Beneath the Skin of Steel

The engine of the Mustang GT purred like a lion as John Wayne cruised down the winding, tree-lined streets of suburban California. Each home he passed whispered of affluence and calm—manicured lawns, double-car garages, and backyard pools basking in the afternoon sun.

His destination, however, wasn't just any house.

It was his—hidden in plain sight, just a few blocks away from the familiar Dunphy and Pritchett homes from a sitcom that no longer aired in this world. His mansion, while modest compared to the ostentatious estates in the area, stood with quiet pride: a clean, modern façade with solar paneling subtly integrated into the roofing and tinted windows that reflected the sky like mirrors.

This wasn't the apartment he'd inherited from his late mother. No, this was the home he built for himself when he was still just a college student at Caltech, applying his engineering skills and cheat abilities to design what the world wouldn't see for another few decades.

He parked his Mustang in the driveway. The motion sensors recognized him and unlocked the front door.

The moment he stepped inside, it was as though the house exhaled—dust settling, air purifiers clicking on, and the soft hum of systems waking after years of dormancy.

John walked through the front hall without lingering. Family portraits of him and his mother hung on the wall, preserved memories of a life gone too soon. He gave them a glance, a silent promise that he hadn't forgotten.

Then he moved to the garage.

With a soft hiss, the doors parted, revealing a pristine underground space lit by soft white LEDs embedded in the walls and ceiling. It was more laboratory than garage. Each car — some complete, some half-built — sat like art pieces on hydraulic platforms. Among them were replicas of vehicles from his previous world: a McLaren P1, a Bugatti Chiron, a sleek Koenigsegg Jesko — each modified, redesigned, and improved beyond recognition using his Great Sage and knowledge from his previous world.

He moved to a cluttered corner near an unfinished LFA, rusted slightly from long neglect. Beside it, a red toolbox rested against the far wall. John grabbed a wrench from its top drawer and turned a loose bolt on the side—once, twice, then three times.

With a deep mechanical hum, the floor beneath the unfinished car rumbled. The platform slowly slid to the side, revealing a spiraling staircase leading downward into shadows.

John stepped onto the stairs without hesitation, descending into the unknown.

The vault below was stark. Clean, efficient, but also alive with potential energy. Racks of weapons lined the walls — none of them available in any catalogue. Drones the size of fists floated quietly in charging pods. A combat exosuit stood like a silent sentinel in the corner, waiting to be worn again.

John grabbed what he came for.

A black case labeled Echo Zero.

Inside were the real toys. Compact weapon systems, EMP-resistant com modules, reinforced graphene armor inserts, and wrist-mounted scanners that synced with neural impulses.

He pulled out another case—Phantom Loadout—and filled it with secondary gear. He had plans for each piece: one set for himself, and others tailored for Ghost, Soap, Price, and Nikolai.

As he left the vault, the floor sealed behind him, resetting the garage to how it had always appeared—ordinary. Forgettable.

Only he knew what hid beneath.

Back inside the house, he pulled out his phone and called Lewis.

She answered after one ring.

"Is the plane ready?"

There was a pause before her familiar voice, motherly but always professional, came through.

"Yes. But I have to ask again, John — why are you using that plane? You said it was never to be seen publicly."

John walked through the hallway, brushing dust from the banister. "Convenience," he said. "Also, I plan to strike a deal with a certain company after this mission. Consider this… an early audition."

On the other end, Lewis sighed. "You're always three steps ahead. Just promise me you won't do anything reckless."

"I never promise things I can't keep."

That earned a small laugh from her. "Fine. The crew's ready. Maverick's already at the airport."

John paused at the top of the staircase. "How's the bar?"

"Yours now," Lewis replied. "I bought it outright from my cousin. All paperwork transferred. It's under a tourist venture license—no ties to us."

"Perfect. If anything changes, call me."

"Will do," she said. Then her tone softened. "Take care, John. I mean it."

"…Thanks."

The call ended.

John walked outside, sun already starting to dip. The Mustang started up again with a roar, and he drove with purpose — past unsuspecting families, teenagers on bikes, and retired neighbors watering their lawns — all oblivious to the shadow moving past them.

Private Airstrip – Southern California

The Gulfstream G50 stood like a statue of the future, its frame glinting beneath the floodlights of the private runway. Polished silver with carbon-black wings and an intake system decades ahead of its time, it stole glances from every mechanic and hangar worker nearby.

John parked the Mustang near the tarmac. As he stepped out, some workers stopped to stare, their conversations dying mid-sentence.

It wasn't just the plane—it was the man walking toward it.

Standing by the plane's steps, clad in a leather jacket and aviator sunglasses, was a man many thought was just a Hollywood character.

"Maverick," John greeted.

The pilot turned, smiled faintly. "Wayne."

They shook hands firmly.

"You're early," Maverick said.

"I like to be early," John replied, glancing up at the plane. "Still flies smooth?"

"Like a dream," Maverick said. "She's got more kick than any of the Navy birds I've flown. Quiet as a whisper, faster than a lie. You should be proud."

"I am."

They both stepped into the aircraft. The interior was sleek — white leather, brushed titanium panels, digital cockpit — a mobile command base disguised as a private jet.

John settled in. Maverick began pre-checks.

"You still flying with the fifth-gen bomber project?" John asked casually.

"Yeah," Maverick replied, flipping switches. "Still classified. Just finished a test flight over Nevada. She's a beast. Can reach Mach 3 without flinching."

John leaned back, studying him. "How's Rooster?"

The question made Maverick still for a moment. His fingers paused on the throttle.

"He's flying better," he said finally, eyes forward. "Still angry. Still figuring it out."

"Give him time."

"I've given him years."

John said nothing. The tension wasn't his to poke.

After a long silence, Maverick turned. "You really going to the East for this?"

John nodded.

"No support. No flags. No backup. Just you and your ghosts?"

"Exactly."

The old pilot smiled, not out of amusement, but out of recognition. "You're insane. I like that."

John cracked a rare grin.

Maverick settled into the cockpit and flicked the ignition.

"You ready to go?"

"I've been ready since the day I woke up in this world."

The plane taxied down the runway.

As it lifted off, piercing the sky like a blade, John stared out the window at the blanket of stars above the sea of clouds.

Somewhere beyond that horizon, war waited. Shadows of an empire that needed to be erased. And he would erase them.

One silent breath at a time.