The truck rolled through the darkness, jostling me with each jolt that stabbed through my ribs. The terrain was growing rougher, rocks scraped under the tires while the suspension groaned. My watch read 23:54. Almost midnight.
I checked the small hole in the tarp again.
Nothing but blotchy green shapes of the terrain.
My night vision goggles couldn't provide more detail than the hole allowed.
The truck began to slow with a definitive braking motion.
Adrenaline surged through me. I needed to see outside.
I crawled toward the flap at the back of the truck, careful not to disturb any crates. Each movement felt like nails driving into my lungs. When I finally reached the exit,
I eased the flap open two inches.
Cold air hit my face, sharp and dry. The night outside was pitch black, with no ambient light and the moon obscured by clouds. Only the faint glow of the truck's taillamps cut through the darkness.
I ensured the side mirror couldn't capture my movement before leaning out.
The road had flattened, with large boulder formations on both sides, interspersed with desert scrub.
It felt isolating.
The truck ahead of me, maybe two hundred meters away, was braking hard.
My heart raced.
This was it.
As soon as I saw the lead truck come to a full stop, I didn't hesitate. I braced my legs, gripped the metal frame…
…and jumped.
The landing was anything but graceful. My boots hit the ground, and momentum carried me into a rough roll across grit and loose stones. Pain flared across my chest like wildfire. I stifled a sound, forcing myself into a crouch behind a cluster of boulders.
Nothing snapped. Nothing tore.
My gear felt intact.
Small miracles.
I adjusted the NVGs, peering toward the convoy.
The trucks moved forward another fifty meters before stopping again in front of a rocky hill, revealing something huge and jagged in the green glow of night vision.
At first, it appeared to be just another mass of stone.
But the way the trucks positioned themselves, angled inward with their engines idling, suggested it wasn't random.
Men began emerging from the formation dozens of them, moving with quiet energy even at this hour.
They started unloading crates from the backs of the trucks. Shadows flitted between headlights, and voices echoed in languages I couldn't understand.
I couldn't see an entrance yet, maybe a cave or a carved-out hideaway in the rock wall. The angle was wrong from where I crouched.
But this many armed men unloading heavy equipment at midnight, deep in the mountains?
This had to be the place.
I exhaled quietly, my breath misting in the cold air.
"Well," I whispered to myself, "I hope I'm in the right damn spot."
I stayed exactly where I was, curled behind the boulders, rifle against my chest, NVGs trained on the trucks, for almost an hour. The cold gnawed at me through my jacket as the last of the crates were hauled into the camp. Eventually, the trucks revved up and began their return trip down the path we had come.
I pressed myself flat against the rock as each truck passed my hiding
spot, their engines growling, dust kicked up, and their tires crunched gravel.
Not one of them stopped.
When the sound finally faded into the distance, the area settled into quiet again, broken only by the faint chatter and flickering firelight from the encampment ahead.
I let out the breath I'd been holding.
I couldn't stay here; it was too exposed, and the sun was only hours away. I also needed to check if this was the camp where they had taken Stark before daylight forced me into hiding.
I waited a few more minutes, then slowly crawled from my cover. Every movement sent a dull ache through my chest. I kept my body low, hugging the rock and shadow, inching toward the depression where the men had carried the supplies.
When I reached it, the terrain dipped sharply into a wider basin carved naturally between the cliffs. Fire pits glowed in scattered clusters. Terrorists moved between them, rifles slung over their shoulders, talking, smoking, cooking.
And there, framed by floodlights and shadows, was a massive cave entrance, ribbed with scaffolding and scrap metal.
The Ten Rings base.
Exactly like in the movie where Stark was held captive.
My stomach twisted.
I'd found him.
But that didn't solve anything.
I wasn't Captain America; I couldn't just storm an enemy base guns blazing.
I was a wounded soldier with a rifle and a Sith relic in my chest.
At that thought, the crystal pulsed slowly.
I ignored it.
The temperature dropped further as the night deepened, the cold biting through my sleeves. I pulled back from the camp before making a rash decision.
I moved up the slope, climbing until I reached a higher vantage point overlooking the entire basin. The climb drained me, my breath coming in uneven pulls, my ribs throbbing, and sweat chilling against my skin.
I found a narrow crevice between two boulders just big enough to crawl
into, sheltered from the wind, harder to spot, and with a clear line of sight toward the cave.
That would have to do.
I let my rucksack slide off my shoulders. The relief was immediate, but it quickly transformed into throbbing pain as my chest compressed without the weight.
Huddled inside the crevice, I pulled my jacket tight against the howling wind that whipped over the rocks. I took a small, controlled sip of water; my supplies were dwindling, too low for comfort.
With numb fingers, I retrieved my second-to-last
MRE and ate it cold.
Leaning back, I steadied my
mind and closed my eyes to open the Codex.
The world faded not physically, but mentally. The crystal wasn't just a book; it was a vast network of knowledge, runes, pulsing lines, and bio-mechanical diagrams, a living repository of violations against nature, waiting for me.
I focused on the technique I had used before, coagulation and tissue-binding. Crude, painful, but effective. To fix my lungs, I needed to delve deeper this time.
My breathing stilled as I pushed my awareness inward, into my own flesh.
My lungs lit up in a web of phantom pain. Multiple lacerations. Alveoli
ruptured. Bullet fragments still embedded in the walls of my
lungs.
Nausea crawled up my throat.
All that kept me alive was duct tape and dark magic, I thought.
I bit down on my jacket sleeve hard because what came next wasn't going to be quiet.
I focused on the bullets first.
The Codex offered a solution: breaking down foreign material, dissolving it at a molecular level by accelerating corrosive tissue reactions. Biochemical acid, powered by my own cells.
It should have been impossible.
And yet, somehow, I could do it now on command.
I targeted the metal fragments in my lungs.
Pain detonated.
White-hot and
crushing. Like something gnawing its way out of my chest from the inside.
I screamed into my jacket, muffling the sound as best as I could.
The fragments slowly dissolved and were reabsorbed into my bloodstream. I didn't know how this might affect me, but it was my only option.
Then came the real work.
I forced the torn tissue to knit properly this time, closing the ruptured alveoli, binding the lung wall cleanly, sealing micro-tears that made every breath hurt.
It wasn't easy or natural, and each stage was painful.
By the time I finished, I was shaking uncontrollably. Sweat dripped from my hair, and my entire body felt hollow, starved, and drained.
The Codex
dimmed, providing a fleeting sense of satisfaction before falling silent again.
I collapsed onto my side in the crevice, panting weakly.
But for the first time since the ambush…
…I could breathe without agony.
I swallowed hard, my vision blurring as exhaustion hit me like a truck.
"Thank God," I whispered, my voice breaking. "And... whatever the hell you are."
The crystal pulsed faintly once more.
I let my eyes close.
The next morning, I awoke to cold air brushing my face and a dull ache across my ribs, but nothing sharp, nothing tearing. I could breathe again without the constant pain.
It felt almost unreal.
I pushed myself upright, crawled to the edge of the crevice, and pulled out my binoculars. The camp below was stirring, fires were being stoked, guards were yawning, and men shuffled between crates. There weren't as many of them, maybe twenty outside and more hidden deeper in the cave.
I had expected more
I scanned the cave entrance again.
Movement.
A man stepped out, Middle Eastern, older, with a trimmed beard and glasses perched on his nose. Gray streaks ran through his hair. He carried a metal bowl of some kind, walking toward a shaded corner of the camp.
Even from a distance, I recognized him instantly.
Yinsen.
He didn't look exactly like the actor, but he was close enough that there was no mistaking it. Same posture. Same quiet focus. Same tired dignity.
He's my way in.
I needed to make contact.
I slid out of the crevice and moved downhill, staying low between the rocks. But the distance was daunting, at least a hundred meters of open terrain. I'd never reach him without being spotted.
Think.
I unslung my M4, flipped up the red dot sight, and steadied the rifle across a rock outcrop. My hands trembled slightly, but I controlled it.
Yinsen paused to adjust whatever he was carrying.
I exhaled.
Aimed at him, then flicked the red dot on.
It flashed in his eye.
He froze mid-step, his eyes widening behind his glasses.
Carefully, slowly, I moved the dot off him and onto a crate behind him—a crate with a faded American flag stenciled on the side.
On.
Off.
On.
Off.
A signal.
A message.
Come on, Yinsen, you're supposed to be smart...
Yinsen stared for two long seconds, then quickly crouched, scanning the area to ensure no guards had noticed.
He dropped to the ground and scribbled something in the dust with his finger before standing and walking back into the cave as naturally as he could.
I waited until he disappeared.
Then I edged down the slope, weaving between rocks until I was close enough to read the ground with my binoculars.
The letters were hurried but clear.
S ALIVE 12PM HERE
A slow smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.
Tony Stark was alive.
Well, at least the story hasn't changed...