The product endorsed by Iron Man himself—who at first wouldn't believe its effect, but after taking it a few times, was convinced—proved that the Power Pill could conquer everyone.
With this kind of endorsement, the sales of the three-color pills would skyrocket. It wouldn't just surpass Stark Industries at its peak—at the very least, it would easily reach the baseline requirement for opening a new world.
Tony looked at Carl with an incredulous expression.
"Carl, you've got to be kidding me, right? You know I can't put that kind of ad on the Mark armor. That's… seriously embarrassing!"
Tony had come over intending to proudly show off the new Mark suit he had just built, but he didn't expect Carl to ask him to use it for advertising.
God, it made him feel like he'd walked into a den of hustlers.
"Of course I'm not kidding. You've taken our group's three-color pill. Isn't its effect exactly what we advertised?"
Carl's expression was serious.
Tony thought for a moment and nodded helplessly.
"It's effective, alright—but it's not about the product, it's just—"
Before he could finish, Carl interrupted him.
"I know what you're going to say. But Tony, think about it: if the three-color pills—especially the green one—could be sold worldwide, how many poor people's lives would improve? How many people who would otherwise starve could live on?
You'd be doing something meaningful, just like when you decided to shut down Stark Industries' weapons division."
Tony's expression twisted in conflict.
Yes, Carl was right. When Tony flew to those small countries to battle terrorists in his suit, he saw countless poor people—emaciated, starving.
The green pill was cheap, nutritious, and if it could be widely distributed, it would be a blessing to them.
Still, something about it didn't sit right with him. Advertising on his Iron Man suit and personally endorsing the Power Pill—he just couldn't accept that.
"No, Carl, I really can't accept it. How about this? After I get back, I'll pay to have Miss Potts plaster your face with ads. Yeah, great idea. And I think I have something urgent to do, so—gotta run!"
Tony grabbed the helmet from the table and tried to make a quick escape.
Carl had saved his life, and he'd even made a big promise before showing up—this wasn't illegal, criminal, or even unethical. But now that he was refusing, he felt a little guilty.
"Wait a minute. Don't be so hasty. I haven't even told you the reward I'm offering in exchange for your help."
Carl reached out and took the helmet back.
Tony replied, "Carl, you really don't need to. I can't help with this, but next time you need something, I swear I'll help you for free."
Carl just smiled calmly and sat back in his chair.
"Tony, have you felt unwell lately?"
"Unwell? No, not really. I've actually been working out. Potts even said I look more toned!"
Tony raised an eyebrow.
Carl shook his head.
"No, you're poisoned. I saw something off in your body back in the desert, and now I'm sure. It's a very serious toxin.
If nothing changes, you'll die from it—soon."
"Impossible!"
Tony snatched the helmet from Carl and put it on. "Jarvis, scan my body and analyze my current condition!"
"Yes, sir."
Moments later, Jarvis's voice came through the helmet:
"Scan complete. Sir, the data confirms that your body is in a state of poisoning.
Source: Prolonged use of the Arc Reactor has caused palladium leakage into your bloodstream through the embedded device in your chest.
Continued use of the Mark suit will accelerate palladium toxicity. At the current rate, full-system toxicity will occur in three months, resulting in death."
"Find a solution!"
Tony's voice steadied. He trusted Jarvis's diagnostic more than most human doctors.
"According to current medical science, there is no permanent cure," Jarvis reported. "Two options remain:
1. Develop a new element to replace palladium and rebuild the Arc Reactor.
2. Stop using the Mark suit and consume large amounts of chlorophyll-rich vegetable juice to slow the effects."
"How long can I live using each method?"
"If the suit is not used and chlorophyll is consumed daily, you may live up to two years. If the suit continues to be used, lifespan reduces to approximately six months."
Tony went quiet. He had hoped for a decade or two—two years at most wasn't even close. Six months… that was more in line with his reckless nature.
He removed his helmet again, glanced at the ever-calm Carl, and finally said:
"Fine. You win again. If you can detox me and keep me alive, I'll endorse your product. Hell, I'll even leave a spot on my back for your advertisement."
Tony understood exactly what Carl was doing—he wasn't dumb. But as vain as he was, survival came first.
If he was going to keep wearing that toxic suit, he'd need help.
"Deal."
Carl stood up and shook hands with the dejected billionaire.
"But I must remind you: I can remove all the toxins from your body now, but as long as that thing on your chest keeps leaking poison, you'll have to come back regularly for detox."
Palm Sage Art could expel toxins and heal wounds, but without replacing the palladium, it wasn't a permanent fix.
In a way, this worked to Carl's advantage—Tony would need regular help, and that meant continued cooperation. Even if he updated his suit, he'd always owe Carl some ad space.
As for the true solution—Carl knew Tony would eventually discover the new element himself, and there was no need to risk revealing where that knowledge came from.
"No problem. This is already a huge help!"
Tony nodded. The Arc Reactor was the only thing keeping him alive, and giving up the suit was unthinkable.
With Carl's help, he could buy time to find his own solution.
"Okay, take off your clothes."
Carl said, looking at him seriously.
Tony instinctively covered his chest. "What? Are you—"
"I meant the outer steel suit! How am I supposed to remove toxins if you're still inside the armor?"
Carl rolled his eyes.
Tony laughed. "I know, just messing with you. Man, lighten up!
Anyway, I can't take it off manually. I'll use my machine back at the tower and come to you tomorrow in my car."
Helmet on, jet engines engaged, and Iron Man launched into the sky.
Carl just shook his head and muttered, "Am I really that humorless?"
Meanwhile, in sunny Washington D.C., Nick Fury drove a modified Chevrolet Suburban away from S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters.
Earlier in his office, he had assigned Hill and Coulson to quietly investigate recent suspicious activity, activating deep-cover assets just in case.
Now, he was playing the part—leaving the office like any normal day, just in case HYDRA's eyes were watching.
But as he turned a corner, a police car slammed into his Suburban from the left.
Seconds later, three more police cars rammed into him from the front, right, and rear. Boxed in.
"Motherfu—!"
Fury knew immediately—this wasn't a crash. This was an ambush.
"Already? That fast? Don't tell me Coulson or Hill are compromised… Or worse—they're tapping the data feeds directly. HYDRA really is buried deep!"
As he grabbed a healing injector and jammed it into his thigh, his mind raced.
It couldn't be Hill—she knew too much. If she were HYDRA, he'd be dead already.
And Coulson? A loyal, rule-following S.H.I.E.L.D. idealist. No way.
"Activate countermeasures!"
As HYDRA operatives shattered his bulletproof glass with ramming spikes, Fury's vehicle deployed a front-mounted machine gun, tearing through the attackers.
Using AI-assisted maneuvering, he broke through the barricade and sped down the streets.
But it wasn't enough. Before long, he was confronted by a masked man with a mechanical arm.
Trapped, Fury pulled out his high-heat laser pen, cut a hole through the car and in the manhole, and dove into the sewer to escape.