WebNovels

Chapter 8 - Chapter 7

# Brotherhood Warehouse – Queens

The Brotherhood's latest "base of operations" looked less like a secret lair and more like the aftermath of a particularly creative demolition gone wrong. Rusted I-beams hung at angles that would make structural engineers weep openly, their orange decay creating abstract art across concrete floors that had clearly given up on life sometime during the Carter administration. Busted skylights leaked more than light—they leaked ambition, casting jagged shadows that danced with dust motes and the occasional pigeon who'd obviously made some spectacularly poor real estate decisions.

Graffiti sprawled across every vertical surface like a multilingual argument between dozen different crews, creating a Jackson Pollock of urban decay that somehow managed to be both chaotic and oddly beautiful. In the rafters, enough pigeons had established permanent residence to qualify for their own electoral district, their constant cooing providing a soundtrack of organized chaos that felt strangely appropriate for what was about to unfold.

But to Mystique, standing in the center of it all like she'd personally invented the concept of dangerous elegance, it was absolutely perfect.

She moved with the liquid grace of a predator who'd spent years perfecting the art of making her presence felt in any room she entered. Every gesture was calculated, every tilt of her head designed to project exactly the right blend of maternal authority and barely contained violence that made teenagers want to simultaneously impress her and avoid making her angry. Her blue skin gleamed under the humming fluorescents, and those yellow eyes—sharp as broken glass and twice as cutting—missed absolutely nothing.

The massive wall-mounted map of New York looked like it had been liberated from some defunct military installation, probably during a heist that nobody talked about but everyone remembered fondly. Colored pins dotted the boroughs like a connect-the-dots puzzle designed by someone with a PhD in Creative Urban Warfare Theory. Mystique studied it with the focused intensity of a chess grandmaster contemplating her next seventeen moves, all of which would probably involve explosions.

Her team of teenage chaos agents had distributed themselves around the warehouse in various states of controlled restlessness. Pietro Maximoff vibrated against a concrete pillar like a tuning fork struck by lightning, his silver hair catching the light as his fingers drummed against his thigh fast enough to blur. John Allerdyce sprawled across a salvaged couch, twirling his lighter with the unconscious skill of a street performer, red hair falling into eyes that suggested he was perpetually three seconds away from testing whether something was flammable. Fred Dukes occupied his specially reinforced throne—part furniture, part architectural marvel, part monument to the fact that some problems required custom engineering solutions—looking like he'd rather be anywhere with better snack options. And Dominikos sat hunched over structural diagrams with the intense focus of someone who found earthquake mathematics more comfortable than eye contact.

They were all pretending they weren't hanging on her every word while absolutely, completely hanging on her every word.

"Alright, children," Mystique purred, her voice rolling through the warehouse with that particular combination of silk and steel that could convince a fire marshal to approve a gasoline storage facility. The word 'children' came out with just enough maternal condescension to remind them who was in charge, wrapped in just enough genuine affection to make them want to prove themselves worthy of her attention. "Field trip time."

Pietro snorted from his position against the pillar, his entire body practically humming with suppressed kinetic energy. "Oh fantastic," he said, words tumbling out faster than most people could process them, "please tell me this isn't another 'go intimidate some investment bankers' gig because last time Fred ate their entire catered lunch spread before we even extracted a single piece of useful intelligence."

His grin was pure manic energy, the kind of expression that suggested he'd been specifically engineered by nature to cause problems and then solve them through the liberal application of ridiculous speed. "I'm talking everything, Mystique. The mini quiches with the fancy cheese. The little triangular sandwiches with the crusts cut off like we're at some demented tea party. Even the decorative parsley that nobody actually eats but everyone pretends is sophisticated."

"Hey now," Fred rumbled from his reinforced throne, his voice carrying that particular mix of wounded dignity and complete lack of shame that came with being caught red-handed doing exactly what everyone knew he'd done. "They had sliders, man. Like, actual miniature cheeseburgers with real beef and those little pickle chips and everything. That's basically my kryptonite right there."

He shifted in his chair—a custom masterpiece that had required consultation with actual structural engineers and possibly a prayer to whatever gods governed furniture—and the entire warehouse seemed to settle slightly under his weight. "You can't just put sliders in front of me and expect me to maintain professional composure. It's cruel and unusual punishment."

"You don't have kryptonite," Pietro shot back, practically bouncing on his heels now, his whole body language screaming barely contained chaos. "You have high cholesterol, type-two diabetes, and probably several other medical conditions that could be solved by occasionally eating something that isn't fried or covered in cheese or both."

Pietro's grin sharpened to something that could cut glass. "Also, they weren't that good. I tried one after you demolished the entire tray, and it was basically cafeteria food dressed up with fancy toothpicks."

Fred's glare could've melted reinforced steel, but coming from someone currently occupying what amounted to a throne designed to support small aircraft, it lost some of its intimidation factor. "Says the guy who burns through three thousand calories an hour just standing still. Your metabolism is basically a garbage disposal with legs."

"At least I don't require architectural consultation every time I want to sit somewhere," Pietro fired back, silver hair flashing as he zipped to the other side of the warehouse and back again in the time it took Fred to blink. "Remember that coffee shop in Brooklyn? The one where you—"

"Focus, children," Mystique interrupted smoothly, her voice cutting through the developing food fight with surgical precision. She moved between them like liquid mercury, somehow managing to defuse the tension while simultaneously cranking it up to eleven through sheer presence alone. "Save the body-shaming and dietary analysis for after we've successfully committed several federal crimes."

She tapped one perfectly manicured nail against the map, the clicking sound somehow managing to command absolute attention despite the ongoing pigeon commentary from the rafters. The green pin stuck dead center in Westchester County seemed to glow under the fluorescent lights.

"Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters," she announced with the kind of theatrical flair that suggested she'd been practicing this speech in mirrors. "Our favorite cult of do-gooders and their never-ending crusade to make the world a better place through the power of friendship, feelings, and grossly irresponsible amounts of property damage."

That got everyone's attention faster than a fire alarm in a fireworks factory. Even Dominikos looked up from his engineering diagrams, dark eyes reflecting the warehouse's uncertain lighting as he processed the implications. At sixteen, he had that particular combination of pale skin, sharp cheekbones, and perpetual intensity that suggested he'd either grow up to be a brilliant scientist or a supervillain with excellent architectural taste. Currently, the smart money was on supervillain, though he approached the job with the methodical precision of someone who'd rather be calculating load-bearing tolerances than making small talk.

"Xavier picked up a new stray last week," Mystique continued, her voice taking on that particular tone of someone sharing gossip that was about to ruin everyone's day in the most entertaining way possible. She moved closer to the map, hips swaying with predatory grace that somehow made even walking look like a carefully choreographed threat. "Big one. Omega-class power levels. Cosmic-tier enhancement potential. The kind of mutant that makes government classification files spontaneously combust just from being mentioned in the same sentence."

John perked up instantly like a bloodhound catching a particularly interesting scent, his Australian drawl sliding into the conversation like gasoline poured on hot pavement. "Cosmic, eh? Right, well now you've got my full attention, love." He sat up straighter, lighter dancing between his fingers with the casual dexterity of someone who'd been playing with fire since before he could properly walk. "What exactly are we talking about here? Can he shoot starfire lasers from his eyes like some kind of cosmic Superman? Does he keep a black hole in his back pocket for emergencies and awkward social situations?"

His grin was pure pyromaniacal enthusiasm, the expression of someone who'd found his true calling in life and that calling happened to involve setting things on fire in creative and artistically satisfying ways. "Can he, like, make the moon his personal pet rock and teach it adorable little tricks? Because that would be simultaneously terrifying and absolutely brilliant."

Mystique fixed him with a look that could've performed surgery without anesthesia. "Wings made of pure psychic energy that can slice through diamond like it's warm butter. Armor like dragon scales that treats armor-piercing rounds as a minor inconvenience. Fire that burns hotter than the core of a star and responds to his emotional state like a mood ring designed by a vengeful god with serious anger management issues."

She paused for dramatic effect, yellow eyes sweeping across her audience to ensure she had their complete and undivided attention. "Oh, and magic. Actual, honest-to-whatever-deities-you-personally-believe-in magic. The kind that makes physics professors cry into their textbooks."

The warehouse fell silent except for the distant cooing of pigeons and the electrical hum of lights that had probably been installed during the Eisenhower administration. It was the kind of silence that usually preceded either religious revelation or complete existential terror, and in this case, it was definitely leaning toward the latter.

John's grin somehow managed to get even wider, which should've been physically impossible but John had never let minor things like physics stop him from expressing enthusiasm. "So basically," he said slowly, savoring each word like fine wine, "he's me, yeah? But with all the extra spicy sauce, a side of cosmic horror, and probably a significantly better health insurance plan."

"Spicy?" Pietro barked out a laugh that was equal parts amusement and disbelief, his whole body shaking with barely contained kinetic energy. "Mate, you set your own hair on fire last week trying to toast a Pop-Tart because you were too impatient to wait the full two minutes for the toaster to do its job properly."

Pietro zipped around the warehouse in a silver blur, reappearing behind John's couch with his arms crossed and an expression of pure fraternal mockery. "Don't compare yourself to cosmic-level powers when you can't handle breakfast pastries without requiring medical intervention and possibly a hazmat team."

"Oi, that was experimental cooking," John protested, his accent getting thicker with indignation as he twisted around to glare at Pietro. "That was science, mate. Culinary innovation at its finest. I was exploring the delicate intersection between controlled combustion and breakfast pastry preparation."

He flicked his lighter open and closed in rapid succession, each click emphasizing his words like a percussion instrument operated by someone with serious impulse control issues. "It was practically Nobel Prize-worthy research into alternative food preparation methodologies."

"You nearly burned down half the kitchen," Dominikos spoke up quietly from his corner, not bothering to look up from his diagrams but somehow managing to make his disapproval felt across the entire warehouse. "I had to reinforce the entire east wall because the fire damage compromised the structural integrity of the support beams."

"Details," John waved dismissively, though his lighter clicking increased in tempo. "Minor setbacks in the name of scientific advancement. Thomas Edison failed thousands of times before inventing the light bulb."

"Thomas Edison didn't set himself on fire," Fred groaned from his throne, the sound carrying all the weight of someone who'd witnessed too many of John's "experiments" and lived to regret the experience. "Please, for the love of all that's holy and several things that definitely aren't, never use the words 'culinary innovation' and 'uncontrolled combustion' in the same sentence again. My insurance premiums are already higher than most people's mortgages."

The reinforced chair creaked ominously, as if providing editorial commentary on both John's cooking skills and the general state of everyone's life choices.

Dominikos finally looked up from his structural diagrams, pale fingers still tracing stress calculations as his dark eyes fixed on Mystique with laser focus. "If this guy is really that powerful," he said in that low, even tone that suggested he'd been thinking about this problem from seventeen different angles while everyone else was arguing about breakfast foods, "why are we even having this conversation? He could probably turn us into a fine paste without breaking a sweat or messing up his hair. This seems like a job for people who don't bruise easily and have significantly better life insurance policies."

His pale face was set in that expression of calm calculation that suggested he was already running structural analyses on exactly how much damage a cosmic-level mutant could do to various buildings throughout New York, and the results weren't particularly encouraging.

Mystique's smile was sharp enough to perform delicate surgery and twice as dangerous, the kind of expression that suggested she'd been hoping someone would ask exactly that question so she could deliver what was obviously going to be a spectacular answer.

"Because, my dear little seismologist," she purred, moving closer to the group with the fluid grace of a predator who'd spent years perfecting the art of making her presence felt, "power is only as dangerous as the hands that wield it. And right now, Charles Xavier's sticky little fingers want this cosmic-level weapon playing for Team Sunshine and Rainbow Hugs, learning to control his abilities through the power of friendship, feelings, and probably group therapy sessions."

She reached the map and tapped the Westchester pin again, her nail clicking against the metal with metronomic precision. "Erik wants to know if we can... persuade our new friend to consider alternative career paths. Ones that don't involve saving puppies, helping old ladies cross the street, and making the world a better place through the power of positive thinking."

"Recruit or remove," Pietro translated, his words coming out almost faster than human speech could process as he bounced on his heels like a racehorse at the starting gate of the Kentucky Derby. "Classic Magneto operation. I love it already. So what's the play here, boss? You want me to zip in there at Mach-stupid, grab this cosmic kid before he knows what's happening, and then run laps around New Jersey until he's too dizzy to remember his own name?"

His grin was pure manic energy, the expression of someone who'd been specifically designed by evolution to cause problems and then solve them through the liberal application of physics-defying speed.

"Please don't subject anyone to New Jersey," Fred muttered with genuine horror, shuddering hard enough to make his reinforced chair groan in sympathy. "Nobody deserves that kind of psychological trauma. It's probably illegal under the Geneva Convention and definitely cruel and unusual punishment by any reasonable definition."

Mystique snapped her fingers with theatrical flair, and the warehouse's lighting shifted dramatically as a holographic display materialized above the map like something out of the world's most expensive science fiction movie. New York City rendered in perfect three-dimensional detail, complete with target points blinking like a video game mission screen designed by someone with a PhD in Urban Chaos Theory and a minor in Dramatic Lighting Effects.

The projection bathed everything in blue light that made the warehouse look even more like the set of a cyberpunk thriller with a particularly pessimistic view of humanity's future, while somehow making Mystique look even more dangerous and impossibly elegant.

"Not grab," she said, her voice taking on that particular tone of someone explaining a particularly brilliant solution to an impossibly complex problem. "Distract. We're going to create enough coordinated chaos throughout the city to drag Xavier's entire A-team away from their precious school like moths to very expensive, very destructive flames."

Her yellow eyes gleamed as she gestured to the holographic display, where red zones pulsed ominously across Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx like a heartbeat made of pure chaos. "Storm will be handling mysterious weather emergencies that definitely weren't caused by climate change. Beast will be analyzing unexplained seismic disturbances that make absolutely no geological sense. Logan will be tracking down reports of impossible thefts and fires that burn in patterns that shouldn't exist in nature."

She moved around the display like a dancer performing for an audience of one, each gesture calculated to maximum dramatic effect. "The whole superhero cavalry will be spread thinner than butter on toast across five boroughs, running around like headless chickens trying to put out fires that keep multiplying faster than they can solve them."

John sat up straighter, practically vibrating with excitement that had absolutely nothing to do with Pietro's mutant abilities and everything to do with the promise of professionally orchestrated pyromania. "So basically," he said, lighter clicking open and shut in rapid succession, "you want us to coordinate a city-wide festival of beautiful, artistic mayhem while you go have a friendly conversation with the new kid about career opportunities and alternative lifestyle choices."

His grin was bright enough to power several city blocks. "You should've just said 'controlled chaos with maximum artistic flair' at the beginning—that's like Christmas morning, my birthday, and the Fourth of July all rolled into one glorious package of destructive creativity."

"That leaves me," Mystique continued, ignoring John's enthusiasm with the practiced ease of someone who'd been managing teenage pyromaniacs for longer than was probably healthy for anyone's sanity, "with approximately two uninterrupted hours to slip into Xavier's mansion, have a nice long chat with our cosmic friend, and find out absolutely everything there is to know about this new resident."

Her smile could've cut through titanium with surgical precision. "His psychological profile, his power limitations, his friends, his fears, his favorite breakfast cereal if that happens to be somehow relevant to manipulating him later, and most importantly, whether Erik can use him or whether we need to find creative ways to neutralize him before he becomes a problem that requires significantly more explosives to solve."

Pietro vanished into a silver blur and reappeared by the warehouse's main entrance so fast that the air displacement ruffled everyone's hair and scattered several pigeons who'd been contemplating whether humans were worth the trouble they caused.

"So essentially," he said, grinning like he'd just been offered the keys to every sports car in Manhattan, "this is a group project designed by someone with a beautifully twisted sense of humor, and we're the kids who didn't bother reading the assignment details but are planning to wing it anyway and somehow still get an A-plus with extra credit."

His silver hair caught the holographic light as he practically bounced in place. "I can work with that. Should I leave calling cards? Little autographs? Maybe some artistic speed-trails spelled out in a language only I can write fast enough to be legible?"

"Pietro," Mystique said, her voice carrying just enough warning to remind him that artistic license had limits, even in their line of work, "you'll be handling speed-based emergencies throughout Manhattan. Mysterious thefts from locations that should be impossible to break into, blurred sightings that make security guards question their career choices, maybe give a few NYPD patrol units something interesting to chase that they'll never quite catch up with no matter how hard they try."

Pietro's grin could've powered the entire electrical grid. "So basically a normal Tuesday for me, except with better planning, more style, and significantly higher stakes. I love it. Should I focus on any particular type of theft, or are we going for general 'impossible things happening too fast to explain' chaos?"

"Focus on high-value targets that will definitely make the news but won't actually hurt anyone," Mystique replied smoothly. "Art galleries, jewelry stores, banks if you can manage it without triggering any actual security systems. Make them work for their insurance payouts."

She turned to their immovable object, who was still occupying his throne with the dignity of someone who'd learned to make architectural compromises look like royal privileges. "Fred, I need you handling structural problems throughout Brooklyn and Queens. Gas main 'accidents' that require immediate attention, bridges mysteriously blocked by a very cooperative and completely immovable obstacle, maybe a few subway tunnels that suddenly develop unexpected traffic jams that can't be explained by traditional transportation logistics."

Fred shrugged with the easy confidence of someone whose superpower was literally being too heavy and durable for the world to move him when he didn't feel like cooperating with basic physics.

"I sit somewhere inconvenient," he said with the matter-of-fact tone of someone describing quantum mechanics, "I become everyone else's problem, and then I win by default. It's like chess, except I'm simultaneously the king, the entire board, and the laws of physics that govern how pieces are allowed to move."

His reinforced chair groaned again, as if applauding his tactical analysis.

"Just remember," Mystique added with a pointed look, "no sitting on anything that can't support your weight without catastrophic structural failure. We want delays and diversions, not actual building collapses that require disaster relief funding."

"I'm a professional," Fred replied with wounded dignity. "I've been doing this for years. I know exactly how much pressure every major bridge in New York can handle before it starts making those concerning creaking sounds that make engineers nervous."

"John," Mystique continued, and the pyromaniac's attention snapped to her like a compass needle finding true magnetic north, "fires throughout Manhattan and the Bronx. Multiple locations, carefully controlled burns that look spectacular enough to pull fire departments and emergency responders away from anything else they might be doing, but artistic enough to make the evening news without actually hurting anyone."

John saluted with his lighter, the small flame dancing between his fingers in what could've been interpreted as either enthusiasm or barely controlled mania. "Ma'am, yes ma'am," he said with mock military precision. "Controlled burns with maximum visual impact and minimum actual property damage. I can do theatrical without doing homicidal."

His grin suggested he was already mentally cataloguing every flammable surface in New York and ranking them by artistic potential. "Should I sign my work? Maybe leave little calling cards? Spell out messages in carefully controlled scorch marks that firefighters will spend weeks trying to decode?"

"Nothing traceable back to us," Mystique warned, though her tone suggested she wasn't entirely opposed to artistic flair as long as it didn't compromise operational security. "But if you happen to create some... visually interesting burn patterns that keep forensics experts busy for a few months, I certainly won't complain."

Finally, she turned to their resident earth-mover, who had been following the entire conversation while simultaneously running structural calculations in his head with the focused intensity of someone who found earthquake mathematics significantly more straightforward than human social interaction.

"Dominikos," she said, and his dark eyes lifted from his diagrams to meet hers with laser focus, "seismic anomalies throughout Brooklyn and Queens. Cracks in the ground that follow geometrically impossible patterns, minor tremors that register on equipment but don't match any known geological activity, maybe make a few buildings sway just enough to scare structural engineers but not enough to actually require evacuation procedures."

Dominikos raised one dark eyebrow, his pale fingers still tracing over stress calculations with unconscious precision. "So essentially," he said in that quiet, thoughtful tone that suggested he was already running complex mathematical models in his head, "performance art with tectonic plates. Controlled geological chaos that looks natural enough to fool casual observers but weird enough to require expert analysis."

His slight smile was the first genuine expression of enthusiasm he'd shown all afternoon. "I can work with that. Should I aim for specific Richter scale readings, or are we going for more of a 'vaguely ominous geological activity that makes scientists nervous' vibe?"

"Exactly that vibe," Mystique purred, her satisfaction evident in every syllable as she surveyed her team of teenage chaos agents with the pride of someone who'd assembled exactly the right tools for exactly the right job. "Mysterious enough to require investigation, concerning enough to demand immediate attention, but subtle enough that nobody can prove it's artificial until long after we're finished."

She moved back to the center of the group, presence somehow managing to fill the entire warehouse despite being just one person in a space designed to hold significantly larger things. "Now, before anyone gets carried away with artistic ambitions or creative interpretations of the mission parameters," her eyes swept over them with laser precision, "everybody repeat after me: no casualties."

"No casualties," the four chorused in unison, though John immediately muttered under his breath with obvious disappointment, "Aw, come on, that takes half the fun out of the whole exercise."

Mystique's gaze snapped to him like a heat-seeking missile finding its target, yellow eyes flashing with just enough warning to remind him that some lines existed for very good reasons. "John. What did we discuss at length about collateral damage and its various complications?"

"That it's expensive, legally complicated, attracts unwanted government attention, and bad for our public relations with both law enforcement and potential future recruitment targets," he recited dutifully, though his expression suggested he was still mentally calculating exactly how many things he could set on fire without technically crossing any lines that would result in paperwork nobody wanted to fill out.

"Good boy." Mystique stepped closer to the group, all sharp angles and predatory grace that somehow made even simple movement look like a carefully choreographed threat assessment. "Remember, this entire operation revolves around Harry Potter. I want everything about him—psychological profile, power limitations, emotional triggers, social connections, personal fears, favorite foods, preferred music, sleep patterns, study habits, and his breakfast cereal preferences if that happens to be somehow relevant to future manipulation strategies."

She tapped the map again, her nail clicking against the green pin with metronomic precision that somehow managed to sound like a countdown timer. "I want to know if he's vulnerable to persuasion, intimidation, bribery, emotional manipulation, or good old-fashioned psychological pressure. I want to know if he's the type to crack under stress or if stress just makes him more dangerous and less predictable."

Her yellow eyes swept over the group again, taking in Pietro's barely contained kinetic energy, John's pyromaniacal anticipation, Fred's comfortable confidence, and Dominikos's quiet intensity. "Most importantly, I want to know if Erik can use him as an asset or if we need to start developing contingency plans to neutralize him before he becomes a problem that requires significantly more resources and explosives to solve."

She straightened up, her form already beginning to ripple and shift as her mutation kicked into gear with the fluid precision of water finding its natural level. Blue skin faded to healthy pink, yellow eyes shifted to warm brown, dark hair lightened to professional blonde, and her entire bone structure rearranged itself with the casual grace of someone changing clothes.

Within seconds, she'd transformed from an exotic blue-skinned shapeshifter into a perfectly ordinary-looking blonde woman in a sharp business suit—the kind of person who could walk through Xavier's front door with a clipboard and a confident smile and convince everyone she not only belonged there but probably had important paperwork that needed immediate attention.

"I don't want heroics from any of you," she continued, her voice now carrying a completely different accent and inflection while maintaining that underlying current of absolute authority that suggested questioning her decisions would be both unwise and potentially hazardous to your health. "I don't want improvisation. I don't want anyone deciding they know better than the plan we've spent three weeks developing, refining, and testing against every possible contingency we could imagine."

Her gaze swept over them again, somehow managing to make eye contact with each of them simultaneously despite the basic laws of physics suggesting that should be impossible. "I want professional-grade chaos executed with surgical precision, and I want all of you back here in one piece with no new entries on your criminal records and no additional medical expenses that weren't already budgeted into our operational costs."

"And if this cosmic kid catches us in the act?" Pietro asked, his voice maintaining that light, casual tone that somehow managed to contain an undercurrent of genuine concern despite his general approach to life being 'run first, ask questions while running faster.' "What if he decides to, you know, demonstrate exactly why the government classifies him as Omega-level by turning one or more of us into component atoms?"

Mystique leaned in closer, her presence suddenly filling the space between them like smoke from a fire that was definitely about to get much, much bigger and significantly more dangerous. Her eyes—now brown but somehow still carrying that predatory gleam—seemed to glow with their own internal light source.

"Then you run," she said softly, each word carrying the weight of absolute certainty and years of experience keeping teenagers alive in situations that should've killed them several times over. "Fast. Faster than you've ever run before. Faster than you think is physically possible, even for you, Pietro."

Her smile was sharp enough to perform delicate surgery without anesthesia. "And I'll make sure he never knows your faces, never learns your names, never connects any of you to this operation, and never has any reason to come looking for you afterward. That's my job—keeping you safe while you play with matches, explosives, and forces of nature that could level city blocks if handled incorrectly."

She straightened up, blonde hair catching the warehouse's uncertain lighting as her new face settled into an expression of calm professional confidence. "Your job is to create enough coordinated noise to wake the dead without actually killing anyone in the process. Think of it as a group project where failure results in federal prison sentences, international incidents, and possibly having to explain to Erik why his carefully laid plans went sideways because someone couldn't resist adding their own creative touches to a perfectly functional strategy."

John grinned like Christmas morning had arrived early and brought him everything he'd ever wanted plus several things he hadn't known he wanted until just this moment, his lighter flicking open with a sharp metallic click that somehow sounded like enthusiastic applause.

"Hell yeah," he said with the kind of pure joy that suggested he'd found his true calling in life and that calling involved setting multiple things on fire simultaneously in patterns that would confuse forensics experts for months. "Time to give the X-Men a night they'll never forget, assuming they survive it with their sanity and most of their property values intact."

"More like a group project designed by someone with a beautifully twisted sense of humor and a doctorate in Applied Chaos Theory," Pietro quipped, vanishing into a silver blur and reappearing by the warehouse door so fast that several more pigeons decided they had urgent business elsewhere and left in what could charitably be called an organized retreat.

"And we're the overachieving students who didn't bother reading the assignment requirements but are planning to wing it anyway through pure talent, natural ability, and probably several minor violations of the laws of physics," he continued, grinning like he'd just been handed the keys to every sports car in Manhattan along with written permission to ignore traffic laws for the next six hours.

Fred heaved himself out of his reinforced chair with the deliberate care of someone who'd learned that sudden movements tended to have architectural consequences that required explanation to insurance adjusters. "Just promise me we're not doing this during lunch hour," he said with the serious tone of someone discussing matters of national security. "I get cranky when I'm hungry, and absolutely nobody wants to see me cranky while I'm sitting on something that can't move until I decide to let it move."

The warehouse seemed to settle slightly as his weight redistributed, reminding everyone present that Fred's participation in any plan automatically upgraded it from 'coordinated chaos' to 'geological event requiring professional structural assessment.'

Dominikos rolled up his engineering diagrams with methodical precision, dark eyes reflecting the holographic display as he calculated load-bearing capacities, stress distributions, and probably seventeen different ways to make the ground crack in patterns that would spell out words visible from low-orbit satellites.

"I'll try to keep my earthquakes aesthetically pleasing," he said in that quiet, thoughtful tone that suggested he was already composing geological poetry in his head. "Maybe spell out some messages in crack patterns. 'Brotherhood was here,' that sort of thing. Or possibly something more subtle that requires advanced mathematics to decode properly."

His slight smile suggested he was already looking forward to reading the scientific papers that would inevitably be published about his work, probably with titles like "Impossible Seismic Patterns: A Study in Applied Geological Anomalies" and "When the Earth Speaks: Decoding Messages in Tectonic Activity."

Mystique's smile—even filtered through her perfectly ordinary new face—said everything that needed to be said about their chances of success, the entertainment value of watching New York's emergency services try to cope with simultaneous crises across five boroughs, and her complete confidence that her team of teenage chaos agents could pull off something that would be discussed in tactical analysis courses for the next twenty years.

The Brotherhood was officially in motion: five teenagers with apocalyptic powers, a carefully crafted plan designed to cause just enough trouble to change the world, and absolutely no adult supervision worth mentioning.

New York City had absolutely no idea what was about to hit it, but it was definitely going to be spectacular, precisely orchestrated, and probably visible from space.

This was going to be fun.

---

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