BEN 10: ULTIMATE ALIEN
Episode: "Overdrive"
A Fan Episode by AlienCore Studio
COLD OPEN
EXT. BELLWOOD — HIGHWAY OVERPASS — DAY
Blazing noon sun. Heat shimmer rises off the asphalt. Traffic crawls bumper to bumper on the overpass — until it doesn't. A beat-up armored truck SCREECHES the wrong way down the shoulder, weaving between cars, sparks flying off its side panels.
Behind the wheel: PSYPHON, wild-eyed, one gloved hand clutching a pulsing violet crystal in a steel case.
Sirens. Two police cruisers give chase, but Psyphon's truck is modified — turbocharged, plating bolted on like a tank. He's not slowing down.
CUT TO:
EXT. HIGHWAY — MOMENTS LATER
A green flash streaks along the guardrail. BEN TENNYSON, sixteen, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, sprints alongside the truck on foot — as FASTTRACK, all violet muscle and lightning-bolt markings, matching sixty miles an hour like it's a jog.
FASTTRACK
(shouting over wind)
Pull over! I'm doing you a favor — my way hurts less than the guardrail's way!
Psyphon doesn't answer. He CRANKS the wheel. The truck SIDESWIPES a sedan, sending it spinning. Fasttrack peels off, catches the spinning car by the frame, and skids it safely to a stop on the shoulder — costing him three seconds.
Three seconds is enough. The truck's gone, cresting the overpass and vanishing down the off-ramp toward the industrial district.
FASTTRACK
(gritting teeth)
Okay. Not a jog anymore.
He plants both feet and BLASTS forward, faster than before — and slams the Ultimatrix symbol on his chest.
FASTTRACK (CONT'D)
Let's see what the new gear can do.
A pulse of light. His frame doesn't just speed up — it changes. Armor plates unfold across his shoulders and shins, three spinal fins snap upright in a growing row down his back, and his legs swell with dense violet-plated muscle, crackling with electric trails. He is now ULTIMATE FASTTRACK.
ULTIMATE FASTTRACK
(grinning, voice deeper, doubled with an electric undertone)
Oh, that's new.
He doesn't run so much as disappear — a sonic crack, a violet streak, and the overpass is empty.
SMASH CUT TO TITLE CARD:
BEN 10: ULTIMATE ALIEN
"OVERDRIVE"
ACT ONE
EXT. INDUSTRIAL DISTRICT — WAREHOUSE ROW — DAY
Rows of corrugated steel warehouses, chain-link fences, forklifts frozen mid-task as workers scatter. Psyphon's truck SCREECHES through a gate, fishtails, and stops dead — because a violet blur has just planted itself directly in front of it.
Ultimate Fasttrack stands with arms crossed, unbothered, twenty feet from a truck that isn't stopping in time.
PSYPHON
(through the windshield, panicked)
Move!
ULTIMATE FASTTRACK
Nah.
At the last possible instant he doesn't dodge — he digs both massive legs into the asphalt and takes the hit on his shoulder, letting his reinforced frame absorb it, plowing a trench through the pavement as he skids backward. Twenty feet. Ten. The truck grinds to a smoking halt, its grille crumpled against his shoulder plate.
ULTIMATE FASTTRACK (CONT'D)
(rolling the shoulder, unbothered)
Yeah, that's gonna leave a mark. On the truck.
Psyphon kicks open the driver door, cradling the crystal case, and RUNS — not toward the open street, but toward Warehouse 7, where the door is already grinding open from the inside. Waiting in the doorway: three XENOCITE DRONES, mantis-armed constructs standing nearly eight feet tall, insectile heads swiveling in unison toward Fasttrack.
ULTIMATE FASTTRACK
Bugs. Great. Add it to the list.
PSYPHON
(disappearing into the warehouse, calling back)
Kill the alien. Slowly, if you can manage it.
The drones SCREECH and charge.
ACT TWO
INT. WAREHOUSE 7 — CONTINUOUS
Rows of shelving, shipping crates stacked three stories high, forklifts idle in the aisles. Fasttrack meets the first drone head-on — a blur of violet motion circling it so fast the drone's mantis-blades slash empty air three times before Fasttrack drops into a slide and takes its legs out with a sweeping kick, using his own momentum to send it crashing into a support pillar.
Drone two and three flank him. He doesn't run from them — he runs between them, and as he passes, he plants one foot and pivots into a spinning back-kick that catches both drones across the chest, sending them tumbling into each other in a heap of twitching limbs.
ULTIMATE FASTTRACK
(not even winded)
Turns out I don't need extra arms when the legs hit this hard.
He speeds down the center aisle after Psyphon — and the floor BUCKLES beneath him. Not a trap. A trapdoor of magnetic plating snaps up from the concrete, and Fasttrack, mid-stride, has no ground to push off. He tumbles, rolls, comes up in a crouch.
Ahead, Psyphon stands over a humming pedestal at the warehouse's center, the crystal now seated inside a mechanical cradle wired into thick black cabling that snakes up into the rafters.
PSYPHON
You're fast, Tennyson. Faster than I accounted for. But speed doesn't mean anything against a closed door.
He presses a control. The warehouse's roof panels GRIND open, revealing a satellite dish rising from a hidden silo beneath the floor — aimed at the sky.
PSYPHON (CONT'D)
The Sentanoid resonance crystal amplifies any signal it's tuned to. In about ninety seconds, this dish broadcasts a summoning pulse strong enough to wake every dormant Incursean sleeper cell on this continent. All I needed was somewhere quiet to set it up. Thank you for the head start, by the way — the police were much more persistent than I expected.
ULTIMATE FASTTRACK
(standing, rolling his shoulders)
Ninety seconds. That's basically an hour for me now.
He BLURS toward the pedestal — and the magnetic floor SURGES again, this time gripping his boots mid-step and yanking him down hard. He's stuck, calf-deep in warped steel plating.
PSYPHON
Xenocite alloy. Reactive to kinetic energy — the faster you move across it, the harder it grips. I did read your file, hero. I know exactly what you are now.
ULTIMATE FASTTRACK
(straining, not panicked — thinking)
Yeah? Then good thing my legs don't need to move to be strong.
He plants both hands against the floor and DRIVES upward with raw leg power, tearing free of the alloy's grip in a spray of torn metal. He staggers upright, favoring one leg, but standing.
PSYPHON
(checking a countdown readout — 01:04)
Impressive. Still too late.
ULTIMATE FASTTRACK
We'll see.
ACT THREE
INT. WAREHOUSE 7 — CONTINUOUS
Fasttrack can't risk a straight sprint across the alloy floor — every step risks another magnetic snare. Instead he vaults onto the shelving, using the metal crate racks three stories up as a raceway, running horizontally along the beams in a violet blur, sparks kicking off the rusted rails.
PSYPHON
(watching, almost admiring)
Adaptive. Fine. Let's see you adapt to this.
He slams a second control. Steam vents HISS along the ceiling tracks — and a row of automated turret nozzles unfolds from the rafters, tracking Fasttrack's path and opening fire with concussive blasts.
Fasttrack doesn't dodge each shot — he can't, there are too many. Instead he reads the pattern, timing his jumps between volleys, using his enhanced reflexes to treat the barrage like a rhythm rather than chaos. One clips his shoulder. He doesn't slow.
PSYPHON (CONT'D)
(readout: 00:31)
You are out of warehouse.
He's right — Fasttrack's raceway ends at the far wall. No more beams. Just open floor between him and the pedestal, thirty feet of Xenocite alloy waiting to grab him the second he lands.
ULTIMATE FASTTRACK
(mid-air, grinning)
Good thing I'm not landing.
He SPRINGS off the last beam — not down, but forward, legs driving like pistons to close the gap in a dead sprint through open air. Gravity claims him halfway across. He's going to land ten feet short.
He slams the Ultimatrix symbol.
INSERT — ULTIMATIMATRIX SYMBOL: flashing red, a soft DE-TRANSFORMATION CHIME.
Ben reverts mid-fall — smaller, lighter, human — and in that last half-second uses the reduced mass to stretch his jump those final few feet, tucking into a roll that carries him past the alloy floor's edge and straight into the pedestal, tackling Psyphon off his feet.
The crystal cradle SPARKS loose from its socket in the collision, spinning across the floor.
PSYPHON
No — !
BEN
(scrambling up, breathless, grinning)
Rules said I couldn't run across the floor. Didn't say anything about flying across it.
The countdown readout blares 00:00 — and dies, unpowered, as the crystal rolls to a stop against a crate, inert without its cradle.
Psyphon lunges for it. Ben's faster even like this — human, but sixteen years of practice faster — and stomps a foot down on the crystal first.
BEN (CONT'D)
Nuh-uh. This is evidence now.
PSYPHON
(scrambling back, resigned, already calculating an exit)
There will be another quiet warehouse, Tennyson. There always is.
He yanks a smoke charge from his belt and slams it down — a plume of black vapor floods the aisle. By the time it clears, he's gone, a side door swinging on its hinges.
Ben doesn't chase. He crouches, picks up the crystal, turns it over in the light. It's still humming, faintly, like it's listening for something.
BEN (CONT'D)
(to himself)
Yeah. You're going somewhere with a lot more locks.
EXT. WAREHOUSE 7 — MOMENTS LATER
Ben steps out into the sun, squinting, crystal in hand, sirens finally arriving in the distance — a little too late, as usual. He watches the empty road where Psyphon vanished.
BEN (CONT'D)
(quiet, to the Ultimatrix)
Ultimate Fasttrack. Ninety seconds felt like plenty.
(beat, small smile)
Note to self — next time, don't wait until "plenty" runs out to use it.
He taps the Ultimatrix. It chirps in acknowledgment. Ben pockets the crystal and starts walking back toward the city, already breaking into a light jog out of habit.
SMASH CUT TO BLACK.
END OF EPISODE