The city had settled back into its rhythm. Days at Avalon passed quietly, broken only by the gentle ding of the front doorbell and the chatter of familiar faces. John found a kind of comfort in it—routine was a strange luxury after recent events.
Most days broke even. A few ended with five or ten dollars to spare, tucked into the old logbook under the counter. And that was fine. The store wasn't meant to boom—it was meant to last.
Lorna moved like someone trying to reclaim peace. She wiped shelves, restocked gum trays, and offered faint smiles to customers. But John noticed the way she still hesitated near the metal rack of canned goods. When she reached for anything magnetic, her fingers twitched, as if remembering the weight of power now coiled inside her.
That evening, after they closed the store, they retreated downstairs—back into the Den.
The room smelled faintly of solder, lemon cleaner, and old carpet. A bulky beige CRT monitor buzzed softly on the table, hooked to an old tower PC that John had cobbled together with spare parts. Floppy disks and old notebooks were scattered across the side desk, a testament to a more analog age.
John inserted a well-worn VHS tape into a tiny television set on the metal shelf. He had borrowed it from a friend in the city who still collected "mutant archives." The tape flickered to life with lines of static before sharpening into a grainy but haunting image.
Magneto.
The mutant appeared older in this footage—standing calmly as he pulled a network of scaffolding apart like puzzle pieces. Metal rods bent and reshaped in mid-air. Not chaotic—controlled. Almost graceful.
Lorna sat rigid on the old futon, watching the flickering screen.
"He's so calm," she whispered. "Like it's nothing."
"He's also feared by half the planet," John murmured, ejecting the tape before the demonstration turned darker. "But you're not him."
She didn't answer, but her shoulders relaxed a little.
They turned to the table, where John had set up a series of simple tools: paper clips, a steel bracelet, a compass, metal shavings in a glass dish. He handed her a small spiral-bound notebook to record observations.
"We're not aiming for showy. We test what you can control."
Lorna nodded and stood beside the table. "No floating bridges or bent fences?"
"Not unless you feel like leveling the entire basement."
She smirked.
He nodded toward the compass. "Try that first."
Her hand hovered an inch above it. Nothing happened at first. Then, after several seconds, the needle twitched—just a tiny vibration.
John didn't say a word, but he smiled.
She continued, more focused. The needle turned left. Then stopped.
"I felt it," she whispered. "Like I was nudging it with... my skin."
"Write that down," he said. "You're sensing the field. That's huge."
They spent the next hour in quiet experimentation. She managed to lift a paper clip one inch, guide a washer in a slow circle, and—most impressively—cause the bracelet to vibrate without touching it.
"I don't want to be dangerous," she said suddenly, halfway through the third test.
"You're not," he replied without hesitation.
She looked at him, eyes wide. "What if I become that? What if this power turns into something I can't control?"
"You're sixteen," he said gently. "You're still figuring it out."
He tapped the edge of the notebook. "And you're not alone. We're close in age—you and me. I'm only eighteen. You're not dealing with this under a microscope."
She blinked. "I always thought you were older. Not in years, just… in life."
"Yeah, I get that a lot." He gave a faint grin. "But we're walking this together. Not teacher and student. Not mutant and handler. Just people."
She nodded. "That helps."
Later, as she concentrated on making the metal shavings in the dish form patterns, John pulled out something from his back pocket: a folded, yellowing scrap of paper.
"My mom's," he said quietly, offering it to her.
Lorna read the soft script, barely visible under old creases:
"Protection doesn't mean hiding someone. It means standing beside them when the world makes them feel small."
She stared at it for a long time.
"I don't want to be small anymore," she said.
"Then we make you steady," John said. "Not loud. Not feared. Steady."
They worked into the night. By the time they stopped, she had managed to lift three small nails and rotate them like a slow fan blade.
She was exhausted but radiant.
John turned off the CRT monitor. The basement darkened as he powered down their makeshift lab. The soft hum of the city returned.
At the top of the stairs, he paused and looked back.
"You did good," he said.
Lorna offered a tired smile. "We did."
And in that moment, there was no villain on the horizon, no war, no master of magnetism to fear.
Just two kids.
Learning what it meant to be powerful—and kind—at the same time.