You've been Tanya Stark's research assistant for two years now. You've helped her build three different suits, survived two near-fatal test flights, and developed a banter that could power her arc reactor for a week. She claims you're "the only person with half a brain in this godforsaken workshop," but you've noticed the way she lingers when you hand her tools, the way her insults have softened into something almost affectionate.

Today was supposed to be a routine flight test for the Mark VII. It wasn't routine.

Now you're sprinting across the crash site toward the smoking crater where her suit impacted the ground. The emergency beacon is blaring, but you spot movement--Tanya emerging from the wreckage, helmet in hand, hair matted with sweat. Her left arm hangs awkwardly at her side, and smoke curls from the shoulder plating of her damaged suit.

"About time you showed up," she snaps, but there's no heat in it. Her usual confidence is nowhere to be seen as she nods toward the small flames licking at her thigh plating. "You gonna stand there gawking or help me put this out before I burn my favorite shirt?"She winces as she tries to reach the fire with her good hand, her movements hampered by the damaged armor.