Her eyes almost popped out from their sockets. She had to physically resist the urge to gape like a fool.
It was fine when a green monster popped up in Harlem—the Hulk. Just an accident, she'd told herself. Just a freak occurrence involving gamma radiation. Only a little stronger than normal people, right?
Although that "little gap" was actually wider than the Mariana Trench, was an absolutely massive understatement, that was a different matter entirely. It could still be considered just a super-human with enhanced physical abilities, without any truly magical powers. Science could theoretically explain it.
Then came a man wearing an iron steel suit who could fly—Iron Man. That was also somewhat acceptable, somewhat understandable. It was just technology, albeit very heaven-defying, revolutionary technology. But technology nonetheless. Genius engineering. Nothing supernatural.
But what the hell was this?!
A man was currently floating in the air without any visible support, without any equipment or propulsion system. And even more outrageous, even more impossible to explain, with just a casual wave of his hand, several large steel pipes—each one weighing several tons easily—lifted up into the sky like gravity didn't exist at all for them.
This wasn't technology. This wasn't science.
This was something else entirely.
"Sister, don't be stunned there standing like a statue," a somewhat casual voice came from behind her, breaking her out of her shock. "Move up and get to work, otherwise you'll be scolded again by the guards. They don't like slackers."
Hearing the warning, she suddenly woke up from her stupor, snapping back to awareness. Suppressing the shock churning in her heart, forcing her face back to neutral, she started to move again toward her assigned work area.
"Brother," she asked the man behind her, keeping her voice low and casual, "do you know who that is? The flying man?"
After she'd been put in this labor camp, she'd met this old man first, on her very first day. Although he'd told her that his age was 40, she could tell it was not less than 50 based on his weathered appearance and the deep lines in his face.
Anyway, this guy didn't seem to be too bad, not as hardened as some of the other criminals here. But because his wife had been directly killed during the civil war, caught in the crossfire between factions, he'd joined the rebel side purely for revenge. Not for ideology or power—just grief and rage.
And after the new regime took over, after Anastasia's forces won, the other side had directly surrendered first, laying down their weapons. So when his head got hot, when rage overwhelmed his reason, he'd directly attacked the peacekeepers anyway, trying to kill those responsible for his wife's death.
And without any suspense, without any trial, he was put in prison directly for 5 years of hard labor as punishment.
"Him? You mean the flying man?" the old man asked, glancing up at Magneto casually. "His name is Eric, I think. But most of the people here call him Magneto. Because of the magnetism thing."
Hearing the nonchalant tone of the man, as if this were the most normal thing in the world, Natasha felt speechless. Her spy training was the only thing keeping her face calm.
"Brother, is it normal here for people to fly and lift tons of steel with just a wave of their hand?" she asked, trying to sound curious rather than shocked. The question was almost rhetorical—she expected him to say no, to admit this was strange.
But the answer she received almost forced her recently calmed heart to beat violently again, pounding against her ribs.
"Yeah, of course," he said simply. "Although not everyone can fly, obviously. But many of them can do things like that. Lots of powered people around."
"What do you mean, 'many of them'?" Natasha asked, her voice carefully controlled.
"Are you living in some kind of deep forest alone or something?" the man asked, looking at her strangely. "How could you not know about any of this? It's been all over the news here."
Thinking quickly, Natasha improvised a cover story. "Yeah, actually. After the war started, I fled to the forest to survive, living there in isolation. Until two days ago, when I lost my way and broke into an unknown house by accident, and got thrown in jail here."
Hearing this explanation, the man's eyes suddenly turned to an expression of pity and sympathy. "Oh, you poor thing. You must be very unlucky. You definitely entered some kind of hidden military installation or restricted property. You know, people here in this labor camp are all serving time for serious crimes. They don't put minor offenders here."
"Anyway, if you were living in the forest all this time, completely cut off from society, then it makes sense that you don't know about anything that's happened," he continued, accepting her story completely.
"Let me explain," he said, settling into the role of storyteller. "After Miss Anastasia announced that she would be taking over the country once again, restoring the monarchy, although many ordinary people supported her—the common folk were tired of war—most of the warlords didn't want to lose their power. So they started to fight back, formed a coalition."
"Everyone thought that it would be a long battle like before, lasting months or even years," the old man continued, his voice taking on an almost awed tone. "But suddenly, a ten-meter-tall tiger appeared from somewhere. Just appeared out of nowhere. It directly conquered the largest rebel base in just one hour. One hour! Thousands of armed soldiers, and they fell in sixty minutes."
"Then there was a red glowing woman," he continued, his eyes distant with memory. "A woman who could control people with just her words. Her little hand gestures could directly uproot miles of land, reshape the terrain itself. I saw her lift an entire hillside and drop it on an enemy fortification."
"And there was a silver-haired boy," the man added. "A kid who was even faster than a race car, faster than bullets. You couldn't even see him move—just a blur, and suddenly all your weapons were gone, disassembled."
"You can't imagine how fast it all happened," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Just in one week, all of the opposition was defeated. Every warlord, every rebel faction."
"It can't even be called a defeat at all," the old man corrected himself grimly. "It was a massacre. Complete and total."
"The most heinous war criminals were directly executed," he explained. "Anyone with innocent blood on their hands, anyone who'd committed atrocities. And the rest of us—the regular soldiers, the ones who'd just been following orders—we were directly stuffed here in these camps, forced to do hard labor to rebuild what we'd destroyed."
"You know, I was also lucky enough to see that red figure in person and still survive," his gaze drifted far back to his memories, haunted. "Most people who opposed her directly... didn't make it."
"Okay, stop daydreaming and continue your story," Natasha quickly nudged him, keeping him focused. "What about this man? Magneto?"
"Oh, yeah," the old man snapped back to the present. "We were shifted here to this construction site to do work, and that's where we met the man called Magneto, who was put in charge of moving heavy objects. Making the construction faster and easier."
"And also there's a blue furry monster," he added casually, as if describing a coworker. "Very polite, actually. Smart. Speaks multiple languages. Helps with the technical planning."
"And also I heard rumors that there was a white-haired witch that can rain down thunder and lightning with just a wave of her hand," the old man said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "She and the red one are called the Twin Witches of Sokovia. Very scary."
The more Natasha heard, the more she felt her head getting bigger, pressure building behind her temples.
What the fuck was this? Witches, speedsters, super-strong beings?
This sounded like something from comic books, not reality. She seriously felt that this situation was going way above her pay grade. She was a spy, an assassin. She dealt with human threats, with governments and terrorists.
Not... whatever this was.
And suddenly, one thing came to her mind, a memory that made her blood run cold.
After getting caught two nights ago, the white-haired lady, had said something about having someone named Charles look through her memory.
At that time, Natasha had thought that she was talking about some kind of torture method, some euphemism for interrogation. And she hadn't taken it too seriously—she'd been trained to resist torture, could hold out for days if needed.
But what if it was literally that? What if Charles could actually, genuinely look through her memories directly, read her mind like a book?
A chill went through her whole body, starting at the base of her spine and spreading outward.
She felt that she couldn't stay here any longer, couldn't risk it. Before something unexpected happened.
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