Marvel's Alien Force

The quiet hum of the ceiling fan filled the room, a soft backdrop to the tension hanging in the air. Mark stood in the center of the living room, flanked by Martha and Lily, their eyes fixed on the five deactivated Bastion Drones lying at their feet like war trophies.

"Are these the things you said were trying to hurt us?" Martha asked, her voice low, guarded. Her gaze swept over the sleek, humanoid machines—gleaming chrome and angular design, like something torn straight from the pages of high-end sci-fi.

Mark gave a faint nod. "Yeah," he said, voice calm but edged with caution. "These are remote-operated drones. Tools. Weapons. Controlled by humans from far away to do their dirty work."

He crouched beside one of the drones, lifting a hand toward the open kitchen. A faint ripple in the air—telekinesis in motion—and a knife floated free from the counter, gliding smoothly into his grip.

"Watch closely," he said.

Without hesitation, he drove the blade into the drone's chest. The metal gave way with a dull, mechanical crunch.

Lily flinched. "Why'd you do that, big brother?" she asked, confused and wide-eyed.

Mark didn't answer. Instead, he pulled the knife free and gestured silently.

Martha and Lily instinctively leaned closer as the damage began to reverse itself. In mere seconds, the torn metal pulled together, reshaping and sealing the wound with uncanny precision. 

The surface smoothed over, erasing all trace of the violent impact—as if the stab had never occurred. Their eyes widened in silent awe, unsettled by the surreal beauty of such rapid, unnatural regeneration. 

Mark guided the knife back into its slot in the kitchen with a flick of his fingers, telekinesis humming faintly in the air. Rising to his feet, he turned to face them.

"This thing isn't your average robot," he said calmly. "It's made from a type of smart space alloy—engineered to resist extreme heat, cold, and blunt force. Most attacks won't do a damn thing."

He nodded toward the Bastion drone.

"The only reason stabbing worked is because its outer shell isn't solid metal—it's a fluid swarm of nanobots shaped like a body. But even then, it adapts. Repairs itself almost instantly."

"This—" Martha's voice faltered. She didn't fully understand the technical jargon Mark had just thrown at her, but one thing was clear: if she ever had to face one of these things alone, she wouldn't stand a chance. And now, not just her… but her daughter was on the radar of these monsters.

"Don't worry," Mark said, his tone calm but firm, reading her expression like an open book. "I told you before—I'll protect you both. I just need you to see for yourself what we're dealing with. Understand?"

Martha swallowed and nodded. "Thank you… really, thank you."

Lily, however, had a different fire in her eyes. She puffed out her tiny chest and declared, "Big brother, teach me how to beat them! I'll protect Mom too."

Mark couldn't help but smile at her determination. "How about we start with you learning how to float a spoon first?" he teased lightly, though his tone carried weight. "Don't worry, I'll teach you everything. But for now—"

BAMF.

The sharp crack of displaced air and the acrid stench of sulfur filled the room. In the blink of an eye, Kurt materialized behind them, his yellow eyes gleaming. Jean stood beside him, a backpack slung over her shoulder.

"What the—!"

"Oh!"

Martha and Lily reacted at the same time, but with very different sounds. Already on edge, Martha nearly jumped out of her skin. Clutching her chest, she gasped, "Can't you people, use the front door?! Haah… Haah…" 

Her heart raced as she tried to steady her breathing.

Kurt offered a sheepish smile, his tail curling slightly behind him. "Apologies! I'll try to remember that next time," he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Mark glanced at Jean, his expression somewhere between amused and resigned. "I half-expected you to come... and half-hoped you wouldn't. But I guess you've made up your mind."

Jean nodded calmly. "The X-Men agreed—it's best someone keeps an eye on you. We don't want you doing anything... impulsive."

Mark studied her for a moment, then smirked and gave a small shake of his head. "Right. Thanks for babysitting me, I guess."

Then he turned to Kurt and said with smile, "Thanks for the lift, Kurt. I owe you."

Kurt waved it off with a cheerful grin. "No worries, Mark. Call me if you ever need backup—or just want to freak someone out."

And with a final wave to the others, BAMF!—Kurt vanished in a puff of sulfur, leaving the familiar sharp scent lingering in the air.

Mark and Kurt had gotten a little familiar with each other. Unlike Scott—who was always so damn serious—Kurt was more relaxed. The guy actually liked to talk. So when they were waiting for Martha and Lily to finish their emotional breakdown, the silence had naturally turned into conversation, and somewhere in between that, they became acquaintances.

One thing Mark genuinely appreciated about Kurt was his unwavering consideration. Even before teleporting and leaving that little IMP bamf on him, he had asked for permission. That small gesture spoke volumes about Kurt's character.

He might look like a devil from some religious nightmare—with his blue skin, glowing eyes, and tail—but the guy was deeply religious. That contrast, honestly, was both funny and fascinating to witness. A man of faith wrapped in the form of a demon. Somehow… it just worked.

Jean stepped closer, her eyes widening slightly in surprise as she looked over the downed Bastion Drones.

"Wow… you took down five of them? And they're still intact?"

She crouched beside one, running her fingers along its smooth, unnaturally polished surface. It was hard to believe these things were made entirely of nanobots.

"Well, I had some help," Mark said casually, lifting the drones off the ground with a wave of telekinesis. Jean stood, watching them rise, clearly impressed.

Mark turned toward her. "You talk to Martha and Lily. I've got things to take care of."

Then he shifted his attention to Martha. "Start packing your things—and Lily's. We're leaving this place."

Lily blinked, caught off guard. "We're leaving? But what about my school? My friends?"

Mark gave her a small, reassuring smile.

"It's just a little adventure, that's all. Once things settle down, we'll come back. I promise."

Saying so, he didn't wait for her question and headed straight to Martha's little study room.

"Martha, I'm taking your computer," he called out flatly.

Martha blinked in shock. "Hey, there are important documents in it—"

But she stopped midway, the words dying on her tongue.

Right. She couldn't go back to her office anymore. What was the point?

Even then, she heard Mark's calm reply: "Don't worry. I won't touch them."

He took the computer.

But that was only the beginning.

One by one, he gathered up the fridge, the washing machine, the vacuum cleaner… even the electric stove. The microwave. The still-running television. Tables. Kitchenware. Towels. Blankets. Chairs.

He didn't even leave the now-empty pizza boxes behind.

He took all of it.

Then, he walked into the garage, where a large, dust-covered—but still functioning—SUV waited like a silent beast.

The garage was spacious enough for him to stack everything neatly to one side, right beside the dormant vehicle. 

Atop the pile, nestled between old blankets and a slightly scorched toaster, he found a worn-out notebook and a half-chewed pen—both clearly belonging to little Lily, their childish stickers still barely clinging to the covers, looked like relics of the past.

Mark picked up the pen, twirling it thoughtfully between his fingers before cracking a grin. "Well then," he murmured, voice brimming with curiosity and intent, "let's build ourselves an aeroplane, shall we?" 

Without further delay, his form shimmered—and in a blink, he willed himself into the diminutive but brilliant Greymatter.

His tall human form began to shrink, compressing into a small, gray-skinned alien with oversized eyes and a towering intellect. 

Both the notebook and pen floated beside him in midair, suspended by a soft telekinetic field.

He scanned the various salvaged appliances and electronics now stacked around the garage, mentally cataloging their components. 

As the internal schematics of the Bastion drones surged to the forefront of his mind, a sharp gleam flickered in his eyes—intellect overtaking instinct.

His thoughts unraveled with mechanical precision, accessing layers of classified drone architecture that blended bleeding-edge technology with near-organic adaptability.

Adaptive nanobot frameworks. Stealth matrices that bypass thermal, vibrational, and electromagnetic detection. Propulsion systems engineered for silent, supersonic gliding. And that was only the foundation.

Modular limb transformations into energy-based weaponry, distributed memory cores hidden within shifting nano-structures, and a neural-link control system allowing remote operation through consciousness alone—each concept arrived in seamless succession.

As the mechanical memories surged through Greymatter's mind, he didn't just admire them—he immediately began to act. 

The pen danced in the air, guided by his telekinetic control. With precise strokes, he started drafting a detailed blueprint of the aircraft forming in his mind onto the Notebook before him—an advanced prototype designed not just for atmospheric travel but capable of reaching space, if necessary. 

Though only a rough version for now, it would be more than enough for their travel and the development of auxiliary tools—chief among them, a Mutant Finder Jammer: a custom-built countermeasure to neutralize the very scanner system that had located them in the first place.

He was certain the people behind the Bastion drones hadn't anticipated who they were dealing with—at least not until he revealed his Diamondhead form. 

Their reinforcements would arrive tomorrow, and when they did, they'd turn this peaceful neighborhood into a war zone. He had no intention of letting that happen.

The plan was simple: leave before the destruction begins.

He would return, eventually. But for now, they had to vanish—relocate somewhere he could begin preparations in earnest. And for that, he needed resources. A lot of them.

Unfortunately, his current inventory was painfully limited. Just enough to construct a small, agile aircraft—nothing more. But it would be enough to get started.

The notebook filled quickly as he outlined the internal systems of the plane—navigation, power distribution, modular upgrade slots. 

He didn't lazily copy the Bastion drone schematics. That was something a regular human might do. Greymatter, as a Galvan, operated on another level entirely. 

With a brain that understood quantum mechanics instinctively—without reading a single textbook—he reverse-engineered the Bastion systems and reimagined them. 

What he created was something far superior: a custom architecture that was 10 to 20 times more efficient, required less energy, and could evolve as needed.

As for construction materials? Irrelevant. Why concern himself with rare metals or Earth limitations when he had Upgrade? Using the alien's abilities, he could synthesize any smart matter he required.

So he went all in.

The result was a teardrop-shaped craft—streamlined for both atmospheric and orbital flight, forged from adaptive nanotech. The body could reshape itself, reconfigure during mid-flight, or heal on command. Greymatter didn't waste time on aesthetics. What mattered was function—brutal, beautiful function.

This was not just a prototype.

It was the seed of something far greater.

***

Throw some powerstones and comments if you like this chapter.