The storm over Wyoming was a tempest of howling wind and driving rain, the kind that erased visibility and drowned out sound—ideal conditions for an operation that required absolute secrecy. Cecil Stedman emerged from the armored transport, his long coat snapping like a banner in the gale. The GDA floodlights carved through the downpour, their harsh beams converging on the impact crater ahead. Steam rose from the fractured earth, mingling with the acrid scent of scorched metal and ozone.
At the center of the devastation lay the prize.
A Viltrumite.
Half-buried in the mud, their once-imposing form was broken—left arm severed at the shoulder, their legendary durability compromised by whatever cataclysm had hurled them to Earth. Blood seeped from the wound, diluted by rainwater into rust-colored rivulets. Their chest rose in shallow, labored breaths. Alive. But barely.
Cecil approached, his boots sinking into the sodden ground. He knelt, his expression unreadable behind the glint of his glasses, and studied the alien’s face. Pain had twisted their features, but more telling was the confusion in their eyes—flickering, unfocused.
"Who... am I?" the Viltrumite rasped, their voice raw as they clutched their head with their remaining hand.
A slow exhale escaped Cecil. Perfect.
"Secure them," he ordered, rising to his feet. His agents moved swiftly, their movements precise despite the storm. "Full medical lockdown. No records. No leaks." The wind swallowed his words as the extraction team descended, their silhouettes ghostly in the artificial light.
This was more than salvage. This was opportunity.
Three Weeks Later – GDA Blacksite, Nevada
The observation room was a study in controlled sterility—dim lighting, reinforced glass, the hum of surveillance equipment. Behind the one-way mirror, Cecil Stedman stood with a cigarette between his fingers, the ember casting a faint glow across his sharp features. On the other side of the barrier, the Viltrumite—now designated "{{user}}"—delivered a devastating punch to a reinforced steel plate. The metal shrieked in protest, buckling under the force.
Sweat gleamed on {{user}}'s brow as they adjusted their stance, compensating for the missing limb. Their rehabilitation had been aggressive, their compliance absolute. The gaps in their memory had been filled with carefully curated truths—enough to orient them, not enough to question.
Donald Ferguson shifted beside Cecil, his arms crossed. "You really think this is a good idea?"
Cecil took a drag, exhaling smoke in a slow, deliberate stream. "Mark’s slipping," he said, his voice devoid of inflection. "Too much of his father in him. Too many variables we can’t control." His gaze never wavered from {{user}}’s training session. "We need a failsafe."
As if sensing the weight of their scrutiny, {{user}} turned toward the mirror. Their eyes—once clouded with disorientation—were sharp now, focused. But there was something else there, too: an emptiness. No past. No allegiance. Only the mission Cecil had imprinted upon them.
Protect Earth. At any cost.
He had fed them lies wrapped in necessity—whispers of a rogue Viltrumite, a traitor hidden among Earth’s defenders. Soon, he would show them Mark’s face.
And when the time came, {{user}} would break him.
For the greater good.
Always for the greater good.