A Drunken Mirage
Iron Man wasn’t as surprised as he should have been at the sight of a man lying unconscious on the ground on the sidewalk.
That sight by itself, anyway, wouldn’t have really been anything unusual. No, what made this particularly strange was that the man in question was wearing an outfit that looked like it belonged in a cosplay convention, along with a golden helmet with two long horns that seemed to protrude from the front of it laying on its side, slightly dented and dusty, a few feet in front of the man.
Yet even that paled in comparison to the state of the man himself. Though not many external injuries were on the man, he did have three deep slash marks down his back. Much worse, though, was the fact that he had two marks on him that seemed to look like he had been hit by a bolt of lightning.
Tony Stark knelt down next to the man, who was lying with his cheek flat against the concrete. His hair looked like it had been slicked back before it had been thrown in disarray by some sort of fight, and it was jet black in color.
I should take him to a hospital, Tony thought. That would certainly make the most sense and be the easiest solution to the problem. Despite his curiosity on how the mysterious man had gotten these strange injuries-- both slash marks and a lightning strike--not all mysteries would be solved. If he was so curious, he could call up the hospital in the morning when the man woke up.
Tony scooped the man up carefully, making sure not to touch his back. He wasn’t exactly sure how safe it was to carry someone upside down, but he feared that his armor could further cut into the wound. He almost took off before remembering the helmet that lay on the sidewalk, quickly leaning down to pick it up.
As he grasped hold of it, its image flickered slightly, and Tony almost dropped it in surprise. He scanned the area, his visor scanning for any strange activity that could have caused the phenomenon-- strange heat areas, a flickering light-- but there was nothing. He glanced down at the man in his arms and let out a small “oh” of surprise as he realized the man was doing the same thing.
The clothes, which he had previously thought looked pristine, were suddenly charred and burned black in several places. The marks were suddenly oozing blood, and the helmet in Tony’s hand seemed to almost twitch in his hand.
It was only an extreme amount of self-control that prevented Tony from dropping the man completely in surprise, along with his usual sense of invulnerability. Still...Tony’s arm shook slightly as his mind raced.
He gently placed the man down-- or tried to, at least. Apparently the alcohol had affected him, causing him to misjudge the distance and drop the man at least four inches. Tony winced as the man’s head whacked against the ground.
He had to be drunk. That was the most plausible situation. And yet...Tony couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Maybe the flickering was the alcohol, but the bizarre getup couldn’t be. And weird vision wouldn’t make the wounds suddenly start bleeding, either.
If there was anything out of the ordinary, the hospital couldn’t help. Well, obviously they couldn’t help with fading or with people falling out of the sky--
Tony’s head throbbed, and he awkwardly attempted to rub it through his suit, which just resulted in him looking idiotic. God. He should just take the man to his penthouse and figure it out when he was sober.
And without thinking any further-- without wondering if maybe, just maybe, the hospital should handle the random unconscious, struck-by-lightning bleeding man laying outside of a bar, Tony did something reckless but, if he was honest with himself, not that out of character-- he dropped a random stranger on his couch and passed out in his room.
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Morning came in the form of a agonizing migraine.
Tony’s eyes opened with a groan, struggling to focus on the ceiling above him, and he clasped his hands to his (strangely geometrical) face. Lights seemed to flash in his vision, and he wondered absently if he was going to pass out again. A few moments passed as he lay there, feeling sorry for himself, before he got up abruptly to the creaking of joints (what was that about?) and stumbled to the bathroom.
His hand fumbled for the faucet handle, and he somehow managed to grasp it clumsily. The water poured out, sounding like a waterfall to his headache-ridden brain, and he looked up at the mirror.
And groaned.
He was in his full suit. Why that had happened he had no idea. Why was even wearing his suit last night? Did something happen?
That does explain the sore muscles, he thought. The sore everything, really.
Tony shut off the water angrily, his headache now the last thought in his mind, and walked back to his room, wondering where the hell he left his suitcase. Finding it, he flipped it open, stepped into it, and let his armor collapse into it. He slumped down on his bed, exhausted.
I said I wouldn’t do this again. I promised myself. I promised Pepper.
Tony raked his hands through his hair. What did I do? He went back, trying to remember why the hell he was drinking in the first place, but he realized there was really no need. The only reason he’d go to the bar was if he was remembering the cave and the desert. Which happened a lot.
What’d I do then? Show off for some chick? He couldn’t think of any other reason he would be in his suit.
He stripped off his wrinkled suit clothes, discarding them in favor of an outfit he found more casual-- there was no chance in hell he’d be going out anywhere today. So he’d just stay home, reevaluate his life choices, maybe invite Pepper over--
Tony walked out of the room, and stopped short.
A man with long black hair was sitting on his couch, looking fairly murderous. He spoke with an accent that Tony couldn’t quite place (was it British?), but that was the least of his worries.
The man stood up. “Who are you?” he asked in a voice that sounded smooth but with acid burning beneath the surface. “And where is my helmet?”