Marvel: The Silver-Haired Hacker and Her Mecha Fleet

The banquet in Asgard finally came to an end deep into the night, amid the sound of wind drifting across the sea of clouds.

The slightly tipsy Asgardian warriors walked shoulder to shoulder, staggering as palace maids helped them back to their quarters. Volstagg had already fallen asleep hugging a wine barrel, Fandral was still chatting animatedly with a familiar maid, and Hogun was silently tidying up the messy banquet hall, his movements as steady as ever.

Mira stood at the main gate of the Golden Palace, waving goodbye to everyone who had come to see her off.

Frigga had personally stuffed her spatial storage grid with Asgardian mead, special dried fruits, and jerky, and had even added several bottles of Star Brew that had been aged for thousands of years. Before Mira left, Frigga gently helped smooth her wind-tousled silver hair and said with a warm smile that she was welcome to visit Asgard any time, and that the doors of the Royal Library would always remain open to her.

Sif held her hand tightly, her eyes full of reluctance. She promised that once she had finished forging her new armor from the two Beskar steel ingots, she would definitely go to Midgard to find her for another proper duel. The Warriors Three also crowded around, thumping their chests and declaring that if Mira ever ran into trouble anywhere in the Nine Realms, she only had to mention their names.

"I know, I know! Until next time, everyone!"

Mira smiled and waved at them. With a light flick of her finger, a faint blue portal slowly opened in front of her. On the other side of the rift was her apartment in Queens, New York.

She gave the group a playful, improvised Asgardian salute, then with a flash of her figure, stepped through the portal.

The rift closed soundlessly behind her.

In an instant, the sea of clouds of Asgard, the Golden Palace, and the cheering warriors all vanished.

What replaced them was the familiar apartment in the middle of the New York night, carrying a faint scent of ordinary life.

Beyond the window were the lights of countless homes in Queens, while from the street below came the occasional sound of passing car engines. In the living room, only the warm yellow lamp over the workbench was still on. Compared to the magnificent Golden Palace of Asgard, this place was small and modest, but it was warm, familiar, and made Mira instantly let out a quiet sigh of relief, finally releasing the tension she had been holding onto the whole time in Asgard.

She casually tossed the storage grid filled with mead and local specialties into the cabinet by the entrance, kicked off her shoes, and stepped barefoot onto the soft carpet. Then her gaze fell on the workbench in the middle of the living room.

Compiler was sitting there, her small frame nestled in a large gaming chair. Her signature short white hair hung softly over her shoulders, and thin strands of pale blue data swirled around her fingertips. She was conducting a precise analysis of several dark-gold metal fragments suspended in midair.

Those were the armor fragments Mira had told her to secretly—no, openly—recover from the site of the Destroyer's self-destruction right in front of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Hearing the noise, Compiler merely lifted her eyelids. Her pale-gold pupils swept across Mira once before returning to the fragments. Her flat, emotionless voice rang out in the living room like a mechanical broadcast:

"You're back. How was the harvest from your trip to Asgard, Mira?"

Her tone contained not the slightest trace of curiosity, but the flow of data at her fingertips paused for a moment. Clearly, she still cared a great deal about how Mira's journey had gone.

Seeing her act cold while obviously caring, Mira couldn't help secretly smiling. A mischievous thought suddenly rose in her mind.

She deliberately swayed as she walked forward, then with a soft "Ow," dropped limply into the beanbag chair in the living room. Burying her face in the soft velvet, she let out a muffled groan.

"I drank too much... my head is spinning... I don't have any strength left..."

She dragged out every word with an especially thick nasal tone, acting so convincingly that her shoulders even trembled faintly, making her look exactly like a thoroughly drunk person who had collapsed from too much wine.

After all, she really had drunk quite a lot of mead at the Asgardian banquet. Although her Siren body had long since metabolized all the alcohol without leaving a trace of intoxication, that didn't stop her from putting on a dramatic performance.

At the workbench, the streams of data at Compiler's fingertips stopped instantly.

She turned her head and looked at Mira, who was sprawled across the beanbag chair pretending to be drunk. There wasn't the slightest ripple in her pale-gold eyes. If anything, there was an unmistakable hint of disdain. Her flat voice rang out again, cleanly cutting through the act:

"Stop pretending, Mira. The metabolic efficiency of the Siren body's bionic design is 12,700 times higher than that of a human. Not to mention you drank less than ten liters of Asgardian mead—even if you directly ingested an equal volume of pure alcohol, it would still be impossible for you to display any drunken symptoms."

"Requirement: Mira, immediately get up and wash yourself. You are carrying residual magical energy from Asgard, as well as the smell of mead and roasted meat. If it gets onto the sofa, it will be difficult to clean."

Caught on the spot, Mira stopped pretending at once. She lifted her head from the beanbag and made a face at Compiler. Not only was she not embarrassed at being exposed, she even rolled around on the sofa twice like a spoiled oversized cat.

Stretching out both arms, she acted coquettishly toward Compiler, her voice soft and drawn out:

"Aww~ I'm tired~ I fought Sif in Asgard, and then I talked to Odin forever. My brain isn't working anymore, and my whole body aches. I can't move~"

She blinked at the little white-haired girl by the workbench, a sly smile curving at the corners of her lips as she continued shamelessly:

"Good Builder, good White-Hair~ Carry me to the bathroom so I can bathe~ I can't move on my own, so you have to take responsibility~"

At her utterly shameless, overly sweet act, a vein visibly throbbed at Compiler's temple. Her pale-gold eyes were practically filled with a single word: Speechless.

She answered flatly, her tone brimming with disdain:

"Mira, go by yourself. Your limbs are intact, and your body condition is at 100% integrity. There is no situation in which you are incapable of moving. Furthermore, I am currently analyzing the fragments of the Destroyer's armor. This is a critical stage. I do not have time to indulge your nonsense."

Even as she spoke those words of refusal, however, her body rose honestly from the gaming chair.

With a light tap of her finger, the Destroyer fragments suspended in midair were instantly stored away into her rigging space, and the blue glow over the workbench dimmed.

The moment Mira saw her walking over, her eyes lit up at once. Pushing her luck, she opened both arms like a child asking to be picked up.

"Huggy~ If you carry me there, I'll go wash~"

Compiler stopped in front of the beanbag chair and looked down at Mira, who was lying there with a sly, triumphant smile. She stayed silent for two seconds, then finally let out a faint, helpless sigh.

There was no real impatience in that sigh—only a kind of indulgence so natural that even Compiler herself seemed not to notice it. In the past, this kind of troublesome and inefficient interaction could only be seen between Purifier and an Observer from the same Experimental Agency.

She bent down, using her small arms and clever leverage to pull Mira up from the sofa. With her other hand, she gently brushed away the lint stuck in Mira's silver hair. Her movements were incredibly soft, but her voice remained as flat and emotionless as always:

"Just this once. Also, you are not allowed to call me White-Hair again."

"I know~ Miss Civil-Engineering White-Hair is the best~"

Mira leaned against her, smiling so hard that her eyes curved into crescents, and let herself be dragged toward the bathroom.

The warm bathroom light switched on in response, and before long, misty steam began to spread, stretching the warmth of the late-night apartment farther and farther into the quiet night.

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