From His Vantage Upon the Moon - Darthkvzn (2024)

Chapter 1: Thor, Doctor Strange, and the Olympians

Chapter Text

“Are you entirely certain you wish to accompany me, Sorcerer?” –Thor asks, raising an eyebrow as they stand just outside the Empire State Building. Despite the fact that they’re in street clothes, Thor’s outrageously chiseled physique keeps drawing quite a few lascivious gazes, much to Stephen’s chagrin.

“Were it truly up to me, I’d be happy to let you make a fool of yourself.” –he drawls. “My duties, however, require me to mediate your reunion.”

Thor hums. “I don’t recall requiring a mediator during my last visit.” –he grouses. “The Lords of Olympus were quite amenable to our brief presence on Midgard back then.”

“That was then, and this is now. Earth has changed quite a bit in your absence.” –Strange argues. “The Olympians and their demigod children, in particular, have suffered through quite a bit of turmoil in the past few decades – particularly so in the last five years. Compounded with the thinning of the Mist, they’re bound to be wary of anyone outside their immediate circle of trust. Even if you were a friend.”

“Ah. I see.” –Thor mutters. “Strange, is it not? Their own troubles, Loki’s betrayal and the bandit rampage throughout the Nine Realms...we’ve had centuries of peace, and now this. So much has happened in so little time.”

Strange sighs. “I’m afraid this could just be the beginning. But this isn’t the time for that.” –he says. “Let’s hurry along. You have an invasion to repel.”

The god and the sorcerer walk into the building. A security guard stands beside the elevator – less a person and more a magical security measure meant to dissuade mortals (and even some demigods) from entering the gods’ abode. The guard recognizes Strange, though, and merely waves him into the elevator – though not before shooting Thor a vaguely hostile look.

“Odd custom, this.” –Thor notes, as Strange punches in their destination – floor 600. “Moving their home around so often – seems rather a hassle. What’s wrong with the original Mount Olympus?”

“The Olympians like to chase the most powerful nations around, eager for worship as they are. Right now, America’s at the top of the food chain.” –Strange retorts. “Though I hear they’re considering moving back to Greece as part of their big PR strategy. This part of the world is getting rather crowded, rather fast – and Greece could certainly use the tourism it’d bring, once they reveal themselves to the world.”

“I remember their strange worship-sustenance, yes.” –Thor recalls as he raises an eyebrow. “Have the mortals truly forgotten us?”

Strange shakes his head. “It’s not like that. Your kind may have become myths, but we still retell them in many forms. That being said, very few people believe in the gods – and I’m not entirely certain that they think of you as you truly are. You and your kin, in particular, have drawn some rather nasty followers in the past century or so.”

Thor winces. “Jane mentioned as much, during my brief stay. Something about ‘perfect Arian men’.” –he mutters, disheartened. “Hatred and fear twist the minds of gods and mortals alike. Such it has been as long as I’ve lived.”

“Well, that’s what we’re here for. It’s up to us to set the record straight.” –Stephen says.

Thor nods as the elevator dings, opening to the golden gates and pristine marble of Olympus. “Aye, that we are.”

The duo make their way forth, magically changing into their mystical regalia. Lesser gods and nature spirits look on in surprise and curiosity as Thor cheerfully greets them, giggling nymphs and naiads huddling into gossiping circles. The throne room sits atop a small cliff, like the Parthenon in Athens, overlooking the entire realm and the hazy mortal world, barely visible below.

When they enter, Strange can’t help but be surprised; it’s been maybe a month since he was last on Olympus, and yet he can barely recognize the figures sat on each of the thirteen thrones, each of them at least thirty feet tall – the only exception being the hooded figure of Hestia, placidly sat within the flames of the hearth in the middle of the room.

“Venerable Lords and Ladies of Olympus.” –Stephen half bows. “The Mighty Thor, Firstborn of Odin, God of Thunder, Strength, and Fertility, would request an audience of you.”

The god at the head of the Pantheon leans forward. King Zeus looks very different – his skin is a few shades darker than Strange remembers, closer to the olive tones of the Greek, and his more or less sensible black hair and beard have dramatically changed to become cloud-like in appearance, billowing in the ever-present wind of the divine mountaintop. Gone, too, is his perfectly tailored suit – he is clad in a golden toga, accented in white, and a plethora of rings adorn his hands, one of which casually holds the Master Bolt. A crown of stylized lightning sits atop his head. “Master Sorcerer.” –he greets, his voice booming like distant thunder. “And the Lord Thor. Welcome to Olympus.”

“Do forgive the lack of appropriate fanfare in your reception.” –Queen Hera says, beside him, snow-white robes adorned with a golden belt and peaco*ck feathers, sprouting like a corona behind her head. “Dragging our family together for such an impromptu visit proved a more difficult endeavor than we anticipated.”

The thirteenth god scoffs, at Zeus’ left. Lord Hades crosses his arms, ashen-skinned, bushy-bearded, and much more muscular than Strange remembers him – perhaps the most visually different of them all. A crown of burning laurels, matching his flaming feet, compliments his blood-colored chiton, and precious stones of all kinds adorn his hands and arms. “Then perhaps you should have done with the few of you who were already present, Sister Hera. Blood and Darkness, but this is a waste of my time.” –he curses, leering at their guests with black and red eyes. “Curse the day your spawn so nobly decided to include me in these affairs, Poseidon.”

Poseidon, at least, Stephen recognizes. Physically, Percy’s father looks the same as before, for some reason – even though his clothes have also regressed to what must’ve been his ancient looks. He smirks at his older brother. “We won’t keep you from your lovely family for long, Brother.” –he says, trying to placate the wrathful Lord of the Underworld. “But this is important.”

“Loathe as I am to agree with Lord Poseidon, rekindling our bonds with King Odin and his kin upon Asgard is paramount among our short-term priorities, Lord Hades.” –Athena grudgingly admits. Hades scoffs, sulking back into his throne. The virgin Goddess of Wisdom and War turns to Thor. “And I sense Lord Thor is eager to make amends for his unannounced visit and battle, earlier this year.”

Thor grins. “Indeed, Lady Athena. Though the mortals bid us worship once, Asgard recognizes Olympus’ sovereignty upon Midgard. King Odin sends his regards – and his firstborn, to aid in the protection of your world in whatever way you deem necessary.” –he says.

Zeus and Hades share a knowing look that has Strange wincing internally – they must know something about Thor that the Asgardian himself doesn’t. “There is no transgression to apologize for. And you’re allowed free transit in our domains, fellow Thunderer.” –Zeus declares, amiably enough. “Though grateful for the All-Father’s offer, we do not hold you to our service. You’ve decided to shoulder enough responsibilities to humanity already.”

“Your brother, I assume he is no longer a threat?” –Athena asks, narrowing her stormy grey eyes.

Thor’s smile falters. “No, he isn’t. I come fresh off his sentencing – he will live out his many, many days in our dungeons. This, I feel, does require an apology.”

“Family is a difficult matter at the best of times, Thor.” –Lady Demeter says, glaring coldly at the King of Olympus. “You have our condolences for Loki’s turn to madness.”

“Thank you, Lady Demeter.” –Thor bows. Stephen worries, despite himself, at the hint of pain in his voice.

“Madness or not, I envied your ability to challenge it alongside the mortal champions, unbound by our ancient laws as you are. Will you go join them now, in the bloodshed about to unfurl?” –Ares wonders, blood-red irises keen to see the Asgardian in action.

Thor nods curtly, his jaw set. “Indeed, Lord Ares. I do not mean to cut our meeting short, but I must aid my brothers and sisters in battle.”

“Oh, how boring.” –Aphrodite laments. Hers is the most eye-turning makeover of all – if only because she’s fully nude, pink-skinned as the day she rose from Ouranos’...remains. Only her flowing, rosy Godiva hair allows her any modesty – and even then, it’s tremendously inconsistent. Intentionally, Strange must assume. “It’s all doing battle with you warrior types. Here I thought you’d come back to see that pretty little mortal you fancied.”

Thor clears his throat. “That, uh...that is a bonus, yes.” –he admits. “But protecting the world takes priority.”

Zeus nods, approvingly – a little bit hypocritically, Strange feels, considering how hands-off the Olympians can be. “So it does, Odinson. Go with our blessing – and do join us for a spot of Nectar and Ambrosia soon. We have a few thousand years of history to catch up on, after all.”

Chapter 2: Gabriel Agreste, Nathalie Sancoeur, and Daniel Whitehall

Chapter Text

As good as Nathalie is at keeping a poker face in a meeting with bloodthirsty investors, or faced with backstabbing competitors, she absolutely wears her heart on her sleeve when it comes to him and his family. It’d be charming, really – if he weren’t about to meet with some of the most dangerous people in the world.

“Out with it, Nathalie.” –he says, impatiently. “Your fidgeting is growing tiresome.”

Nathalie winces, just barely. “Apologies, Monsieur Agreste.” –she says. “I am simply...concerned about your guests.”

Gabriel hums. “Hmm. Understandably so.” –he allows. “The last time anyone heard of them, they were enabling Adolf Hitler.”

He’s not proud of consorting with Schmidt’s ilk – isn’t proud of his family’s rather extensive history with the Red Skull’s cult-in-all-but-name – but his pride has nothing on his desperation. Every hour that ticks by, the cursed magic corrupting Emilie’s soul grows stronger, and her body continues to deteriorate as a result. He has a plan in place, of course, one that’ll no doubt earn him an afterlife of punishment, but it’s going to take time – and for all of the riches and fortune that the Agreste family has amassed throughout the decades prior, time is not a luxury they can afford.

Until today, if all goes well.

The tablet Nathalie’s holding pings. She looks up, pursing her lips. “Monsieur Whitehall and his entourage have arrived.”

Gabriel nods, steeling himself. “Have the Gorilla make sure that Adrien is as far away from our guests as possible.”

Nathalie eagerly agrees. “I’ll have Simon drop him off for a playdate with Chloé.” –she says, visibly relieved. Gabriel frowns – the Bourgeois girl is a bad influence, no matter how much Emilie might’ve insisted otherwise – but he’s in no place to argue at the moment, so he allows it.

A few moments later, the mute bodyguard opens the door to his studio, letting a half dozen men in pristine black suits file inside. All but one of them are armed, intentionally poorly concealed firearms under their blazers – and yet it’s undoubtedly the unarmed, unassuming looking man with the circular glasses and the deadly smile that’s the most dangerous of them all.

Daniel Whitehall tilts his head. “Mr. Agreste.” –he greets, in English, a little too enthusiastic. “A pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Monsieur Whitehall.” –Gabriel mutters, his English a little rusty – Adrien is the natural polyglot in the family – his tone neutral. “Welcome to Agreste Manor. It is, likewise, a pleasure.”

“I’m sure it is.” –he says, not a hint of sarcasm in his tone, and yet Gabriel knows that he knows it isn’t. “I must admit, we were very surprised to hear from you. We’d thought our longstanding relationship with your family ended, after the tragically early passing of your father.”

“I myself thought HYDRA dissolved after Johann Schmidt’s untimely defeat.” –Gabriel says.

Whitehall chuckles a little. “We prefer that the populace assume so, of course, for the time being. Captain Rogers and his merry, colorful band of commandos did come dangerously close to ending our shared vision back in the forties.” –the man laments. “Fortunately, our determination was stronger than his naïve, idealistic worldview.”

“I see. Cut off one head…” –Gabriel trails off.

“…two more shall take its place. Yes, indeed.” –Whitehall smiles. “Though hidden, we are stronger than we have ever been. Sooner, rather than later, the world will know to look to us for…guidance.”

Gabriel resists the urge to snort. He isn’t stupid; Whitehall talks forlorn about lofty dreams and blazing a trail for humanity to follow, but what he really means is more fascism, customized and modernized for the twenty-first century. HYDRA, or whatever name they’re going by now, is nothing but a blight on humanity’s long, sordid history.

Unfortunately, they’re also the developing force behind some of the most advanced technologies on the planet, even as far back as World War II. His father and grandfather were a part of that effort; under the guise of safeguarding the Agreste family from the worst of the Nazi occupation of France, Jacques and Alexandre Agreste designed the iconic look and developed the armored weave that the Red Skull’s forces wore during the war – a fabric that still holds up in modern times, even if it’s long since fallen out of use due to its unfortunate connotations.

“Something to look forward to, then.” –Gabriel says, as convincingly as possible. “But, to the matter at hand.”

“By all means, yes. Let’s talk business.” –Whitehall agrees. “You mentioned your interest in our cryogenic technology.”

Gabriel nods. “My father spoke highly, if rather vaguely, of your so-called Winter Soldier operatives.” –he says.

Whitehall leans forward. “Interesting. Mr. Bakshi, was the elder Agreste a part of the Winter Soldier program?” –he asks the person at his right, a man of Indian descent that seems to fill the role Nathalie does for him, and the only other person in Whitehall’s entourage seated.

Monsieur Bakshi hums. “Only insofar as outfitting some of our field assets.” –he says, after checking his phone for a moment. “Par for the course for our…friends, in the Agreste family.”

Whitehall sighs dramatically. “One more for the pile of things I missed during my unfortunate imprisonment, I suppose.” –he laments. “I will never have a bigger regret in life than allowing the beautiful Miss Carter to gracefully retire from S.H.I.E.L.D. leadership. Alas, even now, her death would be…costly, to our efforts in secrecy. I’ll just have to settle for the pleasure of outliving her.”

Part of Gabriel wants to ask – he knows Daniel Whitehall is an alias, a new name for a new man who looks no older than fifty, even though he should be a few years past a century old – but he’d rather not know. He’s not exactly looking to prolong his own existence, after all – and even if he were, he wouldn’t look to HYDRA to teach him how to do so.

Whitehall, sighs, giving him a small, infuriating laugh. “Apologies, Mr. Agreste. The past tends to encourage me to ramble, in my old age.” –he says, like it’s an inside joke. He narrows his eyes, suddenly all business. “The technology you seek is outdated, but perfectly functional. The installation may be…inconvenient, however. Our cryogenic pods are sturdy, but their machinery requires a large volume of space and a constant, closely monitored power supply. Our own facilities use nuclear reactors – though, admittedly, we have more pods in use than you could possibly need.”

“Space is no object.” –Gabriel says. “My father’s emptied underground laboratory should be more than accommodating. As for power...though perhaps unorthodox in nature, I will shortly have all that I need.”

“What about money?” –Whitehall asks, raising an eyebrow. “This technology isn’t cheap.”

“Monsieur Whitehall.” –he says, trying to keep his desperation from showing too much. “As long as you can ensure that the cryogenic technology will work, I am prepared to pay any price.”

The man’s smile widens frigidly. “Yes, you are in something of a precarious position, aren’t you?” –he drawls. “Your wife, mysteriously disappeared during a recent trip to Tibet, after spending months suffering from an impossible to diagnose but very much terminal illness. Your company’s future uncertain, losing your muse. Your beautiful son, left motherless at such a young age.”

“You’ve certainly done your homework.” –Gabriel’s eyes harden. “I’ve already told you to name your price, Monsieur. There’s no hard bargain to drive here.”

“No, of course not…but there are interesting prospects in our future.” –he tilts his head. “Rumor has it your interests have shifted to what some might call esoterica, in recent years.”

“…perhaps they have.” –he mutters, begrudgingly.

“I myself am quite intrigued by tales of wondrous items from beyond our world – blue angels dropping gifts for us from the heavens.” –Whitehall muses. “But your interests, I believe, are quite a bit stranger, are they not? Something about jewelry...something about gods.”

Gabriel scowls. The Miraculous are dangerous enough on their own – teaching HYDRA about their power could prove...apocalyptic. “Your point, Monsieur Whitehall?”

Whitehall leans back. “Worry not, Mr. Agreste. You may have the cryogenic pod you’re looking for at zero charge – a token of our appreciation for your family’s work with HYDRA.” –he smirks.

The designer bitterly narrows his eyes. “How generous of you.”

“HYDRA takes care of its own.” –Whitehall promises. “Who knows? Perhaps this could be a revival of our friendship with your family, should our interests align, down the line.” –he suggests. “Do note, however – our technology must remain an utmost secret. Our plans rely on our anonymity, for the time being. Should your use of it lead others to discover our activities...well, I’d hate to see young Adrien join his mother sooner, rather than later.”

It’s a Faustian bargain, he knows. But for Emilie…for Emilie, he will do whatever it takes. “Understood.” –he says.

Whitehall rises, his goons starting to file out of the room. “Excellent doing business with you, Mr. Agreste. I do so love coming back to Paris.” –he says, a grim satisfaction to his eyes. He walks away, though not before turning back for a last glance.

“Hail HYDRA.”

Chapter 3: Garnet and Pearl

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe it.” –Pearl says, staring in horror at the ongoing news report. The footage is shaky but unmistakable; alien invaders pouring down from some kind of projected portal above the city of New York, firing wildly at the innocent humans below.

“I can’t believe it isn’t us.” –Garnet admits, crossing her arms. “An alien invasion of Earth that isn’t Homeworld’s fault, for a change.”

Pearl shakes her head. “That we know of.” –she says, darkly. “Perhaps this is their way of finally making sure we really did die when the war ended.”

“You know better than that.” –Garnet reasons. “Homeworld would never stoop to working with organic life forms. Not even for us.”

The pale Gem sighs. “I suppose you’re right.” –she mutters. Outside, Steven’s oblivious laughter mixes in with Amethyst’s fake growling and roars – she’s shape-shifted into a cartoonishly round tiger, chasing him around the beach after getting their fill of morning donuts. “What are we going to do, Garnet?”

Garnet readjusts her glasses, peering into the fields of possibility ahead of them. “Nothing.” –she says, after a moment.

Pearl frowns. “Wh- nothing!?” –she balks. “Garnet, Rose left us with a mission – we must protect Earth’s unique life forms to the best of our ability, whether it be from Homeworld’s forces or otherwise. We can’t just stand by and let these aliens run rampant!”

“Rose also entrusted Steven’s safety to us.” –Garnet reminds her. “Warping to the battle would reveal us to modern human society. It would put him at risk of being scrutinized by humans curious about his being half-Gem.” –Garnet reasons.

“You really think they would do that?” –Pearl says, worried.

Garnet purses her lips. “...there is a high likelihood.” –she confirms, vaguely, so as to not worry the histrionic Gem too much. “Steven is as unique a life form as they come, Pearl – a successful fusion of organic biology and synthetic Gem characteristics. There are those who would do anything to study it – maybe even try and replicate it, whatever the cost to Steven’s well-being. That is not a chance we can take, not even to save human lives.”

She looks out the window, where the boy is cry-laughing under the big purple cat. “Not until Steven can properly defend himself.” –the fusion says, softly.

Pearl looks on at the television in horror. She changes the channel, but every station is either broadcasting the news, or the government’s Emergency Alert System, warning people to bunker down and/or steer clear of the state of New York. She looks back helplessly at Garnet, who sighs. “I know. I hate it, too.” –Garnet admits.

“Maybe we could contact Rose’s friends?” –Pearl suggests. “The sorceress struck by alopecia, perhaps, or the burly man with the strange wristwatch? Maybe she left a way for us to communicate with those S.W.O.R.D. humans she never let us meet?”

“I can’t imagine they don’t already know, knowing the kind of humans Rose liked to surround herself with.” –Garnet says. “Besides…” –she trails off, nodding at the footage.

A man in a flying suit of armor zooms by the camera, blasting some kind of particle beam out of his palm at an incoming alien vessel. The sled-like flying contraption explodes, violently, the camera operator shielded from the flaming debris by the massively muscular frame of what looks like a wrathful, green-skinned giant of a man. The footage switches over to showcase the blurry, far-away figure of a blonde man dressed in regal armor, blasting swathes of aliens with lightning bolts seemingly summoned from the skies with the aid of his metal hammer. Finally, the newscaster talks over the photograph of an unidentified, blonde woman effortlessly lifting a car overhead, ready to throw it at the invaders.

Garnet smiles – she’s never had the wondrous appreciation for mankind that drove Rose to sacrifice everything for the protection of this planet, or at least, not to that level, but she can readily admit that humanity is much hardier and more stubbornly determined to survive than anyone gives them credit for. “I think the humans have figured out how to protect themselves while we weren’t looking.”

Chapter 4: Charlie Watson, Bumblebee, and Veronica McClain

Chapter Text

Charlie knows something is wrong the moment the Earth rumbles under her feet.

“Whoa.” –she says, grasping at the glass of water on her desk to keep it from spilling all over her ancient, Windows XP-laden computer. The shaking lasts maybe five seconds, knocking over a few assorted supplies around her office, and even a framed picture of her family that thankfully doesn’t shatter thanks to the carpeted floor. “Earthquake?” –she mutters to herself once it passes, feeling for any further motion, but nothing else happens. It didn’t feel like an earthquake, to be honest, but that kind of rumbling...well, short of an explosion, she really doesn’t know what it could be.

She frowns, rising from her chair and turning off her aging computer monitor before heading outside of her office. Memo’s also out of his chair at the counter, similarly concerned. “Did you feel it too?” –he asks.

Charlie hums affirmatively. “Just the one, yeah. No aftershocks.”

“Well, that’s weird.” –Memo reposes.

Charlie snorts. “Weird is kinda relative for us.” –she drawls, to Memo’s chagrin. “But I suppose a bone-shaking earthquake with no aftershocks counts.”

Her girlfriend bursts into the shop, covered in oil and grime from their only ongoing restoration project, a 1972 Monte Carlo in serious need of some TLC. “Charlie, Bumblebee’s acting up!” –Mikaela urges. “He’s gonna wreck something if you don’t calm him down!”

She winces – that’s certainly not unheard of around here. “Right, let’s go.”

Charlie and Mikaela jog outside to the crowded vehicle yard; Bumblebee is transformed, his door-wings fluttering nervously and his inner mechanisms buzzing with trepidation, giving off the impression that she’s standing before the mother of all beehives. “Bee, what’s wrong?” –she asks, holding her hands up to get his attention.

The Autobot clenches up, still nervous but not wanting to hurt the fragile humans he considers his family. He points at the horizon, above the high walls around the yard, put in place so the Cybertronian has some semblance of freedom to be his robotic self instead of having to hide away in his alt form all day. Charlie follows Bee’s metallic fingers, and her eyes widen in shock; miles in the distance, a massive plume of smoke and fire rises from where Arcadia Oaks should be, like an atom bomb went off while they weren’t paying attention. A thunderous noise catches up to them, like a dozen summer storms going off at once, most likely the delayed noise from the explosion.

“What the hell?” –Mikaela mutters. “What’s going on in Arcadia?”

Charlie shakes her head, equally befuddled. She checks her phone for any kind of message from Kevin or Gwen, but finds none. “Maybe we should go take a look.” –she tells Bumblebee.

The younger woman purses her lips. “I don’t know, babe...you know S.W.O.R.D. doesn’t want y’all getting involved in stuff like this.”

Bee stares at the floor, downcast. Mikaela’s right, of course; people just aren’t ready to find out there’s an alien race out in the cosmos consisting of giant, shape-shifting robots – or that there’s been at least two of them on Earth for decades, hiding in plain sight, refugees from an ostensibly failed rebellion.

Boy, is she glad S.W.O.R.D. and the Kree blockade managed to intercept Shatter and Dropkick’s messages about Earth. Fighting two patrolling Decepticons was harrowing enough – getting their bosses involved...it probably wouldn’t be the most conducive thing to humanity’s continued existence.

“They already kept us from helping out with the Chitauri.” –Charlie grumbles, crossing her arms. Bee mimics her displeased stance. “And look what happened. Dozens of people died while we had to sit tight. I even thought Max had died there.”

Mikaela shakes her head. “You know you wouldn’t have made it in time to help, right?”

“We could’ve done something. If nothing else, Bumblebee’s great at lifting heavy stuff.” –she defends.

The younger smirks, amused. “Babe, they had Supergirl.”

“Yeah, and she’s on the other side of the country right now.” –Charlie argues. “I’m sorry, I just can’t stand by and do nothing, especially when Arcadia is in danger. We’ll deal with the consequences, right Bee?”

Bumblebee gives her a thumbs-up, raring to go. Mikaela shakes her head. “Fine. But I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

The trio turn around to see they have a guest, pushing her way past Memo. Veronica McClain stares disapprovingly at them. “Guess who’s not surprised you’re about to break protocol?” –she asks, sarcastically, pointing a thumb at herself. “This gal, right here.”

Charlie groans; Veronica McClain is the S.W.O.R.D. agent assigned to Bumblebee’s refugee case, and thus the woman in charge of making sure they don’t go gallivanting around, playing heroes. Most of the time, she’s actually a friend; she lives nearby and comes in for a check-in every day, and evaluates Bumblebee’s physical and emotional health at least once a week – as much as his truly bizarre biology and prevalent amnesia allows – usually staying for a chat and some coffee afterwards. She hasn’t been hurting for people to tell about Bumblebee for a while, between her family, Memo, Max Tennyson, and of course, Mikaela, but with Veronica, it’s different – even if S.W.O.R.D. doesn’t know that much more than Charlie’s been able to glean from Bee over the years, just the fact that she has access to the Kree Accuser’s files on Cybertron and its people has been a huge boon in helping Bee slowly but surely rebuild his corrupted memory banks.

Of course, when it comes to her job, she’s both extremely serious about it and quite good at ensuring that the knowledge of Bumblebee’s presence has been kept to less than a dozen people on the whole planet (not counting other S.W.O.R.D. agents, of course). Even Kevin doesn’t know about him, and Charlie practically considers him a younger brother.

“You’re seeing what I’m seeing too, right?” –Charlie demands, exasperated, pointing at the massive column of smoke in the distance. “That’s Arcadia Oaks going up in flames.”

Veronica sighs. “I know, Charlie, but the protocol is very clear on this; unless your own lives are actively being threatened, you mustn’t reveal Bumblebee’s existence, no matter what.” –she reminds her. “Rest assured, S.W.O.R.D. is already tending to the matter.”

Mikaela’s eyes widen. “So it’s aliens, then?”

The Cuban woman winces. “Er, yes, but it’s not the Decepticons, don’t worry.” –she tries to reassure them. “This is something else entirely.”

“Veronica, we’re not worried about ourselves here, we’re worried about our friends at Arcadia, and the rest of its innocent people.” –Charlie retorts. “What are you doing to contain the situation? We can help.”

Veronica shakes her head. “There’s already a superpowered team on the scene with a sizeable S.H.I.E.L.D. support squad, and Director Brand should be able to bring in the Avengers themselves within ten or twenty minutes.” –she reluctantly informs them. “They don’t need your help.”

Mikaela frowns. “Wait, you didn’t mention the Kree blockade at all.”

The S.W.O.R.D. agent falters. “There’s, um...there’s no more blockade. The invaders smashed through it.” –she admits. Veronica shakes her head, dismayed. “I’m told most of the Kree on board survived and got picked up by Excalibur. No word on the Accuser herself, though.”

Charlie balks. “...you can’t be serious.” –she whispers. It really shouldn’t hit her so hard, considering Hala was very vocally against allowing Bumblebee to stay on Earth, but it does; the Accuser and her state of the art fleet of warships seemed all but untouchable, especially considering what a backwater this planet is in the grand scheme of things. “Veronica, if the invaders could punch through the blockade that easily, even the Avengers aren’t gonna be enough; you’re gonna need all the help you can get.”

The agent’s gaze softens. “You’ve already done enough for Earth, you two; I understand the desire to help, but you’ve earned your peace, and I can promise you that humanity’s only gotten better at defending itself since your fight with the Decepticon scouts.”

“That’s bullsh*t and you know it.” –Charlie contests, hotly. “We’re not ready to take on those kinds of enemies.”

“Damn it, Charlie, stop arguing.” –Veronica says, getting frustrated. “Don’t you think I’d like to be there, too? Don’t you think if there was anything we could truly do to help I’d be right there with you?”

She shakes her head, hugging herself. “Trust me, there isn’t. You’re not soldiers, and you shouldn’t have to be heroes – you’re a traumatized refugee and a very lucky mechanic.” –she points at them. “Please, for both your sakes, stay out of it. Terrible things happen to people who mess with this kind of crap.”

Charlie purses her lips; she knows what Veronica’s talking about, of course – her younger brother Lance, a promising cadet for S.W.O.R.D.’s Galaxy Garrison junior training program, vanished alongside a handful of other recruits after encountering some kind of ancient alien vehicle in a secluded part of the Grand Canyon. They’ve had no success in tracking down the craft since it took off a couple of months ago, and S.W.O.R.D. has regretfully (if understandably) declared them missing in action, and presumed dead. They commiserated with her when she got the news – it was so sudden, and there was absolutely nothing anyone at S.W.O.R.D. or otherwise could do to stop them.

She shares a look with Bee – who looks to her, as always, for guidance. Shaking her head, she sighs. “Alright, Veronica. You win.” –she says, defeated. “We’ll give the Avengers and your people a chance. But as soon as the smoke clears – or as soon as it becomes clear that they can’t handle the invaders – we’re making a beeline for Arcadia. If nothing else, we can help with the clean-up.”

Veronica nods, more than a bit sad. “I’ll take what I can get from you mavericks.” –she says. “Nice pun, by the way. C’mon, let’s go to my house. We’ll be able to get live updates from S.W.O.R.D. command there.”

Chapter 5: Kassandra of Sparta, Prince Zagreus, and Loki Odinson

Chapter Text

Kassandra has always enjoyed a good party; perhaps it’s some remnant of the Spartan blood in her veins, even if it’s been long since been replaced with the golden ichor of a goddess, or maybe she’s just reminded of carefree days spent ashore after a long trip aboard the Adrestia, drinking herself silly along with Barnabas and their crew.

This, the so-called ‘induction of the Asgardian pantheon’, certainly started promising; the off-worlders didn’t just bring their literal boatload of new gods into the fold, they brought a whole damn feast in their golden, flying vessels, along with musicians, poets, and dancers – art and culture from a world that her and the rest of the Olympians will likely never be able to visit, tied to Earth and human consciousness as they are. Kassandra gorged herself on roasted boar and honeyed mead, sang along with drunken Einherjar, and got thoroughly trounced by the Vanir goddess Freyja in a flyting match.

Afterwards, the Olympic competitions – brought back for a single installment after they were discontinued by those damned Romans a few centuries earlier – saw her at her best; alongside Phobos (her trusty steed brought back to immortal life by great-uncle Poseidon, not her eponymous divine half-brother, and asshole God of Fear and Panic) she absolutely crushed the horse races, Leonidas’ Spear fell second only to Odin’s own Gungnir at the throw event, and she even managed to draw a stalemate out of the beautiful warrior goddess Sif at pankration.

All in all, perfectly up her alley. That is, until the political negotiations started; even as a mortal demigod, Kassandra never had the patience for politics – she cared for people, not their titles, and definitely not for the games played by the rulers of the Greek world she was born into. She’s lucky now, ruling the Amazons; they share her disdain for political machinations and schemes – Otrera’s daughters prefer to use their bodies to settle their disputes, whether by combat, competition, or lovemaking.

The gods, on the other hand, seem to love negotiating. Metaphysical borders, potential disputes between the pantheons, the faith and belief of mortals – which the Asgardians don’t seem to need but clearly enjoy – the final destination for the souls of the dead...Kassandra tried to stay and pay attention, but by the fiftieth hour of discussion on how the Asgardians could potentially introduce their own demigod champions into the mortal world, she was forced to admit defeat and get as far away from the meeting as possible.

Thus, she finds herself roaming the golden streets of Olympus, winking at the giggling nature spirits eagerly gossiping about the foreign guests, when she’s waved over by a fellow god – and a Chthonic one, at that.

“Well, if it isn’t the Amazon queen.” –Zagreus drawls, offering her an easy smile. He’s signing a clay tablet for one of Elysium’s glorious dead, a red-haired woman that squeals as the handsome Prince of the Underworld winks that telltale black-red eye at her. The soul vanishes, off to enjoy the rest of their briefly permitted visit to Olympus. “How does the home of the gods treat you?”

“Poorly, now that the festivities are all but over. I’ve no mind for the ongoing negotiations.” –Kassandra laments, but she manages a similar smirk. “How do you fare, Prince of the Underworld?”

“Oh, I can’t complain. I get to visit my extended family, and for once, my flaming feet didn’t sputter out three steps from the Temple of Styx.” –he jokes, pointing at his fiery appendages. “The Fates must see this meeting of the pantheons rather favorably.”

Kassandra snorts. “Or perhaps the Moirai are too busy sharing notes with the Asgardians’ own Nornir to notice you’re quite far from the Underworld.” –she muses.

Zagreus hums. “Maybe so. I am getting a bit peckish for another of my jaunts through the Underworld, though. Nothing quite so satisfying here as blazing a path of chaos and destruction among the wretched dead in the name of testing Father’s security measures.” –he says. The Prince nods at her. “No consorts by your side, this time?”

She sighs. “Athena asked me to pick only one, and I could not bring myself to do so. I cherish them all equally – and fear their retribution, should they not get picked.” –she shrugs. “Perhaps for the best, all things considered. Too many beautiful new gods and goddesses in one place – I’d rather not discover if I’m the jealous type this way. What about yours?”

“They’re around. Miserable together, no doubt.” –he says. “Olympus is too soft and lavish for Megaera, and too bright and cheery for Thanatos. They’d have rather stayed in the Underworld, but King Zeus insisted on inviting the whole House of Hades to this event. If not for the fact that their mere presence could unmake the fabric of reality, even Master Chaos might’ve come.”

“Yes, I heard Orpheus and Eurydice sing for the Asgardian King and Queen. They have such lovely voices.” –she says, warmly. “And your mater and pater actually look quite happy together. I don’t think I ever expected to see Hades bear anything but the deepest of scowls.”

Zagreus grins. “Oh, I imagine he wishes with every fiber of his godly being that he were back underground. But I gather that getting to spend a bit of springtime with Persephone is worth the hassle.”

Kassandra nods along as they walk side by side to a nearby outcropping, overlooking the hazy mortal world below. She notices that the small cliff isn’t empty; a young man in Asgardian garb, looking no older than his early teens, sits cross-legged at the edge, petting a small wolf cub.

The Amazon queen frowns; she has a soft spot for children, and this kid looks rather sad. Of course, since he’s likely a god, he might just look like a twelve year-old, though from what Kassandra understands, the Aesir are born and eventually die, like mortals do – they just happen to live for thousands of years and hold influence over certain domains and concepts, like gods are wont to.

“Asgardian!” –she calls out. “Who are you, and why do you hide away from the others?”

The kid turns to her, wide-eyed and fearful. The wolf cub on his lap yips protectively. “My name is Loki, and I’m not hiding.” –he says, a bit of a tremor to his voice, even though he’s clearly trying to sound brave. Kassandra’s eyebrow rises; she knows the name, of course. Loki is one of King Odin’s children, the youngest by far. He cuts a very different profile to his older brother Thor, a boastful, temperamental blonde, and wielder of the divine hammer, Mjolnir; Loki’s features are very fair, almost androgynous, hair as black as midnight held back by a golden diadem of sorts, adorned with small horns.

“Sight-seeing, then?” –Zagreus wonders. “Greece is a beautiful realm – or Byzantium, whatever it is that the mortals call it these days. Preferred it snow-covered, myself, but the beauty is there.”

Loki shakes his head. “I can’t really see anything from here.” –he admits. “I’m just tired of this visit. I want to go back home.”

Kassandra hums. “We have that in common, I think.” –she mutters.

“What’s your little friend called?” –Zagreus asks.

Loki grins, holding the puppy up. “Fenrir! I found him in the woods a few years ago while Thor and the others hunted for game.” –he says, proudly. Zagreus reaches down and scratches behind the wolf’s ear. Fenrir’s back leg twitches uncontrollably and his tail wags incessantly.

“That’s a good boy right there.” –Zagreus declares, very officially. “I should know. Have you heard of Cerberus?”

The boy shakes his head. “Cerberus guards the entrance to our Underworld.” –Zagreus explains. “He’s a gigantic hellhound with crimson fur and three massive heads – though he’ll only ever let you pet the one, and only if he trusts you. He’s a bit fussy that way.”

Loki’s eyes widen with awe. “That sounds so cool.” –he says. “Mother says Fenrir will grow enormous too, but he’s been a cub since I found him.”

“I can tell he’s a god, same as you.” –Kassandra says, narrowing her eyes. It’s not the same as it is with Greek deities, but there is an essence to the Asgardians that she can feel as a goddess herself. “Maybe he’ll grow as you do.”

Loki narrows his eyes. “I’m not the god of anything yet. I’m just Loki.” –he huffs. “Father says I will one day be powerful, but I can’t call thunder like Thor or watch over the cosmos as Heimdall does. All I have are my illusions and a bit of mother’s magic.”

Kassandra waves him off. “You don’t have to be the god of something to be a god.” –she argues. “I’m barely the goddess of anything myself.”

Zagreus snorts. “Not quite true, is it? You might as well be the Goddess of Sapphics, Kass.”

She punches his uncovered shoulder, grinning. “Am I now, God of Blood, of Life, and Rebirth?”

He groans. “Ah, not this again.” –he grouses. “I regret ever telling anyone about that.”

“It’s very sweet.” –Kassandra reassures him. “Who’d have thought Achilles was a romantic?”

“Anyone who’s ever read the Illiad.” –Zagreus reposes, unimpressed.

Loki looks back and forth between the Greek gods. “Sorry, the Aesir is confused.” –he points out.

Kassandra hums. “I may be a goddess now, but I was mortal to begin with. I was a Spartan exile and a roaming sell-sword before I ever had any notion that my father was Ares, and that I’d been born with a gods-given destiny hanging over my head. I had powers beyond those of other mortals, yes, but I bled and failed, same as any human – and the Olympians never bothered to help, even as the people I loved died around me. When I finally succeeded and they made me immortal, I decided I didn’t care what fate they had in store for me – I’d forge my own path, and do whatever the hell I wanted with my well-earned eternity.”

“She unified the disparate Amazon tribes under her rule and conquered the hidden kingdom of Atlantis – killed their king and exiled their men.” –Zagreus adds, conspiratorially. “Now she rules over a land of badass warrior women.”

For once, Loki seems impressed. “Whoa. Didn’t you get in trouble for that?”

“Oh, the Olympians expected me to quietly live out eternity by making me the Goddess of Heroes – not too long before the collapse of the Greek world’s hegemony, and long after the age of powerful demigods had passed.” –she says, sarcastically. “Perhaps they even hoped that their names would fade, and with time, so would I. But the joke’s on them; it’s been almost two thousand years, and the mortals still tell the stories of Achilles, Perseus, and Theseus. The Olympians couldn’t get rid of me if they tried.” –she winks at the young god.

“If anything they’re probably just glad you ended your warpath by taking over a kingdom of godless heretics.” –Zagreus smirks.

Kassandra grins. “Oh, for the moment.” –she shrugs. “No accounting for the future.”

Loki tilts his head. “Your relationship with your fellow gods is…strange.”

“And I quite like it this way. I get to live forever among a tribe of fierce warrior women and keep my independence, all at the same time.” –Kassandra says. “I should hope you are eventually able to figure out that kind of life for yourself.”

The boy looks a bit glum. “I don’t know…the All-Father sets a path in life for us all; what if I end up like Hela, banished to Niflheim to watch over the dead for all eternity?”

Zagreus raises an eyebrow. “Is that really so bad? The mortals and their life stories make for decent entertainment, every once in a while. Makes eternity a little less tedious.”

Loki seems decidedly unconvinced. “…if you say so.”

Kassandra kneels by him. “Oh, come now, you’ll be fine either way. You seem like a smart kid!” –she reassures him. “But hey, if your All-Father proves a bit too thick-headed, tell you what: you come to either of us, and we’ll see what we can do.”

“Forgive me for saying so, but…I doubt you can stand up to Odin.” –Loki says, skeptical.

Zag shrugs. “Well, we’re not gonna fight him. But we both have quite the track record, when it comes to being a thorn on the side of other, more important divinities. I’m sure we can find a few ways to prove to be quite a nuisance.”

“In fact, why not play a little trick on your thunderous brother right now? Judging by how much King Odin seems to cherish his firstborn, I imagine that might cheer you up.” –Kassandra suggests.

Loki’s expression does, indeed, brighten at the idea. “Oh? What did you have in mind?” –he asks.

“That hammer of his, stumpy little thing.” –Kassandra says. “I hear he’s the only one who can lift it, yes?”

The boy nods, narrowing his eyes. “By Odin’s word, yes. And the All-Father’s word is law.”

“How about we…bend that law a bit, just for a little while, courtesy of your illusions?”

Loki’s pale face is split by a grin – and if, later that day, that grin almost seems a little too mischievous as Thor’s jaw drops, seeing Kassandra casually pick up and toss around the shape-shifted Spear of Leonidas…the Queen of the Amazons figures it’s nothing to worry about.

Chapter 6: Prince T'Challa, Okoye, and Pepper Potts

Chapter Text

“So the vibranium was to Mr. Stark’s satisfaction, then?” –T’Challa asks, with an easy smile.

“Oh! Wow, I almost forgot that’s why you were here.” –Pepper says, apologetically. “We got so caught up talking business, I totally blanked on your actual business.”

T’Challa waves her concerns off. “It’s no problem, Miss Potts. Your company has been very agreeable, and I am always happy to discuss our various outreach programs. I am confident we can put together a joint venture with the Maria Stark Foundation; spread those Intelli-crops of yours across the Sub-Saharan region a bit more efficiently than they have been so far, perhaps?”

“Of course; it should’ve been common sense, huh?” –she shakes her head. “Maybe defer to the local expertise instead of barging in like we know what’s what? Again, I have to apologize; I’ve been CEO long enough that I should’ve noticed this was an issue.”

The prince shrugs. “As I said, no harm done. And truly, it’s not surprising that we haven’t had much contact beforehand – Wakanda prefers to keep a low profile on the international stage.”

Pepper nods. “Maybe America could learn a lesson or two from your nation.” –she agrees. “To answer your question...JARVIS?”

“Yes, Miss Potts, Prince T’Challa.” –JARVIS says, through the concealed speakers in the office’s ceiling. “The vibranium was installed successfully, and telemetry from the battle indicates its performance was even better than expected. Mr. Stark extends his thanks.”

“I see. I’m happy to hear it.” –T’Challa says. “Perhaps I can brag now that the mighty Iron Man is powered, at least in part, by Wakandan vibranium.”

“I’d recommend against it – that might garner you all sorts of unwanted attention.” –she purses her lips. “Regardless, the check-in is appreciated; you didn’t need to come in person.” –Pepper notes.

T’Challa shrugs. “For such a grand purchase, a personal touch felt most appropriate. Besides, I was in the neighborhood. And with the invasion attempt, my flight back home was cancelled for the foreseeable future.”

Pepper hums. “A hundred and twenty-five million per gram, right?” –she asks. T’Challa nods. “That’s wild. Years around Tony and at the top of SI and I still can’t fathom the money that gets thrown around in these circles. At some point, the zeroes kinda lose all meaning.”

“Worth every penny, I assure you.” –T’Challa says. “Vibranium is exceedingly rare. In thousands of years, we’ve only been able to find some thirty-five kilos, or seventy-five of your pounds – two thirds of which Captain America regularly carries into battle on his wrist.”

Pepper’s eyebrows rise. “I don’t think they mention that bit in the history books.”

“Nor its theft at the turn of the 20th century, no.” –T’Challa says, a bit of scorn to his tone. “Still, most of us in Wakanda would agree that, in Steve Rogers’ capable hands, the shield has already paid for itself. There is still much progress left for us to make, but the Captain helped us all, in no small measure, to have the chance to make it in the first place.”

“Somehow, I doubt the Red Skull would’ve afforded us the same courtesy, yeah.” –Pepper agrees. “So…did Howard steal the vibranium?” –she asks, sounding afraid to know the answer.

The prince shakes his head. “No need to worry about the elder Stark’s reputation, Miss Potts. It was a Belgian ‘explorer’ named Jules Klaue, decades prior. Your SSR liberated it from his son Fritz, a Nazi Colonel, and gave it to Stark for the purposes of experimentation. Eventually, he was able to figure out a way to mold it into that iconic shield.”

“I see.” –she says, clearly relieved. “I’ve gotta say, I couldn’t have ever imagined that signing on as Tony’s PA would ever lead me to a life where discussing HYDRA and stolen Wakandan super-metal would be such a nonchalant event.”

T’Challa evaluates her for a moment. “I am curious, Miss Potts.” –he admits. “How do you cope with your partner’s…high octane activities?”

Pepper chuckles, mirthlessly. “That assumes I’m able to cope with them at all.” –she says. “It’s…hard, of course. Like I said, I’ve been by Tony’s side for a very long time. Everything you might know from the media about Tony before the kidnapping? Let’s just say it would’ve been significantly watered down – a lot of backroom deals worked out first by Howard and Maria and then by Obadiah to keep Tony’s worst benders from going public. Alcohol, women, drugs...he was headed down a really dark path in a hurry. Hell, if we hadn’t found out about his black market deals with terrorists, I almost would’ve wondered if Obadiah hadn’t had Tony kidnapped to set him straight.”

“And now?” –T’challa asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Now he’s a superhero, straight out of the pages of a comic book.” –Pepper says, like she still can’t quite believe it. “He wears a suit of power armor and flies around blasting aliens and supervillains with weaponized stabilizer thrusters. It’s nuts. And he acts like it isn’t! He puts on that suit, he fist-fights gods, and it’s like this is what he’s been waiting for his whole life.”

“So you don’t approve?”

“No, I mean…it’s hard not to. He’s saved God knows how many lives.” –she says. “I mean, just yesterday…he wasn’t alone, obviously, but he helped save an entire town! It’s kind of impossible not to approve of that, y’know?” –she shakes her head. “I just worry that one day all those weapons and armor won’t be enough.”

T’Challa hums. “I’m sure the other Avengers will help make sure that day won’t come.”

Pepper offers him a sad smile. “I hope you’re right.”

The Wakandan prince nods. “Well, then. Shall we stay in touch?”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” –Pepper says, both of them rising from their seats. “I’ll personally see to it that Stark Industries and the Maria Stark Foundation do their part in supporting Wakanda’s efforts to improve living conditions throughout the African continent and beyond.” –she promises.

He gallantly takes her hand. “Please, Miss Potts. We Wakandans aren’t too fond of ‘majesties’ and ‘highnesses’; to you, I am simply T’Challa.” –he says, gently kissing the back of her hand.

She smiles. “Then by all means, call me Pepper.”

Okoye’s piercing eyes glare back at him on the rearview mirror. “What?” –T’Challa questions, raising an eyebrow.

“Must you flirt with the girlfriend of an Avenger, my prince?” –she asks, exasperated.

T’Challa smirks. “All part of the character, Okoye.” –he says, smoothly. “Worry not; Miss Potts is nice enough, but...not particularly to my tastes.”

“The ‘character’, right.” –she says, sarcastically, though her frown does give way to a smirk as they speed away from Stark Industries. “I’ll admit, that bit about us poor Wakandans losing twenty kilos of vibranium like that’s not just about the combined weight of a single Dora Milaje’s armor and spear did sneak a chuckle out of me.”

“An entire chuckle?” –T’Challa balks, with fake wonder. “Bast be praised, the General has found her sense of humor.”

“And just like that, it seems I have lost it again.” –Okoye rolls her eyes. She nods at him. “What did you think?”

T’Challa hums. “She is as I expected; smart, level-headed, kind. She must have a ruthless side to her, I think, considering she’s survived years of directing one of the biggest corporations in the world.”

“Well, she did meet Stark by storming his office, confronting him about some numbers discrepancies, and threatening his security guards with pepper spray. Hence the nickname.” –she muses. “Do you still suspect?”

“What do you think?”

Okoye sighs. “I think either Tony Stark underwent a personality shift that few men in history can claim to have honestly gone through...or there’s some foul play his hilariously overblown PR budget has kept hidden under the Iron Man’s shiny visage.”

The prince narrows his eyes. “I agree. And I intend to find out.”

It’s strange to think about, but the Panther Habit wouldn’t look too out of place in a line-up of modern superhero costumes – though he didn’t have anything like that in mind, of course, when his turn came to design the outfit he would wear as Wakanda’s protector. He derived it from his father’s own Habit, though where King T’Chaka saw and sought very little action during his tenure as the Black Panther, and his vestment reflected it as such with rich silks and evocative designs, T’Challa always wanted to be proactive – to prowl in the shadows and pounce on Wakanda’s few and far between enemies before they could ever see him coming, and so his own uniform is all black, silver, and sleek.

He even nixed the cape Shuri insisted on, much to her protests.

This desire is what drives him now, hovering a few hundred feet over the shoreline by Stark’s mansion, having his invisible hovercraft scan the building and its surroundings for defenses. “There’s still time to back out, my prince.” –Okoye advises, morose. “Your father will not approve of this mission of yours.”

“My father’s judgement is precisely what drove me to undertake this mission.” –he argues. “Hero or not, our sensors do not lie: Stark seems to have discovered a way to replicate vibranium’s unique properties to some extent. I intend to find out how and why – and if his recent purchase is something darker than an attempt at perfecting his technique.”

Okoye shakes her head, holding her hands up. “I’ll not stand in the gnu’s path for Stark – goddess knows the man is dangerous, regardless of his intent – but you risk discovery and retaliation. Even if you don’t get caught now, this is a breach of trust; one he and his compatriots might remember down the line.”

“Stark is, by all accounts, a far-seeing, cautious man. If he is also a good man, he will understand our need to discard him as a threat. If he is not…then he will not have much time to complain.”

“‘Our need’, you say, as if you mean Wakanda.” –Okoye mutters, narrowing her eyes. “When truly, you talk only about yourself and N’Jadaka. I fear his counsel is suspect more often than not.”

T’Challa doesn’t stare away from the sand-forged image of Stark’s home, and its many protective measures, mostly invisible to the naked eye. “You are not blind, General.” –T’Challa says. “You have seen, as have I, the way our ancestral brothers are treated across much of the world – a cruel mistreatment we have only avoided because we’ve refused to reach out. My uncle’s methods were too extreme, and my cousin’s suspicion may not be entirely justified, but you must admit their ideas are not wholly without merit; Wakanda should have a greater say on the international stage. We have grown complacent in our isolation, and – even if you agree with my father that Wakanda must stand alone – our potential enemies will only increase in power and number if we do not actively curtail them.”

Okoye’s gaze softens. “I understand better than you think. But there are surely better ways to use our hidden reach than stealing from Tony Stark.”

“Few of which I can enact as prince.” –T’Challa argues. “But as the Black Panther…”

The display finds a blind spot on the sensor grid – one practically impossible to exploit, a tiny opening above the west wing of the mansion that could only be entered via a perfectly straight airdrop, too high up to attempt without a parachute for anyone but those blessed with the physics-defying properties of vibranium. He grabs a spare Kimoyo bead, loads in the intrusion software he requested of Shuri, and dons the fearsome helmet of Wakanda’s silent protector.

“…this, I can do.”

The Black Panther is invisible against the night sky that serves as his backdrop. He drops in through the shaft at the bottom of the concealed Talon, his arms tucked in for a couple of seconds until a ping lets him know that he’s through the invisible dome of the sensor net. He then spreads himself to land on all four limbs – Shuri would call him a poser, but it serves to distribute the minor impact that his vibranium-clad body makes on the concrete ceiling. He moves slowly – the Habit absorbs sensor pings, but it does nothing to conceal his weight or the moonlight reflected off his suit, so he keeps a low profile and an erratic movement pattern to prevent the grid from identifying him as a human.

He doesn’t need to be cautious for too long; a few seconds later, he reaches a control panel marked J.A.R.V.I.S. He fishes the Kimoyo bead out of his utility belt, and magnetically attaches it to the interface. The software is not meant to damage Stark’s famous AI in any way – if it was, it wouldn’t matter how noble T’Challa’s intent was, Stark would hunt him down to the ends of the Earth either way. It’s based on a S.H.I.E.L.D. code he stole two weeks ago, which they’ve apparently used in the past to deactivate JARVIS – he had Shuri modify it so the AI wouldn’t just remain functional but actively assist him in this operation, then forget about the entire thing afterwards.

His helmet pings as the bead completes its purpose. “JARVIS?” –he asks, tentatively.

“Ready.” –the AI says, uncharacteristically emotionless.

“Set defense grid to standby.” –he orders.

“Acknowledged.”

It feels a little…wrong, admittedly; JARVIS is known to have a personality, and has even occasionally piped up during interviews with Stark, usually to the man’s embarrassment and the audience’s uproarious laughter. Even in their brief exchange back in Pepper’s office, he could tell there was more life to him than one might expect of a simple virtual assistant. The intrusion software renders him down to his most basic language interface mode, like he’s in a trance, completely devoid of personality. “Upload full mansion schematics to my HUD and open the service access hatch.”

The AI complies, and he makes his way inside. The mansion is lavish, as he expected, but also…derelict, a little bit. There’s a fine layer of dust all over – not thick enough that the place seems completely abandoned, of course, there’s likely a cleaning crew that comes by on a regular basis – which he takes as evidence that Stark has mostly moved to New York as part of his commitment to the Avengers. He practically glides past the priceless paintings and sculptures, headed straight for the basem*nt, where Stark built his main studio.

There’s surprisingly little security here; all that separates the fabled workshop from the staircase is a few panels of bulletproof glass and a biometric lock, which JARVIS opens for him without prompting. The workshop doubles as a garage, it seems, a half dozen luxury vehicles only a few feet from what looks like a testing area of some kind, adjacent to several work stations and holographic display tanks. Dominating the room, six display cases contain the same number of Iron Man suits, from the first he built to escape his imprisonment to the one used to take down Vanko at the Stark Expo, though a quick scan tells him that the suits are only steel and carbon fiber replicas – he must keep the real ones somewhere else, probably at Avengers Tower.

T’Challa asks JARVIS to show him the synthetic vibranium, and the AI complies, spotlighting a nearby cold storage device and uploading about twenty gigs’ worth of research data on the production process to his suit’s built-in database.

He opens the containment unit and raises an eyebrow; the synthetic vibranium looks nothing like the real deal. It’s an iridescent metal in the shape of a hollow triangle, glowing with a nearly white, light blue sheen, instead of the bright purple hue of Wakandan vibranium. From skimming the data, he can also tell that while Stark has succeeded in making the metal practically indestructible, its energy absorption capabilities leave much to be desired compared to the natural version.

What surprises him most, however, is that Stark has practically ceased all research into the material; aside from continually trying to improve the performance of his arc reactors, he hasn’t modified the ‘recipe’ of the metal, so to speak, since he first created it. There’s also little mention of his recent purchase, and no apparent plans to start a new project with it, aside from its integration into the newest suit’s momentum dampening system.

It’s a good sign, he thinks. Still, it can’t hurt to make sure.

T’Challa takes one of the triangular reactor cores between his vibranium claws, and pockets it, commanding JARVIS to edit the inventory so the theft goes unnoticed.

“Miss Potts is on the way to the mansion. Two minutes out, my prince.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Earlier than expected.” –he mutters. “I have what I need. Exiting now.”

The Black Panther calmly retraces his steps, up through to the roof and to the JARVIS control panel. He takes back the Kimoyo bead, though not before asking JARVIS to give him thirty seconds before he reactivates the defense grid – and apologizing for the intrusion, not that he’ll remember it. Though invisible, he leaps onto the swooping Talon, and watches as Stark Industries’ CEO makes her way into the mansion’s garage, a scarce few seconds after the defense grid comes back online.

“Cutting it close, T’Challa.” –Okoye admonishes over the comlink.

“I was precisely on time.” –he drawls, fishing the synth-vibranium core from his utility belt and examining it closely as they take off into the skies. “Now…let us see if this Avenger can truly be trusted…”

Chapter 7: Max Tennyson, Kanjigar the Courageous, and the Ancient One

Chapter Text

On second thought, he probably should’ve refused Abigail’s request.

He’s a family man now, after all; a single father with two very young kids and zero business tracking down a mysterious party of individuals, apparently wielding some kind of high tech equipment as a favor to the young, up-and-coming Director of the S.S.R. – even if she did volunteer to personally watch over Frank and Sandra.

For God’s sake, he doesn’t even wear the Omnitrix anymore – and though he has managed to keep a semblance of its genome-altering powers, he’s out of the game for a reason. He’s not getting any younger, and one false step could leave his kids without their one remaining parent.

…and yet, here he is, scanning the area the suspects last used their weaponry with his Plumber’s badge, trying to figure out who these people are. Given Abigail’s request, they’re obviously not S.S.R., but they’re not S.H.I.E.L.D. either; Director Carter personally denied it, and even if he didn’t trust Peggy – and he does, with his life – there are trace elements in the scene, a dozen miles outside Arcadia Oaks, that point towards an extraterrestrial origin: embedded high energy photons that can only come from Akiridion hard light tech, to be precise.

Way too advanced to be misused by humans, and much too close to home for comfort.

So he tracks them down; it takes some doing, trudging through the undergrowth of the forested area north of Arcadia, but the trail becomes increasingly obvious as he goes along, to the point that he doesn’t need to stop and scan every few feet. Stray Serrator blasts, broken trees, and eventually, human blood marks the start of the macabre trail.

Max pulls the small Nova blaster he kept as a memento of his Plumber days from the holster at his hip, and primes the power cell, which softly whines with power. He can hear sounds of fighting ahead, maybe a couple hundred feet from him. He’s so focused on looking ahead that he almost trips on a corpse – a human in some kind of advanced, silver armor, cleaved in half, cut diagonally from the top of the left hip bone to the bottom of the right side of the ribcage.

He scowls, grim, somewhat unaccustomed to the sight by now; at least there’s not much blood, as it seems like the weapon used seared the tissue as it passed, but it’s still been years since the last time he saw a dead body. He carefully turns the top half of the body and tries to remove the strange helmet, but it’s vacuum sealed, so he searches for the latch. He finds two, at either side of the base of the skull.

“Jesus.” –he mutters, as the helmet comes off. It’s a tan-skinned woman, maybe in her mid twenties – not much younger than Abigail herself. Her face, he notes, is twisted in a rictus of what he can only describe as pure hatred. There’s a golden symbol on her left shoulder pauldron, one he’s never seen before: an upside-down sword stabbed into what appears to be a mountain peak, encircled by a serpent eating its own tail.

He quickly examines the woman’s gear with the Plumber’s badge, and his eyebrows rise at the information it gleans; beta-titanium alloy plating, strength and agility magnifying servomotors, and a pressurized Kevlar weave undersuit. The soldier still holds a weapon on her hand – from the looks of it, it’s a reverse-engineered Akridion Serrator. He picks it up and activates it, cycling through the various modes – it’s more limited than an actual Akiridion-made weapon, only capable of reproducing the plasma repeater, hard-light short sword, light pike, and long range sniper modes.

Still, it’s very impressive. Hard-light tech is easily a century or more beyond the reach of mainstream Earth technology. He pockets the homebrew Serrator, and grabs the torn, red cape clasped to the woman’s clavicles; according to the badge, it’s bullet-resistant and fire retardant. Even more interesting, though, is the actual, metal sword it conceals, magnetically slung to the back of the armor; it’s a double-edged, European-style long sword, one half silver, and the other…well, the other is an unknown metal, even to the badge’s ample database. It looks like bronze, but it glows softly…

Almost like magic.

Enraged shouts draw his attention away from the dead knight. It seems the battle has intensified, so he abandons her where she fell. Along the way, he finds yet more bodies – one decapitated, three more bisected, and two that appear to have been crushed by something massive, judging by their crumpled armor and twisted limbs. Max sets his jaw, and hurries to the scene.

He bursts into something of a grove, blaster first, but he finds no one waiting for him there. A fight clearly took place, judging by the charred fragments of stone and broken branches, but he finds no corpses here. Max frowns; he heard human shouts and strange snarls a mere half minute prior – where did everyone go?

He’s just about to activate the badge to scan the scene when something jumps him from the treeline; his reflexes kick in, and his left arm turns to Petrosapien crystal, blocking a cleaving swipe from what can only be a truly enormous sword. Its wielder is decidedly not human; if the horns, the stunted snout, or the massive teeth weren’t an obvious indication, then its massive height and girth – and the fact that it’s apparently strong enough to crack the crystal – definitely is.

“Why won’t you leave us be, fleshbag?” –it snarls, surprisingly well-spoken. Its huge, amber-colored eyes stare at his alien arm. “And what manner of sorcery is this, now?”

Max tries to push him away, but his monstrous assailant is strong enough not to budge, so he instead blasts at its midsection with the Nova blaster. The silver armor it wears takes on a bright blue glow in response to the lasers, and he finds himself pushed away instead. He rolls into a crouching stance, pointing the blaster at the creature’s head. “Stand down, now!” –he barks. “Or the next few go between your eyes!”

The creature frowns. “You deign to speak to me?” –it wonders, apparently surprised. “The others simply attacked.”

He scowls, rising to his feet. “The corpses you left behind, you mean?” –Max demands.

The monster sneers. “They struck first – and not quite hard enough.” –it drawls. “I will not apologize for taking their lives. And I will not hesitate to take yours, should you also prove a foe.” –it says, brandishing its massive sword.

Logically, the threat should keep him on his guard, but his gut tells him to drop the blaster – and truth be told, listening to his instincts, even more so than the Omnitrix, is the biggest reason he survived all those years in space. He holsters his weapon, and sheds the Petrosapien arm, holding both hands up in what he hopes is a universal gesture of peace. “Fine, then. Your turn.” –he nods at the monster.

“Is it?” –the monster questions. “And will your fellow humans ambush me the moment I sheathe my blade?”

“I’m not with them.” –Max tells it. “I didn’t even know you existed, much less that you were a part of all this; all I did was investigate the area.”

The creature evaluates him. He must approve of what he finds, because his sword vanishes into the increasingly familiar blue energy about him. “A truce, then.” –it suggests. “What shall I call you, fleshbag?”

“The name’s Max Tennyson.” –he says. “Plumber by trade.”

It snorts. “No simple plumber could hold off the mighty Sword of Daylight.”

“Yeah, well, not just anyone could damage Petrosapien crystal.” –he shoots back. “Who – and more importantly, what – are you?”

“I am Kanjigar, Son of Tarigar; War-Chief of Heartstone Trollmarket, Bane of Bular, and Merlin’s champion as the current bearer of the Amulet of Daylight. You stand before the legendary Trollhunter, human.”

Max rises, his mind going into overdrive, trying to process the creature’s – the Troll’s – boastful introduction. Pretty swiftly, he knows that Trolls are real, that there’s opposing groups of Trolls, and that Merlin (who is also apparently real) picks some Trolls to fight for him in some way.

“Trollhunter, huh?” –Max mutters. “Why are you killing humans, then? And was it really necessary to butcher them like that?”

Kanjigar snorts. “I do not deal death in half measures, Max the Plumber; a Trollhunter must always finish the fight.” –he argues. “Humans are fragile, and messy upon expiring. We have no quarrel with you fleshbags, but I will defend myself and my people. Especially from these so-called Forever Knights.”

Max hums. He’s never heard of such an organization. “You said they struck first.”

“They did. The Forever Knights are an old enemy of my people – of all beings born of magic, or come from the stars. They seek nothing less than our complete destruction, despite our peaceful, isolationist ways. We thought them faded away, as we’d not faced their forces since coming to this continent, but they’ve survived, and more than that, they’ve obviously evolved.” –he says, clearly concerned. “Back in Deja’s day, we would’ve slaughtered them by the dozens – now, a mere handful of them managed to challenge me in a way I haven’t been since last I faced Bular the Butcher.”

The former Plumber nods. “They have advanced tech; powered exoskeletons, hard-light weapons…the works.” –he says. “Considering their gear, I’m surprised you’re still alive.”

Kanjigar huffs. “A mere fleshbag won’t be the end of me, no matter how powerful.” –he says, derisively.

“Oh, we’ll just see about that.” –a man’s voice hisses from the treeline. Kanjigar instantly manifests the Sword of Daylight again, and though Max doesn’t aim his own blaster just yet, he does pull it from its holster.

Something tells him he’s about to be in the middle of a fight, one way or another.

The Forever Knights advance out of the treeline in a half-circle around them, seven in number. Six of them hold large, kite-style shields ahead of them, a strange sort of golden energy field covering their surface with complex geometric designs. All of them except for the apparent leader point their reverse-engineered plasma repeaters at Kanjigar. The leader’s armor is obviously different; the metal is painted black, instead of its natural silver, and he wears a red surcoat emblazoned with the golden logo he now associates with the Forever Knights.

“Step away from the disgusting vermin making a mockery of knightly armor, old man.” –the knight says, hotly. He sounds young, proud, and hateful – a deadly combination. “We’ll exterminate him swiftly, and you can be on your way – safe in the knowledge that his fellow monsters will soon be eradicated from this area.”

Kanjigar bares his teeth, tightly gripping his magic blade, but Max can see the concern in his amber eyes – not that he seemed like a deceitful individual, but it appears Kanjigar was truthful about the Knights’ goals.

He levels his blaster. “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, son.” –he says. “I don’t know what the full story is between you people, but in my experience, anyone advocating for genocide isn’t on the right side of history.”

The knight tilts his head. “Be reasonable: you stand between a wretched abomination and a group of your fellow humans. I’m sure the Troll’s tale seems...sympathetic, but I highly doubt he brought up his kind’s taste for human flesh.”

The Trollhunter growls. “No Troll has eaten a man in centuries, fleshbag.”

“See, that’s not quite true.” –the knight wags his finger at them. “We intercepted a report to the FBI last week – someone found human remains in this very forest, some wilderness enthusiast mangled and partially consumed by what the authorities believed to be a rogue bear, or perhaps a mountain lion. But we know better; we know the kind of mark a Troll’s fangs leave on human bones. Seems to me like one of your fellow monsters went out for a midnight snack, Trollhunter.”

“Impossible.” –Kanjigar hisses. “No sane Troll would risk such exposure.”

The knight waves him off. “A beast does as a beast is wont to.” –he shrugs. “To be honest, I should thank you; some of the older knights foolishly believed your kind had reformed. Clearly, your bloodthirsty ways have merely simmered while you cowered from our blades. Once I return to my king holding your Amulet, we’ll return in force, and destroy your wretched kind, once and for all.”

The kid’s zealotry has decided for him. He’ll apprehend the survivors, and see what S.W.O.R.D. wants to do with them. “What’s your name, son?”

“My name is Enoch, and I have trained for a decade to rid the world of monsters!” –he boasts.

“Might wanna look in a mirror, then.” –Max drawls, and his left arm once more becomes Petrosapien crystal. The knights recoil in horror and surprise, which gives him ample time to punch the ground and produce a waist-level wall for him to take cover behind.

Kanjigar roars. “For Trollmarket!” –he bellows, and charges the rather confused Enoch. The knights get over their stupor just in time for Kanjigar to cross blades with their leader – even over the hissing of the clashing weapons, he can hear the servos on the young man’s power armor struggling to compensate for the Troll’s immense strength. Max takes his cue and fires the Nova blaster at the knights to Kanjigar’s left, scoring a headshot and a couple of body shots.

To his surprise, the same golden film that covers their kite shield seems to protect their armor, too, though much more faintly; the headshot merely knocks out the first knight, and the second manages to stay upright and retaliate, sending a hail of plasma bolts his way, melting and boiling the stone and ground just ahead of his barrier. The crystal holds strong, but the superheated air blisters the exposed skin of his right arm. He grunts, and slaps the Plumber’s badge on his chest, which holds in place and projects a translucent, protective film over his body.

He’s definitely rusty; that should’ve been his first move. Should’ve brought his Plumber armor too – though it probably wouldn’t have fit him anyway, to be honest. He’s too big a fan of grilling on the weekends to stay in the shape he had back in the day.

A couple of the knights attack Kanjigar from behind, trying to bury their hard-light swords into his back, but the protective blue glow manages to hold, long enough for the Trollhunter to brutally backhand them away – judging by the crumpled metal and crooked limbs, they won’t be getting back up. Max then shapeshifts a Pyronite arm, and blasts a stream of fire at the closest knights. He catches two of them by surprise, and they go down in flames, screaming.

It dawns on him just now that these are the first humans he’s ever killed.

The third drops his shield, and holds up his cape in defense, backing away from the fire – and right into the path of Kanjigar’s mighty swing. Max tries to look away, but he honestly can’t; it’s like a Star Wars lightsaber but with force, the remains of the halved victim thrown clear of the magic blade.

That leaves only two knights remaining; Enoch, who’s still fending off Kanjigar, and the knight who didn’t go down in his initial volley – who’s charging him right now. A woman, by the sound of her enraged scream, she pulls the dual metal long sword from her back, and dual wields the hard light short sword, charging at him. He blasts a trio of blaster bolts at her, but she surprisingly manages to deflect them with the Akiridion blade, subsequently leaping over his Petrosapien barrier. He rolls out of the way, then has to toss himself backwards as the tip of her metal blade nearly reaches his chest.

He raises an eyebrow, sweat beading up in his brow. “I don’t suppose we can talk this through?” –he drawls, putting on the smirk that once disarmed Xylene and got Verdona to deign to look down at a mere mortal.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t work this time. She thrusts her blades forward, but he manages to turn his torso to that of a Necrofriggian, rendering it momentarily intangible. He then shapeshifts a couple of Tetramand arms and punches at either side of the knight’s torso, breaking the energy barrier on her armor, denting the metal, and snapping a few ribs, then kicking her away.

His body glitches, momentarily – he shouldn’t have two transformations going at once, but it couldn’t be helped. It hurts like hell, his highly mutable cells having to cycle through the available DNA before finally remembering they’re supposed to be human ones.

The knight groans, but manages to rise, holding her long sword between them. “What manner of monster are you?” –she hisses, clearly in pain. “Some kind of mongrel shapeshifter?”

He shrugs, panting a little. “I used to be a hero, believe it or not.” –he says. “Guessing you’re not gonna see me that way, though.”

She morphs the Serrator into a plasma repeater in response, and shoots him. A couple of bolts hit his shield before he manages to give himself Citrakayah legs, letting him dodge the rest, circle around to her left, and tackle her superhumanly fast. His barrier protests as he impacts her armored frame, but she’s still sent flying, and crashes against a nearby tree trunk. The knight is out cold.

That just leaves Enoch, who’s somehow managed to hold his own despite the Trollhunter’s strength and talented bladework. A few more moments of observation tell him why: the knight is apparently capable of wielding the energy that covers their kite shields and armors in an offensive manner, projecting beams and whip-like constructs from his hands that keep Kanjigar at bay. The Troll expertly deflects the attacks with his massive blade, but Enoch is evidently good enough not to give him an opening.

Deciding to intervene, Max shapeshifts a Crystalsapien arm, and tosses himself between the other two, catching the beam and absorbing its energy. He launches it right back in a rainbow colored projection, which Enoch clearly doesn’t see coming, as it strikes his helmet dead-on, shattering the protective energy. He screams in pain, hastily tossing the half-melted armor piece aside and clutching his face, which appears to have been grievously burned. Kanjigar brandishes his sword, ready to deliver the final blow, but Max holds his hand up to stop him. “We need to take him in. Figure out where the rest of his people are in case they try to get revenge.”

Enoch spits blood. “You might as well kill me, traitor.” –he hisses, clearly holding the right side of his face together with his hand. “I’ll never betray my king and my fellow knights.”

“It’s your turn to be reasonable, son.” –Max suggests. “You’re wounded, alone, and my new friend Kanjigar has more than proven how lethal that so-called Daylight sword is.”

The young man sneers at him, as much as his injuries allow. “Your new friend comes from a long line of butchers and killers. Countless stories were told about their debauchery along the centuries.” –he notes. “You may have been fooled by his oh-so-noble shtick, but we know better. If not for the tireless vigilance of my ancestors, we would be nothing but food to these animals!”

“I’ve talked to him just about as much as I’ve talked to you, Enoch, and I’ve gotta tell you: Kanjigar isn’t the one coming across as a monster right now.” –Max retorts. “I don’t care what he looks like. I don’t care what happened in the past. The facts as I know them are that you tried to assassinate him for no good reason, that you want to kill his people, and that you lost. No one else needs to die tonight.”

Enoch pauses to bitterly regard him for a moment. “I only came to kill one beast tonight.” –he spits. “How lucky I am, that I found another.”

The knight makes a strange sort of gesture with his hands, and suddenly, two dozen Enochs surround them. “You’ve made an enemy of the Forever Knights tonight, old man.” –they say, like a chorus. “But don’t worry – you won’t have that hanging over your head for too long. Stay still, and I’ll make this swift.”

Max’s frown hardens. He thinks of Sandra and Frank, safe under Abigail’s care, and readies himself for the fight of his life.

Alas, it doesn’t happen. The clearing is suddenly filled with gale force winds that somehow don’t affect the environment or him and Kanjigar at all, but seem to erase the Enoch duplicates. Pale, purple tendrils then erupt from the ground, grabbing onto the dead and unconscious knights and restraining the true Enoch. “What!?” –he balks. “What is this sorcery!?”

“Mmm.” –a woman’s voice, just behind Max says. “Come now, Enoch, this is eldritch magic, which you obviously know quite well.”

Max turns to see a bald woman clad in rich, yellow robes. She walks forward and past them – and Max is shocked for the nth time tonight as Kanjigar immediately dispels his blade and takes a knee. “The Icy Tendrils of Ikthalon, to be precise. Or – were you not taught this one by my wayward pupils?” –she asks, amusedly tilting her head.

Enoch spits in her face. The woman seems entirely unfazed by the insult. “Mmm. It really is a pity. So many lost to old, obsolete hatreds, on all sides.” –she laments, then turns to Max. “But hope, I see, still remains – even in those entirely too confused by our affairs. I apologize, Max Tennyson; I am the Sorcerer Supreme.”

Max snorts. “You, uh…sure look the part, ma’am.” –he mutters.

The Sorcerer smiles. “As you can see, that’s about half the job.” –she jokes, waving at everyone but him. She then turns to Kanjigar. “Rise, noble Trollhunter. I may be Merlin’s successor, but I won’t demand from you the deference he so obviously enjoyed from your kind.”

Kanjigar rises, but still keeps his head bowed. “This fleshbag and his cohort threaten the safety of Trollmarket.” –he says, cautiously. “It was my duty to stop them.”

“So it was.” –she agrees. “But slaying them all would only invite an investigation. Better that we…fudge the trail a little, no?”

The Sorcerer doesn’t wait for a response; she conjures a white mist on her right palm, and wafts it over to the surviving Knights, Enoch included. He slumps down, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. At Max’s questioning look, she gives him a half-shrug. “I’ve modified their memory. They’ll all remember tonight, but they’ll never recall the right place to look. Let them chase their own tails – perhaps they’ll find them tucked between their legs, frightened as they are of this beautiful world of ours.” –she informs them. “And worry not, Master Kanjigar – I’ll also reinforce the wards around Arcadia, make doubly sure your kind remains undiscovered.”

She opens a strange, swirling portal to a hazy location he can’t identify, and tosses the survivors through. She then has the purple tendrils consume the remains of those killed in actions, swallowed by the earth in an instant burial. “Do promise me, however,” –she tells Kanjigar. “…that you will find and deal with the rogue Trolls who drew the knights to this area. I’ve made an exception tonight in service of keeping the status quo intact, but I do believe it’s the Trollhunter’s duty to keep mankind and Trolls safe in separation.”

Kanjigar palms the Amulet affixed to his chest. “It will be done, Ancient One.”

The Sorcerer bows her head, thankful. She then turns to Max. “Would you like to forget as well?” –she asks him. “I understand this sort of business can be…difficult to parse, for some.”

“No, thank you.” –he says, maybe a bit too quickly. “I’m used to weird. Not so much on Earth, maybe, but…I’ll manage. I always have.”

She hums. “Remarkable.” –she praises. “If you’d like to learn more, Mr. Tennyson, Kamar-Taj shall open its doors for you. Though I would suggest you familiarize with the denizens under Arcadia first – I think you’ll find your underground neighbors quite fascinating.”

With that, the Sorcerer Supreme casts another portal under her feet, and she swiftly drops through it. Max sighs; this feels exactly like it felt to find the Omnitrix and get tossed headfirst into the larger galaxy beyond the Sol system, and the many-sided conflicts between the various factions of the Milky Way.

“Thank you.” –Kanjigar reluctantly says, snapping him out of the odd déjà vu. “I hesitate to admit it, but despite my bravado…I didn’t much care for my chances before you arrived.”

“Anytime, Trollhunter.” –he says, finally holstering his blaster. He nods at him. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to give an old fleshbag a tour of your Trollmarket?”

Kanjigar huffs, amused. “Not tonight, no. A warrior should never neglect his rest.” –he says. “But I suppose if a human is to behold our glorious Heartstone…we could certainly do worse than Max Tennyson.”

Chapter 8: Cinder Fall and Winter Schnee

Chapter Text

Cinder has seen a lot of death throughout her life.

It comes with the territory, of course – being a Huntress, she’s no stranger to ravaged villages, unlucky travelling caravans, and even fellow Huntsmen falling in battle to the endless, blackened mass of claws, spikes, and fangs that is the creatures of Grimm. She’s also wrought quite a bit of death herself, unfortunately, routing bandit clans and putting down some of the more extremist elements on both sides of the idiotic human vs. Faunus conflict. At just twenty-six, she’s seen it all – and she’s got the mechanical arm and non-decorative eyepatch to prove it.

But this? This barely recognizable melee of human remains she’s been called to investigate? This is something else entirely.

The site of the carnage is a fairly small island just off the northeast coast of Vale; the place is uninhabited, but the small town by the mainland’s shoreline reported seeing strange lights and hearing abnormal sounds in the past few months, culminating in a sizable Grimm horde that, for some utterly unexplained reason, completely bypassed the town. According to multiple townspeople, the Grimm came in force just one week prior, unleashed some sort of chaos at the islet, and left without even giving their homes a second glance.

Now, if there’s one thing Cinder can give the Grimm, it’s that they’re usually pretty predictable; the young ones will always bite and claw relentlessly at whatever human or Faunus they see, while the older, more battle-hardened survivors will usually wait for the best chance to strike, or gods forbid, actually plan their attacks and command the younger monsters. Regardless of the age of the Grimm involved, however, it’s completely unheard of that they would fully ignore a human settlement; even the walls of Vale regularly see roaming bands of Beowulves fruitlessly clawing at the nigh-impregnable defenses, so a seaside town, no matter how well defended, should’ve definitely seen some action – and it has, is the thing, in the past. The town has a couple of retired Huntsmen guarding it, and they tell her that, not even two months back, they repelled a stray pack of young Boarbatusks.

The creatures of Grimm seem to have spent all of their aggression on these poor bastards, instead; they’re not just dead, they’re...massacred. It’s hard to tell where one corpse ends and another begins, a senseless mass of dry blood and rotting gore the likes of which she’s never seen before – Grimm are relentless, of course, but they just don’t toy with their prey once dead, as their one and only goal is to kill as many people as possible – it doesn’t matter whether their victims are mauled, stung, or crushed to death, only that they no longer live. But it goes beyond the unusually frenzied carnage; whoever these people were, they were armed – not that it did them any good – and their weapons are weird.

She kneels by one, wincing at the stench of decay wafting from its former wielder. It’s damaged by a claw swipe, likely from an Ursa by the width of the jagged grooves in the metal and plastic, and it’s clearly some kind of gun, but for the life of her, she can’t identify any sort of transformation mechanism, and there’s also no evidence of Dust to be found anywhere on the scene. Instead, these strange weapons appear to use wholly metallic ammunition, pre-shaped and propelled by some kind of highly combustible black powder.

Cinder’s not anywhere near the gun nut that most of the rest of her adopted family are, but she vaguely recalls hearing Ruby gush about the earliest attempts by Atlesian armorers at producing ranged ballistic weapons without the use of Dust, an investigative effort that would end up abandoned altogether once the Schnee Dust Corp. turned Dust from a relatively rare, sparingly used substance to the very backbone of technology in Remnant.

Speaking of whom...Cinder thinks, as an Atlesian airship zips overhead, touching down on a nearby clearing. She doesn’t go out to meet them; let the Snow Queen get her boots dirty for once.

Winter Schnee descends down the ramp of her needlessly fancy airship, flanked by a half-dozen prototype AK-200 defense droids. To her credit, she trudges the hundred feet or so to the site of the carnage, and her nose merely wrinkles as the stench hits her. “Cinder Fall.” –she greets, appearing not to be overly fond of having to work with her.

Cinder knows it’s bullsh*t, of course. This isn’t their first mission together, and it definitely won’t be their last – Winter just loves protocol, red tape, and more than anything, keeping up appearances as second-in-command of the entire Atlesian military. She can’t fathom it, honestly; an Ace Op could be neck-deep in Grimm and they’d still have to ask ol’ Jimmy Ironwood for rules of engagement or some crap like that, probably. Sure, Atlas typically grants its Huntsmen and Huntresses the most advanced, bleeding edge weapons and equipment, but in terms of operational freedom and autonomy, they’re the worst of all the Kingdoms.

“Snow Queen.” –she retorts, in that Qrow-like drawl Winter hates so much. “Here to take over my investigation in the name of Atlas?”

“Would that I could.” –she laments. “But you and I both know Ozpin and Vale’s Council are much too keen on keeping this a bilateral affair.”

“Oh, I know. Keep pouting, though; you look cute when you’re forced to play diplomat.”

Winter rolls her eyes. “Get to the point, Cinder. What’ve you found?”

Cinder nods at the pile. “Roughly two dozen humans, male and female, apparently no Faunus victims. Hard to tell their age, for obvious reasons, but I’d say late twenties to late fifties, lightly armored.” –she reports, nudging what appears to be a carbon fiber kneepad with the tip of one of her blades.

“Doesn’t look like armor helped them at all.” –Winter notes, sarcastic. Cinder fishes a metal round from one of the ammo cartridges, and tosses it over at the former Schnee heiress. “Metal rounds? No Dust?”

Cinder hums in agreement. “Odd, right?”

“Bizarre is more like it; it’s not completely unheard of, but as far as I know, the practice fell out of favor even before the Great War and the advent of mass-produced Dust weaponry. I doubt even the poorest bandit in Vacuo uses anything like this.” –she muses, examining the bullet. “Seems rather prohibitive; a single block of Hard-Light Dust can be used to flash-forge thousands of standard rounds. This cartridge holds, what...twenty or thirty bullets?”

“Just about.” –Cinder retorts. “Did you talk to the townspeople?”

Winter raises an eyebrow at her. “I read the mission report; I assume it’s accurate?”

It’s Cinder’s turn to roll her eyes. “Accurate, sure, but any Huntress worth her salt should gather every scrap of information available on her quarry.”

The Ace Operative scoffs. “Spare me the lesson, Cinder. Just tell me, what do you make of this?”

“I think...” –Cinder says. “...there’s a blood trail we can follow.” –she says, nodding at a couple of grass patches stained with flecks of dry blood. The splatter leads her to believe that someone managed to limp away from the carnage – though given the mindless fury of the Grimm that attacked here, Cinder holds no illusion that the person survived.

Winter narrows her eyes – clearly, she missed the trail upon first inspection. “I see. Lead the way, then.”

Cinder does, slowly but surely, walking deeper into the small forest that covers most of the islet. They find the missing corpse only a couple minutes later – similarly obliterated, to neither of their surprise. Most importantly, though, they find the entrance to a partially hidden cavern leading into the depths of the islet, which the person was likely trying to reach before getting mauled.

“Of course.” –Winter curses under her breath, just from a glance at the unappealing entrance. “Into the soggy breach we go, I suppose.”

She has the droids stand guard, and Cinder takes point as they plunge into the darkness. They only manage a couple dozen feet inside before the place gets too dark to navigate safely, so Cinder draws one of the twin swords that make up Midnight, and lets her Semblance seep into the metal, turning it red hot.

“What is this, a romantic evening?” –Winter scoffs.

She smirks, cheekily. “I wish. The mangled corpses kinda ruined the mood already.”

In response, Winter rolls her eyes and summons one of her family’s signature Glyphs – which does, admittedly, do a much better job of lighting the place up, not that Cinder would ever give her verbal approval. The new and improved lighting reveals a series of small tide pools, across the length of which has been laid a series of metal planks and a simple railing to facilitate access into the cavern’s depths. Cinder notes a small camera, currently slumped and without power – likely pointed at the cave’s entrance while this strange little secret base was operational.

“That’s a long term feature.” –Winter notes, following her gaze. “You don’t use surveillance equipment unless you intend to stay for a significant amount of time.”

“I think we could gather that from the size of their expedition alone.” –Cinder gives her a half-shrug. “But yeah, I see your point.”

The makeshift path leads into a narrow passage, at the end of which is a metal door snugly fit into the black, volcanic rock that makes up the cave. The door is locked, but it doesn’t seem particularly sturdy, so Cinder slashes at its hinges and kicks it open, revealing a small-ish elevator, the kind that can’t take more than four or five people, max.

Winter frowns at it. She frowns at a lot of things, in Cinder’s experience. “There’s staying around and then there’s this. This must’ve taken months to install, at least. Maybe more.”

Cinder has to agree with the suspicion. “You wanna call it here, or should we keep going?”

“That a challenge, Huntress?”

Cinder snorts. “If an Ace Op considers an elevator ride a challenge, I shudder to consider Atlas’ fate if the Grimm ever manage to look up.” –she says, drily. “No, I just thought you’d want to report this in to Commander Tin Can. Do some fun activities like paperwork, and...more paperwork, knowing you.”

“A proper accounting of events is always necessary.” –Winter retorts, indignant. “That being said...our report should be as accurate and comprehensive as possible.”

“Meaning?”

“We get in the damn elevator, Cinder.” –the former heiress says, sarcastically.

Cinder follows her inside, and she reaches for the button – fortunately, there’s only two, labelled for their convenience with arrows pointing up and down. The elevator lurches down, seemingly struggling to function – a rush job, perhaps, or a lack of maintenance – so the duo keep on their guard, but they reach the bottom swiftly enough. The doors open to a sizable circular space, dimly lit, layered with a paper-thin film of dust, and lined with strange, large, box or cage-like devices whose walls appear to be made of some kind of dull, opaque energy field emitted by a metal frame, each hooked to a small computer station – a rather outdated computer station, in the same way their weapons were, seemingly devoid of any Dust to power it or display information. The entire system is analogue, equipped with a physical keyboard and monitor.

Winter walks over, and taps on some of the keys, but nothing happens. “No power, maybe?” –Cinder muses.

The white-haired woman narrows her eyes. “Odd that the elevator would still work, then.” –she mutters, leaning forward to examine the keyboard more closely. The letters are recognizable as part of the Common alphabet, though some of the words are strange, or make no sense at all. Winter reaches for the largest button on the keyboard, labelled with a glyph of a circle pierced vertically by a straight line. Cinder vaguely recalls seeing a symbol like it in Atlas used to signify ‘power’.

The computer whines to life, and so does the energy field that makes up the sides of the large box it’s hooked up to – it’s still opaque, but now it shimmers with a bright, inner light. Winter draws her blade and gently runs its tip along the energy field; it puts up a resistance, wave-like patterns spreading out from the point of contact with her sword. She hums, evidently curious.

And then, something inside tries to break out; claw-like patterns appear all over the side of what’s now very obviously a cage, rattling the frame emitting the field. The containment holds steady, despite the ferocity of its occupant – judging from the size of the claws and the spacing between them, and the angle of the swipes, Cinder would wager it’s an Alpha Beowulf. A sharp bark followed by the distinctive howl, even muffled by the field, swiftly confirm her suspicions.

Winter takes a step back, holding her blade between her and the captive monster. “I guess they were studying Grimm.” –Cinder drawls.

“Obviously.” –Winter retorts. “But what makes this situation unique? Every kingdom has laboratories dedicated to researching Grimm specimens. Why did this particular team draw such ire?”

“Dunno. Poor containment protocols?”

“Doubt it. The cages can obviously hold them.” –Winter counters. “And the struggle topside doesn’t seem to have reached the depths of this place at all.”

Cinder nods. “You know what else is weird? There aren’t any scientists here.”

Winter waves her off. “Surely they’re among the dead.”

The Huntress narrows her eye, unimpressed. “Your overly militarized kingdom may train all its field scientists for combat, but nobody else does. They get security details, like the one massacred above ground.” –she says. Cinder looks around the room. “Given this place obviously isn’t linked to Atlas in any way, I think it’s a safer bet that the scientists left in a hurry – grabbed what they could and booked it somewhere safe, leaving their guards to fend off the Grimm. Or…I guess slow them down, a little.”

“Okay...finding at least one problem with your theory: I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s only one way in or out of the room.” –Winter says, sarcastic. “So either they are part of the carnage, or they vanished into thin air.”

Winter is right, of course – there really doesn’t seem to be anywhere obvious to go that isn’t right back up the elevator. Still, places like these usually have hidden paths for people to escape in an emergency; she tells her investigative partner as much, and the pair set about the room, examining the curved walls for any concealed mechanisms.

The search pans out, but not in the way they expected; they find no secret doors, but a section of the floor does show evidence of having shifted in the past – scrapes in the metal going in consistent directions that make no sense with the rest of the regular wear and tear of the room, and the slightest bit of a wider gap between two large rectangular panels than the rest of the uniform flooring.

“Escape chute, maybe?” –Cinder muses.

“Kind of large for an escape chute. Maybe a passage into a deeper section of the base, rather.” –she counters. She ejects the Hard Light Dust cartridge from the core of her sword, and replaces it with a purple one. Once activated through a Glyph, the Gravity Dust pulls on the panels with ease, tearing them off their hidden hinges.

Cinder smirks – Winter must be getting impatient. She’s usually a bit more subtle than this.

What they find beneath the panels is rather bizarre; instead of a staircase or ladder going down, or perhaps a hydraulic platform meant to be lowered further into the depths, they encounter a recessed floor, maybe a foot below room level, marked with a set of geometric designs neither of them can make heads or tails of. Five small pillars of what appears to be stone sit at five equidistant points within the design, which combines concentric circles and pentagonal motifs – Cinder gets the distinct impression that the shapes are important, but she has no idea what their purpose could be.

Both of them stare at their discovery for what seems like the longest time, before Cinder finally pipes up. “Yeah, I’ve got nothing.”

“I’m not sure I have anything myself.” –Winter admits. “But the precision of the shapes does remind me of my family’s Glyphs.”

“What’re you saying? You think this is Jacques’ doing?”

Winter snorts. “This isn’t his style.” –she retorts. “And besides, it’s too low tech. As you said, this can’t be from Atlas. Honestly, I’m starting to doubt it’s from any of the kingdoms.”

Cinder is inclined to agree, but they run out of time to ponder the matter further; all of the computer banks in the room suddenly come to life, and the ceiling directly above them opens up to reveal an intricate mechanism full of levers, pulleys, and a clear, crystalline material that slowly begins to stir.

Winter rushes to one of the newly resurrected monitors; on the screen, a large, red and black circular emblem of what appears to be a sinister skull connected to half a dozen spreading tentacles appears, a phrase revealing itself below the logo.

“‘Project Distant Star’?” –Winter reads, confused.

“Uh...Winter?” –Cinder calls out to the former heiress, merging her blades into the bow she calls Midnight and loosely aiming up at the ceiling.

Part of the machinery atop the secret design has started oscillating at an incredibly fast rate; the air between them shimmers, still transparent but seemingly vibrating, a hum like that of a bell after it’s rung fills the room, and the five tiny stone blocks atop the design suddenly collapse, melting into a dark gray liquid that forms a shallow pool that neatly covers the design beneath.

Winter’s gaze hardens, her blades held at the ready. Cinder forms an obsidian arrow through her Semblance and nocks it, aiming down at the mysterious pool – she has no idea what’s going on, but she hasn’t survived years as a Huntress tackling the harshest challenges Remnant has to offer by letting her enemies get the first shot in.

Before she can come up with a snarky quip to jab at her perennial rival, and before Winter can call for the Atlesian Knights to reinforce them, a hand bursts up through from the other side.

Chapter 9: Reed Richards and Victor von Doom

Chapter Text

New York City, 2012

“It truly is a brilliant discovery, Richards.”

Reed looks up from his microscope to see Victor, casually leaning on the doorframe to his lab at ESU. “You’ll have to be more specific, Victor.” –Reed jokes.

Victor rolls his eyes, stepping inside. “Those ‘unstable molecules’ of yours. Particles pushed to the very edge between matter and energy…inspired, really.”

Reed shrugs. “Ah, it’s nothing. Just had to keep Johnny from ending up naked every time he turned the flames on, y’know?”

“Knowing him, I doubt he truly minded.” –Victor reposes, sardonic. “Have you considered further applications? This technology seems to me like it’s wasted in simple clothing; with the right instructions and power source, you could do so much more.”

Reed leans back, crossing his arms. “What’d you have in mind?” –he asks, wary.

“The molecules conform to your abilities now; they stretch as you do, become invisible as Sue does, and so on. The more you use those abilities, the better the molecules become adapted to your particular set of skills.” –he describes. “The suits form a synergy with whoever wears them, facilitating further use of your powers.”

He narrows his arms. “Right. They have an elasticity to them, a ‘memory’ of sorts.”

“What if you could expand upon that memory? What if you could teach the unstable molecules to specifically hold onto those modifications, and using the cosmic energy you emit as you utilize your abilities as fuel, you could temporarily reproduce the conditions that have changed your bodies so fundamentally, and have them applied to something or someone else?” –Victor proposes. “An android, most likely, or perhaps even another human being?”

Reed shoots him a withering look. “Victor, why on Earth would we want to give other people our mutations, even temporarily?” –he questions.

“You’ve made it quite clear that you don’t intend to use your gifts for the protection of others.” –Victor notes, clearly disapproving.

“Because we’re still not sure if we’re Captain America or the Hulk.” –Reed says, exasperated. “We’ve been over this, Victor; we simply don’t know enough about our mutations to use them extensively – and even if we did, we aren’t superheroes. We’re scientists, my friend; none of us are looking to put our lives on the line simply because an unpredictable cosmic storm blasted through us and, somehow, miraculously didn’t kill us.”

“Preposterous. The universe has gifted you with power, Richards; to shun it is an insult to those who do not have it.”

Reed sighs. “The world already has Iron Man.” –Reed says, sarcastically. “Hell, it may even have a damn Norse god, if he ever returns. No one needs the, what, ‘Fantastic Four’ running around like superpowered headless chickens.”

Victor huffs. “There is so much out there beyond the capabilities of Stark’s suit, Richards.” –he says, cryptically. “And more still that will no doubt rise to challenge him, even as he continually upgrades.”

“If you say so, Nostradamus.” –Reed says, rolling his eyes.

The room blows up then.

Reed must black out for several minutes, because the next thing he knows, he’s looking up at the sky, the lab’s ceiling nowhere to be seen. He almost thinks he’s hallucinating, because a fleet of some kind of flying, sled-like contraptions soars overhead, blasting bolts of purple energy at everything in sight.

New York is on fire.

He takes stock of his surroundings, his vision blurry and his hearing momentarily impaired. The lab is completely wrecked, and he’s stuck under a chunk of the wall or ceiling, a huge slab that would’ve no doubt crushed to death someone less flexible than he is. He tosses his arm over a metal beam that looks stable enough, grabbing onto the debris as a makeshift pulley system, raising the slab just enough that he can pull himself out. He shakes his head, trying to clear the fog that’s settled in his mind, and regains just enough hearing that he can hear the pained gasps of the only other person in the room.

Victor is kneeling, clutching his face and struggling to rise to his feet. His frame is almost inhumanly tense, and his hands are enveloped in some kind of amber energy. Reed reaches out, and Victor turns.

It’s...horror.

The skin on his face is mostly gone, seared off in the explosion, charred flesh and carbonized blood almost entirely replacing his once handsome visage. The energy that surrounds Victor’s hands seems to be knitting his wounds closed – if not outright fixing the damage, it at least seems to be keeping him from bleeding out or going into shock. His teeth – almost entirely bare, his lips receding like a corpse’s – are clenched so hard that Reed wouldn’t be surprised if they cracked.

“Victor…” –he says, barely hearing himself.

The man hisses, and then, bizarrely, laughs. “I guess…” –he pants, staring up at the chaos in the sky. “I am…something…of a prophet.”

Sokovia, 2018

“That looks good, Ben.” –Reed says. “Johnny, you’re up.”

Ben is holding a massive steel beam in place, part of the superstructure of a brand new municipal building, needed after the Ultron debacle three years past completely destroyed the city state of Sokovia. Reed and his family have been working pro bono on the reconstruction for over a year, now, lending their superhuman abilities to the beleaguered populace – whose trust was, rather understandably, quite difficult to gain.

Their mission is two-fold, however; Sokovia neighbors the significantly larger and more powerful country of Latveria, and though its monarch hasn’t made an overt declaration of any kind, years of propaganda and military build-up tell him – and most analysts – that Victor von Doom is very obviously interested in annexing the land.

Johnny hovers over to the metal beam, and starts blasting a thin but powerful beam of pure heat from his hands. The metal fuses almost instantly, and before long, the welding job is done. “Great work.” –Reed praises.

The Human Torch shrugs, clearly bored. “Can I take my smoke break now?”

Reed frowns. “You don’t…oh. Fire joke.” –he realizes. “Regardless, you don’t smoke.”

“Not the point, man.”

“Fine, fine. We can take five, but we really must get at least five more beams in place before the day is done.”

Johnny gives him a mock salute, then blasts off towards the center of town, no doubt looking to woo yet another young Sokovian. “Really oughta keep a tighter leash on ‘im, Reed.” –Ben chides, sitting on the nearby stack of metal beams. “Or get ready to be the uncle to half-flaming babies a couple dozen times over.”

“Ah, he’s earned some slack.” –Reed says, going over the designs for the building on his tablet again. “He’s really grown these past few years, Ben, even you have to admit it.”

Ben huffs. “I ain’t about to do that.” –he grouses. “I’ll say he’s slightly less of a brat, I guess, and that’s me bein’ generous.”

“You know what, I’ll take it.” –Reed says, ever the optimist. He digs into his pack, pulling out a sandwich and tossing it at Ben, who catches and practically gulps it down in a single bite.

They sit in comfortable silence for a minute or two before they see Sue jogging over, a troubled expression on her face. “Reed, we have a problem.” –she says, as soon as she’s in earshot.

“What is it?”

“Victor…”

The man in question beats her to the punch; off in the distance, a trio of hovering aircraft flying Latverian colors silently glides over the forested area, rapidly approaching their build site. They land just outside, a number of soldiers, both human and robotic, swarming out and assembling into something of a corridor for their master.

The King of Latveria steps down from the middle craft, sauntering down towards them. He’s become something of a recluse in recent years, overseeing the rapid evolution of his nation from his ancestral home in Hassenstadt, the capital. His blazing good looks are long forgotten, his face completely hidden behind a metal mask that gives him a hideous permanent scowl, somewhere between pure hatred and terrible agony. The mask is framed by wild, graying brown locks, reaching all the way down to his shoulders, and the rest of his body is hidden beneath a rich green hooded cloak, trimmed with gold.

“Richards.” –he greets, narrowing his bloodshot eyes.

“Victor…” –Reed crosses his arms. “What are you doing here?”

“Whaddaya think, egghead?” –Ben grunts. “Vicky’s fixin’ to move in.”

Victor hums. “Charming as ever, Mr. Grimm.” –he drawls. “And wrong, of course. I would not insult Sokovia’s glorious defenders with so paltry an invasion force.”

“Oh, well aren’t you the reasonable one.” –Sue says, sarcastically. “Say your piece and get the hell out of here, Victor.”

“As much as I would love to have a discussion with you, Susan, my business here is with Richards alone.” –Victor says.

Reed scoffs. “And it couldn’t have waited till we were out of the country?” –he asks. “You know many Sokovians fear you mean to take over. Landing with a bunch of soldiers on foreign soil isn’t exactly about to dispel that notion in their mind.”

Victor shrugs. “This is no longer foreign soil.” –he says. “I have purchased the land on behalf of Latveria, and mean to turn this place into our embassy in Sokovia.” –he explains, to everyone’s shock. Victor turns to Sue. “So you see, Susan, I’m not particularly inclined to let myself be evicted from my own home by foreign nationals.”

“Startin’ to feel mighty inclined to take a swing at what we’ve been puttin’ together, Reed.” –Ben says, squaring his shoulders.

Reed sighs. “Alright, everyone. No need for violence, real or imagined.” –he chastises everyone. “Let’s talk, Victor.”

The pair walk further into the construction site, leaving Ben and Sue in an awkward stand-off with the Latverian troops. “This used to be a hospital.” –Victor says, staring up at the skeleton of the building.

“Yeah?”

Victor hums. “I was born in a refugee camp on the border between Sokovia and Latveria.” –he says. Reed knows already, but he also knows that it’s useless to point out the repetition. “My mother nearly died, shortly after the fact – almost bled out, likely because of an inexperienced midwife. The people in the camp pooled their meager funds and paid for her to be attended here. Saved her life, at great personal cost and hardship.”

That part, Reed didn’t know. “I’m sorry it’s gone.”

Victor chuckles. “I’m not.” –he says. “The destruction of Sokovia was the awakening the nations of Earth needed. The world needs its heroes, of course, but this tragedy made it painfully clear that they are fallible individuals. Human, even if they aren’t. It proved they are not enough.”

“I take it you’re a fan of the Accords, then?”

“Don’t insult me, Richards. Of course I’m not.” –Victor scoffs. “Anyone seeking to control power without power of their own to match is a fool, and though I’m sure they’d like to think otherwise, Earth’s militaries couldn’t hold a candle to the might of the Avengers.”

“Right…” –Reed says. “I assume you’re going somewhere with this?”

Victor hums. He sounds…worried. “Two hours ago, my satellites briefly picked up decidedly non-human signals in high orbit above the eastern half of the African continent. Their energy signatures matched the vessel that briefly hovered over Greenwich Village yesterday.”

“The aliens that fought Spider-Man and Stark?” –Reed says, raising an eyebrow.

“And the so-called Sorcerer Supreme, yes.” –Victor says, derisively. “Captured by some paltry telekinetic. How very embarrassing.”

“I’m sure you think you could do a better job.” –Reed says, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

“I know it for a fact, Richards.” –he says, making a gloved fist. “But I digress. The important part here is that the energy signatures bore some similarities to those emitted by Chitauri technology six years ago. Coupled with the obvious alien invasion parallel, I decided to compare the two; though the vessels’ design philosophy is markedly different, the underlying technology has a common origin – and, I suspect, a common purpose.”

“You’re saying it’s them again.” –Reed surmises. “Not Loki, or the Chitauri, but whoever’s in command of them.”

“Indeed. And I suspect they’ve come to finish the job.”

Something changes in the air in that moment. Victor tilts his head, as if he’s listening to something in the distance, and his eyes widen. “No…” –he whispers, and turns to the people they left behind.

“What’s wrong?” –Reed says, as a pit seems to be forming in his stomach.

“Those fools…” –Victor mutters, and takes off towards Sue, Ben, and the soldiers, Reed running close behind him.

Just as they’re about to reach them, Johnny crashes in their midst, flame sputtering out as his incandescent body starts to wither, like spent charcoals. “What the hell?” –he squeaks out. “Reed, what…?”

He doesn’t get to finish, the flames going out completely, his body turning to floating gray dust before their eyes. Reed’s heart rushes in his ears, cold sweat sprouting from the back of his head. He can barely process what’s happened.

And then it happens again. And again. And again.

The soldiers falter and fall, gently exploding into dust as they hit the ground. Ben manages to crush the metal bar he was sitting on before delivering one final gasp and collapsing like the rest. And worst of all – most heartbreaking, most agonizing of all – Sue meets his eyes, having stared in shock at the spot her brother’s seemingly died at, and chokes out “I love…”, before vanishing herself.

Something snaps inside Reed in that moment. Everyone around him is...gone.

Everyone, it seems, except for Victor von Doom.

“It’s over.” –Victor says, somehow more soulless than his mask usually makes him sound. “They lost.”

Earth-16, 2016

“You like this one, don’t you?”

Victor doesn’t react for a minute. “It is…remarkable.” –he admits.

“I think I prefer 10K, myself.” –Reed shrugs. “But I see what you mean.”

“Earth-10000 is too volatile. If not for the nigh-infinite versatility of Azmuth’s creation, I would rather have skipped it altogether. Earth-16 is much more stable.” –Victor counters. “There is a clear path for this world’s champions, an obvious line of succession. The legacy of their heroes could potentially last over a thousand years.”

Reed hums. “I’d think the problem is that it’s too stable. We’re very limited in what we could take for ourselves here, at least without causing some irreparable damage.”

“As usual, Richards, your sensibilities blind you.” –Victor mocks. He swipes through familiar profiles – Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, Green Lantern, The Flash, and everyone else in this universe’s version of the Justice League.

“None of them, I take it.”

“Of course not. But I’ve run a comparison with other derivatives of this type, and I believe I’ve discovered a major character missing from this line-up.”

Reed scoffs at Victor’s chosen terminology. They’ve been over this many times; just because some of these people feature in fictional stories in other universes or exist in many shapes and forms sticking to the same archetype doesn’t mean he gets to call them ‘characters’. “Go on.” –is all he says, too tired to protest.

Victor brings up Earth-16’s main timeline and scrolls from the present year – late 2016, in this dimension – all the way back to 1977. “Krypton’s explosion.” –Reed says, hollow. Aside from Kal-El’s birth, of course, it appears to be the only major event in that year.

“How many have perished, I wonder, in so many universes, because of this particular cosmic whim?” –Victor muses.

“On that, we agree.” –Reed says. “At least Superman comes out of that particularly raw deal.”

“Indeed. And usually, so does Supergirl.” –Victor says, and Reed can tell that he’s grinning behind the mask. “But not here.”

Reed leans forward, intrigued. “Seriously?”

It’s true that he hasn’t heard anything about Supergirl during his brief time among the people of this world, but he just figured that she hadn’t been rescued by Superman yet; Victor taps an icon that leads to Kara Zor-El’s profile. Her dates of birth and death prove his point. “1965 to 1977. Cause of death: planetary explosion.” –he reads out loud, his eyebrows rising. “She dies?”

“She does. Along with every Kryptonian in this universe save for Kal-El, and a handful of prisoners in their Phantom Zone.” –Victor supplies.

“I can’t believe it. She’s so important to so many people in other universes. Earth-38 would practically collapse without her.” –Reed balks. “How is this not an aberration?”

Victor huffs. “Such is the fickle will of our creators, Richards. You know this to be true.” –he says. “But their whims are fortunate, in this case, for us.”

“Is it even possible to take her in?” –Reed wonders. “Our universes…they have their similarities, of course, but they’re so fundamentally different.”

“This endeavor carries risk. It always has.” –Victor reminds him. “And it has always been worth it. I judge this case to be no different.”

Reed could think of a hundred arguments against this harebrained scheme – many of which he should rightly voice, if only to make absolutely sure they aren’t breaking their universe any more than it already is. He should stop this, he knows. They’ve technically accomplished their objective already, many iterations ago; it’s Victor’s perpetually bruised ego that keeps them tirelessly going forward with cycle upon cycle.

Well. Victor’s ego…and his own. As much as he wishes he could simply bask in their victory, a part of him – a very loud and very vengeful part – needs their triumph to be absolute. Thanos can’t even come close to winning again. And he can’t ever bear to see the light leave Sue’s eyes again.

Besides, this is a life they’re saving. A glimmer of atonement for all the lives he didn’t save because he chose to stay on the sidelines while the heroes of his time put their own on the line.

Green energy surrounds them and their base of operations, both from the trip through time and the impending doom of Superman’s homeworld. Two tiny glints, off in the distance, rapidly approach them – one destined for greatness, one fated for destruction.

As he has so many other times, Victor von Doom reaches out and changes history.

Chapter 10: Ladybug, Princess Shuri, Prince N'Jadaka, and King T'Chaka of Wakanda

Chapter Text

“You’re gonna ruin your nails.”

Shuri looks up from the tablet she’s furiously trying to study, seeing Erik lounging on the garish, golden sofa of the ridiculously glitzy suite they were booked at Le Grand Paris for the event – delivering free, brand new prosthetics of her own design to Parisian children who can’t afford them, the first step in what should eventually be a worldwide campaign. Her cousin takes a sip from his drink – something alcoholic, she doesn’t care to know what – then raises an eyebrow. “Nervous much?” –he asks.

She wipes her hand on her dress, wincing as the jagged bits of the fingernail she’s been unconsciously chewing through get caught and pull on a seam. Her mother will not be happy. “It’s my first time speaking in public outside of Wakanda.” –she defends herself. “And whatever the public speaking gene in our family might be, I just know I didn’t inherit it. I belong in my lab, not in front of a microphone. Or, y’know, people.”

“No one’s asking you to memorize the damn thing.” –he drawls. Despite having lived most of his life in the homeland by now, he’s never shaken the American accent. “You could just use a teleprompter. Or, hell, have the techies make you a PowerPoint presentation.”

“What, twenty minutes before the speech? I can’t do that to the people running the event – I know I hate when people toss last minute requests at me.” –she grouses. “I just need to practice a few more times, so don’t distract me anymore, cousin.”

The once-lost prince shrugs. “I’m just sayin’. You already brought the revolutionary prosthetics and you’re giving them away for free. You could f*ck up the whole speech and I doubt anybody would care.”

“Language, N’Jadaka.” –her father’s voice quietly comes from the adjacent room. King T’Chaka walks over to them with the calm gait of a panther who’s just finished a sizable meal. “You are free to speak as you will, but I do not wish to hear such words from my daughter later.”

“Too late, Baba. I already know every single way there is to offend an American.” –she grins, trying her best to ignore the cold stare her cousin pretty much permanently directs at her father, for painfully obvious reasons. “And there’s a lot of them!”

The King bows his head in pretend sorrow. “Oh, to what depths falls the line of Bashenga…” –he mourns, to her rolling her eyes as exaggeratedly as she can. King T’Chaka smiles warmly, walking over to her. It’s hard to believe that he was once the Black Panther; even though the power of the Heart-Shaped Herb still laces every cell in his body, her father’s every motion has always felt slow, thoughtful, and extremely deliberate, ever since she can remember. T’Challa by comparison, seems like an ornery housecat. “Perhaps your cousin should be the one to give the speech in your stead?”

“Hell no! Erik wouldn’t even know a servo from an actuator.”

Her cousin snorts into his glass. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” –he grins.

She rolls her eyes. “Point being, he might know how to speak French, but he’d have no idea what he’s actually talking about.”

“But you do, and you take pride in the work you’ve done.” –her father notes. “I believe the people who care will notice this regardless of any errors in your speech, and the people who don’t shall hardly hear what you have to say, anyways. Speak from the heart, my daughter, and you will find that the right words will come to you, and they will reach, in turn, the right people.”

Shuri’s pretty sure it’s not quite so simple, but she appreciates the support, nonetheless. Baba always knows what to say.

Suddenly, their phones start blaring a harsh, unfamiliar tone. Erik frowns, picking his device up from the coffee table, her own phone carelessly left somewhere in her room. “What the hell…?” –he mutters, after reading whatever message they’ve just gotten. He tosses the phone to her – she fumbles it, but the floors are thankfully covered in horrid but very luxurious rugs, so it doesn’t break. Once she picks it up, the screen reads as follows:

ALERTE AKUMA:

Un malfaiteur akumatisé a été détecté. Il est conseillé aux civils et aux touristes de s’abriter sur place. Évitez les monuments et les lieux de rencontre populaires.

NE VOUS APPROCHEZ PAS du malfaiteur pour quelque raison que ce soit.

NE PAS INTERFÉRER avec les opérations d’application de la loi.

NE PERTURBEZ PAS les efforts des super-héros pour vaincre le malfaiteur.

Cette alerte se répétera périodiquement jusqu’à ce que les autorités puissent confirmer que Ladybug et Chat Noir ont capturé l’Akuma et réparé tout dommage causé à la ville de Paris.

Shuri’s French is…lacking, to say the least, but she sort of parses through the message. Whatever’s going on, they’re supposed to shelter in place and avoid popular monuments, so as not to endanger themselves or hamper law enforcement operations. “What the heck is a ‘malfaiteur akumatisé’?”

“Bad guy, villain, something to that effect.” –Erik mutters, a dangerous edge to his voice.

“…right. I guess that explains the mention of superheroes.” –she retorts, her eyes hanging on ‘Ladybug et Chat Noir’. “I thought this sort of thing only happened in America.”

“People with power know no borders, and neither do those who seek to do harm with such gifts.” –her father says, morose. Erik, predictably, tosses a venomous glare in the king’s direction.

The six Dora Milaje assigned to their care all but burst into the room, led by Captain Ayo. Despite their monolithic expressions, Shuri has been around them long enough to tell that they’re nervous – this is a dangerous situation, no matter their incredible skills, and being on foreign soil, they’re expressly forbidden by royal decree from using their usual vibranium weaponry under any circ*mstances, for fear of drawing undue attention to Wakanda and its secret, ample reserves of the extraterrestrial metal. All they have is paltry sidearms and their hand-to-hand combat training.

…granted, that still makes them deadlier than most people in the world, but they’re usually much more lethal.

“My King, it appears the city is under some kind of attack.” –Ayo says. “We must follow evacuation procedures.”

“Of course, of course.” –he says, none too subtly glancing at her. Shuri gets the feeling this wouldn’t be so urgent if she weren’t here – after all, both her father and cousin are trained warriors, while she’s…not that, to say the least. “We’ll follow you, captain.”

The trio follow suit, swiftly surrounded by the Dora Milaje. Shuri laments the circ*mstances; even if she was very much not looking forward to speaking in public, this complication will at the very least delay the delivery of the prosthetics to dozens of kids who really needed them. They all hurry along towards the hotel’s service staircase, from which their protectors will have planned an escape route to a private airstrip secured by the Parisian branch of the War Dogs, where their Talon-class aircraft secretly awaits.

They rush down the stairs, joined by many of the hotel’s guests and staff. Shuri notices something strange, though; for a straight-up supervillain emergency, most of the people around them look rather calm – and even, in some cases, bored. One of the hotel’s staff members, a spindly looking man with a pencil-thin mustache, clad in a butler’s attire, looks at her and kinda just nods, in understanding. «C'est votre première fois, Mademoiselle?» –he asks.

She gets the gist of it, but she opts for English when she replies. “First time I’ve been near a supervillain attack? Uh…yeah, definitely. Not a lot of those in Wakanda. Or any, really.”

“Ah, apologies, Mademoiselle.” –he replies, in slightly accented but otherwise excellent English. “Yes, these Akumatized villains have been a problem for our city these past few months.”

Erik must’ve been listening in, because he turns around. “They kinda left that out of the brochure.” –he says, sarcastically. “Are you telling me this happens regularly?”

“Oui, Monsieur. The precise reason is unknown, but knowledge of these attacks seems unable to eh, escape the city of Paris?” –he tries to explain. “As soon as one crosses the borders of Paris, poof! One forgets all about Le Papillon and his Akumas.”

Her cousin snorts. “‘The Butterfly’? That’s the supervillain’s name?”

“Eh…I believe he wishes to be known as ‘Hawk Moth’, Monsieur. A more…fearsome moniker, perhaps?” –he shrugs. “The media prefers it, certainly, and most people now use it as well, our heroes included. Some of us call him still by the name the authorities gave him when he first attacked – the madman possesses people and gives them magical powers through a dark butterfly, terrorizing the city for no good reason. It is our own small way of fighting back, I suppose.”

Shuri almost stops in her tracks. Magical powers?, she thinks, derisively.

One would assume, given Wakanda’s near-ubiquitous worship of the panther goddess Bast, the almost mythical properties of vibranium, and the so-called sacred role of the Black Panther, that the princess of such a nation would understandably be a fervent believer of magic and the divine.

One would assume wrong.

It’s not that she hates the concept, or anything like that – even if the royal family’s many fastidious traditions and religious obligations often see her wearing incredibly uncomfortable outfits and standing around for hours on end, listening to choruses droning on and dancers prancing around about Bast’s blessings and the Black Panther’s nigh-demigod status in their mythology. But Shuri has always been a woman of science – she has studied the Heart-Shaped Herb as much as Zuri would allow, she intimately knows every property there is to know about vibranium, and she usually helps evaluate the tests T’Challa has gone through while training for his new role. Everything her people hold as sacred can be explained away with science, even if she’s had to write down several books’ worth of new discoveries on these subjects already. She has never felt the presence of Bast, she holds the tales of the Ancestral Plane as dubious at best, and she’s pretty damn sure the Heart-Shaped Herb is just a natural version of Doctor Abraham Erskine’s Super Soldier Serum – she’d go as far as to say that it’s probably what inspired him to begin with.

So, y’know, Paris allegedly getting attacked by a man named after a bug and his evil butterflies that grant magical powers to random people? That’s a bit of a hard pill to swallow.

Her thought process is interrupted by some kind of crash that makes the hotel’s structure shudder, coming from a couple floors above. Shuri winces, as the mad cackles of what sounds like an evil witch echo through the building. “Come on, Shuri, let’s go!” –Erik urges, pulling her arm.

Shuri nearly trips a handful of times, but her cousin keeps her steady, and soon enough, they burst out into the first floor. “Through here.” –Ayo says, nodding towards a door that looks like it’s reserved for employees only, just a few meters ahead. “We can cut across the kitchen to our vehicle waiting outside.”

“What, were we too good for the parking garage?” –Shuri raises an amused eyebrow.

“There is little room to maneuver there, Princess.” –one of the Dora Milaje gently supplies. “We would be trapped by whatever is attacking the city.”

The group rushes ahead as most of the other guests and staff continue on to the underground parking garage to shelter in place, as instructed by the phone alert. Nobody gets very far, though, as just then, a figure blows open the metal doors to the elevator like they’re made of cardboard, forcing them all to take cover behind whatever they can – which ends up being a nearby sofa for Shuri and Erik.

They look like…well, a teenager – a young woman that’s a bit shorter than Shuri herself, but just about her age of fifteen, and of a similarly scrawny build. That’s where the similarities end, though; her skin is a sickly, yellow-ish shade of green, she has short, pink hair with a bun crowning her head that some kind of tube protrudes from, and her outfit is a strange, stark black and hot pink affair that sort of gives her an air of royalty – or at least, a mockery of it.

She laughs to herself, seemingly unhinged, her bright pink eyes searching the lobby, framed in a black domino mask. «Allô! Je suis venu pour toi, ma très chère princesse Shuri...» -she coos, leveling some kind of weapon and sweeping it around the room.

Shuri’s blood runs cold. Why the hell does the supervillain know her name?

The crazed young woman prowls around. «Ne te cache pas, mon amour, je sais que tu es par ici ! Un de mes petit* serviteurs m'a dit...» -she whispers, with the tone of a yearning lover.

“Seems like you have a fan…” –Erik whispers, half disturbed, half amused. “…you sure you don’t have a secret girlfriend you’d like to introduce?”

“Shhh!!!” –she hisses. The supervillain, mercifully, seems to be too inside her head to notice anything. She walks off, still somewhere around the lobby, but at least they can relax a bit and maybe continue their escape if they’re really quiet.

Of course that’s when another alert comes in, and of course she’s still holding Erik’s phone while it happens. Shuri scrambles to shut it off, but she only succeeds in muffling it, getting a good look at the message while she does – and the picture of her included on her diplomatic papers, right above it.

L'Akuma est nommé «PRINCESSE FRAGRANCE»

C'est une jeune femme d'une quinzaine d'années, aux cheveux roses et à la peau verte.

Elle brandit une sorte d'arme à feu qui diffuse des parfums de différentes couleurs, chacune avec un effet différent.

Elle a déclaré qu'elle se dirigeait vers l'hôtel Le Grand Paris et cherchait la princesse Shuri de Wakanda.

Évitez tout contact à tout prix.

Oh, so she’s specifically looking for her. Wonderful.

Unfortunately, she finds her right then and there; the noise must’ve drawn her attention, because she bursts through a nearby door, a crazed smile on her face. The Dora Milaje spring into action, lining up their shots and lighting her up, but the supervillain merely winces at the bullets harmlessly bouncing off her body, levelling her own weapon. Upon closer inspection, it’s something reminiscent of a perfume bottle, fashioned into a gun and connected by a long tube to the pink bun atop her head. She pulls the trigger once, and a blue spray blasts forward, painting the right arm of one of the warriors.

The woman growls with pain, as the arm is frozen solid and rendered useless, an intense, almost eye-watering scent of mint hanging in the air. “Don’t let the vapor touch you!” –she shouts. The Dora Milaje have probably figured that out already, but she figures it’s worth saying anyway.

«Oh, tu préfères l'anglais, ma chèrie?» –the crazy chick coos, keeping the warriors at bay with multicolored blasts. “Eh, it is not quite as romantic, but I suppose it is the more common tongue.” –she says, heavily accented.

“What the hell do you want with her?” –Erik demands.

“Is it not obvious? I am in love!” –she says, her dreamy tone contrasting with the sofa she’s just set on fire with a red mist. She turns, locking eyes with her, bloodshot, unnatural pink on frightened dark brown. “And I have eyes only for my fellow princess.”

A sigil made of violet light appears over her face then, and she winces from some inner pain. “…yes, Hawk Moth, I remember your request. Worry not, Ladybug was right behind me – I’ll just…indulge a bit, before she gets here.”

This bizarre distraction is costly; the Dora Milaje manage to vault over their cover and close the gap, knocking the blaster out of her hands and forcing her to engage in hand-to-hand combat, which she’s clearly not trained for. What she is, however, is supernaturally strong – the Panther’s warriors keep her off-balance, but soon enough, she gets lucky enough to blindly grab at one of their limbs, crushing the woman’s wrist with a sickening snap and tossing her at her fellow warriors, who manage to catch her and let her down gently.

Erik snarls, pouncing forth and knocking Princess Fragrance to the ground. He holds her in an awkward headlock, brutally punching the side of her head, but the Akumatized villain manages to prop herself up somewhat, and throws him away and onto a nearby wall, which cracks from the damage. Enraged, and likely hopped up on adrenaline, he gets right back up, grabbing a loveseat within his reach and tossing it, after turning in place for added momentum, at the evil Princess.

The green-skinned young woman tries to dive out of the way, but the thrown furniture clips her, knocking her to the side. Now that the shock has (mostly) passed, Shuri is frantically looking for ways to help; the Akuma is specifically after her, so maybe she can use that as leverage, or at the very least distract her again. She almost jumps out of cover when her father pulls her back, with a quiet strength she could never hope to overcome without drinking of the Heart-Shaped Herb herself. “I need to help them, Baba!” –she hisses, as Erik and the remaining Dora Milaje move to surround the supervillain, peppering her with quick blows meant to stagger her, keeping her unfocused, dodging her lethal counterattacks as best they can.

“<I believe I know what this is, Shuri>” –he mutters, in their native tongue. “<I’m afraid that poor girl is a victim of the Holder of the Butterfly God’s Jewel>”

Shuri’s eyes widen; she’s hardly the biggest history buff in the royal family, but pretty much every Wakandan kid has heard the story of the Panther-That-Wasn’t – of Princess Nisadi, whose older brother held the throne and title of the Black Panther some fifteen-hundred years ago, only to abuse Bast’s blessing and attempt to subjugate the other tribes and, eventually, the rest of the African continent. Nisadi attempted to consume the Heart-Shaped Herb with the royal shaman’s blessing to counter her brother, but the scorned Panther Goddess supposedly denied the princess her boon, and so she was forced to search for some other power that could help her defeat her corrupt sibling. She found it in distant lands to the east, in the form of a black ring that housed a mischievous foreign god that took the appearance of a tiny, black cat-like spirit. Using this God Jewel, and the power of Destruction that it granted, Nisadi confronted her brother, and ultimately slew him at Warrior Falls, to Bast’s roaring approval. As a tribute to the god that had favored her, Queen Nisadi refused the power of the Heart-Shaped Herb, and to this day remains the sole Wakandan Monarch to have ruled without ever becoming an Avatar of Bast, using the ring until her dying breath, upon which the jewel – the Miraculous – disappeared from Wakanda, never to be seen again.

“<A Miraculous? Are you sure?>” –Shuri asks, skeptical. She may have heard the story, and Queen Nisadi definitely existed, but to believe in magical jewels and tiny god-fairies? That’s stretching things a bit. Considering the extraterrestrial origins of some of the other relics she’s aware of, she’d be more likely to believe the ring of the Black Cat housed some sort of AI from a long-lost space-faring civilization that gave the person wearing it a temporary physical enhancement, or something to that effect.

King T’Chaka nods. “<You know that I have a fondness for studying our royal artifacts. While researching Nisadi’s ring, I became aware of several other God Jewels – the Miraculous of Potential among them>” –he says. “<Your cousin, I…I could never atone for what I did to him, but…it is fact that N’Jadaka will never receive Bast’s blessing. I wished to give him some semblance of the birthright he will never be able to claim>” –he explains, a very unusual hint of guilt in his eyes.

Shuri winces. For all that she loves her cousin, even she can tell that’d be a catastrophically bad idea. Erik’s never made it secret that he craves and enjoys power and authority, and regardless of the truth of its origins and the powers it may or may not grant, giving him a relic called the Miraculous of Destruction seems…ill-advised, at best.

Her father sighs, looking at her expression. “<I know, my child. A very naïve notion, isn’t it? They say we only gain wisdom as we age, but I seem to only grow more foolish as I draw closer to joining the Ancestors>”

The Wakandans briefly pin the crazed teen down, but she swiftly overpowers them, forcing them to back off. She shakes her head. “<Terrible ideas aside, how does knowing this is caused by a Miraculous help us beat this…thing?>”

“<The Miraculous of Potential relies on an emotional tether between the Holder and the person who will become their empowered Champion, which the Holder can create through touch. But this connection must be consented to, which I do not believe is the case here; I sense darkness and corruption coursing through her veins, and the source appears to be that strange weapon of hers>”

Shuri huffs as Erik roars, holding the Princess up by the neck and slamming her down through a fancy table. One of the downed Dora Milaje, who clutches at a grievously burned thigh, slides a wicked knife over to him, almost like they’ve planned it; he grabs the serrated blade, and plunges it into her chest before she has a chance to shake off the impact. Shuri feels like she’s gonna be sick at the ease with which it sinks into her torso – as well as the triumphant, bloodthirsty look on Erik’s face – but she doesn’t get to ponder the implications of her cousin stabbing a teenager without hesitation, as Princess Fragrance grunts in pain and, like the goddamn Terminator, shrugs off what should’ve been a mortal wound and slaps Erik away, sending him sliding down the hallway, groaning as he holds a bloodied nose together.

“It’ll take a bit more than that to break my heart, knave.” –she says, pulling the knife out and tossing it aside. The wound bleeds, but not the crimson she would’ve expected; instead, an almost ethereal, rainbow-colored fluid streaked with a glowing purple sludge briefly flows from the jagged cut, which sews itself back together before their eyes. The supervillain turns to her. “But the only one with that power here is you.”

“Why me?” –she asks, half curious, half chagrined. “What did I do to make you act like this?”

The Akuma sighs, dreamily. “What didn’t you do? Your charity work, your brilliant mind – to come all the way here to give hundreds of prosthetics to children in need, free of charge! So very noble, so romantic!”

Shuri scowls. “I can’t very well do those things now, can I? I don’t even know where the prosthetics ended up, with all this chaos.” –she points out. She gently slides out of her father’s grip, waving a hand behind her, asking him to trust her without saying a word. “Why would you stop me from helping people? From doing the thing you seem to, uh, love most about me?”

The Princess hesitates. “I-I…” –she mumbles. “There’ll be other chances, I’m sure!”

“Not here. Not after this.” –Shuri shakes her head, approaching her slowly. “They’ll never let me come back to Paris, now that we know there are superpowered criminals here.”

The teen holds her head like she’s suddenly got a migraine, and in doing so, she drops the perfume gun, which clatters to the ground. That telltale butterfly sigil over her face appears again – it must be the way the Butterfly Holder communicates with their victims.

Shuri carefully reaches down for the gun while she’s distracted – maybe if she breaks it, the darkness (or whatever) keeping her transformed will disperse. “You’re wrong, Hawk Moth. Shuri is perfect; she wouldn’t lie to me...” –she mutters, then opens her eyes. “…would she?”

“sh*t.” –Shuri laments, as Princess Fragrance screeches and grabs her by the neck and holds her up – one-armed, where Erik needed two. She punches and kicks, but the supervillain is unfazed, blasting pink perfume around them – probably at the others, trying to save her. Her suspicion is confirmed as she hears a chorus going ‘at your service, Princess Fragrance’ in a sing-song voice – Erik’s voice among them.

Black spots dance in her vision. “How dare you?” –the Princess hisses. “I confess my love and adoration to you, and this is how you repay me!?”

Even if Shuri wanted to say something, she couldn’t; she’s no more air left in her lungs. Still, she weakly tries to pull on her hair, stick her fingers in her eyes, anything that might give her a fighting chance.

It does come, almost a moment too late. But it comes from someone…unexpected.

All she catches at first is a blur of red and black, extricating her from the Akuma’s iron grip and softly delivering her to a nearby, intact sofa so she can recover. It’s hard to process anything for a few moments, but she hears grunts of pain, a lot of yelling in French, and she can make out a few people-shaped blurs getting struck by the one who saved her. She’s pretty sure she passes out for a minute, because when she comes to, her vision clear once again, only Princess Fragrance stands against the newcomer.

Her rescuer is another young woman, around the same age as well – maybe a bit older? It’s hard to tell, for some reason. She wears a skin-tight bodysuit, mostly red with black dots all over, like a ladybug. The area around her lower back, hips, rear, and upper thighs reverses the color scheme, black with red spots, and her gloves are mostly black, with the red from her torso area reaching and covering just a bit of the back of her hand. A very discrete zipper goes through the middle of her chest, from the neck to the abdomen, slicing through three of the black dots. Upon closer inspection, the material of the suit has a faint hexagonal pattern – not simple spandex, she’s sure, though the fabric is also too thin (honestly, isn’t she a bit self-conscious? It doesn’t leave much to the imagination) to be something like Kevlar, or to have any sort of bulletproof plating. The girl has vibrant blue hair – not that sort of really dark black that shines a deep blue, but rather the color of a pristine sapphire, with eyes to match, framed by a domino mask, red with five black spots to go with the rest of her costume. Red ribbons like antennae tie up two lengthy pigtails, going a little past her shoulders.

“Ladybug…” –the Akuma growls, confirming her suspicions. « Vas t'en de mon chemin! Shuri est à moi – et ton Miraculous aussi, une fois que j'en aurai fini avec elle.»

Ladybug gives her a confident smirk. «Désolé! Çela n'arrivera pas! La seule princesse qui a fini ici, c'est vous!»

Shuri almost wants to roll her eyes; she doesn’t need to understand much French to know that’s a superhero’s confidence, alright.

The action that follows is a blur; Ladybug pulls something from around her hips (a yo-yo…?) and twirls it around at impossible speeds, somehow protecting herself from the perfume blasts (rapidly dissipating the vapor so there isn’t enough to take effect, maybe?), and lashing out with it every now and then, so as to keep the Princess on her toes.

« Le pistolet a parfum est la source des ténèbres ! Vous devez le détruire!» her father yells at Ladybug, kneeling beside her.

The heroine smiles. « Ah merci! » –she says, then spin-kicks the Akuma away and tosses her yo-yo upwards. “Lucky Charm!” –she yells in heavily accented English, the yo-yo glowing and spinning in place above her. A wave of power thrums through her bones, as a swarm of what appears to be ethereal ladybugs burst from the toy and coalesce into…well, into a large, red, uninflated balloon with black spots all over.

“That, my dear, is the power of Creation…” –her Baba whispers in awe. Shuri’s…not quite as impressed, at first, but then she gets it – Ladybug didn’t pull that item from somewhere else in the world, didn’t knit atoms together to form a new item; after all, this isn’t the Miraculous of Transformation. “Just as the Black Cat represents Destruction, the Ladybug manifests as its eternal opposite – at times its nemesis, but more often its complement and equal.”

Having the power to completely ignore the first law of thermodynamics…it's cool, alright. But, like…why a balloon?

Ladybug looks around for a moment – not in confusion, which would be understandable, but with some sort of intense determination. She locks gazes with her, then tosses her the balloon, which she almost fumbles – lots of that happening today, apparently. “W-what the hell do I do with this?” –she balks.

The heroine winces. “English? …ah, merde. I can’t, uh...” –she mutters, butchering even those simple words, making a thumbs-down sign. Shuri wonders how someone who can’t speak English decides to name her superhero self ‘Ladybug’ and have English catchphrases. There’s not much time to play charades, but Ladybug manages; she mimes herself shooting (pew, pew, she says, which is apparently universal), then counts 1, 2, 3, 4, then points to the balloon and makes a throwing motion. It takes her a second, but she’s not one of the smartest people on the planet for no reason; she’s noticed that Fragrance’s weapon cycles through ‘perfumes’ in a set order, and since several of those would destroy the balloon, she has to wait four shots before she tosses the summoned item back to Ladybug, who’ll presumably be wearing down the supervillain enough not to notice anything amiss.

This is, pretty much, exactly what happens; Ladybug leaps towards the recovering supervillain, who immediately blasts her with a violet stream, which the heroine handily avoids. That’s one, she thinks, as Ladybug pulls on her yo-yo and a table that she hadn’t even noticed she’d lassoed flies overhead and nearly takes Princess Fragrance off her feet. The Akuma counters with an orange blast, which Ladybug sidesteps – that’s two – then she twirls the yo-yo in front of her like a shield and blocks a third, frigid blast, colored blue – that’s three – and a lash with her weapon at the Princess’s forehead causes a fourth blast, colored red, to go way wide and light a nearby wall on fire.

“Go time.” –Shuri mutters, balling up the balloon and tossing it at the bluenette.

Ladybug perfectly catches the item, does a somersault (presumably for style points), and shoves it over the tip of the perfume gun. Princess Fragrance panics, shooting Ladybug point blank, but all that does is inflate the balloon, which Ladybug grabs and violently pops against her face, dusting the supervillain’s face with yellow mist.

The Princess immediately bursts into uncontrollable laughter; Shuri can’t imagine it’ll last long – surely she’s at least resistant to her own powers, even if she isn’t immune – but it does make her drop the weapon, which Ladybug swiftly crushes under her heel. Something shifts in the air, as a butterfly emerges from the broken perfume bottle; there’s something…off about it, though – not just in the fact that it glows purple, like it’s been sipping on a Heart-Shaped Herb, but, well…

It radiates evil, somehow. It makes Shuri feel like she’s in the presence of a serial killer – one that’s eyeing her as their next victim.

Fortunately, it doesn’t last long, as Ladybug slings out her yo-yo and it opens up to capture the nasty little bug. She releases it shortly afterwards, now a pure, unassuming white – maybe she was just ascribing something to it that wasn’t there, as the butterfly lazily flits away, perfectly normal.

A purple aura drains from the Princess’s body, dissipating into the air. All that’s left is a normal teen, a tiny blonde with a pixie cut and big blue eyes, looking around in sheer confusion. « Quoi? Où suis-je? Qu'est-ce que j'ai fait? »

“Huh.” –Shuri mutters. “Doesn’t seem like she remembers anything.”

“She doesn’t.” –Ladybug says, kneeling by the girl. Shuri frowns – how is she speaking perfect English now? – but the heroine turns and reveals that she’s speaking into her yo-yo, which she holds against her mouth like she’s making out with the screen of an old flip phone. She then removes it, hanging it around her neck like a particularly gaudy medallion. The black spots turn white with her every word, translating on the fly. “Akumatization victims can’t remember what they did while they were possessed.” –she explains, reaching out to grab the popped balloon. “Sorry I couldn’t use the yo-yo to translate earlier – I needed to keep it handy to defend us against that perfume gun, and I couldn’t have both functions active at the same time.”

“Oh, so it is tech?” –she wonders, trying to figure out if there’s anything about it she can recognize.

Ladybug chuckles. “Sorry, no. The Miraculous is definitely magic.” –she says. “I get a magical girl transformation and everything.”

“Sure, if you say so.” –Shuri drawls, not in the mood to argue. “Think you could explain just what the heck happened here?”

“Sure, give me a sec.” –the heroine says, then throws the popped balloon upwards. “Miraculous Ladybug!” –she yells, and a burst of those ethereal ladybugs from before washes over the entire lobby in an instant. When she opens her eyes again, everything is exactly as it was before the violence; no broken glass, no splintered wood furniture, not even a whiff of the various deadly perfumes. Not just that, all the injuries that the Dora Milaje and Erik sustained are completely healed – even the blood has vanished from their clothes.

This is just…a lot.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, the non-magical kind – Paris is about to see some rain. “I only have a few minutes, so I’ll give you the rundown; Paris has been under attack for months by a magical terrorist called Hawk Moth, who can possess people feeling particularly negative emotions, empowering them and having them fight on his behalf to steal these.” –she explains, pointing at her earrings, which beep a couple times. “As well as my partner’s ring.”

“The Miraculous of Destruction is in Paris?” –her father asks, meekly.

“You know about it?” –Ladybug’s eyebrow rises.

“Sort of. Long story.” –Shuri says, nodding at the disoriented girl that was a supervillain two minutes ago. “Is she gonna be okay?”

Ladybug nods, as her earrings chirp thrice. “She’ll probably have a really bad headache for a while, but she’ll be fine by tonight.” –she reassures them. “I’m sorry she targeted you; from what I understand, she’s just a really big fan.”

Shuri snorts. “No kidding.”

“It’s not her fault.” –Ladybug gently reminds her. “Hawk Moth twists everything that makes you who you are and turns it into a maniacal caricature he can throw at his enemies – namely, us. Once the transformation took hold, there was just…nothing she could do.”

“I’m so sorry!” –the girl in question chimes in – she has a fairly prominent accent, but she needs no quote-unquote magical children’s toy to translate. “Princess, I was just so excited that you were coming to Paris, and I tried to write you a letter about how much I loved and respected everything you do, but this girl in my class, she…” –she tries to breathlessly explain. She shakes her head, sniffling. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what I did, but I swear I didn’t mean it.”

Shuri’s a little stiff – just a few minutes ago, this slip of a girl was choking the life out of her, after all – but she gets it. “It’s okay! I’m flattered, really, just…this isn’t exactly what I expected to happen today.” –she admits, ruefully. “Letters are a little antiquated, anyway, but…it would be nice to have a friend in Paris.”

It’s a bit performative, to be honest. She is flattered, and she’d be fine with shooting the occasional message to a fan – and who knows, maybe even having a friend that doesn’t live in a hidden, technologically advanced kingdom – but now that she’s gone through this whole she-bang, she’s curious; how the hell do Parisians even cope with living through semi-regular supervillain attacks? And what can she – and, y’know, Wakanda – do about it?

“Maybe later.” –Erik says, still touching his nose like he expects it to break again. “It’s pretty damn obvious that Paris isn’t safe, so we’re leaving. Now.” –he says, glancing at her. Aw, he does care, Shuri thinks.

King T’Chaka sighs. “Unfortunately, I must agree.” –he turns to Shuri. “We will arrange for the prosthetics to be delivered at a later date; perhaps we’ll have you record a message for the recipients.”

“Yeah, I guess.” –Shuri slumps a bit. She really wanted to see the smiles on the kids’ faces when they received her creations, but…well, if her dad and cousin agree on something with zero caveats, it’s probably wise to follow along with what they say.

“I, um…I hope we can defeat Hawk Moth soon.” –Ladybug admits, her earrings beeping again. “Paris deserves better, and you deserve to be able to freely enjoy our city.”

“We wish you luck in this endeavor, Ladybug.” –the King says, tilting his head. “And the blessing of Bast, that the Panther Goddess may grant you the patience to strike when the time is right, and the ferocity to follow through and defeat your foes.”

“Yeah, and, uh…thanks.” –Shuri says. “For saving my life, I mean.”

Ladybug smirks, holding out a fist for Shuri to bump, which she does, only slightly rolling her eyes at the corny gesture. “Well played.” –the heroine praises, then gives them a casual salute. “Bug out!” –she says, then jogs out to the street and tosses her yo-yo up at the sky, zipping away.

Parisian law enforcement comes in shortly after, but it’s really just a formality – they question the possessed teen (whose name is Rose Lavillant, something of a mollifying thing to learn, putting a name to the face) for any information that might help them figure out who Hawk Moth is, but they come up empty, and after a brief chat with Erik and the Dora Milaje, they’re free to go. Her father’s on the phone all the way to their secret aircraft, figuring out the fallout and coordinating the delivery of her prosthetics, while Erik, still in a foul mood, looks up information on the Miraculous-themed crisis.

“This city is so f*cked up.” –he pipes up, as they pull up to the War Dog encampment, in the outskirts of the city, and make their way inside the concealed Talon VTOL.

“Language, cousin.” –Shuri mockingly chides.

“Not in the mood, Shuri.” –he says, grabbing a seat and strapping in for immediate takeoff – their belongings will be collected and sent later on by the War Dogs stationed here. “Not after the bullsh*t we just went through.”

“…sorry.” –she says. “Don’t think I’ve really processed it, myself.”

“Perhaps thankfully, you won’t be able to.” –her father says, a pensive look to him. The Talon hums, and in a few moments, the aircraft becomes invisible and launches into the sky.

Shuri frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I just spoke with the captain of the War Dogs stationed here. I wished to understand how something of this magnitude could escape their notice – but the truth is, it didn’t.” –he says.

She gasps, recalling their earlier exchange with that stereotypical butler guy. “Wait, you don’t mean…?”

“What the butler said…it’s true, isn’t it?” –Erik chimes in, too. “There’s a crap-ton of info on Hawk Moth and those superpowered kids here – enough that this should be known around the world. Somehow, that jackass keeps any knowledge of him from leaving the city.”

King T’Chaka nods, gravely. “Glamour magic. Extremely potent, even by our standards.”

Shuri scoffs. “I think I’ve heard about enough about magic to last me…”

A sudden pressure manifests in Shuri’s ears, like she’s suddenly shifted altitude – it builds and builds, like her head’s gonna pop, and then…nothing. Her eyes briefly lose focus, and she frowns, confused about her own confusion. “…a lifetime.” –she finds herself saying, and she doesn’t particularly know why.

“Yeah…” –Erik says. He looks similarly befuddled, like he’s spent a couple minutes too long staring at the technical displays in her lab. “Shame about the event. Guess you got off scot-free on that public speaking engagement, though.”

Relief floods her chest. “Ugh, don’t even get me started. I half considered praying to Bast that one of those American supervillains on the news would suddenly decide to make a scene at the hotel.”

“People with power know no borders, and neither do those who seek to do harm with such gifts.” –her father says, morose. Erik, predictably, tosses a venomous glare in the King’s direction. “Wakanda has had them, and…” –her father trails off for a moment, staring at the displayed map of Paris in their midst. “…I’m sure Paris has them, too.”

Chapter 11: Héctor Nieves, Miko Kubota, and Phil Altiere

Chapter Text

“…alright.” –the portly, middle-aged man says, sliding his hand down his face as he takes a seat behind his rather messy desk – messy office, really, considering all the paperwork, game consoles old and new, broken controllers, and many, many AV cables strewn about the place. “Since you both somehow survived an encounter with a Hard-difficulty Glitch completely gearless, and you are somehow immune to memory wipes…” –he drawls, waving at the pair of teens and then nodding at the purple and pink-haired girl beside Héctor. “I have no choice but to induct you as Glitch Techs.”

Héctor blinks, still exhausted and sore from fighting a literal videogame character. “I, uh…I don’t follow.” –he says, meekly.

“Aw, come on, dude! He’s obviously offering us a job because we totally pwned a freakin’ Enderman!” –the girl – Miko, he should try harder to remember – says, all but jumping out of her seat.

The man holds up a hand. “Hold your horses, kid; first off, you didn’t quote-unquote ‘pwn’ that mob – you distracted it and survived long enough for our agents to actually defeat it. Glitches can’t even be permanently beaten by regular means, as you should’ve learned by now.” –he says, meaningfully.

It’s true, of course; even though Héctor buried a butcher knife right on the monster’s back and Miko then ran it over with his grandparents’ food truck, all they really accomplished was hurting and pissing it off. Then the flashy teens in futuristic white and blue gear came rushing in, they blasted some sort of digitized beam at it, which seemed to prevent it from teleporting around, and then finally slew it with an enchanted Diamond Sword from, you guessed it, Minecraft.

Maybe you have to beat them with stuff from their game? He shakes his head, fully recognizing what a wild thing that is to even speculate about – defeating videogame characters in real life, looking exactly as if they’d stepped out of the TV screen, and every bit as dangerous as they are in-game. Héctor shudders a bit, recalling the unnatural stiffness of the ten-foot-tall monster, its freakishly long arms reaching down to pluck out a perfectly cubical section of concrete out of the sidewalk to bash them to death with for the simple crime of looking into its pixelated, violet eyes.

Even after finding out that aliens are for sure a thing, courtesy of Thor, Supergirl, and the Chitauri, this is…a lot.

Though they couldn’t defeat it, they did manage to avoid getting killed by exploiting its in-game weakness – two block high ceilings, which roughly translates to two meters, or just under seven feet. The Enderman kept trying to teleport around them to find an opening, but it couldn’t reach them, and the time it wasted let the so-called Glitch Techs come in, save them both, and even restore the damage caused in the creature’s wake somehow.

“…anyway. My name’s Phil Altiere.” –the man says. “I’m the leader of this organization.”

“So, what, you’re like…S.H.I.E.L.D. for killer videogame characters?” –Héctor ventures.

“Sort of? We don’t have their numbers or their notoriety, and we’re definitely not some kind of BS internationally sanctioned paramilitary thing, but our MO is similar enough.” –he says. “Glitches break out of infected game consoles and computers, we send in trained agents to take ‘em down and purge the malicious code.”

“And then you try to mind-wipe people without their consent.” –Héctor says, crossing his arms.

“In our defense, it usually works.” –Phil shrugs. “By which I mean we kinda have to do that to keep the peace. Otherwise, people would go into a videogame-themed panic that would put the Mortal Kombat hearings in the 90s to shame.”

“If you go around mind-wiping people and we’re some kind of anomaly, how do you recruit new agents?” –Miko wonders.

Phil sighs. “Let’s start at the top.” –he says, sliding his chair out of the way as a screen lowers behind him.

“So, back in the late 70s, this four-digit piece of lag calling himself Arcade got superpowers; we think he’s a mutant, since he’s fought the X-Men a few times, but we have no confirmation. The important thing is, he has some kind of reality-altering ability that makes digital constructs come to life.”

The screen behind him shows a mildly blurry image of a pale, redhead young man, wearing what appears to be a white two-piece suit, a red vest, and a garish green bowtie. He sports a wicked grin, both hands on a fancy cane topped by a massive jewel. “This is the only image we have of him.” –Phil says.

“What’s his deal? Aside from a terrible fashion sense…” –Miko asks.

“Arcade used his powers to create what he called ‘Murderworlds’ – themed, sealed environments filled with his deadly creations that kidnapped participants would have to try and survive, presumably for his amusem*nt.” –he explains. “The ‘game’ would go on for a set amount of time, with the participants being highly encouraged to kill each other as well as the hostile mobs, and then they got to fight a boss, and if they won, they somehow got a hundred million dollars tax-free in their bank accounts and their minds relieved of the trauma as a prize.”

Héctor cringes. “…well, that’s horrifying.”

“No kidding.” –he says, deadpan. “Arcade did this once a year for two decades, and each Murderworld held eight to twelve participants, so…y’know, something like two hundred people died. Mostly teenagers and young adults with crazy gaming skills and questionable family situations.” –he says. “Kids who wouldn’t be missed.”

Miko, who’s been progressively shrinking into her seat during the explanation, pipes up meekly. “You’re kinda taking us on a really crappy rollercoaster ride, here.”

“Not exactly selling us on the Glitch Techs experience, yeah.” –Héctor agrees.

“Oh no, this is just the history lesson. You don’t need to worry about Arcade.” –he reassures them. “Far as anyone knows, he’s been gone for almost fifteen years. Not dead, probably, especially if he’s a mutant, but he rage-quit his own game when two people managed to survive his last Murderworld. It was Ocarina of Time-themed that year…” –he trails off.

The teens look at each other, then Phil clears his throat. “Anyway, Arcade himself may not be an issue anymore, but his powers are – they’re the source of the Glitches we fight on a regular basis. On the bright side, they’re also the reason we can fight them at all; our gear and technology are derived from and powered by the same plixels that make up a Glitch’s body and powers. Maybe it was one last ‘screw you’ to the world, or maybe the fifteenth Murderworld blew up and rained plixels all over the continental US, but Glitches have been popping up for about twelve years and their numbers just keep climbing. That’s where the Glitch Techs come in.”

The display shows a series of images of Phil himself at several gaming conventions and tournaments, observing gamers at the booths throughout the years. “I know I probably look like a creep, but we scout potential recruits among talented gamers – plixel tech can be used by anyone, but it resonates the most with people who regularly play videogames, and given that Glitches often pattern their actions based on their in-game AI and programmed behaviors, already knowing or having a good idea of how to beat them is half the battle. As you can imagine, that’s something a total noob or even a casual gamer would have trouble with, so we look for the best in the business – pro-gamers, speedrunners, those total geeks writing hundred-K-word guides on GameFAQs…”

“Heh…guilty as charged…” –Héctor says, embarrassed.

Miko salutes him, all official-like. “Thank you for your service, sir. Millions of collectibles will not go uncollected thanks to you.”

“Ugh. Kids these days…back in my day, we spent weeks combing the map for those! Now they’re just a google search away...” –Phil laments. “Anyway, let’s talk gear.”

A diagram of tech similar to that of the teens that rescued them displays on the screen. From what Héctor can tell, it’s all centered around a gauntlet, which can then project and/or fabricate a whole uniform, visor, and some kind of armored, plastic-like material for the knees, shoulders, and upper torso. “A Glitch Tech’s gauntlet can provide armor and basic offensive options like beams, bolts, and several melee options effective against Glitches, but its true power lies in how it can adapt videogame power-ups, gear, and even NPC entities to enhance your capabilities.”

The display then shows a series of tutorial-like videos of 2D-Glitch Techs using several power-ups; one of them picks up a Super Mushroom from the Mario Bros. series and grows to several times their height, while another uses a Golden Mushroom from the Mario Kart games and starts zipping around the battlefield with incredible speeds. Another one activates what appears to be Fire Materia from Final Fantasy, allowing them to cast a bolt of fire with a snap of their fingers, and then another GT, kneeling over a fellow Tech with swirlies on their eyes, uses a Phoenix Feather to bring them back to the fight. Finally, another Tech showcases them summoning companions (two Brotherhood of Steel Knights from Fallout, by the looks of it) and even mounts.

“Is that Epona!?” –Miko shrieks, and Héctor can almost see the stars in her eyes.

“It sure is.”

“Uh…isn’t this, like, copyright infringement?” –he wonders.

“…I’m showing you that you can straight-up gain superhuman speed from a Mario Kart Golden Mushroom and that’s what you’re concerned with?” –Phil says, rolling his eyes. “Buddy, you wouldn’t believe how much Nintendo’s willing to pay us to keep like, a Glitched Bowser from turning people into floating bricks in downtown Seattle. Companies have to keep their image intact, y’know? They’ll spend billions in marketing and PR, and a bit of that secretly gets kicked our way.” –he shrugs. “Long as we do our jobs – yes, including the soft reboot on NPCs’ memories – we kinda have carte blanche to do whatever the hell we want with their game assets, once we purge the malicious code.”

“This is so cool!” –Miko squeals. “Five, we totally have to do this, right!?”

He winces. “I-I, dunno, I just…I mean, I already have a part-time job, and this seems really dangerous.” –he mutters.

Miko looks at him incredulously. “Does your part-time job let you keep a freakin’ Pikachu as a pet!?”

“D-don’t get me wrong, this is probably the coolest thing I’ve ever seen!” –he says. “It’s just, we almost died all the way dead today, and I have to imagine an Enderman isn’t exactly the toughest mob out there. Even with superpowers, this job seems super sketch.”

Phil nods. “I mean, yeah, it is.” –he agrees. “We’ve never lost a Glitch Tech on the job, but that doesn’t mean we don’t get hurt every now and then. But you wouldn’t be alone, and I really do think you have potential.”

“I thought you only wanted us because we’ve seen too much and she can’t forget about it.” –he says, sarcastically.

“That’s one thing.” –he says. “And yeah, Miss Kubota here’s a special case – she’s the only person in a dozen years who’s been able to resist Arcade’s power in any way. But if I didn’t think you had the skills for it, I wouldn’t have brought you here, even knowing Miko can somehow restore your memories. I’d just keep rebooting you – it’s not exactly hard.”

Héctor tries not to hear that as a threat. Phil leans back on his chair. “Look, I’ll let you go, if you want, but you guys make a good team, and you have what it takes. You have the reflexes, the problem-solving skills, the gaming knowledge…and you’re brave, kid. Not just anyone could stand up to a murderous Minecraft mob, y’know? Especially Endermen and their freaky, way-too-long banshee howls.” –he says, scrunching his nose in distaste. “You got everything we look for in a Glitch Tech. Both of you do.”

The young Latino purses his lips. It’s high praise, especially for someone whose only supporters in his budding gaming career are his immediate family. Phil may talk about this like it’s ultimately just a job, but he’s basically asking him to be a superhero, and that’s not something a kid like him can easily pass up.

Plus, he really likes Miko. They may be very different people, but they get along like Nacho Cheese Doritos and Mountain Dew. “Well…maybe I could do, y’know, like a demo? Try it out for a few days…see if I survive…?”

Miko snorts. “You’re such a worrywart, Five.” –she says, fondly. “Let’s do this thing already!”

“Okay, okay, let’s do it. One thing, though.” –Five says. “I know the store outside’s mainly just a front for all of this, but…do we get discounts on games?”

Phil chuckles. “I see your priorities are exactly what we look for in a Glitch Tech, too.” –he says. “Let me blow your mind here, Five: knowing how to beat rogue videogame characters is about to be your job. You don’t ‘just’ get discounts – every game and every console ever made is available for you to study up.”

Five almost faints on the spot.

Chapter 12: El Tigre, Black Cuervo y Plata Peligrosa

Chapter Text

Of all the many, many foolish things Manny’s done since acquiring the belt buckle that gives him his powers, this might just take the cake as the absolute stupidest one.

The nearly ever-present staccato of a shooting echoes in the distance, a hallmark of the bizarre way of life in Miracle City. Built in the late 1950s by legendary superhero El Santo, the city serves as the only place in the entirety of México where bloodshed is tolerated, and thus the only city in the country where criminals have free reign to do as they please, limited only by a token police force that’s largely useless for anything beyond inhaling taquitos sudados for breakfast, and the noble (if perhaps foolish) heroes protecting the innocent populace from the villains’ utter chaos. To attempt to draw blood anywhere in the country beyond city limits is to instantly summon the wielder of the sacred luchador mask to your immediate vicinity – more specifically, it means inviting the indestructible fists of El Santo, and now those of his successor, to get intimately acquainted with your face.

Manny has yet to choose his path. The men of the Rivera family have, historically, gone both ways – generations upon generations of supervillains and superheroes bringing equal parts chaos and justice wherever they went. Even now, his father and grandfather represent this; Manny’s dad is Rodolfo Rivera, aka White Pantera, a fastidiously heroic speedster, while his grandpapi, Jorge Rivera, is the semi-retired supervillain known as Puma Loco. El Tigre – his chosen moniker, on account of the tiger-like costume and razor-sharp claws that come with his transformation by way of spinning the silver belt buckle – has yet to decide between the undeniable allure of an anarchic life filled with riches, free of responsibility, and the sense of duty that naturally comes with having his incredible powers.

It doesn’t help that half his biggest influences thrive in the chaos.

“Are they here yet?” –Frida asks, impatiently. “I’m kinda on a timer here!”

Manny, his best friend Frida Suárez, and his girlfriend Zoé Aves – aka Plata Peligrosa and Black Cuervo, respectively – are perched on the roof of an abandoned used car dealership on the outskirts of town, overlooking the pothole-laden highway into the city. They’re on a mission – really, more of a heist – waiting for an armored truck convoy that’s scheduled to arrive any minute.

“Not my fault you put on that gaudy mitten of yours before go-time. Convoy’s three minutes out.” –Black Cuervo says, tapping the side of her flight helmet, the violet visor lowering to resemble the bird she’s named herself after. She looks at Manny. “If we’re going to bail, it has to be now.”

“Oh, shut it, you emo turkey.” –Frida says, swinging her legs over the ledge of the building they’re all perched on. “Manny’s in, hundred-percent!”

“Oh, I’m in, don’t worry about me.” –he chimes in, before the girls start fighting again. “I just don’t think you guys actually understand what we’re getting into.”

Frida scoffs, waving the oversized gauntlet that gives her her rather scandalous suit and dangerously awesome powers. “Robbing an undead demigoddess and her limitless army of skeleton bandidos in broad daylight? We’ve done dumber things, I’m pretty sure.”

“No, no, this is definitely the dumbest.” –Zoé sighs. “Sartana’s not gonna take this lying down. I sure wouldn’t, if I was her.”

“It may be dumb, but we’ve been over this – we need to build up our rep early if we wanna be los meros meros in Miracle City while we’re still young enough to enjoy it.” –Manny reminds them. “Making the attempt is already pretty good, but if we manage not to bail five seconds into the fight? Both the heroes and the supervillain cartels will know we mean business.”

“And if we actually pull it off? We’ll be drowning in morlacos.” –Frida says, with barely contained glee. “I’mma freakin’ invent churro-filled churros with all that cash.”

Zoé scrunches up her nose. “Do you ever not think with your stomach, Suárez?”

“Y’know, seventeen years in, I’m not sure I have.” –she says, sardonically.

“They’re coming.” –Manny says, the feline ears atop his head twitching as they pick up the ruckus over the bustle of the city, maybe a mile out. “Get ready.”

Sure enough, a dust plume is now rising in the distance, coming into Miracle City from the north. While bloodshed is only permitted within city limits, there’s nothing beyond regular laws actually preventing non-violent crime from happening throughout the rest of the country; as long as you don’t directly hurt anyone, and assuming you don’t get caught by law enforcement or one of the few superheroes outside Miracle City, everything else is fair game, which most of the supervillain cartels take advantage of, one way or another. Sartana’s skeletal minions are bringing in the weekly earnings from their unsavory dealings outside the city, and this is the most vulnerable they’ll ever be – once the cash makes it into Sartana’s fortress-like hacienda, lovingly named ‘La Chingada’, they won’t even be able to grab a single centavo.

“Plata, you’re up.” –Zoé barks, and Frida winks at them, before yelling like a possessed madwoman – which she technically is, thanks to the cursed silver gauntlet – diving at the undead convoy, her gauntlet charging with chaotic crimson energy. She brings it down on the armored truck leading the line, which instantly explodes, raining bits of charred bone and shredded metal all over and forcing the convoy to stop.

Undead as they are, the skeleton bandidos don’t exactly stay dead; the bones pull themselves back together, shattered and burned though they may be, and reform into the demigoddess’s minions. An inner flame burns coldly in their otherwise empty eye sockets, and the skeletons reach for whatever weapons survived the initial assault. Machine gun fire pelts Plata Peligrosa, but his best friend’s alter ego is largely invulnerable – it’ll sting, but nothing can pierce her skin while she’s got the gauntlet on.

Still, as the rest of the undead horde joins in the counterattack, Plata zooms around, trying to avoid getting hit as best she can. “She’s pretty cool, you have to admit that.” –Manny teases.

The raven-haired young supervillain scoffs – his girls don’t get along half the time, despite Zoé being his longtime girlfriend and Frida being his childhood best friend. “It’s just so…showy. She looks like she’s looking for work in la zona rosa. Can’t believe your mom used to dress like that.” –Zoé fires back, snidely.

Manny cringes. It’s true, of course; the silver gauntlet once belonged to his mother, and she definitely also wore the rather revealing, skin-tight silver leotard and thigh-high boots, but she gave it all up before Manny was born for the same reason Frida only put it on two minutes before this makeshift heist started – if someone wears the gauntlet for too long, they’ll start to crave danger, losing all their inhibitions and fighting recklessly, unable to stop until they’re either stopped by someone else or their heart gives out. As far as they can tell, the gauntlet’s safe to use for about fifteen minutes or so, after which it must be removed for at least five before the timer ‘resets’, or else the madness starts to set in.

On top of the magical restrictions, Manny’s mom made it clear that Frida was only allowed to use the glove if she stuck to the retired heroine’s path on the side of good; any hint that she might be going down a villainous road, and her powers will be taken away. Frida’s fine with that – she’s been jealous of Manny’s powers for a long time, despite her best efforts, so getting to have this now, even just fifteen minutes at a time, and having to come up with a reason for the chaos she typically unleashes (still working on that for this heist), is definitely welcome.

“No need to be jealous, amor; you look way hotter in that armored flight suit.” –he says, winking at her.

Zoé rolls her eyes and shakes her head, but even through the purple visor, he can tell she’s blushing – she’s as pale as a fresh cadaver, so it’s very noticeable. “Shut it, Rivera.” –she says. “It’s time to join in on the fun.”

She engages her wings, which unfurl from a backpack-like device that doubles as a thruster, enabling supersonic flight. Unlike Manny’s, Zoé’s family has been strictly in the business of villainy for as long as anyone can remember, a storied line of bird-themed rogues specializing in pilfering riches, with a particular penchant for jewelry, gold, silver, and anything else one might consider precious metals and stones. Zoé herself has never really cared too much for the family tradition, but her tech expertise and her truly enormous proud streak decided her path for her very early on.

It’s made their relationship a bit of a star-crossed affair; Zoé’s mom and grandma don’t approve of her dating Manny because he’s not an out and proud supervillain – too heroic for their tastes, even though he’s pretty consistently fifty-fifty on good and bad deeds. On the other hand, Manny’s dad strongly discourages him even being in contact with anyone he considers ‘evil’ – except grandpapi, of course.

With, like, supervision. He is a supervillain, after all, even if he’s ostensibly retired.

There’s also the fact that Manny’s dad dated Zoé’s mom and grandpapi dated Zoé’s grandma, and they both dumped them to pursue their eventual partners (grandpapi even left Zoé’s grandma at the altar!), but Zoé and Manny try not to think about that baggage too hard. They’ve been together almost five years, and nothing, not even Zoé’s persistent jealousy of Frida’s closeness with Manny, could get in their way – they’ve even promised each other they’ll stay together if Manny does end up choosing the heroic path.

Black Cuervo blasts off, leaving glowing, violet smoke in her wake. Manny follows suit after a moment spent admiring his rocket-powered girlfriend; he shoots out his right hand, which magically manifests a black, seemingly limitless metal chain keeping it connected to his arm as an improvised grappling hook, and swings down to join the fray.

It's chaos down there, but chaos is what they thrive in. Their strategy, courtesy of Zoé, is simple but effective; Cuervo blasts out a rough perimeter with her wrist-mounted lasers, forcing the bandidos to retreat to the center of their hastily assembled defensive circle, then Frida cannonballs in with a burst of crimson magical energy, punching skeletons to millions of glittering pieces. El Tigre, then, has two jobs: pick off the stragglers and survivors, and start putting together their haul. The latter is easy – they’re not about to steal the whole enchilada (Sartana would hunt them down to the ends of the Earth, even though she’s supposedly confined to México), so he just has to focus on keeping one truck intact and loading it up with as much cash as it’ll fit – but the former is tricky. The skeletons reform a bit more slowly every time, as if they’re getting tired (more likely, they need Sartana around to keep themselves ‘charged’ with her magical energy) but they still keep rising, and unlike Plata Peligrosa, Black Cuervo and El Tigre are not quite invulnerable.

Manny ducks and weaves through streaks of lead with supernatural agility, lashing out with magically sharpened metal claws so large they actually come out of the second knuckles on his hands, and so deadly he’s yet to encounter a material capable of resisting them. Still, he takes a few good guamazos – all of the skeletons are monstrously deformed caricatures of real human remains inscribed with rune-like calaverita de dulce designs, but there’s some ten-foot-tall brute-types with disproportionately long arms that manage to clip him a couple times.

Still, their plan is unfolding well, the truck nearly full with their bounty…until the sky turns dark red, choking the sun’s light until it dims enough to resemble a full moon. A howling wind carrying the screams of the damned sweeps through the stretch of highway, carrying all of the skeleton bandidos and every bit of loose bone away, pooling into a macabre twist on a dust devil behind a figure that, simply put, radiates evil.

Sartana de los Muertos, alleged daughter of La Catrina – México’s modern version of a Goddess of Death – and exiled princess of the Underworld, steps up from a supernatural tear in the highway’s asphalt, her golden Mystic Guitar ready for action. A chill goes down Manny’s back – Sartana’s as close as anyone in the Land of the Living gets to facing an actual goddess, and thus way out of their league. Unlike her rumored divine mother, Sartana of the Dead is known to be cruel, ruthless, and utterly without mercy.

“After generations upon generations of Rivera men, I’ve finally found the stupidest one.” –Sartana says, darkly amused. “To try and rob Sartana of the Dead in broad daylight…even your bastard güelito wouldn’t be this reckless!”

“You say reckless, I say daring.” –El Tigre counters. “Now, you let us walk away with our loot – which we stole fair and square – and things don’t have to get ugly!”

The demigoddess laughs snidely. “Ay, estos niños de ‘ora…” –she coos, like an evil grandma. “You actually think you have los pantalones to defeat me?” –she cackles. “Well, if you’re gonna pretend like you have los huevos pa’ robarme, Tigre, then I guess I’ll just have to pretend you’re a threat!”

She strikes a horribly discordant note, which causes the air to vibrate and shift, the Underworld’s power forcibly summoned to the Land of the Living. The worn-out bonemen sink into the Earth, and scores of fresh bandidos of all shapes and sizes claw their way out of the earth and asphalt, armed with weaponry from all over Mexican history – Aztec Jaguar Warriors armed with obsidian-bladed macuahuitl, tortured Conquistadores in once-pristine rusted armor wielding equally decayed blades, Insurgentes from the War of Independence holding aloft ancient carbines, and Revolucionarios brandishing twentieth-century revolvers and rifles.

Manny’s grown up used to seeing dozens of these at a time, but…this is easily in the thousands. Zoé and Frida land beside him. “I don’t think anyone would call us out if we bail now.” –Zoé says. “We tried – no one can take that from us.”

“Yeah…I have like three minutes left as Plata Peligrosa, guys.” –Frida points out. “Even if we wanted to, I don’t think we could take them.”

“Listen to your noviecitas, chamaco.” –Sartana says, her otherworldly voice dripping with condescension. “Otherwise, you’ll be the quickest Rivera of any generation to get to meet mi mamá...not that most Rivera men live too long, anyway! Tontos gatitos…always biting off more than you can chew!”

El Tigre growls, every bit like an authentic tiger. If Zoé and Manny’s families have anything in common, it’s their unending family pride. “That’s it. That hideous bag of bones is going down!” –he roars, stamping down his foot, a single wicked claw pointed at the heavens. “This, I swear!”

“Have it your way, Tigre!” –Sartana bellows, plucking a horrid chord from her guitar. The skeletons have no voices, but the creaking of their bones and the metallic hiss of their unsheathed weapons speaks volumes.

Frida snorts. “Ah, well, I guess I did always expect ‘ride or die’ to be literal for us.” –she says, deadpan. “Welp! Last one to the evil, ancient skeleton demigoddess es un huevo podrido!”

Plata Peligrosa wastes no time (as she doesn’t have much left), blasting the front of the line with a powerful wave of crimson magical power, cackling like a madwoman. Zoé sighs, shaking her head “Te amo, Manny, but you’re the biggest imbécil in the world, sometimes.” –she drawls. “Lucky for you, I planned for something like this.”

Manny frowns, keeping an eye on Frida. “What are you talking about?”

“Just go do what you do best.” –she dismisses him. “If we survive, you’ll see in a minute.”

He’s confused, of course, but he trusts his girlfriend. He presses a kiss from his fingers to her visor – claws retracted, of course, even he’s not immune to them, as the huge scar over his left eye can attest to – and summons the loudest roar he can manage as he jumps into the fray.

Manny rushes towards Sartana, who leisurely waits at the back of the formation, sat atop a summoned throne of shattered bone and jagged obsidian, razor sharp phalanges plucking horrific notes that direct her army like some macabre puppeteer show. To him, it sounds like nails on chalkboard times a thousand, but the magic that emanates from the notes also feels oddly…familiar, like picking out a distant relative from a crowd on the TV, a relative you’ve met only one time when you were a kid, the memory of whom is hazy but distinct. Manny’s vaguely aware that legends say almost every artifact of power in México, including his belt, his dad’s Boots of Truth, his grandpapi’s Sombrero of Chaos, and, presumably, Sartana’s Mystic Guitar, comes from the molten metal blood of ancient gods, killing each other over the power to save, rule, or destroy humanity.

He's pretty sure part of being a god is, y’know, being immortal, but…maybe Mexican gods are just that metal.

Sartana watches amusedly as he leaps over the final line of skeletons, landing in front of her, claws at the ready. Bright red lipstick frames the bone around her crooked, half-rotten teeth, and overly lengthy eyelashes stick to the edges of empty eye sockets, save for the glowing red orbs serving as pupils. A fancy black and red dress desperately clings to her form, drooping and sagging against nonexistent curves, a twisted facsimile of a high society woman from the turn of the last century.

“Impressive leap, Tigre!” –she mock-praises. “Not too manly, though. Your grandfather and your father both would’ve carved through my armies to get to me!”

“I ain’t about to take advice on manliness from a talking corpse.” –he retorts, his claws gleaming even in the darkened skies. “Me vale madres what you think of me.”

“Ah, but you do care.” –she counters. “You wouldn’t dream of attacking me if you didn’t. Todo este desmadre, you only do it to build a reputation – but what would that reputation even be, Tigre?”

Manny growls, taking a few experimental swipes at the demigoddess. She elegantly dodges with surprising agility, given the lack of muscles, tendons, or really anything that might move her old bones. “The brave hero, foolishly attempting to topple the throne of a monstrous, undead tyrant? The aspiring supervillain, seeking to make a splash by eliminating his biggest rival on the field?”

El Tigre finally lands a solid blow, raking his claws against Sartana’s back. The dress rips wide open, and his claws shear through her spine and ribs like a hot knife through butter, but the victory is short-lived; the damage is mended before his eyes, and crimson energy blasts from the head of the guitar, hitting him smack-dab in the chest and throwing him a dozen feet away, smoking in a heap.

He groans – the transformation kept him from dying outright, but he’s pretty sure he’s at the very least got a couple bruised ribs from the blast. A decrepit huarache crushes his cheek, keeping him down as Sartana steps on him, chuckling cruelly. “Or maybe you’re just un pinche escuincle indeciso, cursed with far more power than he deserves!”

She makes a gesture with her hand, and a squad of skeletons marches forth, holding Zoé and a de-transformed Frida. “Sorry, man. I ran out of time.” –Frida says.

“No, I’m sorry.” –Manny grits his teeth. “We should’ve booked it when we had the chance.”

“Pobrecitos…all this effort and not a single peso to your names.” –Sartana mocks. “I’d send you off to the Underworld with a pity Centenario, but unlike the Greeks, your souls don’t need to pay to enter Mictlán.”

“We’re not going anywhere.” –Zoé says, snidely, though she also sounds hurt. “Because you just brought me outside Miracle City.”

Manny struggles under Sartana, but he manages to catch a better look at Zoé; his heart clenches, seeing that she took a fairly severe blow to the side of her head. Her helmet’s been broken, the visor mostly shattered, and the stretch from her hairline to her cheek’s been scratched something fierce, bleeding profusely as head wounds tend to.

His eyes widen – that’s her plan.

Sartana gasps in uncharacteristic surprise as a single drop of blood falls from her brow, splashing down on the cracked asphalt. In an instant, the demigoddess’s oppressive atmosphere vanishes – and indeed, the sunlight seems to glow even brighter than it did before her arrival, the blue of the midday sky a little more vivid. From the heavens, a gleaming comet falls, sacred light and wind bursting forth as the figure makes contact with the ground, disintegrating most of Sartana’s forces and blowing the undead princess back in one fell swoop.

La Divina stands, hands at her hips, all six-foot-nine of pristine, white-clad, bronze-skinned righteousness. A massive, braided ponytail of chocolate-brown hair goes down to her thighs, a snow-white halter top covering her chest while showing off her impressive musculature. Skin-tight, spotless white pants with silver knee patches and silver boots complement the fabled mask that conceals her identity and gives her power beyond what almost anyone in the country (and perhaps even the world) could ever hope to wield.

She is, in one word, invincible.

“Begone from my land, Santurrona!” –Sartana wails. “Or risk unleashing the wrath of Sartana of the Dead on the rest of your precious México!”

“You know the deal: you spilled blood outside the city, Sartana.” –the heroine declares with authority, her voice booming like a merchant hawking her wares at el tianguis. She points at her mythical silver and white mask. “La Máscara de Plata told me – and it never makes mistakes.”

She rushes forward, faster than the eye can see, but Sartana manages to block the punch with her Mystic Guitar. The resulting clash of magical power gets all three of them scrambling to get away – it’s painfully clear to Manny that those two are playing on a whole different level.

The next few moments are a blur; the dischordant melody of Sartana’s guitar, the chime-like sound of La Divina’s sacred power, the unnatural hiss of summoned skeleton bandidos getting atomized by the heroine’s holy punches. The teens duck and weave through the convoy’s wreckage, Frida even grabbing as many bills as she can fit on her person.

“What?” –she asks, looking at her exhausted companions. “We should at least try not to walk away empty-handed.”

Cuervo rolls her eyes fondly, though she’s clearly in pain. “For a hero, you think a bit too much like a villain.”

“Hey, as far as anyone’s concerned – especially any Manny’s parents types who may or may not take away my powers if they think I’m turning into a bad guy – I’m securing illegal funds from a supervillain to give to a person in need. Namely, me.” –she says, cheeky. The gauntlet on her shoulder does a thumbs-up. “Very noble, right?”

Manny snorts, a little mirthless. “Very convincing, too.”

Zoé would’ve tossed another snide comment in Frida’s direction, but she stumbles and falls to her knees. “Carajo…” –she mutters. “Think I have a concussion. I should’ve risked a stab wound instead.”

The boyfriend in the tiger pajamas grumbles. “You’re kidding, right? That was way too reckless. Your suit’s powerful, but you don’t have super healing like me, or invulnerability like Frida. You’re lucky the visor fragments didn’t poke your eye out, but…I’m pretty sure that’s gonna scar.”

“I appreciate the concern, amor, but you would’ve been kitty mush on the highway if I hadn’t taken the hit.” –she reminds him, too disoriented to be as snippy as she usually would be. The ground shakes with another clash between good and evil, now a few dozen feet behind them. “The risk paid off, obviously. Let’s just be thankful for that, and get the hell out of here.”

“Not so fast!” –a supernatural voice from beneath says, and Sartana bursts from the earth. She holds Cuervo up by the neck, looking about as pissed as the average metal album cover. “Urraca ingrata…I’ve respected your family for centuries, even worked with them pa’ nuestro mutuo beneficio, and this is how you repay me!?”

Zoé grits her teeth. “I’m…not…my…family! I…owe…you…nothing!”

“She most certainly does not!” –La Divina says, leaping towards them. Manny takes advantage of Sartana’s distraction, and with a flash of silver, he severs Sartana’s arm, tackling Zoé out of the way as La Divina flies by like a freight train, driving the undead princess into the ground.

“Had enough?” –the heroine says. It should sound co*cky, and from anyone else it probably would be, but that’s clean, humble confidence in her voice, right there.

Sartana growls, literally pulling herself together. “…uno de estos días, chiquitita…” –she warns, a hellish maw opening underneath her, the flames forcing La Divina to take a step back. “One of these days, I’ll rip esa pinche máscara from your lifeless corpse, flay the flesh from all your skeletons, and doom you to eternal servitude in my armies!”

With that macabre promise, Sartana of the Dead flees, her clothes incinerated by the hellfire and her bones lifelessly tumbling down the portal with an uncharacteristically silly little xylophone-like noise. Frida warily helps Manny and Zoé up, as La Divina stares at them and the destruction they caused, normally warm, friendly brown eyes peering at them with a hint of disapproval through the teardrop-shaped eyeholes of the mask.

In the blink of an eye, she looms over them. “This is quite the mess you’ve made.” –she notes, her tone neutral. “And a very interesting gambit I seem to have unwittingly enabled.”

“I, uh…thanks for saving us.” –Manny says, as polite as he can manage.

La Divina hums. “You’re welcome, Tigre. But I would not recommend making a habit of it.”

Manny’s only ever met México’s foremost heroine once, as a child, before he even inherited the belt buckle, when his father was first recognized by the city as one of its greatest heroes. She doesn’t seem to have changed a bit, equal parts trustworthy and intimidating, offering a hand and easily pulling them up. “I’m not usually in the business of healing supervillains, but…” –she says, touching her index finger to Zoé’s temple. “Perhaps the company you keep will change your path for the better.”

Zoé’s wounds heal, her unhealthily pale skin knit back together in an instant, her dyed purple hair cleaned of any drying blood. The only evidence of her injury that remains is the broken, bloodstained helmet. “…I make no promises.” –she mutters, though she seems unable to meet the heroine’s eyes.

La Divina chuckles, turning to Manny. “Fair enough. I’d settle for one more heroic Rivera man in the lineage, then. México’s innocents could use such a fierce warrior as their newest protector.” –she says, pointedly. “So perhaps you could simply keep any…corrupting influences to yourself, instead.”

Manny wonders if she somehow knows they’re dating. Hopefully, the Silver Mask limits itself to warning her about unapproved bloodshed, instead of gossiping about teenagers’ love lives.

The heroine crosses her arms. “Well, I’d advise you not to pull that kind of stunt again, but I imagine the warning would fall on deaf, teenaged ears.” –she says, amused. “Believe it or not, I understand; having powers like yours at such a young age, it’s…very tempting, for both good and ill. Just try not to bite off more than you can chew next time, alright?”

She doesn’t wait for a reply, jumping up into the skies and disappearing amongst the clouds. Maybe she doesn’t even sleep, as busy as she seems to be. A life like hers – like his father’s, like any hero’s – doesn’t seem too appealing right about now; it must be exhausting, answering every call for help from people like them, in way over their heads. Still, she did save their lives, and he knows from personal experience that there’s definitely some satisfaction in that, too.

“Very cool.” –Frida says, voicing what they’re all thinking.

Zoé smirks. “Hmm. Y’know what’s cooler, though?”

She plunges a clawed hand into Frida’s neckline, fishing out a good few thousand pesos presumably stuffed in her bra. “Payday, for a job well done. Your assistance in liberating the supervillain’s funds is appreciated, hero.”

She plants a kiss on his lips and blasts off, evil-laughing off the near-death experience. Frida crosses her arms, blushing from the annoyance of Zoé getting one over her in their eternal feud. “Manny! Keep your bitch girlfriend on a leash, goddamnit!”

He shrugs, watching her fly off in the distance. “Hey, don’t look at me. You’re the one choosing to hang out with a supervillain without even getting a smooch for your trouble.”

Frida sighs, long-suffering. “I did say ‘ride or die’, didn’t I?”

“You did, and it just so happens we’re still alive.” –he shrugs. “What do you say we put those liberated funds to good use?”

“Churros, videogames, and a suspiciously large anonymous donation to the orphanage?” –she muses.

“Split the donation with the pound and you got a deal.” –he suggests, sporting a fanged grin. “What can I say? I’m a bit of a cat person.”

Chapter 13: Nora Wakeman, Jenny Wakeman, and Abigail Brand

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe they accepted me!”

Doctor Nora Wakeman hums, watching her six-hundred-pound android daughter scream into her pillow and kick her legs on the bed like a gleeful teen with a crush – which, considering today’s events, is now a frighteningly more likely possibility than it was yesterday.

She examines the synthetic exo-suit that normally enables XJ-9 to interact, in a fairly limited capacity, with the human world for any damage that might explain her decision to forgo it – a far cry from its initial, ragdoll-like appearance, and worse, its upgraded version, which somehow developed an evil AI personality, but still not so convincing that people won’t notice something’s off if she sticks around for more than a few minutes at a time. “I’m happy for you, truly.” –she says, and she thinks she means it. “But this outing was tremendously reckless. You should never, ever leave the house without your exo-suit – the world simply isn’t ready for you yet.”

The robot rolls her eyes, turning upright to face her. “You always say that, Mom.” –she grouses. “But Brad and Tuck literally just proved you wrong! They finally saw me for who I am and they’re still my friends.”

“The short one screamed for several minutes straight, dear.”

XJ-9 waves her off. “That’s just him being dramatic. And he changed his mind real fast when he figured out I could fly him places.” –she says. “Besides, Brad was pretty much fine with it from the start!”

Nora sighs. “It’s not the next-door neighbors I’m concerned about, XJ-9. Humanity contains multitudes, and many of them will not see you the way they saw you, let alone the way I do.”

She crosses her arms, and the screen that makes up her face twists into a scowl. “You say that, but you still won’t call me Jenny. I picked the name ages ago!”

“And it took me twenty years to design you, for most of which your name was ‘Robotic Global Response Unit XJ-9’.” –she retorts, her features softening. “I apologize, dear. I’m very happy that you chose a name for yourself, but…I’m not getting any younger, and old habits are hard for me to break.”

Jenny grumbles. “I know. And…I know humans have a hard time accepting people who are different, but you’ve seen the news! They have not just one, but two aliens in the Avengers! And they sell action figures of them! Who’s to say people won’t accept a teenage robot, these days?”

Doctor Wakeman’s stomach drops. I should tell her soon, she thinks, but quickly stamps down the thought. This is hardly the time. “Yes, well…perhaps this situation is due for a reevaluation sometime soon. But I make no promises, young lady! There are a great many reasons why revealing your true nature would be dangerous, beyond simple appearance and identity issues.”

The android looks like she wants to argue some more, but appears to think better of it. “If you say so.” –she says, somewhat glum, but also slightly hopeful. “Boy, today was so amazing…I almost don’t wanna go into sleep mode, but my sleepiness simulator is really kicking in.”

“It would appear your operating system hasn’t adapted to this level of peer-to-peer interaction yet.” –Nora diagnoses on the fly. “Give it a sleep cycle or two, dear.”

Her simulated expression morphs into a huge yawn. “Sure thing, Mom.” –she says, powering down. “Good night.”

“Good night, XJ–er, Jenny.”

Nora wistfully looks at her, so powerful yet utterly peaceful in her simulated sleep, then makes her way out of the room and downstairs for a nightcap – it’s been a long day, and the ones ahead aren’t likely to get any easier. She’s in the middle of pouring herself a generous glass of wine, trying to put her mind at ease, when the power goes out.

And, not to brag too much, but the power should never go out in the Wakeman household.

“I thought you were smarter than this, Noreen.”

The scientist in question gasps, turning towards the living room, where the voice came from, and finding an eerie green glow there. She slowly approaches, and then the lights turn back on, only for her to find her former boss sitting on the sofa, idly examining her signature alien cane. Nora purses her lips; S.W.O.R.D.’s head honcho, Abigail Brand, is not one to make house calls lightly. She expected the visit, sooner or later, but she thought she had more time…

“Abigail…” –Nora says, quietly. “How did you get past my home defense system?”

She snorts, idly tapping the cane. “You’re good, Wakeman - no doubt one of the best we’ve ever had - but Galvan tech beats anything you’ve got.” –she drawls. “Well…anything you’ve made. Can’t help but notice you’re fielding some…foreign equipment.”

Wakeman’s nostrils flare with anger. “XJ-9 is no mere piece of equipment! She’s a fully combat-capable automaton, designed for all-purpose planetary defense!”

Abigail raises an eyebrow at her choice of pronoun. “Ah, but ‘she’ wasn’t designed to defend our planet, isn’t that right?” –she asks, pointedly.

Her stomach drops. How could she know!?, she wonders, but again, she shouldn’t be surprised. With that blue devil on her shoulder, Abigail might well be the best-informed human on the planet, at least when it comes to anything and everything happening beyond Earth’s atmosphere. “I designed the XJ line of androids myself.” –she argues. It’s technically true; XJ’s 1 through 8 were wholly designed and built by her, but XJ-9…is a bit more complicated.

“Not exactly the whole story, Noreen.” –Abigail chides. “So, let’s review it, shall we?”

She fishes a hockey puck-sized holodisk from her pocket, casually tossing it onto the coffee table. A hologram of her first creation in the XJ line manifests above it, an ovoid robot roughly the size of an ostrich egg, the top half of which is transparent, eye-like vacuum light bulbs clearly visible. “XJ-1. Designed to test the most basic features of your proprietary AI. Given baby-like design features, I imagine, because infancy’s about as complex as their capacity for higher thought gets. Mere proof of concept stuff – impressive for a first attempt, almost twenty years ago, but you’ll see machines of this caliber and above anytime at San Fran’s underground bot fight scene, these days.”

Nora stays silent as XJ-1 gets replaced with its successor. “XJ-2. Little more than a basic DEW with an integrated targeting system. A gun with an eye, since I’m not feeling particularly charitable at the moment.”

“XJ-3, now we’re getting somewhere.” –Abigail says, sarcastically. The android in question – the first to take a vaguely humanoid form, with pincer-like hands and a small, spherical head that doubles as an optical sensor – appears in their midst. “Not very far though, right? Lil’ fella would break into pieces, soon as she took a step. Still, basically a sapient, if speechless toddler.”

“There’s no need for you to continue.” –Nora says, getting annoyed.

Abigail smirks, but there’s little mirth in the gesture. “Oh, I think there is. Helps me…understand.” –she says, XJ-4 forming next. “Number 4’s a step back in the humanoid design department, but quite a leap in its ability to multitask.” –she says, pointing at XJ-4’s multiple arms. “Impressive, though I’d think its capabilities are beyond menial household chores.”

“XJ-5’s even less humanoid, but with it, you finally cracked 1.0 Turing - not quite as fast as Stark with JARVIS, but hey, you didn’t start with an Englishman’s brain-map. No, no, you started from scratch, and gave it an impressive interstellar telecom suite to boot.” –she says, her tone cynical. “Doctor Noreen Wakeman, always on the cutting edge.”

“You know I hate my full name.” –Nora says, petulantly crossing her arms.

Abigail narrows her eyes. “With the mess you might’ve gotten us into, I’ll call you whatever the hell I want to, Wakeman.” –she says. “But we’re not quite there yet.”

Nora decides to wait in silence for the charade to end. “XJ-6 was your first step back to the humanoid design, but her AI developed a moody teen persona, despite your best efforts – not exactly what you’d want in a robot slated to become armed to the teeth.”

“You tried to correct by making XJ-7 subservient, and it worked for a time – a short, adorably chubby young fem-bot on tank treads, able to shape-shift all sorts of weapons. But robbing it of its personality also took any drive her predecessor had. You somehow managed to make a depressed gynoid.”

The doctor winces as she knows what’s next. “So, you course-corrected again. This time, by deleting any semblance of a personality.” –Abigail says. XJ-8 appears in the living room, a veritable powerhouse, a hulking, ten-foot-tall robot with a single purpose: to protect the Earth and its peoples by any and all means necessary. “I almost paid you a visit, when we saw you’d made this one. Lucky number 8’s as strong as a freshly-transformed Hulk, as durable than any of Stark’s suits before his synthetic vibranium makeover, and armed with enough firepower to maybe bump off Italy or France from the top 10 military powers list.”

“...why didn’t you?” –Nora asks, genuinely curious.

“Because you never took them out of the damn basem*nt.” –Abigail grouses. “And because, despite our differences, I thought I could trust that our interests would align, should you ever throw ‘em in the field. What a goddamn fool I was.”

“But you aren’t! You are absolutely right: I’ve wanted nothing more than to safeguard our planet from the horrors of the cosmos ever since you drafted me into S.W.O.R.D. The XJ series was to be my answer to the Kree, to Homeworld, even to–”

“The Cluster?” –Abigail sharply retorts, cutting her off. “To Vexus?”

Nora fidgets. “...I was going to say ‘the Black Order’.”

Director Brand scoffs. “Even putting aside how much of a pie in the sky that idea is, we both know that XJs 1 through 8 could never hope to put a dent in any of the forces you mentioned.”

She rises, making a show of laboriously leaning on her borderline magi-tech cane. Abigail may have recently cracked 80, but she looks half that age, and despite her limp being very real, you’d never know it, on the rare event that she takes to the field. An image of Jenny from earlier that very day, brazenly showing off her transforming abilities for the Carbuncle kids, replaces XJ-8’s model. “XJ-9, though…” –she trails off, looking towards the stairs. “I thought you’d genuinely figured it out, finally. A human building a robot capable of wiping the floor with most Cybertronians, which could annihilate whole legions of Geth, and might even give the seemingly endless forces of Homeworld pause…I was so proud of you. It seemed too good to be true.”

Nora waits for the hammer to drop. “...turns out, it was.” –Abigail says, despectively. “I’ll give you this, Nora: you gave it the good ol’ college try, with the other eight. You got impressively close, with the shape-shifting weaponry, the immense strength…you even managed to create an exo-suit that can help a robot pass as human, at least for a while – even if you did make her look like the Wendy’s mascot. But XJ-9 is still light years ahead of all her ‘sisters’ combined, isn’t she?”

The doctor hates to admit it, but there’s no use in lying, so she simply nods in confirmation. “And why, I asked myself? It’s simple, really! It’s because that teenager-shaped WMD was meant to protect Cluster Prime and spearhead the Cluster’s invasion forces!”

“Well, would you rather Vexus have kept her, Director!?” –Nora demands. “Do you have any idea the trouble we’d be in if I hadn’t taken XJ-9 from Cluster Prime when your lovely Kree Accuser got us stuck there twenty years ago!? Humanity would be in chains by now! Vexus would’ve built a throne on Excalibur’s bridge lined with your bones as she gleefully watched XJ-9 delete forty-thousand years of human history, knowledge, and culture!”

“That’s what you never understood, Doctor Wakeman.” –Abigail says, unfazed by her passionate defense. “It’s almost never that simple. Sure, if Vexus had thrown XJ-9 at us at any time before Carol had gotten her powers, we’d be screwed. I don’t dispute that. But she never would’ve.”

“That’s preposterous. We were already in her sights back then!”

“It’s the goddamn truth, Wakeman. You wanna know why? I’ll tell you! It’s because that lovely Kree Accuser you’ve always hated managed to broker a treaty with Queen freakin’ Vexus, infamous interstellar tyrant, to take our whole damn solar system off her wishlist.”

Brand sighs, and for once, her leaning on the cane doesn’t seem exaggerated, like she’s actually feeling all of her years. “And before you argue that she never planned to honor it…even you can’t accuse Vexus of being stupid enough to invoke the wrath of the Kree Empire – and give the Supreme Intelligence an excuse to annex an entire civilization of heavily armed sapient robots.”

She shakes her head, sitting back down. “Listen…I know you have your reasons to reject any and all of our alien allies – gods know you wouldn’t have tried so hard to get us to build Armagedroid if you didn’t. And believe me, none of us, not even Hala, have ever liked being under the Kree’s thumb. But humanity is a very young species trying to make it big in an incredibly deadly galaxy. We’re plucky, sure. Every bite we take is more than we can chew, and still we make damn sure to take another.” –she explains. “But Nora…even under the Kree, our position was incredibly vulnerable. Just this year, Loki and Vilgax proved it a few times over. And now that the Kree have ditched us for good…”

“...we’re doomed, aren’t we?” –Nora says, morose.

“Not if I can help it.” –she says, stubborn as ever. “Right now, a stiff breeze could knock us over, but we’re building ourselves up as quickly as we can. Weapon systems, warships, every piece of tech our boys can get their hands on. And, of course, we have S.H.I.E.L.D. We have heroes.”

Nora’s rather prominent nose twitches. “Do you really trust them? Fury’s not nearly as…earnest as you are.”

“I trust Nick with my life.” –she says, unwavering. “And all of yours. But his focus is planetside; we have to keep our sights beyond the Kuiper belt.”

Nora hums, not quite as convinced. “Does Vexus know?”

“XJ-9 was her secret weapon, Nora. A prototype war machine more powerful than Vexus herself ever was. Take a wild guess.” –Abigail says, deadpan.

“I meant if she found out it was me.” –Wakeman shoots back. “Now that the Kree are out, and until the Nova Corps finally send a fleet…she could be on her way at this very moment.”

Abigail grunts. “She isn’t. We’re always keeping tabs. But she was royally pissed off back then – not that we knew why until today – and I can’t imagine she’s forgotten.” –she informs her. “As for whether she knows who did it…I don’t think she does, but she will find out eventually. I just hope it takes a couple years – otherwise, 2012 is gonna set a new record for most alien invasions in a single year.”

“I’ll rejoin S.W.O.R.D., then.” –Nora declares. Abigail raises an eyebrow, which makes her cross her arms. “Oh, please, we both know you wouldn’t make a house call if you weren’t expecting some tangible results – otherwise, you’d have sent some holographic hate mail. I don’t regret taking Jenny, but…I realize I may have ignored the potential consequences.”

Director Brand gets a curious look on her face. “Jenny? I thought it was simply an inventor’s pride before, but you named her? You’ve never been the sentimental type, when it comes to machines.”

“She named herself.” -Nora says, proudly. “You’re right, Abigail. At the start, when I began trying to reverse-engineer her technology, I did not see her as anything more than a very complex alien machine, to be taken apart and understood for the betterment of humanity. Truth be told, I never meant to activate her at all – I knew she hadn’t yet been programmed to be part of the Cluster, but I feared she would naturally assume their objectives, once online. But with every attempt to dismantle her and put her back together, as I gained an understanding of just what I was working on…I knew she was different. I knew, on some level, that the Cluster were true AI, but I didn’t fully comprehend just what that meant until I gave up on the XJ series and finally activated her, five years ago.”

She’ll never forget it – no matter how frustrating it might be sometimes to have a teenage robot for a daughter – the moment in which XJ-9 ceased to be a project and became family. “It took her a microsecond to learn and comprehend the entirety of the English language. And the first thing she said to me? She called me Mom.”

Abigail winces. “...damn it” –she says.

Nora narrows her eyes. “What?”

“You got attached.” –Abigail drawls. “It’s true, doctor. I did come here looking for more than an opportunity to berate you face to face. The World Security Council has ordered S.W.O.R.D. to secure the Cluster robot by any means necessary, and either dismantle it, or launch it into space where it won’t be our problem anymore.” –Abigail says. “I came here to take XJ-9.”

The doctor gasps. “You wouldn’t…!”

“Oh, I would.” –Abigail says. “I may not be as much of a bastard as Nick, but you know better than most that when the cards are on the table, I don’t flinch. But…I think we can avoid having to go there, this time.”

Abigail brings up an orange holographic interface on her forearm that Nora’s unfamiliar with and taps a few keys – first, what appears to be the plans of her home, surrounded by a series of dots that she’s reasonably certain are S.W.O.R.D. agents, which swiftly retreat, and then her old personnel file. “I’m reinstating you, Doctor Wakeman, effective immediately. We’ll strike your…activities on Cluster Prime from the record, just to be safe.”

“Doesn’t the Council know already?”

“They know Jenny’s a Cluster bot. They know she’s on Earth. They know Vexus lost a very important prototype in the past two decades. I’m sure even they can put two and two together. I just didn’t tell them you stole her, or where we found her.” –she shrugs. “You may not be my favorite person right now, but no one needs that kind of crap on their shoulders.”

“…I see. Thank you, I suppose.”

Abigail grumbles. “Don’t thank me yet.” –she says. “S.W.O.R.D. is falling behind on one key aspect; we may have the Avengers, but we need champions who can devote themselves to protecting the Earth from any dangers lurking beyond Sol – and we both know Captain Marvel’s focus is rarely on her homeworld. So, I’m drafting two Wakemans tonight; I want XJ-9 playing for my team.”

Nora’s first instinct is to get defensive – how dare Abigail assume she’d allow XJ-9 to become a pawn in any petty rivalry between Earth’s protectors? Her second instinct is recognizing that this is opportunity knocking; XJ-9, or rather, Jenny, has been begging for more freedom and independence, and the chance to do some good beyond occasionally getting to secretly use her enormous strength when she’s out and about, with the exo-suit. Her truly incredible abilities would be better served by giving her more to do than surreptitiously protecting Tremorton from bad car accidents. Becoming an agent of S.W.O.R.D. would also presumably allow her to finally live as herself, nuts, bolts, and all, without having to worry at all about fitting in or holding herself back.

“But…you’re asking me to put her in danger.” –she mutters, her first instinct refusing to stay quiet. “Jenny has never actually been in combat.”

“Maybe not, but she’s literally built for it. And regardless, that’s going to change within the foreseeable future, whether or not she joins up, or Vexus finds her.” –Abigail states, equal parts heavy and cryptic. “At least this way, she won’t have to fight alone - and you’ll be right there with her.”

“It doesn’t sound like we have much of a choice, Director.” –Nora grouses, but she’s already made a decision.

Abigail looks away. “In this line of work, we rarely do.”

Chapter 14: Naru Osaka and Gurio Umino

Chapter Text

In her dreams, she’s never stopped fighting.

Naru Osaka was only ever a Sailor Guardian for a very brief time – so short, in fact, that most people don’t know she ever actually existed, and few of those who do even believe it. It was just over two months, by her reckoning; the span between the defeat of the Dark Kingdom and the reappearance of the other Sailor Guardians. She’s never been clear on the details – never knew why they lost their memories and, seemingly, their powers after defeating Queen Beryl, forcing someone else to pick up the slack when a handful of her surviving monsters attempted to revive her by stealing the life energy of unsuspecting people in the night.

‘Someone else’ being her, for reasons she’s never quite understood. For just about nine weeks, she was Sailor Earth – a fourteen-year-old teen with no guidance or knowledge but the will and power of the human homeworld to her name. It’s a power she still feels to this day, buried deep within the core of her being, even though she lost the ability to call upon it as soon as Sailor Moon came back on the scene, saving her very own life, leaving her powerless and full of questions that no one, except perhaps for the other Sailor Guardians, could possibly hope to give her an answer to.

Sailor Earth only ever fought four enemies before her involuntary retirement, all of them monsters from the defunct Dark Kingdom. In her dreams, however, she’s fought every other foe the Sailor Guardians encountered over the years, as if she had been present for countless of their battles – even the ones the public was never made aware of, strange enemies for which she has no name. Back then, she couldn’t help but wonder why she wasn’t able to help; she wasn’t exactly an instant pro at supervillain fighting, by any means, but…was she so much of a liability that the powers that be couldn’t let her learn and grow more powerful alongside her fellow magical warriors?

And why, oh, why couldn’t she have become Sailor Earth before, so that she could’ve saved Nephrite’s life?

It’s been ten years since then, and while she often wonders about those potential shortcomings, she tries not to give the past too much thought, mostly just thankful that there’s seemingly no need for the Sailor Guardians anymore, the superhuman threats that Japan experiences kept at bay by heroes who’ve never been touched – or cursed – by magic. These days, Naru works the counter at her mother’s jewelry shop full time, trying to make enough money to pay for nursing school, which typically leaves her exhausted by the end of the day. That’s how Umino, her long-time boyfriend, finds her once he enters her apartment, close to midnight – asleep on the couch, the glow of the muted TV washing over her in rapidly shifting colors.

The young man is exhausted himself; he’s a successful software developer, leveraging his very odd but simple mutation, called Digital Transfer, to take his work on the go by plucking the display from his work computer and projecting it on his glasses, typing into thin air, which gives him a lot more time to program than the average dev gets. It’s unpaid work, technically, but he doesn’t mind – not when he’s already developed a handful of products that could easily let him take an early retirement, if he so wished.

He takes a blanket strewn on the floor, likely fallen from her habitual tossing and turning, and gently covers her with it, slowly sitting down next to her head so as to avoid rousing her from sleep, looking to grab a few winks himself. He leaves the TV on, slowly but surely drifting off to some game show he’s not aware of that seems to leave its participants beat up, humiliated, and covered in some sort of gross orange slime.

Umino likes a good laugh as much as the next guy, but he’s never quite gotten the appeal, there.

The couple sleeps for a few hours, the apartment silent but for the steady ticking of a wall clock, the slow, rhythmic plops of water droplets falling from a leaky showerhead into a half-full bucket that counts as good as a repair job in Naru’s opinion, occasionally intermingling with Umino’s soft, inconsistent snoring.

It’s a perfectly normal, peaceful scene for this household. And then Naru’s forehead starts to glow.

She awakens with a start, feeling like someone’s driving an ice pick smack dab through the center of her forehead. She’s not fully aware yet, but she’s already wailing in agony, which immediately wakes Umino up, baffled as to why his girlfriend shrieks like she’s actively getting murdered. He puts his glasses back on, wiping the idle computer screen with a desperate wave of his hand and looks on in equal parts awe and horror as a circle with a cross within it, akin to crosshairs, blazes golden on Naru’s head.

“W-what’s going on!?” –Umino yells, reaching out. He takes hold of her clenched hand, but immediately lets her go, hissing in pain – despite no outward change in her appearance so far aside from the obvious, Naru’s skin is burning, like a pot full of boiling water, to the point that he’s already developed a couple of small but painful blisters.

Following the harsh revelation, Naru’s entire body suddenly takes on a supernatural, rainbow-like glow, spreading from the symbol on her forehead down to her feet, her clothes seemingly vanishing in an instant. Her wide-open eyes remain her only distinguishable feature, the terror within them meeting with the shock present in Umino’s own. She starts growing, too – slow and steady, she gains height and muscle mass until she towers over him, some two feet taller than normal. The glow that covers her seemingly nude body starts to coalesce around her form; first a pure white bodice and gloves, an emerald bow forming over her chest with a teal jewel at its center. A brown or perhaps maroon short skirt and sailor’s collar follows, and then bronze-colored open toe sandals like those of an Ancient Greek warrior lace up on their own up to just below her knees, a golden circlet sprouting from the symbol on her forehead. The multicolor glow finally subsides as the crosshairs symbol briefly appears behind her head, like a floating halo, disappearing as the transformation is finally completed.

Umino recognizes the outfit immediately, as anyone who’s been alive and cognizant in Japan anytime in the past decade should; it’s the uniform of a Sailor Guardian, the planet-themed magical warriors who protected Tokyo from all sorts of evil and demonic entities for a handful of years before mysteriously disappearing as abruptly as they appeared without a trace. The shock of Naru being revealed as one such warrior is rivalled only by the fact that she’s…not one he’s ever seen before; the color scheme doesn’t match any of them, from Sailor Moon to Sailor Pluto, and he certainly would’ve recognized the cute bob of bright red hair that could only be his girlfriend’s.

Now seven-foot-three, Naru hunches down to avoid hitting the rather low ceiling in her apartment, staring at her shaking, gloved hands. It’s there again, the power within, like it never hid away from her, utterly unreachable for close to a decade. Not just that, it’s even stronger than she remembers, almost intoxicating – just beyond her senses, she can feel the planet’s life force, shared amongst and tethered to just over seven billion humans and the innumerable amounts of Earth’s flora and fauna at large.

Even if she’s only able to tap into a fraction of that power, she feels like no mortal being should ever be able to wield it – like she’s absconding with the power of gods.

“N-Naru? Are you…okay?” –Umino ventures.

“No.” –she finds herself whispering, her voice hoarse. “This…this shouldn’t be possible.”

“Turning into a Sailor Guardian?”

She nods. “I don’t have the wand anymore. I didn’t say the words.” –she says, hollow. “I didn’t…I don’t want this.”

Umino frowns. “Wait…you’ve transformed before?”

“…a long time ago.” –she says, morose. “After the others disappeared that first year. I, um, never met them. Not like this, anyway.”

“As Sailor…”

She raises an eyebrow. “Earth, obviously. Just about the only one that the others didn’t have covered?”

Umino shrugs. “Well, not really. There’s lots of celestial bodies in the solar system other than the Sun and the actual planets; there’s huge satellites like Ganymede and Titan, dwarf planets like Ceres and Eris, and don’t even get me started on the Planet X conspiracy theories! Heck, Pluto’s not even really a planet anymore but there sure was a Sailor Pluto, after all.”

Despite herself, and the realization she’s desperately trying to put off, Naru…laughs. Something about her boyfriend pulling the nerd card and ranting about space in the face of undeniable magical power breaks the spell, if only for a moment. “Not that I ever knew her, but…I don’t think she would appreciate that, Umino.” –she says, sparing a tired smirk.

“Well, I suppose Pluto was still considered a planet while she was around…” –he trails off, then looks back at her with a wry smile. “Better?”

“A little.” –she admits. “I don’t know how much you know about the Sailor Guardians, Umino – and to be honest, I can’t imagine I know that much more, despite being one – but…this is not good.”

“Japan does have a very strict legal framework for superheroes – you’ll be considered a lawless vigilante at best, like the other Sailors...” –he muses, pursing his lips.

Naru waves that off. “Not what I mean; Umino, when I first got my powers, it happened because I was needed; there were monsters hunting people and the Sailor Guardians weren’t around, so it fell to me to protect people in their absence. I have no idea what could be happening now, but…if I’m able to transform again…”

Umino hums, understanding. “We must be in trouble. Earth, I mean.”

She nods. “It’s like…an immune response. Something’s here that doesn’t belong, something Earth and humanity needs to fight off – and it must be dangerous enough that the power took over me.”

He stays quiet for a moment, seemingly distracted. “Yeah…I think I have some idea what it might be, Naru.” –he says, pointing at the TV.

Whatever the regular programming at 3 AM is supposed to be, it’s been replaced by breaking news coming from the United States; the footage is shaky at best, and the newscasters seem to be struggling to parse the events, but the chyron beneath them does not mince words: New York City is under attack, invaded through a tear in the sky by what seems to be monsters from another world.

Naru watches on in horror as the aliens spread through air and land like a locust swarm, firing sizzling purple bolts at anything that moves. They ride on hovering sled-like vehicles blasting the streets indiscriminately, and others drop off from monstrous alien whale creatures that seem to swim through the air completely unaided. The cameras show police desperately shooting back, but there’s zero chance of stopping them. More than once, she sees people go down before the broadcast can cut away from the camera feed.

It’s very brief, but she sees a civilian, a young man cradling an older gentleman that might be his father, hiding behind some rubble, and she can’t help but picture herself with Nephrite, dying in her arms. She couldn’t do anything about it then, but…well, maybe she can do something now.

“I should…” –she mutters, swallowing her horror at this entire situation. “I should go, right?”

“Wh– halfway around the world!? Right now?” –Umino balks. He cringes at her reaction – somewhere between pissed off that he thinks she shouldn’t do it and, perhaps, relieved to find a potential excuse not to. “It’s just…I, um…I don’t think you can do a Sailor Teleport with just one Sailor.”

It’s a bit of a non sequitur, but it’s easy for her to read between the lines – powerful as she might be, and as morbidly strong as she truly feels, she’s just one Sailor Guardian. What could she possibly do against an entire alien army?

“I can’t just sit here and do nothing.” –she says, and it feels right to say, despite her obvious apprehension. “People are dying, Umino, and I have the power to save them – some of them, at least. What kind of Sailor Guardian would I be if I turned a blind eye to them?”

“The kind that lives to fight another day?” –he meekly suggests. “Naru, I don’t doubt you have the power, and I’m sure you could make a big difference if you intervened – and if you truly decide this is the best choice for you, I’ll book us tickets on the next flight to the closest airport to New York we can get – but you were screaming bloody murder just five minutes ago. Even if you’re right about the reason your powers have returned, there’s so much we don’t know right now. What if your powers go away again while you’re fighting? What if you get captured? What if…?”

“…I get killed?” –she finishes his sentence, as it becomes clear that he cannot. He gulps, nodding.

He's not wrong – and she does appreciate his offer of support, should she decide to join the fight – but staying home feels just about as wrong as throwing herself willy-nilly at what appears to be an endless swarm of alien lizard gorilla things does.

“I’ve already fought monsters knowing I might die. The others did it a lot longer.” –she reasons, taking his hand – the one that isn’t burned. “Don’t get me wrong: I would much rather go back to sleep on the couch with you and hope for the best, but…I think I just lost the privilege of being a bystander.”

“I know, I know. I just…it’s been you and me for so long that I’m not sure there is an Umino without Naru anymore.” –he says, sniffling as he tries to put on a brave smile. “You’re the love of my life, and I don’t think I could go on without you.”

Naru tears up a little. They say love is selfless, but there’s a bit of selfishness in Umino’s declaration, a selfishness she can’t help but find reflected in her own feelings. Despite this reawakened sense of duty, a not insignificant part of her wants to shed the transformation and forget it – and her previous stint as Sailor Earth, for that matter – ever happened. She can’t, and she won’t, but…well, maybe she can be a little selfish in this particularly selfless path, too.

“I’m going.” –she says, resolute, and Umino visibly deflates. “But…not alone. And not right now.” –she reassures him. “We need to find the other Sailor Guardians if we’re gonna have any chance to stop those things.”

Umino straightens back up. “O-oh! That’s, a, um…a very sensible plan.” –he agrees. “But…they have been gone for like, five years. And their identities were never public.”

Naru purses her lips. Even though they fell out of contact years ago, she’s about to betray someone’s trust and she can’t help but feel a little guilty about it. “I…think I know at least one of their identities.” –she confesses, crossing the small distance to her rather cluttered and often unused dinner table as Umino frowns, confused. It takes a couple minutes, but she finally finds the rather fancy-looking letter she’s looking for and hands it to Umino.

“‘We are pleased to invite you to our wedding; Mamoru Chiba and…Usagi Tsukino’.” –he reads, understanding dawning on him as he goes. “No way.”

“I was never 100% certain. Didn’t catch her mid-transformation or anything.” –Naru admits. “But it makes almost too much sense, doesn’t it?”

“It’s her.” –he nods, fully convinced already, like a veil has been lifted from his mind. For all she knows about magic – which isn’t much – that’s exactly the case. “Usagi was Sailor Moon all along.”

“And I, um…I have to assume those new friends of hers…” –she trails off.

It’s a bit of a sore subject in her household, but she’s largely come to terms with it, in large part because she’s convinced that, not only was Usagi Sailor Moon, but that that whole cadre of new friends of hers that came seemingly out of nowhere was, in fact, the civilian identities of the other Sailor Guardians. She gets it, even if she’s never liked it; how could she possibly compete at staying Usagi’s best friend when the others fought, bled, and – if some of the rumors are true – potentially even died alongside her? Their bond was strong, no doubt, but mundane – hard to compare two teenagers hanging out most afternoons to an honest-to-goodness shared magical destiny, the threads of fate drawing the Sailor Guardians closer together than even blood ever could.

Umino looks like he’s about to faint – well, even more than he has since she transformed. “Wow…I mean, I figured they had to live in the Juban district since they were mostly active around us, but I never would’ve imagined we literally used to hang out with them.”

“Hang around them, you mean.” –Naru scornfully says, unable to help herself.

He purses his lips, staring back at the wedding invitation. It arrived like a month ago, and though the wedding itself is still a few months away, Naru hasn’t talked about it beyond letting him know it exists. It’s not so much that she’s still angry at Usagi – friendships just end, sometimes, and that’s a natural part of life that they’ve both experienced several times besides this – but it’s the fact that the invite was sent without even the slightest attempt to reconnect, like they’re still the best of friends in Usagi’s eyes, that irks her, even through the very real happiness she does feel for her finally marrying the man of her dreams, or the small but undying hope that they could be as close again as they once were.

Knowing Usagi, that’s probably exactly what she thinks.

“Maybe there’s another way?” –he suggests. “There’s many other heroes in Japan, and I’m sure they’re scrambling to figure out how to go and help as we speak.”

Naru shakes her head. “You said it yourself; I’m not a registered hero, and I doubt they’d make an exception for me, even in an emergency.” –she grouses. “Besides, I hate to admit it, but…I hardly even know what I can do as Sailor Earth. I can punch and kick with the best of them, sure, but if I’m gonna be truly effective, I need to learn more than just the standard superhuman stuff. I need Sailor Moon to teach me.”

“Well…whatever you decide, I’m with you.” –he says, handing her the letter back.

She smiles. “Thank you.” –she says, earnestly. “I don’t know what all of this means for me and any plans I might’ve had before, but there’s no one I’d rather have with me while I figure it out.”

They kiss, a well-practiced expression of their love made new by her temporary height advantage. As the immediate threat passes, so does her transformation – much quicker this time, a simple flash of rainbow light leaving her a perfectly mundane Naru Osaka once again, if not without the promise of Sailor Earth’s swift return simmering under her skin.