Chapter 32: Dust to Dust
I'm on my back on the couch, Skye's warm weight pressing me into the soft cushions. Our lips move together in a heated dance, tongues exploring and tasting. The air is thick with the scent of our freshly washed skin, a clean, intoxicating aroma that mingles with the unmistakable musk of arousal.
Skye's damp hair falls around us like a curtain, droplets of water occasionally falling to land cool against my flushed skin. My own hair is still wet from our shower, plastered to my forehead in disheveled strands. The fabric of our clothes clings to our not-quite-dry bodies, creating friction with every movement.
My hands roam restlessly over Skye's back, tracing the defined muscles beneath her thin t-shirt. She nips at my lower lip, eliciting a soft moan from deep in my throat. In response, I arch up against her, desperate for more contact.
Skye's fingers tangle in my hair, tugging gently to angle my head for deeper access. The slight pain sends a jolt of pleasure straight through me, and I whimper into her mouth. My own hands slide lower, gripping her hips and pulling her more firmly against me.
The kiss grows more frantic, our breathing ragged and punctuated by soft gasps and moans. I feel like I'm drowning in sensation, overwhelmed by Skye's taste, her scent, the feel of her body pressed so intimately against mine. Time seems to lose all meaning as we lose ourselves in each other.
Just as I feel like I might combust from the heat building between us, Skye pulls back slightly. Her emerald eyes are dark with desire, pupils blown wide. A smirk plays at the corners of her lips as she gazes down at me.
"My my, you're so desperate today," she purrs, her voice husky and filled with amusement.
I smile up at Skye, my heart overflowing with love and desire. "I love you too much n…"
But before I can finish my declaration, the world around us explodes into chaos.
A deafening roar fills the air, drowning out all other sounds. The penthouse shakes violently, the floor trembling beneath us. In a heartbeat of horrifying clarity, I see the impossible the nose of a massive Boeing airplane tearing through the wall of windows, shards of glass glittering like deadly diamonds in the morning sun.
Metal screams as it sheers through concrete and steel. The plane's silver body reflects the light in a blinding flash as it plows deeper into the building. I can see Skye's eyes widen in shock.
In that split second, reality shifts. A familiar figure materializes beside us in a shimmer of displaced air. Tyrell reaches out and grabs my arm. His grip is like iron, unyielding and secure.
The world blurs around us, a dizzying whirl of motion and color. My stomach lurches as if I'm on the world's fastest elevator. When everything snaps back into focus, we're standing on the rooftop of a building across the street. The cool morning breeze whips around us, a stark contrast to the inferno erupting from the gaping wound in Skye's penthouse.
I stare at the horrific scene before me, my mind struggling to process what I've just witnessed. Flames lick at the jagged edges of the building, thick black smoke billowing into the sky. Debris rains down on the street below, a deadly hail of glass and twisted metal. Sirens wail in the distance, growing louder by the second.
I stare at the horrific scene before me, my mind struggling to process
Tyrell looks at me. I'm completely fucking lost, my brain unable to reconcile the peaceful morning we were just enjoying with the chaos unfolding before us.
"What the fuck is going on?" I manage to choke out, my voice barely audible over the cacophony of destruction.
Tyrell's grip on my arm tightens slightly as if to anchor me to reality. "This is what I was talking about the other day," he says, his voice unnaturally calm given the circumstances.
"What?" I ask, my mind reeling as I try to remember any conversation that could have possibly prepared me for this level of insanity.
Instead of answering, Tyrell simply points upward. My eyes follow the direction of his finger, and what I see makes me question my own sanity.
There, hovering in the air above the burning building is a figure that defies all logic and reason. It's a man floating effortlessly against the backdrop of smoke and flames. But it's not just any man. It's Osama bin Laden, the infamous Al-Qaeda leader who should be long dead. And as if that wasn't bizarre enough, he's dressed in what appears to be Goku's iconic orange gi from Dragon Ball Z.
My brain short-circuits at the sight. I raise a trembling finger, pointing at the impossible figure in the sky. "Is that Osama bin Laden?" I scream, my voice cracking with disbelief.
"Yeah, dude," Tyrell confirms, nodding as if this is just a mildly interesting occurrence rather than a world-shattering event. "Isn't that funny?"
I watch in stunned silence as bin Laden floats there, his long beard whipping in the wind, the bright orange fabric of his gi a stark contrast against the blue sky. He seems to survey the destruction below with an air of satisfaction, his arms crossed over his chest in a pose that would be comical if it weren't so surprising.
Suddenly, a new thought strikes me, adding another layer of absurdity to the already surreal situation. "Where the fuck did he get an airplane?" I yell, gesturing wildly at the smoldering wreckage of the Boeing that's now embedded in what used to be Skye's penthouse.
Tyrell shrugs. "That's his version of the spirit bomb."
Just then, a blur of motion catches my eye. From the heart of the inferno, a figure emerges, soaring upwards through the billowing smoke. It's Skye, still clad in her casual clothes, her damp hair whipping wildly in the wind as she ascends to match Osama Bin Laden's height. The sight of her, alive and unharmed, sends a wave of relief crashing over me so intense it nearly brings me to my knees.
Skye's emerald eyes scan the area, finally locking onto us. Even from this distance, I can see the fury blazing in their depths. "Get him somewhere safer than this!" she screams at Tyrell, her voice somehow carrying over the wailing of sirens and crumbling concrete.
Tyrell, still maddeningly calm, shakes his head. "Don't you want Luke to watch you fight?" he calls back, a hint of amusement in his tone.
Skye rolls her eyes. Without another word, she turns and flies towards Bin Laden, her body cutting through the air with effortless grace.
As Skye approaches, Osama's lips curl into a sneer. "I thought your buildings would be stronger," he taunts, his voice carrying a hint of disappointment mixed with malicious glee.
The absurdity of the situation hits me anew. Here we are, watching Osama Bin Laden, dressed as Goku, facing off against my superhero fiancée in the sky above a burning skyscraper. It's like some fever dream concocted by a bored madman with access to too many action figures and an overactive imagination.
'But it's real!'
Skye's emerald eyes narrow in confusion as she takes in the bizarre sight before her.
"What the fuck, man?" Skye shouts, her voice thunderous with rage. "You just destroyed my home!"
Bin Laden throws his head back and laughs, the sound echoing unnaturally across the cityscape. His eyes glow with a manic light as he raises his hands, palms facing Skye.
"Let's see how you handle this, little girl!" he cackles.
Suddenly, brilliant orbs of energy burst from his palms, streaking through the air towards Skye. The ki blasts light up the sky like fireworks, their searing heat reaching even where Tyrell and I stand.
But as the energy blasts reach Skye, something incredible happens. Instead of exploding on impact, they simply bounce off her like rubber balls hitting a brick wall. The deflected blasts careen wildly, some smashing into nearby buildings and others shooting harmlessly into the sky.
Skye doesn't even flinch. Her emerald eyes, if anything, burn brighter with indignation at this pitiful attack. In a blur of motion, almost too fast for my eyes to follow, she closes the distance between herself and Bin Laden.
Her fist connects with his face with a thunderous crack that echoes across the city. The impact is so powerful that a visible shockwave ripples through the air. Osama's body goes limp instantly, rocketing towards the ground like a ragdoll thrown by a petulant child.
He slams into the pavement below, Yamcha style, the concrete cratering under the force of his impact.
Skye hovers in the air, her chest heaving not from exertion but from the sheer rage coursing through her. Her eyes are livid.
Slowly, painfully, Osama Bin Laden begins to rise from the crater. His movements are sluggish, his body clearly battered from the single devastating blow. As he floats back up to Skye's level, I can see the extent of the damage. His face is grotesquely swollen, one eye already puffing shut. Blood trickles from his split lip and a broken nose.
Bin Laden spits out a few teeth, a spray of blood and saliva arcing through the air. Despite his battered appearance, a manic grin spreads across his swollen face, stretching his split lip grotesquely.
"You're strong," he slurs, his words barely intelligible through his mangled mouth. His one good eye gleams with a mixture of pain and excitement. "I'm going to have to get serious."
With an effort that seems to cause him great pain, Bin Laden raises his arms to the sky. His orange gi, now torn and bloodied, flutters in the wind created by his own energy.
"Lend me your airplanes!" he bellows, his voice echoing across the cityscape.
To my utter disbelief, a soft glow begins to form above his outstretched hands. At first, it's just a pinprick of light, no bigger than a marble. But as I watch, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, it begins to grow and take shape.
The glowing orb expands rapidly, its form shifting and elongating. Within seconds, I can make out the unmistakable silhouette of a Boeing jumbo jet forming in the air. It's as if the very essence of airplanes is being drawn from the surrounding area, coalescing into this impossible apparition.
"What the fuck?" I scream, my voice cracking with the strain of trying to process what I'm seeing. Tyrell stands beside me, his face unreadable through the mask as he watches the scene unfold.
The ghostly airplane continues to solidify, its details becoming clearer with each passing moment. I can see the windows forming along its fuselage, the massive engines taking shape under its wings. It's almost like watching a 3D printer work, pulling matter from thin air to create something tangible.
But before Osama can complete his bizarre summoning, Skye springs into action. One moment she's hovering in place, the next she's right in front of Bin Laden.
Time seems to slow as I watch Skye rear back her fist. With a primal scream that shakes the very air around us, she drives her fist forward.
There's a sickening crunch as Skye's fist punches clean through Bin Laden's chest. Blood and gore explode out of his back in a gruesome spray. The half-formed airplane above them flickers and dissipates like smoke in the wind.
Skye's emerald eyes blaze with an otherworldly fury as her fist remains buried in Bin Laden's chest. For a moment, they hang suspended in the air. Then, with a nauseating squelch, Skye yanks her arm back, ripping through flesh and bone as if it were wet paper.
Osama's body spasms, his one good eye rolling back in its socket. But Skye isn't done. Her blood-soaked hand shoots out, fingers curling into Bin Laden's beard. With a primal roar that echoes across the cityscape, she wrenches her arm upward.
There's a nightmarish crack as Bin Laden's spine separates. Skye's raw strength overcomes the stubborn connection between flesh and bone, and suddenly, she's holding up Bin Laden's skull, strips of skin and muscle still clinging to the bloodied bone.
Skye hovers there, her casual clothes now drenched in gore, Osama Bin Laden's skull held high like some morbid trophy. Her hair whips wildly in the wind, and even from this distance, I can see the emerald fire burning in her eyes.
With a contemptuous flick of her wrist, Skye sends the skull hurtling towards the ground. It whistles through the air, spinning end over end before smashing into the pavement.
The rest of Bin Laden's body, now a limp and headless husk, plummets from the sky. It lands with a wet thud, limbs splayed at unnatural angles. The once-bright orange gi is now a tapestry of blood and gore, barely recognizable as clothing.
Beside me, Tyrell lets out a long, weary sigh. "Well, that's the show," he says, his voice tinged with a strange mixture of boredom and resignation, as if he's seen this sort of thing a thousand times before.
I stand rooted to the spot, my mind reeling as I try to process the brutal spectacle I've just witnessed.
Skye's eyes jump to us, blazing with an intensity that makes my breath catch in my throat.
"Star Tower! Now!" she screams, her voice carrying over the chaos of sirens and crumbling concrete with supernatural clarity.
Tyrell nods, his casual demeanor a stark contrast to the carnage surrounding us. "Okay."
Before I can even process what's happening, Tyrell's hand clamps down on my shoulder. The world around us blurs, colors and shapes melding together in a mess.
In the blink of an eye, we're standing in the lobby of Star Tower. The sudden shift from the smoky, debris-filled air outside to the pristine, climate-controlled interior is jarring. The polished marble floors reflect the soft, warm lighting from crystal chandeliers overhead.
Tyrell releases his grip on my shoulder, taking a step back. His red jacket, somehow still immaculate despite the chaos we'd just escaped, stands out vividly against the muted tones of the lobby's decor.
"I have to go," Tyrell says, his voice carrying a hint of mischief. "I don't want to get yelled at by Super Star."
"I'm having trouble keeping up with today," I say with a weak laugh, the words feeling inadequate to express the whirlwind of emotions and experiences I'm trying to process.
But Tyrell is already gone, vanishing in another shimmer of displaced air. The space where he stood moments ago is now empty as if he'd never been there at all.
I let out a long, weary sigh, the events of the morning finally catching up with me. My legs feel weak, and I stumble over to one of the leather couches that dot the lobby.
*****
[Tyrell's POV]
I stand atop Star Tower, gazing out at the destruction stretching across the city skyline. Plumes of thick black smoke billow into the air, obscuring parts of the horizon. The twisted metal wreckage of the plane juts out from the shattered remains of Super Star's penthouse.
As I take in the chaotic scene, a wave of nostalgia washes over me. Something about the devastation, the panic in the streets below, the looming sense of danger, it all feels achingly familiar.
"Reminds me of home," I muse aloud, a wistful smile tugging at my lips. "God, I miss the C-Men."
The words have barely left my mouth when I feel a vise-like grip clamp around my neck from behind. Before I can react, I'm yanked backwards and spun around.
Super Star's face fills my vision, her emerald eyes angry. Blood and gore coat her clothes and skin, dripping from her hair.
Her fingers tighten around my throat as she lifts me off my feet. I instinctively grab at her wrist, trying to pry her hand away, but it's like trying to bend steel.
'This isn't good. Even if I teleport she'll just come with me.'
"I dropped Luke off in the lobby!" I choke out, panic rising in my chest as my air supply is cut off.
"I know," Super Star snarls, her voice dripping with venom. "I also know you leaked Luke's death to the press."
"I didn't do that," I gasp out. My vision starts to blur at the edges, dark spots dancing across my field of view.
Super Star's emerald eyes narrow dangerously, her face contorting with rage. Her fingers clench even tighter, completely cutting off my air supply. I can feel the bones and cartilage in my neck creaking under the immense pressure.
"You fucking bitch!" I manage to choke out, my voice barely more than a rasp. "I've been good to him and you. I stay in my lane."
"Lies," Super Star snarls.
"Fuck you," I reply back, summoning every ounce of defiance I can muster.
Super Star's eyes flash dangerously. "Who do you work for?" she demands, giving me a violent shake that makes my teeth rattle in my skull.
I try to spit blood in her face as a final act of rebellion, but my helmet gets in the way. The warm, coppery liquid oozes back down my chin and neck instead.
"Who do you work for?!" Super Star screams again, her patience clearly at its end.
But her grip has become too tight. There's a sickening crack as the bones in my neck give way under her superhuman strength. A jolt of agony tears through me.
*****
[Skye's POV]
As Tyrell's corpse rests in my hand, something inexplicable begins to happen. The body, still warm from the life that had just left it, starts to crumble. At first, it's subtle his body taking on an ashen, papery quality. But within seconds, the process accelerates at an alarming rate.
I watch, dumbfounded, as Tyrell's flesh begins to flake away like ashes in a strong breeze. His vibrant red jacket, which had seemed almost pristine, disintegrates into a fine crimson powder. The white of his helmet dulls and cracks, small pieces falling away.
The decomposition spreads rapidly, consuming flesh, bone, and clothing alike. It's as if some unseen force is devouring Tyrell's very existence, leaving nothing but dust in its wake.
"What the fuck?"