Alright, here's my recipe for a 'power' breakfast or, as I like to call it, attempt number 34 to keep an otherworldly assassin in check by bribing her with food. First, grab a handful of ground meat, mix it with garlic and onion, and shape it into little balls, because nothing screams 'sophistication' quite like meatballs for breakfast.
Next, toss those balls into a hot skillet, where they'll make that satisfying sizzling sound, like they're saying, 'Look at me, I'm frying, admire me!'
Keep turning them until they're golden. No need to cook them through just yet, hold your horses, the party continues in the sauce. And that sauce? Basically a tomato concoction. Who invented it? Clearly me, in some godforsaken century long ago, I don't even remember when, but I'm pretty sure the Europeans stole my credit.
Meanwhile, whip up some eggs for that classic breakfast cheat code. Toss them in the pan and wait for the omelet to firm up, because nobody wants raw eggs, right? Now, the magic moment: place the sauce-soaked meatballs on top of the omelet and fold it with dramatic flair, as if it's the most important thing in the universe. Which, to be fair, it might be, because if I mess this up, Osaka's got about 15 minutes before it's wiped off the map.
It had been about six days since Airachnid and I landed in Japan, Osaka, to be precise. Why? Simple: food. If it weren't for that, I'd probably have to drag Airachnid to some culinary hotspot like Italy. And trust me, she'd cause such a scene there we'd be deported on the spot. Japan's the safer bet.
"There you go, good enough. This should buy me enough time to ensure millions don't die at the hands of a reckless, idiotic, hot gothic spider," I muttered, setting the plate on the counter.
Considering the Hoover Dam fiasco, it had been nearly two weeks since that whole mess. First, we teleported to Russia, hung out there for a bit, but Airachnid hates the cold. So, here we are in Japan, shacked up in a ridiculously fancy apartment, because she'd never settle for anything less. Which means I'm basically forced to flex my money-forging skills to keep up appearances.
And speaking of her, the Hot Imperative Goth who's been tagging along since this chaos began was sprawled in the living room, watching TV in Venom pajamas. Yes, *that* Venom, Spider-Man's anti-hero nemesis.
When she got her hands on Spider-Man comics, she devoured them in record time and became an unabashed fan of Marvel's most famous symbiote. Naturally, this only doubled down on her gothic stereotype.
Not to mention, she now knows exactly what 'gothic' means. And though she'd never admit it, she's got a soft spot for cute clothes. I've noticed, and of course, I'm exploiting that weakness little by little. How? Easy: sugar and alcohol. Sugar turns her into a giddy four-year-old; get her drunk, and she's an 18-year-old who's downed three liters of beer and can barely stand. So, yeah, I'm wielding these weapons to make her more… humanized, more socially acceptable, trying, in all honesty, to tone down her assassin vibe.
Immoral? Maybe. But considering she's a relentless genocidal maniac who's wiped out entire hyper-alien species, I figure the best way to get her to socialize and dial back the aggression is to start here. Bit by bit, let her real personality shine through, not the eternal sexy gothic assassin vibe she's got going 24/7.
Before I could call my "hot imperative goth" over for a bribe-worthy breakfast, she did an acrobatic leap that, thankfully, didn't reveal more than it should have. I'll just pretend I've built up some immunity to her not-so-subtle antics by now.
She landed on the stool across from me with the effortless grace of someone accustomed to dining in five-star restaurants, her gaze appraising the plate like a judge on a culinary show: piercing purple eyes, arched brows, and that calculated silence that heralded either approval or a razor-sharp critique.
She glanced at the dish, then at me, then back at the dish, before unceremoniously diving in with her first bite.
She dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin, moving with the poise of a lady on a TV set. By the time I turned to grab the juice I'd prepared, she'd already demolished the meal, a blur so swift it could've been fast-forwarded.
"Are you going to admit my breakfast is amazing, or are you going to pretend you didn't inhale it like the maniac you are?" I asked, watching her closely. For a fleeting moment, she looked more like a soap opera socialite than the comic-obsessed fanatic who lounged in Venom pajamas. The hood of her outfit, oddly enough, lent an almost comical touch of cuteness to her centuries-old lethal aura.
"I don't know what you're talking about, idiot," she retorted, snatching the glass of juice from my hand and sipping it with deliberate calm, as if nothing could ever rattle her.
I sighed inwardly. Over time, I'd learned that arguing with her was a waste of energy, her flashes of sincerity were as rare as comets, blazing briefly before vanishing. Still, for reasons I couldn't quite justify, those softened edges of hers felt like a small victory.
A faint blush colored her cheeks, so subtle it was almost imperceptible, yet it was something close to human. She glided across the floor toward her stack of comics and books like an otter zeroing in on its favorite prey, flipping through pages at an absurd speed.
Thankfully, when she held a physical copy, her reading slowed, granting me whatever respite life could offer. I did my best to keep her away from the internet at all costs.
Controlling? Perhaps. But I had my reasons. A Cybertronian with unrestricted internet access could uncover tricks and tactics I'd rather she didn't. And if a millennia-old assassin like her got curious about the capabilities of a human body in human form… well, I wouldn't sleep for weeks.
Not that I was blind to her beauty. She was undeniably striking, and honestly, the way her form shifted could be downright unnerving. Force something? Never. Flirt? Not a chance. Sometimes I wondered if her poses were deliberate provocation or just innocent instinct and it left me equal parts flustered and mortified. I could only pray to Primus she never noticed too much.
To keep her occupied and, frankly, under control, I devised a simple plan: flood her mind with dense, violent narratives. *Game of Thrones*, *The Lord of the Rings*, *Breaking Bad*, long, layered stories packed with blood and intrigue that kept her glued to the couch for hours. It was either that or let her loose and brace for some monumental disaster.
I discovered something else about her: Airachnid had a natural talent for games. Not just skill, instinct. Even in her human form, her mind operated in binary: zero and one. In violent or action-packed video games, she performed like a pro gamer.
The inevitable happened: she became a minor online celebrity. Sometimes she'd curse into the mic like a storm, other times she'd play as if she were "hacking" the world, which, technically, made sense, since she's a robot and, yes, pulled off tricks that bordered on cheating.
Another thing that upended my routine was the sheer scope of my own powers. They were absurdly heightened, to the point where I was certain: with the energy I'm carrying now, I could obliterate… or rather, recreate the Big Bang, but bigger. No exaggeration.
This isn't to say I was foolish enough to wield all that power recklessly. I kept it under control. Thanks to the cocoon fused to my arm, I'd learned to tame the energy. I trained mentally, practicing controlled manifestations of power without letting them spill outward.
For me, a single "grain of rice" of energy was equivalent to the nuclear bombs in a blockbuster movie for the rest of the world. It was a matter of staying focused: unleash too much, and Japan and Mount Fuji, would have serious cause for complaint.
Another factor worth mentioning was the palpable tension in the air, the world hadn't exactly returned to normal. Thanks to the agreement with Gaea and her part of the bargain, the forest and its domains remained isolated from the rest of the planet. Still, the United States was in an uproar; I was certain my name was being whispered in less-than-friendly tones.
Am I to blame? Yes, and part of that blame falls on Airachnid. She had one of her pseudo… sensual outbursts and threw herself at me; the distraction was inevitable. Did I lose control of my energies for a split second? Well, who wouldn't, faced with that avalanche of temptation and curves? I'm a man, and she is, frankly, irresistible. Even in her robotic form, her presence carries the impact of a supermodel.
In my defense: when I crafted the female form for Cybertronians, the aesthetic standard was exceptionally high. It's not my fault that the Insecticon queens evolved into a "gothic and lethal" variant, and honestly, it's not my responsibility to explain the aesthetic consequences of that evolution. Well, maybe a little.
Another issue that will soon force us to leave Japan is simple: tracking. No matter how hard I try to stay out of the crossfire between Autobots and Decepticons, staying in one place for too long isn't wise, especially with my power growing by the day. Even printing money in secret, a cheap trick, I know, I'm still emitting energy signatures that don't go unnoticed. Sooner or later, Airachnid and I will have to take flight.
Not to mention that Sector 7 somehow already knows how to track me. And my current vacation would definitely be cut short. Oh, how I'd love another 300,000-year break... Wait, I already had one. Damn it.
I walked over to Airachnid and settled on the edge of the sofa, carefully respecting the territory she'd claimed, essentially, the entire thing was hers. I'd learned the hard way that pushing too far into her space only invited trouble.
"You need to be a bit more organized," I said, leaning back against the cushion, letting my body sink into the soft fabric. "Isn't it enough to juggle comics and the TV at the same time?"
"You're always rushing me," Airachnid muttered, her eyes never leaving the comic in her hands. Her voice was low, distracted, her focus glued to the page she was flipping through.
"I'm not arguing now. I just don't have the energy." I closed my eyes for a brief moment and took a breath. "Since you're calmer, where do you want to go next?"
"Somewhere warm and comfortable. I won't complain about your pick," she replied, finishing a chapter and seamlessly switching to a manga, some Japanese work I didn't recognize. Her fingers moved with the practiced ease of habit.
"Africa?" I suggested, half-guessing, half on purpose.
"I said warm and comfortable, not just warm," she chided, giving my thigh a light kick, a not-so-subtle warning that well-thought-out plans were appreciated, but nothing excessive.
"I was thinking Brazil. Seems like a solid idea. It's a good place to hide from certain superpowers," I murmured, recalling strategic spots that could keep us off the radar of secretive organizations like Sector 7.
"I've heard Rio de Janeiro is famous," she commented, her eyes still partially fixed on the manga.
"I know the country inside and out," I replied. "Rio's beautiful, sure, but it's not exactly discreet these days. We'd be better off exploring other areas." I closed my eyes for a moment, memories of past travels flooding back.
Airachnid finally tore her attention from the pages and fixed me with those hypnotic purple eyes.
"Alright, so what do you suggest? I don't know anything about it."
"I was thinking the Amazon, Minas Gerais, São Paulo… there's something for everyone. If I'm being honest, a quieter state might suit us better, but every corner has its perks. And, seriously, the food is a strong argument. Brazilians know how to cook. Sometimes they even outdo the originals." I grinned, already picturing her reaction. "It's controversial, I know, offends a lot of Italians. But I've tried a lot, and I have my preferences. If you want quality food, Brazil delivers."
"So, good food? You've sold me," she said, deciding with the casual ease of someone who'd agree to any plan involving a decent meal.
"But fair warning: some local inventions are… questionable. Chocolate pizza, ice cream pizza… I didn't come up with those." I shrugged, feigning complicit innocence. "And don't get me started on pineapple pizza."
"Pineapple pizza? What kind of monster would do that?" Airachnid's eyes widened, her indignation over this culinary heresy surpassing any questionable act I could've mentioned. For a moment, it seemed her entire moral code boiled down to one unshakable rule: never, ever, put pineapple on pizza.