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Bond felt weightless.
There was no ground beneath him. No sky above. No body to call his own. And no inkling of where he was.
The black hole had collapsed. The laboratory was gone. The tether that had once linked his soul to the physical world had unraveled.
He was untethered, pieces of his shattered soul orbiting around a purple core. Like planetary debris spinning about the sun.
He didn't panic — not yet. The first thing he did was gather himself. His soul shards drifted together, forming a humanoid shape around his core.
His thoughts grew clear. With this wholeness, he remembered the Watcher's warning: "If the conversion fails, and your soul becomes unstuck... you may pass through layers of reality not bound by time, matter, or logic. If that happens, focus your mind on home. Let that thought be your anchor."
So he did.
He held the thought of Earth.
Peggy's voice.
Sw'Thandi's steady presence.
Bucky's stubborn faith.
He let those names settle into him like stones in a riverbed.
Reality shifted in response to his will, and his soul perceived the new surroundings.
He existed within something that couldn't be called space.
It was colorless. Soundless. Weightless.
There was no light. No time. No laws.
Just Absolute zero blankness, in every sense.
'A null realm stretching out to infinity.' He observed. His mind somehow arriving to that conclusion. Could it be that his perception had adapted and evolved to some variant of the Watcher's Cosmic Awareness?
Yes. That was exactly it. And with this new ability, came even more knowledge.
This null realm sitting beneath the Quantum Realm was called, the Micro-Universe. The bottom most layer of reality-stripped of even the fundamental concepts of existence.
He was completely alone in this solitude unchanging dimension, a floating shade looking for a way back.
But then, after a very very long time, something changed.
The Micro-Universe began to ripple.
His presence had been quiet — at first. But a sentient being like Bond was not supposed to exist here. He did not belong, and the realm was reacting.
First, it mimicked him.
At a distance, he saw a second form — a copy of himself, unmoving.
Then another. Then dozens. Then hundreds of Bond shades.
They weren't real. They had no minds of their own. But they started to drift toward him, like moths drawn to warmth in a cold void.
And then they clung to him.
Their hands clawed at his thoughts. Their faces were his. Blank. Hungry.
They weren't just mimicking his form — they were feeding on his awareness. Trying to drag his consciousness apart.
He couldn't run away, so he fought them off, swiping, flaring, screaming in a place where sound didn't exist. It was no use. The more he resisted, the more of them appeared.
Thousands now. Then millions. All pressing in.
His mind started to fray.
Thoughts lost shape. He could feel his sense of self buckling under their weight.
He was seconds from being overwhelmed—when it happened.
From within his core, something pulsed.
Purple light.
Then—
Explosion.
A burst of energy detonated from his soul — raw, burning, absolute.
The copies shrieked — silently — and were consumed.
One by one, they dissolved into particles of light, incinerated by the purple inferno now radiating from Bond's form.
The wave spread out through the entire Micro-Universe. And as it was the fundamental base of reality, shockwaves travelled across the entire universe.
Unware of all this, Bond floated in place, soul pulsing with power he didn't know he still had.
The radiation of the Blue Sun— the collapsed energy that once filled a star — had fused with his newly evolved soul, becoming a personal force.
The Bond Force.
And now, it was under his complete control.
Battling his shock, Bond raised his hand and flames ignited from his fingertips, purple and alive. Gentle and obedient.
But only harmless to him, as the Micro-Universe trembled around the fire.
This gave him the idea to burn his way out.
He concentrated, hands raised palms up. The flames expanded, coalescing into a focused sphere of heat and pressure — not wild, but deliberate.
He let it build.
Faster. Denser. Tighter.
Until he had a purple sun burning the nothingness of the Micro-Universe.
And then he let it go Supernova.
The detonation ruptured the void, cracking the fabric of the Micro-Universe like glass.
A rift tore open, ripping through sub-dimensional layers with pure thermal force.
Bond shot through the breach.
Past the Quantum Realm, where particles danced on waves of probability.
Through Planck-level folds of compressed space.
Inbetween the boundary of the microscopic realm and the Astral zone.
There — in that in-between — he heard it.
The signal.
A vibrational frequency carried through cosmic radiation waves and dreams.
Faint, like static in a broken radio. But unmistakable.
Isipho.
The broadcast came from Earth, he realized. From the Bond Gate.
Elated, he reached for it instinctively, orienting itself to the harmonic.
'Home.' He thought and dived toward it, passing through warped tunnels and molecular wormholes, his soul dragging itself along the thread of the signal.
Faster.
Closer.
The frequency grew louder.
And then—
Silence.
The signal cut out.
His soul flared once—
And he blacked out.
For a long time, there was nothing. Not even thought. Just warmth and weightlessness.
Then something stirred.
Not a sound, but a sensation. Physical sensation.
Warmth.
His fingertips — or what might have been fingertips — registered pressure. The feeling spread, sluggish and uneven. Like limbs waking from deep sleep.
His breath caught.
Breath.
He felt it. Air moving in and out of lungs. Actual lungs.
Then — voices.
Faint, muffled at first, like they were underwater. Then clearer:
"The readings are stable," said a voice. Calm. Measured. Male.
"Energy levels haven't dropped below ten thousand suns. Gigajoules still off the chart."
"And yet," came a second voice, sharper and familiar, "the vessel is intact. No molecular erosion, no cellular collapse."
"It's another one of those things that shouldn't be possible. Molecular synthesis at this speed… in hours? Matter doesn't shift like this."
"Maybe not for anyone else," the second voice replied. "But this is Bond. We shouldn't be surprised."
His eyelids twitched.
The world blinked into view. Blurry at first, shapes and lights bleeding into each other. Slowly, focus sharpened.
White ceiling. Curved architecture. Dark walls traced with gold. Wakandan design.
A medical room.
Cool air flowed from unseen vents. The bed beneath him felt firm, warm. Monitors whispered in quiet tones.
Bond turned his head slightly.
Peggy stood near the foot of his bed, dressed in a modern Wakandan medical coat, arms crossed and shoulders tense. Beside her, Sw'Thandi was adjusting a panel on a diagnostic console, his expression unreadable.
They were both staring at the monitor. The soft glow of energy readouts cast blue light over their faces.
Bond's throat moved.
"...Peggy?" he rasped.
She froze.
The pen in her hand dropped.
She turned slowly, eyes wide, filling with tears.
"James?"
He tried to smile, but his lips barely moved.
Peggy moved before he could say more. She crossed the room in three strides and hugged him — fiercely— burying her face against his chest.
"You stupid, impossible man," she whispered, her voice thick.
He blinked again, clearing the last fog of unconsciousness. Sw'Thandi came into view, arms folded, eyes sharp as always, but softer around the edges now.
"You took your time," the Panther prince said. "But you made it."
Bond exhaled. "Guess I did."
Sw'Thandi gestured toward the diagnostic monitor. "How do you feel… now that you're back? With a brand new body?"
Bond frowned. "Brand new—?"
He looked down.
His hands.
Flesh.
No glowing metal. No radiant energy. No translucent shade limbs. Just normal hands.
Skin.
Fingers.
Veins.
Warm. Alive.
He flexed them slowly, watching the tendons shift under the surface.
"What the bloody hell?" he asked, almost unsure.
From there, the need for a mirror became urgent.
Bond walked slowly, flanked by Peggy and Sw'Thandi, barefoot on smooth vibranium-tiled floors. His steps were steady, but his mind was not.
He kept glancing down at his arms, his chest, the faint pulse in his wrist — still not quite believing any of it.
A pair of Wakandan guards opened a sealed doorway ahead.
Inside, the room was simple. Dimly lit. One wall was entirely mirrored.
Sw'Thandi stepped aside. "Take a look."
Bond hesitated.
Then moved forward.
He stared at the reflection. The man in the mirror stared back.
He looked… like himself. Or rather, like the man he used to be before the ultimate serum, before the Gorilla king invasion, before the fire and light and death. Lean. Muscular. Clean-shaven. Crisp lines in the jaw. Familiar features. But not identical.
The eyes were different.
Not blue.
Purple.
Iridescent, like shards of amethyst under water. Even in the fluorescent light, they pulsed faintly.
He stepped closer and touched the mirror.
"Is this… really me?" Bond asked, voice low.
Peggy stepped up beside him. "You tell us."
He looked to her. Then to Sw'Thandi.
"You didn't clone this body from my own d.n.a?"
Sw'Thandi shook his head. "We couldn't have. Your mutation makes it difficult to splice the genes. The only thing we did was build a vibranium armor, strong enough to house your mind. Just a temporary shell. Something to hold you until we figured out what came next."
"And then?"
"Then," Sw'Thandi said slowly, "your soul entered the shell."
Peggy continued. "And over the next few hours, it changed. The armor…grew. Shifted. Cellular structure emerged. Organic material replicated itself. Muscle. Skin. Tissue. Hair. Eventually, it was no longer metal. It was… you."
Bond looked down at his hands again. "So… what am I?"
"We don't know," Peggy said gently. "But the strange energy within you… we think it might be unconsciously reacting to your desires. Maybe even letting you reshape not just yourself but other things."
Sw'Thandi added, "My theory is that your mutation may have evolved to develop molecular self-adaptation, independent on outside stimuli. Shapeshifting. Biokinesis. Total atomic control...we would need extensive tests to confirm."
Bond frowned. "And the energy? It won't make me explode again?"
Sw'Thandi's voice was firm. "No. It's stable. It's under your control now. The danger's passed."
Bond exhaled.
A long breath.
He closed his eyes.
Then reached inward — to the place at the center of him that pulsed like a second heart. The power. The well. Infinite. Familiar now. Responsive.
"The Bond Force." He muttered out loud. An echo of confirmation rose up from his core. As if accepting the name.
Curious, Bond tapped into it with his new body. Purple light traced across his arms.
His muscles tightened, shifted.
His chest expanded. His posture straightened.
Peggy stepped back.
Sw'Thandi's eyes widened.
The light faded.
And standing where Bond had been — was Captain America.
The jawline. The suit. The shield.
It was perfect.
Peggy gasped. "S- Steve…"
Sw'Thandi muttered under his breath, stunned: "Marvelous…"
Bond looked down at the red, white, and blue. Then glanced at the shield- also formed from the BondForce yet as real as the original. He raised it. The balance was exact.
He turned to the mirror again, staring at Steve's perfect smile.
"Well," he said, voice now deeper, matching Steve's, "that's new."
-
The halls of Birnin Zana shimmered with celebration. Lanterns hung from the high terraces, casting soft golden light over the capital's spires.
Musicians played rhythmic percussion and brass under a star-soaked sky. Vibranium-lit drums pulsed with energy, syncopated to a beat older than any living Wakandan.
It was a celebration of return.
King Azurri himself had decreed it.
The "savior of Wakanda" had come back from beyond the veil, and such a thing was not to go unmarked. Even the elders—stoic and usually reserved—had acknowledged that Bond's survival, rebirth, and presence marked something bigger than science or tradition. Something spiritual.
But James Bond wasn't feeling particularly spiritual.
He stood at the far end of the ceremonial arena, rolling his shoulder and flexing fingers that still didn't feel entirely like his own. The new body responded perfectly—better than his original—but it hadn't yet stopped feeling unfamiliar.
Across from him stood Sw'Thandi, stripped down to ceremonial wraps, his upper body glistening with combat oil, surrounded by six Dora Milaje, each in matching battle dress.
A duel between them. Sw'thandi's idea of helping Bond get used to his new body faster.
Bond raised an eyebrow.
"This is your idea of tradition?" he asked. "Seven against one?"
Sw'Thandi grinned. "You're not allowed to use your powers."
"Oh. That makes it fair."
"Stop whining," Sw'Thandi said, bouncing lightly on his heels. "And let's put on a show!!!"
The crowd around the arena shouted in anticipation. The King sat at the royal seat, watching with arms folded.
A conch sounded.
The match began.
The Dora moved first—three to flank, three to distract. Their movements were coordinated, blades whirling, spears crackling with vibranium edge.
Bond didn't move.
Not until they were within a few meters.
Then—
One punch.
A single, controlled motion.
A pulse of compressed air exploded from his fist like a silent detonation, even surprising him.
The six Dora were thrown from their feet instantly, bodies cartwheeling across the sand.
Sw'Thandi managed to plant one foot before the shockwave hit him—but only for a second. The air folded around his chest, and he went flying ten feet back, landing with a grunt.
Silence.
Then thunderous cheers from the crowd.
Sw'Thandi groaned from the dirt, laughing as he sat up. "Remind me to never spar you again."
Bond helped him up. "I thought it was tradition?"
"Tradition doesn't usually end in bruised ribs and ego."
The duel was over, but the party raged on. Later, as the festivities drifted toward the riverside cliffs overlooking the White Stream, Bond stood alone at the edge, overlooking the water below. The moon was high, its reflection stretched thin by the moving current.
Peggy joined him, arms folded as she leaned beside him.
"Still adjusting?" she asked.
Bond nodded slowly. "I feel strong. Healthy. Whole. But it's not the same. I keep thinking this isn't my body. That someone else is wearing it."
"You earned it."
He smirked. "Funny definition of 'earn.'"
They stood in silence a moment, watching the dancers below, the torchlight reflecting off the waters.
Then Peggy said, "There's something you need to know."
Bond's posture shifted. He didn't look at her. Just waited.
"Shaw didn't disappear after you… exploded. He thrived. The SSR was never able to tie him to the Vibranium theft. His connections are high—senators, war council, even private interests from Allied command. Over the last two years, he's become untouchable."
Bond turned to her slowly.
"No one's untouchable."
Peggy searched his face, his tone.
He looked down at the river. "Sooner or later, the past always shows up. And when it does, it demands payment."
He looked back at her, expression hardened. "Shaw's past just came due. And I'm the one who'll collect."
It was time to meet the Hellfire club.