A Detective's Instinct
(No chaps in the past 2 days so 6 chaps today plus an extra chap... just because)
Charlie selected the sleek Mark 40 armor from the interface, his finger hovering over the attack button for a brief second before pressing it. Almost immediately, the screen came alive with the image of Tony Stark striding toward the launch pad in the center of his state-of-the-art laboratory.
Around the launch pad, the floor split apart with a quiet mechanical hiss, revealing a series of complex robotic arms that began to emerge from the depths below. These arms moved with precision, carrying with them individual pieces of the armor that would soon transform Stark into the invincible Iron Man. Each arm held a specific piece, designed to fit together seamlessly with the others. The process was almost surgical in its precision.
As the surrounding mechanical arms began to move with synchronized efficiency, the suit slowly came together. The first piece—the chest plate—was secured around Stark's torso, clamping into place with a satisfying click. More pieces followed: the shoulder guards, the arm plates, the leg armor, each part locking in smoothly. Every screw tightened at the joints, and the interlocking pieces connected like the inner workings of a finely tuned machine. The assembly was not just functional, but beautiful, a delicate dance of technology and precision.
Finally, the visor of the helmet descended over Stark's face, the sleek helmet snapping shut with a finality that sent a shiver of excitement through Charlie. In a matter of moments, Tony Stark had disappeared, replaced by Iron Man—the Mark 40, the embodiment of cutting-edge technology and sheer power.
This suit was unlike Stark's classic red-and-gold armor. The Mark 40, known as the "Shotgun," was a striking combination of blue and silver. The design was streamlined for speed, a far cry from the more combat-heavy models of later years. At this point in his technological evolution, Stark hadn't yet reached the level of mastery over nanotechnology or achieved the fluid, rapid assembly of the Mark 42. This was still the era of manual, mechanical assembly, where every piece came together with a satisfying sense of weight and purpose.
Many fans of the Iron Man series believed that, despite the immense power and versatility of Stark's later armors, the older models had a certain charm—something that had been lost as the technology advanced. There was a ritualistic quality to watching Tony Stark suit up in the earlier movies, the process long and deliberate, building up the anticipation for the action to come. It was as if the armor was more than just a tool—it was a symbol, a transformation that took time and effort, a testament to Stark's genius and human perseverance.
"The system self-test is complete. Iron Man, Mark Forty, is ready," came Friday's soft, professional voice, breaking the silence of the lab.
"Plotting the flight route to Grace City," she continued, her tone calm and efficient, as always.
Above, the dome of Stark's lab split open, the cool night air rushing in. Beneath the Mark 40 armor, the thrusters ignited with a brilliant blue flame. The powerful jet engines roared to life, lifting the gleaming silver-blue figure of Iron Man into the air with a smooth, controlled ascent.
The transition from the cold, hard floor of the lab to the open skies was almost instantaneous. The armor rocketed upward, breaking through the Riverton skyline like a shooting star. In mere moments, Iron Man breached the sound barrier, leaving behind a white shockwave that rippled through the clouds. The air itself seemed to shimmer in his wake, as if the very atmosphere was bending to the will of Stark's technology.
The Mark 40 wasn't just any Iron Man suit. It was one of Stark's fastest creations, built for speed and agility, and capable of reaching Mach 5 in a matter of seconds. The sonic boom that echoed in the night sky was proof of its incredible power. As Iron Man streaked across the sky like a comet, his speed pushed the very limits of what conventional jet fighters could achieve. Even the most advanced fighter jets topped out at Mach 3—yet here was a single man, inside an exoskeleton, leaving them in the dust.
The distance between Riverton and Grace City was relatively short for someone like Iron Man. With the Mark 40's blistering speed, it would take mere minutes to cover the ground between the two cities. But Charlie wasn't idle as he waited for his teammates to assemble.
With a flick of his wrist, he switched to the perspective of Batwoman—Cassandra. She was already on the ground in Grace City, moving through the shadows like a ghost, gathering information, and preparing for the mission ahead. From her vantage point, Charlie could see the target: Director Linton.
Linton sat in the headquarters of the Grace City Federal Bureau of Investigation, his office heavily guarded by layers of armed security. The building itself was a monolith of bureaucracy, standing six stories high with the bold letters "Grace City FBI" glowing on the rooftop in neon light. The letters were bright, but in the context of a city like Grace—where killers and criminals ruled the night—the sight was almost ironic. A beacon of justice in a city long lost to chaos.
But the tide was turning.
Linton had brought with him a new wave of hope, the kind Grace City hadn't seen in years. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the people believed that things could change. Unlike the corrupt, self-serving officials who had come before him, Linton was different. He was young, determined, and unafraid of challenging the darkness that had long plagued the city. Under his leadership, the support of the citizens had skyrocketed. They saw in him the potential to be Grace City's hero.
But that potential came with a target.
For two days, the city had been on edge after receiving a public threat from Black Sun, the legendary assassin. It was unheard of—an assassin publicly announcing his intention to kill someone, especially someone as high-profile as the Director of the FBI. Assassins, by their very nature, operated in the shadows. Yet Black Sun had broken all the rules, brazenly declaring his intent to murder Linton at a specific time and place.
The audacity of the threat had sent shockwaves through the city. Grace City, already teetering on the brink of collapse, was thrust into a new level of tension. The FBI had fortified itself in response. Guards armed with live ammunition patrolled every corner, checkpoints had been set up at every entrance, and every person who entered or exited the building was scrutinized with meticulous detail. Even the janitorial staff had been sent home, deemed too much of a risk in such dangerous times.
There were whispers among some that these extreme measures were overkill—that no assassin, no matter how skilled, could possibly get through such a fortress. But most knew better. Black Sun wasn't just any assassin. His name carried the weight of legend, and legends deserved this kind of respect.
Inside his office, Director Linton stood in front of the coffee machine, the dark, steaming liquid pouring into his cup. But his mind was elsewhere. His thoughts drifted back to the last time his life had been in danger—the night when a mysterious girl had appeared from the shadows to save him.
The memory played in his mind like a vivid dream. She had moved with such fluidity, such grace. It was as if she had melted into the darkness, becoming one with the night. Her skills were beyond anything he had ever seen—beyond martial arts, beyond anything human. Every movement was precise, lethal, and yet, oddly beautiful. She was an artist of combat, and he, an unwilling spectator, had been left in awe.
She had only been with him for less than a minute, yet in that brief time, she had imprinted herself into his mind. Her face was concealed beneath a mask, her entire body hidden beneath her sleek, black suit. But despite that, Linton was certain—somehow, he knew—she was beautiful.
There was no logic to it, no evidence. Just a feeling. A detective's instinct.
He couldn't stop wondering about her. Where was she now? What was she doing? Was she even an adult? She had seemed so small, so young...
[TL Note - Pause... WTF!!!]
"Director? Your coffee..." a voice interrupted his thoughts, pulling him back to the present.
Linton blinked, realizing that he had been absentmindedly holding down the coffee machine's button for too long. The coffee had overflowed from the cup, spilling across the counter and dripping onto his shoes. The sharp, bitter scent filled the air.
The voice belonged to a young security officer, Zena. She had a soft, heart-shaped face, the kind that made people do a double-take when they saw her. She was easy on the eyes, but what Linton admired most about her wasn't her looks—it was her unshakable sense of justice. She was fresh, new to the FBI, but she had the fire that many in this city had long lost.
"Are you alright, Director?" Zena asked, concern evident in her tone.
"I'm fine," Linton replied, his voice curt as he took a sip of the coffee he had so clumsily overfilled. Zena quickly handed him a tissue, her delicate fingers brushing against his as she offered it.
"You've been working nonstop," she said, her voice gentle yet worried. "You haven't eaten all day. Would you like me to get something for you?"
"No need," Linton replied, his tone firm as he wiped the spilled coffee. "This is no time for that. We're in a critical period. Get back to your post."
"Yes, sir," she said, though she hesitated for a moment before speaking again.
"But, Director, you should take care of yourself too. The security here is tighter than ever before. Even Black Sun can't get through this. No one can."
Linton didn't respond immediately, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he simply said, "Back to work, Officer."
"Yes sir," she replied, though the worry in her eyes didn't fade as she walked away.
Security was tight, yes. But Linton knew better. No one else understood the gravity of the situation as he did. Black Sun wasn't bound by the rules of the ordinary world. The FBI might have prepared for an attack, but they weren't prepared for someone like him.
As Linton returned to his desk, the coffee cup still in his hand, his thoughts once again drifted to the girl who had saved him.
Where was she now?
Unbeknownst to him, Cassandra crouched silently in the ventilation duct above his head, watching him carefully from the shadows.
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[TL note - Is it just me, or is Linton a P-word]