Great catch—you're absol
Summary: From the sky, Iron Man surveys the war zone. But something—someone—keeps disrupting his sensor data. Garou doesn't move like anything Tony's ever seen. J.A.R.V.I.S. can't track him properly. Every reading says the same thing: he's moving with preemptive precision. And that's what makes Tony uneasy—not the violence. The efficiency.
...
"J.A.R.V.I.S., overlay heat signatures on all street-level paths between Fifth and Broadway."
"Working on it, sir. Cross-referencing now with S.H.I.E.L.D. surveillance grid. You'll want to see this."
Tony Stark arced above a collapsing high-rise, HUD flickering with crimson and gold trails of alien craft zipping past like hornets. The sky was cracked open, the whole city boiling beneath him.
He banked hard left, dipped below a Leviathan, and opened fire. Three clean blasts. One confirmed hit.
"Getting real tired of these flying centipedes," he muttered.
"Noted," J.A.R.V.I.S. replied.
Then the map changed.
One red icon lit up. Then blinked out. Then reappeared two blocks over.
Tony narrowed his eyes. "Uh… you seeing that?"
"Yes, sir. Unknown entity. Origin point: Tower basement level three. Current path—erratic."
Tony zoomed in. "Erratic how?"
"Moving with preemptive tactical flow. No pattern. Adjusts vector prior to threat emergence."
"English, buddy."
"He dodges before people pull the trigger."
Tony said nothing for a beat.
Then: "You think he's predicting combat events?"
"I believe he's calculating them far faster than my sensors can track."
Tony frowned inside the helmet. "You don't like being out-computed, do you?"
"I'm an artificial intelligence, sir. I don't like being out-guessed."
The screen shifted again. Tony tracked the figure to the side of a building—no wires, no lift, just running. Straight up. Every ten feet, his foot dented the wall. Every ledge cracked under one hand.
Garou.
Tony followed the path, eyes narrowing.
Then Garou paused—abruptly.
Looked up.
Right at Tony's drone-cam.
Not at the suit.
At the lens.
Tony jolted.
"Sir," J.A.R.V.I.S. said slowly, "he's monitoring you."
Garou lifted one hand. Opened his fingers.
The image glitched.
Tony's HUD blinked once, red flashing.
"Telemetry loss," J.A.R.V.I.S. reported. "Recalibrating..."
The screen cleared.
Garou was gone.
No movement trace.
No aftershock.
Just… gone.
Tony exhaled. "That's not how this works."
"Apparently, sir, it is now."
Tony dove low, repulsors flaring. "Well, let's make sure he's still on our side."
He banked into the smoke trail, chasing a ghost through a war.
.,.....,....?.....
West 43rd was a war zone.
A Leviathan had gouged a path through the street like a god with a bad attitude and no brakes. The pavement was torn up, taxis flipped like toys, debris thick as fog. Civilians hid in stairwells, inside collapsed lobbies, behind the wreckage of their own lives.
And the Chitauri were coming again.
Four of them—riders on hover sleds—zigzagged down the street, scanning for movement. One dismounted, stepping over a crushed fire hydrant. Its gun arm buzzed to life.
Inside a convenience store, a mother clutched her child behind a freezer. Her hand covered the boy's mouth.
The gun raised.
A blur passed outside the broken glass window.
Then came a thud.
Heavy. Wet. Final.
The Chitauri's body flew backward through the air like a sack of metal. It hit the side of a truck and crumpled.
The others spun—but it was already too late.
A shape moved among them—fast, low, silent.
One rider's arm bent the wrong way.
Another's sled folded in half with a single palm strike.
The fourth tried to escape. Made it four feet before his neck cracked mid-turn.
Silence returned.
The mother didn't move.
Her child stared through the dust-clogged glass.
Garou stood in the street, one hand still raised, blood trailing down his wrist from a minor gash he hadn't noticed—or didn't care about.
He turned slightly.
Looked toward the storefront.
And for a moment… paused.
His eyes locked with the child's.
Not confusion.
Not concern.
Just awareness.
Then he vanished down the street, disappearing into the haze like a rumor of something half-real.
The boy whispered, "Mom… was that Iron Man?"
She didn't answer.
Because whoever that was—he hadn't worn armor.