Marvelous Meditations

The Foreigner's kicks came in relentless succession, each one a brutal hammer against Nathan's battered body. His ribs felt like splintered glass, and his lungs burned with every ragged breath. Life was slipping away, inch by inch, yet his mind remained sharp, focused. His eyes scanned the chaotic landscape through the haze of pain and blurred vision, searching desperately for anything he could use.

There—just within reach—a clump of something dark and solid. He couldn't make it out fully, but he hoped it was a rock. With the next kick, Nathan let the momentum carry him, rolling toward the object and subtly closing his fingers around it. His palm closed over a rough, irregular surface. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.

As he rolled onto his back, a fresh wave of pain shot through his chest, forcing a hacking cough that spat a thick glob of blood onto the ground. Despite the agony, a sardonic grin split his bloody lips as he glared up at the Foreigner.

"You still hit like a bitch," he rasped, his voice hoarse but laced with defiance.

The Foreigner's face darkened with fury, his jaw tightening. He raised the Muramasa blade, his expression promising another punishing blow. But before he could act, Nathan moved. With a quick flick of his wrist, he hurled the clump toward the Foreigner's face.

Expecting the attack, the Foreigner raised the Muramasa blade to intercept, the edge slicing cleanly through the object. But as the clump shattered, its outer shell disintegrated into a spray of dirt and fine gravel. The tiny particles exploded outward, some of them catching in the Foreigner's eyes.

He grunted, a sound of discomfort, as he instinctively closed his eyelids against the stinging debris. Blinded, even for a moment, the Foreigner faltered.

Nathan seized the opportunity. Despite the searing pain in his ribs and the sharp protest from his injured organs, he let out a guttural roar, forcing his battered body into motion. He lunged forward, his hands outstretched, and crashed into the Foreigner's ankles with all the force he could muster.

The Foreigner stumbled, his balance compromised. His body twisted as he fell, the Muramasa blade slipping from his grasp and clattering to the ground. The two hit the ground in a tangle of limbs. Nathan's breath came in heaving gasps, but his grip on the Foreigner didn't waver. Adrenaline surged through him, momentarily dulling the pain. He had one chance to turn the tide, and he wasn't about to let it slip away.

The Foreginer's head seemed to hit something solid as evidenced by the loud thud, and although the impact wasn't enough to knock him out or kill him, it was enough to make him drop the Muramasa blade and gasp for breath.

Despite being on the receiving end of a brutal beating, Nathan's mind had been working, assessing every detail since the fight began. Each kick that landed was a data point, each blow an opportunity to learn. As the Foreigner's foot slammed into his ribs, Nathan had noted something crucial: the kicks, while vicious, lacked the lethal force that the Foreigner's arms delivered.

If his legs were as strong as his arms, Nathan would've been dead by the second strike. This meant one thing—his legs were vulnerable.

Pushing through the agony, Nathan surged forward, his hand scrabbling across the ground until his fingers closed around another jagged rock. Without hesitation, he swung it down with all his strength, smashing it against the Foreigner's knee. The impact was brutal, and the Foreigner's scream of pain echoed across the battlefield, a raw sound that signaled a crack in his otherwise composed exterior.

He won't be getting up anytime soon.

Nathan gritted his teeth, every movement a fresh wave of agony through his battered body. But he forced himself onward, straddling the Foreigner. His bloodied face contorted into a grimace, a mixture of a scowl and a wince as he wrapped his hands around the Foreigner's neck.

He'd observed something else: the Foreigner was meticulous about protecting his head and neck, often at the expense of his arms. This, too, was a vulnerability Nathan could exploit.

His fingers tightened around the Foreigner's neck, squeezing with every ounce of strength he had left. The Foreigner thrashed beneath him, his arms flailing as he struggled against Nathan's iron grip. His hand stretched out, desperately reaching for the Muramasa blade, but it lay just out of reach, the deadly weapon gleaming in the dirt.

However, even without the Muramasa blade in hand, the Foreigner's reinforced arms were lethal weapons in their own right. His right fist clenched tightly, the muscles in his arm bulging with raw power as he drove it into Nathan's side.

The impact was bone-jarring, like being hit by a runaway truck, and Nathan's ribs groaned under the force. He threw his head back, a raw scream of pain escaping his lips, but his grip on the Foreigner's neck didn't waver. Not even as a second, then a third punishing blow crashed into his side, each one threatening to break him entirely.

Nathan knew he couldn't keep this up. His body was screaming for relief, his vision blurred with tears of pain, but his mind was focused, sharp. With a grim determination, he shifted his weight, leaning his entire body on one arm to keep it wrapped around the Foreigner's windpipe. His other hand shot free, fist clenched, his index and middled finger's knuckles jutting out just enough to maximize the damage.

The first punch flew with brutal precision, slamming into the Foreigner's right eye socket. The impact was devastating, Nathan's jutting knuckles driving into the soft tissue of his eyes, while the others crushed the bridge of the Foreigner's nose in the process.

Blood spurted from the wound, splattering across both men as the Foreigner let out a guttural scream, his body convulsing beneath Nathan.

Even as the Foreigner's punches continued, they began to falter, the strength behind them waning. Nathan felt the shift, sensed the diminishing force, but he didn't let up.

His second punch came down hard, dislocating the Foreigner's jaw with a sickening crunch. The third strike shattered what remained of his already broken nose, sending more blood cascading down his face.

Nathan's fists were relentless, each blow delivered with calculated fury, targeting the most vulnerable spots, the places that would cause the most pain and damage. The Foreigner's resistance weakened with each hit until, finally, his body went slack beneath Nathan's weight.

But Nathan wasn't done.

With a primal roar, he grabbed the Foreigner's head with both hands, his fingers digging into blood-soaked hair. He lifted it slightly before slamming it down with all his remaining strength against the hard, unforgiving surface beneath them. The sickening crack echoed through the air as the back of the Foreigner's skull met the solid ground.

Nathan repeated the motion, again and again, his own breath coming in ragged gasps, his vision clouded by pain and fury. Only when he felt the final, unmistakable stillness in the Foreigner's body did he stop. The pool of blood beneath the Foreigner's head expanded, dark and viscous, soaking into the dirt.

Panting heavily, Nathan released his grip, his hands trembling as he pushed himself back. The adrenaline that had fueled his desperate assault began to ebb, leaving him drained and weak. His body crumpled, collapsing onto his back beside the Foreigner's lifeless form. Each breath came with a stab of pain, but it was the sight beside him that seized his attention.

Nathan's eyes widened as he watched the Foreigner's body begin to shift. The transformation was grotesque and surreal, the once pale, slick-haired man's features morphing into those of a bald, dark-skinned man. His hands, once human, shimmered and shifted, the flesh peeling away to reveal metallic green beneath.

'A body double,' Nathan thought, a bitter realization sinking in. The superhuman strength, the resilience—it all made sense now. This was a cleverly disguised proxy, a cybernetically enhanced mercenary. Nathan tried to curse, but his body betrayed him, the only sound a wet, gurgling cough as more blood spilled from his lips.

Distant screams pierced the haze of pain, sharp and urgent. "Get the Chitauri stims!" The cry echoed, and Nathan felt the weight of his injuries pressing him deeper into the ground. His vision swam, a blur of chaos and desperation, until a familiar face swam into focus above him.

Silvija.

Her silver hair, streaked with grime and blood, cascaded around her face as she leaned over him. Her expression was a mix of concern and fierce determination. Nathan felt the sharp sting of needles piercing his skin, multiple injections delivering a burning itch followed by a wave of relief. The pain dulled, his breathing eased, but his mind remained alert, driven by a lingering sense of danger.

He struggled to lift a trembling hand, pointing weakly toward the sky. Silvija followed his gesture, her gaze lifting to the heavens, and her expression darkened.

A missile, sleek and deadly, cut through the air, its trajectory unmistakable—straight toward them.

"Shit," Silvija muttered, her voice a tense whisper of disbelief. Time seemed to slow, the impending doom casting a shadow over the battlefield.

Nathan's vision blurred further, the world around him dimming. The last thing he saw before everything faded to black was a figure—human, yet not—racing through the sky. Massive wings, like those of a bird of prey, jutted from the man's back, carrying him at an impossible speed toward the missile, as if to intercept it.

And then, there was nothing but darkness.

...

Although the battle was won, Silvija couldn't shake the weight of the losses her men had suffered. Casualties littered the field, and Nathan had barely clung to life, surviving by the narrowest of margins. But the most damning blow was the realization that they had been led astray, expertly manipulated into chasing a phantom.

They had killed a mere body double, and The Foreigner was nowhere to be seen. And now, a missile, ominously large and unmistakably deadly, was streaking toward them, poised to obliterate the small town and everyone in it.

Silvija's heart pounded in her chest, dread seeping into her bones. The missile was too large, too quick. If it hit, it would level the entire area, wiping away the remnants of the battle and leaving nothing but ash and ruin. Just as despair began to settle over her like a suffocating blanket, a figure tore through the night sky.

A man, his blonde hair catching the faint glimmers of moonlight, soared with massive white wings that beat against the wind with a gleaming metallic sheen. His descent was rapid and precise, each powerful stroke of his wings driving him toward the missile with bullet-like speed. His arms wrapped around the missile's sleek body, and for a moment, Silvija held her breath as he struggled against its momentum. The sky seemed to shudder with their battle.

With a Herculean effort, the winged man spun in midair, redirecting the missile's trajectory. He hurled it far into the distance, the missile arcing away from the town before detonating in a fiery explosion that lit up the horizon. The blast was still potent enough to topple weathered buildings and flip over cars on the town's outskirts, but the catastrophic damage was averted.

As the dust settled, the winged man descended gracefully, landing with an air of weary triumph. Silvija recognized him immediately—Warren Worthington III, better known as Archangel. His wings, both a blessing and a curse, had once been a symbol of purity, but now bore the harsh, metallic edge of transformation.

Before Silvija could speak, a voice cut through the tense silence. "Good work, bub. Did you find the kids?"

Wolverine, battle-worn and bleeding but still standing, approached Warren. His usual gruff demeanor was tempered by genuine concern, his eyes narrowing as he awaited the response.

Before Warren could reply, the night sky was illuminated by a massive projection. The Foreigner's face appeared, his expression one of twisted satisfaction. His voice, calm yet dripping with malice, reverberated across the town.

"Ah, what a spectacle. Truly, your resilience is commendable. But, as beautiful as my plan was, your defiance truly knows no limits. The missile was supposed to ensure none of you would leave this place alive, not even Wolverine, thanks to the Muramasa curse wielded by Bushmaster..." He paused as if remembering something, "And yes, that dead fellow is Bushmaster, a rather handsome disguise, wouldn't you say?"

The Foreigner's grin widened, a sinister gleam in his eyes. "Anyway, it seems you lot are intent on making my life needlessly complicated for no reason. Surviving the encirclement, foiling the missile— I gotta say, that impressive, but very much futile..."

The projection shifted, revealing a sedated boy, his small frame slumped in a chair. His eyes were half-lidded, the drugs keeping him compliant, his young face devoid of emotion.

"You might be wondering how Bushmaster looked so convincingly like me," the Foreigner continued, his tone almost conversational. "Meet the key to that little trick—say hello, boy."

He lifted the boy's limp hand, waving it mockingly at the camera.

"This is Daniel, his mutant power of duisguise being the reason for our success thus far. If he makes it out of this, he should seriously consider a career as a makeup artist in Holywood or something." He let go of the child's hands and turned to face the camera. "But since you've ruined both my A and B plans, I'll have to revert to plan C, and now, Daniel's future prospects depend entirely on your choices."

The Foreigner's smile faded, replaced by cold, calculated menace. "You have 24 hours to bring me Wolverine and the Muramasa blade, or the boy dies. Consider this your only warning."

The projection flickered out, leaving the town in darkness once more. Silence fell, the weight of the ultimatum pressing down on Silvija and her team. The countdown had begun.

...

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