Marvel: Vulkanicus

Monticello | Volcano

Seated calmly on the molten lake, far beneath the crater's jagged mouth, Vulkan was still.

The magma around him rolled and churned in slow spirals, as if hesitant to disturb him. Even here, where heat could melt reinforced steel into soup, his skin remained untouched — thick, dark, cracked like scorched obsidian, and yet… calm.

He had been this way for hours. Maybe days. Time in the deep didn't move the same. There was only the low thrum of the volcano's breath, steady, rhythmic, like the beat of a tired heart.

Eyes closed, chest still, Vulkan let the world around him fade.

The world above — it wasn't *his* world. Not anymore. That one was long gone. Scattered under the weight of time, war, and betrayal. His body might have survived the fall, but pieces of him never rose with it.

And now, here, he waited. Meditated.

Remembered.

For a time, the silence was enough. It dulled the noise in his mind. The broken oaths. The screams of dying brothers. The fire-lit halls of Istvaan, where kin turned against kin. The smell of scorched ceramite and burnt flesh never really left him.

His jaw tightened.

The volcano shifted.

Beneath his seated form, the magma responded — not violently, but with a subtle change in rhythm. Like a pulse tightening.

Vulkan exhaled slowly, trying to return to the calm, but the memories kept surfacing like cracks in cooling stone. He saw their faces — his sons. Not all perfect, but loyal. Brave. Gone. And not just them. The others. Those who fell to madness, or worse, purpose.

His fists clenched without thinking.

The volcano groaned.

He opened his eyes, glowing faint green in the dark, the reflections dancing on the cave's burning walls.

*Focus.*

He tried again. Lowered his breathing. Let his mind slip into the old lessons, the meditations of Nocturne — quiet mind, steady heart.

But then… a sound.

Small. Distant.

Above.

He lifted his head slightly. A tremor rippled through the stone ceiling, followed by another, sharper crack.

*What now?*

Vulkan didn't move, but he *felt* it. Something foreign had entered the crater's rhythm. Something fragile, sharp, unbalanced — metal, too light to be a threat, but curious enough to press too close.

A presence. Not like the others who skulked around the outskirts like carrion crows. This one came from the sky. Too fast. Too confident.

Then came the pulse — not from him, not from the mountain — but from the air above. Followed by the distant shriek of something mechanical failing under pressure.

And then a crash.

The walls above cracked. Dust filtered through the ceiling in lazy drifts.

Vulkan didn't rise.

He simply sat there, eyes half-lidded, gaze now turned upward — not in curiosity, but quiet irritation. Whatever had just pierced the mountain's solitude… it would either leave, or be broken by the fire.

The mountain would decide.

He closed his eyes again. Tried to return to calm. But it didn't come.

The volcano pulsed once more, a deep, angry breath beneath the earth.

And above, somewhere not far from the crater's rim… smoke began to rise.

"Hurhm"

He hummed in curiosity as he sences something strange

Vulkan rose from the magma like a god carved from fire.

Steam curled off his skin as molten rock clung to him briefly, then slipped away, hissing, as if the mountain itself released him reluctantly.

His massive form stepped forward, silent but certain, each movement stirring ripples in the lava pool beneath. He felt it again — the presence. Closer now. Not like the insects in black who watched from afar, but something else entirely.

Not just machine.

Not entirely mortal.

But both.

He climbed the inner channel of the volcano with ease, one hand dragging across the rock face, guiding his path. Each stone seemed to lean toward him in deference. The heat around him, unbearable to most, was nothing but a faint whisper against his skin.

When he reached the broken ledge above, the scent of scorched metal filled the air.

Smoke drifted lazily through the gap in the stone. Charred earth, melted snow, broken pine. The wind was warm here now — the mountain's breath stirred.

And there he was.

The wreck of it lay half-buried in obsidian ash and cracked stone. A suit — elegant, scarred by fire but not yet consumed by it. Armor, yes… but *alive* inside. A man.

Vulkan's eyes narrowed.

He had thought it was only a machine — the air had buzzed with synthetic logic. But this… this was a shell. A crafted shell. Housing something *more*.

He stepped closer, the ground quaking gently beneath his feet.

The man lay still. Curled partially against the rocks, the golden-red plating cracked near the shoulder, helmet scorched at the edges. A faint shimmer of energy still clung to the suit like dying embers.

Vulkan knelt, gaze fixed. His massive hand hovered near the man's chest, not yet touching.

*Craftsmanship.*

This wasn't crude armor. No brute plate or mass-production. This was the work of patient hands. Every inch — forged, shaped, personalized. It wasn't just worn; it was *made* by the one who wore it.

He could see it in the filigree, in the layering of systems and backup redundancies. Armor for a soldier — no, for a man who had *become* one out of need, not design.

And inside…

There it was.

A fire.

Not of the Warp, nor of science. But something older. A flickering flame, buried deep in a heart that still beat. Wounded, yes. But burning.

*Strange,* he thought. *A smith's spirit.*

He reached out again — this time, with intent to lift him.

But before his fingers could touch the man's chestplate, a sudden voice rang out, calm but firm.

> "I must ask you not to harm him."

Vulkan froze, hand still in the air.

The voice wasn't human — not fully. It came from the suit. No external speakers. No traditional frequency.

It spoke directly, softly, through the thin psychic layer that wrapped itself around his perception.

> "Vital signs are stable but compromised. He requires medical attention. Please — handle with care."

Vulkan blinked.

He had heard machine-spirits before. Arrogant war-barges, quiet servitors, ancient automata speaking in half-forgotten tongues.

But this one was… polite. Articulate. Protective. It felt more like a *servant* than a machine.

And it spoke of *him.* The man. *Tony.*

Another layer.

The flame flickered again in his senses.

Vulkan's expression softened — if only a little. His thick, scarred fingers moved with unexpected gentleness as he scooped the armored figure into his arms.

The voice didn't resist. It simply hummed once more, low and warm.

> "Thank you."

No fear. No panic. Just… trust.

Vulkan turned without a word and began the descent once more.

The heat around them intensified as he moved into the volcano's heart, but it bent around the man he carried. Warp energy, faint as it was here, stirred lazily around Vulkan's shoulders, forming a cocoon of heatless air to shield the fragile body from the flame.

It was a small effort — one that came naturally to him, like holding a candle against the wind.

He reached the chamber below once more — his solitude, his forge, his waiting hall of molten peace. Statues stood half-finished along the walls. Old faces. Ghosts in black armor, silent giants caught mid-charge or frozen in prayer.

Vulkan laid the man gently down on the only smooth stone ledge near the lava's edge.

He crouched beside him, arms resting on his knees, and simply stared.

Not in hostility.

Not even in caution.

But in *curiosity*.

There was something about this one.

And for the first time in a long while, Vulkan found himself wondering…

*What fire brought you here, little brother?*

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