(Eric)
The night before you commit your first felony, you're supposed to have doubts.
That's what happens in movies, anyway. The protagonist lies awake questioning their choices, wrestling with morality, maybe having a meaningful conversation with a mentor figure about the path they're choosing.
I slept like a baby.
Maybe that said something about me. Maybe it meant I was already too far gone, that Magneto's memories had corrupted whatever moral compass I'd had. Or maybe it just meant I was really, really confident in my plan.
I was going with option two.
"You're sure about this?" Damien asked for the third time, fidgeting with his walkie-talkie. We were crouched on a rooftop across from the Royal Flush Gang's warehouse, watching the last of the evening light fade from the sky. "Like, absolutely sure?"
"Damien."
"Because we could just, I don't know, keep selling copper. That was working."
"Damien."
"I'm just saying, there's a difference between petty theft and robbing actual criminals who might actually murder us—"
I put a hand on his shoulder. "Breathe. We've planned this for two weeks. I've practiced every scenario. You've monitored their patterns. We know exactly what we're doing."
"Right. Right." He took a shaky breath. "It's just, you know, theory versus practice and all that."
"Which is why you're staying up here," I reminded him. "Eyes on the street, warn me if anyone approaches, and if things go sideways, you run. That's it."
"And you're going to be down there, inside a building full of criminals, using powers you've had for like two weeks."
"Seventeen days, technically."
"Oh, well, seventeen days of experience. That's so much better."
I grinned. "You know, for someone who was excited about this plan, you're being very pessimistic right now."
"That was before we were actually doing it!" But he was smiling too, nervous energy converting to anticipation. "Okay. Okay. I'm ready. Are you ready?"
I looked down at myself. Black hoodie, dark jeans, running shoes. Cheap cloth mask covering the lower half of my face. I looked like a low-budget vigilante, which was pretty much accurate.
In my pocket: one walkie-talkie, one small backpack for the money, and enough magnetic power to tear this building apart if I needed to.
"I'm ready," I said.
"Then I guess we're doing this."
"We're doing this."
I stood, stretched, and felt the metal in the warehouse below call to me. The structural supports. The vault. The magnetic lock that was about to have a very bad night.
This was it. First real test. First actual crime.
First step toward becoming someone who mattered.
I pulled my mask up over my nose and jumped.
Magnetic flight, as it turned out, was less "soaring majestically through the air" and more "controlled falling with style."
I'd practiced this. Grab onto the fire escape, pull myself across the gap, catch the warehouse's metal rain gutter, swing down to the roof. I'd done it a dozen times in my head, worked out all the angles.
What I hadn't accounted for was how much scarier it was when there was actual pavement thirty feet below me.
I grabbed the fire escape railing and pulled. My body swung out over the alley, momentum carrying me toward the warehouse. For one glorious moment I was flying, magnetically propelled through the night air like some kind of—
I slammed into the warehouse wall with a metallic clang that echoed through the entire district.
"Shit," I hissed, scrabbling for the rain gutter. My fingers found it, and I pulled myself up onto the roof with significantly less grace than I'd planned.
The walkie-talkie crackled. "Was that you hitting the building?"
"Shut up, Damien."
"Because it sounded like someone threw a trash can at the wall."
"I said shut up." I lay on the roof for a moment, catching my breath. Nothing broken. Pride wounded, but operational. "I'm on the roof. Moving to the access hatch."
"Copy that, Trash Can Boy."
I was going to magnetically throw something at him later.
The roof access hatch was exactly where the schematics said it would be, and more importantly, it had a metal lock that practically begged to be opened. I pressed my palm against it and felt the mechanism inside—pins, springs, a simple tumbler design.
I'd practiced this. Manipulate the pins individually, rotate them into position, feel for the moment when everything aligned.
The lock clicked open.
"I'm in," I whispered into the walkie-talkie. "Any movement outside?"
"All clear. One guard just finished a cigarette and went back inside. You've got maybe ten minutes before the next patrol circuit."
"That's plenty."
I lifted the hatch carefully, listening. No alarms, no voices, no sound except the distant hum of the city. The warehouse was dark below, illuminated only by emergency lighting.
I dropped through the hatch into the second-floor hallway.
This was the tricky part. The vault was at the end of this hallway, and there were supposed to be cameras. I could sense them—metal housing, metal screws, electromagnetic radiation from the electronics.
Could I disable them? Maybe. But that would be obvious tampering.
Better to just move fast.
I ran down the hallway, counting doors. Magneto's memories supplied tactics: stay low, move quickly, use the metal around you as a sensory net. I could feel the guard on the first floor, his keys and belt buckle marking his location. He was moving away from the stairs. Good.
The vault door appeared at the end of the hall, exactly as promised. It was beautiful in a way—solid steel, magnetic lock, designed to keep out everyone except someone with my exact power set.
I placed my hand on the lock and smiled behind my mask.
"Hey, lock," I whispered. "Want to open for me?"
I felt inside the mechanism. The magnetic seal was strong, but it was just magnetism. And I was really, really good at magnetism now.
I pushed against the magnetic field, not trying to break it but to convince it to flow a different direction. Magneto's memories supplied the technique—it wasn't about force, it was about persuasion. Convince the magnetic domains to align differently, to release instead of holding.
The lock clicked.
The vault door swung open.
"Oh, this is too easy," I muttered, stepping inside.
That's when everything went wrong.
The vault wasn't empty.
I'd expected money, maybe some jewelry, perhaps some stolen goods. What I got was four surprised men in Royal Flush Gang colors, a table covered in cash, and about three seconds before someone reached for a gun.
Time slowed down. Magneto's combat experience kicked in.
Four opponents. Metal everywhere. Guns are metal. Keys are metal. Belt buckles are metal.
You're not in danger. They are.
The first guy pulled a pistol from his jacket. I yanked it out of his hand before he cleared leather, sending it spinning across the room. The second guy grabbed for his own gun. I magnetically crushed the barrel, warping it into uselessness while it was still holstered.
"What the—" one of them started.
I pulled every metal object in the room toward me. Guns, knives, keys, coins, belt buckles—everything. They orbited around me in a defensive sphere, and I finally understood why Magneto always looked so damn dramatic.
Because it worked.
The four men stared at me, at the floating weapons, at the cash on the table starting to lift off in individual bills.
"Evening, gentlemen," I said, voice steady despite my heart trying to punch through my ribcage. "I'm going to need that money."
One of them—older guy, scarred face, probably the leader—laughed. "Kid, do you have any idea who you're stealing from?"
"The Royal Flush Gang. Criminal organization specializing in high-end theft and blackmail. Currently operating three safehouses in Central City, two in Keystone, and one in Coast City." I tilted my head. "Did I miss anything?"
His laughter died. "Who sent you? Black Canary? Green Arrow?"
"Nobody sent me. I'm freelance." I gestured with one hand, and the metal sphere tightened. "Now, the money. I can take it peacefully, or I can take it after magnetically pinning you all to the wall. Your choice."
Scarface tensed. I could see him calculating odds, weighing options. Three of the other guys were looking nervous, but he was the type who'd rather die than back down.
I knew that type. Magneto had dealt with them constantly.
"You're bluffing," Scarface said. "You're just some meta kid who stumbled into powers. You won't—"
I magnetically ripped a pipe off the wall and crushed it into a ball the size of a baseball, then let it drop to the floor with a heavy thunk.
"Want to test that theory?" I asked pleasantly.
Nobody moved.
"Smart." I started pulling the cash off the table, bills floating into my backpack. "I'm taking this. You're going to stay very still. And then you're going to tell your boss that the building's security is shit and maybe invest in non-metallic locks."
"The King is going to hunt you down," Scarface said. "You just signed your death warrant, kid."
"Yeah, well, get in line." The last of the money packed itself into my bag. I could feel the weight of it, maybe forty thousand dollars if I was lucky. "It's been real, gentlemen. Thanks for the donation."
I backed toward the door, keeping the metal sphere active as a shield. The four men watched me, Scarface's expression promising future violence.
I was almost out when I heard it.
Footsteps on the stairs. Heavy, rapid. The guard had heard something.
"Damien," I hissed into the walkie-talkie. "Guard heading up. How many?"
Static. Then: "Two! Two guards, both armed, coming up fast!"
Damn it.
I had seconds. The men in the vault were starting to realize I was distracted. Scarface was tensing, ready to rush me.
New plan.
I magnetically slammed the vault door shut, sealing the four men inside. They started yelling, pounding on the steel, but it was three inches thick and magnetically sealed. They weren't getting out anytime soon.
The guards reached the second floor. I could sense their guns, their keys, their belt buckles. Two men, both carrying metal, both about to round the corner and see me standing in the hallway.
I grabbed a fire extinguisher off the wall and hurled it magnetically around the corner. It hit one guard with a meaty thunk, and he went down cursing.
The second guard raised his gun.
I yanked it out of his hands and used it to slap him in the face.
He stumbled back, reaching for a knife. I magnetically pinned him to the wall by his belt buckle, pulled the knife away, and left him suspended three feet off the ground.
"Sorry!" I called, already running for the stairs. "Nothing personal!"
Behind me, the vault guys were still yelling. The suspended guard was screaming. The other guard was groaning on the floor.
And I was getting the hell out of there.
I hit the stairs at a dead sprint, sensing more metal signatures below. How many people were in this building? The intelligence had said two guards total!
"Damien!" I gasped into the walkie-talkie. "How many guards were there supposed to be?"
"Two! There were only supposed to be two!"
"Well there's at least five now!"
"What? How—"
"I don't know! Just tell me if the exit is clear!"
Static. Then: "Three guys just pulled up in a van. Eric, you need to abort, there's too many—"
I burst through a door onto the first floor and came face-to-face with two more gang members. Both were bigger than me, both looked angry, and both were pulling weapons.
Magneto's memories supplied a dozen ways to handle this. Most involved extreme violence.
I went with the non-lethal option and magnetically ripped a metal shelving unit off the wall, sending it toppling onto them. They went down in a crash of aluminum and curses.
The front door. I could see it. Thirty feet away.
Twenty feet.
The door burst open and three more gang members rushed in.
Okay, I thought, this is bad.
I grabbed every loose piece of metal I could sense—tools, spare parts, nails, screws, anything—and launched them at the incoming gang members in a magnetic shotgun blast. They dove for cover, shouting.
Ten feet from the door.
Someone grabbed my backpack from behind.
I spun, yanked on his belt buckle magnetically, and sent him flying backward into a stack of crates. The backpack stayed with me.
Five feet.
I hit the door at a run, burst through into the night air, and immediately realized I had a new problem.
The street wasn't empty anymore. There were people everywhere—gang members pouring out of vehicles, neighbors looking out windows, someone yelling about calling the cops.
This was the opposite of a clean getaway.
"Rooftop!" Damien's voice crackled through the walkie-talkie. "Get to the rooftop, I've got an idea!"
I didn't question it. I grabbed the nearest fire escape and pulled myself up magnetically, climbing three stories in about ten seconds. My muscles screamed in protest, but adrenaline was a hell of a drug.
I hauled myself onto the roof and looked around wildly. "Damien! Where—"
He was on the adjacent building, waving at me. "Jump!"
"It's a fifteen-foot gap!"
"So use your powers!"
Right. Right. I'd practiced this.
I backed up, took a running start, and leaped. Mid-air, I grabbed onto the other building's fire escape and pulled, magnetic force propelling me forward and up. I cleared the gap, crashed onto the roof, and rolled to absorb the impact.
Damien grabbed my arm. "Come on, the van's two blocks away!"
"What van?"
"The extremely stolen van I may have acquired while you were inside!"
We ran.
Three blocks away, in an alley, sat the ugliest van I'd ever seen. It was primer-gray, had one headlight, and looked like it had survived multiple apocalypses.
"You stole a van?" I gasped, climbing into the passenger seat.
"Borrowed!" Damien started the engine. "I'm going to return it! Eventually! Maybe!"
We pulled out of the alley and merged into traffic. Behind us, I could hear sirens. The Royal Flush Gang warehouse was probably swarming with police by now.
We'd done it. We'd actually done it.
I looked in the backpack. Stacks of cash, rubber-banded and beautiful.
"How much?" Damien asked, eyes on the road.
I did quick math. "Forty-two thousand, give or take."
"Holy shit."
"Yeah."
We drove in silence for a minute, the reality of what we'd just done sinking in. I'd fought off nine people, broken into a vault, and escaped. With superpowers. At age fourteen.
This was insane. This was reckless. This was exactly what I'd planned to do, and somehow it had worked.
"That was the worst plan ever," Damien said finally.
"It worked, didn't it?"
"Barely! You said two guards! There were like ten guys!"
"Nine. And I handled it."
"You almost died!"
"But I didn't." I grinned. "We did it, Damien. First heist, successful. Forty-two thousand dollars."
He was quiet for a moment, then started laughing. Slightly hysterical, but genuine. "We robbed the Royal Flush Gang. We actually robbed them."
"We redistributed their ill-gotten gains."
"We're criminals now."
"We were already criminals. Now we're just better funded criminals."
We ditched the van in a grocery store parking lot three miles away, wiped it down for fingerprints (Damien's idea, surprisingly professional), and took the bus back toward the orphanage. I'd stashed the backpack inside my hoodie, and we looked like two normal teenagers coming home late.
Nobody looked twice at us.
By the time we made it back to the orphanage, it was past midnight. We climbed the fire escape to my room, collapsed onto the floor, and stared at the backpack full of money.
"So," Damien said. "What now?"
I pulled out the cash and started counting. Forty-two thousand, three hundred and sixty dollars. A fortune for two fourteen-year-olds.
"Now," I said, "we plan the next move. This is just the beginning."
Damien looked at me. "You know they're going to come after us, right? The Royal Flush Gang doesn't just let people rob them."
"Let them come." I felt Magneto's confidence settling into my bones. "They have no idea who I am, what I can do, or where to find me. And by the time they figure it out, I'll be strong enough that it won't matter."
"You're crazy."
"Probably." I handed him twenty-one thousand dollars. "Your half, as promised."
He stared at the money like it might bite him. "This is real. This actually happened."
"It happened." I looked at my own share, thinking about what came next. Twenty-one thousand could buy a lot. Equipment. Information. A proper base.
The foundations of something bigger.
"Eric?" Damien's voice was quiet. "Thanks. For cutting me in. You could've done this alone."
"Maybe," I admitted. "But it was easier with backup. And you came through when it mattered—the van was quick thinking."
"Yeah, well." He stuffed the money into his backpack. "Partners?"
I considered the word. Partners implied equality, trust, shared risk. It was a bigger commitment than just hiring help.
But Damien had proven himself tonight. He'd stayed calm, adapted when the plan went sideways, and gotten us out.
"Partners," I agreed, offering my hand.
We shook on it, two teenage criminals in an orphanage room, surrounded by more money than either of us had ever seen.
Outside, Central City hummed with oblivious life. Somewhere, the Royal Flush Gang was probably tearing the city apart looking for whoever had robbed them. The Flash might get involved. Batman might notice.
But for now, in this moment, we'd won.
I smiled and started planning phase two.
The next morning, Sister Alice knocked on my door at 7 AM.
I jerked awake, momentarily disoriented. The backpack. The money. Had I hidden it?
Yes. Under the loose floorboard, along with my mask and the walkie-talkie. I'd been careful.
"Eric?" Sister Alice called. "Are you awake?"
"Yeah," I croaked. "One second."
I checked myself in the mirror. No visible injuries from last night's adventure. No blood, no bruises. Just a normal tired teenager.
I opened the door.
Sister Alice stood there with that expression of motherly concern she did so well. "Can we talk?"
Oh no.
"Sure," I said, trying to sound casual. "What's up?"
She came in and sat on my bed. I stayed standing, ready to bolt if needed.
"I wanted to talk to you about the money," she said.
My heart stopped. "What money?"
"The anonymous donations. Three thousand dollars showed up in the orphanage account yesterday morning. Unmarked envelope, cash." She looked at me. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
I'd donated three thousand of my share last night, using an envelope I'd addressed in block letters. Apparently I hadn't been as subtle as I'd thought.
"Why would I know about that?" I asked carefully.
"Eric, I'm not stupid. You've been going out early every morning. You've been acting different. And now suddenly we have enough money to keep the orphanage open for another three months, right when we needed it most." She smiled sadly. "I know it was you."
I could deny it. Should deny it, probably.
But Sister Alice had always been kind to me. She deserved something resembling the truth.
"I've been selling scrap metal," I said. "Copper wire, aluminum, stuff from the dump. Saved up some money. Figured the orphanage needed it more than I did."
It wasn't technically a lie. I had been selling scrap metal. Just... not three thousand dollars worth.
Sister Alice's eyes got misty. "Eric, that's... that's incredibly generous. But you should be saving for your own future—"
"I am," I interrupted. "I've still got some saved. But this place took care of me when I needed it. Seemed fair to return the favor."
She pulled me into a hug. I stood there awkwardly, unused to physical affection, feeling guilty about the other eighteen thousand dollars hidden under my floorboard.
"You're a good person, Eric Lensherr," she said. "Don't let anyone tell you different."
I thought about the nine people I'd fought last night. The guns I'd crushed. The guards I'd left pinned to walls.
"Thanks, Sister Alice," I said.
She left, still misty-eyed, and I sat back down on my bed.
A good person.
Right.
I pulled out my notebook and added a new entry:
Post-Heist Assessment:
SUCCESSES:
Acquired $42,360
No serious injuries
Identity protected
Partnership with Damien solidified
Orphanage funded for 3 months
FAILURES:
Intelligence was wrong (9 guards, not 2)
Nearly got caught multiple times
Had to fight way out instead of clean exit
Royal Flush Gang now actively looking for me
LESSONS LEARNED:
Always assume intel is wrong
Need better escape plans
Combat skills need work
Can't rely on things going smoothly
NEXT STEPS:
Lay low for 2-3 weeks
Improve combat training
Research better intelligence sources
Plan next resource acquisition
I looked at that last line and smiled.
Next resource acquisition. Not "heist" or "robbery." I was already thinking like Magneto—clinical, strategic, unemotional about the methods.
Was that good or bad?
Did it matter?
I had money. I had a partner. I had powers that were getting stronger every day.
And I had five and a half months until Young Justice formed.
Time to make every second count.
I pulled out the cash from under the floorboard and started planning what to buy first. Better equipment. Real training gear. Maybe some materials for building actual magnetic devices.
The possibilities were endless.
Outside my window, Central City woke up to news of a mysterious meta-human who'd robbed the Royal Flush Gang. The reports would be all over the news soon. People would be asking questions.
Let them ask.
I was just getting started.