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Earth-2149 — New Wakanda Perimeter, Field Lab
If this had been the first outbreak, the virus would've matched the oldest reports: Magneto ferried a pathogen meant to target baseline humans… and it mutated. Humans turned.
Then enhanced humans turned. Even Magneto's so-called noble bloodline of mutants fell.
In the later Watcher-looped cycles, it only got worse. Cosmic-level players either vanished from the board or were culled by Zombie Sentinels and when someone slipped through, a rampaging Zombie Hulk finished the job.
Whether by "cosmic correction" or an unseen hand, the timeline kept itself shambling forward.
Peter stared at Nolan's team, then at the vial in his hand. "So that's why you came?"
Nolan nodded. "Memories pulled from the Zombie Gladiator gave us a map of your world's decay. For those like you, still rational, still resisting the hunger, we developed a regression serum. It can shut down the compulsion and stabilize vitals. It's not a full cure—yet."
Peter blinked. "Already?"
They'd spent years scraping together a mere inhibitor. These off-worlders had shown up with something better.
Nolan's gaze swept the camp. "To reach a permanent reversal, we need superhuman samples varied strains, varied power classes. Anyone who's gone feral, we capture. That yields the data to finish the cure."
Outside, Osborn Corps engineers had raised a micro-city in minutes autoturrets, force walls, nanofabs blooming into clinics and armories. The locals watched, stunned, as the impossible became logistics.
A Defender jogged up and saluted. "Boss, task groups ready."
Nolan: "Move on Baxter Building. Target clusters should be there."
He turned to the red-robed sorcerer at his flank. "Strange go with them."
Strange inclined his head. "Yes, Master."
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New Wakanda — Makeshift OR
Peter Parker lay strapped to a stained surgical table, webbing sewn through torn flesh, a smile that was all nerves and no joy.
Their original plan had been to relocate to Asteroid M, where the best anti-zombie work continued. But the new arrival, this Nolan, had tossed in three vials through the shield and walked away to start a city.
T'Challa's council balked. Peter didn't. If this failed? He was already dead just undying. If it worked? Maybe they finally had a path for Banner.
"Are you sure?" asked Reynolds, syringe hovering.
"I've still got spider-sense," Peter said. "If this would kill me, I'd know." He forced a jagged grin. "And if it helps, we try the big guy next. Less Hulk, less hunger."
"Do it," T'Challa ordered.
The needle slid in. Thick black serum pushed beneath ruined skin.
Heat hit first liquid fire racing his veins. Peter screamed, clutching the rails; it was the first genuine pain he'd felt since the change, and it was glorious. Pain meant nerves firing. Pain meant life.
Monitors spiked. Where undead vitals had been flatlined zeroes, numbers returned heart rate irregular, then settling; respiration ragged, then steady; core temp rising from corpse-cold toward human.
"The biomarkers are… normalizing," Reynolds whispered. "They're actually normalizing."
Peter panted, tears leaking from dead eyes. The constant gnawing hunger, the voice that never stopped, went quiet. For the first time in years, his mind was his own.
He turned his head; the thing in the glass was still a monster with gray skin, a fanged mouth, and white eyes devoid of pupils. But inside, his biology had remembered what it was.
"It worked," someone breathed. "Gods, it worked."
Reynolds stared at the remaining vials. "How did they crack the invasive vector? How are they blocking the necrotic cascade?"
"Doesn't matter," T'Challa said, jaw set. "We split the batch. One vial remains here for analysis. One goes to Asteroid M fast so we can stabilize Banner. If we can stop Hulk's hunger, the entire planet breathes."
Peter swallowed, voice rough. "Or we just ask Nolan for more and trade."
Silence. It was the obvious move.
Outside, the Osborn perimeter lit the dark like a new sunrise. Above it all, a kilometer-long train from another reality loomed over a dead world bringing with it the first, thin thread of hope.
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