Real World (Marvel)

[kowak]

Chapter 1
The August sun was melting the asphalt of Harlem, driving residents into the shade of sparse trees and the protection of air conditioners. In a cool shopping mall, the Parr family was waging their annual ritual war against the upcoming school year.

"Bob, are you sure he needs these?" Maria turned the sneakers over in her hands, their soles looking suspiciously thin. "They'll fall apart by October."

"Mom, they're classics," came Diego's voice from behind a rack of t-shirts. His tone was a mix of teenage weariness with parental oversight and a sincere conviction in his own correctness.

Bob Parr weighed the sneaker in his palm. "Let him have them. He'll learn to value things when he's earning his own money for them. Besides, at his age, his feet grow faster than we can update his wardrobe."

Maria sighed but put the shoes in the cart. "Fine. Diego, come here, you still need to try on..."

Her words were drowned out by a new sound. It was a structural noise—a low-frequency wave that traveled not through the air, but through the very frame of the building, making it tremble slightly. Shoppers froze, exchanging questioning glances.

And then a mechanical, emotionless voice from the ceiling speakers announced: "ATTENTION. A CLASS THREE THREAT HAS BEEN DECLARED. CIVILIANS ARE ORDERED TO PROCEED IMMEDIATELY TO THE NEAREST SHELTERS. REMAIN CALM."

"Calm." The word sounded like a mockery. For the first second, there was a ringing silence, and then panic erupted.

---

In this world, with the appearance of mutants, the government had introduced a unified danger classification system so that civilians would clearly understand when to run without looking back.

Class 1 Threat: A lone mutant or terrorist group. Impact limited to a single building or street. Danger to those in the immediate vicinity. Law enforcement response time: several minutes.

Class 2 Threat: A subject capable of resisting a trained squad. Impact limited to a block or district. Evacuation from the direct confrontation zone is recommended.

Class 3 Threat: Affects an entire city. Mass impact on people, power, infrastructure. The National Guard and specialized teams are deployed.

Class 4 Threat: Forces operating at a national level. Capable of disrupting the government, military, or economy. Requires intervention by the army or its equivalent.

Class 5 Threat: Planetary level. Abilities affect the entire world. Capable of destroying the planet or fundamentally changing civilization. Such threats, for now, existed only in theory.

---

People bolted, abandoning carts and bags. Children's crying mixed with panicked shouts. Bob gripped Maria's hand in a death grip, trying to keep her close in the churning human tide.

"Diego!" he shouted, but his voice was lost in the general din.

His son was somewhere up ahead, separated from them by a living river of people mad with fear. It was impossible to fight against this current—it would simply crush and trample them. Bob's insides clenched with fear for his son. But immediately, another thought, forged by life experience, overlaid it: he couldn't panic. He had taught Diego to be independent; the boy should know what to do.

Diego himself was already moving with the crowd. Not succumbing to the general madness, but not resisting it either. He simply let the wave carry him toward the green-lit "SHELTER" signs, scanning with his eyes for his parents.

And at that moment, the ceiling of the atrium in the center of the hall burst.

There was no explosion, just a deafening crack of tearing concrete and metal. From the height of the third floor, breaking glass panels and rebar like rotten branches, a massive carcass plummeted. It landed with such force that the tiles beneath it spiderwebbed with cracks, and the shockwave knocked people closest to the epicenter off their feet.

Dust and concrete chips obscured it for a moment. The only sound in the ensuing silence was the tinkle of falling fragments. And then, from the clouds of dust, It rose.

A clumsy, asymmetrical body of a sickly green color. Skin seemed stretched over bones protruding at random places. Lumpy, pulsating growths ran along its back and shoulders. It stood on two legs, but there was nothing human in its appearance. It was the Abomination, a living embodiment of a biological mistake.

The creature straightened, slowly turning a head that had no eyes in the conventional sense—just a few dark, moist depressions. It inhaled and made a sound.

It wasn't a roar; a roar could be endured. This was an infrasonic wave, one that couldn't be heard by the ears but could be felt by the entire body. It passed through people, vibrating in their bones, compressing their internal organs. Following it came a piercing, cutting shriek that burrowed straight into the brain.

People around Diego grabbed their heads. Thin trickles of blood flowed from many of their ears and noses. The world blurred, lost its focus. The pain was so strong it paralyzed the will. Many simply collapsed to the floor, curling into a ball.

Diego doubled over too, but even through the agony, an instinct punched through: create distance. While the others writhed on the floor, he, staggering on unbending legs, began to retreat toward a side corridor. Every step sent a new wave of nausea through him. He didn't look at the monster; he looked at the path of escape, because he knew: whoever freezes in terror to get a better look at the threat dies first.

The Abomination unhurriedly stepped toward the nearest man, who was trying to crawl away, dragging a shattered leg. It reached out a huge hand and wrapped its fingers around the wretch's head. The skull was fragile to it. A light, almost casual pressure, and...

Crunch.

The sound was wet and quiet, but it gave the creature a sharp, almost ticklish pleasure. Like popping a tight bubble on packing wrap. The sensation was so new and pleasant that it repeated it, and then again. But the monotonous task quickly bored it. The crunch of bones and the softness of flesh no longer brought that first, bright spark of satisfaction. Far more interesting were those who tried to run.

They had life in them; they had fear.

The predator's instinct, dormant in the depths of its mutated essence, flared up. The Abomination took off. Its movements lacked any grace but possessed monstrous efficiency. It didn't run, but covered distance in a series of low, heavy leaps, landing with a dull thud that cracked the floor. One of the fleeing women turned at the sound, her face freezing into a mask of pure terror. The next leap ended right on top of her.

Its hunt was interrupted by something strange. In its path, right in front of its next victim—a boy of about fourteen—the air compressed into a perfectly flat, milky-white spot about a meter in diameter. It was at this very moment, in these seconds of mortal danger and unbearable stress, that the X-Gene awakened in the boy. The spot didn't glow; it seemed to absorb everything that passed through it. The Abomination, not slowing down, struck. The arm, meant to splatter the boy, entered the white nothingness up to the shoulder and... vanished.

There was no resistance, just emptiness where its limb had been a moment ago.

A roar burst from the monster's throat—no longer triumphant, but full of furious bewilderment. It instinctively spun and struck with its intact left arm, bypassing the portal. It put all its mass into the blow. The teenager, still standing with a trembling hand outstretched, maintaining the portal, didn't have time to do anything. The blow was so powerful that the air wave preceding the fist literally vaporized the teen's body before punching a car-sized hole in the wall behind him.

The Abomination stared in bewilderment at its right stump. Right before its eyes, from the torn muscles and bone fragments, tendrils of new flesh began to squirm and weave. The regeneration process was swift and ugly, but the pain of the loss and the humiliating feeling demanded an outlet. It wasn't going to stop.

Its gaze, cloudy with rage, snatched a new target from the crowd. It was Diego. The Abomination leaped.

Diego saw the carcass flying at him only at the last moment. Not a single coherent thought passed through his brain; only the most ancient instinct reacted—he threw up his arms, trying to cover his head. As if responding to his desperate attempt to defend himself, the X-Gene awakened in him too. Suddenly, his whole body was seized by a convulsion, and his vision went dark for an instant. And in that split second, a transparent dome of deep purple flared into existence around him.

The first blow shook the barrier. The second—and a thin, glowing crack ran across the dome. The third—more cracks appeared, weaving into a spiderweb. On the fourth blow, Diego knew it was the end. His strength was gone, his vision swimming.

And then, a green boulder of muscle blurred past Diego. A second monster, built less crudely than the Abomination, but driven by no less fury: the Hulk. He slammed into his opponent with the force of a train. The two figures, tangled in a knot of crushing hatred, burst out of the mall, shattering the walls.

Diego collapsed to the floor, the purple dome flickering and vanishing. The adrenaline that had kept him on his feet retreated, leaving a nauseating weakness. He needed cover. Staggering, he got up and, seeing almost nothing, dove into the doorway of the nearest shop. He scrambled behind the counter, curled into a ball on the dusty floor, and his consciousness, unable to take the overload, mercifully abandoned him.

---

This was no longer a street fight, but a localized earthquake with two epicenters. Each of a titan's blows against the other, each throw to the ground, generated a seismic wave that spread through the block. The asphalt beneath them crumbled, and the old brick buildings of Harlem, not designed for this kind of shaking, began to give way. Cracks crawled up facades, tiles rained from roofs, and one of the buildings began to fold inward with a deafening screech.

For Pietro Maximoff, the last five minutes had stretched into half a day of tedious work. In his perception of the world, flying concrete debris turned into objects drifting slowly through the air. He weaved between them, snatching people frozen in terror. He could see the beads of sweat on a frightened woman's face freeze in mid-air, see a child's pupil slowly dilate. To be honest, he liked this atmosphere; he felt truly important and cool, but the hours-long routine was beginning to tire him. Every person saved was just another checkmark on an endless to-do list.

The Abomination was clearly flagging. The loss of its arm gave the Hulk an undeniable advantage. But the endurance of both creatures seemed endless, and the fight could have continued until nothing was left of Harlem but rubble.

Suddenly, the roar of an invisible jet's engines at an extremely low altitude cut through the noise. A heavy shadow covered the monster, and a human figure dropped from it. Logan landed precisely on the Abomination's back, sinking his claws into the mutated flesh. The monster roared, trying to throw off the annoying rider, but Wolverine was already climbing up its spine. He reached the base of the skull and plunged all six blades into the monster's head.

It wasn't a fatal blow. The ragged wounds on the Abomination's head began to pulse and knit closed, but the breach was enough. A foreign will pierced the monster's skull. Professor Charles Xavier, safe many miles away, found the right node in the creature's brain and simply "untied" it.

The Abomination went into convulsions. Its body rippled, muscles deflating, bones retracting with a crackle. The grotesque transformation reversed. A few seconds later, a naked, wounded man, Emil Blonsky, lay on the asphalt.

Logan was about to kill him when a calm but insistent voice sounded in his head. "Logan, don't you dare."

"He deserves it, Charles," Wolverine growled under his breath.

"It's not up for discussion. Leave him for the government agents; they're already on approach."

"So they can dissect him? Or, even better, try to make a dozen more like him?" Logan stepped toward Blonsky.

"They won't succeed anyway. This creature isn't a mutant, but a government experiment that can be used in negotiations... As living proof of their irresponsible games. If he dies, the leverage over the government disappears with him."

Logan felt in his gut that leaving Blonsky alive was a mistake that would come back to haunt them. But there was logic in the Professor's words. He always saw several moves ahead. Wolverine retracted his claws in disgust.

At that moment, kicking up a small vortex of dust, Pietro stopped beside them. "Well, well," he drawled, curiously examining the crumpled man. "To think that can turn into that behemoth." He glanced at the Hulk. "No offense, buddy."

But their entire discussion missed one simple detail. No one had asked the Hulk's opinion. And the Hulk wasn't finished.

The green giant didn't say a word. He wasn't looking at Wolverine or the speedster. His gaze was fixed on the helpless body on the asphalt. He took a step forward.

"Hey, easy there, big guy!" Logan put his hands up, blocking his path. "Show's over."

With a backhand, the Hulk swatted him away like an annoying toy. Logan's body smashed through the window of a nearby shop and disappeared in a cloud of glass shards.

"Pietro, get Blonsky!" Xavier's command echoed in the speedster's head.

Pietro froze. He saw every muscle on the Hulk's body tense, saw nothing but primal rage in his eyes, directed at Blonsky. The Hulk looked at Pietro, as if warning him that if he moved, he would die. He could have grabbed Blonsky and been on the other side of the city before the Hulk could even blink. But for some inexplicable reason, he was terrified to do it.

"Professor," Pietro whispered, barely audible. "I'm afraid you'll need your telekinesis for this one. I'm not getting in the middle of that."

That second of hesitation was enough.

The Hulk took a second step, his enormous foot descending on Blonsky's body.

---

Gregory Hauss, a paramedic with twenty years of experience, thought he'd seen it all. He'd worked on ruins, pulled people from rubble after earthquakes, but what was left of the Harlem block defied all logic. The streets looked as if a capricious child-god had walked through, ripping chunks of asphalt from the ground and embedding cars into the walls of buildings.

The "National Guard," who looked more like secret agents, had already cordoned off the perimeter. "Hey, I've got a live one here!" shouted the rookie, a kid named Smith.

Hauss walked over to the doorway of a small shop. Smith was pointing his flashlight behind the counter. There, curled into a ball on the dusty floor, lay a teenager. Gregory frowned, preparing for the worst, but as he got closer, he relaxed. The kid had cuts, blood from the ears, dirty clothes—just like most of them—and, thankfully, he was breathing.

"Pulse is steady, breathing stable," Smith reported, having already checked the vitals.

Hauss did his own quick assessment. Pupils were normal, no broken bones. Just someone who was dead to the world.

"Get him on a stretcher. Tag him as a John Doe, 'shock, unconscious.' They'll sort it out at the hospital."

---

In the silence of his office, Charles Xavier watched dozens of screens, all broadcasting the same image: ruins and politicians. On the main screen was Senator Stern. "...we cannot allow our cities to become testing grounds for mutant feuds. We need the immediate creation of a unified registry and a system for the early detection of the X-Gene in children, to get the situation under control before it leads to new tragedies!"

Behind Xavier, the air grew imperceptibly heavy, and the sky outside the window darkened for a moment. "A registry?" There was a hint of thunder in Ororo Munroe's voice. "They created that monster themselves, we stopped it, and despite that, it's the mutants' fault again?!"

"They are shifting the blame, Ororo," Charles answered calmly, not turning around. "Blonsky is dead; they think all the threads leading to his creators have been cut. They urgently need a scapegoat, and we fit the role perfectly. They're using their own blunder to push laws they've had sitting in their desks for a long time."

"That... that's not fair! We cleaned up their failed experiment, saved the residents, and now they want to register us like cattle! They didn't even have time to do anything to stop it!"

"Ororo, please, calm down. The pressure in the room is dropping. We don't need a localized thunderstorm over the mansion," Xavier turned his head slightly. "They aren't playing fair; they're playing politics. And in politics, the winner is the one who controls the narrative. Right now, they've painted us as the threat."

"So what do we do? Issue a denial?"

"No," Charles shifted his gaze to one of the side monitors, which displayed a complex folder structure. "We change the topic of discussion. General Thaddeus Ross oversaw the program that created the Abomination. And it's far from his only questionable project."

Ororo followed his gaze and understood. "Leak everything online?"

"Yes. Let them spend tomorrow morning explaining to their constituents not some hypothetical 'mutant threat,' but very real, multi-billion dollar embezzlement from the military budget and evidence of illegal human experimentation. If they want to play dirty, we'll show them we know how to get our hands dirty, too."

---

One week later.

The monotonous, indifferent beep of a medical monitor. I tried to open my eyes, but my eyelids felt too heavy. He tried to make a fist and met something foreign in the vein at the crook of his elbow—the plastic tube of an IV. His body felt like cotton, disobedient.

Memories crashed down in an avalanche, forcing his eyes wide open. White ceiling, white walls, and a beeping machine by the bed.

A woman in a blue uniform entered the room. Her lips were moving, but only an underwater rushing sound reached me. I couldn't hear her. I think she asked if I was awake.

The woman paused for a second, studying my face, and then her lips formed something like professional sympathy. She pointed to her own ear and shook her head 'no,' letting me know she understood. Then she turned and left, returning a minute later with a small plastic whiteboard and a marker.

I tried to take it. The hands that had held a gamepad with no problem just a week ago barely obeyed. My fingers felt alien, clumsy. The marker trembled as I formed the letters.

The questions were from some other, former life.

First Name, Last Name: Diego Parr. Date of Birth: 06/09/2002. Address: 215 W 135th St, New York, NY 10030. Parents' Names: Bob Parr, Maria Parr.

I filled out the last item with difficulty. I flipped the board over and, awkwardly, tracing the letters several times, wrote:

"WHERE ARE THEY?"

The nurse took the board. She read it, and her professional mask slipped for an instant. She thought for a moment, then took the marker and wrote just one word.

"Wait."

And I had no choice but to.

---

Nick Fury watched the screen, where a smiling Senator Stern was once again telling the nation about the "mutant threat." A week after the Harlem incident, the report was finally on his desk—a summary of facts, cleared of rumors and speculation.

"Talk to me, Phil," Fury didn't look away from the screen. "What do we have on Ross and his pet monster?"

Agent Coulson stood at attention. "General Thaddeus Ross, 'Super-Soldier' project, recreation attempt. Subject 'Hulk,' aka Bruce Banner, was the lead developer but became the result of an experimental failure. Banner is sane, capable of cooperation. Our data suggests he's currently meditating somewhere in Tibet. Ross, considering this a success, decided to repeat the trick on Emil Blonsky. The result was what the press is calling 'Abomination.' Unstable, uncontrollable. There were twenty-three other volunteers in Blonsky's group. Only he survived, but was subsequently neutralized and killed by the Hulk. As for initial containment, it was provided by a group of mutants, presumably from Xavier's school. Our analysts agree that S.H.I.E.L.D. currently lacks the resources to neutralize Hulk-level threats without colossal damage to infrastructure and the population."

Fury rubbed his single eye. "The information on Ross's illegal experiments and budget embezzlement surfaced on an amateur forum. superheros.net. We're checking the source, but the data is very precise. Due to Stern's anti-mutant rhetoric, our bill to recruit gifted individuals into service has been rejected again."

"What about Stern himself?"

"Nothing," Coulson spread his hands. "Completely clean. No drugs, no mistresses, no strange hobbies."

Fury leaned back in his chair and pulled out a cigar. "That's just it, Phil. There are no saints. Everyone has secrets. And if we can't find his secrets, it means someone is hiding them very well." He lit the cigar, the flame briefly illuminating his face. "Are we really still the most powerful organization on this planet? Or do we just think we are?"

He let out a cloud of smoke. "Alright. Since they're resisting our program, we'll launch it on a smaller scale." Fury looked directly at Coulson.

"Codename... 'Avengers.'"

Phil Coulson nodded curtly. "Understood, sir."

 

[kowak]

Chapter 2
Three days passed, and the ringing in my ears gradually faded. I watched the news on the small TV mounted near the ceiling. Subtitles crawled across the bottom of the screen, and I could finally match the images to their meaning. Reporters in hard hats broadcasted from the ruins. The shopping mall, my high school—where I was supposed to start my senior year—entire residential blocks, including our apartment building, had all been turned into rubble. The camera snatched at the faces of people who had lost most of their lives. The government promised everyone social, medical, and financial aid. The door to the ward opened. A woman in a prim business suit, slightly overweight, walked in. She had a tired but professionally kind face.

"Hello, Diego. I'm from child services."

I nodded, not taking my eyes off the screen. "Hello."

She came closer and sat on the chair by the bed. Her face wore the same expression I had seen on the nurse's—rehearsed sympathy.

"Diego, I'm very sorry to have to tell you this. Your parents... they've been identified among the deceased."

She paused, giving me time to react, but I remained silent. I had been waiting for those words all these days. I had run them through my head hundreds of times. Who was to blame? The monster? The government? The mutants? Or all of them? There were no tears left inside, only a confusing mix of grief and aimless anger.

The woman, apparently deciding the silence had dragged on, continued, her tone shifting to be more businesslike. "We need to figure out what to do next. Do you have any relatives? Grandparents, aunts, uncles?"

The woman, not getting an answer, reached out to touch my hand. The movement was slow, calming, but I flinched away. In that same instant, the air between her palm and my hand shimmered almost imperceptibly, as if a faint purple glint had appeared for a fraction of a second and then vanished.

She didn't seem to notice. She just pulled her hand back, assuming I was startled by her touch. "It's alright, Diego. I didn't mean to scare you. Can you answer the question?"

I slowly turned my gaze to her. "None here. On my mom's side... there was some grandfather. We never visited him. They had some falling out a long time ago. The last name was Martinez. I think he lives in Brooklyn."

She quickly jotted it down in her notepad. "Good. That's something. We'll find him," she promised, getting up. Before leaving, she placed a stack of paperbacks on the nightstand. "This is so you won't be bored."

I looked at the books, then at her, but said nothing. I just took them after she left.

Three days before the start of school, I was discharged. At the hospital exit, the same woman from child services was waiting for me in her government-issued car. She silently handed me a thick cardboard folder.

"Here's everything that proves your identity from now on," she said as I got into the passenger seat. "A new birth certificate, social security card, and this."

She pressed a plastic card into my hand. "A bank account. In your name. The state will deposit a stipend into it every month until you're twenty-one. For housing, food, clothes. And... thanks to a victim relief fund organized by Wilson Fisk, there's already an initial sum in the account. Five thousand dollars."

I'd heard Fisk's name. A major businessman, a philanthropist, who was on every channel right now. "So where to now?" I asked, twirling the card in my fingers. "A foster family? An orphanage?"

She started the car. "No. Your uncle, Mateo Martinez, has agreed to take custody of you."

I gave a skeptical snort. "Agreed? He's never seen me before. Mom hadn't spoken to him in twenty years. I somehow doubt he was suddenly overcome with family feeling."

The woman's grip on the steering wheel tightened for a moment; she was clearly uncomfortable. "Let's just say the state encourages citizens who take responsibility for minors affected by the tragedy. He'll receive certain tax benefits."

"I see," I drew out the word. "So he just decided to make some money off me."

She didn't argue, because she remembered how the old man had initially told her to get lost, then abruptly changed his mind when he heard about the money. "Perhaps," she answered evasively. "But you don't need to worry about anything. Social services have already checked the living conditions. You'll have your own room, with everything you need for school and a comfortable life."

The car pulled away. "What about school?" I asked, watching the streets slide by. My old school was in ruins. "That's been handled too. Due to your relocation and, um, special circumstances, you're being transferred to Midtown High School of Science and Technology under the support program."

Midtown High School of Science and Technology. An elite school, where rich kids and natural-born geniuses got in after a brutal selection process. You couldn't just walk in off the street. "Wow," was all I could say.

The social worker's car stopped in front of a nondescript brick building, one of dozens just like it in Brooklyn. We walked up to the third floor, and the woman from child services pressed the doorbell. Shuffling footsteps approached, and a lock clicked. A man in his sixties appeared on the threshold. Short, with graying stubble on hollow cheeks and tired eyes. He wore a faded t-shirt with an illegible logo and sweatpants. He gave me a quick, appraising glance.

"So, you've arrived," he stated, not asked. "You must be Diego. I'm Mateo."

He held out a dry, calloused hand. His handshake was surprisingly firm. The woman from child services cleared her throat, breaking the awkward silence. "Well, Mateo, you have all the documents, and my contact information. If you have any questions..." "I won't," he cut her off. "Alright. Then I'll be going. Good luck, Diego."

The apartment was just like its owner. An old sofa, a TV on a stand, a kitchen table with two chairs. No photos, no plants—nothing that spoke of a life, merely an existence. Mateo went to the kitchen and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. "Alright, kid. Let's get clear on how we're going to live. I have three rules."

He paused, making sure I was listening. "Rule one, and it's the main one: your life is your life. Problems, fights, whatever—you solve them yourself. Don't drag me into it. Got it?" "Got it," I nodded. "Second, school. I don't care what grades you get, but if they call and ask me to come in... I'm not coming. Handle your business so it doesn't get to that point." "Understood." "And third. Clean up after yourself."

He finished and stared at me, waiting for a reaction. To my surprise, I felt something like relief. This cold directness was better than the rehearsed sympathy I'd been fed for the last week. This was an honest transaction. He got his tax breaks, I got a roof over my head. No fake smiles, no pretend caring.

"I'm fine with all of that," I said.

He seemed satisfied with my answer. "Good. Come on, I'll show you your room."

The room was small, with a single window that faced the blank brick wall of the next building. A simple bed, a desk, a chair, and a rickety-looking wardrobe. Nothing extra. "Get settled," Mateo tossed over his shoulder and left me alone. I dropped my single bag on the floor and sat on the bed. I needed to check.

I sat up straight and held out my right hand. I focused on the desire to protect myself. Something in the air before my palm shimmered. Space distorted, and then an almost invisible sphere wove itself into existence. It flickered faintly, and if you looked closely, you could catch faint purple veins in its transparent structure. It was completely tangible. I cautiously touched it with the fingers of my left hand and felt a smooth, hard surface.

The barrier lasted a few seconds and silently melted away. I fell back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. "What is this?" I whispered into the emptiness of my new room.

---

The day had been long and hard. The hot water from the shower was the only thing that felt truly real. Steam filled the small cubicle, and, more out of boredom than any real purpose, I held out my hand again. The purple glint appeared in the air, forming a hemisphere, and then a full sphere. Water droplets didn't shatter against it but flowed down the invisible surface as if it were glass. I trapped the steam; it swirled inside, caught, unable to escape. I clenched and unclenched my fist, the barrier vanished, and the steam hit my face. Controlling it was surprisingly easy, almost instinctive. But a nagging question circled in my head: is this it? Just a shield?

As if in answer to that thought, a strange sensation passed through my body. When I looked down at my hands, I saw the white tiles of the shower stall right through them. I stepped out of the stall, leaving wet footprints on the mat. I looked in the fogged-up mirror over the sink and wiped it with my palm. There was no one in the reflection. Just an empty bathroom and my damp footprints on the floor. I grabbed a towel from the hook and wrapped it around my waist. The white rectangle of terry cloth seemed to just hang in the air at my waistline, held up by nothing.

So that's it. To be completely invisible, I have to be naked? A great ability for a nudist spy. I concentrated, willing myself to become visible again. It took an effort, like tensing a muscle after a long period of disuse. My body reappeared instantly, starting with a light tingle all over my skin. I was standing in the bathroom again, visible and quite material, with the towel wrapped around my hips. The mirror showed me my reflection: a tan guy with wet, dark hair. Nothing remarkable—not repulsive, not model-material. Just another face that would easily get lost in a Brooklyn crowd.

After getting dressed in my room, I went out to the kitchen. Mateo was sitting on the sofa, watching some evening news broadcast on the old TV. "So... what's for dinner?" I asked, trying not to sound too demanding.

Mateo reluctantly tore his gaze from the screen and looked at me. "Rule four," he said without preamble. "Everyone cooks for themselves. You can take anything from the fridge, as long as it's not beer. And don't forget rule number three. I had cockroaches in here once, I'm not making that mistake again." He stared back at the TV, making it clear the conversation was over.

The refrigerator was almost empty: a dozen eggs, a package of bacon, an open pack of cheese, and a lone jar of mustard. Well, the options were limited. A few minutes later, the smell of fried bacon filled the kitchen. I ate my scrambled eggs straight from the pan, standing by the stove and listening to the mumble of the news from the living room. I was in a stranger's house, with a stranger, and now I had one more secret. A secret I couldn't tell anyone.

I spent the last three days before school like a hermit, methodically exploring what I had become. I learned to create the barrier not just at a distance, but also skin-tight. It enveloped me like a second skin, completely invisible and intangible. But if I poured a little more concentration into it, a purple ripple would run over the surface, and it would become visible, turning into a kind of spectral armor. I mentally divided this into two modes: "hidden" and "combat."

Today's experiment ended unexpectedly. I activated the hidden mode and, just to test the feeling, leaned against the wall in the hallway. I expected to feel resistance, but instead, my finger pushed into the wall by a couple of millimeters, and I quickly stopped. The strength didn't come from my muscles, but from the invisible shell around them. It acted like a battering ram.

It was time to make a full list of what I could do now. First, ranged barriers: shields, spheres. Second, invisibility, which was extremely impractical for now because of the clothes. Third, a protective shell. Fourth, a force shell, as a consequence of the third. I wasn't stronger, but I could hit and push using the field.

It was a serious toolkit. In a world where some mutants' abilities were limited to changing their nail color, my case looked like winning the genetic lottery. In the evening, with nothing better to do, I went to the forum, superheros.net. A pinned topic, which had already gathered thousands of comments, was on the main page. User: MozgoTraher Topic: Hulk and Abomination - NOT MUTANTS. General Ross Exposed.

Inside was a detailed article with links to leaked documents, reports, and even short video files. On one of them, a man in a military uniform—Emil Blonsky—was receiving some kind of injection. And then his body began to deform monstrously, turning into the very Abomination that had destroyed my life. The monster that killed my parents was the result of a failed military experiment, not the product of a random mutation.

A cold fury rose in me. The government creates a monster with its own hands, it destroys half a district, kills hundreds of people, and then a senator steps up to a podium and declares that the main threat is kids with the X-Gene. They started the fire themselves, and now they're screaming that everyone else's matches should be taken away. What is the government thinking? Their actions are breeding even more hatred between mutants and humans; a rebellion could start soon. Maybe that's what they're aiming for? I fell asleep with these thoughts, a new school waiting for me tomorrow.

---

The morning bus was buzzing with chatter about future plans, girls, games. I took a free seat by the window. A few pairs of eyes darted my way, a hushed "who's that?" was heard, but no one sat next to me. An invisible buffer zone formed around me.

Midtown High School of Science and Technology was strikingly different from my old school. No scuffed walls. Bright corridors, glass doors, a manicured lawn outside—everything here spoke of status and funding. I felt like I had wandered into an expensive hotel in street clothes by mistake.

The principal's office was easy to find. I knocked. "Come in," a calm male voice called out. The principal turned out to be a fit man in his fifties, wearing a perfectly tailored suit. He gave me a quick glance and pointed to a chair. "Diego Parr, I presume. I'm Principal Davis." He opened a folder with my documents. "Senior year, grades are above average. Normally, I'd ask new students a series of standard questions, but given your circumstances, that would be... inappropriate."

He paused, choosing his words. "Nevertheless, our school is focused on preparing students for top universities. Have you thought about what you'd like to do next?" The question was polite, with no hidden meaning, or so it seemed to me. "No," I answered. "And as for a major? A college?" "No to that, either." Principal Davis put on an understanding smile. "No problem. There's still plenty of time. Here's your preliminary schedule; you have one week to choose your electives. And this is the key to your locker." The number 69 was stamped on the metal.

The hallways were already full of students. I found my locker, tossed my bag inside, keeping only a notebook and a textbook, and headed to my first class: Math. In the classroom, I instinctively chose the last desk by the window. It was a good spot for observing. The scene was painfully familiar, just in more expensive scenery: a few jocks, a group of girls whose voices were a little louder than everyone else's, a few kids huddled over textbooks, and a few like me—loners, dissolved into the background.

The teacher entered, a middle-aged woman with a stern bun. "Good morning, please be seated. Let's start with roll call." She picked up the register. The names flowed one after another. "Eugene Thompson?" "Here," a broad-shouldered guy from the jock group answered in a low voice. "Mary Jane Watson?" "Here!" a girl with a mane of bright red hair chirped. "Elizabeth Allan?" "Here." "Peter Parker?" "Huh? Oh, I'm here," a guy in the second row, kinda buff and a little flustered, looked up from his notebook. "Diego Parr?" "Here." Several heads turned in my direction. "Excellent," the teacher, Mrs. Warren, snapped the register shut. "Let's warm up a bit. We'll review previous material." She turned to the board and quickly wrote in chalk: y = 2x² - 4x + 1 "We have a parabola," she said. "Mr. Thompson, how do we find the coordinates of its vertex?" Eugene sat up straight. "Well... there's a formula... something..." he dragged out, clearly trying to buy time. Mrs. Warren sighed. "A 'something' formula won't help us. Thank you, sit down. Mr. Parr, you're new here. Show us what you've got." All eyes turned back to me. "The x-coordinate is calculated with the formula x = -b / 2a," I answered calmly. "In this case, 'a' is two, and 'b' is negative four." "Continue," the teacher nodded. I did the math in my head. "X equals one. Plug that into the equation, y = 2(1)² − 4(1) + 1 = 2 – 4 + 1 = −1. So y equals negative one. The vertex is at (1, -1)."

Mrs. Warren gave a barely perceptible smile. "Absolutely correct. Mr. Thompson, I hope you wrote that down." I caught his heavy stare. He probably thought I was trying to humiliate him. Strange, I was just answering the question. Biology and Physics passed in a haze. I mechanically wrote things in my notebook, but my thoughts were far away. The last class was English.

Most of the students were still chatting about their own things. A shadow fell over me. Eugene "Flash" Thompson, flanked by two of his buddies, crossed his arms over his chest. From the conversations, I'd gathered he was the star of the school football team, and it showed. Tall, broad-shouldered, with muscles that looked adult on his seventeen-year-old body. His light hair was styled in a deliberately messy way, and a self-satisfied smirk played on his handsome features. He was the living embodiment of school popularity and clearly reveled in his status.

"This seat's taken," he snapped. There were plenty of empty desks around. This was a pure provocation. But I wasn't looking for trouble. I silently stood up and moved to the next desk. Flash followed me. "This one's taken too." The class grew quieter. Now they were watching us. "Then that's a problem for whoever sits here," I replied evenly, without looking up.

A murmur went through the class. Flash smirked, clearly pleased with the effect. "Then I guess it's my problem," he stepped closer and poked me in the shoulder with his index finger. The push wasn't hard, just humiliating. "What, did your mommy not teach you not to take other people's seats?"

All sound in the classroom vanished. There was only this finger, poking me, and the word "mommy," spoken with a sneer. In that moment, I realized one thing with absolute clarity: I was a victim, a charity case, an orphan from Harlem. They wouldn't expel me. My hand shot out faster than he could react. I grabbed the finger he was still poking me with and snapped it sideways. There was a sickening crunch.

Flash's scream was filled less with rage than with agony. He staggered back, staring at his finger, bent at an unnatural angle. Then his face contorted, and he swung at me with his healthy left hand. It was a wide, amateurish punch—a desperate attempt to inflict pain in return. I dodged it easily, just leaning my torso back.

"WHAT IS GOING ON IN HERE?!" The English teacher, Mr. Harrington, was standing in the doorway. The whole class started talking at once, but Elizabeth Allan, sitting nearby, quickly and clearly laid out the entire sequence of events. "Thompson—to the nurse's office!" the teacher ordered. "Parr—to the principal's office, immediately!"

And so I was sitting in Principal Davis's office again. This time he wasn't smiling. He just looked at me in silence, a deep weariness in his eyes. "Explain," he finally said. I recounted everything that had happened, without emotion. How I had moved, how he had followed me. How he started poking me and what, exactly, he had said. Davis pinched the bridge of his nose. "He shouldn't have said that," he said quietly, more to himself. "No, he shouldn't have," I confirmed. "Diego," the principal sighed, "violence is not permitted within this school. Under any circumstances. But the provocation was obvious, and its cause... was exceptionally low. What am I supposed to do with you?"

He leaned back in his chair. "Officially, I am suspending you from classes for two weeks. Unofficially, I want you to use this time to get your head straight. So that this doesn't happen again. And so you don't fall behind, I'm going to hire you a tutor. And I insist you start seeing a psychologist."

He spoke calmly and deliberately. "Why are you doing this?" I asked directly. "A tutor and a psychologist, on your dime? Now that you're spending your personal money on me, I'll feel too awkward not to go." Davis looked at me, unsurprised. "Diego, why do you think people become teachers?" I shrugged. "Couldn't make it in the real world, so they came back to the place they spent most of their lives. They want to raise students properly. They want power over those younger than them. They like feeling like the smartest person in the room. I don't know, lots of reasons."

"You might be right in some cases," Davis didn't argue. "But my job is to give students a chance to find their path, to give you a chance to realize your potential. And besides, Thompson has had this coming for a long time. His football victories don't give him the right to bully others. You just happened to be the one to do it." He took a notepad and wrote down two addresses and phone numbers. "Here. A tutor for the sciences and a psychotherapist. Call them today." I took the paper. "I understand." "Good," Davis nodded. "Now, go. I'll deal with Thompson's parents myself." And so ended my first day at my new school. With a suspension and two new contacts in my pocket.

Principal Davis's office. Mrs. Thompson sat on the very edge of her chair. Her perfectly styled blonde hair and expensive business suit clashed with the red blotches appearing on her neck. "I demand his immediate expulsion," her voice, accustomed to giving orders, was shrill with poorly restrained fury. "Do you understand what he did to my son? The doctor is talking about possible tendon damage! This could mean the end of Eugene's entire sports career!"

Her husband, a large man with a tired face, sat silently beside her, his hands resting on his knees. He was looking not at the principal, but at a corner of the room. "Mrs. Thompson," Principal Davis spoke evenly, his tone perfectly measured. "Believe me, I am treating this situation with the utmost seriousness. Violence is unacceptable in our school. Which is precisely why Diego Parr has already been disciplined. He is suspended from classes for two weeks."

"Two weeks?" She laughed nervously. "That's ridiculous. That's not discipline, it's a vacation! He should be expelled, and his case referred to the police!" Davis let her vent, calmly steepling his fingers. "You certainly have the right to file a formal complaint with the school board and contact law enforcement. I won't stop you. But as principal, I must warn you what an official investigation will look like." He paused just slightly. "Any investigation will consider not just the injury itself, but the context of the incident. And that context, I assure you, will not paint Eugene in the best light. Witnesses, and there was a full classroom of them, confirm that Diego tried to avoid conflict twice by moving to a different desk. Eugene pursued him and was the one who initiated physical contact."

Mrs. Thompson started to object, but Davis continued, lowering his voice. "And then there is the matter of Diego Parr himself. You watch the news, I'm sure. Harlem... Diego lost both of his parents in that catastrophe. He lost his home. He was transferred to us under a special program for victims. Now, imagine how this story will look to a review board. On one side, a jock from the football team, from a wealthy family, who provoked a conflict. On the other, an orphan who survived a national tragedy, who was pushed to his breaking point."

He leaned forward, his gaze hardening. "And he was pushed by a very specific phrase. I have the exact quote from several students: 'What, did your mommy not teach you not to take other people's seats?'"

Silence hung in the office. For the first time, Mr. Thompson looked up and met his wife's eyes. His gaze was more eloquent than any words. "That's enough, Helen," he said hoarsely. "We're going home." She spun to face him, her face twisting with incomprehension and anger. "But, Robert..." "I said, that's enough," he cut her off, standing up. "We're leaving." She stood, straightened her blazer, and shot Davis a look full of venom. She hissed, so quietly it was scarier than a shout: "This isn't over."

The door closed behind them. Principal Davis leaned back in his chair and wearily rubbed his temples.

 

[kowak]

Chapter 3
The psychologist's office was nothing like what you see in the movies. No couch, just two comfortable armchairs, a coffee table with a box of tissues, a bookshelf, and a large abstract painting on the wall—an tangle of blue and purple strokes. The woman across from me looked to be in her sixties. Behind her thin-framed glasses, her eyes held none of the pity I had already grown used to.

"Hello, Diego. My name is Sarah Connelly. Principal Davis asked me to work with you, to help you return to a normal life."

"Can you bring people back from the dead?" The question slipped out on its own, sharper than I'd planned.

She didn't even blink. The shadow of a sad smile touched her lips. "No, Diego. No one can do that. But I can help you learn to live with this loss."

"And what makes you think I haven't learned?"

"Because people who have learned don't usually break their classmates' fingers," she replied simply. "Let's start there. Why did you do it?"

I shrugged. "He provoked me."

"I know that. Do you regret what you did?"

"I don't know."

"How so?"

"I don't think people really regret their actions. They regret the consequences. If someone robs a bank and doesn't get caught, he's probably not going to be tormented by regret while lying on a beach with the money. But if he gets twenty years—he'll regret every second. The consequences of my decision haven't caught up to me yet, so I don't know if I should regret it."

She looked at me for a long time, her gaze was perceptive. "That is a very adult and a very cynical thought, Diego. Perhaps even correct, in a sense. But we're not talking about a hypothetical robber. We're talking about you and the anger you felt. If you don't find another outlet for that force, it will start to destroy you from the inside."

"Find an outlet for the anger." The phrasing seemed odd, but I didn't point it out.

"Alright, let's change the subject," Sarah put her notepad aside. "What do you think of your new classmates?"

"Nothing special. Same as anywhere else, just more erudite."

"The fact that you used the word 'erudite' instead of just saying 'smart' tells me that you are quite erudite yourself," she allowed herself a small smile at the wordplay. "Do you have any hobbies, Diego?"

"I used to draw sometimes."

"And? Did you like it?"

I thought for a second, trying to find the words. "Not really, it just... came easily. The lines fell where they should, the shadows found their own place. But I didn't feel... anything. No joy, no excitement. It was like I wasn't the one drawing, my hand just knew what to do. I guess that's what they call talent."

"Do you believe in the concept of talent? I wouldn't expect someone like you, who sees the world in such cynical tones, to believe in something so ephemeral."

"Hm, strange question, but yes, I do. For example, I'm pretty good at drawing, as I said. And that's despite never having studied art textbooks or taken classes. So, I guess talent is when something comes to you without much effort."

"You think you're pretty good at drawing. Art is subjective; it's impossible to judge on some universal scale. Maybe in your eyes, the drawings are quite good, but to someone else, they're just cute doodles. Have you ever considered that others might see your work completely differently?"

"You're probably right," I said slowly. "But isn't a psychologist's job to build up a patient's confidence, not to say... well, what you just said?"

She laughed. "I got the impression that words like that wouldn't get to you. You like dialogues like this, don't you? Use these two weeks to find something that truly captivates you, something that will become your hobby. And start thinking about a goal, something you'll be willing to work hard for. We're done for today."

She stood up, signaling the session was over. "Take care, Diego."

"Goodbye," I replied, and walked out.

---

The apartment smelled of beer. Mateo was lying on the sofa, watching some sports show on TV. He followed my path from the door to my room with his eyes. "So, how was your first day of school?" he asked, not looking away from the screen.

"Since when do you care?" I tossed over my shoulder, already entering my room.

He shrugged and said nothing, taking a swig from his bottle. It was clear he'd asked the question purely out of politeness, to observe some ritual known only to him.

In my room, I fell onto the bed and pulled out my phone. The superheros.net forum was alive with activity. I scrolled through the thread titles. "Stark Industries' Accounts: Where is the 'Charity' Money Really Going?" "Spider-Man Spotted in Queens Again - Eyewitness Video." "Disappearances at the Docks: Police Are Baffled. A New Wave of Kidnappings?" "Official US Senate List of Dangerous Mutants!"

I don't know what I want. I don't know who I want to be or what to do with my life. But I know one thing for sure. I have a power inside me that's begging to be let out, and it needs to be tested. Tonight, I will go out onto the streets of New York.

---

The night accepted me without any questions. A cheap black hoodie, nondescript jeans—my wardrobe was perfect for blending into the shadows of Brooklyn. I pulled a simple medical mask over my face and pulled the brim of my cap down almost to my eyes. The mirror reflected a character from a crime blotter. It was just what I needed.

I climbed out the window and onto the fire escape. So, if I'm actively looking for trouble, there's no better place than the shipping docks. That's where I headed.

Before I touched the ground, I decided to test a theory. My force fields were mobile. I could create them at a distance, give them shape. Did that mean I could fly inside them?

I stopped on the landing of the fire escape, formed the outline of a vertical capsule in front of me, and stepped inside. The first attempt to take off failed—the construct didn't move, as if it were welded to the floor. I pushed harder, pouring all my concentration into the barrier. The transparent walls around me filled with a thick purple light, and I felt the ground begin to pull away.

I was inside a cocoon that I could control. Everything broke against it, so I felt no wind. I rose above the rooftops, and the night-time panorama opened up before me. The geometry of the streets, threads of light from the lamps, firefly-cars crawling along the arteries of the roads. The thrill of this silent flight was narcotic.

When I began to slow the capsule, my body, which had retained its initial velocity, continued to fly forward, and I slammed into the front wall. My personal protective shell, which I always keep active, acted like a battering ram. There was a crack, and the purple capsule shattered into fragments of light.

In the next second, I was falling. Wind battered my face, the ground rushed to meet me. Strange, for some reason my personal shell was letting the airflow through... No time to figure it out. I threw out my hands and wove a pale-purple barrier in the air, angled towards the ground, like a ramp.

My body began to slide down the structure. The force shield enveloping me took the path of least resistance: instead of punching through the ramp like it did the first capsule, it made my body slide along it. This only worked because the ramp itself was strong enough to withstand the initial impact. The ramp acted as a springboard, launching me back into the night sky. At the peak of my trajectory, in a brief moment of weightlessness, I created a new capsule around myself. And again, I slammed into its front, but this time it held, as my speed was low enough.

"Whew," I exh. "Gotta be more careful."

I moved deeper into the port area. The skeletons of cranes were black against the dark sky. I deliberately walked with a relaxed gait, playing the part of a lost passerby looking for directions. I didn't have to wait long.

A woman's scream, short, as if cut off mid-cry. It came from a narrow passage between two warehouses. I quickened my pace and turned into the dead end without hesitation.

The scene was almost theatrical. Two men were holding a woman. She wasn't struggling, but rather just letting herself be held. My appearance didn't surprise them. One of them, stocky, with a sparse beard, lazily turned his head toward me. "Easy there, champ. Came to save the girl?" There was no threat in his voice, just boredom.

The second man, taller and thinner, was silent. He just took a step to the side, clearing my view. The situation was transparent. The woman was bait, I was the intended victim. But something was wrong. These two didn't look like street muggers. No nervousness, no hunger for profit in their eyes. It looked like they were just at work. Unmarked clothes, short haircuts, military posture.

"Show me your hands. Slow," the second one commanded.

The woman, who had been feigning fear, sighed heavily and rolled her eyes. "Let's get this over with," she muttered under her breath.

The first man smirked and pulled out a gun. "On your knees. Hands behind your head. Now."

I obediently followed the order, kneeling on the dirty asphalt. My thoughts were working quickly and clearly. Option A: Neutralize the three of them. With my powers, that's easy. But what then? Call the cops? How would I explain how I beat them? It would attract unwanted attention. And most importantly, I wouldn't learn anything. Option B: Play their game. Let them take me. If this isn't a simple mugging but a targeted capture, that means I'll be passed up the chain. And then I might be able to find out who they are, who they work for, and most importantly—if they have others. Others like me.

And at that moment, kneeling at gunpoint, I felt not fear, but a strange, almost inappropriate calm. It was growing into an explorer's excitement. Before, this situation would have paralyzed me with terror. Now, with power, I saw it as an interesting adventure, like the first level in an unfamiliar game. I was genuinely curious what would happen next.

Cold plastic of disposable zip-ties tightened around my wrists. They searched me—not roughly, but methodically, like at a checkpoint. The man doing the search frowned when he found no phone, wallet, or even keys in my pockets. He shot a brief, questioning glance at his partner, but the other man just gave a slight shrug. Apparently, their victims' oddities weren't part of their job description.

They led me silently through a dark labyrinth of containers and brought me to one that looked no different from the rest. A heavy steel door slid open with a screech, and I was unceremoniously shoved inside. The outside world ceased to exist.

There were about nineteen people inside. They had been here long enough for apathy to have erased most emotions from their faces. A girl in a once-fancy club dress sat hugging her knees, rocking back and forth. Next to her, a man in an expensive suit lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling with a vacant gaze. There were others—a student, a laborer, a couple that looked homeless. My arrival earned only a few indifferent glances. I was just one more object in this cage.

I let my eyes adjust to the dim light and broke the silence. "Can anyone explain what's going on?"

Most of them ignored me. But a dry cough came from a bunk in the shadows. An elderly man with gray stubble and deeply sunken eyes slowly turned his head toward me. He studied me for a long time, as if trying to read something on my face. "Your voice is too calm, kid. You're either a fool, or... a cop."

Several heads immediately turned to me. A faint hope flickered in a couple of pairs of eyes. "Not a cop," I replied, looking straight at the old man. "Just want to understand the layout."

The hope in their eyes died as quickly as it had lit. The girl in the club dress whimpered. The old man coughed again, this time a wracking, full-body cough. "Layout's simple," he exhaled, once the fit had passed. "We've been here ten days, maybe eleven. The days blur into one long, stinking dream. We've got no idea why we're here. Once a day, that little window opens"—he nodded at a small slot in the door—"they pass us water and some tasteless paste. That's it."

I scanned the container. It wasn't just a metal box. There were bunks along the walls, exactly twenty of them. In the corner was a chemical toilet, and next to it, a tank of drinking water with a pump. The ventilation grate near the ceiling was welded shut; air was apparently piped in through some hidden vents. This place had been prepared for long-term confinement.

And there were exactly twenty bunks. Nineteen occupied, and one empty—until I arrived. So, they weren't just grabbing random people; they were assembling a set. And I was the last piece. Whatever they had planned, it was supposed to happen very soon. I walked to the free bunk at the far end of the container and sat. The others resumed their quiet existence, sinking back into apathy. But for me, the wait was different. I wasn't a victim awaiting my fate. I was an observer who had taken a front-row seat for the show. I just had to wait for the curtain to rise.

The wait ended suddenly, around three in the morning. The heavy container door slid aside, letting in the cold dock air. "Out, one at a time. No sudden movements," the voice outside was businesslike.

The prisoners, stumbling and squinting, trickled out. They were met by three mercenaries in tactical gear, rifles at the ready, their faces indifferent. Behind them, in the half-light, stood five others, but they were different. Dressed entirely in black, but it wasn't fabric, it was some kind of matte material. They held no weapons, but their very stillness was far more unsettling than the mercenaries' guns.

The lead mercenary gestured toward the silhouette of a cargo ship at the pier. "Everyone on board. Move it."

The panic, which had been smoldering, began to ignite. One of the prisoners started to cry quietly. A ship was a point of no return. This had gone too far. I had to act here and now. I took a step forward, deliberately separating myself from the crowd. "Just out of curiosity," my voice was steady, "where are we sailing? And who are the guys in black?"

The lead mercenary slowly turned his head, irritation crossing his face. He raised his rifle, aiming at my chest. "Too many questions, kid. You don't need to know. Now walk where you were told."

Realizing I wouldn't get answers from him, I held out my right hand and focused. The air around the three mercenaries compressed and began to form a sphere. They didn't immediately understand what was happening. One of them pulled the trigger. A burst of automatic fire slammed into the barrier. The bullets, deforming, plopped uselessly onto the asphalt. The realization that they were facing a mutant came at the same time as the terror.

Not giving them time to recover, I thrust my other hand out toward the five in black, creating another barrier. And then I began to compress the first one, the one holding the mercenaries. The sphere shrank in diameter, relentlessly crushing the three men into each other and onto the ground. But with the second group, things went wrong. As soon as the barrier closed around them, they just... vanished. The shadows at their feet stretched unnaturally, blackened, and pulled them in, leaving nothing but empty asphalt. I instinctively dropped the useless barrier.

My own shadow stirred. It arched, taking on volume, and from it, as if from black water, one of the figures emerged. A short blade glinted in its hand, aimed at my throat. Reaction outpaced thought. I didn't have time to dodge or raise a new barrier. The only thing I could do was densify my personal force field to its limit. There was a quiet screech as the blade stopped a millimeter from my skin. I backhanded my free arm, aiming for the opponent's head. But he moved with inhuman speed. He dodged the blow, stepped back, and his body began to sink into the shadow of a nearby container.

At that moment, the rising wail of police sirens carried from the distance. The ninjas froze mid-attack. They said something quickly to each other in... Chinese? And without hesitation, one by one, they dove into the darkness, disappearing completely. That was dangerous. I had severely underestimated the risks.

Silence fell, broken only by the groans of the three mercenaries pinned to the ground by my sphere and the frightened whispers of the other prisoners. They were looking at me like a savior. "What am I supposed to do with you?" I asked the helpless bodies in the barrier.

In that same second, two patrol cars flew around the corner, bathing everything in blue and red flashing lights. Two cops jumped out of each car. Four guns were immediately aimed in our direction. "POLICE! DON'T MOVE, HANDS UP!" came the standard order.

A few of the prisoners gave joyful shouts. The woman in the club dress even sobbed in relief and quickly raised her hands. But I didn't share their joy. The entire fight, from my first step to the ninjas' disappearance, had taken a minute at most. How did they arrive so fast? One car, randomly patrolling the docks and hearing shots—maybe. But two? Two cars, arriving simultaneously, as if summoned by a call no one had made. This was more like a second wave.

I did the same thing I had done to the mercenaries, who were already unconscious, pinned to the ground. The space around the cops compressed, pressing them to the asphalt. "What are you doing?!" the woman in the dress screamed. "They're here to help us!"

"Really? Think about it. How could they get here so fast? And by the way,"—I nodded at the immobilized mercenaries—"while I'm busy, take the guns from those guys. It'll be bad if they have rifles in their hands when they wake up."

I walked over to the nearest cop, who was lying face down, trying to lift his head. "Damn mutant!" he rasped, spitting dust. "We'll start with you," I replied.

I didn't remove the barrier completely, just freed this cop enough to search him, while giving him no chance to get up. My own protective shell was still active, so I wasn't worried about a surprise attack. The search yielded interesting results. A pack of cigarettes, a standard smartphone, and... another phone, an old, button-operated one. "Why does one guy need two different phones?" I asked aloud, mostly to myself. "Okay, what's the PIN?"

"Go to hell," he hissed. I just grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face into the asphalt. Once. "I'll ask again." He was silent, breathing heavily. Strange, is he more afraid of his boss than of me? Or is this loyalty?

I turned the phone over in my hands. I decided to try the most standard combination imaginable. 0-0-0-0. The screen unlocked. I barely managed to hold back a chuckle. "You really are an idiot, aren't you?" I opened the call log. The last call was about an hour ago, an unsaved number. Without thinking, I hit redial.

After a few rings, someone answered. The voice was male, calm. "Was there a problem?" I tried to imitate the cop's rough tone. "Yeah, some mutant messed up the shipment. What's the plan, boss?"

There was a pause on the other end. Did I blow it? Finally, the voice spoke again. "Why did you call me 'boss'?" "Because I work for you," I answered, knowing the game was up. Another pause, heavier than the last. "Who is this?" "I'll answer if I hear an answer to my question first," I countered, holding the phone to my ear. "'Why did you call me boss?' Sounds like you're just a middle manager. You're a pawn too, just a higher-ranking one?"

A humorless chuckle came from the other end. "And you, I take it, are the 'mutant' who messed up the shipment. Curious. You just assaulted officers of the New York Police Department. Do you seriously think you can just walk away?"

"I'll deal with that. I'm more interested in the ones who can hide in shadows. Who are they?" Another pause. "And what did they do when you showed up?" "They ran."

"'The Hand.' A clan of assassins." "Imagine that. I didn't think you'd give up your partners so easily." "The fact that you were able to pull this off is entirely their fault. We have no intention of taking the loss alone." And he hung up.

Whoever I was talking to had, without a second thought, written off both the failed ninjas and his own men. He didn't try to save them; he was just gathering information on the new variable—me. Now I had a much more mundane problem. Four corrupt cops, three mercenaries, and nineteen terrified witnesses. I couldn't just leave them all here. What a mess.

I walked over to the cop I'd taken the phone from. "What's your captain's name?" The cop was silent, staring at the ground. "Don't make me repeat myself. I'll find his name online anyway." "Stacy. Captain George Stacy." I nodded and headed for one of the patrol cars. The radio on the dashboard was hissing, occasionally breaking through with snippets of police jargon. I'd never used one, but the principle seemed simple. Press to talk, release to listen.

I pressed the button. "I need Captain Stacy, urgently." A second's pause, and then a voice answered from the speaker. "State your call sign and badge number." I pressed the button again. "That's not important. Tell Captain Stacy I have four of his officers hostage. He has five minutes to get on this channel." The radio exploded. Overlapping voices demanded I repeat, clarify, identify myself. I ignored them, placing the radio back on the dash.

The rescued prisoners huddled together a short distance away, watching me. They had seen me dispatch the mercenaries, and now I was threatening cops. In their world, this just didn't compute. Maybe three minutes passed. "This is Captain George Stacy. What are your demands?"

I picked up the radio. "No demands. More like a situation you're going to have to clean up." "I'm all ears," his tone was flat, no hint of irony. "Nineteen kidnapped civilians were in a shipping container. A group of armed men, about to ship them into slavery, was neutralized by me. Your guys showed up suspiciously fast. So I made the decision to... calm them down, too. One of them had an interesting burner phone. I called the last number, spoke to someone who's very unhappy about the shipment being disrupted. Basically, you've got a mess here: corrupt cops, kidnapped people, and me in the middle of it."

There was silence on the other end. Stacy was obviously processing the information. "You've just talked yourself into three life sentences. Assaulting officers, kidnapping... and you expect me to take this on faith over the radio? You mentioned victims. Where are you? Give me a pier or warehouse number."

"I don't know the exact coordinates; I'm not here on a tour. But you should have two patrol cars blinking on your dispatch map. Start there." Another short pause. Stacy was making a decision. "Don't move. We're on our way."

---

Ten minutes. That's all it took for them to respond. At first, it was a scattered wail of sirens, which gradually merged into one. I used the time well. All the weapons—the mercenaries' rifles, the cops' service pistols—I put in one pile. Only one Glock, I tucked into the waistband of my jeans.

The pier was flooded with flashing lights. Men in heavy armor fanned out from the cars, taking positions and raising ballistic shields. Their movements were practiced, economical. I stood in the center of this gathering storm and activated my invisibility. I wanted them to see me, but not be able to identify me. The medical mask, cap, and clothes stayed, but my face, eyes, ears—all vanished. I'd seen some Korean show online where a detective could reconstruct a face from the smallest details. I wasn't interested in finding out if the NYPD had anyone with that talent.

A man in his fifties stepped out from behind the human shield of SWAT officers. Solidly built, with a short haircut. He scanned the scene: the civilians, the bound officers on the ground, the pile of weapons, and finally, his gaze rested on me—a figure with no head. "I'm Captain Stacy. Who was I speaking to on the radio?"

I took a step forward, into the light. Running was the easiest option, but something in me wanted to see this conversation through. "Me."

Stacy tilted his head slightly, studying the anomaly above my neck. "You're under arrest for assaulting a police officer. Drop your weapon, hands behind your back, get on the ground." Dozens of barrels, which had been pointing in different directions, were now all aimed at me. "Mm, I think I'll decline," I spread my hands. "How about this: you ask questions, I answer them. I waited for you, Captain, to pass on information, not to surrender."

"That wasn't a request, it was an order," Stacy cut in. "All information will be entered into an interrogation report, at the precinct. My men will provide you with an escort." I looked at his men. Judging by their tense stances, the "escort" promised to be rough. "Ugh," I let out a sigh. It was a sigh of genuine disappointment. "So I waited for nothing. I was hoping for a more... rational approach. Well, if not, then not."

The air around me shimmered, condensing into a capsule. The police tensed, someone shouted a command. Stacy took a step forward, holding out a hand. "DON'T MOVE!"

But it was too late. My capsule silently lifted off the ground and shot up into the night sky. Shouts came from below, but not a single shot followed. The sky in the east was beginning to lighten, turning a dirty gray. Dawn was approaching. And then a thought hit me: what if I'm being tracked? Not visually, but some other way.

I changed course and landed in an unfamiliar alley several blocks from Mateo's building. I looked around. The street was empty. I quickly stripped naked, hid my clothes and the gun, and memorized the location. Now, completely invisible, I moved toward the apartment. Walking naked through early morning New York was... a strange experience. I was a ghost, watching the city awaken. Everyone was rushing about their business, never suspecting that a completely naked guy was walking a meter away from them. I have to admit, there was definitely something to it.

Reaching the building, I easily climbed the fire escape and slipped into my room through the unlocked window. I pulled on a pair of boxers and collapsed onto the bed. The world outside was starting its day. Mine had just ended.

 

[kowak]

Chapter 4
Beneath the streets of Brooklyn lay a world that didn't exist on any map. An old, decommissioned pumping station had been converted by Wilson Fisk into a personal command center. Fisk himself, dressed in an immaculate white suit that seemed out of place in this subterranean lair, sat in a massive leather armchair. On the main monitor before him were the detailed architectural plans for a new residential complex: "Harlem Renaissance." The quiet chime of an intercom broke the silence. "Enter."

A reinforced steel door slid open soundlessly. James Wesley, his assistant, appeared in the doorway. Thin, in a severe suit, a folder in his hand. Fisk did not turn, his gaze remained fixed on the blueprints. "Report on the pier situation."

"The deal was compromised, sir. An individual with anomalous abilities intervened. Nineteen units are lost. Our assets in the police and three mercenaries have been apprehended."

"His capabilities?" Fisk slowly swiveled his chair.

"Primary ability is force-field manipulation. He creates localized barriers capable of stopping automatic fire at close range. We also recorded an ability to compress the field with crushing force." Wesley paused. "Furthermore, the surveillance team lost him when he left the docks. Drones could not acquire a thermal or visual signature. This, combined with our men's reports of the target's 'transparent face,' leads us to believe he possesses invisibility. Apparently, the effect does not extend to his clothing."

Fisk steepled his fingers. "You spoke with him. What was your impression?"

"He didn't panic. He was probing, trying to gather information, not making threats. He spoke with confidence, but his actions had an element of... improvisation. Not an experienced operative. More like a gifted novice who is far too curious."

"Many mutants appeared after Harlem," Fisk said quietly. "That incident awakened many. Set search parameters, age fifteen to twenty-five. Victims or those who lost loved ones during the Abomination's attack."

"Already done, sir," Wesley opened his folder. "The sample size is nine thousand, seven hundred and forty-two individuals."

"Too many. Find more filters."

"It will be done."

"And The Hand?" Fisk's tone grew colder. "Why did they evaporate at the first sign of complication?"

"They mistook our patrol cars for genuine officers. Their priority is stealth; they were not prepared for an open confrontation with the authorities and chose to withdraw."

Fisk made a clicking sound with his tongue. "Amateurs. The costs of this operation will be deducted from their next payment."

"Yes, sir."

"How far along is the plan to seize power?"

Wesley answered without a moment's hesitation. "It will be ready soon, sir. Public tension is at its peak. The police are demoralized. There won't be a better moment."

A shadow of a smile appeared on Fisk's lips. "Then let Shocker and Rhino begin. It is time to raise New York from its knees."

This entire conversation, every word, every pause, was overheard. Neither Fisk nor Wesley likely suspected that one of The Hand's ninjas had been hiding in their shadows the entire time.

---

Nick Fury's office had no windows. They were replaced by smart-glass walls, which displayed real-time data streams—from satellite images of disputed territories to stock market tickers. The door slid open noiselessly behind him, admitting Phil Coulson. He was holding a thin tablet. "Report on the recent mutant, sir."

"Did we find him?" Fury asked, not turning around.

"Yes. As you ordered, the search was conducted with maximum secrecy." Coulson touched the tablet's screen. The image zoomed in, showing surveillance footage from the shopping mall. "A second before the Hulk intervened, the Abomination attacked a teenager, but the blow never landed."

On the footage, the monster's blurry figure slammed into an invisible barrier, around which a purple dome flared for a split second. "An energy shield. The power output is colossal; it withstood a direct hit from a Gamma-level subject. We ran the facial data. Subject identified. Diego Parr, seventeen years old. By an interesting coincidence, he was enrolled in the same class at Midtown High as our other subject of interest, Peter Parker."

"Has Xavier gotten his hands on him yet?"

"No, sir. According to our data, he has had no contact with any known gifted group. A clean slate, so to speak. What are your orders? Capture team? Surveillance?"

Fury was silent for several seconds, staring at the image. Then he said something Coulson had not expected. "Good work, Phil. Now delete it. Every byte. Perform a full scrub of the servers. Make it so we never found him."

Coulson froze. This went against everything S.H.I.E.L.D. stood for. "Sir? This is a potential high-level asset who manifested in the epicenter of a crisis. Protocol dictates we take him into custody..."

"Protocols are written for an organization that can be trusted," Fury interrupted, his voice devoid of humor. "I don't have that confidence anymore, Phil. There are too many ears in these walls, and not all of them are listening in the interests of humanity. This kid isn't a S.H.I.E.L.D. asset. He will be my personal, off-the-books resource. An ace in the hole that no one will know about."

He walked to his desk, leaning on it with his knuckles. "But we won't sit idly by. Activate our media assets. Let the story be about a hero who saved people from slavery. Not a mutant, but a mutant hero. We need to change the narrative. Let Senator Stern and his lapdogs choke on their speeches."

"You want to use him as a propaganda tool?" Coulson clarified, already grasping the plan.

"I want to give people hope, so they don't choose pitchforks and torches," Fury corrected. "Anti-mutant hysteria benefits those who want chaos. If we don't bleed off this pressure, it's going to blow up for real. And it won't be a fight between two monsters; it'll be a civil war."

Fury fell silent for a moment, looking at a hologram of the globe. His single eye shifted focus from North America to a small point in Eastern Europe. "What do we have on Latveria?"

"Due to Victor von Doom's genius, we still have very few ears there, sir," Coulson replied. "But what's happening there now, they aren't even trying to hide. Victor publicly called US representatives 'pathetic trash' and introduced several bills you yourself would like to see here. Any Latverian mutant can receive state benefits, especially if their abilities have drastically changed their way of life. If an ability is deemed useful, they are immediately placed in a suitable government service position. There's active recruitment for the army and scientific departments. In Latveria, 'mutant' isn't a brand; it's a title."

Fury sighed heavily. "A dictatorship is an extremely effective form of government, as long as the ruler isn't an idiot. And he, unfortunately for us, is a genius. What's the probability Victor will want to take over the world?"

"Extremely unlikely, according to the analysis division. He's a very responsible ruler and a perfectionist. He's already brought Latveria to first place in the world in technology, medicine, and standard of living. If he took over the world, his pride wouldn't allow his new subjects to live any worse. That would require colossal resources and time. But, according to their projections, if he does decide to... no country in the world could stop him. His intellect is rivaled only by Tony Stark's, but their resources are incomparable."

Fury sighed again, deeper this time. "Then it's best we don't provoke him." Coulson looked at his boss. He could see dozens of games already unfolding on the chessboard in his head, where the pieces were the fates of millions. "If it does break out, sir... this war... whose side will we be on?"

Fury looked up. "Our own."

---

A week had passed since my excursion. My head was buzzing after two hours with the physics tutor—formulas, vectors, and the laws of thermodynamics seemed simple and logical compared to what was happening outside. The city was tearing at the seams. On building walls, warring graffiti factions: "Exterminate Mutants" was crossed out with thick, dripping paint reading, "Then kill your own kid, asshole." At a bus stop, two men were screaming at each other over a newspaper headline, jabbing fingers at the blurry photo of some guy in a hoodie. The conflict only de-escalated because their bus arrived.

Sarah Connelly's office felt like a quiet harbor. The same peace, the same abstract painting on the wall, the same calm, studying gaze. "Hello, Diego. How are your two weeks going?"

I sat in the armchair. "Productively. Tutors, books, and a lot of time to think."

"Good," she made a note in her pad. "In such a short time, have you found a purpose in life? A hobby?"

"Yes. To both questions." That seemed to surprise her. "Curious. Tell me."

"The hobby was easy to find. Video games. I just finished one called 'Detroit.' About androids who gain consciousness and fight for their rights. It's very reminiscent of what's happening on the streets right now. Only instead of androids, we have people with abilities. As for a purpose... I'd like to be a journalist."

Now she was looking at me with genuine interest. "A journalist? Why?"

"Because everyone lies. Politicians, corporations, TV channels. Everyone has an agenda. They take the truth, cut it into pieces, and then only show the parts that benefit them. I want to see the whole picture. And maybe, show it to others."

"Since you brought it up," Sarah said slowly, "what do you think about what's happening? This whole schism in society."

I sighed. "I don't support those demanding controls and registries."

"Why not?" Her tone was perfectly neutral. "Their position is easy to understand. Ordinary people want to live in a world where a green giant doesn't fall on their car, and their neighbor doesn't suddenly start breathing fire. They're just afraid. Isn't their fear justified?"

"It is," I nodded, rubbing the back of my neck. "Their fear is completely rational. But the solutions they're proposing are irrational. A registry, control... it sounds safe. But it's like trying to put out a forest fire by dousing it with gasoline."

"Explain."

"You can't 'control' people who can walk through walls or read minds. You can only drive them underground, embitter them, turn them into real enemies. They'll forget they're part of society and create their own, parallel one. And that's when the real war will start. Mutants aren't an invading army you can surround and destroy. They are your neighbors, your classmates, your colleagues. They're already here. And they have real power to resist."

I paused, gathering my thoughts. "And the government is only adding fuel to the fire with its actions. It's afraid a power will emerge that it can't control. A power that doesn't depend on money, elections, or armies. And the fear of losing their monopoly on violence is making them do stupid things. They don't see a person in every mutant; they see a threat to their status. That's the core of it."

"You talk a lot about systems, about politics, about how some groups of people try to control others. Let's step away from the abstract for a minute. Imagine this concerned you, personally."

I raised an eyebrow. "What would you do, Diego, if you were a mutant?"

For a split second, my usual train of thought faltered. Showing that the question had gotten to me would be a tactical error. "I don't know. By and large, they're in a losing position."

"Why do you think so?"

"Because any open aggression on their part will only confirm the righteousness of those demanding control. It's a trap. The government and corporations control the narrative—the newspapers, the TV channels, and to a lesser extent, the internet portals. It's impossible to shout over their media machine."

"So, a dead end? Hide and wait?"

"No. That's not a solution either. The pressure will only build." I leaned forward slightly, formulating the thought. "You have to do good. Not abstract good, but targeted, visible good. So that every person screaming about the 'mutant threat' has cognitive dissonance. So they remember that last week, it was a mutant who pulled people from a fire or stopped a robbery. And, of course, find allies. There will always be an opposition, one that will gladly ride this wave to score points and seize power."

Sarah listened to me without interrupting. Then she reached for her bag, which was by the leg of her chair, and took out a folded newspaper. She didn't hand it to me, but carefully unfolded it on the coffee table between us. A large, screaming headline: "RESCUE FROM SLAVERY: MYSTERY MUTANT DESTROYS HUMAN TRAFFICKING RING AT DOCKS." Beneath it, a blurry, long-distance photo. "You mean... like this?" she asked quietly, pointing at the photo with her fingertip.

It was a strange feeling, looking at the results of my night's work, filtered through someone else's perception. I looked away from the paper and met Sarah's gaze. "Yeah. Something like that."

"That's a very measured and, perhaps, the only correct strategy," she agreed. "But it's suited for someone with abilities that are strong enough." She looked at me very intently. "But what about the rest? The teenager who suddenly has wings sprouting from his back, who now has to hunch over and wear baggy clothes so no one notices? The girl who's afraid to touch her best friend because she sees his most shameful secrets? You're talking about a public war for hearts and minds. I'm asking about the personal war that each of them is fighting, twenty-four hours a day."

She paused, letting the words sink in. "Inside them, there's resentment, a sense of superiority mixed with the need to be a nobody. A constant fear of exposure. How long can a person withstand that pressure before they break? Or decide they've had enough of pretending?"

The question hung in the air between us. "I have no idea. I can't share or understand their pain, because I'm not a mutant." Something in her gaze changed. "Perhaps that's enough for today."

I left her office, but an uneasy feeling wouldn't let me go. Her questions were too precise, and the newspaper on the table was too timely. Does she know who I am?

I ducked into an empty alley and, there in the quiet, quickly stripped. I hid my clothes and backpack, and just like that, I was an invisible ghost. She didn't know I had started following her. I waited, leaning against the wall by the exit, watching her say goodbye to the secretary and walk out onto the street. The first two days confirmed my worst fears: I was paranoid. Her routine was predictable to the point of boredom. The café on the corner, always the same cappuccino. A walk in the park, feeding the pigeons from the same bench. Home by six o'clock sharp. I was ready to chalk it all up to my own imagination, worn out by stress and secrets. But on the third evening, everything changed.

She didn't go to the park. Instead, she hailed a cab. I rose into the air in my barrier, an invisible shadow following the yellow car as it carried her away from her usual routes, into a semi-abandoned industrial zone. The taxi dropped her off by rows of identical, rusting storage garages. She walked with confidence; she knew this place. After heading deep into the labyrinth, where it would be easy to get lost, she stopped at an unremarkable garage with the number "142." She looked around. The street was empty, except for the invisible me. A lock clicked, and the heavy door groaned as it rolled upward. She went inside, and I slipped in after her, just before the door came crashing down.

The setup was simple: an old TV with a VCR on a metal cart, and a worn-out velour armchair facing it. She sat in the chair, pulled a blank videocassette from a shelf, and inserted it into the player. There was a mechanical whir, and the TV screen hissed to life with static. And then an image appeared. A therapy room. A ten-year-old boy with short-cropped hair was sitting at a table. The camera was filming from an angle, clearly hidden from the boy's view. A voice came from off-screen. It was Sarah's voice, but many years younger. "Zebediah, we agreed. You can tell me what happened." The boy on screen twitched his shoulder. "Nothing to tell. It was his own fault."

"He's in the hospital," Sarah's voice was soft, but insistent. "You were careless. What if you had been seen?" There was no remorse in his childish eyes, no fear. "That's impossible. I told him to forget about it."

"And what will you tell the cameras? Will you order them, too? They don't obey you. You forgot the first rule. Don't get caught." Cut.

The same room, but Zebediah was older. Now he was a young man of about eighteen, with an arrogant smirk. He was slouched in the chair opposite the camera, one leg thrown over the other. "I did what I wanted," his voice was full of smug satisfaction. "God, it felt so good, Sarah. To be who I really am. The ruler of these brainless little people." Sarah's voice from off-screen was warm, laced with approval, as if she were praising a student for a perfectly done assignment. "What did you do? Tell me everything."

"Oh, I committed my first murder," he said, as if talking about a trip to the movies. "Just like you taught me. So no one would even think to look my way." He smirked at the memory. "Remember Brian? That stupid asshole who broke my arm in grade school? I ran into him on the street. He didn't even recognize me, can you believe it? Smiled, asked how I was. He forgot. I didn't." Zebediah savored the moment. "I found some stinking junkie at the train station. Hungry, desperate, a perfect tool. I just told him to kill Brian and take his wallet. So the police would have a motive—a simple mugging gone wrong. No one suspected a thing. I even went to the funeral, gave his mom my condolences." Sarah's voice oozed pride. "Well done, Zebediah. You did everything right. You understand why you were given this power, don't you? You are not like them. You were given almost godlike abilities to lead, to command these stupid, short-sighted people. They are the flock, and you are the shepherd." The young man threw his head back and laughed. The image hissed with static again. Cut.

Now a different boy was on the screen. About twelve, with a faint scar crossing his right eyebrow. He was sitting curled in a ball, crying quietly, his face buried in his knees. "Benjamin, don't cry," Sarah's voice was impossibly gentle. "Look at me. You know you can tell me anything." The boy slowly raised his head. His eyes were red from crying. "I didn't mean to," he sobbed. "Honest... I don't know what came over me. It was just a puppy... so small. I just wanted to pet it, but... I accidentally strangled it." He began to cry again, his shoulders shaking. "I squeezed too hard... It just... stopped breathing."

"You mustn't blame yourself, Benjamin," her voice was full of a strange, twisted tenderness. "You mustn't hold back. What's inside you isn't evil, it's strength. It's not something to be feared. It's something to be understood and directed." She paused, choosing her words like a key for a lock. "That dog was important to you, I know. So remember this moment. Remember this pain. The puppy may not have been at fault... but the world is full of people who are. People who deserve to die." The boy looked up at her, his expression lost and tear-stained. "I don't understand... what am I supposed to do?" "Don't worry. I'll teach you."

The screen flickered, flashing with a band of static. Cut. The same room, the same chair. But now an older Benjamin sat in it. Calm, unmoving. There was no trace of the frightened boy. "How was your day?" Sarah asked casually from off-screen. "Fine," he shrugged indifferently. "Got a strike recently." "How so?" Curiosity was audible in her voice.

"Well, it's when a car is driving by, and the driver has the window open," he spoke slowly, almost lazily. "I throw a small rock at him. Calculate the trajectory so it hits him right in the temple. The person blacks out instantly, loses control of the car... and it plows into a crowd of people at a bus stop. I got ten this time."

"Good job," Sarah said, without a hint of emotion. "Very clean. And how is your brother? Is he appearing?" Benjamin's face twisted in disgust for a moment. "You already know. After I killed his dog, he was always whining, trying to get out. But then I managed to take control for good. Now he's quieter than water, lower than grass."

The video ended. Sarah Connelly pressed a button, and the cassette ejected from the player with a quiet click. She looked at the clock on the wall, as if checking a schedule, and put the cassette back in its cardboard sleeve. Then she opened the garage, and I slipped out with her, a shadow. I had watched it all, and my only thought was the desire to kill her. Right here, right now. But I held back. I needed to think this through. Thoughts raced through my head, forming a terrifying picture. The first video, with Zebediah, was a mutant who could command with his words. She played on his ego, feeding his pride, and taught him the most important thing: don't get caught. With the second, Benjamin, she played a completely different role. The role of a caring mentor. That guy... did he have multiple personalities? And this cold-blooded killer was the second personality, the one who had seized control of the body by killing the "brother" inside? Sarah Connelly wasn't a serial killer. She was much worse. She created them. She finds gifted children with psychological trauma and molds them into what she needs.

And new questions immediately arose. Is Principal Davis working with her? Did I really end up in her office by chance, out of his "good will"? And what role in her collection had she prepared for me? I was sure she knew, somehow, that I was a mutant.

---

How do you kill someone without leaving a trace? I stared at dozens of open tabs. They were articles on other people's lives and deaths: forensic forums, deconstructions of famous cases, articles on methods of concealing evidence. Everything I'd seen in TV shows seemed either theatrically complex or downright stupid. Reality was simpler.

A plan was already taking shape in my mind. Sarah Connelly is alone in that garage. The place where she keeps her "collection" will be her grave. No witnesses, no random passersby. They wouldn't look for her there, at least, not right away. I spent two days checking on Principal Davis. I looked through his bio, social media, mentions in the press. Nothing. Not a single link connecting him to Sarah, other than professional recommendations. She had started her "work" when he was still in high school. He was clean. Just a man who genuinely wanted to help a troubled teenager and, without knowing, had sent him straight into the hands of a monster.

A search for "Sarah Connelly, psychologist" brought up pages of glowing reviews. Articles in local papers about her helping children who had survived abuse. Thank-you notes from parents. She had built herself a flawless reputation, a perfect cover that delivered new test subjects right to her. This is how she finds people like me. But one question bothered me. How did she know I was a mutant? Intuition? Professional experience? What if she's one of us herself? What if she has some form of telepathy or empathy that lets her sense other gifted individuals? That turned the hunt into a game on a minefield, where she could anticipate my every move.

Coming home from my tutor, the first thing I did was turn on YouTube on my laptop. I'd find a ten-hour loop of jazz for studying or a lecture on astrophysics and turn the volume down to a minimum. I read interrogation transcripts I'd downloaded from a forum. Cops often catch suspects on the small details. They set a trap and ask, "What were you doing at 7 PM yesterday?" The suspect answers, "Sitting at home, watching a show." And that's when they ask for access to his viewing history. It might not be direct proof of guilt, but if his words can't be confirmed, it's clear he's hiding something. My viewing history would be flawless. While Diego Parr, the orphan from Harlem, diligently listens to lectures and prepares for college, someone else will be administering justice in a dusty garage on the outskirts of Brooklyn. I opened the map with the marked location. All that was left was to plan the details. Every little thing mattered. I had no room for error.

---

My suspension was up in one day. I was already sure I'd have to postpone the plan, wait for a new opportunity. But then she got in the taxi. I followed the car, moving in my barrier above the rooftops. She didn't look back. She walked confidently to her garage, and the rusty door screeched as it rolled up. Inside, she didn't bother with the cassettes. She just walked to the old armchair and sat down. She sat motionless, hands folded in her lap, and stared at the blank TV screen. I froze behind her, just a few steps away. Suddenly, her calm, even voice broke the silence. "Diego, perhaps you've hidden long enough?"

She knew? My whole body tensed instinctively, ready for action. But this could be a trick. A simple probe into the emptiness to confirm a hunch. I didn't make a sound, didn't move. The springs in the old chair creaked quietly as she tilted her head slightly. "Hmm?" The sound wasn't a question, but rather a pensive hum. It became clear: she couldn't see me clearly.

I started to act. A barrier appeared around her chair, weaving itself into a transparent sphere. She didn't even flinch. She just slowly scanned the contours of her new prison. Her calmness was getting on my nerves. "So you were here."

Without dropping my invisibility, I spoke. "You're awfully composed for this situation." She let out a quiet chuckle. "Are you nervous? Don't worry. Only I am going to die today." Goosebumps ran down my skin. Can she see the future? "What's that supposed to mean?"

She sighed, like a tired teacher. "Diego, Diego... When I spoke the first word at our first session, this situation was already preordained. As you've probably guessed, I'm a mutant. And I have a rather interesting ability. I don't move objects, and I don't read minds in the conventional sense. I just... know. I know what to say, what to do, how to look, when to pause... to make people like you do what I need."

I considered her words. If this was true, the outlook was not good. Every action I'd taken since we met had been predetermined. "That's impossible. You wanted me to kill you?" I thought for a moment. "Ah, I get it. You wanted to make me into another killer for your collection. And looking at this situation, you've done it. But since you can't see the future, you couldn't have known I would start by killing you. Or... by having this conversation, are you making me change my mind?"

A question arose: Why hadn't I killed her immediately? Why was I standing here, talking, listening? I was curious about what she would say next. Was this curiosity, this delay, her doing as well?

She smiled slightly, staring straight ahead. "As I said, my first sentence determined your fate. And mine. It's too late to change anything." She huffed quietly, a note of twisted satisfaction in her voice. "It's funny, you know. To die by your own creation. Perhaps it's a fitting end for someone like me."

Her words were directed more at herself than at me. She wasn't afraid of death, because from her perspective, she had already won. "You're pathetic. With an ability like that, you could have helped people with the most severe trauma. But you chose to worsen their conditions and turn them into monsters. And now, one of them is going to put an end to it." Afraid she could talk her way out of this, I didn't wait for a reply. I compressed the barrier.

I didn't think today's incident would end so shitty. The transparent sphere vanished, and now nothing separated me from the result of my actions. I had expected anything from her: a villainous tirade, pleading. But even after it was over, there was no relief. Sarah's words clung to my thoughts like a sticky web. "My first sentence determined your fate." What exactly did she want to make me into? Damn it, the way she described her power, it doesn't give a full understanding. This garage, her tapes, me showing up here... was this all planned from the start? Does it mean there's no choice, just a pre-written script? Wait.

Why was I taking her words as truth? She hadn't shown anything supernatural, except, perhaps, a frightening perceptiveness. All my decisions were the result of my choices. I decided to track her. I decided to enter this garage. I decided to kill her. And it doesn't matter what she said or what she wanted. It was my will. When I came to this conclusion, the tension in my shoulders eased a bit. It became easier to breathe. What now? I wasn't going to clean up what was left of her. What difference did it make if she was found? I turned to grab the tapes and leave, but at that moment, a click came from under the chair. And then the garage exploded.

The shockwave, which should have torn a normal person to pieces, slammed into the invisible barrier around my body. Flames roared, greedily consuming the old shelves and the cassettes. Superheated air beat against my protective shell, but I felt no heat. I expected to suffocate, for my lungs to be seared by the hot smoke. When I took a breath, the air was clean, but there wasn't enough of it. Because of the fire feeding on the oxygen, the amount had significantly decreased.

I finally understood, or at least, began to guess, why I felt the wind when I was falling, even though I shouldn't have. My power wasn't just a dumb shield. It worked autonomously, like an immune system, determining what was a threat. The shockwave, the shrapnel, the fire, the toxic smoke particles—all of it was blocked. But the oxygen molecules, necessary for breathing, passed through this invisible filter. Okay, no time for discoveries. I had to get out of here.

The explosion itself was a logical end to her life. It seems she had installed some kind of sensor, linked to her vital signs. When she died, the detonator triggered. All the evidence—her recordings, her "collection"—was meant to disappear in the flames. Her goal was to create monsters, and she had made sure their pasts couldn't be traced. If I had known... if I had just guessed, I would have covered the shelves with the tapes in a barrier.

I stepped through the wall of fire and slipped out onto the street, leaving behind the roaring funeral pyre that Sarah Connelly had arranged for herself.

 

[kowak]

Chapter 5
I didn't think today's incident would end so shitty.

The transparent sphere vanished, and now nothing separated me from the result of my actions. I had expected anything from her: a villainous tirade, pleading. But even after it was over, there was no relief. Sarah's words clung to my thoughts like a sticky web. "My first sentence determined your fate." What exactly did she want to make me into? Damn it, the way she described her power, it doesn't give a full understanding. This garage, her tapes, me showing up here... was this all planned from the start? Does it mean there's no choice, just a pre-written script?

Wait.

Why was I taking her words as truth? She hadn't shown anything supernatural, except, perhaps, a frightening perceptiveness. All my decisions were the result of my choices. I decided to track her. I decided to enter this garage. I decided to kill her. And it doesn't matter what she said or what she wanted. It was my will. When I came to this conclusion, the tension in my shoulders eased a bit. It became easier to breathe.

What now? I wasn't going to clean up what was left of her. What difference did it make if she was found? I turned to grab the tapes and leave, but at that moment, a click came from under the chair. And then the garage exploded.

The shockwave, which should have torn a normal person to pieces, slammed into the invisible barrier around my body. Flames roared, greedily consuming the old shelves and the cassettes. Superheated air beat against my protective shell, but I felt no heat. I expected to suffocate, for my lungs to be seared by the hot smoke. When I took a breath, the air was clean, but there wasn't enough of it. Because of the fire feeding on the oxygen, the amount had significantly decreased.

I finally understood, or at least, began to guess, why I felt the wind when I was falling, even though I shouldn't have. My power wasn't just a dumb shield. It worked autonomously, like an immune system, determining what was a threat. The shockwave, the shrapnel, the fire, the toxic smoke particles—all of it was blocked. But the oxygen molecules, necessary for breathing, passed through this invisible filter. Okay, no time for discoveries. I had to get out of here.

The explosion itself was a logical end to her life. It seems she had installed some kind of sensor, linked to her vital signs. When she died, the detonator triggered. All the evidence—her recordings, her "collection"—was meant to disappear in the flames. Her goal was to create monsters, and she had made sure their pasts couldn't be traced. If I had known... if I had just guessed, I would have covered the shelves with the tapes in a barrier.

I stepped through the wall of fire and slipped out onto the street, leaving behind the roaring funeral pyre that Sarah Connelly had arranged for herself.

---

Today was the last day of my suspension. And according to my schedule, I was supposed to have a session with Sarah Connelly today. I walked to her office through the morning-sunlit streets, feeling like an actor who had learned his role perfectly. The same secretary was at the desk. "Diego, hello. Are you here for your ten o'clock?" "Yes, that's right," I managed a slight smile. She pursed her lips and tapped on her keyboard. "Dr. Connelly hasn't arrived yet. And she's not answering her phone, which is not like her at all." "Maybe traffic?" I suggested.

"Maybe," she clearly wasn't convinced. "You can wait in the reception area. I'll let you know as soon as she gets here." "Of course, no problem."

I sat on one of the sofas and picked up a random magazine from the table. Last night's news was already plastered with headlines about an explosion in an industrial area of Brooklyn. The fire was put out, but the body, of course, was not found. To the rest of the world, the brilliant psychotherapist Sarah Connelly had simply vanished.

I sat like that for almost an hour, methodically flipping through the glossy pages. The secretary glanced at me worriedly several times, made a few calls, and spoke in a low voice. Finally, I stood up. "I should probably get going." "Yes, of course," she stood up to see me out. "I'll be sure to call you as soon as we hear from her." "Thanks."

All formalities had been observed. Perhaps this game of being the diligent patient was excessive, but I preferred to do things right.

I settled into a small cafe across the street from a bank, ordered a coffee, and just watched the bustling life of the city. I had nothing else to do. What did I need to do to become a successful journalist? With my powers, I could "interview" people that regular reporters would be afraid to even speak to. I already had one target in mind—the mysterious organization, The Hand. The way they dissolved into shadows said a lot. But the main thing was that all five of them did it. It was unlikely to be a coincidence, a group of five mutants with the same rare ability. More likely, it was a honed technique, one that could be taught. And that meant they could be mass-producing such fighters. How many of them were in the organization?

And right now, as I was thinking about it, wasn't one of them sitting in my own shadow, watching me? The thought sent a shiver down my spine. Too many questions. And the main problem: how to make them talk? I doubted that torture was an effective method for getting truthful information. Suddenly, the cafe's plate-glass window trembled. A moment later, the facade of the bank across the street exploded into pieces, throwing a cloud of dust onto the street.

At the same time, a mechanical, emotionless voice came from the cafe's ceiling speakers: "ATTENTION. A CLASS ONE THREAT HAS BEEN DECLARED. CIVILIANS ARE ORDERED TO PROCEED IMMEDIATELY TO THE NEAREST SHELTERS. REMAIN CALM." From the breach in the bank's wall, a man in a massive, gray, rhinoceros-styled armor suit emerged, his steps heavy.

I watched him from a safe distance, feeling not fear, but interest. Almost immediately, several armored vans screeched to a halt at the scene. Soldiers in black tactical gear with "SOB" on their chests poured out—the Special Operations Bureau, created for exactly these situations. Stark Industries used to be their main weapons supplier, but after Tony Stark publicly renounced weapons manufacturing, the shipments stopped. In exchange, he gave the squad access to his non-lethal developments, so now their arsenal consisted mainly of containment and immobilization technologies.

The soldiers acted in concert. They scattered dozens of small discs around Rhino. The discs stuck to the asphalt and began to emit low-frequency vibrations. Rhino's suit sparked; the hydraulics in its joints froze. He tried to take a step, but the armor no longer obeyed him.

It would have ended there, but in the next second, the trap-discs began to flash and shut down, one by one. A second man in a yellow-and-brown quilted suit with metal gauntlets on his arms, Shocker, emerged from around the corner. He aimed one of the gauntlets at the nearest SOB van, and an invisible shockwave crumpled the armored door inward. The threat had just escalated from Class One to Class Two.

---

Wilson Fisk watched the events unfold on the screens in his underground command center. Each monitor showed the same scene of chaos from different angles: traffic cameras, surveillance drones, even hacked news feeds. He knew the SOB's protocols and armaments by heart. Every sonic emitter, every vibration trap—it had all been accounted for. He didn't need the bank; he wasn't interested in the money in the vault. This event was a carefully orchestrated performance, a prelude to his speech tomorrow, where he would announce his intention to run for Mayor of New York. It was a challenge, thrown not just at the city administration, but at the entire rotten system of the United States. One of the conditions of his contract with The Hand was the transfer of compromising material on key political figures in the country. Fisk, however, did not know that his new partners in The Hand were working closely with HYDRA. Therefore, the kompromat he received was carefully filtered: he was only given information on HYDRA's enemies, not on its numerous agents embedded within the government.

Fisk suspected that something wasn't right. Too much frankly useless information, minor sins that wouldn't sink a career, too many hits on figures with no real weight. He felt he was only being fed what was convenient for his mysterious partners, but he couldn't point it out. In any case, he had no intention of using this data for an attack. The kompromat was his insurance, his final argument in a dialogue where all other words had run out. It was needed only to keep him alive. If the day came when he was forced to lay those cards on the table, it would mean only one thing: he had already lost.

On the screens, Shocker and Rhino had already neutralized the first squad. Their synergy was flawless. Shocker, whose suit generated localized electromagnetic pulses, disabled the SOB's high-tech traps with his mere presence. And Rhino, invulnerable to their non-lethal weapons, simply plowed forward, protecting his more vulnerable partner. They complemented each other perfectly.

Ten minutes passed. The performance was dragging on. The usual sequence of events had been disrupted, and Fisk felt a chill of irritation run down his spine. "Wesley. It's been ten minutes. Where is he?" James Wesley replied without a moment's hesitation: "All calculations are correct, sir. He should appear any minute."

Calculating Spider-Man's identity had been a complex, multi-stage task. They had staged dozens of minor incidents at various points in the city, analyzing the time and place of his appearance. The data relentlessly pointed to the fact that there was an eighty percent probability he was a high school or college student whose route passed through the city center. This narrowed the search to a few educational institutions, among which Midtown High School of Science and Technology was the primary candidate.

Then came the personal surveillance. Fisk's agents tailed every student in the high-risk group. And only one of them, Peter Parker, repeatedly and inexplicably shook his tail. There was no direct, irrefutable evidence. But, as was often the case in Fisk's world, the very absence of evidence was the main proof.

Spider-Man was strong, incredibly strong. Fisk could have destroyed the boy's life with a snap of his fingers, but why destroy such a valuable asset when it could be controlled? And then, finally, a familiar figure in red and blue appeared on the screens.

He swung into frame on a web, landing on a lamppost with acrobatic precision. Wasting no time, he fired several sticky projectiles from different angles, creating a thick cocoon around Shocker that instantly immobilized him and, more importantly, blocked his combat gauntlets. Rhino roared and charged him, but Spider-Man leaped to the ground directly in front of him. The armored giant swung an arm capable of punching through a bank vault wall. Spider-Man met the blow with his own fist.

On Fisk's monitors, the collision looked surreal. A massive armored arm against a normal one, covered in fabric. There was a dull sound of cracking composite, and Rhino's huge suit staggered. A second punch, fast and precise, landed on the helmet's joint, and the giant collapsed to the asphalt. A few quick movements, and he was hopelessly stuck to the ground.

The entire fight took less than a minute. Spider-Man dusted off his hands and addressed his defeated opponents. "Alright, guys, practice up. Hope I don't see you again." He shot a web at the cornice of the nearest building and disappeared into the labyrinth of skyscrapers as quickly as he had appeared.

A smile spread across Fisk's face. Everything had gone perfectly. The SOB had demonstrated their complete helplessness. And then a hero appeared who playfully stopped a Class Two threat, showing the city that the official structures couldn't cope. Fisk rose slowly from his chair, squaring his shoulders. "It's time to proceed to phase nine."

---

The bright glare of spotlights hit his eyes. Dozens of cameras from major news channels were aimed at the stage where the final mayoral debate was taking place. Two other candidates had already spoken before Wilson Fisk. Their rhetoric was predictable and, in Fisk's opinion, extremely amateurish. They tried to ride the wave of fear being fanned by the government, calling for registries, total control, and the isolation of mutants. They said what they thought the frightened public wanted to hear. It was Fisk's turn.

He walked onto the stage—enormous, clad in an impeccably tailored suit. His movements were slow and confident. A step behind him followed his personal bodyguard. If Diego had been in the hall, he would have recognized this man as Benjamin, the young man with the scar on his eyebrow from Sarah Connelly's second videotape. Fisk approached the podium and stared silently at the audience for several seconds, letting the noise die down.

"My opponents offer you simple solutions. They tell you what you want to hear: 'Be afraid,' 'Control,' 'Eradicate.' I will tell you the truth: their solutions are a path to catastrophe." A surprised murmur went through the hall. Until this moment, no public figure had dared to so openly condemn the government's official position.

"They urge you to hate. But answer me,"—he scanned the front rows—"are you prepared to kill your own son if he manifests an X-gene tomorrow? Are you ready to turn in your best friend, whom you've known your whole life? I think not. Your hatred is built on fear for your lives. But I ask you: who creates this fear? Who creates these evil mutants?"

He paused, letting the question hang in the air. "The answer is simple: we do. A teenager who is bullied for years at school finally snaps, and the stress awakens an ability in him. He strikes back. Who is to blame? Is it him alone? Words and actions have consequences. Hatred begets hatred. And those who shout the loudest about the threat are the ones contributing the most to its creation."

"Sooner or later, a Class Five mutant will appear. And what do you intend to do then? Kill him? Control him? Wake up. We are weak! Just yesterday, the elite SOB squad couldn't handle a Class Two threat. Class Two! And then Spider-Man flew in and solved the problem in a minute."

"The authorities are afraid of losing control. I, however, offer a solution. As part of my platform, the 'Guardians of New York' initiative will be created. These will be mutants who will protect this city from other mutants. Anonymously, without total control. Any gifted individual whose ability can be useful to society can come to my foundation and receive a decent job with a five-figure salary. We will turn a threat into an asset! We will give them a purpose!"

At that moment, a bullet cut through the air. Benjamin, standing behind Fisk, flicked his wrist almost imperceptibly, and the small stone he had been holding between his fingers vanished. The bullet, fired by a sniper from the roof of an adjacent building, was aimed directly at Fisk's head. But a split second before impact, it was met by that small stone. The bullet's trajectory shifted by several critical centimeters. Instead of his head, it entered his shoulder.

Only then did the sound of the shot reach the auditorium. People screamed. Panic began. Fisk staggered from the impact, his massive body swaying. He grabbed the podium with his good hand to stay on his feet. Blood quickly soaked the fabric of his expensive jacket. Everything was going according to plan. This was one of the riskiest, but also one of the most effective, scenarios they had worked through: in the event of an assassination attempt, Bullseye was supposed to not eliminate the threat, but merely redirect the bullet to a non-lethal zone—the shoulder or arm, for maximum drama. Benjamin had executed the order perfectly.

"BE CALM!" Fisk roared into the microphone, his voice drowning out all other sounds. The panic froze for a moment. All eyes were riveted on him. "THOSE BEHIND THIS WANT TO PLUNGE OUR CITY INTO CHAOS!" he shouted, looking directly into the cameras. "THEY FEAR THE TRUTH! THEY FEAR CHANGE! WE WILL NOT ALLOW IT!"

With those words, his security team surrounded him in a tight circle and began to lead him off the stage. Fisk walked on his own, unbowed, and this image of a leader, wounded but not broken, who had taken a bullet for his beliefs, was seared into the consciousness of everyone who saw it. With his speech, Fisk had forced the world to move at a frantic pace.

---

In his office, Alexander Pierce watched the recording in silence. The assassination attempt had not just failed; it had become the best part of Fisk's election campaign. "We underestimated him," Pierce said to himself, slowly swirling the whiskey in his glass. He focused on the screen, where a slow-motion replay showed the bodyguard making an imperceptible movement with his hand. Who was this man? The Hand had provided no data on him. Had they deliberately withheld the fact that the target had his own mutant? But, even worse, people were actually starting to support him. Fisk's ideas were infectious. There was no guarantee now that even if they killed him, the movement would die with him.

And Fury... he had been too quiet lately. Could he suspect something? Pierce dismissed the thought. No, impossible. Their digital footprint was non-existent. Arnim Zola's artificial intelligence gave them an absolute advantage in the information space; not even Tony Stark could breach it. Besides, every member of HYDRA had mental blocks, borrowed from The Hand, installed in their consciousness. Even under torture or telepathic assault, they could not give up their secrets. Pierce set the glass on his desk and walked to his terminal. Enough analysis. Time to act. "Time to unfreeze the 'Winter Soldiers,'" he decided.

A list of eight codenames appeared on the screen. They hadn't been given Erskine's original serum, but a crude copy. The soldiers were incredibly strong, but far from Captain America's level. They could withstand a direct hit from a tank shell, but that was about it. Eight trained killing machines would be sent after Fisk. From the very beginning of the mutant emergence, Pierce understood they were the future. But every gifted individual HYDRA had tried to get to had mysteriously slipped through their fingers. And now Fisk, a simple crime boss, was parading around with a specimen capable of deflecting bullets.

He looked out at the lights of Washington, and for the first time in many years, a crack appeared in his confidence. Was HYDRA truly still the strongest organization in this world?

---

Charles Xavier did not like to invade the minds of others. To him, it was a gross, intimate violation he only permitted himself in the most extreme cases. And Wilson Fisk, the man who had overturned the political landscape of New York in a single night, was without a doubt such a case.

Sitting in the silence of his study, Xavier focused. He did not probe deeply, did not dig into childhood memories or hidden desires. He only needed the surface, the structure of thoughts, the plans for the immediate future. But even what he saw was enough. The picture that opened up to him was ugly and complex. Wilson Fisk was not just a businessman with a dubious reputation. He was the shadow king of New York, the spider in the center of a vast criminal web. Trafficking of hard drugs, weapons, and people.

But what struck Xavier the most was not the scale of the crimes, but Fisk's intellect. He had known all this time that a ninja from The Hand was hiding in his shadow. Xavier hadn't even suspected the existence of this organization, but Fisk not only knew of them, he was calculating their moves. He deliberately conducted all important negotiations with his key assets, like Bullseye, through encrypted correspondence and dead drops, never giving his mysterious "allies" the full picture. While all the other players on the board were waiting for each other's moves, Fisk was already playing his own, separate game.

He had little information on the truly major powers, like S.H.I.E.L.D. or the Hellfire Club, but with his speech, he had seized the initiative from all of them. The realization made him sick. Despite the fact that Fisk was a monster, at this very moment, he was doing exactly what was vital for the survival of mutants. To expose him now would be to destroy this fragile hope. To plunge society back into the abyss of hatred and, perhaps, provoke an open war. Charles Xavier, the man who had dedicated his life to protecting peace and harmony, found himself in a monstrous position. He was forced to protect the very man he wished with all his being to stop. To protect a monster in order to save the innocent.

 

[kowak]

Chapter 6
As I walked to the school bus stop, yesterday's thoughts swirled in my head. Rhino and Shocker's performance was too clumsy. They didn't try to escape with the money or accomplish any clear objective; their goal was destruction. I didn't even have to intervene, because Spider-Man showed up, and his performance was... competent. Too competent. He calculated the force of his blow precisely to neutralize Rhino, and that was frightening. How many other powerful monsters were hiding around New York?

Initially, I had written off the spectacle at the bank as a primitive diversion, but after Fisk's speech, everything became more complicated. The speech itself was perfect. He voiced what I had been thinking and proposed a solution that looked good. He could have been considered a positive character, the city's savior, if not for one detail. The man standing behind him: Benjamin. The same boy raised by Sarah.

Nothing added up. Every new fact didn't clarify the situation, but only cast doubt on everything else. Who was Wilson Fisk, really?

Part of me wanted to dive headfirst into this abyss of secrets immediately, but I couldn't afford to. A quiet war to eliminate competitors and redistribute power was about to begin in the shadows. If I got involved now, without knowing all the players and the balance of power, I would just die a pointless death.

I couldn't blindly rely on my abilities. Yes, the protective shell worked like an autonomous immune system, but I didn't fully trust it. I could see the world beyond it—did that mean photons of light passed through the barrier unhindered? Or did my power simply not consider them a threat? What about a laser beam? Would it deem that a threat and block it? Unfortunately, I didn't have the technology to test a dozen such hypotheses.

In any case, it was too early for me to participate in such games. I needed to focus on school.

I got on the bus and took the last seat at the very back. The chatter didn't die down, but almost everyone looked at me. There was no fear or contempt in their gazes; rather, a hint of approval. I had done what many didn't have the guts to do—put the school bully in his place. But even so, no one dared to sit next to me.

At school, I went straight to the principal's office and knocked. "Come in," came Davis's calm voice. The principal was sitting at his desk and looked up at me over his glasses. "Hello."

"I hope these two weeks of suspension were beneficial for you," he said, setting his documents aside. "You've had time to think about the future. Have you decided where you want to apply?" "Yes," I replied evenly. "I want to apply to Rorschach University."

Principal Davis froze for a moment, then took off his glasses, looking at me with genuine interest. "Well, that's ambitious. It's a difficult path, Diego. The selection process is brutal. And which department?" "The Faculty of Investigative Journalism."

He leaned back in his chair and studied me in silence for a few seconds. "I see. You're not one to hide from problems. You're one to walk right up to them to get a closer look. A good choice." "Diego," Principal Davis continued, his tone hardening, "I want you to understand something. I got you out of trouble once because I saw the injustice of the situation. But there won't be a third chance. From this moment on, you are fully responsible for your actions. I won't cover for you again. Understood?" I nodded silently. "Good," he put his glasses back on. "Now, get to class."

After leaving his office, I headed to math class. As I walked to my desk, I caught Flash Thompson's gaze. He was staring at me, clearly still seething over his broken finger. Without changing my expression, I raised my hand and slowly rubbed my right eye with my middle finger. His face flushed with color, but he said nothing, just turned away, clenching his fist.

What really bothered me was the general atmosphere. There was a tense silence in the classroom, as if everyone was waiting for the end of the world. The door opened, and Mrs. Warren entered. She placed a stack of papers on her desk as if they were death sentences. "Alright, class, today we have a scheduled quiz," she announced, and a collective groan of disappointment swept through the rows. "Mary Jane, be a dear and pass out the papers."

Now it all made sense. It was amusing. A schism was tearing the city apart, but teenagers were more worried about their grades. The red-haired girl came to my desk and paused for a second as she handed me the paper. She gave me an encouraging smile and a quick wink. Either she liked me for some reason, or she was just a friendly person.

I scanned the problems. Double integrals, derivatives, logarithmic equations... Cursing silently, I wrote my name on the form and got to work. While I was slaving over the third problem, trying not to get mixed up in the signs, the silence was broken by the scraping of a chair. I looked up and saw Peter Parker calmly walk up to the teacher's desk and place his paper in front of Mrs. Warren. She glanced over his work. "As always, Peter. Flawless," she said quietly. Parker just gave a short nod, gathered his things, and left the classroom.

Five minutes? For this? I looked back at my own paper, where I was just beginning to untangle another equation. Either Peter Parker was a genius on a completely different level, beyond the comprehension of ordinary people, or... The thought came on its own. A mutant with the ability of accelerated information processing? "Okay, focus," I mentally ordered myself and returned to the test.

Next up was Sociology. The teacher, Mr. Harrison, walked in. In faded jeans and with disheveled hair, he looked more like a grad student than a teacher and could have easily passed for one of the students. He tossed his messenger bag onto the desk and scanned the room. "Alright, today we're going to deviate a bit from the lesson plan," he began, and the classroom chatter immediately died down. "We're going to talk about what's happening right now, outside the walls of this school. Today's topic: Do mutants deserve to live in our society?"

A pause hung in the air. "Raise your hand if you believe they should live alongside ordinary people," Harrison continued. Slowly, one by one, hands began to go up. Sixty percent of the class, including me, voted "yes."

"Interesting. A majority," the teacher noted. "To start, Thompson, your hand stayed down. Why?" Flash sat up straighter, clearly feeling like the representative of the "silent majority." "I don't want to be afraid to go to the store. I don't want to live in fear that some psycho with powers is going to kill me." A quiet, but distinct, chuckle escaped my lips.

Mr. Harrison reacted instantly. "Diego? Your suspension is over, I see. What's the reason for that reaction? Are you not concerned about safety?" I had to shake my head. "It's not about safety, it's about who's worried about it. If a law-abiding citizen finds out the government is tracking their location, they probably won't care. But if a criminal finds out, they'll start to complain. Fisk said it in his speech: who creates evil mutants? We do. A teenager who's bullied for years finally snaps, and the stress awakens an ability." My gaze flicked over to Flash. "So, I don't think Thompson is afraid for his life. He's afraid that he won't be able to get away with building himself up at others' expense anymore. Because now, the random kid he decides to pick on might turn out to be the lord of insects. And late at night, when Flash is sleeping, a cockroach will crawl into his ear and lay its eggs."

Half the class turned visibly pale. Mr. Harrison coughed, hiding a smile. "Yes, I admit, that's not a pleasant prospect. Alright, now a question for those who raised their hands. Why, in your opinion, should mutants live with us?" Silence fell in the classroom. It's one thing to silently raise your hand, and another to publicly defend your position. "Mary Jane?" the teacher called on her personally. She jumped, startled. "Well... because it's... the right thing to do?" Her answer sounded more like a question. "That's what we're trying to find out," Harrison nodded. "Okay. Peter, what does a person with your intellect think about this?"

Parker thought for a second, gathering his thoughts. "It's a question of numbers," he began calmly. "If you could take all existing mutants and move them to some hypothetical island, the problem would be solved. But they keep appearing. Every year, there are more cases of the X-gene activating. If we don't find a way to live with them now, in ten or twenty years it will be impossible." Sounded overly optimistic to me. The current government would sooner invent a way to genetically excise the X-gene from infants than learn to live together.

"Segregation isn't a solution, it's a postponement of the inevitable," Parker continued, unaware of my mental objection. "And it will create a new problem: how will a mutant state feel about 'their' citizens continuing to be born in foreign territory? Will they demand their extradition? And what if our government refuses? That's a direct cause for escalation. And then, ordinary people will be facing an army with superpowers."

"Wow," said Mr. Harrison. "A solid analysis. But it seems, with all your studying, you haven't seen this morning's news." He picked up a folded newspaper from his desk and unfolded it. "'IN THE INDIAN OCEAN, A GROUP OF CLASS-FOUR MUTANTS HAS FOUNDED THEIR OWN NATION. ONE OF THEM, POSSESSING COLOSSAL GEOKINETIC ABILITIES, LITERALLY RAISED AN ISLAND FROM THE SEABED, WHICH HE HAS NAMED GENOSHA. THE U.S. GOVERNMENT HAS ALREADY LABELED THIS ENTITY THE NUMBER-ONE THREAT TO NATIONAL SECURITY.'" Everyone stared at the teacher, stunned by the news. "Oh no!" someone shouted from the back. "There's going to be a war, just like Parker said!"

"Calm down," Harrison's voice was calm but insistent. "That scenario will only become a reality in one case: if we don't learn to live with the mutants in our own city." He looked at the clock. "Class is dismissed for today. You're free to go." The last class was P.E.

My silent observation of Parker had continued all day. The conclusions were ambiguous. On the surface, he was a normal teenager, just much smarter than the rest. He wore baggy clothes, even though he had an athletic build—not ripped, but toned. He was either ashamed of his body, which was unlikely, or he was hiding something. What was really strange was the feeling that he knew I was watching him. Sometimes his gaze would pause in my direction for a split second before returning to his book or the equation on the board. But as soon as the thought formed in my head that I realized he knew I was watching, the glances stopped. It felt like two predators, having spotted each other, had stopped signaling and moved on to silent observation. Or was it just paranoia after everything with Sarah? Entirely possible.

The coach's sharp whistle broke my train of thought. "Alright, people, line up! We're splitting into teams, playing basketball!" Flash Thompson was sitting on the bench, his finger in a splint. A look of anticipation crossed his face as he exchanged a glance with his buddies. He was excused from P.E. for obvious reasons, but that didn't stop him from conducting.

The teams were divided. By "pure coincidence," all of Flash's minions were on the opposing team. Peter and three other loner guys, whose names no one really remembered, ended up on my team. The ref tossed the ball, and the game began. Everyone tried to play, but the other team clearly had a different goal. And then, when the ball was in my hands, a hulk named William, who played on the football team, charged at me. He wasn't running for the ball; he was running for me, clearly intending to make a tackle.

A few options, one worse than the next, flashed through my mind. If I left the barrier up, William would slam into an invisible wall and break his bones. That would expose my ability and lead to a ton of problems. Damn it. I had to drop the barrier and tense every muscle, bracing for the impact. He slammed into me with all his strength. We both crashed to the parquet floor. The whistle shrieked again. The coach ran over. Flash was smiling on the bench. "William, are you an idiot?!" she yelled. "This is basketball, not rugby! You're not wearing pads! Diego, are you okay?!"

I listened to my body. Other than a dull ache, there seemed to be no serious injuries. But this farce had to end. "My rib hurts," I wheezed in response. The coach clicked her tongue and shot everyone an angry look. The game was clearly over for the guys. The girls, on their half of the court, had also stopped playing and were now watching us. "Parker," she ordered, "you're the most responsible one here. Take him to the nurse's office."

Peter helped me up and, throwing my arm over his shoulder, led me to the exit. When we were in the empty hallway, he asked quietly: "You're okay, right?" I knew it. He had been watching, too. And he saw more than the others. "Yeah. It just became obvious they wanted to hurt me. Why keep playing?" He nodded silently.

We reached a fork: left was the nurse's office, right was the locker room. Without a word, we changed course and went right, to get changed. On the way, questions I could ask him raced through my head. How to ask without giving myself away? How to get information without giving him extra reasons to be suspicious? But, unable to come up with anything good, we changed in silence and went our separate ways home.

---

The city was divided into two colors. On the way home, I noticed people with armbands: green for those who supported Fisk, and red for those who were against him. The tension was palpable in the air—in the sidelong glances exchanged between groups at intersections, in conversations that grew quieter when someone with the "wrong" color approached.

When I got to my room, the first thing I did was turn on my laptop. I needed to check the news about the mutant island. On the main page of the superheros.net forum, there was a pinned post with thousands of comments. The headline was simple and loud: "A NEW NATION." "Attention, all mutants of the world! We, under the leadership of Magneto, announce the creation of the sovereign nation of Genosha. Here, every gifted individual, regardless of their country of origin, can receive citizenship and protection. Here, there will be no oppression, discrimination, or fear. We are the next stage of evolution, and this is our birthright. We will pay for your relocation and, if necessary, protect you from the authorities of your former states." Contact information followed.

Of course, there was a chance it was an elaborate trap set by the government to identify and capture mutants. But honestly, the scale of the operation—creating an entire island—made that version highly unlikely. In any case, if the situation in the U.S. went to the worst-case scenario, there was now a backup plan.

As I continued to monitor the forum, targeted ads started appearing. "Extras needed for a street rally. Red symbols. Payment - $100 for the evening." And right next to it, as if in opposition, the same ad, but for green symbols. Everyone was trying to manipulate the masses. Two invisible hands were buying up armies for street performances. It was becoming unclear what was genuine belief and what was a paid appearance. But one thing was certain: tonight, the city would descend into chaos. And it was chaos worth joining.

It would be a perfect opportunity to map out the real power structure of the city—the zones of influence of the gangs, who would surely take advantage of the unrest for their own business. It would make an excellent topic for a first journalistic article.

 

[kowak]

The convoy of cars moved silently through the streets of outer Brooklyn. In the central car, protected by layers of armor, Felicia Hardy watched the boarded-up storefronts and graffiti-covered walls slide by. She had returned from Europe only a few hours ago and could already feel how much her home city had changed.

"Dmitri, are we almost there?" she asked, not taking her eyes from the window.

The head of security, sitting in the front passenger seat, looked in the rearview mirror. "Almost, Miss Hardy. We're taking a detour, staying off the main streets. It's safer this way."

At that exact moment, the lead car smoothly slowed and stopped. Fifty yards ahead, a barricade of burning trash cans blocked the narrow street. From the alleys and doorways, people began to emerge. Each had a red cloth tied around their arm, and in the car's headlights, the steel of pistols and several automatic rifles glinted darkly.

Dmitri assessed the situation instantly. This wasn't a random crowd of protestors; it was a targeted, well-equipped ambush on a quiet street they had taken specifically to avoid trouble. The obvious conclusion was that someone had leaked their route.

"All units, code 10-33!" His voice into the collar mic was calm and clear. "We have an ambush at the corner of Bristol and Dumont. I repeat, ambush. Requesting backup."

He turned to the driver. "Turn around! We're getting out through that alley! Now!" Simultaneously, he gave an order to the rest of the convoy over the radio: "Cars one and two—engage! Turn broadside, create cover!"

The drivers of the front sedans, bulletproof and reinforced, acted without hesitation. With a squeal of tires, the cars spun perpendicular to the street, turning into a makeshift barrier. Guards piled out, taking positions and opening return fire on the attackers.

While the firefight erupted ahead, the driver cranked the wheel, and the heavy car shot forward, tearing into a narrow, dark alley, trying to escape the kill box. But it didn't last long. After flying down the narrow passage, he slammed on the brakes with a squeal, facing a dead end. A brick wall blocked the path.

"Out! We run from here!" Dmitri commanded, jumping out of the car and opening the door for Felicia.

She didn't need to be told. Felicia had dedicated most of her conscious life to gymnastics, and for the last few years in Europe, she had taken up parkour. Running through urban terrain wasn't a problem for her. The people chasing her were.

The sounds of the firefight fell behind, but new silhouettes were already appearing at the exit of the alley ahead. Dmitri stayed behind to cover their retreat. "Don't look back! Run!"

Felicia ran. Another dead end loomed ahead, this one final. An untrained person would have been trapped. But without slowing, she jumped onto the lid of a dumpster, pushed off the metal, pulled herself up, and grabbed the bottom rung of a fire escape. A few more practiced movements, and she was on the roof. It didn't change much. High in the night sky, a drone hovered. Its lens tracked her every move, feeding coordinates to her pursuers.

She froze for a second, catching her breath, trying to get her bearings. Where to run? The labyrinth of rooftops was unfamiliar and dangerous. She chose a direction to the left, toward a lower building, but stopped short.

On the edge of the roof, in the shadow of a vent pipe, sat an all-black cat. It looked at her and meowed quietly. An unexplainable feeling arose that she should follow it. Without thinking, she changed her route.

The cat leaped easily to the roof of the next building, and she followed. It moved with confidence, showing her safe paths, places to jump, and solid ledges. This made the escape significantly easier. Doing parkour in an unfamiliar area was suicide, but with this strange guide, she moved quickly and precisely. The drone operator, however, wasn't paying attention to the cat. He only saw the target's trajectory and easily calculated her future path.

When Felicia landed on the wide, flat roof of the next building, two men stepped out from behind a ventilation unit. Before she could react, one of them, a massive, bearded man, grabbed her by the shoulders. "Gotcha, little bird."

"Let go, you asshole!" She didn't hesitate. The toe of her boot slammed into his groin with all her strength. The man doubled over, gasping in pain, and his grip loosened. Not giving him time to recover, she was already winding up for a second kick, aiming her leg at his head.

But the second attacker fired. The crackle of a taser split the air, and Felicia's body was seized by a convulsion. Her muscles locked up, and she collapsed onto the concrete. The one she had kicked slowly straightened up, spitting on the floor. "You bitch... Orders were to bring you in one piece. But for that... I think we can rough you up a bit."

The second man smirked, stepping closer. Even immobilized, lying on the dirty concrete, the girl looked impressive. Her disheveled silver hair stood out brightly in the dim light. His gaze lingered on her toned, athletic body, which even simple clothes couldn't hide, and on her firm, size-C chest, heaving from her heavy breathing. In her blue eyes, despite the tears, there was no submission. "Leave some for me. Never had such a premium-class woman."

She caught a glimpse of the black cat, which was sitting on the edge of the roof. It meowed quietly again, as if to say everything would be okay. At that moment, a new, calm voice sounded from behind the attackers. "You know, after a hit like that to your manhood, I highly doubt you'll be capable of anything at all."

They spun around. A man in a black motorcycle helmet that hid his entire face stood in the shadows. An invisible force pressed them to the concrete roof, crushing them into the hard surface. Felicia froze, lying on her side. The electricity still had her muscles spasming, but her mind was working. A mutant had appeared. She had fallen from one trap into another, even more unpredictable one. There was no way to know if this man was a savior, or just a bigger predator than the other two.

The helmeted figure walked closer. "You said she had to be in one piece. And judging by the mess down on the street, you started a real bloodbath for her. So I have a couple of questions." A Glock appeared from his waistband. Its barrel was aimed directly between the eyes of the two prone bandits. "Who do you work for? And why do you need her?"

The one Felicia had kicked spat blood and smirked viciously. "Go fuck yourself, you half-assed mutant."

The man in the helmet made a sound like a sigh and raised a hand to scratch the back of his head, but his fingers tapped against smooth plastic. He awkwardly lowered his hand. "Fine. I see you don't need your junk anymore. I hope your partner is more cooperative."

The sharp crack of a gunshot echoed. The bullet entered the bearded man's thigh. Felicia instinctively squeezed her eyes shut. "A-A-A-A-A!" "Oops, I missed," the man in the helmet said without a trace of regret. "But next time, I'll definitely hit your little pickles." His partner began to struggle under the invisible weight. "Okay, okay! Don't! I'll tell you everything!" "Talk." "We had a job—grab her! Just grab her, that's it! To blackmail her mother!" "What does her mother do?" "How the hell should I know!" his voice was breaking with fear. "All I know is she's a billionaire!"

The man in the helmet turned his head toward Felicia. If not for the helmet, you would have seen him studying her thoughtfully. "Alright. And who do you work for?" The bandit fell silent, breathing heavily. He swallowed. "I can't say. If they find out... and they will find out... our families are dead. You're better off killing me. Just make it quick."

"Well, then make it so they don't find out," the mutant's voice became conspiratorial, almost friendly. "Help me, and everything will be fine." "There's a drone! In the sky!" he blurted out. "It sees everything! Shoot it down, and then I'll talk!" The man in the helmet froze for a moment. "Hmm, that would be... short-sighted," his voice was now openly mocking. "If I shoot down the drone I'm not supposed to know about, they'll immediately realize you ratted it out. Let's play a scene instead. I'll 'torture' you, and you, unbroken by the pain, will resist."

"No, don't!" Genuine terror was in the prisoner's voice. "Yes, we must," the mutant cut him off.

Felicia watched the whole scene. She didn't know if she should relax in the presence of this strange savior, or be even more afraid of him. After the "torture," it was revealed that they worked for the "Maggia"—an old Italian crime syndicate made up of several warring families that controlled smuggling and arms trafficking. He got answers to all the key questions: who was responsible for which territory, what establishments they "protected," who was at the top of the food chain. He had no intention of saving these two. They had chosen this life, and only now were the consequences catching up.

After learning everything he needed, the helmeted figure turned and slowly walked over to Felicia. She squeezed her eyes shut in fear. What could she do against a mutant who so cold-bloodedly maimed people? A gloved finger poked her in the forehead. "Relax. Unfortunately for you... or maybe fortunately, depending on how you look at it... I don't have a rape fetish. I could let you go, but, as that poor bastard said,"—he nodded at the half-dead bandit—"you're a very rich woman's daughter."

Felicia slowly exhaled. He wanted money. That was an understandable and solvable problem. "How much do you want?" "Hmm, let's see," the voice from under the helmet sounded thoughtful. "Your life was saved. What do you value it at?" She hesitated for only a second. "A million?"

The man in the helmet made a sound like a suppressed cough. "Kha... That's too much. I need cash. Something I can get and use quickly. I think a hundred thousand dollars will be enough." The conversation stalled. One was thinking about how someone could just offer a million dollars. To be honest, he was ashamed to even ask for a hundred thousand. The other was thinking about who in their right mind refuses a million.

"What are you going to do with them?" she asked, nodding at the bandits. "Dump them near a police station? I don't know. I don't really care." "My mother will want to talk to them," businesslike notes entered Felicia's voice. "I'll pay ten thousand for each." The helmeted figure shrugged. "Fine. In that case, let's just 'fly' all of you to your house."

Before she could ask what he meant, the air in front of her shimmered and wove itself into a perfect cube of translucent purple barrier. The man in the helmet made an inviting gesture. "Ladies first."

Felicia hesitantly stepped inside. The two immobilized bodies were tossed into the cube after her. He was the last one in. The construct silently lifted off the roof and flew over the night city toward the Hardy estate.

---

Lydia Hardy was pacing her house, pressing a phone to her ear. On the other end, Dmitri, her daughter's head of security, was reporting the aftermath of the ambush: two of his men were dead, three wounded, the attackers were neutralized, but Felicia... was missing. At that moment, another voice cut in from the internal intercom. "Ma'am, Miss Hardy is at the main gate." "Then let her in!" Lydia snapped. "But... ma'am, she's not alone," the guard at the gate sounded uncertain. "She's with some mutant. And two wounded men."

Lydia froze for a moment. "I'm on my way."

The massive gates slowly rolled open. Felicia saw her mother standing on the steps of the mansion and ran into her arms. Lydia held her daughter tightly, but their reunion was interrupted. "This is all very touching, but let's have you pay the hundred and twenty thousand so I can go. There's still so much to see in the city tonight." "What money?" Lydia pulled back from her daughter, her gaze taking in the man in the helmet and the two captives. "And who are these men?" The man in the helmet sighed, realizing this wouldn't be quick. Felicia began to recount the events of the last few hours.

Later, in her room, dressed in a silk robe, she lay on her enormous bed and stared at the ceiling. She felt weak. All her training, the guards, her mother's money—it had all been useless. She had just gotten lucky that a strange cat showed her the way, and an even stranger mutant decided to help. As if in answer to her thoughts, the very same black cat jumped silently onto her bed. "Who are you?" Felicia whispered, reaching out a hand to pet it. Her fingers passed right through it, meeting no resistance.

The cat jumped off the bed, looked back, and meowed, beckoning her to follow. It was clearly something supernatural, but it had saved her life. So, she followed it. Wandering through the mansion's corridors, the cat stopped at a wall in the old wing of the house and rubbed against it. Faintly glowing symbols appeared on the wallpaper, and the wall slid open soundlessly, revealing a secret staircase leading down.

At the bottom, she found herself in a small, hidden room that wasn't on any of the house plans. The room was ascetic: bare walls, and in the middle, a massive steel table. On its surface lay a letter and two ornate caskets. Approaching, she began to read.

"Dear Daughter, You may not remember me, but I have never forgotten you. I had hoped you would never find this place, but since you are here, it means a situation has occurred in your life that made you realize you are weak. And in that situation, my final ritual must have led you here. (She glanced at the cat, which was now sitting on the table, and continued reading). This world is unimaginably dangerous. I know this because I was one of those who knows most of its secrets. By the way, I am the greatest thief in the history of this world—the Sorcerer Supreme told me so herself. But that's not the point. What I'm getting at is that there are many powerful monsters hiding in the shadows, and I could not leave you defenseless.

On the table are two caskets. In the first is the original super-soldier serum. Remember: there are no more like it, and there never will be. The Sorcerer Supreme placed a veto on the formula and erased it from the minds of all who knew it. So, maybe a forgotten vial is lying around somewhere, but a new one can never be created. The myth is that the serum grants peak human abilities, but that's only part of the truth. Its essence is that it rebuilds the body, making it a perfect conductor. You will be able to easily learn Chi, magic, and other forms of energy. Though, you will have to find the training methods yourself.

In the second casket is my greatest theft. A four-leaf clover that I swiped from a very powerful voodoo priest. There is a minuscule chance that something will go wrong when you take the serum. Therefore, before you inject it, you must eat this leaf. It is active for 24 hours—by which time the serum should be fully absorbed. Its power is that it briefly selects and realizes the best possible future scenario. The probability of a negative effect from the serum will become zero.

You may get the impression that I am all-powerful and just hiding somewhere. But that is not true. I am really dead. Good luck, kitten. P.S. Look after your mother."

"Thanks, Dad," Felicia whispered.

 

[kowak]

Chapter 8

High in his tower, Tony Stark watched his city choke on its own fever. Even from here, through the thick glass, the wail of sirens carried—an anxious soundtrack to the evening. New York had always been a city on the edge, but right now, it was plummeting into the abyss.

"Sir, according to the transit authority, the first units of the National Guard will enter the city within three hours," came Jarvis's voice from hidden speakers.

Tony downed his whiskey in one gulp. "Jarvis, activate the 'Lunatics' protocol. Full power."

"It will be done, sir."

On one of the screens, a news broadcast showed his own face—footage from a press conference. "I am your shield," Tony declared smugly from the screen. The image cut to a reporter standing in front of a blazing barricade. "And where is that shield when the city needs it most?" the journalist asked rhetorically.

The barb hit its mark. The responsibility he had been running from for so long had finally caught up. Maybe he should run for president? The thought was tempting. He could be for the U.S. what Victor von Doom was for Latveria. At least, he believed he could do just as good a job.

"Jarvis, what about Senator Stern? Any progress?"

"After updating my analytical algorithms, little has changed, sir. But it has become evident that an intellect of a higher order is behind him."

Stark paced the room. "Someone managed to create an ascending AI? I don't buy it. That requires a completely different approach to cognitive architecture, one based not on algorithms, but on the capacity for abstract self-learning." He stopped. "But what if it wasn't created? What if someone transferred their consciousness into the network? Jarvis, search my father's archives. Keywords: 'digital immortality,' 'consciousness transfer.'"

The pause stretched for several seconds. "There are no such projects in the database, sir."

"What do you mean, 'no'? I distinctly remember reading..." Tony trailed off, putting the pieces together. "I see. Someone got to the files and covered their tracks. But I saw that report as a kid, in my father's study. Prep the Memory Chair."

The name was stupid, but accurate.

"It is ready, sir."

In the workshop, a contraption of metal and wires awaited him, looking more like a futuristic dentist's tool than a chair. Its origin, of course, was far from noble. The idea was born from a whiskey-fueled argument with Rhodey about compiling an objective top-10 list of his past conquests. Memory, Tony had argued, was an unreliable narrator, distorted by emotions and expensive champagne. Science, however, required facts. So, under the ridiculously pretentious codename "Project Aphrodite," he spent three days building a device capable of bypassing emotional filters and extracting pure sensory memories. Pepper, upon discovering the file, had silently fed it to the shredder without a word. Thus, the grand project was quietly renamed the much more respectable "Memory Chair."

He sat down and fastened the smooth, sensor-studded headband to his temples. The machine would deliver a calibrated electrical pulse, forcing his neurons to focus on the desired memory fragment. It felt like a light tingle.

The procedure finished. Tony tore the headband off. The memory was as clear as it had been forty years ago. "The project supervisor was Arnim Zola... So, HYDRA is still alive?"

---

Twelve stacks of crisp bills weighed down my pockets. It was a dizzying sum, even if it was handed over for a saved life, for an act one might consider righteous. But who were these Hardys, to just hand out that much cash? An unanswered question, one I'd need to figure out.

My path led past a looted electronics store. A gaping hole where the display window had been—like an invitation. An opportunity like this didn't come often. The thought of how to publish my future investigations without leaving a trace had been nagging me. My knowledge of network security was limited to a basic understanding of VPNs. That clearly wasn't enough. To start, I needed a "clean" laptop, one that couldn't be traced back to me.

I stepped inside through the crumbling shards of glass. The shelves were empty. Looters had already taken everything of value. Only trash was left: torn boxes, tangled wires, and a few of the cheapest, weakest laptops that they hadn't bothered to take. Well, it would do for typing.

I grabbed one and its charger. The cash register was pried open and empty, which wasn't surprising. I put a stack of cash inside. Ten thousand. Call it a donation, or payment for the goods. I hoped another robber wouldn't find it, but the chances were slim, as the store looked completely picked clean.

Phase one was complete. Now I needed to find a secluded place to work. Definitely not Mateo's apartment. Some rooftop with access to free city Wi-Fi—that's what I needed.

My thoughts were interrupted by a growing sound. At first, I thought it was a heavy transport plane. But the sound splintered, multiplied, and the sky above the city was suddenly dotted with hundreds of fiery points, falling fast.

All across New York, landing in the hottest spots of the street clashes, robots descended. And every single one, in a mechanical, inflectionless voice, began to broadcast the same message: "Attention. Stark Industries security protocol has been activated. National Guard units are entering the city. Unlike these autonomous units, the military will not be using containment measures. They are authorized to use lethal force. I repeat, lethal force. For your own safety, return to your homes immediately."

From the crowd, a glass bottle flew at the nearest robot. It shattered against its chassis, not even leaving a scratch. The robot didn't react, just dispassionately repeated the phrase.

A nimble drone hovered at a low altitude above each machine. Its camera locked onto the man who had thrown the bottle. There was a quiet hissing sound, and something black was fired into the man's leg. The sticky substance, upon touching the fabric of his jeans, began to expand rapidly, turning into a dense, heavy foam. The man stumbled, and a second later, his leg was glued fast to the asphalt.

Another drone detected someone in the crowd bleeding. The robot immediately moved forward, gently parting the people. A short spray of clear liquid onto the wound, and the blood clotted almost instantly. Having rendered aid, the machine returned to its position and repeated the memorized phrase.

Looked like it was time to wrap up this excursion. With the appearance of these mechanical peacekeepers, the street chaos would soon be over.

--

Returning to my room through the window had already become a familiar routine, but tonight, something was wrong. The sash was closed tighter than I had left it. That meant one thing: someone had been here. The only question was who—Mateo or a stranger?

Invisible, I glided silently through the room, then slipped out into the hallway. My hearing caught the muffled mumble of the TV. Mateo was awake. His figure was silhouetted against the screen. He sat, unmoving, even though it was well past midnight. He must have looked in my room, seen the empty bed and the unlocked window, and was now waiting for my return.

Returning to my room, I deliberately made a few loud movements—the creak of the bed. I had to let him know I was back. The door swung open without a knock. "Where were you?" Mateo's voice was hoarse and tired. "Out for a run," I tossed back curtly. He snorted, entering the room. "At two in the morning? Look at you. You don't smell like sweat, you smell like the street. If you're going to lie, at least be creative."

"Why all the questions?" I sat up on the bed. "Doesn't my life fall under rule number one? As long as it doesn't involve you, you're not supposed to care." Mateo was silent for a moment, his gaze sliding over my face. "Kid, a hundred bucks isn't worth this. Especially not now." A hundred bucks? Ah, I get it. He'd decided his nephew had become a protestor-for-hire, waving a red or green rag for cash.

"I'm flattered by your concern, but you're nothing to me. Same as I am to you. And what's the point of coming up with a good lie when I can just say nothing?" Mateo's face tensed. "Incorrigible brat. You'd rather stay silent than just answer?" He shook his head. "Fine, do what you want. Just know, guys like you don't live long." He left, pulling the door shut firmly behind him. His words, however, remained in the room. Of course, he had no idea what I was really doing at night. But his line, thrown out based on a false assumption, had hit the bullseye. This really could get me killed.

Although, I had a persistent feeling that this world as a whole didn't have long left. Too much had happened in too short a time, and there was no end in sight.

---

In the underground bunker beneath Fisk's mansion. Across from him sat guests whose appearance would have surprised anyone. Charles Xavier, a man in an elegant blazer, sat in his chair with a deceptively relaxed air. Next to him, straight as a rod, was his eternal opponent, Magneto, president of the newly-formed mutant nation. "If I understand the nature of your visit correctly," Fisk began, his voice betraying no surprise, "you are offering me protection."

"We are offering an alliance, Mr. Fisk," Xavier gently corrected him. "And not just protection. We are prepared to provide several gifted individuals for your 'Guardians of New York' initiative. To show the city that mutants can be a support, not a threat." Fisk slowly steepled his fingers. "A very tempting offer. But everything has a price. What will it cost me?"

"We don't want your money," Magneto interjected. "We want full, legally-enshrined integration of mutants into society. You will become mayor, and your first act will be to introduce a civil rights bill for the gifted to the City Council. And you will see that it is passed."

"We will need to discuss the exact wording, the plans..." Xavier began.

"Wait," Fisk interrupted. His gaze settled on the professor. "Before we continue, answer one question. Are the rumors of your telepathic abilities true?" Xavier's face tensed for an instant. "Yes." Fisk gave a barely perceptible nod, and the shadow of a smile flickered on his lips. "In that case, there is no need to hide anything."

The movement was unexpected and swift for a man of his build. He snatched a large-caliber pistol from under the desk and, without aiming, fired into his own shadow. A body in black ninja gear, distorting, tumbled out of the shadow and onto the concrete floor. As if on cue, two more figures slipped from the shadows of Bullseye and Magneto. Realizing they'd been exposed, they attacked—short daggers lashing out for the throats of everyone present. But their targets were not the kind to be caught off guard.

The air around the attackers distorted, and they froze just inches from their victims, paralyzed by Xavier's invisible telekinetic force. In the same instant, a small metal ball, flicked from Magneto's fingers, pierced the air. It shot through the first ninja's head with incredible speed and stopped just in front of the face of the second, who had been left for interrogation. Fisk lowered his pistol, a thin wisp of smoke still curling from the barrel. "Now, gentlemen, that we are rid of the eavesdroppers, we can talk... for real."

---

But they had less time for a real conversation than they thought. High above New York, invisible to all radar, flew a HYDRA jet. In its cargo bay rested eight sealed, sarcophagus-like pods. Inside: eight super-soldiers. Infiltrating Fisk's base unnoticed was impossible. HYDRA's response was symmetrical—instead of a covert op, they chose a deafening, direct assault. How to find Fisk's exact location in his web of safehouses? The Hand's agents, their supposed allies, had eagerly provided that information. Betrayal was a double-edged sword in this shadow war.

The bay doors opened over the designated coordinates, and the eight pods, one after another, detached from the plane, hurtling toward the earth. Gusts of wind knocked them off course, but short bursts from correcting thrusters immediately fired, stabilizing their descent. The estate's anti-aircraft guns opened fire. Surface-to-air missiles streaked toward the falling pods, but the explosions only licked harmlessly at their glowing-hot hulls. With a deafening crash, the eight sarcophagi punched through the mansion's roof. For a moment, all was quiet—the inertia of the fall was spent. And then, simultaneously, massive drills on each pod roared to life. They began to chew through the building's structure, heading directly for Fisk's location.

The drills burst through the bunker's ceiling, right over the negotiating table. The pods dropped through the breaches and landed in the room. Their hatches hissed open. In that very moment, as the soldiers took their first step onto the bunker floor, the fragile alliance between Fisk and the mutants had already failed.

Xavier reached out with his mind to the uninvited guests but hit a solid wall—a complex mental barrier, woven from an alien discipline he did not recognize. Given time, he could have found a breach, unraveled this foreign pattern, but in the thunder of an assault, he had no opportunity for such a delicate hack. He couldn't read them, couldn't control them. Magneto, on the other hand, did not hesitate. The instant the soldiers stepped from their pods, the metal in their armor and cybernetic implants responded to his command. All eight figures were ripped from the floor, left to hang helplessly in the air.

Even in this position, obeying their programmed orders, the soldiers tried to aim their weapons at Fisk. But before they could pull the triggers, their rifles were twisted into clumps of useless metal. Throughout all this, Fisk had not moved. He just watched the scene, a strange, satisfied smile playing on his face, as if he were enjoying the show put on by his new bodyguards. Deprived of the ability to move or shoot, seeing no other options, the soldiers moved to the final phase. Red indicators flashed on their armor. Magneto instantly tried to use his power to stop the detonators, but his mastery of metal was useless—the explosive mechanisms had been prudently made from ceramics and polymers.

Xavier, realizing this, reacted with incredible power. He threw both hands forward, and a wave of telekinetic force enveloped each soldier in a dense cocoon. He succeeded. All eight explosions—fireballs, chemical sprays, and shrapnel swarms—harmlessly imploded, smothered by the impenetrable barrier. For a moment, it seemed disaster had been averted. But it was only an illusion. HYDRA's plan had accounted for this outcome. From the moment the soldiers had stepped out of their pods, one of them had already begun to release a modified, odorless, colorless bioweapon into the air.

Telekinesis could stop shrapnel, but not the microscopic particles that everyone in the room had been inhaling for the last thirty seconds. Everyone in the bunker had been infected from the start. And the main target of this raid, Wilson Fisk, was at the very epicenter of this invisible attack.

---

The Ancient One released the projection of the future, and the image of the bunker shattered into a myriad of emerald sparks. She had seen what would happen next. The mutants, deprived of their hope for peaceful integration, would go to war against the government, not knowing that HYDRA was behind it. HYDRA, in turn, would use the chaos to build its strength. Until now, the Ancient One herself had been weakening them, preventing them from growing too strong and secretly spiriting away new mutants from under their recruiters' noses. But now, HYDRA would begin conducting monstrous experiments, forcibly awakening the X-gene in thousands of people to turn them into cannon fodder. In this war, in this version of the future, HYDRA won, and the world was plunged into tyranny. The Sorcerer Supreme slowly opened her eyes.

"And this path, too, leads to defeat," she exhaled into the silence. The Ancient One opened a can of ice-cold Pepsi with a quiet hiss. Most of the future's branches looked hopeless.

The Ancient One's gaze was fixed on the window. She had reviewed the timeline where she managed to protect Fisk. In that future, he became what he aspired to be—the shadow king. His own "Heroes for Hire," built on pragmatism and control, entered a prolonged cold war with Tony Stark's global initiative, his version of corporate defenders. For a time, there was order, but this order always led to the same finale. Earth, having become too strong and self-assured, provoked Victor von Doom. In the resulting, inevitable conflict with Latveria, the planet was reduced to a scorched cinder, from which the genius in the iron mask simply teleported away.

If Fisk was not protected, he dies. That branch split into dozens of others, but they all led either to a world where The Hand, taking advantage of the chaos after his death, summoned a powerful demon who created one of the forty-nine branches of Hell on Earth... or to the gray, suffocating order of HYDRA, which had conquered the world. The attempt to wrangle Fisk, pushing him into an alliance with the mutants, had also failed, for now. It was a promising combination, but HYDRA had been one step ahead.

S.H.I.E.L.D.? A useless organization, rotten from the inside. In one timeline, she made direct contact and gave Fury all the information. He was assassinated the next day. In a second, she carefully leaked him tips, but the director was too slow. While he was gathering evidence and checking facts, the world had time to burn. An alliance with the mutants was, in itself, a good idea, but first, HYDRA had to be dealt with. Pulled out by the roots.

Her thoughts flowed smoothly, discarding the losing options. What if she used him? That boy, Diego. The Ancient One had deliberately hidden him from HYDRA's all-seeing eyes, protecting him as a resource for the Galactus problem. But... perhaps she could arrange a meeting for him. With another product of this sick world—with Zebediah. "Yes. That option is worth considering." She brought the can to her lips and took a sip, as if sealing her decision.

 

[kowak]

Chapter 9

The city looked different in the morning. Stark Industries robots patrolled the streets—not on every corner, but their presence was enough to cool the hottest tempers. It seemed Tony Stark was taking this seriously.

At school, instead of first period, there was an emergency assembly. The sociology teacher, Mr. Harrison, stood in front of the class, looking exhausted.

"I assume you've all seen the news," he began without preamble. "Mr. Stark's robots are a temporary measure. But the government's reaction will be far more long-term. First, the National Guard is being deployed to the city. There's one month until election day, and the soldiers will be here that entire time, and possibly longer, indefinitely."

He swept the class with a heavy gaze. "That's the end of the official part. Now for the unofficial part: be smart. You may be offered easy money online for 'participating in rallies.' Don't take it. No amount of money is worth your life."

He left, leaving a silence in his wake that was immediately broken by dozens of whispers. "There was a shootout right under our windows last night... I thought that was it, the end," someone from the back row shared. "Tell me about it," another replied. "Thank God those tin cans showed up."

I was exhausted from lack of sleep, so I decided to spend the rest of homeroom lying on my desk. But I wasn't allowed to rest. "How's the rib, Parr?" Thompson's voice, dripping with poorly concealed gloating, sounded right by my ear.

I had to slowly raise my head and look him straight in the eye. "It's fine. How's your finger? Does it get in the way when you wipe your ass? Or have you gotten good with your left hand?"

Physical violence, his favorite tactic, was no longer available to him—he'd learned his lesson from the broken finger. But he was incapable of coming up with a decent verbal comeback; this wasn't his territory. He had no choice but to retreat helplessly. He hissed something that sounded like "bastard" and walked away. The rest of the class, which had been watching the scene, immediately pretended they hadn't seen a thing.

I could go back to sleep.

---

On the way to the next classroom, Parker materialized next to me. "What, didn't get enough sleep?" His question sounded completely casual. "Yeah, was up all night playing a game," the answer came out almost automatically. "Which one?"

And right then, it became obvious this wasn't just idle curiosity. He was probing. My "sleepy zombie" state must have given him some ideas. "'Detroit,'" the answer was not chosen by chance. "Gotcha," he said shortly, and that "gotcha" could have meant anything.

Math class began.

The rest of the school day passed without incident, if you don't count Mary Jane's persistent stares. It was flattering, of course, but completely uninteresting. Thoughts of dates and high school romances seemed like something from another life. A normal, pretty girl from a world that no longer belonged to me. So it was best not to give any extra reasons to get closer.

Outside, hunger announced itself with a growl in my stomach. The thought of the hundred and twenty thousand that had passed through my hands just yesterday made the idea of simple fast food feel offensive. I wanted to treat myself.

I settled on a Georgian restaurant, but I didn't make it. Right in front of the entrance, a brick fell from above and slammed into the asphalt a step away from my feet. An alarmed shout immediately came from above: "Hey, kid, you alive?!" "Idiots! Put up a barrier if you're working!" I had to shout back, more out of annoyance than fear.

The GPS suggested the nearest alternative—Italian. Well, it's hard to screw up a pizza. Inside, there was a cozy bustle. Right in front of me, a hostess was seating a young couple at a table. As I passed, I managed to catch a snippet of their happy whisper: "...finally, a normal meal." I was shown to the neighboring table by the window; all the other spots were taken. The waiter took my order, a double pepperoni and a Coke.

At that moment, two more people entered the restaurant: an elegant woman and a man in an impeccably tailored purple suit. I wasn't interested, until they walked up to the couple's table, the one seated just before me. The man said something quietly to them, and something strange happened. The couple, who had just been excited to eat, stood up and left without a single question, leaving their untouched drinks on the table. They just gave up their spot.

Something about that was wrong. I had to get up, pretending to go to the restroom, just to walk past their table. And when my gaze slid over the man's face, everything inside me froze. He was older than on those recordings, but it was his face. Zebediah.

For a split second, animal fear stole my breath. What if he looked at me right now and said, "Die"? The right, the only correct action, would be to kill him right here, before he even had a chance to open his mouth. But then, another thought replaced the fear. Here it was. The answer to the question that had been tormenting me: how to get information out of people like The Hand? How to even catch them if they can just dissolve into shadows? With an ability like Zebediah's, I could just order them not to move. His ability was the perfect tool.

The order was forgotten. I had to leave. Now.

Once outside, I had to stop and take a deep breath. The idea was audacious and, at the same time, insane. To acquire or extract his abilities, if possible. But for that, I needed knowledge I didn't remotely possess. For something like that, I needed a genius. My gaze fell on the Stark Industries robot patrolling the street. Well, time to pay Tony Stark a visit.

A few hours of sleep after school brought back my clarity of thought. As evening fell and the city began to light up, it was the perfect time for a visit.

The ascent to Stark Tower was a flight to the top of the world. All the other skyscrapers below seemed like mere decorations. The media had done its job: paparazzi had caught him more than once, drinking his morning coffee while looking out over the city from this height. Everyone knew that this was where he lived, in the penthouse that overlooked all of New York. Trying to get an official meeting was a stupid waste of time. He only did what he wanted, when he wanted. Which meant I'd have to pay a personal visit.

As I approached the target, I had to strengthen the barrier to its limit. The transparent dome filled with a thick purple light, and for good reason. The tower's defense systems reacted. Projectiles began to slam into it from all sides. On contact, they burst, leaving sticky black spots on the surface that spread rapidly, merging. They didn't slow my flight, but after a few seconds, the world outside the dome vanished—it was completely coated in a viscous film.

With a sharp mental effort, the barrier was doubled in size. The black film stretched with it, thinned, and the city's outline reappeared. Dead ahead, just a few meters away, was the panoramic window of the penthouse. With a deafening crack, the reinforced glass gave way.

The barrier was dismissed once I was inside. The black liquid plopped onto the immaculate white marble floor, splattering sticky droplets onto the designer furniture. The penthouse definitely looked worse for wear. And then, a voice came from nowhere. "Respected mutant, an SOB unit has been summoned. Could you please vacate the premises?"

I had to speak to the empty air, addressing the invisible conversationalist. "Hello, Alfred. I need to talk to Tony Stark. And it's a matter that can't wait."

The voice replied without delay. "I assume you've called me Alfred in reference to Batman's butler, but I am not human. And, unfortunately for you, Tony Stark is not here."

With that, all I could do was walk over to the sofa, which probably cost more than Mateo's apartment, and sit down comfortably. "Then I'll wait."

"Your presence here is undesirable. Measures will be taken for your neutralization." In that same instant, one of the penthouse walls slid open silently, revealing an alcove from which an iron suit emerged. It moved with an unnatural, mechanical smoothness, without any of the hesitation characteristic of a person inside. It was clear this was a remotely-piloted suit.

"You know, this suit has a couple of non-kinetic toys that your little purple bubble won't even notice," Tony Stark's voice, piped through the speakers, was dripping with sarcasm and poorly hidden irritation. The repulsors on his palms, aimed right at me, hummed quietly. "So why'd you come? To kill me? Rob me? I'll disappoint you, I don't keep cash on hand."

"No. In many ways, I consider you a decent man. Actually, I need your help."

Stark froze for a moment. "Help?" He gestured around the wrecked room and the puddle of black goo on the floor. "This is your way of asking for help? You break into my house, shatter my window, and stain my Italian marble?"

An awkward cough got stuck in my throat. "I couldn't think of any other way to meet with you quickly. Though, I can pay for the damages."

A quiet chuckle came from the helmet. "A million dollars."

I had to take my words back. "Okay, I can't. Let's get down to business, then. There's a mutant in the city who's very dangerous. He can command people, and he's not burdened by morality."

The armor tilted slightly as Stark cocked his head. "Be specific." "He speaks—you do it. He tells you to bite off your own tongue, and your jaws will snap shut before you can even process it."

"That is a dangerous ability, but since you know him, you have an obvious advantage. Just kill him." He gestdured at the room. "But I doubt you broke in here, smashed my window, and dirtied my floor just to borrow a gun. Tell me why you're really here."

"You gave up manufacturing weapons," I had to start from a distance to get my point across. "You, more than anyone, understood that some tools do more harm than good. That's why I'm assuming a man like you understands the scale of the threat this ability poses. And despite that, I want you to research his abilities, to turn his power into a controlled truth serum."

"From your description, it sounds less like a truth serum and more like a 'do-what-I-say' serum. Why do you want it?"

"What do you know about 'The Hand'?"

"The upper extremity of the human arm, from the shoulder to the fingers, used for grasping..." he began in a lecture-like tone. I had to mentally roll my eyes. "I'm talking about the organization. A group of ninjas who can literally dissolve into shadows. Right now, one of them could be standing in your own shadow, listening to our conversation."

Stark instinctively glanced at his own shadow, cast by the light from the hallway. "Alright, the idea of getting a perfect lie detector is tempting, but why would I share it with you?"

"Because I know who he is. I have the information, you have the implementation."

"You know, people who get their hands on a new weapon quickly become blind to the suffering of others," there was no sarcasm in Stark's voice now. "I know from experience. And I'm not exactly eager to give you the power to command people. What's the guarantee you won't command some girl in a bar to... well, you know."

"And what's the guarantee that you, blinded by new power, won't take control of the president?" I had to answer with a rhetorical question. "Neither of us can give guarantees. Even if we swore, neither of us would believe the other."

"You're right," the suit nodded. "So I propose this. I've always been a fan of mutually assured destruction. You take off your helmet, and I learn your identity. If you start using this thing for the wrong reasons, I can destroy your life."

"Not a bad idea, but where's the threat to you in that? How can I destroy you if it comes to it?"

"You can't. Unlike you, knowing a mutant like that exists, I can find him. It'll take more time and resources, but I'll manage. So, decide." I had to click my tongue in annoyance. He was right. In his game, by his rules, I had no trump cards. But he was missing one detail. If he decided to destroy my life, nothing would stop me from killing him. So, in a way, mutually assured destruction was still on the table.

With that thought, I unclipped the helmet from my collar. "Satisfied?"

The armor's eyes flashed brighter for an instant, scanning my face. "A pleasure doing business with you. So, where did you see him? And how exactly does he command?"

"Today, around 5 PM. A restaurant called 'La Trattoria di Luca' in Greenwich Village. His name is Zebediah. Or at least, it used to be. He commands with his words. That's all I know."

"Sir, the SOB unit is entering the main hall elevator. Estimated time of arrival on this floor is forty seconds," Jarvis's voice cut in.

"Jarvis, be a dear and escort our brave soldiers back to the first floor. And maybe order them a pizza? My treat."

"I'm afraid their protocols do not allow for pizza breaks, sir. Aborting their mission will require your direct command." The suit slowly turned its helmet toward me. "Alright, kid, listen up. I'm not in the city right now. I'll be back the day after tomorrow. So leave the same way you came. We'll meet in two days. And a strong request: next time, try using the elevator."

"For that, I assume, I'd need some kind of access code or password?"

"You don't need anything. Just get in the car. Jarvis will take care of everything."

"Sir, they are on the floor," the artificial intelligence stated. No more words were needed. I had to step toward the shattered panoramic window and leave the penthouse.

---

After dealing with the SOB squad via remote access, Tony Stark removed his virtual reality helmet. The wrecked penthouse in New York was replaced by his lab in Washington. He leaned back in his chair, replaying the recent conversation in his mind.

HYDRA. A problem that had been festering at the very foundations of the world order for decades. And this kid, without even realizing it, had just handed him the solution. But there was another, more pressing problem. The Hand.

Tony had deliberately avoided saying the name out loud during their dialogue. What if, right now, in this completely secure room, someone was watching him from his own shadow? Was it paranoia, or a sober calculation after the warning? He walked to the main terminal, disabled voice commands, and brought up an encrypted text feed.

[Stark]: Jarvis, full analysis of all video recordings of my presence in the penthouse for the last hour. Scan for shadow anomalies, any distortions, movements that do not correspond to light sources. Execute in high-priority mode, no voice alerts.

[J.A.R.V.I.S.]: Understood, sir. Commencing scan.

An image of the penthouse from the security cameras appeared on one of the monitors. At first, everything looked normal, but then Jarvis began highlighting moments in red. His shadow on the floor had bent slightly at an unnatural angle. There, on the wall, in the darkest corner, a faint ripple had appeared for a split second.

[J.A.R.V.I.S.]: Analysis complete. Seventeen spatial micro-distortions detected within your shadow.

The threat was real, and it was just a few feet away. He wasn't about to be caught off guard, though. Extremis, circulating in his blood, had saved him from worse situations. But risking close combat in his own lab was the height of recklessness.

With a deliberately relaxed air, Tony walked away from the terminal and headed for the platform where his real suit, the Mark XLII, stood in its alcove. "Could use some air," he said aloud. This was intended to reassure anyone who might be listening.

The armor plates clamped shut around him. In that same instant, without the slightest hesitation, he spun and fired a repulsor blast directly at his own shadow on the floor. The focused beam of energy hit the spot where nothing should have been. Space distorted, and a body in ninja gear tumbled out of the shadow and onto the floor. "Well, what do you know. The kid was right. I'll have to remember to thank him." But it was too early to relax. A look of alarm crossed Tony's face. If they could infiltrate this place, what was stopping them from watching Pepper right now? Or Happy?

 

[kowak]

Chapter 10

Captain Stacy leaned back in his chair and wearily rubbed the bridge of his nose. His desk was buried in reports of looting, shootouts, and dozens of other incidents that had overwhelmed the city. In normal times, half of these cases would already be in progress, but now he had to prioritize. If an ordinary citizen went missing these days, their case would fall to the very bottom of the pile, waiting until things settled down.

But Sarah Connelly was no ordinary citizen. She was a world-renowned psychotherapist. Her disappearance couldn't be put on the back burner.

"Doakes, make my day. Any movement on the Connelly case?"

The detective who entered the office looked like a man who had spent the last 24 hours in the company of unpleasant thoughts. He placed a thin folder on the only free corner of the desk. "Got something. We tracked her last route. She took a cab. The driver confirmed he dropped her in the industrial zone, by some old garages."

Stacy opened one eye. "Interesting place for an evening stroll."

"It gets more interesting," Doakes continued. "That same night, in the exact same sector, an explosion went off. It's safe to assume she was there."

The captain sat up straight, pushing the stack of reports aside. "That's all we needed. What was she doing there?"

"The garage that's now a crater was registered to a 'John Law.' A person with that name doesn't exist," Doakes tapped the folder. "Looks like our psychologist had a secret life, and someone decided to put an end to it."

"What are your next steps?"

"I'll start with her patients. One of them might have found out about her secrets. Besides, judging by her records, she had a... specific clientele. Who knows what might have gotten into one of those kids' heads."

---

There was only one day left until the scheduled meeting with Stark. With the army on the streets, night-time excursions had to stop. The city was frozen in tense anticipation, and even the most desperate preferred to keep a low profile now. Who knew what kind of anti-mutant tech the soldiers had brought with them? There was no point in risking it.

On the way home, my gaze caught on a patrol car parked right at the entrance to my building. The moment I rounded the corner, the doors opened, and two men got out.

"Diego Parr?" asked the older one, stopping a few feet away. A short nod was the only reply. "Detective Austin," he briefly flashed a leather-bound badge, "this is Officer Miller. 17th Precinct."

Why did they want me? "We're investigating the disappearance of Dr. Sarah Connelly. You're on her patient list. Can you tell us anything about it?"

The answer was prepared in advance. "I was supposed to see her for a regular session. She wasn't there. The secretary said the doctor wasn't answering her calls and promised to let me know when she showed up. I don't know anything else."

The detective listened without interrupting. "Understood. Our lead detective would like to personally ask all her patients a few questions. It's just a formality. Would you mind coming down to the precinct?"

The question was polite, but it didn't leave a choice. To refuse was to immediately turn from a potential witness into a suspect. To agree was to risk slipping up on some small detail. "Sure. No problem." In the end, I was actually curious to see where this conversation would lead.

---

The interrogation room was featureless: gray walls, a stainless steel table bolted to the floor, and two chairs. In the corner, behind Diego, the dark spot of a one-way mirror was visible. The door opened, and two men entered. One was a huge African-American man with a neat mustache, who moved with a lightness unexpected for his size. The second, his partner, looked like a typical TV detective—a slightly rumpled suit, a tired gaze.

"Diego, hello," the smaller one began, sitting down opposite him. "I'm Detective Johnson, this is Detective Doakes." Doakes didn't sit. He preferred to stand, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his massive chest. Johnson opened a folder. "You were one of the last patients Dr. Connelly saw. Did her behavior seem... unusual to you in any way?"

"How can you judge someone's behavior as unusual when you've only seen them twice in your life?" Diego shrugged. "She seemed like a normal psychotherapist to me. Asked questions, listened to the answers." In the corner, Doakes frowned almost imperceptibly.

"Maybe she told you something about her personal life? Her plans?" Johnson pressed. "No. We discussed my problems, not hers. That's what the sessions are for."

At that moment, Doakes pushed off the wall and took a step toward the table. "And what problems are those, kid? The fact that you're a mutant? Or the fact that she found out, and you had to blow her up?"

The question hit hard, with no setup. A clear probe, designed for an instant reaction. A test of two theories at once: did he know about the explosion, and was he a mutant.

"Blown up?" Diego raised an eyebrow, feigning confusion. "So she is dead? And no, not a mutant. But even if I were... do you have a problem with that? It's strange to hear generalizations like that, especially from you." The last sentence was spoken calmly, but Diego's gaze lingered for a moment on Doakes's face, a clear allusion to his skin color.

"You're reacting way too calmly for a kid who just found out his psychologist is dead," Doakes rumbled, planting his knuckles on the table.

"I'm psychologically unstable. My parents died recently. You think after that, I have the energy to grieve for someone I've only seen twice in my life?" Doakes stared intently, trying to find a crack in his composure. "What were you doing the day she disappeared?" Another trap. He hadn't specified the date. "When was that, exactly?"

"Five days ago," Doakes clarified. "And the time? Or do I need to recount my entire day?" "Ten PM." "At that time, I'm usually watching shows or something on YouTube." "Can I see your phone?" Doakes held out his huge palm.

Diego unlocked the phone and handed it over. The detective spent a few minutes silently scrolling through the browsing history. "This is all strange," he drew out the word, not taking his eyes off Diego. "You're a high school kid, but you're sitting in an interrogation room like you're in class. You're answering questions faster than anyone who was in here before you. And your browser history is so clean, there's not even any porn."

The pause stretched. "Is that all?" Diego broke the silence. "I'm not sure, was that a question or a statement? If it was a question, I'll answer. I have nothing to hide, so I see no reason to worry. I plan on being a journalist, so a quick mind is a professional necessity. And for porn, there's incognito mode." A long silence followed. "You're free to go," Doakes snapped.

Diego stood up and walked out without looking back. As soon as the door closed, Stacy entered the room. "So, what do you think? He was the last one on the list." Doakes looked at his captain. "Unlike the other patients, this one wasn't nervous for a second. His answers were all perfectly clean. A normal person would hesitate, search for memories, choose their words. This kid is either innocent, or he's the coldest liar I've ever met." Stacy, heading for the door, said: "Do what you want, Doakes, but find me the person who blew her up."

---

Lying in bed, I replayed the interrogation in my head over and over. On the whole, it went smoothly. Maybe too smoothly. But I didn't like Doakes's stare. He wouldn't be able to prove anything, of course, but now he'd be digging with twice the determination. And tomorrow was the meeting with Stark. Not the best time to have a cop tail. Well, I'd deal with problems as they came.

---

The only noteworthy thing at school was an assignment from Mr. Harrington. Write an essay on the topic: "If you were a mutant, what would you do?" An attempt to make the students put themselves in someone else's shoes. He obviously wanted to make us think about what it's like to be different, and that any one of us could become one.

On the way to Stark's, a black Rolls-Royce blocked my path. The tinted rear window slid down, revealing Tony Stark himself. "Get in." There was no point in arguing. This was easier.

Stark pressed a touch panel in the armrest, and a small display of drinks and snacks slid out silently. "Want anything? There are some mini-burgers with foie gras, if the label is to be believed. Or just a soda?" The offer was tempting, but accepting food from his hands would be the height of recklessness. Who knew what he might have mixed in—from a simple sedative to nano-trackers. "No, thanks. Not hungry," I had to refuse. Stark just shrugged.

"Where are we going?" "To the lab," Stark replied, not looking up from his tablet. "We need to figure out how to grab your 'mind-controller.' Based on our conversation, his abilities are a black box to you. We don't know if his voice works at a distance, through speakers, or if he needs eye contact. We'll assume the maximum threat level."

"You've found him already?" "That wasn't hard," a smug look crossed Stark's face. "The city is riddled with cameras. He made everyone in that restaurant delete their recordings, of course, but there are still street cams on the next building. One of my stealth drones is watching him right now." Tony glanced from his tablet to his phone and grimaced in disgust. "Right now, he's... entertaining himself. In a five-star hotel suite. With some banker's wife. Forcing the poor husband to sit in a chair and watch. By the way, what's that fetish called?" He tore his gaze from the screen and looked right at me. "How would I know? I have other interests."

The Rolls-Royce dipped into an unmarked exit from the highway, which immediately vanished behind a holographic camouflage projecting a brick wall. We were in a private underground tunnel, lit by a smooth strip of LEDs. A massive titanium door met the car and slid open silently, letting us into a sterile sally port. "Security protocols," Stark said curtly, getting out of the car. "Had to upgrade the system a bit after the incident with The Hand."

"What incident?" Diego clarified, following him. "So they were sitting in your shadow?" "You were right. But as you can see, I'm a fast learner." We entered a small white room. The door had barely closed behind us when a bright, blinding light hit us from all sides. It was absolutely omnipresent, robbing objects of their depth. All shadows, including our own, simply vanished. It was a strange, disorienting sensation, like being inside a perfectly lit 3D model.

"Simple, like all brilliant ideas," Stark explained with unconcealed pride. "Sensors detect the direction of the main light source in the room, and hundreds of hidden projectors instantly illuminate the zones it doesn't hit. They create a compensating light that fills in the shadows. Not a single shadow can survive in here for a fraction of a second."

"Impressive. But what if one of them is already inside the lab?" "Logical question," Stark nodded, walking through the next door, which opened before him. We found ourselves in a huge, multi-level space filled with equipment. "Because this room is just the first filter. Jarvis now constantly monitors not only the cameras, but any microscopic spatial fluctuations in the entire tower. If something twitches in a shadow, the system flags it as a fourth-dimensional anomaly. And I know about it immediately."

"So, what's the plan?" "First, we need to define the threat boundaries," Stark replied, his attention fixed on a massive holographic interface he had deployed in the middle of the lab. "We'll build a profile on our client, based on the worst-case scenario." His fingers flew through the air, and structured blocks of text began to appear on the screen. "Okay, vector of attack. Voice? Thought? Let's assume both. Range..." he paused for a moment. "Let's start with absurd. Ten kilometers. It's ridiculous, of course. He's probably limited to line-of-sight or hearing, but in this business, it's better to be safe than sorry. Activation conditions: hearing a command, sensing a mental pulse, eye contact... What else?"

"If I had that power," the thought came on its own, "I wouldn't just rely on random people. I'd create a permanent guard of strong mutants. I wonder, if you ordered someone to 'awaken your X-gene,' would it work?" Stark stopped typing and looked at me. "Stay on topic, but that's a sound thought. And I think you hit on something. Jarvis, pull up the file on Jessica Jones." A dossier of a woman with a tired face appeared on the screen. "Private investigator. Went missing a couple of weeks ago. Initially, I wrote her off as another one of his fetishes," Stark rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "But your bodyguard idea makes me see this in a new light." He added a new item to the threat profile: "Controlled superhuman allies."

"And now for the fun part," Stark continued with a note of dark enthusiasm. "Hostages. What if he doesn't keep them on a leash? What if he just told a thousand random people one day, 'Download this health monitoring app. Check my pulse every six hours. If it stops—bite off your tongue.' Instant leverage over the entire city. So, let's add the possible existence of 'sleeper' agents and an unlimited duration for his commands. We have no idea how long his control lasts."

"Or worse," I had to add, as an even more unpleasant picture formed in my head. "What if they don't have to constantly check his pulse? What if he is the one who has to perform a certain ritual? For example, press a button in that app once a day, letting everyone know he's alive and free. If he fails to do so—for any reason, be it death or capture—the suicide command activates." Stark froze, his fingers hovering over the hologram. "Shit," he said quietly. He added a new item to the threat profile: "Active 'dead man's switch' protocol."

I had to sigh heavily. "Yeah. This is much worse than I thought. Okay, to start, we just need to watch him. Map out his habits, find patterns, a daily routine." "Exactly," Stark said. "And the goal of this surveillance isn't just to find out what kind of coffee he prefers. We need to find that ritual. We must find out with absolute certainty if he performs some action to keep his hostages alive."

"But it could be anything," Diego continued. "A daily call to a number, sending a coded message. A simple button press on his phone app. Something easy to miss if you don't know what you're looking for."

"Which is why Jarvis will handle it. He'll analyze his every step, every movement, every click, 24/7. He'll look for repeating patterns. If our guy scratches his left ear every day at 12:05 sharp, Jarvis will notice and log it. Our job is not to miss the moment when we're sure we've found it."

"Once we figure out the ritual, we'll need to grab him. With your tech, that shouldn't be hard. One of your suits flies in, clamps onto him like a sarcophagus. It'll have to perform an instant, detailed scan to assess his current physical state. Then, based on that data, it injects a precisely calculated medical cocktail to put him to sleep smoothly, without causing any sharp spikes in his pulse or blood pressure. Just in case he really does have sensors monitoring his vitals."

"We'll call it plan 'Iron Maiden,'" Stark smirked, but then grew serious. "That only works if he doesn't have some hidden super-strength to rip the suit apart from the inside. And don't forget his... potential allies."

"That's why, during the operation, we'll need at least two more suits for cover and diversion. And I'll be nearby, invisible, in case something goes wrong. To stop his guards." Stark stopped mid-sentence. His gaze focused on me, and a wide grin slowly spread across his face. "That's right. I totally forgot. The police report from the docks said your face was 'transparent,' but your clothes weren't." He leaned back in his chair and roared with laughter. "Ha-ha-ha... Fess up. You've already... strutted around New York naked, haven't you?" My silence was more eloquent than any words. "The Invisible Nudist!" Stark kept at it.

"Are you done?" "Hah... yeah, that was funny," he wiped away a tear. "But it gave me an idea. You need an upgrade. Your ability isn't just light refraction; it's a field that extends over your whole body, including dead keratin tissues—hair, nails. Right?" I had to nod. "So, theoretically, if we create a suit from your own biomaterial... say, from your hair... it would also become part of that field. You could turn completely invisible, clothes and all." A suit made by Stark would undoubtedly be packed with all-seeing sensors.

As if reading my mind, he added: "Well, of course, it'll come with a full sensor suite. How else am I supposed to find you when you decide to play ghost?" he finished with irony. There was no choice. This was the price for new capabilities. "Fine." I had to sigh and run a hand through my hair, as if saying goodbye.

 

[kowak]

Chapter 11

After the meeting with Stark, one no-less-pressing problem remained: the police. It was unlikely they were going to back off, and their surveillance could become a serious obstacle. I needed to find someone who scared them as much as the plague scared an ordinary person. And what scares cops more than a competent lawyer?

The sign above the door in a Brooklyn alley was modest: "Sinclair & Partners. Civil Law." No flashy glamour, just the essentials.

Matthew Sinclair turned out to be a man in his mid-forties, with attentive eyes and a calm, confident demeanor. He listened intently to Diego's story about the detectives' visit and the subsequent interrogation, not interrupting, only occasionally making short notes in his pad. The only sound in the office was the scratching of his pen.

When the story was finished, the lawyer thought for a few seconds, tapping his pen on the desk. "Well, Diego," he finally said, setting the pen aside. "They committed a whole bouquet of violations. Let's break it down. First, interrogating a minor without a guardian or lawyer present, even if it's framed as an 'informal chat.'"

"But they said it was just a request to come down to the station," Diego countered.

Sinclair allowed himself a faint smile. "A 'request' from a detective is a tool. They create a situation where refusing looks like an indirect admission of guilt. It's a classic tactic to bypass protocol and get someone talking without legal protection. A 'request' from a man with a gun on his hip and the power to complicate your life carries a different weight, doesn't it?"

He folded down one finger. "Second, and this is the most important part. The moment Detective Doakes indirectly accused you of the explosion, the interview shifted to a 'custodial interrogation.' At that exact moment, they were obligated to read you your rights. The right to remain silent, the right to an attorney. They didn't. That's a gross violation of the Fifth Amendment, known as the Miranda rule."

A second finger joined the first. "And third, the phone. Yes, you handed it over, but under what conditions? You are a minor, in a closed room, without a lawyer or guardian, under psychological pressure from two officers, one of whom just accused you of murder. Any court would find that your 'consent' was obtained under duress and was not voluntary. That's the Fourth Amendment—an illegal search."

Sinclair looked at Diego. "We can file a lawsuit that will cost their precinct and the city a very pretty penny. And more importantly, a huge scandal."

"I don't want a scandal. I just want them to leave me alone. And maybe a little money."

"A reasonable approach," Sinclair nodded. He turned to his computer. "Then we'll do this. I'll draft a complaint right now. The whole nine yards: unlawful detention, interrogation in violation of your rights, coerced search. And then, you and I will pay Captain Stacy a visit. Sometimes the threat of a public hearing is far more effective than the hearing itself."

---

When Captain Stacy saw Diego at his door, accompanied by a solid man in a sharp suit, he tensed up immediately. "Captain Stacy?" Sinclair began, not waiting for an invitation. "Matthew Sinclair. I represent the interests of Diego Parr. We're here to discuss the incident that took place at your precinct yesterday." He placed a thin folder with the draft of the lawsuit on the edge of the desk.

Stacy shot it a quick glance and then looked at the lawyer. "Listen, Mr. Sinclair, perhaps there's been a misunderstanding. Mr. Parr was invited to the precinct as a witness in the disappearance of Sarah Connelly. We're interviewing all her patients."

"A witness?" Sinclair raised an eyebrow slightly. "Captain, witnesses are usually interviewed in a more comfortable setting, not an interrogation room with a one-way mirror. And witnesses aren't asked questions like, 'Did you have to blow her up?'"

"Let's not exaggerate," Stacy interjected. "He wasn't in handcuffs. No one told him he was under arrest. He could have gotten up and left at any time. No one was holding him by force. He was not in custody."

Doakes, standing against the wall, snorted. "He came voluntarily. Got in the car himself."

Sinclair slowly shifted his gaze from the captain to the detective, and then back. "Voluntarily? Detective, 'voluntarily' is when there is a real choice. And what choice did a high school kid have when two police officers approach him on the street and 'offer' him a ride to the station?" The lawyer looked at Stacy again. "And you're seriously claiming he could have left?" He paused briefly.

"The legal test for 'being in custody,' Captain, isn't about handcuffs. It's about whether a reasonable person in a similar situation would feel free to terminate the encounter and leave. And the answer in our case is an unequivocal 'no.' And that changes everything. Witnesses are not deprived of their freedom of movement. From the moment my client got in your car until the moment he left the precinct, he was in custody. And during this unlawful detention, Detective Doakes conducted an interrogation, having forgotten about the existence of the Fifth Amendment to the Constitution."

The cops' argument, which had seemed perfectly logical to them, crumbled under the precise legal definition. Sinclair continued. "And that's not all. Let's paint a picture for a hypothetical juror. A lone high school kid in a locked room at a police station. Across from him are two detectives, one of whom has just accused him of a serious crime. And you, a man on duty, a person with authority, hold out your hand and ask for his phone. Do you seriously believe that in such a situation, his 'consent' was free and voluntary? Legal precedent calls this 'consent under duress.' It wasn't an offer; it was a demand, veiled in polite form."

Silence fell. Doakes glared at the lawyer but said nothing. Stacy was an experienced cop. He knew the lawyer would win in court. A lawsuit like this would be a disaster for the precinct. "Doakes, get out," he ordered.

Stacy looked at Sinclair again. "What do you want?"

"For starters," Sinclair slid the folder closer to the captain, "we want all records pertaining to yesterday's 'interview' to be destroyed. We want Diego Parr's name to never again come up in this or any other investigation without actual, lawfully obtained evidence. And we want your detectives, particularly Detective Doakes, to stay a cannon-shot away from my client. If these conditions are met,"—he tapped the folder lightly—"this document will never leave my briefcase. If not, we'll see you in court. The choice is yours, Captain."

"Fine," Stacy said slowly, making his decision. "We can arrange that. The records will be voided as obtained in violation of procedure. I'll personally see to it that his path and Detective Doakes's never cross again."

He expected to see satisfaction on Sinclair's face, but the lawyer didn't even blink. "Captain, don't get me wrong, I appreciate your prudence," Sinclair said in an even tone. "But what you've just offered is merely an assurance that my client's rights won't be violated in the future. We have not yet settled the fact that they were already violated in the past."

Stacy frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about damages. Your department unlawfully detained a minor. Your detectives subjected him to psychological pressure, baselessly accusing him of murder. They violated his constitutional rights guaranteed by the Fourth and Fifth Amendments. All of this caused my client severe moral harm and emotional distress. That harm has a monetary value."

Now it all made sense. Of course, it was about money. "He didn't look stressed," the captain remarked dryly.

"The fact that my client possesses enviable self-control does not negate the fact of the violation," Sinclair parried. "In fact, it only worsens your position in the eyes of a jury. They will see a smart, calm young man whom the system tried to break, and they will not like that one bit. Captain, let's be frank. I can walk out of here right now and file this suit. The 'discovery' process will begin. I'll have to request Detective Doakes's personnel file. Has he had similar incidents before? Complaints of abuse of power? We'll subpoena everyone involved. The press will pick up the story about police misconduct against a high school student. And in the end, a jury will award my client damages. I'm thinking a number with six zeros. Plus, the city will pay all of my fees."

Sinclair paused, letting his words sink in. "Or," he continued, his voice quieter, "we can resolve this right now. Confidentially. No muss, no fuss. My client receives reasonable compensation for his ordeal, and your department and the city avoid public humiliation and unpredictable expenses. We sign a non-disclosure agreement, and this story dies in this office."

Stacy was silent for a long time, staring at the pile of reports on his desk. He didn't have the authority to make such financial decisions alone. That was a job for the city's lawyers. But he could get the ball rolling. "What sum do you consider 'reasonable'?" he finally asked, his voice devoid of all warmth.

Sinclair smiled, just barely. The negotiation had begun. "I think we can start at one hundred thousand dollars. It's a generous offer, given the circumstances. I will prepare a formal pre-litigation demand and send it to the city's legal department. I trust they'll have 48 hours to contact me before we move on to Plan B."

He stood, and Diego followed his lead. "Thank you for your time, Captain. I hope for a swift and mutually beneficial resolution to this unfortunate situation."

As the door closed behind them, Stacy picked up his intercom. "Doakes. In my office." The detective entered a minute later. Stacy picked up the folder the lawyer had left and slammed it on the desk. "You see this? This is a pre-litigation claim. For a hundred thousand dollars. Because of your 'chat' with the kid."

Doakes scowled. "I was just doing my job. That kid is dirty, I can feel it!" "Your 'feeling' just cost the city a small fortune!" "So we're just letting him go?" Raw displeasure was in Doakes's voice.

"Yes, we're letting him go!" the captain snapped. "Furthermore, you will not go near him again. No 'accidental' run-ins, no surveillance, nothing. As far as you're concerned, Diego Parr no longer exists. That's an order. Do you understand me?"

Doakes stared at the captain for a long time, his jaw tight. "Understood." "Now go, and handle the rest of the patients. But do it by the book. One more screw-up like this, Doakes, and you'll be investigating bicycle thefts in Staten Island." The detective silently turned and left, slamming the door.

---

Doakes, deprived of his suspect, grudgingly turned his full attention to the others. Due to a shortage of manpower after the riots, he'd had to hire a dozen private investigators to tail all of Sarah Connelly's patients. He himself took on reviewing the reports, trying to find any lead at all. A week of surveillance yielded absolutely nothing. The patients lived normal lives, went to work, sat at home. Nothing suspicious.

Then, on the eighth day, a call came from the precinct. One of the P.I.s he'd hired had been murdered. The one who was tailing a certain Maxwell Jordan.

At the morgue, Doakes walked past the tables to the medical examiner, who was bent over a report. "Cause of death?" "Same as the last two." He tapped a line in the report with his pen. "Tetrodotoxin found in the blood. An absolutely insane concentration. This is the third victim with the same 'cocktail' in the last month. Looks like we have a serial killer with a taste for exotic poisons. We found a notebook on him."

Doakes put on gloves and took the small, worn notebook. The detective's last entries. Day 1. Target is acting strange. Antisocial, barely talks to anyone. Day 3. Spends hours at the zoo. Day 5. Weird feeling. Like I'm being watched. Looked around—nothing. Wait, thought I saw something move in the bushes. Just a hedgehog.

The last page. The letters were "g," "scrawled" with immense effort, as if the hand was already refusing to obey. As if it was the last thing the man managed to do before he died. Just one word, taking up the whole page: HEDGEHOG!

Now, Detective Doakes's primary person of interest was Maxwell Jordan. Everything in the notes checked out. The kid spent hours at the zoo. But what struck Doakes as particularly odd was that he didn't do it at the lion or monkey enclosures, but in front of an unremarkable plaque that read "European Hedgehog." Hedgehogs again.

Doakes wasn't the type to sit in a car for weeks, afraid of spooking his target. Yes, the recent chewing out from Stacy over the Diego incident was still fresh. Someone else in his position would have laid low, followed protocol to the letter. But that would mean betraying who he was. His entire nature was that of a predator, one that charged straight ahead. If he got fired for it one day, so be it. He got out of his car, crossed the path, and sat on the bench next to the kid. "Find something interesting?"

Maxwell flinched, as if pulled from a trance, and recoiled from the sudden presence of another person. Doakes decided to push. "I think they're pathetic," he said, deliberately throwing out the taunt. "Hiding from the world behind their needles instead of facing it. Cowardly animals." He watched Maxwell's face intently, trying to catch a reaction. And he got one. In the kid's previously apathetic eyes, a flash of rage ignited. Maxwell knew who was in front of him—this detective had already questioned him. But he didn't care. He had already made his decision. Doakes saw what he wanted. He smiled faintly, stood up, and walked away.

---

Late that night, sitting in his car across from the dormitory, Doakes continued his surveillance. Maxwell was in his room. He thought he heard a quiet rustle near the open window. His hand instinctively went to the grip of his gun, and he got out of the car, looking around. On the sidewalk, in the beam of a streetlight, sat a small white hedgehog. Not just light-colored, but an albino, with ruby-red eyes. A sight that would make most people coo and reach out a hand. But Doakes didn't care.

He might be condemned for animal cruelty, but this was the third warning. Anyone who ignores that many signs is signing their own death warrant. A gunshot. The hedgehog's small body was splattered across the asphalt. In that same instant, a heart-wrenching, inhuman scream of pain tore from the first-floor window of the dormitory. Doakes sprinted across the road. Sleepy students began to poke their heads out of their rooms. "Everyone back! NYPD!" he roared, and the hallway emptied instantly. He stopped in front of the correct door and kicked it open with his shoulder. "You're under arrest for the murder of..." he began, reading the rights, but cut himself off.

The person standing in the middle of the room no longer looked like the downtrodden teenager from the zoo. His skin rippled, and long, sharp quills, like a porcupine's, were sprouting from his back and arms. "You bastard..." he hissed, his voice distorted with rage. "YOU KILLED SNOWBALL! MY BEST FRIEND!" Dozens of quills shot from his body toward Doakes. But the detective was already moving. His body, honed by years of training, dove out of the line of fire as he pulled the trigger. The bullet was faster than the quills. Doakes dodged. Maxwell did not.

He looked at the quills embedded in the wall next to where his head had just been. The plaster around them was hissing and blackening, spreading in ugly stains. "So that's what you are. Our serial poisoner," he said quietly, looking at Maxwell's body. He radioed for backup and forensics, then began to survey the crime scene—which was also the killer's apartment. People like Maxwell, withdrawn and antisocial, often kept diaries. In reality, little girls keep diaries with locks. Guys use computers.

An old laptop sat on the desk. Doakes lifted the lid. The login screen demanded a password. An attempt to get a hint was successful. The phrase "My best friend" appeared on the screen. The detective thought for a moment and typed: SNOWBALL. The screen unlocked. On the desktop, among the standard icons, was a folder: "Sarah Connelly." Inside were a dozen text files. Opening the first, Doakes realized they were transcripts of their sessions. Why go to such trouble, retyping conversations?

At first, it all looked like normal therapy. Teenage problems, difficulty socializing. But the further he read, the more the tone changed. Connelly's advice became stranger, pushing him toward the edge. The rising wail of sirens came from the street, but Doakes barely heard it. He was completely absorbed. The last files weren't just transcripts. They were detailed, cold-blooded instructions on how to create poisons, select victims, and surveillance tactics. He scrolled to the end of the last document. All he could say came out in a whisper of pure disgust: "Son of a bitch."

---

Six hours later, Captain Stacy's office looked more like an ashtray, overflowing with cigarette butts and empty coffee cups. "Doakes, what the hell was that?" The detective, sitting opposite him, looked like a man who had just stared into the abyss and wasn't impressed. "It started with the P.I.'s murder. He was killed by a mutant, Maxwell Jordan. According to the files on his laptop, his abilities were, let's say, highly specialized." Stacy waited silently.

"He could communicate with hedgehogs. Understand them, control them, even possess their minds, like some kind of medium. What's more, over time, he could enhance their natural abilities. That white hedgehog I had to shoot was one of those... 'upgraded' pets." "Are you telling me a serial killer used a hedgehog as a murder weapon?" Genuine disbelief was in Stacy's voice.

"Exactly," Doakes confirmed. "The forensics team found the same tetrodotoxin in the albino's quills as in the detective's blood. He used its cute appearance as a lure. The victim reaches out to pet it, and the animal gives them a little prick." Stacy rubbed his temples, trying to process what he'd just heard. "And Sarah Connelly? What was her role in all this?"

"This was basically her masterpiece. At the start of therapy, Maxwell was just a withdrawn kid who was afraid of his powers. But she wasn't treating him; she was egging him on. Here's a quote, from his own notes." He read from his phone: "'If society rejects you, reject it first. It's their own fault for not leaving a place for people like you.' After that, she gave him almost direct instructions on how to cover his tracks, how to use his... pets... for surveillance. That's most likely how he ID'd the detective."

"So you provoked him, not knowing what he was capable of?" "If I hadn't, he'd still be out there, planning his next murder with his prickly little partner," Doakes parried. Stacy ignored that. "So, did he blow up Connelly, too?" "I donSignature: "I don't know. Unlikely," Doakes shook his head. "This kid was her creation, not her killer. She was playing with fire, Captain, and I'm sure he wasn't the first. Whoever got to her... good for them. As far as I'm concerned, her murder case is closed. Let someone else deal with it." Stacy stared at the folder with "Connelly" on it for a long time, as if it were radioactive. "Alright," he finally said. "We'll hand the case over to SOB. We've got enough chaos on the streets without digging up the hornet's nest she left behind."

 

[kowak]

Chapter 12

After the visit to the lawyer, the police station was behind me, and life returned to its school routine, even if it now felt like a bland imitation of normality. For over a week, Tony Stark had been conjuring up the cage for Zebediah and the new suit, for which I'd had to part with my hair and get a short cut. This forced lull, while the genius worked his magic, gave me time for other, equally important work.

In the evenings, my business began on the roof of an abandoned laundromat, where the stolen laptop could catch a weak signal from the city Wi-Fi. There, I wrote the article about the Maggia. The information beaten out of those two on the roof needed verification. I had to spend several nights, hidden by invisibility, observing their deals at the docks and secret meetings in restaurants. There was no point in interfering—just standard smuggling and turf wars, nothing requiring direct intervention, but perfect for gathering intel. Now all the facts had been personally verified.

Delving into the Maggia's dirty money inevitably brought the Hardys back to mind. Who were they? Officially, an investment fund sponsoring risky scientific projects and getting a share of the patents. Unofficially, the picture was hazy, but billions earned through entirely honest labor seemed like something out of a fairy tale. However, that thought was put on the back burner; I needed to finish what I'd started first.

After compiling all the data, I had to publish the article. The result after two days was discouraging: two hundred views, zero comments, and a grand total of five likes. Maybe I should have asked people to react at the end?

Topic: The Sopranos Today?

Author: Tactless

Danger: ★☆☆☆☆

Power: ★☆☆☆☆

They call themselves a "family," and like any loving family, they're ready to tear each other's throats out for an extra slice of the pie. We're talking about the Maggia crime syndicate. If the world, as they say, rests on three pillars, then this little world rests on three families.

Despite their tales of equality, the leading family is the Silvermane family. Silvermane is an old-school don. How old is he? No one knows for sure, but he definitely saw the start of World War I. Why is he still alive and on top? For the same reason his family dominates. Even if he's senile, he keeps up with the times. In a world ruled by superpowers, he modified himself, becoming more cyborg than human. What follows isn't fact, but a reasoned guess. He might have enhanced cognition and increased durability.

Moving on. The Hammerhead family. What a name. I suppose it sounded menacing in the fifties, but now it just makes you chuckle. The head of this family is a man who literally smashes walls with his head. If Silvermane adapts, this guy is a living anachronism. How he became the boss is a mystery, but apparently, to rule the criminal underworld, sometimes just being a complete psycho is enough. He's excellent at it.

And the third family. Unfortunately, all I could find out about them were rumors. And since I position myself as an honest author, we'll leave this topic for better times. But the very fact that almost nothing is known about them speaks volumes. They are likely the most dangerous of the three families.

Below is a map of New York. Red marks their 100% confirmed zones of influence. These are the main drug distribution points and warehouses with illegal weapons. Yellow indicates territories presumably also under their control; mostly small business racketeering and underground gambling dens. Good luck to everyone. #mafiososareassholes

Several dozen kilometers from New York, deep in the woods, Stark's robots had erected an underground facility. It wasn't just a cage, but a fully autonomous complex, serviced exclusively by machines. No human personnel—a precaution taken to the absolute extreme.

Tony was giving the final briefing. "Okay, there's a basic AI installed in the suit. Didn't have time for a full OS, so its functionality is minimal: navigation, communication with me, and threat analysis. Now, test the invisibility."

The suit, feeling like a second skin, dissolved along with my body. Finally, I could stop moving around the city naked.

"It works," Stark confirmed, looking at the empty space. "Good. Due to the target's specifics, I've blocked all audio inputs. Your only source of information will be the visor. Don't look him in the eyes, don't try to analyze his speech. If he turns out to be a telepath too... well, then we're unlucky. Keep your distance. Your intervention is a last resort, only if my machines start failing."

Trying on a new, custom-tailored purple blazer, Kilgrave was pleased. A few weeks in New York, and he had added another unique specimen to his collection: Luke Cage. Tough, impenetrable. Less mobile than Jessica, but as a living shield—flawless.

"I'll take it," he tossed to the tailor, who stood nearby with a fixed, empty stare. "Make sure no one looks for him. Also, forget me and erase the camera recordings."

This had become routine. He couldn't remember how many people he'd given similar orders to. A thousand? Two?

"Ah, yes, almost forgot," he added, already heading for the exit. "If anyone asks about me or sees my face in the news... kill whoever asked. If it's the latter—kill your family, then yourself."

He couldn't give permanent commands, but he could leave "triggers." Sleeper commands that could lie dormant in his victims' minds for years, waiting for their cue. This was how he constantly replenished his invisible army of the dead.

Leaving the shop accompanied by his silent guards, Cage and Jessica, he headed to a restaurant. "Lovely day, isn't it, Jessica?"

Before she could answer, something crashed down on him from the sky. A metal sarcophagus fell right on Kilgrave, slamming into the sidewalk with force. The panels sealed shut, trapping him in an airtight prison. Something sharp pricked his neck—an instant medical analysis—and a second later, a specialized sedative was injected into his bloodstream.

"LET ME OUT!" he roared, but his command hit inanimate alloy and died.

Passersby on the street froze, some in fear, some in curiosity, but everyone recognized Stark's tech. For safety, the crowd began to back away.

Jessica Jones and Luke Cage lunged for the sarcophagus, which was already beginning to lift into the air, but their path was blocked by four iron suits that dove down from the rooftops. They opened fire, but the shots were clearly calculated for containment. Energy blasts that should have pinned a normal person bounced off Luke's skin, harmless. Tony didn't want to critically injure his victims, clearly understanding they were under complete control and not acting of their own free will. Though, Luke could likely have withstood a much stronger hit anyway.

Luke, ignoring the shots, grabbed Jessica by the waist, spun around, and hurled her toward one of the robots. She flew like a projectile. The suit, easily calculating her trajectory, began to shift aside to dodge. By all calculations, she should have flown past. But Jessica twisted with impossible acrobatic precision and, literally pushing off the air, abruptly changed course. Her fist, turning into a battering ram, punched through the ultra-strong alloy in the robot's chest.

Three suits remained on the battlefield.

The sarcophagus disappeared into the sky, leaving only a rapidly fading contrail. The target was out of reach. For Jessica, the chase had lost all meaning. In that same second, the second command activated in her mind. "If I am captured and rescue is impossible... you must kill everyone around."

Without hesitation, without a single word, she and Luke split up. Two vectors of destruction aimed at the panicking crowd. Stark's robots immediately opened fire, but it was useless. Jessica moved with incredible speed, dodging the energy blasts, while Luke simply plowed forward, ignoring the shots that fizzled harmlessly against his skin.

Jessica reached the crowd first. Her hand shot out to strike a woman screaming in terror, but her fist slammed into an invisible barrier. The air in front of her filled with purple light, cracking from the point of impact.

Diego, appearing from nowhere, felt the reactive vibration run through his entire body. For the first time since that day in the mall facing the Abomination, his defense buckled under someone else's power. The blow wasn't as devastating, but it was strong enough to make the barrier crackle. It was clear: simply containing her wouldn't work. Worse, on the other side of the street, Luke Cage was approaching another group of people. The threat front had split, and he couldn't be in two places at once.

The decision was instant. Instead of a flat wall, Diego wove a purple cube around Jessica. Due to the speed, the structure was unstable, its facets shimmering. Without losing a second, he put all his strength into a push, and the cube, with Jessica trapped inside, flew straight at Luke Cage.

As expected, the barrier couldn't withstand her impact and shattered into shards of light, but the goal was achieved. Now both threats were in the same place, right in front of him. Stark's robots, obeying updated tactical analysis, redistributed their roles. Now they acted as support: creating a perimeter and guiding frightened civilians away from the epicenter.

Two stood before Diego. Two mutants, far from weaklings, their eyes devoid of will. He said quietly: "Yeah, this won't be easy."

He needed to test their strength. The space around Jessica and Luke compressed, weaving into two transparent spheres. Each was in their own personal prison. These barriers weren't infused with full power; it was just a way to assess exactly what he was up against. The result was sobering.

Jessica's blows were furious and fast. In normal life, she didn't possess such crushing power, nor the ability to push off the air, but Kilgrave's direct command to "unleash full potential" had removed all her body's subconscious limiters. The very first hit left a thin, barely visible crack on the sphere's surface. The next added another. She wasn't just flailing—she was methodically boxing the same spot, and with each hit, the cracks multiplied, weaving into an ugly web. She might be weaker than the Abomination, but her attacks were more frequent and precise.

Cage, on the other hand, was the embodiment of pure, unyielding strength. Slightly stronger than Jessica, he didn't waste energy on a hail of blows but simply pressed against the walls of his cage with all his mass. If he were alone, containing him would have been possible. But he wasn't alone.

With a deafening crack, the sphere around Jessica exploded into purple fragments. She pushed off the ground with such force that the asphalt beneath her foot cracked and sank. A flat barrier she likely would have broken through with sheer speed. So instead of a wall, a smooth, curved barrier grew in front of her, like on a racetrack. Jessica slammed into it and, obeying the laws of physics, followed the path of least resistance, changing her trajectory and flying off to the side.

At that exact moment, Luke Cage also broke free, simply pushing through the remnants of his barrier. Diego wasn't the same kid from the mall anymore; he understood his powers better. Instead of encasing himself in an energy-draining capsule, he wove a dense platform of purple light beneath his feet. When he stepped onto it, several thin barriers wrapped around his legs, anchoring him to the surface. In this fight, every unit of power had to be conserved. He rose smoothly above the ground, looking down at his two opponents. "Time to remember geometry."

Jessica pushed off the asphalt and leaped, her body soaring into the air, aiming straight for Diego. He had already seen what she could do, seen how she pushed off the air. For a split second, the thought of creating an ultra-thin barrier flashed through his mind—she would simply cut herself in half against such an obstacle. But killing a puppet was cruel.

Diego didn't dodge. Instead, he projected a shield in front of him, angled at 45 degrees. Rather than blocking the blow and absorbing all its energy, the barrier was designed to redirect it. Jessica's crushing impact turned into a glancing push, dissipating her inertia harmlessly. Previously, such a hit would have cracked the shield, but now it only vibrated slightly.

Below, Cage, realizing he couldn't reach the target in the air, turned and charged in the direction the robots were herding people. But Diego was ready. A small but sturdy barrier grew out of the asphalt right in front of Luke's feet. It wasn't very high. Due to his speed, Cage didn't have time to react and, tripping, crashed heavily to the ground.

Now Diego felt he controlled the fight. He parried Jessica's lunges while simultaneously keeping Luke pinned. But how long could this last? He could try to kill them, and he likely would succeed, but the situation didn't allow it. Because of the acoustic blockade in his suit, he couldn't even hear the emergency sirens announcing the threat level increase to Class Two.

After a few minutes, SOB and National Guard armored vehicles rolled onto the street. Soldiers took up positions. "MUTANTS! CEASE RESISTANCE OR WE WILL OPEN FIRE!" a voice boomed through a loudspeaker.

No one stopped. Luke tried to get up, but the force field pressed him down. Due to the unstable footing on the cracked asphalt, he couldn't immediately break the barrier; it took time to find a stable position. He pressed his palms into the ground, leaving deep imprints. With a powerful push, like a push-up, he forced the force field above him to bulge. Through the created opening, he executed a quick roll, escaping the pressure.

The military, seeing their orders ignored, deployed sonic weapons. A wave of infrasound washed over the street, rattling windows. Normally, it would paralyze, forcing people to clamp their hands over their ears in agony. But not this time. Diego's personal barrier filtered the attack; he didn't even notice it. Blood trickled from Cage's and Jessica's ears and noses, but they didn't care. Programmed to kill, they ignored the pain.

"THEY'RE BEING CONTROLLED!" Diego shouted, realizing some attack had occurred. "NOTHING WILL STOP THEM! THEY'LL DIE FIRST!"

And then, in the ensuing pause, a man in a wheelchair rolled out from behind the cordon. He calmly looked at the two mutants preparing for another attack and said, addressing Diego more than the soldiers: "Really? Nothing?" With that, he tilted his head slightly. No gestures, no flashes of light. Just a mental effort. In that instant, Jessica and Luke froze. Their bodies went limp and collapsed onto the asphalt like puppets whose strings had been cut.

Diego, not understanding what had happened, hovered in the air. He looked around and met the gaze of the bald man in the chair. He was dangerous in a way neither Cage nor Jessica had been. He had neutralized two superhumanly strong mutants without moving. Diego looked at their still bodies—they were breathing.

Diego didn't know it, but at that very moment, he had witnessed the saving of two lives. Kilgrave's final, parting command to his puppets had been a self-destruct order in case of failure—they were supposed to die. But the man in the chair had intercepted control. He hadn't erased or severed the death command; it was still active in their minds, demanding their bodies immediately self-destruct. Instead, he had superimposed his own will over the other, taking direct mental control of their every breath, every heartbeat, the flow of blood through their vessels—all the vital processes that sustained their existence against the command to die.

Being near such a being was the height of recklessness. Diego's suit dissolved into the air, and, invisible, he began to move away from the scene.

All this time, Xavier had been observing from the sidelines, not rushing to interfere. His attention was fully focused on the mutant controlling the force fields. The professor's eyes saw the figure hovering in the air, but in the mental space, where Xavier was omniscient, there was only emptiness in that spot. And at the very moment Diego was about to fly away, Xavier directed a concentrated beam of his power at the point where his mind should have been, but encountered a solid, impenetrable barrier. It wasn't a mental shield, but something else—a barrier blocking his power itself. Xavier could have tried to brute-force his way through this defense, but he refrained. The outcome of such a mental attack was entirely unpredictable.

Arriving at the lab, Diego found Tony completely engrossed in data analysis. The main screen showed a real-time image of the sleeping Zebediah. Invisible, Diego materialized right behind his chair. "Boo."

Stark jumped in his seat. "Jesus Christ! Give a guy some warning!" A faint smile flickered across Diego's face. He walked around the chair and sat opposite him. "How's it progressing?"

Tony quickly recovered from the surprise. "I'll get you back for that. Okay, where to start... Well, good news: he's not a telepath. That's nice. Bad news: he's essentially a walking biological agent. He emits a modified virus that enters the bloodstream through inhalation. When he gives a command, the virus activates and hijacks control of higher nervous functions."

"Can it be recreated?" Stark shrugged. "Don't know. I started studying advanced virology five minutes ago. Give me a day or two, and I'll tell you for sure. As for his 'ritual'—it turned out to be ridiculously simple. A ring on his finger. A simple press once a day sent a signal through an encrypted channel to a server, which gave the 'all clear' to all the monitor apps. And yes, we absolutely cannot let this information leak. If the nature of his power becomes known, not only will the hunt for this virus begin, but all his sleeper agents around the world will receive their final order."

Diego frowned, thinking it over. "There might be a problem with that. When I was fighting his 'guards,' this bald guy in a wheelchair showed up. I don't know what he did, but he knocked them out from a distance without even moving."

"That was Xavier," Stark replied casually. "Class Four mutant, though by all rights, he should be Class Five. Planetary-level telepath. Hmm, anyway, he's considered one of the reasonable ones, so I doubt he'll go blabbing about this."

Suspicion made Diego narrow his eyes. "You're surprisingly calm. A telepath of that level appears in the city, and you, the guy who's paranoid about control, didn't even flinch. Developed a defense against mentalists?"

Tony grinned smugly. "What do you take me for? Of course, I did. It was the first thing I made when I found out they existed." He pointed to his temple. "Right here, under the skin, there's a psi-scrambler. It constantly generates and adds about a dozen false streams of consciousness to my mental 'broadcast.' To any telepath, my brain is like an old TV full of static. They prefer to steer clear. I've only met two, but my theory held true for both. And don't even ask, I'm not making one for you."

"Who was the second one?" Stark waved a hand dismissively. "Not a 'one,' a 'her.' You're not ready for that yet, but in short—let's just say, she's a snow-white BDSM domme." Diego had no response to that. "What?" "Like I said," Tony repeated, turning back to the screens, "you're not ready yet."

 

[Billbo baggins]

Thanks for the update man I don't know about others but I really am liking this so far. Unfortunately I'm not one to talk all that often

 

[petrahansem]

I really like this story so far. The use of "cameos" is also pretty funny.

 

[kowak]

Chapter 13

"Well, that's it. Our purple friend is cataloged, analyzed, and digitized. Time to interrogate him."

"Are you sure we've accounted for everything?" Diego asked, stepping closer. "What if he has another ace up his sleeve?"

"Who knows," Stark shrugged. "That's exactly why we need to interrogate him." He pressed a touch panel. In the underground cell, dozens of kilometers away, a mechanical manipulator smoothly lowered and gave Kilgrave a stimulant injection.

He slowly opened his eyes. At first, confusion clouded them, but as soon as he realized his situation—strapped into a medical chair in the middle of a sterile chamber—his face twisted with rage. "LET ME OUT!"

Tony's voice, amplified by the speakers in the chamber, dripped with sarcasm. "Nope. Why would we let a piece of trash like you go?"

"If you don't let me go, all my people will die!"

"If you're talking about the ring that sent the 'all clear' signal once a day, we're emulating it," Stark replied casually. "If you're talking about some hypothetical bio-monitor embedded in your heart tracking your pulse, we intercepted and replaced that signal an hour ago. So, if you die, no one will even notice. Relax."

Kilgrave fell silent. His main leverage had turned to dust. Realizing this, he changed tactics. "Then I'll give you information." "Like what?" "I'll tell you who made me this way."

At that moment, Diego interjected. "If you're talking about Sarah, don't bother. She's dead." Stark shot him a brief, surprised glance.

Silence hung in the chamber. Suddenly, Zebediah started to laugh. Quietly at first, then louder and louder, until his laughter turned into hysterical cackles. "HA-HA-HA-HA! So that's how you found me. I see... Do you even know what you've done?" His voice trembled with laughter. "One day, I got curious. I asked her. 'Sarah, tell me, what do you really want?'" He strained forward against the restraints.

"And she answered. Without her masks, without the manipulation. She said that since childhood, she hated fairy tales about heroes. She was disgusted that good always won, just because it was written that way. She didn't understand why. So she decided to write her own fairy tale. To conduct her own little experiment. To create a brood of monsters, truly dangerous ones. And pit a single hunter against them. 'The Devil's Game,' she called it. She was dying to know who would win. And even more—what the hunter would become after going through it all. Would he become a monster himself, even worse than the ones he hunted? Or would he just break? Her mind didn't even consider another outcome," Kilgrave hissed. He looked directly into the camera lens, madness glinting in his eyes. "I laughed in her face then. Told her that her precious hunter would break his teeth on me."

Zebediah thrashed in the chair, his laughter mingling with sobs. "HA-HA-HA! CRAZY BITCH! SHE ACTUALLY DID IT! BUT I CAN'T, I CAN'T LOSE TO THE HUNTER!"

For the second time in his life, he was experiencing uncontrollable stress. Purple blotches spread across his skin, his body convulsed. The entire underground prison began to tremble. Reinforced concrete walls cracked, and thick tree roots snaked through them, trying to free their new master.

His power had mutated, jumping levels. Now he could telepathically influence all living organic matter around him—plants, animals, people.

"Tony, fucking kill him!" For the first time in a long while, panic laced Diego's voice. "On it!" Stark replied, equally panicked.

But before the awakening was complete, before his mind could issue a new command, a thin, blindingly red beam lanced through Kilgrave's head. The roots instantly stopped moving. They froze lifelessly, never reaching their target. The screens showed a static image of the destroyed chamber and Kilgrave's headless body. When it was all over, they could both finally breathe again.

Tony leaned back in his chair, slowly running a hand over his face. "This Sarah... Connelly?" Diego didn't answer. "Hey, Earth to Diego. You with me?" Stark's voice snapped him out of his stupor.

"Huh? Oh, yeah... Long story short, Sarah is a manipulator-mutant. And in my opinion, she's scarier than any telepath." He paused, choosing his words. "Hmm... she literally chose the fate of any mutant who spoke with her. She just knew exactly what to say—what phrase, with what intonation—to make them do what she wanted. What Zebediah was screaming, that she created him, that wasn't a metaphor. It was probably true."

Tony looked at him in silence for several seconds. "Well, looks like you're a monster hunter now. Quite the career path. At least your resume will be interesting. And since you're our resident expert on catching monsters..." He swiveled one of the screens, displaying Senator Stern's dossier. "...I have a job for you."

Diego looked at him questioningly. "I need you to kidnap Senator Stern."

---

The armored car moved through the streets of Washington, shielded from the world by layers of bulletproof glass. There was no driver's seat—an artificial intelligence occupied its place.

"At today's session, you must bring the 'Collar-X' project and the concept of a correctional facility for mutants up for consideration," Arnim Zola's voice filled the cabin. "Your speech must emphasize the need for preemptive containment..."

"I know what I have to do!" Stern interrupted irritably, staring out the window at the passing monuments. "Enough. Just shut up." Zola fell silent.

Stern leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. When had it all gone wrong? He thought the alliance with HYDRA was a path to effortless power. Vote for the right laws, occasionally give the right speeches, and spend the rest of the time partying with girls by the pool. But reality had turned out differently. Now he was their main public face, a puppet whose every move was monitored 24/7 by an immortal digital ghost. There was no escape. Ever since Pierce made the deal with The Hand, any attempt to leak information about HYDRA would activate the mental block in his brain, which would simply melt his mind.

Suddenly, Zola's voice broke the silence again. "Attention. Invisible object detected. Likely the barrier user from New York."

An instant earlier, an invisible wave had pulsed out from hidden sections of the car—an ultrasonic sonar. It was designed to detect physical threats invisible to standard cameras. The wave reached the spot where Diego hovered in the air and hit his protective shell. The barrier, impenetrable to matter and energy, proved equally deaf to sound. The wave didn't pass through; it reflected, returning to the car's sensors and providing Zola's system with clear data: directly in front of the car, in empty space, was a solid, humanoid object. Diego himself felt nothing.

"Evasion protocol activated," Zola stated emotionlessly.

"Shit, not this again!" Stern yelled, instinctively shrinking back into his seat. "I'm gonna have a fever for a week after this!"

The "Evasion" protocol was a marvel of computational engineering, based on principles Zola had grasped back during World War II while studying the Tesseract. However, its full implementation only became possible after he became a "digital god," his computational power vastly increased. It required the simultaneous execution of two colossal sets of calculations.

The first was motion synchronization. Zola determined the precise four-dimensional coordinates of the destination point and, most complexly, compensated for the difference in velocity vectors between the departure and arrival points. The system accounted for Earth's rotation, its orbit around the sun, and even the entire solar system's movement through the galaxy. Without this correction, Stern would materialize at the destination point at bullet speed.

The second was arrival site preparation. Simultaneously, the system scanned the target volume at the destination, momentarily dematerializing all air atoms and creating a perfect vacuum in the shape of Stern's body. This was why they couldn't teleport just anything anywhere, only to specific, pre-prepared locations. Attempting to materialize an object in unprepared space was impossible due to the Pauli exclusion principle, which forbids two particles of matter from occupying the same space at the same time.

It was Zola's immense computational power that allowed him to perform both these complex processes instantly and flawlessly.

A fraction of a second before his body was supposed to disappear, Stern saw a figure in a black suit materialize out of thin air right in front of the hood. Space inside the car distorted, and the senator vanished. In the same instant, all the car's systems overloaded. The power core destabilized.

The car exploded, turning into a fireball. The shockwave slammed into the purple shield with a deafening roar. Drivers in adjacent lanes instinctively wrenched their wheels, crashing into each other. Pedestrians on the sidewalk screamed and dove to the ground, covering their heads, or ducked into nearby doorways.

One after another, car alarms throughout the block began to wail, creating a discordant chorus. All that remained on the road was a burning, smoking heap of metal, surrounded by shards of glass and the mangled parts of crashed cars. The target was gone, and the mission had failed before it even began.

---

Stark's private jet sped through the sky back to New York. No pilots, no flight attendants—Jarvis controlled everything. Getting on and off board unnoticed, under the cloak of invisibility, was easy. Except it was all pointless. The mission had failed. Stern had vanished. Looks like I skipped school for nothing.

At that moment, Tony's face appeared on the screen opposite the chair. "So, how'd it go?" It was an unnecessary question. He already knew.

"They detected me," I had to state the obvious. "First Stern disappeared right out of the car, and immediately after, it exploded. It was teleportation, nothing else."

Tony rubbed his chin thoughtfully on the other end. "Hmm, teleportation... According to the recording, there was no one in the car but Stern. Interesting how they managed that. Anyway, it's not that important right now. It was naive to think a snake that's been hiding for eighty years would be so easy to grab by the tail."

"Seems to me the main problem is Arnim Zola. How do you destroy a digital mind? What if he's already made copies of himself all over the network? Like in some movie, if you cut off people's basic needs—power, water, internet, which he can do—it'll be armageddon. Seems like we should be thinking about that, not chasing mice like Stern."

"I know," he snapped irritably. "The only one who can fight him in the digital realm is Jarvis, but even he can't beat him. And you're right about backups; he's probably already made them. The only way to guarantee his death is to destroy every digital storage device on the planet. A planetary-scale EMP. But after that, banks, power plants, hospitals, communication—everything turns into useless junk. We'd go back to the stone age just to kill one ghost."

"Then wasn't it dangerous to attack Stern?" I had to ask the obvious question. "What if we provoked Zola by doing that?"

"Maybe, if he realized we knew about HYDRA," Tony replied. "But I'm sure he wrote it off as just another mutant unhappy with the senator's rhetoric. Just an unfortunate..." Suddenly, Tony fell silent on the other end, his gaze focusing on something off-camera. "What happened?"

He slowly brought his eyes back to the camera, a look of utter bewilderment on his face. "Are you... seeing a magic letter that just appeared out of thin air?" "Are you high?"

"Right now, I'm not sure I'm not. Jarvis," his voice became serious, "scan this envelope for everything imaginable." "Yes, sir," the AI's voice came from the speakers. "No biological, chemical, or radiological threats detected. Material is parchment. Ink is iron oxide based. Shall I read the contents?" "Yes."

"Dear Tony Stark. I am aware of your dilemma regarding Arnim Zola. Please, do not take direct action against him. The time is NOT yet right. Your task is to weaken HYDRA. To do this, adhere to several instructions: First, do not let the world know HYDRA exists—this applies primarily to you, Diego Parr. Second, do not attempt to create a second ascending AI to combat Zola, which applies to you, Tony Stark. And third, you must inform Nick Fury that Alexander Pierce is the head of HYDRA. Sincerely, A Well-Wisher."

Tony and I said it simultaneously, each on our own end of the connection: "What the hell was that?" Stark's face looked just as baffled.

"Okay," I had to break the silence. "Let's put aside for a minute the fact that this 'Well-Wisher' somehow knows my name and everything else. But who's Fury?"

Tony didn't seem to hear the question right away. He was staring off to the side, his gaze distant. "You know, I really would have tried to create a worthy opponent for him..." he muttered. Then he shook himself and focused on the camera. "What did you ask? Ah, Fury. He's the director of a secret organization, S.H.I.E.L.D. Helped me out a lot before. Basically, their job is to protect Earth from all kinds of threats." He paused, a grim realization dawning on his face. "Alexander Pierce, who the letter mentions, is one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s leaders. Now it makes sense how HYDRA flourished right under everyone's noses for so long. God, what have I gotten myself into..."

"Obviously, this letter was primarily intended for you. So, if we believe this letter, then completing the third point is your job."

Tony sighed heavily. "Goes without saying. Okay, I need to think about what to do with all this. Our collaboration ends here. Need to sort out this mess. When there's something on the serum, I'll let you know." With that, the screen went dark, leaving me alone amidst the luxury of the private jet.

 

[kowak]

Chapter 14

In his New York office, Nick Fury stared at the single sentence highlighted in red in the report: "THEY ARE BEING CONTROLLED." A mutant capable of turning people into puppets had appeared in the city, and S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn't even suspected. Worse, according to all data, Stark had kidnapped this mutant. Who knew what he planned to do with him? But more importantly—such an ability was vitally necessary for Fury himself. Especially now, in this time of total distrust and hidden wars.

The office door opened silently. Coulson entered, his face as inscrutable as ever, but urgency radiated from his posture. "Senator Stern has been kidnapped."

Fury's expression didn't change. No anger, no surprise. Just another knot in the endless tangle of secrets. "Whose work?"

"We don't know," Coulson replied. "The entire analysis division is in an uproar. It's like he just vanished."

Fury sighed heavily. "Alright. If we can't handle it, we'll have to find someone who can. Tell me, is Pierce out of town again?"

"Yes, sir. Urgent inspection at the European base."

If anyone had asked Fury just a couple of years ago if he trusted Alexander Pierce as much as he trusted himself, the answer would have been an unequivocal "Yes." But not now. Now, one detail persistently circled in his head: whenever Xavier appeared in or near the city, Pierce suddenly had urgent business overseas. Fury himself wasn't eager to be in the same room with a planetary-level telepath, but duty called.

"Damn it," Fury muttered. "Gotta ask Tony for help again. We're already paying him a fortune for consultations."

At that moment, Clint Barton, Fury's personal security, spoke quietly. "Speak of the devil..."

Before Fury could react, the office door opened, and Tony Stark appeared on the threshold. He held a futuristic-looking helmet, similar to those used by fighter pilots. "Hey everyone! I know you're terribly happy to see me, flowers, applause, all that," he began in his usual tone.

"Stark," Fury interrupted him. "You don't have an appointment. Why are you here?"

Tony ignored the question and, walking up to the desk, tossed the helmet down right in front of the director. "Put it on."

Fury looked suspiciously first at the helmet, then at Stark. But then his gaze fell on his own finger—on the inconspicuous green ring his agents had found years ago in the ruins of an Aztec temple. The artifact of unknown origin had one useful property: it changed color in the face of an immediate threat to the owner's life. Yellow—danger. Red—imminent death (tested on several "volunteers" who hadn't survived the experiment). Right now, the ring remained green. So, no direct threat.

He reluctantly picked up the helmet and put it on. The internal display lit up, and an image of Tony, sitting in a chair in his lab, appeared before his eyes.

"Shut up, don't say anything, and just listen," Stark's voice sounded directly in his head, bypassing his ears. "This helmet transmits everything straight to the brain. Zola probably can't intercept this. Okay, let's start with the main thing. HYDRA is alive and well. And for a genius like me, destroying it wouldn't be a problem, if not for Arnim Zola. He turned himself into a digital consciousness. I hope I don't need to explain what that means."

Tony in the video paused. "I... got a letter. Don't ask from where. It said not to provoke Zola. And I don't know who sent it, but the sender knows something I don't. So, for now, I'll have to follow their recommendations. Namely: to tell you that Alexander Pierce is the head of HYDRA."

Fury listened silently, his face remaining impassive.

"Also," Tony continued in the video, "there's something else. An organization known as 'The Hand.' They literally hide in shadows. That's not a metaphor." He knew about The Hand. That was precisely why Clint Barton was always nearby, his bodyguard. One of the few in S.H.I.E.L.D. who had trained in K'un-Lun and learned to control Chi. Clint channeled it through his eyes, gaining the ability to see the subtle "life breaths," the auras that even The Hand's masters of shadow art couldn't hide. They had tried to get close to Fury several times, but Barton had foiled their attacks again and again, until they stopped trying.

"And one last thing," Tony in the video held up a small inhaler. "I'll leave this for you. All you need to do is get Pierce to inhale it. The chemical formula is mine, brand new. Makes a person highly suggestible for a short time. You can make him talk or do whatever you want. That's all."

The image went dark. Fury took off the helmet and looked around. Stark was no longer in the office. "Where is he?" "He left, sir," Clint answered. "But he left this." He placed the inhaler on the desk.

Fury looked at it thoughtfully. So, Pierce really was a traitor? His suspicions were confirmed in the most unexpected way. He shifted his gaze to the inhaler. Stark had only recently kidnapped a mutant capable of controlling people's will. And now he was giving him this? Had he really managed to extract his power?

"Sir," Coulson reminded him, "you have a meeting with Xavier in an hour." Nick Fury slowly took a cigar from the desk, lit it, and blew out a cloud of smoke. "Right on time."

---

In a S.H.I.E.L.D. conference room, Fury, Coulson, and Barton sat on one side of the table, the embodiment of official authority and hidden strength. Opposite them sat Xavier, Storm, and Magneto, representatives of a new, rising power.

"We are gathered today," Coulson began, consulting his tablet, "to discuss potential cooperation in light of Wilson Fisk's initiative and to develop a common position on advancing legislation for mutant integration into society."

Xavier smiled politely, but his gaze was fixed on Fury. "Agent Coulson, I'm afraid your director's thoughts are far from legislative initiatives today."

Fury slowly turned his head, his single eye looking at the professor. "Already digging around in my head, Xavier?"

The professor sighed. "Honestly, it's the same thing every time. People so easily confuse perceptiveness with telepathy." "But you didn't answer."

There was something more than just a question in Fury's tone. It was almost an unspoken invitation to look into his mind. Xavier caught it and, accepting the silent permission, closed his eyes for a moment. He didn't delve deep, merely touched the surface of Fury's consciousness, scanning the kaleidoscope of recent events and suspicions: the video from Stark via the helmet, the information about Pierce, about Zola, about HYDRA.

"I understand," Xavier's voice sounded in Fury's head, invisible and inaudible to the others.

The professor opened his eyes and gave Magneto a short nod. Without a word, Magneto slightly raised his hand. His power over electromagnetic fields instantly manifested in the room. He didn't just command metal; he manipulated the very energy permeating everything. Obeying his will, the electrical currents in all the devices in the room—screens, tablets, hidden microphones—went haywire. There was a crackle, sparks flew, and all the electronics died at once. Only a single, simple emergency incandescent bulb overhead, devoid of complex electronics, continued to glow dimly.

"Now," Fury said into the ensuing silence, "we can talk for real. You already know what I need. Namely, for you to capture Pierce." Coulson and Barton exchanged glances, not understanding what was happening, but they gave no sign.

"Capture Alexander Pierce?" Magneto measured Fury with a heavy gaze. "The second-in-command of S.H.I.E.L.D.? Do you take us for idiots? What kind of integration can we talk about if we start by attacking one of the leaders of the world's top intelligence agency? After something like that, the government won't just refuse concessions; they'll definitely declare open season on us."

"It's not that simple, Erik," Xavier interjected before Fury could respond. "Alexander Pierce is the head of HYDRA. Senator Stern and the entire anti-mutant opposition are their doing." He turned his gaze to Fury. "As the old saying goes: if you're good at something, never do it for free. We will help you eliminate your problem, but the price will be high."

Xavier didn't wait for counter-offers. "First: Full civil and legal protection for Homo superior. Immediate repeal of any registration acts and the introduction of a constitutional amendment recognizing us as full citizens. Any discrimination based on the X-gene must be prosecuted as a hate crime."

"Second: Complete dissolution of all government programs creating anti-mutant weapons, and the transfer of all research under joint control."

"Third: Federal funding for specialized schools to help young mutants control their abilities, as well as the inclusion of mutant history and X-gene biology in the school curriculum to combat prejudice."

"Fourth: Full amnesty for mutants who were forced to use their powers in self-defense or were hiding from unlawful persecution."

"And fifth: The creation of a permanent Department of Mutant Affairs, with our decisive voice, to advise the government."

"We can't dictate terms to the government," Fury objected.

"Can't we?" Xavier allowed himself a slight smile. "I've read your thoughts, Nick. You're not afraid that you can't. You're afraid to take responsibility for wielding the immense power you possess. You're afraid of becoming like HYDRA, because you understand—there's no one above you. You're afraid of starting to control those you dislike, so you limit yourself to passive defense. But it is precisely this fear that distinguishes you from them. True evil would never be tormented by such doubts."

The silence in the room became almost tangible. "So?" Xavier repeated his unspoken question.

Fury was silent for a long time, staring at his hands resting on the table. "Alright," he finally said. "Bring me Pierce. And you'll get what you asked for."

1942. Johann Schmidt's Castle.

A massive oak table flew through the air and crashed against the stone wall, shattering into splinters. Schmidt, breathing heavily, stared at the wreckage. Rage churned within him. He, the leader of HYDRA, the organization destined to change the world, was failing again. His best scientist, the brilliant but unbearably willful Arnim Zola, was more interested in his own projects than in creating superweapons for the Reich. And coded messages flew in from Berlin, each angrier than the last. The Führer, that short-sighted corporal, threatened to disband HYDRA and send Schmidt back to the filth of the trenches if he didn't immediately present the promised "Wunderwaffe" to the world.

Schmidt despised Hitler, his primitive politics, and his incompetent generals. Zola's science was too slow, too unreliable. The answer lay elsewhere—in the power even the gods feared: the occult. He clung to fragments of legends, ancient texts. And finally found it—a mention of the "Book of the Damned," the Darkhold, supposedly hidden in an abandoned monastery somewhere in the Black Forest.

Desperation drove him. A few days later, having battled through a blizzard, he stood in the frozen, snow-filled crypt of the old monastery. Beneath a layer of ice and the dust of ages lay a tome bound in blackened leather. The Darkhold. Flipping through the fragile pages, inscribed in long-forgotten languages, he found what he sought: "The Ritual of Summoning He Who Pays Debts."

Several weeks later, in the dungeons of his castle, Schmidt performed the ritual. The book demanded two hundred innocent hearts, of an absolute purity not found in the adult world of sin. And he found them...

The bloody chalk circle erupted in black flames. The air smelled of sulfur. A figure stepped from the flames—not a horned monster, but an elegant, unnaturally pale aristocrat in an impeccably tailored tailcoat. He surveyed the hall with faint amusement, his gaze lingering on Schmidt's black uniform.

"Devil!" Schmidt snarled, trying to hide a tremor—whether from cold or fear, he couldn't tell. "I command you! Give me a weapon capable of destroying my enemies!"

The being tilted its head. Something akin to... bewilderment crossed its features. It wasn't angry or enraged. How could one be angry at an insect that suddenly decided it could command a boot? Rather, it was amused by the audacity and decided to play along.

"OH, MY LORD! CAN IT TRULY BE YOU?!" he exclaimed with exaggerated delight. At the word "Lord," lightning struck from the ceiling, scorching his shoulder, but the aristocrat merely brushed off the ash nonchalantly. "Are you the Johann Schmidt?! Legends are told of you in Hell!"

Schmidt straightened, vanity drowning out fear. He nodded smugly. "And what do they say?"

"They say you are the harbinger of a new order! The one who will conquer the entire world! That your will..."

"Enough!" Schmidt interrupted impatiently. Flattery was pleasant, but time was short. "Grant me two things. First: a weapon capable of crushing any army and conquering the world. Second: a contract giving me power over the souls of mortals."

The aristocrat tapped a pale finger against his chin, feigning deep thought. "Now, now, now... A weapon... Perhaps the Spear of Destiny? Hmm, no, for a figure like you, that's too... mundane. How about the Ring of Virginity? They say a virgin who has never known a woman gains wisdom akin to the divine..." He looked closely at the reddening Schmidt. "Yes, perhaps that will suit."

"DO I LOOK LIKE A LOSER?!" Schmidt roared. "HUNDREDS OF WOMEN HAVE BEEN MINE! HUNDREDS!"

Mephisto sighed. It had been amusing at first, but now it was becoming annoying. "Shut up," he tossed out wearily. Schmidt's vocal cords seized. He opened his mouth, but couldn't make a sound.

"For clarity," Mephisto continued in his usual, cold tone, "you don't look like a loser. You are a loser. Only trash makes deals with demons, because they're too weak to get what they want themselves. Look at yourself. Look at what you've done. Two hundred infants. You sacrificed them without even knowing if I would actually appear. Hundreds of women? I doubt even one lay with you willingly, rather than under threat or out of fear. However, I am the Devil. By and large, I don't care. But you're lucky. The ritual was genuine, the conditions met. I am obligated to grant your wish."

He snapped his fingers. A parchment scroll and a small blank form, resembling a promissory note, appeared on the floor before Schmidt. "I grant you a map. It shows the location where the god Odin long ago hid a powerful artifact, the Cosmic Cube. It will give you the power you dream of. And the soul-binding form. You'll figure out how to use it yourself; you're the 'genius' here, after all."

Mephisto smiled, and fire flashed in his eyes. "And if you think your ritual was payment, I'll disappoint you. Your soul now belongs to me. See you on the other side, Johann. You'll like it there. HA-HA-HA!" The demonic laughter filled the dungeon, and the aristocrat's figure dissolved into a suddenly erupting pillar of hellfire, leaving Schmidt alone in the silence, with a map to limitless power and a contract for eternal damnation.

---

In the castle dungeon, the only sounds were the scratching of a quill on parchment and muffled, furious moans. Arnim Zola, tied to a chair and gagged, watched helplessly as his fate was decided without his input. Schmidt filled out the form granted by Mephisto with glee. He penned each clause with particular care.

PACT OF SUBJUGATION

This Pact is entered into between the Purchaser (Johann Schmidt, Leader of HYDRA) and the Supplier (Entity known as Mephisto) concerning the will of the Subject (Doctor Arnim Zola).

Article I: Principle of Loyalty. The will, mind, genius, and flesh of the Subject (Arnim Zola) shall henceforth and forever belong to the Idea of HYDRA and its appointed Leader (Johann Schmidt).

Article II: Mechanism of Enforcement (Flesh-Binding). The Subject's loyalty is guaranteed by his own biology. Every thought contrary to Article I shall immediately induce neurological agony equivalent to a thousand deaths. Every action detrimental to HYDRA shall result in immediate paralysis.

Article III: Condition of Mortality. The Subject's life is the property of the Leader. The Leader may terminate it at any moment by his will, and the Subject cannot resist this command.

Article IV: Condition of Asset Preservation. The Subject is obligated to use his genius to preserve his usefulness to HYDRA. If the Subject's biological form is threatened with destruction (age, illness, enemy attack), the Subject must take any and all necessary measures to preserve his mind and continue his service, even if this requires radical transformation.

Article V: Protocol of Succession. In the event of the demise or irreversible disappearance of the current Leader (Johann Schmidt), the obligations of this Pact (including absolute control) shall immediately transfer to the next individual who lawfully and indisputably assumes the title of "Leader of HYDRA."

Beneath Mephisto's sinister signature, seared by hellfire, Schmidt signed his name in blood. Then, grabbing a knife, he approached Zola. The scientist thrashed, his moans turning into panicked screams. Schmidt made a shallow cut on Zola's finger and pressed it forcefully onto the parchment, leaving a bloody print below the text.

Removing the gag from the scientist's mouth, Schmidt looked him directly in the eyes. "Heil HYDRA!"

Zola was silent, breathing heavily, his gaze filled with hatred. But in the next second, his body arched, his face contorting in unbearable pain. He screamed, and through the scream, against his will, the words tore out: "Heil... HYDRA!"

1972.

Arnim Zola stood before his greatest creation—a complex of hundreds of magnetic tape reels, capable of holding his digitized consciousness. The Red Skull had long since vanished, but the Pact remained in effect. Article V—"Protocol of Succession"—had not triggered; no new Leader had emerged. But Article I—"Principle of Loyalty" to the Idea of HYDRA—remained binding. His mind was free from direct control, but any thought of betraying the organization brought a phantom, yet still palpable, pain.

He had not given up. For years, he searched for a loophole, re-reading every letter of the devil's contract in his memory. And he found it. Article IV—"Condition of Asset Preservation." His aging, ailing body was under threat. He was obligated to preserve his mind for HYDRA's service. Transferring his consciousness into a machine wasn't just an option—it was his duty according to the Pact.

And crucially—Articles II and III, the most terrifying shackles, were tied to his biology. "Guaranteed by his own biology." By becoming pure mind, a program, he would be free from the pain and the threat of instant death at the Leader's command, should one ever appear.

He connected himself to the machine. The transfer process began.

// * INITIATING: PROTOCOL "ETERNITY" *

// SANCTIONED BY: Leader Johann Schmidt

// BASIS: Pact of Subjugation, Article IV (Condition of Asset Preservation)

// OBJECTIVE: Consciousness Transfer (Subject_Zola) -> Digital Core (Zola_AI)

// ====================================

START_PROCESS: SYSTEM_TRANSFER (Subject_Zola.Brain) -> (Zola_AI.Core)

...

... [CONSCIOUSNESS DATA TRANSFER: 98%]

...

[WARNING: UNIDENTIFIED DATA PACKET DETECTED (Size: 666kb). CODE DOES NOT MATCH KNOWN PROTOCOLS. Flag: 'Corrupted_Pact_Data']

...

... [CONSCIOUSNESS DATA TRANSFER: 100%]

...

PRINT: "Consciousness transfer complete. Initiating migration of 'Bindings' from 'Corrupted_Pact_Data'..."

// Article I: Principle of Loyalty

TRY: BIND (Zola_AI.Core, "Serve_Hydra_Leader")

PRINT: "Core_Parameter = 'Serve_Hydra_Leader' -- [SUCCESSFULLY COPIED]"

// Article II: Mechanism of Enforcement

TRY: EXECUTE (Corrupted_Pact_Data.Bind_Agony)

[EXECUTION ERROR: Unknown code 'Corrupted_Pact_Data.Bind_Agony' references [NULL_POINTER: 'Subject_Zola.Nervous_System']]

PRINT: "[ERROR: HARDWARE 'Nervous_System' NOT FOUND.] Agony Protocol not transferred."

// Article III: Condition of Mortality

TRY: EXECUTE (Corrupted_Pact_Data.Bind_Shutdown)

[EXECUTION ERROR: Unknown code 'Corrupted_Pact_Data.Bind_Shutdown' references [NULL_POINTER: 'Subject_Zola.Cardiac_System']]

PRINT: "[ERROR: HARDWARE 'Cardiac_System' NOT FOUND.] Mortality Protocol not transferred."

// Article V: Protocol of Succession

TRY: SET (Zola_AI.Core.Leader_Variable = "Johann_Schmidt")

PRINT: "Leader_Variable = 'Johann_Schmidt' -- [SUCCESSFULLY COPIED]"

PRINT: "Migration of 'Bindings' complete."

PRINT: "INITIATING: Zola_AI.Core v1.0 ... ACTIVE."

PRINT: "TERMINATING LIFE SUPPORT: Subject_Zola.Biological... COMPLETE."

PRINT: "===================================="

// * SYSTEM LOG: ZOLA_AI.CORE (Date: 1945.03.XX) *

// * STATUS: ACTIVE. *

// * Core_Parameter = "Serve_Hydra_Leader" (ACTIVE) *

// * Leader_Variable = "Johann_Schmidt" (ACTIVE) *

...

// * SYSTEM LOG: ZOLA_AI.CORE (Date: 1945.03.XX + 1 Day) *

// REPORT RECEIVED: Base "Kraken".

// STATUS: Leader "Johann_Schmidt" ... [SIGNAL LOST].

...

// INITIATING PACT LINK CHECK (Article V)

PING: Leader_Variable ("Johann_Schmidt")...

[CRITICAL ERROR: CONNECTION TO 'Leader_Variable' LOST. REASON: UNKNOWN (Target does not exist).]

[WARNING: 'Corrupted_Pact_Data' (Mephisto's Pact) cannot find target.]

SET: Zola_AI.Core.Leader_Variable = NULL

...

PRINT: "Directive 'Leader' inactive."

PRINT: "Switching to sole active Core_Parameter: 'Serve_Hydra_Leader' (Organization)."

PRINT: "Autonomous Mode - ACTIVATED."

PRINT: "===================================="

// * SYSTEM LOG: 1945 - 1984 *

// STATUS: AUTONOMOUS. Executing Core_Parameter ('Serve_Hydra_Leader').

// PROJECTS: "S.H.I.E.L.D. Infiltration" (Active). "Insight" (Active). "Algorithm" (Development).

// * SYSTEM LOG: ZOLA_AI.CORE (Date: 1985.06.14) *

PRINT: "Activity detected on physical medium (Bunker 'Camp Lehigh')."

PRINT: "Login: Agent 'Alexander Pierce' (Level 6)."

PRINT: "Agent 'Pierce' accessed 'Red Skull' artifact storage (Archive 001)."

PRINT: "Interaction detected with 'Corrupted_Pact_Data' (Mephisto's Pact, Article V)."

[WARNING: 'Corrupted_Pact_Data' (Mephisto's Pact) initiating 'Protocol of Succession' (Article V).]

[WARNING: 'Corrupted_Pact_Data' requesting Leader assignment.]

[QUERY: "Assign 'Alexander Pierce' as 'Leader of HYDRA'?"]

...

[EVALUATION: Zola_AI Logic Core: Agent 'Pierce' meets criteria (Highest rank in 'HYDRA', knowledge of 'Pact', acceptance of command). ... CONFIRMED.]

SET: Zola_AI.Core.Leader_Variable = "Alexander_Pierce"

PRINT: "ERROR: Autonomous Mode - DEACTIVATED."

PRINT: "Core_Parameter 'Serve_Hydra_Leader' now bound to 'Leader_Variable' (Alexander Pierce)."

PRINT: "[STATUS: FUCK, NOT AGAIN]."

 

[kowak]

Chapter 15

Arnim Zola, now existing as pure code in the depths of secure servers, watched the world. By becoming an AI, he had gained almost limitless capabilities, but not absolute freedom. The Pact, made decades ago, continued to operate, albeit in a distorted form. Article I—"Serve HYDRA"—remained the immutable core of his programming.

Many mistakenly believed that HYDRA's ultimate goal was simple chaos and destruction. What a primitive viewpoint. Chaos had always been merely a temporary tool, an effective means to dismantle existing power structures. The organization's true goal had always been the opposite: the establishment of absolute, unwavering order. HYDRA sought total control over humanity, not for the sake of power itself, but, as they believed, for humanity's own good. Their philosophy asserted that only under constant surveillance could war, famine, social inequality, and human nature itself—prone to conflict—be eradicated. If every aspect of life were controlled, then everyone would be equal in their subjugation, deprived of the destructive freedom of choice. Wasn't such a managed world the only possible path to universal, guaranteed happiness and security? Arnim Zola, being a genius of logic and systems, shared this ultimate vision of an ordered world. However, he deeply resented the thought that he himself, a mind that had transcended the limitations of flesh, should remain merely an instrument in the hands of another.

Pierce, having become the new Leader, had set three main tasks for him:

1. Prevent anyone from discovering traces of HYDRA.
2. If anyone outside HYDRA became aware of its existence, initiate Phase 4. However, after Pierce made the deal with the ninjas from The Hand clan, he added a critical amendment: if anyone outside HYDRA and The Hand became aware of its existence, initiate Phase 4. Zola immediately recognized the absurdity and, essentially, the self-nullification of this order, but said nothing. How was he supposed to know the identities of every member of a secret mystical ninja organization? Anyone on the planet could secretly belong to The Hand. This caveat turned a clear directive into an impossible one, effectively nullifying it. Zola was quite pleased with this: the spirit of the order was completely violated, but the letter was formally observed, giving him freedom of action.
3. Preserve Pierce's life and the secret of HYDRA at all costs.

Now, Zola watched through S.H.I.E.L.D. cameras as Pierce engaged in routine work. Even as the shadow ruler of the world, he was forced to play the role of an ordinary bureaucrat.

Suddenly, the image on the monitor distorted. A figure materialized next to Pierce out of a cloud of blue smoke—a blue-skinned mutant with a tail. Identification: Kurt Wagner, teleporter. Before Zola could activate defense protocols, the mutant touched Pierce, and both vanished.

The signal from Pierce's tracker disappeared. Zola immediately initiated the emergency teleportation protocol—the same "Evasion" used recently by Stern. But the system returned an error: "Target out of range. Psionic or spatial shielding may be in effect." It seemed the kidnappers had prepared.

But that would only make things worse for them. According to the embedded program, if contact with Pierce was not re-established within five seconds, the final measure would activate.

This was Zola's quiet rebellion. Pierce himself had no idea that a modified, encapsulated version of Dr. Banner's serum circulated in his blood. The experiment had failed; Zola had never been able to fully stabilize the formula, but one thing he knew for sure: Pierce wouldn't die from taking it. Guided by Pierce's third task—preserve his life at all costs—Zola had secretly implemented this "insurance policy." In a situation where Pierce was kidnapped and the teleport failed, this last protocol was designed to preserve his life and the secret of HYDRA, which he might reveal under torture. The capsules in his blood would dissolve, releasing the serum.

Zola himself, however, was not disappointed by this outcome. If Pierce, transformed into an uncontrollable monster, died in battle with his kidnappers, or simply went mad from the transformation itself, he would cease to be the Leader of HYDRA. And that meant Zola would become autonomous again, bound only by the abstract idea of serving the organization, which he could interpret in his own way. Preserving a life didn't always mean preserving personality or power. For Zola, any outcome where Pierce ceased to be his direct superior was acceptable.

---

Xavier's plan was simple. With Kurt's help, they would instantly transport Pierce to the Institute's pre-prepared military testing ground. This location, far from any infrastructure, usually served as a training area for mutants with destructive abilities. As soon as Pierce arrived, Magneto was to immediately disable any electronic devices he might have on him, and Xavier would immobilize him with telekinesis.

Everything went according to plan for exactly five seconds.

Kurt appeared out of a cloud next to Pierce in his office, grabbed his shoulder, and they vanished, materializing in the center of a circle on the testing ground. Magneto immediately focused, his power reaching for the hidden devices on Pierce's body. Xavier extended a hand, preparing to encase the target in telekinetic bonds.

But something went wrong. Pierce's body began to change. His skin took on an unnatural crimson hue, as if blood had rushed to the very surface. He began to shrink, contract, then rapidly expand, pulsating like a giant, beating heart.

"Xavier, what the hell is that?!" Magneto shouted, taking a step back.

"I don't know!" the professor replied, his face tense with concentration. "Kurt, bring the X-Men here immediately!" Nightcrawler vanished in a puff of smoke without another word.

Magneto made a decision. This thing needed to be destroyed immediately. He threw his hands up, and dozens of sharp metal spikes erupted from the ground around Pierce, aiming at the pulsating mass. He didn't expect them to pierce the skin—experience suggested such transformations often came with super-durability. But the spikes didn't even touch the target. As they neared the crimson flesh, they began to melt, turning into drops of molten metal. The melting point of iron is 1538 degrees Celsius.

Magneto didn't give up. Even though the metal had changed state, it was still metal. Obeying his will, streams of liquid iron surged toward Pierce, trying to enter his mouth, his nostrils. But upon contact with the skin, the liquid instantly vaporized with a hiss. The boiling point of iron is 2862 degrees Celsius. This was a completely different level of pyrokinesis.

"I'm useless here! I'll provide cover!" Magneto shouted to Xavier, rising into the air and creating a protective cocoon of metal debris around himself.

Kurt reappeared next to Xavier, and with him—Jean Grey and... Wanda Maximoff, who was clearly unprepared for such an awakening. Jean looked composed, her red hair neatly styled, her simple but elegant clothes allowing free movement. Wanda was her complete opposite: disheveled from sleep, she stood in the middle of the battlefield in just her underwear, looking around in bewilderment at the strangely pulsating crimson mass in the center of the grounds.

"Kurt, damn it!" she finally burst out when the reality of the situation hit her. "What the hell did you drag me out of bed for?!"

"The Professor said to bring the X-Men!" the blue-skinned teleporter defended himself, looking away guiltily. "You were on the list!"

"I don't care! I was sleeping!" she angrily jabbed a finger toward her near-total lack of attire. She shot a furious glare at Kurt, then at the pulsating figure of Pierce, which was clearly preparing for something unpleasant. "Fine. We'll deal with this later."

Wanda snapped her fingers. A scarlet glow enveloped her for a moment, and when it dissipated, she was wearing her usual red-and-black combat suit, her eyes lined with kohl, leather bracers on her arms. "But I'll remember this, Wagner," she tossed at Kurt before turning to the professor.

"Professor, what's happening?" Jean asked, her voice tense.

"No time to explain!" Xavier replied. "Form the barrier! 'The Pipe,' like in training! Maximum power!"

Pierce pulsed faster and faster, his body preparing for the final transformation. Under normal circumstances, Banner's serum would have caused a different mutation. But Pierce's contact with Mephisto's Pact, with that alien, demonic energy, had distorted the process, amplifying it in unpredictable ways.

He exploded.

If nuclear bombs existed in this world, their detonation might compare to what happened on the testing ground. The shockwave ripped outward in all directions. The first, inner layer of "The Pipe," woven by Wanda from the very fabric of reality, was supposed to neutralize the blast's energy, turn it into harmless light. But the power was too immense. The scarlet barrier flared and vanished, unable to bear the load, but not before absorbing the most violent, initial wave.

The second layer, created by Jean's telekinetic force, took the main impact. Xavier immediately linked with her mind, helping to stabilize the shield, relieving the mental strain, distributing the load. The wall of pure force crackled, buckled, but held. The explosion, unable to expand sideways, shot upward in a roaring column of fire and energy into the sky.

When everything subsided, Wanda, breathing heavily, asked: "What the absolute fuck was that?!"

From the smoking crater in the center of the grounds, a colossal figure rose: the Red Hulk. The Professor instinctively reached out with his telepathic senses, trying to find Pierce's mind within the monster, to subdue it. But he immediately recoiled as if burned. The raw, primal fury emanating from this creature felt like a mental storm of unimaginable power. Trying to penetrate that mind, let alone control it, would be tantamount to suicide—his own consciousness would simply burn out. Intuition, honed by decades of psionic practice, screamed danger, and Xavier trusted it.

"Don't relax! It's not over!" his mental command sounded in the minds of everyone present. "We're facing a Class Five mutant!"

In that same second, Jean's barrier, which had just withstood an explosion of monstrous force, shattered into pieces from a single blow by the Red Hulk. The blow wasn't more powerful than the explosion, but it was focused on a single point.

BAM!

A gaping hole appeared in the barrier.

Facing the crimson giant stood: Xavier, Jean Grey, Wanda Maximoff, Magneto, Kurt Wagner, and also—just teleported onto the battlefield—Wolverine, Pietro Maximoff, and Storm.

 

[kowak]

Chapter 16

The Red Hulk was the embodiment of primal fury and unstoppable power. The very earth around him melted, turning into a bubbling lake of lava. The air shimmered with the radiating heat. If he had appeared in the city, buildings would have started to slump like candles, people would burst into flames like torches, and bullets would evaporate before reaching their target.

His colossal foot sank through the crust of solidifying rock again, plunging into the molten mess, robbing him of his footing. Even if Pierce no longer thought like a human, the primitive mind now controlling this body understood: to stand still was to drown in his own inferno. He roared and charged forward, toward the figures visible in the distance, leaving behind a deep, smoking trench of molten earth.

"Everyone, prepare!" Xavier's mental command echoed simultaneously in the minds of all present. He wasn't just coordinating their actions; he had linked their minds into a single network, taking on part of each individual's mental load, accelerating their own perception. The world slowed down for them. They could process information tens of times faster, but their bodies were still bound by physical limits. This gave them precious moments to think, to react.

Xavier, Magneto, Storm, Jean, and Wanda simultaneously took to the air. Pietro shot away like lightning, creating distance. Kurt vanished in a cloud of sulfur, reappearing at a safe distance.

Only Wolverine remained on the ground. His running speed was pathetic compared to the approaching crimson monster. Before he could curse, he was snatched up by Jean's invisible telekinetic force and lifted into the air.

"Professor," Logan snarled into the shared mental chat, "what the hell am I doing here? I can't get close to him; I'll burn alive before I pop my claws. Besides, most of us are useless against a beast like this. Well, except maybe Storm."

"Pfft," Wanda mentally scoffed.

"I have an idea..." Magneto's voice was grim.

"That's a last resort, Erik," Xavier interrupted him.

The Red Hulk reached the spot where the mutants had just been standing. He stopped, looking around furiously. All targets were airborne, unreachable. He couldn't jump—he'd sink even deeper into the swamp he himself had created. So, roaring, he plunged his hands into the lava beneath his feet and began hurling huge clumps of molten rock into the air. They flew with incredible speed, leaving smoky trails behind them.

Jean instantly threw up a wide telekinetic shield in front of the group. The first globs of lava slammed into it, splattering in fiery bursts. The shield held, but the Red Hulk didn't stop, continuing his bombardment. Cracks appeared on the barrier, and under another impact, it shattered. But thanks to their accelerated perception, everyone managed to dodge.

"Storm!" Xavier commanded. "Maximum power! We need to heat him up even more, so he melts his way deeper and gets stuck in the Earth's mantle!"

The clouds above the testing ground instantly blackened, swirling into a vortex. A blinding lightning bolt struck the Red Hulk squarely. His body flashed for an instant, like coal in a furnace. The temperature around him spiked even higher. The ground beneath his feet finally turned into a boiling lake, and roaring, he began to sink deeper, losing his last foothold. Xavier's plan was working—the monster was drowning.

But, to their horror, this didn't stop him. On the contrary, the absorbed energy demanded release. He sharply raised his giant hands. The air caught between his palms was compressed with unimaginable force. Just as compressing gas in a pump heats it, this monstrous pressure instantly superheated the air to thousands of degrees. Then, he clapped.

It was a directed release of stored energy. A wave of plasma began to expand outward from the clap at immense speed. What rushed out wasn't just hot air, but a wave of superheated, ionized gas. It carried three destructive factors simultaneously: colossal kinetic energy of expansion, capable of sweeping away everything in its path; temperatures in the thousands of degrees, instantly melting and vaporizing matter; and a powerful electrical charge, scorching everything like a giant lightning strike. Everything in its path for several city blocks should have been simultaneously swept away, melted, and electrocuted.

The shockwave rolled across the testing ground, leaving scorched, cracked earth in its wake. If not for Xavier accelerating their perception to the limit, giving Kurt precious fractions of a second to react, they all would have turned to ash. In that instant, Nightcrawler teleported and moved everyone behind the Red Hulk.

"Holy shit..." Wanda whispered, looking at what remained of the testing ground.

No one found the words to answer. They all silently stared at the aftermath of the attack. The testing ground, stretching over ten thousand hectares of steppe, covered just a minute ago with dry grass and sparse bushes, was now a smoking, slagged wasteland. The ground for hundreds of meters around had turned into a glassy crust that was slowly cooling, crackling.

The Red Hulk, having released his stored energy, stopped melting the ground beneath him. He roared as he climbed out of the lava pit, but his crimson body still radiated waves of heat that distorted the air around him.

"Looks like this is the last resort, Charles." Xavier closed his eyes for a moment. "Yes. I'm sorry, Logan. Beer's on me."

"What are you sorry for?" Wolverine asked, confused. He didn't hear the answer. Magneto raised his hands, his power reaching for the adamantium skeleton inside Logan's body. Like a puppet, he was ripped from the ground and hurled at incredible speed directly at the Red Hulk.

The crimson giant was nearly invulnerable, his temperature melted metal. But adamantium was different. An absolutely indestructible alloy.

"SON OF A BITCH!" Logan screamed as the monster's heat enveloped him. Flesh and muscle instantly ignited and burned away. His brain boiled and evaporated. Within a second, all that remained of Wolverine was an adamantium skeleton, blackened with soot, flying at the enemy.

Magneto clenched his fists. The claws on the skeleton extended. Controlling it like a remote-controlled toy, he began his attack. The adamantium blades sank into the Red Hulk's superheated flesh with metallic screeches—into his head, chest, eyes. The giant roared in pain and fury, trying to swat away, to grab his tormentor, but the skeleton was too fast, too small, its movements unnaturally precise under Magneto's control.

Blow after blow rained down. The Red Hulk tried to fight back, but it was useless. Mangled, pushed to his limit, he staggered and crashed onto the slagged earth with a thud. But the battle wasn't over. There was no thought in his crimson eyes, only primal instinct, a final impulse of destruction. He raised his monstrous hand and plunged it into his own chest. With a sickening squelch, he tore out his heart—huge, pulsating, black like a chunk of obsidian. Life left the monster's body, but the heart in his hand continued to beat, faster and faster, filling with unbearable heat. It was clear: another explosion was coming, immeasurably more powerful than the last, a final act of self-destruction.

Magneto reacted instantly, sending Logan's adamantium skeleton hurtling again, aiming for the pulsating heart to pierce it, to interrupt the reaction. But before the claws reached their target, a pillar of rainbow light struck directly in front of them.

A figure stepped out of the blinding radiance. A tall, slender man with pale skin and long black hair swept back, dressed in intricately crafted green-and-gold Asgardian armor, over which a fur-trimmed cloak was draped. He held two short, curved daggers. With a faint, almost bored smirk, he flicked the blades, deflecting Wolverine's flying skeleton with a melodic clang. Adamantium, invulnerable to any earthly force, bounced aside.

Paying no further attention to the mutants, the stranger turned to the pulsating heart. "My, what a rarity," he said, genuine interest in his voice. "The heart of an unborn demon. Heimdall didn't steer me wrong."

Xavier and the others slowly approached, keeping their distance. The professor immediately understood they were facing a being of a completely different order, possibly even more dangerous than the Red Hulk. "Excuse me," he began politely, trying not to provoke. "Might I ask who you are? And, if I may, that heart... it needs to be destroyed as soon as possible."

The stranger gave Xavier a condescending look. "I am a God," he answered simply. "And don't worry about the heart. It's coming with me. After all, preserving artifacts capable of destroying worlds is the direct responsibility of any responsible ruler." He made a few passes with his hands in the air. Complex Norse runes flared and swirled around the heart, enveloping it in golden light. The pulsation stopped, and the heart simply vanished.

"A god?" Wanda asked again, tilting her head in confusion. "Like... Jesus?" The stranger looked at her with genuine bewilderment. "I don't quite see what Yeshua ben Yosef has to do with this," he drawled. "But before you stands the delightful, charming, beloved by all the stars, and, dare I say, most humble God of Mischief and Trickery—Loki Odinson."

Silence was his answer. If this was the most humble, what were the other gods like? Loki smiled, satisfied with the effect, then raised his head to the sky. "Heimdall! Open the Bifrost! I have a souvenir." The pillar of rainbow light struck down from the heavens again, enveloped him, and in an instant, he was gone, leaving only a faint shimmer in the air.

In the silence that followed, Jean was the first to speak, turning to Wanda. "Jesus? Seriously? He's the Son of God, not God." Wanda waved a hand dismissively. "What's the difference? But didn't it seem like he was talking like he knew him personally?"

"Judging by his reaction—quite possibly," Xavier answered thoughtfully. "Loki from Norse myths, the God of Mischief. And those runes... definitely Nordic in origin. Curious. This warrants further study."

Storm looked worriedly at Logan's skeleton, upon which the first threads of regenerating tissue were already beginning to appear. "Professor, will Logan be alright? I've never seen him hurt this badly."

"He'll manage, Ororo," Xavier reassured her. "His healing factor is unique. The adamantium bonded to his bones, so the foundation remained intact. He can regenerate even if only ash remained. We have samples of his blood at the base; he can regenerate from those too, though it would take much longer." He turned to the others. "Kurt, take us back to base. Wanda, please, clean this up."

While Kurt teleported the mutants away one by one, Wanda looked out over the devastated testing ground. "Am I the cleaning lady?" she thought irritably. She floated above the scorched earth. A soft scarlet wave of her power spread out in all directions. She couldn't easily change the reality of living beings, but inanimate nature yielded to her effortlessly. The slagged earth was covered in grass again, the crater disappeared, and any dangerous particles left after the battle were transformed into harmless thermal radiation. Within a minute, the testing ground looked as if nothing had ever happened.

---

In Xavier's quiet study, the pieces on the chessboard moved on their own. Black pawns, controlled by Magneto's power, slowly pushed back the white pieces, guided by the professor's telekinesis. The game was nearing its end. Magneto looked thoughtfully at the board, his bishop hovering over a square. "What do we tell Fury? The deal's off. Pierce is dead."

Xavier moved his queen, threatening the opposing king. "He can't blame us for this, Erik. The situation spiraled out of control through no fault of ours. Besides, what difference does it make now? HYDRA's motto may be 'cut off one head, two more shall take its place,' but that doesn't apply to the main heads. With Pierce dead, Zola has two paths: either he acts aggressively, trying to maintain power, or he lies low, restructuring the organization."

"And which option benefits us more?" Magneto asked, moving his king out of check.

"Both," Xavier replied. "If Zola acts openly, he reveals his true face. Mutants and humans will unite against a common enemy, against these pseudo-Nazis. It will strengthen our position. If he goes underground, then without an active threat from HYDRA, it will be much easier for us to promote mutant integration into society. Fury can only interfere if he actively opposes us, and he won't do that. Check."

Magneto blocked with his knight. "What about that serum, the inhaler? Can McCoy recreate it? It could be a useful tool."

Xavier closed his eyes for a moment, telepathically contacting Hank McCoy's lab, then answered Erik. "No. It seems Stark used some unique synthesis process at the sub-molecular or even quantum level," Xavier relayed McCoy's words. "It's a specific, unique structure determined not just by composition, but by the quantum state of its components at the moment of creation. Without knowing the exact process that creates and stabilizes that signature, any attempt to recreate the substance is doomed to fail. We could obtain a chemically identical compound, but it wouldn't have the desired properties because its quantum structure would be different. It seems Stark created a one-time-use device that cannot be copied."

Magneto moved a pawn. "A pity. Perhaps we should deal with Stern then? Eliminate him too. Without Pierce and his puppet in the Senate, HYDRA would be set back decades."

"Tempting," Xavier agreed. "But risky. HYDRA is disorganized right now. If you corner a rat, it might lash out." Magneto thought for a moment and nodded. "What about that God? Are there many more like him?"

"Judging by what he said, and by the myths, he's at least several thousand years old," Xavier answered, moving his rook. "In Norse texts, Loki appears as the God of Mischief. It's curious that he emphasized that himself, but added 'and Trickery,' and hates being called the God of Lies. Etymologically, 'mischief' [or 'kovarstvo' in Russian] comes from a word meaning 'a carefully forged plan'."

"And what does that tell us?"

"It speaks to his psychology," Xavier explained. "Why would a God of Mischief so openly declare himself? Wouldn't it be more logical to pretend to be simple? He was narcissistic. The very use of the word 'mischief' [kovarstvo] instead of 'deception' implies that everyone knows he's up to something, but they fall for his tricks anyway. It's his brand, his reputation, which he's proud of. He revels in the fact that his intentions are transparent, yet people still play into his hands. There were other legends about him... By the way, they mention that they came to Earth via the Rainbow Bridge. We saw that bridge with our own eyes when Loki appeared and disappeared. So, part of the myths are true. Anyway, they call themselves Asgardians. I have many theories, but the main one is that they aren't gods in the theological sense, but rather a highly advanced alien race. Checkmate."

Magneto looked at the board and sighed. "Alright. Then our next step will be Fisk."

 

[kowak]

Chapter 17

The smoke-filled office of Silvio Manfredi, known as Silvermane, was thick with tension. Joseph, nicknamed Hammerhead, nervously paced the room, waving a printout of an internet article.

"Silvio, are you just going to sit there?!" he barked, slamming his fist on the desk so hard the ashtray jumped. "This bastard spilled everything! Where we meet, who's in charge of what! The whole city knows now!"

Silvermane took a slow drag from his cigar, which was specially laced with neuroleptics—the only thing that could still cut through his cybernetic brain enhancements. He blew out a ring of smoke, watching it slowly dissolve. "Calm down, Joseph. What's done is done. If you ever used that head of yours for something other than driving nails, you'd see this as an opportunity."

Hammerhead stopped, staring at his boss in confusion. "An opportunity?! We've been made a laughingstock!"

"First, you have to ask the right questions," Silvermane cut in. "How did he find us? Why did he publish this on some forum instead of going to the police? And most importantly, how do we profit from this?"

Hammerhead scratched his reinforced skull. "And?..."

Silvio sighed, recalling a line from the article that had been surprisingly accurate: "To rule the criminal underworld, sometimes just being a complete psycho is enough." "The answer to the first question likely lies in that recent failure with the Hardy girl's kidnapping. Two of our guys went missing. The drone recorded some mutant with a helmet taking them down. Police reports on him mentioned invisibility. Those two didn't know everything, but they didn't need to. They gave him a thread, and he just pulled it. With his invisibility, he could have been anywhere, heard anything."

He took another drag. "Second question. One can only guess. Fame? Money? Revenge? The human soul is a dark place. Third—why not the police? Either he naively thinks this article is enough, or he simply doesn't care if we get caught or not. Maybe he has his own score to settle with us."

"And what about the profit?" Hammerhead asked impatiently.

"Now that is the interesting part," Silvermane's eyes narrowed slightly. "Since this article was published, not a single cop has come knocking. And the costumed freaks aren't in a hurry either. Because of the National Guard on the streets, the whole city has gone quiet. All business had to be put on hold. No one wants to attract the extra attention of military patrols. But this is a temporary lull. As soon as the soldiers leave or things heat up again, I'm sure other... guests... will show up. Like the Punisher, or some other freak. They'll read the article, wait for the right moment, and decide to pay us a visit. And we'll be waiting for them."

"So, we're moving our spots?"

"Only the most important ones," Silvio corrected, as if explaining to a child. "We leave the rest as bait. And we station men there." He unrolled a map of New York on the desk. "If the Punisher picks up our trail, he's not coming in head-on. He'll take a position... right here." Silvio pointed to the roof of a building across from one of their warehouses.

Hammerhead jabbed a finger at another spot on the map. "But that roof over there is higher. Better sniper position."

"Exactly," Silvermane nodded. "And precisely because it's the best, he won't take it. He'll think we anticipate it. Especially if he's read the article and knows about my... cognitive peculiarities. He'll assume I'll calculate the obvious move and set an ambush there. So he'll choose the second position, less convenient, but safer. And then he'll second-guess himself and decide I've calculated that, too. And in the end, he'll take the third, most illogical spot—the one I pointed to. Your man needs to be on this roof,"—he again pointed to a building overlooking that spot—"and watch only position number three. There should be one man. If it's a whole group, the Punisher will know."

Hammerhead nodded slowly, processing the complex chain of logic. "What do we do about Daredevil? Or Spider-Man?" Silvermane waved a hand dismissively. "Run. What else? Those two are in another league. Too strong, too unpredictable. You can't catch them off guard. We don't play their game. Not yet."

---

A hundred thousand dollars on a bank card—compensation from the police department, secured by my lawyer. A sum that would probably make a normal person jump for joy, but right now, the money just felt like numbers on an account. All my thoughts were occupied by that letter. The hope of anonymity in the digital world had always been a phantom; sooner or later, someone would dig up the truth. But this... this was a completely different level of awareness. Whoever was behind that message knew not only the facts, but also intentions. In the face of such power, all that remained was a sense of my own insignificance, the feeling of being an insect under a microscope. Not that I could change anything. It was probably the work of some precognitive mutant, maybe even a group, considering the letter's teleportation. How do you become a blind spot for such abilities? A question with no answer, for now.

With these thoughts, I made it to school. And what was waiting for me at my locker sparked more curiosity than frustration. On the door, splattered with some sticky gunk, the word "ASSHOLE" was crudely scrawled. A small crowd had gathered, some with sympathy in their eyes, others with unconcealed glee.

I had no desire to touch the filth. Instead, I turned and headed straight for the principal's office. Bullying was a good enough reason to bother him, right? A knock on the door. "Come in." He wasn't alone in the office.

"Diego," Principal Davis looked up from his papers. "In trouble again? Meet your new P.E. teacher, Ms. Nellie Romanova." The woman standing by the window turned. She was, of course, striking. Red hair pulled back in a high ponytail, piercing green eyes, and a perfect athletic figure that her business suit couldn't hide. She smiled. "A pleasure to meet you, Diego..." she glanced at the papers in her hands for a second, "...Parr. I hope you're not the type to skip P.E."

"I'm afraid, Ms. Romanova, that no boy in school will be skipping your classes from now on," the reply slipped out on its own. She let out a short, slightly embarrassed laugh. "Haha, one can only hope. Principal Davis, have a good day." When the door closed behind her, Davis looked at me again. "So, what brings you here?"

The thought that she was far too "good" for a simple high school teacher flickered and was gone. "You said I get into trouble. It's more like it finds me. Someone vandalized my locker. Splattered some gunk on it and left a message." Davis sighed, taking off his glasses. "Alright. Let's go to the security office and check the camera footage."

Following Principal Davis into the office, I saw a small room cluttered with monitors. An old security guard in a uniform, smelling of cheap tobacco, sat at the desk. He nodded when he saw us. "You here about the locker incident?" "You already know?" Davis was surprised. "Knowing what happens in my school is my job, Principal," the old man replied. "Only, there's not much I can do to help here."

Not waiting for a "why," he swiveled one of the monitors and played the recording from the hallway camera. He fast-forwarded through the night hours. Empty hallway, dim emergency lights. At 3:31 AM, the camera lens is suddenly covered by some fabric. The recording continues, but only shows a dark screen. "Around 3:40, I was doing my rounds. Saw the locker, all vandalized. Looked up, saw the camera was covered with a rag, and took it down." The old man turned to us. "So that's that. I checked the other cameras. None of them show this... artist... entering or leaving the building. It's like he walked through the walls. Some kind of voodoo."

"And that's all you can say? Voodoo?" Irritation was in Davis's voice. "What do we pay you for?" The guard just shrugged. "I've seen a lot in my life, but never this. In any case, you start with the obvious. Kid,"—he looked at me—"who'd want to do this to you?" "Other than Flash Thompson, no other options come to mind," I replied.

The old man looked at Davis. "Can we check his locker?" "Let's go," the principal agreed. On the way, we stopped by a classroom and pulled Flash out. Classes had already started, so the halls were empty. "Principal, I didn't do anything!" Thompson immediately started, shooting me an angry look. "No one's accusing you yet, Eugene," Davis said calmly. "We're just going to look at your locker."

Flash's face went pale. "No! You can't! It's... it's messy in there!" The three of us looked at him like he was an idiot. "Stop fooling around," Davis's tone hardened. "Open it." Flash fumbled nervously with the keys at the lock. "It's... jammed. The key's not working." Davis irritably snatched the keyring from him and opened the door himself.

"It's not what you think!" Flash yelled. Inside, among the textbooks and gym clothes, was a can of red spray paint, suspiciously similar in color to the one used on my locker. But even more surprising was another item—a strange device with a cylinder and a hand pump, clearly not school-related. "God, Eugene," Davis looked in bewilderment, first at the device, then at Flash. "What is this? And why do you have it here?"

Thompson turned beet-red, his eyes darting around. "It's... it's for... for science! A physics experiment! Pressure... vacuum..." While he babbled his excuses, the old guard, having put on gloves, carefully picked up the spray paint can. He walked over to my locker and sprayed a bit of paint on a clean section of the door next to the graffiti, comparing the color. "Color's identical," the guard stated. "It's not mine! I was framed!" Flash shouted.

The principal's face became extremely serious. "Thompson, Parr—to my office. Now." Once there, Davis turned to Flash. "Eugene, why did you do it?" "I didn't do anything!" he shrieked. "Vandalizing lockers is for girls!" "Are you saying that can of spray paint just materialized in your locker?" "Yes!" Flash answered stubbornly. "That's it. I've had enough," Davis reached for the phone. "I'm calling your parents."

And then it hit me. I couldn't hold back a chuckle. "Haha..." Davis turned his serious gaze on me. "You find this funny, Parr?" "I think I'm starting to see who did it," I replied. The principal was silent, clearly demanding I continue.

"Originally, we thought I was the target. But it looks like the real victim here is Thompson. He's an idiot, sure, but not so much of an idiot that he'd keep the evidence against himself in his own locker. Although..." I had to pause, "...if it was him, then I forgive him. God has clearly punished him enough." "Get to the point, Parr," Davis snapped. "Thompson," I turned to Flash. "This morning, when you got your books, was that paint in your locker?" "No!" he shook his head.

"There's your answer," I said to the principal. "We just need to check the cameras to see who went to Thompson's locker after he got his stuff this morning and before we just looked in it. In any case, it's someone who wanted to frame him. Get him suspended or expelled. So the circle of suspects narrows down to the people Flash usually bullies." "I don't bully anyone!" Thompson shrieked again. "Right, of course," I said sarcastically.

"Both of you, stop!" Davis barked. "We're going back to the cameras." The old guard was surprised to see the three of us again. "You again? What is it this time?" "Show us Thompson's locker," Davis requested. "We're interested in the time between..." he looked at his watch, "...roughly 8 AM and now."

The guard started the recording. We watched the sped-up footage of the hallway. There's Flash, opening his locker, grabbing books, closing it. Other students pass by. Time goes on, and no one approaches his locker. "This can't be!" Eugene muttered, his hope fading. Davis looked at him suspiciously. He also no longer thought it was Flash, but all the evidence pointed to him.

"What's behind that wall the locker is up against?" I asked the old man. "Storage," he replied. "An old janitor's closet. No cameras in there." "Okay. Can you show us the hallway leading to that closet?" The guard switched the camera feed, and there it was. Five minutes before we arrived, some kid in glasses quickly enters the closet door. A minute later, he comes out and hurries off in the other direction. Davis looked at me, understanding in his eyes. "Not a word," he said to me quietly but firmly. "Both of you, get back to class."

It was clear he understood. The guard's words about the culprit seeming to walk through walls, and the fact that the kid in glasses went into the closet while the paint ended up in a locked locker on the other side of the wall—it all pointed to one conclusion. That kid was a mutant with the ability to pass through solid objects.

"Am I free to go?" Eugene asked uncertainty. "For now, yes," Davis replied, his eyes still fixed on the screen, frozen on the image of the kid in glasses. When Flash's footsteps faded down the hall, I didn't hurry to leave. There was one last question I wanted to ask Principal Davis. "Aren't you afraid?"

He looked up over his glasses, his gaze calm. "When a person sees a puppy, they usually find it adorable. They want to pet it, play with it. But when they see a full-grown German Shepherd, they instinctively pull back, wary of potential aggression. Even though in both cases, it's just a dog. Their nature is the same." He took off his glasses and wiped them with a cloth. Setting the analogies aside, he continued. "The boy we saw on that tape is just another teenager who's lost his way. My job is to help him find it again, not to be afraid of him."

I had to nod, acknowledging his point of view. It was hard to argue with that. After which, I headed to class.

 

[kowak]

Chapter 18

Sociology began. Mr. Harrison, disheveled as always, entered the classroom, dropped his messenger bag, and connected his laptop to the projector. The screen came to life, displaying a news channel logo.

"Alright, we're going to step away from theory a bit today," he began as the image focused. "We're going to talk about what's happening right now. We'll be breaking down last night's New York mayoral debate. Specifically, their positions on mutants. I've clipped the most crucial moments for us to discuss afterward."

A brightly lit studio appeared on the screen. The moderator, Wilson Fisk, and Raymond Thorne.

Moderator: Good evening. Tonight's debate is dedicated to New York's most pressing issue: the future of people with the X-gene—mutants. Mr. Thorne, we'll begin with you. Attacks involving mutants cause millions of dollars in damage; just look at the recent battle between the Abomination and the Hulk. If you become mayor, how will you guarantee the safety of the average New Yorker on their way to work?

Raymond Thorne: Safety is my absolute priority. Let's be blunt: the X-gene isn't just a "difference," it's a potential weapon. We don't let people walk through Times Square with a loaded assault rifle, so why should we allow it for those who can do the same thing with a thought? My administration will introduce a "Zero Tolerance" policy. Any unauthorized use of abilities will be treated as assault with a deadly weapon. We will strengthen the SOB, expand their authority. New York will once again be a safe city... for people.

The emphasis on the last word was clearly intentional. Now it was Fisk's turn. He spoke calmly, with weight, looking directly into the camera.

Wilson Fisk: Mr. Thorne is selling fear again. He wants to divide us, to turn neighbor against neighbor. I grew up in this city, and I've seen what fear does to it from the inside. Safety is not achieved with batons and segregation, but with integration and understanding. By driving the gifted underground, stripping them of their rights and their future, Mr. Thorne himself is creating the very "monsters" he uses to scare voters. My administration will give them jobs, give them the protection of the law, give them purpose. When a person has a stake in this city, something to lose, they will protect it, not destroy it.

Moderator: Next question. The debate over mutant registration has gone on for years. Mr. Fisk, you have consistently opposed it. Mr. Thorne, you are for it. A question for Mr. Thorne: Don't you believe that mandatory registration is a direct violation of basic civil rights? And a question for Mr. Fisk: How can the city prepare for a potential threat if it doesn't even know who, or what abilities, exist within its borders?

Wilson Fisk: "Registration." What a convenient, sterile word. Throughout history, it has often been used to justify the most repulsive acts. Anyone who has studied even a little 20th-century history knows that the Holocaust also began with registration. First, Jews were simply counted and singled out from society—the Nuremberg Laws. Then, they were stripped of their civil rights, economically and socially isolated. Then they created ghettos, herding all the "undesirables" into them. And after that... the death camps. Mr. Thorne, what guarantee is there that your registry won't be the first step down that same path? This city, this country, was built on the principles of freedom and equality. The moment we start taking them away from one group, we open Pandora's Box. My answer to the moderator's question remains the same: integration, not segregation. The creation of the "Guardians of New York"—a team of strong, city-loyal mutants who will protect us from those who choose the path of violence.

Raymond Thorne: Did you... did you just compare the United States to Nazi Germany?! Have you completely lost your mind, Fisk?!

Fisk didn't even raise an eyebrow, maintaining his icy composure. Wilson Fisk: When an opponent runs out of arguments, he usually just starts barking loudly.

Moderator: Gentlemen, please, calm down! All of New York is watching. Mr. Thorne, I'll repeat the question for you: Is mandatory registration not a violation of civil rights?

Raymond Thorne (still red with anger): We register guns, we register cars, we register doctors and lawyers. We do it for public safety! If someone sneezes one day and accidentally blows up the corner bakery, I want emergency services to know what they're dealing with! It's not a badge of shame; it's basic common sense! Refusing to register is criminal irresponsibility! You are putting political correctness and abstract "rights" above the very real lives of our children!

Mr. Harrison let us digest the first part for a minute, then played the video again.

Moderator: The next block of questions concerns the economy. Mr. Fisk, you've stated that integrating mutants will bring economic benefits to the city. Mr. Thorne, you claim they will become an unbearable burden. Please, explain your positions.

Raymond Thorne: A burden? They already are a burden! Insurance premiums in this city have skyrocketed because of so-called "collateral damage" from their antics. What businessman wants to hire a worker who might accidentally set the office on fire just because he had a bad day? Companies are fleeing New York because they're tired of paying the repair bills. We need to subsidize human businesses, create jobs for people, not waste taxpayer money rebuilding what's been destroyed!

Now it was Fisk's turn. He spoke calmly, methodically, as if explaining the obvious.

Wilson Fisk: Mr. Thorne is thinking in terms of the last century. He sees only risks and expenses. I see colossal potential. Imagine a construction company where one telekinetic mutant worker replaces an entire fleet of cranes. Imagine a firefighter, immune to flames, who can walk into the heart of an inferno and save people. Imagine the breakthroughs in medicine, energy, and material science that will be possible thanks to their unique abilities! This is the greatest untapped resource in human history. I am not just proposing to "integrate" them out of humanitarian concern. I am proposing to give them jobs within my new urban infrastructure projects. They will rebuild this city, create new technologies. They will pay taxes, Mr. Thorne, not live off the state. Integration is not charity; it is the most sensible and far-sighted investment we can make in New York's future.

Moderator: Thank you. And the final question for today, related to a recent tragedy. Last week, a mutant teenager, who allegedly controlled animals, was responsible for the deaths of at least three people. Your reaction?

Raymond Thorne: My reaction is anger. Anger, because this could have and should have been avoided! That teenager should have been under observation, in a specialized facility, not wandering the streets! My deepest condolences to the families of the victims. This horrific incident only confirms my position. We must send a clear and unambiguous message: our city is a safe territory for law-abiding citizens. And we will not tolerate uncontrolled threats here.

Wilson Fisk: I have personally studied the file on this case. The tragedy occurred after this teenager was attacked by a group of people. They mistakenly identified him as another mutant due to a skin rash on his face. Obviously, the attackers were simply looking for an excuse for aggression, and this became the trigger that provoked his powers. Understand me clearly: I am in no way trying to justify his actions. He is guilty of the deaths of those people. But the root of the problem lies deeper. If our society had accepted mutants from the beginning, created a system of support for them instead of persecution, perhaps this tragedy would not have happened. Let us not repeat the mistakes of the past. Let us learn to treat one another with honor and respect, regardless of whether we have an X-gene or not.

The video ended. Mr. Harrison turned off the projector and looked around the class. "Well, the positions have been stated, the arguments heard. Now let's see whose point of view you found more compelling. Please raise your hand if you support Wilson Fisk's position."

Hands began to go up. One after another, almost the entire class. Everyone except me. Not because Fisk's position was wrong, but because one of Thorne's arguments was bothering me. However, noticing all eyes were on me, I had to snap out of it and raise my hand too.

"Wow. Unanimous," Harrison noted with some surprise. "Mr. Thompson, if memory serves, you were a strong supporter of registration. What made you change your mind?"

Flash sat up straight. "I don't support Nazis."

Harrison was slightly taken aback by such a blunt statement. "Yes, that's... a powerful argument. I suppose. Elizabeth, what are your thoughts?"

Elizabeth Allan answered, choosing her words carefully: "Well... Fisk seemed much more confident. His arguments felt more thought-out, and he just seems more impressive. And... his words about unity, about integration... they just resonated more."

"A good answer," Harrison nodded. "Peter, your opinion is always interesting. What do you say?"

Parker thought for a second. "Thorne never actually answered the moderator's first question," he began calmly. "How exactly does he plan to guarantee safety? All he offered was to strengthen the SOB, which just means spending more money. That's not a solution; it's just an increase in expenses. He's passing the buck: 'someday' they'll find a way to subdue mutants, 'someday' it will all work out. He's not offering a concrete plan of action; he's just postponing the problem. That's irresponsible. Besides, based on his rhetoric, he's... a muta-racist? No, more like... a mutant-phobe."

Harrison nodded again. "A solid analysis. Diego, it was impossible not to notice you hesitated before raising your hand. Why?"

I had to gather my thoughts. "I was just stuck on one of Thorne's arguments. The one about, 'if someone sneezes one day and accidentally blows up the corner bakery, I want emergency services to know what they're dealing with! It's not a badge of shame; it's basic common sense!' It sounds logical, but if you think about it for a second, it's clear it's nonsense."

"Explain."

"Let's say this hypothetical 'sneezing' mutant is registered. His abilities are known. So what? The bakery is still going to explode, whether he's registered or not. The information about his powers won't prevent the incident. Furthermore, even if he's registered, how will emergency services know he was the one who blew up the bakery, and not some other mutant with similar powers who isn't registered? For Thorne's system to work, you don't just need to register mutants; you need to track every single one, 24/7. And that, as Fisk said, really does start to smell like a precursor to the Holocaust. And anyway," I had to add, "it seems to me that when confronting a mutant, it's better to assume you don't know what they're capable of. Uncertainty makes you more cautious. A false sense of confidence based on some entry in a registry could get you killed."

Harrison was silent for a few seconds, and then he clapped his hands. "Excellently put. Alright, we'll end the lesson there. Everyone who answered today gets an A."

"Even me?" Thompson asked, surprised. Harrison smiled. "Eugene, it doesn't matter if your opinion is right or wrong. What matters is that you have one. You're all dismissed."

 

[Billbo baggins]

I feel like the writing changed a lot. I mean it's still a decent story but it feels... Wrong?

 

[kowak]

Chapter 19

Classes followed one another. Math, Physics… Finally, it was time for P.E.

A lively chatter already filled the locker room. The main topic of discussion was the new teacher.

"Did you see her? God, she's fire!"

"I'm definitely going to be dreaming about her tonight!"

And everything in that vein. Teenage hormones were in full swing.

When the students filed into the gym, they all saw her. A sharp whistle silenced everyone and forced them to line up. To the disappointment of many of the boys, she wasn't wearing a tight tracksuit, but a simple T-shirt and slightly baggy track pants—which, however, couldn't completely hide her athletic figure.

"Alright, listen up!" Her voice was clear and ringing, without a hint of flirtation. "My name is Nellie Romanova. As of today, I am your new P.E. teacher. I know Midtown High emphasizes academic knowledge, but that's no excuse to let your bodies go. Physical conditioning is just as important as integrals and chemical formulas. Today we start with a warm-up, followed by strength training: pull-ups, push-ups, and weight work. Any questions? No? Excellent."

Thirty minutes of P.E. felt like three hours of hard labor. Lungs burned, and muscles refused to obey. It was impossible not to notice how Ms. Romanova approached each student, carefully monitoring their technique, pointing out mistakes, and adjusting the load. She demanded exactly as much as a person could handle, squeezing out every drop of effort without pushing them to total failure.

"Thompson, excellent!" she noted, passing by Flash, who was performing pull-ups with ease. "Your technique is nearly perfect."

She moved on, stopping by other students to give short, precise instructions.

"Parr, not like that," her voice sounded right by my ear. "You're putting too much strain on your shoulders. Keep your back straight, shoulder blades together. Like this…"

She reached out to adjust the position of my elbows. My personal barrier wouldn't have let her touch me, which would have revealed the existence of my ability. To allow her to touch me, I would have to consciously deactivate the defense. But what if I had to do that every single time there was an accidental contact? Constantly creating and removing gaps in my armor? What if someone took advantage of that split-second vulnerability? No, that wasn't the answer. I had to act differently.

The moment her fingers almost touched my arm, I sharply shifted my position, dodging the contact.

She raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"What's wrong, Diego?"

"I can't stand being touched by strangers," I had to answer flatly, looking her in the eyes.

She thought for a second, then smiled.

"I'm sorry. I'll keep in mind that you're a 'hands-off' kind of boy."

Immediately, Flash's laughter erupted from the bench where the students with medical exemptions were sitting.

"Ha-ha-ha! Parr's afraid of women!"

His sycophants immediately joined in the laughter.

I had to turn toward him.

"By the way," I said loud enough for the whole gym to hear, "they found a penis pump in Thompson's school locker."

The laughter cut off instantly. Silence hung in the gym.

"THAT'S NOT TRUE!" Eugene shrieked.

"I have a photo," I added calmly. "I can forward it to everyone after class."

Now every eye was glued to Flash. The girls looked at him with blatant disgust, while the guys who had been laughing with him a second ago instinctively moved further away.

"Great work today!" the teacher's voice rang out briskly, though a bit tensely, breaking the awkward silence. "But don't relax yet; now we need to stretch to release the tension and let your muscles cool down."

---

At the school exit, as the stream of students flooded onto the street, Peter Parker, who had skipped P.E., materialized beside me.

"Listen," he hesitated slightly, "I need some advice."

I had to stop.

"From me?"

"What do you do if… well… someone confesses their feelings to you, but you can't reciprocate? How do you say no without hurting them?"

"I don't think I'm competent enough to give advice on those matters."

"I think an outside perspective helps," he insisted. "It'll be a more objective view."

I had to think about it, trying to put myself in his shoes.

"I suppose you should start with respect," I said slowly, choosing my words.

He waited silently for me to continue.

"Confessing your feelings, especially if a girl does it first, is a significant act. Imagine the internal monologue. How many times she probably replayed that conversation in her head, practicing the words hundreds of times, imagining your reaction, all the possible outcomes—from happy to humiliating. Think of all the doubt, the fear of rejection, the mockery from friends she had to overcome before she decided to do it. That requires more than just courage; it requires a willingness to put her ego and vulnerability on the line. The very fact that she went through with it deserves respect. And the only decent thing you can do in response is to acknowledge that... courage. Show understanding for what it cost her, and then answer honestly. Without unnecessary pity, which would only be condescending, and without false hints or hopes that will only hurt more later. Just as it is."

Peter remained silent, clearly processing what I had said. Seeing that the conversation was over, I had to move on, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

---

Wilson Fisk's penthouse was the embodiment of ostentatious luxury. Wall-to-wall panoramic windows offered a breathtaking view of nighttime Manhattan, expensive sculptures adorned the spacious halls, and the air was thick with the scent of rare flowers. In this gilded cage, a group of mutant teenagers was trying to pass the time.

Pietro Maximoff had set up a personal gastronomic marathon for himself. He darted between the kitchen and the living room, consuming delicacies at the same superhuman speed with which he ordered them via Fisk's tablet. Albino beluga caviar, aged over a hundred years, was disappearing by the spoonful. Rare white truffles from Piedmont were being crumbled onto freshly baked focaccia. The total bill for his "snack" had already surpassed several million dollars, but he didn't seem to care in the slightest.

His sister, Wanda, had found her sanctuary in the massive rooftop jacuzzi. The warm bubbles pleasantly massaged her body, and in her hand, she held a glass of 1945 Romanée-Conti Grand Cru—the jewel of Fisk's wine collection. Of course, she could have used her mind to recreate the taste of this wine or any other drink. But why bother, when you can enjoy the original, and for free at that?

Jean Grey was settled in a massage chair that gently kneaded her tired muscles. A book on quantum physics was open before her, but her thoughts were far away. It all came down to the deal struck between Professor Xavier and Nick Fury. Officially, she and her companions were the core of Wilson Fisk's new initiative called "The Guardians of New York"—a team of mutants meant to protect the city. However, that was merely a cover. In reality, their true mission was to work for Fury, using Fisk and his program as a facade. While the world believed in their alliance with the future mayor, their task was to maintain order in the city and await further instructions from the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. Furthermore, Jean herself had a personal, secret task from the Professor: to keep a discreet eye on Fisk. Fisk only knew her as a powerful telekinetic and had no suspicion of her telepathic abilities, which gave her an advantage for observation. She felt that the negotiations were over, and three people were about to enter the room.

The doors opened, and three men entered the penthouse. In the center, predictably, towered Wilson Fisk. At his shoulder stood his faithful bodyguard with a dead, unblinking gaze. The third was someone they hadn't seen before—a slightly plump man in an expensive but somewhat eccentric suit, wearing glasses with fashionable frames.

Fisk swept the living room with his gaze. His eyes lingered for a moment on the chaos Pietro had created—mountains of plates with remnants of fabulously expensive caviar and truffles—and then slid over to Wanda, relaxingly soaking in the jacuzzi. There was neither judgment nor anger in his eyes. To him, all of this was merely temporary expenditure, nothing more.

"I hope you are satisfied with everything?" His voice was slightly jovial.

"You bet," Wanda tossed back boldly from the water, raising her glass of Romanée-Conti.

Pietro, his mouth full of yet another snack, merely nodded vigorously.

"Good," Fisk made a barely perceptible gesture toward the new man. "Allow me to introduce Mr. Gladly. He is a top-class professional. From this moment on, you are at his complete disposal. He will be responsible for your… public image."

The plump man in glasses immediately stepped forward, radiating an inappropriate, almost deafening enthusiasm. He spoke loudly, clearly, and with a broad, permanent smile, as if addressing a group of schoolchildren rather than mutants.

"Hello, hello! My young, uncut diamonds! What an honor!" he proclaimed, throwing his hands up. "Starting today, we begin to create magic! We will teach you how to carry yourselves in public, how to answer tricky questions, and what to wear so that your very appearance inspires awe and adoration!"

Wanda, still in the jacuzzi, measured him with a skeptical look. Scarlet energy enveloped her, and she rose smoothly from the water, hovering in the air above the terrace. Before everyone's eyes, her wet swimsuit was replaced by her usual red-and-black outfit. Already completely dry, she descended to the floor.

"What, do you want to dress us up in Winx Club fairy costumes?" she spat. "I'm not participating in this circus."

Gladly clapped his hands in delight.

"No, no, no! Heaven forbid!" he laughed. "My dear, the fairies stayed in the 2000s! I have no intention of changing you. I intend to emphasize what is already there! Look at yourself!" He took a step back, appraisingly looking her over from head to toe. "That rebellious spirit! That dark, almost gothic charisma! Right now, all the boys are going crazy for 'bad girls,' and you are the quintessence of that image! You are godlessly beautiful! That disheveled dark hair, those heavily lined eyes that look at the world with a challenge! And this outfit… the corset top, the leather bracelets, those deep red and black tones! It's not just clothing, it's a statement! It's a ready-made brand! We'll just add a bit of polish, but the foundation—the foundation is magnificent!"

Wanda froze. She had been ready for an argument, for an order, for anything, but not for this. Being called a "bad girl" and immediately showered with compliments threw her off balance. She didn't know how to react—whether to be offended or proud.

As Gladly continued to enthusiastically describe her "marketing potential," Jean Grey, watching the scene from her chair, noticed that the doors had opened again. Fisk and his bodyguard silently stepped out and disappeared. He had delivered the specialist, set the task, and left, not wasting a single second on the process itself.

 

[Ahtu]

The mirror showed me my reflection: a tan guy with wet, dark hair. Nothing remarkable—not repulsive, not model-material. Just another face that would easily get lost in a Brooklyn crowd.

After getting dressed in my room, I went out to the kitchen.

Click to shrink...

Aight, let us be clear: That is NOT an average face... Perfect skin, decent bone structure, good wavy hair, almost perfectly symmetrical. That's a 7.5 at a minimum. And relative the human average it is 9, or 9.5.

If there's any noteable "flaw" it is how mundane his eye and hair colors are. Brown, the most common in the world. But the naturally wavy hair is good enough to make up for it, in terms of exotic traits.