TONY OPENED THE dark restaurant’s splintered door, flooding it with the bright afternoon sun. Even from outside, he could smell the reeking barroom. Stale drink, cigar smoke—these were not the kinds of smells Tony was used to surrounding himself with. Though disgusted, he strode in as comfortably as if he were walking into a fundraiser at the Waldorf Astoria. He made his way past chatting couples and drinking buddies, straight to General Ross who sat at the other end of the bar.
“I hate to say I told you so, General,” Tony started before General Ross even had a chance to look up at him, “but that Super-Soldier program was put on ice for a reason. I’ve always felt that hardware was more practical.”
“Stark!” General Ross said, finally facing Tony.
“General.”
“You always wear such nice suits,” General Ross said, alluding to Tony’s alter ego, who wore the coolest suit of all.
“Touché,” Tony responded. He paused and then continued, “I hear you have an unusual problem.”
“You should talk,” General Ross said again taking a stab at Tony’s life as Iron Man.
“You should listen.”
General Ross took a long puff of his stinking cigar, and Tony coughed a little. Then his face became deadly serious.
“What if I told you we were putting a team together?” Tony asked the general.
“Who’s ‘we’?” The general responded.
Tony looked pensive, thoughtful, brooding. Then Tony smirked the way he always did when he knew something others didn’t…which happened quite often.