Marvelous Meditations #77

The wind howled against the rooftop, carrying the distant hum of sirens and the occasional crack of distant gunfire. Nathan descended in near silence, the thrusters of his new suit dispersing energy in smooth bursts before he landed lightly on the concrete.

Across from him, Bullseye sat casually on the edge of a rusted air duct, legs spread, arms resting lazily on his thighs. A wicked grin curled his lips as his fingers drummed against the hilt of the weapon resting in his lap.

The Ebony Blade.

It pulsed faintly, an unnatural black sheen coating its impossibly sharp edge. Even at a glance, Nathan could feel the power emanating from it—primal, ancient, and bloodthirsty.

Bullseye exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “You know, I should’ve figured you’d show up.” His grin widened, all teeth and malice. “It’s been a long time, Cross. What’s the count now? Six years years?”

He tilted his head slightly, mockingly thoughtful. “No, eleven. Eleven since you and I last had a little chat in that grimy little hole of a prison. Good times.”

Nathan didn’t answer immediately. He studied Bullseye, looking for signs of wear, stress, anything that might hint at an opening. What he found instead was a man who was every bit as dangerous as the last time they’d crossed paths—only now, he had a sword that could cut through damn near anything.

“You were working for the Red Fang then,” Nathan finally said. “Hired to take out a senator. Got yourself caught.” He let his eyes drift to the blade in Bullseye’s grip before adding, “Not used to seeing you so… traditional. Usually, your weapons are smaller. Harder to see coming.”

Bullseye chuckled. “Yeah, well, this one’s a little different. You ever held something like this?” He lifted the Ebony Blade slightly, and Nathan swore he could hear the metal hum, like it was whispering to him.

“Thing’s got a taste for blood. The more you use it, the stronger it makes you. Pretty damn fun.” He let out a slow breath, as if savoring the feeling of it in his hands. “Anyway, back to the old days—remember what happened after our little chat?”

Nathan’s expression darkened. “I told the warden you weren’t secure. That you’d get out if they weren’t careful.”

Bullseye grinned like a wolf. “And what did he do?”

“He didn’t listen.”

“Damn right he didn’t, so I had to show him why he should listen to the professionals.” Bullseye sighed dramatically. “Let me tell you, buddy, I had a blast. Took my time, really got creative. And after I was done painting those walls red, I walked right out the front door.”

He gestured lazily with the blade. “So, tell me, Cross—what’s the plan? Gonna lecture me about all those lives I took? Tell me I’m a monster, try to make me feel bad?” He snickered. “Come on, man, I know you better than that.”

Nathan didn’t rise to the bait. “I’m here to put you down. While I'm at it, I'll also take that sword...”

Bullseye whistled low. “Now that’s interesting.” He stood slowly, rolling his shoulders. “Thing is, I don’t think I’m gonna give it to you.”

Nathan flexed his fingers, his suit responding with a faint hum as energy coursed through its systems. The Extremis in his veins burned, enhancing his reflexes, sharpening his focus. He reached for the Muramasa Blade on his back, its crimson edge gleaming under the city lights.

Bullseye smirked. “Well, shit.” He swung the Ebony Blade, testing its weight. “Guess we're doing this the old-fashioned way, huh?”

Nathan didn’t answer. He launched himself forward.

Bullseye was fast—faster than any baseline human had a right to be. The moment Nathan closed the gap, the assassin pivoted, slashing horizontally with the Ebony Blade.

Nathan barely twisted out of the way, the unnatural edge missing him by a hair. Instead of meeting empty air, the blade sheared through the concrete behind him like butter.

Nathan retaliated instantly, bringing the Muramasa Blade up in a precise, controlled strike aimed at Bullseye’s midsection. The assassin deflected it with a casual flick of his sword, sending sparks flying between them.

Then he grinned.

“You’re gonna have to do better than that.”

He lunged, faster than before, his strikes wild but calculated, each one aiming to either sever a limb or take Nathan’s head clean off. The suit’s systems kicked in, reacting in tandem with Nathan’s Extremis-enhanced reflexes. He ducked, sidestepped, countered.

His blade clashed against Bullseye’s again and again, the force of the blows sending shockwaves across the rooftop.

But something was wrong.

With each clash, Bullseye was getting stronger. His movements became sharper, his strikes heavier. Nathan knew the sword had a corruptive effect on its wielder, but seeing it in action was something else entirely.

No wonder he injured the Warborn Cohorts so easily.

Nathan changed tactics. Instead of brute force, he feinted a high slash before suddenly activating his thrusters, propelling himself backward and then surging forward again in a split second. The sudden burst of speed caught Bullseye off guard—just long enough for Nathan to drive his knee into the assassin’s ribs.

Bullseye staggered back, coughing, but laughed through the pain. “Damn. This suit’s something else.”

Nathan didn’t hesitate. He pressed forward, feinting another strike before redirecting his blade low. The Muramasa Blade sliced through Bullseye’s thigh, crimson spraying against the rooftop.

Bullseye hissed in pain but didn’t fall. Instead, his grip on the Ebony Blade tightened, and with a snarl, he swung it downward with all his might.

Nathan barely had time to react. He raised his left arm, diverting all available energy into his suit’s vibranium plating.

The blade struck home—only to stop dead against the reinforced material. The impact sent a burst of energy rippling outward, but the blade didn’t cut through.

Bullseye’s eyes widened.

Nathan's eyes turned cold. “You lose.”

He twisted his body, driving his blade into Bullseye’s chest. The Muramasa Blade pierced through ribs and lungs, sinking deep. Bullseye gasped, eyes darting downward as blood spilled from his lips.

Nathan stepped closer, twisting the blade for good measure. “No escape this time.”

Bullseye coughed, a weak chuckle escaping him. “Guess not.” His fingers slackened, the Ebony Blade slipping from his grasp. Nathan caught it before it hit the ground.

Bullseye tried to speak again, but the light in his eyes was already fading.

A moment later, his body slumped forward, lifeless.

Nathan exhaled, looking at the sword in his hand. It felt heavier than it should, the whispers of two malicious, bloodthirsty sword spirits relentlessly barraging his mind.

The war wasn’t over. But this was one less loose end to worry about.

He sheathed the Muramasa Blade, then activated his thrusters, lifting off the rooftop.

...

The heavy rain battered against the reinforced glass of the Pentagon office, streaking down in thick sheets as distant thunder rumbled through the night. Inside, under the cold fluorescent lights, General Thaddeus "Thunderbolt" Ross sat at his desk, jaw tight, eyes sharp despite the deep lines of exhaustion etched into his face.

A whiskey glass rested near his hand, untouched. The television on the wall played a news broadcast—his name plastered across the screen in bold, condemning letters. The backlash was worse than expected.

“…President Rodriguez has publicly stated that the allegations against General Ross will not go unanswered. With rising tensions among international allies and domestic outcry against unchecked military operations, sources inside the White House claim—”

Ross flicked a remote, shutting it off. His fingers pressed against his temples as he exhaled sharply. He wasn’t in the mood for this.

“Rough couple of weeks, General?”

Ross didn’t flinch, but his gaze lifted, settling on the man standing near the bookshelves. His visitor had arrived without announcement, without guards. As always.

Gideon Malick.

One of the highest-ranking leaders of HYDRA still operating in the shadows. He was a man whose influence stretched deep into intelligence circles, defense contracts, and foreign policy.

He was a relic, a survivor—one of those men who, much like Ross, understood that power was never in the hands of presidents or elected officials. It was in the hands of those who were needed.

Ross scoffed. “If I needed a damn weatherman, Malick, I’d have turned the TV back on.”

Malick smirked, stepping closer with the slow confidence of a man who had never known fear. He wore a tailored navy-blue suit, immaculate despite the storm outside. A faint scent of expensive cologne lingered in the air.

“I’d say it’s a little more than a storm,” Malick mused, running a finger along the spine of an old war history book on Ross’s shelf. “You’ve got the press foaming at the mouth, big and small fry question your authority, and worst of all…”

He glanced at Ross, voice laced with amusement. “Rodriguez wants your head on a pike.”

Ross leaned back in his chair, unimpressed. “Rodriguez is a politician. He’ll huff and puff, make his speeches, and then when reality kicks in, he’ll realize he still needs people like me.”

Malick chuckled. “Presidents have come and gone, haven’t they? Meanwhile, men like you… men like me… we endure.” He paused, letting the words settle before tilting his head. “But you have to wonder, General. What if, this time, you don’t? What if there's something deeper at play?”

Ross’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t invite you here to listen to doomsday nonsense. If you’ve got a point, Malick, make it.”

Malick reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, black case. He placed it on the desk between them with a deliberate motion.

Ross’s gaze flickered down to it, wary. “What’s this?”

“An insurance policy,” Malick said smoothly, tapping the case. “For a man in your position, the future can be… unpredictable. You’ve spent your career hunting a monster, Ross. Chasing it, trying to control it, dreaming of what the world would look like if it answered to you instead of the other way around.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough to make Ross listen closer. “Now, what if I told you that if things don’t pan out the way you think they will… you wouldn’t have to chase anymore?”

Ross’s expression remained stone-faced, but Malick saw the flicker of interest in his eyes.

Slowly, Ross reached for the case, unfastening the latch and flipping it open. Inside sat a sleek, metallic injector, filled with a dark red fluid that seemed to swirl unnaturally under the dim light.

“Gamma enhancement,” Malick said. “Stronger. More stable than what Banner was exposed to. No accidents, no random mutations. Just raw, unfiltered power. The kind a man like you could use… if it ever came to that.”

Ross stared at the device, his fingers hovering over it for a moment before he shut the case with a sharp click. His gaze snapped back to Malick. “I don’t need this.”

Malick smirked. “Not yet.” He stepped back, buttoning his suit jacket. “But keep it close, General. You never know when the world might decide that men like us aren’t needed anymore.”

He turned, walking toward the door. “And when that day comes… well,” he chuckled, “we both know you’re not the kind of man who goes down without a fight.”

Ross didn’t respond. He simply watched as Malick disappeared into the hall, leaving him alone with the storm outside—and the choice sitting in front of him.