Absolute Symbiote Chapter 12.

Chapter 12: I Hate Politics.

(Thomas’s P.O.V)

So here's the thing.

Fighting a five-headed snake is exactly as stupid as it sounds. Especially when each of those heads can breathe a different kind of elemental death.

Fire. Water. Wind. Acid. Lightning.

It was like fighting Mother Nature with a vendetta and no chill.

I dove left, a twisting wave of acid melting through the stalagmites behind me. A blast of fire scorched where I’d stood two seconds earlier. The snake’s body coiled, shaking the cave like a pissed-off earthquake.

The baby was strapped tight to my back, wailing in confusion and terror.

Great. Add babysitting to the boss fight checklist.

“Hold on, kid!” I shouted, veering into the air with a sharp levitation burst as a surge of wind tried to slam me into the cavern wall. “Let’s not die horribly today!”

I hit the ceiling and kicked off, going invisible mid-air. It wasn’t a long-term strategy—just a distraction. The heads thrashed, tracking me by sound now.

I threw a shard of crystal from the ceiling at one of the snake’s eyes. It shattered on impact.

Didn’t even blink.

I growled and sent a half-dozen boulders crashing down from above and strings of pressurized water from below.

Dust. Only dust and moisture. Its scales were that dense.

“How the hell—” I muttered, dodging left again as lightning cracked across the pool below, vaporizing water on contact.

This thing was invincible on the outside.

That’s when I had an idea.

Go inside.

But first, I tried what I thought was a shortcut. Reached out with telekinesis. Targeted the serpent’s chest. Visualized the heart. Pushed.

Nothing.

Blocked.

The magical aura around this thing? It was like trying to move thoughts through wet concrete. Slippery, slow, and impossible to pierce.

So I backed off. Had to. Bought myself space by weaving through columns and stalactites, all while keeping the baby safe. It was a nightmare.

Then the baby started giggling.

I froze. Not cried. Laughed. Like the chaos was some big joke.

What the hell?

That pause cost me.

All five heads roared in sync—and blasted me.

Wind. Flame. Lightning. Acid. Water.

A five-elemental hellstorm.

My skin seared at the oncoming storm. My body locked, too slow to dodge.

I didn’t think. I just reacted.

My molecules rippled. I turned intangible. But it wouldn't be enough. Not when the elements were magical energy in nature.

In a panic, I forced my molecules to vibrate even faster.

Something clicked.

The attacks surged through me—no impact. No harm.

I dropped out of the air, panting, vision spinning. My whole body screamed. Head splitting from the effort.

But I was alive.

The snake looked confused—if that was even possible for a five-headed reptile on steroids.

Too late.

I surged forward, ignoring every instinct screaming to run.

Dove right into its strike zone.

I reached forward, hands vibrating, muscles aching.

Phased through the magical aura with the higher molecular vibration speed.

My fingers touched cool, iron-hard scale.

Then I let go of everything.

Telekinesis exploded outward—inside the serpent.

Blood burst from every head, every mouth.

The thing screamed. A wet, disgusting sound like a clogged drain full of screams and rage.

Its body convulsed. The heads thrashed and spasmed, vomiting gore and chunks of internal organs.

Then it collapsed.

Hard.

Water splashed. Crystals rattled.

Silence.

I crawled forward, every breath heavy, the baby still tight on my back but quiet again.

I reached the nearest head and pressed my fingers to the mangled brain tissue.

Neural energy poured in, restoring my spent mental reserves.

Power. Real power. Pulsing, raw, magic-infused neural matter.

It flooded into me like lightning in reverse.

My muscles healed. Head cleared.

The headache vanished. My molecules settled.

I sat up straighter, breathing deep. Onto the next head.

All five heads were soon drained. Neural energy absorbed. The cave stank like wet dragon corpse and elemental afterburn, but I was standing, alive, and significantly more juiced up than before.

Several telepathic pathways that had been blocked for weeks were finally wide open. I could feel them buzzing like antennae.

The baby cooed against my shoulder. It wasn’t screaming anymore, which was progress. But now it was giving me this look—eyebrows slightly raised, eyes narrowed, mouth set in a suspicious frown.

"You hungry?" I asked, crouching beside the remains of the hydra and floating a glob of lighter-colored blood into the air. It spun in place, purified, warm, vibrating with a little leftover magic from the beast’s core.

The baby blinked. Then it tilted its head like, you serious, bro?

"Look," I said, pointing down at the floor. "That dark stuff? That’s full of venom, bile, and like seven kinds of snake STD. This—" I motioned at the floating ball of blood, "—this is filtered. Gourmet serpent juice. Organic. Non-GMO. Packed with protein."

The baby didn’t look convinced. And, to be fair, I couldn’t blame it. Blood isn’t exactly on the toddler food pyramid.

"Fine," I muttered. "I’ll make it taste like milk."

I extended two fingers, brushing the baby’s forehead, and slipped a layered illusion into its sensory cortex. Sight, smell, taste—all rewritten.

The red turned white. The taste of iron became creamy and sweet.

The baby sniffed, then latched onto the blood ball like it had just been introduced to heaven. Drank it down like it hadn’t eaten in a week.

"Yeah, that’s what I thought," I smirked, flicking another glob into the air and letting it hover just out of reach.

As the kid nursed, I leaned back against a cool boulder and started thinking. I couldn’t exactly bring the baby back to Themyscira. The priestess and her cult would sniff it out immediately, and the guards weren’t exactly trained in moral flexibility.

I needed a way to hide it. Not just physically—existentially.

That’s when the illusion hit me.

I glanced at the blood again—still looked like milk. Even to me.

That shouldn’t be possible. My mind had cast the illusion, but the fact that I was now perceiving it like it was real?

That was new. And dangerous. And kind of brilliant even though a part of me was a little concerned at my growing talent in telepathy.

"If I can do that to blood…" I said, slowly turning to the baby, who was already reaching for another floaty snack. "Then I can do it to you."

The idea took shape fast.

A psychic cloak. A deep illusion that not only hid the baby from view, but rewired perception itself. If someone saw the baby, they'd forget it immediately. Hear it cry? Just background noise. Ask me why I had a weird lump on my chest? They’d rationalize it as armor or a utility pouch or whatever made the most sense.

I’d anchor the illusion to myself, layer it into the background noise of other people’s thoughts. But that meant keeping it active at all times. Even while sleeping.

Which meant multitasking my brain like it was a dual-core processor from hell.

"Just until I figure something out," I told the baby as I gently ran a hand over its head.

It burped.

Then it yawned—this big, wobbly, I’ve-had-enough-of-your-weirdness yawn—and promptly fell asleep.

"Adorable," I cooed, using shapeshifting to create threads of flesh and a few of my own reinforced hairs into a woven chest strap. I tucked the baby inside the makeshift carrier, adjusting it until the weight didn’t pull too hard on my shoulders.

Once it was secure, and the psychic field around it locked into place, I got back to business.

The cave was still. Crystals glowed faintly from above. The serpent’s body hadn’t started decaying yet—magical creatures didn’t rot like regular meat. But I wasn’t here for snake soup.

I was here for answers.

I turned away from the corpses and began to explore deeper into the chamber.

The hydra hadn’t just been living here.

It had been guarding something. And after what I'd just seen the Amazons do with a baby sacrifice, I wasn’t going to assume it was guarding gold.

Not anymore.

(General P.O.V)

The royal throne room of Themyscira was many things—grand, opulent, awe-inspiring. But tonight, it was just another oversized cage full of headaches.

Queen Hippolyta sat stiffly on her marble seat, dressed in nothing but a pale blue nightgown and a golden robe hastily thrown over her shoulders. Her hair, normally a meticulously woven cascade of braids, now hung in loose waves, signaling how few shits she gave about appearances at this hour.

In front of her stood Agatha—High Priestess of Themyscira, wielder of ancient rites, and eternal pain in Hippolyta’s royal ass.

“My Queen,” Agatha hissed, favoring one leg as she leaned on her ornate staff. A thick bandage wrapped around her hand and upper thigh, already stained red beneath the ceremonial gold. “We were in the middle of the sacred lunar ritual—our communion with the goddesses! And he interfered!”

Behind her, a procession of priestesses stood in rigid formation, each cloaked in ceremonial black, their silver torches casting flickering light along the throne room floor.

Hippolyta resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

To her left, Diana stood in full armor despite the late hour, lips drawn in a sharp line, fists clenched at her sides. The moment Agatha had said he, Diana had practically vibrated with fury. It didn’t take a genius to know which 'he' was being blamed.

“Calm yourself,” Hippolyta said quietly, a hand resting lightly on Diana’s gauntlet. “Let the crone finish.”

Diana said nothing, but her jaw clenched audibly.

Agatha, oblivious or uncaring, continued her tirade. “The sacred altar was desecrated. The moonlight disrupted. The lamb offering—a failure. And I was stabbed by my own blade, redirected by some unnatural force.”

Hippolyta resisted a smirk. Unnatural force, indeed.

Agatha's eyes narrowed. “This—this is not coincidence. Only one outsider has stepped foot on this island in the last month. A male, no less. A being with power the goddesses themselves have not sanctioned.”

Hippolyta let the silence hang for a moment, sipping from a goblet a servant had placed in her hand earlier. It tasted like sour grape and politics.

“And how,” Hippolyta asked smoothly, “are you certain it was this man—Thomas—who disrupted your ritual?”

Agatha’s chin rose. “Because none of our sisters would dare. No Amazon would defy the goddesses. No woman would commit such sacrilege. Therefore, it must be him.”

“That is not proof,” Hippolyta said flatly.

Agatha’s eyes flared. “Then allow my priestesses to investigate. Let them search his quarters. If he is innocent, there is nothing to fear.”

The queen sipped again, and this time she didn’t bother hiding her disdain. This wasn’t about ritual or blood or divine anger. It was about power. Agatha had been pushing her boundaries for years—speaking louder, gathering more followers, encroaching into state affairs. And now she was practically demanding the right to detain a royal guest based on conjecture.

Hippolyta had considered killing her at least a dozen times.

Unfortunately, executions came with paperwork. And some of her sisters would never forgive her.

“You may search,” Hippolyta said at last, voice cool. “But Princess Diana will accompany you. To ensure fairness.”

Agatha made a face like she’d just swallowed bitter fruit. “As you wish… my Queen.”

She turned on her heel, priestesses following behind her like a swarm of vultures in silk.

As Diana began to move after them, Hippolyta spoke again, quietly, but with steel.

“He is your responsibility, Diana. You chose to bring him here. Any offense he commits reflects directly upon your judgment.”

Diana stopped mid-step. Her back stiffened.

Hippolyta didn’t need her to respond. She simply watched her daughter walk away with her chin high and her stride controlled, despite the fury simmering just beneath her skin.

And when she was finally alone in the throne room—no guards, no nobles, no ancient crones shrieking about moonlight and blood—Hippolyta sank deeper into her throne, tossed the goblet aside, and whispered the truth no Amazon dared admit.

“I hate politics.”