Time moved fast. One day James was still drinking espresso in Manhattan, and the next he was already strapped into a private jet headed straight toward the Middle East—because when Tony Stark decided to do business, the world bent around his schedule.
On the table in front of Tony sat James's newest creation: a prototype smart weapon.
Its name was printed on a small label like it was something precious.
F.R.I.D.A.Y.
The design was based on an early Arasaka smart pistol concept—an old Senkaku-style smart pistol idea that James had rebuilt, repainted, and disguised to fit Stark Industries standards.
From the outside, it looked sleek and clean. A 30-round magazine, two firing modes—full-auto and three-round burst—with a smart aiming block mounted on top in bright red. Next to the aiming module was a tiny screen showing a yellow pixel bullet icon.
That screen wasn't decoration.
That was the "brain" of the weapon.
A miniature intelligence core.
A very small one.
And due to size limits and weak computing power, calling it "artificial intelligence" was… generous.
It was closer to an artificial idiot, but it still did what it was built to do:
Aim. Track. Assist. Fire.
And yes—it could talk.
Tony picked up the pistol and turned it in his hand. A voice came from the gun immediately.
> "New fingerprint detected."
Tony frowned. "Can you make the voice louder? Who's supposed to hear you like that?"
> "Volume increased by 33%. New fingerprint detected!"
Tony narrowed his eyes. "Introduce yourself."
The flight attendant beside him gave him a slow, playful glance, clearly trying to pull his attention away. Tony ignored her completely.
> "User inquiry. Technical specifications: Built-in AI smart pistol, experimental model. Name: F.R.I.D.A.Y."
Tony smirked. "F.R.I.D.A.Y.? That's really the name?"
His face showed real doubt now. The name sounded like something a child would choose after watching cartoons.
> "Volume increased by 66%. Name—"
Tony cut in. "I'm not deaf."
> "Understood. Hearing indicators normal. Possible issue: Low IQ. Speech rate reduced by 33%. My. Name. Is. F.R.I.D.A.Y."
James—sitting across from Tony—burst out laughing.
"Tony, you just got mocked by a gun!"
Tony's expression tightened.
He couldn't argue with a pistol.
And he definitely couldn't argue while James was watching.
"Enough. Start identity registration."
> "Received. Registering user identity… enabling permissions… calibrating. Estimated time: 20 seconds. Would you like a relaxing tune to ease the wait?"
Tony raised an eyebrow. "You've got tunes? Let's hear it."
> "Bang bang bleep-dong, bang bang bleep-dong bang…"
The "song" was horrible—like a cheap toy trying to sing through a broken speaker. Tony's eyebrow twitched harder.
"Enough! Shut up."
> "Received."
On the tiny screen, the pixel bullet icon made a dramatic "covering mouth" gesture.
A moment later:
> "Identity registration complete. Verification successful. Program: F.R.I.D.A.Y V0.01 running normally."
Tony leaned forward slightly. "Functions?"
> "Primary function: automatic aiming. In severe life-threat situations, I am permitted to fire automatically."
Tony blinked. "What if I'm not in danger? Can I still shoot?"
> "Please choose operating mode. Mode one: dog-loving pacifist. This mode targets lower limbs. Mode two: cold-blooded killer. This mode targets the head only."
Tony stared at the pistol for a long second.
Then he closed the briefcase slowly and calmly, like he was sealing a cursed object.
"Alright. That's enough intelligence testing for today."
> "Understood. Entering sleep mode."
The AI test was only to pass time anyway. The gun's real purpose—killing—wasn't something Tony could test inside a jet.
James leaned back casually. "That weapon looks interesting. Company's latest product?"
Tony nodded, pretending he wasn't impressed.
"Yes. Developed by a rather interesting young man. Still in testing."
James understood Tony's personality. For Tony Stark to call someone "interesting," that person had to be more than ordinary.
But now wasn't the time to think about that.
Lunch arrived.
Two blonde attendants served sashimi and sake like it was a luxury lounge instead of a military flight.
James waved it off immediately. "I'm not drinking. I'm on a mission. I absolutely won't drink."
Minutes later, dynamic music blasted through the cabin.
Tony and James were arm-in-arm, reeking of alcohol, while three flight attendants performed pole dancing around a built-in pole like this was the most normal thing in the world.
A pole in a private jet was exactly the kind of thing Tony would install.
And judging from how skilled the attendants were, Tony had probably paid for training too.
If James back in the lab could see this scene, he would have screamed one question into the heavens:
"THIS DECAYED LIFE… WHY WAS I NOT INVITED?!"
---
Back at Stark Tower
Meanwhile, James—the one who actually built the weapon—was sitting in his lab holding an identical F.R.I.D.A.Y smart pistol.
His version had a black-and-white scheme. He had created three prototypes for testing, and this was one of the backups.
He was annoyed.
Tony hadn't replied to his email.
A whole day of waiting made him impatient.
Company procedure was slow, approvals were slower, and projects died every day because someone above took too long to sign a document.
James tapped the pistol lightly against the desk.
Then a knock came.
The door opened.
And in walked a man with a shiny bald head and a warm, polished smile.
Obadiah Stane.
"I hope I'm not interrupting you."
James stood instantly, posture perfect, face respectful—exactly like a normal employee meeting a senior executive.
"Of course not, sir."
Martin, sitting nearby, nearly fell out of his chair. He had been watching a video earlier, and guilt was practically sweating out of him.
Obadiah smiled as if he owned the room. "You're waiting for Tony to approve your next step, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Then I may have to disappoint you," Obadiah said softly. "Tony has already flown to the Middle East. A big deal is waiting. You may be waiting a while."
James kept his expression calm, but inside he was already adjusting calculations.
Then he asked directly, "So what about the smart weapon testing and acceptance?"
Obadiah's eyes gleamed.
"It's fine. I'll handle it. And I'm very interested in this smart weapon concept."
To Obadiah, this wasn't just a gun. It was a gold mine.
A new product line.
A new military contract pipeline.
A project that could shape the company's future if Tony wasn't around.
And most importantly…
James looked easier to control than Tony.
Obadiah believed that with a little money and a little "support," he could make James loyal.
He didn't know James was smiling politely while mentally measuring the size of his grave.
"Of course, sir," James said smoothly.
He handed over another uncolored prototype and a pair of tactical smart glasses—the visual module designed to pair with the weapon's targeting system.
Obadiah draped an arm around James's shoulder like they were family.
"Come on. We'll go to the firing range."
His smile was so sincere it almost looked real.
"If you can bring me profits like this," Obadiah probably thought, "you're better than any nephew."
James played his role perfectly.
"Don't worry. I won't disappoint you."
Then Obadiah paused and lifted the gun, weighing it like he already owned it.
"I'll take this prototype. The name F.R.I.D.A.Y. isn't appealing. I'll rename it… Headshot."
James's face stayed neutral.
"As you wish."
Inside his mind, Obadiah was already dead.
Changing the name of my weapon.
And to something that ugly.
You're begging for it.
Obadiah left.
James turned back toward the lab—
And froze.
Pepper Potts stood not far behind him, watching quietly.
James stepped forward politely. "Miss Pepper? Were you looking for me?"
Pepper's expression was professional, but there was tension behind it. She cared about Tony. That meant she naturally cared about anyone who might pull power away from Tony.
"Did Mr. Obadiah need something from you?"
James didn't hide the situation. He explained what mattered—testing, approvals, the firing range.
Pepper listened carefully.
Then she smiled, perfect and sincere on the surface.
"Then I should congratulate you in advance."
"Thank you," James replied. Then he added something carefully chosen, something loyal.
"Honestly, what I really want is Tony's evaluation. He's my idol."
Pepper's smile brightened.
"Don't worry. As soon as Tony returns, I'll arrange a meeting. He admires you too."
In Pepper's mind, the logic was simple:
Obadiah had the present.
Tony had the future.
And smart people choose the future.
---
The Script Begins
Tony arrived at the military base in the Middle East.
He gave his presentation.
Weapons. Branding. Confidence.
The roar of the Jericho missile ended the demonstration, and the clinking of glasses showed the military leaders were pleased.
Everything was smooth.
Too smooth.
Then Tony climbed into the Humvee to return to base—
And the world moved exactly as if it were following a script.
---
Headlines
The next morning, every newspaper in New York screamed the same story:
TONY STARK ATTACKED.
TONY STARK MISSING.
MIDDLE EAST CHAOS.
At the same time, James woke up in an unfamiliar hotel bed with two models beside him—one in black, one in white.
Obadiah's team bonus had been generous.
James took his share, distributed the rest to Martin and the others, and the crew dragged him out to celebrate.
James tried to refuse.
It didn't work.
The celebration had a "second half."
Martin had connections. He found models.
And James—once again—failed to uphold his "noble upright man" promise.
He stared at the ceiling afterward and concluded bitterly:
This wasn't his fault.
Any normal man surrounded by tall, long-legged women would make mistakes.
The enemy had targeted a known weakness.
Then James stepped out, picked up the newspaper from the hallway floor, returned to the sofa, and read the headline calmly.
As expected.
Tony Stark was missing in the Middle East.
James's eyes narrowed slightly.
The real story was about to begin.
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