Time to Strike

"A contingency plan for the Phantom?"

Charlie sat at the dining table, absently chewing his breakfast made by Friday, eyes glued to the footage from the meeting held by The Ninth Special Service Division the previous night. His mind wasn't fully focused on the food but on what he was watching.

His interest peaked when Commander Ross mentioned a secret contingency plan known only to him and Professor Miyazaki. The subtle tension in the room, the way their words hung in the air, hinted at something big—something the rest of the organization wasn't aware of. It made Charlie uneasy.

Although Commander Ross hadn't divulged many details, Charlie could tell from the atmosphere in the meeting that they were planning something significant. Whatever it was, it felt like the madhouse was preparing to unleash a secret weapon, a move that could change the dynamics of everything.

As if reading his thoughts, Friday, always in sync, interrupted. "I believe Commander Ross is referring to the 'Ultimate Power' plan."

Charlie nearly choked on his toast. "Ultimate Power? Really?"

"Ultimate Power," Charlie repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. "Of course, it's called that. How original." 

He couldn't help but roll his eyes at the lack of imagination. It sounded like something ripped straight from a B-list superhero flick. Names like "Ultimate Power" made him think of over-the-top, comic-book-style operations. But as amusing as it was, he knew it was no laughing matter. The stakes here were real, and whatever this plan entailed, it wasn't just theatrics.

"Considering the limited effectiveness of regular agents and conventional forces against phantom-level enemies, Professor Miyazaki proposed a special team composed of the most elite agents, focusing on combating these high-threat enemies," Friday explained.

Charlie paused, frowning in thought. He'd heard similar ideas before...

"The idea is to gather agents with extraordinary abilities or skills and form a concentrated, superior task force capable of handling threats that would overwhelm any single agent or unit," Friday continued, as if reading from an official report.

Now it clicked. Charlie knew exactly where he had heard this before. "So, basically, they're assembling their own version of the Avengers."

It wasn't a stretch to say the madhouse was following the same blueprint. Charlie smirked as he thought about Commander Ross and the rest of the crew trying to put together a team of extraordinary individuals to combat threats beyond the scope of their regular forces. It reminded him too much of Nick Fury scrambling to assemble Earth's Mightiest Heroes to face a growing number of superhuman and alien threats.

But as much as Charlie found it amusing, he knew the comparison was dangerous. The Avengers were a collection of gods, monsters, soldiers, and geniuses. Who did The Ninth Special Service Division have to offer? 

Curious, Charlie pulled up the list Friday had hacked into, scanning through the names.

The first one to catch his eye was an old acquaintance: Ivan Petrov, a man with near-superhuman strength and a personal arsenal of weapons. On paper, he was a formidable agent. But Charlie couldn't help but think of him as more of a "Gordon" than a Superman. Sure, Ivan was tough and skilled, but he wasn't going to hold the line against a Phantom all on his own. 

Next was Fana, another familiar name. The first agent to successfully control a Phantom. Her ability was rare, perhaps even unique, but she was still young, and something about her unnerved Charlie. Maybe it was her distant stare or the slight hesitation she carried in the field. She didn't seem fully stable—always teetering on the edge of something darker. 

To be fair, though, working in The Ninth Special Service Division wasn't for the mentally stable. Most of the agents were just shy of lunatics themselves. It was a fitting nickname, after all. The entire place was a madhouse.

But the third name on the list, highlighted in red, stood out. Larry Wade.

Clicking on the name, Charlie was greeted with a photo of a middle-aged man with brown hair, a strong jawline, and a smile that seemed oddly infectious. He radiated a kind of contagious energy—a charismatic, confident presence that was hard to ignore.

"Larry Wade. Phantom driver. Ability assessment: extremely dangerous," read the file.

---

Elsewhere in another time zone, night had fallen.

The moon hung high in the sky, casting a cold, silver light across the desolate landscape. The wind whistled through the trees, rustling the dense foliage in a rhythmic, unsettling cadence. The mist clung to the ground like a shroud, obscuring everything beyond a few feet. It was the kind of night that felt timeless, endless—where the world seemed to stretch on into oblivion, swallowed by the thick blanket of darkness.

The silence was broken by the distant rumble of a motorcycle. The lone rider cut through the mist like a specter, his headlight carving a path in the fog. The bike's engine roared as it sped along the deserted road, echoing through the surrounding forest. As the road twisted and turned, the rider approached a dimly lit intersection, where the silhouette of a village came into view.

The rider—Larry Wade—slowed the motorcycle, its growl subsiding as he pulled up to the outskirts of the village. The buildings ahead loomed in the fog, their shapes barely visible through the thick mist. The entire place seemed abandoned, forgotten by the world. 

He took a deep breath, his senses sharp despite the eerie stillness surrounding him. Something about this place felt off. The air carried a foul, rotting smell, the kind that clung to your skin and made your stomach churn. 

Larry stepped off the motorcycle and made his way toward the village, his boots crunching on the gravel road as he approached. The closer he got, the more unsettling the scene became. The buildings were old and crumbling, their roofs sagging and their walls covered in patches of black mold. The windows were all dark—no signs of life.

As he neared the village center, he spotted a figure sitting by the edge of a murky river. The old man looked ancient, his skin wrinkled and his eyes clouded over. He sat motionless, staring blankly at the water as if in a trance.

"Hey there, old man," Larry called out cheerfully, his voice carrying through the still air. "How's the fishing going tonight?"

The old man didn't respond. His head turned slowly, almost mechanically, toward Larry. His empty eyes stared through the outsider, as if he didn't see him at all.

Larry's smile didn't falter. He took a few steps closer, hands in his pockets. "This is Lakeside Village, right?"

The old man said nothing, his gaze unchanging.

"Ah, great! I found the right place after all!" Larry grinned. "I'm looking for a place to stay tonight. Mind if I crash here?"

Still no answer. The old man remained as silent as the village itself, his gaze fixed on the intruder as if waiting for something.

"Thanks, old man!" Larry called over his shoulder, moving deeper into the village without waiting for a reply. "Good luck with the fishing!"

As he walked away, the old man's head turned ever so slightly, his cloudy eyes following Larry until he disappeared into the mist.

The village felt like a tomb. The fog hung low over the streets, obscuring the ground beneath his feet. The houses stood like sentinels, watching him with empty, lifeless eyes. There were no lights, no signs of movement. It was as if the entire village had been abandoned long ago, left to rot in the fog.

Larry reached one of the larger houses and knocked on the door, the sound echoing unnervingly through the empty streets. No answer. He waited for a moment, then shrugged and pushed the door open.

The hinges creaked, and the door swung inward, revealing a dark, musty room. Inside, two figures stood in the shadows—an elderly man and woman. They stared at him, their expressions blank, their eyes dark and hollow.

"Evening, Grandma and Gramps," Larry said with a friendly wave. "Sorry for barging in. I thought no one was home!"

The old couple didn't respond. They simply stood there, staring at him with a stillness that felt unnatural.

"I'm just passing through, looking for a place to rest and something to eat," Larry continued, undeterred by their silence. "I'll pay for the door, don't worry about that."

The two old villagers remained silent, their gazes fixed on him like predators sizing up prey.

"Thanks for letting me stay!" Larry said, setting his backpack down in the corner of the room. He stretched his arms, cracking his neck as he got comfortable. "You don't know how much I needed this. My shoulders are killing me from riding all day."

As Larry made himself at home, the old couple remained rooted in place, their eyes never leaving him. Outside, more figures began to emerge from the mist, their stiff, unnatural movements betraying their intentions. The villagers gathered outside the house, their eyes gleaming with a cold, murderous intent.

Inside, the atmosphere grew heavier. The silence became suffocating, and the two old villagers shifted slightly, their eyes gleaming in the darkness. They were ready to move.

They were ready to kill.

---

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