Diamond Residences
Penthouse, Los Angeles California.
April 2009
Glenn stabbed his fork into the half-eaten plate of pasta with sea king meat in front of him, twirling it lazily, eyes distant. The television in the living room played some daytime cable show in low volume. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, drawing golden slashes across the table and the faded map of Manhattan pinned to the nearby wall.
Illyana Rasputin was curled up on the couch, a bowl of cereal in one hand and her phone in the other, idly scrolling through news articles with a bored expression. She looked relaxed—odd, for someone who once ruled a hell dimension. Her blonde hair was tied back in a loose braid, and she wore one of Glenn's black hoodies, sleeves too long for her fingers.
"Why do you eat the same thing every day?" she asked without looking up.
"Because pasta and meat doesn't judge me," Glenn muttered.
She chuckled under her breath.
Then the TV suddenly cut to static for a brief second. The channel switched without the remote being touched.
Both of them looked up.
A sharp tone rang out from the speakers:
"We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming for a breaking news bulletin."
The screen showed a woman standing in front of a military base—desert behind her, wind whipping sand into the air. Her expression was grim, hair tied back tightly beneath her helmet. The lower third read:
BREAKING NEWS: STARK INDUSTRIES CEO MISSING IN AFGHANISTAN
Glenn froze.
Illyana frowned. "What the hell—"
The reporter began speaking, urgency in her voice.
"We're coming to you live from outside a U.S. military outpost in eastern Afghanistan, where reports have just confirmed that Tony Stark, billionaire CEO of Stark Industries, has gone missing. He was last seen this morning following a private weapons demonstration of a new prototype missile system known as 'Jericho.'"
Glenn set his fork down.
Illyana sat up straighter. "Tony Stark? That weapons guy?"
"According to our sources," the reporter continued, "Stark's convoy was ambushed en route back to the airfield. Several soldiers were killed. Stark is currently listed as missing in action. No group has yet claimed responsibility."
Footage rolled across the screen — a brief flash of Stark in a suit and sunglasses, arms wide as the Jericho missiles launched behind him in a thunderous display. Then a cut to wreckage in the desert — torn metal, a destroyed Humvee, splashes of blood on the sand.
"Damn," Illyana whispered.
Glenn didn't speak. His face had gone still. Too still.
Illyana noticed. "You okay?"
He leaned back in his chair and exhaled through his nose. "It's starting."
"What is?"
Glenn didn't answer right away. He stood slowly and walked toward the TV, like it might reach out and pull him in. The camera had returned to the anchor in the newsroom, talking about government response, possible retaliation, rising tensions.
Illyana rose too, arms crossed. "Glenn. What do you mean it's starting?"
He stared at the screen. "That's not just a weapons dealer out there. That man's about to crawl through hell with a hole in his chest. He's going to build something in that cave. Something that'll change everything."
Illyana squinted at him. "You're being cryptic again."
Glenn turned. His expression was non-chalant at first then relaxed as he shrugged.
"Tony Stark," he said quietly, "is about to stop being the man who sells destruction… and become the man who tries to stop it."
She blinked. "That guy? Him?"
Glenn nodded. "Yep. You'll be surprise! Like you, everyone lost all hope for that guy with deep pockets. But—even the most stubborn man would be affected if death is involved."
Illyana looked back at the screen. "He doesn't seem like much. How did you know?"
Glenn's voice was low. "Let's just call it a hunch. It's not how they start. It's how they fight when they've got nothing left."
Silence fell between them, broken only by the muffled voices of the news anchors speculating on the geopolitical fallout. Glenn reached for the remote and lowered the volume.
Illyana studied him. "You knew this was coming, didn't you?"
Glenn shrugged once again. "Maybe."
"You said he makes it."
"He does. But he leaves pieces of himself behind in that cave."
Illyana sank back onto the couch. "Should we do something?"
"What do you mean 'we'? As far as I know, I'm the only mercenary here."
"Then make me one! Come on! I'm bored here doing nothing all day. Besides, I can now protect myself."
"Nope! You are still a ch—"
"Stop treating me like child! I'm all grown up now! Look!" She snarled.
All of a sudden, her eyes starts glowing with blue light and a portal opened up next to her. She dipped her hands inside before pulling out a glowing sword. As soon as she grabbed it, an armor began to appear on her arm, up to her to her torso.
She waived the sword like a fucking Jedi and said in a smug.
"See! I told you!"
This raised his brows up staring back at her. He took a deep breath reigning in his emotions. Maybe she was right. He forgot that the girl in front of him was one of the powerful mutants in Marvel Universe.
With much deliberation, he relented.
"Fine! But there are conditions."
"Yay! Finally!" Illyana exclaimed. Then she began running, pouncing towards Glenn.
"Holy sh— what are doing!!? Knock it off." Glenn shouted in irritation while Illyana clung to him like a koala.
"No!!! Thank you! Mwah! Tell me, tell me. What are the conditions."
"Get your hair off my face—pwehh. Can you act like a lady, you're not a child anymore!"
"You're the one treating me like child, remember?"
"Tch! First condition! Never ever use personal name during mission."
"Whoa! So I gotta have a codename or something? That is soooo cool! This is eeexciting!!!" Illyana said with shining eyes.
Glenn rolled his eyes as he continue.
"Second, I'll be the leader so you'll have to do what I say no matter what."
"Okay. That's acceptable."
"Third, never ever leave my sight unless I said so."
"Hmph! I knew it! You're still worried!"
"Accept it or no deal."
"Fine!"
She squinted her eyes and sat back at the couch. "So we just sit here and eat lunch while that man is bleeding out in the desert? Not that I care."
Glenn didn't look at her. "We sit here and hope he survives. Because if he does… he'll save millions."
"By the way, do we have a group name?"
"Not yet, but I have an idea."
"Am I your first team mate? Your first member?"
Glenn smirked and said, "Unfortunately, no."
"Hmph! Who?"
"Her code name is Tailor."
"Like, the tailor who sew clothes?"
"Exactly!"
"Why?"
"Because she patches up our dealings, verify the contracts and select our mission. She is also weave our communication channels making sure no problem will come up before we make a move. You'll get to know her later. She's the one behind the computer."
"That is so cool! And the code name: Catchy and simple yet mysterious."
"Of course, I'm the one who came up with it."
"Then what's yours?"
"Handyman!"
"Pfff! Hahahahahaha! Lame!"
"Come here young lady and I'll show you what's lame.. Hey don't run. Let me headlock you one time."
"Give it up! You're not gonna catch me!"
——————
The sky over Los Angeles had never seemed so still.
Pepper Potts sat alone in Tony Stark's expansive office, perched on the edge of the designer leather chair he had insisted was more comfortable than it looked. Her fingers trembled above the touchscreen phone, scrolling aimlessly through incoming messages from military officials, diplomats, and internal Stark Industries executives. The news was grim. The convoy had been ambushed. Tony was missing, presumed captured—or worse. And nobody had answers.
The clock on the wall ticked too loud.
Tick.
Tock.
Each second felt like a weight dropped on her chest.
Every time the phone buzzed, her heart jumped—hope clinging to the possibility that maybe this time, someone had found him. But it was always another press inquiry. Another official brushing her off. Another general telling her, "We're doing everything we can, Ms. Potts."
She wasn't convinced.
Doing everything meant sending troops, helicopters, drones—anything. Instead, she was met with red tape, with "logistical challenges," "delicate negotiations," and "waiting on actionable intelligence."
She stood abruptly, pacing past the large windows that overlooked the Malibu coastline, the light sparkling mockingly off the waves below. Somewhere thousands of miles away, Tony Stark—her boss, her friend—was either bleeding or dead, and nobody could give her a straight answer.
She picked up her phone again, dialing yet another number. A friend in the State Department.
"Marianne. It's Pepper. Any updates?"
There was a pause on the other end. "Nothing official. The area's crawling with insurgents. We're trying to figure out which group took him."
"So we still don't even know who has him?"
"We're running satellite sweeps. It's not easy."
Pepper closed her eyes, fighting the building lump in her throat. "I don't care how hard it is. Find him. Please."
"I'll do what I can."
She hung up and let the phone fall onto the desk, her eyes misting.
A gentle knock at the door broke her thoughts.
It creaked open, revealing one of Stark Industries' board members—Howard Klein, a quiet, clean-cut man in his late sixties with a reputation for being level-headed and coldly practical. He stepped inside without waiting for permission, carrying a small black envelope in his hand.
"Pepper," he said carefully. "I heard you're… taking charge."
She straightened her back. "Someone has to."
He gave a half-nod, then glanced at the desk. "I won't waste time. There's something you might want to consider."
He placed the envelope on the desk. It was matte black, thick, unmarked except for a gold embossed emblem on the flap.
Pepper hesitated, then picked it up and opened it.
Inside was a black card—equally minimalist, its only feature a stylized golden font in the center reading:
HANDYMAN
Below it, a single international phone number.
Pepper blinked. "What is this?"
"An option," Klein said. "A… non-traditional one."
Her eyes narrowed. "You're giving me a mercenary card?"
He didn't flinch. "Not just any mercenary. Handyman. That card isn't passed around lightly. It's for people who get things done. Quietly. Quickly. Without oversight."
She exhaled in disbelief. "Do you think I'm just going to call some unknown killer and hire him like a pizza delivery?"
"Right now? I think you're running out of alternatives." He leaned in slightly. "His success rate is still perfect. Never failed once. Governments, agencies, even private security contractors have used him—off the record, of course."
"Why would you have something like this?"
He smiled faintly. "Old friends. Old debts."
She stared at the card again. Her instincts screamed caution—but her heart whispered desperation.
Tony was more than a boss. More than a genius inventor. More than a billionaire. He was her person. The one constant in the whirlwind of Stark Industries. She couldn't lose him.
And the military wasn't moving fast enough.
"What does he want? Money?"
"Usually. But there are times he delivers his own terms. It's part of the mystique."
She glanced down at the card once more. She had already exhausted every official option. Maybe… maybe it was time to try the unofficial ones.
She took a deep breath and picked up the phone.
Her fingers hovered, then tapped in the number.
It rang once.
Then twice.
Then silence.
A voice answered on the third ring. Low, even, devoid of emotion.
"Mmmm."
Pepper hesitated. "I—uh, I was given your number. They said… you're the Handyman?"
A pause.
"I don't advertise. Who referred you?"
"Howard Klein. From Stark Industries."
Another pause. Then, "You must be the assistant."
"I'm the CEO's Executive Assistant. Pepper Potts. Mr. Stark is missing. Captured in Afghanistan. I want him back."
"I'm aware."
Her breath caught. "You already know?"
"I was briefed the moment your military decided to sit on their hands. I monitor events like this."
"And you can help?"
Another pause, longer this time. Then: "Yes."
It was one word. But it hit her like thunder.
"Do you need more information?"
"I already have everything I need," Glenn said. "I've been tracking movement in the Kunar Province. The convoy route was predictable. Your security detail was insufficient. Someone leaked the route."
Her fingers clenched around the phone. "You think it was an inside job?"
"I don't speculate. I find facts. You're calling me to deliver a result. Do you want it or not?"
The bluntness stung. But she didn't care. "Yes. Please."
After that, there was silence. Pepper waited but as she was about to lose her patience, he finally heard him on the other line.
"Standard rules apply," Glenn said. "No follow-ups. No tracking. No questions after deployment. If I succeed, you'll get a call. If I fail—there will be silence."
She gritted her teeth. "And the cost?"
"When I deliver Stark alive, you'll both know."
Pepper's voice dropped. "What if he's not alive?"
Glenn paused. "He is. For now."
She swallowed. "Then go."
The line clicked. Disconnected.
She stared at the phone, heart racing. Was this madness? She had just hired a mercenary—sight unseen, no contract, no plan. Just a name and a voice.
But something about that voice had cut through the fog of her anxiety like a scalpel. It didn't offer comfort. It offered certainty.
A few miles from Stark Industries, in a luxurious penthouse in Los Angeles, Glenn—tall, relaxed, with an amuse smile—hung up the encrypted transponder and turned toward his side. He picked up an earpiece, pushing the call button.
After a few rings, a voice responded.
"What is it?"
"It's me, Tailor. We got a fresh operation, straight from emergency room. "
"Finally! Something to work your ass off."
"Hey! I'm the one doing the hard labor here."
"You think, finding information for you ain't hard labor?"
"Fair enough. Anyway, our client's from Stark Industries. Main objective is to bring Tony Stark alive and twerking."
"I gotta see that, send me a video and I'll make it viral on no time, hahah." Skye replied with a laugh. "Anyway, give me five minutes."
"Go ahead."
Glenn waited patiently and after five minutes, he finally heard Skye once again.
"Target's last known coordinates confirmed," she said. "Thermal signatures match Stark's biometric profile. High probability he's alive."
Glenn spoke without looking up. "ETA?"
"Seventy-two hours. Extraction window is narrow. Local warlord shifting positions."
He light up a cigarette and took a drag before replying. "We'll make it work."
"Are you going to to initiate Shadow Protocol?"
"Nah, I can handle it like normal."
"Whatever that suits you."
Glenn flick the cigarette in his hand and stepped on it. His voice was quiet, resolved. "Let's bring the genius home."