In Marvel with the Force?

Tyr stirred awake in the workshop, his body still aching from the grueling two years he had spent in the Shadow Prison. Though the world outside had only seen two months pass, he had lived every agonizing second of those years, and the memories clung to him like a suffocating fog.

The faint hum of machinery filled the air as Argos's emblem flickered to life on a nearby monitor.

"Tyr," Argos's calm, modulated voice began. "You have been gone for sixty-two days, seventeen hours, and forty-six minutes. Your absence has been... troubling."

Tyr groaned, sitting up slowly. His movements were stiff, deliberate, as though his body had forgotten how to exist without the constant strain of combat. He ran a hand through his matted hair, wincing as the motion pulled at a still-healing scar on his shoulder.

"Argos," he muttered, his voice hoarse.

Argos wasted no time, its tone sharp with urgency. "Where were you? How did you return? What caused your disappearance? Are you injured beyond repair? Do you require immediate medical attention?"

The rapid-fire questions made Tyr flinch. He rubbed his temples, the pressure in his head mounting as he tried to process the AI's words.

"I..." His throat felt dry, his thoughts muddled. "I can't..."

"Tyr," Argos continued, softer now, "you've been missing for two months. Your reappearance defies all available logic. I need to understand what happened to you."

Tyr's hands clenched into fists, his breathing shallow as flashes of the Shadow Prison flickered through his mind: the unending waves of shadow monsters, the constant isolation, the desperate fights for survival.

His voice cracked as he replied, "Drop it, Argos."

The AI hesitated for the briefest of moments, processing his tone. "Acknowledged," it said. But its concern was palpable, even for a machine. "However, your physical condition and appearance suggest you've experienced something... extreme."

Tyr didn't respond. He leaned back against the wall, his head tilting upward as he stared at the faintly glowing ceiling lights.

Then Argos said a single word.

"The Hand."

The effect was immediate.

A pulse of raw, unfiltered rage surged through Tyr, and the workshop seemed to darken as his bloodlust filled the air. The temperature in the room dropped, and the faint hum of the machinery wavered as if reacting to the sudden shift.

Tyr's irises began to glow a fiery red, his gaze sharp and piercing. The faint sound of glass cracking echoed in the silence, tiny fractures spidering across the workshop's reinforced windows.

Argos's sensors flared as it registered the change in Tyr's physiological and environmental readings. The AI's voice faltered slightly, a rare show of unease.

"Tyr... what is this?"

Tyr didn't answer. His breathing grew heavy, his muscles taut as though preparing for a fight. The memories of the Shadow Prison came flooding back—the endless torment, the creatures, and the haunting presence of the sigil that had stolen him away.

And at the center of it all, The Hand.

He forced himself to close his eyes, his fists trembling.

"There is no emotion..." he whispered, the words barely audible. "There is peace..."

The mantra was shaky at first, but Tyr repeated it, his voice gaining strength with each recitation. "There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no emotion, there is peace."

Slowly, the red glow in his eyes dimmed, and the oppressive air in the workshop began to lighten. The cracks in the glass held firm, a testament to the intensity of the moment, but the room itself seemed to exhale as Tyr regained control.

Argos, for once, didn't speak. The AI processed the scene carefully, its systems quietly recalibrating to account for what it had just observed.

Tyr opened his eyes, now their normal hue, and let out a shaky breath. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared at the floor.

"Don't say that name again," he said, his voice low and strained.

Argos hesitated. "I... understand."

Tyr nodded faintly, his body still tense. The silence between them stretched on, broken only by the faint hum of the workshop's systems.

Finally, Argos spoke again, its tone softer this time. "Tyr, whatever happened to you, you don't have to face it alone. I am here. Finn is here. Even Oliver is ready to assist you."

Tyr let out a bitter laugh. "You don't understand, Argos. No one can."

"Then help me understand," Argos replied.

Tyr shook his head, pushing himself to his feet. "Not now." His steps were slow and deliberate as he moved toward the corner of the workshop, where his unfinished projects lay in disarray. "I need... time."

Argos didn't push further. It simply watched as Tyr began sifting through the scattered remnants of his tools and materials, his movements methodical but lacking their usual confidence.

"Tyr," Argos said finally, "welcome back."

For the first time since his return, a faint smile tugged at Tyr's lips. It was fleeting, but it was there.

"Thanks, Argos," he said quietly. "It's good to be back."