300 gems = bonus chapter
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John had been absent from Taran Industries for only a single day, yet it was evidently enough. He stood within the company premises, his gaze sweeping over the shattered glass that carpeted the floor and the various injured employees, a distinct frown etching itself upon his brow.
"Is this… a terrorist attack?"
His first thought drifted to the Ten Rings, but their figurehead leader now lacked a head, a courtesy extended by his uncle, and the organization's true master had reached an accord with him only days prior.
So, from whence did this ruthless act originate? Could it be the Kingpin?
It was not until he observed Orlov, his arm draped familiarly around Ivan's shoulders, enthusiastically recommending various brands of high-end leather shoes, that John finally began to piece together the actual sequence of events.
"For those injured today, the company will naturally cover all associated medical expenses, in addition to providing each of you with a twenty-thousand-dollar compensation payment," John announced, drawing a nearby employee into the impromptu address. "Furthermore, this month's salaries will be tripled, and I will instruct Human Resources to calculate the additional overtime. Next month, we will arrange for a company-wide beach barbecue in Miami, organized in batches to ensure everyone has the opportunity to attend."
The employees, who had been groaning in discomfort only moments before, immediately brightened at the prospect of these generous benefits and scurried off to disseminate the welcome news with unrestrained enthusiasm.
John watched as Ivan approached, offering a casual, "Successful, then?"
"There was a slight mishap during the process," Ivan admitted with a characteristic shrug, "but ultimately, it was a success."
"Congratulations on advancing one step closer to achieving your vengeance." John glanced at his pocket watch. "We will need to contact a construction team to have them reinstall the glass and thoroughly assess any potential structural damage to the floors."
He turned his attention to Orlov, arching a questioning eyebrow. "I trust you have no objections to these arrangements?"
Orlov, whose grin stretched from ear to ear, simply offered an emphatic thumbs-up. Having not only produced a viable alternative energy source but now also the formidable new armor, Ivan had undeniably transformed into a walking, breathing goldmine in Orlov's estimation.
That, John mused, was the inherent beauty of dealing with a capitalist. As long as one could consistently generate profit, they would be held in the highest possible regard. Should one possess the ability to generate vast profits, they would be treated as nothing less than a patriarch, worthy of unwavering support and profound respect. Orlov, John suspected, was already contemplating commissioning a pair of custom, chocolate-scented leather shoes for Ivan, solely to facilitate the act of polishing them with even greater fervor.
One could certainly cast doubt upon Orlov's fealty to his nation, but never upon his unwavering devotion to the accumulation of wealth.
John glanced at Orlov, whose complete conversion was now evident. A single Ivan possessed the potential to spawn an entire multi-billion-dollar industry, an entity comparable in scale to Stark Industries. To a man as fundamentally avaricious as Orlov, that elevated Ivan to a status practically akin to that of a beloved father figure.
"Alright, Ivan, we need to identify a suitable location to thoroughly test the capabilities of your new armor." He surveyed the ravaged, cratered expanse of the test site, his brow furrowing. "I would prefer that this area not resemble a complete wasteland by the time my father returns."
"We shall depart for New Jersey tomorrow; I have already submitted the necessary requests for access to an Air Force base there." Orlov retrieved his phone, his voice resonating with confidence. "A judicious choice, that."
Even a cursory observation was sufficient for John to discern the new scheme Orlov was undoubtedly hatching. If an armor existed that could potentially rival, or perhaps even supplant, Iron Man's renowned suit, the military would not hesitate for a moment to pour substantial funds into its further development, precisely as they had previously done with the Steel Soldiers initiative. Moreover, John could confidently guarantee that Ivan's newly developed armor would significantly outstrip the performance capabilities of those earlier, less sophisticated models. The fundamental design, after all, was based upon an Asgardian Destroyer, a construct powerful enough to withstand the unbridled might of Thor himself. Should the Department of Defense catch even a fleeting glimpse of the Fighter in action, a fervent bidding war would almost certainly ensue.
"We need to reveal our capabilities gradually, in carefully managed stages," John cautioned, halting Orlov before he could initiate the call. "The existing Steel Soldiers are already more than sufficient to ensure a steady and continuous stream of lucrative contracts flowing from the coffers of the United States government."
Orlov absorbed these words, thoughtfully weighing their strategic merit. With a decisive nod, he lowered his phone. "You are correct; we must retain some formidable trump cards up our sleeves for future deployment."
John chose not to comment further. He refrained from mentioning that this particular creation was, in any case, primarily intended for Ivan's own personal vendetta. "Ivan and I will be departing shortly; could you ensure that a construction crew is dispatched to reinstall the glass within the company building?"
Waving a dismissive hand, Orlov indicated that the task was already as good as accomplished. With that, John and Ivan made their way towards the subterranean laboratory. Besides the imposing new armor, only one of the experimental reactors remained operational.
"I made some minor adjustments during the fabrication process, of course," Ivan stated, a discernible hint of pride coloring his tone. "The precise material composition of the original Destroyer prototype proved to be impossible to replicate with absolute fidelity, and there are certain advanced technological elements that simply cannot be implemented effectively at this current stage of development."
"However, the modification of the reactor has been successfully completed, achieving a truly remarkable level of success. Not only can it completely replace today's conventional energy sources, but it will also allow us to wrest a significant degree of influence and control away from the established powers within the United States."
As Ivan spoke, John's gaze fell upon the new armor itself. While it retained a certain discernible resemblance to the original Destroyer, it also possessed several notable and distinct differences. For example, there were now arc-powered repulsors integrated into the palms, as well as discreet weapon launch ports strategically incorporated throughout the heavily armored chassis.
It was dubbed the Fighter for a reason; it resembled nothing so much as an oversized, heavily armored pugilist.
"Brutish and undeniably effective." Ivan chuckled, clearly pleased with the tangible results of his intensive labor. It was a design aesthetic that he personally favored.
Pausing beside the massive suit of armor, John turned to Ivan. "Do it. It is time we thoroughly tested its capabilities."
Ivan no longer questioned John's pronouncements, his trust in the younger man now absolute. With a curt verbal command, he activated the system. "Open control cabin."
The torso of the Fighter armor split apart smoothly along a central seam, revealing an access hatch large enough to comfortably accommodate a human occupant.
Ivan wasted no time in shedding his restrictive tracksuit, stepping decisively inside the exposed cavity, his formidable form quickly swallowed by the machine's metallic embrace. The visor snapped shut with a satisfying hiss, and a low, mechanical hum filled the air. "Where are we going?"
John paused in thought, considering the available options. "New Jersey should serve our purposes admirably."
He reached out, his hand grasping the armored forearm of the Fighter. His other hand moved with practiced deftness, retrieving his wand from within the cuff of his sleeve. He gave it a subtle, almost imperceptible flick.
"Apparition."
In the merest fraction of a second, the two figures compressed into a fleeting pinpoint of light and vanished completely from the confines of the laboratory.
Orlov, his heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and avarice, began to descend towards the ruined expanse of the test site, his hands rubbing together in eager expectation. He was truly, deeply coveting this new armor.
However, that covetous smile abruptly froze upon his features as he finally reached the lower level.
"Where is the battle armor?"
*****
New Jersey Air Force Base. Later.
The ensuing sonic booms reverberated across the tranquil, azure expanse of the New Jersey sky. A streak of brilliant silver light cleaved the air, tracing a precise and deliberate path across the heavens at speeds that seemed to defy conventional physics.
The object was the fighter armor. A potent jet of pure, concussive force erupted from strategically placed thrusters located on both its feet and its back, affording it a flight velocity that easily exceeded Mach Three, comfortably outpacing even the most advanced military interceptor aircraft. It carved a gracefully descending arc from the heavens until, with a bone-jarring, thunderous crash, it impacted heavily into a desolate stretch of desert terrain, leaving behind a pair of massive, deeply sunken footprints in its formidable wake.
The armored figure raised a gauntleted hand, unleashing a concentrated energy blast that traversed the hundred-meter distance in the blink of an eye, cleanly vaporizing a nearby outcropping of rock with surgical precision. Next, with a subtle yet powerful flex of the wrist, a pair of elongated, metallic whips snapped forth, crackling ominously with barely contained arcs of raw electrical energy. One of these whips, lashing out with lightning-quick speed, wrapped itself securely around a second rocky outcropping, constricting with truly crushing force until the unyielding stone was reduced to little more than pulverized dust.
"You seem rather fond of those whips." John commented dryly, watching Ivan deploy his signature weapon yet again. A suspicion was forming that his associate's affinity for them was... particular.
The rigorous testing of the Fighter armor's offensive capabilities was far from concluded. The armor's reinforced shoulder pauldrons snapped open with mechanical precision, and a dense cloud of tightly packed jamming rounds soared into the air, erupting into a dazzling, disorienting display of lights that effectively blanketed the surrounding terrain in an impenetrable curtain of blinding illumination.
With its available internal space already nearing its maximum capacity, Ivan found himself relying more on the armor's inherent, integrated capabilities and less on cumbersome, externally mounted weaponry for these demanding battlefield simulations.
"You absolutely have to see this."
Ivan spoke, and then, opening the palm of his right gauntlet, he unleashed the full, unadulterated potential of the reactor. A highly concentrated beam of purple-tinged energy shot forth, striking a nearby, resilient saguaro cactus with unerring, pinpoint accuracy. Instead of causing the cactus to explode violently, however, the potent energy blast appeared to transmute the plant, transforming it into a dozen separate, radiating beams of light that shot outwards in a complex, radial pattern from its very core.
"This particular energy signature is truly unique; it bears little to no resemblance to that of conventional nuclear fission," John observed thoughtfully.
The armor's protective visor slid open, revealing Ivan's characteristic, wolfish grin. "It functions far more like an extension of my own arm, in that it is inherently adaptable and remarkably easy to modify."
John's mind raced, rapidly drawing a connection between the armor's extraordinary abilities and the subtle yet undeniable surge of magic that now seemed to be coursing through its advanced systems. He glanced towards the glowing reactor situated at the armor's chest, his brow furrowing in concentration. "How long can you sustain this particular level of energy output?"
"That precise figure still requires meticulous testing and detailed calculation, but I would estimate that a full day of continuous, uninterrupted operation should pose no significant challenge whatsoever to the system's integrity." Ivan manipulated the articulated fingers of the fighter, thoroughly testing the full range of motion and tactile feedback provided by its sophisticated, integrated systems. "However, the consistent overuse of offensive attacks that draw directly from the reactor's core will, in the long term, inevitably diminish the operational lifespan of the central crystal plate."
John touched his chin, stroking it pensively in contemplation. "That is most likely because the armor is progressively depleting its finite reserves of raw magical energy." He paused, a spark of inspiration flickering in his eyes. "You would require a specific rune to effectively replenish that magic."
"A what?" Ivan's brow furrowed in genuine confusion, his expression clearly conveying his complete lack of comprehension regarding the term. As an acknowledged genius in the highly specialized field of theoretical physics, he found himself utterly adrift when confronted with topics pertaining to the occult or arcane arts.
"It is a concept best left for a more opportune discussion. Rest assured, I will inscribe one for you at some point in the future, but there are certain, non-negotiable prerequisites that must first be satisfactorily met." John's expression took on a distinctly more serious and resolute note. "To ensure an entirely level playing field, you are expressly and unequivocally forbidden from utilizing the magic crystal that I personally improved for you as an offensive weapon to attack Tony Stark. You are, without exception, obligated to rely solely upon your own ingenuity and inherent skill in that particular, and undoubtedly personal, endeavor."
Ivan simply grinned, a feral, predatory gleam appearing in his eyes. "I will beat the absolute, unadulterated stuffing out of him."
It was never John's intention for the magic he had introduced into this equation to be the direct cause of Tony Stark's eventual demise, especially considering that, at some point in the not-too-distant future, Iron Man would be desperately and critically needed for the inevitable, cataclysmic battle against the formidable, reality-altering entity known as Thanos, the "Purple Sweet Potato Essence."
As this particular thought ran through his mind, the seed of a different, altogether more intriguing idea began to take root.
What if this armor was imbued with the innate capacity to effectively channel and manipulate magical energy? And what if it was also able to seamlessly utilize the advanced magical technique of Apparition?
The resultant entity, John mused with a flicker of amusement, would be nothing short of a science-enhanced, magically augmented wizard.
*****
Saint Teresa's Hospital, Queens.
Gregory House made his way down a bustling, brightly lit corridor, his trusty, silver-topped cane clicking rhythmically against the polished, unforgiving linoleum floor. A passing nurse, recognizing the distinctive, almost metronomic sound of his purposeful approach, turned and offered a brief, professional update. "Dr. House, your guest has arrived."
House merely responded with a characteristic, noncommittal grunt, offering no discernible indication that he had even registered the nurse's polite communication. As he continued his measured progress down the hallway, his attention was momentarily captured by a fleeting, tangential detail. "How is Sean Murphy performing these days?"
"Sean Murphy, you are referring to?" The head nurse paused, her brow furrowing slightly in thought. "He continues to demonstrate moments of undeniable brilliance, but his… well, his notable eccentricities continue to render him a somewhat undesirable candidate for complex surgical procedures."
"He is exceptionally talented," House retorted sharply, never breaking his deliberate stride. "Sooner or later, someone of genuine discernment will recognize his particular and undeniably rare genius."
Reaching the familiar door of his personal office, House entered without ceremony, noting the presence of two individuals already awaiting him within its somewhat cluttered confines. He favored them with a perfunctory, almost dismissive nod before extending his hand in the direction of the first. "Dr. Wu, it appears our professional paths have converged once more."
"Indeed they have, Dr. House." Dr. Wu, a man of distinguished, scholarly bearing with distinctly Eastern features, returned the handshake with a warm and genuinely affable smile. A physician of considerable renown and respect within the broader medical community, Dr. Wu was both a trusted friend and a valued colleague, having recently been invited to the hospital to consult on a particularly delicate and complex cardiac procedure.
Having exchanged the customary, polite pleasantries, House smoothly shifted his attention to the third party present within the room, a strikingly beautiful Asian woman who stood with quiet, unassuming grace beside the esteemed Dr. Wu.
The woman responded with a disarming, professional smile, extending her hand in a gesture of formal greeting. "My name is Helen Cho."
"Dr. Helen Cho is a pioneering figure in the highly specialized field of regenerative cradle technology," Dr. Wu elaborated with obvious and justifiable pride. "Her groundbreaking innovations possess the very real potential to completely revolutionize the entire medical industry as we currently know it. I am presently assisting her in the crucial process of identifying a qualified and suitably ambitious investor for her truly groundbreaking work."
"A distinct pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Helen Cho," House stated, shaking her offered hand with a firm, professional grip. As he released her hand, a spark of genuine, intellectual curiosity flickered within his sharp gaze. "And who is it, precisely, that you are hoping to attract with this particular investment pitch? I am simply curious, of course, as a matter of professional interest. Please feel entirely free to decline to answer if you would prefer to keep the specific details of the matter confidential."
Dr. Wu merely chuckled, a knowing, almost conspiratorial smile playing upon his lips. "That is hardly a significant secret worth diligently guarding. I encountered an exceptionally interesting and insightful individual during the recent, rather lavish Millennium New Year's Eve dinner. He expressed considerable and genuine interest in the burgeoning possibilities of regenerative medicine, and I firmly believe, without a shadow of a doubt, that he would be more than willing to invest substantially in Dr.Helen's truly visionary work."
"And the individual to whom you are specifically referring would be?" Dr. House's intellectual interest was now clearly and thoroughly piqued.
"Mr. Wick."
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