Tony Stark was already mentally drafting the press release for his retirement.
In his head, he saw a montage: A gray-haired Tony handing the keys to the Stark Tower penthouse to a worthy successor. A "Next Gen" Iron Man.
But according to Lucas's diary, the "Official Successors" were... underwhelming. Flops. Box office poison.
"Apparently, the spin-offs are trash," Tony muttered. "Good to know my brand integrity takes a hit."
But then, the text scrolled down, and Tony's heart stopped.
[Compared to the 'official' heirs, Peter Parker is the true successor. The spiritual son. Hell, he gets better treatment than even the biological daughter.]
[I wonder if watching Peter turn to dust in his arms was his eternal nightmare? That moment broke him.]
[But in the end, he redeemed himself. And he saved the Universe.]
Tony froze. He re-read the line.
Even the biological daughter.
"Did you see that?" Tony whispered, his voice trembling slightly.
"I saw it," Fury nodded, his single eye widening. "This Peter Parker kid. He's a Person of Interest. A 'Spiritual Son'? That's high praise coming from—"
"No!" Tony interrupted, waving his hand through the hologram. "Not the spider-kid! The other part!"
"I... I have a daughter?"
Tony Stark, the man who had everything, looked completely lost.
"Me? A father?" Tony pointed at himself. "I can barely keep a goldfish alive. I treat my robots better than most people. And I'm supposed to raise a human being?"
"It is... statistically unlikely," Fury admitted dryly. "Given your lifestyle, I assumed you were aiming for the 'Bachelor of the Century' award."
"But," Fury shrugged, "biology happens. Even to geniuses."
"Who's the mother?" Tony asked the empty air. "Is it... No, don't answer that."
He thought of Pepper. It had to be Pepper. The thought terrified him. And thrilled him.
"Focus, Stark," Fury snapped him back to reality. "The domestic bliss can wait. Look at the next line."
"'Peter Parker turns to dust in his arms.'"
The room went silent.
"Dissipating," Tony murmured, testing the word. "Not dying. Not bleeding. Dissipating."
"It sounds like disintegration," Fury analyzed. "Molecular breakdown. And the diary calls it a 'nightmare'. This isn't a peaceful death."
"And look at the scale," Fury pointed to the last sentence. "'He saved the Universe.'"
"Not the City," Tony said, his face hardening. "Not the World."
"The Universe."
Tony walked to the window, looking up at the night sky. The stars, which usually looked like opportunities, now looked like warning lights.
"I know how Hollywood scripts work," Tony said quietly. "If the hero has to save the universe in Act 3, it means the villain in Act 1 is already mobilizing."
"To require a 'Universe-Level' redemption," Tony turned back to Fury, his eyes cold, "it means we are facing a 'Universe-Level' extinction event."
"Peter Parker dissipating... my daughter... the redemption..."
"It's all connected," Tony realized. "Something is coming to wipe us out. Not just kill us. Erase us."
"And apparently," Tony looked at the glass of whiskey in his hand, "I'm the one who has to fix it."
"With a snap?" Fury asked, recalling the previous entry.
"Maybe," Tony whispered. "Maybe that's the price of the ticket."