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"Let the press eat crap," Tony muttered, already annoyed. He only liked reporters when they were tall, gorgeous, and holding a martini. Once they had a byline? Forget it.
He tossed a file onto the table. "You know what my dad's biggest flaw was? He wanted to do everything. A little bit of oil, a little bit of mining, a little bit of defense, some half-baked consumer products. Nothing bad on paper, but nothing truly dominant either. Spreading us thin just meant the marketing guys could never make a real push in any one direction."
The jab wasn't subtle—Obadiah Stane had been Howard's partner on the business side, the one handling markets and sales while Howard played mad scientist.
Obadiah's expression soured. "Picking apart your father's strategy won't solve your problem, Tony. Right now, the only issue that matters is coughing up enough cash for your taxes. You want to gripe about Howard, fine—do it after you're not on the hook for billions."
Tony smirked. "Funny you should say that, Uncle Obie. Because that's exactly where my solution comes in. I'm going to streamline the company. Sell off assets. Cut the fat. Focus on precision instead of passion projects."
He slid a sheet of paper across the table. "Here's the sell list."
Obadiah skimmed it—and nearly choked. Texas oil fields. Overseas mining operations. Even a few of the most profitable divisions Stark owned. "You can't be serious! These are cash cows, Tony. You don't just sell the golden goose!"
"That's exactly why we can sell them," Tony shot back. "Because they'll actually fetch a price. The bleeding divisions? Worthless. Can't give them away without getting laughed at."
Obadiah groaned like a man watching someone torch a winning lottery ticket. "Your father was reckless. And now you're just as reckless—"
Tony ignored him, laying out two more sheets. "This one's for divisions worth keeping, but in need of a shake-up or merger. And this," he tapped the other, "is for the stuff we either gut or dump. Employees can transfer to expanding divisions—or take generous severance. Their call."
Both lists were dense, front and back, the scrawl of someone who had actually done the homework. It wasn't some spoiled heir waving his hand and saying "sell stuff." This was calculated.
"And here's the kicker," Tony continued. "We take divisions public. All of them. Even the ones we're planning to unload."
Jarvis raised an eyebrow. "Master Tony, going public raises capital, yes—but it weakens control. That was precisely why your father resisted Wall Street."
"I know. But we use the market as a tool. Spin off the dead weight, turn it into liquidity, keep our focus where it matters."
Obadiah leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "And where does it matter?"
Tony slapped down the final sheet. "The military. Always has been, always will be. The Pentagon's our most powerful ally, but they're not loyal—they'll jump to another supplier the second we stop delivering. So we double down. Refocus Stark Industries on defense and weapons.
"Consumer divisions? If they're defense-adjacent, they stay. Otherwise, they get folded or sold. Marketing? Gone. R&D and defense stay. Everything else? Trimmed.
"We build a fortress around our core. By the time competitors realize we've shifted, it'll be too late to break in. Forget the pennies—we take the kingdom."
Obadiah and Jarvis studied the four lists again. And for the first time, it was obvious—Tony wasn't improvising. He'd dissected the entire empire and mapped out a real transformation. This wasn't a tantrum. It was a strategy.
Jarvis spoke carefully. "This timeline… finishing all of this before the estate tax deadline in nine months will be… difficult."
Tony shook his head. "We don't need to finish. We just need enough progress to pay off Uncle Sam. The restructuring continues after.
"And as for control—don't worry. We'll muddy the waters. Make it impossible for outsiders to see where we're really headed. Spread shares of the core defense divisions, tie the right people to us. Anyone dangerous, we bind to our wagon."
He looked at Obadiah. "That part's yours, Uncle Obie. Once the dust settles, your holdings convert into group stock. Trust me, it'll be worth it."
Obadiah's face lit up, excitement flushing his cheeks. "Finally! Strategy I can sink my teeth into. Give me a week—I'll have a team and a preliminary plan ready."
"Good." Tony leaned back, then turned to Jarvis. "Phone, please."
Jarvis brought it over. "Shall I connect you?"
"No, I've got it." Tony dialed, and after a moment, a familiar voice answered.
"Rhodey! Tony. How's my favorite straight-laced soldier?"
A pause. Then Tony grinned. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Listen, I need you. Stop wasting your life on the front lines. Back in the day, they called it privateering. Now they call it foreign deployments. Either way—it's just sanctioned looting. Come work for me instead."
Another pause. Tony smirked wider. "No, I'm not saying retire. I want you as Stark Industries' man on the inside. If the Army won't give me a blonde in a tight skirt, I'll settle for you."
Rhodey said something sharp. Tony rolled his eyes. "News? What news? Hold on."
He signaled Jarvis, who switched on the office TV. The screen flickered to CNN.
The headline scrolled across the ticker:
BREAKING: RED EMPIRE COLLAPSES
For once, Tony Stark was speechless. He, Obadiah, and Jarvis traded stunned looks.
The only thought in all their heads?
Talk about timing.
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