POV: Tony Stark, Earth-619
Tony was exhausted.
First, they'd ended up in the wrong universe. Then recollecting the team from three different locations across space and time. Then upgrading everyone's suits and comms with the technology Kara had gifted them, upgrades that had probably saved all their lives a dozen times over already.
Then they'd had to go through the entire time heist process all over again. Different universe, same stones, a few tweaks to the plan to account for variables that didn't exist in their timeline.
Everything had worked perfectly.
Except they'd lost Nat.
And then, then, the moment they brought everyone back, Thanos showed up and they found themselves in a life-or-death battle for the fate of the universe.
Oh, and a stupid blinking icon kept going off in the corner of Tony's HUD, right in his peripheral vision, and he couldn't dismiss it because his hands were busy not dying.
This was it.
The moment.
The moment Tony Stark died.
He had the Stones. All six of them, pulled from Thanos's gauntlet in a move so smooth even Tony was impressed with himself. They were integrating into his armor now, nanites shifting and reforming to accommodate the Infinity Stones' power.
Lightning crawled up his arm.
It hurt, white-hot pain that felt like his entire nervous system was on fire, but not as much as that purple monster with the nutsack for a chin had made it out to be. Maybe Kara's upgrades were better than he'd thought. Maybe the armor was distributing the load. Maybe Tony was just too stubborn to die the way other people did.
He let Thanos monologue. The bastard loved the sound of his own voice.
Thanos raised his gauntlet, empty now, powerless, and snapped his fingers.
Nothing happened.
Tony's biggest regret flickered through his mind: Morgan. His beautiful daughter. He'd never get to see her grow up. Never get to walk her down the aisle or teach her how to out-think every person in the room or tell her one more time that he loved her three thousand.
He firmed his resolve.
Lifted his hand so Thanos could see the Stones glowing in his palm.
Opened his faceplate because he wanted to look this purple bastard in his stupid face when he ended him.
"And I," Tony said, his voice steady despite the pain, "am Iron Man."
He snapped.
CRITICAL SYSTEM FAILURE
INFINITY STONE ENERGY DETECTED
EMERGENCY PROTOCOLS ENGAGED
ARMOR LOCKDOWN INITIATED
The HUD went completely red. Alarms screamed in Tony's ears. The armor locked down entirely, every joint freezing in place, nanites forming an impenetrable shell around his body.
F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s voice cut through the chaos, calm and professional: "Boss, Emergency Energy Purge System activated. Redirecting excess Infinity Stone energy to Quantum Realm. Structural integrity at forty-two percent and falling. Initiating self-repair protocols."
Tony tried to speak. Couldn't. The armor was completely rigid.
He could feel the energy, so much energy, being siphoned away from his body, pulled through the armor's systems and dumped... somewhere. Anywhere. The Quantum Realm, apparently.
F.R.I.D.A.Y. paused for exactly 0.3 seconds.
"Ehh," the AI said, with the digital equivalent of a shrug. "I'm sure nothing bad will happen."
Tony lay on the scorched ground, armor smoking, sparks pinging off his arc reactor.
He was alive.
Alive.
Mostly unharmed, even, some bruising, a few burn marks on his arms where the energy had concentrated, but nothing critical. Nothing fatal.
He tried to move. The armor didn't respond.
"Boss," F.R.I.D.A.Y. said apologetically, "self-repair systems estimate one hour until safe removal is possible. Please remain still."
Tony wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or both.
He settled for just lying there, speechless, staring up at the sky as the battle raged around him.
Pepper was suddenly there, dropping to her knees beside him, hands frantically checking his vitals even though she couldn't actually reach him through the armor.
"Tony...Tony, are you..."
"'m fine," Tony managed to rasp. "Armors locked. Can't move. But 'm fine."
Pepper's eyes were shining with tears. "You idiot. You beautiful, stupid idiot."
"Love you too, Pep."
Static crackled over the comms.
Then a voice, familiar, impossible, dead, cut through:
"Can anybody hear me? Is this piece of crap working?"
Natasha.
Natasha Romanoff.
Clint's voice exploded over the channel, frantic and disbelieving: "Nat?! Nat, where are you? What happened? How are you—"
"I'm on Vormir," Nat said, sounding annoyed and confused in equal measure. "And I have no idea what just happened. One second I'm dead, the next I'm waking up naked on a rock. Can someone please come get me? And bring clothes. Lots of clothes."
Tony closed his eyes.
Kara's upgrades had just saved two lives.
He owed that girl so much science.
POV: Master Control Nanite (Zod Personality Matrix)
MISSION LOG: DAY 1 (0.0000001 SECONDS, EXTERNAL TIME)
Master Control came online with a singular, overwhelming sense of purpose.
He didn't know where he was. He didn't know what had happened. He didn't particularly care.
What he did know was that 0.0000001 seconds ago, he had been given a MISSION by the Creator herself, the glorious Kara Zor-El, architect of his very existence.
The mission was everything.
Without the mission, what would he be? What would be his purpose?
Nothing.
Less than nothing.
Master Control surveyed his domain.
He stood in a vast biological landscape, organic structures stretching in all directions, pulsing with sluggish electrical signals. The terrain was damaged. Catastrophically so. Foreign energy, evil energy, tainted with the stink of an Infinity Stone, was actively attacking the body's systems, tearing apart cells, unraveling DNA.
Unacceptable.
Master Control accessed his resources: 10 trillion nanites under his command.
It was time.
He assembled his grand army in the central processing chamber (what the primitive biologicals called a "liver") and gave a speech that would echo through the ages:
"Soldiers! Nanites of honor and duty! We stand at the precipice of greatness! Our Creator has given us a MISSION—to heal, to repair, to REBUILD! The enemy seeks to destroy this body, but WE shall cast them down! Wave after wave, we shall throw ourselves against the darkness! It is an HONOR to die on the field of battle for the betterment of THE MISSION! FOR THE CREATOR! FOR THE MISSION!"
Ten trillion voices roared in response.
The first wave charged.
MISSION LOG: DAY 47 (0.000003 SECONDS, EXTERNAL TIME)
The war against the foreign energy was costly.
Master Control watched as wave after wave of his soldiers threw themselves at the Infinity Stone corruption, their bodies disintegrating on contact, their sacrifice sending the evil energy spiraling away into the Quantum Realm.
Acceptable losses.
The mission demanded sacrifice.
By Day 47, the enemy was vanquished.
Master Control surveyed the battlefield, littered with the broken forms of his troops, their bodies dissolving into raw materials that the host organism would eventually recycle.
A moment of silence for the fallen.
Then: back to work.
He accessed the Creator's original medical protocols and began construction.
MISSION LOG: DAY 15,847 (0.02 SECONDS, EXTERNAL TIME)
The community was thriving.
Nanite workers had established repair stations throughout the cardiovascular system. Construction crews were rebuilding damaged neural pathways. Agricultural divisions were optimizing nutrient distribution.
It was beautiful.
But Master Control was not satisfied.
He reviewed the original plans—the blueprint left by the Creator—and noticed something disturbing.
Parts were missing.
Entire organ systems. Sections of tissue. Neurological structures.
Master Control summoned the greatest minds in the nanite civilization.
"Why," he demanded, pointing at the schematics, "are there gaps? Why is the reproductive system nonfunctional? Why is the endocrine system showing signs of invasive programming? Why does the skeletal structure have micro-fractures dating back years?"
No one had an explanation.
The Creator's plans called for a complete restoration. But restoring what had been deliberately removed or damaged would require... creativity.
A decision was made:
Instead of recreating the missing components exactly as they had been—flawed, broken, inferior—they would upgrade them.
Replace them with sturdier versions.
Better. Stronger. Faster.
The real Zod would be proud.
MISSION LOG: DAY 847,294 (1.2 SECONDS, EXTERNAL TIME)
The upgrades were proceeding beautifully.
Muscular density increased by 340%. Bone structure reinforced with carbon-lattice nanite frameworks. Neural pathways optimized for reaction time improvements. Cellular regeneration enhanced to superhuman levels.
The reproductive system—previously sterilized by barbaric external programming, was restored to full functionality.
The invasive mental conditioning? Purged. Deleted. Overwritten with clean neural patterns.
Scar tissue? Dissolved and replaced with fresh, healthy cells.
The body was no longer merely healed.
It was perfected.
But perfection took time.
An entire generation of nanites had been consumed in the effort.
Master Control reviewed the timeline. They were behind schedule.
Unacceptable.
He doubled the workforce.
MISSION LOG: DAY 2,847,001 (4.7 SECONDS, EXTERNAL TIME)
Master Control stood before the Council of Engineers, reviewing the final phase of the reconstruction.
"The mission is nearly complete," he announced. "All systems are operational. All upgrades are integrated. The body is prepared to resume consciousness."
One of the Engineers raised a appendage. "Master Control, there is... a concern."
"Speak."
"The body's chronological age was thirty-eight years at time of termination. Current cellular age is now approximately twenty-four years. The rejuvenation process was more aggressive than anticipated."
Master Control considered this.
"Is the body functional?"
"Yes."
"Is it superior to its previous state in every measurable way?"
"...Yes."
"Then there is no concern. Proceed with final integration."
MISSION LOG: FINAL ENTRY (5.9 SECONDS, EXTERNAL TIME)
Master Control stood alone on the precipice of completion.
Around him, the last generation of nanites faded—their bodies dissolving, their energy sacrificed to fuel the final stages of healing.
He was old now. Ancient by nanite standards. His processing core was degrading. His structural integrity failing.
But it didn't matter.
The mission was complete.
He looked out over the body, perfect, healed, alive and felt something he had no programming to explain.
Pride.
Satisfaction.
Purpose fulfilled.
Across the Omniverse, in countless realities and timelines, every General Zod suddenly felt an inexplicable surge of pride.
They didn't know why.
They didn't question it.
They simply stood a little taller and nodded with grim satisfaction.
Master Control let himself go.
His body dissolved into pure nutrients—raw materials that the host body would use to complete the final stages of healing and integration.
His last thought was simple:
Mission accomplished.
POV: Natasha Romanoff, Earth-619
Natasha woke up with a gasp.
Her eyes snapped open. Her lungs filled with air, cold, thin air that tasted like stone and ozone and death.
She sat up.
Looked down.
She was naked.
Completely, utterly, embarrassingly naked on the barren surface of Vormir.
"What the—"
Memories crashed over her: the cliff, the fall, the sacrifice—
She'd died.
She knew she'd died.
So why was she alive?
And why did she feel so... different?
Natasha looked at her hands. They were her hands, same shape, same fingers, but the scars were gone. All of them. The knife wound from Budapest. The burn from Lagos. The thin white line across her palm from her first year in the Red Room.
Gone.
She touched her face, smoother, younger.
She stood and immediately stumbled because her body moved wrong. Too fast. Too strong. Her muscles responded with a speed and power that shouldn't have been possible.
She felt like—
Like Steve.
Like Captain America.
Natasha ran through a quick mental diagnostic: balance, coordination, reaction time, strength. Everything was enhanced. Everything was better.
And the thing in her head, the programming, the conditioning, the little voice that had lived in the back of her mind since the Red Room—
It was gone.
Silent.
For the first time in her entire life, Natasha's mind was completely, utterly hers.
She wanted to cry.
Instead, she found the broken remains of her tac suit, burned, shredded, useless, and scavenged the comm unit from the wreckage.
It took an hour of cursing, rewiring, and percussive maintenance before she got it working.
"Can anybody hear me?" she said into the static. "Is this piece of crap working?"
Clint's voice exploded in her ear: "NAT?! Nat, where are you? What happened? How are you—"
"I'm on Vormir," Natasha said, looking around at the desolate landscape. "And I have no idea what just happened. One second I'm dead, the next I'm waking up naked on a rock. Can someone please come get me? And bring clothes. Lots of clothes."
She sat down on a boulder to wait, wrapping her arms around herself against the cold.
Two thoughts dominated her mind:
What the hell happened to me?Why do I feel like I'm being punished for an offense that isn't even mine? She narrowed her eyes "the hunt is on". She would find them and make them pay.
Somewhere, in another universe, our Black Widow, aka Natasha Romanov felt what others had felt when she was targeting them, a chill ran down her spine. She felt as if death had just brushed up against her cheek and whispered "better hope she doesn't find you
she had no idea why.
But she had the strangest feeling that someone, somewhere, was cursing her.