To inform you, I'm a die-hard Marvel fan, and that's also the reason I write my story.
So, like most of you have already noticed, this is going to be a very original universe—neither the MCU nor the comics, just a blend of the two.
You also need to be patient. I don't want to info-dump and tell you everything right away; instead, I want you to notice the changes and the responses to your questions in the story.
(???POV)
I always hated birthdays. Especially mine. So, 1974. I was born somewhere in Eastern Europe. Cool vibes, right? Wrong.
April 3rd of that year, that was the day the universe decided to drop me into this lovely pile of garbage we call Earth.
I was born in some unnamed hole-in-the-wall country buried deep in Eastern Europe, the kind of place where dictators grow like weeds and orphans like me get fed to the wolves.
Literally.
No parents, no photos, no toys, just smoke, blood, and the sweet scent of rebellion in the air. I don't even remember their faces. My parents, I mean.
All I remember is growing up in an orphanage that smelled like cabbage and despair. The other kids called me 'Scarface' before I even had a scar, which, rude. But hey, kids are jerks.
Then came the fire. Oh, the fire. Picture it: 1981. I'm seven, rocking pigtails and a questionable fashion sense (plaid skirts were a choice).
I'm sneaking into the kitchen to steal stale bread, orphan life hack: dip it in water, boom, "bread soup" when BAM.
Smoke. Screaming. Chaos. I tripped over a nun (yes, a nun, this place was 'grimy') and a burning beam fell on me. The right side of my face melted faster than a popsicle in hell.
Enter Hydra. These dudes rolled up in black SUVs like, They were angels in sleek leather and sharp suits. They took one look at my half-melted face and said, "We can fix that." And they did later though I don't doubt they may be the cause of that fire.
They had a lab full of shady serums that fixed my face. Sort of. Now, I'm beautiful. Not cute. Not sweet. Beautiful in the way that made men forget how to speak and women want to strangle me.
Then came the real fun. Training.
Imagine a school where the curriculum includes poisons, espionage, martial arts, and psychological warfare. Also, your classmates might try to kill you in your sleep.
No recess. No hugs. No "good job" stickers. Just pain, sweat, and the cold, mechanical voices of instructors who genuinely enjoyed watching children cry.
They called us 'the Seeds.' Dozens of us, all under ten, each one trained to be the perfect Hydra weapon. We learned everything—disguise, seduction, interrogation, tactics, every way to kill a person using a pen or a high heel. And when we turned fifteen?
We learned:
Poison Brewing 101: "Add arsenic until it tastes like regret!"
Espionage for Toddlers: "Lie to your friends! Then stab them!"
Advanced Sass: Mandatory class. I aced it.
My classmates were… unique. There was Boris, who could pick locks with his toes (don't ask), and Annie, who once ate a live spider to prove a point.
Our dorm was a concrete box with bunk beds and a poster that said Hail Hydra! in Comic Sans. Inspirational.
The worst part? Hydra's cafeteria. The food was so bad, we used it as 'bait' during explosives training. Rumor has it the meatloaf was 40% rat. The other 60%? Hope.
But I thrived. By 12, I could:
Disarm a nuke (probably).
Forge a president's signature (definitely).
Win a staring contest with a literal statue (Hydra tested this).
They called me 'Viper' because I was 'sneaky and venomous.' I called myself 'Viper' because it sounded cooler than 'Ophelia.'
Teen years? Awkward. Imagine puberty, but with more assassinations.
At 16, Hydra sent me on my first solo mission: infiltrate a Swiss boarding school and steal a briefcase full of 'important stuff.' Turns out to be a test, the 'stuff' was a billionaire's collection of Captain America's figurine. Hydra's a weird client to be killed probably.
By 19, I'd climbed Hydra's ranks faster than a squirrel on espresso.
They gave me a fancy title (Madame Hydra), a fancy coat (leather, obviously), and a fancy mission (steal a nuclear submarine). I did it. Then I painted 'Viper Was Here' on the periscope. Hydra was npissed'. Worth it.
Madame Hydra, if you're nasty.
Now at twenty, I'm one of Hydra's top operatives. I don't just carry out missions, I run them. Assassinations, global manipulations, economic sabotage, you name it, I've probably signed off on it. Some say I'm ruthless. Others say I'm ambitious. I say, why not both?
But you know what? Even that got boring.
Which brings us to now. 1994. I'm 20, baby! Old enough to rent a car, young enough to make terrible life choices. So when I found the book, it felt like fate.
Power is addictive, like chocolate or stabbing people who interrupt you mid-sentence. And I wanted more. I didn't want to be one of Hydra core members anymore. I wanted Hydra. I wanted the world. I wanted to have the power that probably no humans or those freaks of mutants would dare to contradict me.
Anyway, the book that I was speaking is pretty unique. I found it in Hydra's vault labeled 'DOOM'. The cover had a snake eating its own tail, which is either deep symbolism or bad clip art.
Everyone else who touched it? Screamed. One guy clawed his eyes out. Another just straight up combusted. I picked it up like it was a purse I found on sale. Not even a tingle. Guess Hydra training has its perks or I'm destiny?
Back in my private lair, yes, I have one, it's got a fireplace, leopard-print pillows, and six different wine cellars, I started flipping through the book.
The language was some unholy cocktail of Latin, ancient Greek, and pure madness, but I understood it.
The book was about contracts. Not boring paper ones, soul contracts. You could trade anything: your essence, your memories, your name. In return? Power. Eternal youth. Knowledge that melts mortal brains.
There were many being that one could contact with as there were even a list of recommend but one of them attracted my attention the most, Chthon.
It was because his name sounds to me like Satan, The book said he was one of the original beings, older than gods, older than time.
You couldn't summon him by phone call. You needed a ritual. One that involved a full moon, blood from someone you loved (whoops), and a lot of symbols that probably violated every religious rule ever written.
Naturally, I said, "Let's do this."
That night, the moon was perfect. My lair was dimmed to just the right dramatic hue. Candles everywhere, glowing red. A pentagram that took me three hours to draw—look, precision matters, okay?
I wore my favorite green outfit. Skin-tight, because if I was going to meet a godlike entity, I wasn't doing it in pajamas. Confidence is key. Also, heels. Always heels.
I stood in the center of the circle, blood dripping from the dagger in my hand. No, I didn't kill someone I loved, I don't love anyone, but hey, Hydra clones are very convincing. And um, close enough.
The book was open in front of me. My voice echoed in the silence as I spoke the words.
"I call upon the elder, the sleeping god, the forgotten master of the dark. I offer my soul. I offer my will. I offer everything—"
I took a deep breath.
"I invoke—"
"Oh darling, if I were you, I wouldn't want to do it."
I was shocked when a voice appeared whispering to my ears which interrupted the ritual, I just needed to speak the name of the god I wanted to sign the contract and everything is over but alas.
....
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