If this were an ordinary Earth, finding a virus capable of drastically altering the human body would be nearly impossible.
But this was the Marvel Cinematic Universe—a world overflowing with mad scientists and black-ops laboratories that specialized in rewriting the very laws of biology.
And in this world, there existed a virus that perfectly fit Alex's description.
The Extremis Virus.
It first appeared in Iron Man 3, turning its hosts into living weapons—humans capable of regenerating lost limbs, healing from mortal wounds in seconds, and unleashing devastating waves of heat powerful enough to melt steel. But that same unstable power often consumed them from within, detonating their bodies like bombs.
To Marcus, it was perfect. A virus that replaced human biology with something superior, something nearly indestructible. A virus that could serve as the ideal catalyst to push the zombie virus to its next evolutionary stage.
The perfect stepping stone—toward the Progenitor Virus.
"Alex," Marcus said, studying the hooded man beside him, "you certainly know more than you let on."
The man lowered his head slightly, his tone calm as ever. "Even I don't understand how, Master. I was the first of the infected to evolve—to awaken consciousness. From that moment, knowledge simply… appeared in my mind. As though it had always been there."
Marcus's eyes narrowed. There was no mystery here—it was clearly the system's doing.
Alex wasn't just a subordinate; he was a guide, a construct placed here to lead Marcus along the path of evolution, to teach him how to strengthen the zombie virus until it became capable of destroying the world itself.
Not that Marcus feared betrayal. If he so much as willed it, he could erase Alex's mind in an instant, reducing him to a mindless husk once more.
The same applied to every infected under his command.
Just then, a sharp whirring noise split the night air—the rhythmic chop of rotor blades.
Both Marcus and Alex looked skyward. A sleek, black-painted Black Hawk helicopter was slicing through the night, its rotors roaring like thunder as it descended toward the ruins below.
Another squad of mercenaries, no doubt—greedy fools lured in by promises of profit. In a world like this, the existence of zombies was bound to attract the attention of corporate giants, private labs, and opportunistic warlords. A live specimen could fetch a fortune.
Marcus clenched his metallic hand into a fist, a grin tugging at his lips. "Come on, Alex. Let's give our new guests a proper welcome."
"As you command, Master."
Two dark figures leapt from the rooftop. They plummeted through the air with terrifying speed—and before their feet could touch the ground, both vanished into the night, swallowed by the shadows.
---
The Black Hawk hovered over an abandoned park, deploying two thick steel cables. One by one, six fully armed mercenaries rappelled down to the cracked pavement. Each carried top-grade weapons—assault rifles, SMGs, shotguns, and heavy ordinance like a Gatling gun and an anti-materiel sniper rifle. Even their armor was military-grade, complete with ballistic shields, smoke grenades, and tactical HUDs.
This was no ragtag group of bounty hunters. This was a private strike force, likely hired by one of America's military contractors.
The first man to touch down—a broad-shouldered soldier with a scar running down his cheek—was clearly the team leader. "Hold position," he ordered. "Black Hawk, take altitude and begin area scan. We'll move once the recon feed's ready."
"Roger that," the pilot replied. The helicopter ascended, its undercarriage glowing as a blue laser beam swept across the ground in a widening ring.
A rookie in the squad swallowed nervously. "Sir… are we sure about this mission? Queens is under black-level quarantine. If there really are monsters down here—"
The captain sighed. "Kid, if Hammer Industries wasn't paying us five hundred grand per live specimen, I'd be at home watching TV, not babysitting you in a dead city. Relax—we grab two zombies and get out. Easy payday."
A massive man lugging a Gatling gun laughed heartily and clapped the rookie on the back. "You'll be fine. We've even got this beauty—Hammer's latest toy. The Ex-Wife—a micro-missile with Cyclone-grade explosive yield! Blows through bunkers, and then blows through the bunkers underneath them! The pride of Hammer Industries! The—uh—Lachman something—aw, hell, I forgot the sales pitch."
"God, shut up," one of his teammates groaned. "You sound like that sleazy salesman."
The big man grinned. "Maybe after this job, I'll become a salesman myself. Settle down, make some money, spend time with the family."
Another mercenary chuckled darkly. "Heh. I'd rather join the army—get a pension, maybe die a hero."
"Then here's hoping you die quick," someone quipped.
The laughter faded as the pilot's voice crackled back through the comms. "Captain, scan complete. Most of the infected seem to be gathering in groups. Lone targets are moving toward the crowds—like they know we're watching them. Damn creepy. But I did spot two isolated signatures. About five hundred meters ahead, eleven o'clock from your position."
"Copy that. Move out!"
The captain gave a sharp hand signal, and the six-man squad moved out in a tight formation, weapons raised.
They entered a narrow alleyway lined with debris and overturned cars, their flashlights cutting through the fog. Every step echoed ominously.
"Stay sharp," the captain murmured. "Eyes open, corners clear."
They checked every shadow, every trash bin, every pile of rubble—but found nothing. The alley seemed empty.
"Black Hawk," the captain radioed, "no visual on hostiles. Are you sure the scanner's reading right?"
The pilot's voice came back, strained and panicked. "Captain… your blue dots and red dots— they've overlapped!"
The captain froze. "What?"
"I'm saying—your squad is already in contact! They're right on top of you!"
Realization hit the captain like a bullet. He whipped his head upward—
—and saw them.
Silhouetted against the pale moon, two figures stood on the rooftop's edge, gazing down with predatory calm.
One was a young man whose hands had transformed into gleaming, silver claws that caught the moonlight like blades. The other, cloaked in a hood, had two grotesque tendrils unfurling from his back like serpents.
Both radiated an aura that was unmistakably inhuman.
Marcus and Alex had arrived.
The hunt had begun.
___
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