196. Fault Lines of Power. (Patreon)

Colonel James Rhodes POV:

“What’s your ETA, Iron Patriot?” The general asked over comms, his voice clipped and already impatient.

“Arriving at Sialkot in seven minutes.” I replied.

The Iron Patriot suit cut through the upper atmosphere like a bullet, alarms politely reminding me that I was violating Pakistani airspace in at least twelve different ways. Speed, altitude, trajectory, probably vibes. I was too fast and too high for anyone to realistically do something about it before I was already gone.

One of the perks of wearing several billion dollars’ worth of American foreign policy.

The coordinates resolved ahead of me. The Pentagon’s analysts had triangulated the source of the Mandarin’s latest broadcast to the outskirts of Sialkot. Right where the city thinned into slums and illegal manufacturing hubs. Counterfeit jerseys, knockoff sneakers, sweatshops stacked on top of misery.

Real subtle, Mandarin.

I slowed, dropped and landed hard at the edge of the slum.

People scattered.

Good.

That was the idea.

Dense population meant a firefight would turn ugly fast. I wasn’t here to rack up civilian casualties, I was here to scare people away. The armor helped. Red, white and blue tends to do that when it drops from the sky like a judgment call.

I didn’t rush. I walked.

Every step echoed. The systems hummed just loud enough to make a point. People fled down alleys, through doorways, dragging kids and bundles of cloth. Crude evacuation, sure but effective nonetheless.

Five minutes later, the building came into view.

Old and cracked concrete, rusted shutters. The kind of place that had seen a lot of suffering and didn’t bother pretending otherwise.

I kicked the door in.

Wood exploded inward in a spray of splinters.

Repulsors up. Shoulder-mounted shotgun primed.

There was no armed guards, no throne of skulls and Kalashnikovs.

Burka-wearing women sat in rows, hunched over sewing machines. Cheap sportswear in piles around them. Logos stitched crooked and fast. Fingers raw and heads down.

I slowly turned my head.

Men and women stood around the perimeter. Whips in hand. Watching.

“Ah,” I thought grimly. “Handlers.”

One of them whether brave or stupid stepped forward and cracked his whip at me.

It bounced off my armor.

The recoil snapped the braided tire-rubber whip right back toward his face.

I caught it midair.

I said calmly, “Set repulsors to stun. Wide arc.”

Blue-white pulses rippled out. The handlers dropped like sacks of laundry, twitching and unconscious.

Silence.

Then movement.

The women stood. Slowly at first. Then faster. They rushed past me, some crying, some laughing in disbelief. Calloused hands grabbed my armoured ones and began shaking them.

“Shukriya.” One whispered.

“Allah ka shukr.” Another said.

I didn’t understand every word but I didn’t need to.

Gratitude sounds the same everywhere.

As the last of them passed, one woman lingered. She took my hand, squeezed it… and didn’t let go.

A warning flared across my HUD.

CATASTROPHIC THERMAL DAMAGE – RIGHT HAND

“What the...”

My armor locked.

Servos seized. Systems screamed.

I snarled and tried to force movement. “You’re going to have to take this armor off my cold, dead body.”

“That’s the plan, Colonel.”

She removed her burka.

American blonde.

Smiling like she’d already won.

Captain George Stacy POV:

I am George Stacy. Captain of the Chelsea Precinct, PDNY.

Most people know me as that or as Gwen Stacy’s father.

Some know me as Peter Parker’s father-in-law.

A few know me as the suspected father of Spider-Woman.

None of those titles ever quite prepared me for how strange my life became.

New York was doing what New York does best that morning: Chaos with a heartbeat. A chase two blocks over. Reports of a turf war brewing.

Someone complaining about a supervillain shaped pothole.

We handled it like always.

The PDNY isn’t what it used to be. Better training, better tactics. Thanks to Parker Industries and their Spartan PMC Recruit Training Center, our officers trained like soldiers without forgetting they were cops.

I cradled my coffee like it was holy water when my phone rang.

Caller ID: GWEN

“Hey, kiddo,” I said, smiling. “Finally remembered your lonely old man?”

I could practically see her rolling her eyes.

“We had dinner yesterday, Dad. And you went on a date with Vice Captain DeWolff.”

I sputtered and nearly sprayed coffee across my desk.

Her tone sharpened.

“Dad. We need a meeting. About the other stuff. The business stuff.”

I choked.

Right on cue, DeWolff stepped into my office. “You okay, George?”

“I’m fine.” I croaked, waving her off. “Just… caffeine down the wrong pipe.”

Gwen’s voice came through, tense. I lowered it. “Can I bring DeWolff?”

“Yeah. This isn’t those meetings. Corporate dismantling stuff. Bye, Dad.”

Click.

DeWolff raised an eyebrow. I sighed.

“Well,” I said, standing, “you were bound to learn about it eventually.”

She nodded. Two years together will do that. It took me a long time to move on from Helen. Gwen, Peter, even May they all pushed me forward gently, stubbornly.

“Parker Industries,” I said as we walked, “has a unique board.”

“How unique?”

“Five members. I own five percent. Gwen owns five. Tony Stark owns five. Ben and May together own five.”

“And Peter?”

“Eighty.”

She blinked. “So… corporate tyrant?”

I shrugged. “You should see what he keeps in his basement. Then you’d understand why he needs that control.”

“Care to give hints?”

“No.”

I called Commissioner Karnik, requested leave for both of us. She didn’t argue.

Parker Industries Headquarters rose from the industrial district like a cathedral of steel and glass. Machines hummed in the distance. Things that could save lives or end them, depending on the day.

Inside, terracotta murals blended seamlessly with holographic displays and glowing conduits.

DeWolff whispered, “Wow.”

I chuckled. “You should see the pinch fusion reactor or hydroponics. Those’ll steal your breath.”

A Spartan met us, crisp and polite. He handed DeWolff a visitor ID.

“Do not lose this,” He said evenly. “If you do, Clanker is authorized to classify you as a threat and activate defensive countermeasures.”

She gulped and clipped it on.

In the conference room, holographic legal teams shimmered to life. Ben. May. Gwen at the head of the table.

Opposite her sat Harry Osborn… and a woman I didn’t recognize.

A projection ignited above us.

ACTION 02 – DISMANTLING OSCORP

VERSION 2.0

I exhaled slowly.

“So,” I murmured to myself, “that’s what it is.”

Just like that, the war moved from shadows to boardrooms.