The warehouse district on the outskirts of New York City reeked of rust and desperation, a labyrinth of crumbling brick and flickering sodium lights. Oliver Keen, all of eighteen and barely filling out his thrift-store hoodie, crept through the shadows, his heart pounding like a drumline at a halftime show. He’d heard the whispers of the underground mutant auction on a shady forum—mutants sold like livestock to the highest bidder. With his dual powers of ice and fire simmering under his skin, plus that *other* mutation he didn’t dare think about in public, he knew he had to do something. Even if he was just a scrawny nerd with zero street cred.
Inside the cavernous warehouse, the air was thick with cigar smoke and the murmur of sleazy deals. A makeshift stage stood at the center, illuminated by harsh floodlights, where a greasy auctioneer in a cheap suit barked out bids. Oliver adjusted his fake mustache—yes, a fake mustache, because that’s what passed for a disguise in his broke-ass world—and scanned the crowd. Thugs, mobsters, and weirdos in trench coats, all leering at the cages lining the back wall.
And there they were. Ten of the most powerful mutant women on the planet, caged like animals but radiating defiance. Emma Frost, her platinum hair gleaming even in captivity, stood with arms crossed, her icy blue eyes dissecting every man in the room. Psylocke’s lithe form was coiled like a panther, her telepathic presence a silent threat. Rogue, Storm, Domino, Scarlet Witch, Polaris, Mystique, Jean Grey, and Dazzler—all of them glared out with a mix of fury and disdain. These weren’t damsels in distress. These were queens temporarily inconvenienced.
Oliver’s palms sweated as the auctioneer slammed his gavel. “Lot 13, the diamond dame herself, Emma Frost! Starting bid, fifty grand! Do I hear fifty?”
A burly man with a gold chain thicker than Oliver’s arm raised a meaty hand. “Fifty!”
“Sixty!” shouted another, a guy with a face like a bulldog had chewed it up and spat it out.
Oliver’s stomach churned. He had exactly $127 in his bank account, but he had a plan. Sort of. He raised a shaky hand, letting a thin layer of frost creep over his fingertips, just enough to catch the light. “One hundred thousand!” he blurted, his voice cracking halfway through.
The room went silent. Every eye turned to the skinny kid in the back with a mustache peeling at the edges. The auctioneer squinted. “You got that kinda cash, boy?”
Oliver forced a smirk, channeling every bad action movie he’d ever seen. “I’ve got… assets. Cold, hard assets.” He snapped his fingers, and a small burst of frost dusted the air, earning a few gasps. “Check my account if you don’t believe me.”
The auctioneer grumbled but nodded to a lackey, who scurried off to “verify.” Meanwhile, Emma Frost’s gaze locked onto Oliver, her lips curling into a predatory smile. “Well, well,” she purred, her voice cutting through the din like a blade. “A little knight in shining… polyester? Tell me, darling, do you even know what to do with a woman like me once you’ve bought her?”
Oliver’s face turned tomato-red, but he managed to stammer, “I-I’m not buying you for… that. I’m buying your freedom!”
Rogue, leaning against the bars with a smirk, drawled, “Aw, sugar, that’s sweet. But you look like you’d faint if Ah so much as touched ya. And trust me, that’s a problem with me.”
The other women chuckled, their laughter sharp and teasing. Psylocke tilted her head, her violet eyes glinting. “I can read your mind, kid. You’re either very brave or very stupid. Which is it?”
“Uh… both?” Oliver squeaked, scratching the back of his neck.
Storm’s regal voice cut in, laced with amusement. “Boy, you’ve got fire in your veins—I can feel it. But can you handle the tempest of us all?”
Before he could answer, the auctioneer returned, grunting, “Bid accepted. Lot 13 and her entourage—sold to the skinny frostbite over there!”
The crowd grumbled, but Oliver didn’t have time to gloat. He shuffled forward, fumbling with a fake credit card he’d rigged to look legit, and muttered, “Let’s get you out of here before they figure out I’m broke.”
Emma raised a perfectly arched brow as the cages were unlocked. “Resourceful, aren’t you? I might just keep you around… for amusement.”
As the women stepped out, their presence overwhelming the dingy space, chaos erupted. The warehouse doors slammed open, and SHIELD agents poured in, guns blazing. “Freeze! Hands up!” barked a voice over a megaphone as bullets and energy blasts lit up the night.
“Time to go!” Oliver yelped, dodging a stray shot. He gestured toward a side exit, where—by some miracle—he’d pre-booked an Uber. Not just any Uber, but a stretch limo, because apparently, that’s what you got for $19.99 in this part of town.
The women moved like a pack of wolves, graceful and deadly, as they piled into the limo. Oliver squeezed in last, wedged between Jean Grey and Domino, his knees knocking together. The driver, a grizzled man with a toothpick in his mouth, didn’t even blink. “Where to, kid?”
“Suburbs. Fast,” Oliver croaked.
As the limo peeled out, the teasing resumed. Scarlet Witch leaned forward, her crimson aura flickering. “So, little hero, I hear whispers of a… unique mutation. Care to enlighten us?”
Oliver’s eyes widened. “W-what? Who told you—”
“Oh, darling,” Mystique purred, her blue skin shimmering as she shifted closer, “word travels fast in our circles. A double endowment, is it? How… intriguing.”
“I—it’s not what you think!” Oliver sputtered, his face now a shade of red previously unknown to science.
Dazzler grinned, her voice dripping with mischief. “Relax, cutie. We’re just messin’ with ya. But seriously, you ever light up a room with that fire of yours? Or do you just melt under pressure?”
Polaris smirked, twirling a strand of green hair. “I could magnetize you to me if you’re not careful, kid. Don’t tempt me.”
Emma, seated across from him, crossed her legs with deliberate slowness, her gaze piercing. “Let’s be clear, Oliver Keen. You’ve bought our temporary alliance, not our loyalty. And if you think you can handle ten of us, you’ve got a lot to learn. But I must say… I’m curious to see how you try.”
The limo rolled to a stop outside Oliver’s suburban home, a modest split-level with peeling paint and a lawn that hadn’t seen a mower in months. He gulped, staring at the X-Men posters visible through his bedroom window. “Uh… welcome to my place. Just… don’t mind the mess. Or my dad. He’s kind of… anti-mutant.”
Jean Grey arched a brow, her telepathic presence brushing his mind. “This should be interesting.”
As they piled out, Oliver felt the weight of ten powerful gazes on him, each woman a force of nature in her own right. He had no idea how he’d explain this—or survive the night—but one thing was clear: trouble had just moved in, and it was wearing stilettos.
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