Maybe Space Isn't So Bad

Tony Stark; visionary, genius, American patriot. Even from an early age, the son of legendary weapons developer Howard Stark quickly stole the spotlight with his brilliant and unique mind. At age four, he built his first circuit board.

At age six, his first engine. And at 17, he graduated summa cum laude from MIT. Then, the passing of a titan. Howard Stark's lifelong friend and ally, Obadiah Stane, steps in to help fill the gap left by the legendary founder, until, at age 21, the prodigal son returns and is anointed the new CEO of Stark Industries.

With the keys to the kingdom, Tony ushers in a new era for his father's legacy, creating smarter weapons, advanced robotics, satellite targeting.

Today, Tony Stark has changed the face of the weapons industry by ensuring freedom and protecting America and her interests around the globe.

Tony scoffs, kicking his foot against the rough metal of the windowsill.

Ensuring freedom and protecting America. He let his head fall back even more, his greasy, matted hair making an echoing "thud" on the thin metal wall behind him.

Two weeks he had been on this dreadful ship. Two weeks of a knawing rawness in his stomach. Two weeks of burning, sandpaper throat. He now knows nothing has ever been as bad as this.

Afganistan had been awful. Given him irreversible PTSD, but there was something inexplicably different about this time. Yinsen had told him with his dying breath

"Don't waste your life," and to hell, if he didn't give it a goddamn try.

No, this was nothing like Afganistan, with the unforgiving desert blaze sending streams of sweat down his back with water he couldn't spare. He had had no one, not a soul who cared about him or what happened. He would have been a tabloid frenzy for a week, and some of his loyal fans would mourn for a while longer, but he was always a burden on Rhodie anyway, and Pepper, well she could always find another job. With her dazzling crystal eyes and wistful red hair, she would have no trouble finding another job, even if she had said she hated job hunting.

Now look at him, the great Tony Stark sitting on a dully painful metal grate in the middle of space. He would have laughed at his misfortune. His never-ending nightmares about the dark abyss of space. When the portal would suck every ounce of life from him while the white in his eyes drifted away and his lungs caved in on themselves. He supposed he got what was coming to him, leading a life of destruction in his wake. Whether it be Sokovia or all the weapons he sold, and now...

He fought the shudder that pounded in his veins by stiffening like a wooden board. He tried to clench his fist, but it was too weak to grip, his bones unmoving as if an elastic band held them back.

He hated his father. For giving him Stark industries. For allowing him to be rich enough to create the Iron man suit.

He hated that too, the suit. He hated it's obnoxious red and flashy gold. He drooped his head on the wall slightly enough so the shredded helmet was in his view. It was a miserable thing, that only brought him pain and suffering.

He hated the world, and whatever controlled it. Frankly, he didn't care if it was a god, or math, or the all-consuming fate of randomness. He hated Steve Rogers, for being so god damn righteous that he made Tony drag a charming, naive, chestnut-haired boy into a battle, who he wished he never met.

He hated his captors in Afganistan for being stupid enough to let him live. He hated Rhodie, for acting so stubborn that he had wedged himself in as a friend. He hated that he ever got an assistant. A wonderful, beautiful assistant that he wished he hadn't fallen in love with.