VCMAccording to our calculations, the cost of mass-producing a biochemical soldier is approximately $180,000 per unit, which is equivalent to the salary of an average American soldier for three to five years. In terms of combat effectiveness, don't you think this is a game-changer?"
"The vision you've laid out is certainly enticing, and cloning technology is not difficult to achieve in today's world," Hammer mused, rubbing his chin.
"But, Mr. Accelerator, surely you understand the ethical and moral implications of biochemical soldiers..."
His voice trailed off as he hesitated.
"In this so-called democratic society of ours, there are always people who have too much free time and get riled up by things they barely understand."
Hammer's words were subtle, but Accelerator immediately caught his meaning.
"Are you an idiot?" Accelerator shot Hammer an incredulous look before continuing.
"Who ever said that biochemical soldiers have to be human? Why not lions, tigers, or even wolves? Their intelligence would be lower, sure, but they'd still be controllable."
Accelerator raised his empty glass, and as if on cue, a maid stepped forward to refill it.
Hammer nodded, genuinely intrigued.
"I must admit, that's an interesting proposition. So, how can I assist you, my friend?"
"I need a secluded research facility, free from interference, along with sufficient resources to continue our work." Accelerator was direct, abandoning any pretense.
Hammer snapped his fingers. "A well-equipped lab, far from prying eyes, plus an initial funding of one billion dollars."
Accelerator leaned forward slightly. "I don't want any leaks—no information about us, our research, or our results until we have something final."
Hammer chuckled and clapped his hands together. "Mr. Accelerator, confidentiality is the cornerstone of business. Do you think I'd be foolish enough to jeopardize that?"
"You understand, then, that this investment is made with the expectation of substantial returns," Hammer added, his voice carrying the weight of a seasoned businessman.
"What do you want?" Accelerator eyed Hammer cautiously, sensing the greed behind his words.
"I need to know when I can expect final results," Hammer said smoothly. "When will I see my investment bear fruit?"
"Five years." Accelerator gave him a firm answer.
"Five years? That's neither long nor short," Hammer mused. "But surely, I can expect periodic progress updates. It would be much easier for me to continue funding if I see tangible results. Don't you agree?"
"Every six months."
"Three months." Hammer's tone was sharp, his business acumen surfacing as he sought greater control.
Accelerator smirked internally.
'Do you really think you'll even last three months, Hammer?'
"Three months it is," he agreed, extending his hand. "A pleasure doing business with you."
As they shook hands, Accelerator gestured toward his companion.
"My assistant, Ms. Emma Frost, will handle the follow-up negotiations."
Hammer, who had finally relaxed, turned his attention to the striking blonde.
"Oh, my dear lady, you are absolutely stunning!"
Emma Frost flashed him a knowing smile and whispered, "Thank you for the compliment, sir."
Hammer's breathing quickened, his expression turning dazed under Emma's influence.
"Time to go," Accelerator announced.
He led his maid toward the exit, his steps confident.
Suddenly, a crimson flash appeared before them—Azazel.
In an instant, they vanished from the room.
Hammer, however, remained oblivious, still entranced by Emma Frost's psychic manipulation.
In his mind, he had seen nothing out of the ordinary.
The idea of teleportation didn't even register; he likely believed Azazel had simply driven them away in a car.
In reality, the entire negotiation had taken place under Emma's powerful mental illusion.
Even the guards, who was supposed to be dead earlier, now stood back up, looking slightly dazed but unharmed.
Why had the deal gone so smoothly?
Hammer never once questioned Accelerator's origins, never investigated the details of the project, and agreed to a massive investment without hesitation.
Under Emma Frost's influence, any logical doubts had been systematically erased from his mind.
Even now, his memory of Accelerator was beginning to blur.
If he ever tried to recall him in the future, all he'd see was a vague image—a white man in a green robe with long silver hair.
Hammer was a sharp businessman, but against an army of mutants, he was nothing more than a pawn.
Had Accelerator wanted to, Emma Frost could have turned Hammer into a complete puppet.
But that would have been too reckless—if S.H.I.E.L.D. got involved, they might detect a mental anomaly during an interrogation.
Instead, they chose this subtler approach: a fusion of reality and illusion, weaving a false narrative into Hammer's mind.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, Hammer's greatest rival—Tony Stark—was battling a crisis of his own.
He was dying.
Palladium poisoning was killing him.
The dark veins of toxin had spread across his chest and neck.
If not for the constant presence of his Iron Man suit, someone would have noticed his deteriorating condition.
Rather than confront his mortality, Tony drowned himself in excess.
He threw an extravagant birthday party, turning what he believed to be his final days into a wild celebration.
The party was in full swing.
Tony, clad in the Iron Man suit, danced erratically, pushing the energy in the room to its peak.
Then, a new presence entered the scene.
Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes—Tony's closest friend and one of the few people who still had faith in him.
For weeks, Rhodes had fought against the government's attempts to seize Tony's technology.
He believed the Iron Man suits should remain in Tony's hands.
But as he watched his friend degrade into a reckless spectacle, his patience snapped.
Without hesitation, Rhodes stormed into Tony's R&D lab, donned a newly completed Iron Man suit, and launched himself into the party.
The crowd gasped as the two armored figures clashed. The celebration turned into chaos as guests screamed and fled.
It wasn't a birthday party anymore—it was a battlefield.
When the dust settled, Rhodes left, still wearing the Iron Man suit, his back turned to the wreckage behind him.
Tony sat alone in the ruined hall, staring after his friend, a bitter smile on his lips.
He was dying, and the one person who had tried to save him had just walked away.
...
In the early morning, Tony Stark lay sprawled across the giant donut atop Randy's Donuts, munching lazily while the wind carried the scent of the city below.
The rising sun painted the sky in streaks of gold and orange, but Tony barely acknowledged it.
He was lost in thought, sunglasses resting over his tired eyes.
"Hey, you up there! Mind coming down for a chat?" A deep voice interrupted his morning routine.
Tony lifted his shades and peered downward, only to find a tall, imposing man clad in a black leather jacket, leather boots, and a signature eyepatch glaring up at him.
"Nick Fury," Tony muttered, recognizing him immediately.
"Let's talk." Fury didn't wait for a response.
He simply turned and walked into the donut shop.
Tony sighed, tossed the last bite of his donut aside, and climbed down.
"I heard from Coulson that you're keeping an eye on me. And something about your little Justice Squad?" He quipped as he strolled into the shop and plopped into a chair.
"First off, it's called the Avengers. The name's still in progress, but it's definitely not what you just said." Fury rapped his knuckles on the table, unimpressed by Tony's flippant attitude.
"Oh, well, guess I misremembered." Tony waved a hand dismissively. "But let's be real, your superhero club? Not interested."
Fury leaned in, his expression unreadable.
"You think I came here for that? No, Stark. I came to save your life."
Tony laughed. "Save me? What, do I look that bad?"
"Oh, really?" Fury snapped his fingers.
A sultry voice chimed in. "Sir, I've cleared out the bystanders. We won't be disturbed."
Tony's eyes darted to the entrance, and there she was—his recently hired assistant, standing confidently in a sleek black tactical suit.
"You!" Tony nearly choked on his drink. "You're my assistant!"
In a flash, everything clicked.
He knew he was being watched, but being watched by someone so close to him? He didn't expect that.
"Well, congratulations, you're fired." Tony shot at her, his tone icy.
"That's not your call to make," she said smoothly, offering a knowing smile.
"Tony, meet Agent Romanoff," Fury gestured to her.
Natasha smirked. "Let's start fresh. I'm Agent Romanoff, S.H.I.E.L.D. operative. When we learned about your condition, Director Fury assigned me to keep an eye on you."
Tony scoffed. "Great. So, you've been spying on me. You know, an apology would be nice."
"Your priorities are out of order, Stark," Fury interjected, tapping the table to bring Tony's focus back.
"Romanoff has been watching you fall apart. You've handed your company to Pepper, given away assets, and let your buddy fly off in one of your suits."
"I didn't 'give' him anything—he took it," Tony muttered, his patience thinning.
"Oh, really? So, as Iron Man, you just stood there and let him take it?" Fury turned to Natasha.
"Romanoff, tell me, under normal circumstances, would anyone be able to just waltz off with an Iron Man suit?"
"Unlikely," Natasha replied. "Security protocols prevent unauthorized use. Stark would've had to allow it."
Tony exhaled sharply. "Alright, fine. What do you want me to do?"
"Wrong question. It's not about what we want—it's about what you want," Fury said, his voice firm.
"Right now, you're a liability. I don't have time to babysit you. Give him the injection."
Before Tony could protest, Natasha jabbed a syringe into his neck.
"Ow! What the hell was that?" he snapped.
"Relax," Fury said. "It's a temporary treatment. It'll keep you alive long enough to fix this mess."
Tony flexed his fingers, watching as the dark veins of palladium poisoning faded slightly.
"Alright, that's actually… nice. Give me two more boxes."
"This isn't a cure," Fury warned. "You need to find a real solution. We're just buying you time."
Tony leaned back, rubbing his temples.
"I've tried everything. Every element combination possible. Nothing works."
Fury smirked. "Not everything."
He stood and strode outside.
Above, a Quinjet shimmered into visibility, hovering just beyond the rooftop.
Meanwhile, deep within Hammer Industries, Ivan Vanko meticulously worked on modifying the stolen Iron Man prototypes.
Sparks flew as he fine-tuned the machines, his mind buzzing with anticipation.
Soon, he would have his revenge.
For years, he had seethed in resentment.
His father, Anton Vanko, had once worked alongside Howard Stark on the arc reactor project.
But when their collaboration ended, Anton was deported, leaving young Ivan to grow up in Siberia, suffering under the weight of his father's drunken bitterness.
He had been beaten.
Broken.
But never defeated.
When he saw Tony Stark flaunting the very technology that should have been his family's legacy, Ivan knew what he had to do.
He had scavenged his father's blueprints, poured his soul into crafting his own version of the arc reactor.
His first public strike against Tony had been successful, proving that the technology could be replicated.
But then Justin Hammer had appeared, waving cash and high-tech resources, eager to fund Ivan's work.
Hammer wasn't interested in revenge—he wanted a way to humiliate Tony Stark at the upcoming Stark Expo.
And to Ivan, that was just fine.
Hammer was a fool, easy to manipulate.
"With his money, I'll have everything I need to destroy Stark," Ivan mused, grinning as he welded another component into place.
"Impressive," a voice purred from the shadows.
Ivan whirled around, muscles tensing.
A blonde woman in a flowing white robe stepped into the light, a knowing smile playing on her lips.