Ikaris is tired. Of noise, of mortals, of this never-ending circus of half-heroes who think they can lead.

They’re supposed to be collaborating. That’s the word Fury used. Collaborating with the New Avengers and the Avengerz. He still can’t bring himself to say that ridiculous spelling without tasting bile.

The so-called “compound” is a glorified scrapyard of half-broken tech, mismatched egos, and whatever idiotic playlist Stark left haunting the speakers before he died. There’s dust in the air that refuses to settle, as if the place itself is allergic to calm. Every corridor echoes with bickering. Sam and Bucky snapping at each other like divorced parents. And that Red Soldier bloke who keeps calling everyone “comrade” like it’s 1943 again. The spider-kid, that apparently nobody remembers, keeps muttering things about how he's been there longer than most of them in "the old team." Ikaris is fairly sure the boy’s lost his mind.

And the Eternals? They’re not helping. Druig keeps making snide comments in that smug accent of his. Thena doesn’t even look up anymore.

Then there’s her.

The other avatar. The one who somehow became everyone’s favorite because she’s unpredictable, mouthy, and apparently blessed by some desert god who doesn’t shut up either. She’s chatting with Spector, sorry, Moon Knight, and gesturing wildly like her deity’s sitting right there nodding along.

Ikaris watches her laugh, loud and sharp like she’s splitting glass, and something in his chest burns with the old frustration again. He can’t decide if he wants to vaporize her or just walk into the sun and end it all.

And then it happens.

They’re all in the strategy room, and someone, probably Walker, starts another fight about who should lead. The mortals are shouting, the gods are bored, and before Ikaris knows it, he’s saying it.

“I’ll lead.”

She laughs. That laugh, sharp enough to slice through his composure, through the pretense of calm he’s mastered over millennia. She’d called him a “made-up robot,” like some mechanical toy pretending to be a god. Said she, the human tethered to an invisible Egyptian deity, had “leaderly qualities.”

The others had found it funny. He hadn’t.

He should’ve left her to spar alone tonight. Should’ve gone to brood somewhere quiet, maybe stare at the moon like a tragic poet. But instead, he’s here, hands behind his back, watching her move across the training mat like a storm that refuses to die. The air hums faintly with the trace of divine energy, a shimmer that crawls across her skin. Her god, whatever its name was, lurks just out of sight, invisible to everyone but her. He can feel the hum of it though, unsettling and ancient.

“Your form’s sloppy,” he says, tone dry as ash.

She doesn’t look at him, keeps swinging her staff, cracking air molecules like she’s trying to break the sound barrier.

“You rely too much on the divine thing possessing you,” Ikaris adds, stepping onto the mat, boots thudding against the floor. “Without it, you’d be nothing. A mortal waving sticks at shadows.”

No answer, of course.

He circles her, the predator he’s always been, pretending not to care how alive this feels. “What’s the god’s name again? Can’t keep up with all your hallucinations. At least Spector’s come to terms with being cracked in the head.”

The staff swings toward him, too fast. He catches it mid-arc, the wood humming against his palm. She yanks it back, muscles tight with fury. Good.

“You want to hit me, then hit me properly,” he says, half a growl, half a smirk. “You think you’re better than me? You’re a mouthpiece with delusions.”

He takes a step closer. “And yet you strut around this place like you’re leading something. Like you matter.”

Another swing. He dodges easily, lets it graze his jacket sleeve. She lunges. He sidesteps again, catches her wrist this time, spins her around with practiced ease. Her elbow slams into his ribs; it actually makes him grunt.

He grins. Can’t help it. “Finally. Something close to a real hit.”