The signal flare's crimson glow painted Tony's face like war paint. "Five-star rescue service guaranteed," he rasped, squinting at approaching helicopter lights. "Complimentary champagne and PTSD counseling included."
Eisen's chuckle died as jet engines screamed overhead. Four F-22 Raptors tore through the stratosphere, afterburners clawing at empty air where Leon had been.
Pentagon War Room, 03:47 EST
"Target acquired at 33.8°N 118.4°W!" The radar operator's cursor trembled over California's coastline. "Mach 1.8 and accelerating!"
General McIntyre's coffee cup froze mid-sip. Satellite feeds showed a humanoid blur shredding cloud layers. "Is that... a man?!"
"Negative, sir." The tech zoomed in. "Thermal signature suggests... cargo pants?"
"Shoot first, ask Stark Industries later!"
Coastal Range, California
Leon yawned as AIM-120 missiles corkscrewed toward him. The desert sun had baked his patience thin. At twenty Mach, he could've been home sipping Tony's 50-year-old Scotch. But the blinking radar locks tickled his mischief bone.
Tony's face when I out-flash his armor debut...
He slowed just enough for missile cameras to capture his middle finger.
Edwards AFB Control Tower
"Fox Three! Fox Three!" Pilot Vega's shout cracked. "Target is— holy mother of—"
Screens flared white. When static cleared, radar showed the impossible: their $3 million missile cradled in the figure's palm like a champagne flute.
"Merry Christmas." Leon's voice boomed over all frequencies. "Return to sender."
The missile arced back at triple speed.
Malibu Cliffside
Leon landed on the helipad as the Pacific detonated behind him. Tony's unfinished Mark II armor lay scattered like dismembered knights. He reassembled it with heat vision, adding flourishes – repulsor nodes shaped like middle fingers.
"Encore performance coming soon," he murmured, eyeing the horizon where Tony's jet would appear. The real show wasn't for generals, but for one insufferable genius who'd finally understand:
Some brothers give hugs.
Others give existential crises.