Hell???

The Desert, Barren Land

If there's a single place on Earth's where hell feels real, it's here, in the desolate stretches of the Yichu Desert. It isn't merely the poverty; economic struggle alone doesn't explain the way this place has been abandoned. It's the long history of neglect, the decades of lawlessness that have turned this region into a forgotten corner of the world. Here, even the gods seem to have turned their backs.

This neglect has made it the perfect breeding ground for the desperate and the lawless, and in the shadows of its cracked rock formations and dunes, criminal organizations thrive. The most infamous of all, the "Religious Order," has buried its roots deep here. Known for its ruthless attacks and unwavering control over its members, this organization has become synonymous with terror, feared even by hardened criminals.

Today, a group of soldiers from the Order marches into a small desert town. Their presence alone is enough to empty the streets; no one dares to be seen by these men. The locals lock their doors and peer through narrow cracks, praying they go unnoticed.

A small group of soldiers, guns slung across their backs and laughter spilling from their mouths, drag a woman from her house. She's a rare beauty in this barren world, usually covered in layers of scarves whenever she goes outside. But even her attempts at blending in aren't enough. She's always known her time would come, and now, after years of hiding, she's been found.

Her husband stumbles out of their small, weather-beaten house, fear and desperation in his eyes as he grabs hold of his wife. A soldier steps forward and sends him sprawling to the ground with a swift, brutal punch. The woman cries out, struggling against the soldiers' iron grip. Her husband, blood trickling down his chin, pulls himself up and lunges at them again. This time, one of the soldiers raises his rifle and strikes him square in the jaw. He collapses, spitting blood, three front teeth landing in the sand at his feet.

One of the soldiers lets out a cruel laugh and pins the man down, shoving the barrel of his gun against his head.

From the ground, the woman turns, her tear-filled eyes catching a glimpse of a small, frightened face peeking through the cracked door of her home. Their six-year-old son stands frozen, wide-eyed, watching his father about to be executed.

The rest of the town looks on in silence, watching through slits in their doors and windows, paralyzed by fear. No one dares to make a sound. The only noises filling the air are the soldiers' jeers, the woman's sobs, and the ominous click as the soldier cocks his gun.

This is a place so forgotten that no prayer would ever be heard here.

But today, things would be different.

A sudden, powerful roar cuts through the silence, filling the air with a deafening hum. In an instant, a streak of red and gold plummets from the sky, descending like a falling star. A cyclone of dust and sand explodes as it lands, sending the soldiers sprawling to the ground.

Every gaze locks onto the scene unfolding in the center of the street. Behind their curtains, the townspeople stare, hardly daring to breathe as hope flickers to life in their weary hearts.

Iron Man stands tall in the clearing, his suit gleaming under the harsh desert sun, casting a red-and-gold glow across the soldiers. With a precise flick of his arm, he raises his palm, and in a burst of white-hot energy, the repulsor fires. The soldier pinning the husband down takes the full impact, his body flung backward like a ragdoll, smoldering as it flies through the air.

Without hesitation, Iron Man steps forward. His movements are fluid, mechanical yet human, as he punches one soldier and drives his elbow into another. A crack echoes through the air as one soldier slams into a wall, leaving a bloody smear, while the other rockets into the sky, disappearing as he's launched out of sight.

The townspeople look on, their faces a mixture of shock and awe. News doesn't reach them often; most here spend their entire lives in this tiny, isolated town. They don't know who Iron Man is, or what he represents. To them, he's a vision, a deity, an answer to every unheard prayer. Some of them stumble from their homes, falling to their knees, hands clasped in reverence as they whisper their thanks.

The soldiers, however, know exactly who they're up against. The last remaining soldier turns, stumbling as he tries to make a run for it. Gripping his radio, he shouts, "It's Iron Man! Can anyone hear me? Iron Man's here, he's…"

Before he can finish, another repulsor blast hits him square in the back. A charred hole appears in his chest as he drops, lifeless, to the ground.

Iron Man strides over to the fallen radio, grinding it into the dirt under his boot. "It's not Iron Man coming…"

His voice is calm, with a chilling edge. "It's your end."

But if these soldiers think they're unlucky, their comrades back at base are about to discover what true devastation feels like.

Just moments ago, the Iron Legion descended on the base.

A line of Iron Man suits streaks across the sky, a wave of fire cutting through the heavens. The soldiers stationed there are caught completely off guard. Their radar shows nothing, and by the time they notice the deafening roar overhead, it's already too late.

The first explosion rocks the base, tearing through the perimeter as flames leap into the air. Steel and concrete crumble like sand, tanks rupture as they're blasted apart, and alarms scream as chaos takes hold. Militants scatter, shouting orders, grabbing their weapons, but it's hopeless. They're overrun before they even realize they're under attack.

The Iron Legion divides into teams, each unit carrying out its specific mission. One team systematically obliterates anti-aircraft defenses, while another clears out the base's ground forces. A third team pushes deeper into the compound, making its way toward the hostages.

Every move is meticulously coordinated. The layout of the base has been mapped down to the last detail, and each Iron Man suit knows exactly where to go. The chain of command falls apart within moments, and before anyone can recover, a team has already reached the holding cells.

A heavy steel door groans as it's wrenched open, and from inside, panicked screams ring out. Huddled in the corner of a dark, foul-smelling room, the hostages—mostly women, bruised and exhausted—clutch each other, eyes wide with fear as they stare at the intruder.

The door frame glows faintly, the arc reactor casting a gentle, blue light across the room. Standing there is an Iron Man suit, its chest emblazoned with the Avengers emblem. A calm, synthetic voice filters through the speakers, gentle yet firm.

"Don't worry, ladies," it says. "We're the Steel Rescue Team, Unit 001. You're safe now."