Marvel's Alien Force

"Sir, General Isandro Valez has taken the call—he ordered us to monitor the Omega level Mutant, Mark Cain. Backup will arrive in two days."

Officer Twenty-Seven of the San Francisco Mutant Handling Corps (MHC), Branch No. 1, delivered the message in a flat, emotionless tone.

He stood beside Officer One, the Field Commander.

Their appearances gave away nothing. Their faces were hidden behind seamless silver masks with no eye holes, no expression. Their bodies were covered head to toe in baggy, black, reinforced uniforms—fireproof, waterproof, and impact-resistant. Identical in every way.

Even the tech around them was unsettling.

The command center didn't resemble anything found in human military installations. The walls shimmered with organic alloys; holograms floated in the air; the consoles pulsed with symbols in an alien script, indecipherable except to the Operators. Only the keyboards bore English letters—an afterthought for those not trained to read the "real" language.

Looking at them, you'd be forgiven for thinking they weren't here to protect humanity.

They looked more like a death squad.

And in many ways—they were.

They didn't go by names. They went by numbers. A cold, systematic hierarchy. Officer One was the highest authority in the branch, and the numbers descended in importance from there.

Officer One stared at the live feed on the largest central monitor. The house in the suburbs looked utterly normal—quiet, unremarkable. But inside it, was living someone very special.

Mark Cain.

Code Black. Omega Mutant. 

"Deploy the last three Bastion drones for surveillance," Officer one ordered. His voice was calm. Authoritative. "I want eyes on every person inside that house. No one leaves until we retrieve our lost units and Capture or Kill those Mutants."

Five of their top-tier drones—gone.

Destroyed, hijacked, or simply vanished. And they all had one thing in common.

Mark Cain.

It was a devastating loss. These drones were not mass-produced assets—they were near-irreplaceable. Each branch was allowed only eight. No more, no less. Replacements could only be authorized by Central HQ, and that was only if the situation met the highest threat parameters.

They had never expected to find Mark Cain so soon.

They had assumed he would join the X-Men, complicating any operation against him. But instead, he had settled quietly into a nondescript residential zone. Almost like he wanted to be found. Like he was testing them.

Officer One didn't like being tested.

Twenty-Seven tapped into his mic, voice crisp and clear.

"Officer Ten. Officer Eleven. Officer Twelve. Take up your assigned positions. Your mission is to monitor Code Black—Mark Cain. I repeat, do not engage. You are to observe and track only until further orders."

The response from the other three officers came in unison, a cold, robotic acknowledgment.

"Understood."

The three said officers took their places, each lying down on the strange transparent-looking bed. Despite its appearance, it was far from fragile—it was a fully wired, high-tech machine. The entire setup resembled some futuristic operating table… or a torture device.

And, in a way, it was.

Mechanical arms emerged from the sides, locking down their wrists and ankles with a cold, calculated grip. Their bodies were strapped in place—helpless, vulnerable.

Then, from above, tendril-like tubes slithered down from the ceiling. They moved like serpents, alive and aware. At their tips were thick, syringe-like needles that looked anything but safe. 

Once the officers were locked in place, the tubes struck.

One by one, the needles pierced their bodies—shoulders, arms, chest, abdomen, pelvis, legs, feet—even the soles. Each point was precisely targeted, designed to connect the Bastion drones directly to their human operators' nervous systems.

None of the men screamed.

But their clenched fists, curled toes, and twitching limbs made it clear—they were enduring pain. Extreme pain.

Still, they gritted their teeth and bore it in silence. They were soldiers. Screaming was weakness.

But it wasn't over yet.

The final piece of the setup emerged—a helmet, shaped like half a motorcycle visor, connected to a robotic arm. It slowly lowered onto each man's head, encasing the back and sides, leaving only the front of their masked faces exposed.

A low hum began. Then, hundreds—no, thousands—of tiny needles slid out from the inner walls of the helmet.

The men braced themselves.

Eyes shut tight. Teeth clenched harder.

Then it began.

Thousands of needle pricks stabbed into their skulls, each one like the bite of a fire ant, crawling, burning, relentless. The pain spread across their scalp, the back of their head, their temples—every nerve alight with torment.

"Ugh..." One of them grunted involuntarily.

Even trained soldiers couldn't hold it in forever. But still, they refused to scream.

Then—finally—the pain stopped.

Their bodies were motionless now. Not unconscious, but... disconnected.

"Begin consciousness transfer," said Officer One.

Officer Twenty-Seven, monitoring the readings, nodded. "Beginning consciousness transfer."

Officer Fifteen took over, typing swiftly into the console in front of him. After one final keystroke—Enter—he stood up, walked to a massive, unmarked machine with tubing and glowing ports, and flipped a few switches.

"Consciousness transfer initiated," he confirmed.

And then it happened.

The three men felt it—not like falling asleep, not like dying—but like something being pulled out of them. Their conscious minds, their very selves, were being extracted, sent spiraling through a tunnel of technology and data, away from their bodies and into something else.

Something mechanical.

At the same time, in a secure rooftop chamber, three Bastion drones stirred within their charging cabinets.

"Consciousness transfer complete," Officer Fifteen announced. He tapped a few more keys to stabilize the neural sync, then returned to his seat.

The Bastion drones rose in perfect unison. The rooftop panel above them slid open.

They stepped out.

Metal boots clanked softly on steel as the drones moved to the rooftop edge, their red visors glowing. They awaited orders.

"Deploy," said Officer One. "Do not engage. Observe only. Understood?"

The drones saluted as one, a fist thudding against their metallic chests. "Understood, sir."

"Then go."

With a hiss of thrusters, they launched into the sky. A shimmer passed over them—and they vanished. Cloaking engaged.

Officer One turned to the live feed now streaming from the Bastions' internal cameras.

He watched silently for a moment before speaking, almost to himself.

"Let's see how long you can keep your life intact… Mark Cain."

A cold glint flickered in his eyes beneath the mask—unseen, but unmistakable.

He had no love for mutants.

He was raised to believe that mutants weren't meant to exist—and if they did, they belonged in chains. 

Slaves. Tools. Nothing more.

***

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