In the second-floor living room of the villa, Tony and Henry stood side by side before the panoramic window, watching the red and gold armor land smoothly below.
The suit disassembled itself with mechanical grace, every movement precise and full of industrial beauty.
"I have to admit, this chauffeur service is impressive," Henry said, swirling his half-finished whiskey with a teasing smirk.
"I just hope the passenger experience wasn't too rough. You think we'll get a one-star review for reckless flying or attempted murder during the flight?"
"Please," Tony rolled his eyes, joining Henry at the bar and pouring a drink for himself.
"That wasn't a passenger, it was a bag of talking trash that needed to be dumped. Besides, Jarvis's service is flawless—way better than yours. He doesn't bring up people's ancestry while tossing out garbage."
"That's because he's an old electron with no sense for human language," Henry shrugged.
"But honestly, we might need an upgrade. This place is starting to feel like a public restroom—people wandering in and out, no doorman at all."
Tony's face turned serious, setting down his glass.
"That's exactly what I was thinking. How did Fury break in? Jarvis, were you napping? Or did some Japanese singing AI distract you from your security protocols?"
"I'm sorry, sir," Jarvis responded, sounding almost innocent.
"My sensors detected no signs of life in the living room until Mr. Fury's sudden appearance. There was no evidence of conventional intrusion."
"That sounds like serious stealth tech," Tony mused, eyes lighting up.
"A device that blocks all standard detection? Interesting. I'm definitely upgrading you with high-resolution radar and anti-photon tech. Next time someone sneaks in wearing a trench coat and an eyepatch—like a bad novel villain—I want you to slice them up like sashimi."
"I support that," Henry agreed, then eyed Tony sharply.
"But tell me, dear brother, were you really so clueless about Fury and his agency? Have you been so caught up with welding you've ignored what's happening beyond the garage?"
"Why would I care?" Tony shot back, unbothered.
"My time is priceless—I use it to invent things that change the world, party for the global economy, and date women who inspire me. Not to memorize agency names that sound like IRS leftovers."
"So seriously, you don't know?" Henry was incredulous, feeling his blood pressure climb.
"Tony, does your mind hold anything except phone numbers and car specs? That supercomputer of yours runs with less than 256K of memory for real information!"
"Hey! My brain is the world's greatest asset!" Tony protested, indignant.
"I only need to remember the important things. Like, there was this model—Candice—last week, and her measurements were—"
"Stop!" Henry groaned, rubbing his forehead.
"You hormone-controlled amoeba! A few months ago, you and I got so bored we hacked every government database in North America—including that Strategic Homeland Defense whatever-it-is. You even mocked them for having firewalls softer than wet wipes, and for storing less interesting secrets than your magazines!"
Tony paused, gears obviously turning, then finally snapped his fingers in recognition.
"Oh! That. Boring Tuesday afternoon, wasn't it? I delete that kind of trivial memory—just like forgetting how many models I've slept with: not worth tracking."
Henry sighed deeply, certain he was suffering in this life for sins in a previous one.
"Jarvis," he said, resigned,
"Pull up the so-called 'unimportant' agency's info and educate my brother before his brain turns completely to mulch."
"Yes, sir."
Moments later, a massive holographic projection filled the living room, rolling out yellowed photographs and stamped "top secret" files.
"The Strategic Scientific Reserve, established during the Second World War, was dedicated to fighting Nazi Germany's Hydra division…"
At first, Tony wasn't impressed, arms crossed and face casual. But then, familiar faces flashed onscreen—Howard Stark, Peggy Carter, Abraham Erskine…
His father, his 'aunt' Peggy, and the mind behind the original Super Soldier process.
"After the war, the SSR merged with several departments—including the OSS—to form the Strategic Homeland Defense Attack and Logistics Agency. Its mission: counter global threats and maintain peace," Jarvis recited.
One image showed Howard and Peggy, proud, youthfully determined, with the agency's eagle-and-shield emblem behind them.
Tony's sarcasm faded. He stepped forward, staring as if he could almost reach out and touch his father's face.
"Dad… Aunt Peggy," he whispered. His voice trembled with awe, confusion, a hint of loss.
"They started all of this? Why'd they never tell me?"
"Maybe because you were in diapers, focused on stealing candy," Henry said, his tone softening as he put a reassuring hand on Tony's shoulder.
"But trust me—there's more."
He pointed out another figure, clad in the stars and stripes, holding a round shield.
"The agency's most famous project was the Super Soldier program. And their ace: Captain America, Steve Rogers—the living legend."
Tony looked at the heroic, idealistic face on screen, then back at his spirited, youthful father.
For a long moment, he was silent.
All his certainty about his father felt newly fragile; what he'd known was only a sliver of the man's secret life.
Henry could only sigh inside.
Beneath all Tony's bluster, there was change, even if it wasn't always visible. He had grown since his time in Afghanistan.
Maybe not enough, but with his superhero brother around, Tony's confidence was utterly over-the-top—no more anxiety.
"Of course, the SSR did a lot of good," Henry went on, voice turning dry,
"but they also made some truly boneheaded moves. Ever heard of Project Paperclip? They recruited ex-Nazi scientists to battle the Soviets. Understandable… except among them was Red Skull's mad genius, Arnim Zola."
Tony frowned, unease flickering in his eyes.
"So?"
Henry's laugh rang out, sharp and knowing.