House Party with Missing Guests

Wu Yanzu, like a modern-day Atlas, bore the weight of desperate lives as he slowly descended.

He landed very slowly, very steadily, with a sense of ceremony.

"Bang."

With a soft thud, the alloy tray landed steadily in the center of Times Square without damaging a single taxi.

"..."

Times Square was still erupting in cheers.

The thirteen passengers unbuckled their seatbelts with trembling hands and stepped off the "tray," their hearts still pounding.

"Homelander!!!"

"Homelander!!!!"

"Homelander—!!!!!"

Homelander stood before the tray, the Stars and Stripes Cape slowly settling behind him.

Then, facing the nearest Vought News camera, he revealed a "perfectly timed" smile of exhaustion and relief.

"I only... did what I had to do."

"Everyone... is safe."

"Click! Click! Click! Click—!!!"

The flashbulbs instantly lit up the entire square!

The photograph of him holding up the wreckage and saving thirteen people became the undisputed cover story for major media outlets and magazines within a day.

Ding! Popularity Points gained +154015!

Ding! Popularity Points gained +201240!

Ding! Popularity Points gained +171552!

Homelander felt the surging power flooding into his body and closed his eyes in satisfaction.

While the citizens of New York City celebrated their hero,

"Iron Man" Tony Stark had only just found a lead.

Florida, Roxxon Pier.

The night was like a soaked black rag, and the air reeked of diesel, dead fish, and sea salt.

Tony, without post-traumatic stress disorder, had not shut himself in a Malibu basement and built an Iron Army like a madman.

He was still Tony Stark—arrogant, brilliant, and utterly dependent on his metal shell.

So while there was no Iron Army, there was still the Iron Strike Team.

At the moment, though, they were all rushing over from their California home thousands of miles away.

"JARVIS, you there, buddy?" Tony murmured into a crude communicator on his wrist.

"Always at your service, sir. However, the signal is extremely unstable." JARVIS's voice came through in fragments.

"That bastard Killian is here." Rhodey gestured toward the brightly lit drilling platform in the center of the tanker. "The president has to be there."

They crept along through the shadows. Tony felt like he was playing Metal Gear, except he did not even have a cardboard box.

"Shit!" Rhodey suddenly dragged him into the shadow of a shipping container.

Two soldiers glowing orange-red all over walked past.

"The Extremis Virus..." Tony narrowed his eyes. "They're walking bombs. JARVIS, analyze their heat signatures. Where's the weak point?"

"Analyzing... sir, their thermal core is located in... the head. However, their surface temperature can reach three thousand degrees Celsius."

"Fuck."

"Hey, Rhodey." Tony suddenly pointed at a massive crude oil storage tank above them. "Look at that."

Rhodey followed his finger.

Atop that gigantic oil tank, as tall as a five-story building, hung a figure.

It was the President of the United States, looking utterly dead inside, trapped in the Iron Patriot armor.

"My god..." Rhodey sucked in a sharp breath. "They hung the president from an oil tank!"

"This is kind of like a Viking funeral."

"Burning him with oil?"

That was not a metaphor.

President Ellis was like a slab of cured meat, bound with ropes and suspended directly above the enormous oil tank. Below him, dozens of Extremis Soldiers were patrolling.

A broadcast kept repeating, "The live stream will begin shortly. Return to your posts..."

"Who goes there?!"

An Extremis Soldier spotted the two of them.

"Damn it!" Rhodey cursed and raised the pistol he had stolen.

"Don't shoot!" Tony shouted.

But it was too late.

"Bang!"

The bullet struck the Extremis Soldier in the chest like a lump of butter tossed into a furnace, melting instantly.

"Intruders!!"

The alarm blared across the entire tanker.

"Fuck!" Tony grabbed his messy hair. "JARVIS! How long until the guys from the Christmas party get here!!"

"Sir,... estimated time of arrival: four minutes."

Tony pulled Rhodey behind a cluster of pipes.

"Four minutes?!" He looked at the dozen humanoid furnaces charging toward them. "JARVIS! Are you fucking kidding me? In four minutes, you'll only be here to collect my body!"

"Tony! Get down!" Rhodey tackled him to the ground.

"Boom—!!"

The spot where they had just stood was smashed into a molten crater by an Extremis Soldier's fist.

"Alright, alright..." At that moment, Killian strode gracefully out from the platform. He did not even glance at the president, instead watching the two disheveled men with great interest.

"Whoa! Tony Stark... and Colonel Rhodey. What an... unexpected delight." Killian smiled with calm confidence.

"Killian!" Tony got to his feet and dusted himself off. "Long time no see. What's with the outfit... did you join some cult? Or is 'Desperate Artist' your new look for the year?"

"Tony." Killian's face twisted. "You're nothing but a turtle hiding in its shell!"

"Weren't you looking for the Mandarin? There's no stand-in. I am the Mandarin—I always have been! Hahaha!! And you... will die at the Mandarin's hands today!" Killian roared, and at his command, all his men surged forward.

Just then.

"Whoosh—whoosh—whoosh—!!!"

Piercing whistles tore through the western sky!

"They're here!" Tony was overjoyed!

More than a dozen booster trails ripped through the night like a swarm of enraged meteors, unleashing a concentrated barrage onto the tanker's deck!

"Boom! Boom! Boom!"

They were Mark 17 Heartbreaker! Mark 19 Tiger! Mark 20 Python! And Tony's latest creation—Mark 24 Tank! Along with eighteen suits in total.

"Put it on, Rhodey!" Tony pointed at the black Mark 12 beside them.

"They're finally here!" Rhodey rolled forward, and the armor rapidly assembled around him.

Tony was immediately enveloped by Tank as well.

"Okay, barbecue grills!" Tony's faceplate snapped shut, and his repulsors aimed at the Extremis Soldiers. "Party time!"

However, reality was far crueler than imagination.

Tony had not gone through the insane upgrades following the Battle of New York. Most of these dozen or so suits were early models, designed for conventional warfare.

And the Extremis Virus... was a bug.

"Bang!"

An Extremis Soldier caught Mark 22 Hot Rod's arm with his bare hand and used three-thousand-degree heat to melt it into molten metal!

"Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat—!"

Wearing Mark 12, Rhodey unleashed a stream of fire from the minigun on his arm. The bullet storm did force an Extremis Soldier back again and again, but the man merely roared and charged through the hail of bullets!