Ten minutes later, Tony was in the middle of pouring himself a double scotch at the granite bar while explaining his new server firewalls to Natasha.
He stopped mid-sentence. His eyes drifted to the empty stool where Jack had been sitting moments ago.
The bottle of 1942 Don Julio was gone. The silver fork was gone.
"Nat," Tony said slowly, his glass freezing halfway to his mouth. "Where’s the trash-goblin?"
Natasha didn't even look up from her phone. "He said he needed to find the bathroom. But considering he took your master keycard off your back pocket while he was pretending to stumble... he's probably in your workshop."
Tony checked his back pocket. Empty.
"FRIDAY!" Tony roared, dropping his glass on the bar and sprinting toward the private glass elevator. "Lock down the workshop! Level Five containment immediately!"
[Access denied, boss,] FRIDAY’s voice echoed overhead, sounding oddly static-heavy. [Subject 'O'Malley' has initiated a override sequence using a silver fork and a bottle of high-proof tequila plugged directly into the primary diagnostic bus.]
"He plugged TEQUILA into my fiber-optic bus?!"
Down in the sub-basement workshop, the air was lit by the soft blue glow of holographic displays and thirty different suits of mark-series Iron Man armors lining the glass bay walls.
Jack was standing in the center of the main assembly platform, wearing Tony’s holographic interface glasses upside down on his face. He had the bottle of tequila wedged under his arm and was aggressively slapping his palms across the interactive holographic control wheel like he was playing a virtual drum kit.
BEEP-BEEP-BOOP!
"System override!" Jack yelled, his voice echoing through the acoustics of the subterranean lab. "Initiating protocol... PARTY TIME, EXCELLENT! HAHAHA!"
Across the room, the mechanical assembly arms—multi-million-dollar precision laser calibrators—began flailing wildly back and forth like drunken octopus arms, grabbing random tools and throwing silver wrenches into the ceiling.
CLANG! BANG! CRASH!
"Warning," FRIDAY’s automated voice blared through the lab alarms. "Mark 42 repulsor calibration set to... 'Popcorn Mode'. Deploying suit chassis."
The glass door of Armor Bay 7 slid open with a heavy pneumatic hiss.
The Mark 42 flight boots and chest piece detached from their mounting racks, magnetically locking onto the nearest biological signature.
Which wasn't Tony. It was Jack.
CLACK-CLACK-SNAP!
The left Iron Man boot flew across the room, slamming hard onto Jack’s left foot. The right gauntlet flew out next, locking over his right hand with a high-pitched servo whine KZZZZT.
Jack stood there in the center of the lab, wearing a dirty trench coat, one high-tech gold-and-red rocket boot, one repulsor-gauntlet, and upside-down holographic glasses, holding a half-empty tequila bottle with his remaining hand.
"Ooh!" Jack gasped, lifting his heavy armored boot and stomping it down, leaving a massive dent in Tony’s polished concrete floor. "I feel so... aerodynamic! Look at me, Red! I’m the Tin Can Demon! HAHAHA!"
The elevator doors hissed open. Tony and Natasha burst into the workshop, both stopping dead in their tracks.
Natasha leaned against the elevator frame, crossing her arms, a tiny, dark smirk playing at the edge of her lips. "Nice suit, Jack. Matches your eyes."
"Jack!" Tony yelled, his face turning a deep, dangerous shade of plum as he grabbed a handheld override pad from a nearby desk. "Take off my boot! Do you have any idea how much that gyro-stabilizer costs?!"
"Cost?" Jack rasped, raising his armored right hand and accidentally pointing the palm repulsor straight at Tony’s head.
The repulsor coil began charging with a high-pitched, terrifying blue hum: BZZZZZZZZT...
Tony’s eyes went wide. "Jack. Don't press the internal palm trigger. Do NOT press the—"
"Dare..." Jack hummed, his bloodshot eyes unblinking behind the upside-down holographic HUD, his smile stretching past human limits. "...dare to shoot the billionaire... dare to test the insurance policy..."
"FRIDAY, CUT POWER!" Tony shrieked, ducking behind a heavy steel workbench.
BOOM!
A bright repulsor blast shot out of Jack's hand, flying completely wild, missing Tony by ten feet and blasting a neat, smoking hole clean through Tony’s vintage 1965 Shelby Cobra sports car parked near the wall.
Silence descended on the workshop. Car alarm wailing in the background. Smoke drifting toward the ceiling.
Jack looked at the smoking hole in the classic car, then looked down at his repulsor hand, his mouth slowly opening.
"Whoops," Jack cackled softly into the smoke, his chest vibrating with a low, raspy hehehe. "My bad, Shell-head! I think your steering alignment is off! HAHAHAHA!"
Tony slowly peeked out from behind the workbench, staring at his ruined Shelby Cobra with a look of utter, soul-crushing agony.
"Get him out," Tony whimpered, pointing a shaking finger at Jack. "Natasha... I don't care where you take him. Take him to SHIELD. Take him to Hell. Just get him out of my house!"
Natasha walked forward smoothly, grabbed Jack by the back of his dirty coat collar, and yanked him backward off the assembly platform.
"Come on, Jack," Natasha said, her voice smooth and unbothered as she dragged him toward the elevator while he clunked along on one giant rocket boot. "Time for your nap."
"Aw, leaving so soon?!" Jack yelled back over his shoulder at Tony, waving his armored hand wild in the air. "Thanks for the test drive, Tony! I’m leaving a five-star review on Google! DARE TO REPAIR, BABY! HAHAHAHA!"
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