The pavilion buzzed with anticipation that felt manufactured, like the lighting rigs and the too-perfect acoustics. Justin Hammer worked the crowd like he'd practiced this moment in a mirror a thousand times.
He danced onto the stage—literally danced—with the enthusiasm of someone who'd spent too much time watching infomercial hosts.
"Yeah. That's what I'm talking about."
Pepper Potts, seated somewhere in the middle section, muttered something that sounded like "Oh, Lord" under her breath. She'd seen this movie before. Everyone had.
"Thanks for coming." Hammer's smile stretched wide enough to show every tooth. "Ladies and gentlemen, for far too long, this country has had to place its brave men and women in harm's way, but then the Iron Man arrived, and we thought the days of losing lives were behind us."
Tony Stark's jaw tightened somewhere in the front row. This was the part where Hammer painted himself as the underdog, the innovator who wanted to save lives but was mysteriously always a step behind.
"Sadly, that technology was kept out of reach."
The pause was theatrical. The audience leaned forward like they were watching a magician's trick.
"That's not fair. That's not right. And it's just too bad."
Two people scurried onstage to remove the podium. Hammer waved them off with the dismissiveness of someone born to wealth.
"Get that out of here."
Ethan watched from the back, arms crossed. He'd seen this kind of performance before—in boardrooms, in marketing presentations, everywhere someone tried to sell something they didn't fully understand.
"Ladies and gentlemen, today I present to you the new face of the United States military. The Hammer drone."
The floor panels slid open with mechanical precision. Five units rose on hydraulic lifts, gleaming under the stage lights. They looked expensive. They also looked like someone had taken a Predator drone and slapped racing stripes on it.
"Army!" Hammer's voice boomed through the auditorium, sharp enough to cut glass.
The first unit lurched forward on its hydraulic pistons, joints locking into place with audible clicks. Its angular frame gleamed under the stage lights, painted in desert camouflage that looked more decorative than functional. The M242 Bushmaster mounted on its shoulder caught a glint of light, a metallic eye staring blankly ahead.
"Navy!"
The second drone rolled forward, its rail system humming as the autocannon retracted with mechanical precision. Something in its servos whined—a high-pitched electronic whine that set teeth on edge. Its Chobham armor plating reflected the spotlights in harsh, angular patterns.
"Air Force!"
This one moved differently, rotors spinning silently in the climate-controlled room. The stealth plating gave it a sleek, predatory look, like a shark that had learned to fly. Its Vortex Ring Gun hung uselessly at its side, but the threat was clear enough.
"Marines!"
The last two emerged together, their movements perfectly synchronized yet somehow off—too mechanical, too precise. Facial covers slid into place with pneumatic hisses, hiding whatever optics lay beneath. They looked less like soldiers and more like expensive toys that had forgotten their purpose.
"Yeah! Yeah! Woo!"
Hammer spread his arms like a conductor. "That's a hell of a lot better than some cheerleaders, let me tell you."
The drones gleamed under stage lights, but it was what sat in their chests that made seven people exchange glances.
Arc reactors.
Rhodey's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. Tony's jaw worked like he was chewing glass.
"How the hell did he—" Rhodey started.
"Nobody miniaturizes the arc reactor like I do," Tony said, voice tight. Too tight.
Pepper watched Hammer preen, but her eyes stayed on those glowing chests. Coulson's hand moved to his earpiece. Natasha's expression remained unreadable, but her fingers tapped a rapid rhythm against her thigh.
Gwen leaned toward Peter. "Those look exactly like the Mark I design."
Ethan alone understood what those arc reactors meant. The design hit him like a punch—he'd seen this tech before, in a different life, on a screen. Hammer hadn't just copied Stark's work; he'd gotten help from someone who actually knew how to build it. Someone with a grudge.
He kept his mouth shut. How do you explain that you recognize military-grade weapons because you watched them in movies?
The drones gleamed under stage lights, but something had shifted in their posture—too precise, too mechanical.
Hammer's smile faltered. "What's happening?"
One of the Army drones rotated its Bushmaster toward the audience. The barrel tracked across faces with unnerving accuracy.
Tony's hand moved to his earpiece. "Oh, this is bad."
Peter's Spidey-sense was going off like a fire alarm, and Ethan recognized that particular flavor of trouble immediately. Ivan Vanko had that same signature—methodical, vengeful, the kind of evil that came with engineering diagrams.
The Hammer drones opened fire.
Bullets shredded the stage lights, sending sparks raining down like mechanical rain. People dove for cover as the Navy drone's Stinger missiles tracked across the pavilion, locking onto Tony with electronic precision.
Ethan's fingers flew across his Digivice. The interface was second nature now, a dance of inputs and commands he'd practiced in cyberspace a thousand times.
"Digi-Memory: Frigimon."
The summoning light flared, and a champion-level Digimon materialized in a swirl of snow crystals.
"Icy Breath!"
Frigimon exhaled a fine mist that spread across the stage like breath on a winter morning. The supercooled vapor hit the drones' targeting systems first, frosting over optical sensors and freezing servo motors mid-adjustment.
The Army drone's aim went wild. Its autocannon swept across empty air as ice crystallized in its barrel.
The drones tracked with mechanical precision, barrels swinging toward the crowd. Ethan's voice cut through the chaos.
"Everyone get out—now!"
Tony grabbed Pepper's arm. Rhodey was already moving, ushering civilians aside. Gwen pulled Peter backward, Jessica close behind. Natasha flowed through the panicked crowd like water parting around stone.
Coulson barked into his radio, coordinating evacuation routes.
Ethan watched them go, Frigimon's ice crystals glittering around his feet. The drones' targeting systems whined, locking onto something else now—something that had just arrived through the pavilion's shattered skylight.
The real fight was about to begin.
***
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