(Ms. Hydra's POV)
"Hell yeah, she looked so cool."
That was the best my brain could manage at the time.
The grand total of all my education, strategy, ambition, and cosmic-enhanced intellect… and that was the golden phrase coming out of my skull like a drunk singing in an empty ballroom. Pathetic.
Even knowing that this wasn't Hela's original body, she still looked obscenely powerful.
That kind of power radiates through the skin like a fever—sickening and glorious all at once.
The way she moved, the way she summoned that green sword, the way she intimidated the most dangerous mutant like a lost child—it made my venomous little heart flutter.
She turned a throwaway mutant genetic mishap into a goddess. I couldn't help it; I was jealous.
Why didn't she use me?
I mean, I was right there. Prime real estate. Flexible morals. Chemistry expertise. Snappy dresser. Why not possess me, dammit?
After I returned from space—and conveniently hijacked my way into earning superpowers in the process—I tried to contact her.
Psychic letters, encrypted lost-language transmissions, even tried a summoning ritual using some sacrifices, but still no response.
Ghosted by a goddess. Honestly, I've had worse breakups, but that one stung.
So imagine my surprise when the next time I saw her, I wasn't plotting revenge or conquest, but simply lounging in a stolen bunker, hoping to be entertained by Magneto's latest tantrum.
Watching U.S. military soldiers and mutants scrambling like rats on a sinking ship had become one of my guilty pleasures—right next to poisoning the occasional diplomat and listening to jazz vinyls.
And there she was. Again, possessing someone.
Of course, the jealousy flared up again. I'm not that emotionally evolved. But it didn't overwhelm me.
No, this time it was mixed with a generous helping of dread and existential horror. The sort of feeling you get when you realize the wolves you've been running from were just pups, and now you're in the jaws of the mother.
Gods? Gods, really?
Look, I already believed in them after my first encounter with Hela—trying to summon a goat god only to be stopped by the goddess of death out of nowhere is memorable—but still, hearing them talk about, "Oh, after all... 2,500 years imprisoned, who wouldn't turn into a good person?" like it was last weekend's party? That hit me deep.
I'm sitting here trying to conquer one measly rock floating in space, and they're reminiscing like bored aristocrats.
So, what's the point of ambition when someone can crush your entire existence with a flick of their fingernail? Or worse, ignore you entirely? Being killed is at least dramatic. Being irrelevant? That's the real nightmare.
Why did I ever think I was strong just because I had powers? What, because I could survive bullets now? Because I could melt flesh with a handshake?
Yes, I could shift between gas and liquid states. No, I don't turn into some cartoonish puddle of Evian—it's more like a mist that melts faces or an ooze that eats through steel.
My body is essentially a moving biohazard warning. My acid can corrode almost anything—except adamantium and vibranium, nature's way of flipping me the bird.
Twenty-four hours ago, I felt invincible. Like the world was finally kneeling. But in hindsight? I was just a walking chemical spill with delusions of grandeur.
Hela could snap her fingers and teleport me into the sun like a discarded cigarette butt. Hell, she could laugh and it might accidentally turn me inside out.
Probably. And then there's that bald woman—the one who opens portals with the finesse of a stage magician on LSD. One misstep, and I'd be floating in the cold of space, screaming silently while my organs crystallize. Invincibility, huh?
So, perhaps it's time to stay grounded. Go low-key. Subtle. Maybe get a cat.
Gain some real power—divine-level power—and then? Maybe then I can resume dreaming. Not of conquering Earth; no, no, we've passed that juvenile fantasy.
Now I think bigger.
The universe is vast. The stars, plentiful. Alien empires trembling beneath the weight of fear, whispering in their starlit war rooms the name… Viper.
Yes, I like that.
Let Hela have her throne of bones.
Mine will be forged from galaxies.
...
Hela's grand return to Earth—her first physical appearance in 2,500 years—had an impact that could generously be described as apocalyptic.
It didn't just shake Magneto and Viper to their cores; it rattled the entire planet's collective psyche.
Roughly 80% of humanity underwent a spiritual crisis so severe you'd think a new god had arrived. Which, to be fair, was the reality.
Somewhere, a certain brilliant scientist with a green rage issue found himself seriously contemplating whether smashing himself into oblivion might be the healthier choice. Deep in the sewers, a cabal of mutants huddled together like scared raccoons (hehe), suddenly found themselves having some hope for the first time in years.
Meanwhile, a one-eyed bald man—once the embodiment of paranoia and pragmatism—was thumbing through a Bible, muttering something about Jesus taking the wheel. Preferably of a spaceship.
Hela, of course, remained blissfully unaware of the full extent of the emotional carnage she'd unleashed—or more accurately, she chose to be.
After all, listening to the inner monologue of eight billion mortals whining, worshipping, and wetting themselves gets pretty annoying. So, before casually retrieving the Tesseract and Steve's corpse like she was picking up dry cleaning, she switched off her telepathy and mentally peaced out.
...
...
...
(Hela's POV)
So… what do I do with this Steve guy?
I mean, he's currently frozen solid like some patriotic Disney princess waiting for Prince Charming—except instead of true love's kiss, he probably wants a protein shake and a punching bag.
Still, credit where it's due: thanks to him, I now know the location of the Space Stone. So, cheers, Cap-sicle.
Now this—this is where the world starts getting properly deranged. In the movie version, when Steve heroically kamikaze'd the Valkyrie into the ice like a frozen meatball, the Tesseract had already plummeted out of the plane.
SHIELD scooped it up, tucked it away like an oversized paperweight, and years later, Loki waltzed in and turned it into a plot device. Then in the hand of Thanos? Boom. Space Stone reveal.
In the comics, though? Oh, it's even messier. The Tesseract and the Space Stone are two completely different things. Continuity, who?
Either way, the Tesseract should never have been frozen alongside America's most boring sweetheart.
But thinking about it logically—which, to be fair, isn't this universe's strong suit—even if SHIELD had it in their grubby little hands, it wouldn't have mattered.
What would they do? Contain me in a glass box and hope for the best? I'm a real goddess. Not one of those discount, lightning-hurling daddy's boys or a punny god.
Now, as for the Cosmic Cube not being with SHIELD… That should've meant Captain Marvel's origin was up next. But thanks to Fury's memories, I already know how that whole tragedy plays out. Sorry, no Carol Danvers in this timeline. I'll shed a tear later—maybe.
I looked at the Tesseract—or Cosmic Cube, depending on which brand of madness you prefer.
It glowed blue, ominous and oddly pretty, like a nightlight for existential dread. For a moment, I thought about destroying it.
I can't smash it like Thanos did with his beefy purple fingers, what with being in Jean's mortal coil, but telekinesis? That I've got in spades.
Let's just say, if I wanted to turn this into cosmic dust, I'd only need a thought and a slight grudge.
I casually flicked the iceberg holding Steve's body aside. If anyone asks, it was a dignified farewell. Probably. Then I held the Tesseract in my hand, feeling that raw cosmic energy pulse like a divine heartbeat—or a caffeine overdose. Either way, it was... exquisite.
It radiated more energy than my entire Hel dimension, which says a lot, considering that place is basically nuclear winter with attitude. But then again, theoretically, every Infinity Stone contains infinite energy. It's just a matter of how much your body, mind, or sheer ego can channel.
Truthfully, I've never been one for magical toys. I like raw, personal power—not some sparkly cube that only works in one universe. What good is omnipotence with a region lock?
If I could, I'd absorb the energy like Carol did in the movie, but I'm a little more ambitious—and a lot more greedy. I don't want to be another supercharged human missile with amnesia and emotional constipation.
I want real control over space itself. The kind that bends galaxies and ruins gods' day before breakfast.
.....
Sigh, apparently we are going out of the top three