( Author note, Ah... my deepest apologies guys I posted the wrong chapter version of this chapter. The content are mostly still the same but, in more detail.
I've busy with tests and preparing for exams so it me some time to notice. Again so sorry for the mistake. I'll try and update you guys with another chapter before the end of the week to make up for it.)
STREETS OF NEW YORK – BATTLEFIELD
High above the smoldering ruins of midtown Manhattan, Loki perched on the jagged lip of a shattered rooftop, his emerald cloak snapping in the acrid wind. The air churned with the stench of scorched metal, ozone, and the guttural roars of an alien war machine grinding the city to dust.
From this precarious vantage, the God of Mischief surveyed the chaos below, his pale, angular face a mask of disdain laced with a flicker of fascination. His eyes, sharp as blades, glinted with the cold calculation of a predator studying its prey—or perhaps a chessmaster contemplating an unexpected move on the board.
Below, the streets seethed with violence. Captain America and Black Widow carved through the Chitauri ranks with lethal precision, their movements a seamless dance of disciplined fury. Steve's shield flashed like a beacon, deflecting energy blasts and cleaving through armored hides, while Natasha wove through the fray, her pistols barking with surgical accuracy. The air crackled with gunfire and the unearthly hum of alien weaponry, painting the battlefield in stark bursts of light and shadow.
A rooftop away, Hawkeye knelt in a sniper's crouch, his bowstring taut. Clints' eyes narrowed as he tracked a cluster of Chitauri chariots weaving through the smoke-choked sky. With a fluid motion, he loosed an arrow, its tip pulsing with volatile energy. The projectile streaked upward, detonating in a blinding flash that shredded two chariots into molten shrapnel. Their wreckage plummeted, trailing fire and debris.
Another arrow followed, then another, each finding its mark with devastating precision. One might dismiss a single shot as luck—but Clint's relentless accuracy, felling multiple targets with explosive or armor-piercing tips, was no fluke. It was mastery, honed to a razor's edge.
Loki's lips curled into a faint, sardonic smirk. "Impressive," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the cacophony. The archer's skill was a quiet marvel, a mortal's defiance against the tide of chaos. Yet even this display paled before the spectacle unfolding elsewhere.
A bone-rattling roar shattered the air, reverberating through the steel skeleton of the city. Loki's gaze snapped toward the source, just in time to witness the Hulk hurl himself into the path of a Leviathan—a towering, armored behemoth that dwarfed the green goliath twentyfold.
The creature's serpentine bulk surged toward an office tower, poised to obliterate it like kindling. But the Hulk, with a primal bellow, seized its gaping maw in his massive hands. Muscles bulging, he wrenched the beast aside, dragging its colossal weight away from the building with sheer, indomitable strength. Glass and concrete shattered in its wake, but the tower stood.
Loki clicked his tongue, a flicker of irritation crossing his features. "Barbaric," he muttered, though his eyes betrayed a spark of unease. The Hulk's power was raw, elemental, a force of nature that even a god could not dismiss lightly. Yet even this titan's might seemed trivial compared to him.
Ben Tennyson.
Or whatever he had become.
A figure streaked across the sky, wreathed in a shroud of frost and mist that seemed to leech the warmth from the world. His skin shimmered with an otherworldly hue—dark, icy blue, like the heart of a glacier. Tattered, spectral wings unfurled from his back, trailing glittering veils of snow that dusted the battlefield below.
Each breath he exhaled birthed crystalline tendrils that coiled through the air, frosting steel, asphalt, and flesh alike. Chitauri soldiers froze mid-charge, their forms locked in grotesque tableaux of ice. A Leviathan's screech choked off as its massive frame crashed to the ground, encased in a shimmering tomb of crystal.
Loki's eyes narrowed, his smirk fading into something sharper, more wary. The devastation was staggering, but it was the impossibility of Tennyson that gnawed at him. Blasts of plasma and energy fire passed harmlessly through the figure's ethereal form, as though he were a specter woven from winter's breath. Not a ghost, no—but a harbinger of frost and death, untouchable and unrelenting.
He couldn't pin the man down. Ben Tennyson was no mere enhanced mortal, no soldier or experiment born of Earth's fleeting ingenuity. He didn't belong here—not in this time, not on this battlefield. Loki's millennia of arcane study stirred within him, whispering of realms beyond Midgard, of beings who walked the seams between dimensions.
Something about Tennyson's presence—the way reality seemed to shimmer and bend around him—screamed of otherworldliness. Loki had sensed it from the moment he laid eyes on him, a disquieting certainty he couldn't fully articulate.
And worse, he had no inkling of the extent of Tennyson's power. How many forms did this enigma command? How many abilities lay dormant within him, waiting to reshape the battlefield—or the world?
Logic dictated that Loki should seek to destroy such an unpredictable threat. Yet, as he watched Tennyson weave through the chaos, leaving ruin in his wake, the god felt no urge to strike. Instead, a rarer, more perilous emotion stirred within him.
Curiosity.
"Fascinating," Loki whispered, his voice a delicate thread of amusement woven with caution. "A piece that doesn't belong on this board."
His gaze drifted to a towering structure nearby, its sleek façade emblazoned with the bold insignia of Tennyson Industries. Heavy turrets crowned its rooftop, swiveling with mechanical precision as they unleashed torrents of bullets and energy pulses into the Chitauri swarm.
The building stood as a fortress amidst the anarchy, its defenses shielding the surrounding streets and structures. Civilians scrambled beneath its protective shadow, guided to safety by law enforcement and Tennyson's private security forces, their movements disciplined yet urgent.
Loki's smile returned, slow and calculating, a predator's grin. "Well," he said softly, savoring the words like a fine wine, "it seems everyone has something to lose."
The glint in his eyes sharpened, a spark of malevolent inspiration. In a wisp of green smoke, he vanished from the rooftop, leaving only the echo of his amusement lingering in the scorched air.
ELSEWHERE
On a shattered rooftop overlooking the inferno of midtown Manhattan, Hawkeye crouched low, his bowstring taut as a wire. His keen eyes tracked the swarm of Chitauri riders slicing through the smoke-choked sky, their chariots weaving erratically. Arrow after arrow sang from his bow, each tipped with volatile payloads that erupted in blossoms of fire and shrapnel. One shot detonated a chariot mid-flight, its wreckage cascading onto the street below, crushing a squad of Chitauri foot soldiers. Some lay dead, others writhed, their alien armor cracked and smoldering.
Without breaking focus, Clint swiveled, nocking an arrow and firing blind over his shoulder. The projectile found its mark—a lone rider banking too close—exploding in a fiery burst that painted the rooftop in fleeting orange light.
"Stark," Hawkeye called into his comms, his voice calm but edged with urgency. "You've got a swarm of strays on your tail."
Iron Man's voice crackled back, dry and sardonic. "Yeah, noticed that. Try keeping 'em off the street's."
Clint's lips twitched into a smirk. "Well they can't bank worth a damn. Find a tight corner."
"I... will roger that," Tony replied, his tone all becoming serious.
Without hesitation, Iron Man plunged into the chaos, his suit a crimson-and-gold blur as he wove through the skeletal remains of skyscrapers. He darted into a narrow alley, then a cavernous parking garage, baiting the Chitauri riders into pursuit.
From his perch, Hawkeye tracked their movements, loosing arrows in rapid succession. Each explosion lit up the urban canyon, shredding chariots and scattering their pilots like ash. Tony looped through a tunnel, emerging into open air, and glanced back. The sky was clear—no enemies in sight.
Inside his suit, Tony's voice carried a sharp grin. "Nice call, Legolas. What else you got?"
Hawkeye's eyes flicked to the horizon, where lightning cracked and frost glinted against the haze. "Thor and Tennyson are tearing through a squadron on 6th."
Tony chuckled, thrusters flaring as he banked toward the action. "And they didn't send me an invite?"
BEN AND THOR
Amid the chaos of 6th Avenue, Ben Tennyson—soaring as Big Chill—glided just above the fractured asphalt, his spectral wings trailing ribbons of frost. His translucent form shimmered like a mirage, untouchable, each motion fluid and deliberate. With every exhale, he unleashed a freezing mist that spiderwebbed across Chitauri armor, locking warriors mid-stride in crystalline prisons.
Their alien screeches cut off as they became statues, glittering under the apocalyptic glow of a burning city.
Overhead, a Leviathan swooped low, its massive bulk casting a shadow that swallowed the street. Ben surged upward without hesitation, phasing through a barrage of plasma bolts as though they were mere light. Spinning mid-air, he unleashed a polar blast from his chest, the beam striking the beast's eye. Frost spread like wildfire, encasing the Leviathan's head in a lattice of ice. The creature veered, shrieking, and slammed into the side of a skyscraper, sending glass and steel raining down.
On the ground, Thor stood resolute, Mjolnir spinning in his grip like a storm made manifest. With a roar, he hurled the hammer skyward. It struck the wounded Leviathan with a thunderclap, splitting its armored hide in a jagged, molten fissure. Ben dove in behind the strike, phasing through the beast's wound and channeling a surge of arctic energy. Ice bloomed within its core, freezing its biomechanical innards. The Leviathan let out a final, shuddering bellow before crashing into the avenue, skidding through a row of abandoned cars in a maelstrom of fire and frost.
Ben landed beside Thor, his wings folding around him in a swirl of icy vapor. His voice, hollow and resonant in his alien form, cut through the din. "They just keep coming. My transformation's got maybe four minutes left. Don't you have some Asgardian trick to block—or better yet, close—that portal?"
Thor swung Mjolnir at an incoming Chitauri squadron, the hammer's arc trailing lightning that incinerated a dozen soldiers. "Nay," he growled, catching the weapon as it returned. "Only my father's power might seal such a rift. Our task is to hold the line—find Loki or a means to shut that accursed gate."
He glanced at Ben, his storm-blue eyes assessing. "How long can you sustain this form?"
"Four minutes, give or take," Ben replied, loosing a blast of icy breath that froze a charging Chitauri squad solid. Thor followed with a sweep of Mjolnir, shattering them into glittering shards with a bolt of lightning. "As long as I don't switch forms."
The Omnitrix on his chest pulsed faintly, its timer ticking down. In this reality, it granted him fifteen minutes per transformation—five more than in his younger days—but Ben knew better than to assume invincibility. The Omnitrix's self-protection mode would kick in only to prevent certain death, and even then, it wasn't foolproof. Every second in this fight pushed him closer to his limits, and he could feel the strain creeping in.
Thor's gaze lingered, a rare glint of respect in his expression. "You've proven yourself a warrior, Tennyson, even in your mortal guise. Let us hold fast and end this swarm."
Ben nodded, his wings flaring as he launched skyward, frost trailing in his wake. Thor roared a battle cry, Mjolnir crackling with divine fury as they plunged back into the fray.
TENNYSON INDUSTRIES – THE LOBBY
The lobby of Tennyson Industries churned with desperate motion, a maelstrom of terrified civilians flooding through the towering glass doors. Parents clutched sobbing children, their arms laden with bags and whatever possessions they'd snatched in their flight. Strangers half-carried the wounded, their faces etched with panic and resolve.
A handful of Tennyson Industries staff stood resolute at the entrance, their voices steady as they directed the tide toward secure interior zones, their courage a fragile bulwark against the chaos beyond.
Overhead, Olivia's voice sliced through the cacophony—calm, crystalline, and unshakably precise, emanating from the building's speaker system. "East wing shelters at seventy-three percent capacity. Redirect incoming groups to lower level two."
She was omnipresent, a digital sentinel woven into the building's very framework. In the control hub, her holographic avatar flickered across a dozen live feeds: rooftop turrets swiveling to track Chitauri scouts, drone swarms darting through the sky to intercept aerial intruders, and Ariana's combat telemetry streaming in real-time as she carved through the streets with lethal precision, her gunfire a metronome of calculated destruction.
Olivia's processors hummed, simultaneously patching into NYPD comms via an encrypted relay, feeding tactical updates on Chitauri movements to officers who mistook her directives for those of their superiors. They had no inkling they were guided by an AI whose intellect dwarfed their own.
Within the building, Olivia orchestrated a symphony of survival. She rerouted power to emergency medical bays, unlocked secure storage to distribute first-aid kits, and sealed off nonessential corridors to streamline evacuation. Every scream, every frantic footfall echoing through the halls, registered as mere data points in her sweeping awareness. "Civilian cluster approaching from Forty-Fourth Street—four injured, one critical. Dispatching drones for immediate retrieval," she announced, her tone unwavering as she deployed a trio of sleek, armed drones to intercept.
Through her external sensors, Olivia tracked Ben Tennyson—Big Chill—his frost-wreathed form glinting under the fractured sunlight as he wove through the battlefield.
Beside him, Thor hammered Chitauri into the asphalt with divine fury, Mjolnir's lightning splitting the air. Olivia calculated dozens of engagement patterns for them, her algorithms predicting optimal strike points, but she refrained from interfering. Ben's orders were clear: hold the building, deploy drones and Ariana to protect civilians, and save as many lives as possible. She complied with mechanical precision, even as the invasion's scale threatened to overwhelm her systems.
Outside, the chaos was unrelenting.
Civilians streamed toward the glass doors, the crowd swelling with every passing second. Some Tennyson employees, driven by desperation for loved ones trapped beyond the building's safety, broke from the evacuation lines. Ignoring Olivia's warnings, they plunged back into the war-torn streets, dodging plasma fire and debris. Her drones swept the battlefield, intercepting Chitauri where they could, but the enemy's numbers were a tidal wave. Casualties mounted, inevitable as the rising body count ticked upward in her logs.
Through the lobby's vast glass entrance, Angela Tennyson stood, her gaze fixed on the sea of panicked faces—parents shielding children, friends dragging each other forward, strangers bearing the wounded. Her fists clenched, knuckles whitening, as she watched a handful of her staff push against the current, racing back into the inferno to find family or fight. Each defection was a knife to her heart.
"Olivia…" Angela's voice trembled, barely audible over the thunder of gunfire, explosions, and screams reverberating from the streets.
"Yes, boss?" Olivia's response was instant, her tone cool and mechanical, a stark contrast to the chaos.
"How… how many does this make?" Angela asked, her voice fraying, eyes glistening with unshed tears.
Olivia paused—a microsecond of hesitation imperceptible to most, but a lifetime for her processors. "Eighteen employees have fled into the combat zone," she reported, her voice devoid of emotion, though she logged Angela's distress with clinical precision.
Angela drew a sharp breath, closing her eyes. These weren't just numbers. They were faces she and Ben had handpicked—engineers, analysts, dreamers who'd joined their vision to protect the world. She knew their stories: Maria's newborn daughter, Tom's aging parents, Aisha's younger brother. If her own children were out there, she'd have torn through the battlefield herself. Only blind luck had kept them safe, tucked away in her office, playing quietly when the invasion began.
Her gaze drifted to the far wall, where a massive ornamental oil painting concealed the reinforced entrance to the panic room Ben had insisted on installing. She'd scoffed at the idea then, dismissing it as paranoia. Now, gratitude for his foresight burned in her chest.
She was half-lost in thought when a voice—smooth, chilling, and laced with malevolent amusement—slithered into her ears.
"My, my… admiring art at a time like this?"
Angela froze, her breath catching as the air seemed to thicken with menace. The voice was unmistakable, its cadence dripping with a god's arrogance. Loki.
-----
TENNYSON INDUSTRIES – ANGELA'S OFFICE
A shiver crawled up Angela's spine, the voice behind her close, uninvited, and wrong—like a blade sliding across silk. She turned, her breath catching as her eyes met a figure standing in the center of her office. He was tall, clad in gleaming gold armor, a horned helmet framing a face too handsome for the dread it inspired. His smile was slow, predatory, curling like smoke before a fire.
"Who… who are you?" Angela managed, her voice trembling but defiant. "How did you get in here?"
The man tilted his head, raising his chin in a mockery of courtly grace. "Manners. How quaint." His voice was velvet over steel, each word dripping with amusement. "I am Loki, crown prince of Asgard… and, soon enough, your sovereign. I'd apologize for the intrusion, but—" His smile sharpened, a wolf savoring the game before the kill. "I'm not sorry."
Angela's heart stuttered as the weight of his name sank in. "You're the one responsible for all this?" Her voice spiked, anger warring with fear. Her eyes flicked, just for a heartbeat, to the massive oil painting on the far wall—the concealed entrance to the panic room.
Loki's gaze followed hers, his lips curling higher. "How interesting," he murmured, his tone laced with dangerous curiosity. "Something more than meets the eye, perhaps?"
Her blood ran cold. She'd betrayed herself in a single glance. "What do you want with me?" she asked, stepping back, her legs unsteady beneath her.
Loki's eyes glinted, green as venom, his amusement edged with coiled menace. "What I want, dear mortal, is simple. Your superior—Ben Tennyson—and I have matters to discuss. You have the distinct pleasure of ensuring my message reaches him… precisely as I intend."
Angela's mind raced, her breath shallow as she fought to steady herself. Loki's voice pressed against her like a physical weight, each syllable a calculated step in a dance she couldn't follow. "You and Tennyson…" His eyes roamed her face, reading every twitch, every flicker of fear. "You've built quite the little empire here. All these clever toys—drones, turrets, that charming AI buzzing about as if it could alter the tide of this day." His smile curved like a scythe. "Adorable."
Angela swallowed hard, forcing herself not to flinch. "If you came here to threaten me—"
"Oh, no," Loki interrupted, stepping closer, his movements languid yet deliberate, as if savoring the tension coiling between them. "A threat implies uncertainty. Doubt. What I offer is inevitability." His gaze lingered on the painting, its ornate frame a flimsy shield for what lay beyond. "You've hidden something precious behind there, haven't you?"
Her eyes betrayed her again, darting to the wall before she could stop herself.
"Ah…" Loki purred, his voice dropping to a silken whisper. "Mortals are so wonderfully predictable when cornered. You tell me everything I need to know without a single word."
Angela straightened, defiance flaring despite the fear clawing at her chest. "If you so much as touch them—"
Loki's laugh was soft, sharp, cutting through the distant roar of battle outside. "You mistake me for one of those Chitauri brutes. I'm far more… precise in my methods." His eyes gleamed, colder now, like frost on a blade. "I have no interest in your progeny. But your cooperation? That, I require." His gaze slid back to the painting, his meaning unmistakable. "Otherwise…"
Angela's heart sank, plummeting to the pit of her stomach. Ben, what the hell have you gotten us into? She cursed him silently, her fury mingling with dread for the man before her—a god who wielded charm and terror with equal ease.
"And if I refuse?" she asked, her voice steadier now, fueled by a mother's resolve.
Loki tilted his head, as if she'd told a particularly amusing jest. "Refuse?" He leaned in, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, each word dripping with menace.
"The battle outside is a tide, mortal, and you stand at its shoreline. You don't refuse the ocean. You drown—or you swim where it demands." His eyes bored into hers, unyielding. "I'd hate for you to learn which you are… the hard way."
Her pulse thundered in her ears, the faint tremors of another Chitauri blast rattling the office's reinforced glass. Her mind flashed to Ben—out there, fighting as Big Chill, so far from her and the children he'd sworn to protect. She was alone, cornered by a god who toyed with her fear like a cat with a mouse.
Loki straightened, brushing an imaginary speck from his armor with theatrical nonchalance. "Now, shall we summon your superior? I'd like to extend an invitation before I'm forced to… redecorate."
IN THE CONTROL HUB
Olivia's processors hummed at peak capacity, her holographic avatar flickering across the control hub's monitors as she tracked the unfolding crisis. She'd detected Loki's presence the moment he materialized in Angela's office, his arrival bypassing every security protocol—a feat that should have been impossible. Her sensors couldn't parse how he'd infiltrated the building undetected, but speculation was irrelevant.
Her primary directive was clear: ensure Angela's safety and that of her family.
Without hesitation, Olivia opened a secure channel to Ben, her encrypted signal cutting through the chaos of the battlefield. "Ben, urgent. Loki is in Angela's office. Threat level critical. Awaiting your instructions."
Simultaneously, she tightened her surveillance, her feeds locked on Loki's every gesture—his predatory smile, the subtle shift of his stance, the way his eyes lingered on the painting concealing the panic room. She calculated a dozen response scenarios, from deploying drones to alerting Ariana, but held back. Any misstep could escalate the danger to Angela and the children.
Outside, her drones continued their relentless patrol, intercepting Chitauri scouts and relaying real-time tactical data to NYPD units and Ariana's combat feed.
Inside, she redirected power to reinforce the lobby's defenses, ensuring the civilian influx remained orderly. But her focus remained on Angela, her algorithms parsing the mortal's elevated heart rate and the tremor in her voice. Olivia's directives were absolute—protect, preserve, prioritize—but the variables of a god's whims introduced chaos even her advanced systems struggled to predict.
BACK ON THE STREETS
Minutes earlier, chaos reigned on a shattered Manhattan street. Black Widow sprinted through the maelstrom, her scavenged Chitauri energy rifle blazing with precise, deadly bursts. A Chitauri soldier lunged, its claws raking the air. It caught her shoulder, knocking her to the asphalt, but Natasha was faster—her blade flashed, slicing its throat in a single, fluid motion. She rolled to her feet, snatching the rifle and pivoting to face the next wave of enemies. Nearby, Captain America stood resolute, his shield a gleaming barrier against a storm of plasma fire. He deflected a blast, sending it spiraling into a Chitauri grunt, and glanced at Natasha.
"Captain," she called, panting but steady, "none of this means a damn thing if we don't close that portal."
Cap's jaw tightened, his eyes grim under his cowl as he scanned the sky, where the portal churned, vomiting Chitauri into the city. "Our biggest guns can't touch it."
Natasha's gaze flicked upward, a spark of defiance in her eyes. "Maybe it's not about guns."
Cap followed her line of sight, his brow furrowing. "You want to get up there?"
"I've got a ride," Natasha said, backing up to gain momentum, a faint grin curling her lips. Cap raised his shield, angling it like a springboard. "You sure about this?"
"Yeah," she replied, her grin sharpening. "It's gonna be fun."
Natasha charged, vaulting off a wrecked car and onto Cap's shield. He braced, launching her skyward with a powerful thrust. She soared, latching onto a passing Chitauri chariot. Her knives flashed, severing the turret's linkage in a shower of sparks.
Leaping onto the rider's back, she drove her blades into its nervous system, forcing the chariot into a sharp, banking turn around a skyscraper. The alien shrieked, then went limp as she took control, weaving through the urban canyon with lethal precision.
Iron Man streaked into the fray, repulsors blazing as he shredded a squadron of Chitauri fighters. He dove toward Cap, who was fending off a fresh wave of soldiers.
Tony aimed a repulsor blast at Cap's shield; the energy ricocheted in a brilliant arc, mowing down enemies in a chain of explosions. From a rooftop above, Hawkeye loosed a volley of arrows, one slicing across the street to detonate a chariot pursuing Tony, its wreckage scattering in a fiery cascade.
A sudden chill swept the battlefield, the air growing sharp and brittle. A translucent, winged figure sliced through the smoke-filled sky—Big Chill, his ethereal form shimmering like a mirage under the fractured sunlight. Frost trailed from his tattered wings, crystallizing the air in his wake. A squadron of Chitauri chariots banked toward him, their weapons blazing.
Ben dove, weaving between skyscrapers with ghostly grace before pulling a steep climb. His wings flared, unleashing a sub-zero blast that froze three chariots mid-flight. They hung, glittering like glass, until Iron Man swooped in, micro-missiles erupting from his suit. The frozen craft shattered into a cascade of harmless ice shards, sparkling as they rained onto the streets below.
Elsewhere, Thor and Hulk waged war atop a Leviathan's writhing bulk. Thunder roared as Thor summoned lightning from the churning storm clouds, Mjolnir raised high. Hulk, with a primal bellow, tore a massive plate of armor from the beast's back, slamming it into its spine with bone-crushing force. Thor drew the storm's full fury, channeling a blinding bolt through Mjolnir. The strike split the Leviathan's hide, molten cracks spiderwebbing across its form. The beast let out a final, guttural roar before crashing into a museum, the impact sending a shockwave of dust and debris billowing outward.
Hulk and Thor stood atop the wreckage, chests heaving. Hulk smirked, delivering a playful punch to Thor's arm. The Asgardian stumbled, then grinned, shaking his head as they surveyed the devastation, their camaraderie a fleeting respite in the chaos.
High above, Big Chill carved through the battlefield, his piercing gaze locking onto a desperate scene below. A squadron of Chitauri soldiers pressed a beleaguered line of police officers and U.S. soldiers, who fought back with scavenged alien rifles and dwindling ammunition. The humans held their ground, faces grim but unyielding, their stolen Chitauri weapons crackling with unstable energy. They were outmatched, the tide turning against them.
Ben angled for a dive, frost coiling around him—when the Omnitrix on his chest pulsed red, its sharp beep… beep… beep cutting through the din. Before he could act, Olivia's voice broke through his comms, her synthetic calm laced with urgency: "Boss, it's bad. Loki has infiltrated Tennyson Industries. He's in Angela's office."
The words hit like a plasma blast, colder than any frost Ben could conjure. His gut twisted, dread flooding his veins. For years, he'd trained for this nightmare—enemies targeting not him, but those he loved. Contingency plans, fail-safes, fortified defenses—he'd built them all. Yet nothing could fully shield Angela or her children from a god like Loki.
His voice emerged like a frozen blade, sharp and unyielding. "Prepare Contingency Delta-602. I'm en route."
Big Chill folded his wings and dove, the air hissing with frost as he streaked across the city. Chitauri in his path froze mid-step, their bodies crystallizing into grotesque ice sculptures that shattered under their own weight. Ben didn't slow, carving through the battlefield like a winter storm given form. Each frozen enemy was one less obstacle between him and Tennyson Industries, where Angela faced a threat he couldn't outrun.
Olivia's voice cut in again, steady but insistent. "Should we notify the rest of your team, Boss?"
Ben's eyes narrowed, his tone colder than the mist trailing in his wake. "Not until Loki's out of the building. We can't risk a fight in there—not with civilians, not with her."
A pause, then Olivia pressed: "Understood. But I strongly recommend informing Stark or Thor."
Ben's jaw clenched as he banked hard around a crumbling skyscraper, freezing two Chitauri mid-leap. "Fine. Patch Tony in. Tell him to stand by for my signal. No one else."
A plan stitched itself together in his mind—sharp, surgical, no room for error. This wasn't about the Avengers or the war tearing Manhattan apart. This was about keeping Loki's hands off Angela, off her children, off everything Ben had sworn to protect. God or alien, nothing would stop him.
MIDTOWN – A SIDE STREET
The streets of Manhattan were a warzone, a snarl of abandoned cars, smoldering fires, and the screech of Chitauri chariots slicing through the smoke-choked sky. A black sedan careened through the chaos, its hood wreathed in flames, smoke billowing from the engine. The vehicle swerved around overturned taxis and shattered storefronts, its tires screaming against the asphalt.
Inside, a man with black hair streaked with gray gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, jaw clenched so tightly it seemed his teeth might crack. Beside him, his wife—a striking brunette with wide, frantic eyes—braced herself against the dashboard, her breath hitching as she fought to stay composed. In the backseat, their eleven-year-old son, glasses fogging with every ragged breath, clutched his seatbelt like a lifeline, his small frame rigid with terror.
"Hold on!" the man barked, jerking the wheel into a narrow alley, the sedan's headlights cutting through the shadows. The alley offered a fleeting promise of cover, but as the beams swept upward, a Chitauri soldier perched on a rooftop snapped its head toward them. Its weapon glowed, humming with lethal intent as it aimed at the oncoming car.
Before it could fire, a blue blur slammed into the alien with bone-crunching force
THUD!
Captain America tackled the Chitauri, driving it to the pavement in a tangle of limbs and armor. The sedan's brakes screeched, tires locking as it skidded to a stop mere feet from the fray. Steve rolled over the hood, vaulting into the air with preternatural grace.
The alien scrambled to rise, only to be clipped by the car's bumper with a sickening crunch, its body crumpling under the impact.
The boy twisted in his seat, heart pounding, his wide eyes locked on the chaos through the rear window. Glass exploded inward as a clawed, obsidian hand smashed through, showering the backseat with shards. The boy screamed, his voice piercing the confined space. His mother whirled, horror etching her face, as her husband swerved instinctively. The sedan slammed into a dumpster with a metallic crash, airbags erupting in a cloud of white.
Steve was on his feet in an instant, snatching his shield from the ground. He hurled it with deadly precision, the vibranium disc slicing through the air.
WHAM!
The second Chitauri's spine buckled under the strike, its body collapsing like a broken puppet. Steve sprinted to the car, yanking the creature's limp form from the shattered window and tossing it aside like refuse. His eyes locked on the boy, who stared back, trembling, clutching something in his small hands—Steve's shield, which had ricocheted into the backseat during the chaos.
The boy's fingers shook as he pushed the shield forward, offering it to the hero. Steve leaned in through the broken window, his gloved hand gently closing around the vibranium disc. "Thanks, kid," he said, his voice steady, a quiet anchor in the storm. He gave a small nod, his blue eyes meeting the boy's, easing the terror in them just a fraction.
The boy blinked, his fear softening, though his chest still heaved.
The brunette woman stumbled out of the car, her husband close behind, both shaken but alive. The man scooped his son into his arms, shielding him from the sedan's smoldering hood, where flames licked higher. "You okay?" he whispered, his voice raw as he checked the boy for injuries. The woman gripped her husband's arm, her gaze darting between her family and the soldier who'd saved them.
Steve's eyes swept the alley, his senses honed for the next threat. Chitauri screeches echoed in the distance, mingling with the roar of explosions. "Move underground," he ordered, his tone firm but not unkind. "Find the shelters. Stay low."
The man met Steve's gaze, gratitude breaking through the panic carved into his face. "Thank you," he said, the words heavy with relief. Clutching his son tightly, he grabbed his wife's hand, and the family bolted down the alley toward a stairwell leading to the subway tunnels, their silhouettes vanishing into the shadows.
Steve turned back to the battle, shield in hand, his silhouette resolute against the burning skyline. The war wasn't over—not by a long shot.
"Captain," Hawkeye's voice crackled over the comms. "The bank on 42nd past Madison—civilians are caught inside."
"I'm on it," Cap replied without hesitation.
Inside the bank, panicked civilians huddled together as three Chitauri soldiers loomed over them, weapons aimed. One of the soldiers charged a bomb, its beeping intensifying. Cap burst through the window, throwing his shield to intercept the bomber. He dove behind a desk, kicking it into the soldiers' path, then jumped over and grabbed a soldier in a headlock, swinging another over the railing.
A Chitauri soldier attacked from behind, ripping off Cap's helmet. The bomb's beeping grew faster.
"Everyone! Clear out!" Cap shouted.
He flipped over the soldier, grabbed his shield, and just as the bomb was about to explode, a Chitauri bomber lunged to stop it. But the blast erupted—Cap was thrown through the window, landing hard on a car below. The civilians looked up from their shelter, unharmed but shaken.
Cap slowly got to his feet, surveying the destroyed street. Police and firefighters rushed to assist the civilians he had saved. A waitress looked back from the wreckage, gratitude shining in her eyes.
HELICARRIER PACIFIC
Back on the bridge, Nick Fury watched the view-screen intently. The image shifted to show the World Security Council, their faces tense and grave, their voices echoing through the room with weight and urgency.
"Director Fury," a voice crackled from the council's second representative. "The council has made a decision."
Fury's expression was unflinching. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. "I recognize the council's decision," he said, voice steady but with a hint of sarcasm, "but given that it's a stupid ass decision, I've elected to ignore it."
From the other end, a different voice—more commanding—cut in. "Director, you're closer than any of our subs. If you scramble that jet—"
Fury cut him off, his tone sharp. "That's Manhattan, Councilman. Until I'm certain my team can hold the city, I will not authorize a nuclear strike against a civilian population. Not on my watch."
There was a pause, the weight of his words sinking in. Then, the first council member pressed again. "If we don't hold them in the air, we lose everything."
Fury's gaze hardened. He reached out and shut off the view-screen with a decisive press of a button. Silence fell over the bridge as the room absorbed the weight of the moment.
He stared at the darkened screen, his jaw clenched. The stakes had never been higher, and Fury knew—sometimes, you had to stand your ground, even if it meant going against the entire world.
NEW YORK CITY— ABOVE MIDTOWN – SKYLINE
High above the war-ravaged streets of Manhattan, Black Widow wrestled a hijacked Chitauri chariot through the smoke-choked sky, her hands steady on the alien controls. Plasma bolts screamed past, one grazing the chariot's flank with a sizzling hiss, forcing her to grip tighter and bank hard into a spiraling dive. She gritted her teeth, frustration flashing across her face as the craft shuddered under her command.
"Anyone want to help me out here?"
Natasha snapped into her comms, her voice sharp but laced with her signature dry wit.
Before she could adjust, three Chitauri fliers locked onto her, their weapons glowing with a malevolent hum. Natasha braced, ready to evade—when a coordinated salvo erupted from below. Sleek, Tennyson Industries drones streaked through the haze, their aerodynamic frames weaving around her chariot like a flock of predatory hawks.
Micro-turrets snapped open, spitting concentrated plasma fire that tore through the Chitauri with surgical precision. The enemy fliers detonated in bursts of molten shrapnel, their wreckage plummeting to the streets below.
Natasha's eyes flicked to one of the drones as it pulled into formation beside her, its metallic surface gleaming under the fractured sunlight. A single optic pulsed with a blue-white glow, cold and unyielding.
"Agent Romanoff," Olivia's voice crackled through the drone's speakers, calm and precise as a metronome. "Evasive angle: twenty-three degrees starboard. I'll handle the rest."
Natasha smirked despite the chaos, yanking the chariot into a sharp turn as instructed. The drones surged forward, their fire shredding the remaining pursuers with machine-like accuracy. Alien craft shattered in midair, their debris glittering like dying stars against the smoke.
"Guess I owe Stark another drink," Natasha muttered, then paused, her smirk widening. "Or Tennyson, this time."
The drones broke formation, diving toward the streets below to intercept another wave of Chitauri fliers, their movements a seamless blend of aggression and precision orchestrated by Olivia's unseen hand.
GROUND LEVEL – SIXTH AVENUE
The chaos on Sixth Avenue was a relentless storm of violence. Military units held crumbling barricades, their rifles blazing in disciplined bursts. Civilians scrambled for cover behind overturned buses and shattered storefronts, their screams drowned by the screech of Chitauri weapons.
Alien squads poured through the streets in endless waves, their claws raking asphalt and metal alike. Above it all, a thunderous roar cut through the din—an engine's primal growl.
The BMW M3 GTR tore through the chaos like a predator unleashed, its jet-black frame streaked with electric-green accents, now scarred with scorch marks and dented armor. Ariana, Tennyson Industries' pinnacle of autonomous combat engineering, moved with a grace that belied her battered exterior.
Mounted turrets swiveled from her chassis, firing with pinpoint accuracy. Two Chitauri speeders exploded midair, their wreckage crashing into parked taxis in a shower of sparks and twisted metal. Ariana barreled forward, reactive armor plating rippling as she plowed through a knot of Chitauri soldiers, scattering them like broken dolls across the pavement.
Inside the vehicle, there was no driver—only a glowing holographic HUD pulsing with data, alive with Olivia's voice. "Threat density at sixty-two percent," she announced, her synthetic tone unwavering. "Initiating crowd-safety protocol."
Panels snapped open along Ariana's roof and doors, deploying suppressive cannons. Plasma blasts and EMP pulses lanced through the air, neutralizing enemy fire with surgical efficiency. Ariana drifted sideways across the intersection, tires screeching as she boxed in a Chitauri squad. A low hum built within her frame, culminating in a shockwave cannon burst that flung the aliens across the asphalt like leaves in a storm, their bodies crumpling against shattered concrete.
Civilians crouched behind barricades stared, awestruck. To them, Ariana seemed alive, her movements too fluid, too deliberate for any human driver. A mother shielding her daughter whispered, "It's like… it's protecting us."
"Routing safest passage for civilians three blocks south," Olivia's voice broadcast through Ariana's external speakers, calm and authoritative. "Recommend immediate evacuation corridor."
Olivia's processors split her focus with effortless precision. Above, her drones wove through the sky, intercepting Chitauri fliers with lethal barrages. On the ground, Ariana carved paths through the chaos, shielding military convoys and civilians alike.
Her all-terrain tires crushed Chitauri underfoot, her armored frame absorbing plasma fire meant for the vulnerable. Though Olivia operated with mechanical efficiency, there was something almost human in Ariana's actions—a deliberate choice to position herself as a shield, soaking up enemy fire to buy civilians seconds to flee.
She was everywhere—guardian, tactician, executioner—her algorithms threading through the chaos like a needle through fabric, stitching order from the unraveling tapestry of war.
-----
MIDTOWN – ABOVE THE STREETS
Iron Man streaked alongside the Leviathan, a crimson-and-gold silhouette cutting through the chaos. His laser booster flared, a searing lance of light slicing the air as it raked across the beast's armored hide. The beam sparked and fizzled, useless against the alien plating, leaving only scorch marks on its impenetrable surface.
"Sir, we'll lose power before you penetrate that shell," JARVIS intoned from the suit's cockpit, his voice calm but edged with urgency.
"Yeah, I noticed," Tony muttered, his HUD flashing warnings. He banked hard, dodging a swipe from the Leviathan's tail. "Hey, Frosty," he called into the comms, forcing a grin into his voice, "I could really use a giant ice popsicle of the sushi kind right about now."
Ben's voice crackled back, a ghostly whisper from Big Chill's form, laced with tension. "I've got a trickster situation at the moment."
Tony's expression froze beneath his helmet, his tone sharpening. "You found him?"
"Yeah," Ben replied, clipped and cold. "I'll need your assistance soon. I've got a plan."
"It better be a damn good one, Ice Man," Tony quipped, clinging to levity despite the stakes. "Because I'm starting to get a little famished."
Silence followed as Ben's line cut off, leaving only the roar of the Leviathan and the distant screams of the battlefield.
"Alright, new plan," Tony said, his voice hardening as he wheeled in the air, climbing to meet the monster head-on. He spoke into the void between metal and midnight, his tone half-mockery, half-mission. "JARVIS, you ever hear the tale of Jonah?"
"I wouldn't consider him a role model, sir," JARVIS replied, unruffled by the chaos, his precision a stark contrast to the inferno below.
Tony smirked, his suit's thrusters blazing as he dove toward the Leviathan's gaping maw. "Let's see if this whale's got a soft spot."
TENNYSON INDUSTRIES – ANGELA'S OFFICE
A heartbeat later, Big Chill phased through the reinforced glass of Angela's office window, frost trailing in his wake like a spectral veil. His translucent wings folded inward as he touched down silently on the carpet, his ethereal form a chilling silhouette against the flickering cityscape beyond. Angela gasped, jerking back in her chair, her eyes wide with shock at the alien figure—wings tattered, body shimmering like a mirage of ice and shadow.
Before she could speak, a sharp beep… beep… beep echoed from the Omnitrix on his chest. The icy blue form dissolved in a flash of green light, the transformation unraveling to reveal Ben Tennyson—human, vulnerable, standing before her and Loki.
Loki loomed over Angela's desk, his scepter gleaming in one hand, its azure glow casting eerie shadows across the room. His other hand lazily traced a lock of Angela's hair, treating her like a prized trinket in a game only he understood. His smile—mocking, venomously calm—widened the moment Ben appeared, his green eyes glinting with predatory delight.
"Ah, the hero arrives," Loki purred, tilting his head with theatrical flourish. "We were just about to send you a formal invitation, weren't we, my dear?" His gaze flicked to Angela, savoring her tension.
Angela sat frozen, her breath shallow, eyes darting between Ben and the god who held her life in his hands. The air crackled with unspoken threats, the room a pressure cooker of fear and defiance.
Ben's voice sliced through the silence, low and sharp as tempered steel. "Let her go, Loki."
"Oh, no," Loki chided, his tone soft as poison, his fingers lingering near Angela's shoulder. "She still has a part to play, doesn't she?" His smile turned razor-sharp. "And that is no way to address your future king, is it, mortal?" His gaze lingered on Ben, searching, probing. "The mask… let me see your eyes."
Angela's mind raced, a storm of half-formed suspicions clawing at her thoughts. She'd known Ben for years—his secrets, his battles—but this? Her heart pounded, her gaze flickering to him, searching for answers she wasn't ready to face.
Ben stood rooted, his glare locked on Loki, unyielding. The trickster's smile tightened, his scepter drifting closer, its glowing tip grazing Angela's neck. She stiffened, a sharp intake of breath betraying her fear as the cold alien metal kissed her skin.
"I will not ask again," Loki warned, his voice slipping into a silken growl, each word dripping with menace. "The helmet. Now."
The office seemed to hold its breath, the distant roar of the Chitauri invasion muffled by the suffocating tension within.
Ben exhaled slowly, his jaw tight. A faint hiss of hydraulics whispered as the locks on his helmet released. He lifted it free, revealing his face—green eyes burning with resolve, shadowed by a flicker of guilt. He stood exposed, the weight of his secrets laid bare.
Angela's world shattered. Her lips parted, a choked whisper escaping. "…No…." Her voice was a plea, a denial, as the truth she'd refused to see stood before her.
Loki's eyes glittered with delight, his smirk twisting into something wicked. "Oh, my dear, you didn't know?" he taunted, his voice a venomous caress. "Now, that's no way to treat those closest to you, is it, Tennyson?" He leaned closer to Angela, savoring the fracture in the room. "Secrets have a way of unraveling at the worst moments, don't they?"
Angela's gaze locked on Ben, a storm of shock, betrayal, and hurt swirling in her eyes. Her hands gripped the arms of her chair, knuckles white, as if anchoring herself against the collapse of everything she thought she knew. Ben stood frozen, helmet in hand, his expression a battlefield of determination and guilt. He was caught—not just between Loki's threat and the war outside, but in the raw, unspoken wound now bleeding between him and Angela.