Seventy-two hours. The world held its breath, unaware of the sword hanging over its neck. In my apartment-turned-war-room, I wasn't just reviewing data; I was running simulations. The twelve voices in my head were no longer a council of war, but a living, internal command center.
Graviton, project the kinetic force required to destabilize a falling object of that mass and composition without causing a fragmentation event.
Calculation complete. A lateral force of 4.7 meganewtons applied for 0.3 seconds will alter trajectory into upper atmosphere.
Ember, if we superheat the air around a target to 3000 Kelvin in a contained sphere, what is the thermal shock tolerance of the alloy in the satellite imagery?
The molecular bonds will fracture. It will become brittle as glass.
I was no longer just a weapon. I was a tactician, using the absorbed knowledge of a dozen minds to plan for a dozen different kinds of war.
A new, sharp voice cut through the digital noise on a secure channel Mallory had provided. "Mazahs? This is Dr. Aris Thorne, NORAD Strategic Command. We've been… briefed. I'm your military liaison."
The voice was all business, a blade of focused competence. Dr. Aris Thorne, I recalled from the file Mallory sent. A prodigy in asymmetric warfare and threat analysis, seconded to this "unprecedented joint task force." She was the Pentagon's skeptical, pragmatic eyes on this circus.
"Dr. Thorne," I acknowledged. "I'm feeding you my projected enemy engagement models. Pay special attention to the psychic resonance scenario."
"Received," she said, her tone betraying no surprise at the source of the data. "Running parallel analysis. Your model is… aggressive. And your source confidence is unverifiable."
"Trust the results, Doctor," I said, my focus split between her and the internal calculations. "The confidence will verify itself soon enough."
It did. Mallory's voice, tight as a tripwire, came through. "Contact. Multiple bogies entering exo-atmosphere. No deceleration. Impact trajectory on New York."
The sky tore open. The seed-pods fell, a rain of judgment from a cold, alien god.
"All units, engage!" Mallory commanded.
Chaos, as planned for. A-Train became a blue evacuation vector. Starlight's luminescence flared as a distraction and a beacon. But the primary threat emerged from the Hudson. The Leviathan, a horrific chimera of The Deep, rose, its psychic wail a weapon of mass disorientation.
Homelander, predictably, charged. His strategy was a single, brutal algorithm: Apply maximum force to the center of mass. It failed. The Leviathan, engineered with harvested Supe DNA, was designed to withstand him. The sight of Homelander being swatted into the river was a psychological blow as devastating as the physical one.
The command channel erupted in panic. This was the moment the simulation predicted.
"Mazahs, the Leviathan is—" Thorne started.
"I see it," I cut her off, my voice calm, a stark contrast to the bedlam. "Executing counter-strategy now."
I didn't just fly at the beast. I analyzed it in real-time, a stream of data feeding from my enhanced senses directly to my internal command center.
Target exhibits hybrid physiology. Aquatic base, crustacean armor on the claw limb, cephalopod flexibility on the tentacles. Primary threat: concussive force and psychic disruption.
My plan formed in a microsecond. A multi-stage, simultaneous assault.
Stage One: Environment Control.
I used Graviton's power not on the creature, but on the river itself. I created a massive, localized low-pressure zone directly beneath the Leviathan. The water, seeking equilibrium, erupted upward in a colossal pillar, lifting the multi-ton beast completely out of the river. It was now unstable, off-balance, its aquatic advantage nullified.
Stage Two: Sensory Overload.
As it thrashed in the pillar of water, I combined powers. From Ember, I pulled thermal energy, not to burn, but to superheat the moisture in the air around its head into a blinding, thick steam. From Mindstorm, I unleashed a burst of pure telepathic static—a screeching, meaningless noise to overwhelm its psychic emissions. The creature roared in confusion, blinded and mentally deafened.
Stage Three: Structural Weakening.
While it was disoriented, I focused Compound King's enhanced strength into a single, precise point on its main torso—not to punch through, but to deliver a series of rapid, concussive vibrations. I was using him like a living jackhammer, finding the resonant frequency of its chimeric bone structure. A web of fractures spread across its armored hide.
Stage Four: The Kill.
It was vulnerable. But a brute-force attack was still inefficient. I saw the tentacled arm writhing, seeking a target. I used a sliver of the Hypnotist's power, not to control, but to suggest. I projected a wave of compelling aggression towards Homelander, who was just exploding from the water, enraged and humiliated.
The Leviathan's tentacles, acting on this implanted impulse, lashed out and wrapped around Homelander, pinning his arms. It was the perfect distraction.
"Now, John! Its throat! The armor is fractured!" I yelled, the command laced with a telepathic push to ensure compliance.
Homelander, his vision a red haze of rage, didn't question. He unleashed his full heat vision at the exact spot I had weakened. The beams sheared through the creature's neck, and the monstrous head, half-dissolved, tumbled into the river.
The silence that followed was louder than the battle.
I hovered, breathing heavily, not from exhaustion, but from the immense cognitive load. I had just orchestrated a four-part takedown of a creature that had overpowered Homelander, using strategy and power synergy over raw force.
Homelander shook off the dissolving tentacles, his eyes finding me. There was no gratitude, only a fresh, simmering hatred. I had not just helped him; I had outthought him.
"Next one's mine," he snarled, a pathetic attempt to reassert dominance, and shot away.
On the command channel, Dr. Aris Thorne's voice was quiet, measured. "Threat neutralized. Mazahs… that was… methodical. I'm revising my initial assessment."
"Revise quickly, Doctor," I said, my gaze scanning the sky where more pods were descending over other parts of the city. "The tutorial is over. The real fight is just beginning."
I had proven I could kill strategically. Now, I had to prove I could save a city the same way. And I had to do it with a jealous god at my side and a skeptical soldier in my ear. The crucible had forged a new kind of weapon, one that fought not with rage, but with a cold, terrifying intellect.