Disclaimer
This work is a piece of fan fiction written purely for entertainment purposes. It is not intended for commercial use or profit. The story draws upon characters, settings, and elements from The Boys (created by Garth Ennis and Darick Robertson, and owned by Dynamite Entertainment, Sony Pictures Television, and Amazon Studios) and the Iron Man/MCU franchises (owned by Marvel Entertainment, LLC, a subsidiary of The Walt Disney Company).
All intellectual property rights belong to their respective owners, and no copyright infringement is intended.
This story is an original interpretation and exploration of these universes, written as a creative homage to the source material. The characters, plots, and events introduced by the author are original to this work, except where explicitly derived from the referenced franchises.
Readers are encouraged to support the original creators and official releases of The Boys and the Iron Man/MCU franchises.
Prologue
The Office
Nathan blinked, squinting against the fluorescent glare of the overhead lights. The room was... an office. A perfectly normal office. Beige walls, standard ceiling tiles, and a desk cluttered with papers and pens that seemed to have been plucked straight from an office supply catalogue. Everything about it was so utterly mundane that it felt surreal.
The office chair beneath him squeaked slightly as he shifted. His feet rested on a nondescript gray carpet, and a clock on the wall ticked softly in the background. The air smelled faintly of stale coffee and toner ink.
He had no idea how he'd gotten here.
I went to bed, he thought. I went to bed, and now I'm... here.
Across the desk, a woman sat, her posture stiff as she flipped through a stack of papers. She looked like every office worker ever: her brown hair pulled into a neat ponytail, a pair of glasses perched on her nose, and a button-down blouse that was neatly pressed. Her face was set in a no-nonsense expression as she scanned each page with meticulous care, pausing now and then to underline something with a red pen.
She hadn't so much as glanced at him.
Nathan resisted the urge to speak. There was something about her demeanour—calm, focused, and faintly stern—that made him hesitant to interrupt. He figured it was better to wait. Maybe she'd eventually look up and explain why he was here. Maybe she'd remind him of something he'd forgotten.
The silence dragged on, broken only by the occasional sound of her pen scratching against paper.
Finally, the woman set her pen down with deliberate care, straightened the papers into a neat stack, and folded her hands on top of them. Her gaze met his, and he felt a faint chill run down his spine.
"You must be wondering why you're here," she said. Her voice was calm but carried an authority that left no room for argument.
Nathan nodded slowly. "Yeah. That'd be a good start."
She leaned back in her chair, studying him with an expression he couldn't quite read. "You're here because it's your time to start over. A fresh start, if you will. But before we proceed, there are... formalities to address."
"Start over?" Nathan repeated, frowning. "What does that even mean?"
The woman didn't answer right away. Instead, she slid a single piece of paper from the stack and pushed it across the desk toward him.
Nathan hesitated, then reached for the paper. The words on the page were simple yet horrifying:
Acknowledgment of Death
I, Nathaniel Greene, acknowledge my passing and accept the terms of the afterlife as presented.
X _
His heart began to race as he stared at the words. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. "I don't... I don't understand," he said, his voice trembling.
The woman's expression softened slightly, but her tone remained steady. "You died, Nathan. Peacefully, in your sleep. A brain aneurysm. Quick. Painless."
Nathan felt the chair beneath him shift as if the ground itself was suddenly unstable. He stared at her, shaking his head. "No. No, I didn't. I went to bed, and I woke up here. I feel fine. I'm... alive."
The woman sighed softly, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "You were alive. And now you're not. These things happen, Nathan. Rarely predictable, always final."
"I don't remember—"
"Of course you don't," she interrupted, her voice gentle but firm. "Most people don't. But it doesn't change the fact that it happened."
Nathan's hands tightened into fists, crumpling the paper. His voice rose. "No! I'm not dead. This isn't real. I don't know who you are, but I'm not going along with this stupid—"
She snapped her fingers.
The sound was sharp and deliberate, cutting through his anger like a knife. The world around him began to shift, and for a moment, Nathan thought the room was expanding.
Then he realized he was shrinking.
The chair beneath him grew larger, its polished surface stretching away as his legs dangled awkwardly. His skin began to itch—a sharp, burning sensation that spread across his body. He looked down at his arms, his breath hitching as they stretched unnaturally, the texture changing before his eyes. His flesh warped, patterns erupting across his skin like cracks in dry earth. The patterns shifted, hardening into something smooth and shiny.
Scales.
"What the hell?" Nathan tried to say, but no words came out. His voice was gone, replaced by a dry, rasping sound. He gasped or tried to, his chest heaving as something pushed out from the base of his spine. A sickening pressure built there, and then—
A tail.
Nathan's vision blurred with panic as he clawed at the chair, his hands—no, his claws—scraping uselessly against the surface. His heart pounded as he thrashed, his movements awkward and alien.
The woman snapped her fingers again.
A mirror popped into existence, hovering effortlessly in the air. With calm precision, she reached out, grabbed it by the handle, and turned it to face him.
Nathan froze.
The reflection staring back at him wasn't his. It was a gecko—a small, wide-eyed creature perched awkwardly on the edge of a massive office chair. His elongated limbs twitched as he tried to process what he was seeing. His tail flicked involuntarily, the sensation foreign and wrong.
"See?" the woman said, breaking the silence. Her voice was calm, but there was an edge of irritation to it. "No need to be rude, Nathan. I told you to calm down."
Nathan's tiny chest heaved, his clawed hands gripping the edge of the chair as he tried to scream, protest, or do something, but only another dry rasp escaped his throat.
"Do you believe me now?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
The mirror vanished with a wave of her hand, and Nathan's body began to shift again. The itch returned, the tail receding, his limbs compressing, his skin softening. A moment later, he was back in his normal body, slumped in the oversized chair, his breaths coming in shallow gasps.
His mind reeled. He flexed his fingers, staring at his human hands, half-expecting them to dissolve back into claws at any moment.
The woman folded her arms, watching him with faint amusement. "Feeling better?"
Nathan shook his head, his voice barely above a whisper. "What the hell just happened?"
She shrugged, sliding her glasses back onto her nose. "You didn't believe me, so I had to get creative. Consider it... a demonstration."
"You turned me into a gecko." His voice cracked on the last word.
"You were being impolite," she replied matter-of-factly. "And besides, I thought it suited you. Small. Defensive. Panicky."
Nathan stared at her, his thoughts spinning wildly. "This—this isn't happening. I'm dreaming. I have to be dreaming."
The woman tilted her head slightly. "Are you sure about that?"
He opened his mouth to respond but found he couldn't. The lingering sensation of scales and a tail clung to his body, as real and visceral as the chair beneath him.
"Now," she said, her tone softening, "do you believe me, or do we need to try something else?"
Nathan swallowed hard, his throat dry. His eyes darted around the room, searching for something, anything that could anchor him to reality.
"Fine," he said hoarsely. "I believe you."
The woman smiled faintly, clasping her hands together. "Good. That'll make things much easier."
"You must be wondering why you are here," she said. Her voice was calm but carried an authority that left no room for argument.
Nathan nodded slowly. "Yeah. That'd be a good start."
She leaned back in her chair, tilting her head slightly as she considered him. "Who am I?" she repeated as if testing the question on her tongue. "That depends on your perspective. If I had to put it in terms you would understand..." She tapped a finger against the desk thoughtfully. "Middle management."
"Middle management?" Nathan echoed, frowning.
"Yes. You might call me... what your people would consider a god."
Nathan stared at her, his mind spinning. A god. He was sitting across from a god.
"I—" he started, hesitating. "Am I supposed to... I don't know, worship you or something? Because, uh, I've been an atheist since I was five, so—"
"Please do not," she interrupted, holding up a hand. Her tone was laced with exasperation. "What kind of an omnipotent being requires their ego validated by amoebas? The very idea is insulting and childish on the face of it."
Nathan blinked. "Amoebas?"
"Yes," she said matter-of-factly. "In the grand scheme of things, that is about where you rank. However, I do not blame you. You are not exactly in a position to grasp the full picture."
He gaped at her, equal parts offended and dumbfounded. "That's... not exactly reassuring."
"It is not meant to be," she said briskly. "It is meant to clarify. You are here because your little chapter on Earth is finished, and now we move on to the next phase. My job is to facilitate that transition. Nothing more, nothing less."
Nathan leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. "So... what? You just decide what happens to me now? Is this like reincarnation or something?"
"Not quite," she said. "Reincarnation is another department, and they are perpetually understaffed. What we are offering you is something a bit more tailored."
"Tailored?"
The woman steepled her fingers, her gaze sharp. "Yes. Your existence will continue, Nathan, but in a different context. A new world, a new start. There are... options, shall we say."
Nathan's brow furrowed. "Options? Like I get to choose?"
"To an extent," she replied. "However, before we get into the specifics, you need to accept a few things. You are dead. That part is non-negotiable. Everything you knew, everything you were, is done. What comes next depends on your willingness to move forward."
He let out a slow breath, his hands gripping the arms of the chair. "This is insane," he muttered.
The woman smirked faintly. "If it makes you feel better, most people react that way. However, trust me, Nathan. This is only the beginning."
Nathan's mind spun with questions, but one thought loomed above the rest. "These... options. What are we talking about here?"
The woman straightened, brushing an invisible speck of dust off her sleeve. "Options, Nathan, are opportunities. A world tailored to suit you, paths you can take to continue your existence. You will have a choice before you go and everything after that is up to you."
"And if I don't choose?" he asked cautiously.
"Recycled?" Nathan repeated, his stomach tightening. "What does that even mean?"
"It means," she said, her voice calm but firm, "you will lose everything—your memories, your self—and start over. A blank slate. It is not punishment, Nathan, merely procedure. We do not waste energy in this system."
Nathan swallowed hard. Lose everything? Start over? Just gone? He couldn't decide if it sounded worse than the job offer on the table or not. "So, what, that's it? It's choose or get wiped out?"
"Precisely," she replied without hesitation. "There are no half-measures in this process."
No pressure, then, he thought bitterly, running a hand through his hair. "Okay," he said cautiously. "So what's the catch?"
The woman's lips twitched into a faint smile. "The catch is that you do not get to take much with you. Your life on Earth? Gone. The memories, the experiences—they will fade. Only the knowledge you need will remain. Consider it... essential baggage only."
Nathan frowned. "And what qualifies as 'essential?'"
"Your essence. Your personality. Skills that might prove useful." Her gaze sharpened. "And I will give you a boon suited both to you and the world I am sending you to."
Nathan wasn't sure if he felt reassured or unnerved. "This feels... bigger than just me. Like there's some kind of agenda here."
The woman shrugged. "Bigger? Sure. An agenda? Not exactly. Think of it more like... keeping the system running. You are a part of that system, Nathan, whether you realize it or not."
He leaned forward, his hands gripping his knees. "So you're just going to drop me into some new world and hope for the best?"
Her smile widened, faintly mischievous. "Oh, Nathan. Hope has nothing to do with it."
Nathan shifted uneasily in his chair, still trying to process everything she'd said. "So," he began slowly, "you said I'm part of some system. What does that even mean? What's the purpose of life in all of this?"
The woman raised an eyebrow. "The purpose of life? That is quite a question." She adjusted her glasses and leaned forward slightly. "Should you not be asking yourself that?"
Nathan huffed, crossing his arms. "I thought you were the one with all the answers."
"True, I suppose," she replied, sitting back again. "Very well, let us discuss it. At its core, life is about opposition to entropy."
"Entropy?" Nathan frowned. "You mean, like, the second law of thermodynamics?"
"Precisely," she said, nodding approvingly. "Entropy is the force present in all universes that leads to disorder and decay. All systems, no matter how stable, will eventually break down into states of disorder. A flower plucked from its stem will rot. A star will burn out. Molecules in the universe will spread so far apart that heat death becomes inevitable. Entropy is an inevitability."
"And life?" Nathan asked, leaning forward slightly.
"Life," she said, "stands in opposition to this. It emerges from chaos as a pattern capable of self-replication and incremental complexity. It organizes itself, maintains its structure, and creates order. Over time, life becomes capable of increasing its own complexity and even generating new systems of order. Gods, at least those of us who understand our responsibilities, represent the highest level of order in the multiverse. We seek to expand that order and create new life, to preserve existence itself."
Nathan stared at her, his mind whirling. "Wait, are you saying this is all just some cosmic tug-of-war? Order versus entropy?"
"Not exactly," she said. "It is less a war and more a balancing act. Order creates new structures, new patterns, and new possibilities. Entropy ensures that those structures do not stagnate or grow beyond their purpose. The two forces are intertwined, but life—and by extension, we gods—are fundamentally opposed to letting entropy win outright. If it did, nothing would remain."
"Okay," Nathan said, exhaling slowly. "That's... big. Really big. Where does the multiverse come into this?"
"Ah," she said with a faint smile. "The multiverse is where order gets creative. Upper management, as you might call it, is responsible for creating new universes. Some gods simply throw random elements together to see what sticks. Others prefer to use templates."
"Templates?" Nathan asked, his brow furrowing.
"Indeed," she replied. "Your original home—Earth—is something of a farm. A testing ground. Various gods use it to generate ideas, which they then adapt into their own creations."
Nathan shook his head, still trying to wrap his mind around it. "You're telling me Earth is just a... farm for ideas? That my favourite movies and stories are basically templates for gods to mess with?"
"Precisely," she said, her tone even. "Earth is a testing ground, a source of inspiration. Its capacity for imagination makes it a fertile resource for creating new universes. Some gods use it as a direct blueprint; others adapt concepts to suit their vision. For example, a hero in colourful attire might fight for justice in one universe, while in another, their story evolves into something entirely different."
"So, somewhere out there, there are universes full of Jedi, superheroes, and wizard schools?" Nathan asked, half-laughing despite himself.
She adjusted her glasses and tilted her head. "In a manner of speaking, yes. Some universes are exact copies, others are iterations, and many are entirely new creations inspired by fragments of Earth's imagination. It is not always direct, but the echoes are there."
Nathan rubbed his temples. "This is insane. So, my world's creativity is just fodder for... franchise-building?"
She gave him a faint smile. "It is more than that, Nathan. Ideas, once imagined, have a way of persisting, of expanding. Your world is not just fodder; it is a foundation."
"Yes," she replied simply. "Your world's capacity for imagination makes it a useful resource. Ideas, once imagined, have a way of persisting."
Nathan shook his head, still trying to wrap his mind around it. "And your job in all of this?"
"I handle problems," she said simply. "When a new universe is created, gods are prohibited from interfering directly with their creations. It is a safeguard to limit chaos—and prevent god complexes, quite literally. However, this lack of direct control can create... issues."
Nathan sat back, processing the weight of her words. "But why the hands-off rule? Why can't the gods just step in and fix things when they go wrong?"
"To limit chaos," she said bluntly. "Direct interference from gods tends to destabilize universes rather than preserve them. Imagine a creator so enamoured with their own design that they refuse to let it evolve naturally. Or worse, imagine gods competing over who can interfere the most. The results are rarely favourable."
He snorted. "So gods basically get grounded after they make something?"
"In a sense," she replied, ignoring the sarcasm. "Once a universe is established, its creators must step back. However, challenges often arise—flaws in the design, unforeseen complications, or threats from external forces. That is where I come in."
Nathan narrowed his eyes. "And where I come in, right?"
"Correct," she said, folding her hands on the desk. "My job is to identify and recruit candidates like yourself—those with the skills and flexibility to step into a universe and address its problems without divine meddling. You are, for lack of a better term, a 'temp.'"
"A temp," Nathan repeated, letting out a hollow laugh. "Dead for five minutes, and I'm already getting put to work. Do I at least get to see the benefits package, or is that asking too much?"
She raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smile. "Let us see how you handle your first assignment before we discuss benefits."
Nathan exhaled sharply and leaned back in his chair. "Fine. Let's hear it. What's the gig?"
The woman reached down and retrieved a slim, unmarked folder from a drawer in her desk. She slid it across to Nathan with a faint smile.
"This," she said, "contains the necessary information about the universe you are about to enter. I suggest you familiarize yourself with it. The file is comprehensive, so focus on the sections relevant to your immediate understanding."
Nathan picked up the folder hesitantly, flipping it open to reveal neatly typed pages interspersed with diagrams and photographs. The layout was almost eerily professional, complete with a table of contents and an index. He raised an eyebrow. "You're giving me homework now?"
"Preparation is key," she replied, her tone as even as ever. "If you prefer to stumble into a new world blindly, I can arrange that. However, I do not recommend it."
Nathan muttered something under his breath and glanced down at the file. The text was dense but legible, broken up into sections with bolded headings. One caught his eye: Timeline.
"Turn to the timeline section," she instructed, her gaze steady. "You will find it enlightening."
Nathan flipped through the pages, his fingers brushing against the crisp paper. Reaching the index, he scanned for "timeline" and found an entry labelled "Timeline Divergence." He followed the page number, flipping to it quickly.
His eyes skimmed the opening paragraphs, detailing the world's general similarities to Earth—technology, culture, geography—but they froze when they landed on a bolded line:
1939: Adolf Hitler personally appoints Frederick Vought as chief physician of the Dachau concentration camp.
The words seemed to leap off the page, each one heavier than the last. Nathan's stomach churned as he read on:
Vought used his position to conduct experiments on human subjects, developing early prototypes of what would later become Compound V. His breakthroughs during this period were instrumental in the creation of enhanced individuals—what the world now refers to as "Super Heroes."
Nathan's hands tightened around the edges of the file. His breath caught in his throat as realization dawned on him, cold and sharp. "No way," he muttered, barely audible.
The woman observed him silently, her expression unreadable.
Nathan looked up at her, his voice trembling. "You're sending me into that world? The Boys?"
She inclined her head slightly, acknowledging his recognition. "Correct. I chose this world for you because I know you are familiar with it."
Nathan let out a sharp, almost hysterical laugh. "Familiar? Yeah, you could say that. A world run by narcissistic, corrupt superheroes and a psychotic, power-hungry corporation? Where normal people are cannon fodder unless they're hopped up on Compound V? Fantastic. Why not just drop me into a Disney movie instead?"
Her lips twitched faintly, though it was not quite a smile. "I chose this world for a reason, Nathan. It is chaotic, yes, but it is also ripe for change. And you, as an outsider, are uniquely positioned to influence that change."
Nathan closed the file and set it on the desk, rubbing his temples. "You've got to be kidding me. How am I supposed to do anything in a world like that? I'm not a superhero. Hell, I'm not even a sidekick!"
Her gaze sharpened. "That is where you are mistaken. You will not be entering unprepared, Nathan. I have already told you—each recruit is granted a boon tailored to their mission. Yours will give you the tools necessary to navigate this world and succeed."
Nathan sighed, staring at the folder as if it might bite him. "So, let me guess. I'm supposed to fight the Supes, expose Vought, and save the world? Just another temp job, right?"
The woman's expression softened, though her tone remained firm. "What you do with your opportunities is up to you. I am merely opening the door. Whether you walk through it, and what you do on the other side, is entirely your choice."
Nathan sat back, the weight of her words settling over him. The room felt colder now, the fluorescent lights too bright. "This is insane," he muttered, shaking his head. "Absolutely insane."
"It often is," she said simply. "But the multiverse is rarely boring."
Nathan exhaled slowly, forcing himself to calm down. His hands relaxed slightly on the arms of the chair. "Okay. Deep breaths. No need to be a lizard again," he muttered under his breath.
The woman observed him with faint amusement but said nothing.
After a moment, Nathan spoke up. "So, I take it you're going to make me a Supe?"
Her lips curved into a small smile. "Even better," she said.
Reaching into her desk again, she pulled out three sheets of paper, each slightly thicker than the others he'd handled. She placed them in front of him in a neat stack. "You will have a choice, Nathan. These are your options."
Nathan picked up the first sheet, and scanned the page. His eyes widened as he read:
Power Set 1: The Man of Steel
Super Strength
Flight
Heat Vision
Super Speed
Invulnerability
Self-sustenance
Regeneration
"All of Superman's powers?" Nathan muttered. "No weaknesses? No Kryptonite?"
The woman nodded. "Correct. A power set of immense potential."
Flying through the skies, stopping bullets, and outpacing anyone—yeah, that'd be hard to beat, he thought.
Nathan set the first sheet aside and reached for the second. His brows furrowed as he read:
Power Set 2: The Genius of Stark
Complete technical knowledge and genius of MCU's Tony Stark, up to the events of Endgame.
Access to all his designs, including the Iron Man suits, nanotechnology, and energy systems.
The ability to recreate and improve upon any of his inventions.
Nathan's heart raced slightly. "You're telling me I could build a suit like Tony Stark's from scratch? Or better?"
The woman inclined her head. "That is correct."
Building an Iron Man suit, improving it, and taking down Vought with tech alone? That'd be... something, he thought, a flicker of excitement sparking within him.
He swallowed hard, placing the second sheet beside the first. His fingers trembled slightly as he picked up the third page.
Power Set 3: The Wizard's Legacy
Mastery of Harry Potter-style magic.
Knowledge of all spells in that universe, with the ability to cast them wandlessly.
A personal pocket dimension containing magical plants and creatures, which you can access at will.
Nathan's eyes widened. "This is... this is insane. Wandless magic? All the spells?"
The woman remained silent, watching him with calm patience.
Forget brute force or tech—magic's got versatility. I could teleport, create shields, or just charm Vought into eating itself alive.
He set the third sheet down, staring at the three pages spread out before him. "You're really just letting me pick one?"
"Yes," she said simply. "Each is powerful in its own way, tailored to different strengths and approaches. However, you may only choose one."
Nathan stared at the options, his mind racing. Superman's powers would make me invincible. I could stand up to anyone in that world, even Homelander. But Tony Stark's knowledge... I could build a legacy, and become untouchable in a completely different way. And magic? That's like an all-access pass to power, with a side of creativity.
His fingers drummed on the desk. The silence pressed down on him as he mulled it over.
"Is this a test?" he asked finally, his voice cautious.
The woman's expression didn't change. "It is a reflection, Nathan. The choice says as much about you as the power itself."
Nathan groaned inwardly, his eyes flicking between the pages. "Right. Of course it is."
The woman said nothing, simply waiting as Nathan wrestled with his decision.
Nathan leaned back, staring at the three pages in front of him as his mind raced. Each option had its merits, but as he thought about how they'd fit into The Boys universe, some choices began to stand out—or fall short.
Superman's powers were, admittedly, the simplest. Invincible, unstoppable, able to take on anyone in the world without breaking a sweat. "The whole 'punch first, ask questions later' thing," he muttered to himself. It was tempting, especially the mental image of socking Homelander right in his smug, psychotic face. But as satisfying as that might be, Nathan knew it wasn't practical.
One person, even invincible, can only be in one place at a time. And what then? Fight the entire country into submission? Force Vought into dissolving with brute strength? Homelander's a symptom, not the cause. Vought is the real enemy, and this kind of power doesn't exactly lend itself to stealth or subtlety.
Besides, he'd never really enjoyed being the frontline fighter. In games, he was always the strategist or the support, someone who worked behind the scenes to keep the whole group running smoothly. A warrior archetype didn't suit him at all. Superman's powers were amazing, but they didn't feel... right.
He turned his attention to the other two options. Wizard magic seemed like a much better fit for what the world needed—and for his style. Teleportation, Invisibility, Shape-shifting, even a personal pocket dimension. That kind of power could handle espionage, infiltration, and sabotage with ease. Reparo alone could fix the collateral damage Supes tended to leave in their wake. Healing spells? A no-brainer.
But there were drawbacks. Supes in The Boys could hit with the force of an anti-tank round and move at supersonic speeds. Wizards, no matter how powerful, were still just people. And the Killing Curse? Not much good if Homelander sees it coming and dodges at Mach-whatever. Durability and speed were glaring weaknesses. Against Vought's top-tier Supes, magic might not be enough.
That left Iron Man. Nathan's eyes lingered on the second sheet. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Iron Man's tech can replicate a lot of powers—flight, strength, shields—and I wouldn't even have to be in the fight personally. I could build drones, automate things, and work from behind the scenes.
The armour had been able to injure Thanos, someone easily stronger than Homelander. And Tony Stark wasn't just a fighter—he was a builder, a creator. His designs had the potential to outlast him and spread across the world. That was the key.
Nathan's gaze flicked to the woman. Prevention of entropy. That's her goal. She wants me to affect the entire world. Superman's powers couldn't spread without, what, having a kid? Wizard magic had longevity with the plants and creatures, but it would be hit-or-miss in the long run. But Iron Man's knowledge? Advanced tech could advance all of humanity. It's replicable and scalable. It solves problems on a global level.
His thoughts crystallized. It's not about being the strongest. It's about creating something that lasts.
Nathan took a breath and leaned forward. He tapped the Iron Man paper, sliding it across the desk. "This one," he said firmly. Let's see if I'm right.
The woman's faint smile widened, ever so slightly. "Interesting choice," she said, retrieving the other two pages and setting them aside. "I had a feeling you might choose this."
Nathan narrowed his eyes. "Was it a test?"
The woman folded her hands neatly on the desk, her gaze steady. "It was a reflection, Nathan. Your choice speaks volumes about you—and about what you might achieve."
Nathan wasn't sure if he felt reassured or uneasy. "So... what happens now?"
Her smile lingered, enigmatic as ever. "Now? We prepare you for what comes next."
She raised her hand, the gesture calm and practiced.
Before Nathan could react, she snapped her fingers.
A sharp, electric jolt surged through his body, locking him in place. He gasped or tried to, but no sound came out. His limbs wouldn't respond, his chest felt tight, and his head began to throb.
"What the—" he managed to choke out before the pain hit.
It started as a dull ache behind his eyes, but it quickly grew sharper, hotter, like someone was driving molten needles straight into his brain. Flashes of light, blueprints, equations, and schematics exploded in his mind.
Arc reactors. Energy matrices. Armour calibration systems. Nanotechnology.
The images came faster, layering over each other like an endless flood. He could feel the weight of it pressing down on him—every calculation, every failure, every hard-earned solution Tony Stark had ever devised, cramming itself into his skull.
The pain was relentless. It wasn't just the knowledge—it was the experience. He felt the hours of trial and error, the frustrations, the breakthroughs, the euphoria of success. It was all there, condensed and forced into his consciousness.
Mark I blueprints. A cave. Sparks flying as crude tools shaped metal.
Mark XLII diagnostics. The feeling of falling as the suit disassembled mid-flight.
The Bleeding Edge suit. Its nanotech swarming to form armour faster than thought.
Nathan's body strained against the paralysis as his mind burned with the sheer intensity of it. He wanted to scream, but his throat wouldn't cooperate. The pain ebbed for a moment, only for another wave of knowledge to hit him.
He saw formulas for weapons systems, designs for AI protocols, and the intricate details of repulsor tech. Stark's memories, his genius, his life's work—it all pounded into Nathan's mind like a battering ram.
His vision blurred as tears streamed down his face. He couldn't tell how long it lasted—seconds, minutes, hours? Time lost all meaning in the onslaught.
Finally, the flood slowed, the torrent of information trickling into stillness. The pain lingered, a dull, throbbing reminder of what he had endured, but Nathan could breathe again. He gasped for air, his body trembling as the paralysis faded.
"Wha..." His voice cracked, his throat raw. "What the hell was that?"
The woman's expression remained calm, almost serene. "The knowledge of Tony Stark, integrated directly into your mind. Painful, yes, but efficient. You now possess everything he knew, exactly as he did."
Nathan clutched his head, his fingers digging into his scalp as he tried to process the torrent of information swirling in his brain. "Efficient? That felt like being hit by a freight train of science!"
Her tone was unmoved. "You will adapt. The pain will fade, but the knowledge will remain."
Nathan's breathing slowed as he steadied himself. He glanced up at her, his eyes bloodshot but burning with determination. "You couldn't have warned me?"
She tilted her head slightly, the faintest hint of amusement in her eyes. "Would it have made a difference?"
Nathan groaned, slumping back in the chair. The weight of what he now carried pressed against his thoughts, a constant buzz of data and designs. Despite the pain, despite the overwhelming nature of it, a part of him marvelled at the possibilities.
"Fine," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "What's next?"
The woman's smile returned, serene and mysterious. "Now, we send you to your new world."
Nathan's world faded to black.
Mercer Hospital, New York
December 1, 1996
Dr. James Whitaker, the leading obstetrician at Mercer Hospital, walked briskly down the bustling hallway, a clipboard in hand. The fluorescent lights above flickered slightly, casting a sterile glow on the pristine white walls. His eyes scanned the lab results clipped to his board, brow furrowed in concentration. Another routine day, another set of patients and expectant mothers to check on.
As he passed the nurses' station, one of the new interns flagged him down. "Dr. Whitaker, Mrs. Johnson's back. Another case of Braxton Hicks contractions," she informed him, a hint of sympathy in her voice.
Dr. Whitaker stopped, a warm, reassuring smile spreading across his face. "Ah, Mrs. Johnson. She's been in here quite a bit lately," he said, glancing briefly at the clock on the wall. "Just remind her to stay hydrated and rest as much as she can. It's common for first-time mothers to be alarmed by these false contractions. Tell her she's in good hands, and if the pain becomes rhythmic or more intense, we'll see her again. But for now, encourage her to take it easy."
The intern nodded, visibly relieved by his calm and confident demeanour. "Thank you, Doctor. I'll make sure to tell her."
With a nod and a quick pat on her shoulder, Dr. Whitaker continued down the hall, then turned into one of the hospital's less-used corridors. As he approached a door marked "Security," he subtly glanced around to ensure the hallway was clear. Satisfied that no one was watching, he entered the door code and held up his badge to the electronic lock. It flashed green, and he slipped inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.
Inside, the room was dimly lit, a stark contrast to the bright hospital corridors. The room was filled with monitoring equipment, giving it the feel of a high-tech surveillance operation. A large screen dominated one wall, displaying live footage of a delivery room where a woman, Mrs. Greene, was about to give birth, attended by another obstetrician and a nurse. Next to the screen, away from the corridor entrance, was what looked like a secured vault door. It led directly into the delivery room but was hidden from the other side.
Two other people were already inside the room. Dr. Laura Kim, another obstetrician from the hospital, sat by the monitors, her expression focused and serious. Near the entrance stood a security guard, surprisingly well-armed for a hospital setting. He had a Glock holstered at his side, alongside a taser and knives strapped to his belt. He stood near a weapons rack holding other items like a net launcher and a ballistic shield.
Dr. Whitaker's friendly facade melted away, replaced by a cold, calculating expression. He set down his clipboard and held out a hand as he addressed Dr. Kim, his voice now clipped and professional. "Dr. Kim, the file on Mrs. Greene, please."
Dr. Kim handed over a sealed file, her eyes never leaving the screen. "These are the latest results, including the amniocentesis and latest ultrasound. We're monitoring for any anomalies caused by the prenatal Compound V injections."
Whitaker took the file and quickly scanned the contents, noting the flagged indicators and subtle changes. His eyes narrowed slightly as he processed the information. "This is consistent with what we've observed in similar cases. There aren't any obvious deviations; nothing to indicate what we'll be dealing with this time."
The security guard, standing by the weapons rack, watched the exchange silently. His presence was a stark reminder of the precautions in place, prepared for scenarios far beyond the norm of typical hospital security concerns.
Whitaker glanced at the large screen, where Mrs. Greene was breathing heavily, her face contorted in pain. "Let's hope this is one of the more normal ones," he muttered. "We don't want another laser cesarean."
Dr. Kim shuddered, her expression grim. "Those ones are always such a pain to clean up."
With another look at the screen, Whitaker's demeanour shifted back to his usual professional calm. "Let's just keep everything under control. We can't afford any complications at this stage."
He placed the file above the control panel next to his clipboard and sat down beside Dr. Kim to continue monitoring the delivery room.