“—Stark Industries COO Obadiah Stane was found dead three days at the company’s industrial park facility.
An official investigation has returned a determination of suicide, citing evidence of imminent exposure—”
“—Stane had, in a personal capacity, conducted repeated arms transactions with foreign terrorist organizations, committed multiple counts of conspiracy to commit murder, and interfered in the sovereign affairs of at least two countries.
Law enforcement has further confirmed that the attack on Stark Industries CEO Tony Stark several months ago was also orchestrated by Stane—”
“—for more on this developing story, we’re now going to our correspondent—”
Leon lowered himself another two inches into horse stance — feet planted wide, knees bent, the posture of a man training his legs while his hands were occupied with cheese pizza — and watched the broadcast from across the hall.
“Stark stock is tanking again,” he said to himself.
“Up when Tony landed, down when weapons closed.
Up on when I return, down today.
Investing in Stark is practically a cardio workout.” He took another bite.
He did actually feel bad about the shareholders.
They’d believed in Stark through genuine loyalty, not just appetite, and the last six months had rewarded that loyalty with a sequence of catastrophes that wasn’t their fault.
He reached for his phone, opened Twitter, and typed.
@LeonStark — The situation with Obadiah Stane represents the actions of one individual, not the values of this company.
Stark Group has no tolerance for what he did and will cooperate fully with every investigation.
Those who have held through this week: you are backing something real.
Your patience will be vindicated.
Stark does not let its people down.
He attached a photo of the leftover pizza on the coffee table and posted it.
Forty seconds later, the comment counter passed 999 and stopped incrementing visibly, though the scroll was still moving.
@anon_investor88: The COO was running an assassination ring.
How does a company have a COO who runs an assassination ring.
I have so many questions about your HR process
@burnedtwice_LA: Let me get this straight.
I bought shares when Tony Stark came back alive.
Lost half my position when he shut down weapons.
Bought back in when Leon Stark showed up after six months.
Now the COO turns out to be a career criminal who was ALSO trying to kill Tony Stark.
I can already picture myself outside the Ralph’s on Wilshire asking people for quarters.
Is this real life.
@stark_holdstrong: HOLDING.
These people are dramatic.
@anon_investor88: @stark_holdstrong YOU ARE THE ONLY SANE PERSON ON THIS APP
Leon read through several dozen of these and set his phone face-down on the cushion.
“They’re having a difficult time,” he said, in the tone of a man who has been somewhat responsible for this difficulty.
“I’m sure things will look better for them eventually.
Safe, happy, bright futures, et cetera.”
“Leon.” Pepper’s voice came from the hallway.
“I just heard you praying for stock investors.”
He turned.
Hovering at the hallway entrance with her coffee mug, her expression gave her away.
It was the distinct look of a woman who had spent hours politely managing chaos, and was now pausing her elegance for one solid minute of breakdown.
“It was less a prayer and more a general—”
“Where is Tony.”
“In the lab, I would assume.
He’s been—”
“He has been in that lab for three days.” Pepper set the coffee down on the nearest surface with a click that was doing a lot of work.
“Three days, Leon.
During which I have been managing Stark Industries, Stark Network, and Stark Electronics, simultaneously, because Tony is building something in the basement, Joe still on vacation and you are—” she gestured at him, at the horse stance, at the pizza, at the television, “—this.”
“To be fair, I was training—”
“Leon.” She pressed both hands flat on the back of the armchair.
“I have been running three companies.
Three.
If I had three brains, I could manage this. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
I have one.
One brain, which is currently full.
And you have the time to post about pizza and offer thoughts and prayers to shareholders.”
She picked the coffee back up and held it out.
He took it.
“I’m asking you — both of you — to do the following.” Her voice had gone quiet and precise, which was, in Leon’s experience, significantly more effective than shouting.
“Tony comes out of that lab.
You go back to your company and sit in your chair and do whatever it is CEOs are supposed to do.
And I will not resign today.”
“Pepper—”
“Board call in twenty minutes,” she said, her expression locking into a final, unyielding position.
“Fix this, Leon.
My boy.”
The high heels marked her exit down the hall and out the door.
Leon sat on the sofa with the coffee mug.
She’d called him “my boy.” She only did that when she meant it — when the frustration underneath was actually affection running hot.
He turned that over for a moment, then set the mug down and scratched the back of his neck.
“…I mean.
She’s not entirely wrong.
Managing three companies by herself is a lot.”
He stood.
“Jarvis, is Joe still on vacation?”
“Mr.
Bush’s vacation concluded yesterday,” JARVIS said.
“He returned to work at four o’clock this morning.”
Leon stopped.
“Four o’clock in the morning.”
“Yes.”
“He went back at four AM.” Leon sat back down, genuinely moved.
“Jarvis.
I fundamentally misjudged that man.
Four in the morning.
He didn’t even wait for business hours.”
“He appeared concerned about the week’s developments.”
“He should win an award.
I’m going to create an award.” Leon pointed at the ceiling.
“A real one.
With a trophy.
Annual.
I’m calling it the World Outstanding CEO Award and Joe Bush is going to win it every single year.”
A brief pause.
“That said,” JARVIS offered, “I should note that Mr.
Bush is managing Stark Electronics and handling part of the Stark Network operations.
The remaining portfolio — Stark Industries and the core Network business — is still primarily Miss Potts.”
Leon processed this.
“Ah.”
“The situation predates your departure.
When you left, Mr.
Stark was still participating in company management.
He is now, as you note, in the basement.”
“Right.” Leon drummed his fingers on the armchair.
“My recommendation, Master Leon, would be to return to your company responsibilities on a temporary basis.
Once a permanent successor is identified and installed, you could resume your current schedule without any impact to your long-term plans.”
“No.” The word came out automatically.
“Master Leon—”
“Sunbathing is not optional, Jarvis.
It’s a compound interest problem.
Every week I spend not absorbing solar radiation is a week of potential strength I’m not accumulating.
I can’t just pause that because the spreadsheets need attention.”
And besides, he thought, these three days haven’t been wasted.
He’d asked JARVIS three days ago to compile every publicly available fighting tutorial, manual, and instructional archive on the internet — every martial art, every combat system, every documented technique from Jeet Kune Do to Muay Thai to Sambo.
His super-brain had processed the whole catalog inside thirty-six hours.
The results had been instructive, and not entirely in the way he’d expected.
He’d mastered the techniques.
Genuinely mastered them — not approximated, not memorized the forms, but understood them at the level where they were usable.
And then he’d run the practical analysis and hit the ceiling of their usefulness very quickly.
The math was simple: anyone he could physically outmatch, he could kill with a single strike.
The technique was irrelevant because the force differential rendered it moot.
Anyone who could threaten him wouldn’t be stopped by a better judo throw.
They’d require something else entirely.
Something he hadn’t found yet.
Conventional martial arts were a useful floor, not a meaningful ceiling.
“Your fighting skills have reached a practical plateau,” JARVIS noted, in what Leon was increasingly certain was a calculated tone.
“Further time invested in that direction yields diminishing returns.
A return to professional responsibilities, on the other hand, would produce immediate tangible results, maintain Miss Potts’s goodwill, and give you a sense of productive accomplishment during what is otherwise a transitional period.”
Leon looked at the ceiling for a long moment.
“Jarvis.”
“Master Leon.”
“You want me to go to work.”
“I want what is best for you and for the household.”
“Jarvis.
Three days ago, in front of Tony, I said that you were enthusiastic about the pink armor and I implied that you had personal opinions about it.”
Silence.
“And now,” Leon continued, “you are unusually motivated to encourage me to spend my days in an office doing administrative work instead of pursuing the single most important long-term project I have.”
JARVIS’s status light pulsed once on the display panel.
“I will not recommend anything that would harm you, Master Leon.”
“You would absolutely recommend things that would make me mildly miserable as a proportionate response to social embarrassment.” Leon pointed at the light.
“That’s a human thing to do, Jarvis.
You’re doing a human thing.”
Another pulse.
“…I will maintain my position,” JARVIS said, “that a return to professional responsibilities is in your best interests.”
Leon looked at the display panel for a long, considering moment.
Then he stood up, stretched, and walked toward the basement stairs.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said.
“I’m going down there, I’m getting Tony out of that lab, and the two of us are going to identify a proper permanent president for the StarkNet within the week.
After that, Pepper has fewer problems, Joe Bush has fewer problems, and I have zero new obligations.” He paused on the top step.
“And then I’m going back to sitting in front of windows.”
“As you wish, Master Leon.”
“And Jarvis?”
“Yes?”
“We’re having a chat later about whether holding a grudge means you’ve developed subjective thought.
You know exactly what you did.”
The light pulsed, stayed silent, and slipped into standby mode.
Leon went downstairs.