# Desert Rose Motel - Room 237 - Nevada Desert - Late Afternoon
The Nevada sun had begun its descent toward the horizon, painting the desert in shades of copper and gold that would have inspired poets if poets were foolish enough to venture into landscapes where water was a luxury and shade was a distant memory. The Desert Rose Motel squatted against this vast canvas like a monument to mid-century optimism that had learned hard lessons about the relationship between dreams and reality.
In Room 237, Hela—currently inhabiting the carefully crafted mortal shell of Helena Michaels—sat cross-legged on a bed that had seen better decades, her divine consciousness wrapped in layers of performance so intricate they would have impressed method actors and cosmic entities in equal measure. The mirror across from her reflected exactly what she intended: a sixteen-year-old girl who looked like she'd been surviving on vending machine snacks and tap water, her olive-toned skin carrying the pallor of someone who'd spent too many days hiding from a world that felt hostile.
Her chestnut hair, threaded with auburn highlights that caught the desert light streaming through grimy windows, fell in careful waves around a face that spoke of intelligence tempered by fear, resilience carved from necessity rather than privilege. The emerald eyes that gazed back at her held depths that suggested pain beyond her apparent years, while her posture conveyed the careful tension of someone who'd learned to be ready for flight at a moment's notice.
The clothing she'd selected completed the illusion with artistic precision: jeans that showed honest wear without crossing into poverty, a burgundy sweater with fraying cuffs that spoke of careful maintenance rather than neglect, sneakers whose soles had begun their inevitable surrender to time and distance. Not destitution—her divine pride would never stoop to such crude manipulation—but the dignified struggle of someone making do with limited resources and unlimited determination.
But beneath this carefully constructed mortality, cosmic awareness monitored her environment with the precision of a goddess who'd spent millennia ruling the dishonored dead. Every vibration in the motel's foundation registered in her consciousness, every shift in electromagnetic fields painted pictures of approaching vehicles and human intentions, every change in atmospheric pressure sang songs of weather patterns and celestial mechanics that mortal senses could never detect.
Which was why she felt them long before they reached the motel's gravel parking lot.
Multiple vehicles approaching from different directions. Not the casual convergence of tourists or the random patterns of local traffic, but coordinated movement that spoke to tactical planning and professional surveillance. The engine signatures were wrong—too uniform, too well-maintained, carrying the electronic signatures of government modifications designed for pursuit operations and extended field deployment.
Hela's divine senses painted comprehensive pictures of the approaching forces: three black SUVs moving in formation, their occupants carrying weapons that hummed with electromagnetic enhancement, their communications equipment broadcasting on frequencies reserved for federal law enforcement and specialized capture operations. She could taste their intentions through the desert air—not curiosity, not concern for her welfare, but the cold calculation of individuals who'd been tasked with acquiring a valuable asset and returning it to facilities designed for study rather than sanctuary.
*How tediously predictable,* she thought with divine amusement that was carefully contained beneath layers of mortal performance. In her true form, she would have greeted such presumption with displays of power that would have redefined local geography and provided educational experiences about the inadvisability of threatening entities who ruled entire realms of existence.
But Helena Michaels—orphaned teenager, frightened mutant, desperate survivor—would respond very differently to the approaching threat.
She rose from the bed with movements that suggested controlled panic rather than predatory grace, her divine awareness carefully filtered through the lens of sixteen-year-old terror. The transformation was seamless, instantaneous—goddess became girl, cosmic entity became frightened child, ruler of the dead became someone whose primary concern was simply surviving another day in a world that had proven hostile to those who were different.
Her breathing quickened with calculated authenticity, pulse accelerating in patterns that would register as genuine fear to anyone monitoring biological responses. Her hands trembled—not with divine fury carefully held in check, but with the desperate uncertainty of someone whose recently manifested abilities remained mysterious and potentially uncontrollable.
Through the motel room's grimy window, she could see dust clouds on the horizon marking the approach of vehicles that meant capture, experimentation, and the kind of institutional attention that had destroyed so many enhanced individuals before her. Helena Michaels would be terrified. Helena Michaels would run.
And so she would run.
But first, a performance.
She allowed her carefully constructed mutant abilities to flare slightly—not the bone-deep power of Death incarnate, but the unstable energy projection of a teenager whose gifts had manifested during trauma and remained dangerously unpredictable. Green-black energy rippled across her palms like uncertain flames, beautiful and volatile, carrying just enough genuine menace to explain why government agencies might consider her a priority acquisition target.
The energy danced with calculated instability, surging and fading in patterns that suggested someone fighting for control over forces they didn't understand. To casual observation, it would appear to be electromagnetic manipulation—possibly force projection, definitely powerful enough to require specialized containment and study. The perfect bait for organizations that collected enhanced individuals like specimens for cosmic laboratories.
She let the manifestation build until it painted her reflection in shades of otherworldly fire, then allowed it to collapse with what appeared to be exhaustion and fear rather than conscious control. The effect was precisely calibrated—impressive enough to justify federal attention, unstable enough to explain why she might be considered dangerous, and frightened enough to make her appear vulnerable rather than threatening.
*Perfect,* she thought with satisfaction that was carefully hidden beneath layers of mortal terror. *Every inch the traumatized mutant they expect to find.*
The sound of engines grew closer, joined by the distinctive electronic whine of surveillance equipment and communications gear. Helena pressed herself against the motel room's window, peering through sun-faded curtains with the desperate attention of prey watching predators approach. Her reflection in the grimy glass showed exactly what she intended: a girl on the edge of panic, someone whose flight response was about to override whatever rational thought might have kept her hidden.
Three black SUVs materialized from the heat shimmer of distant asphalt, their profiles sharp against the desert landscape like mechanical vultures circling wounded prey. They moved with the coordinated precision of a military operation, approaching angles that would cut off potential escape routes while maintaining optimal positioning for rapid deployment of personnel and equipment.
Even at this distance, Hela's divine senses could catalogue their contents with encyclopedic precision: twelve operatives carrying weapons designed for enhanced individual capture, electronic restraint systems calibrated for supernatural abilities, sedation compounds that would incapacitate baseline humans and might slow down genuine mutants, and enough surveillance equipment to track a fleeing target across several states if necessary.
Professional. Competent. Absolutely convinced they were about to capture a frightened teenager whose only advantages were recently manifested abilities and desperate motivation to avoid captivity.
*If they only knew,* Hela mused with cosmic amusement, *they might have brought more vehicles. Possibly orbital support. Definitely better life insurance policies.*
But Helena Michaels knew none of this. Helena Michaels saw government vehicles approaching with hostile intent and did what any frightened sixteen-year-old would do in similar circumstances.
She grabbed her worn backpack—carefully stocked with exactly the right combination of essential supplies and personal items to suggest someone living rough but maintaining dignity—and moved toward the motel room's rear window with the desperate efficiency of someone whose survival had depended on quick escapes and quicker thinking.
Her divine strength made opening the paint-sealed window effortless, though she was careful to make it appear like the struggle of someone working against stubborn hardware rather than casually violating the laws of physics. The window scraped open with appropriate resistance, desert air rushing in with the scent of sage, sand, and distant storms that might never arrive.
The ground outside was perhaps eight feet below—not a difficult drop for someone with cosmic enhancement, though Helena Michaels would find it challenging enough to require careful consideration of landing technique and potential injury. She threw her backpack through the opening first, watching it land with a soft thump in the sandy soil beside a cluster of Joshua trees that provided minimal but crucial concealment.
Behind her, the sound of engines grew closer, joined now by the distinctive slam of vehicle doors and the electronic chatter of tactical communications. Professional voices coordinating approach vectors, establishing perimeter security, confirming that their target remained contained and unaware of the impending capture operation.
*Such confidence,* Hela thought with predatory amusement. *They truly believe they're hunting a frightened child rather than something that could unmake their entire reality with a particularly creative gesture.*
But Helena Michaels was, indeed, a frightened child. And frightened children ran.
She swung one leg through the window opening, then the other, her movements carrying the careful desperation of someone who'd practiced emergency escapes but hoped never to use them in earnest. The drop to the ground jolted through her frame with impact that mortal bones would feel for days, though her divine essence absorbed the shock without strain.
She rolled with the landing, came up running, grabbed her backpack without breaking stride, and sprinted toward the desert with the desperate grace of prey that had just realized the hunters were closer than anticipated.
Behind her, the motel room door exploded inward with the controlled violence of a breaching charge, followed immediately by the thunder of tactical boots on cheap carpeting and professional voices calling "Clear!" in tones that suggested they'd done this many times before and expected similar results.
"Target's gone!"
"Window's open—she's running!"
"Southeast direction toward the Joshua tree grove. Activate tracking protocols and deploy pursuit teams. She can't have gotten far on foot."
Hela allowed herself a smile as she ran—not the predatory grin of Death incarnate, but the desperate expression of someone who'd just realized that staying ahead of professional hunters would require every advantage she could muster. Her backpack bounced against her shoulders with each stride, the contents carefully selected to suggest someone traveling light by necessity rather than choice.
The desert floor beneath her feet was treacherous with hidden stones and patches of sand that could turn an ankle or slow pursuit, but her divine balance made navigation effortless even while maintaining the appearance of someone pushing physical limits through sheer determination. She ran with the efficient desperation of a teenager whose survival had depended on speed and endurance, breath coming in controlled gasps that would register as authentic exertion to anyone monitoring her biological responses.
Behind her, the government operation deployed with military precision. Additional vehicles appeared from concealed positions, their engines roaring to life as pursuit teams coordinated approach vectors designed to funnel their fleeing target toward predetermined capture zones. Helicopter rotors beat the air somewhere in the distance, growing closer with mechanical inevitability.
*Impressive,* she admitted to herself as she vaulted over a fallen log with grace that appeared desperate rather than effortless. *They've planned this operation with the thoroughness of individuals who understand that enhanced persons require specialized approaches to containment.*
But they were still hunting Helena Michaels—traumatized mutant with unstable abilities and limited understanding of her own capabilities. Not Hela, Goddess of Death, who could have ended this pursuit with a gesture that would have made the desert itself forget these vehicles had ever existed.
The distinction was everything.
She allowed her energy projection abilities to flare again as she ran, green-black fire trailing behind her like a banner of defiance and fear. To her pursuers, it would appear that physical exertion and emotional stress were causing her powers to manifest in increasingly visible ways—exactly the sort of escalating display that would confirm their assessment of her as dangerous and justify whatever containment measures they deemed necessary.
The energy painted Joshua trees and sage brush in otherworldly light, beautiful and terrible and absolutely convincing as the uncontrolled manifestation of someone whose gifts had emerged during trauma and remained dangerously unpredictable. It was precisely the sort of display that would make government agencies salivate while simultaneously terrifying them into bringing out the heavy restraint equipment.
"Energy signature's increasing!" The voice carried across the desert air through tactical communications that weren't quite as encrypted as their users believed. "Whatever she's doing, the stress is making her powers stronger. Recommend immediate containment before she reaches critical instability."
*Critical instability,* Hela thought with cosmic amusement. *If only they knew that critical instability, for someone of my actual capabilities, would involve things like dimensional rifts, spontaneous black holes, and possibly the accidental creation of new forms of matter that shouldn't exist according to local physics.*
But Helena Michaels was approaching her limits—physical, emotional, and supernatural. A frightened teenager could only run so far before exhaustion, panic, and uncontrolled abilities combined into circumstances that would require rescue rather than continued flight.
Which meant it was almost time for her to be saved.
The helicopter appeared over a distant ridge, its rotors painting the desert air with mechanical thunder as search lights began sweeping the twilight landscape in patterns designed to illuminate every possible hiding place. Ground teams moved with coordinated precision, their communications chatter revealing positions and approach vectors that would have made military strategists proud.
Hela allowed herself to stumble—just slightly, just enough to suggest that adrenaline and desperation were reaching their limits. She caught herself against a boulder that provided momentary concealment while she calculated distances, approach angles, and the optimal location for her eventual rescue by the X-Men, who should be arriving any moment if Xavier's reputation for perfectly timed interventions held true to form.
Her divine senses painted comprehensive pictures of the tactical situation: pursuit teams closing from three directions, helicopter establishing overwatch position, communications networks coordinating final capture procedures. Professional, thorough, absolutely convinced they were about to acquire a valuable specimen for institutional study and eventual exploitation.
*Soon,* she promised herself as green-black energy continued to flicker around her trembling hands. *Very soon, the real performance begins.*
Because Helena Michaels—frightened, desperate, powerful beyond her understanding—was about to discover that the world contained people who saw enhanced individuals as something more valuable than weapons or experimental subjects.
She was about to meet individuals who would treat her with compassion rather than fear, offer guidance rather than captivity, provide hope rather than despair.
She was about to meet Harry Potter.
And Hela, Goddess of Death, ruler of Helheim and heir to Asgard's throne, was very much looking forward to discovering whether he lived up to the magnificent reputation that had captured her attention across the vast distances between realms.
The desert wind carried the sound of approaching engines, the mechanical beat of helicopter rotors, and the electromagnetic signatures of advanced surveillance equipment deployed by individuals who believed they understood exactly what they were hunting.
They had no idea that they were about to become supporting players in a cosmic drama involving entities whose power exceeded their wildest theoretical calculations, forces that could reshape reality according to personal preference, and a goddess whose interest in one particular enhanced individual might prove more consequential than any of them could imagine.
The sun touched the western horizon, painting the sky in shades of fire and promise, while somewhere in the distance, a jet aircraft moved through the gathering darkness with passengers who believed they were conducting a simple rescue mission.
Helena Michaels pressed herself against cold stone and waited for salvation to arrive, her performance flawless down to the last detail of mortal terror and supernatural desperation.
And in the depths of her divine consciousness, Hela smiled with anticipation that had been building across the centuries.
*Soon, my magnificent dragon. Very soon indeed.*
—
The desert had become a killing ground painted in shades of fire and inevitability. Helena crouched behind a weathered outcropping of red stone, her chest heaving with exhaustion that was only partially feigned, emerald eyes tracking the systematic approach of her hunters through the gathering twilight. The government operation had deployed with military precision—twelve operatives in tactical gear moving through the Joshua tree grove like mechanical wolves, their communications equipment crackling with coordinates and containment protocols.
Above, the helicopter's searchlight carved through the darkness in sweeping arcs, its beam turning the desert floor into a stark landscape of shadows and exposure. The mechanical thunder of its rotors made stealth impossible, while infrared sensors painted thermal signatures that would reveal her position the moment she broke cover.
*How wonderfully thorough,* Hela thought with cosmic amusement carefully contained beneath layers of mortal terror. In her true form, she could have ended this hunt with a gesture that would have made the desert forget these vehicles had ever existed. But Helena Michaels—frightened teenager whose abilities had manifested during trauma—was approaching the limits of what desperation and amateur ability could accomplish against professional pursuit.
Her energy projection abilities flared again, green-black fire dancing around her trembling hands with the volatile beauty of someone fighting for control over forces they couldn't understand. The light painted the stone around her in otherworldly hues, each surge and fade perfectly calculated to suggest power on the edge of catastrophic instability.
"Target located!" The voice carried across the desert air through tactical communications. "Grid reference seven-seven, thermal signature confirmed. Energy readings are spiking—whatever she's doing, stress is pushing her abilities toward critical threshold."
*Critical threshold,* Hela mused while Helena's breathing quickened with authentic-appearing panic. *If only they understood that my actual critical threshold involves concepts like dimensional collapse and the accidental creation of pocket universes.*
But Helena Michaels was a terrified girl whose recently manifested abilities remained mysterious and dangerous. She had perhaps minutes before professional soldiers equipped with enhanced restraint systems would surround her position entirely. The performance demanded escalation—desperate measures by someone who'd run out of conventional options.
She allowed her power to surge higher, energy crackling across the stone with increasing intensity while her reflection in the polished surface showed exactly what her audience expected: a teenager pushed beyond her limits, abilities spiraling toward potential catastrophe because no one had taught her the difference between power and control.
"Containment team, move in now!" Command authority crackled through the communications network. "She's losing control of whatever she can do. Priority is civilian safety and asset acquisition, in that order. Deploy restraint systems on my mark."
The tactical teams began their final approach with coordinated precision, weapons raised but set to non-lethal configurations, electronic restraints humming with power designed to disrupt supernatural abilities and render enhanced individuals manageable for transport. Professional voices counted down approach vectors while the helicopter adjusted position to provide optimal overwatch.
Helena pressed herself deeper into her concealment, power flickering around her with beautiful instability while her divine senses monitored the approaching capture operation with encyclopedic precision. Every footstep registered in her consciousness, every weapon signature painted comprehensive pictures of capabilities and intentions, every tactical communication revealed positions and protocols.
Thirty seconds until encirclement. Twenty-five. Twenty.
*Perfect timing,* she thought with satisfaction as her enhanced hearing detected something the government teams had not yet noticed: the high-altitude whistle of aircraft approaching at velocities that would have made conventional interceptors weep with inadequacy.
Fifteen seconds. Ten.
The tactical teams reached optimal positions, weapons trained on her hiding spot while electronic restraints powered up with the distinctive whine of systems designed to contain enhanced individuals. Professional voices coordinated final approach procedures with military efficiency.
"On my mark—three, two, one—"
That's when the sky tore open.
---
The Blackbird descended through the gathering darkness like some cosmic predator that had decided conventional physics were merely polite suggestions. At two hundred feet above the desert floor, the aircraft's bay doors opened with mechanical precision, revealing an interior that glowed with warm light and the promise of sanctuary rather than capture.
But it wasn't the aircraft that made Helena's breath catch and Hela's divine consciousness sing with triumph.
It was the figure that dropped through those open doors like judgment given form.
He fell through the night sky with controlled grace that made gravity appear negotiable, his armor blazing with inner fire that turned darkness into something magnificent and terrible. Midnight black scales caught starlight and transformed it, each piece fitted with precision that spoke to cosmic forces with excellent taste in dramatic presentation. Crimson and gold accents traced patterns across the darkness, while the draconic helmet that concealed his features radiated authority that bypassed conscious thought and spoke directly to survival instincts older than civilization.
The impact of his landing sent shockwaves through the desert floor, though the crater that formed beneath his boots was perfectly circular, geometrically flawless, as though reality had politely rearranged itself to accommodate his arrival rather than being forced into submission by raw power.
Then the aura hit.
It wasn't visible energy or measurable force. It was presence distilled into weapon form, the psychological weight of someone who'd stood before cosmic entities and negotiated terms rather than begged for mercy. Every survival instinct possessed by the government operatives triggered simultaneously, flooding their nervous systems with chemical cascades that bypassed training and went straight to the parts of human consciousness responsible for recognizing apex predators.
One by one, they froze. Not through paralysis or supernatural compulsion, but through the simple recognition that movement in the presence of this being would constitute tactical suicide of the highest order. Weapons lowered without conscious decision. Communications fell silent. Even the helicopter pilot found himself maintaining position through automated reflexes while his higher brain functions processed exactly how inadequate their preparation had been.
Helena pressed herself against the stone outcropping, eyes wide with what appeared to be wonder mixed with terror as the armored figure straightened to his full height. Even at this distance, even with the draconic helmet concealing his features, power radiated from him like heat from a forge. This was someone who could reshape continents through force of will, who made reality itself pay attention when he moved.
*Magnificent,* Hela thought with divine appreciation that threatened to crack her mortal performance. *Every bit as devastating as the scrying portals suggested. Perhaps more so.*
But Helena Michaels saw a figure who might represent salvation or simply a different form of capture. Her energy projection abilities flickered uncertainly, caught between hope and the hard-learned lesson that adults who arrived with dramatic flair usually wanted something that would prove costly to provide.
The armored being turned toward her with mechanical precision, his movements carrying that distinctive combination of lethal capability and careful restraint that marked true predators who'd learned the difference between power and violence. When he spoke, his voice carried through the desert air with harmonic undertones that made the very atmosphere seem to listen.
"Helena Michaels." Not a question—a statement delivered with the certainty of someone whose information sources exceeded government databases. "Sixteen years old. Enhanced individual experiencing manifestation trauma. Currently pursued by federal agents whose understanding of your situation extends to 'dangerous and requiring institutional containment.'"
He took a step closer, and Helena could see her reflection in the polished surfaces of his helmet—a frightened girl surrounded by energy that painted the desert in shades of otherworldly fire. "Their assessment," he continued with that devastating vocal precision, "is both tactically inadequate and morally offensive."
*Oh, he's perfect,* Hela thought as Helena's breathing quickened with what appeared to be desperate hope. The combination of power and principle, authority tempered by compassion, strength wielded in service of protection rather than conquest—exactly the sort of individual who could catch and hold a goddess's attention across dimensional barriers.
But Helena Michaels was a terrified teenager who'd learned to be suspicious of adults offering help, especially when that help came in the form of armored figures dropping from aircraft during federal pursuit operations.
"Who—" she started, then stopped as her voice cracked with exhaustion and strain. "Who are you? Are you with them?" A gesture toward the frozen government operatives who remained locked in positions of tactical readiness while their nervous systems processed encounters with beings whose capabilities exceeded their institutional preparation.
The draconic helmet began to retract with organic precision, scales flowing backward like liquid mercury responding to conscious will rather than mechanical engineering. The transformation was mesmerizing—watching armor become something alive, technology that operated according to principles beyond conventional understanding of how matter should behave when subjected to enhanced consciousness.
The face revealed beneath was everything Hela had hoped for and more.
Harry Potter possessed the sort of masculine beauty that belonged in renaissance paintings and government propaganda designed to inspire unwavering loyalty through sheer aesthetic appreciation. His bone structure could have been personally commissioned by entities with unlimited budgets and impeccable taste in dramatic enhancement—cheekbones sharp enough to cut through diplomatic negotiations, a jawline that suggested he could deliver devastating criticisms or marriage proposals with equal facility, and lips that promised both intellectual discourse and considerably more intimate applications.
But it was his eyes that truly captured divine attention. Emerald depths that held intelligence sharp enough to dissect cosmic mysteries, compassion deep enough to drown armies, and beneath it all a darkness that spoke of power exercised and terrible choices made with full understanding of their consequences. When those eyes focused on Helena, reality itself seemed to hold its breath.
*Breathtaking,* Hela thought with appreciation that transcended aesthetic judgment and approached religious experience. *Absolutely, devastatingly perfect.*
"My name," he said with warm authority that could have convinced parliaments to adjourn early and supreme courts to issue favorable rulings, "is Harry Potter. I represent Xavier's Institute for Gifted Youngsters—a school dedicated to helping enhanced individuals understand their abilities rather than fear them."
His voice carried that particular quality of British precision that could make interdimensional warfare sound like minor scheduling conflicts. "I'm here because someone should have come sooner. Because you deserve guidance rather than capture, understanding rather than containment, hope rather than the institutional paranoia currently surrounding your position."
Helena stared at him with an expression that mixed desperate hope with learned caution. "A school?" The words emerged barely above a whisper. "For people like me? People who can..." She gestured at the energy still flickering around her hands, beautiful and volatile and absolutely convincing as uncontrolled manifestation. "People who break things when they feel too much?"
Harry's expression softened into something that could have melted permafrost and convinced angels to reconsider their commitment to divine service. "People who've never been taught that extraordinary abilities are gifts requiring guidance, not curses requiring suppression. People who've been told their hearts are weapons when they're actually the only compass worth following."
He extended one gauntleted hand, palm upward in invitation rather than demand. "At Xavier's Institute, you won't be a specimen for study or a problem requiring containment. You'll be a student with potential that extends far beyond what anyone has told you to believe about yourself."
*Yes,* Hela thought with triumph that threatened to overwhelm her mortal performance. *This is exactly what I hoped he would be.*
But Helena Michaels remained caught between hope and the hard experience of adults whose promises had historically proven unreliable. "How do I know you're telling the truth? How do I know this isn't just another cage with better decorations?"
Harry's smile could have convinced entire governments to switch to renewable energy while solving several diplomatic crises through sheer radiative charm. "Because," he said with gentle certainty, "if I wanted to capture you, Helena, those government operatives would still be conscious and I would have arrived with restraints rather than an invitation."
He gestured toward the frozen tactical teams with casual precision. "Their approach assumed you were dangerous because you're different. My approach assumes you're valuable because you're remarkable. The distinction tends to produce very different results."
Helena looked between Harry and the motionless agents whose weapons remained lowered despite their obvious training to handle enhanced individuals. The demonstration was both subtle and comprehensive—power sufficient to neutralize professional soldiers without violence, authority that commanded respect rather than demanding submission.
*Perfect,* Hela thought as Helena's resistance began to crumble beneath the weight of genuine compassion combined with devastatingly effective competence. *Exactly the sort of principled strength that could command respect from entities across multiple realms of existence.*
"The Institute," Harry continued, his voice carrying warmth that could melt arctic ice caps, "is a place where enhanced individuals learn to see their abilities as advantages rather than afflictions. Where emotional intensity is channeled into strength rather than suppressed as weakness. Where people like us discover that being different doesn't mean being dangerous—unless someone threatens those we care about."
Helena's energy projection began to stabilize, the volatile flickering settling into steadier patterns as hope displaced desperation. "People like us?" She studied his face with intense curiosity. "You're... enhanced too?"
The draconic scales began to flow across Harry's features again, reforming the helmet with organic precision while his voice carried through technological amplification that somehow made his words more compelling rather than less personal. "Enhanced, trained, and committed to ensuring that no one else has to face their abilities alone."
He tilted his armored head with aristocratic grace. "Helena, would you like to come with me? Not because you have to, not because the alternatives are worse, but because you deserve the chance to discover what you can become when fear stops dictating the boundaries of possibility?"
For a moment that stretched toward eternity, Helena stared at the armored figure whose presence had transformed a desperate chase into an invitation to something that might, possibly, represent hope rather than another variety of captivity. Around them, the desert held its breath while government operatives remained frozen by encounters with capabilities that exceeded their institutional preparation.
Finally, she nodded—a gesture so small it might have been missed by anyone whose senses weren't enhanced by cosmic forces and divine attention. "Yes," she whispered, then louder: "Yes. I'll come with you."
*Victory,* Hela thought with satisfaction that would have made stars weep with envy. *Finally, magnificently, inevitably—victory.*
"Helena," Harry said, his voice gentle despite the technological amplification, "I'm going to need your permission for something that might seem unusual. The aircraft waiting for us requires transportation methods that exceed conventional accessibility options."
She looked up at the Blackbird hovering above them with mechanical precision, its bay doors open like an invitation to possibilities that transcended earthbound limitations. "You want to carry me."
"If you'll trust me to do so safely," he replied with courtly precision that suggested he'd learned manners from someone who'd personally negotiated with royalty. "I promise you'll find the experience considerably more comfortable than federal custody or continued desert survival."
Helena—with Hela dancing in cosmic triumph behind layers of mortal performance—managed what appeared to be a tremulous smile. "I trust you," she said, and meant it in ways that transcended her immediate circumstances.
Harry moved with fluid grace that made mechanical armor appear organic, kneeling beside her with movements that radiated careful strength and absolute gentleness. "If I may?"
She nodded, and he lifted her with the effortless precision of someone whose enhanced physiology made carrying frightened teenagers feel roughly equivalent to handling expensive china that required careful attention but presented no actual challenge.
The princess carry positioned her perfectly against his armored chest, her head resting against surfaces that should have been uncomfortably hard but somehow managed to feel protective rather than constraining. One arm supported her shoulders with careful strength while the other curved beneath her knees, holding her with the sort of reverent care usually reserved for religious artifacts or diplomatic treaties.
*This,* Hela thought with divine satisfaction that threatened to overwhelm her mortal disguise, *is exactly what I hoped it would be.*
Helena's performance required appropriate responses to being held by someone whose presence radiated safety and power in equal measure. She allowed herself to relax against his armor, let her breathing slow from desperate gasps to something approaching normal rhythm, permitted her energy projection to settle into barely visible flickers that suggested control was finally becoming possible.
"Ready?" Harry asked, though his tone suggested the question was purely ceremonial—he would ensure her safety regardless of her level of preparedness.
Before Helena could respond, magnificent wings unfurled from his shoulders with precision that made angels weep with professional inadequacy. Not physical constructs but crystallized thought given form, psychic energy shaped by conscious will into something that could support flight while maintaining aesthetic standards that would inspire centuries of artistic tribute.
The wings caught starlight and transformed it into something that belonged in religious iconography rather than military extraction procedures. Each beat generated lift that operated according to principles beyond conventional aerodynamics, while their radiance painted the desert in shades of hope and possibility.
They rose into the Nevada sky with acceleration that should have been disorienting but somehow felt as natural as breathing, the desert floor falling away beneath them while government operatives remained frozen in positions of tactical inadequacy. The Blackbird adjusted its position with mechanical precision, bay doors open to receive passengers whose arrival would mark the beginning of educational experiences that would exceed everyone's expectations.
Helena pressed closer to Harry's armored form, partly from the natural human response to flight at altitude and partly because Hela's divine consciousness was savoring every moment of contact with someone whose reputation had proven entirely deserved. The combination of strength and gentleness, power restrained by principle, authority tempered by compassion—everything she'd hoped to discover was being demonstrated through direct experience.
*Soon,* she thought as they approached the aircraft that would transport her to Xavier's Institute and the beginning of whatever came next. *Soon I'll discover whether he proves as magnificent in extended acquaintance as he appears during rescue operations.*
The Blackbird's bay closed around them with mechanical precision, sealing them into warmth and artificial atmosphere while the desert disappeared beneath aircraft capable of velocities that made conventional pursuit academic rather than practical.
Helena Michaels—frightened teenager whose abilities had manifested during trauma—had been rescued from government capture and offered sanctuary among people who understood the challenges of being extraordinary in a world designed for normal.
Hela, Goddess of Death, ruler of Helheim and heir to Asgard's throne, had successfully infiltrated Xavier's Institute and achieved direct contact with the most intriguing enhanced individual she'd encountered in millennia.
And Harry Potter, Dragon-Born, cosmically enhanced master of British understatement and therapeutic impossibility, had once again demonstrated that the most effective solutions to complex problems usually involved appropriate application of overwhelming competence combined with genuine concern for individual welfare.
The rescue was complete. The performance had been flawless. The real adventure was about to begin.
In her divine consciousness, Hela smiled with anticipation that could have reshaped solar systems.
*This is going to be absolutely delicious.*
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there