At some point, the darkness of death became the darkness of the womb. I couldn't put my finger on when exactly, but eventually I noticed that I was curled up, feeling underwater and yet having no need to breathe. My eyes were open, but that didn't seem to make any difference. A big, wet whooshing sound echoed around me. And I wasn't alone.
Hmm, this was an interesting development. Reincarnation? I'd been expecting Pearly Gates, if anything at all. And I could still remember my whole life, that was odd. Or was it? I'd never died before that first time, how did I know the rules? Maybe everyone got to have a second life with memories of their first. Like a New Game Plus mode or something.
Now, to the question: was I still 'me', and being reborn at the same time and place with the same family? Or was I going to be someone new? At least I was going to still be a twin, either way, judging by my kicky neighbor.
Sounds reached me in there, but they were warped by all the liquid and the intervening fleshy layers, so it was all noise to me. Liked the piano music, though, it was soothing. Eventually, something felt like it ripped or burst like a balloon. Suddenly it was a lot drier.
Hmm, waters broken. Go time. Wonder if birth hurts as much for the baby as the mother? I mean, getting squeezed through a skin-tight straw actually sounded mighty uncomfortable, the more I thought about it.
And it was. No wonder every baby comes out crying.
I came out first, and the burn of my umbilical cord getting cut had me crying even louder. But crying was exhausting, I soon discovered. As soon as my constant flow of nutrients and calories was literally cut, I was bone tired. Seriously, I'd been out for less than a minute and I already felt I needed a break.
Bright lights, blurry shapes, very loud voices. English, I managed to make out, but it hurt my ears so much I tried to block it all out. I felt something soft wrap around my naked body, and I was vaguely aware of being diapered and swaddled. I quieted down, already ready to fall asleep. But I forced myself to stay awake, wanting to meet my twin and new parents.
A worryingly long time later, I heard another newborn's screams in the room. I relaxed, confident my sibling had a fine set of lungs. My eyes had gotten a bit better focused, my ears a bit less sensitive, but I seriously was in danger of nodding off. But I was stubborn, and made my eyes stay open.
"Mrs. Stark, you have twin boys," said a kind male voice, probably the doctor.
"Can I hold them?" asked a quiet, tired female voice, all but dripping with love and happiness. Just hearing my new Mom's voice made me want to smile.
"Of course," the doctor agreed. The doc or one of his nurses picked me up in my little cloth burrito and handed me over to another pair of arms. I looked up at a blonde woman, probably on the young side of 30, with eyes that shined with the light of a new mother. She smiled with gentle pride down at me. Then she shifted focus to my twin brother, who I felt pressed against my toes as he was handed to her too.
We had a nice moment, just the 3 of us. We'd been together for about 9 months, of course, but this was her first time properly meeting us. I remembered what it was like to meet my own kids, and I could sympathize with how she started to tear up with pure joy.
The door opened, and she looked up. Her smile got even wider. "Howard, we're parents!" she said like she would be shouting it from the rooftops if she had the energy.
I didn't have the energy to turn my head, or probably the muscular strength, so I hoped I'd get handed to my new Dad before I conked out.
"Which one's which?" asked a baritone voice I vaguely recognized from my time inside Mom. Made sense, really.
Mom leaned down to kiss my forehead. "This one's the older one. He's so wise, can't you tell? He's so wise." She turned her attention to my brother. "This one didn't want to come out at first. He's a bit fussy, he'll be a handful, I can tell."
"They're beautiful, Maria," Dad said, sounding half in wonder, half terrified. I remembered that feeling.
"Aren't they just?" Mom said with a grin.
"Do we have any names, or are they just Baby Boy 1 and Baby Boy 2?" the doctor asked with good cheer.
"I like Anthony for the second one," Mom said, her exhaustion getting more obvious in her voice. She deserved a nap as much as I did. "He just feels like an Anthony to me. Howard, you have thoughts for the first one?"
"I always liked my Grandpa Greg. How about Gregory?" Dad suggested.
"Sure. Gregory and Anthony Stark. Greg and Tony, our twins," Mom said with a beaming smile.
I blinked, hit by a thought as I finally succumbed to exhaustion.
Why were those names so familiar?
The Iron Mind
The mobile above my bassinet was pretty. This was a good thing, given the sheer amount of time I had to stare at it. And expensive, it was basically a mini chandelier. Mom mentioned once it was a family heirloom.
I spent 90% of my time awake either getting changed or fed, and my awake time was limited as it was as my infant body used most of its energy on growing. But when I had nothing to do but lie there, I thought about my situation.
I was pretty sure, not certain, that I was in some kind of Marvelverse. Given the whole multiverse thing, that meant my hyperfixation on the MCU in my first life was hardly reliable as foreknowledge. For example, Tony certainly had been an only child in Earth-199999. But even if the only alteration to that particular universe was my birth, that still could throw everything I knew into chaos due to the butterfly effect. So I couldn't take my knowledge of 'canon' as gospel, if I relied on it at all.
Still, my Dad was Howard Stark, and I heard repeated mentions of Stark Industries. Mom was Maria, and she was a socialite and heiress of an old money fortune. And my younger twin bro was definitely Tony Stark. And we were freaking rich, the house was more of a mansion, complete with staff. And it was definitely sometime during the Cold War, or else Dad just really hated 'those damn Soviets'.
Well, in the end, all I could do was live the best life I could. I may or may not know some things about certain people or certain future events, but the one thing for certain was I was human, a son, and a brother. That was plenty to work with all on its own.
I admired the light glinting off the many little pieces above me, until I felt my bowels void without my consent.
I sighed before starting to shout for help. I was very much looking forward to growing up.
The days turned into weeks, and Tony and I transitioned from the eat-sleep-shit stage to the eat-sleep-shit-play stage. Tony liked sitting in Mom or the nanny's lap and just soaking up his surroundings, making little noises and babbling in his own language. I preferred to stay silent, but I was very determined to become mobile and start my journey towards independence. I couldn't exactly properly exercise in my condition, but I did what I could to strengthen my muscles and improve my coordination.
One day, Mom was playing with both of us, doing the 'can you say…' game. She was kneeling on the floor while we sat propped up on the couch.
"Tony, can you say 'Mommy'?" Maria cooed.
"Mami!" Tony managed.
"Good boy! Very good boy, Tony!" Maria said, showering him with kisses. She handed him his favorite plushie to distract him and turned to me. "Greg, can you say 'Mommy'?"
"Ma," I said half-heartedly. I loved her like crazy, but this shit got boring and a tad demeaning after a while.
"Good boy, Greg!" Mom beamed, pleased even though I hadn't done as good a job as Tony. She kissed me and rubbed her nose against mine. She pulled back. "Oh, you two are just little geniuses."
"Of course, they're half me after all," Dad said, walking into the room. He had a warm grin that he only showed in private on his face.
"Dadi!" Tony said, sounding like he actually recognized the man. And he, to the best of my knowledge, was really starting from scratch unlike me with my adult mind in just a very young package.
"See? Hey there, my little men," Howard said, reaching out a finger to tickle our necks. Tony burst into giggles, but I whined in protest. Tickling hurt. I don't know if it was my autism or something, but the sensation just bothered me.
"I don't think Greg likes me," Dad said, his smile turning into an uncertain frown.
"Don't be silly, you're his father, he loves you. He's just particular," Mom reassured him. "Oh, he started crawling today."
Yes, I had, and it was a major accomplishment. I'd only gone a few feet from one toy to the other, but it was still movement under my own power.
"Really? That seems a bit early. They're only 5 months," Dad hummed.
"The books say the average is 9 months, but every baby is an individual. Tony's better at talking, Greg's better at moving. It's just how they are," Mom said with that certain motherly wisdom.
"I was joking, but maybe they did get some of my smarts. Or, hell, maybe even more," Dad mused.
"Don't say 'hell' in front of them!" Mom hissed.
"Why not?" Dad chuckled.
"Hel!" Tony cheerfully copied, he was like a freaking parrot.
"That's why not," Mom sighed. "Tony, sweetie, I know you're too young to understand, but that's a bad word. We don't say it. It's a no-no."
"No no no no," Tony babbled.
I turned and crawled to the adjacent couch cushion. Tony could be loud, and I appreciated the distance.
Dad blinked. "Well, I'll be… darned."
The next day, Dad brought home what seemed like every educational toy in the baby store, even those for age ranges far beyond the first 6 months. I wasn't complaining, they were much more fun and stimulating than the stuff Mom had been giving me so far. And Tony had the time of his young life stacking blocks and matching shapes and colors.
By our 1st birthday, I was walking unassisted and crawling when my legs got tired, and Tony could coherently name everyone in the house and a few dozen objects, not to mention the alphabet. Dad and Mom were very proud of us, though they showed it in different ways. I was getting the sense Dad was very reserved and just plain emotionally constipated. He could be himself around Mom, but he seemed almost allergic to feelings. Plus his love language was definitely gift-giving. He rarely said the words "I love you," or gave kisses and hugs, but he showered Mom and us with presents on a near weekly basis.
A little after our 2nd birthday, Mom had dragged Tony and me to some social function. An actual tea party, complete with white-glove service. She was keeping Tony safe in her lap, but I was trusted to sit in my own chair with a couple pillows under to boost my head over the edge of the table.
I was already uncomfortable from the itchy fancy clothes Mom had squeezed me into. Then one of the women at the table had the single most annoying, nasal voice I'd heard in either life. Then Mom handed me a teeny-tiny sandwich to eat and I tasted cucumber. I manfully swallowed, but I was this close to a breakdown, I was so overstimulated. Then the sound system for the hotel ballroom glitched and there was a screech of feedback.
I whimpered and curled into a ball, rocking to try and calm myself down before I started screaming or running away or just lost my mind.
"Greg, honey, what's wrong?" Mom asked in alarm. She touched my shoulder, and that shifted the fabric of the itchy, overly starched shirt and I snapped. I flinched from her and crawled under the table. I sobbed, rocked, and started hitting my head with my fist in groups of threes.
"Greg! Honey, come out!" Mom called.
"My goodness, what's wrong with him?!" asked that damn woman with the goddamn voice.
Mom's head popped under the tablecloth. "Greg! Stop hitting yourself!" she said in alarm.
I ignored her and did my triple fist bump to my skull again.
"Greg, seriously, stop!" she said, reaching out a hand to grab me.
"Don't!" I screamed at her. If anyone touched me right now, I'd really lose my shit.
She pulled back, looking almost as freaked out as me.
Then Tony was crawling under the table and sat facing me. "What's wrong, Greg?" he asked, absent any typical babyish lisp.
"Too much," I whimpered through the tears and the rocking and the everything. The pain from my fist helped ground me.
"What's too much?" Tony asked.
"All of it," I said through my closed up throat.
"What you need?" Tony asked, only wanting to help.
"Make it stop. I need quiet," I admitted with a sob.
Tony nodded, mission understood. He turned. "Mommy, make everyone be quiet. Greg needs quiet."
I just sort of shut down and blocked out everything for a while. Tony was a silent, supportive presence in front of me as I rocked and cried and did my rhythmic hits to my head. When I finally had ridden out the wave of my panic attack, I realized the room was oddly silent. I looked up at Tony.
"You ok?" he asked, his eyes full of the love of a toddler but bright with the knowledge that something was wrong.
"Better now," I said. I felt shame curl and burn through my guts. I'd just caused a major scene, embarrassing Mom in front of all her friends. But I'd learned the hard way that my condition was part of me, and I just had to learn to live with it. Well, time to face the music.
I crawled out from under the table, to find Mom waiting there and the room deserted. I had no idea how she'd managed that.
"Sorry, Mommy," I said, unable to look her in the eye.
"Greg… what was that?" Mom asked, gentle but clearly wanting an answer.
"The world hurt," I said, not able to put it any better than that.
We got home and Dad learned about my episode. He sat me down and seemed to become a different person. He wasn't Dad anymore, he was Mr. Stark.
"Greg, you can't act the way you did today. It's wrong," he said sternly.
"I know. I'm sorry," I said, not able to look him in the eye. Eye contact was normally ok for me, especially with loved ones, but in the state I was in I wasn't in the mood.
"If you knew it was wrong, why'd you do it?" Dad demanded.
"Howard, he's 2," Mom hissed. "It was a tantrum, no big deal, we knew this was coming eventually."
"I want to hear his answer," Dad insisted.
I squirmed. "The shirt hurt. Mrs. Litman's voice hurt. The sandwich made me sick. Then the screech…" I shuddered, the very memory of all that crashing sensation giving me an echo of the attack.
"What's he talking about?" Dad frowned, turning to Mom.
"It was too much for Greg," Tony answered, like it was obvious.
That wasn't enough for Dad, and less than a week later we had a trip to a child psychologist. He seemed fascinated by both me and Tony and our intellects. But he asked me a series of faintly familiar questions and tests, and I answered as best I could.
The doc led me and Tony to a play area in his office and sat behind his desk facing Mom and Dad. Tony started putting together a puzzle while I just hugged myself and rocked, nervous how Mom and Dad would react.
"Autism, I'm pretty sure. It's normally hard to diagnose this young, but he's very advanced, both of them are," the good shrink said gently.
"What exactly is autism?" Mom asked with concern, while Dad looked like he was punched in the gut.
"It's the name we in the medical community have given to a number of conditions that seem to affect something like 1 in 40 children, though there's no hard numbers. I think most are rather too black-and-white about diagnosing it, to my mind it's more of a spectrum. Autistic individuals, though every case is unique, seem to struggle with certain developmental and communication issues, and are also known for rigid thinking or repetitive behaviors. Tell me, have you noticed any quirks, tics, or odd habits of Gregory's?"
"I mean, he's a picky eater. Some foods, he makes such a face but he'll eat if I tell him to. He's very neat, has a whole system for sorting his toy box. He cricks his neck, drives me crazy when he does it. But I didn't think anything was wrong until that… event last week," Mom said, dread creeping into her tone.
"Nothing's wrong with your son," the doctor said firmly. "He's not sick, not less than his brother or any other child. He's just different, and we named the way he's different 'autism'. In fact, he's so high-functioning I'd say it's more Asperger's Syndrome."
"What's that even mean, doctor?" Dad asked, sounding very upset.
"As I said, autism is a spectrum instead of either you have it or you don't. Asperger's is the name for so-called 'functional' autism. Low-functioning autistic individuals can struggle just with independence and self-sufficiency. Someone with Asperger's, by comparison, could live a long, happy life so long as they learn to cope with their condition. Several of the best thinkers and inventors in history are suspected to have had Asperger's. Albert Einstein and Isaac Newton, for example," the psychologist told my parents.
"What caused that… explosion he had?" Mom asked.
"He got overstimulated," the doctor said. "Autism is suspected to involve overactive parts of the brain and inactivity in others. We're still learning, but autistic individuals have been observed to have exaggerated or overly intense reactions to certain scents, sounds, tastes, or textures. By his own admission, Gregory felt uncomfortable in the shirt he was wearing, one of the women at the table had an irritating voice, the taste of cucumber made him nauseous, and then there was a feedback screech on the sound system. He reached his limit, simple as that. I'm actually impressed he didn't act violently, though the self-harm you mentioned is a point of concern."
"He's rocking right now, what's up with that?" Dad asked.
"We call it 'stimming'. A quote unquote 'normal' person would hum, bite their nails, comb their hair when nervous or distracted or stressed. Autistic individuals, especially children, engage in a different set of behaviors. I've seen rocking like his, popping of knuckles, flapping of hands, all the way to ritualistic full-body motions and routines. It's what he does without thinking about it to calm down," he said. I liked him, would have to remember his name.
"So… what does this mean going forward?" Mom asked.
"I'm happy to provide any literature or medical advice on parenting a child with Asperger's. There's some resources around the country, support groups and such. Frankly, I'd be more worried about how to keep a genius like him entertained. He's remarkable, and so is his brother," the shrink said warmly.
Jarvis drove us home, the back of the car thick with tension.
"What's wrong?" Tony asked, picking up on the negativity.
"Nothing's wrong, dear," Mom rushed to assure him.
"I'm weird. Mom's scared, Dad's mad," I answered him honestly.
"Greg, how much did you understand about what the doctor said?" Dad asked, knowing I'd been eavesdropping.
"My mind is shaped different than yours or Mom's or Tony's. I don't think the same. Doc said I can still be ok, though," I pointed out.
"Greg is Greg," Tony said, as firmly as any 2 year old could say anything. "He's my brother, and I love him. Don't you, Daddy?"
"Of course, but this is… no man likes to hear there's something wrong with his son," Dad bit out.
"Howard, the doctor himself said it's not wrong, just… different," Mom chided.
"Sorry I'm not normal," I said to the floor, unable to even look at them. Why couldn't I have been a neurotypical in this new life? Why did this facet of my character have to carry over?
"It's not your fault, dear. It's no one's fault," Mom said, gentle but unyielding.
We got home, and I went to my room. I didn't speak at dinner. I was doodling with paper and pencil when Tony let himself in. Normally I insisted people knock, even Mom and Dad, but he had twin privileges.
"Want to talk?" he asked, plopping down on the beanbag chair next to my desk.
"No. Probably should," I said flatly.
"We know what the doc thinks. What do you think?" Tony asked.
"I think that everyone else's mind is a circle, and mine is a square. It's not the same shape, it's sharp instead of round. And like that puzzle toy you like, I don't fit into a round world. Nice people will be ok with me being odd, but mean people will think I'm a freak or sick," I admitted.
"You're smarter than me. But you don't get people," Tony stated simply.
I stared at him. "Tony… we're the same kind of smart," I argued. Actually, I was cheating with all my past life knowledge. I wasn't a genius, I just had a massive head start.
"How many books are in that bookshelf?" Tony pointed.
"57, why?" I answered immediately, not seeing the point he was trying to make.
"People like Mom would have to count one by one, and they'd forget the total in a couple days. You counted when you first got the bookshelf, and you've kept track in your head with every new book or one you gave to me. Only you can do stuff like that, Greg," Tony told me.
"Ok, so I remember numbers, that's just because I'm organized," I waved off.
"You could read before me. You do it a lot faster, too, and you remember everything you read," Tony said, apparently determined to prove I was the smarter twin.
"Yeah, well, I started before you. You were talking first," I deflected. The truth is I was born able to read because of the reincarnation thing, that didn't count.
"You read the newspaper at breakfast at the same time as Dad, from your seat, while eating and talking to me and Mom," Tony kept going.
"You could do that if you wanted to," I shrugged.
Tony sighed. He grabbed a pencil from my desk and sketched a 3-digit by 2-digit multiplication problem. "What's the answer?"
"42,081," I said after a quick look. "You knew that."
"No, I didn't. I'd have to write it out," Tony countered. "Maybe when I had more practice, I could do it in my head. But you didn't even have to really think about it."
"Well, that's like reading, I have more practice than you," I frowned.
Tony huffed. "Why don't you want to believe you're smarter than me?"
Because I was cheating. "Because I don't like attention. You can be the super smart one and I can just be the weird smart one," I made up.
"Name one thing I can do that you can't," Tony pressed.
"You make Mom and Dad laugh," I said, trying not to sound bitter or jealous.
"Something not to do with people, that doesn't count. That's a 'round' thing, not a 'square' thing," Tony insisted, using my own words.
"You can do puzzles faster," I came up with off the top of my head.
"That's because you try to match every single piece against every other piece. You're focusing on the shape, I match the picture on it to where it is on the box. Your way, you could do it upside-down if you wanted," Tony countered.
I was getting annoyed. "Alright, say I am smarter than you. So what? You still will just 'get' things that make no sense to me. I maybe, maybe, have a faster brain at certain things. But you got smarts in areas I'll always be dumb in."
"So how about we just work together on what we're good at?" Tony suggested with a smile.
"Fine, if it'll get you to shut up," I said with a bit of surliness.
Tony got up. He tapped my doodle. "You seriously think just anyone could make a drawing like this?" were his parting words.
I looked at my sketch. I'd just been drawing the doctor's office. Everyone took mental photographs… right?
It took some time to adjust, but the family took my diagnosis with grace in the end. Mom helped me find what fabrics irritated me, what sounds bothered me, what scents and tastes made me want to throw up, and adjusted accordingly. Dad bought a bunch of books on autism and worked through them in a matter of weeks, and seemed to lose some of his initial discomfort with the idea I had Asperger's.
Tony, the little shit, seemed determined to point out all the ways I was smarter than him. Piano lessons with Mom? Well, I'd played a little in my past life, he had a better ear, I just hit the right notes in the right order. Reading dad's old college textbooks? Well, I had been to college in my past life and knew most of the big words already, Tony was the one who actually dug out a dictionary and memorized it. And how useful was it really that I knew how many doors were in the house or tiles were on a specific bathroom floor in each color?
Dad may have mostly been CEO at this point, but he was still an engineer at heart. Our garage had every tool one could imagine. He deemed us ready to make supervised visits when we turned 4. He gave us little projects, first as his assistants and then as independent little inventors. I played along, but I wasn't that interested in machinery. Tony, on the other hand, built his own circuit board before the year was out.
Maybe it was all the child psychology books he'd read due to my condition, maybe Mom bullied him into being more affectionate, but Dad wasn't as cold as he was made out to be in canon. He was still not the kind to actually say 'I love you', but it was obvious that he felt it if you knew him. Sure, he wasn't always there because of his job, but when he was he was there, with us. I certainly didn't feel like he was a neglectful parent, and neither did Tony from what I could tell. But then again, my emotional/relationship radar was broken or running on a different OS entirely.
When we were 6, the topic of our education came up at breakfast one day.
"Maria, Phillips Academy is a great school. The boys will thrive there," Dad argued over a cup of coffee.
"Why do they have to go so far away, though? Can't we just hire them a few tutors?" Mom argued back.
"They need to meet kids their own age, learn to make friends," Dad said firmly.
"But Gregory has… special needs. We can't separate them, that's cruel. Does this Phillips Academy have a good reputation for twice gifted children?" Mom brought up. She liked that term 'twice gifted', for prodigies with mental or learning problems.
"I didn't check," Dad admitted.
I finished my breakfast and started working on my Rubik's cube. Dad had bought it as a new toy as soon as it came out for me and for Tony. I carried it everywhere. I hadn't ever really tried them in my first life, but they weren't as hard as they were made out to be. Plus it was a great fidget toy to occupy my hands while I was reading or listening to the adults talk. I was averaging 30-something moves to solve it, which was good but I wanted to get as good as possible. Why settle for less than your best, right?
"Can I take a V8 engine apart today?" Tony asked Dad, sensing a lull.
Mom gave us both a look then turned back to Dad, her expression saying it all. "You really think any school is good enough for these two?" she asked.
"They're brilliant, and they probably would learn faster self-taught or with tutors. But they can't grow up alone in this castle, Maria. They'll have no idea how to deal with people when they grow up that way," Dad said with some iron in his tone.
I looked up, sensing a brewing fight. "I can handle school. And Tony needs friends, he's getting lonely."
"Greg!" Tony whined, mad I'd outed something he'd told me in confidence.
"Well, then, we'll meet in the middle. I'll find a good school that also has resources for… people like you, Greg," Dad declared, and that was that.
We got to spend another year just learning from books and asking Mom and Dad questions, but at age 7 we both got enrolled for the fall semester at the Blackpool School in upstate New York. It seemed to have everything, from academics to athletics to arts to field trips and activities in the local community. Dad even admitted to Mom it was probably better than Phillips and thanked her for making him take a real look for a better school.
We showed up a few days early and went through a battery of tests to determine our proper grade level, our 'genius' (didn't count in my case) having been reported to the staff. I was more well-rounded between my past life knowledge and reading the World Book to refresh my memory, while Tony excelled at the math and science tests but faltered on language arts or history. I actually got a higher score (which proved nothing), but given my autism and the fact I explicitly asked to stay in the same class as Tony, we were both set to attend the grade 6 courses.
We got moved into our dormitory, which was a large 2-story house on campus. We got to share the same room, and got packed away early in the morning. Mom got all teary and gave us hugs and kisses. Dad patted us both on the head and said "Do your best," in a vaguely supportive manner. Then they were getting into the Rolls with Jarvis and we were left alone for the first time. Well, except for the house manager, Mr. James.
We were given a tour of campus and Mr. James showed us around the dorm. Blackpool was very selective, less than 200 students total across K-12. People from other countries applied to get in here, it was a world-class boarding school. Mr. James explained how a professional chef would come in at breakfast and dinner and we'd have lunch on weekdays at the main school building and go out on the weekends. We made up 2 out of 10 boys who would be living in the house, with Mr. James living in an apartment in the basement. We were the first to arrive since we were already here for the admissions tests.
"Not gonna lie, you might get some looks for being so little and learning with the big boys," Mr. James said, not in a demeaning way but like an overly helpful cousin. "But we have a zero-tolerance policy about bullying. Anyone's mean to you, just come to me or a teacher and we'll sort it out, ok?"
"Alright. Is the library for anyone?" Tony asked.
"Go ahead," Mr. James grinned, and I followed Tony as he went to cut his teeth on the available literature.
We made it to Thanksgiving without anything going wrong. Our roommates were mostly nice, our schoolmates were other super smart kids from all over the country and the world. Tony was a social butterfly, delighting in the chance to talk 'proper English' with someone besides me and Dad. Joining one of the sports teams and a club was mandatory at our grade level. Tony picked basketball despite the fact he was the shortest player, and he made a surprisingly good point guard, actually, along with the metalwork club. Me, I went for gymnastics and chess club. I appreciated the physical challenge and the fact it was a solo sport, and chess is really mostly memorizing the first 10 moves in my experience.
After we'd assembled our plates for the Thanksgiving feast, Mom started asking questions. "So, boys, you make any friends?"
Tony was off, talking a mile a minute about all his buddies and their lives and the cool things about them and on and on and on. I let his voice wash over me like comforting music while I focused on enjoying the delicious food.
"What about you, Greg?" Mom asked once Tony reached a stopping point, or more like he ran out of breath and needed to reoxygenate.
"I have Tony. The teachers are nice. I get along with Cassander in our house, he has a little sister with autism so he gets it. Justine on the Chess club can beat me, we're more rivals than friends though," I reported.
"Anyone give you any trouble because of your age or your condition?" Dad asked, focusing more on the negative and how to fix it rather than celebrating the positive like Mom. Just how they worked.
"Little things, not worth telling to the teachers," Tony shrugged. "Allegedly, they get what's coming to them."
"Another guy at our house, Luiz, doesn't like me. He moves my stuff when I'm not looking. Some of the kids point or whisper about my rocking. But that's going to happen everywhere, I got to get used to it," I said, really not upset about it.
Dad frowned. "Son, if someone's messing with you, tell an adult. We're paying a lot of money for you to go there to learn, not deal with bullies."
"Dealing with bullies is learning, though. You can't make the bullies go away, they'll always be there. I got to learn to handle it, it's a fact of life being like me," I countered. "If he does anything to really bother me, I'll report him to the school and they'll deal with it. But really, Dad, I can handle it."
We enjoyed the long weekend with Mom and Dad, then went back to finish out the semester. Christmas was nice, we got everything we asked for, and then it was the spring semester. We finished up finals and then it was summer vacation, which still felt like a relief even with my adult mind.
After a trip to the Bahamas to relax, Dad flew me and Tony out to LA so he could show us around his work. "Boys, someday all this will be yours," he said proudly as we stood outside his factory complex.
"Can't Uncle Obie handle it?" Tony whined, but that was more at the idea of having to have a real job instead of spending his life tinkering in a garage or lab.
"Uncle Obie is almost as old as me, and neither of us are going to last forever. When we're gone, it'll be up to you two to carry on our legacy," Dad said, expectant but assured we'd live up to those expectations.
"Do we only have to make guns, or can we do other stuff too?" I asked. I appreciated all the good the US military did in policing the globe and keeping the peace. Plus someone had to be there to oppose radical terrorists and communist regimes like Russia (excuse me, still the USSR in 1978) and China. I could get behind running the business, even if I wasn't particularly eager to design bigger and better 'sticks' as Dad liked to reference them.
"You can do whatever you want once I'm gone and the company passes down to you two," Dad allowed. "But I'd hope you'd try to make the world a better place, not just make money. I especially hope you don't run the company into the ground. A lot of people depend on their jobs here to provide for their families."
"Sure thing, Dad," Tony spoke up. "I'll invent all the cool stuff, and Greg will handle the part where we actually sell it and make all the trains run on time."
"Do I get a say in this?" I snarked. "You're the one who's good with people, why don't you handle all the meetings and the marketing and being the boss while I just make sure all the numbers line up and we keep making the most money?"
"You two will work it out. And you'll change the world, I have no doubt," Dad said with pride, laying a warm hand on my shoulder and Tony's. "Now, come on, I'll give you the nickel tour."
We went through the many offices, including a stop at Dad's CEO suite (where he allowed us both to sit in his big, swirly chair). Then it was to the actual factory part, ending with a stop at the Arc Reactor chamber.
I looked up at the massive generator. "You seriously cracked cold fusion all by yourself in the 50's?" I asked in disbelief.
"Well, I had a little help," Dad shrugged.
"How come there isn't one of these in every building in America? Domestic energy independence would certainly help to calm down tensions around the globe from us occupying all those oil interests," Tony pointed out.
"Believe me, I know. If we could make unlimited sustainable clean energy a real thing, we could make a big part of war, resource scarcity, a thing of the past. Plus make billions doing it," Dad sighed. "The sad fact is, this monster is the best I could do. It's a science project, a proof-of-concept only. It makes enough juice to power the campus, but it wasn't cost-effective to build in the first place and the palladium cores cost millions to replace. Sadly, I'm limited by my own intelligence and the technology of my time. I gave up on any upgrades around the time you were 4 and left it in the hands of some future genius to improve."
It was much earlier than canon, and Tony had yet to finish his education, but maybe this was a chance to get the miniature Arc Reactor a chance to be invented. "Why don't you tell us more about how you made it?" I asked innocently.
Dad launched into a college-level lecture, which we managed to keep up with. He even walked us back to his office and pulled the original schematics out of his safe to show to us. As the ideas and concepts linked together in my brain and I studied the blueprint, I started to see how the Tony I'd seen in the movies did it.
Tony asked a million questions, as expected, but then he just seemed to stare at the blueprint in wonder at such a cool gadget. When Dad was about to put them away, I finally spoke up. "Why not just make it smaller?" I posed.
"I can't," Dad said, as if it were a simple fact.
"Yes, you can. I mean, I need to write out the math, but you should only need a couple grams of palladium to get the initial reactions to take off. The cores will deplete a lot faster, but it should even out," I said, waiting for Tony to take over and explain what seemed obvious to me.
"Greg… you seriously see a way to miniaturize this design?" Dad asked, his eyes a bit wide.
"Yeah, I mean, so can Tony… right?" I said, turning to my brother.
Tony looked down at the designs again, frowning. "I mean… I sorta get where you're coming from, but how would you reinforce the reactor wall if it got that small so it didn't explode?"
I answered, wondering if this was some joke I wasn't getting. It wasn't that big a mental leap… was it? I mean, it seemed clear to me, but I had the conceit it was even possible in the first place. Surely once Tony and Dad got what I saw, it would seem obvious to them too.
An hour later, I'd sketched a rough outline of the design I saw in my head so they would stop asking me questions that felt dumb. Dad looked like someone had slapped him in the face with a dead fish or something. Tony's jaw had dropped. Then he got a big, smug grin and looked at me. "Still think you're not the smarter twin?" he asked rhetorically.
I started to rock. "But…" I protested, but the words failed me. I couldn't be smarter than Tony. Tony was a real genius. He made a circuit board at 4, put together an engine at 6, he read mechanical engineering dissertations for fun after homework. I was just a reincarnate with an unfair advantage. I mean, yeah, I'd technically been on the Mensa list in my first life, but lots of people could pass the test if they really tried, it wasn't as hard to get in as people thought. At least, that's what I thought. I mean, I certainly hadn't lived like a genius in my first life. I'd really squandered my potential, actually, in my own opinion.
Maybe it was my brain. My 'soul' had gotten a new body, and with it retained all my past knowledge. But maybe the brain this body was born with was wired better than even Tony's. I mean, I didn't feel smarter in this life, but maybe I was. How exactly could I compare myself to myself?
Finally, I gulped and relented. "Fine, I'm smarter. But I'm still autistic. I can't look strangers in the eye, I need earplugs to play in band class so I don't flip out, I take sarcasm literally and it annoys people. You've still got that over me."
"Yeah, but you can do stuff like this when you're 8, dude," Tony said, tapping my design.
"And you'll be able to do stuff like that in a few years once you get some more school," I argued.
"Yeah, but imagine how far ahead of me you'll be by then!" Tony said excitedly.
"You're assuming I'll keep progressing, keep learning, keep making innovations. I mean, I could just finish school and then spend the rest of my life reading books and playing games like other rich kids," I countered.
"Not if I have anything to say about it," Dad spoke up. "Greg, son, why do you seem so scared about your own intelligence?" he asked astutely.
I sighed and managed to look him in the eye. "Once you're 'special', once you're 'great', you have to stay that way. There's never a day off, never a chance to slip up and fail like regular people. I was kinda hoping to let Tony be the star and I'd just hide in his shadow instead of having to shine next to him."
"Stars don't have shadows, they emit light in every direction," Tony chuckled.
"You know what I mean!" I huffed. "I don't want to be the next da Vinci or anything. I just want to be me."
"You've always been you, Greg, and you always will be," Dad said, sounding solemn. "And like it or not, you're special. The question is, what are you going to do about it?"
I gulped and looked away. I looked down at the design, for what was just a rough outline of a first prototype. If I really worked at it, I could probably make an even better version or variations of differing sizes.
As Uncle Ben said, with great power comes great responsibility. And intelligence was power. Would I use it, abuse it, or waste it?
I made my choice.
I looked up at Dad. "You can take the credit for the mini Arc. I'll finish school with Tony. Then… I'll see how I can change the world."
The Iron Mind
Tony and I both graduated from Blackpool in 1984. I could have skipped a couple grades and beat him, but I wanted to stay together with him.
The last 6 years since I'd invented the Mark 1 Reactor had been… eventful. If school was my full-time job, I had a part-time job in feeding Dad and his R&D team upgrades based on palladium cores. Dad had found the atomic makeup for Starkium and figured his work was done. I applied myself to milk the original dinosaur that he and Anton Vanko had created for all it was worth. I came up with a maximized efficiency unit the size of a fist, an even smaller one that was roughly the size of a coin battery, and bigger models on up to one just as big but vastly superior as the original reactor at Dad's factory.
As I insisted, Dad took the credit. I found it kind of amusing how there was talk of him getting the Nobel Prize as the first couple generations of Arc Reactors hit the government, commercial, and private sectors. The idea of a green nuclear reactor powering your home or business proved rather popular with the American people. Of course, since the Arc directly produced electricity, that meant hybrid and full-electric vehicles were going to become a thing almost 40 years ahead of schedule compared to my first life. Dad crossed from centimillionaire to billionaire purely from sales and contracts based on my Arc technology.
Tony wasn't to be outdone, though. He came up with repulsor tech to take full advantage of the Arc, both for transportation and as a weapon. Legit ray guns similar to Iron Man's RTs were being prototyped at Dad's work as we got our diplomas. And the potential for flight went without saying.
We said our goodbyes and drove back to our mansion just north of NYC, where Dad and Mom threw the mother of all graduation parties. All our friends from Blackpool, the families of Dad's work buddies, Mom's fellow socialites with their rich husbands and pampered kids, the mansion was packed. Thankfully, it was billed as semi-formal, so I got away with a button-up instead of having to squeeze into a mini-tux or suit.
Tony took great delight in showing off the arcade room, filled with actual consoles rigged to be free, to all the kids our age, give or take a couple years. I stuck mostly by Mom and Dad, engaging in polite conversation even though most of the adults seemed to have a hard time accepting that a 14 year old had graduated high school.
When there was a lull, Dad grabbed me and kidnapped Tony from showing off on Pole Position. We went to his office, and he sat us down. "Don't tell your mother," he winked before handing us both nips of scotch.
"Sweet!" Tony beamed, eager to try forbidden alcohol with Dad's blessing. He popped the lid on his and swallowed it in one rush. He only seemed to notice the flavor once it was already in his stomach. "GAH! Why do people drink this?! Is this the real stuff or just poison?" he gagged.
"Wait 5 minutes for the buzz and you'll know why they tolerate the taste. Some people even learn to like it," Dad chuckled. He turned to me, offering it back. "What is it, Greg?"
"This is the real stuff, which means it's poison. Socially accepted poison, a common recreation, but still poison. I'd rather not have it," I said plainly. Plus, if my autism had carried over to my life as Greg Stark, maybe my alcoholism had too. I'd rather not take the risk.
"If you're sure, Greg," Dad said, accepting the tiny bottle and pocketing it. "Now, boys, what's the plan going forward? You thinking college?"
"Hell yeah, I already applied to MIT for the fall!" Tony said excitedly. "I even got a full ride, so no need to dip into my trust fund or anything!"
"That's good, Tony," Dad said with muted but unmistakable pride. He turned to me. "What about you, Greg?"
"I can learn on my own, and I don't need an expensive piece of paper to prove I'm smart," I shrugged. "That being said, no one in the workforce will take me seriously until I'm at least 18. So I figured I'd get practice for running Stark Industries someday and monetize a hobby at the same time. I want to start my own video game company."
"Is that profitable?" Dad frowned.
"Dad, have you been living under a rock? Video games, from arcade consoles like we got and home systems to computer-based games, make millions of dollars each year! Heck, I think the global video game industry totalled over $2 billion in revenue last year," Tony said excitedly. "Greg makes games for fun, he does the coding and the art and everything all by himself! I've played a couple and they're really, really fun!"
"I have my own engine, which I've adapted for the operating software for the top 5 personal computers. I have plans to design my own console from the ground up. I really think I could make this work, Dad, and it'll give me something to do for the next few years before I'm ready to start working for you," I argued.
"Well, in that case, do you have a business model, a 5 year plan, some starting capital?" Dad asked, ever the businessman.
I was excused to go to my room, and came back with a binder in which I'd kept all the plans for my first shot as an entrepreneur. I showed them to Dad, highlighting the different games I'd already made and how they would appeal to a diverse audience, the hard numbers of estimated costs, and a conservative projection of where I could be in 5 years if I was successful. "Let me take $50k out of my trust fund, and I can set up shop out of my room. The main issue will be initial marketing and getting the word out there about Ferrum Games and securing retailers for copies."
"Where'd you get the name, Ferrum?" Tony asked.
"Stark men are made of iron, it's on the family crest," I shrugged. "Figured it would be a bit more subtle than just naming it Stark Games."
"Well, this all seems to be above board. I never saw the appeal of the entertainment industry, but maybe I'm just old and set in my ways. The money's yours, Greg, do with it as you will," Dad said, writing me a check for $50,000 right then and there.
Over the next 3 months, my days were a blur of either downloading my games onto floppy discs, packaging orders both to a couple electronics stores in Manhattan and by mail-order, and renewing the ads I put in the local papers. Tony put in a good word with all our friends and their friends and families and so on, so my first few weeks I was sold out just fulfilling all those orders I got out of nepotistic networking. As word spread and people realized just how immersive, engaging, and addictive my games could be, though, business started to pick up. It reached a point I could justify hiring staff and renting office space. There were 4 of us in that first rented garage: me, Stan Dayle, Alice Brandon, and Isadore 'Izzy' Wilks. I did most of the hard coding and the grunt work of actually making new games, Stan covered marketing and sales, Alice was a much better artist than me and made beautiful illustrations for the case covers and in-game art, and Izzy was our 'production line', paid to literally copy the games onto floppy discs for 8 hours a day.
By my 15th birthday, I had already hit my 5 year goal. I got a legit interview with Electronic Games magazine about me and my indie video game studio. I expanded. We went from a garage to the floor of an office building. Stan, Alice, and Izzy became heads of their own departments with staff working under them. I continued to cover most of the actual content creation, but I hired a small team to flesh out the story writing, come up with fresh ideas, and handle the coding I was willing to delegate. No one raised a stink about my age or my quirks; I made sure to hire only good people, fellow nerds and even neurodivergents where I could.
Ferrum Games launched its own home console, the Sidero (Greek for 'iron'). We had to shell out a big chunk of our budget for the custom hardware, but being able to focus on one OS and only having to copy onto our designer cartridges was worth it in the long run.
I was making real money, good money, even keeping only 1% of the gross as my salary. I was living with Mom and Dad and eating their food more out of preference than actual necessity. I bought my own car, though, as soon as I got my license. A Lincoln Town Car which I drove myself. Suitably fancy but not ostentatious, and perfectly suitable for a teenage bachelor.
In the first week of June in 1987, Tony graduated summa cum laude from MIT with his Bachelor's of Science in Electrical Engineering. He was already enrolled for a double major in Mechanical Engineering and Physics for his Master's degrees, and he explained at the celebratory family dinner how he hoped to get at least one Ph. D after all that. Tony had really found his groove at MIT, thriving off all the intellectual stimulation and the student atmosphere of friendly competition. Me, Mom, and Dad couldn't be prouder of him.
Later that night, while Tony was talking with Mom, Dad took me aside for a minute.
"Greg, you're doing a good job with Ferrum Games. Better than I ever expected, which maybe was wrong of me. I should know better than to underestimate you. Still, games are distractions from the real problems of the world. I won't pressure you, but when exactly are you thinking of coming to work with me?" Dad asked me soberly.
"I was actually wanting to bring that up with you, good timing," I said. I led him to my room, where I grabbed a binder like I had 3 years earlier. "Dad, you've managed to combine a defense contractor with the fastest growing energy company on the planet. And if that's how you want Stark Industries to work, then go ahead, you're still the boss. But I want to keep Ferrum Games, even if I'm not captain of the ship anymore. And a merger between a video game studio and an arms manufacturer is just silly. So here's what I was thinking: a parent company. Stark International would keep Stark Industries and Ferrum Games under its umbrella. You could separate the whole Arc division to make Stark Energy, which I'm sure would make things a bit less messy and streamlined. And then we could start to expand and diversify."
I walked Dad through all my plans, painstakingly backed by cold hard math I'd done myself, a list of project ideas and business plans for each industry, and all the research about current markets I had managed to scrape together.
"Greg… this is incredible. It's also highly ambitious, maybe too much so. This'll cost billions to set up, all these new companies in all these new sectors," Dad pointed out, though his eyes gleamed.
"And if, by the time I retire, the family has a fortune in the trillions? I'm not saying it has to happen all at once, Dad, or that you'll necessarily live to see the full benefits. But setting up a parent company and then either founding subsidiaries or buying and backing startups is the smart move, I'm willing to bet the whole family fortune on it," I said, looking him in the eye so he could see I was serious.
"And where do you, me, and Tony fit into all this?" Dad asked me.
"Ferrum Games, like I said before I founded it, was just practice and a way to monetize a hobby. I'll replace the president and leave it to run itself in whatever direction it will go. You can transition to running Stark International, staying the head honcho of the whole enterprise. I can start working for Stark Industries, eventually taking your place when you're ready to let go of the reins. Tony, once he's done with all his schooling, will probably want to get in on the computing or robotics or vehicle division, you know those are where he thrives," I laid out.
"Well, you're smarter than me, and you've proven you can work hard. I'll trust you, Greg. Let's make this happen," Dad said with a proud, eager grin.
I spent the summer leaving a parting list of game ideas for Ferrum and interviewing to find an appropriate replacement. Dad worked with the lawyers and such to make the private company of Stark International. No board to report to, just the Stark men at the helm. He somehow managed to talk Obie into using his voting shares to force the whole Board of Stark Industries to accept being sold for free to Stark International. That done, Dad hired me on the spot as his Executive Assistant. AKA, his secretary. Yes, I would be mostly making phone calls and planning out his schedule. But I'd also get to shadow him every day and attend every meeting, getting a front row seat to how to run Stark Industries. With my learning curve, I should be ready to become CEO in a matter of a few short years… or until he was assassinated.
I didn't like thinking about that potential future, and I liked to hope that I'd sent enough butterfly wings flapping or this was an alternate reality in the first place to prevent the horrible date of 12/16/1991 from becoming the date on Mom and Dad's tombstones. Still, part of me couldn't help but countdown the days to that important date in MCU canon.
4 years went by, me focusing entirely on learning the ins and outs of Dad's job. If he was involved with SHIELD, he did it when he was out of the office and where I couldn't see it. I ingested and digested raw information and data in every field I could find literature for, my apparently genius mind producing designs and strategies out of the clay I fed it. I fed all my inventions to Dad, who took them and assigned the right people to make them happen under the Stark International banner.
In 1990, Stark International was listed in the top 10 most profitable companies in the world by Forbes, combining the profits of Stark Industries, Stark Energy, Ferrum Games, and all our teething subsidiaries. The press and media started to pay attention, how the genius behind Stark Industries had sired and raised two even brighter stars to eclipse him. Someone leaked the fact that I was behind most of the Arc technology, and speculation ran rife on what Tony would get up to once he was finished at MIT.
December 15th of 1991, I couldn't sleep. So I stayed up working on some die architectures for Stark Computing, set to eclipse even IBM if I had any say in the matter. Breakfast time came, and I got a few cups of coffee with Mom, Dad, and Tony home for his last winter break before his doctoral graduation if he kept to schedule. Edwin Jarvis was his usual attentive self.
I spent the day relaxing since it was the weekend, and ended up in the living room listening to Mom play piano while Tony napped on the couch.
"Wake up, dear, and say goodbye to your father," Mom said to Tony without even looking away from the piano when Dad came in. Eyes on the back of her head, seriously.
"Who's the homeless person on the couch?" Dad joked, regarding Tony sprawled all akimbo on the couch.
"It's your son, Tony, soon to be the one and only Dr. Stark," I answered. I didn't get the joke, but I was pretty sure Dad was using sarcasm and they found it funny how I took it literally if I played along right.
"As opposed to Mr. Stark and Stark SUPER Senior," Tony snarked, sitting up with a Santa hat plopped on his head.
"I'm not too old to kick your ass outside, kid," Dad huffed, though he was smiling when he said it. Not a real threat, so I didn't tense up. "How're those 3 dissertations coming?"
"Oh, they're coming along great. Just need a little fine-tuning and then the damn edit checks for all my typos and make them all pretty," Tony grinned with pride.
"Well, your mother and I are going to take a trip to the Bahamas. We'll be back Monday, so don't burn the house down," Dad said sternly.
"I will plan my toga party accordingly, and Greg will be all responsible and sober and make sure no one actually sets anything on fire," Tony joked.
"They say sarcasm is a metric for potential. If that's true, you'll be a great man someday," Dad said in a tone that sounded harsh if you didn't know him, then went to go get his and Mom's suitcases.
My throat was closing up. It had been over 21 years since I'd watched the movies, but one of my hyperfixations in my first life had been the MCU. I had every scene memorized, line for line. This was eerily similar to the BARF scene in Civil War.
Please, no. I wasn't ready.
Mom said her goodbyes, kissing and hugging us both. Dad traded his usual banter. With a casual wave, they walked out the door, Jarvis closing it behind them.
Tony looked at me. "Greg, what's wrong? You look like you just saw a ghost or something."
"Just… a bad feeling," I managed with some semblance of calm.
I spent the rest of the day holed up in my room, working until I passed out around 2 am after my sleepless night before and I couldn't sustain my manic focus any longer. I stumbled down the stairs early the morning of the 17th. One look at Edwin Jarvis' remorseful face told me all I needed to know.
"What is it?" I asked, though it seemed so obvious.
"Master Gregory, I'm so sorry. There was a car accident last night involving your parents. Neither of them made it," Jarvis said, giving it to me straight.
I closed my eyes. There was a quiet, still moment in my mind. In just a little while, my parents' death would really hit and I'd become a grieving mess. But while I still had clarity, I made a decision.
HYDRA would fall. Even if I had to track down every single member and double-tap them myself.
Then the pain, and the mourning, and the screaming sobs.
Tony was woken by my shouting and found me on the floor, rocking and crying and hitting my head like it was that damn tea party back when we were 2. He demanded answers from Jarvis, who gave them. I had jumped straight to crying my heart out, knowing the truth in my bones with the certainty of my meta knowledge to back it up. Tony went into denial first, calling Jarvis a liar and going to the phone to dial Dad's cell phone.
I cried myself out within half an hour, and got up. I found Tony sitting in the living room, drinking straight from a bottle of scotch. I grabbed the bottle out of his hands and threw it at the wall to shatter.
"What the fuck, Greg?" Tony yelled at me, looking at least as upset as I felt inside. But I'd had my moment falling apart. Now I had to stay together and make sure Tony didn't start to devolve from promising genius to alcoholic playboy.
"You are not going to hide in a bottle. You are not going to soak that beautiful, priceless brain in idiot juice. You are going to feel all this crap like a man, you're going to get through the funeral and the will reading, and you will go back to school afterwards. And if you don't listen to me and get drunk or something even more stupid when I'm not looking, I'll kick your fucking ass," I laid down the law.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?!" Tony demanded, coming to his feet. We were of a height, roughly 5'8, Dad wasn't– hadn't been the tallest.
"I fucking think I'm your big brother and I'm not going to allow you to self-destruct over this," I said back, not backing down.
"Don't pull that shit, it's 20 fucking minutes. And just because you want to be all tough and get through this sober doesn't mean I have to!" Tony said, before going for the wet bar.
I walked up and, without hesitation, put him in a full nelson, kicked out his legs, and followed him down to the ground.
"What the– Greg, let me go! Fucking let me go, you freak!" Tony struggled. We'd taken the same self-defense courses, but I still worked out and did my kata every morning while Tony normally forgot food and sleep, let alone healthy exercise. I was stronger, he wasn't going anywhere.
"No," I said implacably. "You're not hiding from this. Feel it, Tony."
"Fuck you!" Tony struggled, but my pin was firm.
"Feel it," I said again.
"No!" Tony denied.
"Feel it," I just kept repeating until Tony stopped struggling and started sobbing.
"It's not fair! It's too soon!" Tony cried.
"No, it's not. Yes, it is," I just agreed, having switched from holding him down to hugging him.
It was a bad day, but I forced myself to face the pain and kept Tony from getting too drunk to feel or even think. The bottle of scotch wasn't the only thing we ended up breaking in anger before the day was out between us. But we ended up sitting on the back porch at night, nursing cups of hot chocolate.
"What do we do, Greg?" Tony asked, looking so lost. He was only 21, and he'd just been orphaned. I was surprised he was doing as well as he was, even with my influence.
"We keep living," I said simply. "We need to make the funeral arrangements, and set up the will readings. After that, you're going to go back to MIT and become Dr. Stark. Me… if you'll give them to me, I'll take your voting shares and take Dad's job. I'll become CEO and keep the business going."
"I still got a job lined up?" Tony asked.
"Of course. CTO of Stark International. Basically, become head of R&D for every company we own. You'll have more projects than you'll know what to do with," I grinned faintly. "Also, with the whole World Wide Web thing taking off, I'd like you to find a way to interlink all the companies with computers so we can coordinate and share data better."
Tony nodded. "Right, right." He took a sip of the cocoa. "It still hurts," he admitted.
"I think it's supposed to. I think it's not that we'll wake up one day and not miss them or think of them or wish they were still here. We'll just figure out a way to be happy through the hurt," I said solemnly.
"That sucks," Tony huffed.
"Life sucks, and then you die. It's a saying for a reason, bro," I sighed.
"Then what's the point?" Tony demanded with a little heat.
"The moments it doesn't suck," I said, reaching out to lay a hand on his shoulder. "The moments worth living for. This isn't one of them, but we'll get them. I promise."
"I'll hold you to that, Greg," Tony said lowly.