- SPACE -
The vastness of space, a cold, endless ocean of stars, was quiet.
Too quiet.
It was the kind of silence that felt almost sacred, like the breath before a prayer… or the heartbeat before a death. The emptiness of the void was misleading. Out here, even nothing was alive. A stillness that held secrets in its dark folds, some ancient, some newborn, and some hurtling toward catastrophe.
The silence didn't last.
A silver vessel darted through the void, sleek and glinting in starlight. No larger than a city bus, its teardrop-shaped body gleamed with alien alloy, its surface studded with angular protrusions and sensor dishes. Twin ion drives flared at the rear, streaking cyan contrails across the starscape as it banked violently to avoid a tumbling asteroid.
Behind it came death.
An obsidian predator emerged from the shadow of a shattered moon, a warship vast enough to blot out the light from nearby stars. Its hull was shaped like a broken blade, all harsh lines and fang-like protrusions. Where the courier ship was elegant and nimble, this thing was brutal, made to intimidate before it even fired a shot.
The smaller vessel corkscrewed through a debris field, skimming dangerously close to a collapsing asteroid belt. Automated defense drones launched from its undercarriage, spinning like angry hornets before launching bursts of high-frequency energy at the pursuing warship. The blasts struck harmlessly against the larger ship's shields, little more than sparks against armor.
Inside the cockpit of the fleeing vessel, lights flickered red. A synthetic voice crackled in a foreign tongue. The pilot, obscured in silhouette, barked back in the same alien language, calm, but fast. The ship banked sharply left, barely avoiding a plasma torpedo that detonated in its wake, the shockwave hurling smaller rocks toward its nose. It punched through them with raw thruster power, bouncing against fragments and scraping hull plates.
The enemy ship was still gaining.
Inside the warship's bridge, cold blue light bathed the interior. Panels pulsed with ancient Kree script, and deep hums echoed from the ship's colossal energy core.
An imposing figure stood at the fore of the command deck, tall, broad-shouldered, cloaked in regal black robes with violet trim. His skin was a deep cerulean blue, and bioluminescent tattoos glowed faintly across his jawline. His hands were clasped behind his back as he watched the fleeing ship dart across the screen like a firefly.
"Keep firing," he ordered, voice like cracked ice. "Destroy that Galvan trash. I want nothing left of their meddling inventions."
The gunner adjusted the targeting reticle. "They've deployed drones. Interference at thirty percent."
"Then raise the output," the commander replied coldly. "Fry their circuits."
From the underside of the warship, twin particle lances extended, glowing with violet plasma before firing continuous beams. One drone disintegrated instantly, the others scrambled, but the beams kept going, tearing through the debris field and sending shockwaves through the smaller vessel's shields.
The fleeing ship was buffeted, panels tearing from its frame as it spiraled out of control. Inside the cockpit, the pilot slammed a button on the console, releasing a burst of countermeasures; hundreds of tiny crystalline spheres that exploded in blinding flashes, temporarily disorienting sensors.
On the warship's bridge, alarms flared.
"Visual lock lost! They've cloaked!"
"They can't cloak with those engines," the commander growled. "Find them."
The smaller ship used the moment of confusion to slip behind a large asteroid and reroute power to its propulsion. With a guttural hum, it surged forward.
But not fast enough.
The warship re-acquired them and fired a salvo of micro-missiles. The projectiles curved around obstacles like guided wolves, slamming into the rear of the courier vessel. The explosion rocked the small ship violently—flames burst from its engines, and hull integrity plummeted. Emergency systems kicked in. Stabilizers sputtered.
Inside the command deck of the warship, the commander smiled as he leaned toward the screen. "There. Now finish them."
But before the final shot could be ordered, a soft alarm chirped.
"Sir," one officer said urgently, scanning a rapidly updating feed, "They've launched something… just before the reactor breach."
"What?" the commander snapped, stepping closer.
A visual appeared, a single pod, fired from the broken courier ship just before its tail section detonated. It was small, durable, and fast, coated in ablative plating designed to withstand atmospheric reentry. It streaked away from the wreckage, aimed like a bullet.
"Trajectory?" the commander asked.
The officer looked up, hesitating. "…Planetary descent. Sector 15-Z-Alpha. Local system identifier: Earth."
The bridge fell into silence for a moment.
The commander's confident smirk slowly faded. He turned toward the stars, toward the blue-green planet already visible ahead.
He knew that world.
Everyone on the bridge did.
"No," he muttered. "We're not going down there. Not again."
"But, Commander, it could be—"
"Do you want to risk her finding us?" he snapped.
The room tensed. Her. The word was not spoken further, but every Kree on the ship knew what he meant. That being. That fury. That walking solar flare.
"…Initiate warp drive," the commander finished, voice hardening. "We've done enough. Let the humans deal with whatever landed."
The warship turned, light bending around it. In a surge of blinding violet, it jumped, vanishing beyond the stars.
And far below, the pod pierced the upper atmosphere of Earth, glowing white-hot as it blazed across the night sky like a falling star. Alarms would sound in military installations. Civilians would glance up in awe. Conspiracy theorists would salivate.
But for now, no one truly knew what had arrived.
Only that it had.
And that the sky was on fire.
- BLACK SITE 17 -
S.H.I.E.L.D. Observation & Containment Facility
Utah Desert, USA – 3:37 AM Local Time
Population: Classified | Status: Active – Level 5 Clearance Required
The desert was silent save for the distant hum of turbines and the ever-present sigh of wind sweeping through the dunes. Hidden beneath the pale orange rock and dust was Black Site 17, a ghost in the system, unlisted on any map, unknown to all but the most senior operatives in the global intelligence network. Above ground, it looked like a derelict airfield: helipads, radar towers, a few sparse hangars. But underground, it pulsed with activity.
In a scanner room the size of a small theater, the faint blue glow of a massive wall-length monitor bathed the space in cold light. A man in his mid-30s sat at the console, slouched in a way that betrayed the black-and-white professionalism of his S.H.I.E.L.D. suit. He sipped coffee from a dented metal mug that read "World's Okayest Agent."
Agent Donald Ressler, former FBI manhunter, had been reassigned here four weeks ago. "Reassigned," of course, being a nice way of saying benched.
He groaned, tapping the side of the mug as if hoping the coffee inside might spontaneously turn into whiskey.
"I go from chasing international fugitives to babysitting a giant space radar," he muttered. "Glorified desk duty."
A low chuckle answered him.
"Could be worse," said a deeper voice behind him. Agent Argent Volasko, a seasoned man in his 40s with deep umber skin and the kind of calm that came from seeing too many close calls, slid into the chair beside him. He handed Ressler a fresh refill. "You'll come to miss the quiet when it's gone."
Ressler scoffed, brushing a hand through his sandy blond hair.
"Sure. I'll miss falling asleep in front of giant screens and pretending I'm important."
And then the universe, as it always does in these moments, answered him.
The massive display blared red. Alarms shrieked. The previously serene screen erupted with telemetry warnings as a single bright dot surged across its surface like a comet on fire.
"Holy hell!" Ressler jolted up, nearly spilling his drink.
Volasko was already leaning over the controls, fingers dancing across the interface with the ease of a veteran. A steady voice followed the flurry of motion.
"Unregistered object blew past Satellite Gamma. No comms, no IFF signature. It's… fast. Trajectory points to the abandoned missile silo site, bearing 293. Possible impact in under 45 minutes."
The screen zoomed in, whatever it was, it was moving. The object pulsed with heat signatures and radiation anomalies not native to anything made on Earth.
Ressler leaned in, his eyes narrowing as the scanner focused on the descending object.
"…It's got a power source," he murmured. "And the material scan… that's not steel. That's not any known alloy."
Volasko turned, his calm now tinged with gravity. Inside the operations center, agents scrambled to terminals, issuing rapid command bursts to satellite uplinks and drone networks. Then, Volaskos' voice crackled through the intercom: "All strike teams Alpha through Delta, gear up for live contact. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill."
Down in the armory, mechanical racks swung open, revealing full S.H.I.E.L.D. combat kits: ballistic vests, EM-pulse rifles, containment foam launchers, and alloy-reinforced field helmets. Agents rushed through the aisles with practiced precision, snapping gear into place, checking each other's suits and sensors.
The motor pool roared to life.
Twin rotor SH-22 tactical helos warmed up on the pad above. Three MRAPs (Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected vehicles) rolled out of subterranean garages, their wheels kicking up dust as drivers keyed in target coordinates. Accompanying them were two Hunter-Class scout vehicles equipped with forward radar and long-range sensors, flanked by a mobile uplink truck designed to maintain line-of-sight communications with satellites overhead.
Volasko and Ressler sprinted through the garage, locking vests as they approached their assigned Humvee.
"Delta Team, with me! Standard containment sweep. Assume extraterrestrial payload. No contact unless engaged," Volasko barked into his wrist mic.
"Copy that, Delta rolling," said a voice from his earpiece. Above, the helos lifted off in formation, twin blades thundering against the still-morning sky.
Within six minutes of the alert, thirty-seven armed agents, three mobile units, and two air teams were en route across the desert.
- ABANDONED MISSILE SILO -
Utah Desert, USA – 4:37 AM Local Time
Population: 0 | Status: Decommissioned
The desert was dark, the sun not yet cresting the horizon, leaving the terrain bathed in deep indigo shadows. The convoy advanced in staggered formation, vehicles in a wedge, eyes on the ridgelines, gunners manning their turrets. Dust kicked up behind them, briefly lit by the red glow of rear brakes and infrared marker lights.
"Check-in. Alpha Team?"
"Moving to the south ridge. Eyes on heat signature. No movement."
"Bravo?"
"Setting up forward triage near the silo. Medic is on standby."
"Copy. Delta?"
"Ten klicks out. Approaching crater from the northwest. No signal interference so far."
The comms were tight. Crisp. Everyone was on edge.
Up ahead, the silhouette of the abandoned missile silo came into view, tall, skeletal, rusting from decades of disuse. But beyond it was something far newer: a fresh trench of scorched earth, gouged deep into the desert floor. Something had plowed through at hypersonic speed.
Volasko's Humvee stopped fifty meters out.
"Dismount!" he ordered.
Agents poured out with weapons drawn, splitting into fireteams. Each moved with precision: one on point, one watching rear, the other two flanking. They advanced toward the impact trench, boots crunching over charred rock and twisted metal. Infrared scopes swept the area while drones zipped overhead, scanning for residual energy signatures.
A heavy silence hung over the site.
The missile silo's perimeter fence had been torn open by debris, its northern watchtower completely flattened, the support struts bent outward like tin. The outer ring of the silo itself was scorched, cratered, and warped by kinetic force. But there were no fragments of the object. No wreckage. No identifiable crash pod.
Nothing.
Volasko crouched at the crater's edge, raising a handheld scanner. The readings were bizarre, off the charts, fluctuating, not from anything in Earth's databases.
Ressler, rifle raised, stepped closer, his voice quieter now.
"There's no heat trail… no impact shrapnel. Whatever came down… it landed. Or it vanished."
Volasko tapped his earpiece.
"Control, this is Delta Lead. Impact site is hot. No contact, no wreckage. Radiation low. But something came in here... and it walked away."
He paused, then added one final order.
"Get me Director Fury. Now."
- ABANDONED SCRAPYARD -
Utah Desert, USA – 2:15 AM Local Time
Population: 1 | Status: Active
The quiet stillness of the desert night was pierced by the unmistakable beat of a boombox, blasting "Hey Ya!" by Outkast with reckless, defiant energy. The scrapyard around it looked like a graveyard for forgotten metal, rusted cars, twisted beams, and stacks of discarded electronics piled high. But it was far from abandoned. A patchwork of solar panels, pieced together from scavenged shards of glass and wire, crowned the main building's roof, humming quietly under the moonlight.
In the center of the yard, an old RV, weathered and patched more times than it deserved, sat like a relic from another life. Beneath it, a figure worked with steady hands, the clink of a wrench and the hiss of loosened screws weaving through the music.
Sliding out from under the vehicle with a grunt, the young man wiped a streak of oil from his cheek, smudging the tan skin further. His brown hair was tousled, flecked with smudges of grease, while his green eyes caught the faint glow of the RV's battered frame with a mixture of frustration and fondness.
"I'm not gonna lie, Grandpa… I really wish you'd left me something better than this—this rustbucket," he muttered with a wry half-smile, tossing the dirty rag aside. But even in his grumbling, the way he looked at the vehicle betrayed a deeper respect, an inherited legacy of grit and stubborn hope. "But hey, it was your gift. Guess I gotta make it work."
He pushed himself up, his boots kicking up dust as he moved toward the RV's door. Inside, the cramped space was a chaotic blend of old-world comfort and improvised tech wizardry. Faded upholstery mingled with stacks of salvaged laptops, hand-built processors, and tangle of wires running to scanners perched like sentinels in the corner.
Ben settled into the driver's seat, fingers deftly adjusting knobs and buttons on a homemade radio cobbled together from spare parts scattered around the yard. His gaze flicked to the glowing screens, eyes sharp and hopeful.
"I know you're out there… somewhere," he whispered, voice thick with quiet determination. "Just gotta show yourselves."
His fingers danced over a keyboard, pulling up old news articles from 1995. Headlines screamed of a flying woman, alien spacecraft, and whispered conspiracies about shapeshifting lizard people walking among humans. This was the world he'd stepped into when he walked away from a promising university career, a life most would call reckless, but to him, it was necessary.
Sometimes, doubt crept in, clawing at his resolve. But tonight wasn't one of those nights.
3:30 AM
A sudden beep jolted him awake, his scanners had caught something hurtling through the atmosphere, blazing a fiery trail against the sky.
"Finally," Ben breathed, a grin spreading across his face.
He ran to the steering wheel, the engine sputtering to life beneath his hands. "Come on, Rust Bucket, don't fail me now."
With a roar, the RV burst through the scrapyard's battered gate, kicking up dust as Ben sped toward the unknown.
"Let's see what you've got, universe," he whispered, determination blazing in his eyes. Benjamin Summers was coming, and he was determined to finally satiate his hunger.
- ABANDONED MISSILE SILO -
Utah Desert, USA – 3:50 AM Local Time
Population: 0 | Status: Decommissioned
Ben eased the Rust Bucket to a halt just a few feet from the gaping maw of the silo's entrance. The vehicle's tires crunched against the gravel, sending a small cloud of dust swirling in the cool desert air. He grabbed the worn bolt cutters from the passenger seat, the metal cold and reassuring in his grip. Approaching the rusted perimeter fence, he paused for a moment, eyes scanning the scene bathed in moonlight, twisted metal, scorched earth, and an eerie silence that pressed heavy on his chest.
Taking a deep breath, he set the cutters against the chain links. The slow, grinding snap as the metal gave way echoed unnervingly loud in the stillness. He slipped inside the broken fence, each step sinking slightly into the churned soil. The devastation left behind was unlike anything he'd ever seen, massive craters, scorched dirt, and fragments of technology twisted beyond recognition.
His heart thudded, part excitement, part dread. This could be it.
He tightened his grip on the prod, a jury-rigged tool that crackled with blue-white electricity at the flick of a switch. The heavy battery pack on his back hummed softly, powering the device.
"Alright, Summers… this is what you came for," he whispered, eyes narrowing as he advanced toward the heart of the wreckage.
The air grew warmer, almost unnaturally so, prickling at his skin. Then he saw it, half-buried in the crater's jagged floor, a perfect black sphere, cracked and scarred but pulsing with a vibrant green light from within the fissures.
Ben slowed, the prod's sparks dancing over his fingers as he reached out tentatively. The sphere's surface vibrated faintly beneath his touch, and then, abruptly, it emitted a sharp, rapid series of beeps. The fractured shell began to peel away like petals opening, revealing a sleek, black watch nestled inside, gleaming with an almost otherworldly sheen.
The watch's surface was etched with a strange, glowing insignia that pulsed rhythmically. Suddenly, a beam of emerald light shot forth, sweeping over Ben in a precise scan. His breath hitched, and he stumbled backward, eyes wide with shock.
A low, mechanical voice spoke, but the words were indecipherable, alien. Ben's skin prickled as if the watch were reaching into his very mind.
Before he could react, the watch twitched violently, springing from its resting place and snapping around his left wrist with a force that made him cry out.
Green lines of glowing code erupted from the watch, crawling up his arm like living energy, coiling around his body. A surge of power coursed through him, overwhelming and electrifying. His muscles tightened, his vision blurred, and waves of dizziness crashed over him as if the entire universe was rewriting itself inside him.
Pain and awe crashed together, and then... nothing.
When Ben's eyes fluttered open, the world was sharper, each sound crisp, each shadow defined with a clarity that stunned him. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, every nerve alive with sensation.
Far off, the rhythmic chopping of helicopter blades sliced through the desert's calm, pulling him back to reality.
He gasped, clutching the containment unit like a lifeline, adrenaline flooding his veins as he raced back to the Rust Bucket. The barren landscape seemed to bend closer, shrinking the distance with unnatural ease beneath his newfound senses.
Throwing himself into the driver's seat, Ben stared at the watch encircling his wrist, its green glow steady but pulsing like a heartbeat of its own.
His voice was a harsh whisper, trembling with awe and fear:
"What the hell just happened to me?"