"Happy, to the Stark Expo. I want to check out the rehearsal for the Jericho missile unveiling that's happening in a few days."
The sun was high in the sky as Tony Stark, still in his pajamas and rubbing his bleary eyes, spoke to Happy Hogan, who had been waiting for him to wake up for a full three hours.
"Tony, something's happened." Happy's face was grave as he spoke.
In Tony Stark's memory, his driver and bodyguard, Happy Hogan, always looked cheerful, his mouth perpetually upturned in a grin. Tony had never seen Happy this serious.
"What is it? Did the president get Happy'd?"
Even though he had a bad feeling in his gut, Tony Stark kept up his usual style.
"In my book, this might be even bigger than the president getting Happy'd."
Happy's serious expression wasn't an act; he was genuinely worried for his boss. "Our Jericho missile unveiling can't happen."
As he spoke, Happy pulled out his phone, tapped a few times, and handed it to Tony Stark.
"What?"
Tony Stark snapped awake, taking two steps forward to snatch the phone from Happy's hand and stare at the news on the screen.
"High-tech munitions flooding gang organizations—arrested Kingpin just a small fry; the real force behind it is Stark Industries?"
"Military secret procurement deal exposed: some weapons untracked, suspected of being sold off by insiders."
"Tony Stark silent; shareholders demand full supply chain investigation."
"#StarkAtonement trends on Twitter; protesters gather outside Stark Tower demanding an end to all military contracts."
As Tony's slightly trembling fingers scrolled, he saw the screen flooded with news stories—almost all of them about him or Stark Industries.
Happy Hogan watched Tony's face fill with disbelief. He pulled another phone from his suit pants pocket:
"Tony, there are over fifty missed calls here—from the Daily Bugle, Wall Street, Colonel Rhodes at military liaison, Stark Industries shareholders, and company veteran Obadiah Stane…"
Tony Stark tossed aside the phone with headlines that seemed designed to destroy Stark Industries, then pushed away the one Happy was offering:
"Go. Start the car."
With that, Tony Stark tore off his pajamas in a huff, breathing heavily as he changed into a suit.
"Where to?" Happy asked.
"Headquarters!"
Half an hour later, with Happy Hogan practically shoving his foot through the gas tank to floor it, the double-door Audi sports car screeched to a stop in front of Stark Tower.
The moment Tony Stark stepped out of the car, a leafy vegetable came flying from who-knows-where and smacked him square in the face with a wet thwack.
Before Tony could glare to see who threw it, the journalists and photographers already camped out there swarmed him.
He was trapped in a sea of people. Luckily, Happy—leveraging his burly frame—pushed through, fending off the scent-hungry reporters with his words while shoving Tony toward the Stark Tower entrance.
"F**K U! STARK!"
On the outer ring of journalists and photographers, a large crowd held signs, their faces and bodies scrawled with insulting slogans, shouting curses. Middle fingers pointed straight at Tony.
Tony Stark felt dazed. Just yesterday, he was the glamorous, successful entrepreneur under the spotlight. Today, he was a pest everyone wanted to squash.
But Happy Hogan was much stronger than him. Tony was practically dragged into Stark Tower by force.
Before Tony could even catch his breath from the chaotic atmosphere outside, a bald, bearded middle-aged man approached, reaching out to steady him:
"Tony, tell me—did you sleep with some big shot's wife? Or daughter?"
The bald, bearded man was Obadiah Stane, one of the founding veterans of Stark Industries and the only shareholder with nearly as much equity as Tony.
At that moment, Tony Stark was seething with suppressed rage over Stark Industries becoming a public punching bag overnight. Hearing Obadiah's words only made him angrier:
"Obadiah, is that all you think I'm capable of?"
Obadiah Stane chuckled, not contradicting Tony. He slung an arm around Tony's shoulders and headed toward the elevator:
"You've got to tell me what happened so I can put out this PR fire in a targeted way."
In the elevator, Tony Stark opened his mouth, but he himself had no clue:
"Sorry, Obadiah. Top floor first."
Obadiah Stane smiled at Tony without speaking, just patting his shoulder reassuringly.
Up on the top floor, Tony Stark immediately ditched Obadiah and went to his workstation.
He needed to use his network tech to find out who had sparked this public outcry—who had sent the info about Stark weapons hitting the market to the SEC and the Department of Defense.
Obadiah Stane helped himself to a glass of whiskey at the bar, then carried it over to Tony's side, watching him work.
Aside from occasionally asking JARVIS for help, Tony Stark didn't say a word, busy across multiple computers.
A moment later, Tony suddenly spoke:
"Got it."
Obadiah Stane leaned in immediately, staring at the incomprehensible strings of numbers on the screens:
"Who? Who turned our Tony into a public enemy overnight?"
He had clearly traced who did it, but Tony seemed deflated. He turned and plopped down on the sofa:
"Based on tracking the IP addresses of the outrage, the source is roughly in the area of City Hall."
Crash!
Obadiah Stane hurled his whiskey glass to the floor, startling Happy Hogan—who had just arrived on the top floor via elevator, one step behind them.
"New York City Hall? What are those government idiots doing? Don't they know how much tax revenue and jobs Stark Industries generates for them every year—no, every quarter?"
"Happy, get me the Mayor of New York. I want to confront him personally."
Obadiah roared angrily at Happy, who hadn't even fully stepped out of the elevator.
Tony Stark glanced at Obadiah, then called to Happy, who was reaching for the elevator button:
"Happy, come back."
Obadiah glared at Tony Stark:
"What are you doing?"
Tony Stark shook his head. He had easily traced the general area of the IP addresses behind the outrage; the other side hadn't even bothered to hide it.
But whether for profit or otherwise, the New York City government had no reason to suddenly launch a PR attack on Stark Industries. There was someone else behind this.
Tony Stark sat on the sofa and shared his traced info and deductions with Obadiah.
"You're right, Tony." The anger vanished from Obadiah's face. He sat down beside Tony Stark. "But right now, our stock is plummeting. The board demands an immediate meeting. Military orders are on hold for review. S.H.I.E.L.D. contracts are being canceled left and right…"
"Our old rival, Justin Hammer of Hammer Industries, is spreading rumors to poach clients."
"Tony, we need to stabilize the clients, protect our reputation…"
"I know, I know," Tony interrupted irritably. "Let me think of something."
Obadiah wasn't upset by the interruption. He scooted closer on the sofa, slung his arm around Tony's shoulders again, and said in a low voice:
"I already have a plan, Tony. But you have to do it yourself."
Tony turned to look at Obadiah.
Obadiah spoke earnestly, his voice warm and firm:
"Tony, the board and our key clients need to regain confidence."
"They need to see with their own eyes that Stark Industries can still deliver decisive, reliable technology."
"It's time to showcase the Jericho missile. Only you, Tony—you can perfectly demonstrate its value."
Tony Stark shook his head. With mass order cancellations and this level of PR pressure, the Jericho missile press conference originally scheduled for the Stark Expo in a few days was impossible:
"No, Obadiah. Our situation right now isn't suitable for holding the Expo as planned."
A mysterious smile played on Obadiah's face:
"Who said anything about the Stark Expo? Think carefully, Tony."
Tony Stark's expression grew complicated. He thought of another place to demonstrate the missile and quickly made up his mind:
"Arrange a plane and a transport. I'm going to the Middle East myself."
He needed to go there, use the Jericho missile to promote the precision and reliability of Stark weapons, prove that his arms were for protecting peace—and not let a few leaked guns condemn him entirely.
Inside the Queens precinct, Batman—disguised as Harvey Brock, a relative of Eddie Brock—entered the interrogation room where Eddie had been shot and transformed into the white symbiote monster.
It was daytime; Batman couldn't openly wear the Batsuit and go into detective mode to calculate ballistics.
But decades of fighting crime in Gotham gave Batman enough experience. Relying solely on Peter Parker's eyes—which could see every detail—he could judge the bullet's angle, direction, and even distance.
The shot that hit Eddie Brock was from a sniper rifle, manufactured by Stark Industries.
In Batman's earlier checks on the S.H.I.E.L.D.-leaked guns, there were only handguns, submachine guns, revolvers, and the like.
No high-powered, long-range weapons like sniper rifles.
"I've fully reviewed Eddie Brock's personal history. While he occasionally offended other reporters at the Daily Bugle in his work, none of those people would resort to a sniper rifle to assassinate him."
Having calculated the bullet's angle, direction, and distance, Batman swiftly headed toward an apartment 400 meters from the interrogation room, analyzing the identity of Eddie Brock's would-be killer:
"No. There's one person he offended who might choose a sniper rifle—and who has the capability to pull it off."
"It's General Ross. He—or the forces behind him—pressured the Daily Bugle to fire Eddie and tried to snipe him."
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