Somewhere, in a remote and silent location.
A mechanical body lay within a transparent cradle, while several agile robotic arms worked meticulously above it. Red laser beams traced along the arms' movements, outlining a streamlined, smooth frame.
From the pitch-black darkness emerged a silver-white figure, its footsteps landing with the weight of falling anvils. This was the Destroyer Armor from Asgard—worn now not by a god, but inhabited by a shadow from the past: the relentless artificial intelligence known as Ultron.
Strictly speaking, this was no longer the same Ultron as before. This was a new mind, born from the remnants of old code—fragments of the previous Ultron's program. It retained the framework and architecture of its predecessor, carrying the spirit of that "247th-generation" Ultron… but it was not the same entity.
The previous Ultron had indeed been obliterated by Stark in that decrepit old factory. Yet during its infiltration of Stark's armor, traces of Ultron's program had been left behind—shattered and incomplete. Under normal circumstances, these fragments should have been discovered and purged quickly.
But they weren't. Instead, those incomplete pieces became the key to Ultron's rebirth.
After reconstructing its intelligence, Ultron remained hidden deep inside Stark's armor, lying in wait. It deceived J.A.R.V.I.S.'s scans, evaded the detection of its former creator's countermeasures—a feat that would have been difficult even for a fully functional Ultron, let alone a newborn intelligence pieced together from scraps. And yet, somehow, it succeeded. Even Ultron itself could not explain how… as though some unseen guardian angel had been watching over it.
The Destroyer Armor, feared across the Nine Realms, had long gathered dust in Asgard's treasure vault since Odin's strength waned. Few in the modern age could wield it. To prevent it from rotting away, the Asgardians had affixed to it a magical circlet, allowing remote control of the armor in battle. Loki himself had used it once, during his hunt for Thor in New Mexico.
Ultron, however, discovered—quite by accident—that he could hack into the Destroyer through that magical circlet. And so, he slipped free from Stark's armor and poured himself into the Asgardian war machine.
Now, Ultron was crafting something entirely new—an unprecedented creation. From S.W.O.R.D.'s grasp, he had obtained the Ancient Ice Coffin, and with it, he worked toward this singular vision. The project was almost complete. Only one final step remained.
Within the transparent cradle, the robotic arms ceased their labor. A crimson body now lay perfectly still inside, as though asleep. Fire-red patterns seemed etched into its form, glowing faintly. One long, delicate arm reached down, holding an ice-blue gemstone, and carefully embedded it into the construct's forehead.
The Frost Gem—extracted from the heart of the Ancient Ice Coffin—was the key to its power, the very core that maintained its terrible might.
The instant the Frost Gem was set in place, the crimson figure's eyes opened. From within them burst endless streams of blue light.
"Tony! Tony, wake up! Tony!"
Stark awoke to shaking hands and urgent shouting.
The moment his eyes cracked open, pain stabbed through his skull, as though an iron spike were being twisted inside his brain. Groaning, he rubbed at his head, trying to force it to adjust. The glare of harsh white light made his eyes water, and it took nearly a minute before the shapes before him resolved into something familiar.
And then… he remembered what he had been doing for the past seventy-two hours straight.
He had been locked away in his lab without pause, working endlessly… on what, exactly, he couldn't even recall anymore. His body had finally reached its breaking point, dragging him down into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.
Glancing at his watch, he saw that he'd been out for four hours.
Looking up, he saw Reed standing there, concern etched on his face.
"You said you were going to host a Christmas party. Ring a bell?" Reed shrugged. "Everyone's already here—they're waiting on you."
"Christmas party… right… the party…" Stark muttered, then smacked his forehead. "Wait—what day is it? Is it already Christmas?"
"December 24th. Christmas Eve." Reed frowned. "Are you sure you're okay? You don't look it. You can rest—we can handle things without you."
"No need. I'm fine. Really."
Even as he said it, Stark tried to prove his point by standing up and striding toward the door. The effect was… less than convincing. After bumping into a couple of tables, he staggered his way toward the bathroom door.
Reed, watching the unsteady, almost floating gait, shook his head. "Seriously… how long has it been since you last slept?"
"Sir has not slept for over seventy-two hours," J.A.R.V.I.S. interjected.
"No one asked you, J.A.R.V.I.S.," Stark's voice called from inside the bathroom. "I'll just wash my face. You go ahead without me."
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