This character has been dropped





Rex stood poised. Ready. Supporting leg back, at an angle. Feet shoulder width apart. Your muscles like a coiled spring ready to pop. The training Six gave him running through his head. Watch for the subtle shifts of his opponents, try to spot their move before they made it. Anticipate Rhodeys favourite word running through his head. Rex let his arms fall to his side, coiled into fists. He could feel his nanites, brimming with energy, and beyond that he could feel -

That can't be right.

His expression must have changed as the man before him smiled.

"You feel it don't you? Yes you're right. Everything around you, even the air is brimming with nanites." The man raised a hand and a root curled lazily out of the ground, buds appearing along its spine and turning to flowers. It curled lazily, and almost lovingly over to the mans hand. Running softly over his hands. Curling around his fingers till a large orange flower resided in his palm, and then the plant retreat almost as calmly back down through the floor and out of sight. The man twirled the flower between his thumb and forefinger, casting it into a spin it raised gently into the air and then as he released it. It floated gently, carried away by the breeze. Bobbing up and down in the air as it spun in a magnificent orange and blue.

Rex raised a cautious eyebrow. "Just who are you?" The man chuckled as he clapped his hands together, the sound echoing through the empty halls.

The figure turned around, his coat swishing out behind him and he was about to walk away, before he seemed to change his mind. "Whiplash, Biowulf. Why don't you take our other friend to the Garden? While I see to young Rex here?"

"Hang on now-" Rex started, but the Wolf-Man and Faceless man had already grabbed two of Noahs shoulders and led him down a nearby corridor. "Just who do you think you are?" Rex blustered his way directly upto the man.

The man sighed, and looked directly into his eyes. "You really don't remember me then?" Rex didn't even get a chance to answer before the man sighed, shook his head and then began again. "No matter. My name is Van Kleiss, I am leader of the pack and I have known you for a very long time. Tell me, what do you know of the nanite event?

Rex couldn't help it, in many ways he felt compelled to follow the man, as the two walked away from all the others. Deeper into the heart of the castle.

"Just what I've seen on TV, what Providence have told me-"

The scoff was audible, and full of distaste. "Providence. I wouldn't believe a word they said, if I were you."

"Well you've not really given me much more to go on dude."

An arched eyebrow in retort. "Lets rectify that then-" The man pushed over two heavyset wooden doors, leading them to a large open chamber. Machinery adjorned the walls, seemingly growing out of them. Chairs carved out of wood seemed to sprout from roots, and swayed every so slightly in the breeze that seemed to be a constant companion within the castle. A lone chair sat at the end of the room, on a slightly raised pedestal. A throne?

"What is this place?"

Van Kleiss sat on the chair. A Throne. Raising his arms as if to offer Rex the entire room. "This Rex, is where it all started. This is where the EVO was born!"

---

[retracted]

|| Duron Canyon, Rangorn VI - 2 Years ago.

The transport roared across the canyon ridge, metal treads grinding against the rails as it barreled toward the mining outpost. Wind tore past the armoured cars, carrying the stench of fuel and scorched metal.

Four Arms landed on the roof with a heavy thud. The Tetramand’s weight made the metal groan, his four broad arms bracing instinctively as the train lurched beneath him.

Rocket was already ahead of him, firing at a cluster of Badoon scrambling out of a hatch.

“Move it, big guy! They’re swarming!” The small, cybernetically enhanced raccoon snarled as he fired a gun ahead of him.

Groot rose behind him, his colossal body of brambles and twigs towering over the Badoon. Two of the reptilian soldiers lunged with shock‑pikes, hissing through their teeth and scaled jaws.

“I am Groot!”

His arms shot outward in a sudden, violent burst of growth. They wrapped around both Badoon in an instant, yanked them off their feet, and flung them off the side of the transport. Their screams vanished into the ravine below.

Rocket barked a laugh.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”

Four Arms ripped a blaster from a Badoon’s grip and smashed him across the face with it, sending him sprawling. He didn’t wait for the others. He swung down the side of the car, fingers punching into the metal plating, and reached the sliding door.

He braced himself and tore it open.

Inside, the compartment was dim and warm, lined with shackles bolted to the walls. Dozens of aliens were chained in place, eyes wide, bodies trembling. Some were bruised. Some were barely conscious.

Four Arms exhaled, and green light washed over him.

Ben stood there instead, breathing hard, wearing rough, patched‑together Ravager leathers. The scavenged plates, torn sleeves, and dust‑stained boots had become his signature look over the last few years.

He knelt beside the nearest captive, a small figure with shaking hands and terrified eyes.

“Hey. I’m gonna get you out. Just hold still.” He forced a smile as he spoke, reaching for the shackle release as he did so.

A golden blast tore through the compartment.

The captive jerked once and collapsed, smoke rising from the hole burned straight through their chest.

Ben froze.

Titus stood in the doorway, Nova helmet gleaming, arm still raised from the shot.

“Step away from the detainees.”

Ben stared at him, disbelief twisting into something darker.

“Detainees? They’re slaves.”

Titus stepped inside, boots heavy on the metal floor.

“They’re Badoon property. This is a sanctioned transfer.”

“Should’ve known you were working with them.” Ben said through his teeth as his hands balled into fists.

Titus didn’t flinch.

“You’re out of your depth, Tennyson. Stand down.”

Ben looked at the fallen alien. At the scorch mark on the wall. Then finally at Titus’s hand still glowing with Nova energy.

The Omnitrix dial spun.

Green light erupted.

A towering, muscular feline alien stood where Ben had been. Orange fur, razor sharp claws, and fangs bared into a snarl. Titus froze for a heartbeat as he recognized the eyes, the teeth, the unmistakable silhouette of his own species staring back at him with pure, murderous fury.

“RATH’S GONNA RIP YOUR LYIN’ FACE OFF, TITUS!”

He lunged.

---

|| Bellwood, Earth - Present.

Ben hit the bottom of the slope at a sprint, gravel spraying behind him. The Forever Knights were still focused on the prisoners, the gang members still waving their guns around like they mattered. None had noticed him just yet.

His hand was already on the Omnitrix.

The dial spun beneath his thumb, silhouettes flickering until one pulsed with familiar warmth. His jaw tightened. He slammed the core down.

The familiar light engulfed him.

Ben’s body ignited from the inside out, with cracks of molten orange racing across his skin as stone plates formed over his limbs. Fire roared from his shoulders, his eyes burning like twin furnaces. Heatblast hit the ground in Ben’s place, embers drifting off him like sparks from a forge.

The Forever Knights finally turned. But it was too late.

Heatblast thrust both hands forward, sending a wave of fire across the lot. The nearest Knight’s sword glowed red hot, forcing him to drop it with a shout. Another Knight raised a shield; Heatblast punched it, and the metal softened like wax.

Three Knights rushed him at once.

One swung a stun blade and caught Heatblast across the ribs. The blade sizzled against his stone plating, sending a burst of sparks. Heatblast staggered half a step, then straightened.

“Heh. That’s cute.” He jeered, his voice now deeper and more gravelly.

He’d been fighting these guys since he was ten. Did they really think they had a chance?

He grabbed the Knight by the helmet and hurled him into his friends.

The gang members panicked instantly.

“Move! Move! Get in the van!”

They scrambled over each other, shoving and tripping as they piled into the vehicle. Doors slammed and the engine coughed to life.

Heatblast blurred forward, planted both burning hands on the hood, and melted straight through the metal. The hood sagged, glowing orange. The engine block collapsed in on itself with a hiss of steam.

Heatblast leaned in, flames licking up his arms.

“Yeah… you’re not going anywhere with that.”

The driver screamed.

Before Ben could do much more though, two Knights slammed into his back at full sprint.

The hit drove him forward hard enough that he crashed into a stack of equipment crates. The whole row toppled. One crate struck the side of the containment unit, knocking it loose. It slid off the stack, hit the ground, and shattered in a burst of frost and glass.

The small pale creature rolled free, limp and trembling.

Heatblast’s flames flared hotter. His mind flashed back to the Rangorn VI. Back to the train and Titus. He couldn’t let something like that happen again.

Clenching his jaw, he slammed a hand against the Omnitrix logo on his chest.

A burst of green light exploded outward.

When it faded, Rath hit the ground on all fours with a guttural snarl. Muscles bunched under orange fur. Claws dug furrows into the dirt. His tail lashed once, hard enough to crack a crate behind him.

“Rrrrgh… now you’ve done it.” He roared, rising to his full height.

The nearest Knight barely had time to raise his sword.

Rath launched forward in a single bound. He crashed into the Knight with enough force to lift him off his feet. They hit the ground together, Rath pinning him with one massive hand while the other ripped the sword from his grip and flung it across the lot.

The Knight struggled. Rath leaned down until their helmets touched.

“Lemme tell you something!” Rath roared. “Rath does not appreciate being blindsided!”

He slammed the Knight into the dirt once more for emphasis. The man went limp.

Rath rose, breathing hard, eyes burning with fury. Only one Knight remained. He backed up a step, sword trembling in his hand. The appoplexian simply growled. He stalked toward him, shoulders rolling, claws flexing.

“Rath is in a very bad mood, and you are about to be the example!”

The Knight swung. Rath caught the blade in one hand, squeezed, and snapped it clean in half. The Knight froze.

Rath grabbed him by the front of his armour and lifted him off the ground with one arm. The Knight’s feet dangled, kicking uselessly. Rath slammed him against the side of the van, holding him there with ease. The impact knocked the Knight’s mask loose. It clattered to the ground, revealing a wide‑eyed, terrified face beneath.

“You think you can just hurt people and walk away?” Rath shouted, leaning in close and fangs bared.

“Ben! BEN!” Gwen's voice called out loudly behind him.

“I’m busy!” Was all he shot back, refusing to take his eyes off his victim.

“Ben, look behind you!”

The Knight’s eyes flicked over Rath’s shoulder. His expression shifted from fear to confusion, then to horror.

Rath frowned.

“What are you looking at?” He growling, turning his head in confusion.

The creature from the broken container was no longer small. It had swollen into a massive, round, baby‑like blob, its limbs stubby and twitching as its body ballooned outward. Its skin pulsed with cold light, and thick vapour rolled off it in slow waves as it continued to grow.

Rath’s ears flattened.

“Ah shit.”

Prologue - Part One

The lobby of Gotham City Courthouse was surprisingly bustling and heaving for a Thursday afternoon. The usual two or three experienced but downtrodden reporters who routinely hung around the court to pick up their scoops were instead joined by dozens more. Not just print journalists, but camera crews littered the hallways too. Along with them was a swarm of police officers, all bolt upright and aware that their every moment was being monitored not just by the sea of cameras and journalists out to catch them out, but by virtually every city official too. Most important of them all was Mayor Hamilton Hill, a greying man in his 50s whose slicked back silver hair and finely combed moustache suggested a suave and polished individual – but his dull, beady eyes suggested that any hint of charisma was just a façade.

The focus was on the stairwell leading up to the main courts, and the focus had remained that way for over an hour. The mood was beginning to feel tense, the excited chatter between reporters and officials had died down to restless anticipation, barely a murmur among them.

In the corner of all this was the broad figure of ‘Gotham’s son’, Bruce Wayne, his eyes scanning over proceedings. Bruce was dressed in a smart double-breasted suit, a dark overcoat hanging over the suit with the collar pulled up taut. Wayne was not an inconspicuous figure in this setting and frankly it would normally raise a lot of suspicions. But Bruce had his excuse ready – some half-baked story about contesting a speeding ticket – and at the end of the day there was nothing that could stop him from being there.

Today was the day that Rupert Thorne was due to be convicted, the last head of Gotham’s great crime families.

This moment was years in the making for Bruce. Ever since he’d returned to Gotham and started his war on crime, the crime families had been his focus. Over time the city had gained its fair share of costumed criminals, but the Thornes, the Maroni’s and the Falcones were the criminals that had stuck around ever since Bruce was that sobbing boy in an alleyway.

The nerves that he felt were not something that he would admit to anyone, not even Alfred, although he was sure that his trusted friend could see it in him. All his work had built up to this moment, but what came after was a mystery that he couldn’t shake.

Would everything go smoothly? That’s why he was here after all, to ensure that it all went to plan and that Thorne ended up behind bars as he should. But he was well aware that Thorne had deep-seated roots in this city that would make him very hard to remove. Faithful lackeys, blackmailed officials, even outside influences who appreciated having a mafia figure running things in the city – all of these could put a halt on today. But the same could be said for the Falconi’s and Sal Maroni. Even the Penguin and Black Mask, despite being more recent additions to the Gotham underworld, had some kind of connections that made them difficult to remove, but all of them were locked away now.

The real question that Bruce was avoiding was what comes next? Would more criminals come and take their spot? Would there be a power vacuum that led to even more chaos on the streets?

What was even more unclear, was what came next for Bruce.

Throughout his crusade on crime in Gotham, it seemed like there would never be an end in sight. That never deterred him, he was committed to the cause and would have died for it. But now there seemed to be a light at the end of the tunnel. With Dick having left a few months ago things felt different, and now with the end of the crime families, maybe there would be a natural conclusion to Batman, a thought that had never crossed his mind.

Much to his shame, the thought almost scared him. It would disgust him to think that he needed this to continue, a Gotham that didn’t even need Batman anymore was always the goal. But the thought of going back to a normal life after all this seemed impossible. What would his purpose be?

He pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind, as he had done many times over the last few weeks, because he could see some movement from the stairwell above.

A flurry of activity kicked off as police officers started to descend the stairs from above, followed by clerks and legal counsels desperately trying to get down the stairs.

“This it?” a relieved cameraman asked, springing into life and hurrying to get his camera up first.

The moment finally came. Amid the eruption of flashes from cameras and the roar of the crowd shouting over each other – some just discussing the moment, others trying to shout out questions in a desperate plea to get an answer that will get them the front cover or the lead report – Rupert Thorne was escorted down the staircase of the court by a mob of police officers.

Thorne tried to hide his chubby, gnarled face from the cameras but to no avail. He was surrounded. The police dragged him along, fighting to get him through to the doors to throw him into the back of a police van straight to Blackgate Penitentiary. Next followed a tall gaunt man in his late 30s with a broad smug grin slapped across his face. Linus Hampton, Gotham’s latest District Attorney. A microphone was thrust into his face and Bruce could tell that he absolutely loved the attention.

“Mr Hampton, Summer Gleason with Gotham News Network. Any comment on your successful conviction of Rupert Thorne?”

“You want the truth, Summer? I’ve never seen anything more clear cut. The amount of crimes linked to Mr Thorne is immeasurable. Gun smuggling, drug trafficking, racketeering – even the disappearance of Matthew Hagan. The evidence was stacked.”

“Could you have done it without the help of Batman?”

“Oh come on – my team and I have spent months building up a case against Thorne and that was what brought that scumbag to justice – not some weirdo in a homemade costume.”

Bruce smirked – he didn’t have a lot of time for Hampton but he admired the bravado, plus it seemed as though he’d done what was needed. Bruce’s eyes followed Thorne like a hawk and as he saw the aged gangster leave the building and bustled into an awaiting police van, he could feel himself almost relax.

He might actually beat this.

There was the sharp trill of his phone buzzing in his pocket, and Bruce swiftly slid it out from his suit jacket. He saw the disguised emblem of the Batcomputer and subtly glanced at the notification.



He reacted to the alert without hesitation, swiftly making his way out of the Courthouse just as the radio calls started to come through to the police briefing them on the same information.

It seemed as though things wouldn’t be coming to a halt anytime soon. He just hoped that what he felt was relief that he was making progress in his battle, rather than relief that it wasn’t over…

|| Bellwood, Earth

The creature kept growing.

Its body ballooned outward in uneven pulses, swelling into a massive, round, baby‑like blob. Limbs thickened into clumsy paddles. Its skin stretched tight and pale, glowing faintly from within as cold vapor poured off it in rolling waves. Within seconds it was towering over the lot, easily the size of a house.

The ground shook under its weight and its shadow stretched across the lot, swallowing crates, vans, and fleeing silhouettes. The three remaining refugees were scrambling to get clear. The Kree hauled the blobby alien upright, both of them stumbling away from the creature’s expanding mass. The young Tetramand tried to follow but collapsed, clutching his injured arm.

Rath’s jaw tightened. He still had the last Forever Knight pinned against the van, claws dug into the man’s chestplate. These guys belonged behind bars. They were slavers, traffickers, the kind of people he wanted to drag in himself. Letting them go felt wrong in every possible way.

But the people around them needed help.

He held the Knight there for one more heartbeat.

Gwen’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp with urgency.

“Ben…!”

He didn’t look at her, but he knew she had seen it. The hesitation. The anger. The part of him that wanted to finish what he started.

After what felt like an eternity, Ben shoved the Knight away and turned his back, leaving him to scramble off without a word.

Rath sprinted toward the Tetramand. A chunk of concrete had fallen across the kid’s leg. Rath grabbed it and hurled it aside like it weighed nothing, then helped the Tetramand upright with one arm around his back.

“Get the others out of here” He commanded as he guided him behind a stack of crates before turning back toward the creature.

The nearest limb swung sideways, smashing a stack of crates into splinters. The shockwave rattled Rath’s teeth.

Gwen shouted from across the lot.

“Ben, it’s heading for the warehouse!”

It was moving now, albeit slowly, towards the nearest warehouse. If that thing brought the building down, anyone still inside was done for. It may have been empty given it was the dead of night, but he didn’t want to take any chances.

Rath charged.

He slammed both fists into the creature’s side. The blow sank into soft, rubbery flesh with a dull thump. The creature barely reacted. Rath tore a chunk free, but the creature only shuddered and kept moving the mounds of meaty flesh that made up its limbs.

It slammed its body into the warehouse wall with a slam. Metal buckled inward. Support beams groaned.

Rath leapt onto its back, claws sinking in.

“Rath said STOP!” He yelled, swiping madly with the claws on his right paw.

The creature bucked violently, sending Rath flying. He was launched across the lot and into a parked car, denting the roof before rolling off with a grunt.

Gwen moved quickly past his sprawled body, waving her hands forward as she fired a blast of energy up at the creature’s face. The bolt splashed across its skin before fading into nothing.

“It’s not even feeling it!” She cried, conjuring a quick shield to block some rubble.

Rath pushed himself up, shaking off the impact. She was absolutely right. They needed something else.

“Fine. New plan.” He annoyed, his paw moving towards the omnitrix symbol on his check.



The following flash of green replaced the orange feline form with a towering man built from glistening crystals. His angular form shone in the moonlight, as Diamondhead veered forward into the fray.

His arms erupted as they formed into a series of crystal spikes before being launched into the creature’s side. They embedded deep, piercing its flash like glass stuck in rubber. The creature wobbled, then kept moving.

Diamondhead formed a massive crystal pillar beneath it, trying to lift part of its bulk. The flesh sagged around the spike, deforming without rising.

The creature simply rolled off and crushed the pillar flat.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

He hit the Omnitrix again.



Cannonbolt curled and slammed into the creature’s side. The impact sank in, the creature’s body deforming around him like a mattress. Cannonbolt bounced off and skidded across the ground.

He uncurled, groaning. How were they supposed to beat this thing?

The creature dragged its bulk along the warehouse wall, tearing metal and concrete away in chunks. A section of the roof sagged dangerously.

A horn blared.

The Rustbucket skidded into the lot. Max jumped out with a bulky handheld device, its screen lit up and beeping rapidly.

“Ben. Gwen.” He called, moving toward the two.

“Please tell me that thing has a ‘make it stop’ button.” Ben asked, watching the creature with caution.

They all watched as the device beeped faster as Max approached it.

”I think it’s reacting to the nitrogen in the air.” Max stated as he looked over the readings.

Gwen’s eyes widened.

“That is why it was frozen. She theorised. ”They were keeping it dormant.”

Ben stared at the creature, watching vapor pour off its skin. The air was full of nitrogen. They couldn’t exactly get rid of that.

“Okay, so how do we get it away from the air? We kind of need that.”

Max hesitated, studying the readings.

Gwen looked between the creature, the vapor, and Ben. Then she snapped her fingers.

“Ben. We need a vortex.”

Ben nodded in affirmation. Sure. No pressure.

For hopefully the final time, he hit the dial, his rounded limbs barely reaching it.



Emerging from the light, XLR8 hit the ground in a low crouch. His body was lean and angular, built for speed, with dark blue armor plates running down his limbs and tail. The twin wheels on his feet spun once as he shifted his weight forward. His visor snapped down over his eyes with a sharp click, narrowing into a focused, predatory slit.

“You want a vortex, I can give you a vortex.”

He shot forward, circling the creature in a widening ring. Dust, frost, and debris whipped into a spiraling wall.

The air roared as he ran faster and faster.

The circle tightened.

The wind sharpened.

The world smeared into streaks of color as he pushed himself harder, faster, until the vortex rose like a twisting column around the creature.

The nitrogen rich vapor peeled upward in long ribbons, dragged into the spinning funnel. The creature’s glow dimmed. Its swollen body began to shrink in uneven pulses, each one smaller than the last.

House sized became truck sized. Then truck sized collapsed into something closer to a large dog. Ben felt the pull of the vortex ease as his circles grew smaller and smaller.

It was working.

Just outside the spinning wall, Gwen stepped forward, shaping her mana into a shimmering sphere. She waited for the exact moment the creature reached its smallest size, then fired. The bubble expanded and snapped shut around the creature, sealing it inside. The blob thrashed, limbs pressing uselessly against the barrier.

XLR8 skidded out of the vortex path, letting the winds collapse behind him. The air settled in a rush. Dust drifted back to the ground.

He panted, visor snapping up to reveal his face as he caught his breath.

The refugees stood at the edge of the lot, shaken but safe. The Kree had an arm around the Tetramand boy, steadying him. The young Tetramand gave Ben a small, grateful nod.

Ben felt a swell of relief. They were alive. They were all alive.

But the feeling soured almost immediately.

The Forever Knights were gone.

|| Bellwood, Earth

The ruined car park was lit in a cold wash of portable arc‑lamps, their beams cutting long shadows across the cracked asphalt. S.W.O.R.D. agents moved with brisk, coordinated purpose. Two escorted the three rescued refugees toward a waiting transport, medics already checking them over. Others were securing the captured gang members, guiding them into armored vans one by one.

Near the curb, a containment team worked around the nitrogen creature. It was still sedated, sat inside the temporary holding unit Ben, Gwen, and Max had rigged together from Rustbucket supplies. Frost clung to the metal and vapor hissed softly as the agents prepared to transfer it into a proper S.W.O.R.D. containment pod.

Max stood nearby, arms folded, watching the process with a practiced eye.

“Just keep the cradle steady” he commanded. “Not sure how long that seal will last.”

One of the younger agents glanced at him for confirmation.

“Yes, sir.. I mean, Mr. Tennyson.”

Max gave a quick chuckle before nodding at him to continue.

It was at that point that the air behind Max popped as if the atmosphere were snapping back into place. A tight ripple of violet light flashed once, and Abigail Brand appeared in the empty space as if she’d been there the entire time. She straightened her coat, eyes already sweeping the scene.

“Mr. Tennyson, I presume?” she asked, her eyes finally fixating on the older man before her. “Nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard the stories.”

Max turned to face her fully.

“Likewise.”

Brand’s gaze flicked to the temporary containment unit.

“That the creature?” She asked.

“Yeah,” Max said. “We kept it stable until your people got here.”

Brand nodded once.

“Good work.”

She scanned the area again, taking in the refugees, the gang members, the empty stretch of street where the Forever Knights had vanished.

“Where are the kids?”

Max exhaled. “Ben took off the moment he heard S.W.O.R.D. was inbound. Gwen went with him.”

Brand didn’t look surprised.
“Smart kid.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s a compliment.”

“It is,” Brand replied. “For someone who doesn’t want to end up on a dozen watchlists.”

Max’s jaw tightened. “He’s fifteen. He’s not a threat.”

Brand let out a short laugh before crossing her arms.
“He broke cover. He engaged armed combatants. And then he unleashed a nitrogen‑reactive organism in a populated area.”

“He also saved three people who’d be dead without him,” Max countered. “And kept that organism from blowing half this block sky‑high.”

Brand didn’t flinch.

“He’s unpredictable.”

“He’s a kid.”

Brand’s eyes narrowed. “You can’t guarantee he won’t become a problem.”

“No. But I know him and I can guarantee he’s trying not to be. He’s a good kid.”

Brand was silent, studying him for a long moment. Max couldn’t tell whether or not he had convinced her.

Max decided to shift the topic. “The Forever Knights. You heard anything about their recent movements before tonight?”

Brand’s expression changed at the words.

“I’ve seen reports. Rumours. Movement in places they shouldn’t be. But the details…” She turned slightly. “Classified.”

“Figures.” Max snorted.

Brand glanced back at him. “You could always come work for me. Access, resources, intel. You’d be useful.”

“Nope,” Max said immediately. “I’m retired.”

Brand gave a small, knowing smile. She didn’t push further. Instead, she nodded toward the containment pod as her agents locked it into a transport cradle.

“We’ll take it from here.”

Max watched her for a moment.

“Just… don’t treat Ben like a weapon.”

Brand paused mid‑step.

“Then tell him to stop acting like one.” She stated. “You’re lucky it’s me you’re dealing with and not Cecil.”

And with another sharp pop of displaced air, she vanished.

---

|| Sanctuary III, Deep Space

The bridge of the pirate frigate was a wide, circular chamber lit by flickering holo panels and the red glow of emergency strips. Smoke drifted from ruptured conduits. The crew stood in a tight ring around the center of the deck, weapons drawn but lowered. This was a duel for command, and they all knew the rules.

Titus knelt near the back, the remainder of his crew that had decided to also leave Knowhere gathered around him. They watched in anticipation, knowing the airlock awaited them all if they weren’t victorious today.

Nebula stood at the center of the circle, her blue skin marked with thin silver seams where cybernetics met flesh. One eye was a cold organic blue, the other a mechanical lens that adjusted with a faint whir as she tracked her opponent. Her armor was dark and worn from raids, reinforced plates fitted over a lean, coiled frame built for speed and precision. A retractable blade extended from her forearm, humming softly as she shifted her stance.

She lunged forward with a burst of cybernetic speed, her blade flashing in a clean arc across the challenger’s side. Sparks burst from the impact. She pivoted and drove a knee into the figure’s abdomen, then slammed an electrified fist into their jaw.

The crowd roared as the hits landed.

Nebula pressed the attack. She struck again and again, each blow sharp and precise. Her movements a blur of metal. The challenger staggered a half step under the barrage.

Only a half step.

Nebula’s expression tightened. She shifted her stance and snarled, “You think you can just waltz in here and challenge me for my crew?”

Vilgax let out a cold laugh as he straightened, rising to his full height.

The crew fell silent. Titus swallowed hard.

Nebula slashed again. Vilgax caught her wrist in one massive hand. The grip was monstrous. Her cybernetic servos whined under the pressure.

Vilgax’s other arm began to change. Tendons split into writhing, muscular tentacles that uncoiled with terrifying speed. They wrapped around Nebula’s throat and lifted her off the ground.

Her feet kicked helplessly. Electricity crackled from her fingertips as she tried to break free, but the coils only tightened. Her spine bent under the strain, metal creaking.

Vilgax stepped forward and lifted her higher. Nebula’s voice broke into static.

Then, with a violent twist, he tore off her cybernetic arm.

Nebula screamed as sparks sprayed across the deck. Vilgax hurled her body down. She hit the floor hard and skidded across it. Her limbs twitched as her systems attempted to reboot. Bones and servos realigned with sharp, mechanical pops.

The crew stared in stunned silence.

Titus bowed his head.

One of the Kree pirates muttered, “Her father won’t be happy about this.”

Vilgax turned. The tentacles retracted back and reforming into a muscular arm. His voice rumbled through the chamber, deep and resonant.

“Let Thanos come.”

He stepped over Nebula’s fallen form and ascended the command dais. The ship’s lights flickered in response as he lowered himself into the captain’s throne.

“For now we sail to the War World.”

2.1: The sin of omission.
Location: Clinton Church

Morning breaks over New York, the city humming with restless energy.

Matt woke to the familiar roar of city traffic by his window. He reached for Elektra, but her side of the bed was already cold. She had vanished into the morning, off to work before dawn.

The aches from last night’s church brawl still throbbed beneath his skin; each bruise, every motion Matt makes is a silent reminder that he is only human. He remains lying lifelessly on their bed, processing the chaos he went through last night.

“This is not what a pastor should behave,” Matt muttered under his breath and prepared for the day ahead.

When the blind pastor reached his church, police cars littered the street, and officers milled about. Radios crackled, sirens wailed, and the noise pressed in on Matt’s heightened senses. Bystanders whispered about the giant owl from last night, their voices swelling into a storm that battered his mind.

He snapped out of his trance and composed himself, adjusting his rose-tainted glasses and collar.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure of having the police visit this humble church?” Matt asked, stepping into the back-and-forth debate between a nun and a police officer.

The cop gave him a quick glance, paying little mind to Matt, and continued to confront the nun.

“Ma'am, I already told you this was nothing more than a late normal visit; no giant owl man or thugs were involved in this incident. They won’t be arrested under the circumstances, nor do their actions fit any criminal activity. Mr. Owley says he won’t press charges against the church. As for the masked vigilante who attacked them, that’s another story,” the cop said as he wrote something down, dismissive of what the nun had to say. He is clearly biased in his judgment and leaning towards the robbers.

“You can’t be serious! You’re supposed to protect the victim, not the robber,” the nun exclaimed as her nagging continued. The neighborhood and the people were all ready getting a whiff of this verbal confrontation.

“Ma'am, I need you to step back and not interfere with our work,” the officer said, his lips trembling with frustration. He extended his hand and reached for his back.

Matt’s brow furrowed as tension crackled in the air, hearts thundering with agitation. Sister Mary’s anger simmered, the cop’s hand inching toward his concealed taser, ready to ignite the standoff.

Was he gonna use it on a civilian? Maybe. But Matt wasn’t gonna take any chances.

This was not how Matt imagined spending his morning.

He knew he had to step in before things got ugly.

The cop drew his taser. Instantly, Matt moved his baton-like cane, intercepting the officer’s intent with swift precision at the same time.

With a single, fluid motion, Matt flicked his cane upward, knocking the taser from the officer’s grasp. The weapon spun through the air as the blind pastor deftly disarmed him, wounding only the cop’s pride. The threat was already over before it even began.

The old nun shrieked and clutched Murdock's arm for comfort after what happened.

“Oh dear, did I hit something? My apologies,” Matt said softly, feigning innocence behind his blind condition.

The crowd’s attention snapped to the scene as more officers rushed in, eager to assert control.

The corrupt cop’s wariness grew, shame flickering across his face. He forced a crooked smile, glancing at the onlookers. He realized now that striking a nun and a blind pastor would be a public relations disaster in broad daylight.

Matthew can hear his heartbeat. The cop was bitter and guilty, as if he were paid to protect someone; that’s why he resorted to violence so quickly. Matt smiled beneath his skin after exposing the cop's abuse of his position.

“Tch, I’m fine,” the officer muttered to his colleagues, clutching his bruised hand and sounding defeated as he walked away. He wasn’t gonna admit a blind man bested him so easily in the most subtle way.

“If you say those men are just visiting the church and not associated with burglary, then let it be. Who am I to deny that? The house of the lord is always open, especially for the lost cause.” Matt said, keeping his gentle-pastor demeanor.

"Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away." He continued, reciting a verse.

“Let's go, we’re done here.” The cops took one last look at the blind man before leaving; they glared at him with disdain after embarrassing one of their own. They knew this was far from over.



Once the police finished their so-called investigation and left, Matt and the nun slipped quietly back into the sanctuary.

“Surely you don’t believe that, Pastor Matthew. Those thugs tried to rob the place. If it wasn’t for this masked man who showed up, they could have gotten much worse.” Sister Mary said, in panic in her voice.

“Huh, I should personally thank this masked man if he ever stops by again,” Matt said, unable to suppress a chuckle at the thought of thanking his own alter ego.

“Don’t worry. If necessary, my wife will handle the legal aspects of this case if those cops decide to harass this holy sanctuary.” Matt reassured the nun.

“Strange, isn’t it? The police missed the call during a robbery. In a city where they see and hear everything, it’s odd they weren’t the first to arrive,” Matt mused.

Matt stepped into the battered church, his footsteps echoing through the cavernous, wounded halls.

“Well, well, so this is where you’re hiding. Quite the show you put up there, it would be headline worthy if you knocked the teeth out of that smug cop’s face.” A man said, facing the altar with his hands behind his back.

Despite his not showing his face and his back turned, Matt recognized that voice, an old friend from the city.

“Enjoying the retirement, Ben?” Matt retorted.

“You mean the hush money the government gave me to keep quiet? Sure, it has its perks. The guilt and cold sweats at night are just a bonus knowing the innocent lives lost due to the kingpin's reign over this city”, the reporter said with a wry smile.

“I wish I could take it all back. I was foolish back then,” Ben released an exasperated sigh.

“Is that a confession? Should I absolve you of that? Lighten the burden you carry, old friend?” Matt said gently, his tone earnest.

“No, I think we’re past that, pastor. I can only move forward and deal with what I’ve done. That’s why I’m here.” There was a crack in Ben’s voice, showing he truly regretted not speaking up in the past.

The two caught up in the churchyard, swapping stories and laughter, recalling better days before Mayor Fisk turned the city upside down.

As their stories darkened, Ben leaned in, his tone shifting to something more grave.

“You know, there are so many injustices in this city, Matthew. The cops are as blind as you are to what's happening here in the streets. They only protect what serves their interests. I’ve seen it first hand,” The reporter sighed.

“Giant Owls, Corrupted cops brandishing their weapons at a defenseless nun, A Crimelord turned Mayor, Stiltman putting cats on trees for his amusement. The list goes on. Matt,” He continued.

“Wait, Ol’ Wilbur, is at it again? I thought he turned a new leaf and got a new job as a firefighter?” Matt shakes his head.

“No, I was joking about the last part, but you get the gist.” The detective reporter said, pausing for a brief moment, weighing the words he had to say next.

“The city is Mutating, Mr. Murdock. Maybe, instead of just preaching the good gospel, how about you put the fear of God in them? For old time's sake. Put on those menacing little ears, and help me fight crime together.” Ben Urich smirked.

"They're horns"

---

2.2: The artist and the assassin.
Location: New york courtroom

“Due to the lack of evidence and failure to establish the element of the offense. The court finds Mr. Cooper —- not guilty. The court is dismissed.” The judge slammed his gavel and made their verdict.

Elektra’s defense team of two successfully defended their client against allegations of breaking and entering.

She and her client stood up, respecting the court’s decision. She felt proud of the outcome—another win for her law firm. Yet somehow, someway, something is not right.

Now that she thought about it, her client showed no remorse, no emotion—just a faint, unsettling smile that sent a chill down her spine.

Elektra’s instincts screamed that something was wrong after being dismissed. Witnesses murmured uneasily, and the plaintiff looked shattered, as if the verdict had crushed their world.

The cop flashed a sly, almost wicked smile, his brief glare carrying a subtle threat.

Elektra caught the look—her client seemed to be taunting everyone in the room.

Maybe she had made a grave mistake defending this man. Perhaps her skill blinded her to the truth. Her instincts screamed that justice had not been served.



Elektra slipped into the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face in a desperate attempt to clear her mind.

Unknown to her surroundings, someone was there, waiting in the shadows for her. The cubicle door creaked open just a fraction—slow enough that most people wouldn’t notice. Her eyes shifted, catching the movement through the mirror before she turned.

SWWOOOSHHH...

Within that small gap, A dagger flew toward her. She heard the rush of air as it passed.

Elektra weaved and dodged it easily. She quickly picked up the knife from the floor, ready to throw it back, only to hesitate once the shadowy figure emerged from the stalls.

“I’m impressed. Your senses are sharp as ever. Are you sure you don’t want to rejoin us?” A slim Asian vixen in a black trench coat introduces herself. It was Aka, a member of the Hand.

“I think I’ll pass.” The former assassin glared at her, her stare cold and unwavering.

“You have ten seconds to tell me why you are here before I jam your own knife against your throat,” Elektra said, her voice filled with venom.

“Feisty, I don’t believe you’ll do such a thing, ever since you got married to that red-haired pastor. Your morals have shifted.” Aka retorted.

“Also, but believe it or not, I’m just the messenger. I have a proposition for you, or rather, the mayor. that I’m sure you’ll be interested in.”

“Doesn’t that egomaniac lard have enough lawyers covering up his ass till on his deathbed?” Elektra scoffs.

“I’m not asking for your legal services. I want your skills as a killer—a hit, if you will.”

Elektra listened in silence, raising an eyebrow.

“That’s all behind me. Find someone else,” Elektra instantly declined.

“Please. I don’t know what your blind, red-haired husband has told you about his religion, mercy, second chances, and all that Sunday school stuff. But you and I both know some people need to be stopped.”

“What do you mean?” Elektra asked.

“The man you just set free, Bastian Cooper, is a problem for Mayor Fisk’s peaceful New York. He’s not the perfect cop you think he is. He’s a serial killer based on our intel —a coyote in wolf’s clothing. Here, check his profile.” Aka tosses an envelope at her.

“Take out this rogue cop, and you’ll be doing everyone a favor. You shed your guilt, Fisk keeps his city in order. It’s a win-win.” The lady ninja smirked at Elektra.

The offer is tempting, the cause disturbingly close to her own interests.

She gave a small nod. For some reason, Elektra reconsidered. Maybe it was guilt over defending this man in the courtroom a few hours ago and letting him escape justice.

“We’ll be in touch.” Aka was already at the window, standing as she let herself fall backward, making her exit.

Elektra sighed and lingered on the photos of this serial killer’s profile. She is haunted by her past, living a double life as a lawyer by day and an assassin by night.

Maybe it was time to embrace her other job and hunt down the elusive murderer who kept slipping through justice’s cracks.

~

Freedom had never tasted sweeter for Bastian, with all charges against him dropped that day.

He can’t stop thinking about the one person who made it possible: her face, her smile, the way she weaves words in the courtroom, the way she persuades the heart of the jury. To him, Elektra Murdock was his savior, his deliverance.

Bastian slipped into his fortress-like high-rise, punching in the code and glancing both ways. He moved with the careful precision of a man with secrets.

Inside his apartment, a spacious cold storage stood waiting. He opens it and feels the freezer's cold embrace engulf his body.

Inside that frozen vault was his sickening collection, his obsession, his morbid art. This was his true self: the ripper of New York City.

He immediately dropped the whole NYPD act and succumbed to his urges. Bastian licked his chops as he caressed his fingers along the slabs of meat dangling on the hook and delved deeper into this room, savoring the texture of each piece of flesh of his victims.

Dahmer had nothing on this man as he looked over his gruesome collection of frozen human remains. Torsos, limbs, legs, fingers, even a severed head—he had it all. The butcher kept everything preserved to his liking.

Each piece was shaped to his whim, organs stitched together like clay, forming a sickening masterpiece only he could admire.

He lingered in his cold gallery of flesh before finally closing it off from the world. Bastian smiled wickedly, satisfied to behold his collection of corpses once more.

Bastian opened his police radio and listened to its feeds as background noise.

Within this moment, he had a flash of inspiration, the urge to create art in his own unique way.

The artist seized a kitchen knife and stabbed his palm, wincing as blood streamed from his hand like water. He didn’t mind the pain as he plunged the knife even more into his skin.

He stood before a blank canvas, picturing the woman who set him free. With his own blood, he painted her face, capturing every detail from memory.

Her name was etched into every corner of his twisted mind. The more he repeated it, the sweeter it sounded.

ELEKTRA MURDOCK,ELEKTRA MURDOCK,ELEKTRA MURDOCK
ELEKTRA MURDOCK, ELEKTRA MURDOCK,ELEKTRA MURDOCK
ELEKTRA MURDOCK,ELEKTRA MURDOCK,ELEKTRA MURDOCK

Muse’s obsession with the lawyer who freed him only deepened. It tormented him—not with desire, but with a twisted admiration.

For the grim serial killer artist, his delusions were crystal clear. In his mind, she was his Joan of Arc, and he, her Gilles de Rais.

It's time to return the favor of setting him free. He must have her in his collection.

---

2.3 Big Apple, Rotten Apple.
Location: St. Patrick’s Cemetery

“Aren’t ninjas supposed to be invisible? How does the caretaker even spot them?” Karen wondered aloud to Foggy, her curiosity piqued as they wandered the winding path to the cemetery.

“He didn’t just spot one, he actually caught one. Well, technically, he’s blind, so ‘see’ isn’t the right word. Err- It’s complicated. You’ll get it when we meet him. He’ll explain everything.” Foggy replied, his words tumbling over each other.

The two reporters weaved past rows of weathered tombstones, finally arriving at a solitary mausoleum standing apart from the others.

The one engraved ‘In memory of ‘Battling’ Jack Murdock.’

Inside, an old man sat cross-legged at the center, encircled by a ring of flickering candles that cast long shadows on the stone floor.

“Hi there, excuse me. We’re the two reporters who requested your story.” Foggy timidly said, trying not to interrupt the man’s meditation.

Their introduction falls on deaf ears, met only with a long hum from the old man.

“I don’t think he can hear us,” Karen said to Foggy as she followed it up with a loud Hello at the old man.

“Yeah, I heard you the first time. Just finishing centering my Anima. Young people these days, always in a rush,” the old man finally grumbled, breaking his silence.

“Name’s Sticks. I look after this place.” The blind old man rose from his meditation in one fluid motion, then, with a sharp flick of his wrist and a slicing gesture, a sudden gust extinguished every candle at once.

“Whoa,” they breathed together, awe flickering in their eyes.

“Didn’t expect to meet Mr. Miyagi in the flesh,” Karen whispered, grinning as she nudged Foggy with a spark of mischief.

“Quiet,” Foggy muttered, shooting Karen a look for her untimely joke.

“So you got something for us? The news about the graverobbery this morning.” Foggy asked.

“Are you sure you’re not being followed?” The old man stepped in close, his wrinkled face inches from Foggy’s, searching for any hint of deception.

“Yeah, pretty sure we’re not followed,” Nelson gulps and immediately replies.

“Good. Come.” Sticks commanded. The reporters exchanged a glance, shrugged, and trailed after him, as if fate had already decided for them.

“So tell me, how long have you been working as a caretaker in this cemetery? What's your story?” Foggy asked, trying to start a conversation with the old man.

“Yer’ a curious one, aren’t you, and you talk a lot.” Sticks spits out something from his mouth.

“I’m a Japanese soldier veteran who came to New York. About 8 years ago, the pastor and the attorney from Hell’s Kitchen were kind enough to give me this job, guarding his old man,” answered the aging caretaker.

Soon, the trio arrived at another mausoleum. As Sticks unlocked the heavy door, the air filled with the thuds and guttural growls of something wild inside.

The door creaked open, revealing a wild figure in tattered red. It dropped to all fours and lunged with a snarl. It looked more like a beast than a man, with froth at its lips and heavy chains barely holding it back.

“Sweet baby Jesus, what is that?” Foggy gasped, clutching his chest as his heart hammered in his ribcage.

“One of the rabid ninjas who was unlucky enough to escape,” Sticks said, lighting a torch inside this tomb where he kept this dangerous captured ninja as a prisoner.

“This thing is nothing more than a mindless puppet. A servant of their countless undead horde, suffering a fate worse than death—forever bound to serve a ninja group called the Hand. I know this craft, an unholy experiment of their demonic resurrection.” He continued.

“I’m sorry, demonic, what now?” Karen said in disbelief.

“Here, I found this around the guy’s neck. Perhaps it's where the Hand has taken what you’re looking for: the missing body of Benjamin Poindexter.” The blind caretaker tossed a silver pendant at Foggy.

“Is this an old prison tag? It says property of R-ker isles.” Foggy stared at Karen, wide-eyed, as they unraveled the mystery of the notorious ancient ninja clan.

|| Approximately 62 miles from Bellwood, Earth

Agent Marcus Hale pushed aside a low branch and signalled his squad forward, boots sinking into damp soil as they followed the trail deeper into the forest. The sun was dipping behind the treeline, turning everything a muted gold that did nothing to ease the knot in his stomach.

S.W.O.R.D. had sent in Hale’s mobile containment division a few days ago now. They had been combing this stretch of the East Coast since then, tracking the Brood pack that had crawled out of the crashed pod. Each new sign brought them closer, tightening the circle around their quarry.

Too close, Hale thought.

He had read every file S.W.O.R.D. had on the Brood. Every incursion. Every casualty report. Every grainy helmet‑cam recording of chitinous shapes tearing through containment teams. He knew their biology, their hive structure, their hunting patterns.

Knowing was one thing. Actually facing them was another.

“Trail’s still fresh. Multiple sets. Moving fast.” murmured Agent Ruiz, scanning the ground.

Hale nodded. Ruiz was the new of the team, only 22, yet Hale trusted him completely. He’d even given a toast at his wedding a few months ago.

The forest floor was torn up in long, purposeful lines. Trees were gouged. The underbrush flattened. Clearly something had been here recently.

“Eyes sharp. They’re close.” Hale said quietly.

The squad moved in a tight formation, rifles raised, flashlights cutting thin beams through the thickening shadows. The forest around them felt wrong. Too quiet. Too expectant.

They reached a small clearing near a stream. Hale stopped short.

A deer lay collapsed near the waterline. It wasn’t moving. Its flank was torn open in long, ragged strips, ribs exposed where something had ripped through with methodical force. The ground around it was churned and darkened, the soil disturbed by claws that had pinned it down.

Hale felt his stomach twist. The files had warned him what Brood feeding looked like, but seeing the aftermath in person was something else entirely.

A twig snapped.

Hale froze.

Another snap.

Then a low, rhythmic clicking.

The squad tightened instantly, forming a defensive circle. Flashlights swung through the trees.

Shapes shifted between the trunks. Chitin glinted. Eyes reflected back the beams of light.

Hale’s breath caught. Seeing them through a screen had not prepared him for the size of their insecticide bodies, the stillness, the predatory focus. The Brood moved with a terrifying patience, circling the squad with the quiet confidence of creatures that had already decided the outcome.

“Sir… we’ve got at least 6. Maybe 7.” Ruiz whispered.

Hale swallowed. “Hold formation. No sudden moves.”

Then he noticed something strange.

Thin metal chains wrapped around the Brood’s limbs and thoraxes, trailing upward into the canopy. He followed the lines with his eyes, but the branches above were swallowed in shadow.

Someone was controlling them. Someone strong enough to leash a Brood pack.

The clicking stopped.

The forest held its breath.

Then a voice drifted down from somewhere above them.

“Feast.”

The Brood surged forward.

|| London

The penthouse suite of the Corinthian Hotel glowed above the Thames, warm light spilling across polished floors and tall glass windows. A small reception was winding down. Guests drifted between conversations, swirling champagne in crystal flutes while the quartet packed away their instruments.

Sir Rowan Mercer, CEO of Mercer Energies, stood near the balcony doors speaking with a member of Parliament. His voice carried the calm and confident, laughing along to his companions comments. He was proud of himself; he had spent months lobbying for the clean energy bill that would be voted on in the morning, and based on polling data it was very likely his efforts would be successful.

“If this passes, we can finally begin phasing out the older reactors,” Mercer beamed . “It will not be immediate, but it will be real progress.”

The MP opposite him smiled. “You have done remarkable work, Rowan. I hope the House listens tomorrow.”

“Oh I’m sure we’ll do splendidly..”

A security guard approached quietly from where he had been perched against the wall, his fingers at his earpiece.

“Sir, your car is ready.”

Mercer excused himself and followed his two man security detail into the private corridor that led to the elevator. The noise of the party faded behind them as the door closed.

His eyes drifted down to his phone as he walked. He was so engrossed that he wasn’t paying attention as the elevator doors slid opened and his evening changed for the worse.

Three mercenaries in matte black gear surged out with weapons raised. The guards reacted instantly, but the shots were fast and suppressed. Both men fell before Mercer could shout for help.

The ringleader stepped forward and levelled his weapon at Mercer’s chest.

“Talon sends their regards.”

Before Mercer could move, the corridor window behind the mercenaries shattered inward.

A streak of blue light hit the floor.

Lena Oxton rose from the crouch it left her in, her goggles flashing amber. Her chronal accelerator pulsed with soft blue light against her chest. She wore a fitted brown bomber jacket with white sleeves, orange leggings and reinforced boots that clicked lightly on the marble. Every part of her outfit looked built for speed and motion.

Her arms jolted out in front of her as she fired a stun burst that dropped the nearest mercenary before he could turn.

She kept moving, grabbing Mercer by the arm.
“Come with me. Now.”

Gunfire erupted, as Lena blinked forward in time. The world smeared into blue light and she and Mercer reappeared further down the corridor as bullets tore into the wall where they had stood.

Mercer stumbled. “Who are you? What is happening?”

“The cavalry,” Lena said. “Move.”

She pushed him toward the stairwell door and fired back down the corridor. She caught the second mercenary in the chest and sent him crashing into the wall.

Only the ringleader remained upright, shouting orders into a comm as he advanced.

Lena shoved Mercer through the stairwell door, ignoring his protests. She immediately groaned as he looked down the stairs before them. Three more mercenaries were already charging up from below, boots pounding against the concrete steps.

Her thoughts flickered, debating the various ways her old teammates would’ve dealt with this. She decided to do it like Genji would. With precision.

“Stay behind me.” She spoke quickly, giving her unwilling companion a quick glance.

The first mercenary reached them.

Lena concentrated and then much like bdfire, she stepped forward into her future. She appeared behind him, swept his legs out from under him, and tagged him with a stun shot before he hit the steps.

The second mercenary trailed him, swinging a baton towards her.

She ducked, blinked past him, and drove her knee into his ribs. He stumbled and she finished him with another blast from her weapon.

The third mercenary fired up the stairs from below, realising that getting up close maybe wasn’t the best approach.

Lena shifted back to avoid the gunfire before jolting forward.

She blinked sideways, dodging another spray of bullets. She reappeared beside him, and slammed her boot into his chest. He toppled backward and rolled down the steps.

“All right. Down we go.” She huffed, looking up towards Mercer who was simply watching with astonishment.

They descended two more flights, Lena doing her best not to keep telling the CEO to hurry up. It was clear that times of crisis didn’t help with her impatience. It was somewhat warranted though, as giving the sounds from above, the ringleader wasn’t far behind.

Lena heard the click. It was the split second warning of a shot about to be fired.

She reached up and pressed her palm against the glowing core of her chronal accelerator. The device flared, its rings spinning into motion as a soft amber pulse built beneath her hand.

The world snapped backward.

Time rewound around her in a swirl of amber light, pulling her body back up the stairs to where she had stood seconds before. The ringleader who had been lining up the shot now found her suddenly closer and off to the side, his aim thrown.

She pushed off the rail, spun, and roundhouse kicked him. He tumbled down two flights of stairs and lay still after a small thud.

In seconds, she was back by Mercer’s side. She deemed it best not to think too much about the body.

They burst through the back exit into a quiet service alley. A lone security officer waved them over, frantic.

“Sir. This way.”

A car idled with its rear door open.

Mercer turned to her, breathless and shaken. “Thank you. Truly. I owe you my life.”

“There is no need for that. Just get in the car. Hurry.” She pleaded. He was safe now, yet she still felt uneasy.

He hesitated for a moment, looking at her with genuine gratitude, as if trying to memorise the face of the stranger who had saved him. Lena felt the weight of it.

She nodded, giving him a knowing smile.

“Go.”

Finally agreeing, he climbed inside the open car door.

A faint glint caught Lena’s eye high up across the street for only a heartbeat.

The car door began to close.

Her stomach dropped.

“Oh no.”

The sniper shot cracked through the night.

Mercer slumped sideways inside the car as the door slammed shut. A thin line of red seeped out beneath the frame and spread across the wet pavement.

Lena stood in the alley, rain beginning to fall again, her pistols hanging uselessly at her sides.

“Brilliant,” she said quietly. “Just brilliant.”

B E N 1 0
B E N 1 0

|| New York, Earth

Ben had stepped outside the book shop for air, hoping to escape the crush of people inside, only to find himself swallowed by an even bigger crowd. The sidewalk was packed shoulder to shoulder, tourists and commuters pushing past him in every direction. He tried to sidestep out of the flow, but every move just put him in someone else’s way. It was the opposite of the quiet moment he had been looking for.

It had been an uneventful week or so since the Forever Knight incident. Max had suggested a road trip to help Ben clear his head, and Ben had been surprised when his parents actually agreed given how overly protective they had been since he came home. Instead they had encouraged it and he was glad they did. Travelling with Gwen and Grandpa Max again felt like old times.

Unfortunately the first stop was New York, for a book signing Gwen had been excited about for weeks, and not even nostalgia could brighten that for him. Cities felt different now. It was the same with Knowhere and the various other alien megacities he had seen. Louder. More claustrophobic. Too many people and too many chances for something to go wrong. He could not shake the feeling that danger lurked around every corner. He had heard the stories about New York’s costumed villains. It was dangerous here.

Grandpa Max didn’t help that feeling. He had muttered more than once that he wasn’t a fan of the current mayor, Wilson Fisk. Apparently the guy ran the city like a dictatorship and had fingers in every pie worth touching. Max had been very clear that once Gwen got her book signed, they were getting back on the road immediately.

Sadly it seemed that the universe had other plans.

A deep boom rolled down the street. People around him froze, then bolted. Sirens wailed. A helicopter dipped low between the buildings. Ben didn’t need more than that. Something was happening. Something big.

So he did what heroes do and ran toward it.

Everyone else sprinted the other way, shoving past him. They were shouting. Panicking. Ben pushed through the tide, his heart hammering, the Omnitrix already warm against his wrist. As he reached the edge of Times Square he realised this was his first time seeing it. The lights, the screens, and the sheer size of it all. Yet he barely registered any of it. His focus was locked on the thing roaring at the center of the chaos.

Whatever it was towered over the square, a creature of mismatched limbs and impossible anatomy, like someone had stitched together pieces of different nightmares and given it life. Its hooves cracked the pavement with every step. Its long, serpentine neck writhed high above. For a second he understood why everyone else was running.

He slammed his hand down on the Omnitrix without slowing.


Green light burst outward and Wildmutt hit the pavement on all fours, muscles coiled and senses exploding in every direction. His body was a mass of powerful orange fur, thick and bristling, with long claws that dug into the pavement and a jaw built for crushing. He had no eyes but he did not need them. Every scent and every vibration painted the world around him with perfect clarity.

The noise hit him first. It felt like a wall of sound that made him wince, with him letting out a low, involuntary whine. He forced himself to breathe. To focus. To filter everything out. Hearing was useless right now, but smell wasn’t.

And there it was. The scent of something ancient and wrong.

The beast.

Wildmutt bounded forward, claws scraping the ground, as he weaved through abandoned cars and overturned vendor carts. As he closed in, he realised the creature’s back was turned to him. It was focused on something else, something or someone directly in front of it. Wildmutt didn’t know what it was, but he just knew it was distracted.

He didn’t hesitate, letting his form’s primal urges take over.

He lunged and clamped his jaws around the creature’s tail. The Beast shrieked and whipped its tail violently. Wildmutt held on, muscles straining, teeth digging in. The Beast snapped its tail again and again, flinging him side to side. One final jerk sent him flying upward.

He crashed through a billboard 30ft above the street, in a shower of sparks and shattered screens.

For a moment everything was still.


Then Four Arms exploded out of the hole, launching himself straight at the creature's face. He hit it with all four fists, hammering into its skull in a rapid, punishing rhythm. It staggered, hooves skidding into rubble.

It gave Ben a moment. Four Arms landed hard on the ground, shaking off the impact and pulling himself upright. His head rang and his arms ached, but he was back in the fight.

The beast reared and swung a clawed foreleg toward him. Four Arms caught it, his muscles bulging as his boots dug trenches into the street. He held the limb back as it pushed against him. Thankfully he pushed harder. With a roar he twisted, throwing the limb aside and forcing the creature off balance.

The beast reared and its massive maw lunged toward him, jaws snapping shut with enough force to crack him in two. Four Arms caught the upper and lower halves before they could close, muscles bulging as he held the creature’s mouth open. His boots dug trenches into the street as it pushed against him, its breath hot and foul against his face. Four Arms pushed back with everything he had, teeth grinding as he forced the jaws apart inch by inch. With a roar he twisted, shoving the maw aside and knocking the creature off balance

It was in this brief lull that he got a proper look at his surroundings.

As all four of his eyes took in the man nearby, and the gleaming blade in his hand, something clicked. Whoever this person was was the person Wildmutt had sensed fighting the creature before Ben had arrived. The one the beast had been locked onto.

Ben met the man’s eyes and gave him a firm nod of acknowledgement. They were clearly in this together.

Then he launched himself back into the fray, grabbing hold of the creature’s neck. All four arms locked around whatever hold he could find, muscles straining as the it thrashed beneath him. He used one of his free hands to drive a few heavy jabs into the side of its skull, each hit landing with a dull thud that barely seemed to register.

“Guessing you know what this thing is,” he called down, breath tight as the beast bucked again.

It reared, and Four Arms felt the truth settle in his gut. The blows he was landing were doing something, but not enough. This thing was built to take punishment, and he and the swordsman were barely slowing it down.

They might be a bit out of their league here.

[retracted]