(AN: You've stoned me so I'll chappie you. Please leave a review. FYI: I'm currently working on an exciting scene but don't know how to start it. I've got the whole thing setup already though. Anyways, enjoy :D )
Elias opened the shop like he always did.
Lights on.
Shutters up.
The familiar scent of yeast, sugar, and baked bread slowly pushing away the lingering quiet of the morning.
If not for the faint ache in his shoulders—a reminder that his body was no longer entirely ordinary—everything felt the same
.
Too same.
Customers trickled in one by one, just like before.
Office workers grabbing breakfast, an elderly couple splitting a loaf, a student yawning as they counted coins.
Elias greeted them all with practiced ease, hands moving on instinct, smile worn but genuine.
Normal.
Almost convincingly so.
Then it slipped in—quiet, casual, like crumbs falling from a loaf.
"Did you see the news last night?" one man asked while waiting for his change.
Elias paused for half a second too long.
"Which one?" he replied, keeping his tone light.
The man snorted.
"Harlem. Military. Monsters. Aliens, maybe?" He shook his head, laughing nervously.
"Guess aliens are real now, huh?"
A woman behind him added, "My sister lives near there. They locked everything down. Said it was a 'biohazard.'"
Another customer chimed in, voice hushed, like the walls might listen.
"I heard something burst out of a guy. Right out of his chest."
Laughter followed—uneasy, forced, the kind people used when the truth was too heavy to sit with.
Elias handed over a bag of bread, his fingers steady despite the tightening in his chest.
"People exaggerate," he said mildly.
"News always does. Besides, that pattern about something coming out of someone's chest? It's in the movie Aliens."
"How come I never seens this movie?" A young customer asked.
"It's a really old movie." Elias answered.
No one argued any longer. They never did.
They took their bread, their pastries, their coffee, and left—stepping back into a world that had not ended, despite how close it had come.
There were no black SUVs outside.
No men in dark suits pretending to browse.
No familiar billionaire swaggering through the door with sunglasses and a smirk.
And somehow, that made it worse.
The day went on.
Orders were filled.
Laughter returned in small, fragile pieces.
Someone complained about the weather.
Someone else praised the bread like it was the best thing they'd tasted all week.
Life continued—not boldly, not bravely, but stubbornly.
Normalcy hadn't shattered.
It had cracked.
Elias wiped down the counter and glanced at the front window, watching people pass by—ordinary people, living ordinary lives, blissfully unaware of how thin the line truly was.
The world hadn't changed.
But it now knew it could.
And that knowledge hung in the air of the shop like fine flour dust—unseen, easily disturbed, waiting for the smallest breath to scatter it everywhere.
.
.
.
Emergency Session — The White House
The Situation Room was fuller than it had any right to be at that hour.
Generals in dress uniforms stood shoulder to shoulder with intelligence directors.
Cabinet members sat stiffly at the long table, folders unopened, hands clasped as if bracing for impact.
At the head of it all, the President watched Nick Fury with a look that hovered between skepticism and restrained anger.
The doors sealed shut with a muted thunk.
"Director Fury," the President said, breaking the silence, "I'm going to ask you plainly, because the country is already tearing itself apart over rumors."
He leaned forward.
"Was there an alien involved in the Harlem incident?"
Fury didn't hesitate.
"Yes, sir."
The word landed like a dropped plate.
A few people shifted.
Someone exhaled sharply.
One of the advisors muttered something under his breath before catching himself.
Fury continued before disbelief could harden into denial.
"Not an invasion. Not a fleet. A single organism—non-terrestrial, hostile, and lethal."
A senator scoffed. "You expect us to believe an alien just showed up in Harlem?"
"I expect you to believe the evidence," Fury replied evenly. "And I expect you to stop underestimating the universe."
The President's gaze narrowed.
"Explain."
Fury tapped the folder in front of him but didn't open it yet.
"Months ago, Tony Stark assisted SHIELD in analyzing biological remains recovered from a detention incident. His conclusion was… unsettling."
Fury finally opened the folder, sliding out a single still image—classified markings stamped across the top.
Fury finally opened the folder, sliding out a single still image—classified markings stamped across the top.
"It wasn't evolution," Fury said.
"It was design. Every part of the organism exists to kill, survive, and reproduce."
He looked around the room.
"If any of you have seen the film Alien then you already have a reference point. Because what Stark confirmed is that the creature we encountered shares nearly identical characteristics."
A ripple went through the room now.
"Acidic blood. Extreme resilience. Rapid growth cycle. Parasitic reproduction," Fury listed.
"What we faced wasn't inspired by fiction. The fiction was accidentally accurate."
General Ross shifted in his seat.
"Director," one of the joint chiefs said carefully, "you're saying Hollywood got it right?"
"I'm saying reality doesn't care where we get our warnings," Fury shot back.
All eyes turned when Ross cleared his throat.
"I saw it," Ross said, voice tight.
"Not on a screen. Not in a report. I saw it tear its way out of Blonsky."
That did it.
Shock crossed faces. A few officials went pale. Someone whispered Jesus Christ.
Ross's jaw clenched. "And before anyone suggests this was some kind of SHIELD fabrication—Banner was with me. The creature was not him. And it was not human."
Silence followed.
Heavy. Suffocating.
The President rubbed his temples.
"You're telling me the monster from a science fiction film exists… and it was born on American soil."
"Yes, sir," Fury said.
"And you expect this room to simply accept that?"
Fury's expression hardened.
"I don't expect belief," he said. "I expect responsibility."
He nodded once toward the door.
"The World Security Council has authorized me to provide physical proof."
The doors opened.
Two SHIELD agents entered, pushing a reinforced containment unit on a magnetic dolly.
The case was layered in transparent alloy, hazard symbols plastered across its surface.
Inside—
Silence broke.
A severed, clawed appendage rested within, blackened in places where it had been neutralized.
Nearby, fragments of a biomechanical carapace gleamed dully under sterile light.
The structure was wrong—organic, yet not.
Like something grown instead of built.
A faint hiss echoed as environmental stabilizers adjusted.
One official stood abruptly, chair scraping back. Another covered her mouth.
Even General Ross stiffened, his face draining of color.
"That…" someone whispered, "…that's real."
Fury watched them all.
"This was recovered from a local detention facility in Queens that was repurposed into an emergency research base," he said.
"And before anyone asks—yes. It bled acid. Yes. It nearly breached containment. And no—we do not have more."
He locked eyes with the President.
"But we now know they can exist."
The room no longer doubted.
Fear replaced disbelief.
The President straightened slowly.
"Director Fury… if this thing was one of many—"
"Then this meeting wouldn't be happening," Fury cut in. "We'd already be fighting for survival."
A pause.
Then, quieter:
"But make no mistake. If one appeared once, it can happen again."
No one argued.
Somewhere far away, behind closed doors and darkened windows, the world went on pretending everything was normal.
But inside the White House, humanity had just been formally introduced to the fact that monsters were no longer fiction.
.
.
.
Elias closed the shop just as the last light of evening drained from the street.
No drama.
No alarms.
Just the quiet clatter of chairs being stacked and the soft click of the lock turning.
Dinner was simple—leftover soup, reheated bread, nothing fancy.
He ate alone at the small table by the window, the city humming faintly beyond the glass.
Normally, this was the part of the day he enjoyed most.
Tonight, his appetite was mechanical.
If I didn't do what I did…
Elias stared at his spoon, unmoving.
Would it all be better?
Harlem. The screams. The thing that burst from Blonsky's chest.
He exhaled slowly and pushed the bowl aside.
"…No," he muttered, unsure whether he was convincing himself or answering someone else.
That was when the familiar, emotionless chime echoed in his mind.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
The blue light unfolded before his eyes, sharp and intrusive.
[NEW OBJECTIVE:
Establish a Secret Base of Operations
Status: UNASSIGNED ]
Elias blinked.
"A base?" he repeated quietly.
He looked around his home—the place he had lived in for years, long before systems, servants, or cosmic consequences.
The decision came faster than he expected.
"My house," he said.
The system responded instantly.
[LOCATION SELECTED
Primary Base: Registered ]
Elias leaned back in his chair, a strange mix of relief and unease settling in his chest.
If he was going to carry this weight…
He might as well do it from somewhere safe.
His house was modest.
Two floors. Narrow, but well-kept.
The first floor held a small living room, kitchen, and dining space—functional, warm, lived-in.
Framed photos hung on the walls.
Nothing expensive. Nothing suspicious.
Upstairs was his bedroom, a spare room turned storage, and a bathroom.
The bedroom was simple: a neatly made bed, a desk by the window, a bookshelf filled with old cookbooks and a few novels he never quite finished.
Normal.
Too normal for what he had become.
The system chimed again.
[OBJECTIVE COMPLETE
SECRET BASE ESTABLISHED]
Elias frowned.
"I didn't—"
The floor vibrated.
Not violently.
Not enough to be heard outside.
Just enough to be felt.
A low hum resonated through the house, deep and controlled, like a massive machine awakening beneath the earth.
[REWARD GRANTED]
Light flared in his vision.
[UNDERGROUND SECRET BASE– ADVANCED
Status: ACTIVE ]
Elias stood slowly, heart pounding, and followed the system's guidance upstairs.
Into his bedroom.
The closet door—wooden, ordinary, slightly crooked from age—slid open on its own.
Inside, the back panel shifted.
Metal replaced wood, seamless and dark.
A faint blue line traced the outline of a hidden door.
[ACCESS CONDITIONS:
Biometric Scan – Confirmed and/or
Voice Recognition – Enabled ]
"Elias Mercer," he said instinctively.
The door hissed open.
A narrow staircase descended into darkness, illuminated step by step as he moved forward.
Below—
The space opened into something breathtaking.
A cavernous underground base carved cleanly from stone and reinforced with gleaming alloy.
Platforms, railings, and walkways connected multiple levels.
Consoles lined the walls, holographic interfaces idling in standby.
Weapon racks—empty for now—stood beside training areas.
A central operations table dominated the main floor, glowing faintly with projected maps and system readouts.
Industrial.
Controlled.
Hidden.
He didn't even question how this appeared through his closet, on the second floor, but somehow, it was underground?
It's like the Arrow Cave beneath Starling City.
Except this wasn't borrowed from a vigilante fantasy.
This was his.
The hum of power was constant, reassuring.
Elias stood at the railing, staring down into the heart of it all.
"…Well at least I have somewhere to hide when shit happens." he murmured.
Above him, the house remained exactly the same.
Quiet.
Unassuming.
Invisible.
And beneath it—
A place where secrets could live, plans could form, and choices—right or wrong—would no longer be made in the open.
The system's final message lingered in the air.
[Base of Operations: ONLINE]
Elias didn't smile.
But for the first time since Harlem—
He felt safe.
.
.
.
Tony Stark's workshop was a mess.
Not the chaotic, half-drunk kind of mess—but the focused, obsessive kind.
Tools lay where they had been dropped mid-thought.
Holographic schematics hovered in layered transparency, constantly recalculating.
Empty coffee cups and far too many pie boxes were stacked near a workbench like a monument to poor nutritional decisions.
Tony Stark stood in the center of it all, eyes bloodshot, shirt wrinkled, jaw clenched.
"Come on," he muttered, hands dancing through the air as he adjusted the parameters.
"You exist. I know you do."
For days—no, weeks—he had chased the problem from every angle.
Palladium poisoning wasn't theoretical anymore; it was personal.
His father's work, the arc reactor, had been a foundation, not a solution.
Tony had realized that much early on.
Howard Stark had imagined the future.
Tony had to force it into existence.
The hologram shifted.
The equations stabilized.
For a single, terrifying second, everything went quiet.
Then—
The core ignited.
A clean, steady blue-white light pulsed at the center of the containment field, perfectly balanced.
No decay. No instability. No lethal feedback.
Tony froze.
"…Jarvis?" he asked carefully.
"Running diagnostics now, sir," the AI replied, calm as ever.
Seconds ticked by. Tony didn't breathe.
"Element integrity is holding at one hundred percent," Jarvis said.
"No toxic byproducts detected. Energy output exceeds palladium standards by a factor of three."
Tony's lips parted.
"And?"
"And it is not attempting to kill you," Jarvis added helpfully.
Tony laughed.
A sharp, breathless sound that turned into something dangerously close to relief.
"I did it," he said, running a hand through his hair.
"I actually did it."
He leaned closer to the glowing core, eyes reflecting the light.
"Not dad's design," Tony continued quietly.
"Not stolen. Not inherited."
This one was his.
He straightened and smirked.
"Name?" Jarvis prompted.
Tony didn't hesitate.
"Baddasium."
A pause.
"…Of course, sir," Jarvis said diplomatically.
Tony snapped his fingers.
"Prep the integration sequence."
Mechanical arms unfolded from the ceiling and floor, precise and obedient.
The new element was transferred carefully into a redesigned arc reactor housing—sleeker, more efficient, unmistakably Stark.
As the reactor lowered toward his chest, Tony hesitated only for a fraction of a second.
Then it locked in. The suit powered up.
The familiar hum returned—but cleaner.
Stronger. Stable.
Tony exhaled slowly, feeling the difference instantly.
No pain. No burn. No countdown.
Jarvis spoke again, and this time there was something almost like approval in his tone.
"Congratulations, sir. You have successfully surpassed both your previous limitations and your father's theoretical ceiling."
Tony looked at his reflection in the polished metal of the workshop wall.
"Yeah," he said softly, a grin spreading across his face.
"I guess I'm still worthy of the name."
The arc reactor glowed steadily in his chest.
Iron Man was no longer running on borrowed time.
And somewhere in the city, beneath a quiet house and an even quieter bakery—
The world was changing.
End of chapter 13