Chapter 80 : Seasonal Rivalry – A Hard Fight
New York, Manhattan – Alex's POV
The moment after my introduction stretches longer than it should.
Not because time slows.
But because everyone is trying to decide what, exactly, I am.
The cold presses in from every direction—biting, invasive, wrong—but it stops at the edge of me. A clean circle, one meter wide. The Void holds. Silent. Absolute. I feel it more than I think about it, like a steady hand on my shoulder reminding me to stay centered.
Masks turn.
Visors adjust.
Sensors spike.
Weapons lower just enough to be raised again instantly.
I don't move.
Let them look.
Let them measure.
Let them fail.
I lift one gloved hand in a small, almost courteous wave.
"Since we're all staring," I say lightly, voice projected cleanly through Stark's open channel, "I should probably add one important thing."
I take a half step forward. The frost recoils where my boot touches it, not melting, not breaking—simply refusing to exist in that precise outline.
"I can make a safe place."
That lands harder than any dramatic reveal.
Not because it's flashy.
But because everyone here understands what that means.
"A pocket," I continue, cheerful, controlled. "Protected. Warm enough. Quiet enough. Somewhere civilians can breathe again. Somewhere heroes can stop bleeding for a minute without the spirit of Christmas whispering frost into their bones."
I tilt my head, as if considering the phrasing.
"And," I add, pleasantly, "inside it, his influence gets… shy."
A few reactions ripple immediately.
Tony's HUD spikes again.
Jean's posture tightens, her awareness brushing against the edge of my presence and sliding off like rain on glass.
Steve's eyes narrow—not suspicious, not hostile. Focused. Measuring cost versus gain.
Johnny Storm lets out a short laugh from above. "Okay, I gotta ask—are we just accepting that Halloween is union-busting Christmas now?"
I glance up at him.
"Seasonal rivalry," I reply easily. "Very old. Very petty."
A beat.
Then a few surprised snorts cut through the tension.
Good.
Laughter doesn't break fear.
It loosens it.
I let my gaze sweep the battlefield—not dramatically, not obviously. I don't look at the Avatar for long. That would invite questions. Instead, I gesture vaguely behind me, toward an alley already half-buried in ice and wreckage.
"I can anchor the zone there. Fixed position. Doesn't move. Doesn't grow. Doesn't explode." I pause, then add, "Usually."
Tony clears his throat loudly over comms.
"Okay, Jack. You said it usually doesn't explode. Define 'doesn't explode in general'."
I smile under the mask.
"It falls somewhere between a very enthusiastic firework show—think Hiroshima levels of enthusiasm—and, you know…" I tilt my head slightly, as if considering the words. "A localized reality malfunction that politely erases the Earth from existence."
Several channels go very, very quiet.
"But," I add quickly, cheerfully, "there's really no reason to worry. I don't recall that last one ever actually happening."
Tony exhales. "That is not helping."
"Oh, it's fine," I say lightly. "The zone stays up until Halloween passes. After that, everything goes back to normal. More or less."
I shrug, invisible beneath the costume.
"And the rest?" I continue. "Not your problem. Not today. Not this night."
A pause. Then, softer—but still playful:
"As long as it's Halloween… you're safe."
Jean finally speaks, her voice careful, precise.
"What does it feel like inside?"
I angle my head toward her, considering.
"That depends," I say pleasantly.
"For regular people?" I shrug lightly. "Nothing special. A room without the draft. A quiet breath. The kind of normal you only notice when it comes back."
I let a beat pass.
"For people like us…" I tap two fingers against my chest, theatrical but not mocking. "It's quieter than you expect. No pull. No buzz. No pressure trying to be something."
I smile beneath the mask.
"Like setting your powers down on a chair by the door and realizing you can still stand just fine without them."
Jean's eyes sharpen instantly.
Not alarmed.
Focused.
She understands enough.
That's dangerous.
So I keep the tone light, almost sing-song.
"Don't worry," I add. "They'll be right where you left them when you step back out. Halloween's polite like that."
Her gaze lingers on me a second longer than necessary.
Then she nods—once.
That's all she needs.
"Look," I say, clapping my hands once, softly. "I'm not here to lecture. Or convert anyone to seasonal metaphysics. I'm offering a tool."
I point two fingers down toward the frozen ground.
"Put your wounded there. Put your civilians there. Rotate people through if you have to. He'll feel it—" I nod, vaguely, toward the Avatar, "—like an itch he can't scratch."
Tony mutters, "I hate that that makes sense."
Steve exhales through his nose.
The questions start coming faster.
"Is it magic?"
"Does it block psychic intrusion?"
"Does it stack with force fields?"
"What happens if he targets it directly?"
I lift both hands.
"Whoa, whoa. One spooky spirit at a time."
I pick my answers carefully. Short. Performative. True enough to function.
"Magic?" I nod once. "Halloween magic. Very seasonal. Very opinionated."
"Psychic stuff?" I tilt my head. "Yes. Minds stay inside their skulls where they belong."
"Force fields?" I waggle a finger. "Ah—no stacking. Shields don't layer. They politely… stop working once they're inside. Even the fancy invisible ones."
Somewhere nearby, Susan stiffens slightly.
"And if he targets it directly?" I glance, briefly, toward the Avatar. Just enough.
"He'll try," I say cheerfully. "He won't enjoy the experience."
Johnny drops lower, flames guttering just enough to keep him airborne. "So what—you're a walking haunted house?"
I grin.
"Portable nightmare deterrent."
That finally cracks a smile from someone else—Wasp, hovering near the edge of my perception. She watches me with narrowed eyes, recognition still trying to solidify into certainty.
Steve doesn't let it drift.
He steps forward again, voice cutting cleanly through the chatter.
"Enough."
Silence follows him instinctively.
He turns, gesturing sharply as he speaks, pulling the battlefield back into structure.
"This changes our flow, not our objective," Steve says. "Jack's zone becomes our fallback and civilian shelter. Romanoff—Barton—you reroute evac through it."
Natasha nods immediately. Clint adjusts his mental map without comment.
"Fantastic Four," Steve continues, pointing. "You support containment and breach analysis, but rotate anyone injured through the safe zone before they're combat ineffective."
Reed nods once, already recalculating.
"Mutants," Steve calls out, eyes locking briefly with Logan. "Fragments stay your priority. Jack's zone gives you somewhere to reset if things go bad—but you don't linger."
Logan bares his teeth in something that might be a grin. "Wouldn't dream of it, Cap."
Steve turns to me last.
"And you," he says. "You anchor. You hold. You don't chase."
I incline my head in a small bow.
"Anchor. Hold. No chasing," I repeat cheerfully. "Got it."
Steve scans the field one last time, then raises his voice.
"Everyone move. Now."
The battlefield shifts again—cleaner this time. Purposeful. Lines forming with intent.
As they disperse, I step backward toward the alley, frost retreating before me like a curtain being drawn.
I'm aware, very clearly, of how ridiculous I must sound.
A spirit.
Seasonal rivalry.
Campfire metaphors.
And yet—they listened.
Because function matters more than explanation.
I reach the anchor point and lower one hand to the ground.
The circle forms quietly.
No flash.
No announcement.
Just absence—of cold, of pressure, of fear.
A hollow in winter.
And somewhere behind me, the spirit of Christmas turns its attention—slowly—toward something it does not understand.
Good.
Let it wonder.
Let it waste time.
We'll take everything else it has.
New York, Manhattan, A Few Minutes Later – 3rd's POV
The line forms under pressure, not ceremony.
Frost claws at the street as the five of them move, boots scraping on ice that reforms the moment it breaks. Captain America is already talking, voice sharp and carrying, cutting lanes through the wind. Cyclops adjusts two steps to the left on instinct. Colossus plants himself half a pace behind him. Thor grips Mjolnir tighter, breath fogging, shoulders squared despite the tremor running through his arms. And Hulk—
Hulk charges.
The ground fractures under his first step, then shatters entirely under the second. He slams into the Avatar of Hrimthul with a roar that is half fury, half defiance, fists crashing into a wall of ice and ancient cold. The impact echoes like a glacier calving. Frost explodes outward in jagged shards, tearing through abandoned cars and frozen debris.
The Avatar does not fall.
It slides back a single step, feet grinding into the street, torso rotating with inhuman smoothness. Its arm rises—not fast, but inevitable—and a wave of cold detonates point-blank.
Hulk is thrown backward.
He digs his fingers into the asphalt, carving trenches as he skids, growling, muscles steaming where frost burns into green skin. He laughs through it, low and dangerous, already pushing back to his feet.
"Good," he snarls. "Hulk smash harder."
"Now," Steve snaps.
Cyclops fires.
A red beam lances out, not a wild blast but a controlled, sustained line, striking the Avatar's upper torso and driving it back another step. Ice vaporizes. Energy ripples through the creature's chest, cracks spiderwebbing across runic patterns that glow brighter in response, not dimmer.
The Avatar reacts immediately.
Its free hand slams into the ground. Cold surges outward in a circular shockwave, freezing the air itself. Cyclops cuts the beam and braces, boots locking in place just as the wave hits.
Colossus steps forward without hesitation.
The blast crashes into him like a freight train. Ice coats his steel skin in seconds, locking around his shoulders and chest, but he does not move. He plants both feet, arms crossed, absorbing the force as it was meant to be absorbed—by someone who can take it.
Behind him, Steve raises his shield just in time. The shockwave slams into vibranium and splits, redirected upward and outward, sparing Cyclops and Thor from the worst of it.
"Hold!" Steve calls. "Hulk—keep it busy! Scott, stagger your fire! Piotr, don't give it an angle!"
Thor moves.
Lightning does not answer him—not fully. The sky is wrong here, choked with frost and alien pressure—but Mjolnir still carries weight, still carries purpose. He hurls himself into the fray, hammer crashing into the Avatar's shoulder with a thunderous impact.
For a heartbeat, something like recognition flickers through the creature's posture.
Then it retaliates.
The Avatar's head snaps toward Thor. Its chest glows, runes flaring violently, and a concentrated lance of cold erupts point-blank. Thor crosses his arms, bracing, boots skidding as ice climbs his armor and crawls up his beard. He grits his teeth, muscles screaming, but he holds.
Barely.
"Hrrnngh—!" Thor stumbles back a step, then another, catching himself before he falls. His breath comes ragged, eyes burning with fury and something closer to guilt.
"This ends," he growls, more promise than plan.
Hulk slams back in.
He tackles the Avatar low, arms wrapping around its waist, driving it backward with sheer mass and rage. The street gives way beneath them, ice and concrete pulverized as Hulk forces the creature toward a collapsed building.
The Avatar responds by changing shape.
Its lower body fractures, reforming into jagged ice pylons that anchor it into the ground. Hulk strains, muscles bulging, veins standing out as cold burns deeper into his skin.
"Won't," Hulk snarls. "Move!"
Cyclops fires again—short, precise bursts now—targeting joints, seams, points where energy concentrates. Each blast disrupts the Avatar's balance just enough for Hulk to gain inches. Not victory. Space.
Space is all they're buying.
Colossus moves to Hulk's flank, slamming his shoulder into the Avatar's side, adding his weight to the push. Ice cracks. The creature's torso twists unnaturally, arm swinging out in a wide arc.
Steve is already there.
He intercepts the blow with his shield, the impact ringing like a bell struck by a god. The force hurls him sideways, boots scraping sparks from frozen asphalt, but he rolls with it, coming up on one knee.
"Reform!" Steve shouts. "Thor, right side! Scott, suppress—now!"
Cyclops complies instantly, beam flaring brighter as he rakes it across the Avatar's upper body. Thor moves in, hammer striking again, this time aiming for the same fracture Hulk and Colossus are widening.
The Avatar roars.
Not sound—pressure.
The temperature drops another degree, then another, until breath crystallizes in the air. Ice creeps faster now, climbing legs, stiffening joints, turning sweat to agony.
Colossus feels it first.
The cold bites deeper than before, finding seams even in organic steel. Frost locks around his knees, slowing his movement. He grunts, muscles tensing, refusing to yield.
"Holding," he says through clenched teeth.
Hulk bellows in defiance, tearing free chunks of ice and hurling them aside. He rears back and punches again, again, again—each blow thunderous, each answered by the Avatar's shifting mass.
Thor falters.
Just for a second.
The cold seeps into old wounds, into something deeper than flesh. His grip loosens. Mjolnir dips.
The Avatar senses it.
Its arm lashes out, striking Thor squarely in the chest. He is hurled backward, slamming into a frozen bus hard enough to crumple metal. He slumps, struggling to rise, frost racing across his armor.
"Thor down!" Steve calls. No panic. Just fact.
Steve moves immediately, shield flashing as he intercepts another strike meant for Hulk's back. He rebounds off the blow, pivots, and shouts new orders without breaking stride.
"Piotr, cover Thor! Hulk, keep pressure! Scott, eyes on the core—don't let it charge!"
Colossus breaks off despite the ice locking his legs, forcing himself forward to stand over Thor like a wall. Cyclops adjusts, beam locking onto the Avatar's chest as runes begin to glow brighter, energy pooling dangerously.
The Avatar pushes back.
It wrenches one arm free and slams it into Hulk's side, sending him sprawling. It steps forward—just one step—but the ground freezes solid beneath it, power radiating outward in a widening ring.
They feel it.
The line strains.
Steve digs in, shield up, breath burning. Cyclops' visor frosts at the edges. Colossus' joints creak under the cold. Thor forces himself upright, leaning on Mjolnir, eyes blazing with stubborn resolve. Hulk growls as he rises again, slower this time, but no less determined.
They hold.
Barely.
The Avatar stands contained—for now—hemmed in by force, will, and constant pressure. But it is not weakened. It is adapting. Learning.
And the cold keeps spreading.
Steve looks at the line, reads it in an instant.
They are buying time.
Nothing more.
And time, here, is the one thing that is slipping through their fingers fastest.