Tony moved toward the armor deployment platform with the easy confidence of someone who'd donned the suit a thousand times. Mechanical arms whirred to life, plates of red and gold metal clicking into place with pneumatic precision. Within seconds, the Mark III encased him completely, the arc reactor in his chest blazing to life with its characteristic blue-white glow.
The faceplate slid up with a soft hiss, revealing Tony's grin. "We'll take this out over the ocean behind the house. But what about your 'chief scientist'?" He gestured toward Bulma. "From what you've told me, she can't fly."
Smith waved off the concern. "Not a problem. Bulma can observe remotely from your roof. As long as we don't fly too far out, she'll have a perfect view."
Tony's arc reactor pulsed as he processed that. "I mean, it's a nice vantage point, but I'm not sure I'm comfortable with a teenage girl hanging out on my roof unsupervised." He paused, considering. "Shame Pepper isn't here. She'd be perfect company."
He'd sent Pepper away specifically to avoid her witnessing whatever chaos was about to unfold, so calling her back wasn't an option. Then something sparked in his mind, that particular gleam that preceded most of his better ideas. He snapped his fingers, the metallic click of the gauntlet sharp in the workshop.
"Actually, I have a better solution. Bulma can experience this firsthand."
He turned and gestured toward the far wall, where a silver suit stood in pristine display. "I've still got the Mark II in storage. The silver prototype from my initial flight tests. No weapons systems, but it flies beautifully."
Tony's grin widened behind his faceplate. "JARVIS can handle the piloting, keep her stable. Might as well give the kid a chance to see what a real scientist can build, right?"
Smith's eyes lit up with interest. "Now that's an idea I can get behind."
Bulma practically vibrated with excitement. She'd encountered various forms of combat mechs in her own world. But Tony's approach to the technology was distinctly different, and the opportunity to experience it herself was too good to pass up.
She stepped onto the deployment platform without hesitation, her earlier nervousness about meeting Tony completely forgotten. This was the language she understood best, cutting-edge technology and practical application.
Mechanical arms descended from the ceiling, moving with balletic precision. The Mark II's plates separated and unfolded like a metal flower, then began assembling around Bulma's frame. Leg pieces first, snapping into place with satisfying clicks. Torso sections next, forming a protective shell. Arms, shoulders, finally the helmet, each component sliding into position with engineered perfection.
Within thirty seconds, Bulma was completely encased in the silver armor, looking like a chrome statue come to life.
Tony moved to a nearby workbench and opened a drawer, withdrawing a glowing arc reactor, the original one he'd replaced after his initial flight tests. The energy levels had depleted significantly since then, but what remained would be more than sufficient for a short flight demonstration.
He crossed to where Bulma stood motionless in the unpowered armor and pressed the reactor into its housing with a decisive click.
Power surged through the suit's systems. The armor's eyes blazed to life with white light, servos humming as they initialized. Status displays flickered into existence across the interior of the helmet, surrounding Bulma with a constellation of data.
"Good evening, Ms. Bulma," a smooth British voice said directly into her ears. "I am JARVIS, Mr. Stark's artificial intelligence assistant. I will be managing your flight systems for this exercise."
"Hello, JARVIS." Bulma's voice carried genuine fascination as she examined the holographic displays surrounding her field of vision. Real-time telemetry, structural integrity monitors, power distribution readouts, all presented with elegant clarity. "This is incredible."
She'd seen AI systems before, but nothing quite like this. JARVIS wasn't just sophisticated programming; there was something almost person-like in his responses, a level of contextual awareness that suggested true machine intelligence rather than elaborate scripting.
Perhaps she'd need to develop something similar for her own work. Having an assistant who could manage complex calculations and monitor multiple experiments simultaneously would be invaluable.
She flexed her fingers experimentally, feeling the armor respond with only minimal lag. The haptic feedback was impressive, she could actually feel resistance, texture, temperature through the suit's sensory systems. After a moment's experimentation, she triggered the faceplate release. It slid up smoothly, revealing her delighted grin.
Tony's faceplate was already down, his voice projecting through the armor's external speakers. "Don't worry, kid. JARVIS will keep you flying straight. Just enjoy the ride."
Without further preamble, Tony's repulsors flared and he rocketed out of the workshop, angling upward through the vehicle access tunnel that led to the cliff face.
"Ready, Ms. Bulma?" JARVIS asked politely.
"Ready!"
The Mark II's repulsors ignited, lifting her smoothly off the platform. JARVIS guided her through the same path Tony had taken, the flight controlled and steady. Smith launched himself after them, his ki propelling him through the air without need for visible thrust.
The Pacific spread before them in the fading light, the sun painting the water in shades of copper and bronze. The wind howled past Bulma's armor as they gained altitude, and despite JARVIS's controlled piloting, she felt her heart race with exhilaration.
"So, Little Bulma," Tony's voice crackled through the suit's communication system. "What do you think? Pretty impressive for a simple Earth scientist, right?"
Bulma considered her response as she surveyed the HUD's various displays. "The armor is exceptional," she admitted. "Creative, elegant engineering. But honestly? I'm more impressed by your artificial intelligence. JARVIS is remarkable."
That was true enough. Mech suits existed in her world, she'd encountered dozens of variations from various inventors and organizations. But AI of JARVIS's sophistication was rare even by Dragon Ball Earth's standards. Most so-called intelligent systems were just elaborate decision trees and response protocols. JARVIS seemed capable of genuine learning and adaptation.
"Thank you, Ms. Bulma," JARVIS interjected smoothly. "Your praise is most appreciated."
Tony's laugh echoed through the comm. "Ha! JARVIS, I think you've found a new fan." His tone shifted to something more challenging. "Well, maybe you should build your own AI then. I'd be curious to see what you come up with."
After a few more minutes of banter, Tony's attention shifted to Smith, who flew alongside them using nothing but his own energy. No visible propulsion, no mechanical assistance, just raw power keeping him aloft.
"Alright, Smith," Tony said, his voice taking on an edge of anticipation. "Let's see what the Mark series can do against someone like you. Time to find out where technology stacks up against supernatural power."
Smith's grin was audible in his response. "Looking forward to it, Tony. Don't hold back."
"JARVIS," Tony commanded, "move Bulma to a safe distance. Keep her out of the combat zone."
"Of course, sir."
The Mark II banked smoothly away, JARVIS piloting Bulma to a position several hundred yards distant but still maintaining clear line of sight to the impending fight.
For a heartbeat, Tony and Smith hung motionless in the air, facing each other over empty ocean. The sun continued its descent behind them, their silhouettes dark against the burning sky.
Then they moved.
Tony rocketed forward, repulsors blazing. Smith launched himself to meet him, ki flaring around his body in a barely visible aura. They collided in midair with a thunderous impact, and the sparring match began in earnest.
Tony threw a heavy right cross. Smith blocked with his forearm, metal ringing against flesh, except his flesh didn't give. The gold-titanium alloy of the Mark III met resistance as solid as the armor itself, ki-enhanced durability turning Smith's body into something harder than steel.
They exchanged blows at blistering speed, Tony's mechanically-assisted strikes versus Smith's martial arts precision. Punch, block, counter, dodge. The armor's servos whined as they drove Tony's limbs through attack patterns, while Smith moved with fluid grace that made combat look effortless.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
The sounds of their collision echoed across the water like a blacksmith's hammer on an anvil.
Smith felt a flicker of surprise as Tony continued to hold his own. He was pulling his punches significantly, full power would crumple the armor like tinfoil, but Tony's combat responses were far better than they should be. Tony Stark was many things, but a trained martial artist wasn't among them. Yet the man was blocking and countering with techniques that suggested years of disciplined practice.
Then Smith caught it, the tells were too perfect, the transitions too textbook. Tony's attacks cycled through distinct martial arts styles: Muay Thai elbows, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu grappling attempts, Wing Chun chain punches, each executed with technical precision but lacking the improvisation of a true fighter.
JARVIS. Tony had fed his AI a database of combat techniques and was letting the computer handle the actual fighting while he managed positioning and tactics.
Clever, but ultimately futile.
Smith stopped holding back quite so much. His aura flared brighter, ki surging through his body as he accelerated beyond the armor's reaction time. One moment he was in front of Tony, the next he'd blurred behind him, his clasped fists already descending in a devastating hammer blow.
The strike connected with Tony's back with a sound like a cannon shot. The impact created a visible shockwave, air compressed into a brief ring of condensed atmosphere. Tony transformed into a red-and-gold missile, hurtling downward and slamming into the ocean with tremendous force. Water erupted in a geyser thirty feet high, spray catching the dying sunlight like liquid fire.
Inside the armor, Tony's HUD filled with warnings. Red indicators spread across the back section of his suit schematic like spreading blood.
"Sir," JARVIS reported with his characteristic calm, "the dorsal plating has suffered severe structural stress. The gold-titanium alloy is exhibiting micro-fractures and fatigue deformation. Continued close-quarters engagement will likely result in catastrophic failure of the back armor sections."
Tony grimaced as he processed the damage report. If he pulled off the armor right now, he'd see a clear dent in the shape of Smith's interlocked fists, the metal warped despite its incredible strength. The Mark III had the same alloy composition as military tactical satellites, and Smith had dented it with his bare hands.
"Okay," Tony muttered. "Point taken."
His repulsors roared to life, propelling him up through the water and back into the sky in a spray of foam and mist. He shook off excess water, droplets flying from the armor in glittering arcs.
"Alright, Smith," Tony called out, his voice carrying a new edge. "Close combat is clearly your domain. But let me show you what technology can really do!"
Panels on his shoulders slid open with mechanical precision, revealing twin banks of miniature missiles. Twenty micro-missiles in total, each capable of taking out a light vehicle or blowing through reinforced concrete. The targeting systems came online, painting Smith with invisible laser designators.
"Last chance to concede," Tony said, though his tone suggested he knew what the answer would be.
Smith floated calmly in the air, arms crossed, his expression utterly unconcerned. "Give me your best shot, Tony."
Tony felt a surge of satisfaction. At least Smith wasn't underestimating him. "JARVIS, acquire target. Fire when ready."
"Targeting lock established. Firing."
The missiles launched in a rippling sequence, thwip-thwip-thwip, tiny rockets screaming through the air on trails of white smoke. They spread into a pattern designed to overwhelm point defenses, coming at Smith from multiple angles simultaneously.
Smith's hands came up, ki gathering in his palms with practiced ease. Energy coalesced into spheres of rippling power, the technique Yamcha had called the Spirit Ball, though Smith had adapted it for his own use.
He thrust his hands forward, and the ki blasts shot outward like small comets. They moved with supernatural precision, each one intercepting a missile in midair.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
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