[Rose Hill, Tennessee. The Snow.]
CRASH.
The Mark 42 hit the ground hard, carving a trench through the frozen soil before smashing into a line of trees. Silence returned to the woods, broken only by the hiss of cooling metal.
Tony Stark gasped inside the helmet. The HUD was flickering and dying.
"Power... critical," J.A.R.V.I.S. stuttered, his voice distorted and slow. "Systems... offline."
"J.A.R.V.I.S.?" Tony whispered. "Don't leave me, buddy."
The lights in the helmet died. The suit froze.
Tony panicked. The darkness. The cold. It felt like the cave again. It felt like space.
He punched the manual release. The chest plate popped open with a groan. Tony scrambled out, falling face-first into the snow. The cold bit into his skin instantly. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt.
He shivered, looking at the dead suit. It stared back at him like a corpse.
"Okay," Tony's teeth chattered. "Okay. Protocol... survival."
He grabbed the suit's hand. He began to drag.
It took him an hour to reach the town. He found an abandoned garage with a padlock. He picked it with a piece of wire from the suit. He dragged the armor inside, collapsing on a dusty sofa.
"Freeze!"
Tony jumped. A kid stood in the doorway, holding a potato gun.
"You're the Iron Man," the kid said, squinting. "And you look like you died."
"I'm working on it," Tony wheezed. "Name's Tony. And you are?"
"Harley," the kid lowered the gun. "Where's your butler? The news said he catches missiles."
Tony looked at the empty doorway. He felt a phantom hand on his shoulder, a ghost of the reassurance Sebastian usually provided.
"He's... out," Tony rubbed his chest, feeling the anxiety clawing at his throat. "I'm on my own, kid. Just me and the mechanic."
[Los Angeles. The Mandarin's "Studio".]
The warehouse was dark, smelling of ozone and cheap incense. This was a distribution hub for the Ten Rings broadcasts.
Five armed guards were playing cards at a table.
Knock. Knock.
The heavy steel door didn't open. It was dented inward.
KNOCK. KNOCK.
The hinges screamed. The door flew off the frame, sliding across the concrete floor and crushing a crate of weapons.
Sebastian Michaelis stood in the doorway. He had cleaned the soot from his face, but his coat was still torn. He held a pristine white handkerchief in his hand.
"Good evening," Sebastian said, his voice dropping the temperature in the room by twenty degrees. "I am looking for a Mr. Killian. Or perhaps the Mandarin. I am not picky."
"Kill him!" the lead guard shouted.
They opened fire.
Sebastian sighed. He vanished.
He reappeared behind the lead guard. He didn't snap his neck. He grabbed the man's tactical belt and threw him—hard—into the two men on the left.
CRUNCH.
The remaining two guards drew knives.
"Ah," Sebastian smiled, his eyes flashing fuchsia in the gloom. "Cutlery. Now we are speaking my language."
The guard lunged. Sebastian caught the knife blade between his thumb and forefinger. Snap. He broke the steel.
He grabbed the guard by the throat, lifting him off the ground.
"Tell me," Sebastian whispered, the shadows around him stretching into jagged, unnatural shapes. "Where did the signal come from? The one that destroyed my kitchen."
"I... I don't know!" the guard choked. "It's A.I.M.! Advanced Idea Mechanics! They supply the bombs!"
"A.I.M.," Sebastian tasted the word. "Mr. Killian's think tank. How... disappointing."
He dropped the guard.
"Run," Sebastian ordered.
The guards scrambled over each other to escape.
Sebastian walked to the computer terminal in the corner. He placed his hand on the hard drive. He didn't type. Black, smoky tendrils seeped from his glove into the machine, corrupting the data, stealing the files directly.
[Rose Hill, Tennessee. The Garage.]
"So, you're anxious," Harley said, handing Tony a sandwich. "Like, PTSD?"
"I don't have PTSD," Tony snapped, wiring a car battery to the suit. "I have... issue-based stress."
"My dad went to the store for scratchers and never came back," Harley said, taking a bite of his own sandwich. "That makes me anxious. You just seem... scared."
"I'm not scared!"
Tony dropped the wrench. His hands were shaking again. He couldn't breathe. The air in the garage felt thin.
You are nothing without the suit. You are nothing without the butler.
"Hey!" Harley shouted. "Snap out of it!"
Tony gasped, leaning against the workbench.
"Use the breathing technique," Tony muttered to himself. "In for four. Hold for four."
He looked at the dead suit.
"I have to fix this," Tony said, his voice gaining a hard edge. "I have to find Pepper. I have to find Sebastian."
He looked at the pile of junk in the garage. A gardening hoe. A box of Christmas lights. A digital watch.
"Harley," Tony grabbed a screwdriver. "We're going to Home Depot. I need to build some toys."
[Miami, Florida. A.I.M. Headquarters.]
Aldrich Killian stood on his balcony, looking out at the city. He felt powerful. He had the President in his pocket. He had Tony Stark dead.
"Sir," a trembling aide walked in. "We lost the LA hub."
"S.H.I.E.L.D.?" Killian asked, checking his reflection.
"No, sir. One man. Survivors say... it was a vampire?"
Killian turned around. "A vampire?"
"He wore a suit. He moved too fast. He asked for you."
Killian's skin glowed orange for a second. The Extremis virus pulsed in his veins.
"Stark's pet," Killian realized. "The butler."
He smiled.
"Good. I always wondered what he was made of. Send Savin. Send the fire soldiers. Burn him to ash."
[End of Chapter 23]
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