Barbara stood in the silence, her mind drifting back to the dossier on Shiranui Hayate.
It was a weathered stack of papers, hand-delivered by Phil Coulson when the mission first began. At the time, the System Department had reported a critical failure. Shiranui Hayate's digital records had vanished entirely—wiped from the servers as if they had never existed.
A comprehensive sweep had been conducted, yet no trace of the cause was found.
His files had simply dissolved into the digital void. However, no one suspected Hayate himself. In their eyes, a man of his background lacked the technical prowess for such a feat. Besides, deleting only one's own electronic records was a move too clumsy and conspicuous for a legendary figure of the underworld.
SHIELD had used the incident as an excuse to upgrade their internal networks. After all, if a Level 4 file could vanish today, what would stop a Top-Secret clearance file from disappearing tomorrow?
Fortunately, Coulson kept physical backups. Though they lacked the depth of the digital versions—missing the psychological profiles and tactical evaluations—the core data remained.
Still, the anomaly had planted a seed of doubt in Nick Fury. To the Director, there was no such thing as a coincidence. Why was it that only Hayate's information had been erased? It was inherently illogical.
Barbara replayed the details she had memorized. The file stated that Shiranui Hayate had been a lost child, later adopted by a pair of assassins. But after witnessing his performance today, a chilling thought crossed her mind.
Is it possible? >
Is he a runaway subject from some high-level laboratory?
She quickly dismissed the notion. Hayate had been in New York since his youth. Foreign powers wouldn't be foolish enough to build secret labs in the heart of the city. As for domestic corporations... if he truly were a rogue experiment, they would have hunted him down years ago.
Shaking the stray thoughts from her head, Barbara allowed herself a small, cold smile of satisfaction. Her first day undercover had already yielded a terrifying revelation.
A strength that defied reason.
She had yet to uncover the truth behind the faction backing him, or the meaning of the symbol etched into that forehead protector, but she was patient.
In time, every secret would be laid bare.
Meanwhile, Shiranui Hayate carried the heavy crate containing the Mark 1 armor into his room. Fortunately, his quarters were spacious enough to accommodate the mechanical titan.
With a few swift, violent movements, he tore through the wooden bracing and packaging. The contents were finally revealed.
The Mark 1—in all its raw, industrial glory.
He leaned the suit against the wall, his eyes narrowing as he admired the craftsmanship. This was the ancestor of all Iron Man suits, the first miracle forged by Tony Stark in the fires of captivity.
The armor had been polished to a gleaming, silver-white finish. Hayate nodded in approval; the Mark 1 always looked most classic before the paint touched the metal.
Tony had been thorough. Though it lacked a dedicated power source, every weapon system—including the miniature missiles—had been restored to peak condition.
Hayate didn't bother tucking it away into his storage dimension. Instead, he placed it in the corner like a massive, 1:1 scale collectible. To him, without a heart of energy, this four-and-a-half-ton behemoth was nothing more than an oversized toy.
He wasn't worried about thieves. Moving four and a half tons out of a master shinobi's bedroom was a feat few in this world could achieve.
I need more, he thought, his gaze lingering on the cold steel.
The collection in my base is still too thin.
He pulled out his phone and dialed a familiar number.
In the subterranean depths of his Malibu lab, Tony Stark was surrounded by a sea of mechanical parts and holographic schematics.
"Sir, a call from Shiranui Hayate," Jarvis announced.
Tony paused his work immediately. Nearby, Peter Parker also looked up, hearing the name of the man who held his contract.
"Patch him through, Jarvis!"
"Hi, Tony," Hayate's voice came through the speaker. "I received the Mark 1. It's impressive."
Tony let out a sharp, boastful laugh.
"Hayate, the Mark 1 is ancient history. Just wait until my latest suit is finished—that's when the real show begins!"
His voice climbed with excitement.
"You're going to see the true beauty of technology and mechanics perfectly entwined!"
Hayate chuckled at the billionaire's characteristic arrogance.
"Alright. I'll be waiting for your latest breakthrough. When it's ready, perhaps you can put it on and we can have a little sparring match."
He was curious. With his earlier warnings, Tony's Mark 2 would likely bypass the high-altitude icing issues, reaching its final form much sooner.
"Are you joking, buddy?" Tony replied. "My new armor won't be something a human can resist. Even with that Blue Snake of yours, you won't stand a chance."
He paused, a grin forming on his face.
"But when the time comes, I'll give you a taste of flight. In exchange, you let the Blue Snake take me for another wild ride!"
Even though Tony had begun his own flight tests, the raw, primal rush of the giant snake remained etched in his memory. The two sensations were worlds apart.
"Deal," Hayate agreed. "We'll find a deserted patch of sand and swap experiences."
After a bit of small talk, Hayate hung up. He wasn't just interested in the Mark armor's flight; he wanted to see how far Tony's genius could go.
However, to a man destined to one day manifest a Susano'o—a literal 'Gundam' of spiritual energy—the Iron Man suits were currently little more than curiosities. Only the later Nano-tech models, like the Mark 50, would truly pique his interest.
His thoughts drifted to Sasori.
He wondered what that master of puppets would think if he saw Tony's work. If Sasori understood the principles of modern engineering, would he try to hand-craft a mechanical god of his own?
Hayate rubbed his chin, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
Knowing Sasori, it was almost a certainty.
On the other side of the world, deep within the sun-scorched deserts of Afghanistan.
Raza stared intensely at the blueprints in his hands, his eyes darting between the paper and the grainy surveillance footage of the silver iron man.
He replayed the clips of Tony Stark building his equipment in the cave, flanked by the few men in his ranks who possessed any semblance of education. They watched for hours in stunned silence.
They couldn't comprehend it. How had a man turned a pile of dismantled missiles into a suit of armor that could defy death itself?