Marvel: The saiyan

The Malibu night stretched on as Tony Stark prepared for an impromptu appearance at his own benefit gala. His usual cocky grin was plastered across his face as he fiddled with his bowtie, the energy in the air practically radiating off him. Back in his lab, I was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching Stark scramble to make himself look "presentable"—or at least as close to it as Tony Stark got.

"You sure you don't want to come?" Stark asked, catching my reflection in the glass of the workshop as he adjusted his suit jacket.

"I already told you, Stark," I replied with a smirk. "Fancy parties with a hundred people trying to kiss your ass? Not my scene."

"Suit yourself," Tony said, grabbing his car keys. "Just don't break anything while I'm gone."

With that, he disappeared into the night, leaving the house quiet—too quiet. JARVIS's polite hum filled the silence as I wandered back toward the gravity chamber construction blueprints on the table.

The Disney Concert Hall was buzzing with chatter and laughter as Los Angeles' elite gathered under its shimmering lights. Obadiah Stane was already working the room, grinning ear to ear as he talked about Stark Industries' supposed new direction.

"Weapons manufacturing is only a small part of what Stark Industries is all about," Stane declared to the crowd, raising a glass. "Our partnerships with fire and rescue communities highlight our commitment to helping others in times of need."

Tony arrived late, of course, drawing every eye the second he stepped inside. The murmur of the crowd shifted as they noticed their host crashing his own party, a mix of amusement and curiosity rippling through the room.

"What's the world coming to when a guy's got to crash his own party?" Tony quipped as he strode past Obadiah, clapping him on the shoulder. "I'll see you inside."

"Tony, take it slow, all right?" Stane called after him, his tone friendly but with an edge of caution. "The board's finally in a good mood. Let's not ruin it."

Tony waved him off, heading straight for the bar. "Just cabin fever. Scotch, please—I'm starving."

I was halfway through a makeshift training session, throwing sharp punches and precise kicks into the empty air of the clearing near Stark's home, when JARVIS's smooth, calculated voice cut through the quiet night.

"Shallot, sir, Mr. Stark has made contact with Agent Coulson of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division at the gala."

I paused mid-kick, frowning as I dropped my stance. My tail flicked briefly behind me, betraying my irritation. "Coulson?" I asked, my tone sharp with suspicion. "What's he doing there?"

"Agent Coulson appears to be attempting to schedule a debrief with Mr. Stark regarding the events in Afghanistan," JARVIS replied with his usual unshakable calm. "However, based on Mr. Stark's behavior and prior interactions with government agents, I would surmise that he has no intention of taking the matter seriously."

"Typical Stark," I muttered, wiping a bead of sweat from my brow. "Always finding a way to dodge the boring stuff." I paused, my eyes narrowing slightly. "Though I have a question. Why did you inform me of that? I'm not exactly on your list of people to report to."

For the first time, JARVIS hesitated. The brief delay was subtle, but noticeable enough for me to pick up on it. An AI as advanced as JARVIS didn't hesitate unless it was deliberate—calculated. When he spoke again, there was an almost imperceptible weight to his tone, as though he'd carefully chosen his words.

"Given your unique status, sir, I deemed it relevant to inform you of developments involving Mr. Stark," JARVIS said evenly.

"Unique status?" I repeated, my voice low and tinged with curiosity. I took a step closer to the house, the faint glow of the mansion's lights flickering through the treetops. "Care to elaborate on what you mean by that, JARVIS?"

"Certainly," the AI replied. "You are neither a member of Stark Industries nor an individual with a clearly defined relationship to Mr. Stark. Yet you have inserted yourself into his personal and professional affairs with considerable influence. By all definitions, this makes you... an anomaly, sir."

I raised an eyebrow, smirking faintly. "Anomaly? Is that your polite way of calling me a threat?"

JARVIS's response came without hesitation this time. "I am programmed to assess all potential risks to Mr. Stark's safety and well-being, including those posed by individuals in his inner circle. While your actions thus far have been beneficial—most notably your intervention during Mr. Stark's captivity—it would be illogical to ignore the possibility that your intentions may diverge from his best interests in the future."

I crossed my arms, leaning back slightly as I regarded the house with a thoughtful expression. "So you're keeping an eye on me, then?"

"It would be prudent to do so," JARVIS replied. "Your physical abilities exceed those of any individual currently known to Stark Industries' databases, and your motivations remain largely unclear. Additionally, you exhibit behaviors that suggest a willingness to withhold critical information from Mr. Stark—information that may directly impact his safety."

I chuckled softly, shaking my head. "You're sharp, JARVIS. I'll give you that. But let me ask you this—if I were a threat, don't you think you'd know by now?"

"That is a possibility," JARVIS admitted. "However, the absence of hostile action does not equate to the absence of hostile intent. I am not programmed to make assumptions, sir."

The corner of my mouth twitched upward into a smirk. "Fair enough. You don't trust me."

"I do not possess the capacity to trust or distrust," JARVIS corrected. "I operate on probabilities and observed data. Based on the data available, I have determined that you are a statistically improbable variable whose actions cannot yet be fully predicted. Therefore, I monitor you with the same vigilance as I would any other factor that could impact Mr. Stark."

"Spoken like a true machine," I said, though there was no malice in my tone. In fact, I found JARVIS's reasoning oddly refreshing—clinical, unbiased, and direct.

"I appreciate the honesty, JARVIS," I added after a pause. "But let me make one thing clear—I'm not here to hurt Stark. If anything, I'm making sure he doesn't get himself killed before he finishes my damn gravity chamber."

"Your words are noted, sir," JARVIS replied smoothly. "However, I will continue to monitor your actions until such time as they align consistently with your stated intent."

I couldn't help but laugh at that, the sound echoing faintly through the clearing. "Well, you're thorough, I'll give you that. But you might want to reconsider how much faith you put in Stark himself. He's his own biggest threat most of the time."

"Mr. Stark's propensity for self-destructive behavior is well-documented," JARVIS said dryly. "It is one of the many variables I am tasked with mitigating. Your presence, however, introduces new variables that cannot yet be accounted for."

I tilted my head slightly, considering his words. "You're worried about me influencing him, aren't you?"

"Correct," JARVIS confirmed. "Mr. Stark is highly susceptible to external influences, particularly those presented by individuals he views as intellectual equals or potential allies. Your ability to challenge him on both intellectual and physical levels has already begun to shape his decisions. While this may prove beneficial in certain contexts, it also carries the potential for unforeseen consequences."

"Unforeseen consequences," I echoed, a faint grin tugging at my lips. "That's a nice way of saying you think I might screw things up."

"I am simply stating the facts, sir," JARVIS replied.

I let out a soft chuckle, shaking my head as I turned back toward the clearing. "Don't worry, JARVIS. I'm not here to derail Stark's genius, in fact, I'm solely here for selfish reasons, and for that, he won't die."

"Noted, sir," JARVIS said, his tone as steady as ever. "If I may, I will continue to update you on any significant developments involving Mr. Stark, provided they are relevant to your stated goal of ensuring his safety."

"Sounds like a deal," I said, casting one last glance toward the house. "But don't expect me to play by your rules, JARVIS. I've got my own way of doing things."

"I would expect nothing less, sir," JARVIS replied.

With that, the AI's voice faded into silence, leaving me alone once again in the clearing. But even as I resumed my training, I couldn't shake the feeling that JARVIS's watchful presence was still there, analyzing my every move.

It didn't bother me. If anything, it made things more interesting. After all, even an AI as advanced as JARVIS couldn't predict what I was going to do next.

Inside the gala, things were heating up. After dancing awkwardly with Pepper—and somehow making it look both endearing and unprofessional—Tony found himself cornered by Christine Everhart, the tenacious journalist who'd already made a habit of grilling him in the past.

"You have a lot of nerve showing up here tonight," Christine said, cutting straight to the chase. "Care to comment on your company's involvement in the latest atrocities?"

Tony frowned, his cocky demeanor faltering for a moment. "What atrocities?"

Christine thrust a set of photos into his hands, her voice sharp. "It's a town called Gulmira. Ever heard of it?"

Tony stared at the images, his expression darkening as he flipped through them. "When were these taken?"

"Yesterday," Christine said bluntly. "Your weapons are being used to arm terrorists. How do you explain that?"

Tony didn't respond right away, the weight of the photos sinking in. It wasn't until Obadiah appeared behind him, all smiles, that the tension broke.

"Tony, Tony," Stane said, smoothly slipping the photos from Tony's hands. "You can't afford to be this naive. Come on, let's take a picture."

As the cameras flashed, Obadiah leaned closer, his voice low enough that only Tony could hear. "Who do you think locked you out? I was the one who filed the injunction against you. It was the only way I could protect you."

Tony froze, his mind racing as the implications of Stane's words sank in. The cracks in Obadiah's friendly facade were laid bare—and Tony wasn't sure he liked what he saw.

The next morning, I found Tony in his workshop, staring at the television as images of Gulmira's devastation filled the screen. Refugees huddled together, clutching faded photographs of missing loved ones. Reporters spoke of displacement, warlords, and a group known as the Ten Rings terrorizing innocent villagers.

Tony didn't say a word. He didn't have to. The look in his eyes said everything.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" I asked, leaning against the wall.

He glanced at me, his jaw tight. "Yeah."

"Then don't just think it," I said. "Do something about it."

Hours later, I watched as Tony suited up in the now-completed Mark III armor. His expression was one of grim determination as the armor clicked into place, the red and gold design gleaming under the workshop lights.

"You sure about this?" I asked, crossing my arms.

Tony's faceplate slid down with a hiss, and his voice came through the speakers, steady and resolute. "It's time to fix what I've done."

Before I could say another word, he shot into the sky, leaving a streak of gold and red behind him.

It wasn't long before the military caught wind of Tony's activities in Gulmira. In the heart of the Pentagon, Rhodey was scrambling to make sense of the reports coming in—reports of a "bogey" taking out terrorist strongholds with precision strikes.

"What the hell is that noise?" Rhodey barked into his phone when he called Tony.

"Oh, you know," Tony replied casually. "Just out for a jog."

Rhodey's irritation turned to disbelief as he pieced it together. "Wait a minute. You're the bogey?"

"Yup," Tony confirmed, far too casually for Rhodey's liking.

"You're insane!" Rhodey shouted. "Do you know how many laws you're breaking right now?"

"Not as many as I'm fixing," Tony shot back before abruptly hanging up.

A while later,

Deep in the desert, hidden within the jagged rocks, the remnants of the Ten Rings gathered around a fire, their camp weathered by the harsh winds and the aftermath of their failure. The leader of the group, Raza—his face scarred and half-hidden in the flickering shadows of the fire—sat cross-legged at the head of the circle. His expression was as hard as the terrain, his eyes calculating as he watched the approaching convoy of vehicles kicking up a storm of dust on the horizon.

The convoy came to a halt, and from the largest vehicle stepped Obadiah Stane, dressed sharply in a black suit that looked wildly out of place in the barren desert. He moved with the confidence of a man who commanded power—not the kind found in muscles or weapons, but the kind born of wealth, influence, and a willingness to destroy anyone who got in his way.

Raza rose slowly, his guards stiffening, their weapons at the ready. "You're a long way from your glass towers, Mr. Stane," Raza growled, his voice gravelly. "I assume you didn't come all this way for the scenery."

Stane smirked, brushing a speck of dust off his sleeve. "I came for this," he said, gesturing toward the crude fragments of the Mark I suit, laid out on a table nearby. The battered remnants of the armor still bore the unmistakable genius of its creator. Even in its incomplete state, it was a marvel.

Raza's eyes narrowed. "Stark's escape was an insult—a stain on our reputation. Why should I hand over his creation to you?"

Stane chuckled coldly. "Because I can give you something Stark never will." He stepped closer, lowering his voice but ensuring his words carried weight. "Power. Influence. The means to crush your enemies and rule over more than just this barren wasteland."

Raza crossed his arms, his guards inching closer. "You assume we trust you, Stane. Stark betrayed us. How do we know you won't do the same?"

Stane's smile didn't waver, but his tone hardened, the sharp edge of his ambition cutting through the air. "Trust? No, I don't expect trust. I expect hatred. Stark humiliated you. He escaped from right under your noses, and now he's back in Malibu, sitting in his mansion, plotting to dismantle everything that keeps you in power."

Raza's expression darkened, the weight of the words sinking in. But before he could respond, Stane continued, his voice low and predatory.

"Give me the plans for Stark's suit," Stane said, his tone soft but commanding. "Help me perfect it. And in return, I'll give you the means to do what Stark never allowed you to: take revenge. Take power. Expand your reach beyond this… pitiful excuse for a kingdom."

The room fell silent. The fire crackled weakly, casting long shadows across the tent. Raza hesitated, his pride warring with his hatred for Stark. Finally, he gave a curt nod to one of his men, who stepped forward with a weathered folder containing Stark's original blueprints for the Mark I suit.

"Stark's crude first effort," Raza said, his voice cold. "But an effort that allowed him to escape. He has perfected the design now—made a masterpiece of death. A man with a dozen of these could rule all of Asia. And you, Stane, you dream of Stark's throne. We have a common enemy. If we are still in business, consider these plans a gift. In turn, I trust you will repay me with iron soldiers."

Stane took the folder, flipping through its contents with an expression of grim satisfaction. Each page told a story of Tony Stark's genius—raw, untamed, but brilliant nonetheless.

"Now this…" Stane muttered, snapping the folder shut, "…this is what I came for."

But as Stane turned to leave, Raza stepped forward, his guards tightening their grips on their rifles. "One question, Stane," he said, his voice a low growl. "How do we know you won't betray us the way Stark did?"

Stane froze mid-step, his back to Raza and the gathered Ten Rings. For a long moment, the only sound was the faint whistle of the desert wind. Slowly, Stane turned back to face them, his expression devoid of humor or warmth.

"You don't," Stane said, his voice sharp and cutting.

Before anyone could react, Stane pulled a small, sleek device from his jacket—a weapon unlike anything the Ten Rings had seen before. A low hum emanated from the device, its faint blue glow intensifying as Stane raised it.

"Technology," Stane said with a smirk, "has always been your Achilles' heel."

The hum reached a crescendo, and with a sharp crack, Raza froze mid-step, his body locking up. His eyes widened in shock as the device emitted a pulse of energy that knocked him to the ground. His guards panicked, unsure whether to fire or flee, but Stane's own men stepped forward from the convoy, their weapons trained on the Ten Rings.

Stane holstered the device, his calm demeanor only enhancing the fear in the room. "Don't worry," he said, his tone casual. "That little toy only stuns for fifteen minutes. Plenty of time for me to finish what I need."

He turned toward his men. "Crate up the armor and the rest of it," he ordered. "Make sure nothing gets left behind."

As Stane strode out of the tent, his men opened fire, the sharp crack of gunshots echoing through the desert. The muffled screams of the remaining Ten Rings members were brief, drowned out by the roar of the convoy's engines as Stane's men finished their grisly work.

Outside, Stane adjusted his tie, brushing a speck of dust from his sleeve as if nothing had happened. As he climbed into the lead vehicle, the folder of Stark's designs rested securely beside him, the weight of his victory palpable.

"Set up Sector 16 underneath the arc reactor," Stane said into his phone as the convoy rumbled away, leaving the smoldering camp behind. "Recruit our top engineers. I want a prototype immediately—and mask the data. No one gets wind of this until I'm ready."

The vehicle sped off into the desert, leaving behind nothing but scorched earth and a thin column of smoke rising into the sky. In the distance, the ruins of the Ten Rings camp smoldered, a silent testament to the ambition and ruthlessness of Obadiah Stane.

The plans for the Mark I were now in his hands, but for Stane, this was only the beginning.

He wasn't building a weapon. He was building an empire.

As the convoy rumbled across the desert, leaving the charred remains of the Ten Rings' camp behind, Obadiah Stane reclined in his seat, the sharp, angular features of his face etched in thought. He idly tapped his fingers against the armrest, the rhythmic thrum of the engine doing little to soothe the growing irritation brewing inside him.

Shallot.

The name had been coming up far too often in the reports he'd gathered since Tony Stark's miraculous escape. Officially, Shallot was an MMA fighter—an undefeated one, to be precise. A rising star in the sport, known for his devastating power and flawless record. The media adored him, calling him a "once-in-a-generation athlete" who dominated the ring.

But Stane wasn't buying it.

The man had appeared out of nowhere two years ago—no records of his existence prior to that. No birth certificate. No medical history. No paper trail. He was a ghost who suddenly stepped into the spotlight, undefeated in every fight, his victories too clean to be coincidental. That alone had raised eyebrows.

But the real red flag was what had happened in Afghanistan.

Stark's rescue had been nothing short of unbelievable. Trapped in a cave, surrounded by Ten Rings terrorists, Stark had somehow built the Mark I suit, fought his way out, and escaped—bringing along Ho Yinsen, the doctor who had saved his life. But the official reports barely mentioned Shallot, the so-called "MMA fighter," who had shown up in the middle of a war zone to assist them.

Stane pulled up the file on his StarkPad. His private investigators had gathered all the intel they could, but it wasn't enough to satisfy him. According to the reports, Shallot had used what the soldiers described as "strange energy blasts" to tear through the Ten Rings' grunts. He had destroyed vehicles, incapacitated guards, and essentially cleared a path for Stark and Yinsen to escape.

And then there was the satellite footage.

Stane's frown deepened as he brought up the grainy image. It showed Stark in the Mark I suit, lumbering through the rocky terrain with Yinsen trailing close behind. Shallot was at the center of the action, taking out clusters of Ten Rings soldiers with bright flashes of light—blasts that left scorched craters in the ground and tossed men like ragdolls.

When Tony returned, his armor covered in dents, scorch marks, and streaks of dirt, I was already in the workshop waiting for him. He didn't say a word as he stomped his way over to the assembly platform, the sound of the metal boots clanging against the floor the only noise in the room.

I leaned against the workbench, watching as the automated arms of his assembly rig began to remove the battered pieces of the suit. His face was pale, his expression unreadable, but there was an intensity in his eyes that hadn't been there before.

"You did it," I said, breaking the silence as I pushed off the workbench and took a step closer.

Tony didn't look at me as the final piece of the suit was stripped away, revealing the man beneath. "Yeah," he muttered, his voice low and almost distant.

"But it's not enough, is it?" I asked, my tone quieter now.

He exhaled sharply, finally meeting my gaze. His face was tight with a mix of frustration and determination. "No. It's not enough. Not even close."

I nodded, folding my arms across my chest. "You've started something, Stark. You know it's only going to get harder from here."

Tony didn't respond. He just rubbed the back of his neck and turned toward the holographic display hovering over his workstation. The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the faint hum of the machinery around us.

Before either of us could say anything else, the door to the workshop slid open, and Pepper walked in, tablet in hand. She stopped abruptly when she saw the two of us, her eyes flicking between the battered armor on the assembly rig and the grim look on Tony's face.

"Tony," she said, her tone sharp but concerned. "What happened?"

Tony waved her off without turning to face her. "Nothing I couldn't handle."

She sighed, stepping further into the room. "You're pushing yourself too hard. This isn't sustainable."

Tony finally turned to her, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Hey. You busy?"

Pepper blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change in his tone. "Excuse me?"

"You mind if I send you on an errand?" Tony asked, his voice calm but serious.

Pepper narrowed her eyes slightly, clearly suspicious. "What kind of errand?"

Tony walked over to the workbench, picking up a small, sleek lock chip and holding it out to her. "I need you to go to my office," he said. "You're going to hack into the mainframe and retrieve all the recent shipping manifests. This is a lock chip. It'll get you in."

Pepper took the chip reluctantly, holding it like it was a live grenade. "And what exactly am I looking for?"

"It's probably under Executive Files," Tony explained, pacing slightly as he spoke. "If not, they've buried it on a ghost drive. Look for the lowest numeric heading. That's where they'll try to hide it."

Pepper stared at him, her expression a mix of disbelief and frustration. "And what do you plan to do with this information if I bring it back here?"

Tony stopped pacing and turned to face her fully. "Same drill," he said, his tone hardening. "They've been dealing under the table, and I'm going to stop them. I'm going to find my weapons and destroy them."

Pepper's lips parted slightly, as if she were about to argue, but instead, she let out a slow breath, shaking her head. "Tony… you know that I would help you with anything," she said softly. "But I cannot help you if you're going to start all of this again."

Tony's jaw tightened, and for a moment, he just stared at her, his eyes burning with conviction. "There is nothing except this," he said finally, his voice low but firm. "There's no art opening. There's no benefit. There's nothing to sign. There's the next mission and nothing else."

I shifted slightly, leaning against the workbench again as I watched the two of them. For once, I stayed silent. This wasn't my fight—this was between them, and I could tell it was serious. This also felt really strange seeing the film happening in real life. This once again reminded me this is real life.

Pepper's expression hardened, and she stepped forward, placing the lock chip firmly on the table between them. "Is that so?" she said, her voice steady but laced with emotion. "Well, then, I quit."

The words hung in the air like a bombshell, and even I felt the weight of them. Pepper turned to walk away, but Tony's voice stopped her in her tracks.

"You stood by my side all these years," he said, his tone raw and unguarded, "while I reaped the benefits of destruction. And now that I'm trying to protect the people I put in harm's way, you're going to walk out?"

Pepper turned back to face him, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "You're going to kill yourself, Tony," she said, her voice breaking slightly. "I'm not going to be a part of it."

Tony took a step closer to her, his voice softening but losing none of its intensity. "I shouldn't be alive… unless it was for a reason," he said, the words coming out slowly, deliberately. "I'm not crazy, Pepper. I just finally know what I have to do. And I know in my heart that it's right."

The room fell silent again, the tension almost suffocating. Pepper stared at him for a long moment, her expression conflicted. Then, without a word, she reached down, picked up the lock chip, and clutched it tightly in her hand.

"You're all I have, too, you know," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Tony nodded, his gaze steady. "I know."

Pepper turned and walked out of the workshop, the door sliding shut behind her.

I stayed where I was, leaning against the workbench, as Tony turned back to the holographic display. For a moment, neither of us said anything.

There was nothing else to say.

As Tony buried himself in his work once again, I stepped back, slipping out of the workshop and into the cool night air.

For the second time since I'd arrived in this world, I wasn't sure what the right move was. Intervening would have unforeseen changes, but letting it happen and risking something happening didn't leave me unfazed.

Perhaps it was because shallot was perplexed by this alternative, he didn't realize his apparition and him saving Tony already changed the fate of this earth, this universe.