Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

'Hold on right there, buster', a gruff voice calls out from behind the newspaper stand as a man with a thick mustache peers over the top. 'You ain't from around here, are ya?'. The question is less a question and more a statement. He scrutinizes the young man with the glasses and a suit that is too small for his large frame. He looks like he hasn't seen the inside of a city building in years, let alone a newspaper office.

Clark Kent takes a deep breath. This is it: his first day at the Daily Star, and he hasn't even made it through the door before someone's onto him. But he's ready for this. He's spent years in the countryside, honing his skills, waiting for the right moment to come to the city. He adjusts his tie, squares his shoulders, and smiles politely at the mustached man.

'My name's Kent. Clark Kent. I'm the new reporter here to see Mister Taylor'.

The man's eyes narrow. 'Oh, you're the farm boy they hired? Well, I'll be damned. Thought you'd be here to sell us more of your backwoods tales'. He chuckles to himself, folding the newspaper under his arm with a crisp snap. 'Alright, go ahead. But don't say I didn't warn ya. This ain't no place for someone as green as you'.

He steps aside, revealing the bustling office beyond. The clack of typewriters and the murmur of voices fill the air, so unlike the quiet fields of Smallville that Clark feels momentarily disoriented. A week ago, he was watching wheat sway under the Kansas sun. Now, he's been assaulted by the scent of ink and cigarette smoke. Clark steps into the fray, clutching his notepad and pencil.

A young secretary with a blond bob and a sharp look glances up from her desk. She waves a freshly sharpened pencil at him. 'You must be Kent'.

Clark nods. 'Yes, ma'am'. The words come out too formal, like he's still talking to Ma back home. 'Clark Kent, reporting for-'.

She points to the stairs. 'Mister Taylor's office is on the top floor, room 52. The elevator's busted, so you'll have to climb. Don't let the noise scare you. It's just the presses printing the evening edition'.

Clark thanks her and heads up. The wooden stairs creak under his weight, but nobody seems to notice. Maybe it's just his hearing. The banter and clack slowly fades away, replaced by the rhythm of his own breathing. As he climbs, he notices the occasional reporter rushing by, papers fluttering in their wake. They offer him no more than a cursory glance, eyes scanning the strange new face, assessing his potential before moving on to their deadlines. He tips his hat politely, trying not to let their indifference bother him, wishing his collar didn’t feel so stiff.

At the top of the stairs, Clark finds himself in a narrow corridor lined with doors, each with a small frosted glass pane displaying a name etched in black letters. He pauses for a moment, listening to the muffled sounds of the city outside and the distant clamor of the presses below. Heartbeats, sneezes, yawns, laughter, whispers, and the occasional shouted order. The spirt of the city itself, always moving, always alive. He adjusts his tie again, darn thing feels like a noose, and walks toward room 52, where the nameplate reads: G. Taylor, Editor-in-Chief.

The 'G' is slightly askew, as if the painter had been in a hurry. Perhaps late for deadline, Clark thinks. It's a ridiculous detail to notice, but he notices everything: from the smallest speck of dust on the windowsill to the faint hum of electricity in the overhead lights, things nobody else would care about. Clark takes a deep breath and knocks firmly.

'Come in', a muffed voice calls from within.

Clark opens the door to find a large, gruff man with a cigar in one hand and a pen in the other. The room is reeks of tobacco and ink. George Taylor looks up from his paperwork and assesses him with a sharp gaze. 'So, you're the young blood looking to make a name for himself in the world of journalism, eh?'.

'Yes, sir, I am', Clark replies. 'My name's Clark Kent. I've got a nose for news and I'm eager to prove myself'.

'Well, you're late, Kent', Taylor says without looking at his watch. 'I guess that's to be expected from a kid who grew up chasing cows'. The man stubs out his cigar in an overflowing ashtray, then gestures to the battered wooden chair across from his desk. 'Sit. Let’s see if you can tell a headline from a hole in the ground'.

Clark sits, pressing his knees together so they don’t bump the desk. The chair wobbles under him. He keeps his posture straight enough, though his fingers tap nervously against his notebook. The stacks of yellowed newspapers piled in the corner, the half-empty coffee mug with a lipstick stain, even the way Taylor’s pen digs into the paper... Clark absorbs it all.

The editor-in-chief slides a smudged proof sheet across the desk with one thick finger. 'That’s tonight’s front page. Missing heiress, union strike, and some damn fool kid who jumped off a bridge shouting about flying Martians. Tell me, Kent, what does Kansas make of our fair city’s headlines?'.

Clark picks up the sheet, careful not to smudge the fresh ink with his fingertips. He scans the columns: missing persons notices tucked beside stock prices, strike bulletins crammed against society gossip. 'Well, sir, back in Kansas, folks would call this a circus. But', Clark adds quickly, 'circuses sell papers. And I reckon that’s the point'.

Taylor exhales a plume of smoke. 'Smart mouth for a hick'. He leans forward, elbows creaking the desk. 'Tell me, Kent... what’s wrong with this layout?'.

The strike headline bleeds into the society column. Poor kerning. The bridge jumper’s story sits above the fold, but the heiress’s photo is cropped awkwardly, her pearls half-sliced by the column rule. 'The balance is off, sir. The jumper’s sensational, but the heiress has connections. Shouldn’t she lead? Unless... unless you’re angling for sympathy. Run her photo full-width tomorrow when the ransom note arrives'.

The clock ticks three times before Taylor grunts: 'Not bad'. He flicks ash onto a copy of Editor & Publisher. 'Now tell me why the strike’s buried'. By the time they finish talking, Taylor's ashtray overflows like a miniature Vesuvius. 'Alright, let's get you started. You're on the night desk with Miss Lane. She'll show you the ropes'. He gives him instructions on where to go and what to do, all the while Clark feels like he's being tested for something else entirely, like Taylor’s waiting for him to flinch at the sound of police sirens wailing outside the window, or the sudden clatter of a dropped typewriter in the bullpen. 'Gotta warn you, though'. Taylor adds. 'She's got a temper that could melt steel and a tongue to match. Last cub reporter she trained quit after three weeks'. Clark nods, unfazed. 'But she's fair if you do your job. Just don't slow her down. And for God's sake, don't stare at her legs. I'm telling you now, because she will notice'.

Clark makes his way over to Lois Lane's desk, one that looks like it's seen more action than a battlefield. Papers are scattered everywhere, a typewriter sits unused with a cigarette balancing precariously on its edge, and she's dressed in a sharp suit that makes her look like she can take on the world. She doesn't look up from her typewriter as he approaches.

'Good morning, Miss Lane. I'm-'.

'Kent', she interrupts without missing a beat. 'I don't have time for introductions. We've got a paper to put out'. She is all business, voice sharp and fast like the clacking of the keys beneath her fingers. 'You're the new guy, right? The farm boy from the sticks?'.

Clark manages a smile. 'Yes, I'm from Smallville. I know my way around a story, though, and-'.

Lois finally looks up, blue eyes appraising him as if he is a piece of newsprint. 'Sounds like you made that up. Straight outta a dime store novel or a picture show. Smallvile, Kansas? Really?'. Her pen taps against the desk like a telegraph operator’s key. Clark catches the scent of her perfume over the stale cigarette haze. He doesn’t tell her he can hear her heartbeat: steady enough, but a fraction quicker than normal for a woman her age. It's like she’s waiting for him to lie or balk.

'It's a good, solid town, Miss Lane', Clark assures her. 'Kansas isn't just fields and tornadoes. People have stories there, too. Just last month, the Smallville Gazette ran a piece on-'.

'You expect me to swallow that corn husk, fresh from the farm?'. Lois Lane doesn't bother to hide her smirk. 'You're telling me you didn't just waltz in here with that moniker to stir up some yarn about a boy scout in the big city? That's the kind of sob story we get twice before lunch'. She's eyeing him with clear amusement. 'You look like a country bumpkin. A massive country bumpkin. Did they feed you fertilizer back in Smallville?'.

Clark clear his throat. 'Well, Ma always said I had good soil'.

Lane snorts. 'Ma, huh?'. Her fingers work the typewriter keys like a pianist. 'And what's with the handle, Kent? Did you just walk out of some Frank Capra movie? Next you'll tell me you're the second coming of Lincoln Steffens'. The click-clack drowns out her muttering, but Clark hears it anyway: 'God help us if he's another moralizer'.

'I reckon we'll see', Clark says, keeping his voice even as Lois Lane's smirk sharpens. 'Ma also said first impressions are easy. It's the follow-through that counts'. She also told him city folks would poke at him like he was a prize hog at the fair, but he keeps that part to himself. Lord Almighty knows this woman would chew that up and spit it back in his face with extra bite.

Something in Lois Lane's eyes changes, much like a hawk spotting movement in tall grass. 'Alright, Kent. No need to get all hot and bothered. I'm just messing with ya'.

'I'm not bothered, Miss Lane', Clark says. 'Just eager to work'.

Lane hums. 'Well, farm boy, we'll see about that'. She gestures to the empty chair next to her. 'Take a seat. Don't expect me to hold your hand through this, if you catch my meaning. Not unless you want me to break all five of yours'.

Clark sits down, feeling a bit more at ease despite the banter. 'I wouldn't dream of it, Miss Lane. Broken bones don't make for good typing'.

Lois smirks, tossing him a stack of telegrams. 'Good. Then start with these. AP wire’s been humming all morning, something about a train derailment outside Gotham. City desk wants it fleshed out before the evening edition'. Her fingers don’t stop moving, keys clattering like gunfire. 'And don’t screw up the quotes. Last cub paraphrased a senator into admitting he’d robbed a bank.' The snickers from the other male reporters nearby are met with a withering look from Lois, but none seem to stop their chuckling. 'You'll have to get used to that, farm boy', she says, typing away. 'This is the city. We're all just a bunch of sharks looking for a story, and you're the fresh meat'.

A man with slicked-back hair and a bow tie leans over. 'Don't let her get to ya, son. She's got more mouth than a soda fountain. You just gotta learn to dodge'. He winks. 'But she's not all bad. Just don't let her catch ya staring'.

Another reporter, a heavyset man with a cigar, smiles. 'Yeah, she's got more ambition than a room full of aldermen, that one. Thinks she can out-scoop any of us'. He takes a puff of his cigar, blowing smoke in Lois's direction. 'But she's got the guts of a bulldog'.

Lois shoots him a look that could cut glass, one hand poised mid-air above her typewriter keys. 'Thank you, Butch. It means so much coming from the guy who filed last week’s subway story with the mayor’s name misspelled. Twice'. The bullpen erupts in laughter. Clark suppresses a grin, fingers already sorting through the telegrams. 'Who knows? Maybe one of these days, you'll find a story that doesn't involve lunch counters'.

A third man, one with a greasy smirk, leans in from the neighboring desk. 'Don't mind Lois, pal. She's got more ink in her veins than blood, and legs that-'.

'I'm sure Miss Lane's reporting speaks for itself', Clark says smoothly. 'And I'd rather not get blood on my first assignment'.

'Women like her are a dime a dozen', the man with the cigar, Butch, says as he glances over at Lois. 'Think they can do a man's job just 'cause they've got ink under their nails'.

Lois's typing stops abruptly, and she turns to face the group, eyes narrowing. 'You're the one who couldn't find his way out of a paper bag, Butch. So, don't you go talking to me about doing a man's job'. Her voice is like a whip crack, sharp and loud. 'I've got more stories under my belt than all of you combined, and I didn't get 'em by playing nice. I've got sources that you wouldn't even know how to find, more scoops than you've got excuses, and more ambition than this entire newsroom'. She glances at Clark. 'And you, farm boy, you'd better decide whose side you're on'.

Clark blinks, not quite believing how quickly the newsroom turns into a battleground. 'Sides, Miss Lane? I didn't realize journalism was a war'. Of course, that's not entirely true: he's read enough Hearst papers to know better, but watching Lois Lane square off against the bullpen like a prizefighter is something else entirely. 'I'm on the side of the story. That's, after all, why we're here, isn't it?'. He looks at the men, then back at Lois. 'Unless I'm mistaken, which I could be, being new and all'. The slightest hint of Kansas drawl seeps into his words, deliberate as the slouch he leans into, just enough to make them underestimate him. 'Though I reckon even a farm boy knows not to bite the hand that feeds him, or the one that types faster than he talks'.

Lois stares at Clark for a beat too long. 'That so, Kent?', Her typewriter goes silent, one finger lingering on the F-key like a gunslinger's trigger finger. 'All this talk about hands and biting. You got teeth to back it up?'.

Clark holds her gaze, acutely aware of every flicker in her pupils. 'Just a pair of hands that can keep up. Wouldn't want to disappoint the fastest typist in the newsroom, whoever that is'.

Lois snatches the top telegram from his pile. The paper whispers as she unfolds it, her eyes scanning the cramped AP text. 'So you're a quick study, Kent? Prove it'. She slaps the wire onto his desk. 'Train derailment outside Gotham. Two hundred passengers. No fatalities. Yet. City desk wants five hundred words by four. You've got forty minutes'.

'Right on, Miss Lane'. This is beginning to feel like a test, the kind Pa would’ve given him back on the farm, tossing him a pitchfork and saying: ‘Show me you can handle it'. Clark could finish this article in thirty seconds if he wanted, but he keeps his fingers moving at human speed, pressing pencil to paper with deliberate slowness. Just like in high school, careful not to snap the nib, just like in college, careful not to rip the page. 'Just let me get the details straight first'.

She's watching him sidelong, Lois, while pretending to adjust her stockings. The silk hisses against her skin, and, though she doesn't know it, Clark catches the way her thumbnail picks at the edge of her index finger, a likely unconscious nervous tick. What sort of woman is she, this Lois Lane, who can chew out grown men but picks at her own cuticles when she thinks no one's looking? Two things are certain: she's not the type to wait around for answers, and he's growing increasingly aware that she's one of the few people in this room who could actually see through him if he lets his guard down, though not in the way she thinks.

Ma used to say sharp-eyed women could spot a lie from a mile away, and this one’s got eyes like the blade of a Kansas wheat knife. The curious thing? Clark doesn't mind. There’s something about Lois Lane’s scrutiny that feels familiar, like Pa counting fence posts to make sure Clark hadn’t skipped any, or Pete and Lana ribbing him about his stupidly perfect spelling tests. One of a kind. That's the thought that runs through his head as she raises an eyebrow at him, all serious business and suspicion. Clark lets himself smile, just a little, as he decides the woman typing at breakneck speed beside him is probably as honest as Kansas dirt in August. Just drier, and twice as likely to give you a rash.

Chapter Text

'Is everything okay?', Janet asks, breaking Peter out of his trance.

'Huh?'. Peter looks up from his plate and sees his date staring at him, a puzzled expression plastered on her fine features. 'Oh, yeah, Janet. Sure. Everything's fine. Why do you ask?'.

'You've barely touched your food', Janet points out. 'You don’t like it? You know we can always send it back and order something else'.

'Oh, no', Peter replies at once. 'It's not that. Not at all'.

Janet frowns. 'What is it, then?'.

'Nothing. It's just...'. Peter sighs, putting down the knife and fork. His next words could be the end of their evening. 'Don't you think this is all... a little odd?'.

'Odd?'.

'Yeah, odd...'. Peter pauses for a moment. 'I mean, we were both just colleagues not too long along -and not exactly close ones, mind you-, and now we're on a date? You have to admit this isn’t what you’d call common'.

'What are you trying to say?'. Janet forgets about her food, too. 'Peter, I hope you're not having second thoughts about this, right now. I thought we’d already discussed it'.

'Yeah, I know, we did, but...'. Peter is starting to feel like that shy, skinny high school kid again. Maybe kissing Janet that afternoon was a huge mistake. He does seem to make a lot of those, come to think of it. The good old Parker Luck is funny like that. 'Well, I guess what I'm trying to say is... are you... comfortable with this?'.

'With what?'.

'You know'. Peter rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. 'With us?'.

'I wouldn’t have asked you out if I wasn't, would I?'.

Peter can't exactly refute that logic. 'It's just...', he begins, stumbling over his words, 'I'm Peter Parker. You're Janet Van Dyne. And we're sitting here...'.

'On a date', Janet finishes for him, a hint of amusement playing on her lips. 'Is that what you're getting at? That we come from two different worlds?'.

'I mean, only one of us is a famous fashion icon', Peter says, trying to lighten the mood with one of his admittedly cheesy comments, the kind that usually gets a chuckle out of Aunt May.

Janet's smile grows into a full-blown grin. 'And only one of us can stick to walls and shoot webs'.

'You could always borrow a couple of my web-shooters for the runway', Peter quips, and Janet actually laughs. It is a good thing she has a sense of humor about it. Would've been awkward otherwise.

'Maybe I will', she says. 'It'll spice things up a bit. The bad guys are in for a shock when the Wasp starts swinging by on a spider’s web'. Her laugh is light and airy, and it makes Peter's heart skip a beat. He didn't expect her to be so easygoing about everything. A socialite like Janet Van Dyne could've easily dismissed him as some nerdy science guy who got lucky with powers. But here she is, teasing him back. The woman once dated Tony Stark, for God’s sake. Peter still isn't sure how he ended up across a candlelit table from her.

The tension in the air begins to dissipate as Janet reaches across the table and takes Peter's hand in hers. Her touch is warm and comforting, and she looks at him with a gentle expression that makes him feel like she can see right through the layers of his doubt. 'Look, Peter, I know we're not exactly your average couple. But I think that's what makes it interesting. You're one of the most genuine people I know. You save the world without expecting anything in return, and that's pretty amazing'.

'Think you can vouch for me to the Avengers?', Peter quips, hoping he's not coming across as too nervous. He can already see the billionaire playboy philanthropist taking one look at him and saying: 'What are you doing with her?' in that smug tone of his, the tone usually reserved for when he's outsmarted someone... which is often.

Janet's smile is warm and reassuring. 'I might be able to pull some strings', she teases, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. 'But only if you promise not to ask Steve for his autograph every time you see him'.

'Hard pass on that one', Peter chuckles. He squeezes Janet's hand back, and she gives him a knowing look that makes him feel a little less like a fish out of water. Or a spider in a fancy restaurant, to be more accurate. 'But seriously, Janet, I just don't want to mess this up'.

'And I don't want you to think you will', she tells him. 'We're just two people getting to know each other better. No Wasp, no Spider-Man. Just Janet and Peter. We don’t have to have all the answers tonight'.

'But we do have to finish our meals', Peter says with a shy smile, picking up his fork and spearing a piece of steak. The conversation has shifted the evening's tone from awkward to comfortable, and he finds himself actually enjoying the food. The steak is tender, the potatoes decently seasoned, and the company... well, it's the best part of the evening, though the way Janet's dress hugs her curves is a very close second.

They talk about their encounter with the Wrecking Crew last week, sharing a few behind-the-scenes anecdotes that have them both laughing over their plates like old friends who've known each other for years, not mere colleagues who've only just started dating.

'Supervillains always seem to think that more muscle equals more threat', Janet says with a roll of her eyes. 'But it's the brains behind the operation that you really have to watch out for'.

'No kidding', Peter snickers. 'Those guys make Shocker look like Doctor Doom'.

'I know, right?', Janet giggles. 'It's like they forgot the super part of supervillain. They just go smashing everything in sight without any strategy'.

'I'm not complaining, though. It does make our jobs a bit easier'.

'Well, for you maybe', Janet says playfully, poking his arm. 'But I have to be extra careful not to get my hair messed up'.

'The humanity', Peter laughs. 'I swear, Janet, only you can make fighting crime sound like a hair commercial'.

'It’s all about the priorities', Janet jokes, running a hand through her perfectly coiffed locks. The candlelight dances in her eyes, and Peter feels his stomach do a little flip. This is definitely a new experience for him. 'Besides, we Avengers are more than just our superhero personas. We represent a brand'.

'A brand?'.

'Well, yeah. We must look the part, you know'. She takes a sip of her wine. 'Presentation is key. People trust us because we look like we know what we're doing. Appearances can be deceiving, but they matter. First impressions, and all that'. Her fingers trace the edge of the glass thoughtfully. 'Kind of like how you’d never guess Spider-Man was a dorky science nerd under the mask. No offense. Social media is full of theories about your looks. The most popular one says you’re this eight-eyed mutant with fangs'.

'You think that's why the Bugle hates me?', Peter asks, his smile widening. 'Because they see me swinging around Queens in skintight spandex and assume I'm secretly a hideous monster?'.

'Well, you do hide that pretty face of yours under a mask most of the time. Maybe if Jameson saw you properly, he’d tone down the slander'.

'He's more like to stroke out if he saw me', Peter says, grinning as he twirls his fork. 'Parker', he mimics Jameson's growl, 'you're fired for perfidy! You're a damn fraud, and I knew it!'. He drops the impression as Janet snorts into her wine.

As the evening progresses, they move on to dessert: a rich chocolate cake with a scoop of mint ice cream on the side, a delicate web of spun sugar decorating the plate, either a coincidence so perfect that Peter can’t help but smile, or Janet’s doing. She insists they share it, and he agrees. He just can't resist seeing her eyes light up when she takes a bite.

'Oh, God', Janet moans. 'This is heavenly. Leaves the ones they make in Paris in the dust'. Peter watches as the mint chocolate melts in her mouth, her eyes closing in pure delight. He is still trying to wrap his head around the fact that they are actually on a date. Not in a we're-just-going-out-as-friends-because-it's-convenient kind of way, but a real, genuine date. And yet, a swell of affection rises in his chest. Yeah, it's really out-there, but he wouldn't trade it for anything. Getting to witness this facet of Janet, one she reserves for people she trusts, it's worth the awkwardness. 'You know', Jane says, licking a smudge of frosting from her upper lip, 'I never thought I'd say this about you, but... you're surprisingly...'.

'Surprisingly what?'. Shy? Unsociable? Bad at this whole dating thing? Most of the adjectives people toss his way aren’t exactly flattering, so braces for the worst.

'Introspective', Janet finishes. 'You're so much more than the quips and the webs. It's like there's a whole other side to you that people don't get to see'. Again, Peter could say the same about her: how few know the woman beneath the designer dresses and tabloid headlines, beyond the Wasp's stingers and wings. 'I'd taken you for a bully, or an obnoxious jock type. But here you are, the sweetest, most thoughtful guy I've ever met'. She smirks. 'You aren't putting on a show, are you? Some kind of Spider-Man charm offensive?'.

'It's all me', Peter assures her, feeling his cheeks warm up. 'No act, no gimmicks. Just Peter Parker'.

Janet studies him for a moment. 'You're so sweet when you're out of the suit, like you're a completely different person'.

Peter offers her a self-deprecating smile. 'Well, I've had some practice. Been keeping secrets my whole life. To be honest, sometimes I wonder if the costume isn’t just a way for me to express what I feel without the weight of everyone judging me'.

'I can see that', Janet murmurs, swirling her fork through the remnants of chocolate on her plate. 'But it's still refreshing to see this side of you. It's like meeting the cutest puppy and finding out he can also do calculus'.

'Comparing me to a dog now, huh?', Peter says in mock-outrage. Janet is too good at this: teasing, testing, drawing him out bit by bit while he stumbles over his own words. Maybe this is just a really vivid dream brought on by one of his spider-sense migraines. Maybe Mysterio is messing with him again. The guy does have a flair for overly complicated tricks, like that one time he made him believe Norman Osborn was his real father. That was a head trip he'd rather not repeat. And the less said about the time Mysterio tricked him into fighting Daredevil, the better. He still owes Matt a beer for that one.

'Only in the best way possible', Janet says, taking another bite of cake. 'You're adorable and surprisingly smart. I mean it. You'd make Tony sweat with your science talk. How come you never brag about that?'.

'I guess I'm just not a fan of flashing my brain around', Peter shrugs. 'But thanks for noticing'.

'How about flashing those large and thick web-shooters of yours?', Janet says over the rim of her wineglass 'You always keep them hidden. Seems unfair to hog all that equipment'.

'You're evil', Peter breathes, nearly choking on the bite of cake he just took. His cheeks flush crimson, so warm he wonders if a certain Human Torch just walked in behind him. 'That’s... what?'.

Janet laughs out loud. 'I'd be lying if I said I wasn't enjoying this'. She leans forward, resting her chin in her palm, fingers tapping against her cheekbone. 'Which reminds me... that suit of yours leaves very little to the imagination'.

'Does it?', Peter asks, voice cracking slightly. 'I mean, uh... I never really thought about it like that'.

Janet arches an eyebrow. 'Oh, come on. You have to know how tight that thing is. It’s practically painted on, like you're wearing nothing at all'.

Peter blinks, opens his mouth, then closes it again. Did she really...? 'Was that a Simpsons reference?'.

'A what reference?', Janet blinks innocently, swirling her wineglass. 'I have no idea what you're talking about. Is that another one of your nerdy things?'.

The conversation flows easily after that, touching on their hopes and fears outside of the superhero life, their proudest moments and biggest triumphs, and even their favorite movies, though Janet teases him mercilessly when she learns he actually enjoys re-watching old sci-fi B-movies like Them!, The Thing from Another World, and Attack of the 50 Foot Woman {fitting, considering Janet can also grow quite large}. And then the topic of their childhoods comes up, and Peter starts talking about growing up in Queens with Uncle Ben and Aunt May, how they took him in and raised him after his parents died, and how Ben was the one who taught him about responsibility, about always doing the right thing, even when it's hard.

'They made me who I am', Peter says quietly. 'Without them... I don’t know where I’d be'.

Janet nods, smiling at him. 'You know... I never knew my mom, not truly. My dad raised me. He was a scientist. Quite famous in his own right'.

'Yeah, Vernon Van Dyne', Peter says. 'He was a genius. It's no wonder you ended up following in his footsteps'.

'Hardly'. Janet's smile turns bittersweet. 'I was more of a party girl than anything. Following his path was never my plan. I mean, I like science, but I like fashion more. When I discovered I could combine the two, it was like... destiny'.

'Is that how you met Hank-?'. Peter cuts himself off, realizing his mistake. Janet's divorce was all over the tabloids, still a sensitive subject, still fresh. 'I mean, I...'.

'It's okay, Peter. You can say it. It's no secret I met Hank through my father's work. We hit off almost right away, and... well, I guess the rest is history'. There is a touch of sadness in Janet's eyes, but she quickly covers it up with a smile. 'But enough about the past. Let's talk about us'.

Peter wants to smile, he really does, but the mention of Hank Pym brings a sudden soberness to the conversation. He knows their history is complicated and doesn't want to tread on any sore spots. Everything was going so well: flirty banter, stolen glances, Janet laughing at his dumb jokes... and now there's this quiet weight between them. Why does he always screw up like this? What? Does the universe need him to have one more thing to feel self-conscious about tonight? Oh, yeah, bringing up the guy who almost killed Tony Stark during a psychotic break is totally the way to keep a conversation light and breezy. Next, he'll probably ask her opinion on Ultron. Real smooth, Parker.

'You know', Peter begins, trying to salvage the moment, 'the more I think about it, the more it feels like we're crossing some kind of line. I'm a decade younger than you, and I'm pretty sure the paparazzi would have a field day if they saw us together'. Yeah. That totally salvaged it. Mentioning the age gap and public scrutiny is definitely the smoothest pivot.

Thankfully, Janet doesn't seem bothered by his fumble. 'Are you calling me old?'. She playfully pokes his forearm with her spoon. 'Because if you are, I will shrink you down to ant-size and feed you to my cat'.

'No, never', Peter chuckles, feeling the mood shift back to something slightly less awkward. 'If anything, I'm calling myself too young for this. You're... Janet Van Dyne. The Wasp, fashion icon, founding Avenger. You've been fighting crime since I was in middle school'.

'Don't tell me you're worried about the age gap,', Janet says, raising an eyebrow. 'Peter, you're more mature than half the men I've dated, and that includes Tony Stark'. Her spoon clinks against the dessert plate as she scrapes up the last bite of chocolate cake. 'Besides, I'm nine years older than you, not a whole decade'.

'Nine years and two months', Peter corrects her with a smile, wiping his mouth with the napkin. 'But seriously, Janet, it's not just the age. It's... everything else, too. I mean, you're one of the biggest celebrities in the city, and I'm-'.

'You're Peter Parker', Janet interrupts. 'A smart, kind, and incredibly brave man who saves the world on a regular basis'. She smirks. 'Who also happens to have a really cute butt in spandex'.

The comment makes Peter blush again, and he tries to hide with chuckle. A really weak chuckle, but it's the best he can do. 'Well, when you put it that way...'.

Janet leans closer to him, gaze earnest. 'Look, Peter, age is just a number when consenting adults are involved. What matters is how we feel about each other. And I can't tell you how long it's been since the last time I enjoyed a date like this. You make me laugh, you're thoughtful, you genuinely care about helping people, and you're one of the few men who doesn’t treat me like I'm just a pretty face with wings'.

'You're not just a pretty face', Peter tells her. A pause. He's either going to get her back or blow this completely, but he decides to go for broke. 'Though, uh, it doesn't hurt that you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Plus, you have a really cute butt. Especially in that suit of yours. Good thing I have enhanced reflexes. Keeps me from staring too long'.

Janet laughs, a sharp, delighted sound that makes Peter's stomach flip. 'So the Spider-Man has eyes after all', she teases. 'And here I thought you were too busy dodging bullets to notice'.

'I multitask', Peter shoots back, grinning as Janet's fingers brush against his wrist. 'Dodging bullets, swinging through the city, and enjoying nice views'.

'Objectifying an Avenger?', Janet says in mock-disapproval. 'Not very heroic of you, Spidey'.

'Hey, you started it', Peter points out. 'And I'm pretty sure recognizing beauty isn't a crime'.

'Fine, fine', Janet says, waving her spoon in the air, eyes shining with mirth. 'I'll let that one slide, but only because you're adorable'. She takes another sip of her wine, slower this time. 'But let's get one thing straight: I don’t do relationships for show. If we're going to do this, it's because we both genuinely want to, not because of what anyone else thinks'.

'I can't promise I'll be Mister Charisma all the time', Peter says, 'but I'm willing to try, if you are. You can be sure of that'.

Janet reaches over and squeezes his hand. 'I appreciate that, Peter. I've had enough of superficial relationships, men who want me for my name, my company, or what I represent'. Her fingers trace circles on his knuckles. 'And for the record? I've seen you face down thugs and aliens and monsters. I think you can handle a few awkward moments with me'.

'I guess so', Peter nods. 'But you know, I'm still kind of nervous'.

'I know'. Janet's voice is warm and reassuring, the kind of sound that wraps around Peter like a weighted blanket. 'But don't worry, I'll be right here with you'. She reaches out with her other hand and gently cups Peter's cheek, her thumb brushing away a stray strand of hair. The restaurant, the candlelight, the soft jazz playing in the background... it all fades away as Peter looks into Janet's eyes. They are so close now that he can feel her breath on his skin, smell the sweetness of the chocolate cake and light floral scent of her perfume. Her thumb is now brushing lightly against his lower lip. 'You have beautiful eyes, you know? I hadn't really noticed them before'. Peter feels his heart hammering in his chest. Is she going to kiss him? Right here, in the middle of the restaurant? Not that there's anything wrong with that, but...

'Um', Peter says intelligently. Before he can embarrass himself further, Janet closes the distance and presses her lips to his. It is a soft, sweet kiss, filled with the promise of more to come. Peter's eyes flutter closed, and he feels himself relax into the moment. He can't believe this is happening. He's kissing Janet Van Dyne. The Wasp. The woman who can shrink to the size of an insect and fly, for goodness' sake. She tastes like chocolate and wine, and her lips are impossibly soft. Peter is pretty sure he's dreaming.

When they pull away, Janet is smiling, a hint of chocolate on her teeth that Peter finds totally endearing. 'Well, Peter Parker... I think we have the potential for something quite amazing here'.

Peter exhales like he's been told the Sinister Six got arrested before breakfast. 'You... you think so?'.

Janet's grin is brighter than the candlelight between them. 'Oh, I know so. But first...'. She leans in again, her lips brushing his once more. '... we need to establish ground rules. No saving my life just to impress me. No web-swinging me through Manhattan without warning. And absolutely no third-wheeling with Johnny Storm'.

Peter laughs against her mouth. 'Deal. Though the third one might be hard. Johnny’s not great at taking hints'.

'I guess I'll have to sting him a little, then', Janet whispers, planting kiss on Peter's cheek. 'The Wasp doesn't share her Spider-Man'. It's the cheesiest thing she could've said, which is why Peter loves it. 'Now, as for the other, more private rules...'. Her fingers trace his jawline, her breath warm against his ear. '... I'll let you know those later, Web-Boy'.

Chapter Text

The conference room smells like government-issue coffee, a brew so aggressively mediocre it can only be conjured in the depths of federal procurement offices, where taste buds go to die. It is the kind of coffee that has been steeped in bureaucratic despair, boiled in a pot older than the Civil Service Reform Act, and left to languish on a burner set permanently to 'lukewarm disappointment'.

But the coffee is merely the top note in a far more complex olfactory symphony. Beneath it lingers the acrid tang of unspoken resentment, decades of it, fermenting in the air like a fine, spiteful wine. It is the scent of middle managers who have long since given up on ambition, of interns who have entered the room bright-eyed and left with souls crushed under the weight of red tape, of policy drafts that have been revised into oblivion by committees who believe 'compromise' means 'delete anything interesting'.

And then there is the musk. Oh, the musk. The faint but unmistakable whiff of broken promises, a cologne worn by every politician who has ever stood at that podium and said: 'This time, things will be different'. It clings to the upholstery, seeps into the drywall, and haunts the ventilation system like a ghost with a grievance.

Tony Stark leans back in his chair, a chair that, much like the coffee, has been purchased in bulk by the lowest bidder and feels like it is actively resisting ergonomic comfort. His arms are crossed, his fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against his bicep, each tap a tiny rebellion against the glacial pace of democracy in action. The arc reactor in his chest glows faintly beneath his shirt: a custom-designed, microfiber-weave, Italian-tailored masterpiece that costs more than the annual budget of the Department of Mutant Affairs. He knows this because he has, in fact, looked it up. And then he has sighed loudly when someone mentions 'fiscal responsibility', just to make sure everyone else knows it, too.

Today, he wears the expensive suit, the one that doesn't just whisper wealth but screams: 'I don't need this meeting, but you need me' in 72-point bold font with a footnote that reads: 'Seriously, I could buy this building and turn it into a themed nightclub called Bureaucracy: The Musical before lunch. And I would. Don't test me'.

At the head of the table, President Robert Kelly's holographic image flickers with all the stability of a Zoom call in a tornado. His pixels strain to maintain dignity in the face of Tony's unimpressed eyebrow, an eyebrow that has, on previous occasions, dismantled egos, derailed press conferences, and once caused a minor international incident when it was misinterpreted by a Latverian diplomat {who totally wasn't a Doombot, honest} as a formal declaration of sarcastic war.

'Ladies and gentlemen', Kelly begins. 'Mutants and non-mutants alike, today marks a historic moment in-'.

'Yeah, yeah, unity, progress, sure', Tony says, waving a hand like he is swatting away a particularly persistent fly made of political platitudes. The fly, in this metaphor, is named 'Optics', and it has been buzzing around the room since the first slide deck was loaded. 'Can we skip to the part where we pretend this isn't a PR stunt?'. His voice drips with the kind of condescension usually reserved for people who still use Internet Explorer, or believe Wikipedia counts as serious research. 'Or better yet: can we skip straight to the part where I bill the government for my time? I charge by the second, and we've already burned through enough taxpayer dollars to fund a small moon base. Which, by the way, would be way more productive than... whatever this is'.

Falcon, Sam Wilson {the man who has somehow become the designated Tony Stark Whisperer through a combination of patience, exasperation, and a well-honed ability to ignore 75% of what comes out of the guy's mouth}, coughs into his fist. The cough is a complex linguistic code, translating roughly to: 'Tony, please shut the hell up before someone tries to arrest you again'. This is, after all, not their first rodeo. The last time Sam bailed Tony out of a congressional hearing, it involved a stolen podium and a bet about whether Senator Stern could turn purple from rage. 'I mean', he says carefully, 'it is a PR stunt. But, uh… solidarity?'. He says the last word like he is testing it out for the first time, unsure if it is edible or if it will give him rhetorical food poisoning.

'Solidarity', Captain America repeats, nodding sagely, his chin moving with the dignity of a man who has personally fist-fought the concept of injustice in a back alley and won. 'Like that time in '43 when...'. Tony rolls his eye so hard it nearly triggers the emergency protocol in his ocular implant. Nothing kills the mood like Steve Rogers reminiscing about the Greatest Generation War. 'Steve, buddy, no one cares about your sepia-toned war stories. We're trying to modernize oppression here. Keep up'.

'You'd nod at a toaster if it had a flag on it', Rogue drawls with enough sarcasm to dissolve adamantium. She watches the proceedings with the amusement of someone who has seen this circus before and knows exactly where the clowns keep their squirting flowers.

Steve Rogers considers the words, his brow furrowing in the way it always does when someone presents him with a metaphor that isn't immediately about baseball or the 1940s. 'If the toaster represented American values...'.

'God', Tony groans, slumping forward dramatically until his forehead meets the table, a sturdy but uninspired piece of federal furniture that absorbs the impact with all the enthusiasm of a Battlestar Galactica reboot. 'I take it back. I miss the days when our biggest problem was a genocidal robot. At least Ultron had the decency to admit he wanted Janet to love him'.

Somewhere in the back, a junior agent -fresh-faced, idealistic, and still naive enough to believe that bureaucracy can be fun- whispers: 'Is this what fascism looks like?'.

Tony's head snaps up like a meerkat detecting danger. His eyes lock onto the agent with the intensity of a man who just heard someone mock the Superhuman Registration Act in a drive-thru. 'You', he says, pointing a finger that has, at various points in history, been responsible for both world-saving inventions and incredibly petty social media feuds. 'You're fired'.

The agent blinks. 'I don't work for you'.

Tony's grin is the kind of gestures that makes lawyers spontaneously develop migraines. 'Then you're voluntarily reassigned to Latveria. Enjoy the snow. And the doom'.

President Kelly's hologram flickers again, its pixels now conveying a level fatigue usually reserved for parents of toddlers and anyone who has ever tried to have nuanced take on Reddit. 'As I was saying… historic moment…'.

'Historic', Deadpool chimes in from the air vent {of course he's in the air vent}. His presence is akin to a whoopee cushion at a state funeral: deeply inappropriate and bound to ruin everything. 'Like the Titanic. Or my last relationship'.

Natasha Romanov {or Romanova, for those remembering how Russian surnames actually work}, sharpening a knife during an official summit {some habits die harder than others}, doesn't even look up. 'How did you get in here?'.

Deadpool holds up a napkin with 'I do what I want' scrawled in crayon, one possibly stolen from a kindergarten earlier that morning. 'I have a permit'.

Tony points at him. 'That's the most legally binding thing I've seen all day'.

Somewhere in the distance, a single tear rolls down the cheek of the American judicial system, evaporating instantly in the heat of Tony Stark’s ego. The air vents wheeze like asthmatic ghosts. Deadpool’s knees audibly pop as he shifts in the duct, scattering a handful of confiscated paperclips onto the conference table like breadcrumbs for bureaucrats lost in the woods of their own self-importance.

Upon hearing word of the unfolding shitshow, because that's the only way Nick Fury, Director, of S.H.I.E.L.D., categorizes any meeting involving Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, and an unsupervised microphone, he reacts. Specifically, his one good eye twitches in Morse code that spells out resignation.

Now, the Triskelion is a monolith of glass and steel sitting on Governors Island at the mouth of the East River, where the Hudson meets the Atlantic. An apt metaphor, Fury thinks, for the way conflicting ideologies and egos collide inside its conference rooms. Or maybe it's located on Theodore Roosevelt Island, a stone throw away from Washington D.C., its twenty stories punching through federal height restrictions like a middle finger in architectural form.

This... Schrödinger's Triskelion, one might say, is both a facility under the purview of the United Nations, and an American agency's headquarters, depending on which source you checked before the meeting. And the less said about whatever fresh hell the acronym stands for this year, the better. Is it a top-secret international cabal? A quasi-military black ops UN task force? A six-letter American bureaucratic nightmare? Yes.

But let's be honest: S.H.I.E.L.D. being a UN operation is about as plausible as an Iranian general leading NATO. The United Nations can’t agree on lunch options without a ten-hour debate about dietary restrictions, much less fund and oversee a hyper-advanced global spy agency. Try imagining the Security Council approving Helicarriers and tolerating Nick Fury's Maverick-style decision-making.

In any event, once Kelly informs Fury that a new team will be assembled {called the 'Avengers Unity Division' because branding consultants have decided the 'X-Force' will test poorly with soccer moms, and the 'Uncanny Avengers' sounds like a rejected Saturday morning cartoon}, Fury does the only rational thing: he presses a button under his desk labeled 'Emergency Booze'. A hidden compartment slides open, revealing a bottle of bourbon older than Wolverine's last bubble bath.

Commander Maria Hill strides into the room like a hurricane in a tactical suit. She moves like she's already five minutes late for something more important, probably dismantling someone's career with a single report filed under 'You Done Fucked Up'. The woman's face is locked in permanent resting bitch face mode, a look so severe it could make a Bob, Agent of Hydra, confess his WiFi password unprompted.

'Sir', Hill says, voice flat as the tax forms she's shredded with her bare hands, 'with all due respect, this is the stupidest fucking idea since Congress tried to regulate adamantium as a dietary supplement'. She doesn't blink. She never blinks. Rumor has it she once stared down poor Iron Fist until he apologized for cultural appropriation {seriously, Danny, you're a rich white guy who outshone an entire mystical Asian city. Talk about problematic}. 'Stark can barely manage his own ego, much less a diplomatic initiative. Has the President forgotten the last time we let him near a press conference? The man livestreamed classified files to prove a point about sports betting'.

Fury pours himself three fingers of bourbon, neat, because adding ice would imply he has time for frivolities {like staying sober}. 'Hill', he says, swirling the liquid, 'if sanity were a requirement for this job, we'd all be unemployed. The wise men back in Langley still think the Phoenix Force was a solar flare'. He downs the drink in one motion. 'One word of advice? Start practicing your congressional testimony in the mirror. I have no recollection of that meeting, Senator. I was not present at that facility, Congressman. And even if I had been, hypothetically, I wouldn't be authorized to disclose such information'.

Hill's eyebrow twitches, her version of a full-body cringe. She remembers one dark and stormy night {or maybe it was a clear and breezy day}, when Bruce Banner's hissy fit leveled three city blocks. She remembers Steve Rogers's 'subtle' infiltration of a HYDRA base, which somehow ended with a tank in the Hudson and a confused whale wearing his helmet. She remembers Thor causing a theological crisis in Norway just by rising his fist. She even remembers, much to her grief, Spider-Man trying to be funny while the Frightful Four rampaged through Manhattan. And yet... none of that compares to the sheer stupidity of Tony Stark leading any sort of 'unity' initiative.

'Sir, respectfully', Maria says, 'if I have to sit through another hearing where Senator Stryker asks why mutants can't just pray harder for a cure...'.

'You'll do what you always do', Fury cuts in, refilling his glass. 'You'll stare at him until he wets himself and blames it on Magneto's demonic influence. Works like a charm'.

Chapter Text

'Who's this guy?', Zander Rice sneers, tossing a grainy surveillance photo onto the metal examination table. X-23 stares at the image. A man in a worn leather jacket. He looks soft. Breakable.

'Johnathon Blaze', Martin Sutter answers. 'Former stuntman. Current... problem'.

X-23 stares at the man's face. Messy strawberry-blond hair. Soft jawline. Tired blue eyes. Nothing like the hardened soldiers or shielded politicians she's been sent after. He looks like prey that hasn't even sensed the predator circling. Her claws itch beneath her skin.

'A mutant?', Sarah Kinney asks. She leans closer to the monitor, studying Blaze's features. The surveillance footage shows him leaning against a motorcycle outside a dive bar, sparks flickering from his knuckles. 'I thought we had a handle on all the active ones'.

'He's something else', Sutter replies. 'Mutate, more like. The man goes from town to town, leaving scorch marks and corpses behind him. He's a walking wildfire'. He taps the photo again. 'He burns. Inside and out'.

X-23 keeps staring at the grainy image. Johnathon Blaze's eyes hold a haunted exhaustion she recognizes, the kind that settles deep in the bones after too many nights running from your own shadow. He's the kind of target the Facility loves: already halfway defeated before the fight begins.

'Blaze is worth ten millions?', Rice says. 'The guy looks like a bum who couldn't pay his bar tab. What makes him so special? There's plenty of mutants and other freaks around to choose from. Hell, we've got a whole lab full of rejects'.

'They aren't paying us to kill other mutants and freaks', Sutter snaps. 'They're paying us to clean up loose ends. Blaze has made quite the list of enemies, and someone wants him gone before he starts talking'. He taps the dossier. Inside are thermal scans showing heat signatures, eyewitness accounts describing a screaming figure wreathed in flames, and police reports listing charred remains near roadside bars from Nevada to New Mexico. Blaze favors isolated highways, stops at run-down motels, and his eruptions peak near midnight. Predictable prey.

X-23 is back in her cell, sterile white walls pressing in. She sits cross-legged, Blaze's dossier spread before her. One report details a truck stop outside Flagstaff: melted asphalt, vaporized steel, and the outline of a man burned into a diner's wall. 'He burns', Sutter's voice echoes in her mind. 'Inside and out'.

Doctor Kinney enters without knocking, heels clicking against the floor. She places a small plastic tray beside the dossier. Protein paste and vitamin supplements. The usual fuel. 'Blaze was spotted near Gallup. They're accelerating the timeline'. Her eyes dart to the security camera in the corner. 'Transport leaves at 04:00. Mountain Time Zone'.

X-23 nods. She can feel Doctor Kinney's tension radiating off her. Tight shoulders, shallow breaths, fingers twitching near her lab coat pocket. The doctor lingers a moment too long, eyes on the dossier's thermal scans showing Blaze's heat signature blooming across a desert highway. Gallup. She memorizes the coordinates scrolling beneath the grainy satellite image: 35.513889, -108.743056, decimal degrees. 12S 704671 3932376, Universal Transverse Mercator. High desert. Isolated. Ideal hunting ground.

'X-23', Doctor Kinney murmurs, hand stroking her hair. X-23 doesn't flinch. The touch is light, clinical, but it carries a warmth absent elsewhere in the Facility. Kinney's fingers tremble slightly. 'Would you like me to read you a story?'. X-23 shakes her head once, sharp and final. Not this time. The mission is too close. The thermal scan shows Blaze's heat bloom: 4000 °C at the epicenter. 7200 °F. 4300 K. Enough to melt tungsten. Enough to vaporize her if she missteps. Her healing is formidable, but fire consumes everything eventually. She traces the outline of the scorched silhouette. Prey leaves patterns. Predators exploit them. 'Come back alive', Kinney whispers, so softly the microphones might not catch it. Her hand lingers a moment longer before withdrawing. The cell door seals shut with a hiss.

The motel is a modest one, tucked away on the outskirts of Gallup. X-23 slips through the back window, movements silent as she lands on the worn carpet. The room smells stale. Alcohol and cheap detergent clinging to the curtains. She scans the space: rumpled bed, a half-empty bottle of beer on the nightstand. Blaze's scent is everywhere, burrowed deep into the fabric. Smoke, gasoline, and something else beneath it. Something sour. It reminds her of sulfur.

Outside, the desert wind howls. She hears the distant rumble of a motorcycle engine. Close. Very close. She moves to the window, peering through a gap in the blinds. Down in the parking lot, a figure dismounts a black Harley-Davidson. Average height, broad-shouldered, moving with a weary slump. Johnathon Blaze. He looks exhausted. Defeated. Not a predator. Prey limping home.

X-23 watches him fumble with the motel room key. His knuckles are raw, freshly scabbed over. She catalogues his posture: shoulders hunched against the cold, head down. Vulnerable. Her claws slide free with a soft snikt. The scent intensifies, coating her tongue. She tastes his exhaustion, his fear. He knows death follows him like a shadow.

'Huh', he mutters, dropping the key. The wind catches his messy strawberry-blond hair as he bends to retrieve it. X-23 tenses, muscles readying for action. She could end it the moment he crosses the threshold, a blade through the base of his skull. Efficient. Clean.

Instead, she waits. Motionless. Breath shallow. The scent of Blaze thickens as he mumbles under his breath, finally unlocking the door. He pushes inside, shoulders slumped beneath the worn leather jacket. The door clicks shut behind him, plunging the room into gloom. He doesn't flick on the light as he shuffles towards the bed, collapsing onto the edge with a groan that speaks of deep bone-weariness. The beer bottle glints dully on the nightstand as he reaches for it.

Now.

X-23 drops silently from the ceiling beam, landing behind Blaze without a whisper of sound. He's hunched over, his back a wide, unprotected target. He smells like ash and fast food, she notes. Too easy. Her claws extend with the softest snikt, gleaming in the gloom, before piercing flesh.

Two seconds. Two seconds and Blaze's spine is severed. Ten vertebrae. Clean. Painless. Termination protocol executed. Her muscles tense, claws poised. Hardly a threat. The Facility's dossier overestimated him. The extraction point flares in X-23's mind: Red Rock Park, just before dawn. Eight miles. Thirteen kilometers away. She means to leave him slumped over the bottle, a spill of cheap alcohol mixing with arterial spray.

The sound of Blaze's corpse moving takes her by surprise. He shifts sideways, jerky, unnatural. Corpses are not supposed to move. Corpses are supposed to lie still. Corpses are supposed to bleed. Blaze's spine should be severed. Her claws aimed true, yet his fingers twitch. Something is wrong.

Blaze's eyes are empty. No one is home. His body twists, joints popping like dry twigs, and he stands like a puppet lifted by its strings, like Pinocchio when he was still wood. Termination protocols demand immediate engagement, but X-23 stands rooted. Corpses don't move. Corpses don't turn their heads toward her with a slow, deliberate movement, locking hollow eyes on her position. Recognition? Impossible. Those eyes hold nothing but cold, bottomless pits reflecting the dim light. A low growl rumbles from Blaze's chest, deeper than any human voice, vibrating like distant thunder. It smells suddenly of charred meat. The Facility's dossier never mentioned this, never mentioned the skin beneath his collar beginning to glow faintly orange, like embers breathing beneath ash. X-23's nostrils flare. The scent of despair has vanished, replaced by something else, something hungry.

He's not a healer like her. He's something else entirely. The orange glow beneath his skin pulses brighter, casting flickering shadows across the peeling wallpaper. The growl deepens. A warning older than the Facility's conditioning coils in her gut. This isn't the soft target in the grainy photo. This is wrong. Deeply, uncannily wrong. Protocols scream engage, neutralize. Her feet stay rooted. Observation first. Assess the anomaly. His head lolls sideways, neck cracking wetly, eyes rolling back to reveal only white. The glow spreads up his throat. The smell of burnt skin and sulfur is overwhelming. The Facility lied. Or didn't know. Ten million dollars now makes sense.

The combustion is sudden. Skin blackens first at the collar, curling like burning paper, peeling away in flakes of ash that drift lazily in the suddenly hot air. Smoke wisps from his hair, the messy strawberry-blond strands crisping, vanishing. No sound at all except the wet crackle of flesh cooking. Beneath the burning skin, stark white bone emerges. The orange glow intensifies, pouring from eye sockets, mouth, nostrils, becoming pure, hungry flame. His torso is consumed, leaving only the rib cage wreathed in fire. The flames climb higher, roaring now, devouring the last remnants of softness, the illusion of humanity. Only the skeleton remains, standing impossibly upright amidst the inferno. Not charred bone. Pure, impossible white bone untouched by the fire raging around it.

X-23 stares at the impossible skeleton, heat blistering her skin. The growl is inside her skull now. The Facility taught her anatomy. This defies it. Bone shouldn't stand. Bone shouldn't glow. Bone shouldn't radiate cold and heat. The fire rages around it, hot enough to make her sweat evaporate instantly, yet the skeleton itself radiates a chilling absence, like the heart of a starless night. The skull fixes flaring sockets on her. The jawbone drops open. No tongue, no throat. Only deeper darkness within the white bone. A wave of pure, soul-numbing cold washes over her, battling against the room's inferno. Instinct screams flight. Protocol screams attack. She does neither. The skeleton takes a step forward, flames licking higher.

Then, it happens. From the gaping maw of the skull, a jet of orange flame erupts. Liquid, condensed fury. It screams silently across the distance, the impact lifting her off her feet. She slams back into the peeling wallpaper, plaster cracking behind her. Agony explodes. Her bones are freezing solid while her flesh boils. She smells herself cooking, and feels the cold sear into her marrow. The skeleton advances. Her training screams disengage, evade. Her legs won't obey. The conflicting sensations -scorching heat radiating from the room, icy death blooming inside her chest- paralyze her nervous system.

The skull tilts, observing. Her claws retract uselessly. Panic, cold and sharp, finally cuts through the agony. She needs distance, leverage. With a ragged cry ripped from her seared lungs, she kicks out wildly. Her boot connects not with bone, but with a small wooden stool. It flies sideways, crashing into the skeleton's leg. The impact does nothing. The bone simply absorbs the force, empty sockets still fixed on her crumpled form.

His hand reaches down and lifts her by the throat, bone fingers colder than snow clamping her windpipe. Her feet kick air, dangling like a doll, unable to connect. The cold intensifies, spreading from his touch, freezing her veins. She gasps, soundless. The orange flame jet builds again within the skull's maw. Point-blank range. This is how she dies: not fighting, not clawing, but watching flames gather. Her healing factor is screaming against the searing heat and the merciless chill wrecking her body. The Facility taught her death would come from bullets or blades, not this. Not fire and bone. Her vision tunnels. The skull's hollow sockets fill her world. Darkness swallows her before the flames do.

'Where's X-23?', Rice demands, pacing the observation room. Monitors show static where Laura's tracker signal vanished hours ago.

Sutter checks his tablet again, jaw tight. 'Her vitals spiked then flatlined. Either her comms are fried... or something fried her'.

'The extraction team found the motel room', a staffer reports, pulling up a thermal scan that bleeds crimson and white. 'Ground zero registered at 2000°C'. He zooms in on a single anomaly near the blast radius: a faint, cooling silhouette burned into the floor. Small. Female-shaped. 'No body. No organic residue. Only this'.

Sarah Kinney stares at the screen, hands clenched. She remembers X-23's hair beneath her trembling fingers, the brittle silence before departure. Ten million dollars. They traded her for ten million dollars. She swallows hard. {Come back alive. Please, just come back alive}.

Rice is moving behind her, demanding answers he doesn't deserve. Martin seems lost, tablet forgotten. They traded her for ten million dollars. The scorched silhouette burns clear in Sarah's mind. Small, female-shaped. No body. No organic residue. Only ash and absence. She digs her nails into her palms. They doesn't understand what they did to her. Sarah never wanted this. She carried Laura to term in the hopes of delivering the Facility's perfect weapon, yes, but she also held her as a newborn. She remembers the tiny fingers curling around her own, before being taken away. Ten million dollars.

How did it come to this?

She never wanted a family. Her father's violation of her as a child destroyed her perception of connection. Every night he entered her room. Every night Sarah prayed to wake up somewhere else. Anywhere else. She lay awake listening to him breathe in the hallway, waiting for the creak of the floorboard outside her door. The smell of his aftershave mixed with sweat, the weight of him pinning her down. The pain, the helplessness, the betrayal. The silence she had to keep.

She learned early that love was a transaction. A debt owed, a cage. Chains of obligation, chains of expectation, chains of suffering. So she built walls. She buried herself in textbooks, in genetics, in the cold logic of protein sequences and DNA replication. She told herself science couldn't betray her, that science could be controlled.

Control. That's what she sought. Control over life, over her destiny. Control over her own body. The Facility offered that: a place where she could dissect vulnerability under microscopes, where she could craft perfection from broken blueprints. X-23 was her masterpiece. Her redemption. Her chance to create something stronger than the weakness that haunted her.

Now?

X-23... X-23 is hers. Her creation. Her failure. Her... her daughter. Sarah is a scientist. She knows genetics, biology, the uncaring mechanics of life, but she also knows the weight of the girl's head resting against her shoulder that one time she pretended to sleep just to feel it. She knows the flicker in those sad eyes when X-23 thought no one was looking. The way she listened Pinocchio's story with such stillness, as if daring to hope, just for a second, that she might become a real girl, too.

Ten million dollars. They traded her for ten million dollars. She never asked anything. She never cried, never complained. She obeyed, she always obeyed. No matter how much Sarah wanted to tell her not to, to beg her to run, to scream... X-23 just went. Like all good assets ought to, she went. The Facility her to kill, to bleed, to die... but they never, ever let her live.

Sarah's throat closes. She tastes bile. The room's sterile air suddenly suffocates. She needs out, needs air that doesn't smell of disinfectant and lies. She turns abruptly, shoving past Rice's demands, ignoring Sutter's words. Her heels click a frantic rhythm down the empty, endless corridor. She slams into the bathroom, locks the stall door behind her, leans her forehead against cold metal. She breathes. In. Out. The scent of cheap soap can't mask the phantom smell of charred flesh. X-23's flesh. Her little girl. Her little girl, her little girl...

When did she realize X-23 was hers? Was it the first time she saw her fall asleep following a training session? Was it the day she noticed the girl meticulously arranging her protein paste packets in perfect parallel lines against the cell wall? Or was it the night she discovered the cuts along the X-23's inner forearms, too many to count, too precise to be accidental?

Sarah deserves to die. She failed her. Utterly. Nothing matters. Only X-23. Only her daughter. Sarah Kinney weeps and weeps. She weeps until she vomits bile onto the floor, until her throat is raw, until she feels hollowed out, scraped clean. For the first time, she knows exactly what loving, wanting, needing a child feels like: it feels like hell. It feels like a void, like agony. It feels like having her heart ripped out. It feels like losing everything. She loves X-23. She wants X-23. She needs X-23. She needs her daughter. She needs her daughter back. She needs her daughter back and safe. She needs her daughter back and safe and whole.

'Oh, God!', Sarah wails. X-23 is gone, reduced to a shadow. The Facility's monitors showed nothing but static where her vitals should be. Her X-23. Her daughter... her Laura. 'Oh, God... Oh, God...!'. She howls it over and over, like a prayer, like a curse.

She was going to escape with her. She was going to take her far away. She had the papers forged, the route mapped. Westchester. Xavier's school. She was going to give her a name, not a sterile designation. A life, not a mission log. Ten million dollars stole that. Ten million dollars and Sutter's ambition and Rice's hatred. They traded her daughter for blood money.

She traded her daughter for a fucking paycheck. She brought her into this hell. She said nothing for years. She said nothing as they carved her open and filled her with adamantium and pain. She said nothing as they trained her to kill. She said nothing as they sent her into the desert to die. She said nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing! Sarah Kinney stares at her reflection in the polished mirror. Eyes swollen, mascara streaked. A scientist. A coward. A mother who failed her child. The hollow ache in her chest expands, threatening to swallow her whole. She digs her nails into her palms until blood beads.

She wants to rip her teeth out with pliers. She wants to walk into the snow until the cold stops her heart. She wants to peel her skin off inch by inch and salt the wounds. She wants to burn the Facility to the ground. Anything to distract from the agony clawing at her ribs, to drown out the phantom sound of Laura's last breath rasping through fire-scorched lungs. Anything to erase the image of that small, burned-out silhouette that was once her daughter.

Instead, Sarah Kinney splashes icy water on her face, the shock jolting her back into her body. The reflection in the mirror is that of mother who buried her child before she ever truly held her. Sarah knows she cannot stay here, knows she cannot breathe this air poisoned by Rice's malice and Sutter's calculations. Ten million dollars. The number echoes like a gunshot in her skull. It echoes like Laura's silence. It echoes like a love that is as worthless now as it was real back then.

'You know', Blaze rasps, 'you got a mean streak a mile wide'. He is staring down at her like a mechanic eyeing a busted engine: not angry, not compassionate, just assessing the damage.

The desert wind whips sand against the cave entrance, where X-23 is still coiled against the rough stone wall, muscles locked. Her claws are still extended, trembling slightly from the lingering, impossible cold seeping into her bones, warring with the furnace heat scorching her skin. She catalogues him anew: clean-shaven, blue-eyed, strawberry-blond. He looks younger than the dossier pictures suggested, less grim than she anticipated. There's a rawboned exhaustion to him, yes, but none of the rabid rage she witnessed in the motel room. There is only weariness in his gaze, not malice.

His wounds have all but healed. He's not like her, but the skin knitting over his ribs moves too fast. The faint glow beneath his collar pulses in time with his breathing. She tracks every micro-shift: the tension in his jaw, the way his knuckles whiten where they grip his thigh. She studies the dissonance, how a man who just burned down a motel now appears so human, so vulnerable. He's something the Facility's protocols never prepared her for.

X-23 is burning now. She is burning and nothing seems to put it out. She can feel the heat in her bones, the fire in her veins. It is a searing agony that threatens to consume her from within. She tries to scream, but no sound comes out. She is trapped in this inferno, and there is no escape. What was once a chill that froze her marrow now rages as twin flames, one devouring flesh, the other consuming soul. Her healing factor screams against the assault, cells tearing themselves apart trying to repair incompatible destruction.

'Hellfire', Blaze says. 'Doesn't play nice with outsiders'. He leans against the cave wall, the orange glow beneath his skin pulsing like a slow heartbeat. 'Especially not when they try to carve me up like Sunday roast'. A beat. 'Feels like your bones are embers while your skin's bubbling off, right?'. He doesn't sound triumphant. He doesn't even sound angry. He sounds like this is a conversation he's had too many times before. 'Should pass in... days? Weeks? Not sure. Different for everyone'. He shrugs. 'Most don't live long enough to find out. You're lucky I held the Rider back at the motel'. His gaze sharpens. 'Why did you come for me, anyway? Money? Orders? A sick thrill?'.

X-23 doesn't answer. She can't. Her jaw clenches against the tremors wracking her frame. Her healing factor claws at the damage, knitting flesh only for it to blister again, a grotesque cycle playing out beneath her ruined tactical suit. She tracks Blaze's every twitch, every shift of weight. His scent is different now. Dangerous, but somewhat calm. The dossier was worthless. The Facility was blind.

'You're not the first assassin I've met', Blaze tells her. 'Won't be the last. Some folks out there... they'd really love to see the flames snuffed out for good'. He pushes off the wall, boots crunching dirt. 'You're different, though. You didn't run. Not even when you saw what I am'. His gaze flicks to her claws. 'You okay, kid? You know, searing agony aside?'.

X-23 tracks his movement: every shift of muscle beneath civilian clothes, every pulse of orange light beneath his skin. Her healing factor keeps screaming against the internal war. 'Orders', she rasps. 'Terminate the pyrokinetic mutate'.

Blaze blinks. Opens his mouth, then closes it. 'Huh?'.

The wind howls outside the cave. X-23 watches confusion ripple across Blaze's face, genuine and stark. Her voice scrapes out again, each word a shard of glass dragged from her throat. 'Facility designation: Johnathon Blaze. Threat classification: Pyrokinetic Mutate. Termination ordered'.

Blaze looks around, as if expecting hidden cameras. 'Pyro... what?'. He scratches his jaw, the faint orange glow now gone, his skin back to normal. 'Kid, you lost me. Mutate? Like... the X-Men?'. He shakes his head slowly. 'I'm not a mutant. Just... a man with bad luck and worse choices'. He chuckles bitterly. It's a sound so incongruous in this cave of pain that X-23 blinks. 'Hellfire isn't genetic. It's a curse. Got saddled with it trying to save an old friend. Deal gone wrong'. He rubs the back of his neck. 'Pyrokinetic mutate...'. He chuckles again, genuinely amused this time. 'That's a new one. Usually people just call me demon. Or moron. Sometimes both'.

X-23 stares. Pyrokinetic Mutate. Alpha-Level Threat. Estimated Origin: Radiation Exposure. The conflicting agony inside her flares. Her muscles spasm violently. She bites down on a whimper, tasting blood. Her claws scrape against stone. Failure. Misidentification. The Facility never mentioned curses.

Blaze watches her shudder. 'Hellfire's cooking you. Bugs crawling under your skin, then ice picks stabbing your eyes'. He nods at her flinch. 'Yeah. Rider's signature welcome'. He kicks a loose pebble. 'You caught him on a bad night. I only pulled you out because...'. He trails off, staring at the cave wall. 'Huh. I can't remember why. Doesn't matter much, I suppose. The point is, you're stuck with the fire now. So... better ride it out'.

Her claws dig deeper into rock, the tremors worsen, every instinct screams threat. Yet, Blaze hasn't struck. His scent holds no deception. She forces words through gritted teeth. 'How... do I... stop it?'.

'You don't. Only thing that might help is letting it burn through. Focus on something solid. Something real'. Blaze points at her claws. 'Like that. Those oughta hold'.

X-23 stares at the grooves she's carved. She concentrates on the vibration traveling up her forearms, the grating scrape of metal on rock cutting through the screams in her nerves. The cold fire eating her marrow retreats, fractionally, pushed back by the brutal, physical truth of unyielding metal fused to her wrists.

'Solid'. The word is thick with pain. Her claws retract slowly, leaving deep, parallel scars in the stone. She presses her palms flat against the fractured surface. Her healing factor redoubles its efforts, repairing burnt tissue only to have invisible flames lick it raw again. Blister, heal, blister. Nothing that feels like recovery. Not yet.

Blaze keeps watching her, crouching now, elbows resting on his knees. The posture is too casual for someone who should be running or attacking. 'Yeah'. A flicker of something crosses his face. 'It's gonna be a long day'. He digs into his jacket pocket, pulling out a dented flask. 'Drink this. I won't fix it, but it does take the edge off'. He must notice he look she gives it. 'Relax, kid. It's only beer. Lukewarm, too. I'm so broke I can't even afford decent whiskey'. He shakes the flask slightly, the liquid sloshing. 'Imagine that. Johnny Blaze, the world's greatest stuntman, reduced to drinking Bud Light from a gas station flask. How's that for rock bottom?'. He gives her a tired smile, holding it out. 'Come on. Worst case, you'll hate the taste'.

Protocol dictates no consumption of unknown substances. Poison, sedatives, biochemical agents. Yet, protocol also dictated termination, and here she is: burned, frozen, clawing at stone while her healing factor loses ground against whatever torture now festers in her marrow. Her hand twitches forward, but Blaze retracts the container just as her fingers graze it.

'Crap', he mutters, watching her flinch back. 'It just hit me: you look twelve'. He stares at the flask. 'I don't usually offer kids beer. It's only... well, emergencies and all'. He rubs his forehead with his free hand. 'This is messed up'. Blaze uncaps the flask anyway, taking a swig himself before extending it toward her again. 'Just so we're clear, I'm not giving you alcohol because I want to. I'm giving it to you because it might help'. He nods awkwardly to himself, like he's trying to convince his own reflection.

X-23 finds it hard to believe this is the same man who reduced her to a writhing, half-cooked husk in the motel. The contrast is too stark, too jarring. Even so, she snatches the flask with a jerky movement. The liquid is warm and tastes bitter and sour. It's distasteful, but nothing worse than bullets and broken ribs. She drinks until it's empty, then tosses it back at him with a hiss.

Blaze catches it easily with one hand, eyeing her appraisingly. 'Now that you're not trying to gut me...', he begins, '... you got a name? I'd call you Wolverine's-Long-Lost-Cousin, but that's a mouthful'. He inspects his flask mournfully, shaking out the last drop onto his tongue. 'Introducing yourself would be polite. Since, you know, you tried to kill me first'.

Chapter Text

'Emma', Steve breathes out as he spends himself, his voice ragged against her neck.

Emma Frost arches her back, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as she feels the warmth flood her core. Her fingers dig into Steve's shoulders, leaving faint crescent marks on his skin. She holds him there, pressed deep against her, both trembling in the aftershocks. The penthouse suite is silent except for their ragged breathing and the distant hum of Manhattan far below. Moonlight cuts through the blinds, painting stripes across their tangled bodies on the rumpled silk sheets.

Steve brushes a damp strand of platinum hair from her forehead, his thumb lingering on her cheekbone. 'That was...'.

Emma cuts him off with a lazy, satisfied smirk, tracing the line of his jaw with one polished nail. 'Predictable, Captain. But adequately executed'. Her tone is pure diamond-edged tease, but the flush high on her chest betrays her.

Steve chuckles, a low rumble Emma feels vibrate through her own body where they're still joined. He shifts slightly, settling his weight onto his elbows, the sudden loss of him making her inhale sharply. His gaze, impossibly blue even in the dim light, holds hers. 'Adequate? Coming from you, I'll take that as high praise'.

Emma arches a sculpted eyebrow, a flicker of amusement dancing in her ice-blue eyes. 'Don't let it swell your head further, darling. It was merely... serviceable'. Her hand slides down his sweat-slicked back, nails scraping lightly over muscle. The deliberate contradiction -her dismissive words against the possessive intimacy of her touch- is pure Emma Frost. The White Queen revels in the control, the push-and-pull, even now.

Steve kisses her neck. 'For me, it was special'. His lips trail lower, tracing the elegant line of her collarbone.

Emma sighs, a soft sound that surprises her. She hates sentimentality, yet here she is, wrapped around Captain America like some lovesick schoolgirl. The thought makes her scowl, even as her body arches into his touch. 'Romanticism doesn't suit you, Captain', she murmurs, but her fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him closer. The scent of him -clean sweat, expensive soap, and something uniquely Steve Rogers-  fills her senses, undermining her composure.

Outside, New York pulses with its usual chaos: sirens wail somewhere near Central Park, a helicopter thumps overhead, the neon glow of Stark Tower bleeds into the room. Inside their sanctuary, the silence feels fragile. Emma's telepathic shields hum at the edge of her awareness, a reminder of the dangers lurking beyond these walls. If Hydra knew... if the Orchis discovered this weakness...

Her mind flashes with images of blackmail, assassination attempts, the ruin of everything she's trying rebuild. Yet, Steve's mouth on her skin makes those fears feel distant, almost trivial.

His lips move with deliberate reverence, pressing a slow, lingering kiss onto the back of her hand. His thumb strokes the delicate bones beneath her skin. Emma watches him, a strange tightness forming in her chest. This isn't just passion. It is devotion laid bare.

'When can I see you again?'.

Emma pulls her hand away sharply, the warmth of his touch lingering like a brand. She swings her legs off the bed, the cool air hitting her sweat-dampened skin. The vulnerability hangs thick between them, a dangerous exposure she cannot afford. 'We both know the rules, Steve', she reminds him, her voice regaining its familiar glacial edge. She walks towards the floor-to-ceiling window, the city lights painting fractured reflections on her naked form. 'Discretion isn't a suggestion. It's survival'. Her gaze sweeps over the sprawling metropolis below. 'Hydra agents crawl through those streets. Orchis listens through walls. One slip...'. She doesn't finish the sentence. The image of Steve's shield discarded, his uniform stained crimson, flashes unbidden across her mind.

Steve moves silently behind her. His arms wrap around her waist, pulling her back against the solid warmth of his chest. His chin rests on the crown of her hair. She feels him, somehow still hard and insistent against the curve of her rear, a silent counterpoint to his gentle disposition. His embrace is firm, possessive, anchoring her amidst the swirling dangers.

'I know the risks', he murmurs into her hair, his breath warm against her scalp. His hands splay possessively across her stomach, fingers tracing the subtle ridges of muscle beneath her flawless skin. 'But hiding this... hiding us... feels like a lie'. His grip tightens slightly, pulling her flush against him, the heat radiating from his body seeping into hers, his length pressing insistently against the small of her back.

Emma closes her eyes, leaning her head back against his shoulder. The vulnerability terrifies her, this raw need echoing his own. For a fleeting second, the White Queen dissolves, leaving only Emma Frost, anchored against the man who shouldn't affect her world so profoundly. 'Lies are the bedrock of empires, darling', she whispers. 'Especially ours'. Her telepathic senses flare instinctively, brushing against the minds far below: fleeting thoughts, mundane worries, the sharp spike of someone's anger. No immediate threats. Yet.

'Of all people', Steve murmurs, his lips brushing her temple, 'I never thought I'd crave honesty most from Emma Frost'. His hands slide lower, palms rough against the smooth skin of her hips. 'Tell me you feel this too. That it's not just... strategy'.

Emma twists in his arms, facing him. Moonlight catches the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the gleam in her eyes softening almost imperceptibly. 'Strategy?'. She arches one perfect eyebrow, her polished nail tracing the outline of his pectoral muscle. 'Darling, if this were merely strategy, I'd have had you assassinated weeks ago'. Her voice drops to a velvet whisper. 'You're inconveniently... necessary'. She hates the admission, the way it hangs between them like a confession.

Steve’s hands slide up her bare back, fingers pressing into the tense muscles near her shoulder blades. He feels the slight tremor she tries to suppress. 'Then stop pushing me away'. His thumb brushes the delicate vertebrae at the base of her neck. 'We’re stronger together'.

Stubborn Captain America idealism. How utterly predictable. 'Stronger?'. Emma's laugh is sharp, brittle. 'Strength invites scrutiny. Scrutiny invites destruction'. She pulls away, the sudden chill of the air replacing the heat of his skin. Her diamond form flickers subconsciously across her knuckles for a fraction of a second, a reflex born of years of calculated defense. 'Our empires are built on secrets thicker than these walls, Steve. This', she gestures vaguely between them, the movement elegant, dismissive, 'is a luxury neither of us can afford long-term. You talk about strength. Krakoa fell. Orchis watches. Hydra festers. One photograph, one careless whisper...'. A weary sigh. 'The mightiest nation ever built by mutants wasn't undone by weakness. It was targeted precisely because of its power. Its unity. Its perceived threat. Do not mistake proximity for security, nor... affection for armor'.

'Strength invites scrutiny', Steve agrees, his voice low and rough against her ear as he pulls her back against him. 'So does fear'. His grip isn't gentle. It is a demand, an anchor against her retreat. 'You're afraid'. Not a question. A statement that hangs between them, sharp as shattered diamond. 'So am I'.

Emma freezes. Fear? The White Queen doesn't acknowledge fear. What Captain America, in his relentless, inconvenient honesty, names as terror, she meticulously categorizes as risk assessment. Yet the tremor in her own hands betrays her. She stares at his reflection in the rain-streaked window, superimposed over the glittering, indifferent city.

'How gushingly perceptive', Emma retorts, voice dripping with acid sarcasm. 'Why, Captain, your psychological insight rivals your bedroom stamina'. She twists violently in his grip, diamond skin flickering like fractured light across her knuckles. The cold calculation returns to her eyes, armor sliding into place. 'Fear is irrelevant. What matters is consequence'. 

Her telepathic senses flare outward like a radar pulse, catching the jagged anxiety of a janitor mopping the lobby thirty floors below, the drowsy resentment of a security guard scrolling his phone, the sharp spike of panic from a driver caught in traffic. Proof. The world claws constantly at the edges. And no amount of old-school heroism changes that equation. No. The world is knives. Always knives. That's why she survives. That's what makes them different.

Steve Rogers is the ultimate alloy: vibranium's resilience layered with adamantium's unyielding core. Admirable. Predictable. Withstanding blows that would fracture continents. Yet... an alloy is still a compromise. A fusion of elements seeking strength through combination. Emma? She is diamond. Pure. Singular. Uncompromising. Strength forged not through fusion, but through relentless pressure and flawless crystallization. To bend? Impossible. To yield? Unthinkable. To shatter? Yes. Emma Frost shatters, to be sure, but she cuts her attackers to ribbons on the way down.

Chapter Text

Clark is dealing with another of Mister Mxyzptlk's pranks -the city's pigeons now recite Shakespeare- when the imp's laugh, that familiar high-pitched giggle, suddenly cuts off. Mxy stares at him, his usual grin frozen. 'Huh. Whaddya know... I'm bored'.

'Then go back to your dimension', Clark sighs, rubbing his temples as a pigeon perched on his shoulder declares: 'To be, or not to be!'.

But Mxy doesn't vanish in his usual puff of absurdity, nor does he twist the pigeons into singing show tunes. Instead, he floats there, legs crossed mid-air, chin resting on one tiny fist. His cartoonish eyes narrowing into slits. That sudden seriousness, that lack of manic energy, feels more unsettling than any magic prank. A pigeon pecks at Clark's cape, squawking: 'Alas, poor Yorick!' before Mxy snaps his fingers. Everything in Metropolis stops. Silence. Absolute, suffocating quiet. Clark is instantly alert. He knows the imp. This stillness is totally alien.

'Tell me something, Supes'. Mxy's voice drops to a low rasp, completely devoid of his usual playful malice. 'What happens when a joke stops being funny?'. Clark stiffens. This isn't like Mxy. The imp drifts closer. The frozen pigeons stand like statues, beaks frozen mid-squawk. 'You try new material'. Before Clark can react, Mxy speaks again. 'Say, Big Blue Boy Scout... how's Sue Dibny?'.

Clark blinks. 'Sue Dibny?'. The name echoes strangely in the sudden silence. Sue is gone. She has been gone for years. Murdered by Jean Loring. Why would Mxy bring her up? Why now? How could he even know?

The imp's grin widens. 'Dead, right? Poor woman'. Below, a pigeon shifts, its eyes fixed upward. Clark feels a cold prickle at the base of his neck. This isn't a prank. This is something jagged and wrong. 'She tried to fight you know? She yelled: Get off me! Get your hands off me! I'll kill you!'. Mxy's voice is no longer that thick, Yiddish-tinged sing-song. It’s flatter. Older. 'But she couldn't. She cried and wept and shook. She was terrified. She begged. But in the end, she just... accepted it. I think she was begging for her husband's forgiveness when she finally went quiet'.

Clark’s jaw tightens. What in Heaven's name is going on? Mxy never talks like this, never digs into painful truths. The pigeons remain frozen statues, their chorus silenced mid-syllable. He forces his voice steady. 'You weren't there. You couldn't know'.

'I was watching'. Mxy taps the side of his bowler hat, the gesture devoid of its usual flourish. 'I had front-row seats to the entire grubby little melodrama'. He floats lower, hovering eye-level now. Every sob. Every whimper. Every time she tried to get away'. Clark feels the cold seep into his bones. This isn't Mxy's cartoonish antics. It's something colder, older. 'Seeing my little prank come to fruition was hilarious'. The imp leans forward, voice dropping to a whisper that scrapes like gravel. 'You heroes. So busy protecting the world from the big bad monsters that you never noticed the little man peeking through the keyhole'.

'Mxy'. The name is a steel trap snapping shut. 'If you're implying what I think you're-'.

Mxy's form ripples like disturbed water. The garish purple suit bleeds into Sue Dibny's favorite dress, the red silk she wore on her last Valentine's Day. The imp's grin melts into her gentle smile, the one that crinkled her eyes during the League barbecues, the one Clark remembers framed on Ralph's bedside table after the funeral, the same shy yet flirty one she always wore when she teased Carter about his hawk obsession. It's a smile that makes Clark's want to leap forward to protect her, to shield her from the terrible things he knows are coming.

'It's true', Not-Sue says. 'I never knew it was him. I died without ever finding out Light was duped'. Her voice is Sue's soft cadence, but layered with an unnatural resonance. Clark feels the world tilt. 'All this time, it was the little imp. The one who loved making mannequins dance'. The Sue-image shimmers, flickering back to Mxy's shape. 'That's the joke, Superman. The punchline'. He gestures vaguely towards the sky. 'I turned Light into a walking punchline. Made him hurt pretty Sue pretty bad. Made him want to do it again. That was the prank. I whispered to him: Artie, time to step out of the shadows! Prove you're more than just a thug with a fancy light gun!'. Mxy morphs again. The purple suit darkens. The imp’s features stretch, sharpen, into the smirking, angular face of Arthur Light. 'See?'. Clark stares, unable to move. The pigeons are gone, the streets empty. Not-Light drifts closer. 'Now', he whispers, his breath smelling faintly of... lilacs. Sue’s old perfume. 'Let's talk about Zatanna. And Barry. And Ollie. And what they did to me... because they thought I was a rabid dog'.

Clark’s fists clench. 'Stop this'.

'Or what? You'll hit me?'. The thing wearing Doctor Light's face laughs so coldly it hurts Clark’s ears. 'Has that ever worked?'.  Metropolis remains unnervingly silent. Another change. This time, it’s Bruce in full costume, frowning. 'And when I caught them messing with Light's mind?', Not-Bruce says. 'They messed with my mind, too. They made me forget. One of their own'. He pauses. Silence hangs. Thick. Suffocating. Mxy goes back to normal. 'All because of me'. He taps Clark’s chest. 'And you? You never knew'.

Clark stares into those eyes, now filled with something ancient and cruel. 'Mxy, I swear to God-'.

'Tell me, Superman, did you honestly believe a Fifth Dimensional being would look like a tiny man in a derby hat?', Mxy mocks, his voice dropping into a guttural rasp that scraps against Clark’s eardrums. The derby hat dissolves first, replaced by a shifting corona of impossible geometries, angles that fold in on themselves, colors that don’t exist in human perception. His form blurs, elongating and compressing simultaneously, becoming a thing of jagged light and impossible shadows. 'I have always made you see what I wanted you to see. What your limited Three Dimensional mind could tolerate. A harmless nuisance. A jester'. The distorted voice echoes from everywhere and nowhere, the nasal accent sharpening into something deep, something that sounds like the bowels of the earth cracking open, like thunder trapped in a steel drum. 'But the joke was always on you. On all of you'. Clark finds himself unable to move. The frozen pigeons are now crumbling into ash, scattering silently on the unmoving wind. Mxy snaps his fingers, if the distorted appendages twisting in the air can even be called fingers. The impossible geometries collapse, folding back into the tiny man in the ridiculous purple suit. He lands lightly on Clark’s shoulder, his weight impossibly heavy for his size. 'There. Better? Less headache-inducin', ya big blue lug?'. He pats Clark’s cheek with a small hand. 'Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Your friends'. The air crackles. 'Your turn, Superman. Who else do ya think I've nudged throughout the years? Who else's danced to my tune without ever hearin' da music?'.

Clark feels a knife digging into his heart. The rain-soaked whispers from Ollie, the haunted look in Barry's eyes whenever Sue was mentioned, the wrongness of Light's savagery... it all clicks into a horrifying picture. 'Why? Why Sue? Why Ralph? Why torment them like that?'.

Mxy floats lazily, twirling his derby. 'Why not? A bored guy needs amusement. Ya think I care about your little dramas? Your heroes and villains?'. His sing-song voice feels like a pantomime now, like a cracked record playing over a grave. 'I spent millennia watchin' your kind stumble around in the dark', Mxy drawls. 'At first, I didn't even move! I let inertia hold me for eons, just watchin'. Then I got bored. So I started nudgin'. Little things. Benevolent things, Big Blue! I made a guy trip so he'd meet his wife. I made a kid find a lost puppy. Sweet, right?'. He leans in. 'But it got dull. Real dull. So I tried pettier nudges. A dropped match here. A dancin' cat doin' the cha-cha there. Still nothin'! You apes just rebuilt or laughed or ignored it!'. He throws his stubby arms wide. 'Still, for several millennia I tried! I was a trickster, not a monster! I threw pies! I made statues sing! I turned your rivers into chocolate! Even that didn't crack ya! Ya just licked it!'. His voice drops, losing the thick accent entirely. 'Then I tried pain'. The silence that follows is colder than the Fortress. 'I said to myself: what if I made a man watch his wife be hurt? What if I made a sweet woman scream? What if I made heroes... break?'. He snaps his fingers. A tiny, perfect hologram flickers between them: Sue Dibny's terrified face, frozen mid-scream. 'That got a reaction. Oh, boy, did it! The fear! The rage! The way your precious League scrambled to cover it up? The way they tore Light apart and then tore apart their own rules to hide it?'. He chuckles, a dry, rattling sound. 'Now that was something. How easily they dropped the goody-two-shoes act, the holier-than-thou pretense'.

Clark feels his every muscle locking into immovable stone. 'You...'.

The hologram vanishes. 'That's the joke, Supes. The punchline'. Mxy talks to him the same way a cheerful childhood friend might. 'You're all just little dolls. I just pulled the right strings to make you dance'. He pauses, studying Clark's frozen expression. 'And the best part? I've been doing it ever since. To lots of heroes. Lots of people'. He grins, all teeth. 'Don't worry, Man of Tomorrow. I'm not turning into that Trigon dub! I'm just... bored again. So I'm changin' the game. Spicin' it up!'. He leans impossibly close. 'Wanna know who else I visited?'. His tiny finger points towards Gotham. 'How about your broody friend? Ever wonder why chemicals turned that guy's face into a smile? Of all things a vat of acid could do, it made him... funny?'. He giggles. 'Or maybe it was...'. He winks. '... my little touch?'. A pout. 'How about that boy coming back to life? Jason Codd? Dodd? Rodd? I don't remember his name! He was the one who got clobbered to death!'. He swings an invisble crowbar. 'Bang! Pow! Wham!'. A little dance. 'Or maybe... maybe it was that meteorite that fell and gave that caveman his powers? What if I guided it to that palooka? Just a little turn of the wheel?'. He tilts his head. 'Or maybe... maybe I just like watching you squirm right now. Maybe I'm just a big fat liar! Maybe all I said is baloney!'. He floats higher. 'The fun part is, ya'll never know for sure!'. He points at Clark. 'You. You're the first to know the joke. The first to know how deep the rabbit hole goes. Or doesn't!'. His form begins to shimmer, fading. 'Think about it, Superman. Think real hard. Am I the sort of fella who just makes up the vilest things? Or...'. He vanishes completely, with his final words echoing in the silent skyline. '... am I the sort of fella who actually does 'em?'.

Metropolis returns to life like a choked engine finally catching. It all comes back at once: the honking traffic, the distant sirens, the exhaust fumes slicing through the cold air. Everything is normal. Mxy is gone, no trace of him left. Clark stands motionless on the rooftop's edge, like a misplaced mannequin someone forgot to pack away. He has never felt so utterly alone in the middle of a city. There's the spot where Mxy floated. Nothing. Not even a ripple in the air. It's as if the entire encounter was a waking nightmare. He prays it was.

Chapter Text

'Senator Kelly has told CNN he expects votes to align along party lines tomorrow', the reporter drones as Steve stares at the screen. 'We have confirmation that White House counsel will be attending tomorrow's markup session. It is not yet known whether the President Bush will address the nation, but many NATO allies have already expressed deep concern'.

'John, what can you tell us about Senator Kelly's coalition strategy?', the anchor presses the correspondent. 'Sources confirm he's leaning heavily on whips tonight, especially targeting potential swing votes like Senator Jeffords of Vermont'.

Steve hates the term 'swing votes'. It reduces lives to political bartering chips.

'Rachel, we're hearing rumors that Majority Leader Frist may force cloture if debate drags past noon tomorrow', the correspondent replies, gesturing toward Capitol Hill's illuminated dome. Steve knows cloture means cutting off filibusters, sixty votes to muzzle dissent. He lets out an irritated sigh. Procedural weapons feel obscene when discussing registration like it's farm subsidies. 'Minority Leader Reid maintains his caucus remains unified in favor of amendments protecting superpowered minors before cloture is considered'. Steve remembers Stamford's rubble footage. So do the senators playing parliamentary games, it seems. 'White House Chief of Staff Bolten has been spotted entering Senator Durbin's office, likely discussing the conference report reconciliation'.

That detail lands like a crashing airplane. The White House is all but yelling they're seeing this through. 'It's all coming together'.

Tony's holographic projection flickers into existence beside Steve, voice tinny through the speaker. 'Bolten visiting Durbin? That's DEFCON 2 territory. Bush wants reconciliation done yesterday'. He leans forward, fingertips steepled. 'Watch the cloakroom whispers tonight. If they're pulling cloture triggers already, Kelly thinks he's got the numbers, or he’s desperate enough to gamble he does'.

'We should cast a vote of our own', Steve says, fingers drumming the reinforced glass tabletop. 'How many of us are currently on American soil?'.

Tony's hologram flickers again as he pulls up encrypted rosters. 'Active-duty Avengers? Three-quarters. Banner's in Brazil studying gamma-resistant flora, or so he claims. Clint's off-grid, but last pinged Madripoor, probably dealing with Madame Hydra's little arms bazaar. Thor's mediating a dispute in Alfheim, so our Norse heartthrob's unreachable. Rhodey, Carol, Wanda, Hank, Janet, Jessica, Wilson, Cage, Jennifer, Simon, Reynolds... all stateside right now'.

Steve nods sharply. 'Assemble them at the Tower. Tomorrow night. Every Avenger currently within US borders'. His gaze never leaves the flashing CNN chyron predicting tomorrow's vote tally. 'This isn't just about monitoring legislation anymore. We’re past that. We need a unified position before Congress forces one upon us'.

Robert Kelly paces his private office, mahogany walls absorbing the thrum of midnight D.C. His chief counsel thumbs through whip counts on a tablet, numbers bleeding red and blue like battlefield casualty reports.

'Jeffords is waffling', Henry says. 'Vermont's got two Alpha-level pyrokinetics under sixteen. He wants guarantees they won't be publicly indexed'.

Kelly stops at the window overlooking the Capitol's floodlit dome. 'Tell him S.H.I.E.L.D. will classify them as national security assets. Full anonymity'. Henry scribbles furiously. 'What about Lieberman?'.

'His constituents still smell Stamford's ashes daily', Henry mutters. 'I'd say he's all but secured, if we can promise our support for Israel's enhanced counter-terrorism package next session. Seems Saddam's fall didn't quench his thirst for foreign policy victories'.

Lieberman’s love for Israel’s survival burns brighter than any Stamford pyre. Kelly knows this. He nods curtly. 'Do it. And get Frist on the line. Tell him I want cloture filed the moment Reid opens his mouth tomorrow. With Pryor and Nelson now on board, we’ve got fifty-nine. Sixty, if Jeffords snaps into line'. The motorcade disgorges aides clutching briefcases thicker than phone books: defense contractors, privacy advocates, mutants-rights coalitions. Each carries leverage. Each demands a piece of the bill’s soul.

'Congresswoman Hunter's meddling again', Henry says, barely glancing up from his tablet. 'Putting feelers out through junior staffers. Small favors. Constituent meetings bumped, earmark promises for rural broadband upgrades in her district'.

Kelly waves a dismissive hand. He ignores Hunter's bleeding-heart pleas. Exceptions for certain individuals complicate enforcement, create loopholes exploiters will crawl through. National security demands clean lines, not sentimentality floating like fog over the Potomac.

Stamford. Robert Hunter blowing himself sky-high along with hundreds of innocent civilians, most of them children. That's why this bill exists. That's why sentiment dies tonight. Stephanie Hunter is a flea bite, not a threat. Her district barely registers in the House, and her influence is symbolic at best. The fact she's a congresswoman representing the state where Stamford happened? It almost feels like spitting on graves. Here she is, trying to carve out exits for the same type of individuals who caused the catastrophe in her own backyard. It makes Kelly sick. But she’s loud. Persistent. And she carries the memory of that Pryde girl’s testimony echoing through committee chambers months ago. A mutant defender through and through.

'Let Hunter chirp'. Kelly's fingers touch the windowpane. The cold glass feels slick. 'Focus on the cloture. The second Jeffords commits, we'll bury Reid's microphone. Tomorrow's the kill shot. Thirty hours of debate, then we vote. We're inches away, Henry. Just inches'.

'Good evening, Cap', Rhodey greets as Steve strides into Avengers Tower's main command center. The overhead lights reflect sharply off War Machine's helmet tucked beside him.

Steve nods, registering the tension immediately. Sam paces near the holographic projection of Capitol Hill, Falcon suit folded neatly over a chair. Carol leaning against the panoramic window overlooking Manhattan's glittering grid, arms crossed tightly as if bracing against a gale-force wind. Jessica Drew nurses black coffee in a corner, gaze fixed on the news feed silently scrolling across the main screen: senators' names flashing alongside projected vote tallies.

'Where's Tony?'.

'Running damage control'. Carol nods toward the sealed lab doors. 'He's got Stark Industries legal drafting contingency briefs if the bill passes. Said something about ensuring our digital signatures aren't legislated into submission before dawn'.

Jen Walters is already reading through a dense Senate Judiciary Committee printout. 'I told him his lawyers rewriting corporate boilerplate won't stop Kelly's train'.

'And what did he say to that?'.

'He smirked and quoted Sun Tzu at me'.

Steve feels the Tower's reinforced glass vibrate beneath his boots like a tuning fork struck too hard. Every Avenger present radiates wariness, every flicker on the Capitol Hill projection tracked like hostile radar blips.

Sam's pacing stops abruptly. 'Seems some guys need convincing'. His finger jabs at the holographic projection. 'Could the whole thing die on the Senate floor?'.

Jessica Drew's coffee cup thuds softly on the table. 'Fat chance. Frist and Kelly wouldn't be calling cloture unless they'd already counted noses in the cloakroom. Twice'.

Sam pivots sharply. 'So we're just waiting for them to vote us into ankle monitors? Because last I checked, my tax dollars already paid for an IRS registration. How many damn lists you want me on?'.

Jessica scowls at her coffee’s steam. 'Try explaining that to Kelly while he watches Stamford footage on loop. Or when he whispers national security into the President’s ear. They see powers, not people. Every damn time. At least Hydra was honest about wanting us in chains'.

'That's why I called this meeting', Steve cuts through the simmering frustrations. His gaze sweeps the room. 'We're voting tonight. As Avengers. Before the cloture vote. Each of you gets one question. One amendment to our position. Then we decide: do we engage? And if so, how?'. He taps the reinforced table. 'We must decide where we stand collectively on Registration. Not as individuals reacting, but as a team setting policy'.

'I'd like to point out statutory interpretation and constitutional carve-outs aren't exactly standard Avenger ops training', Jen says, less cheerful that Steve would like. She leans forward at the conference table. 'Section 3 explicitly grants DHS broad detention authority pending verification, meaning any unregistered enhanced individual refusing to comply with subpoena powers under subsection {e} could be held indefinitely as a material witness'. Her finger taps the holographic bill text hovering above the table. 'Subparagraph 4 defines enhanced as anyone exhibiting powers beyond baseline human capacity. Terrifyingly broad language encompassing mutants, mutates, tech-augmented operatives, and even people with magical talents. The appellate clause is a small mercy. It preserves habeas corpus rights, at least. Also, and I'm not licking boots here, mandatory reporting protocols for minors could theoretically prevent tragedies like Stamford'. She looks exhausted. 'Doesn't mean the cure isn't worse than the disease, but ever since the New Warriors proved teenage stupidity scales exponentially with superpowers, maybe oversight isn't entirely irrational. And Section 6 does offer judicial review pathways that aren't completely illusory. Section 5 outlines misdemeanor penalties for non-compliance instead of automatic felonies, though that only applies if you voluntarily register within thirty days of triggering an event'. She pauses. 'After that? Felony territory'.

Steve stares at her. 'Doesn't sound like you're arguing against Kelly, Jen'.

Jen pushes her glasses up her nose. 'Section 3{b} mandates counsel before interrogation. Without it, subsection {e} turns subpoena powers into fishing expeditions'. She taps the table. 'I'm arguing the bill isn't Sentinels-in-disguise. Yet'.

Jessica crosses her arms. 'Define yet'.

Jen doesn't flinch. 'It means amendments matter. Every concession Kelly makes shapes whether this becomes oversight or oppression. That's why Reid's holding the filibuster hostage over juvenile protections. It's the pressure valve'.

Rhodey leans forward, gauntleted fingers interlaced. 'Pressure valves fail, Jen. I don't trust Kelly's concessions to hold once the ink dries'. His shoulders tense beneath his fatigues. 'I probably shouldn't be saying this, but... if this passes, my oath as a Marine conflicts with my oath as an Avenger. DoD expects immediate compliance from all military personnel with enhanced capabilities upon SRA ratification'. He taps his sternum, where the War Machine armor integrates. 'Per UCMJ Article 92, failure to obey lawful orders constitutes dereliction. Long story short, I'm not sure I can stand with you if it comes to noncompliance'.

Carol turns from the window. 'They'll push rapid deployment protocols following passage'. Her voice is that of a pilot briefing combat maneuvers. 'I must comply with Title 10 directives. Kelly's cloture push means they've already drafted the executive orders. My service record gives me zero wiggle room'. Her gaze locks onto Steve, unflinching. 'Command expects officers to lead by example. Refusal isn't an option without dishonorable discharge. Or court-martial'.

'I know directives, Carol', Sam cuts in. 'Former Maroon Beret here, remember? Trust me, they'll classify us under weapons systems faster than you can say chain of command. Hell, Rhodey already is one'. His pacing resumes. 'Tell me, how you gonna explain Jessica's pheromones on a Pentagon spreadsheet? Or Luke's unbreakable skin? They gonna list him as level seven Kevlar? This ain't oversight. It's a goddamn inventory. They'll catalogue us like damn fighters needing maintenance logs. They'll dissect how. Where'd you get those powers? Who trained you? Who you slept with? Registration's Pandora's Box, and Kelly's itching to pry'.

Jen rubs her temples. 'Sam's being hyperbolic, but Section 4's provisions regarding power origin disclosure-'.

'If you have something to say, Sam', Carol interrupts, 'then at least have the common courtesy to stop pacing like a caged animal while you say it. You think... what? That I'll hunt down friends the moment the President signs the bill? That Rhodey will deploy against civilians? Because let me be perfectly clear: I know right from wrong. That's why I'm a damn Avenger to begin with'.

'Why is it that every time I point out practical realities, you assume I'm attacking loyalties?', Sam shoots back. 'I almost died in Afghanistan four years ago. I've been there, on the ground, seeing what happens when governments try to control outcomes they don't understand'. He stops pacing directly across from Carol, deliberately planting his feet. 'What, am I committing sedition by questioning the genius of forcing Johnny Storm to declare his flame-output per square inch? How much detail will Section 4 demand? Does Wanda list her probability-altering hexes as low, medium, or high based on some bureaucrat's Monday-morning mood? Or do they just want names? Locations? Weaknesses? Because Hydra salivates over that info'. Sam's eyes are sharp, focused. 'I'm not questioning your honor, Carol. I'm questioning theirs. Simple as that'.

'Sam', Steve says. 'Let's just hear Carol out. She's earned that much'.

Seems like a lifetime ago, but Steve remembers chain of command drills etched into his bones. The snap-to-attention reflex. Saluting superiors whose motives he couldn't openly question. Steve followed orders as all decent soldiers do, but never blindly. Colonel Gibb had to vouch for him when he refused to comply with that directive targeting a village suspected of housing German infantry. Orders dictated shelling the location. Intelligence was unreliable. His refusal to engage nearly cost him his command, until reconnaissance confirmed civilian presence. They were farmers hiding livestock, not soldiers storing munitions.

Gibb commended him privately. 'Refusing that order took guts, Captain. Justifiable insubordination, given the circumstances'. The memory feels simultaneously ancient and painfully fresh.

Discipline matters, but conscience is paramount. That village still exists today because Steve chose conscience over convenience. It’s a choice he faces again now, staring at the holographic Senate chamber projection. How many villages might be burned soon? Metaphorical ones, built from liberties, trust, the fragile peace between powered and ordinary? He understands Rhodey’s military dilemma. He respects Carol’s chain-of-command integrity. But Sam’s warning about Hydra snatching registry records resonates deeper than institutional loyalty ever could. Even so... he owes Rhodey and Carol his ear first. They've shed blood beside him. They have the right to speak before he passes judgment on their positions.

Minutes later, Luke Cage and Simon Williams stride in together. Luke moves with the solemnity of a man carrying city blocks on his shoulders, worn leather jacket creaking softly, boots thudding heavy and deliberate on the polished floor. His jaw is tight, eyes scanning the room before settling on Steve. Simon doesn't seem much happier, his ionic glow dimmed beneath a rumpled cashmere sweater, black hair uncharacteristically disheveled. There's a scent clinging around him, faint but electric.

'Traffic's apocalyptic downtown', Luke mutters without preamble, pulling out a chair. 'Cop barricades already going up like they're expecting riots tomorrow'.

Simon just sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. 'Sorry. I had some... publicity deals. They wouldn't let me out of the studio'.

Carol raises an eyebrow. 'Publicity deals? At midnight? Try again, Simon'.

Steve takes a deep breath. Simon and Carol. They’d been an item. Brief, intense, messy. He recalls it now with a twist of discomfort: two years ago, Simon’s ionic form lighting up Carol’s quarters at 3:00 a.m., hushed arguments echoing through walls about fame versus duty, his Hollywood persona clashing with her military discipline. The breakup wasn’t far ago at all. Six months, maybe less. Steve signed the transfer papers himself when Simon requested reassignment away from the team. The West Coast Avengers needed star power, he said. More like Simon needed space from Carol’s unflinching glare. Steve hates remembering how Simon’s charm curdled into bitterness, how Carol looked like she swallowed shrapnel for weeks afterward.

The door hisses open again. Hank Pym strides in first, sharp-edged and precise, lab coat pristine despite the hour. Behind him, Janet Van Dyne emerges like a sigh of exhaustion in human form. Her designer jacket shimmers faintly, defying midnight gloom, and she offers Steve a weary smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Hank doesn’t look at her. Not once. He pulls out a chair on the far side of the table, angling it away from where Janet lingers near Carol. The silence stretches brittle between them. Years married. Months divorced. Hank being caught pants down with Tigra, literally, when Steve sought his help against Ultron still haunts his memories: Hank scrambling for dignity amid scattered equations and Tigra’s startled snarl.

Janet’s bitter laugh after that discovery was hardly laughter at all. 'Tigra? Did she finally pick you, Hank? Because last I heard, she’d rather lick herself clean than commit to a single damn bed. I was hoping she’d settle on Simon. He’s got Hollywood charisma. Always seemed more appealing than unstable atoms and bruised egos'.

Sure, it was weeks after their split became official, but maybe too soon. Too soon for Hank to move on, too soon for Janet to pretend the sight didn't sting worse than her own bio-electric blasts. Even now, it's certainly too soon for either of them to be in the same room breathing the same air.

Janet's eyes briefly flick toward Hank's retreating back, something raw and unguarded flashing there before she masks it with a tight-lipped smile. Across the table, Simon avoids Carol’s gaze entirely, choosing to trade playful winks with Jen instead.

Everyone notices. No one speaks.

Soft footsteps echo in the corridor. Slow. Hesitant. The door whispers open again, and Wanda Maximoff stands framed in the entryway. She looks like she hasn't slept in days. Shadows pool beneath her eyes, bruises against her pale skin. Her crimson jacket hangs loose, almost swallowed by her frame. Yet, when her gaze finds Steve, a fragile, sad smile touches her lips, a ghost of the warmth she once wore easily. It’s an apology. A plea. The aftermath of chaos magic and her mental breakdown lingers like humidity after a storm: everyone feels it.

Steve crosses the room immediately. The low buzz of tension falls away as others shift, granting space. He doesn't tower over her. He bends slightly, meeting her eyes. 'Wanda. Thank you for coming'. He places a hand lightly on her shoulder. The gesture is meant to be grounding, protective. 'I know how hard it must be'. Beneath his touch, he feels the slight tremor running through her frame, the brittleness of bone where muscle should be taut.

Her gaze drifts past him to the holographic Senate projection, the flashing names and votes. 'I'm sorry, Steve. I tried to leave earlier, but...'. Her voice catches, fraying at the edges like worn cloth. The unspoken words are clear: the nightmares, the lingering whispers of power she dare not touch, the fear of being the reason this tower might someday resemble Stamford's ruins. She clutches her own arms, fingers digging into the leather sleeves.

Steve keeps his hand steady on her shoulder. 'Look at me, Wanda'. When her dark, haunted eyes finally meet his, he speaks softly. 'You're here. That's what matters. Not what came before'. He ignores Rhodey’s shifting posture nearby, the way Sam glances away. The Avengers have forgiven her, mostly, but forgiveness is easier in theory than in practice. 'Please, sit with us'. He guides her toward the conference table, pulling out a chair beside Carol, who pushes her untouched coffee toward Wanda without a word. Small gestures count now. Perhaps more than ever.

A blinding flash of golden light sears the conference room not a minute later, leaving afterimages dancing across retinas. When the glare fades, Robert Reynolds stands unblinking inside the doorway, an Apollo stumbling into a war council. His golden armor and sapphire blue cape seem to ripple with barely contained energy. Hank recoils instinctively, Rhodey’s hand drifts near his helmet, Carol’s shoulders tense, Jessica breathes a curse. Old reflexes triggered by raw power.

Robert studies their faces before his gaze settles on Wanda's hunched form. 'Apologies'. His voice echoes from somewhere deeper than mere vocal cords. 'Time... slips'.

Steve notes the way lights flare brighter around the Sentry as he steps forward. Almost untouchable, godlike. Yet, beneath that golden aura, Steve recalls Robert’s haunted confession: the Void, the fear of losing control, the terror of not knowing what's real and what's delusion. Just like Wanda. Just like Banner. The irony isn’t lost on Steve: how easily power twists into vulnerability, how the mightiest among them often carry the deepest fractures.

Wanda flinches as Robert’s eyes lingers on her, fingers tightening around her coffee cup. Carol shifts slightly, positioning herself subtly between them. Simon mutters something under his breath, catching Carol’s sharp glance. The silence is heavy with shared history and unspoken blame.

Robert merely nods at Wanda, a gesture that's either deference or pity, or perhaps just a broken god acknowledging another shattered idol. 'It's good to see you, Wanda. I trust your strength grows steadier'.

Wanda doesn't lift her gaze. 'Steadier than yesterday'. Her fingers trace the rim of the mug. 'Thank you for asking, Robert'.

Robert offers a smile that feels too practiced, too brittle. 'Steadiness returns slowly. No need to rush it'. He moves toward an empty seat, just as Simon catches Rhodey's eye, jerking his head toward Robert's imposing presence. Sam shifts his weight, boot soles scraping the floor. Jessica and Luke exchange glances of unease. Carol keeps her posture rigid, a shield between Robert and Wanda. Janet flinches slightly as Robert's cape brushes her chair.

Jennifer clears her throat. 'Bob. Maybe dial back the aura? We're trying to have a meeting, not stare into a solar flare'.

Robert blinks as if startled awake. 'Of course, Jen'. The golden light dims from blinding sunburst to average skin tone. 'My control isn't what it should be. Forgive me, everyone'.

The room exhales as one. Steve nods stiffly. 'Only Tony missing now'.

Robert settles into his chair, eyes finding Wanda again before shifting toward Steve. 'The media knows we're here'. His voice is soft. Ethereal. Like wind passing through ruins. 'Fox News helicopters are already approaching'.

Luke leans forward. 'Took them long enough. Figured they'd camp outside the Tower permanently after Stamford'. His knuckles rest against a polished tablet. 'Panic sells ads faster than truth. Ain't gonna change with Registration'.

'They're amplifying fear narratives', Robert says. 'Some analysts are demanding we appear voluntarily before Kelly's oversight committee next week. Others claim Magneto's followers are planning retaliatory strikes if Registration becomes law'.

Steve catches the way Wanda shrinks back. The mention of her father’s name is hardly good medicine. Her relationship with Magneto remains contentious enough without the media painting every mutant as a ticking bomb.

'Magneto’s followers act on their own agenda', Wanda says. 'My father hasn’t commanded them since Genosha fell. He's too busy... contemplating'.

Robert nods. 'The press isn’t interested in nuance. They’re framing Registration as... preemptive counter-terrorism. Footage of Stamford loops every hour'.

Janet snorts. 'The press? They called Stamford a daycare outing gone wrong last month'. She taps a polished nail against the table edge. 'Now they want us to believe Magneto suddenly cares about registration paperwork? Please. The man wears purple as a power move. He considers federal law beneath him. It's all humans are bigots this, mutants are oppressed that. Why bother with petty registration when Genosha’s still a rubble? He’s waiting for a bigger stage'. Her eyes dart toward Wanda, softening. 'No offense'.

Wanda shakes her head. 'None taken, Janet. He is... complicated'. A pause hangs thick. 'But he’s not planning violence here. Not now'. Her whisper carries the weight of certainty, tinged with familial quarrels.

'Still', Carol intervenes, 'I don't doubt terrorist cells will exploit the vote's outcome. Not Magneto. Not necessarily mutants. But factions eager to escalate tensions'.

'I've run some simulations', Hank interrupts. He doesn't look at Janet as he activates a holographic projection above the table. 'It's not my area of expertise, but observe the priming effect: public sentiment shifts dramatically whenever Stamford replays'. His pointer laser stabs at cascading data streams. 'Kelly exploits this deliberately. The Congressional Record omits heroes preventing disasters daily. Our own efforts become statistical noise'.

Steve studies Hank's holographic flow charts as they ripple above the conference table. 'Once Tony is here, we vote. No abstentions. This decision binds us all'. He pauses, scanning each face, from Sam's stoic frown to Janet's impatient tapping. 'We either oppose publicly or comply. Half-measures invite chaos'. He can't help but notice Carol shaking her head lightly, almost imperceptibly, like a tremor beneath still water. 'I won't ask anyone to violate their convictions. But understand: choosing compliance could mean arresting those who refuse. Are we prepared to hunt our own?'. He doesn't look at Rhodey. He doesn't need to. His sigh is audible. 'Registration isn't oversight. It's surrender. Given enough time, it becomes shackles. They'll define us, control us, deploy us... or jail us'. He lets that settle. 'I know which path I'll be walking'.

Chapter Text

Tony squints at the roster like it's a tax return he didn't bother to read until April 14th, one of those complicated ones with multiple foreign holdings and at least three shell companies he forgot about. The kind that makes his accountant develop a nervous tic whenever Jarvis sends the documents.

He holds it at arm's length, then closer, then tilts his head like a confused puppy. 'Okay, let's break this down. Rogue-'.

Rogue, draped over a chair like she owns it {because she does}, smirks. 'Y'all better say somethin' nice'.

Tony gestures at her with the paper. 'Charming Southern belle, check. Also, can steal your powers and your dignity with a single touch. So, you know... fun at parties'.

'Aw now, sugar', Rogue drawls, flipping her hair. 'You say the sweetest things when y'think I might skin ya'. Her accent is stronger now, probably because she knows it annoys him. Or maybe because she genuinely forgets she lost most of it when she stopped being a villain.

Tony points at Beast next. 'Furry and smart. So progressive. Disney's gonna option his life story any day now'.

Beast adjusts his glasses, looking vaguely concerned. 'Tony, I'm not sure how I feel about being reduced to a corporate synergy talking point'.

'Hank, buddy, you're literally a walking metaphor for societal alienation. You're gold for investors'.

Iceman, lounging with his feet on the table {and leaving frost marks, because manners}, grins. 'What about me?'.

Tony snaps his fingers. 'Token gay, but at least you've got range. Literally. This man could make a snowman army if he wanted'.

'I have made a snowman army', Bobby says proudly.

'And yet, somehow, still less terrifying than your dating history'. Tony pauses, then smirks. 'I mean, Polaris? Really? You spent years telling her she wasn't Magneto's daughter, only for it to turn out she totally was? That's not just messy, Drake, that's a soap opera'.

Bobby groans, rubbing his temples. 'Look, that whole thing was complicated'.

'Oh, I bet. Hey, Lorna, don't worry, you're definitely not related to the guy who tried to drop a stadium on the UN. Oh, wait. Psych!'.

'I was misinformed!'.

'Uh-huh. And somehow, still less awkward than your coming-out speech'.

Falcon, arms crossed, raises an eyebrow. 'What about me?'.

Tony grins. 'Diversity win. Also, wings. Wings are cool'.

Sam sighs. 'I save the world on the regular, and my biggest selling point is wings'.

'Hey, don't knock it. Wings are cool. If I could have wings, I'd never shut up about them'.

Natasha, who has been silently sharpening another knife {because of course she is}, doesn't even look up {because of course she doesn't}. 'And me?'.

Tony taps his chin. 'Baddass Russian spy. But also, let's be real: redhead. That's its own superpower'.

Natasha finally glances up, her smile razor-thin. 'You're lucky I like you'.

'I'm lucky I have Extremis-enhanced healing, you mean'.

Steve Rogers, standing in the corner like a sentient American flag, sighs. 'Tony, can we focus?'.

Tony waves a hand. 'Cap: poster boy. If America was a person, it would be you, but with way more student debt and fewer abs'.

Steve frowns. 'I don't understand half of what you say anymore'.

'That's because you're old, grandpa'.

Thor, who has been admiring his own biceps in the reflection of Mjolnir {despite Mjolnir not being shiny enough to reflect much of anything}, perks up. 'And what of me, Stark?'.

Tony throws his hands up. 'Literal god, can't argue there. Also, handsome. Like, distractingly handsome. Are we sure he's not violating some HR policy just by existing?'.

Thor beams. 'I do take great pride in my appearance!'.

'Yeah, we know', Tony mutters. 'Half your battle cries are just you asking for a mirror'. He taps the next name. 'Magik. Russian and a mutant, double diversity points. Also, can teleport, which is great because if this meeting gets any more boring, I'm begging her to throw me into the nearest dimension where people have better things to do'.

Magik's fingers still on the shadow-wrapped hilt of her Soulsword, her smirk sharpening into something that shows just a hint of too-sharp teeth. 'For you, Stark? I would charge triple. And drop you somewhere... educational'. The way she says it makes the temperature drop ten degrees.

Tony holds up his hands. 'Message received. No sudden trips to Limbo. Today'.

'Today', Magik repeats with a glint in her eye, the kind that says she has more than one idea of what 'educational' means, and none of them involve algebra.

Tony scrolls further. Pauses. Blinks. 'Ghost Rider?'.

The room falls silent. Somewhere, a tumbleweed rolls through the collective consciousness of the team.

Johnny Blaze, currently not on fire {a rare and blessed state of being}, shrugs. 'I just got a call promising me cash. I think someone just panicked and threw me in. Maybe they got to the end of the list and went: Oh crap, we forgot the scary one. Call the guy with the motorcycle and the skull face'.

Magik smirks, twirling a lock of golden hair around her finger as if contemplating which eldritch horror to unleash first. 'Yeah, like when you order pelmeni and they give you extra dumpling you didn't ask for'.

'Accurate', Johnny chuckles. 'Though honestly, I’m surprised they even remembered me. Last time I checked, the Avengers’ HR department had me filed under that-has-been-stuntman-whose-head-keeps-catching-fire'.

Magik doesn't look at him, but the corner of her mouth twitches, the barest ghost of amusement... or perhaps just a muscle spasm from contemplating the many ways she could make him regret that remark. It's hard to tell with her.

Tony takes a breath, then plunges ahead like a man resigned to his fate. 'Okay, Blaze. You're like... the rebellious teen we never knew we needed. Or wanted'.

'Also accurate', Johnny quips. 'But hey, I bring the heat. Literally. Can't say that about everyone here'. He glances at Bobby, who gives him a finger gun wink. 'Unless you count whatever freezer-burned leftovers Iceman's got going on. How's Angel, by the way? Been a while since I last saw him'.

Bobby grins. 'Warren? Oh, he's fine. Still flying high. Literally'. He leans back in his chair, which promptly frosts over beneath him. 'But I'll have you know, my skills are anything but leftovers. I'm a gourmet dish, Johnny. Just ask anyone who's ever-'.

'No one wants to hear about your love life, Drake', Natasha cuts in dryly, flipping her knife in a lazy arc before catching it by the hilt. 'Unless you're confessing to a felony. Then I'm all ears'.

Tony rolls his eyes with the same intensity a New Yorker does when a tourist asks for directions to Times Square. Or, more accurately, with the same irritation a billionaire feels when someone interrupts his monologue to point out he's technically wrong. 'Captain Marvel', he says, tapping the name with a pen. 'The woman who could punch a planet into oblivion, but chooses to save cats stuck in trees. Don't get me wrong, Carol's great. She once kicked Thanos's groin so hard he almost flinched. But let's be real: this is so powerful-modern-woman PR bait. Look at us. We're so woke, we have a lady who makes most of the Avengers look like they're bench pressing tofu'.

Carol Danvers, floating slightly above her chair {because why sit when you can defy physics so bad it'd make Isaac Newton weep?}, sips her coffee with the serene calm of someone who has headbutted spaceships into submission. 'Tony, if you don't shut up, I'm throwing you into the sun'.

Tony considers this. Glances at the nearest window, as if calculating the trajectory. Shrugs. 'Fair'.

Somewhere in the background, Spider-Man, silently vibrating in the corner, finally bursts out: 'Uh, hey, Mister Stark, not to interrupt, but... where am I on this list? Like... am I not diverse? I'm young! And neurotic! That's gotta count for something!'.

Tony squints at the paper again. 'Kid, you're under miscellaneous'.

Peter's mask does that thing where it somehow conveys soul-crushing disappointment despite being made of fabric. 'Miscellaneous?!'.

'Yeah, you know: teen angst, sticky fingers, occasional marital crisis. Standard stuff'.

'I saved the Statue of Liberty from the Juggernaut!'.

'And we're all very proud', Tony says, patting him on the shoulder like he is a particularly clever toddler. 'But let's be real: you're basically the team mascot. You don't need a category, you're just... there. Like a very agile piece of furniture that occasionally saves the day'.

Deadpool, who has been duct-taped to the ceiling for 'reasons' chimes in. 'Hey, what about me? I'm Canadian! International diversity, baby!'.

Tony doesn't even look up. 'You're under liability'.

'Ouch'.

Bruce Banner, quietly meditating in the corner in an attempt to avoid turning into a giant green rage monster {a most understandable goal}, finally speaks. 'Can we please just start the mission briefing before Tony gets us all sued?'.

Tony gasps, clutching his chest. 'Brucie Bear! You wound me! I'll have you know my lawyers are very well-paid'.

'That's not the win you think it is', Natasha mutters. 'Your lawyers have retainers, Tony, not medals'.

Somewhere, in the sterile, over-engineered depths of the Baxter Building -where the air is filtered to clinical perfection and the very concept of germs has been scientifically eradicated- Reed Richards sneezes. Tony Stark casually dropped the word 'lawyers' into a gathering of superheroes, effectively unleashing verbal napalm in a room full of people who consider due process a supervillain. In their line of work, that's the equivalent of throwing a handful of glitter into a hurricane. It doesn't just spread. It embeds itself in places that will inconvenience everyone for years, clings to the moral high ground like a bad-faith copyright lawsuit, and ensures that, sooner or later, someone will have to explain it to Nick Fury while he is holding a weapon with that I-literally-lost-my-humanity-during-the-Cold-War-please-interrupt-me-again-I-dare-you look.

Needless to say, the mission briefing does not, in fact, start on time.

Chapter Text

The world exists in a warm, sun-drenched haze of tangled sheets and the specific, profound silence that follows approximately two weeks of not having to save the world. Scott Summers opens his eyes. The familiar, comforting weight of the ruby quartz visor prevents him from accidentally disintegrating the ceiling fan above them. The other, more comforting weight of Jean Grey is present, curled into his side, her hair a beautiful red explosion across his chest and the pillow.

A sigh of perfect, earned contentment escapes him. He is Scott Summers. He is married. He is, for this singular, golden moment, not in charge of anything but the arm currently going numb under his wife. It is glorious. No more Sinister treating his DNA like a buffet, no more Apocalypse possessing his body. Just Jean's slow, sleepy breath against his collarbone.

Jean murmurs something into his skin. '... and broccoli people... Phoenix hungry for...'.

Scott smiles. Sure, Jean ate a whole star once, but if the D'Bari didn't want their sun to be devoured, they shouldn't have looked so tasty. This is the peace they fought for. This is the-

The door to their bedroom, which was definitely closed and probably even locked, swings open with a cheerful, oblivious creak.

Bobby Drake enters. He is wearing a pair of impossibly bright cyan boxing gloves, shimmering with a faint, self-generated frost, and matching shorts covered in dancing penguins. His headphones are on, blasting something with a frantic, syncopated beat only he can hear {Ice Ice Baby}. He does not look at the bed. He does not acknowledge the king-size monument to post-honeymoon bliss occupying half the room. His focus is absolute, entirely on the phantom opponent he is now squaring off against in the space between the dresser and the en-suite bathroom.

'Hah', he exhales, a little puff of frost accompanying the sound. Left jab. A swift, sharp motion. The air crisps slightly. 'Hah!'.

Scott’s entire body goes rigid. The peaceful haze vaporizes, replaced by the high-alert tension of a soldier whose fortress has been breached. Jean’s psychic presence in his mind shifts from a sleepy hum to a startled, fully coherent: 'What?!'.

Right cross. Bobby pivots on his bare foot, which leaves a faint sheen of ice on the floorboards. He bobs his head. Weaves. The penguins on his shorts jiggle merrily.

Scott and Jean are statues of nude, bewildered matrimony. The Shadow King? Cassandra Nova? Quentin Quire pulling a prank? A silent, frantic conference occurs telepathically.

{Is he sleepwalking?}

{He’s generating ice. He’s awake. Wait. Why are the gloves cyan?}.

{That’s your question? Jean, we’re-}.

Left hook. Bobby puts his whole torso into it, following through with a satisfied grunt. A small, decorative ice sculpture of a boxing glove spontaneously forms on the corner of the dresser and falls off, shattering. He’s really working on his form. For a full, eternal minute, the only sounds are Bobby’s rhythmic puffing, the faint shush-shush of his feet on the frosting floor before the horrified silence from the bed.

Right uppercut. Bobby snaps his whole body upward, a champion finishing a phantom opponent. He holds the pose. He is Rocky, he is Apollo Creed, he is the Iceman Cometh for the heavyweight title. He slowly lowers his gloves, nods to himself, a solemn, self-congratulatory ritual. The gestures says: 'Damn, I'm good. Sugar Ray Leonard better watch out'.

The absurdity of the moment reaches supercritical mass. Scott Summers, leader of the X-Men, man who stares down cosmic entities, whose entire family tree makes Kang the Conqueror's head hurt, can endure no more. He clears his throat. It is not his tactical leader’s cough. It is a dry, strained, profoundly embarrassed sound that seems to crackle in the frozen air.

Bobby’s head swivels. His eyes, bright with post-workout endorphins {and possibly lack of oxygen to the brain}, land on them. He blinks. A slow, easy smile spreads across his face. He pulls one headphone away from his ear. 'Oh, hey'. He acts if he’s just run into them by the coffee maker. 'New gloves'. He holds up the cyan, frost-emanating mitts, wiggling his fingers inside. 'Temperature reactive. Wanna see them turn crimson?'. He doesn’t wait for an answer, because second thought visibly strikes him. 'Oh, before I forget: the Professor just ate Logan’s brain for power. Up in the study. It was… wet. But don't worry, his brain’ll grow back. Hopefully. Whole thing was a devouring-the-heart-of-your-enemy-to-steal-their-spirit situation. Y’know, classic stuff'. Bobby shrugs. 'Kinda dark, though. Unexpected'. He delivers this like he’s reporting that the dishwasher is leaking, not that their mentor has gone full Aztec deity.

Scott’s mouth is open. Jean’s psychic presence is a static scream of a thousand overlapping questions, primarily: 'What?! How?! Why?! His brain?!'.

Bobby waves a glove, dismissing cranial cannibalism with a single breezy gesture. 'Never mind that'. The excited grin returns, bigger than ever. 'Look what I can do'. He takes a deep breath. 'Omega-level, baby'.

There is no grand explosion of ice, no towering glacier. Instead, Bobby Drake dissolves, then multiplies. In his place, standing on the now completely iced-over floor, is an army. A company of perhaps one hundred intricately detailed, mouse-sized ice duplicates of Bobby Drake. Each one is perfect. Each has tiny boxing gloves. Each wears microscopic shorts. And each one is standing on a pair of impossibly thin, curved ice skates.

As one, the Bobby Drake Ice Mouse Army pushes off.

The sound is like a hundred tiny wind chimes made of crystal. Schk-schk-schk. They begin to skate. They weave in flawless, synchronized patterns around the bedposts. A line of them executes a perfect triple axel over Jean’s discarded slippers. They form a spinning chorus line on the oval rug. Two of them break off to stage a tiny, furious boxing match on the nightstand, next to their wedding photo.

Scott and Jean, nude, sheets pulled up to their chins, watch this rodentine ice ballet glide and pirouette through their bedroom. It is confusing. It is technically astonishing. It is... the most profoundly stupid thing either of them has ever witnessed, more so than the time Kurt painted his entire body like a piñata 'to test Deadpool’s self-control'.

Damn it, Bobby!

The army completes a final, looping figure-eight around the room. They converge in the center, where the original Bobby was standing. In a shimmering cascade, they flow upward, reforming seamlessly into the one, true, grinning Iceman. 'Pretty cool, right?'. Without another word, without any acknowledgment of the brain-eating, the nudity, or the rift he has just torn in their morning, he turns and walks out, leaving a trail of tiny, melting skate-marks behind him.

Scott stares at the closed door for a full five seconds before speaking. 'Did he just say the Professor ate Logan’s brain?'.

Jean blinks. 'I'm burning that entire sentence from my memory right now'.

'We should... probably go check on that', Scott says, already reaching for his discarded underwear with the urgency of a man trying to avoid acknowledging the surrealist nightmare his morning has become. 'There's no telling-'. His fingers brush the fabric just as a miniature ice duplicate of Bobby skates past it, executing a perfect toe loop before evaporating into mist. 'God damn it, Bobby'.

Chapter Text

The rain falls on Manhattan like the sky is trying to wash something particularly stubborn off the pavement. In a sterile white room at the Avengers Tower morgue, Spider-Man lies dead on a slab. The scent is overpowering, a astringent pine smell that fights a losing battle against the underlying chemical burn. Cause of death: ingestion of one gallon of industrial-strength Pine-Sol Multi-Surface Cleaner.

Tony Stark is staring at the wall. 'Friday, run analysis again. There has to be a mind-controlling fungus. A pheromone. A Skrull. Something'.

'The tox screen is definitive, boss. It was just… cleaner'.

Steve Rogers has his head in his hands, the cowl down, his blond hair sticking up in peaks. 'But… why? Why would he do that? He had everything to live for. The city. May. MJ. He was he was a kid. Just a kid'. His hands shake. 'He was just a kid'.

Tony paces. 'Because that’s the thing, Cap. No one does that. No one drinks Pine-Sol unless something made them. Unless... they didn’t think they were drinking Pine-Sol'.

'Unlikely, Boss. The bottle was clear Pine-Sol. Label intact. No tampering'. The AI hesitates. 'Fingerprints confirm Peter held it himself'.

Tony's pacing stops. The scent burns deeper now, not just chemical but human. A boy's sweat-damp suit peeled off, fingers curled. 'Run facial recognition on every security feed from Midtown to Queens. Last forty-eight hours. Prioritize alleys, rooftops, anywhere he'd swing. Kid didn't just wake up suicidal with a bottle of damn floor cleaner'.

The funeral is a miserable affair. They hold it on the roof of the Tower. The rain has slowed to a mist. The coffin is closed. Thor gives a eulogy that involves too many mentions of Valhalla and 'the cleansing of the warrior's soul', which makes everyone wince. MJ hasn't stopped crying since they told her. May appears dead inside, like someone turned off a switch deep in her bones.

Clint Barton just shakes his head, muttering: 'Pine-Sol. Jesus'.

Natasha Romanoff is silent, but her eyes are scanning the horizon line as if the reason might be written there in sniper dots. The last time she spoke to Peter was three days ago. She remembers the awkward way he hovered by the Quinjet ramp, pretending to adjust his web-shooters while actually working up the nerve to say something.

'So, uh... you and Bucky, huh? I mean, not that it matters. Just... cool. Very Cold War romance. Like a spy novel'.

Peter's voice now lives in Natasha's skull like a ghost station playing on loop. She replays the moment over and over as she stands on the rain-slicked roof. Was he thinner? His jawline sharper under the mask that day? But no. It's only hindsight carving details into memory that weren't there.

It’s after. They’re in the common room, a modern design that feels like a tomb. No one is drinking. No one is talking. The silence is punctuated only by Steve Rogers slowly cracking a walnut in his fist, over and over, as if he’s trying to solve the problem with force.

'Hey, Cap. So... you weren't actually born on the Fourth of July? Like, at all? Cause I looked it up and... damn. Propaganda? Huh. Next you're gonna tell me the Howling Commandos weren't a boy band'.

Steve stills his hands, walnut fragments dusting his knees. Across the room, Tony is methodically dismantling a StarkPad with a screwdriver, fingers trembling just enough that the tiny Phillips head keeps slipping. He's been doing this for thirty minutes. No sign of stopping. No sign of acknowledging the wreckage forming on the coffee table.

An hour later, a sealed envelope, marked with a web pattern, is delivered by a intern. Inside, a tiny, encrypted drive. Tony's fingers hesitate before plugging it in. The hologram flickers to life.

It’s Peter. In his bedroom. The Star Wars poster is visible. He looks calm, smiling while holding a jug of the liquid death. 'Hey, guys. Uh… if you’re seeing this, I guess it worked. Or didn’t. Depends how you look at it. I dunno'. He shifts, placing the gallon jug on his desk. 'I decided to off myself with Pine-Sol. Wanted to feel what death is like'. A lazy shrug, as if he just explained why he bought a weird flavor of soda, or why the symbiote, in fact, did not affect his personality like everyone thought, that it only gave him unlimited webbing and the ability to shift his suit into any outfit, but nothing else. No rage. No hunger. No physical enhancements. Just infinite web fluid and adaptive fashion. After cracking his neck and stretching, Peter looks directly into the lens. 'I can't keep on waiting for you. I know that you're still hesitating. Don't cry for me, 'cause I'll find my way. You'll wake up one day, but it'll be too late'. He nods meaningfully. The hologram winks out.

The silence returns, heavier now, suffused with a new layer of profound, bewildering grief. Tony’s jaw is working. Steve looks like he’s been slapped. Bruce Banner just takes off his glasses and polishes them, over and over, his breaths controlled. Natasha shakes her head, not wanting to believe. Clint sighs, long and low, rubbing at his forehead May lets out a wail that doesn't sound human, more like a wounded animal caught in barbed wire. MJ has to escort her out, trembling so badly she nearly trips over the coffee table. Sam decides he can't take it anymore and heads for the roof.

Steve has lost comrades before, too many, but it never gets easier. Bucky is still staring at the space where Peter's hologram just stood, metal fingers digging into his thigh. They exchange glances. Two men who have seen too much. God, their days of war never end. 'It was a message. He felt… abandoned. He was waiting for… for one of us? For the world? And we failed him. We hesitated'.

'The kid was quoting poetry', Tony mutters. 'At the end. Some… some angsty, teenage poetry. Didn't even bother rhyming'. He's pacing again, hands reaching for the dismantled StarkPad pieces. 'But what the hell was he waiting for?'.

A low, thoughtful sound rumbles through the room. 'Hmn'. All heads turn to Luke Cage. He’s frowning, his massive arms crossed over his tee-shirt. He’s staring at the spot where the hologram played, chewing his lower lip like he’s trying to puzzle something out. 'Ain’t that the lyrics of Madonna’s Hung Up?'. He pulls out his phone. The click-clack of his thumbs on the screen is the only sound in the universe. He finds it. He hits play.

'Every little thing that you say or do, I'm hung up. I'm hung up on you. Waiting for your call, baby, night and day. I'm fed up. I'm tired of waiting on you. Time goes by so slowly for those who wait. No time to hesitate. Ring, ring, ring goes the telephone. The lights are on, but there's no one home. Tick, tick, tock, it's a quarter to two. And I'm done. I'm hanging up on you. I can't keep on waiting for you. I know that you're still hesitating. Don't cry for me, 'cause I'll find my way. You'll wake up one day, but it'll be too late'.

Luke puts the phone down. 'Last words were plagiarized', he chuckles. 'Kid couldn't even die original'. He earns a punch in the arm from his wife.

'This isn't a joke, dipshit!', Jessica Jones snarls. 'Peter killed himself, and you're cracking wise?'.

'C'mon, Jess! I’m just sayin’!'. Luke’s chuckle is escalating, a bubble of pure, unadulterated disbelief fighting its way out of his chest. 'The boy drank a gallon of Pine-Sol and left us with a chorus from Confessions on a Dance Floor! What are we supposed to do with that other than laugh?'. He chuckles again. He’s barely keeping it together. He's fighting tears. Tears of holy-shit-this-is-hilarious-how-are-we-supposed-to-mourn-like-normal-people laughter. Peter Parker... chugging Pine-Sol like goddamn milk after dodgeball? He loses it. 'Oh, damn!', Luke wheezes, slapping his knee. 'Oh, brother, this is bad. Oh, sweet Christmas, this is bad. I shouldn’t be laughin’!'. He guffaws anyway, a full-bodied roar. Tears stream down his face. 'Madonna?! He went out quoting Madonna?!'.

Tony is staring, eyes wide. 'Friday. Verify'.

'The lyrical match is one hundred percent, boss. The final statement is from the bridge of Hung Up, released in 2005'.

Steve looks utterly lost. 'He… he killed himself… to a pop song?'.

Clint’s shoulders start to shake. 'Man...'. A snort escapes him. He tries to cover it with a cough, fails, and a high-pitched giggle squeaks out. He turns it into a strangled sob, but his face is turning purple from the effort not to howl.

Natasha’s lips are pressed into a thin line. Then one corner twitches. 'The lights are on, but there’s no one home'. She looks at the closed coffin schematic on a side monitor. A single, sharp, almost painful laugh barks out of her. She immediately covers her mouth, but her eyes are crinkled. 'Блядь, Parker. What the hell?'.

'God', Bruce repeats into his hands, but his shoulders are trembling. 'He left us a... a pop song suicide note'.

Only Steve remains in the solemn zone, a symbol to earnest grief in a crumbling world {or perhaps just the last man unaware how damn silly using Madonna lyrics as a suicide note truly is}. 'This isn't funny!', he growls, failing to notice Thor discreetly humming Hung Up under his breath while pretending to adjust Mjolnir's strap, failing to notice even Bucky considers this the zenith of dark comedy. 'A kid is dead! A hero!'.

'A hero who died because he was hung up!', Luke howls, collapsing back into his chair. 'He was fed up! Time went by so slowly! He was waiting for a call! Did anyone check his phone? Was his ringer on?'.

Clint bursts out laughing so hard he falls off the couch, gasping between wheezes. 'Ring, ring, ring goes the telephone!'. He's curled fetal, pounding the floor with one fist. 'Oh, God. Oh, God, I can't...'.

Jessica shakes her head, but reluctant grin starts spreading across her face. She takes a long, deep swig from her flask. 'You’re all going to Hell. And when you get there, tell Peter he’s a fucking idiot. Couldn't even go out with Bowie or something?'.

Luke wipes tears from his eyes, still chuckling, as Jessica's flask makes the rounds. Thor, now unabashedly singing the chorus under his breath, taps Mjolnir against the floor in time with the beat: 'Tick, tick, tock, it's a quarter to two', which only sets Clint off again, wheezing into the carpet.

It is, indeed, a quarter to two.

Chapter Text

The rain falls in a cold, gray sheet over the abandoned refinery, turning rust to blood and pooling in the cracked concrete. Inside the skeletal remains of a primary processing tower, two shapes move in the gloom: one a shadow, the other a spark.

Kitty Pryde presses her back against a cold iron support beam. Her breath forms ragged clouds in the damp air, each exhale louder than she'd like. Her uniform is slick with rain and grime. A few yards away, Jubilee crouches behind a toppled generator, a single, defiant firework popping from her fingertip to illuminate the cavernous space for a heartbeat. The brief light glints off something massive and angular, moving with silent purpose in the shadows above.

'Count is twelve, Jubes', Kitty whispers, the comm-link in her ear buzzing static. 'Maybe fifteen. They’re herding us'.

'Smart tin cans', Jubilee whispers back, a bravado Kitty knows is as thin as tissue. 'Let’'s just blow the support column on the west side like we planned and bail before the whole Children of the Corn convention up there gets their act together'.

Kitty nods, but the motion feels heavy. She’s been phasing for hours straight on this recon-turned-ambush, slipping through walls, through earth, through solid steel to map the Sentinel nesting grounds. The exhaustion isn’t just in her muscles, but also in her bones, in her soul. Each phase feels like pushing through hardening cement. If only the long-distance comms weren’t jammed. Storm would’ve already called down a gale on these bastards by now. Logan? He'd be elbow-deep in hydraulic fluid and loving it. But tonight, it’s just them: two women with a serious case of lack-of-backup syndrome.

'On my mark', Kitty says. 'Three… two…'.

A deafening shriek of tearing metal drowns her out. The ceiling directly above Jubilee erupts downwards as a Sentinel, red optic sensor burning like a damned star, crashes through. Its massive hand, large enough to crush a car, swipes down.

'Jubilee!'.

There’s a blast of multicolored light, a yelp of pain, and then silence. The Sentinel straightens, and in its fist, held limp like a discarded doll, is Jubilee. Her head lolls, her spark extinguished.

Ice floods Kitty’s veins. The mission is gone. The plan is gone. There is only the swarm, and the friend she has to take back, to get out. So, she phases through the beam in an instant, like a ghost. The Sentinel holding Jubilee doesn’t see her coming. Kitty runs, a sprint of pure desperation, and passes directly through the machine’s ankle joint. As her body merges with the complex circuitry and super-dense alloys, a wave of nauseating fatigue hits her. It’s like swimming upstream in a river made of butter. She pushes, though, and her form disrupts the kinetic stabilizers.

The Sentinel stumbles, grip loosening. Jubilee slips from its hand, and Kitty solidifies just in time to catch her, stumbling under the dead weight. She phases them both, dropping through the grating floor just as a searing plasma bolt vaporizes the space they occupied.

Down into a sub-level, dark and reeking of oil. Kitty lays Jubilee down gently behind a stack of corroded barrels. A pulse, weak but there. Alive. For now. God, her arm’s bent wrong. Please don’t let it be broken. Kitty presses two fingers to her own temple, willing the comms to spit out anything but static. Nothing. Just the drip-drip of rainwater seeping through cracks above, and the distant footfalls of the Sentinel. Fifteen stories up, and counting.

Thoom. Thoom. Thoom.

They are coming. Not just from above. Walls shimmer and disgorge the hunter-killers, monolithic forms smashing through solid matter as easily as she phases through it. They keep coming.

She fights as a cornered animal. A Sentinel reaches for her, and she phases through its chest, screaming at the effort, leaving a cascade of sputtering electronics in her wake. Before she can even catch her breath, two more step from the walls, palms glowing with null-field emitters designed specifically for her. She ducks, weaves, and phases through the leg of one, causing it to crash into its companion. The collapse is temporary. Two more materialize from the gloom of a corridor.

For every one she disables, two more take its place. Her world narrows to the next dodge, the next desperate phase, the next lung-crushing gasp of air. She phases a grasping hand, then a head, then an entire torso, each transition slower and more agonizing than the last. She is at her limit.

Damn it, Logan would've dealt with these things ten minutes ago. Storm would've conjured a hurricane. Scott... he would've had a plan, one of those where, no matter how bad things got, the math always worked out. But she's just a woman running out of places to jump. Captain Kate Pryde, her ass. If she gets out of this, she's buying Emma a drink. Maybe ten.

A mistake. A second of hesitation as she calculates a path to Jubilee’s hiding spot. It’s all that's needed for the blast t hit her from behind. A crismon-colored energy pulse. It slams into her spine and for a horrific, empty moment, everything that makes her Katherine Anne Pryde simply winks out. She is thrown forward, hitting the concrete with a crunch. Pain radiates from her back. She tries to phase, to sink into the safety of the floor.

Nothing happens.

She is solid. Terribly solid. The power is there, but the blast has thrown up a wall of interference, static between her will and her mutation. Kitty tries to rise, but her limbs don't obey. A shadow falls over her. Then another. And another. She rolls onto her back, gritting against the pain. Six Sentinel faces stare down, impassive and pitiless, optic sensors painting her with targeting lasers.

'Prime mutant designation: Shadowcat. Threat level: Neutralized. Terminate'.

{This is it}. That's cold, clear thoguht. She failed. Jubilee is next. The flame hope sputters and begins to die. It’s drowned in the hum of charging cannons, in the finality of her own solid flesh. {Jubes... I'm sorry. Mom... I love you...}.

Then, the targeting lasers dissolve. The air grows still and thick, pressure builds. The Sentinels freeze mid-motion, heads tilting as one, sensors flickering. Something has their attention.

Light.

A blinding, obliterating, golden light. It pours into the chamber from no discernible source, flooding every shadow, reflecting off every Sentinel shell until they look like gilded statues. It is warm, it is immense. In the center of the light, directly between Kitty and the killing machines, a form condenses.

He is tall, clad in golden armor, a sapphire cape flowing from his shoulders. His hair is blond, his features delicate and serene. He glows from within, like a god stepped from a forgotten myth. Robert Reynolds. The Sentry. The man who died fighting the god of the symbiotes, who got torn in half in space, who shouldn't be here... but is.

He stands firm, and the Sentinels are frozen. He looks down at Kitty, eyes so blue it should be impossible, holding no Void, no madness, only a profound and weary kindness. 'You’re going to be okay, Kitty. Both of you'.

The words are simple, yet bypass her ears and implant directly into her soul, like a warm needle stitching up frayed edges. The last of her strength, the last of her fear, lets go. The golden light fills her vision, then her mind, and then there is nothing.

Consciousness returns little by little. The smell of antiseptic. The faint beep of a monitor. The soft, cottony texture of sheets. Kitty opens her eyes to a strange, arched ceiling. The light is gentle, afternoon sun filtered through tall windows.

A movement to her left. Jubilee, perched on a stool, scrolling on her phone, a lollipop stick jutting from her mouth. A bandage is on her temple, but she’s whole. She’s alive. Thank God.

'Jubilee...?'.

'Kitty! You’re awake! Oh, man, you had us freaked! You’ve been out for, like... twenty hours!'.

Memories flood back, the rain, the swarm, the crushing solidity, the light. 'The Sentinels… how did we…?'.

'No clue', Jubilee says, popping the lollipop out. 'One minute I’m playing piñata for a toaster, the next I’m waking up in Scott's new base with you drooling next to me'. She gestures around the room: high ceilings, old wood. 'Illyana wouldn't leave your side for eighteen hours straight. Had to threaten her with a shower, and even then-'. She cuts herself short. 'Scott said there was a crater where the main tower used to be, and a whole lot of melted robot confetti. No sign of what did it. You don’t remember anything?'.

The golden light. The voice. The face. ''I… I think the Sentry was there...'. An angel, if Kitty didn't know better. If the demon hiding in his head didn't bleed through every so often.

Jubilee’s eyebrows shoot up. 'The Sentry? Kitty, he’s… he’s gone. Like, gone gone. For years now. Knull? The whole the I-got-myself-ripped-into-two-pieces-on-live-TV deal? The funeral?'.

'I know what I saw', Kitty says, though doubts begins to set in. The exhaustion was profound. The damage was severe. Hallucinations aren't off the table. Maybe Jubilee's right. Maybe it was just her brain misfiring... if it weren't for the fact melted killer robots don't just happen on their own.

'You sure it wasn't some weird Sentinel EMP?', Jubilee offers. 'A weird sychedelic pulse?'.

Kitty flexes her hands, solid, painfully so. 'No', she says, sharper than she means to. 'It was him. It had to be'. The IV in her arm tugs as she shifts, but she ignores it. 'I felt him. Like... like he spoke directly into my bones, Jubes. You don’t hallucinate that'.

She closes her eyes, calling back the image. Not the light, not the power, but him. Robert Reynolds, the Golden Guardian of Good. The sorrow in his gaze. The tone of his voice. 'You’re going to be okay, Katherine. Both of you'.

When she opens her eyes, Jubilee is gone. In her place, Illyana sits slumped in a chair that’s too small for her, elbows on her knees, chin propped on her fists. For a heartbeat, they just stare at each other. Then Illyana moves, a blur of black leather and golden bangs Kitty barely has time to brace before arms crush around her, fingers digging into her shoulders like talons.

'You stupid, reckless, brave idiot', her best friend hisses. 'I thought you...'. The words fracture. 'Next time, you take me with you'.

'Yana', Kitty whispers. The hug is too tight, bordering on painful, but she doesn't try to pull away. 'Kinda being crushed here'.

The infirmary door bursts open. Scott strides in, ruby-quartz visor glinting under the overhead lights. His jaw is set, shoulders rigid. 'Kitty', he says in that tactical tone of his. 'Glad you're awake. We got there as soon as we could. Comms were down, satellites scrambled. By the time Illyana's tracer pinged-'.

'Scott', Illyana says, still gripping Kitty's shoulders. 'She just woke up. Let's give her a minute'.

Kitty grins up at her, wincing slightly at the pull of bruised ribs. 'Crushing me won’t undo the Sentinel-induced trauma, Yana. Unless that’s your new therapeutic technique. Haven't read that one in medical journals yet'.

Illyana snorts. 'Shut up', she says, but the grip loosens by a fraction. Kitty can breathe again, though Yana's fingers still twitch against her shoulders like she's afraid to let go entirely. 'I should kick your butt just for making me worry like that'.

Kitty grins wider. 'You? Worry? Please'. She ignores the way her ribs protest, the way her lungs feel like they're lined with sandpaper. 'You should've seen it, Yana. Sentinels raining down like bad taste at a supervillain gala. And me? Dodging like I was auditioning for Mutant Ninja Warrior'.

Yet, as happy as Kitty is, alive, surrounded by friends, she can’t shake the crawling sensation of offness clinging to her like tar. A blinding light lingers behind her eyelids when she blinks, haunting and undeniable. The Sentinels should’ve torn them apart. Melted robot scraps doesn’t just happen. Somebody helped them. Somebody with golden armor and a sapphire cape, who spoke directly to her soul. Somebody whose funeral she watched from the Green Lagoon’s bar stools, when Krakoa seemed too bright and too loud for grief.

Chapter Text

Kang sits in the observation chamber of his new Damocles Base, a fortress that exists in the space between the seconds of the year 3000, watching a woman die for the third time. Her colleagues are all dead, her research reduced to scattered ash and echoes of screams. A so-called brotherhood names her a traitor to their kind, a scientist who dared to ask whether the X-Gene could be removed, their powers be undone.

'Listen to me, child', a masked woman seated front of her says, 'my mutant name is Destiny, and I have the power to see the future'.

A faint smile curls at the edge of Kang's lips. Ah, Irene. Always so sure of her ability, so confident in the paths she unravels with those clouded eyes. A prophetess who witness futures like branches splitting... but never the roots.

'You killed all my friends', Doctor Moira MacTaggert hisses, tears cutting through the blood smeared across her face. 'You killed everyone. So if you're going to kill me, too, just do it and get it over with'.

'Oh, we will', Destiny assures her, 'but there is no point if we have to do it all over again'. No? Yet another thing Irene Adler fails to perceive: repetition has its own rhythm, a melody only the truly patient can hear. Much like the way a century loops back on itself when one lives long enough, patterns emerging in the chaos like constellations drifting into alignment. 'Listen closely, Moira', Irene continues. 'Destiny has a message for you'.

'We are a disease', Moira says. 'An anomaly. But I'm not forcing anyone into a cure. I'm offering them a choice'.

'You think this won't escalate?', Irene replies. 'That the moment you offer a way out, the world won't force mutants into chains and needles? Have you failed to realized how much do the humans hate us?'. Kang smiles, fully this time. Always the victims, always the martyrs. Never the storm, never the blight. Poor persecuted souls with the power to level continents who still complain their inferiors don't understand them. 'The humans will come back for you, Moira. They will chain you, break you. They will make you their own. Mankind will use what you've created to erase us from existence. I've seen the potential of your works, and I do not care for them'.

'How exactly do you plan to stop me next time?', Moira spits, breath ragged, wrists moving against the restraints. 'You can't kill me permanently. I can always try again'.

'You think your reincarnation is a form of immortality, yes?'. Destiny runs a gloved finger along the edge of Moira's jaw. 'But you are wrong. I see... ten lives. Maybe eleven, if you make the right choices... but that is all. You are born each time with memories of your previous selves, but if you die before your thirteenth birthday, the day your mutation manifests... well, then you simply die'.

'And what if I don't believe you?'. Moira's voice cracks, but her gaze is still defiant. 'For all I know, you're just trying to break me'.

Destiny tilts her head. 'My dear, you're a scientist. Tell me: how would one go about proving something like that?'.

That gives helpless Moira pause, Kang notes, and for the first time since the Brotherhood dragged her into the room, the defiance in her eyes seems to waver. 'I... I test it. In my next life, I die before thirteen'.

Destiny nods slowly, like a teacher coaxing the correct answer from a reluctant student. 'The question is: will you? Or will you embrace what you are and help us forge a future where mutants no longer have to hide?'

Moira's throat works silently. 'I... don't know...'.

Irene stands abruptly. 'Then let's find out'.

'I don't want to die like this', Moira whispers.

'Dying like this is what your evil deeds and your poorly-lived life gets you'. Destiny does not raise her voice. 'Pyro?'.

Saint-John Allerdyce steps forward. 'Yes, ma'am?'. The fire at his fingertips dances in erratic swirls, hungry and impatient.

'Burn her. And slowly, so she doesn't forget how dying like this feels'.

Thus Moira MacTaggert's third life ends: screaming in agony, cursing through clenched teeth, skin peeling away in blackened strips. Kang watches it all unfold from his throne, a gold goblet swirling in one hand, sixth-century wine aged into something viscous and potent. Expedient, he thinks, to see how thoroughly the Brotherhood breaks her. Expedient to know how many lives she has left before her curious existence finally snuffs out. If he does not intervene, that is.

That is the thing about Nathaniel Richards, heir to a genetic fortune that ran dry by the time he was born: it is not a matter of possible or impossible, only useful or not. And Moira X, this woman who dies and wakes and dies again, is useful. Irene less so, but not entirely without merit.

Kang sips his wine, bittersweet, thick as oil. The goblet dissolves into fractal dust before it can hit the floor. His armor registers the happenings in the different streams of time. Moira's fourth life is beginning somewhere in 1975 Scotland, while Irene's powers are adjusting to this new timeline's variables. The Brotherhood will find Moira again, should she choose the same path of defiance. After all, the longer she lives in this new reality, the more her own experiences accumulate, her own pasts, her own data, making Destiny's foresight sharper, clearer, more precise.

A chuckle, a stretch, and Kang rises from his throne, the soles of his boots clicking against the fractal-glass floor. The observation chamber shifts, walls rippling like disturbed water, revealing the infinite sprawl of the timestream beyond, frayed edges and knotted possibilities. He steps forward, fingertips brushing the surface, and the year 3000 dissolves into the year 1963 BC, home to the Twelfth Dynasty of Egypt. He needs some air, some form of amusement before deciding if he should intervene.

And so, Kang the Conqueror morphs into Rama-­Tut. The green-purple armor is replaced by a kilt of pleated linen, comfortable and light, while his helm dissolves into a nemes headcloth, striped gold and lapis lazuli, framing his face in stiff folds. His blue mask gives way to a long, ceremonial beard on his chin, symbolizing his connection to the divine. The six-hundred-year-old Sphinx gazes upon him with knowing eyes, the stare of a monument recognizing its architect.

Kang conquers, just like Rama-Tut builds. The Scarlet Centurion battles, just like Victor Timely invents. Facets of a same being performing different functions in the same gamut, just like the idols these Bronze Age natives carve from stone: same worship, different attributes. All of them him. All of them Nathaniel Richards.

Moira MacTaggert's seventh life has come. She's eradicating the Trask bloodline, hoping to prevent the rise of Sentinels. She's methodical, cold, but still human enough to vomit after killing Bolivar's pregnant daughter. She pulls through, nevertheless, because she has seen what happens when she hesitates. Destiny, somewhere in the world, is already dreaming of her. Kang knows this. He's seen the threads converge before. Alas, poor Moira, artificial intelligence is inevitable. Remove Trask, another mind fills the void. Always.

Kang observes first, meticulously. That's the discipline his ancestors never learned: the patience to simply watch. Franklin would have tried to fix things immediately. Reed would have meddled prematurely. Doom... well, Doom would have set himself up as a god and demanded worship. Scott and Jean would have fought bravely, but ultimately foolishly, against inevitability. Rachel would have raged against yet another future where genetic anomalies meant slaughter. Jonathan Reed would have moved to take over the entire cluster of timelines with sheer might, only to be brought to heel by the cosmic keepers of order. Amora... Amora would have complained about the disrespect gods receive in this era. Vincent would surely have enacted something grandiose and spectacularly useless.

But not Kang. Not Nathaniel Richards, descended from autocrats and scientists, from rulers and explorers, from universal shapers and vessels of primordial power. Having inherited nothing from them but will and genius, he leans against a sandstone pillar in the ruins of Amenemhat's abandoned palace in Itjtawy, watching the Nile carve its sluggish path through the centuries. He breathes in the dry, ancient air, unchanged in all his travels, and exhales a laugh.

Moira's eight life is unfolding predictably, like a scroll unrolling toward a pre-written end. An Acolyte. That's her choice this time: swearing fealty to Magneto's vision, kneeling before his throne on Island M, pledging to burn the old world clean. Kang watches her speak the oath, and wonders if she truly believes it or if this is merely another experiment. 'Mutantkind will rise', she declares, head bowed, 'and humanity will kneel or perish'. The irony is delicious. She who once sought to erase the X-Gene now wraps herself in its righteousness.

Needless to say, Earth's Mightiest Heroes will soon arrive and vanquish them, like they always do. Victory will be short-lived, again, forcing her to seek Apocalypse's favor in her ninth life, starting a war in the hopes of pruning the weak. Lateral thinking, perhaps, or maybe just brutish desperation. Kang watches this, too, reclining in the wreckage of a fallen civilization, amused by the predictability of it all.

Ah, En Sabah Nur. He has come a long way since they met last, when he was still just another would-be warlord hoping carving his name across the Bronze Age. A promising, if intellectual limited, youth who believed himself the first mutant, not realizing the other Externals were laughing at him from the shadows: Selene and Saul and Nicodemus, whispering behind their hands as Apocalypse declaimed his manifestos in the ruins of Akkad. He was useful then, and Kang wonders if he will be useful now. If Moira will be useful with him.

The answer, much like En Sabah Nur himself, proves to be initially intriguing, but ultimately disappointing. Kang watches from the periphery as Moira's ninth life unfolds: Apocalypse's war, the fall of nations, the Man-Engine Supremacy rising from the ashes like a phoenix forged from steel and spite. The same patterns emerge, the same desperate gambits, the same hollow victories. All so that the remaining mutants can become glorified livestock for the Shi'ar. Warrior stock, yes, but stock nonetheless.

Moira, armed with the secrets of Nimrod's genesis, means to step into her tenth life, purpose burning brighter than ever. But Kang knows better. Kang always knows better. There are too many gaps, too many blind spots in her understanding. Variables she cannot account for, forces she cannot see ebbing and flowing through the space-time continuum. Her tenth life will fail even more spectacularly than the ninth. He's seen it already, unfolding like a recursive loop... unless he intervenes.

How tragically fitting: the success of her plan for a mutant paradise rests on the shoulders of a baseline human with no powers at all. Amused beyond measure, Kang steps through the veil of ages.

Destiny's power is absolute within her own timestream, true enough. She sees every possibility, every branching path, every potential outcome. But she sees them from within the river. She cannot see the banks. She cannot see the hands that divert the current.

And so Kang tweaks.

He begins small. A nudge here, a whisper there. He travels back to the moments before Irene's visions, adjusting the parameters of reality so subtly that the futures she sees are slightly, just slightly, different. Not wrong. Not false. Merely... curated.

He goes back to Life Three and makes sure Moira meets a particular researcher who gives her a particular idea about genetics she missed before. He goes back to Life Five and ensures that Mystique's path crosses with a particular Shi'ar arms dealer who provides a particular piece of technology. He goes back to Life Eight and arranges for a particular Sentinel prototype to fail in a particular way that sends Moira down a particular line of inquiry.

None of it is direct. None of it is obvious. Kang is wearing down mountains one drop at a time, not smashing them apart with force. The timestream is a fractal equation to be rewritten variable by variable. By the time Moira wakes in her tenth life, all pieces are in place, pending only her choices and some minor details he will see to personally.

Such are the trappings of true power: not redundantly grand gestures that ripple across timelines like childish tantrums, but small, surgical manipulations that compound over centuries. Kang watches as the timelines shiver around him like a spider web that's been plucked. To Destiny, to Moira, to all the players on this board, however, the changes are imperceptible, incorporated seamlessly into their perceived reality. That's the art of it, he reflects. Actual competence means no one ever realizes they're being guided at all.

Life Ten.

Moira is born again. Same crib. Same parents. Same tired, ancient eyes. But this time, everything is different. This time, the mutants rise.

Kang watches from his throne between seconds as Charles Xavier and Max Eisenhardt build their island nation, as mutants from across the world gather on Krakoa, as the dreams of generations finally bear fruit.

He watches Irene's prophecies unfold exactly as she predicted. Every step, every milestone., every triumph. Destiny now sits on the Quiet Council, blind eyes seeing all, and she thinks: 'This is a good future'.

She never once questions the way the pieces aligned so perfectly, nor is she able to understand that the Krakoan Age is, in a very real sense, Kang's work. Not his creation, not quite. He didn't erect the island or forge the alliances or heal the wounds of centuries. Moira did that. Xavier did that. Magneto did that. Destiny and Apocalypse and all the rest... they built Krakoa with their own hands, their own blood, their own sacrifices. But they only did so because Kang laid the groundwork, century by century, life by life, adjusting outcomes so infinitesimally that no one, not even Irene, noticed the prints of his fingers on the fabric of fate.

He goes back to 1901 and makes sure a particular botanist discovers a particular property of a particular plant that will later be crucial to Krakoan medicine. He goes back to 1942 and ensures that a particular mutant child survives a particular concentration camp so that a particular descendant of hers will exist to serve the Council. He goes back to 1973 and adjusts the trajectory of a particular bullet so that it misses a particular target by inches, preserving a particular bloodline essential to his designs.

Kang does this thousands of times. Millions. Each adjustment so small, so subtle, that the timeline barely ripples. Each change so perfectly placed that it feels like history, like inevitability, like the natural unfolding of events. The mutants of Krakoa look at their nation and see a miracle. Kang looks at Krakoa and sees a mosaic. Millions of tiny tiles, each placed by his hand, forming an image only he can see from his vantage point outside of time.

Destiny sits in her chambers on Krakoa. She sees the future of mutantkind stretching out before her, bright and terrible and glorious. She sees the wars to come, the victories, the losses. She sees her own death, distant but certain. She does not see the man who stands behind her in the timestream, adjusting the focus of her visions.

Kang watches her work and feels something almost like affection. Irene Adler is magnificent, a mind that pierces the curtain of causality, that reads the universe like a book. In another time, another life, he might have courted her. He might have made her an ally. But Kang doesn't need courtesans anymore. Kang doesn't need allies. Kang needs instruments to be tuned and played. And Irene Adler, fascinating Irene Adler, is one of finest instrument he's ever acquired.

The curious thing about prophecies is that they're self-fulfilling.

Destiny sees the future and tells her followers what's coming. Her followers act on that knowledge, shaping events to match the prophecy. The prophecy comes true, confirming Destiny's power, which makes her followers trust her more, which makes them act more decisively on her next prophecy.

It's a beautiful closed loop. A perfect system. Unless someone is standing outside the loop, adjusting the input. Kang goes back to January of 1981 and ensures that a particular conversation between Destiny and Mystique happens sixty-six seconds later than originally scheduled, just enough time for a particular piece of information to reach Irene's ears through other channels, enlightening her understanding of a vague future she saw years prior.

Irene never notices the change. Why would she? The information came to her naturally. She doesn't know that Kang arranged for it to arrive at that precise moment, in that precise way, to produce that precise outcome. She sees the future, but she doesn't see the future being made.

Kang visits Krakoa in person, once. He wears the face of a minor diplomat, a bureaucrat from some obscure nation no one cares about but all pretend to respect. He walks the white sands of the living island, feels Krakoa's consciousness beneath his feet, breathes the air thick with exotic flowers and mutant pheromones.

He watches children play in the sun, powers manifesting in small, harmless ways. A girl floats past on a platform of telekinetic force. A boy turns sand into glass sculptures with a touch. A toddler makes flowers bloom in circles around her blanket. This is his work. This fragile peace. This foolish hope. He made it possible.

Without his nudges, his tweaks, his patient adjustments across centuries, this moment would not exist. The mutants would still be scattered, still fighting, still dying in meaningless ways, awaiting the slaughter likes lambs before a sacrificial altar. Instead, they thrive. Krakoa blossoms. Destiny's prophecies unfold precisely as foretold. All thanks to Kang.

He sits on a bench overlooking the sea, watching a pair argue about something trivial. They're alive, present, certain that this moment is real, and that's what makes them useful. Eva Bell and Joshua Foley, Tempus and Elixir, their powers wasted on petty grievances. Kang has observed the woman for quite a while now. Time is her slave, indeed, but she doesn’t understand how small her plantation truly is. She could be more. She could be so much more. It is a shame, watching talent squandered, potency diluted by the need for mediocre belonging.

Of course, Kang would erase her, without hesitation, without remorse, if Eva Bell ever truly grasped the scope of her gifts, if she ever dared to reach beyond the shallow puddle of Krakoan politics and peer into the deeper currents of time. He watches her now. Tempus, they call her, as if naming a child’s toy, eyes full of the unconscious desire to twist the seconds around her like clay. But she doesn’t. She won’t. She believes in Krakoa’s dream, in Destiny’s visions, in the fragile peace of this manufactured paradise. And that, Kang muses, is why she will never ascend.

He stays for an hour, then leaves. No one notices the unassuming diplomat vanish between one blink and the next. No one notices the faint distortion in the air where he sat. No one notices the architect, not even Cerebro's omnipresent gaze. Such trinket was never designed to perceive beings with a thousand years of technological advancement. Such trinket, Kang thinks, stepping back into the timestream, would never be able to comprehend its own irrelevance. Like a Byzantine fleet trying to fathom a nuclear submarine lurking beneath the waves, like mutants thinking their abilities makes them gods, when they're only ever-dancing shadows flickering against a cave wall, heedless of the sun beyond.

Destiny has a vision, late one night. It's strange, fuzzy around the edges in a way her visions seldom are. She sees a figure standing at the crossroads of time, watching, waiting. She sees hands reaching through centuries, adjusting, arranging. She sees a throne made of moments, a crown woven from possibilities. It's disconcerting, unnerving, but before she can grasp the meaning, the vision dissolves into mist, leaving behind only an uneasy prickle at the back of her neck. She wakes gasping, her heart pounding.

'What is it?', Mystique asks, hand on her wife's arm.

'A vision', Destiny says. 'Something... something is happening'.

'Another war?'.

'I'm not sure', Destiny replies. 'It's not like anything I've seen before. It felt... wrong'. She rubs her temples. 'It felt like pages of a book being shuffled out of order by unseen hands'.

She doesn't sleep again that night. In the morning, she consults her powers again, searching for the figure, the feeling, the wrongness. But the futures are clear again, sharp and certain. A nightmare? A fluke? A stray thought? Irene Adler does not believe in coincidences, but neither does she believe in figments. Her ability is not as great as she's lead others to believe, and there have been times when her foresight has produced mangled visions... but even then, they always have meaning. She resolves to meditate on it later. For now, the Quiet Council awaits.

In his Damocles Base, Kang smirks and adjusts the parameters slightly. He'll have to be more careful. Irene is sharper than he gave her credit for. A truly remarkable woman, to perceive even a fraction of his interference through the haze of her own precognition. But not remarkable enough to understand what she glimpsed. More's the pirty. Part of him would have enjoyed showing himself, watching the shock on her face as she realized how thoroughly she'd been played. Timing is everything, though. Kang has waited eons. He can wait a little longer. When Orchis finally attacks Krakoa, when the mutants flee through the gates, when dream collapses... that's when he'll step in properly. Not before.

Even so, he dedicates a few words to the women he’s watched for lifetimes now. It's only appropriate. One does not sculpt statues without admiring the stone. 'Thank you, Moira and Irene. You were the most excellent of tools. I look forward to the day you discover just how perfectly I wielded you'.