Stark Industries Headquarters – Los Angeles
The building rose against the night sky like a monument to human ambition, the massive ARC REACTOR sign glowing blue against the darkness.
Tony arrived first.
He hovered above the rooftop helipad, scanning the horizon, every sensor in the suit stretched to maximum range.
"JARVIS, where is it?"
"Incoming from the northeast, sir. Fifteen seconds to visual range."
Tony turned, repulsors humming, and waited.
Ten seconds.
Five.
Then he saw it.
A dark shape against the city lights, growing larger with terrifying speed. No elegance. No grace. Just raw, brutal momentum—a meteor of gray steel hurtling toward him.
It didn't slow down.
Tony barely had time to dodge as the massive suit slammed onto the rooftop where he'd been hovering, the impact cratering the concrete and sending shockwaves rippling across the building.
Alarms began to wail.
The Iron Monger straightened slowly, hydraulics hissing, servos whining under the strain of moving so much mass. The helmet turned toward Tony, those dark eye slits fixing on him with predatory intensity.
Then a voice crackled through external speakers—distorted, mechanical, but unmistakable.
"Hello, Tony."
Tony's blood ran cold.
"Obie."
The Iron Monger took a step forward, each footfall cracking the rooftop beneath it. "Surprised? You shouldn't be. You always underestimated me, Tony. Your father did too. It's a family trait."
"How?" Tony demanded, circling slowly, keeping distance between them. "How did you build this? You don't have the resources. You don't have the—"
"Your brilliant mind?" Stane laughed—a harsh, ugly sound through the speakers. "I have something better. I have your technology. The Mark I designs. The Arc Reactor specifications. Everything that brilliant doctor friend of yours kept on his laptop."
Tony's stomach dropped. Yinsen's files. He should've wiped those instead of pretending outdated tech didn't matter.
"Those files were obsolete, Obie. Cave-era prototypes. You really built your magnum opus off scrap notes?"
"Obsolete?" Stane scoffed. "Maybe. But who said you were the only one who could improve on them? My people upgraded everything you scribbled in that cave. They made this suit stronger, faster, and far more powerful than yours. And now, Tony—" the Iron Monger raised its right arm, the rotary cannon spinning up with a violent whine—"you're about to be beaten by your own invention."
Tony moved.
The cannon roared to life, streams of tracer fire tearing through the space where he'd been hovering. Tony dove, rolled, came up firing—repulsor blasts slamming into the Iron Monger's chest.
The impacts staggered Stane backward but didn't penetrate. The armor held.
"That tickles," Stane growled. "My turn."
He charged.
For something so massive, the Iron Monger moved with terrifying speed. Tony barely dodged the first swing—a haymaker that would have torn his helmet clean off. He fired again, targeting the joints, the sensors, anything that might be vulnerable.
Minor damage. Sparks. Nothing critical.
Stane backhanded him.
The blow caught Tony across the chest, sending him tumbling across the rooftop. Warning lights flashed across his HUD. Armor integrity compromised. Power dropping.
"Too slow, Tony!" Stane was already advancing, that massive frame blocking out the stars. "Too weak! You've been playing hero for weeks, burning through power, wearing yourself down. Did you think I wasn't watching? Did you think I wasn't waiting?"
Tony scrambled to his feet, repulsors flaring. He shot skyward, putting distance between them.
Stane followed.
The Iron Monger's flight systems were crude—raw thrust rather than precision control—but they worked. Stane rose after him like a launched missile, closing the gap with brute acceleration.
They crashed together above the city, trading blows in mid-air. Tony was faster, more maneuverable, but every hit Stane landed felt like being struck by a wrecking ball. His power reserves were dropping faster than they should.
Forty-two percent.
Thirty-seven.
Thirty-one.
"JARVIS, I need options!"
"Sir, the enemy armor appears to be using a modified version of your original Arc Reactor design. It is less efficient but produces higher peak output. However, analysis suggests it may be vulnerable to the same environmental factors that affected the Mark II."
The icing problem.
Tony's mind raced back to that first test flight. The Mark II freezing up at high altitude.
Stane's armor was based on the Mark I designs. Which meant it wouldn't have that fix.
"JARVIS, what's our maximum operational altitude?"
"With current power reserves, approximately fifteen thousand meters before critical system failure."
"And his?"
"Unknown. But if his armor uses standard aerospace alloys without thermal compensation, ice formation should begin at approximately twelve thousand meters."
Tony grinned beneath his helmet.
"Then let's go for a ride."
He broke away from Stane, angling sharply upward, pushing the Mark III's thrusters to maximum. The city fell away beneath them, lights shrinking to pinpricks, the air growing thin and cold.
"Running away?" Stane's voice crackled with contempt. "Coward! Face me!"
"Come and get me, Obie!"
The Iron Monger roared after him, thrusters blazing, driven by rage and wounded pride.
Ten thousand meters.
Eleven.
Twelve.
Tony watched his HUD, monitoring both his own systems and the enemy's pursuit. The temperature readouts plummeted. Frost began to form on the Iron Monger's surface, visible even in the darkness.
Thirteen thousand meters.
The Iron Monger's movements became sluggish. The thrusters sputtered.
"What—" Stane's voice was confused now, tinged with alarm. "What's happening? Systems failing—ice—"
Fourteen thousand meters.
The Iron Monger's eyes flickered and died. The thrusters cut out entirely. For a moment, the massive suit hung suspended against the stars, a frozen monument to hubris.
Then it began to fall.
Tony stabilized, hovering in the thin air. His own suit was operating normally—the gold-titanium alloy doing exactly what Arthur had theorised, distributing heat evenly across the surface, preventing ice formation.
"Thanks, Arthur," he muttered.
He watched Stane plummet for a moment, then angled himself downward. He wasn't done yet. Even frozen, that armor was dangerous. He needed to end this.
Tony dove after the falling Iron Monger, pushing his remaining power into the repulsors. He caught up to Stane halfway down, the massive suit tumbling end over end, ice shattering off in chunks as it fell through warmer air.
"Time to finish this."
Tony raised both hands, channeling everything he had left into a concentrated repulsor blast aimed directly at the Iron Monger's helmet.
The beam lanced out—
And splashed harmlessly against the armored faceplate.
"What?"
The readings were wrong. His power output was too low. The blast that should have torn through the helmet barely scorched the surface.
"Sir, power reserves are at eleven percent. Insufficient energy for sustained combat."
Eleven percent. Barely enough to fly.
Tony cursed and pulled away, letting the Iron Monger continue its plunge toward the earth. He couldn't destroy it. But at least he could make sure Stane didn't survive the landing.
He followed the falling suit down, watching it tumble through the night sky. The trajectory was wrong—somehow, impossibly, Stane was going to crash directly onto Stark Industries' rooftop terrace.
Where this whole fight had started.
Fate has a sick sense of humor.
The Iron Monger hit the terrace like a bomb.
Concrete exploded. Steel bent. The entire building shuddered from the impact. Tony landed nearby, his remaining power flickering dangerously low, and approached the crater carefully.
The Iron Monger lay in the center of the destruction, motionless. Frost still clung to its surface, slowly melting in the warm California air. The eyes were dark. The systems silent.
"JARVIS, any vital signs?"
"Scanning... Unable to determine. The armor's shielding is interfering with—"
The Iron Monger moved.
One hand slammed against the concrete. Then the other. With a grinding shriek of protesting metal, the massive suit pushed itself upright.
"No," Tony breathed. "That's not possible."
The Iron Monger stood, swaying slightly, frost still falling from its joints. The eyes flickered—once, twice—then blazed back to life.
"Impressive trick," Stane's voice rasped through the speakers. "But I'm built tougher than you!"
Tony raised his hands, repulsors whining—but he knew it was useless. He didn't have the power to hurt this thing. He barely had the power to stand.
"JARVIS, options?"
"Sir, I recommend immediate tactical withdrawal."
"Not an option."
The Iron Monger advanced, each step shaking the rooftop. Tony fell into a fighting stance, knowing it was futile, knowing he was outmatched in every way that mattered now.
They fought anyway.
Without flight. Without repulsors. Just metal against metal, strength against strength. And in that arena, there was no contest. The Iron Monger was larger, heavier, built for exactly this kind of brutal close-quarters combat.
Tony fought with everything he had—skill, speed, desperate creativity. He targeted joints. He ducked under swings that would have decapitated him. He found angles that should have worked.
None of it was enough.
A massive fist caught him in the chest, denting the armor inward. Another blow sent him sprawling. A kick lifted him off his feet and slammed him into an air conditioning unit hard enough to crumple both him and it.
Tony tried to rise. His armor sparked and stuttered. Warning lights screamed across his vision.
CRITICAL DAMAGE. MULTIPLE SYSTEM FAILURES. POWER AT 3%.
The Iron Monger loomed over him.
"You know," Stane said, reaching down and grabbing Tony's helmet with one massive hand, "I'm going to enjoy this."
He tore the helmet off.
Tony gasped as cold air hit his face—as the night sky suddenly seemed impossibly vast and distant. Blood trickled from a cut on his forehead. His vision swam.
Stane's cockpit hissed open, the chest plates retracting. Obadiah Stane emerged from the machine's torso like a demon climbing out of hell—older, wilder, his eyes burning with madness and triumph.
"Look at you," Stane breathed, drinking in the sight of Tony broken and beaten. "The great Tony Stark. Genius. Billionaire. Hero." He spat the last word like a curse. "You're nothing without that suit. Nothing without your father's legacy. And now..." He smiled—a terrible thing. "Now even that belongs to me."
"You won't win," Tony managed, his voice hoarse. "Even if you kill me—"
"Kill you?" Stane laughed. "Oh, Tony. I'm going to do so much more than kill you. I'm going to take everything. Your company. Your technology. Your legacy. When I'm done, no one will even remember that Tony Stark existed."
He raised the suit's left arm, the one with the missile launcher. At this range, there would be nothing left of Tony to bury.
"Goodbye, godson."
"STOP!"
The voice cut through the night—desperate, terrified.
Both men turned.
Pepper Potts stood at the edge of the rooftop, having emerged from the stairwell access. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with horror, but she stood her ground.
"Pepper," Tony breathed. "No. Run."
She didn't run. Instead, she stepped forward, placing herself between Tony and the Iron Monger.
"Get away from him."
Stane stared at her for a moment—then burst into laughter.
"Oh, this is precious. The loyal assistant, come to save her knight." He shook his head, still chuckling. "You always were too devoted for your own good, Miss Potts. Wasted years of your life on a man who barely noticed you existed."
"I called the authorities," Pepper said, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. "They're on their way. Whatever you're planning, it's over."
"Over?" Stane's smile widened. "My dear, it's only just beginning." He looked at Tony, then back at Pepper, something cruel and amused dancing in his expression. "You know what? This is actually better. More poetic."
He adjusted his aim, the missile launcher now pointed at both of them.
"Two lovers, dying together in the ruins of everything they built. It's almost romantic." He sighed theatrically. "I'm bored with talking. Time to end this."
Stane's finger moved toward the trigger—
BANG.
The sound was sharp, dry, and shockingly loud in the silence.
Stane's head snapped back violently.
A neat, red hole appeared in the center of his forehead.
His eyes went wide, the triumphant smile freezing on his face. For a single, surreal second, he just stood there, the missile launcher still aimed, the malice still burning in his gaze.
Then the light went out.
Obadiah Stane collapsed, slumping forward out of the harness. He hit the concrete with a wet thud and didn't move again.
Silence descended on the rooftop. Total, stunned silence.
From the shadows near the stairwell door, two figures stepped into view.
Both were women dressed in sleek, dark tactical suits—tailored for speed, silence, and efficiency. Each held a suppressed pistol in a flawless Weaver stance. Smoke curled lazily from the barrel of the taller one's weapon.
"Threat neutralized," the shooter said calmly. Her voice was cool, accented slightly with something Slavic.
"Clear," the second woman confirmed, scanning the perimeter with professional detachment before holstering her weapon.
Pepper let out a shaky breath. "Maria. Sofia."
"Ms. Potts." The first woman, Maria, holstered her weapon and moved to Pepper's side, her expression softening slightly. "You were supposed to evacuate with the others."
"I was making sure everyone got out first."
"You should have informed us. We nearly lost you in the crowd." Maria's tone carried a hint of fond exasperation. "It would have been bad for our résumé if anything had happened to you."
Pepper managed a thin, embarrassed smile. "I'm sorry."
Tony, still dazed and gasping, pointed weakly at the women. "Pepper… are these the bodyguards Miss Anderson hired for you?"
Pepper nodded, still looking shaken but managing a weak smile. "Maria and Sofia. They've been with me for about a month now."
"A month." Tony processed this. "And I never met them because...?"
"Because you've been too busy flying around the world blowing up terrorists," Pepper said, a hint of her usual sharpness returning.
Tony had no response to that.
He looked back at the Iron Monger—the massive war machine that had nearly killed him, brought down by a single well-placed round from a standard-issue sidearm.
"This is..." He struggled for words. "This is not how I expected tonight to end."
Maria raised an eyebrow. "Would you have preferred the alternative?"
"No. I just..." Tony gestured at the destruction around them. "There was supposed to be more. A final confrontation. Something dramatic."
"He opened his cockpit to gloat," Sofia observed. "That was dramatic. And stupid."
"Very stupid," Maria agreed.
Tony couldn't argue with that.
With help, he managed to sit up, groaning as his bruised ribs protested. He looked at Stane's crumpled body, at the Iron Monger standing dark and silent, at the two women who had just ended his nemesis with all the ceremony of swatting a fly.
"Pepper," he said, his voice turning serious. "Remind me to give those two a raise."
Pepper, still shaking but managing a watery smile, nodded. "Consider it done."
"And maybe…" Tony winced as another stab of pain went through his side. "Maybe ask them where they learned to shoot like that."
Maria, standing guard over the corpse, didn't even blink.
"Boarding school," she said, completely deadpan.
Tony snorted, letting his head fall back against the wrecked suit. "Right. Boarding school. Remind me never to send my kids there."
—
In the shadows of a neighboring rooftop, Arthur Hayes stood motionless.
He had been seconds away from making his entrance. He'd crossed the country for this. Prepared himself for a dramatic intervention. Even rehearsed a quip or two.
Instead, he had watched a bodyguard put a bullet through Obadiah Stane's skull from thirty meters away.
Arthur let out a slow breath.
"Well," he murmured to no one. "That works too."
Below, Tony sat dazed among the wreckage, Pepper was being fussed over by her guards, and the Iron Monger lay in a heap—silent, defeated, and thoroughly unimpressive now that the lights were out.
Maria and Sofia. He remembered their files. Former Red Room operatives. Graduates of the same brutal program as the other widows. Ariadne had scrubbed their records, rehabilitated them, and placed them into legitimate security work.
When she'd suggested assigning them to Pepper at Tony's request, Arthur had no complaints. They were competent.
He just hadn't expected them to be this competent.
Stane had built a ten-foot war machine. Armed it with military-grade weapons. Nearly killed Iron Man himself.
And he'd been taken down because he couldn't resist opening his cockpit to deliver a villain speech.
There's a lesson there, Arthur thought. Something about hubris and keeping your mouth shut.
He watched a moment longer as the sirens grew closer. S.H.I.E.L.D. would be here soon, along with every news helicopter in Los Angeles. His presence wasn't needed.
Arthur turned away from the edge, a wry smile tugging at his lips.
Some battles didn't need heroes.
They just needed competent employees.
He disappeared into the night, leaving the aftermath to sort itself out.