"…Tony won't see me right now. I know he must be disappointed, but I hope you'll tell him this—the Air Force isn't satisfied with just the tech he's already given them. They want more… My superior, General Johnson, even hinted they might join with the Army to put pressure on Stark Industries together…"
"Or maybe they've got a bigger scheme."
Rhodey's voice came over the phone. Schiller asked him:
"You've been pushed out of the inner circle of power? Why? Because you wavered?"
Rhodey was silent for a while before saying,
"No. General Johnson never trusted me—because I once served under old General Andler. Their relationship was terrible."
"So that's why he's forcing you to go along, isn't it?"
Schiller sighed. "If you can't handle the pressure over there, then what?"
Before Rhodey could reply, Schiller continued:
"Tony avoiding you has nothing to do with the Air Force. Stark Industries has its own internal mess. He needs time to breathe—he hasn't even left the house in days."
Rhodey's voice was flat, as always. He always sounded severe, stiff.
"I think we both know Stark Industries isn't a monolith. Someone inside must be colluding with the military—and it has to be high-level."
He went on:
"The military gets details about Stark's tech far too quickly, far too precisely. That's not normal. I don't know all the facts yet, but I don't want to see Tony betrayed."
"You want me to tell him this? Maybe you haven't considered—he probably already knows. The reason he's dragged it out this long—"
"I know. He's too softhearted. Otherwise, he wouldn't have compromised with the military just because of me. But this time, it's too serious. If he keeps hesitating like this, something terrible will happen—"
Just then, Schiller heard a sound. He turned his head—and saw two blazing streaks cut across the night sky, colliding in a burst of light. A violent explosion shook the horizon. The beams tangled, spiraled down, and crashed to earth. Schiller, still watching the sky, told the phone:
"…Too late. It's already happened."
He hung up and instantly dissolved into gray mist, racing across Manhattan to the crash site—a derelict warehouse in a District.
It had to be Tony's choice: an abandoned district, far from civilians.
Schiller reformed on the ground. Before he could enter, the phone rang again. Rhodey's voice was urgent:
"Send me a satellite pin. I'm coming now—Tony might need me!"
Schiller, still holding the phone, flashed to the warehouse roof and looked down.
Inside, Iron Man—red and gold armor—was locked in combat with a towering black robot.
It wasn't the Iron Monger.
This machine was bigger, bulkier, jet-black with golden joints, far more menacing.
Schiller spoke into the phone:
"Situation changed. You'd better hurry."
The fight below was brutal. Iron Man wasn't helpless, but the crash had wrecked part of his suit. He'd taken the full impact to steer the robot away from civilians, and now one side of the armor was sluggish, a shoulder nearly useless.
This wasn't like beating up street thugs. Even with JARVIS running calculations, Stark was straining. The machine seemed purpose-built to counter him.
Iron Man rocketed upward, dove low, and slammed into the robot's waist. The impact shattered part of the roof, burying both in steel beams.
Tony came out worse—his shoulder joint was badly mangled, and one arm barely lifted.
But the monster wasn't unscathed. Its cockpit was torn open—empty. Remote-controlled.
Tony spotted his chance. He feigned system failure, crawled weakly from the debris, and collapsed.
The robot lumbered free, raised a steel beam, and aimed for his chest.
As it leaned forward to strike, Iron Man sprang up, kicked its knee, then smashed an elbow into its head.
Top-heavy, unstable, the machine toppled sideways.
Tony prepared to repeat the trick: stun it, slam it, finish it.
But suddenly, smoke poured from the robot. JARVIS screamed alarms. Tony blasted backward—too slow.
The explosion ripped the warehouse apart. A mushroom cloud roared into the sky, shaking blocks around. The thing had self-destructed. Its oversized chest had housed a bomb.
When Schiller dragged Tony out of the wreckage, he was a mess. Blood covered his face, at least three ribs broken, ankle and arm likely fractured.
For all his genius, Tony Stark had no superhuman constitution. His mind was a super weapon. His body was as fragile as that of a normal person.
He forced his arm up, smeared blood from his eyes, and saw Schiller. He exhaled in relief.
"My pocket… phone… JARVIS'll call another suit… check the perimeter… blast was huge…"
His head was concussed, eyes bloodshot. Schiller gave him a pill—a strong painkiller.
Soon, Tony murmured:
"That thing… built to kill me. Countered every move, tracked my routes. I can't believe…"
"Can't believe what? That the person who knows you best might've betrayed you? Instead of brooding, build more suits. One punch each, problem solved."
"I know… I shouldn't have hid in the lab… I just needed time to process… You can't expect me to be an AIeeeee.... zombie without feelings."
He coughed hard, blood trailing from his lips. The euphoria of the drugs blurred him. He whispered:
"I knew his friends were no good. Just like him. Rotten. I thought… maybe…"
"No. Maybe he was right. Stark's not worth trusting. Only ever disappoints…"
Schiller laid him flat, checked his pulse—low. He wanted to carry Tony out, but Tony resisted, drunk on despair.
His survival instinct was weak.
So Schiller sat cross-legged beside him. Around them lay the blasted ruin: twisted beams, shattered concrete, smoke rising from the crater. Like the end of the world.
Schiller asked quietly:
"Obadiah's more like a father to you than Howard ever was, isn't he?"
Tony didn't answer at first. Then, hoarse, gasping:
"When I built my first robot… Uncle Obie was so proud. He said I was a genius, just like my father."
"He always talked about Howard… called him brilliant, upright, steadfast… righteous…"
"In his words, Howard was flawless. I grew up hearing nothing but praise and nostalgia."
"But later… I hated hearing that name. So he stopped saying it."
Tony's voice rasped, broken.
"I saw a photo once… on his desk. He and Howard are together. Young, ambitious… full of fire…"
"Maybe… like you and Rhodey," Schiller said.
"No. Not the same. Not at all."
"I'm nothing like Howard. Nothing. And Rhodey's nothing like Obadiah. We're opposites. We'll never be their replica. Never."
Then his voice faded. The drugs pulled him under, into the realm of unconsciousness.
When Rhodey finally arrived and saw Tony's wrecked body, he slammed a fist against the ruined armor.
Schiller told him:
"Right now, the physical wounds aren't the worst. His state of mind is."
"You're a psychiatrist. Can't you guide him out?"
"I'm a psychiatrist, not God. He's trapped himself in a dead end. He thinks all this is retribution—his, his father's, Stark Industries'."
"He wants to hand everything over?"
"That's for him to answer. He once swore he'd never retreat for the sake of his family. But right now—it looks like he's ready to give it all away."
Rhodey looked back at Tony lying in the rubble.
"If there's one price he'll pay… It's for that brilliant mind, and that fragile heart."
Schiller said softly:
"He claims you're opposites. He wears iron armor. What about you?"
"Do you have a heart strong enough to stand?"
Rhodey turned back to the wrecked suit. He said nothing.