LOTUS LOTUS HAPPY SLEEP HOUSE – REAR EXIT TUNNEL ENTRANCE – 9:06 PM
(Disguised as a mop closet with an existential crisis. Probably goes to therapy on weekends.)
The upstairs karaoke had reached DEFCON-whiskey. Someone was absolutely slaughtering "Livin' on a Prayer," and judging by the glass-shattering high notes, the song was fighting back. The ceiling tiles trembled overhead like they were considering unionizing.
The mop closet wasn't really a mop closet. It was the kind of place that pretended to be normal—complete with a bucket humming "My Heart Will Go On" like it had unresolved emotional baggage and maybe a Canadian accent.
In the middle of this tragic domestic theater stood a vending machine.
Too shiny. Too perfect. Too not selling snacks.
"Time check," Jean said, slipping her comm into her ear with the kind of grace that could make a full SWAT team rethink their sexuality. Her red sundress was gone, replaced by a black stealth suit that somehow made "tactical" look like a Vogue spread.
Harry—who absolutely wasn't staring (he was)—blinked twice, then cleared his throat like a man who'd just been hit by a truck full of hormones.
"Nine-oh-seven in three... two..." she added.
Harry stepped forward, flexing his fingers. No wand. He didn't need one. The vending machine, sensing doom, tried to look casual.
"Alohomora," Harry said, then added with a smirk, "with style."
There was a click like a guilty conscience, a hiss of compressed air, and the vending machine shimmered—then vanished with the kind of finality you normally only see in reality shows when someone gets voted off.
Behind it: a staircase of worn concrete, laced with the faint smell of ozone and ancient spells.
"Ladies first," Harry said, with a sweeping gesture. "Try not to trip over your jaw, I hear it's a security hazard."
Natasha Romanoff strolled past him with the confidence of a woman who could kill a man with her pinky and still win a pageant. Twin Glocks at her sides, red hair tied back in a no-nonsense braid, and hips that moved like sin had just been declared a luxury brand.
"You flirt like a Bond villain with a trust fund," she said over her shoulder.
Harry grinned. "What can I say? I like my girls deadly and my banter sharp."
Jean rolled her eyes. "He rehearses these. In the mirror. With different lighting presets."
"I do not—okay, I do, but only the lighting part."
Tonks snorted. Her hair had morphed from neon pink to a deep tactical violet that glowed faintly at the tips. "We're gonna die in here, and Harry's final words are going to be 'Is that a laser grid or are you just happy to see me?'"
"I was happy to see you," Harry said. "Until you roasted me like a holiday turkey in front of the cool kids."
"Please," Tonks said. "I'm the hot kid. Get it right."
Ororo stepped up beside Harry, silent, elegant, and storm-born. Her white cloak moved like it had its own playlist—slow, dramatic, possibly orchestral. Her lips didn't move, but her presence alone made the temperature drop a few degrees.
"We have twenty-seven minutes before the next security sweep," she said. "Jean, scanners. Natasha, doors. Harry and I will handle the magical interference."
Harry turned to her with a smirk. "Is it weird that I'm excited by that sentence?"
Ororo arched a brow. "You'd be excited if I told you to sort laundry."
"Especially if it's your laundry."
She didn't smile. But there was a single crackle of lightning across her fingers, and the look in her eyes said, Careful, wizard. You flirt with storms.
He liked flirting with storms.
Natasha checked her watch. "Let's move, Aloha Squad."
Jean looked up, blinking. "Aloha Squad?"
"We say hi. Then we blow things up. Then we say goodbye. It fits," Tonks said, practically bouncing with excitement.
"Let's ruin some evil science," Harry said, conjuring a glowing sigil in the air with a flick of his fingers. It shimmered gold and locked onto the wards ahead like a magical bloodhound.
Jean gave him a once-over, biting back a smile. "Show-off."
"I prefer 'devastatingly effective and unfairly attractive magical prodigy,'" Harry said.
"Yeah," Tonks whispered to Jean, "but only we get to call him devastating."
The tunnel swallowed them, one by one, all cloaks, boots, and mission tension—heading into the shadows like a strike team made of supermodels and war gods.
And somewhere behind them, the mop bucket began softly singing "Careless Whisper."
Because of course it did.
—
LEVEL ONE – SERVICE CORRIDOR – 9:11 PM
(Where dreams of villainy go to die under flickering fluorescent lights and the smell of bad takeout)
The corridor was long, sterile, and smelled vaguely like sadness and microwaved fish. Classic evil lair. Budget edition.
Two guards stood near a biometric scanner that looked expensive enough to have its own tax bracket. They were deep in what sounded like an intense debate about either crypto or beard oil. It was hard to tell. One was stroking his beard like it owed him money.
From behind the corner, Harry cracked his neck like a boxer about to emotionally devastate a punching bag.
"Alright," he said. "Distraction time."
Tonks, ever the chaos goblin, whipped out a tiny Bluetooth speaker from somewhere (Harry had long since stopped questioning her storage system), hit a button, and grinned like a fox in a henhouse.
A beat.
Then the sultry, unmistakable saxophone intro of "Careless Whisper" floated into the corridor like pure, seductive nonsense.
Jean blinked. "Wait. Is that—"
"'Careless Whisper,'" Tonks confirmed. "Because we're classy."
Harry stepped into the open with the dramatic flair of a man who owned at least one dragon and probably wrote poetry about himself. His shirt—loud, floral, and criminally unbuttoned—fluttered as he walked like the wind itself was applauding.
Wandless spellwork crackled just beneath his fingertips, golden runes faintly glowing on the back of his hand like magical tattoos with main character energy.
"Evening, gentlemen," Harry said, voice low and honey-slicked. "Lost my towel. Found a secret lair. Happens more often than you'd think."
The guards just… stared.
One of them opened his mouth, then closed it like his brain was buffering. The other lowered his weapon slightly, confused and maybe just a little enchanted.
"What the hell…?" the taller one muttered.
Behind them, Jean casually reached out with her mind. It wasn't even a full telepathic assault—more like a firm psychic flick to the forehead.
Thud.
Guard One crumpled like a cheap lawn chair.
The other spun around just in time to see Ororo step forward, serene as a goddess at brunch. Her eyes glowed white.
"Sleep," she said, gently.
Zap.
Down he went, unconscious and possibly dreaming about thunderstorms and heartbreak.
Harry lowered his hand. "Wow. Didn't even need to show leg."
"You're lucky you're hot," Jean muttered, stepping over the bodies with the effortless grace of someone who used to do ballet and break bones.
Harry grinned. "You keep saying that like it's not part of my skillset."
"Your skillset is making bad decisions look like strategy," Natasha said, emerging from the shadows like a red-haired wraith with great cheekbones and murder in her boots. Her Glocks were still holstered, but her smirk was lethal enough. "Though I'll give you points for presentation."
"You give me more than points," Harry said, voice pitched low just for her.
She rolled her eyes. "Get us through the door, Casanova, or I'm changing the safe word to 'flamingo shirt.'"
Tonks cackled. "He loves that shirt."
"It's iconic," Harry replied, casually drawing a glowing sigil in the air with one hand. "I robbed an arms dealer wearing this shirt. He said it was distracting."
"You disarmed him with fashion?" Jean asked.
"Technically, I disarmed him with a sentient flying dagger, but yes. He was very offended."
The biometric scanner flared to life, then short-circuited with a very satisfying pop as Harry's rune spell unraveled its insides like magical spaghetti.
The door hissed open.
"Voilà," Harry said. "Ladies first. Try not to fall for me again on the way in."
Ororo breezed past, her cloak catching just enough air to look wind-machine perfect. "I only fall for storms, Potter."
"Same," Jean said under her breath.
Tonks added, "I fall for snacks. And maybe your abs. But mostly snacks."
Natasha rolled her shoulders. "Let's move. And Harry?"
"Yes, my love?" he replied, turning on the full smolder.
"If you quote George Michael again, I will throw you into a shark tank."
Harry winked. "But I'd die fabulous."
Then he followed them through the door like the chaos god he was—shirt open, magic glowing, and ready to romance or ruin anyone who stood in their way.
Whichever came first.
—
LEVEL TWO – OUTER LAB – 9:17 PM
(Where the air tasted like bleach, broken promises, and about seventeen ethical violations.)
The door creaked open like it regretted everything. The team slipped into the lab in silence—boots on tile, tension in the air, and a faint mechanical hum that sounded suspiciously villainous.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry bees. The walls were lined with sterile white tiles, big enough to host a really illegal science fair.
Natasha moved first. Naturally. Fluid, focused, devastatingly precise—her Glocks stayed holstered, but the gleam in her eyes said they didn't have to be. She bypassed the electronic lock on the lab's secondary system like it was a Sudoku puzzle she'd done before breakfast.
"Hall's clear. No movement on the cams," she whispered. "But something smells off."
"That would be the entire room," Tonks muttered. "Seriously, smells like a janitor's closet and a war crime had a baby."
Jean moved next, slipping through the door with her hand half-raised, mind already scanning. She stopped cold five steps in.
"Harry," she said, voice sharp and urgent.
He was there before she blinked. One look around and he got it.
Rows of containment pods stretched across the room like a sick parody of a garden. Some were shattered—glass shards still glinting under the lights. Others held motionless figures inside, suspended in thick gel that shimmered with bioelectric blue.
And in the third row, second from the left—
Laura.
Breathing. Contained. And very, very unconscious.
Tonks swore under her breath. "They actually did it," she muttered. "They cloned the Wolverine Girl Barbie, shoved her in a fridge, and called it science."
Ororo stepped forward, quiet fury in every motion. Static crawled across her skin like angry whispers.
"This is a prison," she said. "Not a lab."
Harry didn't speak. He didn't need to.
He moved.
Straight to the control panel—floral shirt flaring slightly beneath his black tactical coat—and held out one hand, magic already flickering across his fingers in golden arcs. No wand. He didn't need it. He was the spell.
"I'm getting her out," he said. "No more cages. Not for any of us."
Jean came up beside him. No hesitation. She placed her hand over his, the contact sparking with something raw and layered—mind and magic twining together like an old dance they never quite stopped learning.
The console hissed.
The pod lit up.
Then—
Snap.
Crack.
Hiss.
The chamber hissed open with a pressurized sigh, and Laura's body jerked.
Her eyes flew open—wild, golden, feral.
And the moment she saw Harry?
She moved.
Like a panther shot from a cannon.
One second she was inside the pod, next she was on him—arms locked around his shoulders, legs clamped at his waist, and claws sliding dangerously close to vital places.
Harry staggered backward with a grunt.
"Okay!" he gasped. "That's... a lot of teeth and zero dinner first!"
Laura snarled into his neck, her breath hot and ragged. She was running on instinct, and instinct had one thing to say: Alpha. Mate. Now.
"I think she's trying to climb you like a jungle gym," Tonks said, eyes wide. "And not in a family-friendly way."
"Harry!" Jean yelped. "Do something!"
"I am! I'm not dying via teenage mutant mating frenzy!"
Ororo raised her hand, lightning crackling—
"NOPE!" Harry barked, slapping a sigil to Laura's back. "Stupefy Maxima!"
A golden pulse erupted, knocking Laura off him like a blast of wind in a superhero movie. She hit the wall, then dropped, unconscious but unharmed.
Harry caught his breath, ran a hand through his hair, and muttered, "Okay. That was... new."
"You alright?" Natasha asked, already at a terminal, fingers flying across keys like she was defusing a nuke with sass.
"She licked my neck," Harry said, blinking. "Pretty sure that's not in the mutant etiquette handbook."
"She's feral," Ororo said calmly, checking Laura's vitals. "Under sedation, her instincts took over. You share similar DNA—she recognized you."
"Yeah, well, next time she wants to recognize me, maybe less tongue," Harry muttered.
Tonks gave him a wide-eyed grin. "She definitely wanted to jump your wand, babe."
Jean sighed. "You know, for once, can we not turn a tragic rescue into something dirty?"
"Speak for yourself," Natasha said coolly. "I just found where Logan's being held."
Everyone turned toward her.
"Level Three. Containment Chamber Delta," she said. "He's alive. Barely."
Harry's smile disappeared.
"Then we get him. Now."
He stood, brushing glass from his coat, his green eyes practically glowing.
"And if anyone gets in our way?"
He raised his hand. The runes flared again.
"They'll wish Laura jumped them instead."
—
LEVEL THREE – CONTAINMENT CHAMBER DELTA – 9:23 PM (Now with 200% more betrayal, clones, unresolved daddy issues, and the kind of outfit that makes you question every life choice.)
The elevator doors parted with a hiss, like it had just sighed dramatically in anticipation of what was waiting on the other side. Which, to be fair, was a very accurate reaction.
The hallway beyond was giving big "murder-tech startup" vibes—steel walls polished to the point of vanity, red ambient lighting that screamed villainy chic, and the faint scent of ozone, formaldehyde, and someone's overcompensating ego.
Harry led the way, because of course he did. Glowing runes shimmered down his arms, no wand in sight—just magic, attitude, and a floating, still-unconscious Laura bobbing gently behind him like a particularly grumpy balloon.
"Still clear," Natasha murmured. She moved like a red-haired specter—silent, sharp, and ready to stab anything that looked at them funny. Her hand hovered over her holsters with a kind of elegant menace that should've been illegal in that many countries.
"For now," Jean muttered. Her voice was clipped, her eyes scanning like radar. Her red hair blazed like warning fire under the dim lights. She did not like the way the shadows felt here. Neither did Harry.
And then the chamber doors opened with the dramatic flair of a soap opera cliffhanger.
Inside?
Well. Cue the theme music.
Logan—shirt in tatters, claws out, eyes blazing—was crouched inside a containment ring like a feral engine revving on hatred and muscle memory. His breathing was heavy, animalistic, and getting louder by the second.
Behind the control panel stood the star of our nightmares: Mr. Sinister. Pale as printer paper, dressed like Dracula's theater-kid cousin, and smug enough to make Voldemort look humble. His cape billowed without wind, because of course it did.
And sitting on his lap like a fashion crime and a psychological crisis rolled into one?
Jean's twin.
Correction: clone.
Same face. Same flame-colored hair. But while Jean wore her tactical suit with military precision, this girl was wrapped in enough black leather to star in five different guilty fantasies. Bodysuit with way too much bod and not enough suit. Midriff? Exposed. Cleavage? Prioritized. Gloves? Latex. Cape? Fashionably offensive—black on the outside, red like blood and bad ideas on the inside.
Jean stared. Then choked. "Oh my God. She's me. If I'd lost a bet to Satan and fallen into a Hot Topic clearance bin."
Madelyne Pryor—because that was her name, apparently—winked from Sinister's lap. "You're just jealous I make leather look like a religion."
Tonks squinted. "If I ever sit on a supervillain's lap in thigh-high boots, someone stage an intervention with lightning."
"Noted," Ororo said. Her voice could've frozen lava.
Natasha stepped forward. "Sinister. SHIELD file's bigger than your ego. Which is saying something."
Sinister smiled, all teeth and aristocratic menace. "Ah, Agent Romanoff. Always a pleasure to meet a redhead with knives for morals."
"Oh, I like him," Tonks whispered. "In a 'throw him off a balcony' kind of way."
Harry cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders. His claws hadn't come out yet, but his knuckles itched. "Tell me you didn't drag us down here just to show off your knockoff clone collection and monologue."
Sinister's grin widened. "Not just that. Jean, darling, I've been watching you since before you could spell telepathy. You were always meant to come here. To meet her." He gestured grandly at Madelyne. "Your sister. Your shadow. Your evolution."
Jean looked like she wanted to hurl. Or explode. Possibly both.
"But that's not all," Sinister continued, turning now to Harry with theatrical glee. "I brought him. Hydra's apex project. SHIELD's secret weapon. The Revenant."
Harry blinked. "Do people ever just send me a birthday card?"
Then Sinister raised his hand.
"Wolverine. Get me a sample. Now."
Logan roared.
And then all hell broke loose.
Claws slashed through the air like the world's angriest blender. Harry flipped back, dodging narrowly as the floor cracked under Logan's pounce.
"Logan! It's me!" Harry yelled. "Handsome British bastard you've punched twice and shared whiskey with!"
Logan roared again. Zero recognition. All rage.
Jean flinched. "He's not hearing you!"
Harry's shield rune flared golden, catching a swipe—but it shattered under the second hit.
"Okay," he muttered. "Plan B it is."
He extended both hands. The air shimmered. Energy gathered in his veins like a symphony revving to crescendo.
Snikt.
Three Vibranium claws slid out of each hand with a satisfying hum. Magic and metal, forged by fire and trauma.
Tonks practically swooned. "Okay, that is so stupidly hot I might combust."
"Permission to ogle?" Natasha asked without looking away from the unfolding fight.
"Granted," Ororo said dryly.
Harry planted his boots, claws raised. "Sorry, Logan. You're not the only wild animal in this fight."
They collided.
It wasn't just claws. It was muscle, fury, and decades of violence crashing into each other. Harry ducked under Logan's slashes, countered with Kamar-Taj sigils mid-spin, then drove a knee into Logan's ribs hard enough to dent adamantium.
Logan grunted—but he kept coming.
"You're tougher than a steak at a truck stop," Harry gasped, ducking another swipe.
"You're not bad, pup," Logan growled, eyes wild. "But I'm the damn Wolverine."
"Yeah? Well I'm the bloody Revenant!"
Their claws met in a shower of sparks. Magic lit the room like a rave hosted by Thor. Jean threw up a mental shield around the others, trying to protect Tonks and Laura, who was starting to stir.
Natasha worked the console, fingers flying. "Found the override on his programming—gonna take ninety seconds."
"You've got sixty," Harry yelled, kicking Logan across the chamber. "I think he just tried to bite my ear off!"
"Foreplay," Tonks whispered. "Definitely foreplay."
Madelyne smirked. "He's impressive. Think he'd like a clone or two?"
Jean stepped forward, eyes blazing. "Touch him, and I'll tear your mind in half."
Sinister clapped once. "Ah! The drama! The passion! Honestly, this is better than opera."
"Shut up, pale Frankenstein," Harry snapped, spinning midair and launching Logan into a reinforced wall.
Natasha called out, "Override ready. Just need one thing—Logan's blood sample."
Harry sighed. "Why is it always me doing the stabbing?"
Then he charged.
Claws raised.
And for the first time in a long time, he let the beast out.
—
LEVEL THREE – CONTAINMENT CHAMBER DELTA – 9:26 PM
(Now at 400% capacity for violence, unresolved trauma, and power moves worthy of a metal album cover)
Logan lunged like a snarling freight train, claws slashing in arcs that sparkled under the red emergency lights. But Harry? Harry was a storm wrapped in a flamingo shirt, magic thrumming through his veins like bass in a nightclub. He ducked low, twisted, and slammed his Vibranium claws into Logan's ribs so hard the floor cracked under them.
Metal screamed. Sparks flew. The force of impact echoed like a war drum.
"I don't want to hurt you!" Harry shouted, breath ragged.
Logan growled back, eyes wild. "Then you're in the wrong damn fight, bub!"
They clashed again, claws locked. The screech of adamantium against Vibranium could probably shatter friendships. Harry shoved Logan back, muscles straining.
"You know what? That's it," Harry gritted. "You are officially off the whiskey gift list."
Across the room, Jean Grey floated like a vengeful Valkyrie, eyes glowing white-hot with Phoenix fire. Her gaze locked on Madelyne Pryor—clone, chaos, and fashion war crime incarnate. Same face, different vibe. Leather for days. Cape that belonged in a dominatrix runway show.
Madelyne smirked, twirling a blood-red strand of hair. "You sure you want to tangle with your better half, Jean?"
Jean's voice dropped into the kind of tone that made gods flinch. "I'm not your half. I'm the whole damn flame."
Psychic minds collided like supernovae.
Madelyne screamed.
Jean surged forward, shattering psychic defenses like glass under a meteor. The clone collapsed to her knees, sobbing through gritted teeth.
"Stay. Out. Of. Me," Jean snapped, fire crackling off her skin.
Tonks, meanwhile, was hanging upside down from a pipe, wand between her teeth, hacking into Sinister's console like a sarcastic hacker-spy hybrid. Her T-shirt read: Trust Me, I'm Lying.
"Almost got it!" she chirped. "Though seriously, who programs biometric encryption in ancient Atlantean? With emojis?!"
"Lean into it!" Harry yelled, dodging another swipe. "Hack with flair!"
A gale blasted through the chamber.
Enter Ororo Munroe—Storm in a silk wrap, eyes aglow like thunder incarnate. She descended slowly, lightning curling around her wrists like divine jewelry.
"You defiled sacred power," she said, her voice a prophecy.
Sinister barely turned before she struck him with a bolt of lightning that made the lights short out and the walls groan.
He hit the ground, smoking. Still conscious. Still smirking.
"Not dead," Natasha observed, flipping a knife. "Unfortunately."
"I can help with that," Tonks offered.
Logan roared again, swinging for Harry's throat. Harry deflected and vaulted over him, landing with feline grace. He was bleeding. Profusely. Also, glowing slightly.
"Come on, old man," he gasped. "Remember Madripoor? You called me 'Princess.' I called you 'Snarly Spice.' There were explosions, and bonding, and possibly illegal gambling."
Logan paused.
His claws wavered.
"I'm trying to bring you back, Logan," Harry said, voice soft. "You're not a monster. You're family."
Something clicked.
Logan blinked. Then, with a grunt, he stabbed his claws into the floor next to Harry.
"Could've said all that before you broke three of my ribs," he rasped.
Harry grinned, lip bloody. "Where's the drama in that?"
Natasha tossed him a smile and wink. "You'll heal. Eventually."
"Hopefully before karaoke night," he muttered.
Tonks slapped the Enter key. "Security down! Clones sedated. Self-destruct sequence disabled. And... I may have just ordered thirty pizzas to Sinister's offshore account."
Jean landed beside Harry, pressing her palm to his cheek. "Still bleeding. Still reckless. Still mine."
He smiled. "Always yours."
Madelyne groaned from the floor. "Gross."
"You tried to kill us," Ororo said calmly. "You don't get to critique post-battle PDA."
Sinister, singed and limping, staggered up with the sheer stubbornness of a villain who hadn't been hit quite enough yet.
"You think this is over? You think you—"
Natasha flicked her knife.
It embedded in the wall right next to his head.
"Finish that sentence and I gut you with a spoon," she said sweetly.
Harry raised a glowing hand. "Or I could just turn him into a toad. Feels thematic."
Sinister opened his mouth.
The spell hit him mid-word.
He slammed into the wall and dropped like an overdramatic piñata.
Harry dusted off his shirt. "There. Better villain ergonomics."
The team regrouped. Bloodied. Exhausted. Glorious.
Logan cracked his neck. "So... who's buying the whiskey?"
"Not it," Tonks called. "I spent all my money on a magic karaoke mic."
"I call dibs on the hot tub," Natasha said.
"I call Logan's last cigar," Harry added.
"Touch it and I gut you," Logan grunted.
Jean rolled her eyes. "Let's go home before someone clones Harry just to flirt with him."
Harry winked. "Can you blame them?"
Natasha deadpanned, "Don't even think about it."
Behind them, the flames of Sinister's broken lab flickered and died. Justice had been served. Science had been punched in the face. The Chaos Crew had won.
And they looked damn good doing it.
—
LEVEL THREE – OUTSIDE CONTAINMENT CHAMBER DELTA – 9:32 PM
(Featuring one comatose clone, two semi-conscious war criminals, and a team too sexy to ride coach)
Harry leaned against a half-melted support beam, bleeding from approximately everywhere, shirt clinging to his chest like a very clingy ex, and his magic crackling around him like an over-caffeinated Christmas tree. His emerald eyes still glowed faintly, like he was about to deliver either a heartfelt confession or a tactical nuke of sarcasm.
Laura floated behind him in a levitation charm, still unconscious but with the aggressively unimpressed facial expression of someone who disapproves of unconsciousness on principle. Her arms were folded. In midair.
He fished out his SHIELD communicator—a device that had been "borrowed" from Coulson, then modified with Wakandan tech, triple-encrypted, enchanted for passive sass filtration (read: Tony), and yes, it had a disco light that only activated when Natasha called him "darling."
It buzzed.
Then buzzed again.
And then Hill's voice came through, sharp and sandpaper-dry, the sound of paperwork personified.
"This is Hill. Tell me you didn't blow up another genetics lab."
Harry smirked like a Bond villain on espresso. "No explosions this time. Just moderate property damage, one lightning bolt to the face, and a little clone-on-clone therapy gone nuclear."
"Why do I feel like that's not a metaphor?"
"Because it's me," Harry said, casually dodging a spark from the console Tonks had just kicked. "And metaphors ran screaming about twenty minutes ago."
Hill sighed. A long, soul-weary sigh that made Harry kind of proud. "Tell me what I'm sending the Quinjet for."
Harry glanced at the chaos.
"One unconscious clone assassin, two mostly-conscious war criminals—one of whom dresses like a Victorian vampire attending a rave—and the Chaos Crew."
Madelyne, tied up and gagged nearby, raised her brow and somehow managed to look smug. Even with duct tape across her mouth.
"Oh, and Natasha wants you to bring sedatives," Harry added. "Sinister monologues. A lot. And Madelyne flirts like it's an Olympic sport."
"Rude," Madelyne muttered behind the gag.
"Not inaccurate," Jean said, folding her arms as her hair still glowed with faint Phoenix fire. She didn't look at Madelyne—she glared at her, like she was considering vaporizing her clone with brain fire.
"Where are you?" Hill asked.
Harry glanced around the scorched hallway. Logan was poking Sinister with his boot like he was testing a dead jellyfish.
"Level Three. Bangkok. Sinister's Not-So-Funhouse. The building's toast. My shirt's bloodstained. Again. And we're standing in something that might be mutant goo. Don't sniff it."
Beat of silence.
"ETA ten. You want cleanup or containment?"
"Both. And someone bring pineapple pizza. If you say it doesn't belong, you can join Sinister in the brig."
"Copy that. Also, tell Tonks she's still banned from SHIELD servers."
Tonks, who was currently upside down again like a very enthusiastic bat, waved her wand and hacked the nearest terminal with a dramatic flourish. "Too late! I just registered us as an experimental theater troupe."
Click. Hill ended the call.
"She loves us," Tonks said dreamily.
"She tolerates us," Ororo corrected, looking regal and lethal all at once. Wind curled around her ankles. Her cheekbone game could have cut through vibranium.
Laura groaned.
Tonks floated over. "Sleeping Beauty wakes! Welcome back, murder muffin."
Laura blinked. "Did I kill anyone yet?"
"Only emotionally," Harry replied. "But there's still time."
"Why am I floating?"
"Because I care," Harry said. "And because your body went limp mid-fight and I panicked."
Laura blinked slowly. "Acceptable."
Natasha strolled past, red hair damp with sweat and murder. Her knives were still in her hands.
"Prisoners are cuffed. Madelyne tried to flirt with me. I told her I'd dismember her alphabetically."
"I'm into that," Madelyne said through her gag.
Jean groaned. "You're not supposed to enjoy the threats."
Harry sighed. "Alright, everyone. The jet's on its way. Let's not make SHIELD regret giving us flight clearance. Again."
Lightning cracked above them. Ororo lifted her chin. "The skies are ours."
"Great," Logan muttered. "Now someone tell me if I can light a cigar or if we're still playin' nice."
"You light up and I'm spelling your lungs into hamster cages," Harry replied.
Logan growled. But he didn't light it.
"I call dibs on the hot tub," Tonks said.
"I call dibs on Harry," Natasha countered, already claiming his arm.
Jean rolled her eyes and wrapped around his other side. "We're sharing."
Ororo raised a brow. "I am not not joining."
Harry, very professionally, tried not to look smug. He failed. Badly.
Behind them, fire flickered. Sinister stirred and groaned. Someone kicked him. Probably Logan.
The Quinjet roared above.
Chaos Crew: victorious.
Villains: bagged.
Hormones: unrepentant.
And the world?
Yeah.
Still not ready for them.
---
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I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!