Chapter Text
The place had no defined shape, yet it imposed itself as something absolute.
There were no walls, no ceiling, no horizon. Only a space far too vast to be natural, filled with a pale, unmoving light, as if time itself had been suspended at that exact point in existence. The floor seemed solid and translucent at once, reflecting soft shadows—not perfect mirrors, but echoes of the presences gathered there.
The air was neither cold nor warm.
Even so, it weighed heavily.
It was the kind of weight that was not felt on the body, but in the chest, like the expectation of something inevitable.
Denki Kaminari was the first to notice that there was no sound at all. No wind. No other breathing. Only the sound of his own heart, beating far too fast for someone pretending to be calm. The electricity beneath his skin stirred restlessly, with nowhere to go, trapped in a body that did not know how to release the excess.
Beside him, Fuyumi Todoroki stood upright, hands clasped in front of her, like someone accustomed to maintaining composure even when everything threatened to collapse. Her face was serene, but her eyes betrayed constant vigilance—the attentiveness of someone who had spent years anticipating crises before they happened.
Other figures occupied the space, arranged with almost deliberate precision.
Giyuu Tomioka stood slightly apart from the center, his rigid posture contrasting with the vastness around him. His neutral expression concealed something deeper than coldness: exhaustion. An old exhaustion, accumulated through prolonged silences and survivals never celebrated.
Not far from him, James Buchanan Barnes distributed his weight carefully, like a soldier who never fully abandons readiness. His eyes analyzed everything—distances, angles, possible movements. His metal arm reflected the light in an impersonal, almost clinical way.
Loki Laufeyson observed in silence. There was no smile on his face, no ready sarcasm. His green eyes moved slowly between the others, attentive to reactions, pauses, invisible tensions. It was the gaze of someone who understands stories—especially the ones that end badly.
A little farther away, Michelangelo leaned on one leg, his body relaxed to an unnatural degree. The lightness was a conscious choice. His eyes, however, were alert, recording everything with the precision of someone who had learned to protect others before himself.
Douxie Casperan remained still, Archie perched on his shoulder. There was something deeply weary in the way he breathed, like someone who had lived through too many variations of this moment across a life that was far too long. Archie watched in silence, sensing the weight of the place with the sensitivity of one who recognizes ancient magic.
Nearby, Varian seemed small within that excessively vast space. His fingers moved restlessly, as if searching for invisible tools. His eyes shone with curiosity, but also with unease—the awareness that intelligence would not protect him here.
Nait and Tonigon stood close together, attentive not to the people, but to the invisible structure of the place. Creators recognize intention. And this space had been built with one.
Finally, slightly apart from the adults, stood Louie Duck.
He was only eleven years old.
His small body looked out of place there, like something fragile placed in a setting that demanded far too much maturity. His arms were crossed in a clear attempt to appear bigger, more confident, more in control than he truly felt. His eyes, however, were not childish. They observed everything with calculated care—not curiosity, but vigilance.
Like someone who had learned far too early to anticipate problems.
Then, the voice spoke.
It did not come from above, nor from ahead.
It seemed to rise from the space itself.
> “Before you observe each other’s lives,”
“you must exist here.”
The silence that followed grew even heavier.
Giyuu Tomioka was the first to break it.
He did not step forward. He did not gesture. He simply raised his gaze.
“My name is Giyuu Tomioka.” His voice was firm, controlled, devoid of warmth. “I am twenty-one years old.”
Fuyumi inhaled slowly before speaking.
“Fuyumi Todoroki. Twenty-three.” Her voice was soft, yet sustained by conviction.
Denki felt the knot in his throat before he even spoke.
“Denki Kaminari. Sixteen.” His voice faltered for just a moment.
The soft sound of shifting metal echoed when Bucky spoke.
“James Buchanan Barnes.” His voice was low, trained not to shake. “One hundred and six.”
Loki inclined his head slightly.
“Loki Laufeyson.” His voice was clear, restrained. “One thousand five hundred and sixty-four Asgardian years—though on Midgard, I believe I am twenty-five.”
Michelangelo stepped forward.
“Michelangelo. Fifteen.” His voice was calm. “Also—just checking—does anyone here have pizza?”
Douxie placed a hand on Archie’s shoulder, smiling faintly at the comment.
“Douxie Casperan.” The name carried centuries. “I am nine hundred and nineteen years old, and I am immortal.”
The word fell heavily into the space.
“And this is Archie, my familiar,” he added with a small smile as he introduced his companion.
Varian swallowed hard.
“Varian. Fourteen.” His voice was young, but tired.
Nait spoke without raising his voice.
“Nait.” He observed the space with critical attention. “Twenty-three years old.”
“Tonigon,” the other added. “Twenty-four.”
Louie was the last.
He waited several seconds before speaking.
“Louie Duck.” His voice was far too firm for someone so young. “I’m eleven.”
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable.
It was respectful.
The voice spoke again, as a screen of light slowly began to form before them.
> “Here, your names matter.”
“Your stories do as well.”
The light intensified.
No one looked away.
Because they all knew:
What came next would not be legends, nor glory.
They would be truths