The afternoon AP U.S. History class was exactly like a cup of lukewarm tap water—so profoundly dull it could dically induce a coma.
The gray-haired professor stood behind his wooden podium, monotonously reading casualty statistics from the Arican Civil War off a dense PowerPoint slide. His voice was as steady and rhythmic as a trono. The warm afternoon sunlight filtered through the classroom windows, spilling across the desks and practically begging the students to fall asleep. Most of the class was already dozing off. Even the scratching of pens against notebook paper had slowed to a sluggish crawl.
I sat by the window, my pen moving steadily across the page, projecting the perfect image of a diligent AP student. In reality, the lines of text I was writing were a highly compressed string of Siren architectural code that only I could read. My cybernetic consciousness had long since abandoned the physical classroom. It had expanded like an invisible digital web through New York's subterranean fiber-optic cables, blanketing every major signal node in the city.
Initially, I was just slacking off, using the boring lecture as an excuse to casually hack back into the Columbia University intranet to check Dr. Connors' latest Lizard Serum animal trials. But as my radar swept through the telecommunication frequencies of Midtown Manhattan, I suddenly collided with a massive, localized cluster of heavily encrypted radio traffic.
This wasn't the standard NYPD dispatch frequency, and it definitely wasn't the FBI's regional communication band. It was the active-duty, hyper-encrypted VHF frequency-hopping channel used exclusively by the United States Ard Forces.
My pen hovered over my notebook. My digital interest was instantly piqued.
Well, well.
Why the hell was the U.S. military suddenly operating a massive cluster of encrypted channels in the dead center of New York City? And they were using an aggressive frequency-hopping protocol, actively rotating bands every three seconds using the HAIPE (High Assurance Internet Protocol Encryptor) standard. A normal corporate hacker wouldn't even be able to isolate a full sentence of audio, let alone crack the encryption key.
Unfortunately for the Pentagon, they were currently operating inside the tactical radius of an Antikythera supercomputer.
I leaned back in my chair, letting my eyelids droop slightly to make it look like I was struggling to stay awake. Internally, my consciousness plunged into the deep digital ocean. Streams of pale blue code cascaded through my mind. The encryption algorithm that the Departnt of Defense considered mathematically unbreakable was roughly as durable as wet tissue paper against my raw computing power.
In less than a ten-thousandth of a second, I shattered the encryption keys and gained full administrative access to all local military channels.
The chaotic cross-chatter of tactical call signs, deploynt orders, and aerial reconnaissance reports flooded instantly into my audio receptors.
"Falcon 1-Actual holding at designated altitude. Optical recon of the target grid is nominal. No thermal anomalies detected."
"Ground Team Bravo has successfully locked down 34th Street. Concrete barricades are established at all primary intersections. I repeat, all civilian personnel have been evacuated from the kill box."
"Stryker elent is in position. 360-degree periter is established. All M151 weapon stations are hot and weapons are green."
I raised an eyebrow. My curiosity rapidly shifted into genuine alarm.
Predator drones? Stryker infantry carriers? A three-block mandatory civilian evacuation? This tactical footprint wasn't a standard counter-terrorism sweep. They were actively preparing for high-intensity urban warfare.
Following the teletry link of the aerial drone, I effortlessly sliced through the firewall of its flight control module.
Asset Classification: MQ-20 'Avenger' Unmanned Combat Aerial Vehicle.
It was a jet-powered, low-observable stealth drone developed by General Atomics. It boasted an operational ceiling of 50,000 feet and a 20-hour loiter ti. The under-wing hardpoints were currently loaded with AGM-114 Hellfire anti-tank missiles and GBU-39 Small Diater Bombs. It was the apex tactical strike drone of the U.S. military, designed specifically for deep-penetration strikes in active warzones.
And the Pentagon had just deployed one directly over Midtown Manhattan.
I hijacked the Avenger's optical targeting pod, routing the 4K high-definition video feed directly into my retinas.
Down in the streets of Midtown West, heavy yellow police barricades forcibly cordoned off a three-block radius surrounding an abandoned, grey concrete office building. Twelve M1126 Stryker Infantry Carrier Vehicles were parked nose-to-tail in a massive steel ring. The afternoon sun reflected coldly off their ceramic composite armor. Atop the vehicles, the remote-operated M151 weapon stations were fully active. The heavy barrels of twelve .50 caliber M2HB machine guns were locked dead onto the abandoned building, ammunition belts fed and ready to completely level the structure.
Tucked into the tactical gaps between the Strykers were dozens of U.S. Army infantryn in heavy urban combat gear. Their M4A1 carbines were equipped with ACOG optics and tactical strobes. They were stacked behind concrete barriers in tight, three-man assault elents. Up on the surrounding rooftops, Army snipers ard with M24 weapon systems had already established overlapping fields of fire.
To make the situation even more absurd, my radar pinged the active transponders of three AH-64D Longbow Apache attack helicopters holding position in the adjacent airspace. They were hovering a mile outside the civilian periter, their milliter-wave tracking radars actively painting the target building, ready to unleash a barrage of 30mm chain-gun fire the second they got the green light.
This level of overwhelming military violence was enough to annihilate a heavily fortified rcenary compound.
I was completely baffled. What the hell was happening in New York that required the Pentagon to deploy a chanized brigade into a civilian population center?
I traced the command-and-control uplink from the Strykers, hacking directly into the encrypted servers of the on-site mobile command center to read the operational briefing.
Operation Designation: GREEN ARROW.
Primary Objective: Apprehend and secure biological asset Bruce Banner.
On-Site Tactical Commander: Lieutenant General Thaddeus E. Ross, United States Army.
Wait. Hold on.
The mont I processed that na, the pen in my physical hand jerked violently, drawing a long, jagged ink streak across my AP History notes.
Are you serious? Thaddeus "Thunderbolt" Ross?!
The absolute maniac who spent the better part of a decade chasing the Hulk across the entire planet, effectively acting as a heavily-ard, incredibly toxic paparazzi for a giant green rage monster?!
Good god, no wonder the tactical footprint was so absurdly aggressive. This wasn't a terrorist hunt. They had cornered Bruce Banner.
I ntally scread at the absolute absurdity of the tiline, fighting to keep my physical expression bored and neutral.
Is this actually my job now?! Am I operating on a strict Rembrancer KPI? I was there when Iron Man crawled out of the desert. I was there when the spider bit Peter Parker. And now that the Incredible Hulk is about to rip Manhattan in half, I'm expected to clock in and watch the show? Does Observer Zero pay a salary for this? Do I get a 401k and dental benefits for risking my life to watch superheroes break things?
I was genuinely exhausted by the sheer density of the Marvel Cinematic Universe. There wasn't a single day of peace. Tony Stark had just shut down his weapons division, Peter Parker was currently dealing with superhuman puberty, and now the Hulk was trapped in a building in Midtown.
The citizens of New York were genuinely the most tragic demographic in human history. If they weren't dodging alien invasions, they were getting caught in the crossfire of unhinged military generals firing Hellfire missiles at local office buildings. Their psychological resilience was honestly inspiring.
And Ross was genuinely out of his mind. I rembered the canon lore clearly. After hunting Banner from a soda factory in Brazil to the campus of Culver University, Ross had finally cornered him in New York. The man was so obsessively desperate to capture Banner that he was willing to lock down a heavily populated urban center and deploy high-explosive ordnance, completely disregarding the catastrophic collateral damage it would inevitably cause.
"Miss Vale?"
Just as I was violently cursing General Ross in my head, the monotonous voice of the history professor suddenly cut through my thoughts. He had stopped his lecture and was staring directly at .
The classroom went dead silent. Thirty pairs of teenage eyes snapped toward my desk. Gwen subtly nudged my elbow, whispering out of the side of her mouth. "Mira, Dr. Harrison is calling on you."
I instantly snapped back to reality. I dropped the pen and looked up at the professor, projecting a flawless, mildly confused expression. "Yes, Professor Harrison? Is there a problem?"
The old man pushed his reading glasses down his nose. He offered a tight, incredibly patronizing smile. "Regarding the 1863 Battle of Gettysburg, which I was just discussing... who was the commanding general of the Union forces? Furthermore, what was his core tactical strategy for the engagent? Would you care to explain it to the rest of the class?"
A low wave of snickering rippled through the classroom. Everyone loved watching the top student get publicly embarrassed. They had all seen staring blankly out the window, looking half-asleep for the last twenty minutes. There was absolutely no way I could answer the question.
Gwen looked genuinely panicked. She subtly tried to slide her open notebook across the desk so I could read her handwriting.
I didn't even look at the notes. I offered the professor a polite, confident smile.
"The commander of the Union Army of the Potomac during the Battle of Gettysburg was Major General George ade," I said, my voice projecting clearly across the silent room. "His core tactical strategy relied on securing and utilizing the high ground—specifically Cetery Ridge—to establish a highly fortified 'fishhook' defensive formation. This allowed ade to effectively shift his interior lines to reinforce his flanks, utilizing superior artillery placent to devastate the Confederate infantry assaults. This strategy ultimately broke General Robert E. Lee's attempt to penetrate the Union center. Gettysburg remains the definitive turning point of the Arican Civil War, permanently stripping the Confederacy of its strategic offensive capabilities."
I paused for a half-second before delivering the absolute kill shot.
"As a supplentary detail: the climax of the engagent, widely known as Pickett's Charge, resulted in a catastrophic Confederate casualty rate exceeding sixty percent, making it one of the most mathematically brutal infantry assaults in modern military history."
The smug smile instantly vanished from Professor Harrison's face. His eyes lit up with genuine, profound respect. He nodded emphatically.
"Outstanding! Absolutely outstanding. Your analysis is entirely correct, and your summation of the tactical maneuvering was actually more comprehensive than the textbook. It appears that while you may look distracted, Miss Vale, you are absorbing every word. Very good. You may sit down."
The snickering in the classroom died instantly. The other students stared at in total, humiliated silence. Gwen leaned over, her eyes wide with awe. "You are terrifying. I honestly thought you were asleep, but you literally morized the entire lecture?"
I smiled, offering a casual shrug as I sat back down.
Please. I am an apex quantum supercomputer actively running cyber-warfare against the United States Ard Forces. High school history is barely even background static.
I lowered my head and plunged my consciousness back into the military data stream.
Re-accessing the real-ti command feed, I found that the tactical situation on the ground had degraded into a powder keg.
General Ross's signature raspy, violently irritable voice barked through the encrypted comms channel. "Listen up! Target is visually confird on the third floor! All heavy gunners, prep the .50 cals! The absolute second the target makes an aggressive move, you open fire and suppress him! You do not hold back!"
"General!" a panicked field captain yelled back over the radio. "This is a heavily populated urban sector! If we unleash the M2s in here, the collateral damage to the surrounding infrastructure will be catastrophic!"
"I do not give a damn about the infrastructure!" Ross roared, his voice dripping with absolute, maniacal authority. "I need that asset contained! I repeat, we are taking Bruce Banner today! All assault elents, stack up and prepare to breach!"
Watching the heavily ard infantry teams begin stacking up against the glass doors of the building, I couldn't help but roll my eyes.
Classic Thunderbolt Ross. He was perfectly willing to burn down half of Manhattan just to get his hands on the Hulk. Didn't he understand basic physiological triggers? The more you shoot at Bruce Banner, the faster his heart rate spikes. Unleashing heavy machine-gun fire was just going to guarantee that when the Hulk finally surfaced, he was going to absolutely butcher the assault teams.
I extended my cyberpathic reach, slicing through the abandoned building's decrepit security caras. I instantly found the target hiding in a dilapidated third-floor office.
He was wearing a faded, oversized grey hoodie. His dark hair was matted with sweat and gri. His face was a mask of absolute, hollow exhaustion and sheer terror. He was curled into a tight ball in the corner of the room, shivering uncontrollably. The veins in his neck were bulging dangerously against his skin, and a terrifying, sickly shade of neon green was already beginning to bleed into the whites of his eyes.
Dr. Bruce Banner.
Looking at the broken, terrified man on the security feed, I couldn't help but feel a heavy wave of sympathy.
Bruce Banner was a fundantally tragic figure. Irradiated by his own genius, he had been mutated into a walking weapon of mass destruction. He was hunted across the globe like a rabid dog by the very military he tried to help, never allowed a single mont of peace as he fought a losing psychological war against the monster living inside his own head.
I sat quietly in my desk chair. I unconsciously tapped the end of my pen against my notebook as a fierce tactical debate waged inside my processor.
Do I go?
If I went, I would successfully check the box on another massive MCU origin event, satisfying my ridiculous 'Rembrancer' mandate. Plus, from a purely analytical standpoint, I was genuinely curious to witness the sheer kinetic output of the Hulk in a live combat scenario.
But if I stayed in class, I would perfectly adhere to my primary survival directive: stay hidden.The mont Banner fully transford, the situation was going to devolve into absolute, indiscriminate slaughter. Ross would authorize the Strykers and the Apaches to level the city block. Midtown would turn into a at grinder of heavy artillery and collapsing skyscrapers. Getting caught in the physical crossfire wasn't the issue—the issue was that if I was forced to use my Siren rigging to survive, S.H.I.E.L.D. and the U.S. Military would instantly lock onto my energy signature. My peaceful life in Queens would be over.
Do I go, or do I stay?
I agonizingly weighed the probabilities for exactly two seconds before my innate, undeniable desire to watch the plot unfold completely overrode my tactical logic.
Whatever. I'm already hacked into the drone feed anyway.
Besides, I had localized optical camouflage, the physical protection of the Explorer II Executor, and instantaneous spatial jump capabilities. Even if the Hulk brought the entire skyscraper down on my head, I could simply teleport out of the rubble without a scratch. As long as I maintained absolute stealth discipline, Ross would never know I was there.
I would just go watch. I absolutely would not interfere.
Having established strict operational boundaries for myself, I looked up at the chalkboard and raised my hand.
"Professor Harrison? I'm so sorry, but I really don't feel well. May I have a pass to see the school nurse?"
I violently suppressed the blood flow to my face, instantly rendering my complexion a sickly, convincing shade of pale. I pitched my voice to sound weak and feverish. It was an Oscar-worthy performance.
Seeing my sudden, dramatic physical decline, the old professor imdiately nodded, his face lined with concern. "Of course, Miss Vale. Please, go imdiately. If the nurse thinks it's necessary, you are excused to go ho and rest."
"Thank you, Professor," I murmured weakly. I grabbed my backpack, shot a reassuring glance at a highly concerned Gwen, and quickly walked out of the classroom.
The second I cleared the heavy doors of the school building, I ducked into an empty alleyway.
I snapped my fingers.
The Siren optical camouflage engaged instantly. My physical body, my thermal footprint, and my biological signature completely vanished from reality. The invisible, lethal fra of the Explorer II materialized out of the ether, hovering silently behind my shoulder.
I kicked off the pavent. The massive, translucent jellyfish core of my rigging flared into existence behind my back. My body blurred into a streak of pale blue light as I launched myself directly into the sky, tearing through the clouds toward the epicenter of Midtown Manhattan.
The freezing, high-altitude winds of New York scread past my ears as the city grid rapidly expanded beneath .
I looked toward the heavy military periter locking down the horizon, and a highly amused smile touched my lips.
Alright. Ti to clock in for another MCU origin event.
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