Oliver Throne leaned against the cold glass of the observation deck, watching Tony Stark with the practiced eye of a man who had already read the script.
Tony was pacing, his movements jerky and laden with the kinetic energy of a man who had just looked death in the face and blinked first. He was recounting the horrors of his two-month "cave tour," but Oliver could see the shift. The billionaire playboy was dying; the hero was being born.
"I had my eyes opened," Tony said, his voice cracking the silence of the room as he stepped toward the cluster of microphones. "I came to realize that I have more to contribute to this world than just making things that blow up.
Therefore, effective immediately, I am closing the weapons division of Stark Industries."
The silence that followed was deafening. It was the sound of a billion-dollar empire shifting its axis. Reporters, who had been lazily scribbling notes about his "miraculous return," nearly fell off their chairs.
They didn't even have professional questions ready; they just stared, mouths agape.
Obadiah Stane—the old fox—reacted with the speed of a predator. He was on his feet in seconds, a wide, paternal smile plastered onto his face as he clamped a hand on Tony's shoulder, subtly steering him away from the podium to play damage control.
"Okay, everyone, clearly Tony is still recovering! Today's focus is his safe return, and..."
Nobody cared about Obadiah's PR spin. They swarmed Tony like sharks smelling blood in the water.
Oliver stayed back, leaning toward Pepper Potts. Her face was a mask of shock and burgeoning admiration.
"Surprised, Pepper?" Oliver quipped. "Does the new, socially conscious Tony Stark more likeable?"
"I... yeah," Pepper stammered, her eyes never leaving Tony. "He's my boss, but... yeah."
Oliver chuckled and turned his attention to Agent Phil Coulson, who was tucked into a corner, already murmuring into a secure line. Once Coulson finished his report, Oliver beckoned him toward a private parlor.
"So, Coulson. What's the burning question of the day?" Oliver asked, dropping into a leather armchair.
"Mr. Throne—or is it oliver? I believe you prefer the surname last in the States," Coulson said, his tone as level as a horizon line.
"Oliver is fine. Or Blue, if you're feeling friendly." Oliver glanced at the agent's business card. "Homeland Strategic Defense, Enforcement, and Logistics Division? S.H.I.E.L.D. You guys really need a better acronym. How about just 'S.H.I.E.L.D.'?"
Coulson didn't even blink at the suggestion. "We'll take it under advisement. Now, Blue... we have records of you returning to New York on one of Mr. Stark's private planes, but we have absolutely no record of you ever leaving the country.
Care to explain how you end up in a terrorist-controlled sector of Afghanistan?"
Oliver felt a spark of amusement. Stark's holding his tongue, then. Good. "I was on the plane with Tony when we went out. I'm just very good at staying out of the way."
"Colonel Rhodes says he never saw you on the manifest," Coulson countered.
"Well, the Colonel is a busy man. Maybe he needs his eyes checked," Oliver shrugged. It was the truth, in a way. Rhodes hadn't seen Oliver Parker; he'd seen a middle-aged flight engineer thanks to the Transformation Technique.
"Why save him, Blue? What do you know about the Ten Rings?"
"My job is done, Coulson. Tony's home. If you want to know about the terrorists, ask the guy who lived with them for two months. I'm just the hired help."
Coulson stared at him for a long beat, likely cataloging every micro-expression. Seeing Oliver's blatant lack of cooperation—and knowing his proximity to the now-volatile Tony Stark—Coulson stood up.
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Parker. Don't go leaving the city anytime soon."
As Coulson exited, Hogan—Tony's loyal bulldog of a bodyguard—appeared in the doorway. "Tony wants you at the villa. Now."
The Stark mansion in Malibu was a temple of glass and silicon. As the car pulled up, Oliver looked directly into one of the security cameras.
"Hi, Jarvis. Miss me?"
Oliver was currently using his "Public Persona" transformation—a handsome, version of himself modeled after a famous actor from his previous life. He planned to keep his real teenage face for his life in Queens and use this face for the "super heros."
[Welcome back, Mr. Throne,] Jarvis's smooth, synthesized voice echoed through the hidden speakers. [Master Tony is in the workshop. He is... preoccupied.]
Inside, Oliver found Pepper pacing the lobby, clutching a stack of legal documents and looking like she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
"Pepper, how big is your hand?" Tony's voice crackled through a nearby tablet.
"What?" Pepper blinked, looking at her palm. "Oliver's here. Do you want him to come down?"
"Blue! Perfect!" Tony's face appeared on the screen, looking disheveled. "Get down here. I'm having a minor... mechanical disagreement."
Pepper looked hesitant. Tony's workshop was a sanctum; even Obadiah wasn't allowed in without an invite.
"Go on, Pepper," Oliver encouraged, biting into an apple he'd lifted from a fruit bowl. "Trust me, he needs you more than he needs me right now."
A series of muffled exclamations and a very un-Stark-like yelp echoed from the basement. Oliver smiled.
He knew exactly what was happening: Tony was trying to swap out his chest piece and had realized he couldn't reach the internal wires.
Ten minutes later, the two emerged. Pepper was flustered, smoothing her skirt and avoiding Oliver's gaze. "We were just... Tony is my boss, you know. It was a medical emergency."
"Sure it was," Oliver winked.
Pepper fled the room with her documents, leaving Tony standing there, looking uncharacteristically sheepish.
"So," Oliver said, leaning against the bar. "You confessed yet?"
"Why would I do that?" Tony retorted. "The tension is half the fun. Anyway, I've handled your little request."
Oliver straightened up. This was the moment.
"The space flight," Tony continued. "I've pulled some strings. There's a scientist named Reed Richards. He's a genius, but he's broke. I just bought a fifty-million-dollar seat on his upcoming private space station launch. You're going up as his 'Special Technical Consultant.'"
Tony paused, looking Oliver in the eye. "Space isn't a playground, kid. Why do you want to go up there so badly?"
"I'm looking for a spark, Tony," Oliver replied cryptically. "You found yours in a cave. Mine is in the stars."
"Fine. Keep your secrets," Tony grumbled.
Tony spent the next several hours dragging Oliver through his designs for the Mark II armor. He seemed convinced that Oliver—despite knowing nothing about engineering—had a "vision" for the future.
And he wasn't wrong. Oliver couldn't build a toaster, but he knew what the Mark III, the Mark V, and the Hulkbuster looked like. He dropped "suggestions" about gold-titanium alloys, integrated flight stabilization, and weapon-to-weight ratios that were suspiciously accurate.
By ten at night, even Tony was flagging. "Alright, enough. I'm starving. I made an appointment for you to meet the 'Little Scientist' at a Chinese place in the city. Let's go."
The meeting with Reed Richards was a collision of two worlds. Reed was a man whose intellect seemed to outpace his ability to tie his own shoes. He was brilliant, socially awkward, and currently desperate for funding.
Oliver sat back, watching Tony and Reed trade theories on biological genes and mechanical weapons. It was like watching two gods argue over the blueprints of the universe.
Oliver didn't contribute much to the science. He just ate. Maintaining a Transformation Technique for fourteen hours a day was a massive drain on his physical energy. He needed the calories to keep his chakra from bottoming out.
Finally, as the tea was being served, the date was set.
"Three days," Reed said, his eyes bright with nervous energy. "The cosmic storm window is narrow. We launch Friday."
Oliver felt a surge of adrenaline. The "Adult Gift Pack" was within reach. In three days, he would be bombarded by the same energy that turned Ben Grimm into a rock monster and Johnny Storm into a human torch.
For an ordinary person, it was a death sentence or a freak accident. For Oliver Throne, it was the ultimate "RMB Player" move—the fastest way to recharge his system and finally stop being the "poorest traveler in history."