Terrorist groups, outlaw militants, rebels...call them what you will.
Throughout history, people like this have never disappeared completely. There have always been dissenters. Some think they are fighting for justice and freedom, some listen to the voices whispering in their heads, some are dissatisfied with the status quo and want change, and some believe they were born different.
These groups have always been around, as persistent as cockroaches in the kitchen. The rulers of any era have never managed to eradicate them; at best, they can suppress them and force them to lie low. But as soon as there is a lapse in vigilance, they return, often stronger and more determined.
Some argue that the reason for this is that someone high up in the Earth's Government deliberately allows it. Some powerful figures may secretly support these resistance forces for their own purposes. Whether in politics or business, there may be those with secret ties to these criminals—often people of high status and influence. This provides fertile ground for such organizations to survive. Without these hidden benefactors, it would be impossible for such groups to maintain their sophisticated operations, access to cutting-edge technology, and well-organized networks. The shadowy alliances are what keep them alive, like puppets dancing at the whims of unseen masters.
Now, Ross, who fled Riverton, is under the protection of one such organization.
In fact, he founded this group himself. Using his position in the Ninth Special Service Division, he recruited capable, independent-minded individuals from around the world. These recruits were not mere thugs; they were specialists in different fields—skilled engineers, hackers, former military personnel, and strategists.
Ross trained them like a regular army, enforcing strict discipline and maintaining rigorous standards, while embezzling funds and weapons to arm his illegal force. They had drills, ranks, and specialized units, making them one of the most formidable private armies in existence.
It seems he took inspiration from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s model, but instead of rooting out infiltrators, Ross became one. Maybe he believed an organization like Hydra was necessary, or maybe he just enjoyed the chaos. He ended up diverting resources meant for the madhouse to build this organization, one that operated in the shadows with almost complete autonomy.
The headquarters of the organization is now a fortress equipped with cutting-edge weaponry. Compared to the Earth's regular armies, it's fairly well-armed—at least at a middle-to-high level of strength. The fortress itself is heavily reinforced with steel and concrete, surrounded by anti-aircraft turrets, missile defense systems, and a network of underground bunkers. The personnel were always on alert, monitoring various surveillance systems to detect any threat long before it reached their gates.
But now, their seemingly impenetrable fortress has encountered an opponent unlike any they've seen before, not even in the world's military forces. A force that seemed to defy all logic, technology, and expectations.
Just minutes ago, their outpost, over a hundred miles away, suffered a devastating attack. It happened in mere moments. The radar gave no warning, and the entire base was annihilated within two minutes. Most frighteningly, the members of that base never figured out what attacked them.
Communications were a jumble of panic, and until the very end, no one saw the enemy. Only a series of explosions and chilling screams were transmitted back to headquarters. It was chaos—the kind of fear that strikes when the enemy is unknown and unseen. Soldiers shouted into their headsets, demanding backup, begging for answers, but only static and the sounds of destruction followed.
The headquarters immediately scrambled two jet fighters toward the fallen base—jets code-named "Blue Bird," the top models in the world today. These aircraft were state-of-the-art, capable of supersonic flight, stealth capabilities, and armed to the teeth with advanced missile systems and railguns.
Only their headquarters possessed these two aircraft, which Ross had managed to acquire thanks to his authority with the Ninth Special Service Division. He may not have hidden advanced fighters all over the world like Fury did with S.H.I.E.L.D., but getting hold of these was a testament to his influence.
The two jets took off, heading toward the ruined base. It served as an outpost, and whoever attacked it was likely planning to target the headquarters next.
The pilots were highly trained, ready for anything—or so they thought. As they soared through the sky, their systems were on full alert, scanning for any sign of the enemy.
But nothing showed up on the radar at headquarters.
"Blue Bird One, this is Control Tower. Have you found anything unusual? Over."
"This is Blue Bird One, everything is—"
Boom!
The jet exploded suddenly, starting from the cockpit. The poor pilot had no chance to react, unable to even finish his report before being engulfed in flames.
Light and heat erupted with immense force, slicing through the steel fuselage. A wing, engulfed in flames, spun away, while the main body of the wreck plummeted like a fireball. The debris scattered across the sky, leaving only a smoking trail.
The tower went silent. From start to finish, only the Blue Bird jets appeared on radar—no sign of any third party. Yet the fighter exploded in mid-air, as if it had self-destructed. The operators in the control tower stared at their screens, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Was it a malfunction? A technical failure? But that didn't explain the explosion—it was as if some invisible hand had reached out and crushed the jet.
The pilot of Blue Bird Two was equally stunned. He had witnessed the entire event, yet found no explanation. His teammate simply seemed to disintegrate, as if by some supernatural force. He scanned the sky frantically, eyes darting from one cloud to another, trying to locate anything that could explain the attack.
In the next moment, he saw something move through the flames, darting past his cabin, leaving a fiery trail.
It looked like an illusion, a blur of red and gold, there one second and gone the next.
"Control Tower, this is Blue Bird Two. Did you see that?"
"This is Control Tower. You are the only one on radar. Nothing else is showing. Over."
The pilot's heart pounded. Nothing on radar, yet something was clearly out there. It had wiped out an entire base in moments, destroyed Blue Bird One in an instant, yet radar showed nothing.
The world's most advanced fighter jets were rendered helpless—unable to even glimpse the enemy. His hands tightened around the controls as a chill ran down his spine.
It felt like a ghost, a phantom in the skies above. Something that defied all technology and training. What could they do against an enemy they couldn't see or detect?
Suddenly, alarms blared in the cockpit, as if death itself whispered in his ear. The sensors detected a target at extreme proximity, warning of imminent impact. But there was nothing visible—just endless sky and clouds. What could he possibly collide with? Was it truly a ghost?
In the final moment of his life, the pilot glimpsed the shape of his attacker—a figure, red and gold, humanoid but somehow impossibly fast.
His rational mind insisted he was imagining things.
He was flying thousands of meters above ground in the world's most advanced jet, yet there, above his cockpit, appeared a human figure—as if ready to strike.
With a clang, the cockpit glass shattered like paper, and the figure pulled the pilot from his seat with ease, tossing him into the raging winds. The pilotless jet spiraled downward like a bird with broken wings, the machinery shrieking as it plummeted toward the ground.
It was Iron Man, in the Mark 43 armor from the Age of Ultron. Currently, Charlie held the strongest version of the armor.
The first jet had been shot down using a wrist-mounted missile—a piece of black tech from Stark Industries. Unlike conventional airborne missiles, these were compact enough to fit on Iron Man's forearm, faster than his suit, and effectively invisible in aerial combat. They could lock onto a target within milliseconds and were designed to ensure a high probability of impact without alerting enemy radars.
The second jet had been taken down barehanded—not because ammunition was scarce, but because Charlie was practicing his flight maneuvers, getting used to Iron Man's armor. The feeling of soaring through the skies, the rush of wind, the power at his fingertips—it was exhilarating. He wanted to push the limits of the suit, to understand every movement, every function.
Fortunately, he was a fast learner.
After dispatching the jets, Iron Man turned and set his sights on the terrorists' headquarters. Flames erupted from his boots as he broke the sound barrier once more, streaking across the sky. The horizon blurred, and the pressure built around him, but the Mark 43 handled it with ease, cutting through the air like a blade.
At headquarters, silence fell as the radar showed both Blue Birds had lost their signals. The operators exchanged nervous glances, their fingers hovering over the controls. The entire room was tense, the air thick with uncertainty and fear. They had no idea what was coming, but they knew one thing for certain—something, or someone, had taken out their best defenses, and it was coming for them next.