Chapter 4
Beneath the streets of Brooklyn lay a world that didn't exist on any map. An old, decommissioned pumping station had been converted by Wilson Fisk into a personal command center. Fisk himself, dressed in an immaculate white suit that seemed out of place in this subterranean lair, sat in a massive leather armchair. On the main monitor before him were the detailed architectural plans for a new residential complex: "Harlem Renaissance." The quiet chime of an intercom broke the silence. "Enter."
A reinforced steel door slid open soundlessly. James Wesley, his assistant, appeared in the doorway. Thin, in a severe suit, a folder in his hand. Fisk did not turn, his gaze remained fixed on the blueprints. "Report on the pier situation."
"The deal was compromised, sir. An individual with anomalous abilities intervened. Nineteen units are lost. Our assets in the police and three mercenaries have been apprehended."
"His capabilities?" Fisk slowly swiveled his chair.
"Primary ability is force-field manipulation. He creates localized barriers capable of stopping automatic fire at close range. We also recorded an ability to compress the field with crushing force." Wesley paused. "Furthermore, the surveillance team lost him when he left the docks. Drones could not acquire a thermal or visual signature. This, combined with our men's reports of the target's 'transparent face,' leads us to believe he possesses invisibility. Apparently, the effect does not extend to his clothing."
Fisk steepled his fingers. "You spoke with him. What was your impression?"
"He didn't panic. He was probing, trying to gather information, not making threats. He spoke with confidence, but his actions had an element of... improvisation. Not an experienced operative. More like a gifted novice who is far too curious."
"Many mutants appeared after Harlem," Fisk said quietly. "That incident awakened many. Set search parameters, age fifteen to twenty-five. Victims or those who lost loved ones during the Abomination's attack."
"Already done, sir," Wesley opened his folder. "The sample size is nine thousand, seven hundred and forty-two individuals."
"Too many. Find more filters."
"It will be done."
"And The Hand?" Fisk's tone grew colder. "Why did they evaporate at the first sign of complication?"
"They mistook our patrol cars for genuine officers. Their priority is stealth; they were not prepared for an open confrontation with the authorities and chose to withdraw."
Fisk made a clicking sound with his tongue. "Amateurs. The costs of this operation will be deducted from their next payment."
"Yes, sir."
"How far along is the plan to seize power?"
Wesley answered without a moment's hesitation. "It will be ready soon, sir. Public tension is at its peak. The police are demoralized. There won't be a better moment."
A shadow of a smile appeared on Fisk's lips. "Then let Shocker and Rhino begin. It is time to raise New York from its knees."
This entire conversation, every word, every pause, was overheard. Neither Fisk nor Wesley likely suspected that one of The Hand's ninjas had been hiding in their shadows the entire time.
---
Nick Fury's office had no windows. They were replaced by smart-glass walls, which displayed real-time data streams—from satellite images of disputed territories to stock market tickers. The door slid open noiselessly behind him, admitting Phil Coulson. He was holding a thin tablet. "Report on the recent mutant, sir."
"Did we find him?" Fury asked, not turning around.
"Yes. As you ordered, the search was conducted with maximum secrecy." Coulson touched the tablet's screen. The image zoomed in, showing surveillance footage from the shopping mall. "A second before the Hulk intervened, the Abomination attacked a teenager, but the blow never landed."
On the footage, the monster's blurry figure slammed into an invisible barrier, around which a purple dome flared for a split second. "An energy shield. The power output is colossal; it withstood a direct hit from a Gamma-level subject. We ran the facial data. Subject identified. Diego Parr, seventeen years old. By an interesting coincidence, he was enrolled in the same class at Midtown High as our other subject of interest, Peter Parker."
"Has Xavier gotten his hands on him yet?"
"No, sir. According to our data, he has had no contact with any known gifted group. A clean slate, so to speak. What are your orders? Capture team? Surveillance?"
Fury was silent for several seconds, staring at the image. Then he said something Coulson had not expected. "Good work, Phil. Now delete it. Every byte. Perform a full scrub of the servers. Make it so we never found him."
Coulson froze. This went against everything S.H.I.E.L.D. stood for. "Sir? This is a potential high-level asset who manifested in the epicenter of a crisis. Protocol dictates we take him into custody..."
"Protocols are written for an organization that can be trusted," Fury interrupted, his voice devoid of humor. "I don't have that confidence anymore, Phil. There are too many ears in these walls, and not all of them are listening in the interests of humanity. This kid isn't a S.H.I.E.L.D. asset. He will be my personal, off-the-books resource. An ace in the hole that no one will know about."
He walked to his desk, leaning on it with his knuckles. "But we won't sit idly by. Activate our media assets. Let the story be about a hero who saved people from slavery. Not a mutant, but a mutant hero. We need to change the narrative. Let Senator Stern and his lapdogs choke on their speeches."
"You want to use him as a propaganda tool?" Coulson clarified, already grasping the plan.
"I want to give people hope, so they don't choose pitchforks and torches," Fury corrected. "Anti-mutant hysteria benefits those who want chaos. If we don't bleed off this pressure, it's going to blow up for real. And it won't be a fight between two monsters; it'll be a civil war."
Fury fell silent for a moment, looking at a hologram of the globe. His single eye shifted focus from North America to a small point in Eastern Europe. "What do we have on Latveria?"
"Due to Victor von Doom's genius, we still have very few ears there, sir," Coulson replied. "But what's happening there now, they aren't even trying to hide. Victor publicly called US representatives 'pathetic trash' and introduced several bills you yourself would like to see here. Any Latverian mutant can receive state benefits, especially if their abilities have drastically changed their way of life. If an ability is deemed useful, they are immediately placed in a suitable government service position. There's active recruitment for the army and scientific departments. In Latveria, 'mutant' isn't a brand; it's a title."
Fury sighed heavily. "A dictatorship is an extremely effective form of government, as long as the ruler isn't an idiot. And he, unfortunately for us, is a genius. What's the probability Victor will want to take over the world?"
"Extremely unlikely, according to the analysis division. He's a very responsible ruler and a perfectionist. He's already brought Latveria to first place in the world in technology, medicine, and standard of living. If he took over the world, his pride wouldn't allow his new subjects to live any worse. That would require colossal resources and time. But, according to their projections, if he does decide to... no country in the world could stop him. His intellect is rivaled only by Tony Stark's, but their resources are incomparable."
Fury sighed again, deeper this time. "Then it's best we don't provoke him." Coulson looked at his boss. He could see dozens of games already unfolding on the chessboard in his head, where the pieces were the fates of millions. "If it does break out, sir... this war... whose side will we be on?"
Fury looked up. "Our own."
---
A week had passed since my excursion. My head was buzzing after two hours with the physics tutor—formulas, vectors, and the laws of thermodynamics seemed simple and logical compared to what was happening outside. The city was tearing at the seams. On building walls, warring graffiti factions: "Exterminate Mutants" was crossed out with thick, dripping paint reading, "Then kill your own kid, asshole." At a bus stop, two men were screaming at each other over a newspaper headline, jabbing fingers at the blurry photo of some guy in a hoodie. The conflict only de-escalated because their bus arrived.
Sarah Connelly's office felt like a quiet harbor. The same peace, the same abstract painting on the wall, the same calm, studying gaze. "Hello, Diego. How are your two weeks going?"
I sat in the armchair. "Productively. Tutors, books, and a lot of time to think."
"Good," she made a note in her pad. "In such a short time, have you found a purpose in life? A hobby?"
"Yes. To both questions." That seemed to surprise her. "Curious. Tell me."
"The hobby was easy to find. Video games. I just finished one called 'Detroit.' About androids who gain consciousness and fight for their rights. It's very reminiscent of what's happening on the streets right now. Only instead of androids, we have people with abilities. As for a purpose... I'd like to be a journalist."
Now she was looking at me with genuine interest. "A journalist? Why?"
"Because everyone lies. Politicians, corporations, TV channels. Everyone has an agenda. They take the truth, cut it into pieces, and then only show the parts that benefit them. I want to see the whole picture. And maybe, show it to others."
"Since you brought it up," Sarah said slowly, "what do you think about what's happening? This whole schism in society."
I sighed. "I don't support those demanding controls and registries."
"Why not?" Her tone was perfectly neutral. "Their position is easy to understand. Ordinary people want to live in a world where a green giant doesn't fall on their car, and their neighbor doesn't suddenly start breathing fire. They're just afraid. Isn't their fear justified?"
"It is," I nodded, rubbing the back of my neck. "Their fear is completely rational. But the solutions they're proposing are irrational. A registry, control... it sounds safe. But it's like trying to put out a forest fire by dousing it with gasoline."
"Explain."
"You can't 'control' people who can walk through walls or read minds. You can only drive them underground, embitter them, turn them into real enemies. They'll forget they're part of society and create their own, parallel one. And that's when the real war will start. Mutants aren't an invading army you can surround and destroy. They are your neighbors, your classmates, your colleagues. They're already here. And they have real power to resist."
I paused, gathering my thoughts. "And the government is only adding fuel to the fire with its actions. It's afraid a power will emerge that it can't control. A power that doesn't depend on money, elections, or armies. And the fear of losing their monopoly on violence is making them do stupid things. They don't see a person in every mutant; they see a threat to their status. That's the core of it."
"You talk a lot about systems, about politics, about how some groups of people try to control others. Let's step away from the abstract for a minute. Imagine this concerned you, personally."
I raised an eyebrow. "What would you do, Diego, if you were a mutant?"
For a split second, my usual train of thought faltered. Showing that the question had gotten to me would be a tactical error. "I don't know. By and large, they're in a losing position."
"Why do you think so?"
"Because any open aggression on their part will only confirm the righteousness of those demanding control. It's a trap. The government and corporations control the narrative—the newspapers, the TV channels, and to a lesser extent, the internet portals. It's impossible to shout over their media machine."
"So, a dead end? Hide and wait?"
"No. That's not a solution either. The pressure will only build." I leaned forward slightly, formulating the thought. "You have to do good. Not abstract good, but targeted, visible good. So that every person screaming about the 'mutant threat' has cognitive dissonance. So they remember that last week, it was a mutant who pulled people from a fire or stopped a robbery. And, of course, find allies. There will always be an opposition, one that will gladly ride this wave to score points and seize power."
Sarah listened to me without interrupting. Then she reached for her bag, which was by the leg of her chair, and took out a folded newspaper. She didn't hand it to me, but carefully unfolded it on the coffee table between us. A large, screaming headline: "RESCUE FROM SLAVERY: MYSTERY MUTANT DESTROYS HUMAN TRAFFICKING RING AT DOCKS." Beneath it, a blurry, long-distance photo. "You mean... like this?" she asked quietly, pointing at the photo with her fingertip.
It was a strange feeling, looking at the results of my night's work, filtered through someone else's perception. I looked away from the paper and met Sarah's gaze. "Yeah. Something like that."
"That's a very measured and, perhaps, the only correct strategy," she agreed. "But it's suited for someone with abilities that are strong enough." She looked at me very intently. "But what about the rest? The teenager who suddenly has wings sprouting from his back, who now has to hunch over and wear baggy clothes so no one notices? The girl who's afraid to touch her best friend because she sees his most shameful secrets? You're talking about a public war for hearts and minds. I'm asking about the personal war that each of them is fighting, twenty-four hours a day."
She paused, letting the words sink in. "Inside them, there's resentment, a sense of superiority mixed with the need to be a nobody. A constant fear of exposure. How long can a person withstand that pressure before they break? Or decide they've had enough of pretending?"
The question hung in the air between us. "I have no idea. I can't share or understand their pain, because I'm not a mutant." Something in her gaze changed. "Perhaps that's enough for today."
I left her office, but an uneasy feeling wouldn't let me go. Her questions were too precise, and the newspaper on the table was too timely. Does she know who I am?
I ducked into an empty alley and, there in the quiet, quickly stripped. I hid my clothes and backpack, and just like that, I was an invisible ghost. She didn't know I had started following her. I waited, leaning against the wall by the exit, watching her say goodbye to the secretary and walk out onto the street. The first two days confirmed my worst fears: I was paranoid. Her routine was predictable to the point of boredom. The café on the corner, always the same cappuccino. A walk in the park, feeding the pigeons from the same bench. Home by six o'clock sharp. I was ready to chalk it all up to my own imagination, worn out by stress and secrets. But on the third evening, everything changed.
She didn't go to the park. Instead, she hailed a cab. I rose into the air in my barrier, an invisible shadow following the yellow car as it carried her away from her usual routes, into a semi-abandoned industrial zone. The taxi dropped her off by rows of identical, rusting storage garages. She walked with confidence; she knew this place. After heading deep into the labyrinth, where it would be easy to get lost, she stopped at an unremarkable garage with the number "142." She looked around. The street was empty, except for the invisible me. A lock clicked, and the heavy door groaned as it rolled upward. She went inside, and I slipped in after her, just before the door came crashing down.
The setup was simple: an old TV with a VCR on a metal cart, and a worn-out velour armchair facing it. She sat in the chair, pulled a blank videocassette from a shelf, and inserted it into the player. There was a mechanical whir, and the TV screen hissed to life with static. And then an image appeared. A therapy room. A ten-year-old boy with short-cropped hair was sitting at a table. The camera was filming from an angle, clearly hidden from the boy's view. A voice came from off-screen. It was Sarah's voice, but many years younger. "Zebediah, we agreed. You can tell me what happened." The boy on screen twitched his shoulder. "Nothing to tell. It was his own fault."
"He's in the hospital," Sarah's voice was soft, but insistent. "You were careless. What if you had been seen?" There was no remorse in his childish eyes, no fear. "That's impossible. I told him to forget about it."
"And what will you tell the cameras? Will you order them, too? They don't obey you. You forgot the first rule. Don't get caught." Cut.
The same room, but Zebediah was older. Now he was a young man of about eighteen, with an arrogant smirk. He was slouched in the chair opposite the camera, one leg thrown over the other. "I did what I wanted," his voice was full of smug satisfaction. "God, it felt so good, Sarah. To be who I really am. The ruler of these brainless little people." Sarah's voice from off-screen was warm, laced with approval, as if she were praising a student for a perfectly done assignment. "What did you do? Tell me everything."
"Oh, I committed my first murder," he said, as if talking about a trip to the movies. "Just like you taught me. So no one would even think to look my way." He smirked at the memory. "Remember Brian? That stupid asshole who broke my arm in grade school? I ran into him on the street. He didn't even recognize me, can you believe it? Smiled, asked how I was. He forgot. I didn't." Zebediah savored the moment. "I found some stinking junkie at the train station. Hungry, desperate, a perfect tool. I just told him to kill Brian and take his wallet. So the police would have a motive—a simple mugging gone wrong. No one suspected a thing. I even went to the funeral, gave his mom my condolences." Sarah's voice oozed pride. "Well done, Zebediah. You did everything right. You understand why you were given this power, don't you? You are not like them. You were given almost godlike abilities to lead, to command these stupid, short-sighted people. They are the flock, and you are the shepherd." The young man threw his head back and laughed. The image hissed with static again. Cut.
Now a different boy was on the screen. About twelve, with a faint scar crossing his right eyebrow. He was sitting curled in a ball, crying quietly, his face buried in his knees. "Benjamin, don't cry," Sarah's voice was impossibly gentle. "Look at me. You know you can tell me anything." The boy slowly raised his head. His eyes were red from crying. "I didn't mean to," he sobbed. "Honest... I don't know what came over me. It was just a puppy... so small. I just wanted to pet it, but... I accidentally strangled it." He began to cry again, his shoulders shaking. "I squeezed too hard... It just... stopped breathing."
"You mustn't blame yourself, Benjamin," her voice was full of a strange, twisted tenderness. "You mustn't hold back. What's inside you isn't evil, it's strength. It's not something to be feared. It's something to be understood and directed." She paused, choosing her words like a key for a lock. "That dog was important to you, I know. So remember this moment. Remember this pain. The puppy may not have been at fault... but the world is full of people who are. People who deserve to die." The boy looked up at her, his expression lost and tear-stained. "I don't understand... what am I supposed to do?" "Don't worry. I'll teach you."
The screen flickered, flashing with a band of static. Cut. The same room, the same chair. But now an older Benjamin sat in it. Calm, unmoving. There was no trace of the frightened boy. "How was your day?" Sarah asked casually from off-screen. "Fine," he shrugged indifferently. "Got a strike recently." "How so?" Curiosity was audible in her voice.
"Well, it's when a car is driving by, and the driver has the window open," he spoke slowly, almost lazily. "I throw a small rock at him. Calculate the trajectory so it hits him right in the temple. The person blacks out instantly, loses control of the car... and it plows into a crowd of people at a bus stop. I got ten this time."
"Good job," Sarah said, without a hint of emotion. "Very clean. And how is your brother? Is he appearing?" Benjamin's face twisted in disgust for a moment. "You already know. After I killed his dog, he was always whining, trying to get out. But then I managed to take control for good. Now he's quieter than water, lower than grass."
The video ended. Sarah Connelly pressed a button, and the cassette ejected from the player with a quiet click. She looked at the clock on the wall, as if checking a schedule, and put the cassette back in its cardboard sleeve. Then she opened the garage, and I slipped out with her, a shadow. I had watched it all, and my only thought was the desire to kill her. Right here, right now. But I held back. I needed to think this through. Thoughts raced through my head, forming a terrifying picture. The first video, with Zebediah, was a mutant who could command with his words. She played on his ego, feeding his pride, and taught him the most important thing: don't get caught. With the second, Benjamin, she played a completely different role. The role of a caring mentor. That guy... did he have multiple personalities? And this cold-blooded killer was the second personality, the one who had seized control of the body by killing the "brother" inside? Sarah Connelly wasn't a serial killer. She was much worse. She created them. She finds gifted children with psychological trauma and molds them into what she needs.
And new questions immediately arose. Is Principal Davis working with her? Did I really end up in her office by chance, out of his "good will"? And what role in her collection had she prepared for me? I was sure she knew, somehow, that I was a mutant.
---
How do you kill someone without leaving a trace? I stared at dozens of open tabs. They were articles on other people's lives and deaths: forensic forums, deconstructions of famous cases, articles on methods of concealing evidence. Everything I'd seen in TV shows seemed either theatrically complex or downright stupid. Reality was simpler.
A plan was already taking shape in my mind. Sarah Connelly is alone in that garage. The place where she keeps her "collection" will be her grave. No witnesses, no random passersby. They wouldn't look for her there, at least, not right away. I spent two days checking on Principal Davis. I looked through his bio, social media, mentions in the press. Nothing. Not a single link connecting him to Sarah, other than professional recommendations. She had started her "work" when he was still in high school. He was clean. Just a man who genuinely wanted to help a troubled teenager and, without knowing, had sent him straight into the hands of a monster.
A search for "Sarah Connelly, psychologist" brought up pages of glowing reviews. Articles in local papers about her helping children who had survived abuse. Thank-you notes from parents. She had built herself a flawless reputation, a perfect cover that delivered new test subjects right to her. This is how she finds people like me. But one question bothered me. How did she know I was a mutant? Intuition? Professional experience? What if she's one of us herself? What if she has some form of telepathy or empathy that lets her sense other gifted individuals? That turned the hunt into a game on a minefield, where she could anticipate my every move.
Coming home from my tutor, the first thing I did was turn on YouTube on my laptop. I'd find a ten-hour loop of jazz for studying or a lecture on astrophysics and turn the volume down to a minimum. I read interrogation transcripts I'd downloaded from a forum. Cops often catch suspects on the small details. They set a trap and ask, "What were you doing at 7 PM yesterday?" The suspect answers, "Sitting at home, watching a show." And that's when they ask for access to his viewing history. It might not be direct proof of guilt, but if his words can't be confirmed, it's clear he's hiding something. My viewing history would be flawless. While Diego Parr, the orphan from Harlem, diligently listens to lectures and prepares for college, someone else will be administering justice in a dusty garage on the outskirts of Brooklyn. I opened the map with the marked location. All that was left was to plan the details. Every little thing mattered. I had no room for error.
---
My suspension was up in one day. I was already sure I'd have to postpone the plan, wait for a new opportunity. But then she got in the taxi. I followed the car, moving in my barrier above the rooftops. She didn't look back. She walked confidently to her garage, and the rusty door screeched as it rolled up. Inside, she didn't bother with the cassettes. She just walked to the old armchair and sat down. She sat motionless, hands folded in her lap, and stared at the blank TV screen. I froze behind her, just a few steps away. Suddenly, her calm, even voice broke the silence. "Diego, perhaps you've hidden long enough?"
She knew? My whole body tensed instinctively, ready for action. But this could be a trick. A simple probe into the emptiness to confirm a hunch. I didn't make a sound, didn't move. The springs in the old chair creaked quietly as she tilted her head slightly. "Hmm?" The sound wasn't a question, but rather a pensive hum. It became clear: she couldn't see me clearly.
I started to act. A barrier appeared around her chair, weaving itself into a transparent sphere. She didn't even flinch. She just slowly scanned the contours of her new prison. Her calmness was getting on my nerves. "So you were here."
Without dropping my invisibility, I spoke. "You're awfully composed for this situation." She let out a quiet chuckle. "Are you nervous? Don't worry. Only I am going to die today." Goosebumps ran down my skin. Can she see the future? "What's that supposed to mean?"
She sighed, like a tired teacher. "Diego, Diego... When I spoke the first word at our first session, this situation was already preordained. As you've probably guessed, I'm a mutant. And I have a rather interesting ability. I don't move objects, and I don't read minds in the conventional sense. I just... know. I know what to say, what to do, how to look, when to pause... to make people like you do what I need."
I considered her words. If this was true, the outlook was not good. Every action I'd taken since we met had been predetermined. "That's impossible. You wanted me to kill you?" I thought for a moment. "Ah, I get it. You wanted to make me into another killer for your collection. And looking at this situation, you've done it. But since you can't see the future, you couldn't have known I would start by killing you. Or... by having this conversation, are you making me change my mind?"
A question arose: Why hadn't I killed her immediately? Why was I standing here, talking, listening? I was curious about what she would say next. Was this curiosity, this delay, her doing as well?
She smiled slightly, staring straight ahead. "As I said, my first sentence determined your fate. And mine. It's too late to change anything." She huffed quietly, a note of twisted satisfaction in her voice. "It's funny, you know. To die by your own creation. Perhaps it's a fitting end for someone like me."
Her words were directed more at herself than at me. She wasn't afraid of death, because from her perspective, she had already won. "You're pathetic. With an ability like that, you could have helped people with the most severe trauma. But you chose to worsen their conditions and turn them into monsters. And now, one of them is going to put an end to it." Afraid she could talk her way out of this, I didn't wait for a reply. I compressed the barrier.
I didn't think today's incident would end so shitty. The transparent sphere vanished, and now nothing separated me from the result of my actions. I had expected anything from her: a villainous tirade, pleading. But even after it was over, there was no relief. Sarah's words clung to my thoughts like a sticky web. "My first sentence determined your fate." What exactly did she want to make me into? Damn it, the way she described her power, it doesn't give a full understanding. This garage, her tapes, me showing up here... was this all planned from the start? Does it mean there's no choice, just a pre-written script? Wait.
Why was I taking her words as truth? She hadn't shown anything supernatural, except, perhaps, a frightening perceptiveness. All my decisions were the result of my choices. I decided to track her. I decided to enter this garage. I decided to kill her. And it doesn't matter what she said or what she wanted. It was my will. When I came to this conclusion, the tension in my shoulders eased a bit. It became easier to breathe. What now? I wasn't going to clean up what was left of her. What difference did it make if she was found? I turned to grab the tapes and leave, but at that moment, a click came from under the chair. And then the garage exploded.
The shockwave, which should have torn a normal person to pieces, slammed into the invisible barrier around my body. Flames roared, greedily consuming the old shelves and the cassettes. Superheated air beat against my protective shell, but I felt no heat. I expected to suffocate, for my lungs to be seared by the hot smoke. When I took a breath, the air was clean, but there wasn't enough of it. Because of the fire feeding on the oxygen, the amount had significantly decreased.
I finally understood, or at least, began to guess, why I felt the wind when I was falling, even though I shouldn't have. My power wasn't just a dumb shield. It worked autonomously, like an immune system, determining what was a threat. The shockwave, the shrapnel, the fire, the toxic smoke particles—all of it was blocked. But the oxygen molecules, necessary for breathing, passed through this invisible filter. Okay, no time for discoveries. I had to get out of here.
The explosion itself was a logical end to her life. It seems she had installed some kind of sensor, linked to her vital signs. When she died, the detonator triggered. All the evidence—her recordings, her "collection"—was meant to disappear in the flames. Her goal was to create monsters, and she had made sure their pasts couldn't be traced. If I had known... if I had just guessed, I would have covered the shelves with the tapes in a barrier.
I stepped through the wall of fire and slipped out onto the street, leaving behind the roaring funeral pyre that Sarah Connelly had arranged for herself.