198. Cold Steel, Colder Secrets. (Patreon)

Natasha Romanoff POV:

The Spartans had decided to ditch their Sahara-class Prowler for my Winter-class Prowler and that alone told me more than any classified briefing ever could.

I didn’t even know a Sahara class existed.

Then again, S.H.I.E.L.D. only found out about the Winter class because some engineer at Parker Industries accidentally tripped over a S.H.I.E.L.D link during a routine satellite recalibration. “Coincidence,” they called it. Parker Industries called it a rounding error.

The cockpit was tighter than I liked.

Not claustrophobic just… efficiently suffocating. Every inch was layered with matte-black control panels, glowing cyan holographic overlays and hardwired quantum relays humming softly like restrained thunder. The three Spartans took up most of the physical space, their Mk. VIII armor radiating that unnerving stillness that only heavily augmented soldiers ever seem to possess.

They were dense as if like gravity had learned how to wear armor.

I, on the other hand, felt… human.

Not fragile. Never that but sitting between them, I felt the difference the way you feel the ocean when you’re standing ankle-deep beside a submarine.

Sarah sat in the pilot’s seat, posture immaculate, her helmet already integrated into the Comms module. A transparent gold visor shimmered with scrolling data. Her voice was low and professional.

One didn’t need super-spy training to figure out she was reporting directly to Peter Parker.

That alone was unsettling.

Not Fury.

Not Hill.

Not the World Security Council.

Parker.

I turned slightly toward Billy, who was strapped in beside me, his helmet resting against the bulkhead, visor dark, arms folded across his chest like a statue carved from combat readiness.

“So,” I said lightly, because that’s what spies do when the air is thick with secrets, “care to tell me what you guys shot… and whom you shot?”

Billy didn’t answer immediately.

Jeremiah glanced at him, then at Sarah, then back at Billy, a silent conversation flashing between them with the speed of practiced operators. Their body language was precise and carried information through silence alone.

Finally, Billy exhaled slowly. “If it was any other Avenger,” He said evenly, “we’d have the clearance to tell you.”

That pause after you landed harder than he probably intended.

“But you’re not trustworthy,” He continued, “nor are you a fully committed Avenger.”

I won’t lie. That stung because it was true.

I’d lived my entire life in the gray. Even now, standing beside gods and monsters, I was still the woman who once belonged to rooms without windows and names without faces.

I gave a half-smile.

“Appreciate the honesty.” I said quietly.

“Tell her.”

Sarah’s voice cut through the cockpit like a blade drawn cleanly from a sheath.

Billy stiffened.

Jeremiah shifted slightly.

Billy turned his head toward me.

“The first day Aldrich Killian and his bodyguard Eric Savin came to Parker Industries,” He began, “they were unknowingly bio-scanned.”

My eyebrows rose. “Unknowingly.” I repeated.

“Yes, ma’am. Full-spectrum biological scan. Blood chemistry, neural activity, genetic markers, cellular stress responses. The whole five yards.”

I stared at him.

“You’re telling me Peter Parker has scanners so advanced that two enhanced extremists walked through his lobby and didn’t even realize they were dissected down to their mitochondria?”

Billy gave a faint nod.

“Based on that data,” he continued, “Mr. Parker synthesized an Extremis stabilizer.”

“Wait,” I said slowly. “Synthesized? As in... created from scratch?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re about to tell me he tested it...”

“It was injected into Madam Potts,” Billy said, “during the flare barrage.”

My breathing quickened despite myself.

Injected.

Mid-combat.

Under active hostile conditions.

With a compound that didn’t exist until days earlier.

That wasn’t just genius.

That was reckless divinity.

I looked down at my hands.

They were steady but my mind was racing.

"Does the word genius even begin to explain Peter Parker anymore?" I thought. "Or are we running out of words altogether?"

Billy continued, unaware or unconcerned with the storm in my head.

“The flare was cover. Visual disruption. Neural overload for any hostile observers. During that window, the stabilizer was delivered through a micro-injection dart. No permanent damage. No cellular rejection. Full compatibility.”

“Meaning,” I said quietly, “he cured Extremis in the middle of a battlefield without even being present while the patient didn't even have the Extremis.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Sarah’s voice returned, calm but carrying absolute authority.

“Listen up.”

All three Spartans straightened simultaneously. Even their breathing seemed to synchronize.

“We will drop Agent Widow at a S.H.I.E.L.D. safe house in Atlanta,” She said, “and then proceed to North Carolina Base for armament refit.”

I opened my mouth to object.

Didn’t matter.

“Our target,” Sarah continued, “is the Norco Oil Tanker of Roxxon Corporation, currently moored at dry dock in Wilmington, North Carolina.”

A projection flared to life between us, showing a massive industrial tanker, its bulk dwarfing the surrounding port.

“A contingent of three hundred Spartans in Mk. VIII Aestus pattern armor and YGGDRASIL Mk. I armor will be deployed,” Sarah said. “Air support will be provided by Wasp gunships. Secondary support by orbital overwatch and electronic warfare platforms.”

I stared.

Three hundred.

That wasn’t a raid.

That was a statement.

“Did I make myself clear?” Sarah demanded.

“Jawohl!!!” Jeremiah barked.

“Oorah!!!” Billy followed immediately.

The Prowler tilted upward, engines humming like a predator stretching before the hunt.

And just like that, they were already gone.

Their minds were already in North Carolina.

Already moving, killing, dismantling.

I sat there, still human, still thinking, still feeling.

And for the first time in a long while, I realized something unsettling.

The Avengers were warriors.

The Spartans were weapons.

And Peter Parker?

He was the hand on the trigger.

The Prowler soared toward North Carolina, carrying them into the night.

I had no say in the matter.

President Matthew Ellis POV:

At Vice President Rodriguez’s request, it was decided that we would go airborne aboard Air Force One for the time being.

“Purely precautionary.” They’d said.

Everything was always precautionary until it wasn’t.

As I climbed the stairs, flanked by Secret Service and the hum of high-alert readiness, I saw him descend from the sky in a plume of controlled thruster fire.

The Iron Patriot.

He landed at the base of the stairs with ceremonial precision, the armor gleaming in the floodlights, red, white, and blue reflected across polished metal like a promise forged from steel.

He stood tall, unmoving, sentinel-like.

I smiled.

“Well,” I said lightly, turning toward my aides, “I already feel safe.”

None of us knew.

Not yet.

That mortal danger had already threaded itself into the air like an invisible wire, waiting only for tension… and time.