The neon lights of the Chinese Theater painted Hollywood Boulevard in garish reds and blues, casting long shadows between the star-studded sidewalk and the steady stream of tourists snapping selfies with costumed street performers. It was the kind of controlled chaos that made surveillance both easier and harder—plenty of cover, but too many variables.
In the shadows near the theater's iconic entrance, two figures conducted business with the casual efficiency of men who'd done this dance before. Savin—built like a bulldozer wearing a expensive suit—approached the nervous-looking man perched on the concrete steps like a bird ready to take flight.
"Well, well," Savin rumbled, his voice carrying the kind of authority that came from bench-pressing small cars. "Look who decided to show up. Can you regulate, my friend?"
Taggert—thin, twitchy, with the pallor of someone who spent too much time indoors mixing chemicals—nodded with the enthusiasm of a man trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. "Yes, absolutely. I can regulate. No problem with the regulation here."
Savin's eyes, small and calculating beneath his pronounced brow, studied the man like a predator sizing up prey. "Are you absolutely, positively, one-hundred-percent sure about that? Because regulation is kind of important in our line of work. Non-regulation tends to lead to... complications."
"Yes!" Taggert's voice cracked slightly. "I mean, yes. Definitely. Regulation is my middle name. Well, not literally, because that would be weird, but metaphorically speaking—"
"Relax, science boy," Savin interrupted, a hint of amusement in his voice. "You're making me nervous, and when I get nervous, I tend to break things. Usually people."
Across the street, wedged between a souvenir shop and a star-shaped food truck, Happy Hogan adjusted his position for the fifteenth time in as many minutes. At fifty-something, with a face that had seen too many tough conversations and not enough sleep, Happy possessed the particular skill set of someone who'd spent years managing the unmanageable. Right now, that meant keeping Tony Stark's best interests at heart while Tony himself was probably off somewhere inventing a new way to give Happy gray hair.
"Come on, come on," Happy muttered under his breath, squinting through the crowd. "Just make the handoff so I can get back to dealing with normal, everyday problems. Like exploding robots and alien invasions."
He watched as Savin produced a sleek metallic briefcase that caught the theater's neon glow. The exchange was smooth, professional—too professional for Happy's liking.
"Here's your party favor," Savin said, extending the case with theatrical flair. "It's a decent batch, premium quality. My boss spares no expense when it comes to customer satisfaction. Don't say I never did nothing for you."
Taggert clutched the briefcase like it contained the secret to cold fusion. "Thank you... I mean, really, thank you for understanding. Not everyone would be so... accommodating about the whole regulation situation."
"Hey, we're all professionals here," Savin replied with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Just remember—regulation is key. No regulation, no more business. No more business, no more you. Capisce?"
As Savin turned to lumber away into the crowd, Happy made his decision. Years of working security had taught him that timing was everything, and right now, his timing was about to be terrible in all the right ways.
He crossed the street with the purposeful stride of a man who'd walked into worse situations armed with nothing but stubbornness and a decent health insurance plan. Just as Taggert rose from the theater steps, clutching his prize, Happy executed what he liked to call "The Stark Maneuver"—a carefully calculated accident that looked completely natural.
"Whoa there, buddy!" Happy collided with Taggert with the precision of a heat-seeking missile, sending the briefcase tumbling from the man's grip. The case hit the pavement with a metallic clang and burst open, its mysterious contents scattering across the sidewalk like oversized pills. "Did not see you there!"
"I'm sorry, buddy," Happy said immediately, dropping to his knees with the concern of a good Samaritan. "Let me help you with this. These Hollywood sidewalks are a menace—I'm always telling Tony we should do something about infrastructure, but does he listen? No, he's too busy building flying metal suits."
As they worked together to collect the scattered items—small, cylindrical objects that looked like high-tech vitamins with anger management issues—Happy noticed something that made his years of experience with the impossible kick into high gear. Taggert's skin was glowing with an ominous red light, pulsing like a neon sign advertising danger.
"Huh," Happy said conversationally, palming one of the devices with practiced sleight-of-hand. "That's new. And probably not good."
"What's new?" Taggert asked, completely oblivious to his own internal light show.
"Oh, nothing," Happy replied, helping to close the briefcase. "Just Hollywood being Hollywood. You have a good evening now."
Happy began walking away at what he hoped was a casual pace, his mind already racing through protocols and procedures. Call Tony. Call Rhodey. Call someone with bigger guns and fewer questions about overtime pay.
He'd made it maybe twenty feet when a voice like a cement mixer having an argument with a foghorn stopped him dead.
"Hey there, Good Samaritan!"
Happy turned to find Savin approaching with all the subtlety of a freight train wearing a bow tie. The man's smile was wide, friendly, and absolutely terrifying.
"What are you doing out here, buddy?" Savin continued, his voice carrying that particular brand of false joviality that Happy had learned to recognize as a prelude to violence. "You out by yourself tonight? Little solo adventure? Maybe catching the late show? I bet you're the type who likes those foreign films with all the subtitles and emotional complexity."
Happy straightened his shoulders, falling back on decades of dealing with difficult people. "Actually, yeah. Came to see a little movie called 'The Party's Over,' starring you and your chemically-enhanced girlfriend over there." He held up the device he'd palmed, letting it catch the theater's neon glow. "And here's the ticket."
Savin's friendly expression evaporated like morning mist in Death Valley. "No kidding? Well, that's interesting. See, that particular ticket doesn't belong to you, friend. That's what we in the business call 'proprietary technology.'"
"Proprietary, huh?" Happy said, shifting into what Tony had once dubbed his 'pre-violence stance.' "Funny, it was just lying around on the sidewalk. I figured it was littering."
"I appreciate your commitment to civic responsibility," Savin replied, reaching out with a hand the size of a dinner plate. "But I'm going to need that back."
"Yeah, that's not happening," Happy said, and threw the first punch.
Happy Hogan had been in his share of fights over the years. He'd tangled with corporate security, overzealous fans, and the occasional terrorist with delusions of grandeur. He knew how to throw a punch, how to take one, and how to end a fight before it really got started.
What he wasn't prepared for was hitting someone in the face twice—good, solid shots that should have put most people down for the count—and watching his opponent's face glow red and heal itself like something out of a science fiction nightmare.
"Okay," Happy said, staring at Savin's completely unmarked face. "That's definitely new."
"Sorry, pal," Savin said with genuine regret. "Nothing personal."
Before Happy could process the full implications of what he was witnessing, Savin grabbed him with the kind of casual strength usually reserved for construction equipment. Happy felt himself lifted off the ground and thrown across the sidewalk like he was made of paper and bad decisions.
He hit the ground hard, his body delivering a comprehensive report on exactly which parts of him were now broken, bruised, or generally unhappy about recent events. Through the haze of pain, he heard voices that sounded like they were coming from the bottom of a well.
"Savin!" Taggert's voice cut through the night air, high-pitched with the kind of panic usually reserved for tax audits and surprise visits from one's mother-in-law.
"What now?" Savin replied, sounding more annoyed than concerned.
"Help! Help me! I can't—something's wrong! The regulation isn't working!"
Happy managed to lift his head just enough to see Taggert glowing like a Christmas tree having a seizure. The red light was intensifying, pulsing faster, and the air around him was beginning to shimmer with heat.
"Oh," Happy said to nobody in particular. "This is bad."
The explosion, when it came, redefined Happy's understanding of the word 'loud.' The blast tore through the Chinese Theater with the enthusiasm of a toddler through a toy store, turning the iconic landmark into abstract art rendered in fire and debris. Happy felt himself picked up by the shockwave and deposited somewhere that his inner ear insisted was both up and sideways at the same time.
When the world stopped spinning and his ears stopped ringing quite so enthusiastically, Happy found himself pinned beneath what used to be part of a wall. Through the smoke and flames, he caught sight of Savin walking away from the destruction like he was leaving a casual dinner party, his body glowing red as it healed itself from damage that should have turned him into a very large smear.
"Well," Happy wheezed to the rubble surrounding him, "this is definitely going in the report."
---
Early next day, Cedars-Sinai Medical Center buzzed with the particular energy of a place where very important people received very expensive care while very concerned reporters lurked in hallways hoping for very quotable sound bites. The explosion at the Chinese Theater had made international news, which meant every television in the building was tuned to one news channel or another, creating a constant background hum of speculation and barely contained hysteria.
In room 304, Tony Stark sat beside Happy Hogan's hospital bed like a man trying to solve a particularly complex engineering problem through sheer force of will and inappropriate humor. He'd been there for fourteen hours, maintaining a vigil that consisted primarily of staring at monitors, making sarcastic comments to unconscious people, and perfecting his impression of someone who definitely wasn't blaming himself for everything.
"So," Tony said to the unconscious form of his head of security, "on a scale of one to 'Tony Stark made a bad decision,' how would you rate my suggestion that you keep an eye on suspicious activity? Because I'm thinking this falls somewhere around 'Tony Stark accidentally created artificial intelligence that tried to destroy the world.'"
The machines monitoring Happy's vital signs continued their electronic symphony, which Tony had decided to interpret as either 'you're an idiot' or 'vitals stable,' depending on his mood.
On the television mounted in the corner, a figure in elaborate robes and theatrical makeup was delivering what appeared to be a graduate-level course in intimidation and cultural commentary.
"True story about fortune cookies," the Mandarin said, his voice carrying the kind of gravitas usually reserved for Shakespearean villains and pretentious wine tastings. "They look Chinese, they sound Chinese, but they're actually an American invention. Which is why they're hollow, full of lies, and leave a bad taste in the mouth."
"Wow," Tony muttered, not looking away from Happy. "Someone's been taking drama classes. I bet he practices that voice in the mirror. 'True story about fortune cookies.' Who talks like that?"
The Mandarin continued his performance with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly enjoyed the sound of his own voice. "My disciples just destroyed another cheap American knock-off, The Chinese Theater. A fitting symbol, don't you think? All facade, no substance. Rather like your American dream itself."
"Disciples," Tony repeated. "He has disciples. Of course he has disciples. Can't just have henchmen or employees like a normal megalomaniac. Has to be disciples. Probably makes them call him 'Master' too."
"Mr. President," the Mandarin continued, addressing the camera with the confidence of someone who'd never had to deal with actual governance, "I know this must be getting frustrating, but this season of terror is drawing to a close. Consider it my gift to your nation—a lesson in humility, delivered with precision and artistry. And don't worry, the big one is coming. Your graduation, shall we say."
A nurse entered quietly, moving with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd learned to work around grieving billionaires and their tendency to take up residence in hospital rooms. She was middle-aged, competent-looking, and possessed the particular expression of someone who'd seen enough drama to be unimpressed by most of it.
"Hi," Tony said without looking away from Happy, his voice carrying the kind of casual politeness that suggested his mind was elsewhere.
The nurse startled slightly, apparently not having noticed him sitting in the shadows. "Oh! Mr. Stark. I didn't see you there."
Tony glanced at the television, where the Mandarin was wrapping up his performance with a flourish that would have made Shakespeare weep. "Uh... mind leaving that on? I know it's not exactly relaxing background music, but I like to keep tabs on people who blow up my friends."
"Of course," the nurse replied, making notes on Happy's chart with the kind of careful attention to detail that suggested she was very good at her job. "How are you holding up?"
"Oh, you know," Tony said with a shrug that didn't quite hide the tension in his shoulders. "Living the dream. Friend in a coma, terrorist on television making threats that probably involve more explosions. Tuesday."
The nurse finished her notes and prepared to leave, but Tony's voice stopped her at the door.
"One more thing," he said, finally looking up with the kind of smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Make sure everyone wears their badges. Happy here is a real stickler for proper identification protocols. Plus, my security team has strict instructions not to let anyone in without proper credentials, and they take their job very seriously. Almost as seriously as Happy does, which is saying something."
He paused, looking back at his unconscious friend. "Sunday night PBS 'Downton Abbey'—that's his show. He thinks it's elegant. Refuses to admit he just likes watching rich people argue in fancy costumes, but we all have our guilty pleasures."
With that, Tony Stark stood up, his movement carrying the weight of decisions made and lines crossed. He walked toward the door with the purposeful stride of a man who'd spent the last fourteen hours deciding exactly how angry he was allowed to be.
"Time to go have a conversation with some reporters," he said to the room in general. "This should be fun."
---
The hospital's front entrance had been transformed into a media circus that would have impressed P.T. Barnum. Reporters, camera operators, and various hangers-on clustered around the doors like they were waiting for the second coming, armed with equipment worth more than most people's cars and questions designed to extract maximum drama from minimal information.
"We're here outside Cedars-Sinai Medical Center," announced a reporter with the kind of aggressive enthusiasm that suggested she'd climbed over several colleagues to get this assignment, "awaiting the arrival of Tony Stark. We're hoping to get his reaction to the latest Mandarin attack and what this means for national security."
The crowd murmured with anticipation, cameras swiveling like hungry predators tracking prey. Everyone knew that Tony Stark never met a microphone he couldn't turn into a platform for controlled chaos.
When the hospital doors finally opened, the reaction was immediate and overwhelming. Tony Stark emerged into the California sunshine wearing sunglasses that cost more than most cars, a custom-tailored jacket that somehow looked both casual and worth five figures, and the expression of a man who'd spent considerable time deciding exactly how much trouble he was willing to cause.
The media swarm descended with the enthusiasm of piranha discovering a swimming pool full of tourists.
"Mr. Stark! Mr. Stark!" voices called from every direction, creating a cacophony that would have challenged a jazz festival for pure auditory chaos. "Our sources are telling us that this is another Mandarin attack! Can you confirm? What can you tell us about the investigation?"
Tony walked through the crowd with the practiced ease of someone who'd been navigating hostile press conferences since before most of these reporters had learned to hold a microphone. His eyes were fixed on his car—a sleek piece of automotive engineering that looked like it could achieve orbit if properly motivated—parked at the curb behind a wall of security personnel.
"Mr. Stark, what's your response to the Mandarin's latest message?" shouted one reporter, thrusting a microphone toward Tony's face with the precision of a fencing master.
"Any comment on the security failures that led to this attack?" called another.
"Is it true that your head of security was conducting an unauthorized investigation?" demanded a third.
Tony continued walking, his expression unreadable behind designer sunglasses. He had no intention of giving them the sound bite they wanted—not the one they expected, anyway.
But then one voice cut through the chaos with a question that stopped him like he'd walked into a wall.
"Hey, Mr. Stark!" The voice belonged to a pushy tabloid reporter with the kind of aggressive smirk that suggested he specialized in asking questions that decent people wouldn't. "When is somebody gonna kill this guy? I mean, seriously, when does someone just put this Mandarin freak down like the dog he is? Just sayin'."
The crowd went silent. Cameras swiveled. Microphones adjusted. Everyone understood that something important was about to happen, though none of them were quite prepared for exactly what that might be.
Tony Stark turned slowly to face the reporter who had spoken. He studied the man's face with the intensity of someone examining a particularly interesting piece of technology, taking in the hungry expression, the phone held ready to capture whatever came next, the general air of someone who fed on other people's pain and called it journalism.
For a moment, the silence stretched like a rubber band about to snap.
Then Tony smiled.
"Is that what you want?" he asked, his voice carrying across the suddenly quiet crowd with the clarity of someone who'd learned to command attention through sheer force of personality. "You want someone to kill him? You want blood and vengeance and all that good old-fashioned American justice?"
The reporter's smirk widened. "Well, I mean, someone's gotta do something, right?"
"You know what?" Tony said, removing his sunglasses with the deliberate precision of someone about to do something that couldn't be undone. "You're absolutely right. Someone does need to do something."
His eyes, revealed now without the tinted protection, burned with the kind of fury that most people were smart enough to keep hidden. He looked directly into the reporter's phone camera, and when he spoke, his voice carried the weight of promises and threats in equal measure.
"Here's a little holiday greeting I've been wanting to send to the Mandarin," he said, his tone conversational despite the words that followed. "I just didn't know how to phrase it until now, but you've helped me find the right words. So thank you for that."
The crowd held its collective breath.
"My name is Tony Stark, and I'm not afraid of you," he continued, speaking directly to the camera as if the Mandarin were standing right there. "I know you're a coward—hiding behind robes and theatrics and disciples who do your dirty work while you make speeches about fortune cookies and cultural metaphors. So I've decided something: you just died, pal."
The silence was absolute.
"I'm gonna come get the body," Tony said with the casual confidence of someone discussing weekend plans. "There's no politics here, no committees or Pentagon briefings or bureaucratic red tape. It's just good old-fashioned revenge, and frankly, I'm looking forward to it. There's no Pentagon, no team of experts, no carefully planned operation. It's just you and me."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"And on the off-chance you're actually a man instead of just a costume filled with hot air and delusions of grandeur, here's my home address: 10-8-80 Malibu Point, 90265. I'll leave the door unlocked. Hell, I'll put out some snacks. Make it a party."
The reporter who had started this was grinning like he'd just won the lottery. "Mr. Stark, that's—"
"That's what you wanted, right?" Tony interrupted, turning back to the man with that same dangerous smile. "Blood and vengeance and someone doing something?"
Without waiting for an answer, he reached out and plucked the phone from the reporter's hands with the casual authority of someone who was used to taking whatever he wanted.
"Let me just make sure this uploads properly," he said, examining the device with theatrical concern. "Wouldn't want the sound quality to be poor for something this important."
Then he hurled the phone against the hospital's brick wall, where it exploded into pieces with the satisfaction of something that had been expensive right up until it wasn't.
"Bill me," Tony said to the stunned reporter. "I'm good for it."
He walked to his car with the measured pace of someone who'd just declared war on international television and wanted to make sure everyone had time to process exactly what they'd witnessed.
As he slid behind the wheel, Tony Stark allowed himself one more look at the crowd of reporters, all of whom were frantically trying to process what had just happened and how it was going to change everything.
"JARVIS," he said to the car's AI system as the engine purred to life, "remind me to have a conversation with my insurance company about acts of terrorism and property damage. I have a feeling my premiums are about to go up."
The car pulled away from the curb, leaving behind a crowd of stunned reporters and a challenge that would be broadcast around the world within the hour. The game had changed, the rules were off the table, and everyone knew it.
The question now was simple: who would make the next move, and how many pieces would be left on the board when the dust settled?
—
**ABOARD THE MARAUDER — MAIN DINING AREA**
Harry Potter stepped out of his quarters with the satisfied air of a man who'd finally remembered why shore leave was supposed to be relaxing, even when it involved the kind of therapeutic attention that left him wondering if diplomatic missions were really necessary when home offered such compelling alternatives. His dark hair was still damp from their shared shower, and his emerald eyes held that particular warmth that came from being thoroughly appreciated by exactly the right people.
Behind him, Fleur moved with the fluid grace of a woman who'd successfully reminded her captain exactly why following her into impossible situations had always been his most profitable decision. Her blonde hair caught the ship's ambient lighting like spun gold, and her satisfied smile suggested she was already calculating their next opportunity for "diplomatic consultation."
Shaak Ti followed with the serene composure that somehow made even post-coital bliss look like a form of meditation, though the way her lekku framed her face and the subtle glow in her red eyes suggested that her Force sensitivity had been put to remarkably creative uses over the past several hours.
Val brought up the rear with the predatory satisfaction of a warrior who'd successfully conquered her most challenging opponent and was already looking forward to the next engagement. Her blonde hair was darker from their shared shower, and her movements carried that particular confidence that came from knowing she'd left her mark on someone worth claiming.
All four of them radiated that unmistakable aura of people who'd spent considerable time ensuring each other's complete satisfaction through methods that had absolutely nothing to do with diplomatic protocol.
"Good morning, ladies," Harry called out to the assembled crew members who were already gathered around the dining table, apparently having decided that breakfast was more important than waiting for their captain to finish his "diplomatic briefings." His voice carried that rough edge that came from extensive vocal exercise, though not the kind typically associated with public speaking.
The response was immediate and thoroughly entertained.
"About time," Dacey observed with warrior pragmatism, not looking up from her plate of what appeared to be some kind of exotic fruit that probably cost more than most people's rent. "We were beginning to wonder if you'd forgotten how to navigate your way out of your own quarters."
"Or if you'd decided to extend your 'strategic planning session' through lunch," Daphne added with aristocratic amusement, her ice-blue eyes taking in their slightly disheveled appearance with obvious approval. "Though judging by the fact that you can all still walk in straight lines, I'd say the planning was highly successful."
Susan looked up from her technical tablet with engineering precision. "The ship's environmental systems registered some rather interesting atmospheric fluctuations from the captain's quarters over the past few hours. Nothing concerning from a structural perspective, but definitely... energetic."
Her red hair caught the light as she gestured at her readings with obvious scientific interest. "I'm particularly impressed by the harmonic resonance patterns. Very sophisticated work."
"Ze mathematical precision was quite elegant," Fleur observed with satisfied pride, settling into her chair with movements that somehow managed to be both graceful and smugly territorial. "Ze way ze ship's magical enhancement matrices responded to ze... collaborative energy... *magnifique*."
"The Force suggests," Shaak Ti added with that musical voice that made even casual conversation sound like poetry, "that our connection has deepened in ways that will enhance our operational effectiveness. The harmonic resonance between consciousness and intent has achieved remarkable clarity."
Her red eyes held depths that spoke of cosmic understanding combined with much more earthly satisfaction. "Though I should mention that the other ladies have been quite patient while we conducted our... strategic alignment."
"Patient and thoroughly entertained," Aayla clarified with diplomatic amusement, her blue skin taking on a warmer hue as she smiled. "The ship's communication systems picked up some rather interesting audio patterns. Very... instructional."
Her lekku twitched with obvious enjoyment as she fixed Harry with a look that suggested his reputation for handling impossible situations had acquired some interesting new dimensions.
"We learned things," Riyo added with Pantoran precision, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "About tactical coordination, resource management, and the practical applications of superior leadership under... challenging conditions."
"Ze acoustics in zis ship are remarkably good," Allyria observed, her violet eyes dancing with amusement as she sipped what appeared to be some kind of exotic tea that probably grew on planets where morning beverages were considered art forms. "Though I should mention zat ze magical resonance amplified certain... vocalizations... throughout ze ship's atmosphere."
"Which means," Val said with predatory satisfaction as she claimed her seat with movements that made it clear she considered breakfast a mere interlude before more interesting activities, "everyone got a comprehensive education in exactly why following our captain into impossible situations always turns out to be the best decision we've ever made."
Harry's grin was pure satisfaction combined with that particular brand of British smugness that had made him legendary across three sectors. "Well, I'm always happy to provide educational opportunities for my crew. Though I should point out that the lesson plan was very much a collaborative effort."
He settled into his chair with the easy confidence of someone who'd just been thoroughly worshipped and was already looking forward to reciprocating the attention. "Now then, what have I missed while conducting my strategic planning sessions? Any cosmic entities demanding tribute, galactic governments declaring war, or Tuesday-level catastrophes that require immediate attention?"
"Nothing cosmic," Susan replied with engineering efficiency, "though Earth's news feeds have been quite entertaining. Apparently Tony Stark has decided that subtle diplomatic approaches are overrated compared to direct challenge and public threats."
"Tony's been making threats?" Harry asked, his emerald eyes taking on that analytical focus that meant he was processing information and calculating implications. "That doesn't sound like his usual approach to crisis management."
"More like he's been receiving threats," Daphne clarified with aristocratic precision, "and his response has been... characteristically direct. Show him, please," she requested of the ship's AI system.
The dining area's holographic display activated, showing the familiar chaos of Earth's news networks conducting the kind of coverage that made diplomatic incidents look like casual conversation. The feed showed the exterior of what appeared to be a medical facility, surrounded by the organized mayhem of reporters who'd caught the scent of a story involving explosions, celebrities, and international terrorism.
"We're here outside Cedars-Sinai Medical Center," announced a reporter with the kind of aggressive enthusiasm that suggested she'd been caffeinated beyond human tolerances, "where Tony Stark has just made what can only be described as the most direct challenge to international terrorism in recent memory."
The image shifted to show Tony Stark himself, standing in the California sunshine wearing sunglasses that probably cost more than most people's cars and the expression of a man who'd spent considerable time deciding exactly how much trouble he was willing to cause on international television.
Harry leaned forward, his attention focusing on the screen with the intensity of someone recognizing that Tuesday had just become Wednesday without warning.
"My name is Tony Stark, and I'm not afraid of you," Tony's voice carried across the dining area with the kind of casual confidence that made threats sound like weekend plans. "I know you're a coward—hiding behind robes and theatrics and disciples who do your dirty work while you make speeches about fortune cookies and cultural metaphors."
"Oh," Harry said with genuine appreciation, "this is good. This is very good. Tony's decided to stop being diplomatic."
"I'm gonna come get the body," Tony continued with remarkable composure for someone essentially declaring war on international television. "There's no politics here, no committees or Pentagon briefings or bureaucratic red tape. It's just good old-fashioned revenge, and frankly, I'm looking forward to it."
The camera caught every word as Tony delivered what amounted to a formal challenge to a terrorist organization with unlimited resources and exotic technology. But it was his next statement that made Harry sit up straighter.
"And on the off-chance you're actually a man instead of just a costume filled with hot air and delusions of grandeur, here's my home address: 10-8-80 Malibu Point, 90265. I'll leave the door unlocked."
"He gave out his home address," Fleur observed with a mixture of admiration and concern. "On live television. To international terrorists."
"*Merde*, zat is either ze most confident thing I 'ave ever seen, or ze most suicidal," she continued, her French accent making even potential disaster sound elegant. "Though knowing Tony, it is probably both simultaneously."
"The strategic implications are fascinating," Riyo observed with diplomatic precision. "He's essentially eliminated any possibility of covert response by making his challenge completely public. This forces both sides into direct confrontation."
"Ze mathematical probability of zis ending well approaches zero," Allyria added with analytical concern. "Unless Tony 'as some kind of comprehensive defense plan zat accounts for enhanced terrorist capabilities and unlimited resources."
"Which, knowing Tony," Susan said with engineering appreciation, "he probably does. The man doesn't make public challenges unless he's already calculated seventeen different ways to handle the response. Though I have to admit, his risk assessment protocols have always been... optimistic."
Shaak Ti's Force sensitivity painted the dining area in layers of possibility and potential consequence that remained hidden to most beings. "The Force suggests that Tony's challenge will indeed provoke immediate response. The Mandarin's psychological profile requires him to accept direct confrontation, especially when it's delivered with this level of public humiliation."
Her red eyes tracked invisible energy patterns as she processed deeper implications. "Tony knows this. His challenge isn't reckless—it's calculated to force his opponent into a tactical position where conventional advantages become less relevant."
"Smart," Dacey said with warrior appreciation. "Instead of playing defense against an opponent with unknown capabilities, he's forcing them to come to him where he can control the engagement parameters. High-risk, but potentially high-reward."
"Ze question," Val observed with predatory interest, "is whether Tony 'as ze capability to 'andle whatever responds to zis challenge. Enhanced terrorist capabilities, exotic technology, and ze kind of resources zat make normal security measures look like suggestions."
Harry's emerald eyes took on that intensity that came when he recognized a situation that might require his particular skill set. "The question is whether we want to let Tony handle this alone, or whether our shore leave just became considerably more interesting."
He looked around the table at his crew—ten extraordinary women who'd chosen to follow him into impossible situations and somehow made them look routine. "Ladies, it seems our vacation has acquired some complications involving international terrorism, enhanced threats, and a genius who's just painted a very large target on his back."
"Ze best kind of vacation," Fleur observed with obvious satisfaction. "Combining recreational activities with professional development opportunities and ze possibility of field-testing our cosmic-level discoveries against terrestrial challenges."
"Plus," Aayla added with diplomatic enthusiasm, "Tony's challenge creates excellent opportunities for cultural exchange involving superior firepower and advanced technological demonstrations."
"The Force suggests," Shaak Ti said with that serene composure that somehow made even potential combat sound like meditation, "that our involvement would be both strategically beneficial and personally satisfying. Tony is a friend, and friends don't let friends face enhanced terrorist organizations alone."
"Especially when those friends have just declared war on international television," Daphne added with aristocratic pragmatism. "The political ramifications alone are going to be fascinating to observe."
Harry stood up with movements that somehow managed to be both casual and decisive, indicating that planning was complete and implementation was beginning. "Right then. It looks like our shore leave is going to involve the kind of relaxation that requires weapons maintenance and enhanced threat assessment protocols."
His emerald eyes held that particular intensity that had made cosmic entities reconsider their life choices. "JARVIS, calculate course for Malibu Point and prepare to monitor all relevant communication channels. I want to know the moment anyone starts moving toward Tony's coordinates."
"Already calculating, sir," the ship's AI replied with digital efficiency. "Based on current threat assessment parameters and Tony Stark's psychological profile, I estimate approximately six hours before initial reconnaissance, twelve hours before tactical positioning, and eighteen hours before direct assault."
"Time enough for proper preparation," Susan observed with engineering satisfaction. "We can enhance Tony's defensive capabilities with our cosmic-level materials while maintaining plausible deniability about our involvement."
"Ze mathematical applications alone will be fascinating," Allyria added with scientific excitement. "Testing our enhanced technologies against unknown threat parameters while developing countermeasures for exotic weapons and enhanced terrorist capabilities."
"And if these countermeasures require field testing against actual enhanced threats," Val said with warrior anticipation, "we'll finally discover how our recent discoveries perform against terrestrial challenges involving advanced technology and coordinated hostility."
"Comprehensive vacation planning," Dacey agreed with satisfied pragmatism. "Combining shore leave relaxation with professional development opportunities and the possibility of preventing international incidents through superior firepower."
Harry looked around the dining area, his emerald eyes taking in the faces of his crew—extraordinary women who'd made his happiness their most important mission while somehow managing to be the most competent professionals he'd ever worked with.
"Ladies," he said with that particular tone that had made his reputation across three sectors, "it appears our return to Earth is going to be exactly as peaceful as we expected."
"Which is to say, not at all," came the unanimous response from his crew, their voices carrying the satisfaction of professionals who'd found their calling in the spaces between impossible and profitable.
"Excellent," Harry said with obvious anticipation. "Let's go show Earth what happens when cosmic-level capabilities decide to take a personal interest in terrestrial problems."
As the *Marauder* changed course toward Malibu, her crew began the familiar process of preparing for the kind of shore leave that would definitely require weapons maintenance, enhanced security protocols, and probably several conversations with insurance companies about coverage for acts of international terrorism.
After all, this was Earth.
Simple was never really an option.
But it was definitely going to be entertaining.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!