The signal came from deep space, approximately three light years from Earth's solar system, and it was addressed specifically to him.
This was, to put it mildly, unexpected.
Sylux had been operating under the assumption that his presence in this universe was unknown to the wider galactic community. Earth was a backwater by interstellar standards—primitive, isolated, barely worth the attention of species that had mastered faster-than-light travel and colonized thousands of worlds. The Skrull invasion had been an exception, a targeted operation against a specific planet, and he had assumed that his destruction of their fleet would go unnoticed by the broader cosmos.
Apparently, he had assumed incorrectly.
The signal was encoded in a format his systems could translate, which suggested the sender had done research on his communication capabilities. The message itself was simple: coordinates, a time, and a single phrase that his linguistic processors rendered as "business opportunity."
Someone out there knew about him. Knew how to reach him. Wanted to meet.
His tactical instincts screamed trap. His curiosity—a trait that had apparently survived the transition from Marcus to Sylux—whispered opportunity.
He set course for the coordinates.
The journey took approximately sixteen hours at maximum FTL velocity, during which time Sylux ran every analysis he could think of on the signal's origin. The coordinates pointed to a location in neutral space—a region claimed by no major power, frequented by traders and mercenaries and the various other parties who preferred to operate outside established authority. The encoding suggested technological sophistication roughly equivalent to mid-tier galactic civilizations, nothing that would pose a threat to his own capabilities but not primitive either.
The time stamp suggested the sender expected him to be able to make the journey, which meant they had some understanding of his ship's speed.
Someone had been studying him carefully.
He arrived at the coordinates to find a space station that had clearly seen better centuries. The structure was a hodgepodge of architectural styles, suggesting it had been built, rebuilt, modified, and expanded by dozens of different species over an extended period. Docking bays protruded at irregular angles, sensor arrays clustered like technological tumors, and the whole thing pulsed with the chaotic energy signatures of a place that had given up on organized planning long ago.
His sensors detected thousands of life signs: dozens of different species, most of which his databases could not identify. Weapons were everywhere—personal sidearms, ship-mounted systems, things that defied easy categorization. This was not a peaceful trading post. This was a hub for people who lived by violence and profit.
His kind of place, in other words.
He docked the Delano 7 in a bay that his ship's systems deemed acceptably secure—which was to say, his ship could probably destroy the entire station if someone tried to steal it—and disembarked into an environment that immediately assaulted his sensors with a cacophony of data.
The station's interior was as chaotic as its exterior. Beings of every conceivable shape and size moved through corridors that had been designed for different anatomies and modified repeatedly to accommodate new residents. The air was a mixture of atmospheric compositions that his suit filtered automatically, and the noise level suggested that privacy was not a concept this place respected.
He moved through the crowds without speaking, his armored form drawing attention but not the kind of attention that suggested threat. In a place like this, unusual appearances were the norm rather than the exception. He was just another dangerous entity going about dangerous business.
The coordinates from the signal led him to a bar—because of course it was a bar, that was apparently a universal constant across all fictional universes—located in what his sensors identified as the station's commercial district. The establishment was called something his translators rendered as "The Last Drink," which seemed appropriately dramatic.
Inside, the noise level somehow increased. Beings of various species crowded around tables and bars, engaged in conversations, negotiations, and the occasional violence that the establishment's security systems handled with practiced efficiency. His visor tracked weapons, escape routes, potential threats, and catalogued everything with the paranoid thoroughness that had kept him alive this long.
A voice cut through the ambient noise, somehow reaching him clearly despite the distance and interference.
"Hey! Tall, dark, and silent! Over here!"
He turned toward the source and found a table occupied by five individuals who immediately registered as significant on his threat assessment protocols.
The speaker was humanoid, male, wearing a red leather jacket and an expression that suggested he found the entire universe mildly amusing. Behind him stood a towering figure covered in red patterns that might have been tattoos or natural coloration, radiating the kind of physical menace that came from actually being able to back it up. To the left, a green-skinned woman with facial markings observed him with the calculating gaze of a trained assassin. Beside her, a smaller figure that his databases identified as a modified raccoon—which was not a sentence he had ever expected to formulate—was tinkering with something mechanical while throwing occasional glances in his direction.
And in the center of the table, in a pot that seemed entirely inadequate for his needs, sat a small tree-like creature that waved at him cheerfully.
The Guardians of the Galaxy.
His databases contained extensive information on this group, assembled from the various sources he had accessed since arriving in this universe. They were freelancers—heroes by some definitions, criminals by others, and chaotic agents of fortune by any reasonable assessment. Their leader, Peter Quill, was apparently the one who had spoken.
"You're Sylux, right? The guy who solo'd a Skrull invasion fleet? Impressive stuff." Quill gestured to an empty seat at their table. "Sit down. We have a business proposition."
Sylux considered his options, then moved to the indicated seat. The chair was not designed for his armored form, but he made it work.
"I am Groot," the tree creature said.
"He says welcome," the raccoon translated without looking up from his project. "Also that you smell weird. No offense—he says that to everyone."
Sylux didn't respond, because Sylux never responded.
"Right, the silent thing. Gamora mentioned that." Quill leaned forward, apparently unbothered by the lack of verbal engagement. "Here's the deal: word's gotten around about what you did to those Skrulls. Seventeen ships, one guy, four minutes. That's the kind of efficiency that people notice. People who have money and problems they want solved efficiently."
The green woman—Gamora, his databases confirmed—spoke next. "The criminal underworld at the galactic level operates differently than what you're used to on Earth. Larger scale, higher stakes, more dangerous targets. But also more lucrative."
"What she's saying," the raccoon interjected, "is that there's a lot of scumbags out in space who need killing, and people are willing to pay serious units to get it done. You've got the skills. We've got the connections. Seems like a natural partnership."
Sylux projected text in the air, his gauntlet display functioning perfectly in the station's varied atmosphere:
WHAT KIND OF TARGETS
"The usual," Quill said. "Slavers, warlords, people who make the universe worse by existing. We're not asking you to do anything you wouldn't do anyway—just pointing you at targets that pay better than whatever you're finding on Earth."
I WORK ALONE
"Yeah, we figured. We're not asking you to join the team or anything—God knows we've got enough personality conflicts already." Quill glanced at Drax, who was staring at Sylux with an intensity that suggested he was considering challenging him to combat. "We're just offering to be... intermediaries. Job brokers. We find the contracts, take a small cut, and you do what you do best."
The large red-marked figure—Drax, his databases identified—finally spoke. "You defeated the Skrull fleet alone. This is impressive. But can you fight?" His tone suggested this was a genuine question rather than a challenge. "The targets we speak of are not ships to be destroyed from a distance. They are warriors who must be faced directly."
Sylux turned his head to look at Drax, focusing the full weight of his visor's attention on the warrior.
Drax didn't flinch. If anything, he seemed pleased by the scrutiny.
YES
"Then we have no conflict. I respect those who can fight." Drax nodded once, apparently satisfied.
"So," Quill said, spreading his hands, "what do you think? Interested in expanding your operations beyond one little planet?"
Sylux considered the proposition. The advantages were obvious: access to higher-value targets, income that would dwarf what he was earning on Earth, and exposure to technologies and resources that might prove useful. The disadvantages were equally obvious: entanglement with a group whose chaos was legendary, attention from parties who might prove more dangerous than anything he had faced so far, and the risk of being drawn into conflicts that were not his own.
But the opportunity to operate at a galactic scale was appealing. Earth was useful, but limited. The universe was vast, and his capabilities were wasted on a single planet's criminal underworld.
TERMS
"Ten percent of each contract, paid on completion. We handle acquisition and verification—you just do the job. If you're not interested in a particular target, you pass. No obligations, no exclusivity." Quill shrugged. "Pretty standard broker arrangement."
TEN PERCENT IS ACCEPTABLE
"Great! Then we're in business." Quill extended his hand, apparently forgetting for a moment that he was dealing with someone who didn't engage in casual physical contact.
Sylux looked at the hand, then back at Quill's face.
"Right, the whole... mysterious thing. Okay, no handshake." Quill withdrew his hand without apparent offense. "Rocket will send you the secure channel details. First batch of potential contracts should come through within a week."
"I am Groot," the tree said, waving again.
"He says good luck," Rocket translated. "Also that he thinks your armor is pretty. Take it as a compliment—he doesn't say that about many things."
Sylux stood, preparing to leave, but Gamora's voice stopped him.
"One thing. The Nova Corps has been asking about you. The Skrull fleet you destroyed—they were tracking it, planning an intercept. You got there first, and now they're curious about the entity that did their job for them."
NOVA CORPS
"Galactic peacekeepers. Military, mostly, but with jurisdiction that extends across most of known space." Gamora's expression suggested she had complicated feelings about the organization. "They're going to want to talk to you eventually. Better to do it on your terms than theirs."
Sylux absorbed this information, adding it to his growing understanding of the galactic political landscape.
WHERE
"Xandar. Their headquarters. It's not far from here by FTL standards." Gamora paused. "They're not enemies, necessarily. But they're not friends either. They're law enforcement, and you're... not exactly law-abiding."
He nodded once in acknowledgment, then turned and left the bar without further interaction.
Behind him, the Guardians watched him go.
"He's terrifying," Rocket observed cheerfully. "I like him."
"I am Groot."
"Yeah, you would think that."
The journey to Xandar took approximately twelve hours, during which time Sylux processed the implications of his expanding operational scope. The Guardians' offer was legitimate—his analysis suggested they were exactly what they appeared to be, which was chaotic but fundamentally well-intentioned—and the potential benefits outweighed the risks.
More interesting was the Nova Corps situation. A galactic peacekeeping force wanted to meet with him, presumably to assess whether he was a threat, an asset, or something else entirely. This could go several ways, most of them involving complications he would prefer to avoid.
But Gamora was right: better to engage on his own terms than wait for them to come to him.
Xandar was impressive.
The planet was a hub of civilization, covered in cities that gleamed with advanced technology and populated by beings from across the galaxy. The Nova Corps headquarters dominated the capital's skyline, a massive structure that radiated authority and power.
His ship was intercepted by patrol vessels approximately two hours from the planet—not aggressively, but firmly, in the manner of a police force that wanted to know who was entering their jurisdiction.
"Unidentified vessel, this is Nova Corps patrol. State your designation and purpose."
Sylux transmitted his identifier—the name "Sylux" rendered in the universal script his ship's systems used—along with a simple message:
RESPONDING TO INQUIRY
A pause.
"Sylux... you're the one who destroyed the Skrull fleet. We've been hoping you'd make contact." The patrol vessel's tone shifted from professional to something approaching respectful. "Please follow us to the Nova headquarters. Centurion Nova Prime wishes to speak with you."
He followed.
The landing was handled with appropriate ceremony—an escort to a designated bay, a greeting party of uniformed officers, the general treatment reserved for entities that were either very important or very dangerous. Sylux suspected he qualified as both.
Nova Prime was waiting in a conference room that overlooked the city, a woman whose bearing suggested decades of experience in positions of authority. She was flanked by officers of various ranks, all watching him with the careful attention of people assessing a potential threat.
"Sylux," she said as he entered. "Thank you for coming. Please, sit."
He sat, the chair creaking slightly under his armored weight.
"I'll be direct. The Skrull fleet you destroyed was en route to conquer Earth—a planet that falls under our protection, technically, though we lack the resources to actively defend every world in our jurisdiction." She folded her hands on the table. "You did what we couldn't do quickly enough. That's earned you some goodwill."
He projected text:
YOU HAVE QUESTIONS
"Many. But I'll start with the obvious one: what are you?"
He had prepared for this. The cover story he had developed for SHIELD would work here, with modifications for a galactic audience.
BOUNTY HUNTER. STRANDED. OPERATING INDEPENDENTLY.
"Stranded from where?"
ELSEWHERE
Nova Prime's expression suggested she recognized evasion when she saw it, but she didn't press.
"Fine. Keep your secrets. What matters is your actions, and your actions suggest someone who eliminates threats to innocent populations. That aligns with our interests."
She gestured, and one of her officers produced a data pad.
"We'd like to offer you a contract. Legitimate work, sanctioned by the Nova Corps, with appropriate compensation. There are targets across the galaxy that we lack the resources to address directly—warlords, criminal organizations, threats that require... specialized intervention."
Sylux examined the data pad, scrolling through a list of potential targets that made Fisk and Volkov look like minor annoyances. Planetary-scale criminal enterprises. Fleets that terrorized entire sectors. Individuals with body counts measured in millions.
COMPENSATION
"Substantial. The Nova Corps has significant resources, and we're willing to pay for results." Nova Prime leaned back in her chair. "We're also willing to provide technical support. Access to our facilities, our databases, our armorers. Your technology is impressive, but even impressive technology can be improved."
This was the most interesting part of the offer. His weapons were effective, but they had been designed for a different universe with different threats. Adaptation and upgrade would increase his capabilities significantly.
ACCESS TO WEAPONS DEVELOPMENT
"Within reason. We won't give you anything that could be used against us, obviously. But improvements to your existing systems, ammunition, maintenance support—those are on the table."
He considered the offer for approximately thirty seconds.
ACCEPTABLE
"Excellent." Nova Prime smiled, the expression carrying the satisfaction of a successful negotiation. "Welcome to the contractor program, Sylux. Try not to cause any diplomatic incidents."
He didn't respond to this, because there was nothing to respond to. He would cause whatever incidents his operations required, and she almost certainly knew that.
But the formalities had been observed, and that was apparently sufficient.
The Nova Corps weapons development facility was everything Sylux could have hoped for and more.
The complex occupied an entire orbital platform, staffed by engineers and scientists from dozens of species, all dedicated to the development and improvement of the technologies that kept the Corps operational. His escort—a young officer named Rhomann Dey who seemed mildly terrified of him—led him through corridors filled with weapons, armor, and equipment that represented the cutting edge of galactic technology.
"This is the modification bay," Dey explained, gesturing to a vast chamber filled with robotic arms, fabrication units, and diagnostic equipment. "You can bring your equipment here for analysis and upgrade. The technicians are the best in the quadrant—they've worked on everything from standard Nova helmets to Kree warship weapons systems."
Sylux examined the facility with interest. His armor's sensors were already cataloguing technologies that might prove useful, identifying potential improvements that could be integrated into his existing systems.
SHOCK COIL UPGRADE POSSIBLE
"Your... energy drain weapon?" Dey consulted a data pad. "Our techs have analyzed the readings from your engagements. They think they can increase the energy transfer rate by approximately forty percent without compromising stability. They'd also like to add a secondary mode that could affect multiple targets simultaneously, if you're interested."
He was interested.
LOCKJAW MODIFICATIONS
"The deployable bomb system? Harder to improve directly, but they've developed some enhanced explosive compounds that could be adapted for your launcher. Greater yield, adjustable effect radius, possibly some specialized warhead types—EMP, incendiary, that sort of thing."
This was better than he had anticipated. The Nova Corps was essentially offering to upgrade his entire arsenal, presumably in exchange for the results his improved capabilities would produce.
TIMELINE
"Depends on how extensive the modifications are. Basic improvements, maybe a week. Full system integration, closer to a month." Dey hesitated. "They'll need access to your equipment, obviously. And to your armor, if you want that upgraded as well."
Sylux considered this. Allowing strangers to access his technology was a security risk, but the potential benefits were significant. And his armor's self-repair systems would likely prevent any attempt to sabotage or compromise the equipment.
ACCEPTABLE
"Great. I'll set up the initial consultation. The chief technician is a Xandarian named Korel—she's brilliant, if a bit intense." Dey paused. "Is there anything else you need?"
QUIET PLACE TO WAIT
"There's a meditation chamber on the lower level. It's designed for species that require sensory reduction. I imagine that would work."
Sylux nodded and began walking in the direction Dey indicated, leaving the young officer standing alone in the corridor.
"Nice talking to you," Dey said to the empty air, then shook his head and went back to his duties.
The upgrade process took three weeks, during which time Sylux divided his attention between monitoring the technicians' work and exploring the Nova Corps' databases for information about potential targets and galactic threats.
The Guardians' first batch of contracts arrived during the second week: a slaver operation in the Kyln system, a weapons dealer supplying terrorists in the Andromeda sector, a warlord whose expansion was destabilizing an entire region. Each target came with detailed intelligence, payment terms, and the implicit understanding that Sylux would handle them in whatever manner he deemed appropriate.
He accepted all three.
The modifications to his weapons were completed ahead of schedule. Korel—the Xandarian technician Dey had mentioned—proved to be as brilliant as advertised, approaching his technology with a combination of professional fascination and aggressive competence that reminded him vaguely of Tony Stark if Stark had been slightly less arrogant.
"Your energy weapon is unlike anything I've seen," she said during one of their consultations, displaying technical readouts on a holographic interface. "The principle is simple enough—targeted energy drain with user transfer—but the implementation is... elegant. Whoever designed this understood power dynamics at a fundamental level."
Sylux didn't respond, but he appreciated the assessment.
"The modifications we've made increase the drain rate significantly, and the new dispersal mode will let you affect multiple targets within a cone-shaped area. Less efficient per target, but more versatile for crowd control." She pulled up another display. "We've also added a feedback buffer that will let you store more absorbed energy before it needs to be utilized. Should increase your operational endurance considerably."
The Lockjaw upgrades were equally impressive. Enhanced explosive yields, adjustable effect radii, and a new EMP warhead that could disable electronics across a significant area. The bombs could now be deployed in greater quantities and with more precise control, turning an already effective weapon system into something approaching devastating.
His armor received attention as well, though the self-repairing systems limited what the technicians could directly modify. They focused on the interfaces—improving his targeting systems, enhancing his sensor capabilities, optimizing the power distribution that allowed his various systems to operate simultaneously.
By the end of the third week, Sylux was significantly more dangerous than he had been when he arrived.
SATISFACTORY
Korel smiled at the projected text. "High praise, coming from someone who doesn't say anything. Come back when you need maintenance—I'd love to see how the modifications perform in field conditions."
He nodded once and left the facility, returning to the Delano 7 for departure.
The first contract—the slaver operation—fell within six hours of his arrival in the Kyln system. Forty-seven combatants, three ships, approximately two hundred captives freed and pointed toward the nearest Nova Corps outpost for assistance.
The second contract—the weapons dealer—took slightly longer, primarily because the target had fortified his position with defenses that required systematic dismantling. Eight hours total, including travel time.
The third contract—the warlord—was the most challenging, simply because of scale. The target commanded a fleet of twelve ships and an army of thousands, occupying a planet that he had conquered through overwhelming force.
Sylux destroyed the fleet from orbit, then descended to the planet's surface and eliminated the warlord personally while his forces watched.
The message was clear: no amount of protection would save you from Sylux.
He returned to Xandar to confirm the contracts and collect payment, then set course for Earth.
He had been gone for approximately five weeks, and he was curious what had happened in his absence.
Spider-Gwen's communication channel activated before he had even entered the solar system.
"SYLUX! Where have you been?! I've been trying to reach you for WEEKS! SHIELD has been going crazy, there were reports of you leaving the planet, and She-Hulk has called me like fifty times asking if I know where you are, and—"
He let her talk, the familiar chatter filling the silence of his cockpit as he approached Earth.
Some things, apparently, hadn't changed.
And somewhere in the parts of his mind that had once been Marcus from Ohio, something that might have been fondness stirred at the sound of her voice.
He was beginning to think the Ghost Rider might have been wrong about him fading entirely.
But that was a question for another time.
For now, he had bounties to collect, upgrades to test, and apparently several worried associates to reassure.
The hunt continued.