"Shut your mouth, Rhomboid! I don't want to die yet!" Octagon snapped, his finger pulling back from the activation switch at the last possible second.
He hurled another explosive device—this one actually well-aimed—that detonated directly beneath Norman Osborn. The blast caught the elder Osborn just as he was reaching to stabilize Harry, sending both father and son tumbling from the sky as their gliders were destroyed.
Octagon had his doubts about whether the Ash-to-Ash Incinerator could truly destroy everything as the legends claimed—timelines, reality itself, the fundamental structure of existence. But he was absolutely certain of one thing: the device could vaporize an entire galaxy.
He knew this because Ma Vreedle had once threatened someone who'd insulted her favorite son, casually mentioning that she'd use the Incinerator to obliterate the Milky Way if pushed far enough. And when Ma Vreedle made threats, she wasn't exaggerating.
While Octagon wrestled with his brother's suicidal impulses, he'd managed to surround the grounded Osborns with a massive contingent of Incurseans soldiers. The amphibian warriors formed a living wall, weapons trained on the two armored figures.
"These frogs are individually weak," Octagon observed with smug satisfaction, "but the advantage is sheer numbers. Quantity has a quality all its own."
He raised his voice, addressing the cornered Plumbers. "Surrender now! I've had enough of you meddling do-gooders!"
The complaint was technically directed at Plumbers from his original universe—the organization that had consistently thwarted the Vreedle family's various criminal enterprises. But in this reality, the sentiment translated perfectly well.
"Are you alright, Harry?" Norman Osborn asked, his voice calm despite their predicament. His hideous goblin mask swiveled as he assessed their situation, cataloging threats with the cold efficiency of a veteran warrior.
The number of Incurseans soldiers was staggering—thousands of them, packed together like frog eggs in a pond, each one armed and willing to die for their emperor.
But Norman wasn't panicked. Not even slightly.
The Neo-Goblin armor specially designed by Plumber engineers wasn't just for show. The suits incorporated vibranium into their structural matrix—not at the purity level of Steve's shield, certainly, but more than sufficient to resist conventional weapons fire.
"Incurseans, you should be the ones surrendering," Harry called out, his voice amplified by his helmet's speakers.
His mask was softer and lighter in color scheme than Norman's—designed to make him appear less threatening, more approachable—but the equipment loadout was virtually identical. With a sweep of his arms, several metallic rings detached from his armor and began floating through the air under magnetic control.
The rings emitted infrasonic waves—sound frequencies below the threshold of human hearing but devastating to certain physiologies.
It was a special attack perfectly tailored to Incurseans biology.
The amphibian species lacked external ear structures or protective auricles. Their eardrums were essentially exposed to the environment, making them extraordinarily vulnerable to acoustic weapons. Under the assault of the infrasonic vibrations, every Incurseans warrior felt as though sharp spikes were being driven directly through their eardrums into their brains.
They dropped like puppets with cut strings, collapsing in waves as the weapon swept across their ranks.
Even Emperor Milleous couldn't withstand the assault. His corpulent body resonated with the sound waves, fat oscillating in grotesque patterns. He screamed at Octagon and Rhomboid through the pain, "Quick! Kill them! Do your jobs!"
His hatred for the Plumbers had reached new heights. He blamed them for everything—and by extension, he blamed his daughter Attea for forcing him into this situation. If she hadn't been plotting rebellion, he wouldn't have needed to attend this cursed Galactic Conference. If he hadn't attended, he wouldn't be suffering right now.
"My daughter! Attea!" he wailed, looking upward with theatrical despair. "You said you were going to attack the Behemoth Star Ring! Where are you?!"
And as if summoned by his plea, an enormous shadow fell across the battlefield, blotting out the stars.
The golden flagship of the Incurseans Empire hung in the atmosphere like a blade poised above a condemned prisoner's neck.
"Haha! You're finished!" Milleous's entire demeanor transformed, misery replaced by manic glee. "Now you'll see! Now you'll understand!"
"Milleous," Norman said calmly, looking up at the vessel, "what exactly is that?"
There was no surprise in his voice. None whatsoever.
He and Harry exchanged glances, their expressions hidden by masks but their body language communicating perfectly: Just as Ben's intelligence predicted. The Incurseans planned to attack the conference all along.
Then both of them turned their attention back to Milleous. The green flying pig was practically levitating with happiness, staring at them with the smug expression of someone who believed he'd just turned the tables completely.
"Hahahaha! You're dead!" Milleous crowed. "It's too late to beg for mercy now!"
Hearing Harry's question, the emperor laughed even harder. "That's my salvation! My daughter's armada! You want to negotiate terms?"
He pointed dramatically at the sky. "Go talk to my Death Ray Cannon!"
You're so pathetically happy, Norman and Harry both thought simultaneously, resisting the urge to roll their eyes hard enough to sprain something.
Still laughing? We're about to watch you die, you idiot.
According to Ben's intelligence reports, Attea's primary objective wasn't conquering the three empires or even winning this battle. Her goal was singular and unambiguous: kill her father and seize the throne.
The empires could be dealt with later, over months or years of strategic warfare. But opportunities for successful patricide were rare—you had to strike when the moment presented itself.
As a dutiful daughter of the Incurseans Empire, Attea had decided to give her father a truly spectacular funeral. The Death Ray Cannon would serve double duty: executing the old emperor while simultaneously celebrating her coronation with a proper salute.
Inside the Incurseans flagship's command center, Princess Attea clasped her hands together like a shy schoolgirl, twisting back and forth with barely contained excitement.
"I can't wait! This is so exciting!"
There was no time to mourn her father's impending death—honestly, she'd stopped thinking about him entirely. What mattered was the future: her coronation ceremony, and more importantly, her wedding!
"Bullfrag," she said, turning to Ben with eyes that gleamed with manic affection, "as soon as I kill my father, we're getting married immediately! No delays!"
She grabbed his hands, squeezing them with surprising strength. "If he knew I'd found such an amazing boyfriend like you, I'm sure he'd be happy for me! He'd give us his blessing!"
That is absolutely not what would happen, Ben thought. He'd probably try to kill you, then remarry someone younger so he could raise a new heir from scratch.
But outwardly, Ben maintained his infatuated expression, allowing Attea to clutch his hands while gazing at her with apparent devotion.
Attea dragged him into an impromptu frog dance—an undignified hopping motion that she apparently considered romantic. She was planning to seal the performance with a kiss when Ben spotted salvation on the main viewscreen.
"Attea," he said quickly, pointing, "incoming communication."
"Oh, how annoying!" Attea's expression soured instantly, her sweet moment interrupted. But protocol demanded she answer—especially since the caller ID indicated it was her father. "Fine, fine."
She accepted the transmission, and Emperor Milleous's pig-like face filled the screen. He looked absolutely terrible—disheveled, covered in scorch marks, clearly in the middle of some kind of crisis.
"Hi, Daddy," Attea said sweetly, her voice dripping with false affection.
"Attea! Finally!" Milleous gasped, relief flooding his features. "Send a shuttle immediately to extract me! These barbaric Plumbers destroyed my personal transport! They have no respect for proper—"
"Let's not worry about that right now," Attea interrupted, then enthusiastically pulled Ben into the camera frame. "I want you to meet my new boyfriend! Isn't he handsome?"
?
On the other end of the transmission, Milleous's brain struggled to process what he was seeing. A question mark might as well have materialized above his head.
Looking at the Bullfrag's tall, perfectly proportioned physique and symmetrical features, even Milleous had to grudgingly admit that the male was more attractive than himself—and he'd always considered himself quite handsome, especially after bathing.
But the timing seemed catastrophically inappropriate.
And more importantly, that young male radiated danger. The emperor's instincts screamed warnings. That's a scumbag. That's definitely a scumbag who's going to break my daughter's heart.
"Attea, don't be deceived," Milleous said urgently. "That male is—"
"I've decided to marry him immediately," Attea announced, her tone brooking no argument.
"Absolutely not! I don't give my permission!" Milleous's paternal authority asserted itself reflexively.
"Who cares what you think, you idiot?" Attea rolled her eyes with exaggerated disdain. "I'm the Queen of the Incurseans Empire now. If you have complaints about my decisions..."
She leaned closer to the camera, her smile turning vicious. "Go talk to my Death Ray Cannon!"
? ? ?
Emperor Milleous opened his mouth to respond—to argue, to command, to assert the authority that had defined his entire life.
The communication cut off, leaving him staring at a dead screen.
His reflection stared back, slack-jawed and uncomprehending.
CLAP!
Harry's hand landed on Milleous's shoulder, the contact almost friendly. His voice was absolutely mocking.
"Hey Milleous, want to take a guess at who's about to be blown to pieces by that Death Ray Cannon?"
"I'd advise you not to move," Norman added conversationally, having already attached submission discs to the emperor's body. The neural disruptors activated, locking Milleous's muscles while leaving him conscious and aware.
Then Norman turned his attention to the Vreedle brothers, his posture shifting into combat readiness.
Rhomboid reflexively raised his weapon, years of criminal instinct taking over.
But Octagon simply pushed the gun barrel down. "Why are you trying so hard, brother?"
"But... Ma told us to protect the King of the Incurseans Empire," Rhomboid said, confusion evident in his slack features.
"He's not the king anymore," Octagon pointed out with the closest thing to wisdom he was capable of. "Which means our contract is fulfilled. Mission accomplished."
He produced a battered truck from seemingly nowhere—the Vreedle family's dimensional storage technology was impressively convenient—and climbed into the driver's seat. "Come on. We're leaving."
Rhomboid hesitated for maybe half a second, then scrambled after his brother. The truck's engine roared to life, and they disappeared into the chaos of the battlefield, eager to escape before anyone remembered they existed.
Left alone, surrounded by enemies, with his own daughter's Death Ray Cannon powering up to vaporize him, Emperor Milleous made the only rational choice available.
He surrendered.
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