Click.
Everything happened in the blink of an eye. The moment Master Chief John-117's voice fell, the Daemon Inquisitor warrior closest to the ceremonial platform had already raised his masterwork bolt pistol.
A faint crimson glow lit up his targeting lens. The helmet's built-in fire-control auto-aim system synchronized with the bolt pistol's smart gyroscopic targeting module. No manual aiming was required. The electronic compound-eye camera locked onto the target in an instant.
He pulled the trigger decisively.
BOOM!
Thud!
At that distance, a bolt round might as well have been instantaneous.
The clash of metal rang out like thunder. Tony Stark's eyes widened as time seemed to slow.
Before him, a blazing cluster of fiery sparks burst from the chest of his best friend as the man was hurled backward like a piece of candy crushed between fingers. The black-and-white metallic War Machine armor was torn open by the detonating inferno bolt. High-temperature fragments of varying sizes punched through it, scattering like a deck of cards flung across a table—now transformed into whirling debris that sprayed outward in every direction.
Bzzzz—
That was the roar of the War Machine armor's Arc Reactor being destroyed head-on, more than three billion joules of ionized energy per second thrown into catastrophic overload.
"Danger, sir."
The Iron Man helmet snapped shut. It was Friday's warning that jolted Tony Stark out of the blank void in his mind.
Only then did he truly feel the sting of searing metal shards slicing across his cheek.
The next second, his chest heaved violently.
"Rhodey!"
BOOM!
Time had no regard for the fury igniting in Iron Man's heart. In less than a millisecond, another explosion sounded.
This time, the target was not steel.
Regardless of the bolt ammunition type, one fact remained: when a bolt round struck flesh directly, the visual effect was devastating.
Nick Fury—Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., the so-called King of Spies—was torn apart almost instantly. His black leather coat shredded into tatters. Chunks of meat, organs, bone fragments, and blood sprayed outward, splattering Stark's visor in a nauseating crimson mist.
In less than half a second, two of his closest comrades lay dead before his eyes.
Through the blood-smeared lens, Stark stared blankly as Fury's head—crushed and deformed like a rotten black egg smashed flat—lost its final point of support, struck Stark's shoulder, and rolled to the ground.
BOOM! BOOM BOOM! BOOM BOOM BOOM—
"Anomaly detected. Multiple non-human xenos species with hostile intent have infiltrated the venue!"
"Negotiations terminated. By order of the Master Chief—purge the threat. Identify and eliminate the xenos."
Gunfire, tearing flesh, detonations—everything erupted at once.
The armored giants moved with unprecedented speed. Most people could not even perceive the moment they drew their weapons. Amid the gunfire, more than a dozen North American and United Nations delegates were reduced to mangled meat. Even the packed spectator stands and press section were not spared—over twenty were executed with precise shots.
"They're killing people!"
"The aliens are killing people!"
Flesh and severed limbs splattered across innocent bystanders. Some fainted on the spot. Others screamed in terror. Still others ran blindly in panic.
A few, in utter hysteria, leapt over the security barriers and charged toward the Daemon Inquisitors who were methodically searching for something—
"Noisy."
A single heavy slap granted them infant-like sleep.
One Daemon Inquisitor noticed the Arc Reactor reaching critical overload and imminent detonation. With precision, he tossed a shield grenade.
"Lower your weapons, mortals."
Loyal agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Secret Service naturally drew their guns at once to shield the dignitaries behind them—but the Daemon Inquisitors were faster. Magnetic control systems activated. Firearms were ripped from hands and suspended midair, confiscated in an instant.
"They will be returned after the purge is complete."
Some of the Daemon Inquisitors employed a form of psychic suggestion, combined with certain "physical measures," to calm the panicked crowd.
Of course, not everyone was calmed.
"You'll pay for this..."
Armor deployed, wiping the blood from his visor, Stark looked at the towering armored giant striding toward him through the chaos. His eyes ignited with rage and hatred.
Vmmmm—
He raised his hand. Energy gathered in his palm.
He fired.
BOOM!
The incoming energy beam was swatted aside by sheer brute force.
The armored figure casually executed a Secret Service agent whose cosmic energy signature registered as abnormal, then turned his attention fully to the red-and-gold figure before him.
"Iron Man?"
"Wow. My fame's reached outer space already? Even if you're a fan, I still—"
The same razor-edged sarcasm.
But in the next instant, Stark understood the difference in the enemy he had chosen.
They did not listen.
They simply acted.
Fast. Precise. Ruthless.
BANG—
Facing the surge of erupting cosmic energy, Stark's vision was consumed by a blazing violet-red light ten meters away.
Because the venue was semi-indoor, there was little distance to create separation. As Stark spread his arms and shoulders to unleash micro-missiles, he felt an overwhelming impact slam into his chest—like being struck head-on by a high-speed train.
With a thunderous crash, the central structure of the requisitioned Avengers New York base shattered. Glass exploded. Walls were pierced layer after layer. The red-and-gold armored body hurtled under gravity, colliding violently with reinforced concrete.
Structural collapse. Twisting rebar. Cracked concrete.
At the far end of the crater lay Iron Man's battered form.
"Sir, armor integrity at 47 percent."
"Cough... damn it! Friday, activate the nanites!"
Amid the static-filled data display, Stark felt dizzy and nauseated, his entire body aching. His optic nerves lagged as though deafened. His ears rang from the high-decibel shockwave.
"Sir, the Mark 50 is not yet complete. Nanite technology is still unstable—"
"Activate it!" Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth as he clenched his jaw.
BOOM!
As Stark struggled to shove aside rubble and stand, a terrifying shockwave blasted outward. The building's interior structure cracked apart inch by inch. From above, a massive armored figure descended, smashing through the thick ceiling and bringing down his fist.
The sonic boom from the punch tore through the air like a hurricane.
"Friday, evasive maneuver!"
"Yes!"
The leg thrusters roared to life. Under tremendous propulsion, Stark shot upward like a rocket, clearing dozens of meters in an instant.
The fist passed within inches.
Skrrrkk—
A grating shriek sounded as the Iron Man helmet was partially torn open by the shockwave.
"Urgh!"
He ripped off the damaged helmet. His face was bruised and swollen, blood streaming from his nose, lips stained red, blood seeping from ears and nostrils alike.
He gagged and vomited.
It felt awful. Physically awful.
The sound was like metal scraping glass—piercing his eardrums—and like a hammer smashing into his skull. It felt as though his brain had been shaken into slurry.
If not for the armor's exceptional shock-absorption system, that glancing blow alone would have left him brain-dead.
More troublesome than the Hulk.
"Friday, summon the Mark 48 Hulkbuster 2.0. Immediately—"
"An interesting trick. But you no longer have the opportunity."
Accompanied by the ringing clash of metal, the armored giant had already closed the distance. His five fingers spread wide, engulfing Stark's face in his grasp.
"Futile anger. You did not even realize your friend had been replaced."
...
BOOM!
A thunderous roar like the earth splitting apart echoed outward. The Black President's hand, extended in ceremonial greeting, froze stiffly in midair.
Several seconds passed.
When he finally came back to his senses, his body trembled uncontrollably. His lips had turned pale. He felt bile rising in his throat, yet he forced himself to look up at the towering silver-helmed giant before him—arms crossed, a silver-gray half-cape fastened to his left pauldron, the number "117" emblazoned upon his chest.
"Your Excellency... what... what is the meaning of this?"
He was just a contracted employee. Four-year term. At most two terms. Why stake his life over this? He was about to retire after completing his second term—who could have predicted something like this would happen? Blessed indeed. Two alien invasions, both during his presidency.
Now, every rising star within his party and every rival in the opposition had suddenly become paragons of virtue.
Each one upright and noble, the halls filled with righteous voices and courteous deference: "Only you are fit for the presidency in this crisis." "This is a moment of life and death for the nation. You must follow President Roosevelt's example and seek a third term." And so on.
The President's face had nearly turned green from fury.
When it came to scrambling for power, they had never shown such unity. Yet now, when real danger loomed and he was on the verge of retirement, they shoved everything onto him. If something had to be done, it had to be him?
Volunteered without volunteering. "The people's choice." The soon-to-be second president in American history to serve a third term.
He had no choice but to step forward. Willing or not.
Negotiation was the best option. That was his first thought.
His White House advisory team and military consultants had already run the calculations. Fight? Impossible. Hiding in bunkers would be useless. Based on estimated mass and structural strength, even if the enemy warship carried no weapons at all, simply accelerating and ramming Earth would be enough to send humanity back to the Stone Age.
If war had to come, it must not come during his term.
Stall. Maneuver. Delay.
The olive branch extended by the other side had been precisely why he chose to attend the meeting in person rather than hide in a bunker. It was also, admittedly, an opportunity to accumulate political capital and project a fearless image.
He did not want to die for his country.
And yet, a moment ago, they had seemed prepared to negotiate in good faith—only to suddenly turn and slaughter indiscriminately.
From heaven to hell in an instant.
"Has the negotiation broken down?"
Seeing the President breathing heavily as though his own father had just died, Master Chief replied evenly, "It has not broken down. Negotiations between our forces and your government remain ongoing. This is merely a temporary suspension. The venue is being cleared. A xenos threat is being purged."
"Mr. President, it appears neither you nor your governmental apparatus realized that your world has already been infected by xenos infiltration."
"Xenos... infiltration?"
A seasoned politician could regulate his emotions swiftly. Upon hearing that his own safety was not immediately threatened, the President forced himself to calm down and consider the word "infiltration."
"They were... infiltrated?"
As he observed the Daemon Inquisitors pushing through the chaotic crowd, executing individuals at random intervals as though conducting spot inspections, while Imperial Army and Naval Foreign Affairs personnel calmed civilians and dignitaries alike, realization dawned upon him.
"Senator Stevenson, Representative Tuttle... How could they be infiltrated? What is that? The bodies—oh God, the bodies are changing!"
He cried out suddenly.
The corpses of those eliminated by the Daemon Inquisitors were turning green.
"Oh my God... look at them! Why are they green? Mutants?"
"Those they killed were hiding among us—green-skinned creatures. Xenos."
"Xenos? Damn mutants, always causing trouble!"
An uproar swept the crowd, but the suffocating fear eased slightly.
The dead were no longer human. Their blood had turned from red to a dark purple-black. Brave onlookers quickly realized the armored giants were not killing humans, but these green-skinned impostors. Some mutant-haters even began cursing them as though they were ordinary mutants.
...
"Skrulls."
John's voice, deep and resonant, carried across the venue. Through precise manipulation of cosmic energy, each word rang clearly in every ear, forcibly commanding attention.
"The dominant species of one of the three great interstellar empires—the Skrull Empire. Green-skinned. They possess the ability to alter their physical forms at will, disguising themselves as others. Recent memories and genetic traits can also be replicated."
"They are notorious throughout the cosmos. A race of spies. Of copies. Of imitations."
Unless one developed specialized detection technologies as the Kree had done over millennia of war, ordinary civilizations found them nearly impossible to guard against.
As for Master Chief John-117 and the Daemon Inquisitors—their methods of detection were not replicable.
Bathed in the primordial essence of a newborn multiverse, possessing affinity for Marvel's cosmic energy, and having undergone repeated evolutionary transformations fused with Honkai energy, they could observe and identify such beings directly at the energy level.
"A race born to be agents," John added.
He gestured.
Two living captives were dragged forward.
Squish—
With a respectful nod toward the President, one Daemon Inquisitor seized a blonde female reporter and drove a tactical combat blade into her abdomen. Fused Honkai-infused cosmic particles were forcibly injected into her body.
"Aaahhhh—!"
A shrill scream tore from her throat.
Released, she collapsed to the ground, clawing at her own face in agony. Skin split beneath her fingernails. Bright red blood streamed down her cheeks—gradually darkening into purple-black ichor.
Her flesh tore apart. Blood splattered everywhere.
Her body writhed violently.
Pale skin shifted to sickly green. Her ears sharpened. Blonde hair sloughed away. Clean skin became ridged and rough, marked by irregular purple patterns like veins in a plant.
The transformation was undeniable.
Secretary Ross and the others beside the President exchanged stunned glances.
"Continue," John ordered.
"Yes."
Another captive—a Latino male—was lifted as though squeezed like an orange. Violet-red energy particles flickered. The man, who had been shouting moments before, suddenly went slack and vacant.
The giant addressed the President. "Touch his skin."
Left with little choice, the President hesitantly reached out and brushed the man's fingers.
The result was horrifying.
From the point of contact outward, half of the man's body shifted—his features, skin tone, wrinkles, scars, even expression—becoming identical to the President.
One half black, one half brown. One half tight curls, one half straight hair.
Grotesque.
"Why are so many Skrulls infiltrating Earth? The Solar System does not fall within their sphere of influence. They can scarcely defend even their home galaxy."
John gestured for his subordinates to remove the subjects—keeping several alive for research—then turned his gaze back to the President, who was still processing the revelation.
"Are you accepting interstellar refugees? If negotiations continue, do these Skrull xenos count as your citizens?"
"I don't know. But they are certainly not citizens."
The President spread his hands bluntly.
"If this happened, it must have been decisions made by previous administrations. Or perhaps mutants. Hydra..."
He lowered his voice.
Since the outcome could not be changed—shift the blame.
Such was American politics.
—
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