[ Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, Westchester, New York ]
The two of them sat in sleek, sci-fi armchairs shaped for maximum neural sync. As the Danger Room's interface activated, a supercomputer pulled in all their biometric data, combat specs, and equipment signatures. Everything was simulated to perfection, from body physics down to the smallest strand of hair. Storm had even gone back to change into her preferred combat gear—not for fashion, but to ensure the simulator would match her battlefield loadout to the millimeter.
The hard-light holographic matrix flickered to life, transforming the barren metal floor into a bombed-out urban area. Skyscrapers leaned like broken teeth, and the ground bore the scorch marks of some long-forgotten war. It wasn't real, but Daisy could still feel the metallic warmth of a half-crushed car door as she pressed her fingers against it. That kind of tactile fidelity could only mean one thing—Charles Xavier's pet tech project had surpassed even her expectations.
"You get to choose the terrain?" Storm asked with a raised brow, still formal but giving the guest her due.
Daisy didn't hesitate. Air combat against a weather goddess wasn't ideal, so she needed a terrain that tilted the balance. A flick through the options and she selected: "Hawaii."
Storm didn't comment, but the faint tightening around her lips was enough. The battlefield shifted instantly. War-torn buildings dissolved into white beaches and volcanic cliffs. Coconut palms swayed above coral reefs, and the scent of saltwater filled the air.
A war was about to begin—not of hatred, but of unspoken challenges.
Storm wasted no time. She rose into the sky like a monarch claiming her throne. Wind answered her command with reverence, and the ocean shuddered beneath her presence as its water began to rise. She lifted both hands with practiced grace, and in mere seconds, the horizon blackened with thunderclouds. The very atmosphere bent to her lineage and will—tempestuous and proud. And her silver hair danced in the tempest.
Daisy remained earthbound, standing on the wet sand, smirking like a predator who had already skinned the storm. Her arms were relaxed at her sides, her eyes razor-sharp and faintly amused.
Ororo had expected awe—perhaps even hesitation. Instead, Daisy's expression said only one thing: Nice trick.
That irritating smirk twitched at the edge of Daisy's lips. Ororo's eye twitched in reply.
She retaliated with divine wrath.
Lightning lanced downward—five bolts in succession, precision guided by fury.
Daisy didn't flinch. She began to vibrate on a molecular level, syncing with the frequency of the simulator's physics engine. The ground wasn't real—but her power over it was. Then she moved like water over glass.
She cartwheeled sideways with a blur of motion, twisting midair to avoid the first strike. A one-handed handspring dodged the second. The third she somersaulted under, landing in a fluid backbend before flipping out of range entirely. The fourth barely missed her as she rebounded off a half-buried metal pipe. The fifth should've strike her.
But she pinpointed Storm's position and vanished—teleporting mid-dash—and reappeared behind Storm, midair, fist already cocked back and humming with vibration energy. Then her punch came without flourish—a clean, brutal strike that shattered the air into concussive waves, reality fracturing like safety glass.
And as the air cracked.
Like the sky itself had split open, a sonic spear of sheer force ruptured toward Ororo's spine.
Startled, Storm abandoned her lightning preparation for second strike and threw up a wind barrier—just in time.
Storm, no longer the overconfident goddess, had grown cautious after her last encounter with Juggernaut. The heart-shaped herb had strengthened her physically—she could now ride hurricane-level wind speeds without straining her body. But against Daisy, she chose evasion over offense.
The two powers collided with the sound of a thunderclap sharpened to a scream. The barrier shredded under the tremor, dissipating like silk torn in a hurricane, but it had bought her just enough—she whirled away ten meters back, silver hair flying, as the energy sliced the space where her torso had just been.
Ororo's heartbeat spiked. Her grin, however, widened.
Daisy floated in the air a moment, the vibration still buzzing in her bones. But she knew her limits. Aerial combat wasn't her domain—it was hers.
So she descended to the ground.
Feet touched the beach again. Calmly, deliberately, she raised her palm—and the earth answered.
By using vibration power, Boulders, debris, chunks of volcanic rock lifted into the air around her like waiting ammunition. With a flick of her fingers, they launched one by one, each as fast and forceful as a cannonball aimed at Storm.
Ororo danced between them.
One she sliced with a concentrated lightning whip—clean through the core. Another she dispersed with a downward gust so sharp it cratered the sea below. One flew too close, and she twisted her entire body in midair, letting it graze her shoulder but using its momentum to spiral higher.
From above, she called out—not with arrogance, but with warning. "Be careful."
There was respect now. A thread of awe, braided into the storm.
Then she raised her hands, her white eyes glowing as lightning bent to her will.
And then the heavens cracked open.
She became a conduit—no longer woman, but weather incarnate. The clouds roared and rolled above, the eye of the hurricane opening like prophecy. From beyond clouds, from realms no radar could measure, a silver bolt thicker than a tree trunk answered her call.
It fell like wrath.
Daisy didn't flinch.
She crossed her arms before her chest. her Vibranium wristbands hummed, glowing softly. The bolt slammed into her like the hand of Zeus, driving her backward through the sand, her vibranium wristbands absorbing the worst of the strike. Her posture held—a solid, grounded lunge. One foot forward, the other back. Her teeth grit. Her muscles strained, and her boots gouged furrows in the simulated sand, but she held firm. Smoke curled from her boots. The air around her sizzled.
"Impressive," she muttered. Vibranium could absorb energy, sure—but it didn't neutralize inertia. Ask Steve Rogers how many walls he smashed through on a bad day.
Storm hovered above, panting from the divine effort. Daisy raised her chin.
Her voice dropped cold: "My turn."
She knelt. The world shuddered.
With eyes closed, she extended her senses down into the fabricated crust, locating the weak points in the simulation's version of Hawaii's mantle. With surgical precision, she struck five pressure nodes in rapid succession, each blow causing a tremor, a ripple, a deeper instability.
Then the sixth strike came—and Daisy vanished, leaping to safety.
The result was apocalyptic as the earth exploded.
Simulated magma burst skyward at 90 meters per second. It wasn't just molten rock; it carried powdered stone, exotic minerals, and superheated gas. The heat distorted the light itself.
Daisy didn't stop. She struck the ground again, and again, and again—each tremor more violent than the last. Magma streamed like rivers in the sky. The crust bent to her will, crustal plates grinding together in seismic rebellion. The volcano roared in a voice only tectonic plates could truly understand.
For a moment, Daisy lost herself. Her control slipped—emotions bleeding into the battle. Thoughts of Hill's sometimes indifferent silence, the uncertain grip she had on this second life, her fractured identity—everything flared. She struck the ground again and again, not with strategy, but with grief buried too deep for tears.
Simulated cracks tore through the terrain. Magma erupted in every direction. The temperature surged by ten degrees. The sky looked aflame. And it looked like a doomsday scene.
Storm had no idea what emotional storm had triggered Daisy's escalation. All she saw was power—pure, undiluted, terrifying. She thought that this was Daisy's full power. While she was surprised, her competitiveness arose unconsciously.
She rose higher into the simulated stratosphere, out of the magma's reach, calling upon the ancestral magic locked in her bloodline.
Two legacies merged within her: Omega-level mutation and centuries of mystic tradition. As the world melted below, Storm brought down heaven.
She was in the eye of the tempest. Clouds circled above her head like ancient gods awaiting her command. The entire sky rotated in cyclonic symmetry—centered on her.
She was the storm.
The air pressure dropped. Rain returned, torrential and wild. Lava was scattered by cyclonic bursts. Wind tore across the battlefield, spinning rock shards midair. Lightning fell—not one bolt at a time, but as a barrage, striking each airborne rock like a divine execution squad. It wasn't just power—it was divine precision.
"You think the Earth fights fair?" Daisy shouted, her body resonating with the core beneath. She forced tremors into new pathways, redirecting magma and stone like a maestro orchestrating fire.
Storm's eyes widened seeing Daisy counter attack.
Flames rose higher. Steam hissed into the air. The sheer heat boiled Storm's raindrops before they reached the ground. Lightning fractured against molten rock. Daisy held the upper hand again.
Meeting Storm's eyes, Daisy smirked. "What? Afraid to continue the fight Ororo."
Storm's temper snapped. "Afraid of you? Please. I'm not afraid of T'Challa's insufferable mother, and I'm definitely not afraid of you!" Storm's tone cracked with raw emotion, the sharp edge of resentment slicing through her words. The memory of her future mother-in-law's venom still clung to her like smoke, and Daisy—unintentionally—had lit the match.
Above and below, they unleashed destruction. One from the heavens, one from the earth. Water battled fire, lightning clashed with molten fury. The terrain trembled. The volcano howled.
Outside the simulator chamber, Cyclops was wide-eyed. "Uh… are they still sparring, or did this turn into an grudge match?"
Jean was frantically scrolling through energy readouts. Her usually smooth hair hung in her eyes. "Check the overload thresholds! This was supposed to be ten minutes of light combat."
"They said 'light sparring,'" Cyclops muttered. "This looks like Ragnarok."
Inside the simulation, neither combatant held back. Not for love. Not for legacy. Not even for themselves.
Only victory.
To Be Continued...
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[POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS]