Marvelous Meditations

Nathan Cross sat at the workbench in his safehouse, surrounded by the rhythmic hum of machines and the dim glow of LED strips lining the walls. The workshop was a sanctum of precision—sterile, organized, and filled with the scent of gun oil and freshly cut metal.

Half-assembled weapons, blueprints, and specialized tools littered the heavy steel table before him. His fingers worked methodically, piecing together the sniper rifle of his own design, a weapon engineered for absolute dominance.

It wasn't that he needed to build his own firearms—he had an entire division of some of the world's greatest minds at his disposal. Elihas Starr, Calvin Zabbo, Samuel Stern, and an entire herd of engineers under Maximus Security. If he wanted, he could have any weapon crafted to perfection at the push of a button. But this? This was different.

Assembling weapons by hand had always been a ritual, something to ground himself when standing on the precipice of something big. A moment of clarity before the storm.

Nathan's mind drifted back to his conversation with Maya Hansen.

She had been predictably combative at first—meticulous, argumentative, desperate to poke holes in his logic. She scrutinized every angle, trying to find a flaw, a weakness, some reason to dismiss him outright. But there was none.

The moment she realized that was the moment her composure cracked.

"You expect me to just—what? Hand you the Extremis formula and then go back to business as usual?" she had snapped, arms crossed in a poor attempt to mask her growing unease.

"Exactly," Nathan had replied, voice level, measured.

Maya had blinked, searching his expression for deception and finding none. "You're serious."

"As a heart attack." He had leaned back in his chair, regarding her with calm certainty. "You keep working with Killian. Keep playing your part. Make no changes to your behavior. But you will deliver the Extremis data to me, and after that, you let the pieces fall where they may."

Her fingers drummed against the table, her mind racing. "And what if I refuse?"

"Then you'll die with him," Nathan had said simply. No threats, no theatrics—just fact.

The weight of those words had settled over her like a noose. Maya was brilliant, but she wasn't naive. She could do the math. If Killian won, it would only be a matter of time before his paranoia led to her disposal. If he lost, well—Nathan would ensure that.

Either way, her fate was sealed unless she made the right choice.

She had inhaled sharply, looking away. "And if I help you?"

Nathan had smiled then, slow and knowing. "Then you get to see your work perfected. Because let's be honest, Hansen—you're good, but you're not Elihas Starr. You're not Calvin Zabbo. And you're sure as hell not Samuel Stern."

She had bristled at that, her ego flaring. "I created Extremis."

"You started it," Nathan corrected, tone casual but unyielding. "But those three? They'll finish it."

Maya had no retort for that. She knew it was true. That was the cruel irony—she was brilliant, but in the company of minds like theirs, she was merely the foundation, not the pinnacle.

After a long silence, she had sighed. "I'll do it."

"Smart."

Back in the present, Nathan locked the final component of his sniper rifle into place with a satisfying click, the metallic snap echoing through the dimly lit workshop. He ran his gloved fingers along the weapon's sleek frame, testing the weight, the balance—perfect.

Every part crafted with precision, every modification tailored to his exact needs. But his thoughts weren't on the rifle anymore.

A part of him knew what he had done to Maya Hansen wasn't fair. But this wasn't a fair world, and Hansen was no innocent victim.

In another life—on the movie screen—she had been willing to help Aldrich Killian abduct Pepper Potts just to force Tony Stark into perfecting the Extremis serum. She might have had a last-minute change of heart, but redemption meant little when the damage was already done. She hadn't saved anyone; she'd only managed to get herself killed.

Nathan had offered her a better deal. He was doing her a favor—despite his less-than-gentle methods.

And as for why he sent her back to Killian? That was the real play. He wasn't just after the Extremis serum. That would be short-sighted.

No, he wanted more.

If everything played out as it had before, then Stark would inevitably find himself trapped in a desperate situation—Pepper Potts infected with the unstable Extremis formula. And when that moment came, Stark wouldn't have time for trial and error. He would need a solution, fast.

Which was where Nathan came in.

By some convenient coincidence, he'd be there with the cure—courtesy of Stern, Starr, and the other scientists working under Maximus Security. And Tony Stark, for all his arrogance, wasn't the kind of man to ignore a debt of that magnitude.

Nathan needed Stark deep in his pocket, buried so far in obligation that when the time came, he wouldn't be able to say no to whatever Nathan asked.

That was why he'd sent Maya Hansen back into the lion's den. Why he had nudged her into subtly goading Killian into picking a fight with Iron Man.

It was why he hadn't handed Steve Rogers or SHIELD a neat little dossier exposing Killian as the mastermind behind the bombings.

No, that would have ruined everything. Instead, he fed them just enough breadcrumbs, just enough intel for them to reach the same conclusion as Stark—but not a second sooner than him.

Everything had to unfold exactly as he remembered.

In the end, it wasn't about hijacking Maya Hansen's life's work. It wasn't about forcing her into a corner, making her choose between survival and destruction.

No—what mattered, what truly defined the weight of his actions, was the fact that everything would play out exactly as it had before. The bombings would continue. More bodies would pile up. Innocent people would die.

And Nathan could stop it.

Right here. Right now.

But he chose not to.

It wasn't the right choice. It wasn't the choice a good man would make. But Nathan had long abandoned the illusion that he was anything close to good.

Morality had no place in the war he was waging.

All that mattered—all that had ever mattered—was finding the people responsible for Lily's death and making them pay. Truly pay.

He needed resources. He needed power. He needed leverage. And if letting a few dominos fall, letting a few lives be lost in the process, was the price for getting what he needed, then so be it.

He would carry that weight.

As for being someone worthy of Lily's sacrifice, someone better… that was a question for another time.

When the dust settled.

When justice had been served.

Maybe then, he would ask himself if there was still something left in him worth saving.

Maybe then, he would wonder if he could ever atone.

But right now?

What were a few more lives on his conscience when it was already drowning in the ones he personally ended, the ones he destroyed?

Nathan exhaled slowly, letting the question go unanswered as he set down the rifle with a quiet clink against the workbench. It was some of his best craftsmanship—sleek, balanced, every part tuned to perfection. But it would continue to gather dust here, another weapon without a battlefield, another tool without a purpose.

With a quiet sigh, he pushed away from the bench, rolling his shoulders. He was just about to leave when—

Footsteps.

Soft, deliberate. Controlled.

His body went still, every muscle tightening like a coiled spring. His wrist flicked, and in an instant, an energy pistol snapped into his palm, humming with quiet lethality. He turned swiftly, leveling the weapon—

And then he stopped.

The figure before him was unmistakable.

Tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a long black tactical coat that draped over a combat-ready ensemble of armored plates and reinforced leather. A chest harness crisscrossed over his torso, lined with silver stakes, vials of unknown liquid, and other instruments of war.

His arms were bare beneath the coat, revealing muscled forearms etched with faint scars. A sword was sheathed across his back, the hilt resting just above his right shoulder, and on his belt, a custom-made pistol gleamed under the workshop's dim light.

But it was the eyes that held Nathan's attention.

Dark, intense, radiating a predator's patience and something deeper—something ancient.

It took Nathan less than a second to recognize who was standing before him. Another second to figure out why.

He lowered the gun, offering a wry smirk. "I'm guessing this is about a vampire in a warehouse?"

Blade raised an eyebrow, his posture remaining rigid, unreadable. "You're quick on the uptake." His voice was low, rough—gravel scraped over steel. He studied Nathan for a moment, head tilting slightly. "Too quick." His fingers flexed near his holster. "Do you know me?"

Nathan chuckled, sliding the pistol back into its concealed slot beneath his sleeve. "Blade. The Vampire Hunter. The Dhampir. The Daywalker." He made a lazy gesture. "Yeah, I know about you. Hard not to." His smirk widened. "You're an interesting guy. And I like to keep tabs on interesting people."

Blade let out a low hum, crossing his arms. "Normally, I'd ask if I should be flattered or suspicious," he said, his voice carrying a dry edge, "but for now, I'll cut to the chase." His expression darkened as he fixed Nathan with a scrutinizing stare. "Baron Blood. What's your beef with him?"

Nathan exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly. "That was the first time I'd ever met him," he admitted. "Prior to tonight, I'd never even heard of the guy." He paused, considering his next words. "But… I might be able to make an educated guess as to why he was targeting me."

Blade gave a slow nod. "Let's hear it."

Nathan leaned back against the workbench, arms crossing as he chose his words carefully. "Baron Blood is probably working with Hydra."

Blade's expression didn't change, but his posture shifted ever so slightly—just enough for someone as observant as Nathan to notice.

"I've been making things difficult for them," Nathan continued. "Lately, I got my hands on something they're very interested in. So, they figured, why not kill two birds with one stone? Get rid of me and recover whatever they lost in one move." He smirked, shaking his head. "Unfortunately for them, they failed."

Blade remained silent for a moment, absorbing the information. His brow furrowed slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. Then, finally—

"Hydra? As in the--" he asked, his tone laced with skepticism.

Nathan could already see where this was going.

Before Blade could finish his sentence, Nathan held up a hand, cutting him off. "Yes, Hydra. The very same death cult from World War II that the U.S. government allegedly eradicated." He let out a dry chuckle. "And no, they didn't do a good job of it. Hydra is still alive and kicking—arguably more powerful than ever."

Blade shot him a bemused look, one brow quirking up. "Do you read minds?"

Nathan sighed, shaking his head wearily. "No," he muttered, "but everyone tends to react the same way. And trust me—it gets old quickly."

Blade's frown deepened, his arms crossing tighter over his chest. "Whatever the case may be… if what you're saying is true, and Baron Blood is working with a modern-day Hydra—" his voice dropped, a grim edge sharpening his words, "—then we've got a real problem."

Nathan arched a brow, studying him. "And why is that? Baron Blood is barely worth his salt. Strong and fast, sure, but he's reckless, arrogant… not exactly someone to lose sleep over."

Blade's jaw tightened, and he exhaled through his nose. "It's not him that concerns me," he said, voice lower now, weighted. "It's the fact that he—and others like him—have been on the move. Meeting in secret, gathering in numbers that don't sit right. And not just with each other. I'm talking politicians, people with real power, all over the world."

Nathan sighed, rolling his shoulders before rubbing at his forehead. "Great," he muttered. "And here I was thinking my day was going well. Now I have to worry about some damn vampire coven getting into bed with Hydra. Thanks a bunch."

Blade let out a low, bitter chuckle, shaking his head. "Welcome to my world."

...

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