Killian snarled, his enhanced physiology flooding his system with combat stimulants that made his skin glow like molten metal while heat distortion rippled around him in patterns that suggested his emotional regulation systems were experiencing significant stress. "You think this is some kind of game?"
Harry tilted his head with that particular expression of polite interest that suggested he found Killian's question deeply amusing while also calculating exactly how thoroughly he intended to demonstrate the answer. "Of course it's a game, Aldrich. The difference is that you're playing checkers with pieces you don't understand, and I brought a chess set designed by people whose understanding of strategy operates on scales you can't imagine."
His emerald gaze tracked the remaining enhanced soldiers with analytical precision while his slight smile suggested he found their capabilities personally entertaining rather than threatening. "Also, your enhancement program needs work. The glowing is dramatic, certainly, but the psychological instability rather undermines the intimidation factor."
It was at this moment that Valeria arrived through the simple expedient of hurling an enhanced soldier through the laboratory's reinforced floor, the impact creating a crater that suggested her understanding of appropriate force application was calibrated for opponents considerably more durable than standard human construction materials.
Her golden hair whipped around her shoulders as she straightened, blue eyes bright with the kind of eager anticipation that made experienced warriors nervous in the most delightful ways. Every line of her athletic form radiated barely contained violence that had been refined into art through years of practice and natural talent.
"Finally," she said, breathless with excitement as she surveyed the remaining opposition, "something that might actually survive my opening move long enough to make this interesting."
Harry's smile as he looked at her held obvious appreciation for both her tactical capabilities and the way her combat readiness showcased assets that had nothing to do with military training and everything to do with the kind of physical perfection that made reality itself seem more aesthetically pleasing in her presence.
"Darling," he said, his voice dropping to that particular register that suggested he found her enthusiasm remarkably attractive, "try not to break them all at once. Sharing is caring, and the rest of us would like some entertainment as well."
Val's grin was pure predatory satisfaction as she flexed her hands in preparation for activities that would probably require extensive cleanup afterward. "Maybe later you can remind me about the importance of sharing," she replied, her voice carrying enough suggestion to make the temperature in the immediate area rise noticeably. "Just you and me. No holding back. No rules except what we make up as we go."
Harry's expression took on that intensity that had once made cosmic entities reconsider their life choices. "Now that's the kind of sparring match that requires privacy and probably soundproofing."
"Ugh," Tony groaned, his voice crackling through his suit's speakers with the kind of weary exasperation that came from extensive experience with Harry's ability to conduct military operations while flirting like a particularly dangerous teenager. "The rest of us are right here, Potter. Some of us would like to make it through this tactical engagement without needing a cold shower and possibly therapy."
JARVIS, ever the diplomat, interjected with smooth efficiency. "Might I suggest focusing on the enhanced soldiers who are currently attempting to ignite the building's structural supports, sir? Romance can be conducted after we've prevented Miami from requiring extensive urban renewal projects."
Allyria Dayne flowed into the laboratory through movements that suggested she had been trained in combat arts that most people couldn't pronounce, let alone master. Her violet eyes tracked the tactical situation with analytical precision while her dark hair framed features that belonged in Renaissance paintings depicting war goddesses who had decided that diplomacy was optional when facing opponents who threatened innocent people.
"The thermal readings are becoming critical," she observed with calm authority, her voice carrying that particular blend of concern and tactical assessment that came from understanding exactly how dangerous unstable enhancement technology could become. "Several of the enhanced subjects are approaching cascade failure. We have perhaps two minutes before this becomes significantly less controlled."
Dacey Mormont arrived with the kind of purposeful stride that suggested she had evaluated the situation, found it moderately challenging, and was prepared to solve it through appropriate applications of Northern pragmatism and superior firepower. Her auburn hair caught the laboratory's emergency lighting like burnished copper, and when she surveyed the battlefield, her expression suggested she found the opposition mildly disappointing from a tactical perspective.
"Two minutes," she repeated with matter-of-fact directness. "More than enough time to clean up this mess and extract whatever intelligence we can from the survivors."
Shaak Ti materialized beside them with that serene grace that somehow made even urgent military situations look like opportunities for meditation conducted by someone who understood that cosmic balance often required precision applications of overwhelming force against deserving targets. Her red eyes held that faint luminescence that indicated her Force sensitivity was active, and when she spoke, her voice carried the calm certainty that made everyone listen when she offered insights.
"Several of the enhanced subjects are experiencing significant psychological distress," she observed, her tone matter-of-fact despite the implications. "The Extremis process burns their minds as well as their bodies. They are in constant pain, and their grip on sanity weakens with each moment."
Her musical voice held genuine compassion for those who suffered from the poor decisions of others. "They are victims as much as threats. If we can neutralize them without permanent harm, we should make the attempt."
Aayla Secura joined their tactical discussion with that fluid grace that combined Force sensitivity with extensive combat experience, her blue skin catching the laboratory's lighting in ways that made her look like some exotic warrior goddess preparing for righteous battle. Her lekku twitched slightly with what Harry had learned to recognize as her calculating expression.
"Coordinated simultaneous engagement," she said with professional confidence that suggested she had planned more successful military operations than most generals ever attempted. "Fast, surgical, overwhelming. We neutralize the enhanced threats while preserving civilian staff and whatever research data might prove useful for developing countermeasures."
Riyo Chuchi stepped forward with diplomatic grace that somehow made military planning look like negotiated settlement conducted by someone who understood that the best battles were won before violence became necessary. Despite her smaller stature, she carried herself with quiet authority that made her tactical opinions carry significant weight.
"The civilian evacuation protocols appear to be functioning effectively," she reported with analytical precision. "Though we should prepare for extensive media coverage that will require careful management. Flying suits, mysterious women with advanced capabilities, precision military operations in downtown Miami—the press will have questions that challenge several assumptions about jurisdiction and proper governmental oversight."
Harry's emerald eyes took on that particular intensity that suggested he was processing multiple layers of tactical information while also calculating exactly how much trouble he intended to cause for people whose poor life choices had threatened innocent civilians and his personal friends.
"Let them question," he said with obvious satisfaction, his British accent lending authority to what amounted to a declaration of policy regarding media management and public relations. "By the time we're finished here, they'll be too busy trying to determine whether we were Avengers, visiting extraterrestrials, or the world's most enthusiastic performance art collective to worry about paperwork and proper bureaucratic procedures."
He looked directly at Killian with that devastating smile that had once made the Dark Lord himself pause to reconsider his strategic assumptions. "Now then, Aldrich, shall we discuss your rather ambitious plans for presidential kidnapping and constitutional crisis? Because I have some thoughts about your methodology that you might find educational."
Killian's enhanced features twisted with rage as he processed the implications of Harry's casual reference to classified operational details that should have been impossible for any civilian to access. "How do you know about—"
"About your little scheme involving Vice Presidential corruption, enhanced soldiers masquerading as patriotic military assets, and systematic institutional betrayal designed to destabilize government authority?" Harry interrupted with obvious amusement. "Really, Aldrich, when you're planning to kidnap the President of the United States, perhaps you should ensure your security protocols can handle opponents whose capabilities exceed your threat assessment parameters by several orders of magnitude."
His emerald gaze tracked the remaining enhanced soldiers with analytical precision while his voice carried that particular tone of British superiority that could make tactical briefings sound like devastating social commentary. "Also, your enhancement technology needs significant revision. The psychological instability issues alone make your subjects more dangerous to themselves than to their intended targets."
Tony's voice crackled through his suit's speakers with obvious delight at watching someone else deliver comprehensive criticism of their opponent's strategic planning. "You know, Killian, when the British guy starts offering constructive feedback on your world domination scheme, it might be time to reconsider your career choices. Just saying."
"Constructive feedback," JARVIS added with digital amusement, "delivered with that particular brand of devastating politeness that suggests extensive education in the art of making enemies reconsider their life decisions through superior reasoning and occasional applications of overwhelming force."
Killian's fists ignited with enough heat to make the air shimmer as his enhancement systems flooded his physiology with combat stimulants that made his already orange skin glow like molten metal. "You think you understand what we've accomplished here? You think your little collection of technological toys and mysterious women can stand against perfection itself?"
Harry's laugh was rich and genuine, the sound of someone who had just been told a particularly amusing joke by someone who clearly didn't understand why it was funny. "Perfection? Aldrich, you've created walking weapons with the emotional stability of caffeinated toddlers and the tactical lifespan of mayflies in a thunderstorm."
His emerald eyes held depths that promised comprehensive educational experiences for anyone who survived the upcoming demonstration. "But please, do show us this 'perfection.' I'm genuinely curious to see what someone with your particular understanding of enhancement technology considers an optimal result."
The laboratory complex erupted into chaos as Killian roared his defiance and launched himself forward with superhuman speed, his enhanced physiology operating at parameters that exceeded normal human capabilities while his fists blazed with enough thermal energy to melt through reinforced steel like tissue paper.
What followed would later be studied by military academies as an example of what happened when confidence born of genetic enhancement encountered opponents whose understanding of warfare operated on scales that challenged conventional tactical assumptions.
It was going to be absolutely spectacular.
—
Aldrich Killian stood amidst the smoking ruins of what had once been his pristine laboratory, his empire crumbling around him like a house of cards in a hurricane. His fists burned with the molten intensity of liquid steel, enhanced veins pulsing beneath his skin like rivers of fire, each heartbeat sending waves of Extremis energy coursing through his genetically perfected form. The man who had once been dismissed as a nobody now commanded power that could melt through titanium, yet here he was—watching his supposedly unstoppable security force being systematically dismantled with what could only be described as insulting ease.
His enhanced soldiers, men and women who could bench press cars and regenerate from grievous wounds, were being taken apart by Harry Potter's extraordinary wives, Tony Stark's mechanical marvels, and the devastating combination of magic and technology that shouldn't have been possible. His perfect plan, years in the making, was collapsing before his eyes like a sandcastle meeting a tsunami.
But Aldrich Killian hadn't survived this long by putting all his eggs in one basket. He still had one card to play—one final, devastating ace up his sleeve.
"You think this matters?" Killian bellowed, his voice booming across the shattered laboratory like thunder rolling across a battlefield. The raw power in his enhanced vocal cords made the remaining intact windows vibrate ominously. "You think stopping me here changes anything?" He took a menacing step forward, his molten fists dripping superheated metal that sizzled against the concrete floor. "Pepper Potts is already dead, Stark. Even now, as we speak, Savin is retrieving her body from what's left of your pathetic defenses."
His lips curled into a vicious smile that would have made devils jealous, revealing teeth that seemed to glow with inner fire. "He's stronger than your armor, faster than your drones, more ruthless than anything you could possibly imagine. By the time you're done playing house with my soldiers, all that will be left of your precious girlfriend is ash... and regret."
For a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, the battlefield fell silent. Extremis soldiers paused mid-combat, their glowing forms frozen like deadly statues. Iron Man drones hovered motionless in the air, their repulsors still charged but waiting. Magic hummed in the atmosphere like a barely contained storm.
Tony Stark, encased in the gleaming red and gold perfection of the Mark 23 armor, stared at Killian through his faceplate. The silence stretched. Then, impossibly, inexplicably... he started to laugh.
It began quietly—a chuckle, the sort of sound someone makes when they've just been told a particularly ridiculous joke by someone who clearly doesn't understand the punchline. Then it built, bursting into rich, gasping laughter that echoed through the lab via his suit's external speakers, filling the space with the kind of mirth that suggested someone had just witnessed the most absurd thing in human history.
"Oh my God," Tony wheezed, actually doubling over mid-flight as his suit performed compensatory maneuvers to keep him airborne. "Oh—J, please—please tell me you got that on high definition. I want the playback on loop, surround sound, maybe add some dramatic music. This is comedy gold, people. Pure, unrefined comedy gold."
"Already archived in multiple formats, sir," JARVIS replied with his characteristic smooth British inflection, though there was unmistakable smugness threading through his artificial voice like silk wrapped around steel. "I took the liberty of recording from seventeen different angles, including thermal imaging to capture Mr. Killian's expression. Shall I prepare a highlight reel with accompanying laugh track and perhaps some whimsical carnival music?"
"Do it," Tony gasped, actually wiping at his eyes inside the helmet despite the fact that tears were impossible within the sealed environment. "Make it a full production. This deserves its own documentary series."
Harry Potter joined in a second later, his deep, resonant laugh rolling out like aged whiskey poured over velvet. His emerald eyes—those impossible, brilliant green eyes that had once stared down Voldemort himself—burned with pure amusement as he regarded Killian with the sort of look one might give a particularly confused puppy. When he finally spoke, his voice carried that devastating British aristocratic accent that could cut glass and had once made Dark Lords reconsider their life choices.
"I'm terribly sorry, Aldrich," Harry said with the sort of polite, understated tone that suggested he was addressing a particularly dim student who'd just asked if water was wet, "but did you just threaten Pepper Potts? The Pepper Potts currently under the protection of HK-47?" He paused, letting that sink in like a stone dropping into still water. "You know... the assassin droid whose hobby list begins and ends with 'murdering creatively' and who considers violence a recreational activity rather than a necessary evil?"
Fleur Delacour dissolved into musical laughter beside him, the sound like silver bells mixed with champagne bubbles, her incredible beauty somehow enhanced by her mirth as glowing mathematical equations sparked and danced around her like luminous fireflies. Even while laughing, she remained devastatingly gorgeous—the kind of woman who could stop traffic in twelve different dimensions.
"Mon dieu, zis is too perfect!" Fleur gasped between giggles, her French accent wrapping around the words like silk. "Ze poor man, 'e threatens Pepper, when she is guarded by ze droid 'oo considers violence... 'ow you say... recreational? It is like threatening someone under ze protection of ze Grim Reaper 'imself, non?"
Susan Bones, her auburn hair catching the light like spun copper and her face flushed with delight, clapped her hands together in excitement, bouncing slightly on her toes in a way that was both adorable and somehow incredibly alluring. "Oh my God, he actually thinks Savin can take HK? That's—oh, that's precious! Reality itself just blushed from secondhand embarrassment. I mean, that's like challenging a hurricane to a staring contest!"
Daphne Greengrass' aristocratic laugh rang clear and cool as crystal chimes, her ice-blue eyes sparkling with the kind of cutting intelligence that could dissect a man's ego with surgical precision. When she spoke, her voice carried the refined poise of someone who had been raised to view peasants from a great height and found them wanting.
"My dear man," she said with the sort of cutting politeness that aristocrats had perfected over centuries, "you've just made a tactical blunder of such magnificent magnitude, I expect it will be immortalized in military textbooks under 'What Not To Do: A Comprehensive Guide to Strategic Suicide.' Sending your pet monster against a droid who considers eliminating superhumans a delightful afternoon puzzle?" She gave a little shrug that somehow managed to convey volumes about Killian's intelligence. "It's almost sweet, really. Like watching a toddler challenge a tiger to a wrestling match."
Even Shaak Ti, the serene Togruta Jedi Master whose blue skin seemed to glow with inner peace, allowed her normally composed features to curve into a smile that suggested the universe itself was enjoying the joke. "The Force," she murmured in her melodious voice, "is laughing at you, Aldrich Killian. I can feel its amusement rippling through the cosmic tapestry like waves of pure hilarity."
Killian faltered, his supreme confidence cracking at the edges like poorly maintained concrete under pressure. Disbelief warred with fury across his handsome features as he stared at this group of people—people who should have been cowering in terror—laughing at what he'd meant as his killing blow, his masterstroke, his final victory.
"You... don't understand," he said, heat rippling from his body in visible waves as his desperation began to bleed through his cultivated control. "Savin is perfected. Enhanced speed that makes bullets seem slow, strength that can crush steel, regeneration that makes him practically immortal—he is beyond anything your pitiful machines can—"
"Correction," JARVIS interrupted with the sort of smooth, unflappable delivery that suggested he'd just checked his calculations three times and found them amusing. "HK-47 is currently engaging your operative. Current combat assessment based on real-time data analysis: Mr. Savin has a remaining functional expectancy of... thirty-four seconds. Thirty-three. Thirty-two."
Val leaned against a smoking console, her warrior's frame relaxed but ready, grinning like a wolf who'd just spotted particularly stupid sheep. She cracked her knuckles with the sort of casual precision that suggested she could break bones with the same ease most people cracked eggs. "Thirty-four's generous, JARVIS. I give him twenty before HK gets bored and starts pulling pieces off for fun. The droid has a very specific idea of entertainment, and it usually involves creative dismemberment."
Harry smirked, tilting his head with that devastating ease that had once made Dark Lords reconsider their life choices and had more recently made his wives contemplate dragging him to the nearest horizontal surface. His emerald eyes blazed with the kind of confidence that came from having survived things that would drive lesser men insane.
"See, Aldrich, that's the problem with your entire approach," Harry said with the sort of casual authority that suggested he was explaining basic physics to a confused child. "You've spent your whole life trying to play god, manipulating and controlling and reshaping people to fit your vision. But gods?" He slid a meaningful glance at his wives, each of whom responded with looks that could have melted steel. "They're already on our side."
He turned his gaze to Fleur, who blew him a sultry kiss that actually sparked the air around her, magical energy responding to her emotions in visible cascades of light. Daphne's ice-blue eyes glittered as she smirked back at him, the expression promising things that would make a saint reconsider his vows. Susan giggled and winked, still glowing with residual magical energy that made her skin look like it had been dusted with starlight. Even Val licked her lips at him, feral and hungry, her warrior's instincts recognizing their perfect mate.
Harry turned back to Killian, his expression shifting from loving husband to something far more dangerous, emerald eyes blazing with the kind of power that had once reshaped the very fabric of reality. "So tell me, old boy... what exactly do you think you bring to this party?"
For the first time in years, Aldrich Killian—the man who thought himself invincible, who had rebuilt himself into something beyond human limitations—looked like he might actually be afraid.
---
Meanwhile, at Tony Stark's cliffside mansion, Eric Savin approached the residence like he already owned the deed and was considering renovations. The man moved with the swagger of someone who had bench-pressed main battle tanks for fun and wasn't particularly shy about advertising the fact. Six-foot-four inches of pure Extremis-enhanced muscle wrapped in tactical gear that probably cost more than the GDP of several small nations, Savin radiated the sort of alpha predator energy that made lesser beings instinctively step aside.
His skin burned with a faint orange glow from the Extremis coursing through his genetically perfected system, giving him the appearance of a space heater that had achieved sentience and decided to take up professional violence as a hobby. The enhancement had transformed him from merely dangerous into something approaching the mythical—strength that could crumple steel, speed that made bullets seem leisurely, and regenerative capabilities that bordered on the miraculous.
Three more enhanced soldiers fanned out behind him in perfect formation, their movements synchronized with the precision of a Swiss watch and the lethal intent of hungry sharks. They moved through the mansion's grounds with the confident silence of predators who had never encountered prey they couldn't handle.
The mansion's supposedly sophisticated security system remained conspicuously quiet. No alarms, no automated defenses, no resistance of any kind. It was almost insulting in its simplicity.
Savin grinned, the expression transforming his already intimidating features into something that belonged in nightmares. "See? Told you Stark security's overrated. Man builds shiny toys that can probably level city blocks, but he's got the perimeter discipline of a middle school soccer team during pizza day."
They reached the front entrance, and Savin was genuinely surprised to find the door hanging open like a casual invitation. Warm, golden light spilled across the stone steps like the house itself was rolling out a red carpet for honored guests. The whole scene had an almost domestic tranquility that seemed wildly inappropriate given their intended activities.
Savin raised one massive hand, signaling his squad into assault positions with the fluid precision of long practice. He stepped through the threshold like he owned the place, his enhanced senses automatically cataloging potential threats, escape routes, and structural weak points. The man might be a walking weapon of mass destruction, but he hadn't survived this long by being careless.
"Ms. Potts!" he bellowed, his voice booming through the high-ceilinged foyer with the sort of volume that could probably be heard three counties over. "Name's Eric Savin, and I'm here on behalf of some very important people who would very much like to have a conversation with you. Now, the polite option is to walk out with me like a civilized human being. The less polite option involves me carrying you out while things behind me spontaneously explode and your boyfriend's very expensive house becomes significantly less structurally sound. I'm nothing if not flexible about methodology."
Silence greeted his announcement. Then, from somewhere deeper in the house, came a voice that made every hair on the back of his neck stand at attention despite his enhanced physiology.
"Statement: Unidentified organic meatbags, you are currently trespassing on property under the protection of HK-47. Advisory: This is inadvisable."
The voice had the sort of metallic, deadpan delivery that made every single syllable sound like a carefully crafted threat. It was the vocal equivalent of a knife being slowly drawn across a whetstone—technically emotionless, yet somehow conveying vast depths of anticipated violence.
Savin froze mid-step, his enhanced reflexes screaming warnings that his conscious mind was still processing. "...What the hell was that?"
The voice came again, and this time there was something that might have been amusement threading through the mechanical tones, if machines were capable of finding murder hilarious.
"Assessment: Multiple enhancement signatures detected. Superhuman strength, accelerated reflexes, regenerative capabilities, thermal anomalies consistent with Extremis modification. Clarification: Fascinating. This termination sequence will be significantly more entertaining than eliminating standard organic intruders. Query: Shall we begin the festivities?"
Savin's grin returned, wider and more predatory than before. He motioned his squad forward with casual confidence, his enhanced muscles rippling beneath his tactical gear. "Okay, boys, looks like Stark left us a talking toaster with delusions of grandeur and an attitude problem. Should be fun to scrap it and use the pieces for spare change."
The air began to hum with mechanical precision. Whirring sounds echoed from deeper in the house—not the random noise of broken machinery, but the purposeful, confident sounds of a predator stretching before the hunt. The acoustics were wrong, somehow. Too organized, too deliberate, like listening to a symphony of impending violence.
"Correction: I am not a toaster, Enhanced Meatbag. I am an HK-series assassination droid, specifically designed for the elimination of Force-sensitive targets and adapted for the termination of enhanced organic life forms. Observation: Your ignorance is amusing. Unfortunately for you, it will not prove sufficient protection against impending dismemberment."
One of Savin's soldiers, a man whose enhanced physiology should have made fear a theoretical concept, muttered nervously, "This wasn't in the mission briefing, boss. Nobody said anything about killer robots with personality disorders."
"No kidding, genius," Savin growled, though his grin never wavered. He raised his voice, letting the challenge ring through the house like a war cry. "Hey there, robot! You've got exactly two choices here—stand down and power off like a good little appliance, or we turn you into very expensive scrap metal. What's it gonna be?"
The answer came instantly, delivered with the sort of mechanical precision that suggested the droid had been hoping for exactly this response.
"Mockery: 'Turn you into scrap metal.' How refreshingly original. Query: Did you rehearse that particular line in front of a mirror, Enhanced Meatbag Leader, or do you always sound this pathetically predictable when attempting intimidation?"
The soldiers visibly stiffened at the casual dismissal. Savin's grin widened into something that belonged in a slasher film, his eyes beginning to glow with the telltale orange light of Extremis activation. "Cute. Real cute. Alright, toaster, I'll ask you one more time—where's Potts?"
"Statement: Pepper Meatbag is safe and well-protected. Addendum: You, Enhanced Meatbag, most certainly will not be. Remark: I find the irony delicious, though I lack the organic capability to properly appreciate irony. This is a source of mild frustration."
A shadow moved into the doorway, and suddenly the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Seven feet of rust-red armored plating stepped into view, photoreceptors glowing with malevolent orange light that made Savin's Extremis enhancement seem like a child's night light by comparison. HK-47 unfolded to his full, imposing height, bristling with weapon ports that rotated and clicked into position with the sort of surgical precision that suggested each one had been calibrated for maximum lethality.
The machine looked like someone had taken the abstract concept of murder, given it physical form, and then armored it in the finest materials the galaxy had to offer. Every line of his construction suggested violence as an art form, death as a science, and assassination as a calling.
HK-47 cocked his head at an angle that was somehow more intimidating than any human gesture, his photoreceptors tracking each target with the sort of predatory focus that suggested he was already calculating optimal dismemberment patterns.
"Statement: Enhanced Meatbags, welcome to your execution. I do hope you will provide adequate entertainment value before expiring. Query: Shall we commence with the violence? I have been experiencing what organic beings might term 'boredom,' and your arrival presents a delightful opportunity for recreational homicide."
Savin threw back his head and laughed—loud, cocky, and genuinely amused. The sound echoed through the mansion like thunder. "Holy shit. You're actually impressive, I'll give you that. Alright, rust bucket, this could actually be fun." He cracked his knuckles with deliberate slowness, the heat beginning to shimmer visibly from his glowing skin as his Extremis enhancement reached full activation. "Boys, spread out and flank him. Time to show Skynet here how real enhanced humans handle their business."
HK's photoreceptors tracked every movement with the sort of predatory calm that suggested he was simultaneously analyzing seventeen different ways to kill each target while composing a detailed post-mission report.
"Observation: Your tactical maneuvering appears to follow the classic 'fan out and die individually' formation. Remark: A bold choice, if not particularly intelligent. Assessment: This should prove adequately entertaining."
The first soldier lunged forward, Extremis-enhanced reflexes blurring him into motion that would have been invisible to normal human perception. HK didn't even bother moving his head. One arm rotated with mechanical precision, energy cannon charging and firing in a thunderclap burst that lit up the entire foyer. The soldier hit the far wall hard enough to leave a crater in the reinforced plaster, his limbs jerking spasmodically as his regenerative tissue struggled—and visibly failed—to knit under the sustained particle bombardment.
"Assessment: Target neutralized with satisfactory efficiency. Remark: Regeneration speed proved inadequate against sustained energy discharge. Entertainment value: moderate, though the screaming added a pleasant auditory component."
The remaining two operatives hesitated for a fraction of a second—long enough for survival instincts to war with professional pride. Savin snarled at them with undisguised contempt. "Move your asses! He's just a machine!"
HK-47 tilted his head with mechanical interest. "Observation: Fear pheromones detected. Statement: Delightful. Fear adds considerable flavor to any termination sequence. Addendum: Though I lack olfactory sensors, I am programmed to appreciate irony, and your terror is quite satisfying."
The second soldier tried to use his enhanced speed, sprinting along the wall in a blur of motion that should have made him nearly untouchable. HK swiveled with liquid precision, released a micro-missile from his shoulder launcher, and the resulting blast caught the operative mid-leap, sending him crashing into the grand piano in an explosion that was equal parts destruction and accidental symphony.
"Addendum: Musical accompaniment was unexpected but appreciated. Entertainment value upgraded to satisfactory. Note to self: Consider incorporating more musical elements into future terminations."
The last soldier roared in fury and desperation, igniting into a full Extremis burn that made his body glow like molten steel given human form. He launched himself through the air in a perfect tackle that would have pulverized normal armor. HK's forearm blade snapped out with mechanical precision, cleaving clean through the enhanced man's arm before he could land his attack.
The soldier's scream could probably be heard in the next county. HK rotated his primary blaster into firing position with the casual efficiency of long practice.
"Statement: Scream louder, Enhanced Meatbag. Your anguish fuels my servos and brings me what organics might term 'joy,' though I lack the emotional subroutines to properly experience joy. This creates a fascinating philosophical paradox that I shall contemplate while you expire."
The blaster discharged with a sound like thunder. The soldier didn't get back up, and wouldn't be getting back up ever again.
Now only Savin remained, standing amidst the smoking remains of his supposedly elite squad.
The massive man stood his ground, chest heaving slightly as his enhanced physiology processed what he'd just witnessed. Extremis fire ran over his body like liquid magma, turning his skin into a furnace that could have melted steel. He wiped blood from his chin with the back of one glowing hand and grinned with the sort of feral intensity that suggested he'd just found his perfect opponent.
"Okay. Okay. Not bad, toaster. I'll admit, that was genuinely impressive. But you're gonna find I'm a hell of a lot harder to put down than those scrubs. They were enhanced humans. Me?" His grin widened into something that would have given nightmares pause. "I'm perfected."
HK's photoreceptors flared brighter, and for the first time since the engagement began, his mechanical voice carried something that might have been genuine enthusiasm.
"Statement: Excellent. I was hoping you would last long enough for me to field-test my newer modifications. Observation: Your confidence is either admirable or pathologically delusional. Either way, it should make for a more entertaining termination sequence."
Panels opened along HK's shoulders and arms, revealing weapon systems that hummed with charging energy. The air itself seemed to vibrate with barely contained lethality.
Savin rolled his shoulders, his enhanced muscles rippling with barely controlled power, his entire body radiating heat like a walking furnace. His grin was wide, wolfish, and utterly confident. "Round one, R2-Dickhead. Let's dance."
HK-47 stepped forward, weapon systems glowing with eager promise, his mechanical frame somehow managing to convey anticipation despite being constructed entirely of metal and circuits.
"Statement: At last, an organic with genuine spirit. Observation: This encounter will be significantly messier than standard terminations. Addendum: I find myself experiencing what could be termed anticipation. Delightful."
The mansion erupted into violence as machine and enhanced soldier collided, the sound of their battle echoing across the cliffside like the world's most destructive symphony.
---
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