The phone connected after two rings. Smith's voice came through clear despite the distance. "Tony. What can I do for you?"
"I need some background on someone," Tony said, watching Natalie in his peripheral vision. "Natalie Rushman. Former assistant to Fox. Ring any bells?"
On the other end of the line, Smith smiled despite himself. So SHIELD had finally deployed Natasha against Tony. The irony was exquisite—they were sending his undercover agent to spy on Tony, apparently unaware that Natasha had been feeding Smith intelligence about SHIELD operations for the past six months.
"Hot redhead?" Smith asked. "Late twenties, speaks about multiple languages, scary competent at financial analysis?"
Tony's expression brightened. "Yes, that's her exactly."
"She's in my legal department currently," Tony continued. "I'm thinking of transferring her to be my personal assistant. I saw she left your organization on good terms. Any red flags I should know about?"
Smith considered his response carefully. He could tell Tony the truth—that Natasha was a SHIELD plant, but now she was his undercover spy.
Besides, Natasha wouldn't actually harm Tony. Her mission was observation and influence, not assassination. And having her close to Tony meant Smith would have real-time intelligence about whatever SHIELD was planning regarding Iron Man.
"Tony," Smith said carefully, "let's discuss the specifics in person when you have time. But I can tell you this—she won't harm you. You can trust that much."
Tony's analytical mind caught the subtext immediately. Smith wasn't saying Natalie was harmless. He was saying she wouldn't harm Tony specifically. Which meant she was dangerous generally, but not a direct threat.
Interesting.
Tony walked closer to Natalie, examining her with new appreciation. Smith's non-answer told him everything—this woman had skills beyond legal work, probably intelligence or security background, and Smith had knowledge of her real capabilities.
"Alright," Tony said into the phone. "Thanks for the heads-up. We'll talk later."
He disconnected and turned to Pepper. "She's fine. Actually, she's perfect."
Tony looked at Happy, who was still sitting on the mat looking confused. "Dude, I think your combat ranking just dropped to third place."
Happy pushed himself upright, defensive. "I slipped. The mat's worn in that spot."
If they'd all been wearing combat power scouters at that moment, the readings would've been revealing that Natalie has the highest combat power.
Natasha stepped down from the ring and slipped her heels back on with practiced ease. She walked over to Tony, notary materials already in hand. "I need your impression," she said in a calm, professional tone.
Tony was still half-absorbing Smith's warning. "The impression you made was very composed. Mature. Dangerous in a good way."
Natasha gave a patient smile. "I meant your fingerprint impression. For the documents."
"Right," Tony said, feeling unusually off-balance. "Of course."
Natasha opened her portfolio and placed the transfer documents on the coffee table. Tony pressed his thumb against the designated spaces, officially signing over control of Stark Industries to Pepper Potts.
Pepper moved closer, watching the process. "Is this really happening?"
Tony completed the final fingerprint and stepped back. "Done. Fast and efficient, just like I like it."
He gestured at the papers. "You're the boss now. Try not to run my company into the ground."
Natasha closed her portfolio, looking at Tony with professional politeness. "Will there be anything else, Mr. Stark?"
"No," Pepper said quickly, before Tony could speak. "Thank you, Miss Rushman. We appreciate your help with this."
Natasha turned and walked toward the exit, her posture perfect, her movements controlled.
Tony watched her go, then turned to Pepper with renewed determination. "I want her as my assistant."
Pepper sighed, recognizing the tone that meant Tony had made up his mind and wouldn't be dissuaded. "We'll discuss compensation and duties later. Right now, you have other things to focus on."
The Next Day - Fraternity Base, Suburban New York
The black SUV pulled through the Fraternity's main gate, past security checkpoints that would've made military installations jealous. Ivan Vanko sat in the passenger seat, his metal case secured in the cargo area, taking in the scope of Smith Doyle's operation.
The Korin Tower dominated the skyline—already impressive at its current partial completion, clearly destined to be spectacular when finished. The main compound covered acres, with multiple buildings, training grounds, and what looked like advanced research facilities.
This is real power, Ivan thought. Not just money, but organization. Infrastructure. Vision.
The vehicle stopped at the main building's entrance. John Wick waited there, looking exactly as Ivan remembered.
"Mr. Wick," Ivan said, climbing out and extending his hand. "Good to see you again."
They shook firmly. "Thank you," Ivan continued, his voice carrying genuine emotion. "That money you paid for the Dragon Ball—it saved my father's life. The doctors said if we'd waited another year, he wouldn't have survived the next winter."
John's expression softened fractionally. "You don't owe me anything. It was a fair transaction—you had something valuable, I paid appropriate price."
He gestured toward the building. "Come on. The boss is waiting in the conference room. I hope you get what you're looking for."
Ivan followed John into the compound, his engineer's mind cataloging everything. The construction quality, the security measures, the way guards moved with military precision. These weren't rent-a-cops or basic muscle—these were trained operators, some showing enhanced physical capabilities that suggested supernatural augmentation.
Two particularly large guards collected Ivan's metal case—one on each side, lifting it with casual ease despite its considerable weight. Ivan's armor and arc reactor components weren't light, but these men handled the load like it was luggage.
The conference room was elegant without being ostentatious—hardwood table, comfortable chairs, wall-mounted displays showing what looked like stock tickers and news feeds. And seated at the head of the table, wearing casual clothes but radiating authority, was Smith Doyle himself.
Ivan had seen him on television, of course. Everyone had. But seeing him in person carried different weight—the man who'd fought the Hulk to a standstill, who'd saved New York from gamma-powered monsters, who commanded both legitimate business empire and shadow organization.
"Mr. Smith," Ivan said, bowing his head slightly in respect. "I'm Ivan Vanko. It's an honor to meet you."
Smith gestured to a chair. "Please, sit. Can we get you anything? Coffee, water?"
"Coffee would be appreciated," Ivan said, settling into the offered seat.
Smith nodded to someone outside the room, and within moments a steaming cup appeared. Ivan took a grateful sip—good coffee, Turkish-style, strong and bitter.
"Ivan Vanko," Smith began, his tone conversational but carrying undertones of authority. "Son of Anton Vanko, who collaborated with Howard Stark decades ago to develop the original arc reactor technology."
Smith leaned back slightly. "Your father wanted to use the technology for profit—military applications, industrial power generation, commercial licensing. Howard wanted to advance human civilization altruistically. They had a fundamental disagreement about purpose."
"Anton was subsequently deported," Smith continued, "returned to the Soviet Union, convicted of treason for sharing American technological secrets, and spent the rest of his life in effective house arrest. Unable to leave the country, unable to conduct research, watching Howard Stark build an empire on work they'd done together."
Smith met Ivan's eyes directly. "Did I miss anything?"
Ivan wasn't surprised that Smith knew the history. If anything, he'd have been concerned if Smith hadn't done thorough research. "That's accurate. My father's entire life destroyed because Howard Stark wanted sole credit."
"Though," Ivan added with bitter honesty, "Tony Stark isn't quite like his father in that regard. He uses arc reactor technology for military applications—his own personal military, admittedly—but at least he's honest about it."
He set down his coffee cup. "But that's the past. What matters is the future."
Ivan pulled a lead-lined box from his jacket pocket. "Tony scaled down the first-generation reactor technology and made it viable at personal scale. So did I."
He opened the box, revealing the miniature arc reactor inside—slightly cruder than Tony's elegant design, but clearly functional. Blue-white light pulsed steadily from its core.
"This technology isn't unique to Tony Stark, despite what he claimed at that Senate hearing," Ivan said. "And I've built more than just the reactor."
He gestured to the metal case the guards had carried in. "I've created a wearable suit. Would you like to see it?"
Smith's expression showed genuine interest. "Please. I know Tony's designs fairly well—I'm curious to see your approach."
Ivan opened the metal case with reverence, revealing the components inside. The armor was clearly lower-budget than Iron Man's sleek designs—raw industrial materials, exposed wiring, utilitarian construction rather than aesthetic consideration.
But as Ivan began assembling it, Smith could see the underlying brilliance. Every component served multiple purposes. Weight distribution was carefully calculated. The design prioritized function over form, but the functionality was effective.
Ivan donned the armor piece by piece—chest plate first, then arm assemblies, power conduits connecting to the miniature arc reactor he installed at the suit's core. When activated, the entire system hummed with barely-contained energy.
"The primary weapons," Ivan explained, activating the forearm assemblies. Two segmented metallic whips extended, crackling with plasma energy channeled from the arc reactor. "Energy cutters, essentially. They can slice through steel like paper, cauterize flesh instantly, and the electromagnetic field disrupts electronics."
He demonstrated with a few practice movements—the whips moved with frightening speed and precision, their plasma edges leaving visible distortions in the air.
"This is only the first generation," Ivan admitted, powering down the weapons. "Due to limited funding, I couldn't install flight systems, missile arrays, or advanced targeting computers. But the core concept is sound."
He looked at Smith directly. "With proper resources, this design could rival Tony Stark's armor. Maybe exceed it in certain applications."
Smith studied the armor with appreciation. Justin Hammer's scientists hadn't achieved half this much with ten times the budget. Ivan Vanko was genuinely talented—not quite Tony Stark level, but close enough to matter.
"With limited funds, you've achieved something impressive," Smith said honestly. "Far better than anything Hammer Industries has produced."
He leaned forward, business posture engaged. "So tell me, Ivan—what exactly do you want from me? And more importantly, what can I get in return?"