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The Stark Industries headquarters building rose like a steel and glass monument to American capitalism, dominating the Manhattan skyline with the kind of aggressive confidence that said we own this city. Marcus had seen it in movies, of course, but standing in front of it in person was something else entirely.
I'm really here, he thought. In the MCU. About to watch one of the most important moments in the timeline.
The building's main conference hall had been converted into a media circus. Cameras everywhere. Reporters jockeying for position. The air thick with anticipation and the distinctive smell of too many people in one room—sweat, perfume, coffee, and ambition.
Marcus stood near the back with Yinsen, both of them deliberately keeping a low profile. Happy was nearby, arms crossed, watching everything with professional wariness. Pepper was closer to the front, clipboard in hand, managing logistics even while clearly stressed about whatever Tony was about to say.
And Tony? Tony was backstage somewhere with Obadiah, probably being coached on what not to say to the media.
Good luck with that.
"This is surreal," Yinsen murmured beside Marcus. "A week ago we were in a cave. Now we're at a billionaire's press conference in Manhattan."
"Welcome to the Marvel Cinematic Universe," Marcus said, then caught himself. "I mean, welcome to Tony Stark's world. Same difference, really."
Yinsen gave him a strange look. "Sometimes you say the oddest things."
"It's the trauma. Makes me weird."
Before Yinsen could respond, a man in a suit approached them. Neat, professional, with a kind face and a hairline that was definitely losing the battle against time. He moved with the careful confidence of someone who knew he was walking into a room full of important people and wanted to make the right impression.
Marcus's heart skipped a beat.
Coulson.
Agent Phil Coulson, SHIELD's friendliest face and most persistent investigator. The man who would later die and come back and lead his own team. Right now, he was just a mid-level agent doing his job, but Marcus knew better than to underestimate him.
Coulson made a beeline for Pepper first, intercepting her with a polite smile.
"Miss Potts?"
Pepper turned, her expression shifting to polite professional confusion. "Yes?"
"I'm Agent Coulson." He produced a business card with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this a thousand times. "I was hoping we could speak for a moment?"
"The press conference is about to start," Pepper said, glancing toward the stage. "I really don't have time for interviews right now—"
"Oh, I'm not a reporter," Coulson clarified quickly. "I'm with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."
Pepper blinked. Took the card. Read it. Blinked again.
"That's... quite a mouthful," she said diplomatically.
"We're working on the acronym," Coulson replied with good humor. "Most people just call us SHIELD once we explain what all those words mean."
"I see." Pepper's tone was polite but dismissive. "Well, we've already been contacted by the Department of Defense, the FBI, the CIA, Homeland Security, and about fifteen other acronyms I can't even remember. I'm sure Mr. Stark's people can arrange a meeting with your... Division... at some point."
"We're an independent agency," Coulson persisted gently. "More specialized than the others. We'd like to speak with Mr. Stark about the specific details of his captivity and escape. There are some questions about—"
"I'm sure there are," Pepper interrupted, her polite smile firmly in place but her tone making it clear the conversation was over. "Send your request through proper channels and we'll see what we can do. Now if you'll excuse me—"
She turned away, already moving toward the stage to handle some crisis or another. Coulson watched her go with the expression of someone who'd expected exactly that response and wasn't particularly bothered by it.
Then his gaze shifted, scanning the crowd with practiced efficiency, and landed on Marcus and Yinsen.
He knew Happy—they'd probably run into each other at various Stark Industries events. But Marcus and Yinsen were new faces. Unknown quantities. And Coulson's job was to know everything about everyone who got close to Tony Stark.
Their eyes met across the crowd. Marcus kept his expression neutral, carefully bland, the face of someone who was just here because his friend invited him and had no particular secrets or interesting backstory.
Coulson's eyes narrowed slightly. His head tilted maybe half a degree to the left.
He knows, Marcus realized. Not what I am or where I'm from, but he knows something's off. Agent's intuition.
For a long moment, they just looked at each other. Then Coulson smiled—friendly, professional, not quite reaching his eyes—and made a mental note. Marcus could practically see the wheels turning: Follow up with Reed and Yinsen later. Get full backgrounds. Find out what they're not saying.
The moment broke when the crowd surged forward. Tony was entering the hall.
And he was eating a cheeseburger.
Of course he was.
Tony Stark walked into his own press conference—the first public appearance since being rescued from a terrorist organization, the moment when he should be projecting strength and confidence and careful corporate messaging—and he was casually munching on a burger like he didn't have a care in the world.
Obadiah walked beside him, his smile painted on thick enough to be visible from space, but his eyes were tight with barely controlled irritation. He was trying to guide Tony toward the podium, toward the professionally arranged setup with microphones and the Stark Industries logo, toward normalcy.
Tony ignored him completely.
"You know what I missed most?" Tony announced to the room at large, holding up the burger. "Good American beef. Properly seasoned. Actual cheese that doesn't taste like plastic. This right here? This is freedom, ladies and gentlemen. This is what I was fighting to get back to."
The reporters laughed, cameras flashing like strobe lights, everyone eating up the Tony Stark show because this was exactly the kind of thing they'd come here for.
Obadiah's smile got tighter.
Tony reached the podium area and, instead of standing behind it like a normal person giving a normal press conference, he sat down. Just plopped himself on the steps leading up to the stage, completely casual, forcing every reporter in the room to either squat down or kneel to get a good angle.
"Okay," Tony said, finishing his burger and wiping his hands on a napkin that Pepper materialized from nowhere. "Let's do this. I know you all have questions. Fire away."
The room erupted. Every reporter started shouting at once, a cacophony of overlapping questions:
"—Mr. Stark, can you tell us about your captivity—"
"—how did you escape from—"
"—reports of military weapons being used by terrorists—"
"—your condition, are you injured—"
"—three months without contact—"
Tony held up a hand and the room quieted. Not instantly, but faster than it should have, because Tony Stark commanded attention even when he was sitting on the floor eating junk food.
"Yeah, so," Tony said, his casual tone not quite hiding something deeper underneath. "I'm going to make a statement, and then we can get to your questions. Sound good?"
Murmurs of agreement. Cameras focused. Obadiah moved closer, probably ready to yank Tony off the stage if necessary.
Tony looked out at the crowd, and for just a moment, his expression shifted. The playboy billionaire mask dropped away, revealing something raw and honest and real.
"I had my eyes opened," he said quietly. "Three months as a prisoner gives you a lot of time to think. About your life. About your legacy. About what you're putting into the world and whether it makes things better or worse."
The room had gone completely silent. This wasn't the Tony Stark they expected.
"My father," Tony continued, his voice steady but carrying weight, "Howard Stark, he built this company on a simple premise: that the weapons we make would protect the people who need protecting. That American innovation and American industry would keep good people safe from bad people. That was the dream."
Obadiah shifted uncomfortably. He knew where this was going now, could see the train wreck approaching, but couldn't stop it without making a scene.
"But dreams and reality aren't always the same thing," Tony said. "Because I saw it. Firsthand. Saw my weapons—weapons with my name on them, weapons I designed to protect American soldiers—in the hands of terrorists. Being used to kill innocent people. Being used to kidnap and torture."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"I built weapons to make the world safer," he said, and now there was steel in his voice. "Instead, I made it more dangerous. I put tools of death into circulation and told myself it was okay because I had good intentions. But good intentions don't mean much to the people on the receiving end of a Stark Industries missile."
"Tony—" Obadiah tried to interrupt, but Tony talked right over him.
"So I've made a decision," Tony said, standing up now, commanding the room. "Effective immediately, Stark Industries will cease all weapons manufacturing and development. No more missiles. No more bombs. No more instruments of death bearing my name."
The room erupted.
Reporters shouting, cameras flashing, everyone trying to be heard over everyone else. Obadiah's face went through several expressions in rapid succession—shock, fury, forced calm, calculated concern—before settling on a strained smile as he moved forward to try damage control.
"Now, now," Obadiah said, his voice booming with practiced authority. "I think what Tony means to say is that we'll be reviewing our weapons division, perhaps restructuring, but certainly not—"
"I meant exactly what I said," Tony interrupted flatly. "We're done making weapons, Obie. Effective immediately. No review period. No restructuring. Just done."
Obadiah grabbed Tony's shoulder, smiling for the cameras while his grip was probably tight enough to bruise. "Tony, you've been through an ordeal. You're tired, you're emotional, maybe we should let you rest and reconvene—"
"I'm fine," Tony said, pulling away. "Never been more clear-headed in my life, actually. This is happening, Obie. Get on board or get out of the way."
He turned back to the reporters. "That's all I have to say. Questions can go through Ms. Potts. Thank you all for coming."
Then he walked off the stage, leaving Obadiah to deal with the media frenzy.
Marcus watched the whole thing with a mixture of awe and satisfaction. This was it. The moment. The point where Tony Stark stopped being a merchant of death and started the journey toward becoming Iron Man.
History, Marcus thought. I just watched history being made. Again.
Beside him, Yinsen was smiling, tears in his eyes. "He did it," the doctor whispered. "He really did it. All those talks in the cave about making amends, about doing better—he meant it."
"Yeah," Marcus agreed. "He did."
Tony made his way through the crowd, ignoring reporters shouting questions, until he reached their group. Pepper looked like she wanted to murder him. Rhodes looked impressed but concerned. Happy just looked resigned, like this was par for the course for Tony Stark.
"So," Tony said, grinning at Marcus and Yinsen like he hadn't just nuked his own company's stock price. "How'd I do?"
"You did something very meaningful," Yinsen said warmly, gripping Tony's shoulder.
Marcus, however, was frowning. "You should have told me earlier."
Tony blinked. "Told you what?"
"That you were going to do this today," Marcus said. "I could have made a fortune shorting Stark Industries stock. As it is, you just made every vulture capitalist in America very rich by letting them short your stock without warning."
The grin fell off Tony's face. "Wait. Fuck. You're right."
"Of course I'm right," Marcus said. "You just announced that Apple is stopping iPhone production, except it's weapons instead of phones. Your stock is going to crater. And all those hedge funds and short-sellers who bet against you? They're going to make billions off your moral epiphany."
Tony's expression went from dismayed to calculating in about three seconds. He grabbed Pepper's arm.
"Pepper, I need you to call our financial people. Right now. I want us shorting our own stock before the market opens tomorrow."
Pepper stared at him. "You want to... profit off of destroying your own company's value?"
"I want to keep the profits from going to vultures who don't deserve it," Tony corrected. "We're going to lose value anyway. Might as well keep the money in-house. And when we pivot to clean energy with the arc reactor, the stock will go back up anyway. We'll make it all back and more."
He turned back to Marcus with a grudging smile. "Okay, fine. Good catch. But you're not getting a finder's fee."
"Didn't expect one," Marcus replied. "Just annoyed I didn't think of it myself earlier. Could've been rich."
"You helped save my life and I gave you fifty grand in credit," Tony pointed out. "I think you're doing okay."
"Fair point."
The group started moving toward the exit, trying to escape before the media scrum trapped them. Coulson tried to approach again but got blocked by security. Marcus caught his eye one more time as they left—another of those assessing looks that promised this wasn't over.
I'll have to be careful, Marcus thought. SHIELD's going to be watching me closely now.
But that was a problem for later. Right now, they had other things to focus on.
Stark Mansion, Malibu - Five Days Later
The arc reactor replacement surgery went smoothly. Too smoothly, really, considering they were doing it in Tony's basement workshop instead of a proper medical facility.
But that was Tony Stark for you. Why go to a hospital when you had a genius physicist and a mystery man with steady hands who'd helped keep you alive for three months?
Marcus worked with clinical precision, disconnecting the old reactor—the crude but functional device they'd built in the cave—while Yinsen monitored Tony's vitals and provided medical guidance. Pepper watched from a distance, looking faintly ill but refusing to leave.
"This is insane," she muttered. "You should be in a hospital. With actual doctors. And sterile equipment. And—"
"Luo and Yinsen are actual doctors," Tony said, remarkably calm for a man having his chest opened up in a basement. "Well, Yinsen is. Luo is just really good at not letting me die, which is close enough."
"I'm a quick learner," Marcus added, carefully extracting the old reactor. The device came free with a soft click, and he held it up to the light. Crude. Ugly. But it had kept Tony alive when nothing else could.
"What are you going to do with the old one?" Yinsen asked as Marcus fitted the new reactor into place—sleeker, more efficient, glowing with that characteristic blue light.
"Trash it," Tony said immediately. "Or smash it. Don't care. Thing reminds me of the cave. Bad memories. Don't need it cluttering up my workshop."
Marcus caught Pepper's expression—something soft and sentimental—and had an idea.
"Actually," he said, handing the old reactor to Pepper, "I think you should keep this, Ms. Potts."
Pepper blinked, surprised. "What? Why?"
"Because someday," Marcus said carefully, knowing exactly what would happen in the future, "this might be important. It's proof of what Tony can do when his back's against the wall. Proof of his genius. And proof—" he met Tony's eyes "—that he can change. That he can be better than he was."
Something passed across Tony's face. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition that Marcus was right.
"Fine," Tony said gruffly. "Pepper can have it. But I don't want to see it. Put it somewhere I won't trip over it."
"I'll take good care of it," Pepper promised, clutching the reactor like it was made of spun gold instead of palladium and copper.
Marcus knew she would. And he knew that in the future, when Tony's life was on the line again, that old reactor would save him.
Timeline preserved, Marcus thought with satisfaction. Another box checked.
Once the surgery was complete and Tony was recovering with his new reactor humming smoothly in his chest, the real work began.
"Gentlemen," Tony announced, standing up and stretching with the energy of someone who'd just had major surgery and didn't care. "Let's build something amazing."
He walked over to his main workbench—a sleek, modern surface that lit up at his touch, holographic interfaces springing to life in midair. Jarvis, Tony's AI assistant, activated with a smooth British accent that Marcus had only ever heard in movies before.
"Welcome back, sir," Jarvis said. "Shall I load your previous designs?"
"Start fresh, Jarvis," Tony replied, his fingers already moving through holographic displays, pulling up schematics and material specifications. "New project. Call it Mark II."
Marcus and Yinsen exchanged glances. They both knew what this meant.
Iron Man was being born.
Over the next several days, Marcus got a front-row seat to Tony Stark's genius in action.
The man was a force of nature when he was focused. He worked eighteen-hour days, fueled by coffee and inspiration, designing every component of the Mark II with obsessive attention to detail. Holographic projections filled the workshop—full-scale models of armor pieces that Tony could manipulate with his hands, rotating them, zooming in on stress points, running simulations.
Jarvis was remarkable. The AI didn't just follow orders—it anticipated needs, ran calculations in the background, flagged potential problems before they became issues. It was the kind of artificial intelligence that shouldn't exist in the real world, the kind that would make every computer scientist on Earth weep with envy.
Black tech, Marcus thought, watching Jarvis coordinate three different manufacturing robots simultaneously. Pure Marvel Comics black tech. No way this is possible with real-world technology.
But it was happening right in front of him.
Tony had access to materials that shouldn't exist—gold-titanium alloys with impossible strength-to-weight ratios, micro-actuators that could lift ten times what they should, power systems that violated thermodynamics in creative ways. His fabrication equipment could mill parts to tolerances measured in nanometers.
It was like watching a science fiction movie, except it was real, and Marcus was standing in the middle of it.
"Luo, hand me that torque wrench," Tony called from where he was assembling a leg actuator.
Marcus grabbed the tool and passed it over. "You know, in a sane world, this wouldn't be possible."
"Good thing we don't live in a sane world," Tony replied, not looking up from his work. "We live in a world where billionaire geniuses can build flying suits of armor in their basement workshops. Much more interesting."
"Fair point."
Yinsen was less hands-on than Marcus, his medical expertise not translating as well to mechanical engineering, but he helped where he could—fetching materials, running diagnostics, keeping Tony fed and hydrated when the man forgot to eat for twelve hours straight.
"He's possessed," Yinsen said to Marcus one evening, watching Tony work at two in the morning with the manic energy of someone who'd forgotten that sleep was a thing humans needed. "I've never seen anyone so focused."
"He's trying to make up for lost time," Marcus replied. "Three months in a cave, thinking he was going to die. Now he's free and he's got a second chance. He's not going to waste it."
"Is that what you're doing?" Yinsen asked, turning to face Marcus. "Making up for lost time? You work just as hard as he does."
Marcus shrugged. "I'm helping a friend. That's all."
"Is it?" Yinsen's eyes were sharp, seeing too much as always. "Because sometimes I watch you, Marcus, and you don't look like someone helping a friend. You look like someone following a script. Like you know exactly what's supposed to happen next."
Too perceptive, Marcus thought, keeping his expression neutral. Need to be more careful.
"You're imagining things," he said lightly. "I'm just a guy who got lucky and survived. Nothing more mysterious than that."
Yinsen didn't look convinced, but Tony called for help before he could press the issue.
The Mark II slowly took shape over those days. Each piece was a work of art—the leg assemblies with their integrated repulsors, the arm gauntlets with their palm-mounted flight stabilizers, the chest piece designed to house the arc reactor and distribute power throughout the suit.
Tony tested each component obsessively. Repulsor output. Servo response time. Weight distribution. Structural integrity under stress. He pushed everything to its limits, finding the breaking points, then redesigning to make them stronger.
Marcus watched it all with a mixture of awe and anticipation. This was history. The birth of Iron Man. And he was right here, watching it happen, helping it happen.
"Flight test tomorrow," Tony announced on the seventh day, looking at the completed armor with satisfaction. "Jarvis, run final diagnostics on all systems."
"All systems functioning within normal parameters, sir," Jarvis reported. "Though I feel compelled to remind you that you have not yet tested the suit's full flight capabilities in a controlled environment."
"That's what tomorrow is for," Tony said cheerfully. "Controlled testing. Or possibly crashing spectacularly. Either way, it'll be exciting."
He turned to Marcus and Yinsen, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.
"You guys are going to want to film this," he said. "Because it's either going to be amazing or really, really funny when I crater into the floor."
Marcus smiled. He knew how this went. He'd seen the movie.
Tomorrow, Tony Stark would fly for the first time. And nothing would ever be the same.
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Marcus said.
And he meant it.
[End of Chapter 20]
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