The cave stank of sweat, oil, and iron dust. Chains rattled when Tony Stark shifted, his wrists raw from the metal cuffs. The arc reactor glowed faintly in his chest, a cold reminder that his own weapons were embedded in him, inching toward his heart.
Across from him, Yinsen worked quietly, his voice a calm current against the chaos. "You're lucky," he said, checking the crude monitors keeping Tony alive. "Most men would be dead already."
Tony scoffed, though his voice lacked bite. "Yeah, I feel real lucky chained up in Al Qaeda cosplay camp."
The Ten Rings weren't patient. Raza, their leader, strutted into the cavern with a half-smile that carried menace. He dropped a crate of Stark weapons in front of Tony.
"You will build us the Jericho missile," Raza ordered in accented English. "You have everything you need."
Tony looked at the weapons, then at his chest, then at Yinsen. The genius in him sparked. "Everything I need? …Yeah. I think I do."
The Drone's Eye
Hundreds of miles away, in his underground workshop, Brendon King leaned forward as the feed stabilized. His stealth drone — Spectre-01 — had penetrated the perimeter with ease, its crystalline armor bending light, its propulsion system silent.
Through its compound lens, the cave came alive on Brendon's holo-display. He watched Tony, pale and bloodied but still radiating that infuriating Stark arrogance. He watched Yinsen, calm and careful, guiding him with steady hands.
"Good," Brendon murmured. "Don't give up, Tony. Yinsen… stay strong."
The drone perched unseen high in the cavern ceiling, feeding back every word, every grimace, every blueprint scratched into the sand.
Brendon clenched his fists when Raza slammed his hand on the workbench, setting the countdown clock. "You have one week. Or you die."
"Ticking clock. Of course," Brendon muttered, lips tight. He logged the date, running scenarios. He didn't plan on waiting for the week to run out.
The First Sparks
Tony sketched in charcoal, eyes burning with calculation. Yinsen watched, curiosity tempered with faith.
"This isn't a missile," Yinsen said, voice low.
Tony smirked. "No. It's better."
The schematics of a crude exosuit sprawled across the ground: thick armor plating, hydraulic braces, integrated flamethrowers. A monstrosity born from desperation.
They began work. The clang of hammer on iron echoed in the cavern, sparks spraying like fireflies. Tony guided Yinsen on arc circuits, while Yinsen guided Tony on patience.
"You remind me of my students," Yinsen said one night as they soldered. "Always chasing ten ideas at once. But unlike them, you have the arrogance to think none of them can fail."
Tony gave him a tired grin. "Arrogance is cheaper than therapy."
From above, the drone recorded it all. Brendon sat transfixed, torn between admiration and dread. He couldn't help but whisper: "That's the birth of Iron Man."
The Arc Reactor
Days blurred together. Sweat soaked Tony's shirt as he worked with trembling hands. The makeshift arc reactor, a miniature version of the one in his chest, glowed brighter each night.
"This will power your suit for 15 minutes," Yinsen said, staring at the device in awe. "Maybe 20."
Tony wiped grease from his brow. "That's all I'll need."
Spectre-01 zoomed in, its sensors recording energy readings. Brendon's eyes widened. "He actually did it… in a cave. With scraps. No alien tech, no Omnitrix. Just raw genius."
For the first time, Brendon felt a pang of kinship with Stark—not the showman, not the weapons dealer, but the man clawing toward survival with nothing but will and wit.
Raza's Suspicion
The Ten Rings weren't fools. They prowled the cavern, watching. Raza inspected the work, his eyes narrowing at the incomplete shape.
"This does not look like a missile."
Tony covered with his trademark smirk. "You're right. It's better. You'll see."
Raza wasn't convinced. He barked orders in his tongue, and guards tightened their watches.
Brendon's jaw tensed. His fingers hovered over Spectre-01's weapon protocols. The drone could drop half those guards in thirty seconds. But it wasn't time—not yet.
"Hold the line," he whispered. "You need them to believe."
The Suit Takes Form
Steel plates clanged as they were welded into place. Hydraulic pistons groaned as Tony tested their movement. The Mk I was ugly, bulky, primitive—but alive.
Yinsen stared at the towering shape, awe in his eyes. "This is no missile. This is freedom."
Tony smirked. "Freedom with a flamethrower."
They laughed, brief and bitter, before returning to work. The guards grew restless, suspicion festering.
Spectre-01 recorded everything. Brendon memorized every flaw, every brilliance. He cataloged how Tony cut corners, how Yinsen improvised. He wasn't just watching history—he was archiving it, studying it, preparing for what came after.
The Threat
On the final night, Raza stormed into the cavern, his patience spent. He slammed Tony against the table, snarling in his face.
"You have until tomorrow. If we don't have our missile, your death will be slow."
His hand lingered on Yinsen's shoulder. "And his will be worse."
Tony froze, mask slipping for a heartbeat.
Brendon's hands shook as he watched. His pulse hammered in his ears. "Damn it. Damn it."
He slammed his palm on his console. "Spectre, prep extraction protocols. Deploy support package Alpha. Tomorrow we intervene."
The drone pulsed green in acknowledgment.
Brendon sat back, head in his hands. He knew what the history books said. Yinsen would die buying Tony time. It was the spark that would forge Iron Man.
But Brendon had no intention of letting history dictate every page. Not when he was here. Not when he could save them both.
"Hold on, Tony. Hold on, Yinsen," he whispered into the dark. "The storm's coming. But this time… it's not just you in that cave."