Afghanistan.
An endless desert. Nothing but yellow sand stretching to the horizon.
"Oh, shit… Short Legs."
Flying high above, Finnian muttered under his breath.
Down below, three kilometers away, a sand buggy tore across the dunes.
Two figures sat inside, wearing tactical gear—Black Widow Natasha Romanoff (aka the infamous Short Legs of many questionable internet fantasies), and Clint Barton, better known as Hawkeye—the Avengers' resident lucky ADC.
They weren't alone. A squad of SHIELD agents in combat suits followed close behind.
Finnian banked away immediately.
"Wrong direction. Can't let them see me."
He applied the reverse exclusion method: eliminate the U.S. military bases, rule out SHIELD's search zone, scratch off the caves he'd already checked… that left only three possible areas.
"Little Black, retreat."
He ordered the Mechanical Dog back underground, then turned toward the final regions.
Meanwhile, on the desert floor.
Hawkeye squinted into the sun, taking a swig from his canteen. Out of the corner of his eye, something flickered.
"Nat—over there!" He pointed sharply.
Natasha floored the buggy, sand spraying behind them.
"What did you see?"
"Not sure. Something moving. Maybe an animal. Check the ground for tracks."
Up ahead, the Mechanical Dog burrowed beneath the dunes like a ghost, leaving only paw prints before vanishing completely.
The buggy skidded to a halt. Barton crouched over the tracks, frowning.
"These aren't… natural. And then they just… stop?"
Natasha took out a camera. "Get a picture. Send it to HQ."
They studied the prints a moment longer, uneasy. But they couldn't waste time chasing phantoms. The mission was Stark. Always Stark.
Hours later.
Inside the Ten Rings camp, Tony Stark kept hammering away.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
On a monitor, the bald leader of the Ten Rings grinned at the sight.
"So, what if he's a billionaire? Here, he listens to me."
He almost missed the fiery Stark who had once spat in his face and refused. Almost.
The bald man had dreams—dreams of becoming overlord of Afghanistan, then Central Asia, then the entire world. Stark would forge the weapons that carried him there.
He was savoring the thought when—
"AHHHHHH!"
A scream tore the night apart.
The leader snapped his head toward the entrance. "Check it out."
"Yes, Boss."
The underling barely reached the door before a blade slid clean through him.
The bald man yanked his pistol free. "Who's there?"
"I see you."
A chilling voice drifted through as the curtain lifted.
Two red mechanical eyes gleamed in the darkness.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
The Mechanical Dog strode in—its movements slow, deliberate, almost mocking.
The bald man panicked, unloading his pistol until the magazine clicked empty. Useless. The thing didn't even flinch.
Fuck curiosity. Survival mattered more. He bolted.
But the dog pursued like a predator savoring the hunt.
"Enough, Little Black. End it."
Finnian's voice came calm and cold through the comms.
The Mechanical Dog paused, as if disappointed. Then—two shots. Clean. Precise.
The bald leader of the Ten Rings dropped a neat hole in his forehead.
One of the MCU's first dominoes… knocked over ahead of schedule.
Finnian didn't care. This isn't fanfiction, it's my timeline now.
The metallic stench of blood soaked the camp. The Ten Rings underlings had all been purged.
And through the silence came the thump, thump, thump of armored boots.
Finnian, clad in the White Can Armor, approached the cave.
Inside the cave, Stark and Yinsen froze at the sounds of screams and gunfire. In desperation, they barricaded the iron door with whatever they could drag.
"This is it, Doc. We're screwed."
But Yinsen only smiled faintly. "Maybe not, Tony. Maybe they're here to save you."
Tony shook his head, bitter.
If only he had more time. Just a month. He could've built it—the armor that lived in his head. Sleeker, stronger, revolutionary. With an arc reactor humming at its core.
Hell, maybe even white, gleaming metal…
"What the hell—?"
His words caught in his throat as the iron door was sliced apart like butter, molten edges sparking.
And then… it stepped inside.
Not the crude suit he had imagined. But perfected armor.
Polished white. Sleek lines. Power humming in its chest.
Exactly what Tony had just envisioned—only real. Alive.
For once in his life, Tony Stark was speechless.
His genius brain short-circuited, whiplashed between awe, envy, disbelief, and a stab of despair.
This armor proved his dream was possible. Worse—it proved someone had already beaten him to it.
The pride of Tony Stark, shattered in seconds.
Beside him, Yinsen stared dumbstruck.
And behind the visor, Finnian cursed silently.
…Shit. I went too far. This is way too pretentious.