Rated: M for Mature
Disclaimer: The world in which MI:26 exists belongs to Marvel this is a work for entertainment purposes only.
6:45am, London, a crisp morning, the city is bustling. Atop Tower Bridge a figure, dishevelled stands alone, his clothes creased and soiled with sweat. He absorbs the morning air, pure and as yet untainted by the day. He steps forward and plummets towards the ground, hitting it with an almighty smash. The air changes, now as tainted as the days that preceded it.
84 Hours Earlier...
The corridors of Whitehall fell silent on this nondescript Thursday evening. The Sun was setting over England and the people of this small Island made their way back to their homes, some troubled, most untroubled. A lone figure walked amongst the corridors of Whitehall, a short stocky man of little notable description carrying a sealed file. He marched briskly towards an office tucked away in the labyrinth that was the domain of the civil service. Entering the dimly lit room he placed the file down upon a desk that sat before a large chair in which was seated a stern figure. As the stocky man scurried away back into the labyrinth the seated figure preceded to open the file and pour through the documents. After some time he was joined by another, a tall greying man of stern face.
“Is everything accounted for?”
“It seems so, minor details may need to be revised but I assume there is little time left for such adjustments?”
“You assumed correctly.”
The tall man walked towards the window and observed the traffic.
“Anything on your mind Andrew?”
Andrew lent back on his chair, creaking all the way.
“It concerns me that we may not have as complete a lid on this as we may think Simon.”
“An Operation such as this is unprecedented, we have taken as many precautions as possible but things will happen that we cannot account for at this time, elements such as those are unavoidable when dealing with the kind of threat that we are.”
Simon continued to observe the world outside; he noted how small the people looked from here, even from this distance and especially from his personal viewpoint, knowing what he did.
“If you are having doubts this would be a most inappropriate time to undertake any rash form of action”
“Not at all, though I still believe a greater involvement with the M.O.D would have benefited…”
Simon turned towards Andrew
“The M.O.D is to thinly stretched to deal with this, as we reaffirmed in countless meetings that you were witness too. Our own division was created to specifically combat threats like this, and tomorrow it will be vindicated.”
With that Simon turned to leave.
“If I were you I would go home, this will probably be the last night for awhile you will get any decent sleep.”
Andrews face sagged at the thought of the impending schedule.
“Yes of course, Goodnight Sir Simon.”
As Sir Simon left, Andrew relaxed ever so slightly but did not leave himself for quite sometime. The next morning in a small flat, the sun shone through tatty curtains upon newspaper clippings and government documents, remains of microwaved food and dirty clothes. From the equally untidy bed a man dragged himself up and into the day, his day, the most important day of his life. He dressed himself in the only clean clothes left, a pair of jeans, plain t-shit and hood as well as his name tag, Dean Walker. He looked into the mirror that was mounted on the wall by his door, he stared intently but not at himself, as if he was looking into and even beyond his own being. He left his flat, and made his way into central London. Around the same time Sir Simon, accompanied by Andrew entered a conference room and took their places around a large table that had seated around it members of the cabinet, military officers of unknown rank and stature to the wider world, civil service and other departmental liaisons as well as Lords. Sir Simon took his place at the head of the table, looking around at the ensemble of men before him he calmly remarked.
“Gentlemen, shall we begin?”
At that moment Dean departs a bus and walks towards a small centre surrounded by cafes and shops. He moves amongst the crowds before stopping relatively central to everything around him, no one pays any real attention to him; they continue their journeys as if he were invisible. Dean stood, watched, and waited. Then, clenching his fists the invisible man made his presence known, a sickly golden yellow energy began to extrude from his hands, the people around him now saw Dean and begin to retreat in fear, the light became more intense, he directed his attention towards one woman who had failed to observe what many others had. Dean raised his hand in her direction and opened his fist. Immediately her limbs began to stretch outwards and the veins that lined them opened at their tip, her blood began to exit her body at terrifying speeds and seemed to drain her in an instant, the blood flew though the air and back towards Dean. As it reached him it transformed into the same energy he was manifesting and was absorbed. As the onlookers continued to flee in terror Dean identified another victim, a man in his forties who was rooted to the spot, as Dean turned towards him in an attempt to inflict the same fate he was interrupted by a sharp pain in his right shoulder, he looked down to see his own blood, not the golden energy that surrounded him. Again the pain struck him, this time in his stomach. He fell. Again he was struck, the energy faded and its abundance was replaced with blood. Again and again he was pelted with bullets as black clad covert marksmen surrounded him until the energy dissipated completely.
In the conference room a screen displayed what one of the marksmen was seeing. The bloodied corpse of Dean Walker, the marksman acknowledged:
“Perceived threat neutralised.”
The seated members, including one who was disturbed at what and more importantly whom he had seen turned to Sir Simon who responded:
“Phase one is complete.”