Happy stood holding Tony's carefully folded suit, the arc reactor and its mounting hardware balanced on top of the fabric. His face had gone pale, and his voice trembled when he spoke.
"Should I... should I also get in the treatment chamber?"
Bulma looked up from her monitoring console, confusion evident in her expression. "Do you have an illness I should know about? Because your vitals look completely normal."
Happy swallowed hard. "I'm holding the arc reactor right now. Could I get palladium poisoning from it?"
Smith and Bulma both froze for a moment, then Bulma's expression softened into something approaching sympathy mixed with amusement.
"The palladium radiation from the arc reactor is actually very weak," Bulma explained patiently. "And the effective radiation range is extremely limited. For a reactor this size, we're talking about maybe fifty centimeters maximum under normal conditions."
She could see Happy wasn't entirely convinced, so she reached for an analogy. "Think of it like bananas. Bananas contain potassium-40, which is naturally radioactive. Along with CT scans and nuclear reactors, they all produce ionizing radiation. But the concentration in bananas is so weak that you'd need to eat about 250 million bananas in a very short time period to receive a lethal dose."
Bulma gestured at the arc reactor in Happy's hands. "The fundamental principle of toxicology is that the dose makes the poison. Yes, the reactor produces radiation. But at this exposure level and duration, your risk is negligible."
She pulled up some data on her tablet. "Also, palladium poisoning isn't actually incurable. The human body's self-repair mechanisms are quite robust. Even at Tony's current toxicity levels, if he stopped using the arc reactor entirely and consumed about eighty ounces of chlorophyll daily—about two and a half liters—his body would gradually eliminate the palladium over time."
"And consider," Bulma added, "Tony was wearing that reactor against his chest twenty-four hours a day, every day, with frequent high-power discharges during combat. Even under those extreme conditions, it took over a year to reach his current critical state."
Understanding dawned across Happy's face. His shoulders relaxed, and color returned to his features. "So holding it for a few minutes won't kill me."
"Correct," Bulma confirmed. "You're fine."
Eight Hours Later
Bulma returned to the medical wing after catching a few hours of sleep in one of the base's guest quarters. Smith and Fox had remained on watch, though Smith had spent most of the time in meditation rather than actual vigilance—his enhanced senses would alert him to any problems long before conventional monitoring.
The treatment chamber's systems chimed softly, indicating completion. Bulma moved to the control console and began the wake-up sequence.
"Okay, Tony, all toxins have been successfully purged from your system. Waking you up now."
The pale blue fluid began draining through floor ports, the level dropping steadily until Tony was no longer submerged. His eyes opened, pupils contracting as they adjusted to the light. He pulled the oxygen mask away from his face and disconnected the monitoring leads with fingers that moved with surprising steadiness.
The chamber door hissed open. Tony stood, stepping out onto the recovery platform, and immediately looked down at his chest.
Where the arc reactor cavity had been—that raw, angry wound that had defined his existence for over a year—there was now smooth, healthy skin. No scarring. No discoloration. Just normal flesh, as if the injury had never existed.
"I felt like I was returning to the womb," Tony said, his voice carrying wonder beneath the quip. "Truly amazing experience. Weirdly comfortable, actually."
He flexed his arms, rolled his shoulders, testing his range of motion. "I feel strong enough to kill a cow. With my bare hands. Not that I would—animal cruelty and all that—but I could."
Tony turned to face Smith and Bulma directly. "Your treatment chamber is absolutely incredible. Groundbreaking doesn't begin to cover it." His expression grew more serious. "If you released this commercially, every medical conglomerate on Earth would either go bankrupt or be forced to adapt. Unless you priced it like the hover car, of course."
Bulma shook her head slightly. "Actually, the cost of a single treatment session is many times higher than a hover car."
Tony's enthusiasm faltered. "How much higher?"
"Significantly," Bulma said diplomatically.
Tony's analytical mind kicked in, running calculations. High-tech medical nanobots, exotic materials for the treatment fluid, the energy requirements for the chamber's systems—yeah, the operational costs would be astronomical.
He spotted his clothes hanging on a nearby rack, freshly pressed and ready. "Happy, where'd you put my things?"
Happy gestured to the side table where Tony's personal effects had been arranged. "Everything's here, boss."
Tony dressed quickly, his movements more energetic than they'd been in months. When he reached for his palladium toxicity monitor—the small device he'd carried obsessively for weeks—his hand was steady.
He pricked his thumb, let a drop of blood fall onto the test strip, and waited for the readout.
Blood Toxicity: 0%
Tony stared at the display, then laughed—a genuine, relieved sound that echoed through the medical wing. "Oh my god! It actually worked! Zero percent! Completely clear!"
He checked his watch, confirming eight hours had passed. Eight hours since removing the arc reactor. Without the electromagnetic field holding back the shrapnel, those fragments should have migrated to his heart within minutes, killing him almost immediately.
But they hadn't. Because they were gone. Completely eliminated by microscopic machines he couldn't even see.
Tony turned to Smith, his expression shifting into something calculating. "Hey, buddy. Let's make a deal. How about I come back for treatments whenever my blood toxicity reaches around forty percent? Just maintenance sessions until I find a replacement element for the palladium."
He spread his hands in a gesture of reasonableness. "Of course, I won't let you lose money on this arrangement. Name your price—I won't even negotiate."
Bulma spoke before Smith could respond. "The operational cost for a single treatment session is 12 million dollars. That's our floor."
Even Tony, whose net worth was measured in billions, blinked at the figure. 12 million per session. If he needed treatments every few months...
But then he thought about what that 12 million bought him. Complete detoxification. Full body restoration. Hidden injuries repaired. His physical condition reset to peak performance. As Bulma had mentioned, the first treatment alone had effectively added ten years to his life expectancy.
"Okay," Tony said decisively. "I'll pay you 15 million per session. That covers your costs with a comfortable margin, and ensures I'm a priority client when I need it."
Smith glanced at Bulma, catching the slight squint of her eyes—her tell when she was pleased with a negotiation outcome. He smiled slightly.
The truth was that the treatment chamber's operational costs were genuinely high—the specialized medical nanobots, the exotic compounds in the treatment fluid, the energy consumption. Even buying materials in bulk didn't significantly reduce expenses because many components were simply rare.
But 15 million per session? Tony had just made himself an extremely valuable repeat customer.
For Tony Stark, though, 15 million to save his life was barely a consideration. He'd spend ten times that without hesitation if necessary.
Smith clapped Tony on the shoulder. "Get ready. We're going to that Senate hearing in a few hours."
"By the way," he added, "Pepper's on her way here. She'll meet us at the hearing."
Tony's expression shifted to something more predatory. "Should be interesting to see what those congressional vultures actually want. Though I have to ask—why did they subpoena you? You don't have any armor to hand over. Are they trying to start the Superhuman Registration Act this early?"
Smith's smile was enigmatic. "Let's find out."
Senate Armed Services Committee Hearing - Washington, D.C.
The hearing room was smaller than the ones shown on C-SPAN, but still imposing—wood paneling, the Senate seal mounted prominently, tiered seating for the committee members that created a literal power dynamic of looking down on witnesses.
Tony sat at the witness table, Pepper Potts and Happy directly behind him in the first row of public seating. Smith occupied a chair beside Tony—also called as a witness, though for what purpose remained unclear. Fox and John Wick sat behind Smith, their presence adding an edge of controlled menace to the proceedings.
Bulma had declined to attend, declaring congressional hearings "boring political theater" and opting to work on hover car production scaling instead.
The committee chairman—a senator whose name Tony had forgotten immediately after being introduced—rapped his gavel against the desk with unnecessary force.
"Mr. Stark, can we continue with the previous topic? Mr. Stark, please."
Tony had been turned around, whispering something to Pepper that made her smile despite the formal setting. He rotated back to face the committee at the gavel's sound.
"Absolutely," Tony said with exaggerated attentiveness. "You have my complete and undivided focus."
Someone in the gallery laughed. The chairman's expression soured.
"Mr. Stark, will you please just pay attention to what I'm saying?" The gavel came down again, harder.
"No problem," Tony said with perfect insincerity.
The chairman leaned forward, trying to project authority. "Do you possess a specialized weapon?"
Tony's head tilted slightly, considering. "I don't think so. But that depends on your definition of 'weapon.'"
"Iron Man is a weapon," the senator stated flatly.
"The device I invented doesn't fit the definition of a weapon," Tony countered smoothly.
"Then how would you describe it?"
"Senator, it is what it is."
The chairman's frustration was becoming visible. "And what, precisely, is it?"
Tony's smile was sharp enough to draw blood. "It's a high-tech prosthetic device. I had shrapnel near my heart—medical issue, very serious—and the chest unit was a life-support system. The flight capability and defensive features are secondary to its primary medical function."
"That's absurd—"
"Is it?" Tony interrupted. "Because I have eight hours of medical documentation showing the removal of said shrapnel just last night. Would you like me to submit that as evidence? I can provide detailed imaging of the treatment process."
The chairman's mouth opened, then closed. He clearly hadn't expected that response.
In the gallery, Smith allowed himself a small smile. Tony was going to enjoy this.
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