Chapter Text
Tony would be the absolute last asshole to ever say everything happens for a reason.
He's heard it before that the universe has a plan. That whatever doesn’t make sense now will one day. That sometimes we don’t understand the why until much later.
He’s been told this crap by mandatory government-issued snitching self-help books in blazers more times than he can count. But regardless of how often they repeat it, Tony understands at least part of the why as soon as he hears the auctioneer confirm “Reassignment approved.”
That why is: people are sheep, they should’ve seen it coming, did nothing to stop it, complied, and things don’t happen for a reason. (They just happen, that’s a given, and it’s not fate, but probability or, if you are feeling spicy, momentum, since entropy’s the only bitch in town that doesn't love an off day.)
The point is—shit. Fuck. Two syllables, scored for panic, self-disgust, and the fast-boiling realization that Tony might’ve accidentally, but very much on purpose, just bought a human being.
Which, to be clear, is not something he tends to do on Monday evenings.
Tony has no clue, no tingling sensation in his wallet, no completely rotted moral backbone (though that’s up for debate) or a desire to do this in the morning.
He does not attend auctions, nor does he loiter in sleek Civic Redistribution lounges, discussing the profit returns with other Sponsors over drinks. Stark Industries HR handles all the unfortunate details, and Reliants, when reassigned, get funneled through a semi-automated system, attached to Corporate or Custodial labor brackets, and scrubbed through civ-approved filters without his direct involvement.
This almost acceptable setup, for the lack of better options, is why Tony gets away with not paying more than the minimum required effort to draw out the minutes allocated to that bullshit little pop-up on his internal server that becomes the bane of his existence between 10:00 and 10:30 at the beginning of every week.
His way of dealing with it is normally not looking long enough to be allowed to tick the Viewed box, maybe skim whatever propaganda slogan CivNet is pushing out this month to work it into the conversation for extra score (“Everyone belongs somewhere” is the current flavor), and then forward the mess to Maggie in Reassigned Personnel so she can do what she gets paid for. Which is recycle poor folks who no longer own their own life into janitors or clerks, or whatever makes Tony’s overbloated quarterly Private Oversight Licenses spend not set off Ethics standards.
He’d love not to do this at all, but CivNet is more persistent than spam—here’s someone available, here’s another, would you like to donate for this one before your own Social Credit Index score tanks below the threshold for being reluctant?
It’s just—oh, fucking hell, that's how it happens—he’s following his usual routine, only twists in his chair that’s been facing away from the desk to grab his mug, flicks his fingers at the screen to swipe through the next entry while muttering “Almost there” to Dum-E, relieved that he is already past Reliants and onto Nulls at the end of the list, and then—
Well, Tony might know how it happens, but not quite sure on the second part of the why.
The first why is that this shitshow is law, but it doesn’t explain why he pauses and stares.
People purchasing is abhorrent. On every level. He’s said it. Not in front of other Sponsors or even Pepper when she’s trying to balance CivNet appeasement with her remaining scraps of morality and failing. But to Rhodey and some like minded others, yes. Agreeing off the grid that the whole system that’s hiding behind the gloss of care and housing for your personalized indentured servitude experience is sending them all back as society to the middle ages.
With all the legal silk and moral loopholes they’ve built into the language (Sponsor, yeah, bite him), Tony still shouldn’t be able to look at another man or woman and say, “Your personhood has been reassigned to me.” No one should. And yet here he is. Burning holes in the entry still open in the center of his screen and not hitting ‘Viewed and Rejected Unless Deemed Acceptable by the Secondary Reviewer’.
That’s how Tony ends up at the auction.
In person. After buying another.
What the hell?
No, really—what the fuck did he just—
“Null designation: John Doe #8372987774a,” the auctioneer announces. “Reassigned to Tony Stark, pending his donation. Should no donation be made within the allocated time, the Civilian Integration and Viability Network will offer the reassignment opportunity to the second highest bidder. This concludes our Civic Redistribution for today, ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your time. Payment and collection arrangements are—”
Tony stops listening and starts getting up, still dumbstruck, as around him, the other Sponsors lounging on couches, begin to stir also. Screen panels dim, cutting off the video feed of the man Tony just dropped a crazy, even for his spending habits, 14.6 million on, as the auctioneer seems to continue with his thank-you-for-shopping message.
“Tony.” Someone calls his name. The voice is nasal, the tone is greasy, too smug with a crust, and Tony internally bemoans.
“Justin.” He slips his hands into his pockets, feigning boredom.
“Gotta hand it to you, your donation will certainly make evening news,” Justin drawls, tipping his chin downward and lowering his voice, “What the great Iron Man wants, Tony Stark gets. Even if it’s…” He gestures vaguely at the now-blank screen. “That. Companion, I take it?”
Tony shrugs, waiting for him to get to the point of the insult, as if Tony would actually sink as low to do what he’s being accused of. Not that it isn’t legal and isn’t the way, but, rotted moral backbone or not, he isn’t a monster.
“What can I say, I’ve always had great taste in salvage,” Tony hits back after no further followup from Hammer, who laughs in return as if Tony told a joke that was both filthy and clever.
“Did you actually want him for a Comfort assignment?” Tony remains on the edge of being polite, since Justin would never miss an opportunity to report him. “Personally, I bought the Null for the tech. Obviously. And if the tech doesn’t pan out, there’s always Security and Combat. Stark Industries can find a good spot for just about anyone, everyone belongs somewhere after all, but look, if you’re really hurting that bad for a warm body, I’d be inclined to let him go—for, say… double what I'm donating.”
Hammer’s grin twitches. He narrows his eyes at Tony, smiles wider, Tony follows suit, and Justin finally fucks off with “Wasn’t worth the money, that tech looks ancient.”
Yeah, yeah, keep walking.
Tony hadn’t bought the Null for the tech.
That’s what he said, of course, and it was the arm that caught his eye in the still of the thumbnail of the clip initially. A curiosity, for sure, and not something Tony's ever seen before. But then the clip played. All five seconds of it (because god forbid they outright say they’re advertising people like cattle, that’d be tacky) embedded next to the Null’s profile.
“What year is it?” The man in the video asked.
There was no further context, but something about the way the Null said it—detached, resigned, but not at all confused—lodged somewhere and hasn’t let go since.
Tony watched the clip six, maybe seven times, not that he was counting, while hunched over in the workshop, coffee gone cold and Dum-E buzzing off elsewhere. Hell, Tony hovered so long over this entry that the Civic Redistribution prompt popped up on his UI with a passive-aggressive “Please Confirm Attendance.”
And now he’s walking down sublevel retrieval corridors, escorted by a woman in a pristine white coat with a badge that reads Senior Reassignment Technician in no-nonsense CivNet blue, somehow, both extremely clear on what’s happening and absolutely not clear on any of it at all.
The door hisses open when they approach the right room, and she swipes the badge. Tony’s invited to step in and—
Tony’s seen the live footage during the auction. He’s read what available information was given in advance. Six feet even, 214 pounds, long brown hair, age approximated at thirty years old, mechanical prosthetic, left side, with dermal scarring where skin meets alloy. But no known identity, no recovered name, and—the weirdest thing of all for someone who appears and sounds to be American—no implant. The designation is still Null-Class for anyone without confirmed identity, which is expected, with suggested reassignment Grade S2-Combat score-generating loan to the government pending Sponsor discretion.
But knowing the data doesn’t prepare Tony for the moment the man sitting on a cot slowly lifts his head at the sound of the door, tries to stand up, but then sways and has to stay put. And Tony, full-time engaging-with-this-atrocity asshole, part-time mid-moral collapse, blanks, so taken aback, so—
“Has he been drugged?” Tony hears himself ask after too long of a pause, not finding it in himself to curse internally for the poor choice of words.
The civID badge next to him frowns at his phrasing, and once Tony meets Null’s cautious but very dazed eyes, he looks away, can’t help it.
“Sedated,” the technician corrects calmly. “CivNet recommends mild chemical suppression to ease transition to Sponsor care in individuals with signs or a confirmed prior history of violence. You can find full details of the complimentary inspection under the tab labeled ‘Physical.’ Please note that due to unexpected resistance markers, sedation levels required exponential increase. Invoice is attached and conveniently bundled with your donation.”
She offers him the tablet.
Transfer confirmation. Custody receipt. Line items. Something about personal effects arriving via courier. Tony skips the “Physical” tab, not just because it’ll list everything from dental decay to dick size, and he doesn’t need this information, but because he doesn’t want to know how loose the man is in the ass and how they test that.
He signs the reassignment contract with his index finger, the fingerprint ping blinking green. The file locks with a chirp and that smarmy little CivNet logo.
That’s it, he guesses and hands the tablet back.
“Mr. Stark?” The woman clears her throat and gives Tony a card when he lingers. “The implant has already been installed—and, may I say, what an amazing upgrade this month, we are so lucky to have you—the initial compliance will add 0.001 points to the Null’s overall SCI score, thereby changing status from Null to Reliant, as witnessed.”
“Yes, of course,” Tony holds the card with suddenly weak fingers.
It’s matte black with gold-trimmed edges, and the lettering is sharp and embossed. And there they are. Printed dead center in minimalist sans serif font, as if someone in marketing thought Helvetica could make human rights violations go down smoother—the words.
Tony’s never done this on-site before. Ever. Usually he keeps his hands clean like every other legacy bastard with a conscience on life support who doesn’t get off on this. Howard's favorite trick was never looking at what he paid for aside from those Reliants he favored, and Tony inherited the policy like he inherited the company. Not that it excuses a goddamn thing, but he has further improved on that policy by making sure everyone he is responsible for is always handled by a proxy.
And now he’s holding the card, and all Tony can think about is that someone sat down and wrote these words. Drafted them. Revised them. Got feedback. Approved them. Branded the language and made it legally binding.
He lifts his eyes.
The man—the Null—sits exactly where he was, on the edge of the cot. His right hand is gripping the side of the mattress, and his left one is resting flat on his thigh. His spine is straight, but his shoulders are slightly slacked, and his blue eyes are intently locked on Tony with that same dazed, cautious study.
Tony glances down at the card one more time and, after another polite “Mr. Stark?”, reads it:
“As per Civic Code C-1478, ratified by the Joint Governance Authority in 1967, and in accordance with the Civilian Integration and Viability Network regulatory framework, subsection 9.3, all individuals with a Social Credit Index below the minimum viable threshold for autonomous classification are to be placed under direct Sponsor oversight. Your legal personhood has been deemed non-viable for independent function, any prior Citizenship has been temporarily stripped, and you have been found eligible for reassignment. Due to my willing donation, your personhood has been reassigned to me until such time as your score increases past 499, at which stage your status will be reviewed at my discretion. Will you comply with my offer of care and guidance, John Doe #8372987774a?”
Tony waits, cowardly looking at the card, and then eventually, when he doesn’t hear the answer, has to check. The man’s eyes aren’t on him anymore, and Tony turns his head just in time to catch the woman’s mouth moving, her lips articulating the line. And then it comes, soft as dust and maybe a little bit practiced.
“Yes. Please and thank you, sir.”
“Excellent!” the woman perks up, taps her tablet with a manicured nail, and then asks: “Will you be collecting him today, Mr. Stark?”
Tony opens his own mouth. Closes it. The truth is, he didn’t think that far ahead.
Didn’t think any of this through, really, which isn’t like him. He drove here in his sleek two-seater Audi, didn’t tell anyone what he was up to, didn’t honestly know what the fuck he was up to himself, and didn’t organize SI’s prep team that includes a transition consultant with a soothing voice. He just kind of... showed up. Bought a person. Forgot to plan for the part where you actually take your human purchase home.
Wait, home, that’s—
Tony’s two seconds from spiraling into the realization that he’s about to be locked in a metal coffin with a sedated trauma case who probably wants to die more than he wants to breathe right now, when his throat does something traitorous and decides to make a sound.
“I’d like that,” he looks at the woman again. “Can we get him some clothes?”
She raises an eyebrow and lowers her voice.
“He’s been prepared, Mr. Stark. Given the donation amount, we took the liberty of reserving you a suite on the premises, if you would like to test compatibility to ensure satisfaction before you decide where he’ll be placed. This room is booked for the next day to keep your Reliant here, pending your decision.”
God. No. Tony scrambles for a reason, any reason, that doesn’t sound like ‘I’m not going to rape him, you miserable soul-sucking skin suit.’
“I just had my car detailed,” he says.
She laughs, as if this is normal banter over his new toy not leaving ass imprints on the leather, and shrugs.
“The clothes are extra.”
Tony nods.