He had fled from this prison a thousand times before, and a thousand more, he knew, were coming. "Tony Stark," the physicist had said, "I know you." And he said it with that wry grin he would give whenever he said something like, "Will it be today that they kill us, you think?" That was what he was saying then ("Are you dying now, Tony Stark? Is it finally today?") and as many times as Tony lived this dream, he never felt it so much. "Is it finally today?" and his chest hurt, not the crushing ache of a heart attack, not that tightness up his arm and in his throat, but a searing tear down the center. A pit in his chest. Scabbed, scarred, worthless, used, black. 'Tony Stark' black. Last meal black.
"Are you dying now?" and they were coming through the door and his chest hurt but it was his last chance.
The slam of the door was protested by a dry croak, a wheeze of effort as Tony tried to arch up off the bed, get away, survive, survive, need Pepper, survive. He froze, panting, licking at his dry lips with the desert of his tongue, no effect. The pain was still there, but now Yinsin's voice wasn't, and something else. Something was wrong.
"Whaffuu," he went, unconcerned for the moment with his visitor, dropping back to his pillow with his eyes rolling desperately for answers, what was wrong what was wrong, vision, too bright, check, hearing, hollow, check, smell, salt oil lemon detergent, check, goods, one two three, check, wires in his sutured chest, new, that wasn't it.
He couldn't hear the satellites. All that noise that was extremis, the world talking to him, connected to him, it was quiet. "Whaffuu," he demanded.