199. The League Behind the Mask. (Patreon)

Peter Parker POV:

We were approaching the outskirts of Miami, the skyline bleeding into warm dusk, neon and ocean-reflected light blurring into something deceptively peaceful.

Deceptive being the operative word.

Somewhere beneath that postcard-perfect view was the signal source we’d traced. An encrypted broadcast node tied directly to The Ten Rings and their so-called Mandarin. A name that had become more myth than man, more narrative weapon than actual threat.

Tony sat in the passenger seat, holographic data panels hovering in front of him like translucent ghosts. Lines of intercepted communications, movement patterns, financial shells, terror cell genealogies. All of it spiraled through the air in quiet complexity.

He rubbed his unkempt goatee, eyes narrowing.

“Hmm,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “do you get the feeling that this Ten Rings outfit the one responsible for everything from my charming kidnapping in Afghanistan to half a dozen destabilized regimes isn’t really a terrorist organization?”

I glanced at him briefly before returning my eyes to the road.

“More like a league trying to covertly achieve global dominance?” He continued, clearly enjoying the drama of his own phrasing.

“Why can’t it be both?” I replied flatly.

Tony looked at me like I’d just spoiled the ending to a movie he was halfway through enjoying.

“Well, yes, technically,” he said, gesturing vaguely, “but it’s not like ISIS or Al-Qaeda or the Taliban. Those guys have flags, chants, YouTube channels. The Ten Rings are… different. Cleaner. Quieter. More patient.”

I shrugged.

“Does it matter, Tony?” I said, tone casual, almost bored. “At the end of the day, they’re gonna end up in body bags.”

He stared at me for a moment.

“True,” he conceded. “But it’s never bad to have more info. Knowledge is power and power keeps me alive long enough to make snarky remarks.”

“Eh,” I replied, tapping the steering wheel lightly. “Same old, same old. Ideology. Theology. Grief. Delusions. That’s the recipe for every group hell-bent on global domination. The ingredients change, the poison stays the same.”

Tony opened his mouth to respond and I slammed on the brakes.

The car slid to a smooth halt just beyond the gated perimeter of a massive luxury mansion, its white stone façade glowing under floodlights like a monument to excessive wealth. Palm trees lined the driveway like ceremonial guards, and actual guards were everywhere. Private security, heavily armed, professional and clearly expensive.

“So,” Tony said, peering through the windshield, “this is where the party is.”

“The signal source is inside,” I said. “Which means our star actor is too.”

Tony cracked his knuckles and began swapping out modules in his armor, the nanotech shifting with a soft metallic whisper.

“Plan’s simple,” he said. “First, we secure the fake Mandarin—Trevor Slattery. Then we go to the Norco oil tanker for a dramatic showdown against Killian and save Pepper.”

I glanced at him sideways.“You say that like it’s a grocery run.”

He smiled thinly.

“And you’ve made certain,” Tony added, voice dropping just a fraction, “that Pepper's Extremis procedure won’t fail.”

I met his eyes.

“Yes.”

One word. No qualifiers.

“Simple enough,” Tony muttered, switching his loadout from lethal to non-lethal: Flashbangs, rubberized rounds, paralysis darts.

I was about to do the same when Clanker’s voice echoed calmly inside both our HUDs.

“Alert. An imposter wearing the Iron Patriot armor has boarded Air Force One. Colonel Rhodes’s bio-signature detected at the northwest quadrant of this facility. Estimated probability of aircraft crashing into a densely populated area: 56.76%.”

Tony froze.

So did I.

For exactly half a second.

Tony exhaled slowly.

“Rock. Paper. Scissors,” he said suddenly. “Loser goes to save the president. One round.”

I blinked.

“Are you seri...”

We did it.

I lost.

Of course I did.

My luck in mundane games like this is legendary for all the wrong reasons. I can manipulate gravity wells, outpace sound in microbursts, rewrite lives but put me in front of Rock-Paper-Scissors and I may as well be flipping coins with fate itself.

Tony grinned. “Democracy in action.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine,” I said, opening the door. “I’ll go save the fossils.”

Tony paused.

“Peter,” he said more quietly.

I looked back.

“Be careful.”

I smirked.

“Always am.”

Then I vanished in a blur of displaced air.

Tony Stark POV:

I consider myself a great artist.

A tech genius.

I mean, I came up with the hot rod red-and-gold color scheme all on my own. Pure aesthetic brilliance right there.

But standing there, watching Peter’s armor phase out of existence like reality itself had decided to blink… yeah.

The kid’s suit looks futuristic.

I looked down at my Model 72, its lines clean, lethal, elegant.

Technically, I designed it.

But sometimes I wished it was me me who did.

Not some alternate reality, hyper-evolved, casually godlike version of me who probably builds reactors while brushing his teeth.

“Well,” I muttered, “you did what you could, Stark.”

I activated stealth mode and moved across the mansion grounds, silently incapacitating guards with precision strikes.

One by one they dropped.

Finally, I found him.

Rhodey.

Collapsed in a garage bay, dehydrated, unconscious, armor stripped.

“Jesus, buddy.” I whispered.

Fortunately, Peter had installed an atmospheric water generator and waste recycling system into the suit.

The water generator I loved.

The waste recycling system? Turns excrement into nutritious paste through chemical treatment.

I will not use that.

Ever.

Peter Parker: Willing to feed you your own shit to keep you alive.

I sprayed water on Rhodey’s face.

Nothing.

I sighed and extended a thin hose from my fingertips, placing it at his lips.

“Drink.” I said.

He sputtered, coughed, then greedily sucked down water.

He was not happy with the delivery system but he was thirsty.

We moved through the mansion together until we entered a room filled with female escorts. Some awake, some drugged out, some dressing to leave.

They froze at the sight of us: one imposing armored figure and one very sweaty, drenched African American holding a gleaming silver Desert Eagle.

“Rhodey,” I said, ushering the girls out, “you need more meat on your face.”

“Excuse me?” he asked, offended and confused.

“No offense, buddy,” I said casually, “but you look very demonic. Lithe frame, big eyes. Like a sleep-deprived vampire accountant.”

He glanced at a mirror. “…Do I really look that bad?”

“Well, you’re never getting accepted into clown college with that mug.”

He groaned.

“Let’s just arrest this Mandarin and get done with it.”

We burst into the next room.

Two escorts were playing table tennis and they were good.

I raised a finger to my metallic lips.

They obeyed instantly.

The toilet flushed.

We hid.

A scruffy British man emerged, adjusting his robe.

“I would not go in there,” he said lazily. “The loo’s one hell of a doozy, oof.”

Rhodey appeared behind him, gun to his head.

“Don’t move.”

“The cash is in the safe, the drugs are on the table, please don’t hurt me!”

Rhodey stared. “Seriously, this is the fake Mandarin?”

“Rhodey,” I said dryly, stepping forward, “meet Trevor Slattery. Washed-up British actor and the figurehead of Aldrich Killian’s entire operation.”

And just like that…

The myth collapsed into a man who smelled of cheap cologne and bad decisions.