Chapter 78: Teleporters and Teammates

Bronte always forgot the feeling of being in the presence of a god. You think he'd remember simply due to the frequency of times he'd come face to face with one.

And face to fist.

And vice versa—

"Are you thinking about fighting me?" Oshtur questioned as she glimmered above him like clouds and lightning and shining metal given feminine form.

Bronte coughed, "ERHM. No. I'm thinking about what I'll do if you attack me. Self defense at that point."

Oshtur's form solidified. The wispy air currents that held shape lost their transparency as she hovered overhead— larger than life. Her eyebrow rose, "And why would I attack you?"

"We haven't spoken in a while. I lost my magic. I still don't know if I even did what you asked…. A year ago." Bronte was floated below her.

But as soon as he said he lost his magic, he fell.

The sound of the winds rippling through his dreads like screaming combs swallowed up his ears. The debris and sand made his eyes water.

He hit the ground so hard he sunk. The sand welcomed him like a beige coffin. He used his claws like a shovel and dug.

And with only one arm it took a minute. But— like a Wolverine trapped under monsters greater than itself, he furosiouly— tenaciously, ripped his way upward and exploded onto solid ground ready for war. As ready as he could be.

"That's what I mean…. Why can't you just be upfront about it? Aren't you supposed to be moral?"

Someone laughed from behind him.

Brontë dropped his head from the clouds and spun around to find a woman standing no more than twenty feet from him.

Pale grey skin. Dark slim eyebrows that would've made world renowned beauticians jealous. Her hair fell around her in airy curls so vibrant they reminded him of stars despite being black in color.

She favored his birth mother in the face. Same full lips and wide nose.

A sparkling grey dress gave her body a ghostly figure as she hovered over the sand.

Brontë lunged. With only one arm, he knew experienced combatants thought him easily evaded.

She side stepped, shaking her head disapprovingly.

Brontë skidded to a halt in the sand and popped his elbow blade, lunging backward to skewer her.

His bone blade found a home in her chest, and she crumbled into sand, blending in with the endless miles of the rest.

"You're terribly misinformed."

Brontë sighed and and casually turned around to find her standing behind him again just as she was before. Now she hovered over the crater he previously fell in.

"So you didn't just let me fall and eat the ground?" Bronte questioned as he shook sand out of his hair.

Oshtur shook her head, "This realm is mine as much as it is yours….."

"EEEUUURAGGGGHHH!!!" Just as it had happened before, a titanous clawed hand pressed against the boundaries of their realm, causing the skies to bend and shape around its claws like a hand pressing into a sheeted tent.

"Yours.. and others— partially." Oshtur explained.

"So what?" Bronte questioned.

"So I'm teaching you a lesson. One you've heard before." Oshtur pressed a finger to her head, "You hurt yourself. You limit yourself, with this. I didn't make you fall, you did."

Brontë squinted his eyes as he looked at her, "Did…. Did you just victim blame me?"

Oshtur laughed again.

In that moment he would've rather been fighting Bast. Too much uncertain in the moment.

"I like you, Bronte."

"Oh…."

"No really." Oshtur repeated before turning away from him and beginning to walk. She beckoned him to follow.

Hesitantly, he did.

"You don't take the gods every word as gospel. But you also don't see us as the scourge of mankind." She said from beside him.

"Right….. y'all are like humans."

Oshtur side eyed him.

"I mean let's be real. You got all these powers and all this governing ability. But we both got trash neighbors…" Bronte pointed at the claw marks scoring the skies. "You got troubled siblings. Beefs. Feelings…. Everything that makes us human, y'all have in some way. I feel like some of you just let humans tell you, you don't."

"You know some gods are entirely just forces of nature."

"Calling cap until I see it." Bronte shrugged.

Oshtur nodded and smiled, "Right… I'm sure you'll see it very soon now since you've offended them."

"Please don't play right now." Bronte was just as serious as he was joking.

Oshtur flew ahead, "Follow."

Brontë took off in a sprint.

"Bronte…. You've been doing your best to follow what I asked of you for some time now. And even if you weren't I have no reason to fight you."

Brontë listened as he ran up a sand dune that felt as tall as a mountain. Oshtur flew beside him, spinning and twisting through the air. Somehow her dress never got tangled.

"I once told you Justice was a birthright of all living things. I also once told you Romulus could be the most or least of your worries. Look where we stand now?"

Brontë reached the top of the dune and jumped, soaring through the air.

"Romulus is no more. Chaos churns in a pit slowly being built around your entire world. Despite this justice is a birthright to us all. Even yourself."

Brontë continued listening.

"If you cannot master yourself— bring Justice to yourself, then you can't master what lies beyond….. or below."

"How do you want me to get Justice for myself…?"

"Figure it out. Or fall."

"Oshtur I'm twenty one years old and your telling me to have an intense self awakening just like that…? That's od to be honest—"

Oshtur looked him up and down repeatedly, "You seem to be on the right path."

Brontë looked down at himself and realized he was flying again.

Was.

As soon as he noticed he fell.

"Son of a bi—"

He crashed again.

This time when he dug himself out of the sand, Oshtur was standing over him.

"You teach like Remus, you know that?" Bronte growled.

"You're strong, Bronte. Despite your lacking formal intelligence, you are…. Uniquely witty. You think outside of physical boundaries and repetitive teachings. You challenge things. Now, I challenge you to look inward as you press forward. Brontë your world is running out of those that seek Justice. Your world is losing Heroes in the wake of a growing shadow. It needs light. You need to find yours again before it's too late. And while you're at it, find there's."

"Who..?"

"The Midnight Suns. I think you're all in a peculiar spot in this life. Oh, ones on the way right now."

Brontë stood up, "What are you talking ab—"

Suddenly the floor fell inward and the sand swallowed him whole.

"I'll tell Ororo how you're doing." Oshtur's voice echoed as he fell into blackness.

***

Sunday January 2nd, 2022. Harlem, New York.

Bronte's eyes snapped open just in time to see a purplish blue cloud of smoke explode into existence on his cieling. Followed by the most bizzare noise he'd ever heard.

Bamf!

Suddenly he was staring at a blue skinned demon in spandex.

"Mein gott! You have a lot of dogs, Mr StormWolf."