After reading the slogans on the signs and banners, Richard immediately understood what he was looking at. These weren't random protesters. They were members of the so-called liberal faction—the ones who had somehow decided he was their standard-bearer.
Among them, he spotted something even more telling. Seven or eight young mutants stood out in the crowd with long silver hair that shimmered under the afternoon sun. He didn't need telepathy to figure it out.
Those were his fanatics.
Silver hair had become their unofficial badge. If they naturally had long hair, they dyed it silver. If they didn't, they wore silver wigs without embarrassment. The look had spread far beyond mutants, too. Plenty of ordinary young men and women had copied the style for one simple reason.
It looked good.
Whether he liked it or not, he had sparked a nationwide silver-hair trend.
He had zero interest in being anyone's leader. He didn't want a faction, didn't want followers, didn't want responsibility. But seeing this group of young mutants protesting openly at a major intersection—and knowing some of them were mimicking him—piqued his curiosity.
Because public protest, for a mutant, required nerve.
With the Mutant Restriction Act in effect and the Department of Mutant Affairs tightening its grip, most mutants avoided revealing their identities in public. Even those who had registered legally were still subjected to suspicion and discrimination. Registration didn't erase prejudice. The people who feared mutants didn't care about paperwork.
Down below, San Francisco police officers exited their vehicles and began dispersing the crowd without discussion. The tension escalated quickly. What started as shouting and shoving turned into arrests within minutes.
When the police drew weapons, the young mutants didn't hesitate.
Gunshots cracked through the air.
Explosions followed.
Metal bent, asphalt fractured, and shockwaves rippled through the intersection. The once-busy crossroads dissolved into chaos. Without firearms, the mutants relied entirely on their powers, and at first, they pushed the police back.
Several officers were thrown off their feet. Patrol cars were dented or overturned. The mutants fought hard.
But bullets still tore through flesh.
Some of the young protesters were hit. Injured mutants were dragged backward by their companions as they tried to retreat. If things had ended there, they might have escaped before reinforcements arrived.
Unfortunately for them, reinforcements came from a different direction.
The Department of Mutant Affairs.
In cities like New York, Los Angeles, and San Francisco, the Department maintained well-equipped branches. Smaller cities had them too, though with fewer personnel. The difference was scale, not presence.
Four mutant agents arrived alongside heavily armed special forces.
Moments earlier, the young protesters had bullied the police with their powers. Now the dynamic reversed.
The agents were vastly stronger.
The gap in ability was comparable to a professional basketball team facing a middle school squad. Numbers didn't matter. Skill did.
Within minutes, the protesting mutants were overwhelmed. One by one, they were subdued and fitted with superpower suppression collars—sleek devices that locked around the neck like reinforced dog collars.
As soon as the collars activated, resistance ended.
From his rooftop vantage point, Richard watched as the captured mutants were dragged toward transport vehicles. He tilted the chip bag and poured the last crumbs into his mouth, chewing slowly.
Then he raised his right hand.
Snap.
Thunder cracked across the clear sky.
A heartbeat later, four thick silver-white lightning bolts tore downward from the clouds. Each one struck a mutant agent directly. Thinner forks of lightning rained onto the surrounding special forces.
The sound was deafening.
The agents sensed danger the instant thunder rolled, but awareness didn't grant escape. Richard's control over lightning had improved dramatically in the past three months. Power output, casting speed, precision—every aspect had refined.
The bolts hit with surgical accuracy.
Electric current surged through armor and flesh alike. The agents and special forces convulsed as pain overwhelmed their nervous systems. Smoke rose from scorched uniforms as they collapsed onto the pavement.
Silence followed.
Shock spread across faces in every direction. The restrained young mutants stared in disbelief. Police officers froze mid-motion. Even bystanders seemed unable to process what had just happened.
There were mutants who could summon lightning. There were mutants who could manipulate electricity.
But not like that.
Not with that level of control.
Before speculation could settle, a silver-haired figure appeared on the street out of thin air.
Richard.
He had teleported down from the rooftop.
Facing the stunned protesters, he spoke evenly. "If you don't want to end up wearing collars like dogs, then train your powers properly. What you just showed me was clumsy. You fight like toddlers learning to walk."
As his words fell, invisible wind blades sliced cleanly through the suppression collars around their necks. The metal rings split apart and dropped to the ground with dull clanks.
He had no interest in summoning his sword for something so trivial. Instead, he shaped compressed air into dagger-sized blades. They lacked overwhelming force, but they were sharp enough for precision cutting.
The collars were gone.
The freed mutants touched their necks in disbelief. A blond young man, barely in his twenties, pushed forward with bright, excited eyes.
"I can't believe it's really you," he blurted out. "Do you live around here? Did you come just to save us? Can you teach us?"
His words opened the floodgates.
The others swarmed forward, voices overlapping. They surrounded Richard like overenthusiastic fans spotting their idol at a convention. Some reached out impulsively, hands stretching toward his coat, his arm, even his hair.
He stepped back slightly, unimpressed.
Boys should learn to protect themselves when they're out in public.
Bounce.
A controlled air shockwave expanded outward in a perfect circle. It wasn't violent, just firm. The crowd stumbled backward several meters, pushed away without injury.
"I'm not here to teach you," he said flatly. "And I'm not here to save you either. I just dislike the Department of Mutant Affairs."
The statement cooled their excitement slightly.
He turned his attention toward the four downed mutant agents. Plunder was instinctive now. He had no reason to waste useful abilities.
But just as he prepared to act, something else caught his eye.
Among the surrounding onlookers stood two figures he recognized immediately.
He frowned.
Black Widow.
Hulk.
Natasha Romanoff stood with her posture relaxed but eyes sharply focused, as if she had been expecting something dramatic. Beside her was Bruce Banner, dressed casually, looking outwardly calm yet visibly tense beneath the surface.
What were they doing here?
.....
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