Chapter 53
Sitting on the couch, Gwen recounted what had happened, her words coming in bursts. Her voice held no panic, only a cold, analytical anxiety. Lately, out of costume, she'd felt like she was being watched. Elusive, professional surveillance. A sticky, unpleasant sensation of a shadow at the edge of her vision that vanished the moment she turned around.
"They don't touch Spider-Woman," she finished. "When I'm masked, it stops. They need Gwen Stacy specifically."
"It makes sense. It's predictable." I nodded. "We have three options. Let's go from least likely to most obvious."
"Let's hear it." Gwen looked at me attentively.
"Option one: Kingpin. Your identity is probably no secret to him. Mine probably isn't either. But the chances that it's his people are extremely low."
"Why?" she asked, surprised. "It seems like the first thing that comes to mind. We bled his empire pretty well. He lost a ton of valuable assets. It makes sense that he'd either retaliate openly or at least observe."
"It's not his style. From what I can tell, Fisk is a frighteningly cunning and cautious bastard. Sticking his neck out prematurely and getting into a direct confrontation with people who've already proven their effectiveness is an irrational move. For him, it's a high-risk game with minimal payoff. If you or I spotted his watchers, it would bring him huge problems. And not just from us. There's also Blade, who, as he probably suspects, would gladly tear out his throat even from another country. And there's Frank, a dark horse, a psychopathic vigilante you can never predict. There are too many risks."
"Erik left after all?" she asked.
"Yeah. His presence here was basically a red flag for every intelligence service in the city. He got out while he still could." I shrugged. "Which brings us to option two. The CIA."
"The CIA?" That clearly didn't compute. "What do they want from me?"
"You." I gave her a crooked smirk. "Strange as it sounds, specifically you. The strength of any foreign intelligence service depends on its field agents, and you're an ideal candidate. You're young, strong, you've got unique abilities, and most importantly, you've got leverage."
"But I'm not..."
"They don't care." I cut her off sharply. "Trust me, these guys play dirty. They could pin Fisk's death on you and offer to let you 'atone for your guilt' by working for Uncle Sam. That's exactly why I don't want to deal with them."
"Deal with them?" You've already gotten offers?
"They've tried to reach out a few times, but I'm holding out for now." I chuckled. "Bottom line, the CIA is a real threat. But judging by how subtle and professional the surveillance is, I'm betting on the most likely third option: S.H.I.E.L.D."
"S.H.I.E.L.D.?" Gwen frowned. "You mentioned them once, but it was in passing. Who even are they?"
"In short, they're supposedly a secret supranational organization. Top-tier. They handle things beyond the scope of normal reality: international terrorism, supernatural threats, rogue metahumans..."
"Supposedly?" She caught the uncertainty in my voice.
"Well, their scope is pretty broad." I scratched the back of my head. "What I know for sure is that everything involving mutants, aliens, magic, and other crazy stuff is their department."
"I... I'm not even going to ask about aliens," Gwen said with a sigh.
"Good call." I smiled encouragingly. "We're not talking about them right now, though. We're talking about S.H.I.E.L.D. As long as they're just studying you, don't make any sudden moves. That's my main concern at the moment. And there's a good chance that in the near future, we'll be working with them as partners."
At that moment, the elevator doors opened again. Peter walked in, looking worried and slightly disheveled. After a brief greeting, he plopped down on the couch next to me. I quickly brought him up to speed.
"Um... so working for S.H.I.E.L.D. is... safe?" That was Peter's first question. "I mean, if they're as elite as you say, their enemies are on that level too. Do we really need to get involved with them?"
"There are always risks," I answered. A thought about Hydra flashed through my mind, and a chill ran down my spine. "But the payoff from cooperating with them is much greater than if we keep running guerrilla operations in the shadows without any cover or resources."
"But still... Being under the thumb of intelligence services..." Gwen trailed off.
"Oh, don't worry about that." My voice rang with steel. "I'm not going to ask them for anything. I'm going to dictate terms. I'll secure us a status where they'll treat us with kid gloves. This won't be employment. It'll be a strategic partnership. But for now, these are just plans. I think they'll make contact as soon as tomorrow. I'll definitely let you know how the negotiation goes."
"Tomorrow?!" Peter and Gwen exclaimed in unison.
"And that's with them dragging their feet." I smirked. "Apparently, they were waiting for me to finish my business. And honestly, I'm already itching to get my hands on the most high‑tech lab in the world and its unique resources."
"And if your plan, whatever it is, doesn't work out?" Peter asked cautiously, genuine worry in his voice. "If they don't want to negotiate and try to... well, use force?"
"Force?" I smirked. "Force is a language everyone understands. It's unlikely S.H.I.E.L.D. would stoop to such stupidity. But for them and everyone else, I've got a very unpleasant surprise prepared."
I rose from the couch. With a mental command, the Chimera from my inventory enveloped my body. The low hum of the activating reactor filled the room. I saw Gwen instinctively tense, her body coiling into a seated combat stance. Peter just froze with his mouth open, letting out a quiet, amazed gasp.
So this is what I've been absorbed in these last few days. My voice came out muffled and distorted through the helmet. While you, Peter, were off having fun with MJ, I was creating. While you, Gwen, didn't even text to see if you could help, I was creating. I raised my hand, cutting off the apologies before they could start. This isn't me calling you out. It's just a statement of fact. We're supposedly a team, but there aren't enough hours in the day for me to handle everything alone. I need you to take initiative.
"I... um... sorry, John," Peter mumbled guiltily. "Everything just kind of piled up... my uncle recovering, my aunt being happy, and MJ..."
"Don't apologize, Peter. Just do better next time, and learn from it. Some of this is on me, too. I didn't give you specific assignments. Although..." I remembered something. "Peter, did you get a chance to review Dr. Connors' complete serum research?"
"Why do you need it?" Gwen immediately interjected, having also participated in its creation.
"It's breakthrough technology," I explained. "With Peter's intellect, boosted by the cognitive enhancers, we can quickly eliminate the side effects, refine it, and we'll have a universal cure in our hands. It's a huge tactical advantage." At this, Gwen nodded thoughtfully.
"Um... to be honest, it kind of slipped my mind," Peter admitted sheepishly.
I counted to ten in my head, calming down.
"Ugh, fine." I deactivated the Chimera, and the suit disappeared into my inventory just as quickly, which noticeably relaxed Gwen. Since this was turning into an "evening of revelations," I might as well clear up a few more things. "By the way, Peter, that genius of yours didn't come from nowhere. Who were your parents? Famous scientists or something?"
"I wouldn't say they were famous... They were ordinary biologists. They died in the Amazon under unclear circumstances..."
"And they didn't leave you any inheritance?"
"Well, only debts that my aunt and uncle had to deal with... Um, why are you asking?"
Of course, it was because of Venom. Or rather, the slim chance that an artificially created version of it existed here. But I told Peter something different.
"Brains. They left you their genius as an inheritance. It's a sin not to use it, Pete!"
"Well... yeah, I guess," he agreed awkwardly.
"More confidence, Pete. You're a walking asset worth hundreds of billions of dollars, as Erik would say." I smirked and turned to Gwen. "Your turn. How did you get your powers, if it's not a secret?"
Peter also stared at the girl with interest.
"Not really a secret." Gwen shrugged. "I used to be into parkour. At one of the abandoned buildings, some weird spider bit me. I panicked, swatted it off, and crushed it. Then I had a fever for a couple of days, and voila... I'm Spider-Woman."
"Do you have the address of the building?"
Getting the address, I immediately punched it into my phone's maps. Bingo. The building right next door officially belonged to Oscorp. Though it was listed as a warehouse, I was sure it hid a laboratory. At least that part made sense.
After transferring the money to Peter, I decided it was time to wrap things up.
"Okay, I think I've got everything figured out. Peter, task number one: Connors' serum. Gwen, I'd appreciate it if you helped him. It's in our mutual interest." I waited for confirming nods from my, heh, team members. "I transferred the money to you, Peter. You can go. Gwen, please stay a couple of minutes. I've got a delicate assignment for you."
Peter glanced distractedly at the text notification about receiving five thousand dollars and didn't even bother asking what I had planned for Gwen. He was too wrapped up in his own problems. After a quick goodbye and another thank you, promising to work off every cent, he left.
Gwen waited until the elevator closed, then crossed her arms, staring at me with interest.
"So, what's this 'delicate' assignment?"
The spacious headmaster's office was flooded with sunlight pouring through a panoramic window overlooking an immaculate lawn. In the distance, children laughed and played. They were the future that Charles Xavier so desperately tried to protect. The air in the office, paneled in polished mahogany, smelled of old psychology books, expensive Chinese tea, and calm. A calm that was now disrupted.
Two men occupied the room. Charles himself, a smiling bald man of about fifty, sat in his futuristic wheelchair, silently hovering on a magnetic cushion. Opposite him, in a deep leather chair, sat a man whose power was comparable to Charles's, though of a different nature. Erik Lehnsherr. Magneto. He was younger, and in his bearing, sitting straight as a taut string, one could sense a compressed spring of colossal energy.
A helmet sat on his head. It was an elegant but formidable creation of titanium and a mythical vibranium alloy, with a shielding layer of mu-metal. This helmet wasn't just protection. It was a barrier. A statement. It was the reason Erik had dared to show himself to his old friend for the first time in two long years of silence. He was no longer defenseless against that all-penetrating gaze.
"Once again, Charles, I'm not demanding privileges or a special status." Erik's voice was low and even, but there was metal in it. "I'm demanding one thing: stop being ghosts. Stop hiding in the cracks, as if we're something shameful that needs to be hidden from the world."
"Erik... your impatience blinds you again," Charles replied gently, almost with paternal sadness, shaking his head. "You don't see the fragility of the equilibrium we've managed to achieve. This status quo benefits both sides."
"It benefits a handful of power-hungry bastards!" Anger flared in Erik's voice. "Those who exploit the public's ignorance to quietly round up our brothers and sisters! Children, Charles! They recruit them, forcing them to die for Uncle Sam, or worse, they throw them into their filthy labs, trying for the thousandth time to recreate that damned Erskine serum using our blood!"
"And on the other side of the scales, my friend," Charles said quietly, "lies only fear. Irrational, primal fear of the unknown. It's a fear that can escalate into genocide in a single moment. I feel it, Erik. Every day. In the minds of millions. It's an icy, suffocating hatred, ready to ignite from a single spark. Our current path is a compromise, but it's certainly better than an open war. We help them secretly, proving through our deeds, not our words, that we're not a threat. Every person we save is a seed of doubt planted in their hatred."
"That's a slave's strategy, Charles!" Erik leaned forward, his eyes flashing furiously. "You're asking the masters for permission to be free! You hope to earn their favor! We must declare ourselves openly, become a unified force! Publicity will unite us. It will give hope to those who hide. In the long run, this will lead to laws protecting our rights, to integration, to recognition!"
"We live in relative peace, Erik. Our ranks are growing. Most people have left us alone. Even the government doesn't cross the invisible line, fearing the consequences. Isn't it better to let time do its work? Let them get used to us and accept us gradually?"
"'Accept'?" Erik snarled, jumping to his feet. "They'll never accept us! Not as equals! To hell with you and your passivity! I'm tired of these empty, cowardly conversations!"
"I beg you, my friend... don't make a mistake that we'll all regret..."
"A mistake?" Erik spun around at the door, his face twisted in a grimace of pain and fury. "Wanting a better future for our people is a mistake in your opinion?"
"Each of us has his or her own understanding of this 'better future,' too different from one another's," Charles noted, his voice was phlegmatic, filled with deep bitterness.
"And your understanding, Charles, will only lead to us being quietly slaughtered, one by one, in the darkness!"
He didn't wait any longer. Without looking back, Erik Lehnsherr left the office, leaving behind a ringing silence and an old friend's shattered hopes.
It was time to act. It was time to send out a call among those who were tired of hiding. The Brotherhood... Yes. The Brotherhood of Mutants would be born.
He remembered his first hunt. The smell of wet earth in the African savanna, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, the weight of an old rifle in his hands. Back then, he had hunted lions and rhinos, creatures of flesh and blood. Then his prey changed. He began hunting for power: mystical rituals lost in remote jungles, ancient elixirs that could stop time itself.
Once he had gained power, he began hunting the powerful.
Sergei Kravinoff. A name almost forgotten by the world. But his nickname, whispered in dark circles, made even the planet's most powerful people tremble: Kraven the Hunter.
He was a living anachronism. A relic of a bygone era of great adventures who had not only survived but flourished in the new century, the century of gods and monsters. Seventy years of an active career as a meta-mercenary had turned him into a legend. And one day, the legend found his patron. An anonymous client whose resources seemed limitless and whose goals were intriguing. Tens of millions of dollars flowed into his accounts, but money had long since ceased to be an end in itself for Sergei. It was merely a means, fuel for his an all-consuming passion.
The hunt.
His patron understood his nature. He didn't hire Kraven. He unleashed him, feeding him the most challenging targets. As was the case now.
Kraven sat in a deep chair in his armory. The walls of this hall were his chronicle: a dragon skull from the Balkans, the power helmet of a defeated dictator, a huge jagged fang from a creature not described in any textbook. He ran his finger across the screen of a secure tablet. On it was a new contract.
TARGET: John Thompson. AGE: 19 years. IDENTIFICATION: Presumably Alpha-level mutant. Spatial-type ability (personal subspace/space manipulation). Genius engineer. SPECIAL NOTES: Limits of ability unknown. Highly likely incapable of directly affecting living organisms. LOCATION: New York, Brooklyn. OBJECTIVE: Capture alive. COMPENSATION: $10,000,000.
Kraven leaned back in his chair, the corners of his mouth slowly curving upward to bear a predatory grin beneath his thick mustache. He looked like a ferocious man in his prime, roughly thirty-five years old. No one would guess he was ninety-seven. Behind the eyes of the old lion who had watched empires fall, a primal hunger ignited.
What an interesting specimen. Nineteen years old. Young, which meant bold and overconfident. Alpha-level, which meant a worthy challenge. But the true prize was the spatial manipulation. This was prey capable of warping reality itself. This wouldn't be just a hunt. It would be another chess match. And the order to "capture alive"... Killing is a craft. Running down, exhausting, and capturing something like this alive, that is true art. Ten million dollars was merely a pleasant bonus atop the real prize: the process itself.
A surge of raw exhilaration washed over him. He stood, muscles coiled like steel cables, rippling beneath his skin.
New York...
This city was a new preserve. Its concrete canyons teemed with the most dangerous and interesting game on the planet. Spiders, living embodiments of the elements, metas of every stripe and caliber. And now, his new target: a young mutant.
It was high time to visit these hunting grounds.
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