By the time his ship had reentered realspace above his homeworld, Ton Stark was already rifling through the comm channels like a man possessed. His yacht rocketed through the void towards the planet directly ahead, and he knew he would be on the scopes of the Corellian Security Force. And when that happened, he needed to be ready to go. Not that such readiness would be a problem; Ton felt determined, more than he had ever truly felt before. And as his mind went in such scenarios, there was not a thought or a damn given to his situation or his insane plan; when something had to get done, Ton focused on the task at hand, crossing bridges when he came to them, knowing what to do almost on instinct. And it had never once failed him. Despite having no set course and no set plan when push came to shove, Ton had yet to have his method falter, the record so clear that the casual observer could assume - and reasonably assume, at that - that Ton Stark possessed some sort of clairvoyance known only to the Jedi.

Ton Stark was running on instinct. And when he was finally hailed by CorSec, he let his gut do the talking.

"Starship, we have you on our scopes, please identify and maintain your current course."

"Ton Stark. Patch me through to your commanding officer. It's urgent."

"...uh, certainly. One moment please."

Ton afforded himself a bit of a smirk. CorSec's monitoring stations were usually staffed by rookies. Fresh out of basic training, they were still very much in the mindset that was not conducive to questioning orders. All one had to do to get higher up the chain and talk to someone that could pull strings was speak in a commanding tone and sound like one knew what they were talking about. Besides, any commanding officer in a post like flight control really had little better to do. If anything Ton was relieving him of his boredom.

"Mr. Stark," a familiar voice said after a few moments of comm static, "I'm told it was urgent."

"Wil, good to hear your voice, I'm in a spot of trouble."

"I'm listening."

Ton silently thanked whatever deity happened to be in the area that it had been Wil on the other end of the line. Ton and Wil had gone to school together in Coronet many years ago. Ton, being a small and nerdy kid, was often picked on by the bigger, dumber kids on the playground. And after a while, just as he was about to take a savage thrashing for coming up with the first of many quick-witted comebacks, Wil stepped in to put a stop to the bully's violence by applying some of his own. The two became fast friends, with Ton helping Wil with his homework and helping him study for tests in exchange for bully deterrent and an actual chance at friendship. After graduation, they went their separate ways, following their separate passions; Ton was accepted to Coruscant's premier engineering university, while Wil immediately enlisted into CorSec. They spoke less and less as the years went past, and Ton had in all honesty forgotten about him until he had gotten word about a brazen attack by the local Meatlump gang that had left Wil's assigned town - and family of a wife and two daughters - in critical condition.

Wil, being a CorSec officer, was not allowed to rush to the hospital until his shift had ended. And when it did, he made a mad dash to the hospital they had been taken to, only to bet met with even more news; his family had been taken to Three Star Medical Center, the best facility Corellia had to offer, his family was being taken care of by that hospital's finest doctors, and every last medical expense had been paid in full. Wil had even been notified of a pair of massive stuffed durnis that had been delivered to his daughters' room, and that a wedding band matching the description on a CorSec lost property report had been ordered in the name of a friend Wil had long since lost contact with.

Since then, Wil had promised to himself that he would return the favor someday. And from the sound in his old friend's voice, that day was finally upon him. As Ton laid it all out for him, Wil took a running tally and silently cursed to himself. He knew the debt was big, but he hadn't thought one jot about the interest.

"Ton, you do realize what you're asking, right? This is the Empire we're talking about here."

"I know," Ton replied, "and I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't absolutely crucial. I'm not even asking you to engage if push comes to shove, I just need you to stall them for as long as you can. If they pull guns, disengage and let me handle it."

"Ton...I have to ask," Wil said, his voice laced with obvious concern, "what are you doing?"

"I told you the Empire's gonna have a mark on my head once they figure out I'm not dead. Regardless, smart money says they're already trying to nationalize my company and bring it under their heel. So even if they aren't marching men to my factories at this very moment, and even if they aren't planning to kill everyone in them for the sake of witnesses, that's a Corellian company with Corellian men they're about to take over. And we just can't have that, can we?"

The remark, for all of Ton's internal madness, had his trademark style written all over it. Obvious prioritizing and emphasis of what was important delivered with a nonchalance that gave the impression of aloofness, capped with an irrelevant fact thrown in to entertain and lighten the situation just to keep everyone listening at ease. Most people hearing the talk would have written it off as mere sarcasm from a privileged billionaire that was emphasizing the importance of his company and his sovereignty as a Corellian. But Wil knew Ton better than that. Hell, by his reckoning, anybody that actually bothered listening to the man would know better than that. Even putting aside his acts of generosity to friends long forgotten, Ton Stark had a strong reputation among his workers; almost unheard of for an executive of a company as large as his. In all, in spoke volumes of the man's character, regardless of the gossip articles guessing at who he was taking to bed that month.

"I'll get you the time you need, Ton. Get them out of there."

"That's the plan, Wil," Ton said, smiling to himself as he was cleared for a course for the factory sixty kilometers east of Coronet, "that's the plan."

Things in the office hadn't been the same since Mr. Stark had been declared dead. The Imperial bigwig had called a meeting, said some words, offered half-hearted condolences, and then it was right back to work. And what work it was! No breaks, no chatter, no life. And as the holder of contracts nobody in the office was completely sure were signed, the Empire now had full dominion over Stark Enterprises, and it was driving Eliana Shan up the wall.

Since the changing of the guard, all she had been doing was twiddling her thumbs; the new director was allocating all of the company's resources to the company's weapons division, and what little work there was to do in that sector - namely, the maintenance and fixes to the new armor suit's computers - was mind-numbingly scarce. Eliana wasn't averse to what amounted to a free ride, but putting up with the boredom was becoming something of a challenge for the woman who dyed her hair a wild mix of red and green. Fortunately for her, the new director - some bald jackass named Stane or something - had not yet tried to make her change it to something a bit more dull.

So bored was she that, when her personal comlink gave a chirpy little chime, it was on and at the ready in the space of a blink.

"Stark Enterprises R&D, this is Eliana Shan, tech wiz extraordinaire at your disposal!"

"Stop selling yourself short, Elly."

Eliana had to grip her chair to keep from hitting the ceiling. It was Stark! On her comlink! Very decidedly not dead! Her head immediately went to swivel mode as she ducked up above her cubicle, looking around to see if anybody was paying attention. Fortunately - or unfortunately, she reminded herself - everyone was too busy with their sudden mountain of work and enforced code of efficiency that her little call was going to go unnoticed. Her attention turned back to the comlink as she sunk down, keeping her voice to a light, squeaky whisper.

"Sir, what the hell is going on?"

"Long story, Elly, I'll explain later. I have a couple favors I need to ask you, and I'm not gonna lie, they're pretty big ones. What's the situation at the office?"

"Miserable," Eliana hissed, "the e-men took over, there's a bald guy sitting in your office like he owns the place, and they're diverting everything to the weapons division! It's madness! I think they're gonna make me re-dye my hair!"

"...so I'm guessing you won't mind a little payback, then."

"No, sir," she said, the undertone of mischief lining her words, "no, I would not."

"Great," her boss replied, sounding unnervingly chipper about the whole idea for someone that had been a firm believer in the New Order, "now listen. Odds are they've got a hold on the company bank account, but they haven't taken the money out yet, because they still need to pay you guys. I sent you the info to my old bank account and a shadow account I've got with the Banking Clan, I need you to send every credit you can get your hands on from the company's account and mine and pop it in the shadow account as fast as you can. I'll write up your pay with interest when things get sorted out."

"You got it, Mr. Stark," Eliana said, already finagling her way around the company account's new firewalls, "what was the other thing?"

"The bigger problem, actually. I need you to black out security at the Coronet factory; re-loop the night footage or something, make it look like nobody's there. I just need a few hours with the floor crew, and you're the only one I know that can arrange it. And while you're at it, scrub the payroll list of everyone working there."

Eliana immediately opened a new window on her data terminal, starting to sneak into the company mainframe. Siphoning money was easy enough, but now she had an access code for one account on the one hand and almost insulting security on another, the sum of which could probably set up everyone back on Dantooine for life. But security footage from her location, like Mr. Stark said, was going to be the bigger problem. Getting into the command mainframe was easy, but she would have to write a code string that would loop the footage from a given time frame in the security feeds from an office on the other side of the galactic core, and she risked bringing the Imperial war machine on her boss's head if she failed.

"And Elly?"

"Yeah, boss?" she asked, nervousness at her risk taking over for mischief at the thought of the reward.

"You've got this."

She smirked to herself, her momentary lapse of confidence brushed aside. "Of course I do, boss. Give me ten minutes, and you give 'em hell."

When Ton's yacht landed, the murmurs started. And they had not stopped even as the voice of their supposedly-dead CEO came over the PA, calling for a mandatory meeting of all assembly members. Sixty workers of various species all gathered in the main assembly hall of the large factory, and their murmurs grew to shouts and cheers when they saw none other than Ton Stark standing on the stage, wearing that look that told them all that something big was about to go down. It was a look they knew well; for someone as high on the chain as Stark was, he spent an inordinate amount of time on the factory floor and getting his hands dirty with those on his payroll, and whenever he flashed the look he was wearing right then, there was a major breakthrough at hand. It got the workers excited. At Stark Enterprises, they were always on the cutting edge. And they knew that there, on the ground floor, they made it happen. Stark raised a hand, and the cheering quieted down.

"So, I'm guessing you've all heard about the recent shake up at HQ, what with my alleged death. I'd tell you guys the whole grand story, every last detail, but the fact of the matter is we're all very short on time here. Our esteemed and beloved Empire," Stark said, his words dripping with venom to the surprise of everyone in attendance, "went and tried to kill me dead. And before long, they're going to come rolling in here and taking control, just as they did back on Coruscant.

"I know I've been vocal of my support for the Empire in the past. I know many of our projects, including our most recent one, have been for their benefit. And I know, as a Corellian, that such an idea must've really pissed a few of you off." Stark stopped, seeing a few murmurs and nods of agreement; the Empire was not an especially popular government with the Corellian people - even less so with the non-Humans in the crowd - and Ton knew that it was only the well-above-average paycheck and the promise of building the most advanced tech on the market that kept a lot of them working in the factory. "But I've had something of a change of heart lately, and it all comes down to you guys.

"See, sooner or later, the e-men are gonna come knockin'. And when they do, I'm not sure what they've got planned for you. They're probably going to extend your hours. They're probably going to garnish your pay. They're probably going to sever whatever ties to the unions you have. And they're probably going to paint a big, ugly portrait of Old Shrivelface right smack on that wall there," Ton said, drawing a few laughs from the crowd. It was a nerve-wracking situation, and they all knew it. The Empire was not a forgiving employer, and the non-Humans in the crowd would likely be out of a job altogether. And if they were willing to kill the company CEO, how expendable did that make them.

Stark stopped, letting the cogs turn in their heads for a bit, allowing them to infer the obvious result of an Imperial takeover.

"My plan," Ton said, drawing their attention back to himself, "is simple, but I need your help to do it. I'm gonna show these Imperial sons of bitches just what you boys can do, and what happens when you screw around with Corellian workers! We need to ramp up the prototype!"

More hushed whispers shot throughout the crowd, but one excited "HELL YEAH!" from the back was all it took for the crowd to slowly start applauding and cheering again. Stark Enterprises had a lot of prototypes and countless patents for prototypes not yet in production. But with everything Ton had said and the executive order that came down from that new Stane guy, there was only one prototype Stark could have been talking about. And it had been one of the most exciting and thrilling projects the workers had ever put together.

The prototype Stark was talking about was what would eventually become the Variable Threat Response Platform, or as the workers had taken to calling it, the "War Machine". And before it had been weaponized through hell and back, it had been a work of art; sleek, beautiful, and powerful all at the same time, everything a machine should be. Rather than dull gray plates of alusteel armor, the prototype was smooth, light durasteel with a total chromium finish. Rather than the overbearing amounts of weaponry that dominated the War Machine armors, every weapon on the prototype suit - few though they were - was cleverly hidden behind armor plating, allowing the overall look to remain unsmirched. But more than all of that - even more than being the first suit of armor to prove that all-encompassing powered armor is not only a viable concept, but an extraordinarily powerful one, and it was the men and women of Stark Enterprises that made it happen - the prototype represented the best of Corellian engineering and ingenuity before the Empire's influence took hold. It was the pride of everyone that had worked on it. And now Stark was calling for what they all knew would be its triumphant and dramatic return.

But Stark was also not wrong about it needed to be ramped up, as the crowd soon remembered. For all its beauty and artisty, for all the care that went into it, the prototype was only a proof-of-concept model. It was not battle ready. It had been out of power for some time. And just about everything in regards to its combat capability had been improved for the overly-weaponized thing that was its big brother. But even that enticed the workers all the more; once again, they were on the cutting edge. And this time, they were doing so to spite the Empire. What more could a Corellian man or woman want?

"All right, you know what we gotta do. We gotta swap out the old power cells for the new ones. We gotta rewire the whole thing to compensate for the massive power increase. We gotta arm it. We gotta get those new shield generators mounted on. And we've gotta replace the repulsors. Last but not least, when we're done I'm gonna need some of you to load up the spare assembly equipment onto my yacht in back; gut the interior if you have to. We have a long night ahead of us, guys. But if we do this, we've got one hell of a big dick to slap the Emperor's face with. So you tell me, you all tell me right now, are we gonna do this?"

The loud shout from the crowd and the sudden rush to their work stations gave Ton his answer.

Stark had arrived at the factory in the early hours of the evening. And all through the night, they worked on the prototype armor, going over every detail, analyzing every avenue for improvement, and doing their absolute best to make things just that little bit stronger or eke out that extra bit of power. The old wires and circuits that had been there were swapped out for the new, top of the line cables that the War Machines used, and the workers were all too happy at the thought of scrapping one of them for parts. Each of the old, standard power cells were swapped out for the amped-up Rylith batteries, which would in turn dramatically increase the power of the armor's weapons and thrusters. When he was not rewiring the prototype and connecting line A to port B, Ton was in his office tweaking the operating system to better suit his preferences, streamlining everything he could while enhancing its overall capability.

And all through the night, as sweat was poured and curses were shouted, Ton did not once lose the determined, steely glare he had walked in with.

Sunlight had started to creep into the factory windows when all was said and done. People cheered. They sent high-fives all around. Some hugged. A few even raided the canteen to grab some celebratory beers. And while Stark smiled and nodded alongside them, he could not celebrate; by now, the Imperials in charge of his company would have to know that something was up; even if the security feed was as solid as Eliana could make it, someone was going to notice that the factory had been drawing much more power than it should have been for those hours. It might have been a few days before the crackdown, but the crackdown was almost certainly coming. And when it did, and when the Empire realized what these men and women had been up to, they would be all too happy to throw around treason charges.

"Guys," Ton said as he climbed up a set of stairs to a second-floor walkway, "you've really accomplished something here. I'm proud of all of you! Damn proud!"

Ton was greeted with cheers once again, and he raised a hand to quiet them down quickly; they could celebrate when they were safe at home.

"I wish we could hang around and talk about how awesome this is, but I can't lie to you; we're all in serious trouble if we're still here when the Empire rolls in. I took the liberty of arranging some buses, they're outside and ready to go. Go home, be with your families, and just try to keep your heads down until this blows over. And know," Ton said, pausing for emphasis as he broke out into a grin, "that I did the math, and that bad son of a bitch," Ton paused again, pointing to the shining, flawless machine that stood alone on the assembly line amidst the discombobulated remains of its successors, "is gonna tear those Imperial assholes a new one!"

More cheering shot through the factory, oblivious to the fact that Ton was lying. He had done the math, that much was true. Further to their credit, the new suit was much more powerful than it had been. Further still, it was absolutely going to be leaps and bounds faster and more efficient than the Variable Threat Response Platform would have been. But it only had two shield generators where the War Machine had five, only two blasters that really amounted to overpowered automatic handguns compared to the arsenal that the Imperial suits carried. There simply was not enough internal volume to match the later models for internal inertial dampening; while still significantly improved, Ton would still be much more susceptible to external pressures on the armor, encompassing everything from g-forces to sudden stops to being blasted backwards than his Imperial counterparts. And Ton would be flying the suit all by his lonesome so far as he could tell, and the Imperials would have round-the-clock flight support. The prototype had a fighting chance, and a solid fighting chance, but any engagement Ton found against the Imperial armored division was going to be a close call, and hopeless if the whole squad was there. Lying to them would boost their resolve. Lying to himself, however, could prove to be a fatal mistake.

"So," Ton said, his own voice quieter and more questioning, "I have a question. One last question before you go. The technical term for the prototype, if memory serves, is the 'Flying Armored Prototype, v1'. Technically true, but once we saw the acronym we had to fire the whole PR division," Ton said, eliciting a hearty chuckle from the crowd. "And to be totally frank, that's not gonna do what you've done tonight justice. This bad boy needs a name, and more than anybody working at Stark Enterprises, you've all earned the right to name this project, this v.1.5. What say you?"

The crowd grew quiet. One put forward "Chrome Champion", but that was quickly decried as too ostentatious, and though it was countered that the suit was anything but discreet, the name was passed on. "Silver Centurion" was the next to come up, soon followed by "Badass Battlesuit of Death", which came much too close to approval for Ton's personal liking. Various other monikers were thrown to and fro, trying to capture the essence of the suit or its pilot, each one falling short. But after half a minute of loud deliberation, the only Sullustan member of the team finally chimed in, shouting in heavily-accented Basic.

"Iron Man!"

There was quiet throughout the factory floor as, one by one, people started to nod. Iron Man. It rolled off the tongue rather easily. It suited both the armor and the person that was going to wear it. Iron Man. It wasn't technically true, but the very idea it invoked to each and every person there was clear. More people said it to themselves and to others, both questioning it to others for their approval, and saying it in the affirmative in response. The words grew louder. The enthusiasm for the idea built. And in seconds, the entire factory floor was shouting.

"IRON MAN! IRON MAN! IRON MAN! IRON MAN! IRON MAN! IRON MAN!"

"TOBIAN!" Ton shouted over the din, pointing to the middle-aged senior technician near the control panel, "FIRE IT UP!"

Ton figured the resulting roar could be heard for kilometers all around.