The air in the Senate hearing room was thick enough to chew, a stale cocktail of self-importance, cheap coffee, and simmering hostility. Banks of C-SPAN cameras, like impassive red-eyed insects, stared down at the central table where Tony Stark sat, looking for all the world like he was waiting for a cocktail waitress rather than a political crucifixion.
He'd traded his usual rockstar attire for a sharp, tailored suit, but the casual slouch and the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips were pure, unadulterated Stark. Across from him, Senator Stern, a man whose face seemed permanently frozen in a state of righteous indignation, glared over his spectacles.
In the front row of the public gallery, Pepper Potts sat ramrod straight, her knuckles white as she clutched her purse. Beside her, Paul was a study in stillness. He watched the proceedings with an unnerving calm, his eyes, so like Tony's but holding a different, older light, missing nothing.
"Mr. Stark," Senator Stern began, his voice booming with practiced authority, "Let's cut to the chase. You have in your possession a specialized weapon. The question is, and you can defer to your lawyers if you need to, is it a weapon?"
Tony leaned forward, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. He didn't even glance at the team of high-priced lawyers sitting behind him. "I would not, Senator. I would describe it as a high-tech prosthesis. That is, in fact, the most accurate description."
A ripple of stifled laughter spread through the press corps. Stern's face tightened, a vein throbbing in his temple.
"A prosthesis?" he scoffed. "A prosthesis for what, exactly?"
"For a better future," Tony said, his voice smooth as silk. "It helps me get around. Helps me… reach things. Like world peace."
The laughter was louder this time. Stern slammed his gavel, the sound cracking through the room like a gunshot. "This is not a comedy club, Mr. Stark! This committee is concerned with the safety of the American people, which is currently being threatened by the fact that you, a private citizen, are in sole possession of the most powerful weapon on the planet!"
"It's not a weapon," Tony repeated, his smile unwavering. "But if you're looking for a weapons expert, you've called the wrong guy. Though, I see you've brought your own."
He gestured with a lazy flick of his wrist towards a man sitting next to the Senator. Justin Hammer. He was a caricature of Tony, from the slicked-back hair and the expensive-but-ill-fitting suit to the desperate-to-please grin plastered on his face.
"Justin Hammer, of Hammer Industries," Stern announced, puffing out his chest. "Mr. Hammer is a trusted government contractor who can attest to the dangers of such technology remaining in private hands."
Hammer leaned into his microphone, practically vibrating with eagerness. "Senator, the 'Iron Man' platform is a volatile cocktail of advanced weaponry. In my expert opinion—"
"Expert?" Tony cut in, his voice dripping with theatrical disbelief. "The last I heard, your greatest contribution to the field was a self-peeling potato. Did you finally graduate from kitchen appliances, Justin?"
Hammer's face turned a blotchy red. "My company has provided the U.S. military with its primary munitions for decades!"
"And they've all worked *so* well, haven't they?" Tony shot back, leaning back in his chair. "Tell me, do your missiles still have that charming tendency to blow up on the launchpad? It's a bold design choice, I'll give you that. A surprise for everyone involved."
The room erupted. Hammer stammered, utterly flustered, while Stern furiously banged his gavel for order. The momentum, which had been squarely against Tony, had swung back in his favor. He was playing them like a violin.
Paul watched his father, a flicker of admiration in his eyes. It was a masterclass in controlled chaos. But he knew it wouldn't be enough. They had an ace up their sleeve.
"Order!" Stern bellowed. "Mr. Stark, your flippancy is noted. Perhaps you'll take this more seriously when you hear from one of your own. The committee calls Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes to the stand."
A hush fell over the room. The air crackled with a new, more personal tension.
Rhodey walked to the witness table, his face a mask of stone. He didn't look at Tony. The cameras swarmed, flashing between the two men, the narrative writing itself in the space between them: *Brothers in Arms, Torn Asunder*.
Tony's smile finally vanished. He watched his best friend take the oath, a cold knot forming in his stomach. This was the real attack.
"Colonel Rhodes," Stern said, his voice now slick with false sympathy, "could you please read from the report you prepared for the Air Force regarding the Stark 'Iron Man' suit?"
Rhodey's jaw was tight. He picked up the document, his hands stiff. His voice was low, strained, as he began to read. "The suit, designated Iron Man, presents a complex and potentially catastrophic threat profile… Its offensive capabilities are unparalleled… In the wrong hands, it could destabilize entire regions…"
Each word was a hammer blow, chipping away at Tony's public persona. He wasn't a hero anymore; he was a threat. A liability. He felt the weight of every eye in the room, the judgment, the fear. He felt the sting of betrayal, sharp and deep, even though he knew Rhodey was just doing his job.
In the gallery, Paul's calm demeanor never wavered. He discreetly took out his phone, the screen glowing faintly in his lap. His thumb moved with quiet precision across the glass. A single message was sent to a secure server, its only content a simple command: *"Baymax, it's showtime."*
"Colonel," Stern said, his voice dripping with triumph, "your report also contains video evidence, I believe? Let's play the footage for the committee. Let's show the American people the truth about this so-called 'prosthesis'."
All eyes turned to the large screen behind the committee panel. Rhodey looked down at his hands, unable to watch. Tony stared at the blank screen, his face a grim mask.
The screen flickered to life.
But it wasn't footage of Iron Man.
It was grainy, chaotic, night-vision video from a military testing ground. A squad of sleek, silver drones, clearly bearing the Hammer Industries logo, suddenly went haywire. They swiveled, their cannons spitting fire not at the targets, but at the observation tower, at the soldiers scrambling for cover. The audio was a terrifying mix of automated weapon fire, explosions, and panicked screaming.
The scene cut abruptly. Now it was a brightly lit convention hall in Dubai. Justin Hammer was on stage, presenting a line of heavily armed robotic infantry. "The future of the American soldier!" he declared with a flourish. As if on cue, one of the robots malfunctioned, its Gatling gun spinning up and spraying a terrified audience with rubber bullets before it was tackled by security.
The screen cut again. A port in Manila. A Hammer-tech naval cannon, during a live-fire demonstration for foreign dignitaries, suddenly pivoted and blew a massive hole in a nearby cargo ship.
The hearing room was utterly silent. The only sound was the whirring of the cameras.
Justin Hammer looked like he'd seen a ghost. His face was ashen, slick with sweat. "That's—that's not—that's classified!" he stammered, half-rising from his seat. "That footage is doctored! It's a lie!"
Senator Stern was frozen, his mouth hanging open, his face a kaleidoscope of shock, confusion, and raw fury. His carefully constructed case had just been blown to smithereens in the most public way imaginable.
Tony, who had been slumped in his chair, slowly straightened up. The corner of his mouth twitched, then pulled into a slow, dangerous smile. He stood, and the room held its breath.
"It seems the truth," he said, his voice ringing with newfound power, "is a little more complicated than you thought, Senator." He gestured to the screen, where footage of Hammer's fiascos was now playing on a loop. "*That* is what happens when you try to replicate my work. You get cheap knock-offs that get people killed. You want my property? You can't have it."
He turned, his gaze sweeping over the room, over the cameras, over the entire world watching him.
"But I did you a big favor. I have successfully privatized world peace."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"What more do you want? For what I've done for this country… and the world? I am Iron Man. The suit and I are one. To turn over the Iron Man suit would be to turn over myself, which is tantamount to indentured servitude or prostitution, depending on what state you're in. You can't have it."
He spread his hands wide, a gesture of both offering and defiance. "My bond is with the American people. And I will serve this country in my own way. Trust me."
He held up two fingers in a peace sign, flashed a billion-dollar smile, and the room exploded. It wasn't just applause; it was a roar of approval, a wave of relief and adoration that washed over the defeated committee. Pepper was on her feet, clapping through her tears. Rhodey looked up, a slow, grudging smile finally breaking through his stony expression.
Tony Stark hadn't just won. He'd redefined the game.
…
Miles away, in a room lit only by the cold, blue glow of a single monitor, a figure watched the live feed. The screen was filled with Tony Stark's triumphant, smiling face.
The figure's hand, encased in a black tactical glove, clenched into a fist, the leather creaking in the silence. The screen's light reflected in a pair of cold, merciless eyes, eyes that held no admiration for the hero, only a chilling, predatory focus on the man.
"He's good," a voice rasped, low and guttural, laced with a thick Russian accent. "He plays the crowd like a fiddle."
A second figure emerged from the shadows, holding a tablet displaying Tony's full bio, his family, his company, his weaknesses.
"He has a son now," the second man noted. "Paul Stark. The one with the bike. Another genius."
The first figure's eyes narrowed, a flicker of something dark and ancient moving within them. He watched Tony basking in the applause on the screen, a symbol of everything he despised: arrogance, power, and American exceptionalism.
"A man who declares himself a god…" the Russian voice murmured, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "Soon, the world will watch as their god bleeds."
The game had just changed. And a new, far deadlier player was about to make his first move.