Marvelous Meditations #63

As Nathan waved goodbye, he couldn't help but smirk at Ilyana, who was still enthusiastically waving at him, nearly bouncing on her feet. It was hard not to be at least a little amused by her energy. With a final nod in her direction, he turned and stepped into the waiting car, settling into the backseat beside Logan.

Logan barely acknowledged him, his attention focused on a newspaper he’d fished out from the car’s compartment. The heavy scent of tobacco and worn leather filled the space—Logan’s personal brand of cologne.

The driver, a grizzled employee of Maximus Security, glanced at Nathan through the rearview mirror. “Where to, boss? Straight to the extraction point, or you got a detour in mind?”

Nathan exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple. “Straight to the extraction point.”

The driver nodded without another word and stepped on the gas. The vehicle pulled forward, the hum of the engine barely audible over the sound of gravel crunching beneath the tires. Behind them, a convoy of other black SUVs followed suit, each driven by other Maximus Security operatives and carrying the rest of the X-Men.

For a few minutes, silence hung in the car, save for the occasional rustle of newspaper pages. Nathan turned his head slightly, eyeing Logan, who was still buried in whatever he was reading.

“What you got there?” he asked.

Logan flicked his eyes toward him before holding up the newspaper. “Y’know, bein’ loaded sure has its perks… Can’t believe they got you fresh-off-the-press New York papers all the way out here.”

Nathan shrugged. “I like to stay updated.” His eyes narrowed. “What’s got you so absorbed?”

Logan didn’t answer right away. Instead, he simply handed over the newspaper, tapping a specific headline with a calloused finger. “See for yourself.”

Nathan took it from his hand, smoothing the creased page as he read the bold black letters:

TONY STARK KILLED IN HIS MALIBU MANSION AFTER ISSUING CHALLENGE TO THE MANDARIN

Nathan muttered the words under his breath, letting them hang in the air for a moment before he chuckled—low and almost amused.

The reaction didn’t sit well with Logan. He grunted, shooting Nathan a sideways glance. “What’s so damn funny, bub?”

Before Nathan could answer, Logan exhaled sharply and went on. “Never liked the guy much myself, but he did save New York. This just ain’t right.”

Nathan let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “I’m laughing because he’s very much alive and kicking.” He leaned back into the seat, stretching his legs slightly. “In fact, I plan on paying him a visit soon. You wanna tag along?”

Logan frowned, staring at Nathan like he was trying to decide whether or not to pry further. In the end, he just shook his head. “I ain’t even gonna ask how you know that.” He folded the newspaper and set it aside. “And no, I’ve got my own shit to deal with once we get back.”

Nathan shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Silence settled between them, the rhythmic hum of the engine filling the space. The convoy rolled on through the darkened roads, headlights cutting through the night. After a while, Logan spoke again, his voice gruffer than before.

“So… Arkady.” He glanced at Nathan. “How’d he go?”

Nathan smirked, the memory playing back in his mind. “Miserably, if his screams were anything to go by.”

Logan grunted, a note of satisfaction in his tone. “Good. Son of a bitch had it comin’.”

He turned slightly, giving Nathan a meaningful look. “You still intend to feed Chuck that same bullshit story about self-defense?”

Nathan didn’t hesitate. “I don’t see why not.”

Logan exhaled through his nose, shaking his head in disapproval. “Chuck’ll see right through you. He don’t need telepathy to know when someone’s full of shit.”

Nathan waved a hand dismissively. “That’s why I don’t intend to lie.” He leaned forward slightly, resting an arm on his knee. “I gave Arkady a way out, and he didn’t take it. Instead, he attacked me and Gregor.”

He smirked, adding with a hint of amusement, “As for whether that ‘way out’ was ever real, or if we were a little excessive in our ‘self-defense’… well, who’s to say, really?”

Logan let out another grunt but didn’t argue.

The car rolled on into the night.

...

The night air was crisp, the kind of cold that bit through fabric and settled into bones. Snow crunched under Tony Stark’s boots as he pushed open the warped wooden door of an old garage, the hinges groaning in protest.

Inside, dim yellow light spilled from a single overhead bulb, casting long shadows over cluttered workbenches, rusty tools, and half-assembled gadgets.

Tony stepped inside, shoving his battered Iron Man armor onto a lumpy old couch. The suit was a wreck—dented, scratched, and barely functional.

He exhaled, flexing his fingers as he stood over the workbench, picking up a plier from the toolkit. He looked at his wrist, bloodied and filled with shrapnel.

He took a deep breath and pried the first one. He began to remove another, Then—

"Freeze! Don’t move!"

Tony halted mid-step, one hand hovering near his chest as he turned his head. Standing a few feet away was a kid, barely ten, clutching what looked like a homemade potato gun. The barrel was too long, the gauge too wide—amateur work, but decent effort.

Tony raised an eyebrow. "You got me. Nice potato gun. Barrel’s a little long, though. Between that and the wide gauge, you’re killing your FPS."

The kid didn’t lower the gun. Instead, he turned slightly, aimed at a glass sitting on a shelf, and pulled the trigger. The projectile hit dead center, shattering it with a sharp crack.

Tony smirked. "And now you’re out of ammo."

The kid—Harley, judging by the name on an old lunchbox sitting on the workbench—squinted at him. "What’s that thing on your chest?"

Tony glanced down at the glowing arc reactor embedded in his sternum. "Electromagnet. You should know—you’ve got a box of them right over there."

Harley’s eyes flicked to a dusty crate filled with assorted electrical parts before settling back on Tony. "What does it power?"

Instead of answering, Tony grabbed a desk lamp and twisted it toward the couch, illuminating the battered Iron Man suit slumped against the cushions.

Harley’s jaw dropped. "Oh my God!" His grip slackened, and the potato gun clattered to the floor. He took a hesitant step forward. "That’s... that’s—Is that Iron Man?"

Tony tilted his head. "Technically, I am."

Harley snatched a newspaper off the workbench and thrust it at Tony, eyes wide with disbelief. "Technically, you’re dead."

The front page bore a grainy image of Tony’s face beneath the headline: "MANDARIN ATTACK: STARK PRESUMED DEAD."

Tony exhaled, flipping the paper over in his hands. "A valid point."

Harley, still staring at the suit, plopped down on the couch beside it, his fingers ghosting over its damaged plating. "What happened to him?"

Tony let out a tired sigh. "Life. I built him. I take care of him. I’ll fix him."

Harley tilted his head. "Like a mechanic?"

Tony shot him a look. "Yeah."

The kid brightened. "Oh. Well, if I was building Iron Man and War Machine—"

Tony cut him off. "It’s Iron Patriot now."

Harley beamed. "That’s way cooler!"

"No, it’s not."

Undeterred, Harley pressed on. "Anyway, I would’ve added, um... the retro—"

"Retroreflective panels?" Tony finished for him.

Harley nodded eagerly. "To make him stealth mode."

Tony gave a begrudging nod. "You want stealth mode? Not bad. Might actually build that."

Harley reached for the suit, but the second his fingers brushed a loose joint, something snapped free with a quiet pop. A metal finger clattered onto the floor.

The kid froze. "Oops."

Tony groaned, rubbing his forehead. "Not a good idea. What are you doing? You’re gonna break his finger? He’s in pain, he’s been injured. Leave him alone."

Harley raised his hands in surrender. "S... Sorry."

Tony huffed, crouching down to pick up the detached piece. "Are you, though?" He waved it dismissively. "Eh, don’t worry about it. I’ll fix it."

He glanced around the garage, finally asking, "So, uh, who’s home?"

Harley shrugged. "Mom already left for the diner. Dad went to 7-Eleven to get scratchers." There was a pause, then a dry chuckle. "Guess he won, ‘cause that was six years ago."

Tony snorted. "Yeah. That happens. Dads leave." He turned back to the workbench. "No need to be a pussy about it."

Harley frowned but didn’t argue.

Tony began listing off items absentmindedly. "Alright, here’s what I need: a laptop, a digital watch, a cell phone, the pneumatic actuator from your bazooka over there, a map of town, a big spring, and a tuna fish sandwich."

Harley crossed his arms. "What’s in it for me?"

Tony smirked. "Salvation."

Harley raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Tony ignored him, instead focusing on a different subject. "So. What’s his name?"

Harley blinked. "Who?"

"The kid that bullies you at school. What’s his name?"

Harley hesitated. "How’d you know that?"

Tony grinned, popping open a small compartment on the suit and pulling out a metal cylinder. "Because I’ve got just the thing."

He held it up between two fingers. "This is a piñata for a cricket." He paused. "Kidding. It’s a very powerful weapon. Point it away from your face, press the button on top. It discourages bullying. Non-lethal, just to cover one’s ass."

Harley reached for it eagerly, but Tony yanked it back at the last second. "Deal?"

Harley hesitated for half a second before nodding. "Deal."

Tony smirked and handed it over. "What’s your name, kid?"

"Harley." Harley looked him up and down. "And you’re...?"

Tony exhaled, leaning back against the workbench. "The mechanic. Tony."

A beat passed.

Then Tony frowned. "You know what keeps going through my head?"

Harley blinked. "What?"

Tony arched an eyebrow. "Where’s my damn sandwich?"

...

The night air was cool, carrying the faint scent of gasoline and damp asphalt as Nathan and Rick walked side by side down the dimly lit corridor of the underground facility.

The rhythmic hum of distant machinery filled the silence between them, neither man in a hurry to break it. Nathan finally spoke, his voice low but firm.

"How's Stark holding up?"

Rick exhaled through his nose, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. "He's in Tennessee, chasing old bombing sites that match the Mandarin's MO. It's only a matter of time before he traces them back to AIM."

Nathan gave a small nod, the corner of his mouth twitching in something like approval. "And SHIELD?"

Rick shrugged. "They're keeping tabs, comparing notes with Stark, but that’s about it. They’ve got their hands full with the whole vampire situation Blade brought up."

Nathan let out a low hum. "Good."

The thought settled in his mind. He had left SHIELD a trail leading to AIM and Killian—just enough for them to stay on Stark’s heels. But the less they interfered, the more likely things would play out the way he remembered. The moment SHIELD threw their full weight into something, the whole board shifted, and he wasn’t interested in seeing what that would look like.

"And what about our version of the serum?" Nathan asked, glancing at Rick.

Rick sighed, rolling his shoulders. "It’s... complicated. You’re better off hearing it from Stern."

Nathan arched a brow. "Good thing we're already here, then."

He came to a stop in front of a reinforced steel door, the glow of the security panel casting a cold blue light over his face. Without another word, he pressed his palm against the scanner. The door let out a sharp hiss as it unlocked.

Nathan stepped inside.