Obadiah Stane sounded like a man who'd just discovered what it felt like to be a god… and decided the first thing he wanted to do with that feeling was make sure everyone else regretted ever letting him exist.
"I never thought I'd enjoy something like this!" his voice boomed through the Iron Monger's speakers, wild with manic excitement. "But I have to admit—wearing this armor gives me unparalleled power!"
The massive iron-gray suit lurched forward in the industrial yard, its bulk crushing broken asphalt and loose debris underfoot. Without the targeting system, his movements weren't elegant—more like a drunken tank trying to dance—but the raw force behind every step made the ground vibrate.
He lifted an arm.
The Gatling gun spun up with that unmistakable mechanical whine.
Then it roared.
Bullets sprayed everywhere—brick walls, abandoned loading docks, empty street lamps, the side of a warehouse that had done nothing to deserve being perforated. The gunfire sounded like an angry storm trapped inside metal.
And it was blind.
Which meant it was dangerous.
I raised my wand and snapped, "Protego."
The invisible barrier bloomed in front of Tony and me like a pane of hardened air. Stray rounds hit it and ricocheted away in sparks, clattering to the ground uselessly. The impacts shuddered up my arm; the Pegasus-feather core didn't like being used as a ballistic shield, but it held—clean and steady, like defensive magic was what it had been born for.
"You destroyed my targeting system, Tony!" Obadiah shouted, laughing. "But it doesn't affect me much! You wanted to stop weapons research and sales, but you developed the ultimate weapon yourself! I'm sure your father would be so proud!"
Tony didn't answer the taunt. Not with words. Not with a quip.
He turned his faceplate up and looked at me instead, expression sharp, breath controlled in the way people breathe when they're pretending they aren't terrified.
"You said you had a way once Stane opened the armor," he said. "Where's that plan now?"
"Don't worry," I replied, stepping forward. "Leave it to me."
I walked toward the Iron Monger until I stood close enough to feel the heat leaking from its seams. The suit was big—built for intimidation—and it worked. Standing under it felt like standing beneath a moving building that hated you.
I tilted my head back, wand loose at my side, posture calm on purpose.
"Stane," I called, letting my voice carry, "do you know what your biggest mistake was?"
"Mistake?" His laugh turned bitter. "What mistake?"
"Exposing your body in front of me."
There was a half-second of silence—just long enough for the words to land.
"What? What are you—"
Realization hit him too late.
Hydraulic servos whined as the chest plating began to seal, sliding shut like a coffin lid. He was trying to close himself back inside the armor before I could do exactly what I'd just warned him I'd do.
But I was faster.
"Stupefy!"
A red bolt snapped from my wand and slammed into the exposed cockpit area. It didn't have to pierce the armor. It didn't have to break metal.
It only had to hit flesh.
Obadiah's eyes rolled back instantly. His body went limp in the harness, head lolling forward, mouth slack. The sealing mechanism froze mid-motion as the suit's systems briefly confused "pilot is unconscious" with "pilot is dead."
The Iron Monger went motionless.
Silence fell over the industrial yard so hard it felt like the air had been vacuumed out.
Tony stared at the now-still Iron Monger.
Then he stared at me.
Then back at the Iron Monger again, as if he expected it to sit back up and demand a rematch out of sheer corporate stubbornness.
"This…" Tony said slowly, "…is it over?"
I blinked at him. "What did you expect? That I'd fistfight a giant robot?"
Tony's laugh burst out, surprised and real, like he'd just been reminded he was allowed to breathe. "Oh, brother," he said, shaking his head. "I like your humor."
Good.
He's relaxing.
Step one: establish goodwill. Check.
"Thank you," he said, voice rough. "You saved me twice today."
I nodded once, because accepting gratitude was still something I didn't do naturally. It always felt like tempting fate. Like saying yes, I deserve this and then the universe responding with oh, do you?
Tony's eyes shifted—sharp again, curious again—and locked onto the wand in my hand.
"But what is that thing?" he demanded. "It seems… high-tech. It emits different rays, flames, manipulates gravity. I don't see a power source. Is it some embedded device?"
I lifted the wand slightly so he could see it clearly. Wood. Plain. Boring-looking. The kind of object that should not be able to do anything we'd just done.
"This isn't technology," I said. "This is my wand. Materials: wood and feather. No batteries. No arc reactor. No embedded energy device."
Tony stared.
Blink.
Blink again.
Then that classic Tony Stark smirk flickered onto his face like armor snapping into place.
"You're really funny," he said. "There's no such thing as magic. This isn't a Disney fairy tale."
"That just shows how little you know about the world," I replied, because honestly, he walked into that.
Tony snorted. "I believe there are aliens in this world. I'm pretty sure I'll see them sooner or later."
Oh, Tony.
If only you knew how many.
I looked at him strangely, then nodded slowly. "Yeah," I said. "I believe that too. I think you'll see a lot of aliens in the future."
He started to say something—probably another joke about wands and Hogwarts and how I was clearly a cosplayer with excellent special effects—but I felt it before he finished.
Footsteps.
Many.
Fast.
Formation footsteps. Not panicked civilians.
Professional.
I flicked my wand and tapped the corner of my eye. "Nox Visio."
Night vision snapped into place instantly. The world sharpened, darkness thinning into detail. I saw them clearly now: black suits, weapons drawn, moving in a practiced wedge.
And in the center of that protective formation—
Pepper Potts.
S.H.I.E.L.D.
Right on schedule.
Tony looked up as the group approached, confused. "People? Who—"
"Tony," I said quickly, "let's debate tech versus magic another time. Some people are here. I don't want to meet them. It would be… troublesome."
Tony's brow furrowed. "Troublesome how? Are they cops?"
"Not exactly," I said. "From your perspective, they're not the bad guys. Your safety is guaranteed. But I don't like them."
Tony's helmet tilted as if he was listening to something through his suit. "Okay, but should we exchange phone numbers? Or Facebook? Twitter?"
I almost laughed, because the idea of Tony Stark asking for my contact info like this was a normal social interaction was ridiculous.
"No need," I said. "We'll meet again soon."
He opened his mouth to protest.
The agents were within thirty seconds now.
I caught the lead clearly: Phil Coulson—calm posture, weapon lowered but ready, the kind of man who could smile while handcuffing you.
He spotted me next to Tony as I raised my wand.
I didn't wait.
"Wingardium Leviosa."
I rose into the air smoothly, floating upward in controlled, light steps. Someone shouted—an order, a warning, a demand to stop—but it didn't matter. I was already moving, launching myself over rooftops and disappearing into the night before anyone could get a clean angle on my face.
Below, Coulson's team could only watch.
And Coulson—because Coulson was Coulson—didn't look surprised so much as… confirmed. Like tonight had just clicked another puzzle piece into place.
The way I left—no visible technology, no thrusters, no wires—matched the reports from the Kilgrave incident.
The "mysterious figure."
The one who killed the Purple Man.
Very likely the same person.
And if Coulson was as good as his reputation suggested, he'd already narrowed the list of "teenage boys in New York with weird timing" down to one.
Me.
When I got home, the apartment was quiet.
No Theresa. No Sharon. No comforting kitchen noise.
A note waited on the refrigerator, written in Mom's messy-but-legible handwriting:
Famous food critics coming to restaurant. Working late all week. Love you!
I exhaled slowly, the tension in my chest easing a fraction.
At least she's safe.
That was what mattered.
I stripped off my clothes, shoved the black hooded sweater into the back of my closet like it was radioactive, and took a long shower—hot water blasting away sweat, grime, and the lingering adrenaline that made my hands feel too alive.
Clean clothes.
Cold Coke from the fridge.
Then I sat at my desk and spread potion notes out like I was preparing for war.
Step two of "befriending Tony Stark" wasn't actually friendship.
It was survival logistics.
Tony was dying. Palladium poisoning. Arc reactor dependence. His temporary fixes were running out, and if S.H.I.E.L.D. got involved too heavily, they'd try to "solve" his problem their way—through control, containment, and leverage.
I needed my solution to reach him first.
A potion. One I'd partially restored already—designed to purge heavy metal toxins and reduce systemic damage. It wouldn't cure him permanently, but it would buy him time and keep him functional enough to reach the real answer: a new element.
Completing it quickly, properly, with my limited resources?
That was going to be difficult.
Maybe I should ask Kamar-Taj for help.
The Ancient One had rare materials. Daniel knew suppliers. Equivalent exchange was already my relationship model with them. It wouldn't be the first time I traded knowledge for resources.
I opened my black notebook and started writing, sketching formulas and ingredient lists with obsessive care.
Palladium toxicity suppression
Blood purification base
Stabilizer to prevent cellular shock
Dose cycling to avoid diminishing returns
Delivery method: potion / capsule / injection? (Tony will prefer science packaging)
I paused, pen hovering.
Then I wrote a header, underlined it twice:
Tony Stark — Palladium Protocol
I stared at the words for a long moment and felt a weird, reluctant amusement.
Let's see if I can save a genius billionaire playboy philanthropist with my purification potion.
And maybe get him to fund my research in the process.
I smiled faintly and kept writing.
Step two: in progress.
Outside, far away, sirens still wailed, and somewhere in the city Coulson was probably already dialing a number he shouldn't have had.
Because S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't ignore mysteries.
They collected them.
And now I'd just flown away from their agents in plain sight—again.
Which meant the next time someone knocked on my door, it wouldn't be a delivery package.
It would be someone asking questions I couldn't afford to answer.