"A partner?" he asked again.
"That's right," Stark eagerly nodded, glad that his proposal would at least be heard. "Let's be honest. Vic, you're a great ripperdoc, but as a private entrepreneur, you're terrible. I made some inquiries—a former solo who almost made it to the top league but turned away after an injury. Moreover, a full-fledged mercenary squad commander, famous for minimal losses, even at the cost of mission completion. You settled in your hometown, opened a clinic, bought equipment and a place with your savings, and started practicing quietly... but what's the result?"
"A quiet old age and a clear conscience," he answered honestly.
"That was a rhetorical question," Stark winced. "And you're evading. A quiet old age? You get threats almost regularly, including from particularly stupid and brazen newcomers. You're protected from experienced street rats, but the young ones are hopelessly stupid, overconfident, and don't know the lay of the land—you know it, I know it, your clients know it, but either can't or won't help. I'm more than sure you've got a gun hidden under the table or chair, ready to pull it out at any moment if a mob of drugged-up marginals bursts in. But okay, let's say you're willing to live like that—though the question is how long your nerves will hold out, but let's say. But that doesn't change your financial situation, Vic."
"I'm fine financially."
"And that's exactly why you're renting out a full-fledged space to a young girl with questionable income, your clinic is in a basement, and some of your equipment remembers the First Corporate War. Vic, I'm an engineer—I know what patched-up, assembled-from-different-parts equipment sounds like, and half of yours is like that. And given your character, I sincerely doubt you'd skimp on patients' health by working with outdated equipment. And how long can you live like that without yielding to gangs or corps?"
"Let's say... let's say you're right," the ripperdoc nodded, not hiding his wince at what was said.
Vic's affairs were indeed going badly, slowly but surely leading him to bankruptcy. Though Stark was exaggerating by calling Vic a bad businessman, the principles of a man beaten by life were stronger than his fear of poverty and thirst for money. After all, the dominance of black ripperdocs, who didn't shy away from all sorts of things with their clients, had its objective reasons—wild taxes and a terrible city accounting system that forced private practitioners to either resort to outright dirty methods or sell their souls to corporate medical clinic networks, where former owners didn't dare move a finger for fear of being kicked out of their own clinics. Victor Vector, in fact, was doomed in this system—a cog refusing to play by its rules, whose fate was to be chewed up and spat out... or to start playing by its rules. Everything Tony said was true; the only thing he didn't know was how long Vic could hold out in such a position. And he could hold out for a long time, literally clinging to his freedom with his teeth for years.
"But what does that change? Your offer is exactly the same as any other offer from tattooed freaks or soulless suits."
"At first glance, you're right," Tony easily agreed. "But only at first glance." And here, Tony hesitated. He wasn't sure if he should share what was on his mind. He hadn't shared it with anyone simply because modern people wouldn't be able to understand his torment, long since become something naturally nauseating. "In short... I want to burn this city down. I want all those who drove its inhabitants to such a bestial state to burn in their homes with their families. I want fire to scorch this plague from the face of the planet and allow something new to grow from the resulting ashes—something that will be BETTER than what exists."
Silence hung in the room. Stark waited for his interlocutor's reaction. The roguish smile had disappeared from his face, the gleam of a self-confident bastard had vanished from his eyes, and his lips were pressed into a stubborn thin line. All of this radically changed Stark's image from a carefree joker to a man full of dark determination, ready for anything for his goal. But the main thing wasn't even that, but the voice—the tone with which Tony spoke his words. It seemed like a short sentence, beginning and ending in a few pitiful seconds, whose echo forever faded in the basement clinic of a ripperdoc slowly sinking into debt—but in them was so much malice, so much heartfelt hatred and quietly smoldering embers of a fiery storm that Victor, a man who had seen all kinds of crap in his life and even committed some of it, was chilled to goosebumps. Tony... Tony had grown up in a different world, a different time, much more prosperous than this one, where people were people, where the word "Human" sounded proudly, and the people themselves thrived despite all adversities. But this life... this existence, where he was just a powerless observer, unable to do anything, slowly eroded his mental restraints. Tony Stark was a hero. He is far from Thor's power, Steve's moral fortitude, Natasha's combat skills, or Clint's talents. If any of them were in his place, they would rush into battle without hesitation, exterminate all the filth that had ended up in human bodies by a twist of fate. Thor could clean up all this filth alone, gather new people around him, and purify society. Steve would raise a revolution from below and lead people into battle against the broken system and the elites who brought everything to the current situation. Natasha would slowly and methodically gather information, pitting the powerful against each other, forcing them to crush each other in covert struggles. Clint would find someone who knew what to do and protect them on that path. Tony, however...
Tony always thought big. If his friends were tacticians, Stark was a strategist. They were used to solving problems here and now; he tried to look ahead and prevent those problems in the bud. But now his methods simply didn't work—he wasn't big enough to influence even a city, let alone the whole world, which... was very hard for the active Stark. He tried not to show it, but working for the Moxes was frankly repulsive to him. He had no particular complaints about the girls themselves—he had seen enough to understand their situation and that they were just playing the cards life had dealt them, while still holding onto some moral compass. But the system itself... that damned system again. Stark wasn't a coward, and certainly not weak, but he was frankly uncomfortable when he inspected the gang's enterprises. If he could still handle the bars, the brothels... young girls who still had their whole lives ahead of them walked with empty eyes through the dilapidated, filthy corridors. Many had track marks on their veins; others had breath that clearly reeked of rotting organs. But the worst were the last ones—young mothers with pregnant bellies or infants in their arms, not because their mothers wanted them, but because they simply didn't have the money for the appropriate pills or implants. Those places, reeking of smoke, cheap booze, and lust, were not meant for children. They should NEVER be in such establishments... but they appeared there. Worst of all, they were born and lived there because their mothers had no home of their own and lived at work, selling themselves 24/7.
Tony had always been different from his Avengers comrades. He was... weaker. They did what they did out of duty, because it was right, because no one but them could do what they did, no one else had the strength to stand against all the horrors that regularly attacked humanity. Tony, however... Tony lived on credit, and his deeds were a cry of conscience. They were all like that from the start, raised that way, but he was reforged in captivity, from the fire of fear, wounded pride, and the sacrifice of a man who saved his life. His friends had no doubts, no PTSD, no clear understanding of the difference between their strength and others'. They were always ready to fight without thinking about defeat, while Tony tried to lay down straw. And not because they were stupid or overconfident, but because they weren't afraid to die for a just cause, confident that in that case, they had done all they could. Stark, however... truly, it's no wonder they say great minds bring great sorrows. Stark couldn't help but think about what would happen if they were defeated, about all the victims and consequences it would bring. He was a creator, a man of thought, desperately trying to step into the shoes of a man of action. And it bore fruit—he changed, bent, groaned under the weight of experienced events, burned out his weakness, ultimately becoming not just Tony Stark, a simple smart guy with a lot of money, but Iron Man, a hero who protected the world and fought gods, demons, aliens, and people whose depravity was no less than the latter. But, finding himself in this world, full of natural evil that simply couldn't be justified in any way, and facing his complete powerlessness before it, he broke again, reforged in the feelings tearing his soul apart.
The death of his parents in another power struggle for a place under the sun, the cost of which was thousands of deaths and tens of thousands of ruined lives.
A daughter sacrificed by her own father.
Children killed simply because it was easier.
Streets where gang laws ruled, doing whatever they pleased.
Girls forced to sell themselves because they simply couldn't earn a living any other way.
And their children, who should have been a source of joy and happiness, the main meaning of life, but who turned out to be unbearable weights on their mothers' legs, dragging them even deeper.
Words couldn't convey the entire range of feelings—from anger turning into hatred, cold rage, and the cutting feeling of powerlessness—that hid behind his usual mask. The last time he felt something similar was in the caves of Afghanistan, wounded by his own weapon and captured by terrorists, but he felt such intensity only when Insy died in his arms—a doctor who saved his life and, over months of captivity, became Stark's true friend. But then that feeling was brief, in the moment, later turning into those moral restraints that allowed Stark to stand against everything, even death. Now... now that feeling constantly smoldered in his soul, giving him no peace. The restraints of self-control allowed him to detach, not to let it influence his thoughts and actions, but that didn't mean he ignored his feelings. At the moment, Stark stood at a crossroads. He equally wanted to walk away from all this, forget, leave it behind, let the powers that be sort out all the stream of problems they had created over decades. Fly to Mars with a handful of chosen ones, build a worthy society of worthy people there—people who would look to the skies and dream of conquering space, not into the ground, wondering where to get money for another dose of stuff that allowed them to detach from all that suffering and life's hardships.
This was the path of Tony Stark. A genius, a billionaire, a playboy, and a philanthropist, but still just a man.
The second path... the second path belonged to Iron Man.
Take power. Drown in blood all those creatures who had brought all of humanity to the brink, made the oceans dead, poisoned the earth, and exterminated almost half of the plant and animal world. Ignite the fire that cleanses the filth and scum, spawn a storm that sweeps away all the modern little kings looking at the world from their pompous corporate towers, kill those who support this broken system on their shoulders—a system that grinds up not just people, but the future of their entire species—for their work. But this was a difficult path, primarily morally. To embody it, Tony... no, Iron Man would have to not just rise to the level of the current world elite, but surpass them, become the worst of the worst, literally grind up his own principles, and completely devote himself to a goal that justified any means. And the scariest thing was the understanding. The understanding that on this path, there were only two possible outcomes. Either someone completely different reached the end—not a man with a genius mind, not a philanthropist and playboy Stark, but Iron Man, completely different from his former self. Or... he would break along the way, putting a bullet in his head because of everything he would do.
For better or worse, Tony could afford to postpone this choice. Without the foundation he was building at the moment, neither option could be realized, so it was limited to his soul-searching with such rare outbursts, and even then, only when it didn't harm the situation.
"Well... now you've got me interested," Vic said, pulling himself together and leaning back in his chair, taking off his glasses and staring into Tony's face. The ripperdoc involuntarily noted that the guy in front of him, not yet thirty, seemed to have aged several years. "I'm listening, Tony. Very carefully."
"Great!" Stark suddenly cheered up and clapped his hands to emphasize his satisfaction, jumping to his feet. However, Vic understood perfectly that he had just put on his usual mask, worn for so long that it had long become part of his essence. And Victor Vector rightly appreciated the act of the Stark who had opened up to him. "Then let's start with the most pleasant—funding!"
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100 power stones= 1 Bonus Chapter
advanced chapters available on{P@treon/Anna_N1}