"These people have been dead for many years," Police Commissioner George Stacy said as he briefed Falcon on the case.
Sam Wilson, who had arrived in New York ahead of Steve Rogers to lead the preliminary investigation, quickly reviewed the victims' profiles using police archives and Tony Stark's AI, Friday. "That's impossible!" he exclaimed, staring at the yellow-black bones laid out in the morgue. Even without a forensic report, he could see that the remains on the stainless steel table had clearly aged. His experience told him all he needed to know—as he had promised the commissioner.
"The callers claim their family members were taken just yesterday!" he said. "So then, who were they actually living with?"
"That's what baffles us the most," Commissioner Stacy sighed. "Either that squad has a way to make remains appear decades old, or... something replaced the victims. And that group with the armored vehicles is hunting those things. We noticed a pattern—every victim had changed homes, jobs, and social circles shortly before their deaths."
He lowered his voice. "Roughly around the time we now estimate they actually died."
Sam felt every hair on his body stand on end.
"I've seen a lot in my life. I've been on battlefields. But this... this is terrifying." The morgue's cold air was already oppressive, but Stacy's words sent a chill straight from Sam's feet to his brain. It awoke some primal terror buried deep in his DNA—like the childhood fear of monsters under the bed, long dismissed with age but now returned in full force. This was the fear of the unknown, the kind that bullets couldn't kill. Sam shook his head to banish the thought, but the fear clung to him.
"Do we have any leads?"
"Nothing, besides what you've seen," the commissioner shook his head. "Whoever's doing this cleans up extremely well. All bodily fluids were destroyed with acid. Casings and bullets were taken. Forensics found nothing. The only clues were the craters—these weren't from handguns or rifles but some kind of high-caliber weapon. And yet, there were no body parts left. Everything was incinerated or dissolved."
"Good. I don't want any alien DNA left at the scene," Victoria Hand said into the phone. "Speed up the cleanup in New Jersey. The police are already onto you. The assault transport is prepped, but you only get one shot at extraction. If the National Guard catches up, not even the Sovereign can protect you... My lord, the Skrulls in New York have been eliminated. The bodies are being airlifted to Eternal City."
She hung up and waited for further instructions. Though another urgent task loomed, she had to wait.
Fortunately, the one issuing orders was decisive and swift.
"Instruct the Bio-Gene Lab to prepare for intake. Dr. Maya Hansen is in desperate need of test material," Solomon said, lifting a finger to cue Stephanie, who then ordered her secretary to draft the necessary directives. At the same time, Solomon looked up, and Victoria Hand realized his expression hadn't changed since the operation began. From what she knew, the Skrull conflict was only one of several matters her Sovereign was juggling. It didn't take a genius to guess something far greater than the Skrulls was approaching.
"I want post-op cleanup completed."
"I believe Internal Affairs can handle it," Victoria replied, understanding what he meant. "Is this body of yours a product of alchemy?"
"Don't let me near high heat. I'll melt."
She exhaled in relief. The more she saw of the Sovereign, the less she wanted to face his true form—tall, powerful, utterly cold-blooded. Beneath his calm exterior surged thunder and fury. The thought alone sent chills down her spine. When he worked behind his desk, his presence seemed to fill the room, making it nearly unbearable for anyone to breathe. Only Stephanie Malik—driven by an ambition as feverish as lust—could withstand such pressure.
This shift had begun after the Battle of Fimbulvent.
When the war ended, the golden-armored king, sword blazing, boarded the ship. Everyone who looked at him felt like their brains had been branded by molten iron. The heat and violence he radiated were overwhelming. Crew members knelt as he passed, and though he ordered them to rise, some changes had already taken root. Now, everyone in Eternal City could feel his presence—like an invisible mountain towering above all. Even those without second sight instinctively sensed who sat atop the tallest Gothic spire. The girls at the Sisterhood Convent even prayed toward his tower.
When far away, his presence inspired awe. When close, it became fear.
Victoria didn't know whether his current wry humor and flickers of mercy were byproducts of his alchemic form. But he did enjoy making jokes. When no mission was pending, his lethal wit could spark laughter like kindling in a hearth. Only then could those working under him breathe a little easier. Since Fimbulvent, the only remaining trace of humanity in him—if any—was his love of hard liquor. The handcrafted cabinet in his office, filled with rare spirits, had been rapidly depleted. Most recently, a bottle of Napoleonic brandy vanished without a trace—such vintage would normally be sold one glass at a time at auctions, yet Victoria hadn't even seen the bottle.
"My real body is still at Oxford. There's an important exam today," the alchemic form said, as if reading her mind. Agent Hand was used to this by now. The Sovereign saw everything. It was common knowledge among more radical staffers. Solomon's avatar gave a sly smile. "Sharing Napoleonic brandy with one's professor isn't a bad idea—especially if absences are piling up. Fine liquor has miraculous power."
"You should be glad Jane Foster isn't your graduate advisor."
"True. Heartbroken women are troublesome. Victoria Hand, take a bottle with you before you leave. Anything from the cabinet is yours. Taking over Nick Fury's secrets is no small task, and I have nothing better to reward you with."
"This is my duty, my lord." Victoria opened the cabinet, grabbed a bottle at random, saluted, and exited the office.
"I believe she can fill Nick Fury's role," the Sovereign said to the Internal Affairs Director. "She has the potential. So far, she's done well."
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