They landed on a vast platform drifting through open space.
Stars stretched endlessly in every direction. There were no gravity issues. Everything felt anchored, intentional. The platform itself was enormous, etched with glowing lines and symbols that pulsed softly. Towering machines surrounded them, some mechanical, some not, all humming with power that made the Infinity Stones feel small by comparison.
Celestia turned around.
"…Woah."
She blinked at them.
"Hey. HEY," she said sharply. "What are you guys doing?"
She stared, incredulous. "Go back to your place."
No one moved.
Captain America stepped forward, jaw tight. "Not until you tell us what the hell is going on."
Tony crossed his arms. "Yeah. Start with who you are."
Celestia groaned quietly and rubbed her temples.
"Okay. I really hate repeating myself," she muttered. "Frailey, you're up."
The air beside her shimmered.
Frailey appeared, floating calmly, hands folded behind his back. "Would you like me to finish the fir—"
"Nope," Celestia cut in. "Do that after you tell them who I am."
Frailey inclined their head. "Understood, dear Highness."
Every Avenger tensed.
Thor tightened his grip on Stormbreaker. Wanda's energy flickered at her fingertips. Strange's eyes narrowed, scanning for deception, illusion, anything.
Frailey spoke evenly. "She is the Almighty."
Silence followed.
Tony snorted. "Okay," he said with a short laugh, shaking his head. "No. That's ridiculous."
Peter swallowed. "Mr. Stark… I don't think they're joking."
Celestia sighed.
"Frailey," she said casually, "where's my coffee?"
Frailey turned toward her. "As previously stated, dear Highness, I will retrieve it shortly."
They looked back at the Avengers.
"I have now completed the requested disclosure," Frailey said calmly. "If you'll excuse me, the Almighty desires her coffee."
Frailey vanished.
No flash. No sound.
Just gone.
The platform fell into complete silence.
Thor swallowed.
"…She does not feel like a liar," he said quietly.
Celestia looked around at them, suddenly, profoundly tired.
"…You followed me into my workspace," she said slowly. "Interrupted an extraction. Questioned my authority. Laughed at my title."
She paused.
Then shrugged.
"But honestly? I'm too exhausted to smite anyone today."
She walked toward one of the towering machines and leaned against it as if it were a kitchen counter.
"So," she added, glancing back at them, "you want answers?"
Every Avenger nodded.
Celestia sighed again.
"…Fine. But I swear, if my coffee gets cold, this becomes everyone's fault."
The stars beyond the platform shifted, just slightly.
And for the first time, Earth's Mightiest Heroes understood something deeply unsettling.
They weren't guests.
They were out of jurisdiction.
Celestia took a single step forward.
Her knees buckled.
The change was immediate. One moment she was standing, irritated and tired. The next, her strength vanished as if it had been pulled out from under her. She gasped, staggered, and collapsed to the platform.
"Celestia!" Thor shouted.
They surged forward.
Frailey appeared between them in a flash of pale light.
"No one take another step."
His voice was calm. Absolute.
They froze.
Celestia's breathing slowed. Her eyes fluttered once, then again.
Then she fell asleep.
The platform trembled.
Far in the distance, light-years away yet horrifyingly visible, a star detonated.
Not violently.
It unraveled.
A supernova bloomed outward in silent brilliance, washing the void in white and gold. The Avengers stared, stunned, their minds struggling to comprehend the scale.
Peter whispered, "Was… was that just—"
Before anyone could finish the thought, a nebula closer to the platform imploded.
Color collapsed inward. Light folded in on itself. What had once been vast and radiant twisted into a shrinking spiral of darkness, then vanished.
Beautiful.
Horrifying.
The platform vibrated again.
Frailey knelt beside Celestia and lifted her with impossible gentleness. With a thought, a bed materialized: smooth, luminous, ringed with faintly glowing symbols that pulsed in time with her heartbeat.
He laid her down carefully, adjusting her position with quiet precision.
Tony finally found his voice.
"Okay," he said hoarsely. "I have… a lot of questions."
Another star flared in the distance.
Then it exploded.
Clint flinched. "Why does it feel like that's… connected to her?"
Frailey straightened slowly, turning to face them.
"She is the axis upon which this system stabilizes," he said calmly.
Then he added, softly:
"She's dying."
No one spoke.
The words didn't land at first. They hovered, unreal.
Wanda shook her head. "That's not possible."
Tony stared at the sleeping figure on the bed, then back at Frailey. "Yeah—no offense, floating cosmic assistant—but you just called her the Almighty."
He swallowed. "How could an Almighty die?"
Frailey raised a hand.
A soft hum filled the air. A holographic display unfolded—a vast, translucent screen made of starlight and dust. Symbols, graphs, timelines, and collapsing systems bloomed across it.
Frailey's eyes lowered as the display zoomed outward. Images raced past—stars, galaxies, worlds forming and dissolving—until he spoke, calm but weighted.
"Dear Highness discovered she had been sick… for a million years now."
The screen slowed, showing Celestia alone in the vastness of space, tiny against the universe around her.
"We tried every possible cure," Frailey continued. "Visiting every universe, every planet, seeking remedies she herself did not know of."
The images shifted rapidly—alien civilizations, advanced beings, forgotten worlds.
"But every attempt failed."
The hologram changed again, now showing the universe itself, threads of light stretching infinitely outward.
"Her illness was caused by the burden of being the sole anchor for our endless universe."
The Avengers stood frozen.
"At the beginning," Frailey said, "she simply wanted to create life."
The screen bloomed with countless universes, each brimming with color, motion, and life.
"She failed," he added softly, "and learned from her mistakes."
The image shifted again—creatures forming and dissolving, some benevolent, some monstrous, some incomplete. None were what Celestia sought.
"Then," Frailey continued, "she finally created… humans."
Earth appeared. Simple. Fragile.
"Inspired by her own image, she designed humans. But learning from the failures of past eons, she made them weak."
Tony frowned.
"But," Frailey added, "she gave them free will."
The image widened—humans thinking, choosing, creating, destroying.
"To be fair to all other life forms she had failed," he said, "she granted consciousness and choice to everyone."
The universe thrived on the screen—life everywhere.
"It was all she could hope for," Frailey said. "A universe alive with choice."
The images darkened slightly.
"But then," he continued, "every life form began to forget their creator."
Frailey gestured toward Celestia on the bed.
"They began to believe there was no one true Almighty."
The screen showed civilizations turning away, symbols fading, belief disappearing.
"She was deeply hurt," Frailey said. "For years, she suffered, heartbroken."
The image dimmed further.
"And eventually," he finished, "she developed a disease. For the first time."
Tony finally spoke.
"But how could she get sick? How could she die?" he asked. "I thought God—or whatever this is—was omnipotent. Omniscient. Omni‑everything."
Frailey turned to him.
"Because no one believes in her anymore," he said simply.
Tony frowned.
"If your own child stopped believing in you," Frailey continued, "would you not be heartbroken?"
Tony fell silent.
The thought of his daughter—of her deciding he wasn't real, wasn't worth believing in—hit him harder than any weapon ever could.
For the first time since arriving on the platform, he didn't joke.
He just stared at Celestia.
And understood.
Thor finally broke the silence.
"So if she created us," he said, voice steady but heavy with thought, "how could we possibly have free will?"
Frailey turned to him, expression serene.
"She created only seedlings," he explained. "Every choice, every decision you have made after gaining consciousness has been yours alone."
The holographic screen shifted—paths branching endlessly, each one unique.
"She did not pre‑write destiny," Frailey continued. "Every life carries its own freedom. One action leads to another, and another, and another."
Tony crossed his arms. "What about wars?" he asked sharply. "No one wants that."
Frailey's voice remained calm.
"Thanos does," he said simply. "It is his free will to choose war. And it is your free will that led you to choose to stop it."
Tony shook his head. "But people are dying."
"Dying is simply a cycle of life," Frailey said. "Dear Highness created a system ensuring that all who die can be reborn."
The screen flashed briefly—lives ending, then beginning again.
"She despised the idea of living only for a few years," Frailey added.
Thor frowned. "If she hated that," he asked, "why didn't she make everyone immortal?"
Frailey laughed softly—not mockingly, but knowingly.
"Because the universe would collapse upon itself," he said.
The hologram showed civilizations expanding, knowledge surging.
"Civilizations would rise," Frailey said. "Intelligence would accelerate."
The image darkened.
"And the weak?" Frailey continued. "They would be conquered. Erased."
Thor's grip tightened on his weapon.
"To prevent that," Frailey finished, "she created death—so no being could rise to the highest form of intelligence and destroy all others."
The platform fell silent once more.
Clint finally spoke, breaking the heavy silence.
"Okay," he said, exhaling slowly. "So… how do we cure her?"
Frailey turned toward him.
"The cause of her illness," he explained, "is the gradual loss of belief among life forms."
The hologram shifted faintly.
"Perhaps," Frailey continued, "if life began to believe in her again… her condition would improve."
Thor straightened immediately.
"Then let us do that," he said. "I believe in her now. I see her. She is alive. There is no denying that."
Frailey looked at him.
"That is not how it works, Thor, son of Odin," he said calmly. "You are but a tiny atom in a vast universe filled with countless life forms."
Frailey lifted a hand.
A map unfolded in the air—immense.
Only a few scattered points glowed faintly.
The rest was dark.
"This," Frailey said, "is the remaining life that still believes in her."
The light pulsed weakly.
"Only enough to keep her alive," he continued. "But in a few generations… they will fade."
One of the lights flickered. Then went out.
Tony swallowed.
"What about the list?" he asked. "And Hulk's blood. Why'd she take that?"
Frailey turned back to the projection.
"Ten thousand years ago," he said, "Dear Highness resorted to one final measure."
The hologram shifted—complex patterns, unfinished structures forming in midair.
"She hopes to create a new anchor," Frailey continued. "One capable of sustaining the universe… so it does not perish with her."
Tony frowned. "Perish?"
Frailey's gaze remained steady.
"When the anchor dies," he said, gesturing toward Celestia lying unconscious nearby, "the universe follows."
"She is the source of all life. The core. The battery."
He met Tony's eyes. "What do you think happens to a body," Frailey asked quietly, "when the heart stops beating?"
The platform fell silent.
No one asked another question.
Because they already knew the answer.
Peter broke the silence, voice small but earnest.
"So… she's creating a Hulk that resembles her?"
Frailey turned toward him.
"No," he said calmly. "She is creating an anchor."
The hologram stabilized into a slow, steady pulse.
"A battery‑like energy," Frailey continued, "capable of sustaining life and balancing the universe—without requiring maintenance."
Tony frowned. "So… another her?"
Frailey's expression hardened.
"No," he said. "There is no another her."
The words landed heavily.
"There will never be another her," he continued. "After her, there is only death and darkness."
The hologram dimmed.
"Even Satan will fade," Frailey said evenly. "There will be nothing left."
He looked at each of them in turn.
"We will all simply cease to exist."
No one spoke.
Not because they didn't want to—
—but because, for the first time, the end of everything felt quiet.
Wanda let out a dry breath.
"And I thought Thanos was going to be the death of the universe."
Steve stepped forward slightly, eyes fixed on Frailey. "Why is she collecting the ingredients herself?" Cap asked. "Couldn't she just make one in her hand?"
Frailey inclined his head. "That is the best question I have heard so far," he said. "And no—she cannot."
Frailey gestured toward the machines surrounding them.
"The ingredients she collects and the ones she creates with her own power are not the same," he explained. "What she creates comes from her. It is her. It requires constant sustenance because it sustains life."
He paused.
"The collected ingredients are synthetic-like," Frailey continued. "They do not require maintenance."
Peter rubbed the back of his neck. "Is there… another cure?" he asked. "That list is so random, I can't even see a pattern in what she's trying to do."
Thor glanced at Tony. "Perhaps you could make one."
Tony shook his head immediately. "Nah," he said. "I've been studying this since we got here, and for the life of me, I can't figure out what she's trying to make. Half of what he just said—I don't even comprehend it."
Peter frowned. "Maybe there is another cure?"
Frailey nodded once.
"There is," he said. "However, it is fatal."
The room stiffened.
"Dear Highness refuses to take that risk."
Tony's voice dropped. "What is it?"
"It requires a life form with free will," Frailey said evenly. "A fully conscious mind—to enter her mind and extract the disease from within."
Tony frowned. "Hold on. Why can't she just make a team of free-willed creatures to do it?"
"Because there is a chance," Frailey replied, "that Satan could corrupt them."
His gaze hardened.
"If Satan succeeds," he continued, "it could kill her from the inside."
Steve spoke again. "Why not create powerful guards to protect her?"
Frailey shook his head slowly.
"She refused to ever create another powerful being like Satan," he said. "He was created with power second only to hers. The only one who matched Dear Highness."
The hologram dimmed slightly.
"But Satan wanted it all for himself," Frailey continued. "To control every life form. To extract their free will."
He looked at Celestia's sleeping form.
"She would not risk creating another life form that could rival her—fearing it, too, would be corrupted and betray her."
He added quietly, "And no life form she has created after Satan is powerful enough to stop him."
No one spoke for a long moment.
The platform drifted silently through space, stars gliding past like indifferent witnesses. Machines hummed in low, steady rhythms—older than language, older than fear.
Celestia lay motionless on the bed, light beneath her skin flickering faintly, unevenly. Not dramatic. Just… tired.
Tony was the first to move.
Not toward her.
Toward the edge of the platform.
He stopped a few feet short, hands on his hips, staring into the void. No suit. No helmet. Just a man looking at something too vast to punch.
"So," he said quietly, not turning around, "the universe runs on one exhausted being with abandonment issues."
No one laughed.
Frailey didn't correct him.
"That's… one way to phrase it," he said instead.
Steve sat heavily on a low step near the bed, shield resting against his leg. He didn't look at Celestia at first. He looked at the floor.
"All this time," he said slowly, "we thought we were fighting for the future."
He glanced up at her.
"We were just… buying time."
Thor stood with his arms crossed, unusually still. The bravado was gone. This wasn't a battlefield. There was no glory here.
"In Asgard," he said, voice lower than usual, "we told stories of gods who grew weary."
He shook his head once.
"We never imagined they could… fade."
Wanda remained standing, closest to Celestia, though still at a respectful distance. She didn't reach out. She just watched the faint rise and fall of Celestia's chest.
"She feels… thin," Wanda said softly. "Like something stretched too far."
Frailey inclined his head.
"That is an accurate assessment."
Peter shifted nervously, breaking the heaviness just a little. "So, uh… when she wakes up… is she gonna be mad we followed her?"
Thor let out a short breath through his nose. "I would be."
"She won't be," Frailey said. "She does not have the energy for anger anymore."
That landed worse than if Frailey had said yes.
Clint leaned against a railing, arms folded. "How long does she sleep?"
Frailey paused.
"There is no fixed duration," he said. "When the system destabilizes further, her body compensates by shutting down non-essential functions."
Tony turned sharply. "Non-essential?"
Frailey met his gaze.
"Speech. Movement."
Silence again.
Then Strange spoke, carefully, like each word might crack something.
"And when she wakes?"
Frailey didn't answer immediately.
"When she wakes," he said at last, "she will continue."
"Continue what?" Steve asked.
Frailey gestured toward the machines, the shelves, the incomplete processes.
"The list," he said. "The anchor."
Tony let out a humorless laugh. "So she's dying, knows she's dying, and still clocking in for work."
"That," Frailey replied, "is correct."
Banner shifted uneasily, eyes fixed on Celestia. "She took blood," he rumbled. "From Hulk. From purple guy."
"Yes," Frailey said. "Because she does not have the luxury of rest."
Peter frowned. "That's… messed up."
Frailey looked at him. "She agrees."