Chapter Text
The air cracked.
For a moment, Lena thought one of her servers had blown—but no. The smell was wrong. Ozone, ash, and something wild.
And then she fell out of nowhere.
A woman hit the floor hard, dropping to her knees. Dark hair, a wild tangle. A cloak streaked with mud. Her face half-hidden—
—until she looked up.
Lena’s heart stuttered.
Green eyes.
Her eyes.
Across from her, Morgana’s gaze narrowed in perfect mirror.
They stared. One beat. Two.
Then Lena frowned, voice cool and precise.
“Alright. What the hell has Lex done this time?”
Morgana rose slowly to her full height, every inch indignant.
“I am no man’s servant. Least of all some Lex.”
“Oh, of course,” Lena said, leaning back in her chair, arms folding neatly. “Clone. Doppelgänger. Some ridiculous attempt at intimidation. I’ve seen it all before.”
Morgana bristled.
“You dare mock me? I am Morgana Pendragon—high priestess, sorceress of the Old Religion—”
Lena held up a hand.
“Spare me the cosplay résumé.”
Something in Morgana’s jaw ticked.
She muttered a sharp phrase in the Old Tongue and slammed her hand against the desk. The surface blackened instantly, wood hissing and smoking beneath her palm.
Lena went still.
Just for a moment.
Then—
“…Alright. Not Lex.”
Morgana smirked. “Finally.”
They began to circle, slow and deliberate, studying every line of face and posture like opposing reflections.
Lena took in the tangled hair, the dirt, the medieval gown. Tilted her head.
“Why the hell do you look exactly like me—only filthy? Don’t they have water where you’re from? Nice dress, though. Bit much on the cleavage.”
Morgana’s eyes flashed.
“And you look like me if a court tailor had gotten drunk and fallen in love with… steel.”
Lena’s lip curved—just shy of a smile.
Silence stretched between them, taut as wire. Two identical gazes, measuring. Weighing.
Lena folded her arms, voice smoothing into something sharper.
“You’re going to explain. Now. What spell were you casting when you landed in my office?”
Morgana lifted her chin.
“One to bring down a tyrant. To shatter his walls and rain fire on his men.”
Lena didn’t blink.
“So—terrorism. Lovely.”
“I fight for justice,” Morgana snapped, stepping forward.
Lena leaned back slightly, utterly unfazed.
“Funny. That’s exactly what every tyrant I’ve ever met says.”
For a moment, Morgana had no answer.
She was used to fear. Awe. Hatred.
Not this.
Not being understood—and dismissed anyway.
“Do you think me wicked?” she spat.
Lena’s gaze didn’t waver.
“I think you’re angry. And anger is useful—up to a point.”
A beat.
“After that, it consumes everything.”
Morgana’s hands curled into fists—but something in her faltered.
Because this—this version of her—stood in a tower of glass and steel, wielding power without fire, without blood.
And that was far more unsettling than hatred.
“We’ll go to my lab tomorrow,” Lena said briskly, already moving on. “I’ll analyze whatever energy signature dragged you here. See if I can reverse it.”
“And you’ll send me back?” Morgana asked, quieter now.
Lena’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“That depends,” she said.
“On what you’ll do when you get there.”