A week after Monaco incident.
Glenn's visit to the Malibu estate had not been intended to intersect with madness. In fact, his reason for coming was straightforward—Tony had called him earlier in this week, his usual casual tone carrying a rare note of progress. The upgrades to The Raven, Glenn's Osprey jet, were finally finished. For Glenn, it had been a matter of quiet anticipation; the aircraft was more than just a machine—it was his price. Yet, he hadn't laid eyes on it yet. Tonight was supposed to be that moment. Instead, the evening was swallowed whole by Tony Stark's spiraling recklessness.
As The Raven waited unseen in some private hangar under Stark's estate, Glenn's boots crunched onto the polished stone leading into Malibu's coastal palace. The estate was alive, its windows glowing against the night like a lantern luring moths. The hum of bass-heavy music rolled outward, laughter and drunken chatter spilling into the night air. Glenn slowed his pace, brows furrowing slightly as his sharp eyes took in the evidence before him—this wasn't a quiet evening at all. This was a party, and judging from the volume and excess that radiated out from every open door and balcony, it was one of Stark's most infamous kind.
Inside, it was chaos disguised as festivity. Women in glittering dresses swirled with drinks in hand, guests pressed shoulder to shoulder across every room, music pumping so loud it nearly rattled the glass walls. Glenn weaved through the crowd with a nonchalant air, his sharp eyes taking measure of everything. Then, across the space, he spotted him—Tony Stark. Helmet open, armor gaudy under flashing lights, face flushed, Tony stood in the center of it all like some reckless god who had descended to mingle with mortals. The Iron Man suit clung to his body, but instead of exuding power, it amplified his foolishness.
Glenn's lips curved into the barest smirk as he paused near a lounge chair, casually taking a seat where he could see everything unfold. His sharp gaze never wavered. The billionaire genius—Tony Stark, the man who built weapons that could level nations, the man whose technology was lightyears ahead of its time—was drunk enough to urinate inside his own armored suit. Glenn leaned back, letting out a low chuckle that was lost beneath the music and shrieks of laughter from the intoxicated guests.
"Now that's what I call weaponized embarrassment," Glenn muttered to himself, flicking ash from the cigarette he had lit without bothering to check if it was allowed.
Pepper Potts, clad in professional poise but visibly fraying at the edges, hurried forward from the crowd. Her eyes were locked on Tony, her words sharp, urgent, but she couldn't reach him—not truly. Glenn observed her desperation with a detached curiosity. She was trying to pull Tony back from the ledge, but he wasn't listening. He hadn't been listening for some time.
Then came Rhodes. Glenn's gaze narrowed with interest when he spotted him moving with that military rigidity that hadn't been worn down by drink. Colonel James Rhodes, Tony's oldest friend, returned to the scene with something different—armor. A prototype suit Stark had built, raw and unrefined, but functional. Glenn recognized the shape, the weight, the intent. He leaned forward slightly, his grin widening.
The tension in the room changed in a heartbeat. Guests who had been cheering Tony's antics a moment ago now shifted nervously. They could feel it, the way the air grew heavy with something sharper than drunken fun. The crowd's laughter turned to gasps as Rhodes confronted Tony. Words were exchanged—Glenn couldn't hear them over the pounding music, but he didn't need to. The weight in Rhodey's posture, the defensiveness in Tony's half-drunken stance, told the story clearly.
And then—iron clashed against iron.
The first blows were like thunder, shaking the estate as sparks flew. The music became drowned beneath the ringing of metal striking metal, the floor trembling under their combined strength. The crowd, electrified at first, cheered and hollered as though this was part of the entertainment. But as the strikes grew heavier, faster, more destructive, the mood shifted. It wasn't fun anymore—it was dangerous. Guests screamed as shattered furniture flew across the room, as chunks of the expensive décor broke apart like cheap props.
Glenn didn't move from his seat. He watched with the calculated gaze of a predator studying prey. His cigarette burned low between his fingers, his grin faint and amused as Tony stumbled through punches and Rhodes countered with surprising precision. The floor vibrated as one of Tony's repulsor blasts went wide, scorching the marble and causing several people to shriek in terror. Now, panic had truly set in. People screamed, shoving each other toward exits. Broken glass crunched beneath expensive shoes as the crowd fled the scene in terror.
Glenn exhaled smoke, his sharp gaze following the chaos without an ounce of panic in himself. This wasn't his fight, not tonight. He had come here for The Raven, for the aircraft Tony had promised him. But as the chaos unfolded, Glenn simply sat back, letting the spectacle play out. The fight had tipped past control, the friendship between Tony and Rhodes cracking in real-time, all while the public scrambled in fear around them. In Glenn's view, this wasn't just a drunken fight—it was a warning. A signal of what happened when genius and ego danced too close to self-destruction.
And Glenn, patient as ever, was content to watch it all unravel before making his move.
The air still reeked of champagne, sweat, and the faint ozone tang of repulsor discharges. Glenn leaned back in the chair he had claimed earlier that evening, his arms stretched comfortably along the seat's edges, posture unbothered, as if the chaos that had unfolded before his eyes was nothing more than an unruly stage play.
The living room of the Malibu estate was a wrecked. Furniture overturned, pieces of shattered glass sparkling faintly under the dim party lights, the expensive marble flooring cracked where an armored fist had slammed down too hard, and champagne still dripping slowly from the chandeliers above. What was once a glittering celebrity gathering had dissolved into panic, screams, and desperate footsteps.
Everyone had fled. The guests, the staff, even the bartenders—gone. The frantic squeal of car tires could be faintly heard echoing from the driveway outside as the last of the partygoers scrambled away from Stark's mansion as though it were a battlefield.
Everyone, except for Glenn.
Well—Glenn and the DJ.
Somehow the DJ had stayed behind, either too dazed to move or maybe too intoxicated to process the danger. The man remained slouched behind his massive turntables, headphones hanging loosely from his neck, eyes glazed, as if convinced that the scene still demanded a soundtrack. A faint bass beat thumped irregularly from the speakers, the music no longer celebratory but instead strangely eerie in the silence of the aftermath.
Glenn chuckled under his breath, drawing his cigarette case from the inner pocket of his coat. He tapped one stick against the case's edge with deliberate slowness, lit it, and inhaled, letting the smoke curl lazily above him. His eyes never once strayed from the center of the room, where Tony Stark—helmet flipped back, hair disheveled, cheeks flushed red with alcohol—stood panting heavily.
Across from him, clad in the silver-gray Mark II armor, stood Colonel James Rhodes. Both men were breathing hard, their suits battered from the mutual assault, faint scorch marks and dents scattered across their armored plating. For a moment, neither of them moved, both glaring at each other with the leftover adrenaline of their near-duel.
Then, like two stubborn schoolboys caught red-handed, their gazes drifted toward Glenn.
And Glenn… remained exactly as he was. Relaxed. Calm and amused. A faint smirk tugged at his lips as he exhaled another plume of smoke, eyes glinting with a sharp, mocking humor.
"Well," he finally drawled, his voice carrying effortlessly in the stillness, "that was entertaining."
Neither Tony nor Rhodes replied immediately. Their faces were caught between shock and embarrassment. After all, both men had been so consumed in their own egos and rage that they hadn't even realized Glenn was still there—watching, judging, and undoubtedly cataloging every idiotic decision they had made tonight.
Glenn tapped the ash of his cigarette into an empty glass on the table beside him before rising from his seat. His movements were unhurried, like a predator stretching after a nap. He walked toward them with the confidence of someone who knew full well neither of the armored titans in front of him posed a real threat to him—not in their current state, not against him.
"Two middle-age guy," Glenn began, tone dripping with sarcasm, "one drunk, one desperate… and the best idea you both had was to turn a multi-billion-dollar mansion into your personal gladiator arena."
Tony blinked, his mouth opening as though to argue, but no words came. The alcohol in his system clouded his quick wit, and for once his tongue stumbled. Rhodes, however, straightened, his voice sharp and defensive.
"Someone had to stop him," Rhodes shot back, jerking his head toward Tony. "You saw what he was doing—reckless, irresponsible—"
"Reckless?" Glenn interrupted, raising a brow. "Irresponsible? Definitely. But trying to 'stop him' by nearly blasting each other's heads off? That's not what I'd call responsible either, Colonel."
Rhodes' jaw tightened, but he didn't reply.
"None of my business though."
Glenn smirked again, his eyes flicking between the two of them. "So? You had enough? Or you aren't finished throwing tantrums in armored pajamas?"
Tony let out a weak chuckle, though it was humorless, weighed down by fatigue and intoxication.
"You are getting creative, Tony. Like what I expect from you." Glenn mocked, his voice rising slightly as he waved his cigarette hand in the air. "Really? Pissing in your own suit in front of half the celebrities in California. That's classic! And you—" he turned to Rhodes, "—you thought the solution to a drunk friend with a gun was grabbing your own bigger gun. Hahaha Brilliant work, gentlemen. Truly. I should've sold tickets."
The DJ, as if on cue, scratched the vinyl, producing a harsh screech through the speakers. Glenn tilted his head toward him and muttered, "Not now, maestro. This is your cue for the exit." The DJ froze, hands lifted sheepishly.
The tension in the room simmered. Neither Tony nor Rhodes looked proud of themselves, and that was precisely Glenn's goal. He didn't step in to protect them from each other until now—not because he couldn't, but because he wanted them to stew in the absurdity of their actions. Now, though, as he took another long drag of his cigarette, he decided it was time to end the spectacle.
He exhaled slowly, the smoke curling between them, then clapped his hands once, sharp and deliberate. "Alright. Playtime's over. Colonel Rhodes, you want that suit? Go on take it. You know how to fly that thing right? Tony—" Glenn's gaze shifted, pinning Tony in place, "—you're staying put. We have a lot to talk about so make sure you're sober before we start. You're too drunk to even stand properly without the armor holding you up."
Rhodes hesitated. His hand clenched into a fist, armored servos whirring softly. He looked at Tony, then back at Glenn. The air was heavy, uncertain, until finally, Rhodes gave a sharp nod. Without another word, he fired up the propulsor and zoomed out in the night sky.
Glenn watched him go, eyes narrowing slightly.
When the sound of the departing suit faded into the distance, Glenn turned back toward Tony, who had collapsed heavily onto a couch, helmet flung aside, face buried in his hands. The once-charismatic billionaire looked small, almost childlike, weighed down not just by alcohol but by something deeper—something Glenn already suspected.
"Congratulations, Stark," Glenn said, lowering himself into a nearby armchair. "You managed to scare off your friends, humiliate yourself, and give the world another reason to call you unstable. Not a bad night's work."
Tony groaned softly but didn't argue. For once, he had no comeback.
"So this is what dying brought to a sarcastic self-centered guy, huh?"
Tiny groaned and then froze because he realized what he said.
"Wait, you know I'm dying?"
"Yup, for a while now. You think you can hide your matrix themed veins on your neck?" Glenn responded.
"Sigh, don't judge me! You know what? In fact, I don't care anymore. I only got a few months maybe weeks left. What do you know! At least I gotta have fun in my last days." Tiny growled.
"Hey Tony, do you know why they call me the Handyman?" Glenn asked mischievously.
Tony rolled his eyes.
Not waiting for Tony's answer, Glenn continued.
"Because they say, I can fix anything. Any mess."
Tony scoffed and said, "If you're that great why don't you fix my problem."
Glenn just smiled with meaning.
Tony suddenly became more sober.
"Wait, really?"
"Yep."
"Then why didn't you tell me?!"
"You never asked. And even if you asked, you know there's a price."
"Considering my condition now and how desperate I am, I could give you anything I have. Damn it, I just finished your jet and now here comes a another debt. What do you want this time?" Tony grumbled.
Glenn raised his brows and asked, " Are you sure? Because I will really hold on that promise if we proceed with the transaction. "
Tony trembled but he gritted his teeth and nodded.
"Very well. Listen carefully."
Glenn fished out a small bottle from his inner pocket presenting it in front of Tony.
"This here can relieve your palladium poisoning but it is only relieving your current symptoms not cure the root cause. Nevertheless, this can buy you a lot of time to solve that. "
Glenn pointed at his chest.
"Since that thing's poisoning you, you need to resolve that as soon as possible."
Tony grimaced, "I thought you provided me with a solution but this is just 'pain killer'."
Glenn smiled in amusement.
"Impatient, are we? This thing is so precious it can cure a terminal illness and you have the guts to call it a pain killer? You're hurting my reputation. If you take this, it can cure your poison but unless you take that arc reactor off your chest, you won't fully resolve it. As fancy as it is, that thing was the source of your poison."
"Anyway, don't interrupt me cause I'm not done yet. You think you've tried everything right? But that's not true. You just lack a little clue and I'm here to provide that."
Tony stood up and snatched the bottle in his hand carefully examining it.
"Spill it. I'm listening."
"I got a source that Fury holds a box that belong to your father. And inside that box holds the answer to your current condition. Since you're about to die, I estimate Fury will get in touch of you soon." Glenn explained.
"Wait, how do you know all of this?" Tony asked suspiciously.
Glenn smiled in mysterious manner. "Does it matter? I'll give you another clue to speed up your research. Consider it a professional courtesy to a friend."
"Go ahead, JARVIS, put it on record." Tony said.
"Certainly, sir." JARVIS acknowledged.
"Remove Belgian waffle stands, lose the footpaths, lose the landscaping, the shrubbery and trees, remove parking lots, exits and entrances." Glenn stated.
"That's it?" Tony asked in confusion.
"Yeah, that's it. Believe me, you'll thank me for it." Glenn chuckled.
"That doesn't make any sense. What does Belgian waffle stands have to do with anything other than an afternoon snack." Tony said in exasperation.
"Wow, this is the first time I see this. Hahaha the great Tony Stark bewildered's face. You'll figure it out on your own. I have confidence in your intellectual ego. Now, take me to my baby Raven. I wanna see my Jet."