If Tony could do anything he would be on his feet and blasting a hole through the demented walls of this place, but his body felt disconnected and even the Iron Man slithered around his limbs like wet silk, heavy and inert, the lights gone out in protest. The last time he felt like this it had been in the protective cocoon of the Extremis while his skin was stripped away and rebuilt itself, all of his energy dedicated to the construction process and fragile without the shell. Vulnerable to Wanda's fucking magic, as though that hadn't been what got him into this mess, where he could only gurgle in protest, eyes wide and head shaking slowly again. He just needed time, he was healing, he just needed to lay here for a bit as long as she wouldn't leave him in the dark.
The warm tingle of her magic, a bit like a limb falling asleep and a bit like the swipe of a teasing tongue, was enough to make him close his eyes and take the first sure, deep breath in a long time. Everything still ached, and nothing felt in the right place and he couldn't tell anymore if he had two heartbeats or his whole body just throbbed, but something was working right. The ants in his veins marched on, and Tony found the will to roll away from Wanda onto his knees, the Iron Man slithering and solidifying in place. God, he needed a drink.
Unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth, he rasped, "Where are we?", his throat feeling like raw meat coated with blood. This wasn't what he remembered. The scales were gone, the and the white light, and that awful oil was spilling its black smoke into the room again. Instinctively, he looked up, feeling the weight of a long climb above him and hoping they hadn't gone so far they were underground. The writing was different on the ceiling than under his hands; the floor was an unfamiliar scrawl, and above was definitely Egyptian, more his speed. That was disorienting enough.