"Are you prepared to eliminate them all in one decisive strike?" Eunice's voice carried an odd quality, something between amusement and pity that didn't quite match her current circumstances.
She stood bound like the other prisoners, her hands secured behind her back with energy shackles that hummed with suppressive frequencies. The restraints were designed to prevent her from accessing her vast array of combat capabilities, to reduce her from a synthezoid weapon system to a helpless captive.
But the Revengers, made arrogant and careless by their immortality, had made a critical miscalculation.
They'd imprisoned her physical form and suppressed her energy projection systems. But they'd done nothing to sever her artificial intelligence from external networks. Eunice's consciousness, that sophisticated matrix of quantum processing and adaptive learning algorithms, remained fully functional and completely connected to the broader Plumber communication systems.
She'd already contacted Azmuth, Ben's personal AI assistant and tactical coordinator. She knew exactly who was coming to rescue them, knew what preparations had been made, understood the full scope of what was about to happen to this overconfident base and everyone in it.
The answer was simple enough: there were no elaborate preparations, no complex multi-stage tactical plans, no carefully coordinated strike teams approaching from multiple vectors.
Ben Parker was coming, and that was more than sufficient.
He was, in Eunice's carefully calculated assessment, effectively invincible against threats at this level.
"We were indeed caught off guard by your dimensional transportation trap," Anthony Stark admitted, his voice carrying the smug satisfaction of someone who believed temporary setbacks meant nothing against ultimate victory. "You managed to exile us to that barren prison dimension through clever tactics and superior positioning."
His corrupted armor pulsed with diseased light, organic tissue spreading across metal plating in patterns that suggested both technological infection and biological cancer. "But this is our home territory now! We control the battlefield, we set the parameters, we determine the rules of engagement!"
The Anthony Stark punctuated his declaration by delivering a vicious kick to Steve Rogers's ribs, the impact producing a meaty thud that echoed through the prison cell.
The normal universe's Tony Stark, despite being bound and helpless himself, felt deeply satisfied by the sight. A vindictive grin spread across his face as he watched his best friend get brutalized by an alternate version of himself.
"I'd give that kick an eight out of ten," Tony announced with the air of an Olympic judge evaluating a particularly impressive performance. "Excellent follow-through, good hip rotation, solid impact. You could improve the technique by—"
He leaned forward with malicious enthusiasm, offering detailed coaching. "Kick him in the ass! I've been wanting to do that for years! That perky little butt deserves a good solid boot, and—"
Cancer Captain America's elbow slammed into Tony's jaw mid-sentence, the blow delivered with enough force to rattle his teeth and fill his mouth with the copper taste of blood.
"Behave yourself, prisoner," the corrupted Steve growled, his voice lacking any of the original's nobility or restraint.
Despite the pain radiating through his face, despite knowing he was helpless and at their mercy, Tony couldn't resist muttering, "Don't you people know anything about proper treatment of prisoners of war? There are Geneva Conventions, you know. International law. Basic human decency."
His defiance earned him a death glare from his captors, but he met their eyes without flinching.
"You're all finished when Ben arrives," Tony continued, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth but his confidence unshaken. "He's going to tear this place apart and everyone in it."
Cancer Captain America's hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Tony's throat and lifting him bodily off the ground. The corrupted hero's tumor-riddled face pressed close, close enough that Tony could smell the rot beneath the skin, could see the madness burning in eyes that had once held honor and principle.
"Unfortunately for you and your rescue party," the Cancer Steve hissed, "we are genuinely immortal. Death no longer has any claim on us. We cannot be killed, cannot be stopped, cannot be defeated."
His grip tightened, cutting off Tony's air supply. "This 'Ben' you keep mentioning—he's the one with the transformation device, correct? Like those two variants who helped us escape the Null Void?"
"Those worthless creatures will only deliver themselves to slaughter," Cancer Captain Marvel interjected, her corrupted face twisted with absolute certainty. "Anyone foolish enough to attempt a rescue is simply committing suicide."
Their understanding of the Omnitrix's capabilities derived entirely from observing Mad Ben and Bad Ben in action. Those two variants had certainly demonstrated impressive power, accessing transformations that could challenge planetary threats and manipulate reality on significant scales.
But they weren't anywhere near the level required to threaten beings who'd murdered Death herself.
"No matter what alien form he assumes," Cancer Carol continued, her voice carrying the weight of experience and inevitable victory, "he cannot permanently kill us. Physical destruction is meaningless. Molecular annihilation accomplishes nothing. We always come back."
She paused, considering potential threats with the detached analysis of someone evaluating theoretical problems rather than immediate dangers. "Those warriors in black armor—the Kryptonian forces—they might pose a legitimate challenge. Their sustained thermal output approaches levels that could theoretically prevent resurrection if maintained long enough."
She was referring to the New Kryptonian soldiers who'd brutally decimated their forces during the first confrontation, the superpowered beings who'd torn through their invasion fleet like wolves through sheep.
But even that threat didn't genuinely worry her.
The fundamental issue remained unchanged: the Cancer forces couldn't be killed permanently. Death had been murdered in their universe. Without that cosmic principle to claim them, resurrection was automatic and inevitable.
"Last time you caught us unprepared," Cancer Carol admitted with the casual tone of someone discussing minor tactical errors. "You exploited our unfamiliarity with interdimensional combat, used clever portal placement to exile us before we could properly respond."
Her tumor-encrusted lips pulled into something approximating a smile. "But here, on our territory, we have advantages you cannot overcome. We command corrupted Celestials—cosmic gods whose power exceeds anything your forces have demonstrated. We control the Galactus Engine, reverse-engineered technology that consumes stellar matter and converts it directly into offensive energy!"
The Revengers had spent considerable resources salvaging and repurposing that weapon after their conquest of this universe's Galactus, the World Devourer who'd fallen to their cancer plague like everything else.
"What do you possibly have that could challenge such overwhelming power?" Cancer Carol demanded, her rhetorical question hanging in the air like a challenge to fate itself.
"If your precious Ben dares to come here, we'll make him—"
BOOM!!!
The explosion rattled the entire station, a massive impact that sent vibrations through hundreds of thousands of tons of metal and organic growth. The structural integrity fields flickered, emergency lighting activated, and proximity alarms began shrieking warnings about hull breaches and atmospheric decompression.
Cancer Captain Marvel and Cancer Captain America both lost their balance, stumbling like drunk sailors as the floor bucked beneath their feet. Only desperate grabs at nearby surfaces prevented them from falling completely.
Tony Stark, still on the ground and bound, managed to raise one eyebrow in an expression of insufferable smugness. "Well, looks like he's here. What exactly were you planning to make him do?"
"Shut up!" Cancer Carol snarled, her confidence cracking slightly as more alarms joined the cacophony. "Just wait! You'll all be reunited with your rescue party soon enough! And you'll all receive the same gift of immortality we possess! Everyone gets to join the winning team!"
The Revengers departed in a rush, their movements suggesting urgency despite their stated confidence. Behind them, the captured heroes exchanged glances that mixed hope with concern.
Throughout the massive base, alert systems activated in cascading waves. Red emergency lighting bathed every corridor in crimson illumination that made the organic growths covering the walls look even more diseased and wrong.
"Attention all personnel!" The announcement echoed through internal communications, broadcast to every Cancer being in the facility. "The bait has been taken! Hostile rescue force has breached the outer hull! All forces converge on entry point!"
The tactical coordinator's voice carried vicious anticipation. "Capture them all immediately! Especially the one wearing the transformation device—we owe our variant colleague a small gift of gratitude for liberating us from that prison dimension!"
Ben Parker was the only target they believed they could actually kill permanently. His death would serve dual purposes: eliminating a significant threat and repaying Bad Ben's assistance with a suitable reward.
Throughout the station, Revengers mobilized with terrifying efficiency. Corrupted versions of Earth's greatest heroes poured from every section, joined by Cancer villains and various other super-powered beings who'd succumbed to the Many-Angled Ones' influence.
The cancer cells overriding their consciousness eliminated previous allegiances and conflicts. Friend or enemy, hero or villain—such distinctions no longer mattered. They were all servants of the same incomprehensible cosmic horrors now, unified in purpose if nothing else.
Meanwhile, at the station's exterior, where Ben's entry had created a gaping wound in the hull, the Space-Time Wheel's nanomolecular components flowed like liquid metal back into Ben's Omnitrix, the interdimensional spacecraft collapsing and folding into a space barely larger than a wristwatch.
Behind him, the breached section exposed the station's interior to hard vacuum. Debris, atmosphere, and loose materials were being sucked out into space in a howling vortex of decompression.
But none of it affected Ben in the slightest.
He didn't bother transforming into a space-capable form, didn't activate protective fields or atmospheric shields. He simply stood in the void, perfectly comfortable, breathing nothing because his biology no longer required such mundane things when he chose not to bother with them.
His power had long since transcended ordinary human limitations. Between his authority over the Nine Realms, his status as a Dimensional Lord, and the Omnitrix's constant evolutionary upgrades to his base physiology, concepts like "vacuum exposure" or "radiation damage" had become meaningless.
"The transponder signal just cut out," Ben noted, lowering his wrist and staring into the station's depths. "Looks like they destroyed the Plumber badges. Probably trying to prevent us from tracking the prisoners' exact locations."
He studied the massive structure before them, assessing its scale and complexity with tactical precision. The base was nearly a quarter the size of Earth's moon, a sprawling maze of corridors, chambers, and organic growth that defied conventional architectural logic.
"Finding Eunice and the others in this labyrinth won't be easy," Looma observed, her four crimson eyes scanning the visible passages and calculating optimal search patterns.
She carried her reforged hammer in one massive hand, the weapon pulsing with barely contained power. Fire from Sindra the Ash Queen's essence coiled along its length, eager to be unleashed.
"It doesn't matter," Hela declared, her voice vibrating with barely suppressed bloodlust. "As long as we kill everyone we encounter, we'll eventually find them. The elimination process is quite straightforward."
She trembled with anticipation, her fingers flexing around the hilts of weapons that hadn't yet materialized. Every muscle in her body screamed readiness for violence, for the artistic expression of death she'd been denied for far too long.
"Then let's split up and cover more ground," Ben decided. "Eclipsian Swampfire." The enhanced version of Swampfire with the Crown of the Death
"I... I'll stay with you..." Charmcaster's voice emerged small and uncertain, lacking her usual confident sarcasm.
She glanced to her left, where Looma Red Wind stood like a monument to physical violence. Four arms, each capable of pulverizing steel. Muscles defined with sculptural precision. Eyes that promised brutal efficiency in combat.
Then she looked to her right, where Hela practically vibrated with murderous enthusiasm. The Goddess of Death wore an expression of eager anticipation, occasionally licking her lips as if imagining the taste of blood. Her entire demeanor screamed "dangerous yandere who collects knives and probably has a shrine dedicated to murder."
Between the muscular four-armed violence machine and the gloomy knife-obsessed death goddess, staying close to Ben seemed infinitely safer.
Charmcaster unconsciously stepped closer, until she was practically pressed against Swampfire's plant-matter body.
"Stop, you're literally plastering yourself to me," Ben's voice emerged muffled through Swampfire's altered physiology as he reached out with one vine-like arm and gently peeled Charmcaster away from his torso.
In the brief seconds he'd taken to remove the clingy witch, both Hela and Looma had vanished into the station's depths. They'd disappeared with the speed of predators who'd spotted prey and couldn't contain their hunting instincts any longer.
Hela moved through the corridors like death incarnate, which was fitting given her divine nature and fundamental purpose.
She craved killing more than anything else in existence. Battle, violence, the artistic expression of perfectly executed murder—these were the things that made her feel truly alive. Combat was her purpose, her passion, her greatest joy.
For three thousand years, her father Odin had imprisoned her in Helheim, denying her the one thing that gave her existence meaning. She'd been caged, suppressed, forced into inactivity while her warrior's soul screamed for release.
Then she'd been freed for mere days before Ben Parker captured her and locked her away again, trading one prison for another with barely enough time between to properly stretch her metaphorical wings.
Now, finally, she had the opportunity to kill freely, to indulge in her nature without restriction or judgment. How could she possibly let this chance pass unexploited?
But beyond simple bloodlust, Hela felt something else in this universe—a fundamental absence that called to her divine nature like a beacon.
Death itself was missing.
Not "a death god" or "death goddesses" plural, but Death singular—the cosmic entity, one of the five fundamental forces that governed all reality.
The distinction was important. Death gods like herself, Hades, Anubis, and countless others across infinite pantheons were divine beings who wielded authority over mortality within their specific domains. They were powerful, certainly, but ultimately local administrators of a much larger cosmic principle.
Death, the abstract entity, was different entirely. Death was the sum total of all mortality across all realities, the concrete manifestation of an abstract concept, the being who gave meaning to endings and finality.
Death was the God of Death, singular and absolute.
But in this universe, that fundamental force had been murdered. The cosmic position stood vacant, the authority unclaimed, the power waiting for someone capable of seizing it.
Hela's mind raced with possibilities. Her thoughts accelerated involuntarily, ambition sparking like wildfire.
If Death itself was absent, if that cosmic authority had no current holder, then who could claim it? Who would fill that void? What being possessed both the power and the nature necessary to inherit such a monumental responsibility?
The possibilities drove her forward with renewed urgency, her movements quickening as she navigated the twisting passages.
Then she encountered her first opposition.
The Cancer forces appeared at the corridor's far end, a coordinated strike team led by a figure she recognized from intelligence briefings: Ronan the Accuser, though this version seemed more beast than man.
The Kree warrior's traditional robes hung in tatters, revealing corrupted flesh beneath. His face had warped into something animalistic, features twisted by cancer until they barely resembled anything humanoid. Tumors bulged across his skin, some splitting open to reveal writhing organic matter underneath.
He brandished his Universal Weapon—the massive hammer that served as both armament and symbol of office—and roared at his assembled forces with bestial fury.
"Go! Seize her! Bring her down!" The command emerged garbled, his vocal cords damaged by corruption but his intent clear enough.
Hundreds of Kree soldiers surged forward in a coordinated rush. Their tactical formation was flawless, their movements synchronized, their weapons primed and ready.
But none of it mattered.
Without death, there was no fear. They charged without hesitation, without self-preservation instinct, because they believed themselves invulnerable to consequence.
But what happened when death returned to the equation?
Hela's smile was beautiful, serene, and absolutely terrifying. She raised one slender hand with graceful precision, and black thorns materialized from nowhere, solidifying into razor-sharp blades that hummed with deadly promise.
Whoosh!
The first blade flew faster than thought, piercing a Kree soldier's throat with surgical precision. The warrior stumbled, clutched at the wound, made choking sounds that gurgled with blood.
And then he fell.
Not temporarily. Not into unconsciousness with the promise of resurrection.
He died. Permanently. Finally. His soul torn from his body and claimed by the authority Hela wielded, returning mortality to life that had forgotten what endings meant.
Then came the second death. The third. The fourth.
Black blades multiplied and flew in graceful arcs, each one finding a target, each one delivering the gift of true finality. The cancer-corrupted soldiers fell like wheat before a scythe, their immortality stripped away and replaced with honest, unavoidable death.
Initially, Ronan didn't notice anything amiss. His corrupted mind focused on tactics and coordination, on overwhelming this single target through numerical superiority.
But as his forces dwindled, as the pile of corpses grew higher, as the number of living soldiers decreased while the dead remained stubbornly, impossibly dead, understanding finally penetrated his diseased consciousness.
"You killed them?" The question emerged strangled, disbelief warring with dawning horror. "How? How is this possible?"
Doubt and genuine fear arose in the beast's corrupted heart, emotions he'd forgotten how to experience.
This shouldn't be happening. Only a Coroner—a being closest to Death, someone with unique authority over mortality—should be able to permanently kill them.
But the Coroner had already been captured! Lord Mar-Vell himself had taken custody of Thanos, the being they'd identified as fitting that cosmic role!
Had they arrested the wrong person? Was their intelligence flawed?
Ronan's trembling hand activated his communication device, desperate to report this catastrophic development to his superiors. But before he could speak, terrified voices already flooded the channel.
"Be careful! They can kill us! Permanent death!"
"It's not supposed to be possible! We should be—"
"AAAAAHHH!!!" The scream cut off mid-utterance, replaced by static and silence.
Click.
Ronan's hand froze. The communication device slipped from nerveless fingers, clattering against the floor with a sound like a death knell.
An expression of absolute incomprehension spread across his beast-like face, his corrupted mind struggling to process the impossible.
"How can this be?" he whispered, the words barely audible. "How can there be so many Coroners? Multiple beings with Death's authority? It violates everything we understand about cosmic principles!"
Hela strode forward with regal grace, her feet stepping over corpses strewn across the corridor like discarded toys. She held materialized swords in both hands now, their black blades drinking in the light and promising oblivion.
She spoke with the disdain of a queen addressing peasants who'd forgotten their place in the cosmic hierarchy:
"Perhaps you should have maintained more reverence for Death itself. Immortality made you arrogant, made you forget that endings serve a purpose."
Her smile was cold, beautiful, absolute. "Of course, the same principle applies to showing proper respect for the King of Sakaar."
Whoosh!
The black blade severed Ronan's head in one clean motion, separating it from his shoulders before his corrupted reflexes could even attempt a defense.
The Accuser's body collapsed, truly and finally dead.
Hela didn't pause to admire her work. She continued forward without breaking stride, her voice carrying through the corridors with supernatural clarity.
"It's time to come out, my dear brothers."