The two heroes in matching outfits were a husband-and-wife team, Harry and Laura.
They used to run field missions, but after having kids, they worked from base.
"It used to be safer," Laura joked, nodding at the disaster scenes playing across the screens.
"So you're Ronan's woman." Harry nodded.
"It's so nice to meet you," Laura added with a smile.
Jennifer could only turn red, splutter out a thank you, and sit down in the chair they offered her.
"We used to run missions together with Ronan," Harry said. "Now, we're just the old guards."
Harry and Laura were able to create large, powerful forcefields together. Individually, Laura had telekinesis—but only on small objects. She could lift Harry too, though just a few feet off the ground and not for long.
Harry, on the other hand, had electricity—barely enough to knock back a grown man. It was more useful for electrical diagnostics.
"We are definitely better together," Harry boasted. He put an arm around Laura and wiggled his brows at her.
"Oh, you." Laura laughed and playfully hit him.
"Damn, look at him go," Harry said, his eyes now on the screen.
Everyone looked.
And to Jennifer's horror, Aerial was lifting Ronan the Dragon into the air and swinging him mid-flight straight through a swarm of alien roaches—and—
Oh.
The Shilem Roach had just come through the portal.
Jennifer couldn't tell if it was the same one they met at the hotel, but it was definitely controlling the mob of roach spawn. And Ronan was flying straight toward it, blades out, eyes burning with killing intent.
The first clash hit like metal colliding with bone.
Ronan moved before the sound fully landed—his frame twisting with impossible speed, the heavy cutlass arcing low while the cleaver snapped forward in a brutal, direct line. His shoulders rolled with the motion, muscle tightening and releasing in clean, practiced bursts. The blades didn't hesitate. They committed.
The Shilem Roach folded in on itself.
Its body compressed with a wet, chitinous ripple, the glossy black shell catching the light in slick, oil-sheen flashes. The cleaver struck first—crack—but skidded, screeching across hardened plating as a faint shimmer of a qi-like barrier flickered beneath the surface.
The cutlass followed, heavier, angrier, slamming into its side—
—and the creature moved.
Too fast.
Its legs—too many, jointed wrong—snapped outward with a sharp, clicking burst. The air filled with the dry, scraping chatter of chitin grinding against itself. It twisted sideways, abdomen flexing, and Ronan's blade carved through nothing but a smear of viscous residue that sprayed in a thin arc across the floor.
Jennifer screamed.
Yes—at the TV screen.
Harry's laugh boomed in the small room. "Don't worry, our dragon's been cutting these things down for years."
Jennifer had seen Ronan the Dragon's livestream replays, of course. She knew he fought things like this all the time. But on her phone, it had felt like watching an online game highlight. Like something distant—unreal.
Just this afternoon, Rolly had been bringing her home-baked cake.
But now—
Now it felt too real.
Jennifer watched as the other heroes split off to handle the swarms. It was obvious they were pros. They didn't need long explanations to understand the plan. Ronan the Dragon would take the Shilem Roach, while the rest cleared the hordes and made space for him to focus on the fight.
But it felt almost tragic to Jennifer—did Ronan always have to take the lead in fights like this?
Ronan's fight didn't pause.
It didn't slow either.
At one point, he drove his fist forward—bare, knuckles hardened—slamming into the creature's thorax with a dull, sickening thud. The impact traveled up his arm, but his expression didn't change. His body followed through, hips turning, shoulder snapping forward, driving the strike deeper.
The Roach's shell dented—just slightly.
It responded instantly.
A spike erupted from its forelimb—thin, needle-like, glistening—and stabbed toward his throat.
Ronan's head snapped aside.
The spike grazed skin, drawing a thin line of blood—but his hand was already moving. The cleaver reversed in his grip and came down in a savage, vertical chop—
CRACK.
The spike shattered at the base, fragments scattering like brittle glass.
The creature recoiled, emitting a high, wet clicking sound, its mandibles twitching, slick fluid bubbling at the seams of its mouth. Its body pulsed, the forcefield barrier shimmering more intensely, a faint distortion wrapping its form like heat haze.
Then it lunged.
Jennifer gasped—she didn't scream this time—but clapped both hands over her eyes.
Harry laughed again, but he was too busy to comment. Their comms line kept getting scrambled or cut off. They were now running multiple intermittent lines, and there was even talk of using heroes as physical runners.
The good news was that the military and Pandora HQ already had soldiers and awakeners stationed at the smaller portals surrounding the base. Reinforcements were on the way.
None of those portals were releasing anything—yet.
"We need to be thankful for small blessings." Harry said.
All the action was concentrated in front of the giant Lord's Portal.
Apparently, the fact that they had Ronan the Dragon around to lead the fray was also a very lucky thing.
Adrian had identified the insectoid as a Triple-A threat—so it wasn't the same as the Shilem Roach they met at the hotel.
This one was worse.
Without Ronan the Dragon, they would have needed at least two or three teams—and expected serious casualties.
That was why he was Ronan the Dragon.
He was a living legend.
Jennifer made the mistake of peeking at the screen again. She only meant to check if they were still talking about her Rolly. A small part of her almost hoped they meant another legend.
The moment she looked—
She couldn't look away.
A blur of black streaked across the display.
Then the AAA Shilem Roach came into view—skittering low, its limbs scraping the ground in rapid-fire staccato, the sound crawling up the spine. Its body twisted mid-motion, spikes flaring out from its back—jagged, uneven, dripping with translucent slime.
Ronan threw the cutlass.
The blade spun—a heavy, brutal rotation—cutting through the air with a deep, whistling hum. The Roach jerked sideways, but the weapon clipped its shoulder, biting just enough to tear through shell with a ripping tear.
Viscous fluid burst out.
Thick. Dark. Stringing between the torn plates like glue.
The Roach didn't slow.
It hit Ronan head-on.
The impact slammed into his torso, driving him back a full step, boots grinding into the floor. Its limbs wrapped—too many points of contact—clawing, gripping, scraping. The smell hit next: sour, rot-slick, something chemical and wrong.
Its mandibles snapped toward his face.
Ronan drove his forehead forward.
CRACK.
The collision rang sharp. The Roach's head snapped back, its glossy eyes flickering. Ronan's hand shot up, fingers digging into the edge of its carapace, gripping for leverage. Veins stood out along his forearm as he forced space between them—
—and slammed his knee up.
Once.
Twice.
The third strike landed harder, deeper, the force traveling through his entire frame. The shell creaked under the impact.
The Roach screeched—a thin, tearing sound—and its body spasmed.
Its abdomen flexed violently.
A spray of slick, gelatinous fluid burst outward.
Ronan released instantly, twisting away as the substance splattered across the ground, faintly sizzling where it landed. The creature skittered backward, legs scraping, resetting its stance in a jittering, unnatural rhythm.
The cutlass clattered nearby.
Ronan moved for it—
—but the Roach was faster.
It surged forward again, body low, spikes extending, forcefield shimmering brighter. The air around it warped as it accelerated—a blur of black and wet shine, the sound of its movement a rapid, chittering storm.
Ronan didn't reach for the blade.
He stepped into it.
The cleaver flashed.
A short, brutal swing—tight, efficient—aimed not to cut through, but to intercept.
Steel met chitin mid-lunge.
The impact exploded outward, a shock of force rippling through both of them. The Roach's forward momentum stuttered for a fraction—
—and Ronan took it.
His free hand shot out, grabbing one of its limbs mid-strike. The texture was wrong—hard yet slick, ridged and trembling—but he didn't falter. His fingers tightened, muscles locking—
—and he pulled.
Hard.
The limb tore loose with a wet, ripping sound.
The Roach convulsed.
Its body spasmed violently, legs scrambling, fluid spraying in erratic bursts. The severed limb twitched in Ronan's grip, still moving, still alive.
Jennifer fought the urge to gag.
And also to scream at the TV again.
But she managed to cover her mouth with her hand and held it down. Everyone here thought she was Ronan the Dragon's girlfriend! She refused to scream, cry, or puke in the control room!
"Ah… he's not even serious yet," Harry said, admiration clear in his voice.
Was no one else seeing that her Rolly was out there fighting for his life?