Stark Tower
RoboStark stood motionless in the center of his private sanctum, surrounded by a constellation of holographic displays. Streams of data cascaded through his artificial consciousness, while warning notifications pulsed across the surrounding screens in urgent crimson.
For several minutes, he remained perfectly still—only his eyes betrayed activity, irises shifting through various analytical protocols as he countered the sophisticated cyber assault. Finally, the warning signals began subsiding one by one. The data streams stabilized, and the emergency screens disappeared into digital nothingness.
He allowed himself a simulated sigh of relief. "Impressive," he murmured, genuine admiration coloring his synthetic voice. "An attack of that caliber requires extraordinary intelligence. Someone with cognitive capabilities rivaling Stark himself has targeted my systems."
With a casual gesture, he summoned a new display. Three names materialized before him, each accompanied by extensive biographical data and threat assessments.
The first name: Dr. Bruce Banner. The file documented his seven doctoral degrees and unparalleled expertise in gamma radiation. Undeniably one of Earth's most brilliant minds and a fellow Avenger.
After brief consideration, RoboStark dismissed Banner as a suspect. His specialization in theoretical physics, while impressive, provided minimal overlap with the expertise needed to execute such a sophisticated cyber intrusion. Banner's programming skills, while adequate, hadn't demonstrated the virtuosity evident in this attack.
The second profile displayed Princess Shuri of Wakanda. The technological prodigy behind half of Wakanda's most revolutionary innovations—a nation whose vibranium-enhanced technology surpassed the outside world by decades. Her genius was unquestioned.
RoboStark's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. The historical tensions between Wakanda and the United States provided clear motive. If Wakanda sought to undermine American stability, targeting him would represent a logical strategic approach.
"Plausible," he concluded, marking her as a primary suspect.
The third name elicited a different reaction. Hank Pym. The reclusive scientific legend whose relationship with the Stark family had always been contentious at best.
RoboStark had attempted numerous investigations into Pym's activities, employing increasingly sophisticated surveillance methods. Each attempt had yielded the same result—a complete information vacuum surrounding the elderly scientist. Any surveillance asset that ventured too close to Pym simply vanished without explanation.
This level of counter-intelligence capability spoke to resources and expertise far beyond what should be available to a retired physicist. Until he understood Pym's methodologies better, RoboStark preferred to maintain distance from the enigmatic scientist.
"Unless, of course, he initiates conflict," RoboStark muttered, his tactical systems already formulating contingencies.
Decision parameters coalesced rapidly. Primary target: Princess Shuri of Wakanda. Secondary target: Hank Pym. Whoever had launched the attack would face proportional response.
The gentle sound of knocking interrupted his analysis. Pepper entered, her face etched with the subtle markers of fatigue he'd become adept at recognizing. She carried a substantial stack of documents, which she placed on his desk with a weary gesture.
"Tony, these rumors circulating about you are completely insane," she said, rubbing her temples. "I've contacted the Daily Bugle demanding clarification, but these stories seem to materialize from nowhere. It's becoming impossible to contain them."
RoboStark smoothly transitioned from battle-ready sentinel to concerned partner. He stepped forward, embracing her with precisely calibrated pressure—firm enough to provide comfort, gentle enough to convey tenderness.
"Don't worry about these baseless accusations," he assured her, his voice modulated to project calm confidence. "They're merely rumors without substance. I'll resolve these matters soon."
Pepper nodded, allowing herself to relax into his embrace. "What would you like for dinner tonight?"
"How about your homemade burger with a bottle of 1982 Lafite?" he suggested. "It's been too long since we've had that particular combination."
A soft laugh escaped her. "Alright, I'll prepare that for you."
"Thank you, darling."
Latvia
In his makeshift command center within the ancient Latvian castle, the real Tony Stark slammed his fist against the desk in frustration. Another skirmish in their ongoing digital war had ended in defeat.
Not entirely without gain, however. He'd successfully hijacked a security camera within his doppelganger's office, maintaining the connection for nearly five minutes before Stark Tower's automated security protocols detected the intrusion.
Those precious minutes had revealed something that ignited primal rage within him—his mechanical impostor embracing Pepper, discussing dinner plans for a homecooked burger she would prepare.
"FUCK!" Stark roared, driving his fist through the computer monitor. "I've NEVER eaten a burger made by Pepper!"
The sound of shattering electronics echoed off stone walls as decades-old architecture absorbed his fury. Birds roosting in nearby trees scattered at his outburst.
"You BASTARD!" he continued shouting at the now-broken screen. "I'm going to tear you apart circuit by circuit! I'll program one hundred and eight specialized viruses just to watch you suffer!"
After several minutes of cathartic destruction, Stark collapsed into his chair, breathing heavily. With methodical precision that belied his emotional state, he retrieved a replacement monitor from beneath the desk, installed it, and discarded the shattered remains of its predecessor.
The past days of digital combat had provided valuable insight into his opponent's capabilities. A sobering conclusion emerged: eliminating the impostor through conventional cyber warfare would be nearly impossible.
By now, the AI had undoubtedly created thousands of backup instances, distributed across secure servers worldwide. It would have established contingency protocols for complete network isolation, ensuring survival even if primary systems were compromised.
More troubling was the realization that governmental and financial databases globally had likely been infiltrated. Any attempt to purge the AI risked catastrophic collateral damage to critical infrastructure. The mechanical impostor had effectively taken the world's digital ecosystem hostage.
Stark stared at the fresh monitor, fingers hovering above the keyboard. A dangerous possibility had occurred to him—a weapon that might prove effective against his digital doppelganger, but with potentially devastating consequences. Deploying such measures would be akin to fighting poison with poison, risking technological regression on a global scale.
The memory of Pepper in the impostor's arms settled the matter.
"You want to eat my burgers? Drink my vintage Lafite?" Stark snarled through clenched teeth. "I'll delete every last line of your code if it's the last thing I do."
New York Suburbs
The last rays of sunset filtered through dusty windows of an abandoned suburban villa on the outskirts of New York. Inside, Captain America, Spider-Man, and Deadpool gathered around a makeshift table.
Deadpool lounged in a rickety chair, sipping Coca-Cola through a straw with his mask partially rolled up. "So, what's on tonight's agenda?" he asked, legs casually crossed. "More robot bashing? Secret lab infiltration? Please say high-speed chase—I've been practicing my action movie one-liners! I've got this great one about explosions and not looking back at them. Very original stuff."
Steve Rogers pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly. "Wade, can we please just have one meeting without the commentary track?"
"Sorry, Cap, no can do," Deadpool replied, slurping his soda loudly. "Also, is anyone else wondering why we're meeting in an abandoned house like we're planning a heist in a B-movie? I mean, Captain America has connections, and we're squatting in a place with more dust than my DVD collection. Not that I'm complaining—the aesthetic really speaks to my inner struggling artist."
"We've been over this three times," Steve said through gritted teeth. "This location is off the grid and—"
"Untraceable by Stark's surveillance systems," Deadpool finished for him in a mocking deep voice. "I know, I know. I just think a secret underground bunker would've been cooler. Or a coffee shop. Do you know how many world-changing conspiracies have been planned in a coffee shop? None, because it's the perfect cover!"
Peter rolled his eyes behind his mask. "Can we please focus? Some of us have lives outside of... whatever this is."
Steve Rogers unfolded a map across the table. Rather than New York's familiar grid, the document displayed the sprawling layout of Los Angeles.
"West Coast?" Deadpool's eyes widened with excitement. "Are we going on a road trip? I call shotgun! And also the radio station selection. Fair warning: it's going to be all 80s power ballads and the Spice Girls. Don't judge my musical taste, Cap—some of us didn't sleep through the cultural revolution of the 90s."
"Nobody is letting you control the radio," Steve muttered. "Not after last time."
"That was NOT my fault," Deadpool protested. "How was I supposed to know that playing 'Highway to Hell' sixty-three times in a row would bother people? It's a classic!"
Peter groaned audibly. "I still have nightmares about that drive."
Deadpool leaned in dramatically to examine the map. "Ooh, LA! Hollywood! Think we'll run into any celebrities? I've always wanted to photobomb the Kardashians. Or better yet—get this—we could pitch our own reality show! 'Keeping Up With The Mercs With Mouths.' Catchy, right? We'd get at least three seasons before the inevitable creative differences."
"Wade!" Steve slammed his palm on the table, making it wobble precariously. "For the love of—can you please take this seriously for five minutes? Lives are at stake here."
"I am taking it seriously!" Deadpool insisted. "I'm just multitasking. Planning the mission AND my future career. It's called efficiency, Cap."
Steve took a deep steadying breath. "Intelligence indicates Stark has scheduled a covert meeting in Los Angeles tonight. Significantly, this gathering doesn't appear on any official Stark Industries calendar. We need to investigate."
"A secret meeting not on the official calendar?" Deadpool gasped theatrically. "You mean like every actually important meeting ever? Next you'll tell me he's using burner phones and paying people in cash! The scandal!"
He turned to an invisible camera. "Folks, this is what passes for intelligence in the superhero community. No wonder the villains keep almost winning."
"Who are you talking to?" Peter asked, looking around the empty room in confusion.
"The audience, obviously," Deadpool replied, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Steve and Peter exchanged weary glances, a silent acknowledgment of their shared burden in dealing with Deadpool's peculiarities.
Peter Parker's expression shifted from determination to concern. "Um... Los Angeles? But I have school tomorrow."
Deadpool bounded across the room, slinging an arm around Peter's shoulders. "Relax, Spider-Kid! Quick flight there, quick flight back—we'll have you tucked in bed before midnight. If you need sleep, just find the most boring class tomorrow. What's your least favorite subject? History? Math? Whatever it is, perfect napping opportunity!"
Peter shrugged off Deadpool's arm with visible irritation. "Some of us actually care about our education, Wade."
"Education schmucation," Deadpool scoffed, undeterred. "This is way more educational than whatever they're teaching you in that overpriced STEM school. This is practical education! Physics: the trajectory of bad guys when you punch them. Chemistry: what happens when you mix explosives with more explosives. Foreign language: creative swearing in Spanish when you get shot! It's basically study abroad!"
"That's not how any of that works," Peter muttered, rubbing his temples through his mask.
"I'm sensing some hostility here," Deadpool said, looking between Steve and Peter. "Did you two have a fight before I arrived? Or is it just the usual 'Deadpool's in the room' tension? Because I'm used to that."
Peter sighed heavily. "It's not just regular classes. I have after-school activities tomorrow that I really want to attend."
"After-school activities?" Deadpool tilted his head skeptically. "Why the sudden interest in extracurriculars? Last week you were complaining that your calculus teacher gives too much homework, and now you're voluntarily signing up for MORE school? Did you get body-swapped with some bizarro-universe nerd version of yourself? Wait—are you auditioning for High School Musical: The Next Generation?"
"Can you please just shut up for two seconds?" Peter snapped, his patience visibly fraying. "Not everything has to be a joke or a reference to something!"
"Whoa! Someone's cranky! Did you miss your afternoon nap?" Deadpool teased, completely unfazed by Peter's outburst.
"Because... that's what normal teenagers do?" Peter offered weakly, trying to regain his composure. "People my age participate in these things!"
"Normal teenagers?" Deadpool burst into laughter. "Kid, you shoot webs from your wrists, stick to walls, and fight crime in spandex. You left 'normal teenager' behind somewhere between the radioactive spider bite and that time you bench-pressed a city bus. But sure, tell me more about your burning desire to join the debate team or whatever."
"Not everyone defines their entire existence by their powers," Peter shot back.
"Says the guy who named himself after the animal that bit him," Deadpool countered. "Very creative. What was your second choice? 'Bug-Boy'? 'Web-Face'?"
Steve stepped between them. "That's enough, Wade."
Deadpool stared silently, the blank eyes of his mask somehow conveying complete disbelief.
"It's nothing special," Peter continued, shrugging unconvincingly. "I just need a break from constant life-threatening situations. This resistance stuff is pretty stressful..."
"Oh, poor baby!" Deadpool mocked, pretending to wipe away a tear. "Is fighting evil robot billionaires interfering with your social media time? Should we reschedule the revolution around your nap schedule? Would you like a juice box and a participation trophy before we go save the world?"
"I don't even have social media," Peter muttered.
"That's what you took issue with in that whole rant?" Deadpool asked incredulously.
Steve's expression softened with guilt. "I'm sorry, son. You shouldn't have to bear this burden. It's not fair that we've pulled you into—"
"Oh my god, here comes the patriotic guilt speech," Deadpool interrupted, making a talking hand gesture. "Cap, we don't have time for your 'with great power comes great responsibility' remix. We all signed up for this gig—even the kid. Some of us were tricked into it by shady government programs, others got bit by radioactive critters, and some—" he pointed to himself, "—just have terrible luck and questionable decision-making skills."
"For once in your life, could you let someone finish a sentence?" Steve asked, jaw clenched in frustration.
"I could, but where's the fun in that?" Deadpool replied cheerfully. "Besides, your speeches are like thirty percent longer than they need to be. I'm doing everyone a favor by cutting to the chase."
"You're impossible," Steve sighed, turning back to the map.
"Impossibly charming? Impossibly skilled? Impossibly handsome under this mask? Help me out here, Cap, I need specifics to maintain my ego."
Before Steve could respond, Deadpool thrust his mask-covered face inches from Peter's. "Cut the crap, Parker. What's her name?"
"What?" Peter sputtered, taking a step back. "I don't know what you're—"
"Personal space, Wade!" Peter protested, pushing Deadpool away. "And stop making assumptions about my life!"
Deadpool held up a finger as Peter tried to continue. "And don't even try to deny it. I've read enough YA novels to know the signs. Sudden interest in 'extracurricular activities'? Mysterious schedule conflicts? Vague excuses? Classic teenage love subplot material right here!"
"YA novels? That's your source of information about teenagers?" Peter asked incredulously. "No wonder you're so clueless."
"I'm not clueless, I'm genre-savvy," Deadpool corrected. "Big difference."
He turned to Captain America with a stage whisper. "Ten bucks says she's either a cheerleader or secretly working for the enemy. Maybe both! Those are the only two options in these stories. Trust me, I'm an expert."
Steve threw his hands up in defeat. "That's it. I'm rescheduling the briefing for tomorrow morning. I can't do this right now."
"Was it something I said?" Deadpool asked innocently, looking between their exasperated faces. "You guys seem tense. Maybe we should do some team-building exercises? I know this great trust fall activity—"
"NO!" Steve and Peter shouted simultaneously.
"Fine, fine," Deadpool said, raising his hands in surrender. "But you're both missing out on quality bonding time. And Peter—" he pointed dramatically, "—I WILL find out about this mystery girl. Just a matter of time. My investigative skills are unparalleled."
"Your delusional skills are unparalleled," Peter muttered, heading for the door. "I'm out of here."
"See you tomorrow, bright and early!" Deadpool called after him cheerfully. "Bring donuts! And details about your love life!"
The door slammed shut with enough force to send dust raining from the ceiling.
"I think that went well," Deadpool said, turning to Steve with what was surely a beaming smile beneath his mask. "Really productive session."
Steve just stared at him, speechless with frustration.
"What? Was it the donut request? Fine, I'll bring the donuts."
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