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Kurt Wagner knew Ororo Munroe would never sell him out, but that didn't stop his stomach from twisting into knots. The air down here reeked of rust, mildew, and secrets. The longer they walked the abandoned subway lines, the more he felt like prey in someone else's hunting ground.
Ororo, by contrast, looked almost at ease. Growing up on the streets of Cairo had given her an instinct for places like this—half-forgotten corners of the world where the desperate and the dangerous carved out their own rules.
A faint string of stolen electricity hummed overhead, casting just enough light to reveal the graffiti markings she was searching for. With a sharp turn, Ororo led them into a widened cavern that had once been slated as a subway station, long since abandoned. Now it had been claimed. Makeshift shelters crowded the shadows, and from those shadows dozens of eyes glimmered, watching.
"I'm looking for the Bowery King," Ororo called, voice firm and clear.
A rasping voice echoed back from the dark. "No one here goes by that name."
"Then perhaps the King of New York's Beggars?" Ororo shot back. Her gaze cut toward the source of the voice. "Come on. You and I both know this isn't our first meeting. No need for the charade."
A pause. Then the voice chuckled, low and dry.
"Storm of the X-Men. So bright, so radiant. You don't look like someone who needs to deal with rats in the sewers."
"Some problems," Ororo replied evenly, "can't be solved by men in suits behind polished desks. You help me, I help you. We understand each other's rules."
A stir of whispers rippled through the shadows. Then, at last, a figure hobbled forward into the light.
He was a ruin of a man: half his face slack from old paralysis, one eye bulging wide, the other narrowed to a suspicious squint. His clothes were a patchwork of rags layered so thick he looked like he was wearing everything he owned at once. The stench hit before he even spoke.
Kurt fought a shiver as that unblinking eye scanned him up and down. His tail twitched, itching to teleport them far away, but before he could, the old beggar turned and grunted:
"Follow."
Reluctantly, they did—up cracked stairs, through a smashed wall into the basement of a decrepit apartment building. Every surface bore graffiti, every hallway reeked of sweat and stale beer. Cardboard shacks and makeshift bedding lined the corridors.
The iron cane clicked against the concrete with every step, a sharp metronome that set Kurt's nerves on edge. He couldn't shake the feeling that something feral padded alongside them in the dark, waiting for the order to lunge.
Finally, they reached the rooftop door. The beggar pushed it open and immediately shuffled back the way they'd come, leaving them to step out alone.
The rooftop was alive with wings. Pigeon coops covered the space, birds flapping in and out in a storm of feathers. In the center, like a general in his court, sat a broad, older Black man in layers of shabby clothing. When he spotted Ororo, his face split into a grin.
"Ah! The X-Men's Storm. Ororo Munroe herself! I thought you'd drift down from the heavens, all lightning and thunder, like an angel."
Ororo laughed and embraced him warmly. "If it were just me, I would have. But I brought a friend, and I'd rather not have your people mistake us for a threat and riddle us with bullets."
The man's eyes slid past her to Kurt, who froze under the scrutiny.
"A blue-skinned mutant," the man mused, then extended a hand with surprising grace. "The Bowery King. A pleasure."
Kurt stammered, fumbling for the handshake. "Kurt. Kurt Wagner."
"The Nightcrawler, then."
"Y–yes, sir."
The Bowery King's smile widened, amused. "No need for fear, son. You treat us with respect, we treat you the same. Fair's fair, don't you think?"
"Y-yes. Very fair, sir."
"Call me King," the man said, clapping Kurt on the shoulder. "Most do. Out of respect."
"O-okay… King."
Satisfied, the Bowery King turned his attention back to Ororo. "Now tell me, what brings the mighty Storm down into my skies today?"
"One of ours," Ororo said, the warmth in her tone gone. "Jean Grey. He's missing. I need your people to keep watch. If he surfaces, contact us immediately. Kurt here will be the one checking in."
The King tilted his head, feigning curiosity. "And why so urgent? Did he elope with a lover? Steal something shiny?" His grin stretched wide, baiting.
"He's dangerous right now," Ororo admitted bluntly. "Two police cruisers are already scrap metal. If the cops don't have a warrant yet, they will soon. And throwing more men at him? That'll just get them killed. You don't want New York turning into another Havana or Cairo. If things explode, everyone pays the price. The X-Men are the only ones who can contain him."
The King chuckled. "Oh, believe me, if a mutant's out of control, we already know who to call. The X-Men are practically on speed dial. You didn't have to come all this way just to remind me." He leaned forward, eyes twinkling. "Unless, of course… you missed me?"
Ororo's smile sharpened into something dangerous. She reached out, trailing a single white fingertip beneath his chin, lifting it ever so slightly. Her hair stirred as if caught in a phantom breeze, her eyes flashing white. A storm waiting in her veins.
"Careful, my King," she whispered. "You know what happens when you make me prove a point."
The King laughed nervously, stepping back before she could fry him. "No, no—no demonstrations necessary. I'll spread the word. The runaway X-Man is not to be touched, only reported. Nothing more."
"Good." Ororo's smile softened again. "You always did understand us."
The Bowery King wiped sweat from his brow, grinning wide despite the crackle of tension still in the air.
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