The Greedy Frog
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Marvel: Pay to Win Gambling 14
🕑 Added 2025-04-21 16:20:59 +0000 UTCChapter 14: A Bar Fight
—Susan Storm “Invisible Woman”—
“I need this,” she whispered, holding out her glass with a trembling hand.
The bartender hesitated, eyes flicking from the drink to her face.
“I don’t mind serving folks until they pass out,” he said with a sigh, “but you saved my life once. I can’t, in good conscience, keep pouring.”
Normally, it didn’t matter to him. One drink, twenty drinks—same difference. But this was her. This was Susan Storm. The Invisible Woman.
The Fantastic Four didn’t do secret identities. He recognized her the second she stepped in. And while New York was usually indifferent to celebrity, this wasn’t just any person slouched over his bar.
“Please…” she mumbled, barely lifting her head. She’d lost count somewhere around the sixth drink.
Reed hadn’t changed. And the weight of everything else—missions, research, friendships, family—kept piling up. All of it, she carried silently.
And the worst part? None of it was supposed to be hers to carry. They just assumed she would.
Ben warned her more than once not to say yes to everything. Not to keep forgiving Reed. Not to drown herself in everyone else's expectations.
But she did. And here she was. Heavy with the burden of her own decisions.
“This is the last one,” the bartender said quietly, refilling her glass. “After this, I’m cutting you off.”
She didn’t even hear him. The moment the glass was full, she downed it in one go. Neat. No flinch. Her tongue was numb, and her stomach had stopped caring a long time ago.
She rested her head on the counter.
No thoughts. No noise. Just a moment to breathe.
And for once, no one asked anything of her. The bartender said nothing more. He just let her sit. Let her drift.
It was the first time in days she felt like she could rest.
Whether it was pills or alcohol, something had to work. Something had to give her sleep.
Finally.
“Why don’t we go to my place?”
Even half-conscious, her stomach turned at the sound of the voice.
“It’s not safe for a pretty woman like you to be passed out out here.”
She didn’t look up. Didn’t need to. She already knew what kind of man he was from the voice alone—too eager, too high-pitched, like someone who thought confidence was volume.
“No,” she muttered. “Go away.”
She didn’t want a confrontation. She didn’t want a scene. She just wanted silence.
This wasn’t a new event, she had gone through something similar just a few days prior.
But of course, that was asking too much.
“Aw, come on, sweetheart. Just trying to help. You can sleep all you want—my bed’s got space.”
Her fists clenched. Her jaw tensed. If this kept up, she might hurt him. She didn’t want to, but restraint wasn’t easy—not like this.
“Please… just leave.”
“Listen here, woman—”
“Why don’t you just leave, mate?” The bartender cut in sharply. “She already said no.”
Relief fluttered in her chest. He was standing up for her. She thought that might be enough.
But she was naive.
She didn’t notice him reach behind his back.
Didn’t see the glint of metal until gasps echoed around her.
“Stay out of this,” the man snapped, drawing the gun. “This isn’t your problem.”
The bar fell into chaos. Murmurs, panic, shuffling feet.
She forced herself to lift her head. Everything blurred. Two of everything, maybe three.
And in the middle of it—he was aiming the gun at the bartender.
She wanted to move. She wanted to act. But her limbs were dead weight. Her balance was gone. Her powers? Useless in this state.
If she tried to use them, she might end up killing everyone in the room.
Her teeth sank into her tongue, desperate to focus. To shake off the fog.
But there was too much alcohol. Too much noise. Too much everything.
“Don’t—”
“Stay. The. Fuck. Back.” The man’s gun pressed forward, inches from the bartender’s face.
He froze.
“Let’s go,” the gunman said, turning toward her.
She considered a barrier. Something tight around his arm, just enough pressure to disarm him. But in this condition? She might snap his bones—or worse. And the Fantastic Four didn’t kill. Not unless they had no choice.
“I said—”
“Are you retarded?”
The voice came from her left.
Sharp. Cold. Clear.
Even in her haze, the tone sliced through the fog.
Even she didn’t expect it.
“She already said she doesn’t want to go with you,” the man said, voice edged with irritation. “How hard is that to understand?”
He stepped closer, holding a half-full glass, posture loose—but his eyes weren’t.
“Who the fuck are you, drunkard?” the man with the braids snapped, aiming the gun square at him. “Back off before I make sure you never drink again.”
Susan struggled to focus. Her senses were still dull, but things were starting to come back into shape. No more double vision. No more dreamlike blur.
She blinked hard, finally able to make out their faces clearly.
One of them, with rough braids and a patchy beard, looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Anger and fear wrestled on his features. The other—calm, sharp-jawed, and far too composed for someone staring down a gun—stood with a glass in his hand, looking mildly annoyed, like someone being interrupted during a nap.
“I came here to relax,” the handsome one said, voice even. “After the shitshow of the past two days, I was hoping for one drink. Maybe two. But this?”
He gestured vaguely at the man with the gun.
“This is pushing it.”
Susan glanced at the bartender, who looked like he was halfway between calling the cops and ducking for cover. Neither he nor she could tell if the guy was brave, reckless, or just plain stupid.
That question was answered soon enough.
“You fucking—” the man with the gun snarled, beginning to pull the trigger.
Beginning.
Because that’s all he got to do.
Before anyone could process it, the man with the drink was no longer holding a drink.
Now, he held a gun. A clean, compact, matte black gun.
And the braided man? His own gun was gone. In his hand instead was the now-empty whiskey glass, sloshing its last drops down his wrist.
“I just wanted a quiet drink with a friend,” the calm man said, raising his new weapon. “So before she gets back from the bathroom, how about you leave before I empty this into your kneecaps?”
Susan blinked. Once. Twice. Then again.
No hallucination. She wasn’t seeing things.
The gun had been swapped. So fast, so fluid, she’d missed the whole motion.
“W-What?” The thug’s eyes went wide, like someone who just realized they were the dumbest man in the room.
“Get lost.” The other man’s voice was low, not loud. Not angry. Just final.
“F-Freak!” The thug yelped, stepping back fast. He had no idea what kind of power he’d just provoked, and clearly didn’t want to find out.
Smart move.
He turned and bolted out the door, nearly stumbling into a table on his way out.
The gunman exhaled, ejecting the magazine from his pistol and placing it gently on the bar. He didn’t say a word to explain the magic trick he just pulled. Just slid the disarmed weapon toward the stunned bartender.
“Deal with that for me, please?”
“A-Alright,” the bartender stammered, grabbing the gun like it might bite him.
Susan sat there, stunned, somewhere between amusement and disbelief. What just happened? Was that real?
The man finally looked at her, his annoyance melting into genuine concern.
“You okay?”
She nodded slowly. “Yeah… Thanks.”
She opened her mouth to ask how he did that—what just happened—but she was interrupted before the words left her lips.
“Susan?”
A familiar voice.
She turned around slowly.
Jean. Jean Grey stood there, looking just as confused as she felt.
“You two know each other?” the gunman asked, glancing between them.
Susan stared at Jean. Then at the man beside her. Then back again.
She wasn’t sure what the hell was going on anymore.
…
…
—Reed Nathaniel Richards “Mr. Fantastic”—
The project was mostly a success. He’d isolated the entrance to the Negative Zone and found a way to open a controlled breach.
The failure? No clear exit.
And that didn’t sit well with him. Not even a little.
For someone else, this might’ve been the time to step back. Reflect. Breathe.
Not him.
Reed didn’t do mindfulness walks or stress naps. He worked. Work cleared the fog. Work made things make sense again.
“Let’s take another look at Project: Wideawake,” he mumbled, tapping the side of his tablet. ‘Trask sent quite the progress report.’
Government funding. Promising tech. Interesting concept. And most importantly—it freed up budget for his personal research.
Sure, Baxter had money. But who says no to more? Especially from such a trustworthy institution as the United States government.
