CHAPTER 43

Ben, clad in his sleek suit, moved swiftly through the dimly lit corridor alongside Spider-Man, unlocking cages and freeing prisoners. The captives—children, young girls, and others—were frail, their movements sluggish from prolonged captivity. Some struggled to stand, their limbs weak from malnutrition and confinement. The air was thick with the scent of fear and desperation.

As Ben helped a young boy to his feet, Baymax's voice came through his earpiece, calm yet urgent:

"Ben, the guards have been alerted. The patrolling units have not responded to calls."

Ben stiffened and turned to Spider-Man. His friend was frozen in place, his entire body trembling slightly. Peter Parker, always quick with a quip, was utterly silent. That alone sent a chill down Ben's spine.

Ben followed Spider-Man's gaze. At the end of the corridor, bathed in the flickering light of a broken overhead bulb, a woman stood cradling a baby in her arms. Her voice was soft, a whisper barely audible over the quiet whimpers of the other prisoners.

"My baby… we are saved. We will go home. We will find your dad."

She was smiling. A heartbreaking, fragile smile filled with hope. But the baby in her arms was still. Too still. No rise and fall of tiny breaths. No movement.

The realization hit Ben like a sledgehammer to the chest. His breathing became ragged, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. He was still a teen not a soldier . A mother, holding onto a dream that had already faded, unaware that the life she was clinging to had slipped away.

Spider-Man's voice was barely above a whisper.

"We were late…"

Baymax's voice cut in again, steady but urgent.

"Ben, the guards are coming."

Ben took a step back, his mind racing. He forced himself to breathe, to push down the suffocating grief clawing at his chest. This wasn't the time to break. This wasn't the time to mourn.

His fingers tightened around the Omnitrix dial. With a swift motion, he activated it. A burst of green light enveloped him, and when it faded, multiple versions of himself stood in his place—Ditto, but with a different aura than usual.

Gone was the playful, mischievous energy Ditto normally carried.

These Dittos were furious.

Their expressions were hard, their eyes filled with cold determination. There was no laughter, no childish banter. Only a silent, burning rage.

Without hesitation, the Dittos moved as one. Some bent down, stripping weapons from the unconscious guards. Others stormed into a nearby storage room, breaking open crates of confiscated arms.

Then, they turned.

A dozen identical voices spoke in perfect unison, their tone chilling.

"They have to pay for these."

The sound of approaching boots echoed through the corridor. The guards had arrived.

The first wave barely had time to react.

A Ditto lunged forward, twisting a rifle out of a guard's hands before delivering a devastating punch to his gut. Another Ditto swung a stolen baton, striking an approaching soldier across the jaw and sending him sprawling.

A third Ditto grabbed two pistols from a fallen enemy, flipping them in his hands before unloading precise, calculated shots at the guards' weapons—disarming them with near-inhuman accuracy.

One guard raised his rifle, but before he could fire, three Dittos tackled him at once, their combined weight forcing him to the ground. A sharp elbow strike knocked him out instantly.

More guards poured in, shouting orders, but the Ditto army was relentless. They moved like a well-oiled machine, a symphony of calculated strikes and ruthless efficiency.

One Ditto flipped over a soldier, landing behind him and locking him in a chokehold. Another slid under an attacker's swing, sweeping his legs out from under him.

A particularly large guard wielding a combat knife lunged forward—only for a Ditto to sidestep, grab his wrist, and slam it against the wall, forcing him to drop the blade. Before the guard could react, another Ditto delivered a vicious uppercut, knocking him unconscious.

A high-ranking officer barked orders, trying to rally his men. His command was cut short when a Ditto ripped the radio from his hand and shattered it against the floor.

One by one, the guards fell. Some unconscious. Others groaning in pain. None were left standing.

Silence settled over the battlefield.

The Ditto clones surveyed their work, breathing heavily. The rage in their eyes hadn't dimmed.

The original Ben reappeared, standing amidst the fallen guards. He clenched his fists.

This wasn't over.

Baymax's voice came through once more.

"Ben, the path is clear. The prisoners are secure."

Ben exhaled, forcing himself to focus. He turned to Spider-Man, who had barely moved since the fight started.

Peter finally spoke, his voice hoarse. "We have to go after them. The ones responsible for this."

Ben nodded. "We will."

And this time, there would be no mercy.

Just as the last guard fell unconscious, a distant sound cut through the heavy silence—blaring sirens, growing louder by the second.

Ben and Peter barely had time to react before multiple NYPD squad cars skidded to a stop outside the bunker entrance, red and blue lights flashing against the grimy walls.

Doors slammed open. Officers poured out, weapons drawn, taking defensive positions behind their vehicles.

"NYPD! Hands where we can see them!"

A familiar voice crackled through a megaphone, firm and unwavering.

Officer George Stacy stepped forward, gripping the microphone tightly. His gaze locked onto Spider-Man and Ben, his expression unreadable.

"Both of you—hands behind your head and on the ground. You're under arrest. If you move, we will fire."

Ben and Peter exchanged a glance. The tension in the air was suffocating. This wasn't looking good.

But before either of them could respond, a wave of movement surged behind them.

The freed prisoners—children, women, men, all battered and weak but standing together—stepped forward, forming a protective circle around their saviors.

A man in tattered clothes, his face lined with exhaustion, raised his arms and took a bold step toward the officers. His voice, though hoarse, carried undeniable strength.

"If you want to fire on our saviors, then fire on us first."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. More people stepped forward, some gripping each other for support, others still trembling from their ordeal—but none backing down.

The NYPD officers hesitated. Their grips on their weapons loosened. The reality of the situation sank in.

They weren't looking at criminals. They were looking at victims—people who had been caged.

And the ones responsible for saving them?

Spider-Man and White suit guy.

Even Officer Stacy faltered. He knew Spider-Man, had seen him in action, but this? This was different.

Before he could issue a new command, a metallic clunk echoed through the tense air.

Something small and spherical landed between the police and the crowd, rolling to a stop.

Immediately, officers snapped back into position, raising their guns.

"What the hell is that?!" one of them shouted.

A faint hiss filled the air.

Then—smoke.

Thick, white fog erupted from the device, engulfing the entire area in seconds. Visibility dropped to nothing. Coughs and shouts of confusion rang out from both the officers and the civilians.

In the chaos, a familiar voice crackled through Ben and Peter's earpieces.

"Guys, get out of there! Now!"

Ned.

Peter didn't hesitate. He grabbed Ben's wrist, his enhanced senses cutting through the blinding fog like radar.

"Hold on!"

With a sharp yank, he leaped forward, dodging blindly reaching hands and disoriented officers. His grip on Ben was firm as he guided them through the maze of panicked voices and swirling smoke.

Then, above them, a low hum.

Something shimmered in the air, bending light unnaturally.

The ship.

The moment they were clear of the chaos, the cloaked vessel descended, its hatch opening mid-air.

Ned's voice, urgent. "Jump!"

Spider-Man didn't need to be told twice.

With a final burst of strength, he launched them both upward. They soared through the air, right into the waiting ship.

The moment they were inside, the hatch sealed shut.

The craft banked sharply, ascending into the night, vanishing from view just as the smoke below began to clear.

Back on the ground, Officer Stacy stood frozen, watching the scene unfold.

By the time the fog had fully dissipated, there was no sign of Spider-Man or Ben.

Only the rescued prisoners, standing amidst the fallen guards.