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“F.R.I.D.A.Y., what’s my schedule for today?” 
Harley’s yell bounced down the hall and into the living room, where one of F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s many base stations was set upon the coffee table.
“Meeting at 9, boss,” she responded with an added boost from the television’s sound system. “The one about funding for the second Iron Legion.”
“Aaand what time is it now?”
“8:24.”
“Aaaah.” 
Harley paused mid-scrub, the shower sponge that had blazed a trail of suds across his chest now still in his soapy grip. He could already tell it was gonna be a long day, wasn’t it?

Hurriedly, Harley rinsed himself off and hopped into a towel, clutching it closed as he dashed down the hall for the safety of his bedroom. Pants would be a big help, for sure. Funding meetings were pretty snooty, but not too snooty, so a pair of jeans would probably do. White button up too, maybe? Sort of a business casual type thing. And the sunglasses, so he didn’t look like he was trying too hard with the whole proper presentation business. 

The shades were halfway up his face, resting on the bridge of his nose, when F.R.I.D.A.Y. called out to him once again. 
“Boss? Multiple high power energy signals outside the building. Directly outside the window, actually.” 
Harley paused. He chewed his lip, brow furrowed. What the hell was that all about? With his pointer and his thumb, he pushed the shades up his nose and turned towards the door. Buttoning his shirt as he went, he skidded around the corner on the heel of his plimsoll, turned to face the balcony doors. 
He knitted his brow and drew his head back in confusion. 

“Is that the Iron Legion?”
There were at least a half dozen of them, hovering ominously by the balcony. They stared their hollow, lifeless stare straight through the doors and right at Harley. No, this couldn’t have been his Iron Legion. The design was different, for starters, and his were only in the prototype stages—nowhere near this numerous, or this functioning. 
Slowly, they each raised one hand, pointing their palms towards the door. 
Ah, nuts. 
“F.R.I.D.A.Y.! Wardrobe Malfunction Protocol, now!”
Taking one step back, Harley darted forward, tucking into a roll as the Repulsor fire sailed over his head and shattered the table behind him. 
“Armour’s on its way, boss!”
First came the legs and hands, and that was just what Harley needed: Immediately, he hopped up and threw his hands down, blasting off from the living room and straight past the Sentinels. The robots pursued, and so too did the rest of the Mark X, each armour piece accelerating towards their wearer until he was finally fully suited up. 

“Brrrr,” Harley trilled through pursed lips, shaking his head to stave off the morning sleepiness. “There’s a wake-up call for ya. Beats a room full of dead-eyed execs, anyways.” 
Darting to the side, Harley barely dodged a hail of Repulsor fire from the pursuing Sentinels, earning a hiss through clenched teeth. “What are those guys? Are we gonna have to sue someone for plagiarism?” 
“Not ours, boss. I scanned them: All I can tell is they’ve got some serious power readings—it knocks the Arc Reactor out of the park.” 
Oh, that really wasn’t good.

Flipping around midair, Iron Lad returned fire with a volley of his own Repulsor blasts, aiming true for the dead centre of each Sentinel. Though their relentless pursuit was slowed somewhat, they were nonetheless undeterred, pushing through the fire with not a scratch on them to show for it. Soon, they returned fire of their own, far too much for Harley to dodge it all: A blast to the shoulder sent him tumbling back, struggling to regain balance midair. 
“Serious damage to the armour’s structural integrity, boss! Servos are knackered in the right shoulder!” 
Alright, enough of this. He’d have time to figure out what the hell these things were when he put them down. He had hoped to use his blasts as a distraction to gain further height above the clouds, but he had barely managed to clear the tops of the highest buildings. Looks like he’d have to stay and fight, then.

Pushing himself back upright with his palm thrusters, Iron Lad puffed his chest and faced down the oncoming battalion. Gradually, a glow began to grow from the Arc Reactor, energy crackling across the bright blue surface. Surely, this would do it. 

The Sentinels stopped, lining up single file before him, and held out their palms. More and more energy began to coalesce in the middle of Harley’s chest, power levels rising further as it sparked and shone and…
Spluttered, hissed, and went dark.

The Sentinels lowered their palms. The inside of the Mark X was plunged into darkness, the displays disappearing and F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice now silenced. An absence most notable, though, was the hum of his propulsion devices—the propulsion devices that kept him in the air. 

“Ahhh, nuts.” 
Powerless as the suit seized up, Harley plummeted down from the Los Angeles skyline—and the Sentinels rocketed downwards alongside him, preparing a Cryopod.

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Elsewhere, Jasper was passed out in someone’s garden.

Of course, if someone asked him, his story would be far more glamorous: He’d defeated the Sentinels, he’d say. Kicked their asses and hopped on board their ship to kick the ass of their boss. But the only one kicking any ass was the frankly asinine amounts of alcohol Jasper refused to metabolise, against his liver’s better judgement. 
To be fair, he had kicked ass moments ago, at some party he had found his way to. He wasn’t really sure what it was for, or who was hosting it. An invitation sort of worked its way down the social chain of higher-ups to Jasper’s…sycophants, he’d call them if he knew what the word meant. Inevitably, he looked at someone funny, and they looked at him funny, and a few insults later they were punching each other out on the dance-floor.
Jasper won, of course. Because of course he would; he could take his arm off and slap it around like a prehensile baseball bat. But decorum demanded any brawlers take their fight elsewhere, so they had adjourned to the garden. 

It was a very nice garden. From this angle—half-face down in the dirt—the primroses looked lovely. So nice a garden it was, that—through a combination of enrapturement by the petunias, and an inescapable sense of awkwardness that threatened to emerge should he walk back into the party—Jasper had decided he’d stay here for an extended smoke break. And then a smoke break became a drink break, and a drink break became a drinks, plural, break, and then he was half-face down in the dirt. 
But no one had to know that. Because Jasper’s made up story was definitely what would have happened had he been awake. 
Certainly. 

And so, scooped up rather from his resting place in a bed of daffodils, Jasper was mercifully transferred by the Sentinels to somewhere more comfortable. Which, at this level of inebriation, was really all that mattered. 
Well, at least someone was enjoying all this.