Marvel's Alien Force

The air above the battered San Francisco Bay shimmered with tension. Dust still floated like ash in the sun.

Grey Matter continued pulling survivors from the debris, carefully placing rubble into the floating island above. Every action was deliberate, filled with both precision and compassion. It created a spectacle of raw power balanced by tenderness—a surreal image of salvation.

People on the shore, passengers in boats, and viewers glued to their televisions could only watch in awe. It was as if a god had descended into their world—calm, controlled, and divine.

But while the world watched in silent wonder, there were some who watched with something else entirely: panic.

This time, the politicians had no way to bury the truth.

Not that they didn't want to—of course they wanted to cover it up. But like the Chitauri invasion, this event was far too massive, too explosive, too visible. A Kaiju had attacked, demolished the Golden Gate Bridge, and devastated San Francisco. And then they, the so-called protectors, had nuked it.

Now they scrambled to spin the story—trying to brand themselves as the MVPs of the disaster. They wanted the narrative to say they defeated the threat. They cleaned up the mess. They mattered.

So, this time, the cameras were already rolling. Live. For them. 

But now.

Every major news channel—from India to Israel, China to Canada—was broadcasting this spectacle. And the footage told a different story. It wasn't the government saving the day.

It was him.

And the public saw it.

"What the hell is going on? Why is this on every damn news channel?"

"Shut it down! If they don't stop, they won't be allowed to run a bakery tomorrow, let alone a network!"

"Who gave them the balls to air this live?!"

Panic spread through political offices and military command centers. Every shadowy organization that had exploited mutants was now scrambling. Their decades of control—the carefully curated image of mutants as dangerous, unstable, inferior—was crumbling in real time.

Because for the first time, the entire world saw what a mutant could really do.

This wasn't some back-alley skirmish. This wasn't a vague explosion off-camera. This was salvation… recorded in HD.

The X-Men had always been portrayed as the "good ones," but their true capabilities were never widely known. Now, with this single act of heroism—no speeches, no PR, just pure action—everything changed.

This scene shattered the carefully built narrative. And when the public realized how long they had been manipulated, it wouldn't be just outrage they'd feel—it would be betrayal.

And in the world of power and politics, betrayal is a spark.

Because when the public turns, someone has to take the fall. And the people who'd benefited the most from lies are often the first to die—not at the hands of angry mobs, but by quieter enemies.

The kind who kill for credit.

The kind who want to be seen as the good guys when the dust settles.

And in that chaos, even the law will look the other way.

Mark didn't care about any of it—not in his Galvan form. Why would he care about some human politician when his mission was to save lives? As a Galvan, his mind operated on a wavelength entirely different from that of humans.

His transformations weren't merely physical. They were spiritual. Each time he changed, it wasn't just his body that shifted—it was his soul. When he became a Galvan, he was a Galvan, soul and mind alike. 

Though all his alien forms were connected to him, it was fair to say that even his human self had now become just another alien form—one among many.

As Mark pulled another ten people from the rubble, the little girl who had been silently watching finally stirred. She didn't just speak—she screamed, "That's my mother!"

Grey Matter turned toward the direction she pointed. The woman lay among the debris, her body bruised and her clothes torn in places, but she was mostly intact. Soaked from head to toe, it was clear she'd been submerged in water. Normally, someone trapped for that long underwater would have died.

But luck had been on her side.

When the bridge collapsed, she'd fallen in such a way that her body was submerged, but her face had found a small air pocket—created by the fallen structure and debris. It was just enough to keep her breathing. 

Still, her current condition was critical: her pulse so weak it wouldn't even register on a standard heart monitor. To anyone else, she'd appear dead.

Grey Matter had found several people like her. She wasn't the only one miraculously clinging to life, but not everyone trapped in such pockets had been as fortunate. 

It had already been over six hours since the collapse. Many had died—crushed, suffocated, or drowned. That was the tragic truth.

He looked up at the girl and said in his usual calm, calculating tone that still carried a thread of warmth,

"Your mother is alive. Her condition is stable for now. Let's finish helping the remaining survivors, and then we'll focus on getting her conscious again."

Tears welled in her eyes as she nodded. She was scared. And though Mark called her a "little girl," she was actually a teenager—old enough to understand what was happening. She had seen death. She had witnessed grief. People would say these things were too much for someone her age.

But she'd already seen them.

And yet, in the middle of all this horror, she was grateful. Grateful for the little creature who had saved her, and who now continued saving others—just because she asked. She didn't know him. He didn't know her. Yet here he was, risking everything for strangers.

She wanted to be like him one day. A hero. Someone who saves people.

But for now, all she wanted was for her mother to live.

And hearing that she was okay brought a sigh of relief. Her tears fell, but she didn't sob like before. She couldn't. Instead, she focused on helping the little alien however she could. Even if that just meant standing still, letting him perch on her shoulder as he worked.

She didn't want to disturb him—this small, brilliant creature carrying the weight of a world on his tiny shoulders, building his own floating island of hope above the ruins below.

As Mark focused on the final stretch of his rescue efforts, the air shimmered behind the crystal dome enclosing him. A brief puff of smoke curled upward—and from it emerged Nightcrawler, with Jean and Scott in tow.

Jean, using her telekinetic powers, gently levitated herself and the two men, giving them a clearer view of the scene unfolding before them.

"Beautiful," she breathed. It was the only word that could leave her lips as she gazed at the breathtaking spectacle Mark—no, Grey Matter—had created.

Scott could only nod in silent agreement, while Kurt's eyes widened in awe, his mouth forming a stunned "O."

That was the effect of what Grey Matter had built—more than just an emergency structure. It was a testament to precision, control, and compassion. Even veteran mutants could feel the deliberate artistry behind his every motion.

"Should we go now?" Scott asked quietly.

Jean shook her head and replied gently, "Let him finish what he's doing. Then we'll go."

Scott gave a quiet nod in return.

Without waiting, Nightcrawler said, "Okay, then I'm going," and vanished in another puff of smoke—eager to rejoin the rescue efforts with the other X-Men.

Jean and Scott didn't flinch as he disappeared. Their eyes remained fixed on the crystal dome ahead, watching silently. They weren't just waiting to speak with a new mutant.

They were waiting to meet the kind of person who could create something like this—in the middle of disaster.

***

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