Di Vin

 Backstory: The Mystery of Ann-a (Yes, That’s Her Real Name)

Ann-a isn’t just any kid—she’s the kind of “special” that makes government agencies nervous and conspiracy theorists foam at the mouth. She’s got a mind like a Rubik’s Cube: colorful, unpredictable, and impossible to solve unless you’re willing to break a few rules. Ann-a can hack a mainframe with a juice box in one hand and a glitter pen in the other. She once convinced a room full of diplomats to play musical chairs instead of signing a treaty. She’s not just gifted—she’s a walking, talking, government-classified anomaly.

So, of course, when Ann-a vanished, the world assumed the worst. Rumors spread like wildfire: tragic accident, international plot, alien abduction (hey, it’s not off the table). The headlines screamed, “Special Child Lost!” while the truth was quietly buried under a mountain of red tape and NDAs.

But Livepool (Dinah Stealth to the IRS, “Dinosaur” to those who know her best) knew better. She’d helped raise Ann-a—not as her biological mother, but as the kind of “other mother” you get in the world’s weirdest, most platonic custody arrangement. Think: co-parenting, but with more sarcasm and less paperwork. They weren’t a family in the traditional sense, but they were a team—one that could outsmart any system, except maybe the one that kept them apart.

When Interpol (the world’s most aggressively bureaucratic villain) snatched Ann-a, they didn’t just cross a line—they tried to enter her “pool.” Her Area 51. Her private, classified, “do not enter unless you want a Nerf dart to the eye” zone. This was personal.

And when you mess with someone’s not-quite-but-basically kid, you unleash a force of nature. Or, in this case, a Dinah Stealth. But fighting Interpol isn’t easy, especially when they’re silencing anyone who gets too close to the truth. Livepool needed backup—the kind that comes with a red suit, a sharp tongue, and absolutely zero respect for authority.

Getting Deadpool’s attention took work. A lot of work. We’re talking encrypted messages, secret handshakes, and at least one interpretive dance involving rubber chickens. But when Deadpool finally answered the call, he didn’t ask questions. He just loaded his Nerf guns and said, “Let’s go make bureaucracy bleed.”

So, no, Ann-a isn’t dead. She’s just lost in the world’s messiest custody battle, and her not-mother and the world’s most annoying antihero are coming to get her back. And if Interpol thinks they can keep her, they’re about to find out what happens when you try to enter the wrong pool.

Backstory: Dinah Stealth (a.k.a. Livepool)

Dinah Stealth is a nobody, and she’s more than fine with it. In fact, she prefers it. Fame is for people who peaked in high school and still talk about their varsity letterman jacket. Dinah? She’s the type who’d rather blend in, observe, and then quietly drop a truth bomb that leaves the room in stunned silence and mild existential crisis.

Her secret weapon isn’t a gadget, a gun, or even a killer roundhouse kick. It’s common sense—wielded with the precision and devastation of a weapon of mass destruction. In a world where idiocracy flows through the streets like a busted fire hydrant, Dinah is the lone traffic cop, waving a “Stop Being Dumb” sign while everyone else is busy live-streaming themselves licking doorknobs.

People don’t like Dinah. Not because she’s mean (she’s not), or because she’s wrong (she never is), but because she’s always right—and she’s hilarious about it. She has a knack for slapping people upside the head with logic and then making them laugh about it, which, for some reason, makes them even angrier. It’s like watching someone lose a debate to a stand-up comic: humiliating, but you can’t help but applaud.

Dinah has never needed recognition. She’s the ghost in the machine, the voice of reason in a world addicted to nonsense. She’s the friend who tells you your fly is down before you go on stage, and then hands you a witty comeback for when someone inevitably notices anyway.

Her greatest strength? She sees what everyone else ignores. While the world chases trends, Dinah chases the truth—and she’s not afraid to call out the emperor’s new clothes, especially if the emperor is also wearing Crocs.

So, yeah, Dinah Stealth is a nobody. But in a world gone mad, being nobody is the most powerful somebody you can be. And if you’re lucky enough to be on her side, you’ll never lose an argument—or your sense of humor—again.

Chapter 1: The Kidnapping of Ann-a (Yes, That’s Her Real Name)

Ann-a was kidnapped on a Tuesday. Statistically, most kidnappings happen on weekends, but Ann-a never did care for statistics. She preferred to defy expectations, which is exactly what she was doing when Interpol’s finest—three agents, two clipboards, and one very confused Uber driver—showed up at the playground and spirited her away in a van that smelled suspiciously like stale coffee and broken promises.

Dinah Stealth, a.k.a. Livepool, watched the whole thing unfold from the world’s most uncomfortable government-issued surveillance chair. She wasn’t invited, of course. She was being “detained for questioning,” which is bureaucrat-speak for “we don’t know what to do with you, so we’re going to make you listen to us drone on about national security until you beg for mercy or a sudoku puzzle, whichever comes first.”

She was forced to listen to the live feed of Ann-a’s abduction, courtesy of the government’s state-of-the-art eavesdropping technology (which, to be honest, sounded like it was powered by potato batteries and a WiFi hotspot from 2007). The agents on the ground were so painfully incompetent, Dinah considered using her powers to teleport herself into the van just to show them how a real kidnapping should be done. But restraint is a virtue, and besides, she didn’t want to get her shoes dirty.

The government, in their infinite wisdom, handed Dinah a “Hit List” as thick as a Russian novel. “For your consideration,” they said, as if they were offering her a dessert menu and not a list of people they’d like her to, you know, erase from existence. “You’re quite powerful, Ms. Stealth. We’d appreciate your cooperation.”

Dinah smiled the way a cat smiles at a goldfish. “I’ll consider it,” she said, which is Dinah-speak for “I’d rather eat glass.”

They tried to threaten her, but threatening Dinah Stealth is like trying to out-snark a British sitcom. She’d heard it all before. “If you don’t comply, we’ll make your life very difficult,” they said, as if her life wasn’t already a masterclass in government-imposed inconvenience.

Meanwhile, the world outside kept spinning, blissfully unaware that a child had been kidnapped, a woman was being blackmailed, and existence itself was hanging by a thread—one that Dinah could snip with the flick of a wrist. She could end it all. She could save it all. She could do anything, really, except get anyone to listen.

And just when they thought they had her boxed in, Dinah considered taking her high-low clearance level—which, for the record, is both the highest and lowest security clearance in existence (don’t ask, it’s a government thing)—and blowing a whistle so massive it would flip the entire damn world on its head. If you ever thought anything was true, it isn’t. Congratulations, now you’re caught up.

But that’s the thing about being Dinah Stealth. You don’t need the world to notice you. You just need them to regret it when they finally do.

She leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, and waited for the next move. Because if the government wanted her to play their game, they were about to find out she’d already me

morized the rulebook—and rewritten the ending.