original

Silver Phantom (MCU)

Kapitel 1: Chapter 1: The Door

Prelude section is the origin story before the real story start. If you want to skip it, or you don't want to skip it. You won't miss anything if you skip it and It's up to you as Chapter 15, my writing and story is better.

Have fun

______

Bombs erupted, splitting the earth with deafening force. Soldiers sprinted across the shattered landscape, their frantic gunfire swallowed by the relentless barrage from the enemy.

The air was thick with the cacophony of war: the sounds of machine guns, the cries of the wounded, and the heavy rumble of tanks tearing through the smoke-filled battlefield. Their cannons roared, belching fire and steel, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake.

Amidst the chaos, a lone soldier lay behind a crumbling boulder, pressing a hand against a bleeding wound. His assault rifle, once his lifeline, now lay discarded beside him. The battlefield churned with madness, but no one came to his aid.

Alone in this storm of violence, he accepted his fate. Slowly, he pulled out a photograph—a moment of happiness frozen in time. His family smiled back at him, oblivious to the world he now found himself in.

A sad smile tugged at his lips as memories flooded his mind. With a heavy heart, he pressed the picture against his chest and closed his eyes.

"For everything... thank you," he whispered.

A final, cataclysmic explosion shook the ground, and with it, he was gone.

---

In another world, another universe, a silver-haired man lay on a narrow bed, sleeping peacefully. But the tranquility shattered when a sharp breath yanked him from his slumber.

"Didn't I die?" The words slipped from his lips in a dazed whisper.

He blinked, disoriented. The room around him was oppressive, unfamiliar. The cramped quarters, the stiff mattress, the biting chill in the air—it was all wrong. He tried to rise, but his body felt foreign, as if he had no control over its movements. He collapsed back onto the bed, muscles weak and unresponsive.

"Argh," he grunted, finally managing to stand. As he glanced into a nearby mirror, confusion washed over him. The reflection staring back wasn't his.

"Who am I?" he muttered, the question lingering. Before he could delve deeper, a flood of memories hit him like a tidal wave.

They weren't his, yet they coursed through his mind as if they belonged to him. Each thought, each emotion, each fragment of a life that wasn't his own felt real.

This wasn't possible. His mind struggled to make sense of it, panic gnawing at the edges of his sanity. But beneath the chaos, a soldier's instincts kicked in. He needed to survive, to understand the situation before acting.

Collapsing onto the bed once more, he clutched his head, trying to reconcile the memories and the body he now inhabited. He needed a clear path forward.

"I am Quicksilver," he finally whispered, the name rolling off his tongue. It didn't matter that it felt wrong—he couldn't waste time on doubt. The discipline of his former life took over. Accept what is, and move forward.

'Then I need to kill everyone here,' he thought with chilling resolve. But before he acted, he knew there was something he had to master first. He had to phase.

Focusing his mind, he vibrated his hand at a near-impossible speed, pushing it through the very atoms of the solid objects around him. He needed this skill. If he perfected it, he could turn this base into his own hunting ground—a tomb for his enemies.

He practiced, pushing his body and mind through the long hours of the night, every moment a race against time.

...

Morning came, and a soldier knocked on the door, his voice gruff. "Get up. It's time for the routine."

Silence answered him. Unsettled, he hesitated before creaking the door open. In that moment, a silver blur shot past him.

A glint of steel flashed through the air, and before the soldier could react, four puncture wounds bloomed across his neck. Blood poured from the wounds as he collapsed to the floor, the life draining from him in stunned silence.

Another soldier, who had been nearby, witnessed the attack, his breath hitching as the reality of what had just occurred set in. Pietro—now the silver blur—moved with terrifying speed, his eyes scanning the fallen body for a weapon.

In the corner of his vision, he saw a soldier raising his gun while another fumbled with his comms, desperate to raise the alarm.

Pietro found a knife, gripping it with cold precision. He lunged at the soldier with the comms, slashing his throat open before the man could speak. Without hesitation, Pietro switched his grip, driving the blade into the next soldier's neck with ruthless efficiency.

He worked in complete silence, his movements swift and lethal. Once the last body fell, he dragged all three corpses into his room, stacking them like discarded refuse before closing the door behind him.

Thus began the silent massacre of Hydra agents.

One by one, they fell—unaware of the death that hunted them. Twenty minutes passed before anyone noticed the growing body count on the security cameras.

"Strucker," the observer's voice trembled, "one of the twins is slaughtering our men."

"What?" Strucker's brow furrowed, eyes flicking to the screen. Alarm quickly replaced confusion. He grabbed a radio and barked into it, "One of the twins has gone rogue! Take him down—dead or alive!"

The announcement echoed through the base, reaching Wanda Maximoff. Shock hit her like a punch to the gut. Pietro had turned against them? It made no sense.

Before she could leave her room, a soldier burst in, pale with fear. "Foll—"

His words were cut off by a deep gash across his neck, blood spilling as his lifeless body collapsed. Behind him stood Pietro, knives still dripping.

"Wha—why are you—" Wanda stammered, her voice thick with confusion and concern.

Pietro crossed the room in an instant, placing a finger to her lips. "I'll explain later. Hide."

Without another word, he shut the door, leaving Wanda stunned.

Outside, the slaughter continued. Pietro moved like a ghost, methodical and unstoppable. The once-impregnable base became a killing ground, and no one escaped his wrath.

Strucker's orders went unheard as Hydra soldiers fell like dominoes, unable to keep up with the deadly blur that was Pietro Maximoff. The base, once bustling, became a graveyard—its halls thick with the stench of death.

In less than an hour, the base was empty, save for the bloodied remains of those who had dared to stand in his way.