Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was cold in December.

Especially when you're wrapped in hole-ridden rags that barely qualify as clothes. My fingers are going numb. My balls have retreated to Canada. And I probably look like a sunburnt lobster, shaking on a street corner.

What the hell was I thinking?

No—scratch that. I wasn't thinking. That's the point.

Just a cocktail of angst, pride, and that stupid hero complex I've never got passed since eighth grade.

I should've asked for more. From Ezekiel.

The guy's loaded. Old money, new money, mystical-spider-totem money—I could've fed my whole family tree with a single breath from him. Hell, I could've walked away with a penthouse and a trust fund if I'd played it smart.

But no. I used my three requests on "noble" shit. Stuff that helps other people. Stuff that doesn't stop me from freezing my ass off in New York winter, starving, homeless, and muttering to pigeons like I'm two steps from a mental breakdown.

I'm a goddamn idiot.

No. It's the media. The indoctrination. Too many Saturday morning cartoons, too many capes and masks, too many feel-good messages about doing the right thing.

Ask yourself this: what kind of lunatic gets three wishes from a rich, guilt-ridden spider-sage and doesn't ask for a lifetime supply of money and heat?

This kind of lunatic.

Mom always said I wasn't the brightest tool in the shed. Looking back, I might've been the dullest.

Bet Ezekiel laughed his wrinkled ass off after I walked away. I was all puffed-up attitude and moral high ground—he probably gave me those three wishes just to see how bad I'd mess it up.

Never negotiate with millionaires. Especially the self-made kind. They're like devils in designer suits.

And why three requests? Why not five? Ten? A subscription plan, maybe?

Blame Disney. Blame Aladdin. Blame that damn blue genie and his catchy songs.

(Not you, Robin Williams. I take it back. I love you. You were a treasure. Please don't haunt me.)

GOD. DAMN. IT.

Fuck this weather. Fuck this city. Fuck its skyline, its subways, its pigeons. Fuck everything and everyone.

Especially that purple piece of shit.

Oooh, when I find you… when I finally get my hands on you…

I don't know what I'll do, but it'll hurt. A lot. And it'll be worth every frozen toe.

- - -

It takes another 30-something frozen minutes before I finally reach the place.

Which makes it—according to my internal clock—very-late-at-night o'clock.

Even in the so-called "city that never sleeps," this stretch of road is unusually still. Quiet. Dimly lit. Practically abandoned.

But then again, I'm far from Midtown. Out here, silence isn't creepy—it's expected.

Not that the place is completely dead.

Ten people are still up, judging by the light leaking from their windows. Three more linger on the sidewalks, probably smoking or loitering or both. And at least four others are around—people I can't see but can feel.

One of them, in particular, is watching me.

It's like a splinter in my spine. I can't tell where it's coming from, only that it's there—an itch behind the ears, a pinprick just beneath the skin.

I need cover. Fast.

I duck into the nearest alley, and just like that, the sensation fades. No more phantom stares boring into the back of my neck.

Now I can focus.

Killgrave's supposed to be nearby. If Ezekiel's intel is right, the bastard just "paid" his rent, which means he should be stationary—for at least a little while.

Of course, that's assuming the intel's still good… and that the purple freak hasn't vanished on one of his whims.

I wish I could be more certain. But Ezekiel's money can only do so much—and I'm running on fumes.

Tracking someone like Killgrave is hard enough with resources. Without them? It's a prayer and a coin toss.

I plant my palms on the wall and begin to climb. Slow and steady. Stick to shadows. Avoid windows.

The last thing I need is some half-asleep New Yorker calling the cops on the wall-crawling hobo outside their apartment.

As I crest the roof's ledge, I flip over and drop flat to the surface, hugging the floor.

Paranoid? Maybe. But I'm not taking chances. Not tonight. Not when some guy on a smoke break could ruin everything.

I've got one shot at this.

If the Purple Man realizes I'm tracking him, he'll vanish, or worse—turn me into his puppet, or just flat-out kill me. Whichever mood strikes him.

So yeah. I'm fucked. Properly, existentially fucked.

And it all comes back to two things: that damn hero complex and the delusions of grandeur.

One of those is already enough to get you killed in this world.

Both?

Might as well write my will and dive headfirst into the Hudson.

Okay. Focus. No spiraling. Just remember the goal.

I know Killgrave is somewhere around here.

Where, exactly? No clue.

I warned the old man about Killgrave's powers, so all I got was a rough area. Guesses. Best-case estimates. The bastard's in the vicinity, and that's gonna have to be good enough.

Which brings me to the real problem: how the hell do you track a purple-skinned, mind-controlling sociopath without knowing his exact location?

I can't exactly go window to window playing neighborhood creeper. Aside from the visibility and time issues, I'd pass out from holding my breath too long. And let's be real—"peekaboo with predators" isn't a viable long-term strategy.

Ask for help? From who?

The streets are dead, and anyone I do manage to find is more likely to mistake me for a cracked-out hobo than take me seriously. "Hey, have you seen a purple guy who can control minds?" Yeah. That'll go over great.

Pray? Yeah, no. If the big guy upstairs gave a damn, I wouldn't be in this frozen hellhole to begin with.

Abandon the mission?

Are you fucking kidding me?

Do you even remember how much you've given up for this? Hell no. If I turn back now, I'll lose my only shot—and once he's gone, he's gone.

So that leaves one option: power.

But which one?

Strength? Speed? Useless if I don't know where to go.

My senses are better now, sure—but I'm nowhere near trained enough to track someone like this. No echolocation. No touch-based radar. Night vision still needs me to look, and getting that close to Killgrave would be signing my death warrant.

Smell? Hah. Let's not even go there.

What about the weird stuff? The freaky sense?

I've never really tested it before.

Supposed to be some kind of danger precognition, like a sixth sense that flares up when something bad's about to happen. Of course, that's in theory. And it's only gotten murkier ever since my powers started overlapping like spaghetti.

Some stories make it sound like a simple alarm bell. Others? Near-omniscient spider god levels of precog.

Whatever version I've got… It's still my best shot.

Besides, maybe the overlapping powers could actually help me here.

Zeke's senses are pretty standard for spider-folk—enhanced, sure, but manageable. Cindy's, on the other hand? Hers are cranked to eleven. Freakishly sharp, even by spider-person standards. I usually have to keep them on a leash, or I'll flinch at every passing breeze. But right now? That hypersensitivity might be exactly what I need. Hopefully.

Zebediah Killgrave is dangerous. Capital-D Dangerous. Even now, the logical part of my brain is screaming at me to bail. But will the spider-sense actually register that? Logic and instinct don't always agree. Knowing someone's dangerous isn't the same as feeling the cold terror of a predator's stare.

Will the sense pick up on that distinction?

And do I really want to turn it on over a guess?

I hate pain. Loathe it. Despise it. I psych myself out over vaccines—turn a pinch into a three-day existential crisis. Volunteering for a one-way brain-zap via sensory overload? Not exactly high on my bucket list.

God, I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. And not knowing is making me hesitate even more.

Fuck. Shit. Goddamn it.

After one deep, reluctant breath, I prod at Social Spider—poke the beast awake.

It stirs.

The weird dog-cat-power-hybrid-thing inside me shakes off the sleep like it's stretching after a nap… and then, with an eager jolt, it gives me everything.

Right before the full onslaught of power hits, I clamp down—tight—drawing only a trickle, focusing everything on the precognitive sixth sense.

A low hum rises, steady and growing. Then—thirteen tethers pierce onto my brain, jolting me like a live wire and yanking in every direction.

More try to latch on—less intense, but still screaming for attention. I shut it all down before they can dig in.

Holy shit. That's what Spider-Sense feels like at full blast?

Goddamn.

No wonder it activates in bursts.

I'm soaked in cold sweat. Muscles twitch like I'm tweaking out—any passerby would think I just snorted bath salts.

Forget tracking someone. I'm lucky I didn't black out.

I need another plan. One that doesn't melt my brain like fondue.

I need all the brain cells I can get as it is.

But, there is no other way. Spider-sense is my best bet. It works, somewhat, the previous experience has just proven that. Those who are awake, rang loud and early compared to those who are asleep. If that were signals only for regular folks (presumably), I can only imagine what an enhanced person like Zebediah Killgrave would do to my poor cranium.

Wait. No. I don't want to imagine that.

Okay. Let's just pack it up. Call it a night. I'm not hero material, never was.

Hell, if that beatdown with Morlun didn't prove it, today sure did.

And hey, this world has heroes. Didn't Daredevil kick Killgrave's purple ass before?

I could drop by Nelson & Murdock, give Matt a nudge in the right direction, and boom—he handles it. The Devil goes clubbing while I sip cocoa.

Zero pain. Zero risk. Zero downside.

…Except for letting someone else take the hits.

Was I really about to hide behind a blind guy?

A blind guy who, yeah, could kick my ass three times before breakfast—but still.

Matt Murdock is one bad day away from eating a bullet. Meeting the Purple Man, that might push him to the point of no return.

These secret-identity types? All of them are barely hanging on. Playing dress up just to keep their own demons in check.

And me? I was ready to throw one of them at my problem—just because I'm scared.

Just because I don't want to hurt.

Just because I can.

When I've got powers that Matt couldn't dream of.

When there's probably a girl locked in Killgrave's place right now.

Awake.

Aware.

Dying inside.

Fuck.

How did I sink this low?
No. Killgrave is going down.

Tonight.

There is no questioning that.

People deserve to live their life free of his putrid taint. Jessica, Luke, Matt, Carol, Peter, all their lives would be better without this piece of shit roaming the street; not to mention the thousands of unnamed civilian lives this fucker ruin.

The question, then, is how to track down this motherfucker, and make him stay down. Which brings it full circle back to the pain problem.

A sigh comes unbidden, leaving curling, white fogs in its wake.

Power is not supposed to hurt the user. Even more so for my case with Singularity.

When acquiring Social Spider, I have made sure that the power is compatible and functional. Even now, examining it, the powers are enthusiastic, giving everything at a single request; not unlike a very eager pup.

Yet, three weeks removed from acquiring it. My body still violently rejects spider-sense, an ability that refuses to heel, unlike everything else.

Granted, I have not used that subset much compared to its other perks, but even then, a free electro-therapy session for my noodle is not what I expect from such an eager to please power.

I reflexively use Singularity to check Social Spider one more time. Yep—still all green. Singularity insists Social Spider should be seamless. No setbacks.

So where is this issue coming from?

Zeke, and Cindy did not have any issue of this caliber.

Sure, Cindy Silk-Senses are the most sensitive among the spider people, and there are instances in the comic of her ignoring her precognitive danger sense, but it has never caused her pain or discomfort before, just mild annoyances.

Zeke's Spider-Sense is just the run of the mill variant. It has even gotten duller with age, I doubt that is where the sensitivity issue stems from.

What else could it be then?

It's not other subsets of power interacting with it. The physical enhancements are prevalent within all spider people, so we can rule that out.

Cannot be wall crawling, even if mine are more exotic than most, at least one of the spider-people has had exotic wall crawling at some point, and none have my problem.

Claws. No.

Fangs. No.

Swarm Conver— Wait, what?

Swarm Conversion? Since when did I have th— Right. Carl King.

The blonde jock that was bullying Peter at the Oscorp expo. The dumbass who thought eating the irradiated spider was a good idea.

Nasty piece of shit. Shove me to the ground when I bump into him to get his power. Honestly, the idiot should've thanked me—I saved him from turning into a spider-swarm.

Is that what is causing the severe pain? It's possible, I haven't looked too closely at it on the account of I like staying as a human. Maybe some elements of his power are boosting the Spider-Sense to an unnatural degree.

Let's see.

Physical Enhancement, whatever.

Wall Crawling, standard.

Swarm Conversion, not touching that with a ten foot pole.

Psychic Alignment with Arthropods, no.

Arachnids Control. No.

Consumption Empowerment, that's neat, it also has a thin line connecting to Parasitic Predator. Wonder if that meant that I can grow permanently stronger by consuming lifeforce, that would be co— Focus. Not the time.

Precognitive Nullification, could be useful.

No Spider-Sense, though. Meaning that this is a dead end as well.

Well, shit.

No visible problem in Carl's powerset, meaning that my problem is a mutative one.

If I really wanted to gamble this hard, I should've gone to Vegas—not played roulette with unstable powers.

Mutative abilities are a problem. Sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker. Always unpredictable. Definitely dangerous.

This isn't something I can patch up with duct tape and grit. It's the kind of mess that needs gene therapy and a genius geneticist—neither of which are exactly in my back pocket right now.

But still… this doesn't make sense.

I would've known if there were mutations embedded in Social Spider. Hell, Singularity should've prevented them altogether—one of its lesser-known perks is managing compatibility and power integrity. If something went wrong, I'd know.

But everything checks out. Clean. No errors. Which means the power works. I just haven't figured out how to use it properly yet.

So I go over every ability again—especially the lesser-known ones, the ones I skimmed the first time. And there it is.

Hive Mind. Carl King's freaky little trick that let his consciousness exist across a thousand spiders. In his case, it was just a cockroach-level survival tactic. Kill one body, the rest live on. Creepy, but limited.

But I'm not Carl King.

In his hands, it was persistence. In mine, it's potential. Real, terrifying potential.

Multitasking. Parallel thinking. Accelerated learning. Distributed processing. Partitioned awareness.

I am now an army of a thousand minds... in one body.

And this—this is the key. The solution to the hypersensitivity. If one mind can't handle the full weight of a mutated Spider-Sense, then I'll use the other 999 to help carry the load.

For the first time in weeks, I feel something solid: certainty. I call out to Social Spider, nudging Hive Mind to the front of the line.

And my mind blossoms.

Thoughts duplicate. Multiply. A hundred voices whisper, not in confusion, but in harmony. My consciousness expands outward like a fractal mandala, infinitely spiraling inward and outward at once.

It's loud—deafening, even—but never painful. Like a great bronze bell resonating with ideas, memories, solutions. An echo chamber of clarity.

My older brother always joked my head was empty. Pretty sure this isn't what he meant.

I snort at the thought—and then ask Social Spider to dig up Spider-Sense.

It obeys, eager as ever. My precognition expands outward like a balloon filling too fast. But just as it hits the edge of unbearable—

One of my other minds steps in and takes the weight.

And then another.

And another.

Until the discomfort fades completely.

Careful not to mistake the quiet for a power shutdown, I run a few tests. Layer all the senses—sight, sound, smell, touch, taste, danger. Stack them. Crank the volume.

In the past, this would've liquefied my brain and left me drooling in an alley. Now?

I feel... nothing. Just input. Calm, controlled input.

150 minds. That's what it takes to process the full sensory suite—leaving the core me free to think, to act, to be.

It's absurd. Insane. Beyond anything I imagined possible when this all began. But I have the bandwidth now. This is no longer the same game. I'm not even playing the same sport.

The data floods in—scent, temperature gradients, electromagnetic signals, micro-vibrations—parsed, processed, delivered as neat facts to my conscious brain. No sensory overload. No static. Just answers.

Like a psychic Wikipedia plug-in.

And yet…

Something still doesn't sit right.

I was seeing everything—but not experiencing it.

My emotional state no longer spirals. It's still present—somewhere—but held at a distance. Sealed away in a soundproof room, waiting for the right moment to be acknowledged.

Right now, there is only one mission.

And yet… a note of dissonance persists. Dissatisfaction. Not fear. Not doubt. Just a quiet alert, a flag raised by something deep within.

An error. Not in logic, but in method.

The signal is subtle, but clear. It originates from Social Spider.

The power is… suggesting something.

That shouldn't be possible. It's not sentient. Not really. Is it?

Still, the suggestion is there, humming through the connection like a low-frequency sound. And I follow.

I release the power across every partitioned mind, letting instinct—not thought—guide the process. The reaction is immediate.

The system floods with energy. And for the first time, I see.

Between one blink and the next, the world transforms.

The spectrum expands. Color no longer behaves as it once did—now it blooms, layered and complex, like ink in water. The air dances across my skin with measurable shifts in temperature and pressure, curling into the spaces between each hair.

Above, where light pollution should reign, the stars return. Tiny anchors of light in the velvet sky—impossible, and yet undeniable.

Within this block, I register 216 discrete human presences. 199 are dormant. Seventeen remain awake—soon to be ten, as the rhythm of breath and heartbeat slows in seven of them. Sleep approaches.

I feel my muscles tighten—steel cables under flesh. My nerves hum like cello strings pulled taut. Power moves through me in waves, precise and responsive.

With one movement, I could drive my hand through concrete. With another, I could cradle a moth without damaging a wing. The range is absolute.

Sensory input layers atop itself. Stacked. Organized. Filtered.

But one sensation rises above the rest.

At nine o'clock, the air shifts. A foul taste spreads across my tongue—bitter, wrong, purple. The breeze sharpens, cold and adhesive, brushing across my skin like damp velvet. My skin crawls. My Spider-Sense pulses.

Danger.

Zebediah Killgrave.

The Purple Man coils in the dark, steeped in his own stench of control and violation.

Target acquired.

Let's end this.

- - -

A townhouse.

That's where Killgrave decided to stay, at least for now.

Huh. Guess that explains the rent nonsense. I figured the Purple Man for a penthouse kind of guy—evil lair, skyline view, the works. But this is New York. A well-located townhouse is basically a castle. Price tag fits the villainy.

That said, I'm picking up a lot of people inside. Twenty, maybe twenty-five.

Light from the main hallway, plus windows lit up on the second and third floors.

A party, then.

The finer things, indeed.

Well… this is a fucking pickle.

I was hoping for something easier—hotel room, apartment, back-alley murder den. Something I could kick the door in, one-shot the guy, and be out before anyone realized their pants were purple.

But a townhouse? With twenty-plus people inside?

That complicates things.

If this were a normal creep, I'd just break in and improvise. But this is Killgrave. Every single one of those people could be unwilling. Puppets. Shields.

Force becomes a problem.

Two people? I can subdue. Twenty? That's a slaughter waiting to happen.

And with my new strength… let's just say the phrase "non-lethal takedown" gets tricky. Very tricky.

Then there's the signal.

My Spider-Sense pings hard from inside—sharp, clean, unmistakably predator-tier. That's Killgrave. The others are background noise. Civilians.

But it's imprecise. The signal is too strong—it muddies everything else. I know he's in there, but not where. Not how many people are in the same room. Not how many floors up.

Getting closer would help. Clearer signals. Layout. Numbers. Precise data.

But getting closer also means risk.

Killgrave's powers are scent and sound-based. Pheromones to slip past defenses, commands to seal the deal. Get too close, breathe too deep, and suddenly I'm volunteering to stab myself in the eye because he asked nicely.

Yeah. No thanks.

So. Plan B.

I'm not a genius—not Peter Parker, or Reed Richard. But I can stack enough thoughts together to fake it for a bit.

Enter: Hive Mind.

Honestly, it's cheating. No shame admitting it. A thousand minds, all thinking at once. Processing. Calculating. One man's LAN party of neurons.

Sure, it's not elegant. A bit janky. But when your goal is taking down a mind-controlling sociopath? Volume beats elegance any day.

Plans spill in like a brainstorm turned tsunami. Most are garbage. Some are violent. A few… promising.

But every path runs into the same roadblock:

Not. Enough. Intel.

I don't know what room he's in. What floor? How many civilians are with him? Kids? Adults?

And force—force has consequences now. I'm not quite Superman-level "world of cardboard," but if I sneeze too hard, someone's jaw might go flying. I don't want that. Not even for Killgrave.

I don't want his blood. I want his freedom—gone. A prison cell with no key. Life sentence. He deserves it.

But to pull that off, I need information.

And I need it without falling under his control.

Which… yeah. That's a problem.

Especially since there's a non-zero chance that this isn't even Killgrave.

New York's crawling with weirdos these days. Since the Four showed up, it's been like shaking a snow globe of freaks. Some of them dangerous. Most of them annoying.

Could be Kingpin. Could be a rogue magician throwing a rave. Could be someone like me.

Doubt it's one of Peter's rogues—kid only got his power three weeks ago. And if Zeke does his part? He never will.

Definitely not the Maggia. Too soon. No turf to consolidate yet.

If it's Kingpin?

I walk.

Not because I'm scared. Okay—partly because I'm scared. But mostly because there's no clean way to win against Fisk. Even if you "win," you lose. That man doesn't break. He waits. And then he ruins you.

Killgrave's already a stretch. Fisk? That's suicide.

So—circle back.

I need to get close enough to gather intel without breathing in a lungful of mind control.

My senses can map out the entire building. Walls, footsteps, heartbeats, patterns. But I need proximity. Not long—just a few passes, a few seconds each.

If I can hold my breath long enough, I can blitz in, soak in the data, and get out before the pheromones get me.

Probably.

Two passes, maybe three. Each mind memorizes a different section. A thousand partitions. The house isn't that big.

Yeah, okay—it sounds insane. Olympic swimmers can hold their breath for five minutes. Me? Before all this? I got winded walking up stairs.

But I'm not normal anymore.

Haven't been since a month ago.

Especially not since Social Spider joined the party.

How long can a pair of superpowered lungs hold their breath?

- - -

The world changes when you're blind.

Your other senses kick into overdrive, hypersensitive to make up for the absence of sight. Emotions get tangled in the process—fear, adrenaline, anxiety—amplifying everything. You twitch at every breeze, every brush of air, every shift in space. It's instinctive. It's survival.

Even more so if you're… different. Superable.

People forget that air is a fluid. Like water, it bends and weaves around obstacles, slipping through gaps, flowing along the path of least resistance. But unlike water, it's invisible. You can't track it by eye. You need tools—sensors, machines—to read its flow.

Unless you've become the sensor.

Unless your body has learned to read the whispers of the wind like Braille—each swirl a word, each gust a sentence, pressed against your skin like prophecy.

The biting December air should be freezing me to the bone. Instead, it dances across my back, a subtle current brushing along the nerves. I can feel it shift, bend, and funnel between buildings. It's like sonar, only quieter—soft, gentle... terrifyingly precise.

My face is sealed behind a thick weave of web, layered and dense. No light gets through. No scent, no sound, no taste. Nothing. I've shut everything off.

And yet, I can see better than I ever have.

Every muscle moves with purpose, cords of steel beneath skin pulling me forward on all fours as I run. Not walk—run. The Danger Sense hums in my head, mapping ledges, obstacles, exposed beams. I dodge before I know I need to. I know the city's shape in the dark.

The wind rushes past me, leaving trails of dust that stick to my palms. I feel the grain of fabric on my legs, the tension in my joints, the shape of every breath.

And beyond that… I feel them.

The den of the snake. What once was a chaotic tangle of hostile signals now has clarity. Each presence is distinct—separated, labeled.

Killgrave.

There's no mistake now.

Maybe it's the web cocoon wrapped around my face, sealing out every breath and whisper. No pheromones. No commands. No entry.

He used to register like a snake coiled in the grass—sharp, sudden, lethal. But now? His signal is dimmer. Still dangerous, but wounded. The predator is limping.

And I'm not the only one who sees it.

Yes… you're right, Parasitic Predator. You always are when it comes to prey.

The viper's fangs are cracked. He is weak. Not a predator, but prey.

However… the old viper is cautious. Experienced.

He knows to coil high above the treetops, digesting his feast in silence.

If only I were a fully grown goshawk—sharp-eyed, talons honed—then there'd be no canopy thick enough to shield him. But my feathers are still growing, my wings too short for that kind of flight.

One day.

But not tonight.

So, maybe a different tactic.

If Flight drains too much stamina, why not let physics carry the burden?

A well-timed arc, a web-assisted divebomb. I have the strength. The durability. The Organic Spinnerets to sling myself like a missile. And once I'm close enough, my senses will do the rest. They'll find him. They always do.

Yes… that feels right. Even my powers seem to agree—each one nudging me with what I can only describe as anticipation.

Poor old viper.

Does he not realize?

That mongoose knows how to climb trees.

- - -

Teresa wants to wake up from this unending nightmare.

She wants to scream until her throat rips, to claw out her eyes until all she can see is void.

She wants to rage, roar, scream, weep, and sob.

Yet… she can't.

Her face can only smile, as her body dances on unseen strings.

Around her, countless other marionettes move along to soundless tunes. Their faces twist into facsimiles of human expression—smiles that are empty, eyes flashing purple.

They play pretend and dress up.

Wearing pompous, expensive clothing, they throw themselves into the party. Some sit on the couches, chatting delicately as they nibble on canapés. Others cluster in groups of three or more, sipping their high-end drinks and laughing uproariously at one joke or another.

It's the textbook definition of a lively, upper-class soirée.

But the unspoken truth hangs in the air like a leering guillotine.

The host of the party, however, seems blissfully unaware of the tension in the room.

He flits from group to group, joining and leaving conversations with a grace that borders on the supernatural.

Every woman he talks to laughs at his every word, their hands brushing his arms and thighs, gazes heavy-lidded.

The men respond with similar enthusiasm. From the broad-shouldered to the brainy, the host slips effortlessly into place. Wherever he goes, that group becomes the center of attention, as if a missing puzzle piece has finally clicked into place.

Some of the burlier men clap him on the back or strong-arm him to stay longer, but he always leaves on his own terms—charming and checking each guest in turn.

After completing his rounds, the man pours himself a drink at the bar. A satisfied smile graces his lips as droplets of sweat glisten on his indigo skin.

'Go to him.' An unbidden voice surfaces in Teresa's mind.

'No… Don't go. Please. Don't go. Stop. Please. PLEASE. STOP. STOP.'
Her own voice screams, louder than ever.

Yet, as if drunk from a poisoned chalice, Teresa's body moves forward toward the host.

The smile on her face deepens.

"Rough night, Zebediah?" Her voice carries across the room, snapping the man from his thoughts. A lilt that makes a mockery of true adoration.

If the man noticed her approach, he didn't show it.

"Well… there are a lot of guests tonight," Killgrave said, his voice low and smooth. "But I've got a feeling tonight's about to get a whole lot better."

He smiled.

To a stranger, it might've looked charming—disarming, even. But Teresa knew better.

There was no warmth in it. No sincerity.

It was a practiced expression, a polished lie.

A mask worn a thousand times before, and one he'd wear a thousand more.

'Comfort him.' The voice urged again.

That sickly-sweet whisper deep inside her skull.

To her horror, her body obeyed.

Her hand reached out, fingers brushing his shoulder with a lover's tenderness.

She felt her palm move in practiced circles, massaging away imaginary knots, while her head leaned in—cheek brushing his, her breath grazing his ear.

A message. A signal. A second passed.

'NOOO!!'

Teresa screamed inside, her soul thrashing in its cage.

'OH GOD, PLEASE NO! PLEASE LET ME OUT! SOMEBODY—PLEASE!'

Killgrave looked up.

For the first time that night, his eyes—dull and disinterested till now—sparkled with a cruel satisfaction.

"After you, dear Teresa," he murmured, the words slick with predatory delight.

Her hand slipped into his.

A marionette's hand in the monster's grasp.

Together, they walked.

Each step toward the master bedroom felt like a march to the gallows.

Inside her mind, once a swirling storm of fear, rage, and despair, a bleak numbness took hold.

Hope drained away as her own fingers pushed open the double doors.

Hell.

There was no other word for it.

Her mind wandered—grasping for anything—flashing back to the other girls.

The ones who'd gone before.

Their screams still echoed in her memory.

Their tears.

The wild-eyed desperation as they rushed for scissors or shattered mirrors—anything sharp—before freezing in place, mid-swing, when he reclaimed control.

He always took back control.

Always.

And now, it was her turn.

Her body moved like it had done this before.

Clothes fell away. Skin bared.

Her limbs didn't tremble, but inside, she was withering. Fading.

Killgrave waited on the king-sized bed, leering. Expectant.

But then—just as her foot crossed the threshold—

A deafening sound.

A cacophony of wailing metal, splintering wood, and crumbling stone.

As shrill as the dying screams of wounded animals. As loud as cannon fire.

Teresa imagines this is what it must sound like when the gates of the Underworld yawn open to welcome the damned.

Through the dust and shattered beams of the collapsed roof, something rises.

Something wrong.

Ominous.

It stands tall amidst the debris, a grotesque parody of an Olympic sprinter.

Ribs protrude from an emaciated frame, and its limbs—thin as twigs—are strung with taut, dehydrated muscles that look haphazardly sewn into place.

Despite its frailty, it radiates strength.

It dangles Killgrave by the throat with one hand, effortlessly.

Amidst the dust, Teresa can barely make out the creature's upper half.

Its head is bald and featureless—no eyes, no nose, no mouth.

Only scars.

Dozens of them.

Crisscrossing across its skull.

This is not the angel Teresa prayed for in the depths of her despair.

No… this is something far worse.

A demon.

A demon has come to claim Zebediah Killgrave's twisted soul.

And yet, even amid the terror, Teresa feels it—

A sliver of satisfaction.

A deep, primal relief.

Killgrave's once-slicked hair is in disarray, coated in dust and caked with drying blood.

His eyes bulge with pure, naked terror.

His face has turned a darker shade of purple than she thought possible.

His mouth opens and closes in a futile attempt to speak.

'HELP M—'

The voice in her mind screams, then—

Silence.

Teresa moved just as the command was cut off.

She lunged for the standing lamp in the corner, her body surging forward with sudden, hysterical strength. All pretense of civility shattered.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of herself in the hanging mirror.

She didn't recognize what she saw.

Eyes glowing fully purple. A fine crust of gray dust clinging to her skin.

Charging like an animal, wide-eyed with feral madness.

Was that really her?

The demon didn't even turn to face her.

Its free hand snapped backward—at an unnatural angle—faster than a bullet.

In an instant, her grip went light.

The head of the lamp sailed through the air.

She staggered, her ankle twisting as her body pitched forward, nearly crashing into the mahogany bed frame—

Something yanked her back.

She flew through the air like a ragdoll and slammed into the far wall.

The breath tore from her lungs.

Pain.

Crushing, blooming pain.

She could barely think, barely move—but forced herself upright, blinking through tears.

Across the room, she saw it—

The demon… finishing Killgrave.

Thin strands of golden light flowed out from the purple man's mouth like smoke. His face contorted in silent horror, every muscle seizing.

Then, as the demon finished feasting, his eyes rolled back.

His body sagged.

Like a puppet with its strings cut, he collapsed to the floor, limbs folding awkwardly beneath him.

The creature looked down at Killgrave's heap for a moment—then slowly turned its head toward her.

Its movements were strange—jittery, wrong. Like something pretending to be human and not quite getting it right.

Then—blink—

It was right beside her.

Teresa's pulse spiked.

The creature raised a hand toward her face, claws gleaming faintly in the dim light.

Golden light began to leak from her mouth and orifice. She felt it—her life, her strength—draining away.

Her body tried to move, to recoil—but she was stuck.

Her limbs were pressed against the wall by some sticky, flexible substance. Webbing.

More light escaped. Her senses dulled. Her thoughts slowed.

She heard movement—footsteps—somewhere in the hall.

Shouts.

Commotion.

But it was muffled, far away.

Her eyes drooped.

Just before they closed completely, she saw it.

The creature's head wasn't featureless after all.

It was wrapped in white, organic webbing—so thick it obscured every detail.

Little golden motes danced at the surface of the webbed mask—then slipped through it.

And Teresa went still.

- - -

"So. What do we have?"

North's voice broke the silence—crisp, low, slicing through the stale air like a blade through still water.

"Christ, man. You scared me half to death," Jeff muttered, shooting him a tired glare. It was half-hearted, no real malice behind it—but coming from Jeff, it could still shake anyone unfamiliar.

Officer Nolan North, however, was made of sterner stuff.

One raised eyebrow was all Jeff got. Behind those dark eyes, something unreadable simmered—watchful, calculating.

"Nothing on my end," Nolan said, tone clipped. "Neighbors were out cold by midnight. A few complaints about noise—late-night parties, usual stuff—but nothing they thought was worth calling in. Most of 'em woke around two, when the ceiling gave out. Called it in right away."

He gave a dry snort. "So. What have you got?"

Jeff exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw as his eyes swept across the wreckage of the suite.

"Well… this is officially the weirdest case I've ever had."

North didn't respond. His eyes moved methodically, cataloging everything. Two weeks of working together had taught Jeff that North's silence wasn't indifference. It was patience. He listened first, then dissected.

Jeff exhaled, flipping open a small, battered notebook.

"The main victim is one Zebediah Killgrave. The guy with purple skin. No ID, no record, nothing in the system. Forensics hasn't turned up anything yet. As far as our database is concerned, the guy's a ghost."

His eyes flit across the floor, zeroing in on the ruin king-size bed.

"Still alive, by the way. Paramedics say his body shut itself down—entered a coma, maybe to protect itself."

Jeff paused, lips pressing into a thin line.

"But that's not the whole story."

North's gaze shifted to him, ever so slightly.

Jeff looked down at his notes again, though he wasn't really reading them. He just needed a second.

"Our records may be blank, but the victims… They have a lot to say about this piece of work."

He swallowed hard. His hand trembled slightly, and he tucked it into his coat pocket.

"I've done interviews before—trafficking, cult rescues, gang raids—but this?" He shook his head. "This was different. Some of those women couldn't even speak. One just… kept laughing. Another wouldn't stop apologizing, like she was the one who did something wrong."

His voice cracked at the edges.

For a moment, silence hung between them—thick, tense, as if the air itself had to recover from the weight of what they'd seen.

"Apparently, our purple friend had superpowers," Jeff finally muttered.

North looked up sharply, calm eyes now clouded with something harder—shock, disbelief. "What kind?"

"Mind control," Jeff said, voice low. "He used it pretty liberally, too. Most of the victims… they're women."

Another pause. North didn't speak, but his jaw tightened.

"He was planning to do the same thing here," Jeff added, waving vaguely toward the yawning hole in the ceiling. "Before that happened."

North's eyes shifted—first to the wrecked ceiling, then to the scorched furniture, then back to Jeff. He was piecing things together, slowly and carefully. Jeff, meanwhile, felt miles away.

He thought he'd seen the worst of humanity already. Growing up in the projects had been its own education—smack houses, gunshots in the night, friends disappearing into gang life. Becoming a cop hadn't saved him from the darkness either; it just gave him the badge to stand in front of it. Human trafficking. Child prostitution. Corpses in alleys. Names that still haunted him.

That's why he joined. To stop that cycle. To give his kid—sweet little Miles—and his wife Rio a world that didn't chew people up.

But this man—no, this monster—was something else entirely.

Jeff's hand drifted toward the holstered gun on his hip, fingers brushing the grip without thought.

How could his son be safe with things like this walking around?

"—vis. Davis." North's voice cut through the haze. "Hey. You with me?"

Jeff blinked, startled. His partner was watching him closely, his gaze softer now, tempered by something Jeff didn't expect—concern.

"Yeah… yeah. Long shift, that's all." Jeff rubbed his forehead and looked away.

"Well," he said after a breath, "according to the only person who was with him—Teresa Lawson—something crashed through the roof."

"Something?" North's voice lifted with the first trace of surprise.

"Some creature," Jeff said, sighing. "That's the only way any of them could describe it. Humanoid, with claws. Lanky, but strong. Threw two guys across the room like they were cardboard. Didn't even flinch when hit with furniture."

He pointed toward the ruined coffee table and the cracked plaster on the far wall.

"Hell, one of the victims/witnesses said it caught a bullet with its bare hands."

North arched an eyebrow. Jeff gestured at the ground near the debris—where a single shell casing lay half-buried in dust.

"That casing was found right there. Witness swears he shot it. Claims it snatched the round mid-air."

"It was premeditated," North murmured. "The break-in. This thing wasn't here for chaos—it was going for Killgrave."

Jeff nodded slowly. "Yeah. All the witnesses said Killgrave shouted for help. Ordered them to defend him. They attacked the creature like puppets. But it... it didn't go after them unless it had to."

He paused, flipping a few pages in his notebook.

"It went straight for Killgrave. Everything else was self-defense."

North gave a low whistle. "Hell of a self-defense. Seven people were concussed. One guy's got a broken arm, another's leg twisted backwards—it'll be a miracle if he walks right again."

Jeff ran a hand through his cropped hair and sighed. "Think it was that vigilante?"

North's brow furrowed. "Vigilante?"

"Oh come on, man, you've had to hear the rumors from the 10th precinct. Every beat cop heard them."

"I thought you said it was a creature," North countered, dark eyes locking onto Jeff's.

"Yeah… Most of the witnesses described its face as a mess of scars. Some said it had no features at all. Others swore it only had a mouth. Nobody said it was human." Jeff tapped the side of his notebook. "Except one."

North perked up.

"Teresa Lawson. The girl with Killgrave, clearest look. Said its face wasn't a face at all—it was a mask."

"A mask?"

"She described it as a cocoon of webs, covering its whole head."

North hummed, thoughtful. "So our suspects range from demons, to mutant vigilantes, to the Devil of Hell's Kitchen himself."

"You don't get this stuff back in Chicago?" Jeff quipped, trying to lighten the mood.

"No," North said flatly. "No, we do not."

Jeff gave a short, dry laugh. "Come on. Let's poke around a bit more before we head back to the precinct."

He needs to call Rio. Looks like it's going to be one of those shifts.

- - -

Caliban, one of the original founders of the Morlocks, found himself once more in a similar place.

As part of his self-imposed duty, he often traveled to the world above, scouring the surface for news to bring back to the Alleys.

Sometimes, he found others—mutants like himself who couldn't hide their changes. Monsters, as the surface dwellers called them.

He brought them below, offering shelter where the world above only offered cruelty.

It was a thankless task, but a necessary one.

The world was not kind to mutants—especially those who were visibly different.

Bringing them underground not only saved lives, but also brought new hands and fresh hope to the Alleys.

A better life for all. In theory, anyway.

Of course, it didn't always work out.

Caliban's power allowed him to sense others of his kind. But not all mutants were outcasts. Some could pass. Some still clung to the illusion of belonging.

Those were the worst. They looked at him with fear or disgust—ran from him, sometimes beat him.

And those who followed him below…

They resented him soon enough. Blamed him for the darkness, for the rot. For introducing them to Masque.

And sometimes, in his weakest moments—alone in the silence of the tunnels—Caliban blamed himself, too.

But he always remembered why he did this. Why he had to. It wasn't just because of Callisto's orders from that first night long ago.

It was because mutants were hated by all.

Because humans—the "normal people"—would never rest until every last mutant was gone.

Because even among their own kind, the Morlocks were outcasts.

Because even other mutants looked at them and saw monsters.

That was why he had to keep going.

To find them.

To bring them home.

Down into the Alleys. Down to the Morlocks.

Still, the stares bothered him.

Some days were worse than others, of course.

But, the connotation remains the same.

Even among outcasts, Caliban is alone.

Tonight, at least, was a better one.

Analee had given them all one of her psychic "pick-me-ups," a little burst of euphoria to dull the pain.

And the stares… they hadn't felt quite as sharp tonight.

But they were still there.

Even in bliss, some Morlocks never forgot what Masque had done to them. And they never forgot who brought them down here in the first place.

So, Caliban did the only thing he could do in moments like these.

He went above ground.

Exiting from one of the main entrances, Caliban ensures that none of his more exaggerated features are visible before slipping into the night.

Some nights have a clear objective. His detection powers sweep wide, cutting through the static of the city like sonar. He knows exactly where the new mutants are, even among a sea of strangers.

Other nights are quieter. He walks the surface, careful to stay out of sight, gathering scraps of news to bring back to the Morlocks. Now and then, he even senses someone new—mutants who've strayed beyond the usual range of his post.

But tonight?

Tonight, Caliban just wants to get away.

Away from the tunnels. Away from the stares.

Away from the responsibility that clings to his shoulders, dragging them lower with each passing day.

His mind drifts as his body moves on instinct. By the time he blinks free of the daydream, he's in Broadway.

Broadway. The place that represents everything Caliban has ever dreamed of—and everything he dreads.

Here, the heart of New York beats loud and fast. Day and night, it never stops. Never softens.

Crowds flood the sidewalks, spilling from theaters and subways, laughing, shouting, living. Neon spills across glass and concrete like a second sunrise.

Caliban yearns for it. To be normal. To not be a freak. To stand proudly under the lights without fear of the stares or whispers. To breathe without shame. To live a life worth living—like the countless others basking beneath the glow, unafraid, untouched.

But it was never meant to be.

Like the twisted creature his father named him after, Caliban will never be normal. Never walk among the stars. Never be more than a shadow beneath the city.

Still… he wishes. Just once. To see the play. His play. To sit in the audience, not in fear, but in understanding. To hear the words. To feel like more than a mistake.

To not be Caliban.

He sighs as he turns away. The night has made him sentimental.

There's no time for dreams.

His power calls. Another mutant needs help.

Weaning himself off the light, Caliban moves quickly.

The signal leads him north, past Central Park. He doesn't question it. Not yet.

Uptown.

The mutant is in the Upper East Side—a place of money, legacy, and unspoken walls.

Here, his very existence is a threat. His protection becomes a brand. Not mutant. Not even monsters. Simply… wrong.

He considers turning back.

But curiosity lingers.

There have been Morlocks from wealth before. They often fared worse than the rest. Especially the children.

Jaw tight, Caliban presses forward.

Who, he wonders, could survive here?

The trail ends at a sprawling estate. Wrought iron gates. Trees manicured into privacy screens.

Caliban lies low behind a hedge, breath shallow, still and silent. The iron gate was easy to slip past—an old service entrance cracked open just wide enough for someone wiry and cautious. He had waited for the patrolling guards to finish their lap, counting their pace, matching his timing with the wind. Then he moved quickly, ducking under beams of light, body pressed to the manicured earth like a shadow.

He chose his hiding spot carefully—a thick cluster of boxwood shrubs angled just right. From here, his view is clear but concealed. His eyesight, sharper than most, picks out every detail with eerie precision.

A party.

Of course.

There are hundreds of young women—very pretty young women—scattered across the back lawns of the mansion. They wear sheer silks and leather straps, outfits more suited to a warm summer stage than a winter night. The fabrics cling to their skin, glittering faintly in the moonlight, but they do little to ward off the cold. Breath plumes in front of their painted lips, and the goosebumps on their exposed arms are clearly visible, even from here.

They shiver—but they smile.

They dance, spin, and sprint with rehearsed grace across the frozen grass, their movements choreographed, fluid. Each step calculated to please. Their bodies, lithe and honed like dancers, gleam under the moonlight, casting the entire display in an eerie, unreal beauty.

For a brief moment, Caliban wonders if he's crossed into another world—one pulled from myth or fevered fantasy. Some of them are even prettier than the worn magazine covers Mole sometimes brings down to the tunnels. They don't look real. Not in this cold. Not in this place.

They look like illusions. Cold ones.

Their beauty stings. It gnaws at something old in Caliban, something that has never quite healed. They are everything he isn't—admired, adorned, desired.

Chasing them are men—burly, powerful, and nearly naked themselves, wearing loincloths or absurdly elaborate costumes. Some wear powdered wigs or exaggerated makeup, like living caricatures of another era. They charge forward with theatrical laughter, lunging and calling after the girls.

The girls shriek and dart just out of reach, never quite running. They perform avoidance, not escape. Every now and then, one of the men brushes a shoulder or catches a wrist, only to be laughed off. A game. A pageant. A performance meant for the people watching above.

And above them, on the third-floor veranda, is the audience.

Older men and women, dressed like something out of a masquerade ball. Tight corsets, flamboyant coats, powdered hair, and jeweled masks. They sip from tall glasses, wine glinting like garnet in crystal stems. They laugh too loudly. Point too eagerly. Nothing about their enjoyment is natural—it is ravenous.

The chill fades. The signal thrums in his bones, pulling him away from the spectacle. The strange party, for all its surreal opulence, is not what he came for.

The signal.

That's what matters.

He shuts out the laughter, the music, the twisted fairy-tale playing out on the lawn. His power pulses again—close, clearer now.

Scanning the grounds with careful precision, Caliban's gaze locked onto a curious sight.

One of the girls stood apart from the others—off in the corner of the yard, bathed in moonlight that caught the shimmer of her white outfit. Her posture was effortless, statuesque. Long golden locks cascaded over her shoulders, and she twirled a strand between her fingers with idle detachment.

What drew Caliban's focus even more were the men around her.

Three of them, circling like wolves with foolish grins stretched across their faces. Unlike the other girls, each attended by only one oddly-dressed man, if they were lucky, this girl had drawn a trio. They jostled, lunged, and mocked each other as they competed for her attention, but none of them ever got close enough to truly touch her.

And stranger still—no one reacted.

Not the girls. Not the veranda guests. In fact, some of the onlookers laughed louder, pointing, cheering, jeering the men on as if this farce was the height of entertainment. The girl in white did not even acknowledge the chaos at her feet.

The mutant.

Her head snapped toward Caliban.

His breath caught.

Even from the shadows, even at a distance, her frost-blue eyes met his. And for a split second, Caliban felt as though time had frozen.

He ducked, but it was too late.

A suffocating force crashed into him—like the crushing pressure of ice settling on his chest, locking every muscle in place.

'WHO ARE YOU?'

The voice was not spoken aloud, but echoed within him, clear and cold, cutting through thought. Female. Commanding. Clipped and precise like a blade drawn across polished glass.

Caliban had encountered telepaths before—there were a few among the Morlocks—but never one like this. Never one who made the air itself feel thinner, the world sharper.

'I WILL NOT ASK AGAIN, CRETIN. WHO. ARE. YOU.'

The pressure doubled, crushing his thoughts into fragments. Pain pulsed through his skull in waves of white-hot agony.

'Ca…li…ban…' he gasped mentally, barely able to form the word.

'HOW DID YOU FIND OUT I WAS A MUTANT? ANSWER ME.'

Caliban couldn't answer, the pain was too much to bear.

The girl's power was a glacier slamming into his consciousness, freezing every instinct and ripping into his mind with surgical violence. He tried to push back—to raise walls, to deflect—but it was like holding a matchstick against a winter storm.

'YOU DARE HIDE FROM ME?'

The voice howled.

Then it struck—an unrelenting force that tore through Caliban's mind like a glacier.

He didn't scream. He couldn't. The pain wasn't external—it lived deeper, buried in thought and memory, in instinct and fear.

But something held.

Something stirred.

It had always been there—humming in the background like static. His sense for others like him. A thread. A pulse.

Now it surged.

Not a flare. Not a flash. A slow ignition. Old. Instinctive.

But it wasn't just power. It was shape. Texture. Foreign patterns mapping themselves over familiar instincts—something inhuman pretending to be homegrown.

His mind, once flickering and faint, began to burn—not with rage, but with clarity. Not bright. Not blinding. Steady. Controlled. A fire that didn't scorch, only revealed.

For a heartbeat, he held the line.

And in that space—he felt her.

Not with eyes.

With presence.

She was a glacier in a black sea—sharp, unyielding, honed by pressure and cold intent. Wrapped in elegance and venom. There was no welcome. Only dominion.

Yet deeper still... a flicker. Not warmth, but pressure. A sealed ache behind frostbitten walls. Something wounded. Unspoken.

He hadn't meant to see it.

Then—

The ice slammed shut like a vault.

She felt it.

The moment shattered.

The cold screamed back, sharper than before. Winds howled through the corridors of his mind, tearing him open.

He fell.

But even as her blizzard drowned him, something shifted.

Not in her. Not in the fight.

Beyond.

Something vast.

At the edge of his senses, where even this new clarity barely reached, something waited.

Not a presence.

An absence.

A void punched into the fabric of the world—black, endless, silent. A gravity that pulled, not because it wanted to—but because it existed.

It was moving.

Caliban didn't understand. Even now—even like this—he shouldn't have sensed something that far.

But he did.

And he wasn't alone.

The pressure in his mind wavered.

Through the haze, he saw her eyes widen. Not fear. Not fury.

Surprise.

The ice cracked.

Her grip faltered—just for a breath.

It was enough.

A Morlock knows when to run.

And Caliban—whatever else he might be—was a Morlock.

He fled.

Through the lawn. Past the gates. Away from the white-clad psychic and her diamond-edged mind.

Toward the darkness.

Toward the new mutant.

His recruitment here had failed.

But perhaps the roaming void—whatever it was—might be kinder.

After surviving the girl on the lawn, Caliban felt like he could survive anything.

But that confidence ebbed quickly as Caliban continued to track the mutant south.

Like a fishing boat following a submerged whale, he was always just behind—close enough to feel the wake, never close enough to glimpse the creature itself.

This one moved fast. Too fast. It cut through city blocks like water through cupped hands, slipping between the cracks of alleys and rooftops, never lingering, never slowing.

Without his newly awakened senses, Caliban would've lost it beneath the dense layers of concrete and steel that blanketed New York City. The shadows here swallowed sound and stifled presence. Even gifted as he was, this thing—this mutant—was a phantom.

So when the presence finally stopped moving, just on the cusp of Lower Manhattan, Caliban let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The strain was catching up with him. His legs ached. His mind throbbed. He wasn't sure he could have kept up much longer if the shadow kept sprinting.

Still, he didn't rush. He stayed cautious, checking and double-checking to ensure the mutant had truly gone still.

Once certain, he pressed forward.

But the closer he got, the more a familiar dread began to resurface. The glittering estate. The blonde girl. The blizzard behind her eyes. That memory clung to him like wet clothes. Even underground—where death and violence were the daily rhythm of life—that encounter had felt different. Raw. Violating.

He pushed it down.

The scenery helped. The glitzy sparkle of the Upper East Side had faded behind him. Here, things were familiar. The streets were cracked and uneven. Graffiti spilled across the brick like desperate prayers. A few homeless figures huddled near barrel fires, muttering to themselves, barely sparing Caliban a glance.

This place... this place felt like home.

But even here, the void made things different.

There was something about this alley—narrow and ink-dark, lined with old pipes and broken dumpsters—that warned him off. A primal thing. Not quite fear, but... instinct.

Still, he was a Morlock.

And Morlocks knew how to walk where they weren't welcome.

After a long moment of hesitation, Caliban stepped into the alley.

Usually, places like this were dangerous for someone like him. Too secluded. Too easy to disappear in. Even among mutants, a face like his made for an easy target. But tonight, the alley was strangely... quiet. Not just silent. Empty.

He took that as a sign. Perhaps a good one.

He moved forward.

And stepped in something.

Sticky. Elastic. Wrong.

Glancing down, his stomach churned. A tangled mess of white threads crisscrossed the concrete, caked in gray dust, splinters of wood, and smears of blood. It wasn't neat. It looked thrown—discarded. Like a failed experiment. Or worse, like a cocoon cracked open from the inside.

More blood spotted the wall nearby. Just above it, a smeared palm print—red against peeling green paint. At the base, a splatter of vomit still glistened under the alley light. Sharp chemical stench stung his nostrils.

And buried in the bile—something small and silver caught the light.

A badge? A button?

He leaned in closer.

That's when the voice came.

Low. Rough. Bone-tired.

"What are you doing?"

Caliban froze.

Something moved in the dark.

Two faint crimson glows blinked into life from deeper in the alley, hovering like eyes—unblinking, watchful.

They stared into him.

A pressure slithered up his spine. Cold. Animals.

He swallowed hard, and took a cautious step back.

Voice steady. Hands raised.

"Caliban i—is a friend," he said carefully. "A mutant... just like you."

The crimson orbs didn't respond.

They just watched—quiet, calculating. Not hostile. Not yet.

But not attacking.

That was good. Very good.

"You're tired, yes?" Caliban swallowed, voice low and careful. "There is a place. A good place. Safe. For mutants. With warm food. Warm shelter."

As if to underscore his words, the wind picked up—icy and sharp, slicing across his covered face.

"Come, friend," he said gently. "Come. Follow Caliban. To warmth. To safety. To home."

There was the sound of shifting fabric—clothing rustling, weight shifting.

Then a figure emerged from the shadows.

A tired young man. Barely more than a boy. Black, greasy hair hung low over his eyes. His clothes were a patchwork—layered, scavenged, and stained. One sleeve was soaked with blood, and he held that arm close, shielding it from view.

Caliban smiled. A real smile—the first he'd managed all night.

The boy looked at him, hollow-eyed, dark like a pit, but alert. He said nothing.

He didn't need to.

With quiet steps, Caliban turned. And the boy followed.

Together, they vanished into the deeper dark—down, beneath the streets of the city that never sleeps.

Home.

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

I woke up to a strange sight.

A little girl, crouched on her haunches, is staring directly at me.

While I was sleeping.

That's… not creepy at all.

Spider-Sense is still on, so at least she doesn't want to shiv me—yet.

Doesn't make it any less creepy.

I blink away the crust of sleep and try to focus on her. She can't be older than five or six. Her most obvious feature—besides the unnerving intensity—is the jagged bones jutting from her arms, shoulders, and ribs. Sharp edges, no symmetry. Just raw, unfiltered mutation.

Her skin is a map of scabs and scars, angry red welts crisscrossing with pale lines like she's been drawn on by tragedy. Pinkish-red hair hangs over her face, brushed strategically to hide some of the damage, though it doesn't do much.

Blue eyes study me like I'm a puzzle she's trying to solve. Not afraid. Just... curious. Cautious.

Marrow.

A familiar face, though I've only known the older version—angrier, harder, tougher. This one? Still a kid. Still figuring things out. Still human.

"Hi," I offer.

She jumps back, startled. Her eyes flick between me and the exit like a feral kitten looking for an escape route.

"Hi," I tried again.

"Hi…" she parrots, suspicious but braver than she should be.

She starts picking at a scab on her elbow, tearing skin until a small bead of blood wells up. She winces—but only a little. Like she's used to it.

"You smell weird," she says bluntly.

"What?"

"You smell different." She sniffs again, audibly this time. "Like that thing Mr. Caliban brought back from the surface."

Her brow furrows as she tries to remember. "It rhymed with Mr. Facade. Fluh... Flew..."

"Flower?" I guess.

"Yeah! That's it!" Her face lights up like I just solved a riddle. "Only smelled it once, but it was weird. Nothing down here smells like that."

I don't know what's more heartbreaking—that she remembers a flower like it's a once-in-a-lifetime event or that she compares me to it.

"You're new, right? From the surface? Is that why you smell like flower? Does everything up there smell like flower?"

She fires off the questions like a machine gun, barely pausing for breath.

"Whoa, whoa—slow down," I say, holding up my hands in the universal 'chill' gesture. "Yes. I'm new. Caliban brought me in last night—at least, I think it was last night. What time is it?"

She counts on her fingers. "Breakfast is... two hours away. So five?"

Three hours.

Thank you, healing factor. Or adrenaline. Or both.

"Well," I yawn. "Then yeah. Last night. As for the smell—no idea, kid. Most people say I smell like piss and bad decisions."

She stares at me, expression deadpan.

Damn. Tough crowd.

"Anyway," I say, shifting topics, "what are you doing up at this hour? You know you can't grow tall without sleep, right?"

Her expression hardens. "I can't sleep. One of my bones grew wrong. It hurts. I can't pull it out yet."

Oh.

Well. That backfired fast.

"I, uh… I have trouble sleeping too," I say, uselessly.

Smooth.

Still, her expression softens. She smiles—small, crooked, genuine. It hits harder than it should.

"Yeah. It was annoying at first, but then I smelled the flower scent and found you."

There's a pause.

"So… what's your name, kid? Can't keep calling you 'kid' forever."

She shrinks a little. "Most people call me Marrow. Because of my bones."

She doesn't say it with pride. Just resignation.

"Well, that's not a very nice nickname," I murmur.

She shrugs. "It's fine. I can take it. I'm a Morlock."

"That's brave of you, kid. But you don't have to like what people call you. You're allowed to be angry about it."

She looks surprised. Like the idea never occurred to her.

"Is there another name you like?"

She hesitates. Her mouth opens, then closes. Again. And again. A hundred things unsaid.

I wait.

Finally, she whispers, "My mom used to call me Sarah…"

Sarah.

Wait—seriously?

I thought that was a fanon thing. Pretty sure it never came up in the comics.

My hand moves before I think, resting gently on her head—

—and I immediately regret it.

Spurs dig into my palm. Sharp. Unforgiving. Freshly healed skin tears open.

But I don't pull away.

Her eyes widened—not in fear, but in stunned awe. Like no one's touched her gently since her mutation began.

Christ.

"Nice to meet you, Sarah," I say softly, ruffling her head even as my hand stings like hell. "I'm Maquet."

She blinks. "Masque?"

"No, no—Maquet. Mah-ket."

Her face contorts trying to mimic the syllables.

"Just call me Mouse."

"Mouse. Mouse." Sarah murmurs it a few times, like she's tasting it on her tongue. "Okay, Mr. Mouse."

Mickey?

"No, no. Just Mouse is fine. No need to add Mr. — I'm not a cartoon rodent."

I pause for a beat, then add, almost to myself:

"It's short for something anyway."

"Like what?"

"...Just a nickname. A really old one." I wave her off before she can press. "Mouse is easier."

"Weird."

"Yeah, I get that a lot."

She beams. "Okay. Just Mouse!"

That smile is worth the bloody hand.

"Well," I say, glancing at the faintly glowing tunnel. "Since breakfast's a while away, you up for showing me around?"

She grabs my hand—gently—and nods with wide-eyed excitement.

…​

The first place Sarah led me to was also the first place I had truly seen since coming down here.

The Alley.

Maybe it was just the early morning gloom, but the whole place simmered with quiet contrast. The light down here didn't flood the space—it crept in, like it had to earn its place. The cavern was cast in a dim orange haze, slowly sharpening into muted gold the deeper we went.

The reason became obvious once I looked up.

Dozens—maybe hundreds—of wires twisted across the ceiling like creeping vines. Thick cords and bundles snaked along the walls, disappearing into junction boxes or vanishing behind rusted sheet metal. They fed into an eclectic mix of lighting: industrial flood lamps, exposed bulbs, mismatched lanterns. Some dangled by frayed rope, others were embedded directly into old concrete walls, humming faintly.

The warm lights had a makeshift quality, like someone had cobbled together power from whatever scraps they could find—and then made it last.

"Ms. Soteira did that," Sarah said, seeing me stare.

"Who?" I blinked, halfway tripping over a raised pipe embedded in the ground.

"Ms. Soteira," she repeated with a toothy giggle, proud as a kid showing off a science project. "She's the smartest Morlock. Rewired everything after one of the floods ruined the candles. They say she used to live aboveground, in the big buildings with numbers. Caliban says she could fix anything except manners."

I followed her finger to a group of Morlocks gathered by one of the stairwells. They were working in tired silence, gently snuffing out the stubs of candles, scraping melted wax into old buckets. Their movements were slow but practiced.

No one spoke. Not out of tension—just habit.

It struck me then how deliberate everything was. Every action had a purpose. Candles saved. Wax recycled. Light repurposed.

This wasn't chaos.

This was a community.

The Alley wasn't just a shelter. It was a system.

And it functioned because it had to.

Sarah tugged my sleeve. "Come on, Mouse. You gotta see the best part."

We go up a winding case of stairs into the open maw of one of the tunnels.

The light fades fast here. One moment you're bathed in a soft industrial hum, the next you're swallowed whole by half-shadow and concrete echo.

Sarah doesn't slow down, so I keep pace behind her. Her tiny bare feet slap lightly against the cracked stone. Occasionally, I catch glimpses of her bones shifting subtly beneath her skin as she walks—little spikes and ridges twitching with movement.

I don't ask. She doesn't explain.

The tunnel opens up again after a short walk, leading us into another wide, high-ceilinged space that smells of smoke, salt, and stewed vegetables.

The Cafeteria.

At first glance, it looks like someone scavenged a dozen public school lunchrooms and tried to Frankenstein them into a single cavernous mess. Rows upon rows of mismatched plastic tables and chairs fill the space—some bolted to the floor, others stacked against the walls. The place isn't crowded yet, but a handful of early risers shuffle between tasks: dragging chairs out, wiping tables with old rags, lighting burners under steel vats.

The ceiling—far above—drips from humidity and condensation. There's a haze in the air, not unpleasant, but thick. Lived-in.

And in the middle of it all, standing over a massive steel pot the size of an inflatable pool, is Chicken Wings.

I know it's him before Sarah even says his name.

Although a minor character in canon, he was described in quite vivid details in one of my favourite fanon projects.

He's tall—taller than me by at least a head—but hunched, his spine curled slightly forward like he's permanently shielding himself from judgment. His arms are long and feathery, coated with sparse, quill-like protrusions that catch the glow of the fire beneath his cook pot, holding what can honestly be described as paddles or oars of kayak. The feathers don't shimmer. They look more like bristles than plumage.

His legs are unmistakable. Chicken legs. Scaled and sinewed, ending in backward-bent joints and three thick talons, all curled around the concrete floor like it is dirt.

His nose juts out like a hawk's beak, and his eyes—wide, bulbous, on either side of his face—dart toward us with a faint shimmer under his purple bucket hat.

The hat looks old. Like it meant something once.

He wears oversized sunglasses, the kind you'd find in a gas station spin-rack. Together with the hat, they form a shield. A flimsy, sad kind of dignity.

"Chicken!" Sarah calls, tugging me toward him.

He doesn't flinch at the name. Just gives a slow, side-facing nod, eyes flicking toward us, one at a time.

"Sarah," he says. His voice is gravelly, like someone who's swallowed too much smoke and decided to keep it in his lungs for later. "You're up early."

"I couldn't sleep again," she replies. "But look, I brought someone!"

His gaze drifts toward me like a lazy tide.

"This is Mouse!" Sarah chirps. "He's new."

I open my mouth to correct her. "Actually—"

"Mouse, huh." Chicken Wings doesn't smile, but I get the sense that he would if his face let him. "Well. That's a name. You eat exotic meat, Mouse?"

What.

Ignore it, just answer as if it's normal.

I pause. Shrug. "I've eaten worse."

"Good. We've had worse," he says, deadpan.

The big pot bubbles behind him, some kind of thick brown stew slowly churning under a lazy boil. The smell is not bad—spiced, earthy, with the unmistakable undertone of protein; what kind I had no idea.

Sarah leans over the counter to peer in. "Is it ready?"

He shakes his head. "Nah. Breakfast won't be up for another hour or two. Still tenderizing. You want cold bread, I got that."

Sarah makes a face. "Ew. I'll wait."

"Suit yourself." Chicken Wings stirs the pot slowly, each turn sounding like a shovel moving through wet clay.

I eye the massive ladle, the steel pots, the other ingredients stacked in crates behind him—flour, onions, dried herbs, pouches I don't recognize.

"You run this place?" I ask.

He snorts. "Nobody runs anything down here. I just cook. People eat."

Fair enough.

He turns one eye toward me again. "You new-new, huh?"

I nod.

"You'll learn quick. Or you'll leave quick. Either way, I'm not burning extra stew for you."

"Understood."

There's something bluntly comforting about him. Like a deeply bitter uncle who gave up on manners but still makes sure you're fed.

Sarah tugs my sleeve again. "Come on. If breakfast's not ready, we should go see the other places."

I glance at the pot, then back at Chicken Wings.

He grunts and waves one clawed hand. "Go. Let the kid give you the tour. Just don't touch anything that's labeled or locked."

"And if I do?"

He tilts his head.

"Don't."

Fair.

Sarah pulls me away before I can ask more. Back into the tunnel. Back into the half-light of the waking hubs.

…​

I soon figured out that the Alley proper serves as some sort of central hub—a town square, a spinal cord, a bottleneck.

Every corridor and facility in this underground society seems to loop back into it eventually. Like spokes on a wheel, always turning inward.

There are connecting tunnels, sure—shortcut veins carved out by Morlocks over decades. But they're incomplete, jagged, and often flooded or collapsed.

At least, according to Sarah.

And she's six. So her survey data might be a little suspect.

The next place she decided to show me was what she excitedly called the Ranch.

"It's just past the sleepy tunnel!" she chirped, skipping ahead.

The "sleepy tunnel," as it turned out, was a defunct subway line—tracks long ripped up, roof sagging in places, the concrete walls crusted in mineral stains like fossilized tears.

Green arrows point into the dark, gaping maws. Beckoning people to come closer.

A chill settled in the air here, heavy with disuse and the staleness of rot.

Then the smell hit.

Not the bracing metallic sting of the tunnels. Not dust or rust or old piss.

This was a new category. Musky. Organic. Pungent. A rotting compost of animal sweat, feathers, feces, and something chemical underneath—like formaldehyde wearing a fur coat.

We rounded a bend, and I saw it: a reclaimed subway platform, repurposed and reeking.

A crooked wooden sign dangled from a rusted overhead beam:

RANCH — the paint uneven and smudged.

Inside, the place was lit with scattered hanging bulbs and makeshift UV strips, casting everything in a sickly pale green glow. The flicker gave the impression of movement, even when nothing moved.

But things did move.

Dozens of strange creatures shuffled in low pens and nesting boxes.

At first, I thought they were just massive rats—New York subway classics, scaled up. But then I saw feathers. Talons. Extra limbs.

Imagine a rat and a goose got shoved into a blender. Now imagine the blender got struck by lightning halfway through.

The result was these things—rat-geese.

Long, muscular bodies like sewer rats, but feathered in bristled down, their snouts stretched and duck-like, with black, wet eyes that blinked far too slowly.

Six limbs, four webbed duck legs, two vestigial wings, useless and twitching. A few hissed in greeting, revealing double rows of sharp teeth.

Sarah grinned and waved. "Mornin', boys!"

A few of the creatures honked back at her.

What. The actual. Hell.

Two figures were working amongst the pens.

The first was a man, hunched, with a mane of tangled purple hair and a beard to match. He wore a tattered coat, faded green, and dangling from his hip was a tattered silver pouch, long enough to put in a couple breadstick.

He stood on a raised platform, playing a light melody on a flute while a chorus of actual rats obeyed—climbing over the hybrid creatures, biting, harvesting feathers, cracking eggs, working like well-oiled tools.

I knew him as well.

Piper.

Canon character. Minor Morlock. Powers: sonic command over animals. Looked like a cross between Rasputin and a forgotten glam rock bassist.

The other figure… I didn't recognize.

She was massive. Her whole body swaddled in thick navy robes, hood pulled deep over her face. Her skin, what little I could see around the lips and hands, was pale and waxy.

But what caught my eye were the rats.

Half a dozen of them perched on her shoulders and arms, one nestled beneath her chin like a kitten. They didn't move nervously. They nuzzled her. Listened when she whispered.

The two worked in tandem—Piper guiding the butchering and plucking with practiced precision, and the woman whispering soothing nothings to the beasts, calming them as their feathers were stolen and their eggs pried from underneath.

Sarah dragged me forward.

"Hey, Mr. Piper! Mother Inferior! I brought Mouse!"

Oh goddammit.

I held up a hand, mildly flustered. "It's not Mouse. It's Maquet."

Sarah blinked, surprised. "But you said—"

"I didn't say—I gave up. There's a difference."

Piper turned, giving me a once-over. His eyes were sunken, rimmed with red.

He looked like he hadn't slept since the Bush administration.

"You smell like piss stains and vomits," he rasped. "Good. You'll fit in."

Mother Inferior tilted her head. The rats mirrored the movement perfectly.

"He's new," she said softly, voice muffled by her cowl. "Doesn't know the rhythm yet."

Piper spat to the side and waved a dismissive hand. "They never do. He'll learn or he'll leave. Or he'll die."

"Always such a poet," Mother Inferior chuckled.

"What is this place?" I asked, honestly trying not to gag at the smell. "Is this… livestock?"

"Rat-geese," Sarah said proudly. "Meme made them."

"Meme?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Younger mutant, if I remember correctly, has the ability of Lifeform Fusion, merges stuff with his body. Explained these abominations.

"He's my friend. You'll meet him soon. He's weird."

"I can see that the gene pool down here is thriving."

Wait a minute, is this what Chicken Wings mean by exotic meats?

I was going to have to eat these things?

"We use the feathers for pillows, the meat for stews, the eggs for omelets," said Piper. "Everything has value. Even the screechers."

"...The screechers?"

Mother Inferior pointed to a far pen, where one rat-goose hybrid had clearly grown too large—its eyes rolled and vacant, its beak fused partially shut. It slammed its body against the bars again and again, mindlessly.

"Some of them don't come out quite right. But that's okay. Everything has a place."

"Even monsters," muttered Piper.

There was a silence between them, weighted and familiar.

I cleared my throat. "Well. Lovely. Industrial-scale rat farming. That's new."

Sarah tugged my sleeve. "Wanna see the Drop next?"

"...The what?"

She didn't answer. She was already pulling me back into the tunnel.

I gave Piper and Mother Inferior a nod. They didn't nod back.

But one of the rats on Mother Inferior's shoulder waved at me. I think.

As we walked, I glanced at Sarah.

"You sure you're not dragging me into a horror movie?"

"Nah," she said cheerfully. "That comes after lunch."

…​

Turns out, the Drop is exactly what it sounds like—

A giant, gaping hole in the earth.

But calling it a "hole" doesn't do it justice. This thing was a chasm. A man-made canyon carved out by time, erosion, and the unchecked bowel movements of New York City.

The space opened up suddenly, with no warning in the narrow tunnel. One second we were walking along a rusted catwalk, and the next… vertigo. The air grew hotter, thicker, humid with something foul and ancient.

Before us lay a circular depression at least fifty feet wide, maybe more—too large to judge at a glance. The ceiling arched high above like the dome of a cathedral, but it was cracked, stained black, and dripping in places. A single beam of daylight filtered in through some forgotten grate far above, illuminating a cascade of thin waterfalls.

Brownish-grey water poured from ancient aqueducts along the walls in segmented streams, falling into the depths below. It looked like rain falling from the corners of a ruined sky.

And it stank.

The humid air curled inside my lungs like steam from a cafeteria dumpster. The stench wasn't as sharp as the rat ranch's raw ammonia punch, but it was heavier. More saturated. The kind of smell that soaked into your clothes and never came out. Sweat, mold, old chemicals. And something else. Something biological.

Morlocks were already here. At least two dozen of them—men, women, children—all gathered near the railing or squatting near the edges of stone platforms. Some worked pulleys with ropes and metal hooks, others leaned over with handmade crank lifts. Nearly all of them were handling buckets.

And they were… drawing water?

I blinked, watching as one burly Morlock reeled up a plastic jerrycan, its sides stained but sloshing full. Another poured the retrieved contents into a plastic tank. Someone nearby gave the filled container a satisfied sniff before carting it off.

"You've got to be kidding me," I muttered. "Are they drinking sewage water?"

"It's clean," Sarah said with complete confidence.

My eyes bugged out. "That's not clean. That's brown. That's glowing in some spots!"

Sarah rolled her eyes with the unimpressed energy only a six-year-old could muster. "Mouse, you're so weird."

"Kid, this water smells like a Taco Bell bathroom after a mass burrito incident."

"It's not that bad," she said matter-of-factly. "Way better than that gross thing you said—whatever it was. You're just being a baby."

She skipped ahead toward the railing and pointed proudly at the churning sludge below. "Ms. Soteira fixed it. A long time ago. She changed the tunnel system so the water flows here instead of the Alley."

I took another whiff and winced. "Fixed it? With what? Bleach and prayer?"

"No!" Sarah laughed. "She fixed the pipes! She rerouted everything. And then her daughter cleaned the water."

That made me pause.

"Her… daughter?"

"Uh-huh," Sarah nodded. "She's not her real daughter, she's, um… she's uh… she's adopted. Yeah! That's the word."

"Adopted… right." I filed that away with growing suspicion.

"Ms. Soteira calls her…" Sarah scrunched her face, looking at the ceiling like the word might be floating up there. "Rev… rev-re… re-something. But we all call her Cistern!"

I stopped cold.

Cistern?

That name landed like a stone in my stomach.

No. It couldn't be. There's no way. Right?

"Huh? What's wrong?" Sarah looked up, her head tilting like a confused cat.

"Nothing," I said quickly. "Just… Cistern is a weird name, that's all."

"Not really. It means toilet water."

"Exactly my point."

"But she likes it! …I think."

"Does she actually say that?"

Sarah paused, biting her lip.

"Okay, maybe not. But it's what everyone calls her."

"Well, maybe next time you see her, you could ask if she wants to be called something else?"

Sarah blinked. "You're silly, Mouse."

She looked around theatrically, then leaned close like she was about to spill the secrets of the Illuminati.

"No one's allowed to see her."

"Why not?"

She pointed across the Drop to a massive, sealed iron door.

It was set into the stone wall like a bunker hatch, with faded red lettering across it that read: RESTRICTED. DANGER. NO ENTRY.

Chains looped around the handles. Symbols were scrawled across the surface—chalk runes, crude sigils, symbols from languages I couldn't place.

"Anyone who goes in there… dies," Sarah whispered, with the solemnity of a ghost story. "Only Ms. Soteira can go down."

I stared at the door. Cold dread settled in my spine.

This sounded like—

No. No, it couldn't be.

Right?

"Come on!" Sarah chirped, tugging at my hand. "Sun's up! You gotta see the Garden next!"

I followed.

But I couldn't help but glance back.

The waterfalls hissed. The door sat there. Silent.

Waiting.

…​

Ascending from the depths of the Drop to wherever this "Garden" was… felt like a religious experience.

We climbed slowly up the winding staircase. The stench—the fetid cocktail of decay and sewage that clung to your skin and crawled into your lungs—slowly faded with each step. The muggy, suffocating dampness of the undercity gave way to something light, almost cool. A breeze. A draft that caressed the walls and gently tousled our hair and clothes. A whisper of something sacred.

But as the air changed, I felt something stir in my chest. This must be what Heaven felt like—rising from shit to light, lifted on celestial wind.

Maybe I missed my calling. I should've been a preacher.

"How's the wind even getting down here?" I ask Sarah. "We're underground."

"It's the Wind Tunnels," Sarah replied, her voice taking on a proud, almost reverent tone. "Ms. Soteira did that too."

Her eyes sparkled with the same light the air now carried. But then they dimmed.

"I can't show you though," she added, dragging her feet a little. "I'm not old enough to go there yet."

"Oh?" I raised a brow. "Is there some kind of security system? Barrier? Forcefield? I doubt a wordy sign would stop a hellion like you."

Sarah pouts. "There's nothing like that. We tried once. Me and Meme. We snuck in through a side tunnel, but we got caught by Miss Soteira's cameras." Her shoulders sag. "Analee was really sad when she found out."

"Analee?" I ask, tilting my head.

"She's this old lady who looks after us. She's really nice. Her power makes people feel things—like happiness or sadness." Sarah fidgets. "You don't wanna make her sad. It makes everyone else feel it, too."

Ah. Empath mutant. Great for childcare. Horrifying for self-esteem.

"I see…" I murmur. "Any other off-limits zones I should know about? I'll have Caliban give me the grand tour later."

Sarah counts on her fingers, then chirps, "The Lightning Farm, too. Can't go there either."

"Got it. Wind Tunnels and Lightning Farm. Big 'nope.'"

We fall into a brief silence. A pleasant one. The kind you can only have after climbing your way out of a sewer.

Then Sarah sprints ahead.

"Come on, Mouse! We're almost there!"

"Coming, coming. Don't sprain anything, Speedy."

The stairwell opened up into a circular chamber—and I stopped dead in my tracks.

The room was enormous, easily the size of a small plaza. Dozens of tunnels fed into it like spokes on a wheel. But the real jaw-dropper was the light.

Sunlight. Real, actual sunlight.

It poured in from a massive oculus at the ceiling's peak—an uneven, hand-crafted echo of the Roman Pantheon dome. How sunlight reached that far underground in the first place was anyone's guess, but I didn't care enough to ask. It was there, and that was enough. More light spilled in from an intricate web of mirrors mounted along the walls and ceiling. Bolted panels of steel and scavenged glass caught each beam and scattered it across the chamber in golden fragments. Ropes and pulley systems, strung like the rigging of a ship, allowed workers to adjust angles throughout the day. Some mirrors even drifted lazily overhead, suspended like satellites, turning gently in the stale underground air.

The air was warmer here, scented faintly of soil, dust, and something like citrus.

At the heart of it all, in a large circular planter made of crumbling stone and repurposed concrete, stood the Tree.

Tall and proud, its trunk wrapped with thick corded rope. Colorful fabrics flutter from every branch—yellow, red, green, blue—fluttering in the light breeze like Buddhist prayer flags..

Paint covers the bark. Swirling murals in brilliant hues. Fire and ruin. Green titans. Battles between red-and-blue figures. Strange, abstract symbology all spiraling around the trunk.

"The mirrors," I say. "Let me guess—Soteira again?"

Sarah giggles. "How'd you know?"

"Lucky guess."

Who the hell is this woman?

Just how many engineering degrees does she have?

I'd consumed so much Marvel media—comics, fanfics, films—and never once heard of a tech genius hiding among the Morlocks.

I thought they were just a glorified hobo tribe.

But this… this was a society. A strange, patchwork society—mutant, discarded, outcast—but a society nonetheless.

Around the edges of the room, Morlocks go about their work. Some clean the mirrors. Others tend the soil, prune the tree, compost the roots. Still others just sit—leaning back against the old brick walls, basking in the warmth. Children climb through the branches, laughing and yelling as only kids can.

"Leech! Mikhail!" Sarah waves both arms overhead. "Over here!"

Two boys scampered down from the tree.

Mikhail was tall for his age, all limbs and mischief. He wore a Yankees cap over unruly brown hair, and though his ears were a little too large for his face, he could've passed for a surface kid easily.

The other boy—Leech—was decidedly not.

Green, scaly skin. Bald. Giant yellow eyes with no sclera. He grinned wide when he spotted us, exposing slightly serrated teeth.

As he got close, I felt it.

My powers dulled. Not gone, but quieted. Faint. Muted.

Leech. Yeah. He's in the source material. Not much, but enough. Power nullification by proximity. No wonder he's kept around.

"Hey, Marrow. What are you doing here?" Mikhail asks, a slight Slavic accent clinging to the edges of his words.

"I'm showing Mouse around," Sarah says proudly. "What're you doing here? Don't you have school up top?"

"Psh. It's Saturday. And my mom's at work, so I gotta watch over Uncle Gregor."

"He move yet?"

"No. I brought Leech over—thought maybe his power could help—but… nothing." Mikhail shrugs.

Leech looks down, shoulders hunched.

"Wow, Leech. You're pretty useless, huh?" Sarah says without malice.

"Sarah," I say sharply. "Don't."

She looks down, chastised, but not apologetic.

"Who're your friends, Sarah?" I change the subject before the awkwardness sticks.

"Sarah?" Mikhail echoes, clearly confused.

"Oh! This is Mikhail and Leech." She beams. "Leech is like us. He shuts down powers. Mikhail's human, but his uncle is Tree Man."

She waves vaguely at the massive tree, disinterested.

"Hey, I'm a Morlock too!" Mikhail objects, folding his arms.

"Are not."

"Are too!"

"Are not! You live up top!"

"Are too! I come down all the time! My uncle's a Morlock!"

"Are—"

"All right, break it up." I step in before the slap-fight begins. "Let's try names before war."

"Maquet," I say, extending a hand.

Leech tilts his head. "Mu… mur… Market?"

"Close. It's Maquet."

"Magnet?"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Just call him Mouse."

"Mr. Mouse?" Leech offered hopefully.

"No—ugh. Yeah. Sure. Just 'Mouse' is fine."

I placed a hand on his head unconsciously and he froze for a moment—then relaxed. He wasn't startled. He leaned further into the touch like he hadn't been touched in weeks.

God. These kids…

"You smell nice," he murmured. "Like Mama."

What?

I give my clothes a tentative whiff, and immediately regret my decision. A mix of shit, sweat, and sewage. The horrendous odor punched me in the face.

What's wrong with these kids?

"No he doesn't," Sarah said. "He smells like flower."

"Nu-uh. Like Mama."

"You're both wrong," Mikhail chimed in. "He smells like vanilla ice cream."

"What's that?" Sarah and Leech asked in unison, tilting their heads at the same time.

Mikhail recoils. "You don't know what vanilla ice cream is?"

Time to intervene again.

"Why don't you guys show me the tree?"

Mikhail lights up, the brewing argument forgotten. "C'mon!"

He dashes off. Sarah sprints after him. Leech and I bring up the rear.

Up close, the tree is massive. Tangled roots web through the soil. The trunk twists upward like a dancer, limbs spreading wide. Embedded in the bark—entwined in roots—is a man.

Tree Man.

I've seen clips of him before—YouTube, maybe TikTok. His hair and beard have fused with the tree, clothes melded to bark. Twigs sprout from his arms. He's part of it now.

High above, white flower buds sway beneath the canopy.

Someday, they'll bloom.

Hopefully I can snag a fruit before I leave.

"They take the branches to the Ranch," Sarah says, misinterpreting my stare. "Rat-geese eat the leaves. Miss Soteira says pruning might wake Tree Man."

"It didn't," Mikhail says softly. "But we keep trying."

We fall quiet.

A man in a green cloak steps into view, paintbrush in one hand, palette in the other. He murmurs to himself as he works, painting visions in swirling colors on the bark.

"Uncle Nemesio!" Mikhail calls.

"Ah, Mikhail. Skipping school again?" The man glanced up. His face was drawn and tired, receding hairline graying at the temples.

"It's Saturday."

"Ah, right." Nemesio's smile falters before it ever forms. "Another vision of doom today. The omens grow worse."

He turns back to the tree.

Mikhail rolled his eyes and twirled a finger by his ear.

Sarah and Leech giggle.

"Hey, Mr. Nemesio—this is Mouse," Sarah said. "He's new!"

The painter turned—and froze.

His eyes locked onto me.

They widened. Dilated. Pupils trembling. His mouth opened, soundless. Then—

He screamed.

High and raw and feral, like something ancient being torn from his throat.

He flailed backward, palette clattering to the stone. Tears streamed down his cheeks. His voice cracked, shrieked, howled. It wasn't pain. It was prophecy. Horror. Reverence.

Every Morlock in the Garden stopped.

Turned.

Stared.

The kids' heads pivoted between us like a game of the world's most intense ping pong match.

I straightened.

"Sarah," I said.

She blinked. "Huh?"

"It's time to go. You said there's one last place before breakfast."

She hesitated—then nodded.

We left quickly.

I didn't look back.

…​

After the whirlwind that was the Garden, our final stop on the tour was something Sarah called the Healing Room.

We passed back through the hub, which by now had come fully alive.

Bright. Brighter than I'd seen it so far. Industrial lights lit every crevice and corner, bouncing off metal pipes and glinting against the damp concrete. A crowd of Morlocks milled about in conversation, gathered in clumps and lines. The line in front of the cafeteria was already forming, watched over by a pair of heavy-set bouncers and a handful of patrolling muscles—the sort of mutants who looked like they could bench-press a tank and not break a sweat.

Sarah tugged insistently at my hand, keeping me moving before I could take in too much.

She led me down a broader tunnel, one that bustled with life unlike the quieter corner I'd been assigned. Here, buildings pressed up against one another, sharing walls like old tenement houses. Improvised two-story structures rose above the crowd—sheet metal, rotting plywood, scrap insulation—held together with rope, screws, and sheer desperation.

People leaned out of makeshift windows to shout greetings. Some swept their porches or cooked over barrel fires. Wires twisted across the ceiling like vines in a jungle, snaking between lights, fans, heaters, and who-knows-what else. The path underfoot was uneven, interrupted by crates, discarded tools, and the occasional feral-looking pet.

Even among the outcasts, it seemed, there was a pecking order. My branch was a quiet dead-end. This was the heart of their residential quarters. A proper mutant shantytown.

A few gave me curious glances as I passed—new meat, new face—but no one stared for long. In a place like this, you learned quickly not to ask questions you didn't want answers to.

Eventually, we came to a fork in the tunnel. One side was clearly newer—rougher than the others, like someone had taken a pickaxe to solid concrete and decided, yeah, good enough.

A painted sign above the entrance read: Healing Room. The cursive was careful, almost elegant. Someone had tried.

Unlike the other places, there was no grand chamber, rusting signage or color marking announcing our arrival. No elegant architecture, no carved murals. Just a plain tunnel, sunken deeper into the system and tucked away behind the better looking ghetto.

The tunnel led to a carved-out chamber, rectangular and surprisingly clean. The floor was tiled—chipped in places, but intact. Cement lined the walls, and the scent here was different too. Not iron or mold or sewage. Here it smelled sterile. Like rubbing alcohol, old medicine bottles, and vitamin chews.

Rows of cots lined either side of the room, each one separated by thin, makeshift dividers. Near the back stood a bar-height counter and what looked like an old kitchen cupboard retrofitted with a digital lock and retina scanner. I followed the wires with my eyes—they vanished behind another locked door.

Healer stood behind the counter.

Exactly as I remembered from the comics: wrapped in white bandages, long gray beard falling past his chest, draped in a thick black coat with absurdly high collars. Like Tim the Enchanter who'd traded riddles for penicillin.

He was speaking to a woman I didn't recognize.

She leaned slightly over the counter, one arm supporting her weight. She was tall, striking, with short black hair that framed her face like a 1920s film star. Her black one-piece suit was immaculate—form-fitting, simple, elegant—and it left her arms bare, revealing lithe muscle and faint scars along her wrists and fingers.

Although her beauty was unmistakable, there was a hollowness to her eyes—a weary, sleepless haze. She coughed softly, covering it with a hand she quickly wiped clean.

She looked like she belonged in a fashion shoot, or a superhero team.

Yet here she was.

They spoke in hushed, fragmented bursts—like a conversation that kept skipping over the worst parts.

"...she's stabilizing, but it's not enough... not with the last dose gone—"

"...I can't stop now. If I give up now—everything I've done will—"

"You're burning through yourself. Revelation—she's not—"

"...You saw what the suit did. Her power… it weakened."

Revelation? The name curled in my head, sharp and strange. Another Morlock? A patient? A code?

Soteira. That had to be her name. The one Sarah kept talking about. The one with mirrors and tunnels and technology no one else down here could've built.

And she was clearly dying.

"Hey, Miss Soteira! Old man Healer!"

Sarah's voice rang out like a gunshot.

Both heads turned. Healer's eyes narrowed. Soteira straightened slowly and turned toward us.

Her smile came like a reflex. Small. Strained. Real, but fraying at the edges.

"Marrow. You're up early."

Sarah lifted her chin. "My bones grew wrong again. But it's okay—I found Mouse and started showing him around instead."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Soteira said gently. She leaned down, brushing the side of Sarah's head. She was careful not to touch the exposed bone, running her fingers along the patchy tufts of thin red hair instead.

"We'll fix it. One day."

"Really?" Sarah whispered. She looked at Soteira like someone waiting for a miracle.

"Of course," Soteira said, voice warm and low. "God doesn't abandon his children."

I tilted my head at that. A devout genius. Not the most common archetype in Marvel.

Before I could comment, both she and Sarah were looking at me.

Sarah's eyes were soft with hope. Soteira's were assessing. Not hostile. But wary. Like she was trying to calculate how I fit into this delicate machine she'd built.

I managed a smile. "She's right. There are brilliant people out there. Someone's gotta have a cure for you, Sarah."

Someone does.

A single touch, and I could neutralize the bone growths. Smooth the jagged mutations. But everyone would notice. Sarah was known for her condition—removing it would be like setting off a flare in the dark.

Not to mention the risk of exposing Singularity. Of what that might attract.

But she's not "just anyone," is she?

"...Mouse," Sarah whispered, tugging on my sleeve again. "You're spacing out."

"Sorry." I swallowed. "Just tired. Long night."

"You're so weird," she grinned. "Anyway! This is Miss Soteira. She's super smart. She's like a genius inventor! And that's old man Healer—he fixes people."

"Hello," Soteira said, offering her hand.

I took it, careful. "Maquet. Good to meet you."

She blinked, glancing at Sarah. "Mouse?"

"It's a nickname."

Her grip was firm, warm.

Singularity stirred—quiet, curious. Her power brushed against mine, like wind against static. I felt it. Not raw intellect, but intuitive brilliance. The ability to look at broken parts and see potential. To build impossible things without blueprints. The second mutation, the support system, was a heightened cognition. Together, they made her something else.

Replication? That wasn't her strength. Like Forge, she made things in the moment—but rarely understood them after. A tinker trapped by her own genius. That's where the second effect shines. It took time, but if she breaks down her stuff or any other stuff, she can understand, then replicate.

I let go. Hopefully she does not notice that I hold her hand a bit longer than what is considered proper.

She didn't comment if she did notice. Just tilted her head slightly, then turned back to Sarah.

I move on to Healer, extending a hand.

"Caliban brought me in yesterday."

The old man didn't shake it. Just gave me a long look and grunted.

"You're new."

"Yeah."

"You best learn quickly. If you don't—"

"I'll die quickly? Or leave quickly?" I smirked. "You're the third guy to say that. Is that the Morlock motto?"

A snort. The barest twitch of a smile under the beard.

Behind me, Sarah was going full monologue again. Rattling off every rat-goose fact she knew. Soteira nodded at all the right times. If she was pretending, she was damn good at it.

Then…

A woman shuffled in—older, hunched, sniffling into a tattered cloth. Her face was pale, but her eyes were wild.

The entire room stiffened.

Soteira straightened. Healer's shoulders slumped.

"Plague" Healer's sigh. His eyes wishing to be anywhere else but his current position.

"Healer" The woman sniffles. Her voice is wet and crackly.

"Please," the woman said. "You must have something. Just enough to take the edge off."

Healer didn't even look up. "We're out."

"I'm not asking for anything strong!" she pleaded. "Just a painkiller. Anything. It hurts—"

"You're not sick," Healer snapped. "You feel sick. There's a difference. Your body is fine. I'm not wasting medicine."

"Come on," Sarah muttered, already pulling me by the sleeve. "This'll take a while."

I didn't resist.

As we slipped out, I could still hear Plague's voice behind us—raspy, ragged, pleading.

And Healer's—flat, tired, unflinching.

"Does that happen a lot?" I asked once Sarah finally stopped dragging me by the hand.

Soteira exhaled through her nose, the faintest trace of weariness slipping through the calm. "More often than I'd like," she said, brushing a speck of dust off her shoulder. Then, with a gentle cough into her elbow, she added, "But enough about that."

She turned to Sarah, her expression softening into something warmer. "It's breakfast time, and I, for one, am famished."

"Me too," Sarah agreed immediately, perking up. "C'mon, Mouse—let's go quick before all the stew's gone!"

I raised a hand apologetically. "Actually… I left something back at my spot. Shouldn't take long—I'll catch up."

"But…" Sarah looked between me and Soteira, her face scrunching with uncertainty. "Okay… but you better not take too long. I'll tell Caliban I gave you the tour."

"Deal," I said, flashing her a quick thumbs-up. "Save me a bowl if you can."

Sarah beamed and jogged off toward the Alley proper, already halfway into a story before she even reached Soteira's side. The older woman lingered for just a second longer, her eyes still on me. Not unfriendly. Just… thoughtful.

I watch them disappear into the brighter part of the tunnel, laughter trailing behind them. The moment they're gone, it's like the silence rushes back in—too loud. Too empty. That's when Hive Mind begins to itch.

…​

Back in the comfort of my little plywood-and-shower-rack cubicle, I finally have time to think. Time to reflect.

My mind thrums as I fully engage Hive Mind again.

It's always on—humming quietly in the background to keep my more exotic senses operational—but I rarely call on it fully, especially around Sarah. Not because I'm hiding anything—more like I forget. Which is ridiculous, I know. But Hive Mind doesn't boost my intelligence. It just... broadens it.

Hive Mind doesn't make me smarter. Just more. Every thread is still me—still my voice—but when too many split off, running calculations, sorting memories, watching doors, plotting contingencies... it starts to feel like I'm missing pieces.

Maybe that explains my discomfort with using it casually. Not because the pieces aren't mine—but because I'm not feeling them anymore.

It's not numbness—it's distributed pain.

Like stretching one scream across a thousand mouths, so it never gets too loud in any one of them. Efficient. Cold.

It would be easy to forget this power exists. Lock it away. Let it quietly manage the exotic senses in the background. Let the "human" part of me live wrapped in a warm, soft bubble. Feeling safe. Feeling sane.

Another reminder that I'm a toddler with a loaded gun.

Still, once I decide to "man up," the efficiency is worth it. And right now, I need that efficiency.

The first issue to tackle? The smell.

Sarah said I smelled nice. So did the other kids. But my own nose? It tells a very different story—something more in line with sweat, sewer muck, and rotten brick. I should smell like a decomposing possum that lost a fight with a bottle of malt vinegar.

Yet Sarah tracked me down through scent. That's... odd.

She doesn't have enhanced senses—not in any version of her mutation I know. Bone spurs, healing factor, combat monster? Sure. But super-nose? Not a chance.

So how did she find me?

And it wasn't just her. All three kids I interacted with today—Sarah, Leech, and even Mikhail—commented on how I "smelled nice." Leech I could maybe write off as having extra-sensitive sinuses, mutation-related. But Mikhail? He's human. No powers. No mutation.

So either the kids have a shared delusion… or it's something about me.

Thousands of mental threads hum to life. It doesn't take long to reach a consensus:

Lilac Heart.

It has to be. It's the only power I currently have that's scent-based. Pheromone-based mind manipulation. The pattern fits too well.

It makes people more comfortable around me. Softens hostility. Lowers their guard. And what was today, if not a perfect showcase of that exact behavior?

Sarah, for all her youth, is still a born-and-bred Morlock. A child of hardship. Raised in a society where trust gets you killed and hesitation breaks bones. She should've been cautious—terrified, even.

Instead, she adopted me on the spot.

If this is power-induced, that changes things. And if pheromones are the delivery method, it explains why Leech's nullification didn't completely cancel the effect. His power can suppress my active abilities—but it can't scrub pheromones already in the air or clinging to my skin.

Physical particles. Residual scent.

Hell, that might even explain why only the kids commented. Smaller body mass. Lower resistance to the dose. The adults probably aren't affected unless they spend a long time near me.

Wonderful. Creepy mind-control pheromones that work better on children. That's just—nope. We are not exploring that thought train.

...but then another memory strikes me, and everything lurches sideways.

The blood.

My blood was in contact with someone this morning.

I bled. My palm—Sarah's head—

I ruffled her hair and the bone spurs cut me. I bled.

I bled on her.

No.

No. No no no no no—

Wait. Wait. Hold on. Please. Please no—

Social Spider tugs.

A ripple in the back of my mind, one of the partitioned streams glowing with soft urgency.

A thread, taut and trembling.

Sarah.

A presence—not quite conscious thought, but a shape, a flicker. Tangled. Familiar.

Lilac Heart nudges the connection gently.

And for a breath, a blink—I'm in two places at once.

I'm sitting here, alone on my mattress, the smell of dust and mildew thick in the air.

And I'm also in the cafeteria, sunlight bouncing off metal spoons, kids chatting around me, laughter ringing off old walls.

I see her through two sets of eyes.

One from where I sit.

One from where she sits.

STOP.

The second feed cuts. A clean sever. No images. No sound. Just silence—and the faint pressure still lingering, curled up at the edge of my awareness.

Still there. Still waiting.

Oh god.

I did this.

I actually—infected her.

That's what it is, isn't it? Not mind control. Not domination. Just… presence. Influence. A slow root growing through the cracks. She trusted me. She looked up at me with hope and kindness and—

Was it ever her choice?

Did I tilt her toward me, like a magnet dragging filings into place?

Did I make her like me?

What the hell am I doing?

No—no, that doesn't matter right now.

The link is gone. That's what matters. Break it clean. No more.

Deal with the consequences later. The guilt. The questions. All of it.

I look inward again, searching for the shape of the power.

Social Spider slackens, its massive lattice dimming as the trapped thread drifts away into the mist.

The collective web nest that is Hive Mind, loosen, before collapsing all on itself. Some threads ring loose, still attached to different objectives, but the rest have swirled together.

Lilac Heart hums faintly. Not angry. Not upset. Just… puzzled. Like a dog nudged away from food it wasn't supposed to eat. It presses in again, a quiet protest at losing something it believes I meant to keep.

I push back.

No.

I'm not that man. I'm not Killgrave. I will not be.

I'm not going to pull strings I didn't earn. Not with kids. Not with anyone.

But even as I think it, another part of me whispers.

Lilac Heart is working. It's subtle, effective. Mikhail warmed up immediately. Leech trusted me. Sarah adored me. I'm integrating. I'm not just surviving—I'm being accepted.

That voice is quieter. But it's still mine.

The problem is, I know what I need to do. I need this power. I can't afford to throw it away. I'm not built for this world, not like they are. I wasn't born in fire. I wasn't raised in the shadows. I'm soft. Weak. The only reason I'm not dead already is dumb luck and borrowed power.

So I need every advantage I can get.

But…

I can't become the monster I fear.

I can't be the kind of person whose first instinct is to manipulate a child.

Even if it's accidental.

Even if it's necessary.

Even if it's easy.

So. A compromise.

A dedicated partition of Hive Mind—just for Lilac Heart. A full sensory sweep, monitoring pheromone output, potential link formations, environmental effects. If it changes, if it spreads, if it so much as breathes wrong—I shut it down.

No half-measures.

No second chances.

And I'll start being careful with fluids. No more accidents. If it's not blood, then it's saliva. Or sweat. Or god knows what else. I'm a walking CDC nightmare. From now on, gloves stay on. Long sleeves. High collars. Mask, too.

No more contact. No more risk.

No more mistakes.

And still, beneath it all—anger. Not at the power. Not even at the situation.

At me.

I should've been more careful.

I should've thought.

I should've known.

I almost—

No. I didn't. I didn't force her.

But that doesn't mean I didn't still cause harm.

That doesn't mean I'm innocent.

I rub my palm. The skin there's already healed—pink and tight. No sign of the blood I lost. No sign of what might have transferred.

But I remember. I remember the warmth of her skull under my hand. The way she leaned into the touch like it was the first real one she'd had in a long time.

I have to check on her.

I have to make sure she's okay.

God, what a fine mess I've already made.

Stop it. No time to wallow in self-pity.

I need to focus. On something I can control.

There are still problems to solve. Even putting aside the Sarah mess… two other things from today keep rising to the surface.

Soteira.

I'm no X-Scholar, but I know more than your average Netflix binger. The Morlocks? I've known about them since childhood. Wolverine and the X-Men, some comics, wiki dives—enough to understand the basics.

And in all those years of knowing about this underground band of mutants, I have never heard of someone like her. Not once. Not in canon, not in fanon.

No tech genius. No tinker archetype. No Soteira.

The Morlocks have always been presented as barely scraping by—a fractured tribe of outcasts hiding in the shadows, not… this. Not organized. Not structured. Not with engineered wind tunnels and mirrored light systems and rat-goose farms.

Not a society.

And yet, here she is. This woman who builds miracles out of scrap and systems from rust. Changing everything I thought I knew.

Maybe she's canon and obscure. Maybe she's fanon, bleeding into this world from the same meta-muck that pulled me in. It doesn't matter.

She's real.

And she's dying.

Even without powers, you'd notice. The sallow cheeks. The dark circles under her eyes. The slight, persistent tremor in her hands. The coughing she keeps trying to suppress.

But with my enhanced senses? It's like watching a candle burn down to the wick.

Her heart beats slow—too slow. Her lungs rasp like torn bellows. There's blood in her cough, microscopic splatter barely hidden on her sleeve. Her body's giving out, one system at a time.

She's circling the drain.

And I know the cause.

The Drop. More specifically, Revelation—the girl sealed beneath it.

Sarah said everyone who goes down there dies. Everyone but Soteira.

Back in the Healing Room, I caught fragments of their conversation. She's trying to save the girl. Trying to fix something.

She called her Cistern.

The name stirs something faint—an old fan project, I think? There was a mutant called Cistern. Quarantined because her power passively killed everything around her. I thought it was fan-made. Non-canon. I dismissed it.

But now…?

What is this world?

Is it canon? Is it fanon? Is it some twisted fusion of the two? Characters that shouldn't exist… do. Stories that never were… are.

This is bad.

My plan—my whole survival strategy—depends on predictability. On canon events. If those aren't solid, then I'm walking blind into a world of black swans and butterfly effects.

I need my knowledge to mean something.

I need it to work.

If I can't anticipate the disasters before they hit… I die. That's it. Full stop. Game over.

But panic gets me nowhere.

Think, Maquet. Focus. Sort the chaos.

Work the problem first. Shit yourself about canon later.

If Soteira dies, the Morlocks are screwed. Not immediately, but soon. She's the brain behind the infrastructure—engineering, maintenance, energy flow. Without her, the tech will sputter and collapse within a few years.

The tunnels would rot. Systems would fail. They'd fall into decay. Fast.

Like the Imperium in Warhammer 40K. Only on fast-forward.

So. She can't die.

How do I stop that?

Option one: take out the source. Revelation. If she's the cause, then solving her solves the problem.

If her power is anything like the fanon Cistern's, it's a passive death aura. Everything near her wilts and dies. Biological entropy.

I've got life force stockpiled. More if I walk the streets of Manhattan for an hour or two. A quick tap could neutralize her mutation. Problem solved.

Assuming I survive getting close.

Option two: heal Soteira directly. A combination of Parasitic Predator, Healer, and maybe Masque, if I get close enough. Failing that, there are other mutant powers up top. Caliban can sniff them out. A quick touch to analyze and maybe absorb. Many wouldn't even miss their mutations. Some might thank me.

Worst-case, I can give Soteira a power—Social Spider, or even Lilac Heart. Anything to slow the decay.

But… both solutions come with a price.

I'd have to reveal myself.

Truly reveal myself.

No more hiding behind "I'm just durable" or "I got lucky." Full exposure. Powers that don't make sense. Absorptions that can't be explained.

And once that happens, I can't put the genie back in the bottle.

I know what's out there. Sinister. Apocalypse. Orchis. Hell, the X-Men wouldn't look kindly on someone with my kind of power either.

And the cosmic threats—Jaspers. Franklin. Wanda. People who treat time like Play-Doh and rewrite existence on Tuesdays.

What if they decide to erase the current-me because future-me is an ass.

Do I really want them to know about me?

Do I want to shed my armor… for Soteira?

For the Morlocks?

Or should I run?

I could. Disappear. Head west. Dig a bunker. Survive in solitude.

Safe.

Alone.

I close my eyes.

Thread it. Pin it. Shelf it.

Come back later. There's a more immediate issue waiting.

The most immediate problem.

The freakout in the Garden.

Out of everything that's happened today, this might be the one thing that gets me killed right now.

Nemesio—that was his name. The old guy with the haunted eyes and the brush. Definitely a mutant. No question. That wasn't just senile rambling. I recognized some of the murals on that tree.

Those two green giants locked in battle? Gamma mutates. Hulk types.

The blue and red figures? Looked suspiciously like the first Civil War.

Maybe I'm reaching. Maybe I'm projecting. Maybe his mutation is just "emotionally unstable artist" with a flair for superhero allegory.

But the moment he saw me—he screamed.

And not just a little startled cry either. Full-blown, shrieking meltdown. Like I am the Antichrist and Judgment Day rolled into one.

And everyone saw it.

Not just Sarah and her little friends—everyone in the Garden. Word travels fast in places like this. I'd bet my left lung that by now, at least half the Morlocks have heard some version of what happened.

Which means I've got a very real problem with the Morlock leadership.

Forget the X-Men. Forget SHIELD or Krakoa or Sentinels.

Callisto. Masque. Sunder. Those are the names I need to worry about right now. Because if any of them decide I'm a threat?

I don't know if I will walk out of here alive.

Sure, I've got powers. More than a few. And I could probably get away. But not without revealing what I can really do—and once that mask comes off, it's never going back on.

And to get out clean…? I'd have to kill.

Not just a few. A lot.

That's not paranoia. That's math. Callisto gives the word, and half the Tunnels would dogpile me without hesitation. And even if I win…

What about the kids?

Sarah. Leech. Mikhail. They're not fighters—but they're loyal. They'd side with Callisto. I know they would.

Am I really prepared to fight children?

To kill for survival?

Don't answer that.

Don't ruin what little illusion of decency I have left.

I need to believe there's still a line I won't cross.

Okay. Think. What are my options?

I can lie. Play dumb. I don't know why Nemesio freaked out, even if I've got a pretty damn good guess.

If they've got a lie detector mutant—and they probably do—I just have to word things carefully. Stick to half-truths. Technicalities.

It might mean getting dragged in front of Masque, but so what?

Let him do his worst. I'm not exactly winning any beauty contests as-is. A few extra facial scars aren't gonna tank my chances with the mutant dating scene any lower than what it currently is; especially with the power I am now packing.

And if that bastard tries to get fancy—tries to "remodel" me with one of his flesh-melting surgeries and gets so much as a drop of my blood in the process?

Well. Good luck, Masque.

The little girl gets the gentle touch. You? You'd get every curse in the arsenal.

So for now, the best bet is to play it cool. Keep my answers tight. Let them think I'm harmless. Meek.

I doubt Callisto's crazy enough to start a war over a painting and a scream. Especially if she still sees me as weak.

Sunder and the other heavies won't move unless she gives the order.

That just leaves Masque. The wild card.

So. One problem tentatively handled.

Two more breathing down my neck.

Let's go see how fast this situation can spin into a full-blown catastrophe.

…​

By the time I step out of my makeshift cubicle, I feel more exhausted than when I went in.

Hive Mind is still splintered—each fragment off doing its assigned task—but I've merged most of the idle threads back together. I need to feel whole again. Human. I need emotion. Even if it hurts.

Letting your thoughts run one way and your feelings another? That's a surefire path to crazy town.

I've read enough fiction to know where that road ends.

Looking at you, Taylor Hebert.

The narrow stretch of tunnel just outside my corner is already waking up. My two neighbors are up, too. Older women. Mid-fifties, maybe? It's hard to tell—stress carves its own kind of age into a person, mutant or not.

One of them, with greying shoulder-length hair, is sitting cross-legged beside the other, spooning food into her mouth with a careful, steady hand. The woman being fed doesn't blink. Doesn't react. Her eyes are glassy and fixed upward, unmoving.

The caregiver notices me as I approach and offers a gentle smile—warm, unguarded. A rarity down here.

"Oh, hello," she says, her voice soft, like worn velvet. "You must be our new neighbor."

"Yeah. I'm Maquet. Just arrived yesterday."

Her eyes brighten slightly. "Ah. That explains it. I was surprised to find someone setting up shop on this end of the Tunnels."

She rests the spoon in the bowl and gently pats her companion's arm. "I'm Delphi," she says. "And this… this is Qwerty."

"Qwerty?" I echo, eyebrows raised.

Delphi chuckles—low, kind, a touch bittersweet. "Yes, I know. It must sound strange. Everyone down here knows our story, so I forget what it's like to talk to someone new."

She glances at Qwerty, her smile tightening at the edges. "Her name might sound funny, especially if you're from above, but... it fits. She sees things. Futures, probabilities, like sequential letters on a keyboard. Her power pulled her too far into the stream of time. She's... lost in it now. Locked away."

I glance down at the tray of food. Two servings, neatly arranged. She can't even feed herself. And down here… mercy is rationed.

"Then… why?" I ask. "Why do you take care of her?"

Delphi blinks at me, as if the answer is obvious. "My gift. It's a form of empathy, the others say. I don't just feel what someone feels. I become them, in a way. I walk a mile in their skin."

She smiles again, but it's worn at the corners. "That's how I understood what happened to her. What she needed. And… well… how could I leave her alone?"

She shrugs, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"The others help in their own way. They take on my chores while I care for her. We all do what we can."

"That's… incredible. You're incredible."

"Oh, don't say that, dear," she says, waving me off. "Anyone would do the same in my position."

I almost laugh.

"No, they wouldn't," I say, and it comes out a little too honest. "Most people wouldn't give up their whole life for someone else. Especially for nothing in return."

I wouldn't.

That truth, quiet and bitter, coils in the back of my throat.

"Well aren't you a sweet talker," Delphi says with a warm chuckle. "You must be heading to the cafeteria, no? Don't let us old hens keep you."

She gently props up Qwerty so her vacant eyes face me.

"Say goodbye to the nice young man, Qwerty."

And then the air changes.

Stillness.

Her eyes—once blank, fogged glass—focus. Pinpoint. Locking on me like a tracking beacon.

The air feels charged, like right before a lightning strike.

Then all hell breaks loose.

Qwerty screeches—high-pitched, wet, inhuman. Her frail body flails, arms spasming. And then, impossibly, she lunges. A blur of bones and parchment skin, faster than she should ever be.

I don't move. I can't. I'm too stunned.

She crashes into me, and it's like being struck by a hurricane wrapped in a corpse.

Thin, skeletal arms wrap around my torso in a death grip. I hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of me. Her watery eyes scan my face like she's seeing God.

"Messiah… messiah… messiah…" she whispers. Again. And again. The word falling from her mouth like broken teeth.

What the fuck is happening?

"Qwerty!" Delphi's voice cuts through the chaos. She dives, trying to pry her off me, but Qwerty won't let go. Her grip is iron. Desperate.

"I don't think I can hold her much longer!" Delphi grunts, struggling to wrest her friend away.

I still don't move.

Not because I'm pinned—but because I can't look away from Qwerty's eyes. That… look. Like I've been burned into her future. Branded onto her fate.

And it's wrong.

She's wrong.

I didn't do anything. I didn't touch her. I didn't try to connect. But a part of me still wonders—still fears—if Lilac Heart had already soaked its claws in deep. If some pheromonal whisper had brushed against her broken mind and sparked this madness.

And worse—I was careless.

Careless with Sarah. Careless with my blood. Careless with this whole fucking day.

Now this.

I scramble upright as Delphi finally pulls Qwerty back into her lap. The woman twitches and mumbles, but the grip is broken.

I didn't even say thank you.

Just like with Sarah. Just like everyone else.

It's always confusion. Panic. Retreat.

I run.