IRON MAN 27: ICARUS WINGS
Part Two of an Iron Man Fan Fiction Saga
By Neil Iron Nitz Kapit

When we last left off, Tony, you mentioned that you had just broken up with your girlfriend. I've been thinking about everything you told me, and I've come to the following conclusions....

Hold it, Doctor, Anthony Stark adamantly stated to his therapist, Doctor Leonard Samson. Though he spoke with less hesitation than previous sessions, Stark was nonetheless still uneasy and unkempt; his clothes and facial hair remained unmanaged, and he still avoided eye contact when speaking. Though I regret the way I handled the Rumiko situation, she is nevertheless just one woman. Her frustration does not compare to the deaths of hundreds.

What do you mean, Tony? Samson replied, looking through his notes as he spoke. In almost two weeks, you have continually hinted at some seemingly horrible crime you have committed, yet I cannot figure out what it is. It would help both of us if you would, upfront, explain what you have done, and why you think you must condemn yourself for it.

Anthony Stark knitted his brow, just as frustrated as Samson was with their exchange. It's not that simple. Many things-- too many things-- led up to my past and present problems. Unless you want the abridged version so we can terminate our current contract early....

If you insist, Samson sighed. However, the green-haired doctor was even more intrigued than before.

In order to try to forget the way my last date with Rumiko ended (with shouting and hurt feelings ), I took the next day off in order to participate in my typical recreational activity--programming. In a command booth stationed on the right wall of my vast laboratory, I sat at a keyboard, typing at vast speeds as I gazed upon my armor. The armor was placed inside a black, rectangular chamber, similar to a coffin inside Doctor Frankenstein's lab. Several dozen fiber-optic cables were attached to the headpiece, transferring thousands of bits into the armor's hard drives.

Years ago, all of my work on the armor was manual; with a soldering iron in one hand, a workbench full of resources, and a heart filled with passion, I would assemble components with only my own two hands. However, as time went on, the armor evolved with it, and my handiwork reached its limits, and all the operations on the suit had to be done by mechanical instruments. Eventually, the armor became so advanced that I could not advance its physical components anymore; the only improvements I could make were on the mental side-- the programming directing the suit's responses. Of course, typing endless lines of code was significantly less fulfilling than getting my hands dirty; nevertheless, if there was a means of improving my technology, I would pursue it compulsively.

Thus, I sat in my swivel chair, writing programs in a language of my own design. I remained there for hours, with lines of code seamlessly flowing from my mind to my fingers to the computer to the armor. I thought of many different concepts to enhance the armor's in-combat performance, and designed the armor to be more self-sufficient-- to negate all command input except my own, to have several pre-planned courses of actions, and to be able to automatically select those courses based on the given situation. It was like I was creating a living being, except that I never intended the armor to be a direct lifeform. More like an extension of an existing one-- yours truly, who would use the armor's strength and versatility to achieve feats beyond humanity's organic limits. And though I hadn't field-tested my programs yet, I maintained full confidence in my designs. I created them, after all.

Of course, as is usually the case, I couldn't sit and stew in my naively confident ideas for long, without being interrupted by business. After several hours of having my phone lines blocked and my lab's acoustics dampened, Jocasta, my computer's operating system ( though I consider her to be more like a person than a software package ), appeared with a special alert.

Blast! Almost finished with the final hundred statements....

I apologize, Anthony, she spoke in metallic tones, but I have received a high priority alert from James Rhodes. He has some information he believes you were seeking.

Put him on.

In approximately .79 seconds according to a small menu on one of my many monitors, the phone line between Rhodey's location in the Puget Sound, and my own home was connected, and a CGI model of Jim's features appeared on another screen. As he spoke, the face duplicated all of his facial expressions and movements almost precisely.

Tony? Been talkin' to some of my buddies in the mercenary biz, an' with the incentives you gave em, they told me some stuff I thought you'd like to know.

I know how to find War Machine.

With the CGI brow I designed knit, Rhodey went on about the information he had found. Reportedly, he'd contacted some of his old friends from his mercenary days-- something that he normally preferred not to talk about, and something that I preferred not to know about. Jim had managed to find out every detail he could about the present and future whereabouts of our target, a mercenary by the name of Parnell Jacobs.

A mercenary who had an Iron Man armor, I might add. Through a complex series of events, Rhodey's former partner has found the War Machine, a much more heavily armed version of the Iron Man design. He'd been using it for his own goals, destroying property and ending lives for his own profit-- with MY invention. I could not rest knowing that my creations, meant to enforce order and peace, were causing chaos, so I had earlier asked Rhodey to look into the situation as much as he could.

I suppose that you'd be interested in a beachside vacation in the winter? I replied to his summation of Parnell's whereabouts.

Go on, Chief....

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Within days, I had made extensive preparations to arrive at Parnell's next target.....an oil rig off the coast of Florida. Apparently, he was hired by Roxxon Oil to eliminate as much of the competition as he could, so I was obliged to dispense some armored justice. In only a short time, I managed to buy a four-star resort near the beach and closed it down to the general public, giving all the customers a full refund. Me and Rhodey effectively had the whole hotel for ourselves, with all the staff serving us personally. Back then, I could do that sort of thing with little effort.

Back then? Samson asked. I don't follow....

Check the Stark Solutions stock value on the Exchange, Doctor, and you might get an idea. In light of recent events, my consulting business has decreased greatly. But that isn't relevant right now.

So, after making our way through a crowd of scowling tourists ( who I could have cared less about at that point ), we managed to sneak in a beachside vacation while hunting War Machine. I'm not sure what Rhodey did during that time, because I spent the day modifying a basement in the resort into a working lab, with a small portion of my computer equipment filling the room. In a matter of hours, every piece was up and running, and I launched several remote controlled probes to scan the area, going across every acre of the Sunshine state to lock onto anyone using Starktech. All of the probes were on full alert, and each one was designed with a vast range; any signs of my armored assailant would trigger an alarm on my watch, so I could ideally go out and enjoy the sun until further notice. However, I chose to stay in my little crawlspace, continuing to program my armor; I had the basics down, but wanted to expand the armor even more, to give it even more features and options for all situations. I spent an extra four hours entering and re-entering lines of code, until Rhodey entered the lab with his special access codes and a smart-ass grin on his face.

And to think you said you were once addicted to that techno-crap.....

My frown was only hidden by the fact that my back was still turned as I continued to work. What gave you that idea?

Well, while I've been hangin' near the beach talkin' to some of the local ladies, you've been stuck down here with your tin suit and your little machines. I'm sure the ol' Tony Stark charm hasn't gone rusty.....

Not rusty, I stated, just not important. The machines are what's important. Their creation, their functions, and their CREATOR; all have saved millions of lives. Everything else is just a distraction to my true calling.

Which is wearing making iron undies and beating the crap out of the bad guys?

In the most simple and crude terms, Rhodey......yes.

So what if a guy like, say, Parnell gets his hands on better iron undies?

I paused for a second, then turned around, and threw Rhodey's previous grin back at him. The War Machine armor is years behind in technology. Its pilot is just hired muscle who got a lucky break. With my current skills and level of tech, I don't need to worry.

Well, Rhodey said, making his exit, if you're done strokin' your ego, I'll be down in the hot tub...

I shrugged, and returned to the keyboard. I'd known Rhodey long enough to take his jests in stride. I was still on the forefront of technology, and had already figured out what I thought was the best means of implementing that technology before the rest of the world had even discovered it. Diversions such as work, women, and alcohol could only temporarily slow my progress, and when I used that progress in battles of life and death, few could stand against it.

As Parnell Jacobs would discover.

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The probes I had released found Parnell only five hours after their release, in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. Apparently, he'd been hired by the good folks at Roxxon Oil to eliminate the competition. He'd been commanded to destroy all oil rigs in the area, eliminate any witnesses, and have the resources freed up for Roxxon's own consumption and profit. Both Roxxon and Parnell would get more money, and the fatcats at Roxxon would be totally unaffected as their armored mercenary damaged everything beyond recognition.

Well, I thought, not if my armor and I had any say in it.

Five minutes, and I was already there, from my resort in Tampa to the rig where Parnell was headed towards. Supersonic boot jets and travel with computerized precision made the trip two minutes long, and the armor decompression sequence lasted only thirty seconds. The other two minutes and a half in between were spent looking at myself, fully armored, in the mirror.

When I arrived, Parnell was practicing the only thing he knew-- destruction. The setting sun glistened on the black-and-silver shell of his armor, as his cannons flared up and he blasted the hell out of a manned rig. Most of the workers went down with the station, screaming throughout the conflagration. Those who were lucky ( so to speak ) just got cut down by stray bullets. Throughout, Parnell stood straight on his boot jets, as cold and emotionless as the metal he wore.

The metal that I created. A red haze briefly flashed across my eyes, contrasting with a green targeting cursor displayed on my visor. Parnell was right in line with my weapons, and the red haze of my mind and the green cursor of my armor combined to release a yellow burst of light from my chest-mounted beam. The light was strong enough to burn through solid steel like paper. In other words, it was a warning shot.

Parnell Jacobs staggered as the sudden burst of heat and force pushed him back, but he stayed stationary and turned to me, ignoring the ruined rig and the several dead bodies inside. YOU , he stated, the mouthpiece in his armor not dulling the rage in his voice. Stark's tin-plated lapdog.

Yes.

I suppose you're gonna give the speech about how you're such a big hero an' how that'll make it so you can kick the crap out of evil guys like me.

No, I replied, deciding not to go with the heroic speech I had in mind, instead opting for more inflammatory tactics. I'm just wondering what GLENDA would think.

YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH! He shouted, wildly releasing a barrage of missiles from his shoulder launchers. I managed to dodge most of them, and the few that hit me did little more than push me back an inch and cause a light bruise. Of course, to any bystanders left alive, it would seem as though Parnell was wounded most, as he was cringing from the impact of the words I'd just said, like an animal at bay.

She's your WIFE, right? I continued, as War Machine fired off a round of bullets, none of which actually did any damage. And you PROMISED her you'd give up the mercenary trade, right? That you wouldn't have to do this sort of work anymore?

I stayed still, while Parnell paused in mid-air, ready to fight but for some reason, choosing not to fire. What if she knew EXACTLY what you were doing here, PARNELL? The massive destruction, the murder of innocents......are you going to bring THAT up to Glenda on your next anniversary? Because if you don't, I might tell her MYSELF......

Parnell roared furiously, and turned the full brunt of the War Machine armor's extensive weapons systems on me. Some of the weapons just slid off my more modern suit harmlessly, but the combined impacts managed to batter me senseless, as my head slid against the edges of the helmet. The loosened tooth told me that perhaps I'd set the bastard off too hard by trying to probe what little vestiges of conscience he had left, and that I would have to respond. He continued shooting, closing in on me, and I tried to dodge him as best as I could.

Unfortunately, dodging wasn't as easy in this armor as in other models. I had programmed the armor to be mainly automatic, so that it would overcome the weaknesses inherent in the human brain; but it still needed human input, and when I made the suit more complex, I didn't exactly work on the interface, as I assumed I was a more-than-capable pilot. The pre-planned flight courses wouldn't work here, so I wove elaborate sequences of mnemonic data which the armor read, and it managed to avoid most of the fire-- but not enough. I was just inside my little suit, thinking as hard as I could just to stay alive, and the simpler interface of the War Machine armor just allowed Parnell to keep firing contently.

Eventually, after being knocked around a bit more, I decided to return fire, and released a few pulse bolts, thinking like mad as the armor's limbs positioned my arms into blasting position, but the pulses only grazed Parnell; it seemed he had more practice with his armor-- my old armor-- than I did with mine. So, upon taking a few more rounds, I released a blast of double repulsors, and knocked him back into the rig. After flying into an I-Beam, he slumped down on the platform, stunned amidst the wreckage he caused.

I flew back towards him, and decided to finish him. I entered the burning platform slowly, and started to activate the chest-laser sequence, slowly charging power for a full blast. As the charging commenced, I took the time to slowly say, with a sly grin behind the mask, Game Over.

That catchphrase was all Parnell needed.

As the beam released itself, he raised a loose side of chrome plate and held it up to his chest like a shield. Apparently, he was either acting instinctively, or he somehow knew that the mirrored surface would reflect my light back at me. Either way, I was receiving a dose of my own metaphorical medicine.

My chest plate got hotter as the beam reversed itself, deflected from my chest to my abdomen. It started to burn, even past the temperature-shielded coating, and my stomach seared. As I winced in pain, I tried to think of what the deactivation code was for this configuration, trying to ignore the heat. I immediately thought of the sequence, and hoped that I would be conscious enough afterwards to deal with War Machine.

But the sequence I thought was for my last model of armor. The one I wore three weeks ago.

Similar to Icarus from Greek myth, I had overestimated my wings, and the sun was melting them now. The only things I could think of through the pain, as I slipped into unconsciousness from the red-hot metal heated inadvertently by my own weapon, were curses.........

 I thought you said Parnell would discover your own destructive power, Tony, Samson interrupted, tapping his glasses. From the way you tell it, at first you seemed to have gotten the worst of it......

At first, Doctor, Tony said coldly, his voice without any real tone. At first.

TO BE CONTINUED........