The next day, the early morning sun pierced through the lingering smoke and dust, casting light over the ruins of Manhattan's Midtown West.
The entire block looked as if it had been gnawed by a colossal beast. The asphalt road was webbed with cracks, and murky groundwater seeped from potholes several meters deep.
Twisted wreckage—cars, Humvees, and armored vehicles—lay scattered across the streets. Some had melted into abstract lumps of metal under extreme heat; others were flattened into thin sheets by the force of the blast wave.
A shattered fire hydrant spewed a column of water several meters high, catching the sunlight and forming small, shimmering rainbows.
Hundreds of rescue workers moved through the rubble, their bright orange uniforms stark against the gray devastation.
"Over here! Vital signs!"
A firefighter knelt before the collapsed remains of an apartment building, clutching a life detector and shouting hoarsely.
Nearby, heavy machinery pivoted and began carefully clearing debris.
On the other side of the street, National Guard soldiers gathered scattered and damaged weapons. Beside an overturned armored vehicle, two soldiers struggled to extract a warped M240B machine gun—its barrel bent into a grotesque arc.
Another team collected jagged bone fragments that had broken off during the creature's rampage. The shards were placed into lead-lined containers labeled "High-Risk Biological Material."
Not far away, National Guard troops maintained multiple security perimeters to keep reporters at bay.
"Good morning, everyone. I'm Eddie Brock, reporting live for the Daily Bugle."
The reporter stood in the middle of the ruined street, smoking office buildings looming behind him as he raised his microphone.
"Last night's disaster has left at least 347 injured, 42 missing—and the death toll is still being confirmed…"
His words were drowned out by the sudden roar of helicopters overhead.
Three Black Hawks descended onto a hastily cleared landing zone. Their hatches hissed open, and a squad of agents in black tactical gear stepped out.
As they approached, the National Guard soldiers immediately snapped to attention, saluted silently, and raised the cordon to let them pass.
"Radiation levels nominal. Biological contamination: Level B."
At the epicenter of the devastation, a technician in protective goggles scanned the wreckage with a handheld device. He carefully placed a charred tissue sample into a lead-alloy containment unit labeled "Gamma-Level Biological Specimen."
"My God… How was this thing even made? Its muscle density is 1,200 times that of a human's."
An expert nearby hefted the heavy container, running a finger over the label with a mix of awe and dread.
"And forget that—look at this crater! Surface temperatures briefly exceeded 3,000 degrees Celsius. How am I supposed to write a field report for this?"
Another scientist crouched at the edge of the massive impact pit, brushing scorched earth between his fingers, his expression grim.
At the center of the crater, Clint Barton's sharp eyes swept the scene. As S.H.I.E.L.D.'s on-site commander, he needed to assess every detail.
"Doc," he said after a moment, tapping his earpiece, "what are the energy readings looking like?"
After a long silence, the technical director's faint voice crackled through Clint's headset:
"It's ridiculously high—but the residual energy signature doesn't match any known technological weapon.
More like…"
"Like what?"
"Like… some kind of pure energy."
Clint frowned, crouching down and brushing his fingers across the scorched earth. Among the blackened soil, faint strands of violet energy flickered like living tendrils before dissolving into the air.
After a moment's pause, Clint Barton asked again, "Have you found any trace of that girl?"
"No clues at all. No DNA residue, no thermal signature. Even with eyewitness footage, there's nothing in the database that matches her."
The technical director's voice grew quieter, tinged with frustration.
"It's like she's… from another world."
Clint Barton murmured, almost to himself, "I'm glad you understand."
On the other end, the tech director let out a weary sigh.
---
At 9:00 a.m., inside the makeshift command tent, a holographic projection displayed a 3D reconstruction of the battlefield. Clint handed the data pad to an analyst and strode toward the comms terminal.
"Patch me through to Nick Fury."
The screen flickered, then stabilized—Nick Fury's single eye filled the display. Behind him, SHIELD's command center buzzed with activity: agents moving briskly, screens flashing with data.
"Report," Fury said, his voice calm but sharp.
Clint pulled up a video clip: a girl—Fischl—descending from the sky, lightning crackling around her as she struck down the Abomination.
"The target is temporarily codenamed 'Thunder girl'—female, estimated age sixteen to eighteen. Known abilities include high-speed movement, energy manipulation, and suspected short-range spatial displacement."
He zoomed in on her face.
"She wields what appears to be a compound bow, but it fires arrows composed entirely of energy. We don't yet know if that's a property of the weapon or her own power."
Fury narrowed his eye. "Threat level?"
Clint brought up the impact analysis.
"At least Level Eight. Her attacks range from the equivalent of 50 kilograms to 200 tons of TNT—just in raw destructive output.
But the bigger problem…"
He switched to footage of Fischl vanishing in a flash of lightning.
"We have zero tracking capability. She disappears without a trace."
Fury was silent for a long beat. Then, quietly:
"Continue the search. Raise priority to Alpha. I'll task the satellite division with enhanced surveillance."
"Copy that."
The line cut out. Clint stepped out of the tent, his expression grim.
In the distance, rescue operations continued—cranes hoisted twisted girders, ambulance sirens wailed in rotation.
He looked up at the sky, now a placid blue, as if last night's storm of violet thunder had never happened.
---
A few blocks away, NYPD officers worked to restore order.
"Stop! NYPD!"
Four officers chased a young man with a bulging backpack. He vaulted over a collapsed wall—only to be tackled mid-air by waiting detectives.
"Let me go! I just found that stuff! It was lying there—no one was watching it! You rich folks always pin stuff on people like me!
This is racial profiling! Black lives matter!
And I'm part of the LGBTQ+ community—!"
As he struggled, luxury watches and jewelry spilled from his pack.
The lead detective ignored the outburst, securing the cuffs with practiced efficiency. "Save it for the judge," he said flatly.
Near the patrol car, over a dozen suspects sat handcuffed in a line—some shouting protests, others slumped in defeat. A tattooed man in a white tank top spat toward the officers.
"Load 'em up," the portly inspector muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. "Let the DA sort it out."
---
As the sun climbed higher, the city's cleanup pressed on.
Bulldozers shoved debris to the roadside; water trucks hosed down bloodstained pavement.
Amid the wreckage, New York's pulse beat on.