United States, Tennessee.
The night was pitch black. Tony Stark didn't know how long he had been flying. Ever since he left the Malibu villa, JARVIS had been guiding the Iron Man suit toward a safe zone.
"Sir? Sir!" JARVIS' voice called out in the dark. Inside the armor, flickering screens lit Stark's bloodied face.
"Turn off the alarm. I get it," Tony muttered weakly. The blast had left him so battered that even speaking felt like a burden.
The low-battery warning blared—less than five percent power left. The red lights flashing inside the armor jolted him awake, eyes widening as the ground rushed closer.
"AHHHHHH!"
BOOM!
Like a crushed soda can, Tony's body sparked as he skidded across the ground. The cold air gnawed at him as the armor shut down completely. JARVIS went into full sleep mode, signal lost.
For Stark, dragging his broken body inside that heavy armor, this night was going to be endless.
…
A thousand meters above the collapsed villa, a figure hovered silently.
Yellow suit, white cape, faint arcs of electricity flickering across his body—Saitama floated in midair, dead-fish eyes staring calmly at the ruins below.
"Mr. Saitama, is that you? My apologies. I failed to protect Mr. Stark, and you were trapped," JARVIS' voice came from a tactical wristband projection.
"Where is he now, JARVIS?" Saitama asked.
"My core has entered sleep mode. The last signal was lost somewhere in Tennessee. I suspect he is nearby. But before anything else, I suggest you contact Colonel Rhodes… Also, something puzzles me—why am I talking like a human?" JARVIS sounded almost surprised.
"Hello. I am Ms. Saturday Sale's backup, unit 001, Master's exclusive assistant," came a soft, elegant female voice from the black ring.
Unit 001—Saturday Sale's copy. Though a downgraded version, her presence felt overwhelmingly powerful to JARVIS.
"A pleasure to meet another AI. I am JARVIS. I'll transmit a packet of data to you now."
"Gladly," 001 replied.
Saitama: "…"
The two AIs talking bored him to death. But at least their efficiency was terrifying. Within moments, video footage of the villa's destruction was uploaded for him to view.
Saitama skimmed through it. "Connect me to Rhodes. And Pepper," he said, voice cold.
The expression on his face spelled it clearly—he was pissed, ready to hit someone.
"Mr. Saitama, what exactly are you planning?" JARVIS asked.
"Hit people," Saitama replied flatly. Blue-white lightning danced across his body as he vanished.
…
The U.S. Department of Defense.
Because of the Mandarin's televised executions, the American military demanded retribution. The President raged, ordering Colonel Rhodes to deal with the terrorist before anything else.
…
Pakistan.
Inside a makeshift clothing factory filled with veiled women at sewing machines, Rhodes—now in the silver War Machine suit—fumed.
"Goddammit… this is the Mandarin?" he swore in disbelief.
His phone buzzed. Tony.
The battered billionaire was now in Tennessee, relying on a kid to help patch up his broken armor. After a short talk, Tony borrowed Rhodey's login credentials and cut the call.
Then—
"Rhodes… Saitama?! Finally! I thought Stark was done for. I've got a mess on my end too. When can you come help me out?"
The usually stoic Colonel Rhodes actually sounded relieved, almost fawning.
"I'm busy," came Saitama's voice over the line, calm but laced with faint motorcycle rumbles and distant gunfire. "I want you to take care of Pepper. And Stark."
Rhodes' soldier's instincts flared—Saitama was in a fight. A big one. But if it was him… there was nothing to worry about.
"…Fine. I'll head back."
Hanging up, Rhodes turned back to the civilians. But just as he reassured the last woman, she suddenly grabbed his hand.
Coldness spread.
In three seconds, War Machine collapsed like a puppet.
The woman pulled back her veil—her face scarred with molten lines.
"The Iron Patriot is secured, my lord," she reported into a comms device, smirking at the fallen colonel.
Rhodes: "…"
Guess I'll just take the L. Bronze lobby… hope my teammate carries.
…
Elsewhere.
Saitama stood surrounded.
Dozens of black muzzles locked on him. RPGs, mounted guns, rows of armored soldiers. More than a hundred armed terrorists had him in their sights.
For what reason?
Just one.
Because a bald man had dropped casually into their camp less than a minute ago.
And now, every single one of them looked like they'd seen a ghost.
(End of Chapter)
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