Marvel: A.T.L.A.S. - Ghost Protocol

Titan Facility, Omega Vault - July 1987

The temperature hit fifty below as Carrie Valemont stared at her son. Two decades of A.T.L.A.S. operations had taught her to compartmentalize, to separate emotion from duty. But watching ice crystals form on Caspian's tactical gear as he prepared to sacrifice himself—that threatened to crack even her legendary control.

"The collapse sequence requires three minutes to fully destroy the fragment," Caspian said, his voice professionally detached. The Emperor Eye tracked micro-expressions across his mother's face: pride, fear, duty, love—all warring beneath her composed exterior.

"Director." Walter's voice carried subtle strain. "Hospital feeds confirm Howard is still alive. But the contamination is spreading through the building. Thirty-seven casualties already."

"Forty cities now showing temperature drops," Sterns added. "The pattern is accelerating. Geometric progression suggests global coverage within hours."

Carrie's hands remained steady as she input command codes. Every movement precise, controlled. But the Emperor Eye caught the slight tremor in her jaw—a tell Caspian had seen only twice before in his life.

"The vault's defenses—" she started.

"Won't hold." Caspian kept his voice gentle. "You know they won't. Not against this."

The metal box had split further, frost patterns spreading like veins through the vault. Through the facility's sensors, they could feel similar patterns at every compromised site. A network of ice and death, growing stronger by the second.

"Your father—"

"Is at the Tokyo conference." The Emperor Eye caught deeper meaning in her words. Tobias should be here. Should have to watch his son make this choice. "There's no time to recall him."

Walter stepped forward, his usual stoic demeanor cracking slightly. "Sir, let me—"

"No." Caspian's tone allowed no argument. "It has to be a Valemont. Has to be the blood that started this."

Through the facility feeds, they heard Howard's voice, weak but determined: "He's right. The failsafe... Arthur designed it that way. Has to be... the blood..."

The ice was climbing the walls now, forming those same awful patterns they'd seen in Finland. The fragment was fully awake, calling to its brothers across the globe.

"Two minutes until total containment failure," Sterns reported. "Temperature dropping past—"

"Clear the vault," Carrie ordered, her voice carrying the full weight of command. "All personnel. Now."

The Emperor Eye caught every detail of the next few seconds. Walter's slight hesitation before duty drove him to obey. Sterns' quick, respectful nod. The way his mother's hands clenched once, briefly, before relaxing.

"The collapse sequence—" Caspian began.

"Is already set." Carrie met his eyes. In that moment, she was both Director and mother, the roles finally aligned in understanding. "A Valemont begins it. A Valemont ends it."

The fragment pulsed with cold light, its patterns growing more complex. More hungry. Through the facility's systems, they felt its siblings responding. Reaching. Hungry for reunion.

"Director," Walter's voice carried urgency. "Hospital contamination is—"

"Protect Howard," she ordered. "Whatever it takes." A pause. "Caspian?"

"Tell father..." He stopped. The Emperor Eye caught something in the ice patterns. A new configuration. "No. No time. Go."

As the vault door began to close, Carrie Valemont looked at her son one final time. "Make it clean," she said softly. "Make it count."

The door sealed with a hiss of hydraulics. In the sudden silence, Caspian faced the awakening fragment alone. Ice crawled across his boots, his tactical gear, trying to reach flesh. The Emperor Eye tracked its progression dispassionately, calculating vectors and timeframes.

Through the facility's systems, he felt the cold spreading above. Reaching for the surface. For unsuspecting millions.

The collapse sequence was armed. Ready. All it needed was Valemont blood to trigger it. To end what his grandfather had tried to contain so long ago.

Caspian smiled slightly as he moved toward the fragment. Not the professional smile he wore for operations. Not the diplomatic one he'd learned for public functions. But the real one—the one only family ever saw.

Time to make it count.