Kingo stepped out of the car, wrinkling his nose. “This is where he’s living?” he wondered aloud, looking around at what had once been some sort of industrial lot. This place had been long-abandoned by humanity, judging by the knee-high weeds pushing through broken concrete and the rows of slouching, skeletal warehouses. The air stank of rust and old oil—a sour, metallic scent that clung to the back of the throat—and the sky above was a dull smear of grey, low and heavy, like it was too tired to rain.
Ajak didn’t answer. She stood there quietly, her long coat catching in the breeze, eyes roaming the lot before settling on a blackened sign overhead that read ‘Carver Tool & Die’. Ikaris, on the other hand, was already walking ahead, boots crunching as he stepped across gravel and broken glass.
Karun opened his door and hesitated as he went to get out. Kingo ducked his head down to look at him through the car. “Wait in the car, Karun.”
“But, sir—”
“Karun. Please.” Kingo hated to be so curt with him, but he wasn’t sure what to expect here and he didn’t want to traumatise his valet any more than he already had, if he could help it.
Karun looked at him for a moment, worry and anxiety written plainly across his face, then nodded and closed his door. Kingo followed suit.
“It’s impressive.” Ajak moved around to join him in lingering by the car for a moment, her voice soft enough that the human sitting inside wouldn’t be able to hear her. “You dragged him into all of this—he still doesn’t even know why Ikaris killed Stark—yet he still chooses to stand by you. He must be a very good friend.”
Kingo’s mouth twisted in a bitter smile and he shook his head. He’d told Karun to go home, after everything that had happened, but the man had refused. It was ironic, really—Karun was worried about him, whereas Kingo didn’t have the heart to tell Karun that humanity was on a ticking clock, with only a handful of years to go until everyone he’d ever known would be gone.
“He is. Not that it matters, at all,” he said. “He’ll die along with everyone else on this planet when the Emergence happens, right?”
“It is the way of things,” Ajak said, but her tone seemed to waver. “The life cycle of the universe. Destruction and creation. This world will be gone, but a new Celestial will be born and go on to create so much more.”
What she was saying made sense, but the way she was saying it… It might have just been Kingo’s imagination, but it was as though her heart wasn’t in it. “I don’t get it. If you knew about this the whole time, why did you send us away? You shouldn’t have. We should have all stayed together.” He exhaled sharply, tugging his jacket a bit tighter around himself. “Why tell us to go, give us an opportunity to fall in love with these people, if it was always going to be temporary?”
“Everything is temporary, Kingo.”
“Everything except us, huh?”
Ajak reached over and touched him gently on the arm. “I told you why. I wanted to give you all a chance to live a life for yourselves—find some meaning beyond being soldiers. And so you did.”
Kingo hesitated. Was what Ajak had done really so different, when it came right down to it, than him trying to send Karun away? To want his friend to enjoy what time this world had left, without being burdened with the knowledge of what was going to happen? Part of him felt a little shitty about hiding what was going on from Karun, but knowing that the end of the world was coming would only upset him. Thinking about it like that, he at least understood why Ajak had preferred to keep her knowledge to herself.
He looked ahead at where Ikaris was waiting for them. The other Eternal’s expression was unreadable. The building he stood in front of had no sign left, just the ghost of letters eaten away by time. It looked like a warehouse, or maybe an old factory—one of those places that had once built something useful, now just a hollow shell with its windows bricked over and brown ivy spidering its way up the walls.
“And…” Ajak hesitated. “I always felt there was something special about this planet. These people. I didn’t… I didn’t want it all to vanish forever. I thought if we all saw as much of this world as we could, then at least that could live on in some small way after it was gone. Preserved for eternity in memories, held in trust by the Celestials.”
Kingo nodded, more to himself than to her, and started toward where Ikaris was waiting. Ajak fell into step beside him, tucking her hands into the pockets of her coat.
The front entrance of the small building was a battered metal door hanging crooked on its hinges.
“I know you said that Phastos prefers to be alone, after… you know,” Kingo said. “But I can’t be the only one thinking that this place feels a little bit ‘serial killer’.”
Ikaris shook his head at Kingo’s words, a small smile touching the corners of his mouth, then turned and gave the door a push. It creaked open with a sound like a haunted swing set, which didn’t help.
As threatening and empty as the place looked and felt from the outside, once the three of them stepped inside, Kingo was surprised to find a relatively cosy space. The air was warm and smelled faintly of oil, old wood, and something mild and earthy—lentils, maybe. There was more light than Kingo had expected, too: strings of mismatched bulbs dangled overhead, some flickering, others steady. Workbenches lined the space, cluttered with little machines half-built or half-disassembled. A magnetic gyroscope of some kind spun lazily in midair, unattended, while a small stove glowed in the far corner.
“Why are you here?”
At the far end of the room stood Phastos. Even from an initial impression, Kingo was caught a little off-guard by how much the man had seemed to have changed in the scant half-century or so since he’d seen him last. Not physically, directly, of course—they were Eternals, after all—he still had the same broad shoulders, dark skin, and close-cropped hair and beard.
But Phastos had always had an excitable sort of energy to him, always bright and looking forward to showing off his latest toys. The man in front of them now looked older, somehow. Not in the lines of his face—again, Eternal—but in the way he carried himself, like someone who’d been holding his breath for a very long time. He was wearing a threadbare thermal shirt and cargo pants patched at the knees, and there was a sort of tiredness in his eyes that no amount of sleep would fix. The weight of years spent thinking too much and doing too little.
Ikaris crossed his arms and leaned back against a workbench. “Nice to see you, too.”
“Phastos,” Ajak said, injecting some warmth into her voice as she picked her way over to him.
“I wasn’t expecting a family reunion,” Phastos said, crossing his arms loosely in front of his chest.
“We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important,” Ajak replied. “We need to talk.”
“Sure. Important.” His gaze lingered on Ikaris for a moment, then shifted to Kingo. “Not tired of the red carpet, yet?”
Kingo offered a sheepish half-smile. “What can I say? It’s a living.” He rubbed at the back of his neck awkwardly, glancing around the space again. “Reminds me of your Kyoto workshop, back in the day. You working on anything new?”
Phastos shrugged. “Odds and ends.”
“Looks like more than that,” Kingo said gently, nodding toward the workbench closest to Phastos. “That’s a compression housing for an induction stabiliser, right? And is that a kinetic impeller frame?”
Phastos turned toward the bench and looked at the components that Kingo had pointed out. He raised his hands and golden filaments of cosmic energy unfurled from his palms, sharp and luminous like etched circuitry. The components on the bench lifted, spinning and sliding together with precise, mechanical clicks as he continued to motion with his hands. Kingo watched, transfixed, as the parts aligned in midair and fused into a single, seamless device—some kind of turbine or containment ring, though its purpose wasn’t clear. Once it was complete, the device settled back onto the bench without a sound.
“I keep my hands busy,” Phastos said at last. “Just… little things. Toys. Solar cells for a community centre down the road. Nothing that matters. Why are you here?” he asked again.
Ajak stepped forward. “Because something is happening and I want you with us. There are things you don’t know.”
Phastos raised an eyebrow, sceptical, but Kingo saw a flicker of something behind it—curiosity, maybe, or something deeper. A reluctant hunger for connection. “I’m listening,” he said.
--
Ten minutes later, Phastos was laughing. It wasn’t a good laugh.
It was the sort of laugh that Kingo had had to practice for the Act 2 climax of Phantom Gun where, after his character had found out that his partner—his best friend, the man he’d trusted more than anyone—had been the one responsible for the deaths of his wife and child all along. He’d strangled the man to death and then stumbled out into the stormy night and collapsed to his knees, letting the rain wash away his sins, laughing at the absurdity of it all, as though he’d discovered that he was the butt of some great, cosmic joke.
When Phastos was done laughing, he nodded slowly. “It makes sense, now. Why you wouldn’t let us interfere with human conflicts. Conflicts lead to war, and war actually leads to advancement in lifesaving technology and medicine. So our mission was never to make a peaceful or harmonious world, but to increase the population at all costs, no matter the short-term losses. Just farming humans as food for the Celestials, right?” he said bitterly.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
Ajak looked at him, her expression soft. “Phastos…”
Kingo wanted to say something comforting or clever, but the words didn’t come. He looked around, his eyes lingering on shelves filled with parts. Phastos’s home was part workshop, part living space—but it felt impermanent, like everything was placed not because it belonged there, but because it was convenient at the time. Everything was… temporary. He looked back at Phastos.
“We can’t fix everything or save everyone.” Kingo spoke slowly, trying to compose his thoughts. “We were never meant to. All we can do is see our mission through. But that doesn’t mean all the good we did along the way meant nothing.”
Phastos looked at him dully. “All the good we did,” he echoed. “Sure.”
“You built things that helped people,” Kingo insisted. “Think of all the people who got to live good lives because of us. None of that is going to be erased. You gave generations the tools they needed to improve their lives.”
“That they used to kill each other.”
He grimaced but pressed on. “Yeah. Sometimes. But you weren’t responsible for that.”
“Kingo—would you give a gun to a baby?”
The seeming non-sequitur brought him up short. “Uh. No,” he said hesitantly. “I cannot say that I would do that.”
“Well, that’s what I did. That’s all I ever did. I gave a lot of guns to a lot of babies. Unintentionally, for the most part, but still.” Phastos let out a small, bitter chuckle. “That’s all this world is. Too many babies with too many guns…”
Kingo wasn’t sure what to say to that.
“You know, even after Hiroshima, I told myself it was fear, not evil, that made them do what they did. But after I walked through Auschwitz, I was done. I thought they were past saving.” Phastos looked back toward where Ikaris was leaning against one of the workbenches. “I guess I was right.”
Ajak looked at him. “We need you, Phastos.”
He let out a slow, weary breath and turned away from them, hands braced against the edge of his workbench. He stood like that, silent for a moment, before he spoke again. “Fine. I’ll help. All of this—everything that’s happened—it has to mean something, in the end.”
Ikaris nodded. “Trust in Arishem’s design for this planet. There is a grander purpose to all of this, laying the foundations for something new—even if it’s hard to see from down here.”
Phastos didn’t argue. He hesitated, then nodded back, seemingly more resigned than actually agreeing. “Alright.”
“We still have far to go to collect the others,” Ajak said, her tone pensive. “I’m worried about what the Avengers are doing.”
“Should we split up?” Ikaris suggested.
“That could be dangerous. If we’re isolated from each other, they might judge it an opportunity to strike at us. I would be very surprised if the Avengers haven’t been tracking our movements.”
“Not here, they won’t be,” Phastos interjected with a slight shake of his head. “Privacy screen. I didn’t want to be noticed, and it was simpler to make it affect anything with the right energy signature rather than key it to just myself. It’s essentially a more refined version of what I gave to Gilgamesh and Thena. Selective, rather than blanket, and covers almost all the way up to Rockford.”
Phastos placed his palms together before drawing them apart vertically in a measured gesture, a ring of cosmic energy forming on his lower palm. Above it, a softly-glowing golden hologram of the planet appeared, small yet impossibly detailed. Pinpoints of white picked out a number of places across the globe.
Ajak studied the hologram for a moment before nodding. “Phastos, if you can give us something that will ensure a secure line, we can try calling Sersi and Sprite. Druig and the others are more difficult.” She turned to look at Ikaris. “Thena and Gilgamesh are far out of our way. You’ll be able to get to them much faster on your own. Kingo, Phastos and I will collect the others and make our way to the Domo. We’ll meet the three of you there.”
“Are we reading everyone in as we pick them up?” Kingo asked hesitantly. “Only, Druig…”
“I know,” Ajak said softly. “I think Druig will be difficult, but we can’t leave him out of this. He has a right to know, as well. For now, let’s leave it at this. Once all of us are together again, then I will explain to the others and we will have to take it as it comes.”
They walked out into the pale, washed-out afternoon, shoes crunching over gravel and weeds as they crossed the lot. A breeze stirred the dead leaves caught in the corners of the chain-link fence, whispering through the rusted steel skeletons of the warehouses around them.
Kingo heard the change in Phastos’s footsteps—heard him stop—and cast a glance back over his shoulder to see the other Eternal standing still, head tilted as he looked back at the place he’d called home.
“You alright?” Kingo asked gently.
Phastos nodded once without looking at him. “Just a moment.”
He brought his palms together again, then made a rotational gesture from left to right before drawing them back apart, spreading his fingers as golden circuitry unfurled in the air before him in a small disc of softly pulsing glyphs. The interface hovered in midair, rotating slowly, its glow stark and warm against the cold light of the sky. Phastos’s eyes flicked across the display, fingers darting with precision as he manipulated the construct.
All around the lot, things began to stir.
From beneath cracked concrete and rusting metal, buried beneath tarps and inside dead machines, dormant constructs awoke. They peeled themselves apart, unfolding in pieces like clockwork insects. Defensive pylons hidden beneath shattered pallets hissed and withdrew into their housings. Modular machines—some half-finished, others fully formed—rose into the air, reconfiguring into drones made of rotating geometric structures.
Each device zipped toward Phastos in a graceful and coordinated flock, diving down toward his outstretched hands. The rings they formed were intricate and concentric, resolving around his arms and wrists. He rotated his wrists inward, folding the rings toward each other as they arrived—the constructs shimmered, then flattened, condensed, vanishing one by one with soft bursts of dimensional static, like water droplets flicked into another world.
By the time Phastos lowered his arms, the lot was nearly empty. Stripped bare.
“Travel light,” Phastos murmured to himself. He turned, eyes hooded but clear, and walked back toward the others without another word.
Kingo gave a low whistle. “Still the coolest of us,” he muttered, falling in beside him.
Ikaris just snorted.
--
The TV was already on when Natasha entered the common room the next morning, Secretary Ross’s face taking up most of the screen. A scrolling chyron read BREAKING: Secretary of State responds to Avengers’ accusations.
Not everyone was here, but she was sure no matter where they were, the whole team would be watching for developments after their release last night. The timing of the release of information and statement to the press was tactical, based on data that Sterns already had about optimal timing to maximise exposure and minimise opportunities for effective response. It also, coincidentally, meant that Nat had finally, finally gotten an actual chance to catch up on some sleep in the meantime.
Ross had had a choice between firing off something half-cocked as soon as possible, risking making a mistake due to haste and it being too late in the evening to be seen by many people until the next day anyway, or deliberately waiting until the next morning to make a more measured and calculated statement, which meant that most people would have already heard the news and had some time for it to settle in before his response.
Neither were great options, from his perspective, but he’d obviously opted for the latter. Natasha wondered briefly if he’d also been delayed by hastily calling off a military response after the Avengers’ statement had dropped. Sterns had said there was a good chance he might have tried to dispatch a sniper team to kill him, after all. The media would have utterly torn Ross apart if it looked like he’d immediately escalated to attempting to assassinate Sterns in response to the release. Honestly, there was a little part of Nat that was disappointed he hadn’t—it would have made everything quicker and easier.
Steve was standing near the window, arms folded tight across his chest. He gave Natasha a slight nod of acknowledgement as she walked over to join the group that was gathered here. Maria and Clint had claimed a pair of armchairs, sitting side by side. Bruce was sitting forward on the couch, hands clasped, brows drawn in. Sterns, still wearing the borrowed hoodie to cover his deformities, was standing a bit further back from everyone else, his expression unreadable.
Nat joined Bruce on the couch, giving his leg a small nudge as she did so. He shot her a brief but worried-looking smile in return.
“…what we’re witnessing,” Ross was in the middle of saying, his voice slow and deliberate, “is not justice. It is a coordinated smear campaign led by individuals who have operated for too long without oversight, accountability, or consequence.” His hair was carefully combed, his tie crisp, but Nat could see the tightness around his mouth, the slight tremor of restrained anger. “These so-called ‘revelations’ are deeply misleading. Yes, Dr Samuel Sterns was detained by the US Government—not as a punishment, but as a necessary protective measure. His mutation made him a danger to himself and others.”
Clint scoffed. “The only thing Ross was protecting was his own ass.”
Behind her, Natasha heard Sterns speak quietly. “He’s framing it as a medical containment, not a legal one. That lets him sidestep the ‘no trial’ issue. It’s a good tactic. People are more tolerant of quarantine than they are of black sites.”
Ross leaned slightly toward the podium on-screen, eyes narrowing. “And now, those who forcibly freed Dr Sterns from secure federal custody want to parade him as a martyr—to weaponise his condition for their own political ends. This isn’t about transparency. It’s about control.”
“Projection,” Nat commented. “Claim your opponents are doing exactly what you’re guilty of. I see he’s getting an early start on the classics.”
“It’s a classic for a reason,” Stern responded. Natasha didn’t turn to look at him, but she could hear a small smile in his voice. “Statistically effective tactic. He’s trying to reframe the narrative into one of rebellion, positioning himself as the stable centre. Moderate voters are especially responsive to language that paints others as destabilising.”
Steve narrowed his eyes. “He’s not denying the imprisonment. He’s validating it.”
“Yes. It’s strategic,” Sterns said. “If he denies too much, we’ll show him to be a liar. But if he agrees with the broad outline of our version of events and successfully justifies them, he retains moral authority.”
On the TV, Ross raised his voice slightly. “I remind you: this is a man who was exposed to extreme gamma radiation. His altered brain function is well-documented. He is confused and dangerous, not a reliable narrator of his own experience. Any claims he makes should be viewed with scepticism and caution.”
Bruce’s jaw clenched. “He’s trying to delegitimise you entirely.”
“And now the pivot to public safety,” Sterns predicted.
Ross lowered his tone again, more measured now. “I have devoted my career to national service. To ensure that threats to this country and her people, no matter how powerful or well-intentioned, are never beyond the reach of oversight. That is what the Enhanced Anti-Terrorism Bill is about. Accountability. Security. Peace.”
Steve exhaled slowly. “He’s going to try to use this to push the bill over the line, isn’t he?”
As if on cue, Ross straightened and addressed the camera with the full gravity of his office. “I call on all responsible voices in Congress—on both sides of the aisle—to join me in passing the Enhanced Anti-Terrorism Bill in its current form, without delay. We cannot allow personal vendettas and emotional appeals to compromise the safety of our citizens. We must act.”
The chyron updated live. Secretary Ross: We cannot allow vigilantism to replace justice.
“That was…” Maria started, then trailed off, staring over at Sterns with a frown on her face.
He nodded. “Well within parameters.”
The ex-SHIELD agent shook her head as she rose to her feet. “No, nuh uh. That wasn’t ‘within parameters’. I’m pretty sure that, if I go back over your notes for what the expected response from Ross would be, you got almost all of that practically word-for-word.”
Natasha twisted around a little so she could look between the two of them, eyebrows raised a little. “Really?”
Sterns let out a small chuckle. “Ms Hill is overstating things. I had some statistically probable predictions with high confidence. This was just Ross’s most likely course of action.” He reached for a translucent tablet that was sitting on the table nearby. “Recast everything that we’re doing as a tantrum—a lawless, dangerous one. It’s a little bit of a gamble, but if he succeeds, we won’t just lose the argument. We’ll lose legitimacy entirely. And the Avengers will no longer be able to operate freely.”
“Do we know how we’re responding to this?” Steve asked.
“Sterns already prepped a strategy for dealing with this sort of counter-narrative,” Maria said, still looking a bit put out by the accuracy of the man’s predictions. “It might need some tweaks, but we’re essentially ready to respond immediately. We’ll keep Ross on the back foot, give him no space to breathe.”
Bruce glanced at the screen, where Ross was now solemnly thanking the American people for their support. Then he looked back at Sterns. “Can we really win this?”
Sterns smiled faintly. “76 per cent probability. High confidence.”
“I like those odds,” Natasha said as she rose from her seat.
“So do I,” Steve said with a nod. “Let’s get to work.”
