You hit the concrete floor hard, the impact jarring but not debilitating. A sharper sound follows—a plastic crack. The lower half of your mask, dislodged by the fall, skitters away across the dusty ground.

Silence, sudden and absolute, falls over the warehouse. The distant hum of the Quinjet’s engines. The ragged breathing of the man standing over you. You push yourself up to your feet in one smooth motion. You turn.

They are all there, arrayed in a loose semi-circle. The archer has an arrow nocked but not drawn. The man in the iron suit has his repulsors raised. The woman with the red hair has a baton ready. Behind them, the odd assortment from the spaceship—the green woman, the talking raccoon, the tree. All of them are staring.

But your eyes, cold and assessing, sweep past them and land on the two men at the center. The one with the metal arm. The one with the shield. Their faces, moments ago set in determined lines of combat, have gone utterly blank. The color drains from the first man’s face. The second man’s mouth parts slightly, his blue eyes widening in a dawning horror that is more profound than any fear of you as a weapon.