MANHATTAN – FINANCIAL DISTRICT – DAY
The Financial District looked like Salvador Dalí had collaborated with a demolitions expert who'd majored in abstract expressionism. Spiraling flames danced across marble facades in perfect mathematical sequences, spelling out increasingly creative profanities in at least six dead languages. Security shutters hung in twisted ribbons of metal, as if someone had decided bank vaults were merely suggestions. Priceless artifacts, cutting-edge technology, and enough jewelry to make Tiffany's weep had vanished into silver streaks that made cheetahs look like they were moving through molasses.
Scott Summers crouched behind an overturned NYPD cruiser, his ruby quartz visor gleaming as he tracked movement through the chaos. The task was proving monumentally difficult, considering his target seemed to exist in approximately seventeen different locations simultaneously, each one more smugly Australian than the last.
High above the carnage, a voice rang out with the cocky drawl of someone who'd clearly never met a consequence he couldn't outrun:
"Bloody hell, mate! You move slower than my gran after she's had her Sunday roast and three pints! And she's been dead for fifteen years!"
Scott's jaw tightened with the kind of precision that suggested years of practice. "He's deliberately taunting us. Psychological warfare."
From across the street, crouched behind a fire hydrant that had been transformed into what could generously be called a "flame sculpture" (and more accurately described as "artistic arson"), Logan bared his teeth in a grin that promised violence. His enhanced senses were working overtime, nostrils flaring as his adamantium claws extended with their signature *snikkt* sound—a noise that had become the last thing many unfortunate souls ever heard.
"Kid's paintin' targets all over downtown, and you're sittin' there doin' math homework, Summers," Logan growled, jabbing a claw toward the fresh scorch mark where Scott's latest optic blast had carved a perfectly straight line through a marble bank facade. "Keep carvin' up the architecture like that, and Charles is gonna get a bill that'll make the national debt look reasonable."
"I'm calculating trajectory vectors and accounting for his acceleration patterns," Scott replied with the patience of a man explaining quantum physics to a particularly stubborn toddler. "Unlike some people, I don't solve problems by stabbing them."
Logan's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Hey, stabbin' works. It's reliable. It's simple. And it doesn't leave fancy laser graffiti all over historic landmarks."
"That's not how optic blasts work, Logan."
"Whatever, boy scout."
Another silver blur tore through the intersection with the subtlety of a hurricane, whipping up debris, scattered papers, and what appeared to be someone's expensive briefcase. Pietro Maximoff materialized for exactly 0.3 seconds—long enough to flash an insufferably cocky grin, shout something that was definitely not suitable for daytime television in what sounded like Romanian, and vanish again before the sound waves had even finished propagating.
His laughter echoed off the glass canyon walls of Wall Street like some demented pinball.
"Laser-eyes!" Pietro's voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. "Twenty-three minutes now, mate, and the best you've managed is what—one cracked sidewalk tile and a very confused pigeon? Meanwhile, I've literally spelled out my entire Wikipedia page in light trails across the Stock Exchange building! Check the security cameras—I even included footnotes!"
Scott tracked left, fired a precise beam, and watched it pass harmlessly through empty air. Again.
Logan winced visibly. "Kid's faster than Kurt, and at least Elf has the common courtesy to smell like sulfur before he teleports behind ya and scares the crap outta you."
"I'm adapting to his movement patterns," Scott insisted, though his voice carried the edge of someone whose confidence was beginning to develop hairline cracks. "He has tells. Behavioral predictabilities."
"Patterns?" Pietro's voice burst from somewhere near the top of a sixty-story office building, followed immediately by the sound of every window in the structure rattling in harmonic resonance. "Oh, laser-brain, the only pattern here is you missing me by entire city blocks while I turn your insurance premiums into a mathematical impossibility!"
Before Scott could formulate a sufficiently withering response, the fires suddenly flared higher—brilliant reds bleeding into molten golds and impossible blues that burned in spirals defying at least three laws of thermodynamics. From his perch in a shattered office window forty floors up, John Allerdyce leaned out with the expression of a kid who'd just discovered that the family Christmas tree was surprisingly flammable.
"Getting a bit bored down there, boys!" John called out, his Australian accent thick with amusement. "Thought we'd spice things up a notch! How about a proper race? Laser beams versus Speedy Gonzales here breaking the sound barrier! Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen!"
A controlled explosion bloomed across three building facades—carefully calculated to avoid casualties but produce maximum dramatic effect. The skyline shimmered like a Pink Floyd concert designed by a physicist with delusions of grandeur.
Logan's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "They've been choreographin' this whole damn thing. Every counter-move, every dodge, every smart-ass comment. This ain't random chaos—this is a performance."
Scott nodded grimly, his tactical mind finally piecing together the broader picture. "Reconnaissance operation. They're mapping our response patterns, testing our capabilities. This has Magneto's fingerprints all over it."
"Ding ding ding!" Pietro shouted gleefully as he zipped by close enough to ruffle Scott's hair. "Congratulations, cyclops! You win tonight's grand prize—total humiliation broadcast in glorious 4K resolution across seventeen different social media platforms!"
And then—
The sky cracked.
Reality folded in on itself with the sound of thunder being personally offended and the cosmic sigh of a divine being who'd grown thoroughly tired of watching teenagers show off.
---
Dragon-Born appeared above the chaos like an avenging angel who'd been briefed by both MI6 and the Archangel Gabriel on how to make an entrance that would be remembered until the heat death of the universe. His armor caught the afternoon sunlight streaming between Manhattan's glass towers and transformed it into something that existed in the space between divine radiance and an intimidation tactic stolen directly from God's personal playbook.
He didn't descend gracefully. He didn't float down with measured control.
He dropped like a meteor with a British accent and a personal vendetta against gravity.
The impact cratered Wall Street in a perfect circle of mathematical precision. Concrete rippled outward in neat, concentric rings as if Manhattan had politely decided to rearrange its molecular structure to accommodate his boots. Glass facades sang in harmonic resonance, skyscrapers humming like tuning forks struck by a titan. Somewhere in the distance, an entire flock of pigeons voiced their objections in what could only be described as avian profanity.
But nobody was looking at the crater.
Everyone was staring at Pietro.
---
Pietro had been in the middle of another arrogant blur, darting forward with the cocky confidence of someone who'd spent his entire life being literally untouchable. His smirk promised the kind of devastation that came with superhuman speed and an ego to match. He'd outmaneuvered Cyclops, made Wolverine look slow, and turned the entire Financial District into his personal playground.
He tried to dash past Dragon-Born.
And stopped.
Not slowed. Not redirected. Not diverted by some clever tactical maneuver.
Just... stopped. Suspended in mid-air like a cartoon character who'd run off a cliff and was taking a moment to contemplate the fundamental unfairness of physics.
His face cycled through a fascinating array of expressions—confusion, disbelief, dawning horror, and finally pure, undiluted panic as his legs continued twitching with residual momentum while reality calmly informed him that Dragon-Born's presence had apparently overruled several important laws of physics.
He dropped like a stone. Hard.
Flat on his back, arms and legs splayed at undignified angles, staring up at the sky with the expression of someone whose entire worldview had just been introduced to a sledgehammer.
"What the actual fuck," Pietro gasped, his voice cracking with disbelief. His accent thickened as shock crashed through his system like a bucket of ice water. "What—what did you—that's not—that's not bloody possible!"
Dragon-Born stood over him, completely unruffled, adjusting one gauntlet with the casual precision of a gentleman fixing his cufflinks before an important meeting. He brushed an invisible speck of dust from his shoulder, then let his emerald gaze sweep across the devastated skyline with the bored expression of a building inspector who'd seen it all before.
Finally—finally—he looked down at the speedster sprawled at his feet.
"Language," he said in that devastatingly smooth British baritone that could have made tax law sound seductive. "There are impressionable children watching this unfold, undoubtedly streaming our little performance on seventeen different social media platforms. We must set an example."
The silence stretched for a moment before Pietro found his voice again. "But... but I'm fast. I'm really, really fast. That's literally my entire thing!"
Dragon-Born's mouth curved into the faintest suggestion of a smile—the kind of expression that made strong men reconsider their life choices. "Yes, I imagine you are. Relatively speaking."
---
From his elevated perch, John Allerdyce whistled appreciatively. "Well, that's definitely not in any of our intelligence reports. Pietro, mate—you still breathing down there?"
Pietro raised one trembling hand in what might have been a thumbs up or possibly a desperate plea for medical attention. "I'm... I'm reconsidering my career choices."
Dragon-Born turned his attention to the pyrokinetic, his emerald gaze fixing on John's fiery perch with the intensity of a laser guidance system. His tone remained conversational, almost warm—which somehow made it infinitely more terrifying.
"John Allerdyce," he said, pronouncing each syllable with the precision of someone reading from a particularly comprehensive dossier. "Born in Adelaide, South Australia. Demonstrated pyrokinetic abilities at age fourteen after an unfortunate incident involving the school chemistry lab. Creative tendencies, questionable taste in shirts, and a disturbing habit of mistaking arson for artistic expression."
John's flames flickered uncertainly. "How do you—"
"I do so admire your work," Dragon-Born continued, his voice carrying that distinctly British talent for making compliments sound like elegant insults. "The Fibonacci sequence rendered in flame jets was particularly inspired. Though I must say, the overall execution was rather... quaint."
John's face flushed red beneath his shock of blonde hair. "Quaint?! I just turned half of Wall Street into my personal canvas!"
Dragon-Born tilted his head with the kind of polite interest one might show to a child's crayon drawing. "Darling, I've stood in the nuclear furnace of stars and watched galaxies being born. What you've accomplished here is essentially waving a scented candle at a supernova."
Logan barked out a laugh, cigar smoke curling from the corner of his mouth in lazy spirals. "Oh, I definitely like this one."
Scott, still crouched behind the police cruiser, shook his head in exasperation. "Could we perhaps focus on the tactical situation?"
"Scott," Logan replied without taking his eyes off Dragon-Born, "sometimes you gotta appreciate artistry when you see it."
Dragon-Born spread his wings just enough to create a subtle change in air pressure, every piece of glass in a three-block radius humming in sympathetic vibration. When he spoke again, his voice carried with the authority of natural law itself.
"Now then, gentlemen. We find ourselves at what you might call a crossroads. We can proceed down one of two paths." His smile was dazzling, terrible, and absolutely sincere. "Path one: you cooperate fully, share all relevant Brotherhood operational intelligence over what I'm told is quite excellent tea at a lovely little café I know in SoHo."
John swallowed hard. "And path two?"
Dragon-Born's smile widened, and for a moment, the air around him shimmered with barely contained power. "Path two involves me demonstrating just how creatively I can interpret the phrase 'enhanced interrogation techniques' when dealing with individuals who've decided to waste my perfectly good afternoon."
Pietro's hand shot up from ground level like a student desperate to answer a question before the teacher could call on someone else. "Path one! Path one sounds brilliant! Absolutely fantastic! Ten out of ten, would recommend to friends!"
"Excellent choice," Dragon-Born said, his tone shifting back to warm approval. "I do so appreciate reasonable people."
---
Scott emerged from behind the overturned cruiser, his tactical mind already processing the implications. "Dragon-Born, this wasn't random. They've been systematically testing our response patterns, mapping our capabilities and weaknesses."
Logan nodded, his claws sliding back into his hands with their characteristic metallic whisper. "Brotherhood intelligence operation. Magneto's making a statement—seeing how we handle their new recruits, testing response times."
"More than that," Dragon-Born said, his expression growing serious as he studied the patterns of destruction around them. "They wanted to observe my response specifically. How I engage, what methods I employ, what limitations I might have." His emerald eyes flashed with something that might have been amusement or might have been danger. "They've just learned that I have very few limitations indeed."
John, still perched in his window but now conspicuously flame-free, called down nervously. "Look, we were just following orders, yeah? Nobody said anything about... whatever you are."
"I'm exactly what I appear to be," Dragon-Born replied, his voice carrying undertones of ancient power. "A dragon who's decided that your particular brand of chaos is bad for property values and worse for civilian morale."
Pietro struggled to sit up, his usually perfect silver hair now disheveled and sticking up at odd angles. "Dragon? Like, actual dragon? I thought that was just a code name!"
"Oh, it's quite literal, I'm afraid." Dragon-Born's wings rustled slightly, golden fire dancing along their edges. "Though I do appreciate the dramatic irony of a speedster being stopped in his tracks by someone whose species is typically associated with sitting on treasure hoards for centuries at a time."
Logan chuckled, a sound like gravel in a cement mixer. "Kid's got a point there, Quicksilver. Maybe consider a career change."
"I'm having an existential crisis here," Pietro muttered, staring at his hands as if they'd personally betrayed him. "Everything I thought I knew about physics is apparently wrong."
"Physics," Dragon-Born said with the tone of someone explaining something obvious to a particularly slow student, "is more of a guideline than a rule when you operate at my level. Think of it as... cosmic suggestions."
Scott adjusted his visor, his tactical brain filing away every detail for later analysis. "What's Magneto planning? This level of coordination, the specific targeting of Manhattan's financial sector..."
"Erik's always had a flair for the theatrical," Dragon-Born mused, then looked directly at John. "I believe our pyrokinetic friend here was about to share some insights into Brotherhood operational planning. Weren't you, John?"
John glanced down at Pietro, who was nodding frantically from his position on the cratered pavement, then back at Dragon-Born's expectant expression. The flames around his hands flickered and died completely.
"Right, well, when you put it like that..."
---
Twenty minutes later, after John had provided a surprisingly comprehensive overview of Brotherhood reconnaissance protocols and Pietro had confirmed details about their coordination with Magneto's larger strategic objectives, Dragon-Born stood at the edge of his impact crater like a general surveying a successful campaign.
"Gentlemen," he said, addressing Scott and Logan with the kind of professional respect reserved for fellow warriors, "I leave our talkative friends in your capable hands. Do try not to let them wander off—they have a distressing tendency to disappear when one's attention is elsewhere."
Scott nodded formally. "We'll handle the extraction and debriefing. Professor Xavier will want to analyze this intelligence personally."
"Give Charles my regards," Dragon-Born said, then turned his attention skyward. "And do tell him that his chess game has improved considerably since our last match. I actually had to think for three entire moves."
Logan raised an eyebrow. "You know Chuck?"
"We've had occasion to discuss matters of mutual interest," Dragon-Born replied diplomatically. "Brilliant mind. Terrible taste in tea, but nobody's perfect."
With that, he spread his wings wide, golden fire igniting along their length like controlled lightning. The air itself seemed to bend around him as he lifted off, rising into the Manhattan sky with the grace of something that had never quite agreed with gravity in the first place.
Pietro lay on the pavement, staring upward at the rapidly diminishing figure, his worldview in complete tatters around him. "That... that was definitely not in our tactical briefing."
John sighed deeply, running his hands through his blonde hair in frustration. "Mate, I think we might have seriously underestimated the opposition here."
Scott stood up, straightening his uniform with military precision. "That's the first accurate assessment either of you has made all day."
Logan just chuckled, pulling out a fresh cigar and lighting it with a theatrical flourish. "Welcome to the big leagues, kids. Population: everyone who ain't fast enough to outrun a dragon."
High above them, Dragon-Born's laughter echoed off the glass towers of Manhattan—warm, rich, and utterly confident. In the distance, sirens wailed as emergency services began the long process of explaining to their insurance companies exactly how one quantifies "dragon-related infrastructure damage."
It was, by all accounts, just another Tuesday in the life of the X-Men.
Except for the dragon.
That was definitely new.
---
QUEENSBORO BRIDGE – AFTERNOON
The Queensboro Bridge had been transformed from a functional piece of civil engineering into what could charitably be described as "abstract expressionism meets catastrophic structural failure." Steel girders twisted into impossible geometries that would have made M.C. Escher weep with either admiration or existential terror. Suspension cables draped across the East River like the world's most expensive wind chimes, and the asphalt deck now featured a ripple pattern that strongly suggested the laws of physics had taken an unauthorized coffee break.
Urban planning committees would later debate whether to classify it as "revolutionary commentary on transportation infrastructure" or "compelling evidence for mandatory mental health evaluations in the engineering profession."
At the epicenter of this architectural apocalypse sat Frederick J. Dukes—better known to law enforcement databases, insurance adjusters, and anyone unfortunate enough to share a subway car with him as "The Blob." His immense bulk radiated the kind of geological permanence usually reserved for continental drift. He'd arranged himself against a twisted support beam with the satisfied air of a man who'd found the perfect spot to ruin everyone's day, arms crossed over his massive chest, grinning like a kid who'd just figured out how to break every toy in the store simultaneously.
The bridge groaned beneath him with the resignation of steel that had clearly been considering a career change.
"Bloody magnificent, innit?" Fred bellowed cheerfully, his voice carrying with the authority of a stadium announcer who'd recently discovered the joys of public disruption. "Prime real estate, this! Got meself a panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline, a free symphony of car horns in B-flat minor, and I'm personally responsible for ruining the commute of roughly three hundred thousand wage slaves!"
He thumped his chest with one meaty fist, the sound reverberating through the suspension cables like a tuning fork designed by a sadist. "Living the absolute dream, I am!"
---
On the Queens side of the bridge, Bobby Drake stood with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, cold mist curling around his fingers like ghostly serpents. His pale blue eyes—the color of winter mornings and bad decisions—flicked over the scene with an expression caught somewhere between grudging admiration and impending doom.
"Okay, I gotta hand it to him," Bobby said slowly, his breath forming small clouds in the afternoon air despite the temperate weather. "This is genuinely artistic. He's turned rush hour gridlock into a multimedia performance piece. There's probably some gallery in SoHo that would pay millions for this."
Ice crystals began forming spontaneously across his palms, spreading in delicate fractal patterns that suggested his powers responded to emotional state as much as conscious control. "The problem is, all my best moves involve making things colder, slipperier, or temporarily frozen solid. And relocating someone who weighs roughly the same as a naval destroyer..." He gestured helplessly. "Not exactly in my wheelhouse."
From the Manhattan approach, Dr. Henry "Hank" McCoy padded forward with the fluid grace of someone who'd long since accepted that his massive blue-furred form made stealth impossible but dignity optional. His scholarly baritone carried easily over the cacophony of trapped commuters expressing their feelings through automotive percussion.
"Indeed, Robert," Hank said, adjusting his wire-rimmed spectacles with one carefully controlled claw. "Frederick represents a fascinating confluence of mutation and tactical acumen. His ability to manipulate his molecular density while maintaining immovable mass creates what is essentially a human-shaped violation of several fundamental laws of physics."
His blue fur bristled slightly in the river breeze, giving him the appearance of an enormous, erudite teddy bear who'd spent too much time in graduate school. "It's a remarkably effective application of civil disruption theory combined with practical engineering sabotage. I should very much like to reference this incident in my next lecture series—assuming, naturally, that we manage to resolve the situation before the bridge collapses and crushes us all beneath several thousand tons of twisted metal."
Bobby shot him a look. "That's incredibly reassuring, Hank. Really. Your optimism is infectious."
"I do try to maintain perspective in crisis situations."
Fred cupped his massive hands around his mouth and bellowed across the span with the subtlety of a foghorn having an emotional breakdown:
"Oi! Ice-boy! Professor Furbucket! Nothing personal, yeah? Just following me Brotherhood marching orders! You want me shifted from this lovely spot, you're gonna need a tow truck the size of bloody New Jersey and maybe a forklift blessed by the Archbishop of Canterbury!"
He delivered a thunderous slap to his prodigious belly, the resulting *thoom* reverberating through every cable, strut, and rivet in the bridge's superstructure. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm began wailing in harmony.
"Go on then—give it your best shot! I haven't had a proper belly laugh since me last performance review!"
Bobby winced visibly. "He wants us to try. He's literally daring us to prove we can't move him. It's psychological warfare disguised as a carnival attraction."
"Precisely," Hank agreed, tail flicking with the kind of academic excitement that suggested he was already composing footnotes. "A textbook example of an immovable object actively taunting potential unstoppable forces. How delightfully classical. Quite Greek, really."
"Please don't start quoting mythology at me right now."
"But the parallels to Sisyphus are—"
"Hank."
"—quite illuminating in terms of—"
"HANK."
---
Before Hank could launch into what was undoubtedly going to be a comprehensive analysis of Greek mythological parallels in modern superhuman conflict resolution, the air itself seemed to shift. Not a breeze, not a sound wave, but something far more fundamental—the kind of cosmic adjustment that made reality itself pause to reconsider its options.
Light began to fracture above the bridge, refracting through dimensions that shouldn't have existed. A figure descended through the prismatic distortion, wings of what appeared to be materialized thought spreading wide against the afternoon sky. His armor caught the sunlight and transformed it into something that made the East River look positively drab by comparison.
Every groan of overstressed steel fell silent as if the bridge itself had suddenly remembered its manners in the presence of something far more important than mere structural engineering.
Dragon-Born had arrived.
He touched down on the twisted asphalt with the kind of precise, controlled impact that suggested gravity was more of a polite suggestion than an inviolable law. The crater that formed beneath his boots was perfectly circular, geometrically flawless, and somehow made the surrounding chaos look intentionally artistic.
The silence that followed was absolute—broken only by the indignant squawk of a particularly opinionated pigeon abandoning ship for safer airspace.
---
Fred squinted at the newcomer through eyes that had suddenly developed the survival instincts his mouth had apparently never learned. His characteristic grin began to falter as some primitive part of his brain—the part that had kept his ancestors alive when saber-toothed tigers were having a bad day—started sending urgent messages about reconsidering his current life choices.
"Oh," Fred muttered, his voice dropping several octaves and about fifteen decibels. Then, with the clarity that comes from genuine existential terror: "Oh, fuck me sideways."
Dragon-Born tilted his head with the kind of polite interest typically reserved for examining particularly fascinating insects. His emerald eyes—the color of deep forest shadows and ancient secrets—took in every detail of the scene with the methodical precision of someone conducting a comprehensive structural assessment.
When he spoke, his voice rolled out with the kind of smooth, devastating authority that could have convinced entire nations to voluntarily surrender their nuclear arsenals just to hear him say "please."
"Frederick James Dukes," he began, pronouncing each syllable with the care of someone reading from an exceptionally comprehensive dossier. "Age sixteen. Born in Lubbock, Texas, to parents who, I imagine, were somewhat surprised by the direction your development would eventually take. Self-designated as 'The Blob'—a nom de guerre that, while lacking in imagination, certainly demonstrates admirable truth in advertising."
He gestured with one gauntleted hand at the surrounding destruction, the motion somehow encompassing the entire scope of architectural chaos while maintaining perfect elegance.
"Known for your rather... enthusiastic demonstrations of civil disobedience, combined with mass manipulation abilities that would make Newton weep and a thoroughly inventive application of load distribution theory that has, I suspect, given the Department of Transportation's entire accounting department a collective nervous breakdown."
Fred's mouth opened and closed several times without producing sound, like a fish who'd suddenly discovered he was out of water and wasn't entirely sure how that had happened.
Bobby leaned toward Hank, whispering: "Does he always talk like he's narrating a David Attenborough documentary about supervillains?"
Hank's whiskers twitched with barely suppressed amusement. "Shh. Observe the master at work."
---
Fred finally managed to gather enough of his scattered wits to attempt something resembling defiance. He straightened as much as a man of his considerable circumference could manage, which was roughly equivalent to a small mountain deciding it wanted better posture.
"Yeah, that's me," he declared with the kind of forced bravado typically associated with small dogs barking at garbage trucks. "The Blob. Nobody shifts me. Nothing moves me. That's the whole bloody point of the exercise, innit? Immovable object and all that."
Dragon-Born's smile widened with the warmth of summer sunshine and the promise of approaching thunderstorms. "Yes, indeed. I've had the pleasure of reviewing your marketing materials. 'Unstoppable force meets immovable object'—quite the compelling brand identity. Splendidly alliterative, really. Your PR department should be commended."
He took a step closer, and somehow the simple act of walking seemed to bend the very fabric of space around him. Every motion was precise, inevitable, carrying the weight of cosmic authority wrapped in impeccable manners.
"But tell me, Frederick," he continued, his voice dropping into the kind of conversational register that made hardened criminals suddenly remember they had pressing appointments elsewhere, "have you ever given serious consideration to what precisely occurs when your famous immovability encounters my considerably less famous but infinitely more comprehensive inevitability?"
Fred's face went through several interesting color changes, settling on a shade that could charitably be described as "existential crisis pale." "Er... what exactly do you mean by that?"
Dragon-Born extended one perfectly controlled hand, and reality seemed to take a deep breath and hold it. The twisted metal around them began to straighten with the quiet dignity of steel remembering its proper purpose. The bridge itself appeared to relax, as if Dragon-Born's presence had reassured it that someone competent was finally handling the situation.
Then, with the casual grace of someone rearranging furniture in a particularly well-appointed sitting room, Fred Dukes began to rise.
Not against his will. Not with visible effort or strain. But with the smooth, inevitable progression of an object whose relationship with gravity had just been politely but firmly renegotiated by a higher authority.
Fred's eyes went wide enough to serve as satellite dishes. "Wait—wait a bloody minute—this isn't how this works! I'm not supposed to—I can't even feel me own weight anymore! This is completely against the rules!"
Dragon-Born cocked his head with the expression of someone explaining basic arithmetic to a particularly slow student. "Yes, well. Physics and I have what you might call a working relationship. I enforce the fundamental principles of reality. You... creatively interpret them. Today, Frederick, I'm afraid you're losing the argument rather decisively."
---
Bobby stood with his mouth hanging open, ice crystals unconsciously forming perfect geometric patterns around his feet. "He's... he's moving him like he's rearranging throw pillows. Fred weighs more than a city bus, and this guy's handling him like he's made of helium."
Hank folded his massive arms across his chest, his tail flicking with the kind of academic excitement usually reserved for discovering new fundamental particles. "Fascinating. Dragon-Born appears to be exerting what can only be described as gravitational override at the molecular level. Observe how the bridge has ceased its structural complaints—it now recognizes him as the superior load-bearing authority."
Bobby stared at his furry companion. "Did you just say the bridge recognizes him?"
Hank's spectacles caught the afternoon light as he nodded seriously. "When dealing with entities who operate beyond conventional physics, Robert, one learns not to quibble with cosmic metaphysics. The bridge knows its place in the hierarchy now."
"That's either the most terrifying thing I've ever heard or the most awesome."
"Why not both?"
---
Hovering Fred approximately eighteen inches above the asphalt with the casual precision of someone who'd clearly done this before, Dragon-Born fixed him with that devastatingly polite emerald gaze that had probably ended more arguments than most people's entire vocabulary.
"Now then, Frederick," he said with the kind of reasonable tone typically used for discussing weather or weekend plans, "we find ourselves at something of a crossroads. We can continue this charming display of mulish obstinacy until I begin to explore more... creative applications of persuasion—which, for your reference, tends to involve non-Euclidean geometry and a level of psychological intimidation that usually results in hardened criminals requesting their mothers and comfort blankets."
His smile shifted into something that managed to be both dazzling and absolutely terrifying, like watching a supernova decide to be polite about vaporizing solar systems.
"Alternatively," he continued with the air of someone offering a truly generous compromise, "you might choose the considerably more civilized option. Voluntary relocation to a secure facility, followed by a comprehensive debriefing over what I'm reliably informed is quite excellent tea. Perhaps some biscuits. I know a lovely little place in Greenwich Village that does remarkable scones."
Fred's massive shoulders sagged with the weight of inevitable defeat. "Option two. Definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent option two. With extra tea. And those scones you mentioned. Please."
"Splendid choice." Dragon-Born lowered him to the bridge surface with the gentle care of someone placing a priceless vase on a mantelpiece. "I do so appreciate reasonable individuals who can adapt their perspective when presented with compelling arguments."
He turned toward Bobby and Hank, his wings fanning wide enough to cast shadows that somehow seemed warmer than the actual sunlight. "Gentlemen, if you would be so kind as to coordinate civilian evacuation and traffic management, I shall handle our friend's transportation to more appropriate accommodations. I do prefer my afternoons free of catastrophic infrastructure failures and the subsequent paperwork nightmares they invariably generate."
---
With a gesture that made relativity itself seem negotiable, Dragon-Born lifted Fred telekinetically while simultaneously beginning to repair the bridge's structural damage. Steel straightened, cables restrung themselves, and asphalt smoothed out like water finding its level.
As they rose into the afternoon sky, Dragon-Born's voice carried down with perfect clarity: "I trust this experience has been educational, Frederick. Do give my regards to Erik when you see him next. Tell him his recruitment standards could use some refinement."
Fred, dangling in mid-air with the dignity of a very large, very confused balloon, managed a weak wave toward the bridge. "Right then. Message delivered. Thanks for not dropping me in the river!"
"Think nothing of it. Professional courtesy."
---
Traffic began moving again with the tentative optimism of commuters who weren't entirely sure they hadn't just hallucinated the entire incident. Civilians emerged from their cars to stare upward at the rapidly diminishing golden figure carrying what appeared to be a small mountain through the sky.
Bobby exhaled slowly, watching ice crystals melt around his feet as his subconscious finally accepted that the crisis was over. "Okay, serious question—do you think he practices those speeches in front of a mirror? 'Have you considered my inevitability?' That's pure movie trailer material right there."
Hank smiled with the satisfaction of someone whose academic theories had just been spectacularly validated by empirical evidence. "When one possesses that degree of natural gravitas, Robert, every moment becomes a trailer for one's own legend. It's rather like watching a Shakespearean actor order coffee—the medium may be mundane, but the delivery transforms it into art."
Bobby chuckled, shaking his head as emergency vehicles began arriving to assess the bridge's condition. "Yeah, but I gotta admit—when he does it, it actually works. I mean, Fred went from 'immovable object' to 'polite passenger' in about thirty seconds."
"The power of proper elocution combined with cosmic authority," Hank observed sagely. "A formidable combination indeed."
High above them, Dragon-Born disappeared into the Manhattan skyline like a golden comet that had decided superheroics might be an interesting career change. Fred's protests grew fainter and fainter until they were lost in the general urban symphony of car horns, construction noise, and the satisfied hum of a city that had just witnessed something genuinely extraordinary.
And in a certain underground facility where Brotherhood meetings were conducted with the kind of security protocols usually reserved for nuclear launch codes, alarm systems would very soon be activated, emergency meetings would be called, and someone was going to have a very unpleasant conversation about the strategic wisdom of challenging entities who treated the laws of physics as polite suggestions rather than absolute requirements.
It was, by all accounts, just another afternoon in the life of New York's finest protectors.
Except for the part where someone had just made the impossible look effortless.
That was definitely going in the report.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!