Tony froze—repulsor hum stuttering mid-air. "Excuse me?" Gauntlet sparks spat disbelief onto fused earth. "I build suits—not governments—"
Madara's gaze carved shadows deeper than Siberian ice. "You commanded battlefields—moved mountains—forced gods to bleed." Gunbai tip traced Stark's arc-reactor glow—gravitic resonance humming. "Leadership is resource allocation under siege. You excel."
Hashirama inhaled sharp—cedar scent thickening—roots trembling beneath temporal static. "Tony…" Stark whirled—helmet snapping shut. "Don't 'Tony' me, Tree-Man! This isn't—" Scan-lines flickered madly across his lenses: refugee clusters, chakra sparks blooming from trembling hands, Konoha farmers sharpening kunai beside StarkTech salvagers. Chaos coiled—visceral as vibranium tendons.
Barnes stepped forward—vibranium knuckles sparking electrostatic blue. "You rebuilt me from scraps," Bucky rasped—glacial eyes locked on Stark's reactor. "Rebuild them." Silence fell—heavy with phantom senate blood and ozone. Madara watched—immovable—as Stark's gauntlets clenched, armored knuckles grinding gravel to dust. Survival demanded architects... or oblivion swallowed all.
Tony's reactor flared—cobalt brilliance etching desperation across cratered asphalt. "Fine." His voice cracked—half-gravel, half-thunder. "But we do it my way." Gauntlets snapped high—holos erupting: schematics, supply routes, Stark Industries satellites bleeding through phantom Hokage directives. "First order? Everyone touches grass." He jabbed a finger toward Konoha's spectral forests. "Test your sparks. Now."
Stark's holograms bled reality—satellite grids superimposing phantom Senju orchards, refugee camp coordinates twisting through Konoha's reconstructed market streets. Hashirama inhaled—sharp cedar cutting through ozone—but Madara's Rinnegan pulsed: Chaos contained. For now. Barnes' vibranium fist clenched—lightning chakra arcing blue across frozen knuckles. Survival demanded compliance... or collapse.
Hashirama shifted—roots groaning beneath temporal strain—palms lifting toward trembling civilians. "Peace," he murmured—ancient moss-scent washing over Stark's tech-stench. "Chakra flows like sap—" A shopkeeper's flickering sparks sputtered—weak jolts scorching his own sleeve. Stark snorted—holos shimmering impatiently. "—or like faulty wiring. Point proven, Sap-Man." Barnes growled—metal arm sparking violently—as refugees recoiled. Chains of command frayed…
Madara sighed—the sound colder than Siberian permafrost fracturing. Rinnegan locked onto Stark's flickering holos—alien glyphs bleeding through Konoha's sacred scrolls. "Or," Madara's voice cut gravitic silence, "you could let us teach them." Gunbai tilted—subtle as glacier calving—toward Hashirama's steadied palms. "Actual shinobi." Dust settled. Stark's holograms froze mid-spin. Finn's cop-mind fused with Uchiha disdain: Soldiers need trainers… not tech demos.
Stark's helmet snapped open—eyes narrowed—scanning Hashirama's chakra-laced fingertips… Barnes' controlled electrostatic arcs… Madara's obsidian stillness. Tony swallowed ozone and arrogance. "Fine." Repulsors died—holos winking out. "But you train with my sensors." He tossed a StarkPad to Barnes—glowing with biometric overlays. "Track every spark." Madara's Rinnegan gleamed—icy amusement flashing behind cosmic rings. Survival demanded compromise.
Madara stepped forward—boots cracking fused earth—Gunbai casting a predatory silhouette against the bled sky. Stark's sensors flared warnings—Armor Defense Mode auto-cycling—as Madara halted inches away, towering. His lips curled—not a smile, but glacier-sharp amusement—baring teeth like tombstones. "Adorable," Madara murmured—the word silk-wrapped steel—as Stark's reactor pulsed frantic indigo. "Your belief… that you hold power over me." He leaned closer—Rinnegan swallowing Tony's fractured lenses. Stark tensed—repulsors humming—but couldn't retreat. Hashirama's roots coiled protectively… too slow.
"I declared you leader of this country," Madara hissed—breath frosting Stark's reactor casing. "Not my leader." Gravity thickened—debris hovering mid-air—as Madara's gaze swept refugees, Siberian snowflakes freezing ten feet above trembling crowds. "Command sheep." His Gunbai lifted—tip brushing Stark's chestplate—a universe's weight humming in the gesture. "But never forget…" Silence choked. Barnes' vibranium fist sparked—uncontrolled—scorching Stark-tech concrete. Madara turned away—coat swirling gravitic dust—voice fading like dying stars: "...you exist because I allow it."
Stark stood frozen—reactor flickering arrhythmic blue—scan-lines scrambling across cracked optics. Finn-Madara tasted copper… and truth. Survival demanded clarity. Hierarchy etched in cosmic ice. Chains rattled—Barnes' vibranium fingers clenched StarkPad tighter—neural-readouts flaring red: Elevated cortisol. Stark inhaled—sharp—scanning Madara's retreating back… then Hashirama's steady palms… the refugees' novice chakra flickers. Leadership. Shackles. Same alloy. He glared at Barnes—voice scraped raw—"Monitor the sparks Terminator" Adapting was hard