Wanda crossed her arms, eyes fixed on Celestia. "Then why bring us here at all?"
Frailey's gaze flicked—just briefly—to Celestia.
"She did not," he said. "You followed."
They let that sit.
"Free will," he added. "Remember?"
Somewhere far away, a star dimmed—not exploding this time, just… fading.
Celestia stirred slightly. Not waking. Just shifting, as if responding to something unseen.
The machines hummed a little louder.
Frailey turned back to the Avengers.
"She will wake soon," he said. "And when she does, she will pretend nothing is wrong."
Tony rubbed his face with both hands. "Of course she will."
Frailey's voice softened, just a fraction.
"She always does."
The universe drifted on.
Unfixed.
Unresolved.
Still breathing.
The Avengers gathered without realizing it. Not in a circle. Not like a council. Just… proximity. People who were used to planning wars, standing near machines they didn't understand, beside a being they couldn't save.
Tony was already pacing.
"Okay," he said, rubbing his hands together once. "Let's do what we do best. Alternatives. No matter how impossible, we list them."
Frailey remained still. Watching. Not interrupting.
Tony gestured vaguely at the machines. "Option one. Technology. We stabilize her, slow the decay, buy time. Can we?"
Frailey answered immediately. "No."
Tony sighed. "Cool. Love the confidence."
"Her condition is not mechanical," Frailey added. "No system can sustain the source of all systems."
Bruce stepped forward, thoughtful. "What about redistribution? If she's the anchor, can the load be… shared?"
Frailey turned to him.
"The moment the anchoring function is divided," he said, "coherence collapses."
Bruce frowned. "Like splitting a core?"
"Yes," Frailey replied. "Except the explosion would be reality itself."
Bruce stepped back. "Right. Bad idea."
Wanda hesitated, then spoke. "Belief," she said. "If belief sustains her… what if it's amplified?"
Everyone looked at her.
"Not worship," she clarified quickly. "Just… awareness. Truth. If more beings knew—"
Frailey shook his head gently.
"Belief cannot be forced," he said. "The moment it is manufactured, it loses integrity."
Wanda swallowed. "So even telling them could make it meaningless."
"Yes."
Thor crossed his arms. "What of sacrifice?" he asked. "If a god can give themselves—"
Frailey cut him off, firm for the first time.
"She has already done that."
Thor fell silent.
Clint leaned forward slightly. "What about hiding her? Protecting her? If Satan is the risk, can we remove the threat?"
Frailey's gaze sharpened.
"Satan cannot be removed," he said. "He is not external. He is a consequence."
"A consequence of what?" Steve asked.
Frailey paused.
"Of granting absolute freedom," he said. "Including the freedom to want dominion."
No one argued.
Peter spoke next, quieter. "What if… someone else goes in? The mind thing. The fatal cure."
Frailey looked at him for a long moment.
"Anyone who enters risks corruption," he said. "Even the strongest wills."
Tony looked up sharply. "But not guaranteed."
"No," Frailey admitted. The word hung there.
Steve straightened slightly. "Then why dismiss it?"
Frailey's voice softened.
"Because she refuses to gamble with existence."
Tony scoffed bitterly. "Of course she does."
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "What about reincarnation? You said life is reborn. Could she be?"
Frailey answered slowly.
"She is not life within the system," he said. "She is the system."
Bruce nodded once. "So no after."
"No," Frailey confirmed.
Silence again.
They had reached the edge of the map.
Tony stopped pacing.
"So," he said quietly, staring at the floor, "technology fails. Belief can't be engineered. Power makes it worse. Sacrifice risks everything. And killing Satan isn't an option."
He laughed once, hollow. "We're out of moves."
Frailey didn't deny it.
"That is why," he said, "Dear Highness has not shared this burden."
Steve looked at Celestia.
"She's been doing this alone," he said.
"Yes," Frailey replied. "By choice."
Wanda's voice trembled just slightly. "Because if she told anyone… they'd try to help."
"And help," Frailey said, "would become interference."
Another dead end. Another wall.
No dramatic collapse. No alarms.
Just the quiet realization that, for once—there was nothing to fight.
Tony sat down heavily on a step.
"So the answer," he said, staring at the floor, "is that there isn't one."
Frailey didn't correct him.
Doctor Strange had been silent too long.
He stepped forward, hands already moving, habit overtaking caution. Symbols flickered briefly in the air before dissolving.
"There are spells," he said carefully. "On conditions rather than beings. Containment. Separation. Internal—"
"They will not work," Frailey said gently.
Strange stopped. "You don't know that."
"I do."
"Magic doesn't need permission," Strange said. "It doesn't require belief."
"No," Frailey agreed. "But it requires rules."
They gestured toward Celestia.
"She is not bound by them."
The glow around Strange's hands died.
"She predates spellcraft," Frailey continued. "Magic exists because the universe exists. The universe exists because she does."
Strange lowered his hands.
"So any spell aimed at her," he said slowly, "would be like trying to heal the ocean with a cup."
"Accurate," Frailey said.
Tony sighed. "Great. Magic's useless."
"Not useless," Strange said. "Just… indirect."
Steve looked up. "Then don't fix her."
Eyes turned.
"What if no one acts on her directly?" Steve continued. "What if we act around her?"
Strange's expression sharpened. "Explain."
"We become insulation," Steve said. "A constant presence."
Thor straightened. "Guardians."
"More than that," Steve said. "A perimeter."
"If Satan is the risk," Wanda added, "then we limit access."
Frailey was quiet.
Tony frowned. "You're talking about forming a permanent rotation."
"Yes," Steve said. "Unbroken."
Bruce folded his arms. "That doesn't cure her."
"No," Steve said. "But it might make the other option safer."
No one needed clarification.
"The mind," Peter said quietly.
Thor broke the silence. "One would still need to enter it."
"And someone with an iron will," Clint added. "Otherwise they don't come back."
Wanda's jaw tightened.
Strange nodded. "A mind that old would be hostile territory."
"Especially," Frailey said, "with Satan capable of interference."
Tony rubbed his face. "So best‑case scenario: one of us walks into the mind of the Almighty, fights a disease older than time, while Satan tries to hijack the operation."
"No," Frailey said. "Best‑case scenario: Satan does not notice."
Tony stared. "That's worse."
"And worst‑case?" Bruce asked.
Frailey didn't hesitate.
"She dies instantly," they said. "From internal collapse."
Peter's voice was barely there. "And the universe?"
Frailey held his gaze.
"It follows."
Thor clenched his jaw. "Madness."
"Yes," Frailey said. "Which is why she refuses."
Steve exhaled slowly. "But if she's already dying—"
"—then choosing this path means choosing how everything ends," Frailey finished.
Steve said nothing.
Wanda stepped back, arms wrapping around herself. "You're asking someone to gamble existence."
"No," Frailey said. "You are asking yourselves whether you would."
Tony looked at Celestia again. At how still she was. How small.
"She didn't ask for this," he muttered.
"No," Frailey agreed. "She never does."
Strange spoke again, quieter. "If someone went in… would they come back?"
Frailey paused. "There is no data," he said. "No one has ever attempted it."
Another dead end.
Another corridor branching off the same impossible room.
Steve finally said it.
"So we're choosing between letting her fade… or risking everything to stop it."
Frailey inclined their head.
"That," they said, "is the dilemma."
The machines hummed.
Celestia slept on.
The silence didn't hold.
It broke.
"Okay—no," Tony said suddenly, pushing off the railing. "We are not treating that like a line item on a checklist."
Thor turned to him. "You speak as though there are alternatives."
"There are people," Tony snapped. "Living, breathing people."
"That is precisely why we must discuss it," Steve said, voice tight but steady.
"No," Tony shot back. "That's exactly why we shouldn't."
Peter lifted a hand halfway. "I mean—hypothetically—who even could do it?"
Voices overlapped instantly.
"Not a god—"
"Someone with discipline—"
"Free will matters—"
"Mental resistance—"
"—Not me," Clint cut in. "Just clearing that up. Arrows? Yes. Cosmic brain surgery? Hard pass."
Thor frowned. "You have resisted possession before."
"And nearly lost myself," Clint said. "Next."
Wanda stiffened. "No."
Every head turned.
"I'm not doing it," she said. "And before anyone suggests it—yes, I've entered minds. Yes, I've survived things most of you haven't."
Her voice faltered for half a second.
"And no—I will not become a door for Satan."
No one argued.
Bruce cleared his throat. "What about… me?"
Tony spun. "No."
"I haven't even—"
"No," Tony repeated. "Absolutely not."
"I've lived with another consciousness," Bruce said carefully. "I know how to—"
"And you're barely holding that line already," Tony cut in, jaw tight. "I am not letting you walk into the mind of the Almighty with that risk."
Hulk rumbled, displeased.
Bruce exhaled and stepped back. "Fair."
Peter swallowed. "I mean… I've got willpower? I think? I've been through a lot."
"No," Steve said immediately.
Peter blinked. "I didn't even—"
"You're a kid," Steve said. "That's the end of it."
"I'm not—"
"You are," Steve said gently. Firmly.
Strange spoke at last. "It would require someone trained in mental defense."
Tony shot him a look. "Don't."
"I didn't say me," Strange replied.
"Good," Tony muttered.
Thor stepped forward, chin high. "I have faced gods, demons, madness itself. If will is the measure—"
"Thor," Steve interrupted, "your will is tied to belief."
Thor frowned. "And?"
"And belief can be twisted," Steve said. "Which makes you vulnerable."
Thor said nothing.
Ant‑Man raised a finger. "Okay, strange thought—what about someone… small? Mentally speaking. Low cosmic footprint?"
Everyone stared.
"…Just brainstorming," he added.
Clint snorted. "Yeah. Let's send in the least noticeable thought."
Tony dragged a hand down his face. "This is insane."
"That was already established," Strange said.
Steve looked around the room. The weight of it pressed into his chest.
"If it comes to this," he said slowly, "it should be someone willing to lose themselves."
Tony's head snapped up. "Don't."
"I'm serious."
"No," Tony said flatly. "You don't get to do that."
"I've always been willing—"
"—to die in a war," Tony interrupted. "Not to erase reality."
Wanda spoke softly. "Whoever goes in… might not come back as themselves."
Frailey, silent until now, finally spoke.
"You are all correct," they said.
A beat.
"And all of you are wrong."
The room went still.
"There is no perfect candidate," Frailey continued. "No safe choice. No correct answer."
They looked from one Avenger to the next.
"Only thresholds you are willing—or unwilling—to cross."
Tony laughed once, sharp. "Fantastic. So we argue until the universe collapses."
"No," Frailey said. "You argue until she wakes."
Everyone turned.
Celestia shifted faintly on the bed. Not waking. But closer now. Like a storm gathering in the distance.
Frailey's voice lowered.
"And when she does," they said, "she will forbid this conversation."
Steve exhaled.
"So this is it," Clint muttered. "We're fighting over who gets to save everything by risking it."
"No," Tony said quietly. He looked at Celestia.
"We're fighting over who gets to lose the most."
No one disagreed.
The debate didn't end.
It just… paused.
Unresolved.
Unfair.
Human.
Thor broke the spiral. He straightened, eyes thoughtful rather than defiant.
"If she cannot create another being second only to herself," he said slowly, "then perhaps she need not."
Tony looked up. "Explain."
"What if," Thor continued, choosing his words carefully, "she creates one third of her power?"
The room stilled—not silent, but focused.
"Less than her," Thor said, gesturing vaguely toward Celestia, "but enough to stand against Satan."
Steve's brow furrowed. Wanda tilted her head. Even Frailey seemed… attentive.
"It would not rival her," Thor went on. "It would not threaten balance. But it would offer protection—true protection—while one of us enters her mind."
Tony nodded slowly. "Okay," he said. "That's… actually the best idea we've had so far."
"Right?" Thor said, encouraged. "At the very least, it gives us a fighting chance."
Strange frowned. "Assuming," he said, "she would accept creating such a being."
He turned slightly—
—and stopped.
Celestia stirred.
A quiet sound escaped her as she shifted, one hand going to her head. She winced, breathing uneven, then slowly sat up, fingers pressed to her temple.
"…Accept what?"
Every Avenger froze.
No one answered.
Celestia blinked, scanning their faces—the tension, the guilt written plainly in every posture.
"…Why do you all look like that?" she asked, tiredly.
Tony opened his mouth. Closed it.
Steve shifted uncomfortably. "We were… talking."
Celestia sighed, clearly pained. "Yes, I gathered that much."
Thor stepped forward, hesitant. "We discussed a possibility," he said carefully.
Celestia's eyes narrowed just slightly.
"A possibility I explicitly told you not to pursue."
Wanda swallowed. "We just—"
"No," Celestia said, firmer now. "You debated."
She looked at Frailey. "You let them."
Frailey inclined their head. "They possess free will, dear Highness."
Celestia exhaled sharply, as if the weight of that very concept had grown heavier now.
Thor forced himself to continue.
"If you will not risk creating another equal," he said, steady but strained, "then create one less than you—but strong enough to stand against Satan."
Silence fell.
Celestia stared at him.
Then she laughed.
Not warm.
Not mocking.
Bitter.
"No," she said flatly.
Tony stepped forward. "Just hear us out—"
"No," she repeated, louder. "Absolutely not."
She pushed herself fully to her feet. The machines around them surged, humming louder, reacting to her rising agitation.
"I will not make another," she said. "Not one second to me. Not one third. Not one fraction."
Thor opened his mouth—but stopped when she raised a hand.
"I made that mistake once," she said quietly. "I will not make it again."
Her gaze swept over them.
"You do not understand what it means to create something with the capacity to want more."
Her voice trembled—not from weakness, but restraint.
"And you will not gamble the universe on another being's morality."
Steve spoke carefully. "We're just trying to help."
"I know," Celestia said softly.
Then—sharper—
"That does not make this your decision."
She stepped back and lifted her hand.
"You are done here."
A portal tore open behind them—violent, bright, unmistakably final.
Earth.
The battlefield.
Tony stared at her. "You're just sending us back?"
"Yes," Celestia said. "You belong to your world. Your choices. Your war."
Peter's voice cracked. "But you're dying."
She met his eyes.
"And that," she said evenly, "is my burden."
She flicked her fingers.
The pull was immediate.
One by one, the Avengers were ripped into the portal—no grace, no farewell. Wind, light, force swallowing them whole.
Thor was the last to resist, heels digging in, muscles straining.
"Do not close yourself off," he pleaded.
Celestia looked at him—really looked at him.
"I have carried everything alone for eons, Thor of Asgard," she said quietly.
"Do not insult me by calling this avoidance."
With a final motion—
She cast him through.
The portal snapped shut.
The platform fell silent.
Celestia stood alone again.
She closed her eyes.
"…Enough."