180. Faulty Introductions. (Patreon)

Maya Hansen POV:

The cab didn’t even make it to the front steps.

It stopped well short of Tony Stark’s Malibu mansion, tires crunching on pristine gravel as the driver muttered something about “restricted airspace” and “robot guns,” neither of which I could exactly argue with.

I stepped out anyway.

The first thing I saw were the drones.

Not Stark tech.

Parker Industries.

Silver blue, angular and blocky frames hovered near the perimeter, their silhouettes unmistakable even before I saw the insignia stamped cleanly into their chassis. Shoulder-mounted railguns tracked my movement with silent precision. No warning beeps. No theatrics. Just the quiet, absolute certainty that if I twitched the wrong way, I would stop existing as a human being and as a red mist.

On the lawn sat a jet. Sleek, predatory, just a bit larger than an F-22 Raptor. A circular module mounted above its fuselage rotated slowly, deliberately.

Early warning. Electronic warfare. Battlefield command and control.

My stomach sank.

Peter Parker was here.

I swallowed my frustration and cursed internally. I had explicitly told Killian not to poke Parker Industries. Peter Parker commanded the most powerful data and ICT infrastructure on the planet systems so advanced they made Wakanda’s networks look quaint. If A.I.M had so much as sneezed in the wrong direction, Parker probably had a timestamp, a thermal signature and a psychological profile of the person holding the tissue.

He likely knew more about A.I.M than Aldrich did.

I approached the gate anyway.

Two drones slid into position in front of me, railguns locking with a soft, ominous whine. Their optical sensors flared, bathing me in scanning light.

I forced my voice to stay steady.

“My name is Maya Hansen.” I said. “I’m here to see Tony Stark.”

The drones didn’t respond.

Seconds stretched.

Then one sensor pulsed green.

The two drones parted.

I exhaled slowly and walked in.

Inside the living room, Tony Stark and Pepper Potts stood side by side. Tony looked tense. His posture was rigid and his eyes were sharp. Pepper was composed but there was steel beneath it.

And then there was Peter Parker.

Or rather, Peter Parker’s hologram.

He stood or floated near the kitchen counter, casually sipping coffee and eating Danish cookies like this was a Sunday brunch instead of a potential geopolitical incident.

I put on my most easygoing smile. “Tony. Pepper. I’m Maya Hansen. We met years ago...”

“...you’re a botanist.” Tony cut in smoothly.

I blinked.

Peter scoffed.

“That’s generous.” He said dryly. “She’s a genetic biologist for simpler terms or for more complexity she is a biological DNA coder. Technically. Though the sum total of her career’s success comes from half-finished scribbles written by a drunk.”

Tony shot him a look. “Hey. Even when I was drunk, I was still a genius.”

Peter didn’t miss a beat. “Being a genius doesn’t disqualify you from being an idiot.”

Tony gasped theatrically and clutched his chest. “Wow. Straight through the arc reactor.”

"You don't have an Arc reactor in your chest anymore." Peter said.

Pepper pinched the bridge of her nose. “Focus. All of you.”

Peter rolled his eyes and finished his coffee. “We need to go to Tennessee. There are anomalies there that match the thermal profile of the theatre bombing.”

Tony nodded. “Road trip.”

Peter turned to Pepper. “You should go back to New York. Take the Prowler.”

Pepper hesitated, then nodded. “Fine. But don’t do anything stupid.”

Tony smirked. “Define stupid.”

Before anyone could answer, the house shook.

A distant boom echoed through the cliffs.

J.A.R.V.I.S’ voice filled the room. “Alert. Castraferrum drones have intercepted multiple incoming missiles. Source: modified news helicopters equipped with improvised weaponry.”

I froze.

Peter’s expression hardened instantly. “Engage.”

Outside, the sky lit up.

The drones moved like predators, railguns roaring as they tore through the helicopters with ruthless efficiency. Flaming wreckage spiraled into the ocean below.

Tony stared out the window. “Well. That escalated.”

Peter was already recalculating. “A.I.M desperation move. Sloppy. Ineffective.”

I swallowed hard.

These weren’t men reacting to danger.

They were men expecting it.

Third Person POV:

In Washington, President Ellis stepped up to the podium.

Cameras flashed. Microphones bristled.

“In response to the escalating terrorist threat.” Ellis announced, “the United States is unveiling a new asset. A symbol of strength, unity, and resolve.”

The curtain fell away.

Red, white and blue armor gleamed under the lights.

“The Iron Patriot.”

News channels exploded.

Debate panels erupted.

Online forums ignited.

What good was a man in a tin can with a new paint job against a covert terrorist network?

And somewhere far from the cameras, men who understood power smiled grimly because they knew this wasn’t a solution.

It was a provocation.