[Kunar Province, Afghanistan]
"I feel like you're driving me to a court-martial. This is crazy. What did I do?"
Tony Stark swirled his glass of scotch—which, he noted with disappointment, was nowhere near the quality Sebastian kept in the secret cellar back home. He was sitting in the back of a Humvee, surrounded by young soldiers who looked at him like he was a rockstar.
"I feel like you're going to pull over and snuff me. What, you're not allowed to talk?" Tony teased the soldier next to him.
The soldier grinned nervously. "I can talk, sir. It's just... you're Tony Stark."
"I am. And you are?"
"Forest, sir."
Tony chatted, relaxed. The desert heat was oppressive, but the AC in the Humvee was blasting. He thought about the strawberry tart he had earlier. He thought about Sebastian's warning. "I shall remain here."
I should have brought him, Tony thought idly. Not for protection, obviously. But this scotch is terrible.
"Mr. Stark!" The soldier in the front seat turned around. "Can I take a picture with you?"
"Yes, it's very rare," Tony quipped, taking off his sunglasses. "I don't want to see this on your MySpace page."
The soldier raised his camera. "Please, no gang signs."
"No, throw it up. I'm kidding. Yeah, peace. I love peace. I'd be out of a job with peace."
BOOM.
The world turned sideways. The Humvee ahead of them erupted into a ball of fire.
"Contact left! Contact left!"
Tony's ears rang. The transition from luxury to war was instantaneous. He scrambled out of the vehicle as bullets pinged against the armor. He saw Forest—the kid he was just talking to—drop to the ground, lifeless.
Panic, cold and sharp, seized Tony's chest. He dove behind a rock, fumbling for his phone. He needed to call Rhodey. He needed...
A shell landed five feet away.
Tony stared at it. It was a Stark Industries missile. The white logo—STARK—stared back at him like an accusation.
My bomb, he thought.
It detonated.
Tony was thrown backward. He didn't feel the impact, only a sudden, searing fire in his chest. He ripped his shirt open. Blood was pouring out, but worse, he could feel something moving inside him toward his heart. Shrapnel.
His vision blurred. The blue sky of Afghanistan turned gray.
Sebastian, he thought, his consciousness fading. You're fired.
[Malibu, California. 12 hours behind.]
"Tony is brilliant, Sebastian, but he's erratic."
Obadiah Stane sat on the plush leather sofa, his bald head gleaming under the recessed lighting. He swirled a glass of whiskey, looking at the butler with a mix of disdain and unease. "He shouldn't be going to active war zones."
"The Young Master enjoys the spotlight, Mr. Stane," Sebastian replied. He stood by the bar, polishing a crystal glass. His movements were hypnotic. Circle, wipe, shine. "He believes himself invincible."
"And you encourage it," Obadiah grunted. "You've coddled him since Howard died. Sometimes I think you're the reason he never grew up."
Sebastian's hand stopped moving. He turned slowly to face Obadiah. The polite, professional smile was there, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I merely serve the Stark family. I ensure Tony has what he desires."
"And what happens when he desires something that gets him killed?" Obadiah challenged.
Crack.
The crystal glass in Sebastian's hand didn't shatter; it turned to dust. Fine, glittering powder cascaded from his white glove onto the counter.
Obadiah jumped, spilling his drink. "Jesus! What the hell?"
Sebastian didn't look at the dust. He was staring at the wall, or rather, through the wall, toward the East. His pupils had dilated into vertical slits. The air in the room suddenly smelled of sulfur and burnt ozone.
A deep, spiritual thread—the contract etched into his very essence—pulled tight. It was a sensation Sebastian hadn't felt in decades.
The soul is flickering.
"Sebastian?" Obadiah's voice trembled. "What's wrong with you?"
Sebastian looked down at the pile of glass dust. He brushed his hands off, his face returning to a mask of absolute calm.
"My apologies, Mr. Stane. It appears I have applied too much pressure."
"Too much pressure?" Obadiah stared at the powder. That was reinforced crystal.
"I am afraid I must cut our evening short," Sebastian said, his voice dropping an octave, losing all its warmth. He walked past Obadiah, and for a moment, the large man felt like a mouse in the presence of a viper.
"Where are you going?" Obadiah demanded. "Tony is in Afghanistan!"
Sebastian opened the front door. The wind howled outside, unusually strong for a California evening.
"Precisely," Sebastian whispered. "And someone has dared to damage my property."
He stepped out into the night. He didn't walk to a car. He walked toward the edge of the cliff overlooking the ocean.
"Sebastian!" Obadiah yelled, running to the door.
But when he looked out, the butler was gone. There was only the sound of the waves, and far in the distance, a streak of black smoke cutting through the clouds, moving faster than any jet Obadiah had ever seen.
[End of Chapter 2]
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