The First Kryptonian in Marvel

Earlier that morning, the world was barely waking up when Illyana's morning got its jumpstart from a sudden scream.

"Ahhh!!"

The sound was sharp enough to cut through steel. Illyana's reflexes kicked in before her brain even caught up. Her movements were a blur, lightning-fast, but the moment she locked eyes on the source, she relaxed.

"What's wrong?" Illyana asked, her voice dipping into its usual blend of honeyed warmth and sultry tease, as if her tone alone could calm storms—or start them.

Candice was sitting upright, her expression a mix of alarm, confusion, and mortified realization. She clutched the blanket to her chest like it was a lifeline. "Why are we sleeping together?" she demanded, then hesitated, lifting a corner of the blanket just enough to peek underneath. Her face flushed so red it might've powered the nearest city block. "And... why are we naked?"

Illyana leaned on her elbow, the picture of smug, self-assured charm. "Last night, you were the one who kissed me first," she said, her smile so confident it could sell lies and have you begging for more.

Candice spluttered, her cheeks on fire. "But, but, but… you—you bit me!" Her fingers fluttered to her neck like she was expecting to find something dramatic there—a puncture wound, maybe, or some telltale brand of chaos.

Illyana didn't reply right away. Instead, she leaned in with deliberate slowness, closing the space between them until Candice's breathing hitched. Then, with all the audacity in the world, Illyana kissed her again. And just like that, Candice melted, her arms sliding up and around Illyana's shoulders as if every protest had just gone up in smoke.

When they finally parted, Candice whispered breathlessly, "Are you… like those guys yesterday?"

Illyana's smile softened—not much, just enough to leave it teetering on the line between affection and danger. "Don't worry," she said, evading the question with expert finesse. "I would never harm you."

The reassurance worked. "Mm, I believe you," Candice murmured into Illyana's embrace, her voice muffled and trusting.

For the first time in what felt like ages, Illyana's heart gave a twinge—a fleeting pang of something suspiciously like guilt. She pushed it down with the same efficiency she used to banish foes. "Mm, trust me," she murmured, pressing a soft kiss to Candice's forehead.

Breakfast that morning was all smiles and laughter, their earlier tension swept aside by teasing quips and playful nudges. It was almost enough to make Illyana forget herself. Almost.

As she got ready to leave, Illyana gripped Candice's hands tightly, her tone somewhere between commanding and tender. "I'll be back tonight. Wait for me at home."

Candice nodded obediently, her gaze soft and hopeful. She pulled Illyana in for one last kiss before letting her go, the door closing behind her with an air of reluctant finality.

Once outside, the sun beat down mercilessly, but Illyana's smirk was sharper than any daylight could dull. She stretched, basking in the heat, and let her thoughts tumble into a chaotic spiral of ambition.

"My queen? A side-chick as a blood bag? A faction? I'll take it all," she mused, her lips curling into a grin that promised nothing good.

....

At S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, the air was thick with tension, and the only sound was the faint hum of monitors lining the walls. Nick Fury leaned back in his chair, staring at his now-cold coffee with an expression that could curdle milk. His bloodshot eyes roamed over the data flashing on the massive screen in front of him, but nothing seemed to click.

The files on his desk, stamped with enough red tape to rival Christmas decorations, were proving equally useless.

"The Red Reaper," Fury muttered to himself, his voice gravelly and low—a sound of frustration barely masked by years of practiced composure. "Blonde in a red hoodie on a murder spree in Hell's Kitchen, then she added another dozen bodies to the count yesterday in Chinatown. Same blonde spotted in Brazil 15 minutes earlier, handling Blonsky and his men and letting Banner escape in the aftermath. How? Then there's a blonde in a red cloak fighting vampires. And another one—looking like Kara—crossing paths with Blade and killing 50 or so vampires in seconds."

He rubbed his temple, exhaustion gnawing at his patience. "All this coincidence is starting to stink. Add sightings of two female figures: one in a black suit with a white spider, the other in a black suit with a red cloak. Then there's the female knight in black armor who vaporized a warehouse and wiped out dozens of agents.

"And let's not forget the blond vampire who's supposedly stronger than Jonathan Walker. Overpowered blond women walking around New York like damn phantoms..." Fury trailed off, his gaze narrowing as the pieces refused to fall into place.

His mind circled back to the unifying thread. "Is this all related to Miss Vasilissa?"

Fury's hand shot out, pressing the communicator button on his desk.

"Director," came the response, a calm and measured male voice. Agent Coulson—reliable as ever, the man was practically S.H.I.E.L.D.'s human metronome of efficiency.

"Go and have a chat with our lawyer," Fury ordered, the words clipped but deliberate.

"Matt Murdock?" Coulson asked, already a step ahead.

Fury's lips twitched in approval. "Exactly. See if he can shed some light on this Red Reaper business."

"On it, sir," Coulson replied smoothly before the line clicked off.

Fury leaned back again, steepling his fingers as his one good eye fixed on the screen.

"Maybe Murdock can give me something solid," he muttered, though the words carried more doubt than hope. "Otherwise, I'm putting in a requisition for aspirin."

...

Somewhere, Bruce Banner's situation was far from fortunate. No money. Clothes barely hanging together by a thread of a miracle. He wasn't surviving so much as stubbornly refusing to disappear. Occasionally, someone kind—or maybe just pitying—offered him a ride, but those moments were rare, almost as if spotting a unicorn in traffic. Resting against a utility pole, he let his eyes droop, grasping for a moment of peace that never really came. The morning's commotion didn't wake him gently; it slapped him back into consciousness.

A stranger, driven by either compassion or guilt, handed him a small wad of crumpled bills. Bruce didn't ask questions—he wasn't in a position to. Moments later, he was clad in fresh, secondhand clothes that almost passed for normal. He hoped the upgrade would make hitchhiking less of a hassle. Maybe a new look could turn his luck around. Optimism, even in scraps, was all he had left.

Meanwhile, Blonsky sat outside General Ross's office, jaw clenched tighter than a vise. His hands flexed open and shut, as though trying to crush the memory of his squad's humiliation. They'd been dismantled—obliterated, really—by someone who didn't even kill anyone. That almost made it worse. Precision wasn't just skill; it was dominance.

And Banner? Blonsky knew damn well it wasn't him. The guy ran at the first sign of trouble. But the figure in red? She moved with authority. Every step, every strike, was calculated to remind Blonsky's team just how out of their league they were.

"Blonsky!" Ross's bark cut through his spiraling thoughts, sharp and jarring.

Blonsky shot to his feet as the door swung open, revealing Ross in full-on 'I'm-not-angry-I'm-just-disappointed' mode. "Get in here."

Following Ross down a stark corridor that reeked of power and paranoia, Blonsky couldn't help but notice the arsenal around them. Weapons that looked as if they belonged in a sci-fi flick gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights. It was military porn, and Ross was walking him through the centerfold.

Finally, Ross stopped and spun on his heel, his expression set to "tell me you're stupid without saying you're stupid."

"Tell me what happened."

Blonsky hesitated, feeling the weight of failure settle on his shoulders, heavy as a lead jacket. "Sir, it wasn't just Banner. Someone else showed up. Took out our weapons, fried the comms—hell, even our trucks wouldn't start after she hit us. It wasn't just good—it was surgical."

Ross's eyes narrowed. "Describe her."

Blonsky inhaled sharply, the image burned into his memory. "Red hoodie dress. Black boots. Couldn't see her face. She moved fast. Too fast. By the time we reacted, she had already disarmed us."

Ross's jaw tightened, a flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. "And Banner?"

Blonsky exhaled sharply, frustration spilling into his words. "He ran. Bolted as if his ass was on fire while we were busy dealing with... her. I don't get it—why would she help him? Who the hell is she?"

Ross didn't answer right away. Instead, he moved to a table littered with classified chaos—documents that looked older than dirt and vials of faintly glowing liquid that screamed biohazard. Picking up one of the vials, Ross turned it in his hand, the light refracting ominously through the glass.

"You've been in combat long enough to know not everything makes sense," Ross said finally, his voice measured and cold. "But here's what you need to understand: Banner isn't just some scientist. He's carrying something inside him. Something that doesn't play by the rules."

Blonsky frowned, skepticism written all over his face. "With all due respect, sir, Banner couldn't fight his way out of a paper bag. What could he possibly have that's so dangerous?"

Ross's expression darkened, his tone dropping into something that felt more like a threat than an answer. "The kind of thing that doesn't need fists to destroy you. The kind of thing that could level a city if we're not careful."

Blonsky blinked, feeling the heavy weight of Ross's words press against him. "What are you talking about?" His voice came out more strained than he intended.

Ross set the vial down with a soft click and turned fully to face him, the shadows in the room suddenly feeling much colder. "You've heard of bio-enhancement programs?" he asked, his tone low, as if the question carried a thousand unspoken threats.

Blonsky, trying to maintain his cool, nodded cautiously. "Super-soldier experiments. I thought those were abandoned decades ago." He let out a breath that sounded too forced to be casual.

Ross's expression hardened, the air thickening around them. "They were. Officially." His voice dropped into something colder, more dangerous. "But Banner? He was working on something. A modified version of the serum. Something more advanced." He paused, letting the weight of the words hang in the air. "When it failed, it didn't just go away. It stayed in him."

Blonsky's brow furrowed in confusion. "Are you saying... he's enhanced?"

"Not just enhanced," Ross responded, his voice gravelly. "He's something else entirely. And whatever that... ally of his was? They're part of the problem. This isn't just about Banner anymore. It's about what they represent."

The weight of Ross's words crushed down on Blonsky, his mind racing to process it all. "And you think I can stop them?" he asked, his voice tight.

Ross allowed a faint, almost cruel smirk to tug at the corner of his mouth. "You want to level the playing field, don't you? I can make that happen."

Blonsky's hands clenched into fists so hard his knuckles cracked. "I don't like getting outclassed, sir," he growled.

Ross's gaze sharpened, almost predatory. "Good." He leaned in slightly, his voice a whisper of command. "Then follow my lead. You'll have what you need soon enough."

Later, deep in the muggy Florida swamps, Blonsky's body was pushed past the point of exhaustion—into that thin, searing line between pain and something else. Sandbags flew apart with every brutal punch, their fabric shredding as if it were tissue paper. His fists were bruised, his bones screamed, but none of it mattered. He didn't stop. Not when his muscles burned, not when sweat poured down his back in rivers. All that mattered was the figure in red, the figure that had embarrassed him in front of his team.

"They think they're untouchable," Blonsky muttered to himself, venom dripping from his words as he landed one final, thunderous strike that obliterated the last sandbag, sending bits of torn fabric fluttering to the ground. He stood there for a moment, chest heaving, his heart pounding like a war drum in his ears. The mix of rage and anticipation was intoxicating.

"You're ready," Ross's voice cut through the swamp's heavy silence, as thick and ominous as the air itself.

Blonsky turned sharply, snapping to attention. His face was a mask of fury and determination. "I'm ready for whatever's next, General," he growled, every word a promise.

Ross nodded slowly, satisfaction flickering in his eyes. "Good." He straightened, his posture rigid with purpose. "Let's make sure no one ever gets the upper hand on you again."

...

A hand poked out from beneath the fortress of blankets, flailing like it was on a quest for survival. After a few aimless swipes, it found the AC remote and hit the button. The frosty air, which had turned the room into a meat locker overnight, finally relented. The temperature began its sluggish crawl back to human levels.

From the depths of her cocoon, Sarah emerged, her blonde hair sticking up like she'd fought a wind turbine in her sleep. She squinted at the glowing clock on her nightstand, and yeah, it confirmed her lazy suspicions: way past normal-human wakeup time. But after dealing with Banner's problems in Brazil, smacking down a dozen of Hand ninjas in Chinatown who thought they'd take over her turf, who could blame her? A shower was in order.

Underwear first. Because priorities. Hair, however, was the existential crisis of the moment. She could rock it short for convenience, long for drama, or somewhere in between for maximum indecision. Thanks to Mystique's abilities, she could alter the strands with a thought—color, style, texture, the whole shebang. But that level of effort? Not happening today. Decision fatigue won the round, and her hair stayed as-is: a chaotic mess that screamed don't talk to me until tea is involved.

Next was clothing. The walk-in closet, a kaleidoscope of her questionable fashion choices, stretched out like a miniature department store. A rainbow of possibilities, all far too exhausting to deal with this early in the day (or, well, afternoon). Skivvies and the trek to the living room would have to suffice. "Too bad Karen's already gone to work," she muttered with a smirk, "and can't admire my minimalist look."

As if summoned by her inner monologue, the Ava-drone zipped into view, carrying a plate of breakfast. It was the kind of English spread that screamed eat me if you want to survive: protein-packed, hearty, and designed with just enough culinary finesse to not look like prison food. Sarah snagged the remote with one hand and a slice of toast with the other, flicking on the TV.

The screen jumped to life with its usual dose of cheery morning horror. A news anchor droned about a massive warehouse explosion outside Chinatown. "Fifty-three casualties," they said, the words rolling off their tongue like they were announcing a weather report. Sarah switched the channel, her patience for doom already at capacity.

The next channel showed a reporter live at a bar in Brooklyn, where the aftermath of last night's chaos had clearly spilled over. "Live from Brooklyn," the reporter began, standing in front of a still-smoking pile of rubble, "where last night's tragic incident unfolded. Numerous intoxicated patrons—"

Sarah choked on her Earl Grey, setting the mug down with an overly dramatic gag. "Every damn time," she muttered. "All I want is some spicy, unsanitized chaos, and they give me the PG version. Lame."

She polished off the last of her breakfast and tossed the plate to the Ava-drone, which whizzed off with the efficiency of a well-paid butler. Time for work, or whatever qualified as that today. She threw on a practical outfit—black pants, combat boots, and a fitted jacket—and descended the stairs to her Tech Forge, ready to tackle whatever madness awaited her below.

"Let's see what fresh hell is on today's to-do list," she muttered, cracking her knuckles and grinning.

...

Sitting down at her workstation, Sarah let out a long, deliberate sigh. For weeks, she'd been too tangled up in dimension-hopping and smacking down so-called "crime" to carve out time for her real passion: scheming. World domination—ahem, self-strengthening—wasn't exactly a spur-of-the-moment affair. It demanded finesse, strategy, and, frankly, some serious downtime with a whiteboard and an unhealthy amount of coffee.

Unfortunately, most of her grand ideas were the slow-burn type. Krypton Technologies was humming along smoothly—sure, that was Kara's stupid mission anyway. As for her, her current obsession was bolstering her own survival odds. Recent events—the Hulk's appearance, for starters—had made her aware of an uncomfortable truth: her body wasn't as invincible as she would like it to be. Heavy hitters were crawling out of the woodwork. The Hulk would be bad enough, but the Sentry? If he showed up, she'd need more than snark and elemental control to survive.

Her mind zeroed in on a few options, each one more ambitious than the last. First on the docket: mechanics, armors, Combat Realizer-esque units—hell, why not mechas? Every girl dreams of piloting a skyscraper-tall death machine, right? Sure, she'd absorbed Sebastian Shaw's mutant powers, but her own durability? Still a work in progress—or maybe she just wasn't willing to test her limits. Could you blame her? And if vibranium shipments—courtesy of Kara's Wakanda mission—arrived as planned, she'd have the raw materials to make something truly insane.

Option two? Biochemical enhancement. A super-soldier serum, further refined using the X-Men blood samples she'd quietly collected. She toyed with the idea briefly, then dismissed it. No way was she gambling with her body like that. Her energy construct body wasn't something she completely understood yet. Thought, it could mimic humanity down to the last molecule. But tinkering with it? One wrong move, and she might unravel herself into cosmic glitter.

Her train of thought was derailed by a sudden, stray idea. Twice now, she'd crossed paths with Gwen Stacy—codenamed Ghost Spider. Both encounters had left her itching with intrigue.

"Ghost Spider, oh Ghost Spider," Sarah muttered, spinning her pen idly between her fingers. "Your blood is so precious. Think of the possibilities."

Sarah pictured it: the Spider-Sense. Like a bomb squad's ultimate cheat code. No guessing, no hesitation, just precise action. Bullets dodged before they were fired. Fists avoided before they even swung. Ghost Spider was impressive, no doubt. But what if that precognition could be... upgraded? True future sight. Now that was a weapon.

Then there was option three. Sarah leaned back in her chair, her smirk widening as she let her most ridiculous idea unfurl. She was, after all, a walking encyclopedia of bioengineering brilliance. She understood human biology better than most people understood their own cell phones. Mechanics? A joke.

Her plan? Bio-nanites. Not just the self-replicating kind that mimicked human cells—she was talking about the next evolution. Machines so advanced they could out-human humans. She'd already created androids capable of reproduction—yes, actual messy reproduction with humans. So why not take it a step further?

Step one: upgrade her existing nanobots into super Bio-Nanites. Step two: build a synthetic body so biologically flawless it could house her consciousness. Her abilities weren't tied to her current form, anyway. Every reincarnation, every new body, still carried her powers. Transferring to a synthetic one was just a logistical challenge, not an existential crisis.

The why? Simple: mutations. This universe was crawling with them. X-Men, Inhumans, Eternals—they were proof that humans, given the right genetic nudge, could punch way above their weight class. A synthetic human body could harness those mutations. And with her library of mutant DNA samples, she had plenty of material to work with.

But even as the thought thrilled her, she filed it under "contingency plans." This universe might be dangerous, but she wasn't ready to play her trump cards just yet. 

"Besides, Kara would surely kill me herself. That plan was lunacy."

"Let's focus on the basics," Sarah said aloud, snapping herself out of her musings. Her grin turned playful as she scribbled the words across her notes: Armor. Mecha. Every girl's dream.