The sonic boom tore through the upper atmosphere, a fleeting scar against the European sky as Ranger, in full Turbo: Flight mode, breached the Latverian border. He was a streak of obsidian and cobalt, a bird of prey loosed from its perch. Flanking him in a precise, diamond formation were five Doombots, their polished green armor gleaming, their movements perfectly synchronized with his own blistering speed. Doom, true to his pronouncements, had ensured his guest's departure was an event, a statement.
Ranger had declined the offer of an instant teleportation back to Emma Frost's penthouse. Where was the artistry in that?
"Doom shall make good on his promise." Victor had intoned, a portal already shimmering beside them, ready to whisk Ranger away. "This gateway will return you directly to the White Queen's chambers."
"And miss the scenic route?" Ranger had countered, a smirk playing on his lips. "What do you think of a more… high-class approach, Doom? A journey with a frisson of danger, perhaps a hint of international incident, underscored by a display of unassailable power. A certain… passion in the passage, if you will."
A flicker of something that might have been amusement in Doom's masked eyes. "An unorthodox preference, Ranger. But Doom finds a certain… theatricality… appealing. Very well. Your escort shall ensure your journey is… memorable."
And memorable it was. The Doombots, acting as an official Latverian delegation (albeit an unsolicited one), had broadcast their flight path in advance, a curt, non-negotiable advisory to the European powers. Most nations, wisely, chose to observe from a distance, scrambling jets merely to track the anomaly.
But some, inevitably, were less prudent. Or perhaps more desperate.
As they blazed over the choppy waters of the North Atlantic, a flurry of missile lock warnings shrieked in Ranger's HUD. Streaks of smoke arrowed up from the grey waves below.
"Predictable." Ranger muttered, a grin spreading across his face. He banked sharply, a column of water erupting where he'd been moments before as the first missile detonated prematurely. He spiraled downwards, plunging towards the turbulent surface. "Go Turbo: Scuba."
His flight suit underwent a breathtaking transformation. Aerodynamic surfaces retracted, replaced by a sleeker, more hydrodynamic shell. The obsidian plates shifted, revealing gill-like vents along his torso that shimmered with an internal blue light. His boots elongated, the heels splitting and fanning out into powerful, articulated flippers, webbed with the same energy that pulsed through his suit. The faceplate remained, but its optical sensors adapted, cutting through the murky depths with enhanced clarity. He sliced into the ocean with barely a splash, the cold an insignificant caress against his advanced armor.
The Doombots followed without hesitation, their forms encased in shimmering, emerald force fields that parted the water and negated the crushing pressure of the deep. The remaining missiles pierced the ocean's surface, their warheads detonating in concussive, blossoming explosions that sent shockwaves tearing through the water column. But their targets were already ghosts, moving with uncanny speed through the sun-dappled twilight of the upper ocean.
One Doombot, with a casual flick of its wrist, wove a complex arcane gesture. Far above, on a distant, undisclosed naval vessel, alarms blared as their own ordnance, now shimmering with green Latverian magic, rematerialized on their launch deck, erupting in a series of devastating secondary explosions. Screams, cut short, echoed briefly over their comms.
Ranger, now a phantom in the deep, did a graceful barrel roll as a fresh volley of torpedoes, sleek and shark-like, homed in on his energy signature. His newly webbed feet kicked with astonishing power, the Turbo energy coursing through them creating micro-vortices. With a powerful, corkscrewing motion, he generated a swirling, localized whirlpool, an underwater vortex of immense force. The torpedoes, caught in its irresistible pull, were sucked into its churning maw, their guidance systems failing as they collided and detonated within the watery maelstrom, the muffled thuds a testament to their neutralized threat.
He then shot towards the source – a shadowy, behemoth outline of a nuclear submarine lurking in the abyssal gloom. His webbed hands, now crackling with enhanced strength, clamped onto its reinforced hull. Engines straining against his might, he began to pull, dragging the multi-thousand-ton war machine through the water like a disobedient leviathan.
He surfaced with an explosive burst of water, the captured submarine breaching like a grotesque whale, trailing streams of seawater. With a guttural roar that was part exertion, part exhilaration, Ranger heaved. The massive vessel arced through the air, a testament to his incredible strength, tumbling end over end towards a swirling green portal one of the Doombots had conjured with a sweep of its gauntlet. The submarine vanished into the shimmering rift – likely rematerializing in a very inconvenient, very landlocked location.
But the attackers weren't finished. As the submarine disappeared, a hatch on its conning tower, just before it fully entered the portal, hissed open. A single, slender missile, its warhead ominously shaped, its markings stark and unambiguous, launched skyward with terrifying speed. A nuclear payload.
The missile climbed, its thrusters burning fiercely, then, as if a switch had been flipped, they sputtered and died. For a heart-stopping moment, it hung at its apogee, a silver dart against the grey sky, before beginning its deadly freefall. Just as its guidance system reacquired its targets, its nose cone pointing directly towards Ranger and the Doombots, its thrusters reignited with a furious roar, accelerating it downwards.
Ranger, treading water with nonchalant ease, merely watched its descent, a look of almost bored resignation on his face. The Doombots, however, reacted instantly. One soared above him, its hands weaving intricate patterns of emerald energy, opening another, larger portal directly in the missile's path. The nuclear warhead, moments from impact, was swallowed by the swirling vortex. From within the portal, before it snapped shut, came the distinct, terrified screams of those on the receiving end of their own redirected apocalypse.
But the victory was costly. As the nuclear missile vanished, a streaking conventional missile, fired from an unseen assailant, slammed into the Doombot that had opened the portal. The explosion was concussive, a bloom of fire and shrapnel. The Doombot, its armor breached, its systems failing, tumbled from the sky, crashing into the waves with a final, dying hiss of steam.
The remaining four Doombots froze, their metallic heads swiveling, optical sensors glowing with malevolent intensity towards the direction of the attack. High above, a squadron of advanced fighter jets, previously unseen, screamed overhead, unleashing a hail of cannon fire. Ranger, with a dancer's grace, weaved through the deadly rain, bullets sparking harmlessly off his Turbo-charged armor.
The Doombots, however, made no attempt to dodge. They absorbed the impacts, their armor barely scratched. Then, in perfect, chilling unison, their voices, amplified and metallic, boomed across the ocean: "YOU HAVE MADE AN ENEMY OF DOOM."
Retribution was instant and absolute.
One Doombot's optical arrays blazed with crimson light. Twin beams of focused energy, impossibly fast, lanced out, slicing through five of the attacking jets before their pilots could even register the threat. The aircraft disintegrated in mid-air, blossoming into fireballs that rained debris into the sea.
Another Doombot raised a gauntlet. A miniature black hole, crackling with unstable energies, formed at its palm, then shot outwards. It expanded rapidly, its gravitational pull sucking in jets, seawater, and even the wreckage of the previously downed submarine, crushing them into a super-dense singularity before spitting out a cloud of unrecognizable, pulverized scrap.
The final two Doombots acted in concert. Green energy tendrils snaked out from their outstretched hands, ensnaring the remaining submarines and jets, yanking them from the sky and sea as if they were toys. They were dragged, struggling futilely, to hover directly before the impassive masks of their captors. Then, with a final, contemptuous gesture, the Doombots clenched their fists. Metal shrieked, hulls imploded, and the captured war machines were crushed into compacted balls of wreckage, pilots and crews still within.
A new voice, deeper, more resonant, and filled with an icy, unyielding fury, suddenly echoed across the ocean, seemingly from the very sky itself, a broadcast from Latveria carried on unseen energies.
"DOOM SPEAKS ONCE MORE. THIS MAN, RANGER, IS UNDER THE SOVEREIGN PROTECTION OF DOOM UNTIL HE STEPS ON AMERICAN SOIL."
The voice paused, the silence more terrifying than any sound.
"DOOM SHALL SHOW NO MERCY TO THOSE WHO DISREGARD DOOM'S WORD. CONSIDER THIS YOUR ONLY WARNING."
A profound, chilling silence descended upon the North Atlantic, broken only by the crackle of burning wreckage and the distant, panicked chatter of retreating forces.
-----------------
The remainder of the flight across the Atlantic was, by comparison to the earlier fireworks, almost tranquil. The vast, cerulean expanse of the ocean stretched to every horizon, a breathtaking canvas of blues and whites. But even endless beauty can become monotonous, especially when one is accustomed to a rather more… dynamic pace of life. Ranger, clearly, was growing restless.
He skimmed low, his Turbo: Flight mode wings, sharp as obsidian blades, slicing through the ocean's surface. The water parted cleanly before him, a perfect, fleeting incision, only to erupt a second later in a chaotic spray of white foam as the displaced water violently readjusted, the surface rippling and shuddering in his wake. He was playing, a godlike creature idly tracing patterns on the world's skin.
His enhanced senses picked up movement beneath the waves – a large, powerful fish, a prime specimen of tuna, arrowing through the depths, utterly oblivious to the demigod and his robotic entourage above. A predatory glint sparked in Ranger's eyes.
"Go Turbo: Scuba." he muttered, the command a soft breath. His suit shimmered, transforming seamlessly. He plunged into the cool embrace of the ocean, his webbed feet propelling him with incredible speed. He intercepted the tuna with ease, his gloved hand gently but firmly closing around its powerful tail. Then, with another whispered command,
"Go Turbo: Flight." he erupted from the water, suit shifting back to its aerial configuration, the startled, impressively sized tuna held aloft like a silver trophy. The four remaining Doombots, ever stoic, adjusted their formation around him without comment.
Ranger, now matching their altitude, maneuvered closer to one of the Doombots, brandishing his prize. "A proposition, my metallic friend." he called out, his voice laced with amusement. "Ice for tuna?" He wasn't entirely certain Doombots experienced offense, but he could have sworn the automaton hesitated, its optical sensors perhaps flickering with something akin to robotic bewilderment, or even disdain, at such a frivolous request.
Nevertheless, after a beat, the Doombot extended a gauntlet. A shimmer of green, arcane energy briefly enveloped the tuna, a faint frost forming on its scales. It was now perfectly, cryogenically preserved, as fresh as the moment it was plucked from the sea.
Land finally appeared on the horizon – the distinct, sprawling coastline of North America. As they drew closer, a welcoming committee of fighter jets materialized, F-22s and F-35s, their pilots undoubtedly tense, circling at a respectful, government-mandated distance. They were an honor guard born of fear and obligation.
Boredom, Ranger's old adversary, began to creep in again. With a casual thought, he slipped into their encrypted comms network, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips. He listened for a moment to the clipped, professional chatter, then interjected, his voice a calm, clear intrusion: "Central Command, this is Latverian Diplomatic Escort. I repeat, per Director Fury's prior communication with Lord Doom, you are to confirm Mr. Ranger's safe arrival on American soil and then depart. Any deviation will be… noted. Do you copy?" He wasn't even trying to mimic a Doombot, just sowing a little chaos.
He could almost feel the indignant splutter from one of the Doombots, its internal processors likely flagging his unauthorized communication. He shot it a shrug. "What can I say?" he transmitted on a private, tight-beam frequency to the Doombot commander, knowing Doom would likely review the mission logs. "A man gets bored."
He touched down on a stretch of secluded beach, the sand crunching softly under his boots. Instantly, the Doombots shimmered, a green portal tearing open beside them. Without a word, without a gesture of farewell, they stepped through, the portal snapping shut behind them, leaving Ranger alone with his frozen fish and the distant whine of circling jets.
"Not even a goodbye wave. How heartless." Ranger sighed, clutching his chest in mock sorrow. He then brandished the cryo-tuna like a gleaming, silver broadsword, turning to face the figures emerging from the dunes – a heavily armed contingent of SHIELD operatives, their advanced weaponry glinting in the sun, all aimed squarely at him.
Then, a familiar, unwelcome figure pushed through the ranks, trench coat flapping, single eye narrowed in a glare that could curdle milk. Nick Fury.
"One week, Ranger." Fury growled, his voice a gravelly rasp of pure exasperation. "One motherfucking week you go off the grid, no contact, no trace. And you reappear, not only alive but apparently as an honored delegate of Latveria, complete with a Doombot escort that just violated about seventeen international airspace treaties and seven American." Fury gestured wildly. "What in the seven hells did you do?"
Ranger's expression shifted to one of profound, theatrical sadness. "I got a little jealous, Bestie." he said, his voice trembling with feigned emotion. "My bestie here was clearly off having all sorts of fun, clandestine international activities, probably sipping cocktails with global power players, and didn't even think to invite his dearest friend along."
He then strode forward, past the bewildered soldiers, directly towards a figure standing slightly behind Fury – Natasha Romanoff, her arms crossed, her expression an unreadable mask, though her eyes held a flicker of something… complex. He stopped before her, ignoring Fury entirely, and with a flourish, presented the frozen tuna.
"For you, Mademoiselle." he declared, his voice now smooth, almost gallant. "A token of my… intercontinental adventures. Freshly caught, impeccably preserved. Perhaps we could discuss its culinary potential over another… private conversation?" He gave her a slow, deliberate wink, his eyes holding hers, daring her to react.
-------
A little action, finally. Though not enough of it.
Anyways, this small bit has major implication. Which won't be discussed at all. Xd.
Maybe if I feel like writing side stories.
Anyways, see ya next time.