IRON MAN 31: INFORMATION OVERLOAD
Part Six of an Iron Man Fan Fiction Saga
By Neil Iron Nitz Kapit
Special thanks to Zach Couture, Steve Sellers, and Pam Williams

I thought it was, to be frank, crap. Several years in the lucrative business of psychiatric consulting of superhumans-- hell, several years of BEING a superhuman-- and I have realized that almost any media coverage given to the paranormal is crap. Superficial, manipulative, SADLY profitable crap. I knew that Iron Man would not do such a thing by his own accord-- after years of service as a member of the Avengers, MURDER was far too drastic a choice for him to make. It had to be some impostor-- a corrupt telepath, a shapeshifting alien, even a common thug who found the armor-- but logic isn't the networks' pejorative. Week after week of broadcasts with titles like The Fall of a Hero , The Avenger's Betrayal , and America Weeps , and you lose faith in the First Amendment. But then, I'm sure our Founding Fathers did not have crap in mind.

Doctor Leonard Samson felt his large, ponderous hands shaking with anger as he spoke. Though he tried to think that he could keep his cool easily, when talking about such a subject, he felt hidden reserves of anger he had restrained nearly bursting. The majority of his patients, from Bruce Banner to Pietro Maximoff, had been deeply mistreated and abused by the world based on circumstance alone. Even Tony Stark, his current patient, was now viewed as a public enemy for very dubious reasons. Of course, as Samson shook, almost leaving his swivel chair, Stark remained unfazed, in his default resting position with his head arched downwards, distant from the rest of the world.

Doctor , Stark said, you have heard the phrase, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar?

You have proven to me that you, the real Iron Man, are not responsible for the murders. In addition, Sigmund Freud only phrased it that way because he did not want to link his habit to the many obvious innuendoes attached.

Perhaps. But at the time, every single BS report and editorial, no matter how silly, was a major moral blow. And believe me, I did see every single BS report and editorial.

After X2's killing spree at the Roxxon office, there was nothing left there but ruins. Presentable ruins, at that......scoured by media dogs. And all of it was recorded by the armor's visual link, and transferred to the monitor screens in front of me. With my back against a metal chair and my arms restrained, all I could do was watch.

Several different programs, from every single network. Anyone with a camera and a sound bite had a take on this, and the monitor screens had them all recorded. I could not fathom WHY the armor would want to record all of these programs, but it was sending them all to me, so I could watch them and see its handiwork.

A piece of text on the screen, saying in bold yellow letters, Dingo Action News . A well-built Aryan reporter in the center, with a forced stern expression and a lethal amount of hair gel. Behind him, a flood of ambulances and fire trucks, gathered around the remains of a collapsed building.

America collectively wept today as Iron Man, Tony Stark's bodyguard and founding Avenger, inexplicably murdered every employee in the Roxxon Corporation central office. There were, at current count, 254 fatalities and curiously, no injured. Meanwhile, Iron Man's employer Tony Stark remains missing, and the Golden Avenger is still at large....

Scene shift. Same program, but different camera angle.....wheeled onto an ambulance, is Roxxon Chairman and underground crime lord Ken Hale. He lies on a stretcher, his body totally frozen....he is stuck in a horrified pose, his face twisted into a scream, and his arms and legs poised up like a dog lying on its back. Though his clothes and over-sized sunglasses are clean, his body is covered with a glistening sheen, which reflects into the camera.....like he was covered with ice. When the stretcher is lowered into the ambulance, Hale's hand accidentally cracks off....the inside of the stump, bone, blood, and sinew, is totally frozen. It seems as though X2 recirculated the sub-zero mists from the armor's cooling system into Hale; . I winced in pain watching this, my lip stiffening.... I hated Hale, for all the grief he'd given me in the past, but he didn't deserve such a horrific fate.

Channel change. The MUBC morning news, with the stock ticker reading off hundreds of abbreviated corporations and values at the bottom, and a conservatively sexy woman reading off something on paper. In the corner, there's a camera shot of Iron Man from an earlier publicity pose.....with all the colors removed, and in grayscale.

After yesterday's Roxxon Massacre, the Roxxon Corp stock value on the Dow has plummeted......the multi-faceted giant has collapsed by 160 points, after the heads of the company were murdered. The only fall greater today is that of Stark Solutions, the progressive consulting firm owned by Iron Man's employer, Tony Stark. There are only a few stockholders left, most notably the enterpenuer Wilson Fisk.....

Another switch. MNN's late night program for years, Lawrence Krab Live. A decrepit old man, with impossibly thick glasses and tight suspenders, sits on the seat behind a circular ceramic desk. Nearby, an attractive, brown-haired woman sits on a chair, wearing a black jumpsuit with a stylish W logo on the chest-piece. She slumps in her seat, and noticeable crow's feet hang under her eyes. Even with Krab's notoriously soft questions, she doesn't want to deal with this.

Well.....er.....T-- Iron Man has been ann upstanding Avenger in the past. We don't know what caused.....this......but we'll find out....who...is responsible...

Painful. It was simply painful to have to see colleagues-- friends-- forced to deal with my responsibilities. Even more clips were broadcast to the monitors-- a lengthy debate on MNN's Dodgeball , an on-camera weeping from the president and that piece of refuse he calls an attorney general, and more-- even a British Columbian public access editorial with some mothers bitching about how Iron Man is no longer a good role model. These sort of media blitzes come with the territory of being a public figure-- under normal circumstances, I would blow them off and continue my work. But in this case, my identity was held responsible for one of the worst superhuman crimes ever perpetrated. And as I was locked into my little safety bubble, there were only three words I could think of....

Who is next?

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I cannot dictate at liberty my next target, but fortunately, you have granted me with a wide listing of dangerous suspects.

X2 was speaking to me through the audio port inside my chamber. I could not know where the transmission was coming from; the monitors had been shut off long before, and I did not know its whereabouts. But what I did notice was that the voice modulator setting X2 used was altered. No longer was X2 using a flat, sterile, grating robotic tone......now, it was using the more human tone I programmed for the mouthpiece. A voice patterned after my own, with deep metallic accents and a greater volume applied liberally. Hearing this voice spoken to me, especially by X2, made my chained skin chill with a trail of bumps.

What do you mean, you biomechanical bastard? I don't want you to kill anyone else, and I sure as all hell won't GIVE you any more ideas.

A trickle of passion crept into the voice as it reverberated through my bubble, trapped between chromium and plastic. Your increased heart rate and tensed tendons belie the logical fact that you have shown considerable distrust towards many. In your neural data, Anthony Stark, I have identified many potentially dangerous parties. Parties which would best be eliminated.

What do you mean, neural data?

You designed my structure to be controlled by thought input, Anthony Stark. I know more about you than you do about your own life.

The transmission ended, and the monitors turned back on, cutting to a view of the armor's HUD; in front of the display was pure darkness, which slowly faded into a gray Seattle sky, with Stark House a small dot below. Back within the House's basement,I felt as though I was kicked in the gut; though my stomach was repressed by a steel band and fed through a series of tubes, it was churning in pain. How, I asked myself, could I have let this happen? Furthermore, how LONG was it happening? Was X2 reading my thoughts unbeknownst to me for days? Weeks? Months?

And who did it refer to by potentially dangerous parties ? As it continued to cruise above the mainland at the speed of sound, everything around the display discolored blurs over a blue and white background, I compulsively thought through the list of any party that could be dangerous.

I ended up thinking about every living being I had ever met.

By the time X2 was surfing the clouds above the Rocky Mountains, flying over long ridges, I had only scratched the surface of my long list of people I distrust. There were superhuman foes I didn't trust, of course......various hired guns with fancy gimmicks. I had put them away dozens of times only for them to be released early, so the sheer volume of conflicts made them ideal targets for the armor. But even scum like Firebrand and Whiplash wouldn't deserve X2's efficiently brutal form of punishment....

The HUD skipped past the Mississippi, and I realized that X2 might have far more innocent targets in mind; after all, it would eliminate ANYTHING it considered a threat to me. It already destroyed everybody even remotely connected to Roxxon....maybe it had other targets in mind? Someone who caused me some minor disturbance? Someone totally defenseless, like a valet who returned my car with a minor dent, a former employee I laid off who might have some information , or just somebody who bumped into me on the street?

The view narrowed down to a section of Manhattan, my home for many years, and the habitat of many native superhumans. Perhaps it was planning on eliminating some of Iron Man's allies? People who had incredible powers and skills, who knew me too well? It might have a little more problems against prey that could defend itself, but with its computerized precision and speed, X2 really had little to worry about. But it was planning on killing friends. People whose only crime was getting to know me.

It drew closer into the city, doing elaborate aerodynamic twists and turns through the concrete canyons of Fifth Avenue. I started to sweat, fumigating the chamber with the vapor of my panic. Who was it after? Villains? Heroes? Governments? Civilians? Animals? Who? Who would I have to mourn next?

It started to slow down, and lower itself to the Earth. As its jets cooled, it landed on the lawn of an elaborate Fifth Avenue manor, walking straight for the bushes. As it continued, a small, gold plaque was displayed on one of the walls of the manor....

WAKANDAN EMBASSY

A lump swelled in my throat, as I continued to sweat buckets. I might have to mourn myself.

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I suppose Tony Stark could not make it. But I have business with you as well.

The armor looked directly at King T'Challa, the ruler of the highly advanced African Nation of Wakanda. T'Challa sat calmly in a mahogany seat in the lobby, wearing his ceremonial Black Panther garb, surrounded by guards wearing tribal gear and wielding fusion rifles. A young, thin white man in a suit stood by T'Challa's side, looking very confused and a bit uneasy.

Though he is often looked down upon by the American public, probably due to the fact that his badge of office is a skin-tight cat suit, T'Challa is one of the most dangerous men alive. He maintains a passive look, looking calm and relaxed; at the time X2 came in, he was just leaning forward in his chair ever-so-slightly, sipping a cup of tea. But if you look the Wakandan king straight in the eyes, you can tell that he's always planning something, always is several steps ahead before you take your first. Who knew what was inside his head at the time, but looking at him from X2's video link, I was genuinely nervous.

X2 stood still, magnetized to the carpet, with an even more disturbing calm. A lengthy silence passed, with both the monarch and the machine staring directly at eachother. The tribal guards around T'Challa stood ready, holding their rifles over their shoulders with fingers caressing the vibranium exteriors. T'Challa's American liaison openly yawned.

Finally, X2 broke the ice, with words that sounded to me like an explosion with my inflection. King T'Challa of Wakanda , it stated. Are you aware that you had joined the Avengers, the superhuman organization funded by Anthony Stark, only to spy on them? That you had crashed your nation's economy, with full knowledge that Stark was a major shareholder? That your behavior has been unpredictful, and potentially hazardous to Stark's interests?

Yes, T'Challa said smoothly, But that should be a rhetorical question.

The monitor link showed two chrome red hands outstretched, with bright yellow energy flaring from the palms.

Correct.

An explosion roared from the audio link, almost hurting my ears through the protection built for me. T'Challa managed to side-step the repulsor burst, using his superior agility to roll to the side of the chair. Guards started to brandish their fusion rifles, shooting large bursts of neon green plasma; the king did considerably more damage, throwing a small metal disc at X2 which crackled with elecromagnetic energy. The link started to break up like a busted television, and bits of red text, fluctuating in language and font from Courier English to French to Esperanto, ran in all directions.

However, my machine also had effective counter-measures. After rebooting itself in the span of two seconds, it was releasing its own pulse bolts, spread across the room. Several of the guards were felled, lying on the floor with their faces still twisted into tribal cries. The remainders kept firing, standing ground with incredible discipline that I could never achieve. Their king was by their side, using a fallen soldier's weaponry with marksmanship any assasin would trade all held dear to them for. However, his liaison, who had been hiding behind a sofa for much of the firefight, seemingly didn't want to lose his livelihood, and grabbed a chair in his hands. The little white man proceeded to crash the chair over T'Challa's obtuse, unprotected head, stunning him. T'Challa tried to come to his senses, but he was nevertheless so groggy that he was dragged into the hallway, away from the firefight.

The rest of T'Challa's minions continued to fight. For minutes, painfully extended minutes, both the squad of soldiers and the one-bot army fired at eachother. My armor kept firing despite its circuits having been fried, until, in bold red letters, a message appeared across the interior of X2's lenses;

POWER RESERVES AT 45.7% AND FALLING
EXOSKELETON SECTORS 6 AND 7 OFF-LINE
RETREAT RECOMMENDED

For humans, we define courage as an abstract, mythical quality that makes us sacrifice all for the greater good; for machines, courage is needless, illogical suicide. The view rotated, and the armor started traveling straight through a window, bits of glass falling everywhere as X2 shifted from side to side, dodging fire. It managed to use what little power it had left to summon a sudden burst of speed, managing to get all the way to Quebec in only one minute. Floating in the sky for a bit, a charred, heavily damaged gauntlet appeared, still smoking from the amount of power it received, channeled, and released.

Suddenly, over the visage of the damaged hand, a sub-window appeared. Stretched across one-ninth of the screen, it was a straight white background with a dark, masked head in the foreground, with a barely noticeable lump swelling on the side of the head. The visage stared straight, with ominous, glowing eyes, almost less than human.

T'Challa, back to consciousness and very pissed.

A voice boomed on the receiver, somehow having obtained the frequency of Iron Man's helmet. It normally would have been calm, but searing anger pierced through.

Anthony Edward Stark. the voice said. My eyes widened, and I tried to manually budge my restraints, despite my better knowledge.

I do not know why you have attacked with little provocation. But twelve of my most honored subjects are dead. This deed shall not go unavenged. T'Challa out.

The transmission was cut off, and all that was left was X2, looking at the air above the clouds. It stared to slowly head home, soaking up solar power while traveling leisurely.

Meanwhile, though my body was at rest, my mind was racing. I had provoked the Black Panther. Or, at least, my creation had provoked him. And even with a psychotic machine protecting me, T'Challa had an army equipped with some of the most sophisticated military technology around. And if he was cunning enough to discover my armor's frequency independently, then finding ME wouldn't be much more difficult. All I could do was sit back, relax, and wait for death to come.

 Tony, Samson said, looking quizzically at his client, This is indeed a very interesting story, but thus far, it has revolved around the exploits of others, not yourself. Where do your own problems, the ones I have been hired to help solve, come in?

Anthony Stark continued to lean forward with his head arced down, his eyes hidden behind his bangs. I did manage to gain my freedom and directly intervene in the problem, Doctor. But along the way, many others got involved, and all of them paid a terrible price in pain and sorrow.

Doctor Samson lowered his head, imagining what Stark's cryptic mutterings meant, and knowing to his dismay that no matter the outcome, the psychiatrist would have many more potential patients.

TO BE CONTINUED.......