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Clang. Clang. Clang.
The sound of metal on metal echoed through the cave, rhythmic and hypnotic. Each strike of the hammer was precise, calculated, shaping the crude steel into something functional.
Tony stood at the workbench in his undershirt, sweat streaming down his face despite the cave's chill. His arm rose and fell with mechanical regularity—strike, rotate, examine, strike again. The piece of metal glowed dull orange from repeated heating, and with each blow, it curved and folded into the shape he needed.
Marcus watched from across the cave, ostensibly monitoring the computer program loading, but his attention kept drifting to Tony's work.
I'm watching history being made, he thought. This exact moment—this is in the movie. The iconic scene. Tony Stark, forging Iron Man with his own hands.
There was something almost medieval about it. The master blacksmith, crafting armor in a cave, preparing for battle. Except this blacksmith was a genius billionaire, and the armor would be powered by revolutionary technology.
Tony lifted the piece one final time—the mask, Marcus realized, the final component of the Mark I helmet—and plunged it into a bucket of water.
Hsssssss—
Steam erupted as the superheated metal met water. The quenching process solidified the metal's structure, hardening it, making it battle-ready.
When Tony pulled the mask from the bucket, water streaming off its crude surface, Marcus could see it clearly. The faceplate. Rough, ugly, functional. Two eyeholes. A breathing slit. Nothing fancy. Just protection.
But it was finished.
"Done," Tony said quietly, holding up the mask. Then louder, with barely contained triumph: "We're done!"
Yinsen looked up from where he'd been organizing their escape supplies. His eyes widened as he saw the completed helmet.
"It's ready? The armor?"
"Every last piece." Tony set the mask down carefully and turned to face them both. His expression was intense, focused. "Time to suit up."
Marcus felt his heartbeat accelerate. This is it. No more waiting. No more pretending. In the next hour, everything changes.
"Let's get you dressed," he said aloud, moving toward the armor.
The process of putting on the Mark I was surprisingly complex.
First came the protective underlayers—heat-resistant fabrics scavenged from their supplies, leather padding to prevent chafing, insulating materials to protect against the arc reactor's heat. Tony stood with his arms out while Marcus and Yinsen worked, wrapping him in layers like some kind of mechanical mummy.
"This is going to be incredibly uncomfortable," Tony muttered as they worked.
"Better uncomfortable than dead," Marcus replied, tightening a strap.
"Fair point."
Then came the armor itself. Heavy steel plates, each one weighing at least twenty pounds. They started with the legs—greaves that locked around Tony's calves and thighs with mechanical precision. The hydraulics hissed softly as they activated, servo motors whining to life.
"How does it feel?" Yinsen asked.
Tony took a few experimental steps. The armor was stiff, clunky, but functional. "Like I'm wearing a tank. But it works."
Chest plate next. The heaviest piece, with the mounting bracket for the arc reactor at its center. It took both Marcus and Yinsen to lift it into place, settling it over Tony's shoulders and locking it down. When they connected the arc reactor, the entire suit hummed to life, blue light glowing through gaps in the plating.
Arms. Gauntlets. Back plating. Each piece locked into place with heavy clunk sounds that echoed through the cave.
Finally, the helmet.
Tony held it for a moment, looking at the crude mask he'd just finished forging. Then he slid it over his head, and Marcus heard the seals engage with a soft hiss.
"Systems check," Tony's voice came through, muffled by the helmet. "Hydraulics?"
Marcus checked the gauge. "Green."
"Arc reactor power?"
"Full charge. You've got about eight minutes, maybe ten if you're conservative."
"Then we'd better work fast." Tony's helmeted head turned toward the computer. "Program status?"
Marcus glanced at the screen. The progress bar was at 67%. "Still loading. Two, maybe three more minutes."
"Good. That gives us—"
He was interrupted by the sound of running footsteps in the tunnel outside.
All three of them froze.
No, Marcus thought. Not yet. We need more time.
Monitoring Room – Two Minutes Earlier
The bearded lieutenant burst into Raza's command center, his face pale.
"Sir, one of the guards is dead."
Raza looked up from the surveillance monitors, his scarred face twisting into a frown. "Which one?"
"Ahmed, sir. The one who was on patrol near the armory. His partner found him collapsed in the barracks. No wounds, no signs of struggle. He just... died."
Raza stood slowly, suspicion crawling up his spine. "When?"
"Within the last hour, we think. He complained of feeling tired earlier, said he wanted to rest. When his replacement went to wake him for the next shift, he was already gone."
No wounds. No obvious cause. That wasn't normal. Healthy men didn't just die in their sleep.
"Get the body examined," Raza ordered. "I want to know what killed him."
"Yes sir."
As the lieutenant hurried off, Raza turned his attention to the surveillance monitors. Something felt wrong. Very wrong. His instincts—honed through twenty years of warfare and survival—were screaming at him.
His eyes swept across the screens showing different angles of the cave where the prisoners were kept.
Wait.
He leaned closer, studying the main camera feed. He could see Yinsen moving around. The younger one—Marcus—standing near a computer. But Stark...
"Where is he?" Raza muttered.
He switched cameras, checking different angles. No sign of Stark anywhere in frame.
They're hiding him.
Raza's hand slammed down on the console. "GUARDS!" he roared. "Get to the prisoner cave! NOW!"
The Cave
Marcus heard them coming before they arrived. Enhanced hearing picked up the sound of boots on stone, the rattle of weapons, urgent voices speaking in Pashto.
Here we go.
"They're coming," he said quietly.
Tony, sealed inside the Mark I, couldn't move quickly. The armor was too heavy, too new. He needed the computer program to fully boot up before the suit's control systems would be responsive enough for combat.
Yinsen gripped Marcus's arm. "How long until the program loads?"
Marcus checked. "Two minutes, maybe less."
"Then we stall." Yinsen moved toward the door, but Marcus grabbed his shoulder.
"Let me. I speak their language."
Yinsen looked surprised, but nodded. "Be careful."
Marcus positioned himself near the door, listening. He could count at least four, maybe five guards approaching. Not the full force yet—just an advance team checking on suspicious behavior.
Perfect. I can work with that.
A heavy fist pounded on the iron door. "Yinsen! Stark! Marcus! What are you doing in there?"
The voice was speaking Hungarian—one of several languages Marcus had mastered during his months on NZT. The Ten Rings drew fighters from across Central Asia and Eastern Europe. Hungarian wasn't uncommon.
Marcus pitched his voice to sound nervous, uncertain. "We're working! Stark's arc reactor had a problem, we're fixing it!"
"Open the door!"
"We can't! Stark is on the operating table! His chest is open!"
There was a pause, then angry muttering. Marcus caught fragments: "—playing games—" "—taking too long—" "—probably lying—"
Then the voice came back, harder now. "You have ten seconds to open this door, or we break it down!"
Behind him, Tony's voice came through the armor, distorted by the helmet. "Marcus, what are they saying?"
"They want in. We've got maybe thirty seconds before they force the door."
"The program isn't loaded yet!"
"I know." Marcus glanced at Yinsen. "Get ready. When they come through, it's going to get ugly fast."
Yinsen nodded, moving to grab one of the tools from the workbench. Not much of a weapon, but better than nothing.
Marcus looked up at the small window in the door. A face appeared—one of the guards, peering in, trying to see what they were doing.
Marcus gave him his best terrified expression and called out in Hungarian. "Please, we just need a few more minutes! If we rush this, Stark could die!"
The guard's face twisted in anger. "Damn yellow-skinned monkey! You think we're stupid?"
There it is. Racist slur number two thousand and something.
Marcus let a cold smile cross his face, just for a moment. Just long enough for the guard to see it.
The reaction was immediate. The guard's face went red with rage. "You dare mock me? Open this door RIGHT NOW!"
"Make me," Marcus said pleasantly.
He heard the bolt sliding back.
Three, two, one—
The door crashed open.
Three guards rushed in, weapons raised, shouting in multiple languages. They were professionals, trained, coordinated—
And they didn't notice the tripwire.
Marcus had rigged it hours ago, after they'd completed the armor. A simple device—a grenade from their weapons cache, pin pulled, held in place by tension. When the door opened fully, it would release the pin.
Click.
The lead guard's eyes went wide as he heard the sound. His gaze dropped to the grenade rolling across the floor, and in that frozen instant, Marcus saw the realization hit him.
Oh shit—
BOOM!
The explosion was deafening in the enclosed space. Fire and shrapnel tore through the tunnel entrance, and the three guards were thrown backward, their bodies shredded by metal fragments and concussive force.
The smoke cleared slowly. Three bodies lay crumpled in the doorway, bleeding from dozens of wounds. Dead before they hit the ground.
Through the ringing in his ears, Marcus heard alarms going off. Shouts echoing through the tunnels. The pounding of dozens of feet as the entire camp mobilized.
That's the whole base, he thought grimly. No going back now.
Tony's voice crackled through the armor. "Marcus! What the hell was that?"
"Our welcoming committee." Marcus checked the computer. The progress bar hit 95%. "How's the program?"
"Almost there! Thirty seconds!"
"We don't have thirty seconds!" Yinsen was staring at the tunnel, terror and determination fighting for control of his expression. "They're coming! I can hear them!"
He was right. Through the smoke and chaos, Marcus could hear the response force. Dozens of them, armed and angry, converging on their position.
And they were running out of time.
Yinsen made his decision in an instant. His face set with grim determination, and he moved toward the fallen guards' weapons.
"It still needs time," he said, grabbing an AK-47 from one of the corpses. "I'll buy you that time."
"Yinsen, no—" Tony started.
But Yinsen was already heading for the door. "It's the only way! I'll hold them in the tunnel, you finish loading the program!"
"Yinsen!" Tony tried to move, but the armor was still locked up, systems not fully online. He was trapped, helpless inside a shell of steel.
Marcus saw Yinsen's finger tightening on the trigger, saw him preparing to rush out into certain death—
No. Not yet.
Marcus moved.
His enhanced reflexes made it look easy. One moment Yinsen was charging toward the door, the next moment Marcus's hand shot out and grabbed his arm. Over four hundred pounds of grip strength clamped down—not enough to hurt, but more than enough to stop a man in his tracks.
"What are you—" Yinsen started.
Marcus yanked him backward. Hard. Yinsen stumbled, his momentum reversed, and crashed to the floor.
"What are you in a hurry for?" Marcus said calmly, taking the rifle from Yinsen's hands. "It's almost done."
He turned back to the computer. Progress bar: 98%.
Tony's voice came through the armor, shocked and relieved. "Good catch, Marcus! Good catch!"
Yinsen lay on the floor, stunned, staring up at Marcus. "How did you—how are you that strong?"
"Clean living," Marcus said without looking back. He hefted the AK-47, checking the magazine. Full. Thirty rounds. "And I've been working out."
Progress bar: 100%.
SYSTEM ONLINE flashed across the screen.
"Tony," Marcus called out. "You're good to go!"
The Mark I came to life with a mechanical whine. Hydraulics hissed, servo motors engaged, and Tony took his first real step in the powered armor. The footfall shook the floor.
"Oh yeah," Tony's voice came through, filled with fierce satisfaction. "Now we're talking."
Marcus moved to help Yinsen up, extending a hand. "It's okay, buddy."
Yinsen took it, still looking shaken. "You... you just threw me. Like I weighed nothing."
"You're in your forties," Marcus said with a slight smile. "I'm twenty. Physics."
Nice save, he thought. Keep it casual. Don't let him think too hard about the superhuman grip strength.
Yinsen accepted the explanation, or at least pretended to. "Next time, warn me before you—"
"CONTACT!"
Marcus's shout cut him off as figures appeared in the tunnel. More guards, at least six of them, weapons raised.
And leading them were two faces Marcus recognized.
The Black Guard. The Pale Guard. The two who'd beaten him, mocked him, made his first days in the camp a living hell.
The ones he'd poisoned months ago, back in Chapter 12. The poison that should have killed them weeks ago but apparently needed more time to work.
Well, Marcus thought with cold satisfaction, I promised you'd see your brains.
He raised the rifle before they could fully process what they were seeing.
"I said," Marcus murmured, sighting down the barrel, "I'd make you regret it."
The Black Guard's eyes widened in recognition. His mouth opened, maybe to shout, maybe to curse—
Marcus fired.
Crack-crack-crack-crack!
The reports were sharp and precise. Four shots, two per target. The first round hit the Black Guard in the forehead, snapping his head back. The second caught him as he fell, punching through his eye socket.
The Pale Guard had time to realize what was happening—time for horror to register on his face as he saw his partner's head explode in red mist—before Marcus's next two rounds found him. One through the bridge of his nose. One through the temple.
Both men dropped like puppets with cut strings.
The strange thing about headshots, Marcus noted with clinical detachment, was the way the skull opened. The way brain matter—grey and red and white—sprayed outward in a fine mist. The way bodies just stopped, all animation gone in an instant.
The two guards hit the ground, and in the fraction of a second before death claimed them completely, they would have seen it. Their own brains. Scattered across the stone floor.
Just like I promised.
Marcus felt nothing. No satisfaction, no remorse, no thrill. Just cold calculation. Two threats eliminated. Twenty-eight more rounds in the magazine.
The four guards behind them froze, shocked by the sudden violence. That moment of hesitation was fatal.
Marcus fired again. Controlled bursts. Three rounds per target. Center mass, then head. The rifle kicked against his shoulder, but his enhanced strength absorbed the recoil easily, keeping his aim steady.
Four more bodies fell.
Six guards down in less than ten seconds.
Behind him, Tony's voice was stunned. "Holy shit. Marcus, where did you learn to shoot like that?"
"YouTube," Marcus lied smoothly. "Lots of instructional videos."
Not the time for questions, Stark. We need to move.
He checked the tunnel. More shapes moving in the smoke and darkness. The main force was coming.
"We need to go," Marcus said. "Now."
Tony took a heavy step forward, the Mark I's weight making the floor shake. "Which way?"
"Out." Marcus grabbed Yinsen, pulling him to his feet. "Stay close to the armor. It'll provide cover."
Yinsen stared at the bodies, at the blood, at Marcus holding the rifle like he'd been born with it. "Who are you?"
Good question, Marcus thought. But not one I'm going to answer.
"I'm the guy who's getting us out of here," he said aloud. "Now move!"
Alarms blared throughout the complex. Boots thundered in the tunnels. Shouts in half a dozen languages echoed off stone walls.
And in the cave, surrounded by corpses and smoke, Marcus Reid smiled grimly.
Phase one complete. Armor operational. Guards alerted.
Now comes the hard part.
Monitoring Room
Raza stared at the monitor screens, watching smoke pour from the prisoner cave entrance. His hands clenched into fists hard enough to make his knuckles crack.
"Status!" he barked.
A lieutenant ran up, face pale. "Nine men down, sir! They had explosives rigged, and— and someone is shooting. Professional accuracy. Headshots only."
"Stark?"
"No sir. The reports say it's the young one. Marcus."
Raza's scarred face twisted. The scared kid who claimed to be a doctor. The nobody who'd spent three months playing assistant.
That scared kid just killed nine of my men in under a minute.
"Get everyone," Raza said, his voice deadly calm. "I want every fighter we have converging on that tunnel. Box them in. I want heavy weapons—RPGs, grenades, everything. I want that cave collapsed if necessary."
"And the prisoners?"
Raza's smile was cold and terrible. "No more prisoners. Kill them all."
(End of Chapter 16)
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