Tony Stark hadn’t slept a single minute the night before. His mind was boiling over with new ideas, holographic screens filled with formulas hastily scribbled across them, and microscopic adjustnts to his latest obsession: the new line of Mark armors. Thanks to his joint efforts with Arthur in the study of nanotechnology, he had already surpassed countless limits. Now, he was working on what he proudly called the "Mark X"—a series ant to surpass every single previous model in efficiency, power, and versatility.
When his body finally gave in to exhaustion, the clock had already passed nine in the morning. Stark collapsed on the couch in his own living room, still dressed in wrinkled clothes, a cold, empty coffee cup resting by his hand.
A few hours later, when he opened his eyes again, he didn’t even think about food or a shower. His natural instinct guided him straight to the very heart of his life: his workshop. The place was bathed in dim bluish light, filled with floating projections, scattered components, and the soft hum of systems left in standby. As soon as his feet touched the tallic floor, an involuntary smile ford on his face.
"JARVIS, is the prototype ready?" he asked, his voice trembling with expectation.
[It is ready, sir.]
The AI’s response was calm, almost impassive, but Tony already felt the excitent swelling within him.
At JARVIS’s command, panels began to slide open in the floor, and slowly, a new armor rose before his eyes in all its splendor. On the outside, it didn’t seem to differ much from the previous models, but the true evolution lay inside.
"Simply perfect..." he whispered.
[As requested, I modified non-essential components and integrated support nanomachines.]
Tony circled the armor with gleaming eyes. To him, this wasn’t just tal, circuits, and code—it was a piece of himself, his genius crystallized into tangible form.
But his mont of awe was interrupted. A sudden sound echoed in the workshop: an incoming call notification. The screen showed only one thing—"Unknown Caller."
"Hm?" Tony raised an eyebrow and answered, sarcasm intact.
On the other end, a bitter voice oozed through the line:
{’Hey, Tony Stark.’}
The smile vanished from his face. He knew that voice. Ivan Vanko.
"What the...? Wasn’t this guy in prison?" he muttered, stunned.
"I don’t think you should be calling directly from a cell."
{’Why don’t you watch the news?’}
Tony frowned. The last thing he wanted was to waste ti with a criminal’s riddles.
"Nah. I’m busy with sothing way more important."
{’You should find it important, Stark. The Hamr Expo just kicked off. I imagine you sent soone from your company to represent Stark Industries there.’}
The pause that followed was ice cold.
{’Soon, you’ll be collecting their corpses.’}
The line went dead instantly. Ivan knew Tony would try to trace him, which was why he gave no chance.
[Sir, I was unable to locate the source of the call.]
Tony’s eyes narrowed with fury. He knew exactly who was in danger: Pepper and Happy, who were at the Expo.
"JARVIS, prepare everything. We’re field-testing this armor. Right now."
[Understood, sir.]
In seconds, the donning process of the new Mark X began. tallic plates slid and locked into place around his body with flawless precision. As the last piece sealed, Tony imdiately felt the difference. This armor was astonishingly lighter, faster than its predecessors. And the power... it was as if every fiber of the suit roared with newborn energy.
The roof split open and, in an instant, Tony blasted into the sky. Flying had never felt so natural. Adjustnts to the thrusters—enhanced by nanomachines—gave him perfect stability, without the need for constant bursts of fla from his hands. He hovered effortlessly above New York, taking in the view below, and a quick thought crossed his mind:
Arthur’s suggestions were really good...
Locating the Hamr Expo, he accelerated toward the event, leaving only a blazing trail across the sky.
---
anwhile, elsewhere in New York, the true mastermind was already moving his pieces.
Ivan Vanko, cold and rciless, snuffed out the life of the guard who had been watching him. The body hit the ground without ceremony as Ivan seized control of a computer. Data about the Hamr Industries drones scrolled across the glowing screens.
A grim smile spread across his face.
When Justin Hamr had beco obsessed with acquiring Arc Reactor technology, he hadn’t hesitated to pull Ivan from prison and offer him a chance at "cooperation." Hamr believed he was in control, but to Ivan, he was nothing but a tool—a useful idiot.
Truth was, Ivan could’ve struck at Tony much earlier. But he preferred to wait. To feed his hatred, to refine every detail, to mold his resentnt into strategy.
And, of course, because Justin Hamr was a complete fool.
To Vanko, the man was nothing more than a vain peacock, blind to reality. Every armor model produced before was worthless—fragile, insecure, ridiculous. In the end, Ivan had to rebuild everything himself, wasting precious ti just to correct soone else’s incompetence.
But now, the pieces were all in place. The mont was right. The perfect instant.
Ivan fixed his gaze on the drones ready to be unleashed and muttered to himself with a crooked smile:
"Finally, Stark... it’s ti to settle the score."
---
At that very mont, inside the grand Hamr Expo, the spectacle reached its peak. Spotlights swept across the stage with exaggerated flair, and Justin Hamr, his smug smile plastered across his face, raised his arms as if he were the conductor of an orchestra of steel and gunpowder.
"Ladies and gentlen, it is my honor to present to you the latest technological jewel of Hamr Industries, in collaboration with our glorious military!" His voice bood through the sound system, full of forced excitent.
The audience leaned forward eagerly. Many hoped to see sothing that could rival Tony Stark—after all, that was the unspoken promise of the night: that Hamr would finally prove he wasn’t lagging behind the billionaire genius.
"Ladies and gentlen, I give you... the War Machine!"
The crowd erupted with excited murmurs, and Hamr paused for dramatic effect before continuing:
"And it will be piloted by none other than the fearless Air Force Major... Jas Rhodes!"
BOOM!
A tallic crash thundered through the hall as a gray figure plumted from above and landed on the stage with deafening impact. The floor shook, sparks scattered, and the audience gasped and scread—half in fear, half in awe.
Pepper, seated in the crowd beside Happy, widened her eyes at the familiar silhouette.
"That’s..." she whispered, barely believing it.
"Isn’t that one of Tony’s armors?"
Happy frowned, leaning forward. The silver tal reflected the stage lights, but the design was unmistakable.
"Yeah, looks a lot like one of his Marks..." he muttered.
"The color’s different, but the style, the lines... no denying it."
By now, anyone with the slightest technological sense knew the truth: this machine had Tony Stark’s genius written all over it. And the unease twisting in Pepper’s stomach only grew stronger.
The helt lifted slowly, revealing the face of Jas Rhodes. The audience exploded into thunderous applause—not for recognizing Stark’s work, but for the military figure now piloting the suit. So chanted Rhodes’s na, others cheered at the idea of an official governnt weapon.
Pepper, however, wasn’t impressed.
"Did Tony ever ntion giving a suit to Rhodes?" she muttered, pressing a hand against her temple.
Happy, still watching the stage closely, crossed his arms.
"Maybe... it could’ve been a gift, one of his older Marks." His eyes narrowed as he examined the modifications.
"But it looks like they didn’t like Tony’s style. They changed the design, repainted it, and stuffed it with weapons..."
It wasn’t just loyalty to Stark—Happy had a sharp instinct for when things didn’t feel right.
Pepper sighed, rubbing her forehead as a throbbing headache began to form. None of this felt right.
And before she could even process it, another explosion of sound shook the hall.
WHOOOSH!
A new figure descended from the sky at high speed, engulfed in the blazing glow of thrusters. The mont it landed, the entire audience fell silent, breath stolen—only to erupt monts later into cheers and screams louder than before.
The classic red-and-gold armor glead under the stage lights. Inescapable. Unmistakable.
So spectators, unable to contain themselves, shouted in unison:
"IRON MAN!!!"
The contrast between the two figures onstage—the imposing gray War Machine and Tony’s iconic red-and-gold Iron Man—sent the entire place into a frenzy of anticipation.
The spectacle, already grand, had just transford into sothing far greater.
---
(End of Chapter)
"Hmph. If you really want to be useful, then entertain , try to throw those pathetic power stones at . Let’s see if even your insolence can amuse a king."
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