185. Ghosts in the Airwaves. (Patreon)

Tony POV:

Mach 5 felt leisurely.

The stratosphere peeled away beneath me in pale blues and thinning whites as the Model 72 glided forward like a thought given form. I could push it harder... much harder but there was no immediate fire to outrun. No missile lock screaming in my ears. No collapsing building. No kid with a homemade bomb strapped to his chest.

Things were… good.

That alone made me uneasy.

“Altitude steady,” J.A.R.V.I.S said calmly. “Inertial dampeners operating at ninety-nine point nine percent efficiency.”

“Show-off,” I muttered.

Peter’s Castraferrum drones had turned my Malibu place into a very expensive metal porcupine. The attack barely scratched the paint. Structural integrity: pristine. Ego: intact.

And yet, I couldn’t shake the itch crawling up the back of my spine.

Maya Hansen.

I didn’t trust her. Never had. She smiled too easily. Explained too cleanly. People like that usually had something they were desperately trying to keep hidden.

“J.A.R.V.I.S,” I said, “open a channel to Peter.”

The connection snapped on almost instantly.

“Already miss me?” Peter’s voice came through, dry and distracted, like he was juggling six catastrophes at once.

“Always,” I replied. “Listen, it's about Pepper. I want Spartan IVs on her. Full-time. No arguments.”

There was a pause on the other end. A sigh. Long. Tired.

“I tried,” Peter said. “She rejected the offer outright. Said Spartans have better things to do than play bodyguard.”

“That sounds like her,” I said, jaw tightening. “Stubborn to the end.”

“It gets better,” Peter continued. “She landed at the safehouse. Stayed maybe ten minutes. Then took a cab somewhere else. Maya insisted and she listened.”

That itch turned into a blade. “That’s not like her,” I said as my mind replayed the impossible scenarios.

“No,” Peter agreed. “It isn’t. That’s why I went over her objections and deployed a Spartan IV tracking unit anyway. Best in the field.”

“And?” I asked, already knowing I wouldn’t like the answer.

“I don’t think they’ll make it in time,” Peter said bluntly. No theatrics. No sugarcoating.

I closed my eyes for half a second. “So what’s the play?” I asked.

“We finish the investigation,” Peter replied. “We flush out the worms buried in the U.S. government. We end this in one sweep instead of chasing shadows.”

I exhaled slowly. “I get it.”

“I know you do.” He said. “Be careful, Tony.”

“Back at you, Big Brain.” The call cut off. The sky felt very empty after that.

I stared ahead, the curvature of the Earth subtle but undeniable and I let the weight of it settle.

“J.A.R.V.I.S,” I said after a moment, “call Natasha.”

“Right away, sir.”

If something was about to explode, I wanted all my pieces on the board.

And I pushed the throttle forward.

President Ellis POV:

The Situation Room was never quiet not really.

Even in moments of silence, there was the hum of screens, the rustle of paper, the low murmur of people who carried the weight of the entire nation in their briefcases.

I stood at the head of the table, arms folded, eyes scanning the reports projected across the wall.

“Malibu attack neutralized,” One of my advisors said. “Minimal damage. Stark security systems performed beyond expectations.”

“That’s an understatement.” I replied grimly.

Stark. Parker.

Two men who were not supposed to exist in the same sentence as geopolitical variables, yet here we were tracking their movements like they were the nuclear warheads of a hostile nations.

“Ten Rings activity?” I asked.

“Unpredictable.” A general answered. “No clear patterns. But they’re watching Stark and Parker closely.”

As if summoned by the thought, every screen in the room went black.

Then flickered and then came the images.

Wars. Bombings. Screaming civilians. Burning USA flags. Grainy footage of masked men dragging others into the dirt.

My blood ran cold and then he appeared.

The Mandarin sat upon his throne of terror, draped in dark robes, rings gleaming faintly as if alive. His eyes burned with quiet, terrifying certainty.

“Stark is lucky,” He said, voice calm and absolute. “A genius protected by toys.”

His gaze shifted, piercing through the camera.

“Parker,” He continued, “is ruthless. A genius who does not pretend otherwise.”

The room was dead silent. “They are hard nuts to crack,” the Mandarin said. “But nuts nonetheless.”

He leaned forward. “I will crack them.”

My heart pounded. “But first,” He said softly, “we will crack you.”

“Triangulate his position,” I barked. “Now!”

Technicians scrambled. Fingers flew. Screens lit up with data streams and satellite overlays.

The Mandarin smiled and the screen went dark.

Donald Menken POV:

I laughed.

Not loudly. Just enough to feel it in my chest.

The photographs spread across my desk were beautiful in their own way.

Harry Osborn was glowing like a lava lamp, firing beams of molten heat like a goddamn sun god. Harry kissing Felicia Hardy, soft and vulnerable in a way the board would never believe.

I skimmed through transaction records.

One hundred million dollars invested into a personal think-tank named A.I.M.

Then the report slid into view.

Dillon, Maxwell.

Status: Deceased.

I leaned back in my chair, fingers steepled, eyes gleaming.

“Finally,” I murmured. “The board will eat this up.”

Oscorp was ripe.

Rotten leadership, tragic accidents, rogue science and I was the man with the knife.

“Time to make Oscorp great again." I said to the empty office.

Outside, the city lights flickered.

And somewhere far above it all, gods and monsters raced toward collision.