Marvel: Viral
Chapter 14: Realities Cheat Codes and it's Glitches
…
Paul and Mary Jane sat together in silence, their thoughts churning as they watched Owen and Stephanie sleep. The kids had finally settled down in one of the temporary SHIELD housing units, exhausted after their unexpected return to existence.
But neither of them could shake the feeling.
Mary Jane had spent years grieving them, mourning the loss of her adopted children, because that's what they were, even if their origins were far more complicated than she could ever understand.
But now, here they were.
Paul stared at their sleeping forms, his mind refusing to accept what his eyes were telling him. "They weren't… real," he murmured, almost afraid to say the words aloud. "They were constructs. Magical ones. So how-?"
Mary Jane shook her head slowly. "I don't know. I don't care. They're here."
Paul swallowed hard. "But what if they're not? What if this is, some kind of glitch?"
And that was the unspoken thought gnawing at both of them.
If Owen and Stephanie were never meant to exist, if they were merely manifestations of some ancient spell, then what did it mean that they had returned?
Because their world, the one Paul had left behind, had been nearly torn apart after he found those cheat codes in reality.
If the fabric of that world had been breaking apart even after he left, then that meant something far bigger was at play.
Something neither of them understood.
And they weren't the only ones who were starting to notice.
Inside the Baxter Building, Reed Richards and Tony Stark had been watching the anomalies unfold in real-time.
"We're dealing with dimensional instability," Reed said, standing in front of a holographic display of intersecting realities.
The unstable mass of Paul's Earth flickered like a fractured mirror, each crack representing a shift in space-time.
Tony stood beside him, arms crossed, tapping his fingers against his bicep. "This is a glitch in reality," he muttered. "And not the fun kind that lets you clip through walls and infinite money dupe."
Reed's fingers glided across the console, zooming in on key points. "There's something affecting this dimensional phase. The moment Owen and Stephanie appeared here, the entire structural integrity of space-time fluctuated. It was subtle, but noticeable."
"So, what? We've got two kids who shouldn't exist, yet somehow do?"
"That's exactly what we have," Reed confirmed. "And if they're here, it means other things might start slipping through the cracks."
Tony exhaled. "Great. More surprises."
Reed turned away from the screen. "If we're going to stabilize this, we need to understand what's happening inside the remnants of Paul's dimension. It's still moving through space, phasing in and out, which means it's still active, still affecting reality in ways we can't predict."
Tony rubbed his temples. "Fantastic. A moving, collapsing multiversal ghost ship that dumps random anomalies into our backyard. Love that for us."
Reed tapped a command, bringing up a set of new energy readings. "It's not just random," he said, narrowing his eyes. "It's targeted."
Tony's eyebrows shot up. "Targeted how?"
Reed's expression darkened. "Something is guiding this."
…
Back at the temporary SHIELD housing, Paul sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands. Mary Jane sat beside him, silent, waiting for him to say what was obviously weighing on his mind.
After a long moment, Paul exhaled sharply.
"I think I messed with something I shouldn't have."
Mary Jane looked at him carefully. "Paul-."
"No, listen," he said, turning to face her. "I thought my Earth was gone. I thought I made a choice, and that choice meant everything I left behind was erased. But it wasn't." His hands curled into fists. "It kept falling apart. And now it's passing through our world, like it's trying to find something."
Mary Jane was quiet for a long moment. Then she asked, "What if it's looking for you?"
Paul stiffened.
The idea sent a chill down his spine.
Because what if it was?
What if the only reason any of this was happening, the only reason his world wasn't gone, was because he was still here?
And worse…
What if something else had survived, too?
Just then they received a notification that a package arrived…
…
The moment the package arrived, Peter had felt something off about it. It wasn't just the strange seal on the front, the intricate carvings that resembled ancient Mayan glyphs, or even the unnerving stillness that seemed to settle over the air the second it was placed inside the complex.
It was… wrong.
Peter had held onto it for hours, letting his crows analyze it, searching for biological threats, explosive residue, viral agents—anything that could be used as a weapon.
But it wasn't dangerous in that way.
It was something worse.
So instead of opening it, he had waited.
Now, standing in front of Paul and Mary Jane, the still-sealed box in his hands, he looked at Paul carefully before handing it over.
"This came for you," Peter said. "I didn't open it."
Paul frowned, confused. "From who?"
Peter's expression darkened. "There was a letter."
He held it up.
It was old parchment, the edges frayed and brittle, covered in ink that had been etched deep into the fibers, written in a language only one person could have used.
Ancient Mayan.
Mary Jane felt her stomach twist before Paul even started reading. She recognized the script.
So did Paul.
His hands trembled slightly as he unfolded the letter, his eyes scanning the text, each word sending a cold chill down his spine.
…
The Letter
"Paul,
You cannot erase your sins.
Did you truly believe your betrayal would go unpunished? That you could turn your back on the destiny written in the stars? That you could leave your past behind and live in peace while the remnants of our world drown in oblivion?
I see you. I see your new life. I see the lies you tell yourself to sleep at night.
But nothing is forgotten.
You should have died with the rest of them.
You should have been erased like all the others.
Instead, you run.
Instead, you live in a world that was never meant for you, surrounded by people who should not exist.
Enjoy your time of peace, Traitor…
…for it is borrowed time.
Wayeb"
…
Paul's hands clenched the paper so tightly it nearly tore.
Mary Jane had gone stiff beside him, her breath shallow. "Paul…"
Peter remained silent, his eyes locked onto Paul's reaction, his tendrils shifting subtly in the air, on instinct, on alert.
Paul forced himself to breathe, to slow his pounding heart, but before he could even respond, his fingers slid beneath the seal on the box, hesitating only for a second before lifting the lid.
What was inside made his blood turn to ice.
…
Inside, resting atop a bed of dark silk, was a severed head.
But not just any head.
A construct's head.
Its eyes were wide open, frozen in an expression of terror, its mouth half-formed, its synthetic flesh decayed and peeling, but its features were unmistakable.
It was a replica of Owen's face.
Mary Jane let out a strangled gasp, stepping back so fast that she nearly tripped, her hand covering her mouth.
Paul felt numb, his mind blank as he stared at the horrifying, grotesque mockery of his adopted child.
But it wasn't Owen.
Not really.
It was a message.
A taunt.
A reminder that Emissary could still reach them, that no matter how far Paul tried to run, his past would always find him.
Peter exhaled slowly, his tendrils flexing, his claws twitching slightly as he took in the scene. He finally spoke, his voice low and measured, breaking the silence.
"Well," he murmured, tilting his head, his unreadable red-and-black eyes scanning the severed head with unsettling calm, "that's… dramatic."
Neither Paul nor Mary Jane could speak.
The world was closing in.
The past wasn't just a memory.
It was here.
And it was coming for them.
…
Peter didn't waste a second. The moment the horrifying reality of the package set in, his tendrils flexed, and his posture shifted subtly into defense mode. His mind was already moving at lightning speed, calculating, assessing, and preparing for every possible contingency.
His first priority? Making sure Owen and Stephanie never saw what was inside that box.
Turning on his heel, Peter stepped toward the front desk, his voice serious but quiet. "Lock down the package route. Now."
The SHIELD agents stationed at the complex immediately snapped to attention. One of them, a woman with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor, nodded and tapped her earpiece. "Understood. We're tracking it now."
Paul and Mary Jane still hadn't moved, their eyes locked on the grotesque replica of their child's face. Peter sighed inwardly. They didn't need to see this anymore.
So he reached forward, grabbed the lid, and closed the box.
"I'll deal with this. You two? Keep your kids out of this mess."
Paul finally exhaled, rubbing his hands over his face, his nerves still shot. He knew Peter was right.
Peter turned back toward the agents. "Trace the shipment logs. It came through the mail, which means someone either delivered it by hand or used a drop site. Either way, there's a trail. I want security footage checked, personnel interrogated, anything that tells us where this thing came from."
The SHIELD agents scattered, moving with practiced urgency.
Within minutes, an internal report was underway, combing through logistics data, security checkpoints, and city-wide surveillance footage to see if there was any trace of the package's origins.
And even as that was happening, Peter was already checking the building's security measures himself, not leaving anything to chance.
At the SHIELD headquarters, an emergency priority-level alert had already been issued.
It wasn't just the fact that some deranged enemy had sent Paul a severed construct's head.
It was who was behind it.
Wayeb.
Not just a god, but a god of misfortune, a being whose mere presence warped probability, whose influence left disaster in its wake.
And worst of all?
Wayeb wasn't just lurking in the shadows. He was playing with them.
Inside the command center, screens flickered as the latest intelligence reports flooded in. Agents poured over data, trying to find any indication of Wayeb's movements, but so far…
There was nothing.
"We don't even have an energy signature." One of the analysts muttered in frustration.
Maria Hill's expression was grim. "Then he's hiding."
"Or he's already here," someone else suggested.
That made the room go quiet.
Hill turned to the nearest agent. "Get a direct line to Fury. He needs to know about this now."
Back at the complex, Peter had finished securing every possible system. He made sure that every camera, motion sensor, and lockdown protocol was in place.
And then?
He turned his attention back to Paul and Mary Jane.
Paul met his gaze.
Something passed between them, a silent understanding.
They needed to watch their kids.
Peter stepped in closer, lowering his voice just enough for Paul to hear. "I'm assigning additional SHIELD security to your place. Just in case."
Paul nodded. He didn't argue.
Because he knew Peter was right.
The moment Nick Fury stepped through the doors, he already looked pissed off.
"Tell me you've got something."
Peter turned to face him, arms crossed.
"Not yet."
Fury's jaw tightened. "Then let's talk about what we do know."
Peter grabbed the sealed box, setting it on the table between them. "That's what he sent them."
Fury eyed the box for a long moment before letting out a slow exhale. "And we're sure it's him?"
Paul, finally pulling himself together, spoke. "It was signed 'Wayeb.'"
Fury's eyes darkened.
That name wasn't just a legend, it was a threat.
"So, he's back." Fury muttered. "And he's screwing with you."
Paul swallowed hard. "Yeah. And he's enjoying it immensely."
The tension inside the SHIELD command center was already high. But when the next report came in, it nearly shattered the room's atmosphere.
A SHIELD operative rushed forward, handing Maria Hill a datapad, her face unreadable but her grip on the device tight.
Hill scanned the report, her brows knitting together before her mouth pressed into a tight line. "You've gotta be kidding me…" she muttered under her breath.
Fury turned to her, his voice sharp. "What now?"
Hill inhaled slowly. Then she said it.
"Another package just came in. This time, it was sent to Ms. Marvel's family."
Peter stiffened instantly, his tendrils curling slightly as he shifted his weight. "And?"
Hill exhaled. "They found it first."
Fury's eye darkened, already knowing this wasn't going to be good. "Tell me it's not what I think it is."
Hill hesitated, then swiped the screen to cast the report onto the main holo-display.
A single image filled the screen.
A box. Stained with blood.
Inside it-.
The real Kamala Khan's severed head.
Silence. Complete silence.
Paul looked like he was going to be sick.
Peter barely moved, but his muscles coiled, his red-and-black eyes narrowing dangerously.
But the worst part? The letter inside the box.
Detailed. Cruel.
It explained everything, how Kamala was murdered, how her corpse was used for mutant resurrection, how their memories were wiped by Emma Frost to ensure they wouldn't remember what happened.
Her family knew nothing.
Until now.
Now? They were in shock.
Wayeb had ripped open a wound no one knew existed.
And Peter?
Peter had enough.
Peter's body tensed, his mind shifting into complete focus.
He didn't just scan, he spread out, his viral crows dispersing through the city, amplifying his Bio-Echo-Location to unnatural levels.
Their eyes became his eyes.
Their ears became his ears.
The city's heart beat through his mind, pulsing like sonar as he triangulated distortions in reality, searching for the unnatural.
And then.
A point of disruption. A tear in probability.
Wayeb was hiding, but not from him.
Peter's tendrils snapped forward, grabbing a piece of paper as he scribbled down coordinates with terrifying precision.
Then, without looking up, he tossed the paper to Fury.
"Found him."
Fury caught it, his sharp gaze lowering to the exact coordinates written down.
The History Museum.
Currently hosting a Mayan artifacts exhibit.
Fury's jaw tightened. "Of course he's there."
Peter's fingers tapped rapidly on the nearest console, pulling up the museum's layout, his movements methodical, controlled, dangerous.
"I remember reading about some new discoveries from that exhibit," Peter muttered. "They uncovered a series of Mayan stelae, complete with tablet inscriptions, ancient glyphs detailing long-forgotten myths."
Fury exhaled sharply, already pulling up classified research data on the artifacts in question. "We had the damn things analyzed already. They're nothing but stone."
Peter barely blinked. "That's the problem."
Fury glanced at him. "What do you mean?"
Peter pulled another file, printing it onto a nearby holo-display. He cross-referenced the glyphs against something else, something deeper, a three-dimensional matrix forming before their eyes.
"It's not the stelae. It's the coding on them."
Peter continued, his fingers weaving through the holographic interface, building layers of data together. "This isn't just an ordinary inscription. It's a cheat code."
The words hung in the air like a curse.
Paul snapped his gaze up. "What?"
Peter's expression hardened.
"This is like the cheat code you found in your world, Paul. But this one isn't just about manipulating reality, it's about absorbing power."
The room froze.
Peter's fingers tightened against the console as he delivered the truth.
"If these glyphs were combined with the other code you uncovered in your world… then Wayeb could absorb the power of other gods."
The air in the room grew deathly cold at that.
Fury's voice dropped dangerously low. "You're saying he can… steal the power of actual deities?"
Peter gave a single, sharp nod. "Not just from his pantheon, either. It rewrites any one of them as long as they fall under the 'god' category."
Paul swallowed, his skin crawling.
He had already seen what happened when cheat codes were abused.
And now with any potential god or goddess being on the menu?
Wayeb was about to play the game on a whole new level.
…
The area surrounding the history museum was in full lockdown. SHIELD operatives moved with military precision, their black-clad forms securing perimeters, checkpoints, and evacuation routes as the museum, no, the temple, continued its monstrous transformation before their eyes.
What was once a modern structure of steel and glass was now a shifting, breathing nightmare of stone, its walls twisting with ancient glyphs pulsing like veins, warping into a temple of horrors straight out of an age lost to time.
Kamala stood just behind the front lines, fists clenched so tightly that her nails dug into her palms. Her jaw was set, her whole body vibrating with pent-up fury.
Wayeb had taunted her family, humiliated them, exposed the truth she never wanted them to know.
Her real corpse had been sent in a box. A gift. A message.
And now he was holed up in this twisted mockery of a sacred temple, toying with innocent people, turning them into pawns in his sick game.
Kamala had never wanted to hit someone this badly in her life.
"If I get a shot," she growled, her voice low and filled with venom, "I swear I'm gonna punch that thing so hard his ancestors feel it."
Carol Danvers, standing beside her, smirked grimly. "Get in line."
Fury and Hill had been coordinating assault teams, but nothing was getting through.
The first breach team had tried the front doors, a fatal mistake. The second their boots touched the steps, the entryway collapsed inward, massive slabs of stone sliding in place with horrifying speed.
One poor agent hadn't moved in time.
The stone slabs clamped down like a guillotine, turning him into paste.
Only his hand remained, grotesquely crushed between the two slabs.
Then there was the rooftop assault team—their plan to lower in through the glass ceiling was immediately countered.
The second the SHIELD jets hovered over the structure, spiked pillars shot up from nowhere, razor-sharp spears of black stone impaling the sky.
Two agents barely avoided getting skewered, cutting their rappelling lines and dropping to the ground just in time.
Fury clenched his jaw. "Wayeb's using the damn cheat-codes to turn the whole damn place into a living temple. This isn't just a stronghold. It's a death-trap."
And then there were the stone panthers.
Four of them.
Each the size of a house.
Each moving like liquid, despite being made of unbreakable stone.
They had ripped through the first line of ground units, knocking aside tactical vehicles, sending agents scrambling before anyone could react.
It took everything to take them down.
The Fantastic Four, the Avengers, and the X-Men had all been forced into rapid response mode, engaging the massive stone beasts in street-level combat.
Magneto's hands lifted, his fingers twitching as he ripped iron from the earth itself, sending sharpened metal through the chest of one panther. It shrieked soundlessly, struggling before finally collapsing into dust.
Wolverine had leaped onto the second panther's back, claws sinking deep into the rock as he ripped through its reinforced body, dodging as it violently tried to shake him off.
Ben Grimm had handled another, taking a brutal blow to the side before smashing its head into rubble with a single earth-shattering punch.
The last panther had lunged for a group of civilians who hadn't evacuated in time.
That's when Thor dropped out of the sky.
Lightning exploded across the battlefield as Mjolnir swung like a divine hammer, caving in the beast's skull before the god of thunder tore its stony remains apart with his bare hands.
It had taken all of them to deal with just four of these things.
And yet, Wayeb had barely begun.
Peter had been silent through most of the coordination efforts.
He had watched.
He had listened.
And now?
He was calculating.
From where he stood, his crows circled high above the warzone, each one feeding him sensory data, allowing him to observe Wayeb's fortress from every possible angle.
The temple wasn't just shifting. It was adapting.
Every failed attack caused the glyphs to shift, rewriting the rules of engagement.
The temple was learning. It was growing.
Wayeb was playing them all like pieces on a board.
Peter turned to Fury, voice eerily calm. "We're playing into his hands. He wants us to brute force our way in. Every failure just makes this place stronger."
Fury's one eye narrowed, jaw tight. "Then what's the play?"
Peter exhaled slowly. His tendrils curled and flexed around him, pulsing as his Bio-Echo-Location expanded once more, reaching deep inside the temple.
And that's when he saw it.
Wayeb wasn't just hiding inside the museum.
He was at the very heart of it.
Right in front of the central exhibit.
Peter's eyes burned red, his body shifting, tendrils wriggling and twisting as he processed the situation with terrifying efficiency.
"Well?" he muttered, his voice calm, almost casual in the face of this nightmare. "The only way inside is to dig our way in… from below."
Fury stared at him. "Excuse me?"
Before he could even react, before anyone could say a damn thing, Peter's entire form morphed.
The viral mass that made up his body twisted, coiling into itself, the black-red biomass rearranging and reshaping at an almost sickening speed.
His legs and arms vanished into a spiraling mass of tendrils, stretching and converging into a long, serrated cone, the entire length of his body becoming a massive drill, pulsing with viral energy.
Then, without hesitation-.
He launched downward.
The impact sent cracks splintering across the pavement, bits of debris and dust flying in all directions as Peter pierced through the ground like a spear.
Then came the sound-.
A deep, resonating, nightmarish whirring.
The groan of metal warping.
The screech of concrete splitting apart.
The thunderous vibration that rippled through the battlefield.
Peter was drilling through the city itself.
The soldiers stared, dumbfounded, their weapons lowering instinctively as the pavement buckled under the sheer force of the Apex Virus tearing through the underground.
The noise was deafening, a mechanical, bone-rattling grind, echoing through the tunnels as Peter burrowed downward at an unnatural speed.
Fury turned toward the hole, listening to the sound of steel, rock, and reinforced foundation giving way, the unmistakable, rhythmic shredding of obstacles in Peter's path.
A moment of stunned silence passed, then Carol Danvers exhaled sharply. "Jesus."
Kamala blinked. "Did he just-?"
Wolverine grunted, arms crossed. "Huh. Never seen that one before."
Fury slowly pinched the bridge of his nose. "You've gotta be kidding me."
Magneto, watching the events unfold, merely smirked. "Now this… is interesting."
A second later-.
The drilling sound abruptly cut off.
Then-.
A faint rumbling from deep below.
And then Peter's distorted voice echoed up through the hole, muffled, but clear.
"Path to the main exhibit is open. Let's go."
…
The team descended into the tunnels, following the path of destruction Peter had carved through the underground layers of the city. The further they went, the more they felt the pulse of the living temple above, like a heartbeat in stone, its glyphs glowing and shifting in the walls, rewriting reality with every step closer to its core.
Peter had been fast, faster than any normal person had a right to be. By the time they reached the first breach point, the tunnel had split into three separate paths, each leading into different parts of the central exhibit hall.
"Three entry points. He planned for reinforcements." Fury muttered.
Carol cracked her knuckles. "Guess we're taking the express route."
They moved quickly, pushing through the tunnels and emerging into the temple's inner sanctum.
The air changed instantly.
The scent of old blood and decayed stone mixed with something wrong, something unnatural. The chamber itself was immense, towering like an ancient ziggurat, with its massive carved walls telling the story of gods, war, and sacrifice.
And at the center of it all-.
Wayeb stood waiting.
The god of misfortune was seated upon an obsidian throne, skeletal and grinning, his hollow sockets radiating an eerie, malevolent energy.
"Ah… the mortals arrive." Wayeb's voice was a whisper that slithered through their bones, his skeletal fingers tapping lazily on the armrest of his throne. "You are… predictable."
He tilted his skull, sockets locking onto the openings Apex had made. The god's grin widened.
"And you… you were exactly as I hoped."
His tone was almost amused, his fingers curling as power crackled around him.
Then, with a ripple of shifting flesh, Peter emerged.
And he didn't waste time.
Peter lunged, his body exploding into a massive, writhing mass of black and red tendrils, moving like a swarm of living hunger.
Two things happened at once.
One, his tendrils surged forward, wrapping around Wayeb's entire form, binding him in place, keeping him from vanishing into the shadows of probability.
Two, Peter's tendrils forced their way down Wayeb's gaping, skeletal maw, drilling into the god's insides before he could even react.
Wayeb's body seized.
For the first time, the god of misfortune twitched violently, his back arching as raw agony exploded through him.
His voice ruptured the chamber, his screams a twisting, garbled horror of ancient tones and fractured tongues.
"GGGHHHKKRRAAHH!"
Peter didn't let up.
His biomass surged deeper, consuming cells, ripping apart divine matter, attacking the god's very essence.
Wayeb thrashed, but the virus held.
For the first time in countless millennia, Wayeb, a god, was helpless.
His sockets pulsed with fury, and with a guttural roar, he vomited Peter out, the viral mass splattering across the far wall before reforming.
Wayeb staggered forward, his clawed hand gripping his ribs, his voice filled with rage and disbelief.
"YOU DARE!?"
He hacked violently, an inky black ichor spilling from his skeletal jaws, something burning and unnatural twisting in his chest.
He was bleeding.
The god of misfortune was bleeding.
The entire team stared in shock, processing what just happened.
"…Did he just-?" Kamala whispered, stunned.
"Hurt a god?" Magneto's voice was unreadable, his gaze locked onto Wayeb's heaving frame.
Even Thor, who had fought deities of all kinds, narrowed his eyes with genuine intrigue.
Wayeb wasn't listening to them.
No, he was about to unleash his fury, about to curse them all, his mouth opening as power built in his core-.
Then he froze.
His jaw hung slack, his sockets widening in a way that almost resembled fear.
The others followed his gaze, turning to where Peter had been thrown through the wall.
And they stared.
Peter was no longer Peter.
He had changed.
His form mirrored Wayeb's down to the smallest detail, his body twisted into a blackened, skeletal husk, his viral tendrils licking the edges of his skeletal maw before they flattened into smooth, godlike perfection.
His skull sockets burned, as empty and hollow as the real god's.
And then, with Wayeb's own voice, Apex spoke.
"You have some dirty secrets locked up in your head, Wayeb…"
Peter's mocking grin widened, his posture shifting as Wayeb took a slow step back.
"Secrets that are also mine now."
The chamber was silent.
No weapons raised.
No spells cast.
No immediate counterattack.
Just staring.
Wayeb, a god of misfortune, stood frozen.
For the first time in his immortal existence, he felt something he had never felt before.
Fear.
His hollow sockets locked onto Apex, his mind racing, his ancient thoughts spiraling through impossible conclusions.
This was not how things were supposed to go.
This creature, this walking pestilence, this virus that feasted and absorbed all, it had taken something from him.
Something sacred.
Something divine.
And now?
It was wearing him.
His own image, his own form, his own hollow skull twisted into a reflection of itself, but corrupted, reshaped, owned by something that had no right to claim it.
Wayeb took another slow step back, his bony fingers clenching and unclenching, his form unnaturally still.
For the first time, he didn't immediately retaliate.
For the first time, he hesitated.
…
Thor
The God of Thunder had faced horrors beyond time. He had fought against gods and monsters, against eldritch entities that should not exist.
But this?
Even he wasn't sure what to make of this.
Apex wasn't copying Wayeb like some common mimic.
He had become him.
And that was wrong.
That was deeply, cosmically wrong.
Thor's grip tightened on Mjolnir, but he didn't lift it.
Because right now, he didn't know what the hell he was really looking at.
…
Magneto was a man of cold calculation. He had witnessed mutants evolve, adapt, and rise above their limitations.
But this?
His eyes felt like dinnerplates, his piercing eyes tracing every detail of Apex's new form, his mind spinning through every scientific, supernatural, and strategic angle.
What Apex had done wasn't just shapeshifting.
He had taken something that should not be taken.
And Wayeb knew it.
Magneto's lips parted slightly, his usually unwavering composure slipping as he murmured, "Fascinating."
Carol had been in plenty of fights. She had gone toe-to-toe with Kree warlords, Skrull conquerors, and cosmic entities beyond comprehension.
But this?
This wasn't a fight anymore.
This was a moment in history.
Her hands clenched at her sides, her binary energy pulsing in small flickers as her gaze flicked between Wayeb and Apex, trying to process what had just happened.
"…Did he just… steal and mimic the genetic code from a Mayan god?Top of Form
…
Kamala's stomach turned over itself, her heart hammering in her chest.
She had seen Apex do terrifying things before.
But this?
This was way beyond anything she thought was possible.
Peter, no, Apex, was just standing there, wearing Wayeb's face, mocking him with his own stolen form.
Kamala felt sick.
She didn't even realize she had taken a step of Form
…
Logan's instincts were screaming at him.
This wasn't just a clever trick.
This was something that was too spot-on, too perfect in its mimicry, he even had the same damn scent as Wayeb, that stunk like some kind of unnatural skeleton that was too high on cosmic power.
Something far more dangerous than anything they had ever dealt with.
Logan's claws slid out automatically, but even he didn't know who he was bracing against.
Wayep?
Or Apex?
…
Reed had no words.
None.
His scientific mind, his unparalleled intellect, all of it struggled to categorize what had just happened.
Apex's viral nature wasn't just assimilation.
It wasn't just replication.
It was something worse.
Something that went beyond the fundamental laws of biology and physics.
"…This is dangerous," he muttered under his breath. "This is very, very dangerous."
…
From the Sanctum Sanctorum, Strange had been watching through mystical means.
Now?
His tea cup shattered in his grip.
…
Wayep's jaw twitched, his mind still spiraling, unable to process what just happened.
And Apex, still wearing his stolen face, tilted his hollow skull slightly, his voice dripping with eerie amusement.
"You took from others for many thousands of years, didn't you? But now… someone took from you."
Wayep stiffened.
Apex's grin widened, his stolen sockets glowing dimly as he took a step forward.
Wayeb stood frozen, his skeletal form rigid, his hollow sockets locked onto the thing wearing his face.
Apex, no, something more than Apex now, stepped forward, his viral tendrils twisting and coiling in the air, the hollow voids of his stolen skull radiating an unholy amusement.
And then, in a voice that was Wayeb's own, speaking the purest form of the ancient Mayan tongue, Apex began to list the forgotten past.
"Tz'akb'al witz'," Apex began, his voice smooth, almost conversational. "The Great Sacrifice at the Temple of the Storm God. The year was 10,0,3,9,14, on the Long Count Calendar. Winter had not yet come, but the winds had begun to shift. The city of Ox Te' Tuun was preparing for the harvest festivals, yet you had no interest in the fields, no concern for the crops. That was not your domain, was it, Wayeb?"
Wayeb's sockets narrowed, but he did not move.
Apex continued.
"Instead, you stood at the summit of the Blood Pyramid, waiting as the priests carried forth the offerings. Twelve men. Six women. Three children."
Wayeb's fingers twitched.
"You remember them, don't you? The way their bodies trembled beneath the torchlight? The scent of burning copal mixing with the metallic tang of fresh blood?"
A pause.
Then, Apex took another slow step forward.
"There was the first, the warrior who had fought in your name. Tz'iib K'an. He had bested a jaguar in single combat. You were amused by his spirit. You allowed the priests to carve the glyph of his deeds upon his chest before you took his heart."
Wayeb remained silent, his clawed hands flexing—not in preparation to attack, but in discomfort.
No mortal being should know these things.
And yet, Apex did.
"Then came the twins. Baak and K'an Itzel. Their mother wept as they were taken to the altar, but you didn't care for her grief. The stars had aligned. You needed blood. And so the obsidian blade descended, and their cries were silenced before they could see another sunrise."
The chamber felt heavier, suffocating, the weight of ages long past pressing upon the present.
Apex's grin never wavered.
"And after the last life was drained, after the pyramid steps ran slick with sacrifice, what did you do, Wayeb?"
Wayeb did not answer.
But Apex did.
"You descended the steps, stepped over their cooling bodies, and accepted the chalice that was offered to you. You drank deep of a vessel of honeyed balché mixed with cacao and crushed maize, flavored with the blood of the first sacrifice."
Wayeb's entire body stiffened.
That… was impossible.
He hadn't even remembered what he drank that night until just now.
Apex tilted his head, his tendrils curling, flexing.
"You had three cups that night. The second was spiced with ground chili and the resin of the chacá tree. The third, the final one, was laced with the venom of a rattlesnake. A test. To see if your divine form could withstand it. And, of course, it did."
The others watching, the Avengers, X-Men, Fantastic Four, SHIELD operatives—
None of them understood the words being spoken, but they felt the weight of them.
Wayeb staggered.
Not out of injury.
Not out of weakness.
But out of sheer, unfiltered, raw disbelief.
Apex took another step forward, his voice now a whisper that dripped into the deepest parts of Wayeb's unshakable mind.
"You never thought about them again, did you? The names. The faces. They were offerings, given and gone. But I see them, Wayeb."
A slow pause.
"I see them, and I remember."
And then-.
Apex spoke their names.
All of them.
Every. Single. Name.
From the warriors to the farmers.
From the lovers to the unwilling.
From the devout to the desperate.
Each syllable was like a blade, dragging across Wayeb's very soul.
Wayeb felt them now, felt the weight of every forgotten life he had consumed, discarded, erased.
For the first time in his divine existence, he was being forced to remember them all.
Not as rituals.
Not as sacrifices.
But as people.
People who had names.
People who had lives before him.
People who had feared him, cursed him, revered him.
And now-.
Their names were being spoken back to him.
By something that should not know them.
Apex's black and red tendrils coiled as he took a final step forward, his hollow sockets burning with stolen divinity.
"They never left you, Wayeb. You just buried them beneath eternity. But me?"
A slow, monstrous grin spread across Apex's skeletal face.
"I dig up the things that are meant to stay dead."
Wayeb felt something in his core, something primal, something beyond mortal comprehension, lurch and twist.
The chamber felt different now.
Because for the first time in thousands of years…
Wayeb was afraid
Wayeb's skeletal back finally hit the stone wall of his own temple.
There was nowhere left to go.
The god of misfortune, a being who had once demanded the fear of civilizations, who had reveled in centuries of suffering, was now cornered, backed into his own sanctum, his divine essence flickering, his skeletal fingers twitching in a way that could almost be called… nervous.
And Apex?
He was still advancing.
His viral form shifted, the black-and-red biomass writhing in deliberate, hungry motions, his hollow sockets burning with Wayeb's own stolen divinity.
Then, he spoke.
Soft. Unnerving.
"I hope you understand," Apex murmured, his tone almost mockingly gentle, his teeth-like lips curling unnaturally, his skeletal form somehow grinning wider than a skull should be able to.
Wayeb stared, silent.
"If you really are so high and hopped up on the whole death thing…"
Apex lifted a clawed, sinewy hand, placing it gently, almost affectionately, on Wayeb's trembling shoulder.
Wayeb flinched.
Apex leaned in, slow, deliberate, his grin stretching wider, tendrils licking the air like something tasting the moment.
"Why not get a taste… of your own blood?"
Wayeb's skeletal frame shook violently, his claws flexing, but he couldn't react in time.
Because in an instant-.
Apex's other hand snapped forward.
Right to Wayeb's jaw.
And then-.
RIIIIIIIPPPP!
The sound was sickening.
A grotesque, visceral wrenching of bone and tendon, as Apex tore Wayeb's jaw clean off.
The scream that followed was inhuman.
A gargled, nightmarish wail, echoing off the temple walls as black ichor gushed from the ragged, torn remains of his lower face.
Wayeb's hands shot to his ruined maw, clawing at the jagged wound, his entire form convulsing violently.
Apex, still grinning, still wearing Wayeb's stolen face, looked down at the jaw in his hand.
He turned it over, inspecting it with curious amusement, tilting his head as if admiring a new toy.
Then, without hesitation-.
CRACK!
He slammed it across Wayeb's skull.
Wayeb staggered, his entire body jerking violently, his one good hand gripping at the ruined remains of his face.
Apex didn't stop.
CRACK!
Again.
And again.
And again.
Bludgeoning him.
With his own jaw.
The once mighty god of misfortune collapsed to his knees, his body wracked with shudders, the unholy ichor pouring from his gaping wound.
His chest heaved, a horrific, wet wheezing noise spilling from the mutilated hole where his mouth once was.
He was gurgling now, choking on his own divine essence, blood pooling at his knees as he twitched violently.
Apex finally stopped, tilting his head as if considering the shaking, broken god before him.
Then, in an almost casual motion-.
He dropped the jaw.
It hit the floor with a wet slap, black ichor pooling around it.
The room was silent.
Wayeb couldn't even scream anymore.
Just… gurgle.
Apex crouched, placing a hand on Wayeb's trembling head, his viral tendrils coiling like vines, wrapping around the god's horned crown.
Then he whispered.
"Not so fun when it happens to you, is it?"
The room was dead silent.
Not because the fight had ended.
Not because they had won.
But because nobody knew what to say.
Wayeb, a god, was on his knees, gurgling, shuddering, drowning in his own divine ichor.
And Apex?
He wasn't done.
Not yet.
He crouched lower, gripping Wayeb's horned skull, tendrils curling around the edges of his hollow sockets.
Then, his fingers slithered lower.
Right to the god's remaining upper teeth.
And he dug in.
SCHLRK!
The first tooth was torn from its roots, the jagged obsidian-colored fang ripped from the gumline, divine ichor spraying as Wayeb convulsed violently.
"Tz'iib K'an, Baak, K'an Itzel…"
Apex's voice was eerily calm, reciting the names of the sacrifices, the very ones Wayeb had erased from his own memory.
RIIIIIP!
Another tooth came free, the root dangling, black ichor dripping onto the stone floor.
"K'atun Ajaw."
CRACK. SCHLRK.
Another.
"Yax Nuun Chaan."
Another.
Each name spoken, each tooth ripped free, one by one.
Wayeb's body twitched uncontrollably, his skeletal fingers weakly grabbing at Apex's wrists, but there was no stopping it.
By the time Apex reached the last fang, Wayeb was barely even conscious, his movements sluggish, his form quivering under the weight of pain he had never imagined could exist.
And then-.
SCHLRK.
The final tooth was gone.
Wayeb's head lulled forward, his hollow sockets dull, empty, the gurgling wet and shallow.
The god of misfortune was now completely toothless.
Apex let the collection of divine fangs fall from his grasp, clattering against the blood-slick stone.
Then, he simply dropped Wayeb's head.
The god collapsed forward, his body hitting the temple floor in a lifeless heap, his skull smacking against the stone, his divine ichor pooling around him.
Wayeb didn't move.
Didn't twitch.
Didn't scream.
He was gone, unconscious, utterly broken.
…
Thor had seen many things.
He had fought gods, titans, eldritch horrors, but this?
This was something else entirely.
This wasn't battle.
This wasn't even punishment.
This was systematic destruction.
Apex had done more than hurt Wayeb.
He had humiliated him, shattered his identity, erased his divinity one agonizing piece at a time.
Thor's grip on Mjolnir was tight, his muscles tense, as he watched Apex stand over the broken husk of a god.
"…This is a new kind of horror."
…
Magneto was not a man easily shaken.
But even he felt an unfamiliar sensation in his chest.
Not fear.
Not exactly.
Something else.
Something deeper.
He had never believed in gods.
He had never worshipped.
But what he was witnessing now?
This was what gods feared.
"…Astounding," he murmured.
Carol swallowed after that sickening display, her binary energy flickering around her hands, but… she didn't move.
Because what could she even do?
Apex wasn't fighting anymore.
He had already won.
And the way he had done it?
It wasn't a superhero fight.
It was something deeper, darker, something that even she, a warrior, didn't fully comprehend.
For the first time, Carol found herself genuinely unsure.
Did they just witness a victory, or simply Apex having a blast while dishing out raw unfiltered retribution for all of those people who suffered in the distant past?
…
Kamala's stomach churned.
Her heart pounded painfully in her chest.
This wasn't how things were supposed to go.
Apex…
Peter…
He wasn't supposed to be like this.
He wasn't supposed to be this.
This wasn't heroism.
This wasn't justice.
It was horrific.
Kamala turned away, pressing her hand over her mouth as she tried to steady her breathing.
For the first time, she found herself afraid of him.
…
Logan was a killer.
He had blood on his hands, he had done things others never could stomach.
But even he felt his gut twist at what he just saw.
Not because he pitied Wayeb.
No.
But because he recognized something in Apex that was all too familiar.
A killer's instinct.
An absolute, terrifying clarity in the act of destruction.
Apex had no hesitation, no wasted movements.
Every action was calculated, deliberate, designed to cause absolute suffering.
And Logan knew what happened when you gave yourself fully to that part of you.
Stephen Strange had been watching.
Through the Eye of Agamotto, through the winds of fate, through every mystical means he had at his disposal.
And yet-.
He had not foreseen this.
Wayeb had been a constant, a divine force that operated on the periphery of chaos, but now?
Now he was nothing.
And the thing that had reduced him to a whimpering husk?
Strange let out a shaky breath, staring at the magical seals forming in his hands, his mind racing through contingency plans.
"…This is bad," he muttered. "This is very, very bad.
The eerie silence in the temple stretched as the last echoes of Wayeb's suffering faded. No one spoke, no one moved. The weight of what they had just witnessed clung to the air, suffocating, unnatural.
Then, Apex shifted.
The viral biomass that had reshaped itself into a grotesque mimicry of Wayeb twisted and coiled, red and black tendrils retracting, melting away into familiar contours.
And in an instant, Peter Parker was standing there again.
His human form was intact, but the hollowness in his gaze, the lingering darkness in his presence, made it impossible to see him the same way.
Wayeb lay in a motionless heap behind him, gurgling, twitching, barely conscious, a god reduced to nothing.
And Peter?
He simply sighed, rolling his shoulders, stretching his fingers as if the entire ordeal had been a casual exercise.
Then, he turned to face them.
Their eyes burned into him, Thor's grim judgment, Logan's knowing concern, Kamala's raw horror, Carol's silent scrutiny, and Strange's tightened fists, already preparing wards.
They wanted answers.
And Peter, Apex, was going to give them some.
He looked at them all, his voice steady, unshaken, devoid of any remorse for what he had just done.
"You have any idea how many people got their hearts cut out over the eons so he could enjoy fresh beverages?"
His words cut through the silence like a scalpel.
The question hung in the air, heavy, suffocating.
No one answered.
No one could.
Because they already knew the answer.
Peter's gaze swept across the room, sharp, unyielding.
"Thousands? Tens of thousands? Hundreds of thousands?" he continued, stepping forward. "How many warriors, farmers, mothers, children, how many people had their chests split open, their bodies still trembling, just so he could drink their blood and call it a holy ritual?"
Wayeb twitched behind him, his toothless maw trembling, his divine essence still leaking onto the stone floor.
Peter gestured toward him, barely sparing him a glance.
"This thing, this 'god', he's been playing executioner for longer than your bloodlines have existed. And you're looking at me like I just went too far?"
Thor's fingers twitched around Mjolnir's handle. He did not answer.
Peter's eyes found Kamala's, who was still standing rigid, disturbed, her hands balled into fists.
He softened his tone, just slightly.
"I get it. I do. This wasn't clean. It wasn't some big heroic battle where we blast him into submission and throw him in a fancy prison. But tell me this, Kamala-?"
She flinched when he said her name.
"Would you have rather he kept going?"
Kamala's breath hitched, her mind racing, remembering the box that had been sent to her family.
Her real self.
Her real death.
Her family, shattered by the revelation.
Wayeb did that.
Peter let out a slow, steady breath, his expression unreadable as he turned back toward Wayeb's crumpled, twitching form. The divine ichor still pooled beneath the broken god, the dark liquid soaking into the cracks of the temple floor like ink staining ancient parchment.
Peter studied him for a moment, just a moment, before his lips pressed into a thin line. His tendrils shifted slightly, flexing, coiling, but ultimately retracting back beneath his skin.
Then, without looking back at the others, he muttered, "Just... try to keep him from cutting out anyone else's hearts for his own amusement and simply because he could."
His voice was quiet, tired, but there was an edge to it, something darker coiling beneath the surface.
He turned, his red eyes lingering on the group, on Thor, whose grip on Mjolnir was still tense; on Carol, who was eyeing him as though she wasn't sure whether to call him an ally or something far worse; on Kamala, who still hadn't spoken, her expression locked somewhere between anger and horror.
And finally, on Strange.
Peter could see the Sorcerer Supreme already calculating, already weighing possibilities in his mind, already preparing what would no doubt be a hundred different contingencies to deal with what they had all just witnessed.
Peter didn't care.
Not today.
His voice dropped lower, quieter.
"After seeing it for hundreds of thousands of times... after watching his memories, after seeing the way he enjoyed it..." Peter exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I'm going home. Even for me, seeing that much gore is too much for one day."
He said it so casually. So matter-of-fact.
Like it wasn't even a question. Like he didn't need their permission, their approval, their understanding.
And then, without another word, his body unraveled, the red-and-black biomass shifting, condensing, twisting in ways the human mind wasn't meant to comprehend.
And then-.
He was gone.
The temple fell into silence once more, only broken by the distant drip, drip, drip of ichor pooling from the broken god at their feet.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
No one knew what the hell they were supposed to say. What could be said in light of all the murders that Peter now has rattling in his head, which he remembers in uncanny detail…?
…
Nick Fury leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as he processed what he had just seen. The grainy footage captured from the operatives' HUD cams played on repeat on the monitor before him, showing Apex tearing Wayeb apart, piece by piece.
And the worst part?
Fury didn't blame him.
Not even a little.
Wayeb had this coming. For centuries.
From the corner of the room, Logan stood with his arms crossed, his face set in that familiar grimace of knowing. He'd seen a lot of horrors in his lifetime, had been the cause of some of them, but this? Watching Peter tear apart a self-righteous god of blood sacrifice?
He wasn't losing sleep over it.
Neither was Strange. The Sorcerer Supreme stood near the large window, watching as the unconscious, now powerless, Wayeb was being held in a heavily reinforced chamber, his divine essence locked away behind layers of containment spells and technology designed to keep cosmic-level entities suppressed.
"You know, as much as I hate to admit it," Strange finally said, his voice neutral but his gaze sharp, "I don't think Peter went far enough."
Fury exhaled sharply through his nose. "That a fact?"
Strange nodded, arms tucked neatly into his robes. "He should have taken the eyes."
Fury let out a short, humorless chuckle. "Maybe next time."
The two men lapsed into silence as they continued watching the monitors, while Logan muttered under his breath, "Bastard got off easy."
The debate of what to do with Wayeb had already begun. The fact that he was an alternate version of a known deity from an entirely different universe made things... complicated.
Too complicated.
And now Fury had another headache to deal with.
The Mayan Pantheon of that alternate earth had reached out.
For the first time in... well, ever, even if it was to an alternate earth it still was signifigant.
A holographic projection shimmered before him, displaying the stern face of an elder god, his golden headdress gleaming in the ethereal light of the connection.
Kukulkan, the Feathered Serpent, was not amused.
"This is troubling news, Director Fury," the deity rumbled, his deep voice carrying the weight of divine authority. "Wayeb was always a cautionary tale among our kind. His role was necessary, but even we knew the dangers of letting him run unchecked."
Fury steepled his fingers. "Then you already suspected he'd pull something like this, that he was planning on targeting all of you and all the other pantheons to forcefully steal their power as well as your own?"
Kukulkan's expression darkened. "We did not wish to believe it possible. But it seems he has proven himself to be as treacherous as we feared."
Fury exhaled. "Well, I'm gonna save us both some time. He's done. Apex ripped his power from him like a damn tooth extraction, and trust me, he ain't growing it back anytime soon."
Kukulkan remained silent for a moment, his gaze unreadable. Then, he nodded. "Good."
Fury arched a brow. "That's it?"
The Feathered Serpent's gaze sharpened. "You misunderstand. This is not your burden to bear, nor is it Apex's. Wayeb is of our pantheon, and thus, he will be judged by us."
Fury leaned back slightly, considering the implications. "And if I say no? If I decide it's safer for everyone if we just keep him locked up?"
Kukulkan's expression remained impassive, but his words carried weight. "Then you will be responsible for what comes next."
Fury didn't flinch, but internally, he knew what the god meant. Holding Wayeb on Earth, on this Earth, was like keeping a nuclear warhead with a cracked shell in the middle of a populated city.
He was too dangerous to keep.
Even powerless, he was a god of misfortune.
And misfortune had a way of spreading.
Fury glanced toward Logan and Strange, who had both been silently observing the exchange. Logan just gave a grunt, his meaning clear, hand the bastard over, he ain't worth the trouble.
Strange, however, gave a small nod. "They have the right. Wayeb is their problem."
Fury let out a sharp exhale and turned back to Kukulkan. "Alright. You want him? He's yours. Just, make sure he doesn't slither his way back here we've already got enough problems to deal with."
Kukulkan nodded once, and the projection flickered out.
Fury turned to the agents standing near the containment cell. "Get him prepped for extradition. I don't want this bastard breathing Earth's air for a second longer than he has to."
The agents saluted and moved to carry out the order.
Logan finally broke the silence. "You think they'll kill him?"
Strange didn't hesitate. "They won't just kill him."
Fury smirked slightly. "Good."
And with that, the final nail in Wayeb's coffin had been hammered in.
…
the armored transport prepared for its extradition. The reinforced chamber, built specifically for high-tier supernatural entities, hummed with containment fields, divine wards, and layers of technology designed to ensure Wayeb would never pose a threat again.
And standing before it, waiting with a mix of grim duty and contempt, were the gods of his own pantheon.
They had come to collect him.
Kukulkan was at the forefront, his feathered cloak rippling in the sterile lighting of the underground facility. His golden eyes, once carrying the infinite wisdom of his people, now burned with something far simpler, disgust.
Behind him stood two others.
Ah Puch, the skeletal god of death, his hollow gaze boring into Wayeb with an eerie silence. Unlike many death deities who would have found the situation ironic, he was serious in this instant realizing the depths of their brothers treachery. To the right, Itzamná, the aged, all-seeing creator god, whose expression was carved into something between regret and exhaustion. He was the eldest among them, a being whose knowledge spanned eons, and yet for the first time in his long existence, he looked at one of his own as a mistake.
As the reinforced door unsealed with a hiss, the gods beheld their fallen kin in his pitiful, ruined state.
Wayeb, the great and terrible deity of misfortune, lay in a heap upon the cold floor. His skeletal form, once so menacing, so proud, was reduced to a twitching, toothless wretch.
His divine essence seeped weakly from his wounds, his power, once capable of cursing entire civilizations, now barely strong enough to keep his form intact. The gaping maw where his teeth once resided made him look even more grotesque, less a god, more an animal that had been put down and left to suffer.
Wayeb's hollow sockets burned with venomous hatred as he spat a thick glob of black ichor onto the floor at Kukulkan's feet. His throat gurgled, his tongue flicking wildly as he attempted to speak, to curse them all.
But his voice was weak. Unintelligible.
A grotesque, pathetic mockery of the once-feared deity.
Ah Puch cocked his head, watching Wayeb's struggle with detached amusement. "You should have chosen death, brother," he murmured, his voice dry as the grave.
Kukulkan did not flinch. He merely regarded the broken god with an impassive stare, his golden feathers shimmering as he stepped forward.
"You are a disgrace," he said simply.
Wayeb let out a rasping snarl, his skeletal fingers twitching. He tried again to curse them, to spit some final defiant words, but without his teeth and his jaw, the ability to speak the sacred words.
without his power, all that came out was an incomprehensible slur of guttural noises.
It was pathetic.
Even Itzamná, the kindest of the gods, let out a slow sigh. "You have brought shame upon us all, Wayeb." His voice was filled with sorrow, but no forgiveness. "You sought to dismantle the very order we uphold. To betray your own kin for power beyond your station. And now, the entire cosmic hierarchy back in our own universe reels from your actions. The balance has been disturbed. You have left ruin in your wake, not just upon mortals, but upon the divine itself."
Wayeb shuddered, his frame trembling with rage.
But Kukulkan was not done.
"You have broken the laws of the gods," he continued, his voice steady, commanding, final. "You have betrayed your own pantheon. You have brought humiliation upon our name. And now, the gods of every pantheon beyond our own demand your punishment."
Wayeb twitched violently at that.
This was not just his pantheon's judgment.
The gods of Asgard, of Olympus, of the Heliopolitan realms, they all wanted him dead. He had played too dangerously, had disrupted the cosmic balance too much, and now?
There would be no forgiveness.
No mercy.
He howled, a sound that was not meant for mortal ears, a deep, guttural, gurgling shriek that sent chills down even the spines of the SHIELD operatives watching from the viewing platform.
Kukulkan only shook his head.
"No more schemes," he declared. "No more curses. No more Wayeb."
He turned to Fury, nodding once.
"The extradition will proceed immediately."
Fury crossed his arms, glancing at Logan, then back at the gods.
"You sure he's not gonna crawl back out of whatever divine hole you're throwing him in?"
Kukulkan's golden eyes flashed. "No. He will not."
Fury didn't ask for details. He didn't need them. He knew what that meant.
Strange finally spoke, arms crossed. "Whatever happens to him, make sure it sticks."
Ah Puch let out a dry chuckle. "Oh, it will."
With a single motion, Kukulkan raised his hand, and Wayeb's broken form began to rise into the air, writhing, thrashing, spewing more unintelligible curses through his toothless maw.
The divine chains wrapped tighter, glowing with a searing golden light. Wayeb screamed, the sound warping into something inhuman, a dying wail of a thing that was once great, now nothing more than a remnant of its own hubris.
And then-.
A flash of golden light.
And he was gone.
Just like that.
The chamber fell into silence.
Fury exhaled, running a hand down his face. "Well… that's done."
Logan huffed. "Took long enough."
Strange let out a slow breath, but his fingers twitched, his mind already working through the next problem. Because if Wayeb had been capable of this much chaos with just one set of cosmic cheat codes, what the hell else could be out there?
Fury had the same thought.
"…I'll feel better once we're sure no one else is stupid enough to try what he did."
But deep down?
He knew that was wishful of Form