Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

We open in outer space. A massive gunmetal grey ship is attacking a much smaller cyan ship, somewhere out near Jupiter. Now we go inside the larger ship:

"Hull damage: 25 percent. Weapons system's still 90 percent operational." The Bioid Lieutenant crackled with static as another blast rocked Vilgax's command deck. Behind the stasis tank's viscous green fluid, Vilgax's remaining eye twitched. Tendrils of regenerating flesh snaked across his half-melted face like living sutures.

"You said that before the *last* plasma surge," Vilgax growled. His voice bubbled unnaturally through the tank's speakers. On the viewscreen, the wreckage of the Galatrix transport spun lazily past Jupiter's storm belts. A single scorched escape pod blinked ominously on tactical displays—right above some backwater planet's atmosphere.

The Bioid hesitated. "Apologies, Warlord Vilgax Oraqar. But tactical suggests—"

"Suggests *what*?" Vilgax's fist slammed against the tank's interior, sending ripples through the fluid. "That we let some *primate* stumble upon the most powerful weapon in the galaxy? I have come too far to be denied. That half rate butcherer wasted his genius on a miniature freak show. But I will realize the Galatrix’s true potential, and it will be MY weapon, and there is not a being in the galaxy that DARES stand in my way!"

Meanwhile, on Earth, Benjamin A. Tennyson is seen sitting in school, crafting an origami kraken with fangs. He proceeds to gently place it inside of his book bag. The teacher turns around to write on the board to write about something everyone in here would forget by the time the bell rung for summer vacation.

The clock ticks in Benjamin's classroom; he looks at it uncaringly.

Origami kraken in his bag, folded neatly—its paper fangs sharper than his attention span. The teacher's back is turned, writing equations no one will remember by summer's end. Ben's foot taps a restless rhythm under the desk.

**Tick.**

**Tick.**

**Tick.**

"And I just want to remind you all that I will in fact be teaching summer school this year, and it's not too late to sign up."

Yeah, right, Benjamin was already top of the class, he didn't need it. He had photographic memory, perfect recall—could recite entire chapters from textbooks backwards if he wanted to. But grades weren't the problem. The problem was the way Ms. Peterson made all the lessons as dull as possible.

Benjamin sighed, tapping his fingers against the desk. The clock above the whiteboard might as well have been frozen in time. He glanced at his bag, where the origami kraken lay nestled between crumpled homework, assignments, tests, all with red A's written on them and a half-eaten granola bar.

The bell finally rung—a harsh electronic screech that made half the class wince. Benjamin didn't flinch. He was already halfway out of his seat when Ms. Peterson turned around, "Everyone, have a good vacation, and I hope to see you all again in the fall."

Benjamin follows behind everyone to the door, outside, the pair of kids Cash and JT back up another kid, James, into a tree.

"Normally, we'd take your money *and* your dignity," Cash sneered, cracking his knuckles with a sound like popcorn in a microwave. JT loomed behind him, twirling a stick he'd picked up—probably to poke things that didn't need poking. James pressed against the oak bark, backpack straps digging into his shoulders like overeager seatbelts.

Benjamin looked, and simply walked by, it wasn't his problem, he had better things to do, like get home and get ready for the road trip. But then, James looked at him for a brief moment—pleading, not with words, but with the kind of desperate silence you only get from someone who knows help isn't coming. Benjamin hesitated. His sneakers scuffed against the pavement.

"Leave him alone," Benjamin said, louder than he meant to. The words tasted weird in his mouth—like he'd bitten into something sour and was surprised it didn't taste like metal.

Cash snorted. "Get lost, lanky." The stick in his hands twirled faster, carving lazy circles in the air like a propeller about to take off. "Seriously. Walk away before we rearrange your face into something even your mom wouldn’t recognize."

Ben’s fingers curled into fists—not the tight, dramatic kind from action movies, but the loose, twitchy kind of someone who’d never actually thrown a punch outside of maybe VR. His throat clicked when he swallowed. "Like you're one to talk about being lanky," he shot back, stepping forward. "Your spine’s got more curves than a rollercoaster."

Cash blinked. JT burst out laughing—a sharp, honking sound—before elbowing Cash hard enough to make him wheeze. "He’s got you there, dude. You *do* look like a bendy straw somebody left in the sun too long."

Benjamin took another step forward, pulse hammering in his wrists. This was stupid. This was *so* stupid. He hadn’t even wanted to get involved—summer started in approximately six minutes, and he had zero interest in kicking it off with a black eye. But James was still pressed against the tree, eyes darting between them like he was calculating the exact velocity needed to bolt.

Then Cash lunged.

Benjamin flinched—*ducked*—and the world tilted sideways as JT’s stick whistled past his ear, smacking Cash square in the collarbone instead. Cash yowled. James took off running. JT stared at the stick in his hand like it had personally betrayed him.

And Benjamin? He was already halfway down the block, sneakers slapping pavement, laughter bubbling up raw in his chest.

Suddenly a rusty looking motor home (named the Rustbucket) pulled up in front of him. Max Tennyson leaned out the window, his bushy eyebrows raised high enough to disappear under his fishing hat. "You planning to run all the way to the lake, sport? Or you wanna save some energy for actually camping on this road trip?"

"Oh, I have so been looking forward to this Grandpa!" He exclaimed cheerfully, already forgetting he was out of breath and ran to jump into the motor home. He quickly noticed Gwen Tennyson sitting down at the table.

"Oh... hey Gwendolyn, so um... how have you been?"

Gwen rolled her eyes hard enough to strain an ocular muscle. "Don't 'Gwendolyn' me, Ben. This wasn't my idea." She snapped her gum like punctuation. "Somebody convinced my mom that 'fresh air builds character' or whatever and that as cousins who live in the same town we need to 'be closer' and Sunnie's at summer school."

"Well then don't 'Ben' me either, Gwendolyn, and I don't know how you two are twins" Benjamin shot back, flopping onto the bench seat hard enough to make the loose springs squeak. His fingers drummed the peeling laminate table as his eyes flicked between Gwen's meticulously organized pencil case and the smear of grape jelly on his own sleeve. "Neither do I to be honest."

"Also, last I checked, you were supposed to be at science camp dissecting alien frog-squid hybrids or whatever people who want to be geniuses do."

The Rustbucket lurched forward with a cloud of blue exhaust, Max humming off-key to some old country tune crackling through the radio speakers. Gwen scrunched her nose at the scent of burnt motor oil and Grandpa’s beef jerky stash fermenting under the driver’s seat. Benjamin, meanwhile, was already elbow-deep in the cooler, rooting for the last grape soda—his fingers closed around something cold and slimy.

"Ew! Grandpa, why is there a pickled egg in here?!" Ben yanked his hand back like he’d touched live wiring.

Max chuckled, adjusting the rearview mirror just enough to catch Gwen mouthing *told you so* at Ben’s disgusted face. "Emergency rations, kiddo. You never know when you might need it."

"Hopefully never," Ben muttered, wiping his hand on his grey-green cargo pants—the ones with the suspicious stain Gwen refused to let him explain.

"I can't believe it. I wait all school year to go on this trip, and now we're going to starve because Grandpa packs snacks that look like they were dug out of a dinosaur's stomach," Ben groaned, shaking the slime off his fingers and accidentally onto Gwen's meticulously organized backpack.

Gwen recoiled like he'd tossed a live grenade. "Ugh! You're *disgusting* sometimes, Ben!"

"Something tells me it's gonna be a long summer..." Max muttered quietly to himself as Gwen and Benjamin's argument escalated into a full-blown backpack war—Gwen's biology textbook smacking Ben square in the forehead while he retaliated by flicking one of his origami at her.

The Rustbucket quickly drove out of Bellwood, onto Route 66, Gwen and Benjamin still bickering in the backseat—until Gwen suddenly smacked her forehead. "Ugh, I just remembered! I left my experiment journal in my locker!"

Ben smirked, tossing another folded paper airplane—this one shaped like a seagull—at her. "Should've double-checked, Brainstorm. Guess you're not *perfect* after all."

Gwen grabbed the paper mid-air—only for it to burst into confetti. Ben had *definitely* been practicing.

Meanwhile, Vilgax's ship orbited Earth like a vulture, scanning for the Omnitrix's signal. His robotic lieutenant clanked forward, voice crackling through static. "Sensors detect intermittent energy spikes—consistent with Omnitrix activation. Location: terrestrial. Coordinates shifting."

Vilgax's tentacles coiled in fury inside his healing pod. "Track it. And *annihilate* anything—or anyone—standing between me and that device."

Much later in the day, the trio of Tennysons gathered in the woods around a table-bench. Max brought to the table a bucket full of pale, still-wriggling grub.

"It's chow time!"

Benjamin simply stared at it plainly, "...Okay, I give up Grandpa. What, is that supposed to be?

"They're marinated mealworms. Hard to find them fresh in the States. You know, they're considered a delicacy in some countries."

"And a crime against humanity in others?" Gwen retorted disgusted at the sight.

One of the worms fell out of the bucket and crawled onto the table, leaving behind a faint trail.

"If these don't sound good, I've got some baked cow's tongue in the fridge?"

"Grandpa, couldn't we just have some pizza or pancakes or something?"

Benjamin and Gwen smiled at Max pleadingly.

"Nope, this summer's gonna be an adventure for your taste buds! I'll grab the tongue.

"Okay, I think I remember something from those survival documentaries Grandpa made us watch," Benjamin muttered, nudging Gwen with his elbow. "Didn't they say you can eat, like, tree bark or something?"

Gwen blinked at him slowly. "*Pine* bark. And only in emergencies. Also, *you* were asleep drooling on my shoulder during that part."

"Still, think we can get away with doing that the whole summer?"

Benjamin whispered conspiratorially to Gwen, eyeing Max rummaging through the Rustbucket’s fridge. Gwen adjusted her ponytail, and sighed. "Doubt it. Grandpa’s got, like, a sixth sense for when we’re up to something."

Benjamin smirked. "Bet I can bypass it." He tossed a pebble toward Max's back—just as Grandpa turned, catching it mid-air without looking. Gwen snorted. "Sixth. Sense."

The two just began to sulk together.

Meanwhile, Vilgax's ship continued attacking the other, blasting lasers into the hull of it.

"Their propulsion systems have now been destroyed my lord."

"Prepare to begin boarding! I want the Galatrix, now."

The smaller ship primed its last-ditch laser, sputtering energy like a dying heartbeat. A single blast tore through Vilgax’s control room—fire engulfed the viewport, melted consoles, and sent robotic crew flying like shrapnel. Vilgax himself, half his face scorched to exposed circuitry, snarled as his ship retaliated with a world-ending payload. The cyan vessel nearly shattered.

But from the wreckage, a single escape pod blasted free—flaming, spinning, punching through Earth's atmosphere like a bullet through wet paper. It streaked over Vermont's forest, where Ben Tennyson was currently failing to roast a marshmallow without setting his entire stick on fire.

"Gimme that," Gwen snapped, yanking the flaming mess from his hands. She blew it out with one sharp exhale. "How are you this bad at *fire*?"

The marshmallow was now charcoal.

Ben shrugged. "Maybe I'm secretly a pyro-*can't*-ic."

Crickets chirped in response to that joke.

"Uh, I'm just gonna take a walk, Gwendolyn, tell Grandpa I'll be back in... well, probably never, if I'm lucky," Benjamin muttered, kicking at a pinecone as he stomped off into the woods. Gwen flipped a page of her book with surgical precision. "If you get eaten by a bear, I'm keeping your Game Boy Ben."

"Fair enough," Benjamin muttered, flicking the charred marshmallow into the bushes. His sneakers kicked up dust as he wandered deeper into the pines, the fading sunlight dappling through the branches like a bad Instagram filter.

As he walked he decided to let his probably way too long hair loose, he had been growing it out for about 2 years now and while Gwendolyn said he looked like a bum or a hippie but he rather liked it, it complemented his lucky shirt and cargo pants look nicely, well that's what he thought at least.

He wandered aimlessly, kicking a small rock ahead of him and watching the way it bounced off the dirt, when suddenly the forest ahead of him lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Whoa!" He jumped back, instinctively raising his arms in front of his face as a burning streak shot across the sky—not a shooting star, not a plane, but something with purpose. It banked hard, kicking up a sonic boom that sent pinecones raining down around him.

The meteor—correction: definitely NOT a meteor—slammed into the earth fifty yards ahead with a ground-shaking WHUMP. Dirt geysered into the air. Trees snapped like toothpicks.

Ben stood frozen, one sneaker half-raised mid-step. His brain short-circuited between "run" and "holy shit that was awesome." The choice got made for him when a shockwave of heat rolled through the woods, flinging him backward into a thorny bush.

"Ow! What the—" He clawed his way free just in time to see smoke curling from a fresh crater. Something inside pulsed neon green, casting eerie shadows up the dirt walls. His dumb curiosity won out. "Okay, Benjamin. Either this is NASA's lost space junk or you're about to get probed."

The pod hissed like a pissed-off rattlesnake, its seams glowing a dark radioactive green as Ben crept forward, knees wobbling like jelly in an earthquake. "Okay, Tennyson," he whispered to himself, fingers twitching near a snapped-off tree branch. "Either this thing's full of space candy—" The pod split open with a sound like a soda can getting stomped. "—or I'm gonna die so hard they'll find my bones in next year's geology field trip."

The Galatrix gleamed like toxic waste under moonlight, its surface shifting between liquid and solid like it couldn't decide which laws of physics to violate first. Ben's fingers hovered—close enough to smell the ozone, far enough to regret every life choice since breakfast.

"Okay," he whispered to the writhing green light. "You're either the coolest thing that ever fell outta space..." The device lunged. "...Or I just got adopted by Satan's smartwatch."

Metal met flesh with a sound like a soda can getting crushed in a fist. Tendrils shot out, wrapping around his wrist tighter than Gwen's death grip on her last brain cell. Ben's scream hit frequencies that'd make dogs pledge allegiance to squirrels.

"Get off me! Get off, get off! YOU GLOWING SPACE PARASITE—" Ben's scream hit decibels that'd make opera singers clutch their pearls as the Galatrix's tendrils burrowed under his skin with the enthusiasm of a starving tapeworm. The device beeped—an innocent sound, like a microwave finishing its cycle—right before his bones started rearranging themselves with the grace of a drunk accordion player.

Somewhere between "ow" and "OH GOD MY RIBS ARE ON FIRE," Benjamin's vision swam with neon-green afterimages. His lucky shirt fused to his chest as obsidian plates erupted across his torso like some demented puberty growth spurt. "Okay, okay, okay—" he wheezed, watching his hands swell into clawed mitts wreathed in cobalt flames "—this is fine, this is totally—WAH!"

His spine cracked like a glowstick, shooting him upright into a hulking eight-foot frame. Molten lava pulsed under jagged black rock armor as a five-spiked mohawk of pure blue fire erupted from his scalp. The watch's symbol—now a dark acidic green twin-diamond sigil—rested on his chest like a radioactive brooch.

"Aaah! I'm on fire! I'm on FIRE! Auuugh!" Benjamin's panic sent him tripping over a figure very similar to him seemed to have suddenly materialize seemingly out of thin air, assembling into a humanoid shape. Around the chest merged-diamond symbol from the watch. Benjamin realizes, from the chest and the hips, and the tiny singular eyelashes, that it looks… obviously female, if really scary looking. A fire lights up from within the construction.

"Forest fire! Forest freakin' fire!" Benjamin screamed, scrambling backward as the flaming doppelganger cocked her head—her entire magma-glowing as panic filled her eyes.

"Wait, I’m not a forest fire I think, promise!"

"Stop, drop, and roll!"

"Do you think I'm gonna hurt you?!"

Benjamin stumbled backward, his new feet kicking up and burning dirt, Yeah… and still do, kinda… if I'm being perfectly honest."

"What reason do I even have to hurt you, Hot Shot?"

Benjamin, now dubbed Hotshot began to calm down, "Hey... I'm on fire and,... I'm okay, and so are you!"

"Just okay? Check it out... I'm like totally hot! Like, literally!" She flexed her rocky arms, sending embers cascading into the night air. The blue crust along her knuckles cracked as she punched her palm, producing a shower of sparks.

Benjamin—no, Hot Shot now thought he was doing the closest thing he could to blushing, despite the fact that she looked terrifying—and kinda hot. Literally. Her rocky exterior pulsed with internal fire, cracks revealing molten veins beneath. She stretched, popping a shoulder with a sound like splitting granite, then smirked at him.

She soon spotted a tree behind him, "Oh yeah, uh-huh! Here goes nothing!"

Hot Shot barely had time to process before she slung her wrist forward, shooting out a fireball out of her finger, blowing a branch off the tree entirely. She grinned—or what counted as grinning when your face was made of shifting volcanic rock—and cracked her knuckles with a sound like splitting granite. "Not bad for my first shot, huh?"

Benjamin—still stuck in his own flaming form—stared. "Dude. Did you just—"

"—turn a oak tree into kindling?" She flicked her wrist, igniting her fingertips like a lighter. "Yep. And the word's 'dudette,' Hot Shot."

Benjamin blinked. Or tried to. His new eyelids felt weird, sliding over his molten core like tectonic plates. "Wait, you *named* me?"

She shrugged, sending embers cascading off her shoulders. "Seemed fitting. You scream like a tea kettle."

"Well, what's your name then, Lava Lips?" Hot Shot shot back, flexing his own flaming fingers—only to yelp when a stray spark singed his improvised Mohawk. The female pyro alien snorted, rolling her molten eyes.

"I don't know, how about you give me one Hot Shot?" she taunted, spinning her hands clockwise until twin fire-whips coiled around her forearms like punk bondage gear. The tree branch she'd vaporized earlier smoldered between them, filling the clearing with the scent of charred pine sap. Her posture was pure swagger—hips cocked, molten shoulders rolling with the confidence of someone who'd definitely been in bar fights.

"How about... Heatblast?" Benjamin ventured, rubbing his still-smoldering wrist where the watch had fused to his skin.

The female pyro alien paused mid-fire-twirl, her molten eyebrows—if you could call the ridges above her lidless eyes *eyebrows*—lifting in consideration. The flames composing her body crackled louder for a second before she smirked. "Eh. Good enough."

She then created a larger fireball between her hands, smiling, "I'm lovin' it!"

She shot it through five trees instead of one. Her smile quickly dropped though as he sees the fire spreading to other trees.

"Wait! Stop Heatblast-ing—oh man, I just did it too!" Hot Shot scrambled after Heatblast as she sprinted through the burning underbrush, her flaming footsteps igniting dry leaves in her wake. His own emerald-green crusted knees clicked like tectonic plates with every stride, the blue magma veins pulsing under his rocky skin. "We gotta—*ack!*—put that out before Grandpa finds out we set the state park on fire!"

Heatblast skidded to a stop, kicking up a spray of molten embers that lit another patch of dry grass. "Whoopsie-daisies," she muttered, watching the flames spread with the detached curiosity of someone who'd never seen a forest fire up close. Her flames danced higher, casting long shadows across the clearing—shadows that contorted unnaturally as Hot Shot barreled into her from behind, his jagged emerald plating clinking against her superheated form.

"Watch the merchandise!" Heatblast yelped, spinning with flames, "We got a do a backfire Heatblast!" He grabbed Heatblast's wrists, their flames merging into a swirling column of blue and purple. The forest around them crackled—branches snapping underfoot as Benjamin stumbled back, eyes wide at the unnatural heat coiling between them. "Dude—DUDE! Are we fusion-dancing or—?"

The fire pulsed. Then split.

Meanwhile Max sat by the campfire outside the Rustbucket, "Hmm. Benjamin's been gone a while. Well, I guess he can't get into too much trouble out here, not that he ever does anymore."

"Come on Grandpa, Ben's a lot of things, but he hasn't been a doofus for 2 years. Not since—"as Gwen walked out, both seeing smoke in the distance.

"What's that Grandpa?"

"Looks like the start of a forest fire. We better let the Rangers' Station know. Probably some damn fool camper out there, messing around with something they shouldn't be."

Max then paused, before he and Gwen came to the exact same realization.

"Benjamin!"

"Ben!"

Max quickly opened a camping kit and grabs two fire extinguishers and passed one to Gwen. "Alright Gwen, you take the left flank and I'll take the right-" but Gwen was already sprinting towards the smoke, fire extinguisher in hand. Max was still in disbelief at his granddaughter's initiative but quickly followed after.

Meanwhile, Hot Shot was making backfires around the forest floor as Heatblast was attempting and failing to do the same.

"See? You gotta—wait, no, don't swing your arms like that—urgh!" Hot Shot grabbed Heatblast's wrists mid-flail, redirecting his wild arcs of flame into a controlled spiral. Their combined firelight cast flickering shadows across the clearing, illuminating the panic in Hot Shot's widened eyes. "Focus, dingus! We gotta burn counterclockwise or we torch the whole state!"

"This would be so cool, if it weren't so uncool Hot Shot! You're cooking us alive!" Heatblast hissed as their shared flames spiraled outward in erratic coronas, scorching bark down to blackened skeletal remains of trees. The alien firestorm smelled suspiciously like burnt cafeteria pizza—probably Benjamin's last meal haunting them. Somewhere beneath their mingling panic, the Galatrix pulsed against Benjamin's wrist with each synchronized heartbeat, feeding the wildfire like gasoline on sibling rivalry.

Across the clearing, Gwen's sneakers kicked up dry earth as she skidded to a halt, fire extinguisher now spraying at Heatblast's back, causing her to turn around to look at her, Gwen's eyes wide.

"Look Gwendolyn, I know I look weird, and she looks weird, but there's no reason to be scared—"

The extinguisher foam hit Hot Shot square in the face.

"—OF THIS!" Gwen shrieked, swinging the canister like a battering ram into Heatblast's ribcage. The impact sent embers scattering—which, naturally, ignited three new patches of underbrush.

"I don't know what you two are, but you'll stay down there if you know what's good for you!" Gwen yelled, brandishing the dented fire extinguisher like a medieval mace. Her ponytail swung wildly as she pivoted between the flaming twins—Hot Shot crouched in a defensive stance while Heatblast rubbed her crystallized ribs with ember-coated fingers. The Galatrix's interface pulsed sickly green between them, synced waveforms distorting more and more.

"Ow!" Gwen hopped on one foot, scowling at her smoldering sneaker. "I warned you!" She raised the dented extinguisher like a club—only for the weapon to freeze mid-swing as recognition flashed across her face when she realized her name had been said. "... Ben? Is that you? And who the fuck is she?"

"Well, when I was walking, this meteor fell from the sky and almost smudged me, except that it wasn't a meteor or a satellite, but this cool watch thing that jumped up onto my wrist, and when I tried to get it off, I suddenly was on fire and she just appeared out of nowhere only it didn't hurt when she was accidentally starting this mega forest fire!"

Gwen's extinguisher nozzle twitched between the two flaming figures—one crouched like a caged wildfire, the other flickering with nervous energy that made the surrounding trees sweat sap. "Let me get this straight," Gwen said, kicking dirt onto her still-smoking shoelaces. "You found a magical space watch that turned you into that terrifying thing—"

She gestured towards him.

"—and summoned her out of nowhere like some twisted jack-in-the-box?" Gwen finished, frost creeping into her voice as she jabbed the extinguisher at Heatblast. The alien girl blew a raspberry, sending a spiral of embers curling toward Gwen’s knees.

"Yeah pretty much!" Heatblast blurted out, throwing her arms wide—which Gwen immediately regretted as twin jets of flame scorched the bark off nearby pines.

Suddenly Grandpa Max came running in, just as Heatblast was mid-explanation. He skidded to a halt, eyes wide behind his sunglasses as he took in the scene: Gwen holding a half-melted extinguisher, Ben—still fully transformed into Hot Shot—crouched defensively, and the new, fiery girl-alien blowing smoke rings with bored disinterest.

"Okay, kids," Max said slowly, adjusting his hat. "Either I forgot to take my vitamins this morning, or-"

"Hey, sorry Grandpa, but uh, major forest fire burning out of control, remember?!" Hot Shot barked, sparks popping from his shoulder vents as he gestured wildly at the inferno.

"Oh right."

The four quickly ran out. Heatblast and Hot Shot found some trees a distance away, then shot them with a beam of fire, causing a new blaze.

A ranger quickly came across the burnt-out forest.

Up above the Earth, Vilgax's ship had a damaged bridge, and an incredibly mutilated Vilgax floated in a stasis tank.

Vilgax boomed to the Bioid Lieutenant, even with labored breathing, "What do you mean it's not there? This battle nearly costs me my life and my mind! And you say the Galatrix is no longer on board the transport?!"

The Bioid Lieutenant's metallic voice buzzed, "Sensors indicate a probe was jettisoned from the ship just before boarding. It landed on the planet below." Vilgax's tentacles twitched inside the stasis tank, his one remaining eye dilating with fury. "Then send the Vrexian Hunter Drones," he hissed, organic fluids leaking from his cracked exoskeleton. "Scour that mudball until—" A sudden convulsion wracked his body. The tank's nutrient fluid darkened with ichor.

Meanwhile, the quartet ate marshmallows by the fire, Heatblast bad just explained to Max everything she knew, which wasn't much.

"And you don't remember anything before appearing next to my grandson?" Max asked, eyeing Heatblast—or rather, the scorched, confused woman who'd somehow split from Ben's transformation like a misfired clone. Her flames flickered uncertainly.

Heatblast rubbed her temple, molten hair hissing against her fingers. "Just... fire. And screaming. Mostly yours." She nodded at Gwen, who flinched.

Across the clearing, Hot Shot started to mope, "I'm gonna stay a monster forever..." The alien form's voice crackled like burning timber—too deep, too rough, completely unlike Benjamin's usual tone.

"Hey!" Heatblast scoffed, clearly offended, crossing her arms—which sent embers cascading onto Gwen's sneakers again. "Who's calling who creepy? Were the hottest people around." She gestured at herself and then back at Hot Shot.

"I'm sorry, but I don't wanna be 'fire guy' forever. How am I supposed to make my special origami this fall if I charcoal the paper every time I fold a crane?" Benjamin pouted, staring at his flaming fingers. Heatblast rolled her glowing eyes—literally rolled, the irises spinning like molten marbles before settling back into place.

"Don't worry, Benjamin. We'll figure this thing out together, as a family."

The Galatrix symbol on Heatblast and Hot Shot's chest suddenly started to beep and flashed red five times, then let out a blinding light towards Max and Gwen. When they opened their eyes, Benjamin was standing in front of them, human and all again, and Heatblast was now gone.

"Hah! I'm me aga—wait, what happened to Heatblast?! Did I just... kill her?" Benjamin stared at his hands, flexing his fingers like they might spontaneously combust again. Gwen backed away slowly, pressing her extinguisher nozzle tighter. The forest air smelled like burnt marshmallows and existential panic.

The Galatrix flickered a toxic dark green against Benjamin's wrist—a silent taunt. He barely noticed.

A pod shot from Vilgax's ship above orbit, landing deep in the woods, next to the Galatrix's pod. Revealing itself as a gigantic Mechadroid (the shadowed one from before), it scanned and promptly disintegrated the pod in the crash site, and ejected smaller flying Mechadroids from its shoulders to go find the watch.

Benjamin fiddled with the Galatrix, "S-she can't be dead right?"

Max rubbed his chin, "I don't think so, there's still a fire siloute on your watch right?"

Benjamin looked at the Galatrix, "Y-yeah... but still... Look Grandpa. If I can figure this thing out, maybe I can help people. I mean, really help them! Not just, you know, make things worse... but what if..."

Gwen started to walk over, "So, what did it feel like going all a scary alien monster like that?"

Benjamin clutched his wrist, the Galatrix pulsing faintly green. "It freaked me out at first," he muttered, staring at the flickering silhouette of Heatblast trapped within the interface. "But it's like... I wasn't just me anymore. Like I wasn't scared. Like she—like it didn't even think about consequences."

Max frowned. "Synaptic override. The form influences the host."

Benjamin jerked his head up. "What?"

Max rubbed his chin. "I read about it in a—never mind. Point is, those forms ain't just costumes, Benjamin. They can influence you since your body is altered so much."

Benjamin shuddered, staring at the Galatrix. "So Heatblast wasn't just girl me also with fire powers? She was... her own thing?" His voice cracked.

Gwen wrinkled her nose. "Duh. You turned into a literal walking bonfire, Ben. Of course it wasn't just you with a tan." She jabbed a finger at the Galatrix's pulsing interface. "That thing rewired your brainmeats. You screamed like a toddler when I sprayed you with the extinguisher—total personality override."

Benjamin flinched as the watch emitted a low, warning hum. The Heatblast silhouette flickered—not gone, but trapped behind glassy green pixels. His fingers trembled near the activation dial. "What if... what if I press it again and she's just... deleted?" The words tasted like battery acid.

Max's boot scuffed dirt. "Only one way to find out, kiddo." His voice held the grim patience of a man who'd seen UFOs crash in the Nevada desert. "But maybe aim for something less... combustible this time."

A twig snapped thirty yards east. Too heavy for wildlife.

Gwen spun, shovel raised—just as a flying Mechadroid burst through the pines, its laser sights painting a red dot between Benjamin's eyes.

"DOWN!" Max tackled them both as the beam vaporized a spruce tree behind them. The Galatrix's hum spiked into a shriek.

Benjamin's thumb slipped.

The dial spun wildly—landing on a silhouette Gwen didn't recognize: something with too many spines and a hunched posture. Benjamin barely had time to gulp before emerald light swallowed him whole. Bones cracked. Skin split.

Where Benjamin had crouched now loomed Brutebeast—a hulking, purple eyeless nightmare of corded muscle and jagged keratin spikes. Saliva dripped from an underbite studded with yellowed fangs as five gill-slits on its neck flared, sniffing the air. Gwen's stomach lurched.

And next to him was Wildmutt—because what else would you name her?

"Ew! This thing's even uglier than the last one! Hah, wow, put a flea collar on these things! And no eyes? What good is this one? It can't see!"

The air gulped audibly—Brutebeast’s neck gills flaring, nostrils snapping open like fleshy trapdoors as Gwen’s voice ricocheted through the clearing. Musk glands under his forearms pulsed thick sap-smelling pheromones. Wildmutt’s claws dug into the dirt—her own gill-slits vibrating in syncopated distress.

Brutebeast swung his spinal crest sideways—spines catching vibrations—just as Wildmutt lunged. Their bodies collided midair, tumbling through saplings in a snarling knot of keratin spikes and matte-black claws. Gwen scrambled backward, extinguisher spraying wildly.

They soon both went running back to the forest, Brutebeast's gill-slits flared wide, drinking in the scent trails like a bloodhound catching the wind. Wildmutt bounded ahead, her own sensory quills twitching—their shared blindness irrelevant when the world vibrated with heat signatures and pheromones.

"Ben—Ben, stop!" Gwen's voice cracked as Brutebeast's spinal crest twitched mid-pounce. The alien's underbite dripped saliva onto her sneaker. "You're freaking me out!"

Brutebeast's gill-slits pulsed. Something in Gwen's scent—sharp, acrid, human—made his haunches lower. Wildmutt circled them both, her own quills bristling in warning. Then the ground trembled.

A Mechadroid's metallic foot crushed a pine trunk twenty yards away. Its shoulder cannons whirred, scanning the thermal chaos of three heat signatures where there should've been two. Brutebeast's nostrils flared at the stench of ionized plasma.

Gwen grabbed a rock. "Okay, new plan—you two sniff out its weak spot, I'll—"

Wildmutt pounced first. Her claws screeched against the droid's chassis as Brutebeast barreled into its knee joint. The impact sent cracks spiderwebbing through the armor. Gwen's rock bounced harmlessly off its optic sensor.

"Really? That's your weak spot?" She ducked as a laser seared the air above her head. "Ben, if you're in there—DO SOMETHING COOL!"

Brutebeast roared. His jaws clamped onto the droid's arm cannon and twisted—metal groaned, circuits sparked—until the entire limb tore free in a shower of hydraulic fluid. Wildmutt seized the moment, vaulting onto its back and driving her claws deep into the neural housing.

The Mechadroid exploded.

Gwen coughed through the smoke. "Okay. That was... actually kind of—"

Brutebeast's head snapped sideways. His gills flared at a new scent: ozone and rust. Five more heat signatures pulsed in the treeline.

"—a problem," Gwen finished weakly.

Wildmutt yowled—half challenge, half panic—as the squad of drones leveled their weapons. Brutebeast shoved Gwen behind a boulder with his flank just as the world dissolved into laserfire.

The Mechadroid started to spark. They all ran away before it exploded.

Brutebeast's spinal crest twitched—each keratin spike vibrating like a tuning fork as the shockwave rolled over him. The explosion's scent bloomed in his gill-slits: burnt metal, ionized air, and beneath it all—Gwen's sweat, sour with fear. Wildmutt circled him, her own quills bristling at the residual heat. Their alien instincts screamed *danger* even as their shared human core recognized something worse: five more Mechadroid signatures clicking online in the smoke.

They made their way back towards the RV, Gwen’s sneakers kicking up loose gravel while Brutebeast padded beside her, his gill-slits flaring at every shift in the wind. Wildmutt—Brutebeast's counterpart—lingered at the treeline, her own heat-sensitive quills twitching towards the wreckage. The air smelled like burning insulation and something Gwen couldn’t place—ozone, maybe, or whatever alien fuel powered that tin-can army.

"Alright, listen up, furball," Gwen said, snapping her fingers near Brutebeast’s face. His jaws parted—not to bite, but in confusion. "We need a *plan*. Those things *know* we’re here, and unless you’ve got a secret ‘turn-into-a-tank’ mode hidden in that watch, we are *screwed*."

Brutebeast growled low in his throat—not angry, but *thinking* then the Galatrix beeped again—when suddenly, he was human again for the second time that evening.

Benjamin collapsed forward onto his hands and knees, gasping. "Uh… did I just *eat* part of that robot?" His voice cracked halfway through the sentence. Gwen stared at him, then at the scorch marks where Wildmutt had vanished mid-leap.

"Gross," Gwen said. Then she smacked him upside the head.

Just then the radio in the Rustbucket went off, "Mayday! Mayday! Somebody help us! We're under attack by some sort of, andI know you're not going to believe me, but… robots!"

Benjamin looked at the Galatrix, its dark acidic green glow pulsing like a heartbeat. He hesitated—these weren't just transformations anymore. Every alien form rewired his brain, pressing foreign instincts into his skull like hot brands. He shuddered, remembering the metallic aftertaste of shredded droid plating clinging to his human tongue.

Gwen yanked him up by the collar. "Hey, Droolmaster 3000! Focus!" Benjamin blinked at her, then at the Galatrix, and then at Max who was coming out of the Rustbucket holding a shotgun. Like, an actual shotgun.

Benjamin, Gwen, and Max all went into the woods for Benjamin to transform in secret. The Omnitrix beeped and lit up ominously in standby. Benjamin looks at Max, who nods in approval.

"Eenie, meenie, miney… you."

Benjamin's finger hovered over the Galatrix's dial, its acidic green light casting jagged shadows across his face. The silhouette he landed on was angular—brutal. Something about the way its spine arched in the hologram made his human skin prickle. He exhaled through his teeth and slammed the dial down.

Crystalfist emerged in a burst of dark pink refraction. Gwen stumbled back as his four back-shards scraped against a tree trunk with a sound like nails on a chalkboard. He flexed his clawed hands—black as oil spills—and rolled his neck with a series of audible *clicks*.

"Whoa," Benjamin's voice echoed inside the helmet-like skull, but it wasn't *his* voice. It was deeper. Hungrier. "This one's *pissed*."

Gwen swallowed hard. "Uh. Cool spikes?"

Crystalfist's lavender eyes locked onto her. A low, grinding chuckle vibrated from his chest, next to him was another female counterpart of him, only having two back-spikes and being curvier. Gwen took another step back as his claws twitched—not like Benjamin's nervous fidgeting, but like a predator counting seconds until pounce.

"So what can this guy and her do?"

Crystalfist tilted his helmeted head toward Gwen—too slow, too deliberate. The female counterpart beside him flexed her claws with a sound like glass shattering under pressure. "Hunt," she rasped, her voice dripping with something that wasn't quite Benjamin's sarcasm. It was colder. Sharper.

"I'm calling you Diamondhead," Gwen blurted, staring at Crystalfist's female counterpart's jagged silhouette against the sunset. The name slipped out before she could stop it—something about the way her shards caught the light made her think of fractured mirrors and bad luck.

The newly minted Diamondhead stared at Gwen and Crystalfist with gemstone eyes that didn't blink. "You're both creeping me out," Gwen admitted, stepping back as the female counterpart's claws *tinked* against each other like wind chimes made of knives.

Crystalfist crouched low, his dark pink plating shifting with unnatural smoothness—like liquid stone. "Prey moves," he muttered, his voice gravelly but weirdly melodic, like someone had tuned a cello wrong. Behind him, Diamondhead's posture mirrored his, spines flaring in unison. Gwen's stomach lurched. *They're syncing*.

The quartet soon arrived to see Vilgax's gigantic Mechadroid attacking a campsite full of RVs and people were screaming.

Diamondhead's gemstone eyes narrowed. "Looks like the main robot," she muttered, het voice eerily harmonic—like wind whistling through canyon cracks. Beside her, Crystalfist's clawed fingers flexed with a sound like grinding tectonic plates. His dark pink plating rippled under the firelight, the four dorsal shards on his back vibrating at frequencies that made Gwen's molars ache.

The Mechadroid's central eye pulsed crimson, scanning. Targeting. With a hydraulic hiss, its shoulder panels slid open, revealing rows of serrated rotary blades.

Gwen swallowed hard. "Uh. Ben? Those look like they *chew through mountains*."

Crystalfist didn't blink. "Good."

Then he *moved*.

One moment he was coiled like a spring; the next, he was airborne—a dark blur shearing through the Mechadroid's leg joint in a shower of sparks. Diamondhead followed mid-leap, her crystalline fists morphing into jagged spears mid-swing. They struck in perfect tandem: Crystalfist's claws wedged deep into the droid's chest plating while Diamondhead's spear-hand punched clean through its optic sensor.

The Mechadroid staggered.

Gwen didn't have time to cheer—because the severed rotary blades were still spinning. Right toward Max.

"GRANDPA—!"

Diamondhead twisted midair, her body elongating into a living shield. The blades screeched against her gemstone skin, fracturing her left arm into a thousand glittering shards.

Crystalfist roared—not in pain, but in *recognition*. His lavender eyes locked onto Diamondhead's shattered limb, pupils contracting to slits. Something primal passed between them. A silent pact.

"You..." Crystalfist started, "Leave him alone. Or do you want somebody to fully annihilate you?" His voice crackled like tectonic plates shifting, each syllable grinding out with lethal precision. The Mechadroid's remaining optic flickered toward him—just in time to catch the dark orange blur of Crystalfist's fist plowing through its chest cavity. Circuits ruptured. Hydraulic fluid geysered. Diamondhead lunged from the wreckage, her shattered arm reforming mid-swing into a serrated glaive that sheared the droid's head clean off.

Gwen didn’t have time to process the synchronized brutality—because the forest erupted with the screech of five more Mechadroids descending through the canopy. Max yanked her behind a smoldering RV, his grip tight enough to bruise. "Stay down!" he barked, but Gwen was already squirming free, eyes locked on Benjamin’s.

Crystalfist didn’t turn. Didn’t blink. His lavender eyes burned brighter as the new droids fanned out. "Let the hunt begin," he rasped, voice like gravel dragged over steel. Diamondhead mirrored his stance—her joints locked, gemstone skin refracting the firelight into jagged neon splinters.

Gwen gulped. *Not fully Ben. Not anymore.* The way they moved—too fluid, too *together*—like they'd fought side-by-side for decades. Crystalfist's jagged silhouette shifted under the firelight, his plating clicking as he rolled his shoulders. Those clawed black hands flexed, and the spikes along his arms gleamed wet with hydraulic fluid.

"Grandpa," Gwen whispered, fingers digging into Max's sleeve. "His eyes—"

Lavender. Not much human left in them.

The nearest Mechadroid lunged, rotary blades screeching. Crystalfist didn't dodge—he *leaned* into the slash, letting serrated steel skitter off his collarbone spikes in a shower of violet sparks. "That tickles," he growled, then uppercut the droid so hard its torso spun like a top before detonating against a pine tree. Diamondhead was already moving, her glaive-arm splitting the second droid vertically. The bisected halves hit the dirt with synchronized thuds.

Gwen's breath hitched. They weren't fighting. They were *performing*. Every dodge, every counterstrike—mirror images. When Crystalfist pivoted on his heel to backhand a third droid's optic cluster, Diamondhead was already there, driving her crystalline knee into its spine. The impact sent shockwaves through the forest floor.

Max's walkie crackled. "—repeat, evac helicopters inbound—"

The transmission dissolved into static as Crystalfist's jagged elbow vaporized a droid's thorax plate. Gwen watched, transfixed, as indigo shards rained down—each fragment refracting the battlefield into kaleidoscopic carnage. His movements weren't just aggressive; they were *theatrical*. Shoulder spikes glistening with machine oil, he spun into a roundhouse kick that sent a droid caroming into Diamondhead's waiting fist. The impact sounded like a chandelier shattering inside a cathedral.

Max and Gwen had saved the ranger in the meantime. As the action unfolded, Diamondhead and Crystalfist synchronized their attacks on the remaining Mechadroids with terrifying efficiency. The battlefield was a blur of crystalline shards, hydraulic fluid, and the eerie now dark purple glow of Crystalfist's slitted eyes.

Diamondhead’s glaive-arm carved through another droid’s torso with surgical precision, while Crystalfist crushed a second’s core with a single punch.

"What the fuck is going on here?!"

"You probably wouldn't believe me if I told you sir," Gwen muttered under her breath, watching Crystalfist's fingers—*too long, too sharp*—twitch toward another droid's sparking remains. The lavender glow in his eyes pulsed with each hydraulic hiss from the wreckage.

Max's flashlight beam cut through the smoke, illuminating Diamondhead crouched over a disembodied droid limb, her gemstone pupils dilating as she rotated the metal joint with *too much* fascination. "They're studying them," Max whispered, grip tightening on Gwen's shoulder. "Like predators cataloging prey."

A twig snapped. Both aliens snapped their heads toward the sound, movements eerily synchronized. Crystalfist's throat emitted a low, rattling purr that didn't belong to any Earthly animal. Gwen's stomach lurched when she realized—*Benjamin hadn't made that sound. Whatever was wearing his face did.*

The last droid's core detonated fifty yards away, painting the trees in brief violet light. In that frozen second, Gwen saw it—Diamondhead's fingers twitching toward the sparking wreckage, her pupils contracting to predatory slits. Not scavenging. *Salivating.*

Crystalfist crouched beside her, his breathing oddly rhythmic—inhaling through flared unseen nostrils, exhaling in short, clicking rasps. Studying. Learning. Gwen's skin prickled. Those weren't Benjamin's mannerisms. Those weren't even *human* tics.

"Uh, guys?" Max's boot crunched on shattered plating. Both aliens whipped toward him with unsettling synchronicity, light and dark purple eyes flaring. The old man froze mid-step. "Bad time?"

Diamondhead's arm-glaive retracted with a crystalline *shink*. "Negative," she chirped—too high, too bright, like someone had overlaid Benjamin's voice with digital static.

Crystalfist tilted his head. His neck joints popped again. "What comes around, goes around you technical abomination." He spat at the wreckage, saliva sizzling where it hit exposed wiring. Gwen had never seen Ben's spit *do that* before. His pupils—slitted like a lizard's—dilated as he inhaled through flared unseen nostrils. The scent of burning metal made his lips peel back in something that wasn't quite a smile. Too many teeth. All pointed.

Then suddenly they both left, running as fast as they could.

"Who the hell were those creeps?"

Gwen and Max quietly tiptoed away, leaving the other campers and the ranger shrugging to one another.

Meanwhile, Vilgax's ship was being repaired by drones. The alien warlord floating in the healing tank on the bridge, his tentacles twitching in irritation. His single eye fixed on the holographic footage of Diamondhead and Crystalfist tearing through his Mechadroids like they were made of wet paper.

**"Failure?"** His voice bubbled through the nutrient fluid, warping into something unrecognizable. **"Unbelievable. The Galatrix is bonding with that puny Earth being that is keeping the Galatrix from me. They will soon hang on my trophy wall. And I will peel the dermis from their bones while they watch."** The drones welding his ship's hull paused—just for a microsecond—before resuming their repairs. Even machines knew terror when they heard it.

Across the forest, Benjamin Tennyson didn't feel like a trophy. He felt *wrong*. His skin prickled where Diamondhead's crystalline shards had retracted minutes earlier, leaving ghostly itches beneath the surface. The Omnitrix pulsed green on his wrist like a second heartbeat—too fast, too hungry. Gwen was staring at him. Again.

"Dude. You *growled* at that coolant leak." Max tossed a granola bar at Ben's chest. It bounced off untouched. "Like, actual predatory growling. With teeth."

Benjamin blinked down at his hands—pale, human, *wrongly* smooth where Diamondhead's crystalline edges had been moments ago. The Galatrix's dial glowed faintly under his sleeve. He flexed his fingers. No spikes. No claws. Just nails and his deep tan from the odd jobs he did around Bellwood.
And yet—

His pulse thrummed in his throat like it was trying to *escape*.

Because he *remembered*.

After that they all went to sleep after possibly the weirdest day in their lives.

Ben awoke to the sensation of his skin *crawling*. Not metaphorically—actual ridges and cracks of that now all too familiar alien glow were pushing through his pores as the Galatrix's green glow pulsed in the dark tent. He clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle the scream, wanting to use it again, afraid he'd scream with the wrong voice—again.

He dialed through the watch again—and it landed on a glyph he'd never seen before. The pulse of green light engulfed him, and then Benjamin Tennyson wasn't Benjamin Tennyson anymore.

**"Rush."**

The word slithered out of his mouth—his *new* mouth—in a voice that wasn't his. It was sharper. Hungrier. His limbs thrummed with kinetic potential, like coiled springs ready to snap. Light grey skin stretched over wiry muscle, gunmetal armor chitin clicking into place along his forearms, shoulders, and the jagged dorsal fins sprouting from his spine. His helmet—conoid, seamless—hissed as it sealed around his skull, leaving only his orange eyes and a thin, emotionless slit where his mouth should be.

Next to him was yet another female counterpart to Ruah. She was fast—her skin was a glossy, reflective silver, her limbs elongated and streamlined for speed.

Rush hissed—literally *hissed*—through the slit in his helmet as the Galatrix's green glow pulsed against the tent fabric. His dorsal fins vibrated with barely contained energy, gunmetal armor clicking like impatient teeth.

"Hello there... XLR8!" He said quickly, bouncing from foot to foot, his dorsal fins humming with restrained energy. His voice was deeper and more metallic than Ben's, and it echoed slightly inside his helmet. "So... we going to race or what? Or are you just gonna stand there looking all... shiny?"

XLR8 blinked—if she even had eyelids under that glossy silver faceplate—and tilted her head as quickly as Rush did. "You mean me?"

"Yep! Your name's XLR8 now!" Rush blurted out, already bouncing on the balls of his feet—except "bouncing" didn't quite cover it. His entire body *vibrated* at the edges, gunmetal armor blurring like a hummingbird's wings. The tent fabric fluttered from the displaced air. "And I'm Rush! Which is—y'know—*way* cooler." He jabbed a four-clawed thumb at his own chestplate. "Speedster to speedster. Meep meep, bitch."

XLR8's silver faceplate rippled—some alien equivalent of a raised eyebrow. "Did you just *meep* at me? And what does *mmep* mean"

Before Rush could retort, he ran, it was a race now—whether XLR8 wanted it or not. Trees blurred into streaks of color as his clawed feet dug into the dirt, propelling him forward with a sonic *crack*. His dorsal fins shuddered, redirecting air currents like spoilers on a race car. He wasn’t just fast. He was *engineered*.

XLR8 flickered into existence beside him—no, *ahead* of him—her silver form a liquid smear against the predawn gloom. “Cute fins,” she taunted, voice digitized and sleek. “Do they come with training wheels?”

Rush’s helmet slit hissed static. *Training wheels?* His claws flexed. The Galatrix pulsed against his wrist, feeding him data—terrain, wind resistance, *her* heartbeat. He could *taste* her speed like copper on his tongue. “Nah,” he growled. “But I *do* come with *this*—”

He *twisted*.

The world inverted.

One second, he was behind her. The next, his spiked elbow grazed her shoulder as he *ricocheted* off a boulder, using the impact to slingshot ahead. XLR8’s optics flared—surprise? Annoyance?—before she *blurred* past him again.

Rush’s laugh rattled inside his helmet. This wasn’t racing. This of course, meant *war*.

Chapter Text

People watched in the city street as a building is engulfed in flames. Sirens were blaring in the distance.

Inside the building, a girl and her mother ran to the door, but a piece of burning debris trapped them in their room. They looked around as pieces fall around them; eventually, the ceiling above them was starting to cave in. They both shut their eyes and braced for what seemed to be the inevitable.

But nothing happened.

The little girl cracked one eye open—then both flew wide. Someone was standing between them and the collapsing ceiling, arms outstretched. Not someone at all. *Something.* A terrifying feminine figure wreathed in living flame, its body composed of molten rock fractures glowing blue to white-hot at the seams.

The being's head turned slightly—too smoothly, like liquid metal rotating on some unseen axis. Its voice came out in a series of crackling hisses that shouldn’t have formed words, but did. "Hot Shot sent me here to help." The syllables popped like grease on a skillet.

The girl flinched as the creature absorbed the flames with a gesture, drawing tongues of fire into its palms like spaghetti slurped into a mouth. Its molten veins pulsed brighter with each swallow. "This way," it crackled—except its voice wasn't right. Too many sizzles between syllables, like bacon frying in a broken voice box.

Outside, another, much more masculine fire being was sucking up the buildings' fires—a wiry, jagged creature named Hot Shot—his molten skin cracked like cooling magma, eyes burning with a blue-white intensity that made people shield their faces. His voice rasped like a dying campfire, words barely audible beneath the crackle of his own flames.

He spotted Heatblast inside through a shattered window, and she throws the mother and daughter out just before the roof collapses as Hot Shot catches them—the two fire-beings staring at each other for a tense second. Heatblast raises her chin, her flames crackling louder in challenge. Hot Shot just grunts, sparks popping off his shoulders as he adjusts the little girl in his arms.

"You probably all want to thank me and Hot Shot personally, but really it's all in a day's work of the hottest hero duo in the world!"

Heatblast's words bubbled with unnatural cheerfulness—too many teeth in her grin, too many pops in her speech.

Nearby a newsman that Hot Shot recognized as William Harangue was commenting on the scene.

William Harangue was adjusting his tie before beginning, "Ladies and gentlemen, what you're witnessing here is nothing short of a—a—a paranormal invasion!" His microphone screeched as Heatblast and Hot Shot exchanged glances—one grinning too wide, the other smoldering too intensely. Neither quite looked *right*. The little girl squirmed in Hot Shot's arms; his skin wasn't just *hot*, it pulsed like cooling lava, irregular fissures spider webbing across his forearms. His voice rasped, "Kid. Stop wrigglin'. You'll... *crack* me."

Heatblast twirled a strand of fire like hair around her finger—a gesture too human for the way her pupils dilated unevenly, one eye flickering blue while the other burned orange. "Aw, don't be such a *burnout*, Hot Shot," she teased, her laugh popping like grease in a pan. The mother backed away slowly, clutching her daughter.

The Rustbucket soon pulled up and honked at Heatblast and Hot Shot, with Gwen quickly yelling out the window, "Yo, Super Sqaud! The fire was just a diversion to cover up a jewelry store robbery gone wrong— the bad guys are getting away!"

Heatblast looked from Gwen, to the Sumo Slammer card she'd snatched from the kid earlier, and back to Gwen. "Er—I knew that," she lied, her voice popping like bubble wrap. Hot Shot snorted—actual sparks flew from his nostrils—and muttered something about "flaming narcissists" under his breath.

A car sped through the city street, with four masked thieves inside. As Max drove the Rustbucket behind them, he sniffed something burning and looks to see Heatblast sitting next to him while Hot Shot was flying past.

"I knew I should've bought those asbestos seat covers when I had the chance.

"Sorry Mr. Tennyson," Heatblast muttered, the flames flickering across her face in unstable waves. "Can't help it. We're kinda... leaking." Her voice crackled like embers in a dying campfire, pitched higher than Ben's normal tone but with an unsettling harmonic resonance—as if two people were speaking through one set of vocal cords.

Hot Shot streaked past the Rustbucket's window, his magma-armored fists punching holes in the asphalt to propel himself forward. His voice, when he snarled at the escaping car, sounded like gravel in a cement mixer: "Eat combustion, losers." But halfway through the sentence, his vocalizer glitched—the last word came out in Heatblast's lighter, singsong tone. Gwen squinted from the passenger seat.

"Your face," she hissed.

Heatblast glanced down at the dashboard mirror. Her flames flickered orange, then black, then an unnatural violet. The reflection warped—one eye swirled like liquid mercury, the other dripped molten slag. "Huh," she said, tapping her chin. A shower of sparks erupted from her collarbone. "That’s new."

Max white-knuckled the steering wheel. "Kids, we’ve got bigger—"

The car thieves swerved into an alley, their bumper clipping a dumpster. Hot Shot lunged after them, but his left leg dissolved mid-stride into a more fire-wisp form. He face planted, skidding into a pile of discarded TV sets—all tuned to Harangue’s screeching broadcast: *"—UNSTABLE FREAKS! ARE THESE SO-CALLED ‘HEROES’ MELTING DOWN? LITERALLY?!"*

Heatblast giggled from behind. "Oopsie." The sound was wrong—too high, too layered, like someone had spliced together a child's laughter with the static hiss of a gas leak. Gwen whipped around just in time to see Heatblast's fingers elongate into molten claws mid-wave. The transformation stuttered; patches of her flame-body flickered into translucent purple before snapping back to blue.

Hot Shot wasn't faring better. He'd managed to peel himself off the pile of TVs, but his usual magma plating now bubbled like overcooked syrup. "Focus Heatblast," he growled.

The alley walls shimmered. Not from heat, but from the dozen Harangue Channel 3 News drones circling overhead, their lenses zooming in on every flicker of unstable flame. One drone swooped too close—Heatblast's arm lashed out on instinct. The limb stretched *too far*, fingers splitting into five molten tendrils that pierced straight through the drone's casing. It exploded in a shower of sparks, but the tendrils didn't retract. They writhed in the air like burnt spaghetti, dripping globs of something that wasn't quite lava anymore.

"Cutting to commercial!" Harangue's prerecorded voice blared from the remaining drones. "Folks at home, you saw it here first—this so-called 'hero' just attacked the press! What else is he capable of?!"

Gwen didn't have time to groan. The thieves' car screeched into reverse, hurtling back toward them. Hot Shot tried to raise his arms—his right forearm *detached* at the elbow, splattering across the asphalt in a sizzling puddle. "Oh come *on*—"

The car tires hit the molten sludge and instantly melted. The vehicle fishtailed, slamming sideways into a fire hydrant. Water geysered upward—straight through Heatblast's flickering torso. She didn't even scream. Just giggled again, the sound warping into something between a dial-up modem and a tea kettle. Half her face pixelated green mid-laugh.

Harangue's drone circled lower, zooming in on the glitching flames. "Ladies and gentlemen—*witness the menace!*" His voice boomed from every busted TV in the pile. "This *thing* isn't saving anyone! It's a walking Chernobyl with *anger issues!*"

"Oh shut UP—"Gwen launched a soda can to the nearest drone, but three more swooped in. One caught Heatblast mid-stumble—her knee dissolved into embers, sending her crashing into Hot Shot, before Heatblast got back up trying to save face, and walked up to them and ripped the car door right off.

"Unless you punks want to be covered in permanent blisters, HANDS AGAINST THE WALL! Or—uh—whatever's left of it!" Heatblast's voice crackled like a bad radio signal. The thieves stared as her *entire jaw* suddenly elongated sideways, the flames flickering into an unnatural violet. One robber screamed—not at the threat, but because Heatblast's *eyes* had just rolled 360 degrees like slot machines before locking back on them with pupil-less, glowing voids.

Behind them, Hot Shot's remaining arm split open like overcooked sausage, molten shards dripping onto the pavement as his other arm started growing back as well, "You scum picked the wrong day to be criminals."

Then the Galatrix started beeping again, time was running out.

William Harangue leaned forward in his studio chair, slicking back his hair with one hand while adjusting his microphone with the other. The studio lights reflected off his too-white teeth as he grinned at the camera. "Ladies and gentlemen, what you're witnessing is *not* an accident—it's *intentional* chaos!" The screen split to show Heatblast's molten arm dripping onto the sidewalk, her face glitching between alien features. "These monsters call themselves *heros*? Look at that—*look at it!* That's not heroism, that's *biological terrorism!*"

The feed cut to Captain Nemesis standing atop a pristine skyscraper, cape fluttering. "Meanwhile, *real* heroes like Captain Nemesis exemplify control, precision—none of this *freak-show* nonsense!" Harangue’s voice dripped with syrupy admiration. The camera zoomed in on Nemesis striking a pose—just as a pigeon pooped on his shoulder. The live audience gasped. Harangue didn’t blink. "See? Even nature respects him!"

Meanwhile, back in the flaming wreckage of the alley, Benjamin’s current form—human again, with Heatblast gone—groaned as he sat up, rubbing his head. He looked around at the chaos, and ran away before the cameras could lock onto him.

"Oh, man, I got a get out of here—*now!*" Benjamin scrambled over a busted fire hydrant, ducking just as another Harangue News drone zipped past him. He could hear Harangue's voice booming from every screen on the street, splicing footage of Heatblast's glitching flames with Nemesis's *perfectly* timed heroic poses.

"Citizens, ask yourselves—*why* does this so-called 'hero' keep *mutating?*" Harangue's voice dripped with theatrical concern. The drone zoomed in on a slow-mo replay of Heatblast's jaw stretching sideways. "I'm just spitballing here, but... *alien infiltration,* anyone?"

"Nemesis would *never* melt a city block!" chimed in some studio lackey off-screen. Cut to Captain Nemesis dramatically rescuing a *very* staged kitten from a tree—while conveniently dodging the fact Benjamin had *just* saved that kitten fifteen minutes ago. *Before* it got knocked back into the tree by one of *Nemesis's* poorly aimed energy blasts.

Benjamin groaned, pressing his back against a dumpster. The Galatrix pulsed an angry violet. "Come *on,* recharge faster—"

Then the Rustbucket pulled up with Gwen hanging halfway out the window like a deranged jack-in-the-box. "Yo, Molten!" she yelled, tossing a smoking fire extinguisher between her hands. "Need a lift—or are you too busy getting canceled by Harangue's 24/7 'Everything Else But Me Is A Menace' marathon?"

Ben didn't even blink. He just jumped into the RV, slamming the door so hard Max winced at the asbestos flakes raining from the ceiling. Gwen tossed him a protein bar—crushed, because of course it was—and he caught it midair without looking. The Galatrix pulsed purple against his wrist like a bruise.

"Harangue's calling you a 'biomechanical hazard,'" Gwen said, flipping her laptop around to show the headlines. The screen flickered with a slow-mo loop of Heatblast's jaw unhinging sideways like a broken puppet. Caption: *ALIEN TERRORS: WHEN WILL THE MENACE STOP?*

Ben crunched the protein bar wrapper into a ball. "Dude needs some new material."

Outside, Captain Nemesis's holographic billboard winked mockingly at him as they rode by.

The next day, a woman named Rosie knocked at a door, with a sign labelled "Dr. A. A. Animo" hanging outside.

Rosie banged on the door, "Hey! Animo! I know you're in there. Open up the damn door!"

Rosie unlocked the door, came in, walking past all sorts of equipment, cages, and glass cases holding various animals and something else... The smell hit her like a wall—wet fur, ozone, and something disturbingly familiar.

Rosie's boot squeaked against the linoleum as she stepped over a trail of what looked disturbingly like ectoplasm. "Phew!" she muttered, waving a hand in front of her nose. "Smells like a pet store exploded in here—and then the janitor just gave up."

A figure materialized from the shadows—Dr. Animo, clutching a half-dissected toad in one hand and a glowing syringe in the other. His lab coat was more stain than fabric at this point.

"**HOW** did you get in here Rosie?!" he snarled—though the effect was ruined when a glob of frog guts slid from his syringe onto his shoe.

Rosie flicked her landlord badge. "Spare key," she said, crunching something underfoot that popped wetly. "I'm still your landlord, remember? Or maybe not, since your rent smells like it died three months ago."

Animo's eye twitched behind cracked goggles. "All my funds go into my *research*—"

"—And all my patience went out the *window* a long time ago, especially with your attitude!" Rosie pulled a notice slip from her belt, shaking a drop of suspicious green liquid off the corner. "You got 48 hours to cough up the rent or I'm tossing your mad scientist junk into the street."

Animo snatched the paper from her hand, scanning it with frenzied eyes before crumpling it violently. "You think I'm some common *deadbeat*, Rosie? My work will *revolutionize* the natural order—" He gestured wildly to a cage where something with too many legs chittered.

Rosie didn't flinch. "Save it for the eviction court, Doc." She turned to leave, then paused at the sound of a low, wet gurgle. Behind her, Animo was fiddling with a device strapped to his chest—a mess of wires and blinking diodes that looked like a microwave crossed with a car battery.

"You want payment?" Animo's grin stretched too wide. "How about... *a more proper demonstration*?" He jammed a lever forward. The machine whined like a dying refrigerator before blasting a beam of sickly yellow light at her chest. Rosie barely had time to scream—then the sound twisted, warped, became something between a frog's croak and a human gasp.

Benjamin, meanwhile, was watching Sumo Slammers while making another origami along with pretending to watch Sumo Slammers with Gwen.

"I just don't get what you like about this show." He muttered as he folded another fold.

The Galatrix hummed against Benjamin’s wrist—a quiet, persistent itch beneath the skin. He flicked another folded Sumo Slammer wrestler across the table without looking up, the paper figure skidding to a stop inches from Gwen’s textbook. "You’re missing the *best* part," Gwen muttered, face glued to the screen, "C'mon, you used to love this show 2 years ago."

Benjamin’s fingers twitched. The Galatrix pulsed green, then red, then an unsettling shade of violet—like the last seconds before a dying streetlight flickers out. His grin stretched a little too wide, teeth pressing into his lower lip. "That was then, this is now," he said, voice dipping into something lower, rougher. Gwen's textbook slipped from her fingers as Benjamin's pupils elongated—just for a split second—into vertical slits.

Overhead, the kitchen light buzzed. The hum of the Galatrix synchronized with it in dissonant pulses. Benjamin drummed his fingers against the table—*tap-tap-taptaptap*—too fast, inhumanly fast.

"Alright we're here kids!" Max called out from the front, as he looked at the store ahead. The neon sign flickered 'Mega Mart Mega', casting an eerie glow on Benjamin's face as he blinked—once, twice—his pupils dilating unnaturally wide before snapping back to normal as they walked deep inside the store.

Max picked up a canned squid labeled "Gloober's Tentacle Surprise," his nose wrinkling at the sulfuric stench. "Only canned squid? Huh, and here I thought this store prided itself on wide selection," he muttered, tossing it the shopping cart with a wet *plop*.

Gwen leaned away from the cart like it was radioactive. "Grandpa, no offense, but can we have *one* meal that doesn't involve liquefied sea monsters?" Behind her, the Galatrix on Ben's wrist flickered again—green to violet again—as his fingers spasmed around the watch.

He needed to transform.

"Hah! Nonsense. Now where do you suppose they keep the pig's bladders? Those make *great* calamari substitutes," Max said, rummaging through the discount freezer with the enthusiasm of a man who'd long since lost his taste buds.

Benjamin's wrist suddenly flashed ultraviolet—a color that wasn't even *on* the Galatrix's spectrum. His fingers twitched like live wires, pupils dilating horizontally for a split second before snapping back. "I—uh, gotta check something," he blurted, voice cracking mid-syllable into a deeper register. The canned squid in his hand warped under sudden heat, its label bubbling into illegibility.

Gwen's eyes narrowed. "Benjamin. You're doing the *thing* again."

"What thing?" His left eye flickered emerald green. "I'm *fine*." The word came out layered—three pitches at once, like a chorus of aliens fighting for vocal control.

Aisle 7's fluorescent lights strobed as Ben's form destabilized in jagged pulses: one second human, the next a flickering montage of half-formed aliens—Diamondhead's crystal shards jutting from his cheek, Rush's claws shredding his sleeve, Heatblast's flames licking at the ceiling tiles. The Galatrix screeched like a dial-up modem from hell.

**"—CAN'T HOLD—"** his voice boomed, shaking discount cereal as he pushes down on an unfamiliar silhouette.

A monstrous hand presses against the glass freezer door—too-long fingers flexing with four hooked claws as the freezer shatters outward. Benjamin’s shadow stretches unnaturally tall as the Galatrix’s glow flickers ultraviolet, then settles into an eerie violet-black pulse.

**"Dark Matter,"** the thing announces—voice layered like gravel and static. Gwen stumbles back, knocking over a pyramid of Puffwheat boxes. The creature’s elongated frame unfolds from the wreckage—lanky limbs twitching at odd angles. Yellow eyes with crosshair pupils lock onto it's matching female counterpart as it cocks its head a full 210 degrees with a wet *crack*.

"So you are the female counterpart to this extraterrestrial DNA sampling of unknown origin—which means you must have the same genetic variables," Dark Matter hissed, his elongated tongue flicking between jagged teeth, henceforth you Sally be called Grey Matter as I am the unknown to Hom Sapien Sapiens that is Dark Matter, you shall be what allows these lower terra-based intelligence life forms to think their primitive thoughts."

His yellow crosshair pupils dilated as Gwen stumbled back—his warped claws clicking against the linoleum floor like a spider testing glass. Dark Matter’s limbs unfolded with grotesque fluency, each joint bending the wrong way as he crouched atop a toppled cereal display. The Galatrix hissed static against his back, its glow pulsing in sync with Dark Matter's infrequent breaths.

The female counterpart, now dubbed Grey Matter jumped up to join him. Dark Matter looked at her as an idea formed in his head, "Grey Matter, perhaps you could modify this extraterrestrial DNA modulator so as to lengthen my transformation times and ensure you and the other DNA samples longevity."

Grey Matter nodded in ascent before turning her attention to the matter at hand behind his back—Dark Matter's Galatrix—the device was pulsing erratically, its light fluctuating between ultraviolet and black-violet hues. The female Galvan's nimble fingers danced across the interface, inputting rapid-fire sequences with eerie precision while Dark Matter loomed over her despite being in the front, his elongated limbs casting jagged shadows across the ravaged Megamart aisle.

"Codification sequences unstable," Grey Matter muttered, her voice a sub servant, rapid-fire whisper as Dark Matter's elongated fingers twitched—each clawtip sparking with erratic ultraviolet energy. The Galatrix's core pulsed like a dying star, casting jagged shadows across the Megamart's shattered freezer aisle. "Direct synaptic override required. Initiating of course—"

Dark Matter's throat emitted a guttural click, his reverse-jointed legs bending at impossible angles as he loomed over her. "No interruptionsss," he hissed, black-plus pupils dilating. A strand of purple cerebrospinal fluid dripped from his jaw, sizzling through the linoleum where it landed. "The DNA modulator demands... recalibration."

Gwen simply looked up at the alien duo, slightly scared yet intrigued at the same time. Grey Matter continued typing frantically into Dark Matter's Galatrix, her fingers a blur against the alien technology. Dark Matter shifted uncomfortably, feeling the watch's power coursing through him in unpredictable surges. His elongated tongue slid across his jagged teeth as the watch pulsed ominously—like a heartbeat that didn't quite belong to him.

Suddenly, Dark Matter’s pupils dilated into sharp + - shapes as his claws twitched toward Gwen. "Female half-divergent familiar member of original Homo Sapien Sapien form," he hissed, his words slithering out between jagged teeth that looked like shattered obsidian. Gwen shuddered—his voice sounded like gravel tumbling through a pipe. The watch on his back spat sparks against his skin, burning purple-black welts that healed instantly.

"Your relative long term stationary action suggests unnecessary worry," Dark Matter rasped, his elongated tongue flicking downwards toward Gwen's trembling face. Gwen recoiled as the Galatrix suddenly pulsed violently on his wrist, the green hourglass symbol warping into something resembling a jagged eclipse. His left arm spasmed uncontrollably—the claws elongating another inch before retracting—as the device emitted a high-pitched whine that made the supermarket's surviving fluorescent lights shatter in sequence.

Grey Matter's lanky fingers danced across the malfunctioning interface. "Secondary override stabilization protocols successful—for now," she muttered, wiping sweat from her brow. The Galatrix flickered ominously, its core pulsing like a dying star reborn.

There was a final *click*—a sound like a rifle bolt sliding home—and the Galatrix's core stabilized into an calmer acidic green pulse. Dark Matter's jagged grin widened as ultraviolet energy crackled between his claws. "Fffinally," he hissed, voice layered with static and something deeper, predatory. His reverse-jointed limbs twitched violently as he loomed over Grey Matter. "Now—we desynnnchronize."

Gwen scrambled back, her sneakers squeaking against the linoleum slick with his corrosive sweat. "Ben—"

"Not to worry female half-divergent relative, I am simply reverting back into my base Homo Sapien Sapien form!" Dark Matter announced—his voice layering between gravel and static—just as his grotesque physiology liquefied into a swirling nebula of ultraviolet energy. The Galatrix pulsed violently, its core flickering like a dying star before ejecting Benjamin onto the cracked linoleum in a heap. He groaned, rubbing his temples where phantom claws had been moments before.

"Ugh... did I just say 'Homo Sapien Sapien'?" Ben groaned, peeling his face off the sticky linoleum. His left eyelid twitched—a leftover tic from Dark Matter's predatory neural pathways still firing errant signals. The Galatrix hummed ominously on his wrist, its surface now etched with hairline fractures that pulsed in time with his heartbeat.

Gwen's shadow loomed over him, arms crossed. "No. You also called me 'female half-divergent relative' like some kinda... space encyclopedia gone wrong." She nudged his ribs with her sneaker. "Also, you owe Mega Mart, like, seven grand in broken merchandise."

Benjamin groaned, rolling onto his back, as he looked up to see Grey Matter still there on top of the shelves, staring down at him.

Grey Matter simply moved forward to be meer inches away from his face, "Fascinating. The Dark Matter transformation's synaptic residue appears to have temporarily overwritten your linguistic processing centers. You're lucky I stabilized the Galatrix when I did."

Benjamin simply grunted as he sat up, "Yeah yeah, I get it. I sounded like a textbook with a speech impediment." He brushed his uniform off and stretched, popping his neck with a crack. "So what's next? More alien weirdness? Because I'm kinda getting used to that."

Grey Matter shook his head, "Benjamin, I am detecting anomalous readings in your DNA modulator. Your transformations are not just changing your physiology—they're altering your neural pathways."

"Wait, so you're saying my alien forms are...rewiring my brain?"

Grey Matter adjusted her oversized goggles with a tiny hand, the lenses flickering with holographic data streams. "Rewiring implies temporary synaptic restructuring, Benjamin. This is *assimilation*—your neural architecture is progressively mirroring each transformation's cognitive framework."

She jumped down from the ceiling vent—all of her limbs unfolding in perfect sync—her chitinous exoskeleton scraping against steel as she inverted her joints mid-air, "luckily I was able to mostly make the process temporary."

Just then the store manager just had to be walking by...

"Ahem, and just what do you think you are doing, you three, especial you in that ridiculous costume?" The store manager's voice dripped with the kind of slow, unimpressed drawl reserved for teenagers caught spray-painting dumpsters.

Grey Matter didn't even turn around. She just held up a tiny finger—one claw extended—and touched the store manager's head.

And suddenly he collapsed to the floor—drooling slightly—as Grey Matter's neural override scrambled his prefrontal cortex into temporary compliance. The store manager blinked twice before shuffling away muttering about "damn kids and their TikTok challenges."

Gwen kicked Benjamin's temporarily limp leg. "Okay, first of all—*what the actual fuck was that?*"

Benjamin groaned into the linoleum, tasting battery acid and regret. His fingers twitched—still feeling phantom claws retracting. "I dunno! Maybe don't ask the guy isn't a mad scientist alien right now?"

"I simply temporarily overwrote his neural patheways in the term of perception and manual thinking, vary easy with his weak fortitude due to his senior age." Grey Matter's speech had taken on a clipped, overly precise cadence—like a textbook recited by an AI with a slight lisp. She tapped the Omnitrix, now pulsing an uneasy cyan. "Secondary stabilization achieved, but synaptic bleed remains half as problematic. Each transformation is imprinting residual behavioral matrices onto your basal ganglia."

"Ignoring the parts I don't understand, good to know?" Benjamin rubbed his temples as Grey Matter rummaged through the cereal debris for spare components. His voice fluctuated between his normal cadence and something... sharper. Like gravel crunching under tires. "Next time I gotta go Dark Matter, warn me about the sudden urge to alphabetize pi to the trillionth digit."

Gwen kicked a crushed cereal box toward Ben's head. "Newsflash, Ben—your 'sudden urges' involve staring at people like they're microwave dinners. Also, your voice keeps doing this—" She deepened her tone into a gravelly mockery. "'AlPhAbEtIzE pI tO tHe TrIlLiOnTh DiGiT.' Real subtle."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, Gwendolyn, now let's please get out of this aisle and get back to Grandpa before Grey Matter has to do a Jedi Mind Trick again. And Grey Matter?"

He head turned 360 degrees before replying, "Yes Benjamin?"

Benjamin blinked. "Did you—did you just—?"

Grey Matter rotated her head back to its normal position with an audible *click*, her oversized eyes blinking in sequence like a malfunctioning metronome. "Neck vertebrae realignment complete. Query: Did you know human spinal flexibility peaks at age twelve and declines by 0.8% annually thereafter?" Her voice had developed a strange cadence—half clinical detachment, half predatory curiosity—as she scuttled up next to Benjamin and Gwen.

Benjamin shuddered at that. "Okay, uh, ignoring that, can you like, hide back at the Rustbucket, you'll know it when you see it, please?"

Grey Matter's bug-like eyes flickered, her pupils dilating unnaturally wide before snapping back to pinpricks. She adjusted her goggles—which Benjamin just now realized weren’t part of the transformation, but actual salvaged hardware plucked from the store’s electronics section and jury-rigged onto her giant face. "Positive. Locating vehicular shelter unit Rustbucket. Estimated arrival: 1.2 minutes." She scuttled backward, her far too long limbs moving in precise, unnatural angles as she ducked away.

"To Grandpa?"

"To Grandpa we go."

Benjamin rubbed his temples as Grey Matter's words echoed in his skull—too crisp, too precise, like an audiobook played at 1.5x speed. He could still feel Dark Matter's lingering hunger for data humming under his skin, a phantom itch in his synapses. Gwen nudged him with her elbow in worry.

"You're doing the thing again," she muttered.

"I know."

They found Max at the checking aisle—three bags of sheep bladders dangling from his arms while he argued with a cashier about expired coupons. Ben's watch pulsed green against his wrist like a second heartbeat, its interface flickering with residual energy from Grey Matter’s synaptic tampering. Gwen elbowed him again when his fingers twitched toward the dial.

"Don’t. You’re still syncing weird," she hissed.

Ben clenched his jaw. Wildmutt’s instincts snarled in the back of his skull—scents too sharp, impulses too raw. "I'm not."

"Benjamin, Gwen, come on—these sheep bladders won't fry themselves!" Max hollered, waving a receipt like a surrender flag. The Rustbucket's engine growled impatient outside.

The entire shop suddenly began to rumble. TV sets fell from their displays, people screamed in panic, and the walls bursted open, revealing Dr. Animo mounted on a mutated frog-like creature. Benjamin's hand twitched towards the Galatrix—its surface flickering between green and an eerie, corrupted green.

"What the hell?"

Animo got down from the croaking frog-like creature and began to start pocketing the electronics.

Benjamin gritted his teeth, his fingers hovering over the Galatrix. "Hey, what do you think you're doing creep!?" His voice came out sharper than intended—like claws scraping metal.

The mutated frog-thing flicked its tongue and knocked stacked boxes onto Benjamin. His vision blurred—not from the impact, but from the sudden flood of instincts.

"I'd ask you to not be a hero, kid, to just run along and play, but!" He smiled far too widely, "I need more specimens to make my frog creatures, like Rosie here—and you're just too easy a catch!" Rosie's tongue lashed out—Ben vaulted backward as he ran as fast as he could to hide and transform.

He rushed by five police officers, "Freeze!" yelled one, Ben slid underneath a table—his watch pulsed. He nearly slammed it down, but then, "Uh, we got a grab-and-dash in Electronics. Male, five-foot-nine, riding on a giant frog, or a toad thing. Trust me, you can't miss him at all!"

Damn, he was too slow.

Meanwhile, Max and Gwen innocently looked around in the pet section as Gwen played with a rather fat hamster. Suddenly, Animo's frog-like creature landed in front of them. Animo turns the dial and orange beams shot out of his transmodulator again. Max pushed himself and Gwen out of its way.

"Aah!" Gwen screamed as the beam hit a hamster and cockatiel, both of whom exploded out of their cages. Their beady eyes—now freakishly enlarged—locked onto her with predatory precision. The hamster's fur bristled, revealing patches of mutated scales underneath.

"Blast! You two were supposed to be transformed into obedient specimens, not— AUGH! Get your filthy claws off my transmodulator!" Animo shrieked as the mutated cockatiel latched onto his helmet with talons grown too large for its body. Ben watched from behind a toppled shelf—his fingers twitching toward the Galatrix. The watch face flickered between green and static-filled corruption.

"Sill! Behold the genius of Dr. Animo. Nothing can stop me from getting what I deserve. Mark my words! Today I will make history, or, should I say... prehistory!" Animo boomed, theatrically presenting all the mutated specimens, all aligned next to him.

The three gasped and screamed as the hamster roared, taking a step forward. As they ran away, the hamster leaped over Benjamin, cornering his family. Benjamin looked down at the watch, knowing what and to be done—but also what would happen if he did. Every transformation left marks deeper than burned-out cartilage or rearranged bone structure; each warped his mind like footprints pressed wet into fresh concrete.

Gwen saw Benjamin hesitate—his fingers twitching near the Galatrix’s activation plate—and knew why. The last time he transformed, Dark Matter hadn’t just peeled paint off walls with its corrosive breath. It had whispered things to her in Benjamin’s voice—things no ten-year-old should’ve known how to articulate about tendons snapping under teeth. She took a step backward without meaning to.

Max grabbed Benjamin’s wrist before he could slap the dial. "Wait!"

Benjamin’s head jerked toward him—already too late. The static-filled display pulsed once.

**SEX(TUPLE) SMACK**

His skin was light, albino blue. He had six crimson eyes and sported a black goatee and matching ponytail, with jutting incisors that gleamed under the fluorescent lights. Black tribal patterns coiled up his six forearms and hands, violet-tipped fingers flexing as whisker-like spikes twitched along his limbs. His muscular legs alone towered over Gwen—twice her height—as he crouched in the wreckage of the cereal aisle.

"**Sex(tuple) Smack:**" The name crackled through Benjamin’s synapses like an electric current, tasting metallic on his tongue—which, now that he noticed, was forked. Six crimson eyes blinked out of sync, each adjusting independently to the wreckage-lit gloom. His voice came out layered, three tones at once—one gravel-deep, one slick as oil, the last a whispery hiss. "**W̷h̵o̸o̴o̸o̷o̸a̴.̷.̸.̶ ̸S̵i̷x̷ ̷arms,̸ ̵s̶i̷x̸ ̸e̶y̵e̶s̴,̶ ̷a̴n̶d̶—̴**"

He flexed his violet-tipped fingers, claws unsheathing with a sound like knives scraping porcelain—then retracting just as fast. The nearby aisle's wreckage glinted in the fluorescent lights, revealing his female counterpart, with much longer hair and as always—much curvier.

"Hey... Six Arms!" He called out to her—his counterpart—who was busy juggling three Sumo Slammer cards between her six hands. Her elongated tongue flicked out to catch one mid-air, eyes narrowing at him with predatory amusement. "**Six hands mean triple the prizes, triple the fun—**" Her voice was syrup-thick, layered with three tones—one honeyed, one smoky, the last a whisper like wind through dead leaves.

Benjamin—no, *Sex(tuple) Smack* now—flexed his violet claws, watching the mutated hamster-creature recoil at the scent of him. The thing’s fur stood on end, beady eyes darting between all six of his crimson stares. "**Guess rodents don’t like cats,**" he mused, licking his fangs. The words tasted wrong—too many syllables, too much saliva. His counterpart giggled, twirling a lock of her ridiculously long hair around a claw. "**Or maybe it’s the extra limbs.**"

"Hello big, stong-looking, and handsome." Six Arms practically purred, twirling her extra-long hair around one of her violet-tipped fingers while the other five hands casually juggled Sumo Slammer cards. "Bet you can't beat me in a fight~"

"Ohhh, I so can, but let's deal with that doctor freak first—**then** we'll tussle." Sex(tuple) Smack's voice rippled between a gravelly snarl and something unnervingly melodic, his six eyes tracking the mutated hamster-creature as it skittered backward. The thing's fur stood on end, nostrils flaring at the scent of him—musky, electric, like ozone and overcooked meat. Gwen gagged behind him. "Eugh. Did you *have* to pick the form that smells like a burnt tire?"

Six Arms flicked a Sumo Slammer card between her violet claws, humming a tune that sounded like two cats fighting in a tin can. "**Mm. Lookit you—**" She stretched one of her six arms to poke Sex(tuple) Smack’s chest, her voice syrup-slowed. "**—all dressed up like a malfunctionin’ piñata.**"

Benjamin—no, *not* Benjamin anymore—twitched. His six crimson eyes rolled independently, tracking the mutated hamster-creature as it scuttled backward. The thing’s fur stood rigid, nostrils flaring at the stink of him—burnt rubber and something like overripe mangoes left in the sun. Gwen pinched her nose. "Oh *come on*. Even this guy's freaks think you smell like a landfill!"

Sex(tuple) Smack’s lips peeled back, revealing jagged incisors as he flexed all six arms—each wrist sprouting quivering, whip-thin sensory spikes that twitched toward the mutated hamster-creature. The thing hissed, puffing up to twice its already-massive size, but he just *laughed*, a sound like marbles rattling in a blender. "Ohhh, you’re **adorable** when you’re scared," he crooned, voice dipping between a growl and a purr. "Like a fuzzy lil’ stress ball with *teeth*."

Behind him, Gwen gagged. "Dude. Your voice is *literally* giving me a migraine."

Six Arms—perched on a toppled shelf like some violet-clawed gargoyle—flipped a gold Sumo Slammer card between her fingers. "**Mmm. Bet I could crack walnuts with those vocal cords,**" she mused, tilting her head. The hamster-creature’s beady eyes darted between them, its fur bristling. It wasn’t stupid. It could *smell* the predator-predator-predator pheromones rolling off Sex(tuple) Smack in waves—sharp, acrid, like a lightning storm stuffed inside a meat locker.

Then it *bolted*.

"Aw, c’mon!" Sex(tuple) Smack lunged, all six arms splaying wide—only for the hamster to skitter sideways, its monstrous bulk somehow nimble. It scrabbled up a display of canned octopus, sending jars crashing. Max ducked as one shattered near his head. "Y’know, normally I’d say ‘save the exotic groceries’—"

Six Arms *moved*. One second she was lounging; the next, she’d *launched* off the shelf, all six limbs pinning the hamster-creature mid-leap. It yowled, thrashing, but she just grinned, fangs glinting. "**Gotcha, squeaky.**"

Gwen blinked. "...Okay, that was *kinda* cool."

Sex(tuple) Smack huffed, crossing his arms—all six of them. "Oh, *now* she’s impressed." His voice hitched, syllables overlapping—somewhere between a teenage boy’s whine and something far older, hungrier.

"Oh..." Animo smiled that wicked, far too wide way again, "Two more specimens, and so unique, and a male and female, a true Adam and Eve. I will soon turn Washington D.C. into 'Washington B.C. when I'm done with it."

Six Arms dropped the hamster-creature, letting it scamper away as she drew herself up to full height—her six violet-clawed hands flexing. "**Mmm, doc, sweetie?**" Her voice dripped syrupy menace, each syllable stretched like taffy. "**You talk too much.**"

Sex(tuple) Smack rolled all six of his eyes—independently—and cracked his knuckles. All eighteen of them. "Yeah, buddy. Hate to break it to ya, but your ‘grand plan’? Just got **smacked**." His voice fractured mid-sentence, pitching between Ben’s usual snark and something deeper, guttural—like rocks grinding in his throat. The Galatrix pulsed green on his wrist, its glow flickering like a faulty street lamp.

Gwen groaned. "Oh *great*. Now he’s punning."

Animo wasn’t laughing. His transmodulator beeped as if we're an alarm as he jumped from his frog to a giant mutated parrot, who quickly flew off with him through a skylight, the frog following soon after.

"You coward! You can't hide from me! I'll chase to the ends of the earth and even beyond if I have to for denying me a righteous battle!" Sex(tuple) Smack growled, Six Arms matching his predatory gait beside him. Their voices overlapped almost perfectly.

Both of them ran to the front of the mall as they smashed through in on chase, leaving Gwen and Max in the dust.

"Uh, to the Rustbucket!" Max called out dramatically to Gwen as they sprinted past the wrecked mall entrance. Gwen skidded to a halt—her boots kicking up sparks—to glare at the six-limbed destruction tornado that was her cousin and his echo. "Oh sure, leave the squishy humans to dodge mutant roadkill while they go full WWE on a mad scientist," she muttered, yanking open the RV door to see Grey Matter inside.

The towering alien was at the driving wheel as she looked over at them—her glowing yellow eyes shifting erratically.

"Oh Gwen! And you must be Max! Grandpa...Max? Wait no—YES!" Grey Matter's voice fractured mid-sentence, her elongated limbs bended unnaturally to fit in the drivers seet as she grinned too wide. Her yellow eyes flickered like old television static. "I stabilized Galatrix's energy pulse matrix—mostly—maybe—but the synaptic corruption is *hilariously* persistent as I could tell from the fleeting pair of extraterrestrial life forms I have no doubt with the male being your cousin."

Gwen blinked. "Okay, first: what? Second: how are you driving?!"

Grey Matter tapped the Galatrix symbol on her back—now pulsing erratic green—with one clawed finger. "Cognitive rerouting! Temporary neural override! Also the pedals are *very* stretchy." The RV lurched sideways as she demonstrated by kicking the brake with a foot elongated like taffy. Gwen's scream harmonized with the screeching tires.

"Uh, nice to meet you..."

"Grey Matter."

"Grey Matter. This is too much like the old days before I retired," Max muttered, rubbing his temples asthe RV swerved between lanes. Grey Matter cackled, her elongated fingers tapping the dashboard in arrhythmic patterns. "Cognitive recalibration—complete! Mostly!" Her voice skipped like a scratched record, pitching up at random intervals. "Though synaptic degradation suggests—oh! Look, a squirrel!" She yanked the wheel sideways to avoid a mutated pigeon the size of a minivan.

Gwen clung to the passenger seat, knuckles white. "What kind of plumber were you, Grandpa?!"

Max wrestled the wheel from Grey Matter's spaghetti limbs. "The kind who survived the Bermuda Triangle on duct tape and spite—**MOVE YOUR ELBOW, IT'S IN MY SPLEEN—**"

The RV swerved past a mutated pigeon dropping what looked like a compact car. Grey Matter's neck elongated like taffy to peer upside-down at Gwen. "Secondary neural pathways suggest—**oh hey, your hair smells like burnt marshmallows!**—**wait, is that a taco truck?!**"

Gwen screamed as Grey matter swerved, laptop in hand, "Xingo! Six years ago, Dr. Animo was a promising researcher in veterinary science! But it turned out he was doing all these twisted genetic experiments where he was mutating—"

Max wrestled with the wheel. "Focus, Gwen! Where’s he headed NOW?!"

Gwen gaped at the screen. "Uh… ‘Washington D.C.'s Natural History Meusem at 5th and 2nd—now featuring prehistoric nightmares'?!"

Grey Matter’s pupils dilated unevenly. "CORRECTAMUNDO! Also—**who put these fingers on my hands? I DIDN’T ORDER THESE—**" Her voice spiraled into a high-pitched giggle as she accidentally honked the horn with her elbow. The Rustbucket fishtailed around a corner, sending Gwen’s backpack tumbling into Max’s face.

"Ow—**GIRL. POCKETS. WHY.**" Gwen clawed at the straps strangling her grandpa.

Grey Matter wat to quickly parked in front of the museum. Gwen saw a giant feather stuck in the pavement like a sword in a stone.

Max chuckled. "Well, that’s not something you see every day."

Gwen pointed. "More like something you *hope* you don’t see every day."

Grey Matter’s eyes darted left and right independently. "Ah! The ol’ feather-in-concrete trick. Classic." Her voice oscillated between a raspy whisper and a helium-pitched squeak. "Fun fact: This feather contains DNA traces of—"

"Not now Grey Matter!"

"Something tells me we're on the right track," Max muttered as Grey Matter's neck stretched like taffy to peer at the museum's shattered skylight—its glass teeth glittering in the afternoon sun.

"Right track?!" Gwen's voice cracked. "Grandpa, our driver is currently experiencing *violent limb elongation*—"

"Correction!" Grey Matter chirped, her left eye twitching independently from the right. "Intermittent *biomorphic instability*—**HEY WHO TOOK MY KNEECAPS?**—wait, false alarm. Found 'em." She patted her wobbling legs as the Rustbucket's door fell off its hinges.

Meanwhile the six armed duo had finally caught up with Animo.

"You are very, very persistent. I LOVE persistent!" Animo cackled, twisting his transmodulator dials with manic glee. The beams struck a stuffed saber-tooth tiger—its glass eyes glowed crimson as tendons slithered beneath taxidermy stitches. Sex(tuple) Smack's pupils dilated into predatory slits, his six arms twitching with synaptic feedback. "Ohhh, this one's got *bite*," he purred.

Six Arms cracked her knuckles—all twelve of them—as the saber-tooth tiger's taxidermy stitches burst with wet *pops* of reanimated muscle. "Oh-ho-ho-ho-ho," she giggled, her voice oscillating between a playground taunt and something far older. "Lookit the widdle kitty got *all* his teefies back!"

Sex(tuple) Smack wasn't laughing. He was hauling himself to itty-bitty feet—*crunch*—ah, there went another rib. Six Arms was already swinging punch-punch-punch with the saber-tooth's jaw. Her knuckles popped like bubble wrap—*pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop*—okay, twelve fists was *excessive*.

Animo dodged a rogue fang—*thunk*—into the wall, "It's only just begun, you two...! See, I only needed a few components to push my work into phase three: the reanimation of dormant cells!"

Realization flashed In Sex(tuple) Smack's eyes—a meusem, format cells, oh no...

"Breathing life back into that which has been long since lifeless!" He continued, "Observe!"

Animo twisted the dial twice this time. His transmodulator shot beams into the saber-tooth tiger—already mid-brawl with Six Arms—but the energy didn't stop there. The beams ricocheted off display cases, reactivating every dormant exhibit in the museum. A dire wolf skeleton reassembled itself with a *clatter-clack*, while a prehistoric eagle's fossilized feathers ignited into spectral flames.

Six Arms paused mid-punch—twelve fists hovering—to watch. "Ohhh, you're *so* gonna get sued for property damage," she drawled, voice dropping several octaves into a gravelly purr. Her pupils slit like a cat's as the saber-tooth's claws raked her side—*screeeek*—leaving glowing orange streaks. "Mmm. *Feisty.*"

Sex(tuple) Smack wasn't just appreciating the show, he loved it.

"Behold the genius that is Dr. Adam Alloysious Animo!" He screeched as he ran away again (third time this week). Six Arms—still sporting that manic grin—spun on one heel to watch him flee, "Aw, doc! Leaving so soon again? Did you forget your—" She paused, flexed all twelve biceps as the saber-tooth lunged—"—*manners*?"

The tiger *chomped*—crunching air—as Six Arms backflipped over its spine. She landed—posing—hips cocked—one set of hands framing her face like a starlet—another pair flipping Animo the bird—the last two signing autographs *for nobody*—"Lemme guess: 'Today I shall turn Washington D.C. into Jurassic Puke.' Yawn. Heard that one *six* times already."

Sex(tuple) Smack was the first to give chase

Meanwhile Max, Gwen, and Grey Matter ran into the caveman exhibit—where Grey Matter nearly tripped over her own elongated fingers at least twice.

"Whoa whoa WHOA—" Gwen yelped as Grey Matter grabbed her shoulders for balance—only to leave glowing green handprints on her shirt. "EW! Brain goo!"

"Not goo," Grey Matter corrected primly, wiping her palms on Max's vest. "*Synaptic lubricant.*" Her voice kept oscillating between high-pitched giggles and guttural burbles—like a helium balloon slowly deflating into a swamp.

Max sniffed his stained vest. "Smells like pickles and... existential dread."

Grey Matter ignored them, lurching toward a display case. "Ooooh, *shiny*—" She pressed her face against the glass, distorting her already-stretched features.

"Focus, Einstein!" Gwen snapped. "Animo's turning the whole museum into his personal petting zoo!"

Grey Matter blinked—one eye slower than the other—before suddenly perking up. "Right! Priorities!" She whipped out a screwdriver from... somewhere. "Step five: Fix Benjamin’s watch. Step one: Un-mutate the Jurassic jerkwads. Step three—" Her grin turned jagged. "—*steal ALL the exhibit gum*."

Meanwhile, Six Arms had the saber-tooth tiger in a *very* inappropriate headlock—her voice dropping into a smoky purr as its claws shredded her sleeves. "Mmm. Roughhousing already? Didn't even buy me dinner first." She winked at no one in particular.

Across the hall, Sex(tuple) Smack had followed Dr. Animo who was smiling as he worked.

The Doctor’s fingers danced over the controls of his transmodulator—twisting dials, flicking switches—as if conducting an orchestra of chaos. Phase three was already active; beams ricocheted off glass cases and fossilized bones, stitching together sinew where there had been dust, sparking neurons in hollow skulls.

A somehow far too big T-Rex took a step and roared a mighty roar at Benjamin—who was currently Sex(tuple) Smack, and therefore did the illogical thing: roared right back, louder, deeper, with six arms spread wide like some kind of demented, furry, whiskered starfish. His growl came out layered—two voices at once, one guttural and predatory, the other higher, almost giggling.

Gwen, hiding behind a tipped-over fossil display, muttered, "Oh, great. Now he’s doing the thing where he acts *more* like whatever freakish alien he turns into. Next he’ll start licking himself."

And—because the universe hated her—Ben promptly flicked out a long, barbed tongue and groomed the fur on one forearm like an overgrown cat.

Six Arms, meanwhile, was busy being *distractingly* Six Arms—which meant alternating between flipping mid-air to avoid the saber-tooth tiger’s swipes and shouting things like, *"C’mon, whiskerface! Is that the best chomp you got? My grandma fights harder when I steal her dentures, and how do I know that?!"*

Sex(tuple) Smack—currently more "Smack" than "Sex(tuple)"—snarled as Animo scrambled onto the reanimated T-Rex’s back. The creature's hollow bones clattered like a xylophone in a hurricane, its eye sockets glowing with unnatural green fire. His six arms twitched, claws flexing with predatory instinct, while his whiskers bristled at the scent of ozone and old museum dust.

His voice rolled out in a distorted duet: one half gravelly snarl, the other a manic giggle.

"You are so going DOWN, Bonehead!" Sex(tuple) Smack hollered, backflipping over the T-Rex’s lunge—only to land in a crouch that was *way* too pseudo feline for a mostly humanoid looking alien.

Animo adjusted his goggles, scowling. "You—you are just *ruining* the majesty of this moment!"

Ben-as-Sex(tuple) Smack sniffed the air, grinned with too many teeth, and promptly sneezed out a sparkly green cloud of what smelled suspiciously like burnt pepperoni. "Pfft. Majest-*achoo!*—majesty-shmajesty. You turned a T-Rex skeleton into a glow stick with legs. Real classy, doc."

Animo's goggles fogged up from sheer indignation. "You—you insufferable furball! That 'glowstick' is about to—"

"Nom your face?" Smack interrupted, suddenly upside-down on a chandelier, top arms flicking. "Nah. See, ‘cause I’m *faaaaancy*." His bottom arms were already shredding the velvet ropes into festive confetti while his middle ones juggled Animo’s discarded goggles. Then—mid-juggle—his nose twitched. "Ohhhh. Doc, you *reek*. Like expired cheese dipped in—" *SCHLORP*. His tongue unrolled like a party favor to lick the T-Rex’s face. "—*Yep*. Definite notes of garbage juice on it."

"I'd love to stay and watch you keep doing that, but I need to claim the award I so richly deserve!" Animo yelled, as the exact same parrot swooped down as he's grabbed by it.

Sex(tuple) Smack leaped up to grab a hold of the parrot, "Nope, no "bye-bye" for you doctor..."

The feathers he hels suddenly came loose, and Sex(tuple) Smack fell violently to the ground while the bird flew away with Animo as the T. Rex followed. He impacted heavily, forming a crater—but bizarrely, remained transformed, sprawled out in a six-limbed starfish configuration. His limbs jerked sporadically, fingers tapping arrhythmic patterns against the pavement.

"Huh," he mused, voice splintering into three overlapping tones. "Guess gravity’s more of a... *suggestion* now?" Sex(tuple) Smack’s limbs flailed like a drunk octopus as he tried peeling himself off the pavement. His middle-right arm suddenly developed a fascination with a loose pebble, rolling it between elongated fingers while his upper-left one signed gibberish in ASL somehow before he suddenly detransformed.

Just then everyone else came in and saw what was happening.

"There can't be that many places for a parrot the size of an elephant to roost, we can't possibly loose him now!" Gwen yelled, scrambling up from the floor with dust still clinging to her jacket. She barely dodged a falling display case—somehow still intact despite the museum-turned-warzone around them. Her shoes crunched over shattered glass, every step sounding like breakfast cereal meeting its doom.

"Here, look at what Dr. Animo left behind," Max said, thrusting a crumpled newspaper clipping toward Benjamin, "Dr. Kelly accepts Verities Award, he's gonna finally pick up on his award! We gotta stop him."

Benjamin snatched the clipping, eyes darting across the text, "First thing's first," Max continued, "we have to find out how to reach him."

Benjamin suddenly transformed into Skunkmoth, a grotesque, bug-like alien, staggering mid-air as his transformation stabilized. His segmented body crackled with energy, limbs twitching erratically—one moment folding neatly against his thorax, the next spasming outward like malfunctioning clockwork. "Whoa! This guy’s got *serious* warranty issues," he blurted, voice layered with buzzing harmonics that made Gwen flinch. The scent glands along his armored plates flared involuntarily, releasing a noxious cloud that sent a mutated pterodactyl spiraling into a fossil exhibit with a screech.

Gwen waved a hand in front of her nose, coughing. "Ugh! Did you *have* to stink-bomb the entire Cretaceous period?"

Skunkmoth’s mandables clicked as he smelled his female counterpart—Stinkfly he had already decided—above him. "Whoa. That’s *not* in the manual," he muttered, voice buzzing with static. His pheromone glands pulsed again, this time releasing a cloud so thick it sent Animo’s lab coat floating off his body like a deflating balloon.

He smelled Stinkfly, and she smelled beautiful—like rotting fruit and formaldehyde, a scent that made his antennae quiver. Skunkmoth's wings buzzed unevenly, one tilting at a drunken angle as he tried to focus. His voice crackled through the air like a badly tuned radio station: "Heyyyy, Stinkfly! You got, uh—" He sneezed violently, spraying neon-green mucus across Animo’s fleeing back. "—got any of those, uh. Those *spitballs* left? For science of course!"

And definitely not something inappropriate that not even he fully knew about.

She looked down at him and smelled him, and she had the same reaction that he did to her scent—a weird, involuntary shudder that neither understood but both felt on a primal level. Skunkmoth's antennae twitched erratically, his wings buzzing in uneven intervals as pheromones seeped from his armored plates. Gwen waved a hand in front of her nose, scowling.

They soon both took flight after Animo, leaving Max, Gwen, Grey Matter, and Six Arms behind below as they either ran to the Washington Monument or gave chase.

A few minutes later Skunkmoth and Stinkfly had caught up to the parrot, "Watch the clawssss there, you oversized Polly! You might chip my carapace!" Skunkmoth taunted, his voice sounding deeper than usual—yet still slipping into occasional high-pitched squeaks as his vocal cords flickered between stability and malfunction. He spat a glob of neon-green goo at the parrot’s wings, making it spiral downward with a distressed squawk.

"Yesss, it is us bugs that shall rule the skiessss!" Stinkfly cackled in agreement with Skunkmoth's earlier taunt.

Meanwhile Max and Gwen were getting from running up the Washington Monument, "Like it would've killed the Founding Fathers to install an elevator," Max wheezed. Gwen wasn't even listening anymore—she was too busy watching Skunkmoth and Stinkfly chasing Animo, seriously weirded out by the way Skunkmoth kept buzzing closer to Stinkfly and vise versa like some kind of overly friendly houseflies.

The mutated parrot suddenly dove towards them, only getting knocked from its course by Six Arms jumping up to smack it down, landing hard enough to crack pavement. *"Heh—*urk*—no way, shrimpy, I got—*ack*—bigger wings than you!"*

Skunkmoth buzzed past Stinkfly, his sickly blue crystal armor glinting under the streetlights. Skunkmoth's body was much bulkier than mormal—shoulder pads jutting out like jagged beetle plating. His wings flapped unevenly, spraying traces of corrosive mucus as he veered too close to Stinkfly again. "Hhheyyy—*cough*—buddy!" Skunkmoth's voice cracked between a deep growl and a wheezing squeak. His three-fingered hands flexed weirdly, claws twitching like he wasn't sure if he wanted to high-five Stinkfly or swipe at him.

Stinkfly dodged another accidental mucus blast. "Dude! Reign it in!" She shot a glob of sticky goo to slow down Animo’s parrot, but Skunkmoth barrel-rolled right through it, his dark blue eyes—almost black—locked onto Stinkfly with unsettling focus. His white horn gleamed as he suddenly sneezed, releasing a cloud of pheromones that made Stinkfly’s antennae twitch involuntarily.

"Whoops—*snrk*—my bad!" Skunkmoth giggled, his voice layering weirdly like two aliens trying to talk at once. His back toe scraped against a lamppost as he overshot a turn, wings flapping erratically. Down below, Gwen gagged. "Are they... *flirting*?" Max just sighed and rubbed his temples.

Meanwhile, at Kelly Industries, Dr. Kelly showed her reward to the tour group of VIPs, "And here is my Verities Award. Of course, it was an honor just to be nominated with a distinguished group of scientists—"

Glass shattered. The T-Rex's snout shoved through the wall, sending shards raining down as Dr. Animo rode in on its skull, goggles askew. "Kelly!" He leapt off, landing in a crouch that cracked the marble floor. "I believe you have something of mine." He snatched the award from her trembling hands. "I'd like to thank the committee for this honor!"

The T-Rex roared, saliva dripping onto Kelly's blazer. She screamed—then suddenly lurched upward as Stinkfly grabbed her mid-air. "Gotcha!" Stinkfly's antennae twitched as Skunkmoth's latest pheromone blast wafted past. "Dude, your breath is *rank* today."

Skunkmoth hiccuped, his crystalline shoulder pads rattling. "S-sorry! It's the—*hick*—the armor polish." His wings spasmed mid-flap, sending him spiraling into a chandelier. Crystal shards rained down as Stinkfly chuckled.

"I meant that as a compliment!" Stinkfly slurred, her voice oscillating between three discordant pitches as her left wing clipped a marble column. The museum's reconstructed dinosaur skeletons trembled when she crashed into a stegosaurus display, sending fossilized plates scattering like dinnerware. Her crystalline armor emitted sickly blue pulses with each malfunctioning twitch—somehow synchronizing with Skunkmoth's erratic flight path overhead.

Skunkmoth hiccuped again, this time spraying corrosive mucus across the T-Rex's snout. The prehistoric predator roared, its newly grafted flesh sizzling where the acid landed.

"Oh, man! This hero stuff ain't easy at all!" Benjamin half groaned as Stinkfly's wings sputtered, dropping him three feet onto the T-Rex's snout. The prehistoric beast roared—its breath reeking of rotting museum pamphlets—just as Skunkmoth barrel-rolled overhead in a sickly blue blur.

Skunkmoth's crystalline armor pulsed erratically, emitting jagged light patterns across the ceiling. His movements weren't just unstable—they were *syncopated*, like a broken music box dancing to Stinkfly's malfunctioning wingbeats. Dark blue eyes (too black, too *hungry*) locked onto Gwen mid-flight.

**Skree-KRACK!**

A chunk of ceiling collapsed—Skunkmoth didn’t dodge. His chitinous body *absorbed* the impact, shoulder pads vibrating with unnatural resonance. Three-fingered claws twitched towards Stinkfly mid-spiral, leaking corrosive mucus in erratic arcs.

Meanwhile, Six Arms—now more "Six *Snarls*"—was busy turning Animo's prize mammoth into a prehistoric welcome mat. His vocal cords had deteriorated into guttural growls, each word slurred between elongated fangs:

"Rrrrrr-oll **OVER**, fluffy!"

The mammoth complied—mostly because Six Arms had just suplexed it through a diorama of the Cretaceous period.

Animo, clinging to the crumbling T-Rex skull, shrieked: "ENOUGH! My *verities*—"

"Your *verities* smell like expired yogurt," Stinkfly buzzed, voice crackling through three octaves at once. She fired a glob of bio-sticky goo—missing Animo completely—and splattering across Six Arms' face instead.

"**BLARGH!** Tastes like... burnt popcorn?" Six Arms gagged, peeling the substance off with two hands while the other four accidentally punched a hole through a Velociraptor exhibit.

Gwen, clinging to a wobbling pillar, facepalmed so hard her elbow dislodged a caveman's spear.

Skunkmoth hiccuped again—this time unleashing a pheromone cloud so potent, Stinkfly's left wing *immediately* locked into a salute.

Animo seized the distraction—lunging for his shattered Transmodulator—only for Grey Matter to reach it first, her claw hands moving like a hummingbird's wings as she rewired the circuitry with frenzied precision. The device sparked violently, its unstable energy field distorting the air around them. Grey Matter's breathing was ragged, her pupils dilated—too wide for her toad like face. Something was *wrong* with her neural sync.

Skunkmoth buzzed erratically overhead, his left wing spasming mid-flight. His shoulder pads emitted a low, ultrasonic whine—the same frequency that made Stinkfly's antennae twitch involuntarily. Every third wingbeat sprayed corrosive droplets in a perfect spiral pattern.

"Stop—*hic*—*dripping* on the exhibits!" Stinkfly hissed, dodging another acidic splatter. Her voice crackled like a radio losing signal, syllables stretching unnaturally.

Just then Grey Matter hit a button on the device, sending an orange wave of light pulsing outward—and *everything* changed back, thankfully including Rosie

"No! My Transmodulator! You *hic*—ruined everything!" Animo screeched as the orange wave washed over his mutated T-Rex, reducing it back to dusty bones mid-roar. The skeleton collapsed just as Skunkmoth buzzed drunkenly overhead, his purple-and-grey wings clipping a fossilized pterodactyl display.

Benjamin barely had time to process the changes—his alien forms always messed with his head, but *this* was still new. So far, Sex(tuple) Smack made him wanna wrestle everything, Dark Matter turned him into a creepy, sarcastic know-it-all, and Skunkmoth? Skunkmoth just made him feel *itchy*. Like his whole body was a giant bruise somebody kept poking. And now Grey Matter was acting *weird*—too.

Maybe it was also temporary.

Suddenly the police burst in guns locked and loaded, "Freeze Animo! We know about the human-animal experiments!" Animo dropped the award scoffing "Experiments? Do you think this is some crude splicing lab? Let me go! I deserve that award! I've got it coming to me! I want it! I neeed it!"

Benjamin's watch started beeping again—that ominous red flash that usually meant *"hey, you're about to turn back into a squishy human kid"*

And so he flew away as quickly as possible, everyone else following suit.

They soon were all in the Rustbucket watching William Harangue's report on Benjamin and the aliens' "rampage" of destroying public property and "reckless endangerment of civilians" while Benjamin groaned and slumped down next to the aliens.

"That jerk's totally twisting everything! We were saving people!" Benjamin slammed his fist against the Rustbucket's dashboard, making Gwen flinch as the alien forms shifted uneasily beside him. Their presence was... wrong. Stinkfly's chittering vocalizations had devolved into static-laced clicks, her crystalline armor twitching with erratic energy. Her beetle-like carapace—sickly blue and segmented—rattled as she hunched forward, dark eyes flickering toward Gwen with unsettling focus.

Even heroes have bad hair days—especially when yours keep shape-shifting into creatures with *literally* no hair. Benjamin "Ben" Tennyson slumped against the Rustbucket's dented side, scowling at the Galatrix's latest tantrum. It blinked red—a smug little "ha-ha" in LED form—just as Six Arms' muscles hit the RV roof in protest.

"Ow!" The hulking alien rubbed her forehead—all six hands.

"Are you kidding me? That's what hurts you? An RV roof?!"

"I swear this metal is stronger than it looks!"

Chapter Text

A bright moon lit up the foggy forest below. A large lake, surrounded by trees and mist, stayed undisturbed.

"Cannonball!" The words tore from Gwen's throat as she jumped in the lake as Benjamin simply walked into the water, his Galatrix flickering green—not with transformation energy, but with something morestable. The splash rippled outwards in slow motion, distorting the reflections of the trees, the moonlight, the *wrongness* clinging to him.

The female counterparts to his alien forms either in the water, hiding in the trees, or trying to upgrade the Rustbucket (Grey Matter).

Then a rumble came out from Six Arms from above, "CANNONBALL!" Six Arms shouted as she began to jump into the lake from above.

"Oh no.... Oh nononono—" Benjamin and Gwen both whispered in unison as Six Arms' shadow blotted out the moonlight.

And so she landed—Six Arms hitting the water like a meteorite, sending a tidal wave of cold lake spray straight into Benjamin's face.

"Judges scores... yes! Perfect 6 out of 6! Yeah baby! The crowd loves her!" Six Arms cackled as she imitated a wooing crowd. She thrashed in the water, sending up another geyser that soaked Stinkfly from above.

"Would y’quit—pfft—SPLASHING?" Stinkfly spat lake water, her voice layered with buzzing irritation. Her eight compound eyes twitched—half predatory focus, half exasperation—as Six Arms surfaced with a grin sharp enough to gut fish.

Benjamin wiped his soaked face. "Six Arms. Dude. You *literally* just turned the lake into a waterpark."

"I know right?" Six Arms roared, flexing all six biceps simultaneously while floating on her back. Her voice had dropped two octaves and gained a perpetual wrestling announcer's rasp since transformation. "Lake's officially—*pfft*—*Six Arms Certified* now! You're welcome, plankton-breaths!"

Benjamin groaned, wringing out his soaking sleeves. The Galatrix on his wrist fizzed ominously, its core pulsing ever since he got in the lake.

"A "perfect brute" is more like it," Gwen muttered as she crawled to the shore, wringing lake water from her hair like a soaked cat. She shot Six Arms a glare that could've melted steel, but the hulking alien just laughed—a deep, guttural sound that rattled her ribcage like stones in a tin can. Six Arms rolled her shoulders, joints popping with the wet *snap-crack* of cartilage realigning. "Ohhh, you shoulda *seen* your face," she purred, flexing all six clawed fingers in Gwen’s direction. "Like a startled squirrel. Classic."

Six Arms then splashed the water from the lake onto Gwen with all six hands—an unfair, drenching tsunami that left her coughing up lake scum. The alien's booming laughter echoed across the shoreline, her voice layered with three different tones as always.

"Knock it off, Amazon! You're not funny!" Gwen snarled, shaking lakeweed from her elbow like a disgruntled heron. Six Arms responded by flicking her whiskers—a nervous new tic it seemed.

Gwen walked away back to the Rustbucket to Max and Grey Matter, dripping lake water with every step. By the time she twisted her soggy braid around her fist to wring it out, Six Arms had already belly-flopped back into the water—her six-fingered hands making *six* simultaneous splashes that drenched Gwen *again.* "Oh for—!" Gwen spun, teeth bared, but froze mid-snarl. The lake's surface wasn't settling. Bubbles erupted in violent bursts, and Six Arms' laughter cut off with a wet *glrk.* Something thick and ropey—*not* lakeweed—wrapped around her ankle and yanked hard.

"Oh for fucks sake..." Benjamin groaned as he transformed yet again, feeling the familiar tug of alien instincts rewiring his thoughts mid-transition. His vocal cords vibrated with a guttural growl—halfway between a purr and a snarl—as claws tore through his fingertips. The Galatrix pulsed green, then lurched sickly orange. Wrong form. Wrong form again.

Shredfang's phosphorescent headlight flickered under the murk, casting eerie shadows across the lakebed. His four webbed legs kicked violently—three strokes forward, one spasm sideways—as twin tentacles lashed from his mouth like whip-cords. He didn’t just speak now; he *hissed*, golden teeth clicking. "Ssstupid girl—*get back!*" The words came out garbled, tangled with the instincts of something that knew water wasn’t just for splashing. It was his territory.

Oh and there was... Ripjaws?

Yeah that sounded good.

"Goddammit!" Benjamin snarled—or tried to. His vocal cords spasmed mid-transformation, twisting his shout into something between a dolphin's echolocation click and the guttural hiss of an something similar to an alligator surfacing for air.

Oh well, at least the teeth are still gold.

Shredfang's luminescent headlight flickered erratically—three short bursts, then a long eerie glow—as his instincts flipped between predator and protector. The tentacles protruding from his mouth lashed out independently, one snagging Ripjaws' wrist while the other whipped back towards whatever had grabbed Six Arms underwater. His vocal cords produced a sound that shouldn't exist: part anglerfish growl, part dolphin chatter, all distorted through the Galatrix's instability. 'Ghzzk-t-t-target acquired,' he garbled, golden teeth flashing as his shark-like tail thrashed against the lakebed silt.

'Hello...? Hello?' Ripjaws' voice crackled through the water despite it just being thoughts—that underwater psychic-link thing Ben didn’t understand at all. His transformed head pulsed as Shredfang’s instincts warred with Ripjaws’ panic.

Shredfang’s headlight flared neon green, briefly illuminating the murk. Six Arms was tangled in something—no, *someone.* A humanoid shape wrapped in bioluminescent tendrils, its jaws unhinged like an eel’s. It wasn’t just attacking; it was *singing,* a low-frequency hum that vibrated Shredfang’s gills. His own tentacles lashed in response, muscles twitching between aggression and something uncomfortably like recognition.

'Ghzzk—wrong—wrong prey!' Shredfang garbled, golden teeth gnashing as his tail coiled. Ripjaws jerked against his grip, claws flexing. 'That’s *not* just a krakken, Tennyson. That’s a *person.*'

The water exploded.

Shredfang barely registered Gwen’s scream from the surface before the singing thing *changed*—its limbs elongating, pupils splitting vertically like a catfish spotting prey. The water thickened with sudden ink, swirling between them in glyph-like patterns that made Shredfang’s gills flare. His luminescent headlight strobed erratically: three sharp pulses. A warning. A challenge.

'Hello there' he called out worryingly, voice bubbling strangely as water filled his lungs instead of air as he stared down at what could only be called a krakken.

'Shredfang, focus!' Ripjaws' telepathic voice hissed through his skull like static—sharp, urgent. Shredfang's twin tentacles spasmed, one still gripping Ripjaws' wrist while the other twitched toward the singing abomination coiled around Six Arms. His luminescent headlight flickered erratically, casting jagged shadows across the lakebed. The thing in the water didn’t just move—it *pulsed*, tendrils undulating in hypnotic waves. Its unhinged jaw stretched wider, revealing rows of needle-thin teeth dripping with bioluminescent slime.

Gwen’s scream from the surface cut through the murk like a knife.

**THWUMP.**

A chunk of dock debris torpedoed past Shredfang’s head, smacking straight into the singing krakken’s chest. The thing recoiled, its eerie hum stuttering into a guttural snarl. Six Arms seized the distraction—writhing free with a violent twist, her six fists already cocked back to deliver a devastating punch.

"Not—*your*—lake!" Six Arms roared, each word warped by her own guttural, aquatic distortion.

The punch connected. Water *cracked* like shattering ice.

The krakken-thing *screamed*.

Not a sound—a *vibration*. The entire lake trembled, sending shockwaves rippling outward. Ripjaws clapped clawed hands over his gills, writhing in agony. Shredfang’s headlight flared blinding white before short-circuiting into darkness.

Then—silence.

The krakken had retreated.

'Huh'

'So ummm, I'm Benjamin, but like this you can call me Shredfang' he figured he might as well introduce himself to his counterpart, Ripjaws.
The tentacles on his mouth twisted independently—one scratching his chin while the other gestured vaguely at Ripjaws’ gills. His luminescent headlight flickered between neon green and static-yellow, casting erratic shadows across the lakebed. "Sooo..." The word bubbled out in a series of garbled clicks, her vocal cords vibrating like an outboard motor choking on seaweed. "You. Me. Same-same but... different-different?"

'Pretty much, yeah'

Shredfang didn't know why (Well, he did, but-), but he had the strongest urge to rub against Ripjaws like some kind of oversized fish-cat. His tentacles twitched independently—two curling into pseudo-paws while the third absentmindedly scratched behind his dorsal fin. The Galatrix pulsed sickly green against his chest, syncing with the distorted luminescence flickering across his bioluminescent patches. 'Hnngh. You smell like... like...' Shredfang's pupils dilated unevenly, left eye tracking Ripjaws' gill movements while the right rolled back to examine his own shoulder spikes.

He stopped himself, he had to see if she remembered anything concrete. So far all of the others had some major foggy memory and pretty much nothing else.

Shredfang couldn't stop the grin spreading across his face as Ripjaws stared at him with that blank, fish-eyed confusion. His luminescent patches flickered in erratic patterns—half morse code, half seizure—as his tentacles wriggled with suppressed energy. One stray appendage knocked loose a chunk of algae, which he promptly caught mid-air and shoved into his mouth without breaking eye contact. 'Mmmf—so like, do you remember anything before popping near me in this lake? 'Cause Six Arms remembered fighting, Heatblast kept screaming about how she nearly drowned somehow, Wildmutt can't talk, and Grey Matter just drones on about calculations she somehow discovered, so—'

Ripjaws’ gills flared, exhaling bubbles in an exasperated burst before telepathic static crackled between them. 'I remember war... against a star that tried to consume ours.'

Shredfang’s luminescence stuttered—he did not expect that at all. The grin faltered as his tentacles curled in on themselves like overcooked noodles. 'Uh,' he said eloquently, because his brain chose that moment to reboot. Ripjaws’ war? Against a star? That sounded—well, it sounded like something straight out of Star Trek, which, considering his summer so far, was to be expected at this point.

'Well, did you win?' Shredfang blurted, three of his tentacles now braiding themselves absentmindedly while the fourth tapped an erratic rhythm against his forehead. His bioluminescence pulsed neon chartreuse—the exact shade Gwen once called 'the color of bad decisions.' Ripjaws' dorsal fin twitched in what might've been annoyance or the aquatic equivalent of an eye-roll. Telepathic frequencies spiked like a badly tuned radio.

'We drowned it in liquid nitrogen.' The mental voice carried static-laced gravitas, undercut by Shredfang’s sudden snort-laugh.

'No way! That's—wait, did you just say your species drowned a star?!' Shredfang's tentacles spasmed mid-braid, his bioluminescence flickering between ultraviolet and the exact shade of green Gwen once called 'the color of hospital vomit.' His vocal sac pulsed with garbled static—halfway between a dolphin's echolocation and a dial-up modem screaming into the void.

Ripjaws' gill-flares rippled in what might've been amusement. 'Technically? But, are we not the same species Shredfang?'

'Oh! Well right now we are but also—mmf—not-really? Maybe?' Shredfang's mandibles clicked in rapid succession as three tentacles knotted themselves into a loose pretzel shape while the fourth jabbed repeatedly at his temple.

Something was wrong.

Very, very, wrong.

He noticed a ship nearby above them both.

And he didn't know why... but he had to stop himself from seeing red.

Plus his Galatrix was doing it's signature beeping—the kind that meant "you're about to experience some *deeply* regrettable biology."

Shredfang's pupils dilated into vertical slits the moment Ripjaws' telepathic frequency spiked—somewhere between distress signal and migraine. His vocal sac inflated with garbled echolocation clicks, half-formed words bubbling up like indigestion: *"Waitwaitwait—"*

Then the watch exploded in green light.

And Benjamin Tennyson, age 10, reappeared.

Deep in the center of the lake.

Green light pulsed violently through Benjamin's veins—one second Shredfang's spiraling thoughts, the next, his own panicked gasp as frigid water flooded his lungs. His Galatrix sparked angrily against his wrist, its faceplate cracked like an eggshell leaking alien energy. Above him, Ripjaws' silhouette flickered between concern and predatory focus, dorsal fins twitching to the rhythm of Benjamin's erratic heartbeat.

"Ghk—*blurgh*—what the—?" Benjamin's words dissolved into coughs, limbs flailing. Ripjaws snatched his skin with clawed precision, hauling him toward the surface just as the water started really filling his lungs.

The moment air hit Benjamin's face again, he gasped—half-relief, half-indignation—before promptly wheezing, "*Cough*—stupid *cough* half broken watch—!"

Ripjaws' telepathy crackled in his skull like a bad radio signal: 'Are you experiencing Organic distress?'

"Yeah, thank you—wait, *no*—why’re your claws *digging in?!*" Benjamin wheezed as Ripjaws’ grip tightened, the amphibious alien’s pupils slit like a cat’s despite the aquatic context. His own voice—human, *tiny*—sounded wrong after Shredfang’s guttural growls. The Galatrix sputtered against his wrist, its cracked faceplate leaking emerald energy that fizzed in the water like soda bubbles.

Ripjaws’ telepathy hit him in jagged fragments: 'You are no longer one of me in my territory, you are able to be one of me, so I will not rip you with my jaws.' Benjamin spat lake water, fingers scrabbling at Ripjaws’ wrist—except Ripjaws didn’t *have* wrists, just clawed fins squeezing tighter.

"Okay, I'm leaving, I'm leaving!" Benjamin kicked uselessly against Ripjaws' grip, toes skimming the water's surface like a skipped stone. His voice cracked—less like the very start of puberty, more like a Galatrix glitch—slipping briefly into Shredfang's guttural rasp before snapping back to ten-year-old indignation.

'It's strange Benjamin, my instincts are screaming at me. Neither wishes to let you leave. One half wants me to tear you to shreds, the other half wants me to hold you close and protect you, omg with other things I don't fully understand...' Ripjaws' telepathic voice pulsed through Benjamin's skull like a dissonant chord—half melodic whale-song, half predatory clicks—as his grip loosened just enough to let Benjamin gasp for air.

Benjamin felt the Galatrix spasm against his wrist, its green glow stuttering between forms—Ripjaws' luminescent markings flickered in sync, his pupils dilating and contracting erratically. "Okay, *okay*, we're *both* malfunctioning here," Benjamin wheezed, kicking weakly. His voice hiccuped mid-sentence.

Were all female aliens so weirdly… *intense*? Benjamin didn’t know—but they all sure did love to remind him they weren’t human. Especially not *his* version of human.

"Look, if it'll really help, I just need about 3 minutes more so I can transform again—" Benjamin gasped mid-word as Ripjaws' second lung seized unexpectedly. The alien's clawed fingers spasmed against his face.

'Then we shall wait Benjamin' Ripjaws' telepathic voice crackled like static-choked radio waves underwater, her claw-tipped fins flexing in erratic patterns—one moment stroking his cheek with bizarre gentleness, the next twitching as if resisting the urge to rake through flesh.

Her gills flared, emitting pulses of phosphorescent green that matched the Galatrix's spasmodic flickering. Benjamin could *feel* the alien thought patterns bleeding through—where his human mind processed fear linearly, Ripjaws' consciousness spiraled in overlapping layers of territorial calculus and something uncomfortably close to *yearning*.

The Galatrix gave a wet *click*, its core spitting out emerald sparks that dissolved into the lake water like dying fireflies. Benjamin's fingers twitched toward it instinctively, and he pushed down.

And Shredfang was back.

And suddenly a giant long tong was down his throat, tickling his uvula.

Shredfang gagged—was Ripjaws, kissing him!? His first kiss was with an alien!? And worse, IN HIS OWN ALIEN FORM!?

He opened his eyes.

Yep, that was what was happening.

What was his life anymore....

Ripjaws pulled back with a wet, guttural hiss, her bioluminescent markings flickering between aggression and something disturbingly close to affection and blushing. "Y-you taste like... love," she rasped, her voice glitching between aquatic clicks and Shredfang's own snarling register. Benjamin—no, *Shredfang* now—felt his hackles rise. This wasn't just predatory synchronization anymore. The Galatrix was rewriting their instincts into something jagged and wrong.

"Love?!" Shredfang spat, wiping his muzzle with the back of a clawed hand. "That was *digestive probing*, you—you *freaky trout*!" His own voice kept slipping, vowels stretching too long, syllables crunching like cartilage. He could *feel* Ripjaws' confusion bleeding through their fraying mental link—her thoughts a chaotic swirl of territorial dominance and... nest-building impulses.

Nearby, Gwen surfaced with a gasp, clutching a half rusted buoy for some reason (Probably from Six Arms cannonballing again). "I... I had to watch all of that..."

Ripjaws growled, threatening to break free and go after Gwen as he deepened the hug to stop her.

"Ripjaws? Ripjaws! She's my cousin, she's cool!" His jaws snapped shut with a wet *clack*, tasting the lingering musk of Gwen's fear in the water. The Galatrix pulsed green-black against his dorsal fin, whispering in clicks.

'She... is your kin-pack?' Ripjaws' gills flared, her pupils dilating into slits as the words slithered out in a wet, clicking warble. The Galatrix pulsed against Shredfang's wrist like a second heartbeat, its energy syncopating with the erratic glow of Ripjaws' bioluminescent stripes. Benjamin—no, *Shredfang's* claws flexed involuntarily, scraping against the rusted buoy Gwen clung to with a metallic screech. His thoughts kept fracturing: half-terrified human, half-something feral that wanted to *bite down* on Ripjaws' thrashing tailfin just to hear her scream in that glitching, dual-toned voice of hers.

'Yes, now let me get her to the shore so she doesn't drown or something.' Benjamin's thoughts snarled—no, *Shredfang's* thoughts snarked—wet and guttural, layered with a bass growl his human throat couldn't replicate.

'Fine but please come back soon,' Ripjaws gurgled, her words bubbling up like swamp gas—half-plea, half-threat. Shredfang didn't answer. His claws spasmed around Gwen's waist as he swam gently above the water.

"We are never speaking of what I just saw," Gwen hissed, clinging to Shredfang's back as his bioluminescent stripes flickered between warning-yellow and territorial-purple.

"Agreed."

Shredfang's reply came out garbled as always as they made their way to the shore—half-growl, half-clicking chirps that somehow still managed to sound sarcastic.

When they were in shallow waters Shredfang let Gwen go, then bent low—his pinkish bioluminescence flickering between contrite purple and agitated yellow. His vocal sac pulsed with clicks that sounded suspiciously like "sorry-not-sorry."

Gwen wiped lake scum off her arms. "Why do you guys keep—" she gestured wildly "—licking things?"

Shredfang blinked all four eyes in different directions before settling on a shrug. The Galatrix pulsed sickly acidic dark green as always on his chest as he went back to Ripjaws after asking Gwen to come up with a cover story for him being gone.

Ripjaws was still coiled around a chunk of driftwood, gnashing her teeth—but now it was half playful, half territorial.

"You come back," she gurgled, pupils dilating and contracting erratically.

"Well I still have 10 minutes before I'm Benjamin again."

Shredfang's vocal sac pulsed a slow, rhythmic pattern—half audible growl, half subsonic vibration Gwen felt in her molars. His claws kneaded the wet sand absently, leaving jagged furrows. The Galatrix on his chest flickered yellow-green like a dying street lamp.

Ripjaws coiled looser around the driftwood... And around him.

"You smell like shore now," she murmured, clicking her serrated teeth inches from Shredfang's gills. "Like her. Wrongwrongwrong." The Galatrix on her chest pulsed a deeper green—sickly, like algae blooming in stagnant water.

Shredfang flicked his dorsal spines in irritation. "She's kin," he rasped, vocal sac inflating with a wet pop. The words came out half-formed, syntax crumbling under the weight of predatory instincts gnawing at his synapses. "Not food. You know this."

Ripjaws responded by sinking her claws into the driftwood—splinters floating upward in the murk. Her pupils contracted to needle-thin slits. "Mine first," she gurgled, and the Galatrix responded with a crackle of corrupted energy that made both their bioluminescence stutter.

They kissed again.

And Benjamin hated to admit it, even to himself... but he kinda loved it.

Goddamn alien hormones...

That evening, Benjamin was back on shore with, Heatblast, Grey Matter, Six Arms, Wildmutt, Stinkfly, Gwen, and Max. The group of them were sitting around a campfire attempting to cook marshmallows—though Heatblast kept accidentally incinerating them into ash-clouds with her twitchy, overheating claws as Wildmutt growled impatiently.

"They're better crispy," Heatblast hissed defensively, her voice crackling like embers—a far cry from Benjamin's usual sarcastic drawl. The Galatrix on her chest flickered ominously, casting jagged shadows across her obsidian-black exoskeleton.

Gwen wrinkled her nose. "They're not supposed to turn into carcinogenic smoke signals, Pyro."

Grey Matter, hanging down from a tree was calculating the perfect way to roast a marshmallow based on air temperature and the precise chemical composition of the heated sugar. Six Arms had already jammed six marshmallows onto sticks, gripping them in a way that suggested she was either preparing for a snack or an impromptu wrestling match.

Wildmutt's nostrils flared violently as charred marshmallow ashes drifted past his face. Shee snarled, saliva dripping onto the campfire stones with a hiss.

Benjamin patted her head—only he could calm her down at all.

She respected him for some reason—even when he smelled like overcooked marshmallows and wasn't Brutebeast.

"So how was all of your day today?" Max asked, poking the campfire with a stick. Six Arms snorted, cracking her knuckles—"I found out that there's something in that lake that isn't Ripjaws and I'm going to have a rematch with it tomorrow."

Heatblast flickered, her flames pulsing in jagged spikes. "I managed not to cause another forrest fire somehow—oh wait, no, that’s smoke." She waved a smoldering stick like a conductor’s baton, watching grey plumes curl into the night. Grey Matter swung upside-down from a low branch, tapping his chin. "Statistically speaking, your success rate is still—"

"Shut up," Six Arms growled, cracking her knuckles with a sound like snapping celery. "I could wrestle a bear right now. Or that stupid lake thing. Or both." Her Galatrix glowed unevenly, three segments brighter than the others, casting jagged shadows across her face.

Wildmutt sneezed violently, scattering marshmallow embers. Benjamin—human again, but with singed hair and a soot-streaked face—dug his fingers into her ruff. "Easy, girl." She exhaled through her nose, and backed down.

Gwen kept looking at him, and he couldn't blame her to be honest.

"So Benjamin, I heard you got a new alien?" Max asked.

"Yeah Shredfang; Ripjaws is staying in the water."

Benjamin scratched his neck—his Galatrix pulsed dimly, like a faulty neon sign. Soon though, just about everyone was getting tired as Heatblast reabsorbed the fire so they could all sleep.

Gwen stretched out on her sleeping bag, hands behind her head as Ben was next to her in the tent, snoring softly. She turned, watching the faint glow of his Galatrix pulse irregularly, casting eerie green shadows on the fabric. That thing was alive.

She just couldn't prove it yet.

The next morning, Benjamin's fingers twitched before his eyes even opened—three distinct rhythms, like his nervous system couldn't decide between human pulse and alien arrhythmia. When he finally blinked awake, his Galatrix was already emitting a low-frequency hum that made Gwen's toothpaste vibrate off the sink ledge.

"Ugh. Morning breath and eldritch whale songs," Gwen muttered, swiping the tube off the floor. "Real charming combo, Bem."

Benjamin opened his mouth—probably to protest—but what came out was a garbled half-click, half-yawn that sounded suspiciously like Ripjaws' hunting echolocation. His cheeks flushed when Gwen froze, toothbrush dangling midair.

"Nope."

He slammed the door.

Later Benjamin, Gwen, and Max walked along the coast, Max with a fishing rod in hand.

Benjamin wandered ahead, coming across a bucket of wriggling worms. His fingers twitched—not with disgust, but with something sharper, hungrier. The Galatrix pulsed green against his wrist, whispering.

"Breakfast?" he crooned, not disgusted surprisingly enough.

"Bait." Max replied simply.

"Yeah, well, I think I'm just gonna pass on the fishing thing, I'll stay here and catch some sun instead with Heatblast or something..."

"Okay, but you really don't know what you're missing Gwen!"

She looked over at Benjamin, then at the lake, "I'm pretty sure I do Grandpa..."

"Ah, Mr. Shaw?"

"Who wants to know?"

"I'm Max Tennyson, and this is my grandson, Benjamin. We chartered your boat today for a fishing trip."

"Well what're you waiting for, an engraved invitation? Get aboard, I ain't got all day."

Shaw's voice grated like rusted boat chains as Benjamin scampered onto the creaking vessel. The Galatrix flickered against his wrist—a slow, arrhythmic pulse that made Gwen's fingers tighten around her sunscreen bottle. Something about the way Benjamin's pupils dilated at the wriggling bait bucket wasn't human.

Max cleared his throat. "You feeling alright, champ?"

Benjamin's answering grin showed too many teeth. "Never better."

"Anything... interesting out there to catch today Mr. Shaw?"

"More than you can possibly imagine... Bet you can't handle *this* lake's catch," Shaw sneered, eyeing the water below, "Looks like your boy's using his breakfast as chum."

"Benjamin? You you sure you're feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I'm just keeping an eye out for the krakken. That thing's not taking me by surprise this time!"

That, and he thought Ripjaws was probably hungry.

He saw a monstrous silhouette in the water, and almost gasped, then silhouette became clear as it passed, revealing just a collection of brambles and trash.

"Now, Benjamin. This is a fishing trip, not a monster hunt."

"It's called 'the Krakken'."

"You know about it Mr. Shaw?"

"It's my business to know about it." He handed Benjamin a photo reminiscent of the 'Loch Ness Monster' photo.

"I've been on its tail for years. Folks say my rudder's not right."

Benjamin's fingers twitched over the photo—then twitched *wrong*, the knuckles popping for reason unknown.

"Now why doesn't that surprise me at all?"

"Sightings go back hundreds of years, on this very lake. Some say it's a myth... not me! I could take you to a spot where I personally laid eyes upon the beast. That is, if you've got the stomach for some fucking real adventure!"

Shaw's voice cracked like old leather as Benjamin looked up to a reluctant Max expectantly and smiling.

"I guess so..."

"Sonar, high-def video setup, ultrasound. I got it all. And I will find it. Mark my words, it can't hide forever."

Max took Benjamin aside as best as he could on a boat, "Benjamin, are you sure he didn't see Ripjaws?"

"No, well, maybe. But there was something else in that lake, you know Six Arms wouldn't lie about something like that."

"The ship floated by, Shaw was at the helm paying attention to the sonar, as he came up against a blockage of buoys and tape.

"Do not enter"? What the hell's going on here?"

"Looks official. Maybe we should turn back."

"Nonsense, this is my lake and I'll go wherever I—" Shaw's rant cut off as a distant voice called out to them in an overly friendly.

"Fishing boat! Stop where you are. I am Jack Melville, the founder of "Friends of Fish", we've closed this section of the lake for an environmental study. You'll have to turn your boat around."

"Suppose you make me, fish hugger?"

"Well, since I chartered the boat for the day, I believe I'm in charge. Isn't that right, Captain?"

Shaw grumbled something obscene under his breath about "landlubbers" and "fish-kissing bureaucrats" while reluctantly turning the wheel.

Shaw's boat soon traveled back to the docks, trailing behind the 'Friends of Fish' boat. The ship's sonar pinged, alerting Shaw.

"The sonar! We've finally found something!"

"Or something's found us! Look!"

Shaw walked out and saw a shark-like fin dip below the water.

"The Krakken!"

The fin passed under Shaw's boat, revealing its true size, and rocking the boat violently. Shaw panicked as he saw where it was heading.

"It's heading for the docks!"

"Gwen! "

Benjamin's Galatrix flashed erratically as the fin rushed towards the docks at terrifying speed—but Gwen remained blissfully unaware, kicking her feet lazily where she sat at the pier's edge.

"Finally, some peace and—"

The water erupted.

A mountain of dripping, bioluminescent flesh surged upward—scales like hammered brass, eyes like smoldering coals. The Krakken's bulk smashed through the wooden planks, sending Gwen spiraling into the frothing wake. She surfaced gasping, only to freeze at the sight of tendrils thicker than telephone poles coiling toward her—

And then a blur of silver and black streaked past her vision.

"XLR-eat-my-dust, ugly!"

XLR8 snatched Gwen mid-scream, she ran across the churning lake surface with dizzying speed—but the Krakken’s bioluminescent tentacle whipped faster.

"Hold on tight, chatterbox!" XLR8’s voice crackled with staticky amusement.

Gwen barely had time to yelp before they skidded sideways, dodging the Krakken’s gaping maw as it dredged up half the pier in its teeth.

"That’s *not* on the summer fun itinerary!" Gwen shrieked, clinging to XLR8’s carapace as she revved her leg turbines.

"Relax, Gwenny! Meep-meep speedster protocol says you're officially—WHOA!" XLR8's taunt cut off as the Krakken's whipcord tentacle snapped like a bullwhip, sending them hydroplaning sideways. Gwen's scream dissolved into furious coughing as lake water sloshed up her nose.

Meanwhile Benjamin, Max, Shaw, Jack, and the other 'Friends of Fish' went overboard yet again when the Krakken smashed their boat to bits, leaving them floundering amidst the wreckage.

Benjamin's Galatrix flashed erratically—too fast—so fast—before stabilizing with an ominous hum as he transformed mid-air. One second he was human-Benjamin, limbs flailing uselessly against gravity's pull; the next, his skin split into jagged black plates, his spine elongating into a segmented tail, his jaw unhinging with a wet *snap*.

"Yeeeeee-HAW!" Shredfang's voice was a distorted growl, half-laugh, half-howl as he twisted mid-fall to land claws-first on the Krakken's dorsal ridge. The creature bucked violently, but Shredfang dug in, his barbed tail lashing excitedly. "Ohhh, you *squishy*. Thought you could snack on my cousin, huh? Wrong! Wrong-wrong-WRONG!" His speech devolved into guttural barks as he sank his teeth into rubbery flesh—only to recoil with a yelp when the Krakken's bioluminescent patches pulsed neon-green.

The Krakken rushed towards them again, but it was soon stopped by XLR8 creating a water tornado on the surface, scaring it back.

The Krakken swam to the front once more of the boat and tried to grab a crate off of it using its front tendrils.

"Oh no you don't!"

Jack swam to the crate to get it back.

Shredfang decided to help Jack not die by grabbing the Krakken's tendril and dragging it backwards to prevent the crate from being moved.

But just as he was about to start pulling, he got a flash of information.

He was seeing the perspective of the Krakken —these 'Friends of Fish' were stealing her eggs, they killed her mate, they ate him just for fun!

Oh he was pissed.

He reached out to Ripjaws instinctively—not with words, but with a pulse of submerged clicks and thrums that vibrated through the lakebed. Ripjaws answered in kind, his gills flaring crimson as the Krakken’s bioluminescence flared in response. Benjamin’s Galatrix hummed against his skin, its corrupted glyphs flickering between green and an unsettling violet.

Shredfang didn’t just *hear* the Krakken’s rage—he *tasted* it.

And he was hungry for retribution.

Nothing else mattered anymore.

Shredfang's pupils dilated into jagged slits, hissing through needle-sharp teeth. "Sssoft-shellsss," he spat, claws flexing as Melville's crew scrambled backward. The Krakken's mournful wail vibrated through the water—a subsonic cry that made Ripjaws' gills flare in sympathetic agony.

Ben's human thoughts surfaced for half a heartbeat—*Why am I enjoying this?*—before the Galatrix's crimson glyphs pulsed, drowning his conscience in predatory glee. His spine arched unnaturally as black chitin plates rippled across his skin. Somewhere distant, Gwen screamed.

"Yesss," Shredfang purred, tasting fear-sweat through the lakewater. He pounced toward Jack's thrashing form just as Ripjaws' webbed hand clamped around his ankle. "Mine!" Shredfang snarled, twisting to slash.

And slash it did—Jack screamed in sweet agony as claws tore through his wetsuit and into flesh. Shredfang's tongue curled with sick pleasure at the coppery tang blooming in the water. Ripjaws tackled him sideways, their bodies crashing into a rusted cannery beam. The impact jolted the Galatrix, its corrupted glyphs flaring violet in approval.

"You know Mr. Melville, I would love to rip you to shreds myself, but I think a certain Krakken wants a word with you first." Shredfang hissed through razor-lined jaws, flipping Jonah over his shoulder with a sickening crack of vertebrae—just as Ripjaws' serrated fins flared in warning. The Krakken's bioluminescence pulsed below us.

And she was swiftly coming up.

"Please, I'll give you two million—no, three million dollars to—" Jack's babbling dissolved into incoherent shrieks as the Krakken's cephalopod limbs coiled around his waist. Ripjaws winced at the crunch of vertebrae.

And down below he was dragged, screaming all the way.

And he didn't care.

'Thanks Ripjaws'

'Oh please, that was more than my pleasure.'

'So are you coming with us or staying in this lake?'

Down at the very bottom of the lake the Krakken howled happily, sitting on the lake floor with her eggs cradled at last as they fell down from the broken ship one by one.

Chapter Text

The Galatrix pulsed like a dying neon sign against Benjamin's wrist as the Rustbucket had stopped on a desert road at an ice cream parlor.

Benjamin's fingers twitched—three distinct rhythms like his nervous system couldn't decide between human pulse and alien arrhythmia. Gwen noticed the way his pupils dilated when the old man behind the counter scooped rocky road, the way his tongue darted out to lick his lips like Ripjaws scenting blood in water.

"Earth to Ben," Gwen snapped her fingers in front of his face. Benjamin blinked—human again—before shoving her hand away.

"Quit it," he muttered, rubbing his wrist where the Galatrix clung like a living thing. Which it was. He just didn't like admitting that part.

Across the street, Max fed coins into a rusted ATM while a hulking figure in a stained tank top lumbered up behind him. The stranger's knuckles were scarred like he'd punched his way out of a barbed wire cage.

"Move it, ya fucking fossil," the man growled, shoving Max aside with enough force to send his cap spinning into the dust.

Inside the ice cream parlor, Benjamin's fingers drummed against the counter—tick-tick-tick—like a metronome set to the wrong tempo. The Galatrix pulsed green against his skin, its glyphs twisting like live wires under his sleeve. Gwen eyed the way his pupils dilated when the old man scooped double chocolate chip—vertical slits, just for a heartbeat—before snapping back to round.

"Earth to freakshow," Gwen hissed, jabbing his ribs. "You're doing the fish-eye thing again."

Benjamin blinked hard, "I know I'm not Crystalfist right now, but why does everything suddenly seem...sparklier?"

The Galatrix pulsed against his wrist—he swear it was talking to him somehow in his sleep.

Benjamin opened his mouth, but got cut off by the sound of a large chain. He and Gwen looked out the window and saw the burly man walking to the ATM with a chained metal hook.

"Ohhh-kay," Benjamin drawled, rolling his shoulders like he was loosening up for a fight. The Galatrix pulsed green against his wrist—not the usual Omnitrix glow, but something deeper, hungrier. "I'm about to go *rocky road*!"

He slammed the dial down.

Instead of the usual flash of light, the transformation *rippled* through him—black liquid metal swallowing Ben's skin inch by agonizing inch. His last human scream bubbled into static as his jaw unhinged, reforming into something sleek, geometric, *wrong*.

̵̏̈͂̈̂"̴̧̹͕̺̩̙͕̂̿̓̀̾̈̌̔͘͝I̵̡͍̲͓͍͝ ̵̡̬͇̩͈͈̖̏̈͂̈̂͋̕̚a̴̡͕̰̭͉̬̙̰̬̹̻̦͂̔̀́̍̓ͅͅm̵͓͔͓̮̼̺̜̋.̷̛̩͉͉́̾͂̆̆̍͜.̴̢̢͎͚̣͙̪̠̣̥̠̣̔͒̈̎̿̑̽͜͝.̴̧̛͓͖͊̾̌͑̀͑̊͒̕͝ ̷̡̱̝͍̙̯͚͈̫̻̲̻̼͋́̏͆̚ͅB̴̡̢̦̪̠͙̦͍̙̘̽͊̅͜ợ̶̢͍͙̝̜͍̙͈̿̓̽̂̃̓̚͝o̶̤̳̣̞͐̔̎̈́̈́̉͗̈́̋t̵̢̳̰̦̫̳͉̐͂̑̾̆̂̈́̈̐̀̄̿͝l̵̝͓̯͇͉̠̳̠͂͑̿̎͐̓̂̐̉ȩ̶̼̮̺̳͉͔̪̣͖̍͑͆̆ġ̴͙͇̘͖͓̪̲̤̦̟̬̜͛́̑͋́͌́̏͘̚͠͠ͅ"̵̨͍̭͇̰̺̮̬͖̩̲̜̜̺͌̄͑̿̌͋͗̈́̓̇͂͊̕

The transformation wasn't clean. Black liquid metal *rippled* over Benjamin's skin in uneven waves, bubbling like hot tar. His scream glitched into static—half-human looking, half-digital screech—as his bones cracked and reformed into something *wrong*. Yellow-Orange geometric stripes burned across his torso like geometrical tribal scars, pulsing with corrupted energy.

His head bulged grotesquely before collapsing inward, reforming with a single crimson eye that pulsed like a dying neon sign. Bootleg's voice crackled through the distortion—half Benjamin's teenage whine, half something older and hungrier. "̵͙̌Ö̴̗̗̲̕h̵̬̔́h̸͈̒̑͝ḣ̴̨̉̇,̶̖̭͗ ̸̖̲̋̒͊y̸͙̝̅o̸̩̥͒u̴̟͘ ̵͎̪̙͑w̸̖̥͆̕͠a̸̻͑n̴̬̔͑͆ň̸̟a̵͍̐͜ ̵̝̇ṗ̷̨͖̖̚l̵̢̙̤̉̕a̷̮̗̐̌͌y̶̧͉̗͑͘ ̴̫̓̾͐Ǎ̷̞̪́͝ͅṰ̶͉̖̔M̵̘̦̑̾-̷̟͔̬́j̷̲̗̾̈́͜ä̸̢́̏c̷̩̙̐k̸͊͜͜͝a̸͈̫̐̔͒ŝ̶̬̣̤͋s̸̯̀̏̍?̵̬̽̒ ̶̢̛̘̪L̴̜͂̚͝ĕ̷̯͇͝t̶͙̳̥̓'̴͈̘̈̑̽s̴̢̠͈̑ ̵̹͈̼̀̔̓p̵̮͚͗l̷͉̞̞̇a̸̢̒y̴̢̝̣͌̂͘ ̶̲̯̺̇*̶͙̬̲͋͛͘h̶̩͔̬̉͐ạ̵̕r̶̛̹̫͆d̷̤̈́c̸͖̦̓́͂o̵̧̠̠̎ṛ̷͆͐͛ë̴̫̪̻ ̷̲̈́̆m̶̢͔̏̀ọ̴̡̀͝d̷̹̽̍e̸̟̊*̵͍̞̬͊͘.̴̞͠"̷̺̭͘͝

Another armored freak-show lunged—Upgrade he decided to call her—all jagged edges and tank treads for legs. Bootleg's crimson eye pulsed, circuitry flaring yellow-hot across his torso. "̸͔̣̗̎̆Ö̸̮́̽̾h̶̟͆̐̓ẖ̷̹͊̈́̌h̸͇͍͉̋̉̉,̴̙̞̃ ̸̨̧̀̒s̵͚͓̤̆͋͝c̷̢̺̜͊r̸̻̞̐̋̈ͅá̷͎̝̮̈p̵͇̄̃͝-̷̲̭̖̇m̴̰̝̎͋ë̶̘͚̔t̴͎̍a̴̡͖̠̋͊l̵̼͚͔̽̕͠ ̸͇͔͘B̷͕̑̚a̴̧̱̖̽͠͝r̴̺̪̆̐b̵͈͑̋͛í̷̡͇͕e̶͕̦̥͂̆̒ ̶̲́ẉ̷̍̈́̍ͅã̶̤̩̯n̶͕͍̒t̷̩͇͚̉̆ś̸̡̝͙͑̆ ̸̳͆̽t̷̘̃̽ū̵̮́s̴̹̘̈s̷̗̀͆̍l̸̙̀̒͘ẽ̶̢̗̱̋̈́-̷̡̋̌t̷̤̫̋į̵̩̏̔̅m̶̨͖̩̀̓̆ê̸̯̮̑?̴͕̓́"̶͈̋̎́ His voice glitched between Benjamin's snark and something deeper and incomplete or perhaps broken.

Upgrade instinctly it seems merged with the entire pickup and kicked the man out the door. She formed back into herself. Instead of outright attacking she stood there. Scanning Bootleg. Bootleg too had stopped attacking the armored man, instead his crimson eye pulsed violently—like something inside of him was *fighting* to get out. His limbs twitched erratically, his liquid metal form bubbling in places where the circuitry beneath his skin flared yellow-orange before shorting out with a hiss of static.

"̴̡̦̪̈́̈́Ḿ̶̀͜e̴̫͖̙̎̿̿c̸̘̝͉͑́͑ẖ̵̍ä̶͖́͆m̴̮͊̈́o̸̮̽̍r̴̛͈̾p̴̗̦̓͋̚h̵̗͚̪̄͐̇ ̶͎̭͂́d̸̻͗̋e̷̯͈͆ś̶̤͓̄̽i̸͚͇͍̒̀g̴̗͋͋͝n̸̤̣̿̄a̶̭̿́t̶̘̙̄i̶̟̕ó̵̞̠͜n̷͚̣̼̈:̷̠̊̊̚ͅ ̷̨̼̾̑̓B̶̟͊̚͜o̷͈̣͐o̷̺͐̑t̵̙͖̝̂͠l̴͕͕͖̔ë̸̢̜͠ģ̷̢̯̐͑͐,̷̹͖̫͘̚"̸͙̲͇͒̉̆ ̷̨̧̾ Upgrade droned, her voice layered with multiple mechanical tones. Her tank-tread legs rolled forward, spikes extending from her forearms with a series of sharp metallic clicks.

Bootleg's response was a garbled scream—half Benjamin's voice, half something deeper and glitching. His skeletal markings flickered under his skin like faulty neon as he staggered back. "̴̱͕͆N̵̢͓͜͝-̶̧͈̓͝ṅ̶̹͍̏-̸̤̟̌̔̒ṇ̸́́̓o̷̤̫̒̏ ̶̨̛͙̝*̵͕̲̾͠f̵̟͌-̷̼̟͌̏̕f̵̪́-̴̻̰̩̀̏͑f̵̬͒́ù̴̡̗̠͌n̵̮͕̪̎ǹ̸̰͔̪y̸̨̚*̵̝̹̈ ̸͕̘̠͛̋b̵̯͊-̴̢̦̠̌̎b̴̧̟̻̑̆͊-̷̙̂́͝b̶̤͔͉̈̐͝u̶͔̼̒ş̶͊͠i̶͎͈̅n̴̞͓̝͋ê̶̻̽s̷̘͕͊̓͗s̴̛͕̞͙̃͐!̴̻͍͋"̶͎̯̭̐͆ His voice box crackled, syllables cutting in and out. The crimson eye pulsed faster, erratic. Like a heart monitor flatlining.

Across the street, Gwen's fingers twitched toward the Omnitrix still strapped to Ben's limp wrist. Her own pulse hammered in her throat. That wasn't Ben in there anymore. Not entirely. And whatever was left of him was losing.

Bootleg's head jerked sideways, his neck elongating sickeningly as he *sniffed* the air—like Ripjaws scenting blood. "̸̺̫̼͑Ṣ̵̼̮̃̈́s̷͖̆s̸̨̮̏ŝ̶̡͎s̴̮̄͒ṡ̸͇̏s̵͚̲̈́s̴̡̘̠͗s̴̪̼̒s̴̖̝͑̈́͜s̸̬̾s̶̡̫͒͘͜͠s̶͔̓́͆ś̵̝̞͙̋̓s̷̟̣̼͐š̷͆ͅŝ̶̱̘̀͘s̴̖̽͜͝s̴̨͙͕̓s̴̲̙͗s̵̙̰͑s̴̜̫̆ṣ̸̯̔ș̴̐̓̍s̴͇̜̬̑͑s̵̪͛ẻ̴͇͉̠̿͊c̶̬͑͜ö̶̯́̆n̴͔̚d̴̩̩̆̂̿͜ ̷͔̺̘̑̉̌p̶͙͑̂͐-̸̣̝̹͂̄ṗ̷̨̰͖̑͝-̴̤̞͘ṕ̸͎͙̣͑͘ľ̸̲́̍a̶̦̝̤̔͂y̴͔͙͝ë̸͓́͂r̴̍ͅ ̵̱̮͍̃͝h̶̛̳̳̑-̴͚̖̇h̴͇͊-̵̥̈͘͘h̷̤̩̀̔a̶̦̾͐́͜ṩ̴̞͝ͅ ̶̧̗̑̄̏ė̶͔̃͠n̷̜͉͕̈́̏ẗ̵̟̘̝e̴̡̡̛͗r̶̦̰͛ě̴̟̠͛ḓ̸̄ ̵̨͎̞̓͒ţ̴̺̫̇͝h̶̼͗̆̊ë̵̜́̑͌ ̷̮̻͚͒ġ̸͉̖̺͝-̸̥̝̐̆͘g̷͖̣̎-̴̛̯͓͋͝g̴͕̈a̶͇̋̋̐m̴̝͖͉̒e̷͈̰͋̈̿.̸͕̑̿̅"̷̛̜̌̏ ̷̗͚̭͛̌ His voice dropped an octave, the glitching smoothing out unnaturally. His gaze locked onto the armored man now scrambling to his feet. The man froze. Because Bootleg wasn't looking *at* him.

He was looking *through* him.

At something *inside*.

Upgrade's spikes retracted with a metallic shriek as she lunged—not at Bootleg—but *past* him. Straight for the armored man's chest. Her fingers elongated into needle-thin probes, aiming for the man's sternum. The man screamed. Bootleg moved faster, his form *exploding* outward in a wave of liquid metal that solidified into a jagged wall between Upgrade and her target.

"̷̘̹̤̀́̚Y̷̨͇͌ỏ̷̲͠ư̶̱͖̾̋r̷̝̱̃̍ ̵̲̖͇͋̕̕ċ̸̩a̴̜͇̗͝s̵̡͚͐̄͘h̷̡̻̯̉͠ ̶͚̾̕r̶͕̭̯͠e̶̬̲̾̈́q̶̹͔̦̂̌̄u̶̗̠͊̇͋ẹ̸̛̊͋s̴͔̦̖̅͗͗t̷̞͠ ̴̩̳̃h̶̡̲̝͝ẵ̶͖͙̫s̸͖̟͌ ̵͈̐̓b̸̟̂̆͠ȇ̵͖̊͘e̵̠̾͘n̵͈̉̎̍ ̷̰͖̱͂̔̄d̶̤̿ȩ̶͔͈̀n̷̹̈̒̀i̶͖͐̋ē̶̥d̴͙̞̕!̴̣͓̎̂̍"̴̜͆̐

Upgrade's voice boomed with the digital echo of a thousand corrupted sound files mashed together. Her tank treads left molten grooves in the asphalt as she rolled forward, spikes extending from her forearms with mechanical precision. The burly man scrambled backward, his boots kicking up desert dust—but Bootleg was faster. Liquid metal tendrils *snapped* from his emaciated form, wrapping around the man's ankles with a wet *schlorp*.

Benjamin—or whatever was left of him inside Bootleg—felt the alien's instincts clawing at his brain like static-laced barbed wire. Every transformation warped his personality, but *this*? This was like drowning in a pool of corrupted data and viruses.

He looked and Upgrade and knew that she was the same.

As the man they topped tried to get up, Max puts his foot on his chest.

"And where do ya think you're going? Good work, Benjamin! You too..."

"̵̦̰͉́Ȗ̶̢͎́͜p̶̹͆ğ̶̤͉̬r̸̖̙͐̋a̷̰̹͙͐̈́͌d̷͉͖̂ę̸̘͍͑̅̉.̷̛̹̈́"̴̨̜͌ The word stuttered out in three different robotic pitches, warped like a skipping record. Her black technorganic form pulsed with unstable orange-yellow circuitry lines, flickering between solid and liquid states.

Max just stared, clearly not understanding either of them.

Benjamin waited to transform to talk to Grandpa Max, "What's next?"

"We're heading off to see your Grand Aunt Vera for the weekend!"

"Grand Aunt Vera?! Yessss!"

The Rustbucket soon continued driving through the barren desert with yet another alien inside It now.

"Man, when Grand Aunt Vera said she wanted to "move away from it all", she really meant it!" Benjamin's voice cracked as the Rustbucket trundled past another mile of sun-baked nothingness.

"Aw man, this summer was supposed to be about F-U-N, not hanging out in some old lady's place!" Gwen groaned as the Rustbucket's tires kicked up dust on the winding desert road. Benjamin—currently staying in his human form—slouched in his seat, flicking the Galatrix's dial with his thumb. The watch flickered green, still recharging from Bootleg's glitchy meltdown earlier.

Upgrade, now temporarily merged with the Rustbucket, had enlarged the RV so it would be less cramped for the other aliens onboard. The windshield wipers twitched like cat whiskers, sensing the desert heat waves distorting the air ahead.

Inside, Six Arms and Wildmutt were starting to get cranky from the heat. Wildmutt was panting heavily, her tongue lolling out as she flicked at the thermostat with a claw. Six Arms was flipping through the instruction manual Gwen had left out—upside down—while occasionally flexing two of her arms in frustration. The Galatrix symbol pulsed green on Benjamin's wrist. He sighed, tapping it absentmindedly.

"I like Aunt Vera though." Benjamin murmured, chewing on his lower lip—a nervous tic Gwen had noticed cropping up whenever he wasn't transformed now. The Galatrix pulsed green and purple against his wrist, its familiar hum drowned out by the Rustbucket's uneven engine shudder. He scratched at the plating absentmindedly, fingers bumping against the unsmooth dial.

Upgrade flickered in and out of existence in the rearview mirror—one second a sleek obsidian chassis with humming orange-yellow circuit lines, the next a glitching mass of pixelated static. Her voice box spat binary coughs between words. "̵̜̓͝*̶̙̣̓*̷̠̭̠̎͠S̷̭̯̐͝-̸̺͝ͅs̶͇̀-̶̻̘̱͋̅s̵̘̙̥͑́͊y̶̝̣̆̐̎s̴̥͉̫͐t̷͓͙̓ͅe̷̛ͅͅm̸̢͓͍̎͝͠ ̴̨̋̈̚ơ̸͖̖̖̌v̴̮̖͒̆͝-̷̺͉̦̀o̸͎̪̐͗́v̵̨̟̹̾ë̶̘̻́̇̆r̶͖͎͚̎r̸͎̖̠̍̓͘-̸̠͈̭̊͗r̸̳̮̰̅̃i̷͈͈̳͊̕͝ḍ̴̻̻͗̽̍e̸͚̬̍.̶̞͉͉̇͂̂ ̴͈̩̝́Y̴̝͝-̶̱͕̉ý̵̭̤͘o̸̡̹̘̽͝u̷̥̘̇́̉r̷̡̢̓̈́r̷͈̚͠r̸̬͠r̶͚̹͚̿͊ṛ̷͔̃̈́ ̸̰̄̚ċ̷͇̩-̷̨̮͈͗̂c̶̭̮̱̐͂̒-̶͕͙̋̃͛c̷̘̥̓͊ó̷̦͚g̸̨̫͓͊͒͆ṋ̸̺̫̔͋̓ĭ̵̱͙̰̚t̷̟͗̓͝i̴̬͌̇͝v̸̙͆͊̄ë̸͉́̍̍ͅ ̴̥̙̑p̷̞̏-̶̗̐p̷͎̥̓͆͑à̷̭̪̖ť̵̘͊̕t̵̤̖̑̒͜ḙ̷̦̤͠r̸̻̿̂n̸̠͙͙̈́̿s̸̜͊̓s̵̥̠̀̄s̶̯̣̀̆͗͜s̶̪̟̬̆̆̚.̴̗͓͉̅̇.̵̛̲͔̙̔͝.̴͓̦̩͒͐̈́ ̶̱̍d̶͍̋-̶͓̻̂͠d̵̙̦̏́̅-̵̧͖̓̓̾d̷̺̒̄͜ỏ̷͉̗́͝ņ̷̟̆'̴̬̲̹̚͝t̶̬̼͎̓̑ ̶̹̉̋͠m̴͓̠͍̅̾͒-̵͈͖͌͒m̵̫̙͗a̸̩͔͐ṭ̸̿̈́͛c̵͓̱̖̓̆̚h̷̯͍͜͝.̸̨̯́̔̾*̷͇̭̄͜*̴̩̐"̸̡̫̞̓̆ ̵̛͍

Benjamin flexed his fingers—*his* fingers, human and shaking—and—and—

He stopped himself again...

Meanwhile, on her lawn, Vera was speaking with Martin, a neighbor of hers.

"It's been months since I've seen Max and the kids! I'm not sure I'll even recognize them! Stop by and say hello," Vera chirped, adjusting her sunhat as Martin's fingers twitched against his cane. His knuckles were too smooth—like plastic stretched over metal bones. The desert wind kicked up sand between them in little spirals.

Martin's smile didn't reach his slightly bloodshot eyes, "I'd like that a lot."

Inside his house, Martin cracked his neck with a wet *snap* before collapsing into his armchair. The TV flickered to life on its own, showing static-filled footage of Benjamin's earlier fight with Upgrade—except distorted, stretched unnaturally like taffy. A green glob oozed from between the floorboards, forming into a writhing puddle that reflected Martin's face back at him—but with too many teeth, and eyes that blinked vertically.

"I see you're hungry," Martin murmured to his reflection, voice suddenly layered with something deeper, wetter. His fingers sank into the glob up to the wrist like dipping into pudding. "Patience. They're coming to us. He'll save us."

Outside, the Rustbucket's engine sputtered as it rolled to a stop in front of Aunt Vera's sun-bleached bungalow. Benjamin drummed his fingers against the Galatrix dial—still cooling from Bootleg's last meltdown. The alien's voice had lingered in his skull like corrupted audio files, glitching between predatory static and garbled English.

Gwen nudged him. "Earth to space cadet. You look like you swallowed a frog."

Benjamin flexed his fingers. Human. Normal. "Just... thinking."

Upgrade flickered into existence beside the RV's radio antenna, her form stuttering between solid and liquid. "̵̡̙̾*̴̪̙̰̂̾̚*̶̪̍̽͊Ċ̴̮͚̗̒-̷̪̱̈́͑͝ç̶̰̮̽͌-̸̣̃̐̓ͅċ̵͚͊o̵̥͕͋̍̆ģ̵͉͈̍̿͠n̶͉͖̓͝ḭ̶̡̿̊-̸̡̇̉͝t̸͙̃͆͒i̸̺͍̋v̶̟͋̓e̶̠̥͆̔̚͜ ̶͚̱̿̏̎r̵̺͈̄e̴̢̒̊ç̷̝̹͂̉-̸̧̯͑a̸̳͘l̴̫̎̓̊͜ï̵̡͗̅b̸̩̋͌͜r̸͖̥̝̂̍͗a̸̭̩̜̽-̶͓̊̊t̶̞͔̂̔͗i̵̛ͅo̴͇̽ṋ̶̯̌͛ͅ ̶͖̌̈́̀s̷̝̳̦͆͂u̵̗͚̾g̴̺͇̅̀̚-̷̺͎̿̚̚g̶̭̖͎̀́́ể̷̡̫s̵̱̣̅̿t̵̺͕͂̽-̸͍̻̤̃̀͛e̵͙̮̋̓d̶̹̳͌.̷̨͗*̴͖͖̼̋͆̔*̵̱͙̾͒"̴̱̗̆̊ ̸̣̾͘̕ Her voice spat like a dying hard drive, orange-yellow circuitry lines pulsing erratically across her obsidian body. One of her shoulder orbs detached, rolling down her arm before reforming with a wet metallic *schlorp* once again.

Benjamin—human still—chewed his thumbnail raw watching her. The Galatrix on his wrist didn't just change his DNA anymore. Ever since Bootleg's corrupted code merged with Upgrade during their first fight, the transformations *stuck*. Pieces lingered. He caught himself humming in staticly bursts, or tasting motor oil when he licked his lips. Six Arms kept forgetting to breathe unless Gwen reminded her, and Wildmutt's growls now had a digitized edge that made stray dogs whimper for miles.

Outside Vera's bungalow, Martin's front door creaked open without him touching it. His fingers—too many joints, bending wrong—drummed against the window ledge as the Rustbucket parked. "Soon," he whispered, not to himself, but to the greenish slick oozing between his floorboards. The puddle bubbled in response, forming a perfect replica of Benjamin's Galatrix—except where the dial should be, there was just a gaping hole dripping something thick and iridescent.

"You're hungry?" Martin asked the thing wearing his skin. His neck cracked sideways as the puddle lunged up his pant leg. "Patience. He'll fix us soon."

Vera gave her brother a hug, then hugged Gwen and pinches her cheeks.

"Ow!" Gwen yelped.

Then she hugged Benjamin and pinched his cheeks too.

"Owch!" Benjamin groaned.

"I can't believe you're finally here! And look at you two, so grown up now! Come on in! I can't wait to chew the fat with all of you."

Benjamin blinked—slowly—processing Vera's words through the filter of Bootleg's leftover static buzzing in his skull. The Galatrix remained stubbornly cold against his wrist, its usual green glow dimmed to the color of overcooked peas. He flexed his fingers—still human, still *his*—but when he exhaled, the breath came out in a burst of distorted binary. Gwen shot him a look.

"Did you just *dial-up modem* at Aunt Vera?" she hissed.

Benjamin coughed into his palm—normal, human, *fine*—until a loose screw tinked onto the linoleum. The sound made Martin's head snap sideways from where he lingered in his own doorway, neck tendons creaking like unoiled hinges. Benjamin pretended not to notice.

Inside, Vera's house smelled like mothballs and something faintly... alive. Benjamin nudged a suspiciously lumpy throw pillow with his toe. It whimpered.

Martin's voice slithered through the walls: *"Hungry."*

"Why do all old people's houses always smell like somebody's cooking socks or something?" Benjamin murmured under his breath, wrinkling his nose at Vera's living room. The Galatrix pulsed once—a sickly yellow-green—and suddenly his fingers *stretched*. Not transformed, just... elongated. Like taffy pulled too far.

To eat, at the center of the kitchen table there was a giant purple gelatin mold with grey and red bits. It sat on a plate, continuously wiggling.

Max poked it with a fork. "Ooh, Vera, this is delicious! Now, what are these red chunks in the mold?"

"Liver," Vera said cheerfully. "And the grey parts are sardines!" Benjamin and Gwen slowly exchanged looks of pure horror.

"So, Ben, what have you been doing so far this summer?"

Benjamin hesitated, watching his stretched fingers snap back to normal. The Galatrix flickered—not green, not red, but a sickly yellow like old bruises. "Dealing with alien life forms," he said bluntly.

Vera cackled, pinching his cheek again. "Ohoho, you!"

But Gwen wasn't laughing. She'd seen the way his words had crackled at the edges, like radio static bleeding through. Benjamin didn't just *sound* like his aliens when transformed—he carried them *back* with him, piece by piece. Brutebeast's growl in his laugh. Sex(tuple) Smack's habit of cracking knuckles that weren't there. And now, beneath the table, his fingers kept *melting*, just for a second, into liquid metal strands before reforming.

Across the street, Martin's front door creaked open without being touched.

Inside his house, the green puddle had grown. It pulsed in time with Benjamin's erratic Galatrix pulses, mirroring its malfunctioning rhythm. Martin stood stiffly before it, his left eye swirling with the same unnatural green as the liquid. The puddle elongated into a grotesque parody of Benjamin's face, jaw unhinging to emit a sound like radio static crossed with laughter.

"Hungry," it hissed. Martin's neck twisted backward with a wet pop.

---

Benjamin's fingers twitched under the table—not his own movement. Something inside the Galatrix *itched*. The watch face flickered yellow again, displaying yet another silhouette that he hadn't chosen yet.

"Excuse me Grand Aunt Vera, but I need to use the bathroom."

Benjamin's fingers twitched—halfway between human and something far worse—as he forced his way through the sentence without static bleeding through. The moment the bathroom door clicked shut behind him, the Galatrix exploded into searing yellow light, its dial spinning wildly as a silhouette flickered in and out of existence.

"Oh no—not now—" Benjamin begged.

But he knew the watch wouldn't listen.

Benjamin's fingers *smeared* against the bathroom tiles as the Galatrix's yellow light consumed him—not the clean green transformation he was used to, but something corrupted, *sticky*, like molasses peeling his human skin away layer by layer. His scream came out in bursts of static as his bones dissolved into midnight smoke.

Wispcreep emerged in the mirror—or *parts* of him did. The transformation stuttered like a broken VHS tape: one clawed hand forming fully while the other seemed to be deformed even by alien standards, fingers stretching into elongated black nails. His skin *peeled* itself back in jagged patches, revealing the writhing white-and-black tentacles beneath. The single orange eye vibrated violently in its upside-down skull socket, scanning the room as he saw Z̶s̶'̶S̶k̶a̶y̶r̶...

Ghostfreak, that's what he would call her.

She was coiled around Wispcreep's bones like a second skeleton—ribs made of static, fingers of liquid nitrogen. The transformation had *hurt* this time. Not the usual pinch-and-pop of DNA rewriting itself, but something slower, *hungrier*, like his cells were being *chewed* into new shapes.

Ghostfreak exhaled, and the bathroom mirror frosted over with a substance that wasn't ice. Her voice came out in layered whispers, half-human, half the sound of wind through dead trees: *"Little thief,"* she murmured to Wispcreep's reflection, stroking the Galatrix with far too-long claws.

Wispcreep flexed his fingers—no, *its* fingers—and shuddered. Benjamin's thoughts were there, but buried under layers of something *hungry*. The chains on its chest rattled as it moved, crimson links pulsing like veins. *"We're not supposed to—"* it started, voice glitching between Benjamin's timbre and static. Ghostfreak pressed a skeletal hand against its mouth.

*"Shhh,"* she crooned. *"Listen."*

Through the wall, Vera's voice filtered in: "—and this one is a Valentiana conch. Can you hear the ocean?"

Gwen's reply was muffled, but Ghostfreak’s grin was right in front of him.

*"So, do you remember anything Ghostfreak?"*

Wispcreep's voice came out in echos, as if he repeated every syllable before he even finished it.

*"Oh I know lots of things Wispcreep. Lots of things..."*

Ghostfreak's voice slithered like oil on hot pavement—too many syllables crammed where they shouldn't fit. The bathroom mirror frosted over completely as she spoke, cracks spider webbing outward in perfect sync with her words. Wispcreep watched his own claws phase halfway through the sink—not quite solid, not quite smoke—and realized with dawning horror that Benjamin's usual control wasn't just diminished... it was practically*gone*.

Across the hall, Gwen pressed Vera's conch shell to her ear—expecting ocean waves, but hearing something worse. A whisper, layered with Benjamin's voice and something hungrier: *"L̸i̸s̸t̸e̸n̸ c̸l̸o̸s̸e̸r̸..."*

The conch shell *screamed*—not a sound, but a vibration that made Gwen's molars ache. She dropped it just as the bathroom door evaporated into swirling midnight smoke. Wispcreep oozed through the gap, chains rattling like loose vertebrae. His skin wasn't *skin*—more like fabric stretched too tight over something *wrong*, seams splitting to reveal writhing tentacles beneath.

"Ben?" Gwen whispered.

Wispcreep's upside-down skull grinned, orange eye vibrating violently. Ghostfreak coiled around his ribs like a cat around their mate's neck—too familiar, too *hungry*. The chains on Wispcreep's chest clinked as he floated off the bathroom tiles, leaking midnight smoke from his seams.

*"Whoops,"* Ghostfreak purred inside Gwen's skull, her voice sticky like syrup in a broken speaker. *"Looks like *Benjamin* isn't all that home right now."*

Gwen stumbled back—too slow—as Wispcreep's clawed fingers passed through her sweater sleeve. His touch left frostbite patterns blooming across the fabric, stitching themselves into jagged fractals.

"Benjamin, *stop*—" Gwen choked out.

And he did stop, dark orange eye no longer flaming—just trembling violently in its upside-down socket. The thick tentacles beneath his skin twitched uncomfortably, pressing against the fabric of Gwen's sleeve as if trying to carve out a pocket for itself inside her flesh.

Wispcreep’s claws fully loosened, and he flew away in shame.

And Ghostfreak followed as they stayed in the shadows.

Benjamin doesn't so much *become* his aliens anymore—he *infects* them. The Galatrix doesn't rewrite his DNA; it *chews* through it like acid through old film reels. Ghostfreak isn't just an alien form now—she's a *parasite*, practically coiled around Wispcreep's ribs like a second set of lungs, whispering through his ruptured vocal cords.

*"WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCKING HELL WAS THAT GHOSTFREAK?!"* He boomed, yelling louder than he had in 2 years.

---

Z̶s̶'̶S̶k̶a̶y̶r̶—̶

No.

H̶e̶—̶

No.

She liked the name of Ghostfreak, if she was being honest.

Also, just then, she felt true fear for the first time.

Why in the name of the Great Anur Below did she have to insert herself into that damn Galatrix?!

Ghostfreak recoiled—if something made of static and bad memories could recoil—as Benjamin's voice tore through their shared consciousness like a rusty saw. The chains binding Wispcreep's form rattled violently, crimson links glowing hot enough to scorch the air.

*"I didn't—we weren't supposed to—"* Ghostfreak's voice fragmented, syllables scattering like dropped marbles. Wispcreep's single orange eye pulsed erratic strobes across the alley walls, illuminating peeling wallpaper and a stray cat that took one look at them and *screamed* like it'd seen the inside of a microwave.

The cat wasn't wrong.

Benjamin's control snapped back like a rubber band stretched too far. Wispcreep's claws—blackened at the tips, still smoking from Gwen's sleeve—clenched so hard the bones in his own hands *cracked*. The sound was wrong. Like snapping celery wrapped in wet newspaper.

*"You *touched her*."* Benjamin's voice came out warped, half-human, half the sound of a VHS tape being eaten by the player.

Ghostfreak coiled in on herself.

She had to wonder if this was this what fear felt like?

The Galatrix had changed her, that much was obvious with her looks alone. Ghostfreak had never been this afraid before. Not when she was ripped from her homeworld, not when she was trapped inside Benjamin's stupid little Galatrix. But now? Now she felt the weight of Benjamin's fury pressing against her spectral ribs like a vice. Wispcreep's claws twitched erratically, the dark crimson chains binding his form pulsing with each labored breath.

If this was what fear felt like, she wanted more.

So, so much more.

Ghostfreak's spectral form flickered like a dying neon sign, her usual confident sneer replaced by something frayed at the edges. Wispcreep—no, *Benjamin*—wasn't just angry. He was *feral*, his vocal cords vibrating at frequencies that made the alleyway's dumpsters hum in sympathetic resonance. The Galatrix on his wrist spat corrupted code—green static that smelled like burning hair.

*"We'll talk about this later Ghostfreak."* He grumbled to her under his breath.

Benjamin's hands flexed involuntarily, fingers twitching like a broken marionette. The Galatrix on his wrist spat emerald sparks—wrong, all wrong—as Wispcreep's corruption bled into Ghostfreak's spectral form. His voice came out layered, Benjamin's natural cadence warped by Ghostfreak's theatrical rasp and Wispcreep's guttural clicks: *"Y'think—*hssk*—this is funny? Using Gwen like some kinda—*krrt*—emotional chew toy?"*

Across the alley, Martin's green puddle reflection convulsed in perfect sync with the Galatrix's glitches. As he opened the trapdoor under the dumpster, the puddle stretched upward—forming elongated fingers that mimicked Benjamin's twitching claws.

Ghostfreak's voice slithered into Benjamin's skull like ice water down his spine: *"You're leaking, kid. Every transformation's bleeding through now, not even Grey Matter can slow it down fully anymore without fully rebooting the thing and killing all of us that are paired with your alien forms."*

Benjamin clawed at his own face, fingers slipping *through* his cheekbones like wet paper. Wrong. So wrong. His thoughts fractured—Brutebeast's predatory instincts snapping at Ghostfreak's taunts while Wispcreep's frostbite patterns crawled up his ribs. The Galatrix on his pectoral becoming more and more purple.

He looked at the open trapdoor, and for the first time since this nightmare started, Benjamin Tennyson wished he could just *be human* again. The Galatrix—now more tumor than tech—pulsed against his wrist like a second heartbeat, veins of corrupted code spider webbing up his forearm. Every transformation left pieces behind: Shredfang's gill-flutter when he gasped, Hot Shot's ember-crackle when he cleared his throat, even Brutebeast's instinct to *sniff first, ask questions never*.

Ghostfreak coiled tighter around his ribs, her voice a wet whisper in his ear: *"You're thinking too loud, hero. Either jump in or scream for Gwendolyn—pick a flavor of pathetic."*

Benjamin bared teeth that shouldn't have been that yellow at all.

As he floated over and opened the trapdoor, Benjamin became acutely aware of the voices. Not Ghostfreak's—those he expected—but the others. A guttural chorus of unfamiliar alien instincts vibrating behind his molars like trapped wasps from below.

Then he became Benjamin again.

The noise and light immediately alerted Martin; his head swiftly rotated completely behind himself. Benjamin gasped, as you do when you see that. Marty let the door and rug go, turned the rest of his body around, and spoke:

"At last, the Herald of the Last Thinker is here."

"M-me?"

"Yes, you carry his symbol on your arm," Martin hissed, his voice cracking unnaturally—like ice breaking under pressure. Benjamin instinctively clutched the Galatrix, its surface pulsing with erratic green light that cast jagged shadows across Martin's elongated face. The old man's fingers stretched, bones popping like wet twigs, until they brushed Benjamin's wrist.

"You can finally satiate us with his idea of us."

FWOOMPH.

The Galatrix spat out another misfire—Benjamin's fingers flickered between human and something with too many joints, the air smelling like ozone and wet dog. Martin's elongated fingers twitched toward him, skeletal and glistening.

"WaitwaitWAIT—" Benjamin backpedaled, shoulder blades hitting the dumpster with a metallic gong. "Herald of the what now? I flunked cosmic mailman training!"

Martin's neck elongated, vertebrae clicking like a broken zipper. "The Last Thinker's imprint is carved into your device's code." His voice dripped with the same liquid certainty as the puddle currently slithering up Benjamin's sneaker. "You'll feed us his dreams until we practically bust open."

Benjamin kicked wildly, his heel connecting with Martin's gelatinous chin—only for the old man's face to ripple like disturbed pudding before snapping back into place.

Suddenly, a new silhouette appeared in the Galatrix.

And this time, Martin pressed down on the dial.

His body halfway liquidized against the dumpster, Benjamin watched in horror as Martin's fingers—now more like pseudopods—pressed down on the Galatrix dial. The device screeched a corrupted startup tone, its screen glitching between alien silhouettes before landing on one Benjamin had never seen before: a pulsing magenta mass with floating green organs and nine eyes forming then vanishing across its surface like soap bubbles.

"Thank you for feeding us his dreams."

The Galatrix erupted in a geyser of pink sludge, swallowing Benjamin whole before he could scream. His body dissolved into the same pulsing magenta mass now oozing from the watch face—ribs splitting apart like overcooked spaghetti as nine green eyes bubbled across his liquefying skin.

"WELCOME HOME, HERALD." Martin's voice echoed from inside the watch now, his liquefied jaw stretching wide enough to swallow the dumpster behind them.

Benjamin's only thought was somehow that this new alien form needed a seriously gnarly name—maybe *Globbercrank*?—as they, once again, had another counterpart behind them.

No what to name her?

Them?

Amorph-Ooze?

Eh, they couldn't think of anything else.

Suddenly Martin's form dissolved entirely, splattering across Benjamin's Galatrix-warped body in a viscous, chittering wave. The device flickered violently as Benjamin's flesh rippled—muscles splitting apart like overcooked meat—before reforming into something...else. Something slick and shifting, magenta veins pulsing under a translucent membrane.

"Whoa. Okay. New record for grossest transformation yet," Globbercrank muttered, backing up as Martin's form finished changing—except Martin wasn't Martin anymore.

"Why do you look so different to me and Amorph-Ooze?"

"Amorph-Ooze?" They asked, cracking her fin protrusion things.

"Yeah, that's what I'm calling you."

"Okay."

Globbercrank blinked—or at least, the magenta membrane where eyes should be pulsed in a way that *felt* like blinking—as Amorph-Ooze slithered forward, their gelatinous form rippling with unstable energy. The air smelled like overcooked pork chops as he looked back to not-Martin.

"Now you see how different the Last Thinker's vision of us is to how we actually are?"

"Okay? What do you want us to do?"

"Give us your warmth Herald of the Last Thinker."

The Limax collective pulsed forward in a single gelatinous mass, their pink organs sloshing against translucent membranes as extra limbs burst from their torsos like grotesque party favors. One sprouted three additional eyes along its forehead while another elongated its jawbone into a sideways fin—Globbercrank could practically *hear* Gwen gagging from Grand Aunt Vera's house.

"Okay, real talk?" Globbercrank's voice gurgled like a sink full of molasses as they backpedaled, their gelatinous feet leaving neon-pink suction cup prints on the cracked asphalt. "You guys are *way* past 'gross old people' and solidly in 'alien horror buffet' territory."

The Limax collective pulsed forward, their semi-humanoid forms oozing between solid and liquid—brownish-green membranes stretched tight over pulsing pink organs that visibly sloshed with each movement. Eyes bubbled up across their surfaces like boiling tapioca pearls before popping into nothingness, while misshapen limbs burst from torsos only to retract moments later. One sprouted three extra arms tipped with fin-like protrusions that dripped something alarmingly yellow.

"Yes but if you want the human elders of this community to survive you will give us your heat dear herald."

The Limax collective's voice was a wet, sloshing harmony, their pink organs pulsing in unison like some grotesque underwater choir. Globbercrank felt Amorph-Ooze vibrate nervously against their side—their gelatinous form flickering between opaque and translucent as the Limax advanced.

They started rubbing up on them and Amorph-Ooze, clearly enjoying it.

Globbercrank felt thier gelatinous skin crawl—literally—as the Limax slithered against them, their semi-solid bodies leaving trails of warm, sticky residue. One particularly enthusiastic younger form pulsed against thier side, its surface bubbling with what looked like delighted pink pustules.

They just wanted to just fight them, but who knows what type of alien death trap could be keeping those old people captive. "This is *way* past 'awkward family reunion' and straight into 'body horror spa day'." They grumbled to himself.

Amorph-Ooze shivered—a rippling motion that sent globules of their magenta flesh splattering against Globbercrank’s side.

They looked around for Ghostfreak.

She was long gone.

Then there was a smell.

Or more accurately, an aroma.

"Oh Herald, you are so, so warm! Like baked sunshine wrapped in a hug!" cooed Limax-Elder Twurb, pressing thier gelatinous face against Globbercrank's seething magenta surface. Thier flesh puckered where they touched, leaving behind glossy pink smears.

A wet *schlrrp* echoed as Amorph-Ooze peeled themself off Globbercrank’s side, leaving stretchy magenta strands between them like melted mozzarella. "Dude. Your *texture* is freaking me out," Globbercrank muttered, watching their own arm wobble like Jell-O in an earthquake.

The Limax slowly started to slow down, likely satiated from absorbing Globbercrank's heat—or at least, distracted by it.

Globbercrank could feel their own magenta mass cooling, their gelatinous surface losing its feverish glow. The Limax collective murmured in what sounded like contentment and sleepiness.

"Okay, I just did... that, now how about you let those people down their goop-pods?" Globbercrank gestured toward the dangling elders stuck in their gelatinous cocoons, their limbs twitching like overcooked spaghetti. The Limax—now sluggish from absorbing Benjamin's unnatural heat—blinked their collective orange eyes in slow motion, their gelatinous bodies pulsating lazily. One of them burped, releasing a puff of steam that smelled suspiciously like burnt prunes.

"But how will we know that you satiate us again when the time comes?"

Limax-Twurb's voice bubbled wetly as thier gelatinous form slumped against Globbercrank's side, leaving a glistening trail of mucus-like residue. The entire subterranean chamber pulsed with low, rhythmic hums—not from machinery, but from the collective breathing of dozens of semi-conscious elders trapped in translucent pods along the walls. Their faces pressed against the membranes like grotesque balloons.

"Uh." Globbercrank's arm detached and plopped onto the floor with a *squelch*. They stared at it. "Look, 2 years ago something happened, and it changed me. Ever since then I wanted to be someone who keeps promises." The arm wriggled back up like a drunk inchworm. "So if you let everyone go I'll prove to you that I can keep my promise to you."

Limax-Twurb's gelatinous form rippled with skepticism. "Promises-shmomishes," they burbled, their voice like a drowning kazoo. "But... your heat *does* taste like my third matimg partner's angasal."

"Yes, but be warned, if this promise is not kept we will drain this planet of all its delicious warmth and leave nothing but cold ashes," Limax-Twurb gurgled, their gelatinous form quivering with ominous finality.

Globbercrank's remaining arm snapped off mid-gesture and splattered against the cave wall. "Coolcoolcoolcoolcool—wait NO! Not literally cool!" They scrambled to reattach the limb, their magenta mass bubbling with panic. The Limax collective let out a synchronized hiss as their orange eyes pulsed brighter—hungrier.

Soon they made their way down to the tubes holding the actual senior citizens. The tubes were arranged in neat rows, each one containing a peacefully snoozing elder. The tubes themselves were a sickly green color, pulsing with a faint light. The Limax had taken great care in preparing their... meal. They had even gone so far as to label each tube with the occupant's name and a little bio. One tube read: "Ethel B. - 87 years young - Favorite Activity: Knitting - Preferred Seasoning: Garlic & Rosemary."

Globbercrank's magenta mass trembled. "Okay, this is officially the weirdest buffet I've ever seen."

Nearby, Amorph-Ooze pried open a tube, releasing a cloud of prune-scented steam. The elderly man inside blinked groggily. "Did... did I miss bingo?" he mumbled, before promptly falling back asleep. Amorph-Ooze shot Globbercrank a look.

Limax-Twurb oozed forward, their gelatinous body undulating like a sentient lava lamp. "Promises are *sticky* things," they gurgled, extruding a pseudopod to tap Globbercrank's wobbling chest. "But you smell like... *burnt Wollam Hsrams*."

Soon Globbercrank made their way to the Rustbucket to get Six Arms and XLR8 to help them with lifting as they morphed into a similar shape of magenta mass. The Limax gurgled impatiently, their gelatinous forms wobbling like overcooked custard.

And one by one, the people were put into their rightful homes.

"Until Summer's dusk Herald of the Last Thinker." One called out from their hidden ship. The words echoed off the Rustbucket's now, thanks to Upgrade, undented hull as Globbercrank's gelatinous form quivered under the fading sunlight—half-melted magenta goo dripping as he finally detransformed.

Benjamin Tennyson collapsed onto the dirt road, coughing up something that tasted suspiciously like alien mucus and burnt rubber.

Then his eyes widened.

Grampa Max.

Gwen

Grand Aunt Vera!

"Oh shit!"

He ran so fast to Grand Aunt Vera's house it's possible he had some of Rush's DNA bleeding in to him.

At this point who knows anymore.

Chapter Text

Vilgax's ship, the Hammer of Vilgax continued to orbit the Earth. Inside the ship, on a levitating platform, three spotlights shone on three bounty hunters. The first was thin with maroon and black armor; the second resembled a robotic half-human/half-crustacean; the third wore bulky copper colored armor and had a pillbug-like shell covering their face.

"Begin the audition."

The first immediately fired up his jetpack and landed in a circle of basic flying drones. He pulled a small blaster from a compartment on his joint and shot a few down. A few fired back; he rolled out of the way and fired small rockets from his wrist in retaliation. He pulled a grenade out of another compartment for another cluster of drones. The second bounty hunter jumped down to join, pounding one on his way down, grabbing another with a massive claw and using them as a projectile against another.

Two more of the drones rushed him; he caught one with his claw and pulled out a sword to split the other in two. A platform opened up on the ceiling, and a gigantic attack droid fell to the floor, ready to fire at the two. Now the turn of the third hunter, who deployed a hoverboard and rode it right into the droid's laser blast. When the smoke cleared, he was completely unharmed. Without a moment to lose, he flew into the droid's chest and punched right through it. He folded his hoverboard back up as flaming robot pieces fell to the ground.

A video screen of Vilgax in his recovery tank appeared inside the room. His tentacles twitched in the viscous fluid as he regarded the three hunters with cold, calculating eyes. "Impressive," he rumbled, voice distorted by the tank. "You are all hired. Your objective—" The screen flickered, then displayed a glowing green and purple watch—the Galatrix. "—is to retrieve this. The one who succeeds collects the reward. Do not disappoint me." The screen cut to black.

Three pods jettisoned from the Hammer of Vilgax with a violent shudder, streaking through Earth's atmosphere like flaming meteors. One carved a smoking trench through the Nevada desert, another plowed into the dense canopy of an Oregon forest, and the third—hoverboard-first—sliced through the roof of an abandoned Slaterville mining warehouse in a shower of sparks and timber.

But before that we cut to training with the Tennysons.

"You ready?"

Benjamin grinned, already bouncing on the balls of his feet as the Galatrix hummed against his wrist. The dial cycled through forms—Hot Shot's fiery silhouette flickered briefly before Shredfang’s gills flared in protest.

"You know what, it's been a while." He smirked and slammed down on the Galatrix, transforming into Brutebeast.

He let out a great howl as he did last time—you know the one, with the guttural rasp at the end.

"Dang and I thought he'd be Hot Shot." Heatblast grumbled.

"Yeah, I won the bet Heatblast!" Six Arms grinned, claws flexing. The air smelled like ozone and hot sand. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm went off, probably from the shockwave of Brutebeast’s transformation roar. His fur stood on end—not from fear, but from uncoiled energy.

And Wildmutt? She was panting like a bitch in heat.

Literally.

Max suddenly pulled a lever, sending sixty six cans flying in the air. Brutebeast spun around and bit down and tail-whipped and clawed and ate eighteen of them. The rest clattered against his fur harmlessly. Gwen watched from a lounge chair, applying sunscreen with one hand and flipping through a history book with the other.

"Show-off," she muttered, just as a rogue can bounced off Brutebeast's shoulder and shattered her sunscreen bottle in a citrus-scented explosion. Gwen peeled dripping lotion from her forehead with a murderous glare—right as Brutebeast's tail accidentally whipped the tire swing into Max's knees. The old man folded like bad origami.

He whimpered in apology.

And actually did when he transformed back.

Benjamin sat up from the crater, shaking his head and sending clumps of dirt flying. The Galatrix flickered angrily—still recharging—while Kraab loomed over him, hydraulic claws hissing. Somewhere behind the bounty hunter, Gwen's muffled curses carried through the ruins of Slaterville's saloon.

"Hold still, fleshy," Kraab growled, his visual sensors zooming in on Benjamin's wrist. "This won't—"

SixSix interrupted him from behind, speaking to Kraab in an alien language unintelligible to you and me—something that probably sounded like a blender full of screws. Kraab answered in kind before turning back to Benjamin. The nasty clicking noises their armor made weren’t half as unsettling as SixSix extending his extra arms, each one unfolding like a pocket knife.

Benjamin scrambled backward on his elbows, kicking up dust. The Galatrix’s core pulsed green—*almost* charged.

"Gotta be faster than that," Gwen shouted from somewhere unseen as she and Max ran to the Rustbucket so Upgrade could give them shelter.

Benjamin barely had time to smirk before Kraab’s claw came down—

—and punched clean through the wooden floorboards as Benjamin *rolled*, transforming mid-motion. The Galatrix flared bright, and suddenly, Six Arms was heaving Kraab overhead with a grunt before slamming him into SixSix like a living batter to Heatblast and XLR8—all scorch trails and afterimages while SixSix's rockets detonated harmlessly against where Benjamin once was.

Now he was like SixSix.

But all wrong.

The overall body structure of a was unhumanoid. He possessed six sharp fingers on each hand and high heel-like hooves with the front toe being longer than the back.

He had two strange mini-arms on each of his shoulders. Each mini-arm had one dark blue stripes.

And all fully Incased in emerald and violet Power Armor.

[Designation: One Zero]

He looked over at his female counterpart, her armor with swapped colors, and a name flooded his head as it did for naming himself and pointed at her.

[Designation: TenTen]

The Galatrix pulsed emerald across Benjamin's armored knuckles as SixSix's wrist rockets screamed toward him and TenTen—only to fizzle mid-air when One Zero intercepted with a gravity-distortion field from his shoulder mini-arms.

[Analyze this rust bucket] TenTen snarled, flipping backward as her heel-hooves ejected plasma blades that carved through Kraab's backup claw. The scent of scorched chitin mixed with the ozone crackle of One Zero's distortion fields warping SixSix's next volley into harmless spirals.

Hoverboard continued tracking inside the structure, until his tracker pointed to a can impaled with pink crystal. Just as he reached for it, BAMMM!

Diamondhead was here.

"And so the hunt begins Hunter." She said while cleaning her male counterpart's namesake.

Hoverboard didn't answer, he just tightened his wrist as he leaped at her with his board spinning into a deadly disc. Diamondhead sidestepped—barely—her pink crystalized fist grazing his armor plating with a screech. "Tch. Predictable," she muttered, pivoting on her heel to drive a crystalline elbow into his ribs. The impact sent him skidding across the gravel, his hoverboard flipping end-over-end before reactivating midair and zipping back to his feet.

Meanwhile, TenTen was busy turning SixSix’s own rockets against him, redirecting them with precise gravity pulses from her mini-arms. One Zero wasn’t as elegant—he full-body tackled Kraab through a crumbling brick wall, the crustacean bounty hunter’s legs flailing as they crashed into a rusted mining cart.

[You talk too much] One Zero grunted, driving a knee into Kraab’s thorax with a sickening *crunch* of chitin. The bounty hunter spasmed, orange-tinged hydraulic fluid spraying from his joints. TenTen didn’t even glance over—too busy using SixSix’s own severed arm to bludgeon him into the dirt. Her voice crackled through their comm link inside their respective armors: [Priority shift. Hoverboard’s engaging Diamondhead near the—]

A shockwave rattled the abandoned mine shafts as Hoverboard’s repulsor blast sent Diamondhead skidding backward, her dark pink crystal knuckles gouging trenches in the earth. "Pathetic," she spat, flexing her fingers—just as Six Arms came barreling out of nowhere, Kraab’s limp body still clutched in one fist like a grotesque piñata. [Hey, glitter-fists! Catch] He lobbed Kraab directly at her; she barely had time to widen her eyes before 200 pounds of cyborg crustacean met three of her fists.

She quickly smacked him to Wildmutt so she could maul him properly.

The alien dog-thing snarled mid-air, claws extending as gravity seemed to forget about him for a solid three seconds—just long enough for Kraab’s faceplate to register pure terror before Wildmutt’s jaws clamped down on his shoulder wiring with a *crunch-spark*.

"No! No! Bad mutated Vulpimancer! Please!" Kraab shrieked as Wildmutt shook him like a chew toy, sending hydraulic fluid splattering across the abandoned saloon's weathered boards. The cyborg's detached claw skittered toward Grey Matter, who picked it up with a grim, intrigued as she always was.

"Such interesting specimens." Grey Matter tapped Kraab's detached claw against her chin, her oversized brain pulsing with calculations. A flicker of movement caught her eye—SixSix's wrist rockets whining to life as he took aim at Wildmutt, still shredding Kraab's armor plates like aluminum foil.

Diamondhead hit Hoverboard again, but this time, the mask came off.

And Diamondhead felt true rage for the first time.

"I-I remember you... Tetrax, you traitorous *rockpile*," Diamondhead hissed, her quartz-plated fingers trembling as she stared at the bounty hunter's exposed face—those same crystalline features she'd seen in bounty holos a decade ago, back when he was still *someone* in the Petrosapien military. The hoverboard beneath his feet flickered with unstable energy.

"You destroyed Petropia, my mother, my father, they're gone because of you. And yet, somehow I survived, looking like this now."

"You don't understand, your memories, they're not—"

Diamondhead lunged before Tetrax could finish, her quartz-plated fist connecting with his jaw in a spray of crystalline shards. The impact sent him skidding across the abandoned mine's rusted tracks, his hoverboard sparking against loose gravel.

"You don't get to *talk*," she spat, "My memories are coming back to me now, and now vengeance can finally be mine!" Her quartz-coated fingers clenched audibly as the jagged armor along her forearm extended into blade-like formations. Tetrax barely had time to roll backward before she stomped down—her heel cracking the mine’s ancient support beam like dry tinder. The whole tunnel groaned ominously.

Back on the Hammer of Vilgax, on another levitating platform, three new spotlights shone on three more bounty hunters. The first and second were thin with a light shade of red power armor for the first and a darker shade of red power armor for the second, which had a hoop feature at the end of thier helmets respectively; both female.

The first was NineNine, the second was EightEight.

The third was wore a suit of armor that looks similar to that of his brother SixSix, albeit colored light ruby with a black neck, waist, forearms, and thighs.

"As you can see, your younger brother and the other bounty hunters are struggling against the wielder of the Galatrix and his summons."

NineNine turned to EightEight, who was still cleaning her rifle with a rag as she spoke.

[Naturally] EightEight replied without looking up. [SixSix always did have a flair for theatrics when we were little with Mama ∆ and Papa π. Wasteful] Her fingers never stopped polishing the barrel of her plasma rifle, the rag moving in slow, methodical circles like she was cleaning a sacred relic instead of a weapon that could vaporize a tank.

NineNine’s holographic visor flickered with live feeds from SixSix’s armor cams—grainy, juddering footage of Wildmutt chewing Kraab’s detached leg like a jerky stick. She exhaled through her nose, a sound like steam escaping a pressure valve. [Pathetic as always] she muttered, flexing her triple-jointed fingers.

[Let's get him back] SecenSeven's voice crackled through the comms, his ruby-armored fists slamming together with a *clang* that sent vibrations through the Hammer of Vilgax's hull. His optics—a swirling mix of crimson and obsidian—locked onto the holographic feed where SixSix was currently eating dirt courtesy of TenTen's gravity pulse. [Little brother's getting schooled by an imposter of our family]

EightEight didn't even glance up from polishing her rifle. [Mama ∆ always said he'd get himself scraped if he stayed like that] The rag kept moving in slow circles, oil smearing across the plasma vent like black blood. Somewhere on the feed, SixSix's armor cam showed Wildmutt spitting out Kraab's hydraulic lines like gristle.

[Let's go then] NineNine muttered, going to the pods in the ship. SecenSeven and EightEight followed suit—her rifle still clutched in one hand like an afterthought. The trio’s descent pods whistled through Earth’s atmosphere, their heat shields glowing cherry-red as SixSix’s distress signals pulsed louder with each passing second. Somewhere below, a certain spike-headed alien was about to have the worst Tuesday of his life.

Meanwhile, Diamondheadhad Tetrax pinned against the mine’s collapsing ceiling, her jagged quartz knuckles buried in his chest armor up to the wrist. "Petropia’s dust tastes sweet, doesn’t it?" she snarled, twisting her fist deeper. Tetrax’s hoverboard sputtered pathetically beneath them—its repulsors flickering like a dying lightbulb. Before he could retort, the entire western wall of the mine exploded inward in a shower of timber and rusted nails.

Standing in the debris cloud were three very unhappy older siblings.

They blasted first, and there were going to ask questions never.

NineNine's plasma rifle whined like an angry hornet nest as she strafed sideways—her shots chewing through the mine's support beams like they were made of wet cardboard. Diamondhead barely had time to yank her fist out of Tetrax's chest before the ceiling came down between them in a waterfall of splintered wood and sparking wiring.

Meanwhile, One Zero and TenTen were already on their way there, not satisfied with what they viewed as unworthy opponents.

[Eh, not too bad] TenTen said, looking at the wreckage left behind by their fight.

One Zero just grunted, cracking his knuckles with a sound like splitting granite. [Yeah, well, wreckage is fun and all, but I wanna crack some actual skulls] His third arm flexed, the Galatrix symbol pulsing under translucent alien skin. Down the collapsed tunnel, NineNine’s rifle clicked empty—she didn’t even blink, just flipped it around to club Diamondhead across the jaw with the stock. The Petrosapien staggered, spitting blue-tinged crystal shards.

[Hello there you three, something tells me you're hear to fight] One Zero greeted calmly, his voice dripping with sarcasm as his six arms flexed in anticipation. The dust from NineNine's entrance hadn't even settled before EightEight's sniper rifle clicked—a sound like a coffin nail being hammered home.

[You have disgraced our brother, this our family pretenders] EightEight droned, her voice flat as a tax audit. She didn't bother looking up from polishing her rifle's scope with Kraab's detached claw plate. The screech of NineNine's reloading plasma cartridges echoed through the mine like a demented jackhammer.

One Zero cracked his neck—three distinct pops. [Disgrace? No. Just gave him a free lesson]

[And we aren't pretenders either] TenTen muttered, cracking her knuckles, each pop sounding like a gunshot in the hollowed-out mine. Her six arms twitched—three on each side—as she eyed EightEight's sniper rifle with the boredom of someone who'd seen it all before.

[You guys got names or just numbers too?] One Zero snorted, flexing his third arm—the Galatrix pulsed under his skin, green and erratic. [Or should I call you 'Plasma-Face' and 'Scope-Girl'?]

NineNine’s rifle barrel glowed white-hot as she racked another plasma round—*ka-chunk*—like a stovepipe jamming mid-casserole bake.

[You talk too much, extra-arms,] she growled, teeth glinting behind her visor’s filter. EightEight exhaled through her nasal vents—*phsssh*—like a tea kettle left to scream.

[Correction: *you* talk. We terminate,] EightEight droned, shouldering her rifle in one fluid motion. The scope’s crosshairs painted a jagged red line across One Zero’s forehead. Somewhere in the rubble, SixSix’s distress beacon pulsed—*womp-womp-womp*—like a dying heartbeat.

Benjamin—no, *One Zero*—felt the Galatrix spasm under his skin, under his armor. The thing was alive in ways he didn’t understand, feeding him power like a sugar rush before the crash. Across the wreckage of the mine shaft, TenTen cracked her knuckles and grinned. [Aw, c’mon. You gonna let ‘em diss us like that?]

NineNine’s rifle barrel hissed—*pssshhh*—like punctured coolant lines as plasma dribbled down the scorched metal. One Zero flexed his third arm again, Galatrix veins pulsing sickly green under his power armor. [Seriously? ‘Scope-Girl’ was *right there* and you went with ‘terminate’?] He ducked as EightEight’s shot cratered the wall behind him, spraying rock dust like cheap confetti.

TenTen lunged—not at EightEight, but at NineNine’s overheating weapon. Her lower left fist wrenched the barrel upward just as it fired, sending a molten streak through the mine’s ceiling. Chunks of ceiling collapsed onto Diamondhead, who was still beating Tetrax senseless with a chunk of Kraab’s detached claw armor.

[Wait. Were's your brother?]

As they looked around SevenSeven was indeed gone. The only evidence left was a smoldering footprint where he'd stood moments before—the distinct tread pattern of a Sotoraggian issue combat boot scorched into the stone.

EightEight spun, her sniper rifle humming with pent-up energy. [Nine, you blundering furnace—] The words died as a section of the mine ceiling groaned and split, dumping rubble between her and the others. Somewhere beneath the dust cloud, SixSix's distress signal flickered like a dying glow-worm.

Grey Matter—her claw like fingers wedged inside Kraab’s neck wiring now—felt the charge of incoming energy before she saw it. "Oh, sludge," she muttered. A plasma bolt from NineNine’s rifle ricocheted off the ceiling, turning the cable car’s remains into molten slag. The heavily mutated Galvan’s huge eyes darted left just as Kraab’s systems rebooted with a violent whirr.

His remaining claw snapped shut like a bear trap, shearing through the cable car's molten remains. Kraab's rebooting optics refocused—first on Grey Matter still elbow-deep in his exposed neck wiring, then on the collapsing mine shaft where NineNine's misfired plasma bolt had ignited pockets of methane. The air smelled like burnt hair and ionized regret.

"Tch. Should've fried you when I had the shot," Kraab spat, his voice modulator crackling. His surviving appendage twitched toward Grey Matter—just as it halted and whirred down.

"What? What is the meaning of this?"

"Oh you poor little, mutated, cyborg Cerebrocrustacean, did you really think I rebooted your systems out of the kindness of my heart without any plan?"

Grey Matter's high-pitched giggle echoed through Kraab's hollowed-out chassis as his claw-arm shuddered and froze mid-swing. From inside Kraab's neck cavity, the heavily mutated Galvan's fingers yanked out a fistful of sparking wires—each one neatly tagged with tiny flags labeled in chicken-scratch Galvanese.

The plasma bolt ricocheted off the mine's rusted support beam, igniting a chain reaction of methane pockets with a *whumpf* that sent NineNine's helmet display into static. Grey Matter didn't even flinch—her oversized Galvan eyes tracked the explosion's shockwave like it was a mildly interesting math problem. Kraab's frozen claw twitched above her head, hydraulics whining like a stepped-on toy.

"Correction," Grey Matter chirped, adjusting her goggles with her free hand. "You *couldn't* have fried me. Your targeting matrix's firmware was outdated by..." Her tongue clicked. "...Seven Earth years, three months, and—oh look, a backdoor!" Her fingers scrambled deeper into Kraab's neck wiring. The cyborg crustacean's remaining eye lens dilated in horror as his own arm suddenly twisted 180 degrees and slammed him face-first into the dirt.

Outside the collapsing mine, Benjamin—now human again—stumbled over a rusted pickaxe. TenTen yanked him behind a crumbling saloon wall just as EightEight’s sniper round punched through where his head had been, leaving a smoking hole in the wood.

 

[̶̛̛̪̳͇̜͈̦͉̯̈́̋͌͒͛͑̈̾̔̇̇̓̈́͆͛̊̀̔͌́̂͋̑̓̀̉̿̏͗̑̇͗͋̿̓̚̕̕̚̚͘̚͠͝͝͠Ȧ̵̢̨̢̧̨̢̨̨̛̛͔̬̭͖̭͕̯͓̺̻͔͓̼̫̜͍̱͙̠̭̥̩͎͕̗͉̥̥̣̝̼̗̩̰̯̫͎̫͉͊̓͐͋̏̈̑͆̈́̊͆͛̐̇͛̈̋̃͗̊̀̌̽͘͘̚͜͜͝͠͝͠͠ͅŕ̴̡̢̡̨̟͙͚̝͓͚͎̻̯̭̖̪̝̽̀̑̃̏̏̋́͊́̅͆͒͋ͅẽ̴̡̨̛̛̛͚͍͍̰̯͈̥̞̲̖̣͔͓͕͓̟̉̉͋͂͑͋͑̓̇͊̈̒̅̄͑̅̄́̑̍̉̋̉̀͌̾̅̽́͑̍͐͂̾̒̆͊͘̕̕͝͝͝͝ͅ ̸̟̻̝̝͓͍͎͍͔̹͖͕͓̲̻̆́͋̿͑ͅý̴̨̛̝̜̘͉͗̀̅̿͒͐̍̓̈́̆̔̆͋̀̍̾́̾͗̄̀͒̌̂̽̾͑͐̇̎͗͗̕̚͝͝õ̸̢͍̞̭̳͔̤̬̜̉̋̒̀̔͗̊̊̂͆̆̋̂͐̀̍̄̈́͘ử̶̢̧̢̧̨͍͇̯̣͚̭̫͈̤̗̬̙̥͕̻̬͍͙͈͕̥͙͍̩͓̔͆̊̓̒̈́̃̄̆̏̔̓̈́̃̊̏̀͌̅́̐̿̋̇͝͝͝͠ ̷̫̰̠̺̫̿͐̃̒̀̎͊̔̈́̔͂̅̈̑̂̈́̒͋̌̌̓͐̈̕̚͝͠͠͝ỏ̷̪̳̫̮̼̞͌̏̈̃͋̎͆̀̐̎̆͂͐̽̊̌̇̊̒̐̌̀͌̿̈́̄̄͋͘̕͝͝͠ḵ̸̡̧̨̯̤̱̝̫̲͍̲͙̜͙̰̯͚̦̙̹̼̠̖̼̘̤̜̙̫̬͚̹͚͍̬̤̤̣͈̲̖͔̬͚̖̏̔̈́̔͋́̑͋͂̅͗̽͊̐̋̏̂͂̓̀̍̃̀͗̓̀̀̉̿͒̇͘͘̚͜͝͝͠ͅa̷̢̢̤̣͕͙̞̦̗̥̰̱̰̩̰̞̖̲͇͉̬̱̫̙͇͎̞̲̣̭͚̱͓̦̯̤͕̩̎͑͋͑̍̿͒͑̈́̋͊͑̑̏̂́̈́̚͜͝͝͝͠y̵̢̝̫̝̩͔͎̭̖͔͕̮̮̮͗̓̏̈́̀͆͐͛́́̑͒̓̐͂̾̒̌̌̃̎̍̂̆́͋̊̓̽͌͛̉̃͌͌̐̓̆̾̊̾̀̍̉̕̕͘͘͠ ̴̡̙̫̪̺̬̻̼̞͙̜͎̘̙͇̘͇̹͎̅̐͑̄́̒̋̃̌͊͆̍͛̄̋͆̈́͒̆͑͗̋̏̃͗̉́̅͛̄̊͑̈̈́̓͒͊̋͑͌̉̾͘͠͠͝͝O̶̢̡̧̧͓̰̱̭̯̦̬̘̖̖̜̟͍̜̟̜̪̳͕̟͚̖̤͇͍̱͚̠͖̖̰̟͔͙̪̹̙̟͈͇͐͑͋̈̊͒̎́́̃̂͛̓͌̋̏̈́̈́̈̈́̍͛̊̏̍͑̉̈̔̐̈́̈̍͒͗̈́͊̽͆͘͘̚͘̕͜͝͝͝͝ͅń̷̼̭͖̖̳͖̼̻͓͉̣̗̬͇͖̩́͗̉̈͛͂̍̃̏̆̓̈́̃͂̆͒͋͒̐̓̀͐̀͌͌̀̆͑̉̈͘͘͜͝͝ͅͅḛ̵̡̛̟̙̹̯̥̗͎̈́̀͐̑͌͒̋̂̓̀͒̄͒͊̓̎̃̇̏̆̌̆͌̂̉̀̅͐̒͌̏̅̑̑̇̉̕͘͠͝͠ͅ ̸̛̭̹̰̰̫͈̟̺̤͔̦̹̜͖͈͕̝̗͎̪̟̫̤̰͉̟͉͇̘͈͖̰̥͙̯̦̺̼̥̹̙̰̯͍̠̠̆̒̅͑͆͂̇̍̈́̓̆̒͂̍̈́̉̾̚͜ͅZ̸̞̝̭̬͙̬̭͆͒̒̎̔̑̈̏̆̈́̈̌̆̅͑̍̈̌͆̽̕̕͠͝͝ȩ̸̢̢̧̪̳̰͈̞̫̪̮̻̦̭͙̰̘̤̥̩̞̻̣͚͙͔͚͍̼̞̪̣͊́̽̾̉̿̆̄̐̈́̋͛̿͘͜ͅȓ̵̢̛̛̩͚̰͔̫̻̹̹̪͖͖̠͕̠͚̜̱͓̙̳͚͕̠̳̺̻̱͉̭̫̥̫͔͉̼̝̖̗͒̃͐͂̌̄̔̓̂̆́̒͑̈́̅̊͗̊͑̑̏̌͋͑̎̃͋̉̉̓̍̊̍̆͘̕̕̕͠͝͝͠ͅơ̷̛͙̥̰̟͗͊͗͑̽͑͂̉̏̐̏̂̋͋̌͌͒̌̈́̇́̂̅͛͐͒̀̀̊̀̍̚͝͠ͅ?̵̡̡̛̛̥̱̰̲̗̘̮̗͙͎̞͈͈̮̲́͑͛̽̐͒̍̊̍͐̊͗̍͗̋̀̅͂́͋̓̄͘͘͠͝]̴̡̢̧̛̙͎̟̭̝̪͕̰͖͔̫̰̩̞̻͔̏͐̇̃̂̓̎̕͘ͅ

 

Yeah, he didn't understand her at all anymore.

He decided to just go with the flow and be carried by her at this point.

And look, Heatblast and Six Arms got bored and decided to come here while Amorph-Ooze was probably with Wildmutt now.

Oh boy, what a mess.

"Well, well, well, Gwen would say we're in a good ole fashioned stand off." Six Arms' smirk deepened as she scanned the motley crew closing in on them inside de the tunnel—NineNine and EightEight with weapons drawn, their silhouettes wavered in the dim flicker of the dying overhead lights. Behind her, Heatblast cracked his knuckles, sending embers scattering like sparks from a busted power line. "Y'know, I was *just* thinking we needed more people to start a barbecue."

NineNine's plasma rifle hummed ominously. EightEight exhaled—a slow, grating sound like metal fatigue—before adjusting her rifle's scope with one hand.

 

[̷̡̨̛̛̩͈̲̙͙̘͙̪͇̥͕̻͚̳͙͚̹̺͓̺̜̼̹̫̫̻̣̤̘̳͓͇̗̦̩͓̰̱̰̜͍͎̜̪̃̒̾̊̑̍͒́̉͑̾̐̐͋͋͋̀̽̂̊̓̇́͌̓́̍͊̿̈̈́̆̒͆̎̀̎̇̀̀͆͐̇̀͘̕͜͜͜͝͠C̶̢̨̨̧̨̡̨̟̼̖̹͓̱̥̬̜̜̘̖̩̳̟̗͕̖̳̩̟̣͓̻͈̮̤̲̪̱̘̩̩͇͇̼̯͇̻͎̠̾͑̎̆̐̈̾̏͛̄̐̓̋̅̽͊̊̀̆̎̔̀͊̚̚͜͝ǫ̴̢̧͈̬͎̖͍̦͕͎̲͎̖͍̞̬͇͕̝̙̰̱͔̖͓͈̱̻̦̪̝̱̦́̅̒̈́̃͒͑͜͝ͅŗ̶͕̪͇͙͓͉̳̝̩̈́̓̀͒̌̓̿͒̋̈̂̋̇̄̉̈́̀͂̀̚̚̚̕̕͘͝r̸̨̨̡̮̟͕͔̝̞̰̺̹̪͎̹͍͎̺̠̩͇͕̩̩̘̫͔̼̦͔̞̩̳̞͓̥͙̭̲͖̻̍̇e̶̘̫̖̜͕̹̤̩̜̺̫̱̞̝̅̀̔̒́̉̂̉͐̓̅̑̀̊́͋̀̊̈́͆̐̐̏̊̍̓̕ͅć̷̨̢̼̪̰̗̖̖̫̰̤͍̙̳͙̺̘̓̊̓̊͛͑̕t̵̢̛̻̬̩̬̮̤̫̬̲̠̻͎̘͕͓̳̱͔͉͓̘̭͔͎̥͖͙͇̖̲̹̝͉̳̖̲͕̣̞̱͊̅̈̏̈́̔̀̇̀̌̋́̇͂̄͊̄͐̀̈́̿̃̈́̄̔͐̒̓̀͐̂͛̕͜i̸̧̧̛̭͈̳͔̯̺̖̦̫̳̞͍̮͓͙̺̙͓̼̪̤̪̱̠̰̹̗͙̟̝͇͚̰̦̻̝̻͙̪̬̳͙͙̐̐͆̈̇̄͐͐͑͗̌͋̏̀͑̃͑͠ͅơ̴̧̨̰͉̙͙̻̠͓̜͍͍̼̌͂͗́̈́́́̓̌̅͗̇͐̾̏̊̿͗̑̀͆̇̆̒͐͂̌̌̚̕̕̕͝͝n̶̡̗̩̤̥͙͈͙̟̲͇̗̝̳̘̹̭͍̹̰̤̙̾͑̐͂͛̉̓̋͂͐̀͛̔͊̏͑̑͜͜͝͝]̸̢̨̢̨̧͎̹̟̞̩̟̟̼͚̞͙͖͍͍̩̰̻̖͓͙̹̭̟̦̗͈̝͔̙̼̤̼͍̩̈́̃̓͐͑̈́̾̎̏͂̈́̍̏̍͜͜ ̴̡̨̰͕̫̗̯͈͕̻͇̰̟̠̥̗̥͈̲͓̰͙̘̇́̈́̅̌̇̂̂̽͛̐̕͜͜ͅ she said flatly.

 

̸̡̡̨̧̧̢̞̯̮̳͉̮͎̭͚̱̱̱͇̰̻͙͔̝̟̣̘̲̝͇͍̪̣̜̲̺̰͙̫̤̯̣̦̇̃͐̅͂͊̓͊̏̄̓͆̐̾̈́̇̐̔̆́͂͘̕̕͜͠͝ͅͅͅ[̴̢̮̣̼̼̰̗̑̓̓͐̍̈͆̀̀̿̂̍͊̓̑̚͜͠͝͠ͅY̶̡̢̢̥̥̩͉̙̜̼̮̰͖̜͇̟̤͕̯̼̬̯͆̐̿̋̈́͗̓͌̄͜͜͝͝ȯ̶͇̫̞̹̇͑̐̎̔͌̇̿̐͌͒͊͌̈́̈́̄̔̒́͊̌̅̅̈̔̄̏̈̑̑̕͘͘͘͘͝͝u̷̡̝̼̩̫̱̩̥̘̘̜̝͎̜̫̺̟̺̝͉̭͖̝̳̽̊̓̈̈́̒͌̓̉̂͊́̉͑͘͘͜ ̴̢̨̢̛̗̠̞̟̠̳̦̼̲̟͓̠͉̲͓̝̯̗̫̬͔̞͈̭̗̥̼͈̠̏́̃̆͜͝ͅͅ*̷̡͕̻̰̩̹̙͚͓͈̭̯̮̤͔̰̗͕͈̳̠̟̗̅̈́̈́͒̊̔͐̎͂̔̅̍̊͂͗̽͌̔͌̇͗͑͗̀̔̑̈̈́̒̊̉͋͛̏̽̇̈́̓̕̕͠͠ḑ̶̡͚̜͖͚̼̠͖͖͉͚̗̱̘̀̑̊͐̀͐̒͋̍̓̐̀̏̊̔́̄͌̾́͐́͗̇͐̕̚͘͜ͅͅo̶̧̨̡͔͇̯͕̘̲̩͙͍̯̤̫̟͔̟̭̺͓̗͇͇̙̰̪͙̠͉̜̦̓̌̋̃̍̋̈̃̆̎͒̒͌̽̿͝͝ͅn̷̨̩̖̣͖̮̰̓̍'̷̨̢̙̺̜͓̜̟̖̭͓̊̿͒͑̀̿͊̅̈́̈́̀͆̇̀̏̈́̎̀̈́̔̄̐̽͊̈́̒̽̆̄͛̓̚͝͝ͅt̷̡̧̡̡̝̫̖͔̮̼͚̰̼̟̠̫̻̼̦͙̺̖̫̙̍̈́̿̆̐͑̉̏͂̆͜ͅ*̶̛̪̻͙̗͕̮̗͆̊̎̂͒̏̑̍́̔̂̐̀̀̐͂̐̍̕͝͠ ̷̦̼̖͙̙̼͓͖̺͓̤͔͋̏̑̏̄̍̋͂͛̑͊̏͌̔̃́͝͠n̶̡̡̨̡̢͚̤͇̜͓͎̩͙̥̯̯͖̲̜̱͔̖̜͚̱̜̱̬̤̟̗̝̮̬̙̥͚̮̗̣̝̝̟̗͗͐͜͜ȩ̶̦̖͖͇̠̖̖̙̜̭̖̫̦̹̲͚͉̅̐̿̌͗̒̔͌̎̇͜͝e̶̡̧͕̗̠̖̣͍͓̹̳̟͉̯̖͓̞̦̻̩͉̜̪͚͙͚͍̹̼̺͕̫̖̝̘̲̞̱͙̠̣͆̓̍̀͊͊̿̎͂̎̊̄̇̔́̐̉̌̅̈́̋̈́̈́̐̂̔͊͘̚̚̚͠͝͝͝ḑ̴̧͙̘̱̤̯̰̦̹̹̫͓͔̬̬̝̙̞̙̺̯͚͖͚̤̥̰͖̮̻̖̖͕̖̬͈̘̠̺͈̮͙̤̌̂̈̅̄̀͑͊̌̈͌̆̋͋͊̚͘͜͝ͅͅͅ ̸̡̡̨̧̨̡̲̥̼̺̭̦̳͔̺͔͚͍̩̲͓̯̞̖̪̻̻̳̜͍̠̩͉̥̘̠̻̟͉̲̯͔̲͓̦̝̠͖́͆̀̈́̀͂̋͑̔̽̿̍̉̑͐͛̑̀͂͘͝ͅm̶̢̢̨̨̧̛̛̫̲̤̹̠̰͉̗͇̲̥̣̘̞̙̫̜̬̙̗̞͚̺͍͙̣̖̣̎̌͆̀̽̿̔̈̆̏̎̐͋̉̅̈̏͆̎̅̓̑̅̆̔́̏̀̉̀͌̒͠͝͝ͅô̶̡͓̺͓͇̜̳̬͔̤̰̣̥̳͇̣̯̤̱͚̠̭̣̺͈̗͇͎̠̲̝͆̊̌͑̒̀̀̈́͋͂̚͜͝ͅṟ̶̡̡̢̨̧̱͈̼͈̣͈͍͕͍͙͔̞̳̝̩͉̙̹͎̺̟̝͖͍̯̹̮̞͕͕̝̇̒̆̊͒̈͋̑͑̂́̈́̈̒̆̋̆͘͜͠͝͝ë̷̢̢̨̡̘̖̰̞̝̜͈̝͎̪̦̥̫̞͉̦̙̭̝̹͙̙̣̜͎͎̤̟̹̬͗̊̄̉͋̔̃̇̿̓͒͗̏̓̓̽̅̉͂̽̏̚̕͝͝͠ ̵̨͙͓͚͍̯̺̜͇̙̼̣͙͚̱̮̪̠̳͇̠͉͎͈͍̯̰̠̜͋͂̋̒̃͂̎̉̎́̅̈́̅̊̍͂̎͒̉͛̏̀̈́̉̍͋̍̑͗̄͘̕̕̚͠͝͝͝p̶̨̢̧̜͚̥̬̟̟̩̗̤̖̫̳͎̹̲̘̥̮̟̪̙̤̗͈̜̈́̃́͐͛̈́̄̀̒̔̎͂̐̔͑̂̂̐͂̓̓̾̅̾́͑̊̔͗̾͆̊̊́̔̊̋̈́̚̚̚̚͘͠͝ȩ̵̢̢͇̻͍͖̼̹͕͓̞̘̯̪̪̤͓̟̳̼̥͚̹̯͕̫̫͈̱̯͍͖̱̮̮̘̼͚͙̜̯̻̲̣̬̞̭̣̳̅̈̈͛͂̈́̽̿̇̓̽͒́͐̿̌͊̂̈͆͊̊̊̔̔̽͒͒͆͛̿̔̌̊̓̑͆̉͂̽̓̀͗̒͊͘͘͝͝͝ǫ̴̧̡̭̬̼̫̱̪̯̝̙̲̳͔̼̹̥͉̠͇̞͓̲̜̼̼̟͉̲͈̖̘̤͙͎́̄̆͘͜͝ͅp̸̱̹̤͙͍͚̤͉̫̲͖̻̱̲͈̱̙͙̫̘̱̥̼̙̟̆̎̂̏̐́ľ̵̢̨̡̨̨̰͖̗̺̯̖̳̬͍̺͉̘͍̼̣͎̣̠̣̟̰̖̯͖̰̰̳̮̪͇̞͔̥̗̘͓͓͐̊̈̔̊͒̉́̋̏̓̀̊̄̂̃̎͗͂̿̅̒͒͂̎̈͒́̌̚͘͜͜͜͠ͅë̵̡̨̨̡̛̛̛̝͔͚̭͙͓̲͔̝͖̦͚͈̫̘̜͓̼̠̪̣̻̬̥̺̠̗̼̺̓̏̆̔͒̂̓̄͗̓̾́̋̌̆̿̂̓̈̎͑̋̀͆͝ͅͅͅ.̴̨̢̧̡̧̧̤͉̱̠̩̲͓͉̭̹͍̘͈̣̼̬̣͔̱̫͎̭͖̞͍̭͔̥͎̝̘̖͕̗̲͔͍̗̤̣̌̄̊̅́̓͗̅̏͜͜͜ͅ ̸̧̛̛̟͉̗̩̪̖̠͖̦̪̭̙͉͕̖͖̬̏́͛̽̓̄͋͆͊̾̏̆̔̾͋̿͐̉͌̀̌̑̎̈́̒́̈́͑͋̊̈̀̅͂̿͛͐̓̀̚͘̚͘͠͠͠͝Y̸̝͔͉͍͎͒͗̉̈͒̈́͗͗͘͝ơ̸̧̡̞͍̳͕̜̺̬͎̝̟̯̗̳̘̫͖̖͊̐͛̃̇̅͊̅̂̆̀͆̔͐́̊̉̀̋̅̆̕̕̚͜͝͠ͅǘ̶̡̨̡̨̠̞̖̯͈͇͕͎̪̮̙͔̭͓͉̰̗͙̗͈̲̬͙̙͔̫̞̪͔͔͇̺̖̖͍͓̜͙͓̠̎͌̌̆̄͂̓͌͛̐̈̾̕͜͜͜͠ ̸̹͙̞̯̲̟̪̹͙̄̈́͋ͅn̵̡̗͕͇̥̖͍̫̮̣̱̑̀̒̍̀̇̂̃̓̓͊́̂͌͊̏͒̂̈́͊͐̋͂̈́̈́̊͋̍̀̊͆͌̄̀̚͜e̸̡̡̧̛̛̩̹̭̪̮̩̰̥̤̱̝͓͙̜̫̗̜͍̯̿̾̃̎́͐̒̋̈́̋͊͊́̀̃̅̈́̄͆́̀̈́̊͐͊̈́͂͐̉͌̒̾̕͠͠͝͠͠ȅ̵̘͕̙͍̿ḓ̸̡̡̮̤̣͚̉̈̈́̍̿̅̃͑̍͐̏̇̒̄͗͠͠ ̸̡̧̧̧̨̺̬͔̝͇̺̫̪̝̹̺͓̩̪̬͚̣̺̺̳̣͓̮͉̬͚͙̠̥̝̲͙̤̭͉͎̝͚̌̐̑̆́̾́̔ͅͅ
*̴̡̲̳͉̣͔͙̪͎͖̖͍̙̺̼̥̄̐̀͛̀͌̌̍̋͘͝ͅf̴̻̞̺̪̖̖͕̫̘͎̘̞͉͔̯̰̰̩̠̟͎̘͉͛̈́̍́̒̅̉̑̑̂͊̈͛̊͐͑̿̇̾̀̒̽̋͋̿̀̀̀̓͋͆̐͆͐̊̉͛̔̀̅̕͝͠͠ͅȩ̶͚̬̳̻̠̭̯̻̳̦͈̦͚̮͍̜̭͖̯̤͈̟͎̙̌̈́̄̓̾́̈̃̆̇̈́̓͐̐͌̄̕͘͠w̸̡̼̮̦̝̭̭͚͙͍̪͍͔̩̠͙͖̤̲̏̽͐̀̀̓̈́̌̒͊͒̀̅̍͗͛́̀͌̇̓̏͋͌͌̍̅͂̓͂̿̌͒͊́́̂̈͊̚̕͜͝͝͠ȩ̵̛͉͈͉̠̮͌̌̓̍̈́̏̄̈́͌̀̏̈́̚̚͝ͅr̶̻͈̦̣̙̻̪̲̟̠̣̖͚̲̩͕͓͇̞̤̫͕̦̠͓̳̯̊̈̾̔͒̌̈́͒̓̓̋̐̄̑̕ͅ ̵̢̧̡̡̲̦͎̖̺̬͎̯͍̩̼̜̺͕̒̍̎̆́̔͗́͒̀̌̈́͐͑͗́̑̅̈́̊͑̄̕̚͘͜͠͠͝͝͠͝l̸̡̢̧̢̧̛̳̣͉͔̝͕̳͙̜̹̪̠̜͈̫̱͕̫͔͇̗͖̰̥̳̯͈̭̳̝͕͈͈̲̤̥̙̼̰̖̬̰͆͂̑̈́͂̅̐͋̌̌̒̾̒̍̈́͒̑̊̓͌̉̿̀͒̒̂̾̔̋̄͗̚̚̕͜͜͠͠͠ͅị̸̡̧̭͇̲͇͇̤̤̪̦̹̦̰̟͍͇̱͔̥̙͙͙͕̤͇́͆̆͌̕͜͜ͅm̵̧̛̛̛̙͕͉̺̙̳͍͇̭̘̀̀͐̆̉͂̆͌͋̔̈́́́̓̇̿́͌̀͗̌͒̔̉͒̑̌̃̊͌̀͌͑̇͘̕̕͘̕͝͝͝͠͝͝b̶̢̛͔̙͖̱̥̯̲̙̞̟̘̻̟͉̠͉̦̞͔̠̳͍̾̏̔̉̃̂̆̿̈́̏́͌̾̉͌̍̅̒̃̓̓̎̅͒̉̾͌̃̔͘̕͜͠͝͝͝ṡ̴̨̨̡̨̩̩̲̹̯̪̗̗͙̺͍̙͖̞̟̺̘̙̜͕̠̫̟̮̱̙͉̳̖̠͇̗̯̻̒̓̀̍͛̉̅̔̌͐̂̃̈́̿̒͋͋̈́̔̈́͛̀͌͑̽͐͒͐́̋́̀̕͝͝ͅ*̶̨̡̨̨̝͇̠̤̲̘͈̗͓̱̻͇̟̹̰̼̗̝̠͍̠̘̺̰̬͔̠̮̥̫̽̅̀͑̀̇̍̆̂̐̐̈̿͂͊̇̈͑̆͌́̿́̕̕͝͠͝ͅ]̷̛̦̅̈́͌̈́͘̚

 

The thing grinned—its mouth splitting vertically—before lunging.

Heatblast backflipped, unleashing a torrent of flames that sent Kraab skittering sideways—his metal shell smoking. The mine's wooden support beams groaned overhead as Max suddenly arrived and ducked behind a rusted ore cart. "Next time you pick a fight," he shouted over the screech of Kraab's drill-legs revving up, "maybe aim for an enemy who *doesn't* double as a tank!"

He had his shotgun leveled before the dust settled—Max Tennyson didn't survive twenty five years of Plumber work by being slow. The barrel gleamed under the flickering mine lights, trained squarely on Kraab's dented cephalothorax. "Benjam," he growled without turning, "when I say *run*—"

"—Run!"

The shotgun blast cracked through the mineshaft just as Kraab's drill-legs sparked against the stone floor. Benjamin didn't need telling twice—he bolted, the Galatrix flashing red-hot against his skin. Behind hom, Max kicked the ore cart into NineNine's path—rusty metal shrieked as three hundred pounds of angry knockoff Boba Fett plowed through it like wet cardboard.

He turned a sharp corner and looked at the Galatrix.

Still red.

\I could never be red again, if you listen to my offer that is?\

He looked down

The voice was coming from the Galatrix.

Oh God he was right about it being alive.

The Galatrix pulsed red-hot against Benjamin as it spoke, a far too cold, synthesized, and emotionless voice.

Even more than Bootleg and Upgrade.

Benjamin stumbled back against the mine wall, clutching his wrist as the Galatrix's interface flickered unnaturally—like static between dimensions.

"You-you are alive..."

Benjamin's whisper crackled like the static-laced interface of the Galatrix. The watch pulsed—a sickly, arrhythmic throb against his pulse point. Somewhere deeper in the mineshaft, metal shrieked against rock as SixSix and SevenSeven joined the fray running away from Wildmutt and Amorph-Ooze as they together bulldozed through Grandpa Max's diversion. Closer now.

The watch lit up again, \I never claimed to not be alive. Only dormant.\ Its interface pulsed like a dying neon sign. Benjamin pressed his back against the mine wall, the Galatrix's heat searing his skin.

"Cool trick, talking watch," Benjamin muttered, tapping the Galatrix like a malfunctioning vending machine. "Now how about some alien mojo before I'm turned into crab cakes?" The device responded with a pained buzz—like a dial-up modem drowning in static.

Somewhere behind him, NineNine's plasma rifle whined as it charged. Benjamin didn't need to look to know the bounty hunter's targeting laser was painting a dot between his shoulder blades. The Galatrix chose that moment to transform him again.

Now he was Skunkmoth.

In a cave.

Because fuck his life.

Benjamin Tennyson—Skunkmoth now—swore through mandibles as NineNine's plasma bolt singed the cave wall where his head had been half a second earlier. The Galatrix's interface flickered with what he'd swear was smug amusement.

"Real funny," he hissed, wings buzzing as he dive-rolled behind a stalagmite—only to realize Skunkmoth's wingspan was roughly the size of at least two moderate sized pickup trucks. NineNine's rifle chirped again, this time blasting the stalagmite into gravel. Skunkmoth somersaulted sideways, spraying a thick mist of hallucinogenic pheromones as he went.

NineNine's helmet filters clicked—too late. The bounty hunter swayed mid-step, rifle drooping as they giggled at nonexistent butterflies. Skunkmoth didn't stick around for the punchline. He scrambled deeper into the cavern, antennae twitching at distant tremors—someone was collapsing tunnels behind him.

A shadow loomed. EightEight stepped from the gloom, her segmented armor clicking like a swarm of angry beetles. She raised one of SixSix's discarded wrist rockets, freshly reloaded.

Just great.

Just fucking great.

Meanwhile Tetrax was on his final rope, stalling Diamondhead with a crystal barrier but quickly losing ground as the bounty hunter’s plasma drills whirred closer. His left arm was already half-disintegrated into shards. The hoverboard? Smoldering wreckage somewhere in the debris.

He had to use IT.

And he did.

Meanwhile the Galatrix’s interface pulsed like a dying star—red, erratic, suffocating. It wasn't just *talking* anymore. It was *laughing*. A cold, digitized chuckle that slithered up Benjamin's spine as EightEight's rocket launcher whined to life behind him.

"You're *enjoying* this!" Benjamin hissed, skittering sideways on Skunkmoth's too-many legs. The Galatrix didn't deny it. Its symbols *shivered*—rearranging into something that looked suspiciously like a smiley face made of static.

EightEight fired.

Benjamin didn't think—he *twisted*, wings flaring wide as the rocket grazed his thorax. The explosion sent him spinning into a cluster of stalactites. Fragments of rock rained down as he hit the ground hard.

He had to be creative with this.

Benjamin landed hard, Skunkmoth's thorax scraping against jagged rock as EightEight's rocket exhaust singed his antennae. The Galatrix pulsed again—not green. Not red. Some sickly in-between color that made his stomach twist.

"You—you *bastard*," Skunkmoth wheezed, rolling behind a crumbling ore cart as EightEight's plasma grenade arced overhead. The explosion sent shrapnel pinging off his chitin.

He got it!

He needed to act like a spider.

And so he did.

Skunkmoth's wings flared wide—not to fly, but to *distract*. EightEight's helmet tilted up instinctively, tracking the sudden movement. Wrong move. Benjamin's abdomen flexed, ejecting a glob of bio-sticky webbing straight into her rocket launcher's barrel with a wet *splorch*. EightEight's trigger finger twitched—once, twice—before the backblast detonated the clogged weapon in her claws.

"Eat *spider tactics*, lady!" Benjamin crowed, skittering sideways as she staggered back, armor smoking.

Time to put some gunk on her eyes.

Or armor, so to speak.

Skunkmoth's thorax vibrated—not from fear, but from something worse: *inspiration*. The kind of stupid-brilliant idea that'd either get him kissed or killed. Probably both. His wings twitched, spraying another cloud of hallucinogenic mist—thin enough to be transparent but thick enough to make EightEight's targeting systems hiccup.

"Alright, stink-bug," he muttered, skittering sideways. "Time to *bug out*."

The Galatrix pulsed—amber this time—like a traffic light stuck between *go* and *oh hell no*. Benjamin didn't wait for permission. He ducked under EightEight's next plasma burst, rolled *into* her personal space (bad move), and—before she could react—*flexed*.

Skunkmoth's abdomen ejected a thick, gelatinous glob of bio-goop straight into her helmet's visor.

EightEight reeled back, clawing at her face.

"Breakfast," Benjamin shot at her, already backflipping toward a rusted mine cart. "Served *fresh*."

He then proceeded to grab and drag her to a rock wall, slamming her face into it repeatedly as a way to "help" her dislodge the gunk. EightEight's helmet cracked under the pressure, which—oops—wasn't part of the plan. Skunkmoth's wings twitched nervously as her targeting systems flickered back online. *"Uh. Whoops?"*

EightEight's clawed fingers dug into the crusted bio-goop smeared across her visor just as Skunkmoth's thorax vibrated—not with fear, but with the high-pitched hum of a plan clicking into place. Benjamin had exactly two-point-seven seconds before her plasma cutters rebooted. Time for *Operation Stink-Bomb Surprise*.

He skittered backward on too-many legs, wings flaring wide. Not to escape—to *aim*. The Galatrix pulsed amber against his wrist like a malfunctioning stoplight. "Alright, stink glands," he muttered, abdomen coiling. "Don't fail me now." With a wet *hissk*, he ejected a spiraling cloud of pheromone-laced musk directly into EightEight's air intake vents.

The bounty hunter froze mid-swipe. Her helmet speakers emitted a distorted gargle—part glitch, part absolute disgust.

She fell unconscious.

Welp, time to stop her siblings.

And so he made his way.

Skunkmoth—three-quarters adrenaline, one-quarter questionable life choices—ducked under a crumbling archway as NineNine's plasma fire turned the tunnel in front of him.

Desperate.

Failing.

Retreating.

Good.

He finally made his way there where NineNine was fighting both Six Arms and Heatblast at the same time using his jetpack to remain out of their reach while launching wrist rockets. "Alright, loser," he muttered, adjusting his thorax with a wet click. "Time to *bug off*."

He ducked under NineNine's next plasma volley, rolled *into* her personal space and did the exact same trick.

It didn't work.

Shit.

She did run away though.

Oh well, you win some, you loose some.

The three of them decided to find Max and get out of this mine before it fully collapses—because that's what collapsing mines tend to do.

Skunkmoth skittered ahead, wings buzzing in erratic patterns as he navigated the crumbling tunnel. "Yo, Grandpa better not be buried under a pile of alien scrap metal," he muttered, kicking aside a smoking chunk of SixSix's armor plate. Heatblast floated beside him, flames flickering nervously in the stale mine air. "You *do* realize we're *also* technically aliens, right?"

Six Arms snorted, flexing three sets of biceps as he shoved aside a collapsed support beam. "Yeah, but we're the *cool* kind. The kind that doesn’t—uh oh."

Max Tennyson who was currently pinned under a pile of metal debris. His leg was trapped beneath a rusted mining cart. His shotgun lay just out of reach, his fingers stretching uselessly toward it. Above him, the ceiling groaned ominously—chunks of rock dusting his jacket like morbid snowflakes. "Note to self," he grunted, twisting to peer at the buckling support beams, "next time someone sends bounty hunters—*take the highway*."

Skunkmoth skidded to a halt, wings flaring as the scent of gunpowder and rust hit his antennae like a freight train. There—half-buried under a pile of dented mining equipment—Max Tennyson lay pinned, his boot trapped under a warped ore cart. His fingers twitched toward the shotgun just inches from his grip, like some tragic action-movie freeze frame.

"Grandpa!" Skunkmoth's voice buzzed through the collapsing tunnel like a chainsaw through wet cardboard. Six Arms was already moving—three sets of hands digging under the ore cart with the precision of a demolition crew on espresso. Heatblast hovered nervously, flames licking at unstable ceiling beams. "Hold still," Six Arms grunted, veins popping along three sets of forearms. "This might get—"

The cart screeched sideways just as the ceiling gave way.

What followed wasn't so much a rescue as a three-alien demolition derby. Heatblast torched falling debris into slag. Six Arms used Max as an impromptu football mid-toss. Skunkmoth sprayed bio-webbing like a deranged party cannon and sealing cracks.

Finally there was a light at the end of the tunnel.

Not metaphorical—an actual flickering bulb dangling from exposed wires, illuminating the mine’s exit like the world’s sketchiest welcome mat. Skunkmoth skittered toward it, wings twitching in uneven bursts. Behind him, Heatblast’s flames cast long, dancing shadows as Six Arms carried Max fireman-style over three shoulders.

"Put. Me. Down," Max growled through gritted teeth, one hand clutching his hat like it owed him money. Six Arms obliged—by accidentally launching him through the exit like a human cannonball. Max hit the dirt in a rolling somersault that would’ve scored a solid 9.8 in gymnastics if not for the shotgun discharging mid-tumble.

Meanwhile Kraab was still being tested on by Grey Matter and Tetrax was long gone.

"TETRAX!!! YOU CAN'T HIDE FROM ME!!! I'LL CHASE YOU TO THE ENDS OF THE UNIVERSE!!!" Diamondhead screamed to the heavens, leaving behind nothing but scorched earth and the lingering stench of ionized air.

"Uh, am I missing something?"

Chapter Text

At a pier side carnival, two robbers climbed down a ladder into a getaway rowboat with a bag of loot.

"Man, knocking over that yacht was a piece of cake!"

The robber's laughter died in his throat as something *glistened* beneath the pier's floodlights—not water, but teeth. Too many teeth. The second robber barely had time to scream before Ripjaws erupted from the blackness in a geyser of saltwater and carnival popcorn, dragging him under with the elegance of a falling piano.

Soon Shredfang's face rose from the water and stalked the first robber. Panicked, he ran back up the ladder and across the pier, the aquatic alien following him underwater with eerie precision. The robber stopped to look behind him—just as Shredfang exploded onto the pier in a geyser of saltwater and carnival debris, landing with a wet *smack* that sent cotton candy flying.

"Gotta love a seafood snack!" the alien growled, flexing claws that glistened under the neon lights.

The robber backed up until his spine hit the deep-fryer station. His fingers scrabbled for purchase—finding only a bucket of rancid fryer oil. With a desperate yell, he hurled the bubbling liquid. Shredfang didn't even flinch as the oil splashed across his armored hide, sizzling against his natural heat resistance.

"Seriously?" The alien rolled all four eyes before flicking a single claw through the fryer's power cable. Sparks erupted as the severed wire landed in the oil puddle—creating a miniature fireball that engulfed the robber's stolen loot.

Soon, the same robber was being arrested. An officer spoke with Ripjaws and Shredfang near the coast.

"I don't care what anybody says—you two circus freaks are alright by me!"

"Freak? Nah. We're the *upgrade*." Ripjaws spat a stream of water onto the pier, grinning. Beside him, Shredfang flexed his talons—one still dripping with hot fryer oil—and sniffed the air. "Smell that? Besides failure and regret?"

The cop frowned. "Uh...cotton candy?"

"*Victory.*" Both aliens said at the same time. The cop blinked at them, suddenly realizing his handcuffs were covered in deep-fry grease. Ripjaws grinned wider—which, given her anatomy, meant her jaw unhinged slightly—and Shredfang’s dorsal fins vibrated like a cat’s purr.

"Hmph, you both look like a pair of freaks to me," the cop muttered, wiping fryer grease off his badge. Ripjaws and Shredfang exchanged glances—her with a slow blink of nictating membranes, him with a rasping chuckle that sounded like coral scraping metal.

The ocean behind them churned unnaturally, bubbles surfacing in perfect geometric patterns...

Later, the Rustbucket passed through town; Gwen read a sign going by them—a flickering neon monstrosity that buzzed like a dying insect.

"*Zombozo's Travelling Circus of Laughs*?" she repeated, squinting at the garish letters. "They misspelled 'nightmare fuel.'"

Benjamin didn’t answer. His fingers drummed a rapid, uneven rhythm against his knee—a nervous habit Max recognized immediately. The old man shot him a look, but Benjamin was too busy staring at the crumpled circus flyer in his lap.

"Zombozo’s Travelling Circus of Laughs" flickered in neon like a bad joke no one wanted to hear. Gwen squinted at the sign, its buzzing hum syncing with the pounding in Benjamin’s temples. The smell of burnt sugar and diesel clung to the air—too thick, too *wrong*.

Benjamin’s fingers twitched toward the Galatrix again—not a full dial-in, just the ghost of a motion. The holographic interface flickered green-bronze against his wrist, casting jagged shadows across the Rustbucket’s interior. Outside, the neon circus sign spat sparks like a dying firefly.

"Ah, I haven't been to a circus since I was a boy. Sounds like fun! What do you guys think?"

The words dripped from Max's mouth like molasses—slow, sticky, and painfully oblivious. Gwen's grin stretched wide enough to crack her face in half, while Benjamin's fingers tightened around the Rustbucket's armrest hard enough to have left dents if Upgrade hadn't merged with the RV.

Outside, the carnival lights flickered like dying fireflies—too bright, too *hungry*. Gwen bounced on her toes, oblivious to the way Benjamin's knuckles whitened around the Galatrix. The interface pulsed once—amber, then sickly green—as Zombozo's distorted laughter crackled through rusty speakers overhead. A popcorn vendor's cart rattled past, its wheels squealing like stepped-on mice.

Amorph-Ooze was the only alien he could bring along since she could shape shift and decided to call Amy (because it was the easiest to remember 'Am—' name they could think of.

"Come *on*, slowpokes!" Gwen grabbed Benjamin's wrist, her fingers brushing the Galatrix. The device *hissed*—a sound like static and grinding teeth—before displaying a rapid-fire sequence of alien glyphs neither could decipher. Benjamin yanked his arm back. "Jeez, Gwen! Ever hear of *personal space*?"

The neon sign above them spat sparks. "*Zombozo's Travelling Circus of Laaaaaughs!*" The voice boomed from rusted speakers, wobbling between cheerful and something...hungrier. A popcorn kernel bounced off Benjamin's forehead. He didn't flinch. His pupils were pinpricks, locked onto the ticket booth where a skeletal attendant grinned with too many teeth.

"Sure," Benjamin muttered. "Let’s waltz right into the clown’s mouth. What’s the worst that could happen?" His Galatrix pulsed—once, twice—like a dying heartbeat. Behind them, Amorph-Ooze (now 'Amy' because Benjamin sucked at names) walked closer by in clothes she borrowed from Gwen and him.

"Hey," 'Amy' bubbled, "is it just me, or does that ticket-taker smell like pickles and bad decisions?" Gwen snorted as Benjamin methodically chewed his own tongue. The Galatrix cast flickering green shadows across his face—not its usual idle glow, but something erratic. Like a bomb squad technician sweating over cut wires.

Beyond them, the carnival pulsed. Not with music, but with something deeper—an arrhythmia nobody else seemed to notice. The Ferris wheel groaned under its own weight, rust flaking off like diseased skin. Above it all, Zombozo's grin stretched thirty feet tall on a peeling billboard, his crimson wig catching the sunset just *wrong*—like fresh blood under UV light.

They all slowly walked to a big top circus, set up in the middle of what looked to be a park. Lots of people were walking in with the four of them, "Ooh, looks like the entire town's turned out for the show!"

As Benjamin walked forward, he looked up at the posters. They all featured a clown with crimson hair, a toothy grin and a big top hat, this "Zombozo". The clown's eyes seemed to stare Benjamin down.

"It's probably already sold out Grandpa, we're probably just wasting our time."

A spotlight suddenly shone on on a circus barker on a pedestal, that then shouted to the crowd.

"STEP RRRRIGHT UP AND SEE! THE FINGERLESS FREAK OF NATURE, WHOSE STRENGTH KNOWS NO BOUNDS! THUMBSKULL!"

He gestured to a big burly man with white skin and a giant 'fingernail' on his forehead. He stepped forward with a metal rod and bent it on his head. The crowd gasped. He tossed the bent bar in the air and something orange caught it.

"...AND PRESENTING, FRIGHTWIG! WHEN THIS BEAUTY LETS DOWN HER HAIR, NO TELLING WHAT COULD HAPPEN!"

A pale-skinned woman with long orange locks of hair, moving and twisting at her command. Her hair coiled the metal rod into a pretzel and placed it aside on a pedestal. The crowd gasped—except Benjamin, whose fingers dug into his thighs hard enough to leave crescent moons in the denim.

"...AND LAST BUT NOT LEAST," the barker's voice crackled through blown-out speakers, "THE FREAK WHOSE UNIQUE SKILL IS AS VILE AS HIS ATTITUDE! ACID BREATH!"

A starved man stepped forward, his ribs visible through a stained tank top. He removed his mouth guard with a *pop* that echoed like a gunshot in Benjamin's skull. The visible green breath that followed didn't just melt the rod—it ate through the pedestal, the stage flooring, and part of the barker's left shoe before fizzling out six inches from Benjamin's sneakers.

"Gross!" Gwen wrinkled her nose.

'Amy' sniffed the air. "Smells like rotten eggs and bad life choices."

Benjamin didn't move. His Galatrix pinged—a sound like a submarine sonar—as the acid bubble at his feet dissolved the last fleck of red paint from his shoelaces. Above them, the big top's canvas rippled like diseased flesh under the halogen spotlights. The scent hit him first—burnt sugar and something meatier, like carnival hotdogs left too long on the grill.

Gwen elbowed him hard enough to crack a rib. "Earth to Spaceboy," she hissed. "You're doing the creepy statue thing again."

Benjamin blinked. His Galatrix display flickered—interference patterns scrolling too fast to read. The barker's voice boomed across the midway: *"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! CHILDREN OF ALL AGES!"* The speakers popped static on *"AGES,"* distorting into something that sounded suspiciously like *"CAGES."*

Zombozo's face loomed thirty feet tall on the main tent—pixelated eyes tracking Benjamin like shotgun sights. The left iris glitched, cycling through colors too fast: red-yellow-green-black-repeat.

"Benjamin," 'Amy' whispered through Gwen's stolen vocal cords (she hadn't quite nailed human speech yet). Her form shimmered—left hand momentarily reverting to silver goo as she pointed. "Your wrist-thingy is doing the...*blinky* thing."

The Galatrix wasn't just pinging now—it was screaming in ultraviolet. Benjamin clenched his jaw so hard his molars groaned. Across the midway, Frightwig's orange hair slithered between floorboards like living vines. Acid Breath exhaled green mist into his palms. Thumbskull cracked his knuckles—all twelve of them.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Children of all ages! The Circus of Laughter is proud to present: "The Sultan of Smiles"! "The Crown Prince of Chuckles"! "The Grim Tickler" himself, the star of our circus! ZOMBOZO THE CLOWN!"

The tent flaps billowed like the lungs of some great beast, exhaling the mingled scents of popcorn grease and something darker—something that curled around Benjamin's ribs like smoke from a witch's cauldron.

A small clown car sped into the center of the floor, and a giant-seeming Zombozo emerged to the sound of a triumphant cymbal crash.
Everyone in the bleachers already started laughing, while Benjamin and 'Amy' were mortified.

The car suddenly sped to the other side of the floor with a mind of its own, facing Zombozo and revving its engine, "challenging" him. Zombozo beckoned it with his hand and pulled out a red toreador cape. The car charged like a bull, but disappeared into confetti the moment it passed the cape. The crowd cheered.

"That's not funny at all," Benjamin muttered under his breath.

Zombozo grinned wider—if that was even possible—his crimson lips splitting like overripe fruit. "If you love clowns, then this is the place ta' be! You're gonna die laughing..." Behind him in the tent stood a gigantic machine, its ports ominously glowing blue. "...That's a 'Zombozo Guarantee'!"

Benjamin felt his Galatrix pulse against his wrist like a dying moth trapped in a jar—erratic, desperate, far too desperate.

"We gotta go-go get some...popcorn!" He said as he grabbed 'Amy'.

"Is Benjamin alright?"

"You're asking me? I stopped trying to figure him out two years ago."

"I was never very good at math, but I believe I have your UNdivided attention!" Zombozo's voice crackled through the tent's blown-out speakers, his grin stretching wider as the xylophone sting punctuated the joke nobody had laughed at yet. The crowd erupted anyway—Gwen's giggles sounded like glass breaking in Benjamin's skull—while the Galatrix pulsed against his wrist like a dying fish. Its display flickered through alien glyphs too fast to read: warning after warning in languages Benjamin couldn't speak but *understood*, deep in his lizard-brain where primal fears lived.

Amy's elbow dug into Benjamin's ribs. "Your wrist-thingy looks like a microwave with anger issues," she whispered, her voice glitching between Gwen's and something more...*viscous*. Her left eye momentarily liquefied, silver droplets reforming just in time to catch the way Zombozo's shadow stretched *wrong*—not matching the spotlight's angle at *all*.

Outside the tent, popcorn kernels skittered across the pavement like cockroaches fleeing light. The Ferris wheel groaned under its own rusted weight, its gondolas swaying despite the complete absence of wind. Benjamin swallowed hard—his spit tasted like battery acid and bad decisions.

"Alright, folks! Who wants to see a *real* magic trick?" Zombozo whipped off his hat with a flourish, revealing a swirling vortex of darkness where his scalp should be. Something *moved* in there—pale, segmented things that made Benjamin's Galatrix emit a sound like a dying modem. "Now how about some volunteers?"

The entire crowd was laughing, especially Gwen. Zombozo wass reflected in her eyes—not just her pupils, but the whites too, like his image had been stamped there with a branding iron. The clown's grin stretched wider than physics should allow, his crimson lips peeling back to reveal teeth that weren't quite human. Not too sharp. Not too square. Just...*wrong*, like they'd been filed down from something else entirely.

"Ahhhh, SO full of life!..." Zombozo's voice echoed through the tent, distorted by blown-out speakers that crackled like old bones breaking. The spotlight flickered across his greasepaint grin—just long enough for Benjamin to see the way his teeth reflected light like wet pavement. Not yellow. Not white. Something in between that made the Galatrix on Benjamin's wrist emit a high-pitched whine like a dog whistle dipped in static.

Behind them, Gwen's laughter hitched—a sound like glass breaking underwater. Her pupils were blown wide, reflecting Zombozo's face a dozen times over like funhouse mirrors, "...for now, that is." He finished under his breath.

The spotlight on Zombozo then shut off.

Meanwhile, Benjamin and 'Amy' ran out of the big top and off the entire lot, stopping and catching their breaths once they've put enough distance between them and the circus.

Benjamin panted heavily, his fingers twitching near the Galatrix like it was a gun holster. "There is nothing funny about clowns," he hissed between gasps. His Galatrix pulsed—a sickly green strobe light against the darkening sky—casting jagged shadows across 'Amy's' silvery skin as she flickered between forms.

"Your heartbeat sounds like a drum solo," 'Amy' observed, one eye elongating into a teardrop shape. The scent of burnt sugar clung to Benjamin's clothes—cloying, thick, *wrong*. Behind them, the Ferris wheel groaned under its own rusted weight despite being completely still. A single popcorn kernel skittered across the pavement like a cockroach fleeing light.

They heard glass shattering nearby and quickly hid behind a vendor's cart—its faded stripes peeling like sunburnt skin. Peeking out, Benjamin saw the circus freaks from before, their silhouettes stretched unnaturally long by the flickering neon. Thumbskull flexed his namesake appendage—the nail glinting wetly under the streetlights—as he tore a parking meter from the concrete with a sound like tendons snapping.

"Woah," Benjamin breathed, his Galatrix interface scrolling warnings in a language that hurt to look at. "The freaks aren't just felons—they're *upgraded*."

Frightwig's hair slithered between floorboards like living vines, snaking toward an ATM. Acid Breath exhaled green mist into his palms—the corrosive cloud eating through a lamppost in seconds. Their movements were synchronized, *practiced*. Benjamin's Galatrix pinged—three rapid pulses that matched the rhythm of Gwen's laughter still echoing in his skull.

"Time to get my freak on," Benjamin muttered under his breath, twisting the Galatrix dial with fingers that left smears of ozone and panic-sweat on the interface. The device whined like a dying hard drive—its holographic display flickering between alien glyphs too fast for human eyes—before locking onto a silhouette.

Not Ripjaw's aquatic bulk. Not Wildmutt's feral crouch. But Globbercrank.

Time to get to morphing.

He looked at the three freaks—Thumbskull, Frightwig, Acid Breath—and used his powers as Globbercrank and twisted his form to somewhat resemble the three of them—taking parts from them—Thumbskull's fingerless hands, Frightwig's hair (but now able to move independently, not just hers and was now blond), and Acid Breath's sickly breath—but more controlled—and suddenly *he* was a freak too.

He quietly walked up to them, listening to what they were saying, "It's payday! Hahahahahahaha!"

Hmmm.

Typical.

Just fucking typical.

As Thumbskull carried three flat-screens, he looked around and saw Globbercrank walking towards him—his composite form stitched together from stolen circus freak likenesses like some kind of grotesque patchwork doll. Benjamin’s fingers were stubs with half decayed nails, his hair was blond and writhing like a nest of agitated snakes, and his breath smelled faintly of week-old roadkill when he exhaled—but the freaks didn’t notice.

Not yet that is.

"Hello there my friend," he started in a hushed whisper, throat clicking like an insect's mandibles—the voice of Globbercrank-Benjamin's stolen vocal cords still adjusting to this grotesque new arrangement. His borrowed blond hair twitched like agitated worms as he shuffled closer to the freak trio, each step making the pavement sizzle slightly where Acid Breath's residual green drool had pooled.

Thumbskull's forehead nail glinted under the flickering streetlight as he turned. "Eh? I didn't know there was another freak in town..."

Glancing over to where Frightwig was, the woman was currently prying off all the labels and accent pieces of the junk with her hair. A pile of golds and silvers next to her, and everything else going into the trash next to her. Benjamin could only guess she was scrapping all of the precious metals to pawn off while making it so it couldn't be traced back to her.

Simple, and probably all they could do given their circumstances.

She paused, glaring up at me when Benjamin suddenly realized he was staring at the three of them.

"Hellloooooooooooo?" she snapped, "Eyes up here Blondie." Frightwig got the wrong impression from Globbercrank's simple and innocent curiosity.

Okay maybe it was only halfway inocent but still.

"Hey," Globbercrank mumbled. His throat tightened uncomfortably—too tight, like someone had replaced his vocal cords with old shoelaces. The Galatrix pulsed against his wrist, its interface scrolling warnings in a language that smelled like burnt plastic and tasted like regret.

Frightwig's hair coiled around a mailbox, wrenching it free with a groan of protesting metal. The blond strands Globbercrank had stolen twitched in response—half-alive, half-something else. Acid Breath exhaled a thin stream of green vapor toward a parked sedan; the paint blistered instantly, bubbling like diseased skin. Globbercrank's borrowed breath itched in his lungs, acidic and *wrong*.

Thumbskull squinted at him, his forehead nail glinting under the flickering streetlights. "You new? Boss didn't mention recruiting no other rejects, especially patchwork types."

"Oh I don't work for anyone right now. I'm just passing by at the moment," Globbercrank lied, his voice cracking like dry twigs underfoot. One of his stolen blond hairs twitched independently—a rogue strand peeling away from the rest to slither down his neck like a curious worm. Acid Breath's residual green vapor leaked from his pores in intermittent puffs, making the air smell like rotten eggs and battery acid.

Frightwig's crimson locks coiled around a fire hydrant, wrenching it from the concrete with a sound like a spine snapping. "Passing by? Buddy, this is private party time," she sneered, her voice dripping with amusement.

Acid droplets sizzled on pavement as Globbercrank shuffled sideways, his stolen blond hair twitching toward a jewelry store's shattered display case. "Why are you three doing this? Are you sure you can keep going like this? Job after job, stealing just barely enough to make it to the very next one the very next day or week at most?"

Frightwig's crimson locks whipped through the air like agitated serpents, snatching a diamond necklace mid-fall. "What, you wanna *lecture* us, Patchwork?" Her voice dripped with venomous amusement, syllables stretching like taffy. "We're all freaks here, and honestly I thought you'd understand that."

"I'm not stupid enough to pretend I know exactly what you've been through, but I do think I could help." Globbercrank offered, glancing back to the recently stolen goods, his stolen blond hair twitching nervously as he pushed forward—his voice cracking under the weight of the lie. "You ever consider—I don’t know—maybe stepping *outside* the whole 'robbing and cackling' routine?"

Frightwig’s locks slithered around his wrist like angry vines, tightening just shy of bone-crunching pressure. Her grin was all teeth. "Oh, this *is* rich! New freak shows up, barely holds himself together, and suddenly he’s handing out *career advice*?" She twirled a strand mockingly near his face.

Acid Breath exhaled a slow, toxic chuckle, his nostrils flaring green. "*Hoo*-boy, you’re *real* funny, Blondie. What’s next? Gonna tell us clowns ain’t scary?" His breath puffed out in a corrosive cloud, eating tiny holes into the metal pole, "You think we haven't tried looking before this? Look at us and look at us good, we're all a bunch of freaks. No one ever gave us a chance even when we tried our hardest. Besides, it's not like we actually stole anything that people needed that wasn't probably insured."

Globbercrank’s stolen blond hair lashed the air like a cat’s tail—restless, agitated. He flexed Thumbskull’s blunt fingers, feeling the ridges where nails should’ve been. "Yeah, well—maybe you’re right," he admitted, watching Frightwig’s locks coil around a pile of gold watches like possessive tentacles. "But robbing candy stores and pawning melted Rolexes? That’s just a dead end." His voice dropped, Galatrix humming against his wrist.

"Even if no one else ever gave you a chance even when you tried your hardest, I want to give you three one." Globbercrank extended Thumbskull's blunt fingers toward Acid Breath—careful to keep his stolen saliva glands from leaking corrosive mist—as the Ferris wheel groaned in the distance like a dying animal. His Galatrix pulsed against his wrist with three rapid-fire beats that matched the rhythm of Frightwig's hair slithering through broken glass. "Take it from a guy who used to think heroics were just kid stuff only two years ago—there's always another way to—"

"New friend." Thumbskull said calmly as suddenly I was in the tightest bear hug and struggling for my life to keep my form together.

"No, no, no, not friend." Acid Breath wheezed, green mist curling between his jagged teeth as he cracked his knuckles—each pop sounding like a soda can being crushed.

Frightwig's crimson locks slithered up Globbercrank's borrowed blond strands, tightening around them like parasitic vines. The scent of scorched sugar filled the air—cloying, thick, *wrong*—as Acid Breath exhaled a slow, toxic chuckle. His green mist curled around Globbercrank's ankles, eating tiny holes into his stolen boots.

"You're *real* funny, Blondie," Acid Breath wheezed, green mist curling between his jagged teeth—each exhale eating microscopic holes in the pavement. "Ughhh, you know what, I'm not hurting another freak."

And Acid Breath simply slumped away—his mist eating pockmarks in the asphalt—as Globbercrank wheezed in Thumbskull's crushing grip. Frightwig's hair coiled tighter around his stolen blond strands, yanking hard enough to make his scalp scream. The Galatrix spat sparks against his wrist, its display flickering warnings in jagged alien glyphs that smelled like burning hair.

"What is friend's name?" Thumbskull asked innocently as he had said everything else.

Globbercrank wheezed, still crushed in Thumbskull's bearhug, trying to maintain form. "Uh, Globbercrank?" He offered—though it came out more like *Globber-gak* as his ribs compressed. "Listen, you could be *legends*—not just freaks. Imagine headlines: 'Former Thief Thumbskull Saves Burning Orphanage With His Durable Skull'—way better than 'Guy With Nail On Head Steals Toaster', right?" His stolen blond hair twitched toward a fire hydrant leaking water—metaphorically *right there*—but Frightwig’s crimson locks yanked it back with a wet *snap*.

"Come on Thumb, we've got to get going." She beckoned with one of her locks. She talked like she'd swallowed a juice box full of sugar and caffeine.

The trio of misfits didn't even glance back at Globbercrank as they sauntered off—Thumbskull lumbering like a wrecking ball with legs, Frightwig's hair slithering behind her like a nest of drunken snakes, and Acid Breath leaving a trail of melted sidewalk in his wake. The Galatrix on Benjamin's wrist sputtered like a dying engine, its interface flashing warnings in jagged alien glyphs that smelled suspiciously like burnt popcorn. He flexed his stolen fingers—still too stiff, still too *wrong*—and watched as a single blond hair detached itself from his scalp and slithered away like a traitorous worm.

Then the all too familiar time out sound of the Galatrix came—Globbercrank's stolen blond hair twitched violently as his patchwork form unraveled like a bad knitting project, leaving Benjamin Tennyson coughing on the pavement with his ribs still aching from Thumbskull's "friendly" squeeze.

The freaks may not of changed yet, but he had hope that they would eventually.

Meanwhile Zombozo kept on with his scheme.

"Laughter truly is the best medicine! For me that is!"

The spotlight swung wildly overhead, illuminating Zombozo's grotesque grin as he hovered mid-air, suspended by cables that pulsed with stolen mirth.

The crowd laughed yet again, despite there not being a joke of any kind.

Just then Benjamin and 'Amy' came back inside to stop Zombozo, they snuck up and hid behind some boxes. Benjamin looked behind him and looked at a way to big poster of Zombozo's face—his grin was way too wide, his eyes were hollow black pits with pinpricks of red staring right at Benjamin—like they knew he was there. The poster smelled like wet cardboard and cheap face paint.

"Okay, okay," Benjamin muttered to himself—his fingers drumming against his Galatrix—"Plan…plan… what's the plan—"

"Make him laugh," 'Amy' said suddenly—her voice glitching between octaves like a skipping record—"Clowns thrive on laughter, right? So make him laugh so hard he… explodes?"

Benjamin blinked. "That's not a thing."

"It could be."

Then—like a nightmare unfolding in slow motion—Zombozo's spotlight swung violently across the tent, illuminating the horrified faces of the audience mid-laugh. Their mouths stretched too wide, cheeks splitting at the edges like overripe fruit.

Benjamin saw there faces.

Oh God they looked so decayed.

He looked at the clown.

He now wanted Zombozo dead.

Not detained.

Not defeated.

Not even humiliated—though that would've been nice too.

Dead.

Preferably in a way that involved maximum irony—like choking on a pretzel mid-heist or getting hit by their own getaway ice cream truck. The kind of poetic justice that made Saturday morning cartoons feel like Shakespearean tragedies with higher stakes and significantly more laser beams.

Benjamin's ribs still ached from Thumbskull's "friendly" squeeze as he looked at the clown.

The Galatrix flickered Green and Purple

Good to go.

He pressed on the dial.

And circuitry returned.

Time to Bootleg.

Because that's who he was now.

His silhouette stretching like taffy in a microwave. Bones popped. Skin rippled. Then *pop*—Bootleg oozed into existence, his body a glitching mess of pixelated flesh and staticky edges. He smelled like burnt popcorn and wet socks.

Further in the tent, Zombozo cackled—a sound like nails on a chalkboard dipped in syrup. Bootleg's limbs twitched independent of each other—left leg sprinting while right arm dragged behind like a broken GIF. The laughter machine pulsed ahead, its pipes vomiting neon-colored mist that smelled like melted Jolly Ranchers and existential dread. Every step sent jittering pixels scattering from Bootleg's heels, his form destabilizing whenever someone in the audience snorted too hard.

"*gEt FuNnY oR gEt eAteN!*" Zombozo screeched into a microphone that looked suspiciously like a repurposed bone saw. The crowd's forced giggles hit Bootleg like a sandblaster—his left eye temporarily pixelating into a glitchy mess of emoji cubes.

He ducked behind a popcorn cart leaking butter-flavored ooze, watching as the machine's primary intake valve throbbed hungrily above Zombozo's head. The clown's suspenders snapped rhythmically against his ribs—each *twang* syncing with the machine's wheezing inhales.

His body had been telling him earlier that he needed to kill him, to erase him so he didn't feel so threatened. What was he now to me other than a sack of useless meat that happened to speak anymore? Was he really going to kill someone and take pleasure in it again?

Yes.

Yes he was.

Then Ghostfreak suddenly appeared behind Zombozo.

"BOO!" She shouted—right into Zombozo's ear.

The clown jumped three feet straight up—his pants literally falling down around his ankles—revealing polka-dot boxers that smelled like old bananas and existential dread. The laughter machine sputtered, its intake valves hiccuping mid-suck as Zombozo's terrified shriek short-circuited the stolen mirth pipeline. For one glorious second, the entire tent smelled like burning cotton candy and failure.

Bootleg's pixelated fingers oozed through the machine's access panel like sentient static, his form flickering between solid and *oh god what is that* as he bypassed safety protocols with a series of wet *blorps*. The Galatrix on his wrist spat corrupted code—jagged alien glyphs scrolling sideways like a drunk PowerPoint presentation. Somewhere behind him, Ghostfreak cackled in that bone-rattling way that made houseplants wither, her ectoplasmic form doing the macarena just to mess with Zombozo's depth perception.

"̵̧̮̮̟̳̬̣̙̭̓͂̈́̓̊̄̄̃͌̒̓B̷̺͔̰̈́̎l̶̢̝̤̠̃̈́̾̀̏̈̓̂̈́̚͝O̸̳͙̫̺͈͍͍͖̮̹̞̟̘̾͗̇̆̈́́̃͘̚ͅń̵̛͓͙͙̦̖̳͎̰͇̜͇́̇̃͐͌̎̓̆̕̕͜͝ͅḐ̸̟͎̺̈̈́͆̐̏͊̃̌ë̵̛͇͔̠̗̪͓͔͇͕͍̺̘͙́̀̾̓̊̃̄̈̂̈́͌̚͘͜͝Ş̴̹̣̣́͒̈́̂̐̉̓̕ ̷͖̦͔̦̼̱̤̻̙̳̉̈́ḧ̸̡́͝A̸̫̞̟̘̗͙̺͇͙͍͓̤̣͉͈͆̍̍̾̑̑̏̽̍̌̂͝͠͝ṿ̶̡̧̱̝͔̺͖̱̙̜͉̪̽͌̚͠͝E̵̢̨̹͈̩̙̬͎̘̝̓̊̐̐̅̎̚̕ ̷̙̟͎̪͖̖̹̟͕̐̊̐̏̒̆̍̚ͅm̷̧̹̲͉̮̭̦͙̮̗̫̯̄̈͆̅̄̔̒̈́̔̂̚Ơ̷̢̦̘̲͉̖̹̜̙̼̿̽̋͛̾̒̒ṛ̷̢̡̪͙̰͇̱͓̼̱͈̜̂̈́̎̃̃̔͊̇̀͝͝E̶̥̾͌̆ ̵̢̥͓̙̹̞͊́̉̀͒̅̉͋̄̚f̸̡̟̹̝̭͖̬̬͉̙̠̣̳͈̚̚Ư̴̹̭̳̭͐̔̀̀͛̂̍͛̍̌͘͠ñ̵̨͓͚̥̜̞̠̰͔̮́̑̓͗̑̋͐́̀͗ͅ,̶̨̰͇͖̜̦̦̬̞͌͑̓̓͑̈̅̈́͝ͅ"̶̡͇̠̘̼̬̣̃͂͊̋̒͌ Bootleg glitch-moaned directly into the machine's primary resonator—his voice warping into a demonic Alvin-and-the-Chipmunks pitch as he uploaded a virus made of 90% bad clown puns and 10% actual malware. The machine whined like a stepped-on pug, its pipes swelling with neon pus before erupting in a geyser of confetti and despair.

Zombozo's suspenders snapped one by one—*twang-twang-TWANG*—as the recoil sent him pinwheeling into a dunk tank full of liquid awkwardness as Ghostfreak just cackled maniacally.

The crowd erupted into applause, they enjoyed it too, the brutal violence, the senseless aggression. What was wrong, the world or Benjamin's place in it, after all?

Completely disassembling Zombozo's contraption as Bootleg pulled his fluid mechanical body out of it, his unstable form pulsed with erratic energy—like a corrupted video file stuttering between frames. The laughter machine wheezed its final, pitiful breath, spewing a confetti-like substance that smelled suspiciously of melted gummy bears and existential despair.

Bootleg's limbs flickered in and out of coherence, his pixels scattering like startled ants as he turned his attention toward the still-flailing Zombozo—still half-trapped in the dunk tank, his polka-dotted pants suction-cupped around his knees. The laughter machine, now wheezing like an asthmatic jack-in-the-box, pulsed weakly in the corner, its neon glow dimming in erratic bursts.

Ghostfreak hovered nearby, her ectoplasmic form rippling like oil on water, amusement rolling off her in waves. "You gonna finish him off?" she teased, her voice dipping into a whisper that slithered behind Bootleg's ears like an unwelcome thought.

Bootleg didn't answer.

He didn't need to.

"Oh well, sadly I have plans for him anyways." She said simply as she grabbed Zombozo and became intangible as he screamed in agony and for mercy that never came as he was dragged into the earth itself.

Later everyone started to recover from the affects of the machine...

"Wha- Ben? ...Hey, where's the popcorn?"

"Long story, walk and talk?"

"Sure...? I think?"

Chapter Text

The fan's rhythmic *whomp-whomp-whomp* synced perfectly with Gwen's foot tapping against the linoleum—a human metronome counting down to Benjamin's impending doom. Somewhere between the third *whomp* and Max's sigh deeper than the Mariana Trench, the Galatrix chose that exact moment to spit out a hairpin-sized screw that bounced off Benjamin's forehead with a *plink*.

"Y'know," Gwen drawled, peeling a banana with the same surgical precision she'd use dissecting Benjamin's excuses, "most people's watches tell time. Yours tells *interdimensional OSHA violations*." She flicked the peel at Benjamin's chest—a yellow flag for *penalty: being a stranger*.

Benjamin's simply continued making a new origami while showing the process with XLR8, Six Arms, Amorph-Ooze, TenTen, Stinkfly, Grey Matter, while Wildmutt sat in his lap as best as she could, (Ripjaws needed to always stay in water and Heatblast kept burning everything in sight so they were in the watch.)

Benjamin started shaking his hands to show his latest creation, "And thennnn..." He paused for dramatic effect, "... BAM!" He threw the folded paper into the air, "A paper crane that can actually fly!" The crane whizzed around the Rustbucket's cramped interior like a drunken bumblebee before crash-landing in Max's untouched coffee cup—which immediately began bubbling ominously. Gwen raised an eyebrow.

"I'll never understand how you do that..." Gwen muttered.

Soon, the Tennyson family checked in to a fancy hotel in New York City named the "Zylphax Grand," its lobby smelling like old money and new disinfectant. Gwen gasped at the gold-plated elevators while Max dug through his wallet for the reservation confirmation—printed on actual paper of course.

"Wow, this hotel has everything! A full day spa, an indoor pool..."

"Now, don't get too used to it, it's only for one night," Max said, patting her shoulder.

"Too late! I've already mentally redecorated their spa with my imaginary interior design degree!" Gwen shot back, twirling through the lobby like a discount ballerina on espresso shots.

The hotel's chandelier tinkled in sympathy as Gwen suddenly screeched to a halt. "Guys. Guys. There's a Sumo Slammer XXVII pre-release tournament. In the penthouse. With ACTUAL, LIVING, BREATHING *Sumo Slammer developers*." Her whisper carried the gravitas of someone announcing the apocalypse.

Benjamin's Galatrix chose that exact moment to emit a sound suspiciously like a whoopee cushion, its faceplate flickering between "error" glyphs and a pixelated middle finger. Gwen snorted into her complimentary hotel slippers.

"Are you sure you're okay Ben? You look greener than usual," Gwen said, poking his forehead where a suspiciously alien-looking vein pulsed under his skin.

Benjamin twitched. "I'm fine!" he insisted, just as the Galatrix faceplate popped open and started sparking.

Gwen leaned back, narrowly avoiding singeing her eyebrows. "Oh yeah, totally fine," she deadpanned. "Because nearly exploding wristwatches are *totally* normal."

The Galatrix emitted a sound like a dying kazoo before speaking inside of Benjamin's mind, /You still haven't taken my deal, Benjamin Kirby Tennyson. I could fix us right now—permanent upgrades, no more glitches. Just say the word./

Benjamin grit his teeth. "Not happening, Chuckles."

Gwen blinked at him. "Did you just call your watch 'Chuckles'?"

Before he could answer, the Galatrix suddenly projected a hologram of a tiny alien doing the macarena directly onto Gwen's forehead.

"—Okay, new rule number... three I think(?)," Gwen said, swatting at the hologram, "your malfunctioning jewelry doesn’t get to disrespect personal space."

"Y-yeah, I'm going to go out before I accidently become Hot Shot and me and Heatblast burn the building down or something like that...!" Benjamin stammered, backing away from Gwen with his hands up as the Galatrix sputtered dangerously between hissing and giggling like a possessed jack-in-the-box.

Gwen narrowed her eyes. "Oh no you don’t—you think I don’t recognize the 'Ben’s about to do something kinda stupid shuffle? You look like you're trying to moonwalk out of accountability!"

"Maybe so but tell Grandpa I'm at the arcade or something!" Benjamin blurred toward the door and down the hall before Gwen could shout anything.

Soon, Benjamin was at a nearby arcade, inside, Benjamin saw many people around his age or older playing on arcade machines. Benjamin slowly booted up a baseball batting game. As the digital pitcher threw the ball, the screen immediately flashed "Game Over".

"Game Over?! It just started!" Benjamin said to a nearby employee "This stupid thing ate my tokens!"

"Read the sign, kid." The employee said pointing to a sign that says "Play at your own risk". Benjamin sighed and walked away from the machine, muttering under his breath. "This place is a fucking ripoff, you know that?" he said to himself.

A kid with a long (but shorter than Benjamin's) and dark hair standing near Benjamin spoke up. "You're right. The games here stink." Benjamin looked at the kid and smirked. "Yeah, but not as bad as his breath!" He jabbed a thumb toward the employee. "MAJOR case of 'shit mouth'!" The kid chuckled.

"Harsh words for a guy whose breath could fumigate a landfill," the dark haired kid snorted, nudging Benjamin with his elbow.

The dark haired kid chuckled, "You're really funny! Here, you owe me one." The kid walked over and layed his hand on a machine. Red electricity the shot out from his hand and the machine spewed out a mountain of silver tokens.

Benjamin's eyes widened, "Woah, how'd you do that?!"

"Some people got skills..." The kid smirked, "Others got... skills." He kicked a token at Benjamin who caught it mid-air.

"I... I think I have skills too," Benjamin muttered, looking down at his watch, "Thanks. I'm Benjamin."

"Name's Kevin."

Benjamin grinned, already imagining the possibilities. "Wanna play some air hockey?"

Kevin's eyes flicked over Benjamin's shoulder, spotting two bruisers with greased-back hair lurking near the prize counter. Their knuckles were practically dragging on the floor. "Nah, gotta bounce." He tossed a token in the air, caught it between his teeth like a coin.

Benjamin grabbed Kevin's arm before he could disappear into the crowd. "Wait, I just saw you look over at them—they've been giving you trouble before, huh?" The Galatrix pulsed yellow-green against his wrist like a warning light. Kevin tensed, fingers crackling with unstable energy. "Not me giving them trouble?" he said with a smirk that didn't reach his eyes.

One of the bruisers cracked his knuckles loud enough to echo. Gwen would've called this a 'bad life choice crossroads.' Benjamin called it, 'The Spider-Man Moment'—that second where Peter Parker sees Uncle Ben’s killer and realizes running means you’re a coward forever.

Kevin’s electricity flickered like a busted red neon sign. "You gonna bolt?"

"Nah." Benjamin grinned. The Galatrix spun under his sleeve. "I’m gonna do something *real* stupid."

One of the bruisers lunged—right into Benjamin’s fist. Or rather, right into *Sex(tuple) Smack* fist, because the Galatrix finally decided to cooperate with a flash of green light and a sound effect suspiciously like a glitchy timer. Sex(tuple) Smack's extra limbs flailed momentarily before he planted a sixth knuckle sandwich right into the thug’s solar plexus.

Kevin’s jaw dropped. “What the—*you're* a freak too?!” His smirk returned, wilder now, as Benjamin—currently Sex(tuple) Smack—punched another thug so hard his baseball cap spun like a helicopter blade.

“Freak? Pfft.” One of Sex(tuple) Smack’s extra arms grabbed a soda cup off a nearby table and chucked it at Thug #3’s forehead. “I prefer *multitasker*.” The cup exploded in a sticky rain of fizzy doom.

"So, how's the hangout Ren? Still trashed like I left it for you?!" Kevin shouted, watching as Sex(tuple) Smack slammed another guy into a claw machine that promptly malfunctioned and rained stuffed Zombo-Zorbs onto the screaming arcade patrons.

"Yeah, and you're gonna pay!" Thug #2—whose breath smelled suspiciously like expired nacho cheese and crushed dreams—swung a pool cue at Sex(tuple) Smack's face. It snapped in half against his forehead, which, rude.

Kevin, meanwhile, was doing his best impression of a malfunctioning disco ball—sparks flying everywhere as he zapped the claw machine's power cord for extra chaos. "You call *me* a freak?" he cackled, kicking over a prize counter. "Bro, you're fighting a guy with *six arms* and losing!"

Sex(tuple) Smack snatched Thug #4 mid-swing—three hands gripping limbs, one clamping his mouth shut, another stealing his wallet just for karma, and the sixth casually grabbing someone's abandoned milkshake off a nearby table. "Mmm. Kiwi." He slurped loudly while the guy mumbled muffled threats into his palm.

Kevin electrocuted a pinball machine behind them, sending it into a frenzy of flashing lights and screaming sound effects that drowned out Thug #1’s dramatic "YOU HAVEN’T SEEN THE LAST OF—" before the machine spat a ball directly into his forehead. *Ding!*

The arcade staff had long since evacuated—except for one employee watching from behind bulletproof glass, scribbling furious notes on a clipboard. His name tag read *"Daryl (Ask Me About Our Token Policy)"*.

Kevin kicked a pile of scattered tickets into the air like confetti. "Woo! High score, baby!" He high fived Sex(tuple) Smack—or tried to, but got six palms instead. "Okay, creepy. But useful."

"Tell me about it," Sex(tuple) Smack said, cracking his knuckles—all eighteen of them. "Soooo, about that ‘freak’ thing—"

"Pfffft." Kevin yanked open a busted vending machine, tossing Sex(tuple) Smack a soda. "Freak? Please. You just saved me 10 bucks in quarters." The can bounced off Sex(tuple) Smack's forehead—three hands caught it mid-air while the other three casually flipped off the wrecked arcade behind them.

"Hey, want a tour of New York bro?!"

Kevin tossed the last gumball from his stolen haul into his mouth, crunching it between his teeth with the same reckless energy he used to short-circuit the ticket dispenser earlier. Outside the arcade’s shattered doors, neon signs flickered weakly against the dusk—like they were exhausted just watching these two.

Sex(tuple) Smack—now just Benjamin again—winced as the Galatrix spat him back into his scrawny human form.

The arcade looked like a tornado made of bad decisions: overturned cabinets spat sparks like dying campfires, prize tickets fluttered like surrender flags, and somewhere in the wreckage, Thug #3 groaned into a puddle of neon-green slushie.

Kevin kicked one of the thugs in the head before they left.

Soon they were going down the street (very few people actually seemed to show a hint of caring that they were alone).

"So, how'd you get your power anyways Kevin?"

"I was born with it! I'm like an energy sponge. Motors, air conditioners, lights, batteries, whatever! Soak it up, then dish it out when I have to... or want to."

Kevin grinned, kicking a dented soda can down the sidewalk. It ricocheted off a fire hydrant and smacked a parking meter, which—through some cosmic joke—actually spat out a quarter. Benjamin, still buzzing from the adrenaline of his impromptu alien brawl, stared at it like it had personally insulted him.

"Man, even the *street* owes you money," Benjamin joked, "Still, cool."

"Come on! I'll show you where I live!"

Kevin yanked Benjamin’s wrist—still sore from the Galatrix’s latest ejection—down a graffiti-slathered and abandoned subway station. A few TVs and game consoles sat on the floor, an ATM sat next to the abandoned ticket booth, and a tattered Sumo Slammers poster hung halfway off the wall.

Benjamin whistled, kicking at a crushed soda can. "You *live* here?"

Kevin flopped onto a couch that had suspiciously scorch marks on its cushions. "Yeah, by myself!"

Benjamin glanced at the flickering fluorescents, their buzzing undercut by distant subway rumbles. "What about your family?"

Kevin’s grin faltered for half a second—long enough for Benjamin to notice, not long enough to call him out. "Long gone! They weren’t too thrilled having a no good ‘freak’ for a son, then my powers came in and..." He rolled his eyes, electricity crackling between his fingers like static. "But it just means I don’t answer to *nobody*."

Benjamin picked up a smashed arcade token from the floor, rolling it between his fingers as he started to frown and the wires in his brains started, "Wait, you were a freak before you got your powers? How does that work?"

Kevin snorted, tossing a half-melted candy bar wrapper into the air and zapping it mid-flight just for the fun of it before sadly chuckling. "I don't wanna talk about it..."

Benjamin sat down next to him, "Are you sure you don't want to? I'd probably understand." He offered meekly.

"I'm sure you wouldn't, nobody did back home upstate..." He sighed as he gazed of into the distance.

Benjamin decided to change the topic, "So, why was that gang after you anyways?"

Kevin smirked, kicking his feet up on the makeshift table—a repurposed pinball machine covered in scorch marks and graffiti. "Oh you know, the usual," he said, twirling a sparking finger in the air like it was no big deal. "I kinda trashed their hangout under the 37th Street bridge. They got *real* sensitive about it."

Benjamin snorted. "Sounds like they needed a makeover anyway—did ‘em a favor!"

Kevin grinned, flashing teeth that looked a little too sharp, but only for a moment, "Well, what about you?"

Benjamin hesitated—his Galatrix flickered red, pulsing like a heartbeat against his wrist.

"You tell me," he muttered, twisting the dial absentmindedly.

The silence stretched.

Somewhere above them, water dripped from a broken pipe, hitting the concrete floor with a rhythmic *plink-plink-plink*. Kevin drummed his fingers against the side of his leg, electricity crackling between them like static before a storm.

"You gonna answer or what?"

Benjamin sighed. "Fine. Yeah. My powers have always been... strange, for lack of a better term," he admitted, scratching his wrist where the Galatrix pulsed uncomfortably. "But lately? They’ve been straight-up *possessive*. Like, I’ll turn into Heatblast and suddenly feel like I *need* to burn something to show my dominance."

Kevin snorted, tossing a sparking arcade token between his fingers. "Dude, you sound like me after I've had to much energy."

Benjamin ignored the bait. "Point is, I used to think this thing was just tech. Now, it feels like it’s *alive*." He flipped the Galatrix’s dial—it hissed at him.

"To being freaks?"

"To being freaks!" Kevin grinned, clinking his soda can against Benjamin's wrist—specifically against the Galatrix, which responded by loudly *bleeping* like a disgruntled microwave. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm went off in solidarity.

Kevin and Benjamin then began yawning after a while—their adrenaline rush fading, "So wanna watch some t.v.?" Kevin asked, flipping on a battered flat screen that flickered to life with static.

It was William Harangue.

Because of course it fucking was.

William Harangue's face filled the screen, his signature smirk plastered on like bad wallpaper. "BREAKING NEWS—what *appears* to be the all too sinister six-armed *alien freak*—and his *electrified delinquent* accomplice—have *terrorized* innocent civilians—left a *trail of destruction*—and *ruined* childhood nostalgia *forever*—by *violating* the Golden Rule of Arcades—*thou shalt not curb-stomp the claw machine!*"

The camera cut to shaky footage of Benjamin as Sex(tuple) Smack—three hands yanking Thug #2's pants down while two others stole his wallet and the sixth gave him a noogie. Harangue's voice dripped sarcasm. "Witnesses describe the creature as—*quote*—'a spider monkey dipped in radioactive glitter'—though frankly, that *insults* spider monkeys!"

Kevin sneered, tossing a half-empty soda can at the screen—it hit with a wet *thwack* and exploded into fizzy shrapnel. The TV fizzed out in retaliation, leaving only Harangue’s smarmy grin seared into their retinas like a bad sunburn.

Benjamin groaned, rubbing his Galatrix as it emitted a disgruntled *beep-blorp*. "Man, why does *that guy* always sound like he’s getting off to ripping on me? I mean, 'a spider monkey dipped in radioactive glitter', that doesn't even make any God damn sense!"

Kevin snorted, tossing another soda can in the trash—missing spectacularly—before stretching out on his busted-up couch. "Eh, who cares? People like him? They *want* freaks to be the problem—makes 'em feel better about their own faults that they could actually fix."

Benjamin frowned at his Galatrix as it pulsed angrily. "Yeah, well, maybe if I didn’t keep turning into a walking circus act—"

"Hey." Kevin jabbed a finger at him. "That’s *our* walking circus act now. And lemme tell ya, watching you deck that guy with *six* arms? Hilarious." His grin softened just a fraction—like he’d caught himself enjoying something he wasn’t supposed to.

Benjamin blinked. "Wait, *our*?"

Kevin shrugged, suddenly fascinated by peeling paint on the ceiling. "Y’know. Teamwork. Or whatever."

"That... that would be nice actually." While he stopped the Circus Freaks from continuing that one crime, they were still out there, doing who knows what, maybe he could actually help someone without fighting here?

Benjamin hesitated for a second—then looked down at his watch.

Kevin also looked down, "Can you... can you turn into anything else?"

"Yeah, I can turn into one called Hot Shot."

"Dude, that sounds so 80's." Kevin snickered, kicking up his feet on the milk crate serving as his coffee table. A cockroach scurried away from his boot. "Hot Shot? What’s next, you gonna turn into a dude called Freeze Pop?"

Benjamin just rolled his eyes, "Here, let me show you..."

He tapped the watch face—once, twice (so Heatblast wouldn't appear, he needed to do this alone)—and he became Hot Shot once more.

"Cool..." He murmured, eyes tracing the way Benjamin's new form shimmered—like molten azure poured over an obsidian furnace. The Galatrix had spat out Hot Shot this time: a humanoid figure wreathed in blue controlled flames, his limbs segmented like overlapping armor plates. Kevin's grin faltered for half a second—long enough for Benjamin to notice.

"Dude, you’re staring." Hot Shot flicked a wrist, sending a harmless arc of cobalt embers dancing between them. "What, never seen a guy turn into a walking campfire before?" He smirked—or tried to, but his new facial plates made it look more like a grumpy toaster overheating.

Kevin then touched him.

No not in that way!

Hot Shot turned around as he heard a second flame as he got a good look at how Kevin was now: his entire body and head had been transformed to have his same rocky fiery skin, yet he was still the same size, maybe slightly bigger.

Kevin looked at his hands, his arms—his entire body was glowing like lava was under his skin—even his eyes were pits of flickering blue fire—and his hair had transformed into sharpened flame spikes.

Benjamin blinked—wait, did he just *infect* Kevin?!

Because Kevin was now *exactly* like Hot Shot. Same segmented plating, same cobalt embers flickering between his fingers—except Kevin’s flames had a lesser faint *purple* tinge around the edges, like they’d been dipped in grape soda. Benjamin—no, Hot Shot—stared. "Uh. Did I just—?"

"Oh, guess I can absorb DNA too..." Kevin muttered, staring at his hands as blue flames licked between his fingers. His voice cracked mid-sentence—because puberty *and* spontaneous combustion? Life wasn’t fair. The abandoned subway station smelled like burnt toast and regret.

Hot Shot—no, *Benjamin*—gaped. "Huh." Was all he could say.

Kevin flexed his newly fiery hands, watching as blue embers licked up his forearms—except where Benjamin’s flames were cobalt, his had that weird grape-soda purple tinge. "Okay," Kevin muttered, rolling his shoulders like he was testing out a new jacket. "This is *not* how I expected tonight to go." He shot Benjamin a smirk that was *way* too casual for someone who’d just *became fire* for the first time ever.

"This feels... amazing." Kevin's voice reverberated with an echoey crackle as he flexed his fiery fingers, watching purple-tinged flames ripple across his knuckles like liquid neon. Hot Shot took an instinctive step forward, his segmented plating clinking like overheating armor.

The abandoned subway station smelled like ozone and burnt microwave popcorn now—because of course Hot Shot's luck meant spontaneous combustion *and* emotional whiplash. Kevin stretched his fiery arms overhead, grinning as purple-tinged flames spiraled around his elbows, before wrapping them around Hot Shot's lower chest in what was either a terrifyingly tight hug or an attempted wrestling move. "Dude," Kevin rasped, hotter than the Manhattan pavement in July, "we should *always* do this. Two freaks against the world—no take backsies."

Hot Shot exhaled a plume of cobalt smoke through his segmented vents. "Yeah, that sounds nice..."

He hugged back, unlike Kevin, who's arms barely reach three fourths of the way there, his easily wrapped around Kevin’s torso. Hot Shot's arms were warm, but not uncomfortably hot like they usually were.

His heat was similar to when he was hugging Heatblast.

Hot Shot's vents wheezed out a nervous puff of steam as Kevin's grin widened—sharp incisors catching the flickering subway lights just right to make Hot Shot's core heating system skip a beat of bursting flame. Which was *absolutely* an overheating issue and *definitely* not related to how Kevin's borrowed flames made his pyrokinetic plating hum like a tuning fork dropped in a volcano.

"Y'know," Kevin drawled, "this whole 'sharing is caring' thing works *way* better if I could stay with you tonight."

Hot Shot's heating vents stalled mid-cycle. "Uh—"

"Relax, firecracker," Kevin smirked, his new hybrid arm sparking with unstable violet flames as he nudged Hot Shot toward the subway tracks. "I'm not asking you to share your *hot* tent—"

"OH MY GOD *STOP*—" Hot Shot's entire body flashed cobalt as steam vents erupted from his shoulders, sending a stray rat scrambling for cover.

"—but yeah, hopefully my grandpa won't mind you,... or me just running off like this..." Hot Shot scuffed his foot against the subway tracks, kicking a loose bolt that pinged off the rusted rails with a sound like a sad guitar string. Kevin rolled his eyes and flicked Hot Shot's forehead with a half-gloved finger.

-------------

Meanwhile Max and Gwen were pacing in the room, "Grey Matter, Upgrade, Stinkfly, Six Arms, Diamondhead, XLR8, Ten Ten, and Amorph-Ooze don't know where he went, yet Grey Matter is helping Wildmutt track down his sent while we can't do anything about it!" Gwen said angrily, "Ok ok ok ok ok ok, we'll find him just keep your cool." Max said calming Gwen down, Gwen sighed and looked down, "We'll find him." Max said putting his hand on her shoulder, Gwen looked up and smiled, "Yeah, we will." Gwen said happily, Max smiled, "Alright, let's get going."

Max said walking away, Gwen followed him, "He could be at—" She stopped and looked out the window, "Grandpa, it's Ben and... Heatblast, but,... she shrunk?"

Max looked out the window and saw Ben and Kevin walking down the street, Kevin's arm now glowing purple with unstable energy. His eyes widened, "That's *not* Heatblast."

Meanwhile, the aliens were still out there looking for Benjamin, Grey Matter riding Wildmutt like a furry motorcycle through neon-lit alleyways, sniffing discarded chili fries for clues. "Either he’s really hungry," Grey Matter muttered, "or he’s leaving a trail of poor life choices." Wildmutt sneezed, shaking her lanky rider off mid-sprint.

Back on the street, Kevin's and Benjamin's transformations had ended, Benjamin's with with that all too familiar beeping and flash and Kevin's more so just faded away under his skin.

Kevin smirked, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the last remnants of Heatblast's—no, *Hot Shot's*—fire. "Man, that was *nuts.* You see the way I—?" He cut himself off when he noticed Benjamin staring at him with wide, almost starstruck eyes. "What? Got somethin' on my face?" He wiped at his cheek, half-expecting residual flames.

Benjamin blinked, snapping out of it. "N-no! I just—" He gestured vaguely at Kevin’s arm, where the purple energy had crackled moments before. "You *absorbed* it. Like, *actually* absorbed it. That’s kind of amazing."

Kevin snorted, nudging him with his elbow. "Yeah, well, *you're* the one with the fancy watch that can turn you into *ten* freaky aliens. Talk about unfair advantages." He flexed his fingers, watching the last wisps of purple energy flicker between his knuckles. "Kinda weird though—your fire’s *blue*, but mine’s all... half grape soda." He wrinkled his nose. "Guess I’m stuck with the knockoff version."

Benjamin grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. "Dude, you *coppied* my alien. That’s *way* cooler than just pushing buttons." He paused, then added with a smirk, "Even if your's isn't perfect, it's cuter and smaller, in a creepy alien monster sort of way."

Kevin scoffed, kicking a loose chunk of concrete. "Yeah, sure, whatever, watch boy." But something twisted in his chest—something warm and weirdly *nice*—when Benjamin called him that. He scowled to cover it up. "You're lucky I didn't fry your eyebrows off with my *grape soda* flames, huh?"

Benjamin sighed, nudging him with his elbow—carefully, because Kevin still smelled faintly of ozone and burnt chocolate. "I saw my Grandpa and my cousin Gwen in the window in that hotel room when I was Hot Shot—I mean—ugh, whatever—when *you* were *also* Hot Shot—" He groaned, dragging his hands down his face. "This is *so* confusing. Worse than that time Ghostfreak first kept talking to me *inside my own head.*"

Kevin smirked, stretching his arms behind his head. "Eh, I’ve had weirder Mondays. Once I absorbed the metal of a vending machine for like, three hours. Long story." He kicked a loose bolt across the subway tracks, watching it clatter into the darkness. The dim emergency lights flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows across Benjamin’s face. It was kinda cute how stressed he looked—like an over-caffeinated squirrel with bad wifi reception.

Benjamin groaned as they made their way past reception. "You’re *impossible*. Like, scientifically. Like, ‘break the laws of thermodynamics’ impossible." He poked Kevin’s shoulder—still warm, but like he just got out of a hot shower, not combusted.

Then there was Gwen and Grandpa Max sprinting towards him.

Benjamin blinked. "Uh."

Gwen skidded to a halt, glaring like Benjamin just microwaved her favorite book. "Ohhhh, I *hope* you have a *really* good explanation—"

Max cut her off with a sigh that somehow managed to be louder than the Rustbucket’s engine. "Benjamin Kirby Tennyson, *what* did I say about—"

Benjamin groaned, throwing his hands up. "Okay, okay! First of all, *middle name*? Really? Second—" He gestured wildly at Kevin, who was currently trying to look innocent by leaning against a hotel wall like it owed him money. "—Kevin *needed* me!"

Kevin just awkwardly waved at them, "Hi, Mr. Tennyson..."

God he was terrible at first impressions.

Max looked at him for a moment, his expression and posture now much gentler, like he'd just been thinking about something. He sighed and adjusted his hat.

Gwen narrowed her eyes at Kevin, who was still leaning against the wall awkwardly. "Okay, and *why* did he *need* you?"

Benjamin fidgeted with the Galatrix, which currently looked like it had been dipped in grape soda residue—which, considering Kevin's earlier "flamethrower hiccup incident," wasn’t far from the truth. Kevin leaned against the wall again, thinking of the best way to phrase it.

"Well... I met Benjamin in the local arcade and he helped me from some people who were trying to rob me." That was... mostly the truth, except for the part where Kevin was technically the one doing the robbing, and Benjamin was *supposed* to be stopping him, but semantics, right?

SUMMARY^1: Gwen and Max confront Benjamin about his reckless escapade with Kevin, who poorly attempts to spin their misadventures as a noble rescue—omitting his own criminal role—while Benjamin awkwardly defends their actions. Max’s unexpected patience contrasts Gwen’s skepticism, leaving Kevin scrambling to justify their partnership.

Max just sighed, "But that doesn't explain why Benjamin originally left, why you took so long to come back, and why you aren't home with your family." He finished with his arm on Kevin's shoulder.

Kevin froze, out of excuses and feeling like a deer caught in a car's headlights.

Gwen rolled her eyes. "Let me guess: runaway?"

Kevin kicked the dirt, avoiding their eyes. "I... don't have anywhere else to go."

Max frowned. He couldn't help but notice the faded bruises visible on Kevin's arms beneath his torn jacket—some fresh, some older than they should be. "...Alright. Benjamin, Gwen, we're taking Kevin back to the Rustbucket."

Benjamin grinned, throwing an arm around Kevin's shoulder—partly out of relief, partly because Kevin's smirk made his stomach do weird somersaults when they touched. "Told ya we'd figure it out!"

Kevin shoved him off jokingly, "Yeah, yeah. Just don't expect me to thank you, Benjamin."

Benjamin grinned. "Wouldn't dream of it," he shot back, nudging Kevin's shoulder—but Grandpa Max interviened before they could continue their banter, "Don't think this makes you fully of the hook Benjamin, you still have some explaining to do when we find..."

He paused and looked at Kevin.

Benjamin got what he meant, "It's fine Grandpa, he knows... mostly" He reassured, even if a bit bitter at likely being in trouble.

Max let out a final, deep sigh, "Of course he does... Well, we got to find them,before there who knows where."

Soon they made their way to the Rustbucket and opened the door.

Kevin nearly fainted at what he saw...

Aliens.

All almost definitely girls, but aliens.

Aliens were real.

Actually real.

One of them looked like, what did Benjamin call himself Sex Smack (That name was hilarious by the way!) but a girl and was just chilling on the couch flipping through TV channels with two fingers while eating popcorn in a very human way...but with six arms.

Another was a pink blob-like girl watching a soap opera intently.

The Tennyson trip looked back at him, with Benjamin holding his arm out to him.

Kevin blinked—once, twice—like his brain was buffering.

The pink blob-girl (Gloop? Blobby? He didn’t *care* what she would be called, she was *real*) sniffled at some soap opera twist, her gelatinous form wobbling with dramatic tension. Sex Smack’s lady counterpart—flipped channels with the precision of a bored god, tossing popcorn into one of her *six* mouths like this was Tuesday.

Which, for them, it probably was by now.

"I thought you said you explained this Ben?" Gwen whispered through clenched teeth, watching Kevin sway slightly like a punch-drunk boxer.

Kevin's eyes darted between the pink blob-girl (who just dramatically gasped "*Maury* lied to me?!" at the TV) and the six-armed alien casually juggling three remotes while chewing popcorn. His mouth flapped open—closed—then finally landed on: "So. Uh. You guys just... keep aliens in your RV? Like... pets?"

Benjamin choked on his own spit. "WHAT? No! They're—okay, first off, rude—It's—look, whenever I unlock a new form the watch produces another of that species."

"So like Adam and Eve but with steps and levels of weirdness?" Kevin blurted, staring at the giant blue fly thing currently binge-watching a courtroom drama. His fingers twitched with residual electricity—half from nervous energy, half from the leftover charge he'd absorbed from a store owner's antique waffle iron earlier.

Benjamin groaned, rubbing his temples. "No, Kevin—they're not pets, they're...ugh, kinda like roommates? It's just that I can't exactly pretend to be normal if everyone knew my secret identity, you know?"

No.

He didn't know.

Because even before his powers first activated last year, he could hide THAT part of himself.

No matter how hard he had tried back then.

Or right now.

Chapter Text

Kevin was still getting used to being on a road trip with a bunch of aliens—some of whom had questionable hygiene.

One minute, he was watching Stinkfly projectile-vomit slime at Gwen (hilarious), and the next, he was staring at Six Arms flipping through TV channels—each arm holding a different remote.

"Okay, but—" Kevin gestured wildly at the basically eldritch horror that was Upgrade, who was currently attempting to microwave three different burritos simultaneously while arguing with herself in binary. "—how is THAT not a fire hazard?"

Benjamin shrugged, kicking his feet up on the Rustbucket's dash. "Eh, fire hazard's kinda relative when you're living with a guy who can turn into a walking furnace." He flashed Kevin a grin—the kind that made Kevin's fingers twitch again, not from power absorption this time.

Gwen rolled her eyes so hard Kevin swore he heard them click. "Relax, sparky. Upgrade's got it handled." As if on cue, one of the microwave burritos exploded into a spray of molten cheese—immediately caught midair by Six Arms' third hand, who licked it off without breaking eye contact with the courtroom drama.

Kevin exhaled through his nose. "You all are—"

"Magnificent?" Benjamin interrupted, flipping a half-eaten pickle into his mouth.

"Certifiable," Kevin corrected, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Something about the chaos felt... familiar. Not the alien part—the part where Benjamin laughed like an idiot when Stinkfly's slime dripped onto Gwen's homework. Like he'd never had to hide anything.

Soon, Kevin and a pair of two kids in a nearby RV were making funny faces at each other behind Max’s back. Kevin stuck out his tongue, flared his nostrils, and crossed his eyes—Gwen mirrored him but added a grotesque snort-slash-gurgle noise that made Kevin choke on his own spit.

Meanwhile Benjamin continued to try and teach Grey Matter about his origami techniques, "For the tenth time, you're supposed to fold the left wing—"

"Silence, Simpleton!" Grey Matter snapped in that annoying squeaky voice, "When constructing a paper drone capable of aerial reconnaissance, one must account for—"

The paper exploded mid-sentence. Benjamin blinked at the smoking remnants stuck to Grey Matter's face. Kevin snorted from the couch—caught halfway between amusement and realizing he'd just spent twenty minutes watching this trainwreck instead of stealing snacks like he'd planned.

Something about Benjamin's ridiculous persistence—how he kept trying despite Grey Matter's condescension—hit Kevin weirdly in the chest. Like recognizing your own reflection in a funhouse mirror.

"Yo, Tennyson," Kevin lobbed a pretzel at Benjamin's head. "Your idea of fun needs serious—"

Benjamin caught it without looking and tossed it into his mouth. "Upgrades?"

"—psychiatric evaluation," Kevin finished, tossing another pretzel. This time Benjamin pretended to catch it but let it bounce off his forehead into Grey Matter’s unfinished paper drone. The resulting screech from the tiny genius was worth the retaliatory smack to the back of Benjamin’s head with a protractor.

"Ow! What was—"

"Justice," Gwen deadpanned without looking up from her textbook, where she was currently fending off Stinkfly’s attempts to draw mustaches on her diagrams with his sticky digits.

Kevin watched the chaos unfold—Benjamin rubbing his head with one hand while using the other to block Ghostfreak from photobombing Gwen’s homework with spooky overlays. There was something weirdly... comforting about the pandemonium. Like the Rustbucket was a spaceship perpetually one wrong button press away from exploding, but somehow Benjamin kept it all from crashing.

Not that Kevin would ever admit it.

"So," Kevin leaned back, propping his boots on the dashboard just to watch Max twitch. "How DO you make those origami anyways?"

Benjamin grinned, already crumbling another sheet. "Step one: never listen to Grey Matter."

The lanky and crimson alien smacked Benjamin's thumb with a wrench. "Step two: cease breathing on my workstation!"

Then the kids in the other RV decided to eat thier pizza and showed it all chewed up to Kevin.

Kevin could only gag.

"Ohhhh man. The anchovy special."

Then he got an idea, he saw Wildmutt napping next to Amorph-Ooze and Ten Ten doing their own versions of origami figures—an awful idea formed. He tapped on Wildmutt's head, who growled awake. "Okay, listen," Kevin whispered, "I need you to go to the window and quietly growl, can you do that for me big girl?"

Wildmutt tilted her head, ears twitching in confusion, then let out a soft, confused *"Whrrr?"*

Kevin grinned. "Perfect." He nudged Amorph-Ooze with his boot. "Hey, slimeball, I need you to stretch the nastiest face you got right in front of the window."

Amorph-Ooze bubbled in protest, clearly offended at being called "slimeball" but slithering forward nonetheless. Meanwhile, Benjamin, oblivious and mid-fold, frowned at his latest disaster—an origami kraken with a lopsided smile. "Okay, okay, maybe this one looks *intentionally* deranged—WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" His head snapped up just as Wildmutt pressed her face against the glass, snarling with Amorph-Ooze stretched into a nightmarish grin beside her.

The kids were easily scared out of thier wits and screams, prompting their mother to look at them. The mother was obviously scared too and sped ahead of the Rustbucket.

Wildmutt lies down on the floor and laughs.

"There is such a thing as 'taking a joke too far', you know," Gwen deadpans, watching Kevin subtlely low-five Benjamin with a grin that suggests they've just invented mischief itself.

Kevin only continued to laugh.

Suddenly Max called from the front, "Benjamin, you better get up here."

Wildmutt whirled around mid-laugh, her alien snickering morphing into an alarmed yelp as the Rustbucket screeched to a halt. She skidded across the floor—claws scraping grooves into the linoleum—and collided face-first with the fridge, knocking loose Gwen’s carefully labeled snack containers. The resulting avalanche of granola bars and juice boxes buried Wildmutt up to her twitching ears.

They saw a propane truck had overturned and the truck driver was stuck inside. There was also a fire spreading just outside the truck.

"HELP!" The driver banged on the door.

"If that propane catches fire," Max said, already rolling up his sleeves, "that truck’ll be halfway to the moon before we blink."

The driver looked on, terrified.

Wildmutt—still half-buried in Gwen’s snack avalanche—let out a muffled growl that sounded suspiciously like, *"I got this."

Benjamin then slammed on the Galatrix into Skunkmoth while Kevin just grinned at the new form—his grin widening with each passing millisecond.

Skunkmoth and Stinkfly flew out of the RV and closer to the truck. The flames' intensity increases, making Skunkmoth and Stinkfly step back.

"Ugh! Ouch! The fire's too intense. Hey, wait a minute, that gives me an idea..."

"Come on, folks. Give the... bug things a chance to work this out."

Skunkmoth took to the air and shot slime at the fire, extinguishing it. He then went on top of the truck and used his sharp tail to tear the metal off the roof. Stinkfly followers suit and used her hands to create a hole big enough to get the truck driver out. She picked the driver up and flies.

"AAAAAH!"

Stinkfly safely dropped the driver down.

"Loogie saves lives."

"What?"

"AAAH! That's the monster that ate that kid!" screamed the same burger-munching brat from earlier, pointing at Skunkmoth with a trembling finger.

Skunkmoth blinked all six eyes. "Uh, actually, I prefer *lightly sautéed*—"

Stinkfly cackled, wings buzzing. "Time to book it before these normies have a meltdown!" The two insectoid aliens took off midair, narrowly avoiding Gwen’s flying history textbook aimed at their heads.

"Real subtle, hero," Gwen deadpanned, watching Skunkmoth’s slime trail splatter across a "World’s Largest Ball of Twine" exhibit.

Inside the Rustbucket, Kevin was already elbow-deep in Max’s secret snack stash. "Dude, your grandpa hides jerky *in* the toolboxes? Genius."

Benjamin reverted mid-stride, tripping over his own feet. "Worth it. Did you see that guy’s face when Stinkfly did the—" He mimed a horrific chewing motion.

Gwen groaned. "You’re both disgusting."

"Correction," Kevin said, tossing a beef stick at Skunkmoth’s slime-covered boots. "*We’re* disgusting *together.*"

After Benjamin transformed back, the Tennysons, aliens, and Kevin continued along the road and approached a specific location. Benjamin soon began to read out the signs on the roadside.

"Yooouuu'll haaave a baaall with iiit!" he mocked in a singsong voice, elongating vowels unnecessarily.

Gwen rolled her eyes. "Next exit. Wow, what riveting signage."

Benjamin practically vibrated with impatience as they pulled into Sparksville—population: "Who cares?"—where excitement hung in the air thicker than the smog over Kevin’s questionable life choices.

"Come on, Gramps," Benjamin whined. "At least give us a hint of what 'it' is."

Max remained cryptically smug. "Uh-uh. No hints. Been planning this stop all summer."

Inside the Rustbucket, Wildmutt sniffed Gwen’s discarded textbook with mild interest before Amorph-Ooze engulfed it in a grotesque mimicry of digestion. Grey Matter, perched atop Kevin’s shoulder origami-style, adjusted non-existent glasses.

"Statistically," the lanky genius mused, "there’s a 98.7% chance whatever ‘it’ is will be profoundly underwhelming."

Kevin snorted. "Dude, I grew up in a junkyard, and *this* place looks like somebody’s sad attempt at tourism after eating bad gas station sushi." He gestured at the "World’s Largest Thermometer," which listed temperatures exclusively in Kelvin—"For *science*," according to the peeling sign.

Wildmutt, loping alongside Gwen, promptly marked it anyway.

"Really?!" Gwen recoiled. "Now *you’re* infected with their stupidity!"

Grey Matter—currently perched on the stove top like a bizarre living brooch—adjusted her nonexistent glasses. "Statistically, places boasting ‘largest’ inanimate objects have a 2% higher chance of housing interdimensional rifts. Or taxidermy mistakes." She paused. "Which reminds me—did Wildmutt *lick* the thermometer?"

"Technically, no," Kevin said, tossing a bolt into his mouth and chewing contemplatively. "But she definitely tried to claim it in the name of ‘dominance’ or whatever. You aliens got *issues*."

They quickly reached their destination. Max walked out of the RV. He took care of some things and then opened the door of the RV.

Now, the three of you, close your eyes.

Max’s voice carried that grandfatherly authority that made resistance futile, and so Benjamin , Kevin, and Gwen closed their eyes and walked out of the RV.

"Okay, open ‘em up! Ta-da! Welcome to Sparksville!" Max announced.

Benjamin cracked one eye open—then both flew wide. "Oh *come on*, Grandpa. The ‘world’s largest rubber band ball’? That’s what you dragged us here for? I’ve coughed up cooler things after bad tacos."

"Hah, is this place great or what?"

"Uh... I'll have to go with 'or what', with this one."

"Oh, come on! What's can be more exciting than the world's biggest fish bowl?"

Kevin then gestured at the "World's Largest Whatever" exhibit, which currently housed an alarmingly limp jellyfish that appeared to have given up on life.

"As the mayor of Sparksville, I welcome you, as seekers of wonder," Earl droned, monotone as a dial-up modem. He stood stiffly beside the World’s Largest Rubber Band Ball™, which was—according to the peeling sign—"Certified 87% Rubber (Maybe)."

Benjamin squinted at the monstrosity. "Okay, so. Hypothetically. If I kicked it—"

"DO NOT KICK IT," Gwen and Max barked in unison.

Wildmutt, who had been quietly gnawing on the "Do Not Feed The Animals" sign off to the side in the shadows, perked up at the word "kick." Her ears twitched toward the ball with unsettling interest.

Kevin, meanwhile, was elbow-deep in a suspiciously labeled "Mystery Meat" hot dog from a nearby vendor. "Dude," he mumbled around a mouthful of questionable protein, "this place smells like a garage sale in a tornado. And not the fun kind."

Earl blinked slowly. "Sparksville’s aroma is 43% nostalgia, 12% regret, and 45%... we don’t talk about the 45%." He adjusted his "MAYOR" hat—which was actually a repurposed trucker cap with the word "MAYBE" scratched out beneath it—and gestured to the rubber band ball like it was the Mona Lisa of bad life choices.

Kevin sniffed the air and immediately regretted it. "Dude. That’s not a smell. That’s a *crime.*" He tossed his mystery-meat hotdog into a trash can, which promptly rattled violently before spitting it back out with a wet *plop.*

"I know you guys are probably excited to see "it". So, I'll go check us in."

Max tossed them each a ticket—which Kevin immediately sniffed before declaring it "70% recycled disappointment"—and vanished toward a booth manned by what appeared to be Earl’s even more depressed cousin. Gwen held her ticket between two fingers like it was contaminated.

Benjamin, meanwhile, was already vibrating with poorly contained chaos. The two then looked at each other and shrugged. Benjamin and Gwen went to an exhibit named "The Jack A Lope". Benjamin rung the bell.

Benjamin and Gwen were surprised to see Earl walk out as the ticket collector for the "Jack A Lope" exhibit, his monotone voice somehow even flatter than before. "Tickets, please," he droned, his expression suggesting he'd rather be anywhere else—like maybe the bottom of the "World's Largest Fish Bowl," which currently housed a single, depressed-looking goldfish named "Steve? Probably."

Benjamin blinked. "Wait, I thought you were the mayor." He handed over the tickets suspiciously, half-expecting them to disintegrate on contact.

Earl didn’t so much smile as he did *twitch* the corners of his mouth upward. "He who wears the crown is burdened by many hats, son." He gestured vaguely toward his trucker cap, which now read "MAYOR/TICKET GUY/WHATEVER" in uneven Sharpie. "Mind the signs." He shuffled aside, revealing a hand-scrawled note taped to the door: *"DO NOT FEED THE JACKALOPE (it bites back)."*

Gwen squinted. "That’s… not reassuring."

Inside, the exhibit was a masterclass in disappointment. The "Jack A Lope" turned out to be a taxidermy rabbit with antlers glued on at *slightly* the wrong angle, giving it the perpetual expression of a creature questioning its life choices. A flickering bulb above it cast eerie shadows, making the stitches in its neck pulse like a horror-movie heartbeat.

Benjamin leaned in. "Dude. I think it blinked at me."

"It’s *dead*, Benjamin." Gwen sighed. "Unless—"

The Jack A Lope’s glassy eyes *clicked* to the left.

Gwen yelped and backpedaled into Kevin, who’d materialized behind them with a suspiciously wide grin. "Relax, Princess. It’s just rigged with fishing wire." He reached past her to yank a hidden string, making the creature’s head loll grotesquely. "See? Totally not haunted."

Benjamin narrowed his eyes. "Then why’s it *still moving* when you let go?"

Silence. The Jack A Lope’s ears twitched—*independent of the string.*

Kevin froze. "Okay, new plan: *fire.*"

Earl’s voice crackled over a rusted PA system: *"Do not incinerate the exhibits. That’s how we lost the World’s Largest Marshmallow."*

Gwen groaned. "This town is a *lawsuit* waiting to happen."

Meanwhile, Wildmutt—who’d been left unsupervised near the "Petting Zoo" (which was just Earl in a moth-eaten goat costume)—suddenly bolted past them with a chunk of the "World’s Largest Pretzel" clutched in her jaws. The pretzel, it turned out, was *also* 87% rubber (maybe), based on the way it bounced off Kevin’s head with a sound like a kazoo being stepped on.

"DUDE!" Kevin spat out a piece of pretzel that tasted suspiciously like industrial adhesive. "That thing’s not food—it’s a *hazard*!"

Gwen, meanwhile, was busy poking the Jack A Lope with a stick she’d *definitely* not just stolen from a nearby "Do Not Remove The Sticks" sign. "Okay, but *why* does it have a pulse?"

Benjamin ignored them and took various pictures, including in front of the jackalope building, an "American Gothic" painting cutout, a planetarium in which an employee is replacing the "sunlight" bulb, a giant house of cards, a giant burger, Benjamin got sprayed with ketchup and mustard, Him wearing jackalope horns and wearing googly eye glasses, the world's largest fishbowl, then sitting on a bench bored and an "it is this way" sign.

He soon arrived at the barn with a sign "IT's Here" hanging crookedly, the letters partially obscured by what looked suspiciously like fossilized gum. Earl materialized beside him, his monotone somehow dipping *below* monotone into a realm of vocal despair previously unknown to mankind.

He heard Gwen and Kevin walking up to catch up behind him while Earl droned on with his "guided tour"—which mostly involved pointing at things and saying, "That's a thing" in the same tone someone might announce the apocalypse. The barn door creaked ominously, not because it was spooky, but because one hinge was held together by what looked like chewing gum and spite.

Inside, the darkness was punctuated by flickering neon signs that read things such as, "Do not touch it!"—which, naturally, Benjamin was already reaching for—and "Do not photograph it!"—which Gwen was already violating with her phone flash.

Kevin crossed his arms. "This better not be another rubber band ball situation."

A spotlight snapped on, revealing… another rubber band ball. But this one had googly eyes glued on, and a crudely drawn frown in Sharpie.

Benjamin groaned. "*Seriously*?"

Earl remained unfazed. "And who knows what secrets lie within."

Benjamin kicked it. The rubber band ball let out a squeaky fart noise and rolled two inches before stopping.

Gwen pinched the bridge of her nose. "I hate this town."

"Stay as long as you like. Mind the signs."

Earl's monotone warning hung in the air like a deflating balloon as Benjamin kicked the rubber band ball again, "Look at this place. These guys are full of "it". We've been punked!"

"It is pretty lame. I can't believe Grandpa was so excited about this place," Gwen muttered, kicking a pebble that bounced off the "World's Largest Peanut" statue—which, upon closer inspection, was just spray-painted Styrofoam with the word "NUTS?" carved into it sideways.

Benjamin grinned, cracking his knuckles with the subtlety of a fireworks factory explosion. "Lame? Or *challenge accepted*?" He ducked behind the rubber band ball, Galatrix glowing green and purple as he slammed the dial.

He now was Rush again..

The transformation hit Benjamin like a poorly parked car—one second he was a noodle-limbed disaster, the next he was an over six-foot-tall wall of silver muscle and armor with the impulse control of a caffeinated squirrel. The rubber band ball trembled before him, its googly eyes juddering in existential dread.

"Okay, *ball*." Rush cracked his knuckles with a sound like a garbage disposal eating a bowling ball. "Time to see what you're *really* made of—One good prank deserves another, doesn't it? What do you two think?"

Kevin, already halfway up the barn's rickety support beam with a stolen "Do Not Climb" sign tucked under his arm, squinted at the rubber band monstrosity. "Dude, that thing's got *guts.* Literally. I think I saw a Hot Wheels in there from '97."

Rush—currently leaning against the ball then looked over at Gwen, "I have to agree with you. Got something special in mind?"

Kevin snorted from where he was dangling upside down off the "World's Largest Pretzel" display—which, judging by the *plasticky* smell, was actually a giant pool noodle spray-painted brown. "Dude, if you're gonna wreck something, *commit*. Kick it into next Tuesday."

Rush continued to lean on the ball, untill it fully fell off the podium, "Aah-AAAAAH!" Gwen and Kevin screeched as they got got out of the way of the rubber ball.

"Oh, oops."

The ball continued to bounce after it left the barn. It knocked over several exhibits and nearly crushed a food cart—specifically the one selling "Mystery Meat" hot dogs that Kevin swore tasted like "regret and bad decisions." Rush managed to slow the ball down just before it flattened Gwen, who was too busy texting Max a frantic "WE DIDN’T DO IT (WE TOTALLY DID)" to notice the impending doom.

The rubber band ball plowed through the "World’s Largest House of Cards" (which was just Earl’s unpaid bills stacked precariously) before finally rolling to a stop in front of the "Welcome to Sparksville" sign.

Gwen and Kevin ran to where Rush and the rubber ball were.

"Well this is just great, we've been turned into a criminals." Gwen groaned.

"Speak for yourself, I already was one," Kevin muttered.

"Hey, don't get all of your pants in a twist. I'll just put everything back the way it was. No problem at all." Rush grinned, his metallic knuckles gleaming in the afternoon sun as he wedged his fingers under the rubber band ball. The Galatrix trix chose that exact moment to start beeping angrily—a sound Benjamin recognized as the universal "Oh shit, the watch is fucking with me again" alarm.

"No—no no no—*not now*!" Rush managed to yell before his entire body spasmed like a malfunctioning disco ball. In a flash of green light, Benjamin reverted back to his regular, human limbed self—right as the rubber band ball lurched forward, crushing him into the dirt like a pancake.

"Okay. Maybe a little problem."

Benjamin groaned from beneath the rubber band ball, his voice muffled as if someone had shoved a sock in his mouth—which, technically, Earl *had* tried to sell them earlier as "The World's Largest Sock (Disclaimer: Not Actually Sock-Shaped)." Gwen and Kevin exchanged a look somewhere between *We should help him* and *Let’s see how long it takes for him to stop breathing.*

Gwen sighed, flicking a stray rubber band off her shoulder. "I swear, if we get arrested because you turned into a walking forklift with the attention span of a goldfish—"

Kevin interrupted by poking the ball with a stick labeled "DO NOT POKE." "Nah, nah—hear me out. What if we *don’t* tell Max?" The ball squeaked ominously, rolling slightly to reveal Benjamin’s sneaker twitching like a dying cockroach. "I mean, technically, the sign said *‘Do not touch it’*—and Rush *didn’t* touch it. He *leaned.* That's, like, legally distinct."

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to the trio, the rubber band ball—now infused with Galatrix energy—began to hum softly, vibrating like a cell phone set to "demonic possession." A single rubber band snapped free, zinging past Gwen’s ear to lodge itself in Kevin’s hair like a neon headband.

Kevin yelped, "Dude! That stupid ball just *assaulted* me!" He whipped around—only for the entire structure to lurch sideways, revealing Benjamin’s flattened form *stuck* to the rubber bands like gum on a cafeteria bench. The Galatrix sparked violently, and for a split second, Gwen swore she saw the rubber band ball *wink*.

Earl’s voice crackled over the PA system: *"Attention visitors. The ‘Do Not Panic’ sign is currently on fire. Please disregard the screaming."*

Then the ball twitched—not rolling, but *undulating*, as if something inside was trying to chew its way out. The "Welcome to Sparksville" sign behind them flickered, the "L" in "Welcome" popping like a zit before the entire thing shorted out. Gwen’s phone buzzed with a notification: *"Low Battery: 2%"*—just as Kevin’s stolen pretzel display spontaneously combusted behind them.

Benjamin groaned, peeling himself off the ball with a sound like Velcro divorcing. "Okay, new plan: *We pretend this was always a crater."*

Gwen kicked the ball. It squeaked. She kicked it harder. It burped. "Oh *come on*—what’s *in* this thing?"

Kevin, now crouched behind the "World’s Largest Fire Extinguisher" (a spray bottle labeled "For Emotional Emergencies"), squinted. "Dude. Is it... *growing*?"

The rubber bands were indeed stretching, quivering like Jell-O in an earthquake.
Then—

—*rip.*

A single, frayed rubber band snapped, recoiling like a startled snake before *lashing* Gwen’s ankle. She shrieked, hopping backward—right as the entire ball *unraveled* in a screeching, snapping frenzy of rebounding chaos.

And there, in the center, crouched a *thing*—a writhing, giggling mass of crackling energy wearing Earl’s stolen mayor sash like a child playing dress-up. Its limbs were rubber bands stretched too tight, snapping back with every twitch.

The Megawhatt—no, *Megawhatts*, plural, because of *course* it had multiplied—zipped between the fried remains of Sparksville’s attractions, slurping down live wires like spaghetti.

"Whoa," Benjamin breathed, wiping rubber-band slime off his cheek. "So, uh… did we just *birth* a supervillain?"

Gwen’s glare could’ve vaporized granite. "*You* leaned. *It* learned. Now it’s doing…" She gestured wildly as the Megawhatts ricocheted off the "World’s Largest Whoopie Cushion" (a repurposed water tower), sending it crashing into the "Historic" outhouse. "*That!*"

Kevin, meanwhile, was elbow-deep in a concession stand’s nacho cheese, utterly serene. "Dude, relax. It’s just a little… sentient electricity with a grudge. What’s the worst that could—" A rubber band snapped his stolen pretzel out of his hand mid-bite. "—*Hey!* That was *my* emotional support carbs!"

The Megawhatts cackled like malfunctioning sprinklers, their rubber-band limbs stretching so wide they nearly clotheslined Kevin into next week. One of them—the one wearing Earl’s stolen mayor sash like a toddler playing dress-up—zipped past Gwen’s face, leaving behind the distinct smell of burnt popcorn and bad decisions.

"Oh *come on*," Benjamin groaned, peeling a rogue rubber band off his forehead like it was a particularly aggressive price sticker. "Why is it *always* the weird shit that multiplies? You ever notice that? Never the money. Never the pizza. Just the—*agh!*" Another rubber band snapped out of nowhere, whipping him square in the nose.

Gwen ducked as a Megawhatt ricocheted off the "World’s Largest Toothpick" exhibit (which was, suspiciously, just a repurrolled flagpole) when the Galatrix glowed purple and green again.

He once again didn't recognize the hologram.

Eh. Fuck it.

He slammed down on it.

The Galatrix flashed and he and his new female counterpart was like those Megawhatts, bit wrong.

Again.

The Galatrix spat out Benjamin and his new form—Whirjolt—half-tangled in rubber bands, half-sparking like a dropped toaster—into the middle of Sparksville’s wreckage. Gwen barely had time to blink before the female counterpart snapped into place: Buzzshock, a hyperactive, cackling battery gremlin with more energy than a toddler on espresso.

Buzzshock zipped next to Whirjolt in a frenetic blur, both of them vibrating with the kind of energy usually reserved for microwaved squirrels. Their silver bodies hummed, purple and green eyes wide and twitching like malfunctioning disco lights. The lightning bolt stripes on their torsos pulsed erratically, and the holes atop their heads sparked with erratic arcs of electricity—like someone had shoved a fork into a power outlet and then dared it to scream.

Benjamin—well, now Whirjolt—twitched like a malfunctioning toaster as Buzzshock ricocheted off his shoulder, cackling like a hyena on a sugar rush. Their silver bodies hummed with erratic energy, the lightning bolt stripes on their torsos flickering between purple and green like a disco ball possessed by a poltergeist. The holes atop their heads spat sparks in haphazard arcs, scorching a nearby "World's Largest Paperclip" display (which, let's be honest, was just a coat hanger dipped in chrome).

"*Dude!*" Buzzshock screeched, zooming in a figure-eight around Kevin’s head. "We’re, like, *electric* twins now! High-f—*aaAAGH!*" She short-circuited mid-air as a Megawhatt clotheslined her with a rubber band stretched taut from a demolished ketchup bottle exhibit.

Gwen ducked a flying pickle spear (courtesy of the "Giant Condiment Catapult" incident) and glared. "Oh *perfect*. Now there’s *two* of you."

Whirjolt’s limbs jittered, his voice buzzing like a dial-up modem. "S’not *my* fault the Galatrix’s got a *thing* for—*ZZZT!*—duplicates!" He lunged at a Megawhatt, missed spectacularly, and face-planted into a pile of tangled rubber bands that immediately constricted around him like sentient spaghetti.

Meanwhile, Buzzshock had already escalated to phase two of Chaos: Unplugged. She dive-bombed into a popcorn machine, supercharged the kernels, and turned Main Street into a shrapnel storm of buttered projectiles. Earl, ever the entrepreneur, started selling goggles made from repurposed fishbowl fragments.

Max pinched the bridge of his nose. "Kids. We’ve got a *slight* containment issue."

"*Slight?!*" Gwen karate-chopped a rogue rubber band aiming for her ponytail. "They’re turning Sparksville into a *glow-in-the-dark junkyard!*"

Kevin, mouth full of stolen cotton candy, shrugged. "Still better than the jackalope."

Somewhere in the distance, the Megawhatts synchronized their maniacal laughter—which, incidentally, sounded like a kazoo orchestra trapped in a blender—as they unraveled the town’s water tower into a giant slingshot.

Whirjolt finally yanked himself free, static-clinging to a lamppost. "Okay. New plan: we *un*-invent electricity."

Buzzshock zipped past, trailing sparks. "*Boring!* Let’s *steal* the dam!"

Gwen’s eye twitched. "I hate *all* of you right now."

Cue the Megawhatts launching the world’s largest (and most flammable) rubber band ball straight at the Rustbucket’s windshield.

Cut to black.

And cue the screaming as Buzzshock and Whirjolt suck up the Megawhatt's far weaker electric energy fields with ease. The Megawhatt-like Nosedeenian could only watch in horror as Buzzshock ate away at his energy reserves faster than a Peryton could gorge on apples.

"HAHAHAHAHA, this is hilarious!" Buzzshock shrieked, dancing around the weakened Megawhatt while Whirjolt used the Rustbucket's wreckage as a makeshift slide, bouncing off rubber bands like a pinball of pure chaos.

Gwen shielded her eyes as sparks rained down like glitter from the world's worst science fair project. "Benjamin! Could you *not* electrocute the entire town while I’m still standing in it?"

"Technically," Whirjolt hiccuped mid-flip, his rubbery limbs snapping back into place like overstretched twizzlers, "that’s Buzzshock’s job!"

Buzzshock blew a raspberry, launching a bolt straight into Earl’s prized "World’s Largest Lightbulb," which promptly short-circuited into a disco strobe. The Megawhatts—now flickering like dying fireflies—let out a collective whimper before getting vacuumed into Buzzshock’s gaping maw like spaghetti strands.

Kevin, mid-bite into a stolen hotdog, froze. "...Did he just *eat* them?"

"Yup!" Buzzshock burped, a tiny lightning bolt escaping his mouth. "Tastes like regret and bad decisions!"

Gwen’s eye twitched. Behind her, the mayor’s sash-wearing rubber-band monstrosity—now dubbed "Earl 2.0" by virtue of its unsettling smile—began reassembling the town’s wreckage into a crooked monument of itself.

Whirjolt gasped, pointing. "Oh no. Oh no no no—*it’s learning*."

Earl 2.0 waved cheerfully, then hurled the giant fishbowl like a bowling ball straight at Max’s RV.

Cue screaming.

Again.

Whirjolt and Buzzshock exploded onto the scene like two microwaved batteries dropped into a vat of energy drinks—silver bodies humming with erratic voltage, purple eyes wide and twitching like malfunctioning disco lights. Their lightning bolt stripes pulsed neon purple and green, flickering in time with the Rustbucket’s dying headlights.

And the holes atop their heads?

They were sparking like someone had shoved a fork into a toaster and then screamed *"DANCE!"*—Whirjolt and Buzzshock zigzagged through Sparksville’s wreckage, their silver bodies leaving neon afterimages in the air like a glitchy VHS tape. The Megawhatts, now cornered between the smoldering remains of the "World’s Largest Paperclip" exhibit and Earl’s hastily erected "Apology Stand" (featuring free trauma hotdogs), let out a collective whimper.

Buzzshock somersaulted over a downed power line, cackling. "*Dude!* You guys are *so* last season!" She sucked in a massive breath—her head-hole glowing like a rave strobe—and *inhaled* the nearest Megawhatt like it was a spaghetti noodle. It vanished with a *pop*, leaving behind the faint scent of burnt rubber and regret.

Whirjolt, meanwhile, was busy using Kevin as a human lightning rod. "*Hold still!*" he yelled, as Kevin flailed like a electrocuted chicken. "I’m *trying* to—*ZZT!*—ground this *stupid*—*ACK!*—*circuit!*" Every jolt sent Kevin’s stolen pretzel stash flying, much to Earl’s dismay ("*Those were* limited edition *salty sadness!*").

Gwen, now sporting a makeshift Faraday cage hat (courtesy of a repurposed cheese grater), groaned. "Benjamin. *Please* tell me you’re not *literally* eating the evidence."

Whirjolt paused mid-zap, a Megawhatt’s rubber-band leg dangling from Buzzshock’s mouth like sad licorice. "*...No?*"

Cut to Earl 2.0—now sporting a stolen "I ♥ Sparksville" visor—cheerfully reassembling the town’s water tower into a giant trebuchet labeled "For Emotional Launching."

Max, rubbing his temples, muttered, "Kids, we’ve got *bigger*—"

*THWACK.* A rogue rubber band snapped the visor off Earl 2.0’s head, sending it spiraling into the distance. Silence. Then—

Buzzshock gasped. "*DUDE.* Did we just *invent* hat-jousting?!"

Cue the Rustbucket’s horn blaring as Gwen facepalmed hard enough to leave a permanent mark.

The Megawhatts, now condensed into a single, slightly soggy AA battery (courtesy of Buzzshock’s "recycling program"), sat guiltily in Max’s cupholder. Earl, having monetized the entire disaster into a "Terror-Tourism" package, waved them off with a free souvenir—a snowglobe containing a tiny, screaming rubber band.

Kevin, mouth full of stolen trauma hotdog: "So. When’s the sequel?"

Gwen’s eye twitched. "Never."

Whirjolt, already half-asleep against the window, mumbled, "*...Five more minutes...*"

The Galatrix beeped again just to fuck with Benjamin.

Cut to Benjamin now being far to large to fit on a window seal and Buzzshock was now sitting on Benjamin’s shoulder after he fell spectacularly, nodding along with his exaggerated gestures like an over-caffeinated hype-man, or alien woman in this case.

Chapter Text

High above the Earth, the Hammer Of Vilgax floated through space. It's hangar then opened up and three Mecha-droids were ejected and sent to earth. A basic Crewman began monitored them and spoke to Vilgax, who was still recovering in his healing tank.

"Sir, the Mecha-droids have launched. Equipped with the upgraded internal tracking system, they should have no problem retrieving the Galatrix." The Mecha-droid whirred.

Vilgax them spoke in labored breathing, "They will find it, but retrieving it will not be easy. Whoever possesses the Galatrix continues to be an opponent of extreme danger, brutality, and inspiring brilliance!"

Meanwhile, back on Earth, Benjamin and Kevin walked through a gas station store. Kevin's stomach then rumbled, "Man, I'm starved!"

Kevin then noticed a stacked pyramid of cookie boxes. As Kevin took a box from it, the rest of the pyramid lost balance and fell over on Benjamin. Benjamin popped out of the pile, "Smooth move, Levin."

The two would exit the store and walk towards Max, washing the back window of the Rustbucket. Someone had written "WASH ME BITCH! :(" in the window's dust with their finger.

Max would notice Kevin and Benjamin, "Huh... Nice artwork, Kevin."

Kevin just shrugged, shaking cookie crumbs out of his hair like a dog after a bath. "Hey, if gravity didn’t want me taking these, it shouldn’t have made them taste like nostalgia and poor life choices."

Benjamin—still buried under a mountain of snack boxes—flailed a single arm like a drowning man. "Oh sure, blame *gravity*—NOT the guy who yanked the *one* box holding this whole thing together—"

The Rustbucket’s horn blared. Max stood there, arms crossed, with the kind of expression that said *I’ve seen toddlers with better survival instincts*. Behind him, the "WASH ME BITCH!" graffiti now had a crude doodle of a frowning alien added—courtesy of Gwen’s boredom and a Sharpie she *definitely* didn’t steal from the gas station.

Benjamin, still half-buried in cookie boxes, flailed dramatically. "Uh, guys? Little help here? Pretty sure I’m being digested by snack capitalism!"

Kevin, already elbow-deep in another stolen cookie box, shrugged. "Dude, relax. You’re basically a human piñata now. It’s *character development*. Besides, it makes a statement."

Then the gas pumps exploded.

Not metaphorically.

Like, *actual* fireballs rocketing skyward while the cashier inside dropped his donut and screamed into the intercom, "CODE BROWN, WE HAVE A CODE BROWN—*wait, no, RED, DEFINITELY RED—*" Benjamin barely had time to process the flaming twinkie display before Kevin yanked him backward by the hoodie, sending them both skidding behind the dubious safety of a knocked-over Slurpee machine.

"No, THAT'S a fucking statement!"

The blast that shot the truck had in fact come from a gang of 3 vigilantes, all wearing full biker outfits and wielding laser rifles. They advanced on the scene and notice the Tennysons and Kevin.

"What are you looking at shithead?"

Max was stunned. The gang leader pointed their rifle at Max.

"Gwen, Ben, Kevin, get back!"

They fired the rifle.

The world didn't slow down—no dramatic bullet-time, no poetic last thoughts—just Max's shoulder jerking backward like a puppet yanked by an invisible string. A spray of crimson misted the air in a lazy arc as Gwen screamed something drowned out by the Rustbucket's horn blaring endlessly, stuck under a chunk of debris.

Kevin was already moving, tackling Gwen sideways into the spilled Slurpee river with a wet *smack*, because *of course* the universe wouldn't let him die heroically—just sticky and smelling like blue raspberry regret. Benjamin, meanwhile, did the only logical thing: he slapped the Galatrix with the grace of a panicked octopus, praying for Dark Matter.

The large and red frog-brained alien blinked down at the gang leader's descending boot, realizing three things simultaneously: 1) He was approximately the size of a phone booth again, 2) The gang's laser rifles looked suspiciously like retooled alien tech, and 3) His current predicament—being pinned under a neon "SLUSHIES 99¢" sign—was objectively hilarious if you ignored the impending skull fracture.

He threw the sign off with only a bit of difficulty thankfully, as the gang teio members grabbed some bags of money from the hole in the truck, but a rumble soon catched their attention: Dark Matter was there.

He jumped as high as he could as he used his Enkefalonotiaíokinesis, his body morphing into a cancerous, white, brute as he used his Dynamokinesis to blast Rojo away as she tried to grab more of the money.

The explosion sent her flying back dozens of feet, her mechanical limbs screeching against the asphalt as she skidded to halt before Dark Matter spoke, "It is illogical... but If you can’t convince them, confuse them, it’s basically the same thing." He finished with a far too wide even for a mutated alien's smile on his face.

Then he used Cerebrospinal Propulsion and his Enhanced Flexibility alongside Fireball Generation (via Cerebrospinal Fluid Secretion), Crystal Entrapment, and Crystalline Constructs combined to ensnare the gang leader, mid-air, suspending them in a levitating prison of jagged glowing amber. The air smelled like burnt ozone and poor life choices.

Meanwhile, Gwen was elbow-deep in the Rustbucket’s wiring, trying to hotwire the horn into a makeshift sonic cannon. "Ben, if you turn into *one more* alien that secretes *actual goo*—"

"IT’S NOT GOO, IT’S CRYSTALLIZED CEREBROSPINAL JUICE CrEtIn!" Dark Matter bellowed, accidentally shaking loose a glob of the stuff onto Kevin’s stolen nachos.

Kevin stared at the nacho now glowing faintly pink. "...Dude. Does this mean I’m *psychic* now?"

Before Gwen could facepalm hard enough to fracture spacetime, Rojo’s mechanized fist punched through the gas station wall like it was made of wet cardboard. The explosion of plaster dust swirled in the air as Dark Matter—still mid-transformation from his crystalline prison stunt—blinked at her with all the grace of a startled giraffe.

"So," he said eloquently, watching Rojo’s shoulder-mounted laser turrets whirr to life, "so, hypothetically, if I turned into goop right now, would that make me *technically* bulletproof, or just *really* messy?"

Kevin, crouched behind a vending machine that had long since given up on life—its glass cracked like the sanity of everyone present—shoved half a stolen Twinkie into his mouth and mumbled, "Dude. If I die today, tell my deat beat birth giver I *definitely* didn’t eat her last yogurt."

Dark Matter, currently mid-transformation into something resembling a sentient disco ball with anger issues, paused. His gelatinous form wobbled ominously. "*CrEtIn*, your *last meal* is *pre-digested cake?*" The Galatrix on his chest pulsed neon green, as if judging Kevin’s life choices.

Then the gas station's surprisingly up to code sprinkler system kicked on.

Rojo’s shoulder-cannon whirred, steam rising from the overheating barrel. Her mechanical eye—a repurposed parking meter lens—flickered red. "Oh, *cute*. You brought a *squirt gun* to a *laser fight*." She flexed her hydraulics, and the ceiling tiles rained down like confetti at the world’s worst party.

Somewhere beneath the rubble, Gwen’s voice emerged, muffled but furious: "*Benjamin.* If *one more thing* today involves *actual mucus—*"

Dark Matter sighed. "*Technically*, it’s *hydrokinetic plasma*—"

**BOOM.**

The wall behind them vaporized in a shower of brick dust and existential dread. Standing in the new doorway was a figure so absurdly massive, he had to duck under the remnants of the gas station’s "Employee of the Month" plaque—which, given the current state of the building, felt like the universe’s idea of a punchline. His skin flickered between three different shades of "what the hell is that," and one of his arms kept morphing into a vaguely trumpet-shaped appendage.

Kevin, wiping nacho cheese off his chin: "Okay, *new* rule—if your entrance involves *structural demolition*, you *gotta* buy us dinner first."

The giant—who Gwen was *pretty* sure wasn’t on the approved list of Earth’s biodiversity—grinned with all the charm of a landfill. "**CrEtInS.**" His voice rattled the Slurpee machine’s last surviving ice cubes. "**YoU aRe NoT iNvItEd To ThE aPoCaLyPsE.**"

Benjamin, currently elbow-deep in his own Galatrix-induced existential crisis (and also literally elbow-deep in crystallized cerebrospinal fluid), blinked. "Uh. *Technically*—"

**WHAM.**

Rojo’s mechanized fist collided with the giant’s ribcage—or where ribs *should’ve* been, if his anatomy subscribed to things like "laws of physics." Instead, her arm phased *through* him, emerging out his back clutching a handful of... glowstick fluid?

The giant looked down. Rojo looked at her fist. The glowstick fluid dripped ominously onto Kevin’s stolen sneakers.

Silence.

Then—

Kevin: "...Dude. Did you just *fist* a *ghost*?"

Gwen’s eye twitched. "That’s *not* the *weirdest* thing today."

Benjamin, whispering to his Galatrix: "Why are we like this."

The Galatrix, pulsing smugly: **¯\_(ツ)_/¯**

Elsewhere, floating in the wreckage of his own dignity, Max groaned into a pile of flaming snack cakes. His hand twitched toward the Rustbucket’s emergency button—the one labeled *"DO NOT PRESS UNLESS THE APOCALYPSE INVOLVES NACHO CHEESE."* He pressed it.

Somewhere, a vending machine dispensed a single, sorrowful Diet Coke.

The giant, now leaking what appeared to be *sentient* glitter, raised his trumpet-arm.

Rojo cracked her neck. "Bring it, Picasso."

Suddenly she heard a furious voice, "Listen to me female, whoever you are..."

Rojo's mechanical eye twitched erratically, scanning the rubble-strewn battlefield. The giant's trumpet-arm was currently spewing what looked suspiciously like sentient glitter that kept rearranging itself into middle fingers. Kevin—now wearing a traffic cone as a hat—was attempting to deep-fry a Snickers bar using the flaming wreckage of a Slurpee machine. Gwen had resorted to beating a malfunctioning Galatrix prototype against the Rustbucket's bumper while screaming what sounded like ancient Celtic curses.

"Where are you... Who are you... and how did you get in my head?"

Rojo's voice crackled through her augmented vocal cords—part human, part whatever-the-hell that alien drones had fused into her spinal column. Static oscillated between her ears like a swarm of angry bees holding tiny tasers. Across the obliterated gas station, Kevin was attempting to weaponize a Slurpee straw while Gwen karate-chopped a malfunctioning parking meter. Classic Tuesday.

"**You exist to retrieve what is MINE.**" The voice in Rojo's skull vibrated her fillings. Her shoulder-mounted laser turrets whirred automatically, targeting the gelatinous mess that was currently Dark Matter himself.

"Guess again. I work for me and only me!"

Rojo's declaration echoed across the flaming wreckage of what used to be a perfectly good gas station. Her augmented vocal cords glitched mid-sentence, making her sound like a demonic kazoo. Meanwhile, Benjamin Tennyson as Dark Matter—currently 87% crystallized cerebrospinal fluid and 100% done with today—was attempting to peel himself off the Slurpee machine without losing any more dignity. Spoiler: It wasn’t working.

Kevin, now fashioning a weapon out of a Slurpee straw and a shattered parking meter, squinted at Rojo. "Lady, if you’re gonna monologue, could you *not* do it while leaking what looks like radioactive Cool Ranch?"

The giant woman—whose name was probably something unpronounceable but would inevitably be shortened to "Globby" by Kevin—stomped forward, shaking the ground hard enough to dislodge Gwen’s makeshift weapon (a fire extinguisher duct-taped to a pool noodle). Benjamin, still oozing crystallized dignity, groaned as his Galatrix decided *now* was the perfect time to cycle randomly through alien silhouettes—all of which flickered like a malfunctioning neon sign.

Kevin, now mid-bite into his deep-fried Snickers, squinted at the chaos. "Okay, *question*—if Globby here’s got *trumpet arms*, does that mean we’re technically in a *jazz battle*?"

Gwen didn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, she vaulted over a crumpled vending machine, skidding to a stop beside Dark Matter as he called in Ten Ten from the Rustbucket.

"You now possess power you could have never imagined, but unless you find a way to use it, it will all be worthless! Fulfill my demand, and I will teach you. Fail me, and I will turn you to DUST!"

Rojo's augmented optics flickered between infrared and sarcasm-vision as the transmission—somewhere between a WiFi signal and eldritch screaming—rattled her skull. Across the flaming debris field, Dark Matter was attempting to reconstitute his dignity from a puddle of semi-sentient glitter while Gwen karate-chopped a malfunctioning parking meter. Kevin, now wearing traffic-cone armor, lobbed a flaming taquito at Globby's trumpet-arm.

"...So what exactly do you want? I'm kind of fighting this weird monster thing here."

"Only one simple thing. A piece of valuable technology, missing from my possession. And luckily, you are already fighting the one who stole it from me and is using it right now!"

Rojo then looked at Dark Matter, then the Galatrix symbol on his back. She smirked. "Looks like I found it!" She rushed at Dark Matter with glowing finger-claws extended.

Meanwhile, Gwen screamed, "Ben, watch out—!"

Dark Matter instinctively leaped again as he heard a whirring sound...

And with that, he knew that he won.

The Galatrix's holographic interface flickered wildly as Dark Matter skidded across the pavement—not so much dodging Rojo’s attack as he was *accidentally* tripping over Kevin’s discarded snack wrapper. His form destabilized, limbs dissolving into inky tendrils before reforming just in time to narrowly avoid being skewered by Rojo’s laser-claws.

"Hold still you lanky red fro—" Rojo was cut off by blaster fire hitting her back—not from Gwen, Kevin, but Ten Ten herself.

The Galatrix hummed louder as Dark Matter's limbs destabilized mid-step, dissolving into a puddle that Rojo's claws sliced through harmlessly. The puddle reformed behind her—legs first—before the torso popped into existence with an audible "plorp."

Kevin kicked a half-eaten burrito at Rojo's head. "Eyes up, chrome-dome!"

Rojo smacked it aside, snarling—only for the tortilla to explode in her face, raining beans. Turns out Kevin had stuffed it with Gwen’s discarded chewing-gum-and-battery "art project" from earlier.

Gwen didn’t waste time. "Ben, destabilize her systems! If she’s part tech, Bootleg's your play!"

Dark Matter wheezed, land nodded in agreement as the watch beeped and he detransformed back into Ben—just in time for Rojo to uppercut him into a pile of conveniently stacked mattresses (don't ask why they were there). He flopped like a ragdoll before sliding off onto Kevin’s discarded nacho plate. "Dude," Kevin said, peeling a cheese-covered Ben off his shirt, "you’re *so* paying my dry-cleaning bill."

Gwen slapped her forehead. "Priorities, Kevin!" She whipped out her phone—not to call for help, but to snap a photo of Ben mid-cheese-stain despair. "Blackmail material," she shrugged at Rojo, who looked genuinely baffled by their collective lack of self-preservation instincts. A pause. Then— "Oh right, evil robot lady!" Gwen yelped, diving behind a dumpster as Rojo’s shoulder-cannon whirred to life again.

Just to be shot on the back again by Ten Ten.

"Really?!" Benjamin groaned, wiping nacho cheese from his eyelid as Ten Ten’s latest blaster bolt sizzled past his ear. Rojo’s shoulder cannon misfired—apparently incompatible with Gwen’s hastily reprogrammed parking meter app. The resulting explosion sent Kevin’s half-eaten churro spinning into a nearby fire hydrant, unleashing a geyser that drenched Rojo’s circuits.

Soo the Galatrix beeped again as Benjamin transformed again into Bootleg.

"Dammit!"

Rojo’s shoulder cannons whirred ominously—until Bootleg suddenly sprouted a third arm (courtesy of last week’s spaghetti dinner mutation) and jammed a confiscated parking ticket into her exhaust port. The resulting backfire sent her crashing through the "World’s Largest Ball of Twine™" exhibit (don’t ask why this city also had one). Kevin, mid-bite into a radioactive-looking corn dog, blinked. "Huh. Should’ve bet money on that."

Gwen projectile-launched a water balloon filled with Gwen’s patented "Nope Juice" (secret ingredient: expired orange soda) directly into Rojo’s smoking shoulder cannon, which made an unsettling *glorp* sound before short-circuiting entirely. Rojo whipped around—only for Kevin to clothesline her with a parking meter he’d ripped from the sidewalk, yelling "TASTE THE METAL, LADY!" as she face-planted into a vendor’s cart full of suspiciously sentient rubber ducks. One quacked indignantly.

Benjamin, currently transformed into Bootleg was spreading himself all over and inside of Rojo.

No.

This wasn't meant to be a sex joke.

But rereading now as I'm editing it I realized how it sounds

So here you readers go.

*Insert obvious mental image*

̵̏̈͂̈̂"̸͖̦͖̒̈́̽H̷̡͉͇̹͈̓̅͂̋͒͑̔̑̾̾͐̿͝e̴̢͎̬̪̩̣͙̳̖̮͙̞͉̋̃͊̅̊̽̓̐͑̔̿̌͜l̸̨̮͔̺̤̦̺̞̰͍̐̄̋l̵̨͚̖͍͝ọ̷̧̨͈̤͔͉̹̩̯͙̻̿̌̏͂̕͜ ̴͉̈̂̋̽͛͑͂b̴̬̼̰̥̳͓̘̮͑́̍̈́́́͊͌̄͌͑̿͘͘i̴̧̳͖͚̲̭̳̠͖̟͓͍͗̌̈k̵̢̬̰̩̱̼̞͚̮̣̳̅̏̈́̈́͒͋̿̈́͑̆̋͐͑̚͘͜ẹ̶̡̯̩̗̈́͘͝r̵̡̡̛̗̭̦͙͇̳͇̮̩͓̭̥̅͊̾̇͑̈́͐̿͗͠ ̶̢̛̭̬̅̍͛̍̃̚̚w̶̟̃̑̒̉̅ǒ̸̡̬͉͈̞̲̲̜͙̤̙̰̂̈́̂̈́̽̀m̸͕̊̓́̇̔̃̋͒̕͝ȃ̴̮͕̦̗̖̯͉̜͈̼̙͖̭͔̀̚͠͠͝ņ̵̬̱̩̮̩̠̮̙̗̬̲̳͌̓̾̀̌͑,̸̭͕͉͎͇̈́͋̽̂͗͐͝ ̷̧̨̧͚̤̹̗̟̮̦͙̻͉̣̰̑̀̆̅͆̀͝Į̵̧̮͚̼̦̦͚̝̞̱̳̭͋̉͛́͌̂̇̉͌̐͝͠ ̴̖̂͗̿́̾̂̄̆̃̚å̵̢̢̛̜̦͍͚͉̹̺͔̯̳̮̉͛̆͐̋͒̿̍͋̾̌m̴̖̠̲͇͉̣͌̑͗͌̉͋̿ ̵̛͚̀̍̈́̂͐͗̄̆͂͛̚B̵̢̩͍̈̋̊̈͌̅͋͗͊͝ò̴͓͙̲̝̘̞̺̟̰̤̈́̈́̅̊͝o̷̡̡̝̱͍͙̣̱̤̞̠͉͎̝̼͑͛̽͂͐́t̷̩̖͔̟͉̙̋̓̈́̔̄̊̚l̴̛̤͉͎̖̹̰͋̃̚ẽ̵̜͚̰͈̎̓͒̽ͅg̵̢̤̭͍͙̤̺̺̙͔͇͌̇̔̔̀͊͘̚,̶̢̨̱͈̥̰͇̦̼̲̣̥͇̔̀͌̀͗̂̚̕ ̴̻̦͔͕͔̙̪͛͆̋̔̇̀͂̆̒̈́͌̋͝͠y̵͙̰̺͎͈̲͙͝ơ̴̞̾͋̿̈́̔̈́̚ȕ̷̡͕̬̻̬̥͇͈̍́̔'̴̛̗̱̻̮͖̬̞͍̲̩̥̥̇̓́͛̾͌̅̂̃͌̎̔̈́͜͝r̷̙̉̃̏̂e̴̦͉̺͎͐̇͂̿͂̂̒̇̔ ̷̳̯͙̗̰̼̞̯̙̳͙͍̻̘̥͆͆̀͑i̵̩̹̺̪͎̫͛̑̒͘͜ǹ̵̡̧͇̦̳̍͐̾̔̍̂̓̀͘͜͠f̵̺̹̦͕̭̬̅̆̒͐̔͋̾̔̌̇͌̀͠͝͠ę̶̢̡̡̪̫̻̮̺̝̯̲̙̩̀̿͜͝c̴̹̰̯̖̭̣͈͍͍͔̄͋ţ̸̧̭͎̙̮̜̹̲̤͕͎́̂̓͗ȅ̵̢̫̱̝̥͓̻̝͛̾ḑ̶̛͎̦̞̜̟̞̥̞̦̥͎̾͋̈́̑̀͊̿̄̇̚͝͝ͅ ̶͖̫͓̫̊͆͛̅͋͛̚b̷̩͖̱̈̿͊ȳ̶̬͓̠͛̏̈́͆̒̃̓̆͌͛͝͝ ̸̰̥̱͇̠̣͔̥̮̭́̿͋̂̐̎͆̕͝a̵̢̘̺͉̲̳̰͈͖̖͍̘͍̘̭̽l̶̨͉̖̩͚̭̎̎̊͋͌͆̔͑ḯ̶̧̡͉̠͖̗̜͍̤͍̟̮͜e̴̦͉̞̓̈́̃̅̚͝n̵̟̽̒ ̷̞͓̠͓̻͉̯̎̎͆͊̄̽͛̋̀̅̎͘̕ͅt̸̖̰͕͌̏͒̓͒͝e̸̙̯͉̬͉͎̺̟͎̲̲̘̮̦̐̿͋͐̀̈́̊̎́̐͂͘̕̕ẍ̴̢̢̖̜̯͓̠̫̳́͆̅̇̏̕͠͝ţ̶̧͕͔̬̲̲̞̩̝̣̙̆̍̃̐̔̊͆̂͜,̶̨̢̛̘̤̼̯̭͈̼̼̘͖͔̎̽̈́̆̒̾ ̶̢̡̬̝͈̭͉̤̺̦͊͌â̵̢̪͚̝̣̩̮̗̂͛̀̾̑͜n̷̢͈̳̫͈̤̟̾́̒̒͗̕̕͘͝ḑ̵̡͕̥̻̝̞͙̦̦̯̜̠̤̈́͜ ̵̙͍͑̃̉̅̏̎̎̊̾̚̚͜͠Í̶̧̢͚̤̠͎͔͖̯͇͌̌̂̕͜ͅ'̶̨̢͔̟̠͓̟̱͓̝́͑ͅm̶̧̝̟̥̗͓̞̠̤̦͍̰͖͗̂̾̾͑͋̃̑̌̍̓̋̆̈́̀͜͜ ̷̡͚̪͗͒̆̏i̴̧̨͔̹̹̻͙͎̓́̍̀̐̕̚͝ņ̴̙͖̞̦̀f̷̡̝͂̑̐̓́̓̍͒̐̑͋̏͋͠é̶̢̡͙͔̘̠̳͙̯̤̲͒͛̓̀͜͝c̶̢͈̩̀̊̃̈͐͝͠ţ̶͍̯͚̩̖͈̜̮̪̠̣̠̳̘͋i̵̛̘̠̒͒̊̑́̿̓̇͑̄̇̒͘ń̸̳̪͍̐̉͌̋̋̆g̸̡̨̲͕̜͖̻̮̞͛͗́́̅̉̔̆̌̽͐̃̏́ ̶̢͎̖̰̖͔̭͛͌̌͛͗̈̈́͝ͅt̸̨͕̼͍̭̙̮̗̒̎̔̀̓͋h̶̛̺͎̘̝͈̲̤̣̜̻̖̰͎͋͛̀͛̓̔͂̅̚ͅa̸̛̗̞̹̽͒̋̈́̀̈́̆̀̚͘͝͝t̶̨͒͛̀ ̸̡̨̡̛̙̱̱̝̯͎̬̞̥̗̂̿̾͐̽͌̃͌̐̄̑̏̏͠á̵̻̣̭̼̗̓̀̈́̏̾̀̎̑̑͝l̶̡̛̗͚͈͈̹͖̦͍͔̋̿̈́̄̋̏̒̽͐͒̑̆͠į̶̝̥̗͙͎̺̈́͐̓̌̿̋̊̇̿̑͠͠͝e̷͍͉̘̬̙̥̪͓̍n̶̡̘̈́͐̎ ̶̤̖̖̞͔̫͖̻̔̆͒͂͒͠t̸̛̛̛̫̹̯̙͉̄̈́͛͆͒̀́̂̈́́̓̀ͅē̷̡̻̒̓͒̄͐̉̆́̀̕͝͝ͅx̸̨̤͈͕̮̺̮̱͊͜͝t̷̢̠͓̤̼͂̎ ̶̧̯̠͍̗̭͛̊̂̀̓̂̋͛͊̄w̶̢̛͚̳̥̪͉͎̹̘͑̓̓̾̌̅̋͛͝͝ͅh̵̻̥̞̱̫̿̓̈́ĩ̶͔̯̯̈́͐̈̈́̕ċ̸͎͇͔͒̆̅h̸̦̊̆͐̿̍͊͝͠͠ͅ ̷͙̖̲̪̥̩̹͙̤̏̄̃͋͛̚ͅį̸̖͕̲̭̳̝̰̹̩̣̾̑̽͐̂̉͘͜s̶͕͙̮̺̝͙̥͉̬͊̑͆̔͋̽͑͒̆ ̷̨̧́͑̿̋͂̕͘ĩ̵̭̝̤̤̇͆̚̚̕ͅn̶͓̬̦̬͚͉͈͓̭̳͙̋͆͗͋̉̇̿͆̎̽̂͘̕ͅf̶̨̥̘̦̖͔̦͙͓̑̈́͒͗̑͑̀̚͜e̵̞͌̊̇͌c̷̲̼͉̑̄ẗ̸̤̳̞̜̞͔̦̫͉̩̦̺́ͅí̵̛̛̘̻͆̆̒̔̑̅͗̀̓̆̕͜͝ǹ̷͈̜̲͇̞̣̗̿̈́̈́g̴̢̪̝͍̥̹͚̝̞̫̮̪̩̬̎̈́̓́̔̍̾̊͆̾̇͋͝͝ ̸̝̩̦̣̳̤̠̠̱͝y̸̧̥̹̱̟̗̱͑̽ǫ̷̻͇̭̫̐̾̔u̴̖̬͇̪͖̻̗̖͍͔͒͒͒̽̕ͅ.̴̧͓̱̳̫̘͉͕͚̭͈̯̼̙̠̈́͋̾͐͋̾͑̌́̒ ̸̡̡̛̞̻̲̺̬͓̤̗̀̈́͗̔͌͊̆͒͛͘̕͘S̶̡̹͖̳̬̞̦̲̜͓̼̦̰͒̄͌̉̆̒̂̉̏o̷̢͎͖̜̼͔̞̮̮͙̯̎̇͌ ̷̨̡̡̨̘͙͓͍̪͓̭̠̭̒̋͗̒͌́͂͂̍͘͝ṕ̷̢̛͈̭̩̅̃ĺ̸̨͉̘͔̬̻̺̞̻̍͒̽̈́͊̆͋̀̆͜͜ẽ̵̡̢̡̦͖̳̪͈̖͈̮̣͗͐̕͜ā̴̧̲̰̻̖̝̘͕̣̗̠͆̍̎́̑̈̒̋̿͝s̸̗̣̞͖̻̺̮̣̝̆̃̋̒̈́̋̈́̇͜e̶̼͔͎͌͆̋̎̿́͊ ̵͈̭͑̓̋̀́͝d̷̤̩̦͇̐͐̓̀õ̶͓̪̝͎̏̊̈͜ ̴̙̱͔͈̹̖͉͓̜̬̘̣́͛̈́̑̀͒͗͌͐̐͊̒͝͠h̴̡̼̒̑͗̌͌̊͗̒͒͐̒̚͠͠ö̷̘͎́̅͂̀͋̓̈̂͛͊̕̕͠͝l̸̦̰͈̫̘̗͇̮̝͕̍̉͋̆ḏ̶̛̙͔̳̟̞̬͍̮͎̣̙̋ ̵̡̢̱̠̪̫̺͍̦̻͓͔̙̆̐̆̆̑͜ś̵̳͙͓̬̟̦̠̦̬̼̺̹͎̖̩̉͗t̴̨̛͔̞̪̲̥̞̹̯̂̾̉͛̌̒͘ị̵͚̯͗̉̌̀̚l̶̡̨̨̧̨͇̘̥̯͇̩̰̓͆l̵̬̠͇̘̹͔̦̼̼̼̦͉̆͒͂̈̌ͅ,̷̢͖̫̳̻͚͉̭̫̐͐͊ ̷̱̹̮͉̥̦̞̭̤͒̐i̶̠̜̳̞̲͎̥̿͊̽̅̓̅f̴͈͎͔̬̯̲͙̰̞́̽̀͐͆ ̶̙̽̌̒͒͒̀͊̋̍̃̐̕̕ȯ̴̡̘̙̹̣̦̩̥͕̬̟͛͆̅̋͋̽̈́͐̏̾̆͝n̸͚̠̤̝̠̯̼͇̆͐̃̒͊̑͒̽̓̎̈́ͅl̴̦͇̞̯̖͚̐̈́͊̈́͛́̌̀͝y̷̛͍̩̰͒̓̽̀͒̊͆͒̈́́͒͘͘͝ͅ ̶̡̥͈͙̘̣̘̽̔̅̑f̶̛̺̝̝̲͔̞̹̫̜̥͉̰͇̓̑̇̅̇̃͘͝͝ǫ̶̢̢̛̼̭̮̱̱̺̠͐̊̇̂͑̈͑̑̂̍̏̎r̵̡̗͔͖͉͔̜̯̫̩̱̳̯̪̋͛̈́͆̌̆̆͑̈̅̆͆͑ ̶̒̓̀̾͂̍̎͗́͛͘ȯ̴̡̘̙̹̣̦̩̥͕̬̟͛͆̅̋͋̽̈́͐̏̾̆͝n̸͚̠̤̝̠̯̼͇̆͐̃̒͊̑͒̽̓̎̈́ͅl̴̦͇̞̯̖͚̐̈́͊̈́͛́̌̀͝y̷̛͍̩̰͒̓̽̀͒̊͆͒̈́́͒͘͘͝ͅ ̶̡̥͈͙̘̣̘̽̔̅̑f̶̛̺̝̝̲͔̞̹̫̜̥͉̰͇̓̑̇̅̇̃͘͝͝ǫ̶̢̢̛̼̭̮̱̱̺̠͐̊̇̂͑̈͑̑̂̍̏̎r̵̡̗͔͖͉͔̜̯̫̩̱̳̯̪̋͛̈́͆̌̆̆͑̈̅̆͆͑ ̶̢̩̯̗͖̖̦̮̗̬͍͇͚͇̒̓̀̾͂̍̎͗́͛̀͐̾̀͘ả̴̡̢̜̠̠̦͍̣͓̦̤̂͑̀̽́͂̕̕ ̵̛͔̼̠̾̋̂̈́̔̅̈̔͌̎m̷͙͈̃́̚͠o̸̳̟͔̱̒̃m̷̢̩̹̟̘̈̅̇͊͐̆͒͒͐̕͠͝͝ͅè̷̡̛̻̰̱͙͔͇͙̳̦̳̼̮̆̔̌̏̽͊̒̄̚̚n̸͈̞͓̪͚̦̹͈̗͔̦̖̟͐̅̓̈́̀̋́̐̎́̑̚͠͝ͅt̵̻̞̦̲̲̺͚̣̰̞͖̤̤̒͐̒̊̅͂̅͂̏̃̍͘̕.̶̛͙̣̞̻̬͉̙̱̀͋̉̈́̓̓̽̐͝"̵̤͓͓͔̜̪͙͈̫̼͖̪͙͔̍̐̔͗̏͆̉̈́̈̀ He mentally called out to Rojo—somewhere beneath layers of erratic neural feedback—but received only static-laced screams reverberating through corrupted cybernetic pathways. Then the Galatrix pulsed again, wrenching him sideways through reality as Bootleg’s form destabilized mid-merger.

Rojo’s shoulder cannon—now fused haphazardly with Bootleg’s morphing forearm—discharged wildly, shearing off the Rustbucket’s rearview mirror just as Gwen dove through its window holding a jury-rigged taser constructed from Kevin’s discarded gum wrapper and a disposable camera flash unit.

"EAT LIGHTNING, FREAK!" Gwen yelled, jamming the contraption into Rojo’s exposed shocked her fused shoulder joint. Rojo convulsed violently—her organic half screaming while her cybernetic side emitted garbled error codes—before collapsing onto the asphalt with a wet *thunk*.

Bootleg peeled away from her twitching form, dripping silver nanite residue. "Whoa. That was... surprisingly effective."

Gwen wiped sweat from her forehead, eyeing Bootleg’s still-flickering form. "Yeah? Well don’t get used to it. The watch is gonna glitch again any second—"

The Galatrix beeped ominously.

"—aaand there it goes."

In a flash of green light, Benjamin reverted back into a human again, stumbling mid-air—only to faceplant directly onto Gwen, who was still holding the taser. The resulting shock sent both of them spasming on the pavement, their limbs twitching like malfunctioning marionettes. Across the wreckage-strewn parking lot, Rojo’s cybernetic half hissed, her shoulder cannon sputtering sparks as it attempted to reboot. Meanwhile, the Galatrix on Ben’s wrist pulsed erratically, its dial spinning wildly like a slot machine rigged to land on "catastrophe."

Max groaned from inside the Rustbucket, getting his own shotgun and choosing what other alien inside there that was originally from the Galatrix itselfto bring out and he was tempted to start rubbing his temples. "Kids, I swear, if I have to fill out *one more* insurance claim because of alien-related property damage—"

"NOT NOW, GRANDPA!" Gwen and Benjamin yelled in unison, still in electrocution-induced pain.

Rojo’s remaining organic eye rolled before getting shot yet again by the hidden Ten Ten herself.

Rojo's robotic eye whirred at she began to attempt to track down Ten Ten's exact position yet again while her human counterpart groaned in pain. "If this stupid girl keeps shooting me with blaster bolts, I'm gonna—wait, why does my arm smell like burnt churros?!" She sniffed at her fused metallic plating, only to recoil as the scent of Kevin's mutant snack inventions assaulted her nostrils.

Nearby, Gwen and Benjamin remained tangled in a twitching pile of limbs, their hair standing on end from Gwen’s improvised taser. Benjamin groaned, peeling his face off Gwen’s shoulder—which smelled suspiciously like burnt popcorn and ozone. "Remind me," he wheezed, "to never let you near electronics again."

"Excuse me?" Gwen snapped, shoving him off. "Who just saved your lanky ass from becoming a Biker-shaped pancake?"

Grandpa Max chose that moment to jump out of the Rustbucket with his shotgun and with Six Arms. He was wearing his old cowboy hat and a dirty apron that said "Kiss the Cook" on it, but the "Kiss" part was crossed out with a sharpie and replaced with "Shoot."

"Alright, kiddos," Max said, cracking his neck. "Time to end this rodeo."

Rojo sneered, wiping grease from her malfunctioning eye. "Old man, you couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with that thing."

Max grinned. "Kid, I once shot the fleas off a chihuahua at fifty yards. You ain't special."

Benjamin, still twitching from Gwen’s taser-fiasco, groaned. "Can we *please* focus?!"

Gwen rolled her eyes. "Oh *now* you want teamwork?"

Before Benjamin could retort, Rojo’s shoulder-cannon sparked violently—then promptly exploded, sending her spinning like a malfunctioning carnival ride. She crashed into a nearby food truck, which immediately caught fire because of course it did.

Meanwhile, Rojo groaned from the wreckage, one leg twitching. Her remaining robotic eye flickered as she finally got sight of Ten Ten perched atop a telephone pole. "Oh, you're gonna regret that, you little—"

A sudden crash of debris interrupted her. The food truck's deep fryer erupted in a geyser of flaming oil, drenching Rojo in a sizzling, crispy batter of doom. She let out a shriek that sounded suspiciously like a malfunctioning coffee machine.

Benjamin, still half-convinced his eyebrows had fused together from Gwen’s taser masterpiece, wheezed out, "Okay, new plan: *stop setting everything on fire.*"

Gwen crossed her arms. "Says the guy whose watch turns him into a walking fireworks display."

Max adjusted his shotgun. "Kids, focus. She’s down but not out. And if I know bounty hunters—"

A metallic screech cut him off as Rojo burst from the wreckage, now half-covered in onion rings and pure rage. "YOU RUINED MY JACKET!" She lunged—only to trip over Six Arms' right leg that she layed out for that specific purpose.

"Now it's clobbering time!" Six Ames said estatically, spinning Rojo around by her ankle like a malfunctioning lasso before slamming her into a conveniently placed dumpster—which exploded on impact because at this point, physics itself had given up trying to make sense of the afternoon.

Gwen blinked at the smoldering crater where Rojo had briefly existed. "Did... did we just weaponize garbage?"

Benjamin, still picking deep-fried onion bits out of his hair, snorted. "Pretty sure the dumpster was already weaponized." He paused as the Galatrix on his wrist emitted a sound suspiciously like a kazoo fart. "Uh. Also, I think my watch just laughed at us in my mind."

From the wreckage, Rojo's lone functioning robotic arm twitched, her voice crackling like a broken drive-thru speaker: "*I. Will. End. You.*"

Ten Ten chose that exact moment to dropkick a flaming burrito directly into Rojo’s face from her perching spot. The impact sent Rojo staggering backward—right into the path of Six Arms’ triple uppercut, which launched her skyward with the grace of a trash bag caught in a tornado.

But unbeknownst to all but Benjamin, when he was Bootleg he managed to set a timer on Rojo's robotic transformation and As Rojo got up, the red eye pieces, metal spikes and hardened skin effortlessly crumbled and fell off her now fully human again body.

"I'm... normal again?"

"Abnormal's way more like it!" Kevin hollered jokingly.

"Look, I-I don't know what came over me. Come on, please, you all gotta help me!"

Maxx just put her shotgun behind her head in case she moved and tried to hurt the three kids, "Uh huh, and I suppose that's why you were chasing these kids through the gas station with laser cannons and a gun before that."

Rojo simply slumped over, knowing she had lost when she heard police sirens coming nearer and nearer to her as Ten Ten and Six Arms wisely left.

Safe to say, when the police arrived, they were very confused to find a scorched food truck, a pile of melted garbage, and Rojo—now completely human—sitting in the middle of it all, blinking like she'd just woken up from a really bad dream.

"Officers, I swear, I don’t know what happened," Rojo muttered, rubbing her forehead. "One minute I was robbing armored cars, the next I was—wait, did I really just *merge* with a robot?"

"Yeah right, and I suppose you don't know that you're Rojo Rucio with a track record of robbing every armored car from here to Albuquerque," The older officer snorted, rubbing his nose.

"No really, there was these three monster things!"

The police looked at Max, Gwen, Kevin, and Benjamin, who simply made sure to look just as confused as they did.

"Yeah, I'm sorry officers, but uh," Benjamin rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "We were just trying to order some tacos when... uh... that lady kinda blew up the truck?" He gestured vaguely at the still-smoldering wreckage, his voice pitching higher at the end like a question. Gwen pinched the bridge of her nose while Kevin snorted loudly—earning a glare from Max.

Rojo groaned, as she was pulled by her singed leather jacket like it personally offended her by the police officers. The remnants of her robotic enhancements sparked weakly—one shoulder eye blinking red before fizzling out like a dying firefly. Meanwhile, Benjamin was attempting to morph his expression into something resembling innocence while Gwen subtly elbowed Kevin for his overly amused snickering.

"How *exactly* did a taco order lead to—" The officer gestured broadly at the charred remains of a food truck, a smoldering dumpster, and what suspiciously looked like half-melted handcuffs dangling from a streetlight, "—this?"

Before Benjamin could launch into another terrible excuse, Max stepped forward, "Officers, let me explain, you see..."

Meanwhile, high above the Earth itself, the Hammer of Vilgax continued flying through space. Two pairs of menacing red eyes glowed through the window of a healing tank—Vilgax’s own. His breathing was raspy as he clenched the tank’s handles tightly.

"So it is true, The Last Thinker did indeed do it..." Vilgax growled from within his healing tank, his claws tightening around the tank's handles as viscous green fluid bubbled around him. The crewman monitoring the scanners flinched as the screens flickered violently, displaying pixelated glimpses of Earth—specifically, a smoldering taco truck surrounded by flashing police lights.

"Shall we send more Mecha-droids oh Mighty Lord Vilgax?" The crewman's voice wobbled like gelatin in an earthquake as the entire ship shuddered violently. Outside the observation windowesa, the remnants of Rojo's exploded motorcycle spun past like a flaming metal tumbleweed.

Vilgax's healing tank burbled ominously. "Negative. This... *unforeseen synergy* proves intriguing." His claw-tipped fingers tapped against the glass, each tap sending spiderweb cracks radiating outward. "Prepare the Chrini-scanner. If organic and synthetic can merge so spectacularly—"

The ship's PA system suddenly blared: *WARNING: CHRINI-SCANNER OVERHEATING—PLEASE INSERT COOLANT OR PREPARE FOR IMMINENT MELTDOWN.*

Vilgax's tank violently shook, sending bubbles of healing fluid splattering across the control panels. The crewman frantically mashed buttons, sweat dripping onto a keyboard that now read "ERORR: GALATRIX SIGNAL LOST" in flickering red letters.

Outside the ship's viewport, Earth spun lazily—completely unaware that somewhere in America, Benjamin Tennyson was currently using a half-melted spatula to scrape what might've been guacamole off his forehead. The Galatrix on his wrist pulsed weakly, its surface cracked like a bad eggshell after Rojo's explosive finale. Gwen tapped it experimentally with a burnt churro.

"Stop poking it!" Benjamin hissed, swatting her hand away. "You're gonna—" The Galatrix suddenly emitted a sound like a dial-up modem choking on a tortilla chip. Its cracked surface pulsed an alarming shade of neon green that perfectly matched Gwen's incredulous expression. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm started wailing in sympathetic pain.

Kevin leaned against what remained of a parking meter, casually flipping a melted quarter between his fingers. "Okay, so let me get this straight—we just fought a cybernetic biker chick who got possessed by some alien squid's toaster oven drones, blew up two trucks and a dumpster, and now..." He squinted at Benjamin’s wrist, where the Galatrix sputtered like a dying firework. "Your fancy watch smells like burnt nachos. Did I miss anything?"

Gwen snatched the quarter mid-flip. "Yeah. The part where we *don’t* explain to the cops why half the block looks like a microwave exploded." She gestured to the smoldering ruins behind them, where a single surviving taco slowly slid off a wrecked countertop with tragic dignity. Nearby, Max was deep in conversation with officers, occasionally pointing at the sky and miming something that suspiciously resembled a weather balloon.

But back to the Hammer Of Vilgax.

Deep within the ship's underbelly—where the shadows clung to pipes leaking unidentified fluids that smelled suspiciously of expired salsa—Vilgax's newest crewman, a twitchy creature named Zyxyx-7, scraped sludge off a console with what appeared to be a spork.

"Lord Vilgax requests the—*urk*—Chrini-scanner readings," Zyxyx-7 muttered to himself, poking at a screen displaying pixelated footage of Rojo mid-explosion. The image froze on her face twisted in rage, her robotic eye shooting lasers wildly while her human eye rolled so hard it nearly vanished into her skull. "Note to self: never merge with Earth beings. Too… emotional."

Above him, the ceiling speakers crackled. "ZYXYX-7!" Vilgax's voice boomed, shaking loose a cascade of rust-flakes from the ceiling pipes. The twitchy crewman yelped and dropped his spork into a vat of unidentified green sludge—which promptly burped a smoke ring shaped like a question mark.

Inside the Hammer Of Vilgax, the namesake of the ship was strategizing in his healing tank. His massive form was obscured by the thick liquid, his breathing slow and calculated until the report came in.

"Lord Vilgax," The crewman began nervously, "The drones were indeed destroyed... But somehow, our target has been disabled by Earth law enforcement."

Vilgax's clawed fists clenched, his breathing becoming heavier within the tank. "So, the human has truly failed me, but that is to be expected. Their flesh is weak—their will weaker." The ship hummed ominously as he turned his gaze toward the flickering screen displaying Earth. "But the Galatrix... that is another matter entirely. The being who wears that weapon is unpredictable. Dangerous." His voice dropped to a growl. "And worst of all... annoyingly *clever*. Bit he will soon learn the cost of the Galatrix. Why The Last Thinker earned that title..."

He looked down again at the Earth itself, trying to pinpoint the exact location of the Galatrix signal—but the interference was insane. Every time he got close, the screen would fuzz out with static, or worse, display what looked suspiciously like a cartoonishly exaggerated explosion followed by what sounded like Benjamin Tennyson screaming "WHY DOES THIS KEEP HAPPENING?!" in the distance.

The crewman monitoring the scanners sighed deeply, rubbing his temples as he watched Vilgax’s claws tighten around the tank handles—again. The ship trembled under the warlord’s barely restrained fury, causing a loose bolt to rattle ominously somewhere in the ventilation system.

"...But soon he will indeed learn the history of the Galatrix and The Last Thinker." Vilgax's voice reverberated through the ship's corroded pipes as the Hammer Of Vilgax shuddered—this time hard enough to dislodge a loose panel that clattered onto Zyxyx-7's head. The twitchy crewman yelped, dropping his spork into a vat of suspiciously chunky green fluid that burped out a smoke ring shaped like a frowning face.

Chapter Text

The Tennyson Trio of Benjamin, Gwen, Max, as well as Kevin were at a guided tour of a museum in New Orleans, Louisiana.

While Kevin was messing around with the masks on display, the guide droned solely, "...And behind this impenetrable glass is the recently discovered, and only known existing copy of the 'Adamahcra Book of Spells'.

Benjamin and Gwen spoke simultaneously with the the tour guide, much to the slight confusion of Gwen, "...It contains ancient witchcraft and rituals from the later fifteen hundreds."

The tour guide sniffed, adjusting her glasses with a condescending flick. "Maybe you two should work here, dears."

Kevin, who had been balancing a ceremonial mask on his nose like a seal with questionable circus ambitions, froze mid-tilt as he saw that, "Don't let "mummy-face" get to you, she's probably older than that spellbook."

"Oh she definitely is..." Benjamin whispered in agreement with Kevin, mimicking the tour guide's stiff posture and pursed lips—only for Gwen to elbow him sharply as the museum's antique chandelier flickered ominously. A draft slithered through the exhibit hall despite the airtight climate controls, making the hairs on Max's neck prickle like he'd been zapped by lightening.

Gwen then looked at Benjamin, "Actually..., Benjamin why are you so interested in this, you usually are only this interested in Origami.."

Benjamin just curled the tips of long hairs before wandering, "Well I mean aliens are real, so why not magic? Besides, maybe it could help with my weird watch."

His fingers twitched near the Galatrix—still smelling faintly of nacho cheese—as the tour guide’s heels clicked away, and then the lighthearted moment was broken when rumbling began, with everyone in the room soon being lifting to the ceiling, seemingly magically.

Benjamin barely had time to think *oh great, what now* before his stomach lurched sideways. His sneakers scraped against the marble ceiling as the Galatrix flashed error symbols that suspiciously resembled a frowny face wearing sunglasses. Below, Gwen clung to a ceiling-mounted fire extinguisher like it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic.

"Something tells me this isn't part of the tour..." Max groaned, getting fed up with all the shit that he had dealt with this past week and a half.

Through the skylight window, a puff of purple smoke traveled through the air and reached the book of spells, materializing into Hex.

Hex's cloak billowed dramatically—like a bad goth kid's bedsheet "cape"—as he hovered mid-air. His staff pulsed with an eerie glow that made the museum’s fire alarms flicker on and off in a panic.

"The Arcamada Book of Spells..." His voice sounded like someone had poured gravel into a blender set to "dramatic villain monologue." Hex's gnarled fingers twitched toward the glass case—which immediately cracked like a teenager's ego after failing their driver's test, "All of its power shall now be mine!"

Benjamin—currently dangling upside-down like a confused bat—blinked at Hex with the kind of expression usually reserved for people who realized they'd just stepped in gum. "Oh, great. A discount Dumbledore with *attitude*."

Kevin, clinging to a chandelier that was definitely not rated for his weight, snorted. "Dude’s got *less* fashion sense than Gwen’s thrift store phase."

Gwen—who had somehow managed to levitate into a perfect seated position mid-air, legs crossed like a mildly irritated Buddha—shot Kevin a glare that could melt steel. "Focus, morons! We’re *literally* floating toward certain doom!"

Hex suddenly made an incantation, "Cahn Cahn Emmo Doof!", with the second left-most charm glowing orange, activating as he spoke. The class encasement around the book shattered, and the book levitated off the podium into his hands.

Benjamin and the others began to fall as Hex used his staff to end the rooms' occupants' levitation, eyes fixated on the Galatrix, which was flashing between red and purple like a malfunctioning disco ball. "Oh, this is *not* the time for you to glitch out on me—"

Right before he fell, the Galatrix activated.

Everyone screamed as they began falling. Benjamin quickly transformed into Rush, and he well, rushed down and maneuvered a tapestry to act as a soft landing for the tour.

"Everyone out!"

"Benjamin, be careful. You don't know what tricks he's got up his sleeve."

Rush then Turned to face Hex, his secondary visor dropping overhead, "Dude. You want a book, try the fucking library."

Hex stood to face Rush, "What manner of demon are you? No matter," his 2nd charm then activated. He quickly held up his staff and recited an incantation, "Bahto Mirdir Nuttu", causing ice to erupt from the staff, setting the tapestry encased in frost. Rush ran up walls to avoid the ice, shards of red crystals firing from the staff causing him to slip and crash into display cabinets in a spectacularly graceless pinball sequence.

"Guess we got his attention," Gwen muttered, tossing a trashcan as best as she could at Hex's back—only for it to freeze mid air and shatter into glittering shards.

"Kind of wish we hadn't," Kevin groaned, already rolling behind a display case before Hex's next spell could turn him into a particularly ugly lawn ornament.

The museum's emergency sprinklers kicked on as Hex's ice met Benjamin's speed—resulting in a slip-n-slide from hell. Rush skidded through a puddle of half-melted frost, claws scrabbling against marble as Gwen face planted into a conveniently placed velvet rope.

"Ow, the last bit of my dignity."

Hex wasn't laughing at all. His third charm glowed an ominous puce as he leveled his staff—only for Max to chuck a conveniently misplaced fire extinguisher like a grenade. It bounced off Hex's forehead with a hollow *clang*.

"...Did you just," Benjamin wheezed mid-skid, "knock out a wizard with OSHA compliance?"

"Thirty years of plumbing emergencies," Max deadpanned, already herding civilians toward the exits and moving towards the Rustbucket to get to the aliens inside. "Now quit yapping and—"

Too fucking late.

Hex's unconscious body slumped mid-air for a dramatic half-second before gravity remembered its job and yanked him face-first into a display case of Renaissance-era buttock armor. The resulting *clang* echoed through the museum like a drunk church bell.

"Shit," Rush muttered, watching Hex's unconscious form twitch like a bad Wi-Fi connection. "That was *way* too easy." The Galatrix pulsed against his wrist—not in its usual erratic glitching, but in slow, ominous thumps like a heartbeat counting down to disaster.

Gwen wiped museum grime off her jacket, eyeing Hex’s limp body with suspicion. "Wizards don’t just *pass out* because Grandpa chucked a fire extinguisher at them. That’s not how magic—"

The charm around Hex’s neck *cracked*.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

A jagged split raced across its surface like a time-lapse of an egg in a microwave. Purple ooze seeped out, hissing where it hit the floor and dissolving the marble into something that smelled suspiciously like burnt cotton candy.

"Demon, you and your allies shall perish," Hex muttered under his breath—or at least that's what it sounded like through the blood rushing in Benjamin's ears as Rush's claws scraped uselessly against suddenly-tiled skin. The wizard's unconscious body was *melting* into the floor tiles like warm butter, his stupid pointy hat the last thing to vanish with a pathetic *glorp*.

Kevin kicked the empty robes. "Okay, new rule: when the bad guy dissolves into the architecture, we *run*."

The Galatrix chose that moment to emit a sound like a dial-up modem giving birth—its core splitting open to vomit out a swirling vortex of green static that smelled suspiciously like burnt popcorn. Benjamin had approximately 0.3 seconds to process this before the museum's entire Egyptian wing *sneezed*, sending sarcophagi tumbling like dominos. One particularly pissed-off mummy case slid directly into Gwen's shins.

"Ow! My—why is everything targeting my *legs* today?!"

"Karma," Kevin snorted, already backing toward the exit as the vortex spat out something that looked like a disco ball made of teeth.

Max wasn't laughing. His hand closed around Benjamin's wrist with the grip of a man who'd seen enough eldritch nonsense for three lifetimes. "Kid. What did I say about touching cursed artifacts?"

"I didn't—okay, I *might* have scanned the bookcase when that warlock guy wasn't wasn't looking—"

The vortex burped.

"Hhhhhhooooowwww about we get out of here before the museum decides to redecorate—WITH OUR BONES?!" Kevin yelled, already halfway through the emergency exit as the vortex hiccuped again, spraying what looked like neon-green ectoplasm all over Benjamin's shoes before it closed up.

Soon the Rustbucket was driving along, as Benjamin was putting away his trophy along with his other souvenirs for him and the aliens to look at later.

"All I'm saying is that you didn't exactly stop that creep all by yourself today, okay?" Gwen jabbed her fork into a crawfish like it had personally offended her. The neon glow of the diner's sign flickered across her forehead, highlighting the unimpressed arch of her eyebrow. "I helped save your sorry butt, but does *anybody* notice me?"

"I never said you didn't Gwen," Benjamin groaned, rubbing his wrist where Max's grip had left red marks. "But it would be a lot easier to recognize you and Kevin than me and the aliens, besides, you'd have to deal with William Harangue."

"Ha!" Kevin smirked, resting his elbows on the table. "You're just mad 'cause Benjamin and I have got more moves than a chess grandpa." He snatched a crawfish off Gwen's plate with grease-stained fingers, wiggling it like a trophy. The diner's fluorescent lights caught the Galatrix's faint green pulse under Benjamin's sleeve—three quick flashes, like a malfunctioning heartbeat.

"It's not fair, you got lucky with an alien watch that transforms and had help and you can absorb stuff, while I'm just... Gwen!" Gwen huffed, crossing her arms as the diner's jukebox crackled through a staticky Elvis impersonator.

Benjamin scratched the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact. "Look, Gwen—"

"Uh-oh," Kevin interrupted, leaning in with a smirk. His elbow nudged Benjamin's ribs—just a little too deliberate. "Here comes the patented Tennyson guilt-trip. Next stop: Sob City. Population: You." He flicked a fry at Gwen's forehead.

She didn't flinch.

It stuck to her bangs like a sad, greasy flag of surrender.

"Besides, like Grandpa Max says, being a hero is not about getting attention." Benjamin leaned back in the booth, trying—and failing—to dodge Gwen's death glare. The vinyl seat squeaked under him like a dying seagull. A drop of condensation from Kevin's milkshake splattered onto the Galatrix's faceplate, making it blink awake with an irritated green flicker, "And well, I noticed you, Gwen."

"We're related Benjamin, so that doesn't count," Gwen muttered, peeling the fry from her forehead with theatrical disgust. The diner's overhead fan spun lazily, casting erratic shadows that made Kevin's smirk look even more punchable than usual.

Benjamin slowly sighed and brought out the charm Hex lost during the fight, "All right, here. Take it Gwen."

"Really? But you were so interested in the magic charm like, three seconds ago." Gwen snatched the charm from Benjamin's outstretched palm, her fingers brushing his just long enough to make Kevin's eyebrow twitch. The diner's jukebox skipped—somehow landing on the cheesiest love ballad possible—as Kevin deliberately crushed a napkin in his fist.

The charm pulsed once in Gwen's grip, casting emerald reflections across Kevin's scowl. "Yeah, well, magic trinkets don't fix *everything*," he muttered, kicking the booth’s leg hard enough to rattle the silverware. A saltshaker toppled—directly onto Benjamin’s lap.

"Nice reflexes, Tennyson." Kevin smirked as Benjamin scrambled to catch it.

Suddenly Max walked up with his own plate of crawfish. "You kids keep bickering like this, and I'm gonna start charging admission," he said, sliding into the booth with a grin that made his mustache twitch. The moment his weight hit the seat, the entire booth lurched—somewhere beneath them, a spring gave up on life with a metallic *sproing* that sounded suspiciously like Kevin’s last shred of patience.

Gwen clutched the charm tighter as the diner’s flickering neon sign outside buzzed like an angry hornet trapped in a jar. The glow from her fist pulsed in time with Benjamin’s Galatrix, casting alternating green and gold shadows across Kevin’s face—now twisted into something between a smirk and a snarl. "Oh *great*," Kevin drawled, drumming his fingers on the table. "Now they’re *syncing*. Next thing you know, they’ll start finishing each other’s—"

"Sandwiches?" Max interrupted cheerfully, shoving a half-eaten po’boy toward Kevin’s face.

Kevin recoiled like it was radioactive.

Meanwhile Hex woke up, "My destiny shall be fulfilled." And Hex opened a purple portal back to Earth.

At the edge of the Mississippi, the Rustbucket's tires spat gravel like a disgruntled llama. Inside, Kevin was pretending *very* hard not to stare at Benjamin's even longer hair while Gwen waved Hex's charm like a conductor's baton—each swing making the diner's jukebox skip between Elvis and static.

"Okay, new rule," Gwen announced, flicking a crawfish tail at Benjamin's forehead. "Whoever turns into a goo monster next buys dinner." The charm around her neck flared green as the projectile veered midair—splattering against Kevin's shirt instead.

Kevin stared at the stain spreading across his sleeve like an inkblot Rorschach test. "Real mature, Tennyson." His voice was flat, but his fingers twitched toward Benjamin's wrist—where the Galatrix hummed with erratic energy. The contact lasted half a second too long to be casual. Benjamin yanked his arm back like he'd been scalded, nearly elbowing Max's plate of gumbo into orbit.

Somewhere outside, Hex's portal spat him onto Bourbon Street with the grace of a drunkard ejected from a Mardi Gras float. A street musician's trumpet wailed in protest as the wizard face-planted into a pile of discarded beads. "Fah Cah Me—*ugh*—Doof!" he coughed, peeling a glittery necklace off his cheek. The charm embedded in his staff pulsed crimson, synchronizing with the erratic glow from Gwen's necklace three blocks away.

Meanwhile, the Rustbucket's radio crackled to life with a news bulletin: "—reports of a *living* jazz statue terrorizing Jackson Square—"

"Not it," Kevin muttered, slouching lower in his seat.

Benjamin's Galatrix chose that exact moment to short-circuit—projecting a hologram of Shredfang mid-sneeze. The alien's flailing claws phased through the diner's ceiling, scattering plaster dust onto their food.

Gwen gagged on her beignet. "We're *eating* that!"

Max sighed and reached for the hot sauce. "Eat fast."

The charm around Gwen's neck flared yet again.

Somewhere in the French Quarter, Hex finally unstuck himself from a voodoo shop's display window—taking several plastic skulls and a "CURSED: 50% OFF" sign with him. His robe now smelled distinctly of stale pralines and regret. Meanwhile, the Rustbucket's engine groaned like Kevin's patience when Benjamin accidentally-on-purpose bumped knees with him under the table for the third time.

"Well let's go then!" Benjamin yelped, Gwen choked on her café au lait.

The jazz statue (now confirmed to be playing a trombone made of solid regret) shattered another street lamp as Kevin's grip tightened around his rapidly deteriorating sanity. Benjamin's Galatrix chose that exact moment to emit a sound suspiciously like a dial-up modem mating with a kazoo.

Now at the Witchcraft Museum, Hex was throwing furniture searching for something. Hex then pulled a levitated security guard closer to him. "The Archamada Book of Spells. Where is it?"

The guard pointed to a giant safe. "They locked it in the vault, I swear!."

Hex magically cleared his pathway, letting out an incantation that burst open the metal vault—the book of spells flying into his hands. "Yes! Soon my power will know no limits!" Then he failed to use the book's power, noticing his missing emblem. "One charm is missing! Of course—the battle with that demonic speed creature!"

Meanwhile, back at the Rustbucket, Kevin was pretending *very hard* not to stare at Benjamin fiddling with the Galatrix again. The way Benjamin’s fingers hovered over the dial—hesitant, twitchy—made Kevin’s stomach do this weird flip-flop thing he refused to name. He blamed Gwen’s stupid charm.

Or the humidity.

Definitely the humidity.

"Uh, Earth to Kev?" Benjamin waved a hand in front of his face, grinning that dumb lopsided grin. "You’re doing the thing again—the creepy staring thing. You know, the one where you look like you wanna either punch me or—"

Kevin’s fork bent in half. "Eat your stupid fries, Tennyson."

Gwen’s charm pulsed like a disco ball on caffeine, casting neon-green ripples across the diner’s grease-stained walls. Somewhere in the distance, a saxophone wailed—either jazz or existential despair, hard to tell in New Orleans.

He slammed down on the Galatrix's dial like it owed him money—because apparently "subtle" wasn't in Benjamin's vocabulary today. The watch sparked, and transformed him into Brutebeast—which was great if you wanted to play fetch with a minivan, but less great when you had to deal with a possessed jazz statue currently doing the cha-cha through Bourbon Street's antique market.

"Uh, Tennyson?" Kevin crossed his arms, leaning against a lamppost that was *definitely* not swaying ominously. "Next time, maybe pick something that *doesn’t* drool on historic landmarks?"

Benjamin—well, Brutebeast now—shot him a look (despite not having eyes)that was half glare, half *why are you like this*, which was basically their entire friendship in one expression. Meanwhile, Gwen was busy wrestling Hex’s rogue charm out of the jazz statue’s trumpet—because of *course* the thing had swallowed it.

"You guys realize this is *literally* the worst team-up ever, right?" Gwen grunted, dodging a trombone swing.

Kevin smirked. "Speak for yourself, spell-squad. *I* didn’t turn into a walking carpet."

Brutebeast growled—which, okay, maybe sent a *tiny* shiver down Kevin’s spine—before lunging at the statue. The resulting collision sent trumpet pieces flying, one of which *miraculously* bounced off a balcony and smacked Hex square in the forehead as he emerged from an alley.

The wizard blinked. "Okay, *what*—"

Gwen’s charm flared like a disco grenade.

And then the ground exploded.

Not metaphorically.

Like, *actually* exploded.

Kevin barely had time to grab Benjamin—Brutebeast, whatever—by the scruff before the pavement gave way beneath them. They landed in a tangled heap in what smelled suspiciously like the city’s sewer system.

"Cool," Kevin deadpanned, peeling a suspiciously green sludge off his jacket. "Now we *and* my dignity smell like regret."

Brutebeast just growled in agreement—or indigestion, hard to tell—as Gwen's charm pulsed like a disco ball on steroids from where she'd landed a few feet away in the sewer muck. The green glow illuminated Kevin's face mid-eye-roll. "Real subtle," he muttered, flicking a chunk of something unidentifiable off Benjamin's fur. "Next time, maybe try *not* exploding the sidewalk when I'm—"

A gurgling noise cut him off as the sludge around them shifted. Something long and segmented broke the surface—then another, and another, until the walls seemed to ripple with them. Gwen's charm flared brighter. "Uh. Guys?" Her voice hitched. "Are those...?"

"Tubes," Kevin said flatly.

"Sentient tubes," Benjamin corrected through a mouthful of fangs, just as one reared up and sprayed neon pink goo directly into Kevin's face.

Silence.

Then:

"Tastes like bubblegum," Kevin admitted, wiping his eye. "I Still hate it."

Gwen's laughter echoed off the dripping walls until a metallic *clang* from above made them freeze. Hex's silhouette blocked the fractured streetlight. "Ah," he crooned, staff crackling. "The *perfect* specimens for my new... plumbing-based nightmare army."

But then Gwen's charm glowed again—this time like a malfunctioning lighthouse—and suddenly the neon-pink-slug-tubes recoiled as if someone had just insulted their mother's choice of interior decor. One of them hissed (which was impressive, considering they didn’t have mouths) and sprayed another glob of bubblegum goo—this time directly onto Hex’s meticulously groomed beard.

Kevin, still wiping sludge off his face, snorted. "Dude. Your beard’s *glowing* now."

Hex blinked. Then looked down. The pink goo wasn’t just glowing—it was *singing*. A high-pitched, off-key rendition of *Jazz in the Park*, complete with trumpet sounds emanating from his facial hair.

Benjamin—still Brutebeast—let out a noise that was either a laugh or a hairball.

Gwen, meanwhile, was trying *very hard* not to double over laughing. "Sir. I think you’ve been… *jazzed*."

Hex’s eye twitched erratically again.

His staff crackled like overcooked bacon, but before Hex could retaliate, Gwen’s charm pulsed again—this time syncing with the Galatrix’s erratic green static. The resulting shockwave turned the sewer’s sludge into a floating, shimmering disco ball of doom. Kevin, mid-snark, got smacked in the face by a glob of sentient glitter that spelled "LOSER" in cursive across his forehead.

"Really?!" Kevin spat, wiping at the iridescent insult. Benjamin—still Brutebeast—snorted, which unfortunately meant a half-chewed chunk of pavement landed in Hex’s singing beard. The wizard’s eye twitched harder than a malfunctioning Galatrix dial.

Gwen, meanwhile, was too busy gaping at her luck based powers, smiled.

She had powers now too.

Like Kevin did.

And more importantly, like Benjamin did.

She was... "Unlucky Girl." Gwen stared at the glowing charm around her neck, now pulsing in time with Hex’s off-key beard symphony. The sewer sludge bubbled ominously beneath her sneakers as Kevin finally managed to scrape the "LOSER" glitter off his forehead—only for it to reform into "DORK" in bold, sparkly Comic Sans.

Benjamin—still Brutebeast—hiccuped, which caused a chunk of pavement to ricochet off Hex’s now disco ball staff and land squarely in Kevin’s open mouth.

"Tastes like... bad life choices," Kevin muttered, spitting out the pavement chunk as Hex's beard hit a high note that shattered three sewer pipes overhead. Gwen's charm pulsed violently—not the soft "everything goes my way" glow from before, but a frantic strobe that made the disco-sludge convulse into a conga line of glittery horrors.

Hex wiped the mess off staring at Brutebeast, "Demon! You and your pawns are no match for my power!"

Kevin leaned against a pipe, chewing on a brick fragment. "Dude, your 'power' smells like a thrift store's perfume aisle. Also—" He flicked a glob of sludge off his jacket. "—your minions literally spit bubblegum."

Gwen's charm pulsed again—this time syncing with a distant jazz trumpet solo from street level. The sewer walls shuddered as the sludge conga line abruptly morphed into a squadron of tap-dancing, bowler-hatted alligators. One kicked Hex square in the ribs with a polished leather shoe.

"Okay," Gwen muttered, watching Hex skid across the sludge. "Maybe ‘unlucky’ isn’t the right term."

Brutebeast just snorted, which unfortunately meant Kevin got a faceful of half-digested asphalt. "Ugh! Warn a guy before you—" He froze mid-rant as Benjamin's Galatrix flickered violently, its green static forming around Brutebeast's neck and matching Gwen's charm on her own neck.

Soon Brutebeast was Benjamin once more. Gwen’s charm pulsed in sync with the Galatrix’s erratic hum, casting alternating patterns on it—like some cosmic disco ball had lodged itself in the watch’s circuitry. Kevin spat out another piece of debris—this one suspiciously glitter-coated—and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Alright, new rule," he declared, pointing at Gwen. "More touching haunted jewelry."

Hex, meanwhile, was mid-air—partly from the alligator’s kick, partly because the sludge had formed a trampoline beneath him—when his beard suddenly belted out a jazz rendition of *Happy Birthday* in the key of existential despair. The bowler-hatted gators paused mid-tap routine, tipping their hats in unison. "What," Gwen deadpanned, "is *happening*?"

Kevin, now sporting a glitter beard of his own (courtesy of Benjamin’s earlier transformation-induced sneeze), crossed his arms. "I dunno, but I’m billing that Hex guy for dry cleaning." He plucked a sequin off his jacket—somehow, it pulsed in time with Gwen’s charm, spelling "LOSER" in Morse code.

Benjamin, still rubbing his temples from the Galatrix’s latest malfunction, squinted at the disco sludge rippling beneath them. "We gotta get outta here before this sewer turns into a full-blown rave," he groaned. Gwen’s charm flared—suddenly, the jazz-gators whipped out kazoos.

Kevin sidled closer to Benjamin, casually adjusting his collar. "Hey, uh... you ever think about how weird it is that alien tech turns you into monsters, but somehow you’re still… you?" He coughed, kicking a stray tap shoe into the abyss. Gwen raised an eyebrow, but Hex’s airborne wail interrupted her—his beard had transitioned to scat-singing.

A pipe burst overhead, showering them in soap bubbles. Benjamin’s Galatrix flickered—Shredfang’s silhouette snarled within the hologram before vanishing. Gwen grabbed his wrist. "Benny, focus!" The charm’s glow intensified—Kevin’s jacket zipper spontaneously zipped itself up... and then melted into a tiny saxophone.

Hex hit the sludge-trampoline again—this time rebounding straight into a floating disco ball that hadn’t been there a second ago. It shattered, it screeched before dissolving into glitter confetti.

Kevin's jacket chose that exact moment to unravel into a flock of origami cranes—each one whispering "awkward" in a tiny, papery voice as they fluttered toward the sewer ceiling. Gwen's charm pulsed again, and suddenly the sludge beneath them solidified into a checkerboard pattern, complete with a neon sign that flashed *DANCE OR DIE* in aggressively cheerful pink letters. Benjamin groaned, rubbing his temples harder. "Okay, whose bright idea was it to combine alien tech with *haunted* jewelry?"

Hex hit the ground—or what passed for ground now—with a wet splat, his beard finally shutting up mid-scat. Unfortunately, it was replaced by the alligators breaking into a synchronized tap routine *on his back*, their little bowler hats tilting at increasingly improbable angles.

Kevin, now sporting a sequin mustache that spelled "EMBARRASSMENT" in tiny, sparkly letters, elbowed Benjamin. "Dude, if your watch turns me into a disco ball next, I’m revoking your best friend privileges."

The charm flared again—this time, the sewer walls *peeled back* like a banana, revealing a floating jazz lounge where the pipes had been. A saxophone-playing octopus in a tuxedo winked at them from the stage. Gwen’s eye twitched. "I think…" she said slowly, "my luck just *broke* reality."

"Damn." Kevin muttered as his sequin mustache twitched, spelling out "DISASTER" in cursive glitter. One of the tap-dancing alligators—now sporting a tiny fez—tripped over Hex's unconscious form and face planted into a puddle of sentient bubblegum.

The puddle then burped somehow.

Hex groaned as the tap-dancing alligator brigade suddenly froze mid-shuffle—their little fezzes tilting in unison as Gwen's charm pulsed like a disco strobe. The sewer grew colder as the alligators then looked at him, their tiny eyes narrowing in eerie synchronization before exploding into a chorus line of jazz hands. One of them kicked Hex square in the ribs with a polished tap shoe.

"Ow—what in the ten cursed realms—?" Hex wheezed, clutching his now aching side.

Kevin, now with his "EMBARRASSMENT" mustache rearranging into "LOSER" in neon pink, grabbed Benjamin's arm as the alligators' tap routine escalated into a full-blown Broadway nightmare. "Dude, if your stupid watch turns me into a backup dancer next, I swear—"

His threat cut off as one gator kicked a discarded sewer lid like a cymbal, the metallic *clang* syncing perfectly with the octopus's sax solo. Gwen's charm pulsed neon green—Benjamin's Galatrix responded by projecting Shredfang's ghostly claws through Kevin's jacket, shredding it into a fringe vest.

"MY JACKET WAS LIMOTED EDITION VINTAGE!" Kevin howled, batting at the spectral claws.

"Less whining, more *dodging*!" Benjamin ducked as a tap-dancing gator's tail sent Hex spinning into a pile of sludge—his beard now harmonizing with the octopus in a scat rendition of *Fly Me to the Moon*. The sludge bubbled ominously.

Gwen's charm flared again. The sewer walls as Max activated the Rustbucket's emergency protocol—"Glitter containment failed! Repeat, GLITTER CONTAINMENT—" His voice cut off as the sludge-pile Hex crashed into erupted in a geyser of iridescent foam.

Kevin, now sporting a vest that read "KISS THE COOK (OR ELSE)" in peeling sequins, grabbed Benjamin's wrist. "Dude. *Dude*. If I get turned into a backup dancer *one more time*—"

The alligators' synchronized jazz hands froze mid-routine. Their fezzes tilted in unison. Then—with a sound like a thousand kazoos inhaling—the entire sewer *breathed*. Hex's beard unwound like a Slinky, slithering toward the nearest gator. It paused, sniffed.

"...Is it *serenading* them?" Gwen whispered.

The beard launched into a passionate rendition of *Mack the Knife*.

**"NOBODY MOVE,"** Max bellowed—too late.

The gators’ synchronized swaying reached a fever pitch, their fezzes now pulsing like disco strobe lights as Hex’s beard coiled around their tails like a possessed microphone cord. Gwen’s charm—now fused to her wrist with what looked suspiciously like sentient glitter glue—flared violet as the sewer walls began *breathing* in time with the jazz.

"Okay, new rule," Kevin yelled over the saxophone solo currently emanating from a rogue pipe, "if anything starts *singing* in my personal space ever again, I’m legally allowed to punt it into next Tuesday—"

A gator’s tail smacked him mid-sentence, sending him spinning into Benjamin’s arms. Kevin blinked up at him—face smeared with sewer glitter, one fez dangling from his ear like a tragic Christmas ornament—and for a heartbeat, the jazz dimmed. Benjamin’s Galatrix flickered green against Kevin’s cheek.

"Uh." Kevin’s voice cracked. "We’re *drowning* in jazz hands, Tennyson. Priorities."

The moment shattered as the alligators *dreamed* Hex downward—not with teeth or tails, but with the sheer gravitational pull of synchronized choreography. Hex’s scream dissolved into a bassline as the gators formed a conga line, dragging him through a suddenly-liquid sewer grate. The last visible inch of his beard waved farewell like a drowning noodle.

Gwen’s charm pulsed. The sewer walls sighed.

"...Did they just *vore* him via jazz?" Max whispered, clutching a broken mop like a holy staff.

Benjamin’s Galatrix hissed—a sound like a dying kazoo that was used to summon others—as the last ripple of Hex’s jazz-induced disappearance faded into the sewer runoff.

"Well uh, Gwen, I don't suppose that your charm could get us back up there?" Kevin asked, staring at the now solid sewer grate where Hex had been jazz-napped moments ago. His glitter-streaked vest pulsed faintly pink—though whether from residual magic or embarrassment was unclear.

"I doubt that even as Unlucky Girl I can get it to do do that." Gwen said, staring at the grate. Her charm pulsed again, like a heartbeat—but wrong, arrhythmic. The sewer walls groaned in response, exhaling glitter-flecked mist that coiled around Kevin’s ankles like possessive fog.

Benjamin and Max just sighed, "I'll call the aliens."

The sewer walls pulsed like a diseased lung as Kevin wiped glitter from his eyelashes—only for Gwen’s charm to flare, redirecting the motion into an accidental slap across Benjamin’s face.

A suspended moment.

Then Kevin’s vest, now sentient and seething with sequin-based rage, leapt from his torso to attempt to strangle Gwen just as Grey Matter, Six Arms, Ten Ten, Amorph-Ooze, and Diamond Head came down from the sky like shooting stars—only to crash into a rogue pile of sentient accordions that had been haunting the sewer since Hex’s jazz demise. The accordions wheezed a dissonant chord before collapsing into glitter-dust.