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Marcus was mid-conversation with Pepper when something made him glance up at the night sky.
The others looked confused for a second, but Ada caught it too—her enhanced senses picking up the same thing. She tilted her head back, scanning the darkness.
There. A distant shape against the clouds, getting closer fast.
Then the flames appeared.
The distinctive blue-white glow of repulsor jets cut through the night like a comet, growing brighter as it descended toward the Expo grounds.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Marcus muttered.
Tony Stark dropped out of the sky in his Mark IV armor, pulling off a picture-perfect superhero landing right in the center of the main stage. The impact cracked the concrete—theatrically, Marcus was pretty sure, because Tony definitely could've landed softer if he'd wanted to.
The crowd went absolutely insane.
Fireworks exploded overhead. Rock music blasted from speakers hidden around the pavilion. A dance troupe that had apparently been waiting for exactly this moment burst onto the stage in synchronized choreography, all of them dressed in Iron Man-themed outfits that were way too revealing to be practical combat gear.
Tony stood at the center of it all, arms spread wide, bathing in the attention.
"Whoa! IRON MAN! YEAH!"
The cheering was deafening.
Marcus couldn't help but laugh. "This guy is such a drama queen."
Next to him, Pepper and Happy both turned away, looking anywhere but at the stage.
"He's always like this," Pepper said, sounding equal parts exhausted and fond. "He can't help himself."
"It's gotten worse lately," Happy added. "I don't know what's gotten into him."
Marcus did, actually. Palladium poisoning probably made you want to go out with a bang, metaphorically speaking. Or literally, knowing Tony.
But he wasn't about to explain that to Pepper and Happy. Not yet, anyway.
Ada leaned closer, her voice slipping into his mind through their telepathic link: Boss, you want to make an entrance too?
Marcus glanced at her. She had that knowing look—the one that said she'd figured out exactly what he was thinking before he'd fully thought it himself.
She was right, of course. Part of him did want to show off. Who wouldn't? Tony was up there looking like a rockstar-superhero hybrid, and Marcus had powers that could match him easily.
But this was Tony's event. His moment.
And besides, Tony was dying. Even if he didn't know it yet.
Marcus shook his head slightly. Not tonight. Let him have this.
On stage, the mechanical arms that had assembled for the performance began disassembling Tony's armor piece by piece. The crowd watched in fascination as the red-and-gold plates lifted away, revealing Tony underneath in an expensive suit that probably cost more than a luxury car.
The dance troupe finished their routine with a flourish. Tony waited for them to clear the stage, then stepped up to the microphone with that trademark confident grin.
"Good evening!" His voice boomed across the Expo grounds. "Welcome to the Stark Expo—where the future happens today, tomorrow, and every day for the next year because we're that committed to showing off!"
The crowd laughed and cheered.
Tony launched into his prepared speech—something about innovation, technology, his father's legacy, the usual inspirational stuff that sounded great but didn't really say much of anything concrete. Marcus had heard variations of this speech before. Tony was good at them.
Then the big screens around the pavilion lit up with archival footage.
Howard Stark appeared, looking impossibly young and idealistic, talking about his vision for the future. The City of Tomorrow. Technology that would change the world.
Marcus watched Tony's face as the video played. There was something raw there, just for a second—grief, maybe, or regret—before Tony's usual mask slid back into place.
When the video ended, Tony gave a casual salute to the screen and walked offstage to thunderous applause.
Marcus tracked him with his telekinesis, feeling Tony's movements even through the crowd. The moment Tony thought he was out of sight, he pulled out a small device—a portable blood toxicity monitor, if Marcus remembered the tech correctly.
Ada picked up on it too. Her mental voice was quiet: Your friend doesn't look well.
Palladium poisoning, Marcus sent back. From the arc reactor in his chest. It's slowly killing him.
Can you help?
He'll figure it out. He always does. Marcus paused. And if he doesn't... then yeah, I'll help. But Tony needs to hit bottom before he'll accept help from anyone.
He watched the monitor in Tony's hand flash a reading: 19% Blood Toxicity.
Tony's expression went dark for exactly two seconds. Then he plastered the smile back on and headed toward the reception area.
Classic Stark. Bury the pain, crack a joke, keep moving forward.
Marcus could respect that, even if it was a terrible coping mechanism.
A few minutes later, Tony found them near the refreshment tables.
"Marcus! My man!" Tony pulled him into a hug that was probably meant to be bro-ish but came across as slightly desperate. "I'm so glad you made it. What'd you think? Pretty spectacular, right?"
Marcus pushed him away with exaggerated disgust. "Dude, I'd rather hug a beautiful woman than you. Also, did you seriously drag me out here just to watch you make a dramatic entrance?"
"That's the point," Tony said, grinning. "The drama! The spectacle! The romance of it all! You're too young to understand."
"I'm twenty-three, not twelve."
"Exactly. You're basically a kid." Tony was forty now, give or take, and he clearly enjoyed playing the age card. "When you get to my level of maturity and sophistication—"
"When I get to your age, you mean. Which is forty."
Tony actually flinched. "I prefer 'distinguished.'"
"You prefer 'in denial.'"
"I'm in my prime! This is peak male attractiveness!"
"You're an old man."
"I'm not an old man!"
"Gray hair says otherwise."
"That's stress, not age!"
They kept going like that for a solid five minutes—petty, childish bickering that neither of them actually meant. It was comfortable. Familiar.
Eventually, Pepper and Ada gave up trying to get their attention and wandered off to talk business instead.
Marcus caught fragments of their conversation through his enhanced hearing: quarterly reports, joint ventures, avoiding market overlap, regulatory compliance. The boring but necessary stuff that kept massive corporations from accidentally competing against themselves.
Pepper and Ada had met several times now to coordinate between Stark Industries and Rockwell. They'd developed a good working relationship, both of them highly competent women stuck managing brilliant but occasionally infuriating bosses.
Happy, meanwhile, had migrated to the buffet table and was chatting up one of the event coordinators. Good for him.
Eventually, Marcus got tired of arguing with Tony and decided to actually explore the Expo.
"I'm gonna go look around," he announced. "Try not to die of old age while I'm gone."
"I hate you."
"Love you too, buddy."
Marcus left Tony to deal with his adoring fans—and there were a lot of them. Ever since Tony had announced "I am Iron Man" at that press conference, his celebrity status had gone through the roof. Superhero and billionaire genius? People couldn't get enough.
Marcus preferred to keep a lower profile.
He wandered through the various pavilions, checking out the exhibits. Most of it was standard corporate showboating—flashy prototypes that would never make it to production, vague promises about revolutionary technology, lots of buzzwords and very little substance.
But some of it was genuinely interesting. Advanced robotics, renewable energy solutions, biotech applications. The kind of stuff that could actually make a difference if it ever got past the investment committee stage.
Marcus grabbed a plate of hors d'oeuvres from a passing waiter and kept moving.
Within minutes, people started approaching him.
He'd known it would happen. Marcus Reed might not be as famous as Tony Stark, but in certain circles—business, finance, tech—his reputation preceded him. The guy who'd built a multi-billion-dollar company in under six months. The unknown player who'd made billions on Wall Street in a series of trades that had left analysts scrambling to figure out his strategy.
Some people wanted partnerships. Some wanted investment capital. Some just wanted to shake his hand and tell him they'd been following his career.
Marcus was polite but noncommittal. He listened to pitches, accepted business cards, made vague promises to "have my people call your people."
The truth was, he already knew which companies were worth investing in. Being a transmigrator with knowledge of the future had its advantages. He knew which tech would take off, which startups would become giants, which industries would boom and which would crash.
He'd already made strategic investments in half a dozen companies that would be worth twenty times their current value in just a few years. Clean energy. Advanced computing. Biotech firms on the verge of breakthrough therapies.
The Wall Street trades that had made him billions? Those had been almost too easy. Marcus knew when the crashes would come, when the bubbles would burst. He'd shorted the right stocks at the right time, bought low and sold high with perfect timing.
Which, predictably, had attracted attention.
The SEC had already sent investigators. The IRS showed up at Rockwell headquarters at least once a week, looking for anything they could use to justify an audit. Other government agencies had started sniffing around too—probably SHIELD, though they were being subtle about it.
And then there were the other corporations. The big players who didn't appreciate some upstart taking their market share. They'd been trying to sabotage Rockwell through regulatory pressure, hiring away key employees, spreading rumors about financial instability.
It was getting annoying.
Marcus couldn't just keep making money hand over fist without consequences. He needed to diversify, spread investments around, make strategic partnerships that would give him political cover.
Hence the networking at the Stark Expo.
He chatted with a venture capitalist from California. Exchanged contact information with a pharmaceutical CEO. Made small talk with a congressman who was "very interested in discussing the future of American innovation."
All part of the game.
Marcus didn't reject everyone who approached him. He was selective—choosing companies with real potential, entrepreneurs who actually knew what they were doing, opportunities that would pay off down the line.
Being a transmigrator had its advantages. He knew which technologies would take off, which industries would boom, which investments would multiply tenfold in just a few years.
That same knowledge was exactly why he'd made so much money on Wall Street, and why that success had painted a target on his back.
The SEC was investigating him. The IRS showed up at Rockwell headquarters practically every other day, looking for any excuse to launch an audit. Other government agencies had started circling too.
Some of it was legitimate regulatory concern—nobody made that much money that quickly without raising questions.
But a lot of it was hired harassment. Competing corporations using their political connections to slow him down. Greedy officials looking for bribes. Various power players who didn't appreciate some upstart billionaire taking market share from the established giants.
There was an old saying about money: taking someone's wealth was like killing their parents. Marcus had taken billions from the old guard, and they absolutely wanted revenge.
Which meant he couldn't just keep aggressively expanding in the same markets. He needed to diversify. Build strategic partnerships. Spread his investments across multiple sectors so no single industry could coordinate against him effectively.
He couldn't afford to let Rockwell stagnate, not when there were so many hostile forces waiting for him to slip up.
So he kept networking, kept making connections, kept playing the game.
Because in the end, that's what it was: a game. And Marcus intended to win.