The air was thick with heat and smoke, the ground trembling under the pressure of the Imperial onslaught. Blaster bolts crisscrossed the battlefield like tracer fire through a thunderstorm, and the shriek of shuttle engines lifting off added to the chaos.

But Tony didn't hear any of that.

Not really.

All he heard was the steady mechanical breathing of the dark figure in front of him.

Darth Vader.

The Inquisitors flanked him, their red lightsabers glowing like hellfire in the darkening dusk, the hum and snap of their weapons punctuating the silence between explosions.

Tony hovered in midair, his repulsors flickering, his right leg servo grinding noisily from previous impacts. Inside the suit, sweat beaded on his brow. Cracks danced across his HUD, a flickering reminder that he was, without a doubt, completely out of his depth.

"I don't suppose you guys are open to peace talks?" Tony called out.

The female Inquisitor spun her saber in a blur. "You mock your death."

Tony sighed. "No, I talk to delay my death. Big difference."

He fired off a quick repulsor blast straight at Vader.

The Dark Lord barely lifted a hand. The beam bent in midair, shuddering violently before rebounding off in a wide arc and exploding harmlessly against a rock wall.

Tony's jaw clenched. "Okay. That's new."

Then they came.

The male Inquisitor lunged, his double-bladed saber spinning toward Tony with unnatural speed. Tony blasted his jets to dodge, veering just as the red plasma grazed his side. The blade sliced through the left thigh plate, sending sparks flying and a warning klaxon screaming through the HUD.

"WARNING: Armor integrity compromised."

He countered with a pulse blast from his gauntlet, knocking the Inquisitor back a few feet. But the moment of relief was brief.

The female Inquisitor was already there, leaping high with a predatory snarl, saber raised. Tony raised both arms to block, repulsors firing—

Too late.

Her blade slashed across his right shoulder, carving a glowing red gash into the plating. The suit's internal dampeners kicked in just in time to keep the joint operational, but the pain registered hard.

"Damage: Severe."

"Jarvis," Tony hissed, "any chance you can invent a new trick in the next five seconds?"

"I'm afraid my creativity algorithms are currently overwhelmed by the lack of options, sir."

Tony stumbled back, breathing hard. Sparks flickered from his shoulder and thigh, his flight stabilizers failing to keep him in a straight hover. He landed hard on one knee, both arms raised defensively.

Darth Vader strode toward him, saber ignited, breathing steadily.

"You are… defiant," Vader intoned. "Futile."

"Yeah," Tony grunted, forcing himself up, "that's kind of my thing."

He unleashed a barrage of micro-missiles, emptying his last reserve as smoke and fire erupted around Vader and the Inquisitors. For a moment, Tony thought—hoped—it had done something.

But as the smoke cleared, all three were still standing.

And they were angry.

Tony's heart dropped. "Okay, maybe I bit off more than I can chew."

Just as the Inquisitors lunged again—

BOOM.

A turret blast slammed into the ground between Tony and Vader, kicking up a wall of dirt and flame.

Then came the sound of twin laser cannons roaring to life.

The Millennium Falcon.

The ship swooped in low, its turrets hammering the battlefield, pinning the Inquisitors back. Red bolts streaked from the underbelly gunner, slamming into the scorched earth in front of Vader and forcing the stormtroopers behind him into cover.

Tony's comm crackled.

Han's voice.

"Stark! Get your shiny ass over here!"

Tony didn't hesitate. He blasted into the air, his repulsors sputtering, smoke trailing behind him like a dying comet. Behind him, he could hear the snap-hiss of lightsabers cutting through the smoke as the Inquisitors tried to pursue.

But the Falcon's turrets roared again, and Vader raised a hand, motioning them back.

Tony landed on the Falcon's ramp, knees buckling. Han was there, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him inside.

"Chewie, get us the hell out of here!"

The ramp began to rise.

As the Falcon pulled up, Tony caught one last glimpse of Darth Vader, standing in the center of the battlefield, cloak billowing, lightsaber in hand.

Unmoving.

Watching.

Tony fell back against the bulkhead, his helmet folding away. He was panting, bruised, and singed—but alive.

Han looked at him. "You alright?"

Tony winced. "Define 'alright.'"

Chewbacca roared something from the cockpit.

Han looked toward the front. "Yeah, I saw them too. He was one swing away from becoming space scrap."

Tony closed his eyes and let his head thunk back against the wall. "You weren't wrong. Those lightsaber things? Absolutely not vibing with my armor."

Han smirked, though there was no humor in it. "That wasn't just some guy with a glowstick. That was Darth Vader."

Tony cracked one eye open. "Well, next time he shows up, remind me to bring something nuclear."

Han exhaled and turned to the cockpit, muttering under his breath. "You might just have to."

The Millennium Falcon tore through the smoke-swirled sky of Mykapo, her engines roaring with everything they had left to give. Behind her, the last of the rebel shuttles struggled to stay in formation, ascending through bursts of anti-air fire and the looming shadows of descending Imperial ships.

In the cockpit, Chewbacca wrestled with the yoke, compensating for turbulence from the rising heat and the occasional near-miss from TIE fighter patrols. Han stood behind him, gripping the back of the co-pilot seat, eyes locked on the sensors.

Tony sat slumped near the corridor hatch, his armor scorched, sparking occasionally. He hadn't said much since they'd yanked him aboard, and honestly, Han didn't blame him. Getting force-slammed across a battlefield and nearly filleted by a guy in black armor would probably mess up anyone's day.

Then the comm crackled.

Saw Gerrera's voice cut in, sharp and grim.

"All units, this is Commander Gerrera. We've lost ground across every front. TIE squadrons are swarming our fallback points. The second cruiser is moving into low orbit. We are overwhelmed."

Silence.

"This fight is lost. I repeat: all rebel forces are ordered to retreat immediately. Do not engage further. Get out while you still can."

There was a stunned pause over the wide-band comms. Then:

"Negative!" came the crackled voice of Captain Varlo, still transmitting from the surface. "We can't leave! We've still got fighters in the air and resistance cells on the ground! If we hold just a little longer—"

"Varlo," Saw's voice cut in, steel behind the fatigue. "If we stay, we all die. That's not a strategy. That's a waste. We'll regroup and strike back. But not here. Not today."

In the cockpit, Han muttered under his breath, "Damn. That's it, then."

Tony looked up slowly, helmet retracted. "What just happened?"

Han turned toward him. "Saw's pulling the plug."

Tony furrowed his brow. "I thought we were the distraction."

"You were," Han said. "The problem is, the Empire showed up in full force. The whole thing went sideways. Now it's survival mode."

The comms buzzed again as Rae's voice broke in, tight with frustration.

"If we leave now, Mykapo falls. We all know that, right? We're giving the Empire a propaganda victory. Again."

"We don't have a choice," Saw responded. "You're a pilot, Rae. You've seen the skies. Every second we stay, we lose more ships. More lives. Our people are not expendable."

"Neither is the fight," Rae snapped back.

"We're not abandoning the fight," Saw said firmly. "We're making sure we live to keep fighting."

Han's comm switched automatically to private as Varlo's voice returned, lower now, bitter.

"This was our line. This was the one we were going to hold."

Saw's reply came softly and with finality.

"I know. I said the same thing about Onderon. I've said it on half a dozen planets. We hold what we can. But we can't win everyone. Not yet."

There was no response from Varlo.

Another pause.

Then Saw's voice came back across the general channel.

"All units, *fall back to rally point Echo. Scatter formation. Jump coordinates are uploading now. Move fast. Move quietly. And may the Force be with us all."

The comm cut to static.

Rae's ship peeled out of formation, her fighter spinning upward with precision. "Acknowledged. Rogue Squadron falling back."

Han blew out a breath, sinking into the co-pilot chair. "Well. That sucks."

Chewbacca grunted in agreement as he angled the Falcon toward high orbit, dodging the distant flashes of laser fire.

Tony ran a hand down his face. "He's right, though. We weren't ready for that kind of power. Vader? Those… those red-sword psychos? They could've wiped all of us."

Han leaned back. "Yeah. And they would've."

Tony grimaced, fingers twitching. "I've dealt with gods. Aliens. But that guy? He wasn't just powerful. He was… cold. Like the universe didn't even matter to him."

Han looked at him sideways. "You don't have the Force on your world?"

Tony let out a short laugh. "Nope. We've got billionaires with guilt complexes, green monsters, and magic hammers. But invisible telekinesis and a death stare? Nah, that's new."

Chewbacca let out a long huff and angled the Falcon up through the final layer of atmosphere. Stars bled into view ahead.

The navcomputer beeped—Saw's coordinates were in.

Han keyed in the jump prep. "Strap in. We're not sticking around to admire the view."

Tony sat forward, adjusting the damaged servos on his leg brace. "Do me a favor," he said quietly. "Next time I say I'm going to distract someone, remind me not to pick the guy with the breathing problem and magic sword."

Han grinned faintly. "You handled yourself better than most."

The Falcon's hyperspace motivator kicked in, engines humming with deep resonance.

Tony leaned back as the stars stretched into blue lines. "Next time, I'll bring backup."

And with a flash, the Falcon and the last of the rebel survivors vanished into hyperspace, leaving Mykapo to burn.

The rebel base was quiet—too quiet.

After the chaos of Mykapo, the sharp buzz of tools, the distant hum of fusion reactors, and the muffled boots on durasteel didn't bring comfort. It just made everything feel… fragile. The base, nestled inside a forgotten asteroid outpost deep in the Outer Rim, was one of the few hideaways the Rebellion still had that hadn't been compromised.

Yet.

The Millennium Falcon settled onto the hangar deck with a heavy shudder, its scorched hull still steaming. Rebel crew scurried forward to check the transports, medics ready to assist the wounded, engineers already evaluating hull breaches and overheated drives.

Tony was the last to descend the ramp, his armor limping slightly, sparking along the shoulder where Vader's blade had nearly gutted him.

Han came up beside him, clapping him on the back with a little too much force. "Hey. Not bad for your first Imperial beatdown."

Tony groaned. "I've had worse… I think. Actually, I'm not sure. I may have suppressed them all."

Chewbacca barked something as he walked past, his expression low, his usual bark more subdued.

Han shrugged. "Yeah, yeah, I know. It was a mess."

Inside the hangar's central corridor, the team passed a small crowd of rebel officers and field medics rushing between wounded rebels. It was clear they'd taken heavier losses than reported. Many of the transports had limped in, some missing entire wings or bleeding fuel trails.

But the arguing was what drew their attention.

From the command room, voices echoed down the corridor.

Captain Varlo.

Saw Gerrera.

And neither of them was whispering.

"You gave the retreat order too soon!" Varlo's voice was raw, strained with the kind of exhaustion that left no room for diplomacy. "We could have held the west flank. You saw the walkers—Tony had cleared a path! If we pushed just thirty more minutes, we could've—"

"No," Saw snapped, tone biting and final. "You would've gotten your remaining forces slaughtered. You think those Inquisitors came alone? Vader was testing us. Testing you. If we stayed, we'd be burying hundreds."

Varlo didn't back down. "You don't know that."

"I do," Saw growled. "Because I've been in this fight since you were still in cadet training. I've seen what happens when we underestimate them. When we think we've got just enough of a chance."

Saw stepped forward. "And we didn't. Not this time."

There was a long silence.

Tony, standing just outside the doorway with Han and Rae, winced.

"Y'know," Tony muttered, "I've worked with plenty of people with intensity issues, but that guy? He gives Nick Fury a run for his money."

Han blinked. "Who's that?"

"Let's just say he had the same 'I wear black and keep secrets' aesthetic."

Rae crossed her arms, staring at the floor. "He's not wrong, though. We weren't ready for Vader. If Stark hadn't bought us time, we'd all be ghosts."

"Thanks," Tony muttered, still flexing his right wrist, which felt sluggish. "Glad my near-death experience is going in the win column."

As they turned to leave, heading back toward the bunk quarters, Tony heard one last exchange—quiet, but not quiet enough to miss.

Saw's voice, lower now, burdened. "We're running on fumes, Varlo. We've got barely enough fuel for another coordinated jump, and our ammunition caches are down by seventy percent. If the Empire hits us again before we resupply… It's over."

Tony stopped walking.

Han looked back. "What's up?"

Tony said nothing for a second. Then he looked down at his armor, the cracked, scorched shell that had nearly been split open by a red energy sword wielded by a space sorcerer.

His jaw clenched.

"I've gotta upgrade," he muttered.

Rae raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Tony looked up. "I mean everything. I barely held the line back there. If I hadn't had backup from your ship's cannons, I'd be a shish kebab. That's not happening again."

He tapped his chestplate. "Next time, Vader shows up? I'm ready."

Han gave him a look. "You seriously planning to fight him again?"

Tony gave a faint, tired smirk. "If he's hunting us, I won't have a choice."

They walked in silence after that.

The kind of silence that always came after a battle you technically won, but still felt like a loss.

In a dark corner of a battered galaxy, the Rebellion limped on.

But so did Iron Man.

As he strutted into the Rebel weapon's depot, with his chestplate cracked, shoulders scorched, and thigh plating looking like it had been hit with a lightsaber (because it had), he drew more than a few curious glances from the tech crews and quartermasters bustling through the hangar.

He stopped just inside the depot's open garage doors, took a slow look around at the scattered crates of blasters, flight stabilizers, targeting systems, and most importantly, power cells, and grinned.

"Oh yeah," he said to himself. "This is definitely the candy aisle."

A rebel technician in dusty orange coveralls turned from a bench and blinked at him. "Can I, uh… help you?"

Tony gestured casually with his damaged gauntlet. "Yeah, you can. I need… all of this." He motioned to half a dozen crates in a wide arc, looking like a man casually browsing shelves at a flea market. "That converter coil. Those capacitors. The titanium mesh shielding. And I'm gonna need a few phase couplers, those ion thruster regulators, and—oooh, is that a fresh gravimetric stabilizer? That, too."

The tech blinked. "You… want all of that?"

Tony held up a single finger. "No, no. I need all of that. Very different."

Another rebel—a wiry, clipboard-holding quartermaster—stepped in. "There's protocol for this. We don't just hand out high-grade materials to anyone who strolls in."

Tony tilted his head. "Okay, fair, but I'm not 'anyone.' I'm the guy who nearly got turned into saber sushi, buying you time to get your wounded out."

The quartermaster didn't budge. "That doesn't mean you get to ransack our depot. We have rationing, and we report everything to command."

Tony leaned in, lowering his voice dramatically. "You really wanna go up to Saw Gerrera and tell him you turned away the one guy who might be able to engineer something that could actually go toe-to-toe with Darth Space Lung again?"

The technician stifled a laugh.

The quartermaster gave him a hard look.

Tony threw in his trademark smirk. "Come on. I'm not gonna sell this stuff. I'm gonna bolt it to a very expensive flying tank and go punch evil space wizards with it."

A pause.

"Also, let's be real. Probably half of this junk's been sitting here since forever."

The quartermaster sighed. "Fine. But if anyone asks, I didn't see anything."

Tony winked. "Didn't see a thing."

Ten minutes later, Tony pushed a very overburdened hover-cart through the main corridor, wobbling comically under the weight of components, cables, a few dangerously humming power cells, and what looked suspiciously like a backup hyperdrive core he'd "liberated" from a Y-wing.

"Is this what success feels like?" he muttered, wheeling the cart toward the Falcon's hangar bay. "Because it's very squeaky."

He turned the corner, nearly clipped a pipe, and rolled into the Falcon's docking bay—where he found Chewbacca, welding something underneath the ship's exposed underside, sparks flying in all directions.

Tony pulled the cart up beside the ship and took in the sight. "Well, if it isn't Bigfoot with a blowtorch."

Chewbacca stopped, ears twitching. He slid out, towering over Tony and wiping his hands on a rag that had seen way too much grease.

"Rrrrraaagh?"

Tony cocked his head. "I'm guessing that's not 'Hello, Tony, how was your near-death experience?'"

"That was more along the lines of, 'What are you dragging into my hangar now?'" came Jarvis's voice from Tony's earpiece.

Tony raised a finger. "See? This is why I need you."

Chewbacca gave a low bark, followed by a huff and a muttered string of grunts.

Tony turned his head. "Okay, now he's saying what?"

Jarvis replied, "Roughly translated: 'If this is more Earth junk, I'm throwing it into space.'"

Tony gasped dramatically. "This isn't junk! This is the lifeblood of Project Get-Revenge-On-Magic-Space-Nazis. Working title."

Chewbacca growled again, shaking his head.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. You just finished patching your ship, and now I'm bringing a hardware store's worth of mess into your garage. I get it." Tony leaned against the cart. "But I need your help. You're the only one on this rock who knows how to weld alien alloys and has hands big enough to hold the fusion stabilizer while I reroute the capacitors."

Chewie rumbled thoughtfully.

Tony grinned. "C'mon. You help me build this. I'll let you pick the color of the repulsors. Deal?"

Chewbacca let out a deep, exaggerated sigh and turned toward the Falcon.

Jarvis translated: "Fine. But he wants snacks after."

Tony nodded solemnly. "I'll make you the best Earth sandwich this side of the galaxy."

With that, Chewie motioned him forward.

Tony grabbed a hydrospanner, handed over a coil of cabling, and rolled up his sleeves.

It was time to upgrade.

The sound of boots against polished durasteel echoed ominously through the long, vaulted corridors of the Imperial Star Destroyer. Each step came in perfect rhythm—deliberate, patient, unchallenged. Officers and stormtroopers lining the hall stiffened to attention or quickly moved aside, lowering their heads as the towering silhouette passed.

Darth Vader did not look at them.

He didn't need to.

Wherever he walked, fear followed.

The red lights on the wall panels cast flickering hues across his black armor, the mechanical hiss of his respirator slicing through the otherwise silent halls like a blade through silk. He passed the bridge without so much as a glance toward the crew, who, though seasoned and hardened, dared not make eye contact.

Every officer knew—to speak when Lord Vader did not ask was to risk suffocating on air that was no longer yours.

Vader's destination was deep within the Requiem's command structure, far from the bustle of navigational readouts and battle reports. A private meditation chamber, reinforced and isolated, with direct holonet connection to Coruscant—and to his master.

The doors hissed open as Vader approached.

The interior was dark and quiet, save for the pulsing center of the room: a holoprojector disk set into the floor, awaiting activation.

Vader stepped into the circle.

He did not kneel.

Not yet.

The chamber's lights dimmed entirely, replaced by a sudden flicker of blue static. Then, a shadowed hood appeared, cloaked in distortion, the voice that followed as rasped and ancient as the void itself.

"You have returned."

Vader's respirator hissed.

"Yes, my master."

"Report."

Vader's tone remained mechanical, impassive. "The rebel cell on Mykapo has been scattered. Their ground resistance was broken, and their evacuation, while partially successful, was incomplete. Several key targets escaped, but the base has been rendered inoperable. Their caches have been seized or destroyed."

The Emperor's hologram did not move.

"Yet you did not pursue the transports."

"They were not our objective," Vader said. "The outpost was not strategically significant. The data recovered from the fallen rebel outpost will yield more long-term gains than the death of a few insurgents."

"Yes… and yet… I sense hesitation in your tone."

Vader's fists clenched slightly, the servos whining softly.

"There was an anomaly."

The Emperor's head tilted.

"Explain."

Vader paused briefly.

"An armored figure. Not a droid. Not Jedi. A man in technology… unlike anything I have encountered before."

"Describe it."

Vader's voice remained steady. "Flight capable. Weaponized armor with energy projection. Highly maneuverable. Lacked Force sensitivity… yet displayed an unnatural control of the battlefield. He faced two Inquisitors… and survived."

"Survived?" the Emperor echoed, not with anger, but curiosity.

Vader's gaze remained fixed forward. "He was wounded. Damaged. But his retreat was… coordinated. Calculated. He used the rebel forces to escape behind a wall of fire. And… he fought with purpose."

"You mean fear."

"No," Vader said. "He was afraid. But he did not yield."

The Emperor was silent for a long time.

"There was… another report," he murmured. "From a different cell. A prison facility on Wobani was raided days ago. The report was buried under minor losses. But the local officers described a single individual. Metal suit. Firepower beyond known rebel designs."

The hologram's image shifted slightly, crackling with low static.

"This is no coincidence."

"Whoever he is," Vader said, "he is not from this galaxy."

The Emperor's voice dipped into something deeper, darker.

"Then the veil is thinning. As I foresaw."

Vader's head tilted. "You expected this?"

"I have long sensed a fracture in the Force… one born from outside our reality. A distant ripple. A presence unlike anything we've seen—neither Jedi nor Sith… but something new. Something… unpredictable."

Vader's respirator rasped.

"Should he be eliminated?"

"In time. But no longer as a mere footnote."

The Emperor leaned forward, his hooded eyes burning through the holo.

"Observe him. If he survives again… bring me his remains. Or… his mind."

Vader bowed slightly, this time acknowledging the weight of the words.

"Yes, my master."

The holoprojector began to flicker.

"And, Lord Vader…"

Vader paused, awaiting the final word.

"If this creature proves… useful, we may not destroy him after all. We may… bend him."

The chamber dimmed fully, the hologram vanishing into smoke and silence.

Vader stood alone once more.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then he turned.

And the echo of his boots began again—steady, inevitable—as he walked toward war.

Inside the Millennium Falcon, the usual dim hum of the ship's systems was now accompanied by a rhythmic chorus of sparks, buzzes, and mechanical whines. The central lounge was lit not by the ship's aging bulbs but by the ambient blue glow of Tony's arc reactor resting on the workbench beside his dismantled armor. Wires snaked across the deck, tools were scattered across the floor, and Chewbacca stood near the holotable, holding a fusion spanner with the patience of someone just barely resisting the urge to throw it at the wall.

"Okay, big guy," Tony said, squinting at a cluster of exposed circuits in his gauntlet. "Now twist it gently. That regulator is touchy, and if it blows, we'll both be breathing smoke for a week."

Chewbacca gave a low, grumbling rrraugh, carefully adjusting the component. Sparks danced, the gauntlet trembled slightly, then the status light blinked green.

Tony grinned. "That's what I'm talking about."

He leaned back, stretching out his sore arms and glancing at the rest of the suit—now neatly spread out across the lounge table, its chest plate cracked but reinforced with new alloy panels, the repulsors freshly cleaned, and an all-new servo array replacing the one Vader nearly turned to paste.

The reactor core on the bench next to it pulsed steadily, casting rippling reflections over the table like it was alive.

Tony wiped his hands on a dirty cloth. "Alright, JARVIS. Status?"

"New shoulder plating installed. Right knee actuator recalibrated. Power draw on flight stabilizers is down by twenty percent with new output lines. And the redesigned repulsors… are likely to blow a stormtrooper through a wall and two support beams."

Tony smirked. "That's what I like to hear."

Just then, the sound of boots on metal echoed through the corridor. A second later, Han Solo stepped through the entryway, Rae following right behind him.

Han took two steps into the room and froze.

He stared.

Then stared harder.

"Okay. What the hell happened to my ship?"

Tony didn't even look up. "Hey Han. Rae. Welcome back to the tech wonderland. Watch your step. Pretty sure one of those wires is either powering my left boot or the coffee machine. Haven't figured out which yet."

Han looked at Chewie. "Is that my hydro-spanner?"

Chewbacca gave a low bark and shrugged.

Han turned back to Tony. "Why is your tin can scattered across my game table? And why is the hyperdrive diagnostics panel glowing blue?"

Tony finally glanced over, waving a hand casually. "Oh, yeah. That. Little gift from me to you."

Han squinted. "What kind of 'gift'?"

"I upgraded your ship."

"You what?!"

Tony stood, brushing off his hands and walking toward a panel on the far side of the Falcon's main corridor. With a smirk, he tapped it—and the bulkhead hissed open, revealing a newly installed containment chamber. Inside, softly pulsing like a heartbeat, was a miniaturized arc reactor, nestled into a sealed power cradle and interfacing with the Falcon's auxiliary systems.

Han's jaw dropped.

"Is that—"

"An arc reactor," Tony nodded proudly. "Built from the ground up. Powers half the systems on this crate now."

Rae stepped up beside him, eyes wide. "That… that's beautiful."

Tony gestured like a game show host. "Generates clean energy. High yield, low draw. Should take a lot of strain off your main drive, especially when you're pushing the Falcon past light-speed tolerances, which let's be honest, you do a lot."

Han just blinked at it. "You put a reactor… in my ship. Without asking me?"

Tony tilted his head. "I didn't think you'd say yes. So I decided to skip to the 'you're welcome' part."

Chewbacca barked in amusement.

Han glared at him. "You let him do this?!"

Chewie growled, then gestured to the Falcon's console, which was now idling at much lower power output readings.

JARVIS chimed in through Tony's earpiece, voice slightly smug. "I've also installed basic diagnostic alerts, simplified your navmap rendering system, and removed thirty-seven unnecessary feedback loops. You're welcome, Captain Solo."

Han blinked. "There's a voice in my ship now?"

Tony gave him a smug look. "Only when he needs to be. You still drive. JARVIS just makes sure you're not flying with one hand tied behind your back."

Rae leaned in toward the glowing reactor. "You built this here? From what? Scrap and—"

"Some melted-down blaster cores, a gutted power distributor from a grounded A-Wing, and a few other goodies," Tony said, giving the reactor a loving pat. "Call it... Stark Tech: Rebellion Edition."

Han pointed at him. "Okay, look, I don't like people touching my ship, and especially not installing glowing mystery tech in the middle of it. But if this thing explodes and takes us all with it—"

Tony raised a brow. "You'll haunt me?"

"I'll kick your ass in the afterlife."

Tony smirked. "Deal."

Chewbacca rolled his eyes and went back to welding something under the central console. Rae still admired the reactor as if it were art in a museum.

Han threw his hands in the air. "Fine. Whatever. But if I so much as smell ozone coming from the walls, I'm dumping you at the next moon."

Tony gave him a mock salute. "Noted."

Han muttered as he walked off, "Whole damn ship's turning into a science project…"

Tony turned back to his armor, already eyeing the new plating Chewie had prepped. "Now," he said under his breath, "time to make sure next time I go toe-to-toe with Vader, I'm not the one on fire."

The silence in the executive wing of Stark Industries had become something of a fixture. Five years of it. Five years of humming overhead lights, softly purring ventilation systems, the occasional ping of an email no one was excited to read, and the haunting absence of the one voice that used to fill every corner.

Tony Stark's office—once alive with snark, genius, jazz, and the endless clutter of unfinished ideas—was now Pepper Potts' command center.

She stood at the head of the glass-paneled room, overlooking a skyline that no longer gleamed quite so brightly. It had been five years since the Battle of New York. Five years since Tony flew a nuke into a wormhole… and never came back.

There was no suit that fell from the sky. No last transmission. No funeral.

Just silence.

But Pepper never accepted it.

And she never would.

The walls of the room now bore holographic projections of star systems, constantly updating with every new scan, probe, and pulse sent out from deep-space telescopes and experimental satellites funded under Stark Industries' latest and most controversial division—STELLA: Stark Technologies for Extra-Luminal Location & Acquisition.

"Still no match," she muttered, eyes locked on a slow sweep of what appeared to be uncharted cosmic debris floating near the Messier 82 galaxy. "Same radiation signature, wrong power frequency."

She exhaled and typed a few new parameters into the system.

Behind her, the office doors slid open.

Happy Hogan stepped in, now dressed less like a bodyguard and more like an exhausted VP of Security, holding a coffee cup and a face full of concern.

He didn't say anything right away. Just watched her as she worked.

Again.

Still.

Five years.

"Hey," he finally said.

Pepper barely glanced back. "Morning, Happy."

"It's three in the afternoon."

She didn't respond. Just gestured toward the data feed. "New pulse readings from the probe array near Sector K-32. They picked up a surge in ion radiation last week. It's inconsistent with anything we've cataloged so far."

"Pep…"

"I've already sent a drone toward the source. If it's a reactor trail, there might be something we missed."

Happy stepped forward, setting the coffee down gently next to her. "You've been at this since before sunrise."

"I'm fine."

"You're always fine."

Her fingers stopped moving. That was all the response he needed.

Happy sighed and sat down across from her desk, glancing at the main wall, now plastered in orbit charts, spectrographic scans, and flagged anomaly reports.

"Look, you know I believe in you. I believe in him, too. I'm not saying give up. But it's been five years."

Pepper turned to him, arms crossed. "You think I don't know that?"

"I think you haven't lived one day without carrying this entire thing on your back," Happy said gently. "You've kept the company alive. You helped Rhodes shut down Killian's insane Extremis project before it went global. You saved Stark Industries from being bought out twice. You did all that. Without Tony."

"I didn't save Tony," Pepper whispered.

Happy sat back.

"That's not on you."

She looked back at the stars. "Everyone else moved on. The Avengers mourned him, held a memorial, even carved his name on that monument at the compound."

"You didn't go."

"I couldn't." Her voice cracked, just slightly. "Because they were wrong. He's not gone."

Happy didn't answer. He didn't have to.

Pepper moved to the next console, pulling up a visual of the Quasar Wave Projector they'd launched last year. "You know, after we detected that black hole flux from Kepler-442, I thought we were close. The waveform pattern had a rhythm to it, like a signal, just broken up by distance. I stayed up for three days recalibrating the sensors."

Happy nodded. "I remember. You didn't even eat. I brought you soup, and you threw it at me."

She gave a tiny smile. "It was lukewarm."

"I wasn't going to say that."

Silence again.

Then Pepper turned, the first time she fully faced him. "I feel it, Happy. Like he's out there—trying to reach back. Like he's still fighting."

He looked at her, eyes soft.

"I believe you," he said simply.

Pepper walked back to her desk, activating the primary hub where all STELLA signals converged. She ran her fingers across the glowing interface, activating the tracking network grid, which spread out in a lattice across several quadrants of known and partially explored space.

Then she whispered, almost to herself: "If he's alive… I'm bringing him home."

Happy stood slowly. He didn't try to stop her anymore. He hadn't in years.

But just before leaving, he looked back at her, silhouetted in front of thousands of stars.

"Pep?"

She glanced over her shoulder.

"If anyone can find him," he said with a tired smile, "it's you."

Man, Tony's really out here giving the Rebellion a tech boost they didn't even know they needed. Imagine what kind of wild upgrades they're getting with Stark tech—ships flying smoother, weapons hitting harder, and JARVIS probably rewriting half their systems just for fun.

Meanwhile, back on Earth, five whole years have passed, and everything's shifted without him. No Iron Man means no Ultron, no Civil War, but also no guidance for people like Peter or even S.H.I.E.L.D. trying to stay afloat. Time's weird like that—Only a little time has passed for Tony, but a lifetime has passed for the people who miss him.

So yeah… the world's moved on. But has it moved on better? Guess we'll find out.