Secret War: Phase One · Three Days Prior
The moment Andrew's body touched the couch in the lounge, the soft polyurethane foam swallowed him in a cocoon of exhaustion. Just as he was ready to give in and drift into sleep, the lounge doors swung open. Out of the corner of his bleary eyes, he caught a glimpse of gold and red—a massive figure approached silently. The other soldiers in the room didn't alert him to the approaching Praetorian Guard—likely because, like him, they were dead tired after days of relentless work.
His team had been arresting, interrogating, and executing Skrulls on the East Coast based on a preliminary list. But the list had been rough, incomplete. Many Skrulls were still in hiding. After capturing prisoners and gathering intel, everything was sent to Eternal City, where the Black-Armored Inquisitors processed the data and passed actionable intelligence back to Andrew's unit.
What followed was the same cycle over and over—capture, interrogate, execute. What had initially been thrilling had dulled into mechanical repetition. During operations, Andrew also had to avoid U.S. law enforcement and steer clear of situations where they might get surrounded by heavy firepower.
"Maybe we'll get sent back to the East Coast tomorrow," Andrew thought—right before he was lifted off the couch.
"Incredible that you can still talk in your sleep at this level of exhaustion," Constantine said with a smile, setting the First Secret Corps captain back on the couch. Andrew's startled outburst woke the others in the room. The Praetorian wasn't wearing a helmet, and all the soldiers clearly saw his face. Though the First Secret Corps regularly worked with genetically enhanced warriors like the Praetorians, that didn't mean they were immune to the "superhuman anxiety" such beings inspired. That said, Andrew's team had it better than most.
"I bring a direct order from the Monarch."
As everyone scrambled to stand and salute, Constantine's smile vanished. The moment they heard it came from the Monarch, Andrew's back muscles tightened like steel cables. A storm of tension swept through the room.
"First, the Monarch wishes to thank the First Secret Corps of Fimbulwinter for your service in purging the Skrulls on North America's East Coast." Even as a relayed message, Andrew could feel the Monarch's stirring oratory resonating through the Praetorian's voice. He and his team saluted again out of reflex, though Constantine ignored it.
"But the enemy is endless. The operation to eliminate Skrulls will continue for a long time. Effective immediately, the Monarch orders the formation of a special unit within the First Secret Corps dedicated to handling the Skrull threat—specifically to identify and root out alien spies hiding on Earth, and to study their behavioral patterns. This special unit will have operational command priority when Skrulls are involved. Your knowledge will be the key to victory. Here is the list of unit members… Codename: Secret War."
Andrew and his entire team were on the list.
Normally, they'd carry out various other missions, but in any operation involving Skrulls, this unit would assume command. They were also authorized to recruit from other units, training new soldiers in Skrull-related knowledge. However, such recruitment would not affect the standard chain of command—those soldiers would still obey their usual superiors except when a Skrull situation arose. Then, Andrew's team would take precedence.
Military rank wouldn't override this structure—sometimes even a corporal might take charge of an entire campaign, simply due to their specialized knowledge on Skrulls. The goal was to minimize the chaos infiltration could cause, especially to avoid enemy decapitation strikes. Against enemies that could mimic humans at the genetic level, no precaution was too excessive.
What Andrew didn't know was that several in his team also belonged to another special unit for dealing with Inhumans—likewise appointed by the Praetorian Guard, and typically composed of soldiers with medical backgrounds. And within that Inhuman-focused unit, a few—including Andrew—belonged to an even deeper tier of operatives, trained to confront extradimensional threats hiding among humans, with access to dangerous arcane technology.
Only the Praetorian Guard knew the true complexity of this command web—and who each person really was.
"In three days, the first large-scale purge will commence. You'll be authorized to deploy tactical nuclear weapons and siege cannons," Constantine continued. "Given the Skrull refugees' level of tech, expect dangerous urban combat. Not all Skrulls hide in plain sight. Some isolate themselves. If they resist capture, terminate them and erase any trace they leave behind."
Some Skrulls had become reckless after taking on human forms—resulting in legal consequences for the identities they had assumed. In such cases, the Skrulls had no choice but to abandon those identities. These were mostly early arrivals to Earth—aging, weary of human life, and now living in secluded settlements as Skrulls in their natural forms.
"For the Monarch," Andrew stood straight. "For humanity. For unity."
Solomon's expression was difficult to read as he reviewed the incoming report from the Praetorian Guard.
"As far as I remember, I never authorized battle slogans," he said. "I prefer short, explosive rally cries. Like… 'FUCK'…"
"Please, my lord, mind your manners. Don't kill their morale," Constantine shook his head, helpless before his master's abrupt sarcasm. He'd noticed Solomon had changed his overcoat's belt that morning—and after tea, Stephanie had worn the exact same style. Since the Monarch made no comment, Constantine had no intention of bringing it up.
Just like with the name "Malik"—Stephanie was pure aggression.
Constantine trusted the Monarch knew how Stephanie felt. If he chose silence, that was already an answer.
"Don't interrupt me, you mustard-colored hot dog smothered in ketchup!"
"Whatever makes you happy, my lord. This power armor was your design, after all."
Solomon gave him a sharp look. "Let me put it this way. In three days, I'm joining that op. But I won't be wearing the golden armor, and I won't be bringing the Oath of Victory sword." He waved dismissively. "Don't try to talk me out of it. Do you know how long it's been since I've cut anything? Ever since the Fimbulwinter Battle, the extradimensional realm's been quiet as the grave. If I don't find something to chop soon, I'll lose my damn mind."
"Should I cancel the soldiers' deployment, then? You could handle the entire settlement while strolling and eating a sandwich. Honestly, it might be better to just let the troops rest."
"Ugh… If I'd known, I would've crammed more ketchup into your brain when I made you!" Solomon sighed. "Let the soldiers handle it. I'll sit here in this office and rot. Maybe I'll get moldy enough to cultivate penicillin."
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