The first thing I was aware of was the silence. Not Earth-silence, punctuated by hum of cars or buzz of insects. This was real silence. The type that packed against your eardrums like a dense weight after the cacophony of screams and ripping flesh that had been Thragg laying me open. And then the cold. Not Chicago winter's cold, but the naked zero kiss of nothing, coming through the holes in my uniform where his fingers had punched through my backbone and belly like wet paper.
Drifting there, among the slabs of ice that were… me… was unreal. Red ice sculptures drifting in the black. My blood. My limbs. Thragg hadn't killed me; he'd fucking taken me apart. Torn my arms off, crushed my heart out of my chest cavity like squeezing rotten fruit. Trophy trash. Memory heaped in broken pieces: the impossible velocity, the contemptuous facility, the soggy pop-crunch of my broken ribs beneath the force of that fist. Yeah. Dead. Definitely dead.
Except... I was... Breathing. Thinking. Flexing fingers that shouldn't. My orange eyes picked through the wreckage field. Frozen Viltrumite bodies contorted in their last agonies like macabre ice statues of the scourge virus. I floated among them. One of them. At least for a short time, anyway. My adaptive core must have gone into hyperdrive, rebuilding me molecule by molecule from whatever space junk sludge happened to be drifting around out here or likely from itself. Kinetic absorption? No way. This was deeper. Survival re-programmed into my DNA. Felt... stronger. Tighter. As if my senses were cranked up to eleven if that were possible. I was already ridiculously powerful with senses already ridiculously potent enough.
Earth could keep its chin up for a while. Wonder Woman could take care of herself – hopefully hadn't gone full-blow scorched earth rage mode when she discovered I'd purchased it. But Anissa? Imprisoned on Talescria because Thaedus, in his infinite brilliance prior to Thragg ripping his head off whole, determined she was too wild at large? Yeah. That could not be permitted to stand. Thaedus's death… hurt. My fault? Perhaps. Arrogance that I could go up against Thragg alone? Certainly. Died in the same way the original timeline's Thaedus did: head held high by the winner. Trophy. Fuck trophies.
Talescria's Coalition HQ rose above them, a humongous building of shining metal and buzzing energy fields. Did not go through the rigmarole of salutes or docking protocols. Cannonballed through the top atmosphere barrier as if it were tissue paper, sonic boom shaking the city below. Crashed hard enough to shatter the mirror-smooth obsidian plaza just outside the central command spire. Guards sprinted, guns screaming to life. Didn't even look at them. My senses flooded outwards – a wave of raw *intent*, soaked in kinetic suggestion. *Stand down*. The force of sheer projected calm struck them like a tranquilizer dart. Guns dropped, stances relaxed. Easy.
Creaking heavy-blast doors opened just as I approached. Resonant command center within, screens flashed star charts and casualty reports. And there he stood. Allen the Alien. Taller than I recalled, shoulders wider under the Coalition leader's official tunic. The weight of leadership seemed to bear down upon him. He was hunched over a holographic display of infection levels of the scourge virus, furrowed brow, emanating exhaustion and grim resolve. And then he saw me. Felt the change in the affective noise of the room. His head jerked up. His one cycloptic eye bulged impossibly, the pupil expanding at rapid speed.
"Zandale?" The name cracked out, disbelief warring with impossible hope. His voice echoed in the sudden silence of the command center. Every tech, every soldier froze, staring.
Then Allen moved. Faster than I'd ever seen him move before. A blur of orange muscle crossing the distance in a heartbeat. He crashed into me, arms wrapping around my torso in a grip that would have shattered concrete. The raw relief emanating from him was a body wave, a warmth against the persistent void-cold encasing me. It struck my empath sense like light after a hundred years buried under earth. Frenzied and desolate joy. Grieving receding. Shock waves of unalloyed, pure gladness.
I embraced him back. Hard. Real. The faint smile came instinctively. "Miss me?"
He leaned back, holding me at arm's length, taking in the sight of me from head to toe as if he couldn't get his eye around me. He was looking at the patches of my uniform where Thragg had punched right through. "How?" The question erupted out of him, unvarnished. "Thragg… the reports… the debris field… Zandale, they confirmed you were dead. Blown to pieces!"
I shrugged, the motion feeling strong, fluid. "Adaptation, Allen. Simple and pure. Thragg was… a test." Understatement of the fucking century. "My power? Not as yours. You adapt after you're barely alive. Mine? It evades death. Adapts to whatever attempts to kill me. Instantly. Absolutely." I touched my temple. Orange eyes glowed softly. "I'd say the only way to kill me these days is to vaporize me from existence quicker than my adaptable core can re-write reality. Even then… I'd likely adapt to *that*."
Allen gazed. His one eye scanned mine, drinking in the meaning. The raw, head-spinning scope of it. That I hadn't merely lived; I'd transcended the very idea Thragg attempted to define. His face shifted from amazement to shock, and then settled into a hot, old dear grin. "Pure adaptation? Damn Z, you really are a monster." He smacked my shoulder, the blow clanging like a bell. "Back from the literal dead."
The warmth was over too quickly. I frowned. "Anissa."
Allen's smile disappeared. The burden of responsibility rested again on his shoulders. He pointed towards the elevators embedded in the distant wall. "Come on." Walking, the white corridors vibrating with tense energy, he spoke softly. "After Thragg… after you and Thaedus… the Coalition Council voted in lockstep. Order of execution. Signed, sealed." He looked at me sidelong. "Her attack on Talescria with the rest of the Viltrumites… Thaedus's murder… your murder… It was a political firestorm. They required a symbol. A Viltrumite head."
He stopped in front of a thick security door guarded by two heavily armored men with tension oozing from their skin. Their guns were cocked, trained on the floor but poised at a moment's notice. Allen gestured with his hand, a intricate Coalition sigil flashing upon a nearby console. The door slid open, showing a containment room behind. "But," Allen continued softly, regarding my face intensely, "it's clear that's not what you desire. There's… something else here."
He didn't speak it, but I could see it emanating from him: suspicion solidified as truth. That what lay between me and Anissa was more than hate. Allen was a perceptive man. He'd felt the currents before, likely written them off as impossible. Until now.
I entered. The room was scrubbed white, empty save for the bolstered containment field that pulsed at its center. Cradling Anissa.
She stood stiff as a ramrod, her back to the door. A rust-colored jumpsuit with dried blood stuck to it clung to her, her close-cut black hair standing out under the antiseptic lighting. She didn't move. Didn't flicker an eyelid. But I sensed it the instant she caught my fragrance. A hot sweep of raw, poisonous hate with something else layered on top. Shock? Awareness? Shiver beneath the sheen.
"Allen," she shot over the din of the field, cold and disdainful. "To gloat? Or to bring the hangman yourself?"
And she turned, slowly. Her blue eyes fastened on mine. The fury was there, burning hotter than a star. Pure Viltrumite fury. But underneath... underneath the stiff posture, the curled lip. I sensed the quiver in her emotional signature. Like a vibrating wire stretched to breaking point. Contempt vying with incredulity. Incredulity vying with... something harder. Blacker. More primal.
Her eyes ran over me, settling on the whole intact torso, functioning limbs. Shock turned to acid contempt. "You," she spat the word like poison. "Shouldn't be alive."
I moved forward into the containment field, not registering its hum. My orange eyes locked with hers, blue. "Death," I drawled, low and languid, piercing her poison, "isn't so much my specialty these days. Turns out I'm not so easy to keep down."
Silence hung between us. Thick. Electric. She glared, emitting raw hostility. But her silence… it wasn't indifference. It was a war zone. War lurked behind the blue eyes. Hatred, yes. But also… the recollection of teeth sunk into skin. The grey area between violence and... something more. The unspoken truth vibrating in the air between us: she hadn't wanted me gone. Not really. Not permanently. That explosive tie – born in violence, hardened in reciprocal destruction – hadn't broken. It had endured, even through resurrection and death.
Her lip curled up. "Your toughness is… infuriating." The epithet lacked its familiar bite. It sounded forced. Almost… reluctant.
A small smirk flitted across my lips. Infuriating? Yeah. But she was still standing. Still glaring at me with that tangled blend of anger and fascination. The order of execution hung over us, a death warrant signed by the Coalition. But seeing Anissa, sensing the raving maelstrom of her emotions behind the veil of rage – rage that was, curiously, an anchor – I knew this. I was not going to lose her. She was mine. She was my responsibility. My complication. My explosive start.
"Get used to it," I told her, my tone calm with a conviction hard-won. "Because I'm not leaving. Neither are you."
Her eyes narrowed, suspicion struggling with something impenetrable. The silence grew heavy with unspoken past and promise of a future we could not choose but were both now helplessly bound by. The delicate spark had caught fire. We merely now had to wait and see if it would incinerate or annihilate everything.
Allen gazed at us, his slit cycloptic eye unleashing a combination of fear and begrudging comprehension. He knew. He'd seen the expression in my face. He understood that execution was not occurring. Not on this day. Not with Anissa and me engaged in this wordless, lethal pas de deux. The Coalition Council would be displeased. But Allen was the new master. And he owed me one. Bigtime.
---
The Coalition uniform was stiff, foreign. Nolan's look, yes – the dark grey armor, but with the reinforced orange boots. The orange cape was heavier than it appeared, waving less as I strode Allen's large office. Through the window that stretched from floor to floor, Talescria's sun painted long shadows across the city.
Allen sat back in Thaedus's chair, fingers locked. Leadership weighed on him, and it was apparent in tension around his eye. "The Council," he said bluntly, "isn't going to move. They regard her as Viltrumite poison. Thaedus's death, your 'death', the attack… it's all tied to her."
"They look at a symbol," I explained, halting my pacing. "They need someone to blame. That truth is that killing her.. changes nothing. Thragg lives and is likely on Earth. Thaedus is killed. I," I pounded my chest, "am far from dead. Executing Anissa? It's just… wasteful."
Allen scoffed. "Wasteful? She attempted to destroy Talescria, Zandale! She's Viltrumite royalty! Pureblood warrior caste!"
"And Nolan was the Viltrumites' Chosen One," I shot back, forearms planted on his desk. "He murdered billions. Destroyed worlds. But then he got the opportunity. Found a cause to atone. On Earth. Why not Anissa? Here?"
Allen's face contorted. "Nolan had Mark. Had Debbie. Had… humanity to keep him in check. What does Anissa have?"
"Me." The word hung. Weighty. Final.
Allen looked at me. Hard. His empathy was not like mine, a constant stream of sensory information, but he was attuned. He could sense the power emanating from me. The sheer conviction. The… possession. "You?" he said slowly. "You think you can be Nolan to her Debbie? Or Mark? Zandale… she despises you."
"It's not hate," I said more softly. "Not just hate. It's… complicated. Unstable. But it's a bond. More than anything she's ever had with another Viltrumite. More than obligation. Strong enough that she didn't want me dead for good, Allen." I looked at him directly. "I saw it. When she realized I was alive. Relief twisted up beneath the rage. Turmoil. That's a crack. That's where change begins."
Allen massaged his temples. "And what if she turns? What if she bides her time, waits for opportunity, and kills innocents?"
"It won't happen," I assured him, determination in my tone. "Because I'll be there. Watching. Sensing." I tapped my temple once more. "I've already beaten her before I met Thragg. She knows she can't win against me. She will have no other option but to evolve. That's just how it is."
I leaned back and crossed my arms. The orange cape folded in. "Listen, Allen. Thaedus meant you to be in charge. You are in charge. His death... my brief disappearance... they do not change that. The Coalition is secure in your hands. Murdering Anissa? Politics. Display of power. But unnecessary power. Give her to me. Let me deal with her. Hold her at bay. Attempt to... channel her." I was going to use 'rehabilitate' but that was too gentle. Too Debbie. I just wanted her to be mine in everyway possible. "If it doesn't work." I shrugged, the movement deliberate. "I'll handle it. Forever. You can count on that."
Allen drew breath, a heavy, tired one. He gazed through the window, at the sprawling Coalition city time had constructed, which he now led. He considered Thaedus's headless corpse. The bodies of the frozen Viltrumites. The unyielding man standing before him, brought back from less than he ever was. Of the fiery, deadly woman imprisoned below emanating opposing hatred for that man.
"Convince her?" he said at last, looking at me. "How?"
I smiled nastily. "By being invincible. By being more powerful. By being... unstopable. By making her realize a world where her greatest enemy is also the only one she can cling to." I left off. "And perhaps... by showing her that biting my lip wasn't just about getting me to bleed."
Allen gaped. Then, grudgingly, a ragged laugh tore out of him. "Damn, Z. You always played a different game." He extended a hand, punching a pattern on his desk console. The screen flashed authorization codes. "Alright. Fine. She's yours. Custodial responsibility. Full liability. You vouch for her actions with your life. And if she so much as scratches a Coalition citizen."
"I'll take care of it," I said again, the vow cold steel. "Personally."
Allen nodded. "Done. Council be damned. Paperwork later." He stood up, offering a hand. "Don't make me regret this, brother."
I clasped his forearm vigorously. "Wouldn't dream of it."
---
The containment field dwindled to a dying whine. Anissa was frozen in place, blinking eyes in the sudden lack of soft pressure from the energy barrier. She had not anticipated this. Not freedom. Especially not in the person of him. Doubt struggled with incredulity. Her eyes darted back and forth between Allen, emitting grudging authority, and me, emitting flat-out conviction.
Allen jerked his head toward the door. "You're released. In his custody." He drew out the word emphatically. "His problem. His responsibility."
Anissa's eyes leapt to me, blue eyes slitted. "Custody?" The word was poison. "You think you can hold me, Sovereign?"
I moved into her space, bridging the distance between us. Not threateningly, but firmly, forcefully. Invasive. My orange eyes clashed with hers. "Contain? No." My voice was deep, even, with complete authority. "But you will accompany me. You will obey. Because," I edged closer by degrees, speaking this loudly enough that she, and she alone, would be able to hear, the acrid tang of ozone still clinging to me from my arrival, "what is your strategy, Anissa? Battle me here? Now? You know how that fairy tale ends." I wstood her enraged gaze, the unspoken reality hanging between us: she had been outmatched before. She was defeated. Absolutely. "Or… escape? Where? I can see you on the other side of the galaxy. Feel your anger like a fire. You'd be pursued. By the Coalition. By me." I stood, allowing the choices to resonate within her. Blazing anger, but beneath that... resignation? Strategy? "Or," I concluded, standing upright, "you walk out of that door with me. Experience what follows. Experience what I follow."
She glared at me, working her jaw tightly. Her fists were clenched, knuckles white as newly formed ice. I could see the tempest building within her – anger, shame, a desperate need to strike fighting with the cold, calculating awareness of her position. She was pinned. By circumstance. By my authority. By… some foully interweaving strand of connection between us.
Allen stood rigidly, hand on top of a hidden alarm panel.
Gradually, barely perceptibly at first, Anissa's fists relaxed. The clenched anger in her stance didn't dissipate, but it changed. Became something colder. Guarded. Defiant, but controlled. She raised her chin, regarding me with cold contempt. But she didn't lash out. Didn't flee.
She came out once, hesitantly. Again. With a big circle around Allen, her face twisted into contempt. She hung in the doorway of the containment chamber, illuminated by the brighter light of the corridor. She did not look back. She simply stood, waiting.
I observed Allen. He nodded tightly, warily. The message was unmistakable: She's yours now.
I circled around him, Anissa leading me down the hall. She stood stiffly, eyes fixed straight ahead, exuding tension like a tightly wound spring. Her venom a burning touch against my flesh. But here she was. Following. Not out of desire. Because she had nothing better to do. Because I was inescapable.
"Okay," I said, my tone relaxed, slicing through the dense tension. "Let's go."
I began to stroll down the glinting corridor, boots ringing off the shining floor. The orange cape rippled softly behind. I did not glance back. I did not have to. My senses tracked her exactly. The blazing angry trail of fury. The twisted emotional turmoil – resentment with bitter rage, acid indignation, and underlying it all the tiny quiver of something else… wary curiosity? Flicker of hope?
I could sense her footsteps behind me. Deliberate. Heavy. Keeping pace.
She did not speak. Did not inquire as to where we were going. She simply followed. Out of options. Out of avenues of escape. In thrall to the harsh, undeniable truth of my being and strength. In thrall to the tenuous, unbreakable strand death itself had not yet cut. The dance was not finished. It had merely progressed into a newer, infinitely more complex movement.