Desert Operations Briefing Room
The old leather of the conference room chairs creaked as men and women in military and government uniforms settled in, their expressions tense and expectant. A general stood before the table, his face cast in shadows by the dim lighting as he motioned to the digital map projected on the wall behind him. The map highlighted the layout of what used to be four heavily fortified desert bases—now reduced to smoldering ruins.
"Four bases, gentlemen," the general began, his voice steady but carrying an edge. "Forty-plus heavy tanks, mobile anti-aircraft weapons, and armed helicopters, thousands of insurgents—and it's all gone. Wiped clean in twenty-four seconds." His tone was laced with something between awe and disbelief.
Murmurs rippled through the room. Some officials had heard whispers, but seeing the data—watching the instant transformation from established stronghold to nothing but scarred desert on the screen—made it feel surreal.
"Twenty-four seconds?" one of the officers echoed, eyebrows shooting up. "How does that even…?"
The general's eyes never wavered from the screen as he replied, "Iron Man. Or, if you prefer, Tony Stark."
The silence that followed was palpable. Earth had long known Stark's capabilities, but to see his handiwork on this scale brought a fresh wave of both reverence and unease.
Most of those in the room had grown accustomed to wielding power, their decisions shifting lives, setting policies, determining fates. Stark's display was a sobering reminder that there existed forces beyond their control. Here, in the briefing room, you could almost feel the collective realization dawning: if Stark ever turned his attention to them, there might be no recourse.
Finally, a slight cough broke the silence, and the oldest man in the room, Zidane, cleared his throat. "We always knew this was what we were dealing with," he said, his voice low but clear. "They're allies from another world. Their technology outpaces ours by lifetimes, maybe centuries. They can raze an army if they choose, and we're seeing it in front of us."
Heads nodded, some more reluctantly than others, but there was an undeniable truth to Zidane's words. They'd known, intellectually, of the power held by Stark and his allies, but hearing was one thing. Witnessing it in action was something else entirely.
The general resumed, his tone solemn. "One more thing, gentlemen. Stark coordinated this entire mission with us. He notified us ahead of time, had us secure the area, and ensured no civilians were harmed. But let's be clear—he didn't need us for any of that. Stark and his people could've done it all on their own."
Across the table, Chai, a respected senior official, leaned forward. "Exactly. Stark has shown us a rare respect. He didn't need our cooperation, but he asked for it." His voice was deliberate, each word weighed. "This alliance is a chance to transform this planet—to bring safety, stability, and progress. This is something that could benefit all of humanity, not just us in this room."
But just as he finished, a voice cut in.
"Good evening, gentlemen."
Heads snapped around. And there, reclining comfortably in one of the leather chairs at the far end of the table, was Tony Stark. He wore a perfectly tailored suit, legs crossed, hands resting loosely on the armrests as if he'd been part of the meeting from the beginning. His expression carried that trademark smirk, laced with an air of amused detachment.
A few jaws dropped. The confusion was evident. This was supposed to be a secure room, cut off from outside signals. How had Stark just… appeared?
"Surprised? No need to be," he said, a light chuckle escaping him. "Some of you might be fans, but keep it together—no autograph requests, please."
There was an awkward pause before someone managed to stammer, "But… how did…?"
Stark rolled his eyes. "Oh, right. The security measures." He gave a casual shrug, waving a hand dismissively. "I may have forgotten to mention it, but since you're always meeting here, I thought I'd save us all some time and install a little… equipment. Didn't want to miss out on all the fun."
It took a moment for everyone to catch up, but as Stark's words sunk in, the officials exchanged incredulous glances. Equipment? Installed? This was supposed to be their most secure location. They'd spent fortunes on signal-proofing, state-of-the-art surveillance jammers, even soundproofing the very walls.
One official managed to sputter, "Wait. So… so you've had a setup in here this entire time?"
"Only for the important meetings," Stark replied smoothly, his smirk widening. "I try not to monitor every word—just the interesting ones."
The room fell silent again as the full implications settled. They had built this chamber with every intention of creating an impenetrable fortress of privacy, only for Stark to slip in undetected. They'd spent weeks ensuring this room was foolproof, and here Stark was, treating it like a conference call.
One man finally exhaled, shaking his head in exasperation. "So you've been listening to us, just like that?"
Stark raised an eyebrow, unphased. "Look, don't take it the wrong way. If it makes you feel any better, I don't spy on every meeting. But I keep an eye out when I need to. You never know what kind of surprises might come up." His gaze turned steely, a clear, silent reminder that any thoughts of working against him—or hiding from him—were misguided.
Then, just as abruptly as he'd arrived, his tone shifted back to casual. "Anyway, as you probably heard, we're close to putting an end to the Order. Tomorrow, we'll be executing the final raid on their top brass. I'll have the details sent over—just make sure civilians are clear of the area. Thanks, gentlemen. Enjoy the rest of your meeting."
And with that, Stark's image flickered and disappeared, leaving the room in stunned silence once more.
It took several long seconds before anyone could speak. There was a new weight in the air—a mix of wariness and reluctant respect. Tony Stark had come and gone in a matter of seconds, yet his message resonated as strongly as if he'd been there in person. His brief visit was a warning, a reminder, and a clear statement of power.
One of the officials finally broke the silence, his voice barely a whisper. "So… everything we've said in here…?"
Zidane, the old man who'd spoken earlier, gave a weary chuckle, tapping his fingers on the polished wood. "Don't kid yourself," he muttered. "They know everything."