Chapter 74 :One Lightning, Multiple Reaction (Part 2)
New York, Queens, 6:50 AM – Gwen's POV
The air hit me first. Sharp. Unnatural. Not the chill of the evening, not the wind weaving through Manhattan streets. Something else. Something wrong. I pulled my jacket tighter, feeling it press against my shoulders like a warning I couldn't ignore. My boots scuffed the concrete as I stepped out of the building, eyes scanning the streets.
The sense of vigilance ran through me like a pulse I could feel in my bones. Every pedestrian, every shadow, seemed amplified, edges sharper, movements more pronounced.
A shiver ran down my spine. Not just from the cold. The temperature dropped in waves, suddenly falling from a mild 11 degrees to something closer to -5. My breath puffed in clouds that twisted unnaturally in the growing wind. I clenched my fists, aware of the subtle vibration underfoot as the city responded to the disturbance above.
The sky darkened faster than it should have. Clouds rolled in low, dense, carrying a charge that prickled at the back of my neck. The first gusts cut like ice across my cheeks, pushing my hair into my eyes. I blinked, swallowing the sting, every sense on high alert.
And then—light. Blinding. The crack of lightning tore through the sky, stretching across the city in a jagged white bolt that seemed to freeze everything in its brilliance. For several heartbeats, the world was illuminated in stark, violent clarity. The thunder rolled seconds later, shaking buildings, rattling windows, vibrating the asphalt beneath my boots. I crouched instinctively, muscles tensing.
I didn't pause. My hands moved over my outfit beneath my jacket, the familiar texture grounding me. The costume snapped into place, the mask covering my face. Gwen Stacy disappeared, Spider-Woman emerged. Every movement deliberate, measured, efficient.
The wind howled. I could feel the vibration of the lightning echoing through the city, through my bones, through my spine. The cold bit at my exposed skin, but it only sharpened my focus. Civilians moved in the streets, frantic, uncoordinated, unaware. My mind raced.
I didn't know what it was. Its size, its intent—everything about it was unknown. Peter was already ahead, swinging toward the mass, trying to slow it, test it. But even he faltered, the sudden cold gnawing at his movements, forcing him to retreat just a few streets back. We exchanged a quick glance—no words needed. We both knew the same thing.
Direct confrontation wasn't an option. Not yet. Too much was uncertain. The priority was clear. Protect the civilians. Contain the threat. Delay it until we could understand.
I leapt lightly to a nearby rooftop, landing with the spring of practiced agility. The wind tugged at me. Every sense screamed readiness. My web-shooters were primed, my eyes scanning the streets below, muscles coiled for sudden movements.
I traced the city in my mind. Alleys, street corners, buildings with overhangs—places to guide people, paths to block, routes to funnel the unknown mass away from anyone who couldn't get out of the way. Peter repositioned himself, keeping the mass between us and the civilians. We moved in tandem, instinctively, silently agreeing on our roles.
The storm wasn't just outside. It was inside me, syncing with my heartbeat, my instincts. I adjusted my stance, measuring every possible path it could take. I had to shepherd it, manipulate its movements, keep people safe. Every second counted.
The sky above churned, dark and violent. The air hummed with the tension of an unseen strike. Lightning would hit again. And when it did, we would be ready.
New York, Manhattan, 6:50 AM – Janet Van Dyne's POV
The streets were chaos before I even reached them. Civilians darted between overturned carts and abandoned cars, some moving too slowly, some frozen mid-step, staring wide-eyed at the darkening sky. My boots slipped on the slick pavement, forcing me to adjust mid-stride, wings buzzing to stabilize me. Every breath hit like ice in my lungs, every movement sharp with the sting of sudden, unnatural chill. I couldn't let anyone get trapped.
I hovered a few feet above the ground, wings slicing through the chill, eyes scanning the chaotic streets. The mass—whatever it was—moved with a force that didn't feel natural. I had no idea what it was, only that it needed to be guided away from the crowds, diverted, contained.
The wind picked up, gusting in jagged pulses, slicing around corners, rattling metal and glass. Shadows danced unnaturally in the sudden gloom. The sky had turned dark too fast, a violent swirl of black clouds blotting out what little sunlight remained.
I zipped low over a street corner, catching a terrified pedestrian and nudging them toward a safer alley. My heart raced, but my mind stayed calm. Every movement calculated, measured. I could feel the cold pressing into my bones, biting at me through my suit. Even with my wings and armor, it was unnatural.
And then it came.
A bolt of lightning cleaved the sky. For a long, terrible second, the city lit in white brilliance. I had to shield my eyes. The thunder followed almost instantly, rolling through the streets, shaking façades, rattling windows. My wings vibrated instinctively as I adjusted midair, repositioning myself to intercept the mass before it could veer toward civilians.
I forced it back, nudging, redirecting, using every ounce of precision I had. It resisted instinctively, as though testing me, testing the limits of its own strength. My breath fogged in the sudden drop, sweat and frost mingling across my face. I could feel my wings straining, vibrating with effort, my muscles coiling for another push.
Another gust of wind. Another shiver. Another pulse of cold rolling through the streets. I adjusted, rotated, and pushed it toward an empty square. My eyes caught every detail, every movement, every subtle shift in weight or momentum. I had to anticipate. Predict. Outmaneuver.
Lightning streaked again, far off this time, but the light and sound carried, marking the rhythm of the storm above. I followed that rhythm, a conductor in the chaos, forcing the unknown away from anyone who didn't belong in its path.
Every second counted. Every action mattered.
I hovered, wings steady, heart pounding, mind clear. The storm wasn't just around me—it was part of the threat, part of the environment. And I would use it, bend it, exploit it, until every civilian was safe and the unknown was contained.
New York, Queens, 6:50 AM – Hank Pym's POV
I was two blocks from the secondary lab, mentally cataloging the equipment I needed to recalibrate—again—because apparently no one on the current staff could follow a simple set of procedures without turning the place into a glorified storage closet. My breath fogged faintly as I walked, but I barely noticed. New York air fluctuated all the time; it wasn't worth wasting attention on.
What mattered was fixing yet another mess I hadn't created.
The street was unusually empty for this hour. Not empty enough to raise alarm, but empty in that irritating way that signaled people had noticed something I had not. I pulled my coat tighter and kept walking. My mind cycled equations, temperature charts, projected stress tolerances for the sample I had been working on. If I could just get thirty minutes without—
A shiver ran up my spine.
Not nerves. Cold. Sudden. Abrupt.
The kind of cold that shouldn't hit at ground level without atmospheric shifts happening minutes beforehand.
I stopped. Looked up.
The sky was turning black—fast. Too fast. Clouds spiraled inward, compressing, collapsing, behaving like they were responding to a centralized pull rather than natural fronts. It irritated me more than it scared me. Meteorological anomalies at this scale didn't just materialize. Someone had caused this. Or something.
I exhaled slowly, watching the vapor pour from my mouth in a thick plume. "Wonderful," I muttered. "Exactly what I needed today."
Wind barreled down the street, sharp, dry, hurling discarded flyers against my legs. A construction barrier toppled over fifty feet ahead with a crack that echoed between the buildings. People were starting to run now—late, panicked, directionless. Always directionless.
I took one more step.
And the world detonated in white.
A single bolt of lightning slashed the sky open and lit the entire city block like a surgical lamp. Every reflective surface flared—windows, car hoods, metal railings—creating a cascade of afterimages that burned against my retinas. The thunder followed instantly. A concussion of sound so forceful it made a café's outdoor furniture jump across the sidewalk.
My ears rang. My heart did too, annoyingly.
I didn't need more data. I didn't need to run models. The magnitude of the strike told me everything.
Whatever this was, it wasn't natural. And it wasn't small.
I straightened, adjusted my coat, and quickened my pace—not out of heroism, but because someone clearly needed a mind capable of actual analysis on-site. If the others were already flailing at the unknown, the least I could do was prevent the situation from spiraling into yet another avoidable catastrophe.
I headed toward the point of impact. Because, as usual, no one else would handle it correctly unless I did.
New York, Manhattan, 6:50 AM – Tony Stark's POV
The soldering iron hissed the moment I pulled it away from the circuit board. Clean line, smooth connection, no arc jumps. Good. For once, something in this lab behaved exactly the way I expected it to. I leaned back, rolling the stiffness out of my shoulders, the workshop's overhead lights throwing long reflections across the half-disassembled gauntlet on my bench.
The temperature warning in my HUD winked at me from the corner of my peripheral display.
Drop: 3°C in under five minutes.
Not ideal. Not alarming. Just… inconvenient.
"Probably another sudden coastal downdraft," I muttered, picking up the micro-spanner again. "Or a weather balloon dying dramatically. Again."
I kept working.
Another alert.
Drop: 5°C. Wind shift recorded. Pressure falling.
JARVIS didn't comment yet, which was the AI version of a raised brow. I gave the panel in front of me a suspicious look, then sighed and set the tool down.
The outside light dimmed.
Too fast.
Too sharp.
I glanced toward the reinforced glass wall overlooking the city. The skyline had gone from late-afternoon grey to something closer to eclipse-level dark. Clouds rolled in like someone dragging ink across the sky in one violent stroke. The wind hit next—hard enough to make the external paneling of the tower creak.
"Okay," I said, standing. "That's new."
Then the world tore open in white.
The flash hit the city like a camera bulb the size of Manhattan firing straight into my retinas. Every surface in my workshop lit up: metal, glass, half-finished armor plates. For three whole seconds, everything was light and nothing else. The thunder followed an instant later—no build, no warning.
A single, brutal detonation.
The floor vibrated beneath me. Tools rattled on their hooks. Even the reinforced frame of the Tower hummed under the shockwave.
"JARVIS," I snapped, already crossing the room, "suit me."
The Mark VI opened around me with a hydraulic gasp. The clamps sealed. Power surged. HUD ignited. Heart rate spiked—not with fear, but with the familiar jolt of slipping into something that made sense.
"Location of the strike," I said.
A map unfolded across my display.
But instead of a single point of interest…
…half a dozen blue-white clusters lit up across the city grid.
Pulsing. Freezing. Wrong.
"Sir," JARVIS said calmly, "several anomalous temperature zones have formed simultaneously. All dropping at an accelerated rate. Estimated—"
"Yeah, I see them." I clenched my jaw. "Of course it's not just one problem. Wouldn't be fun otherwise."
One cluster was closest to Queens. Another in Midtown. A third in Harlem. None stable. All dangerous.
"Plot an intercept route. Prioritize civilians. And keep scanning for whatever caused that lightning show."
I stepped toward the open launch platform.
Outside, the storm was still building.
And I wasn't going to wait for it to explain itself.
"Alright," I said, engines spinning up, "let's go ruin something's day."
New York, Harlem, 6:50 AM – Bruce Banner's POV
I was early.
Too early.
Better that than late when you're meeting the X-Men to discuss anger management on a molecular level. I walked along the edge of the campus, hands buried in my pockets, trying to pretend the cold threading through the air was nothing more than seasonal weather. A lie, obviously. New York rarely shifted temperatures this fast, not unless something unnatural was involved.
Cold.
Hulk snarled the word in the back of my mind. A feeling, not a sentence. A warning.
"I know," I murmured. "It's dropping fast."
The wind cut sharper, slicing through my jacket like it wasn't even there. I stopped under a streetlamp, breath fogging. My pulse ticked higher. Not panic—anticipation. Fear trying on a different face.
Hulk pushed.
Hard.
Not enough to break free, but enough to tighten every muscle in my back.
Enough to remind me he hated the cold, hated the pressure, hated whatever this was.
The sky dimmed.
Not gradually.
Like a switch being thrown.
One moment the sun was a muted smear behind thin clouds.
The next—darkness, rolling in from every direction, swallowing the skyline in a curtain of grey-black. The wind surged, carrying a dry, metallic bite that made my skin crawl.
Danger.
This time the word was clearer. Sharper. Closer.
I swallowed. "Not yet. We don't even know what it is."
The air grew heavy, as if the atmosphere itself had thickened around me. My instincts flared. My breathing shortened. Hulk rammed against the walls of my mind like a trapped animal sensing the door being unlocked.
Then the world exploded in white.
The lightning didn't flash.
It crashed, a solid wall of light descending across the city like it had been poured from the sky. Every cell in my body felt it. My vision blanked out. The street, the buildings, my own hands—everything became silhouette and glare.
And the thunder—
It hit a fraction later.
A pressure wave.
A living thing.
It slammed into my chest so hard my ribs buzzed. My heart stuttered. The lamp above me shook. A car alarm down the street went off and died instantly as its electronics froze.
I staggered a step.
Hulk roared.
A soundless, mental bellow that rattled inside my skull. Pure instinct. Pure fury. He clawed for control, tearing at every barrier I had. My hands trembled. My teeth clenched. Breath uneven.
"Not—now—" I hissed, trying to steady myself, trying to stay small, stay contained, stay me.
And then I saw it.
A shape.
Not human.
Not anything familiar.
It emerged from a cloud of frost and dust down the street—massive, jagged, moving with a slow, grinding inevitability. A living mass of ice and stone, radiating a cold so violent it felt like knives pressing against my skin.
Hulk surged.
Walls cracked.
Control frayed.
My knees buckled.
Hulk SMASH.
The words thundered through me.
The creature dragged itself fully into view.
I felt myself split—
—and the transformation hit.