Marvelous Meditations #72

Pepper Potts struggled against the iron grip that held her, panic flashing across her face as she realized—she couldn’t break free.

No matter how much strength the Extremis virus had given her, no matter how much adrenaline pumped through her veins, the blackened, mechanical hand wrapped around her wrist didn’t budge an inch.

It was like being caught in a vice.

Her breath hitched, her mind racing for a way out, but before she could act, a ragged groan cut through the chaos.

Killian.

The Extremis-enhanced terrorist staggered, bracing himself against a twisted metal beam. The shell she had kicked at him had caught him right in the face, sending him crashing through the wreckage like a ragdoll. His once-pristine, confident posture was gone—replaced by an unsteady, half-broken stance.

His body still glowed, veins pulsing with heat as his regeneration fought to keep up, but there was no mistaking it—he was rattled, clearly not an immediate threat.

Pepper turned back to the red-eyed figure in front of her. 'Who is this guy?'

Her lips parted, voice edged with demand, but she barely got the words out.

“Who are—”

Then came the blur.

A dark shape raced toward them at unnatural speed, cutting through the carnage like a bullet.

And before Baron Blood could even register the attack, a crimson blade came slicing through the air—aimed directly at his arm.

He barely managed to react.

Instinct took over, and he let go of Potts and threw himself backward, leaping away just in time to avoid being cleaved apart. A fraction of a second later, that same blade passed through the space where his mechanical limb had been.

A perfect strike. Aimed precisely. Intended to sever.

Baron Blood landed a few feet away, boots scraping against the debris.

His glowing eyes locked onto the assailant, and then, he froze. Recognition hit like a thunderclap.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Cloaked in shadowy casual wear that barely concealed the raw precision in his stance.

And most of all—those eyes; cold, detached, unyielding, staring at him as if he were somehow less.

Baron Blood’s expression darkened, lips curling into a silent snarl. He knew this man.

This was the same mortal who took his arm. And he was wielding the same cursed blade he had used to mutilate him.

“Cross!”

Baron Blood snarled, baring fangs that gleamed like knives. His body tensed with rage, his crimson eyes blazing with fury.

Nathan, however, barely acknowledged him.

With the same dry, unimpressed stare, he tilted his head and let out a slow breath. Then, shifting the Muramasa blade to rest its blunt edge against his shoulder, he regarded the vampire with a bored expression.

“You’re still here?” he mused, his voice devoid of amusement. “I thought you were smarter than this. You turned tail and ran the last time we met… Now you’re back? What happened? IQ drop along the way?”

The taunt landed like a slap.

Baron Blood’s expression twisted into something near feral. His clawed fingers curled into fists, his breathing turned heavy with unfiltered hatred.

“I was careless last time.” His voice was low, vibrating with fury. “But I won’t make the same mistake again.”

In the next instant, he vanished.

Nathan’s grip on the sword tightened.

A blur of motion—Baron Blood reappeared directly in front of him, lunging at full speed.

Nathan swung the blade, fast and precise.

But hit nothing.

Gone.

Baron Blood flickered out of existence, shifting in and out of sight with unnatural speed, appearing to Nathan’s right.

“That accursed blade will never touch my immortal flesh again!”

His voice echoed from multiple directions as he disappeared and reappeared, circling Nathan with impossible speed, shifting from one point to another, a predator toying with his prey.

His movements were erratic—one moment to the left, the next to the right, then behind, then above.

A lesser fighter would have been overwhelmed.

Nathan?

He closed his eyes.

He didn't chase the blur, didn't waste a single movement swinging at nothing.

Instead, he listened.

The world slowed.

The clink of loose debris shifting under Baron Blood’s boots.

The rush of displaced air from his movements.

The faintest whisper of weight shifting from one foot to another.

And then—

A difference.

A tiny, distinct break in the pattern.

Baron Blood broke his rhythm.

Just for a fraction of a second, his footfall changed.

Nathan turned just as Baron Blood closed the distance.

The vampire's clawed prosthetic arm was already swinging down, aiming to tear into his flesh.

Nathan’s sword arm wouldn’t be fast enough to intercept. Too late to block.

So he didn’t try.

Instead, he raised his left hand—

And caught Baron Blood’s arm mid-swing.

The impact sent a shockwave through the ground, scattering loose debris.

For a moment, neither moved.

Baron Blood’s red eyes widened in disbelief. His grip trembled, but Nathan's hold didn't waver.

A mortal shouldn’t be able to match his strength.

Nathan barely spared him a glance before shifting his focus to the arm in his grasp.

His fingers pressed against the surface—a familiar density. A near-weightless durability.

His brow raised slightly.

“Vibranium?”

No answer.

Baron Blood was too stunned to speak.

Nathan smirked. “I’ll be taking that.”

Before the vampire could react—

Nathan’s blade flashed.

A clean, perfect slice.

For the third time, Nathan severed Baron Blood’s arm, the prosthetic falling uselessly to the ground, still twitching.

A piercing shriek ripped through the air as Baron Blood stumbled back, clutching at the stump where his prosthetic had been.

Pain brought him back to reality.

He tried to leap away, to retreat—

Nathan didn’t let him.

His arm shot forward, fingers curling around Baron Blood’s face.

With brutal, unrelenting force—

Nathan slammed his head into the ground.

The earth cracked beneath the impact, sending a deep tremor through the battlefield.

Nathan pressed his boot firmly against Baron Blood’s chest, keeping the struggling vampire pinned against the cracked pavement.

The rage in Baron Blood’s eyes was almost amusing, but Nathan wasn’t in the mood for drawn-out theatrics.

He sighed and turned his head, casting a glance toward Tony Stark and Pepper Potts.

Both of them were frozen—staring at him, staring at Baron Blood, staring at the Muramasa Blade still slick with fresh crimson.

Nathan exhaled through his nose.

“Let’s make this quick, shall we?” He turned his attention back to the vampire beneath him. “Why are you here?”

Baron Blood's lips curled back, revealing sharp fangs. His crimson eyes burned with pure hate.

“You’re a dead man, Cross,” he snarled, his voice a guttural growl. “I will kill you, and then I—”

Nathan didn’t let him finish.

With a sharp thrust, he plunged the Muramasa Blade into Baron Blood’s abdomen.

The vampire's body arched violently, a horrific shriek tearing from his throat. The blade’s cursed steel burned him from the inside out, eating away at his unnatural resilience, corrupting his ability to heal.

Nathan remained unfazed. His grip on the blade never wavered.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve gotten a taste of my sword,” he said calmly, watching as Baron Blood twitched in agony. “So I don’t have to explain what it does unless you've really turned stupid....”

To drive the point home, he twisted the blade ever so slightly.

Baron Blood howled, his claws scraping against the ground.

Nathan tilted his head slightly, watching the vampire squirm before continuing.

“Your healing factor is impressive,” he admitted, his tone still eerily level. “But I doubt even Dracula would survive if he got cut in half with this thing.”

The weight of that truth settled. Baron Blood’s expression wavered between fury and something closer to fear.

Nathan’s grip tightened on the sword’s hilt. “So I’ll ask again, and your answer better not disappoint,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. “Why are you here?”

Baron Blood didn’t need any more convincing. The pain was too real. The Muramasa Blade carved through his unnatural flesh like it was made of paper, and he knew—he wouldn’t heal from this one.

With gritted teeth, he rasped out his answer.

“HYDRA… wants the Extremis Serum,” he admitted, his voice strained with agony. “I was sent to secure a specimen for study.”

Nathan let out a quiet hum, considering the answer.

“And yet,” he mused, his grip on the sword unwavering, “instead of grabbing just anyone and slipping away unnoticed, you went after Miss Potts.”

His eyes narrowed.

“You could have taken any test subject and been long gone before anyone was the wiser. So tell me…”

His tone darkened.

“Why her?”

Baron Blood’s expression twisted, his lips curling into a grotesque grin, his fangs glinting under the dim light.

“Did you take a good look at her?” he sneered, his voice thick with something vile. “She’s just my type…”

From the corner of his vision, Nathan caught a glimpse of Pepper Potts hurriedly covering her chest, her face flushing red with a mix of embarrassment and disgust.

His eye twitched.

Without hesitation, he twisted the blade.

A new shriek tore from Baron Blood’s throat, raw and guttural, his body convulsing under the fresh wave of searing pain.

Nathan’s voice remained flat.

“And what’s the real reason?”

Baron Blood’s grin shattered as he gasped through the pain, his fangs clenched tight.

“She’s Stark’s woman,” he spat out. “That makes her leverage. If we had her, we could force Stark to work for HYDRA.”

Nathan stared at him for a moment longer, contemplating whether there was anything else worth extracting.

Then—

A loud exclamation cut through the tense air, followed by the clanking of shifting metal and crumbling debris.

“YOU AGAIN!”

Nathan’s head turned toward the source of the voice, his expression shifting into one of mild irritation.

There, standing in the middle of the wreckage of stone and twisted steel, was Aldrich Killian.

His once-pristine suit was in tatters, his body scorched and glowing with the embers of Extremis regeneration. His face twisted into a mask of pure hatred, directed entirely at Nathan.

Nathan sighed.

He sure was persistent.

He’d give him that much.

That said…

Nathan’s fingers twitched.

Killian had already outlived his usefulness.

With a flick of his wrist, his energy pistol slid seamlessly into his waiting hand, springing out from his sleeve with mechanical precision.

Killian, perhaps still delirious from the beating he’d taken, or just too far gone in his own delusions, didn’t react.

His fiery gaze remained locked on Nathan as he snarled, his chest heaving.

“Once I kill Stark, I will then kill you! I will take over this country and then—”

The next moment, his head quite literally exploded.

A single, fully-charged energy shot from Nathan’s pistol had torn straight through Killian’s skull, reducing it to nothing more than a grotesque mist of blood and charred tissue.

His headless body stood motionless for a fraction of a second.

Then, with a sickening crunch, it toppled backward into the wreckage.