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...
The team gathered in the common room as news of Meda's return echoed through Alpha-9, the warmth of camaraderie building with every step toward the hangar. Katie launched herself into Iris's arms the moment the quinjet landed, while Ji-Hu and Leora exchanged rapid-fire stories, and SCP-457 arrived cloaked in Meda's heat-resistant weave, no longer a raging blaze but a steady ember. Nahash greeted Meda with quiet intimacy, a soft kiss and shared breath grounding them in each other after the mission. Dinner was warm and alive—cooked by Cain and Hoya, arranged with care, lit by Claire's magic—and it felt more like home than any containment wing ever had. Amid laughter and teasing, Meda revealed the engagement ring Nahash had given her: a crafted union of divine wood and firelight, forged in the glowing forests of Hy-Brasil. Celebration erupted, the team rallying around the couple, their joy as fierce as their battles, their bond declared like a spell cast in candlelight. As Meda toasted "to home," her voice steadied by love and purpose, Alpha-9 glowed not just with anomaly—but with chosen family, earned peace, and the promise of tomorrow.
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I woke up expecting a crisis.
That's how it always starts—an alarm I sleep through on purpose, Jocasta's voice flickering through the intercom with barely suppressed urgency, a dozen containment alerts blinking red across my retinal feed. Some mornings, I don't even open my eyes before I start talking. Orders flow out of me like breath: "Reinforce Sector Eight. Shift containment fields to harmonic seventy-two. Send Cain. Tell Claire not to vaporize anyone unless provoked." But this morning, there was no alarm. No messages. No retinal sync. My body stirred out of habit, reaching for the edge of the nightstand—except the tablet wasn't there.
In its place is a silver tray with fresh croissants, steam curling upward from a ceramic mug of rosehip-and-lavender tea, and a single, neatly folded card. I blinked. Sat up. Read it twice. "You're not working today. You're living. —Your chaotic gremlins." The handwriting was unmistakable—Claire's perfect cursive, traced with spectral ink that shimmered like starlight. I looked over at Nahash, who was pretending to be asleep. Her face was far too relaxed for someone unconscious. I narrowed my eyes at her. Her breathing remained even, but the corner of her mouth twitched. I reached out and brushed her arm.
"You're in on this," I said. She didn't even open her eyes. "Eat. You're not escaping." I opened my mouth to protest, to argue that there was surely something that needed my attention—containment breach, political firestorm, low-level god throwing a tantrum—but the ceiling above me shimmered suddenly, softly. Constellations unfolded in slow motion—star maps I didn't recognize. Not from this world. Possibly not from any. They moved in layered rotations, blue and silver and gold, drifting slowly across the glass above us like a lullaby made visible. Claire's doing. Ghostlight is embedded with mood-calibrated projections. I didn't know whether to be impressed or furious.
