Thick snow drifted down in slow, lazy sheets. Under the dim white glow, the tundra looked endless. A formation of heavy transports descended through the cold air, engines rumbling low enough to shake the ice.
The hatches opened.
A squad of people in golden power armor marched out.
They moved as one, tall and imposing, like warriors who'd just stepped out of some alternate-history epic. Each suit was fitted with tools, weapon hardpoints, and reinforced servos. Four to a group, and every group was pushing a massive shipping crate.
The crates looked heavy—but with the armor, they slid them across the snow like it was nothing, tracks carving deep grooves all the way toward the factory doors.
Seeing the gold-armored unit arrive, Paul and another sentry hurried to work their remotes. The great steel doors of the facility rumbled open.
When the column finally disappeared inside, the other soldier let out a dry sigh.
"That's what—sixth run today, man?"
"Mmh… sixth? Or seventh? I lost count." Paul sounded just as tired.
"What are these gold guys even doing?" the soldier grumbled. "We just stand here, open, close, open, close… zero fun."
Paul rubbed his temples and watched the golden unit vanish into the plant. "No idea what they're building in there, but it's all hush-hush."
"Looks cool, though," the soldier shrugged. He said it, but he wasn't that interested. He scraped something off his boot and flicked it into the snow.
Paul looked up into the falling snowflakes and said quietly, "Maybe one day we get to wear those suits. Be part of that team."
"Yeah. Maybe," the other man muttered, mostly to be polite.
Inside, the gold-armored troopers pushed the cargo deeper along a dark corridor. The walls were smooth, industrial, and cold, reflecting their moving silhouettes.
A few minutes later they emerged into a huge bay—and it was already packed. Dozens of identical containers had been lined up in neat rows.
Hawkeye—also in gold armor, but with a painted arrow insignia on the chest to set him apart—raised a hand to signal them.
On the far side of the room stood an odd gathering—a lineup no one would ever expect to see in the same room.
Next to an old man in black leather stood a masked White Queen—cold, aloof, every movement calculated, eyes gleaming with that you'll-never-guess-what-I-know sharpness.
Wanda stood with her brother Quicksilver. Scarlet energy flickered, faint but clear, at Wanda's hands, while Pietro stood ramrod straight, coiled like a spring.
A bit off to the side, the Punisher didn't bother dressing fancy—just his old skull T-shirt, guns and rifles strapped across his back, eyes like a man who'd already decided who deserved to live.
And behind him, towering over most of them, the Venom form yawned wide—razor teeth bared, tongue twitching. No one present could tell who the current host was.
It was like they were all waiting for one person.
Boom. Boom.
White Night's Hulkbuster stepped in.
The sound of that metal titan walking echoed through the bay like war drums. He was bigger than all the other gold suits—like a tower built for battle. The room fell silent at once. Even the troopers who'd been pushing crates stopped and turned, awe in their eyes.
Across the room, the powered crowd—White Queen, Wanda, Quicksilver, Venom—also turned, their gazes drawn to him for different reasons. Wariness. Curiosity. Calculation.
Behind White Night came the old staff-wielding elder and the little robot H.E.R.B.I.E., hovering dutifully.
The Craftsman was there too, flanked by a group of factory hands and scientists—the people who actually made the impossible toys this army was now moving.
White Night curled his massive gauntlet into a fist. The joints clacked softly, sharp enough to focus every single stare.
"Ahem. Forty years ago—"
He'd barely started… when a wrong feeling slid across his spine.
Like an eye.
Not just watching—studying.
He rubbed his eyes and swept the room. Whatever was on his face, the others felt it too. The gold-armored troopers paused and looked around. A ripple of alertness spread through the bay.
White Night's gut told him exactly where to look.
He turned—and there, behind everyone, half-hidden in the shadows, stood a cloaked figure.
He couldn't see the face. Couldn't see the body.
He could only see one eye.
An eye that glowed—with a kind of power that didn't belong to soldiers or sorcerers or even mutants. It was like it was full of… awareness.
The figure didn't speak.
It just stood there, watching.
Then, in White Night's gaze, it turned, and without a word, it walked away.
A few steps.
And it was gone—swallowed by the dark, like it had never been there.
Wanda couldn't help it. "What happened?"
"Nothing," White Night said after a pause. He drew in a slow breath, ready to go back to his speech.
…
Thousands of kilometers away. In a bar.
A sharp, tearing scream split the air.
Everyone turned.
A weirdo was standing in the middle of the bar—his head was one giant eyeball. No brows, no mouth, no nose… and yet everyone could feel madness and ecstasy on that face.
His body jerked violently. He clawed at his clothes and ripped them open.
On his chest was another eye—huge, veiny, red with strain, pulsing with a warped light.
It quivered like it hurt just to exist.
"The… observation… My Watcher's Eye saw something again!"
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