"Darren, you've got a new mission."
That morning, Darren had barely opened his eyes in his five-hundred-square-meter luxury villa when Nick Fury's call came through.
And no—don't ask why a Level 5 S.H.I.E.L.D. agent could afford a mansion that size. Back in Los Santos, he'd owned dozens bigger than this one. This? This was modest.
Fury's gravelly voice hummed from the receiver. "I need you to get close to Tony Stark. Monitor his every move."
He paused, then added, "The mission was meant for Black Widow. Her... assets make infiltration easier, but she's tied up with something urgent. So I'm assigning it to you."
Darren had heard plenty about Black Widow. Like him, she maintained a perfect mission success rate—though she wasn't nearly as fast. She was, however, famously stunning. Rumor had it that half the male agents in S.H.I.E.L.D. would line up just to drink her bathwater.
With her charm and skill, seducing Tony would've been a cakewalk.
But now, with her unavailable…
"Director, I just want to clarify," Darren said immediately, "I sell skills, not my body."
Fury: "??"
What the hell went on in this guy's head?
"I didn't ask you to sell anything," Fury said, his patience thinning. "How you approach Stark is your problem. I only care about results."
[NPC Nick Fury has issued a new mission]
[Mission: Monitor Tony Stark]
[Objective: Infiltrate Tony Stark's circle, observe all activities, and report back to Fury]
[Reward: 1000 XP, +30 S.H.I.E.L.D. Reputation, 1 Random Item, 1 Random Equipment]
"Damn," Darren muttered. "The Stark missions do pay well."
That confirmed it—Tony Stark was definitely a central figure in this world's storyline. Probably tied to the main quest.
He hung up and started getting ready.
If Black Widow had handled this, she'd probably start with Stark Industries—fake some credentials, land a position, charm her way into replacing Tony's personal assistant. It was neat, slow, predictable.
But for Darren, that plan failed at step one. He wasn't exactly qualified to replace a pretty woman. Unless, of course, he cross-dressed—which, for the record, was not on the table.
And besides, he didn't like slow plans. He preferred shortcuts.
...
California. 10880 Malibu Point. A mansion carved into the cliffs above the sea.
In the underground lab, Tony Stark was completely absorbed in his latest project—the Mark III armor.
Ever since his harrowing escape from the Middle East, he'd thrown himself into perfecting the Iron Man suit. Compared to the clunky Mark I, this new version was leaner, more powerful, and—most importantly—it could fly.
He remembered sprinting across that desert, his lungs burning, bullets flying, swearing to himself he'd never be that powerless again. Maybe he'd even add a Gatling gun to the next version, just in case. The memory of Darren single-handedly wiping out those terrorists still haunted him.
Across the lab, a giant wall-mounted TV played the evening news.
"Tonight, the red carpet is set at Disney Concert Hall, where Tony Stark will once again donate generously to the Firefighters' Family Fund. However, as of this moment, Tony Stark himself has yet to arrive…"
Tony frowned. "Jarvis, were we even invited?"
"No record of any invitation, sir," the AI replied smoothly.
The broadcast continued, the anchor's tone dipping into tabloid gossip:
"Following Mr. Stark's shocking press conference weeks ago, speculation runs wild. Some sources suggest he suffered severe psychological and physical trauma during his captivity in the Middle East. Others even claim the man who returned isn't the real Tony Stark."
Tony's jaw tightened. His expression darkened by the second.
Psychological and physical trauma?
Not the real Stark?
"Jarvis," he ground out, "find out which media outlet aired this trash. Buy them. All of them. Then run a week's worth of stories about how healthy I am—body and mind!"
"Right away, sir."
"And call Happy. Tell him to bring the car around. We're going to that damn charity event."
"Sir," Jarvis said carefully, "Mr. Hogan called in sick today."
"What?" Tony blinked.
"He reports being attacked earlier this afternoon. Fortunately, he's unharmed and is now under medical observation."
"Attacked? By who?"
"The assailant was described as an unfamiliar man—black hair, black eyes, wearing a pink T-shirt and beach shorts."
Tony blinked slowly. "...Come again?"
Happy didn't make enemies. It didn't add up. But before he could think further—
"Sir," Jarvis interjected, "an unregistered visitor has just arrived at the main entrance."
Tony's brow twitched. "Who is it?"
"A black-haired, black-eyed male wearing a pink T-shirt and beach shorts."
Tony: "..."
Oh. Found him.
"Perfect," Tony muttered darkly. "Let's see who the hell this guy thinks he is. Pull up the surveillance feed."
"Sir... the visitor appears to have already entered the premises."
Tony's eyes widened. "What do you mean entered—"
Before he could finish, a section of the ceiling above him vanished with a loud crack!
A figure dropped down through the opening, landing squarely in the middle of the lab.
"Found you!"
The same voice. The same energy. The same chaos.
Tony's face went dark. "You again."
"Long time no see," Darren greeted cheerfully, as if he were visiting an old friend.
His eyes wandered to the glowing hologram beside Tony—schematics of the Mark III armor spinning in the air.
"Nice suit! Way better than that tin can you had in the desert."
His eyes lit up with the same greedy curiosity of a kid staring into a candy store.
Tony immediately shut off the display. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Darren grinned. "Can't you tell? I'm here to apply for the bodyguard job."
Tony stared at him for a long, silent moment.
"You're serious."
Darren's grin widened. "Dead serious."
Tony exhaled slowly.
...
Of all the crazy things that happened in his life, this one somehow still managed to top the list.