"Wait." Tony turned around. "Leaving already? It's 3:00 AM, and it'll take quite a while for you to fly back to New York, why not—"
Before he finished his sentence, Mavuika had already stepped out of the floor-to-ceiling window.
Golden-red flames rose from beneath his feet, instantly enveloping his entire body.
He looked back at Tony, his amber eyes like two Burning stars amidst the flames, and then shot up into the sky.
Tony stood in place, still holding a pen, watching that streak of golden-red light grow smaller and smaller in the night sky until it finally disappeared into the horizon.
"Leaving once the goal is reached..." he muttered to himself. "What a heartless woman... er, goddess?"
Only he and Jarvis remained in the laboratory.
"Sir," Jarvis's voice sounded. "You just agreed to modify a tri-phibious motorcycle for Ms. Mavuika. This requires a complete redesign of the vehicle's architecture, with an estimated labor time of at least—"
"I know, Jarvis." Tony interrupted him, returned to the workbench, and continued drawing on the blueprints.
"It's not the first time I've repaired his vehicle; when has he ever said 'just a slight modification' without me ending up dismantling and rebuilding the whole thing?"
He paused, and the corners of his mouth lifted involuntarily.
In the following days, early autumn in New York carried a lazy sense of calm.
Mavuika went to work at the museum as usual, writing appraisal reports for those antiques, drinking tea in the museum garden during lunch breaks, riding his bike home in the evenings, and going for two laps on the mountain roads in the suburbs on the weekend—although that old Flamestrider felt a bit "lacking" when he rode it now.
He was waiting for Tony's call.
That night in Los Angeles, when Tony was sketching on the blueprints with grease-covered hands, Mavuika knew that he was truly taking this to heart.
When he said "give me some time," it usually meant three days to a week. He would lock himself in the laboratory with the music blasting, Jarvis would record dozens of failed iterations, and then, at some ungodly hour in the morning, he would suddenly call him, his voice hoarse but excited: "Done, come take a look."
Mavuika was used to this rhythm.
So he wasn't in a rush, and was even somewhat expectant; things designed by Tony never disappointed.
However, he didn't receive Tony's call about the motorcycle; instead, he received other news about him.
—Or rather, a storm that swept across the U.S.
On Thursday evening, just as Mavuika arrived home, the television was broadcasting breaking news.
The screen showed the Stark Industries headquarters building, that glass giant standing on the Manhattan skyline, currently billowing thick smoke from its middle floors.
The glass curtain walls of several floors were completely shattered, as if torn from the inside by some immense force, the metal frames twisted and deformed, and the sirens of fire trucks formed a river of red on the streets.
The camera zoomed in.
There were several penetrating holes on the exterior wall of the building, the edges melted into glass-like liquid traces, as if cut by high-temperature plasma.
There were also larger impact craters, with concrete peeling away to reveal twisted steel bars.
Mavuika frowned.
The screen cut to a report from a reporter on the scene: "...It is reported that a fierce conflict occurred at the Stark Industries headquarters today. Witnesses claim that two people equipped with some kind of 'flight armor' engaged in combat inside and in the airspace outside the building..."
The footage shook, showing two blurry shadows crossing in the distant sky.
One was red and gold, the other a heavy silver-gray.
"...This conflict is suspected to be related to Mr. Stark's kidnapping last week. The latest intelligence indicates that the identity of one of the individuals is Obadiah Stane, a member of the Stark Industries board of directors..."
Mavuika watched the screen in silence.
He remembered three days ago, when Tony stood on that cliffside terrace, wearing that crude Mark II, as excited as a child riding a bicycle for the first time.
He had just returned from hell, with shrapnel embedded in his chest, yet he still smiled and said, "New look, pretty cool."
Then, at the press conference, he announced the closure of the weapons division, standing alone against the entire board of directors, just because he saw the weapons he created falling into the hands of innocent people.
And now, the person he had called "Obie" for twenty years, that old friend of his father's, the person he once trusted like family—
Was using the technology stolen from him, wearing armor built from stolen blueprints, trying to kill him.
On TV, a Military spokesperson was being interviewed: "...The situation is currently under control. Obadiah Stane died in the conflict due to a reactor overload..."
The next morning, the headlines all over the World were the same sentence.
Tony Stark stood before the reporters, with the temporarily constructed press room at the Stark Industries headquarters in the background, wearing a simple black shirt, his back held straight.
Facing the dense wall of cameras below, he spoke that famous line that would influence the entire World.
"I am Iron Man."
The camera flashes almost drowned him out.
Mavuika held his teacup, looking at that familiar face on the TV screen.
He looked more haggard than a week ago; the dark circles under his eyes couldn't be covered by foundation, and the newly healed wound at the corner of his mouth was faintly visible under the harsh light.
But his eyes were calm.
Not the hollowness after exhaustion, but a certain clarity after the dust had settled.
He was no longer hiding.
This name, this armor, this identity—he chose to bear it all.
Mavuika lifted the corners of his mouth slightly.
Then he changed the channel. The host of the finance channel was reporting in an almost fanatical tone: "...Stark Industries stock price soared 17% within an hour of opening. It has now recovered all losses from last week, and analysts expect it to break historical highs in the afternoon..."
Changing to another channel, the number one trending topic on social media was: #Iron Man.
There was worship, skepticism, conspiracy theories, and fanatical fans gathering at the gates of Stark Industries overnight.
But more than that, there was a simple, almost instinctual voice: He is flying in the sky, he is one of our own, he is protecting us.
Mavuika turned off the TV and got up to go to the balcony.
He stood there, looking at the New York skyline, the steam from the teacup in his hand rising in wisps in the autumn wind.
He thought, perhaps this is what humanity is.
Fragile enough that a stray bullet could take a life, yet tenacious enough to build armor out of a pile of scrap metal and fly to an altitude of 14,000 meters.
The Tony Stark he knew, that genius who once lived only for himself, had, from this day on, truly chosen another way of living.
...
Three days later, 2:00 AM.
Mavuika's phone lit up.
There was only one name on the screen: Tony.
He answered the phone, and before he could speak, Tony's hoarse but vigorous voice came from the other side: "The bike is modified, come and get it."
No pleasantries, no "how have you been these past few days," no "did you see the news."
Just those few words, righteous and matter-of-fact, as if asking someone to travel halfway across the country to pick up a bike at 2:00 AM was the most normal thing in the World.