The acrid smell of cordite and alien blood hung heavy in the night air, mixing with the diesel fumes from the idling military vehicles. Floodlights cast harsh shadows across the cratered battlefield, turning the scene into a stark tableau of victory and consequence.
"General Ross," John said, his voice carrying clearly through the cool night air despite the casual tone. The words were formal, respectful, but there was an underlying current of steel that made several nearby soldiers unconsciously straighten their posture. "I've heard a lot about you."
The transformation that swept across Ross's weathered face was nothing short of masterful. In the span of a heartbeat, the stern military commander—the man whose iron will had broken insurgencies and toppled governments—melted away like morning frost. What emerged was the picture of a kindly grandfather, his eyes crinkling with warmth and his mouth curving into a smile that had charmed senators and terrified subordinates in equal measure.
"Heroes truly do emerge from the youth," General Ross replied, his voice taking on the gentle cadence of an old man reminiscing about better times. The words rolled off his tongue like honey, each syllable carefully modulated to project paternal pride and genuine admiration. "Today's young people are simply amazing."
John took a step forward across the debris-strewn asphalt, his boots crunching softly on fragments of concrete and glass. Ross met him halfway with the practiced ease of a man who had navigated decades of political theater, each movement calculated to project confidence and camaraderie.
The handshake that followed was a study in diplomatic choreography. John's grip was firm but not crushing, respectful but not deferential. Ross's weathered palm was warm and dry, his calluses speaking of a military career that had begun with actual fieldwork before ascending to the rarified air of command. They clasped hands like old friends who hadn't seen each other in years, their eyes meeting with the kind of mutual assessment that passed for intimacy in the halls of power.
Ross then turned and gestured toward his armored vehicle with a sweeping motion that somehow managed to be both inviting and commanding. John responded with a slight, respectful bow—a gesture that acknowledged the General's rank while maintaining his own dignity. They began walking side-by-side toward the transport, their footsteps falling into natural synchronization as they appeared, for all the world, to be close allies sharing a midnight stroll.
The performance was flawless, a masterclass in political theater that would have impressed Machiavelli himself. But beneath the surface civility, both men's minds were working with the precision of chess grandmasters, calculating moves and countermoves in a game where the stakes were measured in lives and nations.
During their brief walk, Ross caught his adjutant's eye and gave the slightest of winks—a gesture so subtle it might have been mistaken for a nervous tic. The aide, a sharp-featured woman whose own military bearing spoke of years spent interpreting her superior's unspoken commands, immediately understood. She began directing soldiers with quiet efficiency, their voices low and urgent as they moved to secure the half-dead monster still bleeding its alien ichor onto American soil.
"Spider-Man, keep an eye on them," John said into his headset, his voice pitched just loud enough to carry to Ross's ears. The words were casual, almost conversational, but the underlying message was unmistakable: I have assets in play that you can't see.
The General's expression didn't change by so much as a muscle twitch, but John caught the quick, sharp glance that swept across his peripheral vision like a scanning laser. It was the look of a predator suddenly realizing that what he'd taken for prey might be another predator entirely.
On the surface, both men remained perfectly calm, their faces masks of diplomatic composure. But beneath that veneer, their minds were racing through calculations and contingencies with the speed of supercomputers processing threat assessments.
Ross had extended the invitation to talk, but John understood that nothing in politics—especially military politics—was ever that simple. What did the General really want? The previous exchange had established the parameters of their relationship with brutal clarity. The military had done nothing while John had eliminated the threat single-handedly. In the cold calculus of power dynamics, that meant Ross owed him something—and more importantly, it meant John was in a position to take what he wanted whether they offered it or not.
The General's thoughts followed a simpler but no less calculated path. Ever since he'd watched John dismantle the Locust Gurongi in eleven seconds of controlled violence, the monster itself had become irrelevant—a footnote in a much larger equation. What he wanted now, with the focused intensity that had made him one of the military's most effective commanders, was the boy.
The challenge was figuring out how to extract Kamen Rider from whatever web of allegiances currently held him and integrate him into the U.S. Army, where a super-soldier of his caliber truly belonged. It was a recruitment problem unlike any Ross had faced, complicated by the fact that his target had just demonstrated the kind of personal power that could render traditional military hierarchy meaningless.
The interior of the armored transport was a cramped symphony of military efficiency. Banks of monitors displayed tactical readouts in harsh blue light, while communication equipment hummed with the constant chatter of coordinated operations. The air was thick with the mingled scents of coffee, gun oil, and the particular metallic staleness that came from too many people breathing recycled air in a confined space.
Ross entered first, followed by several of his most trusted officers—men whose faces bore the weathered confidence of career soldiers who had seen their share of impossible situations. John came last, his presence somehow making the already cramped space feel even smaller.
Notably, the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents remained outside, their exclusion as deliberate as it was diplomatic. This conversation, Ross had decided, would be strictly military business.
"The conditions are simple, but it's quiet in here," Ross said, settling into his seat with the fluid grace of a man comfortable in his element. His tone was relaxed, conversational—the voice of an old man who might be sitting on his back porch rather than in a military command vehicle parked in the aftermath of a supernatural battle. "Would you like something to drink? We only have coffee."
The offer was casual, almost apologetic, but John recognized it for what it was: a peace offering, a gesture of hospitality that established the tone for whatever negotiations were to follow.
John's response was to reach for the Knight Watch at his waist, the device seeming to pulse with anticipation at his touch. With a flash of golden light that briefly illuminated every surface of the transport's interior, his armor dissolved in a cascade of energy that left dancing afterimages on everyone's retinas.
"A drink would be great," he said, his voice now unfiltered by the armor's systems. The tone was younger, more human, carrying a note of genuine fatigue that spoke to the evening's exertions. "It's been a long night."
The transformation in the vehicle's atmosphere was immediate and profound. Ross and his officers first glanced at the Knight Watch in John's hand—a device that clearly represented technology beyond their current understanding—but their attention was quickly and completely captured by something far more shocking.
His face.
John looked impossibly young, his features carrying that particular softness that marked the boundary between adolescence and true adulthood. There was a gentleness in his expression, a kind of inherent decency that seemed completely at odds with the devastating power they had just witnessed. It was as if someone had taken the face of a college sophomore and somehow grafted it onto the legend of a warrior-god.
The cognitive dissonance was staggering. This was the same person who had reduced a supernatural killing machine to broken meat in eleven seconds? This young man, who looked like he should be worrying about midterm exams and weekend dates, commanded the kind of power that could reshape the global balance of force?
They were all a little stunned, their military training warring with the evidence of their eyes.
John noticed their stares immediately, the weight of their attention making him unconsciously self-conscious. He touched his cheek with fingers that were steady despite the circumstances, a gesture so naturally human it only emphasized how surreal the entire situation had become.
"What's wrong?" he asked, genuine confusion coloring his voice.
Ross found his voice first, though it took a moment for his professional composure to reassert itself. "How old are you, son?" The question came out rougher than he'd intended, years of command authority bleeding through his carefully maintained grandfatherly facade. "Twenty?"
"Eighteen," John replied with the kind of straightforward honesty that politicians spent careers learning to avoid. "Nineteen in a few months."
The words hit Ross like a physical blow. He folded his hands with deliberate care, bent forward in his seat, and stared silently at the riveted metal floor of the vehicle. His breathing became measured, controlled, the kind of deep respiration that career military men learned to prevent themselves from saying something they'd regret.
Eighteen. The number echoed in his mind like a death knell. What the hell is going on? He's barely an adult. His thoughts turned dark as he considered the implications. George Stacy, what were you thinking? You couldn't have mentioned this?
Decades of careful planning, psychological profiles, and recruitment strategies crumbled to dust in his mind. His carefully prepared pitch—designed for a mature operative with military experience—was now completely useless. How do you recruit someone who isn't even old enough to drink legally? How do you negotiate with someone who probably still had a curfew six months ago?
He raised his head slowly, the movement carrying the weight of a man recalibrating his entire worldview. With a subtle gesture, he waved toward his female adjutant—a woman whose crisp efficiency had served him well in a dozen campaigns.
She moved with military precision, producing two steaming cups of coffee from a portable unit built into the transport's equipment bay. The liquid was military-grade black, strong enough to strip paint but carrying the familiar comfort that had sustained soldiers through countless long nights.
"Your fighting just now was excellent," Ross said, changing tactics with the smooth adaptability of a seasoned campaigner. His voice carried genuine appreciation—soldier to soldier, professional to professional. "Clean and precise. Who taught you?"
It was a logical question, one that any military mind would ask. Combat skills of that caliber typically required years of intensive training, the kind of education that left institutional fingerprints all over a fighter's technique.
"No one," John replied, accepting the coffee with a grateful nod. The answer was matter-of-fact, delivered without pride or false modesty. "I guess I just figured it out. It feels like I was born with it."
Innate? Ross thought, his analytical mind struggling to process this new variable. Superpowers that come with combat experience already installed? It was another factor he hadn't accounted for, another variable that made traditional recruitment models obsolete.
The coffee was exactly as advertised—strong enough to wake the dead and hot enough to serve as a weapon in its own right. John sipped it carefully, his face showing no reaction to what most civilians would consider an assault on the taste buds.
"We've seen monsters like that before," Ross said, his tone shifting to something much gentler, more paternal. It was the voice of a concerned uncle rather than a military commander, warm and understanding in a way that suggested years of practice at putting people at ease. "And ordinary armies... well, sometimes they're not up to the task."
He paused, letting the words sink in before continuing with what sounded like genuine vulnerability. "Have you ever considered a different platform? Interested in joining the military? We desperately need your help."
It was a masterful approach—acknowledging John's demonstrated superiority while positioning the military as desperate rather than demanding. The subtext was clear: We need you more than you need us.
In the end, Ross knew, it all came down to strength. John's power had earned him this level of respect, this careful negotiation rather than simple orders or demands.
"No," John said simply, the word carrying finality despite its brevity. "I prefer to be free."
The response was so direct, so uncompromisingly honest, that several officers unconsciously winced. In military culture, such directness was either refreshing or terrifying, depending on one's perspective.
"That's understandable. It's normal for young people to value their freedom." Ross pivoted again, his voice carrying the kind of indulgent understanding that parents reserved for particularly headstrong teenagers. The tone was calculated to be non-threatening, even supportive.
Then, with the subtle shift that marked a master interrogator changing direction, he moved to more concrete matters. "Why did you cut off the monster's legs? And what about the leg that was taken away? Did Captain Stacy ask you to do that?"
John set down his coffee cup, the ceramic making a soft clicking sound against the metal surface of the fold-down table. His expression became more serious, more focused, as if he were shifting from social pleasantries to business matters.
"I cut off its legs to neutralize its primary threat: its jumping ability and speed," John explained with the kind of tactical clarity that would have impressed any military strategist.
Ross nodded approvingly; this matched exactly what his own analysts had concluded from their review of the creature's capabilities. It was sound tactical thinking, the kind of strategic approach that separated professional warriors from mere brawlers.
"As for the leg," John continued, his voice taking on a slight edge that suggested he was entering more sensitive territory, "that has nothing to do with Captain Stacy. I'm taking it for my own team to analyze."
The change in Ross's demeanor was immediate and dramatic. His face hardened like cooling steel, the grandfatherly warmth evaporating to reveal the iron will beneath. It wasn't the lie that triggered his anger—he'd expected lies, planned for them, knew how to work around them.
It was the complete absence of one that caught him off guard.
Ross didn't particularly care that John was taking a sample; S.H.I.E.L.D. would undoubtedly claim their own piece of the creature, and such things were considered the spoils of victory in the shadow world of government operations. But there were protocols for these situations, official excuses and bureaucratic cover stories that allowed everyone to maintain plausible deniability.
You're an eighteen-year-old kid! Ross fumed internally, his jaw clenching with the effort of maintaining his composure. What kind of analysis are you going to do? You could at least come up with a plausible lie! How am I supposed to work with this? You're not playing the game!
The problem wasn't the action—it was the complete disregard for the carefully constructed fiction that allowed the adult world to function. John was operating outside the established rules, and that made him unpredictable in ways that went far beyond his supernatural abilities.
"Did someone tell you to say that?" Ross asked, his voice dropping to a dangerously low register. The question carried undertones of threat, the kind of barely contained menace that had made grown men reconsider their life choices.
"No. I'm the one who wants it." John's response was immediate and uncompromising, delivered with the kind of directness that either impressed people or terrified them.
The admission hung in the recycled air like a confession, and John immediately realized that his honesty—intended as a show of good faith—had produced exactly the opposite effect. Ross's displeasure was radiating from him like heat from a forge, and the other officers were looking distinctly uncomfortable.
Perhaps, John thought, a different approach is called for.
"General," he said tentatively, his voice taking on the careful tone of someone testing dangerous waters. "Let me propose a hypothetical."
The word 'hypothetical' seemed to catch Ross's attention, his eyes sharpening with the focused intensity of a predator scenting interesting prey. In the world of military and political negotiations, hypotheticals were often the way people floated ideas that were too dangerous to state directly.
John leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped around his coffee cup as if drawing warmth from the ceramic. "Is there a possibility... I mean, what if... what if, in fact, I am the boss? And all those other people—the doctors, the scientists, even Osborn's kid... what if they all listen to me?"
The effect of his words was immediate and profound. Ross's facial muscles twitched as if he'd been struck by a mild electric shock, his carefully maintained composure cracking like ice under pressure. An expression of pure, unadulterated confusion spread across his weathered features—an emotion so foreign to his usual demeanor that it transformed his entire face.
The nearby officers looked equally baffled, their heads turning toward each other in a series of silent questions. It was as if John had suddenly started speaking in ancient Sumerian, his words recognizable individually but incomprehensible as a complete thought.
What did he just say? Ross's mind reeled, trying to process an idea that seemed to violate every assumption he'd made about the evening's events. The kid thinks he's in charge? Of what? Of whom?
The silence stretched like a taut wire, filled with the hum of electronic equipment and the distant sounds of military operations continuing outside their mobile command post. Coffee cooled in forgotten cups as everyone tried to parse the implications of what they'd just heard.
After what felt like an eternity but was probably only thirty seconds, Ross's expression slowly returned to something resembling professional calm. But beneath that surface composure, something had fundamentally changed. His eyes now held a new intensity, a burning focus that suggested he was seeing John—really seeing him—for the first time.
He tilted his head with the deliberate precision of a man aiming a rifle, his gaze fixed on John's face with laser-like concentration. When he spoke, each word was measured, controlled, delivered with the kind of careful enunciation that suggested he was fighting to maintain his composure.
"Can you explain," he said slowly, as if speaking to someone whose grasp of English might be questionable, "in detail, what you mean by 'they all listen to you'?"
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