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The moment Atlas stepped out of the burning medical tent, the atmosphere hit him full in the face.
The air itself was alive — a living storm of heat, gunfire, and screaming metal.
Tracer rounds split the smoky sky while plasma bolts painted the battlefield in pulses of electric blue.
Every explosion rattled his ears, every scream reminded him that death hadn't waited twenty years for him to return.
The base — once orderly, disciplined, precise — was now chaos incarnate.
Vehicles burned in the mud.
Corpses — human and alien — littered the ground like broken dolls.
And above it all, the command sirens still wailed a useless warning to men who were already dying.
Atlas ducked behind a ruined Humvee, adrenaline snapping him into focus. Same chaos… same smell of blood and cordite. Feels like I never left.
Gunfire cracked to his right, followed by the sharp hiss of a plasma bolt cutting through the air. He turned instinctively, scanning the chaos. He needed height. He needed to see.
The watchtower stood about a hundred meters away — its silhouette flickering in the firelight like a dying torch. Atlas bolted toward it, ducking behind overturned vehicles and wreckage until he reached the ladder. It rattled as he climbed, each step echoing with the thunder of distant explosions.
By the time he reached the top, the wind hit him — hot, dry, and carrying the acrid stench of burning metal. He crouched low, scanning the battlefield. From up here, the full horror of the invasion spread before him: the base walls shattered, the barracks half-collapsed, soldiers firing from behind cover while alien figures advanced in eerie formation, their plasma rifles cutting through everything.
The mud sucked at his boots as he ran, bullets whining overhead. Twice he ducked as plasma bolts tore into the ground nearby, the heat searing his cheek. He vaulted a barrier, landed hard, and reached the ladder.
"Let's see if old habits die hard," he said grimly and climbed.
Every rung creaked under his weight. The wind carried smoke, heat, and the faint metallic taste of blood. When he finally reached the top, he pressed flat against the railing, scanning the battlefield below.
He closed his eyes and reached inward — to that faint pulse inside his mind. The Eagle Vision flared to life.
The battlefield changed.
Smoke vanished, replaced by outlines — glowing blue for allies, red for enemies. He could see through the haze, through walls, through chaos. The surviving humans clustered near the command center, a flickering blue knot surrounded by red predators.
Inside the command center, heat signatures glowed — civilians, medics, scientists, a handful of injured soldiers. Dozens of lives cornered behind a reinforced door.
Atlas opened his eyes, the glow fading. "Alright… I still have time."
He descended fast, boots clanging on steel, landing hard at the bottom.
Time to move.
The command center loomed ahead — a fortress of steel and concrete, half-swallowed by rubble and fire. Its walls still stood, but just barely, riddled with plasma burns that glowed faintly in the smoke-filled haze. The ground trembled from distant explosions. The air was thick — scorched metal, blood, and the sharp sting of ozone.
Atlas moved fast, weaving between wrecked vehicles and craters. He kept his head low, his boots crunching over shattered glass and discarded casings. Every few steps, he passed a fallen soldier — some faces familiar, others too charred to recognize. He forced himself not to stop, not to think.
Later, he told himself, jaw tightening. Mourn later. Save who's left.
He slid behind the twisted frame of a jeep and peeked over the hood.
Two aliens stood at the command center's entrance — tall, armored, their movements perfectly synchronized as they swept the area with their glowing rifles. Their armor pulsed faint blue, alive with circuits that crawled like veins. A few meters away, three others knelt beside fallen humans.
Atlas froze.
The aliens weren't killing. They were dissecting.
One soldier lay sprawled on the ground, still breathing, eyes wide in silent terror. An alien traced a glowing plasma blade down his arm, methodical, clinical — like a surgeon examining a patient. Another cataloged data on a wrist-mounted holographic screen, scanning organs as they worked. The third was calmly removing a helmet, as if studying human physiology.
Atlas's gut twisted. His pulse thundered in his ears. He'd seen death before — too much of it — but not like this.
"This isn't war," he muttered under his breath. "It's a damn lab experiment."
His grip tightened on the Mossberg. He took a deep breath, centering himself.
"Alright, you bastards," he whispered. "Let's see how you handle a real doctor."
He stepped out from cover — slow, deliberate, feet crunching glass.
The nearest alien turned just in time to see the muzzle flash.
BOOM.
The first slug ripped through its neck, the impact spraying blue-green ichor across the ground. The alien's body convulsed, collapsing mid-turn.
BOOM. BOOM.
Two more blasts. Two more down. The shotgun kicked against his shoulder like a mule, but he barely felt it — just the rhythm, the focus, the calm fury. The scent of gunpowder mingled with the alien ozone, sharp and bitter.
The last two guards reacted instantly. Their rifles flared to life, blue plasma building at the barrels. The hum grew to a scream. Atlas saw the glow — knew what was coming.
He yanked his shield up just as they fired.
CRASH-THOOM.
The plasma bolts struck like lightning, splashing against the curved surface. The impact vibrated through his bones, a thunderclap echoing through his arm. For a moment, the world was blinding light and heat — and then it bent away. The shield's Isu runes shimmered gold, dispersing the energy like ripples in water.
Atlas blinked behind the glow, a grin creeping onto his lips.
"Guess you're tougher than carbon steel, huh?"
The aliens didn't hesitate. Their rifles hissed, vents glowing red as they fired again and again, walking the shots up his body. The shield held, smoking but solid.
Atlas moved forward, step by step, each impact driving him back an inch, each one answered by a defiant push.
His heart pounded. His thigh burned from a grazing shot that tore through his uniform — hot pain flashing like a brand.
He hissed between his teeth. "That's gonna leave a mark."
At ten meters, he sprinted.
He barreled forward like a storm, shield first, the ground vibrating with every step. The aliens tried to adjust aim — too slow.
Atlas slammed into the first one full force. The impact cracked armor and sent the creature flying into the wall. He pivoted, twisting the shield sideways to catch the second's rifle, wrenching it off-line.
Before it could recover, he swung the Mossberg like a club, smashing the stock into the alien's chest. The crack of breaking bone echoed, followed by a shriek that was half-metal, half-animal. Atlas followed with a brutal shield bash across the jaw — a blow that dropped it instantly.
The other tried to rise, snarling. Atlas spun on his heel, grabbed its rifle barrel, and drove his knee hard into its ribs — once, twice, again. Armor dented inward. The alien collapsed, weapon clattering away.
Atlas finished it with a clean strike to the head.
Thud.
Silence fell — heavy and sudden, broken only by the faint crackle of burning debris and the far-off echo of gunfire. Blue ichor ran in small streams across the dirt, steaming where it hit the ground.
Atlas stood among the bodies, chest heaving, the smell of smoke and scorched ozone thick in his throat. He lowered his shield slowly. The Isu runes flickered, fading back to dull gold. His gloves were blackened, his pulse still hammering.
He stared down at the fallen aliens — their lifeless armor gleaming faintly — and let out a shaky breath.
"Captain America," he muttered, "you'd be proud… or jealous. Hard to say."
He holstered the shotgun, wiped a smear of alien blood off his face, and looked toward the massive steel door. The command center still stood — for now.
Atlas rolled his shoulder, flexing his aching arm. "Alright," he said softly, "what's next?"
Then he started toward the door, ready for whatever waited inside.
Then Atlas turned to the wounded soldiers clustered like broken toys under a sagging tarp. Faces slack with shock, hands stained dark with blood, breaths shallow and sour with smoke. A vivid, almost picture-like scene of destruction and chaos.
Atlas moved among them quickly — fingers on carotid pulses, fingers pressing down to stop leaks, hands that had sewn lives back together more times than he cared to count. His motions were automatic, precise: open kit, pour antiseptic, press, wrap, knot. Muscle memory made the work almost soothing, a rhythm he could follow when everything else was chaos.
A young corporal near the tent flap coughed and rolled his head. "Doc?" His voice was raw, like he'd been breathing through gravel. His eyes focused and, for a beat, disbelief flickered across his face. "Dr… Atlas? Is that… you?"
Atlas felt a small, pointless surge — relief, perhaps, that at least one familiar name still existed in this ruin. He gave the man a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Not a ghost. Not yet." He palmed the man's shoulder to steady him. "You weren't supposed to be on shift. Lucky night for you, unlucky for me."
The corporal tried to laugh and coughed. "Lucky for who?"
"For us," Atlas said. He tightened the bandage around the man's shoulder, ignoring how the gauze soaked dark through where it met torn cloth. "Listen — you, get to the radio. The city needs to know the command center's holding. Use the relay in the comms tent, not the main line. It's fried."
The corporal soldier blinked, forcing focus. "Right. Radio. Reinforcements. Got it." He hauled himself up with a groan, fingers fumbling at the strap of a rifle. "Who do I—who do I tell?"
"Tell central: Sector Four is compromised. Command center holding. Request immediate infantry and drones for support," Atlas said, voice clipped. "Then run. Don't dawdle."
The corporal nodded and staggered toward the comms tents, rifle bumping against his hip. Before he disappeared, he looked back and managed a crooked grin. "Aye, Doc. See you on the other side."
Atlas turned to the next man stirring — a weathered sergeant with a split lip and a stubborn scowl. He was already trying to push himself up and failed. Atlas crouched and checked the man's airway, palms warm and steady. "You stay put," Atlas said. "Keep these ones breathing. Don't let anyone panic."
The sergeant grunted. "You sure you don't want someone who can actually fight out there?"
Atlas let out a sharp breath — a half laugh that tasted of ash. "I fight. I also sew. For now, you're the eyes and the gun. If those aliens twitch, shoot them in the knee. I want them alive."
The sergeant's brow creased. "Alive? Shouldn't we—"
Atlas met his gaze. "We learn more from a specimen than a corpse. The scientists need answers. And if I can understand their tech, we might not have to throw bodies at this thing forever." He felt the spark of the talent under his skin — a kind of hungry clarity — and didn't hide from it. This could change everything, he thought. With my comprehension talent… if I study their tech, maybe I can understand their systems. Maybe even use them.
The sergeant nodded slowly, the calculation of war already reaching his eyes. "Fine. But if one wakes up and bites us, I'm shooting for the head."
Atlas grinned despite himself. "Agreed."
A kid—barely out of his teens—woke next, face pale as plaster. He stared around, still trying to place the world. "Doc… what happened?" he whispered.
"You were hit," Atlas said, checking the wound by feel more than sight. "You're going to be fine. Can you move?"
The boy tried and failed. Atlas hauled him gently to a sitting position and jabbed a finger into his chest. "Listen — when I say move, you move. I need one man to signal the radio, one to stay and watch the tents, and one to run to the supply depot for extra bandages. Which of you still remembers how to run without thinking about dying?"
Three hands shot up, clumsy but willing. The boy who'd first woken, still dizzy, squinted at Atlas. "I'll run, Doc. I'm fast."
"Good." Atlas slid a small pack into the youth's hands. "Take the path behind the east rubble. If you're seen, use the shadows. And when you get to the depot, take the blue crates — they've got saline and antibiotics."
The boy swallowed hard, nodded, and limped away, clutching the pack like it was a lifeline.
Atlas paused, looking over the group for a moment longer. The tent smelled of burning canvas and antiseptic. He could hear the distant thud of heavy boots and a sound like a hive — a high, mechanical whine that set his teeth on edge.
He thought of the alien rifle sitting on the ground where one of the fallen had dropped it — sleek, humming with lines of soft blue light. He could almost feel its design under his fingertips.
He crouched and picked it up, cradling it as if it were a newborn animal. It buzzed faintly — alive — and he felt the familiar pull of curiosity. Later, he told himself. First, keep people breathing.
He rechecked the shotgun — three shells. He slid them into the chamber with a practiced motion, the clicks steadying his breathing. Then he stood, boots sinking into mud, and looked toward the command center. Smoke curled against the stars.
He dragged the last wounded soldier into a nearby tent for safety, wiped his brow, and turned toward the command center again.
"Keep your heads down and your guns ready," he told the men. "But if anyone asks who did this… tell them it was doc Atlas."
A rough chorus of half-hearted cheers answered him — not much, but bones of morale that could be rebuilt. The radio runner was already gone, the guard squared his shoulders, and Atlas felt, for the first time that night, something sharp and like purpose settle into him.
He slung the Mossberg. The metal felt heavy and honest in his hands. He took one last look at the cluster of men, at the pale faces and the small, stubborn breaths, and then moved out — toward the command center, toward the door that might save them all.
The metallic groaning reached him first — deep and rhythmic, like the dying breath of a giant machine. Atlas pressed his back against a collapsed wall, the rough concrete scraping his armor, and peeked around the corner.
Eight aliens surrounded the blast door to the command center. Their armor gleamed like black glass, reflecting the firelight of burning debris. Sparks sprayed across the hall as they hacked at the door with plasma cutters and heavy rifles, molten metal pooling at their clawed feet. The air hissed and stank of ozone.
One alien who might be their leader stood out — taller, broader, its chest plate glowing a dull, ominous red. It barked orders in that layered, mechanical growl that made Atlas's skin crawl. The tone wasn't random; it carried rhythm, cadence, command.
Almost like they're military too, he thought grimly. Great. Alien soldiers, not just beasts.
He whispered under his breath, "Well… someone skipped charm school."
Then movement — three aliens broke from their formation, stalking down the side corridor directly toward him. He could hear the faint hum of their weapons, the low metallic chitter beneath their breathers.
Atlas inhaled once, slow and steady, the Mossberg already raised. "Alright," he muttered, "let's dance."
He stepped out from cover.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Three shots.
Three kills.
Each slug hit the narrow neck gap between armor plates, bursting blue-green ichor that hissed where it hit the floor. The smell was sharp, almost sweet — like burnt copper and rotten mint.
The remaining five spun instantly, screeching in rage. Their voices were horrible — metallic, yet alive, like something scraping a blade down a rusted pipe. A volley of plasma fire lit up the corridor in a strobe of blue-white light.
Atlas dove behind a half-destroyed wall as heat scorched past him. Pebbles and dust showered his hair. He exhaled slowly, counting under his breath as each plasma burst hit.
"One, two, three… pause…"
He leaned out and fired blind — two shells — and heard one alien's shriek cut short.
Click.
Empty.
"Figures," he muttered, holstering the shotgun and drawing the SIG.
He glanced at his shield, still faintly smoking from the last volley, and smirked. "Alright, let's see if bronze age training paid off."
He gripped the shield tight, took a breath, and charged.
The aliens opened fire again, the corridor flashing blue like a lightning storm. Each bolt slammed into the shield, deflecting in sparks and arcs of sizzling plasma. The metal grew hot under his arm, but he pushed forward through the wall of fire, boots pounding the scorched floor.
One alien roared, stepping out to flank. Atlas dropped his shoulder and rammed it full force — the impact sent it flying into a steel beam with a wet crunch.
He raised his pistol, sighted another, and fired twice. Pop-pop.
The rounds punched through the armor gaps, dropping them like marionettes with cut strings.
Another tried to rush him with a blade-like weapon that hummed faintly blue. Atlas ducked under the swing, slammed his shield edge into its knee, and followed with a pistol shot straight through the visor.
Blue mist sprayed across his arm.
Now there were only two left — one reloading, one covering.
Atlas dove forward, rolled, came up firing — the first dropped. The last one turned to run.
"Not today," Atlas growled, sprinting forward. He caught it mid-turn, slammed the shield into its back, and pinned it to the wall. The alien struggled, claws scraping metal, until Atlas fired point-blank into its chest. The thud echoed, then silence.
Only the leader remained.
It turned slowly, the red glow on its chest plate pulsing like a heartbeat. It let out a guttural snarl — a sound of rage, but also recognition. It wanted a duel.
"Yeah," Atlas said, rolling his shoulder, "I figured you'd be the dramatic one."
The alien lunged, faster than its bulk suggested. The first strike hammered into his shield, nearly knocking him off balance. The impact numbed his arm. Atlas gritted his teeth and shoved back, sparks flying as shield met alien arm gauntlet.
The creature swung again — a wide, heavy blow. Atlas ducked, pivoted, and drove his knee into its gut. The alien stumbled, hissing through its respirator, and Atlas smashed the shield rim across its jaw.
It staggered, armor plates denting. "Didn't like that, did you?" Atlas taunted, panting.
The alien roared and swung low — too slow. Atlas twisted aside, grabbed its arm, and slammed his shield upward in a brutal uppercut. The edge caught the alien under the chin — a metallic clang followed by a heavy thud as the creature collapsed in a heap.
Atlas stood there for a moment, breathing hard. Smoke drifted lazily around him, mingling with the faint hiss of plasma still cooling on the floor.
He looked down at the fallen leader — unconscious, still alive. Blue fluid leaked in thin trails from its mouth.
Atlas exhaled and wiped sweat from his brow with a shaking hand. "Still breathing… still standing." He kicked the alien's weapon aside. "Guess that makes it my win."
He looked back at the blast door. Deep grooves were carved into the metal from the cutters, glowing faintly orange. They almost broke through, he thought grimly. A few more minutes and everyone inside would've been dead.
He adjusted his grip on the shield, its edge scorched but solid. "Looks like you earned your keep today," he muttered to it, patting the metal. "Captain America would be jealous."
Then, shaking off the fatigue, Atlas stepped over the alien corpses, toward the security panel beside the blast door. His gloves were slick with sweat as he keyed in the password.
"Alright," he breathed, as scanners hummed and lights blinked green. "Let's see who's still alive in there."
He turned toward the massive blast door ahead.
The metal was scorched but intact — reinforced for sieges like this. The keypad beside it blinked faintly through the dust.
He holstered his pistol and stepped closer, wiping grime off the screen.
"Alright," he muttered. "Let's see if twenty years in another world made me forget the password."
He began the sequence — fingers dancing across the pad.
Password. Handprint. Iris scan. Facial recognition.
The machine buzzed, red light flickering between green as it verified him.
He smirked. "And here i though that the security was bit overkill"
The final lock disengaged with a deep metallic clang, echoing through the corridor like a drumbeat. The blast door rumbled open, letting out a gust of cold, sterile air from inside.
Atlas exhaled, shoulders relaxing. "Good to know some things never change."
Voices echoed — confused, frightened, alive.
Atlas straightened, reloading his shotgun, the shield gleaming faintly behind him.
He smiled faintly, exhausted but alive, "Time to check on the survivors."
And with that, he stepped into the light.
END
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