"What the hell!?"
Through the Iron Monger's video feed, Stane's eyes nearly popped out of his skull.
A frying pan—a damn frying pan—had just deflected his anti-tank missile.
What kind of physics, what kind of sorcery, was that?
Even Tony, watching from the sidelines, was speechless. "Don't look at me—I've got no idea either!"
Forcing down his disbelief, Stane snarled, locking his sensors on Darren. "I know you. You're Tony's little bodyguard."
Darren lifted the frying pan and said calmly, "Stane, it's over. Stop this now—your daughter's still waiting for you to come home for dinner."
Stane froze. "...How the hell do you know that?"
He didn't get the chance to ask again.
"No matter who you are, anyone in my way dies!" Stane roared.
The Iron Monger lunged forward. Its massive steel fist swung down with a thunderous crash that split the asphalt.
Darren rolled aside just in time. The impact cratered the street where he'd stood.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Darren drew his golden Desert Eagle and fired repeatedly, each bullet sparking harmlessly off the armored shell.
"Hahaha! Pathetic!" Stane bellowed. "My Iron Monger armor is invincible!"
The Gatling gun on his arm spun up again, the barrels glowing orange.
BRRRRRRRT!
A torrent of bullets turned the night into a hurricane of fire and sound.
But Darren moved like a ghost. He rolled, sidestepped, ducked, twisted—every motion seamless, every dodge precise. Years of "Souls-like" gaming had turned evasion into muscle memory.
By the time Stane stopped firing, Darren hadn't even lost a hair.
To make it worse, he was talking the entire time.
"Left step, right step—grandma crossing the road!"
"Backstep—grandma doing line dance!"
Stane's vision went red. Grandma!? He could feel his blood pressure hit the stratosphere.
"STANE!"
Tony took advantage of the moment. The shoulder launchers on the Mark III opened with a mechanical hiss, and a salvo of micro-missiles screamed into the sky before raining down on the Iron Monger.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The explosions swallowed the mech in a wall of flame and smoke.
But as the fire cleared, heavy footsteps echoed through the inferno.
The Iron Monger stepped out—unscathed, blackened but unbroken.
"Figures," Darren muttered, hopping next to Tony. "That thing's tankier than yours. Kind of embarrassing, don't you think?"
Tony's silence was murderous. Fine. I'll build one bigger. You'll see.
"He's too heavily armored," Darren said quickly. "We can't win like this. Tony, I've got a plan."
Tony's HUD flickered. "What kind of plan?"
"Don't ask," Darren grinned. "Just stall him. Lure him to this spot." He transmitted coordinates of a desolate field outside the city. "Then leave the rest to me."
"Fine," Tony gritted out. He didn't have any better options.
As Darren sprinted off, Stane sneered. "Running away, is he? Some bodyguard."
Tony smirked. "Yeah, just like your first wife ran off. What was it? Married her assistant next? Or was it her daughter who became your assistant?"
Stane's control console crackled. "You—little—bastard!!"
Fury snapped his reason. The Iron Monger lunged again, and the two suits clashed in another violent exchange.
For every blow Tony landed, Stane hit back twice as hard. Within minutes, the Mark III was battered, dented, and sparking—a war-torn shell of red and gold.
Inside, Tony felt the brutal vibrations shaking through his bones.
Under normal conditions, a human would've been pulp by now. But his suit's shock absorption system was doing its job—barely.
Still, it felt like being in a washing machine made of metal and regret.
WHAM!
Tony went flying again, crashing into the ground hard enough to crack concrete. He fired his repulsors, righting himself midair in what could only be described as an awkward ballerina pose.
Stane laughed cruelly. "Nice improvement, Tony. But I've made some of my own!"
The Iron Monger's feet ignited with roaring jets of fire. With a guttural hiss, the giant machine began to rise, wobbly but airborne.
Tony's teeth ground audibly. Copycat.
"Jarvis! Head for the coordinates Darren gave us."
"Understood, sir."
Jets flared as Tony rocketed toward the outskirts, Stane's bulk following right behind him—belching thick black smoke into the night sky like a flying factory chimney.
Minutes later, they crashed down into a wide, empty field.
"Power level: below five percent," Jarvis warned.
Tony's heart sank. The fight, the flight, the dodges—it had drained everything he had left.
"Where is that lunatic?" he muttered, scanning the dark. "He better not have ditched me."
Then—
BOOM!
Something heavy landed behind him.
Tony turned just in time to see the Iron Monger slam down, shaking the ground. Stane reached out, grabbing him in both metal arms, crushing him to his chest like a twisted bear hug.
"Tony," Stane growled, "is this the grave you picked for yourself?"
The armor's hydraulics whined as the pressure increased. The Mark III groaned under the strain.
"Left arm severely damaged," Jarvis reported. "Weapons offline. Air conditioning—fully operational."
"Countermeasures!" Tony barked.
PFFF!
The suit ejected a burst of flares and compressed gas, forcing the Iron Monger to loosen its grip just long enough for Tony to break free.
"Energy at two percent," Jarvis said grimly. "Switching to emergency backup."
Tony's heart sank. He was nearly powerless.
And Stane knew it.
The Iron Monger advanced, footsteps shaking the earth. "How ironic, Tony. You wanted to end weapons manufacturing, yet you became the greatest weapons dealer of them all."
He raised a clawed hand, power cores glowing white-hot. "Now die by your own creation!"
But before he could fire, a voice called from the distance—
"Hey, baldy! Over here!"
Both turned.
Darren stood on a ridge, resting a shoulder-mounted RPG launcher against his neck.
Stane sneered. "You think that can hurt my armor?"
Darren grinned. "One won't. How about a hundred?"
Stane blinked. "What—"
WHOOSH!
The rocket screamed through the air and exploded at his feet.
BOOOOOM!
The blast tore open the ground beneath him.
The Iron Monger staggered, off balance, and suddenly the earth gave way—collapsing into a massive pit.
As he tumbled into the crater, Stane's eyes widened in disbelief. The dirt and rocks weren't normal—they were all perfectly square, neatly stacked, carved into an impossible cubic cavern.
And scattered across the pit floor—hundreds of red-and-white blocks pulsed with flashing white light.
Stamped clearly on every side were three familiar, terrible letters:
TNT.