Peter traced the edge of his water glass with his index finger, staring across the small, wrought-iron patio table. The ocean breeze rolling off the Genoshan coast felt incredible, but a massive, nagging puzzle had been grinding in his head ever since they left the ice cream cart.
"Wait a second," Peter said, lowering his voice. "I just realized something. You didn't pay for that ice cream."
Wanda dabbed her mouth with a cloth napkin, looking slightly amused. "I didn't need to."
"Right, but the vendor didn't swipe a card. I didn't see a cash register anywhere on that cart. Actually, looking around..." Peter scanned the bustling plaza. "I haven't seen anyone hand over a single bill since we got off the jet. Does Genosha just not use money?"
Wanda shook her head, leaning back in her chair. "It's not that currency doesn't exist here. We still engage in global trade, and citizens have private accounts. But when it comes to the absolute basic necessities—food, healthcare, housing, and education—Genosha doesn't require its people to pay."
Peter raised an eyebrow under his mask. "Free food and rent for sixteen million people? That math does not work in Queens, Wanda."
"It defies human economics," Wanda explained patiently, her tone echoing the polished talking points of a state-sponsored textbook. "A significant portion of mutants possess abilities that might seem like burdens. But on a macro scale, the sheer productivity a single, specialized mutant can generate is astronomical. One individual with geokinesis can excavate a construction site in ten minutes—a job that would take a human crew and heavy machinery three weeks. The wealth and raw infrastructure generated by our population provides the state with far more tax revenue than it actually needs. That surplus allows my father to guarantee universal basic services."
Peter didn't say anything. He picked up his fork, turning it over in his hand.
Logically, he understood the concept. A workforce composed of human bulldozers and literal human batteries could hypothetically create a post-scarcity economy. But his working-class instincts—and his hyper-paranoid Spider-Sense—were screaming at him. A sovereign nation built out of sunken scrap metal had somehow achieved absolute economic perfection in just six years? Even with Magneto ruling with an iron fist, it sounded entirely unrealistic. It sounded like a trap.
But as he looked out at the sunlit plaza, something else caught his attention. Something far more unsettling than fuzzy tax policy.
Peter narrowed his white lenses, carefully scanning the pedestrian traffic. "Wanda. Where are all the little kids?"
Wanda blinked, her hand freezing halfway to her water glass.
"I've seen teenagers. I've seen adults. I've seen the elderly," Peter pointed out, leaning forward. "But I haven't seen a single toddler. I haven't seen a stroller. Why aren't there any children under six years old playing in the parks?"
Wanda looked out at the street. A faint, genuine crease of confusion formed between her brows as she realized he was entirely right. She chewed on her bottom lip, thinking back.
"The birth rate in Genosha is strictly regulated," Wanda finally said, her voice quiet. "Parents who wish to conceive are required to undergo comprehensive genetic screening first."
Peter's blood ran completely cold. He set his fork down. "Screening for what?"
"As you saw earlier, mutant genetics are wildly unpredictable," Wanda explained, entirely unaware of the horror building behind Peter's mask. "Some X-genes manifest as physical deformities with no discernible benefit. Others are actively harmful, causing chronic pain or deteriorating the host's cellular structure."
"So," Peter rasped, his throat suddenly bone-dry. "If the state decides a couple's genetics are... unsuitable for inheritance. They aren't allowed to reproduce?"
"Yes," Wanda nodded, her expression earnest. "My father believes that allowing a child to be born with a severely debilitating or painful mutation is cruel. If parents carry markers that guarantee a lifetime of suffering or severe intellectual disability for their offspring, bringing them into the world is inhumane. It's just like screening for severe genetic diseases in the human world."
Peter stared at her. He didn't push the question further. He didn't need to.
Who decides which mutant abilities are deemed 'unsuitable' or 'useless'? Peter's internal monologue raged. Magneto does. Magneto wasn't just preventing diseases. He was selectively breeding his population. He was playing god, aggressively filtering the Genoshan gene pool to ensure the next generation was stronger, more powerful, and structurally perfect. He was treating sixteen million refugees like purebred dogs.
And the most terrifying part was that Wanda Maximoff genuinely believed it was an act of mercy. She deeply loved this country, and she blindly trusted her father's vision.
If Magneto wanted to breed an entire generation of mutants perfectly tailored for a global war, he absolutely could, Peter realized, feeling slightly sick. Eighty percent of the world's mutant population is trapped in his petri dish.
"I feel like... you are judging him," Wanda said softly, breaking the heavy silence. She was looking at Peter's stiff posture, her red jacket pulled tight around her shoulders. "You think he's a monster."
Peter shook his head, forcing his muscles to relax. "I don't think it's about good or evil, Wanda. I just... I think your father's definition of 'benefiting mutantkind' is very different from yours." He offered a small, reassuring shrug. "Or maybe I'm just a paranoid New Yorker overthinking things."
Wanda smiled faintly, looking down at the table. "He is harsh. But he will get old someday. He always tells Pietro and me that the future belongs to our generation. When it is our time to rule, we can push Genosha in a gentler direction."
"Right, the next generation," Peter chuckled dryly, desperate to change the subject. "Wait. Isn't your dad pushing seventy? Isn't he already considered old?"
"It is... difficult to quantify," Wanda sighed, shaking her head. "He was nearly sixty when Pietro and I were born. But his cellular degradation is incredibly slow. In fact, he remarried shortly after founding Genosha. When he turned seventy, he had another daughter. Our little sister, Lorna. She has the most beautiful, rare green hair."
Lorna. Polaris.
Seventy years old and still having kids, Peter thought, bewildered. Say what you want about the guy's politics, but Magneto's stamina is absolutely terrifying.
Before Peter could make a quip about retirement homes, a sudden, displaced gust of wind nearly blew the napkins off their table.
A silver blur materialized right beside Peter's chair.
"Two prime cuts, medium-rare!" Pietro Maximoff announced, flashing a cocky, mischievous grin. He wore a crisp white waiter's apron over his silver tracksuit.
With a rapid flurry of motion, Pietro slammed two perfectly seared steaks onto their porcelain plates. In a fraction of a second, a small brush blurred through the air, painting a rich honey glaze over the meat. A handful of washed cherry tomatoes and four-leaf clovers were meticulously arranged as a garnish, and two chilled bottles of glass-bottled soda were slammed down next to their water glasses.
Peter didn't flinch. He just watched the teenager move.
To a normal human, Quicksilver was invisible—just a localized hurricane. But Peter's enhanced kinetic vision easily tracked the micro-movements. Pietro was incredibly fast, but he wasn't breaking the sound barrier. He wasn't bending the laws of physics yet. Either he simply didn't need to run that fast to serve lunch, or his mutation hadn't reached its absolute peak.
Wanda did not look impressed. She closed her eyes, letting out a long, deeply suffering sigh.
"Salt, pepper, white truffle dust, fennel..." Pietro rambled at high speed, his hands a blur over the table. "Do you guys want a salad? Actually, never mind, meat first, greens later. Enjoy!"
"Excuse me for just a moment, Peter," Wanda said through gritted teeth. "I need to have a brief conversation with my brother."
Wanda didn't even stand up. She simply raised her right hand and flicked her wrist.
Thick, dark crimson energy exploded from her fingertips, instantly wrapping around Pietro's ankles as he tried to sprint away. The kinetic hex yanked his legs entirely out from under him.
"Hey! Wait!" Pietro yelled, hovering upside down in the air. He looked completely innocent. "I already fixed the trench in the garden, Wanda! I packed the dirt down and everything!"
"That is not what we are discussing, dearest brother," Wanda hissed, her eyes glowing a terrifying, luminescent red. "Let's take a walk."
Wanda stood up. With a sharp tug of her hand, she dragged the upside-down, flailing speedster out of the outdoor cafe and directly into a nearby cobblestone alleyway.
Peter sat quietly at the table, taking a sip of his ice-cold soda.
A second later, the distinct, echoing sound of flesh hitting brick rang out from the alley. It was immediately followed by a high-pitched, agonizing yelp that sounded exactly like a cartoon cat getting hit in the face with an ironing board.
Whack. "Ow! Stop! Not the face!"
Thud.
A few minutes later, Wanda strolled casually back out of the alley. She tossed her vibrant red hair over her shoulder, smoothed the front of her jacket, and sat back down at the table. She offered Peter a tight, highly apologetic smile.
"I am so sorry about that," Wanda sighed, picking up her fork. "My brother's personality is... an acquired taste."
"Oh, please, don't worry about it," Peter laughed, slicing smoothly into his steak. "I go to high school in Queens. I know guys who make him look like an amateur. Besides..."
Peter took a bite, his eyes widening slightly behind the mask fabric as the honey glaze hit his tongue.
"...this steak is actually incredible. Let's eat."