Marvel x Genshin: Mavuika, The Sun Goddess Rules Asgard — Chapter 84

Chapter 84: Emergency

At least once a week, Mavuika Odinson would journey through the shimmering, fractured remnants of the Bifrost Bridge contained within the Sun-Blaze of a Thousand Suns, descending into the shadowed world of Helheim to visit Hela.

The sisters would spar amidst the desolate landscapes, their battles a stunning spectacle of divine power. Mavuika’s roaring flames would clash against Hela’s night-black blades in a hearty, thunderous duel that shook the very foundations of the underworld.

When the mood struck her back on Earth, Mavuika indulged in a more terrestrial thrill: motorcycle racing. She would zip herself into a sleek leather suit, pull on a helmet that hid her otherworldly features, and tear up the asphalt against the best human racers she could find. She never used her divine power, never cheated. She relied purely on skill, instinct, and reflexes honed over millennia.

Even so, she always won.

After each race, she would pull off her helmet, a faint, knowing smile playing on her lips as she accepted the congratulations of awestruck racers and spectators. Then, she would swing her leg over her bike and vanish back into the anonymity of the road, leaving nothing behind but the lingering scent of burnt rubber and a legend whispered among the racing circuits.

Life was relaxed, comfortable, and deeply fulfilling.

Until that night.

It was late in 1991, at the cusp of winter. As dusk settled over New York, the sunset bled across the sky in hues of orange and crimson. The city’s neon signs began to flicker to life, casting a vibrant glow upon the crowds of people hurrying home from work.

High above the bustling streets, in his private workshop on the top floor of Stark Industries, Tony was carefully tuning a newly designed electronic control system for Mavuika’s motorcycle. It was a marvel of engineering, capable of monitoring the vehicle’s status in real-time, predicting potential failures, and even automatically adjusting power output and braking force in an emergency to maximize safety.

“Though I have a feeling that with your riding style, no amount of advanced auxiliary systems can actually save you,” Tony remarked, his focus fixed on the delicate circuit board he was welding. He glanced over at Mavuika, who was lounging in a nearby chair. “But at least it might save me from having to repair the bike quite so often.”

Mavuika was flipping through a motorcycle magazine, her attention seemingly elsewhere. “You say this is the last major repair every time,” she noted without looking up, “but there’s always some new, revolutionary part you want to replace.”

“That’s because you always find new, revolutionary ways to break it!” Tony set the soldering iron down with a frustrated sigh and swiveled in his chair to face her. “Last week, it was the shock absorbers. The week before that, the entire gearbox. And the week before that, you somehow managed to crack a frame weld. Mavuika, this bike is theoretically built to withstand the intensity of professional racing, but you insist on riding it like it’s a rally car. Where on Earth are you taking this thing?”

Mavuika tilted her head, considering the question for a moment. “I found an abandoned forest road a few days ago. The conditions were quite interesting—a lot of undulations and sharp turns.”

“A forest road?” Tony’s voice climbed an octave. “You rode a high-performance sports bike on a forest road? That’s what dirt bikes are for!”

“Which is precisely why the shock absorbers broke,” Mavuika replied with an unbothered shrug. “But you replaced them with a more durable set, didn’t you?”

Tony let out a long, suffering sigh and picked up his tools again. “I must have owed you a great debt in a past life.”

Though he had all but resigned himself to his fate as her personal, long-suffering mechanic, Tony never minced words. Over the past several months, he and Mavuika had fallen into a peculiar, comfortable rhythm: Tony would complain about her reckless disregard for his vehicular masterpieces; Mavuika would accept his grievances with a serene smile and then change absolutely nothing about her behavior; and Tony, grumbling all the while, would fix the bike, making it even better than before.

Mavuika didn’t mind in the slightest. She found Tony’s straightforward, unfiltered personality refreshingly honest.

As they chatted back and forth, the workshop filled with the quiet sizzle of the soldering iron, the metallic clink of tools, and the low murmur of their conversation. Outside the massive window, the sky deepened from twilight purple to inky black. The city lights ignited one by one, transforming the New York nightscape into a glittering sea of stars stretching to the horizon.

It was then that Mavuika suddenly went still.

Her fingers, poised to turn a page, froze in mid-air. Her entire body became rigid, a statue carved from living flesh.

Tony, having just launched into another tirade about proper engine maintenance, trailed off when he received no reply. He looked up. “What?” he asked, a joking smirk on his face. “Finally realized your riding is indefensibly aggressive and you have nothing to say for yourself?”

Mavuika ignored him completely.

The next second, she shot to her feet. The magazine slid from her lap, landing on the polished concrete floor with a soft thud. Her movement was so abrupt, so unnervingly swift, that Tony was caught completely off guard.

“Tony.” Mavuika’s voice had changed. The relaxed, casual tone was gone, replaced by a calm, serious urgency that held an obvious weight. “There’s an emergency. I need to leave for a while.”

Tony’s response was automatic. “Your bike isn’t ready yet. Why don’t you just grab one from my garage? That Ducati should—”

He never finished the sentence. Mavuika was already at the window. The workshop’s outer wall was a single, immense pane of floor-to-ceiling glass, offering a panoramic view of Manhattan—and a hundred-meter drop to the street below.

“That would be too late,” Mavuika said, her back to him. “It’s fine. I’ll go by myself.”

As she spoke, she unlatched the window. A biting cold wind immediately rushed into the workshop, carrying with it the distant hum of the city and the faint smell of exhaust fumes.

Tony finally grasped what she intended to do. He scrambled to his feet, his hand outstretched to stop her. “Wait, what are you doing? This is the eighty-seventh floor!”

But he froze in place, his eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated disbelief.

He saw flames ignite on Mavuika.

It began as a flicker, a spark of impossible golden-red light dancing on her skin. Then, in a silent, stunning rush, the fire bloomed, enveloping her entire body in a brilliant shroud. The flames were warm but not scorching, their light bright but not dazzling, casting her in the glow of a miniature sun within the dimly lit workshop. Her long, golden-red hair did not burn but flowed into the conflagration, each strand a living tendril of fire.

Then, she took a single step forward and walked directly into the night air.

Tony’s mouth fell open. The heavy wrench in his hand slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the metal floor. It bounced a few times before rolling to a stop in a dark corner. He didn’t notice. All of his attention, every fiber of his being, was transfixed by the impossible scene unfolding before him.

Mavuika had become a living fireball.

The incandescent sphere shot out from the eighty-seventh-floor window, streaking across the night sky of New York like a meteor. It left a blazing, golden-red trail of light in its wake, a fiery scar against the darkness. Its speed was beyond comprehension; in the blink of an eye, it was a tiny, receding dot in the distance, and then it was gone, vanishing completely into the night.

Silence descended upon the workshop once more. The only sounds were the open window rattling in the wind, the curtains fluttering gently, and the ragged, shallow sound of Tony’s own breathing.

He stood there, motionless, as if he had been turned to stone.

She… she flew away?

Hell…

He had known for a long time that Mavuika was no ordinary person. Her incredible riding skills, her seemingly inexhaustible energy, her utter fearlessness in the face of danger, and the strange, deep respect his own father held for her… all of it pointed to something extraordinary.

But Tony had never, in his wildest, most fevered imaginings, expected this. That the woman he bantered with, the woman who broke his motorcycles, could actually fly?

And the flames… were those real? Actual, living flames that had wrapped around her body without causing her a single ounce of harm?

Slowly, as if in a trance, Tony walked to the open window and leaned out, gripping the frame. Below him, the streets of New York were a web of light. Cars were no bigger than toys, the pedestrians like ants. In the distance, the golden-red trail had completely dissipated. The night sky was calm and quiet again, adorned only by the cold, distant twinkle of the stars.

He tightened his grip on the window frame, his knuckles turning white from the force. The cold wind whipped against his face, a sharp, stinging slap that began to slowly pull him back from the brink of shock.