Firestar had just returned from her childhood home.
Nostalgia had guided her through each room, fingertips brushing over aged wallpaper as memories surfaced like old photographs.
She'd wiped her eyes, thanking him again, promising she'd be there when he needed her most.
Jeremy York had purchased the entire block and, in a gesture that still left her stunned, handed her the deed with just six words: "I think this belongs to you."
She cried that night, quietly, hiding her tears from him and the smiling lawyer who'd accompanied him.
A sharp alert beeped in her ear briefly before her heads-up display activated.
She groaned, eyes shifting to the Firefly suit being rebuilt before her—its pyrotech-mesh shell, a cutting-edge Armacham invention, was laser-stitched with precision. The suit was pending patent, one of many under York's ever-expanding empire.
She originally wanted the Heatwave armor, but Jeremy vetoed it. He said he wanted each team member to be distinct.
At her command, a window blinked open, showing Scorch—another pyrokinetic, though far less refined—engulfing an infested building in flame.
Wiping her stained hands on her oil-smudged overalls only made the mess worse. A rebellious strand of red hair dangled across her face; she huffed, blowing it from her eye in irritation.
Then came the boom. She flinched—but it wasn't real—just the audio feed.
She pinched the air, maximizing the live footage.
Three black vans tore onto the scene, gunmen spilling out and opening fire. The private security detail scrambled, caught off guard by the initial explosion.
A taxi, riddled with bullets, swerved into traffic, its passengers' fates uncertain.
The lights in the room brightened as Angelica Power—Firestar rose to her feet. The hum of servers filled the space as her monitoring station powered up.
She slid into her chair, surrounded by a sea of glowing monitors. Ten were primary—others flickered to life slowly, lining the walls.
She wasn't a stalker, promise. She was just… interested in the other heroines.
One monitor showed a white-haired woman in a skin-tight catsuit. She was a Black Cat, a skilled fighter, and a sometime thief. Angelica didn't approve of the burglaries but chalked them up to the blurred morality of vigilantes.
Would that have been me, if Jeremy hadn't saved me? she wondered.
Jeremy had given her everything—except her family back.
The Lazarus Pit. A volatile green fluid that defied science. Even with three PhDs and all their resources, it remained an enigma.
Firestar slid across the floor to another console, drones activating under her commands. She watched as cloaked recon units zipped into the fray.
"Silver Sablinova, Felicia Hardy, Colleen Wing… Daughters of the Dragon," she murmured aloud.
Her drone feed zoomed in on Silver. The woman fought like a machine—precise, brutal, elegant.
One enemy barked something before Silver dropped him. Angelica enhanced the audio. What she heard made her blood run cold.
"Is Jeremy busy?" she asked aloud.
"He has left with Ms. Astrid and Mr. Lorenzi," Alfred's voice replied calmly.
"So it can wait."
"What troubles you, Ms. Jones? Perhaps I can help."
She nodded and played the clip.
"Black Sky," Alfred said after a beat. "No direct files. But if the Hand labeled him that, Master York must be warned. It may help him uncover his past."
Sable International had been under siege, and York and Rand Industries' corporate takedown was in full swing.
"These are Hand soldiers," Alfred continued, "but they're moving like freelancers. Possibly contracted."
"Oh god. They need me."
Onscreen, a man strolled out of a van, unbothered by the gunfire.
"Tombstone," she whispered, then shouted.
She bolted from her seat, skipping the elevator, sprinting down the hall.
_____________________________
Chan Ho Yin meditated in his fire-scarred training room, flame spiraling around him. The heat peeled paint from walls and scorched steel.
He controlled the fire, not summoned it—a testament to his evolution. The Centipede serum had catalyzed his mutation, and now his command of thermal energy bordered on alchemy.
Jeremy could melt concrete with ambient heat manipulation. Chan wasn't there—yet—but he was getting close.
He focused on heat, not flame. The shift clicked. Soon, waves of heat pulsed from him, setting off facility alarms.
He grinned and sent diagnostics to the lab.
He thought one day, I'll ask Jeremy about this magic nonsense. He used to be a street magician. Now, he wanted to learn real sorcery.
"Definite on the nest," his comms chirped.
He pressed his badge. "Gear up."
Another nest. Another breach in a 'safe zone.'
He passed by lockers, slipping on gear. Practice made progress. He'd studied powers and trained relentlessly.
He raised a flame in his palm. It shimmered. Beautiful. Deadly.
Bonita—Firebird—had scorched him once. He wasn't immune to fire, just… hardened.
But the serum flowed through him like jet fuel. Next time, he'd show her who burned brighter.
Sometime later, Heatwave sat in the back of the transport, armor clicking into place as he leaned back, head resting against the wall.
Three Armacham transports roared down the lawless streets of Northern Mexico. Checkpoints were useless. Lies were easier than the truth.
Infection rates were rising. Whole families are disappearing. The Brood had learned about mutants and were now actively hunting them.
Gunfire pinged off the hull. Again.
Local cops. Corrupt or just scared. It didn't matter. That's why Armacham partnered with the cartels—gangs ran this place, not the government.
An officer waved them down. He dove aside as the transport plowed through. Ahead, the target: a fortified bank.
Chase cars swarmed in behind, sirens wailing.
Getting real old, he thought.
The vehicles skidded to a halt. His team disembarked with military precision—six to a squad, all armored, all packing experimental firepower designed to handle mutants.
Technicians deployed drones. Others tapped into local networks.
"Freeze! Hands where I can see them!"
"Don't draw that—!"
Heatwave's HUD scanned faces. IDs. Affiliations. It was them.
An agent approached—bold, arrogant, clueless.
"You're breaking a dozen laws. Out of the suit, hands up," he barked, jabbing at Chan's chestplate.
"Agent Donaldson," Chan smirked.
Donaldson's face soured. "Damn bio-contacts."
"There's an attempt to flank us," one operative warned.
"Three of you are contractors. One SHIELD agent. Let me guess—Howling Commandos backup?"
"You don't know anything," Donaldson snapped.
"We came to help. If attacked, we defend ourselves." Chan's voice was amplified, controlled.
Donaldson grabbed for his weapon. Mistake.
"You were told to stand down," the agent growled. "Armacham is unauthorized."
"By whose authority?"
"United States Government."
Chan turned away. "Well, this isn't the United States."
"Disarm! Turn yourself in!"
He walked on. Calm. Resolute.
Donaldson shouted more threats. Behind Chan, the locals and embedded HYDRA operatives were preparing a move.
He stopped, cowl flaring.
"Our boss tied our hands. But mistakes? They happen."
He glanced back at his team.
"Operatives. Defend yourselves. If fired upon—"
Chan never finished the sentence. Gunfire broke out from the southern roofline—unmarked rifles, illegal optics, armor-piercing. One of his squadmates dropped, armor dented but not breached.
"Sniper fire confirmed." His visor flared red.
He reached out and closed his fist.
The rooftop erupted in flame. A shriek echoed as someone fell through the collapsing metal.
"Hostile forces confirmed," his HUD declared.
Donaldson cursed. "What the hell are you doing?!"
"Not talking anymore," Chan muttered. "We're live."
"If you even think about continuing, we will see Jeremy York and his affiliation labeled as terroristic elements." The obvious HYDRA agent barked his hands, inching toward his useless
He lifted his hand, heat spiraling like a supernova coil. "Ah. The threat. Now we're talking. The only terrorists here are you and your ilk." Trucks overturned from the wave alone—guns melted in holsters. His boots cracked the earth beneath him as he stepped forward, igniting the screams and scattering of the agents.
Behind him, his squad moved like fireborn ghosts—silent, coordinated, deadly. Drones buzzed overhead. One beamed an active scan. Brood activity confirmed. Below the bank was a deep, larval nest protected by psionic interference.
Chan knew what that meant. The Brood had a Queen.