After speaking with the MP, I ended up in the MWR tent mostly because there was nowhere else to go inside the compound.

  The tent was bigger than it looked from the front, the canvas stretched tight over a metal frame. Inside, a pair of overworked AC units rattled like they were one bad day away from giving up, struggling to cool the space beneath the humming fluorescent lights. The air smelled like instant coffee, dust, and sweat.

  I claimed a folding chair in the corner near a plywood table scarred with knife marks. Names and crude drawings were carved into the surface. Someone had left a half-empty packet of beef jerky there. I didn't bother asking who it belonged to. I grabbed a handful, poured myself a cup of coffee from the pot at the refreshment table, and sat down.

  Across the tent, a group of soldiers had commandeered the flat-screen TV hooked up to an Xbox. Two of them were deep into some shooter game, controllers clacking. Another pair lounged nearby, boots off, looking through a magazine, laughing at something they saw.

  I huffed a low laugh, yeah, that's the military for you.

  I chewed the jerky slowly, letting the salt sit on my tongue, and sipped the coffee. It was awful and quite bitter, but it was something to drink.

  My eyes drifted to the other TV near my section.

  Someone had switched it on at some point. CNN filled the screen now, the familiar red banner scrolling endlessly along the bottom. The anchor sat stiff-backed behind a glossy desk, a skyline behind him, speaking in that polished and pretentious, serious voice.

  "...confirmed today that industrialist Tony Stark was recovered alive by U.S. forces following a brutal ambush earlier this week in Afghanistan..."

  Footage rolled: grainy images of military aircraft, talking heads, stock photos of Stark at press conferences. Words like terrorist cells and weapons trafficking flashed by.

  "...Pentagon officials have declined to comment on potential retaliatory action, but analysts suggest this attack represents a significant escalation..."

  I tuned most of it out.

  The media was already spinning their narratives and debating responses, talking about airstrikes, sanctions, and statements. None of it mattered to me; all I needed to do was focus on myself.

  I took another sip of coffee and leaned back in my chair.

  Sooner or later, I'd have to go through the rest of the screening: more psych evals, medical boards, intelligence follow-ups. The same questions asked five different ways to see if the answers changed.

  How did you survive? Why did you go after him? What did you do?

  Most of those questions were going to get uncomfortable.

  And after that?

  I'd apply to leave the military.

  Medical board. PTSD. Unfit for continued service. There was no easy way out, but I had to do something. It wasn't feasible for me here; I needed the freedom to move and the privacy to explore my powers.

  I was already having problems; my neck hurt. I lifted a hand to rub the muscles, thinking of my reckless enhancement of my skull, which increased its density and weight.

  This also told me that I couldn't change myself without proper planning, and even then, there might be consequences.

  I glanced back at the TV as the anchor continued.

  "...questions now arise regarding Stark Industries' weapons programs and whether..."

  I swallowed another mouthful of coffee and looked away.

  Whatever happened next from Stark or the military, press conferences, apologies, revelations, that was their world, not mine.

  I probably wasn't going to meet him again, not before that C-17 lifted off and carried him back to polite civilization. I accepted that. I was halfway through that thought when the flap of the MWR tent opened.

  A soldier stepped inside, scanning the room.

  "Specialist Calderon?" he called out.

  A few heads turned.

  I straightened, set my coffee down, and stood. "That's me."

  He waved me over. "You're needed. Command wants to see you."

  That got everyone's attention.

  I walked over, heart starting to beat a little faster. "What's this about?"

  He shrugged with dismissive honesty. "I don't know. I was ordered to escort you there."

  Of course, they did.

  I nodded once. "Alright, let's go."

  I adjusted the shirt I was wearing and followed him out of the tent.

  The afternoon sun was brutal; I regretted not having a cap to shade my eyes as I squinted a bit, the air shimmering over the packed dirt and concrete. We passed through the billeting area, past soldiers moving equipment, a Humvee idling nearby, rotors thumping somewhere in the distance.

  We didn't speak as we walked. I didn't need to, as I was pretty sure why they wanted to see me.

  We crossed the compound road and headed toward the main administrative building, a squat concrete structure reinforced with sandbags, antennas bristling from the roof like quills. MPs stood at the entrance, checking IDs, eyes sharp.

  They waved us through as we neared,

  probably having been ordered to do so.

  Inside, the air was cooler. We walked through corridors that were quiet and narrow, the walls bare and minimal in every sense of the word.

  We walked quickly, boots echoing, until we reached a door at the far end of the hall.

  I stepped into the room and snapped to attention as I saw who was inside, boots clicking against the concrete floor.

  "Specialist Elias Calderon, reporting as ordered," I said, with a neutral voice.

  The room was larger than most on the FOB. Reinforced concrete walls were bare except for a large mounted map of eastern Afghanistan and a softly glowing digital display in one corner. A long folding table ran down the center, cluttered with folders, bottled water, and a few laptops. Looking at the people gathered, I realized things were about to get more complicated.

  At the head sat a four-star general in desert camouflage. His posture was relaxed, but it was clear he was accustomed to command; his rank unmistakable even without seeing his collar. To his right was a civilian in a crisp suit, no dust, no wrinkles. Under Secretary, if I had to guess. The kind of man who'd never carried a rifle but decided where thousands of them went.

  Further down the table sat an Air Force general I recognized from briefings back home. His name escaped me, but his face seemed familiar. On the opposite side was a woman in a dark blazer with a State Department pin. She looked calm in a practiced way.

  CENTCOM. Pentagon. State.

  Isn't this just great...I thought sarcastically.

  This wasn't a debriefing. It was damage control.

  "At ease, Specialist," the four-star said calmly.

  I dropped the salute and stood where I was, hands clasped behind my back, spine straight. Years of training slid into place.

  The general studied me for a moment, as if assessing a pawn that had performed outside expected parameters.

  "Have a seat," he said.

  I did.

  The Under Secretary spoke first, his voice smooth and practiced. "Specialist Calderon, we appreciate you coming on short notice."

  "Yes, sir."

  "You've already spoken with reintegration and intelligence teams," he continued. "This is... supplementary."

  I kept my face blank.

  The four-star leaned forward slightly. "Tony Stark requested to see you."

  Ah... that's where this is going...

  "Yes, sir," I said after a beat.

  The State Department woman folded her hands. "Before that happens, there are a few things we want to be very clear about."

  Here it comes.

  The Air Force general spoke next, his tone measured, not hostile. "Mr. Stark was under U.S. military protection when he was captured."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And while the circumstances were... complicated," he continued, "any public narrative that suggests negligence or incompetence on the part of U.S. forces would be politically damaging."

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The Under Secretary picked up the thread seamlessly. "Mr. Stark has strong opinions. He's emotional. Understandably so. We would like to handle this matter delicately."

  The four-star met my eyes directly. "We're not asking anything of you, Specialist. You did your duty. You went above and beyond it."

  I nodded once.

  "But," the general continued, "we expect discretion and professionalism. And we expect that anything you discuss with Mr. Stark does not place the U.S. military in a negative light."

  "Yes, sir," I said.

  The State Department official tilted her head slightly. "This isn't about silencing you. It's about context. About understanding the bigger picture."

  "I understand, ma'am."

  The four-star leaned back, satisfied. "Good."

  He glanced at one of the aides, who nodded and moved toward the door.

  "You'll be escorted to Mr. Stark's medical room," the general said.

  The Under Secretary added, almost casually, "We'd also like to remind you that your continued cooperation will be reflected favorably in any future reviews of your service record."

  There it was: the carrot and the stick.

  "Yes, sir," I repeated.

  Unfortunately for you, I didn't want a future here...

  The meeting was over.

  I stood, snapped another salute, then turned and followed the aide out without another word.

  The hallway felt narrower on the way out.

  We moved quickly, passing through secured sections of the hospital wing: armed guards at intersections, doors marked RESTRICTED. The air reeked of antiseptic and ozone.

  As we approached the medical ward, I saw him.

  Standing just outside a guarded room, tie loosened, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, was a large man in a suit that had clearly never been meant for this environment. Sweat darkened the fabric under his arms. His hair was slicked back, face red, jaw clenched as he argued quietly with a military doctor.

  Happy Hogan.

  He looked exactly like the movies, only heavier in the shoulders, older around the eyes. A man built to stand between danger and someone else, he actually looked like a bodyguard.

  I stepped forward.

  He turned sharply, eyes flicking over my uniform, my face, my posture. I saw the question in his eyes as I approached.

  "Is there anything I can help you with?" he said.

  "Specialist Elias Calderon," I replied. "Mr. Stark asked to see me."

  He jolted like I'd just flipped a switch.

  "Oh yeah. Yeah, of course." He turned immediately, waving off the doctor with a muttered, "We're good for now." Then he looked back at me. "Come on. He's been asking about you."

  The guard at the door stepped aside after a quick glance at my escort. Happy pushed the door open and motioned me in.

  The medical room was stark and utilitarian, with no windows, pale walls, the faint hum of machines filling the space. A hospital bed sat in the center, rails up, IV stands on either side. Monitors blinked steadily, tracking heart rate, oxygen, things I didn't bother reading.

  Tony Stark lay propped up against the raised back of the bed, wearing a thin hospital gown that did little to hide the bandages wrapped around his chest. Tubes snaked from under the sheets. And right at the center of it all, half-hidden beneath layers of gauze and medical tape, I could see the faint outline of a circular device.

  The arc reactor.

  Glowing with repressed energy, but unmistakable once you knew what you were looking for.

  He looked... better than I expected.

  Pale, bruised, and exhausted, he nonetheless possessed a sharpness in his eyes that had been absent in the cave, a kind of coiled energy suggesting absolute confidence, or perhaps arrogance.

  The moment he saw me, his mouth quirked into a crooked smirk.

  "Eli!" he called out, his voice rough but bright. "Buddy! Look at you, up and moving around and everything. Glad to see you."

  "Stark," I nodded.

  "Ah-ah." He lifted a hand weakly, cutting me off. "None of that Stark crap. We almost died together. That bumps us down at least two levels of formality."

  Happy hovered near the foot of the bed, arms crossed and eyes darting between us.

  Stark waved him closer. "Happy, let me introduce you properly. This is Eli, my battle buddy. Eli, this is Happy, my bodyguard."

  "Good to finally put a face to the name," Happy said, studying me. "Mr. Stark's been talking about you."

  "Only good things," Stark added cheerfully. "Mostly about how you have terrible timing and great aim."

  I let out a small breath. "Good to see you're well, Tony."

  He laughed, then winced slightly, his hand drifting to his chest. He noticed my gaze follow the movement and waved it off. "This? 'Tis but a scratch."

  I raised an eyebrow and nodded. "You do look better."

  "Everything looks worse in a cave," he said. "Bad lighting. No mirrors."

  I took a step closer, glancing around the room. Just us. The door had closed softly behind Happy, who leaned against it as if he intended to stay exactly where he was.

  I looked back at Stark.

  "Why am I here?" I asked.

  He tilted his head, his smile still there but sharper now. "Wow. Straight to business. You're no fun."

  "I'm serious."

  "I know," he said. "That's why I asked for you."

  He shifted slightly, settling into the pillows. "There might be some... questions Well, lots of them actually by a lot of people.. About what happened. About how it happened. About who screwed up so badly that a large contingent of marines and the US military were taken out by terrorists."

  I stiffened at that.

  "And?" I asked.

  "And I'm going to give the world some answers," Stark said lightly. "Just... not always the ones the [people above want."

  I studied him. "Did they give you my debrief?"

  That caught his attention, His smile changed, becoming sharper.

  "No, they didn't," he said. "Hypothetically speaking, if someone were to inform me of it, no one would know."

  I held his gaze. "Hypothetically speaking, the debrief says the ambush was unavoidable. That response time was within acceptable parameters. That everything happened exactly the way it was supposed to."

  Stark's eyes narrowed a fraction.

  "I would also say," I continued slowly, "that it won't mention how, after the convoy went dark, there was no air support. No drones. No recon. Not for hours. Maybe longer."

  Happy's jaw tightened.

  Stark leaned back, watching me as if I'd just walked into traffic and he was curious whether I'd get hit.

  "Go on," he said. "I'm listening."

  I chose my words carefully.

  "I'm not accusing anyone," I said. "But it's odd, isn't it? A VIP convoy disappears in hostile territory, and there's nothing in the air. No QRF, no eyes. I survived because I got lucky."

  Stark's smirk returned, slower this time. "Lucky is one word for it."

  "And to be clear," I added, "I'm not interested in making the military look bad."

  "That's good," Stark said lightly. "Because some very serious people probably just had that conversation with you."

  I didn't react.

  "But you're also not wrong," he continued.

  The room went quiet, the hum of machinery filling the silence as Stark watched me for a long moment, then sighed.

  "So," he said, "what do you want to hypothetically speak out?"

  I considered it, then met his gaze.

  "I want out, Stark."

  That surprised him. His face slowly lost his smirk; he seemed genuinely caught off guard.

  "Out?" he repeated.

  "Of the military," I said. "Cleanly and quietly. As soon as possible."

  He studied my face, searching for something. whatever it was, he didn't find it.

  Slowly, he nodded, a smile returning just as slowly.

  "...Okay, I was expecting money, but I can work with this," he said.