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He strode to Yinsen, hoisted him over one shoulder with a grunt, then shot out his other arm and latched onto Sharon's forearm.
"Hold tight, firebrand!"
"Move!"
Piloting a steel shell now carrying three people, Tony lowered his head and charged for the mouth of the cave.
Power was tanking.
Every stomp, every brush against those vines leeched his shields like acid.
Alarms shrieked in his helmet.
[Power remaining: 30%… 20%… 10%…]
Tony's jaw ached from clenching.
He could see daylight.
Just ahead—three more bends and they were out.
Then, as he leaned into the last corner—
Bzzt…
A faint pop. The arc reactor in his chest flickered… then died.
The suit went corpse-cold and heavy in an instant—a sealed iron coffin.
"No… no no no—not now!"
His howl echoed inside his own prison.
Pinned in the shell he'd forged with his own hands, he couldn't move a muscle.
He could only watch the endless purple tide in the depths of the cavern creep toward him—slow, silent, inevitable.
"It's over."
He shut his eyes.
"Tony Stark, eaten by a houseplant…"
Silence pooled in the coffin.
He could hear his own heart thundering from fear.
Done for.
Unbidden, the images came back—Ten Rings bodies being digested, vines oozing pale yellow mucus from pore-like pits as they ate, blood and flesh melting to slurry.
The thought of him—Tony Stark—swaddled in that slime, dissolving into a puddle of jaundiced soup to feed a damned plant—
Bile climbed his throat.
No.
Blow him to scraps if you must—but not that.
sha… sha…
The skin-crawling scrape drew closer. A cold probe skated over the armor—testing.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
The expected clutch of sticky fluid never came.
Instead—a wave of cold slashed through to the bone.
Freezing.
Tony jerked. The armor's temperature plunged, fast.
Through the fogged visor he peered out.
The writhing purple mess that was about to swallow him slowed—then locked up, movements turning stiff and jerky.
Rime bloomed across the vines in a racing white sheet.
Tall shapes loomed into his blurring view.
They wore midnight-black tactical armor plated like small tanks; skull-like respirators gleamed with lambent blue at the lenses.
Their weapons were unfamiliar—and spat visible streamers of white chill.
Where the chill swept, everything froze.
Who were they?
A black-ops government unit?
Or… something else?
Starved of air, Tony's thoughts thickened. They didn't look like rescuers—they looked like reapers stepped out of a horror movie.
—
"Target confirmed! Tony Stark! He's alive!"
Phil's voice cracked with relief. He stumbled to the locked suit.
"Two more! One's ours—the other looks local."
Melinda's tone stayed cool as ever. She nodded toward Sharon and Yinsen. A dusting of frost covered them, but the vines had frozen inches before contact.
Operator 6547 ignored Phil's excitement. He lifted a hand and chopped a precise signal.
"Open it."
His voice was arctic, efficient.
Two C-class troopers rushed in. From their backs they drew hydraulic splitters, seated the jaws into the armor's seams, and worked. Metal shrieked.
The rough suit—scrap car parts and cast-off steel—peeled under brute force.
Inside, Tony Stark was out cold—hypoxia and shock having slammed him under. His face was bloodless, lips blue, sweat-soaked and wrecked; the billionaire glamor was gone, replaced by a drowned rat.
Phil lunged to haul him free.
"Don't touch him."
6547 shouldered Phil aside, drew an injector from his kit, and drove the needle into Tony's neck without hesitation.
A thin, blue solution emptied in a blink.
"Vitals stabilizer. Buys time against hypoxia and protects neural tissue."
He might as well have been reciting a checklist.
He flicked two fingers to the team.
"Bag all three."
"We're going home."
The Foundation's Mobile Task Force—codename Red Right Hand—moved with a terrifying, surgical calm S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't fathom.
No cheers. No chatter. No slack.
Once Tony, Yinsen, and Sharon were up on shoulders, the formation locked. Three carriers in the core; the rest split fore and aft, leapfrogging cover. Their cryo-projectors reaped the living purple carpet without pause.
Zzzzz— fwoooosh—
White cold fogged the narrow rock. Vines went glass-brittle on contact—then shattered under steel-plated boots.
Crack. Crack.
The crisp breakage rang down the cavern, weirdly soothing.
The assault ebbed before their eyes.
6547 led the spearpoint, cryo lance never cooling. He carved a clean corridor of frost and slag, shepherding the team toward daylight at a steady, relentless pace.
Razor barbs scraped armor with an impotent skreek, not even scuffing the plating.
(End of Chapter)
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