Sitting on the couch, Gwen recounted what had happened, her words coming in bursts. Her voice held not panic, but a cold, analytical anxiety. In recent days, while in her civilian identity, she'd felt like she was being watched. It was 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, I think, 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 entering 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 thinks, would gladly tear out his throat even from another country. And there's Frank, a dark horse, a psychopathic vigilante you never know what to expect from. There are too many risks."
"Erik left after all?" she clarified.
"Yeah. His presence here was one big provocation for the intelligence services. He got the hell out while he could." I answered with a shrug. "Which brings us to option two. The CIA."
"The CIA?" This clearly didn't compute for her. "What do they want from me?"
"You." I smirked crookedly. "As strange as it sounds, specifically you. Foreign intelligence strength depends directly on the quality of their field specialists. And you're an ideal candidate. You're young, strong, you have unique abilities, and most importantly, you have leverage."
"But I'm not..."
"They don't care." I interrupted harshly. "Trust me, these guys work extremely 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 the key reason I don't want to deal with them."
"'Deal with them'? You've already gotten offers?"
"There have been a number of attempts to make contact, but I'm holding out for now." I chuckled. "The bottom line is, the CIA is a real threat. But judging by the tactfulness and discreetness of the surveillance, 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. They're top tier. They deal with things beyond normal reality. International terrorism, supernatural threats, out-of-control metahumans..."
"Supposedly?" She caught my uncertainty.
"Well, their profile is very broad." I scratched the back of my head. "One thing I can say for sure: 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. "Right now, we're not talking about them, but about S.H.I.E.L.D. As long as they're just studying you, don't make any sudden moves. Right now, that's my concern. 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. A slightly disheveled and worried Peter entered the Base. 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 the first thing Peter asked. "I mean, if they're as elite as you say, then their enemies are on that level too. Do we really need to get involved with them?"
"There are always risks." I answered, and a thought about Hydra flashed through my mind for a moment. A chill ran down my spine. "But the payoff from cooperating with them is much more serious than if we continue our 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." Steel rang in my voice. "I'm not going to ask them for anything. I'm going to dictate terms. I'll secure such a status for us that they'll be treating us with kid gloves. This won't be employment, it'll be a strategic partnership. But these are still just plans. I think they'll make contact as soon as tomorrow. I'll definitely tell you about the results of the negotiation."
"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 their 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 for 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 so absorbed with these last few days." My voice from the helmet sounded muffled and distorted. "While you, Peter, were having fun with MJ, I was creating. While you, Gwen, didn't send a single message asking if you could be useful, I was creating." I raised my hand, stopping the apologies that were ready to spill from their lips. "This isn't a reproach. It's a statement of fact. We're supposedly a team, but my hands and the hours in a day aren't enough for everything. I need your initiative, guys."
"I... Um... Sorry, John." Peter mumbled guiltily. "Everything just piled up... My uncle getting better, my aunt being happy, and MJ..."
"Don't apologize, Peter. Just get better, and learn from it. There's some fault on my side, too. I didn't give you concrete tasks. Although..." I remembered something. "Peter, were you able to study Dr. Connors' complete serum research?"
"Why do you need it?" Gwen immediately interjected, having also participated in its creation.
"It's a breakthrough technology." I explained. "With Peter's intellect, enhanced by cognitive enhancement, 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 mentally counted to ten, calming down.
"Huuuh, fine." I deactivated the Chimera, and the suit disappeared just as quickly into my inventory, which noticeably relaxed Gwen. Since we were having an "evening of revelations," I might as well clarify a couple more things. "By the way, Peter. Your genius, it didn't come from nowhere. Who are your parents? Were they some famous scientists?"
"I wouldn't say they were celebrities... They were ordinary biologists. They died in the Amazon under unclear circumstances..."
"And they didn't leave you any inheritance?"
"Well, only debts to my aunt and uncle... Um, why are you asking?"
Of course, because of Venom. Or rather, the slim chance that there was an artificially created version of it here. But I told Peter something different.
"Brains. They left you genius brains as an inheritance. It's a sin not to use them, 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 hard. I panicked, swatted it off, and crushed it. Then I had a couple of days of fever, and voila... I'm Spider-Woman."
"Do you have the address of the building?"
Getting the address, I immediately entered it into the maps on my smartphone. Bingo. The literally adjacent building officially belonged to Oscorp. And though it was listed as a warehouse, I was sure it hid a laboratory. At least this much added up.
After transferring the money to Peter, I decided it was time to end this gathering.
"Okay, I think I've got everything figured out. Pete, task number one: Connors' serum. Gwen, I'd appreciate it if you helped him. It's in our mutual interest." I waited for agreeing nods from my, heh, team members. "I transferred the money to you, Peter. You can go. And you, Gwen, please stay for a couple of minutes. I've got a delicate assignment for you."
Peter, glancing distractedly at the SMS notification about receiving five thousand dollars, didn't even bother asking what assignment I had prepared for Gwen. He was too absorbed in his personal problems. After briefly saying goodbye and thanking me once more with a promise to work off every cent, he left.
Gwen waited until the elevator closed, then crossed her arms over her chest, 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. There, in the distance, children laughed and played. They were the future that Charles Xavier so desperately tried to protect. The air in the office, which was finished in polished mahogany, smelled of old psychology books, expensive Chinese tea, and calm. A calm that was now disrupted.
Two people were in the room. Charles himself, a smiling bald man 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 figure, in the way he sat, straight as a taut string, one could feel a compressed spring of colossal energy.
On his head was a helmet. 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 his face to his old friend for the first time in two long years of silence. He was no longer defenseless before 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 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 was born in Erik's voice. "Those who use the crowd'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 in their filthy labs, trying for the thousandth time to recreate that damned Erskine serum from our blood!"
"And on the other side of the scales, my friend," Charles said quietly, "lies fear. Irrational, primal fear of the unknown. It's a fear that in one moment can escalate into genocide. I feel it, Erik. Every day. In the minds of millions. It's an icy, sticky 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, 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 our own, too different, understanding of this 'better future.'" Charles noted, his voice phlegmatic and filled with deep bitterness.
"And your understanding, Charles, will only lead to us being quietly, one by one, slaughtered 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 smells of wet earth in the African savanna, the pounding of his own heart 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: for mystical rituals lost in the jungles, for ancient elixirs that could stop time itself.
After 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 one all-consuming passion.
The hunt.
His patron understood his nature. He didn't hire Kraven. He unleashed him, throwing him the most non-trivial targets. Like, for example, 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 secured 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, and the corners of his lips slowly crawled upward, baring a predatory grin beneath his thick mustache. He looked like a brutal man in his prime, about thirty-five years old. No one would give him his ninety-seven years. In the eyes of the old lion who had seen the fall of empires, a primal hunger ignited.
What an interesting specimen. Nineteen years old. He was young, which meant he was bold and overconfident. He was Alpha-level, which meant he was a worthy challenge. But the main thing was the spatial manipulation. This was prey capable of changing the very fabric of reality. This wouldn't be just a hunt; this 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 was just a pleasant bonus on top of the main prize, which was the process itself.
He was hit by a wave of concentrated thirst for excitement. He stood, and his muscles, wound like steel cables, rippled beneath his skin.
New York...
This city was a new preserve. It was full of stone canyons, and they were full of the most dangerous and interesting game on the planet. Spiders, living embodiments of the elements, metas of all stripes and calibers. And now, there was his new target, a young mutant.
It was high time to visit these hunting grounds.
//==============//