The thing about Friday nights is… they're like Vegas.
They start classy, and by the end, someone's trying to arm-wrestle a traffic cone.
"Alright, alright, tell me this isn't the best nachos you've ever had," Sam declared, waving a cheese-dripping tortilla chip like it was a royal scepter.
"It's soggy," I said.
"It's authentic," Sam shot back.
"Authentically soggy," I corrected, sipping my beer.
Sam looked personally wounded. Across the table, Eddie snorted into his drink. "Becker, you'd complain about heaven if the clouds weren't the right shade of white."
"That's because heaven doesn't do decent nachos either," I said, leaning back in my chair. "Anyway, nachos aren't supposed to collapse under the weight of a single tomato slice. That's not food, that's a war crime."
Priya, our resident voice of reason (and unfortunately, the one who always remembered exactly how dumb we were the night before), rolled her eyes. "Can you two stop talking about soggy triangles? I'm trying to get drunk in peace."
"Cheers to that," Sam said, raising his glass. "To nachos, and friends, and getting wasted enough to forget that I still owe my landlord three hundred bucks."
We clinked glasses like the functional alcoholics we were and went back to the important work of destroying our livers. The bar was busy, the kind of place where you could hear three different bad karaoke versions of "Sweet Caroline" depending on which way you tilted your head.
Then, without warning, the TV over the bar flickered. Some commercial cut off mid-sentence, and the screen switched to a movie channel.
The opening notes of Alan Silvestri's score hit, and the entire bar seemed to quiet just a little.
"Oh hell yeah," Eddie said, turning to watch. "Final battle scene. Avengers: Endgame."
Sure enough, there he was, Iron Man, battered, bloodied, and staring Thanos in the face.
The Snap scene.
I already knew exactly how it ended, but judging from the hushed reverence around me, you'd think we were watching the moon landing.
Sam whistled low. "Man… still gives me chills every time. The guy had guts."
Priya nodded. "Still think he should've handed the stones to Captain Marvel, though. She might've been able to take the hit."
Eddie shook his head. "Nah. Suit was designed to channel the stones' power. Stark probably built it with that exact moment in mind. No one else could've done it."
And then, because I apparently have no survival instincts when it comes to public opinion, I snorted.
Loudly.
"Yeah, or... hear me out, maybe Mr. Genius Billionaire could've used his superbrain to figure out literally any other plan that didn't involve nuking himself. But no, gotta go out in a blaze of glory so everyone remembers what a smug, self-sacrificing legend he was."
Sam turned in his chair. "Oh no. Don't start."
"What? I'm just saying, the guy's a walking ego with a jetpack. Everything he touches turns into a PR opportunity. Yeah, he saved the world, but also… maybe stop creating the disasters you then have to clean up?"
Priya groaned. "You're impossible."
Eddie jabbed a finger at me. "This is why you don't get invited to Marvel marathons. You're an anti-fan. Like, professionally."
I shrugged. "I'm just allergic to hero worship. Tony Stark is like if Elon Musk had better facial hair and a moral compass that only worked half the time."
Sam pointed his beer at me. "Blasphemy. And also… kind of accurate, but still blasphemy."
We were still mid-debate when a shadow fell over the table.
"Order for Becker?" a voice asked.
I looked up. It was the bartender except I didn't recognize him. The regular guy was a bald dude with a goatee who called everyone "chief." This guy was… tall, sharp-suited, clean-shaven, and way too calm for a place where a guy in the corner was currently trying to sing "Bohemian Rhapsody" in falsetto.
"Uh… yeah, that's me," I said.
He set down a glass of something golden and fizzy. "On the house."
I narrowed my eyes. "What's the catch?"
The man's lips curled into something between a smile and a smirk. "Consider it… an upgrade."
Before I could ask what the hell that meant, he was gone. Just… vanished into the crowd.
"Dude," Eddie said, leaning in. "Free drink. Why are you staring at it like it owes you money?"
"Because I don't trust mysterious compliments from strangers," I said, and then because I'm also a hypocrite, I took a sip mid-argument.
It was smooth. Too smooth.
The rest of the night blurred together after that, more jokes, more drinks, more arguments about whether Thor's hammer could crush Captain America's shield (Sam said yes, Eddie said no, Priya threatened to leave us at the bar).
Eventually, we called it. They scattered to their apartments. I called an Uber.
Halfway home, the world started tilting. My brain felt like someone had swapped it out for a lava lamp.
I remember fumbling with my keys. I remember my couch. And then —
Black.
---
I woke to the sound of… beeping. Not the obnoxious "you left your fridge open" kind, but sharp, clean, digital tones. My eyes opened to see a sleek, glowing blue interface floating in the air like a hologram straight out of a sci-fi movie.
Blinking against the light, I realized I wasn't looking at a ceiling.
I was looking at… a hologram.
[J.A.R.V.I.S. SYSTEM BOOTING…]
Welcome, Leonardo Becker.
I just stared at it.
"…Okay. Either I'm still drunk… or my living room just went full Stark Industries."
Then the text flickered. Letters warped and scrambled, like a bad TV signal trying to settle on the right channel.
[IDENTITY SYNCING…]
[…]
Welcome, Mr. Stark.
I sat up fast.
"…Oh, hell no."
---
To be continued...