Sadly, humanity was robbed of a truly historic moment that night—
the sight of a billionaire relieving himself in front of a live audience.
Just as the crowd began chanting for a full "performance," a thunderous metallic roar filled the room.
Another Iron Man suit landed with a heavy clang!
"Party's over! Everyone out!"
It was Colonel James Rhodes, Tony's old friend, stomping onto the scene in full armor, radiating authority.
But Darren took one look and immediately saw through it.
"Oh, please," he muttered. "Tony let him wear that thing."
After all, without authorization, no one could even boot up the Iron Man suit—unless Tony wanted them to. JARVIS wasn't some discount AI from Amazon.
"This just killed the vibe," Darren sighed, shaking his head.
Across the room, Natasha pinched the bridge of her nose. "I regret everything," she murmured.
Having this lunatic "help" Tony might cut the billionaire's life expectancy down to seventy-two minutes, not seventy-two hours.
"I'm going to report to Fury," she said quickly. "You stay here. Keep an eye on Tony."
Darren saluted. "Aye aye, lady."
...
The clash of iron on iron shattered the music and the party lights.
Two armored titans—Tony in his red and gold, Rhodey in silver—threw themselves at each other like drunk gods, punching, grappling, smashing walls.
They tore through the mansion, wrecking the gym, the bar, even a priceless piano that had survived three world tours and one drunk Elton John.
Finally, both men, panting heavily, charged their repulsors.
BOOM!
The blast collided midair, exploding with a blinding flash that tore through the hall, sending shockwaves rippling through the mansion.
If Natasha hadn't cleared the guests in time, Tony's kill count would've gone up by several dozen.
When the smoke finally cleared, Rhodey's silver suit blasted out through the ceiling, leaving Tony sprawled in the wreckage, armor cracked and lights flickering.
Darren kicked aside debris and crouched next to him, knocking on the helmet. "Hey, you dead yet?"
Tony's helmet split open with a hiss, revealing his pale, exhausted face. "Not yet. Give it another hour."
Darren squinted at the dark veins creeping up Tony's neck—black lines spreading like circuitry under the skin.
He activated his system's scan.
[NPC: Tony Stark]
[Alias: Iron Man]
[Affection: 70]
[Evaluation: "Rich Man Powered by Science, Poor Man Powered by Mutation."]
[Status: Palladium Poisoning]
"Damn," Darren murmured. "Met both sides of the coin today—the rich tech guy and the radioactive hobo. Nice symmetry."
He eyed Tony's condition. "So, what's going on with you? You look like you hugged a power plant."
Tony exhaled weakly. "It's the arc reactor… The core uses palladium. Every time it burns through a plate, trace amounts leak into my bloodstream. Slowly killing me."
"Didn't you once brag that a single plate could power the reactor for decades?"
Tony smiled bitterly. "At minimum output, sure. But every time I suit up, energy consumption skyrockets. I've tried every element I know—none of them work as a replacement."
He sounded tired. Too tired.
Darren frowned. "So why don't you just… mount the reactor on the armor instead of in your chest? Then it wouldn't leak into your bloodstream."
Tony froze.
Blink.
Blink blink.
"…Why the hell didn't I think of that!?"
His face twisted in disbelief.
Years of research, sleepless nights, blood samples, and he'd been one engineering choice away from not dying.
But then his expression fell again. "It's too late. The damage is already done."
Palladium poisoning—untreatable, uncharted, and definitely not covered by Stark Industries health insurance.
Darren rolled his eyes. "It's just a poison debuff. Don't be so dramatic."
He reached into his inventory and pulled out a glass vial filled with an unsettlingly green liquid that glowed faintly under the lights.
[Item: Detox Elixir (Removes all poison effects. Ingredients include venom glands, seaweed, and coral.)]
Before Tony could even protest, Darren uncorked it, grabbed his chin, and poured it down his throat.
"Mmmpf—what the hell are you—ugh, God, what is that taste!?" Tony gagged, nearly coughing it all back up.
Darren smiled. "Relax. It's medicine. Check it out."
He pulled out a small mirror and held it up.
Tony blinked. The black veins were gone. Completely.
His pulse steadied. His breathing cleared. A strange, clean energy seemed to surge through his chest, pushing away the fatigue that had been suffocating him for weeks.
"Sir," JARVIS's voice chimed, "palladium concentration has dropped below one percent. Toxic symptoms have fully vanished."
Tony stared. "It's… gone?"
He ran a hand over his neck in disbelief. "You're telling me I've been killing myself for months—and it's fixed by a bottle of alien mouthwash!?"
Darren shrugged. "Told you. Just a status ailment."
Tony exhaled, caught somewhere between relief and existential despair. "You saved my life. Again."
That made three times now.
Darren grinned. "Eh, don't sweat it. Just think of it as payment for tonight's entertainment."
He pulled out his phone, opened the gallery, and hit play.
On the screen, Tony danced drunkenly in armor before shouting, "This is how I pee!"
Then the sound of metallic trickling.
"I'm thinking of posting it online," Darren mused. "Title: 'Shocking! Iron Man Pees in Public!'"
Tony closed his eyes. "Please kill me instead."
...
Minutes later, S.H.I.E.L.D. agents flooded the ruined mansion.
At their head: Director Nick Fury himself—finally stepping out of his office, trench coat billowing like an annoyed father at a PTA meeting.
Behind him was Natasha, now in her full black combat suit.
Tony blinked at her, stunned. "You're with S.H.I.E.L.D.? You… really had me fooled."
Before he could finish, Darren added with mock solemnity, "Sorry, Tony. Me too. I've been an undercover agent this whole time. Your personal bodyguard was a spy."
Tony stared at him. "…You think that was subtle? You wear your S.H.I.E.L.D. badge on your belt."
Fury ordered everyone else to clear the floor, leaving him and Tony alone for a private talk.
Downstairs, Darren and Natasha waited in the lounge.
As she poured herself a drink, she noticed Darren staring up at the ceiling, completely transfixed.
"What are you looking at?" she asked.
"The ceiling." Darren took a sip, eyes wide. "Turns out Tony's dad was one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s founders. That's, like, top-level classified intel! You knew that?"
Natasha sighed, rubbing her temple. "I'm a Level 7 agent, Darren. I know nothing, I've heard nothing, and if anyone asks—I was never here."
And for once, she wasn't even being sarcastic.