The grandfather clock in Xavier's mansion struck midnight with all the dramatic flair of a movie soundtrack, which was probably intentional—Professor Xavier had always been a bit theatrical. In the dormitory wing, four figures moved through the darkness with the kind of practiced silence that came from months of sneaking around a school full of telepaths, telekinetics, and at least one guy who could smell lies from three floors away.
Harry Potter—Marauder—pulled on his Ukrainian Ironbelly dragon hide armor piece by piece. The crimson and gold scales caught the moonlight streaming through the tall windows, each piece fitting together like puzzle pieces made by someone who took their puzzles very, very seriously. Underneath, the Acromantula silk bodysuit felt like wearing liquid midnight—flexible enough to move in, tough enough to stop bullets, and disturbingly comfortable for something made from giant spider silk.
"You know," Susan whispered as she adjusted her yellow and black armored Quidditch robes, her red hair catching the silver light, "most thirteen-year-olds spend their Friday nights playing video games or complaining about homework on social media."
Harry's emerald eyes sparkled with mischief as he settled the red hood over his dark hair, the magical obscurement immediately taking effect. His features became shadowed, mysterious, and significantly more likely to appear on wanted posters by morning.
"Susan, darling," Harry said, his voice now carrying the gravelly distortion that made him sound like he gargled gravel for recreational purposes, "most thirteen-year-olds don't have three gorgeous, brilliant, and moderately terrifying fiancées who would never let them live down backing out of their first patrol."
"Moderately terrifying?" Daphne Greengrass raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow as she pulled her white and ice-blue bodysuit over her head. Even in the dim light, her platinum blonde hair seemed to glow with an inner light that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with superior genetics. "Harry, darling, I'm *exceptionally* terrifying. Get it right."
"My apologies, Ice Queen," Harry said with an elaborate bow that somehow managed to be both mocking and genuinely affectionate. "You are, of course, catastrophically terrifying in the most attractive way possible."
Jean Grey—Phoenix—smoothed down her emerald green Basilisk hide bodysuit with hands that only trembled slightly. At fourteen, she was technically the oldest of their little group, which apparently made her the responsible one by default. This was a development that would have made her laugh if it wasn't so completely terrifying.
Her red hair cascaded over her shoulders like liquid fire, and when she looked at Harry with those expressive brown eyes, there was enough heat there to melt steel. "Are we absolutely, positively, one-hundred-percent sure this is a good idea?" she asked, though her voice carried the kind of fond exasperation that suggested she already knew the answer.
Harry's grin was visible even through the magical shadows covering his face. "Jean, love, since when have any of my ideas been 'good' in the traditional, boring, wouldn't-get-us-expelled sense of the word? They're brilliant, inspired, occasionally world-saving, and always memorable. 'Good' is for people who lack imagination and proper risk assessment skills."
"That's exactly what I was afraid of," Jean muttered, but she was already settling the emerald and gold Phoenix-themed circlet over her red locks. The magic kicked in immediately, transforming her voice into something that sounded like music played through crystal wind chimes.
Daphne began coating her exposed skin with a thin layer of ice, the crystalline coating forming with the kind of precision that made Swiss watchmakers weep with professional envy. In seconds, she looked like a living sculpture carved from winter itself—beautiful, deadly, and absolutely zero degrees Kelvin worth of patience for anyone who got in her way.
"Besides," Daphne said, her cryokinetic modifications giving her voice an otherworldly echo that somehow made everything she said sound vaguely threatening, "New York's crime statistics have been absolutely appalling lately. Someone needs to do something about it, and clearly the adults have been dropping the ball."
"And that someone is four teenagers with more magical power than impulse control?" Susan asked, pulling her hood up to complete her transformation into Veritas. The magical obscurement made her voice sound like it was coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, which was both cool and slightly disturbing.
"Exactly," Harry said, moving toward the window with the fluid grace of someone who had been sneaking out of heavily fortified locations since he was eleven years old. "We're overqualified, if anything. We've got a Dark Lord-defeating Boy-Who-Lived, a Phoenix-powered telepath, an ice princess who could freeze the Hudson River for fun, and a truth-seeking genius who could probably take over the world if she got bored enough. What could go wrong?"
"Logan's going to murder us," Jean pointed out, though she was already following him toward the window. "Slowly. With his claws. While lecturing us about responsibility and not getting ourselves killed."
"Logan's going to *try* to murder us," Harry corrected with the kind of confidence that came from being thirteen and absolutely convinced of his own invincibility. "There's a significant difference. And honestly, that's tomorrow Harry's problem. Tonight Harry is focused on fighting crime and looking devastatingly attractive while doing it."
"Your ego is showing, Potter," Daphne said, but there was enough warmth in her voice to melt her own ice armor.
"Good," Harry replied, opening the window with a casual wave of his hand that made the locks click open like they were eager to help. "It matches my devastatingly attractive face and my devastatingly attractive heroic persona. Everything should coordinate."
—
The mansion's security systems, designed by some of the most paranoid minds in the superhero community, didn't even twitch as they departed. Harry's magic had always had a talent for finding the gaps in other people's defenses—a skill that Professor Xavier found either impressive or deeply concerning, depending on his mood and how many Advil he'd taken that day.
They rose into the night sky like something out of a fever dream designed by someone with excellent taste in dramatic entrances. Phoenix's telekinetic flight created ripples in the air that looked like visible music, graceful and powerful and absolutely breathtaking. Marauder flew beside her, his magic trailing crimson and gold streamers behind him that turned the sky into something that belonged in an art museum.
Below them, Ice Queen moved along frozen highways she created in mid-air, skating through the sky with the grace of someone who had been born to make physics professors quit their jobs in existential despair. Veritas hung suspended in Phoenix's telekinetic embrace, looking remarkably comfortable for someone who was technically being carried through the sky by her girlfriend's mind powers.
"You know," Veritas called over the wind, her voice carrying clearly despite the impossible acoustics of flying through the New York night, "I'm starting to understand why you love this so much, Harry."
"Flying is freedom," Marauder replied, banking into a lazy spiral that brought him closer to Phoenix. Even through their magical disguises, the connection between them was visible—the way they moved in perfect synchronization, the way their magic seemed to reach for each other across the space between them like invisible threads of light. "Up here, gravity is just a suggestion, and all the stupid rules that adults make up seem as small as they actually are."
"Everything looks smaller from up here," Ice Queen added, her frozen pathway carrying her through a series of loops and spirals that would have made Olympic figure skaters quit their jobs in artistic despair. "More manageable. Like maybe the problems aren't actually as big as they seem when you're stuck on the ground."
"That's the point," Phoenix said, her voice soft with something that might have been wonder, or joy, or the particular kind of happiness that came from being fourteen and flying through the sky with the three people she loved most in the world. "Up here, the problems are just lights in the darkness. You can see the whole pattern instead of getting lost in all the messy details that make everything complicated."
New York spread out beneath them like a circuit board made of dreams and electricity and approximately eight million people's hopes and fears all tangled up together. The city never slept, but at this hour it dozed fitfully, full of restless energy and possibilities that hadn't quite decided what they wanted to be when they grew up.
"So," Veritas asked, her analytical mind already cataloging the patterns of light and shadow below them, "what exactly is our tactical approach here? Are we patrolling specific high-crime areas? Looking for particular types of criminal activity? Flying around until something interesting happens and hoping our teenage instincts for trouble will guide us to where we're needed most?"
"Yes," Marauder said, which wasn't really an answer but somehow managed to be perfectly informative anyway.
"That's what I was afraid of," Phoenix muttered, but her tone carried fond exasperation rather than actual concern. After all, she'd been dating Harry Potter for months now. She was used to plans that were less "carefully thought out" and more "brilliantly improvised disaster magnets."
"Trust me," Ice Queen said, her ice crystals catching the city lights like scattered diamonds, "with Harry involved, something interesting will definitely happen. The question is whether we'll be ready for it when it does."
"We're always ready," Marauder said with the kind of confidence that made adults nervous and teenagers want to follow him into battle. "That's what makes us so devastatingly effective."
"And modest," Veritas added dryly.
"Modesty is overrated," Marauder replied. "Besides, false modesty is lying, and we have a strict no-lying policy in this relationship. Well, except when we're lying to authority figures, villains, or people who ask stupid questions. But never to each other."
"How romantic," Phoenix said, but she was smiling as she said it.
—
Their first encounter came in the form of a convenience store robbery in Queens—three men with guns, one terrified clerk who was probably wondering if the part-time job at the 7-Eleven was really worth this kind of excitement, and the kind of situation that appeared in superhero training manuals under "Basic Scenarios That Will Definitely Go Wrong Somehow But We're Going to Pretend They Won't."
Ice Queen struck first, because she was Daphne Greengrass and she didn't believe in letting other people have the first move in anything. Her cryokinesis turned the sidewalk outside the store into something that belonged in an Olympic ice skating rink designed by someone with a serious grudge against the laws of friction. The would-be robbers stumbled out of the store directly into a winter wonderland that had appeared from absolutely nowhere, their guns clattering across ice that was approximately as forgiving as a glacier made of pure karma.
"Gentlemen!" Marauder called out as he dropped from the sky like a crimson and gold meteor with a flair for dramatic timing. His magic lashed out in precise strikes that disarmed the remaining gunman and sent him sliding across the ice to join his companions in what was rapidly becoming an impromptu hockey rink without the hockey sticks or any of the rules. "I believe you've made some questionable life choices this evening!"
"Who the hell are you supposed to be?" one of the robbers demanded, trying unsuccessfully to stand up on ice that had apparently been designed by someone who thought the laws of physics were more like gentle suggestions that could be ignored when inconvenient.
"We," Veritas said pleasantly, her wand producing restraints that looked like they had been borrowed from a very expensive specialty shop with excellent taste in magical accessories, "are the people who are about to make you seriously reconsider your career path and possibly your life philosophy in general."
Phoenix floated down with the kind of serene grace that made Renaissance painters weep with professional envy, her telekinesis ensuring that the robbers stayed exactly where she wanted them—which was flat on their backs on the ice, staring up at four costumed teenagers who looked like they had stepped out of someone's fever dreams about what superheroes should look like if they had unlimited budgets and really good fashion sense.
"The police will be here in approximately three minutes and forty-seven seconds," Phoenix announced, her voice carrying the kind of certainty that suggested she had either looked into the future or had hacked the NYPD dispatch system. Possibly both. "I suggest you use that time to contemplate the choices that led you to this moment and perhaps consider alternative career paths that don't involve pointing weapons at innocent people."
"This is insane," the lead robber muttered, his breath creating little puffs of vapor in the suddenly frigid air. "You're just kids."
"Kids with superpowers, excellent training, and flexible moral guidelines when it comes to people who threaten innocent civilians," Ice Queen corrected sweetly, her ice spreading across the storefront in patterns that looked like abstract art designed by someone with serious control issues and an advanced degree in making things beautiful and terrifying at the same time.
"Besides," Marauder added, his grin visible even through the magical obscurement that shadowed his features, "we're not just kids. We're kids with superpowers, trust issues, and a curfew that we're already breaking. Do you have any idea how dangerous that particular combination is? We literally have nothing to lose and everything to prove."
The robbers exchanged glances that suggested they were beginning to understand exactly how comprehensively screwed they were, which showed more intelligence than most criminals displayed in these situations.
"Look," the second robber said, his voice carrying the particular brand of desperation that came from realizing that your simple robbery had somehow turned into a superhero encounter, "we didn't hurt nobody, okay? We just needed some cash—"
"For what?" Veritas interrupted, her voice carrying genuine curiosity rather than judgment. "Medical bills? Debt collectors? Supporting a drug habit? Gambling debts? General poverty? Misguided attempts to impress girlfriends with expensive gifts?"
"Does it matter?" the robber asked.
"Actually, yes," Phoenix said, tilting her head in a way that made her red hair catch the light from the store's neon signs. "It matters quite a bit. Intent matters. Circumstances matter. The difference between someone who robs a store because they're evil and someone who robs a store because they're desperate is significant."
"We're not evil," the third robber said quietly. "We're just... broke. And stupid. Mostly stupid."
"Well," Marauder said thoughtfully, "we can work with stupid. Evil is trickier, but stupid just requires education and better decision-making skills."
In the distance, the sound of sirens was growing closer, and the four teenage superheroes exchanged glances that carried entire conversations about justice, mercy, and the complicated nature of right and wrong in a world that wasn't nearly as simple as comic books made it seem.
"Here's what's going to happen," Veritas said, her voice taking on the authoritative tone that made professors and authority figures everywhere sit up and pay attention. "You're going to surrender peacefully to the police. You're going to cooperate fully with their investigation. And you're going to seriously consider whether there might be legal ways to solve whatever financial problems led you to this moment."
"And if we do that?" the lead robber asked.
"Then maybe," Ice Queen said, her ice beginning to recede slightly, "someone might look into making sure you have better options than robbing convenience stores. No promises, but... possibilities."
The police cars were rounding the corner now, their red and blue lights painting the ice-covered sidewalk in patriotic colors that seemed somehow appropriate for the moment.
"Remember," Marauder called out as the four figures began to fade back into the shadows, "crime doesn't pay. But apparently, fighting crime comes with excellent benefits and really cool costumes."
And with that, they were gone, leaving behind three very confused robbers, one very relieved store clerk, and several police officers who were going to have a very interesting time trying to figure out exactly what had happened and whether they needed to update their incident report forms to include categories for "mysterious teenage superheroes" and "weaponized ice skating rinks."
—
Their second encounter was a mugging in Central Park—two men with knives cornering a woman who had made the mistake of taking a shortcut through a park in a city that pretended to be civilized but was really just organized chaos with better public transportation and more expensive coffee.
This time, Veritas took point, appearing behind the muggers like she had teleported there from a dimension where justice came with a side of creative hexwork and really good timing.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," Veritas said politely, her voice carrying the kind of cultured accent that suggested she had been raised by librarians who specialized in creative violence and proper grammar, "but I believe you're bothering this nice lady, and that's simply not acceptable behavior in civilized society."
The muggers spun around, their knives gleaming in the park's dim lighting. They were larger than the teenage girl facing them, more experienced in the ways of violence, and undoubtedly more dangerous in any conventional sense that didn't take into account magical education and really good reflexes.
Unfortunately for them, Veritas had been trained by people who considered "conventional" to be a four-letter word and "impossible" to be a personal challenge.
Her first hex turned one mugger's knife into a rubber chicken that squawked indignantly before attempting to fly away in a display that would have made poultry farmers everywhere question their understanding of how chickens were supposed to work. Her second hex sent the other mugger's weapon spinning through the air to embed itself in a nearby tree with the kind of precision that suggested she had been aiming for exactly that spot and had probably calculated the trajectory in her head while making it look effortless.
"What in the—" the first mugger began, staring at the rubber chicken that was now trying to roost in his hair.
"Language, please," Ice Queen interrupted, skating out of the shadows on a pathway of ice that sparkled like crushed diamonds under the park's lighting. "There are ladies present, and we maintain certain standards of civilized discourse even during criminal apprehensions."
Her cryokinesis caught both men in shells of ice that were thick enough to completely immobilize them but thin enough to let them breathe—and more importantly, thin enough to let them think very carefully about exactly how comprehensively screwed they were and whether their current career path was really working out for them.
Marauder and Phoenix descended from above like avenging angels with trust issues and really good fashion sense, their combined presence turning the peaceful park into something that felt more like a mythological battlefield than a crime scene in Manhattan.
"Ma'am," Phoenix said to the woman they'd rescued, her voice gentle despite the magical distortion that made it sound like music played through crystal, "are you hurt? Do you need medical attention or someone to call for you?"
The woman shook her head, her eyes wide as she took in the four costumed figures who had appeared from absolutely nowhere to save her from a situation that had been heading nowhere good at a fairly rapid pace.
"I'm okay," she said, her voice shaky but growing stronger. "Just scared. Thank you. Thank you so much."
"No need to thank us, ma'am," Marauder said, executing a small bow that somehow managed to be both theatrical and genuinely respectful. "Protecting innocent people from predators who think they can use violence to take what they want is literally why we do this."
"Who are you?" the woman asked, curiosity beginning to replace the fear in her voice. "I mean, are you new heroes? I haven't seen costumes like yours before."
"We're..." Marauder paused, clearly thinking through the implications of whatever he was about to say and the various ways it could go wrong or end up in tomorrow's newspapers, "we're very new. Like, first-night-out new. You're actually our second successful crime prevention, which is either a really good sign or evidence that New York has even more problems than we thought."
"New heroes," the woman said, and there was something like hope in her voice. "That's wonderful. We need more people like you."
"People like us?" Ice Queen asked, genuinely curious.
"People who show up," the woman said simply. "People who help."
The four teenagers exchanged glances that carried entire conversations about responsibility, expectations, and the weight of other people's hopes.
"We'll try to keep showing up," Phoenix promised, her voice carrying the kind of quiet conviction that made promises feel like sacred oaths.
"Just maybe avoid the park after dark until we've had time to make it clear that this kind of behavior isn't acceptable," Veritas added practically. "We're planning to make some significant improvements to the local crime statistics."
As the police sirens grew closer and the four figures began to fade back into the shadows, the woman called out after them.
"What should I tell the police?" she asked. "What should I call you?"
"Tell them," Marauder said, his voice carrying across the park with the kind of authority that made people listen, "that MageX was here. And that New York has some new management."
—
Their third encounter should have been simple—a car theft in progress in Brooklyn, complete with a very expensive sports car, a thief who apparently thought "stealing in broad moonlight" was a viable career strategy, and the kind of straightforward criminal apprehension that appeared in superhero training manuals under "Easy Wins That Will Build Your Confidence."
What it turned into was significantly more complicated, morally ambiguous, and likely to cause philosophical discussions that would keep them up past their already-violated curfew.
The thief, it turned out after Veritas had employed the kind of gentle interrogation techniques that would have made professional therapists both jealous and slightly concerned, was approximately seventeen years old, looked like he hadn't eaten a decent meal in several weeks, and was stealing the car not for profit or joy or any of the usual criminal motivations, but because his little sister needed emergency surgery that cost more than most people made in a year and the insurance company had decided that "life-saving medical procedures" fell under "elective cosmetic surgery" for billing purposes.
"Well," Marauder said after they'd extracted the full story, which included details about medical bills, insurance companies, and the particular brand of bureaucratic evil that turned life-or-death medical care into a luxury item, "this is awkward."
"We can't let him steal the car," Phoenix pointed out, though her voice carried the kind of reluctance that suggested she wasn't entirely convinced of her own argument and was hoping someone would provide a better alternative.
"We can't not let him steal the car," Ice Queen countered, her ice armor beginning to shift and reshape as her emotions affected her powers. "His sister will die without the surgery. That's not acceptable."
"There has to be a third option," Veritas said, her analytical mind already working through possibilities at the kind of speed that made other people's brains hurt in sympathy. "There's always a third option. Sometimes it's hidden, sometimes it's complicated, but it's always there."
"Rob a bank?" Marauder suggested helpfully, his tone suggesting that he wasn't entirely joking and had probably already calculated which bank would be the most morally defensible target.
"That's a fourth option," Phoenix corrected with the kind of patience that came from dating someone whose brain worked in ways that consistently defied conventional logic. "And also still illegal, though potentially less illegal than letting someone die because they can't afford medical care."
"So is vigilantism," Marauder pointed out reasonably. "We passed 'strictly legal' about three crimes ago, and we left 'conventional law enforcement methods' behind the moment we decided that costumes and superpowers were a reasonable response to urban crime statistics."
The would-be car thief, who had been listening to this exchange with the kind of expression usually reserved for people watching reality TV shows about problems that seemed simultaneously ridiculous and deeply relatable, finally spoke up.
"Are you guys for real?" he asked, his voice carrying the particular brand of urban skepticism that came from growing up in a city that pretended to care about people like him while systematically designing policies that proved otherwise. "I mean, are you actually having a philosophical debate about whether to stop me from stealing a car or help me steal a car?"
"We're having a philosophical debate about justice, morality, and the difference between legal and right," Ice Queen corrected with the kind of precision that suggested she took her philosophical debates very seriously. "The car theft is just the practical application of our conclusions."
"It's more complicated than that," Veritas added, her mind clearly working through implications and possibilities at speeds that would have made supercomputers envious. "We're trying to figure out how to solve the actual problem instead of just addressing the symptoms."
"The actual problem?" the kid repeated, his voice sharp with the kind of bitter experience that came from dealing with systems designed to fail people like him.
"The actual problem," Marauder said, his voice taking on the kind of edge that suggested someone was about to become the target of his particular brand of problem-solving, "is that we live in a society where people die because they can't afford medical care while other people make billions of dollars denying that medical care for profit."
"And your solution is what, exactly?" the kid asked. "Storm the insurance company? Rob banks until healthcare is free? Become supervillains with really good intentions?"
"Our solution," Veritas said, pulling out what appeared to be a very expensive smartphone with more processing power than most small countries, "is to make the problem irrelevant through the direct application of excessive resources."
"Which means what, exactly?" the kid asked, though his voice was beginning to carry something that might have been hope underneath the defensive cynicism.
"Which means," Veritas said, her fingers dancing across her phone's screen with the kind of practiced efficiency that came from growing up in a family where money was less a limiting factor and more a tool for solving problems, "that your sister's surgery is now paid for, along with all associated medical expenses, recovery costs, and a little extra to make sure you don't have to resort to car theft to keep food on the table."
The silence that followed was the kind of silence that occurred when reality took an unexpected left turn into territory that nobody had been prepared for and ended up somewhere that felt more like a fairy tale than real life.
"You're serious," the kid said finally, his voice hoarse with disbelief.
"Dead serious," Marauder confirmed, his tone carrying the kind of casual confidence that came from dating someone whose family owned approximately half of magical Britain and had never met a problem that couldn't be solved by throwing money at it until it gave up. "Turns out, when your girlfriend's family treats the global economy like their personal checking account, money stops being a problem and starts being a resource for fixing injustice."
"I prefer to think of it as aggressive wealth redistribution with a focus on immediate medical necessity," Veritas said primly as her fingers continued to work across her phone's screen. "What's your sister's name? I'll need it for the hospital transfer, and I want to make sure the payment includes coverage for any follow-up care she might need."
"Emily," the kid said, his voice cracking with emotions that he'd probably been holding back for weeks. "Emily Santos. She's at Mount Sinai, and the surgery... it's supposed to happen next week if we can get the money together, but..."
"But now it's happening next week because the money is already there," Veritas announced, looking up from her phone with the kind of satisfied expression that usually accompanied the successful completion of complicated mathematical proofs. "Surgery paid for, recovery room covered, follow-up appointments scheduled and paid for, and enough extra to cover your living expenses while she recovers so you don't have to choose between staying with her and keeping food on the table."
The kid stared at them like they had just told him that gravity was actually optional and he'd been falling down his entire life purely out of habit and social conditioning.
"Why?" he asked finally, the word coming out like it carried the weight of every disappointment and betrayal he'd ever experienced. "Why would you do this? You don't know me. You don't know her. Why would you care?"
"Because," Phoenix said, her voice soft with the kind of certainty that made other people's doubts seem irrelevant and small, "someone needs to. Because you love your sister enough to risk your freedom for her, and that kind of love deserves support, not punishment. Because the system failed you both, and we have the power to fix what the system broke."
"And because," Marauder added, his grin sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous, "we're teenagers with superpowers and more money than most small countries. If we can't fix problems like this, what's the point of having superpowers at all?"
The kid—who was probably going to need a name soon, since he'd just become part of their story instead of just a criminal they were apprehending—wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and nodded.
"Miguel," he said. "My name's Miguel Santos. And my sister... she's going to live."
"Yeah," Ice Queen said, her voice warm with the kind of satisfaction that came from solving problems in ways that actually mattered, "she is."
—
They were making their way back toward Manhattan, riding high on the success of a night that had included three successful crime interventions, one life-saving financial transfer, and zero injuries to innocent bystanders or teenage vigilantes, when a figure in red and blue dropped out of the sky to land on a nearby fire escape with the kind of acrobatic grace that suggested years of practice and possibly some kind of supernatural enhancement.
"Okay," the figure said, his voice carrying the particular brand of nervous energy that belonged to someone who was trying very hard to sound more confident than he actually felt, "I have to ask—and please don't take this the wrong way—but who exactly are you guys supposed to be? Because I've been keeping track of the superhero community in New York, and you're definitely not on my list."
Spider-Man looked exactly like the photos in the Daily Bugle, assuming the Daily Bugle's photographers had suddenly developed the ability to capture the essence of kinetic energy and barely controlled chaos in still images. He was smaller than expected—not much bigger than Marauder, really—but he moved with the fluid confidence of someone who had spent years learning how to turn momentum into a superpower and had gotten really, really good at it.
"We," Ice Queen said, her cryokinetic aura making the air around her shimmer with cold that seemed to respond to her emotions, "are the people who just prevented three crimes, paid for a kid's sister's life-saving surgery, and improved New York's crime statistics in ways that will probably show up in next month's police reports. Who are you supposed to be? The fashion police? Because if so, I have some serious questions about that color combination."
"I'm Spider-Man," he said, as if that explained everything about jurisdiction, authority, and the proper protocols for teenage vigilantism in metropolitan areas. "And this is my city."
"Your city?" Marauder repeated, his voice carrying dangerous levels of amusement and the kind of sharp edge that suggested someone was about to become the target of his particular brand of wit. "That's fascinating. I don't remember seeing your name on any of the property deeds, tax records, or municipal documentation. When exactly did you purchase New York? Because I'm pretty sure that kind of real estate transaction would have made the news."
"It's not about ownership," Spider-Man protested, his posture shifting in ways that suggested he was beginning to realize this conversation wasn't going to go the way he'd planned. "It's about responsibility. I've been protecting New York for—"
"How long?" Phoenix interrupted, her telekinetic senses already analyzing everything from his body language to his breathing patterns to the way he held himself when he thought he was being challenged. "A year? Two years? You sound our age, which means you've been doing this for what, maybe eighteen months? Two years at the most?"
Spider-Man's posture shifted again, becoming more defensive in ways that suggested Phoenix had hit much closer to the mark than he was comfortable with anyone knowing.
"Age doesn't matter," he said, though his voice carried the kind of uncertainty that suggested he wasn't entirely convinced of his own argument. "What matters is experience, training, and understanding how things work in this city."
"Experience like letting car thieves go because their sisters need surgery?" Veritas asked sweetly, her voice carrying the kind of innocent curiosity that was usually followed by devastating logical arguments. "Or experience like actually solving the underlying problem so the theft doesn't need to happen in the first place? Because I have to say, our approach seems significantly more effective."
"That's not how the system works," Spider-Man said, though his voice carried the kind of frustration that suggested he'd had this exact argument with himself many times before. "You can't just throw money at problems and expect them to go away."
"Why not?" Marauder asked, his tone suggesting genuine curiosity rather than mockery. "I mean, in this specific case, the problem was lack of money for medical care, and we solved it by providing money for medical care. The problem is now gone, the girl gets her surgery, and her brother doesn't have to become a criminal to save her life. Which part of that equation is wrong, exactly?"
"It's more complicated than that," Spider-Man insisted. "You can't just solve poverty by giving people money. You can't fix systemic problems with individual solutions. You can't—"
"Actually," Veritas interrupted, her voice taking on the kind of analytical tone that made professors sit up and pay attention, "you absolutely can solve individual cases of poverty by giving specific people money. You can't solve systemic poverty that way, but you can prevent specific people from dying because they can't afford medical care. And while you're saving lives on the individual level, you can also work on the systemic level to address root causes."
"But that's not how heroes are supposed to work!" Spider-Man said, his voice rising with the kind of frustration that came from having fundamental assumptions challenged in ways that made them seem suddenly arbitrary.
"Says who?" Ice Queen asked, her ice crystals beginning to form more complex patterns that suggested her emotions were affecting her powers in interesting ways. "Who exactly made the rule that heroes are supposed to let people suffer because fixing their problems might be too easy?"
"It's not about being too easy," Spider-Man protested.
"It's about… about not creating dependency," he finished, though the conviction in his voice was starting to fray at the edges, like a web stretched too thin.
"Dependency?" Phoenix tilted her head, one eyebrow arched, arms folded. Her telekinetic field flared faintly in a shimmer of gold around her. "So your idea of heroism is making sure people stay just desperate enough to need you again tomorrow? That's… dark, Spider-Boy."
"It's Spider-Man," he shot back automatically, though the defensive bite had softened, replaced by something closer to doubt.
Marauder clapped his hands together with mock solemnity. "Well, Spider-Man, thank you for clarifying that your entire ethos is built on making sure people don't get too comfortable, lest you become irrelevant. Truly inspiring. Somebody get this guy a TED Talk."
Ice Queen snorted softly, the temperature around her dropping a few more degrees as her lips curled into a cold smile. "You think what we're doing is wrong because… what? It makes you look bad? Or because it makes you realize you could have been doing more this whole time?"
Spider-Man froze at that one, and the faint slump in his shoulders betrayed him before he could think of a comeback. He glanced at the rooftop, then at the fire escape, then at the team standing before him—four teenagers who looked as young as he was, maybe younger, but carried themselves with the kind of unflinching certainty that left no room for excuses.
"You don't understand what it's like here," he finally said, softer now, less certain and more honest. "This city chews people up and spits them out. You can save a hundred people today and wake up tomorrow to find a hundred more who need saving. It… it never ends."
Phoenix's expression softened slightly at that, and even Marauder's trademark grin dimmed just a little.
"Yeah," Phoenix said quietly. "We know."
There was a beat of silence. Even the distant hum of Manhattan nightlife seemed to pause.
Then Ice Queen stepped forward, her boots crunching faintly on the frost that had formed underfoot. She extended her hand toward Spider-Man, her breath clouding in the air between them.
"Good thing there are more of us now," she said simply.
Spider-Man looked at her hand, then at the rest of them. He hesitated… then, finally, took it.
The team didn't smile, not really. But something passed between them anyway—something that felt, in its own way, like progress.
"Okay," Spider-Man said at last, his voice almost steady. "So… what do you call yourselves, anyway?"
Marauder grinned, all sharp edges and trouble again.
"Funny you should ask," he said. "We're still workshopping it. But for now? You can call us… the people fixing your messes."
Ice Queen rolled her eyes. Phoenix groaned. Veritas actually giggled.
Spider-Man, though, just sighed and muttered into his mask:
"Why do I always find the snarky ones?"
And with that, the strange new alliance started walking toward the edge of the rooftop, ready to leap into another New York night.
---
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