The holographic screens in Tony Stark’s private underground lab were completely dominated by the morning news cycle.
Dozens of feeds played simultaneously, creating a chaotic wall of sound.
TERROR AT MONACO.
IVAN VANKO DEAD ON TRACK.
UNKNOWN GOLDEN FLASH SAVES DRIVER?
STARK INDUSTRIES DENIES EXPERIMENTAL WEAPONS INVOLVEMENT.
Tony stood at his workstation, a wrench in his hand, glaring at a CNN anchor who was currently debating whether Iron Man was a global protector or a reckless vigilante.
"I hate the press," Tony muttered, tossing the wrench onto the table. "I didn't bring the warzone. The warzone walked onto the track with electric whips. I just ended it."
Pepper Potts stood on the other side of the glass desk, holding a tablet. She had been managing damage control since they landed in New York three hours ago.
"They are calling you reckless because you jumped out of a VIP balcony in a prototype suitcase suit instead of waiting for security," Pepper stated, her voice frayed with exhaustion.
"Security was going to get sliced in half," Tony fired back.
"I know that," Pepper sighed, rubbing her temples. "But you were reckless, Tony. You don't have a ticking clock in your chest anymore. You don't have to throw yourself in front of every bullet just to prove you're still alive."
Tony opened his mouth to argue, but stopped. He looked away, his jaw tightening.
Pepper let out a short breath. She walked around the table, resting a hand on his shoulder. "I'm going upstairs to handle the board of directors. Stay in the lab. Do not tweet. Do not call a press conference."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Tony muttered.
Pepper headed for the elevator.
Ethan was leaning against a sleek diagnostic terminal a few feet away, holding a mug of black coffee. He had watched the exchange in silence. The media scramble and the PR nightmare were entirely predictable.
When the elevator doors closed, the lab fell quiet, save for the low murmur of the news feeds.
"Turn the screens off, J.A.R.V.I.S.," Tony ordered.
The lab went dark, illuminated only by the blue glow of the arc reactor in Tony's chest and the ambient floor lights. Tony leaned his hands on the edge of the glass table, staring at the scorched metal of his Mark V gauntlet.
"I know it was the right call," Tony said bluntly, not looking up. "He was going to kill me. He was going to cut the crowd to pieces. But I don't usually execute guys at point-blank range on live television."
"It was a tactical necessity," Ethan said, taking a sip of his coffee. "You hesitate there, the balcony drops, and fifty people die."
"I know," Tony said. He pushed himself off the table, grabbing a rag to wipe the grease off his hands. "Doesn't mean I have to like it. I build the weapons. I don't usually have to look the guy in the eye when they go off."
He threw the rag onto the table. "Anyway. We have a lot of work to do."
Across the city, in the quiet library of the New York Sanctum, Natalie sat perfectly still in a leather wingback chair.
She held a heavily encrypted Stark-brand smartphone to her ear. The line was secured through three separate S.H.I.E.L.D. proxy servers.
"Report," Director Nick Fury’s voice barked through the receiver.
"The target, Ivan Vanko, is deceased," Natalie said smoothly, keeping her voice strictly professional. "Stark engaged him on the track. Vanko's localized arc-reactor overloaded. The threat is fully contained."
"I saw the broadcast, Romanoff," Fury said dryly. "I need to know what your new boss did. The footage shows a racecar bouncing off thin air. It shows Vanko's whip stopping mid-swing. Did Williams intervene?"
Natalie didn't hesitate. "Mr. Williams used minimal visible interference. He stabilized the VIP balcony and prevented civilian casualties near the track."
"And the spider-girl?"
"Miss Maxine was in the suite. She was not exposed to the public, nor did she engage."
There was a short pause on the other end of the line.
"Minimal visible interference," Fury repeated. " That's a nice, safe phrase. You're giving me the sanitized bullet points, Romanoff. I want the actual intel. How did he do it?"
"I am giving you the facts of the engagement, Director."
"Are you filtering me, Romanoff?" Fury asked, his voice dropping into a dangerous register.
"I am prioritizing relevant intelligence, Sir," Natalie replied seamlessly. "Stark is stable. Vanko is dead. The primary asset remains cooperative. If you want me to maintain my cover inside this house, I cannot transmit deeply classified magical mechanics over a signal that Stark’s AI might flag."
It was a perfectly logical excuse.
"Keep an eye on Stark," Fury ordered finally. "And Romanoff? Don't forget who signs your checks."
The line clicked dead. Natalie lowered the phone, deleted the call log, and slipped it back into her pocket.
A rusted iron door groaned loudly as it was pushed open, letting the damp air of the Hell’s Kitchen alleyway filter into the basement.
The underground workshop was a chaotic mess of sparking soldering irons, cannibalized servers, and modified weapon parts.
Phineas Mason didn't look up from his magnifying visor. He was busy rewiring the micro-servos of a stolen police drone.
Heavy footsteps echoed on the concrete stairs. Two men in cheap suits walked into the shop. One carried a metal briefcase and a reinforced steel crate. The other was clearly just muscle.
"Phineas Mason," the lead suit said. "Justin Hammer has a job for you."
Mason didn't stop soldering. "I work for myself. Door's behind you."
The suit didn't leave. He set the briefcase on the nearest workbench and popped the latches. He spun it around, revealing neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills.
"Two million dollars," the suit said flatly. "Just to open the box."
Mason glanced at the cash. It was more money than a scavenger saw in ten lifetimes. But he was stubborn. He went back to the drone. "I said get out."
The second man stepped forward. He pulled his jacket back just enough to reveal the grip of a suppressed pistol tucked into his waistband. He rested his hand on it.
The message was perfectly clear. Take the money, or take a bullet.
Mason looked at the gun. He looked at the cash. He let out a raspy sigh and turned off his soldering iron.
"Put the crate on the table," Mason ordered.
The muscle smirked, hauling the heavy steel crate onto the workbench. He popped the latches and pushed the lid back.
Inside were the jagged, scorched remnants of the Vulture wing core that were left behind after the fight between Scavenger and Ethan. Next to the glowing green metal was a secure hard drive.
"A few weeks ago, an alley in Hell's Kitchen got leveled," the lead fixer explained, pointing at the scrap. "Before S.H.I.E.L.D. or the cops locked down the blast radius, some local street rats grabbed the scrap metal left behind by whoever was fighting. Mr. Hammer bought it off them."
"And?" Mason asked, crossing his arms.
"Hammer's R&D idiots have been staring at it for a month," the fixer said in disgust. "They don't know what it is or how it works. Hammer wants you to figure it out and build something that makes the Iron Man suit look like a toy."
Mason plugged the hard drive into his terminal. The screen flared to life, displaying unedited footage of Ivan Vanko’s plasma whips shearing through the Monaco race cars. Alongside the video were crude energy readings Hammer’s R&D team had pulled from the green metal.
Mason pulled a handheld scanner from his belt and ran it over the jagged shards. The scanner shrieked, the digital numbers scrolling rapidly into error codes.
Mason tapped the side of the scanner and ran it over the metal again. The same impossible physics registered on the screen. Spatial distortion. Unknown synthetic alloys.
Hammer's fixers just wanted a flashy weapon. They had no idea what they had actually bought.
Mason picked up one of the jagged shards, holding it up to the harsh fluorescent light of his workshop.
A slow, genuine smile spread across his face.
"Now this," Tinkerer said, "is interesting."