[1. Skin Ward — Insulated Gloves & Undersleeve Set]
A snug pair of treated gloves and long-sleeve compression wear designed to fully block skin-to-skin transfer for the wearer.
Doesn’t suppress the ability, just contains it.
Machine washable, doesn’t look tactical, and won’t draw stares on a subway car.
Cost: 30 Merit Points.
[2. Ghost Line — Burner Phone & Forged ID Set]
An untraceable prepaid phone and a basic set of forged identification documents.
Good enough to survive a cursory glance but not a federal database pull.
Cost: 20 Merit Points.
[3. Psychic Static — Dampening Charm]
A pendant that blocks long-range telepathic scans, including wide-net systems like Cerebro.
Does not protect against a focused, close-range read.
Cost: 60 Merit Points.
The pale blue text reflected in Marcus’s eyes as he read down the list.
The System was spoon-feeding him exactly what he needed.
The gloves handled the skin-contact issue, and the burner phone gave them a way to move.
But the pendant was the real prize.
It was a literal blind spot for Xavier’s machine.
If the X-Men were already pinging her location, that piece of metal was the only thing stopping a stealth jet from hovering outside his window.
There was just one catch.
Sixty points was his entire balance.
Buying the pendant meant no gloves to calm her down, no untraceable phone, and no backup plan.
He swiped the menu to the edge of his vision.
Before he spent a dime, he needed her fully on board.
Marie finally moved.
Her fingers uncurled from the doorframe, and she took a single, unsteady step into the room.
Her eyes darted from the peeling wallpaper to the rain-streaked window, before finally settling on him.
“Can I…” The words barely scraped out of her throat.
“Can I stay here? Just until I figure out what to do.”
Marcus let the silence drag.
He let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck like she was just a massive inconvenience—burying the harsh reality that he was a dead man if she walked out that door.
“Don’t touch my stuff,” he said, keeping his tone dead level.
“And stay away from the windows.”
Marie nodded.
The fight completely left her shoulders, and she backed up slowly toward the lumpy mattress, sinking onto the very edge.
Marcus kept his eyes on her as he mentally confirmed the purchase.
Option Three.
A sharp, icy spike drove straight through his temples.
His point balance instantly zeroed out.
A second later, a sudden, heavy weight materialized in the front pocket of his jeans.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, dull metal pendant on a cheap leather cord.
It looked like a piece of junk you’d buy off a street vendor for five bucks.
He tossed it underhand across the room.
Marie flinched, but her reflexes were quick enough to catch it against her chest.
She looked down at the inert metal in her hands, her brow furrowing, then looked back up at him.
“Put it on,” Marcus said.
“Keep it under your clothes.”
“What is it?” she asked, her voice still shaky.
“Signal scrambler,” he lied, keeping his voice dead level.
“If those private labs I told you about are actively hunting you, they’re probably using biometric scanners to check buildings. That’ll bounce the signal.”
It was complete garbage, but it sounded technical enough to fit the nightmare he had just painted for her.
He needed her hidden from a telepathic GPS , but telling a terrified runaway that a guy with a global mind-reading machine was currently tracking her brainwaves would just send her spiraling into another panic attack.
Marie didn’t argue.
She slipped the leather cord over her wet hair, letting the dull charm drop beneath the collar of the oversized leather jacket.
“Don’t take it off,” Marcus said.
“Ever.”
She nodded, pulling her knees up to her chest.
Marcus walked over to the cheap desk.
He grabbed the handle of the bottom drawer, gave it that specific upward jerk , and peeled a single bill off the thick, rubber-banded brick of crisp hundreds.
He shoved the cash into his pocket and grabbed his coat.
“Lock the deadbolt after I leave,” Marcus said, walking toward the door.
“I’m going to get some food.”
He paused with his hand on the brass knob, looking back over his shoulder.
She was still sitting on the edge of the lumpy mattress, looking tiny against the messy sheets.
“My name’s Marcus,” he said, his voice flat but carrying a deliberate weight.
“Don’t open this door for anyone else..”
“I won’t,” she whispered.
He stepped out into the grimy, fluorescent-lit hallway and pulled the door shut.
A second later, the heavy, metallic thwack of the deadbolt sliding into place echoed through the wood.
Marcus let out a slow breath and headed for the stairs.
He pushed through the heavy lobby doors and stepped out onto the street.
The torrential rain from the night before had finally stopped, leaving behind a cold, damp chill and dull, gray morning light that made Queens look washed out and bleak.
Stopping on the cracked sidewalk, Marcus raised his arms and stretched hard, rolling his shoulders until his spine popped.
His back still ached deeply from sleeping on the hard wood floorboards.
He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, his fingers brushing the crisp edge of the hundred-dollar bill, and started walking toward the corner bodega.