The roar of the motorcycle engine tore through the twilight air.
Natasha Romanoff pressed her entire body against the bike, her waist curved low and her hips slightly raised, the black bodysuit outlining her silhouette with crystal clarity.
Wind rushed into her collar, blowing her short red hair back and revealing a stretch of fair skin on the back of her neck.
She shifted gears.
Her left hand squeezed the clutch, her right foot pressed down, and her body rose and fell slightly with the vibration of the bike.
Her inner thighs gripped the fuel tank tightly, her leather boots planted on the pedals, and the muscles in her calves tensed into a smooth, defined line.
She pushed the speed to 120.
Sharon’s voice was still echoing in the comms— “It might have already left the atmosphere.” Left the atmosphere.
Kicked.
Natasha twisted the throttle to the max.
Three blocks.
Two blocks.
One— “Damn it.” She slammed on the brakes.
The front wheel locked, the rear end fishtailed, and the tires dragged a black scorch mark across the asphalt.
The motorcycle slid sideways for five meters, coming to a stop in front of a pile of rubble and debris.
The road was gone.
The entire street was gone.
The ground had been ripped open, steel rebar jutted out from the concrete, and shattered building facades completely blocked the road.
This wasn’t a fight; this was a demolition.
Natasha gritted her teeth and scanned the surroundings.
Blocked on the left, blocked on the right.
Taking a detour would take at least twenty more minutes.
The battle between Iron Monger and Iron Man was already absurd enough.
And then, a superpowered individual in a Marine uniform had to crash the party halfway through.
She had seen the intelligence Sharon sent back earlier.
She had seen the photos too.
A yellow suit, a loud floral shirt, sunglasses, and an air of swagger in his step.
Every detail radiated an indescribable greasiness.
S.H.I.E.L.D.’s database of superpowered individuals had no record of this person, yet Nick Fury had actually said, “Observe for now.” They’ve already left the atmosphere, what else is there to observe?
Observe whether his next kick can send someone to the moon?
Natasha swung off the bike.
She threw one leg over the bike, her black leather boots landing on the gravel as she shifted her center of gravity from the motorcycle to the ground.
She stood straight, shook out her hair which had been messed up by the wind, and adjusted her belt.
Her bodysuit tightened with the movement.
She ignored it and strode directly into the depths of the ruins.
The plan was simple: hike through this mess, reach the center of the battlefield, assess the situation, and intervene if necessary.
She was a high-level S.H.I.E.L.D.
Agent, and she had cleaned up more messes than there were taxis in Manhattan.
She took three steps.
A sound came from overhead.
Not a plane.
Not a missile.
It was a piercing whistle, approaching from a distance.
Natasha looked up.
Something was falling from the sky.
Very fast.
Extremely fast.
Leaving a trail of orange-red exhaust, it plunged straight down at a vertical angle.
“——!” Natasha leaped back six meters.
The object slammed down.
The ground exploded.
Gravel sprayed, dust billowed, and the Impact blew Natasha’s hair straight back.
A four-meter-wide crater appeared exactly where she had been standing three seconds ago.
The dust settled.
A heap of iron lay in the crater.
To be precise, a suit of armor.
Dark grey alloy shell, massive in size, with the reactor in its chest flickering with an unstable light.
The armor’s surface was covered in cracks and dents; the missile launcher on the left shoulder was completely twisted, and the machine gun barrel on the right arm was bent into a bizarre arc.
Iron Monger.
It had fallen back from the atmosphere.
Natasha: “…” She drew her pistol.
In the crater, a steel arm reached out tremblingly, five alloy fingers gripping the edge of the pit.
Then a second hand.
Then a massive iron head.
Iron Monger crawled out of the crater.
The movement was extremely difficult.
Like a turtle flipped on its back trying to stand up again, its limbs flailed in the air several times before finding purchase.
The faceplate popped open with a “click.” Obadiah Stane’s face was revealed.
Pale.
Extremely pale.
Blood streaks hung from the corners of his mouth, his pupils unfocused, his hair plastered to his forehead, sweat and blood mixed together.
He gasped for air with his mouth open, a hissing sound coming from his throat.
He was alive.
Actually alive.
Natasha admitted she was a little disappointed.
“Obadiah Stane.” She raised her gun, aiming at the opening of Iron Monger’s faceplate.
“Get out, hands behind your head, now.” Obadiah turned his head to look at her.
On that pale face, the fear had not yet fully faded.
But when he saw Natasha’s face clearly, a twisted anger slowly crept up.
“You…” He spat out a mouthful of blood.
“I’ve seen you.” Natasha didn’t respond, her gun remaining perfectly steady.
“Stark Industries…
the secretarial department…
the new assistant…” Obadiah’s voice was intermittent, each word laced with the scent of blood.
He laughed, a hideous laugh.
“That idiot Tony!
He had a mole planted right under his nose and didn’t have a clue!
Ha…
hahaha…
all he knows is chasing women and throwing parties…” “I’ll give you three seconds,” Natasha said.
“Three!” Obadiah’s laughter stopped.
He stared at Natasha, staring at the small-caliber pistol in her hand.
Then he moved.
The speed was unexpected.
Iron Monger’s alloy body sprang up, the faceplate closing within 0.3 seconds.
Natasha pulled the trigger.
The bullet struck the edge of the newly closed faceplate, sparks flying as it ricocheted off.
A split second too late.
Iron Monger stood tall.
The 2.7-meter mech loomed over her, and the machine gun on its right arm, though bent, still functional, hummed as it spun.
The barrel aimed at Natasha.
“Little girl.” Obadiah’s voice came from behind the faceplate, distorted by the metal into something cold and harsh.
“You’ve chosen the wrong person.” The machine gun opened fire.
Natasha cursed in Russian and rolled to the right.
The bullets struck where she had just been standing, pulverizing gravel into dust, the line of Impact chasing after her.
She rolled twice, knelt on one knee, and raised her gun to fire back.
Three shots.
All hit the armor, like scratching an itch.
Iron Monger’s machine gun followed her.
A barrage of gunfire swept the area.
There was no blind spot.
Natasha rolled again, a piece of flying debris grazing her cheek and leaving a red mark.
She needed cover, but the surroundings were all open ruins, and the nearest obstacle was fifteen meters away.
She couldn’t make it.
Iron Monger’s barrel had already adjusted its angle, pointing directly at her.
The next second.
She was scooped up.
One arm wrapped around her waist, the other supported the back of her knees.
Very natural, very smooth, as effortless as carrying a sack of flour.
Wind rushed past her ears.
When she opened her eyes again, she was already twenty meters away.
Under her feet was an intact section of concrete.
Behind her was a half-collapsed wall.
A safe position.
Natasha looked up.
Yellow.
A large area of yellow.
A yellow suit jacket, and underneath, an outrageously flashy shirt.
Sunglasses.
A half-open collar.
And a scent of cologne.
Strong.
Very strong.
Luke set her down and brushed off his sleeves.
“Beautiful, you okay?” He pushed up his sunglasses and gave her a smile.
That smile— Natasha’s brain raced.
Yellow clothes.
Sunglasses.
This greasy aura, this unnecessary pick-up artist tone.
Every characteristic Sharon described matched up.
Not a single one missing.
Luke had already turned around, facing the direction of Iron Monger.
His hands were in his pockets, his shoulders slumped, his posture incredibly lax.
Iron Monger stopped firing.
The 2.7-meter mech stood twenty meters away, motionless.
The barrel was still spinning, but no bullets were firing.
Because through the gap in the faceplate, Obadiah saw that face.
That man in the yellow suit.
The person who kicked him into the sky.
Iron Monger took a step back.
The alloy joints made a harsh grinding sound.
Luke tilted his head.
“Yo, you can still move~” His tone held a sense of genuine surprise.
“I thought you’d fall apart after that drop.
As expected of Stark technology, this shock absorption is even more impressive than I thought~” Iron Monger took another step back.
Natasha leaned against the half-collapsed wall, staring at Luke’s back.
The greasy superpowered individual.
It was him.
Luke pulled his phone from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and let out a sigh.
“It’s 7:12.
The fried chicken shop closes at 8:00.” He looked at Iron Monger.
“It’s not polite to shoot at a lady, don’t you think~” “So~” Luke’s expression was still joking, but he had already raised his leg, aiming at the cockpit.
“Get out yourself.”
Maybe it’s not a big deal now… maybe it will be later.
“And If you’re enjoying it, drop a Power Stone for me!”