( 3rd POV )
Lake Baikal, Siberia.
The heart of winter had gripped the small village nestled at the southeastern edge of Lake Baikal with an unyielding hand. Snow stretched endlessly across the landscape like a frozen ocean, untouched and pristine under the pale, wintry sky. The low sun cast long, golden streaks across the ground, glittering against the blue-white frost.
Each breath drawn by the village residents became visible mist in the frigid air as they worked with weary determination, scraping snow off rooftops, clearing footpaths, and chiseling away ice that stubbornly clung to windowsills and door frames.
Neighbors, bundled in thick coats and fur-lined hats, gathered in small clusters, exchanging New Year's greetings, discussing weather forecasts, and whispering bits of local gossip—some about livestock, others about the growing tension in Moscow, and even stranger rumors from the West.
Among the villagers was a towering young man in his early twenties whose physical presence could not be ignored. He was broad of shoulder, thick of limb, with calloused hands shaped by years of labor on the family farm. His thick dark hair fell untamed over his brow as he shoveled snow in steady, practiced motions.
His breath fogged the air with each exhale, and the heavy flannel shirt he wore strained over the powerful cords of muscle along his back and chest. His world, simple and quiet, revolved around honest work and the care of his little sister.
The man's thoughts wandered peacefully as he worked. Tomorrow, he'd head into the town market to fetch fresh flour for his little sister's favorite blini. Maybe he'd even bring back some candies if the shopkeeper had any left over from the holiday rush.
"Peter! Hey, Peter!" The sharp, urgent voice of Andrei, their wiry neighbor, shattered the calm.
The bulky man, Peter paused, wiping his brow and turning toward the fence with mild surprise. "What is it, Andrei—"
But the older man was already rushing toward him, face pale beneath his fur hat, eyes wide with alarm. "Peter! Your sister! Out on the road!"
For one breathless moment, time stopped.
Peter's head whipped toward the snowy path that wound past their gate. There—small, innocent, unaware—stood Illyana, his little sister, clutching her worn, beloved doll in mittened hands. She laughed softly, waving to a tiny white fox that had darted across the road into the opposite treeline.
A malfunctioning automatic snowplow truck, engine roaring angrily, barreled down the slope toward her, its frame rattling wildly as sparks flickered from its wheels.
No driver. No brakes. No hope of stopping.
"ILLYANA!" Peter roared, panic exploding in his chest. He flung down his shovel and bolted, legs driving hard through the snow, heart hammering against his ribs like a drum of war.
The world blurred. His breath was fire in his throat; the snow cracked and shattered beneath each powerful step. Neighbors turned, gasped, shouted, but their voices were distant echoes drowned by the deafening roar of the truck.
Something deep within Peter—the part of him that had lain dormant, unknown, asleep—awakened.
A heat surged through his veins, blooming from the marrow of his bones, racing outward like liquid lightning. His skin shimmered, brightened, hardened to a gleaming steel surface that caught and reflected the pale sun.
His clothes stretched tight over muscles swelling with impossible strength. He barely registered this transformation, instincts consumed by one desperate purpose: reach Illyana, save his sister.
"Brother?" Illyana turned, blinking in confusion. "Look! A little fox! It ran across the road! It's so cute! I was going to catch it!" Unaware of the danger that lurk behind her.
The snowplow thundered closer—yards away now—its terrible weight cleaving the snow.
Peter reached her. His metallic arms swept her up, cradling her small frame against his broad chest. His heartbeat roared in his ears; his breath came in ragged bursts.
"Got you," he gasped, relief surging like a tide, but fear clenched tight within him.
He realized that there was no escape. Behind him, the truck loomed, shadow falling across them like doom.
Peter spun, turning his back to the unstoppable machine, shielding Illyana with his transformed body. His feet planted wide, sinking into the frozen earth as he braced for the impact. His face—steel-clad, grim—hardened with resolve.
BANG!
The truck slammed into him with titanic force.
But Peter did not yield. The snowplow crumpled like foil against his metallic form, steel folding, glass shattering, gears grinding to ruin. Debris exploded outward, clattering across the ice. The broken husk of the vehicle shuddered to a halt, a twisted wreck before the immovable titan that Peter had become.
A stunned hush fell over the street.
Neighbors gawked, slack-jawed, staring in disbelief. Words failed them.
"Brother?" Illyana peered from the safety of his arms, her bright blue eyes wide. "What was that noise? Something crashed, didn't it?"
Peter glanced down, breath trembling in his metallic chest. She gazed up, wonder dancing in her innocent gaze.
"Wow! Big Brother, you're shiny! Like the silver knight in my fairy tale book!"
Peter, who was also in a daze like his neighbors, regained his focus as soon as he heard Illyana's childish words. Peter's throat tightened. He caught his reflection in the cracked window of the bakery—glinting silver, inhuman, stiff and terrifying. Panic flickered beneath the surface of his mind as he realized that he was staring at his own figure.
"Illyana, are you hurt? Anywhere? Tell me, little one." His voice vibrated low and metallic, resonant with power and fear. He gently set her down, examining her limbs with shaking hands.
She shook her head eagerly, laughing. "No! I'm fine, brother! But the fox ran away before I could pet it..." She exclaimed with excitement, unaware that her small action had nearly led to her demise.
Relief washed over him like warmth against the winter chill. His body trembled—not from the cold, but from the enormity of what had happened.
"You foolish girl... running into the road..." He tapped her forehead gently with one cool steel finger. "Be careful. You scared me half to death."
"Sorry, brother..." she mumbled, lowering her eyes, only to perk up moments later. "But you're so shiny! Can you stay like this forever? I like it."
As Peter spoke with his sister, the murmurs began. Quiet at first, just hushed exchanges between neighbors standing along the sidewalk, but soon the whispers grew louder, curiosity turning into gossip.
"Did you see that? He stopped the truck!"
"He crushed it! Like swatting a fly!"
"No... H-How could you destroyed that snowplow truck?"
"You've got some big muscles there, don't you, little Rasputin?"
"Tsk tsk tsk this automatic truck from the American brand is so weak even a Chinese brand could crush it like a soda can. HAMMER? More like RUBBER!"
Their eyes locked onto him, scrutinizing him as if he were some rare, caged specimen rather than a fellow human being.
Peter felt the weight of their stares pressing against him like cold iron. Dozens of wary, fearful gazes burned into his skin, sending a sharp pang of unease through his chest. He could feel the tension settling in his stomach, a sickening churn of dread.
He gazes at his own metallic hands with a frown, unable to comprehend what is happening to his body. He feels anxious about the situation, though he knows it will not help.
'I have to stay calm. Breathe. Don't panic. Not here. Not now.'
So, he takes a deep breath, slowly, deliberately, he inhaled deeply. His metallic skin rippled, the sheen fading, his body shrinking back into familiar human flesh. Warmth returned. His fingers shook.
'Thank God... I can change back.'
Scooping Illyana into his arms, he turned away. Voices buzzed behind him—suspicion, curiosity, fear. He ignored them all, trudging through the snow toward their little house beneath the birch trees. His mind only filled with his little sister safety at this moment.
"Brother? Why are we going home so fast? What happened?" Illyana tugged at his collar, puzzled.
"Little girls shouldn't ask such things," Peter said softly, brushing snow from her golden hair. "Let's go inside."
"Oh... but later you'll help me catch that fox, right?" she asked with innocent excitement.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Maybe, little one. Maybe."
Behind them, the village hummed with growing gossip. Scraps of the ruined snowplow glittered amid the snowdrifts, cold and twisted metal left lying around in the middle of the snowy road.
.....
Several miles away...
In the clearing by the woods, a small hut sat alone. Its walls, rough-hewn and darkened by time and frost, were half-covered by drifts of snow. Within, warmth flickered softly from a humble fireplace, casting golden light across simple furnishings—a wooden table, two chairs, a worn rug. But the glow did not reach the far corner where a girl around Ken and Mash's age sat, hovering inches above the ground.
Her eyes were shut tight in focus. Crimson energy flickered and danced between her hands like restless flame, pulsing softly in the gloom. Her brow was smooth but taut with concentration. She inhaled deeply, willing the chaos within her soul into order, shaping her power like clay between trembling fingers.
The girl's mind swam in layers of complex feeling, something that deeply unsettling for her. It was always there—the whisper of madness behind the scarlet light, the dark caress of the unknowable.
The scarlet light had been a part of her for as long as she could remember—a force she had fought to suppress since childhood, a power that had only ever brought her misfortune. No matter how hard she tried, it lingered beneath the surface, waiting for a moment of weakness to break free.
She had spent years pressing it down, burying it deep beneath layers of restraint, convincing herself that keeping it hidden was the only way to avoid disaster. But deep in her heart, she knew the truth—ignoring it wasn't an option. She had to master it. She had to take control.
She could not afford to lose herself again.
Deep in meditation, she remained still, her breathing slow and controlled as she concentrated on maintaining her inner balance. Then, without warning, a sudden gust slammed against the fragile walls, rattling the wooden frame with a force that made the entire structure tremble.
Snowflakes, carried by the howling wind, dislodged from the roof and found their way through the slight gap beneath the door, dusting her face with an icy sting.
The girl flinched. Her eyes snapped open, burning with red glow.
"Hey, sis! I'm back! Brought fresh bread from the village near Lake Baikal!" A guy's voice rang brightly from the doorway, casual and unthinking as always.
A blur of silver hair and a rush of wind swept into the room, bringing flakes and frost in his wake. A guy around her aged stood there grinning, thick coat half-unzipped, goggles resting on his neck, cheeks pink from cold. A paper-wrapped loaf rested in his gloved hands.
"Pietro!" The girl snapped, her voice sharp with annoyance as she lowered to the ground. Crimson light flickered out. "How many times must I tell you not to burst in like that? Stop bringing the outside with you."
The guy grinned wider, rubbing the back of his neck. "What? This? C'mon, Wanda, it's not my fault I'm fast. You wouldn't have noticed me if I didn't make a little entrance. Besides... you looked so serious, frowning and all that."
The girl, Wanda sighed, brushing melting snow from her face. Her heart still raced with the sudden disruption. "Idiot brother," she muttered. "One day your speed will get you in real trouble."
The two individuals currently arguing each other are none other the Maximoff twins, Wanda Maximoff and Pietro Maximoff.
Pietro rolled his eyes, dismissing his sister's worries as unnecessary fretting. She always worried too much—overthinking things. But Pietro also caught the weight beneath her words.
The life they lived—the endless wandering, the mistrustful eyes of others, forcing them to move again and again before the inevitable torches and accusations followed.
It had always been like this. No matter where they went, no matter when.
Pietro then met her gaze, serious now. "Speaking of trouble... you really scared them yesterday."
Wanda froze. "What do you mean?"
"The tree. You set it on fire while practicing. Half the village saw the flames before I put them out. They're whispering now. Afraid of you." Pietro mentioned the rumors he had overheard on his way back.
Wanda swallowed hard, her stomach twisting with guilt. She had only wanted to refine her control, to master the unruly power that surged within her. It was not the first time it happens, but one single mistake had turned her practice into a disaster for them.
"I didn't mean to…" she murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "I—I thought I had control."
Pietro understood that it wasn't entirely his sister fault—how could it be? He knew better than anyone the circumstances his sister lived under. So, he didn't blame her. But still, that didn't change the reality they faced.
"I know, Sis." Pietro leaned against the wall, arms crossed. His silver hair caught the firelight. "But they don't understand that. They see only danger. You know how this goes. It's time. We should leave before they ask us to."
Wanda pressed a hand to her temple, closing her eyes. The scarlet energy stirred faintly in her finger, a restless thing wanting freedom. "Always running, Pietro. Always fleeing. When will we stop? When will we be safe to—"
"—to what? Burn another forest?" he cut in softly. "They will never let us stay. They fear you. They envy me. It's the same story, always. You know this." Those memories when they are wandering around resurfaced once more.
She opened her eyes, meeting his. Guilt and frustration burned behind her gaze, but also resignation. "I hate it. But... you're right."
Pietro offered a half-smile, meant to comfort but failing. "Hey... listen. There's something else. A rumor. When I was in the village near Lake Baikal—the one where I got this bread—people were talking. About someone who changed. A man. He stopped a runaway truck... with his bare hands."
Wanda blinked. "What?"
"They say his skin turned to metal. Shining, silver like steel. Saved his sister's life. Sound familiar?" Pietro chuckled dryly. "Another mutant waking up, maybe. Just like us."
Interest flared in her chest, dampening the fear. "Who?"
"Didn't catch a name. But the village is only a few miles from here. Big farming folk. Might be worth seeing. Someone like us. Someone waking to their power."
For a long moment, Wanda hesitated. The fire cracked and popped, shadows shifting across her pale face. Her mind swam—fear of discovery, of causing harm—but also curiosity, and the aching loneliness of being what they were.
"Sigh, alright then. Let's go," she said softly. "Before the villagers drive us out. Let's see this... metal man."
Pietro grinned, relief flashing in his blue eyes. "Knew you'd say that. Go grab your jacket, Sis. It's time to run again."
Wanda let out a small sigh, conceding to her brother's inevitable speed. "Fine, but please slow down when you're carrying me," she muttered, tugging her crimson jacket tighter around herself.
Before she had a chance to brace herself, Pietro was already beside her, his arm securely wrapped around her back in preparation for their departure.
With a smirk, Pietro threw a teasing remark her way. "Promise no promises," he quipped, his voice laced with amusement.
"You–"
And then, in the blink of an eye, they were gone—vanishing into the night, leaving nothing behind but a powerful gust of wind that rustled the trees and scattered the snow.
.....
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A/N: Give me the stones, comments and reviews, I appreciate it. Thanks!