Luthar stood silently, a small box still cradled in his hand. With a flick of his wrist, the latch hissed open, revealing neat rows of what initially appeared to be small dolls—grotesque figurines of soldiers no larger than a child's toy. Their metal parts gleamed faintly, while their faces were blank.
For a heartbeat, Natasha thought it might be a twisted collection. Then she remembered the Pym particle and the soldiers captured by Luthar.
Without hesitation, Luthar pressed a sequence on the box. The figurines shuddered, expanding in a cascade of light and distortion until they towered over the snow, ready for war.
The air grew heavy with the hiss of hydraulics and the low hum of charged weapons. Eight Skitarii stood at rigid attention, their red optics glowing with intensity. They clutched radium pistols and transonic blades like ritual offerings. Behind them, two Servitors loomed even larger, their backs fused with tanks of promethium, and flamethrower nozzles moved as if hungry for release.
Anya staggered back with a sharp gasp, her face pale. Even Freya's cold gaze flickered; while she didn't mind them, she also didn't like these modified humans. The Black Widows, trained for horrors, nonetheless stiffened; their instincts screamed that what stood before them were not allies, but abominations.
Natasha's voice cut through the icy wind, steady despite her tightening jaw. "Can't you just use your spiders?"
Luthar finally turned his gaze to her, his mask expressionless, his tone calm and almost dismissive. "I have sent most of the scarabs to Asgard, so I don't have them right now."
Natasha cast him a piercing glance, her eyes narrowing with a mix of frustration and determination. Deep down, she longed to escape this atmosphere, to get away from the stench of blood and the abominations. But that moment had long since slipped away—it was far too late now. She could sense that Luthar would never simply let her go.
The silence stretched, broken only by the low hum of the augmented soldiers as their optics flared like embers in the storm.
Freya's voice cut through the cold, steady and measured. "So how do you plan to continue?" Her sharp eyes swept the projection of the fortress, then flicked back to Luthar. "Are we going to attack directly…" She let the words hang, her tone changing, "…or play the hunting game?"
The Skitarii shifted in eerie unison at that word, as though the term "hunt" resonated with something deep in their programming. Their weapons hummed faintly, the metallic claws and serrated knives twitching like predators eager to be loosed.
All eyes turned to Luthar—his decision would set the pace. He didn't let them wait long and started speaking, his voice flat, every word calculated.
"I'll send four Skitarii to the exit locations to make sure nobody can escape. After that, two will infiltrate quietly. That leaves the last two to walk in the open, followed by the Servitors. They'll draw attention and burn everything in front of them. If that's not enough, the bullets will do the job."
The Servitors move forward at his words, the flamers on their arms coughing a faint hiss as if eager for release.
Natasha folded her arms tightly, her breath misting in the cold. "That's your plan of attacking a base filled with armoured agents?"
He didn't even glance at her, pulling another handful of coin-sized drones from his robes, the tiny machines glinting in the pale moonlight. "It's not a plan as we don't need that thing here," he said flatly. "After all, what they have is just some broken metal and agents with primitive weapons."
Freya gave a faint, humourless smile. "Efficient and direct, like always."
Luthar turned his masked face toward her, his voice calm yet filled with quiet certainty. "That's because the gap between experience and technology is too vast. No matter the situation, I would win."
After sending away all the Skitarii and Servitors, the group started moving forward with slow and steady steps, as the wind howled around them. Luthar's drones spread wider, vanishing, feeding more data, making the situation clearer.
Minutes passed as the group pressed forward, the wind howling around the jagged cliffs, carrying with it the sting of snow and ice. Each step crunched through frost-hardened terrain, the cold biting at even the most heavily layered clothing.
As they got near, they could finally hear the sound of guns and small explosions.
Natasha's eyes narrowed, scanning the ridges ahead. "Sounds like the battle has started," she murmured, her tone tense but measured.
Anya stiffened, her fingers brushing against her weapon. "Since I am following you guys, can you at least explain what the real reason is for attacking the Red Room?"
Luthar's mechanical eye flickered, capturing every detail through the swirling snow. "Well, I require talented people, and agents trained by the Red Room are excellent candidates," he said flatly. "Plus, I believe with a little training, they would be the excellent sword of the Machine God."
As they approached, the group sensed the chaos surrounding the base. The Skitarii had started clearing the outer defenses, while the Servitors incinerated everything.
When they finally arrived at the base, the full scale of the destruction hit them—it was no longer a projection, but the most horrifying reality before their eyes. Flames licked the stone walls, black smoke curling toward the jagged peaks above. Natasha exhaled slowly, her eyes narrowing at the inferno. "Are you sure you're here to pick up Black Widows… and not to burn everything to the ground?"
Luthar's masked face turned briefly toward the carnage, his mechanical eye sweeping over the scene with detached precision. The entire place resembled a miniature hell. The Skitarii moved with terrifying efficiency, their radium pistols breaking the armoured defences with single shots from a distance. Flames licked wildly across the compound as the Servitors advanced, their promethium tanks vomiting unpredictable torrents of fire.
The heat was so intense that even the metal began to melt. Dust, smoke, and embers filled the air. As for the cries, there were none—they had already died in the carnage.
Luthar's lips—hidden behind his mask—twitched faintly, a cold acknowledgment of the slight misjudgment with the flamethrowers. He tapped a control on his wrist. Instantly, the Servitors halted mid-action. After this, he adjusted the Skitarii to inflict only injuries, ensuring that when he took control, most of the agents would remain alive instead of being reduced to ashes.
While the group prepared themselves at the ruined entrance, inside the base, two Skitarii were already in motion. One drove its blade straight toward a Black Widow's throat—then, mid-strike, the weapon twisted, the edge reversing. The killing thrust turned into a brutal hilt-first blow, cracking against her jaw and sending her crumpling unconscious onto the floor.
Even after witnessing this, another Widow lunged, firing her pistol in desperation. But the Skitarius didn't flinch. Its clawed hand shot past the weapon, seizing her by the hair. With a single, merciless swing, it drove her head into the wall. The crack rang out, a thin smear of blood marking the impact as her body went limp. Her chest still rose and fell—alive, but only just. The machine had already dismissed her, stepping past as though she were nothing more than discarded debris.
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