**STARK INDUSTRIES PRIVATE JET - 32,000 FEET**
I pressed play, and Mom's face filled the screen. She was sitting in her bedroom—our bedroom—with afternoon light streaming through the window behind her. This was recent. Maybe a week before she died, judging by how thin she'd become.
"Hey, baby," she said again, and I had to fight to keep breathing normally. "If you're watching this, I'm gone. And I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry I couldn't stay longer."
She wiped her eyes, composing herself with that iron will I'd always admired.
"There are things I need to tell you. Things I should have told you years ago, but I was scared. Scared of what it would mean, scared of how it would change your life. But you deserve the truth, Ace. All of it."
She shifted, getting comfortable, and I recognized the look on her face—the one she got when explaining complex medical procedures to patients. Clinical. Precise. But underneath, deeply emotional.
"First: Tony. I loved him, Ace. I really did. He was brilliant and funny and so goddamn *alive* it was like standing next to the sun. But he was also twenty-one and completely unprepared for anything resembling responsibility. When I found out I was pregnant, I had a choice to make."
She smiled sadly. "I chose you. And I chose to let Tony be who he was without the burden of us. That wasn't nobility—it was pragmatism. I knew him well enough to know he'd try to be there, and he'd fail, and it would break all three of us. So I walked away."
A pause. She took a sip of water from the glass beside her.
"But there's more to it than that. More than just Tony's DNA." Her expression became serious. "My side of the family has a secret, Ace. One we've kept for generations."
My hand froze on the touchpad.
"We're not quite... normal. My great-grandmother—your great-great-grandmother—was part of an experiment in the 1940s. Project Renaissance, they called it. It was buried deep, classified beyond belief, but I found the records when I was doing genetic research for my doctorate."
She pulled out a folder, showing it to the camera. I could see official-looking documents with heavy redaction marks.
"The U.S. government was trying to create enhanced individuals before they succeeded with Steve Rogers. They tested dozens of serums, genetic modifications, experimental treatments. Most failed. Some killed the subjects. But a few... a few worked. Just not in the way they expected."
My heart was pounding now.
"My great-grandmother was one of the successes. The serum they gave her didn't make her stronger or faster. It made her *smarter*. Enhanced cognition, pattern recognition, perfect memory. She could learn languages in days, master complex mathematics in weeks. She was a genius, Ace. An artificial genius."
Elena leaned forward, intense now.
"And it was genetic. It passed down through the maternal line, skipping some generations, manifesting in others. My mother had it. I had it—though mine was weaker, more diluted. And you..." She smiled with fierce pride. "You have it stronger than anyone in three generations."
I sat back, mind racing. This was—this was the *explanation*. The cover story. The plausible reason for abilities that were actually cosmic gifts from an omnipotent being.
"I've been documenting your abilities since you were a child," she continued. "The way you learned to read at three. How you built your first computer at nine. The way you absorb information like a sponge and never forget anything. That's not just being smart, baby. That's the serum. That's your inheritance."
She pulled out another document—this one looked like a genetic report.
"I had your DNA analyzed by a private lab. Completely confidential. There are markers there, Ace. Genetic modifications that don't occur naturally. If anyone ever questions why you're so brilliant, this is your answer: you're the descendant of a government experiment that actually *worked*."
Holy shit. *Holy shit.*
Stan Lee—ROB—had given me abilities, but he'd also apparently arranged for a *legitimate genetic explanation* to exist. One that would hold up to scrutiny. One that fit perfectly with established Marvel lore about super-soldier programs and government experiments.
"There's more," Elena said, and her voice dropped. "When you were eight, you started showing signs of something else. Something I didn't understand at first."
She pulled out a notebook, flipped through pages covered in her neat handwriting.
"You could fix electronic devices just by touching them. Not understanding them—*fixing* them. A broken radio started working when you held it. A crashed computer rebooted when you put your hands on the keyboard. I thought I was imagining it at first. But it kept happening."
She looked directly at the camera, and her eyes were wet.
"I think the serum did something else, Ace. Something with technology. Like you can... communicate with it somehow. I don't understand the mechanism—I'm a medical doctor, not a physicist—but it's real. I've seen it too many times to deny it."
Technomancy. She'd documented the technomancy.
"And then there's the fighting." She smiled slightly. "You remember that tournament when you were fourteen? When you used a technique your sensei swore he'd never taught you?"
I did. I'd executed a perfect Muay Thai elbow strike in a karate tournament. My instructor had been baffled—we'd never studied Muay Thai.
"You told me you'd seen it in a video and just... knew how to do it. Like your body understood instinctively." She nodded. "I think the serum enhanced that too. Kinesthetic learning, maybe. Or something more. The ability to absorb and replicate physical techniques."
All three abilities. She'd documented all three of them and provided a genetic, scientific explanation that would hold up to investigation.
This wasn't coincidence. This was *design*.
ROB had woven my abilities into the fabric of this reality so seamlessly that even my mother had evidence of them. Had created a paper trail, a genetic history, a *reason* that would satisfy anyone who asked questions.
"I'm telling you this for several reasons," Elena continued. "First, because you deserve to know the truth about yourself. Second, because when Tony finds out—and he will, because he's going to test your DNA the moment he gets the chance—he's going to see those markers. He's going to ask questions. And you'll have answers."
She held up the folder.
"Everything is in here. The genetic reports, the historical documents about Project Renaissance, my notes on your abilities. It's all yours now. Use it wisely."
Her expression softened.
"Third, and most important: you need to be careful, baby. These abilities make you special. But they also make you a target. If the wrong people find out what you can do—if the government realizes the serum genetics are still viable—they'll want to study you. Use you. Maybe even try to replicate you."
She wiped her eyes again.
"Tony can protect you. He has resources I never had. But you have to be smart about this. Don't show everything you can do all at once. Don't let anyone know the full extent of your abilities until you're sure you can trust them. Even Tony—*especially* Tony, at first. He's brilliant, but he's also impulsive and he thinks he can fix everything. Don't let him treat you like a problem to solve."
I laughed wetly. That was exactly the advice I needed.
"And Ace? One more thing." She leaned close to the camera, and her voice was fierce. "These abilities don't define you. They're tools. Gifts. But they're not *you*. You are kind, and brave, and you have a good heart. That's not genetics. That's not some government serum. That's the person you *chose* to be. Don't ever forget that."
She sat back, suddenly looking exhausted.
"I left the documents with Thomas. He'll give them to you when you're ready. Read them. Study them. And then decide what you want to do with this knowledge."
A long pause. When she spoke again, her voice was barely a whisper.
"I love you, baby. I'm so proud of you. And I'm sorry I'm not going to be there to see the man you become. But I know—I *know*—you're going to be extraordinary."
She smiled one last time, fragile and beautiful.
"Take care of yourself. Take care of Tony—he's going to need you more than he realizes. And remember: you're not alone. You never were."
The video ended.
I sat there in the silent jet, tears streaming down my face, and processed what I'd just learned.
ROB hadn't just given me abilities. He'd given me a *cover story*. A legitimate, traceable, scientifically plausible explanation for powers that were actually cosmic in origin.
Project Renaissance. Government experiments. Genetic inheritance through the maternal line.
It was brilliant. It fit perfectly with Marvel's established lore about super-soldier programs. It explained all three abilities without stretching credibility. And it gave me documentation—actual, verifiable evidence—that would satisfy even Tony Stark's paranoid genius.
I pulled out my phone and texted Thomas.
**Me: The USB drive. Mom mentioned documents? A folder?**
His response came quickly.
**Thomas: In the safe. I'll have them couriered to Malibu tomorrow. Are you okay?**
**Me: No. But I will be.**
**Thomas: She loved you very much, Ace.**
**Me: I know.**
I put the phone down and opened the laptop again, pulling up my ability assessment document. Added a new section:
**COVER STORY - PROJECT RENAISSANCE**
- Official explanation: Genetic inheritance from maternal great-grandmother who was part of 1940s government super-soldier experiments
- Program name: Project Renaissance (pre-Captain America attempts at enhancement)
- Genetic markers are real and documentable (somehow—ROB's doing?)
- All three abilities can be explained as serum effects:
* NZT cognition = enhanced mental processing
* Technomancy = unexplained technology interface (possibly electromagnetic sensitivity + enhanced pattern recognition)
* Martial arts mastery = enhanced kinesthetic learning
- Documentation exists and will hold up to scrutiny
- Provides plausible explanation without revealing cosmic reincarnation origin
**Strategic implications:**
- Tony will definitely run DNA tests
- He'll find the markers and investigate
- Having documentation ready shows trustworthiness and transparency
- Also establishes boundaries: this is genetic, not something he can "fix" or "improve"
- Government connection may complicate things—SHIELD will be interested
**Note to self:** Thank you, ROB. And thank you, Mom. You gave me exactly what I needed.
I closed the laptop and looked out the window again. The sun was setting somewhere over the Midwest, painting the clouds in shades of orange and gold.
In three hours, I'd land in California.
In three hours, I'd meet Tony Stark and begin this new life.
And I had everything I needed: abilities that could change the world, a cover story that would protect me, and a mother's love that reached beyond death to give me one final gift.
*I won't waste this,* I promised silently. *I'll be everything you believed I could be.*
My phone buzzed. JARVIS again.
**JARVIS: Two hours and forty-seven minutes to landing. Mr. Stark has given up on cooking and ordered takeout from your favorite restaurant. I took the liberty of accessing your previous delivery orders in Boston. I hope Thai food travels well.**
Despite everything, I smiled.
**Me: How did you know Thai was my favorite?**
**JARVIS: I'm an artificial intelligence with unlimited access to data. Also, your Yelp reviews are quite enthusiastic.**
**Me: That's disturbing and thoughtful at the same time.**
**JARVIS: I find that describes most of Mr. Stark's gestures quite accurately. Welcome to the family, Ace.**
I leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes, feeling the hum of the jet beneath me.
Family.
Tony Stark was my father.
I had superhuman abilities with a plausible genetic explanation.
I was about to enter the Marvel Universe at the ground floor of the Avengers Initiative.
And somewhere in Malibu, a man who'd just learned he had a son was nervously ordering Thai food and probably driving Pepper Potts insane with his anxiety.
*Make it a story worth telling,* Stan had said.
"I'll try," I whispered to the empty jet. "I'll really try."
The sun disappeared below the horizon, and ahead, California waited in the gathering darkness.
---
# ARRIVAL IN MALIBU
**STARK MANSION - 8:47 PM PACIFIC TIME**
The jet touched down at a private airfield north of Los Angeles with barely a whisper of contact. Captain Chen's voice came over the intercom, professional and warm: "Welcome to California, Mr. Castellanos. Ground transport is waiting."
Mr. Castellanos. Not Mr. Stark.
I grabbed my bag and the box of Mom's things, nodding my thanks to Captain Chen as I descended the stairs. The California air hit me immediately—warmer than Boston, carrying the salt-tang of the ocean and something else. Possibility, maybe. Or just expensive cologne from the man waiting beside yet another black SUV.
Not Happy this time. This driver was younger, sharper, with the alert posture of someone who'd seen combat. Private security, probably former military.
"Ace Stark?" he asked, then caught himself. "Sorry—Castellanos. Mr. Stark said you might prefer—"
"Ace is fine," I interrupted, climbing into the SUV. "Just Ace."
He nodded and pulled away from the airfield, heading south toward Malibu. The drive took forty minutes, winding along Pacific Coast Highway with the ocean a dark presence to our right. I watched the landscape change from commercial to residential to the kind of residential where you couldn't see the houses from the road—just gates and security systems and carefully manicured privacy.
My NZT cognition was cataloging everything automatically. Traffic patterns. Security camera placements. Optimal escape routes. The architecture of wealth and paranoia that surrounded people like Tony Stark.
*People like my father,* I corrected myself.
The thought still felt surreal.
"First time in Malibu?" the driver asked, making conversation.
"First time in California," I admitted.
"You'll like it. Weather's better than Boston. And Mr. Stark's place—" He whistled. "Wait till you see it. Like something out of a magazine. Or a movie about rich people."
"He lives in a house that looks like it's from a movie about rich people?"
"More like the house IS the movie about rich people." He grinned at me in the rearview mirror. "You'll see."
Five minutes later, we turned off PCH onto a private road that climbed into the cliffs. The gate that blocked our path was pure Tony Stark: sleek steel and glass, embedded with technology I could *feel* humming even from inside the SUV. Cameras, motion sensors, probably facial recognition and half a dozen other security measures.
The gate recognized the vehicle and opened smoothly.
And then I saw it.
The Stark Mansion wasn't a house. It was a *statement*—an architectural masterpiece of glass and steel and geometric impossibility cantilevered over the Pacific Ocean. Clean lines and curves that shouldn't work together but somehow did, creating something that looked like the future had crashlanded in Malibu and decided to stay.
Lights glowed from inside, warm against the growing darkness. The ocean crashed against the cliffs below, and above, stars were just beginning to emerge in the California sky.
"Jesus," I breathed.
"Yeah," the driver agreed. "That's the standard reaction."
He pulled up to the main entrance—a massive glass door that probably cost more than most houses—and helped me with my bags. Before he could knock or ring a bell or do whatever protocol dictated, the door swung open.
Pepper Potts stood there, and she was exactly as I'd imagined from the movies: poised, professional, with eyes that missed nothing and a smile that was genuine despite the circumstances.
"Ace," she said warmly. "Welcome. I'm Pepper Potts. We spoke on the phone earlier—well, Tony spoke to you, but I was there. I'm rambling. Come in, please."
I stepped inside, and the interior was somehow even more impressive than the exterior. The entire back wall was glass, offering an unobstructed view of the Pacific. The design was open-concept and modern, with the kind of minimalist aesthetic that required enormous wealth to pull off—every piece of furniture was clearly custom, every surface perfectly maintained.
And standing in the middle of it all, looking uncharacteristically uncertain, was Tony Stark.
He was shorter than I expected. Not *short*—maybe five-nine—but after seeing him larger-than-life in movies and news broadcasts, the actual physical presence was almost diminished. He wore jeans and a Black Sabbath t-shirt, barefoot on the polished concrete floor, with the arc reactor glowing through the fabric at his chest.
The arc reactor. The thing that was keeping him alive. The proof that this was real, that I was standing in the MCU, that everything I thought I knew about reality had been rewritten.
We stared at each other for a long moment.
He looked at me like he was seeing a ghost—or maybe seeing himself at sixteen, if he'd been six-foot-five and looked like a Hollywood actor. His eyes went to my face, my height, cataloging details with the same analytical precision I'd been using on the house.
I looked at him and saw my father. Not the superhero. Not the billionaire. Just a man who'd learned three days ago that he had a son and was clearly terrified of screwing this up.
"Hi," I said finally, because someone had to break the silence.
"Hi," Tony echoed. Then, with a slight smile that was pure nervous energy: "You're tall."
"Grew five inches last year. Mom said I ate my body weight in protein every week."
"Elena always had a way with words." His voice softened on her name. Then he seemed to catch himself, straightening. "Right. Okay. Welcome to—this is my house. Your house? Our house. God, I'm bad at this."
"You're doing fine," Pepper said gently, touching his arm.
"I ordered Thai food," Tony continued, the words coming faster now, filling the awkward space. "JARVIS said it was your favorite. It's probably cold by now because I ordered it two hours ago expecting you to arrive at 8:47 exactly and forgetting about traffic, but I can reheat it. Or we can order something else. Or you're probably not hungry. Are you hungry? You must be exhausted. Jet lag. Do you get jet lag going west? I never get jet lag because I don't sleep normally anyway, but that's probably not helpful—"
"Tony," Pepper interrupted, amused.
"Right. Shutting up now."
Despite everything—the grief, the uncertainty, the sheer overwhelming *strangeness* of this moment—I smiled. Because this was *exactly* how I'd imagined Tony Stark would handle emotional situations: with rapid-fire words and deflecting humor and genuine awkwardness underneath the genius-billionaire-playboy exterior.
"I'm hungry," I said. "Thai food sounds great. And I don't get jet lag—I slept on the plane."
That was a lie. I'd spent the entire flight testing abilities and watching Mom's video. But it seemed like the right thing to say.
Tony's shoulders relaxed visibly. "Good. Great. JARVIS, reheat the food. And set up in the—where should we eat? Dining room seems too formal. Kitchen seems too casual. Living room?"
"The kitchen is fine, sir," JARVIS's voice filled the space, smooth and cultured. "And might I suggest everyone take a breath? You are all acting as though this is a hostage negotiation rather than a family dinner."
I laughed, surprised and genuine. "Did your AI just sass you?"
"He does that," Tony said, shooting a glare at the ceiling. "JARVIS thinks he's hilarious."
"I am contextually appropriate, sir. There is a difference."
"Ace, meet JARVIS—Just A Rather Very Intelligent System. My AI assistant, butler, voice of reason, and apparently now a family therapist."
"We've actually already met," I said. "He texted me on the plane."
Tony blinked. "He what?"
"I provided the wifi password and assured Ace that the guest suite had been prepared to his specifications," JARVIS explained. "I thought it might help him feel more comfortable."
"That's..." Tony paused, something complicated crossing his face. "That's actually really thoughtful. Thank you, JARVIS."
"You're welcome, sir. The food is reheated. Shall I serve it in the kitchen?"
"Please."
Pepper gestured toward an open doorway. "This way. And Ace, if you want to drop your bags, I can show you to your room after dinner."
I followed them through the house, unable to stop cataloging everything. The workshop entrance I glimpsed down a hallway—I could *feel* the technology inside, calling to me like a siren song. The holographic displays embedded in the walls. The subtle security measures that most people wouldn't notice but I could sense with my technomancy.
This house was a fortress disguised as architectural art. And somewhere in it was the Mark III armor, the thing that made Tony Stark into Iron Man.
The kitchen was massive and somehow still felt intimate—all stainless steel and marble counters, with that same glass wall offering ocean views. A breakfast bar had been set up with Thai food containers and plates, casual but clearly arranged with care.
We sat. Tony across from me, Pepper beside him. Like they were presenting a united front, or maybe like Pepper was there to keep Tony from saying something catastrophically inappropriate.
I served myself pad thai and spring rolls, suddenly ravenous. Actual hunger, not just nervous energy.
"So," Tony said, watching me eat. "Boston Latin School. Advanced placement in physics and computer science. Honor roll. Your mother said you build computers from spare parts?"
"Custom rigs, mostly. Optimizing architecture, improving cooling systems. Nothing fancy."
"Nothing fancy," Tony repeated, eyebrows raised. "Do you know how many sixteen-year-olds can optimize computer architecture?"
"Probably more than you think, given internet tutorials and—"
"Virtually none," Tony interrupted. "I've interviewed MIT graduates who can't optimize architecture. You're downplaying."
I shrugged, uncomfortable with the attention. "Mom always said I inherited your brain."
"Did she." It wasn't a question. Tony's expression was complicated—pride and regret and something else I couldn't name. "What else did she say? About me?"
The question hung in the air, vulnerable in a way I hadn't expected from Tony Stark.
I thought about Mom's letter, her video, the box of memories she'd kept for sixteen years.
"She said loving you was easy and leaving you was hard. That you were brilliant and funny and completely alive. That you would have tried to be there for us and probably failed, and she didn't want that for anyone."
Tony's jaw tightened. "She wasn't wrong."
"She also said you weren't ready. That twenty-one-year-old you was a disaster in human form."
"Also not wrong."
"But thirty-eight-year-old you announced to the world that you're Iron Man, so clearly the disaster thing is ongoing."
Pepper choked on her water. Tony stared at me, then laughed—a real laugh, surprised and delighted.
"You got your mother's sense of humor too. Fantastic. Pepper, we're going to be dealing with *two* of me in this house."
"I'm aware," Pepper said dryly. "I'm already planning my vacation."
The tension in the room eased slightly. We ate in more comfortable silence for a few minutes. Then Tony set down his fork and looked at me directly.
"Ace. Cards on the table. I don't know how to be a father. I had Howard Stark as a dad, which is basically a masterclass in what *not* to do, and I've spent thirty-eight years being phenomenally self-centered. But I want to try. I want to—" He gestured vaguely. "I want to be here. For you. However that looks."
The sincerity in his voice was startling. This wasn't the cocky persona from press conferences. This was just Tony, uncertain and trying.
"I don't know how to be a son," I admitted. "Especially to someone famous. Everything about this is weird and complicated and I'm still processing that my mom is dead and my dad is Iron Man and my life is apparently a tabloid headline now."
"Yeah," Tony said softly. "It is weird and complicated. And I'm sorry about your mom. I really am. I wish—" He stopped himself. "I wish a lot of things. But we can't change the past. We can only figure out what happens next."
"What do you want to happen next?"
"Honestly? I want to get to know you. I want to understand who you are, what you need, what you want out of life. I want to make sure you're safe and supported and that you have every opportunity to be whatever you want to be." He paused. "And selfishly, I'd like you to stick around for a while. See if we can figure out this father-son thing. But that's your choice. This is all your choice."
I looked at him—really looked. Saw the arc reactor glowing, the evidence of Afghanistan and everything that had changed him. Saw the genius who'd built a suit of armor in a cave. Saw the man who'd stood up and declared himself a hero when he could have stayed hidden.
And I saw someone trying. Really, genuinely trying to do right by a son he'd never known existed.
"I'll stay," I said. "At least through the summer. We can figure out the rest as we go."
The relief on Tony's face was almost painful to witness. "Good. Great. Summer is good. We can work with summer."
"Though I should warn you," I added, "I'm probably going to be difficult. I have opinions about your armor design and I'm not great at following rules I think are stupid."
Tony's grin was sudden and fierce. "You really are my son. JARVIS, make a note: Ace has opinions about the armor. This is either going to be amazing or a complete disaster."
"Why not both, sir?" JARVIS said. "You do specialize in ambitious disasters."
"I'm standing right here, JARVIS."
"I'm aware, sir. It's difficult to miss you."
I found myself laughing again, and it felt good. Natural. Like maybe this could actually work.
Pepper stood, collecting plates. "I think that's enough excitement for one night. Ace, let me show you to your room. You must be exhausted."
I was. The adrenaline that had sustained me through the flight was wearing off, leaving bone-deep fatigue in its wake. I grabbed my bags and followed Pepper up a floating staircase—because of course Tony Stark had a floating staircase—to the second floor.
"This is you," Pepper said, opening a door to reveal a suite that was bigger than my entire Boston apartment.
Floor-to-ceiling windows with ocean views. A king-sized bed that looked like a cloud. A desk setup with multiple monitors and what appeared to be a custom-built computer that made my laptop look like a child's toy. Bookshelves already stocked with advanced physics and computer science texts. A private bathroom with a shower that probably had more features than most cars.
"Tony may have gone slightly overboard," Pepper said apologetically. "He does that when he's nervous. If anything isn't to your liking, just tell JARVIS and it'll be fixed immediately."
"This is incredible," I said honestly. "Thank you. Both of you."
Pepper smiled, and it was warm and genuine. "You're welcome. And Ace? I know this is all overwhelming. But Tony really does want to do right by you. Give him a chance. He's better than he thinks he is."
"I will."
She left, and I was alone in my new room. I set down my bags and walked to the windows, looking out at the Pacific. The moon was rising, painting a silver path across the dark water.
I pulled out my phone and found a text waiting from an unknown number.
**JARVIS: Your room has full network access and complete privacy. I do not monitor internal spaces without explicit permission or emergency circumstances. The computer on the desk is yours to modify however you wish. Mr. Stark specified it should be "a blank canvas for a brilliant mind to destroy and rebuild." His words, not mine.**
**JARVIS: Also, should you need anything during the night, I am always available. Welcome home, Ace.**
Welcome home.
I looked around the room—at the carefully chosen books, the high-end technology, the view that cost more money than most people would ever see. At all the evidence of Tony Stark trying to give his son everything he could.
This wasn't home. Not yet. Home was a small Boston apartment with Mom's medical texts on the shelves and the smell of her coffee in the morning. Home was gone.
But maybe, eventually, this could be something else. Something new.
I pulled out Mom's box and set it on the desk beside the computer. Opened it and looked at the photos of young Tony and Elena, frozen in a moment when everything seemed possible.
"I'm here, Mom," I whispered. "I'm going to try. Just like you asked."
My phone buzzed one more time. Tony this time.
**Tony: Sleep well. Don't stay up all night hacking into my systems. We can discuss your apparently terrifying computer skills tomorrow.**
I smiled and typed back.
**Me: No promises. Goodnight, Tony.**
**Tony: Goodnight, Ace.**
I changed into sleep clothes and collapsed onto the bed, which was exactly as comfortable as it looked. Tomorrow would bring questions, paternity tests, difficult conversations about my abilities and Mom's genetic legacy. Tomorrow would bring the beginning of whatever this new life was going to be.
But tonight, I was just a sixteen-year-old kid who'd lost his mother and found his father in the span of a week.
Tonight, that was enough.
I closed my eyes and let exhaustion pull me under, the sound of the Pacific Ocean a steady rhythm below, and somewhere in the house, the quiet hum of Tony Stark's technology singing to my technomantic senses like a lullaby.
*Welcome home,* JARVIS had said.
Maybe he was right.
Maybe I was home after all.
---
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