Marvelous Meditations #69

Nathan stood at the edge of the rooftop, his gloved hands resting lightly on the rusted railing as he gazed down at the chaos unfolding below. The Norco loomed in the water like a rusted giant, its deck crawling with Killian’s soldiers, all of them glowing with the unnatural heat of Extremis.

Massive cranes swung overhead, suspending stacks of shipping containers, casting long, jagged shadows across the deck. The air smelled of salt and burning fuel.

Gunfire cracked through the night.

Nathan exhaled slowly, eyes still closed, listening. Distant, scattered shots. A sharp, rhythmic exchange—automatic rifles. Then a heavier, concussive blast—the unmistakable sound of repulsor fire.

He opened his eyes just in time to see a squadron of Iron Man suits slicing through the sky, their metallic bodies glinting under the industrial floodlights. They hovered over the ship for a brief moment, like predators sizing up their prey, before scattering in different directions. The night lit up as repulsor blasts rained down, tearing into the deck below.

But Killian’s men didn’t flinch.

Enhanced by Extremis, they moved like predators—some launching themselves into the air with superhuman strength, latching onto the armored suits in mid-flight, trying to rip them apart with burning hands. Others remained on deck, raising their weapons and unloading at the advancing machines, a futile but relentless effort.

Nathan watched as an Iron Man suit took a direct hit from an Extremis soldier who had managed to cling onto its back, forcing his searing fingers into the armor’s joints. The suit’s thrusters sputtered.

Then, in a final act of defiance, its chest-mounted Unibeam fired at full power, blasting both itself and the attacker into a fiery explosion. Pieces of metal and flesh rained down into the sea.

Another suit barely evaded a rocket blast before retaliating, its shoulder-mounted micro-missiles locking onto a group of soldiers below. The explosion sent bodies flying, limbs searing as flames engulfed them.

On both sides, they were falling. One by one.

Nathan’s gaze shifted upward. Suspended high above the deck, President Ellis hung helplessly in midair, bound inside the Iron Patriot suit. Thick metal clamps locked his arms in place, securing him to the outstretched cranes. Beneath him, a massive fuel tank sat ominously, its surface slick with oil. One stray shot, one wrong move, and Ellis would be nothing more than ash.

Nathan inhaled deeply, steadying his nerves against the storm of chaos below. The night smelled of oil, burning metal, and gunpowder—a scent he’d long since grown accustomed to. Without breaking his gaze from the battlefield, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a small radio device.

Pressing the button, he spoke with measured calm.

"Warborn Cohort, clear to engage."

A brief crackle of static followed before a voice on the other end responded, precise and composed.

"Warborn Cohort en route. ETA... ten... nine... eight..."

As the countdown ticked down, the distant roar of engines grew louder. Then, right on cue, five black SUVs came skidding to a halt near the dock’s entrance. The vehicles bore no official insignia—just a single golden Roman helmet painted onto each door, gleaming under the floodlights.

The doors swung open in perfect unison.

From each SUV, five figures emerged, moving with the fluidity of trained operatives. Clad in sleek, form-fitting tactical suits of advanced polymer plating, they were faceless shadows, their helmets obscuring every feature. Strapped to their bodies were an array of compact gadgets, throwing knives, and sidearms, but in their hands, each held a futuristic-looking rifle—sleek, angular, and ominously silent.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

A series of quick hand signs were exchanged, barely perceptible in the dim lighting. Then, in synchronized precision, they moved out—each fireteam splitting off with calculated purpose, their movements fast and deliberate as they closed in on the Norco.

Nathan watched them for a moment, his expression unreadable.

Then, with a slow exhale, he let the radio device slip from his fingers, the small piece of tech clattering against the rooftop. He stepped forward, closer to the edge, scanning the battlefield below.

His gaze flicked from President Ellis—still bound in the Iron Patriot suit, dangling over the fuel tank—to a distant vantage point where the faint glint of a sniper scope barely betrayed its owner’s position.

Everything was moving into place.

Nathan tightened his gloves, bent his knees slightly—then pushed off.

The wind roared past his ears as he plummeted toward the chaos, vanishing into the night.

...

The Warborn Cohort moved like phantoms through the battlefield, their black suits absorbing the dim light of the dock’s industrial floodlamps. The Norco was a warzone, littered with the burning wreckage of downed Iron Man suits and the mangled bodies of Killian’s Extremis-enhanced soldiers.

Through the dark, a five-man squad advanced in tight formation, their sleek rifles held firm, scanning for threats.

Their weapons, courtesy of Elias Starr, had already proven their worth—each shot cutting through the superheated flesh of Extremis soldiers like a scalpel through tissue. No wasted movement. No hesitation.

Their leader, Sigma-Three, halted near a stack of rusted shipping containers, raising a clenched fist. The squad stopped instantly, pressing into cover as they listened. Over the chaos of gunfire and screaming metal, there was something else—heavy, uneven breathing.

“Contact. Left.” Sigma-Three’s voice was a whisper through the comms.

A shadow moved from behind a container, glowing veins of molten red pulsing under its skin. The Extremis soldier barely had time to react before Sigma-Three’s rifle barked twice.

CRACK-CRACK!

The enhanced man staggered, holes punched clean through his chest. Superheated blood hissed as it splattered against the metal ground, but the soldier didn’t fall. He grinned.

His body ignited, heat rolling off him in waves, and in a blur, he lunged forward.

Sigma-Three didn’t flinch. Another squadmate—Gamma-Two—fired a precise burst, three rounds tearing into the soldier’s skull, sending him collapsing in a molten heap.

“Goddamn freaks,” Gamma-Two muttered, ejecting his magazine. “I already hate these bastards more than the Taliban.”

No one responded. There was no time.

Another pair of Extremis soldiers vaulted over a railing from above, landing hard enough to dent the steel beneath them. Sigma-Three spun, already squeezing the trigger, but one of them moved too fast—sidestepping the shot and closing the distance.

Before Sigma-Three could react, the Extremis soldier was on him, gripping his rifle and twisting it away. The heat from his body was intense—like standing too close to an open furnace.

The Warborn operative barely had a second before the enhanced soldier thrust a fist toward his gut, but Sigma-Three was faster.

He flipped a small, disk-like device from his belt and slammed it onto the soldier’s chest.

A violent shockwave of blue energy exploded outward. The Extremis soldier convulsed, body locking up as arcs of electricity crackled over his skin, suppressing the regenerative heat coursing through him.

Sigma-Three didn’t waste the opportunity. With a sharp twist, he wrenched his rifle free and drove the barrel under the soldier’s chin.

BOOM!

The Extremis soldier’s head snapped back as the exit wound exploded from his skull, steam hissing from the hole. His body fell limp, smoldering as it crumpled to the ground.

The squad barely had a second to breathe before a thunderous metallic groan echoed from above.

They looked up—just in time to see a massive shipping container dislodging from a crane high above, plummeting toward them at terminal velocity.

“MOVE!” someone shouted, but there was nowhere to go.

The shadow loomed over them, death coming in a six-ton steel coffin—

Then something hit it mid-air.

A blur of motion, then a shockwave as a fist wrapped in glowing red energy collided with the falling container. The entire mass of steel was sent flying as if it had been struck by a wrecking ball.

The Warborn operatives snapped their heads to the side—just in time to see Nathan Cross, his fist still shimmering with residual energy from the Extremis boost, standing where the container had been.

He exhaled, shaking his hand, his gaze flicking toward them.

“Stay sharp,” he said coolly, before vanishing back into the chaos, already hunting his next target.

The squad stood there for a second, still processing what had just happened.

“…The hell was that?” one of them muttered.

Sigma-Three let out a slow breath, gripping his rifle tighter.

“Our damn boss being goddamn freak...”

No one argued.

With that, they pushed forward—into the fire.

...

James Rhodes stood on the narrow metal bridge, the storm of battle raging around him. Fires burned across the deck of the Norco, gunfire and explosions echoing in the night. Below him, suspended midair by thick steel cables, President Ellis dangled, his body encased in the Iron Patriot suit, arms stretched wide as he hung from the cranes like a twisted execution display.

Rhodes gritted his teeth and called out, "Mr. President!"

Ellis lifted his head, his face strained but alert.

"Colonel?" he exhaled in relief.

Rhodes nodded, his tone firm. "Just hold on, alright? I'm coming!"

Before he could take a step, the rhythmic thuds of something heavy striking metal sent a chill down his spine. The sound was getting closer.

Rhodes turned—two Extremis-enhanced soldiers were sprinting toward him at an inhuman speed, one man and one woman, their glowing veins pulsing like molten rivers beneath their skin.

Their eyes locked onto him, their expressions twisted with a mixture of hunger and sadistic glee.

Rhodes clenched his jaw. "Yeah, of course. Because nothing’s ever easy."

No time to fight.

Instead, he sprinted toward the edge of the bridge, yanking his jacket off and wrapping it around one of the steel cables suspending a shipping container near the president. Without hesitation, he leapt over the railing, gripping tight as he slid down at a breakneck speed.

Sparks flew as the friction burned through the fabric, heat seeping into his hands.

He landed hard on the container, nearly losing his balance as it swayed beneath him. Before he could even catch his breath, the Extremis soldiers jumped after him, landing effortlessly, their glowing footprints sizzling against the steel.

Rhodes reacted on instinct, whipping his pistol up and firing.

CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

Three bullets slammed into each of them, square in the chest. Direct hits.

The Extremis soldiers barely flinched.

Instead, they staggered back a step, their wounds already closing, molten flesh knitting back together. Their glowing faces twisted into snarls, their eyes burning with rage.

Rhodes felt his stomach sink. "Oh, that ain't good..."

The male Extremis soldier bared his teeth in a wicked grin. Then, without a word, he lunged.

Rhodes kept firing, but the rounds did nothing. In seconds, the man was in his face, swinging a blazing-hot fist straight at him.

Rhodes ducked, and the punch slammed into one of the thick steel cables supporting the container.

The impact sent a violent tremor through the entire structure, the wire snapping apart with a sharp twang.

The container lurched, tilting sharply.

Rhodes lost his footing. He barely had time to register what was happening before he was sliding backward, the edge of the container rushing toward him.

At the last second, he threw out his arms and caught the lip of the metal surface, fingers locking onto the edge as his legs dangled over empty air.

The Extremis soldiers barely reacted to the shifting terrain, their enhanced bodies adjusting instantly to the instability. They stalked forward, looming over him, their faces full of amusement.

The woman crouched down, smirking.

"Looks like you're in a bad spot..."

Rhodes gritted his teeth, sweat dripping down his temple.