We must save him!
The man with the ID " Iron Armor Steel Fist " is a physically imposing former wrestler in real life. He slams his fist on the table, clearly agitated.
"This is a trap!"
One of the more rational members warned.
So what if it's a trap?
Iron Armor Steel Fist's eyes turned red.
"Are we just going to stand by and watch our fellow suffer? What was the original purpose of our Mutual Aid Society? It was to prevent another like us from happening again!"
His words ignited the fighting spirit of all the radical members.
They were fed up with hiding, fed up with fear.
They desperately need a victory, even just a successful rescue, to prove their worth.
Half an hour later, an "elite rescue team" consisting of twelve Metahuman was assembled.
They wore tattered tactical vests and carried all sorts of strange weapons.
With an expression that was a mixture of tragedy and fervor on his face, he rushed into the night.
The industrial ruins, under the moonlight, resembled a graveyard of prehistoric behemoths.
The cold wind howled like a ghost as it swept through the hollowed-out factory building.
" Iron Armor Steel Fist " and his team carefully navigated this graveyard of steel and concrete.
Their abilities varied; some could temporarily harden their skin, others could throw small fireballs, but at this moment, they had all pushed their senses to the limit.
They anticipated encountering Vought's security forces, and anticipated the presence of surveillance cameras and traps everywhere.
But they encountered nothing.
According to intelligence, the center of the strongest energy reaction is the largest abandoned smelting plant.
They broke down the Rust iron gate and rushed inside.
Then, everyone froze on the spot.
There are no cages, no experimental tables, and no wailing victims here.
They were greeted by a bizarre yet magnificent art exhibition.
The bent steel bars were shaped into kneeling, praying figures, casting long shadows in the light as they entered.
"What... what kind of place is this?"
One of the team members' voices was trembling.
This isn't the "rescue script" they have in mind.
They continued deeper into the temple and eventually reached its center.
It was a statue of the Weeping Madonna.
Just as they were speechless with awe at the sight, a figure emerged from the Shadow behind the statue of the Virgin Mary.
The man was emaciated and wore a worn-out trench coat covered in dust.
He looked more miserable than any of the "victims" they had imagined.
"Great! We found you!"
Iron Armor Steel Fist was the first to react. He thought this was the person they were trying to rescue, so he strode forward to meet him.
"Don't be afraid, we're here to rescue you!"
The man looked up.
He looked at these uninvited guests, fully armed, their faces etched with "justice" and "compassion."
The Deconstructionist gave a strangely pleased smile.
Are you here also to become part of a work of art?
artwork?
" Iron Armor Steel Fist " has stopped.
He looked at the emaciated man before him, who seemed as if a gust of wind could blow him over, and a look of pity and confusion flashed in his eyes.
He mistook the other person's strange question for the ramblings of someone who had gone insane after being imprisoned and tortured for a long time.
"Brother, wake up!"
Iron Armor Steel Fist lowered his voice, trying to soothe him.
"We're not bad people, we're from the Mutual Aid Society, we're here to rescue you from this awful place!"
As he spoke, he gestured to the team members behind him, signaling them to make aggressive moves.
In his eyes, the poor man before him was a victim, a fellow human being so ravaged that he could no longer distinguish between reality and illusion.
The Deconstructionist's empty gaze remained unmoved by this "well-intentioned" remark.
Help me?
He pondered the word, finding it utterly absurd and laughable.
These intruders were like a swarm of flies that had entered a church.
They think they are spreading the gospel, but they don't realize that they are covered with the filth of the outside world.
They don't understand.
They didn't understand the significance of this temple, nor the sorrow woven from these steel bars and cement.
Their cheap sense of "justice" and their self-righteous "compassion" are the most thorough desecration of this sacred land.
An obsessive-compulsive aversion arose from the depths of the Deconstructionist's soul.
He couldn't even be bothered to speak again.
To converse with ants is itself an act of lowering oneself.
Since they want to become works of art...
Then let's grant their wish.
He had an idea.
"Ah--!"
A scream came from behind Iron Fist, from a team member with several gold teeth in his mouth.
He suddenly covered his mouth, and blood gushed from between his fingers.
The next second, several golden beams of light were forcibly "pulled" out of his mouth, hovering in the air with streaks of blood.
This is just the beginning.
"My gun!"
"My knife!"
All the members of the rescue team were horrified to discover that everything on their bodies had come to life.
The pistols, daggers, barrels, and blades were softening and dripping from their hands at a visible speed.
The metal buckles on their tactical vests, the zippers on their pants, the steel studs in their shoes, and even the trace metal wires mixed in with their clothing fibers...
Everything was forcibly stripped away and removed!
Countless streams of metallic light, varying in size and shape, were extracted from the bodies of the twelve people.
They converge in the air, forming a metallic Stormfront composed of steel, brass, and lead cores.
The twelve "elites" were completely "purified" in just a few seconds.
They lay on the ground, bare-handed and disheveled, like Beast stripped of all their fangs and claws.
His face was now filled only with primal blankness and fear.
Iron Armor Steel Fist knelt on the ground, watching helplessly as the metal Stormfront suspended in mid-air began to slowly deform and coalesce under the horrified gazes of him and his teammates.
The flowing molten metal is stretched into a regular cuboid.
A prototype of a tombstone appeared out of nowhere.
Finally, as the last drop of molten metal merged into it, a tombstone fell heavily before them.
The surface of the tombstones was as smooth as a mirror, reflecting their desperate faces.
Ripples then appeared on the surface of the tombstone.
Some particles emerge from within and rearrange themselves.
--May those who trespass into the temple rest in peace.
The next morning.
As New York awoke from the panic of the "prologue" and prepared to face the unknown of a new day, an even more sensational news story was ignited.
The New York Post featured a high-resolution photograph on its front page, accompanied by a striking blood-red headline.
The background of the photo is that bizarre industrial ruin.
In the foreground is a tombstone with the inscription circled and translated.
Around the tombstone lay a dozen or so figures lying motionless on the ground, their clothes disheveled and their expressions blank.
The headline is more direct and more provocative:
Superpowered thugs attack innocent artist in the dead of night, only to be wiped out by a mysterious force! -- Who will be the next target of these out-of-control "heroes"?
The report portrayed the twelve "rescue team" members as a group of violent criminals who attempted to rob and harm a reclusive artist.
Adrien Dubois, on the other hand, is portrayed as a tragic hero who is unarmed but awakens a kind of "self-defense" ability in a critical moment.
That tombstone became a "monument to justice" for his fight against the thugs.
The self-righteous "rescue" by the " Awakened Mutual Aid Society " has overnight become the most powerful ironclad evidence proving that "out-of-control Metahuman are a social scourge."
People's fears have found a completely new outlet.
They were no longer afraid of the unseen "ghost artist," but instead began to hate and fear the " Metahuman " lurking around them who might go out of control.