Radioactive | Bucky Barnes

IRON MAN: CHAPTER ELEVEN

Tony, on the other hand, had gotten the worst of the explosion.

Pain pulsed through him, sharp and hot and constant. His chest felt like it was caving in. When he came to, he was flat on his back in a dimly lit room that smelled like smoke and metal and something burnt.

There was a man there. Not a soldier, not a guard. Just a man with kind, weathered eyes and steady hands.

"What... what did you do to me?" Tony rasped, wincing as he tried to move.

The man — Yinsen — looked at him calmly. "What did I do? I saved your life."

He picked up a small glass jar and tossed it toward Tony. The jar hit his stomach and rolled onto the dirt floor. Tony looked down.

Inside were fragments of jagged metal — twisted and blood-streaked, like deadly little Christmas tree barbs. A terrible familiarity sank into him. He recognized the shape. The design. His design.

"I removed what I could," Yinsen said. "But there's still shrapnel. Heading for your heart. Slowly."

Tony's breath caught.

"I've seen wounds like this before, back in my village," Yinsen continued. "We called them the Walking Dead. Because it takes a week. Maybe less. The barbs move inward. They never stop."

He gestured toward Tony's chest — the faint hum and glow beneath his torn shirt. "I rigged a magnetic field to a battery. It's keeping the shrapnel in place... for now."

Tony forced himself upright, teeth grit against the fire in his ribs. That's when he noticed the camera. Watching. Recording. He glared straight at it. "That's just great," he muttered. "Smile for the fans."

"You don't remember me, do you?" Yinsen asked after a pause. "We met once. Technical conference in Bern."

Tony squinted at him. "No offense, but I was drunk for most of the '90s. And the early 2000s."

"If I had been that drunk," Yinsen replied dryly, "I wouldn't have been able to stand. Much less give a lecture on integrated circuits."

Tony didn't laugh.

His voice turned sharp. "Where are we?"

Before Yinsen could answer, a metal slat in the door slammed open. A pair of dark eyes stared in from behind the bars. Yinsen stiffened.

"Get up," he whispered. "Do what I do. Now."

Tony tried to rise, but his body didn't cooperate. His arms barely moved. Yinsen stepped in, helping him to his feet, raising Tony's arms with his own. "Whatever they ask," he murmured urgently, "you must refuse. Do you understand? No matter what — refuse."

The heavy door creaked open, and Abu Bakar entered with two armed guards. He wore arrogance like a crown and moved like he owned the world.

He approached slowly, looking Tony over like an animal up for auction.

"Welcome, Tony Stark, the greatest mass murderer in American history. It is an honor."

Tony stared. He didn't understand Arabic — not a word of it. But the tone said enough.

Yinsen translated, his voice a shade colder. "He says: welcome, Tony Stark. The greatest mass murderer in American history. It is an honor."

Abu held out a photo — grainy, but clear. The Jericho missile. Stark's missile. The missile.

"I want you to build this," he said.

Yinsen didn't need to translate that part. But he did anyway.

Tony looked between the photo, Abu, and the camera. Then said, flatly, "No."