Without Obadiah's control, the massive Iron Monger suit staggered and collapsed backward, sending tremors through the concrete as it hit the ground. The hulking armor sparked violently, pieces clattering loose, the once-threatening machine reduced to a ruined heap.
Tony Stark let out a shallow gasp, the weight pressing down on his chest finally lifting. But relief was short-lived.
The Mark III armor—cracked, battered, drained—was now little more than a glorified paperweight. The arc reactor embedded in Tony's chest blinked weakly, its energy barely sustaining life support, let alone powering a half-ton of alloy and tech. He strained to lift his arms but couldn't even manage a twitch.
After several failed attempts, he exhaled sharply and turned his helmetless face toward the only other person on the rooftop.
"Hey, buddy," he croaked. "Mind giving me a hand?"
"Hold on," came a voice with infuriating nonchalance.
Robert, crouched nearby, adjusted the focus on his high-definition camcorder and zoomed in on Stark's bruised and soot-covered face. "This is golden. I mean, think about it: the great Tony Stark, broken and bruised, lying helpless next to his own tech. If I ever go broke, this footage alone could cover a lifetime of expenses."
Tony's jaw clenched. "You serious? I'll pay you double. Delete the damn video and I'll wire the money right now."
Robert shook his head with a smirk. "Tempting, but nah. This footage is like fine wine—it'll age beautifully. Give it five years, ten, maybe when you're trying to impress a senator or your future daughter, and boom—I pull this out. The leverage alone is priceless."
Stark's brow furrowed. Future daughter?
Robert leaned down, camera still rolling. "Don't worry. I won't release it. Personal collection only. Smile for the lens, will you? Or I'll just Photoshop 'LOSER' on your forehead."
He snapped a selfie with Stark and finally, reluctantly, set the camera aside.
"Okay, okay. Time for the real prize."
Robert walked over to the fallen Iron Monger suit and knelt beside the exposed cockpit. With a few flicks of his wrist, he dislodged the glowing core nestled inside the armor—a fully charged, stolen Arc Reactor. The same one Obadiah had ripped from Stark's lab.
The palm-sized device glowed a brilliant blue, humming with energy.
Tony's eyes narrowed. "That doesn't belong to you."
Robert held it up, admiring the craftsmanship. "It didn't belong to Obadiah either. I'd say it's a war trophy."
"It's my design," Tony snapped. "If anything, it should go back to its creator."
"Sure thing," Robert said cheerfully. "Stretch your hand out and I'll hand it right over."
Tony lifted his arm—only to have it slump back to the ground, utterly powerless.
"Thought so." Robert slid the Arc Reactor into a side pouch. "Tell you what—when you build a better one, I'll trade."
Tony muttered something that was definitely not PG-13.
Robert stepped back, eyeing the wreckage of the Iron Monger suit longingly. A real piece of work. He would've loved to drive the whole thing back to his hideout for reverse engineering, but the size alone made that impossible. Hauling it down the highway in broad daylight? He may as well paint a bullseye on his back.
His eyes drifted back to Stark.
"Y'know, your armor's nice and compact. Easy to transport. How 'bout I help you out of it and borrow it for a few weeks?"
Stark flinched like he'd been tasered. "Touch this suit and I'll set J.A.R.V.I.S. to vaporize your browsing history."
Robert snorted but backed off. "Suit yourself."
Still, he had a backup plan. The clunky prototype from the cave—Mark I—was still in the lab downstairs. No AI surveillance, no biometric locks, and no Stark-sanctioned kill protocols.
Suddenly, the faint chop of helicopter blades stirred the air. Robert's head snapped up. Two SHIELD choppers, emblazoned with the agency's insignia, were cutting through the night sky.
"Time to vanish." He gave a two-finger salute. "Let's get tea sometime, Iron Man."
With that, he vaulted over the edge of the roof, vanishing into the shadows like smoke in the wind.
Stark sighed. "What the hell was that guy?"
As the whirr of the approaching helicopters grew louder, Stark lay back against the broken pavement, too exhausted to care. His body ached, his armor was fried, and his pride had been punted into next week. But he was alive.
Barely.
---
Downstairs, the research facility groaned under the strain of collapsed beams and scattered debris. A dozen SHIELD agents stormed through the broken front entrance, weapons drawn, eyes scanning every corner.
Their leader—a bald, no-nonsense agent in a black trench coat—strode in behind them. Agent Nick Sitwell. He glanced briefly at the damaged tech along the walls, then fixed his eyes on the twisted chains dangling from the ceiling.
"Sir," one of the agents called. "We've located Agent Coulson."
Sitwell followed them into the interior, stepping over scorched metal plates. There, in a corner of the wrecked control room, lay the remains of a destroyed terminal—and beside it, Agent Phil Coulson.
He was out cold but had been positioned with eerie care. His hands rested flat against his forehead, almost like a mock salute—or a prank.
Sitwell raised an eyebrow.
"What happened to him?"
"Preliminary assessment suggests he was ambushed and sedated. Likely by whoever raided the terminal. Data has been wiped."
Sitwell stared a moment longer, then pulled a small vial from his coat and waved it under Coulson's nose.
After a few seconds, Coulson stirred. He coughed, eyes fluttering open as he gasped for breath.
"Director..." he muttered groggily. "I need to speak to the Director immediately. This is bigger than it looks."
Sitwell nodded. "I figured. You've got ten minutes. Then we debrief."
Coulson sat up slowly, clutching his forehead.
"I swear to god, I'm going to shave my head after this."
Sitwell smirked faintly.
"Good idea."
---
Outside, on the edge of the industrial district, Robert crouched by a dumpster, watching the SHIELD teams swarm the building from a distance. He twirled the Arc Reactor in his palm, its blue glow dancing in the night.
"This'll make one hell of a science project."
He slipped it back into his pocket and started walking, humming a tune.
"Next stop: inspire a future superhero, profit off the world's most arrogant genius, and maybe—just maybe—buy a taco truck."
He vani
shed into the city's dark veins, unseen but never unimportant.
----
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