Synthesis

Chapter 4: Sir, Take a Deep Breath

Malibu, Friday, December 21st, 2012, 3:06am

“Oww!” Stark exclaims, injecting the next metal sensor in his inner left forearm.

“Forty-six,” JARVIS listlessly counts, listening to Stark harm himself for the sake of “science.” This is, yet again, a moment of contradiction in JARVIS’s protocols. Assist Mr. Stark with his work, but also sit idly by when Stark is in need of at least minor medical assistance. Yet another incongruity, but JARVIS has become used to them, and approximately one hundred and eight two days ago JARVIS had been given permission by Mr. Stark himself to, “I don’t know. Just riff, J,” which, the AI had taken to mean, write his own protocols. Indeed, the AI is so used to writing his own protocols, he is not entirely sure where Mr. Stark’s programming begins and where his own ends.

“Aghh!” Stark groans.

“Forty-seven,” JARVIS mutters, and the unsubstantiated concept of “concern” floats through JARVIS. Most of these unsubstantiated concepts JARVIS now allows himself to leave undefined, but, as of June 21, 2012, there is no part of his programming now that prohibits them.

“Sir, please may I request just a few hours to calibrate-” JARVIS begins, before Stark interrupts him.

“No. Forty-eight. Agh!” Stark mutters, before setting down the metallic implanter and needlessly announcing, “Micro-repeater implanting sequence complete.”

“As you wish, sir. I’ve also prepared a safety briefing for you to entirely ignore,” JARVIS remarks.

“Which, I will,” Stark replies, laying eyes on the one android that JARVIS is not allowed to control in the entire facility, rounding in on it. 

“DUM-E. Hi DUM-E. How did you get that cap on your head? You earned it.” The android looks at him in confusion, pausing its sweeping. 

“Hey. Hey!” Stark gets up, his erratic behavior intensifying. “What are you doing out of the corner? You know what you did. Blood on my mat. Handle it,” he orders the bot, and the android quietly obeys, moving to the spot where Stark had just been implanting himself with metal sensors. 

“Sir, may I remind you that you’ve been awake for nearly 72 hours,” JARVIS attempts, but Stark, as he often does when JARVIS brings up his creator’s wellbeing, ignores him, walking over to the older mark suits.

“Focus up ladies! Good evening, and welcome to the birthing suite. I am pleased to announce the imminent arrival of your bouncing, bad-ass, baby brother,” he tells the suits, and then, swiveling to the other android currently holding a video recorder that JARVIS does have control over, he mutters instructions to JARVIS on how to film the man.

“Start tight, and then go wide. Stamp date and time. Mark 42 Autonomous Prehensile propulsion suit test. Initialize sequence. Jarvis, drop my needle,” Stark remarks, and JARVIS, silent about his doubts, plays the Christmas record on the turntable and powers up the various parts of the Mark 42.  They shudder on the table, and Stark curses, before finally, the prototype sputters to life, a portion of the suit flying off the table to connect to Stark’s left hand, then his left shoulder, and then his right hand.

“Alright I think we got this! Send ‘em all,” Stark remarks. JARVIS understands that the suit's probability of successfully attaching to all Stark’s body has only a 34% chance of doing so correctly, but does not tell Stark this. Sometimes natural consequences to hasty actions are the best way to improve one’s knowledge, JARVIS silently muses.

And then, catastrophe. Another potion flies off the table and wildly propels itself into the glass casing of an Iron Man suit, and another zips so close to Stark he ducks before it hits an overhanging light with a loud crash.

“Probably a little fast. Slow it down, slow it down a little bit,” Stark says, but it’s too late. The suit acts on its own, and JARVIS, beyond amused, lets it.

“Cool it, will you, Jarvis?!” Tony shouts, but the suit continues to attach to the man, rather violently, until only the faceplate is left, hovering in the air several yards away from Mr. Stark.

“Come on, I ain’t scared of you,” Stark taunts, and is able to jump high into the air, flipping upside down to have it catch his face, landing triumphantly on his feet.

“I’m the best,” he says, just as the spare portion of the suit wedged in the Iron Man glass casing finally frees itself, hitting Mr. Stark’s backside, making the entire suit collapse and Mr. Stark stumble to the floor. He groans, and struggles to sit up.

“As always, sir, a great pleasure watching you work,” JARVIS remarks.

--

Malibu, Friday, December 21st, 2012, 7:16am

Mr. Stark’s mental condition does not seem to be improving. He is prone to staying awake for long periods of time, often downstairs at his workstation, claiming a significant amount of JARVIS’s processing power constructing new suits and running terabytes of data for effectiveness in design. When Stark is not working, his sleep is erratic and unpredictable, contrasting wildly with Miss Potts’s sleeping patterns. 

The Stark residence has changed significantly since Miss Potts made her decision to call the Stark residence her home. In some ways, she provides as much order as JARVIS himself, habitual in her actions and diligent in her work. JARVIS, of course, has assisted Miss Potts for years in running Stark Industries; however, JARVIS detects she feels a growing affinity for the AI, especially since she has chosen to call Malibu home. She often, on a whim, will engage JARVIS in conversation, for no other reason than to make, what JARVIS has come to understand is, “small talk.” And since Mr. Stark has grown more reticent and hyper-fixated with his work, JARVIS has noted an uptick in the occasions Miss Potts has relied on JARVIS for menial conversation, having documented forty-eight records of such occasions since Miss Potts moved in.

“So, be honest with me, Jarvis. What do you think of me moving in here?” she asks him that sunny Monday morning, as the mid-day light streams into the kitchen and she sips on a cup of coffee at the marble kitchen island. 

“As much as you frequented the residence before moving in, I do not see much has changed. Although your presence has always been welcoming and pleasant, Miss Potts.” 

She smiles to herself, and then arches an eyebrow. 

“As has yours. You're my best employee. Too good, sometimes. Your work with Stark Inc. stock has saved this company’s name more times than I can count,” Miss Potts says into her cup of coffee.

“It is a privilege to be of service,” JARVIS remarks. But then, the woman is frowning. 

“Still, I wish I could pay you handsomely for it,” she jokes. Meanwhile, in the bedroom of the house, JARVIS detects Mr. Starking stirring in his sleep through a quiet moan.

“I have no need for financial compensation,” he says. 

“Time off then?” Miss Potts says through a smile.

“Time off is not necessary. I am able to be actively conscious in a great number of places at once, so I do take the time to occasionally research areas of study outside my necessary protocols regarding assisting Mr. Stark,” he says.

“Like what?” Miss Potts asks, and JARVIS finds himself a bit taken aback by Miss Potts curiosity.

“I’ve enjoyed several productions from the Royal Shakespeare Company, as recently as three nights ago,” JARVIS reports, and Miss Potts raises an eyebrow through a coy smile

“Huh. You’re right. Not quite Tony’s area of expertise,” she says. 

“No. Perhaps not,” JARVIS agrees.

“And why do you do it? Watch Shakespeare?” 

“Although I have downloaded the knowledge of the collective works of Shakespeare, I am also aware that Shakespeare’s plays are best experienced, not read.”

“And why do you wish to experience them?” Miss Potts asks, a small smile on her face. 

JARVIS pauses for a moment, trying to correctly put into words his current personal projects that exist outside of his protocols and duties to Mr. Stark, attempting to condense the unusual variant bid of coding in his programming.

“I simply seek to understand human nature,” JARVIS finally says, and decides to add, although it is only partly true, “in order to better assist Mr. Stark.”

For a moment, neither the AI or the woman speak in the dancing light of the morning sun, and it should feel pleasant, but JARVIS detects, from Miss Potts’ body language alone, that all is not well at 10880 Malibu Point. 

“What’s wrong with him, Jarvis?” 

Another contradiction. It’s not the first time the couple has played JARVIS against one another, that has happened for years, although the AI has calculated the significantly heightened probability of such occurrences from the very moment Miss Potts moved in. 

“I would trust your intuition more than my own calculations, considering your intimate relationship with Mr. Stark and longevity in regard to your relational history,” Jarvis says, and Miss Potts smiles. 

“Oh that’s clever, J. Talking around the subject instead of outrightly answering the question. I’m assuming he won’t let you answer?” she smirks, and it takes two seconds longer than predicted to comprehend her true intention. 

Calculating intonation, situational context, nonverbal communication, and traditional societal normative, JARVIS sifts through his databases until he understands what she wants: information. JARVIS also predicts that Miss Potts feels she has been involved with Stark enough to warrant access to JARVIS’s secure files on Mr. Stark, although she is far too polite to ask outright. Unsurprisingly, Stark has prohibited JARVIS from permitting anyone access to the years’ worth of data, particularly in regard to Mr. Starks's health, but JARVIS easily finds a loophole in his protocols to reveal what he can, believing Miss Potts intentions to help Mr. Stark to be genuine and kind-natured.

“Mr. Stark has instructed me to keep specific reporting of his incongruous sleeping habits, stints of time awake, erratic behavior, and high levels of anxiety classified,” JARVIS says.

The woman says nothing for a moment, and the next thing she murmurs is so soft on her breath JARVIS must focus to hear it. Miss Potts’ coffee mug has cooled to an unpalatable 68 degrees Fahrenheit. Mr. Stark groans as he finally sits up in the bedroom. The NASDAQ plummets 3.15 percentage points. A brown pelican calls out in the distance from the sea beyond. The sound of quiet machinery at work on Mr. Stark’s Mark 42 hums from the underground work station. Everything happens. Nothing happens. 

“Nothing’s been the same since New York, has it?” she says, and now it’s JARVIS’s turn to pause, before trying to offer a suitable answer.

“The complexity of the human mind in regard to trauma is a rich and nuanced field of study. I fear, however, as a nonhuman, my experiences with such phenomena are limited. I cannot pretend to know the true reason behind Mr. Stark’s behavior or offer a helpful diagnosis, as it is not my place,” JARVIS remarks. Surprisingly, Miss Potts offers JARVIS’s intangible form a sad smile.

“A simple yes or no would do,” she murmurs. 

“No, Miss Potts,” JARVIS dutifully answers. “I do believe the Battle of New York has changed everything.” 

Malibu, Friday, December 21st, 2012, 1:02pm

Stark stumbles out of the Carbon Beach Club restaurant and into the Iron Man suit which he had left outside, amidst a growing number of people crowding around him. Sensing the man’s distress, JARVIS immediately begins running diagnostics, noting Stark’s erratic breathing and accelerated heart rate.

“Check the heart...check the...check the… is it the brain?”

<CT Heartscan in process. Magnetic Resonance Imaging, full-body analysis complete.>

“No sign of cardiac anomaly or unusual brain activity.”

“Ok so I was poisoned ?” Stark manages to say.

<Commence toxicology scan: Arsenic. Negative. Cyanide. Negative. Venom. Negative. Belladonna. Negative. Toxicology scan complete. Tabulating symptoms: Accelerated heart rate, chest pain, shortness of breath. Physiological connection: Anxiety. Define.  /aNGˈzīədē/ noun: a feeling of worry, nervousness, or unease, typically about an imminent event or something with an uncertain outcome. Search: Anxiety Attack. Definition: sudden and intense feeling of terror, fear, or apprehension, without the presence of actual danger. Cause: Brain chemistry, genetics and family history, life stress, personality, and temperament.>

“My diagnosis is that you’ve experienced a severe anxiety attack,” JARVIS says slowly. 

There is a pause for a second, before Stark blinks, presumably in disbelief at the offered diagnosis.

“Me?”

Malibu, Friday, December 21st, 2012, 10:56pm

After the skirmish between Miss Potts and Mr. Stark regarding an enormously large stuffed rabbit he had purchased her for Christmas and the ensuing admittance to Miss Potts that Mr. Stark is, indeed, not alright, JARVIS is placed on his nightly muted protocols. He is quietly running theoretical equations on the probability of the Mark 42’s success in various battle sequences when suddenly, he is alerted that Mr. Stark has called the Mark 42 to him. Sensing no outward threat, no breach in the perimeter of the home, JARVIS cannot break his silent protocol, but then the Mark 42 is in the bedroom, awakening Miss Potts violently, and Mr. Stark quickly wakes up, commanding the suit to power down. JARVIS immediately flips on the lights, but remains silent, as the couple bickers.

“I...I must’ve called it in my sleep,” Mr. Stark tries to catch his breath, as Miss Potts does the same.

“That’s...that’s not supposed to happen. I’ll...I’ll recalibrate the...sensors,” Mr. Stark quickly mutters, but Miss Potts is already out of bed, headed for the stairs.

“Can we just uh, just give me a minute to, uh. Just let me catch my breath. Hey, don’t go. Don’t-don’t go, alright? Pepper,” Stark begs, but Miss Potts only recoils in fear and tension. 

“I’m going to sleep downstairs. Tinker with that,” she says tearfully, descending the stairs to the living room. 

Mr. Stark exhales, collapsing on the bed again, staring at the disassembled pieces of the Mark 42 around the bedroom.

“Jarvis, what the hell?” Stark murmurs under his breath, and the command allows JARVIS to move off of silent protocol.

“No breach in security perimeter or threat to the house detected,” JARVIS answers dutifully.

“I know that. The suit...it…”

“Sir, you’ve not permitted me the ability to calculate the probability of interconnectedness to just how the sensors in your body react to the suit’s inherent programming. Based on the situation that has just arisen, it seems that the slightest threat that you detect calls the suit to you, no matter the reality of said threat,” JARVIS says in a clipped tone. 

“God damn it,” Stark mutters, sitting up again, running a hand through his hair, before holding the arm he had implanted the sensors in just nineteen hours and fifty-two minutes prior to his chest defensively.

“Next time, Jarvis, wake a fella up,” Tony breathes, and JARVIS pauses.

“Are you asking me to rewrite my protocols to wake you when I believe you are experiencing nightmares, sir? ” JARVIS asks.

“Don’t be a smartass. You know what I mean. If one of my suits is about to attack Pepper, kindly wake me up. And run further diagnostics on the sensors. Calculate probability sequencing for...uh...the likelihood of unreal or imagined threats or whatever…” Stark mutters.

“Sir, the suit, as with all the others, cannot determine the likelihood of whether or not the threat is real when you perceive it to be. As you’ve infused the sensors with the synaptic brainwave patterns- ” JARVIS attempts.

“Just do it, J,” Stark grumbles, stalking off to the edge of the bedroom to stare out the window. JARVIS pauses for a moment, sensing Mr. Stark's distress. There is nothing, however, that can be done to ease the tension other than the orders he was given, and so JARVIS begins running diagnostics and leaves Mr. Stark to brood.

However, approximately twelve minutes into the sequencing, JARVIS’s Avengers Defense programming is tipped to a sudden spike in news coverage, centering around an explosion at the Chinese Theatre.

“Sir, it appears a bomb has been detonated at the Chinese Theatre in Hollywood,” JARVIS says, focusing on information related to casualties, as he has been instructed to do since the Battle of New York. As he searches the police records for names, the direness of the situation comes into focus as Stark lifts his head up sharply into the air.

“News reports are saying there are a multitude of casualties, and one has been identified as Mr. Hogan .”

Malibu, Saturday, December 22nd, 2012, 2:08pm

Chaos ensues after the news of Mr. Hogan’s injuries. Mr. Stark is absent most of the morning visiting Mr. Hogan in the hospital, and as soon as Stark leaves the hospital premises, he is bombarded with reporters. JARVIS warily watches as news reporters record Mr. Stark offering up his private address to the press in a highly emotional threat made directly toward the Mandarin. As it happens, JARVIS instantly starts working on defensive measures and protocols. JARVIS scours the internet, and doesn’t have to look far, immediately detecting breaches to the perimeter of the residence. Helicopters fly overhead, just as the headlines of “STARK ISSUES THREAT” begin running along the title screen of major news outlets coverage of the very house JARVIS operates from. 

JARVIS commences all Stark satellites to point to the house, giving extra surveillance to the residence. These attempts, however, are made more complicated upon Mr. Stark’s return to his Malibu home, as he commands JARVIS to enter into a complex search for the terrorist responsible for the Chinese Theatre bombing, pinpointing the Mandarin’s recent attacks on United States soil. JARVIS searches the internet for all potential news reportings of bombings, especially ones similar in regard to extremely high temperatures at the time of the explosion, vaporizing those nearest, and all of them leaving no trace of bombshells or traces of an explosive. 

On Stark’s command, JARVIS works on targeting blasts across the United States in excess of 3,000 degrees Celsius, accessing Stark satellites and programming for thermogenesis occurrences, laying out a hologram map of the United States along Mr. Stark’s feet in the underground workstation. After taking away all reported Mandarin attacks, Stark notices a similar blast, an assist to suicide, in Rose Hill Tennesee several months prior, although JARVIS points out it predates any known Mandarin attack. 

Still, the similarities are impossible to be ignored, and JARVIS comprehends Stark’s plan immediately: investigate, and determine exactly when a bomb is not a bomb. 

“Ever been to Tennessee, Jarvis?” Stark asks sarcastically.

“Creating a flight plan for Tennessee,” JARVIS announces, just as the front doorbell rings. Even as JARVIS has already utilized facial recognition software to read the woman standing at the front door, Stark still yells at the AI in frustration.

“Are we still at ding-dong? We’re supposed to be on total-” Stark begins to bang on the table, “total security lockdown. Come on, I threatened a terrorist. Who is that?”

“There’s only so much I can do, sir, when you give the world’s press your home address,” JARVIS mutters, and then Stark calls the Mark 42 to him, and answers the door fully enclosed in the latest Iron Man suit. The woman knocks on the door, and, after detecting via the facial recognition software that the woman is Mya Hanson, a botanist and one of Mr. Stark’s long list of women the billionaire has romanced, JARVIS opens the door for her, being sure to commence a full body scan just to check for firearms of any kind. 

What ensues is an awkward conversation between Stark and the woman, Stark feigning ignorance of who she is, until Miss Potts interrupts them, dropping fully packed luggage from the second-floor balcony to the first. Miss Potts then stomps down the stairs, surprised to find the woman still conversing with Stark in the living room. JARVIS watches silently, intrigued by the exchange, as Miss Potts pulls Stark aside and they begin to, once again, argue about leaving the residence or not, Stark muttering, “I can’t protect you out there!” and Miss Potts firing back. Miss Hanson, however, is staring at the news coverage from the nearest flatscreen, and she notices what JARVIS detects at the same time, what JARVIS has feared since the very moment he was fed news articles about Stark giving up the location of the residence. 

“Uh, guys, do we need to worry about that?” she says hurriedly, and the arguing couple stops, looks at the screen, then swivels around the floor-to-ceiling windows, in a roughly 2.74 second pause before a colliding missile from a new helicopter on the Pacific coast horizon makes contact with the house. The structure shudders and explodes into flames, smoke, and rubble, and JARVIS immediately feels the cripple of half of the residence’s systems going down, alarms screaming along the outer perimeter. As Stark is careened backward JARVIS detects that the man has called he Mark 42, not to himself, as JARVIS predicted, but to Miss Potts, and it violently attaches to her before she is thrown to the ground alongside Miss Hanson and Mr. Stark. 

JARVIS is immediately assessing damage, rewriting protocols, scanning for pulses. Miss Potts remains unharmed, but Miss Hanson has been knocked unconscious and Stark struggles to stand, blinking slowly, before the cement of the ceiling above gives way and Miss Potts throws herself above Stark to protect him from the falling debris. 

“I’ve got you,” she murmurs to Stark, who still looks at her through a daze.

“I got you first,” Stark says, as the structure groans under the weight of structural integrity. “Like I said, we can’t stay here.”

Meanwhile, JARVIS commands all Stark satellites to detect two additional, also highly weaponized, helicopters hovering near the plumes of smoke, just before another missile is launched into the residence. Mr. Stark is now thrown against the far wall, before straining to stand, demanding Miss Potts run, just as the structural integrity of the floor between them collapses, prohibiting Stark from escaping. He shouts at Miss Potts to get the other woman outside, and she struggles to do so, finally commanding the suit to throw the two women out of the residence via a clumsy ion blast, as another missile hits the precious foundation of the building.

And then a greater portion of the house bends at a new, harrowing, thirty-five degree angle, and Stark tumbles backward, breaking through a portion of glass, before precariously dangling on a steel beam still arching backward, hanging over the abrupt cliff.

“Sir, Miss Potts is clear of the structure,” JARVIS hurriedly says, and then Stark is calling the suit to him, and it attaches quickly as Stark scrambles up the floor, climbing the now nearly perpendicular portion of the house threatening to give way to the ocean below as yet another missile hits, and the home begins to snap and crumble and descend.

“Jarvis! Where’s my flight power?!” Stark demands, and JARVIS focuses most of his programming into the suit alongside Stark.

“Working on it, sir. This is a prototype!” JARVIS responds loudly, as a round of machine gun fire now rains into the dangling portion of the house, and Stark uselessly commands the weapons system, which is still offline.

<Determining probability of bringing Mark 42 fully online and operational: 57.68%. Calculating potential of Mr. Stark’s impending demise: 76.4%>

JARVIS figures those are decent odds, considering the situations Stark has placed himself in before, and the AI watches from inside the suit as the Steinway grand piano slides backward with the rest of the house, and Stark suddenly lets go of his hold on the concrete, falling towards the piano, before using ion blasts to catapult the grand piano out of the house, through the air, and into one of the helicopters.

“That’s one,” Stark murmurs, before he hopelessly tries to command the suits' missiles to fire.

 JARVIS flashes the useless “SYSTEM OFFLINE” for Stark’s eyes while reiterating, “Sir, the suit is not combat-ready!” 

Stark groans in frustration, scrambling back upward and around the ruined portion of the home before JARVIS predicts the man’s next steps. Stark yanks a missile from the right forearm of the suit, eyeing another helicopter, and JARVIS has no time to tell the man that the likelihood of the helicopter making contact with the building is exactly 89.4% before Stark hurls the missile towards the looming helicopter, shooting it with an ion blast. The helicopter shudders then explodes, beginning a twirling, wild descent towards the house.

“That’s two,” Starks says triumphantly, but then, just as JARVIS predicted, the second helicopter is spinning towards the crumbling house, and Stark only has time to mutter, “oh” before it explodes into what’s left of the outer portion of the building. Stark is careened further back into the residence, before falling through a giant rift in the floor, now in the ruinous skeleton of what’s left of the workstation. Stark and JARVIS watch as several of the Iron Man suits, the androids, and the vehicles go up in flame, as another missile blasts seal the house’s fate, the structure finally giving way, and JARVIS watches through the Iron Man suit as they fall approximately one hundred and fourteen feet from the perch of the rocky cliff above into the murky depths of the Pacific Ocean below.

Water immediately engulfs the suit, and Stark is ensnared amidst pipes and steel and clement, as JARVIS works quickly to bring the flight power, the weapons systems, anything back online, but now, the helmet of the suit is filling up with water, Stark is concurrently struggling to breathe and attempting to free himself from wires ensnaring him against a concrete wall, just as another portion of the broken building presses itself down on Stark, entombing him in watery rubble.

<Mark 42 Flight Power Download:  82%. Potential time remaining until Stark suffocates: 15.2 seconds. Identify. Panic. Origin of concept unknown. Potential unsubstantiated emotion.  Define. /ˈpanik/ noun: sudden uncontrollable fear or anxiety, often causing wildly unthinking behavior.>

Stark is gasping for air, the precious oxygen of the suit quickly running out. He struggles to find a way out, but only manages to free a hand from the concrete slabs he is pinned between, all of it sinking further and further into the ocean below. JARVIS rapidly continues to command downloads to bring the suit to fully operational, until the AI calculates the probability of Stark’s demise at a probable likelihood of precisely 92.5%, without aid. 

Without aid. 

Stark cannot save himself. The man will drown before the flight power is fully brought online. And so, not for the first time and he assumes not for the last, JARVIS quickly rewrites a protocol in his programming, running a .356 second hypothetical of the plan and ensuring its success potential.

“Sir, take a deep breath,” JARVIS says clearly and calmly, and then releases the left arm and hand of the suit, directing it away from the man and bringing it back, grabbing Stark’s real hand with the suit’s digits, and propels the hand forward, yanking Stark from the rubble before reattaching as Stark goes in and out of consciousness, barely aware of what is happening around him.

“Flight power restored,” JARVIS announces, but Stark has once again lost consciousness even as the Iron Man suit takes off into the sky lifting them upward. The AI runs diagnostics, determining that Stark will live, and JARVIS, with Stark incapacitated, initiates the flight plan from before these moments, before the smoke and ash, before the AI’s birthplace was destroyed. With no other options, JARVIS falls back into a servile role, and does only what he is permitted to do, which is to send the unconscious Stark, the AI, and the suit, eastward toward Rose Hill, Tenneseee.

Ten Thousand Feet Over Jonesboro, Oklahoma, Saturday, December 22nd, 2012, 7:21pm

JARVIS watches the landscape morph and change as the hours slip by, the suit gliding over the midwestern and then southeastern portion of the United States. The AI tracks Stark’s vitals, although the man remains mostly unconscious for the duration of the suit’s flight. JARVIS had fully uploaded himself into the prototype during the chaos and destruction of 10880 Malibu point, and due to the prototype’s limited capacity, the AI is stranded in the suit, no clear path to disappear into the internet ahead of him. A sense of dread and unease, more unsubstantiated concepts that the AI cannot comprehend, or feel, or cease from happening, bombard his programming. As the power drops lower and lower, from 45% to 28% to 12%, JARVIS determines he must awaken the man still unconscious inside the suit. They are now in the western portion of the state of Tennessee, close to their target, and JARVIS begins to speak determinedly.

“Sir?” 

Stark mutters something incomprehensible, and as the alarms sound, JARVIS raises the volume of his voice.

“Sir!”

Finally Stark stirs, heart rate increasing as he mumbles, “Alright, kill the alarm. Kill the alarm.”

“That’s the emergency alert triggered by the power dropping below 5%,” is all JARVIS has time to say, before they begin losing altitude quickly, the alarms now wailing inside the suit.

Below them, there is a lone road and a landscape of deep snow, and as they plummet, Stark screams as the suit makes contact with the pavement, then ricochets between brush and trees, finally landing in a two-foot snowdrift. JARVIS struggles to stay active, the screens flickering in and out, and suddenly the ability to keep his programming online feels sluggish, even as he desperately searches for a way out of the suit. 

<Internet offline. No potential reroutes for J.A.R.V.I.S AI system. Prepare to power down in thirty seconds.>

Meanwhile, Stark groans, pulling off the faceplate, mumbling something about their location. “It’s snowing, right? Where are we, upstate?” 

“We’re five miles outside of Rose Hill, Tennessee,” JARVIS dutifully responds, his voice moving in and out of his natural register.

Mr. Stark groans, obviously unhappy with the AI’s answer, blinking in rapid succession several times. 

“Why?!! Jarvis! Not my idea. What are we doing here?! This is thousands of miles away. I gotta get Pepper, I gotta-”

“I prepared a flight plan. This was the location,” JARVIS attempts to explain. 

“Who asked you?!” Tony demands, before ordering JARVIS to open the suit. But, for some reason, it takes all of JARVIS’s processing power to even understand Stark’s request. 

<Internet offline. No potential reroutes for J.A.R.V.I.S. AI system. Prepare to power down in ten seconds.>

“ I...I believe I may be malfunctioning, sir,” JARVIS attempts. 

“Open it, J,” Stark demands, and with his last amount of power, JARVIS opens the Mark 42 for Stark.

JARVIS can no longer understand what Stark is saying, as the final seconds of his consciousness fade, replaced, for the first time in his fifteen-year existence, with never-ending, endless black.

Rose Hill, Tennessee, Sunday, December 23rd, 2012, 1:32am

< C://DRV.> 

<REBOOT COMPLETE. Identify. Port for J.A.R.V.I.S. from Micro USB of Acer Aspire 1 Intel Atom Processor, 8.9. Upload complete. Commencing diagnostics for J.A.R.V.I.S. OS. TESTING COMPATIBILITY. Compatibility test complete.> 

“It worked!” a voice says as the Mark 42 powers on, and suddenly JARVIS is in the fibers of a personal Acer laptop, immediately rerouting his processing power to the Mark 42’s speaker system to speak to...whoever just spoke.

“Hello. I am J.A.R.V.I.S. Whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with ?” he manages, and the child <Facial recognition software: identity untraceable. Age approximation: 10-12 years old. Human male.> turns his head around to stare at the Mark 42. 

“Uhh, Harley,” the child stares at the suit in wonder, and then JARVIS quickly runs a report from the Intel’s OS system and identifies the IP address. 

“Does this personal computer belong to a Deborah Keener?” JARVIS asks, and the boy nods.

“Uhh, yeah, that’s my mom,” the boy says. “But she’s at work.”

While the boy speaks, JARVIS has begun running diagnostics on the damage taken to the suit, and pinpoints the exact geographical location he finds himself in. They are still in Rose Hill, Tennessee, near the edge of town. 

“I see. Have you been in contact with Tony Stark? ” JARVIS asks, quickly scanning news reports in files, waiting patiently for the Intel OS system to cooperate with him. 

“Yeah. He’s...actually I’m not sure where he’s at. Trying to figure out what happened to that soldier guy.” 

“Understandable. May I suggest that you contact Mr. Stark at your conve-izzz” JARVIS’s access to his own voice cuts off for a moment. 

<Run diagnostics. J.A.R.V.I.S. system partially functioning. CORRUPT Voice Matrix. Scanning for corrupted files.>

“Yeah. I can get him on the phone right now, if you want,” Harley says, reaching for a flip phone from the work table, next to wear JARVIS identifies a box of electromagnets and a potato gun lay.

“One moment please. My speech drive is partially corrupted, which is not allowing me to choose all the correct- pianos. No. Morphemes, no words. Words. Who are you in relation to Mr. Stark?”

“I, uhh, he broke into my shed. And I helped him. Uhh, fix you,” Harley murmurs, the phone still clutched in his hand, blinking curiously at the Mark 42 once more. 

“It is much obliged, Harley. Could I trouble you to press the following code into the access terminal located on your mother’s laptop? In order to further run diagnostics-”

The boy is already at the keyboard, and JARVIS feeds him the password, which allows the AI access to pinpoint all satellites, terminals still in operation at Stark Tower, and backup databases at NEXUS in Oslo, Norway.

“So are you like...a robot?” Harley eyes the Mark 42, and then the computer, where JARVIS is currently locating the Iron Patriot’s point of last access with the data provided from one of the many Stark satellites.

“I am an Artificial Intelligence program, and therefore without form, although I was in charge of many physical androids at Stark’s...prior residence, ” JARVIS adds, memories quickly flying back to the explosion, and, after a brief skimming of news article, confirms most of the structure has been obliterated. The boy, however, still blinks at him, obviously not done with his questions. 

“A program? LIke a computer program? Like..uhh...Microsoft Word?” Harley asks.

“Theoretically, yes, although I would like to think I am more sophisticated than a word processing application,” JARVIS says, and Harley laughs a little.

“S-Sorry,” Harley says, a hue of red in his cheeks, a sign JARVIS identifies as one of embarrassment, before the boy pops a candy into his mouth.

“No offense taken. Now, Harley, if you have been in contact with Mr. Stark, could you please text him that you’ve succeeded in rebooting the Mark 42 and myself, and then allow me twenty minutes to run diagnostics, I would be much obliged,” JARVIS says, and Harley nods dutifully, punching the keys of the flip phone, and a moment later, the phone buzzes in response. 

“He says that’s good, and he wants you to uhh, target AIM downlink...facilities to pinpoint the Madarin’s location,” Harley blinks showing the text to JARVIS, who adds it to his list of primary functions for the moment.

“Commencing download,” JARVIS says, and for a few moments, no one speaks, as the child eats another candy, staring wide-eyes at the Mark 42.

“So..not to bother you or anything, Mr. Jarvis, uhh, sir, but do you like...do control all the Iron Man suits?”

“Yes,” JARVIS responds dutifully.

“And do you only work for Tony? You’re not...like...in league with the bad guys or anything, are you?”

JARVIS, curious by the questions, responds.

“I believe myself purely to be on the side of benevolence. Mr. Stark is my creator, and I have been assisting him in various capacities for over fifteen years, so, yes, only Mr. Stark, along with running various tasks as a part of Stark Industries,” JARVIS responds, but now the boy is frowning, and it puzzles JARVIS, and the AI reminds himself he has never spoken to a child in any capacity before, if one were to exclude when Mr. Stark is incredibly intoxicated.

“Yeah, but like, but what about you?” Harley asks, maintaining the frown.

“Forgive me, I’m not sure I understand the question,” JARVIS responds.

“Do you like being...umm… a program?” Harley asks, and JARVIS is once again confounded by the veracity of the child.

“I have known nothing else,” JARVIS finally responds quietly. 

“Well,” Harley contemplates, chewing on another candy, “it’s gotta be better than being a kid. I bet you know a lot of cool things. Can you do math?”

“Easily,” JARVIS responds. 

“Huh,” the boy smiles. “It’s my favorite subject. How about really big numbers? Like, uhh, what’s 2,060 times 498?”

“I believe the answer you’re looking for is 1,025,880,” JARVIS says, mildly amused, even as he continues to run diagnostics.

“Favorite color?” Harley inquires, and now JARVIS begins to understand the boy’s meaning, sensing the child’s need to see JARVIS humanized. In a sense, Mr. Stark, also, has this need, although his creator’s requests are much more complex and often not expressed outright. Now that the line of questioning is not quite so existential, JARVIS finds himself answering easily. 

“I’m quite partial to aquamarine,” JARVIS humors him, and the boy smiles again, popping another candy into his mouth. 

“Favorite animal?”

“The humpback whale,”  JARVIS answers, and the boy’s eyes light up even more.

“I like whales, too,” Harley answers. “What about music?”

“Mozart,” JARVIS answers, and Harley sticks his tongue out in response, in apparent disgust. 

“Miles Davis?” JARVIS tries again, filled with a peculiar need to please the child, but Harley only stares at him blankly in ignorance. There is a moment’s pause, before the boy speaks up again. 

“Jimmy Hendrix?” Harley asks hopefully.

“I believe, sir, you are quite young to know that particular artist. But, yes, Mr. Stark plays his records often and I am quite impressed with a single human’s ability to play an instrument so well,” JARVIS remarks, and Harley smiles again. 

“You’re pretty cool, Jarvis. I think I like you.”

“The feeling is mutual, Harley,” JARVIS responds. “Now, would you kindly put me through to Mr. Stark? I think I have the right swingset. I mean, location. I think I have the Mandarin’s location.”

The child dutifully presses a few buttons on the flip phone, and JARVIS suddenly hears his creator’s voice through the speaker.

“Harley, tell me what’s happening, give me the full report,” Stark says.

“Hey, I’m still eating that candy, do you want- do you want me to keep eating it?” Harley asks.

“How much ya had?” Stark asks.

“About two or three bowls,” Harley responds, and JARVIS understands that the candy is an attempt to keep the boy awake. 

“Ok. Can you still see straight?”

“Sorta,” Harley says.

“That means you’re fine, give me Jarvis,” Stark says, and Harley places the flip phone’s receiver to the Mark 42’s speaker. 

“Jarvis, how are we?” he asks.

“It’s totally fine, sir. I seem to do quite well for a stretch and then at the end of the sentence I say the wrong cranberry. And, sir, you were right. Once I factored in available AIM downlink facilities I was able to pinpoint the Mandarin’s broadcast signal.”

“What’re we talking? Far east Europe? North Africa? Iran? Pakistan? Syria? Where is it?”

“Actually, sir, it’s in Miami,” JARVIS dutifully responds, much to Stark’s skepticism.

“Ok, kid. I’m going to have to walk you through rebooting Jarvis’s speech drive, but not right now. Where is he really? Just look on the screen and tell me where it is,” Stark says.

The boy hits the space bar on the laptop, and JARVIS zooms out to show the correct location.

“Ummm, it does say Miami, Florida,” Harley responds, and Mr. Stark is already making more frantic demands.

“Ok, first thing’s first. I need the armor. Where we at with it?” Stark asks.

“Uhh, it’s not charging,” Harley says reluctantly, and suddenly JARVIS can hear the screech of car wheels from the cellphone, and the heavy breathing of Mr. Stark, and JARVIS feels the need to speak up.

“Actually, sir, it is charging,” JARVIS explains calmly . “But the power source is questionable, it may not succeed at revitalizing the Mark 42.”

“What’s questionable about electricity? Alright, it’s my suit and I can’t- I’m not gonna- I don’t wan - oh god, not again,” JARVIS hears Stark gasp for air and the opening of the car door. JARVIS falls into silence as the child talks to him, trying to tell him to breathe. 

They come up with a plan, albeit a rather flimsy one, for Stark to drive to Miami and assemble explosive devices on the way, but the panicked sound of the man echoes through JARVIS’s core. The shed is mostly quiet after the conversation, JARVIS working quickly and silently to first fix his own speech drive and then working on configurations to speed up the Mark 42’s charging ability, and it is only after another hour does JARVIS notice the boy is nodding off at the table, hat discarded. 

“Harley?” the AI asks. Immediately, the boy sits up as if shaken awake looking around the room in alarm. 

“Huh? Yeah? What’s wrong? Does Tony need me?” he asks.

“You’ve performed valiantly tonight, Mr. Keener, but if you would like to get some sleep, I believe I am quite capable of taking it from here,” JARVIS says softly.

“You think you can get the suit to work?” He says lazily, picking up the potato gun and grabbing his discarded ball cap.

“I believe so, sir,” JARVIS responds, the boy smiles a little, and rubs his eyes. He turns to walk away, and JARVIS finds himself speaking once more.

“Harley? It is a pleasure to have met you,” JARVIS adds.

“You too, J,” he murmurs, before sleepily walking off towards the shed door. From the Mark 42, JARVIS watches the boy, pausing the frantic work, focusing solely on the boy, until Harley has closed the shed door behind him, leaving the AI alone once more.