"Breaking news: an arson attack has struck the Stark Expo. The perpetrator is a massive mech painted crimson red."
"We still don't know the attacker's motive, and the area around the Expo is packed with civilians. They're all hoping to witness a showdown between Tony Stark's bodyguard 'Iron Man' and this crimson mech."
Aboard the Helicarrier, Tony Stark had just finished giving S.H.I.E.L.D. a technical consultation.
He was in the middle of chatting with Agent Hill, visor flipped up and a grin on his face, when the alarm suddenly blared in his ear.
Click. The faceplate snapped shut. The moment the emergency news feed popped up on his HUD, every trace of that smile vanished.
"A crimson mech? At the Stark Expo?"
No time to waste lounging around a flying aircraft carrier. Tony lifted off the deck, hovering as he called back to Hill.
"Tell Nick Fury the tech support this time was on the house. There won't be a next time for free."
With that, he rocketed out of the Helicarrier, shot onto the flight deck, locked onto his heading, and punched through the clouds.
"JARVIS, pull up visuals of the Stark Expo," Tony ordered. "And take remote control of the Mark III while you're at it."
"Yes, sir," JARVIS replied instantly, already executing.
Tony's full attention zeroed in on the live feed from the Expo. He stared at the hulking crimson mech tearing through the grounds and fell into thoughtful silence.
"JARVIS… does that thing look familiar to you?"
"Sir, after scanning and comparing the mech's silhouette to our database, I can confirm an eighty-percent structural match with the Iron Monger armor," JARVIS answered. "I've rendered a color-stripped model for your reference."
The raging flames of the burning Expo reflected in Tony's eyes as he studied the wireframe JARVIS projected. After a long moment, he spoke.
"JARVIS, dig up everything you have on Yuri Petrovich."
"One moment, sir," JARVIS said, then added, "Sir, do you suspect the pilot of the crimson mech is Professor Yuri himself?"
"Maybe not the pilot, but whoever built that thing definitely has ties to him," Tony replied.
"Sir, the palladium poisoning is spreading. Based on your current vitals, you have approximately twenty minutes of combat time left in the Mark III," JARVIS warned.
"Then we wrap this up fast. Ten minutes to end the fight, JARVIS."
By now the Stark Expo was an inferno. All staff had evacuated and mingled outside with the rubberneckers and late-arriving onlookers.
From their vantage point, all they could see through the smoke and flames was a scarlet mech rampaging like it had a personal grudge against anything bearing the Stark name.
"Back! Everybody back!"
Police shouted through bullhorns, guns drawn, trying to push the crowd away. But the Expo grounds were enormous; plug one leak and three more popped up. The younger cops were practically hopping in frustration.
Especially when a streak of fire tore across the horizon, growing brighter and closer. When the gold-and-red Mark III touched down right at the front of the crowd, the onlookers lost their collective minds and surged forward like it was the Super Bowl.
The worst offenders were the reporters, shoving microphones and cameras forward, desperate for a soundbite from the armored "Iron Man"—anything from "How does it feel to be Tony Stark's bodyguard?" to the inevitable "When Tony's in bed with models, do you stand in the corner and watch?"
"Welcome, everyone, to Mr. Stark's bonfire extravaganza," Tony announced through the suit's voice filter. "Enjoy the show."
He ignored the frenzy behind him and flew straight into the sea of flames.
The pitch-black underground passage was actually an elevator shaft.
When Batman emerged from it, he stepped into a vast, brightly lit subterranean plaza.
Forty-nine soldiers instantly surrounded him, every one of them leveling identical machine guns, faces hidden behind protective masks.
Batman's gaze swept past them. The underground chamber was nearly as large as the gamma bomb research facility topside, with a ceiling height of roughly eleven-and-a-half feet—far taller than standard.
Under the harsh lights, countless glass tanks filled with pale green fluid lined both sides of the plaza. In the center stood an enormous machine.
Next to it was an even larger tank. Through the murky green liquid, Batman could just make out the figure floating inside: Norman Osborn.
General Ross—who'd had both legs broken by Batman not long ago—stood beside the apparatus in perfect health, arms crossed, watching Batman with a smug half-smile as the soldiers kept their guns trained on him.
Standing next to Ross was someone even taller than the already six-foot-three general, back turned to Batman.
From this angle Batman could only see the dramatically bulging occiput that rose like a mountain from the man's skull.
"Batman," a voice came from the figure, calm and almost amused. "You're two seconds faster than I calculated. Looks like I overestimated Abomination's capabilities."
Only then did the man turn around.
He possessed a cranium almost as massive as a gargoyle's, yet his features were not nearly as crowded or grotesque; he looked younger than a gargoyle too.
His skin was the same shade of green as Hulk's transformed state, and even his eyebrows and hair were the same pitch black.
In a single instant, Batman understood.
Before his topside fight with Abomination, he'd wondered who the creature had been referring to as "Boss."
It hadn't sounded like simple military deference to General Ross—especially since Abomination had just written Ross off as dead a moment earlier.
Now it all clicked.
The "Leader" wasn't a rank or a superior officer.
It was a proper name—the name of this big-headed, green-skinned man standing in front of him.
The Leader.
"Kill him," the Leader said with a lazy wave of one hand. "Bring me the corpse."
The instant the words left his mouth, all forty-nine soldiers opened fire at once.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat…
A storm of bullets filled the air, not in neat horizontal lines but in a three-dimensional wall of lead that completely saturated the eleven-and-a-half-foot-high kill zone around Batman.
At the critical moment, with no room to dodge, Batman reached behind him and yanked the second Bat-Pod—deployed from high altitude—down in front of him like a shield, then ripped.
SCREEECH!
In a teeth-grinding shriek of tortured metal, the pod tore open—not into its usual three sections, but like a giant wardrobe flung wide. The entire fuselage became an enormous ballistic shield that intercepted the hail of bullets.
Ping-ping-ping-ping-ping! Rounds hammered harmlessly against the pod's back, buying Batman a precious second.
At the same time, from the front—the side Batman had violently torn open—six mechanical arms shot out. Each arm clutched a different piece of armor plating, and in a matter of seconds they slammed the components onto Batman's existing suit, encasing him in an all-new layer of protection.
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