The Greedy Frog
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Marvel: Pay to Win Gambling 19
🕑 Added 2025-04-21 16:33:12 +0000 UTCChapter 19: Mutant Killers
—Megan Gwynn—
She hadn’t expected it to look this rough.
Sure, the boy had warned her it was an ‘unsavoury’ part of town—but she hadn’t imagined this. Neon signs flickering with suggestive shapes. Laughter too sharp to be joyful. Shadows moving where they shouldn't. The stench of sweat, smoke, and cheap perfume.
A full-blown red-light district.
She tightened her grip on the shawl wrapped around her like armor, trying not to flinch at every indecent sound that echoed from the buildings lining the street. The boy hadn’t been specific. No address, no landmark. Just a vague memory, a feeling.
‘This is where you’ll find me.’
That’s all he’d said.
She’d followed that sliver of hope like a thread through the dark.
But now that she was here? The place reeked of danger. Of rot hidden beneath glitter.
She reminded herself that he was young—around her age. He wouldn’t be inside any of the bad places. Couldn’t be. Even in a place like this, there were still some lines people didn’t cross. Legal sex work didn’t mean legal brothels, and she knew enough about her town to understand the politics that kept this place running. Corruption ran deep, but not deep enough to ignore a minor.
So wherever he was, it wasn’t behind those painted doors.
She passed the buildings one by one, cheeks burning at the muffled moans and vulgar shouts inside. Eventually, she reached an intersection where the road split in three. She paused, eyeing each path. One was lit and noisy, another filled with what looked like homeless camps and rusting cars. The last was narrow, dimly lit, and silent.
She chose the dark one.
It was stupid. She knew it was stupid. But something told her that if he was anywhere—it would be there.
Whatever happened now was on her. She understood the risk. But she needed answers, and he was the only one who had them. The only one who seemed to know what was happening to her—what she was becoming.
She glanced over her shoulder every few steps, heart hammering like a drumline. Every shape looked like a figure. Every shadow felt like eyes.
Minutes passed.
She eventually came across a stretch of abandoned buildings—most of them crumbling, graffiti-scarred relics of forgotten projects. Nothing that screamed home.
But then she saw it.
A small structure, tucked away near the edge of the lot. The paint was peeling, the walls sagging, but the lights inside were on. Dim and flickering—but on.
Her pulse quickened. Her feet froze.
Every instinct in her body told her not to go in. That this wasn’t a safe space. That this was the kind of place where people disappeared.
She stood outside, breathing shallowly, debating whether to knock, run, or just turn around and pretend she never came here. Maybe… maybe it would be better to go back and confess everything. Her family might scream. Her father might reach for holy water. But her mother—maybe her mother would listen.
She took a small step backward, her breath shaky, her eyes welling.
And that’s when she heard it.
“I knew you wouldn’t have the courage to walk inside.”
The voice was male. Ragged. Coated in mockery.
Before she could scream, before she could even turn—she bumped into something behind her. A body. Solid, unyielding.
Her skin went cold. Her legs twitched with instinct, ready to flee. She tried to spin around, to shout for help, to fight—
But she never got the chance.
Pain exploded at the back of her skull like a hammer made of fire. Everything tilted. The world swam.
Then darkness crashed in like a tide.
Her final thought, fleeting and blurred, wasn’t about fear or the boy.
It was her mother. The one person who might have accepted her—even if her father never would.
But now?
Now it was far too late.
…
…
“What the hell is a sixteen-year-old girl doing in here?” Bobby asked, his voice equal parts confused and terrified.
Same thoughts were running wild in my head—none of them good.
“Keep an eye out,” Ororo said, already moving toward the building. “We’ll find answers inside. Out here, all we can do is guess.”
She wasn’t wrong. Which is why we followed her into the worn-down, suspicious-looking structure that might as well have had trap written on it in neon.
Not smart. Not even remotely.
But what choice did we have?
The building wasn’t completely dead—some of the floors still had lights on—but it was patchy. Most of the place was cloaked in shadow. Elevators? Out of service. Of course.
Bobby pulled out his phone and switched on the flashlight, trying to carve a path through the dark.
I beat him to it.
A tiny sphere of plasma sparked at the tip of my index finger, lighting up the space with a brightness no phone flashlight could match.
“Don’t ever do that again,” Ororo snapped, eyes narrowing.
I blinked. “What?”
“Electricity is highly conductive and combustive. A single gas leak, and you would’ve blown the building up—with us inside it.”
I sniffed the air, pretending to play it cool. “I don’t smell any gas.”
I did not sound convincing. Not even to myself. Cold sweat prickled down my spine. She was right. I could’ve killed us all. That one’s on me.
“I’ll let Bobby handle the flashlight,” I muttered, snuffing out the plasma orb.
Bobby chuckled and held his phone up again. “Tough crowd.”
But something felt… off.
There was electricity in the building, sure—but only on certain floors. And that didn’t make sense. The wiring should run from the bottom up or top down. No way the middle floors should be lit while the top and bottom ones weren’t.
“How the hell—” I started, but Bobby interrupted.
“Do you smell oil?” He took a long sniff, frowning.
I followed his lead—and instantly regretted it.
“I do.”
Motor oil. Thick and sour and getting stronger the higher we climbed.
It wasn’t gasoline, but still—motor oil and plasma? Bad mix. Real bad. Would’ve lit up like a bonfire if I’d kept that orb going.
Thanks, Ororo. Not that I’m ever going to say that out loud.
We all scrunched our noses as we hit the third floor. The smell was almost unbearable now—motor oil, rust, and something sharp like blood or iron.
Something wasn’t right.
“The wiring…” Ororo muttered, scowling. “Where does it go?”
She pointed at the tangled cables running along the walls. None of them were connected to lights or appliances. Instead, they stretched upward—leading to the next floor.
We exchanged looks. None of us liked where this was heading.
On the fourth floor, our questions multiplied—and so did the unease.
“Those…” Bobby whispered, “Androids?”
No. Not quite.
They weren’t your standard robots. They were… wrong. Crude. Pieced together like Frankenstein’s toaster. Wired up like life-sized marionettes.
“At least eight,” Ororo said. “All connected to the same wiring. And it looks like more wires go up. There might be others.”
“But why are they here?” Bobby asked, still staring at them. “What the hell are these things?”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Because I knew what they were. I recognized them the way a soldier recognizes a landmine. Barebones, wired-up freaks of metal and intention—but unmistakable.
“Daniel?” Bobby looked at me. I didn’t move.
“Are they…” Ororo began, her voice dropping, “Are they waking up?”
That question felt like someone whispered ice down my spine.
Because the moment she said it—their eyes snapped open.
“Ororo.” My voice was low and flat. “Bobby.”
They turned toward me, immediately alert, ready to fight.
“We need to leave. Now.”
“Why?” Ororo asked, keeping her eyes on the machines.
“These are just some dumb robots,” Bobby added. “We’ve fought worse, don’t worry—”
His sentence died halfway out of his mouth.
The machines spoke in unison, their voices metallic and inhuman.
“Mutants detected. Activating protocol red.”
Oh yeah. This was definitely worse.
These weren’t just bots. Not some janky warehouse security system or evil Roombas gone rogue.
They were the prototypes.
Early-stage, back-alley horror show versions of something much, much worse.
“Extermination of mutants: command in progress. Sentinel Version Zero Beta ready.”
Sentinels.
The mutant hunters. The boogeymen of our kind.
We weren’t just in trouble—we were screwed.
…
…
—Kurt Wagner “Nightcrawler”—
He slowly opened his eyes. His head pounded, his vision blurred, and every limb felt numb.
This wasn’t just a mistake—it was worse. So much worse.
He struggled against the restraints, desperately trying to teleport out of the chains that bound him. Nothing happened. Every time he tried to access his powers, the metallic collar around his neck flared with searing heat, shutting him down.
A voice spoke.
“It’s useless.”
Familiar. Too familiar.
The voice that led him here. The voice he made the mistake of trusting.
“Don’t worry,” the man said with a crooked smile, “when it all ends, you won’t feel a thing.”
To him, it wasn’t a smile. It was the grin of a damned devil.
Brown hair. Brown eyes. The man looked calm, even smug, as he stared him down.
“You’re the reason I got her here,” he said with a chuckle. “So… I’ll make sure it’s painless.”
His blood ran cold. Slowly, he turned to where the man’s gaze had drifted—and there she was.
The girl.
The one he’d been sent to guide.
The one he thought he was helping.
He’d believed it was for her own good. To help her understand her powers. To help her feel accepted.
But it was all a lie. One he fell for, just like she had.
“I must thank you, boy,” the man said with a satisfied laugh. “Because of you, I’ve been able to train the Sentinels with real mutant DNA. They’ve learned a few tricks. And with the old datasets I’ve collected over the years… well, we’ve got ourselves the Beta version.”
But the boy didn’t hear a word of it.
His eyes were locked on the girl—his age, chained to a metallic wall, the same collar around her neck suppressing her powers.
“You’ll die here,” the man said matter-of-factly. “But your blood will make the Sentinels smarter. Better at detecting X-Gene carriers. And with both of your blood, they’ll be able to mimic your powers.”
He smiled like it was a favor. “Don’t worry. It’ll be painless.”
With that, he turned to the computer console, fingers hovering above the command key that would end their lives.
But then—
Boom!
An explosion rocked the floor below.
“No!” the man screamed, spinning around. “My Sentinels!”
The lights above burst, one by one, in rapid succession—sparks raining down from the ceiling. Then came the rumble. A deep, violent shake that tore through the building like a wave of fury.
An earthquake.
But not a natural one.
A man-made earthquake.
