Four hours after Tony Stark stormed out of the charity gala, the Mark III stood complete in his workshop, a masterpiece of engineering rendered in hot rod red and gold, the colors of arrogance and fire.
Tony sat on his workshop couch, methodically attaching armor components to his right arm while the television droned in the background. A news broadcast played footage that made his blood run cold.
"The situation in Gulmira continues to deteriorate. Thousands have been displaced from their homes in what local residents are calling 'the Road to Hell', "
Tony's hands moved on autopilot, securing plating with a screwdriver while his eyes remained locked on the screen. His face showed nothing, years of public performance had taught him to mask emotion when necessary, but his grip on the screwdriver tightened until his knuckles went white.
"Responsibility for the violence has been claimed by a militant organization known locally as the Ten Rings, "
The camera panned across devastation: buildings reduced to rubble, civilians fleeing with whatever possessions they could carry, armed men strutting through streets with weapons that bore the unmistakable Stark Industries logo.
Then the footage showed a face Tony recognized instantly. Raza, the Ten Rings commander who'd held him captive.
"So you weren't there when Smith came hunting," Tony murmured, his voice barely audible over the news broadcast. "Lucky bastard. Let's see if your luck holds this time."
His thoughts turned to Yinsen, the doctor who'd saved his life in that cave, who'd kept him alive long enough to build the Mark I. Yinsen had been so determined to return home to Gulmira, to his family. Tony had offered him a position in New York, a life of safety and comfort as his personal physician, but Yinsen had refused. His family needed him, he'd said.
Tony hoped desperately that Yinsen had gotten out before the Ten Rings arrived. That he'd evacuated with his family to somewhere safe.
The television image changed. A public execution. A man hung from makeshift gallows while civilians sobbed below, forced to witness. The camera zoomed in on the victim's face.
Yinsen.
The screwdriver clattered to the floor. Tony's entire body went rigid, fury exploding through him like an overloaded reactor core. His arm, still wearing the partially assembled gauntlet, rose toward the television.
The repulsor fired. The TV exploded in a shower of sparks and shattered glass, the destruction so complete that smoking fragments scattered across half the workshop.
But the act of violence did nothing to quench Tony's rage. If anything, it intensified, a white-hot inferno that demanded outlet, demanded action, demanded justice.
He stalked toward the reinforced glass panels near the basement door, his reflection staring back at him, a man wearing a weapon, powered by the very device that had saved his life after his own weapons tried to end it.
Three palm strikes. Three explosive discharges. Three sections of supposedly bulletproof glass reduced to glittering powder.
Tony stood amid the destruction, chest heaving, the arc reactor's glow pulsing like an artificial heartbeat. He removed the gauntlet with shaking hands.
Yinsen was dead. Murdered by terrorists wielding Stark weapons. Killed in his hometown while Tony had been safe in Malibu, building toys and attending parties.
No more.
By dawn, Tony stood in his armor deployment area, the Mark III being assembled around him piece by piece through robotic precision. Red and gold plates locked into place, each connection point securing with satisfying mechanical clicks. The HUD initialized, systems running through diagnostic checks.
"Good morning, sir," JARVIS greeted. "Shall I plot a course to Gulmira?"
"Do it." Tony's voice carried nothing but cold determination. "And JARVIS? Clear the area of civilians. Anyone pointing a Stark weapon at innocent people is fair game."
"Understood, sir. Godspeed."
The Mark III's repulsors ignited. Tony shot upward through the workshop's launch tunnel, bursting into the morning sky like an avenging angel clothed in red and gold.
Back in New York, Smith Doyle was barely awake when Mr. X found him. The veteran assassin carried a folder thick with documentation, his expression suggesting success.
"Chief, I have updates on your inquiries."
Smith gestured for him to continue, his mind still cataloging the previous night's events at the gala.
"We've confirmed the location of Alexei Shostakov, the former Red Guardian." Mr. X produced a photograph from the folder. "He's incarcerated at Deep Well Prison in Siberia, a Soviet-era facility designed to hold political prisoners and enhanced individuals."
The photo showed a man who barely resembled the super-soldier from Smith's memories. Alexei had gone to seed in captivity, bloated, unkempt, wearing the hollow-eyed expression of someone who'd given up hope. Heavy restraints circled his wrists and ankles, presumably to suppress any remaining enhanced abilities.
Smith studied the image with satisfaction. "Good work. What about the women?"
"Melina Vostokoff was easier to locate. She's living alone on a farm in rural Russia, raising pigs, maintaining a low profile." Mr. X's expression suggested respect for the woman's operational security. "We observed from a distance with long-range optics, she's highly alert, clearly trained to spot surveillance. We didn't risk closer approach."
"And Yelena Belova?"
Mr. X's expression tightened slightly, the look of a professional forced to admit incomplete results. "Still searching. No confirmed sightings yet. She's either extremely mobile or operating under deep cover. We'll need more time."
Smith nodded, unsurprised. Yelena was still under Red Room control, still actively deployed on missions. Tracking a Black Widow who didn't want to be found was like trying to catch smoke.
"Focus the search on Budapest," Smith instructed. "Check Safe houses, known Red Room operational zones, anywhere the organization has historical ties."
"Understood, Chief."
After Mr. X departed, Smith leaned back in his chair, mind working through the Yelena problem. In the original timeline, she'd broken free from Red Room conditioning after another escaped Black Widow, a defector, had injected her with a chemical antidote that severed the mind control. But that hadn't happened yet. The antidote didn't even exist yet.
Which meant finding Yelena was only half the challenge. Freeing her from Dreykov's control was another matter entirely.
Option one: Kill Dreykov, then isolate Yelena until the conditioning weakened naturally. It had worked for Natasha during her defection, months without contact from the Red Room had eventually allowed her true personality to resurface. But that process took time and carried risks. A controlled Black Widow was still lethally dangerous.
Option two: Develop an antidote themselves. Bulma could probably reverse-engineer something if given the right parameters. The Red Room's chemical conditioning had to operate on identifiable neurological pathways. Or perhaps the healing pod technology from the Dokkan Battle System could purge the compounds entirely.
But the existing intel was enough for the conversation he actually needed to have.
Smith pulled out his phone and dialed Fox's number.
"Fox, could you send Natalie Rushman to my office? I need to speak with her about something."
Confusion colored Fox's voice. "Natalie? She's my administrative assistant. What would you need from her?"
Smith's tone carried layers of meaning. "Your secretary isn't exactly ordinary, Fox. Her real name is Natasha Romanoff. She's a SHIELD agent conducting surveillance on the Fraternity."
The line went silent for three full seconds. When Fox spoke again, her voice had gone flat and deadly. "I'm going to kill her."
"NO, no, absolutely not." Smith kept his tone firm but not harsh. "I'm not asking you to eliminate her. I'm asking you to send her to me because I think we can turn her into an asset. She could be useful."
"A double agent," Fox said slowly, processing the implications. "You think you can flip her?"
"I think she'll be very interested in the information I have to offer." Smith's smile carried predatory satisfaction. "Just send her my way. And Fox? Don't blame yourself for missing this. She's one of the best in the world at what she does."
Fox's frustrated exhale came through clearly. "Fine. I'll send her up. But I'm personally vetting every new hire from now on. Thorough background checks, surveillance, the works. No more spies."
Smith almost laughed. "Fox, we're the Fraternity. We've existed for over a thousand years. You really think we don't already have other spies embedded in our organization?"
The silence on the other end suggested Fox hadn't considered that particular reality.
"SHIELD probably has multiple assets here," Smith continued calmly. "Hydra definitely does, they infiltrate everything. Other intelligence agencies, criminal organizations, maybe even individual opportunists selling information to the highest bidder. An organization our size, with our history and capabilities? We're irresistible to every spy agency on the planet."
He leaned back in his chair, completely unbothered by the revelation. "The gun kata techniques, the bullet-curving, the blade work, those require genuine talent and training. Most of our actual assassins are legitimate. But our support staff? The logistics people, the administrators, the textile workers? Some percentage of them are absolutely compromised."
The Fraternity's signature abilities weren't something you could fake. Bullet Time required actual bloodline enhancement to activate. But you didn't need supernatural reflexes to file paperwork or manage supply chains. Those positions were perfect for infiltration.
"So we just... accept having spies in our organization?" Fox sounded both horrified and pragmatic.
"We manage them," Smith corrected. "Know who they are, control what they see, feed them information that serves our purposes. Counter-intelligence is just another weapon, Fox. And right now, I'm about to turn one of SHIELD's best operatives into someone who works for us."
Fox's grudging respect came through in her tone. "I'll send Romanoff to you. Don't make me regret trusting your judgment on this."
"You won't," Smith promised.
He ended the call and settled in to wait, his mind already rehearsing the conversation to come. Natasha Romanoff had spent years trying to escape her Red Room past, trying to build something better than what she'd been created to be.
What would she do when offered the chance to destroy that past completely? To free the women still trapped in Dreykov's web?
Smith suspected he already knew the answer.
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