Marvel Hunter - Chapter 6

Chapter 6: The Billionaire and The Brawler

The ceiling fan in the motel room wobbled on its axis, cutting through the thick, stale air with a rhythmic thwup-thwup-thwup. It was a cheap sound, the soundtrack of transience.

Veer sat on the edge of the bed, his phone in one hand and a piece of hotel stationery in the other. He was doing math.

[Bank of Geneva: $200,000,000.00] [The Continental Account: $95,000,000.00]

Two hundred and ninety-five million dollars.

In his previous life, Veer had been a salaryman. He had calculated his existence in monthly installments—rent, utilities, groceries, the occasional Friday night beer. He had worried about inflation. He had worried about his pension. He had looked at the future and seen a long, gray tunnel of work stretching out until his body gave up.

Now, in less than a month in this universe, he had amassed enough wealth to buy a small country.

“Financial independence,” Veer whispered, tasting the words. They tasted like champagne. “Retirement.”

He looked at the open suitcase on the bed. It wasn’t full of weapons or tactical gear anymore. It was packed with civilian clothes—jeans, t-shirts, a few heavy hoodies.

He picked up the landline receiver—a heavy, beige plastic brick attached to the wall by a coiled cord. This was 2009. The era of one-click booking apps and digital boarding passes was still a fever dream of the future. If you wanted to fly halfway across the world without leaving a digital footprint, you called a travel agent, or you went to the counter.

Veer was planning to go to the counter. First class to… anywhere. Maybe the Maldives. Maybe Fiji. Somewhere with white sand, blue water, and absolutely no alien invasions for at least four years.

He was about to dial for a taxi when a knock rattled the hollow wood of the door.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

It wasn’t the rhythmic, polite knock of housekeeping. It was heavy, insistent, and slightly uneven.

Veer didn’t reach for a weapon. His heightened senses derived from the Zeno template—was already active in a low-level hum. He could smell the expensive cologne, the motor oil, and the faint, acrid scent of ozone through the door.

He sighed, hung up the phone, and walked to the door. He undid the chain lock and pulled it open.

Tony Stark stood in the hallway.

He looked terrible.

The media darling, the genius billionaire playboy philanthropist, looked like he had been dragged through a hedge backward. He was wearing a vintage Black Sabbath t-shirt and jeans that cost more than Veer’s entire previous life earnings, but his hair was messy, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was vibrating with a frantic, nervous energy.

Tony looked past Veer, spotting the packed suitcase on the bed.

“Going somewhere?” Tony asked, his voice rough. “Don’t tell me you got another contract. Who is it this time? A warlord in Sudan? A cartel boss in Mexico?”

Veer leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Hello to you too, Tony. And no. No warlords.”

“Then why the bag?” Tony pushed past him, walking into the cramped room. He looked around with a mix of fascination and disgust. “You know, with the money I wired you, you could afford a place that doesn’t smell like lemon pledge and regret. I think I saw a cockroach in the hallway wearing a tiny tuxedo.”

Veer closed the door. “It keeps me grounded. And to answer your question: I’m retiring.”

Tony froze. He turned around slowly, a half-empty bottle of water in his hand.

“Retiring?” Tony repeated. “You’re twenty-two. You don’t retire at twenty-two. You retire when you’re sixty-five and your hips don’t work.”

“I have nearly three hundred million dollars, Tony,” Veer said, walking over to the mini-fridge. He pulled out two cheap lagers. “In my line of work, people don’t usually live to be sixty-five. I’m quitting while I’m ahead. I plan to travel the world, lie on a beach, and watch beautiful women in bikinis until I get bored.”

He cracked open a beer and handed it to Tony.

Tony took it mechanically. He stared at Veer.

“You’re quitting,” Tony murmured. “Just like that? You’re just… stopping?”

“Why not?” Veer took a swig. “The mission is done. The money is in the bank. Why keep fighting?”

Tony slumped onto the rickety chair in the corner. He took a long drink of the cheap beer, grimacing at the taste, but drinking it anyway.

“Must be nice,” Tony said bitterly. “Walking away.”

Veer sat on the edge of the bed, watching him. He knew the timeline. He knew what was happening.

Since the press conference three days ago, Stark Industries stock had plummeted by forty points. The board of directors was filing an injunction to lock Tony out. Obadiah Stane was playing the supportive uncle while sharpening the knife. Even Rhodey—Tony’s best friend—was looking at him like he had lost his mind.

Tony Stark was the most famous man on Earth, and he was completely alone.

“It’s not that great,” Veer lied, swirling his beer. “It gets boring. The missions… lately, they’re too easy. No challenge. It feels like playing a video game on ‘Very Easy’ mode. I need a vacation just to remember what it feels like to be human.”

Tony let out a short, sharp laugh. “Boring. I wish my life was boring. I have half the world calling me a saint and the other half calling me a traitor. Pepper is hyperventilating every time the phone rings. Rhodey thinks I have PTSD—which I probably do—and Obie is looking at me like I’m a senile old dog that needs to be put down.”

He rubbed his face with his hands.

“I just wanted to fix it,” Tony whispered. “I shut down the weapons to save people. But now everyone hates me for it.”

Veer looked at the man who would save the universe one day. Right now, he was just a guy crumbling under the weight of his own legacy.

Veer finished his beer and crushed the can in his hand. The aluminum crumpled like paper.

“You know what your problem is, Stark?” Veer asked.

“My ego? My narcissism? My inability to process emotions?” Tony listed.

“No,” Veer stood up. “Your problem is that you’re too sober. And you’re too civilized.”

Veer walked over to his suitcase. He dug through the clothes and pulled out a nondescript baseball cap and a pair of cheap, gas-station sunglasses.

He walked over to Tony and jammed the hat onto the billionaire’s head, pulling the brim low. He shoved the sunglasses onto Tony’s face.

“Get up,” Veer commanded.

“Where are we going?” Tony asked, adjusting the glasses. “Disneyland?”

“No,” Veer smirked. “We’re going to a place where nobody cares about your stock price. We’re going to get you a different kind of therapy.”

Los Angeles is a city of layers.

On the top layer, you have Hollywood, Beverly Hills, the shine, and the glamour. But dig down—past the struggling actors, past the tourists—and you find the grit.

Veer took Tony to the basement of the city.

The club was located in an industrial district, down a flight of concrete stairs that smelled of urine and bleach. There was no sign above the door, just a heavy steel slab that vibrated with the bass of the music inside.

The bouncer was a mountain of a man with tattoos climbing up his neck. He looked at Veer, then at the scrawny guy in the hat.

Veer didn’t say a word. He just slipped a hundred-dollar bill into the bouncer’s hand.

The mountain stepped aside.

They walked in. The noise hit them like a physical wave. Heavy metal music thrashed against the walls, mixing with the roar of a crowd. The air was thick with cigarette smoke—this was an illegal joint, so California smoking laws didn’t apply here.

It was an underground fight club.

In the center of the room, a makeshift ring was roped off. Two men, shirtless and bloody, were pummeling each other while the crowd cheered and waved cash. Around the perimeter, people were drinking, gambling, and engaging in transactions that definitely weren’t legal.

“What is this place?” Tony shouted over the music, looking around with wide eyes. “It smells like sweat and bad decisions.”

“It’s called ‘The Pit’,” Veer shouted back. “Welcome to the real world, Tony.”

They pushed their way to a grime-streaked bar in the corner. Veer ordered a pitcher of cheap draft beer and a basket of greasy fries.

They found a small, wobbly table near the back. Tony sat down, clutching his beer glass like a lifeline. He looked out of place, even in his disguise. He sat like a man who was used to leather armchairs, not sticky stools.

But as he drank, Veer watched the tension in Tony’s shoulders begin to loosen.

Here, nobody was looking at him. Nobody was asking for a statement. Nobody wanted a selfie. He was just another guy in a hat in a dark room.

“So,” Tony yelled, leaning in. “This is your retirement plan? Dive bars and illegal boxing?”

“It’s honest,” Veer shrugged. “Look at them.” He pointed to the fighters. “No politics. No board meetings. Just two guys figuring out who wants it more.”

Tony watched the fight. One guy took a brutal hook to the jaw and went down. The crowd roared.

“Primal,” Tony noted.

Just then, a shadow fell over their table.

Three men stood there. They were wearing leather biker vests. They were big, ugly, and already drunk.

“You’re in our seats,” the lead biker growled. He had a scar running through his eyebrow and teeth that looked like tombstones.

Tony instinctively reached for his wallet. “Oh, sorry. How much? I’ll buy the table. Five thousand? Ten?”

The biker blinked, then laughed. It was a cruel sound. He slapped the pitcher of beer off the table. Glass shattered. Beer soaked Tony’s expensive jeans.

“I don’t want your money, little man,” the biker sneered. “I want you to get the hell up before I break your legs.”

Veer didn’t move. He sat calmly, picking up a french fry and eating it.

Tony looked at Veer, waiting for the super-assassin to intervene. Waiting for the blur of motion and the snapping of necks.

Veer chewed the fry, swallowed, and looked at Tony.

“Well?” Veer said. “Are you going to let him talk to you like that?”

Tony stared at him. “Me? You’re the one who fight! I’m… I’m the tech support!”

“I’m retired,” Veer said lazily. “And he didn’t spill my beer. He spilled yours.”

The biker reached out and shoved Tony’s shoulder. “Did you hear me, runt? Move.”

Something inside Tony snapped.

It wasn’t the shove. It was everything. It was the two months in the cave. It was Yinsen family being killed. It was Obadiah’s betrayal. It was the media tearing him apart. It was the helplessness of being the smartest man in the world and still feeling like a victim.

Tony stood up.

He wasn’t big. Compared to the biker, he was tiny. But he had spent years boxing with Happy Hogan. He knew how to move.

“I liked those jeans,” Tony said, his voice surprisingly steady.

“What?” the biker grunted.

“I said,” Tony took off the sunglasses, “I liked those jeans.”

Tony didn’t wind up. He didn’t telegraph. He just pivoted on his back foot, twisted his hips, and drove a straight right cross directly into the biker’s nose.

CRACK.

It was a beautiful sound.

The biker didn’t expect it. His head snapped back, blood spraying. He stumbled, tripping over his own boots, and crashed into the table behind him.

The other two bikers roared and lunged.

“Veer!” Tony yelped, dodging a clumsy haymaker.

“Keep your guard up!” Veer coached from his seat, not lifting a finger. “Duck! Left hook to the liver!”

Tony ducked. He felt the wind of a fist pass over his head. He buried his left fist into the second biker’s gut. The man wheezed, doubling over. Tony brought his knee up, meeting the man’s face.

The third biker grabbed Tony from behind in a bear hug.

“A little help here!” Tony strained, his feet dangling.

Veer sighed. He flicked a peanut.

It wasn’t a throw. It was like a bullet. The peanut flew across the table and hit the third biker in the eye.

“Argh!” The biker flinched, loosening his grip for a split second.

That was all Tony needed. He stomped on the guy’s foot, threw his head back into the guy’s nose, and broke free. As the man staggered back, clutching his eye, Tony grabbed a half-empty glass bottle from the table and smashed it over the guy’s head.

The biker went down.

Tony stood there, panting. His knuckles were bleeding. His lip was split. His hat was gone.

The entire bar had gone quiet.

The lead biker, nose broken, tried to get up. Tony took a step forward, fists raised, eyes wild.

“Stay down!” Tony screamed. “Stay the hell down!”

It wasn’t just a command to the biker. It was a command to the world. To his demons.

The biker looked at Tony. He saw the madness in the billionaire’s eyes. He decided staying down was a good idea.

Slowly, the silence in the bar broke. Someone started clapping. Then someone else.

“Yeah! Get him, little man!”

“Nice right hook!”

They didn’t know he was Tony Stark. They just saw a scrawny guy in a Sabbath shirt lay out three bikers.

Tony looked at his shaking hands. He felt… fantastic.

He felt pain in his knuckles, burning in his lungs, and a throbbing in his lip. And for the first time in months, he didn’t feel the cold metal of the arc reactor in his chest. He just felt alive.

Veer stood up and clapped Tony on the back.

“Not bad for a weakling,” Veer grinned.

Tony wiped the blood from his lip and looked at it. He started to laugh. It was a giddy, breathless laugh.

“Did you see that?” Tony grabbed Veer’s arm. “I got him! I got him right in the schnoz!”

“I saw,” Veer said. “Now, let’s get out of here before their friends show up. I’m retired, remember? I don’t do gang wars.”

Two hours later.

They were walking—stumbling—down the sidewalk of a quieter street. They were both drunk.

Veer had a high tolerance thanks to the Zeno template (poison resistance applied to alcohol too), but he was playing along. Tony, however, was smashed.

“You know…” Tony slurred, pointing a finger at a streetlamp. “You’re a jerk. You could have… you could have lazered them with your eyes or whatever you do.”

“I don’t have laser eyes,” Veer corrected, steering Tony away from a fire hydrant. “And you needed that. You needed to hit something that wasn’t a stock price.”

“You’re right,” Tony giggled. “I did. It felt… crunchy.”

They stopped at a bus stop bench. Tony sat down heavily, leaning his head back.

“They hate me, Veer,” Tony said, his voice dropping to a whisper. The euphoria of the fight was fading, replaced by the booze-soaked melancholy.

“Who?”

“Everyone. The board. The press. Rhodey. They think I’ve lost it. They think I’m destroying my father’s legacy.”

Veer sat next to him. He looked up at the smoggy Los Angeles sky.

“Legacy is overrated,” Veer said. “Your father is dead, Tony. He doesn’t have to live with the consequences of his weapons. You do.”

“I just want to protect them,” Tony mumbled. “I saw… I saw what my bombs did to Gulmira. I can’t let that happen again. I have to be… I have to be the shield.”

“You can be the shield,” Veer said. “But even a shield gets dented. You can’t save everyone, Tony. I saved you. I saved Yinsen. But I couldn’t save his family. You can’t carry the whole world. It’s too heavy.”

Tony looked at Veer. His eyes were swimming, but there was a moment of clarity.

“You’re a good friend,” Tony said. “For a mercenary psycho.”

“And you’re a good guy,” Veer replied. “For a narcissistic weapons dealer.”

“Cheers,” Tony mimed toasting with an invisible glass.

“Cheers.”

Tony’s head lolled. Within seconds, soft snores were coming from the genius billionaire.

Veer sighed.

“Great. Now I’m a babysitter.”

Veer stood up. He grabbed Tony’s arm and pulled him up. He hefted the billionaire onto his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Tony weighed nothing.

“Come on, Tin Man. Let’s get you home.”

Veer walked down the street, carrying the future savior of the universe.

He walked back to the motel. He kicked the door open.

He dumped Tony onto the lumpy, floral-patterned sofa in the corner of the room. Tony groaned, curled up, and muttered something about “Pepper” and “cheeseburgers.”

Veer threw a blanket over him.

He went to the window and looked out. The city lights were twinkling.

Tomorrow, Tony would wake up with a hangover and a bruised ego. He would go back to his mansion. He would build the Mark II. He would fight Obadiah Stane. He would become Iron Man.

And Veer?

Veer looked at his suitcase.

He had the money. He had the freedom.

But looking at the sleeping billionaire, Veer realized something.

Retirement was going to be boring.

“Maybe I won’t go to Fiji,” Veer mused. “Maybe I’ll stick around. Just to see what happens.”

He turned off the light.

“Goodnight, Tony.”

“Mmph… shut up… jarvis…” Tony mumbled in his sleep.

Veer smirked and lay down on his bed.

The slow pace of life wasn’t so bad after all.