Tony didn't hesitate. Didn't negotiate. Didn't offer warnings or chances to surrender.
He stepped forward and drove his armored fist into the nearest militant's chest. The man launched backward like he'd been hit by a car, his body tumbling through the air before slamming into a building wall with bone-shattering force.
The other militants opened fire again, desperation overriding their earlier shock. Tony's repulsors answered, twin beams of concentrated energy that vaporized flesh and bone. Bodies came apart under the assault, reduced to components that had once been human.
The Mark III moved through the chaos with mechanical efficiency, JARVIS's targeting systems identifying threats and prioritizing targets. When militants grabbed civilians as shields, Tony adjusted his aim with microsecond precision, repulsor blasts that curved around hostages to eliminate their captors. The armor's sensor suite made it impossible for the Ten Rings to hide, impossible to use innocents as protection.
Within minutes, every militant in the immediate area lay dead or dying. The street fell silent except for the whimpering of traumatized civilians and the crackling of fires.
Tony's attention locked onto the gallows at the town center, the crude wooden structure where they'd displayed their executions. His boots thudded against the dirt as he approached, each step feeling heavier than the last.
Yinsen hung there, rope around his neck, body covered in wounds that told stories of prolonged torture. Burns, lacerations, contusions, they'd taken their time with him. Made him suffer before they killed him.
Tony's vision blurred, tears pressing against his eyes even as rage burned in his chest. This was his fault. He should have insisted. Should have dragged Yinsen and his family to New York by force, given them a life of safety and comfort regardless of his protests. Should have protected the man who'd saved his life.
But regret changed nothing. Yinsen was gone.
Tony activated his boot repulsors, lifting smoothly to the gallows' top beam. One armored hand reached out, supporting Yinsen's body with surprising gentleness. The other hand extended a cutting tool from the gauntlet's finger assembly, preparing to sever the rope,
The tank round hit before Tony heard the shot.
The explosion caught him mid-air, the concussive force slamming him out of the sky. He crashed into the ground twenty feet away, armor systems screaming damage warnings. But worse, infinitely worse, the shell had detonated directly beside Yinsen's body.
When Tony's vision cleared, when the smoke dissipated enough to see, there was nothing left. Yinsen's body had been obliterated, reduced to scattered fragments, blood spattering across everything within blast radius. The Mark III's red and gold plating now bore streaks of deeper crimson, Yinsen's blood, Yinsen's remains.
Tony's hand still clutched a piece of torn flesh, some unidentifiable part of his friend that the explosion had flung his direction.
Something broke inside Tony Stark in that moment. The careful control, the strategic thinking, the measured response, all of it shattered under the weight of grief and fury.
"AAAHHHHH!" The scream tore from his throat, amplified by the armor's speakers into an inhuman roar of anguish. "WHAT KIND OF ANIMALS ARE YOU?"
The tank's turret swiveled, lining up a second shot. The barrel flashed,
Tony rolled aside, the shell detonating where he'd been lying moments before. The explosion washed over his shields, heat and pressure that the Mark III absorbed but couldn't entirely negate.
He surged to his feet, his right arm rising smoothly. A panel on the gauntlet's upper surface slid open, revealing a compact missile launcher. The projectile streaked forward with a contrail of white smoke, covering the distance to the tank in under a second.
The explosion consumed the vehicle entirely. Armor plating peeled back like aluminum foil, ammunition cooked off in secondary detonations, the crew inside incinerated before they could even scream.
Tony didn't stop. He couldn't stop. The rage demanded outlet, demanded that something pay for Yinsen's death beyond just the militants directly responsible.
His HUD painted the town in tactical overlay, heat signatures marking every Ten Rings operative still breathing. Tony hunted them systematically, room by room, building by building. Some tried to surrender. Some tried to flee. None succeeded.
When he found their weapons caches, crates stamped with Stark Industries logos, munitions Tony himself had designed, he destroyed them all. Repulsor blasts reduced missiles to slag, grenades detonated in chain reactions, rifles melted into useless metal.
By the time Tony finally exhausted his targets, Gulmira had been purged of Ten Rings presence. The civilians who remained emerged cautiously from hiding, staring at the armored figure who'd descended like an avenging god.
Tony didn't acknowledge them. Didn't wait for thanks or recognition. His repulsors fired, lifting him skyward, and within seconds he was gone, a red and gold streak disappearing into the Afghan sky.
Twenty minutes after Tony's departure, a convoy of trucks rumbled into Gulmira's outskirts. Raza emerged from the lead vehicle, surveying the devastation with the calculating eye of someone who'd survived worse.
He hadn't witnessed the battle, hadn't seen the armored warrior methodically eliminate his men. But he'd spotted something in the sky as his convoy approached. Something metallic and impossible, flying with no visible means of propulsion.
Raza studied the destruction: bodies torn apart by energy weapons, a tank reduced to smoking wreckage, weapons caches destroyed with surgical precision. And everywhere, the confused reports from surviving civilians about a "metal man" who'd fallen from the sky to deliver judgment.
"Stark," Raza murmured, his hand unconsciously touching his scarred face. "You really did build something in that cave."
He'd been right to evacuate when Smith Doyle had attacked their base. Right to assume Stark would eventually come hunting. But he'd underestimated the genius billionaire's capabilities, assumed whatever Stark built would be crude and limited.
This was neither. This was a weapon that could change everything.
Raza smiled, his expression carrying cold satisfaction. "Let's see how long you can hide behind that armor, Mr. Stark. Eventually, everyone takes off their mask."
Meanwhile, at the Triskelion, in an office notably more spacious and better-appointed than those of standard SHIELD personnel, Alexander Pierce reviewed documents with the careful attention of someone who'd spent decades in intelligence work.
Agent Sitwell entered without knocking, a privilege afforded to trusted subordinates. He carried a thick folder stamped with security classifications that would have alarmed most SHIELD agents.
"Minister," Sitwell said, using Pierce's World Security Council title rather than any SHIELD designation. "This is the complete dossier on Smith Doyle. Director Fury has allocated substantial resources to monitoring him and has assigned Agent Coulson as primary liaison."
Pierce accepted the folder, flipping through initial pages with practiced speed. "What's the assessment?"
"Smith Doyle possesses enhanced abilities beyond anything currently documented in SHIELD's Index. His destructive capability exceeds all other enhanced individuals on record, including those from the Avenger Initiative candidate pool."
Sitwell remained standing, hands clasped behind his back. "He leads an organization called the Fraternity, historical records suggest it's been operating for over a millennium. Their stated mission involves targeting what they define as 'deeply sinful villains and underground forces.'"
Pierce's interest sharpened. "Define 'targeting.'"
"Elimination. They've destroyed Kingpin's organization in Hell's Kitchen, dismantled the Continental Hotel network, eliminated the High Table's elder council, and eradicated the Hand's leadership structure. All within the past few months."
"Efficient." Pierce allowed himself a small smile. "Hydra recruitment potential?"
"Minimal to nonexistent," Sitwell replied bluntly. "The Fraternity's core ideology, 'justice must be achieved by our own hands', fundamentally conflicts with our operational model. If they discovered our true nature, they'd likely initiate direct hostile action. This wouldn't be a negotiation situation. They'd treat us as another target for elimination."
"And SHIELD recruitment?"
"Considerably more promising. Fury has Coulson building rapport. A consultant position with appropriate compensation and autonomy could prove attractive. Doyle's already accepted payment for information brokerage through his Assassin Brotherhood subsidiary."
Pierce's expression turned more serious. "If direct recruitment is problematic, indirect utilization becomes the priority. As long as Doyle operates within SHIELD's structure, we have access to his power. Just requires an additional procedural layer when deployment becomes necessary."
He set down the folder, accessing older memories. "I remember the Fraternity from my time as Director. Inflexible ideology, resistant to compromise, 'hard and stinky' as the saying goes. Never expected they'd produce someone with this level of power. Lucky bastards."
"There are additional opportunities, Minister." Sitwell shifted to his secondary briefing points. "Agent Coulson recently purchased intelligence access to the Assassin Brotherhood's services, specifically their medical treatment facility. In exchange for providing criminal intelligence, SHIELD personnel receive access to what they call 'Wax Treatment.'"
"Effectiveness?"
"Remarkable. It can heal knife wounds, gunshot injuries, fractures, and severe contusions within twenty-four hours, regardless of severity, provided the injury isn't immediately fatal. SHIELD has verified the results through multiple test cases."
Pierce's interest intensified. "Side effects? Limitations?"
"Patients must undergo the treatment unclothed. Post-treatment includes mandatory showers and medical examination under their supervision, presumably to prevent sample collection or reverse engineering. Currently, SHIELD possesses no samples and no technical specifications for replication."
"Smart," Pierce acknowledged. "They're protecting their proprietary technology while generating ongoing revenue. What else?"
"The Assassin Brotherhood accepts contracts for target elimination. We can funnel problematic individuals through their system, sell them intelligence on targets we want eliminated, receive the treatment access as payment. Effectively outsourcing wetwork while maintaining plausible deniability."
Pierce considered the implications, a smile gradually spreading across his face. "So we can utilize them without direct recruitment. Channel resources through SHIELD's relationship, access their capabilities for our operations, all while maintaining separation."
He nodded with satisfaction. "Perfect. Not everyone at SHIELD serves our agenda, our beloved Director being the primary example. But as long as SHIELD engages with the Fraternity, we benefit from that engagement. Let Fury handle the relationship management while we reap the operational advantages."
Both men shared a laugh at that, the comfortable camaraderie of co-conspirators who'd successfully navigated bureaucratic waters for decades.
Pierce's smile lingered as he contemplated the possibilities. Smith Doyle and his Fraternity represented a powerful tool, whether they realized it or not. And the best tools were the ones that thought they were acting independently while actually serving someone else's agenda.
Hydra had survived this long by being adaptable. By recognizing that control came in many forms, and the most effective control was the kind the controlled never noticed.
"Keep monitoring the situation," Pierce instructed. "If opportunities for deeper integration present themselves, bring them to my attention immediately. And make sure our people have access to those healing pods, operatives with enhanced recovery capabilities are worth their weight in gold."
"Understood, Minister."
As Sitwell departed, Pierce returned to the dossier, studying Smith Doyle's photograph with calculating assessment. The young man stared back from the image, his expression unreadable, his eyes carrying something that might have been confidence or might have been contempt.
"Welcome to the game, Mr. Doyle," Pierce murmured. "Let's see if you're as dangerous as everyone seems to think."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writing takes time, coffee, and a lot of love.If you'd like to support my work, join me at [email protected]/GoldenGaruda
You'll get early access to over 50 chapters, selection on new series, and the satisfaction of knowing your support directly fuels more stories.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~