X-GENE OMNITRIX
Chapter 67 - CHAPTER 3

The infinity pool, usually a placid sheet of sapphire reflecting the manufactured perfection of Aethelgard's sky, was a raging, tormented thing. Rain, driven by a furious wind that howled like a banshee through the crystalline structures and ancient boughs of the Sanctuary, hammered its surface into a chaotic froth. Above, the artificial sky was a canvas of bruised purples and angry blacks, split intermittently by jagged fissures of lightning that illuminated the scene in stark, millisecond flashes. Thunder, deep and guttural, rolled continuously, a sound that vibrated in the very bones of the World Tree.

Slumped on a low, wide outdoor sofa – one usually meant for serene contemplation by the pool's edge, its weather-resistant cushions now dark and sodden – was Alex. His expensive, Monaco-Gala suit was soaked through, clinging to his lean frame. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead and neck, rainwater tracing rivulets down his face, indistinguishable from tears, had he been shedding any. His head was tilted back, face towards the raging storm, eyes tightly closed as if in pain, or perhaps, in a strange form of communion. One arm dangled limply over the side of the sofa, knuckles brushing the drenched ground, the other lay across his stomach. He hadn't moved for hours, a solitary, unmoving figure in the heart of the tempest.

The deluge over him suddenly ceased. Not the storm itself – that still raged with undiminished fury – but the direct impact of rain on his upturned face. He didn't open his eyes. He knew who it was without looking.

"It has been an entire night since your return from Monaco, Alexander," Elara's voice, calm and melodic even against the backdrop of the thunder, sounded from just beside him. She was in her human guise, holding a large, dark umbrella that, for a moment, created a small, dry oasis around him. "You have not stirred from this spot. Not for food, nor rest, nor shelter from this… rather expressive weather. Now it is even thundering with considerable enthusiasm."

A low sound rumbled in Alex's chest, a humorless chuckle that was half groan. Still without opening his eyes, he reached up a languid hand and, with a deliberate shove, knocked the umbrella askew. The cold rain immediately plastered his face again. He almost welcomed its sting.

"Elara," he said, his voice raspy, tired, "you're worried about a little thunder and rain?" He took a deep, shuddering breath, the icy water running into his mouth. "This… this is a balm. This storm, this noise… it's calming the damn thoughts. The thunder in my head. All the… the chaotic emotions churning through me." He let out another shaky laugh. "You should be thanking this rain, old friend. There aren't many attachments left in this universe, few things that can actually dull what I'm feeling right now."

Elara silently righted the umbrella, holding it steadfastly over him again, though he made no move to acknowledge it. "What did you mean by that, Alexander? What happened there? What did you discover in Monaco to leave you so… untethered?"

Alex was silent for a long moment, only the drumming of rain on the umbrella and the roar of thunder filling the void. Then, another laugh, sharper this time, edged with something that sounded like disbelief and a terrifying, burgeoning hysteria. "Well, Elara," he finally said, his voice cracking slightly, "it's… it's rather monumental, actually. Just now… just today… I finally found out my surname." He paused, a strange, almost manic energy thrumming in his voice. "Your prince… your protector… your 'Death Bringer'… he finally has a last name." He took another gasping breath, and the words came out, raw and stark against the storm's fury. "I'm Stark. I am Alex Stark."

As the name, his name, echoed in the stormy air, the world around Alex seemed to dissolve, not into the rain-lashed reality of Aethelgard, but into the cold, sterile, disorienting non-reality of a memory he shouldn't have.

Flashback: The Laboratory – Years Ago

He was floating. Suspended in a luminescent, viscous blue liquid that pressed against his skin from all sides, a constant, cloying embrace. Wires, like metallic serpents, snaked from his body, connecting him to humming, beeping machines whose purposes were both sinister and agonizingly familiar. This was the tank. His prison. His crucible.

But this time, the pain was different. Not the searing agony of needles or the mind-numbing torment of forced transformations. This was a pain of the soul, a psychic tearing as foreign memories, an entire lifetime that wasn't his but somehow was, crashed into his consciousness like a rogue meteor.

Images. Sensations. Lives intertwining, then ripping apart.

A different Earth. Different heroes. Different cosmic laws. Flashes of green energy. A watch that held galaxies. The weight of impossible choices. The loneliness of ultimate power. The faces of friends he'd never met in this life, yet mourned as if they were ripped from his very soul. The echoes of battles fought in star systems this Alex had never known.

And then, deeper still, a memory so primal, so impossible, it should have been buried beyond the reach of any consciousness. His own birth. Not a coherent narrative, but a maelstrom of sensation. Pressure. Light. Cold. The sudden, shocking intake of air into virgin lungs. The overwhelming, terrifying symphony of sound after an eternity of muffled silence.

He was small, helpless, slick with the residue of his arrival. Strong, unfamiliar hands cleaned him, wrapped him in something soft. Then, he was being lifted, placed into the arms of… warmth. Love. A scent that was safety, that was mother.

Martha. Her face was a blur of tears and exhaustion, but her eyes… her eyes were beacons of such fierce, unconditional love that it seared itself into his nascent, impossible memory. He felt her heart beating against his tiny cheek, a frantic, unsteady rhythm.

A kind, blurry face in a surgical mask hovered nearby. A nurse. Her voice was gentle, distorted by the fluid that still seemed to fill his newborn ears. "He's a beautiful boy, Martha. Strong lungs. What will his name be?"

Martha's voice, when it came, was weak, trembling, but filled with that same overwhelming love. "Alexander," she whispered, her lips brushing his forehead. "Alexander…"

"That's a wonderful name," the nurse said, her voice warm. "And his surname, dear?"

A shadow passed over Martha's face. A wave of such profound pain, such deep, aching sorrow emanated from her that even in his newborn state, Alex felt it like a physical blow. Her arms tightened around him, protectively. The nurse, a woman clearly accustomed to the myriad emotions of a birthing room, saw the shift. Her professional smile faltered, replaced by a look of gentle, almost pained understanding. She made a small, almost imperceptible nod, then busied herself with something out of his limited field of vision, effectively leaving mother and child to their private moment.

Martha pulled him closer, her tears now falling freely onto his blanket, onto his face. "Oh, my sweet boy," she whispered, her voice cracking, a raw agony lacing the love. "My Alexander. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

He gurgled, a tiny, uncomprehending sound.

"I… I can't give you your father's name, my love," she choked out, her breath hitching with sobs. "It was… it was my mistake. A beautiful, wonderful mistake that gave me you, but a mistake nonetheless. I was selfish. I never asked him, not really. I never told him about you . And now…" She looked down at his tiny, perfect face, her own contorted with a pain that was more than just physical.

"He… he has a life, Alexander. A world. A destiny. And you… I don't want to push you into his world where you might not be wanted, where you might only be seen as… as a complication. A burden." Her voice dropped to a near-whisper, filled with a desperate, protective fierceness. "I won't have them say I brought you into this world to climb some social ladder, to use you to bind him to me. I won't have your existence stained by whispers and accusations before you even learn to walk."

She kissed his forehead, a long, lingering press of her lips. "So, you will be Alexander. Just Alexander. My Alexander. And I swear to you, my son, my precious boy, I will give you everything. Everything I am, everything I have. You will want for nothing. You will be loved. You will be safe." Her voice broke on the last word, a silent acknowledgment of a promise she might not be able to keep in a world that was often cruel to those who were different, those who were… unexpected. "Your father… perhaps one day. But not like this. Never like this."

The memory, raw and visceral, faded, leaving Alex gasping on the rain-lashed sofa in Aethelgard, the phantom scent of his mother's tears and the sterile smell of a hospital room still clinging to him. The revelation didn't just explain a missing surname; it recontextualized his entire existence, the ache of an unknown, absent father suddenly given a name, a face, a multi-billion dollar corporation, and a suit of flying red and gold armor.

Tony Stark. His father. The irony was a bitter, burning thing in his chest.

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