Smith and Tony returned to their table, settling back into the plush seats overlooking the Monaco Grand Prix circuit. The roar of engines echoed through the restaurant's open windows, accompanied by the sharp scent of burning rubber and gasoline.
Tony leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with barely contained excitement. "Smith, you're really not going to reconsider the race? Come on—there's nothing quite like the thrill of pushing a machine to its absolute limit." He gestured toward the track below, where sleek racing cars blurred past in streaks of color. "The speed, the precision, the danger—it's intoxicating."
Smith's expression remained impassive. "I'm not interested in racing." He took a measured sip of his drink, then added with the faintest hint of amusement, "That speed is far too slow for me."
Tony paused, his mouth opening for a rebuttal before he remembered exactly what Smith was capable of. The image of his friend rocketing through the sky at supersonic speeds flashed through his mind. He deflated slightly, shaking his head with a rueful smile. "Right. Yeah, I suppose Formula One would feel like a leisurely Sunday drive to you." He sighed dramatically. "Man, you're missing out on a perfectly good time."
Before Smith could respond, a familiar voice cut through their conversation.
"Well, well! I didn't expect to see you two here."
Smith's jaw tightened imperceptibly as Justin Hammer approached their table, wine glass in hand and his trademark oily smile plastered across his face. The man moved with the false confidence of someone desperately trying to convince the world—and himself—that he belonged among giants.
Tony's lip curled in distaste. He leaned toward Smith, his voice dropping to a low mutter. "What a disgusting specimen."
"Are you guys doing well?" Hammer continued, seemingly oblivious to—or willfully ignoring—Tony's obvious disdain.
Tony forced a tight smile. "Hammer."
Without waiting for an invitation, Hammer pulled out a chair and sat down, making himself comfortable as if he'd been personally welcomed. "You're not the only rich people who enjoy driving luxury cars, you know. I'm quite the racing enthusiast myself." He gestured expansively, nearly sloshing his wine in the process.
With practiced showmanship, Hammer turned and drew forward a striking blonde woman who'd been hovering behind him. "This is Christine Everhart from Vanity Fair." He looked at Tony with barely concealed smugness. "You know her, don't you, Tony?"
Tony's expression remained carefully neutral. "We've met. Briefly."
The satisfaction on Hammer's face intensified. "She's going to interview me for Vanity Fair!" He practically preened, straightening his already-straight tie. "A full feature piece on Hammer Industries' innovations."
Tony's smile turned sharp. "Is that so? Christine actually interviewed me once—wrote quite the in-depth piece, as I recall. Very... thorough in her research." The implication hung in the air, and a faint flush crept up Christine's neck.
Christine cleared her throat, her professional mask slipping back into place as she turned to Smith. Her eyes lit up with genuine interest. "Mr. Doyle, would you consider giving me an interview? I've been trying to schedule one for months." She leaned forward slightly, her voice taking on a pleading edge. "If I don't at least ask, my editor will have my head. You're one of the most enigmatic figures in the tech world right now."
A smile crossed Smith's face—the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes. Christine's hopeful expression brightened.
Then Smith spoke, his tone pleasant but utterly final. "No. I don't do interviews."
Tony barked out a laugh, genuine amusement dancing in his eyes. Hammer's face went through an impressive series of contortions—from shock to embarrassment to poorly concealed anger. The thing he'd been using to show off had just been casually dismissed as worthless by someone who actually mattered.
Hammer quickly pivoted, desperately trying to salvage the conversation. He focused on Tony, pointedly ignoring Christine now. "Tony, I've actually been meaning to speak with you. I'd like to showcase some of Hammer Industries' products at your Stark Expo."
Tony's eyebrows shot up in exaggerated surprise. "Wow! Well, Justin, if you ever manage to invent something actually useful, I'll definitely reserve you a spot. Scout's honor." He held up three fingers in a mock salute.
Tony tugged at his collar, which suddenly felt too tight. Beads of sweat had begun forming at his hairline despite the restaurant's air conditioning. He stood abruptly. "Excuse me, gentlemen. I need to visit the facilities." He shot Smith a meaningful look before heading toward the bathroom.
Natasha materialized beside their table moments later, her movements graceful and silent. She set down a tray of elaborate desserts, then turned to Hammer with a polite but pointed smile. "Sir, this is actually our seat. I'm afraid you'll need to move."
Hammer's face reddened at the dismissal, the scarlet flush creeping from his collar to his hairline. He fumbled in his jacket pocket and produced an embossed business card, sliding it across the table toward Smith with forced casualness. "Mr. Doyle, Hammer Industries currently handles the majority of the Department of Defense's weapons contracts. If you're interested in learning more, we're always open to investors of your caliber. Partnering with Universal Capsule Company would be a tremendous honor."
Without waiting for a response, Hammer stood and strode away, Christine trailing behind him. Smith caught Hammer's hand settling possessively on the small of the reporter's back as they disappeared into the crowd—no doubt heading somewhere private where Hammer could "deeply experience" the same reporter Tony had once known.
Smith glanced down at the business card. The embossing was expensive, the paper stock premium—all surface polish with nothing of substance beneath. Hammer Industries was a cautionary tale in corporate mediocrity: no innovation, unreliable products, and a CEO more concerned with appearance than achievement. The Fraternity had better weapons in their armory than anything Hammer could produce, and Smith had access to Bulma technology that made Hammer's entire catalog obsolete.
He left the card where it lay.
Smith's gaze drifted to the adjacent table, where Bulma and Pepper Potts were deep in animated conversation, their laughter rising above the ambient noise. Bulma was gesturing enthusiastically, probably explaining some technical concept, while Pepper listened with genuine interest. Nearby, John Wick sat with Ivan Vanko and Happy Hogan, the three of them engaged in what appeared to be a serious discussion. John's posture remained relaxed, but Smith recognized the subtle alertness in his friend's bearing.
Once the area cleared and they had a moment of relative privacy, Natasha leaned in close. Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "I've been running non-stop assignments since I returned. Deep background checks, surveillance, pattern analysis—everything." Frustration flickered across her carefully controlled features. "I haven't found anything useful. Nothing that screams Hydra, nothing that even whispers it." She paused, her green eyes searching his face. "Could you give me a hint? Point me in the right direction?"
Smith wasn't surprised by Natasha's lack of progress. If Hydra could be rooted out through conventional investigation, S.H.I.E.L.D. would have discovered them decades ago. The organization had survived and thrived precisely because they'd mastered the art of hiding in plain sight, their members indistinguishable from legitimate agents through any normal means.
He kept his voice equally low, his words meant for her ears alone. "If you want to identify them, you need to collect blood samples."
Natasha's brow furrowed slightly. "Blood samples?"
"The vampire has certain... capabilities when it comes to blood." Smith's expression remained neutral, giving nothing away. "With proper cooperation, they can extract memories from a sample. Hydra or S.H.I.E.L.D., loyalty or betrayal—Selene's people can distinguish between them through what they find in those memories."
Understanding dawned in Natasha's eyes, followed quickly by calculation. "That's... actually smart. Invasive, definitely ethically questionable, but smart." She nodded slowly. "I'll find a way to collect samples. Discreetly."
"See that you do."
Smith stood and crossed to where Ivan sat with John and Happy. The Russian looked up as Smith approached, his scarred features impassive but his dark eyes alert.
"Have you given any thought to what I asked?" Smith said. "About choosing a name for yourself?"
Ivan was quiet for a moment, considering. When he spoke, his accent colored the words. "I was thinking... Blue Dynamo."
Smith's eyebrows drew together slightly.
"Blue Dynamo?" He studied the other man's face. "The 'Dynamo' part is a direct nod to your father, correct? The original Russian armor was known as the Crimson Dynamo."
Ivan nodded, a hint of satisfaction crossing his features.
"Da. My father's name. But I take the power of the design and change the color. My focus is not the heavy armor, it is the pure energy, the focused attack." He lifted his hand slightly, a powerful blue spark crackling over his knuckles. "It is energy whips—they are elegant, versatile. Much range, much control. Very effective."
Smith shrugged, a gesture of acceptance rather than approval. "It's a strong name. Blue Dynamo it is."
Happy had been watching Ivan throughout the exchange, his expression thoughtful. This was the Russian that Smith had mentioned in the car—the one who'd independently developed a miniaturized arc reactor. Looking at him now, seeing the intelligence behind those guarded eyes, Happy could believe it. There was something coiled and dangerous about Ivan Vanko, like a spring wound too tight.
In the bathroom, Tony stood before the mirror, tugging at his collar with trembling fingers. He pulled the magnetic attachment free, revealing the arc reactor attach to his chest. The circular device hummed softly, its blue glow reflecting off the pristine marble tiles.
The injury was healed. But Tony had chosen to keep the reactor on his chest rather than integrating it directly into his armor. Speed mattered in combat. Every second spent suiting up was a second an enemy could use against him. This way, the armor could form around the reactor already in place, saving precious moments.
JARVIS was working on a new mounting system—one that would attach the reactor to the armor itself rather than Tony's body—but the design wasn't finalized yet.
Tony examined the Mark V briefcase suit sitting in his hotel room in his mind's eye. He'd developed it before Smith's healing, back when every moment outside the armor felt like borrowed time. The suitcase design was meant for emergencies—compact, portable, capable of transforming him into Iron Man in seconds. But portability came with costs. The Mark V had minimal weapons systems, lighter armor plating, reduced flight time. It was a compromise, a transitional solution.
His mind was already working on better options. Satellite deployment systems that could drop armor from orbit. Automated assembly protocols that could build the suit around him in real-time. Both projects existed as files in JARVIS's database, waiting for him to find the time to develop them properly.
And then there was the other project. The one he hadn't mentioned to anyone.
The adamantium alloy had finally arrived and ready to be forged into something spectacular. Tony had been waiting a full year for this, ever since Smith had first demonstrated the full extent of his abilities. Now, with the adamantium in his possession, he could finally build the Anti-Doyle armor.
The suit that could theoretically match Smith in combat.
A grin spread across Tony's face as he imagined it. After the race, he'd lock himself in his workshop and get to work. Then he'd challenge Smith to that sparring match they'd been discussing. The prospect sent a thrill of anticipation through him—part excitement, part trepidation, all competition.
He pulled out the blood toxicity monitor Smith had given him months ago and pressed it against his skin. The device hummed for a moment, then displayed its reading: 0% palladium concentration.
Clean.
Tony's reflection smiled back at him from the mirror—healthy, confident, ready for anything.
"Now that you're here," he told his reflection, "don't waste the opportunity."
He straightened his collar one final time, then headed out of the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, Tony Stark emerged from the hotel wearing a racing suit emblazoned with sponsor logos, heading directly for the track entrance.