The morning of December 7th, 1941, dawned beautiful and deceptively tranquil over Pearl Harbor. The Feral Strikers, along with Thomas MacIntyre, were holed up in their nondescript warehouse near the docks, the tension almost a physical presence in the humid air. Elias's warning, combined with their own discovery of "Subject X," had sharpened their senses to a razor's edge. They weren't waiting for an attack; they were expecting it.
Macgregor, perched near a grimy window overlooking the harbor, was the first to react. His head snapped up, nostrils flaring. "Aircraft," he hissed, his voice a low growl. "Many. Coming fast. Low. From the north. Not ours." His Archer-enhanced olfactory sense, a peculiar aspect of his Feral Striker manifestation, could even pick up the distinct scent of the Japanese aviation fuel at extreme range.
Seconds later, the distant drone of engines became audible to the others. Then, the first wave of Japanese Zeroes and Kate bombers, bearing the ominous red Hinomaru, swept over the Koolau Range, descending upon the unsuspecting fleet like birds of prey.
The calm shattered. Explosions ripped through the air as torpedoes slammed into the anchored battleships along Ford Island. Anti-aircraft batteries, slow to respond, began to fill the sky with puffs of black smoke, but it was too little, too late. The surprise was absolute.
Elias, receiving a frantic, pre-arranged coded burst from Thomas's radio – "DRAGON AWAKE. I REPEAT, DRAGON AWAKE." – felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach, despite having anticipated this. Hearing it, knowing it was real, was different. His connection to his agents, a faint empathic link that had grown stronger with each empowerment, now pulsed with their heightened adrenaline, their feral instincts flaring in response to the sudden, overwhelming violence.
"Status, Thomas!" Elias's voice, relayed through Anya in London and then through the complex chain of merchant marine radios, was calm but urgent. "Feral Striker pack – primary objective is observation and survival. Identify any… unusual enemy assets. And monitor the Ewa Plain bunker. The chaos may provide an opportunity."
Chaos was an understatement. Pearl Harbor was an inferno. The USS Arizona erupted in a cataclysmic explosion, its shattered hull becoming an instant tomb. The Oklahoma capsized, trapping hundreds of men. Fires raged, acrid smoke choked the air, and the screams of the wounded and dying mingled with the roar of engines and the crump of bombs.
Thomas MacIntyre, his Barbarian core ignited by the carnage, had to physically restrain Jean-Paul Dubois, whose Feral Striker instincts were screaming at him to charge into the fray. "Hold, Jean-Paul! Our orders! We observe! We survive!" Thomas roared over the din.
But Macgregor suddenly pointed, his eyes narrowed on the Ewa Plain, visible through a gap in the smoke. "The bunker! Movement! Soldiers… not ours… they're going in!"
A small, unidentified detachment of Japanese special naval landing forces – not part of the main aerial assault, but clearly a clandestine insertion team – was making a coordinated push towards the very bunker where "Subject X" was held. They moved with brutal efficiency, cutting down the few surprised American Marine guards who stood in their way. How did they know about it? Had Japanese intelligence also detected the anomalous energy? Or was this an entirely different agenda?
Elias, receiving this update, made a split-second decision. "Thomas! The Ewa bunker is now your primary target. Secure Subject X if possible. Neutralize the Japanese special forces. Deny them access to whatever is in there. Feral Striker pack is weapons free. Minimize your own exposure but achieve the objective. Logan's lessons apply."
He was authorizing lethal force, unleashing his untested wolves into a maelstrom. The potential for acquiring a Prime Conduit, and denying it to the Japanese, was too great to ignore.
The warehouse erupted into controlled ferocity. Thomas, Dubois, Macgregor, and Beaulieu moved out, not towards the burning harbor, but west, towards the Ewa Plain, using the chaos and smoke as cover. They moved like a hunting pack, low and fast, their enhanced senses guiding them through the devastated landscape.
They reached the perimeter of the munitions depot just as the Japanese special forces team, numbering around a dozen, breached the "Subject X" bunker. Gunfire and explosions echoed from within.
"Dubois, Macgregor – you take the entrance, clear a path," Thomas commanded, his voice a low growl. "Beaulieu, with me. We secure the package."
Dubois and Macgregor hit the bunker entrance like twin avalanches. The Japanese, focused on whatever was inside, were caught by surprise as two snarling, claw-wielding figures erupted from the smoke. Bone claws met katana swords and Arisaka rifles in a brutal, confined space. Dubois, his battle fury ignited, was a whirlwind of destructive force, tearing through flesh and steel. Macgregor, more precise, used his agility and longer claws to disable opponents with crippling, targeted strikes. The narrow confines reeked of blood, cordite, and the Feral Strikers' primal musk.
Thomas and Beaulieu pushed past them, deeper into the bunker, towards the chamber Macgregor and Beaulieu had previously identified. They found it a scene of devastation. The containment tank for Subject X was shattered, the viscous fluid spilling across the floor. Several Japanese soldiers lay dead or dying, their bodies twisted and broken, but not by gunfire or claws. The machinery around the tank was sparking and overloaded.
And in the center of the room, free from his restraints, stood Subject X.
He was no longer the distorted, translucent figure in the tank. The chaotic energy of the attack, the destruction of his containment, had somehow… catalyzed him. He was humanoid, tall and powerfully built, his skin now a deep, oceanic blue, shot through with intricate, bioluminescent patterns that pulsed with a strange, internal light. His eyes glowed with an eerie, golden luminescence. Water seemed to drip from him, though there was no source, and the air around him crackled with raw, elemental power. He looked at the intruding Japanese soldiers, then at Thomas and Beaulieu, with an expression not of aggression, but of profound, almost sorrowful, confusion.
Then, another squad of Japanese special forces burst in from a side passage, led by an officer barking orders, his katana drawn. They saw Subject X, and their eyes widened in a mixture of fear and avaricious triumph. "Secure him! He is the objective! For the Emperor!"
Before Thomas or Beaulieu could react, Subject X raised a hand. The air shimmered. With a sound like the deep ocean's groan, a focused torrent of water, seemingly conjured from nowhere, slammed into the charging Japanese soldiers, blasting them off their feet, crushing them against the bunker walls with hydrostatic force.
It was an display of raw, elemental power that dwarfed anything Thomas had witnessed, even from Elias or Logan.
The System exploded in Elias's mind: [PRIME CONDUIT (SUBJECT X – "NAMOR THE SUB-MARINER" – Partially Stabilized) ENGAGED IN COMBAT. Energy Signature: Atlantean/Mutant Hybrid – EXTREME. Primary Abilities Detected: Hydrokinesis (Master Level), Superhuman Strength/Durability (Class Alpha), Amphibious Adaptation, Limited Flight (via ankle wings – currently vestigial). OPPORTUNITY: SECURE/ALLY. THREAT: UNPREDICTABLE/POTENTIALLY HOSTILE TO ALL FACTIONS.]
Namor the Sub-Mariner. An Atlantean. Here. Unleashed by the Pearl Harbor attack. The anomalous energy signature now had a name, and a terrifying form.
Subject X – Namor – looked at the carnage he had wrought, then his glowing eyes fixed on Thomas and Beaulieu. He didn't speak, but an immense pressure, both physical and psychic, emanated from him.
Thomas MacIntyre, his Barbarian instincts screaming, stood his ground. "We are not your enemy," he said, his voice low and steady, projecting calm despite the elemental fury he had just witnessed. "We came to… stop them." He gestured towards the dead Japanese.
Namor tilted his head, his expression still unreadable, the bioluminescent patterns on his skin pulsing faster. He seemed to be assessing them, his gaze piercing.
Outside, the sounds of Dubois and Macgregor finishing off the last of the Japanese at the bunker entrance faded, replaced by the roar of more explosions from the harbor and the wail of approaching American sirens. They were running out of time.
Elias, processing the insane influx of information, barked new orders through Thomas's earpiece: "Thomas! Get Namor out of there! The Americans will be swarming the place. Convince him we offer sanctuary, information! He's disoriented, confused. Use that. Your pack is to extract him, bring him to the pre-arranged fallback point. This is now your absolute priority!"
A Prime Conduit of Namor's caliber, freed from US Navy control and potentially hostile to all surface dwellers, was too valuable, and too dangerous, to leave to chance. The Day of Infamy had just uncaged a king from the depths, and Elias Thorne intended to be the first to offer him a crown… or at least, a temporary alliance. The stakes of his Pacific gambit had just gone nova.