At 11:00 PM, inside an industrial park in the San Francisco Bay Area.
Six black SUVs silently glided into position, stopping two hundred meters from the main entrance of Bay Biotechnology.
Phil Coulson pushed open his door.
A sea-salty night breeze blew against his face.
“Thermal signatures confirmed.” The voice of technical support came through his earpiece.
“Five inside the building, sparsely spread out.
The electronic defense system is in low-power standby mode.” Melinda May stepped out of the passenger seat, checking the silencer on her pistol.
“Too quiet.” “I know.” Coulson adjusted his headset.
“But the evidence of Xenomorphs mentioned in the intel is right here.
Teams A and B, move out according to plan.” The eight-man tactical squad split into two groups.
May led four people around to the front entrance, while Coulson took the other three to seal off the flanks and rear escape routes.
At 23:15, May gave a signal.
The electronic lock on the front door blew open under a micro-explosive charge, swinging inward.
Team A filed inside, beams from their tactical flashlights slicing through the pitch-black lobby.
The first guard rushed out of the security office, pistol in hand.
Before he could even raise his weapon, May closed the distance and slammed a knife-hand strike into the side of his neck.
The guard went limp and collapsed.
“First floor clear,” May’s voice came over the comms.
“Team B in position.
Rear door is clear,” Coulson replied.
They moved deeper into the facility.
Laboratories lined both sides of the hallway, signs of rapid dismantling visible behind the glass walls.
Workbenches were bare, equipment stripped away, with loose wires and plastic debris strewn across the floor.
“Looks like a moving crew hit the place,” May muttered softly.
In the main lab area on the second floor, they encountered the last two guards.
The pair fired from behind a control console, their bullets hitting body armor with dull thuds.
May’s team returned fire with two precise double-taps.
The guards dropped.
The entire raid had taken thirty seconds.
“Laughably weak resistance.” Coulson stepped into the main lab area.
“Check every room.” The team dispersed to search.
Coulson walked up to a large gestation pod in the center of the room.
The tank had ruptured, revealing three preserved Xenomorph embryo specimens submerged in murky nutrient fluid.
The remains had begun to rot, time of death estimated around forty-eight hours ago.
“Specimens are here,” he said into his headset, “but the labels have been scraped off.” A tech agent spotted a shredder in the corner.
He squatted down and carefully extracted the paper fragments inside.
“Boss, these papers weren’t fully shredded.
Looks like a rush job.” Beside it sat a small incinerator, the remains of a charred folder dangling from its opening.
The technician plucked it out with tweezers and flattened it on a metal table.
“‘Series K Freight Transport Schedule…
Partial document only.'” The technician squinted at the blackened handwriting.
“‘Subject Seven Observation Log…
last page.'” Coulson walked over to inspect it.
The final line of the log read: “Subject displaying abnormal aggression.
Recommend terminating observation and initiating disposal protocol.” “They left in a hurry,” May said, “but they took all the critical data with them.” Another tech agent shouted from beside an old printer: “Found something in the print buffer!
An unsent draft email.” Coulson walked over.
Fragments appeared on screen: “…transport route altered to Line B…
Shadow Fox requested early delivery…” “Shadow Fox.” Coulson repeated the name.
“Line B.
Document it.” The search continued until 0:30 AM.
Aside from the leftover embryo specimens and fragmented documents, the entire facility had essentially been gutted.
The hard drives had been physically destroyed, showing obvious hammer marks.
“Pack it up,” Coulson ordered.
“Take every shred of evidence we can find.” On the drive back, Coulson remained silent.
May watched him.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“The intel was real; Xenomorphs do exist,” Coulson said.
“But they knew we were coming beforehand.
Only internal personnel knew the operational plan.” “A mole?” “Or their surveillance network is more sophisticated than we thought.” Coulson stared at the streetlights sweeping past the window.
“Either way, someone tipped them off ahead of us—maybe an hour and a half earlier, or even less.” “The anonymous informant?” “Maybe,” Coulson said.
“Maybe they wanted to use us to flush out the snakes, or maybe they had another motive.
But one thing is clear: these waters run much deeper than we thought.” At the exact same time, inside a research station in the Redwood Forest area.
Storm, Ororo Munroe, stood perched atop a treetop, the night wind blowing through her white hair.
She gazed down at the two-story building disguised as a ranger station, her eyes glowing with faint white light in the dark.
“Kurt, what’s the situation?” she asked into her miniature communicator.
With a brief *bamf*, Nightcrawler, Kurt Wagner, appeared on the branch beside her.
His blue skin was nearly invisible under the moonlight.
“Only four guards inside, Ms.
Ororo,” he said with a slight German accent.
“Most of the lab is empty, equipment moved out.
But they left behind some…
garbage.” “Garbage?” “Discarded specimen jars, shredded documents,” Kurt said.
“I think they left in a big hurry.” Storm nodded.
She raised her hand, and the surrounding air began to condense into a thin mist, slowly blanketing the building.
“We’re going in.
You teleport and scout; I’ll take the front door.” “Understood.” Kurt vanished again with a soft *bamf*.
Storm floated down from the treetop, her feet hovering above the ground as she glided toward the front entrance like a white phantom.
The door was unlocked.
She pushed it open and stepped inside.
The lobby was desolate, save for a few overturned chairs.
Footsteps echoed from the right hallway as two guards rushed out with stun guns.
Storm narrowed her eyes.
The fire sprinklers in the ceiling suddenly burst, pouring down torrents of water like a waterfall.
In midair, the water instantly froze into icicles, pinning the two guards in place.
“Excuse me, coming through,” she said, continuing forward.
Kurt was waiting for her outside the ground-floor cold storage room.
He opened the door and pointed to two sealed canisters in the corner.
“Labeled ‘Specimen Contaminated • Discard,'” Kurt said.
“But I don’t think that’s the case.” Storm inspected the jars.
Behind the clear walls were Xenomorph tissue samples.
Though incomplete, their hideous shapes spoke volumes.
“Non-terrestrial organism,” she murmured.
“Beast was right.” They continued their search.
In an office trash can, Kurt found shredded handwritten notes.
He pieced the scraps together on a desk, and Storm leaned in to look.
“…Foot Clan transport team is inefficient…” she read aloud.
“‘Mark of the Beast appeared on the crates…'” “The Beast?” Kurt tilted his head.
“What is that?” “An ancient deity of The Hand—some kind of dark entity,” Storm frowned.
“This is more than just biological experimentation.” In the corner sat an old fax machine.
Kurt checked it and found the last received roll of paper still inside.
He pulled it out to reveal a blurry partial map showing warehouse numbers in the dock district.
“A transport route,” Kurt said.
Storm pondered for a few seconds.
“Kurt, go check these dock warehouses.
See if you can confirm Foot Clan activity.” “Right now?” “Right now.
Use teleportation and stay covert.” Kurt nodded, took a photo of the map, and vanished.
Storm kept searching the building, but aside from more discarded garbage, found nothing of value.
She walked to the window, gazing out at the redwood forest.
“Evacuating in such a rush…” she muttered to herself.
“It’s like they received an emergency order out of nowhere.” Twenty minutes later, Kurt returned.
He had checked three dock warehouses in quick succession, a bewildered look on his face.
“Ms.
Ororo, something is very strange,” he said.
“The warehouses are completely empty—no cargo, no guards.
I checked several of the Foot Clan’s usual strongholds: rooftop lookouts, sewer entrances, training grounds…
all deserted.
It’s like the entire Foot Clan vanished from San Francisco overnight.” Storm turned around.
“Every single stronghold?” “Every one.
Even their usual secret symbol markings have been scrubbed clean,” Kurt said.
“This isn’t normal.
A ninja clan wouldn’t execute a total retreat like this unless…” “Unless there was a higher-level command—or a far greater threat,” Storm finished his sentence.
“It seems we’ve touched a nerve.” She checked the time: 0:45 AM.
“We’re withdrawing.
Bring the specimen jars and document fragments back to the Institute branch for analysis.” Kurt picked up the evidence and rested his other hand on Storm’s shoulder.
With a soft *bamf*, both vanished from the empty lab.
The next morning, SHIELD San Francisco Headquarters.
Coulson stood before an intelligence board plastered with photographs and shredded document reconstructions from last night’s operation.
The tech team lead was giving a briefing.
“Reconstruction of the shredded papers indicates Shadow Fox is likely a codename for a high-ranking member of The Hand.
Email fragments show the transport route was changed within a twenty-four-hour window—roughly an hour and a half before our raid.” “Any progress on the mole investigation?” Coulson asked.
“Everyone with knowledge of last night’s operation is currently being questioned.
Nothing unusual has turned up yet.” The tech lead paused.
“However, one detail stands out: surveillance logs from the lab show they received an encrypted transmission at 9:30 PM, after which they initiated an emergency evacuation.
The source of the transmission is untraceable.” Coulson stared at the name “Shadow Fox” pinned to the board.
“The Hand, Weyland-Yutani, the Foot Clan…
and now an anonymous informant.
Just how many secrets is this city hiding?” He turned to look out the window.
San Francisco was waking up in the morning light, traffic building along the streets.
“Increase surveillance on Weyland-Yutani executives,” Coulson ordered.
“Track the Line B transport route.
And find out why the Foot Clan vanished out of nowhere.” “Yes, sir.” At the same time, in the laboratory of the Oak Ridge Branch.
Storm and Beast analyzed the intel Kurt brought back via video call.
“A full retreat by the Foot Clan means they received a high-level warning,” Beast’s blue face appeared on screen.
“If the mark of the Beast truly appeared on those crates, it suggests The Hand might be deeply involved in this.” “Do we keep pursuing this?” Storm asked.
“The Professor advises caution,” Beast said.
“Monitor Weyland-Yutani, follow the lead on the Beast, but avoid direct contact with SHIELD.
They investigate in the light; we observe in the shadows.” Storm nodded.
“Kurt, keep monitoring the city for anomalous energy surges.
Especially anything tied to The Hand.” Nightcrawler Kurt nodded nearby.
“I will, Ms.
Ororo.” The video feed disconnected.
Storm walked over to the window, looking out at the campus as it bustled to life.
The students had no idea what had transpired in the city’s underbelly last night.
In the shadows of the city, rumors began to spread.
Through the underground intelligence network, news spread like a virus: “The Foot Clan pulled out of the West Coast overnight,” “A Weyland-Yutani lab was raided by unknown forces,” “San Francisco is about to turn upside down.”