Chapter 76 : The Quiet Strike
New York, Queens, 6:50 AM – Alex's POV
I was already moving toward the apartment, steps measured, when the wind shifted. A sharp gust tore down the street, sudden and violent, rattling loose signage and lifting scraps of paper like scattered thoughts. The temperature dropped almost instantaneously, biting at the skin above my jacket collar. The pressure on the street pressed down like a weight I could feel in my chest, a subtle compression at first, then heavier, insistently pushing against every muscle.
It could be Storm. Theoretically. On paper, she could manipulate winds, amplify pressure, drop temperatures to near-lethal levels. But this didn't feel shaped. It didn't move like a command. The gusts twisted and collided with one another, spinning in chaotic loops, hitting without purpose. Unrestrained power, yes. But uncontrolled. Too abrupt. Too absolute.
Then the sky tore open.
A single bolt slashed through the horizon, blindingly white, more brilliance than my eyes could register at once. Shadows vanished. Buildings were stripped to stark outlines, hard edges shining like bone under the intensity. For a second, the world froze in that blinding light.
The detonation followed.
The ground beneath my boots quivered. Concrete microfractured under the shock. Storefront shutters rattled violently, loose glass panes trembled. The wave traveled through metal, through brick, into my core. Thor. There was no ambiguity. No human, mutant, or machine could produce that. The cold threading beneath it, subtle but unmistakable, carried a second layer—jotun magic. Ice-realm energy, cold and intrusive, layered beneath the strike.
The conclusion formed itself almost before I registered it. Loki.
His fingerprints were here. The combination of divine impact and unnatural frost, the timing, the sheer scale—it could be nothing else. The pattern wasn't subtle. It was deliberate, manipulative, a strategic message.
I pulled my phone from the pocket of my coat, thumbs moving quickly but controlled, no wasted motion. Short, imperative instructions sent in sequence. Rosalie. Wendy. May. MJ. Darcy.
Do not go outside.
Lock doors and windows.
Cover up inside.
Wait for my next message.
No frills. No panic. Just survival. Execution.
The wind struck again, forcing a step back, pressing against me, prying at my posture. I scanned the streets, reading the micro-fluctuations in the cloud shapes, tracking shadows, noting the way the light fractured across glass surfaces. Every detail mattered. Efficiency first. Observation first.
Another pulse of pressure rolled down from the sky, heavier this time. People around me—those few awake this early—instinctively hunched their shoulders, gripping coats, pressing closer to buildings as if proximity alone offered shelter. Engines stalled at a distance. A few pigeons froze on a ledge before launching upward in a disorderly scatter.
Threat assessment ran constantly in my mind, threading through every movement I made. The potential impact was catastrophic—almost godlike. Civilians were at risk, and I had no certainty the local heroes, X-Men, Fantastic Four, or S.H.I.E.L.D. teams were already on scene. Even if they were, response time was unpredictable, coordination unclear. The density of the crowd made every action far more dangerous, every risk factor multiplying exponentially. Passive observation wouldn't be enough. I had to intervene directly.
I pressed my back briefly against the cold metal frame of a bus shelter, letting the angle shield me from the worst of the wind while my thoughts narrowed into focus. Intervention meant exposure. Exposure meant risk. Not physical—identity. Once leaked, impossible to contain. Cameras didn't sleep, didn't blink, didn't forget. Some were municipal. Some private. Some Stark-level. A margin of error existed only if I created it myself.
I exhaled slowly, watching the breath crystallize in front of me.
Decision branches formed: minimal contact, controlled appearance, masked face, limited capabilities displayed. I would choose the level of involvement based on what I found. No unnecessary escalation.
A muted clatter drew my gaze—a metal rack tipping in the wind. Just past it, partly sheltered under a fraying tarp, stood a temporary holiday kiosk. Cardboard boxes. Cheap decorations. Plastic spiders. Fabric capes. Masks arranged along a narrow table, propped on small stands. Most of them garish. A few more subdued.
Perfect.
I stepped toward it, making sure the movement looked casual, unhurried. My pulse stayed even. The vendor was half-asleep behind the counter, staring into a lukewarm drink, more focused on keeping warm than scanning customers. Good.
The selection was limited—paper masks, rubber molds, a handful of sturdier pieces meant for early Halloween planners or tourists. I didn't care about aesthetic. I cared about angles, shadow lines, coverage.
I scanned quickly.
Full facial coverage too suspicious.
Half masks too revealing.
Flexible ones too easy to slip under surveillance filters.
Then the pumpkin mask.
Stylized. Slightly exaggerated.
Muted orange, not bright.
Shadows naturally formed under the cheek ridges.
Eye slits narrow enough to distort recognition without killing visibility.
Lightweight.
Forgettable.
Good.
I lifted it, checking the inside padding, the strap tension, the breathing slot. Functional. The kind of object no one would think twice about. A mask worn by someone blending into a crowd, or on their way home from a party. A mask without meaning.
I paid in cash. No comment. No conversation. The vendor didn't look up long enough to notice anything beyond the color. The transaction was fast, frictionless, swallowed by the storm.
I stepped away, adjusting the mask with my gloved hand. It settled over my features with a quiet, dry scrape, fitting more snugly than expected. My peripheral vision remained intact. Breathing steady. Warmth trapped behind the molded plastic for a second before the next gust stole it away.
Lightning flared again—farther out, but brighter. It splashed across the pavement, turning water droplets into tiny mirrors. The asphalt reflected a distorted image of me: hood up, coat pressed tight by the wind, the pumpkin mask staring back with an empty grin. The effect was surreal, but functional. Nothing more.
The air trembled. Not sound—pressure. A low-frequency vibration rolling through the city's spine. Something massive moving, shifting, opening.
I straightened.
The city was no longer waking up.
It was bracing.
The alleys around this part of Queens were narrow, uneven, and mostly forgotten by anyone who didn't need to be here. Perfect. I scanned each intersection as I walked—cameras on lampposts, above storefronts, embedded in door frames. Angle. Coverage. Motion sensitivity. It didn't take long to find what I needed: a stretch of brick between an abandoned laundromat and a boarded-up deli, blind to every public lens. The wind funneled sharply through it, whipping dust across the concrete.
I stepped inside.
A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed the street was empty. No pedestrians. No vehicles. No reflections I didn't recognize. I slid my bag off, placed it against the wall, and opened my inventory interface. The familiar faint shift—an internal movement more than a sensation—marked the bag vanishing from physical space. Gone. Secured.
The cyberdeck materialized in my hand a moment later, cold metal warming against my palm. Compact. Efficient. Modified to my standards. I thumbed it on, watched the interface bloom across the visor of the pumpkin mask, translucent enough to see the alley through it.
No wasted time.
My agents deployed instantly, threading through the city's network like trained animals. Cameras pinged in rapid succession—traffic lights, storefront systems, municipal feeds. Each one blinked out momentarily as the deck rewrote metadata, timestamps, and visual logs. Path masking, pattern disruption, frame deletion. Clean entry, clean exit. If anyone reviewed footage from this neighborhood, they'd see a gap. Not suspicious enough to draw attention. Just a temporary glitch.
Good.
The deck slid into my coat as I stepped out of the alley.
The cold hit like a second impact.
I moved deeper into the street, the cold pushing harder with every step. Frost crawled across parked cars, forming thin, branching patterns that crackled faintly under the shifting wind. Ahead, the sounds of a struggle cut through the air—sharp impacts, metallic reverberations, a high, crystalline screech like stressed ice.
Wasp.
Her silhouette flickered in and out of sight between the buildings, wings slicing through the turbulent air as she darted around the unstable mass Hank had abandoned her with minutes earlier. Even from a distance, her movements were tight, controlled, bordering on furious. She spun, dodged a blast of frost, then countered with a blisteringly fast strike that chipped a jagged line across the creature's surface.
I paused at the corner, watching her for a moment longer than I meant to.
She was… distracting. The way her suit clung to her frame, the strength in her legs as she pivoted midair, the defined line of her waist when she twisted to avoid another surge—it all drew the eye with an almost magnetic pull. She fought with precision, with anger sharpened into technique. It was attractive in a way that hit before I could redirect my focus.
Not the time.
I exhaled once, recalibrating.
The mass she fought wasn't just dangerous—it was accelerating. Its cold output fluctuated violently, spikes of freezing vapor rolling off the surface. Janet wasn't losing, but she wasn't gaining ground fast enough. The next misstep, the next wild surge, could put her in range of a direct hit.
I stepped forward, letting her see me now—masked, steady, deliberate. No attempt to hide. No need.
Her eyes flicked toward me for a fraction of a second, recognition not quite present but awareness sharpening across her expression. She didn't speak; she didn't have the bandwidth to. She simply adjusted her angle of approach to keep the creature between us, keeping me in her peripheral vision without losing focus.
Smart.
I moved closer, boots crunching across frozen pavement. The air tightened, cold enough to stiffen the edges of my coat. I waited, tracking the rhythm of the fight, the timing of each strike, the intervals where the creature's defenses pulsed in unstable waves.
I needed one moment. One opening.
A window formed—a heartbeat-long gap between its defensive flare and its next cold pulse. Janet darted upward to reposition for a downward hit. She was strong. Skilled. But physics alone wasn't enough to break something fueled by primal frost.
I activated Void not at full power, just with enough range to affect the creature without hitting Wasp.
Silence—pure, surgical—cut through the street like an invisible blade. The world outside the narrow radius kept its sound and motion. But the thing at the center froze completely.
Not slowed.
Stopped.
Its cold vanished instantly, snuffed out like a flame under glass. The frost around its core dulled, losing vibrancy. The swirling defensive aura evaporated. Instinctive awareness collapsed into nothing. Under the Void's grip, it wasn't a living threat—it was inert matter. Ice. Stone. Weight without will.
Janet noticed.
I saw it in the sharp tightening of her posture, the quick flick of her eyes to the creature's sudden stillness. Confusion, then opportunity. She didn't question it. She adapted instantly—professional, fast.
Her fist connected a split-second later.
The impact was brutal, perfectly angled. The mass shattered, erupting into a burst of fractured ice that scattered across the street like glittering shrapnel. Some fragments vaporized the moment they hit open air; others fell in muted clinks, stripped of their cold properties by the Void's suppression.
Only when the last shard hit the pavement did I retract the Void—cleanly, instantly—restoring the world to its normal motion. No emotional blackout. No internal shift. Just precision disengagement.
Janet hovered in place, breathing hard. Her wings buzzed with small, controlled tremors as she scanned the dispersing mist. The cold tugged at the edges of her suit, outlining patches of frost across her arms and legs. She shook them off with a quick roll of her shoulders.
Then her gaze snapped toward me fully.
She saw me now—not just as background movement, but as someone who'd played a very specific role. Her eyes narrowed, not in hostility but assessment. She drifted a little lower, wings keeping her steady as she observed me with growing scrutiny.
I kept walking toward the remains, not rushing, not aiming to appear confrontational. Just moving with purpose. She was still watching, though her stare dropped for a half-second—tracking the lines of my body, the mask, the coat, the way I carried myself.
I let myself look at her again as I approached—openly this time. The tension in her legs, the rise and fall of her chest, the frost melting along her thighs. She was striking in motion, but even more so now, grounded, focused, sharp.
Her eyes flicked downward, catching the way I looked at her.
Her brows lifted slightly.
I shifted my attention to the shattered remains on the street, ending the moment cleanly. No need to let it linger. The creature was inert now; whatever energy source had fueled it was gone. Under normal circumstances, it would be nothing more than debris.
I crouched, gloved fingers brushing across the largest piece. Smooth, cold, faint traces of runic energy embedded deep within the structure. Not mechanical. Not random. Something crafted.
Magic. Ancient. Frozen.
Janet landed lightly nearby, wings folding along her spine. She stayed a few feet back—not hostile, but cautious.
Her voice was low, edged with curiosity and suspicion.
"…What did you just do?"
I didn't answer immediately. I ran my thumb along the fractured surface, feeling the faint residue dissipating under my touch. Only when the last trace faded did I straighten and look back at her.
"Helped," I said simply.
Her expression tightened—not anger, not confusion, something more layered. A question forming. Several, actually.
But this wasn't the moment to unpack any of them.
"We should move," I said, already turning toward the plume of smoke in the distance. She hesitated only a heartbeat before falling into step beside me, shrinking down to slip through a collapsed fence and then returning to full size once we reached the street again.
The city's tension pressed against us—sirens, distant shouts, the metallic smell of ruptured concrete. Every sense sharpened. My emotions, still raw from the Void's absence, pulsed too close to the surface, but I kept them clipped.
Janet's wings flickered once. "Whatever that was back there… we'll talk later."
We crossed the next block without another word. The air grew hotter, the glow ahead brighter. Whatever had come down was close—too close to ignore, too urgent to delay.