Late into the night, Nova stood before a towering, gold-trimmed frame nearly six feet tall. Inside, a photograph that could've headlined a high-end underground gallery: a dangerously beautiful lady with icy green eyes, her smirk an open challenge. She lounged in a deep leather chair, arms lazily tucked behind her head, black lace clinging to her flawless form like a second skin spun for sin itself. Her platinum-blonde hair fell in an asymmetrical bob, one side artfully tucked to reveal a sharp, defiant jawline and a stare that dared the world to blink first.
Nova let out a low whistle, the sound breaking the heavy quiet of the room. A slow, knowing grin tugged at his lips. Goddamn. If looks could kill, half the planet would be in body bags just from this shot. The lighting was masterful — soft shadows lovingly tracing every curve, while teasing highlights kissed bare skin, toeing the line between provocative and profane. He could practically feel the heat bleeding off the image, like the residual warmth of a touch that lingered too long.
Yelena Belova. Sister to Natasha Romanov. Both forged in the crucible of the Red Room, trained to be lethal, beautiful ghosts in the modern world. And judging from this photo, one with absolutely no patience for modesty or mercy.
"This picture…" Nova murmured, shaking his head in amused disbelief. "One hell of a Christmas present for Black Widow."
A brief chuckle escaped him as he imagined Natasha's reaction. Equal parts exasperation, grudging admiration, and a threat to gut him in his sleep.
With a final, lingering look at the lingerie-clad assassin, Nova slipped the framed photo into his system space.
Next, he unrolled the contract Wanda had passed him earlier and scanned its contents, his eyes narrowing as the familiar names scrawled across the parchment jumped out at him.
So, Magneto and Sebastian Shaw both wanted similar defensive wards over their strongholds. In exchange, they'd lend their top operatives for the brewing war in the magical world. All Nova needed to do was inform Harry Potter's side, and the mutant strike team would be teleported over immediately.
Nova's eyes glimmered as he reviewed their abilities, his mind already playing out scenarios and counters. One mutant could bypass any psychic defense and pluck memories straight from a target's mind. Another possessed eyes that toggled through Far Sight, X-Ray, Heat Vision, and more at will. The potential applications made his pulse quicken.
There was even a rare healer — a mutant whose mere touch could mend flesh and bone, a commodity in short supply for wars fought in the shadows. The rest? An elite mix of offense and defense types, their powers complimentary, their reputations fearsome.
Sabretooth as vice leader and Mystique as the leader.
A suicide mission in all but name — the magical world was rife with ancient artifacts, unpredictable spells, and dangerous beings even mutants might struggle to comprehend.
To prepare, the strike team had spent months obsessing over the Harry Potter books, films, and even fanfiction. Anything to gain an edge, no matter how small. The thought alone made Nova grin. Elite assassins arguing over which House they'd be Sorted into or who would win in a duel between Dumbledore and Magneto. Bloody priceless.
Fortunately, their memories — and future knowledge — were protected by the system. No Legilimency, no Veritaserum, no soul-reading magic would extract what they weren't permitted to share. The plot of the future remained sealed, a secret weapon locked tight.
Sirius Black, Bill Weasley, and other displaced witches and wizards had been left speechless after seeing blockbuster films chronicling their own lives. Sirius, ever the rebel, had wanted to storm back immediately — but the contract chained him here. Only the promise of mutant factions pledging their strength to his cause kept him in check.
Nothing pressing demanded his attention tonight.
After eating dinner, Nova lay on bed. After a while he stood up. Since he can't sleep, let's make sure that others can't sleep.
So it's time to raise a certain black bald spies blood pressure high.
Master Control. Jetray. Execute.
In a surge of crimson energy, Nova transformed — sleek, streamlined, bioluminescent lines rippling along his alien form. His wings spread wide, catching the moonlight, before he burst from the rooftop like a living comet.
The night air bit against his skin, a crisp, electric promise of freedom. Stars smeared into streaks as he shot upward, skyscrapers flashing past like frozen sentinels. Every dive and loop left a lingering trace of luminescent energy, a ghostly signature of his passing.
It wasn't just flight. It was dominion.
Meanwhile, deep beneath Washington D.C., in a fortified S.H.I.E.L.D. command center, alarms blared.
"Unidentified aerial anomaly detected."
Technicians scrambled. Monitors flooded with static-ridden footage, struggling to lock onto a target moving at impossible speeds.
A young agent's voice cracked through his headset. "Sir — object's at Mach 7 and climbing."
Fury's single visible eye narrowed, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "Is it one of ours?"
"Negative, sir. No known aircraft. And… it's biological."
A sharp intake of breath passed through the command center as the main screen flickered — briefly capturing the crimson, manta ray-shaped figure slicing through cloud cover, bioluminescent trails marking its path.
"Jesus," one older agent muttered.
Fury's jaw tightened. "Get Coulson and Romanoff on the line. Now."
Elsewhere, a black-ops squadron patrolling international airspace picked up the same anomaly.
"Command, this is Viper One. Visual confirmed on unknown bogey. No transponder. Moving faster than anything on record."
The squad leader's HUD struggled to track it, the alien figure a living missile carving through the stratosphere.
"Permission to engage?"
Fury's voice crackled over the secure channel. "Negative. Track only. Don't poke what you don't understand."
Above it all, Nova reveled in the freedom. The earth below faded into a glittering quilt of lights and shadows. The cool embrace of high-altitude clouds swept over him, stars endless above.
Should've done this sooner, he mused, executing a flawless barrel roll for the sheer thrill of it.
A passenger plane crossed his path — the pilot choked on his coffee as a crimson streak blazed past the cockpit like a lightning bolt made flesh.
Then, Nova grinned. Time to show them something new.
He opened the Omnitrix's interface on his wrist — the holographic dial flickering against the thin air. A firm twist. A decisive slam.
Ultimate Jetray.
The transformation was instant. Wings extended, talons lengthened, bioluminescent patterns blazed molten gold. Four fin-like appendages shimmered like blades. His tail thickened, ridges crackling with energy.
More predator than creature now. A being forged for space combat.
He hovered in silence for a heartbeat, the world beneath him a distant murmur.
Then… he moved.
A gravitational ripple exploded from his position, a searing afterimage of gold slashing the heavens.
Back at S.H.I.E.L.D., systems shorted. Sensors died.
"We lost it!" a tech yelled. Monitors blared static.
"What do you mean you lost it?!" Fury barked.
One agent gulped, pointing at spiraling data. "Sir… it broke Mach 30. Phased out of dimensional tracking for a second. Our satellites… they can't keep up."
The final trace showed a single streak of gold vanishing off the grid.
"Even alien-adapted systems can't follow it," someone whispered.
Fury's voice was a growl. "Find out what the hell that thing is. Now."
His blood pressure shooting through the roof.
Above the earth, Nova laughed. The cold kiss of the upper atmosphere stung against alien skin. The stars stretched wide, a quiet reminder that the universe was vast — and his to roam.
Ultimate Jetray… yeah. I could get used to this.
With one final, impossible maneuver, he streaked toward his private island. The night was his. And no one could stop him.