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A Rider Kick in Marvel Rewrite Ch 36
🕑 Added 2025-03-08 14:09:22 +0000 UTCTony's eyes flickered open, consciousness slowly returning. The darkness pressed against him, thick and oppressive. Unfamiliar sounds echoed around him—the distant drip of water, the low hum of machinery, and a soft, steady breathing nearby.
Pain radiated through his body. Every muscle screamed with each slight movement. A figure shifted in the shadows, and a voice spoke softly.
"Do not move," the voice warned. "You will injure yourself further."
Tony turned his head, squinting through the dim light. A man sat nearby, watching him with careful, compassionate eyes. Something about the man seemed foreign, yet strangely familiar.
His gaze dropped to his own chest. Bandages covered a section of his torso, with thick wires snaking out from beneath the white fabric. A car battery sat nearby, connected to the wires with a makeshift arrangement that looked more like survival than medical precision.
Curiosity and panic began to rise within him. Without thinking, Tony's hands moved to the bandages. His fingers gripped the edges, pulling them away with a sudden, desperate motion.
Beneath the bandages, something was attached to his chest.
Tony's hand traced the metallic device embedded in his chest, a cold panic rising in his
"I saved your life."
The words hung in the air between them. Tony's mind raced, fragments of memory surfacing like broken glass. "What happened?"
"Tell me what you remember,"
Tony's voice was hoarse. "I was doing a weapons demonstration. My Jericho Missiles. We were driving through the desert in Afghanistan." His eyes narrowed, focusing on a distant memory. "There was an attack. Suddenly..."
His breath caught. "One of my own missiles. It exploded near me."
Tony's hand trembled as the scientist explained his condition. The man's eyes were calm, clinical, almost detached as he described the severity of Tony's wounds.
"The shrapnel is embedded deep in your chest," he said. "I've removed what I could, but many fragments remain."
Tony tried to focus, to understand the gravity of his situation. The scientist's hands moved methodically, adjusting the electromagnetic device on Tony's chest.
"These wounds... I've seen them before," the scientist continued. "In my country, in war zones. We have a term for men like you." He paused, his voice carrying a weight of experience. "The walking dead."
A chill ran through Tony's body. "Walking dead?"
"It takes approximately one week," the scientist explained. "The metal fragments will slowly migrate toward your vital organs. Without this device," he tapped the metallic contraption in Tony's chest, "you would not survive."
The room felt suddenly smaller. Tony could feel the weight of those words, the fragility of his existence hanging by the thin thread of this makeshift technology. The scientist's matter-of-fact tone did nothing to soften the brutal reality of his diagnosis.
The sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the metal chamber. Tony tensed, his eyes darting toward the scientist, who gestured subtly for him to remain calm and follow his lead. The massive steel doors creaked open, revealing a group of armed Afghan men, their weapons glinting in the dim light.
Tony's breath caught in his throat. He recognized those weapons instantly - they were Stark Industries models, weapons he had designed and manufactured. The irony was not lost on him. Weapons he had created were now pointed directly at him.
The leader stepped forward, his weathered face etched with a mixture of contempt and calculated intensity. He spoke rapidly in Dari, his words sharp and rhythmic. The scientist beside Tony listened intently, then turned to translate.
"Welcome, Tony Stark, the most famous mass murderer in America," he said, his voice neutral. "He is honored."
The words hung in the air, heavy with accusation and bitter irony. Tony felt the weight of those words press against his chest, more suffocating than the shrapnel threatening his heart.
The leader's words cut through the tension-filled room. His translator conveyed the demand: build the Jericho missile. Tony Stark's eyes narrowed, his mind racing but his exterior remaining defiant.
"Not gonna happen," Tony said firmly.
The men's faces darkened. In an instant, they seized him. Strong hands gripped his arms, dragging him toward a large water basin. Tony struggled, but the men were too powerful. They plunged his head underwater, holding him down. Seconds stretched into an eternity of suffocation.
They pulled him up, Tony gasping and coughing. Water streamed down his face, his breath ragged. Before he could recover, they dragged him again, this time outside into the harsh sunlight.
The car battery—his lifeline—was roughly pulled along with him, its cables stretching as Tony was forced to move. His chest burned from the earlier drowning, each breath a struggle.
As his vision cleared, Tony saw something that made his blood run cold. Stacked around him were countless wooden crates. Each bore the distinctive Stark Industries logo. Weapons. His weapons. Manufactured by his own company, now surrounding him like silent accusers.
The crates stretched in neat rows, a testament to the global reach of Stark Industries' arms trade. Tony recognized some of the designs—missiles, rocket launchers, advanced weaponry that he had once proudly developed.
Now they seemed to mock him, these metal and wood containers filled with instruments of destruction that bore his family's name.
"You have one week to build the Jericho missile for us. All the materials have been gathered. Once the missile is complete, we will set you free."
Tony's heart sank, but he knew he had no choice. He shook the leader's hand, feeling the calloused grip of a merciless killer. They both understood the truth—even if Tony complied, they would still kill him at the end of the week.
As they walked deeper into the cave, Tony's gaze fell upon a flickering fireplace. He stared into the dancing flames, his mind racing with the gravity of his situation.
The scientist sat beside Tony, "What you saw is your legacy, your life's work in the hands of those murderers."
Tony thought back to the crates, neatly stacked and branded with the Stark Industries logo. These were his creations, his inventions—weapons designed to protect and defend. But now they were being used to terrorize and destroy by the very people he had sought to stop.
The realization was like a punch to the gut. His life's work, his legacy, had been corrupted and twisted into something horrific. The blood of innocent people stained his hands, even if he had never pulled the trigger himself.
Anger and shame welled up within him, battling for dominance. How could he have been so blind, so arrogant to think that his weapons would only be used for good? The hooded man was right—this was his legacy, a legacy of death and destruction.
"What are you going to do now?"
Tony's shoulders slump. "Why should I do anything? They're going to kill me, you, either way. And if they don't, I'll probably be dead in a week."
"Well, then, this is a very important week for you, isn't it? Or is this the last defiance of the great Tony Stark?"
The words cut through Tony's despair. His eyes drift to the collection of weapons surrounding them in the cave. Something stirs in his memory - the image of an armored warrior he'd been investigating before his capture. Kuuga. The mysterious figure who fought with enhanced strength and durability.
Tony's mind kicks into overdrive. If that warrior could fight in armor, then maybe... His gaze sweeps across the missile components strewn about the cave. With the right materials, the right design, he could build something similar. Not just armor, but a weapon. A means of escape.
His fingers start twitching, already sketching invisible blueprints in the air. The arc reactor technology could power it. The missiles' metal casings could form the shell. He could build something that would let them fight their way out.
Tony pushes himself up from his cot, new purpose flooding through him. He grabs a pen and paper and starts designing his plan to escape.
