"You can really fix my daughter's leg?" Trump stared at Ethan, voice tight with hope. Even with everything else Ethan promised, nothing mattered more than his little girl.
"Of course," Ethan said calmly. "And it's a hell of a lot safer than Extremis. You know that stuff's unstable — it's turned plenty into walking time bombs."
"But the Mandarin assured me if it's high-grade, not the cheap mass-soldier strain, the success rate is over eighty percent." Trump argued, his hand trembling slightly.
"Sure, that's what businessmen do. They talk big about their product. Even if that number's real, it means one out of five still blows up. Are you ready to risk that on your daughter?"
Trump fell silent. If it was his own life, maybe. But his daughter? No chance.
"So what's your success rate?"
"About eighty percent too — but with near zero risk of catastrophic failure," Ethan said, rolling a golden crystal across his palm. "Want me to show you how we take care of your precious girl?"
"That's an X-gene crystal," Trump muttered. As Vice President, he knew enough classified files to recognize the rare meta activation catalysts.
After hesitating, he finally led Ethan and Emma Frost into the bedroom, giving Azazel a wary glance like he might stuff the demon straight into a closet.
Trump comforted his daughter before Ethan stepped forward and crushed the crystal. A shimmering mist spread through the air.
"Sweetheart, how do you feel?" Trump asked as the glow faded, pulling his daughter into his arms.
"It... it tickles, Daddy. Like something's growing on my back." Trump stiffened and quickly pulled down her pajama top.
Right before their eyes, delicate wings burst from her shoulder blades — small at first, then growing into vibrant butterfly wings. The girl's face lit up as she instinctively fluttered them, rising a few feet into the air.
"Daddy, look! I can fly!" she squealed.
Ethan nodded with a small smile. Meta evolution often compensated for a person's biggest lack — wings for a girl who couldn't walk.
According to data from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s meta genome studies, the subconscious desires and obsessions of a person heavily influenced the form their powers took.
Trump beamed, hugging his daughter tightly. But then his eyes darted to Ethan, nervous. "Her leg... it's still gone. Didn't you say you could fix it?"
"Relax. That's the easy part," Ethan said, pulling out a slim vial filled with luminous blue liquid. "I'll handle it with a more direct approach."
He handed it to the girl. As soon as she drank it, a wave of cellular activity rippled through her.
Her right leg began to regrow, muscle, nerves, and skin weaving together visibly.
"Thank the big guy Apocalypse for bleeding so much meta-enhanced serum for us," Ethan muttered under his breath looking at the vial in his hand.
It was the blood of Apocalypse, repurpose as a healing serum that only the meta kind could consume safely and heal.
"Thank you... thank you so much!" Trump choked out as he and his daughter clung to each other.
Ethan and Emma slipped quietly out, not needing to intrude on the moment.
It didn't take long for Trump to collect himself and come into the study. His face was tight and resolved. "Alright, let's talk business. You said you could push me further politically. Were you serious?"
"Dead serious," Ethan said, leaning against the desk. "Your current President? He's got enough skeletons to fill a crypt. During his term you had Erik Lehnsherr breaking into nuclear facilities, Stryker running rogue experiments, Hulk and Abomination turning New York into a crater. Not to mention the alien invasion that ended with the World Security Council trying to nuke Manhattan. Someone's gotta take the fall."
Trump nodded slowly. "So I step up. Public rallies behind me after I work with metas and S.H.I.E.L.D. to take down the Mandarin. President gets impeached. I slide into the Oval Office."
"Exactly. It's a perfect storm," Ethan said, flashing a grin. "And you're the calm in the center."
Trump's expression darkened. "It's still Congress that matters most. The old money families, the mega-consortiums — they're terrified of metas disrupting their control. They won't back me."
"Mr. Vice President, don't be naive," Ethan scoffed lightly. "The combined influence of metas worldwide and S.H.I.E.L.D.'s reach dwarfs any single conglomerate. They'll either adapt or get left behind."
·······
While Ethan was striking deals in Washington, Tony Stark faced his own nightmare. The moment he publicly dared the Mandarin, three helicopters showed up outside his Malibu cliffside home.
"Boom! Boom!" Missiles smashed into the villa.
Caught off guard, Tony barely had time to slip into the prototype Mark 42. It was unfinished — no full weapons suite, no automated repulsor balancing.
Worse, a missile had already gutted his armor vault.
As explosions ripped through the house, Tony plunged into the ocean with the debris.
His suit — little more than a shell without full software — dragged him down. Ethan's words rang in his ears: "Iron Man can be rebuilt. Tony Stark can't."
"Jarvis... crack open that X crystal I left in the chest plate," Tony gasped. He was Tony Stark. He didn't plan on dying today.
As the crystal burst, mist flooded the suit. Tony's body convulsed. Blood seeped from his pores, merging into the armor.
The steel didn't vanish. It fused into his very cells, rewriting him.
Tony let out a feral roar as he exploded from the waves.
In a streak of living steel, he tore through the sky, blasting the three helicopters out of existence with raw plasma before vanishing into the clouds.
When Tony woke up, his head spun like he was nursing a nasty hangover—only this time it wasn't the alcohol.
It was the overload of new data buzzing in his brain.
He gave his head a sharp shake to clear the fog, and that's when he noticed he was floating.
Suspended high above the ground.
Instinctively, he called out, "JARVIS?" But there was nothing. Not even static.
More alarming was the fact that despite no help from JARVIS, he could still move the suit as easily as flexing his own fingers.
"Maybe... because of how my blood bonded with the suit?" Tony muttered.
He remembered that terrifying moment his blood had melted the armor, forcing some strange fusion. "Bleeding Edge Armor," he mused, thinking the name fit way too well.
But then came the high-pitched whine of a power alert. "Low energy? That's just fantastic. I didn't even—" Before he could finish ranting, the suit gave out, and he plummeted, slamming into the snowy ground below.
"Damn it!" Tony cursed, groaning as he struggled upright. With no power, the suit became dead weight. "Anyone know how to take this thing off?"
As if on cue, the metal liquefied, flowing like mercury into his skin. Tony shivered, the suit now completely embedded in him.
A cold gust slapped his bare backside, and only then did he realize he was stark naked in a snowfield.
"Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant." Covering himself awkwardly, he tried calling the suit back. Nothing happened. Out of practice, and out of luck.
So he stumbled to a nearby cabin, hoping to find something to wear. But the second he stepped inside—
"Freeze!" a teenage voice snapped.
A kid stood there, pointing some weird wrist gadget straight at him.
"Who are you supposed to be? Local sheriff?" Tony raised an eyebrow. "Or just a farm kid with a fancy squirt gun? When I was your age, my toys were way cooler."
The boy's frown deepened. He hit a button on his wrist—and a web shot out, pinning Tony to the wall.
"Okay..." Tony blinked, stuck like a bug. "I'll give you that. Pretty impressive toy."
The boy stepped closer, squinting. "Wait a second... you're Tony Stark! Holy crap. What are you doing here?"
"Long story involving experiments gone sideways."
"It must be. Because they're saying on the news you're dead." The kid shot another web line, pulled a crumpled paper over, and held it up. "See? 'Tony Stark Killed in Attack.'"
"Guess they forgot to ask me." Tony sighed.
"Man, I really admire you. Iron Man is genius work." The kid started peeling the web off. "Strictly speaking," Tony said with a half-smile, "I am Iron Man. It's not just the suit, it's me."
"It's a mask." The kid interrupted with a grin. "I get it. I made my own suit too."
Then his face softened. "My Uncle Ben always said with great power comes great responsibility. When my meta powers showed up, and I got into the Meta Academy, I decided to be a hero. But bad guys go after your family, so I built the Spider suit and became Spider-Man. It's just... safer for them. Spider-Man is my mask. Underneath it's just me, Peter Parker."
Tony looked at him, eyes distant. "So Iron Man's my mask too. That's an... interesting way to put it." After a beat, he chuckled. "Kid, what's your name?"
"Peter Parker. The Spider-Man of Academy City!" he said proudly.
"Alright, Spider-Man, mind grabbing me a notebook, a map, a phone, some screwdrivers—and a chicken burger? Mechanic Tony needs parts and protein."
"Sure, Mr. Stark, hang on!" Peter started out, but Tony stopped him.
"What about your parents? Shouldn't you tell them you've got Iron Man in your house?"
Peter's smile dimmed. "My parents have been gone since before I could remember. It's just me now. Grandpa's got heart problems. Aunt May and Grandma are at the hospital with him. I came home to drop off these." He pulled out two glowing golden crystals. "Metahuman life expectancy's about thirty years longer. These cost me a ton of merit points. They're for Grandpa and Grandma, a Christmas gift."
Tony studied the crystals. "That's... actually incredible."
Peter just beamed and ran off to gather supplies.
Half an hour later, Tony was warm, fed, and had most of the tools he needed. The Bleeding Edge Armor, somehow partially self-repairing, didn't take much to fix. But recharging it? That was another story.
"No port, no power. Perfect." He tried jabbing cables into the suit's seams, but nothing worked.
Finally, the faint energy he'd regained drained out, and the armor sank back into his bloodstream.
"Uh, Mr. Stark..." Peter eyed Tony's bare chest. "You still afraid of electricity?"
"Afraid? No. I just like my heart inside my body. Wait, why are you— no. No way. This is a bad idea."
Three minutes later, Tony was slumped in a chair, resignation all over his face.
"Mr. Stark, you look... rough." Peter zipped back into the room carrying a pink box. "Aunt May's... um... nipple covers. Might help with the electrodes?"
Tony: "..."