"Tony's finally clearing us for departure," Jen said, her fingers weaving lazy circles on my chest. Morning sunlight cut through the quarter's blinds, jagged lines through twisted sheets. She smelled like expensive shampoo and ozone—that gamma power always lingered after… physical activity. "Full planetary access. No more putting me into baby-sitter mode."
I saw dust particles dance in the sunbeam. "About damn time." My HUD flashed without words: Destruction Points: N/A. Brutality Multiplier: N/A. Carnage Level: N/A. The Butcher's Voice stayed mercifully silent. At least for now. Restraint here wasn't a matter of weakness; it was survival math. One misstep against the wrong godling or cosmic horror, and the good graces of Stark vanish faster than a Skrull at a supernova.
Jen propped up onto one elbow, her green skin against me warm. "So? What's the first thing you're going to conquert? Paris? The Pyramids? Stark's private bar?"
I chuckled, harsh and low. "Ground's boring now. Too many nosy eyes." I gazed up at the ceiling but saw through it—the cold hulk of the warship I'd soon meet in orbit. "Time for me to head home."
Jen's hand went rigid. "Home?" Her tone tightened, the gamma-sharp accent back. "Where's home?"
I kicked my legs off the bed, the cold floor holding me down. "Not here." The Butcher's Voice spoke thinly, a radio itch behind my eyelids, urging me to turn the knife. I didn't. Jen did not merit hatred. "Earth's a cage, Jen. Nice, comfy, but a cage. I need… space."
Her eyes narrowed, that brilliant green becoming hard. "Space? Or conquest?" She sat up all the way, the sheet puddling around her waist. "Don't play games, Marcus. You've got Stark eating out of your hand. What are you running from?"
I zipped my pants, the fabric rough against skin still thrumming with residual heat. "Running to," I corrected, tightening my belt. The Butcher's Voice insinuated into my earbud: Tell her she's just another trophy. Watch the gamma flare. I closed it off. Jen wasn't a score token or at least going by what I told myself. "Earth's a chessboard, and I'm tired of being a pawn. Out there?" I pointed my chin up at the ceiling. "I'm the king."
Jen got up, the bed creaking. She stood in the doorway, rigid. "You're leaving. Like that?" Her voice cracked, husky. "After all this?"
I reached out and touched her shoulder, but she flinched. The Butcher's Voice whispered: Break her. Make her scream. The DP multiplier would be exquisite. I clamped my jaw tighter. "It's not leaving, Jen. It's strategy. I'll come back."
Her laughter cracked, stinging. "Strategy? Or fear? You spent months soothing me, Marcus. Any of it true?" Her fists were clinched, her knuckles hardening beneath green skin. I saw the heartbeat thrumming at her throat.
The Voice of the Butcher crept through my mind: She's weak. Harm her. Gather the points. I suppressed it sharply. "True enough," I grunted, circling her. The air crackled with her contained anger. "You may come with me if you wish." The proposal had a bitter aftertaste—weakness disguised as mercy. She stood frozen by the door, her eyes burning. "Go warlord. But don't give me this noble rot." She spatted the words. "You're bored. And terrified."
I turned right back around and shoved her into a wall, my hand wrapping around her throat—no squeeze, just grasp. Her gamma-flare hummed against my hand like a trapped star. "Terrified?" I dropped my voice into a gravel whisper right against her mouth. "Of what? You? This?" The Butcher's Voice whispered squeeze, twist, see her eyes pop—a grotesque delight I gritted against. Jen didn't struggle, but just stared, her angry green eyes softening into hurt. "You're running," she whispered. "You've always been runnning."
I stroked her cheek with my thumb. "You have no idea." I kissed her—hard, claiming, tasting ozone and salt. Not soft. A mark. A promise. When I pulled back, her breathing came uneven. "I'll come back," I said, the words rough against her mouth. "Stronger. And hornier."
I didn't look back as I left. The door closed sharply behind me. Silence. Then a dull thud—a fist hitting steel. The Butcher's Voice laughed in my mind: Regret's a sweet ache. Let it fester. I pushed it away. Jen's gamma scent lingered on me, ozone vivid against the chilly SHIELD corridor air.
The hangar doors swung open. Stark stood at the hangar door, with Abigail Brand at his side in her SWORD suit. Her expression remained stoic, but her knuckles whitened as she gripped her datapad. Stark's armor glinted amidst the bright lights. It looked like coincidence these two were here. "No champagne for a departure?" Tony teased gruffly. "I planned a whole 'Earth's Least Wanted' party."
I readied for departure. "Put the confetti aside, Tony. I'll be back before you've even noticed I'm gone." Abigail stood in my path, unobtrusively. "Director Stark demands reassurances," she told me, her voice concise.
I smiled. "Let him know I left the planet intact. That's my gift." Her eyelids flared—rage, possibly even betrayal. She knew I wouldn't be back anytime soon. The Butcher's Voice tempted: Shatter her spirit. Make her beg. I leaned forward, taking a breath of her ozone and lubricant smell. "Keep my spot warm for me, Brand." She raised not a bat, but her chin set.
The repulsors of Stark hummed as he came up. "Come on, Marcus. One drink?" His voice attempted cheer, but his eyes probed me for the functional equivalent of a blown fuse. Distrust. Good. I rapped his armor-clad shoulder—a metallic slap echoed the hangar. "Next time, Tony. The good stuff."
I set Stark's undeserved grin and Brand's chilly silence aside, the hangar doors sliding shut with a hiss of pressurization. The gravity of Earth fell away as I pushed through the atmosphere, cold vacuum consuming sound. Below me, the blue marble shrunk—a gem I hadn't shattered. Yet. The Butcher's Voice rumbled: Sentiment is rust. Scrape it off.
The depths of space stretched out—black velvet studded with unimpressed stars. The bulk of my warship loomed ahead, a dark-metal dagger shape against the spectral brilliance of the Crab Nebula. I slowed my flight, the airlock iris cycled open with a hiss. I entered warm, recycled air, filled alive with familiar scents: ozone from the motors, the strong Viltrumite steel bite, beneath it all the smell of my awaiting harem—Anissa's sweat, Eve's muted lavender soap, Nolan's expensive cologne.
I strode down the center corridor. Alien crewmembers—races I didn't want to remember—sidestepped to the side, freezing against bulkheads as I came by. Their eyes avoided mine, some with antennae trembling. The scent of their fear burst strong and sour in the recycled air. One of the engineers lost a hydro-spanner; the clang rang out like a gunshot in the silence. I didn't break pace. Didn't glance. My shadow swallowed them. Viltrumite presence alone was fear enough. The Butcher's Voice stayed silenced, approving. Fear was fundamental. Efficient. It required no cruelty factor. It was good to know even after all the time I'd been away, I could still frighten without lifting a hand.
The bridge doors slide open. I am met with three figures on the move, each in their own rhythm: Nolan Grayson, tensed as a cobra queen, majestic; Anissa, violent and angry; Atom Eve, calm and unsmiling. They did not expect me. But they noticed the moment I arrived. "Conquest," Nolan says, her voice sweet steel. "You've come back."
Anissa comes at me first. Not a hello, but a challenge—a fist for my jaw at Viltrumite speed. I catch it an inch from crushing, bones grating. Her smile is raw feral pleasure. "Soft," she spits, wriggling free. "Earth made you slow." Before I get a word out, she pushes me into the bulkhead, her kiss a savage collision of tooth and power. It's got the flavor of ozone and dried blood. The Butcher's Voice rumbles: Break her spine. Earn the DP. I shove her away instead, harder than I needed too. She stumbles, cackling, eyes alight with merciless approval.
Nolan pads up to me like a panther sneaking up prey. Fingers outline the shirt I am wearing—Stark's tech, hard but flexible. She rips it open with a venomous snap, buttons spattering like teeth. "Silk," she inhales, leaning into me. Her breath scalds against my neck. "Did the Earthlings dress you up in their weakness?" Her palm drags down my chest, nails scratching skin. Possessive. Starving. The Butcher's Voice contains the whisper: Flay her pride. Make her kneel. I instead wrap my hand around her hip, pulling her against me. The vibration of her deep growl against my side is approval laced with peril. She nips me hard on the shoulder, blood welling. The biting ache makes me grounded.
Then Eve. Surprisingly last. Her steps soft, almost timid. Her fingers trace over my torn shirt, outlining the bite mark Nolan gave. Her fingers feel cold, unemotive—until her gaze meets mine. There's no Stockholm Syndrome for rent there now. Only a cold, fierce fear. "You smell different," she says softly. Her voice is soft, but it pierces the growling from Anissa and the purring ownership from Nolan. Her palm lies flat against my chest, right over the heart. "Like ozone... and her." The name lingers unspoken: Jen. Her fingers dig into me, not hurting, but with cold, biting exactness. "Did she touch you there?" Eve asks me, her gaze locked onto me. A small, freezing smile touches her lips. "I'll wash her scent away. Every molecule." The Butcher's Voice stirs, curious: Obsession is a sharper blade than hate. Wield it. I don't move. Her possession is a cold current among the warm ones.
"We've got a surprise for you," Nolan whispered, her lips grazing my ear as Anissa took a step back, panting from the earlier exertion. Her eyes flashed triumphantly. "Something... precious."
The Butcher's Voice sneered: Weakness. Do away with it. I scowled. Precious? Viltrumites did not deal in emotions. Nolan waved towards the backup command deck. The armor-plated door slid open easily.
In a clean room bathed with soft blue lights, three incubator pods hummed, their transparent covering dewy with condensation. In each swam infants—tiny, apparently inconceivable, with dark tendrils of hair and closed eyelids against the intense lights. Viltrumite physiology radiated from them as a heat. Nolan pressed her palm against the first pod. "Three weeks ago," she murmured, her voice sharpened by pride. "Strong. Pure."
The Butcher's Voice erupted: Offspring? Sentimental GARBAGE! Cull them! It shrieked, a splintering splinter grating bone. I staggered a step back. Thragg's Protocol. The holy command—spread the species. I had forgotten. Lost amidst the planet's diversions, Jen's warmth, the wary trust of Stark. Guilt roiled in my gut, hot and raw. I had missed their births. Anissa sneered, her arms akimbo. "Weakness," she spited, her eyes flashing at the pods. "But Thragg's orders stick. They survive."
I drew nearer, my own face twisted in the pod's curving wall. Three little faces floated in amniotic blue. Already developing features—Viltrumite heritage undeniable. "Names?" The word sounded harsh. Nolan's hand claimed the center pod. "Zeythar," she stated, her voice firm. Anissa jabbed her chin at the pod off the left. "Tullor." Eve pushed at the pod off the right. "Lysarra," she whispered, her gaze away, almost adoring.
I nodded once, my gaze traveling over the children trapped in pods. Zeythar, Tullor, Lysarra. Names which enjoyed Viltrum heritage. "They live," I declared, sufficing the Butcher's Voice's wail into silence with willpower. Nolan's face darkened, Anissa smiled as a blade, Eve remained unnervingly calm. "You won your freedom," I told them, my voice echoing the frigid chamber. "Roam the void. Prey. Rule. Indulge." I knew now, irrevocably, treason belonged to the times gone by. With these babies, they knew they belonged to me whole and loyal.
My HUD flashed into being when I use Dimensional Raider—dialing up coordinates with cold intent. Baxter Building. Sub-basement containment cell. The air churned destructively as a roiling vortex tore a hole open mid-deck, spewing violet lightning. I reached blindly through it with my arm—and pulled.
Dinosaurus lurched into the command deck, scales scraping against metal. He blinked, reptilian eyes adjusting to the warship's bright lighting. "Conquest," he rumbled, his nostrils flaring at the scent of amniotic fluid and ozone. His gaze slid past me, landing on the incubator pods. "Ah. Young ones." He spoke with fatigue, not a hint of surprise. "The universe groans at your appetite for power."
"We're going home," I declared, voice echoing through the chilly room. "This universe has lost its shine for now." The Butcher's Voice sibilated agreement—Earth was practice. Home is the feast.
Dinosaurus leaned his massive head, scales grating against the bulkhead. "Home? The universe where heroes still bleed openly? Where cities drop as sandcastles?" His chest vibrated with a deep, laughing rumble. "I suspected the restraint would chafe."
I turned away from the pods, my own shadow covering Nolan, Eve, and Anissa. "We're done here. We go back to our own universe." The statement hung heavy, deliberate. I went on. "In case you didn't get it—we've been guests in another." I looked at them all, scanning.
Nolan sneered, a cold dismissive sound. Her cold, knowing eyes held fast with mine without a tremble. "Did you think us blind, Conqueror? The stars were unlike our own." She waved a hand vaguely towards the viewport, into which alien stars bleeding nebulae unlike any of our familiar space.
I gazed at Dinosaurus, his huge frame glowering over the incubation pods. "Anything else in your lab? Gear? specimens?" I talked quickly, matter-of-factly. The dimensional vortex persisted weakly nearby, casting mobile violet shadows against his scaly face.
Dinosaurus snorted, a curl of steam rising from his nostrils. "Nothing of value is left." He rapped a claw-tipped finger against his forehead. "My planning had been completed well before your decision. Each vial, each genetic code—" His eyes flashed for a moment toward the infants. "—is preserved here. In waiting."
How? The question scorched. This Warship was light years off when Dinosaurus worked out of that Baxter Building sub-basement. Did he carve a wormhole? Ferry samples by teleport? I didn't bring it up. I was happy as a clam. "Good," I grunted, using Dimensional Raider to substitute the Universe we were in. "Then we're done here." The vortex closed around the ship entirely, leaving Marvel's Earth behind for the time being.
The moment we rematerialized, a familiar chill seeped through the warship's plating—my universe reclaiming its hold. New stars, quiet vacuums. Home. Time to swap uniforms. With energy from D'Spayre coursing through my system, I undrew Stark's lightweight Earth-tech shirt and pants. They disappeared like fog. In their place, heavy black material made from Viltrumite polymers constructed itself around me—thread by thread. Armor-like, the uniform felt heavy and fixed. No silk. No pretending. My black cloak billowed around my shoulders, heavy hem brushing against the deck plates. I was back to my old uniform, a black copy of Thragg's own. I was back to being his old and scarier brother.