Tony Stark raised his forehead and groaned, "Okay, I can see that you really love to eat."
After a brief moment to collect himself, a glimmer of grim determination returned to his face. The odds were steep—if there were a dozen men outside, maybe he'd risk a standoff. But this wasn't that. This was a full deployment: over a hundred mercenaries, at least a dozen RPG units, and advanced tactical positioning that rivaled some of SHIELD's rapid deployment squads. And the "R_R" insignia? Clear as day. These weren't Ten Rings. They were Red Ribbon.
The Red Ribbon Army. The same organization that once hunted Goku relentlessly during his youth—rebuilt in the shadows after Commander Black's fall and Doctor Gero's android disasters. Stark had read rumors in obscure SHIELD files. But now they were standing right outside.
There was only one shot at survival: convince them he was still useful. He had to lean into what they wanted most—weaponry. Missiles, reactors, suits. His genius was the only leverage he had.
If he played the Ark Reactor right, it might buy him time. That miniature clean-energy core was both a lifeline and a ticking bomb.
"Then you should eat well," Stark muttered under his breath, casting a sidelong glance at Kalroth El.
Kalroth cut his steak with a smooth motion, the sound of the blade brushing porcelain oddly soothing in the tension. "Don't worry. I will."
Tony rolled his eyes. "You're crazy. Who the hell eats steak like it's brunch at Le Bernardin when we're about to be vaporized by a pack of bloodthirsty desert mercs?"
"I don't fear death," Kalroth said casually, "but I do fear hunger."
"You're insane," Stark said again, and turned to face the door with a sigh. It felt like the last breath before diving into a furnace.
He hesitated just long enough to look back. Kalroth didn't say a word. No dramatic final line. No noble send-off. Just… chewing.
"Right. I expected something more from the desert philosopher," Stark muttered and stepped out, head held high, but legs shaking under the weight of so many gun barrels aimed at his chest.
Back inside, Kalroth watched through a holographic projection. He activated the surveillance node he'd discreetly installed in the dining room. Stark wouldn't have noticed it. Few would. The feed flickered, revealing the outside: Stark, surrounded; dozens of men flanking armored transports and sand-colored Humvees, wearing modified tactical gear that echoed both desert warfare and Capsule Corporation tech designs—likely scavenged from black-market sales.
Behind them, a group slowly emerged: a silver-haired teen with calculating eyes, a curvy woman with shoulder-length purple hair and a Capsule Corp. badge on her arm, and a sweet-faced girl who couldn't have been older than ten, but whose aura was unmistakably calm and alert. Trunks. Bulma. Bra. The Briefs family, in the flesh. Even out here.
Kalroth narrowed his eyes. So… she came.
"Don't shoot! I surrender!"
Stark's voice cracked, but his arms were raised as ordered. He winced at the sound of dozens of safeties being clicked off. The rocket teams moved into formation, snipers perched atop transport roofs. Their efficiency was military-grade. These weren't grunts. These were soldiers conditioned through years of high-threat contract warfare. Stark recognized the style. PMCs who had once worked for Hammer Industries, maybe even AIM.
The Red Ribbon had been recruiting well.
"Target confirmed. Tony Stark is alive," reported one of the officers—Boris Elfman, the same merc commander who oversaw attacks in Madripoor during the AIM conflict.
"Approach slowly. Away from the house. Hands high," Elfman barked.
Stark complied, trying to mask his limp. The moment he stepped into their circle, one soldier slammed a rifle butt into his thigh.
"GAH!"
Before he could curse, a second blow caught his gut. He collapsed, bile rising into his throat.
Enrique Ellance, the squad's second-in-command, stood over him, grinding a boot into his wrist. "Because of you, we've been roasting in this hellhole for two days. You billionaire bast—"
"Ugh—" Stark gagged, face pushed into the sand. His hair was matted, face unshaven, chest heaving with pain and dust. He looked more like a strung-out scavenger than the billionaire tech mogul who once launched Jericho missiles in Afghanistan.
"You're not Ten Rings. You're… Red Ribbon?" he wheezed.
"Shut up," Enrique snarled, kicking him again.
Boris motioned toward the house. "Search the building. Someone's been helping him. That reactor in his chest isn't desert scrap."
"No, don't!" Stark tried to rise, panic surging. "There's nothing there!"
They weren't listening.
"Bang! Bang!"
Another round of kicks knocked the wind from him.
"I—I have a bomb in my chest! You go in, I detonate it! This whole desert's going up!" he screamed, desperately trying to sound convincing.
Boris didn't even blink. He motioned. Two men forced Stark down, tore open his shirt, and stared into the soft blue glow of the Ark Reactor.
"Tim, Harm—search the house. Thomas, Kron—break his arms."
Stark thrashed. "No! No, please, you can't—"
Just then—
"Squeak."
The door opened.
Every weapon turned.
Kalroth El stepped out casually, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin, half a steak still in his other hand.
"Yo," he said, raising a hand lazily. "He's still alive? Huh. Neat."
Tony's jaw dropped. "You… WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!"
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Kalroth replied, blinking innocently.
"ARE YOU A GHOST?!" Stark screamed. "WHAT KIND OF MORON WALKS INTO A GUN CIRCLE LIKE IT'S A BBQ?!"
But Kalroth 's gaze wasn't even on Stark.
His eyes were locked on Boris Elfman and his Red Ribbon patch. His voice dropped a register, not cold, not angry—just… calculating.
"I wasn't talking about him."
He took a step forward.
Stark's breath caught.
Because suddenly, the air felt heavy. Like the calm before a G-force explosion. A sensation Stark remembered only once before—in New York, when Thor arrived through the Bifrost.
But this time?
It was coming from the man who had just eaten twenty plates of food and complained about being hungry.