The police scanner crackled with static before the dispatcher's voice cut through. "Units respond to possible gang activity near Warehouse 17 in Queens. Reports of suspicious activity and possible armed suspects."
Esdeath lowered the volume, a slight smile tugging at her lips. Third "gang activity" call this week in that district. The pattern was becoming obvious—unusual disturbances that police categorized as standard crime often had mutant fingerprints all over them. Regular gangbangers didn't leave scorch marks on concrete or bend metal storage containers.
"Time to crash another party," she murmured, slipping her makeshift mask into place.
Thirty minutes later, she crouched on a rooftop overlooking the warehouse district, watching a group of men unload wooden crates from a unmarked van. They moved with practiced efficiency, keeping lookout at regular intervals. Six of them, all armed—she counted three pistols and what looked like two submachine guns.
Standard operation. Nothing screamed "mutant" yet, but something about their body language felt rehearsed. Too careful. Too organized for typical street thugs.
Esdeath flexed her fingers, feeling ice crystals form and dissipate between her knuckles. The Lust within her stirred, eager for release. The familiar pre-combat anticipation tightened her muscles.
She plotted her approach—freeze the ground beneath the two nearest the entrance, disable the lookout, then—
A sharp, sudden pain lanced through her temples. Static filled her mind like television snow, making her vision blur momentarily. She staggered, one knee hitting the rooftop gravel.
What the hell?
The sensation vanished as quickly as it had come, but left behind an unmistakable impression of being touched—like fingers rifling through her thoughts. The Lust inside her pulsed defensively, pushing back against the intrusion.
Someone with mental abilities was nearby. Watching her. Scanning her.
Esdeath's instincts screamed danger, but curiosity overrode caution. She'd been hunting for other mutants—had one found her first?
Below, the thugs continued their work, oblivious. She coiled her muscles, ready to spring into action despite the warning bells. One quick ice slide down, then—
A beam of concentrated red energy sliced through the air inches from her face, striking the ledge where her hand had been about to land. The concrete sizzled, leaving a scorched line.
"I wouldn't," came a male voice from behind her.
Esdeath spun, ice already forming around her fists. A man stood twenty feet away—tall, with brown hair and a strange visor covering his eyes. Red energy glimmered behind the lens, ready to fire again.
More surprising was the woman floating down to the rooftop beside him, her descent controlled by some invisible force. Long red hair framed a face both beautiful and severe. She wore a fitted black uniform with subtle X insignias.
"You're interfering with our operation," the floating woman said, her voice calm but firm. "Those men down there are under surveillance. We need them to lead us to their supplier."
X-Men, Esdeath realized. Jean Grey and Cyclops.
The woman—Jean—tilted her head slightly. "Yes," she confirmed, answering Esdeath's unspoken thought. "And you're the ice vigilante who's been making quite a stir these past few weeks."
Jean's eyes narrowed, concentration etching her features as she pushed harder against Esdeath's mental barriers. The pressure intensified—like a migraine building behind Esdeath's eyes—then abruptly ceased.
"Interesting," Jean said, genuine surprise coloring her voice. "Your mental defenses are... unusual. Natural or trained?"
Esdeath relaxed her stance slightly, though ice still crystallized between her fingers. "Let's call it a work in progress."
The truth was more complicated. She'd spent weeks meditating, visualizing walls around her thoughts—partly out of paranoia about telepaths, partly to contain the darker impulses that sometimes bubbled up. The Lust energy seemed to reinforce those barriers, turning her mind into slippery terrain for outsiders.
Cyclops stepped forward, his hand hovering near his visor. "Professor Xavier asked us to evaluate any new powered individuals in the area. Especially those with... aggressive tendencies."
"Evaluate?" Esdeath laughed. "You mean recruit or neutralize."
"Something like that," he admitted. "How about a simple test? Short spar, no serious injuries. Jean observes."
Esdeath considered the offer. These weren't street thugs—they were trained X-Men. A chance to measure herself against professionals. The Lust inside her stirred eagerly at the challenge.
"Sure," she said, sliding into a fighting stance. "Ladies first."
Cyclops didn't hesitate. A controlled beam of ruby energy shot toward her legs—a disabling shot, not meant to harm. Esdeath twisted sideways, simultaneously forming an ice ramp that carried her ten feet to the left. The concrete where she'd stood cracked under the impact.
"Not bad," she called out, genuinely impressed by his speed and precision.
She countered with three rapid-fire ice projectiles. Cyclops blasted the first two from the air but had to physically dodge the third, which clipped his shoulder.
"Not bad yourself," he returned, adjusting his stance.
The rooftop became their arena. Cyclops unleashed calculated optic blasts—each one powerful enough to stagger but not maim. Esdeath matched him move for move, her body responding with preternatural quickness. The Lust fueled her reflexes, lending her movements a fluid grace that belied her limited training.
Ice platforms rose and fell. Red energy carved through frozen barriers. They danced around each other, testing boundaries.
Esdeath slid under a horizontal beam, closing the distance. Cyclops switched to close-quarters combat, his form disciplined and efficient. But Esdeath had surprise on her side—she coated her forearm in ice, deflecting his strike, then tagged him with a light jab to the ribs.
"Point," she said, grinning behind her mask.
Jean floated above them, her expression unreadable but her eyes missing nothing. Esdeath felt the weight of that analytical gaze—cataloging her powers, assessing her control, measuring her potential.
Cyclops disengaged, stepping back with a nod of acknowledgment. "You've had training."
"Self-taught," Esdeath replied, letting the ice recede from her hands.
"Your power control is precise," Jean observed, descending to stand beside Cyclops. "But raw. Unrefined. And there's something else—something beyond the cryokinesis."
Esdeath tensed. Had they sensed the Lust energy?
"We could help you develop it," Jean continued. "Whatever 'it' is."
"Thanks, but I work alone," Esdeath said, though curiosity tugged at her. "Besides, I'm not exactly X-Men material."
"That's not for you to decide," Cyclops replied. "And you'd be surprised who we consider 'material.'"
Cyclops rolled his shoulder where her ice had connected, a grudging smile forming on his lips. "You're stronger than I expected. Most self-taught mutants can't maintain that level of precision while under pressure."
"I'm a quick study," Esdeath replied, feeling the Lust energy settle back into a low hum beneath her skin. The fight had awakened something in her—not just the thrill of combat, but the satisfaction of being seen for what she truly was.
Jean approached, her steps light across the rooftop. "Your control is impressive. The way you manipulate temperature gradients to create structural integrity in your ice constructs—that's not instinct. That's calculated."
Esdeath shrugged, though pride flickered through her. "Physics still applies, even to mutants."
"Have you considered formal training?" Jean asked, her voice careful, measured. "The Xavier Institute provides education tailored to each student's abilities. We could help you refine what you've already developed."
The offer hung in the air between them. Part of Esdeath—the part that craved growth, challenge, and mastery—wanted to say yes immediately. Another part—the survivor, the strategist—recognized the strings attached to such an offer.
"Not yet," Esdeath finally said, meeting Jean's gaze directly. "But I'm listening."
Jean nodded, as if she'd expected this answer. She reached into a concealed pocket on her uniform and withdrew a small card. "If you change your mind, we'll be waiting."
Esdeath accepted the card, turning it over in her fingers. Simple white cardstock with an address and phone number embossed in silver. No name, no X-logo—discreet enough to carry without raising questions.
"What about them?" she asked, gesturing toward the warehouse where the men were still working, unaware of the rooftop confrontation.
"We'll handle it," Cyclops said. "This is bigger than a few weapons dealers."
Jean's eyes unfocused briefly. "Our team is already in position. You should go—unless you want to meet the rest of us tonight."
Esdeath tucked the card into her pocket. "Another time."
With a nod from Jean, Cyclops stepped back. The telepath's eyes glowed briefly, and they simply faded into the shadows of the rooftop, their departure as controlled as their arrival.
Esdeath stood alone, gazing across the city skyline, a smirk forming on her lips.
"So, I've got the X-Men's attention now..." she murmured to herself, the possibilities unfolding before her like a dangerous, exhilarating game.