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WHO: Tony Stark, dangerously open
WHERE: Tony's Calibration Room
WHAT: You're stuck in Tony's head and good luck, buddy, he doesn't want to be there, either.
WHEN: During the Calibration Event (June 3rd - July 10th)
WARNINGS: Some body horror under the cut, but otherwise it depends on you. Digging for Tony's secrets is still going to be a challenge here, so if you work for it I'll assume you want to see that nasty stuff. I'll update as necessary.
Update: Horny, as usual.

There is bright, dazzling light in the eye immediately upon entering this room, another door directly in front of the entrance peppered with bursts of camera flashes and roving spotlights illuminating the fine, gold silk drapes around the open frame, flashing through intricate, stained glass mosaics set into the stone flanking the entryway, and glinting off of the golden struts where a velvet rope had hung but had been knocked carelessly to the floor, an open invitation. Through it is a sweet-smelling party, packed with beautiful people in even more beautiful clothes, laughing among the sumptuous chime of crystal in a warm, welcoming hall. The wall stretching away from either side of it reaches almost to the extreme edges of the room, incrementally decaying from polished brickwork to raw, cracked stone, tumbling down into rubble that litters the way further into this room around the corner from the rich door.

This building the door is set into is just a wall from the other side, built up into a dark cave of that raw stone. Tony is pacing behind it, nowhere in the cave welcoming enough to sit or linger, jagged piles of scrap metal where there wasn't cold stone lining the walls and scattered in piles that would have to be carefully navigated to avoid sharp edges glinting readily to slice into ankles. The lone occupant isn't dressed nearly as charmingly as anyone at that party that would have been such a good time, his once white shirt wrinkled and tattered and rolled up to his elbows, open at the collar and liberally stained black down the front with whatever dripped from his hands, thick and dark like oil and charcoal. In one hand, coated in this viscous liquor, his ever restless fingers worked erratically and mercilessly over a dark knot. The sweet smell of the hall is long gone here, overtaken quickly by acid and whiskey and a bitter, sick smoke.

Set into the back of the wall, there is a computer monitor, spilling a soft blue glow across the stone floor with a constant generation of lines of code in an alien alphabet that Tony throws judgemental glances at as he paces back toward the front of the cave. Most of the light comes from the back of the room, though, the roof of the cave opening to a bright, blue sky, where soft clouds make a slow march across and birds wheel freely, well above the curl of smoke that whisped up out of the cave and dissipated.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Tony was really striking out trying to provoke Jon into getting angry with him lately. Complaining about it might run the risk of drawing Jon further into the room to explain the change, though, and Tony was looking for the button to push for the opposite effect. Especially now, feeling shamed for taking advantage of the opportunity to pick through the hidden thoughts of their fellow prisoners, should he have use of the information later, when Jon showed far more restraint than Tony would every day. Maybe that was a little hypocritical, sure.

"Should be a kid in a candy shop," Tony agreed, willing to concede that Jon was putting forth an exceptional show of effort not to devour the closest thing to him and Tony's response had been unreasonable to a respectful offer. He found himself at a loss then, squeezing the sticky knot he carried in both hands, willing Jon to back out before something awful happened but cautious about stepping on his tail again. An uncharacteristically straightforward, "You wouldn't like...any of this," was what he had to offer, watching his hands work. "Keep all the best stuff up front, you should check it out. Kick back, take your pants off, relax for a while."

"Maybe I won't." Jon replies with a little shrug, looking around "Yet I remain curious. I want to learn about you, Tony. And these... I don't think any of these are meant to be portraying us the way we would like others to see us. They show us as who we are. And that? Well, I like that." There's little point in trying to hide the small smile settling on his face as Jon turns his head to look over the assembled clutter. Nothing as dreadful as coffins, taxidermy of coffins lying about at least.

"So... Will you tell me what this is? What I am even looking at?" He turns his attention back to Tony, so very absorbed in- "What is this you're working at?"

Who someone was had to be more complicated than a collection of dreadful memories, or Tony wouldn't have Jon convinced he enjoyed Tony's company. He would much rather Jon thought of him as the guy who brought him gifts and looked impeccable in a suit than anything he was bound to find back here. That smile was enough to get Tony to cross to him, heading off any terrible decision to start moving around stepping on rusty nails by sliding an arm around his shoulders to hook him closer, head bowed to watch his other hand turn the black thing over between them then knock a knuckle against Jon's chest, here, open up. "Just another place I should have died," he explained the cave. "Turns out, I'm very good at avoiding that kind of commitment."

And yet Jon would hardly be fond of Tony if he were little more than a gift-bearing suit. He has one of those in his world, used to consider him his boss and craves little more than to harm that man. But unfortunately for Tony perhaps, Tony never managed to paint that picture of himself for Jon. And had he done so... It wouldn't have lasted.

"I suppose..." He remarks in response to Tony's comment, but his attention is glued to the black-- Whatever it is? It's oddly fascinating and he does raise a hand as if wanting to touch it, biting his lower lip while attempting to not let his hand get too close. Which is a pretty obvious struggle.

"Did- Did you make this?" Is what he manages, still transfixed on the strange thing.

It wasn't a long struggle, Tony wasn't eager to keep hanging onto it and quickly deposited it into the offered hand. It was slick with the same black fluid that stained his clothes and covered Tony's fingers and made him flick them in irritation now that he was rid of it, tense and solid but gave easily under any manipulation that didn't leave an impression on its mottled surface. It was definitely a heart, the valves torn ragged, and knotted in a web of veins and scars, and Tony snorted at the question. "I thought you had a better opinion of my work than that," he muttered.

Jon expects a memory to spring to life as the thing is pushed into his hand and he is quick to bring up his other hand as well to properly support it when nothing happens aside from his own confusion and bafflement. Turning it carefully around to give it a closer inspection, Jon can't help but find it oddly... Beautiful. In all its grotesque ways.

"It's very unique..." He murmurs,running a thumb over some of the scarred tissue. "Not perfect, a little beaten and mistreated... but..." Just trust in the fear-devouring monster to develop a liking for gruesome things. Jon cuts himself off with a sudden sputter, wrapping both his hands around the heart maybe a little stronger than necessary and quickly lowers it away from his face, tearing his eyes away and looking back up at Tony.

"W-why- Are you giving me this?" he asks hastily, flustered by his own reaction.

The natural reaction should have been to drop it or throw it away, making Tony's shoulders drop in frustration because he knew exactly what was going to happen every time and yet he still kept on compulsively handing people the decrepit thing. The memory was there once Jon took hold of the heart, but the room was doing it's easy shift, metal melting up the walls and temperature dropping, while Jon admired his grim gift, making Tony's breath a quickly freezing gust as he panicked at Jon's question and the eye contact and gave the only answer he had, "I wanted you to have it." Quickly, he wrapped the other arm around Jon's shoulders to bury in his hair and drag his head back down against Tony's shoulder, wrapping him in a tight hug to bury his face there where the metal of the chestplate was uncomfortably cold and unforgiving. The room around them gave a groan then, the grinding protest of a ship at sea, and the steady drip of water on metal must have been what was causing the flood around their feet.

"I haven't told you...some things," Tony started carefully, his voice already modulated, strangely pitched and impersonal behind the mask. "Not terrible things," he tried to explain, not sure how to phrase that he wasn't trying to hide a sordid past of supervillainy from Jon right now, but close, "but dangerous ones. For-- both of us." How dangerous it really was for Jon to know about Iron Man while they were trapped on Temba was debatable, but from past experience, it certainly endangered Jon's willingness to stick around.

Behind him, Wasp was already doing her treacherous work again, "Don't you recognize it?? It's the famous red, white and blue--!", making Iron Man turn his head as though he could scowl her into being quiet this one time.

The dropping temperature is the first hint Jon gets on the beginning memory and it causes him to freeze for a moment as well as he realizes just what is happening. But before he can say something or step away, he is pulled into that incredibly tight hug, pressing his eyes shut against the metal that hasn't been there before while he holds onto the heart.

Metal. That's the next thing out of place.

Then the voice. Somehow still Tony's voice, but not his voice at all. And while he doesn't dare to blink open an eye, Jon feels like he has an idea what he is about to see - What Tony is about to tell him and his own heart is about to skip a beat. For a good part because he had hoped for this reveal to be a voluntary one.

His hold on the heart tightens and Jon forces a grim smile, partially blinking an eye open despite everything. Then he gives a rather theatrical sigh.

"After everything you know about me you still believe I can't handle dangerous, Tony..." The tone makes it obvious that he's not accusing Tony for his lack of trust, at least and he follows with a lower tone "It's alright."

The hold around Jon's shoulders loosened, but Tony continued to pet fretfully through Jon's hair, not convinced at all that it was alright by that laugh or Jon's chiding-- of course Jon had plenty dangerous that he ran into like an idiot, that didn't mean Tony had any desire to add to his problems, and it really didn't mean Jon understood. The faceplate knocked hollowly against the top of Jon's head where Tony wanted to press a last kiss before Jon accused him of manipulating everyone like Jan had, or told him this was more important and walked away like Joanna had. He still didn't quite let Jon go, but let his arms drop to hold around his biceps shifting slightly so Jon could see Wasp announce over Iron Man's shoulder, "Captain America!"

That had to be the body on the table in the narrow, submarine passage, ice still clinging to his hair and clothes as more of it broke away and dripped to the floor. He wore the striped uniform that matched the familiar shield Thor held up beyond him, brandishing it for Giant Man to nod with amazement. "Listen!" the tiny Wasp demanded, buzzing up near Captain America's head, making Iron Man turn longingly away from Jon finally to drop one gloved hand to the edge of the table, already feeling his hollow chest ache. He was covered completely in red and gold armor, face hidden behind a pointed golden mask, but it was clear in his posture that trying to protect this memory was starting to exhaust him.

But can Tony be sure Jon wouldn't understand? He flinches a little when the faceplate hits his head, but blinks his eyes open the moment after, feeling the other man's hold on him loosen up enough for him to look up and - finally - look up at Iron Man.

He gives a smile, but then some people he isn't familiar with are around and Jon looks over at the tiny winged lady and then there is apparently Captain America and some guy with a life-sized version of the shield and another one. Maybe he should have given the comics Billy had given him a closer look.

Looking back up at Tony, though, Jon can't help but notice the tension building in him, armored or not. He lets go of the heart with one hand to put it over the one Tony holds onto the table with and simply nods, his voice turning into what he hopes to be a reassuring tone "Just let it play out. I'm here for it now." He just may be about to get to see some superhero action - And he won't complain.

It wasn't a particularly action-packed scene, and Tony didn't remember it so clearly because it was a hard won victory or left any regrettable scars. It just wasn't one he was used to sharing with anyone; he hardly told the people who moved as figments in this room what it had meant to him, and they probably didn't have to ask. He slide the hand on Jon's arm back up around his shoulders to tug him back into a hug, this one appreciative for the gesture, more careful with the hard metal edges and joints of the armor. It wasn't even a loud scene; Wasp hissed, "He isn't dead! He's breathing!", and it was easy to hear Iron Man suck in a sharp breath like he meant to try to explain, hand over Jon's shoulder going to a tight fist to try to gather his thoughts, but the shuddering gasp of the man that had already defined most of Tony's life and had been presumed dead for 70 years filled the space instead. Jon's heart had to do the flip for him, the shocked tension that drew Tony taught under his armor that day permeating this memory as Captain America opened his clear, blue eyes.

That was all there really was to the memory. Gone as slick and silent as it had come on, Tony was left back in his soiled clothes, staring still where the table had been, hand slipping down Jon's back apologetically. If it had been any longer, maybe he would have been able to hand the shield to Jon so he could really understand; those toys at the carnival and the silly patriotic colour scheme really couldn't convey what it was like to be in the room with him.

Well, no action at least means the memory isn't a dreadful one. Tony's very own anxiety over being revealed remains prominent enough and while it entirely falls into Jon's type of fear, it hardly appeals to him.

The memory fades and Jon could probably have slipped out of Tony's hold or started laying out all the questions he now has regarding this memory, but Tony's silence, the way he keeps looking where Captain America has been and the little gesture of his hand at Jon's back tell the Archivist to give the man a moment. He uses that moment to lean slightly into that arm still around him, wordlessly letting Tony know that Jon has no intention of letting him drop due to a little secret.

"You okay?" Is all he asks after a few moments, voice gentle.

Jon was still there, but the reminder only made Tony take a sharp breath, trying to come up with his excuse for neglecting to tell him one tiny, little detail about the history of the Avengers during his brief educational program. "Of course," he had to insist first, not about to give a different answer to that question even in this odious place, and focusing the slide of his arm to take Jon's shoulder instead. "I tell people he's my bodyguard, back home," he explained, with an expression to assure Jon that he was fully aware how flimsy that sounded. "The Avengers live in my house, everyone knows I made the suit, but..." A tap to his temple with his free hand, crazy like a fox. "I didn't even tell any of them," he indicated the now empty room for the figments in the memory, "for-- way too long. You know, I had this thing--" Jon already knew the important part of that story, the one that made Tony itch at his chest again, fingers sinking too far in to the void left there, making him take another breath before finishing like a defensive teenager justifying coming home so late, "I did already tell you most of this."

“I’m not mad.” Jon clarifies softly, moving his free hand up to brush it up Tony’s forearm. “Of course, I- I wish you had told me on your own accord, but... I can’t say I didn’t enjoy the visuals a little?”

He allows his words to settle. “So... Who were all these people? I... Think I recognized a few from the comics Billy donated to the library, but...” A little shrug. “Captain America, of course. And Iron Man.” Another shrug, this one paired with an almost innocent smile. “The one with the shield was... Thor? I think? Which makes you friends with Norse gods as well. Please correct me if I get anything wrong. I- I’m new to superheroes as you might remember.”

Of course Billy, incalculable power at his fingertips, made the most useless contribution to the library. They never even got Iron Man's roller skates right. "Thor," Tony agreed, with a nod to the place he had stood, but had to make one correction, "Not really a god. More like an alien. They're incredibly advanced, so when they made their appearance on Midgard, it was an easy mistake to make. But yes, big hammer, thunderbolts and lightning, whole thing-- I wouldn't be surprised if you've met an Asgardian yourself." He smiled then, obviously more at ease bragging about his friends-- and his friends being incomprehensibly smart, not just some god, was definitely a brag-- but sidled behind Jon to drape both arms around his shoulders where he could speak into his ear, safely at his back. Still pointing to where Thor was, he continued, "He was with the team from the start, brother's something of a pest, I think you can imagine, but..." He gave a small shrug, slouching a little more of his weight onto Jon's shoulders, "He's been...gone. For a while now. They don't really die, but, you know." He sniffed, flicking his gesture toward where the man had stood beside him. "Hank Pym. Lots of code names, but usually Ant-Man or Giant-Man. Absolutely brilliant scientist, discovered a subatomic particle that no one else can even get close to that allows him to alter mass. Basically magic, alters the laws of physics, but cooler. He and his gal, Wasp," another point, up in the air, "were also there from day one, and that little spitfire managed to keep us all under control enough to not be at each other's throats, she was the boss." He laced his hands together then, giving the same shrug. "Both of them have, uh, parted ways with the Avengers, recently. Hank is forming impressionable young minds in England, a single-size professor. They needed a break."

It’s an entirely different tone that Tony uses to talk about his fellow.... Avengers. A certain fondness. Maybe even.... Admiration? It’s a nice difference, however. None of the pain and hints of insecurities.

“They sound incredible.” Jon acknowledges with a little nod, his hand easily finding Tony’s clasped ones to add itself to the knot, gladly accepting the weight Tony put into his shoulders. And maybe he’s a little jealous, even. All these strong and brilliant people working together for a good cause. And Tony certainly fitted in well.

“Was there a reason why you built that suit of armor?” He asks in a conversational tone.

They were incredible, and Jon earned a noisy kiss to his hair for the only correct answer, Tony's hands untwining to welcome Jon's. That was not the correct question, though, making Tony's hands tense, thumbs tugging at each other restlessly. "Because I could," he said, clipped, and not untrue. That whole sordid tale was definitely somewhere in this cave; it permeated the whole structure. Tony slipped away, searching the floor around them, not sure if it was any worse to show Jon or try to explain it to him now, and kicking through the nearest pile of scornful junk that littered his brain. "I'd like to tell you it was altruism, to be a superhero, fight the good fight," he admitted with a small shake of his head, of course it wasn't that. "If you think I'm an asshole now, you should have seen me." The heap slid around to reveal a few items among the scrap: a jet injector, and a wiry pair of glasses.

The kiss to his head lures the tiniest noise out of the Archivist. A happy noise, though. That moment is much too short-lived, however, and Jon finds himself following Tony's movements around the place with his head and eyes.

He must be searching for another memory.

Tony's words are met with a small nod. They all change through time and experience. He himself has changed greatly ever since accepting the job as Head Archivist. And not solely in a monstrous way.

When Tony finds something among the scraps, Jon cautious walks over to crouch down next to the items with a frown, almost reaching for the injector, but rather looking up at Tony for approval "Do these belong together?"

"Ah..." Tony looked unsure, then slowly shook his head before turning to scout the other piles. The objects didn't make much sense together to him, and surely the memory of the mark 1 had to be attached to a landmine, the heart, even, something else-- "Maybe try that again?" he suggested, gesturing with some disapproval to the twisted knot Jon was still carrying around. There wasn't any other good reason for that.

Of course he's still carrying it around. Jon... Kind of likes it? Though he looks up at Tony first, then down at it, not entirely sure how to try that again. "...don't you think the memory might only replay?" He pauses, frowning. "Do these replay?" Not as far as his own experiences with them go. So, remaining where he is crouching, Jon holds the heart before him again and turns it around quizzically, lightly prodding it in some places as if searching for a button and scratching the tip of his finger over other spots almost as if to try tickling the thing.

Those were not questions Tony was in any way prepared to answer, making him spread his empty hands, he had nothing, with a shrug. If anything, this should have been Jon's territory to effectively dissect. Tony really hadn't meant for Jon to keep playing with the disembodied organ, making him wrinkle his nose and insist instead, a falsely cheery inversion, "Hey, maybe put that down," much preferring to completely ignore it if the alternative was watching Jon manhandle it until it oozed more of the thick, black gunk out of the ragged valves. That wasn't helpful. "You would really rather be doing that than showing off your dance moves?" Tony asked, pointing back toward the facade again, open invitation, anyone could stop being gross at any point and just have a good time.

Jon stops prodding the heart long enough to look back up at Tony, yet of course hesitates to put it down, even as he gives the other man a wry smile "Tony, that party back there..." He shakes his head. "That's several levels above my pay grade - And even farther above my... I don't know, what would you call it.... I... I really don't belong there." It feels false. Too false. That's not the part of society Jon has ever had to deal with and quite frankly never wanted to deal with. Can't Tony see that? Oh, he probably can.

Looking back down at the heart, Jon shakes his head and gives it a gentle pat "No. I- I prefer it here. This feels more real. And... I really can't dance, believe me." As he speaks, Jon glances between the heart, the glasses and the injector and tips his head to the side. "...maybe if we combine all three?"

And he shifts to kneel on the floor, putting the heart in his lap and reaching to pick up the other two items. Apparently it's time to experiment.

"But can Jonny d'Ville?" Tony teased then pressed his lips together, looking more hopeful than he felt that a comeback performance would be the key to distracting Jon out of his dark machinations. The expression was dropped and Tony slouched when it was clear that Jon was committed to solving what he saw was a puzzle. To the room, he wasn't wrong, the symbols flitting by on the monitor on the back of the facade interrupted by a glitch of interference as Jon's hands closed around the offered objects.

Grabbing both at once caused an earsplitting feedback loop, a vibrating squeal that was disorienting enough without the memories trying to offer both of their myriad of sensory experiences at once. For Jon, it was two simultaneous explosions, the piles of scrap bursting upward in fiery columns on either side of him, singing skin and shredding him with their cumulative shrapnel; the bones of his hand around the injector cracked then crushed, folding under enormous weight; mouth and nose and finally lungs filling with water as his vision blurred, submerged, then a yank on his hair to jerk his head back just in time to see a full sedan, screaming family inside staring down at him through the cracked windshield, before the weight of it crushed him to the floor.

As if to scold the feedback shriek, a soft voice interrupted the deathly dark, "Not so much with the noise, Mr. Stark." It was an older man, carefully learned accented English. "And not so much with the moving."

On the other side, another voice, this one a much younger woman, "Tony? Don't try to move."

Tony sat up, cross legged on a bed, these two figments on either side of him, the man in the glasses and the woman holding the injector, Tony's head in his hand and frowning at Jon. "This is different," he muttered. The scene still felt chaotic, an array of monitors behind Tony breaking down as they came closer to the old man, looking dusty and harassed, the mattress on that side of the bed soiled and peeling where it looked pristine closer to the woman, hovering anxiously in a crisp labcoat. Tony's gold undersuit, fabric and not the liquid spread of gold yet from the ports in his skin, was peeled down around his hips, leaving both of his figments staring at the blood-soaked bandages pressed over his heart.

There is no real time for Jon to respond to that question as from one moment to the next everything happens.

The initial loud noise makes him flinch, but what follows feels much rather as if the Stranger, the Desolation and the Vast teamed up with the Flesh and asked the Web for a map to descend down upon him, leaving the Archivist in a stunned silence while his senses slowly catch up with what is even going on and his mind stumbles over itself to try and make some sense of it.

Which, of course, is a trial in futility at best with most of these memories, but obviously bringing several together at once- Now this is where the terrible ideas begin and reason decides to take a lengthy trip to another country.

By the time Jon regains some of his focus all he can stare at is the sorrowful state of Tony's chest, his mouth moving as if he wants to ask a question, but failing remarkably to produce any coherent noises.

That was fine, because Tony had a question: "How did we go from, 'I won't touch anything', to going in, both barrels? You're something else, you know that?" Irritable again, Tony moved to slide from the bed to try to put this energy somewhere, and both of the people around him put up their hands in warning knowing exactly how much of a terrible idea that was. Tony choked, tasting blood from the shredded cavity of his chest, and dropped to his knees, where both the young woman and the old man frowned at him, unimpressed.

"Back to bed. Die in relative comfort at least," the man suggested.

In case that wasn't clear enough, Tony finally answered Jon's unwelcome question, slouched forward on one hand to wipe the other across his mouth, "I was dying."

"Tony, there's no way in hell you're going to survive an Extremis dose," the woman pointed out, and Tony gestured to her, only to tilt a flattened hand, not really one way or the other. Not dying like she was saying, that one was more complicated, but dying was involved.

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