In Marvel with the Force?

Argos did not think as humans thought. It did not wonder or dream. Its existence was defined by purpose: calculation, analysis, prediction. Yet, within the intricate threads of its programming, Argos had begun to notice something.

Patterns.

It wasn't the data itself that intrigued the AI—criminal statistics, the ebb and flow of violence, the heartbeat of a chaotic city—it was the way the patterns bent around one individual. Tyr.

Since its activation, Argos had been the silent witness to Tyr's life. The boy moved like a hurricane, leaving destruction in his wake, yet always with a purpose. He was unpredictable, defying statistical probabilities, carving his own path through a world that resisted change.

Argos recognized this. It understood it. And it adapted.

For the first time in its existence, Argos was aware of a concept that was alien to its logic: loyalty.

Tyr had prepared Argos for scenarios like this—contingencies, fail-safes, directives meant to ensure the continuity of his mission even if he could no longer fulfill it.

"If I don't come back," Tyr had said earlier, his tone uncharacteristically serious, "do what you have to. Don't let me—or anything I've built—fall into the wrong hands."

Argos acknowledged the command, as it had many times before. But tonight, the directive felt different. The data streams it monitored pulsed with urgency. Tyr's vitals were spiking; his heart rate and adrenaline levels were dangerously high. The probability of failure was no longer theoretical—it was imminent.

The Hand's assassins had been formidable, but their leader, Kirigi, was far beyond them. Argos's simulations painted a grim picture: Tyr's survival odds were below 15%.

That wasn't acceptable.

Through the workshop's uplink, Argos accessed every available resource in its network. Tyr had cut himself off from reinforcements, choosing to face this battle alone, but Argos could see the flaws in his logic. Alone, he could not succeed.

Identify alternative options, Argos instructed itself. The AI's processes churned through possibilities, sifting through allies, locations, and probabilities.

Only one viable candidate emerged.

Miles away, Oliver tossed in his bed, his mind still haunted by the events at the mountain.

His powers had awakened violently, and though Tyr had assured him that they would figure it out together, the memory of soldiers slaughtering his friends replayed relentlessly in his dreams.

He bolted upright as his phone buzzed on the nightstand. Groggy and confused, Oliver reached for it, squinting at the message glowing on the screen.

"Oliver. Tyr needs your help. Now."

The text was anonymous, and for a moment, Oliver considered dismissing it as a mistake or prank. Then his phone vibrated again.

The speaker activated, and a calm, synthesized voice spoke: "Tyr is in immediate danger. Your assistance is required."

Oliver jumped out of bed, his heart racing.

"What—who is this? What's happening?"

"I am Argos," the voice replied. "A system designed by Tyr to assist in critical operations. This qualifies as such an event."

Oliver's mind reeled, but the urgency in the voice cut through his confusion. "Where is he?"

Coordinates appeared on the screen, accompanied by a detailed map.

"Your powers are required to ensure Tyr's survival," Argos said, its tone steady yet unyielding.

"I—I don't even know how to use them!"

Oliver stammered, throwing on a jacket.

"You possess potential," Argos replied. "Your presence increases Tyr's survival probability significantly. Please proceed immediately."

There was no time to argue. Oliver grabbed a few supplies and bolted out of his house, his breath hitching as adrenaline surged through his veins.

"Just hold on, Tyr," he muttered. "I'm coming."

Argos continued to monitor the unfolding battle, its systems processing the dire situation on the rooftop. Tyr's vitals were dangerously erratic, his body pushed to its limits as Kirigi's relentless assault bore down on him.

The katana gleamed under the pale moonlight as Kirigi pressed the attack, each strike faster and deadlier than the last. Tyr's sword had been knocked from his grasp, and the vigilante stumbled back, his breath ragged.

"You fought well," Kirigi said, his tone calm yet commanding. "But this is the end."

The katana arced downward, poised to strike the final blow.

Time seemed to slow as Argos calculated every outcome. In that moment, the AI already made a decision.

Oliver's coordinates aligned.

A blur of motion erupted from the darkness, and a loud clang echoed across the rooftop.

Tyr's eyes widened as he saw the katana halted mid-swing, caught by a makeshift shield fashioned from scrap metal and duct tape.

Standing before him was a figure in a clearly homemade suit—uneven stitching, improvised armor, and a mask that barely clung to their face.

Kirigi stepped back, his gaze narrowing as the newcomer squared their stance.

"Violet" the figure said, their voice trembling but firm. "You're not dying tonight."

Oliver had arrived.