The First Kryptonian in Marvel

Sarah (POV)

I stood there, watching Kara disappear through the portal. "What a b*tch. Who does she think she is?"

"Damn, so much trash piling up here," I muttered, casting a disdainful glance at the lowlifes below. "Good thing I came prepared to deal with a mob like this," I grumbled, recalling that stunt Kara pulled with Lara against Hades. Getting Lara impaled by Hades' sword just to save her own skin—that was some bullshit. So yeah, I was always ready, alright.

With a tap on my bracelet, a metallic liquid surged from my shadow, crawling over my skin and solidifying into my battle armor. The suit was deep, blood-red that clung to me, layered with black panels along my arms, legs, and sides. A white, jagged emblem stretched across my chest, giving the design an edge.

The suit's finish was both matte and glossy, the black segments almost armor-plated, reinforced around the joints and torso. My forearms were guarded by spiked bracers extending just past my knuckles, while my fingers stayed flexible in black gloves with reinforced knuckles. Nothing left exposed.

My boots spiked and sturdy, hugged my calves up to the knee, and fitted with reinforced soles. A dark, tattered cape settled around my shoulders, its crimson lining flickering ominously as it draped down my back. A hood obscured my head, casting my face in shadows, while a stark white mask with a skull-like design covered everything but my eyes—narrow slits glowing with a menacing crimson.

"Time spent in the shadow dimension does wonders for creativity," I muttered with a grin. "That b*tch dumbed me in this situation, let me disappoint her by not dying."

I scanned the bobbing lights on the horizon before setting down my black case at my feet, which I just retrieved from the Shadow Dimension. Popping the latches, I took in the wonderful contents - a grenade launcher, a Glock nestled in leather, an MP5A1, and several hand grenades lined up in the foam. My gloved hand hovered for a moment, then settled on the tools I'd need for tonight's work.

Crouching in a shadowed corner of the tower, I aimed the launcher, lining up my shot through the telescopic sight. The figures were disembarking from a rubber boat, their leader clutching a suitcase as they stumbled onto the uneven shore.

"Showtime," I murmured, a smirk tugging at my lips, squeezing the trigger without hesitation.

The launcher exploded with a deafening roar, fire bursting from the barrel. It hit the containers near the gangsters dead-on, and the metal shuddered from the impact. The night sky lit up for a brief, blinding moment. Wasting no time, I leaped from the watchtower, my mind already running through the next steps.

But I'd miscalculated. The grenades Kara created with her Virtual Substance were faulty. According to her, they were supposed to have a range of 400 meters, but they were subpar, leaving some of the group untouched, thanks to the wind.

"Damn it!" I cursed, my voice echoing off the containers' metal sides. "After this is over, I'm chopping Kara to pieces." I sprinted a hundred meters to the containers, my boots crunching over loose gravel and debris from the explosion.

A grenade arced through the air, a dark silhouette against the starlit sky, landing near the dock with a satisfying thud. This one wasn't a dud. The muffled explosion had them scattering for cover, their shouts lost in the clang of metal against metal.

Raising my MP5, I peppered the ground near the containers, sending sparks flying. My enhanced vision thanks to magecraft swept through the chaos, searching for any remaining threats.

"Hello~ hello~ hello, where are you?" I called out, my voice bouncing off the metal walls of the containers. Moving towards the first row, I felt the uneven ground crunch beneath my boots.

According to my calculations, three out of the four containers in the first row should be destroyed. Blowing up two in the second row should expose the hiding spots I'd previously spotted from the watchtower.

As I passed the first row of containers, I crouched beside a container in the second row, its side ripped open like a sardine can. "Tat-tat-tat, another one bites the dust," I muttered, the metallic clang of gunfire filling the air. "Six little rats left. Play hide and seek well, because this cat's got sharp claws."

Surviving the blast showed just how resilient they were. Dizzy and likely suffering from tinnitus, they couldn't pull together a solid counterattack. Their positions were as good as revealed to my senses, and I had no problem wasting bullets—each hit a joyful satisfaction.

"Second row cleared. Where are you hiding? Third row? Fourth row?" I taunted, before suddenly dropping to my knees, hit in the head.

...

"Mark? You got her? robed down?" A muffled voice called out from the far end of the container stack, barely audible over the ringing in Mark's ears.

Mark lay half-suspended at the corner of the final container in the third row, his face smeared with fresh blood, his vision blurry. A choked reply gurgled from his throat. "Got him... Put a round right in her damn head and..."

He tumbled free, landing with a wet thud at the foot of the container, his eyes falling on his companions. One comrade leaned against the crate, dry heaving from the concussive blast, another lying motionless in a pool of blood that seeped into the cracked pavement. "Help... did anyone bring a phone? Call an ambulance," Vince, gasping and bleeding, pleaded.

"Hang tight, Vince. We're getting you out of here," Tyrone, an African-American gang member, his head throbbing, offered a shaky reassurance.

A loud CRACK echoed as the container protecting them collapsed inwards, metal tearing under immense force, revealing the robed figure—a tiny singe mark adorning her metallic mask, and her eyes burning with rage.

"Which one of you rats did that?" the robed figure's voice dripped with fury as she spoke.

Mark, pinned against the container wall by the impact, watched with detached horror as Tyrone, fumbling with shaking hands, pulled out his gun and aimed it at the robed figure.

The figure's head snapped towards the man holding the gun, "Oh, really? Wanna try again after failing once, Pathetic weakling!"

Mark's breath caught as the figure closed in on Tyrone, each step oozing this creepy, predator-like vibe. Tyrone tried to speak, his voice shaky, but he didn't even get the words out. In a terrifying flash, the robed figure grabbed him with one hand, its grip solid as steel, and threw him against the overturned container with a force that hit like a wrecking ball.

A strangled, hollow laugh slipped out of Mark—it didn't even sound like him. Tears blurred his sight, turning the brutal scene into a smear of violence and terror. His pulse thundered in his ears, the world spinning as he felt himself start to slip, trapped in the throes of a living nightmare.

..

With my weapon steady, I eased into a calm, almost zen-like state, surveying the chaos I'd left in the gang members scattered around me. A slight smirk crept onto my face as I spotted Mark, lying there tangled in the debris, barely breathing.

"If it isn't the b*tch who took a shot at me. Well, you're in luck, bro—I've got your payback right here. What goes around… comes around. Tit for tat. You know the drill." I placed my hands into the shadows, withdrew a Desert Eagle, pressed the barrel against his head, and... bang. "Huh, looks like you lost, mister, as it turns out!" I chuckled.

"Well, damn, two of them actually got away," I said, observing the scene.

Taking a hit and dropping to the ground—it was all part of the act, a ploy to lull them into a false sense of security, a bait to draw them all out. The moment I hit the floor, one guy fell for it and stepped right up. His eyes went wide in shock just as I sprang up, my fist crashing into his skull, bashing it in before he could even react.

I tracked the bullet's path with laser focus, ignoring the sting on my forehead. A flicker of movement, a quick, panicked shout—got you. My gaze narrowed, zeroing in on the container stacks where I heard a muffled call for an ambulance.

With a single, earth-shattering blow, I sent a container flying into another, triggering a chaotic domino effect. Ripping through the twisted metal, I found a group of cowards cowering inside.

After swiftly dealing with the gangsters, I turned my attention to the real target: the vibranium package. I combed the area, methodical and unrelenting, until I found it—a battered suitcase. It felt lighter than I'd hoped, but it would have to do.

The vibranium disappeared into my shadows—no wasted motion. Having completed my business, I started to sink into my shadows.

Just then, a glint caught my eye—a familiar bald head peeking out from the pile of bodies. My face under my mask stretched into a slow, cruel smile as my red eyes flashed with recognition—Scott Martin, that so-called angel investor with his shady Black Triangle connections. Alive, but barely holding on.

"Well, look who it is, Mr. Martin," I drawled, letting mock surprise seep into my voice. "Quite the tragic accident."

"Busy trying to leverage those connections for my wares?" I mused internally, an amused smile adorning my face. "Well, lucky you! Though I think the Black Triangle angle that Kara values is nonsense, you could maybe still be valuable."

A Navi scan revealed another unwelcome guest—a Chinese gangster, knocked out cold. already had his Glock 19 from an earlier scrap. "Your Glock served me well, Mr. Li," I said with a sly grin, as I retrieved the Glock 19, ready to put a bullet in his head.

"Bang."

"Does this count as poetic justice?" I wondered. "Whatever."

I glanced at the time on my computer lenses—3:25 a.m. An hour and twenty-five minutes, just as planned. With everything done, I reached out to Ava, and in seconds, we vanished into the night, leaving Scott Martin to fend for himself—just an unlucky middleman left behind.

...

Back at the brownstone, I took a hot shower, the eucalyptus shampoo lingering as I dried off. I pulled on some fresh sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, and wandered into the living room, still thick with humidity.

Blueprints and diagrams were strewn across the place. I collapsed onto the couch, the springs creaking. A bowl of cereal and steaming mug of coffee waited on the coffee table in front of me. I flicked on the TV and leaned back, watching the news flash across the screen.

"(Rebroadcast) At 2:30 a.m. last night, an explosion occurred in Times Square."

A grainy image filled the screen—twisted metal, broken glass, emergency lights flashing across the scene.

"Many were injured, and some died despite medical efforts," the anchor droned in that somber tone. I took a bite of cereal, keeping my gaze fixed on the screen.

"Traces of chemicals were found, indicating this was an attack." They went on about casualties and possible motives, and a smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth.

"City's a real magnet for disaster, huh, Ava?" A soft "chirp" came from the corner, the only sound filling the otherwise silent brownstone.