Marvelous Meditations #71

“Roger that. Out.”

As the squad leader’s voice faded, Nathan lowered his comm device and let out a slow exhale.

Luck had been on his side.

He hadn’t expected everything to go this smoothly—well, as smoothly as an assassination masked as a rescue op could go. The president was dead, and Rhodes would take the blame. That meant no eyes on Nathan. No scrutiny on the Warborn Cohorts.

And more importantly, no heat on Vice President Rodriguez.

It had all been a ruse. The Warborn Cohorts were brought in under the pretense of saving the president, a spectacle meant to display their firepower—a show of force commissioned by Rodriguez himself. But a failure was still a failure, and failing to save a president of the United States would be a momentous stain on their record.

Nathan was ready to bite the bullet, but luckily someone was there to take the blame. That someone was Rhodes.

He had considered orchestrating the hit down to the second, making sure the assassination happened exactly as planned. But Bullseye? Bullseye didn’t follow orders. He was a force of nature—an artist of death who only cared about two things: getting paid and enjoying the kill.

There was no guarantee he’d wait for the right moment. No guarantee he wouldn’t just take the shot the second he had a clean line of sight.

And that’s exactly what happened.

Nathan had toyed with the idea of hiring someone else. Someone with discipline. Someone who’d execute the job exactly as instructed. Taskmaster, for example. The man was precise, methodical, and professional—but also paranoid as hell.

Taskmaster would ask questions. He’d dig for answers. He’d try to unravel the bigger picture.

And the last thing Nathan wanted was to have some mercenary gripping him by the balls.

Bullseye, on the other hand?

Bullseye didn’t care. As long as the target suited his twisted sense of fun, and the price was right, he’d do the job. But only on his terms.

And that made him both the perfect asset… and the biggest liability.

Nathan exhaled, rolling his shoulders. For once, things had gone exactly according to plan, despite all his comprehension.

Bullseye had taken the shot at the perfect moment—clean, precise, untraceable. Soon enough, the Warborn squad would track him down and, in a stroke of convenient timing, put him down while "defending themselves." No loose ends. No connections.

By the time the dust settled, the world would see this as a tragic failure on Rhodes’ part—not Nathan’s. And more importantly, Vice President Rodriguez’s hands would remain spotless.

For the most part, Nathan’s job here was done.

But he wasn’t the type to just walk away.

Not yet.

He needed to make sure everything followed the script. Everything had to unfold like the perfect Hollywood blockbuster he remembered from his past life.

Aside from President Ellis’ death—that was a deviation. But one that worked in his favor.

So Nathan stayed put, his keen eyes tracking the chaos above.

His gaze followed the fight between Tony Stark and Aldrich Killian, playing out like a carefully choreographed duel across the skeletal framework of the oil rig’s narrow metal bridges.

Killian was relentless. The Extremis coursing through his body made him shrug off everything Stark threw at him. Fire and rage personified.

Meanwhile, Stark fought like a cornered animal—improvising, adapting, surviving. Nathan watched as Tony switched suits mid-fight, calling in armor after armor like a magician pulling tricks from thin air.

Brilliant bastard.

Every move Stark made was calculated chaos, using every tool in his arsenal to make Killian’s life a living hell. But Killian kept coming. Burning. Regenerating. Unstoppable.

Nathan smirked as he watched the moment he’d been waiting for.

Stark, ever the genius, baited Killian into a trap—locking him inside the Mark XLII suit.

And then?

Boom.

The armor detonated, a fiery explosion swallowing Killian whole.

Stark dropped to the ground, barely catching himself as the fire raged behind him. Nathan’s eyes flicked to the inferno, waiting.

Waiting.

There.

From the heart of the flames, Killian emerged.

Burned, broken—but alive. His skin cracked and blistered before rapidly knitting itself back together. His breathing was ragged, his body steaming from the intense heat, but his eyes still burned with that maniacal, unyielding fire.

Nathan chuckled to himself. Textbook villain resilience.

But then—something else caught his eye.

Movement.

Not Stark.

Not Killian.

Another figure emerged from the wreckage—a woman, blonde hair matted with sweat and soot, moving with deadly intent. Pepper Potts.

She gripped a thick iron pipe in both hands, her knuckles white from how tightly she held it. Her expression was fierce, determined.

There was no hesitation in her stride—she was going to finish this.

Nathan smiled.

Perfect.

Then his expression froze.

Another shadow was closing in on Killian from the opposite side.

Nathan’s stomach twisted.

Damn it.

Without a second thought, he pushed off his vantage point, dropping down. His boots hit the metal scaffolding with a clang, and he took off at a sprint, weaving through the wreckage.

He needed to get there before it was too late.

...

Tony Stark barely managed to prop himself up on one elbow, his breath coming in sharp gasps. His armor was wrecked, pieces of metal plating barely clinging to his body, but his eyes—his eyes were locked onto the impossible sight in front of him.

Aldrich Killian stepped forward, emerging from the fire like a demon pulled straight out of hell. His skin was charred, peeling in places, but underneath, that unnatural, molten glow still pulsed like a heartbeat. He was still standing. Still healing. Still burning.

Killian took his time, each step deliberate, savoring the moment.

“No more false faces,” he rasped, his voice raw from the heat. He spread his arms wide, his grin twisted, his molten veins flaring brighter beneath his skin. “You said you wanted the Mandarin?” He let the question hang in the air, his smoldering eyes locked onto Tony’s.

Tony just stared.

Killian’s grin widened. His voice dropped to a whisper, almost reverent.

“You’re looking at him.”

He let that settle before taking one more step forward.

“It was always me, Tony.”

And then—he went for the grand finish.

Throwing his arms open, his entire body surged with energy, the glow beneath his skin intensifying into a blinding inferno. The air around him shimmered from the heat as he tilted his head back and roared—

“I AM THE MANDARI—”

His sentence never finished.

Because in the next fraction of a second—

BANG.

A solid clang echoed through the wreckage as a giant metal pipe smashed into the side of his head, cutting off his triumphant declaration mid-word.

Killian’s body snapped sideways like a ragdoll hit by a freight train. He was launched across the platform, crashing into a pile of twisted metal and debris.

Tony blinked.

The spot where Killian had been standing a second ago? Now occupied by one Pepper Potts.

She stood there, breathing hard, both hands clenched around the makeshift weapon. Her eyes still burned with adrenaline, her entire stance radiating raw fury and the red light of Extremis.

Tony opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

Then opened it again.

“…I got nothing.”

Pepper barely had time to process what she’d done before Killian began to move.

With an inhuman growl, he shoved aside the wreckage and rose to his feet. His skull had caved slightly from the impact, the wound glowing with exposed heat and rapidly sealing itself shut. His breathing was ragged, but his rage? That was intact.

Before he could take another step—

The high-pitched whine of an Iron Man repulsor shrieked through the air.

Tony’s head snapped up just in time to see one of his suits streaking toward them at full speed.

Its targeting systems locked on.

Directly onto Pepper.

Oh, shit.

Tony’s heart dropped.

"JARVIS!" he shouted, eyes darting between the suit and Pepper. "The subject at my twelve o’clock is NOT a target. Disengage!"

No response.

His fingers shot up to his ear instinctively. He tapped at his comms—

Nothing.

Then it hit him.

His earpiece was gone. Probably knocked loose during the fight.

The Iron Man suit soared overhead, oblivious to Tony’s frantic shouting. Its thrusters roared as it banked hard, locking onto its target—Pepper.

Then—it fired.

A repulsor blast shrieked through the air, aimed directly at her chest.

Pepper barely had time to react, instincts kicking in as she twisted out of the way. The energy beam scorched past, blasting apart a chunk of debris behind her. The suit streaked past them, but even as it flew overhead, it was already circling back for another attack.

Tony was still sitting on the ground, looking between Pepper and the rogue suit with growing horror.

Pepper whipped around to glare at him.

Tony flinched. His panicked expression only worsened when she suddenly broke into a sprint—heading straight for him.

"What?! Are you mad at me?!" he yelped.

Pepper didn’t answer.

Didn’t even slow down.

Instead, she planted one foot on Tony’s knee, using it as a springboard to launch herself into the air—directly toward the incoming suit.

Her body twisted mid-air, and with an explosive yell, her Extremis-enhanced fist punched straight through the suit’s chest.

Metal shrieked. Circuits sparked.

The force of the impact sent them both plummeting to the ground. The suit hit first, crumpling on impact, and Pepper landed on top of it, her glowing fist still buried inside its armor.

For a second, she was still.

Then—a metallic clanking sound pulled her attention to the side.

Her gaze snapped toward the noise, and she saw the aftermath of the earlier repulsor blast—an ammo crate had been blown open. The contents had spilled out, and one particularly massive shell—a tank round—had conveniently rolled right beside her.

Pepper exhaled sharply, then let out a furious yell.

Her hand tore out of the ruined suit, molten metal dripping from her fingers.

Without hesitation, she drove her other fist into the suit’s shoulder joint, tearing through the plating to grab hold of its gauntlet. With one brutal yank, she ripped the entire arm free.

Her head snapped up—Killian was still standing. Still watching.

His expression twisted into something between fascination and rage.

Pepper glared back. Unfazed. Unshaken. Unrelenting.

Then— she pivoted on her heel, swinging her foot at the tank shell like she was lining up for a world-class goal.

Her kick sent the round spinning through the air— right toward Killian.

The shell whistled as it spiraled toward him, and Pepper wasn’t done yet. She flicked her wrist, aiming the stolen gauntlet at the airborne shell.

Her fingers tensed around the repulsor.

Her eyes narrowed.

One shot. That was all it would take. One clean hit, and this nightmare would end.

She steadied her aim, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. The tank round was still spiraling toward Killian—a perfect shot, a perfect moment.

Pepper exhaled, gathering her resolve—

And fired.

—Or at least, she tried.

Because at the very last second, something— no, someone— blurred into existence between her and her target.

A figure, tall and looming, moved with an unnatural speed, intercepting her before her shot could go off.

A cold, blackened hand clamped around her wrist.

Metal. Powerful. Unyielding.

Pepper’s breath hitched as she found herself face-to-face with a monster.

His presence alone was suffocating. He towered over her, his form clad in dark, blood-red armor that gleamed under the dim, flickering lights of the wreckage. His helmet—**sleek and bat-like, with an angular design, partially obscured his face, but the lower half was visible, revealing a mouth curled into a twisted, predatory grin.

And his eyes.

Glowing, crimson, slitted like a predator’s, they bore into her with a hungry intensity that sent a primal chill down her spine.

His left arm was flesh, but his right…

It was fully mechanical, black as onyx, built like something out of a nightmare—jagged plating, clawed fingers, intricate engravings resembling gothic filigree etched across its surface.

And that same monstrous arm was currently holding her in place.

His grip tightened—not enough to crush, but enough to let her know he could.

Then, finally, he, Baron Blood, spoke.

His voice was smooth, deep, and laced with amusement.

“You’ll do.”