High in the sky.
Obadiah clearly hadn't heard Tony's self-muttering. Even if he had, he wouldn't have cared. Because he had been locked in an aerial dogfight with Tony this entire time, he was completely oblivious to the massacre that had occurred on the ground.
He didn't know the Rhino had been one-shotted. He didn't know the Vulture had been scared witless and then turned into a sieve by the Wheel of Fortune.
As far as he was concerned, Peter was just another "enhanced" human—a freak of biology, but still a creature of flesh and blood.
In Stane's simplistic worldview, no matter how much "potential" a human had, they were still soft. And soft things didn't break iron.
"Who cares what a brat like you thinks!" Obadiah sneered, his stubby finger slamming down on a red trigger. "Tell it to my anti-tank missiles!"
Stane fantasized about his missiles teaching Peter a lesson in physics. However, the tail-flame had barely ignited—the missile hadn't even cleared the launch rack—when he saw the figure floating in the air casually lift a leg, performing a motion similar to a soccer kickoff.
Rankyaku (Storm Leg)!
Whiz—!
A visible arc of compressed air, sharp as a cyan blade, sliced through the sky. It struck the anti-tank missile with surgical precision just as it was leaving the tube.
BOOM!!!
The missile detonated instantly upon impact. The resulting fireball and shockwave were enough to knock even a behemoth like the Iron Monger back several dozen yards. Inside the cockpit, alarms wailed, and the HUD flickered with frantic red warnings.
"Chest plate integrity at 40%!"
Obadiah was lucky. If the missile hadn't cleared the rack by those few inches before the Rankyaku hit, the internal chain reaction would have turned him into a very expensive firework.
Stane was shell-shocked. What was that? An energy wave kicked from a foot? Is this guy a poet? No, wait... is he even human?!
Before he could recover, Peter's mocking voice drifted through the smoke. "Now, who was it that was about to be killed by their own weapon?"
Peter "walked" leisurely over to the struggling Iron Monger. He reached out and tapped the mecha's helmet with a knuckle. Clang. Clang. Clang.
"Oh, wait. That's not quite accurate." Peter tilted his head, feigning deep thought before correcting himself. "I should say... who is about to be killed by the weapon they plagiarized?"
Obadiah was already reeling from the shockwave, but those words nearly made him cough up blood onto his screens.
Lies don't hurt; the truth is the sharpest blade. Knowing that everything he had was a copy of Tony's genius—and that he couldn't even kill the "original" with it—made Obadiah snap.
"Die!"
Stane screamed, raising the minigun on his wrist and spraying a lead curtain of bullets. Tony, watching from a distance, held his breath.
But what happened next made him transition from holding his breath to gasping in disbelief.
Ping-ping-ping-ping!
The bullets struck Peter's body squarely, but the sound they made was identical to lead hitting armored plating. Peter was not only unharmed; he was slowly allowing crackling arcs of electricity to coil around his arm, inch by inch.
Then, with a casual "hand-blade" strike, he sliced through the minigun and the Monger's forearm plating as if he were cutting through warm butter.
Obadiah's eyes nearly popped out of his head. What kind of monster is this?!
Regret began to seep into his soul, but he knew there was no turning back. He threw his remaining right fist in a desperate, last-ditch effort, utilizing the mecha's hydraulic systems to deliver a blow meant to shatter mountains.
"Oh? Going for a melee approach this time?"
Peter didn't dodge. He met the massive iron fist with his own small, human hand in the most primitive way possible.
BONE ON STEEL!
CRASH!
Compared to the Monger's giant fist, Peter's hand looked tiny. But the power that exploded from it was something the Monger's drive system couldn't resist.
Creak! Screech!
The agonizing sound of twisting metal filled the air. Under Obadiah's horrified gaze, the specialized alloy fist of the Iron Monger was punched... clean through.
As Peter withdrew his hand, he gave a light tug, and the entire right arm assembly of the Iron Monger was ripped away. Just like that, the "Iron Monger" became the "No-Handed Monger."
"No... this is impossible!" Obadiah screamed in despair. Ripping a mecha apart with bare hands was a fantasy that sat far outside his reality.
"Nothing is impossible," Peter whispered
Having tasted the satisfaction of tearing the arms off, he seemed to have developed an addiction. He began to peel away the armor plating on the Monger's chest and back.
Grip, rip, crunch!
The sound of alloy plates being violently deformed echoed across the skyline. Within moments, the once-mighty Iron Monger had become a sparking, smoking wreck, its internal wiring exposed like raw nerves.
"Hiss..."
In the distance, Tony watched this brutal display, "Jarvis..." he muttered, his voice dry.
"Yes, sir?"
"Take a note. Immediately. Start development on the Mark IV."
"What is the priority for the new design, sir?" Jarvis asked.
"Seamless integration! One-piece plating! No gaps! At the very least, I don't want a human to be able to stick their fingers into the seams!"
"Dammit, I refuse to let my life's work be hand-torn like a piece of paper!"
While Tony was babbling to Jarvis about the next generation of armor, Obadiah—now fully exposed to the night air as his cockpit was shredded—finally broke.
He knew it was over. His grand plan to be the King of War was a dream turned to ash. He was either going to die here or spend his life in a hole.
Better to end it all!
A flash of madness ignited in Obadiah's eyes. If I can't have it, no one will! If I'm going down, I'm taking Brooklyn with me!
With a guttural roar, Obadiah smashed his fist through a red safety cover in the center of his console.
Self-Destruct Sequence: ACTIVATED!
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