tushanshu | Video;

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[ The video begins with a dark-haired man centered in the middle of the frame. He’s got dark eyes, a precisely cut goatee, and hair that’s a little too styled to be naturally that neat. There isn’t a lot to see beyond his chin, he’s sitting too close to the camera, but what can be seen looks vaguely like a shirt of shiny red metal.

His brow knits almost immediately after the feed starts recording, his expression edging toward disbelief as his lips twist into a mild frown. ]

Look. I get it. In a time of crisis, rationing’s necessary to keep resources moving in the right direction. Perfectly understandable. You guys needed to save your turtle. What responsible citizen wouldn’t do their part for that noble cause?

[ There’s a slight hint f sarcasm creeping into his voice, as though he’s heard the whole turtle spiel already and not only hasn’t been impressed, but also doesn’t really buy it either. Not even after having spent half a day scouring the network for information about what’s really going on here before making this video. ]

But really? Twenty bucks?

[ The low, indistinct murmur of another voice can be heard, though what it’s saying and who it belongs to is anyone’s guess. Whatever it says, it’s enough to make the man roll his eyes. ]

Juulan. Whatever. Doesn’t matter. The point — [ Whether he’s talking to the camera or the unidentified voice is unclear. ] — is that it isn’t enough for a day, let alone the entire bogus adventure.

[ It isn’t so much the way he looks at the camera – his eyes have never left it – but the change of his tone, less querulous and more curious, that indicates that he’s talking to whoever’s on the other end of the console. ]

So really. Turtle propaganda aside. What’s a guy gotta do to get some decent money around here? Sell his organs? Hit the street corners? Scrub barnacles off the bottom of the turtle? What?

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No. You’re sort of the exception to the rule.

[ That’s an answer he can give freely and honestly. It’s such a rare occurrence when he actually likes someone that it’s almost painfully obvious to everyone anything. And it isn’t like he tries to hide it or make excuses for it.

Continuing blithely on, he holds up the laptop, now sans duct tape and holding itself together, almost as good as new. ]

And your computer needed an intervention. I would be a cruel, capricious god of technology if I didn’t save it from itself. Which, by the way, really could use an overhaul as far as the processor’s concerned. I’ll make you a new motherboard tonight, then bring it over in the morning and install it.

[Being casually told he's the exception to the rule-- the positive exception, as in, it's uncommon for Tony to actually be friends with someone-- is startling. Bruce had more or less already known it, and over the past few months come to terms with the idea that he has friends, but it still wasn't something he was entirely comfortable with. And he definitely didn't take it for granted.]

Thank you, but, uh, you really don't have to, [he responds, equal parts gratitude and protest.] And what I'm getting at is that I think I do know you. Well enough to let you modify my most important personal possession when you feel like it, anyway.

[Bruce shakes his head, thinking maybe he should just give this up and let Tony stew in whatever convoluted problems he's made up for himself now, if this doesn't make his point.

He remembers when he'd tried to tell him that he appreciated having him around at his birthday, and it'd gotten him practically choking on his drink at an ill timed moment. Bruce isn't expecting this to go much better. But he still says,] It's just nice to have you here.

[ No, he really does have to. This computer is a disgrace and if it is his most important personal possession, then it needs some treatment to make sure it doesn't meet an untimely demise. Although looking at it, Tony isn't sure he'd call it untimely or overdue. Bruce really just needs a new laptop.

A normal person would just let it go. Would thank him for the compliment, smile, nod, and change the subject. A somewhat abnormal person might ignore it completely. And that's what Tony knows he should do. He's heard it before. If you don't have anything nice to say... But it rises like bile in the back of his throat and although he manages to keep his voice matter-of-fact and almost deceptively light, he finds that he can't resist saying something. ]

Why? [ He has never shied away from the contempt that he has for himself and he doesn't do it now. He just sets the laptop back on the bench and casually puts the tools back where he found them as he speaks. ] You have one already. You had two. Either way you look at it, I'm still superfluous.

[There's a lot of things Bruce could say to this, a lot of different reasons or justifications for why he likes having him around. Why he in particular is valuable to him, distinct from every other Tony Stark he's met. The truth is, they've only known each other for one conversation, less than an hour. Most of the reasons Bruce has to offer are ones that, push come to shove, don't apply to him. Reasons that he learned from one of the others, that he's applying by extension here.

He knows instinctively that's not what Tony wants to hear. Instead, he unfolds his arms, straightening up and opening his posture toward him as he stands and watches him put the tools away.]

You know me, [he says simply. Taking on a wry, self-mocking tenor, he goes on,] You know me, and apparently that's enough to be friends. That doesn't really happen very often.

[There's not a trace of self-pity; it's a plain fact. A statement on how rarely Bruce gets to be honest with anyone in his life, which is almost never before coming here, and since then not that often either.]

[ Oh, thank all the aliens in the Norse pantheon. Bruce’s statement gives him the out he so desperately needs, the opportunity shift the conversation away from him and his unnecessary presence in a world that’s already full up on its Tony Stark quota. ]

That’s probably because most people don’t know you. If they did, it wouldn’t be such a rarity. There’d be a line around the block. You'd have your very own fanclub.

[ Actually, now that he thinks about it… ]

You actually do have a fanclub. I saw an interview with someone from it. They have tattoos, t-shirts, little action figures. Well, technically they’re kind of big action figures. You know, for the accuracy and all. You’re really popular now.

[ To a guy who has had this kind of celebrity status for years, it doesn’t seem like anything that would be difficult to cope with. He turns to face him, leaning a hip against the bench. ]

You’re the most dependable person I know, Bruce. That’s more than enough reason to be friends with you.

Edited (last one I swear) 2013-08-02 23:28 (UTC)

[It's difficult not to take issue with practically every word he's just said. The first part flagrantly misses the point-- that Bruce doesn't want people to know him, and he's sure that if he did let them, he'd make more friends. There's nothing that heinous or off-putting about him in regular life, and he's not so far gone into his guilt and self-loathing that he thinks that. But he doesn't want them. Tony is an exception and a deliberately granted one.

The idea that he's dependable can only be met with laughable disbelief, given how little control he has over just about any facet of his life. But the thing that takes him from vaguely frustrated disagreement and edging toward incensed is learning that he has a fanclub.]

I have a what? [spills out of him before he can censor it. Bruce immediately has to take a breath, raise a hand to his face and hide it for a moment. When it lowers, he's distinctly unhappy.] You don't mean I have a fanclub. You mean he does. That's not me, [he asserts, almost daring him to disagree.]

Aside from how no one should be-- be encouraging what he does, I don't want to be popular. Or for anyone to know me. [He'd intended to say that more diplomatically, but now he doesn't bother.]

You're some, I don't know, some weird exception. Not the other universe versions of you, just you. I'm not going to argue over what exact set of memories you have. [That's so immaterial, comparatively. And just like everyone else who's tried to tell him about what he's like on other worlds has found out, it provokes Bruce into abandoning all sense of delicacy and just saying straight out what his point is. Nothing about hearing all the myriad and varied ways his life is even worse in other places inspires his sense of tact.]

[ When he wants attention, Tony’s capable of twisting everything around until it’s all about him. When he’s trying to avoid it, he does the opposite and refocuses it on someone else. He doesn’t want to get into this argument about him. Not when it sounds like Bruce is happy to swap Starks at random, as long as he acts relatively similar to what he’s expecting.

But there’s more to it than his shaken sense of self. It’s the way Bruce talks about himself. About the Hulk. And maybe it’s pointless to argue over it if they’re not even who they believe themselves to be, but the memories are strong. Too strong to resist the instinctive urge to quash the negativity as soon as he hears it. ]

Way I remember it, he saved my life. So maybe I’m a little biased on the whole encouragement angle.

[ And then he’s too close to it and everything that’s happened in the last 24 hours overwhelms him. It’s with bitter sarcasm that he adds; ]

But hey, what do I know, right? Just a man-shaped meat-suit with some other guy’s memories uploaded into my head. That’s how cloning works, isn’t it?

[There it is. That's more of the argument Bruce had been looking for. He knew Tony was suppressing something, and it was never going to be resolved if he kept it pushed down. Bruce had had that little fact of life thrown in his face over and over until he'd finally learned the lesson, himself-- that you'll never feel differently about something if you always keep it hidden.

So he did somewhat want an argument, because he can handle it, and he's not afraid of Tony or of the consequences. He's relatively certain that, however he feels about the Hulk, Tony won't provoke him into changing, and this isn't so personal a topic that Bruce thinks he'd lose control just from discussing it.

Although it is, still, pretty personal. To him, too. He'd known if not explicitly, then at least had managed to piece together, that the Hulk had saved Tony's life-- hearing it out loud is a nice confirmation. But the cloning upsets him, and he gets why this isn't easy to accept.]

That's how cloning works. And I have some theories about how it works here. But the original's not there, [Bruce says bluntly, standing in front of him and forcing him to meet his eyes directly. He uses what is major, significant information almost as a weapon, throwing it out.] We're clones, but the original isn't back there, living our lives. It's just us. Here.

[The previous Tony Stark is probably a dead clone body resting somewhere beneath the turtle shell, wherever their cloning facilities are now. With the tanks screwed in like light bulbs, as Costigan had said. Part of him is still mourning for him, because although he does think that this is more or less the same person in front of him now, this Tony is right-- he's not exactly the same. And there's probably a corpse somewhere that used to be his friend, and it makes Bruce more combative on this subject than he would be otherwise.]

[ He didn’t really think it could get much worse, but in hindsight, he realizes how stupid such an assumption had been. It always gets worse. There’s always something even more hideous hiding behind the horrible true. It’s been that way all his life.

All twenty-four hours of it.

An impotent sense of helpless frustration rises so quickly inside him that it nearly chokes him. He feels like he’s suffocating on it. On the world and the implications, on the false memories and his crumbling sense of self. He’s not real. None of it’s real. Every terrible memory, every moment of pain and disappointment he thinks he’s suffered, it’s all been a lie. He’s a lie. He’s not superfluous. He’s not a real person. He’s nothing. Nobody.

He can’t breathe. There’s something in his chest clawing to get free and he can’t breathe. He can’t do anything but stare at Bruce as the horror of what he’s hearing sinks in. Finally, he can’t stand it anymore and he breaks away, pushes past him and heads for the suit.

He doesn’t get there. He stops halfway there and stares at it, almost doesn’t recognize it. ]

So they’re dead. [ It’s flat and toneless and he doesn’t turn around. ] Everyone’s dead and we’re just someone’s idea of a sick joke.

No, [he says harshly, feeling his own sense of horror at the reality of their situation abruptly gripping him, too. Betty. He can't believe that Betty is dead because she doesn't exist here.] We don't know that. We don't know anything but what I've told you.

[He takes two quick steps around Tony to see his face again, hand automatically reaching out to take hold of his upper arm, bracing.]

Look at me. Whatever this is, it isn't a joke. And we can find answers. [If anyone can find answers, it's the two of them. Bruce searches his eyes, trying to impart the resolution on him that he feels. Giving him something to do is, he thinks, the best answer to the listless panic that is so easy to fall under given the magnitude of the situation.]

I've already found some. Clues. You can help me.

[ He doesn’t pull his arm back or look away, but his expression is stalled out somewhere between sick and bleak hopelessness when he looks at him. Tony Stark has never been an optimist. He’s tried. He’s pretended toward optimism a few times. But his heart’s never been in it and he’s never seen evidence of his pessimism being anything but well warranted. ]

Help you how? I’m just a…

[ He doesn’t even have a word for it. Tony Stark is an unparalleled genius, that much he remembers. But him? Who is he? He’s looking at Bruce – at the guy who his fake memories say is Bruce – but he’s not really talking to him. The quiet, under his breath mumble is mostly for himself. ]

…A John Doe who’s haunted by a ghost.

[ Maybe he needs an exorcist. The thought makes him laugh, a bitter bark of sound that fades quickly. He’s silent for a moment, just a pause, then he continues in a regular tone, though it stays deadened and hollow. ]

Clues about what?

[It's painful how well he can recognize that hopelessness in him from experiencing it himself, and Bruce isn't about to put up with it if he doesn't have to.]

You think I don't ask myself what I am on a, a daily basis? [There's an echo of that bitter humor in there, too, understanding even as his hand tightens on his arm.] Are you going to help me or not?

[He's not going to play this game where he lists out his positive traits for him. Tony should be well aware of how much he can accomplish when he sets his mind to it, of how incredible his capabilities are. Bruce isn't here to prop up his ego. Tony already knows that, and he doesn't have much patience for using identity issues as a stalling tactic. Bruce is in the same mess as he is, the same boat, and has moreover been even deeper into questioning who and what he is for the past decade.

He demands a firmer answer than that, a commitment, before he'll let this go.]

[ Of course he would ask himself that. He turns into a big green giant when he’s angry. That’s got to cause identity issues.

In Bruce, he reminds himself. In Bruce Banner, who’s probably dead. Like Stark’s dead. Like Pepper’s dead. Like everyone else is dead.

The cognitive dissonance is going to kill him too, he thinks. At least, it’s going to make his head hurt. Because the memories rise up to fill in the blanks automatically, but he can’t trust them, can he? He’s real, he’s not real; it’s an existential crisis that’s going to tear him apart. Already, the cracks are forming. He can feel them. He – Stark – hadn’t been held together by much more than stubbornness to begin with. But stubbornness is no match for this. ]

I’ll help you.

[ Where’s the harm in it? He doesn’t have anything else to lose. He’s just like Clint Eastwood in the Dollars trilogy. If there ever was an Eastwood or a trilogy of movies like that. ]

Good. [He exhales, lets him go, and takes a step back-- recovering his distance and his balance. It's strange being the one who's not falling apart in the conversation, but with the way Tony suddenly shuts up and says barely a few words each time, it's not hard to guess that there's something cracking apart on the inside.]

There's another component to this. A couple, actually, but-- you can make a deal with the Emperor, and she'll show you what happens in the future. As far as I'm aware, it all lines up. If I made one, I'd see the invasion, the Avengers, saving you. I'd say they could just be consistent with their lies, but they aren't SHIELD. They don't have everything manipulated.

We're clones, but we're sloppy ones. There's almost, ten times the rate of silent mutation in my genome as there was before. This isn't some deep scheme. I think they really are desperate. And this is a lot more than just another dimension.

[This is a lot of talking for Bruce, and he's not prone to info dumping to start with. But he's determined to wrench Tony out of the funk he's letting himself sink into, and the best way he knows how to do it is with the practical. Solidifying reality around him, defining the limits as he knows them. It was the only thing that worked for Bruce.]

[ All it takes is mentioning the invasion and he sees it in his mind’s eye, so clearly and immediately that it almost feels like it’s happening right in front of him. Specks of silver darting through the sky. Blossoms of fire exploding out from buildings. The brilliant sapphire sky melting into deep, endless darkness.

The breath he takes is sharp and his fingernails bite into his palms as he tightly clenches his hands into fists. It’s that little spark of pain that brings him back to the moment.

Not real. It didn’t happen to you. Don’t freak out over it. It wasn’t you. Deep breath. Listen to what he’s saying. Who the fuck knows why he wants your help, but he does. Try to give it to him. ]

Desperate for what? Help saving their turtle? Why not go to the source? It’s not too much trouble to look through an interdimensional window but taking the actual step through it is? That doesn’t make any sense. They’ve already got to be expending an incredible amount of energy to get their minds and memories. A little more to get them in the flesh wouldn’t be impossible. They’re already…

[ What had the kedan told him when he’d woken up? Between life and death? ]

They can’t do it, can they? This isn’t another dimension. It’s a different plane of existence.

[This is why he wants his help. The ability to make instant, logical connections to the next leap, to follow exactly what Bruce is thinking, to know instinctively the difference between plane and dimension. He hadn't realized how much he'd had to explain his thought process to everyone since arriving until now, and he feels something relax in relief at being understood.

But that doesn't diminish the seriousness.] That's what I think, [he admits.] There's an enemy we're supposed to be fighting, something metaphysical. We can't say the name outside of the palace. It doesn't follow-- regular rules here.

This is the plane of Life, that we're in right now. But there's also Dreaming and Death. Someone I know got a glimpse into Death a little while ago, while we were fighting the, the enemy. I think there's a way to access it from here.

It's all a lot more complicated than just, clones.

[Not much of a comfort, maybe, but it's all Bruce has to offer, and he's used to taking what he can get and being grateful for it.]

[ That makes absolutely no sense, but none of the rest of it does either. The real world seems like it ought to be the plane of Life. Unless this is some metaphysical, philosophical mumbo-jumbo. Platonic realism in its most visceral form. If this is the plane of the universal Life, if that truly does exist, then maybe it does make a tiny smidgen of sense after all. ]

How do you know that it’s clones at all?

[ He feels the surge of hope but he squashes it down, refusing to give in to it. He’s not asking to validate his existence. He’s asking because it’s a possibility he’d like to strike from the list if it isn’t accurate. ]

If this is some kind of higher plane, something humans can’t exist on on their own, is it possible that we’re not clones? That these — [ He taps a hand against his chest. ] — bodies are like environmental protection suits? They wanted humans to help them but humans can’t survive here, so they built forms for them that could, something that looks like them but is capable of existing here, and then uploaded the minds of the people they were trying to enlist into them?

I think they did upload our minds from the original copies, but I know for certain that we're clones.

[Bruce ruthlessly lays out the evidence for it, not one to flinch from stating facts coldly.]

Months ago, before I arrived, a cloning facility was discovered. It was destroyed before they could gather any real evidence, but there's eye witness testimonies. I did my own tests-- someone with a, a thing from the future sequenced my genome for me in about, ten seconds-- and it's conclusive. I have the portion of my genetic code responsible for my mutation memorized, I've looked at it so often. It's not the same. Accountable only by rapid cell division, or induced further external mutation.

A source I have [because he respects Costigan's desire for secrecy too much to name him] confirms that they have new, replacement cloning facilities. Tanks like lightbulbs screwed into the turtle.

There's no getting around it.

Edited (needed moar science, oops then accuracy of details) 2013-08-05 00:32 (UTC)

[ He likes his theory better. A factory for bodies instead of suits, meant to house the consciousness of people who can’t normally exist on this plane. It’s more logical. And it would give him his identity back.

So naturally it has to be wrong. He’s got the memories of a fuck-up in his brain and the piss-poor luck of the bastard too. ]

Fine. We’re clones. What do you want us to do about it?

[ From his perspective, it doesn’t seem like there’s much that can be done. There’s nowhere for them to go. They aren’t even real people. ]

Figure out why they’re doing it? Stop them? Get the memories taken out? What?

[That immediately frustrates him, and all of his impatience with Tony's desire to curl up and ignore the world comes out at once.]

What do I want to do about it? [he asks, somewhere between a demand and incredulous.] Something that's not giving up. I know it's tempting to call it an existential crisis and wash your hands of it, [he goes on, falling into sarcasm,] but we don't have that luxury.

[He never had.]

We can still die, Tony. All of us can still die. Sometimes we come back, new clones, probably, but sometimes we don't. And I'm not just going to say we're clones so it doesn't matter. Like we're-- less than human like this.

[He refuses to relinquish even a drop of his humanity, no matter what. Inside Bruce, there has always been an indomitable will, a fierce stubbornness that refused to be quashed by the circumstances of his life. Sometimes he'd given up, but it'd always been brief, driven truly to the end of his rope after years upon years of despondency. He hasn't gotten nearly to that point yet, here.]

I don't know what I'm looking for, exactly. But I'm not going to just-- sit here and take it. [Pointedly,] I thought you wouldn't, either.

[ It’s on the tip of his tongue to snap back with I guess I’m not the guy you thought I was, huh? but somehow he manages to redirect the ire that drives it enough to keep silent. He isn’t angry at him. He’s pissing him off, saying things that rake too hard over already bleeding wounds, but it isn’t his fault. Deep down, he knows that.

Neither one of them are at fault for this. ]

I don’t know how long you’ve been dealing with this, but I just got here. So sorry if finding out that my whole life belongs to someone else doesn’t fit into your schedule.

[ It comes out sharper than he thinks it should and he shakes his head, giving up and heading back toward his—back toward the suit. He’s too raw. Too exposed. Too vulnerable like this. ]

I said I’d help you. I meant it. But if you want to wait until my little problems don’t have to affect you anymore, that’s fine too.

[Instantly regretful, Bruce reaches out for his arm again, this time not in a grab but just to stop him with the pressure of his hand if he will. He's not apologetic-- he'd meant every word he said-- but he's taking out his own frustration on him and he knows it.]

No, that's not what I... [An exhale, recentering, taking his hand back. Tony will either listen to him or he won't; he has the right to do either.] Four months, [he says more quietly.] I know it's a hard adjustment. They're not little problems.

[He hadn't meant to minimize the internal struggle that being here requires. Maybe Tony doesn't want to hear that Bruce considers them the same person; maybe what he wants to hear is that he doesn't, and he still wants this one around. That's just as true.]

I am glad that you're here. You specifically. If you need my help, too, then you have it. With anything. [This kind of open offer is extremely rare from Bruce, but he means it, and the honesty is scrawled across his face.]

[ He takes a breath, lets it out, and looks at the floor. There’s a number of different things all vying to be said and all of them are pointless and futile. But he hears what he says, hears him say that he’s glad that he’s here.

If there are solutions to the problems he’s facing, he doesn’t know what they are enough to hazard a guess at them. And he doesn’t know how to talk about them openly. But the memories urge him to try and so far, they’re right in one respect. This man’s at least trying to help him. ]

If I look back into those memories, I see a man who’s always been subject to his name. All of the expectations he’s had and others have had for him, his career, his lifestyle, his identity, it’s all tied to that damn name.

[ He glances up at him, the corner of his mouth twisting into a wry half-smile that isn’t the least bit amused. ]

That’s what I’ve got swimming around in my head. And you know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking the ungrateful bastard’s lucky. [ He shakes his head. ] I don’t even have one.

[The first glimmer of opening up he's gotten from him, Bruce thinks that maybe he was right. What bothers Tony is that he's not who they'd known. With that in mind, he answers just as honestly.]

If there's anything I know about Tony Stark, [he says with a wry smile,] it's that you don't let anyone else tell you who you are.

[Bruce might not have known him very long, but he knows enough. He'd been in the middle of nowhere, not dead-- he knows the origins of Iron Man as well as anyone else, the famous story of how he'd come back and turned his company on its head out of a desire to better the world. And he knows, too, what came after it, the refusal to share that technology with anyone else. Self-determined was never better embodied.]

You don't need your DNA to tell you. [Suddenly quieting, he finishes,] If I listened to that, I'd have given up a long time ago.

[ The memories offer up a moment on the SHIELD helicarrier. Barely a few hours into knowing him, and he had spoken of the arc reactor with him in the careless way he never spoke about it with anyone. It had been a kind of trust and it had been repaid a thousandfold when he’d most been in need of it.

Whoever he is, if this man holds to the same tenants as the one the memories recognize, then he can at least trust him enough to speak a little more on the subject. ]

How do you reconcile it? Being a clone of someone else?

[ It feels like an admittance of weakness and it sticks in his throat, but he struggles to get it out. ]

How do you accept the memories as yours?

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