Outside Los Angeles, in a sprawling Malibu beachfront mansion, Tony sat alone in his subterranean laboratory, the negative-first floor shrouded in darkness. The lights were off, the air heavy with silence, not even broken by the usual chatter of JARVIS, his ever-loyal AI companion. JARVIS, with his finely tuned emotional intelligence, knew better than to interrupt. His master was teetering on the edge of a psychological precipice—fear and uncertainty warring within him. This was a hurdle Tony had to clear on his own. No amount of external prodding could force him over it.
Tony's mind was a fucking mess, tangled like a ball of barbed wire. He was caught in a tug-of-war between dread and fascination over Jason's superpowers. The dread came from the gut-punch realization that Jason could show up at any moment, a one-man wrecking ball ready to obliterate everything Tony had built—his empire, his legacy, his life. The fascination, though, was pure Stark: that relentless, nerdy curiosity itching to dissect the mechanics of Jason's abilities. What the hell powered that freakshow? Could science crack its code, reverse-engineer it, and spit out a way to neutralize the bastard?
Slumped in his office chair, one hand propping up his head, the other dangling lazily over his thigh, Tony had been frozen in that pose for hours. His eyes were glassy, staring into the void of his own thoughts. It wasn't until the first faint rays of dawn crept through the lab's ventilation shaft, painting slivers of gold across the cold concrete floor, that he snapped out of it. He groaned, dragging himself upright, joints creaking from the prolonged stillness. Rubbing his face with both hands, he scrubbed away the fog of exhaustion, trying to kickstart his brain.
"JARVIS," He muttered, voice rough from disuse, "Fire up the TV."
The AI's response was cautious, almost gentle. "Sir, your emotional state is… precarious. I'd advise against watching television right now."
Tony let out a bitter chuckle, the sound dripping with self-deprecation. "Come on, JARVIS. I've been in the arms-dealing game since I could grow a beard. Every damn day, some talking head on the news shits all over me—calling me a war profiteer, a merchant of death, you name it. I'm used to it. Turn the fucking thing on."
"As you wish, sir," JARVIS replied, his tone neutral but tinged with reluctance.
The massive flat-screen mounted on the lab wall flickered to life, tuned to the morning news. The anchor, a woman with a practiced air of solemnity, was mid-broadcast, her voice heavy as she recounted the carnage from the previous night's clash with Jason. "Last night's confrontation resulted in devastating losses: over three hundred police officers, two hundred soldiers, more than a hundred Stark Industries security personnel, and several dozen civilian bystanders perished. This tragedy, unfolding in the heart of the world's preeminent military power, has sent shockwaves across the nation—especially as it was broadcast live, leaving an indelible scar on the American psyche."
The screen flashed to grim statistics, red numbers ticking up like a body count in a warzone. Jason, once just a high-profile crook, had eclipsed even the most notorious figures in recent memory. He was no longer a mere criminal; he was a fucking nightmare, the kind that kept government officials and civilians alike awake, sweating through their sheets.
Tony's chest tightened as the numbers seared into his brain. He wasn't some bleeding-heart philanthropist—hell, he'd built his fortune selling weapons that turned entire cities to ash—but he wasn't a complete sociopath either. The weight of those deaths pressed down on him, each one a jagged reminder of his failure. If he hadn't underestimated Jason, if he'd done his goddamn homework, if he'd been less of a cocky asshole, maybe those people would still be breathing. His jaw clenched, a dull ache spreading through his chest.
After a long silence, he spoke, his voice low but firm. "JARVIS, through the Stark Charitable Foundation, wire five hundred thousand dollars to the families of every victim. And for the Stark Industries security team—those hundred-plus guys—add another five hundred grand in condolence payments."
"Understood, sir," JARVIS replied promptly.
Tony sank back into his chair, drained. Throwing money at the problem was all he could do right now, a feeble attempt to quiet the guilt gnawing at his conscience. It wasn't enough, but it was something.
The TV cut to street interviews, reporters shoving microphones in the faces of random passersby, asking for their takes on the disaster. The responses were a brutal mix of anger and despair.
"The military and the government are fucking useless," One man spat, his face red with frustration. "They get billions in funding every year, and they still let a bunch of goddamn robbers pull off heist after heist."
Another, a woman clutching her purse, didn't hold back. "Jason is a walking catastrophe. He was just a thug before, but now with those freaky powers? If the government doesn't put a bullet in his head soon, he'll bring the whole damn world to its knees."
Then came the gut-punch. A scruffy guy in a flannel shirt sneered into the camera. "Hey, Tony Stark, your precious Iron Armor suit is a steaming pile of dogshit. If you hadn't been so busy jerking off to your own ego, if you hadn't poked the bear, those hundreds of people wouldn't be dead right now."
Tony's face twitched, a muscle in his cheek jumping as the words hit home. He wanted to be pissed—wanted to tell that nobody to go fuck himself—but the guy wasn't wrong. Given Jason's superpowers, the suit had been about as useful as a paperweight. Maybe it was never as badass as Tony thought. Maybe he'd been high on his own hype, deluded into thinking he was untouchable.
As self-doubt clawed at him, JARVIS's voice cut through. "Sir, Miss Potts is here."
Tony glanced at the security feed on another screen. Pepper Potts was outside, being thoroughly frisked by his upgraded security detail. After last night's shitshow, Tony had tripled down on protection. The mansion was a fortress now—armed guards and armored tanks patrolled a five-kilometer radius, and a heavily armed helicopter sat on the roof, ready to whisk him away at the first sign of Jason. Pepper, caught in the gauntlet of his paranoia, was undergoing a meticulous ten-minute screening before she could even step inside.
Finally, she entered the lab, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. Tony didn't look up, his eyes glued to the TV as another round of venomous comments poured in. Pepper's brow furrowed, her patience wearing thin at the barrage of criticism.
"Mute!" She snapped, and the TV went silent instantly.
She grabbed a rolling chair, pulled it up across from Tony, and sat down, her gaze locking onto his. Up close, he looked like hell—his face pale, eyes dull and bloodshot, like he'd been dragged through a warzone and left to rot. Last night had clearly fucked him up, keeping him awake, tormenting him with every mistake.
Pepper's heart ached, but she wasn't here to coddle him. Leaning forward, she grabbed his hands, her grip tight and unyielding. "How long are you gonna wallow in this shitshow of self-pity?"
Tony looked up, his eyes hazy, lost. The vulnerability in his expression angered her even more.
She didn't let up. "Jason's out there, probably blowing your money on hookers and private jets, living it up while you sit here moping. Doesn't that make you fucking furious? Don't you ache for the people who died because of this mess? Don't those assholes on TV, shitting on your name, make you want to prove them wrong?"
Tony's voice was hoarse, raw. "I'm pissed, Pepper. I'm gutted. I'm fucking furious. But what the hell am I supposed to do about it?"
"You're supposed to be a goddamn genius," She shot back, her tone sharp as a blade. "The great Tony Stark, inventor extraordinaire. So get off your ass and build something that can blow Jason's head off."
He gave a hollow laugh, shaking his head. "The Iron Armor suit was my magnum opus, Pepper. My pride and joy. And in front of Jason's powers, it was like a fucking toddler's toy—useless, pathetic."
"Then build something better," She said, her eyes boring into his. "Make a weapon that makes the suit look like a fucking prototype."
Tony sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I don't know if I can. I don't even know if science can take down whatever the hell Jason's got going on."
Pepper leaned closer, her voice steady, unwavering. "Listen to me, Tony. If you can't stop Jason, no one can. You're the only shot this world's got."
Her words hit like a jolt of adrenaline, sparking something deep in Tony's chest. Warmth spread through him, chasing away the cold dread that had settled in his bones. For the first time in hours, a faint smirk tugged at his lips.
"Why the hell do you have so much faith in me?" He teased, some of his old swagger creeping back. "Don't tell me you're secretly in love with me."
Pepper rolled her eyes, but a smile broke through. "You pay me too damn well, Stark. I'm not about to let you get replaced by some cheapskate CEO."
They locked eyes, and for a moment, the weight of the world lifted. They both laughed, the sound cutting through the oppressive gloom of the lab. For the first time since the shit hit the fan, a sliver of hope—warm and bright—pierced the darkness clouding Tony's mind.
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