MARVEL/DC: DOCTOR IN THE MULTIVERSE

Autumn arrived.

Business at Miracle Clinic had become increasingly selective.

Appointments had to be scheduled in advance.

How many patients Lynn accepted each day depended entirely on his mood.

During the day, he treated patients.

At night, he disappeared into the underground base, spending hours studying Hank Pym's research manuscripts and analyzing quantum-domain theory.

Late one night in late October.

1:30 AM.

A violent knocking suddenly echoed from the clinic's back entrance.

Not the familiar three-knock rhythm.

Not Natasha.

Not Fury.

Not Matt.

Instead—

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

The knocking came rapidly and continuously, more than a dozen times in succession.

Lynn slowly looked up from the control panel in the underground laboratory.

The All-Seeing Eye automatically activated.

Heart rate elevated.

Respiration accelerated.

Adrenaline secretion abnormally high.

Severe cortisol imbalance.

Persistent sympathetic nervous system overstimulation.

Classic signs of long-term sleep deprivation combined with chronic psychological stress.

Tony Stark.

Lynn closed the research file and walked upstairs.

The back door opened.

Tony stood outside.

He looked terrible.

Not physically injured.

But exhausted.

Utterly exhausted.

The first thing Lynn noticed was his eyes.

Dark circles.

Not ordinary fatigue.

The kind produced after weeks of poor sleep, constant stimulant use, and relentless mental strain.

Bloodshot sclera.

Slightly dilated pupils.

Skin tone pale.

Muscle tension visible even while standing still.

"Come in."

Tony didn't answer.

He walked inside without a word.

His movements lacked their usual confidence.

No dramatic entrance.

No sarcastic comment.

No jokes.

He crossed the lobby and collapsed face-first onto the sofa.

Face buried directly into the cushions.

Lynn closed the door.

He walked to the tea cabinet.

Filled the kettle.

Started heating water.

"Have you eaten?"

A muffled voice emerged from the sofa.

"I ate..."

A pause.

"...something."

"What?"

"Blueberries."

Another pause.

"Maybe strawberries."

"When?"

"...Yesterday?"

Lynn raised an eyebrow.

"You're asking me."

"I'm not sure what day it is."

The kettle began to whistle.

Lynn opened a cabinet.

Retrieved a package of cookies.

Placed it on the table.

Then poured fresh hot tea and set it beside Tony.

"Sit up."

"Eat first."

Tony rolled over onto his back.

Stared at the ceiling.

Several seconds passed.

Then he slowly sat upright.

He picked up a cookie.

Took a bite.

Chewed mechanically.

Like a machine consuming fuel.

"Lynn."

"Hm."

"You once said something."

"What?"

"You said people shouldn't keep winding themselves tighter and tighter."

"I never said that."

"Then who did?"

"You invented it."

Tony swallowed the cookie.

Drank half the tea in one gulp.

"Who cares."

"My spring broke anyway."

Lynn sat across from him.

"How long since you slept properly?"

Tony thought for several seconds.

"I sleep."

"That's not what I asked."

"Two hours."

Pause.

"Maybe three."

"I set alarms."

"When they go off, I get up."

"What happens then?"

Tony stared into his teacup.

"My brain starts again."

"What are you working on?"

His jaw tightened.

He didn't answer immediately.

"You already know."

Of course Lynn knew.

The symptoms alone told the story.

Post-traumatic stress.

Hypervigilance.

Obsessive preparation behavior.

Catastrophic future projection.

The same pattern that had emerged after the Battle of New York in multiple Marvel continuities.

The Chitauri invasion had fundamentally altered Tony Stark.

For most people, the invasion ended when the portal closed.

For Tony, it never ended.

"Still building contingency systems?" Lynn asked.

Tony laughed.

A short, humorless sound.

"Armor."

"Weapons."

"Satellites."

"Defense networks."

"Predictive algorithms."

"Countermeasures."

"Contingency plans."

"Emergency contingencies for contingency plans."

His fingers clenched tightly.

Then loosened.

Then clenched again.

"Lynn."

His voice became quieter.

"I need to tell you something."

"Then tell me."

Tony stared at the floor.

For several seconds.

Then finally said it.

"I'm scared."

The words hung in the room.

Simple.

Direct.

Far more shocking than any explosion.

Tony Stark.

The man who joked in front of gods.

Who argued with aliens.

Who insulted cosmic threats.

Admitting fear.

"The Chitauri weren't an army."

"They were scouts."

Tony's voice became increasingly strained.

"I flew through that portal."

"I saw what was waiting on the other side."

His breathing accelerated.

"A fleet."

"An actual fleet."

"Warships stretching farther than I could see."

"The invasion we stopped?"

He laughed again.

Bitterly.

"That wasn't the invasion."

"That was a doorbell."

Silence followed.

Then—

"Metropolis."

Tony looked up.

"The masked man shattered a World Engine."

"One punch."

"One."

He held up a finger.

"One punch."

"And somebody with that kind of power might live down the street from me."

"Or in my city."

"Or on my planet."

Lynn remained silent.

Tony continued.

"Then S.H.I.E.L.D. collapsed."

"HYDRA was inside the whole time."

"Decades."

"They were right there."

"And nobody knew."

His voice grew harsher.

"Every time I close my eyes, I see another invasion."

"Another portal."

"Another thing humanity can't stop."

"Another threat bigger than the last."

His hands trembled visibly now.

"When I sleep, I dream about it."

"When I wake up, I start working."

"Blueprints."

"Simulations."

"Armor designs."

"Threat models."

"Probability calculations."

"Then I realize there are still things I missed."

"So I start over."

Again.

And again.

And again.

Bruce's words surfaced in his memory.

Tony repeated them aloud.

"Bruce said humanity needs a shield."

"A shield above us."

"I think he's right."

His expression became distant.

"But what is it?"

"Armor?"

"Artificial intelligence?"

"Orbital defense platforms?"

"Automated response systems?"

"I don't know."

His voice dropped lower.

"I don't know anymore."

"I only know I can't stop."

Silence settled over the clinic.

Lynn placed his teacup on the table.

Then looked directly at Tony.

One of the smartest men on Earth.

A billionaire.

An engineer.

An Avenger.

A man currently destroying himself because he was terrified humanity wouldn't survive the next catastrophe.

"Look at your hands."

Tony glanced downward.

They were trembling.

Not dramatically.

But noticeably.

Enough for a surgeon to see.

Enough for an engineer to notice.

"Your sympathetic nervous system is approaching burnout."

Lynn's tone remained clinical.

"Your cortisol levels are chronically elevated."

"Your hypothalamic feedback loops are malfunctioning."

"Your body is treating every day like an active combat situation."

Tony listened quietly.

"If you continue like this."

Lynn paused.

"Three months."

"Maybe less."

"Your fine motor control begins deteriorating."

Tony's eyes narrowed.

Lynn continued.

"The tremors worsen."

"Your hands stop responding precisely."

"You won't be building armor."

"You'll be struggling to tighten a screw."

Tony immediately shoved both hands into his hoodie pockets.

As if hiding them could hide the truth.

A long sigh escaped him.

"How much?"

"The procedure is simple."

Lynn stood.

"I'll waive the fee."

Tony blinked.

Then blinked again.

"Wait."

"Are you actually Lynn?"

"Did somebody replace you?"

Lynn ignored him.

"Get up."

Tony followed him toward the operating room.

...

A few minutes later.

Tony lay on the examination table.

His entire body felt rigid.

Muscles chronically tense.

Shoulders elevated.

Neck locked.

Posture damage accumulated over months.

Possibly years.

Lynn placed one hand against the back of Tony's neck.

The All-Seeing Eye switched to neurological analysis mode.

Instantly, a complete map of Tony's nervous system unfolded.

The diagnosis was exactly what he expected.

Sympathetic hyperactivation.

Chronically elevated norepinephrine release.

Stress pathways operating at nearly four times normal activity.

The hypothalamus.

Brainstem.

Spinal sympathetic chain.

All functioning as if a war were occurring every hour of every day.

Even his heart had adapted.

Resting heart rate:

89 beats per minute.

Far above Tony's normal baseline.

"Let's start with your cervical spine."

Lynn's fingers slowly traced downward along the vertebrae.

"C2."

"C3."

"C4."

"C5."

He clicked his tongue.

"All misaligned."

A pause.

Then—

"Have you been sitting in that workshop for three straight days without standing up?"

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