The cool night air of Los Angeles did nothing to soothe the fire blooming in Tony Stark's chest. He practically clawed his way through the small crowd that had gathered around his table, ignoring the flashes of smartphone cameras and the whispered "Is that him?"
"Out of the way! Suit maintenance, urgent diagnostic!" Tony barked, his voice cracking with a frantic edge he couldn't hide.
He stumbled toward the sidewalk where the Mark VII stood like a silent sentinel. The suit, slaved to his biometric signature, sensed his proximity and the spikes in his vitals. With a hiss of hydraulics, the back of the armor split open, inviting him into its cold, titanium-gold embrace.
Tony didn't just step into it; he fell into it. As the plates clamped shut, sealing him away from the world, the heavy thumping in his ears began to recede. The HUD flickered to life, bathing his face in a familiar blue glow.
"Check my heart, Jarvis. Check the plumbing. Check the wiring in my head," Tony wheezed, leaning his armored forehead against a nearby lamppost. "Something's leaking. I think I'm dying. Is it a stroke? Tell me it's a stroke."
"Scanning, Sir," Jarvis's calm, digital voice was the only thing keeping Tony from ripping the suit back open.
A red lattice of light swept over Tony's body. On the internal display, cross-sections of his heart and brain appeared in high-resolution detail.
"Cardiac CT and MRI complete. Your cardiovascular system is functioning at peak efficiency, and your neural pathways show no signs of hemorrhage or blockage," Jarvis reported.
"Poison? Did those kids have something on the drawing? Check for toxins. Neurotoxins. Airborne pathogens from the portal," Tony muttered, his eyes darting around the HUD.
"Toxicology screening is negative across all known spectrums, Sir. However, your heart rate is 155, and your blood oxygen levels are fluctuating."
"Then what is it? If I'm not dying, why does it feel like I'm drowning?"
"Diagnosis: A severe anxiety attack," Jarvis said, his voice almost sounding sympathetic.
Tony froze. The word felt heavier than the armor. "Me? I don't get anxiety, Jarvis. I build things. I fix things. I flew a nuke into a wormhole. I don't sit on a couch and talk about my feelings."
"The data is quite clear, Sir. You are experiencing a post-traumatic response."
Before Tony could argue, the heavy clank of a hand hitting his faceplate startled him. He looked up to see Rhodey standing there, looking concerned and slightly annoyed.
"Tony? Talk to me. You look like a statue that's about to tip over. Open the lid."
"Can't, Rhodey. Duty calls. Suit's acting up... calibration issues," Tony lied, his voice sounding hollow through the external speakers. "I've gotta fly this thing back to the workshop before it locks up. I'll call you."
Without waiting for a rebuttal, Tony engaged the thrusters. The pavement cracked under the sudden thrust of plasma, and he streaked into the night sky, a lone star fleeing from its own shadow.
The atmosphere at Stark Industries' headquarters was significantly different. While Tony was spiraling in Malibu, the lobby in Los Angeles was being governed by the iron fist of Happy Hogan.
Happy, the former driver and long-time shadow of Tony Stark, had been promoted to Head of Security. It was a job he took with a level of seriousness usually reserved for Secret Service agents guarding the President.
"Badge, buddy. I don't care if you've worked here ten years, I need to see the plastic," Happy said, blocking the path of a confused accountant. "I put a memo in the breakroom. No badge, no entry. It's for your own good."
He turned his gaze toward a young woman walking toward the elevators. "Excuse me, Barbie? Where's the lanyard? You're walking into a restricted zone with a coffee cup and no ID. That's a security breach."
Pepper Potts walked out of her office, watching the scene with a mix of exhaustion and amusement. "Happy, I'm thrilled you're taking this seriously. Really, I am. I think the title suits you."
"Thank you, Pepper," Happy said, straightening his suit jacket.
"But," Pepper continued, holding up a tablet, "our employee complaint rate has jumped three hundred percent since Monday. People are saying you're 'harassing' them about their choice of footwear."
"That sounds like a compliment to me," Happy retorted. "If they're complaining, it means they're being watched. Someone is always hiding something. You'd be surprised what people try to sneak past the front desk."
"Miss Potts?" the receptionist interrupted. "Your four o'clock is here. He's early."
Happy's eyes narrowed as he looked at the desk. "Was I looped in on this? I didn't see a four o'clock on the digital manifest."
"Happy, it's fine. It's an old colleague. He's been bugging me for weeks about a proposal, and I finally caved," Pepper said, her tone indicating she'd rather be doing literally anything else.
"An old colleague? Rich? Handsome? The 'troublesome' type?" Happy asked, already reaching for his phone.
"He was... none of those things when I knew him," Pepper murmured, looking toward the glass doors.
A man stepped into the lobby. He was tall, tan, and moved with a calculated, athletic grace. His suit was tailored to perfection, and his smile radiated the kind of confidence that only comes from extreme wealth or extreme power. Behind him walked a scruffy, unkempt man who looked like he'd been pulled out of a back-alley fight.
"Pepper," the man said, his voice smooth as silk.
"Killian?" Pepper's jaw actually dropped.
She stared at him, trying to reconcile this Greek god with the memory of the hunched, disheveled man with a limp she had met over a decade ago.
"You look... incredible. I mean, wow. What happened to the... everything?"
Aldrich Killian chuckled, his eyes gleaming with a strange intensity. "Let's just say I spent five years in the hands of some very talented doctors. Physical therapy, a bit of research, and a lot of spite. It does wonders for the posture."
Pepper led him into the conference room, her initial shock giving way to a professional curiosity. Happy, however, wasn't sold. He sat on a sofa in the outer lobby, his eyes glued to the glass walls of the meeting room. He pulled out his tablet and initiated a secure video call.
"Yeah?" Tony's face appeared on the screen. He was back in his lab, a bottle of champagne open on the workbench behind him. He looked like a wreck, but he was trying to play it cool.
"Is this the Head of Security?" Tony joked weakly. "Or are you still moonlighting as a bouncer at a juice bar?"
"Stop it, I'm on a live op," Happy whispered. "I resigned from being your bodyguard with my dignity intact, Tony. Now I'm protecting the person who actually runs this company."
"Right, right. So, what's the threat level? Did a stapler go missing?"
"Listen to me," Happy said, his voice becoming serious. "Pepper is in a room with a scientist. A very rich, very handsome scientist. And he's not just talking; he's pitching. He's showing her his brain."
Tony paused, a glass of champagne halfway to his lips. "His brain? Like, a metaphor? Or is he literally showing her gray matter?"
"Literally. There's a 3D projection of a human brain in there. Pepper looks... impressed. Happy. You need to get down here, boss."
Tony sighed, swiping his own screen to pull up the security feed Happy was forwarding. "I met this guy, didn't I? Aldrich Killian. Switzerland, '99. Science conference."
He went silent for a moment. Mentioning 1999 brought back a flood of memories. That was the year he met Leo. He remembered Leo talking about that conference—about how Ethan, the man who eventually saved Tony in the cave, had been there too.
What else did Leo say back then? Tony wondered. His memory was a cluttered attic of blueprints and regrets.
"I don't remember him being this... shiny," Happy continued. "He's suspicious, Tony. And he brought a bodyguard who looks like he eats glass for breakfast. Shifty eyes. Nervous hands."
Tony swiped through Killian's updated bio. Advanced Idea Mechanics (A.I.M.). Government contracts. Revolutionary research into cellular regeneration. "Relax, Happy. Just keep an eye on them. If they try to leave, maybe suggest they go for a drink. Somewhere far away."
"You should care more about this, Tony," Happy said, his face filling the screen. "She's the best thing that ever happened to you, and you're letting some guy with a holographic brain move in on your territory. You've changed, man. You're... strange now."
Tony looked at his old friend. "I miss you too, Happy. I miss when things were simple. When the only thing I had to worry about was if the car was gassed up."
"I miss the old days too. Before the suits. Before the portals." Happy sighed. "Anyway, I'm going to tail the shifty guy. Check his plates. See where he buys his hair gel."
"Wait, Happy—"
"I've got this," Happy said, cutting the call.
Tony stared at the empty screen for a long time. The champagne tasted like ash. He turned to his primary console, his eyes reflecting the blue light of a thousand files.
"Jarvis," Tony said, his voice barely a whisper. "Go back to the beginning. Pull the logs from the night Leo first showed up at the house. I want to see everything. Every word he said, every prediction he made. I need to know if he saw this coming."
"Accessing archival footage from the Malibu estate, 2008," Jarvis replied.
As the video began to load, Tony sat in the dark, a genius king in a castle of steel, wondering if the ghost of his best friend held the key to his crumbling sanity.