Inside the high-tech testing bay of Hammer Industries, the air was thick with the smell of ozone and the sound of Justin Hammer's screaming.
"Explain this to me! Use small words so I can understand why I'm paying you millions to produce a glorified paperweight!" Hammer paced back and forth, his face a shade of red that clashed horribly with his expensive silk tie.
Before him stood the 'Hammer Suit.' On the surface, it was a masterpiece of industrial design—shiny, intimidating, and painted in a sleek metallic silver that screamed 'military-grade.' But the reality was far more pathetic. To anyone with a basic understanding of engineering, building a metal suit wasn't the hard part. Any competent aerospace firm could bolt together titanium plates.
The nightmare was making it move without a power cord the size of a redwood tree.
Currently, the Hammer Suit was tethered to a massive wall-mounted generator by a series of thick, pulsing cables. It was literally on life support. If those cables were cut, the suit would become a very expensive coffin for whoever was inside. And that was the second problem: there was actually someone inside. Unlike Tony Stark's seamless, AI-driven HUD, the Hammer version required a pilot to manually pull levers and press foot pedals to simulate basic walking. It was essentially a backhoe shaped like a man.
"Sir, we've analyzed the Stark footage frame by frame," the chief researcher said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Stark isn't just using a battery. He's using a localized, cold-fusion power source that defies every law of thermodynamics we currently follow. Without an Arc Reactor, we're stuck with lithium-sulfur or solid-state batteries. At full draw, those will last exactly forty-five seconds if we try to activate the stabilizers. And that's not even mentioning the flight systems... which, frankly, we haven't even started because the suit would just melt from the heat output."
"Flight? I don't care about flight!" Hammer barked, slamming his hand against a nearby desk. "I care about the Pentagon! Do you know what happens if the military sees a suit that needs to stay plugged into a wall? They laugh me out of the building! I promised them a legion of Iron Men, and you've given me a giant, angry toaster!"
"But the software, sir—" another researcher stammered. "Even Obadiah Stane's engineers had a basic interface. We can't even get the targeting computer to sync with the pilot's eyes. The lag is nearly half a second. In a firefight, the pilot would be dead before the suit even registered the first shot."
Hammer looked at his team with pure, unadulterated disgust. He couldn't wrap his head around why Stark—a man who spent half his time drinking and chasing supermodels—could build this in a cave, while his team of Ivy League PhDs couldn't even copy it with a billion-dollar budget.
"I'm going to make this very simple for you geniuses," Hammer said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low hiss. "Fix the power problem. I don't care if you have to steal a reactor, kidnap a wizard, or invent a new branch of physics. If this suit doesn't walk, talk, and shoot without a leash by the end of the week, you're all fired. And I don't mean 'unemployed' fired—I mean 'blacklisted from the industry' fired."
The researchers exchanged looks of absolute despair. They knew Hammer was asking for the impossible. But in a company built on the foundation of plagiarism and cutting corners, true innovation was a foreign language.
Meanwhile, at the ground floor lobby of the Hammer Industries headquarters, a very different kind of tension was brewing.
Ivan Vanko stood before the sleek security desk, looking like a ghost from a Siberian nightmare. He was draped in a heavy, tattered black robe that smelled faintly of ozone and cheap vodka. His hair was greasy, his eyes bloodshot, and his presence was an immediate red flag for the polished, corporate security team.
"I have told you," the security guard said, his voice dripping with condescension. "Mr. Hammer does not see 'walk-ins.' Especially walk-ins who look like they crawled out of a shipping container. You need an appointment, a background check, and at the very least, a suit that doesn't smell like a shipyard."
Vanko didn't move. His gaze was fixed on the elevators behind the desk. For months, he had been wandering the streets of New York, watching the neon displays of Tony Stark's face and feeling the weight of the Arc Reactor humming against his chest—the very technology the Starks had stolen from his father. He had realized that he couldn't take Stark down alone; he needed a patron with deep pockets and a shared grudge.
"Tell him... I have the thing he wants," Vanko said, his English thick and gravelly. "I have the heart of the machine."
The guard let out a short, mocking laugh. "Yeah, sure you do, pal. Look, beat it before I call the NYPD. We get three 'inventors' a week claiming they have the next big thing. You're not special."
Vanko's jaw tightened. He could feel the Whiplash harness beneath his robe, the metal coils itching to be unleashed. He could kill this man in half a heartbeat. He could tear this entire lobby apart. But he was patient. He needed Hammer's resources, not a prison cell.
"I will go," Vanko whispered, turning his back on the guard.
"Overestimating himself, doesn't even know his place," the guard muttered to his partner, just loud enough for Vanko to hear. "Thinks he's a player in this town. Some people really have no shame."
Vanko paused. He didn't turn back, but he memorized the guard's voice, the cadence of his laughter, and the way the light caught his name tag. He would remember this when the lights went out.
Later that night, the atmosphere at Logan's residence was far more professional, if not equally tense. Jean Grey, Mystique, and the rest of the scouting team had just returned from a long day of "diplomacy" and investigation.
Logan was sitting on the porch, a cigar clamped between his teeth, his eyes scanning the treeline. Since the incident with Peter Parker—the boy who possessed the strength of a mutant without the genetics—Logan's worldview had shifted. He no longer saw the world as 'Humans vs. Mutants.' He saw it as a chaotic mess of 'Variants' popping up like weeds.
"How was the trip to Osborn Industries?" Logan asked as Jean stepped onto the porch. "Did we find another one of our cousins causing trouble, or was it just a corporate gas leak?"
Jean sighed, leaning against the railing. "Neither. There wasn't a trace of the X-gene or even residual psychic energy at the site. It wasn't a mutant. But whatever it was, it left a mess that the NYPD isn't equipped to handle. We spent four hours in a boardroom with the top brass of the police department."
"And?" Logan grunted.
"And they're desperate," Mystique added, stepping out from the shadows of the doorway. "The world is getting weirder, Logan. They've seen the Hulk, they've seen Stark, and now they're seeing things they can't even categorize. The NYPD has officially requested a partnership. They want us to handle the 'supernatural' or 'unexplained' calls. They're even talking about pushing for a legislative amendment to give us legal jurisdiction over non-mutant threats."
Logan raised an eyebrow. "Jurisdiction? They want to turn us into a private police force? I thought we were trying to hide, not put on badges."
"We aren't hiding anymore," Jean said firmly. "If we want acceptance, we have to be useful. If we sit back while the city burns, people will blame us just for existing. But if we're the ones putting the fires out—even the fires we didn't start—the narrative changes."
Logan shrugged. "Fair point. But if it wasn't a mutant at Osborn, what was it? Do we have a name for the new player?"
"No name yet," Mystique said. "But you mentioned something earlier. You said you met a 'variant' today. A high schooler?"
"Yeah," Logan said, thinking of Peter Parker's wide-eyed shock when he lifted that iron block. "Huang Liang's friend. Kid's got more raw power than most of the bruisers in the Brotherhood. Strength, speed, and some kind of sixth sense. But he's not one of us. Master Huang Wen tested him. He's... something else. An accident, maybe."
Jean's eyes flickered with interest. "The world is expanding. If there are others like him out there, we need a way to manage the fallout." She turned to Mystique with a sharp, decisive look. "We need to move faster on the recruitment. Go back to New Hope State. We need more than just students; we need a specialized unit. An enforcement team."
"Like the X-Men?" Mystique asked, a hint of nostalgia in her voice.