Elastigirl and Maxima

Helen Parr, better known to the world as Elastigirl, sat down at a table with her coffee in the cafeteria, the distant hum of Nexus’s operations a constant backdrop to her thoughts. The city beyond the walls, stretched out like a patchwork quilt of corruption and excess. To her, it was another reminder of how fractured their world had become—Battleworld was a mosaic of broken universes stitched together by some omnipotent **** with a twisted sense of humor.

She barely recognized this version of New Urbem, called New York here. Hers was a sleeker, far more optimistic city even if its crime had been far more rampant.

Oddly enough, New York seemed to be the default across the various universes. It was sometimes Metropolis, though those versions at least seemed to match New Urbem's distinct optimism and had real heroes even!

Meanwhile, her own hometown of Metroville, rebranded as Chicago in some versions, hadn’t even made it to this piece of Battleworld. It felt alien yet familiar, like someone else’s idea of what her life should look like.

This piece of Earth was nothing more than a glorified city-state: New York City and about thirty miles to the north, east, and south with the eery purple misty drop-off of the Gulf to the west. It was barely a blip on the map compared to the sprawling villain-dominated territories that surrounded it, most of which were controlled by warlords or supervillains with god complexes. Even this little slice of the world had its scars—Vought International still loomed large, a shadow of its former self, clinging to relevance in a world where a coalition of real superheroes had supplanted their homegrown pretenders.

Helen glanced down at the table in front of her, noticing a single strand of spaghetti left behind by some careless diner. Without thinking, she picked it up, tilting her head back and letting it drop into her mouth. She wiped up the tiny bit of sauce left behind with her finger, sucking it clean as she leaned back, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Some things never change, she thought, shaking her head in amusement. Here she was, commander of a superhero division, tasked with defending the one place on the villains' side of Battleworld that had invited the good guys over within one of the most volatile regions, and yet she still acted like the same housewife she’d been before the mess of this new world. To get rid of food, you eat it because my mouth is the bin for food

She frowned as her thoughts drifted to the Screen Slaver goggles. It was frustrating that the tech team hadn’t been able to fully neutralize the technology. The warnings and best practices distributed to the teams would have to suffice for now. Most people were already wary of someone trying to slap anything on their face, but the idea of a villain subverting their people still kept her on edge.

Vought had started putting out public service announcements about the threat of screens being turned into emitters of Evelyn's hypnosis. Their glossy PR campaigns advised people to stay vigilant, to report anyone staring at a screen in a trance-like state. She supposed it was better than nothing. She didn’t trust Vought—not after everything she’d learned about how they’d created superheroes for profit and turned the concept of heroism into a corporate spectacle with superpowered idiots practically become villains behind the scenes.

At least some of the worst offenders had been taken out. Homelander, that smug sociopath, had been squashed like a bug by a supervillain just in passing —Beerus, a purple, cat-like figure who styled himself the “God of Destruction” and ruled a massive swath of territory to the south and east. It was hard to say whether that was an improvement. Battleworld seemed to thrive on replacing one problem with another, and Helen had no illusions that things would ever truly settle into order.

But at least the Screen Slaver goggles themselves had been destroyed.

She’d made sure of that, watching the process closely. No oddities had come up—she’d checked the security footage herself, day after day, even knowing nothing important ever happened in that part of the base.

The only thing noteworthy was that one tech's habit of stuffing his crotch day after day.

It had struck her as odd at first, but ultimately, it seemed harmless. The tech area was always a little eccentric, and she supposed everyone had their quirks. She probably should have just laughed it off and given him a big cock compliment to match his overblown display instead of busting his balls about it during that one briefing. After all, even fake big cocks deserved at least a little fake praise. The thought brought a small, amused smile to her lips.

Helen leaned back in her chair, sipping her coffee. As far as she could tell, the team down in the tech labs wasn’t up to anything dangerous. For now, she’d just have to trust that the system was working as it should.

Helen looked up from her coffee as Maxima slid into the seat across from her, the cafeteria’s fluorescent lights reflecting off her golden skin, which seemed almost molten under the harsh glow. It was always striking to see Maxima up close—her metallic sheen made her look more like she’d been carved by some divine sculptor than grown in a womb. Combined with her 6’1” frame, bright purple hair that framed that supermodel's face, she exuded a raw presence that filled any room she entered.

Maxima’s outfit wasn’t exactly standard Nexus attire. Her dark green military jacket, left open to reveal a tight blue tank top cropped just high enough to expose her washboard abs, was strikingly unconventional. The ensemble was completed with black utility pants and fingerless gloves, giving her the appearance of a battlefield commander ready to step into the fray at a moment’s notice. While Nexus personnel were allowed to wear their original superhero costumes if they had one, or the standard-issue jumpsuits if they didn’t, Maxima’s choice of attire stood out even in this eclectic environment.

Helen could almost hear Edna's gasp of horror at the idea of Maxima’s “costume.” Still, no one dared to question her choices. Maxima was the combat leader of this division of the Nexus Accord, the tip of the spear for missions into hostile territories, and her sheer power made the idea of challenging her laughable.

“Parr,” Maxima greeted curtly, resting her elbows on the table, surveying the room with a critical eye. Helen gave her a polite nod in return, though she always felt slightly out of place next to Maxima’s sheer **** of personality. They were colleagues, equals in rank, but Maxima’s towering presence sometimes made Helen feel like she was still playing catch-up.

Before Helen say anything, a man in a tailored suit—one of the Vought liaisons that seemed to litter the more public sections of the base—walked past their table. Helen caught the faint flick of his eyes toward Maxima’s chest, lingering a beat too long on her large, tightly clad breasts.

“Hey!” Maxima’s voice rang out like a gunshot, causing the man to flinch. “You done, or do you need me to draw you a diagram?” She gestured toward her chest, her tone dripping with venom. The man muttered an apology and all but bolted from the cafeteria, his face crimson with embarrassment.

Maxima rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath. “Vought scum. The locals are all pigs—every last one of them.”

Helen couldn’t help but smirk at Maxima’s bluntness. “They’re not all bad,” she offered lightly, though she knew it was a losing battle.

Maxima turned back to Helen, rolling her eyes. “I haven't seen any evidence of that, except for maybe the women who haven't drank the kool-aid. Starlight's a good kid.” she muttered. She gestured vaguely toward the Nexus personnel scattered throughout the cafeteria. “At least our guys know better. I’ve got them trained well enough to keep their eyes where they belong.”

Helen chuckled softly, setting her coffee down with a clink. “Oh, they still look. Trust me, they just know how to be discreet about it. Call it self-preservation.”

Maxima tilted her head, amusement flickering across her angular features. “Fair enough. But at least they don’t make it everyone else’s problem. The locals, though? Absolutely shameless. I can’t walk through the city without someone thinking I’m their next wet dream. Then posting that shit online."

Helen nodded, her gaze drifting thoughtfully. The locals weren’t just shameless—they were relentless. Social media and celebrity culture had turned superheroes into something far beyond what she’d known back in her world. In Metroville, heroes were admired, sometimes revered, but here? They were commodities, dissected and consumed by the public like products on a shelf.

Some of the “internet places,” as she’d overheard, were particularly crass, filled with threads and posts breaking down her own body like she was nothing more than an object. She hadn’t grown up with anything remotely resembling these electronic newspapers, and its sheer scope unsettled her. Back home, gossip stayed in magazines or whispered conversations, but here it was blasted to the world with crude memes and videos dissecting every inch of her. It was invasive in a way she hadn’t fully anticipated.

The fascination with her curves—especially her hips and ass—had taken on a life of its own. There were entire corners of this Web dedicated to debating whether her tiny waist and round, full hips were natural or a product of her powers. She’d even caught wind of conspiracy theories claiming she used her elasticity to manipulate her body into a constant state of exaggerated femininity, as if her figure was a deliberate design rather than the product of genetics.

I can flatten myself to a sheet of paper, but the moment I relax, my ass goes right back to looking like a pair of basketballs. she thought with a faint, bemused smile. It was absurd, but the locals seemed eager to find reasons to explain her away. It wasn’t just about her body—it was a way to dismiss her strength and authority. Turn her into a fantasy, a caricature, and she became easier to stomach for people who couldn’t handle the reality of her capabilities.

Maxima, watching Helen’s expression shift slightly, arched a brow. “What’s so amusing?”

Helen looked back at her, shaking her head. “Just thinking about how people can turn you into something you’re not—especially here. They’ll believe whatever makes them feel better, no matter how ridiculous.”

Maxima smirked slightly as she leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "That's exactly it, isn't it? They don't want to deal with who we really are. It's easier to stick us in a box—make us into something they can gawk at, laugh at, or fantasize about." She gestured around the cafeteria with a dismissive wave. "That’s why the locals will never take us seriously. Even now, with the villains breathing down their necks, they're more interested in who's trending than who's protecting them."

Helen nodded, her expression thoughtful. "It's exhausting sometimes. Back home, people saw us as heroes first. Sure, there was some celebrity culture creeping in, but nothing like this. Here? It’s like we’ve been turned into action figures for them to collect—or worse, punchlines for their jokes."

Maxima chuckled darkly, her metallic skin glinting in the cafeteria's fluorescent light. "You get used to it, Parr. Or you don't, and you make sure they’re too scared to cross the line." She leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table, and fixed Helen with a knowing look. "But that's not the real problem, is it? The locals are pigs, sure, but they’re not our priority. It’s keeping Nexus running and holding the line against the Dominion. That’s where the real work is."

Helen folded her hands around her coffee cup, the warmth grounding her. "You’re right. The locals are a headache, but they’re not the reason we’re here. The Nexus Accord has its hands full just keeping the peace in this little slice of the world, let alone pushing back against the chaos outside."

Maxima’s smirk softened into a serious expression. "Exactly. That’s why we need to focus on the big picture. I’ve got another incursion tomorrow, Grodd’s territory. Intel says it’s small-time, but you know how that goes. Half the time, it’s a distraction for something worse."

Helen nodded, her mind already shifting into operational mode. "Do you have your team lined up?"

Maxima leaned back again, crossing her arms. "Of course. I’m taking Starlight, Torch, Atom-Eve, and a handful of grunts. It’s not exactly an A-list lineup, but they’ll get the job done."

Helen smiled faintly. "Starlight’s solid. Got her head on straight. And Johnny? He’s dependable. Glad you kept Dash off the team. Those two together..."

Maxima chuckled, the metallic sheen of her golden skin catching the light as she leaned back in her chair. “Dash and Johnny? They’re a hell of a **** multiplier, no denying that. But Dash is off running recon for me on another front. He’s fast as hell, but keeping him focused? That’s an entirely different challenge.”

Helen laughed softly, shaking her head. “He’s young. He’ll grow into it. But you’re right—pair him with Johnny, and it’s like striking a match in a fireworks factory. Controlled chaos is useful, but sometimes you need something a little more... focused. Grodd’s no joke.”

Maxima nodded, her expression sharpening. “Exactly. That’s why I’m taking Starlight. She’s solid—better than most of the garbage Vought churned out. She actually wants to make a difference and isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty. And Atom Eve? She’s the ace in the hole. That girl can literally reshape the battlefield. It’s like having an entire engineering corps in one person. When you’ve got people like them on your team, you can tackle just about anything.”

Helen sipped her coffee, nodding in agreement. “That’s what we need—people willing to step up and do the hard work. This place might be a mess, but at least the Nexus Accord gives us a fighting chance.”

Maxima smirked, her purple eyes glinting with approval. “You’re not wrong. Nexus isn’t perfect, but it’s the best shot we’ve got at holding this mess together. And as long as we’re pulling our weight, we’ll keep holding the line.”