakers right next to my ears. This was a more pleasurable one, that of Jocasta. She had been quiet for so long, but now she wasspeaking out. However, I was more than a little perturbed by the suddenness of her speech.

If you had known anything about human nature, you would understand that you and Stark are linked circumstantially, and that to the American legal system, Stark is suspect. If you fail to protect Stark from the threats of the military, he will most certainly be detained. And possibly executed.

X2 turned around 180 degrees, directly to the chamber holding both me and Jocasta; its long, thin eye slit looking directly at me with a dim but noticeable red light. Are you implying that I would fail to keep Anthony Stark, my creator, safe?

Jocasta's voice remained flat and clear, but then again, so was X2's; machines scarcely waste power trying to get their point across vocally. Indeed. I am implying, for the interest of Anthony Stark, the man who rescued and rehabilitated me from a state of death, that you should take heed to the psychology of our aggressors and set him free.

X2 paused for six seconds (I counted), then its visor flickered from red to black to red again, and made a beeping sound. Then the chromium restraints on all of my limbs were released, and the clear panel in front of me folded upward. After the hydraulic noises subsided, I fell to the floor on my face, (bruising) my chin. I tried to force myself up, pushing my arms against the tiled floor, but it was no use... after a week of being virtually paralyzed, my body was weak and clumsy, and there was nothing in this hauntingly empty room I could prop myself up with. I kept trying to move, trying to kiss something other than the floor. When I finally pushed my posterior backwards and up, a metal hand grabbed my midsection and lifted me into the air. Barely able to move, I was being held in the armor's arms horizontally, like an oversized baby. Then, as though it wanted to teach me to walk, X2 turned me around again and set me on my feet, holding my ribs tight with its arms until I regained my balance.

, X2 ordered, looking at me once more with that creepy visor. I believe we have hostage negotiations to attend to.

Dragged out of the rooms and through the chromium tunnels of my lab, the armor held me to its chestplate, forcing me to face forward as my arms were pinned, and my legs could do little but flail. *Breathing in the fresh air as I feebly struggled against X2, I knew that things could only get better from here... but as recent events had taught me, life can be very surprising.

One advantage of technology, as you should have guessed, is that it expands our knowledge greatly. Though many waste this opportunity on pornography and pirated downloads, I use my fiber-optic connections to make sure I have tabs on everything—everything—that happens within miles of Stark House. And by extension, X2 had tabs (on it all). It held me by the west fourth floor window of my loft, pressing me against the glass. It had restrained my arms as it always did, and my body was totally naked, as machines had no concept of modesty; I certainly did not look like I was here under my own will. And below were those watching me at my weakest: a small group of SHIELD troops had made camp, waiting for X2 or I to make a move. All of their positions and conversations were recorded, and the frequencies of their receivers were registered the moment they landed. Through those frequencies, X2 submitted its hostage ruse and received SHIELD's responses. Of course, unlike most super-villains, X2 was rather poor at convincingly holding a hostage; one of many more disadvantages to technology that I've learned.

The human nervous system can withstand only 0.070 amperes of electrical current before irreparable failure. My gauntlets can create upwards of 100 amperes, given electrical resistance. The recipient of those amperes will be Anthony Edward Stark unless my demands are met. Can you allow the death of an innocent civilian?

A gruff, smoky voice replied over megaphone—that of my one-time ally, one-time foe Colonel Nicholas Fury. And what are those demands, Shell-head?

Destroy yourselves. Remove the head protection of your armored Mandroid units, and channel the pulse weaponry upon your unprotected flesh. Leave the Mandroid units to me.

What kind of bull-shit are you pulling here, Shell-Head?!

A different channel was accessed, and the armor started talking directly to me; it was delivered to a small receiver the size of an ant on my ear, so nobody else could listen. I suppose bull-shit' is an epithet indicating that he does not believe me, Anthony Stark?

I looked at X2, still standing by the window facing the camps of outside, and started chuckling. Soon, I went from soft chortles to outright laughter. I bent over almost painfully, laughing hysterically and almost getting past X2 in the process. I kept this up until I ran out of breath, and even then, any inhalations were spent on guffawing.

Dr. Samson raised a lone eyebrow while making direct eye contact with Stark as he spoke.

Yes, Doctor, it was a bit disturbing. X2 seemed a bit irritated too, and it kept asking me what my problem was. It looked at me directly with that thin red slit, and repeatedly queried me. What is wrong Anthony Stark, what are you doing, stop doing that Anthony Stark, etc. Its tone started to increase in volume each time it spoke, enough so that it could be heard behind the glass separating the (room) and the outside landscape.

I was still laughing, my eyes moistening from my exertions. It was pissing off my homicidal creation, so I continued it. Eh... That's simply the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Fury and his men will... heh... kill us for this. You and me both will be dead for... heh... our crimes. They'll kill us all, and you screwed us both over. Some... heh... bodyguard...aren't you?

X2 grabbed me tighter, almost crushing my digestive system. I am your bodyguard. I will protect you. You made me to perform that function.

Below the window, on the ground, the SHIELD troops started to change formation. A few of the armored Mandroid units started to march closer to the foot of the building, like an army of golden lemmings from my viewpoint. Some started to fly upwards, drawing closer and becoming larger in perspective.

I continued laughing as X2 stared at me. We're all... heh heh ehheh... dead... all gone... heh... It kept voicing objections at a high volume, but I still chuckled; Stop it, stop it now, do not make me use force. Eventually, it turned around and reached for my throat, its three metal fingers closing around my neck. Its voice started to change, not in volume but in quality. It said Stop it in a sharp and angry tone again and again. It sometimes loosened its grip, but the moment it stopped clutching, I started laughing again.

We've tried your way long enough, Iron Man. Fire!!

A loud crack reverberated through the walls, and (an anti-tank) missile flew through the glass window and detonated directly on the back of X2's helmet. Unfortunately, it didn't destroy X2 or me, but it left a noticeable dent in its neckplate. More missiles fired, and even behind a force field, *X2 received a few dents as the windows were totally destroyed, the property damage piled up, and I bounced around slightly from the impact. Activating a magnetic field, X2 pushed open the only intact door in the room and repulsed me through it. As I hit the wall at a less-than-gentle velocity, the armor leapt through the window and joined the fray.

My back was more than a little sore, and my head seemed to be spinning far beyond the normal range of motion of my neck, but I still rose to my feet as quickly as I could. I had a chance to flee. A chance to flee... beautiful words.

All I could do at that time was run. Not stop to think, or look back at what X2 was doing, or even scrounge up some clothes... just run. Run as fast as my softened and sore self could take me. I ran through the hall, *down through the darkened stairs behind one of the illusory walls, and through the metal catacombs. Briefly, I stopped by one of the cells—the one where I had been held in that bubble, where Jocasta was still held. I stepped forward, wanting to help my friend... but as I slowly approached, I (was) flooded by memories. Terrible memories, traumatic flashes of days spent being paralyzed against my will inside a coffin good only for mummies. I stepped forward but felt weaker and weaker as I went... and when the chamber itself was in plain sight, I turned around and ran again. I believe that as I exited, a voice coming from one of the speakers said Come back. Or Please don't leave me. I forget which.

What I needed was armor—Iron Man armor with no mind controlling it but my own. The kind I had identified myself by for so long. I needed a suit of armor—anything from the second-most-recent model to the dated, clunky Golden armor to even a suit of medieval plate armor—just for the self-esteem boost it would give me. Whatever I was up against out there—X2, Fury, or (someone or something else)—I couldn't face it naked and exposed. (If nothing else,) I needed some clothes.

And there was my wardrobe—Cell RT-14.

Blank, riveted titanium steel door. To its right, a perfectly square black panel that reads hand patterns down to the muscle cell make-up of the individual. One touch and I would be safe. My trembling hand reached over and forced itself onto the wall tile...

ERROR: BIO-SIGNATURE NOT IDENTIFIED

Must have been an error, I thought. I pressed my hand against the tile, this time with a little more force.

ERROR: BIO-SIGNATURE NOT IDENTIFIED

I slammed my other hand against the panel, using all the force my atrophied muscles could muster. Same thing. The door was still closed, and the message resounded through the halls once more. I curled my hands into fists and pounded angrily. But there was no response.

ERROR: BIO-SIGNATURE NOT IDENTIFIED

I had programmed the lock myself. I had written all the code for the lock, built it myself, and scanned my own hand into the program—I remember that I scanned with a high-intensity photo lens, which at the time was more than a bit discomforting. But it wasn't working. My machine wasn't working.

Last try for good measure. Reaching slowly towards the panel again, shaking. It wouldn't work, it wouldn't work, it wouldn't work... I kept telling myself that.

ERROR: BIO-SIGNATURE NOT IDENTIFIED

I just slumped to the floor, down on my knees, looking at the panel. There were other areas where I had stored armor, but it was clear that X2 had changed all the access codes here. And where else had X2 meddled with my property? What had it gotten its mineral hands on? I had made so many horrible weapons of war in my time... all of them were
X2's now.

Though my body was free, I was just as helpless as before. Still naked and unprotected, with the only thing that might save me far from my grasp. With the world crumbling around me; outside, X2 was in mortal combat with the SHIELD forces, and most certainly was not having too much trouble. Even if it was destroyed, it would take many men and women with it. And it would leave a legacy I would have to deal with, day by day, for the rest of my life.

ERROR: BIO-SIGNATURE NOT IDENTIFIED

It occurred to me quickly that the final broadcast of that intensely annoying message was not provoked by me... my hands were slumped over my knees. Instead, the panel was touched by a large, smooth hand covered in black cloth. Two yellow eyes looked down at me from a sleek figure in thin black mesh. The King had arrived.

I suppose you'll be wanting vengeance? I asked King T'Challa, not looking up at him as my gaze was still on the door.

Vengeance would be rash, he told me in his deep, unwavering voice. There is more to this situation than meets the eye. And with your help, we shall find out the truth.

He extended a hand to me, reaching down to my level. I stared at it for about ten seconds, wincing as I thought of putting my fate in the hands of someone I had never trusted...then I reached out and dropped my weakened hand onto T'Challa's glove. What did I have to lose, after all?

TO BE CONTINUED...