The suit didn't hum; it roared.
It stood seven feet tall in the center of the Foundry's main testing bay, a massive figure made of rivet-studded steel and ceramic plating. It smelled like diesel and hydraulic fluid.
"It is... inelegant," Isobel murmured, keeping her distance from the exhaust vents.
"It is physics," Silas replied, tightening a bolt on the chest plate with a pneumatic wrench. "It is the sum of leverage, combustion, and material density. There is no spark here. No spirit. Just force."
Inside the chassis, Jax felt trapped. The cockpit was cramped, filled with analog gauges and manual levers. There were no neural links or fancy interfaces. To move the arm, Jax had to punch his own arm forward into a heavy sleeve that activated the hydraulics.
"This feels like wearing a dump truck," Jax grumbled, his voice amplified by a crude external speaker. "How do I turn on the heads-up display?"
"There is no heads-up display," Silas said, stepping back. "That would require microprocessors, which can interfere with each other. You have a periscope and reinforced glass. You aim with your eyes."
Jax groaned and tried to take a step.
CLANG-HISS.
The right leg of the suit slammed into the concrete floor, cracking it. The motion felt jarring, lacking the smooth agility of his usual lightning-ride.
"Balance, Mr. Miller," Silas instructed. "You weigh two tons. Momentum is your enemy now, not your friend."
"This thing is slow," Jax complained, struggling to turn the torso. "If I'm fighting agents, they'd dance circles around me."
"Let them," Silas replied. "Speed doesn't matter when you are a fortress. We have located a Bureau mobile unit—a surveillance van parked in the alley behind the Symphony Center. They are monitoring the downtown Ley intersection."
"A van?" Jax scoffed. "I'm dressed for World War III and we're tipping a van?"
"We are testing a hypothesis," Silas said darkly. "Now go. And remember: do not use your powers. If you spark, the Nullifiers will track you. Be the machine."
The Alley behind Symphony Center
The Bureau van looked like a plumbing service vehicle. It was matte white, unmarked, and radiated an air of boredom.
Inside, Agent Sonder watched the monitors. The spectral readings were flat. The city was quiet. Too quiet.
"Sector 4 is clear," Sonder spoke into his headset. "No variance detected. The population is docile."
Outside, the pavement shook.
THUD.
THUD.
THUD.
Sonder frowned. The rhythmic impact rattled his coffee cup. It wasn't the irregular rumble of a passing truck; it was footsteps. Heavy ones.
He checked the perimeter camera.
Walking down the alley was a monster. It looked like a deep-sea diving suit that had mated with a locomotive. Steam curled from vents on its shoulders. Its faceplate was a solid piece of glass reinforced with iron bars.
"Contact!" Sonder yelled, slamming his hand on the alarm. "Unknown entity! Massive scale! It's... it's a golem!"
He kicked the back doors open. Two tactical agents rushed out, raising their weapons. These weren't guns; they were Rifle-pattern Nullifiers—heavy, wide-barreled devices designed to strip the animation from magical constructs.
"Halt!" Sonder commanded, aiming his own device. "By order of the Bureau of Normalcy, you are in violation of kinetic statutes! Power down!"
Inside the Ironclad, Jax grinned. He couldn't feel the air, the static, or the city. He just felt the sweat on his forehead and the smell of hot oil.
"Sorry, boys," Jax's amplified voice boomed, sounding like a distorted foghorn. "I don't speak audit."
"Fire!" Sonder screamed.
The agents pulled the triggers.
Invisible waves of "normalcy" washed over the Ironclad. If the suit had been animated by necromancy, it would have collapsed into scrap. If it had been held together by Silas's alchemy, the metal would have degraded. If it ran on Jax's electricity, the battery would have died instantly.
But the Ironclad ran on a V8 diesel engine derived from a modified generator. Its joints were welded with oxy-acetylene. Its strength came from hydraulic fluid under 4,000 PSI of pressure.
The Nullifier beams hit the steel... and did absolutely nothing.
The Ironclad took another step.
CLANG.
Sonder stared at his device. The readings made no sense. "Target is... target is fully material! No magical signature detected! It's analogue!"
"My turn," Jax growled.
He swung the suit's right arm. It was a slow, telegraphed haymaker, but it carried the weight of a small car.
The agents scrambled out of the way. The metal fist connected with the plumbing van.
CRUNCH.
The van didn't just dent; it folded. The Ironclad's fist punched through the side panel, tearing the chassis open like a sardine can. Glass shattered. The surveillance equipment inside sparked and died.
Jax laughed. It was a thrill different from speed. This was impact. This was being undeniable.
"You can't cancel physics!" Jax yelled, grabbing the rear bumper of the ruined van with his other hand.
With a roar of the engine and a hiss of pistons, Jax lifted the back end of the van three feet off the ground and dropped it.
BAM.
The agents retreated, firing their Nullifiers uselessly. Sonder was frantically typing on his wrist pad. "Dispatch! Nullifiers ineffective! The target is immune! It's just metal! It's just metal!"
Jax took a step toward them, raising a massive steel boot.
"Retreat!" Sonder screamed.
The agents scrambled into a backup sedan parked at the end of the alley. Tires screeched as they sped away, leaving the smoking wreckage of their listening post behind.
Jax stood alone in the alley. The engine of the suit idled with a deep, chugging rhythm.
"Silas," Jax said into the radio, wiping sweat from his eyes. "Hypothesis confirmed. They don't know what to do with a wrecking ball."
"Excellent," Silas's voice crackled back. "Secure the wreckage. I want to see those Nullifiers. Bring me their toys, Mr. Miller."
Jax looked at the crushed van. He reached in and ripped out a console that was still sparking.
"Grabbin' takeout," Jax said. "I'm coming home."
The Bureau – Regional Headquarters
Thorne stared at the screen. The footage from the alley was shaky, recorded by the retreating agent's body cam. It showed the massive, steam-venting suit tearing the van apart.
"It's not magic," Thorne said softly. "It's engineering."
He paused the video on a frame where the suit's exhaust vent flared.
"They are adapting," Thorne said. "We took away their miracle, so they built a machine. They are using our own laws against us."
Thorne turned to the large window overlooking the city.
"Sonder."
"Sir?" Sonder looked pale, nursing a bruised arm.
"Authorize the reserves," Thorne said. "If they want to escalate to physical warfare, we will oblige. Request the Titan-Class dampeners from DC. And bring in the heavy demolition team."
Thorne picked up a file on his desk. It was labeled PROJECT: SILENCE.
"They think they are clever," Thorne whispered. "But a machine is just a cage for the pilot. And every pilot has to sleep."