# ABOARD THE MARAUDER — EN ROUTE TO MIAMI
The cargo bay of the Marauder resembled what might happen if Tony Stark had decided to build a cathedral to his own genius, then gotten distracted halfway through by the urge to make it even more spectacular. Thirty-four Iron Man suits stood in perfect formation, their red-and-gold frames gleaming like mechanized saints in a religion devoted entirely to engineering brilliance and controlled explosions.
Tony Stark prowled between them with the satisfied swagger of a man who had not only invented perfection but convinced it to wear his colors. His hand traced lovingly across the chestplate of the Mark 17, the gesture almost reverent.
"Heartbreaker," he announced to his audience, his voice carrying that particular blend of arrogance and genuine enthusiasm that had made him famous. "RT output like a small sun having a good day, flight systems smoother than my lawyer's excuses, and a targeting system so accurate I could perform microsurgery from orbit while reciting the periodic table backwards." He flashed that trademark Stark grin at Harry. "You know, Tuesday afternoon activities."
Harry Potter leaned against the observation platform's railing with the casual elegance of someone who had learned to make relaxation look like a weapon. His emerald eyes, bright as fresh spring leaves, held that particular gleam that suggested he was mentally composing increasingly creative ways to verbally eviscerate someone. The corner of his mouth quirked upward in what those who knew him recognized as the warning sign of incoming British devastation.
"Thirty-four suits," he said, his voice carrying that crisp, perfectly articulated diction that could make grocery lists sound like declarations of war. "Seventeen enhanced soldiers who, by all accounts, have a tendency to explode when mildly inconvenienced. Unless you're planning to have JARVIS teach them synchronized swimming, this looks less like tactical preparation and more like you've developed an unfortunate emotional dependency on bringing absolutely everything you own to every party."
"Oh, please," Tony scoffed, spreading his arms in a gesture that encompassed his entire mechanical congregation. "With these particular party crashers, there is no such thing as overkill. There's 'adequate preparation' and there's 'explaining to Pepper why Miami is now a crater.' JARVIS ran the numbers—apparently, the statistical probability of catastrophic structural failure involving half the Eastern Seaboard is high enough that what normal people call 'excessive' is what I call 'basic courtesy to Florida's continued existence.'"
JARVIS's voice drifted from the speakers with that particular combination of artificial intelligence and genuine wit that had made him Tony's favorite creation. The AI's tone was smooth as aged whiskey and twice as warming.
"Sir is, as always, remarkably modest in his assessments. The mathematical probabilities suggest that 'overkill' is not merely improbable but actually mathematically impossible in this particular scenario. I would, however, strongly recommend against simultaneous detonation of all units within Miami's metropolitan area, unless our strategic objective has shifted to contributing meaningfully to global sea-level rise."
Harry's laugh was low and rich, the sound of someone genuinely delighted by superior wit. "JARVIS, I do believe you're the only artificial intelligence I've encountered whose sarcasm could cut glass. Impressive programming, that."
"You flatter me, Mr. Potter. I've always aspired to earn recognition for wit from someone whose own verbal precision could be classified as a controlled substance in civilized countries."
"Careful now," Harry replied, his grin sharpening to something that could have been used to perform surgery. "Keep that up and I'll have to recommend you for honorary British citizenship. We're frightfully selective about our sarcasm standards, you understand."
"An honor I would treasure above all others, sir. Though I suspect the paperwork might prove challenging, given my lack of corporeal form."
"Details," Harry waved dismissively. "We've knighted stranger things."
From below, Susan Bones had dropped into a crouch beside the Mark 23, her hands moving over the armor plating with the reverent curiosity of a scholar discovering a new natural law. Her copper-red hair caught the ambient light from the arc reactors, and her green eyes—nearly as bright as Harry's own—were wide with the kind of excitement that physicists experienced when reality decided to bend its own rules just for fun.
"Tony," she called up, her voice carrying that particular breathless quality of someone whose brain had just been thoroughly scrambled by encountering something that shouldn't exist. "The resonance pathways in these energy matrices—this isn't just beyond current terrestrial physics, this is physics that reality hasn't even thought of yet. You've essentially convinced the fundamental forces of the universe to sit down, shut up, and power your personal flying army." She looked up at him with the expression of someone who had just watched someone else prove that gravity was optional. "Without a single spell. How are you not dead from quantum backlash?"
"Seventeen complete nervous breakdowns, four stress-induced ulcers, a brief but passionate affair with dimensional instability, and approximately three hundred cups of coffee that JARVIS refused to let me drink," Tony replied cheerfully. "Also, I'm reasonably certain I broke at least three laws of thermodynamics and had to propose to quantum mechanics just to get it to cooperate. At this point, I don't question the physics. I just pat it gently and hope it doesn't notice I have no idea what I'm doing."
"Ze typical American approach to engineering," Fleur Delacour observed as she glided into the group, her voice carrying that smooth French accent that could make tax codes sound like poetry. She moved with the fluid grace of someone who had never encountered a situation she couldn't improve with her presence, her silver-blonde hair cascading like liquid moonlight. Her hand found Harry's arm with the casual possessiveness of someone who knew exactly what belonged to her. "Ignore ze mathematics, embrace ze controlled demolition, and if it doesn't explode immediately, call it a success."
Harry's lips curved in appreciation as she pressed closer to his side. "Don't get too fascinated by the armored collection, love. I'll develop unfortunate jealous tendencies."
She leaned up, her lips brushing against his ear just close enough to make Tony visibly roll his eyes. "If I wanted red and gold metal wrapped around me, mon cœur," she murmured, her breath warm against his skin, "I would simply ask you to summon it. Though I do prefer when you remove armor rather than add it."
"Boundaries, people," Tony announced loudly. "There are precision instruments present. And also me, trying to maintain my reputation as the most shameless person in any given room."
Daphne Greengrass approached with the measured step of someone who had never encountered a situation she couldn't analyze, categorize, and subsequently dominate through sheer intellectual superiority. Her ice-blue eyes swept across the assembled suits with the calculating gaze of someone evaluating potential chess pieces. She looked as though she were mentally redesigning the entire operation to be more aesthetically pleasing.
"Impressive," she said, her voice carrying that particular crisp authority that made grown men reconsider their life choices. "Though when the inevitable media coverage begins featuring thirty-four unidentified flying objects and a squad of extraordinarily attractive and highly dangerous women conducting military operations in downtown Miami, the diplomatic ramifications will make Watergate look like a minor disagreement over tea service protocol."
Harry turned that devastating smile on her, the expression that had been responsible for more than one international incident. "Darling, when we're finished, the news anchors will be far too occupied debating whether we were Avengers, visiting extraterrestrials, or the world's most enthusiastic and well-funded performance art collective to concern themselves with minor details like jurisdiction and proper paperwork."
Valeria of the Steel Wind let out a laugh that sounded like someone had weaponized pure anticipation. She wore her eagerness for combat like designer clothing, every line of her posture radiating the controlled violence of someone who had been promised Christmas morning and discovered it came with explosions. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a way that suggested she was prepared for serious business, and her blue eyes held the gleam of someone who considered warfare a recreational activity.
"Finally," she said, cracking her knuckles with the satisfied sound of someone preparing to enjoy themselves thoroughly. "An enemy that might actually require effort. Please tell me at least three of these enhanced psychotics won't immediately disintegrate if I hit them with genuine enthusiasm. I'd like a proper fight that lasts longer than the warm-up exercises."
Harry's grin turned predatory. "Val, darling, I promise you can have at least five. Try not to break them all before the rest of us get our turn."
"No promises," she replied, stretching like a cat preparing to pounce. "But I'll try to leave a few pieces for everyone else."
Shaak Ti moved into their circle with the serene grace of someone who had achieved perfect balance between deadly competence and spiritual enlightenment. Her red eyes glowed faintly as she studied the humming arc reactors, her head tilted slightly as though listening to music only she could hear.
"These armors sing with technological harmony," she said, her voice carrying that calm certainty that made even Tony Stark pay attention. "The Force flows through them—imperfect, perhaps, but willing. Combined with our abilities, we can guide their purpose toward justice."
Tony blinked, then looked at Harry with the expression of someone whose worldview had just been gently but thoroughly reorganized. "Did the space priestess just tell me my tech has a good singing voice?"
"Take it as the highest possible compliment," Harry advised. "She's essentially saying you've accidentally built something that works in harmony with the fundamental forces of existence. Accidentally brilliant is still brilliant."
"'Accidentally' is basically my entire engineering philosophy," Tony admitted. "If it works and I can't explain why, I call it 'proprietary technology' and move on."
Allyria Dayne had been observing the conversation with the quiet intensity of someone who missed nothing and revealed only what she chose to. Her violet eyes, deep as evening stars, held that particular gleam that suggested she was mentally calculating trajectory patterns and optimal strike points. When she spoke, her voice carried the quiet authority of someone accustomed to being the deadliest person in any room.
"The thermal signatures are irregular," she noted, her gaze focused on something beyond the visible spectrum. "Seventeen confirmed, but two are fluctuating in ways that suggest imminent systems failure. Either they're preparing something spectacular, or their enhancement process has some significant design flaws."
"Both," Harry said grimly. "Extremis was never meant for mass production. Maya Hansen's original research was focused on controlled regeneration, not creating human bombs with anger management issues."
Dacey Mormont stepped up beside Allyria, her presence carrying that particular brand of Northern practicality that could make even the most complex strategies sound like common sense. Her dark hair was pulled back for business, and her gray eyes held the steady focus of someone who had never met a problem that couldn't be solved with appropriate application of violence and determination.
"So we're dealing with unstable enhanced individuals who might explode at any moment, in a major metropolitan area, with civilian populations," she summarized. "Sounds like Tuesday. What's the extraction plan for non-combatants?"
"JARVIS has been monitoring emergency services," Tony replied. "First sign of trouble, we can trigger every fire alarm, evacuation protocol, and emergency broadcast in a twelve-block radius. Clear the area before the fireworks start."
Aayla Secura had been studying the tactical displays with the focused attention of someone who had spent her life planning military operations. Her blue skin caught the ambient light from the arc reactors, and her lekku twitched slightly in what Harry had learned to recognize as her calculating gesture.
"The positioning suggests they're not expecting aerial assault," she observed. "Standard defensive patterns assume ground-based approach vectors. We have the advantage of complete surprise and superior positioning."
Riyo Chuchi nodded her agreement, her pale blue skin almost luminescent in the artificial light. Despite her small stature, she carried herself with the quiet confidence of someone who had faced down galactic senates and emerged victorious.
"If we coordinate the initial strike properly, we can neutralize the unstable elements before they become a danger to the civilian population," she said. "Precision over power."
The AI's voice—the Marauder herself—flowed through the speakers with the warm, slightly teasing tone that Harry had programmed to be maximally annoying to anyone who thought they could intimidate his ship.
"Approaching Miami metropolitan area. Eleven minutes to optimal deployment position. Cloaking systems maintaining full effectiveness. Enhanced biosignature count now confirmed at nineteen individuals. Two showing critical instability patterns. Recommend immediate deployment before the local architecture decides to redecorate itself with enhanced human remains."
"Nineteen?" Tony's voice rose slightly. "Maya said seventeen. Did they start offering bulk discounts on psychotic enhancement procedures?"
Harry's expression shifted to something that could have flash-frozen tropical fruit. "Either Dr. Hansen miscounted, or Aldrich Killian has been playing god with more enthusiasm than originally advertised. In either case, we're about to crash his little science experiment."
"Correction," Daphne interjected smoothly. "We're about to end it permanently."
Fleur pressed herself more deliberately against Harry's side, her fingers tracing patterns across his chest that made the temperature in the immediate area rise noticeably. "Mon chéri," she murmured, her voice carrying enough suggestion to make hardened soldiers blush, "shall we show this city what happens when gods and machines decide to dance together?"
Harry turned his emerald gaze across his assembled wives and allies, then to Tony's mechanical army waiting like a steel phalanx of barely controlled destruction. His smile was pure predator wrapped in British politeness—the expression that had made enemies of empires and allies of rebels.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, his voice carrying that particular tone that had once made the Dark Lord himself pause to reconsider his life choices, "time to provide Miami with a comprehensive education in cause and effect. Lesson one: kidnapping presidents is inadvisable. Lesson two: turning oneself into a human explosive device is poor long-term planning. Lesson three—"
He paused just long enough to let that razor-sharp smile spread across his features like dawn breaking over a battlefield.
"—never, under any circumstances, irritate a man who has thirty-four Iron Man suits, a starship that could level city blocks, and seven extraordinarily dangerous women who consider violence a recreational activity and find competence incredibly attractive."
Val cracked her knuckles with the satisfied sound of someone preparing to enjoy herself. Fleur kissed his cheek with deliberate slowness, making sure Tony got an excellent view. Daphne's smile could have been used to freeze champagne. Allyria's violet eyes gleamed like distant stars preparing to go supernova. Susan bounced slightly on her toes with the barely contained excitement of someone about to test theoretical physics in practical applications. Shaak Ti bowed her head with the serene satisfaction of someone whose meditation had just been interrupted by the promise of righteous combat. Aayla and Riyo exchanged glances that suggested they had already calculated optimal strike patterns. Dacey simply stretched her shoulders with the practical satisfaction of someone whose day was about to become significantly more interesting.
Even Tony Stark—undisputed champion of inappropriate confidence—let out a low whistle that sounded distinctly impressed.
"Potter," he said, shaking his head with something that might have been admiration, "if this is your idea of foreplay, I'm genuinely terrified to discover what you consider appropriate post-mission celebration."
The Marauder descended toward Miami's gleaming skyline like a predator approaching prey, her hull invisible to every sensor the city possessed. Below them, the waters of Biscayne Bay reflected the afternoon sun, completely unaware that an entire army of brilliance, sarcasm, advanced technology, and weaponized romance was about to rewrite the rules of engagement across their peaceful surface.
"Deployment in T-minus eight minutes," the Marauder announced cheerfully. "All systems optimal. Weapons hot. Attitude definitely on point. Shall I begin playing appropriately dramatic music, or would you prefer the element of surprise?"
Harry's laugh was the sound of someone who had just been handed exactly what he wanted for Christmas. "Surprise, love. Always surprise. Though perhaps queue up something appropriately triumphant for the aftermath."
"Already done, Harry. I've selected seventeen different victory themes, organized by level of dramatic satisfaction achieved."
"Perfect," Harry said, and meant it completely.
---
# ADVANCED IDEA MECHANICS FACILITY — MIAMI
The AIM headquarters loomed over downtown Miami like a monument to the particular brand of arrogance that came with having too much money and not nearly enough ethical oversight. To the casual observer, it appeared to be a gleaming temple of cutting-edge biotechnology and medical innovation. To Harry Potter's tactical scanners, it registered as something considerably more sinister—a mad science convention where the admission price was apparently human dignity and the dress code required a complete absence of moral qualms.
The Marauder materialized above the building's roof with all the theatrical flair of a West End production's climactic reveal. Her obsidian hull shimmered into existence as her cloaking systems disengaged, the starlight-dark metal catching Miami's afternoon sun like liquid shadow given form. Security cameras throughout the building scrambled desperately to process what they were seeing; somewhere in the depths of AIM's surveillance center, a deeply paranoid intern was almost certainly reconsidering every life choice that had led him to this particular career path.
Harry stood at the tactical command dais with the casual elegance of someone who had made an art form of looking relaxed while planning the complete dismantling of his enemies. His emerald eyes held that faint luminescence that suggested his power was very close to the surface, and the holographic displays painted the building before them in translucent layers of tactical intelligence. Nineteen enhanced biosignatures glowed like malevolent fireflies scattered throughout the structure, accompanied by forty-seven baseline human readings. Enhanced guards, laboratory technicians, administrative personnel, and the usual collection of people who had signed employment contracts without reading the fine print about potential workplace explosions.
Two signatures glowed more brightly than the others: Aldrich Killian on the eighteenth floor, surrounded by enough enhanced security to suggest he was either very important or very paranoid, and Trevor Slattery two floors higher, apparently enjoying his role as a luxury prisoner in what was probably the most comfortable terrorist cell in recent history.
"Well," Harry said, his voice carrying that particular crisp British diction that could make observations about the weather sound like declarations of war, "congratulations to AIM for successfully locating and establishing what appears to be the world's most ethically questionable science fair. No prizes for academic achievement, but plenty of opportunities for uncontrolled combustion."
The Marauder's AI responded with the warm, slightly teasing voice that Harry had carefully programmed to be maximally irritating to anyone who thought they could intimidate his ship. Her tone carried that particular blend of artificial intelligence and genuine personality that made conversations feel like flirting with a very dangerous, very attractive weapon.
"Target facility fully analyzed and catalogued," she announced, sounding pleased with herself. "Nineteen enhanced subjects displaying varying levels of thermal instability, forty-seven civilian personnel who presumably thought they were applying for normal jobs, and two high-value assets currently enjoying AIM's hospitality. Current statistical probability of spontaneous facility detonation if left unattended: ninety-two percent. Current probability of you orchestrating a dramatically satisfying entrance that will be discussed in intelligence briefings for the next decade: one hundred percent."
Harry's lips curved in appreciation. "Good girl. I do so appreciate thorough analysis."
"Flattery will absolutely get you everywhere, Commander," she replied, her voice carrying enough suggestion to make several of his wives glance over with amused expressions. "Though I should mention that my threat assessment subroutines find your confidence incredibly attractive."
Tony Stark stood near the tactical display with his mechanical army arranged behind him like a chorus line of barely contained apocalypse. Thirty-four Iron Man suits hummed with restrained power, each one gleaming under the command center's lights and radiating the kind of technological superiority that made enemies reconsider their life choices. He clapped his hands together with the enthusiasm of someone who had just been handed the keys to his favorite toy store.
"Right," he announced, his voice carrying that particular blend of genius and controlled chaos that had made him famous across multiple continents. "Let's discuss invasion strategy, shall we? JARVIS, where exactly do we poke this particular bear without triggering a chain reaction that turns downtown Miami into a crater and gets me blacklisted from every insurance company in North America?"
"Multiple simultaneous entry points would be the optimal approach, sir," JARVIS replied, his voice carrying that refined British accent and understated wit that made even tactical briefings sound like sophisticated dinner conversation. "The enhanced targets appear to be distributed in what resembles a defensive grid, though their training protocols seem to have emphasized enthusiasm over actual competence. Think pub brawl tactics with the added excitement that any of them might spontaneously explode at any moment."
"Fantastic," Tony muttered, running a hand through his hair. "It's like playing poker with hand grenades that have anger management issues. Exactly how I wanted to spend my afternoon."
Fleur Delacour glided to Harry's side with that fluid grace that suggested she had never encountered a situation that couldn't be improved by her presence. Her silver-blonde hair caught the tactical displays' blue light like captured moonbeams, and when she reached out to trace patterns through the holographic building schematics, her fingers left shimmering trails of mathematical equations that hung in the air like luminous poetry.
"If we synchronize ze deployment of Tony's mechanical army with our own dimensional resonance patterns," she said, her French accent turning technical discussion into something that sounded like seduction, "we can achieve perfectly simultaneous strikes across multiple floors. Elegant, precise, and devastatingly effective." She glanced up at Harry through her lashes. "Very French in its execution."
Harry's arm found her waist with the automatic familiarity of someone who had claimed and been claimed completely. He pulled her closer, enjoying the way she fit perfectly against his side. "Darling, everything you do manages to be elegant and French. It's one of your more attractive qualities."
She turned in his embrace, pressing closer with deliberate intent, her voice dropping to a whisper that somehow managed to carry just far enough for the others to hear. "And later tonight, mon cœur, you will 'ave ze opportunity to remind me in great detail exactly 'ow much you appreciate all of my more attractive qualities."
"Good God," Daphne Greengrass said from across the tactical display, her ice-blue eyes sharp with amusement and her tone carrying that particular blend of aristocratic authority and dry wit that could make world leaders reconsider their policies. "Could you possibly attempt to maintain some semblance of professional focus while we're planning what amounts to a military assault on a terrorist facility?"
Harry turned that devastating smile on her—the expression that had been responsible for more than one diplomatic crisis and several minor wars. "Oh, sweetheart, what you call unprofessional, I prefer to think of as advanced psychological warfare. Builds tension, establishes dominance, ensures maximum tactical impact when we finally make our move."
Daphne's own smile was sharp enough to cut crystal. "Is that what you're calling it? How wonderfully creative of you."
"I live to innovate," Harry replied smoothly. "Particularly when it comes to finding new ways to drive you absolutely mad with wanting."
"Mission accomplished," she said, her voice carrying enough heat to make the temperature in the immediate area rise noticeably.
Susan Bones had been studying the tactical displays with the focused intensity of someone whose brain operated on frequencies that most people couldn't even detect. Her copper-red hair seemed to glow with its own internal light as she processed the data streaming across the holographic interface, and when she looked up at Tony, her green eyes were bright with the kind of excitement that theoretical physicists experienced when reality decided to cooperate with their wildest hypotheses.
"Tony," she said, her voice carrying that breathless enthusiasm of someone who had just discovered a new fundamental force, "if we can establish harmonic resonance between your arc reactor matrices and our enhancement patterns, we could push targeting precision and tactical coordination beyond anything SHIELD has ever even theorized about. Thirty-four suits operating as a single coordinated entity, with reflexes and processing speed that would make their best agents look like they're moving through molasses."
Tony blinked, then grinned with the expression of someone who had just been handed the keys to paradise. "Kid, you just described my personal definition of technological ecstasy. JARVIS, please tell me this is actually possible and not just beautiful theoretical insanity."
"The mathematical foundations appear sound, sir," JARVIS replied, his tone suggesting he was rather impressed despite himself. "Miss Bones has essentially outlined a method for creating a tactical network that would represent a quantum leap in coordinated combat effectiveness. I estimate a ninety-seven percent probability of successful implementation."
"I think I'm in love," Tony announced. "Platonically. Professionally. But definitely in love with those numbers."
Val had been listening to the technical discussion with the barely contained anticipation of someone who had been promised Christmas morning and discovered it came with the opportunity for controlled violence. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a style that suggested she was prepared for serious business, and every line of her posture radiated the kind of eager hunger that made experienced warriors step carefully around her.
"This is all fascinating," she said, her voice carrying that husky quality that suggested she found combat significantly more interesting than most people found recreational activities, "but can we please discuss the part where I get to test my skills against enhanced opponents who might actually provide some entertainment? I've been promised superhuman enemies, and I'd very much like them to last longer than thirty seconds before I have to start being creative about finding new opponents."
Harry's grin turned predatory as he looked at her. "Val, darling, I absolutely promise you can have at least half a dozen of the enhanced guards to play with. Just try to remember that we need at least a few of them intact enough to provide intelligence afterward."
"Define 'intact,'" she replied, flexing her hands in a way that suggested she was already calculating optimal striking patterns.
"Capable of speech. Preferably conscious. Everything else is negotiable."
"I can work with those parameters," she said, sounding genuinely pleased.
Shaak Ti moved closer to the tactical display with that serene grace that suggested she had achieved perfect balance between spiritual enlightenment and practical lethality. Her red eyes held that faint luminescence that indicated her connection to the Force was active, and when she spoke, her voice carried the calm authority of someone who had seen the deeper patterns of conflict and found them familiar.
"Several of the enhanced subjects are displaying significant instability," she observed, her tone matter-of-fact despite the implications. "Their minds burn under the influence of Extremis. They are in constant pain, and their grip on sanity grows weaker with each passing moment. If we delay our intervention, they will self-destruct—and their deaths will consume everyone around them."
Tony's expression sobered slightly. "Translation: they're human time bombs on a countdown timer that we can't see."
"Essentially, yes," Shaak Ti confirmed. "They are as much victims as threats."
Harry's voice hardened with resolve. "Then we don't delay. We hit them fast, coordinated, surgical. Neutralize the enhanced threats, secure Killian for interrogation, extract Slattery before he becomes collateral damage, and preserve whatever research data we can recover." He paused, his emerald eyes sweeping across his assembled team. "But we do it clean. No unnecessary casualties among the civilian staff. They didn't sign up for this particular brand of insanity."
Dacey Mormont stepped forward with the practical determination of someone who had never met a problem that couldn't be solved through appropriate application of controlled violence and strategic thinking. Her dark hair was pulled back for business, and her gray eyes held the steady focus of someone who had spent her life turning complex situations into simple solutions.
"Straightforward enough," she said, cracking her knuckles with the satisfied sound of someone preparing to enjoy their work. "Break the right skulls, save the innocent bystanders, prevent Miami from becoming a smoking crater. The kind of mission parameters I can work with."
Allyria Dayne had been studying the building schematics with the quiet intensity that suggested she was seeing patterns and possibilities that others might miss. Her violet eyes held that particular gleam that indicated she was running complex calculations in her head, and when she looked up from the displays, her expression suggested she had found something interesting.
"The thermal signatures are fluctuating in a way that suggests at least three of the enhanced subjects are approaching critical instability," she said, her voice carrying that calm precision that made everyone pay attention. "If my calculations are correct, we have perhaps twenty minutes before the first spontaneous detonation."
Aayla Secura nodded her agreement, her blue skin catching the ambient light from the tactical displays in a way that made her look like some exotic war goddess preparing for battle. Her lekku twitched slightly as she processed the strategic implications, and when she spoke, her voice carried the confidence of someone who had planned and executed more military operations than most generals.
"Twenty minutes is more than sufficient," she said, her tone suggesting that she considered this timeline almost generous. "Particularly if we coordinate our initial assault to achieve maximum surprise and overwhelming tactical superiority."
Riyo Chuchi stepped closer to the group, her pale blue skin almost luminescent under the command center's lighting. Despite her smaller stature, she carried herself with the quiet authority of someone who had faced down galactic senates and emerged victorious, and her voice held that particular diplomatic precision that could make even military strategy sound like negotiated settlement.
"The civilian staff will require evacuation protocols," she pointed out, her tone practical despite the urgency. "If we can trigger the building's emergency systems, we can clear non-combatants from the primary engagement zones before we begin active operations."
The Marauder's AI spoke up again, her voice carrying that particular blend of efficiency and personality that made tactical briefings sound like conversations with a particularly brilliant and slightly flirtatious friend.
"Emergency evacuation protocols can be initiated on your command," she announced. "I've already identified optimal routes for civilian egress and calculated deployment vectors that will minimize exposure to non-combatants. Fire alarms, emergency lighting, automated announcements directing personnel to safety—the full theatrical production."
"Perfect," Harry said, his smile sharp as a blade's edge. "Nothing quite like a proper evacuation to clear the stage for the main performance."
"Speaking of performances," Tony interjected, straightening with the enthusiasm of someone who had just remembered his favorite part of any plan, "JARVIS, initiate House Party Protocol, Enhanced Edition. Let's give Miami a light show they'll be discussing in intelligence briefings for the next twenty years."
"All systems online and synchronized, sir," JARVIS replied, his tone carrying just enough smugness to suggest he was genuinely looking forward to demonstrating his capabilities. "Thirty-four suits networked and coordinated, tactical overlays engaged and optimized, targeting solutions calculated and ready for implementation. Statistical probability of mission success: exceptionally high. Probability of dramatically satisfying entrance that will become the stuff of legend: mathematically certain."
Harry glanced across his assembled wives, each of them radiating power and anticipation in their own distinctive ways. Fleur's seductive confidence, Daphne's aristocratic poise sharpened to a razor's edge, Susan's intellectual brilliance crackling like barely contained lightning, Val's eager hunger for combat, Allyria's storm-dark calm that promised devastating precision, Dacey's raw determination that could move mountains, Shaak Ti's serene deadliness that spoke of perfect balance between peace and war, Aayla's flowing grace that concealed tactical genius, and Riyo's diplomatic authority that could reshape conflicts with words as easily as weapons.
His emerald eyes burned with that particular light that suggested his power was rising to meet the challenge ahead.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, his voice carrying that tone of absolute certainty that had once made the Dark Lord himself pause to reconsider his strategic assumptions, "time to provide Miami with a comprehensive education in the consequences of poor decision-making."
The Marauder's deployment systems hummed to life with mechanical precision, the Iron Legion rising in perfect formation like a mechanical army preparing to write history across the sky. Below them, AIM's glass temple of hubris waited in blissful ignorance for its lesson in humility.
When Harry smiled, it was the kind of expression that promised the complete restructuring of someone's understanding of power, authority, and the fundamental importance of not kidnapping people he cared about.
"Let's go teach them why that was a mistake," he said softly.
The war machines began their descent.
---
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