The Garage
The Malibu workshop hummed with a constant thrum of machinery. Tables cluttered with half-disassembled drones, holographic displays painting the air with glowing schematics, and wires running across the floor like veins in some mechanical beast.
Tony Stark stood in the middle of it, sleeves rolled up, a soldering pen in hand, eyes fixed on the holographic model spinning slowly before him.
"Mark II," he murmured. His voice carried a weight, not of showmanship, but of conviction. "Clean, streamlined, flight-capable. Not a hunk of iron hammered together in a cave."
Brendon leaned against a nearby workbench, arms crossed, watching. "Lighter alloys, better joint calibration. You'll need something that handles stress at hypersonic speeds, not just a firefight."
Tony shot him a look. "You think I didn't already consider that?"
Brendon raised an eyebrow. "You considered it. You didn't calculate it yet. Titanium-gold alloy. I ran it past your density scans. You'll maintain structural strength without turning this thing into a flying brick."
Tony blinked. For a split second, he looked almost… impressed. "You did that math in your head?"
Brendon smirked faintly. "Faster than most computers."
Tony exhaled, then gave a reluctant nod. "Alright. Titanium-gold. But you're buying the drinks when this thing doesn't explode in my face."
"Deal."
They set to work. The clatter of tools, the hiss of welding torches, the chirp of robotic arms moving with programmed precision filled the air. Jarvis's voice narrated calculations, stress tolerances, and flight vector projections. Brendon blurred across the garage at times — moving too fast for Tony's eyes to follow — fetching tools, adjusting parts, slotting components into place with inhuman precision.
"Show-off," Tony muttered more than once, though his lips twitched like he was holding back a grin.
Piece by piece, the Mark II began to take shape. Sleeker, sharper, shining under the garage lights like the skeleton of some future predator.
Slice of Life – Upstairs
While Tony and Brendon toiled below, Gwen Stacy had carved a small space for herself upstairs in the living area. The California sun streamed in through the massive glass windows, glinting off the ocean waves beyond. Gwen sat on the couch with her laptop, textbooks stacked beside her.
She was supposed to be studying — biochemistry notes glared back at her from the screen — but her attention drifted often to the floor below, where the faint rumbles of machinery echoed up through the house.
When Brendon finally came upstairs for a breather, grease smudged on his arm and a water bottle in hand, she raised an eyebrow.
"You've officially disappeared into mad scientist territory," she teased.
"Not me," Brendon said, collapsing onto the couch beside her. "He's the mad scientist. I'm the… fast assistant."
"Fast assistant," Gwen repeated with a smile. "That's one way of putting it."
Brendon leaned back, letting his head rest against the cushion, eyes closed. "He's sharp. Obnoxious, arrogant, but… sharp. Every time I think I've gotten ahead of him, he comes back with something I didn't expect."
Gwen tilted her head. "You like working with him."
Brendon hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Feels… right. Like maybe I can make sure he doesn't burn himself out—or blow up the Pacific coast."
Gwen nudged his shoulder. "Just don't forget to be human in the middle of all this. Eat. Sleep. Remember you've got more than tech to protect."
He cracked a faint smile. "That's why I've got you."
For a moment, the world outside the garage felt normal. A boy, a girl, a couch, the ocean breeze. A slice of calm before the storm.
Back to the Forge
Hours later, the garage roared back to life. The Mark II's frame gleamed under the lights. Servo motors whined as joints flexed. The heads-up display flared to life, painting green lines across the visor.
Tony stood, arms outstretched, as the suit's pieces latched into place with a satisfying thunk-thunk-thunk.
"Now this," Tony said, his voice echoing inside the helmet, "this is what progress looks like."
Brendon circled the suit, inspecting. "Try not to crash into the ocean this time."
Tony smirked. "You wound me. I only crash with style."
The suit powered fully, reactors glowing, repulsors whirring. The garage vibrated as the repulsor engines spun up. Brendon stepped back, shielding Gwen — who had crept downstairs to watch — as the blast of light nearly blinded the room.
"Easy," Brendon muttered. "You're running too hot on the right thruster."
Tony adjusted, gritting his teeth as the force steadied. Then — with a roar that shook the windows — he launched.
The Mark II shot upward through the garage exit, a streak of silver vanishing into the California sky.
Brendon exhaled, tension slipping from his shoulders. Gwen's hand brushed his.
"He's going to test limits," Brendon said softly. "But that's what he does."
Surveillance
Later that night, when Tony returned — exhilarated and half-frozen from the stratosphere test — Brendon was waiting. The drone feeds had already queued themselves on the central display.
"Thought you'd want to see this," Brendon said.
The footage flickered. Obadiah Stane again, in his office. His expression cold, movements deliberate. He made calls, filed papers, met with associates. Nothing explosive. Nothing incriminating by itself. But then—
Stane lingered on a hologram of the miniature arc reactor. His hand brushed across the blueprint, his eyes narrowing with unmistakable intent. He left shortly afterward, but the way he carried himself told its own story.
Tony's chest tightened as he watched.
"He's not just selling weapons anymore," Tony said slowly, his tone dropping. "He's coming for me. For what I built."
Brendon folded his arms. "The arc reactor."
Neither spoke for a long moment. The ocean waves whispered outside, but in the workshop, silence pressed down heavy.
Tony finally broke it. "Then we get ready. He wants my heart—he'll find out what happens when you aim for it."
Brendon's eyes flickered, sharp and unyielding. "Then let's make sure you're not fighting alone."