The Marvel Prophet: I Publish Marvel Comics

When the door swung open, I immediately tensed. The leader of the group—a bald man with a rough, sun-scorched face—entered, his eyes sweeping over the room before landing on Tony. He barely gave me a glance, like I wasn't even there, before making a beeline for Tony.

Without saying a word, he grabbed the collar of Tony's shirt and yanked it open, exposing the arc reactor embedded in his chest. His eyes narrowed as he tilted his head from side to side, inspecting the glowing blue light.

"And what the hell is this?" His voice was low, demanding.

Tony's expression barely shifted, but I could see the strain in his eyes. A few weeks ago, he had been the head of Stark Industries, a man everyone in the world admired—or envied. Now? He was trapped here, treated like nothing more than a tool, forced to build weapons for these savages in the middle of nowhere. The indignity of it all was eating him alive, but he didn't dare show it.

Life had a way of slapping you in the face sometimes.

"It's what's keeping me alive," Tony replied, his voice flat. "Shrapnel from the explosion. It's lodged too close to my heart. This," he gestured toward the reactor, "keeps it from killing me."

He wasn't exactly lying. The arc reactor *was* keeping him alive. But that wasn't the whole truth. No, he hadn't told them about the other purpose of the device—the purpose that was going to get us out of here.

The bald man didn't look entirely convinced. He poked at the reactor with his finger, as if trying to test whether it was real. After a few moments, he grunted and launched into another one of his speeches, the same as always—don't try to be clever, don't think about escaping, or else they'd kill us both. Blah, blah, blah.

Once he was gone, Tony immediately picked up his tools and got back to work. There wasn't much time left. The suit—the thing that was going to save us—was nearly done, but we still had to put the finishing touches on it. I moved to help, grabbing whatever tools Tony needed without him even asking.

Two days passed in a blur of work. We barely slept, knowing every minute counted.

---

Meanwhile, back in the real world, Marvel Comics was stirring up a frenzy of its own. The latest issue of *Iron Man* had hit the shelves, and fans across the country were buzzing with excitement. At bookstores everywhere, people were lining up hours before the release, desperate to get their hands on the new comic. It was chaos.

At one local bookstore, the owner was busy handing out water to the police officers stationed outside, who were there to keep the peace. The crowd was bigger than anyone had expected, and the last thing they needed was a riot over a comic book.

One of the officers, wiping sweat from his brow, muttered under his breath, "I can't believe we're standing guard for this. All because some guy named Jason Walker predicted Tony Stark's kidnapping. People actually think he's a prophet now."

The bookstore owner, eager to keep things smooth, just nodded and smiled. He wasn't about to complain—more people meant more sales.

The officer wasn't done ranting though. "Walker's probably just making all this up to sell more comics. If Stark doesn't turn up soon, the FBI's going to be knocking on his door. They think he's in on the whole thing."

As the officer griped, the line outside grew longer, stretching down the block. Finally, the store's doors opened, and the crowd surged forward.

The first guy in line was a man in his thirties. He rushed inside, practically shoving his way to the counter. "You selling the new *Iron Man*?" he demanded, his impatience clear.

The owner nodded, holding up a copy of the comic. "Thirteen dollars," he said.

The man grumbled, fishing the money out of his wallet. "Thirteen bucks for a comic? What a rip-off."

Before the owner could respond, the guy behind him in line sneered, "If you can't afford it, don't buy it, buddy. I'll take three copies."

The man glared at him. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

"You heard me. If you're too broke, go home."

"Why don't you make me, tough guy?"

It escalated quickly. One minute they were arguing, the next they were shoving each other. Within seconds, they were throwing punches, right there in the middle of the store.

The rest of the people in line looked on, some laughing, others shaking their heads.

The cops, who had been complaining about having to be there in the first place, finally had something to do. They rushed inside, breaking up the fight. It was ridiculous—a brawl over a comic book.

But that's how crazy things had gotten. Marvel Comics was at the center of it all, and Jason Walker's so-called "prophecies" were feeding the frenzy. People were obsessed, desperate to see how it all connected to Tony Stark's real-life disappearance. 

Little did they know, the real Tony Stark was trapped in a desert halfway across the world, building the very thing that would save him—and, if all went according to plan, change the world forever.

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