The world was still reeling from the "Google Revolution," a cultural tidal wave that had reshaped the flow of global information overnight. But for the members of the Tarot Club, the digital noise of the surface was merely a backdrop to a much more profound reality.
Tony Stark was in his Malibu workshop, the Pacific Ocean a churning beast outside the glass walls. He was staring at the telemetry of his latest flight test of the Mark III, but his mind wasn't on the data. He felt the familiar pull in his consciousness, a summons from a place beyond physics. He set down his tools, stepped into the center of the room, closed his eyes and let the workshop fall away into a silent darkness.
In Wakanda, T'Challa, newly crowned and burdened by the weight of a kingdom he had only just inherited, sat on a balcony in the Golden City of Birnin Zana. He dismissed his attendants with a wave of his hand, seeking the quiet solitude of his private meditation chamber to answer the call of the fog.
Wanda Maximoff had settled into a rhythm she didn't realize she had been craving her entire life. Workdays that ended on time. Quiet evenings in the mansion's library. In the privacy of their shared home, Aryan's reserve finally faded, they were more than friends, a breath away from a confirmed relationship. She looked down at her hands, still steady only because of the life Aryan had carved out for her here. He was the architect of her new reality, the person who had pulled her from the wreckage of her past and given her a purpose that wasn't born of pain. To everyone else, he was the genius founder and CEO of Umbrella, but to her, he was the only person who treated her not as a weapon or a victim, but as Wanda.
As the appointed time approached, she felt that strange pull, like a tide turning in her soul. She leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes and letting her breathing sync with the invisible pulse of the building. The sunlight on her skin transformed, the warmth of the room dissolving into the silent pressure of the Gray Fog.
Aryan sat in his office as the "Red Queen" hummed quietly in the background, managing the arteries of his new world. He looked at the vast empire he had built in just a matter of months, then leaned back in his chair and let his consciousness ascend beyond the glass and steel.
Deep beneath the Atlantic, in the crushing blackness of the abyssal plain, Namor was surveying the borders of Talokan. He was a king of duty, currently brooding over the sudden influx of "surface signals" that were piercing even his deep sea sensors, a digital noise that grated on the ancient silence of his kingdom. Suddenly, a gray mist began to seep through the seawater around him. Before he could raise his vibranium spear, the immense pressure of the ocean vanished.
The transition was instantaneous. One moment, he was in the crushing depths of the Atlantic, the next, the weight of a thousand atmospheres was replaced by an airy silence. He was standing on a floor of ancient stone, surrounded by a boundless gray fog.
He recognized the faces of Tony Stark and T'Challa from his kingdom's surface intelligence reports. And also that surface man, the one whose company had disrupted oceanic data flow without ever touching the sea… the one whose shadow had appeared repeatedly in Namor's recent investigations. And beside him… the woman, Wanda. His assistant, his files had said.
But it was the figure at the head of the long table that froze the blood in Namor's veins.
A being sat upon a majestic throne, its form draped in a cloak of living fog. A dense mist obscured its face, but the aura it projected was so immense it felt like meeting the gaze of the universe itself. The sheer pressure of its existence made the room feel as though it were vibrating on a frequency too high for mortal ears.
Namor, a king who had ruled for centuries, a god in his own right, did not lash out. He was no fool. In the presence of this entity, he felt insignificant, like a single drop of water realizing it was part of an endless storm.
The four other members… Aryan, Tony, T'Challa and Wanda… stood in perfect unison. Their voices joined in a melodic chant that echoed through the gray space:
"The Fool that doesn't belong to this era."
"The Mysterious Ruler above the gray fog."
"The King of Yellow and Black who wields good luck."
"The True Creator who embodies luck, deception and fate."
They bowed as one.
"We pray for your grace."
"We pray for your blessing."
"We pray for the mercy of your gaze."
The moment the honorifics ended, Namor found he couldn't move. His body and his very instincts, understood something his proud mind refused to accept. He watched, paralyzed, seeing T'Challa, a man he sensed was a fellow sovereign, bowing with genuine respect. He saw the legendary arrogance of Tony Stark humbled into a quiet awe.
"What... what is this place?" Namor finally asked, his voice a low whisper, stripped of its usual regal thunder. He didn't move toward the throne, he didn't dare. "Why have I been pulled before this... creator?"
Tony glanced sideways at the newcomer, a flash of his old humor returning. "Yeah, don't worry… the first time's always like this," he whispered, just loud enough for the sound to carry across the ancient stone.
Namor shot him a furious look, his eyes still wild with the residue of his sudden displacement. "You've been here before?"
"Twice," Tony replied, leaning back in his chair with a practiced ease. "Wouldn't recommend the nerves. They don't help."
T'Challa, seated with the perfect grace of a man born to rule, inclined his head slightly toward Namor in a silent acknowledgment of his rank. "You were not summoned by accident," he said, his voice a steadying anchor in the swirling mist.
Wanda added softly, her gaze drifting toward the edges of the fog as if she could see worlds beyond it. "None of us were."
Namor's gaze snapped back to the throne, to the majestic figure that sat in a silence more profound than the deepest ocean trench. "You stand before something you worship," he said, the words heavy with disbelief. "And you call this… normal?"
Aryan finally spoke, his tone bridging the gap between the divine and the mundane, the voice of the guide. "It's not worship. It's an honorific… more like an acknowledgment of the room's owner."
"...Creator of the universe," Namor murmured, his voice tight with a crystalline fear. "Is this what you believe it to be?"
Tony shrugged, though his eyes remained fixed on the table, unwilling to meet the gaze of the throne for too long. "I believe it's above my pay grade."
Namor exhaled slowly, the tension in his powerful shoulders beginning to fracture. He looked at the gray emptiness, then back at the gathered souls. "If this being wished me erased," he said, the realization settling over him like a deep sea shroud, "I would already be gone."
"Correct," Tony said, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Welcome to the club."