Morning After
The next morning, after completing what Felicia had enthusiastically termed a "five-fold configuration," Ben felt simultaneously exhausted and oddly accomplished.
After all, his verifiable record now included successfully managing a 1v5 scenario. That had to count for something, even if the context was profoundly different from typical combat operations.
The immediate priority shifted to waiting for the two alternate Earths to enter collision range with their universe.
"Ben," Norman Osborn suddenly approached, his expression unusually grave as he pulled Ben aside into a private corner.
"Something's not right about the Captain."
"Steve Rogers?" Ben asked, though he already suspected where this was going.
"Back at the Behemoth Star Ring, we knew in advance that the Incursean Empire would attack the conference. We made comprehensive preparations accordingly. Captain America was fully briefed on the intelligence," Norman explained carefully. "But when Harry and I encountered him during the chaos, he seemed genuinely surprised by the assault—as though hearing about it for the first time."
"Hmm..." Ben pinched his chin thoughtfully, tactical possibilities cycling through his mind.
"Skrull infiltrator?"
"Negative," Norman shook his head firmly. "Unless Skrull genetics have evolved beyond our detection capabilities, the instruments would have identified the substitution. We tested him. Results came back completely normal."
"Has he exhibited any other anomalous behavior?"
Norman considered the question carefully, reviewing his observations.
"The Captain is typically reserved and doesn't engage in excessive conversation. But he's been unusually silent these past two days—as though constantly worried about saying or doing something that might expose him. Every word seems carefully calculated."
"There are definitely grounds for suspicion," Ben agreed, his expression hardening with decision.
He rotated the Omnitrix's dial, cycling through settings until reaching the appropriate function.
[Entering Capture Mode]
The watch's faceplate shifted to yellow, its scanning arrays activating.
"First, we need to confirm whether he was replaced entirely, or if he's being controlled," Ben explained. "If it's the former scenario, the Omnitrix will detect that his genetic code differs from Steve Rogers' baseline template. If it's the latter—mental manipulation or possession—nothing will register."
Either outcome would provide the answer they needed.
Ben walked purposefully toward Steve, his demeanor casual and unthreatening.
"Captain," he called out.
"Is something wrong, Ben?" Steve asked.
There was indeed an oddly stilted, overly formal quality to his speech patterns—precisely what had triggered Norman's initial suspicions. Too careful, too measured, lacking Steve's usual natural warmth.
"Nothing serious. I just wanted your perspective on something," Ben said smoothly, his tone suggesting idle conversation rather than interrogation. "If we fail to convince the alternate Earth populations to evacuate their planet voluntarily, we'll be forced to annihilate all life on that world using the antimatter weapons."
He clapped Steve hard on the shoulder in a gesture of camaraderie, his Omnitrix "accidentally" brushing against Steve's hair during the contact.
[Gene Capture In Progress]
Ben's eyes narrowed fractionally as data streamed across his internal heads-up display.
"Captain, you represent the moral conscience of our entire team. Your input matters."
[Atasian Genetic Template Successfully Loaded]
Atasian? Wait—
Ben was genuinely taken aback. Wasn't that the species designation for the Highbreeds?
When had these creatures arrived on this universe? More importantly, when had they initiated their covert secret wars?
He didn't possess those answers yet.
But Ben understood one critical fact: the Highbreed's fundamental objective was dragging the entire universe down into extinction alongside them. Because their own genetics had reached an evolutionary dead-end—stagnation through excessive inbreeding—they sought to destroy all other species' evolutionary potential and forcibly transform every civilization into genetically homogeneous hybrids.
Both the breeding environment for their parasitic control organisms and the optimal living conditions for Highbreed biology required extreme low temperatures—subfreezing climates that would devastate most conventional life.
Having confirmed the infiltrator's true identity, Ben terminated the conversation abruptly. He returned to Norman's position and issued immediate tactical orders:
"Deploy monitoring systems to detect any locations on Earth experiencing abnormal temperature drops—particularly rapid, localized cooling that defies meteorological explanation. If any such sites are identified, immediately dispatch Plumber investigation teams."
His expression became grimly certain. "If I'm not mistaken, there should be a massive climate control tower at each location, artificially manipulating the surrounding environment."
"Understood," Norman nodded, already compiling target coordinates.
Several capable operatives remained on Earth rather than participating in the collision crisis operations—Dr. Connors, the Winter Soldier, Natasha Romanoff, Hawkeye, and others. This represented an excellent opportunity to investigate and neutralize the Highbreed.
"What about him?" Norman gestured subtly toward the fake Steve. "Shouldn't we arrest him immediately?"
"First, we need to locate the real Steve Rogers," Ben said, his tone suggesting this was strategic priority rather than sentiment.
According to Norman's timeline, Steve had probably encountered trouble at the Behemoth Star Ring—which made his current whereabouts extremely uncertain.
Perhaps some random humanoid organism on a distant planet—something that appeared to be a minor background character—was actually Steve Rogers imprisoned in an unfamiliar body.
I hope he hasn't been killed, Ben thought grimly.
He also felt genuine curiosity about how the Highbreed would react when they traveled to an alternate universe for this operation, only to return and discover their entire climate tower network had been systematically dismantled.
The two didn't converse for long.
Because one of the alternate Earths had begun its collision countdown sequence.
The sky above Wakanda transformed to deep crimson, reality itself seeming to fold and distort.
The entire world appeared to be pulled into a strange dimensional overlap—a pocket space where two realities briefly occupied the same coordinates.
Above the blood-red sky, a blue planet emerged, blocking out the sun while emitting an ethereal luminescence that made it appear almost dreamlike.
"From this perspective, Earth really is beautiful," Peter observed, genuine wonder evident in his voice despite the apocalyptic circumstances.
"Even if it's beautiful, we only have eight hours before impact," Tony Stark replied, completely oblivious to romantic sentiment.
He'd already sealed his armor, taking one final look at that beautiful blue sphere before closing his faceplate. His voice emerged through speakers, cold and mechanical—deliberately stripping away human warmth.
"Tony Stark has a warm heart," Pepper Potts had once observed.
But sometimes, protecting that small flame of warmth required being absolutely ruthless in all other circumstances. Mercy was a luxury that endangered everyone he loved.
"Let's move out, everyone," Tony commanded.
The team members wore specially manufactured Plumber combat uniforms—not the standard-issue equipment distributed to ordinary agents. These suits possessed extremely distinctive personal characteristics, immediately identifying the wearers as elite operatives rather than expendable extras.
"Maintain constant communication," Norman warned from the command center. "If the situation becomes untenable, evacuate immediately. Your survival is the absolute priority. Don't sacrifice yourselves for alternate universe populations."
"Understood," multiple voices acknowledged simultaneously.
The strike team said their farewells like astronauts preparing for a dangerous mission. Their uniforms morphed, flight systems deploying as multiple jets emerged from integrated propulsion units. The team launched skyward, ascending toward the impossible planet hanging overhead.
Peter was still processing the physics violation: "This is completely illogical! Two planets of similar mass positioned this close should be gravitationally affecting each other! They should be mutually captured, then collide and tear each other apart—triggering earthquakes, tsunamis, catastrophic tidal forces..."
"Conventional physics doesn't apply here, kid," Tony interrupted. "Besides, without these eight buffer hours, we wouldn't have survived the first collision event. We'd have been obliterated before understanding what killed us."
Those eight hours felt like divine mercy—a grace period granted by forces beyond comprehension.
Or perhaps just self-proclaimed gods deliberately creating dramatic tension for their own amusement.
The collision crisis wasn't a natural phenomenon. It was artificial—engineered by some cosmic entity with purposes beyond mortal understanding.
But the mastermind orchestrating everything wasn't Kang the Conqueror. The identity remained unknown, though clearly possessing power that made even ancient Builders hesitate to speak openly.
Ben didn't know who controlled the crisis. But he understood action was necessary—especially since the second Earth appeared to be experiencing a chain reaction, its approach accelerating as dimensional barriers weakened.
In the sky overhead, two Earths existed simultaneously in the same space, yet without physical impact. As though occupying different dimensional layers that briefly overlapped.
"Let's go," Ben said, turning to his own team: T'Challa, Felicia, Looma, and the fake Steve Rogers.
Then he launched himself skyward.
"Jetray!"
His crimson Aerophibian form lifted Felicia gently but securely, rocketing toward the second Earth at speeds approaching light velocity.
Looma swung her golden hammer overhead, flames erupting around her as she achieved flight through sheer divine power.
This weapon had once been one of seven godly hammers controlled by Vilgax. But after Vilgax's defeat, the dwarves of Nidavellir had reforged them. Three had found worthy wielders: Beta Ray Bill, Looma, and Brunnhilde.
Bill wielded a short hammer resembling Mjolnir, commanding lightning's fury. Looma's long-handled warhammer controlled primal fire. Brunnhilde had fused hers with the Dragonfang Sword, creating a silver blade wielding ice's absolute zero.
Captain America had actually been recognized as worthy by one of the remaining hammers during their adventures. But he'd chosen not to claim it—preferring to rely on his shield and personal capabilities.
And the current "Steve Rogers" certainly wouldn't be using it now.
T'Challa and the fake Steve couldn't achieve independent flight. They relied entirely on their suits' thruster systems, accelerating upward with considerably less grace than their superhuman companions.