Long Island lies at the east of New York State, divided into two boroughs, the Queens and Brooklyn districts that are within the confines of New York City. Given its unique geography and prime location, it is fondly known as "New York's Backyard".
The Arkham Sanatorium is also within the Long Island region, which is home to many of the affluent's villas, wine estates, and sandy beaches. It's a favorite weekend getaway for New York's rich and a rather impressive summer retreat.
When winter arrives, the myriad rivers and lakes here transform into a heaven for ice fishing enthusiasts. There is an enormous diversity of bass, trout, and dogfish that are readily shown off by fishing enthusiasts.
The landscape prevents the sprawling ice fields from inciting a sense of loneliness, while the distant ink-dyed mountains bring a wonderful surprise, offering glimpses of quiet life within the deep winter.
Nick and his group chose to stay in a cottage by a small lake on the western side of Long Island. The location is more secluded and tranquil compared to the bustling popular parks.
They arrived at the cabin around three in the afternoon, while it was still brightly lit, using local electric sleds. By sunset, they had tidied up the rest area by the shore, put up a wind barrier, arranged folding chairs, and built a campfire with stones nearby.
Natasha and Ivan Vanko did most of the work, as Russians were expert craftsmen when it came to carving out a resting space in a snowy world.
The shores weren't actually frozen. The heat stored in the pebbles had melted the morning snow into a stream that disappeared into the ground, leaving behind damp, frosty grass and some bent reeds.
Magneto Erik, wearing a thick long coat, stood out from the others in windbreaker jackets. He pushed the grass away from his eyes with his gloved hand and irregularly waded to the somewhat damp shore, where he discovered a duck's nest.
"The ducks are probably foraging in the grass." Charles sat in his wheelchair, removed his glove that caused his palms to sweat, and looked at Erik who frowned at his actions.
"Our solo adventure ends here, Erik. We should head back to report this delightful discovery," Charles said, performing a wheelchair pivot, and then adding, without caring if Erik followed, "Perhaps we'll be lucky enough to see ducks or geese returning to their nest."
"Geese have long gone," Erik retorted with no sense of timing, "Migratory birds aren't loyal to their nests, ducks don't have the skills."
They stumbled through the reeds back to their campsite, where Natasha was placing an aluminum pot over the fire, trying to bash some spam out of the can.
"The German is back.", Ivan squatted across the fire from Natasha and spoke in Russian, "It seems like he didn't reclaim his debts. He still looks as miserable."
"Don't talk like that." Natasha's tone became gentler when speaking Russian. The plosive consonants and hard 't' enriched her speech, making it sound less blunt than her Russian-accented English.
"I told you that he's a dedicated anti-Nazi warrior," Natasha continued, impatiently squeezing the Spam can, "It might be hard for you to imagine, but he's been in a concentration camp."
Ivan clamped his lips shut. He sat on the ground, propped his arm on his knee, and glanced towards the two men in the distance.
He had excellent vision, so he could clearly see the string of digits branded on the inside of Erik's arm as he took off his gloves. The classic identification number of a concentration camp.
"Okay, I admit the dude's tough." Ivan got up, dusted off his hands, and said, "I'm going over to chat with him. It'll be better than talking to that Captain America."
Moving in Erik's direction, Natasha took out a knife from her waist and stabbed it into the bottom of the Spam can, finally dislodging the meat into the pot.
Soon after, Shiller and Nick, who had gone in search of a suitable fishing spot, returned. Nick, wearing a dark blue windbreaker and high boots, repeatedly advised Shiller, who was merely dressed in a windbreaker, about the importance of keeping warm. But Shiller didn't pay much heed.
"I hate anything with high collars, it feels like I'm being strangled." Nick said, flicking the collar of his windbreaker, "But a jacket like this is fine, as long as it doesn't touch my neck."
And you, and people from Germany like you," Nick glanced at Shiller, then at Magneto in the distance, "You choose to wear a windbreaker in sub-zero weather to look cool. I must admit, you guys win. You make the rest of us look like clown toys."
"That's just because we don't feel cold."
"That's not what you said when you invaded Russia in the winter."
"I meant Erik and me...whatever."
The two sat down on a bench next to the campfire. Nick lit a cigarette, tightly clasping it with his lips, and then took off his left boot, slamming it hard against the ground.
"Where's our captain?" he asked, "We can't do without him. Back in the day when we were fishing on the Hudson's banks, only he managed to quickly catch fish that could knock Howard and me down with their powerful tails."
"He took his easel, paints, and stool to the other side of the forest to find inspiration. He might not be back until nightfall." Natasha dumped the chopped vegetables into the pot, then began to squeeze a tomato fiercely. Shiller leaned in and asked, "Is this borscht soup? But why is there Spam in there?"
Natasha rolled her eyes and said, "The meaning of borscht is 'put in whatever you have'. Or did you expect me to carry a cow over?"
"Don't describe it that way, lady. Your soup will contain mouth-watering fish tomorrow," Nick said in an opera-like tone: "Only the best and biggest fish will have the honor of dying by your hand."
"I just hope we manage to catch some fish tomorrow," Natasha shook her head and said, "But don't count on you guys to do that. I never do."
Shiller turned his head to see Ivan Vanko, who had joined the conversation with Magneto and Professor X. This was quite a shocking sight.
Anyone who could insert themselves into this feud had to be pretty oblivious and adept at ignoring others' reactions. Ivan was both, and it was remarkable how well they were all getting along.
"Do you know about the place where the Yenisei River changes course? The village of Oznachennoye, that's where I was born. Later I followed my dad further east, traversing the lands, even reaching Siberia."
As Ivan squatted by the reeds on the riverside, he continued, "And of course, Lake Baikal. Bottomless and the perfect spot for ice fishing."
"It's very cold there," Erik commented, sounding more of an exclamation rather than a rebuttal.
"Yes, every part of my homeland is cold," Ivan didn't shy away, saying, "We always wore thick cotton clothes and walked clumsily like penguins, but we got used to it."
"Every person who underestimated the cold there paid a painful price, especially Hitler," Ivan continued, "The European blitzkrieg reached here, tripped over by the winter snow, breaking its legs."
Charles looked worriedly at Erik, but saw no expression on his face. The atmosphere grew silent, but it wasn't awkward. After a few minutes, Erik finally spoke, "Most of the decisions he made in his life were wrong, anyone who thinks he was a genius is the real fool."
"Are you saying this because you're Jewish?"
"Because I am a German."
"That is interesting." Ivan murmured, lighting his cigarette, his voice vague, "I thought everyone from the losing side would only resent their failed attempt."
"Mostly, yes."
What surprised both Charles and Ivan was that Erik did not deny this. His attitude was too neutral, even somewhat puzzling.
After a while, a gust of warm wind blew from the campground amid the cold air. Natasha was gone, and Shiller was looking at the pot of food, watching the luncheon meat roll up in the red tomato soup.
"It looks like the food is almost ready. We should go," Charles maneuvered his wheelchair, "Let's not keep everyone waiting, that would be impolite."
So, Erik followed him back. The last to get up was Ivan who smiled broadly at Erik, showing his imperfect teeth, and said, "He still treats you like a baby."
Erik said nothing and showed no signs of anger. He looked so gentle it was unlike him, Ivan quickly added, "One is incredibly lucky to encounter someone in the latter part of one's life who can replace their parents."
Erik's face cleared just like the clouds scattering before the sunset behind him. His upright back looked even more towering than the trees' shadows against the light, aloof and resolute.
They quickly took their seats around the campfire, and Natasha and Steve returned just in time. The painting board Steve carried was covered in frost, just like his eyebrows.
Steve casually placed the painting board at the entrance of the windscreen, sat down on the folding stool, and Nick extinguished his second cigarette. Shiller took out bowls and chopsticks from his bag and distributed them to everyone.
The metal lunch box was a camping essential, and nobody seemed to mind the vintage design. Only when Shiller handed the lunch box to Nick, he remarked, "If Peter were here, he would kick up a fuss and ask if we had brought this back from a museum."
"I would tell him we did." Steve served everyone some soup, laughing as he said, "I would say this used to be displayed alongside my shield during national touring exhibitions."
Nick giggled as if he was choked, he glanced at his lunchbox which was yet to be filled with soup and said, "Has this indeed become so antique that the kids think of it as a relic?"
"It's definitely not new, but neither is Russia," Ivan added.
"There is nothing new here, right?" Shiller chuckled, "No young people or things, no pursuit of trendiness."
"You could just say that not bringing Tony Stark was a good idea." Nick huffed and said, "He would use two thousand words to criticize our utensils."
"Then I'll just carve 'Manufactured by Stark Industries' at the bottom of the lunch box." Shiller held down the pieces of cabbage flying about with his fork, adding, "I'll show it to him after he finishes his critique."
"I can already picture him choking on his words." Steve laughed uncontrollably.
"But as far as I know him…" Natasha rotated the rectangular lunch box in her hand, making a sizzling sound. Looking up at Steve, she said, "He would say that this was his intended birthday gift for you, to show off his trendy taste and to distance himself from us old folks."
"Oh god, spare me!"