"You like skiing?"
"Sort of."
"You like spying on other people skiing?"
"...Why would you say that?"
Lake looked at Michaela, puzzled. She pointed at the ultra-clear projection on the wall, showing Whistler Ski Resort as if they were there, "This proves it."
Lake gazed at the red helicopter and said calmly, "Just wait—you'll see."
Michaela watched someone leap from the helicopter on a snowboard and mused, "Should I grab some popcorn?"
Lake raised his bourbon, "I've got booze."
Michaela: "..."
Johnny Storm, a big name in extreme sports. His fame didn't quite match Hollywood stars, but among certain circles, he was a legend.
Why?
Because Johnny Storm had a face that reminded some folks of certain... scenes. Otherwise, while other agencies squeezed their talents dry, why did Johnny's let him do whatever he wanted?
No doubt, it was that face of his—proof once again that this was a looks-driven world.
Case in point.
After ten days in the hospital, Johnny was already back at it, taking his new third-tier model girlfriend to Whistler Ski Resort via helicopter.
"Whoa!"
Johnny leapt from the chopper on his snowboard, letting out a wild yell before pulling off one flashy move after another.
"Agatha!"
"Here."
"Start gathering data. I need to know if Brand's latched onto this guy."
"Understood."
Michaela, pulling a bowl of popcorn from the microwave, walked over and asked curiously, "Brand? Another god?"
Lake snorted, "A god? Michaela, you're really cheapening the idea of gods. Brand, a god? At best, he's a fool blinded by power."
Brand was once just an ordinary guy from Valoran's Freljord starfield. Lake had passed through there once, and when Brand disrespected him, Lake gave him a light smackdown. He'd forgotten the guy entirely—until a century later, when a fiery figure showed up seeking revenge. Turns out, it was that same nobody, Brand.
After Lake humiliated him, Brand held a grudge. He slaughtered his tribe, stole their sacred fire rune, swallowed it for power, and burned a hundred-meter swath of their land. Transformed into the Firecracker, he came after Lake to settle the score over that slap...
But...
Did he succeed?
When Brand, now the Firecracker, stood before Lake and declared he'd turn Reese Star into a world of flames, Lake slapped him straight to the underworld to report to Karthus, the Death Singer.
After filling Michaela in on Brand's backstory, Lake added, "Gods wield authority and power. We command them—they don't command us."
Michaela nodded, "So this guy crawled out of your underworld to hunt you down again?"
Lake shrugged, "Maybe."
As he'd explained before, every universe had a death god. Death's authority was the greatest, but it came with pros and cons. Other gods could visit neighboring universes, but a death god crossing over risked being seen as encroaching on another's domain.
So.
If Karthus sent someone, he couldn't just drop them in directly. Parasitic possession was the only way.
Like now.
As Johnny Storm carved down Whistler's slopes, a spark flickered on him.
"Beep!"
Agatha caught it instantly, analyzing the flame.
Michaela stared as countless sparks erupted from Johnny, her popcorn hovering near her mouth, forgotten.
"He's combusting?"
"No."
Lake stood from the sofa, expressionless as Johnny morphed into a fireman, "The possession's starting."
Michaela looked up at him.
Agatha chimed in, "Sir, you were right. It's the power of the fire rune."
Lake's lips curved slightly as he watched Johnny—now fully a flaming figure resembling Captain America—on the screen, "Brand, long time no see!"
At Whistler's snowy peak.
Johnny, now a fireman, was freaking out. He'd turned into flames—he could feel the heat, the searing burn—but he was still fine.
The next second.
Boom!
Distracted, Johnny missed a slope, launched into the air, and crashed into the snow as a fireball.
In the snow.
"Ahh!"
"Fire!"
"Like a wildfire!"
"Lake Reese, ready to step into a world of flames?"
"The fire never dies, nor does my revenge. Welcome to hellfire!"
"BOOM!"
Lake watched the towering pillar of flame on the screen, utterly unmoved. One thought: a defeated foe who couldn't take a slap when alive. New universe, new body—so what?
Thirty years east, thirty years west?
Sorry, that's Eastern fantasy nonsense. In the West, how many mortals truly slay gods?
Sure, some do.
But look closer—those "mortals" in name only. Which one didn't have divine blood running through them?
So.
Dream of a comeback? Head East. In the West, keep dreaming.
Just then.
The scene shifted.
The roaring flames came fast and faded faster. When Johnny reappeared, he was naked in a cave, staring blankly at his new girlfriend watching him.
Michaela asked, "Swapped out?"
Lake shook his head, "No, just possessed."
Michaela tilted her head, "Meaning?"
Lake's tone was flat, "Johnny's got Brand's fire power now, but he's not Brand yet."
It came back to that rule.
A death god's subordinate entering another universe was a provocation to that universe's death deity. For Brand to re-emerge here, possession was his only path. Once his host went from confusion to acceptance, then to reveling in the parasitic power, that's when Brand would truly be reborn.
For now?
It was just step one.