While Leo was busy synthesizing his stolen cosmic power, Tony Stark was fully immersed in the colossal, mind-numbing planning for the Stark Industries Expo. He was locked away in his workshop, intently watching the blurry, sepia-toned footage of his father, Howard Stark, grandstanding at the 1974 event.
Seeing Howard, flamboyant and slightly patronizing even in the ancient video, boasting about the future, Tony felt a strange mix of reverence and rivalry. The old man's energy was infectious. "He was a showman, alright," Tony thought, deciding then and there that he absolutely had to include a clip of his old man at this expo. It was about legacy, after all.
He finally came to his senses, realizing the garage door was open and Leo was long gone, the heavy block of Vibranium he had gifted now replaced by a sterile, empty space on the workbench.
Tony sighed, running a hand over his face. He felt the constant, nagging ache in his chest, a dull, metallic throb that the media spotlights never touched. He took out the tiny, elegant blood detector he had obsessively crafted—no bigger than a lipstick tube, a piece of technology so small and advanced it was a sick joke compared to the monstrous problem it was measuring.
With a practiced, grimace-inducing press of his thumb into the groove, a nearly invisible needle instantaneously pricked his skin. A tiny drop of blood, blackening slightly in the air, was quickly drawn away. The barely perceptible pain still made Tony instinctively yank his hand back, a nervous habit developed over weeks of self-diagnosis.
He looked at the display screen next to it. The number was a gut punch: Blood Toxins: 14%.
The percentage glowed menacingly, highlighted in deep, alarm-bell red. The black spider-web pattern around his reactor, invisible beneath his shirt, felt like it was etching itself deeper into his skin. His internal clock was running down, and the numbers were climbing faster than he had anticipated.
But Tony Stark was a genius of deflection. He glanced at the imposing red and gold Iron Man armor standing sentinel behind him. Then, he looked at the countless magazines and newspaper articles scattered on his table, all praising "Iron Man, the Hero who protects the world."
Tony laughed, a short, manic sound devoid of actual joy. "Fourteen percent. That's a rounding error," he muttered, rationalizing the slow death. "No matter what, I am still the only Iron Man. I am the man who protects world peace. That's a far more important metric than a little palladium contamination." The Expo would be his masterpiece—a magnificent distraction from the ticking time bomb in his chest.
A few days later, Flushing, New York, was engulfed by the grand spectacle. The Stark Industries Expo was finally opening. The news that Iron Man, Tony Stark, would be making a personal, dramatic appearance had whipped the public into a frenzy.
Across town, Leo sat comfortably on the sofa with Aunt Jenny and Uncle George, watching the chaos unfold on the massive living room TV.
All the cameras were focused squarely on the center of the stage, an immense, empty expanse where a group of silhouetted dancers stood frozen in formation.
Then, the show exploded. Countless fireworks rocketed into the sky over Flushing, painting the night with impossible colors. Aggressive, energetic music—less a soundtrack, more a rock anthem—filled the air, making the window panes vibrate as the tens of thousands in attendance screamed in anticipation.
And then, the moment arrived.
A flash of red and gold. The Iron Man figure leaped down from an altitude of over 15,000 feet, descending at impossible speed and landing with a tremendous, earth-shaking thud that instantly ignited the entire arena. The crowd screamed louder, the sound deafening.
The moment he landed, a complex pyro-display triggered, launching countless columns of golden flames from the stage floor, creating a wall of fire behind the hero.
"Oh!!!" Uncle George shouted, jumping up from the sofa and pumping his fist. "Now that's an entrance, Leo! I need to upgrade the stereo system!"
The huge crowd below the stage waved their hands in unison, their adulation a visible energy force. All the stage lights came up, revealing the backdrop: sixteen incredibly attractive women, all dressed in revealing, tight red and gold bikinis—the colors of his armor—their figures accentuated by the spotlights. They immediately launched into an intricate, high-energy dance routine.
Each dancer had a glowing white circular light—the iconic Arc Reactor shape—clipped directly to the center of their chests, mirroring Tony's heart. They also sported matching white light rings on their palms and on the soles of their feet, mimicking the repulsor technology.
But even with sixteen stunning, nearly nude women dancing furiously behind him, absolutely everyone's attention was still riveted on the man of the hour: Iron Man, Tony Stark.
The choreographed robotic arm, prepared weeks in advance, smoothly approached the armored figure and began the meticulous, rapid process of removing the Mark IV suit, piece by gleaming piece.
Tony emerged, impeccably dressed in a bespoke suit, looking intently at the tens of thousands of people celebrating around him. This was a feeling—this level of universal, uncritical adoration—he had never experienced, not even at the height of his weapons sales days.
A pure, unadulterated look of addictive excitement spread across Tony's face. This was his drug. This was the result he wanted. This was proof that his existence mattered, even if it was quickly running out.
As the music crescendoed on its final, accented note, the sixteen women rushed to his side and collectively raised their right hands, making the perfect, iconic gesture of Iron Man firing his repulsor beam.
"Tony! Tony!! Tony!! Tony..." The mass chant began, a primal roar of admiration.
Tony waited a beat, letting the sound wash over him. Then, he leaned into the microphone. "It is so good to be back among the sane. You people haven't been doing much of anything worthwhile since I left, have you?"
He paused, then suppressed the wide, ecstatic smile on his lips, starting his opening remarks in a tone that was strangely calm and deliberate, a practiced self-awareness masking the chaos beneath.
"I didn't step in to suggest that the entire world is now immersed in a long-lasting state of peace because of me," Tony declared, his voice carrying the perfect pitch of false modesty.
"Whoa! Ah!!" The people, taking this as an obvious, magnificent understatement, erupted in celebration once more.
"And I certainly didn't declare that no one else in the world has the raw, intellectual capability to be reborn like a phoenix rising from the ashes, just like me!"
He gestured wildly, his hands open. "And I certainly never claimed that 'Uncle Sam'—whoever that guy is—could comfortably recline in his rocking chair, leisurely sipping iced tea, simply because I always maintain peak fighting condition, ensuring that no one is bold enough to challenge me one-on-one!!"
The chaotic, continuous battles he had undertaken over the past few months had given Tony complete, almost pathological confidence in his Mark armor and his own judgment. The only opponent he couldn't defeat was the poison within.
In the Stark living room, Aunt Jenny paused her rhythmic knitting, her eyes fixed on the TV screen. "This Tony Stark is really something, isn't he? So boastful."
"It seems like no one has disciplined that man since he was a teenager," she added, shaking her head slightly, her traditional, down-to-earth sensibilities clashing with Tony's extravagant display.
Uncle George, however, unusually retorted while looking down at a financial newspaper. "Now, Jenny, he's actually doing quite a bit of good. At least, the world seems really peaceful lately. The newspapers often report on him quelling international conflicts everywhere. I'm starting to actually like him. He's a stabilizer, maybe a bit much, but a stabilizer."
Leo watched Tony, analyzing the performance through a detached, almost scientific lens. Tony's ego was clearly driving his decision to ignore the poison. His need for external validation was a direct measure of his internal fear.
"I love you, Tony!" a desperate scream tore through the crowd noise.
Tony gave a theatrical bow. "Please, I'm just the messenger. I'm not important."
He then adopted a serious, almost philosophical gaze. "I am not important. We are not important. What is truly important is the legacy. What are we leaving behind for future generations? That is the real question."
"So, starting next year, for the first time since 1974, the best talent from every corner of the world, from every company, will provide their most cutting-edge resources, share their common vision, and work together to literally create a better future! A cleaner, safer, more technologically dazzling world!"
"We are merely temporary custodians, so what I want to say is, welcome to the Stark Industrial Expo! It's not about me; it's about the future you deserve."
The crowd went insane, believing they were witnessing a genuine philanthropic pivot.
Tony then stepped back, dramatically gesturing to the large screen behind him. "And now, a special guest will return from a past life to explain all of this to you—because he started it. Please welcome my father, Howard Stark."
Tony turned and immediately stalked off the stage as Howard's blurry, black-and-white image appeared on the huge screen.
Off-stage, hidden in the shadows of the wings, Tony immediately reached into his pocket and pulled out the lipstick-sized blood detector. He pressed his thumb against it again. He couldn't help himself; the adrenaline crash always made him feel the symptoms more acutely.
He stared at the screen, and his jaw went slack. The result: Blood Toxicity: 19%.
It had jumped five points in a matter of days. The palladium poisoning was accelerating faster than his complex models predicted.
Tony stared at the dazzling, deadly number, his world spinning momentarily. He shook his hand in denial. He looked back at the giant screen, just in time to see the holographic image of his father, full of youthful confidence and hope, leaning against the edge of the large circular map model of the original Expo.
"Welcome to the Stark Industrial Exposition," Howard's voice echoed through the massive stadium speakers.
Tony took a deep, shuddering breath, using the sound of his father's voice and the image of his magnificent legacy as a life raft to pull himself away from the terrifying reality of the number 19.
The following day, Tony's self-made distraction ended abruptly. He was forced to fly to Washington to attend the hostile Senate Armed Services Committee meeting.
Senator Stern, an obese, slick politician with a perpetual look of forced patience, sat on the raised dais. He looked down at Tony Stark, who was casually chatting with Pepper Potts on the side bench.
"Mr. Stark," the Senator droned, tapping the small wooden gavel sharply on the podium. "Shall we continue with our previous, crucial topic? Mr. Stark, can you please focus on what I have to say?"
It took a beat for the senator's annoyance to finally penetrate Tony's bubble.
"Of course, darling, go on," Tony said, smiling dismissively at the Senator, drawing titters and low laughter from the press gallery and those around him.
The Senator, refusing to be baited, cut to the chase. "Mr. Stark, do you presently possess a unique, functional weapon of mass deterrent that could be vital to the national defense of the United States?"
Tony shrugged. "I don't."
The Senator's forced smile tightened. "You don't have it?"
"I genuinely don't, Senator. That depends entirely on what ridiculous, overblown definition you assign to the word 'weapon'," Tony replied seriously, leaning forward to engage.
"Iron Man is demonstrably a weapon," the Senator stated, pushing back.
"My invention is not a weapon," Tony countered immediately, his tone sharp. "It's a flying suit of armor."
"Then…how would you have the audacity to describe it, Mr. Stark?" the Senator asked, baiting him with the word 'audacity.'
"It is precisely what it is, Senator. It is a high-tech prosthetic. An enhanced mobility and protection system, custom-tailored for my unique genetic code," Tony Stark said confidently, placing his hands on the table. "That's how I think of it now."
For him, the suit without the reactor was just a high-tech exoskeleton, an empty shell. It only became Iron Man—the hero, the deterrent—when he personally controlled the suit. The man and the armor were one, an identity.
"Well, Mr. Stark, I believe that giving the Iron Man technology, this undeniable weapon system, to the American people, for use by the American military, should be a mandatory priority," the Senator declared, sweeping aside Tony's intellectual excuses.
Tony's eyes narrowed, his casual demeanor evaporating into cold fury. "Don't even think about it. I am Iron Man. I am one with the Iron Man armor. Giving up Iron Man is giving up myself and my own intellectual property. Whether you consider that forced labor, coercion, or intellectual prostitution depends entirely on the laws of which state you are currently practicing your politics in."