The moment the Feil combat robots lost control and opened fire, General Ross immediately seized battlefield command.
Ross knew full well that S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn't have been foolish enough to deliberately start this skirmish. Something must have gone wrong some accident, some technical failure but that did not soothe his anger.
Still, as an experienced general, he quickly calmed down once he realized the firefight could be contained.
"Bring in the tanks."
The SAR-1 combat robots were designed as mobile weapons platforms. They weren't just machines for open warfare; they provided heavy support in combat, carried modular weapon systems, and offered battlefield intelligence. Against tanks, however, even these advanced robots had little chance of resisting.
And if the SAR-1s had no hope of standing against tanks, then the inferior Feil robots from Hammer Industries certainly stood no chance at all. None of them carried weapons powerful enough to pierce heavy armor.
Ross didn't truly need the tanks. He wanted them on standby for one reason only to keep pressure on S.H.I.E.L.D. The moment those agents' robots had fired the first shot, whether accidental or not, S.H.I.E.L.D. would be held accountable. They would bear the cost in reparations, and that alone gave Ross a grim satisfaction.
While he tightened the noose, someone far away was smiling for an entirely different reason: Justin Hammer. The arms dealer, oblivious to the chaos he had indirectly caused, was already dreaming of the profits such conflicts would generate.
From the first exchange of fire, the battle was impossible to stop.
Coulson had tried. He had even stepped forward to explain, to de-escalate. But when he saw the way the military was deploying, he knew the truth. Explanations wouldn't matter now.
His jaw tightened. "Bring out every single Feil unit we've got!"
It wasn't about reparations anymore. If S.H.I.E.L.D. backed down here, they would lose face completely. And in a clash of power, face mattered.
But as the battle lines formed, Coulson couldn't ignore the lump of bitterness in his throat. Across the line of fire stood several towering T-800s, the kind of heavy-duty machines capable of mowing down squads of soldiers in seconds.
S.H.I.E.L.D. should have had similar assets by now. But their order hadn't arrived. Instead, they had these flimsy Hammer-made robots and far too much misplaced confidence.
Coulson forced himself to stand firm. "Numbers are still on our side," he muttered under his breath. "We can outlast them."
In total, fewer than two hundred machines were engaged on the field. Not a true steel legion, but more than enough firepower to erase any human fear of inadequacy.
The clash was brutal. There was no strategy, no elaborate maneuvers. It was raw firepower against firepower, bullets and rockets shredding the desert air. Explosions lit the battlefield, metal bodies collapsing one after another, sparks scattering like fireworks.
Not even the Terminators could emerge unscathed under such relentless barrages.
But the numbers told an unforgiving story.
Coulson's face drained of color. "Report. What's our loss rate?"
"Over seventy percent, sir."
He swallowed hard. "And theirs?"
"Less than thirty."
Silence fell over S.H.I.E.L.D.'s command tent. Even the seasoned agents were shaken.
"How how is that possible?" Coulson's voice cracked.
The reports were consistent. Their robots were being ripped apart in droves, while the SAR-1s, outfitted with more advanced systems, tore through Hammer's machines like paper. Director Fury had assured him that, on paper, the two models were comparable. But reality was proving otherwise.
"Loss ratio widening! We're being decimated!"
The agents' voices rose in panic as screen after screen filled with red indicators.
Coulson's lips twitched in frustration. "This is insane… We're fighting with junk."
He clenched his fists, his knuckles pale. This wasn't just defeat it was humiliation. The robots had malfunctioned, sparked the war, and now were being systematically annihilated. Less than ten minutes in, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s entire force had been crushed.
He thought bitterly, Director, are we really so poor we had to buy this garbage?
His voice came out hoarse. "Notify Director Fury. Tell him to prepare for inspection. We're… finished here."
By the time General Ross marched across the field with his officers, the outcome was undeniable. The military had triumphed.
Ross carried himself with cold authority, his expression carved from stone. He looked at the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents like they were prisoners of war, not partners in global security.
Coulson and the others ground their teeth in frustration. Rage burned in their chests, but they swallowed it. They couldn't escalate this into a human firefight.
Inside every agent's mind, one name was cursed a hundred times over: Hammer Industries.
Director Fury received the full report in silence. His single eye darkened, his jaw set. After a long pause, he picked up his phone.
Across town, Justin Hammer was sitting comfortably with Nolan Locke. The self-styled weapons genius had been making his pitch all day.
Hammer Industries, he argued, could supplement Locke Technologies' genetic research with top-tier personnel. Together, they could dominate both biotech and weapons markets.
Nolan had endured the man's arrogance with thinning patience. Hammer's shamelessness almost impressed him but only almost.
Then Hammer's phone rang.
Nolan arched an eyebrow. "Not going to answer?"
Hammer glanced at the caller ID and his eyes lit up. He quickly tilted the phone so Nolan could see the name: Director Nick Fury.
A smug smile spread across his face. "S.H.I.E.L.D. has been very interested in combat robots. Looks like they're calling to place a bigger order."
Nolan didn't respond, but his silence carried weight.
Hammer answered cheerfully. "Director Fury! Such a pleasure. I take it you're calling with good news?"
The reply was a cold blade.
"Justin Hammer, as of this moment, S.H.I.E.L.D. is terminating all contracts with Hammer Industries. Your Feil combat robots malfunctioned mid-battle, instigated a military clash, and nearly escalated into open war. S.H.I.E.L.D. reserves the right to pursue full legal action against you."
Click. The line went dead.
Hammer's face froze.
Nolan chuckled softly. "Something wrong?"
Hammer forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Nothing serious. Just… a minor complaint. Looks like I'll have to be busy for the next few days."
"Oh?" Nolan's gaze was amused, almost mocking. He hadn't caught every word Fury had spat through the phone, but the gist was clear.
Before Hammer could recover, Nolan's own phone rang. He answered with a flicker of curiosity, put the call on speaker, and smiled knowingly.
"Dr. Locke," Fury's voice came, clipped but steady. "S.H.I.E.L.D. intends to procure a batch of SAR-1 units from your company."
Nolan raised a brow. "I was under the impression you already invested heavily in Hammer Industries' robots."
His eyes slid deliberately toward Hammer, whose face had turned the color of ash.
"Those junk heaps?" Fury snarled. "Scrap metal. I'll see Hammer dragged before a military tribunal if it's the last thing I do."
Nolan let the venomous words hang in the air before answering with pleasant calm. "Very well, Director. Consider it done."
When the call ended, Nolan looked across the table. "Dr. Hammer, it seems your earlier claims of harmony weren't quite accurate."
Hammer's smile collapsed completely. He stood abruptly, muttered something unintelligible, and stormed out.
Nolan leaned back, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. If Fury was this decisive, something far bigger was unfolding.
Back in New Mexico, Fury arrived personally at the temporary base. He met Ross face to face, the two men locking eyes like old rivals.
Ross snorted, flipping through the White House orders in his hand. "Compromise, compromise… Always the cowards. Very well, Director Fury. I'll pull back my forces. But make no mistake this time, S.H.I.E.L.D. will bleed for it."
He barked the command. "Withdraw!"
The army marched away, leaving silence in their wake.
Fury rubbed his temple, frustration pounding behind his eye. That mysterious hammer still sat in the dirt, immovable and enigmatic. He needed answers. And there was only one man who came to mind.
"Nolan Locke," Fury muttered. "Time to bring you in."
He turned to Coulson. "Contact Nolan. Invite him to examine the hammer. And start digging into what I told you before."
Orders delivered, Fury boarded his plane.
That night, under the cloak of darkness, a powerful figure crept toward the S.H.I.E.L.D. encampment. His goal was simple.
Retrieve his hammer.
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