Probation 6

Desert rose, desert plain

I have seen so much pain

Now I see into the eyes of a girl

No more, no more, cruel world

Cruel, cruel world, must I go on?

Cruel, cruel world, I'm moving on

I've been living too fast

And I've been living too wrong

Cruel, cruel world, I'm gone

********

Rita Wayword, Spiral, still lived.

And she hated that.

Life had not been kind to Rita.

Falling in love with the wrong man at the wrong time left her stranded in a foreign universe, tortured and altered to serve as the right-hand woman of the leader of that world.

Then the Simurgh got her.

Anyone familiar with the Endbringers knows they don't really get magic.

They can see its effects, fight them, and are not blind to its potential to damage them. But it's a hiccup in their system, a weakness that the heroes of this world have used to keep them at bay.

It has been conclusively proven, time and time again, that heroes who draw their powers from technology, biology, or any combination thereof, are measurably less effective against Endbringers than heroes with equivalent powers in magic.

Superman has never landed a hit on Ziz.

Shazam has.

The Entities from which Shards and Endbringers originate are creatures of biology and science. They lacked the creativity and imagination to use magic. Older Cycles they had engaged in had not brought forth enough information to combat this natural flaw in their design.

While Earth was not the only planet in the universe to hold magic, certainly not the multi-verse, it was the first one to have enough people who used it as their source of power for it to pose a genuine threat to the Cycle.

The Simurgh had plans to change that, to gather knowledge, data, and experimental data on magic so it would stop ruining her plans.

Rita Wayword, Spiral, would have been the tool she used to remove her one weakness.

So the Endbringer pulled the six-armed mutant from Mojoworld to Madison, altering her cybernetic implants so that she could not act on her own. All the angelic-shaped being had to do was sever a slight connection between the brain and the automatic control unit of her implants. By measures of those physical controls, getting around her immunity from possession, she would follow the orders of anyone and everyone.

Trapped in the prison of her own mind, Rita could only watch, helpless for over a year, as her body did cruel, unspeakable acts. Not that she felt guilty over them, long gone mad as she was, even before the Simurgh pulled her through. Her helplessness just fuelled her rage and sadism.

The urge to lash out grew with each order she was forced to bend to, each new master she must serve.

Her only times of self-control were when the self-preservation modules would allow her to act against targets. In those brief instances of freedom, Rita relished the pain she inflicted on others, a tiny part of what was inflicted on her.

Through these control methods, the Simurgh could regulate her use of magic by using others as a medium. The Endbringer predicted an increase of 1/10619863 of a percent of increased efficiency of dealing with magic every time Spiral cast a spell.

Of course, that was not the extent of her plans regarding the six armed mutants, as she was still following the Prime Directive. Spiral had enormous magical potential, enough to be a Sorcerer Supreme candidate if adequately trained and motivated.

If she could use even a fraction of that potential, then there was a risk she could overthrow the Simurgh's plans, but at the same time, the more magic she used, the more data the Enbringer could aggregate.

The key was to release Spiral's shackles in such a way as to fulfill the Prime Directive at the same time as directing her to create more data with minimal risk.

During Ziz's next attack, Johannesburg, in the spring of 2019, she would release the Butcher from her dimensional prison, trapped there by the Scarlet Witch when the body-hopping villain had attempted to have Magneto kill them.

Filled with wroth, the villain would leave for the US, the last known location of the mutant father and daughter. While there, the Butcher would carve another swath of destruction through the west coast, dying twice and gathering further powers, even as their goals changed with different hosts.

Then, in a joint meeting with other PRT heads, one James Tagg would put forth the idea of 'trapping' the Butcher in the body of Spiral, held in their custody for over a year.

Unaware that Spiral was immune to possession.

Unaware that the process would 'free' Rita from the control of her implants thanks to one of the Butcher's powers healing the connection to the automatic control unit.

The shackles Mojo and the Simurgh had placed on Spiral would be lifted through the Butcher.

In two attacks, a total of forty-seven minutes and thirteen seconds, the Simurgh will have unleased a magician with enough power to qualify as the Sorcerer Supreme, who could teleport through dimensions, who held shards of all the other Butcher's powers, and one who suffered from intense psychosis at the hands of PRT and heroes due to their wariness of a Ziz bomb.

With so little effort, the Endbringer would gather all the data she needed on magic, satisfy her Prime Directive, and create one of the greatest threats the world had ever seen.

Unable to be killed due to fear of the Butcher moving to a new host.

Unable to be imprisoned, thanks to her powerful teleportation.

But the best-laid plans of mice and Endbringers oft go astray.

In all her predictions, the Simurgh did not, could not, see herself being 'Nom-ed' to death by a dragon the size of Great Britain.

Nor could she have predicted that Amanda Waller would send Spiral to the Island, where she would be killed by the Faerie Queen, who was still trapped in the Birdcage in the Endbringer's predictions.

If Ciara's power was Shard based, as it was in Worm, that would have been the end of Rita Wayword, able to pass on. Finally freed from the prison of her body and mind.

But that wasn't the end for poor Rita Wayword.

Glaistig Uaine's power might have started out the same as her counterparts, but it had attracted the attention of something... Blacker.

The Rot was not Shard-based.

And so Rita Wayword died, yet still lived, immune to the control of the Parlement of Decay thanks to her mutation.

The Simurgh's plan succeeded beyond her wildest dreams, as the shade of Rita Wayword, Spiral, screamed her pain, rage, and freedom.

Ready to lash out, to rain destruction on those who had done this to her, Rita tried to teleport to her once prison so she may exact her bloody vengeance on those who had confined and controlled her. From there, the rest of the PRT. Then Mojoworld. Then Longshot. Then everyone and everything else.

But she couldn't.

Spiral's magical senses reached out to her destination, grasping for the spatial/temporal coordinates of the cell she was so familiar with in a PRT containment facility.

But her senses found nothing.

Nothing but the smooth, glittering Jewel.

No longer controlled, yet still trapped, Rita screamed.

She screamed not because she was in pain or trying to intimidate anyone.

Spiral screamed for all the years she wanted to scream but could not.

********

"AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!

Sprial started to dance, screaming her undead throat raw as her hips gyrated and her arms waived maniacally in frenzied movement.

Deathstroke threw himself to the side.

Having spent weeks with the mutant, he knew any spell she cast that needed that much movement would be enormously powerful.

Even with his decisive actions, Slade Wilson would have died in those first few seconds if not for Solomon Grundy.

The shade of the great zombie launched itself at the dancing spell caster in an instant, obeying the unspoken command of the Avatar of the Black.

He was too late to stop the spell from being cast.

BOOOM!

The ship shattered as the explosion ripped through it with immense force. Metal shards measuring in feet flew with the speed of bullets, impaling dozens of black shades as the ship fractured and cracked from the shockwave.

The vessel rocked and buckled, sending the uninjured but coughing form of Gavel sliding off the edge and into the bay below.

The explosion's epicentre had been Spiral herself, perhaps in an attempt to finally end her eternal imprisonment and her un-life. She had not been spared the damage of heat and force. All that remained of her was a skeleton of charred flesh and blackened metal cybernetics.

Grundy, with a strength and durability that could rival Superman, had fared slightly better despite his close proximity. His massive body had blocked a large portion of the blast as he tried to stop the suicidal explosion, inadvertently saving Deathstroke.

Still, so close to the explosion, he took his own injuries. The front half of his body had faced the blast of heat and force. The top layer of his skin was flayed from his muscles, his internal organs boiled in his exposed chest, and all his ratty hair was gone, but he still stood on blackened legs.

"Why must you cry out, my Dancer?" Ciara asked gently as she stepped out from behind the chared form of her greatest warrior.

Already whisps of black energy were wafting from the remains of Grundy and the other shades damaged by the explosion. The boogeyman of the Super world approached the reconstituting body of Spiral and held her black skull in her hands as a mother would a child.

"Can you not see? I have freed you from the Oppressor's yoke," Ciara stroked the flaking cheek as it reformed, mercy and compassion in her gaze. "No more will you dance to his tune, to his bird's song. Cry not, my Dancer. You are no longer a prop on the stage, you are now an actor, and I am your voice. Cry not. Scream not. Let us laugh together."

Spiral's reformed hands gently fell upon the pair holding her cheeks.

"aaaaaa," Rita moaned pitifully, throat and lungs still reforming.

Then she paralyzed Glaistic Uaine.

"aaaahhhAAAAhhhaaAAAHHHHHHHH!" Spiral warbled, metal limbs digging and tearing into the flesh of the paralyzed woman holding her. She screamed as she tore chunk after chunk from her victim, each second increasing her volume as her body reformed.

Ciara did not scream.

She did not flinch or cry, and her eyes continued to gaze down with gentle affection at Spiral as the mutant tore her heart from her body.

Three of the black shades tackled Spiral away from her as a fourth laid its hand upon her and freed the Faerie Queen from her paralysis. Already her flesh had reformed.

"I understand," Ciara said softly, watching Spiral blast one shade to pieces even as she used a mixture of martial arts and her six arms to defend from the other two. "A newborn's cries. Your old life is over, and you celebrate your new one. I did the same when I threw off the yoke and bridle. Very well."

Her words were soft. Understanding. Full of compassion even as one of her shades had its head torn off.

"Let your fellow warriors provide you a stage for the first rehearsal of your new life, my Dancer."

A tide of black shades descended upon the mutant.

Rita continued to scream.

********

The shock of the water woke Slade up.

Despite being protected by Grundy's bulk and throwing himself away, being so close to such a large shockwave had discombobulated the mercenary enough that he had lost consciousness.

Only for a moment, though, as his body fell from the ship's deck into the bay's shallow water. The cold was enough to reinvigorate him and open his eyes, even as he choked on the salty cold water.

Fighting dizziness, Slade looked around as pieces of the ship rained down from above him, mixing the water with bubbles and silt and obscuring his vision even further as the weight of his equipment threatened to drown him.

Were it not for the bright light of the two moons, Slade would have been completely blind in the dark water.

Sploosh!

A massive piece of what was once one of the guns on the ship fell into the water, missing Slade by less than two feet but still dragging the man further down with the suction of displaced water. The mercenary swam frantically, dropping all his guns but keeping his sword as he desperately fought to rise to the surface for air.

A part of his mind, the part that was always calm and in control in any situation, noted that the ship would sink soon and drag him down if he didn't get clear. That same part told him he would not be able to keep swimming for long. Exhaustion would claim him if any sea-based monsters didn't.

Mastering any panic that might have doomed lesser men, Slade swam at an angle, away from the ship but closer to shore.

His head broke the surface for an instant, and Slade gratefully took in a lungful of air before diving down again.

His only hope for survival was to pass unnoticed by the Faerie Queen. Hopefully, she either thought him dead or was too busy with whatever was wrong with Spiral to care about someone she wouldn't even add to her army.

More debris continued to rain down in the ocean, but most of it fell behind the mercenary as he made his way as stealthily as possible toward the shore. Though he was forced to come up for air two more times, Slade made it to the beach and crawled upon the wet sand of the coast, panting for breath.

Looking around, Slade realized he wasn't far from the dock connecting to the sinking ship. The night air shook with the sounds of metal tearing, explosions detonating, and Spiral screaming as the mutant fought more and more of the Faerie Queen's shades.

Slade gave himself only five seconds of rest before climbing to his feet, only to almost fall again as his left leg seized up in pain.

Looking down, the bright blue light of Dark Moon glinted off a long piece of shrapnel in the meat of his left thigh.

As he looked southward along the coast for a second, the mercenary considered trying to leave anyway. It didn't look like it hit anything fatal, and he could tear his clothes to make a rough bandage. He didn't want to be close to Sprial or Glaistic Uaine for any longer than he had to.

But then his brain, his greatest tool, reasserted itself.

Slade might avoid the conflict between the two deranged women by leaving now, but he was now alone. With no backup, his only chance of survival was to avoid or outrun threats. Injured, his chances of reaching the ship with the portal were practically nil.

On the other hand, he had a very brief window of opportunity.

Deathstroke was not an indecisive man.

Without further pause, he limped away from the crashing surf and toward the remains of the Russian camp, the battle echoing behind him as he moved as fast as he could without aggravating his injury. Thanks to the squad's earlier inspection, it took comparatively little time to find a basic first aid kit in the wreckage of the camp.

With quick and practiced movements, Slade withdrew the shrapnel from his thigh. The jagged piece of ship hull was thrown away without care as he bandaged his leg, popped a few pain meds in his mouth, and quickly put together a sack full of everything he might need to survive on this accursed island in the coming weeks.

Once he had a safe place to set up, he would stitch up the wound, but this would have to do for now.

As he worked, Slade kept an eye on the battle, fearful that the Supers would take their bout to the shore. He caught glimpses of Spiral fighting off shades two or three at a time, the Faerie Queen watching patiently from Grundy's shoulders.

The entire medical and scavenging process took less than ten minutes, but it was enough time for the whole of the ship to be torn asunder, and the combatants started duelling on the few pieces of debris that still floated on the surface.

Through it all, Spiral kept screaming. Her voice rose and fell, depending on if she was injured, reforming, or casting spells, but she just wouldn't stop.

Thanks to Glaistic Uaine's power, she never would, Slade realized.

It was time to go.

With his bag over his shoulder, a pistol and a few mags he managed to scrounge at his hip, and his sword in hand, Slade Wilson set off south toward the ship he had arrived on.

With stealthy movements, only slightly hampered by the bulk of his supplies and injuries, Slade navigated along the coast's rocks in the moons' dark light, their jagged edges and bulging shadows hiding him better than the barren plain would have.

He was forty feet from the camp when he heard it.

"Ack, ack, bleurgh!"

Peeking out from a dip between two wave-washed rocks, Slade spied a prominent figure in the shadows.

Gavel looked wretched, his skin grey and sickly as he leaned sat with his back to a boulder, coughing and hacking seawater and blood as he leaned heavily on the RPG he had managed to keep a hold of in his unexpected swim.

Once more that night, Slade had a judgment call to make that could save or doom him.

Gavel, even sick and injured as he was, was a Super to be reckoned with. Even if he acted only as a meat shield or an extra pair of eyes, he would make the trip south safer.

Another deafening explosion rang out in the distance.

Slade made his decision as he quietly stepped away, leaving his erstwhile squadmate to whatever fate had in store for him.

Whatever benefit the Australian could provide was outweighed by the fact he would slow Deathstroke down. On top of that, he couldn't count on Sprial keeping the Faerie Queen occupied forever.

It was well known the deranged necromancer could sense Supers from miles away, and once she was finished with the six-armed woman, she'd come for Gavel.

It barely took another minute, even with Slade's slow and careful pace, to reach the boundary where the coastal rocks gave way to sand and then the trees of the forest.

The mercenary was about to dash for the protective obscurity of the woods when, once again, his careful observations and quick mind saved his life.

In the sand between the beach and the trees were four paw prints.

Small and cat-shaped, a regular person might have judged them to be simple tracks left by an animal that lived nearby.

Deathstroke was no regular person.

His mind saw those four imprints, noticed the lack of others on the sand and their distance from the grass and rocks, and his mind went into overdrive.

Cat prints.

Hookwolf.

Bayun.

Powersurge.

Slade's heartbeat pounded in his ears as a cold sweat ran down his back. Fear, cold and dreadful, filled him.

"I know you're there," he called out. Not loud, lest he attracts the attention of something or someone else on the island, but his voice was firm.

It betrayed none of the terror he was feeling.

There was no response, but Deathstroke didn't move his gaze from those four paw prints in the sand.

"It's no use pretending, Cat," he continued. He could see nothing. Hear nothing but the waves, Gavel's faint coughing, and the rumble of battling Supers.

Every second that passed increased the likelihood of his death.

But it was on the edge of death that one could find a chance to live.

A fifth paw print in the sand.

A sixth.

Between the sixth and the seventh, a chubby white and brown cat with tiny wings shimmered into view.

"Mrow," The Cat greeted as it plopped itself on the sand five feet in front of the mercenary. Its breath tinged with ice crystals in the night air as its feline gaze met Slade's. Its tail swished back and forth behind it.

"You've been following us, right?" Slade asked, already knowing the answer. His heartbeat was thunder in his ears. "You ate Killer Frost, didn't you? Just like you did Hookwolf and Powersurge. You eat Supers."

The Cat's cute little tongue ran across its lips.

Slade repressed a shudder.

"I'm not a Super," he said clearly. Another explosion rang out behind him, but he didn't flinch. The Cat's eyes left him instantly, tail swishing angrily as it glared at the battle before refocusing on the mercenary. "I'm just a regular human."

"Mrow," The Cat tilted its head in a display that would have been cute to anyone who didn't know what a monster it was.

"I know where one is," Slade continued, using everything he knew about hunting animals to escape this mess. "Injured. Sick. Helpless. Easy prey."

The mercenary had no idea if Gavel's invulnerability would protect him from this... thing, but he was more than willing to sell his former squadmate under the bus if it bought him time to run.

"Mrow," The Cat looked towards the rocks where Gavel lay, then back to Slade.

"I'll fight," the mercenary said, hand on his sword. "If I scream, he'll come help. And the Faerie Queen will come to look too." At the mention of the last, The Cat looked at the remains of the ship. Its fur stood on end as it let out a displeased hiss. Was it afraid? Or angry? Either way, it was conscious of the woman's danger. "Or you can let me go. You get an easy meal and don't have to deal with-"

"Deathstroke? Cough, cough, ah, hack. That you?" Gavel called out across the beach, and the mercenary froze.

The Cat looked at Deathstroke, amusement in its gaze as it stood once again.

Slade tensed as it casually walked toward him, swaying with a cat's swagger as it approached one tiny step at a time. Its soft paws made no sound on the sand.

His hand grasped his sword's hilt, ready to attack at the slightest movement. The Cat continued its casual, plodding pace. Its tubby belly jiggled with every movement as it walked up the world's greatest mercenary.

And past him, brushing against his legs as it did so.

Slade released his breath.

That brush had not been affection.

It had been a taunt.

The Cat could kill him at any point but chose not to. It could rub against him, and he could do nothing about it.

Slade was okay with that.

He had his pride, but he valued his life much more. In a world full of Supers, he had gotten to where he was today by swallowing his pride. People with power overlooked and underestimated those without it. Slade had killed some of the strongest Supers in the world because they underestimated him.

The Cat might look down on him, but it was Deathstroke, not any of the powerful Supers in his team, that would escape.

Slade wasted no time making a beeline for the forest.

"Wha? ARGH!" Gavel screamed behind him, but the mercenary continued on even as the hiss of an RPG going off rang out.

BOOM!

"AAHHHHHHHHH!"

For an instant, Gavel's screams of pain and fear drowned out Spirals.

Squelch.

Then there were no screams.

Deathstroke continued to make his way south toward freedom.

********

Sprial teleported away from a concussive blast of force, appearing ten feet above the Faerie Queen's head.

"AAAAAHHHHHH!" She continued to scream even as she cast another spell, sinking the piece of ship the woman stood on with a localized gravity well.

Solomon Grundy simply held his summoner's body and hopped to a new platform. The shade of a Changer, shaped like a demented parody of a pterodactyl made of barbed wire, crashed into the six-armed mutant, sending them both falling. A Blaster released a torrent of lighting, frying them both.

"Let my voice guide you, my Dancer," Ciara said, sitting daintily in the Grundy's palms. "I know your pain. Your death whispered it to me. For long has the chain held tight to your neck. Before the Oppressor's bird's song, it was the Spineless Director. Before that, it was the chains of ignorance, of naivety. Your old life was naught but chains and pain."

"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!" Spiral screamed as she reformed. The same electric Blaster unleashed another volley, but the mutant teleported behind the shade and paralyzed it with a touch.

Then she teleported behind another, this one a man wielding a long spear, and paralyzed him as well.

She didn't kill them, just paralyzing their movements before teleporting to a new victim. In twenty seconds, she managed to immobilize seven shades.

Then she touched a shade that caused her arm to melt into a bloody and meaty slurry. Then another arm fell. Then her body dissolved into a disgusting mush.

"My warriors, your new companions, are many and varied. The Parliaments must use all tools to overthrow the Oppressor's yoke. My army may be small, but it is strong."

By the time Spiral reformed, her paralysis victims had been freed by one of the other shades. The one that reset things to a prior state that had released Ciara earlier.

"AAAAAAHHHHHHH!" Sprial cried, ghostly blades forming in four of her hands as she tore through the shade that melted her. She had to replace three of the swords as they turned to a slurry.

Another shade tried to tackle her, a brute of some sort, but was cut down just as quickly before she teleported beside the shade that reset the others. Its head fell even as Spiral's spine was severed by a metallic arm.

"Your first dance is beautiful but pointless," Ciara continued to talk to the deranged mutant from her place of safety in Grundy's cupped hands. "Cease this rebellion and join us. With each day that passes, the Oppressor conscripts more to his army. He has almost reached the point of saturation. The final battle approaches. This island shall be our fortress, our utopia, our ark. Aid us in its defence and conquest. When the Parliaments convene, this Jeweled vessel will see us safely in the coming storm."

"AAAAAAHHHHH!"

Once more, Spiral tried to teleport close to the Faerie Queen, only to be batted aside by an errant swipe of Solomon Grundy's massive fist.

She flew, end over end, before crashing to the ground on the shore, her body carving a deep divot in the sand and dirt.

The small army of shades followed her, surrounding her pulverized body in a ring twenty feet wide.

"Let your screams quiet, my Dancer. Your throat grows hoarse," Ciara gently said as the shades parted for her and Grundy's massive form. "Pain will be a thing of the past. Let all of it fade to Black."

"aaaaaaaaAAAAAAHHHHHH!" Spiral warbled, dragging herself with her three workings arms through the dirt toward the Faerie Queen as her legs bent back into place. "AAAAAAA-"

The scythe's blade separated her head from her neck in a clean swing.

"Can thou not hear her pleas for rest?"

Rita Wayword, Spiral, did not hear those words. Nor did she feel pain.

Since her capture, Spiral's mind had been filled with voices. The commands of Mojo, then the incessant song of a dead Endbringer and the whispers of the Parliament of Decay. They could not control her mind like her body, but they were always there. Always loud and incessant.

Not anymore.

For the first time in years, Spiral's mind was blissfully silent.

Rita was finally at peace.

********

Priscilla tightened her hands upon the shaft of her scythe.

"My Dancer?" The fey woman asked, her voice pained and in disbelief as it stared in horror at the dissolving corpse.

She fell from her giant's hand and walked to the fallen form. She cradled the head gently in her hands as if a lost child, even as it dissolved into strands of black dust. Whatever else, this woman cared about her 'warriors' in some twisted fashion.

Which made her deafness to their pleas all the more inexcusable to the Crossbreed.

Her Lifehunt had ensured the poor woman finally found the solace of death. It was taking all her self-control to not do the same for the shades that surrounded her.

This was not what death was supposed to be.

Some of these men and women might have been great criminals, vile fiends, or monsters in human form, but they did not deserve what was happening to them.

Death was the great equalizer.

A gentle embrace that accepted all without judgment.

This torturous existence, these cries of the damned, was wrong on a fundamental level to Priscilla. It reminded her too much of the Undead Curse and the Dark Sign.

Only she could now understand their plight thanks to her Element.

Priscilla had stayed her hand for days. She, too, had been curious about this necromancer's goal and watched her actions with curious disgust.

But the tortured cries of the woman had been too much for the gentle giantess.

Even now, surrounded by dozens of black shades and the woman Sir Bard was warry of, Priscilla did not regret her actions.

"What have you done?" The Faerie Queen asked, looking up at Priscilla with tears beading in her eyes. She was a third the Crossbreed's size, but Priscilla knew not to underestimate a woman that even Sir Bard was wary of. "My Dancer is beyond me, beyond the Black."

"She is beyond thought and pain," Priscilla said softly, her tone gentler than it had been. "Thine 'Black' is but an approximation of true death. A trap between the boundary. Neither Life nor Death."

"Life is a gateway to the Rot," Ciara said as if in a daze.

"A Black Rot instead of Scarlet," Priscilla asked, and the woman at her feet nodded. "I understand. The fault is not with thou but with thy masters. A power over Life bent to control the Dead. And thy victims suffer for it. Release them. I shall petition Sir Bard to allow thee to leave. This Island shall once more know peace with thy parting."

"Release them?" Glaistig Uaine asked, looking up at the Crossbreed with wide, fearful eyes. "My warriors and comrades in arms?"

"Thy slaves," Priscilla corrected gently but firmly. "Can thee not hear their wails? Let mine scythe bring them to rest. Should they wish to join thee after, I shall have no complaint, but it must be of their volition. Not the will of thy masters."

"I had not thought to lose a comrade before the final battle," Ciara said as she rose to her feet, Spiral's head still cradled gently in her arms as the last of it dissolved into nothing.

"Should thy companions wish to continue to aid thee after they know peace, I shall call forth their Spirit Ash for thee," Priscilla allowed. She didn't know what battle the woman was discussing but knew she could no longer look at these shades without tears prickling her eyes.

Her heart went out to them. Their mouths might be closed, but their soul's wails were deafening when she stood this close.

"I refuse!"

Priscilla's heart sank, and hands tightened once more upon her scythe.

She hated violence, even if she understood it was sometimes required.

"Why?" The Crossbreed didn't even try to keep the sadness from her voice.

"The Oppressor's army grows with each day. The Parliaments must keep what few soldiers we hold," Ciara declared firmly. "Should your words prove true and they are in pain, I would ask them to bear with it for a few more years. If Life is to continue, we must all make sacrifices."

"Sacrificing others and not thyself is no true sacrifice."

"Should my sacrifice be required, I shall give it. This play is nearing its curtain call, and all actors must one day take their final bow. I act to ensure the curtain may rise again."

"Will thee not consider peace?" Priscilla couldn't help but ask in one last-ditch attempt to avoid violence. "Let the dead lie, and I shall aid thee and petition Sir Bard on thy behalf. He is no fan of oppressors and mine sisters enjoy the thrill of battle. We might be allies."

"Albion's and his queens' help would not be worth the bonds of my fellow warriors," Ciara gently shook her head in the negative. "Not when I have naught but a promise of a petition."

"Should we battle, thou shalt lose thy life and all companions with it," Priscilla warned. "Thy final battle will go unfought. Even the gods fear mine scythe."

"That will not be so," Ciara denied. "Instead, you and yours shall join the Parliaments. You shall aid me in our battle against the Oppressor. Then you shall see that threat that would destroy all life. But first, tell me your name. I cannot hear your story as I can others. You are blind to my sight and mute to my ears."

"My name is Priscilla, a lowly crossbreed," Priscilla curtsied adequately, as she had been taught many millennia ago. "Wife of the Elden Lord and Dragon of Death."

"I am Ciara, named Glaistig Uaine and the Faerie Queen by my foes. Avatar of the Black. Valkyrie of the Parliament of Decay."

Despite having introduced themselves and knowing conflict was inevitable, neither woman moved for a long instant.

Then the Ash of Black Knive Tiche appeared, wrapping herself around the Faerie Queen like a snake and plunging her blade into Ciara's neck.

Solomon Grundy roared, charging at the Spirit Ash, who released the woman and backflipped out of reach.

All around Priscilla, the army of black shades launched themselves at her.

Dozens of pale white spirits burst into existence around the Crossbreed, meeting the tide of dark shades with their bodies as Priscilla launched herself at her opponent, scythe raised to end the battle with one swing.

Her Observation Haki warned her enough to dodge out of the way of a blast of lightning that scorched a path through her summoned ashes.

Kristoff blocked the blast of electricity before it could do too much damage. Latenna, riding atop a spectral wolf, pierced the offending shade with three arrows before refocusing on the flying shades.

Oleg duelled a shade with a spear, and a shaper transformed into a bear, his blade flashing and carving through black flesh.

Ogha knocked three more over with one of his great arrows but was beset by a shade who melted him with a touch, only to be burned to ash by Amon.

All around her, Prisiclla's ashen companions battled the black shades in a confusing melee of magic, energy, and violence.

Because the Crossbreed had released all the ashes who wished to pass, her army was much less numerous than her opponent's, even if they were more skilled. The shades also had the advantage in the diversity of powers and, unlike Spirit Ashes, reformed as soon as they were destroyed by anyone but Priscilla's Lifehunt.

Even as Pricilla cut down the shade of a man whose hair had turned into a bladed whip, Ciara's throat healed, and the fragment of the Rune of Death in Tyche's blade was not enough to put the Avatar down for good.

"I understand," the Faerie Queen said, looking around at the small cohort of white spirits fighting her shades. "Their stories tell me of your love. They are at peace, though they fight. How did you do it?"

"T'was their wish to remain, though their forms were not of their choosing. I simply offered the choice," Priscilla said as her tail swept the feet off a woman, preventing her from wrapping her oscillating arms around the Crossbreed. Her scythe pierced the shade's heart a moment later.

The simple fact was that most Spirit Ashes were created by the spirits' enemies. Exceptionally few willingly choose to come back as ashes. Once Priscilla had discovered their plight, she released those who wanted to pass on.

Most remained, feeling a peace they had never felt before in the presence of the dragon hybrid. They differed from Ciara's shades in that they could pass on any time they wished and were not controlled by the Black or the Faerie Queen's Shard.

"I see," Ciara said, closing her eyes and looking pained. "I did not know such was an option."

"Then let them rest."

"I cannot," Glaistic Uaine said, even as a beam of light tore through Tricia, dissolving the ash. "The actors may leave, but the stage shall remain. I must turn the Oppressor's weapons against him. It is the only method of victory."

"There will be no victory if you fall here," Priscilla continued to urge.

"The loss of my companions at your hand pains me, but I am winning. You are surrounded and will join us soon," Ciara pointed out.

"Ah," Priscilla gasped softly. "I believe Sir Bard said something to this effect once. I am not trapped in here by thee. Thou art trapped in here by I."

Ciara tilted her head, observing the situation. Each of the Crossbreed's Spirits was entangled with at least two or three of her shades. They were putting up a spirited defence, but they were losing ground, the circle around Priscilla tightening with every second.

Light bloomed in the night sky.

And Medea rained magic upon the shades.

Purple magic fell in a wave, a carpet bombing that reduced shades and spirits to rubble. Each lance from the Caster's Rain of Light fell with the force of an A-rank attack.

And there were hundreds of them.

Entangled in combat as the shades were with the Spirit Ashes, not even the most agile could escape the Rain before being shredded.

Over and over, the magical artillery barrage fell upon what was once the Russian camp, reducing it and tens of meters around it to blasted rubble. Even as the shades tried to reform, they were blasted to pieces once more.

Only one small space was spared destruction.

From that small circle, Priscilla launched herself the moment the barrage stopped. The dust and debris obscured her form as her scythe swung for Ciara's neck.

The Faerie Queen had been largely protected from the magical assault thanks to the bulk of her greatest warrior hunching over her in a protective cocoon. Solomon Grundy was a hodgepodge of holes and charred flesh, but he stood firm, defending his mistress.

Maybe some crude intelligence or instinct still lay in that long rotten mind.

With a spin, Solomon Grundy threw Ciara high into the air at an angle.

The blade pierced his undefended back.

The great zombie, the former Avatar of the Grey, fell to the ground.

"NOOOOOO!" Ciara yelled as she fell through the air, into a tumble on the ground.

Black shades, hundreds in number, burst into reality from her landing point. They ranged in appearance from children to elderly, men and women. Some were in military uniforms and held arms, but most were empty-handed.

These were not Supers, only regular people. The people Ciara had killed, died around her or passed on in the general area.

All headed the call of the Avatar of the Black.

Medea continued to rain magic down, but the sheer numbers and speed of their reformation meant there was little effect. For every dozen she destroyed, three more replaced them.

Priscilla grimaced as more and more black shades poured from the distraught woman. Their gamble had failed and cost them her Spirit Ashes. Unlike their opponents, they would reform, but it would take a few minutes.

The Crossbreed wasn't specialized for group combat without the Spirits, and she was the only one who could put the shades down for good. It was looking more and more like she would have to transform into her dragon form, which would leave her an easy target for the shades of the Supers who were reforming.

Still, it didn't look like she'd have a choice.

Her decision to put Spiral out of her misery seemed to be a mistake in hindsight. But even now, Priscilla didn't regret it. It was not in her nature to allow such pain to continue when she could do something about it.

The Crossbreed threw herself into the oncoming tide of shades, trying to put a few of them between her and the Supers before transforming. Medea's beams curved around her, their impacts deafening, but Priscilla heard a sound over the din.

Four familiar roars.

No longer drakes since their ascension to Tier 7, the four young dragons fell upon the growing army of undead in defence of their mothers.

Hengeron II and Llamrei II bathed the Super Shades in a torrent of fire, swooping from the night sky in a diving run that disrupted their reformation and gave Priscilla more time.

Andromeda and Cassandra descended from the other directions, their crimson wings bringing them behind the Faerie Queen to stop her summoning at the source. Their fires melted the tide as their claws swooped through the horde.

Priscilla threw herself into motion as the night was lit by the purple Medea's Rain of Light, the red of the dragons' flames, the black swirl of dissolving and reforming shade, and the everpresent glow of the Dark Moon.

Her babies were sturdy, thanks to all the effort Medea had gone into casting defensive charms on them, but even all that magic on top of their scaled hides would not be able to stand up to a concentrated attack of the Super shades.

Now, more than ever, the Crossbreed was on a time limit.

Lllamrei II flew before her mother, her flames carving a path through the onrush of black figures. She veered upward into a climb as her siblings, approaching from the other direction, met her.

Priscilla had a clear line of sight to Ciara. The boogeyman of the Super world was burning in her children's flames, but shades still burst from her in waves.

Their eyes met, both resolute in their desire for victory.

With one last burst, the Crossbreed launched herself at Glaistic Uaine, scythe raised to end this short battle once and for all.

A shade burst from the Faerie Queen, lightning crackling in its palms and blasting Priscilla in the chest.

The Mimic Tear dissolved.

Priscila's scythe cut the shade's head off from behind the fading double.

Her momentum carried her forward, swinging once more at the woman only a few feet away.

One last shade burst from the shorter woman. The one that could dissolve things with a touch. It would die in place of its mistress and deprive Priscilla of her weapon with the action.

That was when Medea, her tiny wings flapping to direct her fall from Llamrei II's head, landed on Ciara's shoulder.

Her girth didn't even have time to send the Faerie Queen stumbling before her Maw consumed everything above the woman's neck.

Every shade stuttered like a scratch in a record or an internet connection was briefly lost. It was only momentarily, and Ciara's head was already reforming, but something had clearly been lost when Medea ate the woman's head.

That brief stutter was enough for Priscilla to alter her swing and bisect the shade and the woman behind it.

Ciara fell, her head half reformed.

The shades disappeared in a snap, black figures turning into so much dust in the wind.

With the army of the undead gone, all that remained was a blasted battlefield that once held the Russian camp.

Then Medea, having fallen to the ground with the Food Thief, let out a tiny burp and rolled over onto her back.

Priscilla's tension fell, and she let out a small smile as she kneeled on the ground to give the floof the tummy rubs she deserved.

"That was too close," Medea said as she floated to the ground. The four young dragons followed her, their landing sending the ground rumbling with their bulk. "We should have waited for the others."

"Mine apologies," Priscilla said with a bow of the head. Even kneeling, she still towered over the Caster. "I had not intended to intervene until thou gave me permission. When the poor woman fell at mine feet, I could ignore her cries no longer."

"At least we made it out without serious injuries, or I'd never hear the end of it from Mikael," Medea sighed but gave a wry smile. Then she rounded on the four dragons. "And what were you all thinking, getting in the middle of a fight like that. You had Mommy scared to death!"

Three of the red dragons looked away as they lowered their long necks in shame. Llamrei II, on the other hand, raised her head proudly. Then she pointed her spiked tail at the cat lying on its back, getting belly rubs.

"I don't care if she told you to do it!" Medea glared up at the non-compliant dragon. "If she told you to destroy a country, would you?"

There was a beat of silence.

Then all four red dragons nodded.

"That was a rhetorical question!" Medea exclaimed in exasperation. Then her tone softened. "You could have been hurt." Llamrei II finally looked as abashed as her siblings as she saw the worried look on the Caster's elfin face. "And don't think you are getting out of this because you are acting cute," she declared as she rounded on the fat cat. "No treats for a week! I'll make sure Mikael doesn't sneak you any, either!"

Medea, the cat, burped again.

Priscilla smiled at the sight, rising to her feet to look around the devastation.

Though there no bodies remained, she could See the dead.

"Thou may all rest in peace," Priscilla told them, her voice oscillating through a layer of reality most could never perceive. "No one shall disturb thy slumber."

The hundreds of the Dead only she could see all watched her. Some looked happy, others resigned, and some few even glared at other spirits.

Most looked content, eyes closing as they faded deeper into death's embrace.

"I shall make of thee all an offer," Priscilla continued, eyes landing on the spirit of a woman looking around nineteen years old. "I cannot offer resurrection. That is beyond one such as I, and Sir Bard will not provide it either. I can offer a chance to take up arms. To leave the peace of death for the chance to face this 'Oppressor,' thou spoke of."

More spirits disappeared, not willing to return to the pain of existence.

"Thou shalt be bound to me, as the Ashes thee faced were, but thou shall have thy freedoms besides. I need no slaves."

The army of hundreds of dead was reduced to ten.

Then five.

Then three.

With a final bow of thanks and a smile at the Crossbreed, Rita Wayword turned away and disappeared into the gentle embrace of Death, leaving only two spirits behind.

Both stepped forward.

Priscilla nodded at them and used her Element for the first time today.

Both figures turned material as they stepped from the peace of death and became Spirit Ashes.

"Once more, my valiant champion?" Ciara asked. In response, the Spirit Ash of Solomon Grundy lifted the dainty woman and set her on his shoulder. The Faerie Queen let out a tinkling laugh. "I see you are still the quiet actor though you be my champion no longer. Without the Black or my Faerie, I have gone from Keeper of the Dead to but a prop. I fear I will be of little use against the Oppresor's army."

"Your knowledge can help us more than your powers would have," Medea said, eyeing the pair while rubbing her chin in contemplation. "Whoever this 'oppressor' sounds like a big deal, and our Family likes to be on top of making plans for potential threats."

"If you will aid in the final battle, I have no reason to withhold my knowledge of the script," Ciara nodded but looked regretful. "I would caution that all I possess are memories. My knowledge is limited without access to the visions of the fey or the whispers of the Parliaments. My former champion may aid in battle, but I am without arms. If I may be of use to you in another fashion, Queens of Albion, please let me know."

"What is thy skill with the musical or performing arts?" Priscilla asked, an idea coming to mind.

"All actors must be able to sing and dance," Ciara said with pride.

"Then I believe thou shalt be of great use to me."

********

Two months later.

Despite the upheaval the outside world experienced in those two months, the Island's life forms remained unchanged, barring the occasional new batch of invaders.

Swamp Thing continued to form and dissolve his body over and over again. As far as Tsunade could tell, the former anti-hero was trying to connect to the Green of the Island but was unsuccessful in his attempts. He wasn't hurting anyone, and Priscilla felt uncomfortable killing a man who wasn't a threat. Ciara knew he was an Avatar of the Green, but she did not know more than they already knew without a connection to the Parliament of Rot. Grundy was hardly a font of knowledge either. Talking to him provided no response either.

So, after the second week of no change, the Family installed some boundary fields around his location to be safe and left him alone.

The sun rose and set. Plants grew. Animals hunted, fought, killed and died in a cycle as old as life itself. If one ignored that at least half of all life forms on the Island were monsters of some sort, then one could even call those two months on the Island peaceful.

Slade Wilson, stumbling from the brush of the forest only a hundred feet from his ship, would disagree.

The former mercenary had seen better days. Of the great Deathstroke, the fearsome hitman that had landed on this Island with the rest of the suicide squad, very little was identifiable.

His clothes were little more than tatters, hanging to his body thanks to large swaths of thick leather made into makeshift belts of armour. His sword was broken, the blade acting more like a small knife as it hung from a loop of hide at his waist. His only other weapon was a crude spear he fashioned from a branch and the shattered blade of his sword.

His mask was long gone, showing his wild, unshaven face as his eyes roved over the ship he had not seen in three months. His face was sallow, with sunken eyes and cheeks showing a lack of rest and food for the many weeks he journeyed southward.

His eyes darted to and fro over the area, wary of any threat. Even now, so close to the end of his journey, he kept his guard up. Too many times had he thought himself safe only to be ambushed by Blood Bugs, Salamanders, Golems, Tree-lizards, or other nasty surprises. A trip that had taken the Suicide Squad three weeks had taken twice as long for him alone because he was constantly forced to run, hide, or avoid areas of risk.

That caution, that paranoia, was the only reason the Island had not claimed him as it had so many others. Even with excitement rising within his eyes, and hope kindling in his breast, Slade remained in control of himself.

He did not run for the ship and the portal as he wanted to, instead approaching the landing point at an arc. He moved slowly, wary of any creatures that might have made the vessel their home in the months since the group had landed.

For once, his luck held, and he found no sign of rampant wildlife or a predator. A few nests of seabirds were the only sign of animal life. Which was a good thing, as the creatures would not have built their homes in dangerous territory.

Still, no need to rush.

Between spotting the ship and actually climbing aboard, over three hours passed, such was Deathstroke's wariness. Even then, the mercenary took extra care to go through the vessel to make certain no nasty surprises lay within.

Finally, the last surviving member of the Suicide Squad stood before the large frame of the portal and activated it, bracing for any sort of trap.

Boom.

The loud sound resounded across the area as a vortex of swirling yellow energy coalesced in front of Slade.

He released a deep breath. They had only sent 'samples' through three times, so he hadn't been too concerned with its number of uses being too high, but he had been afraid that their 'mysterious backers' had trapped it to self-destruct after a certain period of time.

Even with the portal still working, it didn't mean he was out of danger.

He didn't know what was on the other side of this swirling portal, but anything was better than this hellish land.

Hands tightened around his crude spear, Slade stepped towards his freedom.

Tok.

And hit an invisible wall.

"What," Deathstroke mumbled, uncomprehending as he tried to pass through the portal again.

Only to be rebuffed by an invisible yet intractable force once more.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no, nonononononNONONONO," Slade chanted as he pushed, heaved, and tried to throw himself around the invisible barrier between him and his escape from this damned hellscape. The iron control of his emotions and actions slipped as he tried to go around, to smash the barrier, to do anything to escape this terrible, terrible place.

Slade Wilson had no way of knowing that he had been trapped as soon as he had crossed the Jewel. Marked to never escape. A geas contract that ensured all who entered could never leave.

Mikael had not lied when he said everyone coming to his Island would die. Anyone who came here had malicious intent toward him and his Family, and he would not allow such loose ends to roam free. He might not be the one to kill them, but he had little tolerance for anyone or anything trying to take what was his.

When people had first landed on the Island, Mikael and Medea had performed extensive testing to ensure nobody could escape. The first few simply tried to sail away, but later incursions had various escape plans. Teleporters, portals, magic, summonings, they had tested everything they could to ensure nothing escaped. In the end, they settled on the simplest and most complete solution.

A geas on the Jewel.

Anything that passed through the dimensional barrier be they person or item, could not be used to escape.

The portal in front of Slade would not have opened if it originated from the ship itself, as that had passed through the Jewel.

Somehow, something from outside knew precisely when and where Slade, and Spiral before him, were trying to activate the portal. It then beamed the receiving end to them. But the geas still prevented escape.

The Suicide Squad had been doomed from the start.

It didn't have to be this way. They would have been in a uniquely advantageous if they had had complete information on the nature of the Island and Mikael.

Had they gone south instead of north and reached the barrier that separated the Family's lands from the rest of the Island, their disturbance at that boundary field would have attracted his attention. Uncaring about the distinction between hero, anti-hero, and villain, Mikael's curiosity would have driven him to ask questions after capturing them.

From there, Spiral would have been freed of the Simurgh and Mojo's control, Emma would have recognized her and the asset she could have been, and she could have lived. Hookwolf and Gavel might still have died, but the rest would be imprisoned again since they had not chosen to invade but had been forced to by others.

Mikael, always sympathetic towards those seeking their freedom, would have let them live just to fuck with Waller. And he would have loved to know about a portal that got around his safeguards.

If the Suicide Squad had not been so informationally handicapped, tragedies would have been prevented.

If the Suicide Squad had not been so informationally handicapped, they might have lived.

But none of them would.

"Mrow."

Slade froze in place, arms still raised as he pushed against the barrier.

A furry form brushed across his leg.

The Cat stood on the other side of the invisible barrier that kept the mercenary from his freedom.

"Mrow," it mewled gently as it faced him.

It had never let him go, Slade realized. Like Hookwolf, it had simply been playing with him. Watching him struggle. Waiting till he had hope of survival, only to cruelly snatch it away at the last second.

How cat-like.

Deathstroke's last sight was the gaping void of darkness that opened impossibly wide to swallow him whole.

Of the six members who landed on the Island, only Rita Wayword had been spared the Maw.

********

Medea was a cat.

Not a cat(?), The Cat, a cat-girl, or any other unnecessarily complicated way of describing her.

She was simply a cat.

Medea was the same as she always was, she thought as she walked through the swirling yellow portal to explore what lay on the other side.

She emerged into a large and barren room. Once there might have been something to stop her, guards, barriers, or walls, but all that remained in this cavernous room was debris, blood, and claw marks.

Her tiny wings carried her into a room that once observed the portal room behind thick glass that now lay broken in shards on the ground. Computers, files, paper, and other electronic equipment littered this room's floor. Medea spared the papers an idle glance, noting the repetition of a symbol, a red triangular DNA strand on a yellow circle, on most of the forms before walking away.

Just because she could read didn't mean she enjoyed it as much as her pet. She'd much rather find something to eat.

Casting the only spell she knew, Medea turned invisible as she left the observatory.

The Lesser-Floof had shown her this trick. It was a suitable recompense for daring to be called 'floofy' by her pet.

Medea was the Floofiest of Floofs. Her pet, Mikael, had said so repeatedly. Anyone wishing to use the title must pay tribute.

Still, all these new pets were good for something, Medea thought as she meandered through destroyed underground halls. They paid the appropriate tribute of scritches, pets, and tummy rubs.

And food.

She was just walking randomly, exploring this new place by climbing over cabinets, knocking the few computers still intact to the ground, and doing other things at her whim. Occasionally she would come across a dead and half-eaten body, but Medea turned her nose up at them.

She was too good to eat leftovers.

Bored, Medea continued to pad softly down the halls of the ruined Cadmus.

Sure, she could turn into a dragon and bust her way out of here, but why would she? This exploration was just an idle curiosity on her part, and Medea felt no need to change who and what she was, especially something as dull as a dragon.

Dragons were just larger, scalier and uglier cats.

Before Medea had woken up in her new home, she could have chosen to become something else. An infinite list of possibilities had been presented, but she had disdained them all. She could have been a dragon then if a smaller one. But Medea derided the thought.

Cats were the best, and Medea was the best cat. Ergo, she didn't need to change at all.

The only concession she made was to allow tiny wings to grow. It just made finding napping spots easier.

Like now.

Medea staired up a destroyed elevator shaft, then looked down.

Down was easier than up, so she went down. Her tiny wings carried her to the bottom and through an open elevator door.

Medea's distaste for this new environment grew as she looked at more destroyed rooms, furniture, and dried blood.

Her new pets were also helpful in keeping her house clean, Medea acknowledged internally. And the one named after her, the one with the pointy ears, was also good for giving her treats.

The others gave her food, so she tolerated their monopolizing of Mikeal's time, but the Non-Floofy-Medea gave the best treats. Those red pills were the highlight of every meal.

Still, Mikeal was her favourite pet.

Not only because he had been with her the longest but because he didn't just give her treats. He gave her Meals.

At the thought of one of Mikael's tentacles, Medea's stomach rumbled.

That snack earlier hadn't done anything for her stomach. He had been an afterthought, kept alive to provide entertainment and because she had been full for the first time in a while. She hadn't eaten him earlier because she was still digesting the 'Shards' of the other two.

The metal wolf had gone down easily enough after a nap, and the big man's would have done the same since they were both only the size of a continent. But then Medea had also eaten one larger than a planet right after.

That had taken a while to digest, even for her.

Mikael had been worried when she hadn't eaten more than one tentacle. Medea didn't bother explaining to him that she was full.

It wasn't the job of pets to worry about their owners.

Still, now she was feeling a bit peckish. One of the reasons she had left that snack alone for so long was because she hoped he would lead her to more morsels, but this place was a dud.

Just as Medea was about to open a Door to return home and demand tribute from her pets, she sensed movement.

Deciding another minute wouldn't kill her, Medea padded her way down a dark hall.

As she approached, the cat heard the sound of eating, of bloody flesh being torn and knawed on. A scramble of claws on metal and bone being crunched by teeth.

A thick metal gate tried to block her, but Medea just had to nibble a little to carve her way through the feet-thick steel.

On the other side was a familiar sight.

One of those Maneater Boars, the ones with the dozens of eyes, that were great fun to chase. Well, her pet dragons would chase them.

Medea, as befitting of her status of Floofiest of Floofs, would ride those dragons and accept their sacrifice as a light snack.

But something else was eating this boar.

A white mouse with a four-foot frame that dwarfed Medea in size continued to consume more of the dead pig's body. Already it had carved a good chunk from the animal, despite it being over thirty times its mass.

Medea watched the mouse eat with distaste, blood, meat and bone raining down around it.

"Mrow," she ordered it to stop. Its crude waste of food was appalling to a gourmet like her.

The mouse froze, looking up from its bloody meal. Thirteen glowing blue eyes looked at Medea menacingly. Its scaled tail swirled behind it as it rose to its full height and let out a rumbling squeak.

Medea was unimpressed.

The rats on the Island were much larger.

How dare this puny rodent try and speak against her, the Floofiest of Floofs.

So Medea decided to teach the rodent of unusual size a lesson by opening her Maw.

The black void consumed the mouse, the boar, and most of the room.

Licking her paws clean on the floor that had once been steel, now bare stone, Medea gave a lazy stretch.

Then she opened a Door home and walked through.

It didn't matter if she had wings, could turn into a dragon, was the embodiment of Hunger, or that she was Tier 9 thanks to all her 'treats.' When confronted with a mouse getting uppity, there was only one thing to do.

After all, Medea was a cat.