Mihai Codrea returns home by teleportation. It's a fairly nice apartment in the Spheres, Bucharest's mage quarter. Everyone wil give you a different answer if you ask for the name's origin and meaning, which is only fitting, when magic is involved.
The wards, which would normally prevent such an esoteric entrance, recognise their creator and let him in. So far, so good.
Then, Mihai realises he is alone.
This is not what unsettles him. He expected to outpace the girls. What is unsettling is the fact that all the lights in the house, which should have turned on at his arrival, are out: the lightbulbs broken, the magelights-spheres of sunlight he crafted in case of a blackout, which he is beginning to think this isn't-snuffed out.
Then, someone almost kills him.
Mihai's reflexes are boosted by his mana, a necessity in the presence of his rowdy friends, with the supernatural bodies they take for granted. Even so, the blade leaves a shallow, thin mark on his throat as he teleports away, cursing.
The line doesn't heal. This is when he gets scared.
Mihai puts his body, mind and soul in a timeloop set to rewind him to perfect health, however disastrous his death. This is paired with an automatic teleportation spell, set to place him a far distance away from the cause of his latest death.
Both of these things are, again, a necessity when around his friends. None of them has killed him, not even accidentally...so far. This doesn't mean it won't happen. He is only human, which means he is frail and paranoid.
Mihai gathers power as he sees his attacker, tall and lean and barely visible under a shroud of shadows. It is smirking, white teeth gleaming in darkness. His eyes dart to the knife in its hands, a dull, almost blunt-looking thing. But he feels the absence within the blade, not just lack of mana, but its opposite.
Antimagic.
Mihai proudly considers himself too boring to have enemies, so he's not sure why grinner over there is trying to give him a new mouth on his throat, but the enthusiasm is neither appreciated nor wanted.
Mihai tries to stop it from advancing, but it walks through spatial distortions that should have flattened it into nothing, and spots of twisted time that should have made it never exist. It deflects his projectiles with its knife, and leaps when he tries to bend the living room's floor around its feet.
Then, when it is in midair, Mihai creates a portal in front of it, then another above near the ceiling. It is followed by a third on the floor. Mihai dispels the first after the wannabe assassin blurs through it, leaving it falling from the second and into the third, over and over. Mihai blasts, not its knife, but the wrist of the hand holding it, sending the weapon flying out of its grip and reach.
Still, he feels it reach out with its will, trying to take control of his portals. With a scoff, Mihai shuts down its attempt.
He's had enough of people taking his things since his arsehole parents removed every 'distraction' that could prevent him from reaching 'true prowess in every domain'. The times they locked him in the cellar, with no light and stale air, were pretty memorable too, if not exactly nice.
Mihai doesn't know this fucker, but, if his parents are the first people it has made him think of, he doubts he's going to like it-
A thin scream, that quickly becomes a gurgle, fills his ears. His heart almost sinks as he imagines his...no. It wasn't his wife's voice, nor one of his daughters'. Just...
"Just" a neighbour whose name he's never managed to remember, despite seeing her every day.
Before dashing out of his home to help, Mihai takes a good luck at the would-be killer, and smiles coldly.
People like it always need some iron in their blood. He might as well give it a present, before going to meet its friends.
Christmas is coming, after all, he thinks as he stabs the Unseelie through the heart with a created iron knife, walking 'on' the floor portal like it is solid, before dispelling it and letting the Fae's corpse fall.
Mihai does not think about this now, but he has just killed a thinking being for the first time in his life.
***
Andrei's current employer is a young rich girl, with a foreign-sounding name. Miranda...something. Her parents were landscaping mages, and left her a fortune when they died. She has all the vices he expects, given her age and wealth. No worse or stranger than any of the gold-digging 'friends' she clubs with.
It's supposed to be a nice, boring bodyguard job, so, of course, it goes wrong. 'Predictable' things always go wrong. Like when he was assured someone would take him from the orphanage. Or when they told him the bear attack had left no wounds because he had imagined it.
(The were turned him before it began tearing him apart, so he could heal and survive everything it did to him.)
Or, why not, when he was given a choice between tirelessly working at the Canal and raising monuments, or a silver blade through the neck. It took him some time, and killing several dissenting coworkers, before the Party realised he'd do better as an attack dog rather than a mule.
Those were the years, he thinks drily, remembering all the dead protesters, the children taken away for stealing food, the soldiers and politicians who were too successful and popular, who stood out.
But it was kill or be killed, really. He got to disappear some real monsters too, some of whom he worked alongside in the Security, until his little mishap with Simona got him a black mark. Not because anyone had given a damn about a teenage mother dying in childbirth, or even that he'd slept with a minor without realising, like a moron, but because they had thought he couldn't control himself.
Maybe they'd been right. It had been a stupid, stupid storm of pent-up lust, and a truly bizarre attempt to get at his father Misha by sleeping with a willing woman, proving he wouldn't become a rapist like him.
It seems every son in their family, Andrei thinks, smiling to himself as he wonders what David is doing, is better than his father.
After the regime change(the people got sick of it, as in, rich foreigners wanted in, and a ravaged, hungry, revolutionary population, would provide good workers and buyers. Almost like the forties over again...)he was smart enough to keep his head down, so they let him fade into obscurity.
Security in obscurity is a phrase that will never cease making him laugh his head off...
Andrei tenses, glaring in concentration as his senses try to find what his instinct tells them is there. It takes him an instant, but he jumps away from the sliver-covered fist that comes out of nowhere, rolling with the blow so it just breaks his nose.
This will never heal, and dammit, it's not like he doesn't already look like shit, as several people told him in his childhood. Back then, it didn't mean anything as harmless as being ugly. It had more to do with being a "crow without a murder", as some charmingly put it.
The Fae grins at him between raised hands covered in silver gauntlets, and he tries to remember when and how he's drawn the enmity of the elves off the shelves. He comes up blank, instead focusing on dodging jabs half a dozen times the speed of sound. Then, someone hits him from behind-not with silver, it barely hurts-, sending him flying through the club's ceiling, pulverising a hole in it, and continuing up, into the cloud layer. Another Fae suddenly has his head in its fist, and pushes him down face-first through the club, turning it and the city block around it into a crater. Bucharest shakes.
And, as bloody mist sticks to his clothes and broken, quickly-healing face, Andrei realises the Fae only refrained from using silver so he could remember being used to kill thousands of people.
A tool for murder, again?
As his beast takes over, and he stands a metre taller and two hundred kilos heavier, Andrei swears to eat one of the Fae alive, spit it down the other's throat, and drown them both in molten iron.
***
His husband, Liam Lloyd realises uneasily, is not responding. Not to texts, or calls, or scrying.
This is strange. Ryan is a meticulous bloke, has been since they hooked up at the mage academy in Yulara. He also knows what a worrywart the lich is. Coupled with the fact his magic consists of placing his mind in devices, this...should not be happening.
Liam touches down in front of their place, nervously fingering the hem of his t-shirt. 'Milk for the Khorne flakes', with a cartoonish version of said Chaos God standing with a spoon raised overhead. The guys at the tournament thought it was a tired joke, but screw 'em. It was funny when he got into the hobby, and it still is.
Everything inside their house is off. Not just in the sense no device is running, another impossibility when Ryan is around; everything feels wrong.
The Fae turns to smile mockingly at him as it tries to stab Ryan's heart with a knife that makes the lich's dead stomach churn just from its looks. His husband is not a strong guy, as one can tell by the beer gut and noodle arms, but he is boosting himself with mana, though he still needs both hands to hold back the Unseelie's extended arm.
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
Ryan grins as he sees him enter(he'll have to make a joke about this later, cheer him up), his ruddy face split by a broad grin. Sweat is running from his forehead to his grey beard with effort, and his green eyes are narrowed in concentration.
'Die,' Liam rasps at the Fae, his magic killing the chance of it living any longer. In the kitchen, an iron knife falls from its place, ricocheting off the floor, then the table leg, the walls, the living room ceiling and walls, until it is close to the Fae, who laughs, expecting to casually dodge the slow projectile.
But even as it laughs, it breaks Ryan's grip and raises its knife to dash at Liam, whom it sees as more dangerous.
"Dumb cunt." Liam grins skeletally at its confused, offended expression. Then, with a burst of mana, Ryan knees it in the crotch, sending it flying into the air just in time for the knife to pierce its skull.
Liam doesn't have time to high-five his husband, though, because the neighbourhood is soon filled by the sound of exploding lightbulbs, crashing cars, dying gurgles and cold, fey laughter.
***
Aaron is off-duty at the moment, and meditating, but not relaxed.
As such, when the Fae appears out of nothing above him, intent on splitting him in half with a kick, he leans back, all six legs tensing to leap away, out out of the Black Sea and into the air.
It disappears in a burst of shadow just as dark as its hairless, muscular body, reappearing in front of him and punching him in his third head's throat, ripping it off. The impact sends him flying off Earth, past the other planets, and headsfirst into Pluto, which shatters. Aaron barely feels it.
The Fae appears again, but he's prepared now. With a thought, his war-harness becomes armour, and a punch that would have beheaded him again does nothing, the Fae's fist crunching against his faceplate in a mangled mess.
Normally, the Unseelie's presence makes all things built by civilisation fall apart, for they are bringers of chaos, but his armour was forged and enchanted by the Mother of the Forest, a hag just as wise, if not as powerful, as Merlin or Yaga.
As such, blows that would have pulverised the Earth fall harmlessly, soundlessly, as Aaron watches with faint amusement.
Snarling silently, the Fae creates a blade of shadow, and Aaron only stands still until he feels it split his armour. It laughs at his perceived retreat, reshaping the blade into throwing knives, so Aaron decides to make it choke on its laugh.
His harness can create any weapon or tool. And, in this modern age, robots and constructs are often thought of as such. The armour peels off, leaving only a thin layer that, through the Mother's magic, restores itself, becoming armour again. The discarded material becomes an automaton, identical to Aaron in shape and strength. The Fae scoffs, then growls as the process repeats, both Aaron and the construct shedding a layer to make two more automatons. Then, four more. Eight. Sixteen.
Tens of trillions of automatons quickly fill the void between Pluto's remains, growing more numerous every instant. Aaron knows he could drown the universe in constructs if he wished. There is no need for that.
Both he, without boosting his strength, and they are powerful enough to punch the Earth in half, or turn it to ash with a firebreath.
Grinning under his helmets, Aaron turns his armour to iron, while its enchantment keep it just as durable as before. The constructs mirror him, rushing the Fae as it screams in frustration and anger.
***
The problem with aberrants, the Shaper seethes as it directs the Unscarred towards the intruder, is that they always have to play by their own rules.
Take this ferroallergic specimen, for example. It entered the Collective's domain despite the invisible anti-teleportation screens, the shield that splits unauthorised visitors infinitely and scatters them across the multiverse, and the defenders and drones.
It seems immune to esoteric effects. That is not a problem. The Unscarred is, too, a reversal of the quantum experiment making its existence and nature an unchangeable fact. So is the rationaliser project, meant to ground out magic and its effects in large areas.
The Unscarred teleports next to it, fist raised and clenched, striking hard enough to shatter Earth and shake the sun from core to surface. The Fae turns, grinning, punching its arm to red mist, and leaving an immense hole in its chest.
Aberrants, the Shaper thinks as it shakes its metaphorical head.
The Collective's realm is built on, in and around Earth's core. As the Unscarred's machines shape themselves into a new arm and filling for its chest, the Shaper wonders how moronic you would have to be, as a Fae, to fight on a sphere of iron, which its yoctomachines are already harvesting and shaping into weapons.
The Fae's smirk fades at the Unscarred's new body parts. 'We were not told...how did you do that?'
'Yoctomachines, aberrant!'
***
Breakout grins under her balaclava at every punch that rocks her. The dickless bitch she's fighting is swinging hard enough to make poor abusive Mother Earth a new asteroid belt, but that's no problem. Breakout has always risen to the task.
Her power is breaking free of restriction, anything preventing her from doing something, and it works passively. What is preventing her from surviving its strikes? Body too weak? Become more durable.
Breakout is always strong enough to stomp the States into dust and outpace lasers, but this pointy-eared fucker is way stronger than her baseline. Stupidly faster, too. So, her power made her better.
It has always saved her ass, back when she was a dumb lil' bitch in a neighbourhood where a mouthy black chick being the strongest around rubbed people the wrong way. She bullshitted herself into being with an older white mage, to bury the hatchet and lower the tensions. That had been a few decades after the Shattering, with racism still rampant.
The guy had promised she'd become unable to live without or keep her mind around him, and had put a spell on her that had almost made that promise reality. Her power had manifested to remove the restriction of her life and mind depending on him, in time to smash his skull in.
Since then, she'd entered FREAKSHOW (Federal Resources for the Elimination And Killing of Hostile Supernatural Organisms and Weapons-they'd come up with the acronym first) to prevent such things from happening to anyone else. She was really thankful when people had stopped letting stupid shit like race, gender and religion separate them, and instead focused on integrating supernaturals into society, and killing the bad ones.
From outside, the fight looks almost absurd: a dreadlocked woman of average height, if obviously fit and muscled, wearing thick boots, jeans and a ragged blue hoodie, wielding a metal pipe against a muscular Fae so tall she barely reaches his chest.
The pipe is another thing her power helps with, making it durable enough to withstand her strength, so she doesn't have to fight unarmed.
Breakout has smashed the walking refrigerator to red mist several times, and that's when her power gets off its ass to remove the restriction preventing her from winning: her pipe isn't made of iron.
The yamadium pipe changes makeup just in time for her to break the long-haired cocksleeve in half with a laugh. Then, before its halves hit the ground, Breakout pats her jeans pocket, and realizes someone, somehow, lifted her wallet when she was returning from work.
"Can't have shit in Detroit..." she grumbles, stomping her way through the Fae, pipe slung over one shoulder.
Breakout is angry. This is nothing unusual. She is, however, about to live up to the epithet tattooed on her knuckles. It's ambiguous whether 'worst bitch' refers to herself or the people she punches, but then, they're left pretty ambiguous themselves.
"Yo, rat fodder," Breakout flips the Fae's mangled torso onto its back with a yamadium-toed boot, looking down into its asshole of a face. "Whatever fuckwit sent you should've remembered this real quick, after they were done jackin' off to themselves: I'm like a philosophy book. Whatever bitch meets me suffers an existential crisis."
Then, smashing him into paste, for real this time, Breakout saunters off, whistling tunelessly.
***
The walls of Hades are larger and tougher than any planet. This does not prevent Asterion from pulverising a hole dwarfing Earth through one as he dashes through it, giving Cerberus a curt nod. The dog yawns, tongues hanging out, knowing there's no stopping the man-bull, and there hasn't been for millennia.
Asterion-not the minotaur, not the bull of Minos, he has never been his son or property-spent his first life as a glorified walking stage prop in the play of Theseus' story. After the demigod killed him, he got sent to Tartarus, where he tormented and was tormented in turn.
Eventually, Hades saw his skill, and made him a torturer, letting him eat cannibals and maneaters, in a fit of irony. Asterion glutted himself on the evil souls, becoming powerful enough to punch planets to dust and brawl with Heracles, but that was only a quarter of the transformation.
Minos has absorbed the powers, skills and memories of those he has eaten, becoming a mage, were, and so, so much more. He has also become able to dial up his strength, speed and durability endlessly, on a whim. Finally, he has become so suffused with sin only people without evil in their heart can harm him, the evil failing however strong or esoteric their attacks.
Asterion's first deed after Hades 'accidentally' opened the gates of the Underworld for him, centuries ago, was to find and punish the gods responsible for his existence. Poseidon, for his rage at Minos not sacrificing the Cretan Bull to him, and Aphrodite, for making Pasiphae fall in love with him, like a...a...
Asterion shakes his head as he leaps a distance that would take an anvil nine days to fall in a hundredth of a heartbeat. His mother is dead and happy, sane. Let her rest. The guilty have been punished, though not made humbler. They are gods, after all.
Asterion is a member of the Aegis Adamantine, Greece's supernatural defence agency. It is Eidolon, one of his oldest colleagues, who calls him to Earth through the bond they formed decades ago(even after turning to eating criminals, he never got over, heh, eating women).
Minos arrives on the shores of Crete to see a woman who is not a woman. Eidolon looks up at him, her clasically pretty marble features made even more beautiful by her genuinely fond smile.
'Aster,' she says, already using her copying power to imitate his traits. Two iterations of his powerset are always useful.
'Eidi. The emergency?'
'It will not arrive for a few minutes. When it does, it will be in Athens.'
'It always is...'
'Are you getting cold hooves from visiting your enemy's city?' she teases, head tilted to one side, smile widening.
'Pah! It's always nice to see where his father fell to death after the moron forgot to replace his sail.' If you put Aegeus' organs in a new body, would it be a Father of Theseus Paradox? 'Why'd you call for me? Lowering your standards again?'
Eidolon shakes her head, shoulder-length locks swaying as if they were hair. 'Don't put yourself down again...'
'I'd always go down on-for you,' he replies, dropping a heavy wink. Honestly, a freak like him making a woman smile in exasperation as opposed to scream in horror is reward enough. The fact she was built to help people only makes him more self-conscious. The last time one did, it was Pasiphae before his hunger, unable to be sated by her breast milk, human food or grass, had driven him to eat her guards and his minders.
'I'm sure. You look...different.'
'I do?' He thinks he looks the same as always. Head and shoulders above humans, broad, body covered in coarse black hair. Backwards-jointed, hooved legs. A tail that is always swishing in anticipation of bloodshed, or in joy at it. Ivory horns covered in the blood of the youths he has eaten, which will never dry. One of them was broken in half by Theseus, and Asterion wouldn't heal it if he could. He can and has healed from far worse, including his body's quarks being scattered across realities, but the reminder of his defeat remains.
A spiked nose rings twitches at every-unnecessary-breath, making sure Minos is never truly calm or unhurt. His torturers put it on when he fell in Tartarus, and, just like the broken horn, it cannot be altered.
'Yes. Your eyes are...blazing.'
Ah. It is because of the recent batch of cannibal tribes he has eaten. The Tartarus Engine, as he is known for his ever-growing power, sometimes shows when he has eaten recently through such unintentional displays.
'All the better to see you, my dear,' he purrs huskily, leaning forward to place a hand on her waist, and lowering it. Eidolon's stone dress is part of her body. She feels every touch on-
'Seconds until arrival,' she says curtly, walking away from him. Already, she is tapping into her copy of his powers, and imitating several other beings. His arcane sense can tell: the Nemean Lion, the Lernaean Hydra, Typhon...
Much like Samuel Shiftskin, one of his few and best friends, who can imitate and combine the traits of any beast, Eidolon is a signatory if the Syncretic Treaty. Even existing at her strongest is seen as an act of war, unless creation is under attack from overwhelming outside forces.
'Iron, Aster,' she adds, not looking at him. Asterion nods, asking for an explanation. With a pulse of magic, his flesh becomes iron, while retaining its might.
But, as they dash towards Athens, Asterion can only wonder what is so dangerous, that Eidolon is channeling such power without the pantheons coming down on her head...