Chapter 12

The sleek, metallic walls of the Great Defenders' headquarters hummed faintly with the energy of advanced technology, a constant reminder of the cutting-edge resources at their disposal. Trackstar stood in her private quarters, her fingers brushing over the smooth surface of her wristwatch as Miles' voice crackled through the tiny speaker. "Trackstar, we have a meeting in the conference room," he said, his tone clipped and professional.

Without hesitation, she activated her suit with a thought, the nanotech fabric weaving itself around her body in a blur of motion. The suit, a sleek, aerodynamic design in shades of deep blue and silver, clung to her frame like a second skin. She adjusted the mask over her face, the material molding seamlessly to her features. "I'm there," she replied, her voice calm but resolute. In an instant, she was gone, a streak of red light zipping through the corridors of the headquarters. The world around her blurred as she moved, her superhuman speed carrying her to the conference room in less than a heartbeat.

When she arrived, the room was already partially occupied. Miles, clad in his robotic suit that extended up to his neck, stood near the head of the table. His mechanical exoskeleton gleamed under the fluorescent lights, the faint whir of servos accompanying his every movement. Seated at the table was a man Trackstar didn't recognize—Walker. He wore a sharp black suit and tie, his posture rigid and professional. His presence exuded authority, but there was something about him that made Trackstar's instincts prickle. She didn't trust him, not yet.

The table itself was a marvel of technology, doubling as a supercomputer and holographic projector. Its surface shimmered faintly, ready to display whatever data or maps the team might need. Trackstar took her seat, her eyes flicking toward the door as the rest of the Great Defenders began to arrive.

First came Gol, the golem hero, in his human form. Neil Stone, as he was known outside of battle, was an imposing figure even without his stone exterior. Standing at six feet tall, his muscular frame filled out his gray suit perfectly. His face was hidden behind a mask, but his presence was unmistakable. He moved with a deliberate, almost ponderous grace, his bulkier form a stark contrast to Trackstar's lithe build. Despite his human appearance, there was an air of solidity about him, as though the earth itself had taken human form.

Valkyrie entered next, her armor clinking softly as she walked. Her helmet, adorned with intricate designs and feathers, gleamed under the lights. She seemed in high spirits, a stark contrast to her demeanor the day before. "Good morning, my brothers and sister," she greeted, her voice warm and confident. Her eyes landed on Walker, and she tilted her head slightly. "Who is this?" she asked, her tone curious but unbothered. Valkyrie had always been outspoken, unafraid to voice her thoughts. Her confidence was well-earned; no one had ever bested her in combat, though whispers among the team suggested that Indestructible and Gol might be stronger. Still, their sparring matches had never been conclusive, and Valkyrie's reputation remained untarnished.

Trackstar couldn't help but smile at Valkyrie's presence. There was something reassuring about her, a steadfastness that Trackstar admired. But her smile faded as soon as Indestructible entered the room. He hovered just above the ground, his golden cape flowing behind him as if caught in an invisible breeze. His presence was commanding, but to Trackstar, it was oppressive. She had never been fond of him, and though she respected his power, she couldn't shake the feeling that his leadership was more about control than collaboration. She forced herself to remain neutral, her expression blank as he took his seat at the head of the table.

"Morning, Defenders," Indestructible greeted, his voice deep and resonant. He leaned back in his chair, his blue and white suit gleaming.

"Indestructible, you're back," Miles said, his tone neutral. "Been a while."

"Had some personal issues to settle," Indestructible replied, his gaze sweeping over the room. "Was I much needed?"

"Well, yes," Miles admitted. "But I'll let Agent Walker here explain it all." He gestured to the man in the suit, who stood and adjusted his tie.

"Great Defenders," Walker began, his voice steady and authoritative. "It is a pleasure to finally and personally meet you. My name is Roland Walker. I was initially the head general of our army and military. However, due to the recent and unfortunate passing of Agent Roy Mill, I have been placed as his replacement. I hope we will work together to the best of our abilities to ensure the safety and prosperity of this country."

The room fell silent at the mention of Mill's death. Trackstar's jaw tightened, her mind racing. Mill had been a key figure in their operations, and his sudden passing was a blow to the team. Indestructible, however, seemed unfazed. "Mill is dead," he said, his tone cold. "That fool can rot in hell."

Walker's expression didn't change, but Trackstar noticed the slight tightening of his jaw. He cleared his throat and continued. "Any questions?"

No one raised a hand, but the tension in the room was palpable. Walker nodded, seemingly unbothered by the lack of response. "Hmm, well in that case, I'll ask mine. Seeing as the hero Tincan has surrendered his identity to us as Miles Faulter, I'd like to request the rest of you to do the same."

The room erupted in murmurs of disapproval. Trackstar's eyes narrowed, her hands clenching into fists under the table. Indestructible was the first to speak, his voice firm and laced with warning. "This word you use—'surrender'—I don't appreciate it, Agent."

Walker held up a hand, his expression calm but firm. "Pardon my words. I meant 'give.' You know mine, and seeing as we're colleagues, I believe it would be fair if we all knew each other's identities."

"I'm not doing that," Trackstar said flatly, her voice cutting through the tension.

Valkyrie, ever the bold one, reached up and removed her helmet, setting it on the table with a soft clink. Her blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders, and she met Walker's gaze with unwavering confidence. "The rest of you can give your identities if you want," Indestructible said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You're allowed. However, I will not."

"I'll keep mine a secret," Gol added, his deep voice resonating through the room.

Walker nodded, his expression unreadable. "That's fine. You don't know me, and having doubt is only reasonable. I hope to earn your trust one day so we can work as comrades."

The meeting continued, but Trackstar's mind was elsewhere. She couldn't shake the feeling that Walker's request was just the beginning of something much larger—and much more dangerous. As the discussion turned to mission updates and strategy, the spoke of the tragedy that had hit their country at its heart and future , Redwood.

Later that day, in the underworld of Redwood City, where light dared not tread and humanity's refuse collected in murky streams, an alien fragment made its silent journey. The metal shard—roughly the size of a human palm and pulsing with an imperceptible energy—drifted along the current, carried by forces it did not comprehend through a maze it would never know. Above, the city continued unaware, the explosion that had birthed this fragment already fading from concerned conversations into urban legend status.

The shard caught against a rusted pipe, the dull clang marking its arrival at rest along the concrete embankment. It gleamed with an otherworldly iridescence even in the dim tunnel light, waiting like a spider in its web.

Meanwhile, on the streets above, life and death played out their ancient dance. A rat—scraggly and wild-eyed—darted across cracked pavement, its tiny heart hammering against its ribs. Behind it, moving with the desperation that only true hunger can inspire, prowled an emaciated tabby. The cat's fur hung loose on its frame, patchy in places where malnutrition had taken its toll, yet its eyes burned with primal intensity. This was no game of chance but a matter of survival.

With renewed determination born of desperation, the cat lunged forward, pushing muscles weakened by days of famine. It could almost taste the warm blood, feel the satisfying crunch of rodent bones between its jaws. The rat, sensing its impending doom, made a frantic dash toward a partially open manhole cover—salvation or merely a different kind of death.

With one final leap, the rat plunged into the darkness, tumbling awkwardly through the opening. Its landing was graceless and violent; the sickening crack of its leg breaking echoed through the tunnel, followed by a pitiful squeal. The injury left it crawling, dragging its useless limb across the filthy concrete.

The cat, master of the predatory arts, slipped through the same opening with practiced ease, landing silently on all fours. It stalked forward, confident and unhurried, savoring the helplessness of its prey. A low, satisfied purr rumbled in its throat as it watched the rat's desperate struggle.

The wounded rat scraped along the tunnel floor, driven by blind panic rather than strategy. In its frenzied retreat, it collided with the alien shard, its paws clutching at the metal in a futile attempt to pull itself forward. The contact triggered an immediate reaction—a jolt of otherworldly energy surged through the rodent's small body, setting every nerve ending ablaze.

The cat paused, whiskers twitching with confusion as its prey began to convulse violently. The rat's body contorted unnaturally, tumors swelling beneath its fur with alarming speed. Its squeaks deepened into guttural growls as organs expanded and bones elongated. Within seconds, what had been prey had become predator, its mass now equal to the horrified cat.

Primal instinct finally broke through the cat's stunned paralysis. It turned and bolted toward the shaft of light above, its only chance of escape. With desperate strength, it leaped upward, claws scratching for purchase on the metal rim of the manhole.

Just as freedom seemed within reach, a grotesquely enlarged paw shot upward, seizing the cat's tail with crushing force. The feline's fearful yowl echoed through the tunnel as it was violently yanked back into the darkness. Its cries of terror morphed into something unspeakable—sounds no natural creature should make—before abruptly silencing.

In the sudden quiet that followed, only the wet, tearing sounds of flesh being consumed could be heard. Deep in the forgotten tunnels beneath Redwood City, something new had been born—a harbinger of changes yet to come, its first meal complete.

Above, the city continued on, oblivious to the horror incubating beneath its streets.