Air Force Base erupted into controlled chaos the moment their systems detected the unauthorized aerial object.
The weapons depot explosion in Afghanistan had already raised alarms, a facility reduced to smoking rubble with no advance warning, no claimed responsibility, no obvious perpetrator. When military satellites picked up a high-velocity heat signature departing the area, moving at speeds that defied conventional aircraft capabilities, the situation escalated from concerning to critical.
The duty officer had worked his way through every possible explanation. CIA? Negative. Navy special operations? Negative. Army black ops? Also negative. Each agency he contacted seemed equally confused, some even asking if the Air Force had conducted an unauthorized strike.
After exhausting standard protocols, the officer made the call that seemed most logical given the circumstances.
"Get Colonel Rhodes from weapons development up here. Now."
James "Rhodey" Rhodes arrived within minutes, his uniform crisp despite the late hour. The command center hummed with activity, analysts studying radar feeds, satellite operators enhancing thermal imagery, everyone trying to identify something that shouldn't exist.
"Report," Rhodes commanded, his eyes already scanning the displays.
A specialist gestured to the main screen. "We've cross-referenced every known aircraft database, US, allied nations, even suspected foreign military platforms. Nothing matches the profile."
Rhodes moved closer to the thermal imaging. "Do we have high-altitude surveillance over that region?"
"Yes, sir. AWACS and Global Hawk coverage. But whatever this is, it's barely registering."
Rhodes frowned. "How does something moving that fast not register? Is this stealth technology?"
The specialist shook his head. "No, sir. It's not about stealth coating or radar-absorbent materials. The radar cross-section is simply too small. We're talking something the size of a person, not an aircraft."
Another analyst chimed in. "Current assessment suggests it's a drone, sir. Probably advanced autonomous system, maybe foreign development."
The duty officer turned to Rhodes. "Colonel, what are we looking at here?"
Rhodes's mind immediately went to Tony Stark. His friend had shown up at the base a few weeks ago, cryptically mentioning a "big project" and asking if Rhodes wanted in on it. Rhodes had declined, he had enough on his plate without getting involved in another of Tony's ventures.
But this? This felt like Tony.
"I need to make a call," Rhodes said. "Give me the room for a minute."
He stepped into the adjacent corridor and dialed Tony's number. The connection opened with a roar of wind and engine noise.
"Sorry, what?" Tony's voice came through barely audible over the background chaos.
"Tony, it's Rhodes."
"Speak up! Can't hear you!"
Rhodes pressed the phone tighter to his ear. "Why does it sound like you're in a wind tunnel?"
"Oh, I'm just out for a drive. Convertible, top down, you know how it is."
Rhodes covered his other ear, trying to filter out the command center noise. "I need you to level with me. We've got a situation, weapons depot near your former vacation spot in Afghanistan just got blown to hell. And we're tracking something in the air that shouldn't exist."
Tony's response came too quickly, too smoothly. "Sounds like somebody did your job for you. Problem solved, right?"
"Why are you breathing so hard?"
"Running. Got to a canyon, decided to get some exercise."
Rhodes closed his eyes briefly. "You just said you were driving."
"Drove to the canyon, then got out to run. Multitasking."
"Tony, "
A shout from the command center cut him off. "Sir! We have visual confirmation! Two Raptors just made contact with the bogey!"
Rhodes returned to the command center, phone still pressed to his ear. "Good, because whatever you're not telling me is about to get blown out of the sky."
The next thirty minutes were a masterclass in how Tony Stark could turn a simple situation into a complete disaster. Rhodes watched through satellite feeds and fighter camera footage as the "bogey" outmaneuvered two of America's most advanced aircraft through impossible aerial acrobatics. Then one of the Raptors went down, pilot ejecting safely, thank God, but the aircraft itself destroyed in a catastrophic malfunction that absolutely wasn't a malfunction.
By the time Tony finally revealed himself to Rhodes through the video feed, that distinctive red and gold armor hovering impossibly in midair, Rhodes had progressed through shock, anger, and resignation to arrive at weary acceptance.
Tony Stark had built a flying weapon system. Of course he had. Because normal people dealt with trauma through therapy, but Tony dealt with it by becoming a one-man Air Force.
"Tell me you're going to pay for that Raptor," Rhodes said into the phone.
"Already got Pepper on it. Consider it handled."
Hours later, back in his Malibu workshop, Tony stood in the armor deployment frame while mechanical arms carefully removed Mark III components. Each piece detached with hydraulic hisses and magnetic releases, revealing the man beneath the machine.
Pepper Potts had shown up unannounced, something about reviewing quarterly reports that absolutely couldn't wait. Tony suspected she was checking on him, worried after his abrupt departure from the charity gala.
She stopped dead when she saw the armor.
"Oh my God." Her voice came out barely above a whisper. "Tony, what is that?"
"A flight stabilization system?" Tony tried for casual and missed by miles. "I told you about it."
Pepper circled the partially dismantled armor, her eyes cataloging damage. Scorch marks. Bullet impacts. Evidence of recent combat that told stories Tony clearly hadn't shared.
"These are bullet holes." Her hand reached out, then pulled back without touching the scarred metal. "Tony, what did you do?"
Tony met her eyes, all pretense of deflection evaporating. "What I should have done from the beginning. What I'm going to keep doing until every Stark weapon in terrorist hands is destroyed."
The weight of that declaration hung between them, Tony Stark, declaring personal war on the consequences of his own creation. Pepper looked at him, really looked at him, and saw something different from the man who'd left for Afghanistan months ago.
This Tony Stark had purpose. Had direction. Had become something that scared her almost as much as it impressed her.
"Okay," she said finally. "You found me. I caught you. Now what?"
Halfway across the world, in the frozen wasteland of Siberia, Alexei Shostakov was living the life of forgotten glory.
Deep Well Prison had been built during the Soviet era for a specific purpose: contain individuals too dangerous for standard incarceration but too valuable to simply execute. Political prisoners who knew too many state secrets. Enhanced operatives who'd outlived their usefulness. Men and women who'd served their country only to be discarded when that service became inconvenient.
Alexei fit that last category perfectly.
He sat at the communal recreation area, calling it that was generous; more accurately, it was a concrete space where prisoners could gather under heavy guard, engaged in his daily ritual of arm wrestling and mythology building.
"You cannot imagine," he declared to his latest defeated opponent, "the power I once wielded. I had access to Russia's nuclear launch codes. Me! The Red Guardian!"
Another inmate approached, bigger and more skeptical. He sat across from Alexei, offering his arm. "Sure you did. Easy to be a big hero when your opponent's been dead for sixty years."
Alexei gripped the man's hand, his face darkening. "Captain America. Steve Rogers." He squeezed, veins bulging in his forearm, and slammed the man's arm down effortlessly. "Dead or alive, he was never my equal!"
He stood, arms raised in victory, his voice echoing off concrete walls. "The era of the Red Guardian! Without the Captain, America would have fallen to my iron fist! And even if he lived, " He slammed his fist into his palm for emphasis. ", in a pure test of strength, I would have crushed him! No shield to hide behind like a child with a security blanket!"
The gathering crowd murmured appreciation and mockery in equal measure. Then an even larger inmate settled into the challenge seat, his expression carrying disdain.
"So why does he have museums celebrating his heroism while you rot in a Siberian hole?"
The question landed like a physical blow. Alexei stared at the man, his false bravado cracking for just a moment. Then rage filled the gap.
"You dare mock me, little bear?"
Silence fell. The other prisoners sensed violence coming.
Alexei's hand shot out, gripping his opponent's wrist. Then he twisted with enhanced strength, bones snapping audibly. The inmate's screams echoed through the recreation area as Alexei laughed, bitter, hollow laughter that held more pain than humor.
Let them question his stories. Let them doubt his glory. But they'd remember the Red Guardian was still dangerous.
The PA system crackled to life. "Alexei Shostakov. Mail delivery."
Alexei's laughter cut off abruptly. He grinned at his sobbing opponent. "Ah, you see? The great bear still has admirers!" He stood, pulling on his prison jacket. "Cry all you want, little girl. Cry."
He made his way to the guard station, past cells and through checkpoints, until he reached the mail distribution area. A guard looked up, his expression carrying casual contempt.
"The famous Red Guardian receives another fan letter." The guard's smile was unpleasant. "Next time, tell your admirers to include more butter in their care packages. The food they send is barely worth confiscating."
A drawer slid open from the secure side, revealing an opened envelope and a small action figure. The guard had clearly examined both before deciding they posed no security risk.
"Take it and go."
Alexei glared but had no recourse. He collected his mail and returned to his cell, settling onto his cot with the unexpected delivery.
The action figure was crude but recognizable, a tiny Red Guardian, complete with miniature star emblem and approximation of his old uniform. Some fan had crafted it by hand, probably from photos of his glory days.
Alexei turned it over in his fingers, memories flooding back unbidden. He'd been created to rival Captain America during the Cold War, the Soviet Union's answer to America's super-soldier. For a brief, shining moment, he'd been important. Valuable. A symbol of Soviet power.
Then Dreykov had requisitioned him for that ridiculous undercover operation in Ohio, three years wasted playing father to false daughters while the Cold War raged on without him. By the time that mission concluded, the world had changed. The Soviet Union had collapsed. Super-soldiers became embarrassing relics of failed ideology.
So they'd thrown him in a hole and forgotten he existed.
Alexei stared at the action figure, the hero he'd once been, frozen in plastic, representing a life he'd never get back.
Somewhere out there, Captain America had museums. Had monuments. Had died a hero's death that guaranteed eternal remembrance.
And Alexei Shostakov had fan mail from strangers and a growing gut from prison food.
He set the figure on the small shelf above his cot, adding it to the meager collection of items that proved someone, somewhere, still remembered the Red Guardian had once mattered.
It wasn't much. But in Deep Well Prison, it was everything.