The Weight of a Name

Nia

The tower was too clean. Too polished. Too… artificial.

She had spent years in concrete walls, underground labs, and dimly lit cells. Even after she escaped, she never stayed anywhere long—burner apartments, rooftops, places that weren't hers. This place? It was a monument to a world that had moved on without her.

She didn't belong here.

The others treated her like she was made of glass. Natasha's eyes studied her like she was a puzzle to solve. Steve gave her space, too polite to ask questions. Sam was easier, warmer, trying to make her laugh. But the worst was Pietro.

Pietro looked at her. Like he understood. Like he saw the way her hands curled into fists when someone moved too fast, how she always positioned herself near exits. Like he noticed the way she didn't call Tony dad.

She wasn't ready for that.

--

She thought that was it. That he'd let her walk away.

Instead, he asked, voice gentler than she had ever heard it, "Wanna see her?"

Nia blinked. "See who?"

Tony stood slowly, not meeting her eyes. "You."

She hesitated. Her instincts screamed at her to say no. She didn't need this—whatever it was. But something in his voice, in the way his shoulders slumped like a man haunted, made her nod.

So she followed him.

They descended through the tower's levels in silence, into a room colder and quieter than the rest. It was full of humming machinery, deep-blue monitors, and a hush that reminded her of tombs. The door sealed behind them with a whisper.

Tony walked over to the control panel, fingers moving like he'd done this a thousand times. Maybe he had.

A hologram flickered to life in the center of the room.

It was her.

Not as she was now, not the damaged version Hydra had left behind—but as she might have been. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Long, wild hair. A slight tilt to the head that screamed curiosity. And eyes—clear, unburdened, hopeful.

The AI turned, as if she had been waiting. "Hi, Dad."

Tony's voice caught. "Hey, kid."

Nia couldn't breathe.

The projection moved, smiled, laughed at a joke Tony didn't tell. She watched it say things it had probably said a hundred times. Maybe thousands.

"This is…" Her throat closed. "You built this."

He nodded without looking at her. "I needed something. Anything. I couldn't remember how your voice sounded. Couldn't remember if your laugh had a rasp. So I fed everything into the system—pictures, home videos, genetic predictions. I let FRIDAY run simulations. Then I… made her grow up."

"You aged me."

"I didn't want to," he said quietly. "I had to. Every year, every birthday, I let the AI age with you. I didn't want to imagine the girl I lost. I wanted to know who she could've been."

He pulled up another screen—photos, hundreds of them, maybe thousands. Birthday parties. Christmas mornings. Her asleep on his chest as a toddler. Stark smiling like a man who thought nothing could ever go wrong.

Nia stared at one of them. She was maybe four, wearing red boots that were clearly too big, standing on a workshop table with a wrench in hand and a determined glare.

"I remember that day," Tony murmured, eyes fixed on the image. "You wanted to fix the microwave because it made a weird noise. I said no. You did it anyway. You fried the circuit board, but you also disarmed the timer override. You were four."

"I don't remember any of this." Her voice was shaking.

"That's okay," he said. "I never forgot a second."

Video footage played next. A grainy clip—him filming her giggling as she splashed water on a robot vacuum, yelling, 'It's scared of the water!' The camera jostled as he laughed.

"You used to give Dum-E heart attacks on a daily basis," Tony said, lips twitching. "You'd pretend to fall off counters just to see if he'd catch you in time."

"I did that?"

"Every Thursday."

She stared at the screen. The AI turned again, this time saying something new: "You miss me?"

Nia flinched.

Tony looked away. "I programmed her to ask that sometimes. I thought if I heard it enough, I'd stop falling apart."

Silence filled the space between them, heavier than before.

"I'm not her," Nia whispered.

"I know."

"Do you?"

He turned then, eyes shining. "I know you're not the girl in that hologram. She never knew pain. Never knew what it meant to survive what you did. But that doesn't mean I don't see you. The real you."

She blinked fast, forcing the tears back.

"She's… perfect," Nia said.

Tony shook his head. "She's not. She's made of guesses. You're made of scars. I'll take the real one every time."

Nia finally looked at the AI again.

Then back at him.

And this time—just this once—she didn't feel like a ghost.