Back on Earth – S.H.I.E.L.D. Blacksite Command
Alarms blared. Red lights flickered.
"Director Fury! We've got a breach! Unknown vessel just left Earth orbit—it's headed deep into uncharted territory."
Fury leaned forward, eyes grim. "Trace the trajectory. Mark it hostile. And pray to God he doesn't do something insane out there."
He already knew.
Max was going off-world.
Meanwhile… in deep space...
Onboard the enemy mothership—massive, the size of a small moon—a flashing alert echoed in the dark control chamber.
The AI core sparked to life, projecting a holographic feed of Earth's atmosphere. Static flickered—then an automated message played:
"Distress beacon detected—Aramgand scout team terminated. Tech unit zeroed. Hostile subject—code: MAX—has reversed origin trace. Incoming."
The alien overlord—half-man, half-machine—stood from his throne of cables and steel. His cold green cybernetic eye narrowed.
"So... the subject is coming here, personally?"
"Yes, Supreme Executor," the AI confirmed. "All enhanced operatives deployed to Earth have been neutralized. Current projections estimate subject will arrive in under 12 hours."
The overlord turned to a group of scientists—twisted, spindly creatures covered in machinery. "Is the Harvest Chamber ready?"
One of them nodded eagerly. "Yes, my lord. Once the subject arrives, we will capture him, extract his neural core, convert the genetic framework… and build an army of superpowered cyborgs using his flesh and mind as the template."
The overlord clenched a fist.
"The Scourge Fleet failed. But this time… we won't kill him."
He grinned.
"We'll weaponize him."
Back with Max
He sat alone in the dim cockpit, bathed in the cool glow of a hundred flickering systems. Outside, the void stretched endlessly—stars whipping by like silver streaks across black velvet.
The AI's voice wavered with static.
"Warning. Approaching hostile sector. Incoming gravity anomalies. High radiation pockets. Warfleet presence confirmed. This ship… is not rated for survival."
Max didn't flinch.
He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the armrests, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His gaze was calm, cold, and focused—a predator's stillness before the kill.
"…I'm not asking the ship to survive," he said evenly, voice smooth like steel drawn from a sheath. "I will."
The silence afterward was heavy. Even the AI hesitated, as if the very systems needed a moment to compute the sheer audacity of that statement.
"Acknowledged… rerouting all remaining power to propulsion and shielding," it finally replied. "Survival parameters adjusted—to you."
Max leaned back again, unfazed, as the ship began to tremble, entering an unstable nebula cloud surrounding the outer reaches of the pirate sector.
A lesser being would have panicked. Even the most advanced soldier would've hesitated.
Max just exhaled slowly. Eyes half-lidded. Calm.
"Let it shake. Let it burn. Doesn't matter if the ship turns to dust..." he murmured to no one.
He tapped the side of his temple.
"I've walked through stars before. This is just another fire."
Outside the window, a distant armada waited—alien dreadnoughts brimming with weapons, clouds of smaller interceptors patrolling space like swarming hornets. A defensive line meant to crush any invader.
Max's eyes narrowed.
"Good," he said, as a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "They came prepared."
He stood slowly from the pilot's chair. The ship creaked and groaned as if protesting its own doom.
Max didn't care.
He walked to the observation deck, watching the enemy fleet form up on his trajectory.
"Try and stop me," he whispered.
The ship tore through the edge of the nebula, sparks of ion energy cracking across its hull. Warning lights flared red. Metal screamed under pressure.
The AI stuttered again.
"Impact in 20 seconds. Shields at 12%. Recommend immediate evacuation. Catastrophic failure imminent."
Max didn't blink.
He simply walked to the rear hatch, calm and composed. His coat fluttered lightly in the artificial wind as the emergency airlocks disengaged. One more step… and he stood beneath the release bay, staring at the darkness beyond.
The moment he looked up, the lead Dreadnought—a monstrous structure of cannons, shields, and glowing alien engines—locked onto him.
"Unidentified lifeform detected. Energy signature: anomalous. Priority threat rating—unknown."
A voice rang through a radio channel, deep and mechanical.
"Fire."
A thousand plasma bolts screamed toward him.
Max stepped out into the vacuum of space.
The ship behind him exploded in a blaze of blue and orange fire—but he didn't look back. The plasma tore through the void, aimed directly at him—
He raised one hand lazily.
The bolts curved… then simply disintegrated mid-flight. As if erased from reality.
From the bridge of the Dreadnought, the captain—a hulking cybernetic monstrosity with half his brain exposed—stood frozen.
"...What the hell is that…?"
Max slowly floated forward, walking on nothing, each step parting the void like ripples on water. He wasn't flying. He wasn't teleporting.
He was arriving.
His body shimmered with a subtle aura—Time, Death, Space, and something far older. Something forgotten. A truth that shouldn't exist.
The entire fleet saw the figure approach, and across their systems, one word blinked violently in red:
[ERROR: ENTITY CLASSIFICATION FAILED]
[RECOMMENDED ACTION: RETREAT]
Max reached out again—this time, casually flicking his fingers.
BOOM.
One of the warships exploded into a silent inferno, blooming like a flower of light in the vacuum.
Then another.
And another.
The pirate fleet scrambled to reposition. Shields raised. Cannons charged.
Max kept walking.
No oxygen. No ship. No armor.
Just him.
And the wrath of something no machine, no pirate king, no star-born conqueror could understand.
Inside the command chamber of the pirate stronghold, the high commander of this sector—a nine-foot-tall brute named Thesk Or'han—watched the footage with narrowed, blood-red eyes.
His subordinate turned to him. "Sir… it's him. The one who slaughtered the scout team."
Thesk's eyes twitched.
"Send the Reapers. Activate the Anti-Deity cannons. Do not let him reach the planet."
The subordinate hesitated. "…And if he does?"
Thesk bared his jagged teeth.
"Then we'll rip his goddamn heart out and turn it into fuel."
Outer Ring – Fortress World
Alarms screamed across the city-sized stronghold. Automated turrets rotated to the sky. Orbital towers glowed red as energy surged into their barrels. Every soldier, every mech, every beast-like mercenary was being deployed.
But it was already too late.
A streak of light descended from orbit.
Max.
He fell like a meteor—arms crossed, eyes half-lidded, body relaxed.
The moment he touched the upper atmosphere, the air around him combusted. Not from friction—but rejection. The world itself, recognizing something unnatural. Unwelcome. Godlike.
The sky split.
Shockwaves shattered clouds and cracked the sound barrier into pieces.
Max landed in the heart of their capital. A colossal structure of black metal and red neon, crawling with cyborg warriors. The Pirate Palace, home to the warlord Thesk Or'han.
***
Support me at
patreon.com/boring_world
It's 22 chaps ahead