Two Sides of the Story

Pepper did not see the email until after the meeting.

Three contracts and a quarterly financial report lay spread across her office desk. The coffee by her hand had been sitting there for half an hour and had already gone cold. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows was Los Angeles's gray-blue sky, sunlight leaking through gaps in the clouds and reflecting a blinding glare off the glass curtain wall across the way.

Her phone vibrated. Her head was still full of figures and clauses as she absently swiped the screen open—thinking it was another one of Tony's junk messages. He had been like this lately, sending a "Are you asleep?" at three in the morning. If she did not reply, he would send a pile of emojis, as if he could keep a lively conversation going all by himself.

Sender: Tony Stark. Subject: Last Words.

Her finger froze.

In the video, Tony sat on the laboratory floor, surrounded by liquor bottles and scattered parts. His hair was a mess, like a bird's nest; his beard was untrimmed, and deep shadows lay beneath his eyes. Afternoon light slanted in through the window, bleaching half his face pale. He smiled at the camera. It was an ugly smile.

"Pepper. If you're watching this, it means I'm already gone."

Her pupils contracted.

"I know you haven't been answering my calls. I don't blame you. I've pushed you away too many times. You've finally gone far away. I should be happy."

Tony paused in the video, then fished out a bottle from beside him and took a swig.

"I've settled most of my assets. The company's shares go to you. Rhodey has a suit of armor, and there's some other miscellaneous stuff..." He paused again, as if trying to remember what he had missed. "Anyway, you'll receive a letter from the lawyer. Don't rush to sign it. Look it over first. If you think something's unreasonable, change it."

Pepper held the phone without moving.

"One more thing." Tony finally looked directly into the camera, and there was something different in his gaze. "You're the best person I've ever met in my life. I said it too late. I'm sorry."

The video ended.

She set the phone on the desk, screen down. She sat there for about ten seconds. Then she stood, picked up her bag, and pushed open her office door. Her high heels struck the hallway floor, sharp and hurried.

Happy was leaning against the wall, looking at his phone. He froze when he saw her emerge. Her face was as pale as paper, her eyes red-rimmed, but she was not crying.

"Miss Potts?"

"Take me home."

"Now? You still have a meeting this afternoon—"

"Cancel it."

Happy did not ask again. He pressed the elevator button. Pepper stepped inside and stood in the corner, both hands clasped around her bag strap, her knuckles white. Happy glanced at her reflection in the elevator doors but said nothing.

After the car had driven two blocks, she began making calls.

The first was to Tony. His phone was off.

She frowned and found another number—Natalie Rushman, Tony's new assistant. She had met her a few times: blonde hair, blue eyes, efficient in a way no ordinary assistant should have been. Pepper had dealt with her twice and had always felt there was something indescribable in the woman's eyes. Not malice—just too much composure. Unnaturally steady.

Beep—beep—beep—

After three rings, it went to voicemail. She hung up and called again. The same thing happened.

On the seventh attempt, the automated message changed. "The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the number and try again."

Not in service.

Pepper's fingers tightened. She remembered the résumé Natalie had submitted when she was hired—perfect credentials, a perfect interview, every detail perfect. Too perfect to be real. She had noticed it at the time, but Tony had said, "We need people," so she had not looked into it further.

Now that number no longer existed.

She put down her phone and leaned against the car window. Los Angeles's streets flowed past outside, pedestrians hurrying along the sidewalks as sunlight shone on the asphalt and reflected a glaring white sheen. Happy glanced at her in the rearview mirror—her eyes were still red, but her lips were pressed into a thin line. She did not make another sound.

Rhodey saw the email in the barracks at Edwards Air Force Base.

He had just returned from Hammer Industries' retrofit workshop. Several engineers had pestered him all day, wanting to transport Mark Two back to Hammer headquarters for research. They kept saying things like, "The equipment here isn't sophisticated enough," and, "We need a better laboratory environment." Rhodey had not agreed. Neither had the military. The armor was locked in the hangar next door, under guard twenty-four hours a day.

He had just showered, his hair still wet, when the phone on his bedside table vibrated. He picked it up and saw—Sender: Tony Stark. Subject: Last Words. His first thought was, What's this guy up to now? Tony had sent him far too much nonsensical stuff: selfies at three in the morning, photos of half-finished cocktails, ten-minute voice messages about how to improve Mark Two's thrusters. Rhodey was used to it.

He opened it.

Tony sat on the floor in the video. The background was a corner of the laboratory, with the mouth of an empty liquor bottle visible. His voice was hoarse, carrying a weariness Rhodey had never heard before.

"Rhodey. If you're watching this, it means I'm already gone."

Rhodey's thumb froze over the screen.

"That Mark Two was meant for you from the start. The military's been pressuring you. I know. They wanted you to get technology from me, wanted you to push me to hand things over, but you never said a word."

Tony tilted his head in the video, as though thinking of what else he needed to say.

"So go ahead and wear it. That one's a prototype. What the military can turn it into depends on their own ability."

"You're my best friend. I've never said that. But you know."

The video ended.

Rhodey set his phone on the bedside table, screen up. He sat on the edge of the bed in a military-green T-shirt and shorts, water dripping from his hair onto his shoulder and soaking a small patch of fabric. He stared at the photograph on the wall opposite him—two men standing before an F-22. Tony wore sunglasses and grinned without a care in the world. Rhodey stood beside him, his mouth restrained, but his eyes smiling.

What year had that been? Five years ago? Six?

Rhodey lowered his head. He did not cry aloud, but tears spilled from his eyes and ran down his cheeks. A man over six feet tall sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders trembling slightly without a sound. He wiped his face twice with the back of his hand. The third time, he gave up and let the tears fall.

About two minutes later, he stood up.

A car was too slow. It would take two hours to drive from here to Malibu. The helicopter was parked on the northern helipad of the base. Starting it, requesting a flight path, taking off—it would take forty minutes at best. There was no time.

He pulled open the barracks door and strode toward the hangar. The afternoon guard saw him and froze. Before he could speak, Rhodey had already entered the passcode. The hangar doors slowly rose.

Mark Two stood on its charging platform, its silver-white armor gleaming with a cold sheen in the afternoon light. Several beams of sunlight spilled through the skylights overhead, striking the metal surface and scattering fine specks of light. His footsteps echoed through the empty hangar.

He stood with his back to the armor and spread his arms. The back plating opened automatically, hydraulic pistons humming as the mechanical structure unlocked layer by layer. He stepped back into the leg armor, slid his arms into the gauntlets, and pressed his back against the sensors inside the chest plate.

Rapid footsteps sounded behind him. Two Hammer Industries engineers ran out of the duty room, one still holding a tablet. Panting, he shouted, "Colonel! You can't do this—the armor is scheduled for testing tomorrow—"

Rhodey did not turn around. The faceplate closed, and his field of view was covered by a blue data interface.

"Colonel! We haven't finished collecting the data—the military needs to be notified—"

The thrusters ignited. Orange-red flames burst from his feet and palms, and the blast of air drove the two engineers back several steps. The one with the tablet staggered and nearly fell.

The silver-white armor rose from the hangar and shot into the sky.

He did not know whether Tony was still alive. That email—last words—had been sent on a timer. He did not know when Tony had recorded it, when the email had been triggered, or whether there would still be anyone in the laboratory by the time he reached Malibu.

California's sky stretched overhead. Sunlight poured through breaks in the clouds, scattering fragments of gold over the Pacific Ocean. Mark Two's thrusters left an orange-red trail as the speedometer jumped to Mach 2. A sonic boom exploded behind him, tearing a gap through the clouds.

He remembered the day Tony returned from Afghanistan. He had visited him in the hospital. Tony lay in bed, that glowing circle embedded in his chest, his face still bruised, but his eyes full of light. He had looked at Rhodey and said, "I'm shutting down the weapons division." Rhodey had thought he was joking. He had not been.

Rhodey accelerated. Then accelerated again. Mach 3. Frost began forming over the armor's shell, a thin layer of white spreading from the shoulder plates to the gauntlets. He did not slow down.

Malibu's coastline appeared at the edge of his vision.

In the laboratory, the holographic display was still lit.

Tony stood before the screen. The structure of the new element was already more than halfway complete. His fingers moved through the air, parameters jumping line by line as the reactor casing blueprint changed from a draft into its third version. The dark circles beneath his eyes were heavy, but the light in them had not gone out.

Ethan lay in his room, sleeping soundly.

Chen Xiao leaned against the wall, watching the increasingly familiar triangle before glancing at Tony's back.

He said nothing.

Afternoon light slanted through the laboratory's narrow high windows, cutting a bright line through the air. Dust drifted slowly within the beam.

From the distant sky came a sonic boom like muffled thunder.