Someone has asked for more Superior!Iron Man content (as soft as I make him), and I’m very eager, so here’s a snippet. xo
The news story interrupts Tony’s evening whiskey, the one he takes on his balcony overlooking his city. San Francisco is filthy and immoral and desperate and his, and for that last reason alone he enjoys looking at her. From the top of the newest Stark Tower, the people below him are ants who would be blessed to be crushed under his feet.
FRIDAY displays several news channels holographically, the ghostly blue vivid against the dark sky. They are muted—until they mention him. The condemnations tickle him as well as the praise does, and he receives them in equal measure these days. They have no idea the things he has in store for them, the blessings he plans to bestow with Extremis.
Suddenly the news channels all begin showing the same image. Tony frowns around the lip of his drink, squinting at the grainy footage. There’s a figure sitting slumped in a chair, and without audio, it’s all very boring and very unlike the usual evening news.
All at once, twelve different news stations begin playing, their audio synced. A livestream, then. Someone must have hacked the transmitters of not just local SanFran stations, but national ones at well. He enters in the middle of the speech of an unseen figure who is off-camera, voice low and smooth.
“—receive the funds in my account within the next six hours, I will unmask your beloved Spider-man on live television. You will then have one more hour, and if the funds still are not received—I will kill him.” Tony feels a jolt (excitement? Maybe a bit of adrenalin and dread?) go through him. He sets his glass down on the edge of the balcony, examining the video with greater scrutiny.
“FRIDAY, what the fuck is this video quality? Fix it, please.”
“I’m an Intelligent Digital Assistant, not a miracle worker.”
“Oh is that what I’m asking for? A miracle? Maybe it’s time to make another AI, there are six other days of the week baby girl. I could make acronyms all day long—there you go. That’s what I’m talking about.”
The footage clears (a little). There is a rather petite figure sitting in a chair of indeterminable substance, some sort of treated metal that looked to be enhanced. It didn’t have the glow of vibranium, which might have narrowed down the culprits of who was behind this. It could have been made of vibranium for what it was worth because the figure dressed as Spider-man looks to be most unconscious. Sometimes his head drifts up, but the neck immediately goes slack, like he lacks the strength to hold himself up. Drugged, Tony thinks.
“FRI baby, what are the chances of the Avengers saving their boy toy?” Tony asks.
“The kidnapper has requested one hundred million dollars. There are several go-fund-me’s that have already been started in Spider-man’s name, but the chances of them reaching the monetary goal before his identity is revealed is slim to none. According to the call Captain Rogers is currently having between Director Fury and the Defense Department, there are no plans to give in to the kidnapper’s request.”
“And the chances of them finding him before the time is up?”
“How would you like the bad news, boss?”
The voice she adopts is heavily southern in accent. “Well then I’d say you’re left with Jack and Shit, and Jack just left town.”
“I shouldn’t have asked,” Tony mutters. He drums his fingers against the balcony rail for several long moments and then reaches out and finishes his whiskey in two long gulps. “Distance between San Francisco and New York?”
“Just under three thousand miles, boss.”
He calls for the armor, flexing that place in his mind that controls it until it pours around him, liquid metal, glowing silver in the moonlight. “Mach 2 will have us there in two hours. Do me one last favor and tell Rogers that since his baby spider is apparently up for grabs, I’m putting my name in the pot. Maybe that will rankle him enough to get his star-spangled ass in gear and give me a run for my money. I always did work best under pressure.”
