Omni-Blood (Ben 10 x Invincible)

[Arsenal597]

There comes a time in every being's life where they must stare down their own mortality. For the Galvan known as Azmuth, that time had been circling him like a carrion bird for years.

Ever since he began forging the Omnitrix — a device that could let anyone walk in the skin of another species — the universe had never stopped hunting him. Some came for knowledge. Others for power. All of them wanted a piece of what he'd built.

He'd known from the start what it could become in the wrong hands: a weapon capable of turning entire star systems to ash. But Azmuth had dreamed of something better — a bridge, not a blade. Dreams like his rarely survived contact with empires.

A faint tremor shuddered through the lab. Warning lights flickered against the smooth metal walls. He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes.

So, this is it.

He wouldn't live to see the fruits of his labor… but he'd make damn sure the Viltrumites never got their hands on it either.

His fingers moved quickly across the console, finishing the arrangements to launch the Omnitrix off-world. His defenses wouldn't hold forever. Depending on how many the General had sent, he had a few precious minutes—an hour at most. Time was a luxury he no longer owned.

Azmuth straightened on the platform, claws tapping against the smooth surface as lines of alien script scrolled down the holographic screen before him. The Omnitrix's containment pod was suspended in the center of the room, encased in layers of energy fields and adaptive shielding he'd designed himself — and even as he looked at it, he knew it wasn't enough for what was coming.

"They found me faster than expected," he murmured, more to the machines than himself.

Above the main console, a constellation of sensor data expanded like a spiderweb. Point after point blinked red. The defense grid was failing in neat, brutal intervals as though someone was peeling away the planet's skin. It was one of the few things Azmuth found admirable about them. They were efficient and merciless.

Azmuth's claws moved with deliberate precision, entering command after command. Lines of code locked into place. Energy conduits flared to life, running down the walls in molten gold veins. The pod's propulsion array thrummed, impatient, like a heartbeat against the silence.

He'd accepted death long ago. It was a logical inevitability, not a tragedy. What mattered was what came after. What would outlive him.

And the Omnitrix had to outlive him.

A sharp, wailing alarm tore through the lab, rising in pitch as the security feeds began collapsing one by one. He didn't need to see the footage. He could picture it clearly. Viltrumites cutting through armored lines like tissue. It was almost poetic, in its brutality.

He approached the pod, placing a small hand against the outer casing. For a moment, his eyes softened.

"You were supposed to be more than this," he said quietly. "More than a war prize."

He keyed in the final launch coordinates, bypassing the last of the fail-safes. The pod's guidance system flickered alive — a lone light cutting through a room that suddenly felt very small.

Another tremor rolled through the lab, strong enough to knock a panel loose from the ceiling. Sparks rained down, the ventilation hissing like a dying animal.

"Not yet," Azmuth whispered, raising a claw to stabilize the energy shields around the pod.

He didn't look at the doors. They wouldn't come through them. Viltrumites didn't use doors. The next sound wasn't a tremor, but a crack — sharp, clean, and devastating, like the sky itself had snapped in half.

The roof caved in a heartbeat later. A storm of steel, glass, and fractured alloy exploded downward, scattering across the lab floor like a shower of knives. The force nearly threw him from the platform, but Azmuth braced himself, digging his claws into the metal as he looked up.

There, hovering in the open wound of the roof, framed by the burning sky, was him.

Conquest.

Even after all these years, the sight of a Viltrumite could still make the stars feel smaller. Muscles coiled like forged cable beneath a skin that didn't seem to notice the atmospheric burn. His cape, dark and tattered at the edges, moved ominously through the windless sky.

Azmuth had heard stories about Conquest, the empire's favorite butcher. He'd never imagined he'd be important enough to warrant his presence.

A slow, bitter smile crept across his face.

"So the General sent you," he said dryly, his voice flat as a blade. "I don't know whether to be flattered or insulted."

Conquest said nothing. His eyes burned the way dying suns do, with a cold, predatory brightness. He hovered there, hands loose at his side, as though the world below him was an inconvenience. Blood still stained the knuckles of one hand. Someone else had already learned what disobeying the Viltrum empire brought.

Azmuth felt no fear, though. Only a cold, sharpened clarity.

"Would you enjoy it if I were to beg for my life?" Azmuth asked, his hand never leaving the console. One last press, and the lab's lights shifted from gold to white. The launch system rumbled beneath the floor. "You'll find yourself sorely disappointed."

"Where is it, worm? Tell me, and I shall make your end quick." Conquest smiled, his crooked teeth glistening with saliva. "They wished to bring you in alive, but… I can always make an exception."

The pod began to rise on its cradle.

"Whatever happens next," Azmuth said quietly, almost to himself, "you will not have it."

Conquest tilted his head, a slight, cruel thing, like a wolf entertaining the sound of a trapped animal.

The alarms howled louder now, overlapping. Every system left in the lab was collapsing under the weight of incoming assault. Energy shields buckled like stretched glass. A gust of hot air swept through the gash in the ceiling, carrying the distant screams of defense drones being torn apart.

Azmuth's gaze didn't waver. His people would rebuild. They always did. But there would be no Omnitrix in Viltrumite hands. Not in this lifetime. Not in any.

The pod shuddered as it locked into its launch sequence. Conquest's eyes flicked to it — the first sign of movement since he'd arrived.

"The rest of your planet knows when to surrender. When to give up." Conquest sighed. "I've heard stories about you, Azmuth. You've been called one of the greatest minds in the entire universe. Yet, I find you to be incredibly foolish to resist the Empire."

"Perhaps I am. It does not matter." Azmuth smirked. The floor beneath the pod split apart with a mechanical roar, revealing the dark launch chamber below. Energy spiraled down the shaft in a radiant column, aligning perfectly with the stars above. "Your precious empire brutalizes all who dare cross their path. That in itself is foolish, but I wager it's a lost cause trying to get that through your primitive skull."

"Hmmph," Conquest chuckled, at last descending slowly into the lab. "Understand, this is your only chance. To refuse is to prolong your suffering. I am offering you a quick death."

"I understand. But as I said…" Azmuth tapped the final command. "You will not have the Omnitrix."

The pod launched, tearing through the night sky like a comet set free, leaving a streak of white-blue light in its wake. Conquest's eyes narrowed.

"How disappointing."

Then Conquest descended.

Azmuth stood his ground, hands folding behind his back as Conquest fell upon him like a shadow. Death no longer frightened him. Only failure ever had.

But he would not go down without a fight.

---

Hey guys, this is the other story I've been working on in the background recently. With me being off work for the next month, this has presented me with the opportunity to write a lot more. With this story in particular, it is a SI story, but there will be plenty of the other characters thrown in there. Let me know what you all think, and I'll catch you in the next chapter.

Reviews are highly appreciated. They let me know what you think and help motivate me to keep writing.

Also, if you'd like to support my writing, I do have a Patreon where depending on the tier you can get up to 5 chapters early. If the story gets popular enough I may try to get some artwork commissioned as I like having visuals.

Want to join my discord server where you can talk about the story? Link will be below!
discord.gg/dQkeJPkxdD

https://www.patreon.com/c/Arsenal597

 

[Arsenal597]

AN: Before the chapter starts and anyone asks in the reviews/comments... this is a rewrite of chapter 1, yes. The original angle of the story being intended for an SI no longer sits well with me. After heavy deliberation, I've ultimately decided to make this a true Ben 10 x Invincible fic, which I admit I should have done from the first place. I had approximately seven chapters total written in advance for the SI angle, but the reason I had not posted any more was due to this gut feeling that something was off with it. I apologize for the wait, and I definitely apologize for having to rewrite this. Regardless, I hope you enjoy.

---

Elsewhere…

---

Ben Tennyson slid across the street on his side, gravel tearing at his jacket as he skidded to a stop against the wreckage of a delivery truck that no longer resembled anything meant to be driven. The impact rattled his teeth as he sucked in a sharp breath and tasted iron.

The sound that came out of him wasn't quite a scream, not quite a groan—just a sharp, animal exhale dragged loose by pain and surprise, the kind your body makes before your brain has time to catch up.

Blood smeared his lip when he wiped at it with the back of his head. More of it was soaking through his shirt now, the dark red spreading across his abdomen where something — metal, debris, he wasn't even sure at this point — had caught him hard a moment ago. The pain was there, burning and hissing at him, but he didn't think much of it.

Pain was background noise, a radio left on in another room. It existed, but it wasn't the loudest thing anymore.

He couldn't focus on the pain while the city around him was coming apart. For a second, he stayed there, staring up at a sky choked with smoke and ash. What had once been downtown was now a graveyard of concrete and twisted steel.

Dust drifted down in slow sheets, coating everything in a dull gray film, turning the afternoon light sickly and dim, like the world had been left out too long.

A skyscraper down the block leaned at an unnatural angle, its lower floors chewed open like a bite had been taken out of it. Fires burned in pockets along the street, fed by ruptured lines and shattered storefronts. Sirens screamed somewhere in the distance, half-drowned out by the deeper, heavier sound of something massive moving through concrete like it was wet sand.

The ground shuddered beneath him in irregular pulses, not quite rhythmic, more like the city was flinching every time whatever-it-was took another step.

The robot—because of course it was a robot—loomed at the center of it all.

Ben let out a short, humorless breath at that. Monsters were bad enough. Monsters made of steel and circuitry felt personal, like someone had decided flesh and bone weren't fragile enough.

It was bigger than anything Ben had ever imagined up close. Not just tall, but wide, its torso bristling with weapons, limbs grinding and hissing as it advanced. Each step it took sent tremors through the street, cracks spider-webbing out beneath its weight. Red lights pulsed along its frame in uneven rhythms, like a heart struggling to keep pace.

Up close, it wasn't sleek or elegant. It was ugly in a functional way, all hard angles and exposed joints, built less to inspire awe than to endure it. Whatever intelligence lived behind those glowing sensors didn't need to be fast. It only needed to keep coming.

Ben pushed himself upright, boots slipping for a second on loose gravel before he found his balance. His jacket hung in tatters, one sleeve nearly torn off, fabric fluttering uselessly in the hot, smoky air. He took one breath. Then another.

Each inhale scraped his lungs raw, tasting like ash and burning plastic. Each exhale trembled, threatening to turn into something that sounded a lot like fear if he let it.

Somewhere nearby, civilians were running—shadows darting between doorways, people dragging each other to cover while the Guardians bought them time.

A woman stumbled past him clutching a crying child, eyes wild and unfocused. An older man lay on the curb, unmoving, dust already settling into the lines of his face like he'd been part of the street all along.

A blur of green light streaked past him, solidifying just long enough for Green Ghost to phase a family through a collapsing wall before vanishing again. War Woman brought her mace down on the robot's leg with a roar, the impact ringing like a cathedral bell. The blow should have crippled it. Instead, the machine staggered and retaliated, backhanding her through the side of a bus and sending it cartwheeling down the street. Darkwing vaulted from a rooftop, disappearing in a cloud of smoke as laser fire carved through the space he'd just occupied.

The fight wasn't clean. It wasn't heroic in the way highlight reels made it look. It was desperate, loud, and messy—every victory paid for with blood or bent steel.

Ben broke into a run.

The decision came before the thought, before reason had a chance to get its hands around his shoulders and shake him.

His side screamed in protest, but he ignored it, boots pounding against broken asphalt as he sprinted straight toward the chaos. He felt small for exactly half a second—fifteen years of instinct telling him he shouldn't be here, that this was too big, too dangerous, too much.

That half-second stretched, then snapped, drowned out by something louder and older than fear: the need to move, to act, to not be another shadow fleeing into an alley.

Then a shadow passed over him.

Wind tore past his face as something red and white and impossibly fast cut through the smoke overhead.

The air itself seemed to recoil, pressure snapping like a whip as the blur split the haze apart.

Ben looked up just in time to see the cape.

It cut a clean, unmistakable line through the ash-filled sky, a slash of color where everything else had gone gray.

Omni-Man descended like a missile, smashing into the robot's upper chassis with enough force to stagger it back a step. The impact boomed through the street, a concussive wave that rattled windows for blocks. Omni-Man pulled back, hovering effortlessly as debris rained down around him, completely unfazed.

Metal screamed. Concrete burst. For a moment, the noise swallowed everything else—then settled, leaving Omni-Man suspended in the wreckage like the eye of a storm.

Ben grinned despite himself.

The expression felt almost foreign on his face, stretched wide and reckless.

Of course he's here.

Omni-Man turned midair, eyes locking onto Ben as if he'd known exactly where he was the whole time. Smoke curled around him, cape snapping in the wind, uniform scuffed but intact. He didn't look worried. He never did.

If anything, he looked calm—comfortably so—as if the chaos below was an inconvenience, not a threat.

"Need a lift?" Omni-Man called, holding a hand out.

The words carried easily through the noise, casual and unstrained, like he was offering a ride home instead of an escape from a war zone.

Ben didn't hesitate. He jumped, fingers closing around Omni-Man's forearm as strong hands hauled him up without effort. The ground dropped away beneath them in an instant, the ruined street shrinking as they shot skyward.

The sensation hit him all at once—weightlessness, speed, the sudden, dizzying realization that gravity had lost its claim on him entirely.

The city unfolded below them—damage controlled where it could be, chaos contained where it couldn't. The Guardians moved like a machine, each of them where they needed to be. Red Rush blurred between evacuation points. Immortal hammered away at the robot's upper plating, drawing its attention.

Ben's heart hammered in his chest—not with fear, but with something brighter. Purpose. Belonging.

They flew straight into the fight.

Omni-Man released him at the edge of the battlefield, and Ben hit the side of a shattered building hard enough to crack concrete, rolling through the impact and coming up on one knee. He barely registered the pain as he launched himself forward again, ducking under a sweeping mechanical arm that tore through the air where his head had just been.

The robot turned, sensors locking onto him.

Good, Ben thought. Look at me.

A blast of energy screamed past his shoulder, close enough that the heat singed his hair. He dove, rolled, came up behind a chunk of fallen debris as the street behind him exploded into shrapnel. His ears rang. His vision blurred for a split second.

He wiped blood from his mouth again and laughed, breathless.

Omni-Man slammed into the robot from the opposite side, fists moving too fast to track, each blow denting armor that had shrugged off everything else. The machine reeled, systems overloading, warning lights flashing erratically now.

"Together," Omni-Man said, already angling back.

Ben nodded, muscles burning as he pushed off the ground and launched himself forward. Side by side, they charged—one human, one godlike—closing the distance in a heartbeat.

Ben drew his arm back, putting everything he had into the swing. Omni-Man did the same, cape flaring behind him like a banner as they lined up their strike on the robot's exposed core.

This was it. This was the moment.

The impact was—

Boom.

A sharp, sudden crack echoed through the world as something slammed down hard in front of Ben, the entire scene freezing, shattering like glass around him.

"Earth to Ben!"

The world snapped back into place with a jolt sharp enough to make him flinch. The roar of battle collapsed into the flat hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. Smoke and fire evaporated, replaced by beige walls, a whiteboard stained with the blood of long forgotten markers, and the faint smell of industrial cleaner that Bellwood High used religiously.

"Mr. Tennyson," the teacher said, his voice tight and clipped. "Would you care to join the rest of us?"

Ben blinked, still adjusting to the shift back to reality. His heart was still going a mile a minute, adrenaline sloshing around his chest like it had nowhere to go. For half a second, he could have sworn his knuckles hurt as though he'd punched something way above his weight class. Then the ache faded, leaving nothing behind but the uncomfortable awareness that he was slouched in his chair, mouth slightly open, staring at absolutely nothing.

The class was staring at him now. Twenty-seven pairs of eyes, varying from bored, amused, to openly judgmental. Gwen's gaze flicked toward him from two rows over, eyebrow raised in that way that said again? without needing the words. JT and Crash were slumped in the back corner, grinning like they were watching a movie.

Ben straightened, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Sorry. Uh, zoned out."

A few snickers rippled through the room. The teacher didn't laugh.

"I understand that this is the last day of school," he said, tapping his marker against the desk. "As tempting as it might be to mentally clock out for the summer, we're still here. Which means I expect participation."

Ben nodded, the motion automatic.

"Yes, sir."

He studied him for a moment longer, eyes narrowing just enough to suggest he didn't buy it, then turned back to the board.

"As I was saying. Final announcements."

Just like that, the moment passed. The battlefield was gone. The god in the cape, the purpose, the feeling of being part of something—all of it reduced to the faint echo of a dream you forgot the second you woke up.

Ben leaned back in his chair, staring at the clock above the door. The second hand crawled forward with all the urgency of a dying snail. Bellwood High didn't just move slowly—it insisted on it. Like time itself had decided there was no rush, because nothing important was ever going to happen here anyway.

The classroom felt smaller now. The hum of the lights dug into his skull, replacing the thunder of collapsing concrete with a noise so dull it almost hurt more. His notebook lay open on his desk, margins filled with half-doodles and abandoned thoughts. In one corner, he'd drawn a crude figure in a cape punching something vaguely robot-shaped. He stared at it, then closed the notebook like it had embarrassed him.

This was his life. Rows of desks. Bells telling him when to move, when to sit, when to think. Teachers who talked at him instead of to him. Days stacked on top of each other so evenly they blurred together, each one indistinguishable from the last.

In his head, he'd just charged into a war zone. Here, the biggest danger was falling asleep and getting called on.

The teacher droned on about summer assignments—optional reading lists that weren't optional if they wanted a recommendation later, reminders about turning in textbooks, warnings about lockers needing to be cleared out. Ben listened with half an ear, the words sliding off him. Every sentence felt small. Shrunk. Like someone had taken the volume knob on his life and twisted it all the way down.

He glanced out the window. The sky over Bellwood was clear, painfully normal. No smoke. No sirens. No shadows passing overhead. Just a couple of clouds drifting by, lazy and unconcerned, like they had nowhere better to be.

Gwen nudged his desk with her foot. He looked over. She mouthed, What were you dreaming about?

Ben hesitated, then shrugged. Nothing, he mouthed back.

She didn't believe him. She never did. Gwen always looked at him like she was waiting for him to either surprise her or disappoint her, and some days he wasn't sure which scared him more.

But how was he supposed to tell her that he was daydreaming about fighting alongside the Guardians? She didn't like superheroes to even be mentioned in the same hemisphere as her, so why would he dare bring it up in front of her?

The bell rang a few minutes later, sharp and grating. Chairs scraped back, causing the room to explode into noise as everyone remembered how to be human again. Ben gathered his things slowly, stuffing papers into his bag without really looking at them. Around them, people were laughing, talking about summer plans, and complained about the finals that they'd already survived.

"Tennyson, you were out cold!" called one of his classmates, Randy. "Looked like you were seeing God or something."

Ben snorted.

"More like getting punched by one."

Randy laughed and kept moving, already distracted by something else. It was alright, though. Ben hardly spoke with Randy, so this was a rather deep conversation between the two all things considered.

Gwen fell into step beside Ben as they filed out into the hallway, which was somehow even louder than the classroom.

"You okay?" she asked, raising an eyebrow as she adjusted an earbud. "Haven't seen you space out like that in a while."

"Yeah," he nodded. It came out far too easily for his liking. "Just tired, that's all."

She searched his face like she wanted to argue, then sighed.

"You always say that."

"I don't know what you want me to say. Everything's just boring right now."

"Life might not be as exciting as your games or comics, but there's gotta be a point where you separate the two."

They stopped at his locker. Ben spun the dial, the metal clanking open with a hollow sound. Inside was a mess of crumpled papers, an old hoodie, and a textbook he'd forgotten existed. He stared at it, thinking about how, in his head, he'd just stood shoulder to shoulder with a god and tried to save a city.

Here, he couldn't even keep his locker organized.

The thought should've been funny. Instead, it left a tight, restless feeling in his chest. Like he was stuck in the wrong place, at the wrong time, waiting for something that refused to show up.

"It's not like—" Ben wasn't sure how to put it to words. "You know how I am, Gwen. You know what I want."

"I do… and I stand by the sentiment you're an idiot."

Gwen headed off to meet her friends. Ben shut his locker and stood there for a second longer than necessary, listening to the noise of the hallway wash over him. It all felt distant, like he was slightly out of sync with the rest of the world.

He could still see it if he tried. The smoke. The fire. Omni-Man's hand reaching down, offering him a way up. In the dream, everything made sense. There was danger, sure—but there was also clarity. A reason to run forward instead of standing still.

Bellwood High didn't offer that, though. It just felt like a never-ending loop.

Once he had his locker cleared out, Ben adjusted his backpack and headed for the exit, already thinking about the bus ride home.

---

Ben made it outside just as the afternoon heat settled in. The doors shut behind him with a hollow thud and Bellwood High immediately lost interest in his existence. He crossed the front walk, past clusters of kids already peeling away into summer, and stopped near the bus pickup area where the pavement gave way to a strip of grass and a scrawny tree that looked like it had been planted out of obligation.

He dropped his backpack at its base and slid down until his shoulders hit the trunk. The bark pressed uncomfortably through his shirt but he didn't move. He tilted his head back and looked up at the sky.

The wait itself, as much as it was lackluster, wasn't that bad. There weren't enough vehicles and drivers allocated to get everyone home right away, so there were two bus routes per driver. Ben was lucky enough to be a part of the second route.

Clouds drifted overhead in slow, shapeless clumps. Ben tracked one with his eyes, watching it stretch and thin until it barely resembled anything at all. He tried to imagine it as something else—a ship, a figure, a cape cutting through the air—but it didn't hold. The image fell apart the moment he blinked.

He exhaled and let his head thump lightly against the tree.

He knew why he daydreamed. He always had.

It wasn't because real life was awful. Not really. Bellwood wasn't some nightmare town. School was fine. His grades were… passable. He had friends, sort of. He had a home. Two parents who cared enough to worry and argue and remind him to do his homework.

Parents who worked for the GDA.

That part never stopped buzzing in the back of his head.

The Global Defense Agency wasn't exactly something they advertised on family Christmas cards, but Ben had grown up around it in pieces and fragments. Late-night phone calls. Sudden trips that couldn't be explained. Conversations that stopped the second he entered a room. He didn't know details—he wasn't stupid enough to ask—but he knew what it meant.

The world was dangerous. People got hurt. Sometimes very badly. And sometimes, someone had to step in.

That idea had lodged itself in his brain early and never let go.

Ben didn't daydream because he wanted to be famous. Or powerful. Or feared. He daydreamed because in his head, when something went wrong, he could do something about it. He could run toward the noise instead of pretending not to hear it. He could matter in a way that felt immediate and real.

Omni-Man just happened to be the clearest version of that.

The guy showed up, things stopped being hopeless. Buildings still fell. People still screamed. But there was always that moment—cape in the sky, shadow cutting across the ground—where you knew someone had it handled. Someone strong enough to take the hit so everyone else didn't have to.

Ben swallowed.

It wasn't about wanting to be a god. It was about wanting to be useful.

A laugh broke through his thoughts—sharp, ugly, too loud to be friendly.

Ben's eyes slid sideways.

A few yards down the sidewalk, JT and Crash were doing what they always did when there wasn't an adult around to notice. JT leaned in close to some kid Ben didn't recognize, crowding him, blocking his path, while Crash circled behind like he was worried the guy might slip away if he blinked. The kid had his backpack clutched tight against his chest, shoulders drawn in, eyes darting around as if he were searching for an exit that didn't exist.

Something in Ben's chest tightened. He'd hated this for as long as he could remember.

It wasn't always him on the receiving end—though it had been, once or twice, back when he was smaller and hadn't learned how to talk fast enough to wriggle out of trouble. But even when it wasn't personal, it made his skin crawl. The way they laughed. The way they treated other people like props in a joke only they were in on.

JT said something Ben couldn't hear. Crash snorted. The kid shook his head, mumbling a reply that only seemed to make things worse.

Ben closed his eyes for half a second.

Don't.

It's not your problem.

Just wait for the bus.

The sensible part of his brain lined those thoughts up neatly and presented them like a very reasonable argument. He could already picture how this went if he got involved—JT puffing himself up, Crash stepping in close. None of it ended well for him. It never did.

Ben opened his eyes again.

The kid flinched as JT reached out and flicked the strap of his backpack, hard enough to make it snap back against his chest.

That did it.

Ben pushed himself up from the tree, regretting it almost immediately as his feet hit the ground. His stomach twisted, nerves buzzing loud enough to drown out common sense. He slung his backpack over one shoulder and started toward them, each step feeling heavier than the last.

"Hey."

JT and Crash both turned. JT's grin widened the second he saw who it was.

"Well, if it isn't Tennyson," JT said. "What, you here to watch too?"

Ben stopped a few feet away, planting himself between them and the kid as best he could without actually touching anyone. Up close, the other kid looked even smaller. They really did know how to pick the easiest prey. That much was obvious.

"Leave him alone," Ben said. His voice didn't crack, which felt like a minor miracle. "Seriously. It's the last day. Don't you have something better to do?"

Crash laughed—low, rough, and mean.

"What's it to you?"

Ben shrugged, forcing a casualness he didn't feel. His pulse hammered against his ribs.

"Nothing. Just figured I'd save you the trouble of getting yelled at later."

JT stepped closer. Ben held his ground, even though every instinct he had was screaming at him to take a step back. JT smelled like sweat and cheap cologne. He leaned in, eyes narrowing, voice dropping.

"You think you're some kind of hero now?"

"No," Ben said. "I just think you're being jerks."

Crash scoffed.

"Real brave, man. Here I thought maybe you missed the wedgies from seventh grade."

Ben's heart was lodged somewhere in his throat now, but he did his best to ignore it. He glanced past them, catching the other kid's eye.

"Go," Ben said, not looking back. "Just go."

The kid hesitated for a heartbeat, then bolted the second JT's attention flickered. He darted down the sidewalk and vanished into the crowd like he'd never been there at all.

JT swore and rounded on Ben, irritation flashing hot and bright.

"You—"

The distant rumble of an approaching bus cut him off.

Crash glanced toward the sound, then back at Ben. Something shifted in his expression, quick and calculating. After a moment, he snorted.

"Not worth it," he muttered.

JT stared at Ben for another long second, jaw tight, then scoffed and stepped back.

"Whatever. Get your kicks where you can."

They peeled off, laughter already returning like nothing had happened—like the last thirty seconds hadn't mattered at all.

Ben stood there for a moment longer than necessary, adrenaline crashing through him with nowhere to go. His hands were shaking—not badly, not enough for anyone else to notice—but he noticed. He shoved them into his pockets and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, his chest finally loosening as the tension bled out of him.

The bus pulled up with a hiss of compressed air and a screech of brakes that cut through the noise of the sidewalk. Ben climbed aboard and took a seat, considering himself lucky that he hadn't been hit for stepping in. The thought of going home with another black eye—of having to explain that to his parents—was not how he wanted to start his summer vacation.

As he settled into the seat and the bus lurched back into motion, that sense of emptiness returned, quietly replacing the nerves. The adrenaline faded, leaving behind the familiar hollow ache that always seemed to follow moments like this. While the school year was over, Ben knew better than to think that meant anything was finished. JT and Crash were patient when it came to getting their payback. It didn't matter if they had to wait a day or two months. They always found a way to get what they wanted in the end.

For now, Ben tried to focus on the fact that the school year was finally over. On the road trip he was supposed to take with his grandfather, of being away from Bellwood for a while, and most importantly, a break from the mundane routines. He hoped Gwen was still going, even though they hadn't been all that close lately. In fact, today might have been the most they'd spoken in months—a realization that hurt more than he wanted to admit, settling heavy in his chest as the bus carried him home.

---

The house was quiet when he entered through the front door. It wasn't unusual for his parents to be gone when he got off of school most days.

The door clicked shut behind him, the sound carrying farther than it should have, bouncing down the hallway and into rooms that didn't answer back. Ben stood there for a second longer than necessary, backpack still slung over one shoulder, listening to the quiet settle again. The air inside the house felt different from outside—cooler, still, like it had been holding its breath all afternoon.

He dropped his bag onto the couch. It landed with a soft thud and slid sideways, half hanging off the cushion the way it always did. Ben didn't fix it. He never did.

"I'm home," he called out, raising his voice just enough to be heard if someone was there, even though he already knew the odds.

Nothing.

No footsteps. No muffled reply from down the hall. Not even the sound of the TV left on in the background. Just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the ticking clock above the doorway, counting out seconds that didn't feel like they were in any hurry to pass.

Ben snorted quietly and shook his head, toeing off his sneakers and nudging them against the wall. Old habit. Even when he was pretty sure no one was around, he still announced himself. It felt wrong not to, like skipping a step in a routine that kept things in place.

He headed into the kitchen, the floor cool under his socks. Sunlight slanted in through the window over the sink, catching dust in the air and turning it into something almost pretty. The counter was clear except for a folded envelope near the fruit bowl. Ben glanced at it, half-expecting his name to be written across the front, but it was blank. Probably something work-related. Everything always was.

He opened the fridge and stared inside without really seeing it. Leftovers in mismatched containers. Milk that might still be good. A bottle of orange juice with maybe one glass left if you were being optimistic. He closed the door again and leaned back against it, letting the chill seep through his shirt.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. For half a second, his chest jumped.

He pulled it out.

Nothing new. Just a notification from earlier he hadn't bothered opening yet. No message from Mom or Dad explaining where they were, how late they'd be, whether he should fend for himself or not. Sometimes they remembered. Sometimes they didn't. It wasn't personal. He knew that. Still didn't stop the quiet from feeling heavier when it happened.

The GDA didn't run on schedules the way normal jobs did. Emergencies didn't care about dinner plans or end-of-school-year days. Ben had learned that early, learned to nod when plans changed, learned to shrug when his parents left halfway through a conversation because a call came in. He'd grown up around half-finished sentences and rushed goodbyes.

Most days, he handled it fine. Today… today was louder inside his head than he liked.

He pushed off the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water, twisting the cap off and taking a long drink. His reflection stared back at him from the microwave door—fifteen, a little too skinny, hair still messed up from the bus ride home. There was a faint bruise blooming along his forearm where he'd clipped the edge of a desk earlier, purple just starting to show. He rotated his arm, inspecting it, then let it drop.

At least tomorrow was different.

Max was picking him up in the morning. Early. Road trip early. The kind of early that meant grabbing food on the way out and not coming back until the sun was doing something completely different. An entire summer without walking into a quiet house, without wondering if the lights would be on or if he'd be eating alone again. An entire summer of bad diner food, long drives, and his grandfather talking like the world was still full of secrets worth chasing.

The thought loosened something in his chest.

He headed down the hallway, peeking into rooms as he passed. His parents' door was closed, the way it usually was when they were gone. He didn't open it. He never did. His own room waited at the end, familiar and cluttered and his. Posters slightly crooked on the walls. A desk covered in notebooks and half-finished projects. He dropped onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling.

The quiet followed him in.

Ben laced his fingers together over his stomach, eyes tracing a small crack in the plaster above him. He wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to come home to noise instead. To have someone ask how his day went and actually wait for the answer. To not feel that little twist of worry every time he unlocked the door, wondering if today was another one of those days.

He understood why his parents did what they did. He really did. The GDA wasn't just some job—it mattered. It kept people safe. It kept things from going wrong in ways most people never even knew were possible. He'd grown up hearing stories he wasn't supposed to repeat, watching his parents come home exhausted and proud and carrying the weight of things they couldn't talk about.

That didn't make the empty house easier to sit with.

Sometimes, when the quiet pressed in too hard, his mind wandered. Not on purpose. It just… went there. He imagined what it would be like to be the one who showed up when things went wrong. To be the reason people didn't have to worry. To be strong enough that no one could push him around, or anyone else for that matter.

It was that thought that brought him back to thinking about Omni-Man. Ben could admit that he was rather obsessed with the superhero, but he was the first person that made Ben feel like he was meant for more. He still remembered the footage of Omni-Man catching a train that derailed, saving the passengers with a smile on his face. It reminded him of an anime, but the name escaped him.

He tried to tone down the day-dreaming, but it always crept in when he wasn't expecting it. He rolled onto his side and reached for his phone again, scrolling through old messages until he found one from his mom earlier that week. Just a reminder about the trip. Be good for Max. Don't forget sunscreen. Love you.

Ben smiled, small and tired, and set the phone down on the nightstand.

"Tomorrow," he muttered to the empty room.

 

[Arsenal597]

Ben spent the evening mostly playing the latest Sumo Slammers and scrolling through social media. His parents still hadn't reached out to him, so he figured they were on a mission somewhere they couldn't talk.

Ben looked over at the baseball bat he kept in the corner of the room. It was a gift from his grandpa Max for his seventh birthday. It was at the height of Ben's baseball obsession which never culminated in anything worthwhile, beyond some hefty tickets to the World Series a couple years ago. Max and him would go a few rounds in the backyard in the summers, especially on nights where he was missing his parents. It was one of Ben's fondest memories, if he were to be honest.

The bat leaned where it always had, wedged neatly between his dresser and the wall, its wooden surface worn smooth in places where hands had gripped it too tightly over the years. The tape around the handle had started to peel, curling at the edges, but Ben had never bothered to replace it. In a way, it felt like replacing the tape would remove the memories attached to it.

Max had insisted it wasn't about the game. That had been obvious even when Ben was seven and still thought batting averages were a personality trait. They'd spend more time talking than actually hitting anything. Max pitching slow, exaggerated throws that were impossible to miss. Ben swinging like each hit might be the one that finally made him good at it. On the nights his parents were gone, the backyard lights would stay on longer than usual, bugs swarming around the bulbs, the air thick with summer heat and the smell of cut grass.

Those nights felt full in a way the house never did when he was alone.

Ben leaned back against his bedframe and let his eyes drift around the room. It looked the same as it always had, though he'd grown into it more than he realized. The Seance Dog poster across from his bed was peeling slightly at the corners, the tape giving up after years of humidity and half-hearted fixes. He'd gotten it right after the show aired, back when everyone at school thought it was weird that he liked something animated that wasn't trying to be funny every five seconds. The glowing eyes of the ghostly dog stared back at him now, frozen mid-howl, dramatic and serious and a little ridiculous.

Below it, lined up on the shelf, were a handful of Omni-Man things he'd accumulated over the years—an old action figure missing a hand, a folded T-shirt he'd outgrown but refused to throw away, a cracked mug he never used because he didn't want to risk breaking it for real. None of it was worth much, but that wasn't the point. It was so much more than monetary value.

The controller rested heavy in his hands as the game idled on the screen, some looping menu music filling the room. He thumbed the joystick absentmindedly, eyes still on the bat, then on the poster, then back to the blank space between them. His thoughts drifted, as they always did, back to Max.

Max never made Ben feel like he had to be anything other than what he was at that exact moment. He didn't talk down to him. Didn't brush off his questions. When Ben got frustrated—at baseball, at school, at things he couldn't put words to—Max listened like the answer mattered, even if all Ben managed was a shrug.

Tomorrow, he'd be in the RV with him again. Hours on the road, bad snacks, and Max's old stories that Ben had heard a dozen times but still listened to anyway. The thought settled in his chest, steadying something that had been buzzing all evening.

His gaze shifted to the other side of the room, where a small stack of books sat untouched on his desk. Gwen's influence, if he were being honest. She'd always been like that—nose buried in something thick and complicated, worlds away from whatever Ben was doing. When they were younger, she'd still sit beside him while he played, legs tucked under her, pretending she wasn't paying attention while absolutely paying attention. She'd ask questions about the characters, complain about the controls, and roll her eyes when he lost.

She never saw the appeal of Sumo Slammers. She always said it was too loud, or too repetitive. Not enough strategy for her own liking. But she'd still watch, still comment, still stick around just to be there.

Somewhere along the way, that changed.

Now, when they were in the same room, she was more likely to be reading, or tapping away on her tablet, half-engaged in a conversation that never quite lined up. Ben didn't know when exactly that shift happened. It felt gradual and sudden all at once, like realizing a door had closed without making a sound.

He tightened his grip on the controller and brought his attention back to the screen, the bright colors and exaggerated impacts pulling him in. The game booted up fully, characters snapping into place, familiar and uncomplicated.

As the level dragged on, Ben's attention drifted in and out of the screen. His thumbs moved on instinct more than intention, muscle memory carrying him through combos he'd performed a hundred times before. The room was lit mostly by the TV now, the rest of the house sunk into its usual evening quiet.

Then a sound came from downstairs.

It wasn't loud. That was the problem.

Ben's fingers froze mid-input. The character on-screen took a hit and staggered in place, the game still running for half a second before Ben snapped out of it and paused. The music cut off abruptly, leaving the room too quiet all at once.

He listened.

At first, there was nothing. Just the hum of the house settling. Pipes ticking. The faint buzz of electricity in the walls. He told himself it was probably that—something ordinary, something boring. The kind of noise houses made when no one was paying attention.

But then it came again. Subtle. A shift. Something out of place.

Ben frowned, heart picking up speed in a way he didn't like. Nobody was supposed to be home. His parents always sent a message when they were on their way back, even if it was late, even if it was brief. A single sentence was enough. He hadn't gotten anything. His phone sat face-down on the bed beside him, silent.

This was why he hated nights like this.

He hated the space the house seemed to grow into when he was the only one in it. Every sound felt louder, every shadow a little too patient. It wasn't that he thought something bad was going to happen—it was worse than that. It was the waiting. The not knowing.

Max couldn't be here every day. Ben knew that. Max had his own life, his own responsibilities, even if he made time for Ben whenever he could.

Ken couldn't stop often, either. He was barely at his own home as it was, working long hours and crashing hard when he finally got a break. Gwen… Gwen might as well have been on another planet lately. He was lucky to hear from her at all, and when he did, it felt brief and distant, like she was already halfway somewhere else.

Normally, if anyone showed up unexpectedly, it was Mr. Giffords from down the street. He had a spare key for emergencies, and even then, he always called first. Ben appreciated that more than he ever said out loud. The courtesy of not startling a kid alone in a quiet house went a long way.

This didn't feel like that.

Ben swung his legs off the bed and stood, the floor cool beneath his feet. He hesitated, then crossed the room and reached for the baseball bat in the corner.

He stepped into the hallway, leaving his room behind. The doorframe creaked softly as he passed through it, the sound making him wince despite himself. The hall light was off, the space ahead lit only by the faint glow spilling from his bedroom. Shadows stretched long across the floor, pooling at the edges where the light didn't quite reach.

Another sound came from downstairs, clearer this time…

Movement.

Ben swallowed and started toward the stairs, each step measured, careful. The house seemed to hold its breath with him. He kept the bat angled low but ready, knuckles tight around the grip.

Halfway down, he paused.

The sound came again—something from the kitchen. A shift of weight. A soft clatter, like something being set down where it didn't belong.

His heart hammered harder now, loud enough that he wondered if it could be heard. He told himself not to be stupid. Told himself it was probably nothing.

Still, he kept going.

The stairs ended, and the kitchen came into view. The light was on.

That alone was enough to send a jolt through him.

He stepped off the last stair and turned the corner, eyes adjusting just in time to register a figure near the counter.

And then everything happened at once.

Ben jerked back instinctively, bat lifting without thought, breath catching sharp in his chest. At the exact same moment, the figure spun around.

Gwen screamed.

The sound ripped through the kitchen, sharp and high, bouncing off the cabinets and tile like it had nowhere to go. Ben's grip tightened before his brain caught up, muscles locked in that split second where instinct ran ahead of reason. Then her face registered—wide-eyed, pale, familiar in a way that hit him all at once—and everything crashed back into place.

"GWEN?!" Ben blurted after a beat, the word coming out louder than he meant it to. He lowered the bat immediately, setting it down against the counter with a clatter that felt embarrassingly loud in the aftermath. His heart was still slamming against his ribs like it hadn't gotten the memo that the danger was gone. "What are you doing?!"

"ME?!" Gwen shot back, voice still pitched high, eyes locked on the bat like it might come back to life. She gestured at it sharply, fingers shaking just a little. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING SWINGING THAT THING AROUND?"

Ben dragged a hand through his hair, breath uneven as he tried to slow it down. The kitchen felt too bright now, too exposed, every normal detail suddenly obvious—the magnet-covered fridge, the faint smell of something reheated earlier, the way the overhead light hummed when you paid attention to it.

"You didn't call," he said, defensive and tired all at once. "How was I supposed to know you were here?"

"I don't know, maybe check your phone, dweeb." Gwen huffed out a breath, planting her hands on the counter like she needed something solid to hold onto. "I did text you." She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, shoulders rising and falling as she forced herself to breathe slower. "Nearly scared me to death."

Ben glanced toward the hallway, then back at her, the leftover tension buzzing under his skin with nowhere to go. The bat leaned uselessly where he'd set it down, suddenly looking like the dumbest possible thing to have grabbed.

"What are you even doing here?" he asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it.

Gwen rolled her eyes hard enough that it almost felt rehearsed.

"What?"

He shrugged, a half-movement that didn't do much to hide the knot sitting in his chest.

"What? It's my house, I get to ask that."

She stared at him for a second longer than necessary, then sighed.

"Heard you were going to be alone tonight," she said, tone flattening out as she recovered. "I figured it'd be easier for Grandpa to pick both of us up in the morning."

The words landed heavier than they should have. Ben blinked, then felt his mouth curve before he could stop it.

"So, you are going?" he asked, a grin breaking through despite everything.

"Duh." Gwen nodded once, some of the edge easing out of her posture. "You think I'm going to let you hog Grandpa for the entire summer?"

Ben let out a short laugh, relief threading through it whether he wanted it to or not.

"Well, I wasn't sure if you were going to come."

She frowned slightly.

"Why wouldn't I?"

He hesitated, the grin fading as quickly as it had shown up. The kitchen felt smaller again, like the walls were listening. He shifted his weight, gaze flicking down to the floor before coming back to her. "I don't know," he said, shrugging again. "You're not exactly close with anyone anymore."

Gwen stiffened.

Ben kept going anyway, the words already out and refusing to stop now that they'd started. "You keep flaking out on stuff, so I thought maybe you'd do the same thing."

"Flake? Me?" Gwen scoffed, incredulous, but there was something tight under it. "What are you talking about?"

Ben exhaled slowly, frustration bubbling up from somewhere he hadn't realized was that close to the surface.

"How many times has Mom and Dad offered to have you guys over for dinner, and you're the only one who doesn't show up?" he asked. "Movie nights you're never around. Even the family get-togethers—you're always in a corner, hiding by yourself."

The words hung there between them, heavier than he'd meant them to be. Gwen's mouth opened like she was about to fire back immediately, then closed again. Her jaw tightened.

"Ben—" She thinned her lips, eyes flicking away for half a second before coming back to him. "It's not like I'm trying to be distant."

"Really?" he asked, quieter now, the edge still there but dulled by something else. "Because that's what it seems like to me."

The silence stretched. The hum of the refrigerator filled the gap, obnoxiously loud in the absence of anything else. Gwen's shoulders sagged just a fraction, the fight draining out of her posture as quickly as it had flared.

"You know how hard it's been," she said, her voice softer now, stripped of the bite. "Don't act like that." She met his eyes again, steady this time. "I'm here now, aren't I? Can't you just be happy about that and not make a big deal over it?"

"Fine, fine…" Ben nodded, lifting his hands in surrender even if the knot in his chest hadn't fully loosened yet. He bent down, picked the bat up, and slid it back into its familiar spot by the counter, where it immediately went back to being just a bat instead of a last line of defense. "What about Ken? I didn't think he'd be okay with you staying out all night?"

Gwen shrugged, already drifting toward the fridge like she belonged there, which, annoyingly, she always had.

"He knows it was to come here. Besides, he's too tired to really notice much of anything at the moment." She paused, eyes flicking over him in a slow, obvious sweep. Her mouth twisted. "Now, can I just ask… what are you wearing?"

Ben followed her gaze down at himself, suddenly hyper-aware of his outfit. The Seance Dog slippers were still on his feet, the ghostly faces worn smooth from too many nights pacing his room. His sweats were Immortal-themed, faded just enough that the logo cracked when he moved. The War Woman t-shirt hung loose, soft from years of washes, the graphic slightly off-center now. He looked back up at her, unimpressed.

"What's wrong with this? It's comfy."

"It makes you look like more of a dork than you normally do," Gwen said without missing a beat, "and that's saying a lot."

Ben snorted.

"Coming from Ms. Bookworm, that's rich."

"One of us has to have a brain," she shot back, punctuating the statement by lightly punching his shoulder. It didn't hurt, but it landed with enough familiarity that it chipped away at the last of the tension still clinging to him. She stepped back, already pulling her phone out. "Want me to order some food? We should probably enjoy it, given we're going to be with Grandpa all summer."

"Sure," Ben said, turning toward the living room, already picturing the couch. "But why does it matter if we're with Grandpa? He's always been fine with us ordering out before when we stayed at his place."

Gwen laughed under her breath, following him partway. "You've clearly never been camping with him. Grandpa likes to live off the land."

Ben stopped short.

"Oh no," he said flatly, dread creeping in.

"Bug delicacies," Gwen added, grinning.

"I thought Mom was joking about that…" Ben shook his head.

Both of them shivered at the exact same time, the shared reaction automatic enough that Ben couldn't help but laugh despite himself.

He headed into the living room while Gwen stayed behind, fingers already flying across her screen. The space looked the same as it always did—couch sagging slightly in the middle, throw blanket bunched up like it had given up trying to be neat, the coffee table cluttered with old mail and things that didn't quite belong anywhere else. Ben dropped onto the couch and grabbed the remote, flicking the TV on more for the noise than anything else.

From the kitchen, he could hear Gwen moving around, the soft sounds of drawers opening and closing, the tap of her phone screen as she scrolled through options. It felt strange, in a good way, having someone else in the house again.

"Where did you get the money from?" Ben called out, half-watching the screen as some late-night commercial droned on.

"Been tutoring the neighbor's kid," Gwen replied easily. That made him glance toward the hallway, eyebrows lifting. Of course she had.

He leaned back, stretching his legs out, the Seance Dog slippers bumping against the edge of the coffee table. The TV droned on, background filler, while his thoughts drifted. Tomorrow loomed large in his mind—not in a bad way, just big.

He could already imagine Grandpa Max behind the wheel, telling stories like they were brand new even when Ben could recite the punchlines by heart. Gwen in the passenger seat, pretending not to listen before inevitably correcting some minor detail.

From the kitchen, Gwen called out something about toppings. Ben answered without thinking, defaulting to the same choices they'd always argued about. Some things didn't change, no matter how much time passed.

He glanced down at his clothes again, at the collection of heroes stitched and printed across him. They'd always been there, in one form or another. Quiet witnesses to the way his brain worked, the way his thoughts gravitated toward people who showed up when things went wrong. People who didn't hesitate.

The TV flickered as he changed the channel, settling on something louder, brighter. The living room filled with noise, with life. Behind him, Gwen's footsteps approached, phone still in hand, expression relaxed now, the earlier tension completely gone like it had never existed.

He didn't say it out loud, but the feeling lingered as he sank deeper into the couch—the quiet, almost fragile relief of not being alone in the house. Gwen's presence filled the gaps in a way the TV never could. The clink of her phone against the counter, the way she moved like she already knew where everything was, even the way she argued about pizza toppings like it mattered. It all tugged at something warm and old in his chest. Back when Gwen hadn't started pulling away, back when being together was just the default, not something he had to plan around or feel weird about wanting.

Ben stared at the glow of the TV, barely registering what was on-screen, his mind drifting backward without his permission…

---

One Year Ago

---

"Ben?" a voice called from the living room as fourteen-year-old Ben sat watching footage of Omni-Man taking on a dragon in Brazil.

The screen was chaos—scales, wings, fire. The dragon tore through a half-collapsed skyline like something ripped straight out of a blockbuster, each beat of its wings sending debris cascading into the streets below. Omni-Man slammed into it from above in a white blur, the impact spiderwebbing concrete three stories down. The news anchor struggled to keep his composure, words like unprecedented and ongoing situation tumbling over one another between distant explosions.

"Ben!" the voice called again, sharper this time.

Ben barely tore his eyes from the TV.

"Yeah?" he shouted back. "What's up?"

No answer.

He frowned and muted the television. Omni-Man froze mid-punch, the dragon's jaws stretched wide, flame caught in place like a breath held too long. Ben pushed himself to his feet, stretching as he went, joints popping while he stepped over a messy sprawl of magazines and headed toward the stairs.

On the way down, things registered out of order. Shoes by the front door that didn't belong there. The empty coat rack where his parents' jackets usually hung. The living room lights flipped on despite the afternoon sun still pouring through the windows. Gwen's backpack lay tipped on its side near the couch, a notebook half-spilled out as if it had been dropped without a second thought.

He slowed at the bottom step.

Max stood near the front door, shoulders squared like he was bracing himself against something invisible. His face looked drained, the color leached from it entirely.

Gwen was on the couch.

For a split second, Ben thought she was sick. Her face was red and blotchy, eyes swollen and glassy, tears tracking down her cheeks unchecked. She wasn't making any sound. Just breathing—shallow, uneven pulls, like she'd already cried herself hollow and her body hadn't realized it yet.

Ken, her brother, stood beside her, one arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders, the other hand clenched into a fist at his side. He was older—college-aged, broad-shouldered, usually loud in a way that filled up space without trying. Right now, he looked smaller somehow. Folded inward. His jaw was locked tight, lips pressed thin, like if he opened his mouth even a little, something irreversible might spill out.

And then Ben noticed the man by the door.

Cecil Stedman didn't look like he did on TV. There were no sharp soundbites, no clipped authority. He stood just inside the doorway with his hands folded in front of him, expression solemn in a way Ben had never seen on anyone who worked for the government. His tie was loosened. His posture careful, restrained—like he was stepping through a minefield one wrong word away from disaster.

Ben's heart skipped.

"What's going on?" he asked, his voice coming out lighter than it should've. "Did something happen?"

No one answered right away.

Max turned slowly, like the motion itself took effort. When his eyes landed on Ben, something flickered there—relief, maybe. Or guilt. Possibly both.

"Ben," Max said, and his voice cracked around the name. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Come here, kid."

That was when the denial hit. Fast. Firm. Like a wall snapping into place.

This wasn't for him. Whatever this was, it was adult stuff. Grown-up stuff. He'd come down at the wrong moment, that was all. Maybe Gwen had a terrible day. Maybe Max and Ken were arguing about something serious. Maybe Cecil was here for some classified government thing his parents weren't allowed to talk about.

Ben took another step forward anyway.

"What are you saying, Cecil?" Max asked, his voice thin now, strained like it was being pulled through wire.

Cecil drew in a slow breath.
"There was an incident on the west coast this morning. A kaiju-class event."

Ben's thoughts snagged on the word. Kaiju. Like old movies. Like the monster marathons Ken used to put on when he was bored and feeling nostalgic.

"The creature destroyed twelve city blocks before anyone arrived on scene to stop it," Cecil continued, tone measured and deliberate. "Emergency response was overwhelmed in the first minutes. Frank and Natalie were assisting with civilian evacuations during the chaos."

Ben felt oddly removed from it all, like he was listening to a story about someone else's family. Someone else's life.

Max stepped forward. Then another step. His hands were trembling at his sides.

"Cecil," he said, and there was no mistaking the plea now. "Where's my son and daughter-in-law?"

Cecil hesitated.

Just a fraction of a second—but Ben saw it. That pause. That tiny fracture in the rhythm.

"Max," Cecil said quietly, "they didn't make it."

The words landed wrong. They didn't hit with force or sound or weight. They just… sat there, misplaced, unfinished.

Ben waited for someone to correct him.

For Max to laugh it off and say it was a mistake. For Gwen to sit up and accuse Cecil of lying. For Ken to swear and demand proof. For anything—anything—to snap the moment back to the way it was supposed to be.

Nothing did.

Max's knees gave out.

He didn't hit the floor—Ken was there instantly, catching him under the arms—but the sound Max made then, low and fractured and not quite human, cut through the room like glass.

"No," Max said, shaking his head over and over. "No, no, that's not—Natalie would've—Frank would've called. He always calls."

Cecil didn't interrupt. He just stood there and let it unfold.

Gwen finally made a sound. A sob tore out of her chest like it had been trapped there, waiting for permission. She folded forward, clutching at the fabric of her hoodie, shoulders shaking hard enough it looked like it hurt.

Ben felt numb.

Gwen's parents weren't supposed to die. They were the ones who left on long missions and came back with stories they couldn't share. They were the ones who promised they'd be home by the end of the summer. The ones who waved from the car and said, Be good for Grandpa.

This didn't fit.

He looked at Max. At Gwen. At Ken. At Cecil. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

"They were heroes," Cecil said softly. "They saved lives."

Ben shook his head.
"No," he said, finally managing to find his voice. "No, you're wrong."

No one argued with him.

That hurt more than anything else.

The room felt too small. Too quiet. Somewhere upstairs, the paused image of Omni-Man still loomed on the TV, frozen in the middle of a fight Ben suddenly didn't care about at all.

Gwen looked up at him then, eyes red and wet and hollow all at once.
"They're gone, Ben," she whispered.

Something inside him broke.

Not loudly. Not all at once. Just a slow, spreading crack that started in his chest and seeped into everything else.

He slid down where he stood, back hitting the wall, breath coming in sharp, uneven pulls. His hands curled into fists he didn't remember making, and his vision blurred as the weight of it finally came crashing down.

---

The memorial was held four days later, beneath a gray sky that couldn't seem to decide whether it wanted to rain or simply hang there and watch.

Ben stood with his hands folded in front of him, fingers worrying the edge of his jacket sleeve until the fabric was warm and frayed beneath his touch. His eyes weren't on the podium or the small cluster of microphones set up at the front. They kept drifting back to Gwen.

She stood a few feet ahead of him, positioned between Max and Ken.

She hadn't cried since the first night.

That scared him more than anything else.

Frank and Natalie Tennyson's names were etched into a simple black stone at the front of the space, the lettering sharp and final. White flowers flanked it on either side, too clean, too deliberate, like they were trying to impose order on something that had blown past it days ago and left wreckage in its wake. A few GDA agents stood off to one side in dark suits, faces neutral and carefully composed—the kind of people who knew how to compartmentalize grief because if they didn't, it would hollow them out. A handful of heroes were there too. Some Ben recognized instantly from the news. Others he didn't. No capes. No bravado. Just subdued postures and lowered gazes.

They all felt… distant.

Like background noise.

Ben couldn't stop watching Gwen.

She stood straight, shoulders stiff beneath her black coat, hands clasped loosely in front of her like she'd rehearsed where they were supposed to go. Her red hair was pulled back, neat and careful, the way it always was when she wanted control over something—anything. Her eyes were open, fixed somewhere just past the stone, unfocused. Not empty. Just… far away, like she was looking through the moment instead of at it.

Ken hadn't let go of her hand since they arrived.

He stood close, taller than her, one arm wrapped around her shoulders as if loosening his grip even a little might let her drift out of reach. His jaw was tight, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes red-rimmed but sharp. It was anger threaded through grief, the kind that needed somewhere to go and didn't yet know where to put itself.

Max stood on Gwen's other side, his hand resting lightly at the small of her back. He looked older than Ben remembered. Not weaker—just worn around the edges, like something heavy had settled into his bones and decided it wasn't leaving anytime soon. When people approached him, he spoke steadily. Calmly.

Too calmly.

Ben recognized that trick.

Someone began speaking at the podium—one of Frank's colleagues, Ben thought—but the words blurred together. Phrases floated past without sticking. Bravery. Sacrifice. Duty. Helping people until the very end.

Ben swallowed.

They weren't wrong. Frank and Natalie had always been like that. The kind of people who ran toward the noise instead of away from it. The kind who raised Gwen to believe that doing the right thing mattered, even when it hurt, even when it cost something.

And now they were gone.

The loss hit Ben hard, sharp and real—but it wasn't his world that had collapsed.

He still had his parents. He could still go home to them. Sit at the same table. Hear their voices in the next room.

Gwen couldn't.

That thought settled heavy in his chest, guilt mixing with grief in a way he didn't know how to untangle.

When the speeches ended, people approached in small groups. Quiet condolences. Soft voices that never quite rose above the hush of the gathering. Careful hands placed briefly on shoulders before retreating again. Gwen nodded when spoken to. Said thank you when expected. Her voice stayed even and flat, practiced, like she'd memorized the responses phonetically without attaching any real meaning to them.

Ben watched her do it again and again.

It felt like watching someone pretend to be themselves.

A GDA agent knelt briefly in front of Gwen and said something Ben couldn't hear. Gwen nodded. Ken thanked him. Max shook the man's hand.

Ben didn't move.

He wanted to say something. Anything. Something that might crack the surface and let something out—anger, tears, noise, proof that this was real.

But Gwen didn't look like she was holding it all in.

She looked like it had already left her.

When the crowd began to thin, Ben finally stepped closer. He stood just behind her, close enough to feel the tension rolling off her like static.

"Gwen," he said quietly.

She didn't turn right away. Then, slowly, she looked at him.

Her eyes were dry.

"Hey," she said. The word sounded normal.

That made it worse.

Ben opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
"I—I'm really sorry."

She nodded once.
"I know."

That was it.

No tremor in her voice. No visible reaction. Just acknowledgment, neat and contained.

Ken's grip on her tightened, almost imperceptibly.

Max cleared his throat, staring straight ahead at the stone.
"We'll get through this," he said, not looking at anyone in particular. "One day at a time."

Ben believed him.

For Max.

For himself.

For Gwen… he wasn't so sure.

As they began to leave, Ben glanced back one last time at the marker bearing Frank and Natalie Tennyson's names.

Gwen's parents. Heroes, according to the speeches. Victims, according to the reports.

Family, according to the hollow space they'd left behind.

Gwen didn't look back.

She walked forward instead, supported by Max on one side and Ken on the other, silent as the sky finally gave in and the rain began to fall.

Ben followed, wishing—desperately—that he knew how to help her carry something that was never meant to be his to bear.

---

A few weeks later, Ben stood on the cracked sidewalk outside Gwen's house and felt like he was trespassing.

The place looked smaller than he remembered. Not physically—nothing had changed there—but like something essential had been stripped out and taken with it. The curtains were gone from the front windows. The porch light was off even though the afternoon was already starting to dim. The front door stood open, and the sound of cardboard scraping against wood drifted out into the street.

A U-Haul idled at the curb.

Ben stopped short.

Ken was coming down the front steps with a box tucked under one arm, his free hand steadying the weight against his hip. He looked tired in a way that sleep didn't fix—dark circles under his eyes, shoulders slumped like gravity had doubled since the funeral. He paused when he noticed Ben, then nodded once in acknowledgment before continuing toward the truck.

Gwen followed a moment later.

She carried a smaller box. Lighter. Manageable. Her movements were careful, economical, like she'd rehearsed them. She didn't look up. Didn't hesitate. She walked past Ben like he wasn't there.

Something hollow opened in his chest.

"You guys are moving?" Ben asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Ken set his box down at the back of the truck and leaned against the bumper for a second, rubbing his face with one hand. He let out a breath that sounded halfway to a laugh and not even close to it at the same time.

"I can't pay the bills," he said with a shrug. Not defensive. Not bitter. Just… factual. "Mortgage, utilities, everything else. It adds up fast when there's only one income, and even that's generous these days."

Ben nodded dumbly. His eyes drifted back to the house. Gwen had already gone inside again.

"Didn't Mr. Stedman say they'd help?" Ben asked. "I mean—he said—"

He trailed off, glancing toward the doorway.

Ken followed his gaze.

"I declined the offer," Ken said. He straightened, rolling his shoulders like he was bracing for impact. "Between you and me, Ben… I need to get Gwen away from here. It's too much for her."

Ben swallowed.

"Where are you going?"

"My flat," Ken replied. "It's not big, but it's close to work. I'm turning my office into a room for Gwen until I can figure out a better living arrangement."

Ben nodded again.

He didn't trust his voice anymore.

Gwen came back out with another box. This one was heavier. Ken stepped forward immediately, taking it from her without a word. Their hands brushed. Gwen didn't react.

She stood there for a second, empty-handed, staring at the truck like she was mentally cataloging how much of her life could fit inside it.

Ben took a step closer.

"Gwen," he said softly.

She didn't look at him.

She didn't say anything at all.

The silence between them felt deliberate. Not awkward. Chosen. Like a door she'd locked from the inside.

Ben stood there, useless, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, feeling like he was watching someone board a train he wasn't allowed on. He searched her face for something—anger, sadness, recognition—but found only that same distant calm she'd worn since the memorial. The kind that didn't break, didn't bend, didn't give you anything to grab onto.

Ken cleared his throat.

"We should get the rest of the boxes," he said gently, like he was afraid even sound might shatter her.

Gwen nodded once.

She turned and went back inside.

Ben stayed where he was.

He helped when Ken asked—lifting boxes, holding the ramp steady, passing things along—but it felt like going through motions in a dream. Every time Gwen walked past him, the space where words should have been widened. She never met his eyes. Never slowed. Never acknowledged him.

He couldn't tell if that hurt more than yelling would've.

At one point, he caught sight of her bedroom through the open door. Bare walls. Empty shelves. A faint outline where posters used to be. It looked like a room someone had already moved out of emotionally weeks ago.

"This isn't your fault," Ben blurted suddenly, the thought clawing its way out before he could talk himself out of it.

Ken paused, one foot on the truck's ramp. He looked back at Ben, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion.

"I know," he said. "But knowing doesn't make it easier."

Ben nodded.

Of course it didn't.

When the truck was finally packed, Ken shut the back door with a heavy clang that echoed down the street. He took a moment there, hand still resting against the metal, head bowed.

Gwen stood by the passenger door.

She didn't look back at the house.

Ben stood on the sidewalk, watching them prepare to leave, the weight of everything he couldn't do pressing down on him. He wanted to promise things—call anytime, come visit, it'll get better—but every version of those words felt thin and dishonest in his mouth.

Gwen climbed into the truck without a glance in his direction.

Ken hesitated, then turned to Ben.

"Take care of yourself, yeah?"

"Yeah," Ben said.

The engine rumbled to life. The truck pulled away from the curb slowly, like it was giving the street one last chance to stop it.

Ben stood there long after it disappeared from view.

The house was quiet again. Empty. Just another shell with memories baked into the walls.

He realized then that whatever had broken in Gwen hadn't happened all at once. It hadn't been the attack. Or the funeral. Or the move.

It was the slow accumulation of all of it—and the worst part was knowing that no matter how badly he wanted to help, there was a hole inside her that he couldn't reach.

And trying only seemed to make the distance clearer.

Ben turned and walked home alone…

---

Present Day

---

That was how it had been since then. It was a struggle to get to hear from Gwen on a daily basis, and when she was around he tried desperately to get everything back to normal — or at least as close as he could. Ben had accepted that things weren't going to snap back into place.

He'd tried. God, he'd tried. At first it was small stuff—bringing up things they used to argue about just to hear her voice again, tossing out half-baked jokes, leaning into the kind of enthusiasm that used to get her rolling her eyes and snapping back at him. He talked too much about heroes. About Omni-Man. About the Guardians. About the way fights played out on the news like highlight reels if you squinted hard enough.

Gwen didn't yell at him for it anymore.

She just left the room.

Or slipped her headphones on with a quiet, deliberate finality that said she wasn't interested in pretending anymore. It took Ben longer than he liked to admit to notice the pattern. At first, he thought she was just tired. Then annoyed. Then maybe embarrassed by him. It wasn't until Max sat him down one afternoon—no anger, no lecture, just the weight of honesty—that it finally clicked.

Gwen blamed them.

Not loudly. Not consciously, maybe. But enough that hearing their names felt like reopening a wound that hadn't been allowed to close. Heroes arrived after the damage was done. After the screams. After the smoke. After Frank and Natalie never came home. And whether Gwen meant to or not, that resentment had lodged itself deep, quiet, and sharp.

Ben tried to stop bringing them up after that.

It didn't fix things. But it stopped making them worse.

School didn't help. They attended the same building, walked the same halls, shared the same schedule rhythm—but Gwen had become difficult to find, like she'd learned the blind spots of the day and lived in them. The library became her refuge. Corners, back tables, places where she could pull her hood up and disappear between shelves of books no one else touched. Ben would catch glimpses of her sometimes, tucked away with something open in front of her, posture folded inward like she was trying to take up less space in the world.

She had never done that before.

That realization hurt more than he expected.

Still, there were moments—small, fragile ones—that kept him going. He noticed her at his soccer games, sitting a few rows up, always near the aisle. She never cheered. Never waved. But she stayed until the end, rain or shine, and that mattered more than he could put into words. His parents missed most of those games, pulled away on GDA business that never seemed to end, and Ben tried not to dwell on how easily that absence could turn permanent.

He hated himself for thinking about it.

Max filled the gaps when he could. Pickups. Dinners. Long evenings where the TV murmured in the background and the world felt, briefly, normal again. Ben leaned on that stability more than he realized, especially as summer crept closer and the days grew heavier with anticipation and unease.

But today was the first time in a long time that he felt like everything was starting to feel normal again. He hoped this road trip would help find a semblance of that old life again, or at the very least, make it where they weren't as distant anymore.

For tonight, though? He'd happily accept watching some crappy horror movie and eating a couple of pizzas with her. As he fell asleep, he had a smile on his face and a sense of contentment that hadn't been there in months.

---

AN: Hey guys, hope you enjoyed the chapter. I debated on whether to include Gwen's backstory here that set her apart from the normal canon storyline, but ultimately decided this was better. I don't like tiptoeing around a subject, and there's really no point in doing so. As mentioned in the last chapter, I am rewriting the story to be a true Ben 10 x Invincible fic, and for those who read the early access chapters I had for the OG version will know, a good chunk of this was actually from the flashbacks I had a part of it.

I'm glad to see most of the comments have agreed with me that this was the right path to go down. I still love my SI fics, but Omni-Blood wasn't meant for that route, I'm afraid. With Gwen, I wanted to do something a little different. I know many might not agree with killing her parents off, but this felt like a good way to make this story my own. I'm trying to stay true to the characters while giving it a twist of my own to give it a good flavor.

I know you all are hoping to see more Omni-Blood soon, and that is my plan. I usually try to have about 5 to 10 chapters written in advance, in case something goes off the rails. If you are interested in seeing more as they're developed before public release, I do have a Patreon that you can go to (same username, Arsenal597) where you can get early access to chapters, commissioned artwork, personal updates from me, and extra side content that you might not see otherwise. Link will be below if you're interested.

Regardless of that, though... if you'd like to join my discord and talk about the story, link will be below as well!

Thank you for reading, let me know what you think (reviews do motivate me to keep writing), and I'll catch you all later.

---

THIS STORY IS CROSS POSTED ON AO3, FF, AND QQ.

---

COUNCIL MEMBERS:

Benediktus

---

discord.gg/dQkeJPkxdD

https://www.patreon.com/c/Arsenal597

 

[Arsenal597]

The morning came like a fog. Ben opened his eyes to the soft glow of the television screen, colors drifting lazily across the walls as Netflix cycled through its screensaver advertisements. The sound was muted, some ambient swell meant to be soothing, but it felt distant, like it belonged to another room entirely. For a moment, he wasn't sure how long he'd been awake or if he'd slept at all. His body felt heavy, limbs slow to respond, like the night had sunk its weight into his bones and refused to let go.

He turned his head slightly and noticed Gwen curled up in the corner of the couch, knees drawn tight to her chest, her blanket twisted around her like a shield. A deep frown creased her brow, sharp and unguarded, and a soft whimper slipped from her lips before she could stop it. It barely made a sound, but it was enough. Ben watched her chest rise and fall unevenly, breath hitching like she was running from something she couldn't see.

She had to be having a nightmare.

One of the few times Ben had managed to speak with Ken after their parents' deaths, Ken had mentioned it almost offhandedly, like he didn't want to give the words more power than they already had. Gwen had nightmares. Recurring ones. Dreams where the kaiju attack played out again and again with brutal clarity, every detail burned in, vivid enough that she woke up shaking. Ken had gotten her a therapist after that. Said it helped, at least a little.

Ben didn't know what this one was about. From where he stood, it didn't look the same. It felt… different. Quieter, somehow. That didn't make it better.

He shifted carefully, mindful of the floorboards, and climbed to his feet. His joints protested as he stood, stiff from sleeping in a chair that had never been meant for it. He rubbed at his eyes and padded toward the bathroom, leaving Gwen where she was. Part of him wanted to wake her. Another part knew better.

The cold water from the faucet bit into his skin as he splashed it over his face, sharp enough to cut through the haze. He braced himself against the sink, staring at his reflection while the droplets clung to his lashes. He looked as tired as he felt. Sleeping on the couch wasn't a comfortable affair, and it usually left him feeling drained for the rest of the day. But then again, he always had trouble waking up early so that might have also played a factor in the matter.

When he returned to his room to get dressed, the world outside his window was already stirring. Morning light crept along the pavement, pale and uncertain, and as he pulled the curtain back just a little, he saw it.

The Rust Bucket came into view around the corner, slow and unmistakable.

Ben couldn't help the smile that tugged at his mouth.

The thing looked exactly the same as it always had—rust blooming along the sides, paint dulled by years of sun and neglect, the engine sounding like it was held together by stubbornness and habit. Ben couldn't even remember how long Max had owned it. It felt like it had always been there, lurking at the edge of every important memory. Family trips. Summer mornings. Long roads and longer conversations. It was honestly a miracle the thing was still drivable.

Then again, Max had a habit of keeping things alive long past the point anyone else would've given up on them.

Ben dressed quickly, pulling on a black T-shirt, brown cargo pants, and his dark green hoodie. He shoved his feet into his shoes and took one last glance out the window as the Rust Bucket rattled into place.

Max was early, per usual.

Ben headed downstairs just as Gwen began to stir. She shifted beneath the blanket, brow knitting tighter before slowly smoothing out. Her breathing evened, though her hands stayed clenched for a second longer than necessary. When her eyes finally opened, they were unfocused at first, still half caught somewhere else.

"Morning," he waved softly towards her. She didn't say anything for a moment as she pushed the blanket off to the side and stretched.

"Morning. What time is it?" she asked, stifling a yawn.

"Six-thirty," Ben said, glancing toward the clock on the microwave as he rubbed at the back of his neck. "Might want to get moving. Grandpa's already outside."

Gwen squinted at him like she didn't quite believe that was a real sentence.

"Already?" she muttered, pushing herself upright. "Doesn't he ever sleep in?"

"Apparently not. He's probably as excited about this trip as we are." Ben shrugged, heading for the front door.

Gwen swung her legs off the couch and stood, stretching until her back popped quietly. She grabbed her bag from where it leaned against the chair, slinging it over one shoulder.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," she said, already heading for the hall. "Bathroom."

Ben nodded, even though she wasn't looking. He watched her disappear around the corner, then turned toward the front door.

The air outside was cooler than he expected, the early morning clinging to the neighborhood before the sun could really get to work. He stepped out onto the porch and pulled the door shut behind him, the hinges creaking softly. The Rust Bucket sat at the curb, engine idling with that familiar uneven rumble, exhaust puffing in tired little clouds. Max was halfway out of the driver's seat, one hand braced on the door as he straightened up.

He was wearing one of his loud Hawaiian shirts, full of bright reds and greens, palm trees and flowers clashing happily against one another. It looked wildly out of place against the quiet street and the pale morning, but that was Max's style.

"I wasn't sure you'd be up yet," Max said, spotting him. His voice carried easily, warm and unhurried, like he had nowhere else to be.

"Haven't been up for long," Ben said, leaning against the porch railing. He glanced back at the door. "Gwen's inside, getting ready."

Max paused, one foot still on the pavement.

"She's here?"

"Yeah. She came over last night." Ben shrugged. "Figured it'd be easier to pick both of us up at the same time, I guess."

Max smiled at that, slow and genuine.

"That saves me the trouble of having to wake Ken up," he said, closing the door with a soft thud. He looked Ben over then, not obvious about it, but thorough all the same. "You okay, Ben? You look exhausted."

Ben huffed out a breath, eyes drifting down to the porch boards. He hadn't realized it showed that much.

"Didn't sleep well last night."

"You've been saying that a lot lately," Max noted, not accusing, just observant.

Ben rolled one shoulder.

"Just restless."

He didn't elaborate. He didn't really know how to, even if he wanted to. Some nights his brain just wouldn't shut up, thoughts looping and colliding until sleep felt like something happening to someone else. Other nights, he slept fine and still woke up feeling like he'd missed something important. It was easier to call it restlessness and move on.

Max didn't push. He never did. He just nodded once, like he'd filed the answer away for later, and leaned back against the Rust Bucket. Behind them, the front door opened again. Ben heard Gwen's footsteps before he saw her, lighter now, more awake. Whatever had followed her through the night seemed to have loosened its grip, at least for the moment.

Max straightened, his smile widening as she came into view.

"Morning, Grandpa." Gwen gave a half-wave, with what Ben could only scarcely refer to as a smile. It was so miniscule, so subtle, that Ben wasn't even sure if it was there.

She'd pulled her hair back into a ponytail, the locks falling comfortably into the hood of her turquoise hoodie. Her eyes lacked the drowsiness Ben's had, but she was more of a morning person than he was. Or maybe she used makeup to hide it. Which raised the internal question of whether Gwen wore makeup, but he wasn't going to press on that because he felt the potential argument that would arise from it. The last thing he wanted was to start today off with an argument.

"Morning, kiddo. You ready to get this show on the road?"

"Yeah," Gwen said, nodding once. "I'm ready."

Max clapped his hands together softly, like that settled everything.

"Then let's not waste daylight."

Ben stepped back inside to grab his things while Gwen headed toward the Rust Bucket, already trading a few quiet words with Max that Ben didn't catch. It felt strange to be walking through the house this early on a non-school day. He usually would sleep in until about eight, maybe nine o'clock if his parents weren't there to wake him up. So, being up this early and not having his parents shuffling around felt uncomfortable to put it simply.

Ben grabbed his duffel from where he'd left it by the couch, slung it over his shoulder, then doubled back for his game console, unplugging it from the TV and tucking it carefully under his arm. He hesitated for a second, scanning the living room out of habit. Couch cushions slightly askew. The blanket Gwen had slept under folded loosely at one end. Everything in its place, more or less.

He shut the door behind him and locked it, the click loud in the quiet. It struck him, briefly, how long it would be before he unlocked it again.

By the time he reached the curb, Gwen was already climbing into the passenger seat. She slid in easily, familiar with the motion, and Max waited until her door was shut before moving around to the driver's side. Ben paused for half a second, disappointment flickering before he could stop it. Shotgun. Of course. He told himself it didn't matter. It never really did.

He went around to the side door instead and climbed in, setting his bag down near the table and easing onto the bench seat. The interior of the Rust Bucket smelled like old upholstery, sun-warmed metal, and something vaguely mechanical that Ben had never been able to identify. It was the same smell it had always had. Comforting in a strange, specific way.

Max started the engine, and the Rust Bucket lurched into motion with a familiar groan, like it was complaining but willing to cooperate. Houses slid past the windows as they pulled away from the curb, Bellwood waking up in pieces around them. Lawns half-watered. A jogger moving at an ambitious pace. A few cars were already on the road, headlights still on out of habit.

Ben leaned his head against the cool glass and watched it all blur together. He rested his arm against the window, fingers drifting unconsciously to his right wrist. He rubbed at it absently, thumb tracing small circles over skin that looked no different than it ever had. He didn't know why he did it. He just found himself doing it sometimes, especially when he wasn't thinking about anything in particular.

Or when he was thinking about too much.

The road stretched out ahead of them, Bellwood slowly giving way to longer streets and fewer turns. Max hummed along with the radio, some old station playing music Ben didn't recognize but didn't mind. Gwen stared out her window, chin propped against her hand.

Ultimately, Ben found himself smiling as he settled into the seat further. The thought of being with Gwen and Max was a comforting one, and he swore to himself that this trip was what all three of them needed.

---

Hey guys, hope you all enjoyed the chapter. I do apologize for the wait between chapters. As I mentioned in my recent chapter of Absolute Spider-Man, I unfortunately was sick for a bit there and developed writer's block. I am trying to get back into the swing of things with writing. For those who follow my early chapters on the P, I plan on getting more built up in the coming days as I get back into this.

This chapter was shorter than I anticipated, but it was mostly meant to be a stepping-stone between story beats. The next chapter will be roughly around the same length, but afterwards the lengths will improve!

But I do have a question: What aliens would you like to see for Ben's first 10? As much as I'd like to follow the OG 10, I think having a blend of different aliens might be the way to go here.

As always, if you want to join the discord server I have and talk about the story... link will be below.

Interested in seeing chapters early? I have a Patreon where you can get up to 10 chapters early access. (Disclaimer: At this moment on 3/17/2026 there is not ten chapters built up. This is being worked on!)

Let me know what you thought of the chapter, and I will see you all very soon!

---

Council Members:

---

Benediktus

Seren

---

discord.gg/dQkeJPkxdD

https://www.patreon.com/c/Arsenal597

 

[Arsenal597]

Chapter 4: The Conqueror

---

Slipping through the ever-expanding, dark void of space was the ship controlled by Vilgax the Conqueror. The ship was extremely quiet by this time, as he sat alone on the command dais, one massive arm resting against the edge of the console. Holographic images hovered in the air before him, rotating slowly on a loop.

He growled under his breath, looking at the devastation that was Galvan Prime. The news had come across his board only in the last few cycles. The projections were pulled from long-range scans. Vilgax had surveillance drones watching the planet for some time, mostly due to the inventor Azmuth residing there. Someone with a mind like his was a formidable foe to keep an eye on.

The holograms painted a picture Vilgax knew all too well: cities torn open from above, landmasses gouged and broken. Entire regions were simply gone, reduced to ash, debris, or nothing at all.

Vilgax's red eye narrowed slightly as the image shifted, zooming in on a ruined metropolis. Galvan architecture, which even he had admitted was a sight to behold, now twisted into jagged skeletons that left him feeling uneasy. He could understand the violence, the brute force of it, but that was only when applied to the right area. If there was one single thing the Viltrum Empire was lousy at, it was damage mitigation.

They did not operate as a scalpel. In their desire to be the reigning species, replenishing their numbers, the Viltrum Empire was more likely to scorch a planet than leave innocent bystanders aside. No, they liked making a spectacle of their prey. Vilgax could commend them for the act, but devastation for the sake of devastation was not something he could abide by. Especially when it came to some of the galaxy's brightest minds.

Galvans were small creatures, but their brains far made up for it. Some of the greatest creations Vilgax had ever come across in his travels were in part due to them. It was for this reason alone that Vilgax felt the slightest sense of sympathy and compassion for the species.

He knew the singular being responsible for this, even without the reports. Thragg's greatest weapon:

Conquest.

Just the name alone was enough to send a chill through Vilgax's body. He had faced Viltrumites before, though it was never by choice. He knew better than to underestimate those fiendish brutes. When compared to other species, Vilgax found it hard to find one as prone to violence as the Viltrumites. A single member of that race could raze a world without support. There was no greater weapon of mass destruction than a Viltrumite with a mission. Their strength was unmatched; their speed made targeting systems obsolete. Even their weakest members had endurance that turned prolonged conflict into a losing proposition by default.

He had nearly died learning that lesson.

The unfortunate memory surfaced unbidden—the bone-crushing force, the sensation of being hurled through atmosphere and stone alike, systems screaming as armor failed piece by piece. It had taken everything to survive that encounter, and even then, survival had felt less like victory and more like mercy.

And if there was one thing Vilgax despised more than anything, was being treated like a lesser being. He would much rather have died in battle than be left alive to crawl away and lick his wounds. His pride had never recovered from that battle, and it was for that reason his right eye had been lost.

It was for this reason that Vilgax had kept to the edges of the Milky Way. He wanted to be the one to conquer the Viltrumites, to watch them burn and writhe in their inevitable demise. He wanted Thragg to lay beneath him, bloodied and broken… as he once had. But even Vilgax needed to admit where his weaknesses lay. Direct conflict with Thragg's minions would only end in his demise. So, for far too long he was forced to watch the Empire's expansion carefully, charting borders and influence, making certain his operations never drifted too close to their reach. Their interest had not yet settled here, to his knowledge. As long as that remained true, Vilgax could prepare for the future conflict.

The hologram shifted again, cycling through orbital debris, broken platforms, and scattered escape pods — most left cold and lifeless. Azmuth's battle with Conquest had given enough time to evacuate the majority of the population. Those who were caught in the crossfire were not so lucky.

Briefly, a trace signature pulsed across the display. Vilgax leaned forward, tentacles hanging in the air as excitement spread through his body. He knew that signature…

The Omnitrix.

It was only a mere echo of it, but it was enough to bring him to attention. The energy trail was faint, fragmented, and distorted by the violence that had torn Galvan Prime apart. Whatever Azmuth had done to mask it, whatever safeguards he had put in place, they had been disrupted. Not destroyed—but shaken loose, like a footprint left behind in scorched earth.

Vilgax's mandibles twitched, something close to satisfaction curling through his chest. Azmuth was gone. There was no confirmed body, no final transmission, no signature trace that could be reliably identified as the Galvan's. In Vilgax's experience, absence was often more telling than death.

If Azmuth by some miracle had survived, the Omnitrix would likely have company as it drifted through the void. But, even so… he suspected that regardless of the outcome of the battle, the Omnitrix wouldn't be left unattended.

What mattered the most to him was the one consolation he scraped away from the images; the one thing Vilgax allowed himself to savor as the images continued to scroll.

Thragg had not claimed the Omnitrix.

The Viltrumite Empire, for all its brutality, was efficient. If the Omnitrix had fallen into Thragg's hands, there would be no mystery.

The universe would already feel the consequences. A weapon like the Omnitrix, capable of rewriting biology, of turning adaptability itself into a tool of war… in Viltrumite hands, it would have been catastrophic.

Even one Viltrumite enhanced by its power would have been unstoppable. DNA splicing would be difficult for them in the long run. As Vilgax had learned, Viltrumite DNA was effectively an invasive species. If they were to procreate with another species, the Viltrumite DNA would eventually overtake it. At least, that was what Vilgax had come to understand.

Vilgax exhaled slowly, the sound low and controlled.

No. If the Omnitrix was to be claimed, it was better that it be claimed by him.

He understood it. Not completely—no one ever truly did—but enough to recognize its potential beyond raw destruction. Azmuth had been arrogant enough to believe the device could be trusted to morality, to judgment, to chance. Vilgax knew better. Power did not need conscience. It needed direction.

The image zoomed out, pulling back from Galvan Prime as it now existed: a wounded world, still smoldering, still bleeding debris into space. Somewhere beyond it, the trail continued—faint, erratic, but unmistakable. A line drawn away from the ruins, stretching toward a smaller, quieter system.

His system…

The Milky Way was his domain, regardless whether the Plumbers had anything to say about it. He'd stayed out of their way, and for that reason they'd left him alone. He'd spent too long licking his own wounds, trying to gather up what little bit of pride he had left. The Omnitrix was his one chance to get back on his feet, and to stick it to Thragg.

He was concerned that Conquest might have followed the Omnitrix's trail, but that was immediately squashed. The planet's security defenses had done sufficient damage to Conquest that the Viltrumite would be down for some time, even with his victory. Had Vilgax known about the battle sooner, he might have been able to put that wretch down once and for all.

But he'd take a small victory where he could take it right now. Following the trail, he was able to pinpoint where the Omnitrix was heading.

Earth.

It was a primitive planet by most measures. Fractured politics, underdeveloped defenses, but resilient in ways that were inconvenient. Some of their population had developed extraordinary abilities, giving them an edge in combat. That wasn't something Vilgax was worried about, no. It was the thought of engaging with the Plumbers that concerned him. He was still recovering, his resources were scarce, and engaging with a planetary defense force was something Vilgax wasn't sure he could afford to do.

If he were to acquire the Omnitrix, he'd need to capture it before it ever breached the planet's atmosphere. He could intercept the device. Yes, that was feasible.

Vilgax rose from his seat, towering as the holograms adjusted to his movement. His ship responded instantly, systems humming to life as new coordinates populated across the display.

Conquest's rampage had been careless. Typical. He destroyed, moved on, and left consequences for others to clean up. But in that wake of annihilation, something far more valuable had slipped free.

Vilgax intended to retrieve it.

This was the moment he was waiting for. It didn't matter who stood in his way, the Omnitrix would be his.

---

Meanwhile…

---

The campsite had come together in pieces as the sun dipped low, the sky bleeding from orange to bruised purple in slow, reluctant gradients. Max had parked the Rust Bucket just off the road, tucked into a clearing that felt intentional without being crowded, the kind of place you only found if you already knew where to look. The fire pit was old, stones blackened and cracked from use long before them, and Max had taken to it with an enthusiasm that bordered on ceremonial. By the time night settled in fully, the fire was crackling steady, throwing sparks into the dark and bathing the clearing in warm, flickering light.

"Bon appétit." Max smiled as he set a bowl down in front of the two as they set up camp for the evening.

Ben raised an eyebrow, trying to keep his stomach steady as the apparent meal writhed in the bowl, its slimy pale flesh glinting in the moonlight. The smell hit a second later—earthy, sharp, not rotten exactly, but not anything his brain wanted to associate with food either. His appetite, which had been hanging on by a thread since they'd left Bellwood, made a quiet, offended noise and promptly backed away.

"Okay, I give up…" Ben groaned, leaning back on his hands. "What is this supposed to be?"

"Marinated mealworms." Max beamed in reply, rubbing his hands together. "It's hard to find them fresh in the states. Did you know they're considered a delicacy in some countries?"

Gwen's lip curled in disgust as she watched one of the worms crawl out of the bowl and inch across the picnic table, leaving a faint, glistening trail behind it.

"It's totally gross in this one," she grumbled.

Max smirked, clearly enjoying this far too much.

"If these don't sound good, I've got some smoked sheep's tongue in the fridge."

Ben gagged, the sound halfway between reflex and protest. "Ugh, couldn't we just have a burger or something? Not exactly something I'm in the mood for, Grandpa."

"We're on a budget, kiddo. And I'd rather get my own food than pay for it, didn't I tell you that before?"

"Did I mention that I prefer to pay for mine?"

"I can always charge you for these," Max smirked. "This summer is going to be an adventure for your taste buds. It'll do you some good, trust me."

Ben and Gwen looked at one another, trying to decide whether this road trip was worth it after all.

The fire popped loudly, a log shifting as it settled, and Ben glanced away from the bowl just long enough to breathe through his nose and remind himself that this was, apparently, happening. Max had already helped himself, of course. He skewered a few of the worms with a fork like he was spearing marshmallows and popped them into his mouth without hesitation, chewing thoughtfully, eyes half-lidded in something dangerously close to bliss.

"Nutty," Max said after a moment, nodding to himself. "Good texture, too. Not mushy if you do it right."

Ben stared at him. "You are way too excited about this."

Max chuckled, unfazed. "You spend enough time out in the field, you learn not to be picky. Food's food."

That was… probably true. Ben knew that, logically. Grandpa Max had stories. Lots of them. Stories about places Ben couldn't pronounce, situations that sounded impossible, and meals that had absolutely not involved drive-thrus or delivery apps. Still, knowing that didn't make the worms any less alive-looking in the bowl between them.

He could never remember if Max had been affiliated with the GDA, or some faction of the military. All he knew was that Max was always down for extended camping trips where electronics were minimally used.

Gwen poked at one with the tip of her fork, face twisted like she was defusing a bomb.

"I don't think it's the idea of bugs that bothers me," she said slowly. "It's the fact that they're… moving."

"They won't be for long," Max offered helpfully.

"That does not help."

Ben leaned back against the bench, letting his gaze drift past the firelight and into the trees beyond the clearing. It was strange, he thought, how quickly the day had stretched and folded into this. Just this morning he'd been at home, in comfortable surroundings… and now here he was miles away, sitting under a sky full of stars with a bowl of worms in front of him.

Part of him almost laughed at that, and then he saw the color drain from Gwen's face as she tried to push herself to take a bite. Then, he realized that he was in the same exact boat as her.

Gwen finally sighed and took a small bite, chewing carefully, like she expected it to fight back. She swallowed, paused, then reluctantly nodded.

"Okay," she admitted. "That's… not as bad as I thought."

Ben eyed her like she'd betrayed him.

"You're kidding."

She shrugged.

"I didn't say I liked it."

Max grinned, victorious.

Ben hesitated, then reached forward and speared one himself. He didn't think about it. Thinking about it would ruin everything. He popped it into his mouth, chewed once, twice—

…and froze.

It wasn't good. He wasn't going to lie to himself about that. But it wasn't terrible, either. Salty. A little crunchy. Weirdly smoky.

"Well?" Max prompted.

Ben swallowed and sighed.

"I hate that you're right."

Max laughed, loud and pleased, the sound carrying into the trees. "Told you. This summer's gonna broaden your horizons."

I really wish I had brought some snacks… Ben thought quietly to himself, not looking forward to the countless meals of grub that were likely to follow.

---

Oh my god, I am so sorry for the wait on this chapter. I know it's been an entire month since the last chapter, and I apologize for that. February going into March was a really bad month for me in terms of writing. I had a bit of writer's block coupled with seasonal illnesses. It's not fair to make excuses, which is why I'm trying to do my best to get some new chapters out. My plan is going forward is to have 2-3 chapters a month posted minimum for all stories. It's a work in progress, so bear with me!

As always, thank you everyone for reading the story. It means a lot to me. I appreciate the comments more than you'd ever know. It really does motivate me to keep writing. So, if you ever have any thoughts, I'm always happy to hear them!

As it stands, there are some difficulties with me writing consistently, primarily my job. I can work a little bit on my stories there, but not much without getting in trouble obviously. So, I may or may not be able to live up to my own standards. However, if you guys are interested in joining my discord server, or supporting my writing I will leave a link below where you can access those.

Those who are sufficient rank on my discord server were able to read this chapter a few weeks ago, and will continue to have 1 chapter in advance going forward. Those who support my writing are able to get anywhere from 1-10 chapters in advance before public release. As of this moment, Omni-Blood has 2 chapters in advance. So, if you're interested... the link is below.

Links

Regardless though whether you choose to join the community or support my writing, I do appreciate all of you. Thank you for the support. They make me happy to know that you guys are enjoying the story. It motivates me to keep writing, seriously. It's my life-blood at times haha. A comment will always improve my day and motivate me to keep going.

Anyway, until the next chapter everyone, I shall see you later!

---

Council Members:

---

Benediktus

---

Wayne Foundation Member:

---

Seren

 

[Arsenal597]

For the Tennysons, the rest of the evening consisted of them sitting by the campfire and roasting marshmallows. Max told them stories from his youth, such as how he had first met their grandmother, Verdona. Notably, Gwen's face had softened during this part of the night. Ben had noticed it from the corner of his eye, and smiled unconsciously. They never got to see much of their grandmother. She had died shortly before they were born. At least, that was what the cousins had figured due to how their families only referred to Verdona as "gone." Ben surmised it was cancer or something of the like, just because it was the most likely scenario.

Max's voice carried easily over the crackle of the fire, steady and warm in a way that surprised Ben. He expected his tone to be more withdrawn, uncertain of himself. For as long as he remembered, Max never spoke of Verdona, so hearing him talk about her like it was nothing out of the ordinary was strange. Though, admittedly he did seem to brush past details that felt like they probably mattered more than he wanted to let on.

"...and that's when she decided I wasn't worth talking to," Max chuckled, turning his marshmallow slowly over the flame. "Didn't see her again for three months."

Gwen huffed her breath softly, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself.

"Oh, yeah? You're leaving something out."

"Am I?" Max raised a brow, feigning innocence.

"Yes," she said, more certain now. "There's no way Grandma of all people just ignored you for three months without a reason."

"Okay, you've got me." Max's grin widened, but there was something quieter laced behind it. "Well… I might've said something I shouldn't have."

Ben snorted.

"What? Like what?"

Max glanced between them, weighing it for a second before shaking his head

"How about we just say that I was a lot less charming back then."

"That's hard to believe," Gwen muttered under her breath, though there wasn't much bite to it.

Max laughed.

"Hey now, I cleaned up eventually. After all, I did get her to marry me."

Ben leaned back slightly in his seat, watching the two of them as the firelight danced across their faces. Gwen looked… different. Not in a way he could fully explain, just—lighter, like something in her had relaxed without her realizing it. She wasn't correcting Max, wasn't rolling her eyes every other sentence. She was just… listening. But he assumed it mostly had to do with the rare occurrence unfolding before them.

He didn't think he'd seen that much.

Max nudged another marshmallow toward the center of the flames, the stick steady in his hand.

"She was something else, your grandmother," he said, quieter now. "Smart. Strong. Didn't take nonsense from anyone—especially me."

"Must have been if she could get you to settle down," Ben smirked faintly.

"What are you trying to say, kiddo?"

"Nothing." the teen chuckled, throwing his hands up in defense. "I mean, you always seemed like the type to never settle down. From all the stories you've told us, you seemed to enjoy the freedom."

"I did…" Max nodded, adjusting in his seat. "Your grandmother was special, though. I knew it from the moment we met. A person like her only comes once in a lifetime. She had this way of seeing right through you. Didn't matter what you said or how you said it. She knew what you meant."

Gwen's gaze drifted down to her own marshmallow, now golden and just on the edge of burning.

"Sounds like someone I know."

Ben glanced at her.

"Yeah? Who?"

She didn't look up.

"Me."

Ben blinked, then let out a short laugh.

"Okay, yeah, that's fair."

Max smiled at that, something proud slipping through before he could hide it.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, you've got a bit of her in you. But Ben inherited her sense of humor."

Gwen didn't respond right away, but the way her shoulders shifted—just slightly—said enough.

Ben looked back at the fire, turning his own marshmallow without really paying attention to it. Verdona. It still felt weird putting a name to someone who had always just been… absent. Not gone in a way that people talked about. Just not there. Like a missing piece no one really wanted to bring up.

He tried to picture her, but couldn't.

All he had was Max's version of her—sharp, stubborn, impossible to ignore. It didn't feel real. More like a character from one of Grandpa's stories than an actual person who had existed in their family. He couldn't even remember if there were any photos of Verdona now that he thought about it.

"Did she… like this kind of stuff?" Ben asked after a moment, gesturing vaguely at the campfire, the open space around them

Max followed his gaze, his expression softening again.

"Sometimes," he said. "She liked being outside. Not always for the same reasons I did, but… yeah. She would've liked this."

Ben nodded slowly.

The fire popped, a small burst of sparks rising into the night before fading into nothing. The air had cooled a bit since they'd set up camp, the kind of chill that crept in gradually until you noticed it all at once. Ben rubbed his hands together absently, more out of habit than anything.

Gwen finished her marshmallow, sliding it off the stick and onto a graham cracker with practiced ease.

"You could've told us more about her," she said, quieter now

Max didn't answer right away. He stared into the fire for a second, like he was looking at something beyond it. Then he sighed, lowering his head.

"Yeah," he admitted. "I probably should have."

"Then why didn't you?" Ben asked before he could stop himself.

"Ben," Gwen's eyes widened in shock.

"I'm sorry. I didn't-"

"It's fine," Max cut him off gently. "I loved your grandmother. More than I could ever attempt to put to words, but a lot of the time it feels like an old wound being reopened. It's just hard for me to talk about her most days, especially when your parents were around."

None of them said much after that. Ben kept his head lowered in shame, chastising himself for blurting the question out. Eventually, though… the conversation drifted into lighter territory. There were random stories, small arguments over whose marshmallow was cooked "right." Once that happened, Ben found himself laughing more than he expected, even if half the time it was just at how seriously Max took something as stupid as roasting marshmallows.

The flames settled into glowing embers, the bright orange fading into softer reds as the night stretched on. Crickets filled the silence where conversation had been, a steady rhythm that made everything feel just a little more still.

Max stood first, brushing his hands off against his pants.

"Alright," he said in a yawn, stretching slightly. "I think that's about enough for tonight."

Gwen nodded, already gathering up what little they had left out.

"Yeah… I'm tired."

Ben glanced between them, then up at the sky.

"Already?"

"You'll survive turning in early for one night," Gwen shot back, though there wasn't much energy behind it.

Max chuckled, moving towards the Rust Bucket.

"We've got a long day tomorrow. Best get some rest while we can."

Gwen lingered for a second before heading inside, pausing just long enough to glance back at the fire. Something unreadable crossed her face before she shook it off and followed Max in.

Ben stayed where he was.

The quiet settled around him almost immediately, heavier now without their voices cutting through it. He shifted slightly, then stood, stretching his arms over his head before walking over to the nearby picnic table.

The wood creaked faintly as he climbed up, laying back against it with a soft exhale. It wasn't the most comfortable thing in the world, but it didn't really matter.

Above him, the sky stretched out in a way he didn't get to see back in Bellwood.

No city lights. No distractions. Just stars.

A lot of them.

Ben stared up at them, his head resting against the rough surface of the table as he let his eyes wander. They didn't look real. Not completely. Too many of them, too bright, scattered across the sky like someone had just… thrown them up there without thinking about it.

He raised his hand slightly, squinting as he tried to line one of them up between his fingers.

They were too far away for that.

Too far away for anything, really.

He let his hand drop back down, resting it against his chest as he exhaled slowly. The night air filled his lungs, cool and steady, carrying the faint smell of smoke from the dying fire.

"Grandma, huh?" he muttered to himself, the words barely audible. It was so weird to hear Max talk about her tonight. The cadence in his voice reminded him of how soft-spoken Ken was whenever he brought up his and Gwen's parents. Only then did it dawn on him why Max never brought her up before — for the same reason Gwen and Ken rarely spoke about their parents. It would hurt too much to do so most days. "I'm an idiot."

He sat there for another moment, then swung his legs over the side of the picnic table and dropped down onto the dirt. His shoes crunched lightly against the gravel as he landed, the sound a little too loud for his own liking. Ben turned toward the Rust Bucket, half-expecting to see the door swing open or Max poke his head out.

Ben shoved his hands into his pockets and started off without much of a plan, following the faint outline of a trail that cut through the trees just beyond their campsite.

---

Elsewhere…

---

Slipping through the void with a steady, deliberate glide, Vilgax's ship followed the fractured trail left behind in Galvan Prime's wake. The Omnitrix's signature was faint—barely more than a ghost smeared across the fabric of space—but it was there. It pulsed intermittently across his display, flickering in and out as if daring him to lose it.

Vilgax stood at the center of the command dais, his single red eye fixed on the shifting data as it updated in real time. The trail had grown weaker the farther it stretched from Galvan Prime, distorted by debris fields, radiation bursts, and the sheer violence of what had taken place there.

The signature spiked slightly across the display—subtle, but enough to draw Vilgax's full attention. His mandibles twitched as he leaned forward, one clawed hand resting against the console.

The data refreshed again, lines of projected trajectory overlapping one another as the system recalibrated. What had once been a scattered, erratic trail began to narrow, tightening into something far more defined. The inconsistencies smoothed out. The path straightened.

His gaze sharpened, the low hum of the ship's systems the only sound in the chamber as the realization settled into place. The Omnitrix wasn't drifting anymore.

It had been grabbed by someone...

Vilgax straightened slowly, his posture shifting as the information locked in. The trail ahead was no longer a question of where the Omnitrix had gone—but how it was getting there.

A second display flickered to life at his command, scanning the surrounding space with a broader sweep. Long-range sensors pushed outward, cutting through the darkness, filtering through interference and residual energy until—

There.

Insignificant by most standards. A transport-class vessel, its silhouette barely visible against the void as it pushed forward at a pace that would've been impressive for lesser species. Its engines burned unevenly, output fluctuating just enough to suggest strain. Damage, perhaps. Or overextension.

Either way, it wasn't built for what it was trying to do.

Vilgax studied it in silence, his eye narrowing slightly as the system fed him more data. The Omnitrix's signature aligned with it almost perfectly now, no longer scattered across open space but centered—contained.

His mandibles curled faintly.

Of course.

Azmuth hadn't left it to chance.

Even in death… or whatever passed for it in the Galvan's case… he had ensured the device wouldn't simply drift into the hands of the first opportunist that came across it. A transport. Likely automated safeguards. Perhaps even survivors.

It didn't matter.

They had taken something that did not belong to them.

Vilgax's ship adjusted its heading without a word, angling toward the distant vessel as the gap between them began to close. There was no urgency in the movement. No sudden burst of speed. Just a steady increase, controlled and inevitable.

The transport hadn't noticed him yet.

Its sensors were either damaged… or insufficient.

Vilgax watched as it continued along its path, unaware of what now followed in its wake. There was a certain… predictability to it. A straight line drawn through space toward a destination it likely believed it would reach.

Earth.

Primitive. Fractured. Defended, but not enough to matter.

If the vessel made it there, the situation would become… inconvenient. Plumber interference. Native resistance. Variables that would require time and resources he had no interest in expending.

No.

This would end here.

A faint signal pulsed outward from the transport, weak but persistent. Vilgax's display caught it instantly, translating the frequency as it repeated itself in a steady loop. Distress.

His gaze lingered on it for a moment.

Plumber channels.

So they were still active.

A low, almost thoughtful sound rumbled in his chest as he considered that. The Plumbers had always been… persistent. Irritatingly so.

And now they would be listening. This could prove to be more complicated than he had originally accounted on.

Vilgax did not move to stop the signal, though.

If anything, his focus shifted past it, already calculating the next step. The transport's systems were strained. Its engines were operating beyond their intended limits. Its hull integrity showed signs of stress along multiple points. It was holding together—but barely.

It would not take much.

His hand moved across the console, and the ship responded instantly. Targeting systems came online in silence, locking onto the transport with a precision that left no room for error. Power routed where it was needed, weapons charging without fanfare, without excess.

The transport still hadn't reacted.

It continued forward, broadcasting its plea into the void, unaware that its fate had already been decided.

Vilgax watched it for a second longer.

Then he acted.

A single, focused shot lanced out from his ship, cutting through the darkness with brutal efficiency. It struck the transport along its rear thruster assembly, not with enough force to destroy—but enough to cripple. The engine sputtered violently, its output spiking before collapsing into an uneven burn.

The ship lurched.

Its trajectory faltered, systems scrambling to compensate as warning signals no doubt flooded whatever crew remained aboard. The distress signal intensified, its frequency wavering as power fluctuations rippled through the vessel.

Vilgax didn't fire again immediately.

He let it struggle and attempt to correct itself, to stabilize, to fight against the inevitable for just a moment longer. The transport veered off its path, rotation kicking in slightly as its damaged thruster failed to maintain balance. Secondary systems tried to engage—smaller bursts of propulsion firing unevenly, doing little more than delaying the outcome.

Predictable.

Vilgax adjusted his aim.

The second shot came a heartbeat later, carving into the ship's side with surgical precision. Hull plating ruptured along the impact point, atmosphere venting out into space in a violent plume as the structure gave way. Internal systems sparked and died in rapid succession, the vessel's already fragile state pushed past its limit.

The distress signal spiked once more—louder, more frantic.

Then it began to falter.

Vilgax's ship closed the distance, steady and unhurried as it approached the crippled transport. The Omnitrix's signature burned brighter on his display now, no longer obscured by distance or interference.

---

Meanwhile…

---

Cecil Stedman didn't like having his evening disrupted by work. While, as the acting director of the Global Defense Agency, he was always on call, that didn't mean he enjoyed being reminded of it. The job already had a way of bleeding into every corner of his life without needing an invitation. However, with the seldom few hours he chose to spend for himself—hours carved out with the same stubborn precision he applied to global security—he didn't like to be disturbed.

Unfortunately, the universe rarely cared about his preferences.

The phone call had come just after he'd poured himself a drink and settled into the quiet of his living room. The city lights stretched beyond the window in neat grids of white and amber, the distant hum of traffic barely reaching his floor. It had been shaping up to be one of those rare evenings where nothing exploded, nobody invaded, and he could almost pretend the world didn't constantly teeter on the edge of catastrophe.

Then the call came.

Cecil stepped through the sliding doors of the GDA command floor with the same tired irritation still lingering behind his eyes. The facility beneath the Pentagon hummed with its usual sterile life—banks of monitors casting pale blue light across rows of analysts, technicians whispering between consoles, the air thick with the low electric drone of machines that never truly powered down. The moment he entered, a few heads turned instinctively. Not out of fear, exactly, but something adjacent to it. Respect mixed with the quiet understanding that if Cecil had been called in this late, something had already gone wrong.

Donald was waiting for him near the central console, shoulders drawn tight, a tablet clutched in both hands like it might try to escape.

"Donald, this better be important."

"It is, sir." The timid man in glasses nodded as Cecil arrived, pushing the tablet forward as if it were evidence in a trial. "We've received a distress signal."

Cecil stopped a few feet short of the console. The words alone weren't enough to earn his attention yet. Earth received strange signals all the time. Half of them turned out to be dead satellites, corrupted transmissions, or enthusiastic amateurs with equipment they didn't understand. The other half tended to involve something with too many limbs crashing into rural farmland.

"Where?"

Donald hesitated just long enough to confirm this wasn't going to be one of the easy ones.

"Near the moon."

"Excuse me?" Cecil asked, narrowing his brows. "You've gotta be shitting me. It's not one of ours, is it?"

"Doesn't appear to be," Donald said, shaking his head quickly. "We picked it up on the Plumber channels."

That got Cecil moving again.

He stepped closer to the console, eyes scanning the monitors now lighting up with spectral readouts and signal traces. A rotating orbital projection filled the main display, Earth hovering in the center while the moon drifted along its familiar path. A blinking marker pulsed just outside the lunar orbit, accompanied by a steady, repeating waveform.

The signal itself looked old.

Not in the sense that it had been traveling long distances—if that were the case, the distortion would have been far worse. No, this signal looked old in design. The frequency architecture, the encryption patterns, even the base modulation carried a fingerprint Cecil recognized immediately.

Plumber technology.

Or what was left of it.

The Plumbers had once operated openly on Earth, decades before Cecil ever inherited the director's chair. Back in the seventies and early eighties, they'd maintained a network of alien tech installations, listening posts, and diplomatic channels scattered across the planet. Most of the world had never known they existed. Those who did rarely lived long enough to talk about it.

Then came the incident.

Cecil hadn't been in charge at the time—hell, he'd barely been a junior analyst—but he'd read the files often enough to know the highlights. An extraterrestrial conflict spilling into Earth's orbit. Plumber forces caught in the middle. A battle that had burned through most of their infrastructure in the span of a single night.

By the time the dust settled, the Plumbers on Earth were effectively gone.

What remained of their technology had been seized quietly, folded into GDA custody under a web of international agreements and classified amendments. Half of it still sat in storage facilities, humming with systems nobody fully understood. The other half had been repurposed into early warning networks and long-range sensors.

Like the one currently blinking on Cecil's screen.

"Play it," Cecil said.

Donald tapped a command into the console. A moment later, the room filled with the faint crackle of a broken transmission.

Static washed across the speakers first, sharp and uneven, before a burst of alien syllables cut through the noise. The language wasn't human.

Even distorted, the voice sounded small—high-pitched, frantic, the words tumbling over each other like whoever had recorded it had been running out of time.

The analysts around the room leaned closer to their screens, software attempting to parse the signal in real time. Lines of rough translation began appearing beneath the waveform, incomplete phrases struggling to form meaning.

Attack — containment failure — transit trajectory —

The audio cut abruptly, dissolving back into static.

Silence settled across the command floor for a moment.

Cecil folded his arms.

"Well," he muttered under his breath. "That doesn't sound promising."

Donald cleared his throat.

"We're still decrypting the rest of it, sir. The signal repeats every thirty-two seconds. Whoever sent it wanted to make sure it got picked up."

"Or they wanted to make sure someone knew what happened after they were gone."

Cecil watched the blinking marker near the moon for another second before glancing toward the analysts.

"Origin point?"

"Not lunar," one of the technicians replied quickly. "It looks like the signal is being relayed from a drifting vessel. Small craft, maybe escape-class. It entered the system a few hours ago and started broadcasting immediately."

Cecil's eyes narrowed slightly.

Something small enough to slip into Earth's orbit without triggering the usual alarms. Something equipped with Plumber-grade transmission systems. And something desperate enough to fire off a distress signal the moment it arrived.

None of that added up to anything good.

"Track it," Cecil said calmly. "I want every telescope, satellite, and deep-space sensor pointed at that thing."

Donald hesitated.

"Sir… if this is Plumber tech—"

"Then it's already our problem," Cecil finished flatly.

His gaze drifted back to the rotating projection of Earth and the tiny blinking signal just beyond the moon.

Whatever was floating out there had crossed half the solar system to reach them, and something told him it hadn't come alone.

"Where's Omni-Man?"

"Sir?"

"He's the only one who'll be able to reach it in time…"

---

Meanwhile...

---

The television droned on in the background, some late-night sitcom rerun cycling through the same laugh track it had probably used for the last twenty years. Nolan Grayson sat comfortably at one end of the couch, one arm stretched along the backrest, the other resting loosely in his lap as he watched the screen with a quiet, patient sort of interest. It wasn't the kind of thing he would've chosen on his own—not really—but that had never been the point.

His wife, Debbie, laughed beside him, the sound warm and easy, her head tilting slightly as she leaned into the moment rather than the joke itself. Their son, Mark, sat on the floor a few feet away, legs stretched out, controller in hand, half-invested in both the show and whatever game he'd been playing. The glow from the TV painted the room in soft blues and whites, flickering across familiar walls, family photos, the quiet evidence of a life that felt normal.

Nolan let his gaze drift from the screen for just a second, watching them instead.

It still surprised him sometimes—how natural it all felt.

There had been a time when this kind of evening would've seemed… inefficient. Pointless, even. Sitting still, doing nothing of consequence, letting time pass without purpose. Back then, every moment had been measured against something larger. Progress. Expansion. Duty.

Now?

Now he found himself memorizing things like this.

The way Debbie's laugh came a second too late, like she was catching up to the joke instead of reacting to it. The way Mark would glance up from his game just in time for the punchline, pretending he'd been paying attention the whole time. The faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the distant sound of a car passing outside.

Small things.

Human things.

"Okay, that one was actually funny," Mark said, pausing his game and looking back at the TV. "I don't even care if that was a rerun."

Debbie smirked.

"You say that every time."

"Yeah, but this time I mean it."

Nolan chuckled quietly, the sound low and genuine.

"You've been saying that for the last three episodes."

Mark shrugged, unapologetic.

"Maybe they're just getting better."

"They're not," Debbie said flatly, though the smile on her face softened the edge of it.

Nolan shifted slightly on the couch, leaning forward just enough to rest his elbows on his knees. There was something… comforting about the simplicity of it. No stakes. No consequences. Just people talking, laughing, existing in a world where the biggest problem was whatever misunderstanding needed to be wrapped up before the episode ended.

A world that reset itself every thirty minutes.

Must be nice.

Mark unpaused his game, the rapid clicking of buttons filling the space between lines of dialogue from the TV.

"You ever think about how weird it is?" he said suddenly.

Debbie raised an eyebrow.

"That could mean a lot of things coming from you."

"This," Mark gestured vaguely toward the screen, the room, everything. "We've got Dad flying around stopping disasters, superheroes all over the place, and we're just sitting here watching some guy trip over his coffee table for the tenth time."

Debbie sighed. "Mark—"

"I'm just saying," he continued, sitting up a little straighter. "The world's crazy. Aliens, supervillains, all that—and this is what we do with our downtime."

Nolan huffed a quiet laugh under his breath, something softer behind it this time.

"You'd be surprised."

Mark glanced back at him.

"Yeah?"

Nolan nodded slightly, eyes drifting back to the TV.

"Doesn't matter how powerful you are. You still end up wanting something simple at the end of the day."

Debbie smiled faintly at that, though there was something thoughtful behind it, like she'd heard him say versions of that before and was still turning it over.

"Good to know saving the world doesn't ruin your taste in bad television."

"It might improve it," Nolan said dryly.

Mark snorted, shaking his head as he went back to his game.

"Man, if I ever get my powers, I'm not wasting my time like this."

Debbie gave him a look.

"Oh, you absolutely would."

"No way."

"You say that now."

Nolan glanced at him, the corner of his mouth tugging upward just slightly.

"You'd last about a week."

Mark looked back at him, mock offended.

"Wow. Okay. That's messed up."

"You'd get bored," Nolan added simply. "Everyone does."

Mark opened his mouth to argue, then hesitated, like he wasn't entirely sure how to prove that wrong.

"Still," he muttered, quieter now, "I'd at least try to do something bigger with it."

Nolan held his gaze for a second, something unreadable passing through his expression before it softened again.

"Yeah," he said. "You would."

The room settled again after that, the conversation fading back into the background noise of the television and the steady rhythm of Mark's controller. Debbie shifted slightly, resting her head more comfortably against the couch as the next scene rolled on.

Mark didn't even look up this time.

"You're not gonna get called out tonight, right?"

Debbie shot him a look.

"Mark."

"What? I'm just asking."

"It's fine, dear." Nolan held his hand up, though it didn't change the way his chest slightly tightened at the question. He knew how hard it was for Mark and Debbie when he had to leave at a moment's notice, especially in the middle of something important. "I think they can handle it for one evening."

"I hope so," Mark smiled softly. "Kinda nice having you here."

Nolan didn't respond right away. He just let the moment sit, the weight of it settling somewhere deeper than he cared to acknowledge out loud.

For all the noise in the universe, all the conflict, all the things he knew were out there beyond this planet… this was the part that stayed with him. Not the battles. Not the victories. This.

The episode rolled into a commercial break, the volume dipping slightly as the tone shifted. Debbie stretched, letting out a soft sigh as she leaned back against the couch.

"I should probably head to bed soon."

"Yeah, same," Mark said, though he made no move to get up.

Nolan glanced between them, something quiet settling behind his expression.

"You don't have to rush."

Debbie smiled at him.

"I know."

For a moment, none of them moved.

Then—

Nolan's phone began to ring.

The sound cut cleanly through the room, sharp against the low hum of the television.

Mark glanced over immediately. Debbie didn't say anything, but the shift in her posture said enough.

Nolan already knew who it was before he even reached for it.

"So much for them handling it," Mark grumbled under his breath. As Nolan answered the call, he was already making his way towards the bedroom.

"Cecil, what's the situation?"

"Sorry to interrupt your evening, Nolan." Cecil's voice came through the speaker. "I figured a call would be more appropriate than an unexpected visit."

"I appreciate it. Debbie wasn't too pleased about last time."

"Hence why I called." the GDA director cleared his throat. "You're not the only one that's had their plans disrupted. We received a distress signal not too far from the moon. It came through on one of the old Plumber channels."

"Plumber?" Nolan raised an eyebrow. "Haven't heard about them in a while."

"Precisely. So whatever it is, it has to be from outside our galaxy. I'd call in someone else, but frankly we don't know what the situation is and you're the only one I trust to get there in time."

"Do we know what the signal belongs to?"

"From what we can make out, it appears to be a small vessel, potentially a transport of some kind. The transmission that we received isn't fully translated yet, but they came under attack just as they entered the sector."

"So expect a fight?"

"I wouldn't rule it out. Think you can handle it?"

Nolan smiled, opening his closet to grab his costume.

"Please, it's me. Shouldn't take too long to deal with." Despite the smile and the chipperness to his voice, Nolan wasn't happy about the situation. As much as he enjoyed what he did, their reliance on him was only proof that his true mission would be far too easy once it came time. "Send me the coordinates. I'm on my way now."

Nolan disappeared in a blur through the open window, flying towards the upper atmosphere. Debbie stood by the doorway, frowning softly.

---

The air gave way easier than most people would've expected. Nolan didn't slow as he cut through the upper atmosphere; didn't even think about it beyond the faint shift in resistance against his skin. One moment there was wind clawing at him, the rush of it loud and constant in his ears — the next, it thinned into almost nothing. The world below fell quiet in a way that always felt just a little unnatural if he let himself focus on it for too long.

He didn't.

The Earth curved beneath him, vast and alive, painted in deep blues and scattered clouds that stretched like brushstrokes across its surface. City lights shimmered along the darkened side, faint clusters of gold and white that marked where people lived, where they laughed, argued, worried—where they waited for someone like him to show up when things went wrong.

For a moment, he thought about the house.

About the couch, the low hum of the television, the way Debbie had lingered in the doorway without saying anything. The way Mark had tried to play it off like it didn't bother him.

His jaw tightened, just slightly.

Then he pushed forward.

The last traces of atmosphere slipped past him, and space opened up in full—silent, endless, and cold in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. There was no wind here, no sound, no resistance. Just motion. Pure, uninterrupted motion.

Nolan adjusted without thinking, his body angling forward as his speed picked up, the planet shrinking behind him with every passing second. There was no strain in it, no burn in his muscles, no limit he could feel pressing back against him. Flight wasn't effort. Not really.

It was… intention.

It was similar to tensing a muscle. For Viltrumites, flight came to them as easy as breathing. He'd thought about how he would explain this to Mark if he ever got his powers. The keyword being if.

Nolan knew that Mark wanted powers more than anything else in the world, but he'd be lying if part of him wished that Mark would never inherit them. The idea that Mark could live a full life away from the Viltrumite Empire and everything that entailed was something Nolan held onto tightly.

Eventually, Nolan would be forced to resume his duties. When that happened, he didn't want Mark or Debbie to be caught in the middle of it. Even now, after all this time on Earth, there were moments where that realization still lingered in the back of his mind, reminding him of who he really was.

The stars stretched out ahead of him, distant and unmoving no matter how fast he went, scattered across the black like pinpricks of light that refused to grow any closer. He'd crossed distances that would've taken human technology years in a matter of minutes, and still, space had a way of making everything feel far away.

Insignificant, even.

Nolan didn't feel insignificant.

But he understood the scale.

He'd seen what existed beyond this system. Empires that spanned galaxies. Civilizations that rose and fell without ever brushing against one another. Wars that consumed entire worlds and left nothing behind but drifting debris and fading signals no one would ever answer.

Earth was small.

Fragile.

Unremarkable in the grand scheme of things.

And yet—

His gaze flickered back, just for a second.

The planet was already distant, its details blurred by space and speed, but it was still there. Still… his.

Not in the way it used to be. Not in the way he'd been taught to see things.

But in a way that mattered more than he'd ever expected.

The coordinates Cecil had sent sat in the back of his mind, precise and unchanging. He didn't need a display, didn't need a navigation system. Once he had a direction, his body handled the rest, adjusting in ways that felt as natural as breathing had once been.

He'd made that trip more times than he could count. Whether it was patrols, inspections, the occasional intervention when something got too close for comfort. It wasn't far, not for him anyway. It might as well have been routine.

That word sat oddly with him now.

Routine.

There had been a time when nothing about this would've felt routine. Every mission, every deployment, every encounter—it had all carried weight. Purpose. A clear, defined role in something larger than himself.

Now?

Now he answered calls about distress signals and intercepted threats before they could reach a planet that, by all accounts, shouldn't have mattered to him at all.

And yet, he went anyway.

Every time.

Nolan's eyes narrowed slightly as he cut through the darkness, his speed increasing just a fraction more. The stars didn't blur—not the way they would've for a human eye—but there was a subtle shift in perspective, distances closing in ways that were difficult to measure without something solid to compare against.

The moon came into view ahead, pale and unmoving, its surface marked by craters and shadows that stretched across it like old scars. It hung there, silent and indifferent, just another body caught in orbit around something larger than itself.

He'd always found it… unimpressive.

Not because it lacked significance, but because it lacked resistance. It was just there. No defenses. No life. No challenge.

A stepping stone.

Nolan angled slightly to the side, adjusting his trajectory as he closed the distance. The distress signal was beyond it, somewhere in the empty stretch of space that most people would've dismissed as nothing.

Empty.

He knew better.

There was no such thing as empty space. Not really. There was always something—debris, radiation, the faint echoes of things that had passed through long before anyone thought to look. And sometimes…

Sometimes there were things that didn't belong.

Such as the large warship floating through the void, firing upon a smaller vessel that appeared to be on the verge of annihilation…

---

Hey everyone. Not much to say today. Hope you enjoyed! Next chapter will be up in the next week or two.

Links to my discord and Patreon will be down below. Those of sufficient rank in my discord get one chapter in advance while those who support my writing get anywhere from 1 to 10 chapters for each of my stories. Omni-Blood currently has 4. There will be more in the future, just please be patient with me!

-Arsenal

---

Links

 

[Arsenal597]

Systems were failing faster than Xylene could manage. This was supposed to be a simple cargo transport for an old acquaintance. She wouldn't dare to call Azmuth of all people a friend, but if there was someone remotely close to earning that title — she might be one of the few that qualified.

Catastrophic failure in the thrusters, significant hull damage. Structural integrity was at forty percent and falling quickly.

Ugh, what did you get me into, Azmuth? Xylene thought as she worked to redirect what defenses she had toward the warship on her tail. That was the part that bothered her the most. She hadn't expected resistance like this — not this fast, and not this overwhelming.

Her fingers moved faster than the console could comfortably track, light flickering across her face as panels shifted and collapsed into one another, systems cannibalizing whatever power they could get. One function stabilized just long enough to matter before something else demanded it. The ship shuddered again—harder this time—and a sharp crack echoed somewhere behind her, metal giving way under stress it had never been built to handle.

"Stabilize… come on…" she muttered, voice tight as she rerouted power from life support to the forward emitters. The air thinned slightly in response, just enough for her to notice. Her chest tightened on instinct. Uxorites didn't need atmosphere the same way humans did, but habit still lingered, stubborn as ever. If she could get close enough to Earth, that was all that mattered.

Another blast rocked the ship.

Warning sigils flared crimson across her display, layering over one another until they blurred into a single, constant alarm. The forward camera feed sputtered, then snapped back just long enough to catch a glimpse of the warship behind her—massive, dark, steady in a way that made it feel less like something mechanical and more like something patient.

Vilgax. She didn't need confirmation. His warship was recognizable anywhere. The Chimeran Hammer had shown up in too many bounties, too many warnings, too many stories that ended the same way.

Of all the beings in the galaxy…

"Of course it had to be you," she breathed, more to herself than anything else.

The ship lurched again, and Xylene turned just enough to check the Omnitrix's containment pod behind her. It was still intact. Still secure. For now.

If only she'd reached Galvan Prime sooner…

Another impact. Closer.

The rear shields flickered once—then vanished.

Xylene's expression hardened.

"Alright," she said under her breath, hands moving again before the thought had even finished forming. "No more running."

She couldn't outrun Vilgax. Not like this. Not with a ship already tearing itself apart around her.

So she'd buy time.

Power diverted again—this time with no hesitation. Non-essential systems went dark one after another, the interior lighting dimming as everything was fed into the last defensive arrays she had left. The ship answered with a low, strained groan that vibrated up through the deck and into her legs.

"Come on… just a little longer…"

The forward emitters sparked to life, uneven at first, then settling into something usable. It wouldn't hurt a warship like that—not really—but it might slow him down. Maybe.

She fired.

Thin streaks of energy cut across the void, striking the larger vessel in quick succession. The impacts barely registered. No visible damage. No shift.

Vilgax didn't return fire.

That made her stomach twist.

He wasn't rushing to take her down, which meant he knew precisely what she was transporting.

A proximity alert shrieked across the console, sharp enough to cut through everything else.

Xylene's eyes snapped to the display.

"…No."

They poured out from the warship in clusters—small, fast signatures breaking away and angling straight toward her. Dozens of drones.

Her hands clenched against the console for half a second before she forced them to move again.

"Of course you'd send the scavengers first," she muttered, jaw tightening as she brought up targeting controls.

The first wave closed fast. Sleek, insect-like constructs, their forms shifting mid-flight as they adjusted course, weaving through the debris field she'd left behind.

She fired again, tighter this time. The emitters flared, catching the lead drone head-on. It burst apart in a brief flash, fragments scattering outward.

Two more filled the gap instantly.

The second volley took out another pair, but the rest kept coming. Too many. Far too many.

One clipped the side of her ship, latching on with mechanical precision. The impact rattled the hull, followed immediately by a sharp, grating sound as it began to drill.

"Not happening," Xylene snapped, rerouting power again—this time to localized defense.

A pulse surged through the outer plating, frying the drone where it clung. It went still, then drifted free.

Three more replaced it.

Her breath hitched.

Now she saw it clearly.

They weren't trying to board.

They were locking her down.

Azmuth's voice surfaced in her memory—sharp, impatient, impossible to ignore. Instructions she'd filed away and hoped she'd never need. Safeguards she hadn't wanted to think about.

"Transport it to Earth," he had said. "If anything goes wrong… you'll know what to do."

Her gaze flicked back to the containment pod.

She wasn't going to let the Omnitrix fall into the wrong hands.

It didn't matter if she died out here. The only thing that did was to make sure the Omnitrix made it to Earth.

---

Nolan recognized the smaller vessel to be a courier, though the defenses on them were a little more advanced than most he'd encountered. It wasn't just the shield—the way it redistributed power caught his attention immediately, shifting and rerouting in real time to keep critical systems alive. He had to give them credit. Whoever was piloting it knew what they were doing. They knew they were outmatched and were buying time however they could. That alone told him this wasn't some random ship that had wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time.

It also told him they weren't going to last much longer.

The drones hit his awareness before they hit his line of sight. Tiny shifts in motion, faint distortions against the starfield—clusters breaking off from the larger warship and converging on the courier like a swarm of metallic predators. Nolan adjusted course without slowing, angling himself between them and the smaller vessel just as the first wave closed in.


The first drone shattered on impact, its frame collapsing inward with a sharp metallic crunch before it could even react. The second spun off into the void, torn apart by the wake of his movement, pieces scattering like shrapnel across open space. Nolan didn't bother tracking them individually after that. They weren't strong enough to pose a threat as long as he kept moving. His body moved on instinct, cutting through the swarm with clean, efficient precision. Metal crumpled beneath his strikes, limbs snapping off, energy discharges flaring bright for a split second before dying against his skin.

One drone tried to latch onto him, its segmented limbs snapping shut around his arm—Nolan crushed it in his hand without breaking stride. The metal folded in on itself with a sharp whine before bursting apart, fragments drifting away, spinning slowly in the vacuum. More replaced them, filling the space he'd just cleared.

Persistent. Nolan's eyes narrowed slightly as another cluster broke formation. They were coming straight for him now, abandoning the courier entirely. Good. That was what he wanted.

They tried to adapt, adjusting their angles, spacing themselves out to avoid being taken down in groups; it didn't help. He continued to drive forward, punching through the formation with enough force to scatter them across open space. One clipped his shoulder, its weapon discharging on contact—a flash of energy rippling across him like heat lightning.

The blast barely registered. A flicker of light, nothing more—but it told him what he needed to know.

These weren't meant to combat Viltrumites.

Nolan's gaze shifted past them, locking onto the warship behind it all. It loomed in the distance, massive and jagged, its hull lined with weapon arrays that pulsed with building energy. It was still firing. A concentrated barrage lit up the space between it and the courier, streaks of energy cutting through the void in rapid succession, forcing Nolan to veer just enough to avoid taking the full brunt of it.

Each blast left a fading trail of light, illuminating drifting debris and the fractured remains of earlier volleys.

They weren't trying to kill him.

They were trying to keep him away from the courier.

His jaw tightened.

Another wave of drones surged toward him, but Nolan didn't even bother engaging them fully this time. He tore through the closest few—crushing one, ripping another clean in half—then broke away entirely, redirecting his momentum straight toward the warship.

If he couldn't reach the courier—


He'd stop the source.

The distance closed fast. Faster than anything on that ship was likely built to handle. Defensive fire adjusted immediately, heavier weapons coming online as he crossed into range. Larger cannons rotated into position, their cores glowing as they discharged in rapid succession. Energy blasts streaked toward him in overlapping patterns, turning the space around him into a storm of light and force.

One hit his side, the impact shifting his trajectory slightly, a dull thud carrying through him. Another grazed his arm, scattering sparks of energy across his suit. The third he pushed straight through without slowing.

The hull of the warship filled his vision in an instant as he cleared the barrage.

He smiled.

Metal gave way beneath him with a thunderous crack, the force of his entry tearing straight through reinforced plating like it wasn't there. The impact sent a shockwave through the structure, bulkheads buckling as the atmosphere violently vented into space behind him. Air screamed past in a chaotic rush, dragging loose debris, sparks, and shattered pieces of the hull out into the void.
Nolan landed hard, boots slamming into the deck with enough force to dent the plating beneath him. The impact echoed down the corridor, a deep, reverberating boom that blended with the wail of alarms now blaring throughout the ship.

The air inside was thick with heat and the acrid scent of burning circuitry. Red warning lights pulsed overhead, bathing everything in a rhythmic glow that cast long, shifting shadows across the walls. Panels sparked intermittently, flickering as systems struggled to compensate for the breach.

He barely had a second to take it in before they were on him.

Drones dropped from the ceiling in clusters, their limbs unfolding mid-descent with sharp mechanical clicks. Behind them, scattered across catwalks and recessed doorways, larger figures took position—armor-clad, weapons already raised, their silhouettes framed by the flashing emergency lights.

They're organic… Nolan noted silently, straightening his posture slightly.


He rolled his shoulders once as the first of them lunged.

"Alright," he muttered under his breath before moving.

The first drone never made contact. He caught it mid-air and slammed it into the floor hard enough to crater the plating beneath it, the impact sending a ripple through the deck. Another came from the side—he turned, backhanding it into the wall where it stuck for half a second before collapsing into scrap, its frame twitching once before going still.

The henchmen were different.

They didn't rush him blindly. They circled, disciplined, weapons tracking his movements, waiting for an opening that wasn't going to come. One fired—a concentrated beam that hit Nolan square in the chest.

The energy flared on impact, bright and sustained.

He didn't flinch.

Nolan's eyes flicked toward him.

Then he was there.

The distance vanished. His hand closed around the alien's armor, fingers digging into reinforced plating as he lifted him clean off the ground before slamming him into the nearest bulkhead. The wall buckled inward with a sharp crack, leaving a deep impression around the soldier's body as the air rushed out of him.

The others hesitated—just for a second, but it was enough.

"I recognize you…" Nolan remarked, turning slightly as another of the crew stepped into view. There was something familiar in the design—something he'd seen before coming to Earth. "You're part of Vilgax's crew. I'm guessing this is his?"

The response didn't come from the henchman.

"And here I thought this system was free from you parasites…"

The voice cut through the chaos—low and gravelly, carrying weight even over the alarms.

Vilgax stepped into view through the wreckage like it didn't exist.

Even hunched slightly beneath the low ceiling, he was massive. The armor was thicker than Nolan remembered, layered and reinforced, lines of dim energy pulsing beneath its surface. His presence filled the space, the air settling heavier around him, like the ship itself recognized who stood at its center.

Nolan's expression didn't change.

"What are you doing here?" he asked evenly. "This isn't your territory."

Vilgax's single visible eye narrowed, something almost amused curling beneath it.

"Hmm," he hummed, voice edged with mockery. "Seems you've been out of the loop for a while, then. This system has been my territory since your empire ravaged my forces."
Nolan's posture shifted subtly as his fists clenched.

"If that's true, then you know what I have to do."

A low rumble built in Vilgax's chest.

"You are outnumbered… and I've been preparing for your kind since that day."

Nolan smirked.

"We'll see about that."

The floor shattered beneath his feet as he launched forward, the force cracking the deck outward in a spiderweb pattern. The air itself split as he crossed the distance in less than a heartbeat, driving straight at Vilgax—

Ready to end it before the courier outside ran out of time.

The impact hit like two worlds colliding.

Nolan slammed into Vilgax with enough force to tear the plating beneath their feet apart, the deck buckling inward as a violent shockwave ripped through the corridor. Walls groaned, panels tore free, and the structure flexed under the strain.


For a split second, Vilgax shifted back half a step under the momentum—


Then he held.


Vilgax's boots dug into the floor, metal screeching beneath the pressure as his arm came up and caught Nolan across the side. The counterstrike landed solid, a heavy, brutal blow that sent Nolan skidding back through the corridor, carving a jagged trench through the plating before he caught himself.


Loose debris rattled down from the ceiling. Sparks rained in short bursts from damaged conduits overhead.


Nolan straightened almost immediately, rolling his shoulder once as if testing it. A brief pause followed—just enough to recalibrate.


"You're certainly stronger than the last time," Nolan remarked dryly.


"Yet you're still as reckless as I remember," Vilgax growled, stepping forward, each footfall sending a dull, heavy thud through the deck. "Charging in without understanding the battlefield."
Nolan's eyes narrowed.

"I understand enough."

The drones surged again, dropping from above, flanking from the sides—trying to box him in. The henchmen moved with them this time, coordinated, firing in overlapping bursts designed to limit his movement.

One second he was surrounded—

The next, he was already through them.

A drone exploded behind him as he passed, torn apart by the force of his movement. Another he grabbed mid-flight and hurled into a cluster of its own kind, the collision triggering a chain reaction that lit the corridor in sharp, blinding flashes.

A henchman fired point-blank, but Nolan caught the weapon by the barrel. The metal shrieked as his grip tightened, crushing it inward before plowing his shoulder into the alien's chest, sending him flying back into the wall hard enough to leave him there.

Vilgax watched his movements closely as Nolan tore through his soldiers.

A low hum built in the air—subtle at first, almost drowned out by the chaos—until it wasn't. Energy gathered along his arm, the weapon integrated into his armor flaring to life with a deep, pulsing glow that cast harsh shadows across the corridor.

Nolan turned just as it fired, the blast hitting him head-on.

This one registered.

The energy burned across his chest, heat biting through the fabric of his suit as the force drove him back a step. The floor beneath him cracked under the pressure, fractures spreading outward from where he stood.

His jaw tightened.

The beam scattered as he broke its centerline.

The distance vanished again as Nolan closed in, his fist slamming into Vilgax's torso with enough force to lift him off his feet and send him crashing through the wall behind him, the impact tearing through metal, conduits, and bulkheads as the fight barreled deeper into the heart of the ship.

---

Xylene wasn't sure what she'd seen come to her aid. It was hard to make through the constant flashes of light and violent bursts of energy tearing across the voice, but she could almost make out a bipedal figure weaving through the expanse effortlessly — cutting through Vilgax's drones like they were nothing more than drifting scrap.

For a moment, just a moment, she thought it might have been Plumber reinforcements. Then she saw the way it moved.

There was no propulsion or external assistance. The realization settled in her chest that it wasn't the Plumbers. By the time it breached the Chimeran Hammer, tearing straight through its hull in a violent eruption of metal and atmosphere, Xylene knew one thing with absolute certainty.

Her time was running out.

The cockpit shuddered violently, a deep, gut-twisting tremor that ran through the entire frame of her ship. Warning lights flared brighter, their steady pulses breaking into erratic flickers as systems began to fail in cascading waves. Panels sparked overhead, small bursts of electricity snapping free and arcing across exposed wiring.

"Come on… come on…" she muttered under her breath, fingers flying across the console as she forced the navigation system to respond. While Vilgax was distracted by whatever that thing was, she had to act.

A sharp explosion rocked the ship from the rear, throwing her forward against her restraints. The harness caught her hard across the chest, knocking the breath from her lungs as the controls flickered violently in front of her.

Structural integrity had fallen to thirty-one percent, the red text blinking harshly at her as a stark reminder.

The ship wasn't going to hold much longer. She could feel it. The readings were already screaming at her, but the ship said it louder — the constant groan of the frame, the vibration running through the deck beneath her boots, and the uneven pulses in the air pressure.

She had hoped to stay with the Omnitrix the entire way to Earth, just so she could see him again. But alas, some things weren't meant to be.

Xylene began plotting the course, adjusting for drift, gravitational interference, the current velocity of her failing thrusters. Everything needed to be precise as there'd be no second attempt.

Another explosion rippled across the hull, far closer than before. The entire ship lurched sideways, throwing her against the edge of her seat. A console to her right detonated in a shower sparks, forcing her to shield her face as bits of molten metal scattered across the cockpit floor.

"Thrusters offline," the system droned, its voice distorted and staticky.

"I know!" she snapped, slamming her hand against the console hard enough to rattle the remaining displays.

She forced the navigation sequence to finalize anyway, locking the trajectory into place with what little control she had left. The projected path flickered into existence—a narrow line stretching from her current position toward Earth, weaving through open space with just enough margin for error to account for drift.

If it had been possible to move the ship, it would have been perfect. In her current state, though? It was useless. But she already knew that, which is why she made one final adjustment for an escape pod. It'd have just enough power to make it to the planet, where she could program it to jettison the Omnitrix's containment pod the rest of the way to its intended destination.

As long as Vilgax was preoccupied, there was a chance. A small one, but a chance she was going to have to take.

She turned to the pod, using her telekinesis to move it to one of the escape pods. Even with her species's enhanced strength, the containment pod was far too heavy to move by hand. Once she had it settled inside, she sealed the door and pressed the release button.

"Good luck," she whispered softly as the pod launched into space, propelled outward with just enough force to clear the debris field surrounding the ship. For a brief moment, she could see it through the fractured viewport — a small, glowing object tumbling end over end before stabilizing, its trajectory aligning with the course she'd set.

A flicker of something, relief maybe, passed through her chest. Then it was gone as a new explosion went off from the Chimeran Hammer this time, bright enough to light up the entire battlefield for a split second. Even from here, she could feel the shockwave ripple through the surrounding space, her already-damaged vessel shuddering violently in response.

Her eyes snapped toward it.

Through the fractured glass, she caught a glimpse of something massive rupturing from within the warship—fire and debris bursting outward in a violent bloom that tore through its structure.

Whatever had gone into the Chimeran Hammer was still tearing through it…

---

The impact echoed through the ship as Vilgax rose from the debris, tossing twisted metal aside as his gaze locked onto Nolan's landing. Blood slipped from Nolan's nose, running over his lip as he steadied himself, eyes narrowing at the sight of the warlord still standing. For a moment, neither of them moved. The only sound came from the ship itself—strained metal groaning, systems stuttering, something deep in its structure starting to give.

Vilgax let out a low growl, rolling his shoulder as his left arm snapped back into place with a sickening shift of armor and muscle. The motion barely slowed him. Nolan exhaled through his nose, more blood trailing down as he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

"You've certainly been busy."

Vilgax stepped forward through the wreckage, glancing down at the scorched plating across his armor.

"As I said," he rumbled, voice thick with something heavy and controlled, "I've been preparing."

"Clearly not enough." Nolan's voice stayed even, though his stance had already shifted. More drones and henchmen poured into the corridor behind Vilgax, filling the space with movement. "You know you can't beat me."

"Who said I'm trying to beat you?" Vilgax's tone dipped, something sharper slipping through.

Then it hit Nolan all at once. He'd wondered why Vilgax didn't seem to be pressing for a finishing blow, opting to keep him at bay more than anything else. Vilgax was buying time…

Nolan's head turned slightly, just enough to catch the external feed flickering across a damaged panel—just enough to see the courier still drifting out there, surrounded.

His eyes narrowed, just enough for Vilgax to notice.

"Finish it," the Chimera Sui Genesis ordered, raising his arm. "Fire again at the vessel."

Nolan was moving before the command even fully settled in the air. The wall behind him exploded outward as he tore back into open space, the force ripping another jagged breach into the warship's hull. The vacuum swallowed everything as he reoriented mid-flight, locking onto the courier.

The cannons were already charging. He could feel it—the buildup crawling across space before the shot even fired.

With the courier at a standstill, there was no chance of it missing.

Nolan surged forward, pushing harder, faster, the distance collapsing beneath him in seconds that felt just a fraction too long.

The beam fired.

A concentrated line of energy tore across the void, bright enough to burn against the darkness itself as it raced toward the immobilized vessel.

Nolan hit it head-on, the impact lighting the space around

The impact lit the space around him in a blinding flare, the force of it driving into him with far more weight than anything inside the ship had managed. For a split second, it actually stopped him—held him there, suspended between the warship and the courier as the energy discharged across his body.

Pieces of his suit tore under the extreme force, the edges of the fabric's loose pieces burning. The pain was excruciating, even by Nolan's experience, but he wasn't going to let the courier die on his watch. Especially without knowing why Vilgax was going after them.

The beam bent around him, scattering in fractured arcs. Nolan's arms tensed at his sides, his entire frame locking in place as he absorbed the worst of it. The light slowly faded, Nolan gritting his teeth as the final remnants of the blast dissipated into nothing.

He looked back toward the warship. This time there was nothing subtle about the shift in his expression.

One second he was suspended in the void, the last embers of the blast fading around him—the next, he was already moving. The distance between him and the warship collapsed in an instant, his body cutting through space with a precision that left no room for error, no time for reaction.

He didn't slow when he hit the hull.

The impact tore a hole clean through the Chimeran Hammer, metal folding inward and then ripping apart entirely as Nolan forced his way back inside. Atmosphere ruptured outward in a violent rush, alarms screaming to life again as the ship struggled to compensate for damage it wasn't built to withstand.

Vilgax had just enough time to turn.

That was all Nolan gave him.

His hand closed around Vilgax's throat with crushing force, lifting him off his feet before he could fully brace. For a fraction of a second, their eyes met—Vilgax's narrowing, something sharp and defiant flickering behind it—

Then Nolan drove forward.

The first wall didn't slow them.

Metal, wiring, reinforced plating—it all gave way in an instant as Nolan used Vilgax's body like a weapon, a battering ram that tore through everything in their path. The corridor behind them collapsed in their wake, debris twisting and folding under the force of their passage.

Vilgax's armor sparked violently as it scraped against the wreckage, systems flaring under the strain—but he didn't go limp.

His arm came up, slamming into Nolan's side with a force that would've crushed most beings outright.

Nolan barely shifted.

They broke through another bulkhead.

Then another.

The ship wasn't designed for this; nothing was. Every meter they traveled left more damage behind—structural supports snapping, internal systems rupturing, entire sections of the vessel destabilizing as they tore straight through its core like it was nothing more than a hollow shell.

Vilgax snarled, the sound low and furious as he twisted in Nolan's grip, one of his mechanical appendages snapping forward. It latched onto Nolan's shoulder, digging in, energy surging through it as it discharged point-blank.

This one had bite.

Nolan felt it—really felt it. A sharp, concentrated burst that forced his grip to loosen just enough for Vilgax to wrench himself free.

They separated in a violent clash of momentum.

Vilgax hit the far wall hard enough to crater it, the plating buckling around his frame before giving way entirely and sending him skidding across the next chamber. Nolan landed a heartbeat later, boots slamming into the floor with enough force to fracture it beneath him.

For a moment, everything around them groaned.

The ship was dying.

Sparks rained from exposed conduits, the air thick with smoke and the acrid scent of burning systems. Gravity fluctuated, flickering just enough to make the debris around them lift and fall in uneven rhythms. Warning lights strobed erratically, painting the destruction in pulses of red.

Nolan didn't take his eyes off Vilgax.

"You're done," he said, voice low, steady.

Vilgax rose anyway.

Blood—dark and thick—slipped from beneath his armor, but it didn't slow him. Didn't change the way he held himself. If anything, it sharpened something behind his expression.

"You misunderstand," Vilgax growled, straightening to his full height despite the damage. "This ship is expendable."

Nolan's gaze flicked around them for half a second—the failing systems, the collapsing structure, the way the ship itself seemed to be tearing apart under the strain.

Then back to Vilgax.

"Yeah," he said. "I noticed."

Vilgax moved first this time.

He came in hard, faster than something his size should've been able to move, his fist swinging with enough force to split the air as it aimed toward Nolan's head.

Nolan caught it.

The impact still cracked the floor beneath them.

For a second, they held there—strength against strength, neither giving immediately as the pressure between them built.

Then Nolan squeezed.

Vilgax's armor creaked under the force, the metal straining as Nolan forced his arm downward. Vilgax responded instantly, his free hand snapping up to drive into Nolan's ribs, the blow landing with a heavy, concussive force that actually shifted him back a step – just enough to break the hold.

He followed through immediately, pressing the advantage with a flurry of strikes—each one heavy, deliberate, backed by the full weight of his frame and whatever enhancements he'd layered into himself.

Nolan let the hits come, giving ground maybe once or twice, absorbing the blows to let Vilgax expend his momentum. Once it seemed like Vilgax was slowing down, Nolan countered with a single punch.

It hammered into Vilgax's midsection with brutal precision, the collision folding him inward before sending him flying back across the chamber. The wall behind him didn't hold, bursting open into the command center beyond.

The warlord hit the central console hard enough to shatter it, killing systems instantly. The hum of the ship—already unstable—cut out entirely for half a second before sputtering back in broken, uneven bursts. Displays flickered, then went dark. The entire vessel lurched, its trajectory destabilizing as control systems failed one after another.

Nolan stepped through the wreckage into the command center, his posture steady, and breathing even despite the wear on his body. Vilgax pushed himself up from the remains of the console, slower now—but not finished.

The silence stretched, broken only by the failing systems around them.

Then Vilgax let out a low, rumbling breath.

"It seems," Vilgax squinted his eye for a moment, "it seems that you're stronger than I anticipated."

"You were warned long ago to stay out of our way." Nolan remarked, ignoring the comment. "If the Empire ravaged your forces, then it was because you overstepped your boundaries. Something you're still doing."

"You speak as though this system is under your authority," Vilgax growled. "It's mine."

"No, it's not." Nolan stepped forward, glancing at their surroundings. "I'll give you one chance. Why are you attacking that ship?"

"Does it bother you? To not know what's coming?"

"What are you talking about?"

"The end of your precious empire is coming…" the warlord cackled, something dark and certain settling into his voice. "...and I will be its herald."

Nolan didn't blink.

"Not in your wildest dreams."

Vilgax's mandibles twitched, something dark and satisfied flickering across his expression.

"Let's see if you're correct."

They moved at the same time.

The two collided again before the ship could even finish dying around them. The impact snapped what little stability the command center had left. Consoles tore free from their mounts, panels ripping loose as the floor beneath them split along jagged fault lines. Nolan flew forward without hesitation, closing the distance with a speed that made Vilgax's attempt to brace feel almost meaningless.

His fist connected first — snapping Vilgax's head to the side, the energy cracking something beneath the armor that didn't belong in a body still standing. Vilgax staggered — just by a half-step — but Nolan didn't let him recover. Another strike followed immediately, then another, each one hitting harder than the last.

Vilgax tried to answer. His arm came up, weapon flaring to life again as he fired point-blank into Nolan's chest. The blast hit, flared, and pushed… only for Nolan to step right through it.

Just as it had before, the light broke around him, scattering across his shoulders as if it had nothing to latch onto. His hand shot forward, catching Vilgax mid-motion, fingers digging into the armored plating at his collar.

"Enough," Nolan ordered, before slamming him down. The deck caved in beneath Vilgax's body, folding inward as Nolan drove him through it and into the chamber below.

The fall lasted less than a second before they hit again, the shockwave rolling outward and tearing through what remained of the surrounding structure.

Vilgax roared—raw, furious—as he lashed out, one of his mechanical appendages snapping forward and driving into Nolan's side with everything it had left. This one had weight. It bit deep enough to matter, forcing Nolan to shift.

He surged upward, slamming into Nolan with his full mass, carrying them both back through another wall in a violent reversal. The corridor beyond twisted around them as they crashed through it, debris whipping past in a storm of metal and fire.

For a moment, it looked like Vilgax might regain control.

Then Nolan planted his foot, stopping their momentum instantly. The floor beneath him cratered under the force, anchoring him in place as Vilgax's forward drive collapsed against something that simply refused to move.

Nolan's hand came up again—fast, precise—and caught Vilgax by the arm.

There was a pause.

A brief, terrible pause where everything seemed to hold its breath.

Then Nolan twisted.

The sound wasn't clean. It wasn't quick. Metal screamed first—the armor warping under the strain—followed by something deeper, something organic that gave way with a wet, tearing crack.

Vilgax's roar cut through the collapsing ship, louder this time, edged with something that hadn't been there before: pain.

Nolan didn't let go.

He drove forward again, dragging Vilgax with him as he tore through the remaining structure like it was already dust. Bulkheads split. Support beams snapped. Entire sections of the ship folded inward as they passed through, the damage compounding faster than the systems could even register.

They burst back into what was left of the command center. The space was barely recognizable now. Fires burned uncontrolled across exposed wiring, gravity fluctuating in violent pulses that sent debris drifting one second and crashing down the next. The central console was nothing but molten wreckage, its systems long since dead.

The ship was coming apart.

Vilgax lashed out again, his remaining arm slamming into Nolan's jaw with everything he had left. The blow landed—hard enough to turn Nolan's head, hard enough to send a ripple through his frame — but did nothing to slow him down.

Nolan looked back at him, eyes steady, something colder settling behind them now.

"You're out of time," he said.

Vilgax bared his teeth, something defiant still burning there despite everything.

"I don't need time."

His armor flared again—overloading this time — energy bleeding out through the seams. Nolan hammered his fist into Vilgax's chest, breaking through this time. The armor caved completely, the reinforced plating finally giving under the force. Something beneath it shattered, the impact driving through the warlord's frame and into the structure behind him.

For a second, Vilgax just hung there, suspended in the air. Then, Nolan pulled his hand back revealing it was coated in the warlord's blood.

Vilgax collapsed, the strength that had carried him this far faltering; his body failing to keep up with the damage it had taken.

"What's in the ship, Vilgax?"

All Vilgax could do was let out a weak wheeze of a laugh.

"You'll… you'll never get your hands on it."

Vilgax's laugh dragged out of him in broken, uneven bursts, wet at the edges but still carrying that same stubborn refusal to fold. It didn't matter how much damage he'd taken—there was something in him that would rather tear itself apart than give Nolan a clean end.

"And neither will you."

The deck lurched hard enough to shift Nolan's footing half an inch, a low groan rolling through the structure beneath them as something deeper in the ship began to fail. A console behind him blew out in a violent spray of sparks, the light stuttering across the wreckage of the command center. Smoke curled up in uneven streams, thickening the air, mixing with the sharp, metallic scent of overheating systems and something far less mechanical.

Nolan stepped in, boots grinding over shattered plating and loose fragments, and grabbed Vilgax by the front of his armor, hauling him upright in one motion. The plating gave under his grip with a low, grinding crack, already fractured from the earlier blows. Pieces shifted out of place, edges biting into Nolan's hand as the structure struggled to hold together.

"You're done," Nolan said.

Vilgax's head dipped for a second, his body sagging with the motion, then snapped back up with a sudden, stubborn surge. His remaining arm came in fast—sloppy, unbalanced, but carrying everything he had left behind it—and slammed into Nolan's jaw.

Nolan didn't even turn with it this time.

His hand shot out and caught Vilgax's wrist before he could pull away. Fingers tightened, digging into the armor. The metal buckled immediately, seams splitting open under the pressure with a sharp, tearing screech.

Vilgax tried to wrench free, muscles tensing, the motion desperate more than controlled.

Nolan pulled.

The arm came off in a violent, tearing rip that cut through the alarms and the grinding noise of the ship around them. Armor snapped apart first, jagged edges peeling back as internal components tore loose in a shower of sparks. The resistance held for a fraction of a second—tight, stubborn—then gave way all at once.

Vilgax's body jerked, a raw, guttural sound forced out of him as the limb tore free.

Nolan dropped it without a glance. It hit the deck with a heavy, final thud, sliding across the scorched metal before coming to a stop against a broken console, small arcs of energy still snapping along the ruined plating.

Vilgax sagged forward, his weight collapsing into Nolan's grip, balance gone.

Nolan didn't let him fall.

His hand came up, locking onto the side of Vilgax's head, fingers pressing into the ridged plating that framed his face. The tentacles flared out on instinct, snapping toward him in a last reflex, striking against his arm and shoulder.

Nolan caught them mid-motion.

His grip closed tight around the cluster, forcing them still.

Then he yanked.

They tore free in a single, brutal pull, ripping loose at the base with a wet, jagged sound that carried through the room. The force snapped Vilgax's head to the side as the tendrils came away, dark fluid trailing after them and spattering across Nolan's arm and the already damaged floor.

Vilgax made a sound this time—short, choked, dragged out of him against his will as what little control he had left slipped.

Nolan threw the torn mass aside. It struck the far wall with a dull slap, leaving a streak before sliding down through the flickering light.

Vilgax folded in on himself, what remained of his posture collapsing. Nolan shifted his grip again, forcing him upright just long enough to hold him in place—

Then drove his knee straight into Vilgax's leg.

A sharp crack cut through the noise, deep and unmistakable. The limb gave immediately, the structure failing under the force as the joint collapsed and twisted out of alignment. The leg buckled sideways, no longer able to hold any weight.

Vilgax dropped hard, his body slamming into the deck as the ruined limb folded beneath him. The impact rattled loose debris across the floor, small fragments skittering away from the point of contact.

Nolan let go.

Vilgax hit in a heap, armor hanging loose where it hadn't already been torn away. Sections of it sparked erratically, systems failing one by one as the damage spread. His remaining hand scraped against the deck, dragging weakly against the metal as he tried to push himself up.

It didn't work.

He got halfway—just enough to lift his torso—before his arm gave out. He dropped again, harder this time, breath coming rough and uneven, each attempt weaker than the last.

Nolan stood over him, chest rising steady, blood still running down his hand in slow, uneven lines.

Another blast tore through the ship, closer this time. The wall behind them split open with a violent crack, metal ripping apart as fire punched through the gap. Debris scattered across the room, fragments slamming into the floor and walls as the shockwave rolled through.

The ceiling followed a second later. A section tore free overhead and crashed down, sending a wave of heat, sparks, and dust across the command center. The lights cut out entirely for a split second before flickering back on, weaker, struggling.

"You should've stayed out of this system."

No response.

Vilgax barely moved, his body twitching once before going still again.

The deck split with a long, tearing groan as something below them finally gave out, a jagged fracture ripping between them. Light and heat pushed up through the opening, the glow harsh against the failing emergency lights.

That was it.

Nolan turned and launched forward, the motion sudden and decisive, tearing through the failing structure in a blur. The walls gave way around him, bulkheads collapsing as he forced his way out, leaving the command center behind.

Vilgax stayed where he fell—broken, bleeding, and pinned beneath a ship that was coming apart piece by piece as the Chimeran Hammer died around him.

---

The warship tore itself apart behind him as Nolan flew out into the void. The courier drifted ahead — barely holding itself together, its frame buckling in slow, uneven pulses as pieces of its hull sheared and floated away. He'd be surprised if it lasted for a couple more minutes. He'd wasted too much time with Vilgax, a mistake he'd make sure to learn from in the future.

Had it been before he arrived to Earth, there wouldn't have been a problem here. He'd have already taken care of Vilgax, and the courier would have been dealt with one way or another.

He adjusted his trajectory mid-flight, angling straight for it. The distance closed fast, but the ship was already coming apart in ways that made the timing feel tighter than it should've been. Sections of plating peeled away under stress, exposing the skeletal structure beneath. Sparks vented into space in brief, dying bursts.

He hit the hull without slowing.

Metal split under the force, tearing open just wide enough for him to force his way through. Atmosphere rushed past him as he entered, the pressure inside already unstable, struggling to hold onto what little remained.

The interior wasn't much better.

Lighting flickered in uneven intervals, most of the panels either dead or hanging loose from their mounts. Smoke drifted in thin, sluggish trails, pulled toward breaches Nolan couldn't see yet. The floor tilted slightly under his boots, the artificial gravity struggling to keep up with the damage.

His eyes tracked the layout in pieces—hallways partially collapsed, doorways warped out of shape, sections sealed off entirely by debris. No movement. No immediate sign of the pilot.

Another tremor ran through the ship, harder this time.

A section of the corridor ahead gave way, folding inward as something deeper in the structure failed. Nolan didn't slow. He drove straight through it, tearing apart what was left of the obstruction as he pushed deeper into the vessel.

He didn't have time to search everything.

Whoever was flying this ship would be near the controls. They'd stay there as long as the ship still had a chance—no matter how small.

He turned the corner—

—and found her.

She stood at the main console, or what was left of it, hands still hovering over controls that had already stopped responding. Sparks snapped across the panel, lighting her face in brief flashes.

"Hello?!" Nolan called out, what little bit of oxygen remaining in the ship dwindling in the air around them.

She turned, meeting his eyes.

Recognition hit immediately. It changed her expression before she could stop it—something sharp cutting through the chaos. Shock first. Disbelief right after. Then something deeper underneath both, buried but unmistakably there.

"…Nolan?"

The ship gave out.

It started behind her—a sharp, tearing crack that split through the structure without warning. The console in front of her died completely as the frame around it buckled.

Then everything followed.

The deck lurched sideways as the gravity failed outright. Panels ripped free. Fire burst through a ruptured conduit along the far side of the room, spreading in a violent flash that consumed what little stability the ship had left.

Nolan shot forward quickly, the floor breaking apart beneath his feet as the structure collapsed in on itself. His hand reached out—

The explosion hit, swallowing the room in an instant.

Flames tore through the ship, the shockwaves ripping it apart from the inside out as the failing systems cascaded into total collapse. The hull ruptured along every weakened seam, the entire vessel coming apart in a violent chain reaction.

From the outside, the ship continued to erupt into an expanding sphere of fire, debris, and scattered fragments, the blast pushing outward into the void in a silent, devastating bloom…

---

AN: Not much to say today. Next chapter should be up in the next week or two.

Links will be down below if you're interested in joining the community or supporting my writing.

Links

-Arsenal