Bonus chapter
"Okay," Tony said, standing in the middle of his workshop wearing hand and foot repulsor units but not the full armor. "Let's see what these babies can do."
Marcus and Yinsen stood a safe distance back, both holding fire extinguishers because they'd learned that being prepared for Tony Stark's experiments was just good sense.
"Start with ten percent thrust," Jarvis advised through the workshop speakers. "Hand repulsors first, then—"
Tony didn't wait for the rest of the instructions.
He activated the hand repulsors at what was definitely more than ten percent.
The repulsor units in his palms blazed to life with that distinctive whoom sound, and Tony shot upward like a rocket—
—straight into the ceiling.
CRASH!
He hit the concrete hard enough to crack it, bounced off, flailed wildly trying to control his descent, and slammed into his workbench on the way down. Tools scattered. Something expensive-sounding shattered. Tony ended up flat on his back on the workshop floor, groaning.
"Ow."
Marcus couldn't help it. He burst out laughing.
"Oh man," he wheezed, doubling over. "That was—that was beautiful. Jarvis, please tell me you got that on video."
"Multiple angles, sir," Jarvis replied, and if an AI could sound amused, he did.
"Traitor," Tony muttered, pulling himself to his feet and checking his repulsor gloves for damage. "That was a calibration issue. Totally expected. Part of the testing process."
"You hit the ceiling so hard you left a dent," Yinsen pointed out, grinning. "How's your head?"
"Fine. The floor broke my fall."
"That's not how physics works."
"It is in my workshop."
Tony brushed himself off, adjusted the power settings on the repulsors, and tried again.
And again.
And again.
Over the next two hours, Marcus and Yinsen watched Tony Stark learn to fly through trial and error. Mostly error. The man crashed into walls, knocked over equipment, set fire to a curtain at one point (hence the fire extinguishers), and created what had to be at least fifty thousand dollars in property damage.
But slowly, gradually, he got better.
The bursts of thrust became more controlled. The landings became less catastrophic. Tony started hovering in place, adjusting his position with small corrections, learning how the repulsors responded to his body weight and movement.
"It's like learning to balance on a bicycle," Tony said, suspended three feet off the ground with his arms spread wide for stability. "Except the bicycle can fly and will kill you if you mess up."
"Exactly like a bicycle, then," Marcus said dryly.
By the end of the session, Tony was actually doing it—hovering smoothly, moving forward and backward, executing controlled turns without destroying anything. His form was awkward, his movements jerky, but he was flying.
"Yes!" Tony shouted, punching the air and immediately spinning out of control. He crashed into a shelf of spare parts, sending components cascading to the floor. "Okay, still working on the celebration maneuvers."
Marcus applauded slowly. "Beautiful dismount. The judges are going to love it."
"Shut up."
"Truly graceful. Like a swan having a seizure."
"I will throw a wrench at you."
"You'll have to catch me first. And given your flight control..." Marcus gestured at the wreckage around them.
Tony flipped him off, grinning, and started picking up the mess.
Once he'd mastered the basic flight controls, Tony moved on to the full suit.
The Mark II was beautiful in its simplicity—sleek silver metal, no frills, just pure engineering elegance. When the suit assembled itself around Tony's body, each piece locking into place with pneumatic precision, Marcus felt that same sense of awe he'd experienced watching the Mark I come together.
This is it, he thought. This is Iron Man being born.
Tony stood there in the complete armor, testing the joints, flexing his fingers in the gauntlets, rotating his head to check the helmet's range of motion. The arc reactor glowed blue in his chest, power flowing through the suit like blood through veins.
"How do I look?" Tony's voice came through the suit's external speakers, slightly distorted but recognizable.
"Like a very expensive coffin," Marcus replied.
"You're the worst hypeman ever."
"I'm realistic. There's a difference."
"Jarvis, run full diagnostics," Tony ordered. "I want every system checked before we go for a real flight."
"Running diagnostics, sir," Jarvis confirmed. "All systems functioning within normal parameters. Repulsor output optimal. Flight stabilizers operational. Power distribution nominal. You are cleared for flight."
Tony nodded, the helmet giving the gesture an oddly mechanical quality. Then he turned toward the workshop exit—the large bay door that opened onto the driveway leading down from his Malibu cliffside mansion.
"Sometimes," Tony said, "you have to run before you learn to walk."
"That's backwards," Yinsen called. "The saying is walk before you run."
"I know what I said."
Then Tony Stark, wearing an experimental suit of powered armor that had never been properly tested, launched himself out of the workshop and into the night sky.
Marcus and Yinsen rushed to the monitors, watching the video feed from Tony's suit cameras and the external security cameras tracking his flight.
For the first few seconds, it was glorious.
Tony shot up into the air like a missile, repulsors blazing, the suit's flight systems working exactly as designed. He cleared the mansion, soared over the cliff edge, and climbed higher above the Pacific Ocean. The view from his helmet camera was breathtaking—Malibu at night, city lights spreading out like a jeweled tapestry, the dark water below reflecting the moon.
"I'm flying!" Tony's voice came through the speakers, filled with pure joy. "Holy shit, I'm actually flying! Luo, Ethan, you guys are seeing this, right?"
"We see it," Marcus confirmed, unable to keep the smile off his face despite himself.
"This is incredible! This is—I need to go higher. See how high this thing can go."
"Tony, maybe you should—" Yinsen started.
But Tony was already climbing, accelerating upward, pushing the Mark II toward its limits.
The altimeter on the screen ticked upward rapidly. Five thousand feet. Ten thousand. Fifteen thousand.
"Sir," Jarvis said, his tone carrying a note of concern, "I must advise caution. The suit has not been tested at high altitude. The temperature at—"
"It'll be fine, Jarvis," Tony interrupted. "Just a quick test. I want to see if we can beat the SR-71 altitude record. How cool would that be?"
Twenty thousand feet. Twenty-five thousand.
The outside temperature reading dropped. Forty degrees. Thirty. Twenty.
"Tony, maybe you should come back down," Marcus said into the microphone. He knew what was coming—he'd seen the movie—but watching it happen in real-time was still nerve-wracking.
Thirty thousand feet.
Ten degrees.
Zero.
"Sir, the suit is experiencing thermal stress," Jarvis warned. "The temperature is dropping below—"
CRACK.
The sound was audible even through the audio feed—ice forming on the suit's exterior, spreading across the metal surface like crystalline veins.
"What was that?" Tony's voice had lost its joy, replaced by concern.
"Ice formation on the outer hull," Jarvis reported. "Power systems compromised. Flight control degrading. Sir, you need to descend immediately—"
The video feeds cut out.
All of them. Simultaneously.
The monitors went black. The audio died.
For three terrible seconds, there was nothing but silence in the workshop.
"Jarvis?" Marcus said. "What's happening? Where's Tony?"
No response.
"JARVIS!"
Nothing.
The AI was offline. And Tony was thirty thousand feet in the air in a suit that had just frozen solid.
Marcus's enhanced brain ran calculations at lightning speed. Terminal velocity. Time to impact. Distance to the ground. He has maybe forty seconds before he hits the ocean at terminal velocity and the suit becomes his tomb—
"We have to—" Yinsen started, his face pale.
Then the screens flickered back to life.
The video feed showed spinning chaos—sky, ocean, sky, ocean, tumbling out of control. Tony's ragged breathing came through the audio, harsh and panicked. The altimeter was dropping fast. Twenty-five thousand feet. Twenty thousand.
"Come on, come on," Tony was muttering, his voice tight with fear. "Manual override. Come on, you piece of—"
CRACK.
Different sound this time. The sound of ice shattering as Tony physically moved inside the frozen suit, forcing the joints to break free.
The spinning slowed. Stabilized.
Fifteen thousand feet.
The repulsors stuttered back to life, blue flames sputtering, catching, holding.
Ten thousand feet.
Tony leveled out, the suit responding to his commands again, flight systems back online.
Five thousand feet.
He was flying again, shaky but controlled, circling back toward Malibu.
Marcus exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"That was way too close," Yinsen said, his hands shaking slightly.
"Yeah," Marcus agreed.
"Sir," Jarvis came back online, his tone as calm as ever, "I recommend immediate return to base and full system diagnostics. The icing problem must be addressed before any future high-altitude flight attempts."
"No kidding," Tony replied, his voice still shaky but gaining strength. "Making a note: high-altitude bad. Sea level good. Got it."
He flew back toward the mansion, slower now, more careful. Marcus could see him through the window—a silver figure against the night sky, repulsors glowing blue, looking like something from science fiction made real.
"I'm coming in for landing," Tony announced. "Probably should have practiced landings more. This might get messy."
"Might?" Marcus muttered.
It got messy.
Tony came in too fast and at the wrong angle. He tried to correct, over-compensated, and ended up smashing through the living room skylight instead of landing on the driveway.
Glass exploded inward. Tony crashed through the ceiling, through the second floor where his bedroom was, and finally came to rest in the garage in a tangle of armor parts and debris.
CRASH. BOOM. SHATTER.
Then silence.
Marcus and Yinsen ran upstairs to find Tony lying flat on his back on the garage floor, surrounded by broken glass and bits of ceiling. The Mark II was scratched and dented but mostly intact. Tony's helmet retracted, revealing his face—cut, bruised, and wearing the biggest grin Marcus had ever seen.
"Did you see that?" Tony said. "I flew!"
"You crashed," Marcus corrected.
"I flew first, then I crashed. Important distinction."
"You almost died."
"But I didn't! And now we know the suit needs better insulation and de-icing systems. That's valuable data!"
One of the workshop's mechanical arms rolled over and started spraying Tony with a fire extinguisher, covering him in white foam.
"Jarvis, what the hell?"
"You were showing minor heat signatures from friction burns, sir," Jarvis explained. "I thought it prudent to—"
"I'm fine! Stop spraying me!"
"As you wish, sir."
The mechanical arm retreated, leaving Tony covered in foam and looking deeply offended.
Marcus and Yinsen looked at each other and simultaneously burst out laughing.
"It's not funny," Tony grumbled, trying to wipe foam off his face.
"It's extremely funny," Marcus managed between laughs.
"I'm dismantling that arm first chance I get."
"You say that every time."
"This time I mean it."
But he was grinning too, because despite the crash, despite the near-death experience, despite everything—he'd flown. He'd built a suit that could fly, and he'd done it himself, and it worked.
That was worth a little foam in the face.
While Tony was testing the Mark II and learning to fly, other forces were moving in the shadows.
Afghanistan - Ten Rings Camp
The bearded man who'd once served under Raza walked through the desert, his remaining fighters spread out in a search pattern. Three days of searching. Three days of combing the wasteland where Tony Stark had crashed.
And finally, they'd found it.
The Mark I.
Or what was left of it.
Scattered across a half-mile radius, partially buried in sand, scavenged by some of the local tribes but still mostly intact. The helmet. The chest plate with its mounting bracket for the arc reactor. The arm and leg pieces. Even some of the internal mechanisms.
The bearded man—his name was Raza, actually, same as the late leader, though he'd never told the prisoners that—knelt beside the chest plate and ran his fingers over the crude welding marks.
"Built this in a cave," he muttered in Pashto. "With a box of scraps. And it worked. It actually worked."
Behind him, his men were gathering the pieces, loading them onto trucks. Every scrap of metal, every servo motor, every bit of wiring. All of it valuable. All of it proof that Tony Stark had built something revolutionary.
And that meant it could be sold.
Raza pulled out a satellite phone—expensive, hard to get in this part of the world, but the Ten Rings organization had resources—and dialed a number he'd been given for emergencies.
The call connected after three rings.
"Yes?" A smooth American voice. Educated. Powerful.
"Mr. Stane," Raza said in heavily accented English. "This is Raza. The Ten Rings, Afghanistan branch. I have something you want to see."
There was a pause on the other end. Then: "I'm listening."
"Stark built a weapon before he escaped. Powered armor. Metal suit that made him strong, protected him from bullets. We have the pieces."
Another pause, longer this time.
"Send me photos," Obadiah Stane said finally. "If they're legitimate, we can discuss terms."
"We want payment. And weapons. Your weapons, Stark Industries weapons, the ones you promised us."
"You were supposed to kill Tony Stark, not let him escape and build super-weapons."
"We were betrayed by our leader, who died for his failure," Raza said smoothly. "I am the new leader. And I have what you want. Do we have a deal or not?"
Silence stretched for ten seconds. Twenty.
"Send the photos," Obadiah said. "I'll be in touch."
The line went dead.
Raza smiled. It wasn't a pleasant expression.
The Ten Rings had lost their primary stronghold. Lost their leader. Lost dozens of fighters. All because of Tony Stark and his two companions.
But they would rebuild. And they would have their revenge.
And if they could profit from Stark's technology in the process? Even better.
"Load everything," Raza ordered his men. "We have work to do."
Stark Mansion, Malibu - One Week Later
Tony stood in his workshop, looking at the Mark II hanging on its display rack, and mentally catalogued everything that needed to be fixed.
Altitude icing. Definitely needed better insulation and active heating elements. Maybe integrate gold-titanium alloy for better heat retention.
The landing. That needed a lot of work. Maybe redesign the repulsor angles, add more flight stabilizers, improve the targeting system for precise touchdowns.
The power distribution could be more efficient. The joint actuators needed better response time. The heads-up display needed more information, better targeting data, improved situational awareness.
"So basically," Marcus said, having listened to Tony's muttered list for the past ten minutes, "you need to build a whole new suit."
"Pretty much," Tony agreed. "Mark II was the prototype. Now I know what works and what doesn't. Mark III will be the real deal."
"Any specific design changes?"
Tony pulled up holographic schematics, his fingers dancing through the light. "Gold-titanium alloy for the hull. Better aerodynamics. Improved weapons systems. And—" he grinned "—a paint job."
"A paint job?"
"Red and gold. My colors. If I'm going to fly around in this thing, it should look good doing it."
Over the next several days, the Mark III took shape.
It was beautiful.
Where the Mark II had been sleek silver, the Mark III was bold and eye-catching—deep red with gold accents, aerodynamic curves replacing harsh angles, every line optimized for both function and aesthetics. The armor was thinner but stronger thanks to the gold-titanium alloy. The repulsors were more powerful. The arc reactor mount was streamlined.
Tony worked with manic focus, barely sleeping, living on coffee and inspiration. Marcus and Yinsen helped where they could—fetching materials, running diagnostics, keeping Tony fed and hydrated when he forgot basic human needs.
Jarvis coordinated the workshop's fabrication systems, manufacturing parts with nanometer precision, assembling components with robotic efficiency. Watching the AI work was like watching a maestro conduct an orchestra—everything synchronized, everything purposeful.
"This is more than just black tech," Yinsen said quietly one evening, watching Tony work. "This is beyond anything that should be possible."
"Welcome to the MCU," Marcus replied. "I mean, welcome to Tony Stark's world. Where the impossible is just Tuesday."
Yinsen gave him that look again—the one that said you know more than you're telling, and someday I'm going to figure out what.
But that was a problem for later.
One Week Later - Stark Charity Gala
Marcus and Yinsen were watching TV in Tony's living room when the news showed a reporter standing outside what was clearly a Stark Industries event—a charity gala, all crystal chandeliers and designer dresses and important people congratulating themselves on being important.
"The Stark Foundation is hosting its annual charity gala tonight," the reporter announced, "to benefit families of fallen soldiers. However, Tony Stark himself is notably absent from the event he supposedly organized."
The camera cut to Obadiah Stane, looking distinguished in a tuxedo, shaking hands and smiling for cameras.
"Experts suggest," the reporter continued, "that Mr. Stark may be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder following his three-month captivity. He has not been seen in public since his controversial press conference over a month ago."
Tony, who'd been working in the workshop, appeared at the top of the stairs.
"What the hell?" he said, staring at the TV. "I organized a charity event and nobody told me about it?"
"Looks like Obadiah organized it," Marcus pointed out. "In your name."
"Without telling me." Tony's expression darkened. "That's... that's deliberate. He's cutting me out of my own company's operations."
He pulled out his phone and started making calls. Thirty seconds later, he hung up and looked at Marcus and Yinsen.
"Want to crash a party?"
Yinsen immediately shook his head. "I've had enough of fancy events. You go."
Marcus considered. He knew what would happen at the party—Tony would confront Obadiah, would learn the extent of his betrayal, would have his eyes opened to how deep the corruption went.
And Marcus knew what came after that. Tony would learn about Gulmira. About Yinsen's home being attacked by the Ten Rings using Stark weapons. And Tony would suit up and fly there to help.
If Marcus went to the party, he'd just be a witness to conversations he already knew were coming. Better to stay here, stay close to Yinsen, be ready for what happened next.
"I'll pass too," Marcus said. "These kinds of events aren't really my scene. Too many fake smiles and expensive suits."
"Your loss," Tony said, heading for his garage. "I'm going to show Obie that I'm very much not suffering from PTSD by showing up unannounced to his little power play."
After Tony left, Marcus and Yinsen settled back into watching TV.
"You knew Tony wouldn't be at that event," Yinsen said. It wasn't a question.
"Seemed like Obadiah's style," Marcus replied casually. "Take control, make decisions without consulting Tony, position himself as the company's real leader."
"You're very good at reading people."
"Years of practice."
They watched a cooking show for a while. Then the news came back on.
And everything changed.
The news reporter appeared on screen again, this time with a different backdrop—shaky handheld camera footage of what looked like a war zone.
"We're receiving reports from Afghanistan," the reporter said gravely, "that the small town of Gulmira has been attacked by forces identified as the Ten Rings terrorist organization."
Yinsen went completely still.
The footage showed burning buildings, people fleeing, gunfire in the streets. Children crying. Bodies on the ground.
"Gulmira," the reporter continued, "a town of approximately three thousand people, has been under siege for the past six hours. The attackers are heavily armed and have reportedly taken dozens of hostages. International aid organizations are calling for immediate intervention, but military response has been slow due to the remote location and political sensitivities."
More footage. A young woman screaming in Dari. An old man clutching a wound in his side. Houses in flames.
"Refugees are fleeing into the surrounding countryside," the reporter said. "Local sources estimate hundreds of casualties, though exact numbers are impossible to confirm. The Ten Rings have issued no demands and appear to be engaged in indiscriminate violence against the civilian population."
Yinsen's hands were clenched into fists so tight his knuckles had gone white. His face was a mask of pain and fury.
"Gulmira," he whispered. "My home."
Marcus moved to sit beside him, not sure what to say. The man's entire family was already dead, killed months or years ago. But his home—the place where he'd grown up, the streets he'd walked, the people he'd known—was being destroyed in real-time on national television.
"I'm sorry," Marcus said, inadequate but sincere.
"They're using Stark weapons," Yinsen said, his voice hollow. "Look at the footage. Those missile launchers. Those rifles. All of them have Stark Industries markings."
He was right. The camera had caught glimpses—weapons clearly labeled with the distinctive Stark Industries logo, being used by terrorists to murder innocent people.
"This is why Tony stopped," Yinsen continued, staring at the screen. "This is what he saw in that cave. His weapons, his designs, being used for this."
They sat in silence, watching the horror unfold.
When Tony came home an hour later, they were still there, still watching, as the news repeated the same terrible footage over and over.
Tony looked shaken. His tuxedo was rumpled, his bow tie undone. He stood in the doorway and saw what was on the TV, and his face went gray.
"Ethan," he said quietly. "I didn't—I didn't sell those weapons."
Yinsen didn't turn away from the screen. "I know."
"I shut down the weapons division. I closed everything. I—"
"I know," Yinsen repeated, his voice tight.
"Obadiah," Tony said, the word coming out like poison. "Obie's been selling weapons under the table. Behind my back. He told me tonight—board approved it, I'm outvoted, there's nothing I can do legally. He's using my company, my designs, my name to sell instruments of death to terrorists."
Finally, Yinsen turned to look at him. His eyes were red.
"Your weapons are killing my people, Tony. Right now. While we sit here in your mansion watching it on TV."
"I know," Tony said, his voice breaking. "I know, and I'm sorry, and I—"
He stopped. Took a breath.
"I can't undo what's already happened," he said, his voice steadying with resolve. "I can't bring back the people who died. But I can stop it from getting worse."
"How?" Yinsen asked.
Tony's expression hardened into something fierce and determined.
"I'm going to do what I should have done the moment I got back," he said. "I'm going to clean up my own mess."
He turned and headed for the workshop, his steps quick and purposeful.
Marcus watched him go, then looked at Yinsen.
"He's going to fly there," Marcus said. "To Gulmira. In the Mark III. He's going to try to stop them himself."
"Good," Yinsen said simply. "He should. We all should."
And Marcus, despite knowing how dangerous it would be, despite understanding the risk, despite everything—
He agreed.
[End of Chapter 21]
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