The Universal Capsule Company's presentation concluded to thunderous applause. As the stage lights dimmed and the crowd began filtering toward the next showcase, Smith collected Bulma and Fox with a meaningful glance.
"The press conference is over," Smith said to Tony, who'd rejoined them backstage. "Now let's go solve your problem."
Tony nodded, his showman persona dropping away to reveal the exhaustion and worry beneath. He opened the door to the backstage corridor and called out, "Happy! Time to go."
Happy Hogan materialized from where he'd been standing guard, his linebacker build clearing a path through the backstage crowd. The group made their way toward the exit, though progress was slow—beautiful women seeking photos with Tony, children wanting autographs from both Smith and Tony, journalists shouting questions about the hover car.
Tony handled it with his usual charm, signing things, flashing smiles, making quips. But Smith could see the effort it cost him, the way his hand trembled slightly when he held the marker.
They finally reached the parking lot. Two vehicles waited—a Rolls-Royce Phantom with John Wick standing at attention beside it, and a sporty convertible with a woman in professional attire leaning against the driver's door.
Tony's eyes locked onto the woman immediately, his brain cataloging details even through the fatigue. Attractive, professional bearing, purposeful positioning. "Is she a gift that comes with the car?" he asked Happy, only half-joking. "Because I'm hoping so."
He approached with his trademark swagger. "Hi, who are you?"
"Court messenger," the woman said, her tone professionally neutral.
Tony glanced back at Smith with mock enthusiasm. "She's got an accent—Irish, maybe? I like her already."
The Court messenger's expression didn't change—she'd clearly dealt with Tony Stark's type before. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Stark."
John Wick had already opened the Rolls-Royce's rear door. Smith moved toward it, calling over his shoulder, "We have things to handle, Tony. Come on."
Tony slid into the convertible's passenger seat, shooting the Court messenger an apologetic smile. "Seems we're not destined to be together. Duty calls."
The Court messenger reached into her messenger bag and pulled out two official-looking envelopes. "Tony Stark, here's a subpoena for you." She extended the first envelope. "And of course, Mr. Smith Doyle's as well."
Tony's hand stopped halfway to the envelope, his expression shifting to something between annoyance and distaste. He didn't take it.
"You are both ordered to appear before the Senate Armed Services Committee tomorrow morning at 9:00 AM sharp," the server continued, apparently unfazed by Tony's lack of cooperation.
Happy stepped forward smoothly, plucking the envelope from the woman's hand with practiced ease. "Tony never takes anything from anyone," he explained. "It's not personal."
"It's a quirk," Tony added with a slight shrug. "There's nothing I can do about it. Psychological thing from childhood—my therapist and I are working through it."
The Court messenger turned her attention to Smith, who'd been observing the exchange with amused detachment. "Mr. Smith, do you have this same quirk?"
Smith raised one hand casually. The envelope in her grip twitched, then flew smoothly through the air into his waiting fingers. He examined it briefly, then tucked it into his jacket pocket.
The Court messenger's professional composure cracked. "Oh my god. What was that? Magic?"
Her eyes were wide, all pretense of bureaucratic indifference evaporating in the face of casual physics violation.
Tony, now seated in the convertible, leaned toward her with sudden interest. "Can I see your badge?"
She fumbled for it automatically, muscle memory overriding her shock. Tony examined it with exaggerated thoroughness, clearly just buying time to mess with her further.
Smith climbed into the Rolls-Royce, followed by Bulma and Fox. "Let's go back to base, John."
John Wick slid behind the wheel without a word and started the engine—a smooth, powerful purr that suggested the Phantom's engine had been heavily modified.
Tony waved dismissively at the Court messenger. "Thanks for your service. Happy, follow that Rolls."
Happy started the convertible and pulled out behind John's vehicle, leaving the Court messenger standing alone in the parking lot, still staring at her hand where the envelope had been.
Assassin Fraternity Base - Medical Wing
Tony stood shirtless in the medical recovery room, the arc reactor in his chest glowing with its characteristic blue-white light. Dark veins radiated outward from the device like spider webs, visible proof of the poison spreading through his system.
Smith studied the setup, then asked the question that had been bothering him. "Tony, since you're suffering from palladium poisoning, why not install the arc reactor directly in your suit and replace the chest unit with a simple electromagnetic generator? Just something strong enough to keep the shrapnel away from your heart, powered by a standard battery."
"After all, the chest device only needs to maintain the magnetic field. It doesn't need to be a full arc reactor accelerating your poisoning."
Tony's head tilted back as he released a long-suffering sigh. "Smith, you really need to read more physics textbooks. It doesn't matter if you don't have a degree, but you should master the fundamentals before offering engineering advice."
Smith raised an eyebrow, unperturbed by the lecture tone.
"The arc reactor uses palladium to generate sustained fusion," Tony explained, slipping into professor mode despite his exhaustion. "That process produces radiation—not enough to harm anyone at a safe distance, but definitely enough to matter up close."
He tapped the reactor in his chest. "If I mounted an external arc reactor on the suit, it would be right next to my body—maybe eighteen inches from my torso during operation. Same radiation exposure, same poisoning, just from a different angle."
Tony gestured vaguely at his chest. "And standard batteries? At this size and weight constraint? I'd get maybe twenty minutes of flight time before needing to land and swap power cells. Should I call timeout during combat, step out of the suit, and ask the bad guys to wait while I change batteries?"
He met Smith's eyes directly. "The fundamental problem is that no one has found a replacement element. As long as I'm running fusion reactions with palladium, prolonged suit operation means progressive poisoning. It's not a design flaw—it's physics."
Smith nodded slowly, the explanation clearing up several misconceptions he'd carried from half-remembered internet discussions in his previous life. The solution had always seemed so simple—just move the reactor. But Tony was right. Close proximity to an active fusion reaction meant radiation exposure regardless of placement.
Bulma had been working at a control console beside the medical pod, inputting data from Tony's most recent scans. The device chimed softly, and she studied the readout with professional focus.
"Tony," she said, looking up from the display, "once you enter the pod, you'll need to remove the arc reactor from your chest along with all mounting hardware and fixtures."
Tony's expression shifted to alarm. "Bulma, please tell me you're joking."
His hand instinctively moved to the reactor, protective and worried. "Remove it? If those shrapnel fragments migrate to my heart before you extract them, I'll be dead in minutes. I'll be meeting my father a lot sooner than planned."
He stared at the medical pod—a sleek cylindrical chamber filled with pale blue fluid, looking more like a science fiction prop than actual medical equipment. "How is this thing supposed to handle shrapnel fragments embedded in muscle tissue near major arteries?"
Smith stepped forward, his voice calm and certain. "Tony. Do you trust me?"
Tony's gaze shifted from the pod to Smith. The question hung in the air between them, weighted with every moment they'd shared—every time Smith had pulled him back from disaster, every crisis where Smith had proven reliable.
"Okay," Tony said finally, his voice quiet but firm. "I trust you."
Happy stood near the door, hands clenched at his sides, clearly wanting to object but recognizing this wasn't his call. This was the moment he fully understood just how close to death his boss actually was.
Smith's expression softened slightly. "Good. Take off your pants—leave the boxers. Remove the arc reactor and mounting assembly. Then step into the pod."
Tony didn't hesitate this time. He unbuckled his belt, stepped out of his slacks, and stood in just his underwear and socks. His fingers moved to the arc reactor with practiced precision—twist, release, lift. The blue glow dimmed as he disconnected power leads and released the magnetic couplings.
The device came free with a wet sound that made Happy wince. The cavity in Tony's chest gaped, raw flesh visible around the implant site, dark veins spreading like roots.
Tony held the reactor for a moment, then set it carefully on a nearby table. He approached the pod, and Bulma opened the chamber with a hydraulic hiss.
"Attach these monitoring leads," Bulma instructed, gesturing to adhesive sensors. "Four of them—temples, wrists. And you'll need to use the oxygen supply once the chamber fills."
Tony applied the sensors where indicated, then climbed into the pod. The interior was surprisingly warm, the fluid already heated to body temperature. He settled into position—half-reclined, arms at his sides—and accepted the oxygen mask from Bulma's hands.
"Ready?" Bulma asked.
Tony gave a thumbs-up, the oxygen mask already secured over his nose and mouth.
Bulma confirmed all readings were nominal, then pressed the activation button.
The chamber sealed with a soft hiss. Pale blue fluid began flowing in, rising steadily to cover Tony's legs, torso, shoulders. Within thirty seconds, he was completely submerged, floating in the medical solution.
Smith watched the process with apparent calm, then turned to Bulma with an expression of exaggerated concern. "Bulma, how exactly is the pod going to handle the shrapnel? The healing fluid can't just dissolve metal, can it?"
His voice carried across the room, perfectly audible to Tony floating in the chamber. "Tony's going to die in there."
Tony's eyes flew open wide inside the pod, staring at Smith with sudden panic.
"Oh my god," Smith continued, his tone shifting to mock horror. "The world is going to lose their beloved Iron Man. Happy, you should probably start preparing the press release."
Bulma's lips twitched, fighting a smile as she played along. "You're terrible."
She turned to address Tony directly through the pod's communication system. "Relax, Tony. The fluid contains liquid nanorobots programmed for medical intervention. They're already entering your bloodstream through dermal absorption."
On the monitors, detailed readouts began populating—nanobot deployment, tissue mapping, shrapnel location identification.
"The nanobots will break down the shrapnel at the molecular level," Bulma continued, her tone shifting to professional competence. "They'll extract the fragments piece by piece, small enough to pass through your lymphatic system and eventually be filtered by your kidneys."
She checked another display. "Simultaneously, they're repairing all accumulated tissue damage—the cavity in your chest, scarring from the original injury, minor trauma from repeated arc reactor removals. Even addressing chronic inflammation and cellular damage you didn't know you had."
Bulma's expression gained a hint of satisfaction. "When you emerge, your body will be in peak physical condition—probably better than any point since your early twenties. Essentially, you're getting ten years of life expectancy added back."
Tony's expression inside the pod shifted from panic to profound relief, then to annoyance as he realized Smith had been deliberately messing with him.
He raised his middle finger in Smith's direction, the gesture slightly distorted by the fluid but perfectly clear in intent.
Smith grinned, completely unrepentant. "Thought you might appreciate some levity before your near-death medical procedure."
Happy released a breath he'd been holding, sagging slightly against the wall. "Boss, I'm never going to get used to this superhero stuff."
On the monitors, the nanobots were already at work—tiny machines invisible to the naked eye, swarming through Tony's cardiovascular system, beginning the painstaking process of saving his life.