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Meanwhile—
Deep inside a cave at the very heart of the Ten Rings' encampment—
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The harsh ringing of hammer on metal ricocheted around the sealed space.
Bare-chested and drenched in sweat, Tony Stark swung a sledgehammer with everything he had, shaping a curved steel plate.
Beside him, a hulking suit of man-shaped armor—crude, brutal, and radiating a raw violence—had taken on a recognizable form.
"Sounds noisy outside," said the middle-aged man assisting him—Yinsen. He paused his work, tilting an ear.
From beyond the cave came chaotic footfalls and the camp leader Raza's angry shouts.
"Sounds like someone's here to rescue us!" A spark of hope flashed in Yinsen's eyes.
"Rescue?" Tony snorted, lowering the hammer and wiping sweat and grease from his face. "If the U.S. military were here, you'd know. We'd have Apaches circling overhead and heavy guns plowing this valley into neat rows."
His tone carried absolute faith in his side's firepower.
"At best, this is infighting—or some poor sap stepped on a mine."
Even so, the two of them stopped in tacit accord, listening warily.
But the expected gunfire never came.
In its place rose a chorus of screams so sharp they didn't sound human at all—bone-deep, scalp-prickling shrieks.
Each cry was short, strangled, like a throat crushed by something monstrous.
The screams rose and fell—then one by one, cut off.
After a brief frenzy, the entire valley fell into a grave-still silence.
Yinsen had gone pale. "W-what was that?"
Tony's expression tightened. He knew, instantly, something was very wrong.
"Quick! Barricade the door!"
They jammed the cave's lone iron door with the sledge, wedging it hard.
That done, Tony eyed the unfinished iron giant and something wild flickered in his gaze.
"No time! Forget the fine-tuning!"
He eased Yinsen aside and slid into the cold, rough iron shell.
"Yinsen—bring the Arc Reactor online!"
Raza's decision to mass all his men at the cave mouth brought him no safety—only the neat presentation of prey.
On a platter.
SCP-307's kill rate hit an all-time high.
Purple-black creepers surged from every shadow, a voiceless violet tsunami that swallowed the clustered gunmen in an instant.
The screams became the night's final requiem.
When it was over, the Ten Rings' camp had become a haunted waste.
Campfires still burned. Weapons lay everywhere. But not a single living person remained in sight.
All that was left were empty garments by the hundreds, scattered like discarded trash across the valley floor.
Then the thrum of rotors rolled across the night sky.
Several matte-black, sci-fi-sleek Quinjets halted soundlessly over the valley.
Ropes snaked down; a squad of fully kitted S.H.I.E.L.D. agents fast-roped to the ground.
At their head was a sharp-eyed blonde whose beauty didn't blunt her edge.
Sharon Carter—Nick Fury's trusted hand, niece to Peggy Carter, and S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Middle East station chief.
"Eyes up! Hold formation—leapfrog forward!"
Sharon's hand signals guided her team as they ghosted into the camp.
What they found made even battle-hardened agents falter.
No people.
No bodies. No blood.
Only clothes and weapons everywhere.
Sharon crouched and pinched a terrorist's robe between gloved fingers.
A choking stench punched up her sinuses—a rot-sweet reek of decayed plant matter mixed with some unknown organic slime. Wet. Clammy. A sour funk like a corpse dragged from a culvert and then left to bake three days in the sun.
"—urk."
Her stomach lurched; she gagged, forced it down, stood, and snapped orders over comms.
"Everyone, maximum alert! Something's off here!"
She opened a direct channel to Nick Fury.
"Sir, we're at the site. But… the camp's empty. No hostiles, no signs of a fight—just their clothing."
"Stark?" Fury's voice was tighter than usual.
"…No sign. Sir, the scene is extremely abnormal."
Silence.
In Fury's mind flashed the footage Coulson had sent—those vines that "ate" people and left only clothing.
Don't tell me… Tony's already—
His single eye pinched to a knife-edge.
No.
"Listen, Carter," Fury's voice went granite. "I don't care what happened there. Alive or dead, you bring me Stark. Even if it's just the clothes on his back—you find them. The second you get anything, you pull out. Immediately."
He didn't mention SCP-307. He never told more than necessary.
When the line died, Fury stood alone in the command center, face black with storm.
Coulson's last line replayed:
"Sir, the Foundation said that if SCP-307 goes fully out of control, the only containment option is a tactical nuclear strike."
Could this so-called "Foundation" really contain a thing like that?
And if they failed?
If it spread to Afghan cities—if it spread to the world—
That would be the true end.
A lethal glint flashed in Fury's lone eye.
When it's necessary, you sacrifice a few to save the many.
If that meant dropping a nuke on the valley—so be it.
Back in the valley—
Sharon had her orders.
She drew a slow breath and issued the final command.
"Pairs. Spread out. Search the entire camp. Target: Tony Stark—alive, or his clothes."
"Once you find anything, we evac. I'll say it again—"
"—this place is wrong. Stay sharp."
Inside the cave, the air had frozen solid.
Tony had just wedged himself into that cold, rough armor. The Arc Reactor in his chest burned with a ghostly blue glow, feeding unstable power into a war machine not yet whole.
(End of Chapter)
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