Chapter 6
Expo Opening Day at the Future Foundation Compound
The morning sun crested over the rolling hills on the outskirts of Musutafu, bathing the Future Foundation Compound in a golden haze that promised innovation and wonder. It was the opening day of the expo—a sprawling, open-air spectacle dubbed "Fantastic Day: Plus Ultra!" organized by the Fantastic Four as a beacon of cultural collaboration. The air buzzed with electric anticipation, a symphony of chatter, whirring prototypes, and the occasional whoosh of test flights echoing across the expansive grounds. Tents of gleaming white-and-blue fabric dotted the landscape, emblazoned with the iconic "4" logo, while holographic banners flickered to life overhead, projecting swirling displays of cosmic phenomena and heroics from realms beyond.
Booths lined the winding paths: one showcasing Reed's stretchable polymers for emergency rescues, another demoing Susan's force-field generators scaled for civilian use. Food trucks hawked fusion cuisine—takoyaki with a side of New York-style hot dogs—and families mingled with pro heroes in mufti, their eyes wide at gadgets that blurred the line between Quirk and tech.
The atmosphere was alive, a heady mix of Comic-Con energy and a high-stakes science fair, where the scent of ozone from charging arc reactors mingled with fresh coffee from pop-up cafes. Security drones hummed discreetly overhead, but the vibe was welcoming, almost festive—like a U.A. school festival on steroids, a celebration of ingenuity and heroism drawing crowds from every corner of the hero world.
Blending into the crowd in civilian clothes—Endeavor in a simple black trench coat and slacks that did little to hide his imposing frame, Burnin in a baggy hoodie and jeans that tamed her wild green hair into a ponytail—the duo wove through the throng, their steps slowing as the expo's magic took hold.
Enji Todoroki, Japan's top rival to the Symbol of Peace, felt a rare flicker of intrigue pierce his usual stoic facade; the sheer scale of it all, from the interactive holograms simulating dimensional rifts to the collaborative spirit on display, was a far cry from the rigid patrols and Commission briefings he knew. But it was Burnin—Moe Kamiji, his ever-energetic sidekick—who was utterly captivated, her eyes sparkling like embers as she spun in place, taking it all in.
"Whoa, boss! This is nuts—way cooler than the U.A. school festival back in the day. Remember those? All awkward dances and half-baked invention stalls? This here's like... fireworks meets a mad scientist's dream! Look at that force-field demo—it's bouncing Quirk blasts like ping-pong balls!" Her voice bubbled with unfiltered excitement, a stark contrast to the subdued festivals she'd glimpsed in her hero training days, where the focus was more on youthful hijinks than global tech wizardry.
Endeavor grunted in mild agreement, his turquoise eyes scanning the crowds for any sign of Stark or his armored shadow. "Impressive, I'll give them that. But don't get distracted—we're here for intel, not sightseeing."
Still, even he couldn't deny the pull, his gaze lifting skyward as a streak of flame lit up the horizon. There, zipping through the clouds with trails of fire in his wake, was Johnny Storm—the Human Torch—looping and diving in a dazzling aerial display. With precise bursts of flame, he traced the famous Fantastic Four logo in the sky: a bold, interlocking "4" that shimmered against the morning blue, drawing cheers from the crowd below.
Burnin whooped, punching the air. "That's the Human Torch! He's like a living firework show—bet I could keep up with him in a race!"
Endeavor's lip twitched in what might have been a smile, but he kept his focus sharp, already plotting how to corner the expo's elusive host.
Amid the whirl of activity, young Mei Hatsume—a precocious high schooler with wild pink hair tied back in her signature goggles—bounced from booth to booth like a kid in a candy store, her eyes alight with unbridled fandom. Still years away from her U.A. days, she was already a self-taught inventor, sneaking peeks at pro hero gear whenever she could, and the Fantastic Four's display had her hooked.
"Oh man, these are the real deal!" she squealed under her breath, hovering over a cluster of Reed and Sue's inventions: a portable stretch-limb prototype that extended like elastic for reaching trapped civilians, and a force-field emitter tuned for Future Foundation ops, its blue energy humming softly as it deflected a simulated debris shower.
"The Richards' stuff is genius—elastic polymers that adapt to Quirks? And Sue's fields could shield a whole squad from villain blasts! I've gotta sketch this for my next baby!" Mei whipped out a battered notebook, scribbling furiously, her admiration bubbling over like one of her explosive prototypes. As a die-hard fan of international hero tech—devouring bootleg videos of the FF's cosmic battles—she felt like she'd died and gone to inventor heaven.
Her enthusiasm led her to a quieter corner booth labeled "Advanced Aerial Assistance Prototypes," where a sleek, unassuming drone hovered on a pedestal, its matte-black frame dotted with subtle letter "A" markings she didn't recognize. It was one of Tony's designs straight out from F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s archive—a compact Combat Drone, originally meant for reconnaissance and illusion projection, now repurposed as a display piece for emergency mapping. Mei tilted her head, gears turning.
"Huh, what's this little guy? Looks like it could scout disaster zones—ooh, those sensor arrays scream high-res imaging!" Without a second thought, she reached up—security beeps ignored in her fervor—and popped open a side panel with a hairpin from her pocket. "Just a quick tweak to the flight algo... boost the hover stability by 20% for better wind resistance. Easy peasy!" Her fingers danced over the exposed circuits, rerouting a power line here, amping a stabilizer there, oblivious to the faint whir building within.
What she didn't know was that her "minor" adjustment had just primed the drone for an unintended chain reaction—overloading its illusion projectors and turning a simple demo into a potential holographic chaos bomb, ready to erupt at the slightest trigger.
Striding through the expo with his signature heroic flair, All Might—in his full, buff form, muscles rippling under his iconic costume—drew admiring glances and cheers from the crowd, his presence transforming the atmosphere into one of electrified inspiration. Where his skeletal true form might have allowed quiet anonymity, this larger-than-life version radiated unyielding optimism and strength, lifting spirits like a beacon of hope amid the innovative buzz. Kids tugged at parents' sleeves, pointing excitedly at the Symbol of Peace, while pros exchanged respectful nods, the air around him humming with renewed energy and purpose. It was a rare public outing where he could embrace his role fully, the expo's collaborative spirit reminding him of why he fought—uniting people, Quirks, and tech alike against the darkness.
"Such spirit!" All Might boomed with a wide grin, pausing at a display of multi-tool gadgets that could rival his own Smash-enhanced feats. But in his enthusiasm, he accidentally bumped shoulders with a bespectacled man and a bright-eyed teenage girl, sending a pamphlet fluttering to the ground.
"Ah, my apologies!" All Might exclaimed, stooping to retrieve it with a hearty laugh. His eyes lit up in warm recognition—David Shield, his best friend and the brilliant inventor from I-Island, and his daughter Melissa, whom he cherished like a niece. They were poring over a nearby exhibit: the Iron Man Mark 47 suit, its sleek red, gold, and silver armor gleaming under spotlights, flanked by what was labeled simply as a "prototype spandex hero suit"—from a certain spider-themed hero, its web-patterned fabric and high-tech lenses drawing curious glances. "David! Melissa! What brings my old friend and favorite niece all the way to Musutafu?"
David adjusted his glasses, breaking into a broad smile as he clasped All Might's massive hand in a firm shake, their longstanding bond evident in the easy camaraderie. "All Might! What a surprise—though with you, it's always larger than life. We're just soaking it all in; Melissa's got a real knack for this tech, and I couldn't pass up the invite. The Fantastic Four's support gear? Revolutionary—it could change everything for Quirk users worldwide."
Melissa beamed, hugging All Might tightly around his broad waist like the affectionate niece she was to him. "Uncle Might! These prototypes are insane! That red armor looks like it could take a hit from a Nomu, and the spandex one? Total mobility dream for agile fighters."
Before David could elaborate, a pair of familiar figures approached—Reed Richards, his elastic frame casually elongated to wave hello, and Susan Storm-Richards, her invisible force fields subtly shimmering as she smiled. They didn't let on the full extent of their knowledge, but their respectful nods acknowledged the Symbol of Peace in their midst, adapting seamlessly to his heroic presence. "David, Melissa—great to see you both!" Reed said, stretching an arm to clasp David's shoulder. "And All Might—what an honor to have Japan's Symbol of Peace joining us. Come, let's explore; we've got some dimensional tech that might even impress you."
All Might chuckled heartily, his voice booming with charisma that drew even more onlookers. "The pleasure's mine, friends! Lead the way—I'm here to admire the wonders and smash any doubts about a brighter future!"
Detective Naomasa Tsukauchi, enjoying a rare day off from the grind of investigations, strolled through the gates arm-in-arm with his younger sister, Makoto—a budding journalist with a notebook perpetually at the ready and eyes wide with ambition. The expo's atmosphere hit them like a wave: the innovative hum, the diverse crowd of heroes, civilians, and inventors mingling under the morning sun, all buzzing about breakthroughs that could tip the scales against upstarts like Iron Man.
"This is incredible, Naomasa," Makoto gushed, her voice pitching up as she snapped photos on her phone. "Look at those holograms—it's like stepping into a sci-fi novel! And with the Fantastic Four hosting? Prime interview material. I bet Iron Man shows up; guy's a media magnet. Imagine the scoop: 'Armored Enigma Spills on Quirk-Tech Fusion'!"
Tsukauchi smiled indulgently, adjusting his casual button-down—far from his trench coat uniform—though his detective's instincts kept scanning for anything off. "Easy there, sis. It's impressive, yeah—these gadgets could make our jobs a lot safer. But let's enjoy it first; no rushing the story." Deep down, he wondered if Tony would make an appearance, the expo a perfect stage for his brand of chaos.
Tucked away in a high-security wing of the expo, a cluster of the Commission's top brass—discreet suits and sharp eyes betraying their bureaucratic hunger—huddled around a booth dedicated to Quirk support items. Glossy cases displayed an array of gadgets: enhancer gauntlets for amplifying weak Quirks, nullifier cuffs for containment, and adaptive visors that analyzed enemy abilities in real-time. Their whispers were laced with opportunism, minds already calculating how to reverse-engineer the specs for Commission gain—bolstering their control, perhaps even arming select heroes against upstarts like Iron Man. "These could give us an edge," one murmured, snapping covert photos. "If we tweak the nullifiers for broader suppression..."
But their scheming was cut short by a rumbling gravel voice and the thud of massive orange-rock feet. Ben Grimm—The Thing—loomed over the booth, his craggy brow furrowed under that iconic ridge, clad in his blue uniform stretched to heroic proportions. He crossed his arms, boulders for biceps, and fixed them with a no-nonsense glare straight out of a Yancy Street brawl. "Enjoyin' the items, fellas? These babies are built for the Foundation's ops—rescuing folks from rubble and cosmic crap, not for some profit-grab scheme. Take a good look, sure, but if you're thinkin' of twistin' 'em for your own games, save it. We don't play that way." His words landed like a gentle earthquake, shooing the group with that gruff Yancy Street charm—equal parts warning and wisdom—sending them scurrying off with mumbled excuses, the booth's integrity intact under the watchful eye of the ever-lovin' blue-eyed Thing.
As the expo's vibrant energy pulsed onward, the morning's tranquility shattered without warning. The sleek drone at the "Advanced Aerial Assistance Prototypes" booth—now unwittingly supercharged by Mei's enthusiastic meddling—began to whir erratically, its matte-black frame vibrating as internal systems overloaded. What started as a low hum escalated into a chaotic symphony of glitches: holographic projectors firing wildly, conjuring illusions of monstrous threats straight out of a nightmare. Phantom kaiju-like beasts roared to life mid-air, digital Nomus stomped through the crowd with illusory fury, and spectral villains materialized like ghosts from a bad anime episode. Screams ripped through the air as families scattered, the holograms harmless but terrifyingly realistic—claws slashing at nothing, flames licking the sky without heat.
"What the—? My baby went rogue!" Mei yelped, goggles slipping in her panic as she fumbled for her tools. "This wasn't the plan!"
Ben, ever the gruff guardian, lumbered into action first, his rocky fists clenched. "Aw, clobberin' time! Hang tight, folks—Thing's got this glitch!" He leaped toward the drone, but it darted away, its enhanced stabilizers—courtesy of Mei's tweak—making it a slippery target. Johnny Storm blazed overhead, flames trailing like a comet. "Need a hand, rock-head? Or should I say, a torch?" He scooped Ben mid-jump, the duo hurtling after the malfunctioning machine as it veered toward a cluster of booths, holograms wreaking visual havoc.
Endeavor's flames surged instinctively, propelling him skyward. "Evacuate the area—now!" he barked at Burnin, who nodded with fiery determination, her Quirk igniting paths of guiding light to herd civilians. All Might, his buff form a pillar of reassurance, boomed encouragement to the fleeing crowd. "Stay calm, everyone! Plus Ultra—we'll smash this threat!" His presence alone quelled some panic, turning fear into resolve as he joined the fray, smashing through a holographic monster with a Detroit Smash that dispersed the illusion in a burst of pixels.
In the command tent, Tony Stark—still incognito as a Future Foundation counselor—watched the feeds with a mix of exasperation and amusement. "F.R.I.D.A.Y., analyze—wait, don't bother. That's my drone, and someone's turned it into a horror show projector." His AI responded crisply: "Unauthorized mods detected, boss. Pink-haired kid's handiwork—overclocked everything." Tony flexed his scarred arm, wincing at the familiar twinge from the snap, but his mind raced ahead. "Remote access the Mk47. I'm heading in."
From the nearby display booth—where the Iron Man Mark 47 suit stood gleaming beside the "prototype spandex hero suit" (a nod to Peter's suit, with its web-shooters and agile design drawing oohs from passersby)—the armor hummed to life. Its red, gold, and silver plates shifted seamlessly as remote protocols engaged, lifting off the pedestal with a repulsor whine. The crowd's gasps turned to awe as "Iron Man" rocketed into the fray, Tony's modulated voice crackling from the speakers: "Alright, monster mash—time to pull the plug!"
The suit weaved through the holograms with precision, dodging a phantom Nomu's swipe before deploying a targeted EMP burst from its palm. The drone sputtered mid-air, illusions flickering out like a dying bulb, before plummeting harmlessly into a safety net of Sue Storm's force fields.
But the chaos had taken its toll: three booths lay in ruins—twisted wreckage from a gadget display, scattered debris from Reed's polymer exhibit, and a crumpled food truck leaking fusion cuisine across the grass. The crowd exhaled in collective relief, murmurs turning to cheers as the threat dissolved.
Security guards swarmed Mei, tablets in hand displaying crystal-clear footage of her "upgrade." "You're done here, kid—tampering with exhibits? Pack up and get out," one growled, cuffing her arm lightly as protocol demanded. Mei protested wildly, her pink hair frizzing in distress. "Wait, it was an improvement! Mostly! Don't kick me out—I can fix it!"
Before the guards could haul her away, Reed Richards elongated over, his elastic form stretching like taffy to intervene. "Hold on there—security, stand down. She's got potential; reminds me of a certain armored innovator I know. Escort her to my office—we'll discuss this properly. Who knows? We might have a new intern on our hands." The guards exchanged glances but complied, leading a bewildered but excited Mei toward the central hub, her notebook still clutched like a trophy.
As the Mk47 hovered triumphantly, Endeavor and All Might closed in, their expressions a mix of suspicion and curiosity. "Iron Man!" Endeavor bellowed, flames simmering. "How are you here? That armor was locked in its display case not five minutes ago—explain this deception!" All Might, ever the optimistic giant, added with a booming laugh, "Indeed, my armored ally! Quite the entrance, but the suit was on exhibit. What's the trick behind this heroic feat?"
The Mk47's mask lit up, holographic interface glowing as Tony's voice quipped through the speakers. "No trick, flame-brain and Mr. Smiles—just remote control. Like driving a fancy RC car, but with repulsors and attitude. Watch this." The suit executed a smooth descent, landing back in its display booth with pinpoint accuracy, systems powering down as if it'd never left. The crowd erupted in wows and cheers, phones flashing as visitors surged toward the exhibit, turning the mishap into a viral sensation. "Stick around—next demo's on remote piloting. Who knows? Might even let the kid tinker with it... supervised."
From the shadows, Toga's giggle echoed faintly, her disguise holding as she plotted her next move. But for now, the expo buzzed anew, the glitch a mere blip in a day of wonders.
Reed's Office
Mei Hatsume, notebook clutched like a lifeline, fidgeted in a chair as Reed Richards leaned against his desk, elastic fingers tapping thoughtfully. Security feeds looped on a monitor, replaying her drone tampering in crisp detail. Her goggles glinted with nervous energy, caught between defiance and awe. "I swear, Mr. Fantastic, sir, I was just improving it! That drone's sensors screamed for a boost—20% more stability, bam! Okay, the holograms got... a bit wild."
Reed's smile was patient, almost nostalgic, as if seeing a younger version of himself. "Mei, your ingenuity's remarkable, but you nearly turned the expo into a kaiju flick. Three booths—polymers, gadgets, a takoyaki truck—totaled. Expensive mess." His tone softened, encouraging. "But I've known inventors like you. Reckless? Sure. Brilliant? No question. Ever thought about channeling that spark into something... disciplined?"
Mei's eyes widened, her voice a squeak. "You mean, work with you? The Fantastic Four? For real?" Oh man, Hatsume, don't screw this up—U.A.'s neat, but this is cosmic-level!
Before Reed could answer, a knock interrupted. Reed glanced up. "Come in."
The door swung open, and Tony strode in, his counselor polo rumpled. Mei perked up, knowing him only as the expo's sharp-witted drone designer, not the armored hero. Reed nodded to Tony, stepping back to give him space, his elastic form relaxing against the wall like a supportive colleague yielding the floor.
Tony dragged a chair over, spun it, and sat with arms folded over the back, fixing Mei with a stare that was sharp and unyielding—channeling the same raw intensity he once unleashed on a kid who swung too far out of his league, back when a ferry split and lessons hit like repulsor blasts. Internally, Tony felt a pang of reminiscence: That kid—full of fire, no brakes. Thought he could handle the big leagues, just like this one. Harsh words saved him once; maybe they'll stick here too. He leaned in, voice low and cutting, each syllable deliberate. "Kid, listen up, because I'm only saying this once. You've got a brain that could rewrite the rules—popping my drone open like it's a puzzle box? That's not just talent; that's fire. But fire without control burns everything down, including you."
Mei shifted, her usual bravado flickering under his gaze. Tony pressed on, harsh but calculated, building the weight—raw, unfiltered, forcing introspection. "You think boosting that drone makes you a hero? It doesn't. You trashed three booths, scared the hell out of families, turned a showcase into a stampede. One tweak, and boom—real damage. Real consequences. I've seen inventors like you crash and burn because they chase the thrill without the why. Power's not about the flashiest hack; it's about the fallout. Who gets hurt? What breaks? You want to build better? Own it. Think ten steps ahead, or step back. Because if you're nothing without the rush, you shouldn't chase it at all."
The words landed heavy, echoing Tony's old ferry lecture—harsh enough to shatter illusions, but laced with the truth that forged responsibility in a certain young vigilante. Mei's eyes dropped to her notebook, her recklessness cracking under the scrutiny. He's right... all that chaos, for what? Scared kids, wrecked stuff. I could've hurt someone. No more flying blind—gotta think, Hatsume. Really think. Her spark dimmed, replaced by a budding resolve, the first seeds of accountability taking root, much like a web-slinger learned to balance power with purpose.
Tony's expression softened a fraction, the mentor emerging. "You've got the goods, kid. Don't waste it. Work with Reed here—learn the ropes, build smart. Next time you touch my tech? Make it count, not explode."
Reed nodded approvingly, his elastic arm stretching to pat Mei's shoulder gently. "We'll start small. No drones—yet. But show us what you've got."
Mei nodded slowly, her voice quieter, changed. "Okay... I get it. Thanks, Mr. Stark. I'll do better."
Tony stood, clapping Reed on the shoulder. "She's your project now, Stretch. Keep her grounded." As he exited, Mei flipped open her notebook, sketching with deliberate strokes now—each line thoughtful, her recklessness tempered by a newfound weight.
Outside, Tony's earpiece buzzed—F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s voice crisp. "Boss, perimeter feeds picked up a glitch—unauthorized access, northwest edge." Tony's smirk returned, sharp as a blade. "Figures. Let's go hunting."
Mid-Afternoon
The bustling heart of the expo beat with renewed vigor. Crowds wove between rebuilt booths, the air alive with laughter and the hum of demos. Holographic banners flickered overhead, casting playful shadows as families and pros mingled, the earlier chaos now a thrilling anecdote.
Tony wove through the throng, his counselor polo blending him into the staff—anonymous amid the spectacle, just another face in the sea of innovation. His mind raced ahead, F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s alert still buzzing in his ear like a persistent fly: unauthorized access, northwest edge. "Great—because what this day needs is more uninvited guests," he muttered. He adjusted his shades, scarred arm tucked casually in his pocket, the old snap injury a dull reminder under the sun. The expo's energy was infectious, a far cry from the sterile labs back home, but Tony's instincts kept him vigilant, HUD overlays in his lenses flagging faces against the Kingdom files he'd decrypted months ago—corrupt hero's gear spilling secrets like a leaky arc reactor.
Lost in thought, he bumped shoulder-first into a slight figure—a teenage girl with messy blonde buns, wide yellow eyes, and a grin that stretched just a tad too far, fangs peeking like a mischievous yokai from some anime fever dream. Her school uniform was rumpled, a backpack slung over one shoulder, but something in her posture pinged Tony's scans: a match to a grainy public record from Kingdom's belt, a lost file on a runaway quirk-user tied to underground skirmishes. Himiko Toga—though Tony didn't clock the name, just the red flag.
"Whoops—sorry about that, kid," Tony said, steadying her with a quick hand on her arm, his voice casual, unfazed by her eerie vibe. He'd seen weirder in the multiverse—purple aliens, talking raccoons, the works. No judgment, just a polite nod. "Crowd's a madhouse today. Enjoy the expo—plenty of gadgets to geek out over."
Toga blinked, her wide mouth twitching in genuine surprise. He didn't flinch? Most people freak at the smile... or the eyes. She tilted her head, masking curiosity with a bubbly giggle, her disguised innocence holding. "No worries, mister! It's super fun here—love all the shiny stuff!" But as Tony stepped past, his fingers brushed her backpack—subtle, unnoticeable—and a tiny nanite tracker adhered, burrowing into the fabric like a speck of dust.
Better safe than sorry Tony thought, the device already pinging F.R.I.D.A.Y. for passive surveillance. If you're from those files, kid, let's see what shadows you're hiding in.
Tony melted back into the crowd, none the wiser to her true nature, while Toga skipped off, a faint itch on her back dismissed as nothing. But her mind whirred. Nice guy... wonder if his blood's as chill?
Noon, End of Expo Day 1
The midday sun filtered through reinforced skylights, casting harsh beams on rows of stashed tech—gleaming prototypes shrouded in tarps, the dormant Mark 47 armor on its pedestal like a frozen knight, alongside other devices. Outside, the expo wound down for lunch, crowds dispersing for takoyaki and tech talks, leaving the compound eerily quiet. The air hummed with the low buzz of standby systems, a sterile mix of metal and ozone.
Himiko Toga, now disguised in a pilfered security guard uniform—baggy pants cinched at her waist, jacket swallowing her slight frame, cap shadowing her messy blonde buns—slipped through a side access door, her steps light and predatory. The real guard? Slumped in a nearby utility closet, out cold from a swift neck pinch, his blood vial tucked in her pocket for later "tasting." Wide-eyed and quivering she mimicked internally, adopting his stiff posture while her mind bubbled with delight. Master'll flip for this—tech to poke, armor to wear, maybe even blood from the inventors! Heard the Fantastic Four zipped back to New York through that teleport gizmo... gossip's gold. No capes around? Jackpot.
She scoped the hangar with feigned patrol efficiency, her yellow eyes darting like a fox in a henhouse. Crates labeled "FF Secure Storage" tempted her, but the Mark 47 pulled hardest—red, gold, and silver under the lights, visor dark and inviting. She crept closer, oblivious to the nanite tracker on her backpack pulsing active since her brush with Tony, feeding coords to F.R.I.D.A.Y. And deeper, the nanites had synced subtly with the hangar's grid, allowing Tony to remotely stir the Mark 47—its systems awakening silently, visor flickering imperceptibly as it shadowed her approach like a puppet on invisible strings.
"Ooh, what a pretty tin can," Toga whispered, her voice a bubbly murmur as she circled the armor, fingers hovering just shy of touch. "Bet you've seen some blood... wonder if you'd fit me?" She leaned in, wide eyes reflecting in the polished plate—unaware the suit's protocols hummed to life, ready to spring the trap.
In a dimly lit alcove adjacent to the hangar—a makeshift command post rigged with expo cams and a folding table strewn with Tsukauchi's notes—noon shadows cloaked the space, the distant hum of the expo a muffled backdrop.
Tony, still in his disguise—polo untucked, shades perched on his head—leaned against a wall, arms crossed. Detective Naomasa Tsukauchi stood nearby, casual button-down hiding his tension, hands in pockets as he eyed the feeds. Makoto Tsukauchi tagged along ironically, notebook out, her budding journalist fire undimmed despite her brother's glares—her Lois Lane-like tenacity pushing her to probe deeper. "Naomasa, if this is as big as you say, the public deserves the truth. Not the whole story, but enough to hold the right people accountable. Who's this intruder, really? And how does a counselor like Stark know so much?"
Tsukauchi sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Makoto, this is off-the-record—police work. Stay back and observe, no notes that could leak." He turned to Tony, voice measured. "Stark, you sure about this lure? She's slippery—Quirk lets her mimic anyone. And how exactly are you 'coordinating' with Iron Man on this?"
Tony's smirk was sharp, his voice low and quippy, careful to skirt his secret—playing the connected consultant, not the man in the suit. "Trust me, Detective—I've got channels to Iron Man. Nanites don't lie; she's in the hangar, circling the Mk47 like it's her new toy. He's got the suit on remote standby—one wrong move, and we spring the trap. Your sis can tag along—extra eyes never hurt. Just keep it quiet 'til we bag her."
Makoto leaned in, eyes narrowing like a reporter scenting blood. "Channels, huh? Sounds convenient. If this goes south, who's accountable—the Foundation or the mystery man in red?"
Tsukauchi nodded, his lie-detecting Quirk itching for action. "Files from Kingdom's belt peg her as a League affiliate—unstable, dangerous. We lure her deeper with the suit's 'glitch,' then contain. No heroics, Stark—just clean."
Tony gestured subtly, and via remote (unseen by the others), the Mark 47's visor flared faintly—a baited hook, energy pulsing like a beacon to draw Toga in. "Showtime. Let's see if she bites the shiny."
Back at the hangar, Toga froze as the Mark 47's systems whirred louder, its arm twitching like an invitation. "Waking up just for me? How romantic!" She reached out, her touch triggering the remote evasion—the armor sidestepping smoothly, herding her toward the alcove door. Toga's eyes narrowed in delight, oblivious to the closing net. "Come here, you..."
The alcove door burst open as Tsukauchi, Tony, and a squad of security guards flooded in, fanning out to surround her—batons drawn, Quirks at the ready. "Freeze! Hands up—you're under arrest!" Tsukauchi barked, his voice steady, gun leveled. Tony hung back, playing civilian, but his hand slipped to his watch—nanites primed if needed.
Toga's disguise cracked with a giggle, her wide mouth splitting into a feral grin as she dropped the act. "Ooh, playtime!" She exploded into motion, Quirk-fueled agility turning her solo against the group. A swift kick disarmed the first guard, her knife flashing to parry a baton—blood drawn in shallow cuts, fueling her frenzy. She mimicked the downed guard's Quirk mid-fight, hardening her skin against a punch, then vaulted over Tsukauchi's lunge, slashing at another. "You're all so cute—let's see your red!"
The guards swarmed, but Toga danced through, a whirlwind of fangs and fury—dodging, countering, her solo stand a testament to League training. Tony dodged a wild swing, his counselor facade holding as he called out, "Tsukauchi—contain her!" But Toga was relentless, pressing the group back.
The hangar erupted into controlled pandemonium. Toga met them head-on, her lithe form twisting like a shadow in a storm—ducking under a swinging baton, she countered with a vicious knee to one guard's midsection, sending him staggering into a crate. Another lunged; she spun, using his momentum to hurl him over her shoulder. The Mark 47, remotely puppeteered with mechanical precision, surged forward—its repulsors humming low, not blasting but blocking, a gauntleted fist slamming down to pin a guard's arm before Toga could finish him, directing the chaos like a conductor in a brutal symphony.
Toga laughed wildly, fangs bared, her knife flashing in arcs. She vaulted over a downed guard, slashing at the armor's leg joint—sparks flew, but the Mk47 pivoted seamlessly, its free hand clamping her wrist mid-strike, twisting just enough to force a drop of her blade without breaking skin. The guards rallied, one firing a Quirk-suppressant dart that grazed her shoulder; she hissed, retaliating with a spinning kick. But the armor adapted, sweeping low to trip an advancing guard into Toga's path, turning her momentum against her as she stumbled, followed by a controlled shove that sent her skidding across the deck plating.
Tony, hanging back in his counselor guise, dodged a stray elbow, his voice cutting through the fray. "Tsukauchi—keep her pinned! The suit's got her flanked!" Tsukauchi nodded, weaving through the melee with detective's grit, his sidearm holstered for the close press.
One by one, the guards fell—knocked out cold by Toga's relentless flurry or the Mk47's strategic intercepts. Toga straightened, licking a trickle of blood from her lip, her eyes gleaming with manic joy. "You all fight so pretty... but playtime's just starting!"
Tsukauchi seized the opening, coordinating with the armor in a seamless rhythm. He circled left as the Mk47 advanced right, forming an unbreakable pincer. Toga lunged at Tsukauchi, knife arcing for his throat; he parried with a forearm block, the impact jarring but holding, his free hand grabbing her wrist in a vise. The Mk47 exploited the bind, its gauntlet clamping her other arm mid-swing, yanking her off-balance into a spin that Tsukauchi countered with a sweeping leg takedown. She hit the deck hard but rolled fluidly, knife scraping sparks as she slashed upward.
The detective pressed, his movements economical and precise—a palm strike to her solar plexus forcing a gasp, followed by a knee drive that the armor mirrored from above. Toga twisted free with serpentine grace, her Quirk flaring as she nicked Tsukauchi's sleeve for a blood sample, but the suit anticipated, its elbow dropping like a hammer to disrupt her mimicry mid-flow. They traded blows in brutal close quarters, the hangar echoing with the clash of flesh, steel, and unyielding will. Toga fought like a cornered wildcat, her wide grin never fading, but the coordinated assault wore her down.
Toga's laughter echoed off the hangar walls, a high-pitched trill. She spun away from Tsukauchi's grasp, her body a blur of unnatural flexibility. But her eyes flicked to the Mark 47, narrowing as it pivoted with eerie, inhuman precision. Too smooth... like it's dancing with me. Who's pulling the strings? The thought ignited a spark of feral curiosity; she spotted Tony in the back, his counselor stance too casual amid the fray, fingers twitching just so at his wrist.
"You!" she hissed, wide mouth splitting into a grin that bared fangs. With a Quirk-fueled burst—mimicking the downed guard's minor speed enhancement—Toga dashed, a pink-and-blonde streak breaking free from the pincer. She feinted left toward Tsukauchi, drawing the Mk47's block, then pivoted mid-air, leg sweeping low to unbalance the detective before launching herself at Tony like a coiled spring unleashed. The air whistled with her knife's arc, aimed for his throat—swift, lethal, her yellow eyes locked on his with manic glee.
Tony's eyes widened a fraction, the facade cracking as adrenaline surged. Not today, kid. No time for subtlety—nanites flooded from his watch in a silver-red cascade, hardening into razor-sharp Nanoblades along his forearms, the tech snapping into place with a metallic hiss. He twisted, blades intercepting her knife in a shower of sparks, the force shoving her back a step. The reveal hung in the air like a thunderclap: counselor no more, Iron Man exposed in the flesh, his suit forming in fluid waves up his arms, chest plate gleaming as F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s voice chimed in his ear. "Boss, full deployment?"
Tsukauchi staggered up, eyes bulging at the transformation—Stark? Iron Man? All this time...—his Quirk confirming the truth in the unyielding reality. From the workstation monitors, Makoto gasped, notebook slipping from her fingers as she watched the feed, the pieces slamming together: The counselor... it's him? Iron Man? Nii-chan—Her reporter's mind raced, but shock rooted her, the camera capturing every nanite shimmer.
Toga reeled back, knife smoking from the clash, her grin faltering into wide-eyed surprise before twisting into delight. "Ooh, the puppet master! You're the shiny one inside? How delicious!"
Tony's face hardened, a rare fury boiling up—the world-weary genius pushed to his limit, no quips left. "F.R.I.D.A.Y., take the Mk47—full autonomy. Time to say goodnight." His voice was a growl, edged with a grit no one ever saw before, as the nanites accelerated, suit enveloping him in a seamless rush of red and gold, helmet sealing with a definitive click. Repulsors ignited, the hangar trembling as Iron Man's Mk 80 stepped forward, blades retracting into gauntlets primed for more. Toga lunged again, but the game had flipped—two armors, one trap, and a pissed-off billionaire ready to end the play.
Iron Man—Tony fully realized in the Mark 80 suit, its sleek nanotech frame gleaming with a modular elegance—lunged forward, the armor's agility turning the hangar into a battlefield of precision strikes. The suit's advanced HUD overlaid Toga's vitals in his visor, predicting her next twist as she darted between him and the Mk47. "F.R.I.D.A.Y., sync with the decoy—flank her," Tony commanded, voice modulated but laced with that seething edge.
The Mk47, under F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s autonomous control, mirrored his movements flawlessly—a one-two punch of coordinated assault. Toga twisted mid-air, fangs bared in a feral snarl, slashing wildly at the Mk47's chest—sparks erupted, but the suit absorbed it, countering with a controlled palm strike. She rolled up, blood trickling from a split lip, her Quirk flaring as she nicked the air near Tony's arm for a sample, but he anticipated, nanites reshaping into a defensive barrier that deflected her blade with a resonant clang.
Tsukauchi, battered but unyielding, circled the fray—his detective's instincts guiding an opportunistic grab for her leg as she vaulted over the Mk47. "Now—end it!" he shouted, yanking her down into a joint lock. Toga thrashed, but Tony and the Mk47 converged: the armor's repulsor pulsed a stunning wave to disorient her, while Tony fired a pinpoint energy burst—just enough to stagger—Tsukauchi delivering the final cuffing blow to her temple with a precise elbow. She crumpled, wide eyes fluttering shut mid-grin, out cold before she hit the floor.
Tony didn't hesitate—the Mark 80's wrist launcher whirred, deploying a pair of custom Quirk-suppressing cuffs, sleek nanite-forged bands that snapped onto Toga's wrists and ankles with magnetic precision, their blue glow humming as they neutralized her abilities. She stirred just enough, a weak giggle escaping before blackness claimed her: "You think... I'm the only one here? You were... wrong..."
The helmet retracted with a soft hiss, revealing Tony's face—sweat-slicked, jaw set in that rare, cold fury, eyes burning with the weight of too many close calls. He turned to Tsukauchi, who stared, piecing it together amid the wreckage. "Questions later, detective. We've got bigger problems."
Tsukauchi, catching his breath, holstered his sidearm, his Quirk confirming the impossible truth staring back at him. "Stark... Iron Man? How long—? And that suit, the nanites... what the hell is this?"
Before Tony could respond, F.R.I.D.A.Y. chimed urgently: "Boss, perimeter breach—West entrance. Two signatures: one misty, warp-like Quirk distorting space, the other a pale, decayed figure with skeletal hands, scratching at the barriers like he's unraveling reality itself. They're probing, trying to force entry—likely here for the girl."
Tsukauchi's eyes hardened, glancing at the cuffed Toga. "Associates? We can't let her go—she's the key to exposing whatever network she's in. And now your identity's out... to me, at least. What are you going to do?"
Tony looked down at the unconscious girl, her innocent features twisted even in sleep, the weight of her warning sinking in like a bad omen. He flexed a gauntleted hand, nanites rippling. "I might... come up with an idea."
The West Entrance, FFC
The barrier shimmered—an invisible light-blue force field, Reed's design woven with Tony's nanotech reinforcements, humming faintly like a held breath. Beyond it, the rolling hills of Musutafu's outskirts stretched under a fading sun, the expo's distant cheers a muffled echo. Inside the barrier, armored vehicles rumbled to a halt, their sleek forms bristling with security drones—Stark's expo repurposed sentinels, hovering like watchful eyes.
Kurogiri's misty form coalesced at the barrier's edge, his golden eyes narrowing behind the vaporous mask. He extended a tendril of warp gate, attempting to contact Toga through their pre-arranged channel—a subtle Quirk pulse meant to ping her location. Static. Nothing. "Toga... respond," he murmured, voice a calm rumble distorted by fog. No answer. Frustration rippled his edges; he pressed forward, the warp gate expanding like ink in water, aiming to breach the field and pull her out. But the barrier flared, repelling him with a surge of energy—nanites interfacing, sealing the rift before it formed. Kurogiri recoiled, mist scattering briefly. "Intriguing... impenetrable."
Beside him, Tomura Shigaraki scratched at the air, his red eyes blazing with impatience, skeletal hands twitching like spiders on glass. "Enough games—let me through." He lunged, five fingers splayed against the barrier; it grayed under his Decay's touch, crumbling to dust at the edges—but only for a heartbeat. The field regenerated, nanites swarming to reform the invisible light-blue veil, seamless and unyielding. Tomura staggered back, fury twisting his cracked lips into a snarl. "What the hell kind of secret-level crap is this? My Quirk—it's not working! Like it's... fighting back!"
Kurogiri's mist swirled thoughtfully. "Patience, Tomura. This is no ordinary defense—advanced, adaptive. Our entry was always a contingency; the girl may have been compromised."
Before Tomura could retort, a streak of red and gold sliced the sky—a sonic boom rippling the barrier as the Mark 80 suit touched down with predatory grace, its modular nanotech frame gleaming, repulsors cooling with a faint hiss. Iron Man in full, landed squarely before them, visor glowing blue behind the barrier, flanked by an armored vehicle grinding to a halt. Guards spilled out, geared in Compound tactical vests—batons and Quirk-suppressants at the ready. Among them, Tsukauchi blended in seamlessly, his face half-obscured by a helmet visor, casual button-down swapped for reinforced plating, his detective's eyes sharp as ever. Overhead, Stark's expo drones—sleek quadcopters repurposed from the day's demos—hovered in formation, one cradling the unconscious Toga in a containment pod, her cuffed form limp as they lowered her toward the barrier's edge.
Tomura's eyes locked on her, rage flaring. "Toga! What did you do to her, you metal freak?"
Kurogiri's mist coiled tighter, voice even. "Hand her over, Iron Man. She's one of ours—no further escalation needed."
Tony's helmet tilted, modulated voice dripping sarcasm laced with steel. "Sure. She's all yours." He gestured lazily, the drones inching Toga closer to the barrier's midpoint. But his tone hardened, visor flaring. "Long as you two—and whatever shadows you crawl with—never step foot or warp within line of sight of this Compound again. Ever."
A holographic projector deployed from his gauntlet, beaming satellite images into the air: crisp captures from the Fantastic Tin Can orbital platform, Kurogiri's misty form warping through Tokyo alleys, Tomura's decayed path trailing behind in grainy night-vision. "We've got eyes in the sky, boys. Future Foundation's about helping the unfortunate—lost kids, Quirk outcasts—not playing cop with pro heroes against your little club. Break the deal? We track you to the horizon."
Tomura's hands clenched, decay itching at his fingertips, his voice a venomous rasp. "You think that's it? After what you pulled with Kingdom—exposing him, ruining everything—what's stopping you from sticking your nose in again? Hand her over, or—"
"Enough, Tomura." Kurogiri interrupted, mist undulating calmly, golden eyes fixed on Tony. "My boss has reviewed the terms—agreed. We'll honor it... for now. But know this: our eyes will watch you, and the Compound's every move. Break faith, and the shadows deepen." The drones paused at the barrier's divide; Tsukauchi nodded subtly to the guards, who approached with measured steps, easing Toga's pod through the field in a synchronized handoff—cuffs still locked, her form transferred carefully to Kurogiri's waiting warp tendrils.
Kurogiri enveloped her gently, the mist coiling around Tomura as well. "We hope you won't break the deal, Iron Man." With a ripple of darkness, the warp gate swallowed them—three figures vanishing into the ether, leaving only fading echoes and the barrier's steady hum.
Tony's repulsors cooled, the standoff dissolving into tense silence.
Over Spanish Airspace – Concurrent with FF Events
The cloaked Quinjet sliced through Spain's starlit airspace, its engines a muffled whisper against the night wind, stealth fields bending light around its angular frame like a ghost in the machine. Below, the rugged Pyrenees foothills rolled into shadowed valleys dotted with ancient villages and forgotten ruins—perfect cover for operations that never happened. Inside the dimly lit cargo bay, red emergency strips cast a bloody glow over tactical gear racks and holographic displays flickering with intel overlays. The air hummed with the low thrum of the craft, a far cry from The Raft's sterile isolation.
Kaina Tsutsumi—Black Widow now, the alias fitting like a second skin—stood poised amid the arsenal, her dark tactical outfit a sleek shadow of midnight: form-fitting black leather reinforced with Kevlar weaves, wrist gauntlets humming with electric stingers, and a utility belt stocked with gadgets that whispered of worlds beyond Quirks—collapsible batons at her hips, Widow's Bites charged for silent takedowns. Her dark blue hair with pink highlights was braided tight, her eyes sharp as a sniper's scope. She checked her pistol's Quirk-suppressor rounds—Victor's custom brew, designed to neutralize without the mess—each click echoing her focused breaths. One drop, in and out. No traces, no mercy.
A Doombot materialized from a wall alcove, its metallic frame whirring to life with that unmistakable Latverian precision—green cloak draped over armored plating, masked faceplate glowing with Doom's unyielding gaze. The bot's voice resonated, a perfect echo of Victor von Doom's regal timbre, cold and commanding, laced with the weight of empires. "Tsutsumi. Status."
She holstered a knife, not looking up. "Geared and ready. Ramp in five?"
The Doombot's optics narrowed, projecting a holographic map onto the bay floor—Spain's rugged terrain blooming into a 3D grid, a nondescript church in the foothills pulsing red. "The Humanrise Cult. Fanatics cloaked in piety, preaching 'purity' for the Quirkless age. Their bioweapons target Quirk bearers—heroes, villains, innocents alike. Toxins that unravel DNA, turning powers against their hosts. I cared little for their zealotry... until one of their acolytes was seized in Latveria, prototype vial in hand. A nerve agent keyed to my own enhancements. They dared threaten Doom."
Kaina's lips quirked faintly as she snapped her belt buckle. "Personal now. Wrecked their core yet?"
The bot's claw gestured dismissively, the hologram zooming to cult schematics—underground labs beneath the church, vats of bubbling serums guarded by zealots in white robes. "Latveria's forces reduced their outposts to ash. But this hive—their European heart—festers. Your mission: infiltrate, exterminate the lead alchemist, destroy the prototypes. No survivors who can talk."
She shouldered her pack, eyes on the map. "Off-record?"
Doom's voice hardened through the bot, a tyrant's decree. "Utterly. No transmissions, no traces. Only my logs, Stark's, and The Raft's database will know. This violates treaties—Geneva, Quirk Accords, and international sovereignty. Fail, or get caught? You're a ghost. Latveria denies all. Stark's involvement stays buried; he's too valuable to expose."
Kaina nodded, unflinching—years as an assassin and prisoner hardening her to the edge. "Understood. In, out, ghosts."
The Doombot's optics dimmed as it retracted into the wall. "Succeed, Tsutsumi. Doom does not tolerate loose ends."
The Quinjet shuddered, ramp hydraulics whining open to the rushing void—Spain's night air howling in, cold and crisp at 30,000 feet. Kaina stepped to the edge, wind whipping her braid, the church's silhouette a dark spire below, lights winking like false beacons. She clipped her altimeter, goggles descending over her eyes. One dive, one shot. Here goes nothing. With a final breath, she leaped—body arrowing into the abyss, freefall a silent promise of shadows to come, the church's disguise waiting like a serpent's lair.
(A/N: Invisible by Duran Duran or Snake Eater by Cynthia Harrell are optional for this scene)