By the time Steve Rogers and the others returned, bone-weary and grim-faced, to the H.A.M.M.E.R. Helicarrier, Ben and Tony were already long gone. They were in the silent, unforgiving vacuum of space, orbiting high above the planet, racing against a clock that was about to strike midnight.
"We need to pick up the pace, Ben," Tony's voice crackled over the private comm.
He was currently stationed inside the metallic shell of a decommissioned S.H.I.E.L.D. satellite. He wore no armor, only a simple flight suit and a sophisticated neuro-link headband that amplified the signals from the device in his chest, allowing him to command his entire Iron Legion simultaneously. Dozens of holographic displays, each showing a different armor's point of view, flickered before his eyes.
His gaze darted between them, a master conductor leading a frantic, mechanical orchestra. "Mark 31, sever the primary solar array. It's in the way."
On one of the screens, a sleek suit of armor clenched its fist, and a high-intensity laser sliced cleanly through the satellite's metallic wing.
"Mark 27, tighten the third port-side mounting screw. A quarter turn, not a half!"
"Mark 18, take a swimsuit photo for the… uh… company calendar." He chuckled to himself, the sound tinny and distant in the void.
Outside, dozens of remote-controlled armors swarmed the satellite like metallic bees around a hive, their movements a flurry of precise construction and modification. The mental strain on Tony was immense; he was pushing his mind to its absolute limit, micromanaging countless minute details that were too delicate for automation. Even with his advanced intellect, Jarvis could only do so much to alleviate the cognitive load.
On the other side of the planet, Ben's situation was similar, with one crucial difference: he had transformed into Brainstorm.
As a Cerebrocrustacean, Brainstorm belonged to one of the most intellectually gifted species in the universe, their cognitive abilities rivaling those of the Galvans. Barring the singular, reality-defying genius of Azmuth, most Galvans wouldn't dare claim to be definitively smarter than a Cerebrocrustacean.
In Ben's experience, while Grey Matter's intelligence was like a flash of unparalleled creative insight, Brainstorm's was a cold, calculating supercomputer. The crab-like alien's brain, a massive pink organ that occupied more than half its body volume, could process unfathomable amounts of data and had even evolved the ability to discharge potent electrical blasts.
At this moment, Ben required no AI assistance. To his heightened perception, every object in his field of view appeared like an interactive element in a game, its properties and potential clearly labeled. He didn't just see a satellite; he saw a complex schematic of interlocking systems, each one a problem with a dozen possible solutions.
Under his flawless command, hundreds of his own Iron Guard drones operated in perfect synchronicity. Since acquiring Hammer Industries, Ben had repurposed its production lines to mass-produce his own legion of advanced robots. A contingent of them already patrolled Queens, which had subsequently become the safest borough in New York City. The vast majority, however, were stored in warehouses, waiting for a day just like this.
Ben's progress was significantly faster than Tony's, but even with his enhanced brainpower, the task would still take several days. Hearing Tony's attempt at a joke, he decided to join the conversation.
"Mark 18 might have the classic appeal, but I hear Mark 21 is the real heavyweight," Ben's voice crackled back, oddly high-pitched and articulate.
"Yeah!" Tony nodded in agreement before his brow furrowed. "Wait, why do you sound so weird?"
"I have a cold," Ben lied, awkwardly tapping one of his pincers against his solid head shell.
Tony didn't question it. "You know, I was planning my own satellite launch before all this," he said, changing the subject. "For my next big project. I'm calling her Veronica. A special delivery system, just in case one of our big guys gets out of line."
"A Hulkbuster," Ben stated flatly.
"No, no, no," Tony said proudly. "This one's the Anti-Four Arms-buster. I gave it six arms. If your big red friend ever becomes a threat, Veronica will be there to give him a high-five. With all six hands. To his face." He sounded immensely pleased with himself. "And that's not all. I've got schematics for an Anti-Heatblast armor, an Anti-Diamondhead… I'm prepared for anything."
"And you really think you can win just by adding a few more arms?" Ben retorted, the voice of Brainstorm dripping with academic condescension. "Sometimes, Tony, your naivete is astounding. You believe you can defeat an opponent by simply matching their greatest strength?" He let out a dry, clicking laugh. "It is precisely the opposite. You should be designing countermeasures, not crude imitations." He paused. "And that's me being polite."
Back on the H.A.M.M.E.R. Helicarrier, Peter and the rest of the team had been briefed by Norman.
"To be honest, I'm not sure I can fight aliens," Peter admitted, his voice barely a whisper as he wrung his hands.
Steve placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Believe in yourself, kid," he said, his voice warm and steady. "If you can't do it, then I don't think anyone here can."
The others nodded in solemn agreement. Their time fighting alongside Spider-Man in the bloody streets of Hell's Kitchen had given them a profound respect for his power. They had seen him effortlessly bend steel bars and lift a ten-ton truck without breaking a sweat.
Now, the newly formed Avengers were gathered for their first official war council. As the director of H.A.M.M.E.R., Norman sat at the head of the table. To his right was Steve Rogers, the undisputed spiritual leader of the team. The seat opposite him was conspicuously empty, reserved for Tony.
The others—T'Challa, Natasha, Clint Barton, Sam Wilson, and Matt Murdock—took their seats, their faces etched with grim determination.
"Will the planetary shield be ready in time?" Captain America asked, getting straight to the point.
"The two completed satellites are scheduled to launch tomorrow," Norman replied. "As for the other two… we can only hope Ben and Tony work fast."
"In a battle of this scale, I don't even know what a few of us on the ground can do," Natasha confessed, voicing the doubt that hung heavy in the air.
"That's why we make a plan," Steve said, his confidence a bulwark against their fear. A holographic display lit up, showing tactical data on the Chitauri. The information, provided by Loki, was surprisingly accurate, corroborated by intelligence from Asgard's own archives.
"The good news is that the Chitauri don't appear to possess any single, planet-shattering weapons," Steve began. "Their technology is advanced, but they rely on a ground invasion. They are an army." He zoomed in on an image of a Chitauri soldier. "Each one is a cybernetically enhanced warrior. They're strong, but not invincible."
Norman looked at him. "Captain, do you have a strategy in mind?"
Steve's gaze swept across the faces at the table. "First, the best-case scenario is that the shield is deployed in time and isolates them in orbit." Everyone nodded. "If it isn't, Tony's Iron Legion and Ben's Iron Guard will act as the vanguard, meeting their main force head-on." He drew a line on the holographic map, indicating a defensive perimeter around the city. "That will be our opening. While their army is engaged, we will operate as a strike team. We infiltrate their Leviathans and eliminate their leadership."
It was the same strategy he had used to lead the Howling Commandos deep into enemy territory.
"Just try not to become a cosmic popsicle this time," Natasha quipped with a faint smile.
Steve chuckled. "It's okay. I don't have a date to keep this time." He sobered, his eyes meeting each of theirs in turn. "But if any of you have a dance you've been putting off, I suggest you take care of it now."
Peter's head dropped, his mind immediately flying to her. Should he tell her? The other members remained stoic. Natasha had no such attachments. Clint was always prepared for the ultimate sacrifice. T'Challa, a prince and future king, never entertained the thought of his own demise. Matt made a mental note to settle the affairs of his law firm, and Sam decided he would resign from the VA after the meeting.
Seeing their solemn expressions, Steve smiled reassuringly. "Don't look so serious. This time, we're all together. And we have Ben."
But Peter was still uneasy. "But… if we have to go to space," he asked nervously, "how do we get there? In a spacesuit?"
"We'll stow away," Natasha answered coolly. "Inside Tony's remote-controlled armors."
With the plan finalized, the Avengers dispersed to make their final preparations, each retreating into their own thoughts as they awaited the coming storm.
Just as Norman was about to leave the briefing room, Hill approached, followed by a small group of people who looked like ordinary civilians. He was about to ask why she had brought them onto a top-secret military carrier when he saw the indescribable expression on her face.
"Director," she said, her voice tight, "these people… no, these things… they wish to see you."
Before Norman's eyes, the civilians' bodies began to shimmer and distort as viscous, colored slime erupted from their skin, encasing them in monstrous forms.
"Greetings, Earthling," the lead symbiote, a being of vibrant crimson, spoke first. "We are Agents of the Cosmos, from the Andromeda Galaxy. Two of our companions are separated from us, but that is of little importance now."
It gestured to the others. "We are deeply sorry for bringing the Chitauri to your world," it said, their party still operating under the mistaken belief that they were responsible. "But now, only the Asgardians possess the power to contend with them. The Earth has always been under their divine jurisdiction. We assume you have a way to contact Thor, the God of Thunder."
Norman's expression was a mixture of surprise and weary resignation. "I can find Thor Odinson," he said slowly. "But…"
The symbiotes, however, didn't let him finish. "Excellent! Please, take us to him at once."
Norman obliged. The scene shifted to a quiet street in New York, where several symbiotes now stood outside a small mobile home, their alien eyes staring intently through the window. Inside, they saw him—the God of Thunder. He was living with a human woman, a doctor, lost in a quiet life of domestic bliss.
The red symbiote hissed. "It is him…"
Their hive memory contained the record of Thor, in all his glory, defeating a symbiote dragon of immense power. They remembered his face, his power. To see him now, so… diminished, so utterly mortal, was incomprehensible.
As they watched, a shadow fell over them. The sky, a moment before a clear blue, suddenly darkened as if by a solar eclipse. The symbiotes looked up, and their collective consciousness recoiled in shock.
A colossal Chitauri Leviathan, a living warship of flesh and metal, was gliding through the atmosphere, its immense form blocking out the sun. The war had begun.