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- Brooklyn, New York -
- January 17, 1940 -
The tunnel was silent again, save for the soft hum of the Tesla Core and the faint dripping of water echoing somewhere deep beyond the walls. The light around Leonid pulsed slowly, dim and steady, casting long, shifting shadows across the old research room.
Tesla stood still, studying his son's face. There was warmth in his eyes but also a quiet wariness — the kind that came from too many betrayals and too much time spent alone.
When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, almost measured.
"Tell me, Leonid… are you here on orders from Newton, or did you truly come for my help?"
Leonid met his gaze without hesitation, though there was a flicker of pain in his expression. "You still doubt me," he said quietly.
Tesla didn't deny it. "You left without a word, years ago. To chase your father's truths."
The younger man sighed, and the faint starlight around him dimmed slightly. "I did. Back then, I thought I needed to understand him. Newton. His purpose. His grand design for humanity and time." He paused, glancing toward the unconscious Nathaniel and then to Mina, who sat watching him closely. "But I was wrong, Father. I see that now."
Tesla's head tilted slightly. "What changed your mind?"
Leonid hesitated, as if weighing how much of the truth to reveal. Then he spoke, voice heavy with the quiet ache of realization.
"Newton's brilliance was never the problem. It was his belief that the world's end is inevitable — that everything should bend toward that end. He calls it the Correct Future — one where chaos resets the cosmos and only those who stand with him will be prepared to survive it."
Tesla's fingers tightened slightly against the table. "Fatalism disguised as foresight," he muttered.
Leonid nodded. "Exactly. I learned the extent of it only recently. I saw what he's done to Nostradamus." His tone grew darker. "He keeps the man barely alive, feeding on fragments of prophecy. Nostradamus isn't a prophet anymore — he's a prisoner, used like a device for temporal predictions. Newton filters his words, calculates probabilities, and uses them to build his own version of destiny."
For a moment, even Tesla's mechanical body seemed to still. Mina made a soft coo, sensing the tension that filled the air.
Leonid went on, voice lower now. "During the last High Council meeting of S.H.I.E.L.D., there was an argument. Some of us questioned Newton's decision to give the Darkhold to Morgan Le Fay. We warned that it wasn't just reckless — it was dangerous."
Tesla's eyes glowed faintly. "He gave that book to her?"
"Yes," Leonid said bitterly. "He claimed it was a calculated necessity. That her power would help counter the threat of a new anomaly — the Mutant Emperor in Bharat. An individual he calls 'a paradox in motion.'"
Tesla didn't speak. But the faint pulse of his Tesla Core grew sharper, a quiet reminder that he had once been called the same — an anomaly that shouldn't exist, yet did.
Leonid continued. "Newton believes that by letting Morgan access the Darkhold, the chaos she releases will force the timeline to bend toward his predicted path. Nostradamus's prophecies — fragmented and incomplete as they are — show that Morgan's ascension could counter the anomaly's rise. So he acts as if he's engineering fate itself."
He looked down, almost ashamed. "I couldn't believe it. To twist time, to use souls like tools — that's not creation, it's cruelty."
Tesla's voice softened. "And that is when you decided to come back?"
Leonid nodded slowly. "Yes. I was torn, Father. Between the purity of your ideals — the belief that invention should give life — and Newton's obsession with controlling it. For a long time, I thought he was right, that only structure could save the world from itself. But what I saw… what he's become… broke that illusion."
He paused, looking toward the faint blue light of Tesla's chest. "Then, a few days ago, I felt something. A surge — identical to your Core. I knew it couldn't be coincidence. I followed it here."
Tesla turned his gaze to the unconscious Nathaniel on the floor. "And found them?"
"Yes," Leonid replied. "Evelyn told me everything. Nathaniel came from the future — a different timeline. His body couldn't handle the journey, and he's been fading ever since. Before he lost consciousness, he tried guiding her to rebuild a device — a version of the Tesla Core he remembered from his own era."
Tesla looked toward Evelyn. She was standing nearby, silent but listening, her eyes wide and exhausted. Leonid's voice softened as he went on.
"She followed his instructions as best she could, but Nathaniel's mind was unstable. His thoughts were fractured, his words incomplete. Evelyn built what she could — a Core shaped from half-remembered principles and the limited technology of this time."
Tesla's gaze moved to the workbench, where faint blue sparks still glimmered over a small machine. It was crude, but unmistakably familiar — a reflection of his own heart.
Leonid's tone grew heavy again. "When she activated it, the backlash nearly killed him. His body couldn't handle the paradox — two Tesla Cores resonating across timelines without synchronization. He's still alive, but trapped somewhere between consciousness and the current flow of time."
Tesla stepped closer to the broken device, his metallic fingers brushing against its scorched surface. The hum it gave off was uneven, almost desperate — like a heartbeat out of rhythm.
"So that's why you need me," he said quietly.
Leonid nodded. "He's the only link left to Leonardo Da Vinci. Nathaniel's mind carries fragments of the equations Da Vinci wrote centuries after your own. If we can stabilize his connection, we might re-establish contact with that timeline — with Da Vinci himself. Maybe even find what Newton has hidden from both of you."
Tesla's gaze lingered on the Core, then on Nathaniel's pale face. The young man's chest rose and fell shallowly, the rhythm erratic but steady.
He straightened slowly, the faint hum of his Core deepening. "Very well," he said finally, his voice quiet but firm. "If he truly carries Da Vinci's echo, then I'll do what I can."
Mina fluttered from the table to his shoulder, as if approving his decision. Her feathers brushed lightly against his metal cheek, grounding him in that small, human moment.
Leonid watched him, something like relief in his expression. But there was also guilt — a shadow that didn't fade.
Tesla noticed. "You still think he can be saved, don't you?" he asked softly.
Leonid looked away. "I don't know anymore," he admitted. "Newton's mind is a labyrinth of numbers and faith. But I can't follow him into that darkness again."
Tesla placed a hand on his shoulder. The gesture was simple, but it carried the weight of forgiveness. "Then we begin here. Together."
Leonid nodded slowly, the faint starlight around him growing brighter again — not as a weapon, but as hope.
Tesla looked once more at the damaged Core. "Let's wake him," he said quietly. "And find out what Leonardo has to say."
The hum of energy deepened, filling the forgotten subway with light. The air itself seemed to stir, as if the past, present, and future were listening.
—
- Boston, USA -
- January 18, 1940 -
The old manor on the outskirts of Boston had been many things over the centuries — a farmhouse, a school, a safehouse. But tonight, under the flickering lanterns that lined its stone corridors, it once again served its hidden purpose — headquarters of the Daughters of Liberty.
The autumn wind howled'outside as Agatha Harkness stepped into the main hall. Her cloak, dark as midnight, carried the faint scent of herbs and smoke. Her expression was calm, yet her eyes betrayed a storm of thoughts.
"Welcome back, Agatha," said Harriet Tubman, standing tall at the head of the long oak table. Her presence commanded quiet respect — even now, decades after her mortal struggles, she carried herself with the weight of conviction and purpose. She was the Dryad, the current leader of the Daughters, and the room seemed to respond to her presence like the forest to wind.
Agatha nodded slightly, her silver hair shimmering under the lantern light. "I came as soon as I received word about the situation in Britain," she said softly, taking her seat beside Harriet. Around them sat the other Daughters — women of strength and vision, warriors and witches, spies and scholars — all bound by a single goal: to protect humanity from the unseen forces that sought to corrupt it.
The doors creaked open again, and a young woman entered. Her stride was sharp, confident, but her eyes revealed a weight that shouldn't rest on someone so young. Margaret Carrer — the newest recruit, though in recent years, she had made a name for herself within MI6. Agatha watched her closely, pride and concern mixing in her gaze. She had taught Margaret herself, years ago, before the girl chose the path of espionage.
"Agent Carrer," Harriet greeted warmly, though her tone remained firm. "We're eager to hear your report."
Margaret exhaled slowly, steadying herself. "Britain is in turmoil," she began, her accent crisp and composed. "Morgan Le Fey has stepped out of the shadows. She's no longer hiding her face or her ambition."
A ripple of murmurs passed through the table.
Margaret continued, "She's spreading word across the Isles — that the Royal Family's bloodline is false, that she is the true heir of Arthur Pendragon. Her followers believe it, and with the Darkhold in her possession, her influence is spreading faster than we can contain."
Agatha's fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the table. "The Darkhold…" she murmured, her tone dark. "So Newton truly went through with it."
Margaret nodded grimly. "Yes. MI6 doesn't know the details, but our mystical branch — those still loyal to the Daughters — have confirmed sightings of her agents within the Ministry, even within the Church. She's weaving her network everywhere — politics, military, magic. People are vanishing. Records are being rewritten."
Harriet exchanged a look with Agatha. "And Merlin?" she asked carefully. "No word of him?"
Margaret hesitated. "None. It's as if he's vanished from history itself. There are whispers… that Morgan silenced him. But no one dares to speak it aloud."
The hall fell silent. Even the candles seemed to flicker lower, as if mourning.
Agatha finally spoke, her voice low but firm. "If Merlin is truly gone, then Britain stands without its guardian. Morgan will not stop until she crowns herself over the ashes of that nation — and perhaps the world after."
Margaret's eyes lowered. "That's why I came. I need your help. MI6 won't listen to me anymore — too many of them are under her spell. She's manipulating their fears, their ambitions. If this continues, the Daughters will lose one of our oldest strongholds."
Harriet stood slowly, her hand resting on the wooden table. "Then we act," she declared, her tone resolute. "We have faced tyrants before. We have seen darkness take many forms — kings, gods, and demons alike. Morgan Le Fey is but another storm. And we are the roots that will not break."
The Daughters murmured in agreement, their resolve firming. Agatha looked at Margaret — the girl she had once guided, now grown into a woman burdened by the weight of two worlds.
"You did well coming here," Agatha said softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. "You've seen what power can do when wielded without compassion. Now, we will make sure Britain remembers what real guardianship looks like."
Outside, thunder rumbled across the night sky, as if the heavens themselves acknowledged the weight of what was to come.
The Daughters of Liberty were preparing once again — not for war of nations, but for a war of truth, magic, and fate.
And in that dimly lit hall, as Agatha's eyes flickered with restrained power, she couldn't help but feel that this battle was not just for Britain — it was for the balance of all timelines themselves.
Because she knew one thing the others didn't yet: Morgan's rise, the Darkhold's reappearance, and the shifting of fate — all of it echoed something far older and far larger than they imagined.
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