**Musutafu, Outskirts Forest Clearing – January 30, 2026, Mid-Afternoon**
The past few days had been a whirlwind of leads, dead ends, and hopeful conversations. Yamcha and Nemuri had spent hours combing through hero forums, underground quirk registries, and even street rumors—searching for the right people to form the Wolf Fang Pack. They wanted fighters who weren't just strong, but loyal. People who understood what it meant to run as a unit, not solo stars.
After a string of disappointing meetings—too cocky, too unreliable, too green—they decided to take a break. A quiet walk in the forested outskirts of Musutafu, away from the city noise, to clear their heads.
Yamcha walked beside Nemuri, their hands occasionally brushing as they navigated the narrow path. The winter air was crisp, leaves crunching underfoot.
"You're quiet," she noted, nudging him with her shoulder. "Still thinking about the perfect first member?"
He smiled faintly. "Yeah. I want someone who gets it. Not just power—trust. Like Puar did. Like you do."
Nemuri's eyes softened. "We'll find them. Or they'll find us."
They reached a small clearing ringed by tall pines. Sunlight filtered through in golden shafts. Yamcha stretched, rolling his shoulders.
"Want to spar a little? Clear the mind?"
She grinned wickedly. "Only if you promise not to hold back, alpha."
Before he could reply, a soft hum filled the air—like distant chimes mixed with static electricity.
A faint green shimmer appeared in the center of the clearing. The air rippled like water. Then, with a gentle whoosh, a portal tore open—circular, glowing emerald, edges flickering with cyan light.
Out stepped a figure.
Tall, graceful, unmistakably alien.
Light, glowing green skin that caught the sunlight like polished jade. Long, wavy silvery-green hair that subtly shimmered as if lit from within. Dual black antennae curving elegantly from her forehead, twitching slightly. Bright cyan eyes with golden pupils that shimmered like stars. A sleek, body-hugging outfit in shimmering black and dark cyan—futuristic yet elegant—high-waist pants accentuating strong, curved legs, gold accessories glinting at wrists, belt, shoulders. Knee-high black boots with glowing soles.
She blinked, antennae quivering as she took in the scene. Then her gaze landed on Yamcha and Nemuri.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Nemuri's hand instinctively went to her whip, eyes wide.
"An actual… alien?" she whispered, half in awe, half in disbelief. "Alive. Right here."
Yamcha, however, didn't flinch. Curiosity sparked in his eyes—the same look he'd had when he first met strange beings in his old world.
The newcomer tilted her head, antennae swaying gently.
"Greetings," she said, voice soft and melodic, yet carrying a strange, resonant undertone. "I am Missori. Keikai Kusa-jin. I did not intend to intrude. My Keikai Gate… miscalculated the exit coordinates."
Nemuri blinked rapidly. "You just… teleported here? From another planet?"
Missori's golden-shimmering pupils focused on her. "Yes. Exploration is my purpose. Your world… it sings with unique energy. Quirks, you call them?"
Yamcha stepped forward slowly, hands open.
"I'm Yamcha—Wolf Fang. This is Nemuri—Midnight. We're heroes. And right now… very curious."
Missori's antennae twitched again, as if tasting the air. "I sense no hostility. Only… interest. And something deeper. Loneliness? No… determination."
Nemuri glanced at Yamcha, eyebrow raised. "She reads emotions?"
"Seems like it," he murmured.
Missori smiled faintly—playful, mysterious.
"I am young by my people's measure—seventy-eight cycles, equivalent to eighteen of your years. But I have traveled far. Seen many worlds. Yours… intrigues me most."
Yamcha crossed his arms, studying her.
"We're building something. A team. A pack. People who fight together, trust each other. You just dropped out of a portal in our forest. That's either the craziest coincidence… or exactly what we need."
Missori's eyes brightened. "A pack? Fascinating. My race values knowledge and unity above all. I have abilities that might… complement yours."
Nemuri recovered enough to smirk. "Alright, space girl. If you're serious… prove it. We've got a little test in mind."
They moved to a nearby abandoned training ground—an old outdoor quirk-testing area with reinforced dummies, obstacle courses, and open space.
Missori stepped into the center without hesitation.
Yamcha gave the signal. "Show us what you've got."
She closed her eyes. Antennae glowed softly.
First came agility: she moved like liquid—flipping, spinning, dodging imaginary attacks with zero-gravity grace. Then, from a pile of scrap metal nearby, she knelt. Her hands glowed faintly green. In under a minute, she assembled a compact energy blade from the junk—precise, humming with power.
Nemuri whistled. "Tech genius. Noted."
Next: combat simulation. Yamcha activated a few training drones. Missori's antennae hardened—turning horn-like, biomechanical, durable. She used them to focus energy, slicing through one drone with a focused beam. Another she teleported behind with a mini-Keikai Gate flicker (short-range only), then disabled with a precise strike.
When a drone "overloaded" and released a mock shockwave, she activated her Golden Threshold—eyes turning pure gold, a dense golden-scented aura bursting outward. The drones short-circuited from the disorienting wave; Yamcha and Nemuri felt only a mild nausea, but they were far enough to stay upright.
She shut it down quickly, breathing steady.
Silence again.
Nemuri stared. "You're… incredible."
Yamcha walked forward, extending his hand.
"You passed. With flying colors."
Missori took his hand—her skin warm, faintly glowing.
"I would be honored to join your pack, Wolf Fang. And you, Midnight."
Yamcha grinned—the first real, wide smile since the den became home.
"Welcome to the Wolf Fang Pack, Missori. First member."
Nemuri laughed, looping an arm around Yamcha's waist. "Such a falka needs an alpha… and his midnight queen."
Missori's antennae twitched in amusement. "And a curious explorer to keep things interesting."
They returned to the loft as the sun set.
Inside, they celebrated—ramen upgraded to something resembling a feast (Nemuri's cooking skills + Missori's quick gadget-assisted seasoning), wine, laughter.
Missori sat cross-legged on the floor, examining Yamcha's punching bag with fascination. "This device is primitive… yet elegant. May I improve it?"
Yamcha chuckled. "Go ahead. You're Pack now."
Nemuri leaned against Yamcha on the couch, head on his shoulder, watching Missori tinker.
"First member," she whispered. "Feels real now."
Yamcha kissed her temple. "Yeah. It does."
Missori looked up, antennae glowing softly. "I sense… happiness. True happiness. Thank you for letting me be part of it."
The night stretched on—stories of distant galaxies, old battles, future plans. The den felt fuller. Stronger.
The Wolf Fang Pack had begun.
And in the glow of the city lights through the windows, three very different souls found the start of something unbreakable.