Luthar idly flicked the scarab across his desk, its metal legs scraping faint grooves into the polished surface. It scuttled back toward him without hesitation, climbing his arm with clicking steps against his sleeve. He did not flinch.
With a bored flick of his fingers, he dismissed it. The scarab folded into stillness.
His gaze turned distant, no longer focused on the chamber around him but on the black site buried deep within the Alaskan tundra—where the first wave of action had already begun.
At the black site, the corridors hummed with routine. Two security officers walked their patrol, trading clipped remarks about shifts and clearance codes. Cameras swept the halls; sensors pulsed—the layers of vigilance seemingly unbroken.
High above, hidden in the cramped darkness of the ventilation shafts, faint insectile clicking echoed in rhythm. The scarab crept along, its carapace glinting in the dim red emergency lights. Pressing flat against the vent, it vanished into shadow. From its shell poured dozens of smaller constructs, flooding every channel of the system like a living tide.
Below, Sitwell sat in the control room, fingers drumming against the console. Since learning he would be in charge of the Vankos' custody, he had begun weaving fantasies of faked deaths, secret deals with Hydra, and swift promotions. In his mind's eye, he was already climbing Hydra's ranks. A smile spread across his lips.
Distracted, he failed to hear the subtle metallic click behind the vents. Then the flicker came on the monitor—a guard suddenly paused, clutching his chest as something twisted inside him. Sitwell frowned, confusion seeping in. And then the first scream shattered the calm.
Like falling dominoes, screams erupted through every corridor.
Bodies contorted in grotesque defiance of human form. Limbs stretched and shrank, bones snapped in a symphony of agony. The air filled with shrieks, alarms, and the metallic clicking of scarabs skittering beneath flesh. Panic clawed at Sitwell's mind for the first time; his daydreams dissolved.
He slammed buttons, desperate to seal doors, lock vents, and override security—but every command came too late. For the scarabs, fueled by Pym-particle technology and shielded against defenses, no barrier could hold. They tore through guards effortlessly.
Sitwell's mind snapped from ambition to survival. He ducked behind consoles, scrambling for escape. His eyes darted to the monitor of the Vankos' cells—if he could contain the swarm, he might still keep the scientists. But even that hope faltered as he watched the slaughter unfold.
Without warning, a tiny construct leapt from the vent onto the console. His breath caught, screens flickered, and alarms blared. Panic consumed him.
The corridors became a storm of chaos. Guards scrambled blindly, firing wildly, bullets hitting walls or each other. Limbs elongated, torsos twisted, heads compressed—each death a precise and horrific display of Pym-particle manipulation. One man's torso ballooned grotesquely, crushing walls as his legs vanished into the floor. Another shrank to a fragile husk, swept away like debris through the vents.
Small groups of guards made desperate stands, hands trembling as they fired. The scarabs ignored bullets crafted from titanium. Turrets screamed uselessly before discharging harmlessly. The compound descended into total ruin.
Suddenly, Sitwell's console exploded beside him, showering sparks into the smoky air. He flinched, scrambled back—but it was too late. A scarab leapt onto him, slipping inside his armor. His scream was sudden and violent and cut short as his body warped impossibly before crumpling into a grotesque heap. His dreams of Hydra glory ended with a wet, metallic snap.
Amid the ruin, a calm presence emerged: Luthar arrived. He moved through the devastation without hesitation, scarabs falling in line behind him, their small but deadly weapons humming with precision. With every step, another guard died—many never drawing weapons before their bodies began to twist in unnatural torment.
Doors buckled, walls warped, and automated defenses collapsed. Even the elite personnel were consumed within moments.
Anton and Ivan Vanko watched from their cell, breathless. Anton whispered, trembling, "You shouldn't have come… That man's prepared a trap for you."
Luthar's gaze met his, unwavering and cold. "I came. And you are safe. That is all that matters."
He moved among the carnage like a shadow of calm authority. Scarabs and constructs struck down anyone foolish enough to resist. Yet his path remained untouched. The Vankos' safety was absolute; the destruction around him was merely a testament to his control.
Remaining personnel scattered, hiding behind storage rooms and closed doors. The violence was surgical and unrelenting.
Then, suddenly, the compound trembled. Explosions ripped through corridors, and steel groaned and buckled. Fire raced along beams; sparks rained from shattered consoles. Smoke poured through the hallways like liquid shadow. Yet amid the inferno, Luthar's protective field enveloped the Vankos, a shimmering shield against annihilation.
The facility erupted, but none of it touched the Omnissiah's servant. Steadfast amid the chaos, Luthar moved with unshakable composure.
The Vankos watched in stunned silence, feeling the residual heat and trembling beneath the weight of the destruction. Ivan's wide eyes mirrored awe and fear—the realization sinking in that they had not just survived. They had been Protected by power beyond comprehension.
The black site, once a fortress of human control, was now a smoldering ruin. Fires raged; corridors vanished; walls were molten skeletons of steel. Yet in the heart of the devastation, Luthar stood. For a moment, he pondered whether to meet Fury and give him a memorable encounter—but remembering Captain Marvel he deciding to postpone and prepare contingencies for Captain Marvel.
Silence followed the storm. The tundra itself seemed to shiver, acknowledging the arrival of the Omnissiah's servant. The Vankos were alive—but the world they had known was gone.