Chapter 75 : New York Under Siege – Cold Front
New York – 3nd's POV
New York, a city already accustomed to chaos, had never felt this alive—and this threatened. A cold so alien it seemed to etch itself into bone swept through the streets. Black clouds churned overhead, thick and aggressive, blotting out any hint of sunlight. The air itself hummed with tension, carrying the scent of ozone and faint, unfamiliar minerals. Lightning had struck not moments ago, tearing the sky open and illuminating the boroughs in a harsh, unforgiving white. Thunder followed, reverberating through streets, shaking buildings, rattling glass and metal alike.
Iron Man cut through the streets in his armored shell, sensors flashing with anomaly readings. "JARVIS, show me the nearest fragment," Tony muttered, eyes scanning his HUD. Midtown. Already flagged. He pushed off a rooftop, thrusters flaring. The cold pressed against the armor, biting through insulation and sending minor alerts to the HUD. Tony ignored them. Priorities were clear: locate, neutralize, protect civilians.
Turning a corner, he spotted two familiar figures managing a small crowd. Spider-Woman and Spider-Man. "Tony?" Gwen's voice, tight with focus, barely rose over the wind.
"Let me help," Tony replied, landing lightly beside them. Armor panels retracted, and his voice took on the calm, measured tone of someone in control despite the chaos. "JARVIS is mapping escape routes for civilians. Let's move."
Gwen's stance was sharp, precise, her eyes scanning. Peter, for all his bravado, had tried to strike the unknown mass earlier, only to be forced back by the sudden cold. "It's fast," he admitted, brushing frost from his mask. "And… really cold."
Tony assessed quickly. "We slow it down. Coordinate. Don't let it touch anyone."
Together, the three moved as one. Tony's repulsors targeted with calculated precision. Peter shot webs at the fragment's legs. Gwen guided civilians to safe alleys, leaping atop cars to redirect the mass. It pulsed unpredictably, its crystalline surface shimmering under flashes of lightning.
The fragment surged toward the intersection. Peter's webs slowed it, but it pushed back, sending out waves of cold that numbed fingers even through his suit. Gwen barked directions, vaulting from vehicles to steer the fragment. Tony's repulsor bursts flared at exact intervals, deflecting shards that flaked off like ice in a storm.
"Careful!" Gwen called, ducking under a falling sign. "It's gaining momentum!"
Peter shot another web line, anchoring it to a streetlamp. The fragment recoiled, but just slightly. Tony pushed with a final, synchronized burst. Shards scattered harmlessly. Pedestrians froze, awed and terrified. The immediate threat neutralized.
Across Manhattan, Bruce Banner's body tensed, muscles tightening as the cold pressed in, relentless and alien. The air seemed to seep into his very bones, triggering that familiar, dangerous spark—the edge of fury he had learned to fear. His breath came in short, visible bursts, crystallizing in the icy gusts that swept between the buildings. Skin flushed, veins throbbing, his heartbeat accelerated, thundering like distant artillery in his chest. The green hue crept beneath the surface, bones stretching, muscles bulging, clothes straining as the transformation took hold. Banner's mind clung to awareness, a fragile anchor, even as the Hulk emerged: massive, towering, the embodiment of raw, unbridled power.
Hulk's first step was a tremor through the street, concrete cracking under immense weight. He flexed his massive arms, testing strength that no human or machine could withstand. A fragment pulsed in his path, crystalline and jagged, sensing the oncoming storm. It recoiled instinctively, an instinctive recognition of the raw, unstoppable force barreling toward it. Hulk swung, fist connecting with the fragment's surface. The impact sent shards of ice-like crystal scattering, embedding themselves into asphalt, denting cars, and splintering nearby streetlights. Each blow was precise in its instinctive power, a symphony of force that pulverized the fragment as easily as one might crush a snowball.
The fragment attempted resistance, sending out sharp pulses of cold, but Hulk absorbed them effortlessly. His massive green frame shrugged off the minor abrasions, the crystalline shards harmless against his sheer bulk. Roaring, he advanced, fists rising and falling in a rhythmic cascade of destruction. Shards exploded outward in arcs, striking walls, cars, and sidewalks—but none slowed him. With each swing, the fragment splintered further, collapsing inward under the sheer inevitability of his strength. Within seconds, it was obliterated, reduced to jagged remnants strewn across the street.
Hulk didn't pause. Rage, fed by the cold and the pulse of the unnatural energy around him, surged through every fiber. He stepped forward, tearing through obstacles in his path with casual ease—traffic lights crumpled under his hands, dumpsters toppled, asphalt cracked like brittle ice beneath his feet. Banner's analytical mind, still faintly present, registered the collateral damage, but the Hulk's instinct was singular: annihilation of anything that might threaten the city or challenge his unstoppable momentum. The fragment, once a pulsating menace, was gone—erased with brutal simplicity—but the fury driving Hulk showed no signs of abating. He was a green tempest in a city frozen by unnatural cold, a force of nature unleashed.
Nearby, Wolverine and Cyclops faced their fragment with disciplined intensity. Jean Grey's telepathy extended outward, probing the creature's primal instincts, mapping its unpredictable surges and calculating the most efficient points of strike. Wolverine slashed with claws flashing, sparks leaping off crystalline protrusions, precise strikes aimed to disable without unnecessary collateral. Cyclops adjusted his optic blasts with surgical timing, pushing and redirecting the fragment's momentum, ensuring that shards didn't scatter into the surrounding streets. Storm wrapped swirling gusts of wind around civilians, shielding them from shards of ice and the biting cold, bending the elements to maintain a protective barrier. Colossus stood firm between the threat and the nearest pedestrians, absorbing every recoil and impact, his metallic frame gleaming intermittently under flashes of lightning.
Within moments, their coordinated efforts overwhelmed the fragment. Jean guided their actions telepathically, reading the creature's impulses and anticipating its movements. Cyclops' beams corralled it; Wolverine's claws shredded vulnerable points; Storm's winds contained the debris; Colossus prevented any stray shards from reaching bystanders. With a final synchronized push, the fragment's momentum was broken, and it collapsed into inert, shattered fragments on the pavement.
Jean's mind, still scanning, picked up another surge—a raw, chaotic psychic imprint. Her eyes widened. "Hulk," she said sharply into the comm-link, her tone laced with urgency. "He's not… stable. He's tearing through the streets nearby."
Wolverine grunted, wiping his claws. "Figures. Nothing's ever simple, huh?"
Cyclops narrowed his eyes, analyzing the situation. "We handle this one fast. Then we move—toward him. He's going to need guidance before someone gets hurt."
Jean nodded, sensing the uncontrolled psychic energy radiating from Hulk's rampage. "Agreed. Let's move. Carefully."
The X-Men gathered themselves, checking civilians once more, then shifted their focus. Momentum regained, they advanced toward the source of chaos, moving as a tight unit. Storm's winds twisted around them, shielding against the shards of ice and debris still drifting from Hulk's path. Wolverine's claws gleamed in the cold light, Cyclops' visor reflecting the fractured cityscape, Jean's telepathy mapping both fragment remnants and the Hulk's unstable trajectory, and Colossus' massive form guarded their flanks.
Together, they surged toward the green titan, ready to intervene—but prepared for both guidance and, if necessary, confrontation.
Meanwhile, the Fantastic Four advanced steadily toward the epicenter, every step measured against the unnaturally frigid air that bit through even the thickest clothing. Reed Richards' eyes flickered over streams of incoming data, the augmented HUD in his glasses highlighting fragment trajectories, energy pulses, and structural vulnerabilities in real time. He calculated vectors, predicting not only the fragments' next movements but the collateral effects their surges might have on the surrounding cityscape. "Johnny, keep your eyes in the air," Reed instructed, voice calm but precise. "Report anything unusual. I need constant aerial confirmation of the position of these things."
Johnny Storm streaked above, flames trailing, reflecting off slick, icy surfaces. The heat of his flames briefly cut through the cold, vapor curling upward in plumes that twisted violently in the whipping wind. "I see it, Reed! One's moving faster than expected near Fifth Avenue. Minor shards breaking off—adjusting approach!"
"Ben, you're the frontline shield. Absorb what comes your way and keep the civilians behind you," Reed continued, fingers tapping rapidly on a wrist console, calculating protective vectors and timing. Ben Grimm's massive form loomed, boots crunching concrete and asphalt, hands clenched, eyes scanning every movement. Every shard of ice, fragment of crystal, every unpredictable surge was met with the raw, immovable presence of The Thing. Even the sudden gusts of wind carrying icy debris were shrugged off as he adjusted stance, ready to intercept.
Susan Storm raised her hands, shimmering force fields materializing around fleeing civilians, walls of protective energy bending under the onslaught of shards and biting cold. "Stay close to cover, everyone! Move with me!" Her voice rang clear, confident despite the chaos. The shields twisted and rippled, responding in milliseconds to every crackle of energy or impact, containing falling debris, deflecting shard sprays, and giving civilians precious seconds to reach safety.
Reed's mind raced, constantly cross-referencing fragment positions, the trajectory of cold surges, and the status of the surrounding infrastructure. "We can't let them scatter," he muttered under his breath, noting how easily uncontrolled fragments could create chain reactions across the city. "Johnny, keep flaring ahead; Ben, push any loose debris outward, away from the civilians. Susan, your barrier angles need constant adjustment—anticipate gust shifts."
Johnny twisted midair, flames flaring to illuminate the streets below. "Copy that, Reed! I'm keeping an eye on Midtown—there's movement toward the bridge too. Minor shards, but still dangerous."
Ben stomped again, sending vibrations through the fractured asphalt, crushing shards of cold crystal before they could reach bystanders. Every swing of his fists or adjustment of stance was calculated to absorb impact while keeping the path clear. "I got this, boss. Nothing's getting past me," he grunted, muscles coiling as he readied for any sudden surge from rogue fragments.
The team's rhythm was seamless: Reed's calculations predicting fragment behavior, Johnny's aerial reconnaissance and offensive flares, Susan's dynamic shielding, Ben's brute-force containment. Even in the biting cold and under flashes of lightning that splintered the sky, the Fantastic Four moved as a single organism, each member responding to both data and instinct, guarding the city as they closed in on the epicenter.
Across Brooklyn and Queens, the S.H.I.E.L.D. SUV cut through the darkened, nearly empty streets, tires crunching over scattered debris and frost. Steve Rogers drove steadily, eyes scanning the blackened avenues ahead, while Natasha Romanoff sat in the passenger seat, her hands gripping the edge of her seat lightly, and Clint Barton occupied the back, rifle resting across his lap, eyes flicking toward every shadowed alley.
Steve broke the silence first. "This isn't normal. Whatever's causing the cold—it's not a weather pattern. Not even close."
Natasha tilted her head, voice low but sharp. "I've been monitoring the readings since the lightning strike. Energy signatures are off the charts—fragmented, chaotic, almost… alive. It's reacting to the city, to people. That's not natural."
Clint let out a short laugh, but it was tense, humor strained. "So we're talking some kind of super-powered storm? Or—what—another dimension opening in the middle of New York?"
Steve's jaw tightened. "Something like that. Whatever it is, it's expanding and it's cold. That cold—it's not just physical, it's… primal. Almost like it wants to freeze everything, not just the city, but reactions, motion, thought. You feel it."
Natasha's eyes narrowed. "I felt it when the lightning hit. Temperatures dropped instantly. People were paralyzed, even momentarily. And it's spreading outward. If we're too slow, civilians caught near the epicenter… they won't just freeze physically. There's something about it that messes with nerves, reflexes, instinct."
Clint shook his head, frowning. "Great. So we're chasing a citywide, semi-sentient ice storm with psychic effects. Any chance this is just another training exercise?"
Steve's voice held the familiar calm that usually anchored them all. "No. This is real. I've never seen energy readings like this before, and I've been around a lot of dangerous tech and anomalies. Whatever's out there, it's beyond normal human—or even superhuman—understanding. We need eyes on the epicenter, full assessment, and contingency plans ready."
Clint whistled quietly. "Perfect. So we get to the heart of the city, find the source, and hope it's negotiable. Or at least not deadly."
Steve's hand tightened slightly on the wheel. "No hope. We make it work. We analyze, contain, protect civilians. That's our only option. We can't guess—only act. And when we arrive, we need eyes and ears everywhere. Communicate constantly. Keep the lines open, Natasha. Clint, keep scanning for anything abnormal, even minor anomalies."
Natasha's lips pressed into a thin line. "Understood. Eyes open. Nothing gets past me."
Clint leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "And I'll make sure anything that moves gets a warning first… or a second. Just don't tell me we're walking straight into some cosmic monster, Steve."
Steve didn't answer immediately, eyes fixed on the approaching skyline flickering under distant lightning. Finally, his calm but resolute voice broke the tension. "Maybe we are. But we're S.H.I.E.L.D. That's what we do. We move in, adapt, and survive. Everyone else will be counting on us when we get there. Let's not disappoint them."
The SUV continued through the frozen streets in tense silence, punctuated by the occasional gust of icy wind rattling metal and glass. Each agent absorbed the weight of the unknown—the unnatural cold, the pulsing energy, the fragments—but they remained focused. As the epicenter loomed closer on the horizon, the city seemed to hold its breath, and the three S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives exchanged only brief nods and murmured status checks, preparing for whatever awaited them.
Wasp sliced through the icy gusts, wings cutting arcs through the bitter wind, nudging the pulsing mass with precision. Every movement was deliberate, honed from years of instinct and calculation. Lightning flickered across the sky, illuminating her wings and casting jagged shadows across frozen streets. The vibrations from the storm rattled the pavement, sending shivers up her spine. "Keep moving, people! This way!" she yelled, gesturing urgently, her voice carrying over the roar of wind, protecting fleeing civilians with a mix of force and exact timing.
Ant-Man arrived shortly after, shrinking in and out of view, his helmet HUD flickering with thermal readings. He scanned the area with methodical detachment, plotting routes for civilians and anticipating the strange mass's unpredictable behavior. "Hank here. I've got safe corridors mapped. Follow me if you can," he announced, his tone flat, almost bored.
Janet's glare landed on him before he could even look up. Every swoop of her wings was a reminder: she hated him. The resentment was tangible, coiling like a storm within her chest. "About time you showed up, Pym! Try not to mess this up!" she snapped, twisting midair to intercept the pulsing mass surging down the street.
Hank raised an eyebrow, unbothered. "You're angry at me? Again? For what, exactly?" His voice was casual, detached, almost mocking. "I'm here. I'm helping. Isn't that enough?"
Janet gritted her teeth, forcing herself to focus. The mass lunged with unnatural speed, shards of crystallized cold flaring outward, whipping past her wings. Each strike was unpredictable; it pulsed violently, resisting every attempt to redirect it. She twisted, nudged, and lifted, but its momentum threatened to spill into the crowd. She cursed under her breath, every maneuver exhausting her, precise but painfully slow.
Hank sighed audibly, stepping forward. "Honestly? I'd rather not deal with this thing. All this pushing and prodding—it's a waste of time. The epicenter's the priority. That's where things matter." He bent down, recalculating trajectories, plotting civilians' paths with detached precision, clearly uninterested in the actual effort of controlling the pulsing mass.
Janet shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. "You're completely useless in this moment!" she shouted, ducking as a shard ricocheted nearby. "Keep it moving—don't just stand there crunching numbers!"
Hank shrugged, almost amused. "I'm doing my job. You're overreacting. This thing doesn't need my hands on it. I'm heading toward the epicenter. You can play hero here if you want."
The mass surged again, pulsing like it had a mind of its own, each strike pushing against Janet's wings and testing the limits of her speed. Shards scattered in every direction, some melting midair from friction, but others found purchase in the streets. She twisted, nudged, and lifted it, her wings slicing through the gusts as civilians streamed beneath her protective sweep. Each second was a calculation, every maneuver a desperate struggle against the unpredictable force.
Hank observed quietly from the edge, adjusting his path calculations, voice calm and indifferent: "If you can't contain it, fine. I'm moving. The epicenter isn't going to wait for us." His tone implied not hostility, but complete detachment—disinterest masquerading as pragmatism.
Janet growled, red-tipped frustration burning in her chest. She had to force herself to ignore him, to stay focused on the pulsing mass threatening the people below. She gritted her teeth and doubled her efforts, twisting midair to redirect it again, forcing it toward an empty street. Sweat stung her eyes, wind howled around her, shards clinked against buildings—but she held it, each move a test of endurance, precision, and sheer force of will.
Finally, with a careful push and a series of measured flicks from her wings, the mass's momentum was constrained, forced into a neutral zone away from civilians. Janet hovered, panting, wings trembling, glaring across the street where Hank adjusted his path calmly, as if she weren't even there. He had done nothing to help contain the mass—yet acted as if he'd completed a major task.
"Unbelievable," she muttered, turning back to ensure civilians were still safe. "I cannot wait to leave this idiot behind."
Hank's voice floated over, calm, almost smug: "Don't look at me like that. I've got more important things to deal with."
Janet's hands tightened into fists, and she steeled herself. The epicenter was calling, but so was the responsibility to ensure no one had been harmed in the meantime. She shot Hank one last glare before taking off again, determined to finish what she hated doing—with or without him.
All hero groups—X-Men, Fantastic Four, Spider-Heroes, Hulk, S.H.I.E.L.D., Wasp, and Ant-Man—advanced with careful coordination, drawing closer to one another across the city, each aware that the fragments were merely the beginning of what was to come.