Marvelous Meditations #70

Rhodes clenched his jaw. "Yeah, no kidding."

Dangling over the abyss, he stared up at the two Extremis soldiers, their molten-red eyes filled with amusement. They thought they had him. They were wrong.

With a flick of his wrist, Rhodes angled his pistol upward and fired.

BANG!

The shot hit true, severing the second cable that held the container in place.

With a sickening snap, the steel wire whipped loose, and the entire container lurched violently, tilting at a steep angle. The sudden shift caught the Extremis soldiers off guard. Their enhanced bodies adjusted quickly, but not fast enough—they lost their footing.

The woman stumbled first, her boots scraping against the slick steel as she tumbled backward. She let out a sharp snarl before plummeting off the edge, disappearing into the chaos below.

The male Extremis soldier lunged, trying to stabilize himself, but the container jerked again, and he lost his balance. He managed to grab hold of an exposed pipe along the surface, barely hanging on.

Rhodes didn’t stick around to see if he climbed back up.

The container swung wildly, arcing through the air like a wrecking ball, and Rhodes used the momentum to pull himself up just enough to latch on to the president hanging in front of him before the container crashed into a wall.

Ellis’ arms were still bound to the cranes, his Iron Patriot armor locked in place, preventing him from freeing himself.

Rhodes’ eyes darted between the armor’s gauntlet and the steel cable keeping it in place.

"Brace yourself."

Ellis barely had time to react before Rhodes activated the repulsor in the suit’s palm.

A searing blast of energy erupted from the gauntlet, melting through the first cable in an instant.

With one less cable holding him up, Ellis swung through the air in the suit—but Rhodes was ready.

He tightly gripped the president’s arm, both of them swinging through the air as the weight of the armored suit yanked them downward. The night wind rushed past them, the chaos of battle a blur of gunfire, firelight, and falling debris.

The ground was coming up fast.

Rhodes' muscles tensed. He timed it perfectly, waiting until they were close enough—then he let go.

Twisting in the air, he tucked his body, rolling mid-fall before landing in a low crouch, absorbing the impact with a smooth somersault. His boots hit solid metal, his movements precise.

One second to breathe.

Then—crack!

He snapped his pistol upward and fired two quick shots.

Both bullets struck the last remaining cable still attached to Ellis, severing it.

The Iron Patriot armor soon landed on a small container just in front of Rhodes.

He exhaled sharply, eyes darting around, scanning the battlefield. The Norco was still a warzone—fire, bodies, and bullets flying everywhere—but for the moment, they were alive.

Rhodes let out a slow breath, shaking off the adrenaline as he looked the president up and down. The man was disheveled, exhausted, and covered in sweat, but the Iron Patriot armor still fit him like a damn magazine cover.

"You look damn good, Mr. President, but I'm gonna need that suit back."

Ellis let out a tired chuckle, running a gloved hand across the armor's red, white, and blue plating.

Then he glanced down at the drop beneath him. His smile faded. "You don’t actually expect me to—?" He hesitated, motioning toward the ground.

Rhodes scanned the area. No ladders, no ropes, no clean exits. Just a whole lot of chaos, bullet-ridden steel, and a long way down.

"You’ll be fine." He said it like a fact, not a reassurance.

Ellis gave him a skeptical look, then took a steadying breath. "Here goes nothing."

With that, he stepped off the container.

The suit’s stabilization systems kicked in instantly, thrusters firing in short bursts to soften the descent. The armor adjusted his trajectory mid-air, and Ellis landed lightly on his feet, the metal plating hissing with heat as it absorbed the impact.

Rhodes grinned. "Nice landing."

Ellis exhaled and nodded. Rhodes didn’t waste a second.

He stepped forward, pressing a small button hidden beneath an armored plate on Ellis’ shoulder. The suit responded instantly—panels shifted, hydraulic locks disengaged, and the entire exoskeleton split open like an iron cocoon.

Ellis stepped out, rolling his shoulders as he glanced at the armor. "Too bad. I was just starting to enjoy being trapped in this thing."

Rhodes smirked, stepping inside. "Maybe you can take it for a spin once this is over."

The armor sealed around him with a mechanical hiss, servos locking into place as the HUD flared to life before his eyes. He ran a quick diagnostic, rolling his wrists, shifting his legs—everything was in working order.

Then he turned to Ellis, gripping the president's arm and wrapping an armored gauntlet around his torso.

"Alright, Mr. President," Rhodes said, jets warming up beneath his feet. "Ready to go?"

Ellis gave a nod. “As ready as I’ll—”

His words cut off with a violent jerk.

Rhodes barely had time to process what had happened before Ellis' body lurched backward, his eyes widening in shock. A dark stain spread across his chest, a hole punched clean through his suit and flesh.

"Mr. President!" Rhodes shouted, immediately lowering him to the ground, hands scrambling to inspect the wound. Blood seeped through his fingers, warm and sticky, the pulse beneath them weak.

Before he could do anything, a voice boomed through the chaos.

“STEP AWAY FROM THE PRESIDENT!”

Rhodes' head snapped up. His instincts kicked in, armor plates shifting as he raised a repulsor, ready to fire. Then he saw them.

Five figures. Dressed head-to-toe in dark tactical gear, faces obscured, moving with the kind of precision that screamed military experience. Each carried a sleek, futuristic-looking rifle, compact, deadly, and unlike anything Rhodes had ever seen.

They weren’t Killian’s men.

But he sure as hell didn’t know who they were.

“Who the hell are you people?” he demanded.

The squad leader didn’t answer. Instead, he turned slightly, raised his rifle, and fired.

The crack of the shot was sharp, controlled—Rhodes followed the trajectory just in time to see a jagged piece of metal jutting out of a wreckage snap clean in half.

Then the man turned back to him, rifle now dead-set on Rhodes.

“Step away from the president so we can administer first aid. I won't ask again.”

Rhodes' jaw tightened. Every fiber of his being screamed not to trust them, but he didn't have a choice. Not with Ellis’ blood pooling beneath him. Not with time slipping away by the second.

With a reluctant curse, Rhodes lowered his repulsor and stepped back.

His gaze flickered toward Ellis, his face pale, chest rising in shallow, ragged breaths.

He was dying, and Rhodes was no combat medic. These people would be the president's only chance.

Two of the Warborn Cohort operatives dropped to their knees beside the president, their movements swift and precise. Their hands, clad in black tactical gloves, pressed firmly against his chest, assessing the wound.

“Heart’s nicked,” one of them muttered, voice tight with urgency. “Bleeding out fast.”

The second operative didn’t hesitate. From a pouch on her belt, she yanked out a small, pressurized canister and ripped off the cap. With practiced efficiency, she jammed the nozzle against Ellis' wound and pressed the trigger.

A hiss filled the air as a biofoam-like substance expanded into the cavity, sealing the worst of the damage.

“Bleeding’s slowing,” the first operative confirmed, glancing at the vitals displayed on a wrist-mounted screen. “But he’s going into shock.”

Ellis’ breath hitched. His eyes, already unfocused, started to roll back.

"Stay with us, sir!"

The first operative immediately tilted his head back and started CPR, fingers interlocked as they pressed down on his sternum, delivering sharp, controlled compressions. The other leaned in, sealing her lips over his and forcing air into his lungs.

Rhodes could only stand there, helpless, fists clenched.

The compressions continued.

Thirty.

Sixty.

Ninety.

Nothing.

The operative delivering CPR sat back on their heels, swearing under their breath. The second one was already reaching for another tool—a sleek, compact device no bigger than a palm. She flipped it open, revealing two small prongs that crackled with electricity.

"Clear."

They pressed it against the president's chest and fired. Ellis’ body jerked violently, but when he settled…

Still nothing.

The two operatives exchanged a grim look.

The first operative turned to the squad leader and slowly shook his head.

The squad leader exhaled sharply, his jaw clenching. Then, without hesitation, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small communication device.

As he did, Rhodes stood there, caught between disbelief and outright despair.

His gut twisted. His mind screamed at him to do something, but what the hell could he do?

The president was dead.

Rhodes turned sharply toward the squad leader, looking for someone—anyone—to vent his frustration at.

"Just who the hell are you people?!" he barked.

The squad leader didn’t even spare him a glance. He simply lifted the device to his lips and spoke.

“We reached the president,” he reported flatly. “He’s already dead.”

A moment of static silence.

Then, Nathan’s voice came through, calm, controlled. "What happened?"

The squad leader side-eyed Rhodes before responding.

"Some idiot thought it was a good idea to get the president out of the suit in the middle of a warzone. Now he has a hole in his chest..."

Rhodes felt the words like a punch to the gut. He wanted to lash out, to snap back, but…

What could he say?

He had no defense. The squad leader was right.

Nathan’s voice came through the comms, steady, unshaken.

“The shooter?”

The squad leader glanced at Ellis' body, then let his gaze sweep the battlefield—the burning wreckage, the scattered bodies, the towering cargo containers stacked like steel tombstones. He was already doing the math.

"First and second squads have the perimeter secure," he reported. "Whoever took the shot had to be at a considerable distance."

He turned his eyes north, where the docks met the city’s edge—a sprawl of rooftops, cranes, and abandoned structures. A perfect vantage point.

“Shot came from that direction. Likely a sniper outside the docks.” He let the information hang for a second before asking, “Orders, sir?”

Nathan didn’t hesitate.

“If the president’s dead, there’s nothing left for you there. Let the other squads mop up the area.”

Then, a sharper edge crept into his tone.

“You and your team will find the shooter. Try to take them alive. If not... end them.”

The squad leader gave a curt nod, even though Nathan couldn’t see it.

“Roger that. Out.”

With that, he slipped the comm device back into his vest and turned to his team, his expression unreadable.

"You heard the boss. Time to go hunting."

The operatives wordlessly acknowledged the order, snapping magazines into place, racking slides, and checking their gear with efficient precision.

That’s when Rhodes finally snapped.

"Just what the hell is going on here?! And what am I supposed to do now?"

The squad leader turned his head just enough to look at him, his expression as dry as dust.

"Don’t know. Don’t care." His tone was flat. Matter-of-fact. “We're just hired muscle on the VP's payroll. This is your mess, pal. Not ours.”

Then, without another word, he turned and gestured forward. “Move out.”

His squad fell in behind him, their figures swiftly vanishing into the ruins—ghosts on the hunt.

Rhodes just stood there, fists clenched, watching them disappear into the night.

And behind him, Ellis lay still.