Marvel's Alien Force

Diamondhead, with the little girl secured in his arm, flew swiftly through the air—gliding toward the wreckage of the Golden Gate Bridge. Despite his massive frame, even he looked small in front of the destruction that loomed ahead.

The scale was staggering.

The rescue teams scattered across the ruins took immediate notice. Some soldiers posted for crowd control and emergency defense instinctively stiffened at the sight. An unknown alien being—nearly nine feet tall, gleaming like a living statue of blue crystal—was flying directly toward them.

Yes, they had received word through comms that a "superhero" had arrived to assist… but this? This was too much.

The Avengers were busy downtown. The X-Men were deployed elsewhere. And now some unidentified being had just appeared, floating over open water like a phantom from another world.

Trust, naturally, was not easy to give.

Doubt clung to their expressions.

But Mark didn't care.

He hovered silently in the middle of the strait, right before the fractured bridge. And without moving a muscle—without a single gesture—he simply willed his power to activate. Not with motion. Just a thought.

The response was instant.

A lance of diamond burst downward from the soles of his feet, shooting straight into the river below. It plunged with precision—slicing through water and rock like butter. It didn't stop at the riverbed. No, it kept going, piercing deep into the earth beneath until it found a place strong enough to support what would come next.

Then, from the same crystalline shaft, a circular platform formed beneath him—wide enough for his full armored form, perfectly balanced. He floated no more. He stood.

With care, and using his telekinetic power, he lowered the girl from his arm and gently set her down beside him on the platform.

But he wasn't done.

Mark focused again, and this time created a protective structure—wide crystal walls rising up around the platform's sides and back, curving inward like a dome. Only the front remained open, allowing him to face the ruins directly.

The rear wall alone was at least ten inches thick, reinforced enough to endure even a high-grade missile if needed.

This was no show of power.

It was instinct.

Preparation.

The calm before the next storm.

The little girl could only stare in awe.

Everything she'd just witnessed—the giant walls of diamond, the flight, the platform forming mid-air over the river, the dome shielding them—it was like something out of a dream. A glowing crystal warrior who had descended from the sky and saved her.

Mark turned his gaze toward her and gave her what could only be described as a reassuring smile—alien, yet warm.

"Now," he said, voice calm and steady, "we're going to save everyone. Ready?"

She nodded, eyes wide, heart pounding in her chest.

Mark nodded back. Then, in his mind, he called the next name.

'Grey Matter.'

In an instant, his tall, gleaming form began to retract. The massive crystal limbs folded in, shrinking, compressing, transforming. From a towering armored colossus, he reduced rapidly until his body was no more than six inches tall.

Where the diamond warrior once stood, now hovered a tiny, humanoid creature—grey-skinned, amphibian in appearance, with intelligent, glowing eyes. A being whose physical strength was nothing compared to the mind housed within.

The girl blinked in shock at the sudden change, her lips parting but no words escaping.

Mark—now Grey Matter—floated toward her and landed lightly on her shoulder, perching without effort. His demeanor was completely different. Cold, calculated. His movements sharper, his voice void of warmth.

"We will start now," he said, tone mechanical, stripped of emotion.

The girl nodded quickly, too surprised to speak.

Grey Matter extended his tiny hand forward and closed his eyes, entering deep focus. A second later, his voice rang out again—monotone, precise, like an AI reading diagnostics.

"Power: Telekinesis. Source: Recent transfer via awakened X-gene compatibility. Estimated force output: Extremely high. Mental stress: manageable. Feasibility of lifting Golden Gate Bridge wreckage: 99.92%. Operation: Initiating."

And then it began.

His power surged—but unlike before, where raw force was at play, this time the world around him shifted differently. The air itself vibrated with subtle psychic energy, like invisible threads being pulled with perfect coordination.

If Diamondhead represented power…

Grey Matter represented control.

His brain wasn't just advanced. It was a quantum processor of unfathomable scale. Thoughts moved faster than any supercomputer. Calculations about weight, tension, angle, debris volume, friction coefficients, wind resistance, structural weak points—all of it processed in milliseconds.

Even among aliens, Grey Matter was unique.

And now, that intellect belonged to Mark.

He tapped a finger lightly against the air—an absent motion, effortless—and a massive chunk of iron debris suddenly shot into the sky. It hovered more than a hundred meters above the wreck, suspended with absolute control. From within the twisted remains of a crushed vehicle came a flicker of life—a family of five, miraculously shielded by the car's crumpled frame.

Mark didn't wait for fanfare.

With a flick of telekinetic will, he peeled the car's mangled roof open like it was no more than foil. The family inside was barely conscious, suffocating in the heat and pressure. One by one, he pulled them out using only the pressure of thought, each movement precise, gentle, efficient.

With a smooth gesture, he sent them sailing toward a rescue boat—bodies weightless in the air, cushioned by psychic force. They never even stirred, too far gone to know they had been saved.

And that… was only the beginning.

Mark's tiny hand moved again—tapping the air like he was playing the piano—and the entire disaster responded like an orchestra. Debris lifted. Beams shifted. Steel bent like silk. Rubble rose and fell with haunting grace.

In the background, a strange harmony hummed to life—a melody not born from strings or wind, but from motion and energy, like the subtle music of alien spheres. It pulsed in the air, soft and weirdly beautiful, as more bodies emerged from the wreckage.

Some were dazed, some bloodied, some unconscious. Others… had already passed, still held with the same reverence and care. Mark's mind did not slow. His power did not falter. He laid them all out before the rescue crews, who scrambled in organized chaos—shouting orders, radioing for more boats, more medics, more stretchers.

The pace was no longer human.

It was divine.

Above it all, the shattered bridge—what had once been a monument of human engineering—was now a floating ruin in the sky, held aloft like a drifting island. Piece by piece, Mark added more to it. Beams slotted into place. Supports reconnected. Weight adjusted in mid-air, managed with inhuman precision.

He wasn't just rescuing.

He was rebuilding.

"What are you doing? Don't hold like this!"

"James Dale! James Dale! Has anyone found someone named James Dale?!"

"Oh my god... how badly injured this person is."

"Sir, please wait a moment—please fill out your name and address before leaving."

The rescue teams were in chaos, but organized chaos. More and more survivors were being pulled from the wreckage, and with each one, the tempo picked up.

Those with injuries were quickly carried off to medical tents.

Those who had awakened—unstable, confused—were quietly redirected to waiting and care wards.

The severely injured, hanging on by a thread, were loaded into emergency evac transports bound for high-tech hospitals.

And the unfortunate ones… were draped and marked.

The ones who were stable, uninjured, and conscious enough to move were allowed to leave. There just wasn't enough space to hold everyone, and the crowd was swelling fast.

But amidst all this…

Mark continued his silent, unyielding work. No pause. No rest. Just precise, focused movements in the background—debris shifting, bodies rising, chaos bending into order.

And as he did, the world watched.

For the first time on live television… they saw what true power looked like.

****

"You gotta be kidding me. You're telling me to leave S.H.I.E.L.D. and form my own team?" Tony asked, his eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. He hadn't expected the Professor of the X-Men to drop that kind of suggestion.

At the moment, Tony was seated inside the Blackbird. His armor had been wrecked during the earlier battle, leaving him grounded while Steve, Natasha, and the others were out assisting in the rescue efforts.

Left behind, he found himself in conversation with none other than Professor Charles Xavier. Logan lounged nearby, already half-asleep in his seat. Jean and Scott stood by, quietly observing, while Ororo had joined the rescue operation on the ground.

Now that the Kaiju incident had settled—one the authorities had already codenamed "Trespasser"—people were finally starting to catch their breath. Debriefing had begun, and discussions were flowing fast.

But Tony hadn't expected this.

The realization that the monstrous creature had been controlled—that something was puppeteering it from afar—was disturbing enough. But learning that the rift it had come from had opened at the Mariana Trench, the deepest part of the Pacific Ocean?

That was another level of madness entirely.

Fascinating? Sure. But also horrifying.

His mind, already obsessed with planetary defense, spiraled. He had once joked about building a suit of armor around the world. Now it wasn't just aliens or terrorists he had to worry about—but giant interdimensional monsters crawling out of the planet itself.

And worst of all?

That kind of depth… Even he couldn't reach with his current suit tech.

'Upgrade. Upgrade. Upgrade...God, why?'

Tony rubbed his temples. He wanted to scream. Ever since he became Iron Man, it was like the world had gone insane. One insane revelation after another, piling onto his brain like someone was force-installing new data he never asked for.

And now this bald man was telling him to leave S.H.I.E.L.D. and create his own superhero team—with the Avengers—and apparently, the X-Men would also be a part of it.

Tony let out a sharp exhale. "I'm sorry, but I can't just do that. Do you even realize the shitstorm that would cause? They're barely tolerating me because I'm part of S.H.I.E.L.D. If I wasn't under their banner, they'd be raiding my mansion, stealing my tech, and slapping me with god-knows-what international violations. Did you forget how I even became what I am today?"

His voice wasn't just sharp—it was tired. Worn. Frustrated beyond reason.

It was one thing to fight for the world, but another to be dragged into politics, bureaucracy, and global power games. No matter how many lives he saved, someone always wanted more.

"I understand, Mr. Stark," Professor Xavier replied calmly. "It sounds reckless. But believe me—if you remain under S.H.I.E.L.D.'s control, neither you nor the Avengers will be able to truly save people."

Scott stepped forward then, voice level but firm. "There are undercurrents inside S.H.I.E.L.D. you haven't seen yet. The work you're doing... it's surface-level. The real decisions—the dangerous ones—are being made behind closed doors, away from your eyes."

Tony didn't reply immediately. He didn't have to. The way his brows furrowed, the faint twitch in his jaw—he knew they weren't lying. He had known for a while. He'd just hoped it wouldn't come to this.

He looked like hell. Not just from the battle, but from the weight. The weight of knowing.

The weight of pretending not to.

Scott knew that look. Tony Stark wasn't naive. He was many things—arrogant, sarcastic, reckless—but stupid wasn't one of them. He understood exactly what was being said. He just didn't want to acknowledge it... because if he did, he'd have to act on it.

But the X-Men couldn't wait. The survival of their kind depended on these alliances.

No more fences. No more sidelines. They needed to move—and they needed to move now.

The X-Men had always tried to work in the light. They helped in evacuations, aided during disasters, saved people alongside the Avengers—but the recognition? It never came. Not because the public didn't care, but because those in power wouldn't allow it.

Every news channel, every government feed, every controlled narrative—carefully filtered. The only time "mutant" made headlines was when someone lost control. When a political figure was assassinated. When a building collapsed from a power awakening. Never the rescue efforts. Never the sacrifices.

There were protests. Small. Passionate. But they died down, forgotten in the sea of louder voices. After all, how many mutants were even out there? A minority among minorities. Easy to erase. Easier to ignore.

Scott knew the world was broken. He knew they could do more—but they were shackled by their ideals. They still believed that kindness would lead to understanding. That compassion would one day be returned.

Maybe it was foolish.

But it was all they had left to believe in.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Cyclops. And frankly, I don't care."

Tony's voice cut the air like a blade. Sharp. Exhausted. Done.

"I understand you saved me, Miss Jean. I get it. I really do. But you're asking me to do something that puts my entire life on the line. Again."

He stood up from his seat, arms falling to his sides as his eyes narrowed.

"I just came back from the f*cking jaws of death. Do you get that? Death, Scott. I didn't survive because of some plan or fancy tech. I survived by luck. Because someone pulled me out at the last second."

His chest rose and fell, breath shaky with bottled-up tension. "And now you're asking me to just... walk away from everything and throw myself back into the meat grinder? What the hell is wrong with you people?"

"I know, Mr. Stark, but—"

Jean tried to speak, her voice calm, steady, but she was cut off.

The cabin doors of the Blackbird hissed open with a pneumatic rush. Ororo Monroe—Storm—walked in, her expression tight, panic etched across her usually composed face.

"We have an emergency."

Everyone turned. Even Logan stirred from his half-doze, and Scott's body tensed instantly.

Tony didn't say anything—but his gut twisted. He already felt it. That sick, creeping feeling that something bad was about to hit them. Again.

Ororo didn't explain. She simply turned to the control panel and activated the universal comm-feed. The ultra-high-definition screen mounted in the cabin flickered to life.

And what came into view made Tony's blood run cold.

His eyes widened as the footage played. He blinked once. Twice. Even rubbed at his eyelids.

But it didn't go away.

"This..." he muttered, stepping closer to the screen.

His voice dropped, hollow with disbelief.

"How... how the hell is this possible?"

But unlike Tony, the others in the room didn't react with the same level of shock.

Their expressions weren't filled with disbelief—but with grim focus.

Professor Xavier narrowed his eyes at the footage and asked calmly, "Who is this person? Are they with the Brotherhood?"

Ororo shook her head. "That's not confirmed. What I've found so far is that a young girl suddenly began her awakening. Her powers surged out of control… and then this person appeared. He can shift into different forms. He stabilized the situation and saved everyone. After informing the officer that he intended to help, he began assisting with the rescue efforts."

Professor Xavier leaned back slightly, eyes still fixed on the screen, deep in thought.

Jean stepped forward, voice quiet but certain. "His power… his control... it's beyond mine. He's definitely an Omega."

At that, Logan clenched his fist… then slowly released it.

"We should go to the scene," he muttered. "Even if it's not for that guy, we can't leave the awakened girl unguarded. Sooner or later, someone will try to snatch her."

Scott smirked faintly. "With that kind of power standing beside her? Only Magneto would dare."

Logan shot him a glare but didn't say anything more.

Professor Xavier finally spoke again. "Jean, call Kurt. Head to the scene. I want to know what kind of person we're dealing with."

"Understood, Professor." Jean nodded and stood up.

Scott rose beside her. "I'm going too."

The Professor gave a slow nod. "Do not engage him. You can't win. And even if you somehow did... the cost would outweigh anything you gain."

Jean and Scott exchanged a look and nodded. "We understand."

Just then, with a puff of smoke and the familiar smell of brimstone, Kurt—Nightcrawler—appeared in the cabin.

"To the Golden Gate Bridge?" he asked, raising a brow at Scott.

Scott nodded once.

Without wasting a second, Kurt placed a hand on both him and Jean. Another puff of smoke later, they were gone.

Tony stood frozen, flabbergasted.

He hadn't expected things to move this fast. The speed at which the X-Men made decisions, the way they mobilized, their quiet understanding—it all felt unreal. Like watching a well-oiled war machine spring to life.

But then again, as his eyes returned to the screen, he understood why.

That wasn't just a rescue.

That was a floating island in the sky.

And at its center, suspended high above the wreckage of the Golden Gate Bridge, stood a massive crystal pillar… topped with a glowing blue formation. Almost like an egg—or a throne—from some fantasy epic.

The entire scene felt alien. Otherworldly.

And this was the same day he'd seen a Kaiju crawl out of the Pacific.

Tony exhaled slowly.

"What the hell is happening to this world...?" he muttered.

***

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