Inside the ship, everyone was silent.
All their joys and sorrows, their heroic pasts, had been left below.
Left in that white light.
All for nothing...
Chen Mo opened his mouth.
No sound came out.
He certainly could talk.
And he was good at it.
He could find something to say about anything.
But at that moment, Chen Mo suddenly had no wisecracks left.
Many people stood in the cabin.
So very many.
Every face he saw was familiar.
Captain America stood by the hatch, his shield covered in scratches, his uniform torn, his face coated in dust.
Black Widow leaned against the cabin wall, blood on her shoulder, still gripping her stun baton.
Hawkeye sat on the metal floor, checking his quiver with his head lowered, his fingers trembling.
Thor stood before the viewport, his hammer hanging at his side, his cape torn to shreds.
Hulk crouched in a corner, uncharacteristically quiet.
Iron Man's faceplate was halfway open. Tony Stark was pale, blood at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes remained fixed on the white light outside the ship.
Reed Richards stood at the console, his fingers still pressed against the control interface, half of which had been scorched black.
Black Panther stood beside him, his suit covered in cracks.
Vision hovered in midair, the gem on his forehead glowing faintly.
Storm leaned against the wall, her chest heaving, dust clinging to her white hair.
Cyclops stood on the other side, his uniform torn, an irrepressible red glow behind his visor.
Wolverine sat on the floor, his claws retracted, his face grim.
The Thing braced one hand against the cabin wall, like a stone that had truly fallen silent.
Human Torch's flames had gone out, leaving only the charred edges of his uniform still smoking.
Star-Lord stood