A quiet guilt had taken root in Ben's mind, and it had little to do with supervillains or alien threats. It was about Enara and Ouyana, the twin consciousnesses of Alien X. He had been so focused on the outcome, on the sheer, overwhelming power they represented, that he had forgotten the most fundamental truth: they were not tools. They were beings, real and ancient, existing on a plane that dwarfed his own comprehension. Forcing his will upon them, treating them as a simple function of the Omnitrix—it was a profound violation.
It's not just them, he realized with a sinking feeling. He thought of the fiery pride of Heatblast, the gruff loyalty of Four Arms, the cold logic of Grey Matter. Each transformation was a window into a soul, a life, a species with its own history and emotions. To use them as mere instruments was not only disrespectful, it was the one thing Azmuth, in his cantankerous wisdom, would have abhorred the most. The Omnitrix wasn't a weapon; it was a bridge.
"I need to find a way to apologize," he muttered to himself, the words feeling hollow even in the privacy of his own thoughts. Enara and Ouyana were justifiably furious. An apology might not even be accepted, and beyond that lay the practical problem that had driven him to such arrogance in the first place. "I just… I don't have an eternity to sit around and debate with them."
With the issue of Alien X temporarily shelved, Ben found himself in the strange and unfamiliar territory of having nothing urgent to do. The world kept spinning, but for the first time in a long while, he wasn't the one frantically trying to keep it on its axis. He slipped back into a semblance of a normal life—attending classes at Midtown High, splitting his free time between the magnetic pull of Felicia and the easy comfort of Mary Jane, and managing Primus Technologies.
It was a peaceful interlude, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was the only one enjoying it. Peter was a whirlwind of activity, constantly consumed by his duties as Spider-Man. And the girls… they were hiding something. Whenever he tried to broach the topic, they would deflect with practiced ease, their shared smiles a little too bright, their denials a little too quick.
Ben didn't push. He knew better. There were unspoken territories in any relationship, little secrets that were sacrosanct. He'd learned that a man's browser history was his own private chamber of horrors, and a woman's chat log with her best friend was a vault more secure than fort knox.
At that very moment, in a quiet corner of the school library, Felicia and Mary Jane were huddled together, one head of spun gold and one of fiery red almost touching as they whispered.
"So, when do you think he's finally going to admit it?" Felicia murmured, her gaze fixed on Ben across the room, who was idly flipping through a textbook. "That he's the other one. Prime."
Mary Jane sighed, her brow furrowed with uncertainty. "Maybe… never? I think he's trying to protect us, Fee. You saw what happened with Peter. That Kraven guy went after him just because he took pictures of Spider-Man."
"I'm tired of being protected," Felicia countered, a familiar spark of defiance in her eyes. "I want to protect him. Or at least stand beside him when the fighting starts."
Mary Jane nodded in fervent agreement. The sentiment was noble, but the reality was stark. "I get it. But what can we do? I'm not exactly keen on becoming a lizard monster." She shuddered theatrically. "No offense to Dr. Connors, but if my face ended up looking like that, with a mouth full of fangs… I'd be devastated."
"Me neither," Felicia sighed, her shoulders slumping.
"Maybe Dr. Octavius could invent something for us?" Mary Jane suggested hopefully.
Felicia gave her a look that was equal parts exasperation and affection. "MJ, Dr. Octavius is a physicist. That's like asking a baker to fix your car engine." She sighed again. "Besides, my mother fired him."
The memory of it still stung. After the Hydra incident, Mrs. Hardy had been deeply displeased by Otto's association with the chaos, even after he was completely exonerated. In a move of cold corporate self-preservation, she had forced him to leave all his research materials behind and unceremoniously kicked him out of the Hardy Foundation's funding program.
Ben knew, of course. Dr. Connors had told him, his voice heavy with sympathy for his friend. Ben held Otto in the highest esteem; the man was a giant, a pioneer whose brilliance was matched only by his integrity. So, before Otto could even begin to process the betrayal and fall into despair, an invitation from Primus Technologies had arrived.
The data Mrs. Hardy had seized was irrelevant. At Primus, Otto was confronted with technology that made his previous work seem quaint. He stared at the heart of Ben's Zanium arc reactor, a core that pulsed with the cold, brilliant blue-white light of a newborn star, and felt a profound sense of inadequacy. It was a power source that far surpassed anything he had ever dreamed of creating.
He had lowered his head, a bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaping his lips. "What could I possibly do for you?" he had asked, his voice rough with emotion.
Ben had simply placed a hand on his shoulder. "Doctor, humanity's potential is limitless. An artificial sun was your pursuit, but it shouldn't be your only pursuit. Don't waste your talent. The world needs minds like yours."
That simple encouragement had been like a shot of adrenaline to Otto's soul. He had thrown himself into his work, not on any new project just yet, but on deconstructing and understanding the very reactor that had humbled him. He, alongside a reserved but brilliant Bruce Banner, had found a new home at Primus—a sanctuary for science, free from the constraints of corporate greed and shortsightedness.
While Felicia and Mary Jane dreamed of power, another sought it for far darker purposes.
In the steel-and-glass heart of his tower, Wilson Fisk stood with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing down at the sprawling, chaotic streets of Hell's Kitchen—his kingdom. He had suffered humiliating losses in the wake of his confrontations with Spider-Man and the vigilante known as Prime.
Spider-Man, he could manage. The boy was powerful but indecisive, bound by a moral code that Fisk found both naive and exploitable. He could create a dozen decoy deals, bury his true operations under layers of misdirection, and watch the hero spin his wheels, overwhelmed and ineffective.
But Prime… Prime was different. He and that maniac in the goblin armor had operated with a ruthless efficiency that had shaken Fisk to his core. Bullseye was dead. Several of his most trusted lieutenants were gone. His standing in the city's underworld, and even within the clandestine alliance of villains, had become precarious.
He needed an edge. He needed talent. Not just one or two enforcers, but an army. And he had found a lead.
A legend whispered in the darkest corners of the criminal world: the Black Cat. A master thief from a bygone era, a ghost who was rumored to be the only person alive who knew the complete formula for the original Super Soldier Serum. And, according to Fisk's sources, he was currently languishing in a forgotten S.H.I.E.L.D.. prison.
"S.H.I.E.L.D. is gone," a voice rasped from the shadows. "H.A.M.M.E.R. has taken its place, and they're too busy hunting Hydra ghosts to watch their back doors. It's the perfect time to slip inside and find him."
The man who spoke was Dmitri Smerdyakov, a master of disguise known as the Chameleon. After the death of his half-brother, Kraven, he had found new, lucrative employment in Fisk's service.
"Can you find this Black Cat, Chameleon?" Fisk asked, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the room.
"Of course," Dmitri hissed, a confident smirk playing on his pale lips.
"Excellent. Do not disappoint me." Fisk's satisfaction was a cold, hard thing. He had weathered too many failures recently. While the losses were manageable for an empire of his size, the constant erosion of his authority had left a bitter taste in his mouth.
He gave the order, and the Chameleon melted back into the darkness. His ability to become anyone made infiltration a simple matter. The true challenge would be locating one man within the labyrinthine bureaucracy of H.A.M.M.E.R.'s inherited prison system. In this universe, the infamous super-max prisons like the Raft or the Cube didn't exist—there simply hadn't been a need. But that was changing.
Aboard the Spear of H.A.M.M.E.R., the lead Helicarrier now serving as the organization's mobile headquarters, Ben and Norman Osborn were facing that very problem.
"The prisons are full," Norman stated, steepling his fingers as he looked at a tactical display showing containment facility statuses across the country. "We're running out of places to dump this Hydra garbage."
The sheer number of captured agents was staggering. They were everywhere—in politics, finance, law enforcement. Norman couldn't simply execute them all, not publicly. As the Director of H.A.M.M.E.R., he had to maintain a facade of civility, a pretense of justice that he found utterly tedious. So, the prisons filled to bursting.
"Some of these villains don't deserve a death sentence, but we can't risk them escaping, either," Ben added, scrolling through a list of enhanced criminals. "It's time we built something new. A dedicated facility for super-powered threats."
But the prison could wait. A more pressing issue had brought the Avengers to their doorstep.
In the Helicarrier's main briefing room, Ben and Norman sat across from Tony Stark and Steve Rogers. Between them, on the polished metal table, sat the Tesseract. It pulsed with a soft, ethereal blue light, a silent testament to a power that defied comprehension.
Steve's expression was weary, his eyes fixed on the cube. "You shouldn't have taken it out of the ocean."
He had been helping sort through the mountain of old S.H.I.E.L.D. files when he'd stumbled upon the research logs for Project P.E.G.A.S.U.S. and the Tesseract. A tense conversation with Maria Hill had led them here.
"We didn't retrieve it, Captain. Fury and S.H.I.E.L.D. did," Norman corrected smoothly, deflecting the blame with practiced ease. It was, after all, the truth. "And Fury was trying to build weapons with it."
Hill, standing by the door, had no counter to that.
"So this thing," Tony began, gesturing at the cube with a dismissive wave, "this is the Infinity Stone you were talking about? The one that can snap its fingers and kill half of everyone?"
Ben nodded grimly. "If the wielder wants it, it would only take a thought."
"Then we should destroy it," Steve said, his voice firm, his jaw set.
"There's little point," Ben shook his head. "The energy of the stones is immense. To destroy one, you need an equal or greater power. More importantly, as long as the Time Stone exists, any destruction can be undone."
"Then we destroy the Time Stone, too," Steve argued.
Tony leaned back, a smirk on his face. "I think the problem there is that the Time Stone is in the hands of some bald mystic in a mountain monastery. Am I getting that right?"
"Close enough," Ben conceded, choosing not to elaborate on the Ancient One. "The point is, destroying the stones is unrealistic right now. When Fury tried to awaken the Tesseract, its energy acted like a beacon. It broadcast Earth's location across the universe."
The mood in the room instantly sobered.
"You're saying… we're expecting company? From space?" Tony asked, his usual flippancy gone.
"Exactly," Ben said. "The cube itself isn't the problem anymore. The problem is the war that's coming to our doorstep."
Tony's eyes darted between Ben and Steve, a look of theatrical suspicion on his face. "Okay, hold on. Is no one going to explain this whole 'Loki from Asgard is a good guy now' thing? Because I feel like I'm missing a chapter. I've heard of Alaska and Texas, but Asgard? Did you two meet some hot alien chick behind my back?" He jabbed a thumb between them, winking at Ben.
"It's all in the official mission archives, Tony," Steve said with a tired sigh.
"Too lazy to read."
So, Steve patiently recounted the events in New Mexico.
Tony was about to launch into a fresh round of sarcastic commentary when a piercing alarm cut him off. It wasn't the Helicarrier's alert system, but a sharp chirp from a Plumber communicator on Ben's belt. He placed it on the table, and a holographic image of Loki flickered to life.
His face was grim, his features drawn tight with urgency. "This is Loki," he said, his voice clipped and professional. "I have reached the Oort Cloud and are beginning deceleration. Estimated time of arrival in Earth's atrium is thirty minutes."
"Acknowledged," Ben replied, and deactivated the transmission. He looked up at the stunned faces around him. "Speak of the devil… or the god, I guess."
Tony and Steve stared, mouths agape.
"Did he say… thirty minutes? From the Oort Cloud?" Tony sputtered, looking genuinely floored.
Steve just looked confused. As the man with the least formal scientific education in the room, he scratched his head. "Is that another cloud with a special name? Like, in the atmosphere?"
Tony looked like he was about to have an aneurysm. "The Oort Cloud is at the edge of the solar system, Cap. It takes light a year to get there from here!" He threw his hands up in disbelief. "Do you understand what that means? This alien ship of his is moving faster than anything we can imagine!"
They didn't have to wait long. Norman raised the Helicarrier's energy shield, and the small group made their way to the flight deck, the wind whipping around them as they stared up into the blue sky.
Thirty minutes later, on the dot, a flaming scar ripped through the atmosphere. A spaceship, heavily damaged and trailing a thick plume of black smoke, plummeted toward them like a dying meteor.
"His condition seems… less than optimal," Steve observed dryly.
"A keen eye, Captain! Your powers of observation are truly astounding," Tony shot back, his own gaze locked on the falling craft. He turned to Ben. "Got a plan for that? Because at this speed, it's going to turn either him or this multi-billion-dollar Helicarrier into a very expensive crater."
Just as he spoke, the ship's descent began to slow, its engines screaming in protest. Norman expertly opened a precise aperture in the shield, and the battered ship shot through, skidding across the deck in a shower of sparks before crashing to a halt just yards from the command tower.
"Well," Norman said, surveying the wreckage with a calm, appraising look. "Now we can petition the World Security Council for more funding."
The ship's ramp hissed open, and Loki stumbled out. He was covered in soot and grime, his fine Asgardian leathers torn and scorched. He staggered forward, gasping for breath, his eyes wide with a terror Ben had never seen in him before. He locked eyes with Ben, his entire body trembling.
"They're coming!" he choked out.
"Who, Loki?" Steve demanded, taking a step forward. "Who's coming?"
Loki's panicked gaze swept over all of them, a silent, desperate plea.
"War!"
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