Spectrum Split

Matt Trakker’s breath fogged the inside of his Spectrum helmet as he knelt behind the battered console of a disused oil platform, the sunrise slicing the Atlantic horizon. The mission was supposed to be simple: extract a captured engineer and get clear before VENOM noticed MASK’s presence. But nothing about this morning felt right. Through his helmet’s gold visor, Matt watched Gloria Baker move with silent precision along the catwalk. Bruce Sato remained at the lift, hands light on his Panda helmet, ready to jam any VENOM signals. Above, the battered radio crackled with Alex Sector’s reassurance—MASK’s boat was standing by, engines low, the sea thick with mist. Only then did Matt see it: his own reflection, warped in the oil-slicked railing. Two Matts stared out from the chrome, one a beat behind the other. The afterimage blinked and, for an instant, smirked. Matt’s stomach lurched. He blinked hard, but the second face remained—mirroring, then subtly disagreeing: a tilt of the jaw, a narrowing of the eyes. He toggled his comm. “Gloria, Bruce, report—” “Clear on the catwalk,” Gloria’s voice came, steady, though her eyes flicked in the visor’s reflection as if she sensed his unease. “No VENOM on my grid.” “Lift’s secure,” Bruce said, voice a low anchor. “Panda’s scanners show static, but—Matt, are you well?” Matt hesitated. He wanted to be sure—wanted to sound sure. “Spectrum’s giving me double vision. Might be firmware corruption.” A silent curse from Alex on the comms. “Miles Mayhem must have gotten to our update server,” Alex muttered. “If he’s seeded the firmware—” A flicker in the visor. The second Matt’s mouth moved, silent, then— “Execute fallback protocol,” the afterimage ordered, Matt’s own voice but cold, officious. Matt’s heart hammered. He didn’t say that. He looked up—Gloria, halfway to the hostage’s cell, hesitated, eyes darting. Bruce’s finger hovered over the comm switch. He snapped a hand up. “Negative! That order did NOT come from me.” Gloria nodded, reassured, and ducked into cover. Bruce’s eyes met Matt’s through the mask. “How do we tell if it’s you?” Matt swallowed. “We’ll run the plan as briefed. If any new order comes, verify by codeword: ‘Overdrive.’” A muffled shout below—the hostage, a wiry engineer named Dr. Garrison, was being hustled by two VENOM thugs in black. Gloria surged forward, helmet visor catching the sun, Shark’s power humming. She swept the first guard’s legs from under him with crisp efficiency. Below, Matt’s visor flickered—now the afterimage was mouthing orders to Bruce, silently. Bruce glanced up—then deliberately looked away from his own visor, focusing on the real Matt instead. The extraction went fast. Bruce handled the lock, Gloria shielded the hostage. Matt kept his eyes trained on the real world, willing the false Matt to vanish. But in every reflection, every glint of steel, the second Matt lingered, sometimes raising a hand as if to block their way. A sudden radio burst: Miles Mayhem’s mocking drawl. "MASK, you seem divided today. Perhaps you’ll obey yourselves into defeat." Matt’s jaw tightened. “Mayhem’s counting on us to doubt our own eyes. Trust your instincts, not the visor.” They reached the deck. The Spectrum afterimage hissed through the comm, voice fainter but insistent: “Order: Surrender the hostage.” Bruce stiffened. “Overdrive?” he asked quietly. “Overdrive,” Matt answered. “Ignore the voice.” A hail of orange muzzle flashes lit the dawn as VENOM’s gunships swept in. MASK’s vehicles converted in a riot of chrome and cel-painted light. Gloria’s Shark roared ahead, covering the escape. Bruce’s Panda shielded Dr. Garrison with a forcefield. Matt, visor alive with the false reflection, led the charge. As the vehicles peeled into the surf, Matt risked one look back. The afterimage glowered, then dissolved into static as Alex finally purged the corrupted firmware. In the quiet that followed, Gloria nudged Matt’s arm. “How do we know you’re the real Matt?” He managed a tired, crooked smile. “You’ll know. I’m the one who always checks the mirrors.” Above, the sun burned the oil slicks into gold, and Mayhem’s laughter faded, for now.

Comic