A military transport plane touched down steadily at a restricted Los Angeles airfield. The hatch hissed open, and Colonel James Rhodes—better known as Rhodey—stepped out, followed by a man who looked like he'd been through a meat grinder.
Tony Stark's right arm was heavily bandaged, his face was gaunt, and he lacked his trademark groomed goatee. Waiting on the tarmac was Pepper Potts, her eyes red-rimmed and brimming with a mix of professional stoicism and raw relief.
"Careful, Tony. This way," Rhodey guided him, looking toward the ambulance waiting nearby.
"Are you kidding me, Rhodey?" Tony gestured dismissively at the stretcher. "Get that thing out of my sight."
Rhodey waved the medical staff off, realizing Tony needed a moment of normalcy—or at least his version of it. Tony's eyes met Pepper's. He looked away, tugging at his collar.
"Eyes red? Miss your boss that much?" Tony quipped, his voice cracking slightly.
"I'm just happy," Pepper replied, her voice trembling. "It means I don't have to look for a new job."
"Yeah, your vacation is officially over." Tony headed toward his sleek black Audi, eager to escape the suffocating air of the military base.
Tony climbed into the back seat, only to find a teenager already sitting there. He looked about eighteen, handsome in a way that suggested he'd be a heartbreaker in a few years, but at the moment, he was dead to the world, leaning against the window with his mouth slightly open.
"Oliver. Hey! Wake up," Tony prodded him with his left hand. "Do you mind not drooling on the leather?"
Oliver blue Parker—now using name Oliver Throne—blinked, rubbing his eyes. He looked at Tony's disgusted expression, let out a massive yawn, and stretched until his joints popped.
"God, that's better," Oliver sighed.
Tony raised an eyebrow, his patience fraying. "You're welcome for the ride, by the way."
"Don't start, Tony," Oliver said, finally fully awake. "Protecting you is exhausting work. I haven't had a decent night's sleep in months."
Tony opened his mouth to retort but stopped. He looked at the kid and felt a rare surge of genuine gratitude. Over the last two months, in that damp, dark cave in Afghanistan, this teenager had been his shadow, his guard, and his sanity.
Oliver's "roundabout tactic" had worked perfectly.
Knowing Tony Stark was a man of his word—and a man who never forgot a debt—Oliver had hunted him down months ago.
Finding Tony's home address wasn't hard for a writer who knew the future. Oliver hadn't even tried to enter; he knew Jarvis would flag him. Instead, he left a letter with a simple note:
"Jarvis, tell Tony I have a conceptual design for a miniature Arc Reactor. Tell him to read the letter and not to come looking for me. I'll find him."
The "design" was a total bluff, of course. Oliver didn't know the first thing about nuclear physics. It was bait. The letter itself warned Tony that he would be attacked during his trip to Afghanistan and offered "protection services" in exchange for a future favor.
Tony had dismissed it as a prank. He even tried to track Oliver down, but Oliver used the Transformation Technique to hide his identity. He didn't look like a kid from Queens; he looked like a middle-aged security consultant.
When the convoy was hit in the desert, Oliver was already there, disguised as a member of the flight crew. He watched the tragedy unfold, unable to stop the explosion.
He was a ninja with the chakra pool of a puddle; he couldn't fight off an entire terrorist cell while keeping a billionaire safe.
Besides, Iron Man needed to be forged in fire. If Tony didn't get a chest full of shrapnel, he'd never become a hero.
Oliver lurked in the caves for two months, using Transformation to pose as various insurgents.
He secretly funneled tools and extra parts to Tony and Yinsen, shortening their three-month build time to two. He couldn't save Yinsen—the man was determined to sacrifice himself—but he ensured Rhodey's rescue team found Tony within minutes of his escape.
"Where to, sir?" the driver, Happy Hogan, asked.
"Hospital, Happy," Pepper interjected from the front.
"No, no hospital," Tony snapped. "I've been in a cage for two months. I want two things. One..."
Before Tony could finish, Oliver reached into a bag and produced a warm, foil-wrapped parcel. "A cheeseburger, sir? From that place you like?"
Tony stared at the burger in Oliver's hand for a second, then took it with his good hand. "You're a lifesaver, kid. Pepper, the second thing... I need a press conference."
"I've already notified the media," Oliver added, checking his watch. "They're waiting at Stark Industries. I used your private bypass code to send the alert."
Tony narrowed his eyes. "How did you know?"
"Know what? Are you referring to this attack? Or Pepper thought you were looking for a woman when you came back. Oliver diverted attention smoothly.
"Tony," Pepper turned around, her face flushed with confusion. "Who exactly is this? I don't have him in the employee records."
"This is Oliver Parker," Tony introduced him. "He's the reason I'm not a corpse in a cave. He gets about twelve percent of the credit for the escape."
"Twelve percent?" Oliver scoffed. "I did all the heavy lifting!"
"Oliver—can I call you oliver?—it's nice to meet you," Pepper said, reaching back to shake his hand.
Tony swatted Oliver's hand away. "Don't touch him, Pepper. He's a bad influence. Probably doesn't even like women."
"Careful, Tony," Oliver grinned. "Or I might tell Pepper whose name you were calling out in your sleep back in the cave. It started with a 'P' and ended with an—"
Tony lunged forward to cover Oliver's mouth, nearly falling off the seat. "Shut up! Fine! We'll discuss the 'favor' later!"
Oliver raised an eyebrow. "Actually, I've changed my mind. My new condition is that I want Pepper to be my assistant. I'll pay her ten times what you do."
"Not a chance!" Tony barked, while Pepper hid a smile in the front seat.
The car pulled up to the Stark Industries headquarters. A silver-haired man with a thick beard was already waiting: Obadiah Stane.
He opened the door, pulling Tony into a massive hug, projecting the image of a worried father figure.
Oliver watched the exchange with cold eyes. He knew exactly who had paid for those missiles in the desert.
As they walked into the lobby, a man in a plain suit approached them. He had a receding hairline and a smile that was polite but utterly unreadable.
"Miss Potts, Mr. Throne," the man said.
"Can I help you?" Pepper asked.
"I'm Agent Phil Coulson. I'm with the Homeland Strategic Defense, Enforcement and Logistics Division."
"That's quite a mouthful," Pepper noted.
"We're working on it," Coulson replied. He turned his gaze toward Oliver, his eyes lingering a second too long. "Mr. Throne, we'd like to discuss the details of Mr. Stark's rescue. You seem to have appeared out of nowhere."
Oliver looked at Coulson, then back at Tony, who was currently sitting on the floor of the press room eating his burger.
"Coulson, right?" Oliver smiled. "Why don't you stick around? There's about to be a very big show. We can talk after the curtain falls."
Coulson nodded slowly. "As you wish."