Alex lies sprawled across a narrow table, limbs limp, hair fanned like a crown of tangled quills. Her breath is even, her face slack. For once, the weight she usually wears like armor is gone—peeled off and left beside her while sleep claims what little peace it can.

  Across from her, Henry sits on a stool, elbows on knees, chin in hand. He studies her like a riddle he's almost figured out, but not quite. His eyes trace the lines of her face, stopping on the scars that slice slightly through both eyebrows like lightning bolts. They're old, weathered and faded, barely there, but still defiant.

  Cautiously, he reaches out, fingertips hovering inches from her skin—

  Alex bolts upright like a corpse in a vampire flick, gasping loud enough to send Henry scrambling.

  "Jesus!" he yelps, stumbling back with a flail. "Okay! Let's, uh, let's be gentle next time."

  Alex blinks. Her mind reels, racing to catch up. She looks around. The ceiling's low, made of concrete and nerves. Fluorescent lights hum like anxious insects.

  She swings her legs off the table, still breathing hard.

  "Where the hell am I?" she asks, voice hoarse.

  Henry exhales, clutching his chest. "My house. Well—technically, my bunker."

  Alex stares at him like he's grown a second head. "You have a bunker?"

  Henry shrugs. "Why do you not have one?"

  "Who says I don't?"

  "See? Now we're bonding."

  She rubs her temple. Her fingers scrambling to brush the bandages her abdomen, neatly patched up. "How long was I out?"

  Henry checks his watch. "A couple of hours. Just after midnight."

  She whistles low. "Feels like longer."

  "You passed out," he says, a little too cheerfully. "So I carried you here. Lovingly. Like a knight or a concerned significant other. Or a... pack mule."

  She snorts.

  "There's painkillers in that cabinet," he adds, nodding to a shelf. "They might help?"

  "They don't," she replies. "But... what the hell."

  She reaches over and downs half the container without checking the label. Henry opens his mouth, thinks better of it, closes it again.

  "I told my dad we should wait before moving Chris," he says after a beat. "Didn't want to piss you off more."

  "Chris is fine."

  Henry squints at her. "And how do you know that?"

  She smirks, cracking her neck with a slow roll. "Like I'd leave him unprotected in a public hospital."

  At the Hospital …

  The hospital buzzes with late-night fatigue. The nurse at the front desk stares blankly at her monitor, chewing the end of her pen, oblivious to the man who walks past her with surgical precision. His face is calm, purposeful. His gait is too steady, and his coat too long. One hand hides beneath the fabric—gripping cold metal. A Gun. Tucked tight against his ribs.

  He turns a corner and bumps shoulders with a frantic doctor. No apologies exchanged. The doctor disappears into a stairwell, and the man continues down the hallway, eyes forward, scanning doors, calculating angles.

  Halfway down the hall, a scuffed baseball rolls into view clinking lightly against his boot. The man stops, looking down. A boy—no older than twelve—chases after it. Hoodie half-zipped, laces untied, face flushed from play.

  He skids to a halt when he sees the man. The hallway holds its breath.

  The man sighs and bends down, picking up the baseball. He tosses it lightly toward the kid.

  "Thanks, mister," the boy chirps, catching it.

  The man nods once, mechanical. He turns to continue walking. He makes it halfway around the corner when—

  CRACK.

  Something hard and fast collides with the back of his skull. He pitches forward, barely registering the cold floor under his palms before the boy is standing over him. Watching. Calm.

  The man's vision spins, clarity cracking apart like glass. And then, with practiced ease, the twelve-year-old boy grips the man's chin and jaw and snaps, quick and clean.

  The neck breaks like dry wood, and the man drops flat. His head lolling unnaturally at a grotesque angle, staring at nothing.

  The hallway is silent again.

  The boy stoops and retrieves his baseball, now smeared with red. He shoves it into the pocket of his hoodie, then rolls his neck casually, stretching like it's just another Tuesday.

  A tiny smile curls his lips—smug, practiced. He straightens, posture now oddly poised, adult-like. Calculated.

  "Works every time," he mutters in a clipped English accent, eyes glinting like broken glass.

  With one hand, he grabs the dead man's ankle and drags him into a janitor's closet like he's hauling out the trash. The body slides easily. There's strength in this kid—inhuman, quiet strength.

  He slams the closet door shut, wiping a spot of blood off his cheek with the sleeve of his hoodie.

  Then—like a switch flips—he plasters on the wide-eyed innocence of youth. The grin of a kid with nothing but cartoons and cookies on the brain.

  Whistling softly, he skips off toward the waiting area.

  As if nothing at all just happened.

  Back at the Bunker …

  The stale air in the underground bunker vibrates with unspoken tension. Fluorescent lights overhead buzz and flicker like they might give out at any second, casting jittery shadows against bare concrete. The kind of space built to survive a nuclear war, but probably not a hard conversation.

  Henry breaks the silence first, voice low, eyes on the floor. "That... actually wasn't a bad idea."

  Alex lounges back in her incline, arms crossed, sarcasm sharp enough to draw blood. "I'm allowed three good ideas a year. That was number two."

  The thick steel door groans open, the sound scraping down their spines. Rusted hinges whine as Rick strolls in with that practiced, infuriating calm—shoulders relaxed, but his eyes carry urgency like it's stitched into his bones.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  "Good. You're awake," he says, gaze locking on Alex. "The General has the crystal now. Which means the hands on our doomsday clock have practically spiraled off the face."

  Henry sighs like he's aged twenty years in twenty minutes. "Turns out he's got more than one science-fair-from-hell super soldier." He turns to Alex, "The second one was what knocked you out with the car."

  Rick doesn't miss a beat. "We need allies. Fast. Or we won't survive the night."

  "Okay, enough." Alex's voice slices through the room like a blade. She sits up straight, tone turning flint-hard. "We need to talk. And we're doing it now."

  Rick stiffens. "Whatever you have to say can wait until the world isn't about to be overrun—"

  "No." She says again, radiating fury barely held in check. "You two have lied to me at every turn. From knowing who I really am, to the color of your natural locs. And I am not walking into another fight with people I wouldn't trust to babysit Chris' dead cactus."

  The air freezes around her. Even the lights seem to pause their flickering. She folds her arms, voice calm but volcanic. "So here's the deal. You sit. We talk. Or I walk. And in that case, fuck everything, I can't die after all."

  A heavy silence follows. Then Rick nods. No pushback. No recitations. Just gravity.

  He pulls up a chair beside Henry.

  "What do you want to know?" he asks.

  "Alien race number two—"

  "Nekarrians," Henry says automatically.

  "I do not give a shit. What do they want the crystal for?"

  Henry rubs the back of his neck. "No clue. But would you hand over a bomb to someone with a history of blowing things up?"

  Alex nods once, slow. "Fair enough. The General?"

  Rick's voice is dry. "Weapons of mass destruction. Simple as that."

  She eyes them both. "Why did the Professor have the crystal the first time?"

  Henry leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Chris smuggled it out from under the General. Handed it off to Clifford, who was supposed to bring it to you while Chris ran interference."

  Her brow lifts. "And where do you come in?"

  "Clifford was our guy. Was supposed to steal it. Chris beat him to it. Either way, it got to you."

  Her tone sharpens. "Chris is in the hospital, Henry. So forgive me if I'm not thrilled about how fine the plan turned out."

  Henry falters. "Right. Yeah."

  She doesn't let him off the hook. "Is there any way to destroy the crystal that doesn't involve me playing human bomb?"

  Henry opens his mouth. Closes it. Then says, "Alex... there's no other way."

  Her face hardens. "Then maybe you should've researched a little harder. Because the last time I tapped into that power, an entire town disappeared."

  Henry stares at her. "No. That—that can't be right."

  "1973," she says flatly. "Newbrook, Colorado."

  Rick goes pale. "That was you?"

  Rick gapes—long, hard, and silent. The weight of recognition settles across his face like a falling curtain. He'd heard the story before, long ago during his many recesses on Earth. Had chased every lead, interviewed trembling survivors, dug through scorched rubble with the grim precision of a man convinced something wasn't right. He'd suspected foul play—felt it in his bones. But in the end, he'd been forced to abandon the trail when the official narrative buried it under technical jargon: a mass evacuation due to unknown radiation levels. Neat. Sanitized. A lie he'd reluctantly swallowed—until now.

  "I'm not proud of it." Her voice barely wavers. "But maybe now you'll understand why I'm not itching to go round two."

  Rick stands, begins pacing like the concrete floor might offer answers. Henry sinks deeper into his seat, head in his hands.

  "I'll rig something," Henry mutters. "Repurpose a delivery system—siphon the energy away—"

  "It's too late for that," Rick says, quiet and grim. "There's not enough time."

  Alex throws up her hands. "So lock it up. Bury it. Blast it into space. Anything that doesn't involve me mass murdering."

  Henry snaps, "Where exactly is this unbreachable black hole of a vault supposed to be?"

  "Don't snap at me. I'm trying to help."

  "I know!" he barks—then sighs, running a hand through his curls. "Sorry. I know."

  She folds her arms again. "I mean, we have no concrete idea what Sister Planet wants it for …"

  "No," Rick says, firm.

  "They've been tracking it," she goes on. "So maybe we track them."

  Henry's eyes light up. "Reverse the trail. Trace their signal back to the crystal, find the General—"

  "I'd rather lock myself in a broom closet with that crystal," Rick snaps, "than give it to those psychopaths."

  Alex mutters absently, her mind clearly elsewhere, "Perhaps ask them nicely to leave."

  Henry shoots her a sharp look, his voice laced with bitter irony. "I don't know if you remember the last time you met them, but they didn't exactly seem like the type to entertain negotiations."

  Alex doesn't skip a beat, her tone shifting to a calm but deadly sharpness. "Threaten them, nicely, to leave."

  Rick's brow furrows, a deepening storm brewing in his chest. He looks to Henry, his disbelief palpable. "Don't tell me you're actually considering this?"

  Henry's face is a mask of frustration and reluctant understanding as he meets Rick's gaze. "The entire plan depended on her ability to absorb the crystal, Dad. We need a plan B."

  Rick's patience snaps. His voice cracks with rising urgency. "There has to be a better plan than handing the most dangerous power source in this side of the galaxy to the Nekkarians!"

  Alex sits on the edge of the table, voice quiet but resolute. "Does it really matter what they do with it... as long as it's not here?"

  "There are other planets out there," Rick growls.

  "Forgive me if Earth's still top priority on my list," she says, not quite sarcastic anymore.

  Henry watches her, searching, as she hops off the table, not quite hiding her wince. "Where are you going?"

  "Home," she says simply. "One does not show up to a diplomatic negotiation dressed like a vagrant."

  Henry blinks—then his lips twitch. "Actually... I might have something for you."

  ~~~

  Fluorescent lights throw sterile white beams across metallic workbenches, unfinished gadgets, and a suspicious number of energy drinks. Henry's lab—just behind a false wall, behind some sort of false door, hums around them, a low mechanical purr of machines cycling quietly in the background. It smells faintly of solder and burnt plastic. Whatever Henry's latest project was probably didn't survive the process.

  Alex stands beside a sleek, glass display case. Inside it: a mannequin. And on that mannequin? A skintight, aggressively green costume, complete with shiny boots and a hammer motif that looks more like something someone doodled during a boring lecture.

  She eyes it like it personally owes her money.

  "...An elastic onesie?" she says at last, voice as flat as the floor beneath them.

  Henry perks up beside her, practically glowing. "It's actually Spandex," he corrects with pride. "I used to sketch supersuits when I was a kid."

  Alex tilts her head down, and murmurs into her jacket. "And you were... terrible at it."

  "What?"

  "What?"

  He blinks. Doesn't press it. Probably wise.

  "I got bored one summer and just—made a few," he says, as if explaining a harmless hobby instead of unveiling the fashion war crime before her.

  "I can see that," she deadpans.

  Henry grins like a proud parent at a kindergarten art show. "Do you like it?"

  She squints. "It's very..." A pause. "...green."

  "Vibrant!" he offers helpfully.

  "Radioactive," she counters. "My eyes have absorbed enough grass green to last through two apocalypses and a midlife crisis."

  He chuckles, unbothered. "I was thinking, Green Guardian."

  She stares at him. "What?"

  "That's what I would've called myself. You know. If I'd ever become a superhero."

  A beat passes. Alex's expression slowly shifts from mild confusion to genuine curiosity.

  "...Random question," she says. "Were you bullied as a child?"

  Henry hesitates. "S-Sometimes."

  She nods, grave as a judge. Steps forward. Pats his clothed shoulder like she's delivering condolences at a wake. "I'm gonna go home and wear my own clothes now."

  Henry exhales the sigh of a man who just watched his dreams be gently set on fire. "I'll drive."

  ~~~

  Henry and Rick stand in the living room, the disarray of the place a stark contrast to the polished exterior of the house. Rick takes it all in, his eyes scanning the spaciousness, lingering on the expensive décor despite the disheveled state.

  Henry breaks the silence, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Boy, Chris is gonna be so pissed."

  Rick glances at him, a brow raised. "You've been here before?"

  Henry shrugs casually, a small laugh escaping him. "Used to deliver bagels and coffee when Chris had one of his lazy days. Guy could sleep through a hurricane."

  As Henry speaks, his gaze lands on a portrait on the mantelpiece—Alex, Chris, Lilian, and Akio—frozen in a moment of laughter. He picks it up, carefully brushing off the broken glass that still clings to the frame. After a brief hesitation, he places it back on the cabinet. Meanwhile, Rick, oblivious to the sentimental gesture, fiddles with the TV remote, clicking the buttons rapidly.

  Footsteps echo from the staircase, and Alex appears at the top, effortlessly hopping over the damaged section. Her gaze lands on Henry and Rick, and her eyes narrow slightly at the sight of them.

  Henry grins, nodding approvingly at her jacket. "Nice jacket."

  Alex raises an eyebrow, a playful edge to her voice. "Thank you. Handmade in the 18th century by yours truly. Killed the alligator myself, and everything."

  Henry winces, his face contorting in mock horror. "Maybe don't tell that to PETA."

  Alex stares at him, confused. "Who's Peter?"

  Before Henry can respond, the TV flickers to life with a loud burst of static, followed by an overly enthusiastic correspondent blabbering into the screen. The volume blares louder than necessary, and Henry's hands fly instinctively to his ears.

  "Turn it down, Dad!" he yells, frustration creeping into his voice.

  With a roll of her eyes, Alex strides over, snatches the remote from Rick's hand, and slams it to mute. She shoots him a glare, as if daring him to argue.

  "Alex?" Henry starts, but his voice trails off as Alex turns her focus to the screen.

  On the television, Nelzux and Nod are drilling what looks like a massive hole in the ground. The correspondent's frantic gesturing only adds to the tension, her words a blur of panic.

  "That can't be good," Henry mutters under his breath, his jaw tightening.

  Rick, arms crossed, frowns darkly. "Handing them the crystal is a terrible idea."

  Alex glances briefly at him, unfazed, a faint smirk on her lips. "My bargaining skills haven't failed me, yet."

  Her fingers tap the bandage wrapped around her abdomen, her expression suddenly more serious. She pauses, then adds softly, almost to herself, "Let's just hope I hold together."