Transformer in MCU

In the end, Downey didn't act. He let the old bartender continue to sleep soundly.

He could have easily killed him, which might have been the simplest, most convenient option.

But something held Downey back. Instead, he sat in silence, watching the old man and thinking deeply.

Downey sighed as he sat down on the sofa, his fingers tapping lightly on the table.

The old bartender had become a critical piece on the board. Neither Downey nor the vampires could afford to let the bartender fall into the other's hands. To do so would mean the exposure of crucial information.

From the vampires' perspective, with the old bartender in Downey's possession, it was reasonable to assume that Downey knew about their god-making plan, gleaning the details from the bartender.

To stop further leaks and recover what they didn't know, they would certainly come after both the bartender and Downey.

On the other hand, if Downey allowed the bartender to be captured, it could lead to his own secrets being revealed.

Worse, it would confirm to the vampires that Downey was aware of their most guarded secrets.

But the truth was, Downey didn't have all the details. He was in the dark about the full scope of the vampires' plan, yet there was no way they'd believe that.

By attacking the vampire stronghold and killing the head of the Thompson family, Downey had effectively announced that he knew everything, even though he didn't.

The massive imbalance in information and the inevitable logic of mutual suspicion made conflict unavoidable. There was no room for negotiation; war had already begun.

"This is such a headache," Downey muttered, sighing again. "So much for keeping a low profile and quietly building my strength."

He had planned to grow in the shadows, staying under the radar until he was powerful enough to participate in the big events.

But now that seems impossible. The vampires wouldn't let him off the hook, even if they framed it as a show of force to others, a public display to protect their pride. A bloody confrontation was inevitable.

Downey didn't trust the vampires either. He couldn't risk handing over the old bartender in the hopes of a truce, fearing they'd kill him once they got what they wanted.

Both sides were locked in a deadly stalemate, unable to tolerate the bartender falling into the other's hands.

Taking out his phone, Downey sent a message to the mysterious number: Who the hell are you?

After waiting a few moments and receiving no response, he shoved the phone back into his pocket.

"I'm too soft," Downey grumbled to himself. "I should have killed this troublesome old man."

He thought of himself as fundamentally kind, at least when it came to innocents.

He could easily kill villains and those who posed a direct threat, but killing a man who had barely done him any wrong—that was something else.

Of course, his restraint wasn't due to some unbending moral code like that of heroes such as the Flash, who vowed never to kill.

But the old bartender posed a real threat to Downey's safety. Downey could justify killing him, but his hesitation stemmed from a deeper instinct.

This was a world of superheroes, and Downey had a gut feeling that killing the old bartender wasn't just about removing a problem—it was about choosing sides.

If he killed the old man, it felt like aligning himself with the darker side of things.

Not killing him wouldn't necessarily make Downey a hero, but it would keep him from falling fully into the villainous camp.

It was as if someone, somewhere, was forcing him to make a choice—waiting, even expecting him to kill the bartender and cross a line he couldn't return from.

"Who's pulling the strings here?" Downey muttered under his breath, frustration seeping into his voice.

He was tired of being manipulated, tired of playing someone else's game.

He was being pushed to grow up quickly, forced to confront realities that left him with little room to maneuver.

The old bartender, oblivious to the tension around him, snored loudly, having turned over in his sleep.

Downey looked at him with narrowed eyes. This man wasn't just a victim.

There was something more to him. Downey wondered if the old bartender knew he was a pawn, but chose to keep quiet about it.

"But who's the player behind the scenes?" Downey mused.

He pulled out his phone again. It was the only clue he had. If he could track down whoever owned the number, he might get some answers. But how? Downey wasn't skilled in hacking, nor did he know anyone who was.

He didn't trust S.H.I.E.L.D., and his Transformers, while powerful, were still creations of his abilities—they weren't advanced enough to hack into systems like they did in the movies.

"Maybe Professor X... or Magneto," Downey sighed, the thought of either of them making him uneasy.

Both were immensely powerful, and either could easily neutralize him with their abilities.

After a sleepless night, the sun finally rose, casting a warm glow over the horizon.

Downey woke the old bartender, who groggily got to his feet. They needed to modify the motorcycle, and Downey asked what materials were necessary.

"Modifying it for combat is straightforward. You're not after safety or racing speed; you need power and durability," the old bartender explained, his mind sharp despite the alcohol.

"The key lies in the energy circuit. You want your machines to fight for you, which means prioritizing metal strength and energy efficiency."

His analysis was surprisingly insightful, and he even suggested that while motorcycles were handy, tanks and armored vehicles were far superior for battle.

"If you could get your hands on some fifth-generation fighter jets, I could modify them for you and make you unstoppable," the old bartender bragged, waving a bottle of beer.

Downey asked if he could really modify a fifth-generation fighter. The bartender smirked, admitting he had been bluffing.

Smack!

After a well-placed hit, Downey dragged the old bartender—now sporting a swollen face—and headed to a large repair shop in the city.

The shop, secretly renowned for its work in illegal racing modifications, had ties to the local gangs.

Downey left the old man there to oversee the creation of a high-performance motorcycle.

The old bartender immediately got to work, inspecting parts and talking to the staff with surprising confidence.

When he returned to Downey, he grinned, showing off his yellowed teeth.

"They've got everything we need, but it's gonna cost you. A single traction converter is expensive. To modify your bike, I'll need five thousand dollars."

Downey, remembering how much alcohol the two had gone through, agreed without hesitation.

As the old man busied himself with the modifications, Downey stayed on guard. He couldn't afford to lose the bartender now.

Once the transformation of Arcee was complete, Downey knew his next move was crucial.

He had to find Professor X as soon as possible, even if it meant taking a gamble on the professor's integrity.

After all, it was better than trekking across the world to find Magneto's Brotherhood.

And Downey wasn't one to bet lightly.

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Sayo nara~~