Sequel of Enhanced (An Avenger's FanFiction).
After her supposed "death", Andromeda Johnson awakens to a new world not far from the one she was used to. She is in a whole new, dangerous world. A world on the brink of collapse. An enemy endangers thi...
In the aftermath of the Chaos Insurgency's assault, Meda—now seated as O5-13—secured a sweeping data backup and lockdown of Foundation systems, declaring that survival alone was no longer enough. Her vision was bold: not just retaliation, but evolution—striking the Insurgency with surgical precision while forging a diplomatic path to the Church of the Broken God to prevent a broader war. With the Council's approval, she mobilized three Alpha-9 task groups: a diplomatic envoy, a tactical strike team, and a civilian recovery division. At the heart of the strike force were elite operatives like Rainer, Melusine, Ji-Hu, and Alexei, alongside the full Samsara squad and reinforcements from Nu-7 and Hy-Brasil's warrior court. In the mess hall, Meda revealed her ascension to O5-13 to Alpha-9, rallying them not with orders, but with conviction: that the Foundation must transform from a cage into a cradle. She proclaimed a future not built on fear, but one that protected and empowered, where anomalies could be allies and protection meant compassion as much as containment. As plans crystallized for a strike on a fortified Insurgency site, she laid out every detail—every step a calculated march toward change. With three days until deployment, the Foundation wasn't just bracing for war—it was preparing to redefine what it meant to fight for the world.
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We arrived in Kharkiv the day before the meeting.
The celebration at Alpha-9's mess hall hadn't even cooled before I was calling al Fine to my office, issuing orders through encrypted lines, and summoning both the Maxwellists and the Cogwork Orthodox to prepare for formal interrogation. There was no room for delay—not after what we'd uncovered, not after what the Insurgency had stolen. Not after what they used. The day I called the members of Triskelion, we left for Kharkiv that night too. Foundation envoys, Serpent's Hand liaisons in quiet robes, UNGOC command staff armed with diplomacy and dossiers. I didn't wait for the ceremony. We weren't here for niceties.
The Orthodox sanctum rose ahead of us like a fortress made from scripture—spires humming with sacred current, gears the size of train wheels turning slowly beneath the weight of encoded prayers. The Maxwellists met us on the perimeter, half-machine prophets in neural silk, their eyes lit with curiosity and unease. I didn't blame them. This wasn't a visit. It was a reckoning. And I planned to deliver it myself.
The Cogwork Orthodox kept their sanctum like a cathedral built from precision steel spires etched with prayer-circuitry, glasswork alive with slow-ticking light, and streets paved in scripture only machines could read. This wasn't hollow dogma—it thrummed with purpose. With order. And we were about to ask that order why it lent its sacred wrath to chaos. I stepped down from the transport first, Nahash's coils brushing the frost behind me. Eve descended next, timeless, and still, a relic made flesh. Madam al Fine adjusted her coat, military and immaculate, but her eyes were sharp, watching, weighing. We were four pieces of a world-spanning answer, about to ask a question that could fracture or forge something entirely new.
