Washington Airfield stretched empty under the gray sky. Air Force One's massive bulk loomed silent on the tarmac. Vehicles clustered around the open cabin door while security teams and staff milled about. A red carpet unfurled toward the boarding stairs, flanked by rigid soldiers at attention.
An elderly white man had just placed his polished shoe on the first step when the heavens trembled.
The Patriot armor streaked down in red, white, and blue glory, landing directly on the crimson carpet with a metallic thud. Every head snapped toward the impact. Hong Fei strode toward the stairs as the President turned with practiced grace, his smile already in place.
"Colonel Rhodes," the politician beamed, "what a relief to see you. I feel safer already."
"You'll feel even better soon."
They boarded swiftly. Minutes later, Air Force One climbed through the clouds into smooth cruising altitude. Hong Fei moved through the spacious cabin. Staff members nodded respectfully; some whipped out phones for surreptitious photos despite protocol.
Two black-suited guards crossed their arms before a secured door.
"Colonel Rhodes, this area's restricted."
"Is it now?"
The voice modulator made it sound like grinding steel. Their eyebrows shot up just as twin hammer-blows from the armor's fists sent them crumpling to the carpet.
The breached door revealed more security lining the inner corridor. They stared at the armor, then at their unconscious colleagues, and went for their sidearms. Bullets pinged harmlessly off the plating like hailstones.
Hong Fei dispatched them methodically with palm repulsors before blasting the final door open. Muzzle flashes erupted from a corner where politicians cowered behind their last defenders. The armor's systems tracked each shooter before they could chamber new rounds.
When only whimpers remained, Hong Fei leveled his gauntlet at the President, now shielded by trembling aides.
"I'd prefer not to paint this cabin with brains today. Unless you want these people to choke on their own blood, walk here. Now."
The color drained from every face in the room.
After a hissed argument, the President stepped forward—then jerked his concealed pistol up at point-blank range. The armor's hand blurred, steel fingers snatching the bullet mid-air.
"You funded this armor's development. Did you really think standard issue could penetrate it?"
The gauntlet closed around the man's throat, slamming him against the bulkhead hard enough to dent metal. When his mouth gaped for air, Hong Fei shoved the caught bullet between his lips and clamped them shut. After a struggle of bulging eyes and muffled screams, a convulsive swallow sent the projectile down his gullet.
Released, the President collapsed retching.
Moments later, the fuselage exploded outward as Hong Fei carried his cargo toward Miami.
......
Aboard the waiting cruise ship, he dumped the unconscious leader on the deck like a sack of grain.
Big Head knelt beside the prone figure, injecting something into his neck. Eyelids fluttered open to reveal not his captors, but Killian's grinning face.
"Mr. President," the scientist purred, "welcome back to the Prometheus. I trust you remember her?"
The President struggled to his feet, his voice shaking with accusation.
"Two years ago, your company spilled a hundred million gallons of oil. But thanks to your political maneuvering, not a single person faced legal consequences."
He braced himself against the wall.
"Is this a Roxxon Oil vessel?"
"Seems you remember your sins after all."
Killian watched as the President straightened up with visible effort.
"What exactly are you planning?"
Killian's laughter cut through the tension.
"You almost look heroic standing there—calm in the face of death."
His amusement vanished as suddenly as it appeared.
"But tell me... do you actually deserve that look?"
His voice dropped to a venomous whisper.
The President's jaw tightened.
"If you're just here to mock me—"
"Oh, I've got grander plans than petty taunts. That oil spill? Merely one convenient justification among many for killing you on live television."
Killian adjusted his cufflinks.
"I've already selected your replacement. By morning, he'll be sitting in the Oval Office. That's all."
......
Elsewhere, Hong Fei and Big Head observed Pepper Potts through one-way glass. Strapped to an inclined medical bed, she wore only a sports bra that revealed toned abs and pale skin glistening under the lab lights.
"Boss, the Extremis injection took," Big Head reported. "Her adaptation looks promising—signs of stabilization. But we can't rule out spontaneous combustion yet."
"Tony will handle that." Hong Fei's gaze lingered on Pepper before shifting. "Did you secure the target?"
"Locked down in a safe house with fifteen guards. Whole place is wired to blow if anything goes sideways."
Hong Fei arched an eyebrow. "You call that a safe house? Your definition needs work."
Big Head's grin turned feral. "Nobody's extracting him. That's what makes it safe... for us."
"Clever. What's Stark's status?"
With a wave of Big Head's hand, holographic surveillance footage materialized—grainy clips showing Tony Stark across various locations.
"Currently enjoying a playdate with some kid in Tennessee, boss."
Hong Fei's frown deepened. "He doesn't know we kidnapped the President?"
"Doubt it. His armor's running on fumes, and the government's suppressing news of the Air Force One attack."
"Find a way to notify him. He's the main event, after all. We pull out once he arrives."
"Understood."
Big Head produced a small device with a single button.
"This triggers Killian's failsafe."
Hong Fei examined it. "How'd you manage that?"
"Embedded Hulk serum capsules in his skull and sternum. Press that, and the injection destabilizes his Extremis balance." Big Head mimed an explosion with his hands. "Three seconds later—human fireworks."
A nod of approval. "Good work."
......
Returning to President Ellis, Hong Fei found the man staring at the familiar armor with none of his usual polished charm. Deep lines of tension framed his mouth.
"What now?" he demanded.
Hong Fei studied the aging politician's frail frame in silence, calculating where to strike without fatal consequences.
"Tell me—what's the toughest part of your body?"
Ellis blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Never mind." Hong Fei sighed. "We'll do this the old-fashioned way."
His wrist flicked, extending a black baton.
Ellis scrambled backward. "Wait—whatever you're planning—just kill me instead! No, stay ba—AHHH!"
The soundproofing did little to contain the screams that followed.
......
The fight had dragged on far longer than expected. Hong Fei emerged clutching a bloodied telescopic baton, shaking his head in quiet disappointment. All that effort for just one measly card drop—talk about stingy odds.
Night had fallen by the time he reached the port, where Killian's meticulous preparations became apparent. The Vice President's military connections proved disturbingly effective.
Tony came rushing back the moment he got the alert. Not that Hong Fei knew what strings the man had pulled, but the entire Miami dock district now stood eerily deserted—no witnesses, no interruptions. Perfect conditions for what came next.
By Tony's arrival, Big Head had already flown to Los Angeles to interrogate Ten Rings operatives. Hong Fei perched on a rooftop overlooking the port, idly twirling Killian's self-destruct remote between his fingers. The show was about to begin.
Inside the stolen Iron Patriot armor, the President hung limp like a ragdoll—pale, unfocused eyes staring at nothing. Colonel Rhodes dangled upside-down beneath the suit, tethered by his ankle.
What followed played out with brutal efficiency.
Tony's Iron Legion descended by the hundreds, reducing Killian's forces and half the pier to scrap metal. Rhodes begged to reclaim his armor and join the fight, but the President threatened suicide rather than comply.
Pepper Potts moved like lightning, her Extremis-enhanced fists driving Killian back. When she punched clean through an unmanned suit, Tony finally witnessed what a real Avenger could do.
Just as Killian teetered on defeat, Hong Fei pressed the button.
The explosion lit up the harbor. Big Head's description proved accurate—Killian's body first glowed crimson, then detonated with enough force to vaporize an entire freighter.
No fireworks finale from Tony this time; the man stood staring at the flames, no doubt wondering about the missing warhammer-wielding foe. Between that and Steve's legal troubles, rest wouldn't come easy.
Energy surged through Hong Fei's veins—though curiously, his physical stats remained unchanged despite masterminding the operation. Killian's skill card came drifting toward him, but he examined the President's drop first:
Active Skill Card: B83 Thermonuclear Bomb (Blue)
"Consume massive energy to manifest a fresh B83 thermonuclear device. Adjustable yield up to 1.2 megatons."
A hydrogen bomb. The weapon that harnessed stellar fusion—deuterium and tritium nuclei forced together under atomic bomb temperatures, unleashing cataclysmic energy.
To put 1.2 megatons in perspective? Little Boy leveled Hiroshima with 15 kilotons. Fat Man flattened Nagasaki with 20. This was destruction on another scale entirely.
True, the skill's mechanics prevented stockpiling nukes, but with sufficient energy reserves, he could always conjure another. Not that he planned frequent use—humanity had only deployed two in warfare, after all. Ironically, those blasts had ended more conflicts than decades of diplomacy.
Yet even now, idealists still knelt in penitence for their use. War was war. Some things never changed.
When war erupts, the only way to end it is through bloodshed. Negotiations come later, built upon the wreckage left behind.
Not that we should deny anyone the chance to repent.
For those seeking redemption, Hong Fei has a solution. He'll deliver them personally. Face-to-face confessions carry more weight.