The garage's automatic door slid open without a sound as Tony Stark, reeking of alcohol and simmering with rage, stormed in.
The hypocritical smiles at the party, Obadiah's grief-stricken face, that damned photo in Christine's hand—it all spun in his mind like a chaotic mosaic.
*Protect me?*
*By using my weapons to slaughter civilians? That's how you protect me?*
"JARVIS! Power output to seventy-five percent!"
Tony's voice was hoarse. He tore off his tie and strode to the workbench, clamping his right hand into the mechanical arm. The metal gauntlet gleamed with a cold, silver light, its palm repulsor glowing faintly.
"Sir, your heart rate is elevated. I would not advise high-intensity testing at this time," JARVIS's calm, electronic voice echoed through the garage.
"Shut up!"
Tony growled, his eyes locked on the special-grade, bulletproof glass wall fifty meters away, a wall used for weapons testing.
He remembered the cave in Afghanistan. He remembered Yinsen's dying words. He remembered the missiles stamped with the words "Stark Industries."
Rage, shame, betrayal… every emotion converged in the palm of his hand.
*BOOM—!*
A blinding beam of energy shot out, striking the center of the glass wall with perfect accuracy. The wall vibrated violently, its surface instantly covered in a spiderweb of cracks, but it didn't break.
Tony's chest heaved. It wasn't enough.
Not nearly enough!
*BOOM!!*
A second blast followed, even more powerful than the first.
*BOOM!!!*
A third, without hesitation.
*CRASH—!*
The seven-figure, special-grade bulletproof glass, unable to withstand the continuous, furious assault, finally gave way with an ear-splitting screech, shattering into countless fragments that rained down like diamonds.
The garage fell silent, leaving only the sound of Tony's ragged breathing.
He stared at the destruction he'd caused, at the gaping hole in the wall, but the fire in his eyes hadn't diminished. It burned even brighter.
He was going to Gulmira.
Now. Immediately.
He was going to let those bastards using his weapons get a taste of Stark Industries' "new product."
"Prep the Mark II, JARVIS. I'm taking a trip to the Middle East," Tony said, his voice as cold as ice as he detached the gauntlet.
"Sir, the icing problem with the Mark II has not yet been resolved. High-altitude flight presents a fatal risk."
"Then I'll fly low!"
"Calculating the energy consumption for low-altitude flight from Malibu to the Gulmira region in Afghanistan…"
"Then cut the crap and find me the optimal route!" Tony interrupted, his patience frayed.
Just then, a cool, clear voice came from behind him.
"Going like this is a suicide mission."
Tony spun around to see Paul standing at the garage entrance, hands in his pockets, watching him with a calm expression.
"What are you doing down here? It's past your bedtime," Tony said, his brows furrowed as he tried to mask his loss of composure with a fatherly tone.
"JARVIS told me," Paul said, ignoring him. He walked straight in, the glass shards crunching under his feet. "You're going to Gulmira. To get revenge for those villagers, and to clean house?"
He wasn't asking a question; he was stating a fact.
Tony's heart sank. It seemed he could never keep a secret from this son of his.
"This is adult business," he answered stiffly.
"A dead man can't get anything done," Paul said, stopping in front of him and looking up into his eyes. "In your current state, with a suit that has a fatal flaw, what can you possibly do on a battlefield besides giving the Ten Rings another Arc Reactor for a trophy?"
"You!" The words struck Tony like a physical blow, a reminder of a failure he never wanted to revisit.
"Me what?" Paul's gaze didn't waver. "Or do you want to experience what it feels like to have shrapnel tear through your chest again?"
The air in the garage seemed to freeze.
Father and son stood in a standoff, one burning with rage, the other as calm as ice.
After a long moment, the fight went out of Tony. He slumped onto a nearby sofa, running his hands through his hair and whispering in anguish, "I have no choice… Those people, they…"
"You have a choice," Paul cut him off. "You're not alone."
"What?" Tony looked up.
"Take Baymax," Paul said.
Tony froze for a second, then reacted as if he'd heard the world's most ridiculous joke.
"Baymax? The marshmallow robot? You want me to take him to a warzone? For what? To use his fluffy body to charm the terrorists? Or to rush up to them while they're shooting and ask, 'On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain?'"
The sarcasm in his voice was thick.
Paul's expression, however, remained unchanged. He simply turned and spoke calmly to an empty corner of the garage.
"Baymax, activate combat mode. Authorization code: 'Little Stark' is the greatest."
Just as Tony was about to mock the ridiculously embarrassing code, he was stunned speechless by what happened next.
From the corner of the garage, the familiar red case popped open. The white, inflatable robot rapidly took shape—its round body and simple, black-dot eyes still giving it that harmless, adorable appearance.
But in the next second, everything changed.
*CLICK! KUNK! SHUNK!*
Panels slid open on the ceiling, walls, and floor, revealing hidden mechanical arms. Dozens of them shot out like striking vipers, precisely attaching to various points on Baymax's body.
Streamlined, red metal armor flew in from all directions.
Chest plate, back plate, pauldrons, gauntlets, greaves… each piece pieced together and locked in place with seamless precision.
The soft, white vinyl skin was completely encased, replaced by a gleaming, crimson suit of armor. Baymax's round form was reshaped into a figure of immense power, and a pair of black, carbon-fiber wings slowly extended from its back.
Its simple, black-dot eyes were replaced by a V-shaped tactical visor, from which a cold, focused, cyan light began to glow.
The entire process was fluid, a display of beautiful brutality that took less than twenty seconds.
When the final piece of the helmet locked into place, a towering, awe-inspiring red armored warrior, standing over two meters tall, had replaced the gentle healthcare companion. It stood there in silence.
*THUD.*
A single, heavy footstep. The metal sole landed on the floor, and the entire garage seemed to tremble with it.
Tony Stark was petrified.
He stood with his mouth agape, staring at the robot before him—a design that looked even more futuristic, even cooler than his own Mark II. His mind went blank.
*This… this is Baymax?*
*The marshmallow who's always nagging me about my vitals?*
*This is a goddamn Gundam!*
"In combat mode, Baymax is equipped with graphene composite armor. Its defensive capability is three times that of the Mark II," Paul's voice drifted over, as if he were describing a simple school project. "Its energy is supplied by a dual system: a miniature Arc Reactor and a graphene battery. Its operational range is five times yours. The weapons system includes shoulder-mounted micro-missiles, arm-mounted high-frequency vibrating particle blades, and… floating cannons."
"Floating… cannons?" Tony managed to force the words from his throat.
Paul snapped his fingers.
Six small thruster units on the combat Baymax's back detached soundlessly, hovering in mid-air like a loyal swarm of bees, their muzzles glowing with dangerous energy.
Tony felt as if his entire worldview was being pinned down and ground into dust by his fourteen-year-old son.
His pride and joy, the Mark II, looked like a crude tin can next to this "Combat Baymax."
A complex wave of emotions washed over him. There was shock, disbelief, but more than anything, there was the frustration and anxiety of being surpassed, of being outclassed.
He was Tony Stark! He was the greatest genius in the world!
"I don't need…" Tony began to refuse, almost instinctively. His pride wouldn't allow him to admit he needed his son's "toy" to help him.
"Whether you need it or not is determined by the data," Paul said, raising his wrist. A virtual screen projected into the air. "This is a satellite map of Gulmira with real-time intel. The Ten Rings have at least a battalion's worth of troops there, equipped with the latest single-infantry weapons from your company, and even a few tanks. You, alone, rushing in with a tin can that can't even solve its own icing problem… your survival rate is less than three percent."
Tony's expression turned grim.
"However, if Baymax provides support," Paul's tone shifted, "with him clearing out peripheral fire points and heavy units, while you focus on a precision strike to rescue the hostages, our success rate increases to eighty-seven percent."
"Our?" Tony seized on the word.
"Of course," Paul nodded matter-of-factly. "I'll be in charge of rear command and intel support. Baymax will be my hands, and you will be my… uh, spear."
Tony's lips twitched.
He, Tony Stark, was being relegated to a weapon remote-controlled by his own son?
This was the ultimate humiliation.
Seeing the storm of emotions on Tony's face, Paul seemed to guess what he was thinking.
He sighed, as if slightly exasperated.
"JARVIS, call for 'Magneto'."
"Magneto?" Tony heard another new name.
In the next instant, a black shape whizzed by on the tracks overhead, so fast it was just a blur. It was a uniquely shaped hover-drone. It came to a dead stop in mid-air, and a silver metal briefcase was tossed down with pinpoint accuracy.
Paul caught the case neatly and opened it in front of Tony.
Inside, resting on a velvet cushion, were a dozen metal plates that shimmered with a dark gold luster.
"This is a new titanium-gold memory alloy I developed based on the data from your last flight," Paul said, picking up a plate and handing it to Tony. "It has a special nanomaterial coating that effectively prevents high-altitude icing, and it's stronger and lighter. I've already had them cut to the Mark II's specifications. Replace the old plates with these, and your icing problem is solved."
Tony stared dumbly at the metal plate in his hand.
It was smooth to the touch, yet possessed the unyielding texture of metal. It was impossibly light.
He looked at the alloy plate, then at the imposing red robot, and finally, his gaze fell upon Paul's impossibly young yet unnervingly calm face.
He suddenly realized—when had his son gotten so far ahead of him?
Graphene batteries, smart suits, combat robots, and now a new alloy he'd never even heard of…
The genius he was so proud of seemed insignificant in front of this boy.
The invisible chasm between father and son, he now realized, had widened into a canyon.
Tony's breath hitched. He looked at Paul, his lips moved, but no words came out. All his pride and stubbornness felt pale and weak in the face of such an absolute technological domination.
After a long time, he finally let out a long breath, his voice raspy in a way he didn't even recognize.
"Fine."
He stood up, clutching the alloy plate tightly in his hand, and looked at the red combat robot.
"I fly point," Tony Stark added, as if trying to salvage the last shred of his dignity.
"And your marshmallow… it flies behind me. Don't slow me down."
Seeing his dad's face-saving bravado, Paul couldn't help but let the corner of his mouth curve into a slight smile.
"Roger that, Captain."
A storm that was about to sweep through Afghanistan was quietly brewing in the dead of the Malibu night.
Only this time, at the center of the storm, stood two Starks.