Triskelion Headquarters, home base of S.H.I.E.L.D. (Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division).
"Sir, this is the complete report from the operation," Phil Coulson said, placing the folder on the desk. "We've confirmed Obadiah Stane was the one behind Tony Stark's kidnapping. The Ten Rings terrorist cell carried it out, but things went off script. Stane had them silenced before they could talk."
Across the desk sat Director Nick Fury, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s one-eyed, no-nonsense leader. He flipped through the file, expression unreadable—though his single eye narrowed ever so slightly.
"Obadiah's dead?"
"Yes, sir. Headshot. The bullet's untraceable—no serial, no supplier. Stark claims a masked attacker killed him inside the Iron Monger suit."
Nick Fury tapped his fingers against the polished surface of his desk. The Iron Monger's armor, from the combat logs and witness reports, was built like a tank. High-grade military weaponry had trouble scratching it. And yet the pilot got taken out with a single bullet to the head?
It didn't sit right.
"Did we identify the attacker?"
Coulson shook his head. "Stark's being evasive. He's hiding key details, and we believe he's withholding intel about a missing energy core. Based on our investigation, this core may have been the power source of the armor—most likely the compact Arc Reactor. Stark's version is missing, and so is Stane's. We suspect the same attacker took both the design blueprints and the Arc Reactor."
"Design and energy source…" Fury muttered. He glanced down at the sketch of a masked man with a photo of Tony Stark's face pasted onto it. A weird disguise, but apparently effective.
Coulson continued, "There's also been public fallout. Multiple witnesses saw the two armors fighting on the highway. The media's speculating wildly. Some are pointing fingers at Stark. The military's asking him to hold a press conference for damage control."
Fury sighed, "Help them arrange it. Set up an alibi for Stark. As for Obadiah's death… we'll call it an accident. No comment on anything else."
He paused for a beat, then added, "Start digging into the attacker. Check for signs of organizational support."
"Understood."
---
Later that afternoon, young Peter Parker rang the doorbell of a modest house tucked into a Brooklyn neighborhood. As usual, he stood on tiptoe and knocked politely.
After a moment, the door opened. Robert, wearing his usual smirk, leaned forward with an overly mysterious expression. "Pete, you're finally here. Come on in—I've got something to show you. Big surprise today."
Peter blinked nervously. Aunt May once warned him to run if an adult ever gave him that exact look. But Robert wasn't a stranger. He was like the weird older brother Peter never had. So instead of fleeing, Peter took a deep breath and stepped inside.
Robert led him through the living room and straight to the garage, beaming the entire way. He paused at the door and looked down at Peter. "What you're about to see… stays between us. Not a word to anyone. This is superhero-level secrecy. Got it?"
Peter's eyes lit up with excitement. He nodded so fast it made his glasses slip.
"Okay, come on in."
The garage door creaked open, revealing what looked less like a superhero base and more like a makeshift armory. Guns, gadgets, even what looked like a rocket launcher lined the walls. Peter froze in awe and mild confusion.
"This looks… dangerous."
Robert shrugged. "It's a work in progress."
But in the back of the garage, suspended in the air by steel cables, hung the real centerpiece—a battered but unmistakable steel suit of armor. Crude and clunky compared to modern designs, but its presence radiated power.
Peter's jaw dropped. "Is that… a mech suit?"
Robert nodded. "Yup. This is a super battle suit—Version One. Looks rough, but it works."
Peter edged closer, almost reverently. "Is it yours?"
Robert chuckled. "No, I borrowed it from a… superhero friend. Real generous guy. When he heard you wanted to build one yourself, he basically begged me to take this off his hands."
Peter stared in open-mouthed admiration. "That's so cool. Can I—can I touch it?"
"Of course. Just don't drop it on your foot."
Peter reached out. The metal was cold beneath his fingers, but it sent a shiver of excitement up his spine. Mechs! Super suits! This was everything comic books promised and more.
Robert then motioned him over to a nearby desk, where a monitor flickered to life. "And this," he said, "is the real treasure."
On the screen appeared a detailed blueprint of the armor—every bolt, wire, and circuit mapped out in painstaking detail. Lines of technical readouts scrolled along the side, along with diagrams for propulsion, power routing, and more.
Peter gasped. "Is that the whole design?"
"Sure is. Took some effort to, uh, obtain. This will be your reference when you build your own."
Peter's fingers hovered over the mouse, mesmerized.
Robert watched the boy's face with satisfaction. "Look, Peter. You've got potential. Big potential. But you can't waste it. That suit—those designs—they're not just for show. Someone out there believes you can do this. Don't let them down."
Peter nodded fiercely, eyes still locked on the screen. "I won't. I swear. I'll build something even better."
Robert grinned. "That's the spirit."
He clapped his hands suddenly. "And since you're feeling so motivated, guess what? Today's practice is double. Let's see how fast you can solve those engineering equations now!"
Peter groaned.
---
Back at S.H.I.E.L.D., the aftermath was still unraveling.
A S.H.I.E.L.D team descended on the wrecked Stark Industries research facility. Their helicopters kicked up dust and debris as they landed. Dozens of agents in black tactical gear swept through the corridors.
Leading them was Agent Sitwell, bald, businesslike, and completely unreadable.
"Report," he barked as one of the agents approached.
"We found Agent Coulson, sir. He's stable but unconscious. Looks like he was hit with an anesthetic dart. No serious injuries."
Sitwell followed the agent to the scene. Coulson was lying flat on the floor… hands folded across his forehead in a bizarre pose, as if he were meditating.
"What the hell happened here?" Sitwell muttered.
The nearby computer had been smashed to pieces. Hard drives melted. Total data loss.
"We believe the attacker deliberately destroyed the terminal after extracting key information," the field tech explained. "Possibly design files or energy data."
Sitwell knelt beside Coulson and uncapped a stimulant ampoule, waving it under his nose. The agent stirred, coughing.
"What happened, Coulson?"
Coulson blinked up at Sitwell. "We were compromised. Target had advanced tech. Possibly ex-S.H.I.E.L.D… or worse. I need to speak to Director Fury. Immediately."
Sitwell narrowed his eyes. "You'll get your chance."
Because in a world now aware of powered armor, rogue inventors, and anonymous hackers with high-powered rifles… the age of secrecy was over.
And the age of superher
oes was just beginning.
------
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