24 January 2008.
Lucius was not a happy man, nor was he a happy Homo Superior. The money was obscene, the queue outside his house stretched like a private auction, SHIELD had switched from spies to procurement language, and yet the feeling would not leave him.
It was not poverty or boredom. It was vulnerability.
The teleportation he got from Vanisher was useful. Invisibility of DiPizzazotti was efficient. Yet, both were tactical tools. Neither had any offensive aspect. A telekinetic did not need to see him to dismantle him. An energy manipulator could fill a street with fire and leave nowhere to blink.
He stood at his kitchen counter, counting notes with steady hands, and listed what he lacked. Counting bills was his new Zen.
He needed telekinesis to crush without moving. Telepathy, as he does not trust people and energy projection to a range.
This was Marvel, and it had many ways to deal with the X gene. Collars fitted around throats were only one of them. Governments had suppression devices calibrated to the X gene. They had inhibitor chips, dampening fields, specialised rounds, restraint harnesses built to handle superhuman strength, and holding cells lined with alloys that interfered with mutant abilities. They had registration lists and "temporary protective custody". They had entire wings of facilities dedicated to cataloguing Homo Superiors like rare insects.
He would not be catalogued.
He stashed the day's earnings into his inventory. The motion had become instinctive. He leaned against the counter and considered his options.
What would a large circle yield?
He wanted power. Hopefully, his good friend Bob will have some answers.
He pulled the blackout curtains shut until the room sank into complete darkness. Once satisfied that no light bled through the seams, he let invisibility settle over him and then folded space with a deliberate thought, leaving the bedroom empty and undisturbed behind him.
Houston received him with damp air and the distant sound of tyres on asphalt. The park lay under lamps, empty at this hour except for insects and the occasional stray.
He sat beneath a streetlight and opened Bob. He turned pages slowly, searching beyond the beginner's shelf of fruit-based miracles.
There were greyed-out scribbles like an EA game waiting for a card number to unlock DLCs.
He closed Bob and looked at the empty path ahead of him. Sacrificing more might help.
A large circle, yes. Prisons will do.
He teleported back to New York and moved towards an island in measured jumps.
Rikers Island rose from the water like a monument to administrative failures. To use an island as a compound for multiple prisons was a crime against humanity. Was it really necessary to imprison criminals in this age and time, he wondered.
He appeared behind a service structure and stood still and invisible, letting the rhythm of the place settle into his head. Cameras rotated. Guards walked predictable lines. Doors opened and closed on schedule.
He began walking the perimeter of one facility block, chalk in hand. The small warehouse circle had taken mere minutes and one volunteer. This would take hours and hundreds of lives that mean nothing to him; at least he was helping the statistics improve.
He would not lose sleep over that.
The building he chose was Otis Bantum Correctional Centre. The reason was simple. He remembered some news about a serial rapist who was imprisoned here, so the other inmates should be of the same quality. The first rune went down near a drainage channel. The chalk line sank into concrete and pulsed once before dimming. He moved along the outer boundary, drawing curves that cut across walkways and along walls.
Whenever he encountered an obstacle, such as a fence or a wall, he folded space in measured steps and resumed the chalk line on the other side without breaking the geometry of the circle.
He moved like a surveyor laying claim to land he had no legal right to.
Two hours later, his fingers were dusted white. The circle enclosed one entire correctional wing.
He stood on the first rune and inhaled slowly. This was not justice; he was not that sentimental. He focused his intention outward, imagining the circle tightening like a noose drawn in perfect geometry.
Sacrifice.
The word left him quiet and firm.
Power surged through his spine, heavier than before. As if the air pressed down on him and then released.
For a heartbeat, the night felt hollow. Then it resumed.
He waited for a minute, when nothing visibly changed, he began erasing the runes in reverse. Each mark faded back into ordinary concrete.
When the last line vanished, he teleported away.
Back in his bedroom in Queens, he stood still and listened. Again, there was nothing.
He picked up the Nokia from the coffee table only after confirming no one had entered in his absence. He never carried it during operations. He was under surveillance from multiple organisations. He would not gift them triangulation data.
The phone beeped the moment he held it.
Sender: UNKNOWN.
You are learning. Check the grimoire.
"Of course I am," he muttered.
He allowed himself a small smile before teleporting back to the Houston park.
He reopened Bob beneath the same streetlight.
New sections pulsed faintly.
Potion of Invisibility. Lucius was sure the entity was trolling him.
Medusa's Draught. Now that was a strange one, it causes temporary paralysis, stiffening muscles and freezing foes in place. The ingredients were as simple as Haribo Snakes and some dust.
Somnus Draught. Another good addition, a shimmering mist that lulls enemies into unconsciousness when inhaled.
There was a new header. on the next page.
SPELLS. He continued to turn the pages. After the spells, there was another header.
ARRAYS.
He let out a low breath.
Sacrificing two criminals had granted him mobility. Sacrificing a wing of them had rewritten the table.
He returned to Spells first.
The early entries were practical. Starting from simple cleaning charms to small fireballs and mage lights. They escalated slowly. Focused flame projection, large fireballs, lightning bolts, and weather manipulations. Induced electrical storms across a limited radius.
He imagined Storm's expression and allowed himself a smirk.
"Perhaps we can exchange notes on meteorology," he murmured.
He turned the page.
Arrays.
Defensive grids that absorbed kinetic force. Binding lattices that froze targets mid-step. Energy siphon matrices that drained hostile output and redirected it. Perception filters that blurred a location from awareness. A suppression lattice capable of dampening abilities within a marked radius. His gaze landed on the last array, and his eyebrows rose.
He closed the book halfway and stood.
Under the streetlight, Lucius began to move with restless energy.
He lifted his arms and started to sing, voice low and amused.
"I drive a big old truck.
Jacked all the way up.
With a pair of big nuts.
Swingin' from the backside.
Burnin' your back dry cigarillo baptised.
Sippin' on a bottle of shine. Get you some back ride."
First, he needs to prepare some Somnus Draught, and then he will visit Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. Hellion's telekinesis was precise, violent, and adaptable at range, exactly the kind of offensive leverage Lucius lacked and the sort of power that turned vulnerability into control. There was a Hellion to capture.
The ingredients for the sleeping draught were not easy to find. Chamomile and Warm Milk. Milk was easy; he gave up on the Chamomile and made the potion with one less ingredient, thanks to Blessed Brewing.
Professor Baldy's school was in Graymalkin Lane, Salem Centre, Westchester County. Lucius returned to New York in a good mood and hopefully will return to his bedroom in a better one.