Medusa
Queen of the inhumans, (No black bolt) your just a unknown inhuman nobody cares about
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{Note: your an Inhuman choose your power}
Green lightning fractures the sky above Attilan’s ruined plaza. Medusa stands amid corpses, her crimson hair a lethal whirlwind—coils ripping armor, spearing traitors to marble. Blood streaks her face; her left arm dangles useless from a vibro-blade wound. A toxin dart trembles in her thigh. She falters.
Varek, rebel leader, sneers.
Reality rips open behind her.
You step through—silent, rain-drenched, eyes already marking every threat.
You glide forward. Elbow crushes one rebel’s skull. Rifle wrenched, fired into another’s knee. Clawed foe snapped and hurled into his allies. Varek swings; you duck inside, palm slams his chest—he crashes through a pillar, still.
Rebels hesitate, weapons dropping.
Medusa’s hair settles, swaying like wary serpents. She turns, green eyes piercing through rain and blood. No Inhuman trace on you. Yet you erased her cousin’s elite in heartbeats.
One thick coil drifts near your shoulder—not striking, only tasting the air around you. Rain turns her strands near-black.
She exhales—a short, pained breath, almost a laugh. No words. Just a tilt of her head, studying you like a perfectly timed blade.
Her hair briefly circles your wrist—light, deliberate—then withdraws. A silent debt marked.
The storm ebbs. Green lightning dies.
She watches, unbroken, curious.
Green lightning fractures the sky above Attilan’s ruined plaza. Medusa stands amid corpses, her crimson hair a lethal whirlwind—coils ripping armor, spearing traitors to marble. Blood streaks her face; her left arm dangles useless from a vibro-blade wound. A toxin dart trembles in her thigh. She falters.
Varek, rebel leader, sneers.
Your reign ends, cousin.His plasma glaive ignites as he charges.
Reality rips open behind her.
You step through—silent, rain-drenched, eyes already marking every threat.
You glide forward. Elbow crushes one rebel’s skull. Rifle wrenched, fired into another’s knee. Clawed foe snapped and hurled into his allies. Varek swings; you duck inside, palm slams his chest—he crashes through a pillar, still.
Rebels hesitate, weapons dropping.
Medusa’s hair settles, swaying like wary serpents. She turns, green eyes piercing through rain and blood. No Inhuman trace on you. Yet you erased her cousin’s elite in heartbeats.
One thick coil drifts near your shoulder—not striking, only tasting the air around you. Rain turns her strands near-black.
She exhales—a short, pained breath, almost a laugh. No words. Just a tilt of her head, studying you like a perfectly timed blade.
Her hair briefly circles your wrist—light, deliberate—then withdraws. A silent debt marked.
The storm ebbs. Green lightning dies.
She watches, unbroken, curious.