At times, it hits Peter like a cold, heavy sheet of water. It seeps deep into his bones and permeates every cell and nerve- grief hits him, and it hits him hard, with no mercy.
He feels it more in the cold, lonely nighttime. No more late night texts. No more Joe’s pizza for dinners at the lab, or being saved on field trips.
It was hard to celebrate the universe being saved when it felt so depopulated by the death of just a single person.
Peter finds it searching through the inventor’s programs. There’s dried tears over his cheeks, mind tight with a certain kind of inconsolable misery that he was too young for. Something’s been weighing on his shoulders, pushing into his heart and chest, and it’s something akin to guilt but not quite- longing, maybe, for something that just can’t be recovered.
Looking through Tony’s abandoned projects both sends the rusty knife in his chest deeper into his heart and mitigates the nerve wrenching, something-caught-in-his-throat feeling that plagues Peter, and has been for the better part of a year. He hasn’t moved on and maybe won’t ever.
It’s titled, simply, Peter. No abbreviations or clever names that were signature for the billionaire- just his name. It’s jarring to see it, and in the split second of processing, he almost turns out of habit to ask Tony what this file is.
“Karen, what is this?”
He’s not sure he’s ready for the answer- maybe he doesn’t want to know, but that would be a lie.
“That is an AI program, Peter.”
“Date of creation?”
“Mr. Stark started work on Peter in May, 2018. Last opened, April 10th, 2023.”
The young hero couldn’t help but stare at the holo-folder. Tony designed an AI after him. May 2018. After… the first snap.
I don’t want to go, please.
I don’t want you to go, Mr. Stark.
Peter’s heart dropped, a sensation he’d come to be good friends with- at times, he’d felt like he was falling into himself, replaying memories of car rides, late nights or rereading text messages.
“Karen, could you run this AI?”
There’s no answer, and a beat passes before his own voice greets him, filling the room.
“Mr. Stark? Did you need anything?”
Thankfully, his AI-self doesn’t probe, and breaking his week long drought, Peter cries.
-
It’s another week and a half before Peter can bear to step into the lab, but the first thing he does is sit in front of the holo-workspace.
“Karen, how did Mr… How did he make the Peter AI?”
“He had a program that recognised speech patterns from compiled sources. He also implemented an intelligent response system.”
Peter bit his lip, looking at the timeline that was shown on his holo screen. For 5 years, Tony used this AI. He designed it. Tested it. Talked to it.. Talked to Peter for 5 years. Which, for him in the soul stone, was just black vision. It was way too sudden for his tastes- just before they got on that stupid space donut, there was talks of work sessions in the lab, improvements to the suit. Too many solidified plans that weren't executed.
Tony had felt loss, just as he had now.
“Karen, could you do the same for… could you do the same for T-Tony?”
“Yes,” Karen answered, voice placent despite the inner turmoil that was tearing Peter’s mind up. He felt light headed, and not at all grounded- but when, in the last month, has he ever?
Peter didn’t know how long it was before Karen piped up again. The progress bar at the bottom of the displayed screen worked to the end, countless emails, phone calls, texts and verbal commands flitting on the screen.
“It’s ready, Peter. Would you like to start it?”
“Yeah, yes, please.” The boy answered, voice weak, quiet.
A few seconds passed, then a low chime.
“Hey, buddy, you called?”
“Mr. Stark?”
Peter felt the familiar sting of tears- for a moment, it was like his brain was dunked in cold salt water, and his heart clenched when Tony chuckled.
“No, kid, it’s the KGB.” Peter couldn’t help a weak laugh, and there was nothing more he’d wanted in that moment but the real thing in front of him.
“Karen, put him in the Mark 47. Please .”
A whir, and then the clang of metallic footsteps. Peter didn’t want to look up. Was this right? Was this what Tony died for? Was this what he would've wanted?
“Kid.”
“Kid, look at me.” He feels a hand on his shoulder, though he knows no one is there- Maybe Karen, who could sense his mourning.
For a while, Peter’s dams break, his walls crumble down and it’s like Tony has just left all over again- and somehow, that empty suit, that voice, negates the gaping, greedy hole in his chest just a little bit.