The Situation Room was a cacophony of chaos. Screens flickered with live feeds from across the globe, each one displaying scenes of devastation that defied comprehension. The air was thick with tension, the hum of voices rising and falling like a storm. General Walker stood at the center of it all, his face pale, his usually immaculate uniform disheveled. He clutched a tablet in one hand, his fingers trembling as he scrolled through reports that grew more dire by the second.
"Hello! Mr. President!" Walker called out, his voice strained but firm, cutting through the din. The President, his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up, turned sharply. His face was a mask of barely contained panic, his eyes darting between the screens and the general.
"What is this, Walker? Are we under attack?" the President demanded, his voice rising above the noise. His usually composed demeanor was fraying at the edges, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"That would be the best assumption to make, sir," Walker replied, his tone grim. Around him, army officials scrambled, their movements frantic as they barked orders into headsets and pored over maps and data. The room was a hive of activity, but none of it felt coordinated, it was desperation, pure and simple.
"Assumption? You don't get paid to give assumptions, Walker!" the President snapped, his voice sharp enough to make a few heads turn. "And where the hell is Mill? Why isn't he here?"
Walker hesitated, his jaw tightening. "Right, Mr. President. From what I've gathered, this is a global calamity. These explosions, they're happening everywhere. As for Mill, no one can reach him. He wasn't in the base when all of this happened, sir."
"Global? A global terrorist attack?" the President asked, his voice rising in disbelief.
"Affirmative, sir. But these aren't terrorists. They're unidentified flying objects. Extraterrestrial threats, sir," Walker replied, his words heavy with the weight of their implications.
The President stared at him, his face a mixture of shock and fury. "What the hell? We'll investigate later. Right now, I want all rescue teams and every available body at the point of impact. Get this under control. Now!" He turned to his bodyguards, his voice booming. "And someone get me on the phone with Mill!"
"Yes, sir," Walker said, nodding sharply before turning back to the chaos around him.
---
On television screens across the country, the news was broadcasting live from the outskirts of Redwood City. The reporters, clad in hazmat suits, stood against a backdrop of swirling dust and smoke, their voices trembling as they described the unimaginable.
"Ladies and gentlemen, what you're seeing is the aftermath of what can only be described as an unprecedented catastrophe," one reporter said, her voice breaking. "The city of Redwood has been decimated by an explosion of unknown origin. The scale of the destruction is... it's beyond anything we've ever seen."
The camera panned to show the devastation, buildings reduced to rubble, streets littered with debris, and fires burning unchecked. In the distance, the faint outlines of ambulances and fire trucks could be seen, their sirens wailing as they sped toward the heart of the destruction.
---
Inside the affected zone, the scene was apocalyptic. The heat was still intense, radiating from the molten remains of buildings and vehicles. Screams echoed through the haze, a haunting chorus of pain and despair. Fire trucks moved slowly through the streets, their crews blasting jets of water at the burning wreckage. But the fires were relentless, fueled by ruptured gas lines and the sheer intensity of the initial blast.
Ambulances stopped at intervals, their crews leaping out to tend to the injured. Parents ran through the chaos, their children clinging to their backs. Men carried their wives, cradling them as they stumbled toward safety. Children cried next to the lifeless bodies of their families, their small hands clutching at the clothes of those who would never wake again. First responders worked tirelessly, their faces grim as they loaded the injured into ambulances and rushed them to hospitals that were already overwhelmed.
---
Hours had passed since the explosion, and the darkness of night had descended, making the already impossible task of finding survivors even harder. The dust and smoke still hung heavy in the air, reducing visibility to almost nothing. Barriers had been set up a kilometer from the edge of the affected area, guarded by soldiers in hazmat suits and armed with rifles. Their orders were clear: no unauthorized personnel were to enter. But the barriers weren't complete, leaving gaps where desperate family members gathered, their faces etched with fear and hope.
Among them was James Keli, Scott's father. He stood at the edge of the crowd, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes scanning the faces of the survivors being led out. Scott hadn't come home. He hadn't been at any of the hospitals James had checked. The bus Scott always took passed close to the impact zone, and James's mind raced with terrible possibilities. He was losing hope, and fast.
---
From within the smoke, Scott stirred. He lay on the ground, just a meter from the burning wreckage of the bus. By some miracle, he had survived. The spherical object that had struck the bus had flipped it into the air, killing everyone inside almost instantly. The flames that followed had reduced the bus and its passengers to ash. But Scott had been thrown clear, his body battered but intact.
He opened his eyes, squinting against the haze. His school uniform was torn and charred, his skin covered in dust and soot. He groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. The world around him was a blur of smoke and fire, the air thick with the stench of burning metal and flesh.
Scott stumbled forward, his mind foggy and disoriented. He bumped into the remains of buildings, their walls crumbled and blackened. The ground was littered with debris, twisted metal, shattered glass, and the charred remains of those who hadn't been as lucky as him. At one point, a man ran past him, his body engulfed in flames. Scott jumped back, his heart pounding as the man disappeared into the smoke, his screams fading into the distance.
"Dear God," Scott whispered, his voice trembling as he looked down at the body of a child crushed beneath a shard of metal. The child's hand still clutched a stuffed bear, its fur singed and blackened.
Scott kept walking, his steps slow and unsteady. He tripped over something and nearly fell into a pothole filled with molten rock. He caught himself just in time, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he stared at the human arm and head protruding from the solidified lava. The sight made his stomach churn, but he forced himself to keep moving.
After what felt like an eternity, Scott emerged from the smoke. The air was clearer here, though the smell of burning still lingered. In the distance, he could see the faint outlines of people in hazmat suits, their movements deliberate as they set up barricades. Instinctively, Scott turned away from them and began walking home. It was the only thought that kept him going, home.
The air was thick with tension, the acrid scent of smoke and ash clinging to every breath. The scene was a chaotic tapestry of despair and urgency, with first responders in hazmat suits moving like shadows through the haze, their voices muffled by the oppressive atmosphere. Civilians gathered behind barricades, their faces etched with fear and desperation, their cries for help rising above the din. And then, as if summoned by the collective plea of the crowd, two figures arrived, heroes, unmistakable in their presence.
First came Trackstar, a woman clad in a sleek red and gold suit that shimmered like liquid fire even in the dim light. Her mask obscured her face, but her movements were a blur of precision and speed, so fast that she seemed to defy the very laws of physics. She darted into the scene with the grace of a predator, her boots barely touching the ground as she skidded to a halt near the barricades. Close behind her, descending from the sky with an almost regal poise, was Indestructible. His broad, muscular frame was encased in a white and blue suit, the fabric rippling as he hovered just above the ground. A blue cape billowed behind him, catching the wind like a banner of hope. His presence was commanding, his piercing eyes scanning the devastation with a mix of determination and sorrow.
The crowd erupted at their arrival. "The Great Defenders are here! Indestructible, help us, please!" a man shouted, his voice cracking under the weight of his desperation. A woman pushed her way to the front, tears streaming down her face as she clutched at the barricade. "My daughter is in there! Please, Trackstar, help me find her!" Her plea was raw, a mother's anguish laid bare for all to see. Another voice joined the chorus, this time from a man in a hazmat suit who approached the heroes with urgency. "Indestructible! Trackstar! Finally, you're here!" Trackstar looked at them with pity, knowing despite her superhuman prowess, she couldn't help them on a personal level.
Indestructible hovered closer, his deep voice calm but firm. "Yes, apologies for the lateness. We had quite a few villains to handle prior to this. How can we help?" His words were measured, but the gravity of the situation was not lost on him. The man in the hazmat suit gestured toward the smoking ruins beyond the barricade. "For now, we just know there are people alive within the zone. Helping with the rescue would put us steps ahead."
"Roger that," Indestructible replied without hesitation. In an instant, he was gone, a streak of blue and white vanishing into the cloud of smoke and dust. His superhuman speed left a faint trail of displaced air, a testament to the power he wielded.
The man in the hazmat suit turned to Trackstar, his tone shifting to one of practicality. "As for you, Trackstar, our people are enclosing the perimeter to prevent civilians from entering the affected zones. It would be of great help if you could assist in finishing the enclosure, and then maybe help with the rescues."
"On it," Trackstar said, her voice sharp and confident. In a flash, she was gone, her red and gold suit a blur as she darted along the perimeter, her movements so swift that she seemed to be in multiple places at once.
As the two heroes sprang into action, a murmur rose among the crowd. "Is that all of them? I thought there were five," one of the hazmat-clad responders muttered, his voice tinged with disappointment.
The first man in the hazmat suit shook his head. "You heard them. The rest are probably out there, probably fighting super villains, lets just be grateful they came." His tone was resigned, but there was a flicker of hope in his eyes. For now, with Indestructible and Trackstar on the scene, there was at least a chance, a slim, fragile chance, that some of the lost might be found.