Hey there, dear readers.
I've got a question for you about the future of this fanfic. It's about omething that won't happen right away, but will definitely matter down the line once the Crimson Hour arc is over.
When the time comes to bring in the mutants AKA the X-Men, what version of them would you prefer to see?
Most fanfics I've read usually take the school setting. Jean, Scott, Kitty, Kurt attending Midtown as students, and are close in age to the protagonist.
But another option would be to lean more towards the New Mutants setup, so that the original X-Men are already adults.
That version is a little trickier to write, since the tone shifts quite a bit, and it might have some or lots of plot holes, but it also opens doors for different scenes and so and so.
I'm honestly fine with both directions, and I don't want it to jarr the story later on. That's why I'd love to know which one you'd prefer to see when the time comes.
This won't happen immediately, it's a future arc question, but I wanted to give you the chance to chose now.
Also, powers. For the future too tho.
Do you mind if give him something more magical in nature? Like, Chop Chop, Barrier, Hammerspace, any low level thing of the sort.
Sincerely, The Author
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Hell's Kitchen... Can't say I missed it.
Especially after that lecture from Matt... Or that beating from Stick caused by said lecture.
The subway ride somehow felt longer, like the walls of the car were closing in, a little tighter each stop. Almost claustrophobic. Maybe it was just my brain playing tricks on me.
All because of the place that's at the end of the line.
What could be waiting for me in that place?
Don't know. Don't wanna know either.
The car itself felt just as I remembered it though—grimy windows smeared with old fingerprints, vulgar graffiti crawling across the overhead signs, and the floor? Sticky. Like, superglue sticky... I swear I've said something like that before. Maybe my memory's just trash. Maybe I've got brain damage from all the concussions Stick gifted me. Or from the choking from last night. Or from the fire... Y'know what, I dont want to think about that.
Anyway, I managed to make the most of the ride. Ended up talking to this wiry guy across from me.
Turned out his name was Max... Max-something. Didn't catch his full name, don't think he said it either, though.
Shy didn't even begin to describe him.
Lanky frame that looked like it hadn't figured out how to fill out a shirt yet. Glasses slipping down his nose every two seconds. Gap teeth. And—for reasons known only to him—he was trying to grow a mustache.
Shame that was more of a suggestion to his face.
He looked like the type of guy who wanted to disappear into the background, but at the same time was dying for someone—anyone—to notice him. Shoulders perpetually hunched over. Chin tucked in. Jumpy eyes, darting up every now and then, like a meerkat. Shirt stuck in a limbo between formal and messy, pockets stuffed with pencils. Clutching a beat-up backpack like his life depended on it.
And despite his haggard appearance, he couldn't have been older than twenty-something.
When I shifted in my seat, he flinched—yanked his bag up like a shield, eyes wide. For a second, I thought he was gonna bolt out at the next stop. He probably figured I was about to shake him down or take a swing just for breathing the same air.
Can't really blame him. New York will do that to you.
"Whoa... easy, dude" I said calmly, raising my hands as a peace treaty. "Am not gonna mug ya'. Promise. My calendar's full anyway."
He gave me this nervous laugh—short, awkward, the kind that dies in your throat before it really starts—and lowered the bag half an inch.
That's how we started talking. Or, more accurately, that's how I started talking and he stammered his way through my sentences like they were a pop quiz.
Every time he got a word out, his fingers went right back to the zipper of his backpack, dragging it up and down.
Click, ziiiip.Click, ziiiip.
His leg was bouncing like he'd downed three black coffees, but I could tell it wasn't caffeine.
Eventually, he let slip "I studied electrical engineering..." he said, voice shy. "Now, hm, I'm thinking of getting a job at a nearby powerplant. I guess… I- I don't know."
There it was—a hint of frustration in his quietness.
I pressed. "Powerplant? Why?" And his voice shifted, steadier. The kind of steady people get when they're talking about something they know. Something they're good at. Passionate at.
He explained how circuits, wires—anything electrical really—made sense to him in ways that for other people didn't.
Told me he could look at any mess of electronics and already see the flow, the pattern, the fix.
I didn't feel like he was bragging.
I raised a brow, impressed. "That's fantastic, Max."
He let out a half-laugh, awkward. "Y-You think?" His voice cracked like he didn't believe the word could even apply to him.
I tilted my head. "Yeah, man. Wha—you don't?"
He looked away, jaw working like he was chewing on something too sour to swallow. "Uh... Look... my whole life... people been treatin' me like I'm nothin'. Hm... My dad—" he stopped, cutting himself off, but his fingers dug harder into the strap of his bag, knuckles straining. "He was a... Jerk. He used to beat my mom... and-and used to make sure we knew we weren't worth a damn to him. Not even worth standin' next to him."
The way he said it, what he said, made my chest tighten. "I'm so sorry, Max... No kid should have to go through something that, ever."
"Yeah... And when he finally bailed." He let out a small, humorless laugh. "My mom—she... I mean, she loves me, man. I know she does. She used to work extra hours just to put food on the table, she kept me in school, made sure I didn't waste my brains. But…" His shoulders slumped, and the words came out small. "She doesn't let me forget about him or what she had to go trough for me. Ever. Always tellin' me to i'd end up just like him if it weren't for her... and it hurts, man."
I sat back, arms crossed, listening. No interruptions.
He adjusted his glasses, voice low. "So yeah… I'm smart. I know wires and circuits. But what's it matter? Feels like no matter what I do, I'm still that kid... The one everyone ignores until he makes a mistake."
His hand clenched around the zipper, frozen mid-click. "…And sometimes, I think maybe she's right. Maybe I'm just... huff."
That came out rasping his throat. Hurt.
"I just…" He fiddled with the strap of his bag, voice nearly swallowed by the train's screech. "…I just want somebody to notice me, man. To be proud. Like I actually EXIST, y'know?" His grip on the zipper tightened, knuckles whitening. "Sometimes when I stay quiet, they forget I'm even in the room. But when I finally say something? When I try? Suddenly I'm the weirdo. 'Oh, Max is talking? Didn't know he had a voice.'" His eyes flicked up, glassy under the harsh lights. "I don't wanna be a ghost in my own damn life. I wanna… I dunno... Besomebody, y'know?."
I nodded, buying a second to find the right words.
"Max... You ARE somebody. Right now, even if they don't see it. And I'll tell you something else—I'm proud of you already, friend. Look, if you can make electricity dance for you like you just told me, trust me—sooner than later, people are gonna notice. Maybe not the whole world, maybe not even the ones you wish would. But... Someone will, that I promise you. After all, I already noticed you, didn't I?"
That's when he blinked. Frowned. Looked at me properly.
"You, uh… how old are you again?"
The question caught me off guard. "Uh... Sixteen. Why?"
His frown deepened, like I just told him I was twelve. "…So… like… sophomore, right? You sure you don't got, like… some condition or somethin' that makes you look younger or act older?"
"Yeah, I'm a sophomore. And condition-wise? Nah, don't think I have anything. But hey—maybe? Who knows, right?"
"Mm. Right..." He adjusted his glasses, clearly unsure if he should keep talking to me. "It's just… you sound like you're, I don't know… forty? For real. Like you been through a couple of divorces..."
Forty?! Divorces!? Auch man...
I managed to huff out a laugh despite that comment. "Ha ha... Maybe I just got an old soul, y'know?"
Max didn't laugh. He shifted his weight on his seat. "It's just… weird, man. Like, I'm standin' here takin' advice from some kid still in school. It feels backwards. Off..."
Fair. Fair point.
I shrugged. "Yeah, but hey—sometimes the best advice comes from the most unlikely people. And if I'm wrong, then you just got yourself a free bad advice." I pointed at him with a playful grin. "No refunds."
He blinked, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, face twisting like he couldn't tell if I was mocking him or handing him something too heavy to carry.
And for the first time during our whole conversation, he lifted his eyes and really looked at me. Not with confidence—not yet. But there was something new there. Something fragile.
Hope.
The train screeched, brakes whining.
My stop.
"Are we… friends?" His voice cracked on the word, like he hadn't said it out loud in years, maybe ever.
"...Yeah, man. Why not?" I gave him a half-grin and thumbs up. "Don't know if we'll ever cross paths again, but if we do—I really hope you make it, Max."
When the doors closed behind me, I glanced back.
He was still there, hunched over, fiddling with his zipper, staring at the floor.
But there was something else too. The tiniest smile, like maybe—just maybe—he believed me.
Believed in himself.
And me? I had Hell's Kitchen waiting.
---
The moment I stepped off the subway, the smell hit me like a sucker punch.
Air so thick you could chew it.
Sour piss, grease, burnt rubber—every ugly little note clawing my nostrils for my attention. And under all of it… that sharp, coppery and familiar scent of blood.
I forgot how awful the air quality was here. Like the whole place is warning me, shoving its filth down my throat with every breath.
Welcome back to Hell's Kitchen, bitch.
I froze for half a second, nose wrinkling before I could catch myself.
I WON'T love doing this. And probably, never will.
I drew in another breath, slower this time. Searching.
No… this wasn't just the borough.
This was fresher. Clearer. Like a line of red ink slashed across the air—faint, but stubborn.
It was a note I knew too well, far more than I wanted to.
Stick.
That bastard used violence the way other people used perfume.
Some people reek of whiskey. Others of smoke. Stick stank of blood more than the Kitchen itself.
"How the…" I muttered under my breath, tongue pressing my teeth. "How did he know?"
Did I get the time right? Maybe. But it's unlikely.
Which meant one thing... The bastard's been watching me.
I scanned the station—slow, casual. My eyes moved while my body didn't.
Just another person waiting for a train. Catched a flick of movement by the far wall.
A guy shifting his weight. Another near the turnstile, tugging at his coat.
But not Stick. Of course, he wouldn't be out in the open like that.
He'd watch me from the cracks, from the shadows.
He'd want to wonder if he was actually there… or if I'd finally lost it.
I sighed through my nose. "If you're here, old fuck..." I muttered under my breath, loud enough for someone with super hearing to... well, hear. "You stink worse than the whole damn borough."
Silence. No surprise there.
Only the screech of a train miles down the line, rattling the concrete.
Either way, I kept walking. My eyes flickered to every shadow in the alleys, waiting for one of them to move.
The trail of blood-scent pulling me deeper into Hell's Kitchen, step by step.
---
But the trail itself wasn't clear, like I said, it was like seeing smoke trough my nose, it was faint.
Faint enough that anyone else here missed it, writting it off as the usual cocktail of blood, piss, and grease that clung to Hell's Kitchen.
But not me... not to me.
Whenever my nose caught it, I reeled myself into it, block after block.
Sometimes dense—easy to follow, cutting through the city stench like a knife.
Sometimes thin—swallowed by the piss-soaked concrete, the hot garbage, and the exhaust of late-night cabs.
Dissapearing so fast that I had to circle back, earning myself side-eyes from strangers as I tilted my head like a stray mutt.
I had to double back more than once.
A few steps one way—nothing.
A few steps to the other way—and there it was again.
I shoved my hands deeper into my hoodie, hood up, trying not to look like some weird dumb kid playing dog in the middle of the night.
Hell's Kitchen wasn't a neighborhood you wanted to wander aimlessly in, shadows here had a way of looking back at you.
And People didn't like being watched either, but Stick wasn't exactly the type to send engraved invitations. So I had to make due.
I ducked into an alley where the smell thickened.
It made me gag on the copper bite of it—only to thin out again at the corner.
Each time the trail slipped, I found it again—sometimes faint, sometimes sharp, like Stick was leaving breadcrumbs just for me.
The deeper I went, the quieter it got.
Storefronts shuttered, lights buzzing and dying, street lamps flickering out as though the whole borough was trying to make me walk blind.
My sneakers scuffed over the cracked pavement, broken glass crunching under my foot.
Was I really tracking him? Or was he just walking me in circles, letting me think I was a good hunter?
Every time the scent slipped from me, irritation gnawed in my gut.
But every time I caught it again, I couldn't help the twitch at the corner of my mouth—Am I frustrated? Course I am, but, maybe, am feeling a little bit of thrill too.
My smelling 'powers' are actually useful!
My eyes flicked up to the fire escapes, the darkened windows, the rooflines.
Didn't see him, but still I felt something. Pressure, like eyes digging into the back of my neck.
And still, I kept walking. Nose twitching. Jaw tight.
Following the stink of blood, even as it dragged me deeper into Kitchen's maws.
The trail curved off from the main drag, slipping into the kind of alley tourists only saw when they took a wrong turn. Narrow. Wet. Grimmy.
I think this is it.
I kept low, shoulders hunched, sneakers dragging against the pavement.
The neon buzzed overhead—cheap motel brings the pink, chinese food the red—making the puddles at my feet glow.
A homeless guy snored under a mound of rags, oblivious to the world, his breath rattling. He didn't stir as I passed. Didn't need to. He wasn't the one I was looking for.
Left him a few dollars though, hidden between the wall and the rags for others not to take.
The smell tugged me left. Then right. Then straight into a dead end.
I almost gave up right there. Almost.
But then—A breeze. Small. Carrying the sour tang I was chasing.
My lungs caught it like a hook.
I rounded the corner, almost running, using my arms to grab the corner and round it faster.
Every few feet I'd stop, breathe deep, tilt my head like some mutt sniffing for leftovers.
People glanced my way, muttered, then kept walking.
Nobody in Hell's Kitchen is curious enough.
At one point, I crouched by a fire hydrant, fingertips brushing the pavement.
My fingers came back dark, sticky. Blood. Not fresh, not enough to mean anything but a hint. A direction.
Deliberate. He wanted me to see this... I hope.
"So you are leading me somewhere, huh?" I muttered under my breath, pushing myself upright.
My stomach twisted, a knot of nerves and irritation.
The new trail of blood splatters pulled me deeper and deeper, block after block.
But this trail felt off too. It wasn't straight. It zigged, then zagged.
The trail always there but never really leading anywhere either.
Pulled me past the same shuttered liquor store three times.
The same neon sign of a bodega that flickered lazily the words "CASH ONLY".
Breadcrumbs, my ass.
Heat climbed under my hood, jaw clenching tight. Stick wasn't hiding from me—or leading me to some secret base.
He was screwing with me.
The bastard was probably perched on some rooftop, smiling to himself while I walk circles like a dog chasing its own tail.
I stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, ignoring the annoyed grunt of some guy pushing a shopping cart past me.
Closed my eyes. Drew in a long, slow breath. "Son of bitch..."
I wasn't hunting. I was being herded.
I spun on my heel, heart thundering, eyes narrowing at the skyline.
My pulse skipped sharp—because there, just for an instant, a flicker—something shifted against the rooftop's edge.
The answer wasn't ahead. It wasn't waiting at the end of the trail.
It was right above my nose.
The moment my eyes locked on the figure, it darted across the roofline. Quick. Fluid. Precise.
Who else could move like that? Well... besides Daredevil and Spider-Man.
Its Stick...
"Motherfucker..." I hissed and bolted, sneakers slapping the pavement, keeping my eyes on the figure overhead.
It leaped from rooftop to rooftop, and each time it landed, my teeth gritted tighter.
He was right up there. Taunting me.
And all I could do was chase him on the ground.
I cut through an alley, craning my neck, tracking him as he glided above me.
He wasn't running—he was pacing me.
He was letting me think I had a chance to catch him.
The alley stretched long and narrow, brick closing in tight on both sides, until I hit a dead end.
My chest heaved, sweat prickling under my hood. And then—I saw it.
A fire escape clung to the wall at the corner. Rusted, crooked, half the bolts eaten away by time.
The drop ladder was stuck halfway up, too high for a casual jump. And it probably hadn't been used in years.
I sprinted the last few steps, planted a foot on the wall, and kicked up.
My fingers scraped against the steel, slipped, then caught the bottom rung by the tips.
The ladder shrieked against the bolts as it shifted under my weight.
For one terrifying second I thought it'd tear clean off its tracks.
Thanfully, I didn't.
I climbed fast, hands burning on the cold metal, boots hammering the steel.
Two stories blurred past, then three, then four—until I hauled myself over the edge of the roof and rolled onto the gravel.
I scrambled up, chest heaving, eyes cutting across the rooftop.
Empty...
No silhouette darting away. No Stick. No nothing.
And the rooftops on either side? Way too far to jump.
So he couldn't have leapt to the next building.
Not unless he grew wings.
"Where the hell are you…" I muttered, turning in a slow circle.
I swung my backpack off one shoulder, hand digging inside until my fingers closed around something solid. A weight I'd almost forgotten I had.
When I pulled it free, the length caught what little light there was.
My baton.
The other one… I'd lost it in the fire. Burned to a crisp. Gone.
But I'd managed to keep this one.
Shame that the three times I actually needed it, I didn't have it on me.
I learned from that mistake.
So now it stayed buried in my bag—always. Not that it would mean much if Stick came at me with a blade, but I'd take the placebo over nothing.
Because here's the thing. If i have to choose over using a stick of aluminum and my empty hands. I choose the stick of alluminum, any day, especially when both hands have the pinkies strapped up in splints.
I tested the grip, and exhaled slow.
I stalked the rooftop, hearing only the hum of a neon sign below and the faint rattle of pipes cooling in.
Either I'd lost him—or worse, he'd never been here in the first place.
I crouched low, sniffing the air, searching for that copper tang of blood.
Yeah, I knew better—he'd already shown me how easy it was to trick my sense of smell, like dangling a toy in front of a dog. But still, I had to try.
Unfortunately, all I got was rust, dust, and the sour stink of the city.
Then— A whisper of a step behind me.
I spun immediately, snapping the baton upwards—and I still was too slow.
A red blur slipped past the arc of my swing. Fast. Precise.
My eyes caught the flash of metal first—the glint of a... Sai.
Instinct kicked in. Baton snapped back into a guard.
Clang!
The baton slippled through the blade and the guard of the sai. As the steel rang when the strike crashed against my guard, the force rattling down my arm.
I held it—barely—boots skidding against the rooftop gravel.
A second strike came even faster. I managed to roll my wrist and deflect it off to the side. But then another sai hooked under the baton, twisting away my guard. A sharp wrench and—
The baton tore from my grip, clattering across the gravel.
"Shit—" I didn't even have time to reach for it before a boot slammed into my chest.
The impact knocked the air out of my lungs, sent me sprawling onto my back. Gravel dug into my spine, pain flaring with every gasp as I fought to drag in breath.
I blinked up, vision shaking.
The blur of red sharpened with every breath I dragged in. Not Stick. Not Matt. And yeah—not Raphael either, which, honestly, stung the most.
She was something else entirely.
Red fabric clung close, practical fabric, for dexterity and precision. Just gear meant for killing. Wraps bound her forearms, waist, and thighs—functional, silent, exact.
A scarlet sash swayed at her hip, catching the night breeze, and a bandana of the same blood-red of her clothes 'hid' her identity. While letting waves of black hair spill wild around her shoulders.
Late twenties. Maybe early thirties. Every line of her frame sharp with the kind of training that carved all the softness out of people.
Graceful, yes—but the kind of grace that could gut you before you even realized you'd been cut.
Her twin sai gleamed in the low light that reached the rooftop. Cold. Patient. Lethal.
One stayed leveled at me as she loomed over, steady, unshaking—she didn't carry weapons. She was one.
Her eyes—dark, predatory, unblinking—pinned me down harder than her kick had.
Not seductive. Not even angry.
Just calculating, weighing if I was worth the effort it'd take to make me bleed out here and now.
A real femme fatale. But that didn't even scratch the surface.
Elektra Natchios.
And she was standing over me like I was already a corpse...
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Word count: 3727