Any attempt to threaten or hinder Armacham operations was met with swift, merciless retaliation. Jeremy York had begun embedding key operatives across the globe, and those chosen would execute with precision. They knew the direction the young CEO was headed—and wanted in. The benefits, after all, were growing increasingly impossible to ignore.
Whispers had already circulated: field agents who exceeded expectations received refined versions of the Super Soldier Serum. Among the most effective—if volatile—was Armacham's Centipede variant, a hybridized cocktail inspired by Centipede tech but fused with Naquadah-infused stabilizers.
The corporation stood defiant beneath the weight of growing scrutiny. Governments were probing. Black ops factions realigned. Everyone wanted to know how a previously unknown company vaulted into prominence overnight.
And looming over it all: a name. A legacy.
Was Jeremy York the second coming of Sebastian York?
Far from prying eyes, a man smiled in a room wired like a god's veins. His eyes flickered open as information surged into him like scripture.
________________________________________
Juárez, Mexico – Bank Front
Scorch stood still, arms folded, a volcanic calm radiating from him. His focus remained on the two newest arrivals from the latest Armsdrop.
One was Mikhail, a former Russian mutant operative with a military résumé soaked in blood and betrayal. The other—a teenager no older than Cole but with an unsettling presence—called himself Kevin.
Bullseye, as always, made an ass of himself: flipping off Mikhail before logging off the comms.
Mikhail growled, voice distorted, almost inhuman. The sound crackled across the half-deconstructed hardlight terminal before fading into angry static.
Scorch sighed. The two were oil and acid—volatile and impossible to mix.
Turning, he acknowledged the youth.
The aftermath of the bank mission lay heavy in the air—hostages dead, assets compromised, critical data lost.
Scorch extended a hand. "Chan Ho Yin. Pyrokinetic. First batch of Armacham's Centipede Serum."
Kevin returned the gesture. "Super Soldier. Can manifest magical armor. Got this sword."
He motioned to the hefty hilt strapped to his back.
Scorch raised an eyebrow. "Interesting. I'll be reviewing your mission logs."
Kevin gave a slow nod. No ego. Just awareness.
_________________________________________
Below Juárez – The Hive Wakes
Beneath the city, darkness pulsated.
A Brood Queen, fresh and violent, screeched as her generals delivered grim news: one of her sub-hives had been exposed. She'd tricked the humans—let them think they'd won. But in truth, they'd only entered her web.
On the wall—cocooned, bound in glowing fungal threads—hung Kitty Pryde. Her body spasmed, a hybrid scream caught between agony and transformation. The Queen had devoured the child's mother. Now, Kitty's power—intangibility was being harvested. Warped. Made into a weapon.
Soon, Kitty would become something new.
"Kill. Consume. Convert," the Queen hissed in jagged Spanish.
A scream echoed through the caverns.
_______________________________________
The operation was a disaster.
They hadn't accounted for how fast the Brood could tunnel—or how deep they'd spread. The intel had been wrong. Or worse: manipulated.
Scorch watched thermal signatures flicker across his visor. Blips of Brood converging, and cold spots growing.
His cowl retracted.
An aide-Tech Jacket designation approached, "S.H.I.E.L.D. lost comms with the remaining team inside."
He already knew. He'd seen them disappear—one heat signature at a time.
"Lift the curfew. Cancel the blackout. They broke the deal," he muttered.
Bonita Juárez approached, flanked by her team-handlers, and from his automatic facial recognition tech, HYDRA.
"They've failed," he said without looking at her.
"Move."
"You're not cleared for this, Scorch," she warned
"We've discussed this."
He glanced at her, ignoring the people behind her.
"Go in yourself then. Where's the X-Men?"
She didn't answer.
"You ignored my warning, Bonita. You're blacklisted now. Armacham will make you an example."
She frowned. "Why would I care about some corporate—"
He cut her off, brushing past. She grabbed his arm.
"They sent you because they think you're better. This time… it won't go so easily."
His eyes flared white. Bonita stepped back.
"You already lost the girl," he hissed. "A mutant. Intangible. Perfect Brood material."
She winced. The mother had escaped. Kitty was being consumed. The threat wasn't just containment anymore—it was extinction.
"Are you with Armacham?" an agent asked.
Scorch ignored him.
"We need your help—"
He never finished. Screech. Flicker. Movement.
A Brood drone lunged from the shadows, mantis-blades flashing.
Scorch's fist met it mid-air. Fire erupted. Carapace cracked, boiled. His new suit surged, heat amplifying in concentric waves.
He pressed forward. The building shook with contained fire, but he didn't let it consume everything—just what needed to burn.
'I should've handled Firebird. She overwhelmed me.'
Failure gnawed at him.
Behind his eyes: shame.
Ahead of him: war.
He incinerated another half-human husk. A former bank teller, now little more than a living brood vessel. Snap.
He moved methodically. Room to room. Fire trailed behind him like divine retribution.
At the final hall, soldiers held the line.
"Follow the fire. It won't burn you," he said.
They ran.
He stayed.
Anyone still inside?
Already dead. They didn't know it yet.