Sentinel Mcu Novels & Stories

Commander DeWitt and Marcus Thorne were secured in an undisclosed, ultra-high-security facility—their existence known only to Julian, Kian, and Lena, serving as the ultimate political deterrent against any Syndicate resurgence. Dr. Sharma, using the remnants of the Sentinel network, had established the Sentinel Foundation—a non-profit, decentralized organization dedicated to providing immediate, targeted financial aid and crisis communication to the world governments struggling to manage the chaos. The world was scarred, but not dead. New leaders were emerging, honest and terrified, forced to build a transparent system from the ashes of the old.

Known as the Sentinels. "Oswald Vanguard finally withdrew, but he gave the muzzle of his war missile to an emotionally unstable little girl," said Sentinel One, a white man in a four-star military suit. On the giant screen in front of him, satellite photos of the ruins of the Ordo Draconis Cathedral in Europe and the charred Al-Khabith oil refinery were displayed.

I was involved with the hunters, trafficking rings, and other shit long before I came to the Council, but I made sure that it was never tied to me. While Corey and I were partners, we weren’t equals even if he didn’t realize it. He was great at following orders but lacked strategic foresight. That was precisely why I made the plans. Sentinels were our warriors. They were trained to be elite warriors because they were an army and were sent out to keep order among the various packs. It was also their jobs to do the investigations whenever we had a need for it.

These were keepers of a king, and every one of them knew what this moment meant. This was not about the enemy anymore. This was about Damian Vitale. They formed a circle around him—tight, unyielding—closing ranks as the last Mercer forces vanished into the dark. Swords were sheathed. Shields dropped. Claws came out. Fangs slid free with wet, animal sounds as the Sentinels half-turned—human frames breaking just enough to let the other part of them surface. Eyes burned obsidian-black. Spines bowed. Shoulders broadened. They did not roar.

She looked small, a scrap of a girl in a stained medic’s jacket, standing amidst the ruins of the most advanced security system in Eldergloom. "The girl speaks of souls while her hands are covered in the grease of a sewer," the Sentinel replied, his voice a mechanical drone that lacked any human cadence. He stood seven feet tall, his armor a polished, seamless silver that reflected the swirling sapphire twilight above. He stepped over the smoldering remains of his comrade, his heavy boots making a hollow, terrifying sound on the polished stone. "You have opened a door that only leads to your grave. Did you think a hammer could stop the Queen’s design?"

The figure was moving fast, quiet, holding a short-barreled automatic weapon, sweeping the tree line as he advanced toward the cabin's power generator. He wore the dark gray tactical gear of Project Crimson's old auxiliary unit. A cold, familiar darkness flooded my veins—not the fiery, possessive heat I felt when I touched Anna, but the ancient, ruthless instinct of the weapon Clifford Mandell had bought fourteen years ago. I didn't call out. I didn't issue a warning. I moved through the deep snow like a phantom, my boots making no sound against the frozen drift. I closed the distance in four silent, blinding strides, coming up behind the scout just as he raised his gloved hand to plant a ma

Of course, the Sentinels detective unit had put two and two together and sent out their engagement troop. Soon the entire area was filled with Sentinels. By now, the Councillors would have been alerted. Hance put on a bulletproof vest like Beatrice did. “Your majesty,” the highest ranking Sentinel at the moment said. “We move on your call,” he said. He'd shown them the Family badge and none of the Sentinels had questioned him. Beatrice realized at that moment that the sentinels were used to dealing with mysterious political wars, where they are nothing but tools.

Kaelor muttered. Suddenly, the ground beneath them shivered. A cloud of fine, crystalline moon-dust erupted fifty yards away. Out of the haze stepped three figures made of spun glass and compressed dust. The Sentinels. They didn't have faces, just shifting, prismatic surfaces that reflected the Gaea’s light in jagged patterns. "Stay back!" Kaelor barked. He didn't wait. He launched himself off the ground. In the low gravity, the jump was a hundred-foot arc. He brought the iron blade down with a bone-shattering force, smashing the lead Sentinel into a thousand glittering shards.

He wore a dark, weather-beaten tactical trench coat, his face cut by a fresh scrape, but his grey eyes burning with identical, dangerous resolve. ​"You're late, Julian!" Dominic shouted over the roaring storm and the thunderous crash of the ocean. ​"Traffic was light!" Julian called back, a rare, fierce smirk cutting through his stern expression as he sprinted up the iron stairs to join his brother. ​The twins stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the rain-swept catwalk, two identical forces forged in fire, facing the dark towering superstructure of the central core. ​"Sentinel's master core is behind the heavy blast doors on the lower deck," Dominic said, slamming a fresh magazine into his rifle. "

He questioned with a raised brow. "Your brother is in love!" Their mother sang and the boy tsk, walking into the kitchen and heading for the door. "Is that her?" He asked. Ali stilled in his spot while his mother and sister rushed over to the door to get a closer look. "She's an Elite," Hakeem said again and they all ogled at her from the kitchen door. It's easy to tell the difference between an Elite with their skin color and the way they carried themselves. Sincity was grouped into three parts. The Elites, who are the Supremes of the city. The Dark Agents who control and keep the order in the city and of course the Outcasts.