The mansion's ambient lighting brightened as Leon crossed the threshold. "Welcome home, Master Leon," JARVIS intoned with the warmth of aged whiskey. "Your bed has been maintained at 68°F with 400-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets during your absence."
Leon tossed his space-worn pants into the incinerator chute. "Missed your nagging, old friend. Tell Pepper Tony's doing his best impression of a rescued damsel."
"Ms. Potts received Colonel Rhodes' encrypted message 14 minutes ago," the AI responded. "She's currently redecorating the private jet's interior with her stiletto heels."
A holographic display materialized above the kitchen island, showing real-time footage of Pepper pacing an Air Force tarmac. Leon snorted at the crater her heels were carving into concrete. "Should've bet on how many pairs she'd ruin this month."
The shower's hydrojets scrubbed six months of zero-gravity grime from his pores. Leon watched recycled water swirl down the drain, contemplating how to explain cosmic radiation showers to Tony's future biographers.
"JARVIS, activate Feast Mode."
The mansion shuddered. Hidden panels slid open, unleashing a robotic procession: sushi conveyor belts materialized from ceiling compartments, Neapolitan pizza ovens rose through floor tiles, and a Shanghai soup dumpling chef-bot unfolded like origami.
By the time the third robotic waiter wheeled in a flaming Baked Alaska, Leon had already demolished twelve cheeseburgers. "Tell me this isn't heaven," he mumbled through a mouthful of truffle fries, sauce dripping onto a Rembrandt sketch.
"Your cholesterol levels disagree," JARVIS deadpanned. "Shall I notify the cardiac surgeon on retainer?"
The AI's hologram flickered to display StarkNet's stock graph – a seismograph recording of corporate panic. "Our valuation currently resembles a skydiver without a parachute. Mr. Jobs insists on implementing physical keyboard prototypes for the..."
"Burn the prototypes," Leon interjected, licking buffalo wing sauce from his fingers. "And send him that video of Nokia's CEO crying."
As afternoon light gilded Malibu's cliffs, Leon sprawled across the home theater's Imax-sized screen watching Christopher Reeve soar. "Still more realistic than DC's current CGI," he remarked as JARVIS piped in the live press conference feed.
Tony's hologram materialized mid-bite into a cheeseburger. "...effective immediately, Stark Industries weapons division is..."
The mansion's earthquake sensors triggered as stock markets imploded.
"Showtime." Leon tossed his milk carton into a recycling chute labeled 'Stane's Career.' "JARVIS, warm up the garage. We're giving Obadiah a retirement party he'll never forget."