The First Kryptonian in Marvel

Kara (POV)

The Chevrolet groaned to a halt at the curb, its engine sounding as tired as Schmidt looked. "Ms. Vasílissa," he began, his voice tight with a mix of admiration and exasperation, "that charging station you sold the General on—quite the invention. Would you care to remind me when it was invented?"

I leaned against the doorframe for a moment, enjoying the crisp air and the thrill of the day's victory. "It wasn't, Schmidt," I replied smoothly, throwing him a smirk. "The idea came to life somewhere between the General's skepticism and my sheer brilliance. It's not every day you can conjure a $3 million incentive out of thin air."

His sigh was heavy, the kind of sigh that belonged to someone who spent too much time cleaning up after a whirlwind like me. "And what happens," he pressed, eyebrows knit in visible concern, "when they request technical specifications or insist we deliver this charging station? You're aware the Pentagon doesn't take kindly to improvisation."

"Oh, Schmidt," I chuckled, waving a dismissive hand. "Details, details. If they ask for it, we'll give them something. It's just a question of what's most profitable to give."

Schmidt's expression shifted between apprehension and curiosity as I leaned back in my seat. "Picture this," I began, gesturing theatrically, "a sleek metal casing, something shiny and intimidating. Toss in a few robotic arms—automated, of course, for maximum wow factor. The batteries? High-grade isotopes, naturally. Expensive, yes, but we'll pass those costs along, with a healthy markup for maintenance support."

His groan was audible now. "Isotope batteries," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Kara, do you even know how much those cost?"

"Not nearly as much as the Pentagon is willing to pay," I shot back, my grin widening. "Especially when we frame it as a crucial operational upgrade. Two-day replacements, Schmidt. A service technician on call. We're not just selling a product; we're selling a system. Efficiency, security, exclusivity—they'll eat it up."

Schmidt's laugh escaped before he could stop it. It was weary but genuine, the sound of a man who had resigned himself to the madness. "You're something else, you know that?"

I grinned, tapping the dashboard. "And that's why you stick around."

The Chevy rolled to a stop in the shadow of a towering Brooklyn skyscraper, the city lights glinting off its glass facade. Schmidt adjusted his glasses and shot me a wry look. "This is your stop. I'll head back to the office and have legal prep the final drafts for tomorrow. You really outdid yourself today."

Before sliding out of the car, I gave him a parting glance, "Don't stay up too late, Schmidt. Big day ahead."

"Big day," he muttered, shaking his head with a half-smile. "For all of us."

I hopped out of the Chevy, my boots hitting the pavement with a sense of finality. The smirk on my lips was well-earned; the deal with General Stone wasn't just a win—it was a step in the right direction. Military contracts were only one piece of my vast puzzle, but all pieces have a place in her plans.

With another glance at the Chevy speeding away, I let the shadows take me in, tonight vampires were waiting for me.

...

General (POV)

Earlier that day...

In a grand chamber drenched in crimson hues, an attendant approached the high-backed throne of a vampire elder. Shadows danced across the gothic arches as candlelight flickered against the elder's pale, statuesque face.

"Elder," the attendant murmured, bowing low, "Frost is here."

The elder's lips barely moved, his voice a low rumble. "What does he want?"

"Not sure," the attendant replied, glancing nervously over his shoulder. "But he looks... furious."

A slow, disdainful smile curled on the elder's face. "Let him wait. Perhaps he'll learn the virtue of patience while he cools his temper." He turned back to the council of robed vampires seated around the stone table. "Let us continue—"

Bang!

The heavy oak doors slammed open, the sound reverberating like a thunderclap. Deacon Frost stormed in, his leather jacket dusted with ash and his signature smirk as sharp as a blade.

"Patience? Not really my thing," he drawled, striding toward the table.

"Frost!" The elder rose, his voice cutting through the chamber like a dagger. "Who let you in here?"

Frost didn't break his stride. "No one. But here's the deal—I don't need an invitation."

The elder's glowing eyes narrowed. "What is the meaning of this?"

Frost's smirk vanished, replaced by cold fury. "One of my clubs. Wiped out. Clean."

A ripple of unease passed through the council. The elder's tone turned venomous. "How many times must I warn you? Your indulgences jeopardize us all. We have an agreement with the humans!"

Frost scoffed, his laugh hollow and cutting. "Agreement? You mean servitude? Pathetic. You cower in this mausoleum while the humans sharpen their blades. And the Daywalker?" He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "He's not your predator. He's mine."

"Enough!" the elder roared, his claws raking the air. "Leave, before I strip you of what little power you think you hold."

Frost chuckled darkly, spinning on his heel. "Sure, old man. Enjoy your crypt."

As the doors slammed shut behind him, the elder spat to the council, "Fools like him will doom us all. Now, about the offshore accounts—"

Outside, Frost leaned casually against a sleek black car, pulling out his phone. He dialed. "Quinn. How's that hand? Good. Get everyone ready. We've got a little sunrise service planned."

Mercury, a blonde vampiress, silently approached, smoothing sunscreen over Frost's face with delicate precision. He glanced at her with a grin. "Easy now. I don't tan—I ignite."

Moments later, Frost's convoy rolled to a halt at a desolate coastline. The air was thick with salt and menace. Frost yanked open a car door, dragging a blindfolded and bound vampire elder into the predawn chill.

With a violent jerk, he ripped the blindfold away. The captive blinked in terror, his pallid features twisting as the first hints of orange began to glow on the horizon.

"What are you doing?" the elder stammered.

Frost crouched in front of him, his smirk feral. "Introducing you to the one thing you've avoided your whole miserable existence: mortality."

He pulled a set of pliers from his pocket, twirling them like a showman. With a cruel flick of his wrist, he wrenched out one of the elder's fangs. Blood dripped, glistening under the pale dawn light.

"You're insane!" the elder shrieked, his voice rising in panic.

Frost tilted his head, mockingly thoughtful. "Maybe. But hey, sanity's overrated."

As the sun's rays pierced the horizon, Frost and his crew, clad in black helmets and thick gear, stood motionless, watching. The elder screamed as his skin blistered and sizzled. Frost closed his eyes, inhaling deeply as though savoring fine wine.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he murmured, his voice devoid of sympathy.

When the elder crumbled into ash, Frost rose, brushing dust from his coat. His gaze swept the horizon, a predatory gleam in his eyes.

"Let's go," he ordered, sliding into the car. "The old guard doesn't know it yet, but their time's up. We're rewriting the rules, and we're starting with blood."

The engines roared to life, tearing away from the coastline, leaving behind nothing but ashes and echoes of Frost's sardonic laughter.

...

Blade's origins were etched in tragedy, his existence born from the bite of Deacon Frost—the vampire who murdered his mother, Vanessa before Blade had even taken his first breath. What followed was a life of vengeance, shaped and honed by Whistler, a man whose hatred for vampires ran as deep as Blade's own. But the twisted irony of Blade's blood—an antidote and a weapon—was something even Frost couldn't ignore.

Now, with Frost cooking up his most ambitious scheme yet, "La Magra" was within his reach, but only if he could get his hands on Blade's unique blood. So when news reached him that one of his lavish Blood Clubs had been wiped out by none other than Blade himself, Frost's sinister laughter echoed through the mansion's halls.

"I knew it would come to this..." Frost muttered to himself, watching the security footage of Blade wrecking his operation. "He can't stay out of the way of destiny, can he?"

The vampire kingpin wasn't done yet, though. He knew Blade's knack for ruining their plans all too well, so he had the foresight to slip a tracker onto Blade's ride during one of their earlier raids. And now? They were zeroing in on Blade's hidden warehouse, the trap was set.

Inside the dimly lit warehouse, Blade was out on a mission, unaware of the impending storm. From the shadows, Whistler kept watch. He was the last line of defense, and he was damn good at it.

The door exploded open.

The first vampire barely made it through before Whistler's shotgun kicked into gear. Boom! Boom! Two vampires instantly turned to ash, the blast scorching the air.

"Hold your fire, you idiots!" Frost's voice rang out from the shadows, biting and imperious.

The remaining lackeys halted, visibly annoyed but clearly too scared to argue.

Frost's orders were swift and sharp. "Circle him. No one gets out alive."

The henchmen closed in, their fangs gleaming like predators ready to feast. But Whistler wasn't about to let them make it easy.

The old man was like a grizzled, one-man army, popping off shots and turning vampires into dust with calculated precision. He'd been at this too long to show mercy, but eventually, the old dog's luck ran out. His shotgun clicked empty, the sound cutting through the chaos like a death knell.

The vampires took their chance, lunging in to finish the job.

"Well, this is just perfect," Whistler muttered, reaching into his pocket with a grin.

Out came a grenade—if you could even call it that. It looked like something a kid would make in their garage.

The vampires exchanged confused looks, then smirked. The crazy old man had finally snapped.

Whistler flicked the switch, then tossed the grenade at the advancing vampires. "Here's hoping..." he muttered.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then—BLAMMO!—a blinding flash lit up the entire warehouse. The vampires caught mid-lunge, were reduced to ash faster than you could say "undead barbecue."

Whistler grinned, adjusting his sunglasses as the light faded. "Well, I'll be damned. That woman's gadgets really work."

Just as he was basking in his own victory, something shifted in the air. A figure—faster than lightning—materialized from the shadows, clocking Whistler over the head with a brutal thud. The impact sent Whistler sprawling to the floor, his vision swimming as he felt the sharp bite of fangs sank into his neck.

"Shit..." Whistler groaned, too dazed to fight back.

Frost ducked just in time to avoid the grenade's flash. When the light died down, he cautiously stood up, only to spot his last lackey sinking his fangs into Whistler.

Frost grinned to himself. "Well, that was a nice save."

The ragtag group of henchmen? They were either still dust or nursing their crispy behinds, but Frost didn't care. Whistler was down—and turning.

With a satisfied nod, he walked over, ruffling the lackey's hair in an oddly fatherly way. "Good work, kid. You just brought us one step closer to becoming La Magra. Now, let's get out of here before Blade realizes what's about to hit him."

He climbed into the passenger seat of the car, throwing an arm around his lackey's shoulder. The henchman, still beaming with pride, started the car and kicked it into gear.

As they pulled away, Frost couldn't resist the final, sinister thought. "I hope Blade loves the 'gift' we left him. Do you think he'll kill his mentor now that Whistler's one of us?"

The car's engine roared to life as Frost's laughter echoed into the night, and the warehouse—once a stronghold of resistance—fell into silence.

...

"Navi, any update on the vampires?" Kara asked as she stepped into her Tech Forge.

"Yes, Miss," Navi replied smoothly, its voice calm but with a tinge of urgency. "Frost has made his move. He paid Blade's warehouse a visit."

Kara arched an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "Frost is getting bold, pulling a stunt like this during the day. I guess I'm going out again. No rest for the wicked," she murmured, though a faint smirk betrayed her intrigue. "Keep me posted on developments, Navi."

"Of course, Miss," Navi assured her.

Kara turned on her heel, leaving the forge and heading toward Illyana's quarters. Upon entering, she approached the ornate coffin that served as her subordinate's resting place and opened it, revealing Illyana lying with a scowl etched across her face.

"My queen," Illyana greeted, sitting up and bowing slightly, her red eyes glimmering with playful curiosity.

"Get dressed and grab your weapon. We're moving out," Kara instructed without preamble.

Illyana rose from her coffin and, with a deliberately slow and sensual motion, began removing her nightgown, revealing her statuesque, naked form with an impish grin aimed at Kara.

"Oh my god, Illyana, get moving. Stop with the theatrics!" Kara said, exasperated, though her expression remained as composed as ever.

Scowling slightly at Kara's lack of reaction, Illyana swiftly donned her gear. Once dressed, she picked up her rapier and stood before Kara, her eyes alight with mischief. "Ready as always, my queen. But just so you know, I was dreaming about you calling me for other reasons." She winked suggestively.

Kara rolled her eyes but refused to dignify the comment with a response, instead motioning for Illyana to follow.

Together, they arrived at the warehouse, its dilapidated exterior doing little to hide the tension radiating from within. Illyana sniffed the air, her face twisting in disgust. "There's a strong scent of blood. Please be cautious, my queen," she said, her tone equal parts warning and concern.

Kara arched an eyebrow, her expression caught somewhere between bemusement and disbelief.

Illyana, catching the look, tilted her head and smirked. "Isn't that what a loyal subordinate should say to their queen?" she teased, the playful edge in her voice unmistakable. "I just don't want my beautiful queen to get hurt. Even if the odds are slim."

Kara sighed, brushing past the quip. "Focus," she said, activating her x-ray vision. Her gaze pierced through the crumbling walls, locking onto a lone figure slumped in a chair inside. Whistler. His grip on a pistol was tight, though the other hand clutched an empty syringe. Bulging veins snaked up his neck, and his strained expression told the story of a man hanging by a thread.

"Wait here," Kara ordered, her tone firm and unyielding.

"Yes, my queen," Illyana replied with exaggerated deference, leaning lazily against a post. Her grin lingered, but her eyes betrayed sharp vigilance.

Kara disappeared into the shadows, reappearing silently inside the warehouse. She materialized in front of Whistler, her presence as calm as the eye of a storm. "You look like you could use some help," she said, her voice level but carrying a note of concern.

Whistler jolted awake, his gun snapping up to aim squarely at Kara's chest. His eyes, though bloodshot, widened in recognition. "It's you," he rasped, his breath coming in shallow gasps and his trigger finger twitching.

Kara remained unfazed, her gaze drifting to a pile of ash nearby. "Looks like you took out a few," she remarked.

"UV grenades," Whistler muttered, lowering the gun slightly, though he didn't flick the safety on. His voice carried the gravelly edge of a man who'd seen too much. "I know who you are. What do you want?"

"Blade," Kara replied simply. Her gaze flicked to his neck. "You're injured. You need help."

"No," Whistler said, his voice steely despite the exhaustion dragging at him. "Got bitten, but I injected garlic extract. I'm good. Just ironic, isn't it? A lifetime hunting these bastards, and here I am…" He let out a bitter laugh, tinged with resignation.

Kara reached into her cloak, pulling out a small, intricately sealed vial. "Drink this," she said, holding it out to him. "It'll fix your problem."

Whistler eyed the silvery liquid in the vial warily, his lips curling in suspicion. "What's to stop me from thinking this is poison?"

Kara's smirk was faint but undeniable. "I heard you're a practical guy. If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't waste time with theatrics."

After a tense moment, Whistler took the vial, uncorked it, and downed the silvery liquid in one go. The transformation was almost immediate; the trembling in his hands stilled, his breathing evened, and a flicker of strength returned to his stance.

"What was that?" he asked, his tone less accusatory now.

"Nanites," Kara replied. "They'll hunt the virus and destroy it."

Whistler nodded, flexing his hand as if testing the newfound steadiness. "The kid's gone after Frost. Can you track him?"

Kara shook her head. Whistler moved to a nearby shelf, pulling out a folded map. Spreading it across the table, he tapped a location marked with a faint circle. "This is where Frost will be."

"Are you sure you're okay?" Kara asked, her voice softer, tinged with a rare sincerity.

Whistler met her gaze, nodding firmly. "I'm good. That thirst—it's gone. I won't turn."

Satisfied, Kara turned and vanished into the shadows once more. Outside, Illyana perked up at her arrival, her sharp grin still firmly in place.

"It's time," Kara said, her tone measured. "I need to get to the Temple of Eternal Night." She turned to Illyana, her voice gaining an edge. "When the time comes, you will drain Deacon Frost. Understood?"

Illyana's grin widened, her tone teasing. "Yes, my queen. But you really could've worded that better. It's almost like you're trying to make me blush."

"Idiot," Kara muttered, though a faint smirk betrayed her amusement. She didn't linger, and together they vanished, leaving behind a ripple in the air as if reality itself held its breath.