Ready for the Storm
Owen was inside the gym, throwing powerful punches at a heavy punching bag that shook with every impact, making the walls of the facility vibrate. The place had been specially designed to withstand his training. He was drenched in sweat, his breathing heavy, his gaze serious and focused. The bag wasn't ordinary—it had been built to endure strikes strong enough to crush a normal person.
Since the X-Men had shown up, the week had been so strangely calm that Owen was starting to feel uneasy.
The speed of his blows began to increase until his arms were barely visible. Each impact sounded like a dry hammer strike. Luckily, the bag was designed for that… but apparently the ceiling was not. A final, devastating punch snapped the chain, sending the bag—which easily weighed five hundred kilograms—hurtling across the room, tearing a chunk of concrete from the ceiling. The crash when it hit the floor was deafening.
Owen watched it for a few seconds before letting out a sigh. He took off his gloves and grabbed a towel hanging nearby. After a quick shower, he stepped into the base's common room, where he saw Nicolas pacing nervously as he approached the computer.
"What are you doing?" Owen asked calmly, drying his hair.
Nicolas looked up and gave him a confident smile.
"Nothing. I just forgot something and need to look it up," he replied as he sat down and plugged a USB drive into the machine.
Owen watched him for a moment before opening the fridge and grabbing a soda.
"Do you remember how obsessed the old man was when he trained us? Making sure we learned to spot infiltrators or spies," he commented in a serene tone as he popped the can open. "I think he did it because of Fury. They've known each other for ages, and there's a hatred there you can feel a mile away."
Nicolas glanced up, raising an eyebrow.
"And why bring that up?" he asked with a faint smile.
"Because, for your sake, I hope my friend is safe," Owen replied.
In that same instant, he drew a gun from behind his back and fired.
Nicolas shoved himself backward with the chair, rolled across the floor, and drew his own pistol, firing several times. Owen moved calmly between the bullets, dodging them with precise steps before taking aim and shooting again, hitting Nicolas' weapon and sending it flying.
The supposed Nicolas rolled back to his feet and bolted toward the nearest window, but a shot caught him in the leg. A soda can flew with force and smashed into the wall right by his head, making him freeze in place. Another bullet hit his other leg, sending him crashing to the floor with a strangled cry.
From the ground, he glared up in fury. Owen, his expression ice-cold, stepped closer and aimed the gun straight at his face.
"Where is he?" he asked in a restrained voice.
"What are you talking about?" Nicolas spat through clenched teeth.
BANG
Another shot tore into his leg, forcing a strangled scream from his throat. Before Owen's eyes, his body shifted, revealing the form of a blue-skinned woman with eyes burning with rage.
"Where is he?" Owen repeated, unfazed, this time pointing at her forehead.
"If you kill me, you'll never find him," Mystique replied with a mocking smile.
"Oh, really?" Owen tilted his head just a fraction. "He's the son of an army general and a member of a special forces unit. Do you really think he wouldn't have a tracker on him, just in case?"
Mystique held his gaze… but her expression changed slightly.
"I see. He's with Magneto. His magnetic power disables tracking devices. That's what you're counting on," Owen reasoned calmly, watching the surprise flash across her eyes.
"Then it'll be easier to find him… and, in the process, it'll lead us to your friends."
With a sharp motion, Owen struck her in the neck with the gun's butt, knocking her unconscious. Then he pulled out his phone and dialed.
"Tony. Nicolas is in trouble," he said firmly before sharing the information.
"Just give me a couple of minutes," Tony replied on the other end, sounding perfectly confident.
A moment later, Banner appeared in the room, a deep frown on his face.
"Owen, I heard gunshots," he said gravely, before noticing Mystique's limp body at Owen's feet.
"They've got Nicolas," Owen explained, his gaze unreadable. He holstered his weapon and dialed again—he needed to contact Nathaniel.
…
Ten minutes later, the entire team was assembled in the briefing room. General Nathaniel, his face carved in stone and his stare colder than ever, sat at the head of the table.
"He was captured early this morning," Tony began, projecting several images. "The cameras near his place all went dark at once—same with every feed in the block. When they came back online, Nicolas was just standing there, acting like nothing happened. The tracker isn't transmitting. No traces left behind—the only prints are his, but we can assume that shapeshifter wiped everything clean."
Tony paused, his expression somber.
"I managed to pinpoint a few areas where the feeds glitched, trying to reconstruct a possible path. But… he could be anywhere in New York. It looks like a three-kilometer-wide interference dome moving around, and we have no idea if he's actually in the center."
"Did the woman… say anything?" Nathaniel asked, his voice cold as steel.
"No," Owen replied evenly, while the tension pressed down on the room like a weight.
"I hope the kid is alright. He might manage to send us something. Everyone stay alert—and don't stop searching. If you have to hack every house within three kilometers, do it," Nathaniel ordered, his tone hard as iron.
The team nodded without hesitation.
…
Nicolas awoke in some kind of improvised cell, with thick steel bars welded straight into the floor. The air smelled of dampness and rusted iron. As his eyes opened, a chill ran down his spine when he remembered what had happened just hours ago.
He'd come face to face with someone identical to him—a perfect impostor. The fight had been evenly matched, a flurry of blows and counters neither of them could break through… until, without warning, the house's electrical cables had writhed to life like metal snakes, coiling around his limbs and pinning him down completely.
Now he hung from the ceiling, wrists shackled, all his weight pulling at his shoulders. He drew a deep breath, pushing through the pain as he closed his eyes and listened for any sound beyond the metal door.
After a moment, he picked up two voices—at least a pair of guards chatting with casual ease.
He opened his eyes again, scanning the room for anything he could use as a tool or a weapon. Nothing. He exhaled a faint, bitter laugh.
"Amateurs," he rasped.
He pushed himself up with his arms, tightening his abdomen to lift his legs toward the chain that held him. With slow, controlled movements, he wrapped his legs around the links until he was hanging upside down, his entire weight supported by the tension in his knees. He drew one more breath, his face tight with effort.
He closed his eyes, pinpointing two precise spots on his wrists. Then, with a quick, brutal motion, he smashed his chin into the joints, snapping the bones clean. A strangled scream caught in his throat, reduced to a raw, rasping sound.
As a surgeon, he knew perfectly well this was the worst thing he could do to his body. But he also knew it was the only way to get free.
With his hands twisted at impossible angles, he unwrapped his legs from the chain and let himself fall. The drop was short, but the impact rattled his bones with a pain so deep that his vision blurred for a moment.
His hands trembled uncontrollably. He dropped to his knees and pressed them against the cold floor. He drew in another breath, fighting the urge to vomit from the pain. Then, with grim determination, he placed a foot on his right wrist and shoved down until he heard a wet crack: the fracture sliding back into place. His lips pressed together so hard they bled as he fought for air.
The newly aligned hand kept shaking, but he used it to reset the other one with an equally ruthless motion. Sweat dripped down his neck and forehead, but at least he could move his fingers, even if they barely responded.
Wasting no time, he bent down and brought his hands to his waist. He pulled the drawstring from his boxer shorts and tore it free, gripping it between his teeth as he carefully ripped open the outer fabric. Patiently, he extracted the inner strands one by one, forming a small bundle of fine, resilient filaments.
Then, with quick movements, he did the same with the laces of his shoes, yanking them out completely. He tore a strip from his shirt and wrapped everything together into a tight ball of fabric and fibers, leaving a small end exposed as a makeshift fuse.
Breathing hard, he searched inside his shoe, where he'd hidden a small, dark piece of flint, polished smooth. He held it between his trembling fingers and crept closer to the steel bars.
"Paranoid old bastard… thanks for the lessons," he muttered as he pressed the flint against the cold metal.
With a firm, practiced scrape, he struck several bright orange sparks onto the improvised fuse. After a couple of tries, the cord caught with a soft crackle. Nicolas lifted the burning ball, held his breath to steady his pulse, and aimed carefully at the gap under the door.
He threw it. Even with his wrists throbbing in agony, his aim was perfect: the ball rolled through the slit and stopped a few inches inside.
Immediately, a thick red smoke began to drift back into the cell.
A satisfied smile curved his lips.
"Carrying a damn rock in your shoe is hell… but the old man always said staying prepared means living another day," he sighed.
The door burst open. Two guards rushed in, scowling and waving their hands through the air.
"What the hell is this?" one of them demanded, trying to stamp out the smoldering cloth.
"Just a homemade smoke bomb," Nicolas replied with absolute calm. "If you pour water on it, all the gas will come out at once."
"Yeah, sure," the other scoffed, pulling out a water bottle and dumping it over the ball.
The reaction was instant: a dense cloud erupted violently, flooding the cell and the hallway in seconds. The red smoke seeped through every crack in the windows and doors, swallowing them in an unbreathable haze.
"I warned you," Nicolas said, a mocking grin on his face.
Just then, a third man stormed into the corridor. He wore a black leather jacket, his hair slicked back, and he carried himself with the swagger of a schoolyard bully. His face twisted in irritation as he took in the smoke.
"What the hell are you idiots doing?" he growled.
"This bastard threw a smoke bomb!" one of the guards shouted, backing away as he coughed.
"Morons. It's a signal. He's calling his friends," the newcomer snapped, fixing Nicolas with a look of pure contempt. "Did you even search him properly?"
"We did! He didn't have anything!" the guard protested, pale.
"Nothing? Tsk… whatever. If they come, we'll just kill them all. I don't know why Magneto even bothers investigating these freaks."
He stepped forward. A flame ignited in his palm.
"You're done, genius."
"Oh, really?" Nicolas replied, his voice steady as he tilted his head. "I'm curious to see if you can actually handle them. You'd be surprised."
Suddenly, a thunderous crash shook the ceiling. Everyone fell silent, staring upward. The firestarter clicked his tongue and rushed out.
The moment he stepped outside, he spotted two combat drones dropping fast from above. One of them rotated a shoulder-mounted cannon and locked onto him without hesitation.
The missile fired with a roar.
A split second before it struck, Juggernaut charged in from the side, ramming the projectile and absorbing the explosion with his massive armored body. The fire sprayed outward, but in an instant, a curling tongue of flame twisted through the air—Pyro, his hand raised, redirecting the blaze with an arrogant flick.
Above them, Tony Stark hovered in midair. The mask of his helmet lifted just enough for his voice, dripping with irony, to carry over the chaos.
"Hi there. I think one of our friends is inside. Would you mind handing him over so we can get out of here? I've got a gorgeous woman waiting for me."
The silence that followed was so tense, for a moment it felt like the red smoke itself might ignite.