War Machine From Iron Man Novels & Stories

he said, making his eyes go red. His red eyes remind me of Roman eyes, he still had the most beautiful eyes that I have not seen in any alpha. But I had to kill those thoughts, my focus was on fighting Dante and when he signals, I rush over to him. In his wolf form, Dante was fast and quick, he was blocking all my attacks and I was blocking him. "Do you still think I am rusty?" He questioned when he gave a break for rest. "I still feel you are rusty but good," I replied.

She widens her eyes, staring at him in disbelief. "Hey, you are not going to be by my side and dress like that on my first day of..." "I am only this far away," he holds out his middle and forefinger, leaving a very small gap between them, "from going insane. Lord help me if I should be involved in your perfectionist behavior before you get used to your new rank. And you are forgetting I am a Warrior whose job is to train other warriors? This is normal dress code for me and what I do. If you only want to wear starched and ironed clothes, that is your problem. I prefer to breath."

Moriah was gazing at his reflection. His tight black armor was made from iron, the breastplate was lined with transmuted thin craft of gold, the symbol of his army Wolf was carved in the left side of the plate. He saw his gesture in the mirror, as cold as always, two piercing and cruel eyes, small stubble around his chin. He blinked, slightly wondering why he was looking at himself, it was unlike of him. It was also a big day for him.

He asked as he aimed his rifle directly at me. He was about six foot eight inches and looked quite muscular considering his age which I could tell was ranging between sixty five to seventy. In spite of the angry sorrowful look he had on his face, from those dreamy eyes I could see the kindness hidden away. Susan had told me countlessly of how amazing her Steve was and I didn’t need to be told that the handsome man at my front was Susan’s Steve. He was at least fifteen years older than Susan but that had never affected their love. They remained a happy family blessed with five children... until now.

Dack called down to Tim from the gunner’s turret as they rode. “Tons, can’t you tell?” Tim answered before returning his attention to his supplies. Dack grinned and resumed scanning their surroundings carefully as the platoon made its rounds. As the group’s medic, Tim usually had the back of the MaxxPro MRAP ambulance to himself while the patrol convoy was in motion. He only occasionally had to step out while route clearance was underway in case someone got injured as they swept for landmines and IEDs. Everything he’d imagined about this place was spot on, including the ever-present sense of foreboding that had seized up his gut on their first patrol and had never let go.

They were real humans, and they were armed. As the men burst through the door, Russe transformed to his werewolf form and swung his claws, deflecting their blows with ease. He fought valiantly, but he was outnumbered. One of the men landed a blow on Russe’s shoulder, causing him to wince in pain. But just as Russe was about to be overwhelmed, he heard the howling sounds approaching. A group of werewolves appeared, armed with long, sharp claws. They charged towards the men, cutting them down with ease.

The man was 2 meters tall and his finely big muscled body told them about the origin of a warrior this man had. “Greetings, foreign god… I am Mars, the god of war.” Said the man who introduced himself as Mars, The Roman God Of War. The man's tall body stood straight, black jeans and black leather boots, his body was protected by an armor that looked like a muscle that the old Greek warrior would wear when they were going to war. The armor looks like it was made from bronze, but Zhu Wushang was sure that it was not that simple. The armor is covered with a red and black long leather coat.

"He’s building an army of iron. And he's marching them to the mountain." The silence in the Deep Warren was absolute, thick with the terrifying realization that their makeshift barricades and wooden staves were about to face an industrialized, mutated war machine. Baraka looked at his own scarred, unarmored hands, the violet sparks flickering in the dim light. The line in the sand had been drawn, but Malik was bringing a tidal wave of steel to wash it away.

He needed the shot to trigger the shunt if the wheel jammed. Suddenly, the grating at the foot of the shaft buckled. A heavy, iron-plated hand punched through the floorboards, followed by the glowing red sensor-eye of a Rust-Walker Scout. Its exoskeleton was hissing, the hydraulic fluid boiling in the heat of the lower vents. "Target... Identified," the machine-man croaked, the voice distorted by the localized magnetic interference of the mountain. "Thorne... Termination... Authorized." The Steam-War Julian threw his weight into the wheel. It groaned, a century of rust protesting the movement. One inch. Two.

Their metal sides were reinforced with thick plates, and mounted on top of each one was a massive rotating weapon. Not crossbows. Cannons. Long silver barrels gleaming under the harsh lights. My breath left my lungs. “What… is that?” Darius stared in horror. “Silver artillery.” The wolves backed away instinctively. Even the Alphas hesitated. The hunter leader gestured toward the massive machines proudly. “You destroyed the first wave.” His eyes returned to me. “But these…” He tapped the side of one of the cannons. “…are for ending wars.” Adrian’s wolf growled so deeply the ground seemed to vibrate beneath him.