The Greedy Frog
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Marvel: Pay to Win Gambling 3
🕑 Added 2025-01-13 09:23:26 +0000 UTCChapter 3: The Ones with Powers
Minus the pain from the bullet lodged in me and the blood all around, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so breathtaking.
Or well, anyone.
“We don’t have to take this further,” she said, her voice deep, melodic, with a hint of an accent.
Cairo? Kenya?
I couldn’t quite place it, but damn, was it a nice voice.
“Killing him would cause more harm than good,” she added, walking toward me slowly.
She moved like someone trained for this. You know, the whole approach-an-unhinged-person-with-a-weapon routine: Talk them down, keep calm, get close enough to neutralize them without getting your own ass kicked.
Classic.
I glanced at the man on the ground, blood pooling around his chopped-off hand. He was barely holding on. It wouldn’t be long now.
Would that count as me killing him?
Probably.
“Please,” she said softly, still moving closer.
But holy shit, she was gorgeous.
Dark, flawless skin, like she hadn’t seen a single scar in her life despite all the battles she must’ve fought. Her eyes were pure white, glowing faintly, and as her powers eased down, they revealed a sharp, piercing blue. And her hair? A cascading, snowy waterfall that looked like it belonged in a damn painting.
What even is she? A goddess?
I could feel the Sin of Lust creeping up on me, so I forced myself to look away—toward the guy bleeding out on the ground.
No way I was about to play the pervert and the potential murderer at the same time.
“He was chasing me to kill,” I said, keeping my voice calm, my powers in check. Rule number one when dealing with someone trying to de-escalate: Look vulnerable, not like you’re one wrong word away from snapping.
Not that I couldn’t turn it all back on in a fraction of a second if I had to. But she didn’t need to know that.
“I know you’re tense,” she said, hands raised like I was some spooked animal. “But if he dies, you’ll be a criminal. Let me help him.”
Honestly? Pretty sure I’m already a criminal. The real question is whether the authorities know that yet.
“Please?”
I didn’t stop her. Just stepped aside and let her pass.
She was cautious, though. I could tell. Her gaze kept darting back to me as she knelt by the man, ready in case I made a move.
I leaned against the wall, watching. Curious. I didn’t remember Storm having any powers to fix a chopped-off arm.
Yeah, I knew who she was. I’m not stupid.
Not every day you see a black goddess flying down with lightning crackling around her. This was Ororo Munroe—Storm, one of the X-Men.
I mean, where else would I be? This was Marvel. Or some version of it. Probably one of the worst universes to wake up in.
At least I wasn’t helpless. I’d started with some crazy powerful abilities—enough to make a city go boom if I wanted to.
But let’s be real: in a world where “powerful” is just Tuesday for half the population? I wasn’t anywhere near untouchable. Just someone with a slightly better shot at surviving the next cosmic horror show than your average Joe.
And that? That was enough for now.
[The System can help you become a God.]
That was reassuring. And with my abilities now, earning a billion? Definitely possible.
But seriously, what’s your game plan here, system?
[To help you.]
Yeah, no. I trust easily, but not that easily. Everyone’s got a motive.
For now, though, that wasn’t the issue. The real question was: what’s next?
My eyes flicked back to the stunning lady crouched by the guy, her hand hovering over his mangled arm.
Damn, is she pretty.
That ass, that body…
Do all superheroes and supervillains look like this? Makes sense with the amount of work they put in.
“This will hurt,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “But it’ll keep you alive.”
Before I could figure out what she meant, sparks of lightning flickered to life on her palm, growing more violent with each passing second.
“Gahhh!”
The man’s scream echoed around us, and I won’t lie—I was enjoying this.
Not that I’m a sadist or anything, but seeing someone who’d shot at me twice writhe in pain worse than the bullet in my shoulder? Yeah, I felt a little satisfied.
That said, I still had a bullet to deal with myself.
The guy’s arm was a lost cause, but Storm had done a decent job cauterizing the wound to stop the bleeding.
As for me, I pressed my hand against my shoulder, gritting my teeth. With a grimace, I tapped into my magnetic manipulation—a nifty little sub-power—and yanked the bullet out.
It hurt. Oh, it hurt like a bitch. No anesthetics, no distractions. Just raw, searing pain.
But my healing kicked in the second the bullet was out, the wound knitting itself back together as I held the tiny sphere of metal in my hand.
Unfortunately, my impromptu surgery didn’t go unnoticed.
“You have healing abilities?” she asked, her eyes wide as they flicked between me and the guy’s now-sealed wound.
“Yeah,” I said casually. “And no, I wouldn’t have healed him even if you’d asked. You did fine on your own.”
That seemed to throw her even more.
“You can heal others, too?”
Right. Some powers are strictly self-healing. I could’ve kept that little tidbit to myself, but the cat was out of the bag now.
“Mhm,” I nodded. “Although I can’t heal clothes, which means I can’t exactly stroll into town looking like this.”
My outfit was a disaster. Calling it tattered was generous. Blood-soaked and shredded would be more accurate.
The kind of look that made people call the cops on sight.
And the best part? No money for new clothes. Not even enough for a bus ride.
Or a home.
If I even had one.
“Where… do you live?” she asked, glancing at the unconscious guy before focusing back on me.
Good question. Where did I live?
I racked my brain, hoping to dig up some scrap of information about my past.
Nothing.
“Well…” I started, shrugging a little. “Would you believe me if I said I lost my memories?”
Her expression flattened, eyes narrowing like she was trying to decide if I was serious.
“And you expect me to believe you… why?”
I couldn’t blame her. A guy nearly kills someone with his powers and then claims to have amnesia? Not exactly the most believable story.
But it was the truth.
And, as they say, truth always triumphs.
Or whatever that quote is.
"I woke up with a bullet hole in my leg, only to realize I could heal it with powers I didn’t even know I had." I kept my tone steady, opting for semi-truth over outright lies. Better to stay close to the truth—it’s easier to stick to.
"And then I was being chased by a guy with a gun. I didn’t have a choice but to fight back."
She didn’t look entirely convinced, but she didn’t dismiss me as a liar either.
“Do you recall anything before that?” she asked, her voice tinged with curiosity. “Anything before waking up with… these powers?”
“Nothing.” This time, I was completely honest. I didn’t know a thing about my life before that day. “But I do know I was involved in something shady. The guy kept muttering about betrayal and someone coming after me. That’s enough proof for me.”
Was I oversharing?
No, not really.
If she wanted, she could dig into my profile and figure out more about me before I even had the chance. And since my odds of escaping the X-Men were non-existent, honesty—or at least most of it—was my best play.
Because if there’s one thing I didn’t need, it’s the X-Men as enemies.
She took a deep breath, visibly trying to piece things together.
“That’s… a lot to take in,” she said, giving me a glance that seemed to silently ask for my name.
“Daniel Hayes,” I offered, deciding to make it easier for her. “Middle name’s Christopher, but let’s be real—who cares about middle names?”
She exhaled, her stance softening slightly. “Well, Daniel, I’m Ororo Monroe. I’m part of the X-Men, though most people know me as Storm.”
She seemed calmer now, though I could sense a hint of wariness still lingering.
“I might have an idea about your powers,” she said, her tone speculative. “There’s someone who could help you understand them better.”
I didn’t need to ask who she meant—I already had a good idea. But her willingness to accept my story this quickly caught me off guard.
“We would’ve known if someone with your powers was running around the city,” she added, almost as an afterthought.
So that explained it.
Apparently, people don’t see Omega-level mutants every day.
“So… am I in trouble?” I asked cautiously.
Her lips curved into a sly smile. “Only if you want to be.”
Damn, she’s gorgeous.
As if on cue, I felt my body heat up—a side effect of my powers or well, my sin. Her expression shifted, a flicker of suspicion crossing her face.
“Do you…” she began, narrowing her eyes, “have any other powers beyond healing and the electricity?”
So, the sin was working. Though clearly, her mind was stronger than most.
“A bit of magnetism,” I replied, downplaying it. “Nothing beyond that.”
Let’s keep the tentacles under wraps for now. No need to freak her out.
“Oh,” she said, sounding amused. I could tell she’d felt something, even if she couldn’t put her finger on it.
“What about… him?” I asked, nodding toward the unconscious man.
She hesitated for a moment before sighing. “I’ll call someone,” she said. “Let’s just hope they actually pick up.”
Then, turning back to me, she added, “As for you… you’re coming with me. It’s better than wandering the streets covered in blood.”
She had a point. Walking around in shredded, bloodied clothes wasn’t exactly ideal.
“You know what?” I shrugged. “Let’s do that.”
…
…
—Susan Storm ‘Invisible Woman’—
Drinking wasn’t her thing. Not really. But when Reed bailed on her every date, leaving her to walk home alone and replay the same miserable evening over and over, she felt like the universe didn’t leave her much of a choice.
“Refill, please,” she groaned, slumping over the bar. How many drinks had she had by now? She’d lost track—definitely more than a couple.
A few more, and she’d officially be more alcohol than blood.
Not the worst idea, honestly. Being a hero, a researcher, a scientist, a philanthropist, an activist, and a “good girlfriend” was exhausting. She was tired—of everything.
What she really wanted was a reset.
Just… leave it all behind. Start fresh somewhere far away.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
She glanced up and saw him: blonde, broad-shouldered, textbook jock. She barely gave him a second look before turning back to the far more pressing matter of reevaluating her life choices.
“I said, can I buy you a drink?”
Jocks like him weren’t exactly rare. Every sixth guy she met seemed to be one—same game, different face. Hit on her, hope for a hookup, maybe swipe a research file or two, or, worst of all, try to charm her into something long-term only to half-ass it the whole way through.
“I asked—”
“I heard,” she cut him off with a wry smile. “Not interested.”
She braced herself for the inevitable scene—guys like him usually didn’t take rejection well. A fight would’ve been nice, honestly. Something to vent her frustration.
But instead, he just muttered, “Bitch,” under his breath and walked away.
Weirdly, that made her angrier than if he’d tried harder.
Her frown deepened as she extended a finger, doing something she’d never even consider sober.
“Oops,” she murmured.
A tiny spherical barrier shimmered briefly in the air—just enough to trip the guy and send him sprawling. His drink splashed all over him as he hit the floor.
The bar erupted in laughter.
She cracked a smirk too. For a moment, it felt good. But only for a moment. The bitterness seeped back in almost immediately.
She was petty. She was bitter. And she knew she’d hate herself for it all in the morning.
Like she always did.
Why couldn’t people just be better? More exciting? More… caring?
It was the last coherent thought she managed before ordering another round and drinking herself into a blackout.
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[[A/N: How do we feel about Susan Storm?]]
