Everyone held their breath, weapons aimed toward the dark corridor ahead. Six black barrels slowly emerged from the shadows—clearly a Gatling gun—and the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents immediately prepared to open fire.
But Fury, recognizing the shape, shouted,
"Hold your fire! It's friendly!"
Sure enough, stepping out of the darkness was not another terrifying Chaser, but an early-model Sentinel unit, its mechanical frame covered in blood and deep claw marks. Following close behind was Bolivar Trask, the brilliant, dwarf-statured inventor of the Sentinel program.
Relief swept through the command center. The arrival of Trask and his Sentinel wasn't just a stroke of luck—it was salvation.
"Director Fury," Trask greeted calmly, his tone as composed as ever despite the chaos. "Do you have any idea what's happening? Those zombie creatures have reached the flagship itself. Are the other ships below suffering the same breach?"
Unlike the terrified agents, Trask appeared utterly unshaken. The Sentinel beside him bore the scars of heavy combat, but the man himself was immaculate—his tailored suit spotless, not a hair out of place. Compared to the many agents who hadn't made it back, he looked almost unnervingly calm.
Fury shook his head. "To be honest, Mr. Trask, we have no idea what's going on. Our communications, flight systems, and naval control protocols have all been compromised and shut down. We can't reach the fleet. Right now, our only option is to defend this command center—if the nuclear launch controls fall into enemy hands, it's over."
"Understood," Trask replied, nodding once. Despite the grim news, he didn't show a hint of panic. He gestured to the hallway behind him, and several more Sentinels stepped forward, positioning themselves to guard every entrance to the command room.
"These are my last functioning Sentinel units. They'll provide additional defense. As for me—I have some expertise in artificial intelligence systems. If you'll allow it, I'd like to inspect your system failures."
"Much appreciated," Fury said, his tone firm but sincere. In a situation this desperate, every bit of help mattered—and a few Sentinels were worth a platoon of men.
---
Meanwhile, Agent Coulson, who had been tasked with signaling the fleet, finally reached the upper flight deck.
The wide, wind-swept surface of the Helicarrier was now a killing field. Scattered across the steel floor were huge splashes of blood, stark against the cold gray metal. The bodies that had left those stains were nowhere to be found—most likely torn apart and thrown overboard by the Chasers prowling the deck.
Even among elite S.H.I.E.L.D. troops, few could stand against these monsters. Without concentrated heavy firepower, human soldiers were nothing but prey before them.
Coulson knew that all too well. The few agents still with him were exhausted and outmatched. Against the Chasers, they wouldn't last minutes. He gripped his weapon—a massive prototype BFG cannon originally modeled after the Destroyer's energy core. It was powerful enough to annihilate a Chaser or two… but no more than that.
He crouched low, scanning for a clear shot toward the sea below, where Professor X's ship was stationed. If he could just get one clean line of sight, he could fire a warning blast and alert them.
Before he could act, the agents accompanying him exchanged glances—and suddenly broke cover, sprinting into the open. They opened fire wildly, shouting and drawing the attention of every nearby Chaser.
"What are you doing—?!" Coulson started to yell, but then it hit him. They were sacrificing themselves—to buy him the time to take the shot.
He swallowed the words, eyes tightening. There was no time for grief. He slipped toward the deck's edge as the Chasers tore into his comrades, their screams echoing through the howling wind.
Coulson steadied the massive weapon, locking onto the ship below. His finger squeezed the trigger.
A beam of white-hot energy lanced downward—a perfect shot.
But before he could breathe, a shadow loomed behind him. A Chaser, faster than he could react, swung its claw in a brutal arc.
Coulson never saw it coming. The impact tore him apart in an instant—his body falling to the deck in pieces.
At least… the shot was fired.
---
Far below, aboard a destroyer, Professor Charles Xavier sat in his wheelchair on the deck, eyes closed in deep concentration. His mind was focused on the battle in Queens, his telepathic senses scanning every heartbeat across the battlefield.
Then, suddenly—boom!
A thunderous explosion erupted behind him, shaking the entire deck. The shock was so strong that it snapped his focus instantly. He furrowed his brow in irritation and turned around.
"Please," he began, "try to be quiet. I need to—"
He stopped mid-sentence. His expression shifted from mild annoyance to grim alarm.
Not far behind him, a smoking crater had been blasted into the steel deck—still glowing red-hot. Dozens of sailors and officers had rushed to surround the site, weapons drawn, while the destroyer's captain hurried over, shouting orders.
"Professor Xavier!" the captain called out, hurrying to him.
"What happened?" Xavier asked, rolling closer. Though his telepathy could easily extract the answer from the man's mind, he rarely violated others' privacy—especially allies. He always chose to ask first.
The captain scratched his head, visibly troubled.
"Our Aegis radar picked up the shot as coming from the Helicarrier above us. It looks like… friendly fire. A misfire, maybe. But we've tried calling them repeatedly—no response at all. We thought maybe their comms went down."
Xavier's eyes narrowed. "I'll check."
He looked up toward the sky, at the looming shadow of the S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier floating far above. Closing his eyes, he reached out with his mind—his psychic energy spreading upward like an invisible tide, searching for the familiar presence of Fury, Hill, or Coulson.
For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then Xavier's face contorted. His breathing quickened. Sweat rolled down his forehead in thick drops.
The captain took a step forward, alarmed.
"Professor? What's wrong? What did you see?"
Xavier's trembling hand slowly released its grip on his wheelchair. He exhaled shakily, then spoke, voice heavy with dread.
"The Helicarrier… something's gone very wrong. Send aircraft immediately—get as many men as you can up there. And be prepared… it may already be in enemy hands."
The captain's eyes widened. "What about the command staff? General Wilde? What's happening up there?"
"I don't know…" Xavier admitted softly. His expression darkened. "My telepathy was blocked. Something—or someone—has severed my connection. I can't reach anyone aboard the Helicarrier."