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The air in the Afghan desert was a physical, oppressive thing, a shimmering blanket of heat that smelled of sand, sweat, and cheap, smoking oil. A convoy of black, dust-covered luxury cars rolled into the heart of the Ten Rings terrorist camp, the armed, turban-clad militants watching their arrival with a mixture of suspicion and greed.
A man in a pristine, tailored suit stepped out of the lead car. He was bald, his head gleaming under the harsh sun, his expression one of bored impatience. He was flanked by several men who, despite their own suits, moved with the cold, predatory efficiency of seasoned mercenaries.
From the largest tent, another bald man emerged. This one was different. He was a mountain of muscle, his face a roadmap of scars, and he carried the bloody, brutal stench of a man who lived and breathed violence. This was Raza, the leader of this particular Ten Rings cell.
The two bald men faced each other across the dusty compound, a silent standoff between corporate villainy and brutish thuggery.
"Welcome," Raza rumbled, his voice like grinding gravel.
"Raza," the man in the suit replied, his tone clipped and dismissive. He was Obadiah Stane, the interim CEO of Stark Industries, a friend of Tony's late father, and the architect of his supposed nephew's recent kidnapping.
Raza gestured to the fresh, puckered burn scars that covered half of his face. "A gift," he said, his voice laced with venom, "from Tony Stark."
Obadiah let out a soft, contemptuous laugh. "If you had simply killed him as we agreed, Raza, your face would be as pretty as it ever was."
"The price you offered was for a simple assassination," Raza countered, his eyes narrowing. "For the genius of Tony Stark, the price changed. We were going to have him build us a new Jericho missile."
"And instead, he built himself a suit of armor and leveled your entire camp," Obadiah said, his voice dripping with condescending amusement. "Clearly, your business acumen leaves something to be desired. Now, show me what you salvaged."
Knowing he had lost the argument, Raza led Obadiah into the main tent. Standing there, crudely reassembled and illuminated by a single, bare bulb, was the Mark I armor. It was a monstrous, brutish thing, a walking tank built from scrap metal and sheer, desperate genius.
"This," Raza said, his voice full of a greedy, proprietary pride, "was left behind when Stark escaped. My men recovered the pieces."
Obadiah's eyes, which had been full of contempt, now shone with an intense, covetous light. It was ugly, primitive, but he could see the potential. It was the prototype, the genesis of a new era of warfare.
"Imagine," Raza said with a sinister grin, "an army of these. We could rule all of Asia."
You couldn't rule a child's birthday party, Obadiah thought. He had no time for the petty ambitions of these desert thugs. He patted Raza on the shoulder, a gesture that looked almost friendly. "I can give you this armor, Obadiah. But in exchange, when your scientists perfect it, you will provide me with a legion of Iron Soldiers."
"Of course," Obadiah said with a meaningful smile. As he spoke, he pressed a small, discreet button hidden in the palm of his hand. A low-frequency, high-intensity sonic pulse emanated from his device.
Raza's eyes widened in shock. An invisible force seized his entire body, paralyzing his nervous system. He collapsed into a nearby chair, his body rigid, unable to move, a silent scream trapped behind his clenched teeth.
Obadiah looked down at him, his smile cold and predatory. He had never intended to negotiate. As he walked out of the tent, a series of muffled gunshots erupted from outside. In seconds, his mercenaries had eliminated every last member of the Ten Rings. The black convoy drove away into the desert, leaving only silence and death behind.
Stark Tower, Tony's Workshop.
The atmosphere here was a world away from the blood and sand of Afghanistan. The air was cool and crisp, smelling of ozone and expensive coffee, and the only sounds were the soft hum of high-tech machinery and the cheerful beeps and bloops of a video game.
Hermione was sprawled on a plush leather sofa, her fingers flying across a game controller. Tony was tinkering with the leg actuator of the damaged Mark III, while Pepper Potts entered the room with a tray of freshly cut fruit.
"So, let me get this straight," Tony said, not looking up from his work. "There are actual, legitimate schools for… this magic stuff? What did you call it again? Hog… warts?"
"Hogwarts," Hermione corrected without taking her eyes off the screen. "And yes, there are plenty of them. Hogwarts is just the most famous. It's the MIT of the wizarding world."
Tony let out a self-satisfied laugh. "So you're a top-tier student, huh? Not bad. Still a long way to go to catch up to me, of course, but you're at the peak of what an ordinary person can achieve."
Hermione paused her game. She slowly turned her head and looked at Pepper, her expression completely deadpan.
"Sister Pepper," she asked, her voice dangerously sweet, "am I allowed to hit him until he stops being arrogant?"
Pepper, who had heard Tony's comment, just sighed, a weary but fond expression on her face. She gave Hermione an apologetic look. She was used to Tony's titanic ego, but she was still worried it would offend their new, terrifyingly powerful friend. Fortunately, Hermione just seemed to treat it with the same weary exasperation she did.
"Don't lie on your back and play games, little sister," Pepper said, changing the subject as she walked over. "It's bad for your eyes. Sit up and have some fruit."
Hermione immediately sat up and opened her mouth wide like a baby bird. "Aaaah."
"Honestly," Pepper said, shaking her head as she placed a piece of cantaloupe in Hermione's mouth. "So unladylike. You'll never find a boyfriend if you keep acting like that."
The cheerful light in Hermione's eyes instantly vanished, replaced by a flicker of something cold and distant. The sweet cantaloupe in her mouth suddenly tasted like ash. I am a handsome… she thought, before cutting off the familiar, painful train of thought. Never mind.
Tony watched the intimate, maternal scene from across the room, a strange pang of jealousy in his chest. Pepper never fed him fruit. Ever since Hermione had started coming over, his status in his own home had plummeted. Pepper had invited Hermione over several times a week after the race, and had finally managed to force Tony into giving her a proper, if grudging, thank you. The turning point had been when Pepper explained that Hermione had suffered a painful physical backlash from performing the "prophecy." That had given Tony pause, and his gratitude, when he finally expressed it, had been surprisingly sincere.
Now, a strange, comfortable, and deeply chaotic dynamic had formed between the three of them. Hermione's sharp, cynical wit was the perfect counterpoint to Tony's arrogant bluster, and they had developed a relationship that was equal parts bickering siblings and intellectual rivals, with Pepper acting as the perpetually exhausted but loving mother figure.
"By the way," Tony said, trying to steer the conversation back to something he could understand. "What are the actual mechanics of your magic? Why the rhyming chants? And how do you channel the energy through a piece of wood? Is it a focus? A conductor? What's the power source?"
Hermione, who was now resting her head comfortably in Pepper's lap, looked over at him, a glint of amusement in her eyes. The questions were endless. He was a man who saw a miracle and immediately wanted to take it apart to see how it worked. It was, she had to admit, one of his more endearing qualities.
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