The grand oak doors of St. Augustine's Cathedral exploded inward with a thunderous crack, splintering wood and twisting iron hinges like cheap toys. Shards rained across the marble aisle, and the entire congregation froze mid-cheer. One second we were seconds from "I do." The next, silence swallowed the vows. Dust swirled in shafts of stained-glass light. Every head turned toward the gaping entrance.
A lone figure stood silhouetted against the midday sun, cape fluttering though there was no wind. Tall, broad-shouldered, silver hair slicked back, that same arrogant smirk carved into his face. My stomach dropped straight through the floor.
"I object," he called, voice booming off the vaulted ceiling.
Elena's hand tightened around mine. We were already in our costumes—my black-and-crimson rift-suit with the glowing violet seams, hers the sleek white-and-gold Aegis armor that hugged every curve like liquid starlight. No time for civilian clothes today. Heroes don't get normal weddings.
The man stepped forward, boots clicking. "None other than Riftmaster. Or rather… a Riftmaster. The clone that woke the moment the original flat-lined six months ago. Automatic resurrection protocol. Beautiful, isn't it? I get to crash my own funeral and your wedding in one glorious afternoon."
He threw his head back and laughed—that same jagged, mocking laugh that had haunted every battlefield we'd ever shared. Guests gasped. Aunt Miriam fainted into Uncle Theo's lap. My little cousin Leo clutched his toy lightsaber like it could save him.
Riftmaster wiped an imaginary tear. "Look at you two. So perfect. So in love. Did you really believe the universe would let the great Riftbreaker and Lady Aegis ride off into the sunset? Pathetic."
He snapped his fingers. A translucent holographic globe spun into existence above the altar, ten crimson dots pulsing across continents. New York. London. Tokyo. Paris. Beijing. Moscow. Sydney. Rio. Cairo. Los Angeles.
"Ten thermobaric devices," he announced, relishing every syllable. "Hidden in the hearts of those cities. Each one capable of flattening ten city blocks and cooking everyone inside alive. You have exactly five minutes to find them, disarm them, and get back here. Starting… now."
A massive countdown ignited in the air—300, 299, 298—blood-red numbers ticking down with merciless precision. Screams erupted. People surged toward the side exits only to find shimmering violet rifts blocking every door. Riftmaster's signature portals. No escape.
Elena's golden eyes met mine through her visor. One look. That was all we ever needed. She squeezed my hand once, hard, then we moved.
I bolted left, shattering a stained-glass window with a rift-pulse and leaping into open sky. Elena rocketed right, white contrails blazing as she punched through the roof like a comet. We split the world between us. Five minutes. Ten bombs. Two heroes. The math was suicidal, but we'd never been good at math.
I hit the street at Mach three, cape snapping like a war banner. My suit's neural link screamed coordinates: first bomb, beneath the central subway hub, four blocks away. Civilians scattered as I blurred past, sonic booms rattling windows. My mind raced faster than my feet. How many clones did the original leave? How sophisticated was this new Riftmaster's programming? And why now—why ruin the one day we'd fought the entire multiverse to earn?
Four minutes left.
I skidded into the subway entrance, rifts already forming under my palms. The bomb sat on the tracks like a black metal coffin, red timer synced to the global countdown. Three anti-tamper wires, one quantum lock keyed to Riftmaster's DNA signature. I tore the panel open, fingers dancing through code I'd memorized from our last encounter. Sweat stung my eyes. Two minutes forty.
Click. First wire. The timer hiccuped.
Above ground, Elena's voice crackled over our private comm. "Bomb two neutralized—London Bridge. Heading to Tokyo. You?"
"Subway clear," I panted, already sprinting for the next rift I tore open mid-stride. "Three down, seven to go. Love you."
"Love you more. Don't die."
Three minutes ten.
I stepped through my rift into Tokyo's Shibuya scramble, neon signs blurring into streaks of color. The bomb was wired into the famous crossing's underground power relay. Salarymen screamed as I dropped from thin air, suit glowing violet. Clones—three of them—were already waiting, identical smirks, identical rifles. They opened fire. I spun rifts like shields, bullets vanishing into pocket dimensions, then countered with a gravity pulse that slammed all three into the pavement hard enough to crack concrete. No time to gloat. Forty-five seconds on the Tokyo device. My fingers flew. Sweat soaked my gloves.
Two minutes fifty.
Elena's voice again, breathless: "Paris and Beijing clear. Cairo's next. He's spawning more clones at the church—hostages—"
The line cut with a burst of static.
My heart lurched. I finished Tokyo, ripped open a new rift, and dove straight back toward the cathedral, praying I wasn't too late.
I emerged through the shattered rose window and dropped twenty feet to the nave. The scene had become hell.
Riftmaster stood at the altar, but he was no longer alone. A hundred identical clones ringed the pews, each one gripping a wedding guest by the throat or temple. Violet energy cuffs locked around wrists. My mother, Elena's father, little Leo, the priest—every face I loved twisted in terror. The original clone (or whatever he called himself now) lounged in my vacated spot at the altar, legs crossed, spinning a small black detonator on his finger.
"Tick-tock, Riftbreaker," he sang. "Two minutes left. Six bombs still live. And if any of my beautiful copies here feel a single heroic impulse from you…" He snapped. One clone tightened his grip on Leo's neck until the boy whimpered.
I landed hard, fists clenched, rifts flickering at my fingertips. "You're stalling. You know we'll beat the clock."
"Maybe," he shrugged. "Or maybe I just wanted front-row seats to watch you choose. Save the world… or save the people you love most. Classic hero dilemma. I built this clone body just to enjoy it."
Across the globe, Elena's voice returned in my earpiece, strained but steady. "Moscow and Sydney down. Rio's mine. Los Angeles is yours—go!"
One minute forty.
I didn't hesitate. I opened the biggest rift I'd ever torn—wide enough to swallow the entire cathedral if I wanted—and stepped through while simultaneously projecting a decoy image of myself at the altar. The clones bought it for half a second. That was enough.
I exploded out of thin air above Los Angeles, the last bomb pulsing beneath the Hollywood sign itself. Three clones guarded it. I didn't talk. I didn't quip. I simply unleashed every rift I had—shredding their bodies into pocket dimensions before they could scream. Thirty seconds. The device was the most complex yet: DNA lock plus biometric heartbeat sensor synced to the master clone back at the church. I couldn't disarm it without killing the original Riftmaster… or tricking him.
Twenty seconds.
I patched into Elena's feed. She was finishing Rio, golden armor scorched, but alive. "I have an idea," I said. "On three, overload the global link."
"Roger that."
We counted down together.
Three.
I slammed my palm onto the LA bomb's sensor, feeding it a looped recording of the master clone's own heartbeat from our earlier fight.
Two.
Elena flooded every remaining device with a feedback pulse from her Aegis core.
One.
All ten bombs flatlined at once. The holographic countdown above the church froze at 00:07.
I ripped open the return rift and stepped back into the cathedral to pure chaos.
The clones—every single one—glitched. Violet energy arced across their bodies like faulty holograms. They flickered, screamed, and dissolved into wisps of purple smoke as the master clone at the altar clutched his chest.
"Impossible," he snarled, dropping to one knee. "I… perfected… the protocol…"
"You perfected arrogance," I said, walking straight up to him. "We perfected teamwork."
Elena crashed through the remaining roof, landing beside me in a crouch of gold and white. Together we raised our hands. One final rift opened beneath the master clone—a one-way ticket to the heart of a dead star I'd mapped months ago. He looked up at us, eyes wide with something that might have been fear for the first time.
"This isn't over," he spat.
"It is today," Elena answered.
The rift swallowed him whole. The remaining energy cuffs on the hostages vanished. Gasps turned to sobs of relief. Leo ran to me and hugged my leg so hard I thought he'd dent the armor.
The church fell silent except for the soft crackle of settling dust and the distant wail of emergency sirens. Elena turned to me, visor retracting to reveal those golden eyes I'd fallen in love with across a hundred battlefields. She was smiling—the real one, the one that made every scar worth it.
"So," she said, voice soft amid the wreckage, "where were we?"
I took her hand, pulled her close, and the entire congregation—shaken, tear-streaked, but alive—rose to their feet with a roar of applause that shook the remaining rafters.
The priest, brushing dust from his robes, cleared his throat. "By the power vested in me… and after the most dramatic objection in recorded history… I now pronounce you husband and wife."
We kissed beneath the open sky where the roof used to be, rifts of violet and gold dancing around us like fireworks. Ten bombs disarmed. One clone army erased. One wedding saved.
And somewhere in the multiverse, a new Riftmaster was probably already waking up.
But that was a problem for tomorrow.
Today, the world was safe, the hostages were free, and Elena was finally—officially—mine.
We had earned this. Every second of it.