INT. TOKO, JAPAN – UNKNOWN UNDERGROUND BASE
"Ahh!"
A raw, guttural scream tore through the dimly lit corridors, echoing violently off cold stone walls slick with condensation. The sound carried far beyond the chamber — a broken, animalistic howl that seemed to claw at the very foundations of the underground complex.
The air itself felt wrong. Heavy. Charged.
The Archpriestess stood perfectly still at the foot of the ritual altar, her dark robes hanging like a void that swallowed the faint candlelight around her. Not even the violent tremors shaking the chamber disturbed her composure.
Before her, Black Tarantula convulsed.
His body arched unnaturally against the reinforced restraints, muscles locking and snapping in erratic spasms. Veins bulged beneath his skin like blackened roots spreading through poisoned soil, pulsing in sync with the dark energy coursing through him. It moved like liquid fire — searing, invasive, alive.
His fingers clawed at empty air, nails cracking as if trying to tear something unseen out of himself.
"Your body is no longer your own," the Archpriestess said calmly.
Her voice cut cleanly through the chaos — smooth, measured, absolute.
"It belongs to our master now."
The candles flickered violently as if reacting to her words alone.
"His power is the only thing sustaining your existence."
Tarantula thrashed harder, the restraints groaning under the strain. Foam gathered at the edges of his lips, his breathing ragged and uneven. His eyes — once sharp, controlled — were now blown wide with raw, unfiltered agony.
For a brief moment… something human flickered there.
Then it was swallowed.
The Archpriestess tilted her head slightly, observing him the way one might study a specimen.
"You should be grateful," she continued softly, almost reverently, "for this second chance the clan — and our master — have granted you."
Another violent surge rippled through his body. His spine lifted off the altar entirely before slamming back down with a sickening force.
"Mistress," one of her attendants murmured, stepping forward with a deep, cautious bow. His voice wavered despite his attempt at composure. "His mind has not yet fully acclimated to the changes. The neural pathways are still… resisting. In time, his senses should return."
The Archpriestess didn't look at him.
"No matter."
Her eyes narrowed into cold slits, faint shadows gathering unnaturally around her pupils.
"As long as we discover exactly what happened that night…"
A low hum began to build in the chamber — subtle at first, then growing, resonating with the energy still tearing through Tarantula's body.
"We will find those responsible for disrupting our plans…"
Tarantula's scream climbed higher, sharper — no longer just pain, but something deeper. Something breaking.
"...and make them suffer."
Her words dripped with pure venom.
The chamber answered with another wave of violent energy, candles extinguishing one by one as darkness crept inward.
Black Tarantula's screams rose to a fever pitch — filling the space like a twisted symphony of torment.
And beneath it all… something else began to stir.
Something listening.
---
FOUR MONTHS AGO: DARK DRAGON DOJO
The ceiling exploded inward in a violent eruption of splintered wood, tile, and dust.
A crystalline figure tore through the breach like a falling comet, slamming into the dojo floor in a powerful crouch that sent fractures spiderwebbing through the aged planks beneath him.
For a split second, everything froze.
Torchlight danced across his diamond-hard body, refracting into dazzling prisms that painted the walls in shards of shifting color.
"Alright," Diamondhead announced, rising slowly to his full height, his voice carrying a deep metallic resonance that seemed to vibrate through the room itself.
"Now it's hero time."
Silence followed. Not of hesitation — but calculation.
Every eye in the chamber snapped toward him at once.
The black-clad Hand ninjas shifted subtly, their stances tightening as blades caught the flickering torchlight. Madame Masque and her entourage stiffened near the edges of the room, caught between escape and confrontation.
And at the center — elevated above them all — stood Black Tarantula.
"Ah…"
He descended the altar steps with measured, deliberate grace, arms folded neatly behind his back. Each step was controlled, precise — the movement of someone who understood power so completely he had no need to display it.
"...what do we have here?"
His full-face mask — pitch black, broken only by the stark white spider-like pattern stretching across the eyes and mouth — gave him an almost void-like presence. Unreadable. Inhuman.
The Hand ninjas parted instinctively as he passed, lowering their weapons just enough to create a path.
"You're one of those vigilante creatures that have been causing trouble across the city," Tarantula continued, voice calm, almost curious — as if examining something mildly interesting rather than a direct threat.
"Now, to what do we owe—"
Diamondhead moved first.
A sharp crystalline shard launched from his arm with a piercing crack, cutting through the air straight toward Tarantula's chest.
The impact never came.Tarantula caught it effortlessly.
The shard stopped dead inches from his body, gripped between his fingers. For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then— crunch. The crystal collapsed into glittering dust in his palm.
A faint smirk tugged beneath the mask.
Diamondhead raised a jagged brow, surprised — but only for a second.
No time.
The energy pulsing from the altar wasn't just dangerous — it was escalating. Rapidly.
He surged forward.
Each step cracked the dojo floor beneath his weight as he charged, intent locked on the ritual site.
The Hand responded instantly.
They descended on him like a living shadow — blades flashing, chains snapping, shurikens slicing through the air in a coordinated storm.
Diamondhead didn't slow down.
Steel shattered on contact with his body, weapons splintering into useless fragments. Sparks and shards scattered in every direction as he drove straight through them.
His arm shifted — reshaping into a long, gleaming crystal blade. The other morphed into a jagged launcher, firing a relentless barrage of razor-edged projectiles.
He became a force of pure momentum.
A whirlwind of impact and precision.
Ninjas were cut down mid-strike, impaled, or hurled across the dojo with brutal efficiency. Bodies slammed into pillars and walls with bone-cracking force as he carved a direct, unstoppable path toward the altar.
Above it all— Black Tarantula watched. Still. Silent. Untouched. Not a single movement wasted.
"Fisk," he said coolly, voice carrying effortlessly over the chaos.
His gaze never left Diamondhead.
"Please take care of our unwanted guest."
A slight tilt of his head indicated the fleeing group led by Madame Masque.
---
OUTSIDE THE DOJO – COURTYARD
The night air was sharp and cold, carrying the faint scent of smoke and cherry blossoms.
Wilson Fisk stepped into the courtyard like a force of nature barely contained.
His massive frame moved with surprising speed, each step heavy with restrained violence. In one hand, he dragged his bound son — Richard Fisk, The Rose — across the stone path like dead weight.
The young man struggled weakly, his wrists bound tight with silk cords, a gag muffling his protests. Blood trickled from a split lip, staining the collar of his shirt.
Fisk didn't slow. Didn't look down.
Ahead, Madame Masque and her remaining men had nearly disappeared into the shadows—
Until they didn't.
Hand ninjas dropped silently from the surrounding rooftops and walls, cutting off every escape route in a heartbeat.
They were surrounded.
Cornered against a weathered stone wall beneath swaying cherry blossom trees, pale petals drifting lazily through the air — a stark contrast to the violence about to unfold.
"Masque."
Fisk's voice rumbled low, dangerous.
He shoved The Rose forward without hesitation, forcing him to his knees. The young man winced, barely catching himself before collapsing completely.
"You thought you could leave the party…"
Fisk adjusted his cufflinks with deliberate calm, eyes locked onto her mask.
"...without even a greeting?"
A faint smile crept across his face — cold, humorless.
"Using my own son as leverage in your pathetic little scheme?"
Madame Masque turned slowly.
The golden mask caught the moonlight, gleaming with an almost unnatural brightness. Behind it, her gaze was unreadable — distant, calculating.
"This was never personal, Fisk."
Her voice came out distorted, metallic, stripped of warmth.
"Just business."
A pause.
"You broke the pact. We simply returned the favor."
For a brief moment, the courtyard fell silent. Then Fisk chuckled. Low. Deep. Dangerous.
"Ah…"
He spread his arms slightly, as if presenting the entire situation like a lesson.
"If you only knew what The Hand offered me…"
His eyes hardened.
"You would have done exactly the same."
That was the truth of it. And they both knew it.
Madame Masque's shoulders tensed — subtle, but telling.
Her pistol came up in a smooth, practiced motion.
Around her, her men followed suit, weapons raised, fingers tightening on triggers.
Across from them—The Hand didn't move.
They didn't need to. Fisk simply smiled. As the night held its breath.
---
PRESENT DAY – TWO MONTHS AFTER THE INVASION OF NEW YORK
Tennyson Industries – Sublevel Workshop
The R&D department thrummed with quiet intensity. Engineers hunched over glowing monitors, fingers dancing across keyboards, while others gathered around large holographic tables, debating schematics in focused murmurs. After the chaos of the Chitauri invasion, it was good to see the familiar rhythm of progress returning.
The elevator chimed softly. Angela Green stepped out, followed closely by her assistant, Victoria Smith. At twenty-six, the sharp Harvard graduate with a master's in management had served as Angela's right hand for just over a year. Her poise rarely faltered.
Angela surveyed the bustling workshop with a satisfied nod. The scars of the Battle of New York were slowly fading behind renewed purpose.
The two women moved briskly across the main floor and into Ben's private office. Finding it empty, Angela approached the tall bookshelf along the far wall, pressed her palm against a hidden biometric panel, and waited for the soft click of confirmation. The entire shelf slid aside with a quiet hydraulic hiss, revealing a concealed elevator.
Victoria's eyebrow arched slightly, but she quickly smoothed her expression back into professional neutrality.
They descended smoothly into a vast, brightly lit underground chamber. The distant clang of metal echoed through the space. Victoria's eyes widened as she took it all in.
To the left sat three high-performance vehicles in a pristine row. To the right, Ben's battered tactical suit stood encased in a reinforced display, still bearing the visible scars of the Chitauri invasion. The walls were lined with racks of advanced weaponry, tools, and prototype gear. In the center of the room, a massive monitor showed real-time feeds of the city's reconstruction efforts and transportation logistics.
Angela led them toward the left side, where Ben's heavily damaged BMW M3 hung suspended on a hydraulic lift—the same car that had seen combat during the invasion. Ben stood beneath it, hands covered in grease, his dark brown hair slightly tousled. A holographic interface floated beside him, highlighting critical damage zones on the engine.
"Hey," Angela called, one hand resting on her hip.
Ben turned, his gaze landing first on Angela, then lingering a moment longer on Victoria before returning to his co-founder with a questioning look.
"She's my assistant," Angela said simply. "And potentially the next CFO. Maybe more, if it comes to that."
Victoria felt a quiet swell of pride at the endorsement but kept her face composed.
Ben shrugged, though a flicker of irritation crossed his features. He wasn't thrilled that Angela was already planning successors when the company was barely in its third year. He had always imagined her by his side for the long haul.
"Alright," he said, wiping his hands on a rag. "Ignoring the fact that you just revealed my secret base to someone new… and that you're already planning your exit strategy—what's the urgent news?"
Angela smirked at his exasperation. "The campus is ready."
Ben paused mid-wipe. The sprawling, self-contained tech campus had been one of his longest-held dreams for Tennyson Industries. He tossed the rag aside and gave her his full attention.
"Honestly, I lost track of that project with everything going on," he admitted. "What's the other news?"
Angela's expression grew more cautious. "I just came from a meeting with the head of the Treasury Department. The government wants to invest directly in the joint project with Stark."
Ben's face hardened. "Hell no."
His tone was so final that Victoria instinctively took a small step back.
Angela sighed. "They're only offering investment, Ben. Not control."
"I know you hate how the government operates—especially after that missile strike during the invasion—but this is national security. We can't exactly fight them on it."
Ben walked over to the central console, movements sharp with irritation. "My answer is still no. I'm sure Tony feels the same. The second we let them in, this stops being about progress and starts becoming about politics, bureaucracy, and hidden agendas."
Victoria cleared her throat carefully. "Sir, with all due respect… is this really a fight worth picking? The scale of this project alone—"
"I'm not worried about the money," Ben cut in, turning to face them. His green eyes were intense. "We have a man who built a functional suit of armor in a cave with scraps. A leading genius in gamma and bioengineering. And… what I can do. Money isn't the issue."
He leaned against the console. "How long do you think it'll take before they try to weaponize the technology against other nations? The only organization I'm willing to work with is the UN. At least they have some checks and balances—even if I'll probably have to step in occasionally."
Angela rubbed her temple. "I thought you were going to say SHIELD."
"SHIELD is still a government agency with too much unchecked power," Ben replied flatly as he began typing. "The UN is slower to act, which I prefer. I'm more confident dealing with them than SHIELD."
"By 'deal with them,' you wouldn't happen to mean bribery?" Angela asked, frowning.
Ben gave her a wry smile. "Hey, what can I say? That's how the system is designed."
Angela didn't press further. She turned toward the elevator, Victoria falling in step beside her. As the doors closed, Angela glanced at her young assistant. A flicker of doubt settled in her chest.
Could she truly trust Victoria—not just with the company, but with the dangerous path it was heading down? A path that would shape their response to whatever came next.
Ben's earlier words echoed in her mind:
' Things are only going to get weirder from here.'
----
Upper West Side – Apartment
The cool night air whipped past Ben as he guided his sleek black motorcycle through the streets of a city still healing. Scaffolding and construction cranes dominated the skyline, constant reminders of the Battle of New York. He pulled into the underground parking of his temporary apartment building, the engine's low growl fading into silence.
Angela had taken over his primary penthouse for the time being while her own place was being repaired. This high-end temporary residence on the top floor would have to do. He missed the old place already—especially its layered security systems.
Ben took the private elevator up, helmet tucked under his arm. The moment the doors opened on the top floor, his instincts sharpened. The front door to his apartment was ajar, the electronic lock showing signs of expert bypass.
He set the helmet down quietly and moved forward on silent feet, muscles coiled. Pushing the door open with his foot, he stepped inside, ready for anything.
Instead, he found Maria Hill standing at the floor-to-ceiling window, hands clasped behind her back, staring out at the scarred Manhattan skyline. The city lights flickered across her composed face.
Ben exhaled, tension draining from his shoulders. "You know, most people knock."
Hill didn't turn around immediately. "Most people don't have alien technology strapped to their wrist."
Ben closed the door behind him, though the broken lock made the gesture pointless. Irritation flickered across his face.
He walked further into the living room, rolling his shoulders. "What brings SHIELD's Deputy Director to my sanctuary unannounced?"
Hill finally turned to face him, her expression professional but serious. "The planetary defense system you, Stark, and Banner have been developing. We need to talk."
Ben let out a short, dry laugh as he dropped onto the couch. "Straight to business. Alright, let's hear it."
Hill didn't sit. "The project is too large and too sensitive to operate without proper government clearance. You're going to hit walls—funding, materials, airspace permissions, international coordination. SHIELD can smooth those paths. We can give you the support you need."
Ben leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You say that like SHIELD isn't a government agency. It's cute how you always try to sell it as some independent guardian organization."
Hill's gaze remained steady. "Our primary mandate is protecting the world from extraordinary threats. Threats that normal individuals and organizations aren't equipped to handle. That's not rhetoric, Ben. It's reality."
"I don't disagree with the mission," Ben replied calmly. "But let's be honest about the chain of command. If the President of the United States—or the World Security Council—orders SHIELD to do something, can you refuse?"
Hill hesitated for a brief second. It was small, but Ben caught it.
"As long as the order doesn't aligns with SHIELD's core mission and jeopardizes global security," she said carefully, "yes, we can refuse."
Ben's eyes narrowed. He leaned back, a humorless smile forming. "That's the problem, isn't it? If the Council decides it's more 'beneficial' for SHIELD to control the global security system themselves, then there's suddenly every reason not to refuse. It becomes just another tool in their box—"
His words cut off mid-sentence.
Ben's head snapped toward the window, highly trained senses screaming danger. A split second later, Hill tensed as well, but she was already too late.
Ben lunged forward, grabbing her by the waist and hurling them both sideways over the couch. At the same moment, the entire floor-to-ceiling window exploded inward in a shower of glass and steel.
The crash was deafening. Debris rained across the apartment as Ben and Hill tumbled across the floor, shielding their faces. Ben's ears rang as he pushed himself up, right hand instinctively slapping down toward the Omnitrix on his left wrist.
CLANK.
A heavy iron restraint band snapped around his wrist, locking over the Omnitrix with a mechanical hiss. Ben's eyes widened at this.
"Son of a—"
Red-clad Hand ninjas poured through the shattered window and the open apartment door like a flood of blood. They moved with lethal precision, surrounding both Ben and Hill in seconds, swords drawn and shuriken ready.
Then, a towering figure stepped through the broken window frame, glass crunching beneath his boots. Seven feet of coiled power wrapped in a tailored black suit. White gloves. A full-face black mask with a stark white upside-down spider emblem staring out like a void.
Black Tarantula's presence filled the room.
He tilted his head slightly, the South American accent smooth and cold as he regarded Ben.
"We meet again."