I walk behind Caliban, my mind going a thousand miles a minute.
Caliban of the Morlocks. I somewhat know the character. One of the founders. Has an ability that lets him sense other mutants. Lives underground with a bunch of outcasts in a might-makes-right kind of society.
And... that's about all I've got.
I wasn't a big comics guy growing up. Didn't have access. Manga and anime? Way easier to get my hands on where I'm from. My first intro to Marvel wasn't even the comics—it was Avengers: Earth's Mightiest Heroes. And back then, I couldn't have cared less about the X-Men. They didn't click until I hit my late teens.
Even now, I barely know more than the major arcs: Dark Phoenix, Days of Future Past, Genosha, Krakoa. Everything else? Total blank.
Hell, I only learned about the Morlocks through fanfiction. That's how obscure they are. They barely get any love in the mainline comics. Their biggest moment was the Mutant Massacre, and even then, they were basically a footnote in their own tragedy.
So, yeah. I know as much about Caliban as your average person on the street. Maybe less. Worse still, most of what I do know probably comes filtered through a dozen fics and writer headcanons.
Fanfiction can do wonders for characters like him—take a minor role and turn it into something powerful. Give them depth, stakes, purpose.
But that's if you're reading the story.
If you're stuck living in this apocalypse of a world? You'd want to find Claremont, Hickman, or whoever wrote this mess and kick them right in the nuts.
Seriously, what kind of hellscape needs to flirt with extinction every other weekend?
And the people? Half of them are more bigoted than Confederate soldiers on a bad day.
I get that it's all narrative shorthand—metaphors for race, identity, queerness, all that. But when you're actually here, when it's your skin on the line, when the Sentinels are more common than public buses… it's a little hard to appreciate the literary nuance.
Where's the UN in all this? Geneva Conventions? Universal Declaration of Human Rights?
Mutants are still human, aren't they?
Last I checked, genocide wasn't supposed to be this casual.
A hand suddenly enters my field of vision.
My eyes flash red. I react before thinking, body moving on pure instinct. I jump back hard.
Caliban freezes, hands raised in that universal "I come in peace" pose. His wide, almost amphibian eyes flick between my face and—
Oh.
I look down. The claws are out. Not fully extended, but enough.
Damn it.
"Please, friend," Caliban says, voice low and careful. "Caliban truly meant no harm."
I can see a deathly parlor beneath his hood, bulbous yellow eyes widen further, visible through the mailbox-style slits on his mask. He's trying not to panic, bless him.
"Sorry," I say, forcing the claws to retract, my fingers twitching as the spurs retract. "It's been… a long night."
He nods, still wary but willing to believe me.
"What were you trying to say?" I ask.
Just before he replies, the world stutters.
It doesn't stop—but everything tightens. Time doesn't freeze, but it slows.
My reaction speed isn't superhuman the way speedsters are. There's no bullet-time. But things stretch just enough for me to notice. A frame of space between heartbeats, between muscle contractions.
Enhanced physical abilities come with enhanced reflexes. Makes sense, right? If you're moving at blur-speed, your nerves have to keep up. You need faster input to process faster output.
Still, it's subtle. Unless you're tuned in, you wouldn't even register the shift.
But for me, it's enough.
Another reminder: power means nothing if you don't know how to use it. Right now, I'm a toddler with a loaded gun.
My mind flares open again. Same as earlier tonight.
It doesn't feel like gaining focus—it feels like shedding noise.
Like a lotus blooming, layers of thought unfolding outward.
And with it comes everything else.
The cold wind brushing the back of my neck. The distant creak of a rusted pipe. Plastic bags shifting under a rat's foot. Blood, faint but iron-rich. Cracks of old bone. The tang of saltpeter. The boom—
STOP.
Focus.
Freak out later.
Think of anything else.
"...Friend?" Caliban's voice comes again, soft and wheezing. There's a slight sing-song to it, tinted with real concern.
"Sorry," I say quickly, trying to smile. "Got distracted again."
I don't think the smile reaches my eyes.
"Please," I add, gentler this time. "One more time. If it's not too much trouble."
"Caliban was only asking if you need help." He gestures toward my right arm. "That looks real bad."
Right.
The right sleeve. The bloody one. The one hiding the half-healed palm.
The palm with the hole in it.
From the bullet.
Boom.
Blood. Bones cracking. Angles. Angles—
FUCKING STOP.
Look at Caliban's eyes. Focus.
They're big. Round. Yellow.
Like the full moon on a fall night.
Mid-Autumn Festival. Paper lanterns. Lotus paste. Red bean.
Breathe.
Speak.
Respond.
"No… I don't think so." My voice comes out thin. Tired. Not convincing.
Deep breath.
Crack a joke.
"See? No more donut holes."
The smile that follows isn't a smile at all.
It's a grimace with good PR.
But Caliban, to his credit, nods.
No judgment. Just quiet.
And I'm grateful.
"Home is not farther away now." Caliban turned around, an obvious try at trying to talk about something else.
The older man continued walking, setting a comfortable pace. I effortlessly glide next to him, allowing my enhanced biology to do all the hard work.
I assign a third of my thoughts to monitor the surroundings—and Caliban—while letting the rest of my mind drift inward.
A month. That's how long it's been since I woke up confused and mutated, dropped into this world with a power I didn't ask for and knowledge I didn't earn.
And in all that time, I've spent shockingly little of it actually trying to understand what I am now.
To be fair, I'm lucky. My powers didn't explode on awakening. I didn't accidentally level a city block, or melt someone's brain by blinking wrong. Whoever—or whatever—put me here at least spared me that much.
But that same ease comes with its own problem.
Because of how my abilities work, I never felt the need to test my limits. I just... knew. Singularity fed me answers, like a living wiki built straight into my skull. Every new quirk I absorb comes with its own instruction manual, neatly patched into my brain.
And that's the problem.
Too much certainty leads to complacency. Especially when the person receiving it is a cocky dumbass on a good day.
Case in point: I didn't know how Spider-Sense actually worked until tonight.
Having a mental database and a sprinkle of meta-knowledge doesn't mean I understand anything. It just means I think I do—which is worse.
Even in this world, mutants sometimes use their powers wrong. Some need counseling to stop hurting themselves or others. Writers call it a retcon; reality calls it a warning.
Mutation. Combination. Evolution.
I knew those were possibilities, sure. But knowing isn't understanding—my university professor used to hammer that in all the time.
Tonight just proved it.
I need more than access. More than instinct. I need comprehension.
And from that, I gain strength.
Strength. That's the goal. Strength to breathe, to survive, in a world where even the gifted get buried without a second thought.
But strength means nothing without comprehension.
So—start there.
I run a quick sweep. Not through trial and error, but through the intuitive indexing system Singularity provides. Like flipping through a mental ledger.
Social Spider. Parasitic Predator.
After tonight's mess with Spider-Sense, I can't afford any more hidden surprises.
No red flags. No extra triggers. Everything is stable.
As expected, the standalone powers are simpler. Clear inputs, clear results.
Combination powers like Social Spider, though? They're messier. Denser. Sharper on the edges. Probably a side effect of all that fusion—more perfect means more potential to misstep.
Something to explore later.
For now, I shift focus to the new arrival.
Tonight's prize.
Fitting, considering how fresh it is—and how much baggage it brings.
As I turn my thoughts toward the latest acquisition, Singularity gets to work—unspooling data like silk.
Lilac Heart. That's what it calls itself now. Twisted, but weirdly fitting.
Pheromone-based mind control. Regeneration. About what I expected. The classic Purple Man package: proximity equals vulnerability. Minds crumble like paper in the rain.
But then—something I didn't expect.
Telepathy.
Not full psychic invasion, but enough to connect. A thread—thin, subtle—between controller and controlled. Enough to pass emotion. Intent. Even vision, and body can be taken over if trained.
That… wasn't in the comics I remember.
And that's what makes it terrifying.
He never had to use it. Never pushed his power to its limits. Never needed to. He got everything he wanted without lifting more than a smirk. That bastard was coasting—and still caused unspeakable damage.
Singularity just pulled back the curtain.
He was dangerous before.
Now I know he was lazy and dangerous.
And the healing factor? Of course he had one. I vaguely remember something about him getting pancaked by a bus and walking it off. There are probably more cases—narrative necromancy buried in obscure issues I never read. Makes sense now. He fakes death by slipping into a coma, hibernating like a smug, sociopathic bear.
Perfect for comics. Horrific in real life.
But he's gone now. Or close enough.
And his power—this power—belongs to me.
Lilac Heart isn't like Parasitic Predator. It's… gentler. Subtle. No curse. No hunger. No glowing neon "villain" label stapled to my chest. But Singularity still reworked it—because nothing enters my system unchanged.
Killgrave's control stemmed from biology. His skin produced the pheromones. That's why he looked like he bathed in grape Kool-Aid. Me? No violet tint. So the delivery system must've been rerouted. Buried deeper. Hidden in my breath. My blood.
Less noticeable. Less potent.
But not useless.
Killgrave could enslave with a breath. I need time. Exposure. Contact. It's a slow creep—a nudge, not a shove.
People already close? They'll start agreeing before they realize why. Enemies? They might hesitate. A pause. A softening of hate. The edge dulls.
And for those exposed long enough, something else blooms.
A connection.
I can feel their thoughts—glimpses, not deep dives. Emotions like whispers. And if they open the door… I can borrow more. Their senses. Their limbs. If they trust me. If they let me.
A thin strand of connection twines toward Hive Mind. It hums at the edge of awareness—quiet, sharp. Hungry.
Still, there's more.
If the pheromones are absorbed—blood, saliva, whatever gets inside—then all bets are off. Potency spikes. Full Killgrave-tier control, telepathy and all.
He was a gas leak. Uncontrolled. Dangerous just by existing.
I'm a syringe. Targeted. Deliberate. Dangerous only when I choose to be.
Creepy? Sure. Useful? Absolutely.
I don't want to become him. Don't want blank stares and broken wills trailing behind me. But the option? The threat?
That's power.
The healing factor's impressive too, not on Killgrave's level, but it does not need to be. Same pheromonal base—boosts cell repair. Minor wounds vanish in minutes. Fractures mend within the same amount of time with a little help from my lifeforce reserves. Not on Wolverine's level, but respectable. Tactical. I won't grow a new arm—but I'll limp out of most fights upright.
Like my body just decided: "Let's give this guy 1 to Charisma and Vitality."
As Singularity knits Lilac Heart into the rest, I feel the network adjust—threads pulling taut between it and Parasitic Predator, Social Spider. There's harmony in the tangle. Feedback loops. Synergy. A quiet engine revving in the dark.
Once I'm sure I haven't missed anything, I turn toward the last piece of the puzzle.
My original power.
The foundation everything else is built on.
Singularity.
I know what it does—on paper.
Meta-knowledge helped. So did its own internal diagnostics.
But understanding the power? Really grasping it?
That's something else entirely.
It used to go by a different name, back when it belonged to someone else.
Back when it was whispered about in dread, half-legend, half-nightmare.
A thing of hushed rumors and contingency plans.
His version was simpler. Brutal, elegant.
What I've inherited is something else.
Like a whale surfacing for breath—only the top breaks the water.
The rest stays hidden, massive and unknowable beneath the surface.
Some parts only show themselves rarely.
Others don't make sense at all.
Because powers—at least in this world—aren't supposed to feel like this.
They're not supposed to be separate from their hosts.
They're not supposed to think.
Unless you're dabbling in magic, most abilities are genetic expressions.
Inborn. Engineered. Triggered.
But they're still you. Extensions of body and mind.
Mine aren't.
They shift. Tug. Respond.
Name themselves.
Decide.
That's not normal.
None of that started until I picked up Singularity.
Social Spider doesn't do this. Neither does Parasitic Predator or Lilac Heart.
They change because Singularity makes them change.
And the longer I hold them? The more they start to… behave.
Like animals. Instinctive. Aware.
I've read enough fiction to think maybe this is like vestiges from My Hero.
Traces of the previous owners' will.
But no—this feels different. There are no ghosts here. No imprints.
At least, I hope not.
Because if there's even a sliver of Killgrave still clinging to my brain, I'm digging it out with fire.
No. They're not echoes.
They're alive. Somehow.
What are you? I wonder.
A sudden tug—sharp and immediate.
My focus is yanked back to the external world.
The minds I'd assigned to monitor my surroundings light up, transmitting their data to the rest of the hive.
Information flows.
Seamless. Instant.
And just like that, I'm back in the moment.
We've arrived.
I allocate a few thought-threads to monitor the surroundings—motion, temperature, distant noise—while the rest focus entirely on Caliban.
We're in an old man-made tunnel, one of the many arteries beneath Manhattan's forgotten body. Spray-painted tags and crude murals layer every inch of concrete wall, overlapping like territorial scars. Some of them are mutant symbols—stylized Xs, slashes through human silhouettes. Others are just nonsense. Layers of desperate expression stacked over decades.
The ground crunches underfoot, not with gravel, but with loose soil, scraps of trash, and the thin remnants of rusted rail. The tracks here are ancient, skeletal. Disused. A ruin of movement. The place smells of wet metal, mold, and the scorched tang of long-extinguished fires.
Figures linger by the tunnel mouth. They huddle near steel drums burning scrap wood, flames flickering through holes punched in the barrels like jack-o'-lanterns. Their clothes are as shredded and filthy as ours, though I notice how some pieces are carefully mended. Utility, not vanity.
Caliban pulls his patchy cloak tighter, a subconscious gesture that makes his silhouette shrink, just a little. Then he walks forward.
No one stops us.
A few glance our way—brief, measuring stares—but then their attention slides off. Back to murmured conversation. Back to fireside warmth. We're just two more shadows in the dark.
As we descend deeper, the voices thin. The fires vanish behind bends of broken concrete. Then we're alone.
Complete darkness.
Caliban doesn't ask how I can still see. I don't ask how he can.
That silence says more than words could. It's the quiet understanding shared between mutants—especially those who don't pass. You don't pry. Not down here. Not when the world above already treats you like you're barely human.
It's a tradition of necessity. No judgment. No spotlight. No asking how or why.
But that thought stirs something in me—something heavy.
Because I know.
Even without my power's help, I know.
My presence here is a quiet violation of that trust.
A walking contradiction.
Meta-knowledge. That's my cheat sheet. That's what gets me ahead. But it also makes me a voyeur. A trespasser. Someone who knows things he shouldn't.
I try to shake it off.
No room for guilt. Not here. Not in this world.
Sentinels don't give a damn about your moral quandaries. They just shoot.
Still... the feeling lingers.
"There is a train coming," I say automatically. "I can hear the metal."
Instant regret.
Stupid. Stupid.
Loose lips kill plans. Secrecy is armor, not decoration.
But Caliban just nods. "Thank you, friend," he says softly. "Caliban's eyes do not like the train. Always too bright. Too fast."
He doesn't question it. Doesn't press.
Just turn back around, steps steady.
We walk in silence for a long stretch. Five minutes, maybe more. The air gets colder, damper. The only sounds are our footsteps and the distant drip of ancient pipes.
Then, like a distant scream, metal begins to screech.
A point of light appears ahead—small at first, then blooming fast. The shadows peel back as fluorescent lamps rush past in rapid pulses, broken by concrete columns. For a second, the world flickers like a dying film reel.
I shut my eyes. The sensory overload is too much. My mind wants to catalogue every vibration, every heat signature, every twitch of rat whiskers in nearby cracks.
A minute passes. The train is gone.
I open my eyes to find Caliban watching me.
He pulls down his scarf.
His face is gaunt, pale under the grime, cheeks drawn taut against high bones. But there's a smile there—small, patient.
I try to match it. Project something easy. Dismissive. Normal.
It probably comes off more like a grimace.
He doesn't call it out.
"So," I say, needing to break the silence. "Where are we going?"
Even though I already know.
"Home," he answers. "To the Morlocks. To the Alley."
"The Alley?" I repeat, playing dumb.
He studies my face for a moment. Then he nods.
"Yes. Beneath Manhattan. The true Manhattan. There are tunnels and ruins people forgot—subways, bomb shelters, bunkers. Morlocks make it ours."
"Living under their feet," I murmur.
"Yes," he echoes. "Beneath their shadows."
Then he stops.
Turns.
His yellow eyes bore into mine.
"Why did friend follow Caliban?"
I blink. "You invited me. Remember?"
"Yes. Caliban remembers. But friend didn't ask questions. Most do. Most want to know more before walking into darkness."
His tone isn't accusatory. It's curious.
But it hits harder than I expected.
He's right.
Why did I follow him?
I shrug. "You said there was food. And shelter. I was cold."
Caliban's brow furrows. "As were others," he says softly.
He doesn't say the rest. He doesn't need to.
And I have nothing to offer back.
My brain scrambles.
Do I lie? Use Lilac Heart? One drop of blood, and I can turn this whole interaction around.
But I don't.
Not with him.
He doesn't deserve that.
Caliban's not a threat. If anything, he's one of the few decent people I've met here.
So why…?
Wait.
Why did I follow him?
Joining the Morlocks was never part of the plan. This place is a death trap. Masque, Callisto, the Massacre—all of it screams "avoid at all costs."
So why am I here?
Caliban's gaze sharpens. Then, suddenly, it softens.
His eyes widened.
Understanding blooms.
And then—pity.
Oh no.
"Aah… Caliban sees now," he says gently. "Caliban understands."
"What?"
"There are Morlocks like you," he continues, placing a hand on my shoulder.
"Like me?"
"Friend is not alone," he says with conviction. "Loneliness is a dangerous enemy."
Wait. What.
"No. No, that's not—I'm not lonely."
Caliban just smiles. "No need to be embarrassed. With the Morlocks, friend will never feel lonely again."
He turns, his steps echoing down the tunnel.
What the hell just happened.
He thinks I joined because I was… sad? For company?
I mean, sure. I haven't had a proper conversation in weeks.
But that's not—
I used to be fine alone. Used to spend whole weekends with just a screen and some instant noodles.
But that was back home.
Not here.
Not in this cold, cruel world, with no power outlets and no pause button.
...How long have I been lonely?
"Friend?" Caliban's voice calls from ahead. "We are almost there."
I swallow, heart suddenly heavy.
"Yeah," I mutter, following. "Coming."
…
The space is massive—far larger than I expected.
Logically, I know it was once a Cold War bomb shelter built to hold Manhattan's population, but calling this a bomb shelter is like calling Mount Everest a bump in the road.
It stretches wide—at least a hundred feet across at the base—and its ceiling disappears into darkness so deep it might as well be sky. Stairs and scaffoldings snake up the walls, winding into black mouths of tunnels above. Thick industrial pipes arc along the walls, some hissing softly with age, others rusted to hell, giving the place a surreal, steampunk cathedral feel.
It's too big. Too ambitious. In my world, Manhattan's underbelly wouldn't be able to house something like this without drilling straight into bedrock. But this is not my world. This is Marvel. Here, the impossible is just poor city planning.
The darkness doesn't help either.
Candles. Lanterns. Glow sticks jammed into cracks like makeshift sconces. Hundreds of them scatter flickers of light across the cracked floors and staircases, but they barely put a dent in the gloom. Everything beyond those small islands of illumination—doorways, ladders, crawl spaces, stairwells—yawns like the mouth of some hibernating beast.
It's a whole subterranean city.
Not a shantytown.
Not a bomb shelter.
A city.
My only real-world comparison is Tokyo's flood tunnels, those massive silos built to drain tsunamis. This place is just as mind-boggling—but far grimmer.
I almost want to ask what the U.S. government was thinking, building this much infrastructure under a major city—
Oh. Right. Namor.
Makes more sense now.
"Welcome, friend," Caliban says, voice filled with a warm sort of pride. "Welcome to the Alley."
He pulls off the ragged layers of scarf and coat he's been wearing, revealing a faded purple suit beneath, worn at the elbows and stained by tunnel water—but clearly something he treasures. Sweat glistens across the dome of his head, catching the flickering light like candle wax.
"This place is…" I scan the cavern again. "Bigger than I thought."
"How did the surface forget about this? You'd think someone in the government would notice."
"They did notice," a new voice purrs—low, feminine, rough, and cutting like rusty nails. "But people are easily distracted. Records vanish. Entrances get sealed. Paper trails disappear. And the world moves on."
I stiffen.
The predatory weight I felt earlier tonight settles back on my shoulders, heavier now. Familiar.
"Aaah, Caliban," the voice continues, growing sharper, more amused. "You're late. I was starting to get worried."
She steps into view, boots crunching over loose gravel and discarded bolts.
"Who's this?"
"Callisto," Caliban says quickly, stepping forward. "Caliban found another. A new Morlock."
"We'll see," she replies, gaze pinned to me like a needle through cloth.
Callisto is not what I expected.
From the comics, I remember an older punk with jagged hair and a face only halfway there. Here, the punk aesthetic remains—ripped jeans, studded leather, a choker spiked with bent nails—but the hag part? Nowhere in sight.
She's scarred, yes—massively. A thick line cuts from her temple straight through one eye, twisting her face into a permanent sneer. But beneath the grime and old wounds, there's no mistaking it—she's beautiful. Striking. Like someone carved from flint, fire still smoulders in the cracks.
And her eyes.
One is milky, ruined. The other?
Alive.
Sharp.
Burning with feral madness.
Knives hang from her belt and pants in chaotic loops—more metal than denim. If I didn't know better, I'd have mistaken it for body armor in the candlelight.
"I'm Callisto," she says, tone cool and direct. "Leader of those who live in the Alley."
Her gaze flicks over me once. Goosebumps rise across my arms.
She radiates danger.
Even with all my powers, I don't want to test her. Not unless I have to.
"The Morlocks," I murmur, keeping my posture loose. Careful. Not too defensive. Not too eager.
"Yes…" she drawls, eye flicking to Caliban with a hint of exasperation. "The Morlocks."
The way she says it, I can tell this isn't the first time the situation has played out like this. Maybe not even the tenth.
But he doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away. Just returns her stare calmly, then glances back at me.
Respect, not submission.
"Do you know what it means to be a Morlock?" Callisto asks, stepping closer. "To live down here?"
Her smile is sharp.
Not kind.
Predator's teeth.
"Not really," I admit. Half-truth. Stick to half-truths. "Caliban said there'd be food. Shelter. People like us."
She studies me for a long, uncomfortable second. Then shifts her gaze back to Caliban. Something unsaid passes between them—an entire conversation in a blink.
"Caliban thinks you'll be useful," she says slowly. "He vouches for you?"
"Caliban guarantees it," he replies, voice steady now. Sure of himself.
Callisto's interest sharpens.
"There will be a trial period," she says. "Gotta see if you actually fit in."
"And if I don't?"
"You go back up." Her smile widens. "What happens after that isn't our problem."
"Please, Callisto." Caliban's tone softens, almost pleading. "Friend will fit."
She snorts. "We'll see."
She turns to me, eyes narrowing.
"Name?"
"Yes, what should friend be called?" Caliban echoes, sheepish.
Here we go.
"…Maquet."
Callisto hums. "Fine. Set Maquet up with a place to sleep. The night's already too long."
She turns, walking away without another word, metal clinking softly with each step.
Then she pauses—just at the mouth of another tunnel, half-hidden in shadow.
"Maquet," she says without turning around.
"Welcome to the Alley."
…
Settling down in my newly assigned accommodations, I finally realize just how bone-deep the exhaustion runs.
I haven't slept. Not once. Not since I got dropped into this world.
A combination of paranoia, adrenaline, and a frankly concerning amount of superpower-fueled endurance kept me going far past human limits. Even during my brief stay with Ezekiel, I couldn't rest. Too many thoughts. Too many dangers. Always waiting for the monster to come knocking.
In the end, it didn't matter. Zeke had been the one to bear the brunt. I'd been more baggage than partner.
I blink, snapping out of the memory, and focus on the present.
The cubicle I've been given is... humble.
Two plywood walls and a pair of repurposed shower racks form a rough three-sided room. No ceiling—because, well, it's not going to rain underground. Fitted into the space like an afterthought is a stained, sunken mattress that sags in the middle and smells faintly of damp cloth and something metallic.
It's rough. Rougher than any place I've ever stayed in.
But after three weeks of Marvel-brand chaos?
It might as well be the Ritz.
Still, sleep doesn't come.
I can't let it. Not yet.
There's too much to think about. Too many contingencies to plan. Too many futures to survive.
That's part of the reason I asked for space as far from the main congregation as possible. Deep in the tunnels, in a forgotten section rarely trafficked—just me, and my thoughts. And, unfortunately, two neighbors. The only others in this stretch of tunnel.
Hopefully, they're the quiet, non-stabby kind.
But just in case...
I reach inward again. The action is becoming more natural by the hour.
There it is—Lilac Heart, humming quietly. Still active. Still layered across my skin like invisible armor.
If anyone comes for me tonight, they're going to get hit with enough pheromonal static to give them a moment's pause. That's all I need. A moment to wake. A moment to decide.
A moment to survive.
That's all I can ask for right now.
With that small comfort settled, the clarity starts to fade. The spiral begins again.
I got shot at.
No—I got shot.
One of those poor bastards Killgrave controlled actually pulled the trigger.
And I—I tried to catch the bullet out of the air.
I glance down at my palm.
The angry red welt has mostly faded now, just a faint ring of pink and white—skin that remembers being broken.
I caught a bullet today.
It was reflex.
Danger Sense flared, and my body moved before I could think.
A blur of motion. An impact.
But I caught it. With my bare fucking hand.
The memory replays: the pain, the heat, the blood.
My breathing stutters.
It felt like my arm was on fire.
Holy shit.
My face pulls into a dumb grin—unbidden, shaky, borderline hysterical.
I caught a bullet.
A real one.
A bullet that was aimed at my heart.
And I caught it.
That thought keeps crawling through my brain like a drunk raccoon, refusing to leave.
But then the giddiness curdles into something colder.
What the hell was I doing?
The second my Danger Sense flared, I should've disarmed the shooter. Snapped his wrist. Dislocated his elbow.
Hell, I should've dodged.
What kind of idiot just stands there and tries to catch a bullet?
That wasn't bravery. That was stupidity.
Reckless, suicidal, comic book logic.
This isn't a Saturday morning cartoon.
This is real.
I could've died today—and I treated it like a joke.
Get your shit together.
Unless I want to end up on a mural or a t-shirt, there can't be a next time.
Gun = run. I don't care if they call me a coward.
I'd rather be a live coward than a dead fool.
...And yet.
Some small, stupid part of me—one I should drag into the street and execute—is still giddy.
Still wondering.
What else could I do?
If I get stronger… would bullets bounce off my skin?
Would I even need to dodge?
It's a dangerous thought.
But I can't help it—not even as I lie there, still shaking on a too-thin mattress.
Enough.
Enough about Killgrave.
He's gone. I lived. I won.
Time to deal with the new shitstorm I've willingly thrown myself into.
What the hell just happened?
This wasn't the plan.
I wasn't supposed to get involved.
I wasn't supposed to join anything.
The plan was simple: lay low, stay small, get out of major hotspots like New York. Hole up in Seattle or Portland, maybe even rural Greenland. Live off the grid. Collect powers. Stay unnoticed.
This?
This is a disaster in slow motion.
I need an escape plan. The Mutant Massacre is still looming out there, somewhere on the timeline. I don't know when, but I know it's coming.
Which means I need to be ready to run.
Work in silence. Explore the tunnels. Learn every exit. Wait for an opportunity.
And when the Sentinels come? Because they will—they always do—I need to vanish before the first metal boot hits the Alley.
Pick a city far from the action but close enough to superhero activity to benefit from it. Seattle. Maybe L.A. Definitely not New York. Never again.
And for the love of God, keep my mouth shut about my true power.
Demonstrate strength. Show off the life force absorption. Maybe a bit of regeneration. But nothing else.
No power theft. No gift-giving. No peeks behind the curtain.
Not when this universe is filled with walking cheat codes who treat time like their own personal Lego set. Especially post-Krakoa. Multiversal shenanigans are on the table now, and the last thing I need is some Omega-level time traveler deciding I'm a threat to continuity.
Caution. Always.
I run the rest of the checklist in my head, but nothing else feels urgent enough to tackle tonight.
The real planning can wait.
Right now, I just need to survive the next eight hours without someone putting a knife in my ribs.
That will have to be enough.
For tonight.
Author Note
Hello. I've decide to continue the story, at least until the conclusion of Arc 1, as I've been thinking nonstop about this story. This is not a guarantee that I will finished the story as I am quite fickle at heart and grow bored and unmotivated very easily. However, expect this arc to be finished at least.