Howard threw the heavy steel wrench with every ounce of strength he had left. It smashed directly into the main holographic display of his multiversal receiver, shattering the projection grid and sending a violent cascade of sparks raining down across the concrete floor of the basement lab.
He didn't blink. He didn't shield his face. He just stared at the smoking wreckage, his chest heaving, his breath tearing through his throat in jagged, wet gasps.
"Recalculate," Howard rasped, his voice entirely destroyed.
The automated system chimed, a cold, robotic voice echoing through the destroyed workspace. "Sir, the quantum matrix has collapsed. The spatial folding variables cannot be stabilized. A connection to the transwarper core cannot be established without a localized destination coordinate."
"I SAID RECALCULATE!!" Howard roared. He slammed both of his fists down onto the steel control console. The impact split the skin on his knuckles wide open, a wound that had just barely begun to scab over from yesterday's outburst. Fresh blood smeared across the glass screens, mixing with the frantic, jagged equations he had scrawled in black marker.
He didn't feel the pain. He had no time to feel the pain.
Howard stared at the numbers on the glass. He had spent three straight weeks staring at them. Twenty-one days of chasing localized spatial folding, quantum entanglement, and string theory. He had pushed his genius past its absolute limit, tearing apart every principle of physics he knew, desperately trying to build a bridge into the dark.
And he had failed. Every single time.
He backed away from the console, his legs trembling so violently he could barely stand. He hadn't slept for more than twenty minutes at a time in three weeks. He was running on pure adrenaline, black coffee, and sheer, unfiltered panic. He looked at his shaking hands. They were covered in grease, burns, and his own blood.
These hands had built the atomic bomb. These hands had built Captain America's shield. They had constructed the repulsor tech, designed weapons that could level cities, and amassed an empire of wealth and power.
But they couldn't build a door to his son.
"I can't do it," Howard whispered to the empty room, his voice cracking violently. "I don't know how to do it."
"GRAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!"
CRASH!!!!!
He grabbed the edges of his workbench, flipping it over in a sudden, blinding surge of rage. Tools, schematics, and half-built processors crashed to the floor. "Why won't you work?!" he screamed at the metal parts. "I built shield, I helped create the super soldier!! Why can't I figure this out? Tell me the frequency! Give me the numbers!"
He collapsed onto his hands and knees among the scattered tools, his head dropping toward the concrete.
He had taken the greatest miracle humanity had ever seen—the transwarper his eight-year-old son had found out of nowhere—and he had immediately tried to experiment on it. He had looked at the universe's greatest mystery, and all he had seen was its potential for destruction and defense. He had tried to weaponize his own child's discovery.
And because of his boundless ego, his son was gone. Ripped across the universe.
"I'm sorry," Howard sobbed into the concrete floor, his fingers digging desperately into the hard ground as if he could tear it open and climb inside. "I'm sorry, Tony. I'm sorry. Please. Let me fix it. Just give me the numbers. I'll figure it out."
But the math remained cold, dead, and entirely indifferent to his suffering.
Three floors above, in the absolute silence of the main study, Maria Stark sat perfectly rigid in her high-backed chair.
She hadn't moved. Not truly. For twenty-one days, her entire existence had shrunk down to the heavy brass casing resting on the pedestal in front of her, and the soft, rhythmic emerald waveform projecting from its center.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
The line spiked. The numbers glowing in the holographic interface shifted. His heart rate jumped from ninety beats per minute to one hundred and thirty-five.
Maria lunged forward, her hands hovering inches from the light, her eyes wide with terror. "What is it?" she whispered frantically. "What's happening? Are you running? Are you scared? I'm here Tony. I'm here baby!!"
She watched the oxygen saturation numbers fluctuate. She watched the core temperature dip. Every single digit was a blade twisting directly into her chest. She had learned his patterns over the last three weeks. She knew exactly what his resting heart rate looked like. She knew the exact moment he fell asleep, because the rhythm would slow down to a steady, calm eighty-five beats per minute.
And every time his heart rate spiked, she stopped breathing entirely until it slowed back down.
The heavy oak doors creaked open behind her.
"Madam," Jarvis said softly. He stepped into the room holding a silver tray with a cup of hot tea and a slice of dry toast. "You must consume something. Your blood sugar is dropping to dangerous levels."
"He's in danger, Jarvis," Maria said, her eyes never leaving the green line. She didn't turn her head. She didn't acknowledge the food. "He was resting, and then it spiked. Something woke him up. Something is chasing him."
"Master Tony is exceptionally resourceful," Jarvis replied, his voice thick with a sorrow he was desperately trying to hide. He set the tray down on the small table next to her. "He has the Baymax unit with him. He will avoid danger."
"He shouldn't have to avoid danger!" Maria snapped, her voice trembling with an agonizing mix of fury and heartbreak. "He shouldn't have to be resourceful! He's a child! He should be in his bed, complaining about his math homework! He shouldn't be fighting for his life in some alien universe!"
Jarvis bowed his head. "I know, Madam. I know."
"It's been three weeks," Maria whispered, a single tear breaking free and trailing down her pale, gaunt cheek. "It's been three weeks, Jarvis. I don't know if he's freezing. I don't know if he's hungry. I can't hold him. I can't tell him I'm here. All I can do is watch this stupid, horrible line and pray it doesn't stop."
She grabbed the armrests of her chair, her knuckles turning bone-white. The sheer, overwhelming hatred she had held onto for the last three weeks—the cold, furious wrath she had directed entirely at her husband—was the only thing keeping her upright. She had used her anger as a shield. If she stayed angry at Howard, she didn't have to fully face the reality that Tony might never come back.
But down in the basement, the frantic crashing and screaming had suddenly stopped.
Maria froze. She listened intently. For twenty-one days, the muffled sounds of Howard tearing the lab apart, throwing tools, and shouting at his computers had been a constant, pathetic background noise. It was the sound of a man trying to buy his way out of hell.
But now, there was only silence.
The silence scared her more than the screaming.
Down in the basement, Howard slowly pushed himself up from the concrete floor. He didn't look at the screens anymore. He wiped the blood from his face, leaving long, crimson streaks across his cheeks and forehead.
He walked out of the lab. He passed the main stairs, dragging his feet up the secondary stairwell. He moved like a ghost. He felt completely hollowed out. There was no more fight left in him. There was no more arrogance, no more ego, no more genius. He was completely, utterly defeated.
He walked down the second-floor hallway, avoiding the main study where he knew Maria was guarding the heartbeat. He couldn't look at her. He couldn't look at the green light. He knew if he saw the heartbeat, he would completely lose his mind.
He stopped in front of the door at the very end of the hall.
Tony's bedroom.
Howard stood there for a long time, his hand hovering over the brass doorknob. He was trembling. He hadn't stepped a foot inside this room since the morning of the accident. He slowly wrapped his bleeding fingers around the metal and turned it, pushing the door open.
The room was exactly as Tony had left it.
The bed was unmade, the blankets tangled in a messy heap. A half-eaten bag of potato chips sat on the nightstand next to a soldering iron. The floor was completely covered in advanced, highly dangerous circuit boards, dismantled drone parts, and a dozen notebooks filled with sketches of things Howard didn't fully understand.
Howard walked slowly into the center of the room. He looked at the mess. He looked at the brilliance scattered across the carpet.
He fell to his knees directly onto a pile of loose screws and wires. He didn't care about the sharp metal digging into his skin.
He reached out, his trembling hand grasping the silver picture frame sitting on Tony's desk.
Howard pulled the frame into his lap, staring down at the photograph behind the glass.
It was a shot taken at a company picnic a few months ago. Tony was front and center, wearing a messy t-shirt, grinning wildly at the camera while holding up a massive, greasy wrench. Maria was leaning down, pressing a loving kiss to Tony's cheek, her eyes crinkled with absolute joy. Jarvis was standing right behind them, one hand resting protectively on Tony's shoulder, a rare, incredibly warm smile on his usually stoic face.
They looked happy. They looked like a family.
Howard wasn't in the picture.
He remembered that day. He remembered Maria begging him to come out to the lawn, just for an hour, just to eat a hotdog with his son. And he remembered telling her he was too busy. He was finalizing a massive defense contract with the Pentagon. He was building the future. He didn't have time for picnics.
He stared at the empty space in the photograph where he should have been standing.
"Where was you?" Howard whispered, his voice shattering completely. "WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU, YOU SELFISH PIECE OF SHIT!!!!!?"
He had spent his entire life justifying his absence. He had told himself that he was building a shield for Tony. He was securing a legacy so massive, so impenetrable, that his son would never have to worry about anything. He thought he was being a good father by giving Tony the world on a silver platter.
But Tony hadn't wanted the world. He just wanted his dad.
And when Tony finally came to him, terrified, carrying a machine that broke the laws of reality, asking for his father's help to fix it... Howard hadn't acted like a father. He had acted like a CEO. He had acted like a weapons contractor. And with all his brilliance, all his ingenuity. He was the architect of his sons demise.
Howard clutched the photograph to his chest, wrapping his arms around it as if he could physically pull the people inside it out into the room.
He broke down.
A violent, guttural sob tore its way out of his throat, a sound so completely raw and agonizing it barely sounded human. It was the sound of a man's soul completely tearing itself apart. He curled forward, pressing his forehead directly against the carpet, his broad shoulders shaking violently with the force of his weeping.
"I'm sorry!" Howard screamed into the empty room, tears and blood pouring down his face, soaking into the floorboards. "I'm so sorry! Tony, please! I'm sorry! I didn't want to hurt you! I just wanted to protect you! I just wanted you to be safe!"
He tightened his grip on the picture frame until the glass cracked under the pressure of his fingers.
"God, please!" Howard begged, throwing his head back, yelling at the ceiling, pleading with a universe that had taken everything from him. "Take me! Punish me! I did it! It was my fault! I pulled the switch! Take me and give him back! I'll go to hell, I don't care! Just send him home! Please! I beg you, just give my boy back to his mother! GIVE ME BACK MY SON!!!"
He collapsed forward again, weeping uncontrollably, completely surrendering to the absolute despair. He had nothing left. The math was gone. The genius was gone. He was just a broken, pathetic man crying on the floor of an empty bedroom.
"I killed him," Howard sobbed, his voice reduced to a broken, pathetic wheeze. "I killed my own son. I took him from her. I destroyed everything."
"Howard."
The voice was soft. It was quiet.
Howard gasped, his breath catching in his throat. He slowly turned his head, his vision completely blurred with tears.
Maria was standing in the doorway.
She had left the study. For the first time in twenty-one days, she had left that room. She stood there in her silk robe, her face pale, staring down at the shattered remains of her husband.
Howard immediately scrambled backward, pressing his back against the side of Tony's bed, clutching the cracked photograph to his chest. He looked at her with pure, unadulterated terror, like a condemned man looking at his executioner.
"Maria, I'm sorry," Howard choked out, frantically crawling toward her on his knees. He didn't try to defend himself. He didn't try to offer excuses. He just lowered his head, bowing before her, completely submitting to her wrath. "I'm sorry. You were right. You were absolutely right. It's my fault. It's all my fault. I traded him. I played God. I'm a monster. I'm a monster, Maria."
Maria stared down at him.
For three weeks, she had hated this man. She had cursed his name. She had actively wanted him to suffer. She had locked him out of the study, purposely denying him the only comfort left in the world—the sound of their son's heartbeat. She had wanted him to feel the absolute, paralyzing darkness of not knowing if Tony was alive.
But looking at him now—looking at the blood on his face, the completely broken state of his body, and hearing the raw, agonizing truth in his screams—the anger inside her suddenly evaporated. Her pity turned to shared, unbearable grief.
She realized that while she had been sitting in the study, anchored to the green light, surviving off the knowledge that Tony was still breathing... Howard had been entirely alone in the dark. He hadn't seen the heartbeat. He truly, genuinely believed Tony was dead, and that he was entirely responsible for the murder.
He had been suffering the exact same hell she had, but he had been suffering it in absolute isolation.
"I'm sorry," Howard wept, his forehead touching the floor directly in front of her feet. "I can't fix it. The math won't work. I can't bring him back. I'm sorry, Maria. I love him so much, and I killed him."
Maria's breath hitched. A fresh wave of tears spilled over her eyelashes.
She slowly dropped to her knees, the silk of her robe pooling around her on the messy floor. She reached out with trembling hands and placed them gently on Howard's shaking shoulders.
Howard flinched violently at her touch, expecting her to strike him, expecting her to scream again.
Instead, Maria leaned forward and wrapped her arms completely around his neck.
She pulled him flush against her chest, burying her face into his blood-stained, unkempt hair. She held him as tightly as she could, locking her arms around his back, absorbing the violent, shuddering force of his sobs.
Howard froze for a split second, completely paralyzed by the contact. And then, he broke entirely. He dropped the photograph. He wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his face into her shoulder, crying so hard he could barely draw breath.
"I've got you," Maria whispered, her own tears soaking into his shirt. Her voice was cracked, but it held a fierce, unwavering strength. "I've got you, Howard. I'm here."
"I'm sorry...I'm sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry so sorry," he repeated, the words muffled against her shoulder. "I'm so sorry!"
"I know," Maria sobbed, rocking him gently back and forth on the floor of their son's bedroom. "I know you are. I know."
She held onto him, the hatred finally burning away, leaving nothing but the absolute, crushing reality of their shared loss. She realized in that moment that she couldn't survive this alone, and neither could he. If they stayed angry, the house really would become a morgue. They had to forgive each other, or they would both die in this house.
"He's alive, Howard," Maria whispered directly into his ear, holding him tighter.
Howard's breathing stopped. He pulled his head back just enough to look at her, his red, swollen eyes wide with absolute shock and desperate, terrified hope.
Maria reached up, her thumbs gently wiping the blood and tears from his cheeks. She looked directly into his eyes, giving him the one thing she had cruelly withheld for twenty-one days.
"The machine," Maria wept, offering him a sad, beautiful, completely forgiving smile. "The casing in the study. It's projecting his heartbeat. He's breathing, Howard. Our boy is out there, and he's breathing."
Howard stared at her, his jaw trembling violently. He let out a breathless, broken sound, a mix of a laugh and a sob, before collapsing forward again, burying his face into her chest, weeping with an entirely new kind of overwhelming emotion.
Maria held her husband on the floor, surrounded by the scattered pieces of their son's brilliance. They stayed there for a long time, holding each other in the wreckage, clinging to the forgiveness, and sharing the desperate, undeniable hope that somewhere across the multiverse, their little boy was going to find his way home.