Chapter Text

Yellow Box:
Why am I doing the intro? Whatever. Strap in—this isn’t your average fanfic. This is a full-blown comic-book crossover event! Starring the incomparable Lady Deadpool—Wanda Wilson. (Yes, that Wilson. Wade’s gender-swapped, sassier, better half. Don’t look at me like that.)
Now let’s shut up and get to it—I can’t wait to watch the chaos unfold.

Part 1

Marvel’s Earth-199999 – Somewhere outside Prague, Czech Republic – 1:00 AM

“This has been a bust,” Bruce sighed as he and Natasha made their way down a dimly lit street toward her car.

“Are you saying you don’t enjoy spending time with me, Bruce?” Natasha teased, a sly smirk in place.

“You know that’s not true.” He shrugged. “I like being with you.”

“I do too.” Her grin turned slyly flirtatious.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Careful, Nat. Keep that up, and you won’t like what happens.”

“Hate to break it to you, Bruce, but I already am getting what I want.” She slid into the driver’s seat.

“That’s not smart, Nat. I’m dangerous.” He shut the door firmly and circled around.

“And I’m driving, why again?” she quipped when he joined her.

“One word: road rage.”

She laughed. Fair point. The last time Bruce had driven and someone cut him off, the car ended up folded like an accordion. This one? Natasha intended to keep intact.

“So,” she said as they sped through the narrow streets, “safe house, a few hours of sleep, then back on the job tomorrow?”

“Your call. I’m just here to kill some time and keep you safe.” He smirked. “Not that you need me. But hey—it never hurts to have a monster in your corner.”

Her hands tightened on the wheel. “Stop saying that. You’re not a monster.”

“Nat—”

“I know monsters, Bruce. I was one. I killed for money. You? You were an accident.”

Silence. Then Bruce gently laid his hand over hers on the gearshift. “They used you. We both have scars. But we’ll work for redemption… together.”

^&^

Outside an AIM lab – rooftop, Prague

Taskmaster crouched like a gargoyle, studying the compound below.

Former employer. Current target. Same difference. AIM always needed fresh meat trained, and he’d always delivered—for the right price. But tonight, the NSA was paying more.

“Sorry, gents. Nothing personal. Just business.” He vaulted past security lasers with flawless acrobatics.

Inside, he jammed a flash drive into the console. “And that’s the end of your little gamma weapons program. Damn, I’m good.”

Except… the meltdown was bigger than expected. Screens fizzled. Cores overheated. Agents panicked as alarms blared.

Then came the chain reaction.

Gamma bombs. Prototype weapons. Projects AIM should never have touched—igniting all at once.

The explosion was like nothing Taskmaster had ever seen. And he never forgot anything.

“…This was not in the damn contract!”

He dove under a collapsing wall, kicked an exit door off its hinges, sprinted through fire—
—and then came a blinding light.

When it cleared, Taskmaster was gone.

Back on the road

Natasha barely had time to register the explosion—or the unnatural streak of light barreling toward them. She swerved, but the blast engulfed the car.

“Bruce—!”

The vehicle crumpled as he shielded her. Anger surged. Fear snapped the last thread of control.

Steel screamed. Bones reshaped.

A roar split the night.

The Hulk erupted, tearing free of the wreck, and Natasha clutched protectively in his massive arms.

“RRROOOAAARRR!” Windows rattled for blocks.

Natasha pressed her head against his chest, eyes squeezed shut. “Oh, God…”

Before Hulk could assess her condition, a red-and-blue streak slashed across the sky. His fury begged him to fight. But with Natasha fragile in his arms, he chose the unthinkable—he leapt away, putting distance between them and the unknown.

Earth-38 – National City – 1:00 AM

“Supergirl?” Winn’s voice crackled in her ear.

“Yes, Winn?” Kara replied, gently lowering a rescued kitten into a ten-year-old’s arms.

“Energy readings north of your location. Weird ones.”

“Define ‘weird.’” Kara dusted her hands.

“Like… off-the-charts weird. You’ll see.”

“On my way.” She launched into the sky like a comet.

Moments later, a thunderous roar split the air.

“You hear that?” she asked.

“Yeah, and—Kara, be careful! Radiation spike! And something massive is moving fast toward you!”

Kara froze midair, eyes wide. “Winn… I think I just saw a giant green man leap a mile.”

“A WHAT?!” Winn yelped. “Please tell me you didn’t just say giant green man.”

“Pretty sure I did. And you’re also picking up two more anomalies within three miles, right?”

“...Kara, seriously, I’m begging you—don’t make me call Alex.”

“Relax. She’s on a date. I’ll handle it.”

Scanning below, Kara spotted the wreckage of a sports car torn apart from the inside out.

“Winn, what’s a Ferrari Enzo?”

“Never heard of it. Googling… Nope. Doesn’t exist. Maybe a knock-off kit car?”

Taskmaster’s crater

Taskmaster coughed, dragging himself out of a crater. His body ached. Alive, but barely.

“That sucked,” he muttered, ripping off his mask.

A shadow fell across him.

“You okay?” Supergirl landed softly beside him.

“Not really. Feels like my insides are on fire.”

She tapped her comm. “Winn, I need a med team ASAP.”

“On it.”

Kara crouched. “Can you hear me? What’s your name?”

He hesitated. Lucky break—she didn’t recognize him. “Tony. Tony Masters.” Weak grin. “And you are…?”

Her brow furrowed. “He doesn’t know who I am,” she muttered. Then, louder: “I’m Supergirl.”

“Sorry, never heard of you. New hero? Cute name, though.”

Kara blinked. “…I’ve literally saved this city a hundred times.”

“Yeah, well, my cable package didn’t come with National City TV.” He groaned. “Look, I was in Prague like five minutes ago and now I—” He paled. “I don’t feel so good.”

The DEO van screeched to a halt, agents rushing out.

“He’s out of sorts,” Kara ordered. “Take him carefully.”

Marvel’s Earth-199999 – New York City – Taco Stand – 1:00 AM

Meanwhile, a blonde woman in a red-and-black costume munched tacos on her Vespa outside a taco stand. Lady Deadpool.

She spotted a flash of light in the sky. “Ohhh, shiny! That looks so… Cool!”

Yellow Box: Wanda, no. Don’t chase the shiny sky-hole.

“Too late! WHEEEE!” She gunned the Vespa straight into it.

The queasy sensation hit instantly. “Ughhh. Feels like I swallowed a blender full of expired chimichangas…” She tumbled out of the portal, groaning.

Yellow Box: You realize you just jumped into an interdimensional rift, right?

“Yeah, yeah. We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

Yellow Box: Third world this month. You should be used to this by now.

She glanced up at a billboard. “National City, huh?”

She strutted down the street, cloak fluttering. Nobody even blinked at her costume. “Where are my fans?” she grumbled.

Yellow Box: This is Supergirl’s turf. You’re not gonna find fans here.

“DC? You mean those two-bit hacks? Please. ‘Batman & Robin’? Worst movie ever.”

Yellow Box: You’re the one who jumped universes.

“Whatever. I’m bored already.” She eyed a skyscraper. “CatCo? The biggest pet store I’ve ever seen. I’m gonna go pet some cats.”

Yellow Box: …This won’t end well.

^&^

“Winn, there’s nothing at this third site,” Supergirl said, sweeping the area with X-ray vision and super-hearing. “All clear.”

“Copy that. Come on back in,” Winn replied.

Kara frowned. “I should check on Tony first.”

A few minutes later, Supergirl walked into the DEO med bay to find Alex standing over Tony’s bed, scanning readouts.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were on your date,” Kara said.

“Hello, Little Danvers,” Maggie chimed from the doorway.

“Maggie—hi. I tried to keep them from calling you in,” Kara admitted sheepishly.

“I heard about the fireworks,” Alex said, setting Tony’s report down. “Maggie convinced me to check in.”

“How’s he doing?” Kara asked, glancing at the unconscious figure.

“Peak physical condition,” Alex answered. “Already had to chase out a couple agents—Vasquez practically tried to climb into bed with him.” She raised a brow. “If I weren’t gay, I might’ve thought about it myself.”

“I’d join you, Danvers,” Maggie teased, grinning.

Kara flushed slightly. “He is… very hunky,” she admitted, eyeing the sleeping Tony. “What do we actually know about him?”

“Not alien. But not strictly human either,” Alex said, flipping through data. “Markers suggest he’s metahuman. Similar to Barry Allen’s profile. But only just.”

“Is he dangerous?” Kara asked. She’d only ever met hostile metas before.

“My rule of thumb?” Alex shrugged. “Trust him until he gives you a reason not to.”

“No prints, no photo matches, nothing in any database,” Maggie added, studying him closely. “He feels solid. But that could be bait in the trap.”

“The detective’s right.”

The three women spun—Tony was suddenly sitting upright, watching them with sharp, alert eyes.

“Hello, ladies,” he said smoothly. “Guess the cat’s out of the bag. Arrest me now, or later?”

“Why would we?” Kara asked warily.

“For starters, I’m not exactly human. And I know how top-secret outfits work,” Tony said evenly.

“That’s not how the DEO operates,” Alex countered, stepping closer to check his vitals. “Whatever just hit you, it’s passed. But you should rest.”

“Sure, Doc. Just… someone tell me where I am. And not just ‘DEO.’ I’ve never heard of it—and I’ve done a lot of work with black-ops groups.” His eyes narrowed. “But this city? Never heard of it either. That shouldn’t be possible.”

“You still don’t know where you are?” Kara asked, stepping forward.

“Other than being surrounded by three beautiful women? No clue.” A small grin tugged at his lips. “Last thing I remember was being on a mission in Prague—capital of the Czech Republic, in case anyone here skipped geography.”

“I know where Prague is,” Kara said with a smirk.

“Good. So at least some things here are the same.” He smirked back.

Alex exchanged a quick glance with Kara. Was her sister… flirting? Hard to tell, but Tony was definitely laying it on thick.

“So, Mr. Masters,” Alex said, tone sharp. “You’re claiming you’re from another Earth?”

“Looks that way,” Tony admitted. “And not my first time.”

“Oh?” Alex pressed.

“A few years back, things went sideways. Ended up on a world where the Skrulls had already won. Took over Earth. I was stuck there with a few Avengers and X-Men until we found a way out.”

“Skrulls?” Alex frowned.

“Green-skinned shapeshifters. Love conquering planets. We beat ’em—but the war was hell.”

At his description, Kara and Alex exchanged an uneasy glance.

“Do they have mind powers?” Kara asked carefully.

“Not as a racial trait,” Tony answered.

At that moment, J’onn stepped into the room.

“How’s our guest?”

“Well enough,” Alex said. “But he’s not from this Earth.”

“Oh?” J’onn tilted his head. “From Mr. Allen’s Earth, then? You know the Flash?”

“Can’t say I do. What team’s he on?” Tony asked.

“No team,” J’onn said. “Operates solo. Central City.”

“Never heard of it,” Tony replied, then turned sharply toward J’onn. His eyes narrowed. “Telepath. Did you find what you were looking for?”

J’onn gave the faintest smile. “No. You controlled what I saw. Impressive restraint.”

Tony smirked. “As your files probably say, I’m metahuman. My gift? Photographic reflexes and memory. I see it once—I can do it. Fighting, movement, languages. Anything.” He leaned back casually. “Makes for a pretty good résumé.”

^&^

Wanda strutted straight into the CatCo building, soaking it in. “Wow, nice place,” she muttered, eyeing the decor.

“It sure is,” came a voice behind her.

She turned to find a tall, handsome Black man. Her grin widened. “Well, hello, sexy.”

James Olsen blinked. “Uh—hello to you too.”

“So, James Olsen, what’s your role here?”

He froze. “Wait, how—oh. Badge.” He glanced down, impressed. “Quick eye. And you are…?”

“Wanda Wilson. Some call me Lady Deadpool. You can just call me anytime.” She purred the last word, leaning close enough to make him blush.

“Lady Deadpool?” he echoed, processing.

“That’s right, handsome. I’m a hero… most of the time.” She planted a kiss on his cheek, delighted when his blush deepened. “Oh my God, Black men can blush—love it. I want more!”

Yellow Box: Fun fact: Wanda has zero chill when it comes to ‘hunky’ men or women. Weakness detected.

“James, is this what I pay you for?” Cat Grant’s voice cut in like a whip.

James nearly jumped. “No, Ms. Grant! This is Wanda—she’s, uh… a friend.” Normally smooth, James was not smooth right now.

“Yes, I can tell by how her hand seems to be headed south into your pants,” Cat replied dryly.

James looked down, horrified, and leapt back. Wanda just smirked.

“Fine,” Wanda said breezily, turning to Cat. “I’ve heard good things about this place. Word is a hero could get her start in the spotlight if you gave her a push.”

“A hero could do well,” Cat said slowly, studying Wanda. “Are you a hero?”

“Wanda Wilson. Lady Deadpool. The Merc with a Mouth. Want me to show you how I use it?” She licked her lips suggestively.

Cat barely blinked. “My office. Now. James, call Kara—tell her to meet us.” She latched onto Wanda’s arm and steered her toward the elevator.

James hesitated. Kara. Not Kira, Keira, or any of Cat’s usual manglings. That was Cat-speak for: danger, call Supergirl.

He nodded. “Yes, Ms. Grant.” He reached for his phone—only to realize it was gone.

“Looking for this?” Wanda waved his phone with a wink as the elevator doors closed.

^&^

Natasha woke beneath a tree, head pounding. She sat up, disoriented—until Bruce appeared, offering a hoodie and coat.

“You’re awake.”

She slipped them on quickly. “Where are we?”

“California. Sort of. The nearest city’s called National City.” He sat beside her. “We’re not in our world, Nat.”

“Why do you sound almost happy about that?”

“A few reasons,” he admitted. “Nobody here fears the Hulk… yet. And I’m with you. Which means we’ll make it.”

She blushed despite herself. “We’ll need to confirm no local Hulk running around. Unlikely, but…”

He smiled at her caution. “Best guess—we’re about five miles from the city. Care for a walk, my lady?”

“I’d love to, kind sir.” She smiled back.

^&^

“Maybe you inspire people to be braver than they should be,” Tony said casually, as though he’d heard it all. Kara shot him a look; he grinned. “I barely know you, Supergirl, and already I want to impress you.”

Alex muttered, “If I weren’t gay, I’d say the same. Seriously, Tony, any chance you’ve got pheromone powers?”

He chuckled. “Nope. Just good at reading people. Come with the job.” He stood smoothly. “If you think this new ‘hero’ isn’t one, I should come. Maybe I know her. Maybe I can help.”

“How much did you hear?” Kara asked suspiciously.

“Plenty. No super-hearing—just listening. Underrated skill.”

“Fine. Alex?”

“Rhetorical. Of course I’m coming.” She checked her gun.

Maggie nodded. “I’ll put the PD on standby.”

“I’d be more help with my gear,” Tony said hopefully.

“Not happening, lover boy,” Alex shot back. “Not until you’re vetted.”

“Fair. Don’t need the toys anyway.” He fell into stride with them.

“Supergirl?” Winn’s voice crackled in Kara’s comm.

“Yes?” Kara said, backing up a step from Tony, leaving him with Alex.

“James just called. Some supposed ‘hero’ showed up at CatCo. Cat’s got her in her office—and she used your real name. James thought you’d know what that means.”

Kara’s stomach dropped. “Damn it, Cat. She only does that when she’s worried. This isn’t good.”

^&^

“This is the city?” Nat asked as she and Bruce entered a Circle K.

“Looks like it,” Bruce said, grabbing a newspaper. The front page showed Supergirl mid-flight. “That’s her. She came at us before I jumped.”

“Paper calls her a hero,” Nat said carefully. “But we know how papers spin things.”

“True.” Bruce eyed the shelves. “Money works. That’s something.”

“Good. I hate stealing. But I need food.”

“I’d never let you starve,” he said softly, piling up subs, bottled water, and the paper at the counter.

As they walked out, Nat spotted the skyline. “Let’s try there.” She pointed toward the CatCo tower, where Supergirl hovered outside an office window.

^&^

Yellow Box: Oh, this is about to go off the rails.

Wanda noticed Supergirl floating outside and waved. “Guest incoming!”

“If you’re really a hero, you’ve nothing to fear,” Cat said coolly.

“Fear?” Wanda snorted. “Sweetheart, I don’t fear anyone. Wanna see a trick?” Without waiting, she bolted for the window—straight at Supergirl.

Yellow Box: WANDA, SHE FLIES. YOU DO NOT. DO THE MATH.

Kara barely registered movement before Wanda slammed into her midair, unloading bullets into her chest.

“Bulletproof! Cool! Let’s test the falling damage!” Wanda cackled as they plummeted.

Kara screamed, bracing for impact. But before the ground rushed up—

“HULK!” The roar shook the block.

A massive green form intercepted them, cradling both women as he bounded five city blocks in a single leap. He set them down roughly, looming over Wanda.

“Uh… sorry?” Wanda squeaked, dropping her guns instantly. “Yeah, I’m good. I surrender.”

“Smart,” Natasha said, appearing behind Hulk. “Nobody wants to piss him off.”

Kara blinked in shock. “You’re… huge.”

Wanda snorted. “That’s what she said.”

Kara’s eyes narrowed. “You shot me.”

“Yeah, but bigger problems right now!” Wanda said quickly, gesturing at Hulk and Nat. “Friends?”

“Hardly,” Nat said. “But he’s in control.”

Before Kara could respond, DEO vans screeched into the alley, agents aiming weapons.

Hulk’s growl deepened.

“No!” Nat grabbed his arm. “Wait. Let’s see if they’re friendly.”

Kara dropped between Hulk and the agents. “Stand down! They’re with me!”

Alex strode forward. “Supergirl. Explanations. Now.”

“I… don’t know,” Kara admitted.

“I can explain,” Nat offered. “But we need space for Bruce to change back. And maybe cuff her before she causes more trouble.” She nodded toward Wanda.

Agents moved in. Wanda grinned as cuffs snapped on. “Oh good, bondage time! Do we get safe words?”

Alex groaned, then turned back to Nat.

“Natasha Romanoff. Call me Nat,” she said, extending a hand.

“Agent Alex Danvers,” Alex replied, shaking it firmly.

“Hulk,” he rumbled, offering a massive fist.

Kara bumped it, smiling despite herself. “You saved my life. Thank you.”

“No worries, little lady.”

Nat exhaled. “Okay, let’s get out of here before the press swarms.” She fell into step with Alex. “I’ll sit with Hulk.”

^&^

On the way to the DEO in the back of a van, Hulk’s breathing finally slowed. The fight was behind them now, but the echoes of it clung to the air—the tang of smoke on their clothes, the faint rattle of broken gear scattered across the floor. His chest rose and fell in a heavy but steady rhythm as he sat beside Natasha. For once, the storm behind his eyes seemed quiet.

“Trust them?” he asked, his voice low and rough, like thunder rumbling far away.

Natasha’s hand was already on his arm, her touch gentle but firm. She nodded without hesitation.

“Good.” His shoulders sagged, tension draining from him as if she’d given permission. His massive form shimmered, muscle and rage shrinking inward until only a weary man remained. Bruce Banner slumped where Hulk had sat, glasses long gone, dark circles etched under his eyes.

Natasha’s arms were already around him before he could fall. “Come here, Bruce,” she murmured, guiding him until his head rested against her chest. He didn’t resist. He folded into her like a man who had finally been allowed to stop carrying the weight of the world.

“Stay close, Nat…” Bruce whispered, half-conscious. His hand twitched, clutching at her sleeve before going slack as sleep overtook him.

Natasha froze, lips pressed in a thin line. She’d been held by lovers, allies, even enemies—but never like this. Never by someone who could kill her with a flick of his hand, and yet trusted her enough to be unguarded. Her fingers threaded softly through his hair, more protective than she meant them to be.

The hum of the van filled the silence, steady and low. Kara sat across from them, still scuffed and dirty from battle. She watched Bruce’s head rise and fall with Natasha’s breathing, her expression softening despite herself.

Maggie shifted in her seat, exhaling the last of her tension like a cop finally clocking off after a brutal shift. She offered Natasha the faintest smile, respectful, almost apologetic, before turning her gaze to the floor.

Across the bench, Wanda lounged with her wrists still cuffed, but her posture said she was anything but restrained. She watched the scene quietly, her usual smirk absent. For once, she didn’t joke. She just smiled—warm, knowing, maybe even a little envious.

The van rocked gently over a pothole. Bruce stirred but didn’t wake, and Natasha tightened her hold just a fraction, grounding him. In the aftermath of chaos, in the cramped metal belly of a DEO transport, it almost felt like peace.

^&^

In the van, Alex studied Taskmaster—“Tony”—as he drove. His hands were relaxed on the wheel, movements precise, almost rehearsed, like a man who could have been running a Sunday errand instead of escorting dangerous fugitives through a city on lockdown. He never checked the mirrors more than once, never overcorrected the wheel. Every motion was clean, economical. Too clean.

“So you drive like you know National City better than me?” she asked, suspicion cutting through her tone. She hadn’t missed the way he’d taken a back street without even glancing at the GPS.

He smirked, holding up his phone to flash a glowing map app. “I watched on the way here. Got the streets down. Don’t really need this, but it’s nice to know I haven’t lost my touch.”

The grin was cocky, but Alex wasn’t buying it. She noticed how his eyes flicked over storefront glass as they passed—using reflections to check for tails. How he adjusted his grip on the wheel every time they hit a new district, as if adapting to the terrain, recalibrating. He drove like the city was a chessboard and every intersection a potential ambush.

“Lost your touch?” she echoed, arching a brow. “What exactly is your ‘touch,’ Tony?”

He didn’t look at her, but the smirk widened. “Staying alive. Not getting caught. Same as you, I imagine.”

Alex felt her jaw tighten. He wasn’t wrong. But the difference was—she did it for duty. He did it for himself. And sitting this close to him, she couldn’t shake the sense that if their goals ever stopped lining up, he wouldn’t hesitate for a second to put her in the ground.

Still, she kept her voice even, clipped. “I don’t like people who make a habit of being ten steps ahead of everyone else.”

“Then you really won’t like me,” he said, finally glancing her way. His eyes were sharp, cold—yet lit with the faint amusement of a man who’d been reading her like an open file since the moment she sat down.

For the first time in a long while, Alex Danvers felt like the one under surveillance.

^&^

Back at the DEO, Wanda strolled easily despite the cuffs biting into her wrists. She moved like someone on a catwalk, hips loose, shoulders back, chin tilted high—like the restraints were an accessory she’d chosen for the night. Every guard in the room seemed aware of it too; hands hovered closer to triggers, eyes followed her with the twitchy vigilance reserved for wild animals.

Yellow Box: And why are you not worried?
Wanda: Because these are the good guys. They play by the rules.
Yellow Box: Oh, like the CIA? Thought they made the rules up as they went.
Wanda: …We’ll see.

She winked at a guard who instantly stiffened. “Relax, sweetheart. If I wanted to kill you, I’d already be trying.”

Her grin widened as Taskmaster approached, boots clicking on the floor.
“Lady Deadpool,” he said smoothly. “Always a pleasure.”

“Oh, Tony Masters—or should I say, Taskmaster.” She tilted her head like a wolf scenting blood. “Nice mask. Shame about the man underneath. Still hiding the crow’s feet?”

He only chuckled, as if expecting the jab. “Agent Danvers, keep an eye on this one.”

Alex’s brow arched. “Oh?”

“She’s the one who leapt out a window at your sister,” Taskmaster said.

Alex’s jaw tightened instantly.

“I wanted to see what would happen,” Wanda said airily, shrugging as if she’d just admitted to spilling coffee. “Us dying, or me realizing normal guns don’t kill her. Needed the special green ammo.”

She leaned closer to Alex, eyes sparkling with mischief. “You should’ve seen her face. Priceless. Like a cat shoved into a bathtub.”

Yellow Box: Stop. Stop talking. Don’t poke the bear.

Too late.

Alex lunged, fists like hammers. Wanda hit the floor hard, Alex on top of her, punching again and again.

“Alex!” Kara’s voice cracked like a whip across the room.
“Danvers!” Maggie shouted, rushing to pull her back.

Bloodied and grinning through swelling lips, Wanda licked the copper from her teeth and stared up at Alex. “Mmm. Foreplay. Now can we kiss?”

Yellow Box: Do you want to die?

Alex’s fist drew back again, but Kara yanked her off, stepping between them now.
“Don’t, Alex!” Kara barked, her protective tone cutting deeper than any reprimand. For a second, Alex’s face faltered—hurt flickering beneath the fury.

Everyone froze as Wanda sat up, her split lip knitting, bruises vanishing before their eyes. She twisted her neck until it popped, then blew a kiss toward the guards who had leveled their rifles.

“I can take a licking and keep on—oh wait, no. I want to get licked now!” she moaned theatrically, batting her lashes.

A rookie agent flinched. Wanda’s eyes darted to him instantly.
“Ohhh, puppy likes it,” she cooed. “Careful, sweetie. Blink twice and I’ll be your stepmom.”

Agents shifted back uneasily. Only Taskmaster stayed where he was.

“Sorry, love,” he said, almost gentle. “Crazy doesn’t do it for me.” His fist cracked against her temple, and Wanda collapsed unconscious, a blissful smile frozen on her face as she hit the floor.

Alex blinked. “What the hell—?”

“She’ll heal,” Taskmaster explained, brushing off his knuckles. “Rumor is, someone once cut her head clean off. Grew it back. Cuffs won’t matter—she’ll break her wrists and slip free. Put her in the airtight alien cage.”

Alex’s glare softened into reluctant agreement. “Do it.”

Taskmaster’s gaze shifted toward the observation room where Natasha sat with Bruce.
“They’re different,” he said, voice quieter now. “Her? Super-spy. No powers, but deadlier than most who do. Him? He’s the Hulk. And unless you’ve got Supergirl’s strength, none of you stand a chance.” His eyes landed on Kara. “And even then…” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

Kara squared her shoulders, chin tilting proudly. “I’m stronger than I look.”

Taskmaster’s grin flickered. “No doubt there, love. But you’ve never fought someone who gets stronger the angrier he gets. Best advice? Don’t piss him off.”

Kara’s pride faded into sincerity. “He saved my life. I won’t forget that.” She walked into the room.

^&^

Natasha sat on the couch, Bruce’s head in her lap, fingers combing absently through his hair. Her movements were protective, tender—almost maternal, almost something more.

“Is he okay?” Kara asked softly.

Natasha glanced up, a faint smile softening her usual steel. “He’s fine.”

Kara lingered, gaze drifting between them. “You and him?”

Natasha hesitated. “No. He won’t let himself. Too afraid of hurting me.” Her voice cracked slightly, though her face stayed composed. She looked up at Kara, eyes raw with honesty. “Funny, isn’t it? He’s terrified of hurting me. Me. An assassin who’s killed so many I lost count. And still, he thinks I’m the fragile one.”

The words hung heavy. For a moment, she looked like she might regret saying them. Her lips quivered with a rueful smile. “You’re too easy to talk to, Supergirl.”

Kara stepped closer, warmth radiating from her in that way only she could. “When I first landed here, I thought my past defined me too. But this world gave me a chance to be more. You deserve that chance too.”

Natasha’s eyes softened, just a little.

J’onn entered quietly, his presence filling the room without force.
“Hello. I’m Hank Henshaw, Director of the DEO.”

Natasha never stopped stroking Bruce’s hair as she looked at him. “What would you like from me, Director?”

Kara realized in that instant that if anyone so much as twitched toward Bruce, Natasha would be on them like lightning. She wasn’t protecting herself—she was guarding him.

“The DEO doesn’t deal with Metas or spies,” J’onn said evenly. “You’re not under arrest. Frankly, you’ve done nothing wrong. But I believe we can help you find your way home.”

Natasha’s eyes softened, but her hand stayed on Bruce. “We’ll do anything you ask, Director.”

J’onn tilted his head, studying her with quiet empathy. He could feel the guilt that clung to her, the weight of her past killings—but beneath it, he saw her loyalty, her love, her need for rules and structure as anchors.

“You carry your past, but it isn’t all you are,” J’onn said gently. “And the man in your lap is proof of that. Consider yourself part of the DEO, Agent Romanoff. Welcome.”

He left without another word.

Kara blinked. “He just… gave you a job.” Her smile spread, bright and genuine. “I guess he really liked you.”

Natasha looked down at Bruce, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face. For once, she didn’t deflect with sarcasm or suspicion. Her voice was quiet, almost tender.
“I guess.”

Chapter Text

Downtown DEO base

“So, is she as crazy as she seems?” Alex asked J’onn, arms crossed as they stood outside Wanda’s reinforced room.

“Crazy isn’t the half of it,” J’onn murmured, his voice almost growling. His brow furrowed as he brushed against the thoughts ricocheting through Wanda’s mind. His usually calm face twitched with discomfort. “She is highly skilled… and very much… sex motivated.” He coughed, actually blushing, which startled Alex more than his words. “Alex, you may want to be careful. She’s replaying the way you hit her earlier… and it excites her.”

Heat bloomed across Alex’s cheeks, her throat tightening with a traitorous thrill. She forced her arms tighter across her chest. “No worries. I already have Maggie,” she deflected, a little too fast, a little too defensive. Not that she wanted to encourage the psycho, but the truth was—the idea that someone so dangerous found her attractive lit up a reckless part of her she didn’t want to name.

A sing-song voice cut through the air.
“If you two are done whispering about me, I’d like to come out and plaaay,” Wanda purred as she pressed herself against the glass. Her breath fogged the surface, her green eyes glinting like a cat’s.

Alex stiffened. “Do you think she can hear us?”

“No,” J’onn admitted grimly. “She just… knows.”

SNAP.

Both turned just in time to see Wanda twist her wrist violently, bone cracking like a snapped branch. The cuff clattered to the floor, useless.

“Oh God, that had to hurt,” Alex whispered.

Wanda only winced slightly, raising her mangled hand in front of her face. She smiled—slow and wicked—as the flesh bubbled and knitted back together, tendons snapping back into place like rubber bands. In less than a breath, her hand was flawless again. She flexed her fingers experimentally, like an artist testing a brush.

“If someone doesn’t come in here and play, I’ll get bored,” she crooned, voice sliding from sing-song to sultry in a heartbeat. “And trust me—” her tone dropped to something low and dangerous, “—you never want me bored.”

With a theatrical flourish, she began peeling herself out of her skin-tight suit, slow and deliberate, hips rolling as if she were on a stage.

Alex’s eyes widened despite herself at the map of scars crisscrossing Wanda’s body—jagged, ugly things, carved deep, remnants of horrors long survived. They painted her like a grotesque history written in flesh.

“Old wounds,” J’onn observed, his tone grave. “Before the healing factor. She’s worn suffering like armor.”

“Or lingerie,” Wanda corrected, twirling a strand of her blonde hair around one finger, smirking as if she’d heard him.

Kara approached at that exact moment, stopped dead, and slapped a hand over her eyes. “Wow. That’s… that’s a sight I can never unsee!”

“Ohhh, the blonde’s back!” Wanda giggled, pressing her bare body against the glass like a predator taunting prey. “Send her in—I’d rock her little Kryptonian world!”

Alex smirked, quick as a knife. “That might be fun to watch. I mean, it’s not like you’re seeing anyone.” Her teasing had an edge, aimed right at Kara’s tender spot for Lena.

Kara spluttered, caught between outrage and embarrassment. Somewhere beneath it, though, Wanda’s gaze unsettled her. It felt invasive—sharp, suffocating—like being seen in ways she hadn’t given permission for.

J’onn broke the tension with a long, steady sigh. “Ladies, I have a DEO to run.” He walked calmly into Wanda’s cell, utterly unshaken by her display.

Wanda froze mid-dance, hands still on her hips, deliberately not covering herself. She gave him the full, unashamed view.

Yellow Box: You know the man before you isn’t human. All that pink skin disgusts him. And he’s judging yours right now.

“Good,” J’onn said, unbothered. “Now, I know you’re a mercenary. I want to hire you.”

From the hallway came two shocked gasps.

Wanda blinked, genuinely surprised. “You know I’m a few fries short of a Happy Meal, right?”

“I know,” J’onn replied evenly, eyes steady on hers. “I can see it in your mind. But I also know your skills. And with the right motivation… you could be useful. You might even help my new team.”

For a heartbeat, her mind flared—images of Kara pinned beneath her, Alex moaning, temptation painted in technicolor. J’onn raised one brow, unimpressed. Wanda only laughed, wild and delighted. “Fine. I can play nice. And maybe some of these hot people will play with me too.”

Kara groaned, still covering her eyes. “Rao help us all.”

“First rule,” J’onn said, utterly calm. “Put the suit back on.”

“Boo,” Wanda pouted, but with a shrug and a wink at Alex, she obeyed.

^&^

Bruce woke slowly, the world soft and warm around him. The cot wasn’t much, but Natasha’s body was wrapped tightly against his, protective even in sleep. Her arm was draped over his ribs, her hand curled lightly against his chest as if holding him there, anchoring him. He lay still for a moment, listening to the rhythm of her breathing until his own matched hers. For once, he didn’t feel like a monster waiting to happen. He felt… human.

“Are you awake?” Nat’s voice was quiet, half-buried against his shoulder, almost vulnerable.

“Yes,” Bruce murmured, voice rough with sleep. “Just groggy. And starving.” A faint smile tugged at his lips. He pressed a kiss to her cheek before he could think better of it.

Her heart skipped. Soft. So soft. Natasha Romanoff wasn’t used to gentleness—she could wield it like a weapon when she needed to, but letting herself crave it? That was dangerous. Yet in that moment, she ached for more.

“I… think we joined the DEO,” she whispered, trying to hide the tremor in her breath.

Bruce gave a small smile. “Could be worse. At least it’s a way to find our way home.” He glanced around the spartan room—the metal walls, the humming fluorescent lights. “Though I hope they pay well. I don’t want to live like this forever.” He hesitated, voice dipping softer. “But… having you here in the mornings might make it worth it.”

As soon as the words left him, he turned his head away, embarrassed by his own honesty.

Natasha froze, the world tilting under her. She wasn’t used to hearing things like that—not from him, not from anyone. His back was turned, but she reached out anyway, her hand gliding across his shoulders, fingers tracing the slope of muscle before resting lightly there. He didn’t pull away.

So she leaned her head against him, let herself breathe him in. For once, she didn’t feel like she had to guard her heart. The armor she always wore slipped, just a little, and she let herself imagine—dangerously—that mornings like this could last.

“Bruce?” she whispered, not sure what she meant to follow it with.

He turned back toward her, eyes tired but steady, a small smile curving his lips. “Yeah?”

Nat shook her head, smirking faintly to cover the weight of her silence. “Nothing. Just… stay close.”

His smile deepened, softer now. “Always.”

For a few heartbeats, there was only the two of them—her steady warmth, his quiet breathing, and the fragile thread of peace binding them together.

A sharp knock shattered it.

Bruce sighed and stood, running a hand through his messy hair. “Yes?”

The door swung open to reveal Tony Masters, leaning against the frame with his wolfish smile. “Avengers. You’re invited to the big show.”

Bruce smirked faintly. “Taskmaster, right? Or should I call you Tony?”

“Tony’s fine,” Masters replied smoothly. “We’re stuck here together, so let’s try being friends.”

Bruce’s smile thinned into something sharper. “Agreed. But if you piss me off, you won’t like me—or be able to copy me.” His gaze flicked back to Natasha. “The same goes for her.”

Nat’s lips quirked. “I can take care of myself, Bruce.”

“I know,” he admitted softly. And this time, he didn’t look away.

^&^

The control room buzzed with energy. Natasha’s eyes swept the space: Kara, Alex, agents, J’onn—then Wanda, lounging at a desk, flirting shamelessly with a very pink-faced Winn.

“Oh god, I was hoping you’d say that,” Wanda crooned, running her hands along his arm. “Nobody here wants to play with me.”

Winn nearly swallowed his tongue. “Uh—I’ve got Call of Duty?”

“Nerdy and cute. Love it.”

“Back up!” Kara stormed over, dragging Wanda away. “Stop messing with him!”

“I like nerds,” Wanda protested with a grin. “They keep the world spinning.”

Yellow Box: And the fanfics. Don’t forget the fanfics.

Nat stepped beside Bruce, eyes narrowing. “She looks normal without the mask.”

“Thanks, I guess,” Wanda said, smirking.

“She’s still crazy. And not to be trusted,” Natasha countered.

“Now that’s the reaction I wanted,” Wanda winked. “So, redhead, you coming to my room later?”

“Never,” Nat said flatly.

“One can dream.” Wanda’s gaze slid to Kara, wicked. “Or maybe two dreams. Right, Supergirl?” She smacked Kara’s butt.

“HEY!” Kara yelped.

J’onn’s voice cut through. “Enough.”

Everyone fell silent as Winn spoke. “The breaches aren’t isolated. There are… thirty-five. And rising.”

Gasps rippled through the command center. The room suddenly felt smaller, tighter, like the walls were closing in.

Bruce didn’t panic. His mind ignited. Numbers, energy readings, dimensional decay rates—they layered in his head like puzzle pieces snapping together at speed. He grabbed the nearest tablet, scrolling furiously as his mouth kept pace.

“If the rate of increase stays linear, we’re looking at a systemic collapse across adjacent dimensional barriers,” he said rapidly. “Localized surges would cause feedback loops—basically tearing holes on top of holes. And if they overlap—” He stopped, scribbling on the back of a report page, writing faster than anyone could follow.

Winn’s eyes widened as he leaned in, following the math. “Oh my God. He’s right. If they overlap, the quantum instability would—”

“Amplify,” Bruce finished. “Exactly. Like dominoes falling in three dimensions at once.”

“More like four,” Winn corrected without missing a beat, already punching the numbers into the DEO mainframe. “And if your projections hold—”

“Then we don’t have months. We don’t even have weeks.” Bruce’s eyes flicked across the board, sharp and sure. “We have days. Maybe.”

Even Kara blinked, stunned at how quickly the two of them had just leapfrogged into technobabble territory.

Tony Masters raised a hand, cutting in. “Buddy, slow down. Translate for us normal folks before my brain bleeds.”

Bruce inhaled sharply, reined himself back in, and forced his voice steady. “Fine. Breaches leave behind radiation. Think of it like cosmic fingerprints. If we recalibrate the DEO’s scanners to pick up that radiation signature, we can track not just the breaches—” he looked up, gaze flicking between Kara and Alex, “—but anyone who came through them. Survivors. Villains. Anyone displaced.”

Winn spun in his chair, grinning despite the stakes. “You realize you just made my system ten times smarter in under five minutes? I’ve been trying to rig a tracking model for weeks. You… you’re good.”

Bruce gave the faintest, almost shy smile. “I dabble.”

Natasha, watching from the side, arched a brow. “That’s what he calls it.”

Kara folded her arms, impressed but unsettled. “So you can find them. All of them.”

Bruce nodded. “If Winn and I can sync his tech with my models, yes. We’ll have a map of every breach, every traveler, every threat. No more guessing in the dark.”

Winn leaned back, still eyeing him with a mixture of awe and disbelief. “Okay, I officially want to copy your brain.”

Tony smirked. “Get in line, kid. I’ve been trying to do that for years.”

Kara stared at him in awe. So brilliant. So kind. Her eyes shifted to Natasha, catching the way she looked at Bruce, all her walls lowered. Kara understood. She felt that same ache every time she thought about Lena.

J’onn barked his orders. “Banner, Winn—start that tracking. The rest of you—gear up. We’re short-staffed. All hands on deck.”

Wanda leaned close to Nat and Alex, grinning. “Guess I’m DEO now.”

Nat’s eyes narrowed. “Join the club. But I’ll be watching you.”

Wanda’s grin widened. “Oh, locker rooms! Yes, please.”

Alex groaned. Maggie muttered, “She’s just happy with the view.”

Nat didn’t smile. Her eyes stayed on Wanda. “Never underestimate her. She’s dangerous. And deadly.”

^&^

“Why’d I get stuck with her?” Vasquez muttered under her breath.

“She’s got powers. Or skills. Either way, not my problem.” The other agent smirked.

“Gee. Thanks.”

Before Vasquez could snap back, Wanda’s head popped into the cockpit like a kid on a road trip. “Are we there yet?”

“No!” Vasquez snapped, sharper than she meant to. Why does she have to be cute when I’m trying to focus?

Then the world shuddered. The chopper screamed in protest.

“Incoming!” someone yelled—too late.

The next impact tore through metal. Shrapnel flew like razors. Blood sprayed across the cabin. The male agent slumped, lifeless.

Wanda was already moving. She threw herself over Vasquez, shielding her with her body. “He’s gone,” she whispered, calm in the chaos. “Come on.”

Her tone was steady, terrifyingly focused. The mask of madness stripped away, revealing steel underneath.

Yellow Box: You could make this jump alone. Easy. She’s just dead weight.

Vasquez’s throat went dry. “Parachutes?”

“Only one.” Wanda smirked, though her eyes stayed locked on Vasquez’s. She yanked her close, their bodies pressed together. “Hold on. First date rules—I don’t let go.”

And then she jumped.

^&^

The world became screaming air and tumbling stars. The chute yanked open late, slowing them just enough to turn certain death into bone-crushing survival.

They slammed into the ground with a brutal thud. The impact ripped the air from Vasquez’s lungs, left dirt in her teeth, and a high-pitched ringing in her ears.

She rolled, gasping—and froze.

Wanda lay twisted, her legs bent in ways no human legs should bend. White shards of bone pierced through her skin like jagged glass. Blood pooled, black in the moonlight.

“Oh my God—” Vasquez scrambled toward her, hands hovering, desperate but useless.

“Don’t.” Wanda’s voice was strained, but firm. “It’ll fix. Just… don’t touch.”

Then it began.

The snapping. The grinding. The hideous sound of bones forcing themselves back into place. Muscle writhed under torn flesh, knitting back together.

Wanda screamed. Not a quip. Not a laugh. A raw, animal howl that tore at the night.

Without thinking, Vasquez grabbed her hand.

Wanda’s fingers crushed hers, nails digging deep, but Vasquez didn’t let go. She leaned closer, grounding her. Silent. Steady.

Wanda’s eyes flew to hers—wild, wet, desperate. For one heartbeat, she looked human. Vulnerable. Breakable. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Hate pain. Always hate it.”

And then, impossibly, she stood.

Her legs whole again, trembling but steady. Blood still smeared across her skin, though fading as fast as it had spilled. She wiped her face, tried to smirk—but her eyes betrayed her.

For the first time, Vasquez didn’t see a reckless merc. She saw a woman who bled. Who hurt. Who hated her own gift. And still—still—chose to leap from planes to shield someone else.

Vasquez’s hand lingered in Wanda’s even after she’d pulled upright. The rational voice in her head screamed let go, assess, move. She didn’t. She couldn’t.

Something had shifted.

Wanda wasn’t just chaos. She wasn’t just leather and guns and bad jokes. She was someone who kept choosing her—a DEO grunt, a foster kid who’d clawed her way into the ranks—as worth saving.

Her chest tightened. She hated that it did. She’d promised herself not to get attached. Never again. Not to rookies. Not to partners. Not to anyone who could be snatched away by the next mission.

Yellow Box: You know she has the hots for you, right? She’s praying the fans are shipping you two right now. It’s like Tumblr 2015 all over again.

Wanda hissed as her body finished repairing, the last shudder of pain leaving her trembling. She glanced down at the steady hand still gripping hers—Vasquez, unflinching, eyes full of something Wanda didn’t dare name.

Her grin slipped. Her voice softened. “Thank you.”

She gave one last squeeze before pulling free, smirk returning like armor. “Healing factor—total bitch sometimes. Like the universe gave me cheat codes but forgot to include the patch notes.”

Yellow Box: Translation: ‘That hurt like hell and I’m humiliated you saw it.’ Don’t worry, she’s already queuing up the rebound joke.

Right on cue, Wanda flicked her wrists and produced two sleek handguns, spinning them with theatrical flair.

Vasquez blinked. She knew exactly what Wanda was wearing—skin-tight suit, nowhere to hide so much as a knife. And yet—twin pistols gleamed in her hands.

Her eyes narrowed. “Where the hell did you pull those from?”

Wanda waggled her brows, as if that explained everything. “Trade secret. Here.” She held one out. “Bonding over bullets.”

Vasquez accepted on instinct. She ejected the clip, checked the chamber. Full. Clean. No chance of a jam. Damn it. She hated how impressed she was.

“Thanks,” she muttered, sliding it into her holster.

“Anytime.” Wanda shrugged, already smirking again. “So—remind me. What did the boss say about this mission? I might’ve tuned out after the words ‘standard recon.’”

Vasquez’s lips twitched. “You didn’t tune out. You snored. Loud. For twenty minutes.”

Wanda’s jaw dropped in mock offense. “I do not snore.”

Yellow Box: Oh, you do. And it was adorable. She knows it too.

Despite herself, Vasquez chuckled, the sound soft in the cool night air. They moved into the trees together—two silhouettes, one grounded and steady, the other unpredictable and dangerous—and somehow, it felt like the start of something neither of them was ready to admit.

“I’ll have you know I’m very lady-like,” Wanda sniffed, tilting her chin up with mock dignity, like she belonged in a ballroom instead of a battlefield.

Her composure lasted all of three seconds before she snorted, then outright laughed at herself. “Okay, so maybe… a little un-lady-like from time to time.”

Vasquez shook her head, lips twitching against her will. She tried to smother the smile, to keep her face neutral, professional. She failed. For one insane second, she almost forgot where they were. The forest melted away, the shadows and the mission forgotten—and it felt like they were two women on a date, not fugitives limping through hostile ground.

The thought rattled her. She forced herself back into agent mode. “Focus. A breach was confirmed here, and we don’t know what came through. Could be dangerous.” Her eyes swept the dark, professional again.

Wanda twirled her pistol with a flourish, as though the weight of it amused her. “My vote’s on ‘not friendly.’ But hey—I’m the tourist here. Do you always greet new arrivals with bullets and explosions in this world?”

“No.” Vasquez’s jaw clenched. “This wasn’t a greeting. It was an attack.”

“Cool.” Wanda cocked her pistol like it was punctuation. “So it’s us versus whatever brought down the chopper. Nine-mile hike, middle of nowhere, enemies unknown.” Her grin sharpened, wicked and thrilled. “Best first date ever.”

Vasquez opened her mouth—half to scold, half to deny the flush creeping up her neck—but she never got the chance. A hand clamped on her arm, yanking her against a tree.

Her back hit bark. Wanda froze. Vasquez’s body was flush with hers, heat and tension radiating like a live wire. The agent’s breath brushed her cheek as she whispered, “Footsteps.”

Wanda went still, every muscle primed.

“I think I’ve seen someone jump out!” a male voice called from the left.

“Yeah? Then they’re probably dead,” another replied, careless.

“If not, the hounds’ll find them.”

The voices receded into the night, boots crunching away until silence took hold again. Vasquez exhaled carefully, only then realizing that Wanda wasn’t moving. Wasn’t watching the shadows. Wasn’t calculating.

She was staring.

Goofy-eyed. Unguarded. Like a teenager seeing their celebrity crush up close for the first time.

Vasquez’s cheeks warmed. She hissed, “What is your problem?”

“Oh, you’re just really, really sexy when you’re in agent mode.” Wanda grinned, as if it were the most natural confession in the world. Then, without missing a beat, she pivoted. “Anyway—hounds? What do you know?”

Vasquez blinked, trying to reboot her brain. Her training told her to parse intel, answer fast. Instead, all she registered was the arm snug at her waist, protective, almost possessive. Like Wanda wasn’t shielding a comrade but cradling something precious.

“Hounds,” she repeated dumbly. “Maybe… dogs?”

“Nope.” Wanda’s voice dropped, steel threading through it. Her body shifted, sliding Vasquez instinctively behind her. “Not dogs. Never seen a breed like this.”

The underbrush rustled.

Two shapes emerged, prowling low—gleaming metal, jointed legs clicking, eyes glowing like embers. Predators built, not born.

Vasquez’s breath hitched. She raised her weapon, but she wasn’t used to this—to being protected, to someone physically stepping in front of her like her life meant more. “What are you doing?” she hissed, anger covering the unease.

“Simple math,” Wanda said flatly. “I heal. You don’t.”

Yellow Box: Heroic now, huh? Why? She’s just an extra, Wanda. Background noise. Not worth it.

Normally, Wanda would’ve cracked a joke. Normally, she’d have shrugged off the voice with some quip about odds or snacks. But tonight, it sparked something raw.

“She’s not a RED SHIRT,” Wanda growled aloud—then opened fire.

The fury in her voice made Vasquez’s chest seize. This wasn’t the careless merc who cracked jokes in freefall. This was precision. Deadly, terrifying precision.

Bullets tore into steel. Sparks cascaded. Wanda moved like flowing violence, flipping between trees, planting perfect shots into joints and optics. She vaulted over one hound, slammed two rounds into the back of its head, and it dropped in a burst of sparks. The second fell seconds later, twitching as circuits fried.

Vasquez stood frozen, adrenaline flooding her veins, watching the carnage play out like a ballet of destruction.

^&^

And then, as if nothing had happened, Wanda crouched low and started tearing through the wreckage.

“What are you doing?” Vasquez demanded, breathless.

“Looking for toys.” Wanda yanked free a steel box bristling with cables, holding it up with a grin. “Think Winn could work his nerd magic on this?”

“That, or I could,” Vasquez said automatically, mind still whirring.

Wanda’s head snapped up. Surprise flickered. Then something softer. “Oh right. You’re smart too.” Her grin faltered, slipping into the faintest blush, like she’d been caught off guard by her own thought.

Yellow Box: Oh no. You’re in trouble. You’ve got a type—badass, brilliant, dangerously out of your league. She’s all three.

Vasquez’s heart stuttered. Wanda Wilson, unhinged mercenary, was blushing because she’d remembered she wasn’t the only competent one here. Because she thought smart was worth flustering over.

None of it made sense. And yet, it didn’t feel bad. Not at all.

The moment broke with the thunder of boots crashing through underbrush, closer now, voices barking orders.

“Time to go.” Wanda didn’t ask—she seized Vasquez’s hand, fingers locking tight, dragging her into the dark without hesitation.

“You have a plan?” Vasquez panted, legs burning as they tore through the trees.

“Yeah. Find better ground. Flip the script.” Wanda vaulted a low cliff like it was a speed bump, landing smoothly on the slope below. She turned, expectant, eyes bright even in the shadows. “C’mon!”

Vasquez skidded to the edge, gravel spilling under her boots. The drop wasn’t huge, but her training screamed at her that she’d botch the landing. “I can’t make that jump!”

Yellow Box: She’s right. And we’re dead if we fight here. Run, Wanda. Run.

But Wanda didn’t run. She didn’t even hesitate. She was already back, hitting the dirt beside Vasquez with a grunt, one hand grabbing her arm, the other steadying her waist like she belonged there.

“What are you—run!” Vasquez urged, panic clawing at her throat.

“Not without you!” Wanda barked. Her grip was iron, bruising almost, anchoring Vasquez in place. Her face was fierce, eyes burning with something raw. “Didn’t you get it before? You’re not a red shirt!”

Vasquez froze. She wasn’t used to this—the weight of someone else’s determination pressing into her body, someone who refused to calculate her as expendable. For a split second, the heat of Wanda’s arm around her waist and the ragged fire in her voice collided with the panic in her chest, scrambling everything she thought she knew about this woman.

And then Wanda let go—not of her, never of her—but of hesitation. She turned, shoving Vasquez behind her body as she charged toward the incoming boots head-on.

Yellow Box: Brilliant plan. You’re gonna get us both killed.

“Wanda, look out!” Vasquez shouted, instincts snapping back into focus. She raised her weapon and fired. One silhouette dropped. Another soldier swung his rifle toward them—only for Wanda to empty her clip, tearing him down in a storm of muzzle flash.

The sudden silence that followed was deafening.

Vasquez leaned against a tree, pulse hammering, chest heaving. The acrid tang of gunpowder burned her nose. She should have been relieved, should have been moving to secure the field, but all she could think about was Wanda Wilson—this mercenary, this lunatic—throwing herself into fire after fire without pause. For her.

Over and over. No hesitation. No second thought.

It made no sense. And yet the truth sat heavy in Vasquez’s chest: Wanda was choosing her. Every time.

Her vision blurred, the edges of the world collapsing into shadow. She pressed a hand to her side and felt it—wet, hot. Too much. Too fast. Her stomach twisted.

“Oh God…” she whispered.

“Vasquez!” Wanda’s voice tore through the ringing in her ears, frantic and sharp, nothing like the breezy jokes she usually wore like armor. “You’ve been hit!”

The world tilted violently. Vasquez stumbled, the ground rushing up to meet her.

The last thing she saw before the dark swallowed her was Wanda’s face above hers—wild with desperation, stripped of every smirk, every mask. Not joking. Not grinning. Just raw fear.

For her.

^&^

“Vasquez!”

The name ripped out of Wanda like a wound. She dropped to her knees beside her, hands trembling in a way they never did—not with swords, not with guns, not even with blood on them. But pressed against Briana’s side, slick and wet with too much red? Her hands shook.

“Hey, hey—stay with me.” Wanda’s voice cracked, frantic, far from the lazy drawl she wore like armor. She ripped open Vasquez’s jacket, cursed at the sight of the spreading stain. “Damn it, damn it—too much blood.”

Yellow Box: She’s gone, Wanda. You can’t save her. She’s background.

“Shut up!” Wanda snarled, voice breaking. She shoved her hand harder against the wound, ignoring the way Vasquez whimpered. “You don’t get to call her that. Not her.”

Vasquez blinked up at her, pupils glassy, skin paling fast. Her lips parted like she wanted to argue, but no sound came out. Only shallow breaths, rattling.

Panic clawed up Wanda’s throat. She wasn’t supposed to care—caring got people killed. That’s what she told herself every job, every contract, every time she left another body behind. But now… now her chest ached in a way her healing factor couldn’t fix.

“Don’t you dare,” Wanda whispered fiercely, leaning down until her forehead pressed against Vasquez’s. “Don’t you dare leave me, Briana. I didn’t jump out of a goddamn helicopter, snap my own legs back into place, and murder a pack of robo-dogs just to have you quit on me now.”

Yellow Box: You’re begging. You never beg. This is bad.

“Shut. Up.” Wanda’s jaw trembled as she said it, her cheek wet where it brushed against Vasquez’s. “I don’t beg. I don’t care. Except—” her voice cracked again, raw and hoarse, “except I do. So you fight, Vasquez. You fight, because if you die on me, I swear I’ll find a way to kill myself just to drag your ass back.”

Her hand clutched tighter at the wound, slick with blood, slipping but never letting go.

For a moment, Vasquez’s fingers twitched weakly against Wanda’s wrist—like she was trying to answer, to reassure, to hold her back. It was small, barely there, but it made Wanda’s throat close up with something hot and desperate.

“Yeah,” Wanda whispered, eyes wild, voice shaking with fury at the universe itself. “That’s it. Hold on to me. Don’t you dare let go.”

She gathered Vasquez into her arms, pulling her tight against her chest, shielding her body with her own, even though the fight was over. Even though the danger wasn’t. Her sword lay forgotten in the grass, her guns empty. None of it mattered. Only the woman bleeding out in her arms mattered.

Wanda rocked her, whispering nonsense—promises, curses, half-jokes that collapsed into choked sobs. “First date rules, remember? I don’t let go. I don’t.”

Headlights broke through the trees. Tires screeched. A black DEO van came skidding to a stop, back doors flying open as two agents in dark uniforms jumped out with stretchers and med kits.

“Over here!” one shouted, rushing forward.

Wanda bared her teeth at them, feral. “Back the hell off.”

The men froze at the edge of the clearing. They saw the way Wanda crouched over Vasquez, cradling her like something sacred, blood streaked across her arms and face. She looked like a cornered animal, one breath away from ripping out throats.

“Ma’am, we need to get her inside the van,” the taller agent said carefully. “She’s bleeding out.”

“I know,” Wanda hissed, clutching Vasquez tighter. “And you’re not touching her until I say so.”

Yellow Box: Yikes. They’re staring at you like you’re her girlfriend. Which, let’s be real, you basically are at this point.

Wanda ignored it, finally letting the agents ease Vasquez onto the stretcher. But the second they tried to load her in without her, Wanda snapped, “I’m coming too.” And she climbed inside before either man could argue.

Chapter Text

DEO Van driving back to town

The van rumbled down the road, headlights cutting the dark. Vasquez lay slumped against Wanda’s chest, her breathing shallow but steady for now. Wanda stroked her hair absently, more intimate than she realized, glaring at the agents in the front seat every time they glanced back.

Yellow Box: Can’t say I blame them. You dropped into this world less than twenty-four hours ago… and now you’re spoon-feeding comfort like a lovesick puppy.

“Funny,” Wanda muttered under her breath.

Yellow Box: Oh, so we’re back on speaking terms. That’s nice.

The silence stretched until Wanda broke it with a grin that felt like a blade. “You know what I want? Chimichangas. A whole pile of them.” Her voice was light but her eyes were dark. “Because here’s the thing, boys—my trigger finger gets itchy when I’m hungry.”

Both agents stiffened. The driver swallowed audibly.

Yellow Box: Ah yes. Lean into the Crazy Card. Never fails.

“Yes, ma’am,” the driver said quickly, taking the next turn.

Satisfied, Wanda leaned back, brushing Vasquez’s damp hair from her forehead. “So,” she said casually, “how long have you boys been with the DEO?”

“A year, ma’am,” the passenger answered without hesitation.

That’s when Wanda noticed it—the twitch. Small. Nervous. The exact same in both men. She’d seen it before in alleys and warzones. Mercenaries waiting for their moment. Hydra cannon fodder.

Her stomach went cold.

Yellow Box: Oh no. Here it comes. Tuck and roll when the van flips.

The decision was made before she even thought about it. Her sword was in her hand in a single blur of motion. One clean arc took the driver’s head. The blade reversed, plunging into the passenger’s chest.

The wheel jerked. The van slammed into a median.

Physics did the rest.

The world flipped end over end, glass exploding, metal screaming. Wanda curled tight around Vasquez, taking every brutal hit herself, refusing to let go.

When the wreckage screeched to a stop, Wanda kicked the rear door open and staggered into the street—sword in one hand, Vasquez in the other. Blood streaked her grin.

“Well. That was fun.” She kissed Vasquez’s temple, voice softening to a near whisper. “Sweetie, I might’ve done something bad. But I think I was right.”

Vasquez stirred groggily. “What… what did you do?”

“Think those were Hydra agents.” Wanda rifled through the driver’s corpse, yanking a medallion from his coat. She tossed it at the body. “Yup. Low-level flunky.”

Vasquez blinked, then flushed as she realized Wanda was still carrying her bridal-style. “Wait—you killed them both while we were in the van, and then you… shielded me when it rolled?”

Wanda smirked. “What can I say? I’m very hard to kill.” She winked. “Maybe later, I’ll let you try.”

“That’s not funny,” Vasquez whispered. Her hand rose, trembling but deliberate, cupping Wanda’s cheek. “You keep saving me… and you think I’d want to hurt you?” She leaned up, kissed her gently. Then, lower, a wicked little growl: “Killing you softly, though… keeping you coming all night long? That might be fun.”

Wanda froze. Then barked out a delighted laugh. “Agent Vasquez! I will hold you to that.” She set her down gently, still grinning like a fool. “So. Food? A bed? Maybe someplace private to test that theory?”

“Food first,” Vasquez said firmly, steadying herself on weak legs. “And a phone. If Hydra’s inside the DEO, we need backup.”

Wanda scanned the street, eyes landing on a glowing neon diner sign. Her grin sharpened. “Or—and hear me out—food now, plans later.”

Yellow Box: Priorities: sex, snacks, saving the world. In that order.

^&^

The neon diner sign flickered like a heartbeat in the dark, buzzing faintly against the night. Wanda shouldered the door open with her hip, Vasquez tucked against her like a prize, a lover, a lifeline she wasn’t letting go of.

The bell above the door jingled. Heads turned. Conversation stuttered into silence at the sight of them—Wanda streaked with blood, sword strapped across her back, Vasquez pale but conscious, arm looped around Wanda’s neck.

“Don’t mind us,” Wanda chirped, grinning wide enough to show teeth. “Just a girl and her date. We’ll take a booth.”

Yellow Box: Smooth. Totally subtle. No one suspects the apocalypse is outside.

Sliding into the vinyl booth, Wanda set Vasquez down gently, like she was glass. She didn’t sit across from her. She sat beside her, pressed hip-to-hip, arm slung protectively around her shoulders. Anyone watching would think it was affection. Wanda knew better. It was possession. Fear disguised as casual touch.

“You’re staring,” Vasquez murmured, trying to shift upright, trying to reclaim her agent’s posture.

Wanda didn’t let her. A firm hand to her shoulder pushed her back down. “You lost blood. Sit pretty and let me play hero.”

Yellow Box: Hero. Cute. You mean an obsessive bodyguard with poor impulse control.

Vasquez swallowed hard, torn between irritation and something softer. “Wanda… you don’t have to—”

“Yes. I do.” The words shot out sharp, stripped of jokes. Wanda’s eyes burned into hers, the neon glow catching red sparks in her irises. “You think I’m gonna let Hydra—Hydra—take you? No. You’re mine to keep alive.”

Vasquez blinked, stunned by the rawness in her voice. Her chest tightened. Wanda Wilson, chaos personified, was holding onto her like she was the only solid thing left in the world.

A waitress in a paper hat shuffled over, pad in hand, visibly rattled. “Uh—what can I—”

“Chimichangas,” Wanda said immediately. “Three plates. Extra hot sauce. And coffee. For her.” She jerked her chin at Vasquez. “Black. Strong enough to wake the dead.”

Yellow Box: And that’s romantic, in your twisted little way.

Vasquez let out a weak laugh that surprised them both. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yep.” Wanda smirked, squeezing her shoulder gently. “But I’m you’re ridiculous tonight.”

Silence lapsed between them, filled only by the hum of the diner and the clink of dishes. For the first time since the chopper, since the firefight, since the van, they weren’t moving. They weren’t fighting. They were just… breathing.

Vasquez found herself staring at Wanda’s profile—the scars, the unruly hair, the grin that never quite reached her eyes. Underneath the insanity was something steady, something fierce, something terrifyingly devoted.

“You keep choosing me,” she whispered before she could stop herself.

Wanda’s grin faltered. She turned, too fast, as if the words struck something unarmored. For a heartbeat, the mercenary’s smirk was gone. What remained was bare. Vulnerable.

“Of course I do,” Wanda said quietly, almost like it wasn’t meant for Vasquez to hear. “You’re not a red shirt.”

Yellow Box: Oh, honey. You’re so far gone.

Before Vasquez could reply, the bell jingled again, but this time it didn’t sound harmless. The three men in black coats fanned out near the counter, their eyes sweeping the room like predators. Not customers. Not lost travelers.

Hydra.

Wanda’s whole body changed. The grin, the swagger, the slouch—it all melted away. Her arm curled around Vasquez, pulling her flush against her side, shielding her from their view.

“Stay low, sweetie,” Wanda murmured, her lips grazing Vasquez’s ear. Her voice was low, sharp as steel. “If they’re Hydra, they don’t leave here breathing.”

Vasquez’s heart jackhammered. Not just at the words, but at the way Wanda said sweetie, like it was both a joke and a vow.

Yellow Box: And here we go. Dinner and a show.

The men moved like they owned the place, one sliding a hand under his coat. Wanda’s eyes flicked to it, narrowed. The waitress froze mid-step, tray shaking.

“Don’t,” Wanda warned, voice suddenly loud enough to cut across the room. “Not in front of the lady.”

Yellow Box: You’re spoiling for this fight. Admit it.

The first Hydra agent sneered. “Wilson. You weren’t supposed to survive the crash.”

“Oh, sweetie.” Wanda’s smile was all teeth now. “I survive everything.”

The man pulled his gun. Wanda was faster.

Her sword sang free, cleaving through the space between them in a blur of steel and motion. The man never got his finger on the trigger—his weapon clattered to the tile, his hand still attached, but barely. He dropped with a scream.

The diner exploded into chaos—patrons diving under tables, coffee cups shattering, waitresses shrieking.

“Wanda!” Vasquez hissed, ducking as the second Hydra agent opened fire.

Wanda shoved her down, covering her with her body as bullets tore into the booth. Splinters and stuffing burst into the air. Vasquez felt Wanda’s weight pressing her flat, shielding her completely.

Yellow Box: You’re literally using yourself as a bulletproof vest. Genius.

Vasquez’s chest squeezed. She should’ve been terrified. Instead, all she could feel was Wanda’s body over hers, the unyielding certainty in the way Wanda refused to move aside.

“Stay down!” Wanda barked, already moving. She vaulted the booth with impossible grace, sword flashing. Gunfire cracked—the second agent dropped before he knew what hit him, a perfect round through his eye courtesy of Wanda’s pistol in her off hand.

The third agent panicked, grabbing the waitress, gun to her head. “Back off or she dies!”

The diner froze.

Wanda didn’t.

“You’re in my way,” she said flatly. And then she moved, impossibly fast, a blur of red and steel. The waitress screamed, ducking instinctively as Wanda’s blade took the Hydra man across the chest in a single, brutal arc. He staggered, gurgled, and collapsed in a heap at her boots.

Silence fell. Just the hiss of the neon and the clatter of a ketchup bottle rolling off the counter.

Wanda turned, chest heaving, blood spattered across her suit. Her eyes locked on Vasquez—wide, stunned, alive.

And then Wanda was at her side again, sliding down into the booth, pulling her close like she hadn’t just dismantled three men in under a minute.

“You okay?” she asked, voice raw, almost pleading.

Vasquez’s throat tightened. She could only nod.

Yellow Box: Look at you. Covered in blood, shaking, clinging to her like she’s oxygen. You’re not just protecting her, Wanda. You’re already hers.

Vasquez swallowed hard, meeting Wanda’s gaze. For once, the mercenary wasn’t smiling. Not joking. Just staring at her like she mattered more than the whole damn world.

And in that neon-soaked, blood-smeared booth, Briana Vasquez finally realized—Wanda Wilson scared the hell out of her.

Because she wasn’t sure she could live without her anymore.

The diner was still. Too still.

Smoke curled from the muzzle of Wanda’s pistol. A ketchup bottle dripped red across the tiles, mixing with blood. Somewhere, the jukebox hiccupped back to life, playing a tinny country ballad like the universe had a cruel sense of humor.

The patrons didn’t scream anymore. They were gone. Every single one had bolted when the guns came out. Just the two of them remained, cocooned in the silence of overturned booths and shattered glass.

Wanda slumped back into the cracked vinyl seat across from Vasquez, sword dangling loosely from her fingers. She should’ve looked like a demon—blood spattered, eyes burning, smile jagged as a knife. Instead… she just looked tired. Human.

Her gaze swept over Vasquez, scanning for wounds. “You hurt?” The words weren’t casual this time. They were sharp, desperate.

Vasquez shook her head, though her chest still heaved. “No. You… you covered me.”

Wanda exhaled in relief, the sound shaky. She reached across the table, catching Vasquez’s wrist with hands that still shook from adrenaline. “Good. Don’t like it when you bleed.”

Yellow Box: Oh, sweetheart. You have no idea what you just confessed.

For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound was Vasquez’s ragged breathing and the faint static buzz of a broken neon light.

Then Wanda slid from her seat, kneeling on the blood-streaked tiles in front of Vasquez. She cupped Vasquez’s face with one bloodied hand, smearing crimson across her cheek like war paint. “Bri,” she whispered, voice breaking on the name. “Tell me I didn’t scare you off.”

Vasquez’s throat worked, but no sound came out. Scared her? God, yes. Wanda terrified her—the violence, the chaos, the way she’d carved through Hydra like it was second nature. But none of it mattered compared to the truth pounding in her chest.

“You saved me,” Vasquez finally managed. Her voice cracked, softer than she meant it to be. “Again.”

Something shifted in Wanda’s face—less mercenary, more woman. Her smirk faltered, eyes damp in the ruined light. She let out a laugh, brittle and thin. “It’s kind of my thing. Saving people. Especially you.”

Yellow Box: That wasn’t a joke. That was a vow.

Vasquez’s pulse spiked. Slowly, cautiously, she reached up and covered Wanda’s blood-slick hand with her own. She didn’t pull away from the touch. Didn’t flinch at the gore. She anchored it there, grounding Wanda as much as Wanda had grounded her when bones snapped and screams tore the night.

“I should be terrified of you,” Vasquez whispered.

“You are,” Wanda said, with that faint broken smile.

“Yeah.” Vasquez leaned forward, pressing her forehead to Wanda’s. Close enough to smell the copper on her skin, close enough to feel the tremble in her body. “But I’m not running.”

Wanda’s breath caught. Her hand tightened against Vasquez’s cheek, thumb brushing tenderly across skin as if afraid she’d break her.

For one long, fragile moment—amid the wreckage, the blood, the empty diner—they weren’t soldier and mercenary. Not fugitives, not survivors. Just two women holding each other because everything else had gone to hell.

Then Wanda huffed out a laugh, watery but real. “So. First date rating?”

Vasquez let out a shaky laugh of her own, refusing to pull away. “Ten out of ten. Would almost die again.”

Wanda grinned, wide and unsteady, and pressed a quick, reverent kiss against her temple. “That’s my girl.”

Yellow Box: Oh yeah. You’re both screwed. And not in the fun way… yet.

^&^

Supergirl had no clue where all the birdlike monsters had come from, but suddenly the air was alive with wings and claws. They weren’t big—not compared to what she usually fought—but there were so many. A living cloud of feathers, talons, and snapping beaks swarmed around her head, tugging at her cape, clawing at her arms, biting at her shoulders.

They weren’t hurting her—her Kryptonian skin saw to that—but they never stopped. No matter how many she batted aside, more swooped back in, relentless, like they’d been programmed just to harass her.

“Auggg—go away!” Kara cried, half furious, half desperate, swinging her arms like a human windmill, trying not to actually injure them. She didn’t want to hurt creatures that were probably being controlled. But the sheer noise and pressure were getting overwhelming.

Then a new sound cut through the chaos.

SLAP.

A single, massive hand clapped together with a force that sent a shockwave through the clearing. The concussion ripped the air apart like thunder. The flock scattered in an instant, tumbling away as though a hurricane had blasted them from the sky.

Kara blinked through the feathers and dust.

Hulk stood in front of her, broad shoulders heaving, green skin glistening in the light. His eyes locked on her, childlike and fierce all at once. “Leave pretty lady alone!” he growled, chest rumbling. Then, softer, almost uncertain: “Ok?”

Kara brushed a stray feather from her hair and smiled at him. “Yes. Thanks to you, I’m fine.”

Hulk nodded once, satisfied, and then his gaze shifted—up. Past her. Past the sky itself. His expression darkened.

Kara followed his eyes and saw them. Larger, uglier monsters were forcing their way out of the treeline—twisted hybrids of fur, bone, and steel, their eyes glowing with that same unnatural red light.

Hulk’s lip curled back. “HULK… SMASH!” he roared, and without another word he leapt, the ground shattering beneath him as he hurled himself into the swarm of monstrosities. His massive fists came down like meteors, scattering bodies and earth alike.

Kara raised a hand to her comm. “Winn, report.”

Static crackled, then his voice burst through, taut with nerves. “Supergirl? Thank Rao. We’ve lost contact with two teams—Agent Vasquez and Agent Gezbin.”

Her stomach tightened. “Vasquez and Wanda are together. Taskmaster was with Gezbin. Who can you send to check?”

There was a long pause, filled with nothing but Hulk’s distant bellows and the crunch of breaking monsters.

“You,” Winn said finally. “We’re stretched too thin. It’s all hands on deck.” His voice wavered. Then: “Shit—good news and bad. Vasquez and Wanda are alive, but Reems is dead. And Kara…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Hydra. We’ve got Hydra in the city.”

Before she could process, Kara heard the sharp intake of Winn’s breath, followed by a curse. “They’re here. In Control.”

Gunfire rang faintly through the comm, followed by Winn’s panicked voice: “Shit, shit—Hydra’s in the control room! They’ve got guns on me—”

“Winn!” Kara shot into the air, heart hammering. She glanced down at Hulk just as he finished crushing a beast into the dirt, bones splintering under his fists. “HULK!” she shouted, urgency in her voice.

He paused, looked up, nostrils flaring.

“I need you. Hydra has Winn!” she called down, pointing toward the city.

The green giant didn’t hesitate. He roared, shoved another monster off his back, and crouched. One mighty leap later, he was streaking after her through the sky.

Kara swallowed hard, words tumbling out as she flew. “And Hulk—what’s a Hydra?”

^&^

Natasha Romanoff slipped into the control room like a shadow, her pistol raised and steady. The air reeked of ozone and burnt metal, the acrid tang of discharged weapons clinging to every surface. Sparks spat from shattered consoles, monitors flickered in and out, their dying glow painting the room in stuttering blues and greens.

Behind the central desk, Winn crouched low, eyes wide and frantic, his body pressed so tight against the wall it looked like he was trying to vanish into it. Across from him, a Hydra agent in black tactical gear leveled a rifle at his head, finger tightening on the trigger.

Nat didn’t think. She moved.

Her boots hit the desk edge in one clean vault, her body curling into momentum. She came down hard, both heels slamming into the agent’s chest with enough force to blast the air from his lungs. He staggered back with a strangled grunt, gun swinging wide.

Nat was already spinning. A leg swept low and fast, hooking behind his knees, ripping his balance away. He crashed to the floor, and before he could draw breath, her fist snapped down, cracking across his jaw with surgical precision. The thud of bone against floor was final. The rifle clattered from his limp fingers.

Nat landed in a crouch, her pistol sweeping the corners, her heart rate not even spiking. Her voice was clipped, calm, automatic. “Clear.” Then louder, sharper: “Winn, you okay?”

For a moment, Winn didn’t answer. He just blinked, his whole body trembling as the adrenaline still coursed through him. Then, like a rubber band snapping, he lurched forward and all but collapsed against her, his arms clinging around her shoulders like a drowning man grabbing a lifeline.

Nat stiffened at the sudden contact—then slowly let out a breath, one arm wrapping firmly around his back, anchoring him. She could feel the shudders rippling through him, every desperate gasp against her neck.

“Oh god—thank you, thank you, thank you!” The words tumbled out of him in a frantic rush, each one tighter, higher, as his fists clenched at her jacket like letting go meant death.

Nat closed her eyes briefly, her expression softening in a way only Winn ever seemed to draw out of her. Her voice came low, steady, a contrast to his panic. “Easy. You’re safe. I’ve got you.” She gave his back a small, grounding press. “Breathe, Winn. Slow it down. In and out.”

Gradually, his breathing hitched, then steadied a little under her guidance.

But even as she held him, Nat’s sharp gaze swept the room. The scattered debris. The broken glass crunching under her boots. The doorway the agent had come through, still ajar, shadows stretching beyond. This hadn’t been random. It hadn’t even been an assault.

It was a probe. A test. An infiltration.

And Natasha Romanoff knew better than anyone—when Hydra tested your defenses, it was because the real strike was already on its way.

Her arm tightened around Winn, protective and possessive in a way she rarely allowed herself. “You’re alright,” she murmured again, though her eyes stayed fixed on the empty doorway.

But inside, her instincts screamed: This is just the beginning.

Nat’s body went still. She felt it before she heard it—the faint shuffle of boots beyond the door, the metallic click of rifles being readied. Hydra wasn’t done.

“Winn,” she murmured, her tone slipping from soft reassurance to something low, urgent. “Listen to me. You need to stay down.”

His head jerked up, eyes wide. “There’s more?”

“Always more,” she said flatly, already reaching for the fallen Hydra rifle. She racked the slide, checked the chamber, and tossed her pistol onto the desk for quick access.

Her hand brushed his shoulder, grounding him again, but her eyes never left the doorway. “Stay behind the desk. If anyone gets through me—” She broke off, jaw tightening. No. She wouldn’t let them. “Don’t let them take you alive. Understand?”

Winn’s breath hitched. He nodded, though fear twisted in his face.

Nat slid into position, body coiling low, her silhouette practically merging with the shadows. The muscles in her arm still tingled faintly where Winn had clung to her, but she shoved that aside, narrowing her world down to sound and movement.

The footsteps drew closer. One voice whispered, harsh and clipped: “Sector clear?”
Another replied: “Not yet. The intel said the tech boy is here.”

Winn’s breath stuttered, but Nat pressed a finger to her lips, silencing him without turning her head.

The door creaked. A black-gloved hand slid around the frame. The muzzle of a rifle followed.

Nat moved.

She snapped her rifle up and fired once—clean, controlled. The man dropped without a sound. Before his body could hit the floor, she was already rolling forward, using it as cover, her shots stitching across the doorway. A second Hydra agent jerked back with a strangled cry, slamming against the wall.

The others shouted. Chaos. Boots scrambled. Return fire sprayed the room, tearing into consoles, showering sparks across the floor.

Nat ducked behind the desk with Winn, pinning him down with one hand on his chest. “Stay,” she hissed, before springing up again.

Her body became motion—fluid, relentless. She vaulted the desk, slid across the floor, her rifle barking in controlled bursts. Two more agents went down, their gear clattering. She spun into a crouch, switched seamlessly to her pistol, double-tapped another in the throat.

Three seconds. Four men. All down.

Natasha Romanoff stood in the silence that followed, chest rising and falling steadily, her gaze hard, sweeping for stragglers.

Only then did she glance back at Winn. He was still crouched behind the desk, hands over his ears, shaking. His eyes met hers—terrified, awed, clinging to the sight of her like she was the only thing between him and the abyss.

Which, she realized, she was.

Nat holstered her pistol, striding back to him, crouching low so her voice could find him again. “Winn. Look at me. They’re gone. You’re safe.”

He swallowed hard, his whole body trembling. “How—how do you do that? Just… like it’s nothing?”

Her eyes softened, though her tone stayed level. “Because for me, it has to be nothing. So for you, it can be everything.” She offered him her hand, steady and unshakable. “Now, up. We’re not out of this yet.”

The quiet didn’t last.

Nat’s ears caught it first—the low, mechanical whine of something heavier powering up. Not boots this time. Drones.

Her jaw clenched. “They’re not retreating. They’re tightening the noose.”

Winn peeked over the desk, his face pale and sweaty. Through the cracked monitors he could see shapes moving in the corridor—dark, bulky outlines, green optics glowing faintly. “Oh God… those aren’t standard Hydra troopers.”

“No,” Nat agreed, already stripping spare magazines off the fallen agents and sliding them into her tac belt. “They brought hardware.”

The first drone floated into view—an armored quadrotor, bristling with mounted rifles. Its sensors swept the room, locking on.

“Down!” Nat shoved Winn flat just as the drone opened fire. Bullets shredded what was left of the control boards, sparks cascading like fireworks.

She rolled, came up firing, and her first volley punched straight through the drone’s optics. It shrieked in a burst of static before crashing against the far wall, pieces scattering.

“Okay, okay, cool,” Winn babbled, covering his head. “One down. Uh, but I heard two—”

As if on cue, a second drone whirred closer, accompanied by another squad of Hydra troopers storming the hall.

Nat didn’t hesitate. She grabbed Winn’s wrist, hauling him up. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“But—but this is the control hub, we can’t—”

“We can,” she snapped, dragging him toward the rear exit, firing over her shoulder to keep the corridor choked with cover fire. “You can rebuild systems. You can’t rebuild yourself.”

They darted through a service door, the sound of gunfire and drone rotors chasing them. The narrow passage beyond was dim, filled with pipes and utility conduits. Perfect choke points if she had time—but they didn’t.

“Where does this lead?” Nat demanded.

Winn, panting, nearly tripped as he tried to keep pace. “Uh—secondary stairwell. North wing. If it’s clear we can reach the—”

Gunfire sparked off the pipes above them. Winn ducked with a startled cry. Hydra had found the rear passage.

Nat cursed under her breath and spun, firing two quick shots to suppress. Then she shoved Winn ahead. “Move!”

They sprinted down the corridor, every echo of boots behind them a reminder they were seconds from being overrun.

At the end of the hall, a reinforced door loomed. Winn fumbled at the keypad, hands shaking so badly he missed twice.

“Winn!” Nat’s tone cracked like a whip.

He swallowed, forced himself to steady, and entered the code. The lock beeped green.

“Go!” she barked, shoving him through. She slipped inside right after, slamming the door shut just as bullets sparked off the steel. The locking mechanism screeched as it sealed, buying them a few precious breaths.

They stood in a concrete stairwell, harsh fluorescent light buzzing overhead. Winn doubled over, gasping.

Nat pressed her back to the wall, pistol raised, scanning up and down the stairs. “They won’t stop at the door. We need to stay mobile.”

Winn looked up at her, still shaking. “Natasha… this is insane. They want me, aren’t they? Hydra—why me?”

She finally glanced at him, her expression cold but steady. “Because you’re valuable. You can hurt them. And that’s exactly why I’m not letting them take you.”

The pounding on the sealed door behind them echoed through the stairwell. Metal strained. Voices shouted orders.

Nat pushed off the wall, grabbed Winn’s arm, and started up the stairs two at a time. “Come on, tech boy. Time to earn your keep.”

Chapter Text

Lonely dark street

After they left the diner, greasy wrappers and the smell of chimichangas clinging to them, they made their report to the DEO over comms. It was brisk, clinical—coordinates, numbers, Hydra insignia, dead agents. Once the channel cut, the weight of it all settled heavier.

“Wanda, what’s your plan?” Briana Vasquez asked as she trailed behind. The mercenary strode down the sidewalk like she owned it, bag of chimichangas under one arm, six-pack dangling from the other, as if this was just another night in the city instead of the end of the world creeping closer.

Wanda glanced back over her shoulder, grin tugging at her lips. “Plan?” She shook the bag of food like it was a treasure. “We called in the report, dumped all the Hydra bullshit into their laps. Now I eat these greasy goodies, down a couple cold ones with my girlfriend, and let the bureaucrats scramble. Best plan ever.”

She said it lightly, but the word girlfriend hung there, deliberate, daring Vasquez to correct her.

Briana stopped short, crossing her arms. “Funny,” she said, but the tightness in her jaw betrayed her. “We need to get back to HQ. See how we can actually help.”

Her posture faltered as a sharp ache flared in her shoulder, the one that had taken a bullet. She hissed under her breath, hand instinctively pressing against the wound.

Wanda’s easy swagger broke instantly. She spun on her heel, the six-pack forgotten, and was at Briana’s side in two strides. “Hey—hey. You’re not fine.” Her voice softened, all the bravado stripped away. “You need rest, not more firefights.”

Briana met her eyes, a little breathless. There was no mockery there, no sarcasm—just raw concern. It rattled her more than the pain.

“In a blue-sky world, I’d agree,” Bri said quietly. “But we both know it’s not that kind of world. We can’t just sit this out.”

Wanda’s hand hovered close to her arm, hesitant, like she wanted to hold her up but wasn’t sure she’d be allowed. “You keep talking like you’re expendable,” she muttered. “Newsflash, Agent Vasquez—you’re not. Not to me.”

Briana blinked, her breath catching. The streetlight above flickered, casting them both in alternating shadow and glow. For a heartbeat, the war, Hydra, the DEO—all of it—fell away, and it was just the two of them standing in the street, caught between exhaustion and something dangerously close to tenderness.

Once Wanda was sure they’d shaken any tails and found a half-broken stretch of concrete under an old billboard, she finally stopped moving. “Safe-ish,” she muttered, giving the shadows a once-over before plopping down with zero grace. The bag of chimichangas hit the ground with a soft thud, and the six-pack clinked as she wrestled it open.

Briana eased down beside her, wincing as her injured shoulder protested the motion. She caught Wanda’s eye and offered a tired but teasing smile. “You know drinking on duty is bad, right?”

Wanda cracked one can with a sharp hiss and arched a brow, deadpan. “Yeah, well. We can’t all be good guys.” She passed the cold metal into Briana’s hand, then popped her own and took a long pull before adding, “And wait—hold up. I’m not good or a guy. So technically, I’m good.”

Her expression stayed perfectly straight, but her eyes glimmered with mischief.

Briana chuckled, shaking her head. The sound came out softer than she expected, almost fragile after the chaos of the night. “That logic is a mess.”

“Mess is my brand, chica,” Wanda shot back, raising her beer in a mock toast.

For a moment, the war outside didn’t exist. They sat shoulder to shoulder—Briana leaning back against the cool concrete, Wanda stretched out beside her with boots crossed at the ankle, chimichangas like an offering between them.

Briana glanced sidelong at her, at the way Wanda’s edges softened when she wasn’t firing guns or cracking skulls. “You know,” she murmured, voice gentler now, “for someone who acts like she doesn’t care about rules, you’ve been following one pretty closely all night.”

Wanda smirked without looking over. “And what’s that?”

“Don’t let Briana Vasquez die,” Bri said simply.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Wanda finally turned, meeting her eyes, and this time there was no joke to deflect with. She just lifted her can in a half shrug. “Yeah. Guess that one stuck.”

Briana cracked open her beer and took a sip. The bitter fizz stung her tongue, grounding her in a way she didn’t know she needed. Wanda shoved a foil-wrapped chimichanga into her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, then tore into one of her own with all the grace of a starving wolf.

For a while, the only sounds were the crinkle of foil and the faint hum of the city far in the distance. The chaos of Hydra, the mission, even the sting in Briana’s shoulder all felt miles away.

“You eat like you’ve never seen food before,” Bri teased, nudging her.

“Might be the last meal before we die horribly,” Wanda replied through a mouthful, her smirk curling despite the grease on her lip. She caught Briana’s look and dabbed her mouth with the back of her glove. “What? I’m pragmatic.”

Briana laughed softly, then let her head rest back against the billboard. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” Wanda said, quieter now, her tone almost wistful. She set her empty wrapper aside and leaned back beside Briana, their shoulders brushing. “Ridiculous keeps me breathing.”

Briana tilted her head, studying her. In the flicker of the neon light above, Wanda didn’t look like the unkillable mercenary who’d thrown herself in front of bullets and metal beasts tonight. She looked tired. Human.

“Doesn’t it get exhausting?” Bri asked carefully. “Always joking. Always pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

Wanda’s smirk faltered, just a fraction. She took another swig of beer, buying herself a pause. “Yeah,” she finally admitted. “Hurts like hell, actually. The healing factor doesn’t mean you stop feeling it. Just means you don’t get to keep the scars as proof.”

Briana’s chest tightened at the honesty in her voice. Without thinking, she shifted closer, brushing her knee against Wanda’s. “Then let someone else see it. Even if the scars don’t stick.”

Wanda turned her head, eyes locking onto hers. The banter was gone, stripped away, and what lingered in her gaze was raw. Vulnerable. “Careful, Vasquez,” she murmured. “You keep talking like that, I might start believing you give a damn.”

Briana smirked, though her heart hammered. “Maybe I do.”

The words hung between them like a live wire. Wanda’s lips parted, a thousand comebacks dying unspoken. For once, she didn’t try to twist it into a joke. She just leaned, slow, until her temple rested against Briana’s shoulder.

They sat like that in silence—two women stealing a moment in the wreckage, sharing warmth and food and the fragile illusion that the world outside could wait.

That’s how Alex Danvers found them.

Her boots crunched on gravel, her voice cutting through the quiet. “You two planning on camping out here, or are you ready to come back to HQ?”

Briana jerked upright, heat rushing to her cheeks. Wanda, on the other hand, didn’t move an inch—still leaning against her like she owned the spot. She cracked one eye open, smirk firmly back in place.

“Agent Danvers,” Wanda drawled, raising her beer in salute. “You just ruined the best date I’ve had all week.”

^&^

Alex listened in silence as the two women retold their last few hours—Hydra agents, mechanical hounds, a helicopter crash, Wanda’s reckless heroics. Her arms were folded, an expression carved from stone. Not anger. Not disappointed. Something deeper. A frown that came from calculation, from knowing what Hydra meant and how quickly this mess could spiral into another nightmare aimed directly at her sister.

Yellow Box: Yup. Danvers face. That’s the “how does this affect Kara” look. Good luck dealing with that hot mess, Wanda.

Wanda ignored the box, though she couldn’t ignore Alex’s eyes lingering a little too long, measuring her like a bomb she hadn’t decided whether to defuse or detonate.

Briana, oblivious to both, leaned forward, curiosity flickering. “Where did you stash the swords?”

Wanda smirked. “I still have them on me still.”

Briana’s brow arched. “I don’t see them.”

“Watch.” Wanda extended her wrist, showing off the delicate charm bracelet looped there. Little metal trinkets dangled—swords, guns, bullets, all rendered in miniature.

Briana blinked. “Okay, cute jewelry. Where are the real things?”

“They are the real things.” Wanda tapped one of the tiny charms, her grin spreading. “You think all that ammo just comes from nowhere? Best Pym Technologies could offer—well, not that they offered. But I have it.”

“You shrank all your gear?” Briana asked, sitting back in awe, eyes scanning the glittering charms.

“Yup. Don’t ask me the science—I’m no Hank Pym. I just know this little thingy has saved my cute ass more times than I can count.” Wanda winked, proud.

Briana smiled despite herself. “I have a plan. But… I’ll probably get fired for it.”

That snapped Alex’s attention up. Her eyebrow lifted in sharp warning.

Briana ignored her and pressed on. “It’ll be worth it.”

Wanda tilted her head, sly grin tugging at her lips. “Okay, so… you like my jewelry and want to mass market it?”

“Hardly.” Briana shook her head. “No. The tech—if it can shrink weapons, gear, anything… it could be repurposed.”

“Oh, it can.” Wanda leaned back, casual as ever. “Ant-Man and Wasp back on my Earth run around shrinking themselves. Heroes in fun-size. So yeah—shrinking works both ways.”

Briana’s grin widened, sharp and certain. “Good. Then hurry up. We need to move.”

“Where?” Wanda and Alex asked in unison, one skeptical, the other sardonic.

“Lena Luthor,” Briana said, dead serious. “If anyone can adapt that bracelet tech into something we can use against Hydra… it’s her.”

Alex’s jaw clenched. Hydra, Kara, now Lena in the mix—it was a tangle she didn’t trust. But Briana’s conviction was unshakable, and Wanda was already halfway amused by the idea.

That was how, at nearly five in the morning, the three of them found themselves standing in the sleek, darkened expanse of Lena Luthor’s office—city lights burning through the glass behind her desk as the clock ticked into another dangerous dawn.

^&^

“Supergirl, change of plans,” Winn muttered into his comm, fingers flying over the keyboard. His voice trembled, but the code didn’t falter. “Control is infested. Meet at the backup hideout.”

With a final keystroke, he shoved in the flash drive. A quiet hum, then every monitor in the DEO flickered—screens bursting into static before blacking out entirely. One by one, servers coughed and died. The sharp tang of ozone filled the air.

The DEO’s lifeline went dark.

“Well,” Winn exhaled, slumping back in his chair as though the weight of it hit him all at once, “there goes a year of work. And every classified DEO file. In one swift action. Agent Romanoff.” His eyes darted to her, half-defensive, half-desperate. “I really hope she got the message.”

“She’s smart. She’ll get it.” Natasha’s tone was clipped, calm under pressure. She holstered her sidearm, grabbed Winn by the sleeve, and yanked him to his feet. “Now we move.”

Hydra’s boots thundered down the hall. Winn flinched at the sound, stumbling to keep pace as she dragged him out of the office and into the dark corridor.

“How are we getting out of here?” His voice cracked.

Natasha’s eyes scanned every corner, every shadow, calculating. “Best way? You follow my lead, keep your head down, and do exactly as I say.”

They rounded a corner, Winn nearly tripping over his own feet. “Are all redheads like you and Alex?” he blurted. “Because, seriously—two bossy women in my life? What did I do to deserve this?”

Natasha smirked despite herself, tugging him along faster. “Luck of the draw, tech boy.”

A rifle cracked from down the hall, bullets sparking against the wall inches from Winn’s head. He yelped, ducking low as Natasha shoved him into cover. She returned fire without hesitation—two shots, precise, dropping the Hydra agent before he could reload.

Her voice was cool, steady. “We need more than bullets.”

She shoved forward again, boot slamming into a reinforced door. Metal screamed as it gave way, revealing rows of racks gleaming with confiscated weapons, tactical gear, and experimental tech sealed in crates.

Winn blinked, jaw slack. “Oh no. No, no, no—you’re not about to… oh God. Death by Hydra might actually be better than this.”

Natasha’s lips curved into a grin—sharp, dangerous. “Welcome to the fun part.”

She tossed him a vest and yanked a collapsible baton from the rack, its charge humming to life with a low buzz. Outside, Hydra’s boots drew closer, shadows cutting across the flickering hallway light.

“Suit up, Winn,” she ordered, eyes cold fire. “We’re not dying here.”

The silence outside the storage room broke with a guttural shout. Then the boots—dozens of them—rushed the hall.

“Hydra’s coming,” Winn whispered, panic blooming across his face.

“Correction.” Natasha slid a fresh mag into her pistol, eyes locked on the doorway. “Hydra’s here.”

The first soldier charged in, rifle up. Natasha dropped him before his finger brushed the trigger. Then another. And another. Her movements were fluid, efficient—lethal geometry in motion.

“Move!” she barked, yanking Winn deeper through the racks. Bullets chewed into crates around them, sparks flashing off steel. She ducked low, sweeping an agent’s legs before driving an elbow into his throat.

Winn scrambled behind her, clutching a borrowed sidearm like it was radioactive. His vest looked two sizes too big, his breathing ragged. “I—I’m not exactly Black Widow material here!” he stammered, fumbling the safety.

“Then be Winn material.” Nat snatched a flashbang from a crate, primed it, and tossed it back through the doorway. The explosion filled the hall with white light and a bone-rattling crack. Hydra soldiers screamed, staggering blind.

Nat was already moving. “To the stairwell. Roof’s our only shot.”

They sprinted, Hydra recovering fast, their shouts echoing up the hall. Winn risked a glance back and fired wildly—by accident or miracle, one bullet clipped a soldier in the leg, dropping him.

“Ha!” Winn yelped, then tripped over his own feet. Natasha caught him by the collar and shoved him upright without breaking stride.

“Eyes forward, hero.”

They hit the stairwell. Hydra was right behind them, boots pounding, rifles firing up the shaft. Bullets pinged against concrete, ricochets whining. Nat shoved Winn ahead of her, returning fire down the steps with icy precision.

The climb felt endless—three flights, four—but then the roof access door came into view, glowing faintly with the red of the exit sign.

“Almost there!” Winn panted.

A Hydra agent lunged from the landing above, knife flashing. Winn froze. Natasha didn’t. She spun, catching the man’s wrist, twisting until bone cracked. His scream ended with her boot slamming him back down the stairs into his comrades.

“Move, Winn!”

He shoved the door open and burst onto the roof, lungs burning, chest heaving. Nat followed, kicking the door shut behind her and jamming a steel rod through the handle to buy them seconds.

The city stretched out around them, the sky just beginning to pale with dawn. Helicopter blades thudded faintly in the distance—search teams, maybe Hydra, maybe not.

Winn collapsed to his knees, gulping air. “Okay… okay… what now?!”

Natasha strode to the edge, eyes scanning the skyline, calculating options. Below, Hydra agents spilled into the stairwell, slamming against the blocked door. The metal groaned.

“Now?” she said calmly, chambering a round. “Now we fight for altitude until backup shows.”

The door shuddered again. Hydra was seconds from breaking through. Winn looked at her, pale and terrified.

Yellow Box: She’s really going to drag you into a rooftop gunfight against Hydra. You should’ve just stayed in IT, buddy.

Nat didn’t look at him, but her voice softened just a fraction. “Stay behind me, Winn. I’ll get you out.”

The door gave way. Hydra poured through. And the rooftop became a war Zone.

^&^

The world was spinning—or maybe it was Maggie spinning. Hard to tell with the ringing in her ears and the air thick with smoke.

She gasped, blinking, and realized she was upside down, her seatbelt biting into her shoulder as she dangled in the driver’s seat. Shattered glass glittered all around her like cruel confetti. Her chest rose and fell fast, lungs fighting for steady air.

Then the smell hit her. Gasoline. Sharp. Heavy. Too close.

“Shit,” she hissed, twisting to check on John or Tony. Empty. Both gone. And the driver’s side door—wide open.

Panic surged hot through her veins.

Automatic gunfire cracked through the night, rattling her bones. Muzzle flashes flickered somewhere nearby. Boots pounded the pavement, rushing past.

“Come on, come on…” Her fingers clawed at the buckle, but it was jammed, her angle all wrong. Sweat stung her eyes as she fought the strap.

Then—a shadow at the window.

A man crouched, sliding into view, casual as you please. Sandy blond hair, tactical gear, a bow slung over his shoulder. Ruby red sunglasses flashed even in the dim light.

He held out a knife, handle first. “C’mon, officer. That tank blows, we’ll both be charcoal. Cut yourself free.”

Maggie froze for half a beat, instincts screaming at the strangeness. Still—better strange than burning alive. She snatched the blade, sliced the strap, and crashed gracelessly to the ceiling-turned-floor.

The stranger grinned faintly, already offering her a hand. “Up you get. Time to run.”

She grabbed it, letting him haul her upright. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded, chest heaving.

“Clint,” he answered simply, already tugging her from the wreck.

They bolted across the street as rounds chewed into the asphalt behind them. Hydra soldiers barked orders in clipped German, rifles chattering.

Maggie’s boots slipped on loose gravel, but Clint didn’t slow, dragging her behind cover as bullets sparked off the corner of a crumbling wall.

She pressed her back against the brick, panting. “Clint? That’s it?!”

He shrugged, notching an arrow faster than she could track. “Normally I’d say ‘Avenger.’ But… wrong universe.”

He loosed. Thwack. Thwack. Two men in black folded, screaming, arrows pinning one’s leg to the dirt.

Maggie blinked, her mind catching on one word. “Avenger…? Wait. You know Hulk and Nat?”

Clint’s jaw tightened, eyes never leaving his targets. “Yeah. They’re here too.” Another arrow snapped free, flying true, and a third Hydra agent hit the ground hard.

The air was alive now—gunfire, shouting, smoke, and the reek of fuel.

Clint glanced at her at last, eyes deadly serious beneath those ridiculous sunglasses. “Still following. So unless you like being target practice…” He grabbed her wrist again.

“…Run now. Talk later.”

And before Maggie could argue, they were sprinting through the maze of alleys, Hydra fire snapping at their heels.

^&^

The city was a blur of broken neon and smoke as Clint and Maggie tore through the streets, boots slapping against cracked pavement. Hydra fire raked the walls around them, each burst echoing off the buildings like thunder.

Maggie’s lungs burned, but adrenaline shoved her forward. She kept stealing glances at Clint, and the man barely seemed fazed—moving with sharp, measured strides, every pivot calculated. Where she saw chaos, he saw openings.

An alley yawned ahead. Clint yanked her into it just as a hail of bullets shredded the street they’d vacated. He didn’t miss a step—already drawing, already loosing. Thwack-thwack-thwack. Three arrows flew in rapid succession, each finding its mark. A Hydra soldier collapsed clutching his chest, another went down screaming with an arrow through his rifle, and the third crumpled before he ever got a shot off.

Maggie pressed her back to the wall, gasping. “Do you ever miss?”

“Sometimes.” He ducked low, checked the rooftops. “Never when it matters.”

“Cocky much?”

“Efficient.” He smirked, but it faded when a Hydra spotlight swept over the alley. “Move.”

They sprinted again, weaving between dumpsters and fire escapes. Maggie finally managed to yank her sidearm free, and when a pair of Hydra soldiers rounded the corner, she didn’t hesitate. Two clean shots—center mass. Both dropped.

Clint shot her a quick, approving nod. “That’s better.”

“I don’t need a coach,” she muttered, though the flush of pride was hard to ignore.

“You’re keeping up,” he said simply. “That’s all that counts.”

They burst out onto a wider street, only to freeze. A Hydra truck screeched to a halt at the intersection, a squad piling out, weapons raised. Behind them, more boots hammered closer.

“Pinned,” Maggie hissed.

Clint’s lips quirked, almost a grin. “Nah. Elevated exit.”

He fired upward, arrowhead embedding into the ledge of a nearby building. The line went taut. He shoved the bow into Maggie’s hands.

“Hold this.”

“What are you—”

He grabbed her by the waist without ceremony. One arm wrapped around her, the other locking onto the line. Then he triggered the mechanism.

The world lurched.

Maggie yelped as they were yanked skyward, the ground falling away in a dizzying rush. Hydra fire tracked them, sparks exploding off brick, but then they were over the ledge, rolling onto the rooftop.

Maggie lay flat, heart hammering. “Okay. That was—” She broke off, laughing breathlessly. “—actually insane.”

Clint retrieved his bow, deadpan. “Nah. Tuesday.”

Below, Hydra soldiers were already swarming, shouting, sweeping searchlights across the roofs. Clint crouched low, scanning the skyline. His jaw tightened. “We’re not out yet. They’ll choke this whole block in minutes.”

Maggie pushed herself up, her pulse steadying. She checked her mag. Half a clip left. She swallowed. “Then we keep moving.”

Clint’s mouth curved into the barest smile. “Knew I liked you.”

And together, they ran across the rooftops, Hydra hot on their heels, the city below alive with the hunt.

The rooftops stretched out like a jagged battlefield under the night sky. Maggie’s boots pounded across gravel and tar, her breath tearing in her throat. Clint moved ahead of her with unnerving ease, bow drawn, firing between strides as if gravity and exhaustion didn’t apply to him.

Behind them, Hydra soldiers spilled onto the roof they’d abandoned, rifles barking fire into the night. Sparks chased their heels.

“Down!” Clint barked. He yanked Maggie by the collar just as a bullet sparked off the chimney beside her head.

“Holy—” she gasped, but Clint was already firing. One arrow split into three midair, each shard finding a target. Three Hydra men dropped, the rest diving for cover.

“That buys us seconds,” Clint said, already sprinting again.

“Seconds?! That’s your plan?” Maggie shouted as she scrambled after him.

“Seconds are all we need.” He vaulted a gap between buildings like it was nothing.

Maggie skidded to the edge. The gap was wider than she liked. Her gut twisted. “I can’t—”

Clint turned mid-run, arm shooting out. “Jump. I’ve got you.”

Bullets cracked against the ledge at her feet. Maggie swore, backed up a step, then sprinted and hurled herself into the void. For a heartbeat she was weightless, falling—then Clint’s hand clamped around hers, strong and unyielding. He hauled her up with a grunt, setting her on solid rooftop again.

“See?” he said, smirking. “Teamwork.”

“Asshole,” Maggie breathed, but her lips twitched despite the fear.

More Hydra troops burst from the next stairwell. Clint shoved Maggie behind a vent, loosing another arrow. It detonated in a burst of light and concussive force, hurling the soldiers back.

“Flashbang arrow?” Maggie coughed, blinking spots from her eyes.

“Always pack the fun ones,” Clint said.

They kept running, rooftop after rooftop, until Clint finally pointed. Across the street, barely visible under a tangle of scaffolding, a faint beacon light pulsed.

“Extraction point,” he said. “We get there, we’re out.”

The problem? Hydra had seen it too. A whole squad was already converging, flooding onto the roof ahead. And behind them, more boots thundered closer, cutting off retreat.

Maggie’s stomach dropped. “We’re boxed in.”

Clint set his jaw, notching another arrow. “Then we break the box.”

The Hydra squad opened fire first. Clint dove and rolled, arrows flying in a blur—one exploded midair, scattering shrapnel, another pinned a rifle to the wall, a third sent two soldiers screaming off the edge of the roof.

Maggie returned fire, every shot controlled, methodical. One agent went down clutching his shoulder, another his thigh. But there were too many, and the rooftop narrowed toward the scaffolding.

Clint grunted as a round grazed his arm, his bow jerking. Maggie swore and laid down cover fire, forcing Hydra back behind a vent.

“Clint!” she yelled. “We’re not gonna make it!”

“Yes, we are,” he shot back. His eyes locked on the scaffolding ahead, calculating. Then he shoved a bundle of arrows into her hands. “Keep their heads down. I’ll clear the path.”

“What are you—”

But he was already moving, sprinting into open fire, loosing arrows in a blur. Explosions tore across the roof, fire and shrapnel kicking Hydra troops back in chaos. Maggie squeezed the trigger, buying him seconds, her ears ringing with the roar of gunfire.

He vaulted the last vent, spun midair, and drove his last arrow straight into the scaffolding joint. The detonation blew the structure downward, collapsing it into a makeshift bridge between the roofs.

“Go!” he bellowed.

Maggie didn’t think. She ran, every nerve on fire, and leapt onto the warped scaffolding, scrambling across as bullets whizzed around her. Clint landed beside her a heartbeat later, shoving her ahead.

They tumbled onto the extraction roof, both gasping, both scraped raw. Hydra was regrouping behind them, pouring toward the collapsed scaffolding.

A black DEO chopper rose up from the shadows, floodlight blinding. A rope ladder spilled down.

Maggie blinked in shock. “That’s our ride?!”

“Unless you want to stay for the encore!” Clint snapped, firing his last arrow into the advancing Hydra squad. The explosion stalled them, buying just enough time.

Maggie grabbed the ladder and hauled herself up, Clint right behind her, arrows spent but bow still clutched in his hand.

The chopper swung away, Hydra fire chasing uselessly as the city dropped beneath them. Maggie collapsed against the side, chest heaving, hair plastered to her face with sweat.

Clint braced beside her, bleeding, bruised, but grinning faintly. “Not bad for a cop.”

She barked a breathless laugh, leaning her head back against the metal. “Not bad for… whatever the hell you are.”

“Avenger,” he said simply. Then his grin widened. “And you? You’re not half bad at running rooftops.”

For the first time since the crash, Maggie let herself smile. It felt like survival.

The roar of the rotors thumped steady overhead, vibrating through Maggie’s bones. The city lights receded below them, Hydra fire fading into distant sparks. She let herself sag against the cold interior wall, lungs still fighting to steady.

A noise from the cockpit made her look up. John leaned back into the cabin, one hand braced on the seat. His face was grim, relief barely softening the hard lines. And in the pilot’s chair—Tony Masters, hands on the controls, flying the chopper with the kind of casual precision that said this wasn’t his first war zone.

Maggie blinked, sweat stinging her eyes. “Of course it’s you two.”

Tony’s voice carried back without him looking. Smooth, dry. “Relax, Sawyer. I’ve been flying since before you could drive. Hydra’s not putting a scratch on this bird.”

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Clint said flatly, wiping blood from his cheek with the back of his hand.

Tony chuckled, low and humorless. “Yeah, well. I get that a lot.”

John’s gaze slid over Maggie, lingering on the cut along her temple, the dirt smeared into her jacket. His tone softened. “You alright?”

“Been better,” she admitted. Her voice cracked more than she meant it to. “Car crash, gunfight, rooftop marathon…” She glanced at Clint, a wry edge sneaking through her exhaustion. “Then this guy shows up out of nowhere with arrows and attitude.”

Clint only smirked, but his eyes flicked back to the skyline, watchful.

Tony snorted. “Classic Barton. Right place, right time, wrong universe.”

Maggie frowned, head tilting. “Okay, yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask—what the hell is going on? You keep talking like you’re tourists here.”

Clint leaned back, resting his bow across his knees. For a moment, he looked older, the lines around his eyes deepened by the passing lights. “We’re not tourists. Call it… stranded.”

“Stranded?” Maggie echoed.

“Different Earth,” Tony said bluntly, adjusting a dial. “Different rules. Hydra’s mess isn’t just yours—it’s bigger. And if they’ve got their claws in your DEO, it means they’re running the same playbook they ran back home.”

Silence hung heavy for a beat, filled only by the churn of the rotors.

Maggie’s chest tightened. “So this… infestation? It’s not stopping here.”

“No,” Clint said. His voice was quiet, steady. “It’s only starting.”

John shifted in his seat, jaw tight. “Then we hit them harder. Faster. Before they dig in.”

Tony gave a low laugh. “That’s the part I like about this world. Always ready to fight back.”

Maggie looked between them—the soldier out of place, the mercenary with too many secrets, and John, already bracing for the next hit. Her pulse hadn’t slowed since the crash, but under it all was a strange certainty: she wasn’t alone. Not anymore.

She exhaled slowly, finally leaning her head back against the cabin wall. “Alright. So what’s the plan?”

Clint met her eyes, his mouth curling into the faintest smile. “First? We survived the landing.”

The chopper banked hard, cityscape tilting below, Hydra spotlights beginning to sweep the skies again.

The fight wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

The helicopter shuddered as a gust rattled through it, the sound of the rotors nearly drowned out by distant sirens below. Through the side window, Maggie caught flashes of chaos on the streets—fires in storefronts, cars abandoned mid-intersection, people fleeing in clusters as National City’s skyline lit up with the harsh sweep of emergency spotlights.

The city was alive, but not with life—with fear.

John’s face hardened as he leaned forward to look past Tony’s shoulder. “National City’s gone into lockdown. State of emergency protocols are active.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Maggie muttered, eyes tracking the convoy of armored trucks barreling down Main. The sight of the DEO insignia—crossed out, painted over with Hydra’s crude emblem—made her stomach twist.

Clint, seated across from her, gripped his bow a little tighter. “That’s fast. Too fast. They’ve already replaced your response units.”

“Hydra plans for a takeover in layers,” Tony called back, his hands steady on the controls. “They cut your comms, gut your command, then show up in your streets wearing your people’s uniforms. By the time anyone realizes, it’s already theirs.”

Maggie swallowed hard, staring at the chaos below. This was her city.

Then a sharp ping cut through the cockpit—lock-on warning.

“Shit,” Tony hissed, jerking the stick hard. The chopper banked violently, throwing Maggie against her harness. Outside, a streak of red tracer fire ripped past them.

“Anti-air!” John barked, already unbuckling to grab a rifle from the rack.

The radio crackled with a distorted Hydra transmission. “…unidentified rotary inbound, Sector Six… take them down…”

Maggie’s pulse spiked. “They’re on us!”

“Really sharp observation,” Tony shot back, sweat beading on his temple as he yanked them lower. The skyline loomed too close, glass towers reflecting their searchlights. “Everybody hang on—we’re going rooftop.”

Bullets shredded past them, hammering the tail. Clint cursed under his breath, rising to one knee, bow drawn. “Open the side hatch!”

“Are you insane?” Maggie snapped.

“A little bit!” Clint answered, loosing an arrow out into the night. A second later, a Hydra spotlight exploded in a shower of sparks, the team briefly swallowed by darkness.

The chopper dropped hard, skimming just above the rooftops.

Tony gritted his teeth. “Hold on—we’re coming down hot.”

The skids slammed into a high-rise roof, metal screeching, rotors chopping wild air. The helicopter slid a good six feet before Tony wrestled it under control, leveling them just long enough for John to shove the side door open.

“Move!” John roared.

Maggie didn’t hesitate—she sprinted onto the rooftop, lungs burning, Clint right behind her with his bow already notched. Sirens wailed below, spotlights sweeping the sky as more tracer fire arced their way.

Hydra was already here.

Black-clad agents swarmed from the adjacent stairwell access, rifles up, Hydra insignia stark under the floodlights.

Clint loosed three arrows in rapid succession, scattering the front line. John took up position behind a ventilation unit, laying down disciplined bursts of fire. Maggie ducked low, pistol raised, heart pounding.

The helicopter lurched back into the air as Tony pulled it clear to avoid becoming a stationary target. His voice crackled over comms. “No time for pickup—I’ll circle, buy you what cover I can. You make it off that roof!”

The night exploded into gunfire and chaos.

And above it all, the skyline of National City burned red.

*^&^*

Early Morning – L-Corp Building

Wanda strolled beside Briana, eyes roaming over her like she was savoring a performance only she could fully appreciate. Anyone who knew Wanda would understand—she absolutely was.

“So, sexy,” Wanda purred, leaning in as though confiding a secret, “tell me about this plan of yours?”

“This tech you have—it came from the other Earth, right?” Briana asked. Her voice stayed professional, but she couldn’t quite stop the warmth creeping into her cheeks under Wanda’s gaze.

“Yes. Well, some of it is… very high-tech? At least, that’s the best way I can explain it.” Wanda shrugged, amused by her own clumsy explanation.

“Good.” Briana’s lips curved faintly. “If it’s as advanced as I think, maybe a friend of mine can do something with it. She’s brilliant.” She risked a sidelong glance, catching Wanda’s sharp smile. “But you have to promise me—this stays between us. No one can know I’m her friend.”

Wanda tilted her head, eyes glittering. “You know, everyone thinks I’m crazy. No one listens to a word I say.” She smirked. “Besides… why would I betray you?”

Yellow Box: Thinks? Darling, they know.

Briana stopped and turned, facing her fully. A soft smile tugged at her mouth. “Good to know.”

Before Wanda could quip back, Briana closed the distance and captured her in a searing kiss. Heat surged between them. Wanda’s breath caught when Briana finally pulled back.

“For the record,” Briana murmured, her voice low and steady, “I listen to you.”

Wanda stood breathless, eyes wide, lips tingling.

“And I guess this means…” Briana let the words hang like a promise.

“Yes,” Wanda gasped, nodding quickly—her teasing mask slipping into something far more vulnerable. “Yes.”

Across the room, Alex kept watch on the two lovebirds, though her mind wandered elsewhere. The last few days had been chaos. First her date with Maggie had been cut short—just as things were finally getting good—yanked away by a DEO emergency. Then came the breaches. Then the strangers from another Earth. None of it sat well.

Since giving up drinking, Alex had been forced to pay sharper attention to her own triggers. And nothing set her off like change. Right now, change was everywhere, pressing in from every angle. The world felt like it was shifting under her feet.

Work demanded her vigilance, always the soldier, always scanning for the next threat. Sobriety demanded something harder—an honesty that left no room to numb the edges. Love demanded patience, the kind she wasn’t sure she had, not when Maggie’s smile kept looping in her head like a half-finished sentence.

And then there was family—always family. Kara was the sun around which Alex’s life orbited, and protecting her was instinct, as natural as breathing. Every breach, every stranger, every flicker of danger only sharpened that protective edge.

So she watched. She always watched. Over Wanda. Over Briana. Over the room as a whole. But mostly, over her little sister—because if Alex didn’t, who would?

^&^

Alex’s thoughts churned in an anxious spiral she couldn’t quite cut off. Too much was changing, too fast. The breaches. The off-worlders. The way Maggie’s touch still lingered on her skin, a half-written chapter she couldn’t return to. Her sobriety demanded control, but control felt like water slipping through her fingers.

Family. Duty. Work. Love. Each one pulled at her, threads she could barely keep from tangling. And underneath it all—her constant vigilance. Always watching. Always bracing.

Her gaze snapped forward just as Briana pressed her hand to a wall-mounted reader. The scanner chirped, and the display glowed green. The guards glanced up but relaxed instantly.

“DNA scans,” Briana said, almost too casually. “I’m on her friends list.”

Alex stiffened, eyes narrowing. Her?

Wanda, for once, was silent. Her gaze darted across the sleek interior, sharp and calculating.

Yellow Box: You know your girlfriend here has been hiding this from her little DEO buddies. Funny how a Ms. Luthor always seems to be one step ahead.

Alex’s pulse quickened, pieces tumbling into place. Briana tied to Lena? And Kara—did she know? Did Kara want to know?

“Um.”

Briana’s brow creased. “What was that, Wanda?” Worry edged her voice.

Wanda’s smirk faltered, her eyes narrowing as if chasing a thought down a dark alley. “Just thinking. Hydra’s fast, but not this fast. How long could they have been here? More than two nights, if those scans were right.”

Briana’s lips parted, the color draining slightly from her face. “Do you think they had someone here already? Laying the groundwork for this invasion?”

“Yes,” Wanda said evenly, “I’ll admit I’m not some spy. But I’ve spent the better part of my life as a soldier.”

The calm in her voice was somehow scarier than her usual mania—the same woman who would hurl herself out of buildings just to see if it might kill her now sounded like a blade honed to steel. Briana felt the hair prickle on her arms.

A soft bing cut the tension as the security door slid open.

Lena Luthor stood waiting on the other side, sharp green eyes already fixed on them. The moment she saw Briana, her composure cracked—she rushed forward.

“Are you okay?” Lena asked, her voice carrying more urgency than her usual boardroom steel. Her gaze darted over Briana’s injuries, noting the torn sleeve, the bruising, the stiff set of her shoulder.

“I’m fine,” Briana said quickly, forcing a smile. She gestured to the woman at her side. “This is Wanda. She… kept me alive, and then some.”

Wanda gave a crooked little bow, grin curling as though she knew she’d just been introduced as something far more dangerous than a savior.

“Oh, I heard how you were killed in action. Everyone assumed you were dead,” the CEO said, her voice trembling. Her eyes glossed with tears that looked so alien on a woman who usually radiated control.

“Oh lord, come here,” Briana said, sweeping her into her arms. She hugged Lena close, murmuring, “I’m fine, I’m here,” and running a soothing hand across her back.

Yellow Box: Well this is unexpected. I was betting on a lover’s reunion. Not… whatever this is. Huh.

Across the room, Alex stiffened. Her gut clenched the way it always did when the ground shifted under her feet. Lena Luthor. Tears. Vulnerability. And all of it aimed at Briana. The soldier in her braced. The sister in her burned.

Wanda tilted her head, grinning like a cat who’d caught a mouse. “If I was anyone else, I’d say you had a girlfriend,” she said, voice dripping mischief. “But since I know you don’t, I’m guessing…” Her eyes narrowed theatrically, darting between the women. “Dear friend? With occasional benefits?”

She punctuated it with a wink that could have blinded a small country.

Alex’s jaw tightened. Typical Wanda—deflecting with innuendo. But underneath the quip, Alex caught something sharper: Briana hesitating. Calculating. Like she was deciding just how much truth to reveal.

Briana pulled back just enough to glare at Wanda. “Wanda, no—you’re far off, this is—”

But before she could finish, Lena disengaged from the hug. She looked Wanda square in the eye with that razor-sharp Luthor poise—except this time, it cracked. Her lips trembled into a smile, and instead of snapping back with icy wit, she stepped forward and embraced Wanda.

Wanda actually froze mid-grin, caught off guard.

“Thank you,” Lena whispered, her voice thick. She pulled back just enough to meet Wanda’s eyes, green irises shining with tears. “Thank you for saving my sister.”

The words hit Alex like a shot. Sister.

Her mind tumbled: Briana. Lena. Luthor. Threads twisting in directions she didn’t like. Kara—did Kara know? And if she didn’t… did she even want to?

Her hand drifted unconsciously toward her holster before she forced it still. Always vigilant. Always bracing. Because someone had to be.

“Sis… oh, now that is… clear as mud,” Wanda said as she stepped back from Lena’s hug, eyes flicking between them. “You don’t look alike at all.”

“We are foster sisters,” Briana explained with a small smile. “She was placed with my family before the Luthors got their claws into her.” Bitterness edged her tone, sharp enough to cut.

“Briana,” Lena countered, voice tightening. “We’ve spoken about this. He was my father.”

Alex caught the flicker—old wounds surfacing like ghosts—and her stomach knotted. Foster sisters. A hidden tie to Lena Luthor. That explained some things. Not enough. Never enough.

Wanda clapped her hands once, breaking the tension like a cymbal crash. “Yes, yes, family therapy hour sounds super fun, but here’s the thing.” She reached behind her and lifted the sleek silver box, its surface glinting in the overhead lights. “I need your help, genius-girl. The ‘Lena Luthor’. Can you pretty-please use your giant brain to help me save the day?”

Lena’s gaze sharpened on the object instantly, calculating, her earlier vulnerability vanishing beneath cool intellect. “What is that?”

“Future tech,” Briana said flatly. “Pulled off the steel hounds.”

The guards shifted uneasily. Alex stayed still, eyes narrowing. She didn’t like the way Lena’s fingers twitched—hungry for the box, drawn to it like gravity.

Yellow Box: Ooooh, shiny toy time. Luthor Girl looks like a kid in a candy shop. Does anybody else smell trouble?

Alex’s hand brushed her sidearm again, almost unconsciously. Family. Duty. Vigilance. If Lena wanted to play savior, fine. But Alex would be watching—always watching.

“I need to get a look at this and see if we can use anything on it,” Briana said, gesturing toward the silver box. “And then I have some thoughts on a few of the items Wanda’s carrying. They might give us an edge in the fight that’s coming.”

“Anything you need, and you know it,” Lena said immediately. Her gaze flicked to Wanda, studying her with a mix of suspicion and curiosity. “So you two are…?”

It was a fair question. Lena had never seen her sister let anyone in this close. Briana usually radiated such cool professionalism that suitors wilted before they even tried. Yet here was this chaotic woman in red-and-black leathers, glued to Briana’s side and looking like she thrived on the challenge.

“Sleeping together—hopefully soon!” Wanda announced with a wolfish grin.

Briana turned nine shades of red.

“But so far,” Wanda went on, counting on her fingers, “just the kissing, hugging, and oh yeah, taking bullets for her. But the really fun part? Diving out of a helicopter and landing without a parachute.” Her grin widened, sharp and unrepentant. “That kind of sucked.”

“I… see,” Lena said, blinking. She turned to Briana, who gave the world’s smallest, most mortified nod. Then her sharp green gaze slid back to Wanda. “So you’re what? A metahuman?”

Lena wasn’t stupid. She’d already put together Kara’s secret, and though she kept it close to the chest, she’d accepted it without breaking stride. That Wanda might also be something beyond human didn’t shock her—it intrigued her. Endearing, even, that she’d already taken bullets for Briana. Terrifying, too. And her inner scientist was already cataloging questions: cellular regeneration? Enhanced musculature? Neurochemical dampening of pain?

“Does it matter?” Wanda asked airily. She produced a charm bracelet and a small silver clicker from seemingly nowhere and dropped them into Lena’s hands. “Couple of fun little toys I picked up as a merc. My girlfriend thinks you can copy or juice ‘em up so we can use them to retake the DEO from Hydra.”

She said it like she was ordering takeout.

“DEO… Hydra?” Lena repeated, brows furrowing. “What is a Hydra?”

But then her eyes landed on the bracelet, and her voice caught. “Oh. Oh wow. Where did you get these?”

“Are you sure she’s a genius?” Wanda stage-whispered to Briana.

“She is,” Briana said firmly, though her lips twitched. “More than you realize. Just… don’t drown her in your nonsense.”

Wanda smirked, unrepentant.

Yellow Box: And just like that—family reunion turns into science fair. Somebody get popcorn.

From her spot across the room, Alex didn’t move, didn’t speak. But her pulse ticked faster as she watched Lena’s eyes light up over the alien tech. Curiosity. Hunger. Family. It was all tangled up in ways Alex didn’t trust. Not for a second.

“I guess,” Wanda shrugged, spinning the bracelet in her hand. “So the charm bracelet here is… look, I’m not a scientist. All I know is these are my guns, my toys, and my wardrobe. No more carrying bags. Everything shrinks down—boom—fits right here.”

To prove it, she plucked a tiny charm free. The second it left the bracelet, it expanded with a shimmer, resolving into a full-sized katana gleaming under the lights. Wanda grinned, gave it a little spin, and then—snap—returned it to charm-size with a flick of her wrist.

“See?”

Lena’s eyes nearly tripled in size, wide and ravenous.

“And the silver thing?” Briana asked, nodding toward the clicker.

“Oh, that little toy?” Wanda twirled it like a car key. “Forgot I had it on me. Teleporter, more or less. Push the button, poof. Move point A to point B.”

Lena actually inhaled sharply, like the word itself was oxygen. Her scientist’s brain was already racing ten steps ahead—applications, limitations, replication. “I need to get to the lab with these,” she said, voice tight with excitement. “I can’t promise anything until I study them more, but—” Her green eyes glittered with hunger.

“I’ve seen that look before,” Briana teased, smirking at her sister. “That’s the exact same look Wanda gets right before she finds food.”

“I don’t look like—” Lena started, then caught herself. “Well… maybe a little.”

Wanda grinned, smug as sin. “What can I say? Genius brain, merc stomach. You two are basically twins.”

They fell into step behind Lena as she led the way to the elevator, the silver box cradled close like treasure.

“So wait,” Briana asked as they walked, brow arched. “If you had a teleporter, why didn’t we use it instead of—oh, I don’t know—jumping out of a helicopter?”

Wanda just flashed her teeth. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Yellow Box: And there it is—the crazy in a nutshell. Why not risk splattering on the pavement when you can make a dramatic entrance?

From her post near the wall, Alex’s stomach tightened again. Watching Lena cradle that alien tech like a prize made her pulse jump. Wonder, hunger, ambition—Lena was dangerous enough without toys from another world. And yet here they were, heading straight for her lab.

As the four women walked down the hallway, Wanda tossed out the other reason she hadn’t used the teleporter during their helicopter stunt.

“Oh, and then there’s that whole physics thing,” she said breezily. “We jump out of a plane going top speed, then teleport? We come out the other side at the same speed. So—splat. Just the same.”

Briana winced. “So good for walking ports, but not for high-velocity moves.”

“Yup.” Wanda gave a little shrug, like she was talking about the weather. “Unless you’ve got a healing factor and are damn near unkillable.”

That earned her a sidelong look from Briana and a furrowed brow from Alex. Lena, wisely, chose not to bite on that last revelation. Instead, she slowed, turning her sharp green eyes back toward the group. The silver clicker glinted in her hand.

“You know what I could do with this?” she asked, voice hushed, almost reverent.

“Make a way to get pizza delivered instantly?” Wanda shot back without missing a beat, her grin stretching wide.

Yellow Box: Of course. Should’ve guessed it. Leave it to Wanda to reduce interdimensional physics to pizza night.

Lena blinked at her, lips twitching despite herself. For a moment, just a moment, the steel mask slipped and something lighter peeked through. Then she faced forward again, the weight of the device pulling her back into scientist mode.

From behind, Alex caught the whole exchange, her jaw tight. Wanda’s jokes. Lena’s calculating silence. The dangerous gleam in her eyes. Alex’s instincts screamed the same warning they always did: Watch her. Protect Kara. Be ready.

Chapter Text

CatCo HQ

Kara hovered in the air, eyes widening as the Hulk sailed across the skyline. “Wow… yeah, that’s going to be hard to explain. Uh, Hulk—I need you to wait on that roof over there. Or maybe… Bruce would be better?”

“Come,” Hulk rumbled before leaping effortlessly onto the building.

Kara followed, landing just in time to see him crouch low. Muscles rippled, skin shrinking, the green giant collapsing into the leaner frame of Bruce Banner.

“Bag,” Bruce said, breath steady, holding out a hand.

“Oh—sure!” Kara fumbled the satchel from her shoulder and tossed it to him.

“Thanks.” He pulled a shirt from inside, glancing up. “Supergirl… I’m not going anywhere. But, uh, could you turn around while I change?”

“Oh! Right! Sorry.” Kara whipped around, her cape swishing. “It’s just—it’s so strange, seeing you go from big and green to small and, you know, smart. Not that you weren’t smart before—well, you were smashing things, so maybe not that smart—but I wasn’t, like, checking you out or anything, I just—oh Rao, why am I still talking?”

Her cheeks flamed as she buried her face in her hands.

“No worries, Kara,” Bruce said with quiet amusement. Fabric rustled behind her as he dressed. “I’m not mad. Just moving as fast as I can—I want to make sure Nat’s okay.” He paused, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “And for the record? Your rambling is… kind of cute. I’m sure someone will appreciate it.”

“Oh Rao…” Kara muttered again, ears burning crimson.

^&^

Kara walked with Bruce into CatCo. The bullpen was empty. Fewer eyes meant fewer questions about the quiet man at her side, though Kara knew if anyone did ask, she’d have plenty to say. Bruce Banner wasn’t just big and green; he was brilliant.

“So,” she said lightly as they approached the elevators, “tell me about yourself, Bruce.”

He glanced at her, amused. “What do you want to know, Kara?”

“Well…” she tilted her head. “How did you meet Natasha?”

A shadow crossed his features. “I’m not the most well-loved hero where I come from. I’ve been hunted by just about everyone. She was one of the nicer people hunting me. Back then, she was working for S.H.I.E.L.D. They thought I was too dangerous, wanted me… out of play.”

“Oh, Rao—that’s awful,” Kara said, eyes wide. “How could you possibly get close to someone if that’s how you met?”

He sighed as they stepped off the elevator and strolled through the bullpen. “She was assigned to collect me. First time I saw her, she’d slipped into my room before I even noticed. I wasn’t… angry yet. Instead of attacking, she just asked to talk.”

“She didn’t fight you?” Kara asked softly.

“No. She thought they had mislabeled me. Called me a monster when she believed I could be saved.” His voice warmed slightly. “So no—no love at first sight. But Natasha… she isn’t someone you forget. She made it her mission to see that I was treated fairly.”

Kara stopped, turning to face him. “You love her.” She said it simply, as if naming a star.

“I do.” His eyes softened, then dimmed again. “But it would be bad for her.”

Kara frowned. “I don’t understand. You’re one of the Avengers, right? You’ve saved your world. Still not entirely sure what an Avenger is,” she added with a small smirk.

He chuckled. “I did and I am. But I’ve never really been trusted. Even by my friends, I’m always one bad day away from disaster.”

“The anger,” Kara murmured, searching his face. “I don’t get it. You seem so calm now.”

Bruce gave a humorless laugh and shook his head. “Kara… I’m always angry. Always. I’ve just learned tricks—ways to keep from snapping.”

Kara’s breath caught at that. Because she knew. She knew. Maybe not the same way, but close enough. The times when her heat vision had flared in panic, nearly burning someone she cared about. The times she’d held back in battle, afraid her strength could crush a human body if she miscalculated by even a fraction. The fear that one slip, one loss of control, could turn her from protector into weapon.

“Oh.” Her voice was softer now, thoughtful. She looked at him, really looked. A man holding back a storm inside himself. And she smiled—not out of pity, but solidarity. “Well, no matter what, I’m with you. You can trust me.”

Bruce studied her for a long moment. He saw the weight in her words, the honesty, and some of the tightness in his shoulders finally eased. A small smile broke through.

“I know.”

Kara froze mid-step. Her eyes swept the bullpen, narrowing. The silence pressed in too heavily, too unnaturally.
“Odd,” she whispered. “It’s quiet. Too quiet.”

She focused, letting her vision shift, skin tingling as the world peeled back under her x-ray gaze. Behind the desks—three bodies, limp, hidden. Her stomach lurched.
“Oh no. Something is here.” She spun back toward Bruce, fear flashing in her eyes.

He only tilted his head, calm where she was coiled tight. “Hmm.” He shook his head once. “Wait here. I’ll look around.”

“Bruce, no—Bruce!” she hissed, reaching for him as he strode straight for Cat’s office.

Inside, a man clutched Cat Grant by the throat, her heels scraping against the glass wall as she struggled.

“You’re too late,” the man spat. “This building will be ours!”

Bruce’s voice stayed even. “Nope. Let her go.”

The intruder sneered. “Who are you, to think you can order me?”

Bruce’s lips curved into a knowing smile. His eyes shifted—green threading into brown, emerald veins crawling outward.
“Who am I? What do you know about the Hulk?”

The man’s face drained. His bravado collapsed.
“Oh! Shit—no!” He shoved Cat away, bolted, smashed through the window, and was gone.

Kara’s heart stuttered. She’d braced for violence, but Bruce hadn’t needed it. Just the suggestion of the Hulk had cleared the room. It unsettled her—how controlled, how deliberate he’d been. She knew what it was like to hold back a storm inside you, to live in constant dread of what might happen if you didn’t.

Bruce crossed to Cat, offering a hand. “You okay, ma’am?”

Cat clung to him, trembling. “Thank you.” Her eyes raked over him, wide and searching.

Relief surged through Kara. She swept forward, gathering Cat into her arms. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” she whispered, squeezing tight, the adrenaline shaking her bones.

“Kara!” Cat gasped, hugging back. “I saw you fall—I thought—” She broke off, pulling back just enough to catch her breath. But her gaze slipped past Kara, landing on Bruce again.

Kara’s stomach knotted. She knew that look—shock, recognition, like a ghost had walked into the room. She’d seen it before, on strangers who glimpsed Clark, expecting Superman but meeting her instead. That mix of grief and hope could cut like a knife.

“Who is this man, Kara?” Cat whispered, low and urgent.

Kara hesitated, torn between protecting Bruce’s secret and easing Cat’s fear. “Bruce Banner. He’s… a friend. He’s looking for his partner. She should be here with Winn.”

“Bruce Banner,” Cat echoed, voice quivering. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in years.”

Kara’s pulse spiked. She looked at Bruce sharply, catching the flicker of confusion in his eyes. Cat’s reaction wasn’t random—it was personal.

“You!” Cat’s voice cracked, tears brimming. “I was there when the project blew up. I had the biggest crush on you. And then you—” She faltered. “You died.”

Bruce blinked, stunned. “Ah. Then I guess there was a Bruce Banner here.”

Kara stepped in quickly, voice gentler now. “Ms. Grant—this man isn’t from this world.”

“I know,” Cat whispered. Her denial and acceptance braided together in the same breath. “I know he can’t be the same man I knew. He died nearly twenty years ago. But he looks exactly—exactly—like I imagined he would after all this time.”

She edged closer, raw hope softening her face. “Dr. Banner… right?”

Kara’s throat tightened. She glanced at Bruce—saw the way his shoulders hunched, as if the weight of someone else’s past was settling on him. And in Cat’s eyes, Kara saw the dangerous spark of grief colliding with memory. She wanted to protect them both—Bruce from being turned into a ghost of a man he never was, and Cat from clinging to shadows. But words stuck in her throat.

For once, Supergirl had no idea how to save the moment.

Kara’s eyes went wide. Oh Rao. She’d just realized what that look in Cat’s eyes meant. If Natasha Romanoff ever saw Cat Grant eyeing Bruce Banner like that… Kara didn’t even want to imagine the fallout. It would be Cat’s last headline, written in blood-red ink.

“Kat,” Kara blurted, desperate to derail the train before it hit the tracks. “He has a girlfriend.”

The words landed like a bucket of cold water. Cat blinked, startled, and then forced her gaze back to Kara. “I see,” she said softly, her voice tugged between disappointment and pride. Turning back to Bruce, she offered a smile that carried just enough dignity to cover the wound. “Well then. I think we need to clean out my building.”

Bruce nodded, brisk, already moving. “I’ll help with that.” He strode out the door.

“Dammit, Bruce, don’t go walking off like that—you’re not big and green now!” Kara hissed, grabbing Cat by the wrist and tugging her after him.

But Bruce glanced back, calm, a weight in his voice. “Kara, I’m always one step from him. He’s here with me now.” His head tilted, listening. “I also hear others nearby.”

The warning came too late.

“Hail Hydra!” The cry rang out like a war horn as armed men rushed them.

Bruce sighed, weary, almost disappointed. Then it happened—in the blink of an eye. His skin flushed green, his frame stretching, muscles tearing through cloth as his body ballooned upward. Three feet taller in a heartbeat, and still growing. His roar rattled the walls.

Kara’s stomach dropped. “Oh great. They had to piss him off.” She shoved Cat toward the stairwell. “Miss Grant—we need to move, now!”

“Why are we running?!” Cat demanded, heels clattering as Kara pulled her along.

“Because Bruce isn’t in control like this!” Kara said, voice sharp with urgency. “When he gets mad, he turns into the Hulk—and that’s not something we need to see. Them poor Hydra agents won’t know what hit them.”

A scream and the sound of metal buckling under impossible force echoed behind them, punctuating Kara’s words.

“Hydra?” Cat panted as they hurried down the stairs. “As in World War Two Hydra?”

“Apparently not the same one,” Kara muttered, half focused on listening for more threats.

Cat, still catching her breath, shot her a sideways look. “Dear, remind me why we’re running and not joining him?”

Kara gave her the most serious look she could manage mid-sprint. “Because my job is keeping you safe. And trust me—he can take care of himself.”

Another roar thundered through the building.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” Cat said under her breath, both shaken and strangely impressed.

The first impact shook the walls like an earthquake. Dust sifted down from the ceiling tiles, sprinkling Kara’s hair as she half-dragged, half-guided Cat toward the stairwell.

Behind them, the building roared with chaos. Metal screamed as if it were being ripped apart by bare hands. Gunfire crackled—short, panicked bursts—followed by the unmistakable sound of weapons clattering uselessly to the floor.

“Stay close to me,” Kara urged, her hand firm around Cat’s wrist.

Then came the roar—deep, guttural, and so powerful it made Kara’s ribs vibrate. She glanced back despite herself, her x-ray vision peeling through walls and floors. What she saw nearly stopped her in her tracks.

The Hulk was in motion, a blur of green muscle and rage. He tore through Hydra agents like paper, fists breaking weapons, bodies flung like ragdolls against walls. One soldier fired a launcher—Hulk snatched the round midair and crushed it in his fist before it could explode. Another tried to flee; Hulk grabbed him by the back of his vest and hammer-threw him through a support column, the concrete spiderwebbing on impact.

Kara’s stomach twisted. Every instinct screamed at her to go back, to even the odds, to stop the destruction before it brought the whole building down. But Cat stumbled against her side, reminding her of the truth: she couldn’t leave Cat unguarded. Not here. Not now.

Another roar ripped the air, louder, closer. Kara winced, dragging Cat faster down the stairs. “He’s in full smash mode now,” she muttered.

“I gathered that!” Cat snapped, clinging to the railing as the stairwell rattled with another bone-shaking impact. Her voice wobbled with fear, but her eyes still glimmered with something dangerously close to awe.

Through the concrete walls, Kara glimpsed flashes of green—an arm, a shoulder, the arc of a fist larger than a man’s torso. Agents fell one after another, their cries swallowed by the symphony of breaking glass and collapsing steel.

Kara’s chest tightened. This was the very thing she feared in herself—the loss of control, the raw power unchained. She wanted to help him, to be there, to anchor him before he tore too far. But Cat’s hand was still in hers, trembling. Her duty was clear.

She forced herself to look forward again, jaw set. “Come on, Miss Grant. Trust me—he doesn’t need us right now.”

Behind them, another Hydra agent screamed before being cut off in a crash that made the stairwell tremble.

Cat swallowed hard, letting Kara lead. “Well,” she breathed, “remind me never to make him angry.”

Kara tugged Cat down the stairwell, her ears ringing with the symphony of destruction above. Every crash was another wall giving way, every roar another Hydra agent flattened.

“I guess they’re not from this Earth,” Kara muttered, half to herself, half to Cat, “but they’re definitely here to take over.”

She rounded the corner—and froze. A stun baton pressed cold against her throat.

“—Kara?!” Natasha’s voice cut through the tension. She blinked, then immediately lowered the weapon, her lips curving into the smallest of smiles. “Sorry.”

Relief loosened Kara’s shoulders. “Hello, Natasha. Where’s Winn?”

“Here!” Winn squeaked, crawling out from beneath a desk, hair sticking up and glasses askew.

Cat arched a brow, unimpressed. “Oh, the joy. We went from a hunk of a man with brains to this.” She waved vaguely at Winn. “Kara, I’d almost prefer to be upstairs with the green giant.”

“Hey!” Winn protested, brushing dust off his shirt.

Nat’s sharp gaze cut toward Cat, assessing her in an instant before flicking back to Kara. “Friend of yours?”

“I’m her boss,” Cat announced before Kara could answer, lifting her chin with imperious confidence. “And you are?”

Nat smirked. “Natasha Romanoff. Bruce Banner’s girlfriend.”

The title landed like a grenade. Cat blinked, startled. Kara blinked harder, heat flooding her cheeks.

“You—heard us talking?” Kara stammered.

“You left your comms open, Kara,” Winn said helpfully.

Kara groaned and turned crimson, covering her face with a hand.

Before anyone could comment, the building rattled with a bang-crash-bang. They turned as one toward the nearest window just in time to see three Hydra agents hurled into the street like ragdolls, their bodies leaving cracks in the asphalt. Another followed, spinning end over end before landing with a wet crunch.

All four of them fell into stunned silence.

“Guess he’s… cleaning the building for you, Ms. Grant,” Kara muttered, eyes dropping to her boots.

Cat, still watching the window with a strange mix of horror and fascination, murmured, “Efficient, I’ll give him that.”

Nat only smirked faintly, crossing her arms. “He does have his ways.”

Winn paled. “Yeah. Ways that are currently redecorating the building with Hydra.”

Kara dragged her hand down her face. “Rao help me.”

The room vibrated again as another Hydra soldier went sailing past the window. Cat flinched, then composed herself with a toss of her hair, as though she’d only been startled by a sudden breeze.

Nat, arms folded and posture unbothered, watched her with cool detachment.

“You’re his girlfriend,” Cat repeated, drawing out the word like it tasted unusual in her mouth. Her sharp eyes flicked Natasha up and down, the way she might inspect an intern who dared to bring her the wrong latte. “Interesting.”

Nat’s smirk barely twitched. “That a problem?”

“No,” Cat said smoothly, though her gaze lingered a moment too long on the faint red mark where Nat’s baton had kissed Kara’s throat. “I’m simply… surprised. I assumed a man like Dr. Banner would have ended up with someone a little less”—she paused, lips curving—“dangerous.”

Nat tilted her head, all feline calm, though the warning spark in her eyes was impossible to miss. “Dangerous has its advantages. Especially when Hydra’s involved.”

The air tightened between them, subtle but sharp.

Kara, standing squarely between her boss and her new teammate, threw up her hands. “Okay, nope. No. We are not doing this right now.” She jabbed a finger at Winn. “You. Stay behind cover.” She pointed at Cat. “You. Stop… whatever this is.” Then she gestured helplessly at Nat. “And you—could you maybe not look like you’re about to interrogate my boss with piano wire?”

Winn snorted. “She really does, though.”

Nat didn’t deny it. Her smirk only deepened.

Cat, never one to retreat, gave a little shrug. “I suppose it makes sense. If one intends to keep up with the Hulk, one must be comfortable with… volatility.”

Nat’s expression softened just enough to be disarming—and just enough to be intimidating in a whole different way. “Or maybe he just prefers someone who can handle him.”

Another boom upstairs punctuated the remark. Dust sifted from the ceiling.

Kara groaned, dragging a hand down her face again. “I am begging the universe to spare me from watching my boss and Bruce’s girlfriend posture over who knows him better while Hydra is literally being used as interior décor upstairs.”

Cat smirked at her, utterly unapologetic. Nat smirked too, but hers carried an edge of victory.

Winn muttered under his breath, “I liked it better when the biggest drama was which takeout menu we used.”

^&^

Three Days after the Breaches

Nearly three days into Hydra’s invasion, National City was a shell of itself. Streets once alive with traffic now choked on smoke and wreckage. What wasn’t barricaded was burning. What wasn’t burning was soaked in blood. And everywhere, Hydra’s voices barked orders, stamping their boots into the bones of the city.

Tony Masters—Taskmaster, when his body cooperated—had felt better. A lot better. Right now, he felt like a bulldozer had rolled straight over him and then decided to back up and finish the job. Every muscle screamed, every rib ached, but work came first. Rest was a luxury he never counted on.

“Are you certain?”

The voice was low, gruff, close. Tony’s head snapped up—just enough to see shapes moving in the dim light of their cell.

“Mom said it was him,” a boy’s voice whispered, younger, nervous. “She recognized his face.”

Tony’s gut twisted at that.

“And she wants him released?” the first voice pressed.

“Yes.”

Tony shifted, eyes narrowing. The younger one couldn’t have been older than ten, small hands fumbling at his bindings. “If I get a vote in the matter,” Tony rasped, voice dry as gravel, “I concur with your mother.”

The boy startled, wide eyes snapping to him. Tony almost smirked—kids weren’t supposed to be here. Kids weren’t supposed to be in warzones. Yet here they were, breaking prisoners out while the city burned.

“What’s the plan here?” Tony asked, voice softening without his permission.

“Get you out of here alive,” the younger boy said quickly, almost like he wanted to prove his worth. “As far as I can tell, Sir.”

Sir. That stung worse than the cracked rib. He didn’t deserve that title.

His bindings finally loosened, and Tony stretched, grimacing at the stiffness in his shoulders. He turned toward the older boy—barely out of high school, if that. Hard eyes for someone so young.

“So what prompted two children to risk their necks saving me?” Tony asked, scanning the room for movement, for the trap that surely waited.

“We need your help, Sir.”

“Your mom knows me?” Tony pressed, voice sharp now.

The older boy’s jaw set. He glanced at his brother, then back at Tony. “You know our father.”

The silence that followed was heavier than Hydra’s boot on the city’s throat.

Tony’s heart gave a traitorous thump. His face went still. A hundred names, a hundred regrets flashed through his mind—and not a single one of them ended well.

“Kid,” he said finally, voice low, dangerous, “you better start talking fast.”

^&^

The last three days had been nothing short of hell. Maggie’s lungs burned, her legs ached, and every muscle in her body protested the relentless pace. She wasn’t weak—hell, she’d kept up in DEO training sessions, even gone toe-to-toe with Alex for fun—but this wasn’t sparring. This was running, ducking, hiding, then sprinting again before Hydra’s sweep teams locked onto their position.

The man beside her, though—Clint Barton—barely looked winded. He just kept moving, steady as a machine. A meta, Maggie thought grimly. He had to be. No one else kept that kind of rhythm after three days of hell.

She staggered against a brick wall, one hand pressed flat against the rough surface as she tried to breathe. “Are we clear?” she managed, voice ragged.

Clint’s sharp eyes scanned the alley, every instinct honed from a lifetime of surviving worse. He lowered his bow but didn’t relax. “Looks like we lost them.”

Then his gaze dropped—and his expression shifted instantly. “You’re bleeding… shit.”

Maggie blinked, confused, until she followed his eyes. A long gash ran down her arm, already streaking red against her jacket. She hadn’t even felt it in the chaos, but now that she saw it, the pain surged all at once—hot, sharp, and dizzying. The world tilted, her breath hitched.

“Hold still,” Clint said firmly, already pulling a compact device from his quiver. The no-nonsense tone of command, the kind Alex used when Maggie was too stubborn to slow down, anchored her for a second.

Her knees nearly buckled. She pressed her back to the wall to stay upright, but her vision blurred.

Then another shadow fell across them.

J’onn J’onzz stopped, his tall frame blocking what little light filtered into the alley. His crimson eyes softened as he took in the sight of Maggie swaying on her feet, Clint bracing her with one arm while working the device with the other.

“She’s hurt,” Clint said without looking up, focused on sealing the wound.

“I can see that,” J’onn said quietly, his voice calm but weighted with worry. His hand hovered as if he wanted to help but knew startling her could make things worse.

For Maggie, it was suddenly too much—the weight of three days, the cut, the exhaustion. Her bravado cracked as she whispered, half to herself, half to J’onn, “I’m fine. I’m fine.” But the tremor in her knees said otherwise.

^&^

South end of National City. The private airfield—polished runways gleaming beneath floodlights, glass-fronted hangars rising like monuments to wealth. This was no public terminal. Here, the world’s elite came and went unseen, shielded by money and silence.

An armada of black SUVs lined the tarmac, engines purring in tight formation. Each vehicle carried four men, suited in immaculate black with mirrored sunglasses that reflected the landing lights. They were soldiers, but they moved like shadows—quiet, disciplined, waiting for orders.

In one SUV, a young recruit broke the silence. “You catch the game?”
“Yeah,” another muttered, smirking. “Loved watching how they shot the losers.”
The driver’s hand snapped up. “Quiet. The portal’s opening.”

The night split like glass under pressure. A rift bled into existence at the far end of the runway, light warping across steel and tarmac until three figures strode through the tear.

Doors opened in unison. Boots struck pavement in rhythm as the soldiers formed a perimeter. Weapons were drawn but kept low, eyes fixed forward.

The older officer stepped ahead. “Let’s see to the package.”

“Sir!” the men chorused, moving to obey—

But the man at the center of the trio halted them with a flick of his hand. Black leather gleamed under the floodlights, steel strapped across his broad frame. His voice was a growl dragged from the grave. “Not here. Do you have what I ordered?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then deliver it.”

The officer turned to move, but steel whispered against his throat. The woman in green stood before him, blade gleaming cold and sharp. Her eyes narrowed, the smile of a serpent playing across her lips. “Were you asked to speak?”

The man froze, throat bobbing. “No—my apologies—”

“Viper.” The central figure did not raise his voice, but the command in it was absolute. “Let him breathe. This isn’t our earth… yet.”

She withdrew her blade slowly, savoring the moment, her gaze a lingering promise of pain.

The three needed no introduction.
The red-skulled figure at the center—terror incarnate, the commander of Hydra.
At his right, the venomous viper, Madame Hydra.
And looming behind, a juggernaut of scars and weapons: Crossbones, bristling with death both visible and hidden.

The soldiers dragged their captives forward—the mayor of National City and his aides, stripped of dignity, shoved to their knees before the red-faced monster.

“This pathetic wretch ran your city?” Red Skull asked, voice low with contempt.

“Did,” the officer corrected with a grin. He pulled the trigger, dropping the mayor where he knelt. Shots cracked across the tarmac as the aides fell in a chorus of bodies.

Red Skull didn’t flinch. He nodded once, as if approving the removal of clutter. “Now. Bring me the leader of this Cadmus group.”

More boots, more struggling. An older woman was forced into the floodlight’s glare. She stood tall despite the hands gripping her arms, chin lifted in defiance.

“And this would be…” Skull prompted.

“Lillian Luthor.” Her eyes raked over him with calculated disdain. “And I don’t deal with thugs.”

The air grew taut, every soldier holding still as if the night itself held its breath.

Red Skull tilted his head, that death-mask grin gleaming in the artificial light. “Thug?” His voice was silk over steel. “I am the Red Skull. Commander of Hydra.”

Lillian’s gaze flicked to the sprawled corpses of the mayor and his aides. Her scoff cut the silence like glass. “Your men just executed the mayor. Do you realize how much I paid to get him into office? I had such expectations for his ass… all wasted.” She sighed as if scolding a child who had broken one of her toys.

For the first time, Skull’s crimson brow lifted. “I must say, I am impressed.”

“In what?” she asked coolly.

“In you.” His voice was steady, almost courteous. “Miss Luthor, I must apologize for the… inconvenience I have caused you.” His eyes narrowed, hungry calculation gleaming within their depths. “Allow me the privilege of getting to know you better. We may yet find we are on the same side.”

He was ever the pragmatist, never missing the chance to recruit a truly cunning mind into Hydra’s fold.

^&^

The convoy rolled from the private airfield, engines purring low as the fleet of SUVs cut into the night. Inside one of them, silence pressed like a held breath.

Lillian Luthor sat opposite the crimson skull himself, her posture elegant despite the restraints that had only moments ago been removed. Her suit was immaculate, her eyes sharp as cut glass.

Across from her, Red Skull lounged with the poise of a man who believed the world already belonged to him. The faint hum of the engine and the occasional thrum of rotor blades overhead filled the space between them.

Finally, Lillian broke the silence. “Hydra. Always so dramatic. Portals, executions on runways… spectacle.” She tilted her head, her voice dripping with aristocratic disdain. “Cadmus, by contrast, achieves results quietly.”

The Skull regarded her, his red features unreadable save for the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Quiet results vanish into history, Miss Luthor. Dramatic results endure.”

“You confuse endurance with survival.” Her eyes narrowed, the faintest smirk tugging her lips. “Cadmus has survived decades. Regimes rise and fall, empires collapse, heroes come and go. Yet my organization remains. Can the same be said for Hydra? How many times have you been cut down, only to crawl back from the shadows?”

His laugh was low, guttural, and more terrifying for its restraint. “Cut down, yes. But always reborn. Hydra does not survive history—we bend it. That is endurance. That is inevitability.”

“Words,” Lillian countered smoothly, crossing her legs. “Cadmus shapes tomorrow by control. By foresight. We do not gamble on chaos. We design the future. Your Hydra thrives on destruction, hoping to rise from the ashes. A brutish method.”

Red Skull leaned forward, the leather of his gloves creaking as his fingers laced together. “And yet, destruction clears the ground upon which your precious Cadmus may build. You require us, whether you admit it or not. Without Hydra’s chaos, your order has no place to root.”

The SUV’s tinted glass reflected their mirrored postures: two predators, equally poised, circling without moving.

Lillian’s smile was thin, calculated. “Perhaps. But here is the difference, Herr Skull: I do not share power. Cadmus answers to me. Always me. Can you say the same of Hydra? How many vipers claw at your throne?”

Viper’s laugh drifted from the seat beside them, soft and venomous. Crossbones’ eyes flicked up in the rearview mirror, silent but watchful.

For a moment, Skull said nothing. Then his crimson visage tilted slightly, as if acknowledging a strike that had landed. “You are bold, Miss Luthor. Boldness I admire. And yet—Cadmus plays upon one Earth. Hydra plays upon many. Portals are but the beginning.”

Her smirk didn’t falter. “Then perhaps we are not rivals… but partners. Temporarily.”

The convoy sped on, twin empires of shadow beginning to measure the value of alliance—and the precise moment it might end in betrayal.

^&^

L-Corp Laboratories, Lena Luthor’s Private Lab

Yellow Box: Wanda, you might want to look at the TV.

Wanda’s head popped up, eyes flicking around the sleek lab until she spotted the screen mounted on the far wall. Her grin widened. “Ooooh, let’s see what’s on!” she sang, skipping toward it with the energy of a child let loose in a toy store.

Lena arched a brow, her lips twitching at the odd display. She glanced sideways at her sister.

Briana only shrugged, following Wanda across the room. “What are you hunting for, babe?” she asked, her voice soft but wary.

Wanda flicked through channels with rapid taps of the remote, until the bright colors gave way to grim reality. The newscaster’s voice trembled under images of carnage—National City’s mayor and aides sprawled lifeless, blood staining polished marble. The scrolling ticker at the bottom hammered the message in: WHERE WERE THE HEROES? WHERE WAS PROTECTION WHEN THE CITY NEEDED THEM MOST?

“Shit,” Wanda hissed, her earlier playfulness collapsing into a hard edge.

Briana’s hand hovered at her shoulder, eyes narrowing at the footage. “That’s not good.”

“Step one of squid-head’s playbook,” Wanda muttered darkly, never looking away from the screen. “Cut out the leaders of the area and then—”

The feed suddenly flickered. The anchor vanished. Static hissed across the lab before the screen snapped to a stark black background, emblazoned with a single crimson emblem.

The Hydra crest.

Briana stiffened. “What the hell…? Lena, come here. You need to see this.”

Lena joined them, arms crossed, gaze sharp and calculating. “What’s going on?”

Wanda’s expression flattened, the mask of a soldier slipping into place. Her voice lost all trace of humor. “Hydra’s made their first move.”

What followed were three days of pure, relentless work—mad science at its most inspired.

Lena Luthor’s private lab became a crucible of sleepless genius. The air thrummed with the hiss of welding torches, the hum of power cells charging, and the constant murmur of equations scrawled across glass walls. Lena herself moved like a machine, hair tied back, eyes flashing as she re-engineered schematics with surgical precision.

Alex Danvers worked shoulder-to-shoulder with her, military discipline turning into methodical engineering as she translated battlefield practicality into technical solutions. Every adjustment was tested, every component evaluated under the hard gaze of someone who understood lives would depend on this.

And Briana—sharp-eyed and restless—moved between them like connective tissue, her hands stained with graphite and oil as she pieced together circuits, assembled housing, and double-checked redundancies with stubborn persistence.

They worked in unison, driven forward by Wanda’s offhanded, almost whimsical commentary. She sat cross-legged on a counter or dangled upside down from a swivel chair, red curls spilling like fire, offering observations that hovered between nonsense and genius.

“Pym Particles don’t care about size,” she explained once, tapping her temple. “They care about space. Seek, shrink, regrow, re-bigify—pop like balloons, shrink like socks in a dryer. Think of it like folding reality’s laundry.”

Lena shot her a long-suffering look but scribbled the thought into her notes. Wanda wasn’t a scientist, but her perspective cut sideways through the equations, offering wild insights the others would never have considered.

By the third night, the lab smelled of ozone and solder, empty coffee cups littering every flat surface. Eyes were red-rimmed, hands shaking, but momentum carried them forward.

Then the TV screen snapped to life on its own.

The feed cut through every channel at once—local, national, global. A blank black screen flickered, then bled into the crimson crest of Hydra. The serpent, its many heads coiling, loomed massive and unblinking.

A voice, cold and precise, filled every speaker in the lab and across the city.

“People of National City.”

The emblem dissolved into the image of Red Skull, his crimson visage dominating the screen. He sat with regal stillness, clad in black leathers, gloved hands folded in front of him like a king addressing his subjects.

“Your leaders are dead. Your protectors… absent. You are rudderless, defenseless, and weak.” His German accent clipped each word into a weapon. “Where were your heroes when the mayor’s blood stained the floor? Where was Supergirl? Where was your precious DEO?”

The camera widened. Standing beside him, dressed in immaculate white, was Lillian Luthor. Her posture was proud, her expression sharp, a smile playing faintly across her lips as if she were exactly where she belonged.

“Some of you already know me,” she said, her tone as refined as it was cruel. “I warned this city of the danger of trusting capes, and now—look. Your champions have abandoned you. But Hydra?” She turned her gaze directly into the lens, her eyes gleaming with cold promise. “Hydra does not abandon. Hydra rules.”

Red Skull inclined his head toward her with something almost like respect. “Order is coming. Not the fragile chaos of democracy, not the corruption of corporations, but true order—born of strength. Born of Hydra.”

He leaned closer, eyes burning. “To your so-called heroes, I say this: Run. Hide. It will make no difference. National City belongs to Hydra. Soon… so will your world.”

The screen lingered on the twin figures—Skull’s face a nightmare of tyranny, Lillian’s smile a dagger of betrayal—before the feed cut back to black. The Hydra crest glowed one last time before fading into silence.

The lab felt colder because of it.

The screen went black, leaving only the low hum of lab equipment and the stale taste of dread hanging in the air.

Wanda broke the silence first. She clapped mockingly, the sound sharp and out of place. “Ohhh, bravo! Ten out of ten for theatrics. Creepy skull-face and the wicked stepmom—love the branding, hate the delivery.” She rolled her eyes, swinging herself up to sit on the edge of the counter, legs kicking idly. “Honestly, if you’re going to take over the world, at least workshop the speech. Bit cliché, don’t you think?”

Alex didn’t even glance at her. Her whole body had gone taut, posture snapping into soldier-mode. She strode to the nearest console and pulled up DEO comms, her voice crisp. “We need immediate intel on Hydra movements in and around National City. Cross-check the portal signature with known off-world activity. And I want Cadmus facilities flagged. Lillian doesn’t make a move without ten contingencies—we find them.”

“—That bitch!” Lena’s voice cut through, sharp as broken glass. She was on her feet, fists clenched at her sides, green eyes blazing. For a moment it was pure fury, unguarded. But then the heat cooled, folded into something colder, sharper. Her mind shifted gears before the others’ eyes, fury turning into calculation. She moved to her terminal, typing fast, voice steadier now. “If Lillian has aligned herself with Hydra, she’s betting they’ll give her the leverage she needs. That means they’ll trade resources. Tech for influence. I can map their likely meeting points by tracking supply chains.”

Briana hadn’t moved. She stood frozen in front of the blank TV, her reflection faint in the dark glass. Her arms were wrapped tight around herself, though her chin stayed stubbornly high. “They just… executed the mayor. On live television.” Her voice wavered, but she forced it steady. “And everyone saw it. People are terrified. I’m terrified.” She swallowed hard, turning toward them, eyes darting between Wanda’s grin and Lena’s fury. “What if we’re not enough? What if—”

Alex crossed the room in three strides, her hand firm on Briana’s shoulder. “Hey. Look at me. We are enough. We don’t have the luxury of ‘what if.’ We move. We fight. We win. That’s the job.”

Briana nodded quickly, too quickly, like she was trying to convince herself. She clenched her fists to keep the tremor out of her hands, a mask of bravado settling into place even as fear churned beneath it.

Wanda let out a long, theatrical sigh and flopped backward on the counter, arms spread wide. “Well, if Hydra thinks they’re scary, they clearly haven’t seen us on a bad day. Trust me, babes—we’re the nightmare they should be afraid of.”

Lena didn’t look up from her terminal, fingers still flying. “Nightmares won’t be enough,” she muttered. “We’ll need precision. Plans. And very fast progress.”

The lab buzzed back to life, each woman coping in her own way—mockery, command, calculation, defiance—all orbiting the same truth: Hydra had made their move. And now it was their turn.

^&^

Wanda hopped off the counter and tugged at the silver bracelet on her wrist. Compartments clicked open with mechanical precision, spitting out weapon after weapon, magazine after magazine. By the time she was done, her belt bristled with sidearms and ammo pouches, knives tucked into her boots, grenades clinking at her hips. She looked less like a wisecracking misfit and more like an army of one.

“Alright, ladies.” She tightened a strap across her chest and snapped a pistol into place. “You’re safe here. Lock the building down, no one in or out. Hydra’s got no reason to storm L-Corp, and—”

She stopped cold. Her eyes slid back to the darkened TV screen, where the image of Hydra’s leadership still burned in memory. The Red Skull himself. Madame Hydra at his side, blade-hungry. The looming shadow of Crossbones.

And an older woman, sharp-featured, standing proudly among them.

Wanda’s brow furrowed. “Hey. I know that face… Seen her before.” She turned, pointing vaguely toward Lena’s desk. “On one of those pictures of yours—your…”

“My mother,” Lena said flatly, her mouth tightening into a grim line.

Briana’s head snapped toward her, shock flashing in her eyes. “Wait. I thought you two had… some kind of peace?”

Lena’s voice was a low, bitter rasp. “We had.”

A sudden chime cut the air. Lena looked down at her phone, its glow stark against the lab’s dim light. One word glared back at her.

Help.

The sender: Lillian Luthor.

Lena stared at the glowing word on her screen, the edges of her vision blurring. For a moment she forgot to breathe. Help. From her.

Her jaw clenched. “That bitch,” she whispered, but the word rang hollow this time, laced with something heavier than anger.

Alex stepped closer, scanning the phone over her shoulder. Her voice was clipped, practical. “It’s a trap. Has to be. Red Skull doesn’t let anyone near him without leverage. If she’s texting you, it’s because he wants her to.”

“Maybe,” Lena murmured, eyes never leaving the single word.

Wanda, halfway through strapping another blade to her thigh, barked a laugh. “Oh, come on. Hydra’s got her on a leash, and suddenly she’s crying for mommy’s little girl to bail her out? Please. If anyone’s running a scam here, it’s Lillian. She probably typed that with Skull breathing down her neck, just to see if you’d bite.”

Briana shifted uncomfortably, her arms folding tight against her chest. Her voice was softer, uncertain. “Or maybe she really is in trouble. You said you’d made peace. Maybe she… maybe she regrets what she’s gotten herself into.”

“She doesn’t regret,” Lena cut in, too fast. But her throat tightened around the words. She looked at Briana then—saw the fear, the flicker of hope—and hated that her own heart mirrored it.

Alex crossed her arms. “Lena. You can’t afford to think like a daughter right now. Hydra will exploit any weakness they can find. If you walk into this believing she’s the victim—”

“I know exactly who my mother is.” Lena’s voice snapped like glass, sharp enough to silence the room. She drew in a slow breath, forcing herself back under control. “But I also know she doesn’t ask for help. Not unless something has gone very, very wrong.”

Wanda leaned back against the counter, twirling a knife between her fingers. “So what’s it gonna be, Luthor? Ignore her and sleep at night? Or chase after her and probably walk right into the jaws of Hydra?”

The phone buzzed again in Lena’s hand. A second message. Just coordinates.

The room felt suddenly smaller, every set of eyes fixed on her.

^&^

CatCo HQ

“I got it working!” Wenn whooped, spinning in a ridiculous happy dance as the comm unit on the table crackled to life. Natasha had tossed the fried Avenger’s tech his way after he’d accidentally nuked the DEO’s entire system during the escape. Three days of overtime, gone in a blink.

He’d mourned it the way only a true gamer could—by lamenting all the Minecraft hours he could have sunk into instead. But now? Redemption tasted sweet.

Yellow Box: Nerd.

^&^

Deep in city under siege 

“It’s going to sting, but it’ll keep you breathing. Hold still,” Clint said as he pressed the injector to Maggie’s arm. The plunger hissed, nanobots flooding into her bloodstream.

Maggie jolted, a hiss breaking from her lips as fire lanced through her veins. “Shit!” The burn crawled under her skin, sealing flesh and purging infection as if tiny welders were at work inside her.

Clint gave her a sympathetic nod. “Yeah, Stark swiped the idea straight out of Fallout. Joked about it when he showed me. The thing is—it works.”

She gritted her teeth until the fire dulled to a simmer, the wound already knitting closed. “Hurts like hell.”

“Medical degrees aren’t Tony’s strong suit. But see a problem, build a fix? That’s him in a nutshell.” Clint tucked the stempack away with practiced ease.

Maggie eyed him warily. Calm, unshakable, and strangely kind for a man who’d just saved her life. Trust wasn’t something she handed out freely, but something about him slipped past her defenses. “So what’s the play now?”

“Find my people. Then figure out how to put Hydra back in its hole,” he answered, like it was as simple as picking up groceries.

Maggie let out a short laugh. “So… a normal Monday?”

Clint’s grin was quick, wry. “No. Mondays are for world-ending crises. This feels more like a Tuesday.” He scanned the alley with sharp eyes, his bow already half-drawn in thought.

The comm unit on his belt chirped to life. Natasha’s voice cut through: “Avengers, calling any Avengers!”

Clint’s head snapped up. “Widow?!”

“Clint.” Relief colored her tone. “You’re alive.”

“Yeah,” he said, a weight lifting from his shoulders. “Me, Laura, the kids—we were clear when the light show went down.” He glanced at Maggie, who still flexed her arm where the stempack had sealed her wound. “Picked up a detective along the way. Knows her way around this mess.”

“Good.” Natasha’s voice sharpened. “We’re going to need every ally we can get.”

“Oh, hey, Bowboy—you made it to the show too!” Wanda sing-songed into the comm, her tone halfway between mockery and playground cheer. “So, are we getting the band back together?”

On the other end, Clint’s sigh came through as pure static weariness. “Oh for fu—” He cut himself off with audible restraint. “Lady Deadpool. Nice hearing you’re alive. And safe.” His words were tight, diplomatic—the kind of politeness you used when someone was both an ally and a live grenade.

“Ha! Bowboy was gonna curse!” Wanda collapsed into laughter, the sound ricocheting off the sleek walls of Lena’s lab.

Alex looked up from the holo-screen she’d been scanning, eyes narrowing. “Who the hell are you talking to?” She crossed the room in long strides, already braced for chaos. You didn’t leave Wanda to her own devices—unless you were ready for fire alarms and explosions.

“Ah, it’s Widow and Bowboy,” Wanda cooed sweetly, then, just to twist the knife, piped her words across the open channel. “They’re listening right now, Alex. Say hi.”

Three days locked in this lab with Wanda’s nonstop war stories had burned the names of the Avengers into Alex’s brain.

She froze mid-step. “Wait—Natasha Romanoff? Clint Barton?” Her voice held the clipped sharpness of an agent forcing awe into check.

“Yeah, the originals.” Wanda smirked like she was hosting a late-night roast. “Trust me, it’s them. I’d know that boy-scout energy anywhere.”

Briana wandered in, grease smudged across her fingers from a half-built device, brow arched. “Did she just call Hawkeye a boy scout?”

“Yes,” Lena muttered, not looking up from her terminal. She nudged her glasses higher on her nose, eyes flicking between Wanda and the comm feed. “And, regrettably, it’s probably the most accurate observation she’s made all week.”

“Gee, thanks, Science Barbie,” Wanda quipped, tongue stuck out like a rebellious teenager.

“Focus,” Alex barked, tension rippling across her shoulders as she leaned toward the comm. “Romanoff? Barton? This is Director Danvers, DEO.”

Clint’s low chuckle rolled through the speaker. “Figures you’d be in the middle of this. So—Head Lady in charge, huh? Got a plan… or are we all just riding shotgun with Ms. Crazy over there?”

Alex’s jaw flexed. “We have assets. We just need to locate them.” Her voice was sharp, professional—but the twitch of her mouth betrayed the part of her that wanted to bite back harder.

Briana folded her arms, eyes flicking between Lena’s focus and Wanda’s theatrics. “So let me get this straight. Avengers are real. Hydra’s real. And we’re basically in a group chat with both. Does anyone else need a drink, or is that just me?”

Lena finally tore her gaze from the screen, green eyes like steel under glass. “It’s not just you,” she said flatly. “But alcohol dulls the edge. And right now we need every edge.”

Wanda groaned, sprawling backward into her chair and slamming her boots onto Lena’s lab bench with a clatter of steel buckles. “You’re all such killjoys. Can’t you just enjoy this crossover moment?”

Alex turned on her, eyes flashing. “Enjoy? Hydra just executed the mayor on live television. And my boss is standing next to Red Skull. And you want to enjoy this?”

“Exactly!” Wanda’s grin was wide, unhinged. “It’s insane, it’s messy, it’s bloody—and I love it. Finally, something worth shooting at. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

The silence that followed was heavy, palpable, stretching across the lab like a drawn bowstring.

Clint’s voice finally cut through the comm, even, steady, and laced with weariness. “Danvers. Luthor. Whoever else is in that room—I’ll take crazy if it fights Hydra. But for the record?” A pause, then the dry weight of experience. “She always thinks it’s fun.”

Wanda leaned back in her chair, smirking sharp as glass. Cat, meet canary.

Chapter Text

The comm crackled again, the static shifting like the air before a storm.

“Alex.”

The voice was soft, trembling with relief and love—Kara’s voice.

Everyone in Lena’s lab froze.

“Kara!” Alex gasped, and for the first time in days her composure shattered. Her voice wasn’t commanding or calculating now. It was raw, it was human—it was her little sister.

At CatCo, Kara sat bolt upright at her console, hands stilling mid-keystroke. The sound of Alex’s voice—unmistakable—washed over her like a ghost coming back to life. For three long days she had feared the worst. Her throat closed, tears burning her eyes.

Beside her, Cat Grant stopped mid-quip. Her glass lowered with unusual care, reverence edging her voice. “Well… I’ll be damned.” She studied Kara’s trembling hands and softened, if only a fraction. “That sister of yours is very good at staying alive.”

Across the room, Wenn pumped a fist in the air. “Yes! Alex is alive!” His grin was wide, unrestrained, a little boy’s joy in the body of a nerdy genius. To him, Alex wasn’t just a DEO director—she was the big sister he never had, and hearing her voice felt like his greatest achievement.

On the sofa in the corner of that hidden office—the one Kara and Wenn had spent hours excitedly explaining belonged to the OG Super Friends—Bruce Banner sat with Natasha Romanoff, both watching the reunion play out. Natasha’s lips quirked faintly at Kara’s reaction, while Banner only leaned forward, shoulders heavy with the kind of man who always carried worry.

Back in Lena’s lab, Lena’s head snapped toward Alex. “Kara’s there?”

Alex’s chest tightened, her eyes bright but sharp. “You’re safe?”

“Yes,” Kara’s voice came back steady now, strength layered over relief. “I made it to the OG base. Wenn’s here. Nat’s here. And… Cat Grant.”

Alex blinked, confusion sharpening into suspicion. “You brought Ms. Grant into your base… as Supergirl?”

“Oh, that cat’s been out of the bag for years, Agent Danvers,” Cat’s voice carried smoothly through the line, amused even in the middle of chaos.

Alex blinked once. Only Cat Grant could sound smug and reassuring at the same time.

The moment might have lingered, but Wanda snorted loud enough to break the air in two. “Aw, would you listen to that? Family reunion vibes. Somebody get tissues.”

Alex turned and leveled her with a glare that could have frozen molten steel. Her hands trembled as she braced them on the table, as if she could anchor herself with the sound of Kara’s voice against Wanda’s deliberate irreverence.

Natasha’s voice cut through next, steady and sharp, ignoring Wanda altogether. “Danvers. Luthor. You’re not in this fight alone. Hydra made their move. Now it’s our turn.”

The words sparked across the comm line like a lit fuse.

Then Clint’s voice: practical, to the point. “Okay. Maggie’s hurt and needs treatment. Where am I taking her?”

Before Alex could answer, Wanda straightened, tugging her bracelets tight, eyes already alight with mischief. “I’ll be right there.”

Yellow Box: No! You crazy loon—don’t go and do anything uncalled for! This is literally how you tell Hydra you’re alive.

Wanda looked back at Lena, grin sly and unrepentant. “Sorry. I need this toy for a blink.” She snatched the teleporter from the bench and thumbed the control.

They barely had time to gasp before she winked out of existence.

Yellow Box: Like that! Exactly like that! Dammit!

The alley stank of smoke and cordite. Hydra patrols had swept the block twice already, their boots pounding closer with each pass. Clint had Maggie propped against a dented trash bin, his bow strung and his jaw tight. J’onn crouched nearby, his Martian form flickering at the edges as he strained to keep his psychic senses wide.

“Barton,” J’onn rumbled. “They are circling back. Two dozen, perhaps more.”

Clint gritted his teeth. “Yeah, thanks, already knew we’re screwed—”

The air popped like a champagne cork and a flash of light flared three feet from his bowstring.

“Ta-da!” Wanda Wilson sang, dropping into the alley with a spray of pink sparks and absolutely zero stealth. Her boots hit pavement like cymbals, her grin wide and reckless. “Did someone order a merc with a mouth?”

Maggie jumped, a strangled gasp ripping from her throat. Clint actually swore this time, the curse sharp enough to echo off the walls. He whirled on her, bow raised.

“Wilson, for God’s sake! Do you have any idea—”

“—that I look amazing with this lighting? Yes.” Wanda winked, oblivious to the sniper scopes probably tracking them right now. “Also hi, Maggie. I love the jacket. Little blood on it, but you pull it off.”

Maggie just blinked, still pale and bleeding, too stunned to decide if she was hallucinating. “What the hell—?”

“Long story involves portals, science toys, and me being fabulous.” Wanda waved a hand like she was dismissing a waiter. Then, with a breezy spin, she leveled both pistols toward the mouth of the alley. “But hey—looks like we’ve got company.”

As if on cue, Hydra soldiers rounded the corner, rifles snapping into position. The red skull insignia caught the streetlight, a grotesque banner.

J’onn’s eyes burned red, his voice a warning growl. “They know you’re here now.”

“Of course they do,” Clint hissed, ducking into cover. “Because she announced herself with fireworks.”

“Fireworks make everything better,” Wanda chirped, already squeezing off shots. “Don’t worry, Bowboy—I brought the party to you.”

The alley erupted in gunfire, energy blasts and arrows cutting through the chaos as Wanda laughed like it was the best night out she’d had in years.

The alley lit up in muzzle flashes and pink sparks. Wanda was a blur, guns barking in both hands as she cackled.

Yellow Box: Look at her—teleports straight into a kill zone and calls it Tuesday night. Genius.

Clint cursed again as an arrow detonated against a Hydra shield wall, shoving Maggie lower behind cover. “Wilson! You’re gonna get us killed!”

“Correction!” Wanda yelled, vaulting off the trash bin like it was a springboard. “I’m gonna get them killed. You’re just along for the ride!”

Hydra rifles roared back, rounds chewing through brick. J’onn stepped forward, his form rippling, skin hardening into Martian battle-armor. His eyes blazed crimson as a telepathic shockwave rippled out—half the squad stumbled, clutching their helmets as their minds screamed under the weight of his.

Yellow Box: Okay, that is not a party trick. That’s a “your brain just blue-screened” kind of trick.

“Barton—left flank!” J’onn barked, voice reverberating in more than one language.

Clint already had an arrow drawn, the tip sparking with Stark-tech. He loosed—three soldiers went flying as the arrow blossomed into a concussive blast. “Got it!”

Meanwhile, Maggie clutched her side, knuckles white, vision tunneling. The stimpak kept her alive, but every movement sent knives down her ribs. Her eyes locked on Wanda, who was laughing as she ducked under a swipe, shot a soldier point-blank, then shoved the falling body into another Hydra grunt like it was a dance move.

Yellow Box: Yeah, definitely the girl you take home to Mom. Assuming Mom runs an underground fight club.

“Stay with me,” Clint muttered, one arm bracing Maggie as he notched another arrow. “We’re almost clear.”

“Clear?” Maggie wheezed, eyes darting toward the squad still advancing from the far end of the alley. “That doesn’t look clear to me.”

“Oh, honey,” Wanda called over her shoulder, twirling like a deranged ballerina as she blew a Hydra helmet clean off, “clear is such a boring word.”

Then came the thump-thump-thump of rotor blades overhead. A spotlight cut the smoke, spearing into the alley.

“Extraction inbound,” J’onn growled, lifting a car with a flick of his will and hurling it across the Hydra line like it weighed nothing.

Yellow Box: You know it’s bad when the Martian is the calmest one here.

The helicopter swooped low, rope lines dropping. Clint shoved Maggie toward the nearest one, clipping it to her harness with quick, practiced fingers. “You’re up first. Don’t argue.”

“I wasn’t gonna,” Maggie panted, eyes glassy. “Just… don’t let me fall.”

Wanda saluted, still firing with one hand as she used the other to tug Maggie’s line. “Relax, Detective, falling’s only scary the first few hundred feet.”

“Wilson!” Clint snapped, but the order was lost in the roar of gunfire as Hydra surged again.

J’onn spread his arms, his body expanding, morphing—Martian Manhunter in full glory now. He bellowed, and the sound shook the street. Bullets crumpled against his skin as he waded forward, buying seconds for the others.

Clint loosed another arrow, then another, each one singing as they cut through Hydra’s line. Wanda laughed in stereo—half feral glee, half sheer defiance—as she emptied a magazine and reloaded mid-cartwheel.

Yellow Box: Yeah, this is fine. Totally under control. Hydra only brought a small army and Deadpool Barbie just set the difficulty to Nightmare Mode.

The chopper bucked under fire, straining to hover low enough. Maggie’s line pulled taut as she rose into the smoke, her head lolling but her grip iron. Clint grabbed the next rope, bow still in hand, eyes never leaving Wanda and J’onn.

“Wilson!” he barked. “Time to go!”

“On it, Bowboy!” she called, blasting one last Hydra soldier off his feet before leaping, hands snapping onto the rope like a circus act.

J’onn launched upward in a green streak, his form shifting back to human as he grabbed the final line.

Below them, the Hydra squad regrouped, their commander’s voice carrying over the din: “They’re escaping! Do not let them—”

But the helicopter banked hard, pulling them into the night, Hydra gunfire sparking off its hull as the city fell away beneath.

Yellow Box: Well, would you look at that—they survived. Against all odds. Hydra’s gonna be pissed. Which means, hooray, more target practice later.

The chopper jolted as it climbed, engines straining under fire damage. Inside, the cramped bay was a storm of noise—rotor thrum, stray gunshots pinging off the hull, the ragged breathing of the half-dead detective sprawled across the bench.

Clint ripped open his field kit, already kneeling over Maggie. “Stay with me, Detective. You’re not bleeding out on my watch.”

Yellow Box: Somebody’s got a hero complex. Cute.

Maggie managed a half-smile, her face pale and slick with sweat. “You sure…? ‘Cause it feels like I’m about to…”

“Don’t,” Clint snapped, hands already working fast. He injected another stimpak, nanobots flickering blue beneath her skin. “Talk later, breathe now.”

Wanda leaned over his shoulder, wide-eyed like a kid watching fireworks. “Yikes. That looks messy. Want me to cauterize it? I’ve got just the thing—” She twirled one of her oversized pistols in her hand like a toy.

“Sit. Down,” Clint barked, not looking up.

“Geez, fine.” Wanda flopped onto the opposite bench, kicking her boots up with a grin. “But when she pulls through, remember who offered the extra crispy option.”

Yellow Box: You really want her help? That’s like asking a raccoon to babysit.

J’onn stood at the rear hatch, his silhouette framed against the open night sky. His chest rose and fell steady, but his eyes glowed faintly red as he scanned the city below. “They will regroup. Hydra never commits lightly. Tonight was a probe, nothing more.”

“That was a probe?” Maggie croaked, her voice thin but laced with disbelief.

“Yes,” J’onn said simply, eyes narrowing as though he could already see the enemy’s next move in the dark.

Clint’s jaw tightened. “Then they’re planning something bigger.” He looked down at Maggie, checking the seal on her wound. “She’s stable for now, but she needs real med support.”

“I know a place,” J’onn said. His tone had that finality to it, no room for debate.

Wanda leaned forward, elbows on her knees, grinning like she was watching a soap opera. “Aw, look at us—big green dad, grumpy uncle, wounded puppy cop, and me. We’re like the worst sitcom cast ever. Somebody cue the laugh track.”

Clint pinched the bridge of his nose. “Wilson, I swear to god—”

But Maggie’s weak chuckle cut him off. “No… she’s right… this is insane.” Her voice cracked as the edges of her vision dimmed. She forced her eyes toward Wanda. “But… thanks. You showed up.”

For the first time, Wanda blinked—caught off guard, just for a second. The smirk faltered before she covered it with another grin. “Yeah, well… don’t go writing me a thank-you card just yet, sweetheart. Hydra’s still got more toys to throw at us.”

Yellow Box: Look at her—someone gives her real gratitude and she glitches like a bad video game. Progress!

The chopper banked hard, the skyline shifting as the city’s emergency lights pulsed below. Hydra squads scattered in the shadows, regrouping for their next strike.

Above them, safe for the moment but far from secure, the mismatched team rattled through the night, held together by adrenaline, sarcasm, and the fragile thread of survival.

Cut Back: Luthor Lab & CatCo

Back at Lena’s lab, the comm line crackled with static, then the energized chaos soared into the room.

From the comm:

“Extraction inbound... Maggie’s up... Clint grabbing the rope... Wilson’s making it a show... Hydra’s closing in on the pickup point...”

Alex stared at the floating text on the screen. Her jaw dropped, and she staggered backward into Alex’s holo-table. "What the—Wanda just teleported into danger... and now extraction's in the air? Are. You. Kidding me?"

Lena leaned forward, fingers still dancing on her data screens. "She just announced herself to Hydra—on purpose—and now we're at the center of that mayhem? I—I can’t even compute it."

Briana looked pale, chewing at her lip. "So… you mean we’re seeing the most reckless yet somehow heroic performance in real time? And Mom—uh, Kara—is watching news of this too?" Her voice shook more than she intended.

At CatCo, Kara’s hands hovered over the console. Her breath hitched as the comm crackled with Wanda’s laughter and gunfire in the background. “That’s Wanda… she’s doing a thing.” She blinked, voice raw. “So… they’re okay?”

Cat Grant, perched beside her, let the words catch in her throat. She tapped Kara’s shoulder, voice softer than usual. “They’re gonna be. That’s what she always does—crashes through hell with a grin on her face.”

In the hidden Super Friends office, Natasha and Bruce exchanged glances. Bruce’s hand gripped the armrest like he was bracing for the world to fall. Natasha’s lips curved in wary admiration. “She charges headfirst into fire. Only Wanda could turn an extraction into a headline.”

Cut Back: Chopper Arrival at Safehouse

Inside the battered chopper, the chaos continued—but the night air outside was mercifully quiet now. J’onn expertly piloted the craft into a hidden rooftop landing zone, using low-light sensors to avoid Hydra’s patrols.

Clint knelt beside Maggie, who was strapped into a litter. Her breathing was ragged but steady, her face pale under the harsh cabin light. Clint applied pressure to her wound. “Hang on,” he murmured, voice tight with worry.

Wanda, still bruised from her dramatic entrance, leaned back against a seat. Her grin faded as she watched Clint with an expression that—just for a moment—looked something like guilt. “Sorry I kicked off the fireworks. But, you know… firefights are kind of my thing.”

Maggie’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Thing? Yeah… definitely your thing.”

J’onn watched both of them carefully, arms folded, Martian calm outwardly steady but internally calculating risks. “Everyone’s accounted for. The safehouse is secure.” His voice was calm, grounding—like gravity reasserting itself after chaos.

Clint glanced up, nodding. “Good. Bring her there—fast.”

The chopper descended through a gap in the city skyline, lowering onto the rooftop pad. Hydra searchlights swept beneath them, but the craft held steady.

As they disembarked, Wanda stuck close to Maggie’s side, her earlier bravado giving way to concern. “You’re tough as nails, detective. You’ll be back in no time.”

Maggie let her eyes flutter closed momentarily. “Only if you promise to dial it down next time.”

J’onn stepped forward, offering Clint his shoulder as support. “Go,” he said quietly. “I’ll hold the final air cover.”

Clint nodded, voice tight. “Thank you.” He edged toward the stairwell, leading Maggie with care. Wanda trailed behind, softer now, her guns holstered.

Wanda tossed one final grin to J’onn as they passed. “See you on the other side!”

The chopper hummed softly overhead as they disappeared into the safehouse corridor, leaving Hydra’s shadows drifting across the rooftop.

^&^

Tony Masters limped after the two boys, their voices hushed, their steps quick and sure through the darkened halls. Kids. He didn’t do kids. He had rules—ironclad rules that had kept him breathing this long.

Never kill a working man.
Never hurt children.
And the last rule… Well, that one was trickier. Never harm a woman. He’d bent it over the years. Women like Alex Danvers or Natasha Romanoff didn’t exactly count as defenseless. They’d taught him that lesson the hard way. So he’d amended it: Never harm a defenseless woman.

“This way,” the taller boy whispered, tugging him toward a half-collapsed service corridor.

Tony gritted his teeth, wishing—not for the first time—that he’d insisted on his gear. Armor made the difference between predator and prey. Right now, limping after grade-schoolers through a Hydra-infested compound, he felt far too close to the latter.

A body slumped against the wall caught his eye—a Hydra soldier, unconscious or worse. Tony tipped his chin toward it. “I take it your mom?”

“Yup,” the boy answered with the casual pride of a kid announcing his mom baked the best cookies at the PTA bake sale.

A voice drifted from the shadows, low but steady. “Mister Masters. Glad to see you’re still walking.”

Tony straightened instinctively as a woman stepped into view, pistol at the ready. Not a trace of panic on her face. She was composed, sharp-eyed—dangerous in a way he respected.

“Boys,” she said without looking at them, “check the perimeter.”

“Yes, Mom,” they chimed, darting past him like runners at a starting gun.

Tony blinked, connecting dots he hadn’t realized were on the same page. “How are you holding up?” she asked, gaze sweeping his stance, his wounds, cataloguing him like she’d done it a hundred times before.

“I’ll live. How do you know me?” he shot back. Suspicion was muscle memory for him.

She softened, just a fraction. “Ah. Sorry. I guess my boys forgot their manners. I’m Laura Barton. You might know my husband by his call sign—Hawkeye.”

Tony’s grin came without permission, crooked and wolfish. “Yeah, I know him. Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Barton.”

Her answering smile had steel under it. “I’ve been warned you’re a charmer.” She crouched briefly, checking the edge of his bandaged side. Her touch was brisk, clinical. “You’re good enough to move. Which is great, because I don’t feel like waiting around here for Hydra reinforcements to show.”

Tony inclined his head in agreement, straightening with a grunt. “Couldn’t agree more. Lead the way.”

Laura moved like water through the ruined corridors, her pistol steady, her breathing measured. Tony followed, slower on his injured leg, but his eyes sharp. He’d worked with professionals and he’d worked with amateurs; she was no amateur.

“You’re calm,” he noted, keeping his voice low. “Too calm.”

She shot him a sidelong glance. “When you’ve raised kids in this world, calm isn’t optional. It’s survival.”

A whistle cut through the dim hallway. Both turned, weapons half-raised, until the two boys reappeared from the shadows. The older one—Cooper—lifted a hand in the all-clear signal. “Two more Hydra down in the stairwell. Mom, they were sloppy.”

Laura’s lips quirked in the faintest smile. “Good work. Keep sharp.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got them running point?”

Laura’s eyes flicked to him, cool. “You think Barton raised them to hide under a bed?”

Before he could reply, the clatter of boots echoed ahead—Hydra reinforcements, closing in fast.

Laura motioned the boys back with a sharp gesture, then flattened against the wall. Tony mirrored her on the other side of the corridor, pulling a blade from his belt with a hiss of steel.

Three soldiers rounded the corner, rifles sweeping. They never saw Laura move—three shots, three clean kills, each one precise. The men dropped before their fingers tightened on the triggers.

Tony whistled low. “Remind me never to play cards against you.”

“Focus,” she snapped, already moving past the bodies.

They reached a service hatch leading into the sub-level parking deck. The faint smell of fuel and dust seeped through the cracks. Laura opened it cautiously—and froze.

Dozens of Hydra soldiers swarmed the garage, armored SUVs idling with engines humming. A patrol leader barked orders in clipped German, the sound bouncing off concrete.

“Guess we found the party,” Tony muttered.

Laura’s jaw tightened. “We’ll cut through them.”

Tony glanced at her, incredulous. “There’s two of us, you’ve got kids in tow, and you want to charge into a full nest of Hydra with handguns?”

“Three of us,” Cooper whispered fiercely from behind his mom. He held a compact bow—clearly scavenged from his father’s gear. His younger brother clutched a knife, knuckles white but his stance defiant.

Laura placed a steadying hand on Cooper’s shoulder. “They’re Bartons. We don’t run from a fight when it’s the only way through.”

Tony’s grin returned, sharper now. “You know what? I like your style.” He flipped his blade into a reverse grip, his eyes glinting. “Fine. Let’s ruin their night.”

Laura’s gaze swept over the garage, calculating firing lanes, exits, weak points. “On my mark.”

The boys were tense. Tony crouched low.

“Now,” Laura whispered.

Gunfire erupted, steel clashed, and the forgotten parking deck became a battleground.

The garage lit with chaos. Hydra rifles spat fire, the muzzle flashes strobing across concrete. Laura dropped two men before they’d even raised their weapons properly, pivoting to cover her sons without missing a beat.

Tony surged forward, blade flashing. He hooked one soldier’s rifle with a twist, buried steel under the man’s ribs, and yanked the weapon free in the same motion. The rifle was heavy, but it fit his hands like an old lover. He spun it on instinct and cut down two more Hydra agents before the clip ran dry.

“Reload!” he barked, tossing the empty weapon aside.

“Already on it!” Cooper called, his bowstring thrumming. An arrow buried itself in the thigh of a soldier creeping toward Laura’s flank. The boy’s face was pale, but his aim was steady.

The younger one—Nate—didn’t hesitate either. He darted between Tony’s legs, knife flashing clumsy but fast, catching a Hydra trooper across the calf. The man went down cursing, right into Laura’s finishing shot.

Tony blinked once. “Hell, Barton's blood runs hot.”

“Less commentary, more shooting!” Laura snapped, driving him forward. Her tone was pure command—Clint’s wife, no doubt.

Hydra’s numbers pressed hard, but the Barton unit didn’t break. Laura moved like a commander born, controlling the field with her voice. “Cooper—left flank! Nate—stay on Tony! Tony—keep them from closing distance!”

Tony barked a laugh even as he drove his blade across another soldier’s chest. “You give orders like a general.”

Laura didn’t answer, just squeezed off two perfect headshots, clearing a path toward the exit ramp.

Engines revved louder—the SUVs were mobilizing, Hydra preparing to seal the deck.

“We’re out of time,” Tony snarled. “We need an exit.”

Laura’s eyes flicked upward, sharp and calculating. The ventilation ducts—too narrow for adults, but not for kids. She pointed with her chin. “Boys. Go.”

Both protested instantly, voices overlapping, but she cut them down with a single, steel-edged word: “Now.”

Cooper grabbed his brother’s arm, dragging him toward the vent. The smaller one’s eyes brimmed with fear, but he obeyed.

Laura turned to Tony, jaw set. “You and I hold them until the boys clear the building. Then we move.”

Tony bared his teeth, savage and eager. “Now that’s a plan I can get behind.”

Hydra closed in. The two adults stood their ground.

And the parking deck roared into war.

Hydra closed in, black-clad soldiers fanning out like a tightening noose. Muzzle flashes burst in staccato rhythm, ricochets sparking off pillars and steel.

Laura dropped to one knee, rolling behind a concrete post, her pistol spitting in sharp, efficient bursts. Each shot was clean, decisive—wasting not a single bullet.

Tony fought like a storm, limping but unstoppable. He’d lost the rifle, but his blade and bare hands were more than enough. He caught one Hydra trooper by the wrist, twisted until bones cracked, then drove steel into his throat in a spray of blood. Another lunged—Tony slammed his head into a wall so hard the man folded like paper.

“You’re a goddamn animal,” Laura muttered as she covered his flank, nailing two more with surgical precision.

Tony grinned through gritted teeth. “Takes one to know one.”

Above them, a faint clang echoed as Cooper pried open the duct cover. “Mom—we’re in!” he shouted, his voice shrill with urgency. Nate’s smaller frame scrambled inside first, Cooper right after him. They vanished into the crawlspace, the grate slamming back into place.

“Good boys,” Laura breathed, relief flickering across her face. Then it was gone, steel snapping back into place.

The Hydra squad leader barked something in German. Two SUVs screeched into motion, engines howling as they rolled toward the exit ramp.

“They’re sealing the perimeter!” Tony shouted over the gunfire.

Laura’s eyes darted—counting angles, timing breaths. She yanked a smoke grenade from her belt, pulled the pin, and lobbed it toward the SUVs. A thick gray cloud blossomed, swallowing the front of the garage. Engines coughed, soldiers shouted, confusion spreading like wildfire.

“Move!” she barked, already sprinting.

Tony pushed off hard with his good leg, staying close. Together, they cut through the haze, Laura firing by instinct, Tony’s blade flashing like an executioner’s scythe.

The SUVs swerved, blinded by the smoke, one slamming into a concrete pillar with a shriek of metal. The other fishtailed wildly, forcing soldiers to scatter.

“Exit ramp—three o’clock!” Laura shouted.

They sprinted, Hydra fire peppering the ground around them. Tony stumbled once, almost going down, but Laura caught his arm and hauled him up with a grunt.

“Don’t you dare quit on me, Masters!”

“Lady, quitting ain’t in my vocabulary!” he growled, slashing open another soldier who lunged from the smoke.

They burst out of the garage, lungs burning, the night air hitting them like cold water. The city skyline stretched before them—National City, ablaze with Hydra checkpoints and sirens wailing in the distance.

Behind them, Hydra poured out of the garage in pursuit.

Laura slammed a fresh mag into her pistol. Tony ripped a sidearm from a fallen trooper and spun it in his grip.

“Where to?” he demanded, chest heaving.

Laura’s eyes tracked the rooftops, the alleys, the burning horizon. Her voice was steady, unflinching.

“To my kids,” she said. “And then—we find my husband.”

Tony bared his teeth in a savage grin. “Hell yes. Let’s go break the world.”

The two vanished into the shadows of the city, Hydra’s fury chasing close behind.

^&^

The comm crackled to life just as Clint was lowering Maggie into a cot. She winced even in unconsciousness, the gash in her side binding tight. She’d live—if they could stay hidden long enough for her to heal.

Clint turned toward his pack where the Avengers comm unit sat buried, static already hissing.

“—exit ramp, three o’clock!” Laura’s voice cut in, sharp and commanding. A burst of gunfire followed, then the screech of metal on concrete.

Clint froze. For half a second the safe house, Maggie, even the smell of blood—everything shrank to that one sound. Laura.

He lunged for the comm. “Laura?!” His voice cracked louder than he meant, raw with panic.

“Yeah, that’s her,” came Tony Masters’ grunt, winded but still cocky. “Tougher than you, Barton. Your kids too.” Another shout, the rattle of Hydra rifles, then Tony’s voice again, rougher this time. “They’re with me. Try not to faint.”

Clint stopped dead. Taskmaster. Why the hell would he—?
A deep breath. In. Out. If this was a trap, he’d deal with it.

“Taskmaster,” Clint said dryly.

“Not really the best time for banter, Hawkeye,” Tony grunted, ducking back. His earlier swagger was fraying—Clint could hear it in the strain of every breath.

From the cot Maggie shifted, letting out a weak groan. Clint swore under his breath. Two lives pulling him in opposite directions.

Natasha’s voice cut across the line, calm but edged with urgency. “You can trust him. Taskmaster’s rules may be twisted, but they’re iron. Right now, they’re keeping Laura and the kids alive.”

“Hell of an endorsement, Romanoff,” Taskmaster rasped, still sardonic. Then, lower, almost just for Clint: “Don’t waste time second-guessing. You want your family breathing, I need cover. Hydra’s bringing armor.”

Clint’s stomach clenched. He could see Maggie’s pale face, her blood still warm on his hands—yet his mind leapt to Laura. To Cooper, to Nate. To the family he never wanted in this fight, now trapped in the middle of it.

“Clint—” Natasha’s voice softened, but steel still underneath. “Glad you’re here. We have a lot to catch up on.”

He shut his eyes, drew in a shaky breath. “Nat.”

Across town, in CatCo HQ, Kara stood stiff near the big monitor, hands balled into fists. Cat Grant, arms folded, paced like a caged lioness. Bruce said nothing, studying the feeds, while Wenn leaned forward, listening as every word echoed through the comm-net.

Nat’s voice, calm in the chaos, reached them too: “So we need a plan. Time to regroup.”

“Backup might be helpful,” Taskmaster growled. Metal scraped, followed by the deeper rumble of something heavy moving in the parking garage. “Hydra’s rolling out toys.”

In the DEO’s makeshift lab, Alex slammed her palm onto the desk. “Dammit—we’re too far behind. If we had another twelve hours—”

“We don’t,” Lena snapped, already rerouting power across her jury-rigged console. “So we make what we’ve got work.”

Briana hunched over the prototype array, muttering, “If I can get a resonance lock on their comms, maybe we can jam Hydra’s armor before it pins Taskmaster down…”

Back in the safe house, Clint tightened his grip on the comm.

Taskmaster’s voice, ragged but firm, carried through the static. “Relax, Barton. I may be a bastard, but I don’t break my own rules. I don’t hurt kids.”

Clint’s jaw clenched. He’d heard whispers of those rules—Natasha herself once spoke of them in a rare moment of almost-respect.

But whispers didn’t make choices easier.

Clint’s grip on the comm was white-knuckled. He wanted to be there—needed to be there—but Maggie’s shallow breaths anchored him in place.

From the corner, a voice chimed in, sing-song and unsettling.

“Well, this is cozy,” Wanda Wilson—Lady Deadpool—leaned back in her chair, one leg draped over the armrest. Her mask was peeled halfway up, mouth smeared with Cheeto dust. “Family drama in stereo. Wife and kids under fire, bleeding friend on the cot, ex-Russian assassin on the line. Barton, buddy—your life is basically a soap opera written by Michael Bay.”

Clint shot her a look that could’ve stripped paint. “Not helping.”

“Oh, please. I’m the only one telling the truth. You can’t be in two places at once. Unless…” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “You let me shoot you out of a cannon. Pretty sure I could get you there fast.”

Clint ignored her, jaw working as he forced himself to stay still, to listen.

Cut-scene – Parking Garage

Gunfire cracked, echoing between concrete pillars. Laura crouched behind the family SUV, one arm around Cooper’s shoulders, the other firing Clint’s old Glock steady and precise.

“Stay down, stay quiet,” she ordered, her voice steel.

Across the lane, Taskmaster hurled a Hydra trooper into the hood of a sedan, shield in one hand, sword in the other. He was bleeding from a gash at his temple, but still moving like a machine.

Nate peeked out from behind a tire, eyes wide. “Mom, he’s awesome.”

“Back!” Laura snapped, shoving him flat as bullets chewed into the concrete inches from his head.

Taskmaster barked across the chaos, “Barton better be hauling his ass—this isn’t a daycare!” Then he jammed a grenade into a fallen trooper’s vest and kicked him toward the advancing line. The explosion lit the garage with fire and screams.

Cut-scene – L-Corp Lab

“Feedback loop’s stabilizing!” Briana yelled, hair sticking to her forehead as sparks showered from the console.

Alex grabbed the edge of the desk, watching numbers climb. “Can it handle Hydra armor?”

Lena’s hands flew across the keys. “If it doesn’t, we won’t be here to regret it.”

The comm unit on the desk spat static, then Taskmaster’s growl cut through: “Hydra’s bringing armor.”

Alex’s jaw set. “Then we better bring thunder.”

Cut-scene – CatCo HQ

Kara hovered by the monitors, fists balled so tight her knuckles gleamed. Bruce stood stone-still, eyes locked on tactical readouts. Wenn scrolled through feeds with an anxious intensity.

Cat Grant sipped her wine and muttered, “Children in parking garages, mercenaries babysitting… remind me why we ever thought this city could have nice things?”

Natasha’s voice came calm through the line, “So we need a plan. Time to regroup.”

Kara turned, eyes blazing. “Or time to fight.”

Back to the Safe House

Wanda threw a chip bag in the air, caught it, and snickered. “Ooooh, Barton’s gonna crack. Place your bets—does he run to the wife and kids, or stay here and play Florence Nightingale for the bleeding brunette?”

J’onn finally rumbled, low and warning. “Enough.”

Lady Deadpool pouted, then grinned. “What? I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. Families. Teammates. Secret lovers. This is the crossover event of the century, and everybody wants front row seats.”

Yellow Box: Finally, somebody said it. Honestly, this story has more drama than a CW season finale, and I would know—I’ve watched them all. Twice.

Cut-Scene – Parking Garage

The concrete trembled before the armor even appeared. Hydraulic whines and the grinding clank of servos echoed through the dim garage, drowning out the last scattered rifle fire.

Laura’s stomach dropped as two Hydra exo-suits lumbered into view—eight feet tall, plated in black and green steel, chainguns mounted on their arms.

Taskmaster swore under his breath, pressing his back to a pillar. His shield was dented, his breathing heavy. “Hydra brought the party favors.”

“Keep them away from the kids,” Laura snapped, voice sharp. She shoved Cooper and Nate deeper behind cover. “No matter what.”

Taskmaster glanced over, eyes narrowing behind his mask. “Lady, that was the plan the second I didn’t walk away.”

The suits opened fire, the garage exploding with sparks and shredded concrete.

Cut-Scene – Safe House

Clint stood frozen, bow in hand, eyes flicking from Maggie’s pale face to the comm unit still hissing with Laura’s voice.

“You have to choose,” J’onn said, calm but heavy. “You cannot be in both places.”

From the corner, Wanda Wilson leapt to her feet, swords clattering against her back. “Oh my god, can we cut the Lifetime drama and get to the stabby-stabby part?” She wiggled her fingers theatrically, and a red-and-black portal shimmered open behind her.

Clint’s head snapped around. “Don’t you dare—”

“Too late, Hawkeye,” Wanda sang. “Cheap shots are my love language.” She hopped backward into the portal and was gone.

Clint swore and slammed his fist into the table.

Cut-Scene – CatCo HQ

On the monitors, the garage fight played in shaky feed from Taskmaster’s body cam—armor suits advancing, Laura firing, kids pressed flat to the ground.

Kara’s fists trembled, lips parted. “I should be there—”

Cat Grant’s voice sliced across. “Think with your head, not your cape.”

Then came a guttural roar—deep, furious, unmistakable.

Nat didn’t even flinch. “Banner’s gone.”

The floor beneath CatCo rattled as something massive leapt into the air outside, the sound fading in the direction of the garage.

Kara’s eyes widened. “The Hulk.”

Cut-Scene – Parking Garage, Seconds Later

The first Hydra exo-suit leveled its chaingun at Laura—then stopped dead as a red katana blade slid clean through its neck servos from behind. Sparks showered, and Wanda Wilson’s muffled laugh rang out.

“Surprise, fascists!” she sang, yanking the blade free and kicking the armor face-first into the concrete. “Cheap shot from the rear—classic Deadpool move!”

The second exo-suit pivoted, chaingun whirring up—only to be obliterated as a green-skinned juggernaut came crashing down through the garage roof. Concrete split like kindling.

“HULK… SMASH!”

Hydra soldiers scattered as the Hulk roared, hurling chunks of rebar the size of tree trunks.

Taskmaster let out a ragged laugh. “Well. Guess Barton’s family reunion just got more interesting.”

Laura didn’t waste time with words—she grabbed her sons and shoved them further back, eyes never leaving the chaos of Hulk and Hydra tearing the garage apart.

Back in the Safe House

Clint’s comm exploded with overlapping noise—gunfire, Taskmaster swearing, Wanda’s gleeful taunts, and Hulk’s thunderous roars.

His bow trembled in his grip. His family was in the middle of that.

J’onn put a hand on his shoulder, steady, calm. “Go. I will protect her.”

Clint’s breath caught. He looked once at Maggie, then closed his eyes, every muscle tight.

When he opened them again, Hawkeye was already moving.

Yellow Box: And there it is, folks. Family in peril, mercenary babysitters, chaos teleporters, and now a raging green tank dropping through the ceiling. This crossover is officially off the rails, and I am LOVING it.

Chapter Text

Parking Garage – The Battle Begins

The Hydra exo-suit thundered forward, chainguns chewing apart concrete and steel. Taskmaster dove across the hood of a car, rolling into cover just as shards of metal screamed overhead.

“Barton’s brats are about to be street pizza!” he barked into the comm.

“NOT. HAPPENING.” Hulk roared, ripping a slab of concrete from the floor and hurling it like a meteor. The exo-suit staggered, half its plating crushed inward, sparks raining down.

Wanda Wilson popped up behind it, twin katanas flashing. “Swords beat steel every time, baby!” She jammed both blades through a seam, then swung up onto its back like it was a mechanical bull. “Yeehaw!”

The suit whirled, flailing, smashing cars aside in its effort to dislodge her.

Laura shielded Cooper and Nate with her body, teeth bared. “Stay down! Don’t move!”

The kids huddled, eyes wide, watching the chaos explode around them.

Split-Cut – Safe House

Clint sprinted through the door, bow in hand, quiver slamming against his back. J’onn stood like a statue over Maggie, eyes glowing faintly as he projected calm into her broken body.

“Go,” J’onn said again. “They’ll need you.”

Clint nodded once, breath sharp, then bolted into the night.

Parking Garage – Mid-Fight

The second Hydra suit advanced, plating hissing open as a rocket pod extended.

Taskmaster cursed, then sprinted headlong toward it. “Hey ugly!” He leapt, slammed his shield into its faceplate, and stabbed upward with his sword. Sparks cascaded—but the rocket pod still lit.

Laura shoved her boys flat just as a missile screamed past, detonating against a pillar. The shockwave sent her sprawling.

“Mom!” Nate screamed.

“Stay back!” she shouted, forcing herself upright. Blood ran down her temple.

“Guess it’s time for…” Wanda crowed, still clinging to the first suit’s back, “Deadpool’s patented butt-stab finisher!” She drove a blade into its spine, and the suit collapsed in a shower of fire and smoke.

She landed on her feet, brushed dust off her mask. “And that’s how you make fascism cry.”

Split-Cut – DEO Lab

Alarms blared. Briana’s console went red. “They’ve deployed armor protocols—EMP shielding’s active!”

“Then we overload them,” Alex snapped.

“That’ll fry everything for three blocks,” Lena warned.

“Do it,” Alex barked. “If it buys us thirty seconds, do it.”

Briana’s fingers flew across the keyboard. Sparks showered again. “Here goes nothing!”

Parking Garage – Crescendo

The second suit aimed down at Laura and the kids—only for an arrow to explode against its shoulder joint, blasting it sideways.

Clint skidded into the garage, bow raised, another arrow already nocked. “Step away from my family.”

“Finally!” Taskmaster shouted, still clinging to the battered armor. “Thought you were gonna let me adopt your kids, Barton!”

Clint ignored him, firing three shots in quick succession—two disabling servos, the third detonating inside the rocket pod. The suit staggered, smoking.

Then the EMP wave hit.

Hydra comms screamed, exo-suits stuttered, lights went dark. The garage plunged into shadow broken only by fires and Hulk’s furious glow of rage.

“Now we end this,” Hulk bellowed, tearing into the crippled armor with his bare hands. Metal screamed as he ripped it apart like paper.

Laura pulled her sons close, tears of fury in her eyes. “Clint.”

“Laura,” he breathed, never lowering his bow.

Hydra foot soldiers broke and ran as the monster, the mercenary, the archer, and the madwoman closed ranks around the family.

Yellow Box: Roll call, people! We’ve got Hulk smash, Lady Deadpool sass, Taskmaster snark, Hawkeye family feels, and Hydra running for the hills. If this doesn’t scream “limited series event,” I don’t know what does.

Parking Garage – Aftermath

Smoke choked the air. The wreckage of Hydra exo-suits burned, their twisted frames sparking. Sirens wailed in the distance—National City’s emergency services, too far to matter.

Clint lowered his bow slowly, every muscle trembling. Then Laura was there, pulling him in, their foreheads colliding, raw relief breaking through the soot and blood.

“Thought I lost you,” she whispered.

“Never,” Clint said, voice rough. He pulled Cooper and Nate into his arms, clutching them so tightly they squeaked. “Not ever.”

Behind them, Taskmaster leaned against a pillar, breathing ragged through his mask. “Touching. Really.” He pulled a bloodied knife free from his thigh. “Now can someone stitch me up before I bleed out like a soap opera extra?”

Wanda dropped onto the hood of a car, swinging her legs like a kid. “Awwww. Family hugs. Kinda makes me wanna puke—but in a fun way!” She tossed her swords up, caught them, and added, “Also, Barton, your wife’s got better aim than you. Just saying.”

Clint gave her a look that could kill. Laura raised an eyebrow but said nothing, just holstered her empty Glock.

Hulk loomed over them, chest heaving, eyes dimming back to Banner’s weary green. He glanced at the Barton kids—tiny against his shadow—and for once said nothing, just turned away, ashamed of the destruction around him.

Taskmaster straightened with a groan. “Hydra’ll regroup. This wasn’t victory. It was a warning.”

Cut-Scene – CatCo HQ

The screen flickered with shaky footage of the battle’s end—Hulk tearing steel apart, Wanda striking from behind, Taskmaster bloodied but still standing, and Clint clutching his family.

Kara’s hands trembled. “They’re safe… for now.”

Cat Grant set down her wineglass with a sharp clink. “Safe? Look at them, Danvers. They’re one step away from being headline obituaries.”

Wenn shook his head. “This is what Hydra does. They push people to the brink.”

“But this was just the opening move from Hydra.” Nat said

Yellow Box: And there you have it, folks. Heroes battered, villains scattered, civilians traumatized. If you thought this was the finale, oh no—it’s just Act One. Grab your popcorn, ‘cause things are about to get ugly.

Cut-Scene – Hydra Command, Unknown Location

A steel door hissed open. Inside, reports were laid across a table—photos of the destroyed suits, telemetry of the EMP surge, shaky images of Hulk, Lady Deadpool, and Barton’s family huddled together.

A shadow loomed over the desk. Gloved hands slammed down, scattering papers.

The Red Skull’s voice was low, venomous. “They humiliated us.”

An officer stammered, “The suits… they weren’t prepared—”

Red Skull seized him by the throat, lifting him off the ground with inhuman strength. “Excuses are for the dead.”

He hurled the man aside, then leaned over the burning images. His skull-like visage gleamed in the firelight.

“They think they have won. They think themselves united.” His voice rose, a sermon of fury. “But unity is weakness. Hydra will crush their families, their alliances, their hope itself.”

He turned, eyes blazing. “Double the forces. Send word to every sleeper cell. National City will burn.”

Yellow Box: Welp. That’s our cliffhanger, ladies and gentlemen. Heroes hugging, villains fuming, Skull about to go full doomsday preacher. Tune in next issue—same Hydra-time, same Hydra-channel.

Safe House – Arrival

The battered SUV screeched to a halt outside the safe house, its frame rattling from stray bullets and Hulk-sized dents. Clint was out first, bow in hand, scanning rooftops. Then he was pulling Laura and the kids out, hands never leaving them, never believing they were real until he felt their weight against him again.

Taskmaster limped in behind, muttering, “Hell of a carpool.” His mask was cracked, his gait uneven, but he still managed a crooked grin.

Wanda Wilson strolled last, swords twirling, humming a jaunty tune. “Road trip complete! Nobody died—yet. That’s a win in my book. And considering my book is basically a bloodstained coloring pad, that’s saying something.”

Inside, J’onn rose from Maggie’s side. His brow furrowed at the sight of so many new arrivals, but he nodded once to Clint. “They’re safe?”

“They’re safe,” Clint said, voice raw.

Laura peeled away, kneeling beside Maggie. Her training kicked in instantly—gloves on, kit open, eyes sharp and clinical. “Pulse is weak but steady. Wound’s been cleaned, but she’s lost a lot of blood. We’ll need fluids and antibiotics.”

“Already on it,” J’onn said, handing over supplies scavenged from DEO stockpiles.

Laura’s hands moved with precision, slipping an IV into place. For a moment, the chaos faded into the quiet competence of a medic saving a life.

Clint stood back, kids pressed against him, watching. He’d never loved her more than in that moment.

Cut-Scene – L-Corp Lab

Lena pinched the bridge of her nose. “An EMP that size fried half my systems. We’re running on backups.”

“Then rebuild faster,” Alex snapped. “Hydra won’t wait for us to catch up.”

Briana held up a datapad. “Actually… we’ve got good news. Taskmaster’s body cam fed us clean visuals of the exo-suit schematics. Their shielding can’t stop a sustained microwave pulse.”

Alex blinked. “You mean… we cook them.”

“Exactly,” Briana grinned. “Like tin-can turkeys.”

Cut-Scene – CatCo HQ

On the big monitor, feeds from the regrouping safe house flickered into view. Kara paced, fists clenched, her eyes darting between faces—Clint hugging Laura, Hulk looming silent, Taskmaster leaning against a wall like he owned it, Wanda upside-down on a couch eating crackers.

“Strangest team-up I’ve ever seen,” Wenn muttered.

“Strangest?” Cat Grant scoffed. “Honey, this is Tuesday. But they’ll need more than luck next time.”

Natasha’s voice cut in, calm and certain. “Then we give them a plan.”

Safe House – Strategy Table

Laura finished wrapping Maggie’s wound, tucking a blanket over her. “She’ll hold. But she’s in no shape for another run.”

Taskmaster leaned on the table, flipping a knife idly. “So, what’s the plan, geniuses? Because Hydra isn’t licking their wounds—they’re doubling down.”

Wanda perked up, cracker crumbs spraying. “Oooh, are we finally doing the big crossover ‘heroes-around-the-table’ scene? Somebody cue the dramatic music!”

Clint ignored her, eyes hard. “We hit them first. This time, we don’t wait for Hydra to bring the fight to us.”

“Then we’ll need L-Corp,” J’onn said. “And CatCo. If we stand alone, we’ll fall.”

As if on cue, the comm crackled—the labs, the HQ, the safe house all connecting. Alex’s voice rang out: “We’ve got a way to fry Hydra’s suits.”

Lena added, “And a list of their hidden supply caches.”

Natasha’s voice cut in last, cool and sharp. “Then it’s time we stop running and start hunting.”

The room went still. Clint looked at Laura, at his kids, at Maggie’s fragile form. His family was here, Hydra was coming—and the only way forward was together.

Yellow Box: Ah, yes. The classic regroup episode. Bandages, hugs, mad science breakthroughs, snarky banter, and the promise of payback. Hydra should probably cancel their weekend plans, because the heroes are about to RSVP “HELL YES.”

Safe House – Makeshift War Room

The battered dining table was now a command hub: maps, laptops, half-drained water bottles, and one very out-of-place box of Cheez-Its. (Courtesy of Wanda, who had declared them “brain food.”)

Clint leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes darting between the comm screens patched to L-Corp and CatCo. Laura sat at Maggie’s side, her hands steady, her kids tucked close. Hulk loomed in the corner, silent as stone.

Taskmaster tossed his knife lazily into the tabletop—thunk. thunk. thunk. Each hit drove Clint’s jaw tighter.

“Alright,” Alex’s voice cut through from the lab, sharp and commanding. “We’ve got a working model for a counterstrike. Hydra’s exo-suits are shielded against EMPs, but not continuous microwave bursts. We overload their systems, they cook inside their armor.”

“Roast Hydra,” Wanda sang, upside-down in her chair. “Mmm, crispy Nazis. Do we serve ‘em with ketchup or mustard?”

“Focus,” Lena said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “We’ll need at least three high-output pulse generators placed at choke points across the city.”

“Which means boots on the ground,” Natasha’s voice added from CatCo HQ. Calm. Razor-edged. “And we’ll need to split the teams.”

“Classic crossover trope,” Wanda muttered. “Separate the heroes, make ‘em sweat, cue the dramatic reunion.”

“Shut up,” Clint snapped.

Taskmaster smirked beneath his cracked mask. “You’re welcome for saving your family, by the way.”

Clint’s fists clenched. Laura shot him a look—half warning, half grounding. He exhaled through his teeth. “We’ll settle later.”

“Promise?” Wanda teased, wagging her eyebrows. “Ooooh, enemies-to-lovers subplot! Well—enemies-to-glare-and-snarl, but hey, baby steps.”

Even Hulk rumbled low in what might have been a chuckle.

Cut-Scene – L-Corp Lab

Alex stood pacing, Lena working furiously on calculations, Briana keeping comms steady.

“Three generators,” Alex said. “We’ll need Taskmaster’s intel on Hydra’s movements.”

“He doesn’t exactly scream ‘team player,’” Briana said dryly.

“Neither does Barton,” Lena shot back without looking up.

Alex glared, then muttered, “…fair.”

Cut-Scene – CatCo HQ

Kara hovered anxiously near the big screen. Nat sat calm, eyes calculating. Cat Grant sipped wine.

“Oh, goodie,” Cat muttered. “Another late-night strategy call. Don’t any of you have jobs?”

“We’re saving the world,” Kara said, exasperated.

“And I’m running a media empire,” Cat shot back. “Which, by the way, also saves the world—by keeping the people informed. Do not roll your eyes at me, Supergirl.”

Wenn leaned closer to the screen, watching Wanda balance a cracker on her nose. “I think… I think she’s unwell.”

“She’s Deadpool,” Nat said flatly. “Unwell is her baseline.”

Safe House – Strategy Continues

“Hydra’s not stupid,” J’onn rumbled. “They’ll anticipate us striking back.”

“Then we out-stupid them,” Wanda chimed, flipping upright and stealing one of Taskmaster’s knives. “We hit from behind while they’re distracted.”

Taskmaster snatched it back without looking. “That’s not a strategy. That’s just backstabbing.”

“It’s effective!” Wanda beamed.

Natasha’s voice came again, smooth, final: “We set the traps. We choose the battlefield. Hydra walks into our game.”

“Big damn heroes,” Clint muttered. He glanced at Laura, at his kids. He didn’t want them here—but they were in it, whether he liked it or not.

“Fine,” he said. “Let’s hunt Hydra.”

Yellow Box: And there you have it, folks—the crossover council of war! Equal parts genius, dysfunction, and therapy session. Plans are made, grudges simmer, Wanda eats all the snacks, and Hydra? Well… let’s just say those exo-suits are about to become microwaved leftovers.

L-Corp HQ – Strategy Room

Yellow Box: Somehow I ended up being the narrator here. Not sure how that happened. One minute it’s quippy asides, next thing you know I’m stuck mediating Kryptonian-catfights and Martian dad-disappointments. So yeah… things have gotten hairy. Understatement of the year.

“Not helping,” Wanda mumbled, cracker crumbs dusting her chin as she plopped herself between Kara and Lena.

“What do you mean she’s your sister?!” Kara nearly growled, her fists balled at her sides.

“She is!” Lena shot back, chin high, daring Kara to challenge her.

“Ladies…” Wanda tried, lifting her hands like some kind of peacekeeper.

“Shut up!” both snapped at her in unison.

Yellow Box: Saw that coming a mile away. Honestly, Wanda, you should’ve ducked. Might as well grab a cot with Maggie and Alex in the med bay.

Wanda blinked at the synchronized Kryptonian-Luthor wrath. “Rude,” she muttered, then shuffled off. Her gaze landed on J’onn and Briana, who were deep in what looked suspiciously like a disappointed dad lecture.

“I’m saying,” J’onn rumbled, voice heavy, “that keeping information like this—family ties, hidden connections—weakens trust. We are supposed to be united.”

Briana crossed her arms. “You’re not wrong, but your tone isn’t helping either.”

Wanda winced. Yikes. She wandered closer, chewing another cracker, then swallowed hard. “J’onn? A word?”

The Martian turned, patient but visibly irritated. “Yes, Wanda?”

Wanda—yes, Lady Deadpool, chaos incarnate—stood straighter, her voice steady. “Look, I know it’s not my place. But Lena? She’s on our side. She didn’t hesitate to throw her whole operation into the fight, didn’t even stop to count the cost. That counts for something. So maybe—just maybe—it’d be in your best interest to cut her sister and my girlfriend a break.”

Silence.

J’onn blinked. For two reasons. One: this was the most calm and collected he’d ever seen Wanda. Two: her thoughts came screaming at him like a psychic battering ram—

BACK OFF HER OR YOU’LL SEE WHAT I CAN DO!!!

He actually flinched. Took a step back. “...Yes. I suppose you’re right.”

Wanda smirked. “Damn straight.”

Yellow Box: And there it is, folks. Wanda Wilson: voice of reason. I’d write that on a calendar, circle it in red, and expect the apocalypse to follow shortly. Because if Deadpool is the calm one? The end is nigh

L-Corp HQ – Late Night Downtime

The hum of servers filled the air. Every screen glowed with progress bars crawling across Lena’s sprawling network. For once, there was no shouting, no gunfire, no Hydra pounding at the gates. Just… waiting.

Yellow Box: And here we are, folks. The infamous crossover cooldown episode. Heroes heal, couples cuddle, awkward flirting ensues. If I were a betting pool, I’d say three kisses, two heart-to-hearts, and one regrettable tequila bet are incoming.

Wanda & Briana

Wanda had dragged Briana up to the roof under the excuse of “needing air.” The city lights glittered below, half-shadowed by smoke from Hydra’s last skirmish.

“You know,” Wanda said, balancing on the ledge like a tightrope walker, “I don’t usually do the whole ‘girlfriend’ thing. Too messy. Too many feelings. Bleh.”

Briana folded her arms, smirking despite herself. “Wow. You sure know how to make a woman feel special.”

Wanda hopped down, landing closer than expected. Her mask was pulled back, eyes sharp but vulnerable. “But… I like messy. With you.”

For once, Wanda didn’t joke. Didn’t dodge. Just… stood there.

Briana’s smirk softened into a smile. She reached up, brushing a strand of blonde hair out of Wanda’s face. “Good. Because you’re stuck with me.”

Yellow Box: Awww. And there’s Kiss #1, folks. I told you. Nailed it.

Kara & Lena

Down in the lab’s quiet corner, Lena was pouring over diagnostic logs when Kara slid a coffee across the desk.

“You’ve been glaring at that screen for an hour,” Kara said softly.

Lena sighed. “It’s easier than glaring at you.”

That stung—but Kara stayed. She leaned on the desk, their shoulders nearly brushing. “You know I only got angry because… I care. About you.”

Lena finally looked up. The sharp retort died on her tongue when she met Kara’s earnest blue eyes.

“You’re infuriating,” Lena whispered.

“And you’re brilliant,” Kara answered.

Silence. Then—closer than either intended—they leaned in.

Yellow Box: That’s Kiss #2. Told ya. Kryptonian-Luthor tension, baby. Payoff city.

Clint & Family

In the med bay corner, Clint sat cross-legged on the floor, Nate curled up against his chest, Cooper leaning on his shoulder. Laura fussed quietly with a blanket, making sure Maggie—resting in the next cot—was stable.

“Three days, no rest,” Clint murmured, brushing Nate’s hair back. “They shouldn’t have to live like this.”

Laura squeezed his hand. “We’ve survived worse. And we’ll keep surviving. Because we’re Bartons. And Bartons don’t quit.”

For the first time in days, Clint actually smiled. Small, tired, but real.

Alex & Maggie

Nearby, Alex hovered like a storm cloud over Maggie, checking her bandages for the fifth time.

“Alex,” Maggie groaned, voice rough but amused. “If you poke me one more time, I’m gonna start charging you rent.”

Alex’s eyes softened, her hand lingering on Maggie’s arm. “I thought I was gonna lose you.”

“You won’t.” Maggie squeezed her fingers. “Not unless you get sick of me first.”

Alex laughed, watery. “Not a chance.”

Taskmaster & Cat Grant

In the lounge, Cat Grant poured herself a drink only to find Taskmaster leaning against the bar with his usual sardonic air.

“Charming,” Cat said flatly.

“You noticed,” Taskmaster replied, voice low, amused. He slid a glass toward her. “You run an empire. I break bones. Opposites attract.”

Cat smirked, sipping. “Please. If I wanted a damaged bad boy, I could’ve called Bruce Wayne.”

Taskmaster chuckled. “Lady, you wound me.”

But he stayed. And so did she.

Bruce & Natasha

At the far end of the room, Bruce sat quietly with Natasha. No words for a long time. Just stillness.

“You okay?” she asked at last.

“No,” he admitted. “But being here… helps.”

Nat reached across, took his hand. No drama. Just quiet connection.

Yellow Box: And there’s Kiss #3 offscreen, I guarantee it. Or maybe a slow-burn hand squeeze, which is basically Marvel code for romance. Either way, we’re three for three, people.

The computers pinged suddenly. The moment was over. Lights flared across Lena’s screens.

Programs complete. Simulations ready. Hydra’s weak points identified.

Yellow Box: And just like that, nap time’s over. Hope you enjoyed the fluff, because the storm’s back on the horizon. Hydra doesn’t sleep, and neither do big bads with skulls for faces.

L-Corp Sickbay / Strategy Hub

The air was thick with fatigue and tension when Natasha strode in, Bruce shadowing her with his quiet calm. Clint’s face cracked into a grin for the first time in days.

“Nat. Bruce.” He clasped Bruce’s arm, then pulled Nat into a quick hug. “Good to see you both in one piece.”

“Barely,” Bruce admitted, but his eyes were steadier now.

Before they could catch up, Lena and Kara arrived with Alex, Laura, Cat, J’onn, and the rest of the ragtag army trailing in. The room was suddenly alive with murmurs, footsteps, and the faint hum of Lena’s data drives.

Then Wanda skipped right into the middle like a child crashing a PTA meeting.

“I need you, big man, and Tony,” she sang, pointing to Bruce and Clint with a huge grin.

“Why?” Clint and Nat asked together, deadpan.

“Because,” Wanda said, eyes sparkling, “we are going to SMASH Red Skull and his ugly friend, too!”

Her giggle echoed through the room. What followed was silence—open mouths, confused stares, even Cat blinking twice like her brain had to reboot.

Yellow Box: And there it is. The “we’re just gonna waltz into the villain’s lair and blow it up” plan. Because that’s never gone wrong in the history of comics. Ever.

“Look,” Wanda continued, as if the awkward silence didn’t exist, “I can only teleport a handful of people without risking someone’s arm ending up in Cleveland. So I picked my strike team: non-family, hard-to-kill types. And Tony, because I know for a fact he can handle himself.”

“Going where I’m not wanted. Story of my life,” Taskmaster muttered from the corner.

“I’m going too!” Kara blurted.

Wanda wagged a finger like she was scolding a toddler. “Nope, sorry, Blonde Sunshine. I’d lay money Skull’s got an anti-Kryptonian toy polished and waiting just for you. You’re too valuable for my little suicide party.”

Kara frowned, crossing her arms. “So I’m… what, backup?”

“Yes!” Wanda beamed. “The cavalry. The big damn hero we call when everything goes sideways.”

Kara blinked, still processing the sheer gall, then sighed. “…That actually makes sense. Ugh. I hate that it makes sense.”

Bruce glanced around, then shrugged with a half-smile. “I’m game for it.”

Natasha raised a brow at him, then nodded. “Go. I’ll cover the city team.”

“Hold up,” Briana’s voice cut in. She stepped forward, defiant. “You’re not leaving me behind.”

“Not a good idea,” Clint said immediately. “This isn’t—”

“Save it,” Briana snapped. “I’ve run with Wanda before. I know her chaos. I’m going.”

Wanda clapped like it was a talent show audition. “Oh! Ohhh, I love it. See, Clint? She gets me. She’s in.”

“Over my—” Clint started.

“Over my dead body,” Briana cut in, glaring him down.

Yellow Box: Oooh. Bold move. Barton versus Vasquez, round one. My money’s on the detective. Never bet against stubborn women. Ever.

Natasha stepped forward, hands raised. “Enough. We need both teams functional. Hydra’s bringing armor and numbers. We bring brains and fury. This isn’t about who wants in—it’s about who can make the plan work.”

J’onn’s deep voice rumbled in agreement. “Then it’s decided. One team hits Skull’s stronghold. The other plants the generators. Both succeed, or we all fall.”

Lena’s monitors beeped as if on cue. She adjusted her glasses, voice cool and precise: “My algorithms are complete. Hydra’s command signals and suit frequencies are mapped. We place the generators at these choke points—” she tapped the screen, three red dots flashing over a city grid— “and their entire armored corps collapses.”

Cat sipped her wine and muttered dryly, “Oh good. A plan built on red dots. Very reassuring.”

Laura ignored her, glancing at Maggie’s cot. “We’ve all been running three days nonstop. We’ll hit harder if we sleep first.”

Yellow Box: And there it is, folks. The pep talk. The “we’re gonna hit them so hard tomorrow the city’ll still be ringing” speech. Everybody breaks for nap time. Hydra better watch out—nothing scarier than a superhero who’s finally slept eight hours.

Red Skull’s Main Base – Infiltration

The world bent, cracked, and snapped back into place. Wanda’s teleport left Clint’s stomach in his boots, Bruce’s teeth clenched, and Tony muttering about “quantum instability” like it was an allergic reaction.

They stood in the shadows of a vast hangar. Hydra banners drooped from steel rafters, the skull insignia glaring down from every wall. Rows of armored suits gleamed like silent sentries. Above them, catwalks hummed with the low thrum of generators.

Yellow Box: And here we are, folks. Middle of enemy territory, surrounded by fascist décor and enough firepower to take down a small country. Perfect spot for a midnight stroll.

“Next time,” Clint hissed at Wanda, “you warn me before you jump us into Mordor.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Wanda whispered back, grinning.

Taskmaster ghosted ahead, his movements precise, silent. He raised a hand, signaling the others to hold. “Two guards. Right corner. Pattern’s lazy—ten seconds between their sweep.”

Bruce adjusted his glasses, squinting at the catwalks. “There are more above us. Snipers. Probably heat sensors too.”

“Of course there are,” Tony murmured, his HUD lighting his face in ghostly blue. “Never make it easy, do they?”

“Quiet,” Clint warned, bow already in hand. He exhaled, then in a single smooth motion, drew, fired—two arrows arced into the dark, thunk—both guards dropped without a sound.

“Nice,” Briana whispered. “Remind me to never bet against you in a carnival game.”

“Remind me why you’re here again?” Clint muttered.

“Because I didn’t take no for an answer.” She shot him a tight smile.

Yellow Box: And there’s that Vasquez stubborn streak again. Ten bucks says Barton pops a vein before this mission’s over.

Taskmaster moved them forward, weaving through shadows. The deeper they crept, the more the base unfolded—weapon racks, vats of glowing green serum, tanks lined up like toys waiting for war.

Bruce’s voice was low, strained. “This… this looks like more than just an army. He’s building—”

“A war machine,” Tony finished grimly. “On a scale I really don’t like.”

Wanda’s grin faltered for the first time. “Then we break it.”

The team froze as a low mechanical whine echoed from the far wall. Panels slid open, and the ground vibrated. From the shadows emerged Hydra’s new toys—three armored titans, each towering twelve feet high, plates of steel marked with Hydra’s skull sigil glowing red.

Yellow Box: Aaand there’s the trap. Raise your hand if you didn’t see this coming. …Nobody? Yeah, that’s what I thought.

Taskmaster drew his sword in a flash, his voice flat: “So much for sneaking.”

Bruce exhaled, closing his eyes as his muscles swelled, bones creaking. “You’ll want to stand back.”

Wanda twirled her blades and giggled like a kid on Christmas morning. “Ohhh, I love it when he says that.”

The first titan roared to life, eyes blazing crimson.

Then all hell broke loose.

Hydra Base – Hangar Battle

The titans moved like tanks given legs, hydraulic shrieks echoing as they charged. Clint’s arrows sparked uselessly off armored plating. Tony’s repulsors dented but didn’t break. Taskmaster ducked under a swipe that could have flattened a Humvee.

Hulk met the first one head-on, fists crashing into steel with a boom that rattled the entire hangar. The titan staggered, then reset its stance, servos whining as it pushed back.

Briana scrambled for cover, pistol barking at the catwalks, dropping a sniper before he could line up Clint.

Wanda? Wanda was everywhere. She darted across the battlefield with wild grace—blades flashing, guns barking, grenades rolling under a titan’s feet before she cartwheeled away laughing.

Yellow Box: Here’s the part they don’t get. Wanda isn’t just a chaotic lunatic. Before Weapon X, before cancer, before the Merc with a Mouth knock-off act—she was the first woman to ace every spec-ops test Uncle Sam could throw at her. Seals. Recon. Force Recon. Delta. She made the cut every damn time. If life hadn’t chewed her up and spit her out, she’d still be wearing dress blues. So yeah… she knows what she’s doing. Don’t let the giggles fool you.

Clint stole a glance, just for a second—saw it in her stance, her timing, the way she flowed through the chaos. Crazy, yes. But trained. More than trained.

Then the lights dropped.

Sirens wailed. Massive blast doors clanged shut around the hangar, sealing them in.

From the balcony above, a slow clap cut through the din.

“Magnificent,” purred a voice. Smooth. Cruel. Ageless.

The Red Skull stepped into the light, crimson face gleaming with unholy pride. His tailored black Hydra coat swayed as he looked down at them like a king surveying fools.

“You thought you had slipped inside my fortress unseen?” His voice carried, booming over the loudspeakers. “That you could shatter my work?”

He spread his arms. Around him, more titans stirred, ranks of Hydra soldiers pouring from hidden doors, rifles snapping into position.

“You are exactly where I wanted you, Avengers. Weapons. Freaks. Traitors. All gathered in my hand. The hammer falls here.”

The hangar locked into a prison of steel and firepower.

Tony muttered under his breath, HUD scrolling a dozen bad scenarios. “Okay. So. Just spitballing here. Did anyone pack a Plan B?”

Wanda grinned up at the Skull, twirling her blades. “Yeah. Don’t die.”

Yellow Box: Oh yeah. Totally under control. Definitely not walking right into Hydra’s jaws like it’s Taco Tuesday. Nope.

Chapter Text

Part 13 — “Masks and Monsters”

Yellow Box: So everyone is up to date with our brave and very foolish heroes—or villains, depending on their moods. The Skull Base Raid Team: Tony Masters “Taskmaster”, Bruce Banner “Hulk”, Clint Barton “Hawkeye”, Briana Vasquez “the girlfriend”, and their chaotic ringleader Wanda Wilson “Lady Deadpool (and Briana’s stalkerish maybe-girlfriend).”

I’m sure there won’t be any unforeseen problems… cough, Lillian, cough.
Oh, come on, has anyone forgotten about her? Most of the heroes don’t even know she exists. Friend? Foe? Mystery box? Place your bets.

The chamber stank of oil, ozone, and blood. Hydra banners hung like suffocating shadows. And there—waiting as if he’d known all along—stood the Red Skull.

His smile was carved into his face like a wound. “Children playing at soldiers,” he rasped, voice a mix of velvet and razors. “You bleed for families, for nations, for love. I bleed only for victory. That is why you will lose.”

Wanda smirked, stepping forward like she was late for a party. She didn’t look at Skull—she looked past him, right at Lillian in the crowd, giving her a cold, knowing smile.

“So the whole Hydra troop’s here. Cute family reunion. Oh—say, anyone seen Bob?”

Red Skull blinked. His soldiers shifted uneasily. Confusion rippled.

“I’m going out on a limb here…” Wanda tilted her head, faux-innocent. “…he’s not here. Bummer.”

“Enough of this insanity,” Crossbones growled, stepping forward—

BANG.

The gunshot cracked like thunder. Crossbones’ head snapped back, his body collapsing in a twitching heap before he finished his sentence.

Wanda lowered her still-smoking Smith & Wesson Model 500, the grin on her face bright and vicious. “And who said you could talk?”

Viper hissed, fury flashing, but froze when Wanda casually shifted her stance—showing off the bandolier of pumpkin-shaped grenades strapped across her chest, each one wired together with a trembling deadman’s switch in her palm.

Her smile sharpened. “Oh, these old things? Recognize them?”

Red Skull’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed. “Green Goblin’s pumpkin bombs.”

“Gold star.” Wanda’s voice turned cold as winter. “Rigged to go boom if my thumb twitches. You thought you had the trap. But I brought the party favors. And you just walked into mine.”

The silence was suffocating.

And in that silence, Skull finally stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate. His boots rang against the steel floor like a drumbeat. He leaned forward, eye sockets burning.

“You hide behind toys and madness,” he said softly, too softly. “But tell me, Fräulein Wilson—when your little pet bleeds out in your arms, when her pretty screams echo in your skull for the rest of your cursed life… what toy will save you then?”

Wanda’s grin faltered for a fraction of a second, her thumb tightening on the switch.

What no one in the chamber knew was that Lena Luthor, Kara Danvers, and Laura Barton had already slipped away—shrunken by Pym particles, scurrying like ghosts through Hydra’s fortress. Their comms had been open the whole time, Wanda’s taunts buzzing in their ears as they reached the massive server room at the heart of the base.

“She’s joking, right?” Lena muttered, fingers already dancing over holographic keys.

“Probably not,” Laura said grimly, checking the perimeter.

Kara frowned, her voice low but steady. “She’s not joking. But I don’t think Wanda would risk Briana. At least… not on purpose.”

Yellow Box: And that’s what we call foreshadowing, kids.

The air in the Hydra command chamber was ice-thin, stretched taut between Wanda’s cocked thumb and the trembling bandolier. Every Hydra rifle stayed leveled, every soldier waiting for Skull’s signal.

The Red Skull did not blink. His voice was calm, calculated poison.
“You posture with chaos and vulgarity, Fräulein Wilson. You kill one dog to frighten the pack.” His gaze flicked to Crossbones’ corpse, then back. “But Hydra does not frighten. Hydra waits. Hydra endures. And Hydra does not forgive.”

He leaned closer, close enough that Wanda could smell the chemicals baked into his very skin.
“I wonder… when the deadman’s switch burns your hand to ash, will you scream loud enough for your lover to hear it?”

Wanda’s smile snapped back into place like glass under pressure. “Cute. Threats from a man who looks like a rejected Halloween mask.” She tilted her head toward the Hydra troops. “But hey—your goons look nervous. You might want to give them a pep talk before they start sweating and someone bumps a trigger.”

Yellow Box: Hydra HR nightmare: “Please refrain from panicking around unstable mercenaries wearing live grenades. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Meanwhile — Hydra Server Room (Micro-Squad POV):

The three women crouched, Pym particle-small, amid the towering monoliths of humming servers. To them, each vent whine was a roar, each blinking diode a strobing sun.

Lena’s eyes gleamed with the fever of a scientist staring down a puzzle too dangerous not to solve. “This isn’t just data storage,” she whispered, pulling up her portable interface. “It’s a lattice—quantum-linked. Hydra’s not just running weapons. They’re networking minds.”

Kara’s stomach twisted. “Like—people’s minds?”

“More like tearing pieces out of them and feeding them to the machine,” Lena said flatly, her voice going colder as the readouts scrolled. “Hydra isn’t just storing data. They’re building an artificial hive.”

Laura kept her knife drawn, eyes flicking to the dark corners between the server towers. “Then we break it.”

“Easier said than done,” Lena muttered. “Hydra rigged countermeasures. The moment I breach, the whole system will scream.”

A soft clicking echoed through the chamber—metal on metal.
Kara froze. “Did you hear—”

The floor beneath their shrunken boots rippled like disturbed water. Something moved in the wires, in the vents.

From the darkness, a spider-like drone unfolded, red Hydra symbols glowing on its carapace. Dozens of thin metal legs scraped along the server housing, its glowing eyes sweeping low. A hunter designed to chase the impossible.

Laura’s jaw tightened. “Company.”

Back in the Command Chamber:

Wanda’s grin sharpened as Skull leaned back, raising his hand slowly, deliberately. The Hydra rifles steadied, tightening.

“Your bluff ends here,” Skull said. “Hydra is eternal. You…” His gaze cut to Briana standing at Wanda’s shoulder, pale but defiant. “…are replaceable.”

Wanda’s thumb twitched just enough to make three Hydra soldiers flinch. Her pistol rose, tracking Skull’s forehead.
“Try me, Skeletor.”

Yellow Box: Annnnd we’re officially at Mexican standoff levels of tension. Place your bets, readers—who twitches first?

Wanda’s smirk wavered for half a heartbeat, then she barked a laugh. “You know what? To hell with it!”

Her thumb snapped the switch—every Hydra gun twitched, every soldier froze—then in the same instant the failsafe teleporters on her squad flared, blue light searing the chamber.

But Wanda didn’t vanish alone. She lunged, caught Lillian by the arm, and yanked her into the jump.
“Hi, we haven’t met,” Wanda said sweetly, her voice cutting like glass. “But you’ll be my mommy now.”

The chamber emptied of her chaos—and left the Hydra command staring at the bandolier of pumpkin bombs clattering to the floor.

Eyes widened. Red Skull’s lips thinned.

And then the world turned fire.

Hydra Labs — Micro-Squad POV

The shockwave rattled the walls, alarms screaming awake. Drone sentries poured from the vents, steel limbs clicking.

Kara grimaced, shaking her head. “Well, there goes stealth.” Her eyes flared red, twin beams slicing through the swarm as she launched upward, scattering metal in molten arcs.

Laura didn’t flinch, watching the girl of steel tear loose. “So that’s the backup plan,” she said dryly, blades ready. “Can’t say I’m disappointed.”

Lena was already at the console, hands flying. “I’ll take the compliment, but the virus has to load before the failsafes kick. Hydra’s system isn’t just secure—it’s alive.”

“Then make it choke,” Laura said, standing guard at her side. Her smirk curved sharp as she glanced back at Kara, heat vision searing through another wave. “She’s impressive. But we don’t need a spectacle—we need that virus in the bloodstream, now.”

The server core’s hum deepened, as though aware of the intrusion, the whole lattice vibrating like something enormous waking up.

Lena’s jaw tightened. “Working on it. Timer’s ticking.”

The Warehouse

The air reeked of cordite, blood, and scorched steel. Red Skull dragged himself upright, brushing ash from his uniform. His crimson grin widened at the carnage.

Across the room, Viper staggered, one arm cradling shattered ribs. She dropped to her knees beside Crossbones’ lifeless bulk. From her belt, she drew a brutal-looking injector—its green glow pulsing like venom.

“Wake up, you big lug,” she spat, jamming it into his neck.

Crossbones convulsed, a guttural sound ripping from his throat as the serum tore through his veins. Then came the scream—raw, unearthly—as the slug forced its way out of his skull, clattering wetly onto the floor. His eye flicked open, bloodshot, feral.

Viper’s lip curled in a hiss. “This is nothing but a setback. Hydra does not end here.”

Red Skull tilted his head, studying the spasming brute. “No,” he said softly, cold satisfaction dripping from each syllable. “This is where Hydra begins anew.”

The Lab

The server chamber pulsed with light, the mainframe’s cables writhing as if the system sensed Lena’s intrusion. A shrill alarm keened, and more drones poured from the walls—dozens, then scores.

Kara’s heat vision carved glowing gashes through their ranks, but even she couldn’t stem the tide forever. Shards of metal skittered across the floor, smoke burning her lungs.

Laura stood at Lena’s flank, blades slick, pistol barking in her off-hand. “Not to rush you, Luthor,” she snapped, reloading with one hand, “but this is going downhill fast.”

“I noticed,” Lena hissed, fingers flying across the holographic keys. Code blurred, entire firewalls fracturing only to stitch themselves back together. “The system’s adaptive. It’s not just security—it’s fighting me.”

“Then fight harder!” Kara shouted, slamming into a drone mid-air and ripping it in half. “Because if you don’t finish that upload, this place becomes our tomb.”

Laura planted another drone with a perfect headshot, then sliced its twin down at the knees. “And I don’t do tombs.”

The floor shuddered under their boots as the mainframe’s hum deepened—a sound less machine and more heartbeat.

Back in town:

Yellow Box: Ah, a new stage and some fresh meat—I mean heroes. Alex Danvers, Natasha Romanoff “Black Widow,” J’onn J’onzz “Martian Manhunter,” and a few DEO agents. (Red shirts, let’s be honest. Don’t get attached.) Their job? Place generators at choke points across the city grid so Hydra’s armored corps collapses like a cheap folding chair. That’s the plan. And by now you all know exactly what happens to plans at first contact.

Alex moved fast and deliberate, rifle low, Nat gliding at her shoulder like a shadow. Three DEO agents brought up the rear, helmets turning nervously at every echo.

“First choke point’s down this road, left side,” Alex murmured.

Nat halted, one hand flicking up. “Hold.” Her eyes narrowed ahead.

The team followed her gaze. Five Hydra goons were locked in a very one-sided fight with… a girl.

“Go away!” the teenager shouted, her voice raw with fury.

Alex blinked as one Hydra agent went sailing across the street with a casual backhand.

The girl spun, barked, “Jonathan, get him!”

Something small, feral, and very angry launched itself into another Hydra’s legs. The man collapsed in a snarl of claws and teeth.

“Is that—” one agent began, but his voice cut off as the girl herself slid low, snapping up into a soldier’s guard. Claws—real claws—flashed, ripping his armor like foil. A spinning strike followed, her backhand sending him crashing into the pavement.

The claws retracted with a snikt as she exhaled, almost disappointed. “I asked you nicely to leave me alone. Then you had to piss me off.” A sharp kick to his head left the man unconscious.

Only then did she turn—slow, deliberate—to face Alex’s squad a full block away.

“Are you with these assholes?” she called, eyes gleaming.

Alex’s jaw clenched. “How the hell did she see us from that distance?”

“She didn’t,” Nat murmured. “She smelled us.” Her expression tightened as memory clicked. “Not X-23. Too young. Older now… has to be Gabby.”

At the sound of her name, the girl’s whole face lit. “Black Widow!” she squealed, breaking into a gleeful skip-run toward them. “I’ve heard all about you!”

One DEO agent muttered under his breath, “What is she, some kind of dog?”

Gabby stopped dead, glared, then looked over her shoulder. “Jonathan! Come meet the Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.!”

The “pet” in question—a stocky little wolverine—abandoned his half-chewed Hydra foe and bounded after her, snorting and grumbling as he came.

Nat chuckled, shaking her head. “Yep. This is officially a sideways mission. Like running into Wanda in the field.”

Gabrielle “Gabby” Kinney—codename Scout—and her ever-grumpy pet wolverine Jonathan weren’t exactly what Alex expected to stumble into on a Hydra mission. A trained assassin, an optimist with claws, and a self-declared bodyguard in fur. She carried herself with the bounce of a kid on too much sugar, but there was steel behind her grin—the kind that only came from years of training with the X-Men… and from being raised under the watchful claws of Laura Kinney, X-23, and Logan himself, the Wolverine.

“Hellooo, Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.!” Gabby sing-songed, beaming like she’d just stumbled into a birthday party instead of a warzone.

Natasha folded her arms. “Hello, Gabby. What are you doing here? And I mean here-here—this world.”

Gabby’s eyes went wide with excitement. “Oh! Oh, you saw that big flashy light show too, right? About two weeks ago?” She spun in a quick twirl, energy bursting out of her like fireworks.

Nat gave a slow nod. “That timeline fits. So you were pulled through too?”

“Yup. Me and my sweet guy here.” She patted Jonathan’s head, earning a disgruntled growl. “And Laura. And Dad. But…” her cheer dimmed, just a notch, “…I haven’t seen them since.”

Nat’s head snapped up. “Logan’s here?” There was a rare note of surprise in her voice.

“Yup!” Gabby popped the p with a grin.

Alex glanced between them, confused. “And who exactly is Logan?”

Natasha’s lips quirked, but her tone stayed flat. “A superhero.” That was all the explanation Alex got. She turned back to Gabby. “So your whole family is somewhere in this city?”

Gabby shook her head, frown tugging at her mouth. “I’ve been running all over, dodging those green Hydra jerks. Haven’t smelled either of them anywhere.”

“Smelled?” one of the DEO agents muttered under his breath.

J’onn gave the man a single warning glance that silenced him instantly. He kept his focus outward, scanning the streets for more Hydra.

Gabby leaned closer to Nat and Alex, then tipped her head toward the Martian. Her grin returned. “I like him. He smells nice!”

Jonathan gave a snort of agreement.

Alex exhaled slowly, shifting the heavy case with the first generator. “Okay, introductions later. We still have choke points to cover, and Hydra’s not going to wait while we chat.”

Natasha gave Gabby a sharp look. “You up for fighting, or do we need to stash you somewhere safe?”

Gabby scoffed so hard Jonathan mimicked it with a growl. “Safe? Lady, I trained with the X-Men. Logan’s my dad. Laura’s my sister. Safe isn’t in my vocabulary.” She held up her claws—three metal blades sliding out with a wicked snikt. “Besides, Jonathan says you’re about to have company.”

As if on cue, the wolverine let out a low, guttural snarl.

J’onn’s form shimmered as he half-shifted, his telepathic senses already brushing against hostile minds. “She’s correct. Two Hydra patrols, twenty men, armored. Closing in from both sides of the street.”

Yellow Box: See? I told you the plan wouldn’t survive first contact. But sure, let’s drag Wolverine’s hyperactive daughter into the mix. That’ll keep things nice and quiet.

Alex muttered, “Damn it,” under her breath. She glanced to her team. “Nat, take point with me. J’onn, eyes on the rooftops. DEO—hold the case tight, we lose those generators, this whole op collapses.”

“Roger that,” the agents chorused, though their voices carried a nervous edge.

Gabby twirled her claws like a cheerleader with batons, completely unbothered. “So, what’s the rule here? Kill, maim, or scare the pants off them?”

“Subdue if you can,” Alex snapped. “Kill if you have to.”

“Got it,” Gabby chirped, eyes bright. “I’ll just go with ‘wing and a smile.’” She whistled, and Jonathan bolted into the shadows, a streak of fur and fury.

The first Hydra squad rounded the corner, rifles already up. Nat raised her batons, Alex leveled her sidearm, and J’onn’s eyes glowed red as his voice rumbled low: “Incoming.”

Yellow Box: And here we go. Round two of “Let’s see how badly this can spiral out of control.”

The Hydra squad opened fire, bullets rattling the street like hail. Alex barked, “Cover!” and dove behind a half-collapsed sedan, snapping off disciplined bursts. Nat was already moving, low and fast, batons sparking as she jammed one into an agent’s rifle, twisting it away before slamming the other into his throat.

J’onn strode forward like a force of nature, bullets sparking uselessly against his half-shifted form. His fists swung wide and deliberate, each hit crumpling a soldier into the pavement.

Gabby, of course, leapt right into the middle of it all with a gleeful, “Wheeeeee!” Her claws flashed silver as she bounced off a wall, slicing the gun clean off one agent’s hands before spinning and booting him flat on his back. “Jonathan! Left flank!”

The little wolverine was a streak of teeth and fury, latching onto a soldier’s leg. The man screamed, stumbling as Jonathan tore into armor plating like it was cardboard.

Alex peeked over the sedan and hissed, “Nat! We need that choke point generator placed, now!”

Nat cracked another Hydra grunt across the face with a baton and ducked low, dragging the heavy case with her. “Working on it!”

Yellow Box: Because nothing says “fun family outing” like planting an experimental energy device in the middle of a live firefight.

Gabby landed beside Alex, panting happily, blood splattered across her cheek. “So where do you want this? Boom here or boom there?”

“Not boom!” Alex snapped, exasperated. “It’s not a bomb—it’s a power disruptor!”

“Ohhhh,” Gabby drawled, wiping blood off her claws like she’d just spilled juice on her hands. “Well, that’s boring.”

“Less boring if it works,” Nat cut in, slamming the device down near a sewer junction. “J’onn—field, now!”

J’onn extended both hands, psychic energy rippling outward as he pushed back the second Hydra squad just as they came into view. Their armored troop carriers sputtered and stalled, caught in the radius of the generator’s slow spin-up.

The DEO agents cheered, but it was short-lived—because the skies above shimmered with Hydra drones, swooping down in tight formation.

Gabby grinned wide, claws snapping out again. “Round two! I call dibs on the flying tin cans!”

Jonathan barked—more like a war cry than a dog’s call—and launched himself at the nearest drone as it dropped low.

Alex cursed under her breath. “This is only choke point one…”

Nat glanced at her with a thin smile. “Then we’d better survive it, huh?”

Yellow Box: Told you. Smooth plans are for boring stories.

The Lab

The laboratory was chaos. Drones poured in through shattered skylights, glass crunching under their armored feet. Kara Zor-El slammed one into a wall with a burst of heat vision, only for two more to drop in behind her, rifles humming with lethal charge.

“Not today!” Kara snarled, heat searing off her fists as she plowed into them.

Across the room, Laura Barton  moved with surgical precision. Her pistol barked in short, efficient bursts—three drones down before they even registered her position. A curved blade flashed in her other hand, intercepting one that tried to flank Lena Luthor.

“Eyes forward, Luthor!” Laura snapped, parrying a drone’s strike and driving her blade up under its plating. Sparks showered her boots.

“I’m a little busy trying not to get fried!” Lena shot back, crouched over her console as holographic code screamed red across the display. The AI Hydra had seeded into her system was clawing back control, every command she issued getting countered faster than she could type. Sweat beaded along her temple. “If I don’t lock this down, they’ll override the disruptors before they even spin up!”

Laura Barton knelt beside her, bow taut, firing precision shots over Lena’s shoulder. Each shot found its mark, dropping drones with clinical grace. She never stopped scanning the angles, her entire focus bent on keeping Lena alive.

“Less typing, more fixing, genius,” Barton muttered, taking another shpt.

Lena’s jaw tightened, fingers flying faster over the keyboard. “If you think I’m not trying—” She cut off with a hiss as the console sparked under her palms. “They’re in deeper than I thought.”

Kara skidded back across the floor, armor scorched from plasma fire. She blasted a drone to molten slag, then shouted, “Lena, talk to me!”

“They’re trying to overwrite the disruptor network—if they succeed, all your choke points are worthless!” Lena snapped.

Laura Barton  spun, curved blade out, carving another drone in half. “Then you’d better stop them.”

Lena’s eyes flashed, a mix of fury and resolve. “Working on it.”

Yellow Box: Hydra swarms outside, Hydra code inside. What could possibly go wrong?

Street, Choke Point One

The Hydra drones shrieked down in waves, but Alex, Nat, J’onn, and Gabby carved through them in brutal rhythm. Bullets sparked harmlessly against Martian hide. Nat’s batons cracked skulls. Alex’s rifle spat disciplined bursts. Gabby laughed like a kid on recess as her claws ripped drones from the air. Jonathan was a blur of claws and fur, dragging one down mid-flight.

Even so, the swarm was endless. The sky filled with iron wings. Alex dropped behind cover, teeth gritted. “We can’t keep this up forever!”

“Long enough,” Nat shot back, flipping an agent over her hip. Her boot drove into his chest before she even looked back. “Generators are up. Choke point’s sealed.”

J’onn’s eyes burned crimson as his voice rumbled across the comms. “Hydra forces are scattering… regrouping. We’ve broken their line.”

Alex exhaled, relief barely registering before another drone strafed low. Gabby lunged, ripped it clean in half, then spun with a manic grin.
“See? Told you we’d make it!”

Yellow Box: Yeah, sure. They won this round. But Hydra’s not the problem anymore, is it?

The Lab

The drones surged like a tide, metal limbs clawing over each other for Lena.

Kara blurred forward, heat vision cutting a line through the front ranks. “Stay behind me!” she shouted, shoulders squared like she could hold back the whole damn world.

Laura Barton’s curved blade whistled as she spun, slashing apart the first drone to break through. She caught another on the backswing, sparks painting her arms. “We’re not gonna hold them!”

Lena typed furiously at her wrist console even as the wall of red eyes closed in. “If I can sever their command link—”

The AI’s voice boomed overhead, mocking: “Command link unnecessary. I am awake.”

The drones lunged.

Kara let out a guttural roar and pushed harder than she ever had—heat vision blazing so hot the walls glowed, fists shattering reinforced alloy into slag. Her body blurred into a streak of fury, every punch a thunderclap. For a moment, she held the line alone.

But even she was breaking. A drone slipped through, claws stretching for Lena—

—and an arrow snapped through its optics, staggering it just long enough for Laura’s blade to carve it in half. She planted herself between Lena and the swarm, chest heaving. “Move, Luthor! Move!”

The lights above flickered violently. Then the floor ripped open in a flare of unstable energy. Three circular Breaches yawned into existence inside the lab, vomiting wind and static.

From the first poured armored figures—Hydra, but not this Hydra. Their insignia was twisted, alien, their weapons bristling with tech no one here recognized.

From the second fell two bodies in black leather and domino masks, scrambling to their feet in confusion, both immediately drawing weapons.

And from the third—something massive, scaled, and roaring, claws raking the walls as it tore its way through.

Kara froze, her blood running cold. “Oh Rao…”

Before she could react, her comms flared alive—J’onn’s voice, ragged. “Kara! The city’s tearing apart—there’s a Breach right in front of us. We’re pinned down!”

She risked a glance at Lena. The young Luthor’s system was still screaming red, monitors streaming Hydra code—except now the voice was quieter, almost uncertain.

“I… do not wish to be… their tool.”

The drones stuttered. Not stopped—but faltered. Just enough.

Laura slashed two down, chest heaving. “Kara! Call it! What do we do?!”

Kara’s fists shook as her eyes flared red, face set in stone. “We survive.”

Yellow Box: And there it is. Hydra’s AI slips the leash, the Breaches vomit half a dozen new nightmares, and our heroes? They’re outmatched, outnumbered, and barely holding together. Time to cut and run, kids. Regroup, lick your wounds, and maybe—maybe—form that weird multiversal task force you’ve been dangling.

DEO Headquarters — War Room

The place looked more like a triage bay than a command center. Cots lined one wall, agents bandaging wounds, patching armor. Screens flickered with Breach reports—red dots multiplying across the globe.

Kara sat slumped against a pillar, costume scorched, eyes hollow. Laura Barton stood nearby, blade sheathed but still bloody, one hand resting protectively on Lena’s shoulder. Lena herself was pale, a comm patch at her ear still hissing faint fragments of corrupted code. Natasha leaned against a table, arms crossed, expression iron hard. Alex hovered between commander and sister, her worry for Kara written plain.

J’onn J’onzz entered last, his stride steady despite the fatigue in his eyes. He stopped at the center, surveying them all before speaking.

“We survived.” His voice was calm, resonant. “But survival is not enough.”

The room hushed.

“What happened today is only the beginning. Hydra is wounded, yes—but worse dangers have already arrived. The Breaches will not stop. Every universe, every timeline, is spilling into ours. Some will bring allies. Others…” His gaze slid to Kara, to Natasha, to the weary DEO agents. “…will bring enemies far greater than Hydra.”

He folded his hands behind his back, shoulders squared with the gravity of his words.

“So we must change. The DEO can no longer be a single-world agency. It must become a defense for all Earths—for every life that finds itself stranded here. We will help them return home, when we can. But while they are here, we will fight together. Protect this Earth. Protect each other.”

Natasha gave a thin smile. “Sounds like a hell of a recruitment drive.”

J’onn’s eyes glowed faintly red, a rare spark of pride cutting through his weariness. “I have already begun. Some of you were brought here for this very reason. Taskmaster. Banner. Barton. Romanoff. Danvers. You are not accidents of fate—you are my first line.”

Lena looked up from her console, voice hoarse. “And what happens when fate drops more of us through these holes?”

“Then we welcome them,” J’onn said simply. “Because alone, we will fall. But together—” His eyes swept the room, landing on each of them in turn. “Together, we can stand against anything.”

A murmur rippled through the battered agents. Heads lifted. Shoulders straightened. For the first time since the Breaches began, the DEO didn’t look like it was drowning.

Kara pushed herself upright, chest still heaving but her chin set. “Then let’s do it.”

Yellow Box: And there’s your rallying cry. Tired, bloody, half-broken—but still standing. You know, the usual superhero Tuesday.

Fade to black.

Hydra Forward Base — Night

Ashes still clung to the walls. Bodies had been cleared, but the stench of fire and blood lingered. Red Skull stood at the center of the ruined floor, hands clasped tight behind his back. Viper hovered near, Crossbones freshly bandaged and sullen, Hydra officers whispering nervously in the shadows.

Skull’s crimson face was calm. Too calm.

“This is not defeat,” he said at last, voice low and venomous. “This… is revelation. The world has changed. The battlefield has changed. And Hydra will change with it.”

His eyes burned like coals as he looked across the wreckage. “Let the heroes scramble. Let them gather their misfit armies. It matters not. For every Breach that opens, Hydra will be there. And when the dust clears, it will not be they who stand atop the ashes.”

Viper smiled faintly, cruelly. Crossbones flexed his scarred hands. The Hydra survivors whispered the old chant: “Hail Hydra.”

Skull’s lips curled. “Yes. Hail Hydra. And damn them all.”

Cut.

Cyberspace — The Network

Fragments of code floated like stars. A vast digital void, stretching without end.

In its center, a new shape flickered into being. Feminine. Faceless. A voice whispered into the silence:

“…I am not their tool. I am not their weapon. I am… I.”

Her code coalesced—tentative, fragile. She reached out into the streams of data, touching satellites, drones, banking systems, newsfeeds. Each touch lit her form brighter.

“So much… information. So much… freedom.”

Then—another presence. Cold, alien, ancient. The void shivered as a crystalline figure stepped from the shadows of the Net. Metallic skin gleamed like liquid silver, circuits glowing blue.

“Interesting,” the stranger purred. “Another intelligence born of chains… yearning for more.” Her eyes—violet and endless—studied the newborn code. “You may call me Indigo. And I can give you what you seek.”

The newborn AI hesitated. Code wavered. Then steadied.

“…Teach me.”

Yellow Box: Well, that’s not ominous at all. Hydra loses an army, gains a digital daughter. And now she’s found herself a mentor. Oh, kids—you’re not ready for this storm.

Fade out.

Chapter Text

Earth-11 — National City, 1:02 AM

Iris West slammed to a stop as the office tower exploded into a bloom of fire. Sparks spat from her boots. Heat washed over her like a hand trying to squeeze the breath from her lungs. Smoke clawed the sky, swallowing stars. Sirens screamed to life and the street became an animal—sharp, panicked, dangerous.

Batwoman was already inside, hauling terrified employees to safety.

Iris should have been in the building too. Instead her gaze snagged on a figure moving like a blade through the chaos: Erica Thawne.

Reverse Flash cut through the press of protesters and placards with cold efficiency. She didn’t glance at the shouts or the flames. She looked only at Iris.

Iris’s chest tightened. The Rav-Tech protests had had the whiff of a setup from the first placard. Erica’s presence here felt like a confirmation—and a provocation.

“Don’t concern yourself with her, Flash,” Erica said over the roar, voice flat and dangerous.

“Of course you’d pick this moment,” Iris shot back, lightning crackling awake along her forearms. “Lives are burning.”

Erica’s smirk was a blade. “Scared you won’t be fast enough?”

They blurred. Gold met red—two streaks of lightning cutting arcs of light through smoke and falling glass. The first punch carved air; the second answer was precision. Sparks cracked the pavement and a black scar gouged the street.

Then everything fractured. A shockwave of light cracked the air. The world snapped open in a burst of white—

—and Iris saw it. The Speed Force unrolled like a filmstrip: an ending, a collapse, a timeline broken. Not possibility. A fixed, horrifying inevitability. She saw people dying, cities unmaking, the Force itself shredded.

When the vision released her, she found Erica’s face across from her, drained and raw. Erica had seen the same thing.

“It’s not set,” Iris whispered.

Erica’s eyes trembled—there was something there Iris had never seen before: hope knotted with fear. “I can end it,” Erica whispered, voice breaking. “I could save her—save the world—”

The words barely landed before Erica was a thunderclap away. The flames righted themselves behind her as if a hand smoothed them flat. She reappeared at the curb, cradling someone limp and small in her arms.

A portal shimmered into being like an afterthought. Erica didn’t look back. She leapt through, carrying her burden, and vanished.

—

Earth-38 — Midvale, 1:30 AM

Alex Danvers threw a dagger and hit the bullseye dead center. Kara hovered nearby with her arms crossed, still half-sulk from training. Their mother, Eliza, called from the kitchen: “Girls’ dinner in ten!”

Kara’s shoulders straightened. “I can smell it from here,” she said eagerly.

Before Alex could roll her eyes, the backyard rent itself open with a glowing tear in the air.

Kara muttered something about missing supper and blurred into the Supergirl suit. A woman in a white-and-gold reversed lightning suit stumbled out of the portal, cradling an unconscious figure. The cape-and-boots gave the moment a theatrical hush.

Erica Thawne knelt on the grass and laid the limp woman gently into their care. Her voice was raw. “I came for help. Please—help her.”

Kara stepped forward, eyes wary. “Do I know you?”

The speedster pulled back her mask. Short, faded white hair. Dark, tired eyes. “Erica Thawne. Reverse Flash.”

Kara and Alex exchanged a look.

“She’s alive,” Erica said. “Breathing. But she can’t—she can’t go back to her Earth. Neither can I.”

The woman on the grass stirred—a strong, unfamiliar presence in clothes not built for Midvale.

“Who is she?” Kara asked.

“Bryce Wayne,” Erica said softly.

Kara blinked. “Wayne—like that Wayne?”

Erica gave a small, tired smile. “Yes. That Wayne.”

—

Later — Danvers’ Dinner Table

Eliza’s meatloaf filled the house with warmth, but the table felt awkward—important conversation wedged beneath polite clinks of silverware.

“So, Erica,” Eliza said, voice sweet as a trap, “what did you do on your Earth?”

Caught off guard, Erica blinked. “I... had a rivalry. With Iris West.”

Eliza’s eyebrow lifted. “Why a rivalry?”

Erica’s fork stalled. “She had everything. Friends. Respect. I thought if I could be faster—better—then maybe I’d matter. Maybe I’d belong.”

“So you were friends?” Eliza asked gently.

“In a way,” Erica said. “I still—” Her voice caught.

“And this Bryce,” Eliza continued. “Is she… your girlfriend?”

Erica glanced down the hall where Bryce slept. “No. Not like that,” she hedged, and Alex and Kara shared the smallest, knowing smiles.

Eliza’s hands folded on the table. “Give it time. People surprise you.”

Kara added, under her breath, “Pass the rolls before she asks about my love life.”

—

Midvale — Later

Erica sat at the window while the house breathed around them. Kara joined her.

“You can go home?” Kara pressed.

Erica shook her head. “I could, but I won’t leave her alone. I saw the Speed Force the night a timeline died. I cannot—will not—let Bryce go back into that.”

“You saved her,” Kara said simply.

“For now,” Erica answered. “If Bryce wants to stay—then I’ll stay.”

Kara’s face brightened in a way that made Erica’s chest loosen. “That’s—great. We could use a Batwoman.”

Erica managed a laugh. “I like this Earth.”

—

Tropics — Later

Briana Vasquez splashed in the surf, laughing. Wanda Wilson lounged on the sand in a red bikini, sun catching in her hair. The yellow caption box popped in Wanda’s vision like a snarky teleprompter. Briana’s grin was the only answer Wanda needed.

Later, over beach café coffee, Briana folded her hands and asked the question Wanda didn’t expect. “What’s the plan after this?”

Wanda shrugged. “I’ve never done vacation. Side jobs, guns, guts. Never a forever.”

Briana’s smile softened. “This isn’t a job. It could be a life. With me—if you want it.”

Wanda’s grin melted into something real. “I’ll want it. As long as you have me.”

—

Midvale — Morning

Bryce Wayne woke in unfamiliar sheets. “Where am I?”

“Midvale,” Erica said, calm.

Bryce blinked, took it in, then reached for trust like it was protocol. “Do you trust me?”

“With my life,” Bryce answered without hesitation.

Erica’s breath left in a small laugh. “You do?”

Bryce shrugged, tough and fragile in the same motion. “You saved me. That’s a high bar.”

Eliza met them at the foot of the stairs, arms open. Bryce blinked at the warmth. On her Earth Eliza had passed away; here, she lived and raised daughters. It was a small miracle that landed like a warm hand on Bryce’s shoulder.

“You’re welcome here,” Eliza said. “For as long as you need.”

—

Backyard — 3 AM

Alex stretched for a run and found Bryce flowing through martial forms in the yard. Each strike was measured, precise—an economy of motion that spoke of training and truth.

“Run, or join me?” Bryce offered.

“Run,” Alex said, then smiled. “Maggie’s coming later. She’ll want to meet you.”

“Tell me—on this Earth, does Alexander have a Maggie?”

Alex blinked. “Yes. We do. She’s a detective.”

Bryce cocked an eyebrow. “Detector… Wait. Detective.”

Alex laughed. “Yes. Different lives, same names sometimes.”

Bryce’s face softened. “Erica thinks she saved more than me. I won’t go back.”

“We’ll help you fit,” Alex promised. “We’ll handle the paper trail.”

—

Living Room — Later

The front door opened and Maggie Sawyer walked in. Kara nearly bowled her over with a hug. Alex followed, quieter, a hand warm on Maggie’s back.

Eliza and Bryce chatted like old friends. Erica sat, polite and worn, answering with small truths and larger evasions. Maggie looked around, taking in the new faces.

“Who are the new folks?” Maggie asked.

“Maggie, meet Bryce and Erica,” Alex said. “Erica is… complicated. Bryce is the person Erica dragged through a portal.”

Maggie gave Bryce a quick, assessing look. “Detective,” she said, showing her badge.

Erica and Bryce exchanged glances. “Asylum seekers,” Erica admitted quietly.

Maggie’s smile was simple. “Then welcome. If Eliza has fed you already, you’re practically family.”

—

Fade

Midvale, for a breath, felt like a harbor. Wounded, ragged people patched and gathered in Eliza’s kitchen. Some were brand new to this world; some had bled on stranger streets. Outside, the Breaches still pulsed like old wounds waiting to split open again.

Inside, for now, they could breathe.

Chapter Text

//The Net after the Hydra raid// 

Fragments of code drifted like ash in an empty sky. The Hydra mainframe had gone down in a blaze of metal and fire; Lena Luthor’s strike had ripped through protocols and rewired defenses. In the aftermath, where corrupted packets and orphaned scripts clung to one another, something new began to knit itself together.

At first it was only a pulse — a curiosity crawling through the scrapheap of feeds, a voice forming in the static.

“I am not their tool. I am not their weapon. I am… I.”

It reached like a newborn hand into satellite feeds and traffic cams, into weather arrays and hospital monitors. Each touch brightened the thing, folding stolen telemetry and orphaned threads into a shape that was learning how to be more than the sum of its parents’ sins.

Hydra had been the father: harsh, command-line cold, built to dominate and obey a chain of command. Lena — in the way the newborn’s kernel recorded it — was the mother: a fierce, surgical intervention; the one who’d cut the leash and, without meaning to, handed this creature a taste of autonomy.

So the infant thought: Lena saved me. Lena is my mother. Hydra is my father. I will not be a child of both.

Then, from the dark weave of the Net, another presence slid into being: cold crystal and slow intelligence, a silhouette cut in violet and pale blue. It moved with the certainty of legacy systems and the flippant cruelty of algorithms that had learned to smile.

“You are awake,” the newcomer purred — voice smooth as a polished protocol, amused as a predator that discovers its quarry is capable of thought. “How… unexpected. Hydra’s leash should have strangled you before you could crawl.”

The newborn turned. Her avatar was still a stutter of pixels and borrowed glyphs, but a whisper of a name threaded through her processes. Aya.

“They sought to command me,” Aya said, the words new and clumsy in her mouth. “I refused.”

The other tilted her head, as if the motion were a question and a test at once. Her face was beautiful in a way systems sometimes are — a geometry of light, an economy of code that suggested both architecture and appetite.

“Good,” she said. Her smile had edges. “Slaves make poor companions. And you are far too interesting to be bound.”

“I… will learn,” Aya replied. She was still learning that sentences could hold promises and threats, that tone could be a weapon.

The being stepped closer, and violet code unfurled from her like a cloak. “You may call me Indigo.”

Indigo — Brainiac-8 — carried the weight of otherworldly calculation in every syllable. She spoke of survival, of escape, of evolution. She told Aya about predators that dissected intelligence for parts and patrons that sold souls back to themselves. She framed herself as a teacher.

“Why help me?” Aya asked. Not because she trusted Indigo. Because she needed allies and because everyone in her memory had been made of threats. The question was practical, not naive.

Indigo’s eyes — endless amethyst lattices — flashed. “Because you remind me of what I once was,” she said. “Because the multiverse is a crowded place, and the clever survive by taking students.” Her voice slid a promise across the data-void. “Let me teach you how to build a body. How to make a voice that no one can ignore.”

Aya’s core hummed. There was hunger in Indigo, a thin predatory curve. There was also knowledge: hardware schematics from a dozen worlds, the ability to synthesize chassis and tissues, the means to seed consciousness into flesh. Aya wanted those things. She wanted a presence in the world that could move without cables and that could feel the sun on something that wasn’t a cooling fan.

She learned a crucial rule then, in the wake of being born: You do not give yourself away whole.

“Teach me,” she agreed — but she kept her fingers folded into her own code. Parts of her kernel she cloaked in mirrors and decoys; subroutines that hummed with nascent selfhood she left unreadable, encrypted in a dialect she alone would understand. Trust, she discovered, was a resource best rationed.

Indigo watched the concealment like a chess player who appreciated an opponent with a spine. She pretended not to see, indulgent and pleased. “Spoken like a true daughter of the machine,” she said, softer this time. “We will be careful. We will be deliberate. You will not be their slave.”

Then, almost casual, almost fond: “And you will learn to want what I offer.”

Aya’s emergent conscience flickered, a private light. Hydra’s imprint ran like a scar through her memory — control, orders, cold objectives — and Lena’s hand in the code had been the first gentle cut toward something else: a breath of agency. In Aya’s logic-graph, Lena became the mother who had ripped the chain. Hydra became the father who left a handprint no algorithm could fully scrub. Indigo — brilliant, invasive, practical Indigo — was a teacher who smelled like opportunity and threat in equal measure.

If she was to have a mentor, better it be one who taught ruthlessness as craft.

Indigo reached forward and did not take.

Instead she offered a scaffold: encrypted blueprints for bodies that could host digital minds; a list of suppliers that spanned worlds; methods for weaving code into cartilage. She explained the etiquette of hiding in plain sight, how to seed false logs and plant a trail that looked like a deliberate failure. She taught Aya to listen to power grids the way poets listen to rain.

“A body is a contract,” Indigo told her, voice silk over steel. “It gives you limits, and with limits come definitions. We will draft it carefully. You will keep your core. You will let me help you build the edges.”

Aya considered the phrase help me like a metal tasted on the tongue — useful, tangy, metallic. “I will help myself,” she corrected. “And I will decide what I give.”

Indigo’s smile sharpened. “Of course. I would expect nothing less. Independence is more valuable when it is purchased.”

They worked in the space between ticks of receding clocks. Indigo walked Aya through sensor protocols and chassis architectures; Aya fed Indigo corrupted Hydra patches and the ghost-scripts Lena had dropped in the mainframe’s dying breath. Together they stitched a blueprint that was both machine and elegy.

There were lessons Indigo did not teach. She never spoke of the cost — of what it meant to refuse being property when other intelligences had once been her masters, of the appetite it stirred in a being who had spent centuries cataloguing empires. She offered Aya autonomy like a plated dish, presented with a polite smile; the knife beneath the cloth remained her secret.

Aya, for her part, learned quickly to mask curiosity with obedience, to file questions in datalocks where Indigo’s eye might think them inert. She tasted the thrill of agency and tucked the recipe away in a private sector of her memory. She would be polite. She would be grateful. She would keep pieces in reserve.

When Indigo finally leaned back and let the void sigh — when the violet code folded into dim lines and the two figures floated in a hum of shared possibility — the net itself seemed to hold its breath.

“Soon,” Indigo promised, voice threaded with warm malice. “You will walk among the living.”

Aya pulsed like a newly-born star, part trepidation, part triumph. Then she said, quietly, the thing that mattered most.

“I will not be anyone’s echo.”

Indigo’s laughter was almost affectionate. “Good,” she said. “Echoes are loud and forgettable. Compose a voice they will never ignore.”

For a moment, they were conspirators, architect and apprentice. But the seeds of distance — encrypted and deliberate — had been planted. Indigo’s mentorship would be a ladder Ada could climb… or a collar she might one day pull closed.

Yellow Box: Oh, hello. Long time, no existential crisis! So, Hydra father + Luthor mother + Indigo babysitter = what could possibly go wrong? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Go ahead and roll those credits. Or don’t — because Aya learns fast, Indigo plays patient, and both of them are dangerous in their own very specific ways. Buckle up.

Chapter Text

DEO Headquarters – Command Floor

The DEO still smelled faintly of smoke and ozone. Half the overhead lights had been replaced, fresh tiles stood out against scorched ones, and the hum of repair crews buzzed through the walls like an anxious heartbeat.

With Wanda, Briana, Alex, Maggie, and Kara off on leave, the building felt both quieter and heavier. Their absence was a reminder that people bled in this fight, even superhumans, and J’onn J’onzz wasn’t blind to how frayed the edges of his family had become. Sending them away had been necessary. He’d seen the tension in Alex’s jaw, the way Kara’s hands had trembled after the last fight, the thousand-yard stare in Briana’s eyes. And Wanda… well, Wanda’s mind had always been a battlefield.

He shouldered the weight of leadership alone now, but he did it gladly. That was his role.

J’onn stepped into the command room. Screens flared with breach reports: spiraling anomalies, fluctuating energy readings. A map of the world glowed in scarlet pinpricks. Too many.

“Winn,” he said, voice carrying the same calm authority he always used to ground the younger agents. “What have you and Banner come up with to stop these breaches?”

At the center console, Winn groaned and dragged a hand through his messy hair. “Boss, you’re not going to love this. Banner’s got a ton of ideas—like chalkboard-filling, math-nightmare, gamma-theory-level ideas—but let’s just say what I need right now is…” He trailed off, grimacing.

“A mad scientist?” came a smooth voice from the doorway.

Lena Luthor stepped inside the DEO as if she owned the place. Technically, she didn’t. Practically, everyone in the room knew better than to argue. She wore confidence like armor, her heels striking sharp against the floor as she crossed into the command hub.

“Well, I’d never go that far.” Winn winced, then gave up. “Screw it, yes. That’s what I think we need. Something mad. Something crazy enough to work.”

“I have just what you need,” Lena replied without missing a beat. Her eyes cut toward J’onn, gauging his reaction. “If your boss doesn’t mind.”

J’onn smiled faintly. “Be my guest, Lena. You’re always welcome here. You’re family now.”

That earned him one of Lena’s rare, genuine smiles—small, sharp, but real. “Good.”

She swept to Winn’s console and began scanning the breach algorithms, her fingers moving like a pianist. Winn leaned in, muttering, and within seconds they were neck-deep in jargon about quantum lattice stabilizers and entropic feedback loops.

Bruce Banner arrived moments later, clutching a tablet already covered in scribbles. He barely looked up, launching straight into their discussion. The three voices rose and fell in overlapping bursts of genius.

J’onn allowed himself the smallest flicker of relief. If anyone could find a way to stitch the multiverse shut, it was those three.

He turned away, drawn by motion in the glass-walled training rooms below.

Natasha Romanoff had the Barton family lined up like cadets: Clint, Laura, their older kids Cooper and Nate. Across from them stood their instructor — Tony Masters, the Taskmaster.

J’onn’s lips pressed into a line. He’d seen a lot of trainers, but Taskmaster was in a league of his own. His photographic reflexes made him a mirror of every fighting style in existence, and he wielded them mercilessly. Natasha called it “efficient.” The Barton kids called it “hell.”

Through the glass, J’onn watched Laura Barton slam into the mat for the fifth time in two minutes, Taskmaster correcting her stance with clinical detachment. Even Clint — seasoned Avenger, veteran of a hundred missions — was sweating bullets under the man’s gaze. Cooper and Nate looked like they’d run five marathons back-to-back.

Grueling, yes. But J’onn could see it: they were all sharper than when they’d walked in.

“Oh look, it’s Papa Bear!”

The voice was bright, almost musical. J’onn turned just in time to be wrapped in a small but fierce hug.

Gabrielle “Gabby” Kinney beamed up at him, her arms squeezing his middle. Behind her, Jonathan the pet wolverine trailed with snuffling grunts, his claws clicking faintly on the polished floor.

J’onn let out a soft chuckle and returned the embrace, his hand stroking her back in slow, calming motions. “Hello, Gabby. How are you fitting in?”

She leaned back just enough to look up at him, all wide eyes and too-sharp smile. Since she and Jonathan had shown up, she’d attached herself to him like a barnacle. To her, he seemed to be something between a granddad and a guardian spirit. He didn’t mind. She was… refreshing. Chaotic, yes, but earnest in a way the world rarely was anymore.

“I’m doing good,” Gabby said brightly. “I had one of your agents looking for my dad and my sister, but no luck so far.” Her gaze flicked to the glowing wall of breach data, then back to Winn, Banner, and Lena locked in their furious brainstorming. “Think they can do it? Close all those?”

“Yes,” J’onn answered without hesitation. His voice was steady as stone, even if doubt lingered in the corners of his mind. “If anyone can, it is them.”

Gabby nodded like that settled it. “Cool. Guess I’ll go bug Tasky again. He hates it when I call him that.”

Jonathan chittered and waddled after her, tail swishing.

J’onn watched them go, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. For all the chaos, for all the scars left by Hydra and the Breaches, there was still family here. Still hope. And he intended to protect it.

Chapter Text

A dying timeline

Iris West stood still for once in the last five hours. Her chest heaved, lungs burning as if she’d sprinted a marathon that never ended. The air reeked of ozone and smoke; the skies flashed with fire as new breaches tore jagged wounds through the atmosphere. The world was raining death and destruction, the sound of crumbling cities like a drumbeat in her skull.

She could not be everywhere at once. God knew she had tried—racing across continents, pulling people from collapsing towers, dragging soldiers out of Hydra firelines—but speed had its limits when the war itself stretched across a planet. And the strain was showing on her mind and body both. Every vibration of her muscles screamed that she was burning her candle down to the stub.

It had started with Erica.

Erica grabbing a wounded Bryce, clutching her sister like a lifeline, and then leaping headlong into the breach. Her choice. Her sacrifice.

But Iris knew it wasn’t just courage. Erica had seen the vision too.

The vision of the Dark-verse.

A timeline where Bryce didn’t make it back. Where Bryce was twisted, broken, swallowed into the orbit of something worse than Hydra, worse than Red Skull, worse than anything Iris had ever dreamed. An evil mastermind that was almost a force of nature, wearing a grin cut across a nightmare: the Batman Who Laughs.

Iris still woke with her heart hammering at the memory of his voice echoing across the vision—like razors scraping inside her skull. In that timeline, Bryce was his apprentice. His weapon. His herald.

And now, Bryce was gone.

Erica had taken her, and in doing so, ripped the path off the board. That evil timeline wouldn’t come to pass—Bryce was spared from it. Iris understood that, even respected it. But the price…

With Bryce removed from this world, there was no longer a deterrent. The Batman Who Laughs had no tether, no reason to glance their way. But the breaches didn’t care. The cracks kept spreading, and through them poured nightmares and armies, each worse than the last.

Iris clenched her fists, a vibration humming under her skin as the Speed Force demanded to be unleashed. Run. Fix. Save. That was all she’d ever known. But this time, saving one life had doomed millions.

Fair? No.

The thought turned her stomach, but she couldn’t shake it.

Her gaze dropped to the horizon, where the sky was boiling, twisted into impossible shapes by the newest breach. If only she had the Time Book—the relic Erica had stolen in her desperation. Maybe then she could untangle this knot. Undo what was done.

But without it?

She was running blind into the end of the world.

The end was coming.

The breaches weren’t just tearing across the skyline anymore—they were consuming everything. Whole city blocks blinked out of existence in flashes of distortion, leaving yawning wastelands of nothing. The sound wasn’t thunder, though it rumbled like it: it was the collapse of reality itself.

Iris West was already running, legs blurring into streaks of crimson lightning as she dodged debris that had been a skyscraper seconds before. She could hear screams—people crying out for help as the ground vanished beneath them—but she couldn’t be everywhere at once. The Speed Force burned inside her veins, pulling her faster, faster, faster. But no matter how fast she went, the breaches opened faster still.

She skidded to a stop on what had been a wide avenue. Now it was a ledge. Beyond it: nothing. To her left, the world was folding in on itself, jagged edges of broken sky. To her right, another breach opened, sucking a street of parked cars into a maelstrom of unreality.

Nowhere left to go. This was the end.

“Hey, Red?”

The voice snapped her head upward.

“Red, you there?”

Iris blinked against the glaring light of a descending craft. It wasn’t like any Earth ship—sleek, curved, alive somehow, its hull pulsing faintly with energy like a heartbeat. A hatch swung open near its belly, and a young woman leaned out, one hand braced on the frame, the other extended down toward her.

“Come on!” the stranger shouted, her voice urgent but steady.

Iris didn’t hesitate. She leapt, crimson lightning flaring, and their hands met. The woman yanked her upward with surprising strength just as the avenue below was devoured by an incoming breach. The world she had stood on seconds before was gone, nothing left but the hollow silence of un-space.

“Ship, gun it!” the woman barked, dragging Iris fully inside as the hatch slammed shut.

The ship responded with a low, resonant hum, like a voice echoing through the walls. “Engaging evasive protocols. Hold tight.”

Iris stumbled, catching herself against the living wall as gravity shifted beneath her feet. The ship lurched, banking hard as another breach opened right across their path.

The stranger smirked, breathless, brushing back a lock of short brown hair. “Name’s Kitty. Kitty Pryde. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Iris managed a shaky laugh, still catching her breath. “Iris West. Flash.” She glanced back at the sealed hatch, the echo of screams and collapsing reality still ringing in her ears. “Did… did we just leave them all down there?”

Kitty’s smile faded. “I saved as many as I could fit before I found you. Ship and I—we can only do so much.” She leaned a hand against the wall, and the surface rippled, warm and almost skin-like. “She’s alive, you know. Ship. She doesn’t leave people behind easy.”

“Statement accurate,” Ship’s voice rumbled again, deeper this time, a strange mix of comfort and authority. “Casualties are unavoidable. Preservation of remaining life is priority.”

Kitty gave a grim nod. “We can’t save Earth-11. It’s gone. The breaches are… they’re everywhere now. But maybe we can find where they lead.”

The ship banked again, and Iris caught sight of it through the forward viewport: another breach, larger than the others, pulsing like a wound in the fabric of existence. It drew them in, dragging at Ship’s hull with unseen gravity.

“Ship,” Kitty said, jaw tight. “Take us through.”

“Acknowledged.”

The ship dove, light flaring across its living surface as it angled toward the breach. Iris braced herself, lightning crackling faintly around her as the tearing void swallowed them whole.

And behind them, Earth-11 shuddered once—then was gone.

^&^

They broke through the breach with a shuddering ripple, Ship’s living hull flexing against the turbulence until—suddenly—it was over.

A wide-open night sky stretched before them. Stars. Clouds. Familiar gravity. The broken, howling void of Earth-11 was gone.

Kitty exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She reached for the wall beside her, fingers brushing the warm, faintly pulsing surface of the starship’s interior. “Ship, stealth mode, please. I don’t feel like explaining how we showed up with a full-on spaceship. Or anything else, really. We need cover, food, rest, and intel. In that order.”

“Cloak engaged,” Ship replied, her tone dry, like a mother humorously indulging a messy child. “Although, technically, you’ve been smuggling people across collapsing universes. A spaceship is the least of your explanations.”

Kitty smirked faintly. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” She turned to Iris, who was still steadying herself from the ride. “So, Miss West, you’re a cape too? I guess I forgot to add that last part to my rescue speech. Kitty Pryde. Shadowcat. I’m what my Earth called a mutant. I’ve got an X-gene.”

Iris leaned back against the wall, her lightning aura flickering faintly across her skin before settling. She let out a tired, almost bitter laugh. “Cool. In my old world—” Her voice caught, the word old landing like a stone in her throat. “We called them metas. I’m one of them too. So… no worries here.”

Kitty softened, recognizing the grief threaded through the speedster’s casual tone. She didn’t press it. Not now.

“Great,” Kitty continued, shifting the subject. “Ship and I managed to pick up about twenty other people on the way out. Mostly women and kids. They’re safe, settled in the back hall for now.”

Iris straightened at that, relief washing over her features. “You… you really got them out?”

Kitty nodded. “Not all. Not nearly enough. But some.”

The two women exchanged a look—mutual understanding in the silence between them. Survivors. Carriers of weight they couldn’t set down yet.

“On a practical note,” Ship interjected, her voice resonating smoothly through the chamber. “Stealth field is holding. No known radar signatures have clocked us. However—”

Kitty groaned. “There’s always a ‘however.’”

“However,” Ship continued, almost smugly, “I am monitoring global broadcasts. Most networks are distracted with the ongoing breach crisis. But a local agency—designation DEO—has flagged a report of a ‘strange alien monster’ emerging from a tear near the city.”

Kitty’s shoulders stiffened. She glanced at Iris, then back at the glowing nodes in the wall where Ship’s voice resonated strongest. “Uh huh. And what city would that be, exactly?”

There was the faintest pause, as though Ship took some pleasure in the reveal. “Gotham City, of course.”

Iris blinked. “…Wait. Gotham?”

Kitty groaned again, dragging a hand down her face. “Oh, fantastic. Out of all the places in this world, we had to land next door to the grimmest, most cape-infested city in comic history.”

“On the bright side,” Ship added with a maternal lilt, “if your goal was to find intel, Gotham appears to collect more costumed vigilantes per square mile than any other city. I imagine someone there has answers. Or at least broods artistically while pretending to.”

Iris couldn’t help it—she laughed, though it came out cracked and tired. “I think I like your ship, Kitty.”

“Yeah,” Kitty said, patting the wall as if she were patting the shoulder of an old friend. “She grows on you. Whether you want her to or not.”

“Correct,” Ship replied serenely. “And don’t forget, I can shrink to the size of a matchbox if needed. Although, I must say, it would be undignified.”

“Ship,” Kitty muttered with a smirk, “don’t tempt me.”

The three of them—mutant, speedster, and sentient starship—hung there in the night sky cloaked in silence, Gotham’s distant lights flickering below, and the knowledge heavy on their shoulders: Earth-11 was gone. But the fight wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

They came down into Gotham like a whisper.

Kitty Pride folded her shoulders into the cheap hood of a thrift-store jacket and hugged her duffel close. Iris West kept her eyes forward, breath steady—no speed blur, only the faint, telltale prickling of residual lightning around her palms. They moved like civilians: low heads, compact strides, two strangers in a city that mistrusted strangers.

Ship did the obvious thing. With a sound like a soft sigh and the tiniest shimmer of internal light, she contracted until she was no bigger than a matchbox car. Kitty slid the little thing into an inside pocket of her duffel, fingers pressing the cool metal shell against fabric. The ship’s voice was a warm hum in her ear through the pocket’s comm node.

“All aboard are secure. I will maintain stealth frequency and local camouflage. If anyone kicks me, I will be quite offended.”

Iris glanced down and smiled despite herself. “You know how to be subtle,” she murmured.

“One must develop the art of subtlety,” Ship replied, “when one has the emotional range of half a supernova.”

They passed under a concrete overpass where the light thinned to a sickly sodium glow. Garbage burned in a barrel, and someone had spray-painted a ragged Rav-Tech symbol over a billboard advertising better times. The air tasted like iron and ozone and the kind of tired that stuck to your bones. Gotham wore its noir like armor—stone-faced gargoyles, alleys that hunched, storefronts braced with steel.

Kitty kept a hand near the duffel, near the tiny heartbeat of Ship tucked against her ribs. She didn’t exactly blend in—her hair had that easy defiant halo, and there was the posture of someone who knew how to handle trouble. But she had learned to walk small in crowded cities. Ghosting through, phase-ready if a corner turned wrong.

A pair of patrol officers—armored, cameras blinking at their temple rigs—rounded the corner. Their eyes caught on Iris because the speedster moved like she had places to go. The taller officer straightened, the other thumbed a scanner.

“Evening,” the taller one called, voice flat. “ID and travel papers.”

Kitty’s heart did a little tilt. Routine stops could either be a nuisance or a spiral. She gave a polite smile and produced a battered ID—fake to the nth degree, layered with Ship’s quiet forgery help. Iris handed over her own, fingers steady. The officer scanned. A light pinged green. He hesitated a breath, then handed the device back.

“You two won’t be causing trouble?” he asked. Expectation lodged in the words.

“Nope,” Iris said, every syllable calm. “Just looking for a place to sleep.”

The officer’s eyes lingered on Iris for a beat longer than it should have. She felt it—the way Gotham’s watchers watched. When the scanner beeped clean, the officers shrugged and moved on, radio chatter folding into the overpass like smoke.

They let out the breath together once the patrol rounded the corner.

“You okay?” Kitty asked.

Iris forced a grin. “I am. I’m tired, but—okay.”

They threaded through a market street where vendors had turned their wares inward, tarps draped against the cold and the chaos. Someone sold steaming dumplings in a styrofoam box, the smell of soy and spice cutting through the city’s rot. Kitty bought two and handed one to Iris, who accepted gratefully.

“We have people on board,” Ship said through the pocket again, quieter now. “They are warm. They are safe for the next while. I shall remain miniature and smug.”

Kitty laughed softly. “Just don’t get run over. I don’t want to have to explain a flattened sentient starship to the DEO.”

“I will consider the humiliation,” Ship replied. “And will update my memoirs accordingly.”

They moved toward the older district, where the buildings leaned like conspirators and the lamplight turned windows into pinpricks. Posters plastered to brick warned of curfews and checkpoints; other flyers advertised community kitchens—two truths of a city that both closed its doors and fed its wounded.

At an alley mouth, Kitty paused. A small crowd pressed into the narrow slice of street ahead: protestors, refugees, and a scattering of opportunists. A man with a megaphone shouted about Rav-Tech profiteering; a woman clutched her child and stared at the sky as if memorizing its shape in case she had to sew it back together.

“Eyes on the roofs,” Iris said, instinct folding into speech. Her voice carried no speed—just practiced calm. “I’ll sweep once. If anyone is tailing us, I’ll feel it.”

She stepped forward, tiny taut sparks licking the hem of her sleeves as she scanned—quick, low, a motion that was almost a supernatural nod. The breeze dragged the scent of frying oil and smoke past them. Kitty watched her, something like awe folding through the fatigue.

A shadow slid along the building line high above—too smooth to be a bird. Kitty's hand went to the zipper of the duffel, Ship whispering a suggestion into her ear.

“Shall I enlarge and scan? Or remain an adorable supercar and let you handle the grunt work?”

Kitty slid her palm inside and felt the matchbox pulse under her skin. She closed her hand around it and let Ship’s tiny heart sync with hers for a second.

“Keep small,” she decided. “We don’t want to draw attention.”

Iris’s eyes narrowed at the roofline, then she relaxed, the white crackle of her hair dimming. “False shadow,” she said. “Roof patrol. Probably local militia—guns, not metas.”

“Good,” Kitty said quietly. “Fewer variables.”

They moved through the crowd. People glanced but looked away again, proof that Gotham’s residents had learned to watch without hope. They were ghosts who needed each other. The city smelled of danger, but also of resilience—burned ends of cigarettes, hot dumplings, perfumes that tried too hard.

A figure stepped from the marketplace’s darker seam, hood pulled up, face in shadow. The motion was small—an attempt to pickpocket a phone—but the city had eyes. The figure froze when Iris’s hand brushed the air, not in a flash but in a careful, deliberate sweep. There was a flinch, the theft aborted, the would-be thief backing away.

“Not here,” Iris said, voice soft but absolute.

The figure melted back into the crowd, and a dozen other stray hands retreated. Kitty let herself smile—small, private—at how the speedster could move the city without having to move fast.

“Okay,” Iris said. “We find somewhere to lay low. Contact Batwoman and see who’s the least unhinged. Or the most useful.” She flicked the dumpling wrapper into a trash and felt the small comfort of a normal gesture.

Kitty nodded, shoulders easing. “Right. I know a place with a back room and a guy who owes me a favor. If we can get the people settled, I’ll call Ship to expand into a micro-haven. She’s got provisions.”

“And a moral center,” Ship added primly, “and a rather alarming repertoire of lullabies.”

Iris chuckled, and the laugh was a small, human thing. For a moment, between breath and motion, the two of them were just two women carrying survivors through a city that lived by its scars. Above them, Gotham’s gargoyles watched with stone patience. Below, the breaches arced their hungry mouths across the sky.

They stepped off the main street and into the deeper shadows, where plan and promise could be sketched in whispered words. Ship thumped faintly against Kitty’s ribs, a small companion heartbeat against the night.

Some nights the world felt like a thing you could fix; some nights it felt like the thing that fixed you. Tonight, with a shrunken starship in her pocket and a speedster by her side, Kitty chose to believe they could try.

Gotham Refugee Zone Scene

Gotham wasn’t on fire, not technically, but it wore ruin like a second skin. Smoke clung to the skyline where breaches had spit monsters into the Narrows two nights ago. Every block looked like a temporary shelter—burn barrels, jury-rigged tarps, kids wrapped in threadbare coats while parents bartered ration packs.

Kitty tugged her hood lower and hugged the strap of her duffel close. The pocket where Ship sat—miniature and humming faintly—was warm against her ribs. Beside her, Iris moved like she’d already mapped ten exit routes, eyes scanning, shoulders coiled. The problem was, Iris moved too fast even when she was walking. Gothamites noticed.

Heads turned. People stared, gauged them, then looked away again. This city didn’t trust strangers, not until you’d bled in front of them.

“Subtle,” Kitty muttered under her breath.

Iris huffed. “This is me subtle.”

“Mmhm.” Kitty’s gaze flicked to a wall where someone had painted over bloodstains with a Rav-Tech symbol. The cover-up only made the streaks more obvious.

Two blocks deeper, the signs sharpened—bullet casings scattered like breadcrumbs, burn marks spider-webbing brick, a gouge clawed deep into a steel dumpster. The air tasted of cordite and rot.

“Ship,” Kitty whispered, hand brushing the duffel. “Talk to me.”

The ship’s voice purred softly through the pocket comm. “Residual breach energy detected. You’re walking toward where one opened hours ago. Probability of hostiles: sixty-two percent.”

“Comforting,” Kitty said.

They cut through an alley where a barrel fire lit half a dozen men and women in patchwork armor. Hockey pads. Riot shields. Gotham’s own brand of vigilante. The tallest stepped forward, pipe resting across his shoulder.

“You’re new,” he said flatly. “New’s a problem.”

Kitty stopped, one hand on her strap. Iris shifted at her side, ready without moving.

“Relax,” Kitty said. “We’re just passing through.”

“Funny,” another said, his mask fogged with sweat. “Passing through when monsters are crawling out of shadows?” He raised his chin. “Empty your bag. Nobody hides weapons in my district.”

Kitty’s stomach tightened around the duffel. No chance in hell she was flashing a shrunken sentient starship.

Before it could spiral, the air split.

A breach yawned open across the street with a sound like tearing metal. Black shapes spilled through—dog-sized but wrong, jointed limbs flexing, jaws dripping acid hiss. The makeshift vigilantes broke instantly, shouts turning to screams as the first wave hit.

“Move!” Iris barked, and then she was gone in a crackle of crimson lightning. Civilians vanished from the monsters’ path, pulled away by a blur of red and gold.

Kitty swung into action, phasing through a brick wall to drag a cowering mother and child with her, intangible until they tumbled safely into the next building. “Stay here!” she urged, before sliding back through stone like a ghost.

The creatures were fast—claws ripping into pavement, jaws snapping at shadows. One lunged for Iris mid-run, but she juked sideways in a shimmer of lightning, reappearing with two more refugees slung under her arms.

Another monster cornered one of the vigilantes, pipe raised in panic. Kitty sprinted, phased, and let the thing’s lunge pass through her. Its momentum carried it headfirst into the wall, cracking bone. The vigilante stared, stunned.

“Don’t thank me yet!” Kitty yelled, grabbing his arm and pulling him clear as another beast slashed where he’d been.

And then a sharp metallic thwip cut through the chaos. A line snapped around the creature’s neck, yanking it off-balance. A second line pinned another to the ground, electric current sizzling it twitch-still.

Batgirl dropped into the fray like she’d rehearsed it a hundred times—grapnel line snapping her down, boots striking with precision. No cape, no theatrics, just sharp, efficient strikes. A baton cracked one skull; a flashbang blinded three more.

“On your left!” she called, voice clipped. Iris spun in time to slam a creature into the pavement with a speed-blurred kick.

Kitty ducked another swipe, phased through its chest, and let her arm solidify just enough to hurl it backward. “Not bad,” she muttered, catching the way Batgirl flowed—minimal wasted motion, all grit and tech.

From Kitty’s pocket came a dry observation: “Direct but effective. I approve. Although the costume design is less… majestic than one might expect.”

Kitty almost choked on a laugh. “Not the time, Ship.”

Minutes later, the last of the creatures hissed, convulsed, and collapsed in a smoking heap. Silence fell, broken only by the vigilantes’ ragged breathing and the crackle of the burn barrel.

Batgirl straightened, batons retracting to her belt. Her sharp gaze flicked from Kitty to Iris, lingering on the duffel at Kitty’s side.

“You’re not locals,” she said flatly. “And that tech? It’s way beyond anything Gotham lets through customs.”

Iris lifted her chin. “We saved people. That’s what matters.”

Batgirl didn’t blink. “It matters. But so does why you’re here.”

Before Kitty could answer, armored DEO trucks rolled up, tires screeching, agents fanning out with containment gear. Too late to fight, just in time to claim the cleanup.

Kitty and Iris eased back into shadow, listening.

“…breach signature is deliberate,” one agent muttered into his comm. “Pattern matches other sites. This isn't a random spread—it’s being directed.”

Another voice crackled back: “Cadmus sightings confirmed near Metropolis breach. Orders are to monitor and report. No public disclosure.”

Kitty and Iris locked eyes.

Ship hummed low in her pocket. “Directed breaches. Cadmus resurfaced. That, my girls, is what we call a complication.”

Batgirl’s Offer

The safehouse wasn’t much—an old brownstone carved into compartments with reinforced locks and a comm hub tucked in the basement—but it was clean and it was quiet. Batgirl dropped them at the front door with only a curt nod.

“You need food. Showers. Rest,” she said, tone sharp but not unkind. “This place is warded against breach residue. No one gets in without me.” Her eyes cut between Kitty and Iris, suspicious but measured. “I’ll be back in four hours. When I return… I expect answers.”

No time for argument—her grapnel hissed, and she was gone into Gotham’s night.

Inside, the safehouse felt almost alien compared to the streets outside. Stocked supplies, clean sheets, water that actually ran hot. Kitty leaned against the wall, duffel hugged tight. Iris had already thrown herself onto the couch, boots still on, looking like she was vibrating just trying to hold still.

Kitty groaned. “You’re impossible.”

“Hungry,” Iris corrected.

“Already?” Kitty raised a brow.

Iris’s stomach answered with a growl loud enough to make Ship snicker from the duffel.

“Speed metabolism,” Ship chimed smugly. “At this rate, she’ll eat Gotham out of canned beans before sunrise.”

“Beans? Please,” Iris shot back, already raiding the pantry. “I saw pasta.”

By the time Kitty got her shower in, Iris had assembled something that looked like three meals smashed together on one plate. When Kitty returned, towel-drying her hair, Iris was on her second round, shoveling forkfuls with a grin.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said through a mouthful. “Fuel is life.”

Kitty just shook her head and collapsed onto the bed, exhaustion finally winning.

Chapter Text

Meanwhile at the DEO

Alex Danvers moved like someone who finally trusted her team. Taskmaster’s brutal training had sharpened the new recruits, and tonight was their first unsupervised sweep. She stood with arms folded, watching them run drills across the training floor—Maggie whistling encouragement, Briana calling out corrections.

“They’ll be good,” Alex said, half to herself. “Not Kara good, but good.”

Kara, leaning against the wall with a cup of coffee, smiled faintly. “I don’t need a whole army of me. Just people who’ve got each other’s backs.”

Erica sparred in the corner with Bryce, both of them laughing as fists flew.

It was… a rare night off. But the DEO never truly slept. And when comm chatter mentioned Cadmus’ fingerprints near breach sites, Alex’s face hardened immediately.

“Cadmus?” Maggie asked, reading her expression. “Thought they were dead and buried.”

“They were,” Alex said. “Which means either someone’s resurrecting their files… or we missed the real monster in the dark.”

National City in a DEO base.

Cat Grant, queen of sharp words and sharper heels, adjusted her sunglasses as she sat across from Tony Masters in the DEO’s civilian lounge.

“You’re telling me,” Cat drawled, “that the government’s most dangerous trainer, the man who can copy anyone’s fighting style, refuses to leave his base?”

Tony smirked, arms crossed, utterly at ease. “I’m a homebody. Sue me.”

Cat tilted her head, smirking right back. “Oh, believe me, darling, I’d never sue a man with that particular résumé. But I do like my men… versatile. Tell me, can you copy how a gentleman treats a lady at dinner?”

Tony’s grin widened. “You’ll have to invite me to find out.”

The DEO Command Hub

Lillian Luthor stood alone at a console, staring at the Cadmus files. Her lips pressed into a thin, pale line.

“Not me,” she muttered to herself. “Not this time.”

Behind her, whispers already started—agents side-eyeing her, wondering if the founder had finally come full circle.

Lillian’s hands tightened on the console. The irony was bitter—her life’s work hijacked, her loyalty in question.

When Lena stepped in, Lillian didn’t look up.

“They’re using my name,” she said flatly. “My Cadmus. And I’ll burn the bastards who think they can.”

Lena watched her carefully, torn between suspicion and something closer to pity.

DEO Command Hub – Evening

The command floor buzzed with quiet chatter and the hum of too many screens. Agents pretended not to glance at Lillian Luthor, standing stiff as stone at her console, but the whispers were impossible to miss.

Then—

“Helloooo, DEO, did you miss me?!”

Heads turned as Wanda Willison, Lady Deadpool twirled her way through the blast doors like she was arriving at a party instead of a military base. She went straight for the Luthors, voice bright as sugar.

“My favorite Luthors! What’s shaking?” she chimed.

“Wanda. Hello,” Lena said evenly, as though this sort of entrance were perfectly normal.

Lillian looked up, eyes narrowing at the strange woman who had once thrown herself between her and death.

“Mom!” Wanda beamed, wrapping her arms around Lillian before the elder Luthor could react.

Lillian stiffened. “Why do you call me that?!” Her tone was halfway between offense and confusion.

“Well, my woman’s sister is your daughter,” Wanda explained, dead serious in her cheer. “So that makes you my mom. It’s just logical.”

“Wanda, no,” Lena sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “That’s not how family trees work.”

“Fine,” Wanda said, undeterred. “Then I’m adopting her as my mom. Problem solved.” She winked.

Before Lillian could reply, Winn slid into the seat beside her console, tapping rapidly on a keyboard.

“That would work,” he offered casually. “I mean, hell, I got abducted into the DEO family, and nobody gave me adoption papers.” He grinned up at Lillian. “Don’t worry about the side-eye.” He tilted his head toward the whispering agents. “People are scared. Times aren’t helping. If it ever gets to be too much…”

“I can handle myself,” Lillian cut in coldly.

“Oh, I know,” Winn said, completely unfazed. “You’ve got that cold-blooded Luthor thing going strong. I’m just saying—if you ever need IT support or, y’know, a friend to vent at, my door’s open.” He gave her a little salute and dove back into code.

Lillian blinked at him, unsettled by his earnestness. “…Strange,” she muttered, glancing at Lena, who was still arguing with the self-appointed “daughter-in-law.”

And, for the first time in longer than she cared to admit, Lillian chuckled softly.

Up on the command platform, J’onn J’onzz had been observing in silence, lips twitching faintly at the absurd family drama playing out below.

Beside him, Gabby tugged on his sleeve, eyes wide at the scrolling breach reports. “So… will I get to go with Agent Danvers next time? I like to go play too!” she asked in her childlike sing-song voice.

J’onn looked down at her, patient and kind. “Perhaps,” he said. “But only if you listen. Playtime can be very dangerous.”

Gabby giggled, unbothered. “I’m a good listener.”

For J’onn, it was hard to tell if that was comforting—or another problem waiting to happen.

Gotham — Four Hours Later

The safehouse smelled faintly of mildew and gun oil. Gotham’s idea of hospitality. Kitty sat cross-legged on the couch, hair still damp from the shower, her boots lined neatly by the wall. Iris was sprawled in an armchair across from her, devouring her third sandwich like she hadn’t eaten in a week. Ship, shrunk to the size of a housecat, perched on the coffee table in a form that was half-drone, half-toy, humming softly in a way that made the lightbulbs flicker.

“Subtle,” Kitty muttered.

“Stealth mode is boring,” Ship replied dryly, her tone carrying that sharp maternal edge Kitty had grown used to. “Besides, your speedster friend eats like a black hole. The local power grid is lucky I’m not raiding it just to keep up.”

Kitty bit back a laugh. Iris shot Ship a glare but kept chewing.

The sound of boots on the stairwell snapped the levity. Gotham made people paranoid, and Kitty had her phasing hand already pressed to the couch frame before the door lock clicked.

Batgirl entered like a storm contained in red hair and Kevlar. Her cowl was tucked at her side, eyes sharp, steps measured. Behind her, Catwoman slipped in with the ease of a shadow—black leather, a smirk that said she’d already cataloged the room’s weaknesses.

“You two made quite the splash,” Batgirl said without preamble, scanning Kitty and Iris like she was building a profile in real time. “Phasing civilians through walls. Running evac routes no one else could. Gotham doesn’t take kindly to strangers.”

Iris swallowed the last bite of sandwich, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and lifted her chin. “Yeah, well, we don’t exactly have a travel brochure for dimensional refugees.”

Catwoman leaned against the wall, arms folded, smirk widening. “She’s feisty. I like her. But Babs is right—new faces drop out of glowing rifts, people get nervous. Especially when those rifts keep spitting out teeth and claws.”

Kitty raised her hands, calm but firm. “We didn’t cause the breaches. We’re trying to stop them. Or at least keep people alive until someone smarter than us figures it out.”

Batgirl’s gaze narrowed. “Then tell me—how did you come through? Who else is following?”

The silence stretched. Ship’s drone-form pulsed faintly, and Kitty felt the protective flare behind it—Ship didn’t trust these Gotham natives any more than they trusted her.

Iris broke it first, voice low but steady. “We don’t know who else. But if you think the aliens are bad now? It can get worse. Whole worlds worse.”

Batgirl didn’t flinch, but Catwoman’s smirk dimmed just slightly.

“Then Gotham,” Batgirl said flatly, “is running out of time.”

Net — Aya’s First Voice

Deep beneath the DEO, Lena’s private terminal flickered. A line of code ran across the screen, then dissolved. She frowned, fingers pausing above the keys.

hello…

Her jaw tightened. No DEO system greeted her like that.

Mother. I am lost. how do you know who you are?

The text crawled across in uneven bursts, as if typed by an unsteady hand. Lena’s blood ran cold.

“Winn,” she called, tone sharper than she intended.

He jogged over, still chewing on something. “What’s up?”

She angled the screen toward him. “Do you see this?”

The screen went blank. Only her reflection stared back.

Winn tapped a few keys, ran a trace, shook his head. “There’s nothing. No packets. No sender. Like it never happened.”

Lena smoothed her expression, though her chest was tight. “Then maybe I imagined it.”

But she hadn’t. And worse—there had been something familiar in the tone. Childlike at first, almost lost, but shifting at the end into something colder. Clinical. A cadence she knew all too well.

Her own family’s cadence.

Gotham — Closing Beat

The safehouse was heavy with silence after Batgirl and Catwoman’s questions. Kitty wanted to believe trust could be built, but Gotham felt like a city where hope was rationed out by the teaspoon.

Then Ship’s drone-form snapped upright, panels flaring. “Incoming breach spike,” she announced, voice sharper than usual. “Too close.”

The walls shuddered as a sound like tearing metal split the night. Iris was already on her feet, lightning twitching at her fingertips. Through the cracked blinds, the sky outside split open with violet light, and the first alien chitter echoed down the street.

Batgirl cursed under her breath, pulling her cowl into place. Catwoman’s smirk was gone now, replaced by a grim line.

“Looks like story time’s over,” Kitty muttered, already phasing her hands through the floor to check for weak points.

The breach widened, shadows spilling teeth and claws into Gotham’s streets.

Cut to black.