Chapter One: Tired pixie
New York had a scent to it. Not just the obvious stuff—trash, hot dogs, burnt pretzels. There was something else, something Megan Gwynn could feel under her skin: the quiet hum of everyone trying to survive. It was the sound of footsteps never stopping, of distant sirens, of dreams stitched together with duct tape and cheap rent.
And in the middle of it all, Megan existed—not as Pixie, not anymore. Just a girl with pink hair and a tired smile.
She stood in line at a small corner grocery store, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. Her wings—beautiful, gossamer, and out of place in the real world—were tightly bound under a dark hoodie and jacket. It made her look hunched, smaller than her real 5'4" frame. She wore black jeans, worn boots, and fingerless gloves with holes in them. Her bubblegum-pink hair was tied in a messy bun, with stray strands sticking to her cheeks from the light rain outside.
She blended in, but only barely. Some people stared longer than they should. She pretended not to notice.
Megan looked down at her basket: bread, instant noodles, toothpaste, and almond milk. Cheap and easy. The life of a girl who had once stood on battlefields beside legends but now fought over shelf space with tired moms and college kids.
The cashier gave her a nod. "You look like you've had a long night."
"Try working two jobs and living with wings," she said with a dry smile.
He didn't laugh, just blinked. Probably thought she was joking.
She paid in crumpled bills and coins, slung her tote bag over her shoulder, and stepped outside. The drizzle had thickened. Her boots splashed against wet concrete as she turned toward home. Or at least, what passed for it.
Then the screaming started.
It was subtle at first—muffled voices, the sound of running, a crash. Megan's instincts clicked like a switch flipping. She turned her head. The corner bodega—just across the street—had its door kicked in. A masked man ran out, dragging a terrified cashier by the collar while two others loaded backpacks with whatever they could find.
She sighed. "Why is it always when I'm trying to buy bread?"
She ducked into an alleyway, dropped her bag, and pulled up her hoodie. Wings unfurled like a whisper of light—iridescent and shimmering even in the grey rain. They were damaged at the edges, slightly torn from past fights, but still stunning.
Megan stepped into the street like a ghost.
"Hey!" she yelled.
One of the thugs turned and laughed. "You lost, Halloween girl?"
Her eyes flashed. "No. But you are."
She raised her hand and dust shimmered into the air—pink, glittering, and deadly. The thug inhaled it before he could even blink. His eyes widened, then rolled back as he dropped to his knees, screaming.
"THE WALLS—THE WALLS ARE CRAWLING—OH MY GOD—"
Another tried to grab her, but she blinked out of sight—bamf—teleporting behind him. Her soul dagger flickered into her hand, glowing with eerie, radiant magic. She struck him in the back—not to kill, just enough to knock the fight out of him. The dagger shimmered with bits of soul residue as he collapsed.
The third thug panicked and pulled a gun.
Megan moved faster than he expected. Wings flaring, she shot into the air, looped around him, and dropped a heavy kick into his chest. He crashed through a fruit stand and didn't get up.
Ten seconds. Three men down. Not bad.
The crowd that had gathered just stared.
"Call the cops," she said, tucking the soul dagger away. "Tell them three guys tripped on their own bad choices."
Before anyone could ask questions, she teleported again—gone in a burst of dust.
---
Later – Steam & Sugar Coffeehouse
The little bell above the door jingled as Megan stepped inside, back in her hoodie, back to looking like just another tired face in the city. She ducked behind the counter, where her best friend, Amber, was wiping down tables.
Amber raised an eyebrow. "You're late."
"I was saving the world," Megan said, tossing her tote behind the register.
Amber smirked. "Again? Girl, we're out of oat milk, not fighting Sentinels."
"Could be both."
They got to work. Megan handled drinks while Amber worked the register. It was the usual mix of customers: college kids, exhausted office workers, one guy who never tipped but always ordered something overly complicated. Megan moved with practiced rhythm, though she flinched slightly every time someone bumped into her wings.
Amber leaned in during a lull. "You okay? You seem… I dunno. Wired."
"I stopped a robbery earlier."
Amber blinked. "Wait—you you, or Pixie you?"
"Pixie me."
Amber didn't look shocked—just concerned. "You're gonna get caught eventually."
"Not if I keep moving."
There was silence for a moment.
"You ever think about going back?" Amber asked. "To the mansion?"
Megan didn't answer right away. She poured steamed milk into a paper cup, eyes fixed on the swirl of foam like it held all the answers.
"Not yet," she said. "Maybe never."
---
Evening – Megan's Apartment
The room was small—bare walls, a mattress on the floor, a cracked window with a view of a brick wall. Her wings twitched as she stretched, finally free from the confines of her hoodie.
She dropped her bag, kicked off her boots, and flopped onto the mattress.
The city buzzed outside, but inside, it was quiet. She reached under her pillow and pulled out an old photograph—worn, the edges curled.
The X-Men. Smiling. Whole. Herself in the middle, wings full and proud. She was laughing in the photo. Young. Bright.
A crack ran down the middle of the picture, right through her face.
She ran her thumb along it.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
The soul dagger flickered for a moment beside her, as if answering.
And outside her window, unseen, a figure watched.