The sky above Malibu burned with hues of orange and violet. The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the Stark estate. The workshop hummed with a softer tone now—less frantic, more resolved. Victory, or something like it, hung in the air.
Tony Stark stood over his workbench, fingers stained with solder and adrenaline. He cradled the completed mini-arc reactor in gloved hands, admiring the stability of its glow. A perfect core. No flicker. No hum of instability. Just raw, beautiful energy in a compact, eternal shell.
Behind him, Glenn leaned against a titanium support column, arms folded, half-amused as always.
"So," Tony said, holding the device up like a sacred relic. "What's a man like you going to do with a glorified sci-fi battery?"
Glenn shrugged. "Probably nothing world-ending. Maybe something world-changing."
"You're not going to tell me, are you?"
"That would ruin the suspense."
Tony approached, extending the arc reactor in his palm. "Here. As promised. Don't sell it to Russia."
Glenn took the reactor, turning it slowly in the light. "You really made it prettier than I expected."
Tony smirked. "Function over form. But I like my tech sexy."
"Same philosophy I have for my guns."
Illyana, seated quietly in the corner with a map rolled out before her, didn't look up.
"You leaving now?" Tony asked.
"Yup. Something tells me your life's about to get complicated again. I like to exit before the third act."
Tony crossed his arms. "Because of me?"
"No," Glenn said with a sly smile. "Because of them."
He nodded toward the distance—toward the shadows outside the workshop walls.
That evening, Glenn and Illyana disappeared as quickly as they had come.
No goodbyes. No fanfare. Just a note on the fridge in Sharpie:
Thanks for the battery. Don't blow yourself up. — G
Tony stared at it for a long moment, chuckled, and poured himself a drink. The quiet won't last any longer.
--
Meanwhile, the events at Stark Industries continued. Obadiah Stane smiled at board meetings and quietly paid off engineers to retrieve leftover schematics from Afghanistan. He smiled when he shook Tony's hand, and smiled more when he began assembling his own pet project—an armored legacy built on stolen genius.
Tony had no idea yet.
He was focused on building something better. A new kind of future.
And though Glenn was gone, his influence remained.
The workshop felt different.
As if the presence of someone who could fix anything had left behind a whisper—a reminder that chaos wasn't just a threat. It was a tool. One Tony Stark had learned to wield.
He leaned over his drafting table late that night, designing a new suit of armor.
Not a weapon. Not entirely.
A responsibility.
Something the world had never seen before.
--
Weeks had passed since Glenn disappeared. Just like that, the workshop had returned to its previous rhythm, though not quite the same. The music still played, the tools still clattered, and the synthetic voice of JARVIS still responded to Tony's every sarcastic remark—but the air was heavier now. More focused. Like a loaded circuit, humming with anticipation.
Tony Stark hadn't slowed down.
If anything, he was moving faster—obsessively so.
The mini-arc reactor sat at the heart of it all. The first one now installed in his chest was a prototype, good enough to keep him alive, and power his survival. But Tony wanted better. Needed better. The Mark II core wasn't going to just keep him alive. It was going to build something new.
He stood at the main bench, coffee gone cold, his hands buried in the guts of a second-generation arc reactor. Sleeker. Smaller. Cleaner energy channeling. And it glowed brighter than the last.
"JARVIS, initiate voltage tapering sequence," Tony muttered, sweat running down the bridge of his nose.
"Right away, sir," the AI replied.
A soft hum followed. The reactor pulsed in his palm, synchronized like a heartbeat. Tony stared at it, captivated by the promise in its glow.
He wasn't just building tech.
He was building his way out of the old Tony Stark.
Most mornings began the same.
He'd wake up late, eyes bloodshot, heart pounding from a dream he couldn't remember. He'd brush it off, wander barefoot into the kitchen, and stare at the note Glenn left on the fridge.
Still there with a smug smiley.
He'd pour coffee, forget to drink it, and head back into the shop where something real waited. Metal. Tools. Math. Purpose.
The reactor was only part one.
Now came part two—the armor.
He had already begun sketching it out. Dozens of blueprints now covered the holographic display at his workstation. The Mark I suit—the makeshift thing he cobbled together in a cave with Yinsen—wasn't a prototype. It was a monument.
Crude.
But brilliant.
And it taught him one very important thing: he could fight back.
Late one night, Pepper came down with a sandwich and a warning.
"You know you've been down here for fourteen hours straight, right?" she asked, arms crossed.
Tony didn't look up from his schematic. "Has it been that short? I'm slacking."
She set the plate down. "You're avoiding people again."
"I'm avoiding morons."
"Same thing," she muttered.
Tony finally looked up, tired but grinning. "I'm fine, Pep. This—this is progress. Real progress."
She looked at the plans—suit fragments, propulsion systems, micro-weapon modules—and frowned. "It looks dangerous."
"Good. That means I'm doing it right."
Piece by piece, the new suit began to take shape.
It started with a skeletal exosuit—barebones titanium alloy frame, reinforced at the joints. The servos gave him just enough resistance to feel power in every movement. The helmet was next, a sleek, angular redesign of the crude original. It had attitude. Personality. A face for the new Stark.
He'd never admit it, but he missed Glenn's sarcastic commentary.
JARVIS did his best.
"Sir, may I remind you that your right knee actuator is overexerting by 7.3%? Recalibration is advised before permanent joint damage occurs."
Tony grunted as he twisted the leg servo back into place. "Oh, thank you, Dr. House. Now, if you could grow hands and help, I might actually listen."
JARVIS responded, "I will look into robotics with sarcasm modules."
Tony smirked. "You're learning."
As the suit evolved, so did Tony.
He no longer drank in the workshop. No more hangovers during calibrations. His mind was sharp, clean, electric. The reactor wasn't just in his chest—it was in his brain now, powering every idea.
He tested flight thrusters in secret. The desert behind the house became a burn-marked proving ground. Every failed launch was met with a laugh, a curse, and another revision.
The armor had to be perfect.
Not just for combat.
But for redemption.
----
Meanwhile, SHIELD watched closely.
Maria Hill passed a report across Fury's desk. "Stark is making progress. Fast progress. For now, surveillance indicates a modular hi-tech prosthesis. Powered, likely, by the reactor."
Fury tapped the file. "Is it a weapon?"
Hill hesitated. "Depends on who's using it."
"And what about our 'friendly' ghost Handyman?"
"Gone dark. Again. Last confirmed presence was Malibu. Before that, Afghanistan. Before that, we still don't know."
Fury frowned. "He's not just a variable. He's a flare. And someone that skilled doesn't just vanish without reason."
Hill added, "He didn't leave a trail. But somehow, I feel like he isn't trying to hide anymore. At least now we can see him in the open, unlike before...totally blank. The question is—why now?"
An unmarked file hovered in the highest clearance tier of SHIELD's servers.
Nick Fury leaned back in his chair, one eye trained on the digital projection of Glenn's incomplete dossier. The man known as "The Handyman" had no fingerprint trail, no confirmed birth certificate, no identifiable family thanks to Skye's expertise. Only operational whispers. Mercenary contracts fulfilled under impossible conditions. Off-the-record rescues. Corporate extractions. Military ghosts left in his wake.
Beside him stood Maria Hill, arms at her sides, expression neutral but focused.
"Still nothing?" Fury asked.
"None that survived verification. Only one photo but tagged classified by the military. The man either avoids cameras, or knows how to erase them."
"Or both," Fury muttered. "His work in Afghanistan—classified or not—was surgical and untraceable. Stark's recovery was supposed to take a full battalion. He has a team behind him who make sure he didn't leave any digital footprint. Aside from the one in the shadows, there's another woman in the open."
"That girl we saw with him is new, likely a mutant. Possible a new partner. The two doesn't have a operational history, only The Handyman though unofficial."
Fury leaned forward. "How long has he been active?"
"Records from the transactions with the military date back nearly two years. But they're fragments. Almost folklore."
Fury exhaled slowly. "I want this file flagged. Top priority. Include it in the Avenger's Initiative assessment."
Hill raised an eyebrow. "You want him on the team?"
"I want to know where he stands before he makes us his next mission."
Fury looked at the inactive file with the words 'THE HANDYMAN' stamped in red across the top. "Keep an eye on him."
----
Inside Malibu Estate, Tony Stark is being busy.
Focused.
Haunted.
Driven.
He was designing an interface—direct neural feedback. No lag between mind and machine. He tested the targeting system by launching grapes across the shop and vaporizing them midair.
"You're wasting fruit again," Pepper called from upstairs.
"Science demands sacrifice," Tony shouted back.
"You're a lunatic."
"I'm a visionary lunatic."
Eventually, the suit was ready for its first full test.
Tony stood at the center of the workshop, encased in the Mark II. Silver plating. Sleek angles. Power. He looked like a myth forged from a future not yet written.
"JARVIS," he said calmly. "Engage lift sequence."
"Initializing lift sequence. Hold on to something… preferably the suit."
Jets ignited. The floor shuddered.
He hovered six feet above the ground. Tony laughed.
It worked.
He soared into the air, cracked the ceiling vent wide open, and launched into the sky. Malibu blurred below him. The ocean reflected his armor like a mirror. The arc reactor in his chest blazed like a sun.
He was no longer just a genius.
He was airborne.
He was Iron Man.
And far below, in a distant office cloaked in marble and silence, a HYDRA operative—embedded deep within SHIELD's communication relay—watched the unauthorized satellite feed.
He saw the suit.
He did not smile.
"Keep watching," he ordered. "The suit is not the threat."
"Then what is?" asked another voice behind the terminal.
The agent narrowed his eyes.
"The man who gave him the spark."
Pak!
"Awww! What's that for?"
"That's for saying creepy bullshit words. Where are those words coming from, huh?"
"Ah ehehehe~ I've just invented it. It's cool isn't it?"
"Zip it! We're just extras here. We only have a few lines in the script to begin with. The oh so mighty and handsome author wanted to add some fillers to make it more interesting."
"Okay okay, geez! Hail Hydra, alright!? Let's exit scene."
He typed quickly, sending a flagged packet of surveillance data to an encrypted server in Switzerland.
The subject: The Handyman.
His report was short.
THE HANDYMAN IS ACTIVE. RECENT INTERACTION WITH STARK. UNTRACEABLE MOTIVES.
AWAITING ORDERS.
A reply came moments later.
OBSERVE. DO NOT ENGAGE. HE MAY YET BE USEFUL.
The agent closed the file. His face gave nothing away.
No one at SHIELD knew yet.
Not about the rot beneath the floorboards.
Not about the silent war being waged under their feet.
But it was there.