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stellaspectral · 27 days ago

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Could you possibly write something about rise TMNT x a Big mama reader (or maybe her daughter) idk I just really like when they say big mamas name and her personality fits mine and would love to see your take on it 🥺 pretty please

A/N: Hello, anon! I decided to write a story about Big Mama’s daughter (essentially an OC, not Big Mama’s Assistant ofc) with the Rise turtles. I hope that’s okay! 😊 (Also, she/you refers to the turtles with their full names. Why? It just felt appropriate. shrug)

The Spider’s Gambit (action)

💚 ROTTMNT Turtles/Female Reader OC 💚

CWs: Canon-typical violence, forced bargain/cooperation (with a slight power imbalance), morally ambiguous reader/OC, and mild peril. All characters are aged-up.

You move through the corridors of the Battle Nexus facility with an air of someone who owns the place. Because, well, one day you will.

It isn’t just Big Mama’s glitzy, terrifying enterprise; it’s your future empire. You’ve inherited your mother’s keen eye for talent, her flair for the dramatic, and her charmingly ruthless business acumen. You’re currently on your way back to your office here after overseeing the final preparations for tonight’s championship bout.

And a lucrative one at that.

The carpet, stained with who-knows-what, but is always impeccably cleaned, muffles your footsteps. A polite nod to a gargoyle enforcer, a knowing smile from a djinn concierge, and you almost reach your obsidian-inlaid office door when—

Crashes and thumps echo from the hallway just ahead, followed by a chorus of shouting. You pause, one perfectly manicured eyebrow arching as you listen.

“Leo, I told you that shortcut was a bad idea!”

“Relax, Raph, it was a calculated risk. Besides, where’s the fun without a little dimensional oopsie?”

“My calculations indicate a 92.6% chance of ‘oopsie’ whenever Leo is in charge of portal navigation.”

“Hey! And whoa, this place is … kinda creepy. Awesome!”

You change course, your silk-lined capelet—a gift from your mother, spun from the finest Moon Moths—swaying behind you. The sounds lead you towards the employee-only section, near the loading docks for the arena beasts. You round the corner, heels clicking on the now-exposed stone floor.

Before you, in a tangled heap of limbs and brightly colored bandanas, are four turtles. Ones you recognize from the files your mother and her men compiled from previous run-ins but have yet to meet before.

Leonardo is trying to look suave while disentangling himself from another, larger turtle named Raphael. Donatello is tapping furiously at a device on his wrist, muttering while the youngest brother, Michelangelo, stares at a beetle the size of a compact car being prodded into a cage by two nervous looking tengu.

You step forward, hands clasped behind your back, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Well, well,” you say, your voice smooth as velvet, yet with an underlying edge that could cut glass. “What have we here? Lost little hatchlings, far from your pond?”

They freeze. Four pairs of eyes snap to you. Then Leonardo attempts a charming grin.

“Uh, greetings, totally not-intimidating-and-very-well-dressed lady!” he says. “We were just … admiring the … uh … structural integrity of your fine establishment?”

Raphael groans, facepalming. “Smooth, Leo. Real smooth.”

“You boys lost?” you ask, with just a touch of venom curled behind each syllable. “Because unless you’ve suddenly acquired arena beast handling licenses and backstage clearance, you’re somewhere you very much shouldn’t be.”

“Ooo! Are you Big Mama’s daughter?” Michelangelo asks. “Because you’ve got that same ‘I-will-sell-you-to-a-soul-eating centipede-with-a-smile’ kind of energy.”

You allow yourself a half-smile. “Flattery will get you … a three-second head start.”

Donatello raises a brow. “A head start on what, exactly?”

Your smile widens. “On running before I call security.”

There’s a beat of silence before they brandish their weapons and fall into formation, their gazes fixed on you. The tension in the area spikes, the air thick enough to spread on toast. And for a moment, you let your smile hold, taking in their earnest, battle-ready stances.

Then you throw your head back and laugh, pressing your hand to your stomach. It’s not a delicate titter, either. It’s a full, unrestrained peal of amusement that startles a nearby cage-rattling griffin and makes the two tengu jump.

“Relax,” you gasp, wiping an imaginary tear from the corner of your eye. “I’m joking.” You wave a dismissive hand. “Mostly.” You lean forward, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “Honestly, you should have seen the looks on your faces! Priceless!” You grin. “Absolutely adorable.”

Leonardo relaxes a fraction, his shoulders loosening as he lowers his swords. “So … you’re not calling security?”

You tilt your head, mock-considering. “Well, that depends. Are you going to explain why four unlicensed, questionably stealthy mutants just popped out of a portal and disrupted my loading docks like a bunch of underpaid gremlins?”

Donatello clears his throat. “Technically, it was a miscalculation in the temporal-anchor matrix. A small one. Like, decimal-points small.”

“Mhm.” You turn your gaze to him. “And technically, you’ve still invaded a high-security interdimensional venue with enough surveillance spells to make the Mystic Council weep.”

Michelangelo raises a hand like he’s in school. “Uh, in our defense, the portal was supposed to land us at a snack stand in Queens. So this is kinda your fault for having such … uh … snack stand-y architecture?”

You stare at him.

He grins sheepishly. “Yeah, okay, that was a stretch.”

You sigh, not out of exasperation, but amusement. “You’re lucky my mother’s not here. She’d have turned you into a marketing gimmick faster than you could say ‘battle bracket.’” You glance toward the beetle pen, then back at them. “Although she might still find a use for you.”

Raphael steps forward now, protective instinct flashing in his eyes. “We didn’t mean to crash your place, alright? Just leave us alone and we’ll be outta your hair.”

You raise a brow. “Tempting. But you owe me a favor now, and I do collect.”

“What kind of favor?” Leonardo asks, brow quirked.

You smile. This time, it’s less sharp, more thoughtful. “Well, since you are here, and since you’ve caused a bit of a stir, perhaps you can help me with something.” You pivot on your heel, motioning for them to follow as you lead them down a narrow, dim hallway.

“Wait, we’re just … going with her?” Raphael mutters behind you, skeptical but trudging forward.

“I mean, she hasn’t killed us yet,” Michelangelo says brightly. “That’s usually a good sign.”

“Yet,” Donatello emphasizes.

You glance over your shoulder with a sly grin. “I could still call security, if that makes you more comfortable.”

“Nope, no need!” Leonardo says quickly, catching up to walk beside you. “Helping you sounds great. Totally not suspicious. What exactly are we helping you with? Something glamorous? Dangerous? A dramatic betrayal, perhaps?”

“You watch too much reality TV,” you say with a smirk.

But inside, your mind’s already working. The idea formed the moment you saw them. They’re chaotic, skilled, and unpredictable. A headache, yes. But potentially useful. And in the Battle Nexus, everyone has a price or a purpose. Sometimes both.

You stop in front of a reinforced steel-and-obsidian door etched with glowing runes. With a flick of your wrist and a murmur in Old Spider-tongue, the runes ripple and the door unlocks. Inside is a private observation chamber overlooking the arena. It’s quiet now, the stands empty. But soon, it’ll be full of roaring crowds and bloodthirsty anticipation.

You step inside, gesturing at a crystalline projection hovering above a sleek black pedestal. The image of a towering, chimeric beast rotates slowly. Its name flashes beneath: The Star-Eater.

Michelangelo whistles low. “Dude. That thing looks like it eats nightmares for breakfast.”

“It does, actually,” you deadpan.

“Why would your mother import something that dangerous?” Donatello narrows his eyes, adding, “again.”

You grin, leaning on the pedestal with both hands. “Because she made a deal. One that benefits us … if we can control it.”

Leonardo crosses his arms. “Lemme guess. It escaped?”

“Not yet,” you say. “It’s going to. Tonight. During the main event. Right in the middle of a sold-out crowd with half the mystic elite watching.”

“Of course it is,” Raphael mutters.

“So,” you continue, straightening up, “you four are going to help me neutralize it. Quietly. Swiftly. Spectacularly.”

Leonardo arches a brow. “And if we say no?”

You tilt your head, allowing the human glamour of your eyes to fall for emphasis. “Then I call in a favor from my mother and let her decide how to market a band of mutant brothers as ‘next season’s exotic wildcard entrants.’ I can already hear the pitch: Half-shell, full ratings.”

A few beats of silence pass.

“… So what’s the plan?” Leonardo finally says.

You flash him a victorious smile, your eye glamour falling back into place. “I knew you’d see it my way.”

From a drawer, you produce a holographic schematic of the arena, marking off key breach points and the beast’s containment sector. Donatello steps closer instinctively, intrigued despite himself.

“Divide and conquer,” you explain. “I’ve got a few discreet agents watching the fail safes. What I need is someone to distract, someone to defend the control nodes, someone to handle crowd containment. And someone to lure it toward the stasis field when it breaks out.”

“Let me guess,” Raphael says. “You want us to be your bait?”

“Bait with flair,” you correct. “Think of it as a performance. Besides, if you pull this off, maybe I’ll ‘forget’ to report your little trespassing incident. Maybe even slip you a portal token home before my mother sends her enforcers after you.”

You let that hang in the air, allowing the weight of their choice to settle in.

Leonardo steps forward. “Alright, spider princess. We’ll play your little game.”

Your eyes gleam, pleased. “Excellent. Oh—and do try not to die. It would ruin the aesthetic.” You turn on your heel. “Time is a luxury we’re fast running out of. Follow me. And try to look like you belong. Or at least, like you’re too dangerous to question.”

You lead them out of the quiet observation chamber and back into a service corridor, this one less opulent, more utilitarian than the plush hallways near your office. The turtles exchange wary glances but fall into step behind you, their weapons kept ready but not overtly threatening.

Leonardo tries to match your pace beside you. “So, ‘aesthetic’ is important? Good to know. I do have a certain heroic profile to maintain.”

“We all have our brands to consider, don’t we?” you retort smoothly, not breaking your stride. As you navigate a labyrinth of backstage tunnels, occasionally nodding to a heavily armored guard who eyes the turtles with suspicion until your subtle hand gesture waves them off, you begin your assignments.

“Michelangelo,” you say, “you’ll be our primary distraction. On the schematic, you recall the catwalks, high beams, the larger light rigs above the arena floor?” You tap an almost invisible comm bead in your ear. “My team will ensure they’re accessible. Your job is to be loud, flashy, and utterly impossible for a creature like the Star-Eater to ignore. Think ‘piñata,’ but one that actively taunts.”

His eyes light up. “You want me to be annoying on purpose? Up high? With style? This is literally my dream job! Do you have confetti cannons?”

“Enthusiasm. Excellent,” you say dryly. “Just try to keep the property damage to a minimum. Some of those fixtures are older than your entire species.” You produce four small devices from a hidden pocket in your capelet. “Comms. Encrypted. Stick them behind your … whatever passes for an ear.”

You hand one to each of them. Donatello immediately starts examining his with intense scrutiny. “Fascinating. Yatchon-based encryption? A bit ostentatious for simple comms, but effective.”

“I appreciate thoroughness,” you reply, then turn to him. “Which brings me to your role, Donatello. The Star-Eater’s containment unit is, shall we say, ‘temperamental.’ It’s linked to the arena’s primary power grid, which also feeds the stasis field projector. You will secure the three main mystic-energy conduits that power both. I’ve marked them on the arena schematic I showed you. If those go down, or if the beast’s escape compromises them, we lose our only real countermeasure. Keep them stable. Keep them active.”

Donatello adjusts his goggles, already looking more focused. “Understood. I’ll need access to the primary junction boxes and a diagnostic feed from the containment cell’s integrity monitors.”

“Granted,” you say, making a minute gesture. “My system will flag you as authorized personnel for those specific nodes. Try not to ‘improve’ anything too drastically. My mother’s technicians are very sensitive.”

Next, your gaze settles on Raphael, who’s been watching the various denizens of the backstage area—a minotaur carrying a crate of weapons, two imps polishing a giant golden gong—with a frown.

“Raphael,” you say, “you’re on crowd containment. When the Star-Eater makes its dramatic entrance, panic is inevitable, and the main exits will become chokepoints. You’ll ensure they remain clear, prevent stampedes, and act as an unmovable object between terrified spectators afraid of becoming monster chow. My usual security will be indisposed, dealing with the more direct threat.”

Raphael cracks his neck. “So, I’m the wall. Got it. Anyone tries to trample anyone else, they go through me. Sounds like a plan.” His eyes flick towards his brothers. “Just make sure you guys give ‘em something good to run from.”

“Oh, we will,” Leonardo says with a grin.

“Speaking of which, Leonardo. That leaves the star role for you.” You stop before a heavy, rune-etched door, clearly leading towards an arena entrance point. “Once Michelangelo has its undivided attention, and Raphael is managing the ensuing chaos, you will be its dance partner. You lure the Star-Eater to the designated stasis zone. It’s a twenty-meter diameter circle directly in the arena’s center. Precision is key; the field’s effective range is limited. You need to get it there—and keep it there—until I give the signal.”

Leonardo’s grin widens. “So, I get to be the hero, face the monster, and look cool doing it? Spider Princess, you sure know how to throw a party.”

“I aim to please,” you say, a ghost of a smile playing on your lips. “My role, as discussed, is oversight. I’ll be in the central command spire, coordinating and ready to activate the stasis field the moment you have our oversized friend in position.” You press your palm to the door; the runes glow briefly, and the locks disengage. “This is your entrance, Leonardo. Michelangelo, your access to the upper levels is two corridors down. Look for the red glyph. Donatello, your conduits are primarily on the arena’s sublevel; an access shaft is just beyond that beast pen. And Raphael, you’ll take the main spectator ingress tunnel; it’ll put you right where you need to be when the fun starts.”

You meet their gazes one last time, your expression serious beneath the veneer of cool command. “The show starts in thirty minutes. Get into position. And remember,” you add, your voice dropping a notch, “failure won’t be just embarrassing. It’ll be messy. Very, very messy.” With a nod, you sweep past them, heading towards your own vantage point, leaving them to their assigned fates.

Time passes in a blink.

In front of you are screens, each offering different angles of the arena: backstage areas, the power conduits, and most importantly, the containment sector of the Star-Eater. Through the main viewport, you watch the stands fill. Yokai of every imaginable species, from hulking rock-skinned giants to gossamer-winged sprites, find their seats, their roars and chatter a rising tide of anticipation.

The pre-show spectacle—a rather dull bout between two over-muscled, under-skilled brutes—is winding down. You tap the comm bead, your voice a calm murmur in the quiet of the spire. “Positions, gentlemen.”

“Mikey here, ready to rock and roll from the rafters!” His voice crackles with an almost manic glee.

“Donatello?”

“Here,” comes the more sedate reply. “Conduit access secured. Primary power flow is stable. Integrity monitors on the Star-Eater’s containment unit are … well, they’re showing increasing stress fluctuations. Expected, I presume?”

“Naturally,” you reply. “Raphael?”

A grunt. “In position by the main west exit. Crowd’s packed in tight.”

“Leonardo?”

“Ready to make a new best friend. Just say the word, Spider Princess.” There’s an underlying nervous energy in his voice, but it’s overshadowed by a theatrical confidence.

You watch the main event champions take their bows, the crowd roaring its approval. Then, a flicker on one of your monitors. A visible crack spiderwebs across the Star-Eater’s pen. The show is beginning.

“It’s starting,” you announce, your gaze fixed on the monitor displaying the beast’s containment. “Michelangelo, on my mark.”

The crack widens. A guttural, dimensional shriek tears through the arena’s background noise, silencing the crowd for a heartbeat. Then, with an explosive burst of energy and shattered metal, the Star-Eater erupts from its prison. It bounds to the arena floor, shaking the very foundations. Panic, instantaneous, ripples through the stands.

It’s even more terrifying in motion: a vortex of shadowy tendrils, razor-sharp crystalline shards for a hide, and too many eyes glowing with malevolent cosmic hunger.

“Mark!” you snap into the comm. “Michelangelo, you’re on!”

Almost immediately, a flash of orange and green swings into view on the arena’s jumbotron feeds, which your systems patch directly to your screens. Michelangelo, true to his word, is using a lighting rig like a trapeze, letting out a whoop that somehow cuts through the rising din.

“Hey, Star-Brain!” he yells, launching a volley of what looks like water balloons filled with glitter paint? (And you wonder just where he got those.) They splatter harmlessly but garishly against the beast’s hide. “Betcha can’t catch me!”

The Star-Eater, initially disoriented, lets out an enraged roar, its multiple eyes swiveling upwards to fix on the small, taunting figure. It swipes a colossal, clawed limb, narrowly missing a catwalk Michelangelo somersaults off of.

“Good,” you murmur, watching the beast’s attention lock onto the orange-clad turtle. “Keep it busy. Donatello, status on those conduits? The energy surge from the escape might have destabilized them.”

“Already on it,” he replies, his voice tight with concentration. You switch to a view of a grimy sublevel, where Donatello is furiously typing on a holographic interface projected from his wrist, sparks flying from a nearby junction box. “Compensating for feedback loop … rerouting auxiliary power … Got it! Conduits stable. For now. This thing’s energy signature is playing havoc with the finer mystic circuits.”

“Excellent work. Keep them green.”

Your attention flicks to the crowd. As predicted, it’s chaos. Screams echo as yokai scramble for the exits. Raphael’s feed shows him holding back a surging wave of terrified spectators at the gate. He’s directing them, his voice booming, pointing towards secondary, less obvious escape routes you’d pre-briefed him on.

“Nice and orderly, folks!” he shouts, shoving a panicked ogre away from trampling a group of smaller imps. “There’s plenty of ‘getting eaten’ to go around if you don’t move smart!”

A small, appreciative smile touches your lips. Crude, but effective.

“Leonardo,” you say, your voice even. “The stage is yours. Bring our star to the center.”

“Showtime,” his voice comes back, confident.

You watch his feed as he drops from a lower gantry, landing gracefully on the arena floor. He draws his katanas, the blades glinting under the lights.

“Hey, ugly!” he calls out, positioning himself between the Star-Eater and the panicking crowd, drawing its attention away from Michelangelo for a crucial moment. “Heard you were looking for a dance partner? Hope you can keep up!”

The Star-Eater, momentarily confused by the new, closer target, lets out a growl, abandoning its pursuit of the elusive Michelangelo. It charges towards Leonardo, its tendrils lashing out.

You lean forward, fingers steepled, observing every detail. Leonardo moves with skilled agility, dodging, weaving. Redirecting the beast’s attacks, guiding its lumbering charges. He’s leading it, step by step, towards the giant, almost invisible circle etched into the arena’s center.

“Closer, Leonardo,” you instruct, watching the proximity indicators on your display.

Michelangelo continues his aerial harassment, drawing some of the Star-Eater’s fire, preventing it from focusing entirely on Leonardo. Donatello’s voice occasionally chimes in with curt updates about power fluctuations. Raphael is a steadfast bastion against total collapse at the exits.

The Star-Eater, enraged by Leonardo’s evasiveness, unleashes a torrent of energy from its maw. He dives, rolling, coming up singed but grinning.

“Playing hard to get, huh?” he pants. “Just a little further …” He feints left, then darts right, positioning himself just beyond the stasis circle’s edge as the beast thunders past him, skidding to a halt directly in the center of the target zone. “Now, Princess!”

With a press of your palm on the control console, you send the command. “Stasis field activating!”

Below, the circle on the floor flares with an intense blue light. Energy arcs upwards, forming a crackling dome around the Star-Eater just as it rears back to strike. The beast roars, thrashing against the sudden confinement. But it holds, solidifying, its wails muffling as the stasis field takes full effect.

You allow yourself a slow, satisfied exhale. A genuine smile spreads across your face as you look at the Star-Eater, now frozen mid-snarl. “Spectacular,” you murmur, leaning back in your chair. “Absolutely spectacular. Well done, gentlemen. The Star-Eater is contained. For now.”

Relieved sighs and cheers come through your comm.

“Woo-hoo! We did it!” Michelangelo hollers. “Did you see that triple flip off the light rig? And the glitter—it hated the glitter!”

You can’t help but chuckle. He’s kinda cute, you think.

“Energy signature stabilizing,” Donatello reports, a note of professional satisfaction in his tone. “The stasis field is holding at optimal parameters. Impressive tech, by the way. Did you design the primary focusing array yourself?”

“I had input,” you answer, a smile tugging at your lips. His intellectual curiosity is, you admit, rather appealing.

“Crowd’s mostly cleared,” Raphael says. “Few stragglers, but the panic’s over. Nobody got turned into an appetizer. Mission accomplished.” His gruff protectiveness stirs something unexpectedly warm within you.

“And looking good while doing it, if I may say so myself,” Leonardo chimes in, his voice still a little breathless but brimming with bravado. “One monster, neatly gift-wrapped. You’re welcome, Princess.”

His confidence, even when teetering on the edge of arrogance, has a certain undeniable charm. He truly did command the arena. You can’t say you don’t find him interesting.

You watch them on your monitors for a few moments longer. They’re a chaotic force of nature alright. And, against all your better judgment, you find yourself captivated. Each of them, in their own unique, exasperating way, has proven to be more than just a temporary solution to a problem.

“Rendezvous at the west arena entrance, the one Raphael was securing,” you say into the comm. “And try not to attract any more attention. The cleanup crew will be here shortly, and they’re notoriously bad at keeping secrets.”

You cut the feed, a thoughtful expression on your face as the adrenaline of the crisis fades. With a few quick commands, you start the Star-Eater’s transfer to a more permanent holding facility (one far, far away.) Then, you smooth down your capelet and head out.

By the time you reach the designated meeting point, the turtles are already there, looking a little worse for wear but undeniably triumphant. Michelangelo is animatedly recounting his aerial acrobatics to a skeptical-looking Raphael. Donatello is still fiddling with one of your comm devices, while Leonardo leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you approach.

“Well,” you say, stopping before them, your earlier commanding tone softening slightly. “I must admit, that was … remarkably effective. For a group of amateurs who stumbled into my domain uninvited, anyway.”

“Amateurs who just saved your very expensive arena and probably your reputation with the mystic elite, you mean.” Leonardo winks. “So, about that portal token home? And maybe forgetting this whole ‘trespassing’ thing?”

“Hmm, yes, the terms of our agreement,” you muse, tapping a finger to your chin. You meet each of their gazes. Michelangelo’s bright, expectant eyes. Donatello’s analytical, curious ones. Raphael’s guarded but steady stare. Leonardo’s confident, challenging look.

“You held up your end of the bargain,” you concede. “And with surprising panache.” Your gaze lingers on Leonardo for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, and you see a flicker of something in his eyes before he schools his expression back into a charming grin.

“Panache is my middle name,” he says. “Well, not really. It’s ‘Danger.’ But panache fits too.”

“Of course it is,” you say dryly, though a smile tugs at your lips. “The trespassing incident will be ‘administratively misplaced’. As for getting home …” You reach into your capelet again. But instead of just grabbing the portal token, you also produce an ornate data chip. “Donatello, I believe you were interested in the stasis field’s focusing array schematics? And perhaps the Yatchon encryption on the comms?”

His eyes widen, and he takes a step forward, practically vibrating with intellectual hunger. “You’d share proprietary Battle Nexus technology? Just like that?”

“Consider it a bonus,” you say, your eyes flicking to the others. “A token of appreciation for a job well done. And perhaps,” you add, your voice a little softer, “an incentive for future … collaborations, should the need arise.”

Raphael frowns. “Future collaborations? I thought we were done.”

“One never knows in the Nexus, Raphael,” you say smoothly. “Alliances shift. Favors are currency. And talent,” your gaze sweeps over them again, lingering perhaps a moment too long on each, “is always in demand.”

Warmth spreads through your chest, an unfamiliar lightness. It’s not just about business anymore. You genuinely enjoyed their company, their wild energy, their surprising competence. The thought of them simply never returning leaves you with an unexpected pang of something akin to disappointment.

“Besides,” you continue, a mischievous glint entering your eyes as you look at Leonardo, “I haven’t even offered you all a celebratory post-crisis meal. It would be terribly rude of me, as a hostess, not to.”

“A meal?” His grin widens. “With the Spider Princess herself? Now that sounds like a proper reward.”

Michelangelo bounces on the balls of his feet. “Ooh! Do you have those weird glow-y sodas they sell in the concession stands?”

“We can discuss refreshments en route,” you say, a genuine smile now gracing your features before you turn. “My private lounge is much more comfortable. And far less likely to be infested with disgruntled arena beasts.”

You start walking, not looking back immediately, but you can hear their footsteps and surprised murmurs following you.

“She’s actually being nice?” Raphael mutters, loud enough for you to hear.

“Define ‘nice’ in the context of a woman who threatened to turn us into a marketing gimmick,” Donatello says, though there’s a note of intrigue in his voice.

“Hey, free snacks and she called me ‘panache-y’!” Leonardo stage-whispers. “I’m calling this a win.”

You allow yourself a small, secret smile. The mission might be over, but this new relationship, you sense, is just the beginning. And much to your surprise, it makes your heart flutter a little faster. You glance back, just a subtle turn of your head, and watch them.

Yes, you think, this could be very interesting indeed. Your future empire might just have gained four very unexpected, very intriguing new assets.

Or perhaps … something more.

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