"Pathetic."
The nasal voice cut cleanly through the abandoned room.
A man in yellow monk's robes approached, his steps unhurried.
The sniper lay prone on the ground, her body still. Her lower half was wrapped in a skin-tight combat suit that exaggerated an almost unreal hourglass figure. From her elbow, an amalgamation of protruding flesh retracted with a series of bone-grating clicks, folding back into a pale, delicate arm.
Her shoulder was a mess. Torn skin, punctured fabric, and warm blood soaked into the material. She winced despite herself, a dull burning sensation spreading through her shoulder.
The man loomed over her, posture relaxed, expression openly displeased. A purple tattoo marked his forehead, his long gray hair resting neatly over his shoulders. As he approached, he slipped a strange dual-ring device from his fingers.
She tried to rise.
"SMACK!"
Her head snapped to the side, a red handprint blooming beneath her cloth mask.
"What an arrogant mutant," he said coldly. "Does your kind lack even the most basic manners?"
Her fingers curled slightly her head down.
"You should be apologizing for your failure," he continued, voice dripping with contempt, "and thanking me for my generous contribution. This failure is entirely your responsibility."
Distant gunfire echoed faintly in the background.
"Listen," he added, tilting his head. "Those men will be butchered because of your mistake."
Her eyes dimmed, hollowing as she listened. The gunfire faded, but the implication lingered. She pictured it anyway, the consequences. The chain reaction she had started was her partner's idea to wear a Shield agent's uniform, and she had gone along with it.
Had she incited the red-haired man to slaughter all of those men?
No, it couldn't be; the red-haired young man would have done it eventually of his own volition; her partner was not to blame.
She pulled her mask down slowly, revealing a face in her late twenties. Her voice came tight, restrained.
"I'm not a mut—"
"SMACK!"
The second slap landed harder.
Anger surged. She shot to her feet.
"Look what you did!" he snapped, gesturing to the ground dotted with tiny drops of blood.
Then to the hem of his robes, stained with faint crimson.
"You failed to eliminate the target," he said, disgusted. "You were injured by a mere government agent… and you dirtied my garments."
He clicked his tongue. Bringing his index and middle fingers together, he tapped them against his thumb. Yellow and red light spread outward, washing over the fabric. The blood droplets vanished as if bleached away.
He smiled, satisfied, and turned in a slow, almost narcissistic spin to admire the result.
Then his gaze dropped to her.
Dust clung to her suit.
His expression twisted.
"So filthy. No decorum at all. You've made yourself into a pigsty."
He raised his hand.
She unconsciously flinched hard due to the previous slaps.
He sneered at the reaction, then repeated the same motion. Light spread from his fingers, sweeping across her body. The dust vanished instantly, leaving her suit pristine.
She looked down, disbelief flickering across her face before hardening into suspicion.
"What are you staring at?" he said flatly. "I despise filth. Don't mistake it for kindness. You are barely tolerable as a tool."
Her expression twisted. Anger broke through.
Her injured arm trembled, and her other elbow shifted as flesh began forming into a rifle once more.
Where did he get off acting like this?
One slap, maybe.
But two?
This arrogant bastard had walked through her blood like an idiot, then blamed her for it. He could clean his robes instantly, yet still used her as an outlet for his irritation.
The rifle finished forming.
He noticed immediately.
In an instant, he categorized her like one would an asset. Emotional volatility. Poor control.
If he could shape this now, early, turn this failure into guilty submission, embed inferiority, it would pay dividends later. Even hatred would do, as long as it anchored her beneath him.
He smiled.
"Go on," he said, leaning closer. "Are you going to shoot me?"
His tone turned mocking.
"Or has MUTE decided it no longer needs Kaecilius's support?"
Her weapon stopped halfway.
Her teeth clenched.
What was he even trying to do? Fourth job together, and he was already making her an enemy. She'd thought him cunning before.
Now he just looked like a sadist.
Her eyes burned.
The rifle fully formed, elongating as she pressed the barrel against his forehead, perfectly aligned with the tattoo.
"You coward," she said, voice low. "What gives you the right to act so cocky? I should blow your brains out."
He didn't move. Didn't blink.
Just sneered.
Her anger climbed higher.
"You don't think I can?"
Ignoring the pain, she raised her injured arm and grabbed a few strands of her blue and pink hair. Twisting them together under intense pressure, the strands fused like pliable epoxy. With a soft pop, they detached.
In seconds, the mass hardened into a sniper round.
She slid it into a small slot along the side of her arm rifle.
The barrel pressed harder into his forehead.
He spread his arms invitingly.
"Do it," he said. "Pull the trigger. Or use whatever grotesque function your mutant anatomy prefers."
Her grip tightened.
Then—
loosened.
The pressure against his forehead eased.
He clicked his tongue.
With one hand, he casually swatted the barrel aside and turned away, already dismissing her.
He had barely taken a step when something sliced through the air past his face.
A faint whsst followed.
He stopped.
Slowly, he raised a hand to his cheek. When he pulled it away, a thin line of blood marked his fingers.
Turning his head, he saw a kunai embedded an inch deep into the concrete wall beside him.
"…Hmph. Already back from setting up your explosive tags."
From the shadows, a voice answered, calm but edged with killing intent.
"Don't misunderstand. I never left. I never needed to."
The man in robes didn't turn, but his posture stiffened.
This one was different.
Unlike the woman, who relied on her mutant biology, this man's template was… excessive. Versatile to the point of absurdity. His abilities overlapped with multiple disciplines. Sorcery-adjacent, but not quite. Jujutsu, wizardry, it could be considered its own subcategory.
And his ninjutsu didn't draw any energy source from another dimension.
"We may not be executives," the voice continued, "but our position is far more stable than yours."
A pause.
"Your failed group of sorcerers lost access to Kamar-Taj. It's obvious who holds leverage here."
This time he spoke more quietly. Sharper.
"If we walk away, your funding disappears. Your manpower disappears. Your resistance collapses. And if I report you to the Sorcerer Supreme… what exactly do you think you could do?"
"Sure, MUTE would punish us, but what do I care if I needed to remain hidden? No one could find us. Unlike you, I do not need backing to survive."
Silence settled over the room.
"This is an alliance. Nothing more," he said flatly. "You're here because you're useful. Transportation. Don't confuse that with dependence. I know exactly what kind of man you are."
Another beat.
"Now apologize."
"I refuse."
The sorcerer tried to move.
He couldn't.
His body froze mid-step.
His gaze dropped.
His shadow stretched unnaturally king, binding him in place.
"…Tch."
A few seconds passed.
"…Sorry."
The word came out hollow. Empty.
The young man released him with a quiet sigh, as if the whole thing had already bored him.
He stepped forward, hands in his pockets. Hair tied into a spiky ponytail, mask covering most of his face, half-lidded eyes permanently exhausted, and he gave the sorcerer a heavy pat on the back.
"See? Not that hard."
The paralysis vanished.
"You-"
The sorcerer stopped whatever words he was about to say, and the purple tattoo on his forehead pulsed.
a message.
Without another word, the tattooed man slipped the strange ring back onto his finger. Waving his hand in a circular motion, a circle of orange sparks flared open in front of him.
"Where are you going?"
No response.
He stepped through. The portal snapped shut behind him.
Silence.
The beautiful woman's posture sagged the moment he disappeared. The tension drained from her body as she reached into her back pocket, pulling out a cigarette. She stuck it between her lips and fumbled for a lighter tucked into her clothing.
Before she could light it, the young man appeared beside her in a blur, plucking it from her mouth.
"This is bad for your lungs," he said flatly. "Nicotine is a waste of money."
She glared at him, cheeks puffing slightly in irritation. Despite that, there was a faint warmth in her eyes.
"Who are you, my mom? Let me do what I want."
"Aren't your parents dead?" he replied evenly. "I'm pretty sure they'd say the same thing."
The words landed like a brick.
Her expression cracked. Tears welled up almost instantly, frustration boiling over.
Why are you such an unbelievably dense idiot?
No matter how high your IQ is, it'll never fix that blockhead brain of yours.
He ignored the insult completely.
Instead, his eyes lingered on her face.
Two overlapping red handprints.
Something flickered in his expression. It was too brief.
He suppressed it.
Not yet.
"Do you want me to kill him?" he asked.
"No. We can't ruin the alliance, you idiot."
"It's all my fault," she muttered, voice turning inward. "This was supposed to be clean. This is why I hate working with an audience…"
She searched for an excuse.
"…That red-haired template guy has to be high tier. There's no way he blocks two of my shots otherwise."
Now, in front of someone she'd known for over ten years, she stopped holding back. The frustration spilled out freely.
He sighed and guided her toward a nearby table like one would handle an overworked younger sibling.
She frowned, thinking.
"Could it be just because of his item?" She shook her head. "Yes… my holo-point rounds punch through concrete. But that wasn't just durability. That was experience. His reaction speed was too ridiculous."
She looked up at him.
"His sync completion rate must be low. We should finish him before it increases, right?"
No response.
He was already pulling off her vest with careful precision, examining the wound beneath. His focus had shifted completely.
fiberglass Arrow fragments that made it through the portal.
That archer had a fair bit of skill.
"Poof!"
A shadow clone had just dispelled itself to give him an update on the situation, leaving behind a flood of residual information. Her words, right now, offered nothing useful.
Except—
He tolerated them.
Because, while her rambling couldn't be intelligent enough to be considered strategy.
It was therapy.
And apparently, he was the closest thing she had to someone that listened.
"Are you even listening to me?"
"Yeah. Totally."
She kept going anyway.
"If not for that archer, I would've had him."
Behind her, seemingly appearing out of thin air an identical young man leaned lazily against the wall.
He let out a long sigh.
He gave a small nod.
The other him, still examining her wound, nodded, forming a hand seal, vanishing in a puff of smoke.
"That was just a clone!"
She looked at him as if betrayed.
Information flooded back instantly.
Recent thoughts. Her rambling. Everything.
A dull headache formed behind his eyes.
Here he was, running four clones to bait the red-haired target… and she'd been venting to one of them the whole time.
"What a drag…" he muttered. "Are all women this noisy like you? You just keep going. Don't worry so much. If you mess up, it's not a big deal. I'll handle it. Just calm down."
Her eyes narrowed sharply.
He didn't notice.
Instead, he tilted his head, genuinely curious, trying to rationalize her behavior imbalance whenever he was nearby. She seemed highly talkative today, especially.
"Is it that time of the month?"
Silence.
A chill and cold sweat ran down his spine.
"…I feel like I've made a mistake."
Her face flushed. Not just anger, humiliation too.
She started walking toward him slowly and menacingly.
He raised his hands immediately.
"I'm just saying—" he rushed, backpedaling, "you fired first. From their perspective, we're the problem. You can't let emotions control your decisions. This kind of situation was inevitable. It's not your fault. Unfortunate, sure, but we still have options."
He paused, thinking.
"Also… based on the gunfire, I'll predict you assumed he killed the agents."
She froze slightly.
"But it's more likely they panicked and opened fire first," he continued. "He hasn't retaliated yet... in fact, his demeanor seems quite composed and rational."
Relief flickered across her face, though she frowned at the latter half.
"SHIELD can't contain him," she said quickly. "He's too dangerous. We need to finish the job before he exposes users… or goes on a killing spree."
"We don't know that."
She looked at him, expression hardening. Her tone shifted firm, almost parental.
"All natural template users are monsters," she said. "Leeches. Even when they act harmlessly, it's a lie. They're manipulative, cruel, fundamentally broken. Every single one. Killing them is a service to humanity."
He watched her quietly.
"You shouldn't let personal bias distort your judgment," he replied. "Treat each variable independently. Then combine them to form a reasonable estimate... he could be an outlier."
She stared at him with true anger, not the puffed cheeks miffed state she had previously shown.
"They are all evil. Understand."
The way she said it sounded like a threat.
"Alright, don't get your panties in a bunch, calm down. I'm not taking anyone's side or anything."
Seeing his lack of enthusiasm to continue the topic, she decisively changed it.
"What kind of nonsense are you even saying? Anyway, based on his initial strength, if he reaches full sync, no government could stop him without going nuclear."
"Anyway. Stop lecturing and help me."
"But you're the one who keeps complai—"
He stopped mid-sentence when he saw her expression.
"…Right."
He crouched down with a reluctant sigh and pulled out a scroll from his storage pouch, undid the red wax seal, and casually unrolled it, making sure it was fully opened.
"Troublesome…"
He quickly formed different hand seals from before.
Poof.
A medical kit appeared. Simple. Crude. Reliable.
He began sorting through it without urgency.
"My medical ninjutsu isn't great," he said, grabbing tweezers, "and I'd rather not waste chakra on something this minor."
"Minor?" she snapped. "There's birdshot in my arm!"
"You're not dead," he replied calmly. "That qualifies as minor."
She stared at him.
"…You're unbelievable."
"Believe it."
He froze.
Then chuckled quietly, as he'd just remembered something.
She frowned.
"…Backwash memory?"
"Yeah. But I don't count it. Just something an idiot friend used to say."
(A/N. This is mostly a world-building/lore dump. I tried to make it sound as natural as possible. Big fight scene next chapter. If you could let me know how you want the pacing to be, I'd appreciate it. I know some people like to summarize conversations or do consistent time skips. I'm wondering if I should start the Avengers movie timeline within 10 chapters or if I should build out relationships first with in-depth dialogues?
Also, I've introduced 7 template users besides the MC. If you can guess each one, I will give you a fist bump. Such high stakes.)