204. Oily Funeral with Sparkling Madness. (Patreon)

President Ellis POV:

I never thought the end would smell like crude oil.

It was thick in the air, suffocating, crawling into my lungs with every breath. The inactive Iron Patriot armor weighed on me like a gilded coffin, its systems dark, its strength useless. Steel cables bit into my armoured wrists and ankles, suspending me over the open tanker below, even though the cables weren't touching me it felt as if it was biting onto my skin. One spark and I would be a footnote in a headline.

A Viking funeral, I thought bitterly. How poetic for a president nobody will mourn.

I had spent nearly two decades in politics. Long enough to recognize when the board had already been set and the pieces moved. Long enough to know when you were the sacrificial king.

If I survived this, disgrace awaited me. Investigations, hearings, the slow rot of reputation. History would not remember nuance; it never did.

Peter Parker certainly didn’t care for nuance.

I still remembered when Parker Industries first began its meteoric rise. Technologies that made entire sectors obsolete overnight. Medical revolutions, energy breakthroughs, materials science bordering on alchemy. Vibranium-S alone had placed governments at his mercy.

So I tried to restrain him.

Legislation wrapped in ethical language. Regulations on genetic engineering. Hybridization limits. Oversight committees. All reasonable on paper.

All useless in practice.

Parker Industries was a hydra with branches in nearly every nation. Secure, insulated and untouchable. Then there was the S.L.A.V.E Division. Even the name sounded like a threat disguised as an acronym. No espionage ever bore fruit. No infiltration ever succeeded.

Peter Parker didn’t break rules.

He outgrew them and now here I was, leveraged in Aldrich Killian’s revenge play.

Suddenly my thoughts froze. Literally.

The temperature dropped so fast my breath crystallized midair. Frost crawled along the steel cables. The crude oil below began to form a thin glassy crust.

Two silhouettes floated ahead through the mist.

One red and gold.

One steel-gray and blue.

Iron Man and Parker.

Blue beams erupted from their weapons, and wherever they touched, Extremis soldiers froze solid before shattering like statues made of sugar glass.

Of course they had cryogenic weapons.

There were rumors wild ones about a “god forge” beneath Parker Industries. A place where physics was merely a suggestion. I used to laugh those off.

Now, watching men of flame freeze mid-scream, I wasn’t laughing.

My gaze shifted when I noticed movement beside me. Colonel Rhodes was climbing along the cables like a man who trusted gravity less than his own stubbornness.

He reached my level, eyes scanning me.

“Sir, you looked spaced out. Thought you were drugged.”

“I’m fine, Colonel,” I said, forcing steel into my voice. “Get your armor and get to work, son.”

He gave a short nod and barked, “Manual reset. Authorization code: Warmachine-Epsilon-5672345-Rhodey.”

The armor hummed to life around me. Systems flickered on. HUD elements danced across my vision. For a moment, I felt powerful again.

Then I saw the diagnostics.

“Colonel, you’re low on ammo and your reactor’s at forty-seven percent!” I snapped.

The armor released the cables and gently lowered us.

Rhodes popped the suit open.

“Mr. President,” he said dryly, “you look damn good in the suit but I’m gonna need it back.”

I stepped out. He stepped in.

“Aren’t you joining them?” I asked, glancing at the battlefield of ice and fire behind us.

He shook his head.

“I’d just be in their way. Those two alone could level this dock five times over. Plus, as you said I'm out of ammo.”

I watched Parker and Stark carve through Killian’s forces like walking natural disasters.

“Indeed they could,” I muttered as Rhodes carried me to safety, towers of ice and fire dominating the skyline behind us.

Harry Osborn POV:

The Patrioteer armor felt like wearing a tank.

Bulky. Vacuum-sealed. Every movement assisted yet resisted by layers of protection. The HUD flooded me with data I could barely process fast enough.

I flew using repulsors, wobbling slightly.

Ahead of me, Gwen no, Archangel glided like a blade through the air. Effortless and terrifyingly precise.

“Gwen I mean, Archangel,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “what exactly am I wearing?”

Silence. Just the sound of wind and distant thunder.

For a moment I thought she’d ignore me.

Then she answered, tone clinical.

“Patrioteer Prototype. Early series. Precursor to the Marine Valiant exosuits. That one runs on Peter’s high-density two-way AC/DC converter dynamo and a regenerative solid-state battery.”

She paused then added,

“It absorbs electricity and kinetic force. Converts, stores, redistributes. Built to take punishment.”

Her voice held no warmth.

No banter.

Just facts.

“You’re lucky,” she continued. “Peter finished it out of boredom while I was shopping with Aunt May.”

I winced at the implication. You’re not special. You’re a spare user.

Before I could respond, warning alarms screamed.

Missiles streaked toward us.

Gwen spun midair and obliterated them with pinpoint shots.

Lightning tore across the sky.

I barely dodged.

Then I saw him.

Donald Menken rode the prototype glider like a demon on a surfboard from hell. His veins were black and green, bulging under his skin. His mouth drooled tar-like saliva.

He cackled, “Itsy bitsy spider and a tin man sat on a cable—FRYING!! Hee hee hee!”

I felt sick.

Then the sky exploded into lightning.

Electro formed from a bolt itself, glowing like a living storm. “SPIDER-WOMAN!!! I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!!!”

Gwen didn’t even flinch.

Her voice came calm, detached. “Gobby’s yours. Sparkles is mine. Any questions?”

Not Harry.

Not even my callsign.

Just assignments.

Distance measured in syllables.

“No.” I said quietly.

I boosted forward toward Menken.

I knew I’d betrayed them once. AIM. Extremis. Bad choices stacked like dominoes.

I wanted redemption but Gwen didn’t offer trust easily anymore. And honestly? I couldn’t blame her.

As lightning split the sky and hardlight webs shot toward Electro, one truth settled in my chest: I wasn’t fighting to be a hero. I was fighting to be forgiven and those were very different battles.

The war for New York’s lights had begun.

I will be taking a hiatus for the next week since not only am I physically in a bad shape but I'm also running low on chapters.