The change in the situation came without any warning, as though it had happened in a single instant.
Just a moment ago, the world had still been peaceful and calm. Though there were the usual rises and falls of street heroes and evil villains, coups in small nations, refugee tides, border conflicts, and other disturbances, the overall tone had remained one of peace and stability. And yet, in the very next instant, it seemed poised to march toward the Finality of destruction.
As twisting, overlapping, sky-shrouding mobile steel mountain ranges crossed the depths of space and pierced through the orbital expanse between Earth and the Moon, the shadow of apocalypse quietly descended upon a world that had only just enjoyed less than five years of calm since the last alien invasion.
Time does indeed dull the past. Unknowingly, five years had passed since the Battle of New York, when the alien force known as the Chitauri invaded Earth. Life had to go on. The so-called alien invasion had once again become something found on toy shelves and in textbooks.
However, when an even more suffocating terror and despair descended once more, the memories people had deliberately tried to forget would rebound with even greater intensity, distorting themselves, exaggerating themselves, turning ever more horrific.
Somewhere in Europe.
Inside a modest guest room, several rather old-fashioned televisions—antiques from the previous century—were broadcasting live feeds: the White House spokesperson, NBC, CBS, ABC, Stark Industries, and the Avengers base.
"Captain, we have to do something..."
A tall, thin Black man stood facing the window, his fists clenched as he spoke with agitation.
The news of a vast alien army pressing in could not be concealed. Across the entire Northern Hemisphere, anyone who looked up at the sky could see it with the naked eye. Reports—official, private, individual—poured out every moment, a flood of information that blurred truth and rumor alike. In plazas and on streets, chaotic crowds roared, and from time to time, sharp screams rang out.
He knew what those screams were.
Satellites being destroyed.
The television had already made it clear. Tens of thousands of military, industrial, communication, and navigation satellites—whether government or privately owned—had been largely annihilated.
In orbit, abandoned satellites and even space debris were swept away in large swaths by the approaching alien warships. Captured by Earth's gravity, they shattered and turned into fiery meteors, raining across the Northern Hemisphere.
"We have to do something... I know, Sam... but just the three of us won't be enough."
Sitting on the sofa facing the television, a scruffy blond, blue-eyed white man murmured at first. Then he stood up. At over six feet three, his physique was as close to a perfect human specimen as one could imagine.
He looked at the anxious, tall, thin Black man.
"We need to reestablish contact with Stark. With Secretary Ross. With Director Nick Fury."
"Have you thought this through, Steve? We're all wanted felons. If we're caught, summary execution on the spot wouldn't even be excessive."
The voice that spoke was slightly husky, rich with a mature, bone-melting allure.
"Natasha, this isn't about personal grudges."
His hair was slicked back messily, his beard untrimmed, yet the eyes of the man called Steve had never been more serious.
"My argument with Stark, my conflict with the Secretary—none of that is worth mentioning in the face of a global crisis. If they want to shoot me, they can wait until we've driven off these unwelcome guests."
"I need my shield."
He added, gesturing toward the other two. "Sam, you need your new wings. Natasha, you need more field gear. If we fight alone, we'll lose without question."
His sense of justice would not allow him to ignore it. Would not allow him to run.
Because he was Captain America.
Clenching his fist, Steve Rogers looked out the window. Shouts filled the crowd—some shrill and piercing, others praying to heaven. Fire-meteors streaked across the sky above the city, and from their impact points, columns of smoke rose. The haze cast a heavy veil across his weathered face.
The broadcast continued. On screen, those fleeing, evacuating cities, and staging protests—yes, of course, this was America, even in catastrophe—gave their statements:
'Can the Avengers take responsibility for this?' 'Where are our superheroes?' 'Can our Captain protect us like he did seventy years ago?' 'The Avengers are divided!' 'Captain America is a fugitive!' 'We're finished!' 'Fight to the end—let's take those alien bastards down with us!' 'Surrender! Keep the war away from us!'...
All the hope, fear, resistance, despair—even the carnival of chaos—cut deeply into Captain America's heart.
Only half a century had passed.
What had happened to America?
That image of unity once seemed so vivid before his eyes. How had it faded so completely? Since awakening from the ice, his values had clashed sharply with those of modern American youth.
If society needed a banner, then he would stand once more to embody the "American spirit." Just as he had during World War II. Even if he had to become a martyr's banner, he would walk to his death willingly.
"Captain, I'm with you!" Sam Wilson, the Falcon, declared immediately.
"You're the Captain," Natasha said.
"Good. Sam, start up the Quinjet. Natasha, contact King T'Challa of Wakanda. Tell him it's time for Bucky to fight at our side again."
Once decided, they moved swiftly. Captain America stripped off his shirt, pulled a suitcase from beneath the coffee table, and put on the long-unused Captain America combat suit. "First to Edinburgh. We rendezvous with Wanda and Vision, then head to the Avengers facility in New York."
Screech~
The agents moved quickly. Before long, the room was empty. The roar of jet engines faded into the distance. With communication satellites destroyed and signals lost, the screens turned to static one by one, leaving only the White House spokesperson's stuttering latest announcement.
"...bzzt... The President, the Secretary of State, the Secretary of Defense, and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs have reached a consensus... bzzt... to hold a diplomatic meeting with the extraterrestrial visitors... bzzt... location... New York..."
...
New York.
"Motherfucker, Tony Stark! What we need right now is to buy time. Don't you dare pull another Ultron or 'industrial satellite turned military satellite' stunt!"
"I'm sick of cleaning up the mess for you reckless so-called heroes!"
The moment they met, Nick Fury unleashed a barrage at Tony Stark, who looked equally grim-faced.
"You don't get to lecture me on technical issues."
Stark waved him off, his expression sour. "I'm not falling into the same pit twice. I don't need you reminding me."
The Ultron incident had indeed made him far more cautious about unknown technologies and scientific overreach—but that did not mean he would tolerate a layman questioning him on technical matters.
"You'd better not!" Nick Fury's face darkened even further as he ground his molars.
The man had changed a great deal. But where he was an asshole, he was still an asshole.
"So?" Stark shot back. "You said we need to buy time. What's your trump card?"
Watching the Avengers' New York facility, which had been completely sealed off by agents from S.H.I.E.L.D., the Secret Service, and other organizations, along with Marine Corps honor guards and sentries, Stark lowered his voice.
"So now you're not so confident?" Nick Fury shot him a glance.
"Reality won't change just because I refuse to admit it or talk tough. Warships of that scale—if they unleash a full volley or conduct orbital bombardment—even if I throw in everything Stark Industries owns, it won't make a difference."
"According to Friday's comparative calculations, the 'visitors' we're facing are far stronger than the Chitauri who invaded New York five years ago. You've seen those 'super aliens,' haven't you? Don't tell me S.H.I.E.L.D.'s technology has degraded that badly. The reinforcements you're hoping for—Captain America, the Falcon, Black Widow..."
At this point, Stark let out a short laugh. "Can they cross the cosmos? Is he going to throw his shield and knock that thing down?" He pointed upward at the steel firmament looming like storm clouds over the city, faintly visible even to the naked eye.
"You're still resentful toward the Captain..."
"Resentful? That's a joke. My plan to armor the world with Iron Man suits. My revised orbital defense emergency counterstrike program after the Ultron fiasco. He opposed all of it. An antique stuck in the last century..."
His voice suddenly rose several levels, drawing the attention of agents preparing the meeting site. Stark took a deep breath. "Sorry. Got a little worked up. It's fine."
He flashed his trademark crooked smile apologetically at the agents before turning serious again toward the dark-skinned director beside him.
"The results prove I was right. Because of their opposition, how much time did I waste? Fury, you'd better tell me S.H.I.E.L.D. still has a card up its sleeve. Not Thor. Not Dr. Banner."
"We do."
At a moment like this, confidence had to be established. Nick Fury would not hold back. "Though I'm not sure how strong she is now." He left it hanging deliberately.
"'She'?"
Just as Stark was about to press further, a low hum vibrated through the air.
"Tony, the President and the Secretary of State have arrived. The alien... our alien guests have also arrived."
Boom!
War Machine landed. His black-and-white metallic helmet, distinct from Iron Man's red-and-gold, opened to reveal Colonel Rhodes' stiff, uneasy nod.
At that very moment, the sun dimmed.
Stark stepped down the stairs and walked into the open space, raising his head to face the darkening sky.
As the shadow gradually swallowed the sun's direct brilliance, darkness spread rapidly. Everyone felt their throats go dry.
The dark gray warship hovering above New York after entering the atmosphere was simply too vast. With a length measured in the tens of kilometers, it turned the sky into a murky black-gray. An oppressive color. The color of steel. Cold and unfeeling. Unsettling to behold.
"Now that is awe-inspiring industrial beauty."
True to his name, Iron Man's focus was exactly where one would expect.
The sharp-edged, austere industrial aesthetic. The dense array of massive gun barrels beneath the hull. The countless weapon modules of unknown function, long and short, hive-like clusters clearly visible. Stark even found himself locking eyes with figures standing behind protruding observation windows along the belly of the ship.
And this was only one vessel from the invading fleet. The true flagship still hovered between Earth and the Moon.
The thought sent a shiver of fear crawling across Stark's skin, his eyes widening.
His blood boiled.
"Rather than industrial, I'd say their construction style is interesting. Castles. Palaces. Cathedrals... Those weapon modules—don't they resemble battlements on a city wall?" Agent Hill, Fury's deputy, mused thoughtfully. "That emblem—two-headed eagle?"
"Could they, like Thor, be a godlike race that visited Earth in ancient times? An Asgardian-like species possessing extraordinary powers. Perhaps many of the gods and heroes in our myths and history actually referred to them?"
She sounded uncertain.
"If that's the case, it would be ideal."
Stark raised an eyebrow. He had entertained a similar speculation.
"...If we take hostile action now—boom—the entire state of New York, no, the entire East Coast, would probably be flattened in an instant," Nick Fury said, still staring upward.
"Let's hope nothing goes wrong."
This was far more intimidating than any Kree warship he had ever seen.
Stark neither agreed nor disagreed.
"Rather than that, we should reinforce security. I hear quite a few extremist groups want to sabotage this meeting. Mutants. Hydra. Tsk... So many people with self-destructive tendencies."
"Hmph. Isn't that why we have you, Iron Man?"
Not long after, the Black President stepped onto the red carpet accompanied by Secretary Ross and a host of generals and senators. He signaled for the military band to begin playing when—
Vmmmm—!
A cerulean teleportation beam descended.
All eyes turned toward it. Breath stilled. Pupils widened.
Thud thud thud—
Footsteps like rolling thunder resounded.
Pairs of crimson lenses flared to life. Daemon Inquisitors clad in silver-gray masterwork power armor strode out of the teleportation beam's boundary, advancing along the prepared red carpet until they stood before Marine sentries holding ceremonial M1 Garand rifles.
Towering shadows instantly engulfed the Marines.
More than a dozen Daemon Inquisitors emerged from the beam, their armor polished to a mirror sheen, each bearing their preferred brutal weapon at their waist. Their gazes swept freely before they methodically took their designated positions.
The welcoming crowd fell utterly silent, seemingly overawed by the bearing and authority of these three-meter-tall armored giants.
Elderly senators and society ladies clutched their chests and leaned back as though about to faint.
Super Hulk meets super Iron Man.
Secretary Ross' gaze burned the fiercest of all. In that instant, he felt his failed super-soldier program had found a new direction for research.
Tread tread~
What followed surprised everyone.
A group of figures with normal human proportions—at least humanoid lifeforms.
They wore crisp iron-gray uniforms, nearly indistinguishable in appearance from humans, carrying briefcases and document cases required for the meeting.
Before the assembled dignitaries could begin whispering among themselves—
Clatter—
"Alien big shots are no different," Stark muttered from the viewing section. "They love their pageantry too."
The extraterrestrial delegation stood solemnly in formation.
Bang!
Within the shimmering particles of the teleportation beam, a towering figure materialized.
The distinctive gleam of bright silver. The exquisite, ornate full-body masterwork armor. Everything proclaimed his status.
Knowing the most important guest had arrived, the Black President steeled himself and stepped forward.
"Welcome—"
Before he could complete the ceremonial greeting, the tallest of them, clad in the most resplendent silver armor, halted abruptly and turned his head sharply.
Vrrm!
A violent aura surged forth without warning.
The visor of his helm swept past the bewildered sentries and elderly senators, locking onto Iron Man—specifically, the space beside him.
"Situation changed. A non-human xenos species with hostile intent has infiltrated the venue."
"Negotiations terminated. Purge the threat. Identify and eliminate the xenos."
Click.
BOOM—!
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