The Mexican sky hung heavy overhead, clouds forming a thick gray blanket that pressed down on the landscape. The air felt dense, pregnant with moisture that hadn't yet decided to fall. It was the kind of weather that promised a downpour, the kind that had been building for hours and would eventually break with violent intensity.
Beneath the shadow of a large delivery truck, heat shimmered in defiance of the gloomy atmosphere above.
Molten silver rolled and bubbled in a handmade crucible, the container fashioned from carapace armor plating that could withstand the metal's liquefied state. The surface of the silver churned constantly, bright and mesmerizing, catching light that seemed to come from nowhere and reflecting it back in liquid waves.
Old John stood over the crucible, his white beard neatly trimmed and his posture steady despite his age. The robotic arm he'd recently installed moved with smooth precision, the mechanical limb far steadier than any normal hand could manage. He stirred the boiling metal solution with practiced ease, the prosthetic showing none of the tremor or fatigue that flesh might have demonstrated.
When the consistency satisfied him, he reached for one of the plasteel blades waiting nearby. The weapon's shape recalled a Catachan Fang, that distinctive combat knife favored by jungle fighters, though this version had been manufactured entirely from modern materials. He dipped it into the molten silver, beginning the plating process with methodical care.
The area around Old John's work station had transformed into an arsenal. Hundreds of silver-plated plasteel sabers lay arranged in neat rows, their surfaces gleaming dully in the ambient light. Each blade represented another tool against the enemy they were about to face, another weapon specifically tailored to exploit vampiric weaknesses.
Footsteps approached through the dust. Bucky emerged from between the trucks, his eyes rimmed with black oil paint that reduced glare and gave him the appearance of a soldier ready for night operations. He walked up to Old John's position but didn't speak immediately. Instead, he knelt down beside the older man, his gaze fixing on the repetitive motions of silver plating.
For a long moment, he simply watched, his mind clearly elsewhere.
"Boy!" Old John's voice cracked like a whip, though he didn't bother looking up from his work. "Why are you sitting there like a statue? Have you finished the personnel count and supply inventory?"
His tone carried the sharp edge of a veteran addressing someone he considered dangerously distracted. "With your current attitude, if you were thrown into an Asgardian legion, you'd earn yourself a severe whipping before the first day was out!"
Bucky's eyes rolled, the gesture clearly visible despite the oil paint. "Old man, can't I take a breather for just a minute?"
But his voice lacked real heat. After a pause, he continued, his tone dropping into something quieter, more uncertain. "David briefed me on the mission parameters. This is going to be..." He struggled for the right words. "This is going to be extremely difficult. We're taking approximately one thousand combatants, including the automatic servo robots, against a virtually unlimited number of fanatical believers. And while we're fighting, we need to simultaneously evacuate innocent civilians from an active war zone."
His jaw tightened. "I'm afraid that by the time this operation concludes, there won't be many brothers left standing beside me."
The stirring motion stopped.
Old John set down his tool with deliberate care and turned his head to look at Bucky directly. His eyes, still sharp despite his years, fixed on the younger man with obvious displeasure.
"You can go ask those kids right now," he said, his voice hard as iron, "and see if even one of them is thinking about retreat. In the past, they were nothing but idle gang members wasting their lives on street corners. It was Nolan who gathered them, who gave them the best training and equipment available, who strengthened their bodies and upgraded their weapons and armor." He paused for emphasis. "Isn't this exactly the kind of situation all that preparation was meant for?"
Old John shifted slightly, his robotic arm flexing as if to emphasize his point. "Nolan's still young. He doesn't have the perspective yet. When those of us who are older served under God-King Odin during the conquest of the Nine Realms, we encountered similar situations more than once. And Odin didn't hesitate much before launching orbital strikes and extermination protocols. Hundreds of thousands of people? So what? Even if an entire planet had to be destroyed, he made that call." His voice carried the weight of ancient campaigns, battles fought across multiple worlds. "Without that kind of resolute decision-making, where do you think Odin would be now? Dead and forgotten, that's where."
Bucky's frown deepened. He rose slowly to his feet, his posture defensive. "How can you even compare the two situations? Back then, you were conquering the Nine Realms. You were invaders. Now we're eliminating a threat and saving human lives. The fundamental justification is completely different!"
His hands clenched at his sides. "And based on the seventy-two-hour time limit, I think the Captain is already prepared for..." He hesitated, the words difficult to voice. "Prepared for WMD. Which means we have to hold out until the very end, save as many people as we possibly can before..."
The sentence died unfinished as a new sound cut through the air.
The violent grinding of wheels against packed earth grew louder, approaching rapidly. Multiple vehicles, moving in convoy formation.
Bucky's head snapped toward the noise. His expression shifted immediately, pushing aside doubt and replacing it with hard focus. "The automatic servo robots and combat servitors David mentioned. They're here."
He drew a deep breath, filling his lungs completely, then lifted his face toward the oppressive gray sky overhead.
His voice erupted in a battlefield roar that carried across the entire staging area: "Everyone! Form up! Prepare for combat operations!"
Back in the brightly lit base hall, silence had settled like a physical presence.
Tony Stark sat motionless at the metal round table. Nolan's rebuke had struck home with devastating efficiency, stripping away the layers of confidence and bravado that Tony typically wore like a second skin. Now he simply sat, his expression troubled, his brow furrowed deeply.
His eyes stared forward without focus, locked on the real-time images being projected from David's optical sensors. The feed showed the two teams that had just completed their rendezvous, now conducting final preparations before the operation began.
More than five hundred automatic servo robots stood in formation, each one freshly equipped with high-output ultraviolet lamps mounted to their chassis. The light panels gleamed, ready to be activated at a moment's notice.
The gang soldiers wore their carapace armor with casual familiarity now, the heavy plating moving with them like a second skin. They inspected the silver-plated melee weapons with quick, professional efficiency, testing the weight and balance before sliding them into sheaths at their waists. The movements spoke of training, of discipline that had been drilled into them through countless repetitions.
Flamers were being distributed throughout the assembled squads, one per fire team. The tanks sloshed with promethium fuel, enough to turn entire buildings into infernos if necessary.
When the equipment distribution concluded, Bucky stepped to the front of the formation. Old John moved to stand beside him, the older man's carapace armor making him look like a veteran from some ancient, brutal war. Which, in a sense, he was.
Neither of them spoke. They simply raised their hands in unison and rapped their knuckles against their metal helmets, the sharp tap-tap-tap carrying clearly through the audio feed.
The gesture served as a signal. A confirmation that they were ready.
David walked across the base hall to Nolan's position. The Man of Iron's metal frame reflected the harsh overhead lighting as it leaned forward slightly, its voice pitched low and private.
"My lord, the network signal remains strong and stable. You can address them directly if you wish."
Nolan drew a slow breath, his chest expanding fully before he released it. Then he rose from his seat at the metal round table, standing to his full height. The blue power armor added mass to his already imposing frame.
He stared at the projected scene hovering above the table's surface. When he spoke, his voice carried absolute authority.
"This is the underground base. I am your commander-in-chief, Nolan."
The audio transmission carried his words across the miles, delivered through the communication systems built into every helmet, every robot, every piece of equipment linked to David's network.
"Today, all of you will face an extremely difficult battle. Everyone you encounter from this point forward may be an enemy affiliated with the cult... or they may simply be innocent civilians caught in circumstances beyond their control."
He paused, letting that reality settle. "Even with all your preparation, you will encounter complex situations and impossible choices. The battlefield will not be clean. It will not be simple."
His voice remained steady, but something in it deepened, became more grave. "Some of you will die today. On the battlefield. In a foreign land, far from home."
Through the projection, the assembled soldiers stood motionless, absorbing his words.
"I don't need to send you into this fight. A single tactical nuclear weapon could resolve the current problem easily, cleanly, with minimal risk to our forces." Nolan's hands curled into fists at his sides. "But I'm doing this anyway. Because I refuse to let the words I spoke to you, the promises I made when you joined this organization, become lies."
His voice rose slightly, gaining intensity. "You are the first line of defense for humanity against the crises that threaten our species! We fight to preserve humanity's future!"
"Every person you save today represents that future! Every drop of blood you shed in this operation will not be wasted! These people may be dismissed by others as nothing more than pitiful, pathetic poor people without value... but in my eyes, they deserve the same consideration as anyone else."
He straightened further, if that were possible, his posture radiating conviction. "They have one identity. One single identity that matters above all else."
"They are human."
"Today, we fight for humanity once again!"
His armored fist rose, the blue metal catching the light. His voice rose to a roar that echoed through the base hall and transmitted across the distance to every soldier waiting in Mexico.
"For the Emperor!"
The words hung in the air like a declaration of faith, like a promise carved in stone.
Across the distance, visible through the projection, every gang soldier's spine straightened reflexively. Shoulders squared. Chins lifted. The transformation was immediate and total, doubt burned away by conviction.
In the base hall, even Blade stirred. The Daywalker's posture shifted, his breathing deepening despite himself. Beside him, Tony's expression had changed, the frustration and defensiveness replaced by something more complex. His chest rose and fell with heavier breaths, his eyes fixed on Nolan's figure with an intensity that suggested he was seeing something he hadn't fully understood before.
While everyone's attention remained locked on the projected image and Nolan's commanding presence, something else was happening.
In the equipment room, unseen and unnoticed, the precision bolt gun and plasma pistol began to tremble. The weapons vibrated against their mounting brackets, metal rattling against metal in a rhythm that had nothing to do with the base's mechanical systems.
Wisps of ethereal black mist seeped from the guns' barrels, flowing outward like smoke that defied gravity and air currents. The tendrils gathered, coalescing, taking shape with deliberate purpose.
An illusory figure formed from the darkness.
She wore golden power armor, the design ancient and magnificent, every plate and servo suggesting craftsmanship from an age long past. In one hand, she gripped a massive power claw, the weapon's talons gleaming despite their immaterial state.
She stood in perfect stillness within the empty equipment room, a ghost made manifest through means that transcended simple technology or mundane magic.
Her gaze, though the figure possessed no visible eyes within her helm, seemed to penetrate through the metal walls, through the corridors and chambers, seeing past all physical barriers.
She looked upon Nolan. Watched him standing tall in his blue armor, his fist still raised, his voice still echoing with the force of his conviction.
On that blurred, illusory face beneath the golden helm, something shifted. A subtle change in the shadows, a suggestion of movement.
It might have been a smile.
Her voice emerged like a badly tuned radio signal, fragments of sound breaking through interference, words struggling to form across whatever impossible distance separated her from this place.
"Zzzzt... for... for... zzzzt... humanity... zzzzt..."
The transmission fragmented, dissolved, faded back into silence.
But for just that single moment, she had been there.
Bearing witness.