"Why is it that every time you show up, my day turns into a disaster?" Tony groaned, brushing dust off his suit as he got up from the cracked pavement.
"Oh really?" Ethan shot him a dry look. "Because if I recall, without me, you would have been toast at least three times by now."
"Alright, fine, my dear savior." Tony gave him a shallow, mock bow. It was about as genuine as he could get, considering his usual arrogance.
Just then, Deadpool's voice cut through the moment. "Whoa, nice new suit, Shellhead!" He sauntered over, admiring a nearby armor stand.
Ethan turned, his eyes narrowing. That suit looked suspiciously like the new anti-meta armor Tony had been developing.
"Don't get the wrong idea!" Tony said quickly, throwing himself between Deadpool and the armor. "It's not what it used to be. I've upgraded it—more than once."
Ethan folded his arms, his face nearly matching Nick Fury's legendary scowl. "Yeah, upgrades. Totally not personal, huh?"
"Not just personal," Tony tried to defend, gesturing wildly. "Look, it's not all about you. I've been prepping for... other people too. That Hulkbuster over there? Convenience. And that one—yeah, the one that could probably take Thor's lightning? Also convenience."
Ethan couldn't help but smirk. "You know, you're way too ready for another civil war."
Tony clapped his hands, forcing a grin. "But you didn't drop by my private villa just to roast my armor, right?"
"Actually, I wanted to ask if you've heard of the Extremis virus," Ethan said, pulling out a slim StarkPad and handing it over.
Tony squinted. "What is this? Some new flu strain? Or maybe leftover Chitauri bioweapon junk?"
"No. It's about you. Look closer."
Tony scrolled through the data. "A paper from over a decade ago. Man, these old theorists were nuts—wait. Hold on. This... this is brilliant. I mean, not quite me-level genius, but pretty close. Who wrote this?"
"Maybe try reading the byline," Ethan replied dryly.
Tony tilted the tablet, frowning. "When did I co-author this with... oh, right. I vaguely remember wanting to sleep with her while we drafted it."
"Charming," Ethan muttered. "You should care, because this Extremis virus is tied to the Mandarin. Your least favorite type of person: a terrorist."
Tony sighed. "Of course I'd want him dead, but Rhodey says it's a job for Uncle Sam, not me. Politics." His distaste was obvious.
"Pretty normal," Ethan shrugged. "Ever since New York, governments have been desperate to reassert power. SHIELD used to back the U.S. indirectly, but now they're practically independent, so Washington's stuck trying to flex without looking weak."
Ethan's eyes narrowed slightly. "Honestly, I'd enjoy watching them flounder before begging SHIELD or us metas for help. But the Extremis project's messing with enhanced people, so it's already on my radar."
Tony rubbed his temples. "Look, I'd love to stay uninvolved, but—"
His phone rang. He answered, then paled. "Happy? Hospital? Terror attack? I'll be right there."
Tony turned to the red figure beside's Ethan. "Hey, you mind giving me a lift?"
Azazel stared at Ethan for confirmation to which the latter just nodded
...
At the hospital, a swirl of red energy deposited Tony right next to Pepper, who was sobbing uncontrollably.
"Tony! This shouldn't have happened," Pepper cried, burying her face in his chest.
On the bed lay Happy, bandaged and unconscious, an oxygen mask over his bruised face.
Tony's eyes were glassy. Happy had been with him almost twenty years. He might've been a goof, but to Tony, he was family—and family was everything.
Then a broadcast echoed through the halls: "You know who I am. But you don't know where I am. And you'll never see me coming. World, prepare to suffer."
Tony's face twisted into a grin that was anything but amused. He gently set Pepper aside and stormed out.
Outside, reporters swarmed him. Before they could speak, Tony ripped off his sunglasses.
"I've got a little holiday greeting for the Mandarin," he snarled. "My name is Tony Stark, and I'm officially declaring war."
He signaled to JARVIS, who broadcast Tony's home address worldwide.
"You're a coward who hides in the shadows and preys on the weak. Come at me. This isn't political, it's not about the Pentagon. It's personal—an eye for an eye. You hurt my family. Now no matter where you hide, how many people protect you, or what kind of power you think you have—I will find you. And then? You're dead."
When Ethan walked into the family lounge of the VIP ward, he found Tony sitting alone in a corner, staring off into space, clearly troubled.
"Still acting on impulse, huh? Need me to step in and handle your grown-up messes?" Ethan asked with a wry grin, trying to lighten the mood.
Tony snapped out of it and turned to him, eyes still burning with anger. "This isn't your business, Ethan. This has nothing to do with you metas. Pepper already told me — Happy stumbled onto an Extremis deal involving one of your kind, and that's why he's like this."
"So now we're to blame," Ethan said, raising an eyebrow. "You're forgetting who originally came up with the Extremis concept — it was your pal Aldrich Killian. And there's something else you're ignoring. Happy and Pepper both knew how dangerous your life was, yet they never chose to become metas themselves. With our help, they probably could've activated their very own gifts and gained some power to protect themselves."
"They stayed normal because you did. Pepper and Happy wouldn't just abandon you to turn into something you're not." Ethan lightly tapped Tony's chest reactor. "So don't take all the guilt."
"It's a stupid idea. I never wanted them to change. And me? I don't become meta because... I'm Iron Man, not some powered man in a metal suit," Tony muttered, scratching his head, visibly frustrated.
"Is that really it, or are you scared? Let me guess — Tony Stark could have powers, but Iron Man can't. And Iron Man is who you wish you were, isn't it?" Ethan teased.
Tony used to be just another rich playboy until the suit gave him purpose.
After that, he welded his identity so tightly to being Iron Man that he sometimes forgot he was just Tony Stark.
Post-Battle of New York, seeing alien forces so far beyond his tech had shattered his confidence.
He locked himself away, endlessly upgrading suits, ignoring that underneath, he was still just a man — fragile, breakable.
If people were house slaves to their homes, Tony was now a slave to his armor.
"Look, the suit can be rebuilt a thousand times over. Iron Man won't die. But Tony Stark will. So when it counts, don't hesitate." Ethan handed Tony a containment case — inside was a shimmering vial of modified Extremis fused with stable X-gene catalysts.
Tony stared at it, then took off into the night sky in his armor without another word.
"I figured you'd help him go after the Mandarin," said Azazel, stepping out from the shadows, folding his demonic arms. "Isn't he your friend? Anger makes people reckless."
"I'm not his personal shrink." Ethan waved dismissively, his expression hardening. "Besides, the Mandarin isn't my biggest concern. While Tony's busy chasing him, I've got time to handle something far more important."
·······
Meanwhile, in a quiet villa in Washington, Vice President Trump sat by his daughter's bedside, reading her a story.
"Alright, sweetheart, it's time to sleep." He gently patted her head.
"Daddy, can I ask something?" The blonde girl looked up at him with wide hopeful eyes. "Will my leg really heal?"
She pulled back the blanket, revealing her right leg ending in a stump just below the knee — lost forever to a car accident years ago.
"Of course, my lovely Ivanka." Trump smiled, carefully tucking her in again. "Your leg will be fixed one day. When I'm President, you'll be the First Daughter, traveling everywhere in my place."
When she finally closed her eyes, he quietly turned off the lamp and stepped out into the hall — only to hear slow clapping echo behind him.
"Mr. Vice President, you're quite the doting father," a voice drawled.
Trump spun around. In his living room stood two men and a woman. At the center sat Ethan, smiling pleasantly.
To his left was Azazel, skin crimson and eyes glowing, while to his right stood Emma Frost in a sleek white outfit, eyes cold and amused.
"How did you get in?" Trump demanded, eyes darting around.
"Wondering why your guards aren't charging in?" Emma snapped her fingers. Several bodyguards and maids shuffled into view, eyes blank, standing like puppets.
"Muties!" Trump's expression darkened. "I'm the Vice President of the United States. If you mutants lay a hand on me, it's an act of war."
"Careful with your words. We haven't harmed you. In fact, I might sue you for racism," Ethan said, adopting an exaggerated offended look. "The global term is 'meta,' recognized by the U.N., by the way."
"Then what do you want from me?" Trump asked, swallowing hard. If they weren't here to kill him, he still had room to maneuver.
"Nothing too dramatic. Just curious: what's your connection to the Mandarin?" Ethan asked lightly, waving a hand.
"That's absurd! I have no ties to that terrorist!" Trump barked, face flushing red.
"Is it absurd?" Ethan didn't look bothered. Instead, he casually dropped a thick folder on the table — inside were documents, transaction logs, photos. "By the way, I'm Ethan Hunt. A meta with S.H.I.E.L.D. clearance."
Though S.H.I.E.L.D.'s relationship with the U.S. was strained due to internal political games, Nick Fury had no trouble digging up dirt — and Ethan was more than happy to use it.
"Imagine if these files hit Congress," Ethan said with a grin.
Trump's face drained of color. Even exposing a fraction of that evidence would ruin him.
"What do you want?" he croaked.
"No, no. Wrong question." Ethan leaned in close, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's not about what I want. It's what you want. We both know you went to the Mandarin because he promised to cure your daughter's leg. Well, I can do that too, Mr. Vice President."
Ethan smiled, eyes sharp. "And that's not all. I could also give your career the final push it needs. So tell me, Mr. Vice President — do you want power?"
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Word count: 1744
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