Chapter 26
An air-conditioned chill filled the television studio. Here, under the glare of the spotlights, no one even suspected the invisible war unfolding at that very moment on the city's borders. The world outside these walls could be burning, but here, the broadcast schedule was sacred.
A trio sat behind a semi-circular table made of frosted glass: Wanda, Pietro, and Jean.
The host, a man with perfect hair and an even more perfect smile, turned to the camera.
— Ladies and gentlemen, today we have a very special broadcast. Before you are those who are being called the future of our metropolis. The chosen trio leading the Guardians of New York initiative. Allow me to introduce: Jean Grey, known as Phoenix. They say her telekinesis is capable of catching a falling skyscraper.
The camera zoomed in on Jean, who gave a restrained nod, maintaining a mask of calm.
— Pietro Maximoff, also known as Quicksilver, the host continued. — A man for whom the speed of sound is a mere stroll. He can cross all of Manhattan while you blink. And finally, Wanda Maximoff, the Scarlet Witch. A girl whose abilities seem like magic, allowing her to manipulate the very fabric of reality.
The studio was lit by a barrage of camera flashes. Pietro felt as if he were wearing a wool sweater in a heatwave. He wanted to jump up, run, do anything, but Gladly's instructions to sit still echoed in his head. For a speedster, stillness was torture. He gripped the armrests of his chair to keep from tapping out a drumbeat that would be audible to the entire room.
When the noise subsided, the host spoke again, setting the agenda.
— To begin, we will have a short conversation so the viewers can get to know you not just as symbols, but as real people. Then we will hand the microphone over to the press.
With a broad gesture, he pointed to the section where journalists sat waiting like vultures. The host leaned forward, adopting a confidential tone.
— So, let's be honest. You possess power that armies would envy, but on paper, you are still teenagers. How does that fit in with a normal life? Do you even go to school?
Wanda's face momentarily twisted into a grimace that spoke volumes about her opinion of the education system; it was more eloquent than any words. Pietro continued to sit in a tense posture, trying to appear unfazed but looking as if he had swallowed a lemon.
Jean, seizing the initiative, gave a soft smile.
— Of course, education is the foundation. However, our educational institution is a bit different from municipal schools. All the students there are... unique. Each has their own traits that require a specialized approach.
The host chuckled, playing along.
— I'd love to see a school like that. But, in all honesty, students are the same everywhere. Everyone tries to cut corners; I was guilty of using cheat sheets myself. How does the administration handle such talents?
He suddenly shifted his gaze to the speedster, pulling him into the conversation.
— Take you, for example, Pietro. You are faster than thought. How does a teacher keep track of a student who can copy an entire textbook while the instructor blinks?
Jean, without changing her expression, slightly turned her head toward Pietro. The look was brief but meaningful: "Your turn."
— Uh... Pietro blinked. — As you said, it's hard to keep track, but not impossible. In my case, I take my exams in the presence of... a friend of ours. Her ability is the suppression of the X-gene within a certain radius. Near her, I become a perfectly ordinary guy, so cheating isn't an option.
He took a breath and continued more confidently:
— But that's not the only method; we have an individual approach for everyone. Wanda, for instance, often takes her subjects orally to rule out her powers affecting the writing materials or the text. Those with, say, super-hearing take tests in soundproof rooms. Professor Xavier takes the integrity of knowledge very seriously.
The host raised an eyebrow in surprise.
— A living power-dampener? I didn't know such a thing was possible. That is impressive. However...
He paused as if choosing his words carefully.
— One cannot help but notice a linguistic detail. This is the second time you've avoided the "M" word. First, Jean said "unique," and you just called her a "friend." Why are you avoiding the word "mutant"?
Jean answered instantly, as if she had been waiting for the question.
— It's all about the baggage that word carries—specifically the associations. When an ordinary person, a child or a housewife, hears the word "mutant," what comes to mind? Fifties science fiction. Monsters from the lagoon, Godzilla, three-headed calves, radioactive waste. Something distorted, wrong, frightening.
She scanned the audience.
— Yes, from a biological standpoint, the term "mutation" is correct; it describes a change in the genome. But socially, it has become a label. It leaves a bitter taste and creates a barrier between us and you. We are Homo Superior, the next step, but we are still people. Therefore, we would prefer the term "metahumans." It sounds not like a diagnosis, but like a description of capabilities.
The host nodded thoughtfully, and this time his seriousness didn't seem performative.
— A fair point. The power of a word is indeed great, and I admit I hadn't looked at it from that angle before. Well, I think that is an excellent transition. Let's give our sharks of the press a chance to ask some questions.
A man in a sharp grey suit, clearly representing a serious business publication, took the floor. He adjusted his glasses and, checking his notepad, began:
— I have a question for the mut— he faltered, remembering Jean's recent correction, and quickly fixed it. — For the metahuman Wanda Maximoff. You possess the ability to manipulate matter. What stops you from, say, creating a billion dollars and collapsing the national economy with hyperinflation?
Wanda leaned back in her chair and laughed. The laughter was genuine, but there was a hint of mockery in it.
— Ha ha ha! Seriously? Of all the possible questions, you chose inflation? Not whether I can create a panacea or cure cancer, but just... printing money?
She shook her head.
— Well, even if the question is silly, I'll answer it.
She carelessly extended her hand forward. The air around her fingers shimmered with a scarlet haze, and a moment later, a crisp hundred-dollar bill materialized in her palm. The hall erupted with the clicking of camera shutters. This was the first public demonstration of power on a live broadcast.
With a flick of her fingers, Wanda sent the bill flying. The paper glided directly onto the table in front of the journalist.
— Check it, she suggested. — Is it real?
The journalist, clearly unhappy with her tone but intrigued, picked up the bill. He rubbed it with his fingers, held it up to the light, and even scratched it with a fingernail.
— To the touch... it's ordinary paper, he stated dryly. — There are no watermarks, no security strip, no microprinting. And the paper is wrong; real dollars are printed on a blend of cotton and linen. This is a counterfeit.
Wanda gave a triumphant smile.
— Correct. I created it from memory. I see the image, but I don't know the chemical composition of the ink, I don't know the exact structure of the fabric fibers, and I don't know the security algorithms. To make an original, I would need to study it at a molecular level. So, technically, I could do it by spending a lot of time on research. But I don't see the point. Why bother with complicated pieces of paper when it's much easier to do... this.
A scarlet flash lit up her palm again. This time, when the glow faded, a large, perfectly cut diamond the size of a walnut lay in her hand. It caught the spotlights and broke the light into thousands of rainbow sparks.
— Carbon, she explained, tossing the gemstone. — A simple crystal lattice, an elementary structure. Your fear regarding a financial bubble is understandable, but believe me, the economy is the last thing that interests me.
The journalist, unable to find a response, slowly sat back down. Immediately, a woman from a science journal jumped up. Her eyes shone with interest.
— You mentioned medicine and curing diseases. If you can change matter, are you truly capable of synthesizing drugs? Curing illnesses directly?
Wanda rolled the diamond between her fingers like a cheap trinket. Her face became more serious.
— No. And no. You misunderstand the nature of my powers. I am not a god; I am... a reality engineer. I don't create things out of absolute nothingness; I rearrange atoms. And that brings us to the reason why I cannot cure the world with a snap of my fingers.
She placed the diamond on the table.
— You see, with a diamond, it's simple. Carbon atoms are aligned in a rigid, repeating order; it's like laying bricks. But medicine is completely different. To create a working drug, I would need to visualize its molecular structure down to the atom. If I get the polarity of one bond wrong or mix up an isomer, instead of aspirin, you get cyanide. My brain, for all its "meta" nature, is simply not capable of holding and processing trillions of variables simultaneously to create complex organics.
— But cancer isn't a virus; it's the body's own cells, the journalist persisted. — Could you not simply remove them?
Wanda shook her head.
— I can turn a complex pill into a stone, but not the other way around. Also, I cannot affect living beings. Or rather, those who have a soul. Living matter endowed with consciousness possesses a kind of immunity to direct reality alteration. And, anticipating your next skeptical question—yes, the soul exists.
Silence hung in the studio. The microphone passed to the next person. A middle-aged man stood up. Short hair, a cheap but neat suit, and a sharp gaze accustomed to scanning crowds for threats. His entire bearing practically screamed a past or present in law enforcement.
— Wanda, he began without preamble, skipping the "Miss" and "Metahuman." — Power of this scale requires absolute mental stability. Commercial airline pilots have regular psych evaluations. Police officers have their service weapons seized at the slightest suspicion of a breakdown. Who checks you?
He gestured around the studio, as if pointing out the fragility of the surrounding world.
— If you have a bad day, depression, or a nervous breakdown—where is the guarantee that half of Brooklyn won't vanish simply because you felt sad? I'm not a scientist, but based on what you've said, turning a city block into air is no harder for you than it is for me to smoke a cigarette.
A tense silence settled over the room. The question hit the mark, voicing the fear of every person in the room. Wanda tilted her head slightly, and a dangerous smile played on her lips.
— It's simple. You just have to not make me angry.
A distinct chill ran through the rows of journalists. Instantly reading the reaction, she realized she had gone too far; her words sounded not like irony, but like a dictator's threat. The situation needed immediate saving by shifting to a softer tone.
— Relax, it was a joke. A bad one, I admit. Listen, you're right. No one can guarantee absolute mental stability. Not in a human, and not in a metahuman. A hypothetical scenario where I, or someone equal in power, loses control is entirely possible. That is exactly why we don't rely only on our word of honor.
She paused.
— We are creating a specialized institution. A maximum-security prison for those who cross the line.
The man frowned. This was not the answer he expected to hear from a "superhero."
— A prison? But how can ordinary walls hold someone like you? How do you hold someone who walks through concrete or melts steel?
— That was the main difficulty, Wanda nodded. — There are too many variations of abilities. Building a cell for each individual is impossible and inefficient. So, we took a different path. Instead of adapting to the power, we decided to eliminate it.
She looked directly into the camera.
— Technology was developed to suppress the X-gene. Within the perimeter of this institution, any metahuman becomes an ordinary mortal. No super strength, no invulnerability. Just a human who must answer for their crimes under the law.
The man nodded slowly, processing the information. The idea that these demigods could be "switched off" by flipping a switch was calming. He sat back down, making a note in his pad.
The microphone passed to the next journalist. His face expressed unconcealed dissatisfaction before he even opened his mouth.
— You speak so easily about a prison for "your own," he began defiantly. — But how will others like YOU perceive this? Won't they consider you traitors who sold out to the system and are ready to put your brothers behind bars?
Wanda gave a theatrical sigh and rolled her eyes, showing how bored she was with that rhetoric.
— There is no "us" or "them." There is only "we"—society. Superpower doesn't put anyone above the law. And not because the law is sacred—let's leave that pompous nonsense to the politicians. It's simpler: if a metahuman uses the benefits of civilization—drinks coffee in a cafe, rides the subway, orders food delivery—they automatically sign a social contract. You use the collective resources, so you follow the collective rules. If you don't want to—live in the woods and eat roots.
The journalist opened his mouth to object but found no words and sat down. Next to rise was a mustachioed man whose face was familiar to everyone in the city: J. Jonah Jameson.
— You're without masks, and that's progress at least! he barked, not bothering with greetings. — That masked arthropod menace should take a leaf out of your book and finally answer for his crimes! But just like him, you are a magnet for freaks! Spider-Man attracts all sorts of Shockers and Rhinos like a dumpster attracts flies. Do you even realize you're opening Pandora's Box?! Any idiot with power will want to challenge you just to become famous. You'll draw more trouble to this city than that wall-crawler ever did!
Jean took the floor. Her voice was calm but firm.
— We understand that perfectly, Mr. Jameson. We are opening the door to the future, and it promises both new opportunities and new threats; that is inevitable. But answer me this: is there a better alternative?
— Alternative?! Jameson roared. — I don't give a damn about alternatives! I'm interested in something else. In your "beautiful future," what will Spider-Man be considered?! A criminal or a hero?
Jean smiled, and there was something predatory in that smile.
— Spider-Man this, Spider-Man that... You say his name so often and with such passion, Mr. Jameson, that one gets the impression you're simply hurt that he hasn't asked you out on a date yet.
A chuckle rippled through the hall. Without giving him a chance to cut in, she continued:
— Under current laws, he is a vigilante; that is a fact. But the world is changing, and the laws will change with it. It is hard to say what place he or anyone else will occupy in the future legal system. That will be decided by society, not us.
Jameson turned purple, his mustache trembling with indignation.
— How dare you?! I am a respected journalist! I...
— You know, I agree with Jean, Wanda interjected, resting her chin on her hand and looking at him mockingly. — Look at yourself. You're acting like an obsessed stalker who pulls a girl's pigtails because he doesn't know how else to express his feelings. You spend the lion's share of your airtime and newspaper columns on photos of a young, athletic man in tight spandex. One starts to wonder, you know.
J. Jonah Jameson was a thorn in the side of many colleagues. His aggressive style and monopoly on the truth were irritating. Therefore, sensing blood, the hall exploded with comments.
— She's right!
— The obsession is real!
— I bet his bedroom is covered in Spidey posters!
— I WILL NOT LET THIS STAND! Jameson screamed, losing his last shred of self-control. — IT'S A CONSPIRACY! YOU'RE ALL—
The studio security was already hurrying toward him. Amid the jeers of his colleagues, he was politely but firmly escorted to the exit.
Jean took a breath. In reality, Jameson's questions were the most dangerous ones at this meeting. They hit the very heart of the problem regarding the legal status of heroes, for which they didn't yet have an answer. Provoking him and turning everything into a joke and a scandal was the only way to avoid answering without losing face.