The interior of Air Force One was a nightmare of screaming wind and superheated air. Eric Savin, his eyes glowing with the erratic, pulsing light of a dying sun, lunged toward Leander. His palms were white-hot, the air around them shimmering and distorting from the sheer thermal output.
Leander didn't flinch. To the two Secret Service agents watching from the shadows, it looked like the kid was about to be incinerated. But Leander's perception of time had been honed in the vacuum of deep space. To him, Savin was moving through molasses.
Leander pulled his right hand back, his knuckles cracking with a metallic resonance as he channeled a surge of kinetic force into his fist. He didn't use a flashy energy beam; he just threw a straightforward, bone-shattering punch.
BOOM!
The impact sounded like a wrecking ball hitting a concrete pillar. Savin was launched backward, his feet leaving the deck as he flew more than ten meters. He hit the reinforced bulkhead with enough force to cave in the steel plating, his entire midsection becoming embedded in the wall like a gruesome piece of modern art.
Despite the fact that his spine was shattered and his internal organs were likely a slurry, Savin didn't pass out. The Extremis in his blood surged, a dazzling, fiery orange light erupting from his gut. The smell of burning ozone and cauterized flesh filled the cabin as the virus began a frantic, painful reconstruction of his shattered body.
Knowing he was outmatched in a straight fight, Savin reached for the detonator on his belt with a trembling, glowing hand. He looked at Leander with a bloody, defiant grin and pressed the trigger.
The timed charge on the fuselage wall didn't just explode; it vaporized the metal. A massive hole, three meters wide, tore open in the side of the plane.
The pressure differential was instantaneous and violent. The cabin's atmosphere was sucked out into the thinning air of the upper stratosphere with the force of a hurricane. A dozen staff members and security personnel were ripped from their seats. They clung to armrests, to door frames, to each other, their screams drowned out by the roar of the rushing wind.
Seven or eight people were sucked out into the void immediately, falling toward the Atlantic miles below.
Leander's expression didn't change, but his eyes glowed with a sharp, focused gold. He didn't even look at the hole as he waved his hand. The metal wall surrounding Savin suddenly sprouted dozens of thick, jagged handcuffs that snapped shut around the terrorist's limbs, pinning him even deeper into the fuselage.
"Stay there. We're not done," Leander said.
He stepped into the adjacent cabin, where the last of the air was whistling out. He saw a woman, a young aide named Heather, losing her grip on a bolted-down table. She was inches from the abyss when Leander appeared in the opening.
He grabbed her wrist, his grip like a vice. With a flick of his other hand, a strip of flooring peeled up and wrapped around her waist, anchoring her to a heavy seat.
Leander didn't stop there. He reached out into the empty air, and dozens of metal strips tore themselves from the interior trim of the plane. They snaked through the cabin, pinning the remaining survivors to the floor and walls, preventing anyone else from being lost to the sky.
Then, he turned his attention to the breach. With a sweeping gesture, he pulled metal fragments from the wreckage—pieces of carts, wall panels, and structural ribs. They flew together like magnets, weaving into a rough, airtight patch that slammed over the hole. The metal fused together under his will, sealing the cabin in less than five seconds.
The sudden silence was deafening.
Leander looked at the terrified survivors, then stepped to the airlock. "Keep the doors shut. I'll be back with the others."
He jumped.
The Golden Legend took flight. His "wings"—the shimmering, high-frequency energy projections—vibrated with a low hum as he broke the sound barrier instantly.
He didn't just fly; he intercepted. He caught the first person—a young technician—in mid-air, a metal support arm extending from his own suit to cradle the man. Then he veered toward the second, then the third.
Heather, looking out from the reinforced window of the plane, watched the golden trail of light below. Her terror was slowly being replaced by a surreal fascination. She watched as Leander gathered the falling people together in the sky.
He didn't just hold them; he built a platform in the air. He spun thin threads of metal—salvaged from the debris falling with them—and wove them into a ring. The people found themselves standing on a solid metal disk, their bodies secured by rings at their waists and ankles to keep them from tumbling in the slipstream.
Within twenty seconds, all thirteen personnel who had been sucked out were gathered into a single, stable cluster.
Leander grabbed a massive, jagged piece of the cabin wreckage that was tumbling nearby and froze it in place with a pulse of kinetic energy. He used it as an anchor, bringing the group back up to the altitude of the plane.
"Hello," Heather stammered as Leander brought the group back inside through a secondary hatch. "My name is Heather. Are you... are you really him? The Golden Legend? The military has been looking for you everywhere. The President... he specifically asked to meet you."
Leander retracted his wings, his voice sounding hollow inside the Mark 42 helmet. "The President's not here, Heather. He's been taken. And I'm not here for a press conference."
He clapped his hands together, and the makeshift metal patch on the fuselage smoothed out, perfectly obstructing the airflow to prevent any further structural failure.
Leander walked back to the cabin where Savin was still pinned. The two Secret Service guards had their guns trained on the wall-bound terrorist.
"Don't move, you freak!" the lead guard shouted, his hands shaking.
Savin just laughed. The light in his skin was becoming unstable, moving from a steady orange to a frantic, strobing white-hot. The metal cuffs holding him were starting to glow red, then white, as they began to melt into slag.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The guard fired three rounds into Savin's chest. The bullets disappeared into the glowing flesh, the wounds sealing before the brass hit the floor.
"You can't kill me with lead, boys," Savin sneered, his hands finally tearing free from the melted metal. "The world's changing. We're the new gods."
Before he could take a step, Leander walked into the room. He didn't say a word. He just pointed a finger at Savin's chest.
"Let's try this again," Leander said. "Where did Killian take the President?"
"You're not Stark," Savin spat, squinting at the helmet. "You're just some kid playing dress-up."
Leander's finger twitched. A metal ring suddenly tightened around Savin's throat, cutting off his airway. "Wrong answer. I'm the guy who's going to let the Extremis in your blood cook you from the inside out if you don't talk. Are you a true believer, or just an employee?"
Savin's skin began to crack. Fiery orange patterns raced across his face, but they weren't healing him anymore. They were breaking him down. The Extremis was reaching a critical mass, the internal pressure becoming uncontrollable.
Leander saw the signs. He saw the way the light was focused behind Savin's ribs.
"Fine. Be a martyr," Leander muttered.
He squeezed his hand into a fist. A massive, sharpened metal spike—reconstituted from the floor plating—erupted from the wall behind Savin, driving straight through the terrorist's heart.
The orange glow in Savin's eyes flickered, then faded into a dull grey. The heat radiating from his body plummeted as the biological reactor in his chest was extinguished.
Leander looked at the corpse with a mixture of annoyance and bewilderment. "Am I really that bad at interrogation? Or are these guys just that brainwashed? Whatever. I'll find Killian myself."
Leander turned to the guards. "Land this plane at the nearest military base. Tell them the Golden Legend is back, and tell them to stay out of my way."
With a flash of blue light, he was gone.
The Roxxon Norco: Florida Coast
Ten minutes later, the Iron Patriot armor landed on the deck of a massive, rusting oil tanker anchored in the private marina. The armor opened with a mechanical hiss, and the President of the United States fell to the deck, gasping for air.
"Good evening, sir," a voice rang out from the shadows.
Aldrich Killian stepped forward, his suit impeccably tailored, his skin shimmering with a subtle, healthy glow. He looked down at the President with the casual disdain of a man looking at an insect. "Welcome, Mr. President. I hope the flight was comfortable."
He led the President toward a reinforced cabin where a bank of monitors displayed a live-stream countdown. Outside, the massive structure of the Roxxon oil tanker loomed in the moonlight.
"The Norco," the President whispered, recognizing the ship. "The tanker that spilled a million gallons into the Gulf. You're doing this here? Why?"
"Because of you, sir," Killian smiled, his eyes flashing orange. "Because you let the Roxxon executives walk away with a slap on the wrist while the ecosystem died. It's the perfect symbol of your failure."
"What do you want from me, Killian? Money? Power?"
Killian laughed, a cold, hollow sound. "Nothing so mundane, sir. I'm not looking for a ransom. I'm looking for a reason to execute the leader of the free world on live television."
He leaned in close, his breath hot against the President's ear. "You're not the focus anymore. You're just the opening act. I've already found a new client—someone who understands that the world doesn't need a President. It needs a legend."
Killian straightened his tie and turned to his guards. "Hang him from the crane."