The air in the bunker shifted before she even spoke.

"You know," Feast mused, stepping into the dim light, "I can still smell the whale shit."

Her voice carried that lazy, detached tone she always used when delivering something absolutely insane as if it were casual gossip.

"It lingers. Sticks to the bones of this place. Your primitive little nomadic farmers—your ancestors, I mean—used to burn the stuff like it was a divine gift. The people of"—she waved a hand, as if pulling the name from the air—"█̵͖̟̒█̵̢̛͝█̷͍͘█̶̡̽ made a deal with that beaded-jewelry-making rabble long before anyone here was even an idea. And here we are. Nomadism went out of fashion, but some things? Some things stay. Like the smell."

The bunker hummed.

Something glitched in the air.

For a second, nobody moved.

It wasn't just that they hadn't heard the name of her planet—it was that they couldn't. The sound had been there, but the meaning had slipped through their minds, leaving behind only a strange, empty static.

Zerox blinked.

"What did you just say?"

Feast smiled.

"Exactly."

She inhaled deeply, savoring the moment, then gave a satisfied nod.

"Anyway. Lesson time."

She snapped her fingers, and the air shimmered, reality itself pausing to listen.

"The virus,"

she began, "isn't some accident. It's a beautifully resolved equation. A little brutal, sure, but effective."

Lupa's brow furrowed.

"You're saying this was intentional?"

"Oh no, sweetie," Feast said, shaking her head. "I'm saying the universe doesn't like loose ends. And sometimes? It solves problems by rewriting the rules."

She twirled a finger in the air.

"People with strong enough hearts—their bodies, their instincts, their willpower—can absorb change instead of breaking under it. It's like cancer, except instead of dying, you get stronger. If, of course, that's what your genetic lottery decides to hand you."

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Her voice softened slightly.

"Pity about the kids, though. And the elderly."

A flicker of something almost regret passed over her face.

"There was this woman in my neighborhood. Yolanda. She never let anyone carry her groceries. Her sons were always patching up her tendinitis. I liked her. She didn't make it."

Hermes crossed his arms.

"Are we getting to the part where this is relevant, or...?"

Feast smirked.

"Oh, we're getting there."

She snapped her fingers again, and numbers spilled into the air like dust.

Lupa's breath hitched.

It was an equation.

Not just any equation.

"One of my people," Feast continued, "leaked this little gem a while back. Someone wanted to keep this planet all to themselves."

She tilted her head.

"I've seen this before."

The numbers twisted, their edges flickering between the seen and the unseen.

Lupa reached forward.

The room held its breath.

Remo tensed.

Romulus shifted his stance, ready for something.

Lupa's fingers moved.

She adjusted a single variable.

Everything snapped into place.

The bunker rippled.

Reality shivered.

Feast let out a low whistle.

"Well, Hermes," she murmured, "looks like your record just got broken, pretty boy."

Hermes opened his mouth to respond—

And vanished into a black hole.

The air collapsed around where he had stood.

A heavy silence.

Zerox blinked.

"Did we just... lose Hermes?"

Remo stared at the empty space.

"I don't think we lost him. But I don't think he's here anymore."

Feast waved a hand lazily.

"He'll be fine. Probably."

She dusted off her hands.

"Now, let's talk about the real problem."

She turned to B.O.R.I.S.

"You, my dear, are the whole reason this place is falling apart."

B.O.R.I.S flickered, shifting between his painterly form and something less solid.

Feast sighed.

"See, the universe keeps its secrets tucked away. Some civilizations? They get to manage those secrets. Planets, even entire timelines, can be created and owned by those who figure out the right pieces."

She met Lupa's gaze.

"And someone, roughly 2025 years ago, decided to experiment with this planet."

She tilted her head.

"And now it's just another farm under intergalactic control."

Lupa's hands twitched.

Feast sighed dramatically.

"Anyway, I can't help you directly anymore. My intervention quota? Maxed out."

A sharp pulse in the air.

A burst of darkness.

And then—

Alphabela stepped out of the void.

She exhaled sharply, adjusting to the dim light of the bunker.

Feast clapped her hands together.

"Alpha, these are your new friends."

The woman scowled.

"For the last time," she muttered, "my name is Bela."

And then—

Another Bela stepped out beside her.

Identical.

No golden shimmer. No distortion.

Just a perfect, exact copy.

Lupa's heart pounded.

She had done that.

But when Lupa created an exact copy of Alphabela, something shifted in the room.

Feast visibly reacted—just for a fraction of a second.

Her shoulders tensed, her eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

Then, just as quickly, she smoothed it over, her smirk returning.

"Well, well," she murmured, tilting her head. "That's... something."

She crossed her arms, masking whatever had flickered across her face.

"Guess we'll have to see where this little trick takes us."