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Tony's guilt was written all over his face as he looked at Yinsen.
The weapons devastating that town right now—even if he hadn't personally approved those sales, even if Obadiah had gone behind his back—they still bore his name. His designs. His legacy. And people were dying because of it.
"Yinsen, I—" Tony started, but the words caught in his throat.
Yinsen shook his head, cutting him off before he could spiral further into self-recrimination. His eyes were red-rimmed but clear. Focused. "Tony, this isn't on you. You didn't do this."
"But it's my company. My weapons—"
"Your weapons that Obadiah sold," Yinsen interrupted, his voice steady despite the tremor of grief underneath. "I know the difference." He turned back to the TV screen, where footage of burning buildings played on loop. Smoke rising into a sky that should have been clear and blue. "I'm angry that my home is suffering. That I'm sitting here watching it happen, and there's nothing I can do to help them."
The helplessness in his voice—that quiet, contained rage—hit Tony harder than any accusation could have. Yinsen wasn't the type to rage or break down. He processed things internally, methodically, like a doctor examining a wound. But Tony could see the pain beneath the surface. The way his hands kept clenching and unclenching. The tension in his jaw.
Marcus stood near the window, arms crossed, watching both of them. He'd been quiet since the news broke, but Tony had caught the look on his face when Gulmira first appeared on screen. Like he'd been expecting this. Like he'd known it was coming.
Tony took a breath. Then another. The guilt was still there—would probably always be there—but beneath it, something else was building. Something sharper. More focused.
He'd spent weeks building the Mark III. Perfecting it. Making it everything the Mark II wasn't. And now he had three suits hanging in his workshop, gleaming red and gold, waiting for a purpose.
Well. Here was the purpose.
"Who says there's nothing you can do?" Tony said suddenly.
Yinsen glanced up, confusion flickering across his face. "What?"
Tony was already moving toward the workshop entrance, that manic energy that Marcus had come to recognize sparking in his eyes. "Come on. Both of you. I've got something to show you."
Marcus straightened from the window, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Oh, this should be good."
Yinsen just looked bewildered. "Tony, what are you—"
"Trust me," Tony called back over his shoulder, already disappearing down the stairs. "This is going to be worth it."
Marcus caught Yinsen's eye and grinned. "Come on, doc. I think Tony's about to make your day."
The workshop was dimmed when they arrived, most of the overhead lights off, leaving just the ambient glow from various monitors and diagnostic panels. Tony was already at the main control terminal, fingers flying across holographic interfaces that only he seemed to fully understand.
"Jarvis," Tony said, voice carrying that particular tone of barely restrained excitement. "Let's give them the full reveal. Lights up, platforms active."
"Right away, sir," Jarvis replied, and the workshop came alive.
Overhead lights blazed on in sequence. Across the workshop, mechanical platforms began to rise from recessed bays in the floor—smooth, pneumatic motion accompanied by the hiss of hydraulics and the whir of servo motors. The sound of precision engineering doing exactly what it was designed to do.
Three platforms. Three figures rising into view.
Three suits of armor, standing like modern knights ready for battle.
They were identical in design—sleek, aerodynamic, covered in interlocking plates of red and gold that caught the light and seemed to glow with their own inner fire. Each one stood seven feet tall, imposing and powerful, with arc reactors gleaming in their chests like beating hearts of blue-white light.
Yinsen stopped dead in his tracks. "Oh my God."
"Mark III," Tony announced, unable to keep the pride out of his voice. He gestured to the suits with a flourish, like a magician revealing his greatest trick. "The real deal. Not a prototype, not a test run—these are production models. Built for combat."
He walked to the first suit, running his hand along its shoulder plate. "I fixed every problem from the Mark II. Gold-titanium alloy for temperature resistance—no more icing at high altitude. Improved flight stabilizers, enhanced targeting systems, upgraded repulsors with 30% more thrust." Tony's eyes lit up as he talked, the engineer in him unable to resist explaining his work. "The HUD is cleaner, the power distribution is more efficient, and the whole thing is about 15% lighter while being twice as durable."
Marcus whistled low, walking a slow circle around one of the suits. "You've been busy."
"I haven't slept much," Tony admitted with a shrug. "But yeah. These are ready." He turned to face them both, his expression suddenly serious. "And here's the thing—I didn't just build one for myself."
Yinsen's eyes went wide. "Tony, you can't mean—"
"I built one for each of you," Tony said firmly. He pointed to the middle suit. "Mine has the arc reactor built into it because, well, chest thing." He tapped his own chest where the device sat beneath his t-shirt. "But yours are self-contained. I mounted arc reactors directly into the armor, so you don't need to carry one around."
He looked at Marcus, a slight smile tugging at his mouth. "Remember back in that cave? I told you I'd build you a better suit. Took me a while, but I keep my promises."
Marcus felt something warm settle in his chest—gratitude mixed with surprise mixed with the surreal recognition that Tony Stark had just casually given him a multi-million-dollar piece of technology. "This is... Tony, this is insane. These things probably cost—"
"Several hundred million each, yeah," Tony interrupted with a wave of his hand. "Plus the R&D costs, which are technically incalculable. But who's counting?" He met Marcus's eyes, his expression turning genuine. "You saved my life. Both of you did. You got me out of that cave when I would've died otherwise. So if you think I'm going to nickel-and-dime you over some armor..."
He trailed off, shaking his head. The sentiment was clear enough.
Yinsen was still staring at the suits, breathing shallow, like he couldn't quite process what he was seeing. His hands trembled slightly at his sides. "Stark, this is—it's too much. I can't accept—"
"Okay, first of all, yes you can," Tony cut in, walking over to stand in front of him. "And second, don't be such a martyr about it. Marcus already said yes."
"I did?" Marcus said, then grinned. "Yeah, okay, I did."
Tony ignored him, keeping his focus on Yinsen. "And third—don't you want to help your home?"
Yinsen's breath caught.
Tony pressed on, his voice softer now but no less intense. "You said there's nothing you can do. That you're stuck here watching it happen." He gestured toward the suits. "But that's not true. You could go there yourself. You could do something about it."
"I'm a doctor," Yinsen said quietly. "Not a soldier."
"You're whatever you choose to be," Tony countered. "And right now, your hometown needs help. I could fly there and handle it—I'm going to, actually—but..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Wouldn't it mean more if you were there too? If you could protect your people with your own hands?"
The silence stretched out. Yinsen stared at the armor, then at the TV in the corner where news footage still played on mute. Burning buildings. Refugees fleeing. His home, reduced to a war zone.
When he looked back at Tony, there were tears in his eyes. But his voice was steady.
"Thank you, Stark."
Tony just nodded, something tight in his chest loosening. "Don't mention it." Then, because he couldn't help himself: "Seriously, though—we've got lives to save. Let's move."
Suiting up for the first time was surreal.
Marcus stood on his designated platform while mechanical arms descended from above, each one carrying a piece of armor. The process was mesmerizing—precision robotics working in perfect synchronization, guided by Jarvis's steady narration.
"Left leg actuator. Right leg actuator. Chest plate, now locking into place. Arm assemblies deploying."
The armor clicked into place piece by piece, each component fitting with satisfying mechanical clunks and the high-pitched whine of locking mechanisms engaging. It was heavier than Marcus expected but not uncomfortably so—the suit's internal systems compensated for the weight, making him feel powerful rather than burdened.
The helmet descended last, and for a moment everything went dark.
Then the HUD flickered to life.
Suddenly Marcus could see everything. The workshop spread out in crystal-clear detail through the helmet's display, overlaid with scrolling data—armor integrity, power levels, environmental readings, targeting reticules, threat assessments. A mini-map in the corner tracked Tony and Yinsen's positions. Telemetry scrolled across the bottom of his vision.
"Whoa," Marcus breathed.
"System initialization complete," Jarvis announced in his ear, the AI's voice somehow both inside and outside his head. "Mr. Reed, how are you feeling?"
"Like Iron Man," Marcus said, then laughed at the absurdity of the statement. But it was true. He felt strong. Capable. Like he could take on anything.
He lifted one arm experimentally, watching the way the armor moved with him—smooth, responsive, almost like wearing a second skin rather than a metal shell. The repulsor in his palm hummed with barely contained energy.
Beside him, Tony was already suited up and running through diagnostics, his faceplate retracted so Marcus could see the massive grin on his face. "Alright, first-time flyers, listen up. Flying in one of these is like riding a bike, except the bike can go Mach 2 and if you crash you'll probably destroy a building."
"Very reassuring," Yinsen said dryly, though his own armor gleamed as he tested the range of motion in his arms.
"Jarvis will handle most of the stabilization," Tony continued, gesturing as he explained. "But you've got manual overrides for thrust vectoring, altitude control, and trajectory adjustment. Repulsors are your primary flight system—hands and feet. Palm repulsors can also be used as weapons, but we'll save the shooting tutorial for later."
He snapped his faceplate down with a satisfying click, his voice now filtered through the suit's speakers. "Right now, we've got a destination. Gulmira, Afghanistan. It's about 7,000 miles, which at supersonic speeds means we can be there in under four hours."
Marcus did the math in his head, his enhanced mind calculating flight paths and arrival times automatically. "Straight shot?"
"More or less," Tony confirmed. "We'll fly high to avoid radar detection until we get close, then drop in fast. Element of surprise." His helmet turned toward Yinsen. "You ready for this, doc?"
Yinsen took a breath—Marcus could hear it crackling over the suit's comm system. When he spoke, his voice was calm. Resolved. "Let's go save my home."
"That's what I like to hear." Tony's repulsors flared to life beneath his feet, blue-white flames that cast dancing shadows across the workshop floor. "Jarvis, open the roof."
Above them, massive panels in the ceiling began to retract with a low mechanical rumble, revealing the night sky beyond. Stars glittered against velvet darkness.
"See you boys in the sky," Tony said, and shot upward like a rocket.
The roar of his repulsors echoed in the workshop as he vanished through the opening, a streak of red and gold against the dark.
Marcus looked at Yinsen. Even through the armor, he could sense the other man's nervousness. "Ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
"Jarvis, give me a gentle takeoff," Marcus said. "Let's not crater the workshop on my first try."
"Very wise, sir," Jarvis replied with what might have been amusement. "Engaging flight systems. Thrust at 30%."
The repulsors beneath Marcus's feet ignited with a sound like contained thunder—raw power barely held in check. The ground fell away beneath him, smooth and controlled, and then he was rising through the opening in the ceiling, cool night air washing over his armor.
And then he was flying.
The sensation was incredible—like nothing Marcus had ever experienced. Wind screamed past his helmet, the Pacific Ocean spreading out below him in endless black, the lights of Malibu glittering behind him like fallen stars. He could feel the suit responding to his thoughts, to minute shifts in his body weight, adjusting thrust and trajectory to keep him stable.
"This is insane!" Marcus heard himself shout, pure adrenaline flooding his system. "This is absolutely insane!"
"I KNOW, RIGHT?" Tony's voice crackled over the comm, loud and exuberant. "Best feeling in the world!"
Yinsen rose through the opening beside Marcus, his armor gleaming in the moonlight. For a moment they just hovered there, three figures suspended impossibly in the night sky, before Tony's voice came through again.
"Alright, boys—let's go save some lives. Jarvis, plot a course for Gulmira. Maximum speed."
"Course plotted, sir. ETA: three hours, forty-two minutes."
Tony's suit tilted forward, repulsors flaring bright, and he shot off toward the east like a comet. Marcus and Yinsen exchanged a glance—or at least the armored equivalent—and followed.
Behind them, the lights of Malibu faded into the distance. Ahead, halfway around the world, a town burned.
And they were going to stop it.
The flight across the Pacific was surreal. Miles upon miles of empty ocean passed beneath them, dark water reflecting scattered starlight. They flew high enough that the air was thin and cold, frost forming in crystalline patterns on Marcus's faceplate before the suit's heating systems melted it away.
Jarvis kept up a steady stream of navigation data—distance to target, fuel consumption rates, optimal flight path adjustments. Tony had the most experience, occasionally calling out course corrections or pointing out landmarks as they passed over them. Islands. Cargo ships. Weather patterns that showed up as swirling masses on their HUD overlays.
"Crossing into Afghan airspace in sixty seconds," Jarvis announced after what felt like both forever and no time at all. "Adjusting altitude for final approach."
They dropped lower, descending through cloud cover into the dry, mountainous terrain of eastern Afghanistan. The landscape below was harsh—all jagged peaks and desert valleys, lit only by the pale glow of the moon.
"There," Yinsen said suddenly, his voice tight over the comm. "I see the smoke."
Marcus saw it too—a dark smudge against the night sky, backlit by orange flames. Even from miles away, he could make out the glow of fires burning in the town below.
Tony's voice came through the comm, hard and focused. "Alright, here's the play. We drop in fast and hit them hard. Priority one: protect civilians. Priority two: neutralize the terrorists. Priority three: don't get shot."
"What about the Stark weapons?" Yinsen asked.
"Destroy them," Tony said flatly. "Every single one. I don't care how much they cost—I don't want these bastards using my tech ever again."
They descended rapidly, wind screaming past their armor, the town rushing up to meet them. Marcus could see it clearly now through the targeting display—buildings on fire, people running in the streets, armed figures moving in organized groups through the chaos.
And weapons. So many weapons. Rifles with Stark Industries logos. Missiles with his company's name stamped across the casing. Technology meant to protect, now used to terrorize.
"Spread out," Tony ordered. "Cover more ground. Jarvis, mark hostiles in red, civilians in green."
The HUD updated instantly, friendly fire indicators appearing over the figures below. The armed terrorists glowed red—easy to identify and target. The fleeing civilians showed as green—to be protected at all costs.
"On my mark," Tony said. "Three... two... one... mark."
They dove.
Marcus hit the ground like a meteor.
The impact cratered the street, sending up a shower of dust and debris. Somewhere nearby, people screamed—not in fear of him, but at the terrorists who had been herding them at gunpoint just moments before.
He straightened, servos whining, and found himself face-to-face with a scene straight from his nightmares.
A man—thin, weathered, probably a farmer or shopkeeper—was being dragged from his family by two terrorists in desert fatigues. His daughter, couldn't have been more than eight years old, clung to his leg, crying and screaming in Dari. The mother reached for them both, only to be shoved back by a third militant with a rifle.
The lead terrorist—young, maybe early twenties, with a scraggly beard and cruel eyes—shouted something in Pashto that Marcus's suit helpfully translated via text overlay: "Women and children in the truck! Men stay here for questioning!"
"Questioning" was obviously a euphemism for execution.
The man struggled, trying to break free, and the terrorist with the rifle raised his weapon.
"How dare you resist!" he snarled. "I'll kill you both!"
His finger moved toward the trigger.
Marcus didn't think. Didn't hesitate.
His palm snapped up, repulsor charging with a high-pitched whine, and he fired.
The energy blast hit the terrorist square in the chest and sent him flying backward like he'd been hit by a car. He sailed fifteen feet through the air, rifle spinning away, before slamming into a building wall hard enough to crack the mud brick. He crumpled to the ground and didn't move.
The sudden silence was deafening.
Everyone froze—civilians, terrorists, even the guy who'd been about to be shot. They all stared at Marcus in his gleaming red and gold armor, standing in a crater of his own making, repulsor still smoking faintly from the shot.
Then chaos erupted.
"AMERICAN WEAPON!" one of the terrorists screamed. "KILL HIM!"
Gunfire exploded from multiple directions at once—the sharp crack-crack-crack of assault rifles, the deeper thud-thud-thud of a mounted machine gun somewhere to Marcus's left. Bullets pinged off his armor like hail on a tin roof, leaving shallow dents but no real damage.
Marcus's HUD lit up like a Christmas tree, target indicators tracking every shooter, calculating trajectories, marking threats in order of priority. Twenty-three hostiles in his immediate vicinity. Fourteen armed with rifles, three with heavier weapons, six controlling the civilians.
The suit's AI—or maybe Jarvis, Marcus wasn't sure—highlighted the three with heavy weapons in bright red: PRIMARY THREATS.
"Jarvis," Marcus said, his voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding his system, "I need a firing solution."
"Targeting now, sir. Recommend smart munitions for minimal collateral damage."
"Do it."
Panels on Marcus's shoulders opened with a mechanical click-click, revealing a row of small, dart-like projectiles. They launched with soft pops, streaking through the air toward their targets. Not explosive—just high-impact kinetic penetrators designed to disable without killing.
Unless the target was wearing armor. Then they'd punch straight through.
The darts found their marks with mechanical precision. Three terrorists with RPGs dropped simultaneously, weapons clattering from nerveless fingers as the darts struck them in the shoulders, chest, thighs—anywhere that would neutralize without being immediately lethal.
The remaining terrorists scattered, some diving for cover, others continuing to fire wildly in Marcus's direction.
Marcus raised both hands and fired.
Twin repulsor blasts tore through the street, targeting the shooters who'd been too slow or too stupid to take cover. The beams weren't set to kill—Tony had stressed that, emphasized that they were there to save people, not become executioners—but a repulsor blast to the chest was more than enough to put someone down and keep them down.
Bodies flew. Weapons clattered. Screams filled the air.
And through it all, Marcus moved.
The armor responded to his thoughts like an extension of his own body. He sidestepped gunfire, ducked beneath a badly aimed knife thrust, caught a terrorist's rifle in one hand and crushed it into scrap metal with barely any effort. The strength was intoxicating—he felt like he could lift cars, punch through walls, fight an army.
Which was good, because that's essentially what he was doing.
"Behind you, sir," Jarvis warned calmly.
Marcus spun, saw a terrorist raising an RPG launcher, and reacted on pure instinct. His hand shot out, repulsor flaring, and the energy beam caught the launcher just as the man pulled the trigger.
The rocket exploded inside the tube.
The resulting detonation wasn't large, but it was enough to send the would-be shooter flying backward, unconscious before he hit the ground. The launcher itself was reduced to twisted scrap.
Marcus winced. "That could've gone worse."
"Indeed, sir. Though I would recommend avoiding similar situations in the future."
"Noted."
More terrorists rushed him from a side street—six of them, all armed, all screaming what his translator unhelpfully marked as [PROFANITY] [PROFANITY] [THREAT OF VIOLENCE].
Marcus sighed and raised both hands.
Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.
Six repulsor blasts, precisely aimed, carefully calibrated. Six terrorists unconscious on the ground before they'd made it ten feet.
A hostage situation was developing near a burned-out truck about thirty yards away—three civilians being held at gunpoint by a pair of militants who'd wisely decided to use human shields rather than try to fight the walking tank in their midst.
"Let them go or I'll kill them!" one of them shouted in Dari, pressing his rifle against a woman's head. "I swear I'll—"
Marcus's targeting system locked on. Not on the terrorist—on his weapon.
The repulsor blast was surgical. It caught the rifle just below the barrel, the energy beam precisely focused and controlled. The gun shattered, plastic and metal flying apart, and the terrorist yelped in pain as superheated fragments seared his hands.
The second militant spun, raising his own weapon, but Marcus was faster. A targeted burst from his shoulder launchers—three darts, non-lethal, aimed for center mass—and the man dropped like a puppet with cut strings.
The hostages ran, sobbing and screaming but alive.
Marcus allowed himself a moment of satisfaction before his HUD pinged with new threats. More contacts inbound—a whole group of them, moving fast.
"We've got reinforcements!" Tony's voice crackled over the comm. He sounded out of breath but exhilarated. "Looks like they're pulling in fighters from the outskirts. Yinsen, how's your sector?"
"Under control," Yinsen replied, his voice tight but steady. "I have civilians sheltering in a mosque. Three hostiles neutralized."
"Good man. Marcus, status?"
Marcus glanced around the street he'd turned into a war zone. Bodies everywhere—unconscious, not dead, which was important—and civilians fleeing toward safety. The immediate area was secure.
"Clear," he reported. "Moving to the next sector."
"Copy that. Let's clean this place up."
For the next twenty minutes, Marcus moved through Gulmira like a force of nature.
It was strange how quickly it became routine. Target identification. Threat assessment. Engage. Neutralize. Move to the next. His brain processed it all with mechanical efficiency, enhanced intellect running combat calculations faster than he could consciously register them.
But beneath the cold tactical thinking, something else burned hot. Anger. Righteous fury. These people were terrorizing innocents, using weapons of war against civilians who just wanted to live their lives in peace.
And Marcus wasn't having it.
He found a group of terrorists loading crates of Stark-branded weapons onto trucks. Marcus landed in their midst with a thunderous impact that sent two of them sprawling.
"Delivery's canceled," he said, and systematically tore through them.
A terrorist tried to shoot him at point-blank range. Marcus caught the rifle barrel in one hand, crushed it flat, then shoved the man backward hard enough to send him tumbling into his companions like bowling pins.
Another tried to stab him with a combat knife. The blade skittered off Marcus's armor with a screech of metal on metal. Marcus responded by grabbing the man's vest and lifting him off his feet.
"Bad idea," Marcus said, and tossed him into a pile of sandbags ten feet away.
The crates of weapons went next—careful repulsor blasts that reduced the Stark Industries munitions to slag without triggering any explosions. Better to destroy them here than let them spread to other theaters of war.
"We've got a problem," Tony's voice cut through the comm, tense and focused. "Tank. Heavily armed. Moving toward the town square where there's a bunch of civilians sheltering."
Marcus pulled up his tactical map. Sure enough, a large heat signature was moving through the streets, too big to be anything but armored vehicle.
"On my way," he said, and launched skyward.
The tank was a Russian-made T-72, old and battered but still deadly. It rumbled through the narrow streets of Gulmira with mechanical inevitability, its main gun traversing left and right as the crew searched for targets.
Marcus could see the civilians behind a makeshift barricade ahead—maybe twenty people, including children, all pressed together in terrified silence. The tank's gun was already turning toward them.
No time to think. Only time to act.
Marcus dove from the sky like a missile, arms extended, repulsors blazing at full power to increase his speed. He hit the tank turret with the force of a small meteor.
The impact was tremendous—the sound of screaming metal and explosive force. The turret crumpled beneath him, the entire tank rocking sideways from the momentum. Marcus felt the suit's inertial dampeners kick in, protecting him from the g-forces that would have liquified an unprotected human.
He landed on top of the now-disabled tank, planting one armored foot on the caved-in turret, and fired a repulsor blast directly into the engine block.
The tank shuddered. Smoke poured from every seam. The engine died with a grinding whine.
Through the armor, Marcus could hear panicked shouting from inside the vehicle—the crew, realizing they were about to become a metal coffin if they didn't evacuate. A hatch popped open and three men scrambled out, unarmed and terrified.
Marcus let them run. They weren't the enemy anymore—just soldiers who'd lost.
"Tank neutralized," he reported.
"Show-off," Tony said, but Marcus could hear the grin in his voice.
Fifteen more minutes of systematic clearing. Terrorists routed. Weapons destroyed. Civilians protected. The tide of battle had turned so completely that the remaining militants were fleeing into the desert, abandoning their weapons and running for their lives.
"I think we got them all," Yinsen said over the comm. He sounded exhausted but satisfied. "The civilians are coming out of hiding. They're... they're safe."
"Good work, team," Tony said. "Now let's—hang on. Jarvis, what's that heat signature?"
Marcus checked his HUD. A new contact, single person, holed up in a partially destroyed building about two hundred yards from his position. The thermal imaging showed them hiding behind a wall.
"Hiding," Jarvis reported. "Elevated heart rate. Armed."
"One of the leaders, probably," Tony said. "I'll handle—"
"I've got it," Marcus interrupted. He was closer. And something about the location felt familiar, like he'd seen this exact scenario play out before.
The building was half-collapsed, its walls pockmarked with bullet holes. Marcus walked through the front entrance like he owned the place, his boots crunching on broken glass and debris.
"Thermal shows you're on the other side of that wall," Marcus called out in English. Then, for good measure, he repeated it in Pashto using the suit's translation system. "You can come out, or I can come get you. Your choice."
Silence. Then a desperate, terrified voice shouting back in Pashto: "Stay away! I'll shoot!"
"That wouldn't end well for you," Marcus replied calmly.
He approached the wall—mud brick, maybe eight inches thick. Through the thermal imaging, he could see the man on the other side clearly now. Crouched low. Gripping a rifle. Shaking with fear or rage or both.
Marcus pulled his arm back. The suit's servos whined as they amplified his strength.
Then he punched straight through the wall.
The mud brick exploded inward, chunks flying in all directions. Marcus's gauntleted hand closed around fabric—the man's tactical vest—and he pulled backward with several tons of force.
The terrorist came through the wall like he'd been shot from a cannon, trailing debris, arms windmilling. He crashed into the opposite wall with bone-breaking force and collapsed to the floor, gasping, broken.
Blood trickled from his mouth. His rifle lay somewhere in the rubble, forgotten.
Marcus walked over and stood above him, the armored giant casting a shadow across the fallen man's face. He reached up and retracted his faceplate with a soft hiss of hydraulics, letting the terrorist see his face.
"Remember me?" Marcus asked.
The man's eyes widened. Even through the pain, through the shock, recognition flickered across his features. His mouth worked soundlessly, then formed a single word:
"You..."
"Yeah," Marcus said quietly. "Me. The one you held prisoner. The one you tortured. The one who got away."
This was one of the guards from the cave. The bearded one who'd taken particular pleasure in making their lives hell. Who'd laughed when they were beaten. Who'd mocked them when they were at their lowest.
Marcus had recognized the thermal signature, the way the man moved. Some part of his enhanced brain had filed away every detail of their captors, cataloged them, stored them for later.
And here was later.
This was one of the guards from the cave. The bearded one who'd taken particular pleasure in making their lives hell. Who'd laughed when they were beaten. Who'd mocked them when they were at their lowest. Who'd threatened to burn Gulmira to ashes.
And now, here in Gulmira, broken and bleeding, he'd finally been stopped.
Marcus stared down at him for a long moment. He could call the authorities. Could ensure proper justice. Could do the "right" thing by the book.
But around the edges of the square, people were gathering. Civilians emerging from hiding. Staring at the fallen terrorist with recognition dawning on their faces. Marcus could see it in their eyes—years of grief, of fear, of rage at everything this man and his organization had done to them.
The bearded man seemed to realize it too. His eyes darted to the gathering crowd, and fresh terror bloomed on his face. "Please," he gasped in Pashto, blood bubbling at his lips. "Mercy..."
Marcus looked at the crowd. Then back at the guard. Then he straightened, turned toward the street, and spoke clearly enough for everyone to hear:
"I'll leave him to you."
He activated his repulsors and lifted off the ground, rising into the air above the square.
Behind him, the crowd began to close in. The bearded man tried to crawl away, his broken body barely responding. He didn't get far.
Marcus didn't look back. He flew away into the dawn, the sounds of justice—rough and terrible and perhaps deserved—fading behind him.
Outside, the sun was beginning to rise over Gulmira. The fires were going out. Civilians were emerging from hiding, supporting each other, beginning the long process of recovering from trauma.
The town was safe. The terrorists were finished. Tony Stark's weapons would never hurt these people again.
And Marcus tried not to think about the line he'd just crossed.
[End of Chapter 22]
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