The armor jets off further skyward, so Stark and the Legion pursue. Encryption's solid, familiar too, and he knows where to press, where to pull at code like thread winding out from a sweater, careful coaxing so as not to break the fine weave of it. "Who are you," he murmurs, lagging behind to let the cavalry proceed, because this is... it's taking him longer than expected, with the odd, sinking sensation crawling up his spine.

"Unidentified craft," the Legion droids declare through comms as one smooth male voice, clinically precise, "You are flying in restricted White City airspace without permission. Please disengage all ordnance, and we will escort you to the nearest safe landing platform. Failure to comply will result in your immediate destruction."

So polite. So stern, as they offer her a wide berth of airspace and flank her, one by one.