"Superman? Who is that?" Nick Fury narrowed his one eye, confusion flickering across his face.
"Director, Superman is a superhero from DC Comics. He has super strength, super speed—"
"Wait," Fury cut him off. "You're telling me this guy's a comic book character? One of those guys in tights flying around saving kittens?"
"Technically, Superman doesn't wear a mask," Coulson explained. "He has a bio-field that blurs his face—makes it nearly impossible to photograph or recognize him. It's canon."
Fury leaned closer to the satellite image on the tablet. The figure was indistinct, face obscured despite high-resolution capture. "So you're telling me the camera can't even get a clean shot?"
Coulson nodded. "Exactly, sir. I've read every Superman issue. And I'm a fan of Captain America, too."
Fury sighed. "Alright, fanboy. What do you suggest we do about this so-called Superman? Seems to me he doesn't want anyone to know who he really is."
"Well, if he's anything like the comic version, he's on the side of justice. Helps people. We should try to establish contact."
"That's fiction, Coulson. In the real world, this guy's an unknown element committing unsanctioned strikes."
Coulson hesitated. "That's true. Comic Superman never kills, and this guy clearly—"
"Stop quoting comic books!" Fury snapped, knocking on the desk. "Take Barton and get to Afghanistan. Investigate this person."
"Yes, Director." Coulson turned to leave.
"And Coulson—" Fury added behind him, "—send me a full set of Superman comics."
Meanwhile, a similar conversation was unfolding in the U.S. military.
Colonel Rhodes, part of the Weapons Development Division, stepped forward. "He's not a drone or weapon. That's a real person."
Another officer—Major from Missile Command—argued, "Even the Jericho missile didn't scratch him. We'd need a nuclear option."
A Navy colonel said, "We're not equipped to deal with someone who can fly and shrug off explosions."
An Air Force lieutenant colonel added, "Even locking on with airborne missiles is difficult. He's too fast. Too small a target."
Finally, General Ross gave the order. "For now, observe. If he doesn't act hostile, we initiate contact. Best case, we get him to cooperate... maybe replicate the tech for our own super-soldier program."
Then he added grimly: "Prepare for escalation just in case."
That morning, while the intelligence community scrambled, Stark Mansion basked in lazy, coastal sunlight.
Until Jarvis woke Tony Stark with a deafening blast from a suona—a traditional Chinese trumpet Malrick had recorded and programmed.
"JARVIS! Are you trying to kill me!?" Tony groaned from the floor, tangled in his blanket. The jarring, chaotic sound had sent him tumbling off the bed.
"Apologies, sir," Jarvis said calmly. "Per Master Malrick's instructions, I was to wake you up and play this video."
A projection flickered to life, showing real-time footage from Afghanistan. Thousands of bullets lit up the desert sky. Grenades. RPGs. Even Jericho missiles.
Tony sat up, blinking. The explosions lit the entire screen.
"Is this... a trailer Malrick made overnight? Where the hell is he now?"
"Master Malrick is in Afghanistan, sir. This footage is ten minutes old."
"Afghanistan!?" Tony stumbled toward the screen. "When did he leave? It's... what time is it?"
"10:03 AM, local time."
Tony rubbed his face. "He left without telling me? Why the hell would he send me this?"
"He wants you to notice, sir—the weapons being used by the Ten Rings."
Tony paused. Watched the footage again. His expression darkened.
Almost every weapon bore the Stark Industries logo.
"These are all ours..." Tony said, voice low. "And the Jericho... we only sold one shipment of that. To the military."
"That's correct, sir. Only one batch has been produced."
Tony was silent. Then he stood, yanked on a shirt, and headed for his suit chamber.
"Jarvis, prep Malrick's armor for remote use. We're heading to the Middle East."
"Yes, sir. And... Master Malrick also asked me to inquire whether you'll be able to sleep tonight."
Tony stopped in his tracks. "What?"
"He requested I report your response."
Tony's jaw twitched. "Tell him—when I don't sleep, I make sure he can't either."
The Mark III armor assembled around him.
Jarvis-controlled armor—nicknamed Super Mark I, a name Malrick insisted on—launched beside him.
Night in Afghanistan.
Gunfire and missile flares lit the terrain like sparks on a dying fire.
From high above, the last of the Ten Rings' major outposts collapsed in smoke and debris.
"Jarvis, what's the time?"
Malrick hovered in the clouds, looking down at the smoking remains.
"Eight minutes past target," he muttered. "Could've been faster."
Truthfully, part of him liked waiting for the terrorists to fire. Watching them unleash their pride—their missiles—before crushing their hopes mid-air.
Demoralization was just as important as destruction.
Sometimes, fear broke more chains than force.
He knew it might be excessive. But damn... it was satisfying.
Especially when he heard them scream, "That's all you've got?"
No mercy for murderers. No pity for thugs.
"Target eliminated," he said. "Next up—Eagle's military base."
"Sir, what's the objective?"
"Make a statement. Destroy the weapons. The grunts aren't the enemy—they're just following orders. The real problem is upstairs."
"Understood. Oh, and Mr. Stark has breached Afghan airspace. He's attempting to contact you. Shall I patch him through?"