Real World (Marvel)

[kowak]

Chapter 1
The August sun was melting the asphalt of Harlem, driving residents into the shade of sparse trees and the protection of air conditioners. In a cool shopping mall, the Parr family was waging their annual ritual war against the upcoming school year.

"Bob, are you sure he needs these?" Maria turned the sneakers over in her hands, their soles looking suspiciously thin. "They'll fall apart by October."

"Mom, they're classics," came Diego's voice from behind a rack of t-shirts. His tone was a mix of teenage weariness with parental oversight and a sincere conviction in his own correctness.

Bob Parr weighed the sneaker in his palm. "Let him have them. He'll learn to value things when he's earning his own money for them. Besides, at his age, his feet grow faster than we can update his wardrobe."

Maria sighed but put the shoes in the cart. "Fine. Diego, come here, you still need to try on..."

Her words were drowned out by a new sound. It was a structural noise—a low-frequency wave that traveled not through the air, but through the very frame of the building, making it tremble slightly. Shoppers froze, exchanging questioning glances.

And then a mechanical, emotionless voice from the ceiling speakers announced: "ATTENTION. A CLASS THREE THREAT HAS BEEN DECLARED. CIVILIANS ARE ORDERED TO PROCEED IMMEDIATELY TO THE NEAREST SHELTERS. REMAIN CALM."

"Calm." The word sounded like a mockery. For the first second, there was a ringing silence, and then panic erupted.

---

In this world, with the appearance of mutants, the government had introduced a unified danger classification system so that civilians would clearly understand when to run without looking back.

Class 1 Threat: A lone mutant or terrorist group. Impact limited to a single building or street. Danger to those in the immediate vicinity. Law enforcement response time: several minutes.

Class 2 Threat: A subject capable of resisting a trained squad. Impact limited to a block or district. Evacuation from the direct confrontation zone is recommended.

Class 3 Threat: Affects an entire city. Mass impact on people, power, infrastructure. The National Guard and specialized teams are deployed.

Class 4 Threat: Forces operating at a national level. Capable of disrupting the government, military, or economy. Requires intervention by the army or its equivalent.

Class 5 Threat: Planetary level. Abilities affect the entire world. Capable of destroying the planet or fundamentally changing civilization. Such threats, for now, existed only in theory.

---

People bolted, abandoning carts and bags. Children's crying mixed with panicked shouts. Bob gripped Maria's hand in a death grip, trying to keep her close in the churning human tide.

"Diego!" he shouted, but his voice was lost in the general din.

His son was somewhere up ahead, separated from them by a living river of people mad with fear. It was impossible to fight against this current—it would simply crush and trample them. Bob's insides clenched with fear for his son. But immediately, another thought, forged by life experience, overlaid it: he couldn't panic. He had taught Diego to be independent; the boy should know what to do.

Diego himself was already moving with the crowd. Not succumbing to the general madness, but not resisting it either. He simply let the wave carry him toward the green-lit "SHELTER" signs, scanning with his eyes for his parents.

And at that moment, the ceiling of the atrium in the center of the hall burst.

There was no explosion, just a deafening crack of tearing concrete and metal. From the height of the third floor, breaking glass panels and rebar like rotten branches, a massive carcass plummeted. It landed with such force that the tiles beneath it spiderwebbed with cracks, and the shockwave knocked people closest to the epicenter off their feet.

Dust and concrete chips obscured it for a moment. The only sound in the ensuing silence was the tinkle of falling fragments. And then, from the clouds of dust, It rose.

A clumsy, asymmetrical body of a sickly green color. Skin seemed stretched over bones protruding at random places. Lumpy, pulsating growths ran along its back and shoulders. It stood on two legs, but there was nothing human in its appearance. It was the Abomination, a living embodiment of a biological mistake.

The creature straightened, slowly turning a head that had no eyes in the conventional sense—just a few dark, moist depressions. It inhaled and made a sound.

It wasn't a roar; a roar could be endured. This was an infrasonic wave, one that couldn't be heard by the ears but could be felt by the entire body. It passed through people, vibrating in their bones, compressing their internal organs. Following it came a piercing, cutting shriek that burrowed straight into the brain.

People around Diego grabbed their heads. Thin trickles of blood flowed from many of their ears and noses. The world blurred, lost its focus. The pain was so strong it paralyzed the will. Many simply collapsed to the floor, curling into a ball.

Diego doubled over too, but even through the agony, an instinct punched through: create distance. While the others writhed on the floor, he, staggering on unbending legs, began to retreat toward a side corridor. Every step sent a new wave of nausea through him. He didn't look at the monster; he looked at the path of escape, because he knew: whoever freezes in terror to get a better look at the threat dies first.

The Abomination unhurriedly stepped toward the nearest man, who was trying to crawl away, dragging a shattered leg. It reached out a huge hand and wrapped its fingers around the wretch's head. The skull was fragile to it. A light, almost casual pressure, and...

Crunch.

The sound was wet and quiet, but it gave the creature a sharp, almost ticklish pleasure. Like popping a tight bubble on packing wrap. The sensation was so new and pleasant that it repeated it, and then again. But the monotonous task quickly bored it. The crunch of bones and the softness of flesh no longer brought that first, bright spark of satisfaction. Far more interesting were those who tried to run.

They had life in them; they had fear.

The predator's instinct, dormant in the depths of its mutated essence, flared up. The Abomination took off. Its movements lacked any grace but possessed monstrous efficiency. It didn't run, but covered distance in a series of low, heavy leaps, landing with a dull thud that cracked the floor. One of the fleeing women turned at the sound, her face freezing into a mask of pure terror. The next leap ended right on top of her.

Its hunt was interrupted by something strange. In its path, right in front of its next victim—a boy of about fourteen—the air compressed into a perfectly flat, milky-white spot about a meter in diameter. It was at this very moment, in these seconds of mortal danger and unbearable stress, that the X-Gene awakened in the boy. The spot didn't glow; it seemed to absorb everything that passed through it. The Abomination, not slowing down, struck. The arm, meant to splatter the boy, entered the white nothingness up to the shoulder and... vanished.

There was no resistance, just emptiness where its limb had been a moment ago.

A roar burst from the monster's throat—no longer triumphant, but full of furious bewilderment. It instinctively spun and struck with its intact left arm, bypassing the portal. It put all its mass into the blow. The teenager, still standing with a trembling hand outstretched, maintaining the portal, didn't have time to do anything. The blow was so powerful that the air wave preceding the fist literally vaporized the teen's body before punching a car-sized hole in the wall behind him.

The Abomination stared in bewilderment at its right stump. Right before its eyes, from the torn muscles and bone fragments, tendrils of new flesh began to squirm and weave. The regeneration process was swift and ugly, but the pain of the loss and the humiliating feeling demanded an outlet. It wasn't going to stop.

Its gaze, cloudy with rage, snatched a new target from the crowd. It was Diego. The Abomination leaped.

Diego saw the carcass flying at him only at the last moment. Not a single coherent thought passed through his brain; only the most ancient instinct reacted—he threw up his arms, trying to cover his head. As if responding to his desperate attempt to defend himself, the X-Gene awakened in him too. Suddenly, his whole body was seized by a convulsion, and his vision went dark for an instant. And in that split second, a transparent dome of deep purple flared into existence around him.

The first blow shook the barrier. The second—and a thin, glowing crack ran across the dome. The third—more cracks appeared, weaving into a spiderweb. On the fourth blow, Diego knew it was the end. His strength was gone, his vision swimming.

And then, a green boulder of muscle blurred past Diego. A second monster, built less crudely than the Abomination, but driven by no less fury: the Hulk. He slammed into his opponent with the force of a train. The two figures, tangled in a knot of crushing hatred, burst out of the mall, shattering the walls.

Diego collapsed to the floor, the purple dome flickering and vanishing. The adrenaline that had kept him on his feet retreated, leaving a nauseating weakness. He needed cover. Staggering, he got up and, seeing almost nothing, dove into the doorway of the nearest shop. He scrambled behind the counter, curled into a ball on the dusty floor, and his consciousness, unable to take the overload, mercifully abandoned him.

---

This was no longer a street fight, but a localized earthquake with two epicenters. Each of a titan's blows against the other, each throw to the ground, generated a seismic wave that spread through the block. The asphalt beneath them crumbled, and the old brick buildings of Harlem, not designed for this kind of shaking, began to give way. Cracks crawled up facades, tiles rained from roofs, and one of the buildings began to fold inward with a deafening screech.

For Pietro Maximoff, the last five minutes had stretched into half a day of tedious work. In his perception of the world, flying concrete debris turned into objects drifting slowly through the air. He weaved between them, snatching people frozen in terror. He could see the beads of sweat on a frightened woman's face freeze in mid-air, see a child's pupil slowly dilate. To be honest, he liked this atmosphere; he felt truly important and cool, but the hours-long routine was beginning to tire him. Every person saved was just another checkmark on an endless to-do list.

The Abomination was clearly flagging. The loss of its arm gave the Hulk an undeniable advantage. But the endurance of both creatures seemed endless, and the fight could have continued until nothing was left of Harlem but rubble.

Suddenly, the roar of an invisible jet's engines at an extremely low altitude cut through the noise. A heavy shadow covered the monster, and a human figure dropped from it. Logan landed precisely on the Abomination's back, sinking his claws into the mutated flesh. The monster roared, trying to throw off the annoying rider, but Wolverine was already climbing up its spine. He reached the base of the skull and plunged all six blades into the monster's head.

It wasn't a fatal blow. The ragged wounds on the Abomination's head began to pulse and knit closed, but the breach was enough. A foreign will pierced the monster's skull. Professor Charles Xavier, safe many miles away, found the right node in the creature's brain and simply "untied" it.

The Abomination went into convulsions. Its body rippled, muscles deflating, bones retracting with a crackle. The grotesque transformation reversed. A few seconds later, a naked, wounded man, Emil Blonsky, lay on the asphalt.

Logan was about to kill him when a calm but insistent voice sounded in his head. "Logan, don't you dare."

"He deserves it, Charles," Wolverine growled under his breath.

"It's not up for discussion. Leave him for the government agents; they're already on approach."

"So they can dissect him? Or, even better, try to make a dozen more like him?" Logan stepped toward Blonsky.

"They won't succeed anyway. This creature isn't a mutant, but a government experiment that can be used in negotiations... As living proof of their irresponsible games. If he dies, the leverage over the government disappears with him."

Logan felt in his gut that leaving Blonsky alive was a mistake that would come back to haunt them. But there was logic in the Professor's words. He always saw several moves ahead. Wolverine retracted his claws in disgust.

At that moment, kicking up a small vortex of dust, Pietro stopped beside them. "Well, well," he drawled, curiously examining the crumpled man. "To think that can turn into that behemoth." He glanced at the Hulk. "No offense, buddy."

But their entire discussion missed one simple detail. No one had asked the Hulk's opinion. And the Hulk wasn't finished.

The green giant didn't say a word. He wasn't looking at Wolverine or the speedster. His gaze was fixed on the helpless body on the asphalt. He took a step forward.

"Hey, easy there, big guy!" Logan put his hands up, blocking his path. "Show's over."

With a backhand, the Hulk swatted him away like an annoying toy. Logan's body smashed through the window of a nearby shop and disappeared in a cloud of glass shards.

"Pietro, get Blonsky!" Xavier's command echoed in the speedster's head.

Pietro froze. He saw every muscle on the Hulk's body tense, saw nothing but primal rage in his eyes, directed at Blonsky. The Hulk looked at Pietro, as if warning him that if he moved, he would die. He could have grabbed Blonsky and been on the other side of the city before the Hulk could even blink. But for some inexplicable reason, he was terrified to do it.

"Professor," Pietro whispered, barely audible. "I'm afraid you'll need your telekinesis for this one. I'm not getting in the middle of that."

That second of hesitation was enough.

The Hulk took a second step, his enormous foot descending on Blonsky's body.

---

Gregory Hauss, a paramedic with twenty years of experience, thought he'd seen it all. He'd worked on ruins, pulled people from rubble after earthquakes, but what was left of the Harlem block defied all logic. The streets looked as if a capricious child-god had walked through, ripping chunks of asphalt from the ground and embedding cars into the walls of buildings.

The "National Guard," who looked more like secret agents, had already cordoned off the perimeter. "Hey, I've got a live one here!" shouted the rookie, a kid named Smith.

Hauss walked over to the doorway of a small shop. Smith was pointing his flashlight behind the counter. There, curled into a ball on the dusty floor, lay a teenager. Gregory frowned, preparing for the worst, but as he got closer, he relaxed. The kid had cuts, blood from the ears, dirty clothes—just like most of them—and, thankfully, he was breathing.

"Pulse is steady, breathing stable," Smith reported, having already checked the vitals.

Hauss did his own quick assessment. Pupils were normal, no broken bones. Just someone who was dead to the world.

"Get him on a stretcher. Tag him as a John Doe, 'shock, unconscious.' They'll sort it out at the hospital."

---

In the silence of his office, Charles Xavier watched dozens of screens, all broadcasting the same image: ruins and politicians. On the main screen was Senator Stern. "...we cannot allow our cities to become testing grounds for mutant feuds. We need the immediate creation of a unified registry and a system for the early detection of the X-Gene in children, to get the situation under control before it leads to new tragedies!"

Behind Xavier, the air grew imperceptibly heavy, and the sky outside the window darkened for a moment. "A registry?" There was a hint of thunder in Ororo Munroe's voice. "They created that monster themselves, we stopped it, and despite that, it's the mutants' fault again?!"

"They are shifting the blame, Ororo," Charles answered calmly, not turning around. "Blonsky is dead; they think all the threads leading to his creators have been cut. They urgently need a scapegoat, and we fit the role perfectly. They're using their own blunder to push laws they've had sitting in their desks for a long time."

"That... that's not fair! We cleaned up their failed experiment, saved the residents, and now they want to register us like cattle! They didn't even have time to do anything to stop it!"

"Ororo, please, calm down. The pressure in the room is dropping. We don't need a localized thunderstorm over the mansion," Xavier turned his head slightly. "They aren't playing fair; they're playing politics. And in politics, the winner is the one who controls the narrative. Right now, they've painted us as the threat."

"So what do we do? Issue a denial?"

"No," Charles shifted his gaze to one of the side monitors, which displayed a complex folder structure. "We change the topic of discussion. General Thaddeus Ross oversaw the program that created the Abomination. And it's far from his only questionable project."

Ororo followed his gaze and understood. "Leak everything online?"

"Yes. Let them spend tomorrow morning explaining to their constituents not some hypothetical 'mutant threat,' but very real, multi-billion dollar embezzlement from the military budget and evidence of illegal human experimentation. If they want to play dirty, we'll show them we know how to get our hands dirty, too."

---

One week later.

The monotonous, indifferent beep of a medical monitor. I tried to open my eyes, but my eyelids felt too heavy. He tried to make a fist and met something foreign in the vein at the crook of his elbow—the plastic tube of an IV. His body felt like cotton, disobedient.

Memories crashed down in an avalanche, forcing his eyes wide open. White ceiling, white walls, and a beeping machine by the bed.

A woman in a blue uniform entered the room. Her lips were moving, but only an underwater rushing sound reached me. I couldn't hear her. I think she asked if I was awake.

The woman paused for a second, studying my face, and then her lips formed something like professional sympathy. She pointed to her own ear and shook her head 'no,' letting me know she understood. Then she turned and left, returning a minute later with a small plastic whiteboard and a marker.

I tried to take it. The hands that had held a gamepad with no problem just a week ago barely obeyed. My fingers felt alien, clumsy. The marker trembled as I formed the letters.

The questions were from some other, former life.

First Name, Last Name: Diego Parr. Date of Birth: 06/09/2002. Address: 215 W 135th St, New York, NY 10030. Parents' Names: Bob Parr, Maria Parr.

I filled out the last item with difficulty. I flipped the board over and, awkwardly, tracing the letters several times, wrote:

"WHERE ARE THEY?"

The nurse took the board. She read it, and her professional mask slipped for an instant. She thought for a moment, then took the marker and wrote just one word.

"Wait."

And I had no choice but to.

---

Nick Fury watched the screen, where a smiling Senator Stern was once again telling the nation about the "mutant threat." A week after the Harlem incident, the report was finally on his desk—a summary of facts, cleared of rumors and speculation.

"Talk to me, Phil," Fury didn't look away from the screen. "What do we have on Ross and his pet monster?"

Agent Coulson stood at attention. "General Thaddeus Ross, 'Super-Soldier' project, recreation attempt. Subject 'Hulk,' aka Bruce Banner, was the lead developer but became the result of an experimental failure. Banner is sane, capable of cooperation. Our data suggests he's currently meditating somewhere in Tibet. Ross, considering this a success, decided to repeat the trick on Emil Blonsky. The result was what the press is calling 'Abomination.' Unstable, uncontrollable. There were twenty-three other volunteers in Blonsky's group. Only he survived, but was subsequently neutralized and killed by the Hulk. As for initial containment, it was provided by a group of mutants, presumably from Xavier's school. Our analysts agree that S.H.I.E.L.D. currently lacks the resources to neutralize Hulk-level threats without colossal damage to infrastructure and the population."

Fury rubbed his single eye. "The information on Ross's illegal experiments and budget embezzlement surfaced on an amateur forum. superheros.net. We're checking the source, but the data is very precise. Due to Stern's anti-mutant rhetoric, our bill to recruit gifted individuals into service has been rejected again."

"What about Stern himself?"

"Nothing," Coulson spread his hands. "Completely clean. No drugs, no mistresses, no strange hobbies."

Fury leaned back in his chair and pulled out a cigar. "That's just it, Phil. There are no saints. Everyone has secrets. And if we can't find his secrets, it means someone is hiding them very well." He lit the cigar, the flame briefly illuminating his face. "Are we really still the most powerful organization on this planet? Or do we just think we are?"

He let out a cloud of smoke. "Alright. Since they're resisting our program, we'll launch it on a smaller scale." Fury looked directly at Coulson.

"Codename... 'Avengers.'"

Phil Coulson nodded curtly. "Understood, sir."