u/tarnishedkara

There were three things I had learned since starting X-Factor. One, people would do absolutely anything for a good picture. Two, apparently everything I wore needed to be approved by at least six different people. And three, nobody ever listened when I said something was a bad idea.

First example being the giant, expensive, definitely not fireproof backdrop behind me.

"Okay, first of all, I specifically said I wanted pink!"

I gestured toward the enormous silver-and-white display behind the photographer, complete with enough reflective surfaces to blind a small army.

"This is giving dentist's office. Where's the sparkle? Where's the personality? Where's the drama?"

The photographer pinched the bridge of his nose. Someone from the production crew hurried over to adjust a light while a stylist fussed with the collar of my jacket for what had to be the hundredth time. I swatted their hands away and checked myself in the nearest reflective surface.

"I swear, if one more person tells me to look natural, I'm gonna start charging them for the privilege of looking at me."

I stepped onto the marked spot, popped my hip, and flashed the camera my best celebrity smile.

"Okay! Let's make some magic, people!"

The lights brightened. The camera clicked. I snapped my fingers, sending a little burst of pink and gold fireworks into the air behind me.

Except the fireworks didn't fizzle out.

One of them struck the edge of the backdrop.

There was a tiny, almost polite little POP.

I blinked.

"...That's probably fine."

The corner of the backdrop caught fire.

"OH, YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!"

Suddenly, everybody was moving. Someone yelled for a fire extinguisher. Another person started dragging equipment out of the way. The photographer abandoned his camera to rescue a rack of designer clothes, while I scrambled backward, waving both hands frantically as I tried to smother the flames with a shower of harmless sparks.

"NOBODY PANIC! THIS IS A CONTROLLED SITUATION!"

The backdrop collapsed.

Straight into a lighting rig.

The lighting rig toppled into a table full of makeup, sending brushes, powder, and approximately four thousand dollars' worth of cosmetics flying across the floor. A sprinkler system kicked on overhead, soaking the entire set in about three seconds flat.

I stood there, absolutely drenched, staring at the wreckage.

My hair was plastered to my forehead. My jacket was ruined. Mascara was running down my face, and somewhere behind me, a camera was still taking pictures.

Click.

I slowly turned toward it.

"...You better not be getting my bad side."

Another flash.

I pointed at the photographer.

"DELETE THAT!"

He lowered the camera.

I looked around at the ruined set, the scattered equipment, and the stylist who appeared to be reconsidering every career decision they'd ever made.

Then I looked back at the camera, forcing the biggest, fakest smile I could manage.

"And THAT, everybody, is why you hire professionals for your X-Factor photoshoots!"

I paused.

"...Which we are absolutely doing next time."

I brushed a clump of wet hair out of my eyes and glanced at the smoldering remains of the backdrop.

"Can we at least get a picture with the fire extinguisher? I think there's a brand deal in there somewhere."

Frost Academy had probably seen its fair share of strange things. Mutants were hardly known for their subtle entrances, and between the occasional psychic incident, the uncontrolled power demonstrations, and whatever the hell teenagers got up to when left unsupervised, the building had developed a certain tolerance for the unexpected.

What it probably hadn't accounted for was me.

Or, more accurately, me traveling at approximately the speed of a small automobile.

CRAAAAAASH!

The front doors of Frost Academy exploded inward with a spectacular cacophony of splintering wood, shrieking hinges, and violently offended glass. The doors themselves flew several feet into the entrance hall before clattering across the polished floor, followed shortly thereafter by a purple-and-black blur that sailed through the opening, bounced once, skidded across the floor on her back, and finally came to a stop in an undignified heap beneath what appeared to be a very expensive decorative plant.

For several seconds, there was silence.

Then a hand emerged from the wreckage.

"Ow."

I sat up with a groan, rubbing the back of my head. My beanie had somehow survived the impact, though it was now crooked enough to suggest it had personally witnessed a crime. I blinked at the ceiling, then at the shattered doors, then at the plant resting on her legs.

"Okay. First of all, rude."

I shoved the plant aside and scrambled to my feet, brushing splinters off my hoodie. There was a fresh tear in one sleeve, a smear of dirt across my cheek, and the unmistakable look of someone who had been having a perfectly terrible afternoon before the universe decided to make it everybody else's problem.

From somewhere outside came the distant sound of something very large hitting something considerably less large. A muffled explosion followed. I winced.

"Second of all, I am SO getting blamed for this."

I glanced toward the gaping entrance, where the sounds of my ongoing fight continued to echo from somewhere beyond the front steps. For a brief moment, my expression shifted. The embarrassment faded, replaced by a tense, irritated focus as I flexed my fingers. Whatever had sent me flying through the front doors clearly hadn't finished with me yet.

And then I noticed the people staring at me.

Students. Staff. Whoever happened to be unfortunate enough to be in the lobby when a teenage girl came crashing through the architecture like a human cannonball.

I straightened, tugged my beanie back into place, and offered them all a somewhat sheepish smile.

"Hey! So, uh... surprise inspection?"

Another crash sounded outside.

"Okay, no, that's a lie. I'm being chased."

I turned toward the entrance, planting my feet as the smile vanished and I raised my fists.

"And whoever decided to throw me through a building is about to find out that was a really, really stupid idea."

I paused, glancing back over my shoulder at the ruined doors.

"...Does anybody here know a good carpenter?"

(companion piece to https://www.reddit.com/r/XMenRoleplay/comments/1wmmjc6/the_dream_he_left_behind_chapter_2_facilty_55/ )

The Weapon X logo remained burned into her vision.

And then the corridor changed.

The walls were cleaner.

Brighter.

Colder.

Laura was walking.

No. She wasn't walking.

She was being dragged.

Small hands clawed uselessly against the floor as heavy footsteps carried her forward. Her fingers slipped against polished concrete, nails scraping uselessly for something to hold onto. The grip around her arm tightened whenever she resisted.

"Let go."

Her voice was smaller.

Much smaller.

There was no answer.

There never was.

Another door opened.

White light flooded her vision.

She knew this room.

She knew all of them.

The table. The restraints. The lights above her. The metal tray sitting beside the equipment. The smell of disinfectant that had become so familiar that eventually she stopped noticing it.

Eventually.

That was the worst part.

She remembered the first time she had screamed.

She remembered the first time she had bitten someone.

She remembered the first time they had shocked her for doing it.

Then she remembered doing it again.

And again.

And again.

The memories began bleeding together.

Hands holding her down.

Needles.

Cold metal.

Voices speaking about her as though she wasn't in the room.

Pain.

Healing.

Pain again.

The passage of time had never meant anything there. There were no mornings. No nights. No birthdays. Only procedures, training, sleep, and waking.

Sometimes she remembered being carried.

Sometimes she remembered being dragged.

Sometimes she remembered walking on her own because she had finally learned that fighting only made the next punishment worse.

The corridors stretched endlessly.

She could still remember counting them.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

She had counted doors, cameras, turns, footsteps.

Anything that could give her something to hold onto.

Anything that could make the place predictable.

Anything that could make her feel like she had control.

But the facility always seemed to change.

Or perhaps she was simply too young to understand that she was being taken through different sections.

Another door.

Another room.

Another test.

Another failure.

Another punishment.

Then training.

They taught her how to kill before they ever taught her why.

They taught her where to strike.

How to move.

How to endure.

How to keep fighting when every part of her wanted to stop.

They taught her that pain was temporary.

They taught her that pain did not matter.

They taught her that she did not matter.

The memories shifted again.

Laura was on the floor.

Her body hurt.

Her vision blurred.

Someone was standing over her.

"Again."

She couldn't.

"Again."

She tried.

She failed.

The shock came.

Her body convulsed.

Then everything went black.

And when she opened her eyes again, she was back in the corridor.

Back at the beginning.

Back to being dragged.

Back to being a child who didn't understand why she was hurting.

Back to a place that had never allowed her to be anything other than what they had created.

The corridor stretched farther.

Farther.

Farther.

There was no end.

Laura kept walking.

She couldn't tell anymore whether she was following someone or being taken somewhere.

She couldn't tell how old she was.

She couldn't remember the last time she had seen the outside world.

She couldn't remember what freedom felt like.

All she could remember was the sound of the doors opening.

The hiss of the locks.

The footsteps behind her.

And the certainty that whatever waited on the other side was going to hurt.

Her younger self stopped.

Laura stopped with her.

For the first time, the little girl turned around.

And looked directly at her.

Not through her.

At her.

There was fear in those eyes.

Confusion.

Exhaustion.

And beneath all of it, something that Laura had spent years trying to bury.

The desperate, almost childlike question of whether anyone was ever coming to take her away.

Laura couldn't answer.

She never had been able to.

The door behind the girl opened.

White light swallowed everything.

And the corridor disappeared.

The doors swing open, and Ah walk through like Ah never left.

There ain't no hesitation in my step. No nervous glance around the room. No wondering who noticed me or whether anybody's gonna recognize the woman walkin' through those doors.

They will.

My boots hit the floor with a steady rhythm as Ah shrug my jacket back onto my shoulders. There's somethin' different about the way Ah carry myself now. Less weight on my shoulders. Less doubt in my head.

Ah've been gone long enough to learn a few things.

Mostly about myself.

Ah stop in the middle of the room, looking around at the familiar faces. For a moment, Ah just take it all in. Places change. People change. Ah reckon Ah'm no exception.

Then Ah smile.

"Well, sugah. Ah'm back."

Ah adjust the cuff of my glove, eyes moving across the room.

"And before anybody starts askin' where Ah've been, what Ah've been doin', or whether Ah'm alright..."

Ah glance down at my hands before curling them slowly into fists.

"...Ah'm fine."

There's no bravado in it. No need to convince anybody.

"Better than fine, actually."

Ah've spent too long wonderin' whether Ah was strong enough. Whether Ah could control what Ah'd been given. Whether Ah deserved to stand beside people who seemed born for this kinda life.

Those questions don't bother me anymore.

Ah know what these hands can do.

Ah know what happens when Ah stop holdin' back.

And Ah know Ah don't need anybody's permission to stand where Ah belong.

Ah look toward the room again, a quiet confidence settling into my expression.

"So... who's been causin' trouble while Ah was gone?"

Ah roll one shoulder, the leather creakin' softly.

"Because Ah'd hate to think y'all managed to have all the fun without me."

Then Ah start walking.

No apology.

No explanation.

Just me, walkin' back through the door like Ah finally knows exactly who Ah am.

The first thing I noticed was the fire.

The second was the screaming.

The third was the voice in my earpiece calmly reminding me that this was supposed to be a solo assessment.

Great. Fantastic. Exactly what I needed.

I stood on the roof across from the warehouse, staring down at the chaos below. Smoke poured from the windows. Armed men were scattering through the streets, and somewhere inside the building, something huge was pounding against the walls hard enough to make the entire structure shake.

This was not what the briefing said would happen.

The briefing said stolen technology. A small group of armed smugglers. Get in, secure the device, get out.

Simple.

I touched my earpiece.

"Avengers Academy, this is Ms. Marvel. I've reached the target."

Static answered me.

I frowned.

"Guys?"

Nothing.

I stared at the comm for a moment before forcing myself to look back toward the warehouse.

No backup. No instructor. No safety net.

This was the test.

They wanted to know if I could do this on my own.

So I was going to do it.

I jumped.

My legs expanded beneath me, launching me across the street. I hit the pavement hard enough to crack it, immediately growing my arms and sweeping two armed men off their feet before they could raise their weapons.

"Okay! Everybody just stay calm!"

Someone screamed.

I looked toward them.

There were civilians everywhere.

My stomach dropped.

I had to get them out.

I stretched both arms across the street, grabbing a collapsing section of scaffolding before it could fall onto a group of people. I managed to hold it.

Barely.

"Go! Go, go, go!"

They ran.

I smiled despite myself.

See? I could do this.

Then the warehouse exploded.

The blast threw me through the side of a parked truck.

For a few seconds, I couldn't hear anything.

I pushed myself upright, coughing through the smoke. My ribs hurt. My ears were ringing. Across the street, the warehouse was partially collapsed.

And the thing inside was no longer inside.

It stepped through the flames.

It was enormous. Some kind of experimental combat machine, covered in glowing circuitry and pieces of the technology the Academy had warned us about.

I stared at it.

"...That wasn't in the briefing."

The machine raised one arm.

I enlarged my fist and punched it.

The impact sent the machine staggering backward.

For one glorious second, I thought I'd actually done something.

Then its arm locked around mine.

My eyes widened.

"Oh."

It swung.

I went through the wall of the building behind me.

Pain exploded through my back.

I forced myself up before it could fire again.

I couldn't lose.

Not here.

Not on my first solo assessment.

Not when everyone back at the Academy was waiting to see whether I was ready.

I charged.

I grew both fists and slammed them down onto the machine.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

The machine finally buckled.

I should have stopped.

Instead, I hit it again.

The street beneath us collapsed.

My heart stopped.

The machine dropped through the pavement, taking a section of the road with it.

And beneath us was a subway tunnel.

I heard the train before I saw it.

Metal screamed.

People screamed louder.

My blood went cold.

"No. No, no, no, no..."

I stretched both arms down into the collapsing tunnel, catching the front of the train with one hand.

The force nearly tore my shoulder out.

The train screeched against the tracks.

I grew larger.

And larger.

My feet dug into the pavement as I tried to hold everything together.

"COME ON!"

The train stopped.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then the ground beneath me cracked.

I looked down.

The street was giving way.

I couldn't hold it.

I couldn't hold the train.

I couldn't hold the building.

I couldn't save everyone.

My hand trembled.

I reached for my comm.

This time, there was no hesitation.

"Avengers Academy, I need assistance!"

Static.

I stared at the comm.

"Please!"

Another crack split through the street.

The train lurched.

I screamed as I stretched myself across the entire opening, wrapping my arms around the train and forcing my body to become something impossibly large just to keep it from falling.

The pain was everywhere.

My muscles burned.

My vision blurred.

And underneath all of it was one awful realization.

I hadn't been trying to save everyone anymore.

I'd been trying to prove I could.

And now everyone was in even more danger because I couldn't admit that I needed help.

"I'm sorry..."

My voice came out small.

"I should've called sooner."

The tunnel beneath me groaned.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

"Please, somebody answer."

I stopped flying.

That was the first thing I changed.

No more crossing the city at Mach whatever. No more casually punching through the atmosphere because walking somewhere took too long. No more letting myself get comfortable with the idea that my powers were simply there when I needed them.

I walked.

Everywhere.

It was ridiculous, considering who I was, but walking meant control. At least, that's what I told myself.

I had spent the last several days trying to figure out what was happening to me. I'd run every diagnostic I could think of. I checked my vitals. My energy levels. My nervous system. I even went through old medical records and mission reports, looking for anything that could explain why my powers had suddenly started activating without me calling on them.

Nothing.

Sometimes it happened when I was angry.

Sometimes when I was tired.

Sometimes for absolutely no reason at all.

The first few incidents had been bursts of energy. A flash through my hands. A shockwave that knocked over furniture. Once, I'd woken up to find the bedroom wall scorched because apparently whatever was happening to me didn't care whether I was conscious.

I started sleeping with my hands wrapped in blankets.

That hadn't helped.

Today had been quiet.

That was what scared me.

I was standing outside a small grocery store, holding a bag of things I'd probably forget to eat later, watching people move around me.

Normal.

Again.

I had begun to hate that word.

I looked down at my hand.

"Nothing."

I flexed my fingers.

"See? We're fine."

I almost laughed at myself.

I started walking.

Halfway across the parking lot, a little boy ran past me chasing a ball. His mother called after him, laughing as she hurried to catch up.

I smiled.

For just a second, everything felt normal.

Then my chest tightened.

I stopped.

The grocery bag slipped from my fingers.

An apple rolled across the pavement.

Heat.

That same horrible heat.

It started somewhere behind my ribs and spread outward through my body. My skin prickled. My vision blurred around the edges.

"No."

I looked around.

People were still walking.

I stepped backward.

"No, no, no..."

I knew this feeling now.

I tried to breathe.

I tried to force it down.

Nothing.

The light began leaking through my fingers.

"Please..."

The energy erupted.

There wasn't a warning.

No buildup.

No chance to move.

One second I was standing there.

The next, the entire parking lot vanished beneath a burst of golden energy.

Cars rocked violently. Windows exploded. Concrete cracked beneath my feet.

People screamed.

I heard someone shout.

Then I saw him.

An older man standing only a few feet away.

He had been walking toward the store.

He didn't even have time to react.

The blast hit him.

His body was thrown backward.

He struck the side of a parked vehicle and collapsed.

Everything stopped.

The energy disappeared.

The ringing in my ears remained.

I stared at him.

My mind refused to understand what I was looking at.

"...No."

I moved.

I don't remember crossing the distance.

I dropped beside him and reached for his shoulder.

"Sir?"

Nothing.

I checked for a pulse.

Nothing.

Again.

Nothing.

My hands started shaking.

"Come on."

I pressed my fingers against his neck.

"Come on. Come on..."

Nothing.

People were gathering around us now.

Someone was crying.

Someone else was calling emergency services.

I barely heard them.

I stared at my hands.

These were the same hands that had pulled people from burning buildings.

The same hands that had carried wounded soldiers.

The same hands I'd used to save worlds.

Now there was blood on them.

And I hadn't even chosen to use my powers.

I slowly pulled my hands away.

"...I didn't do that."

The words sounded pathetic the moment they left my mouth.

Of course I had.

I hadn't wanted to.

I hadn't meant to.

But it had come from me.

I looked at the destruction around me. The shattered windows. The ruined cars. The terrified faces staring at me.

My breathing became shallow.

"I didn't..."

I couldn't finish.

Something moved beneath my skin.

Just for a second.

That same strange sensation.

That pressure.

That presence.

Something inside me pushed against the walls I'd spent days desperately trying to reinforce.

I stumbled backward.

"Stay away from me."

I wasn't talking to the people around me.

I didn't even know who I was talking to.

My eyes remained fixed on my hands.

"Whatever you are..."

My voice cracked.

"...stay the hell away from me."

For the first time since I had returned to Earth, I wasn't afraid of what might happen to the world if I couldn't stop whatever was coming.

I was afraid of what might happen to the next person standing too close to me.

(Disregard Hela and Doom in the second image its just the vibe I am going for)

Hel had a queen.

Until it didn't.

No declaration of war had announced Hela's absence. No messenger had arrived from Asgard bearing news of her defeat. There had been no corpse returned to the realm, no soul passing through the gates, no final battle sung by skalds.

Hela simply vanished.

And in the absence of a queen, Hel became something far more dangerous than a kingdom.

A vacancy.

The dead do not care for political legitimacy.

The gods do.

Angela understood that distinction immediately.

She had watched the Ten Realms long enough to know what happened when a throne remained empty. Someone filled it. An ambitious god. A rival kingdom. A warlord with enough soldiers and insufficient imagination. Perhaps even Asgard itself, deciding that Hel was too important to remain without a sovereign.

Angela had no intention of waiting to see who came.

So she came first.

Hel belonged to Hela.

Hela was gone.

Therefore, Hel needed a queen.

Angela took the throne.

There had been resistance, naturally.

The dead were stubborn.

The living were worse.

But Angela had never been particularly interested in asking permission.

Now, x amount of time into her occupation of the realm, the great hall beneath her throne had begun to change. Hela's banners still hung in places, though many had been torn down. Ancient symbols had been removed from the walls and replaced with the sigil of the Queen who now ruled them. The architecture remained unmistakably Hel, but the presence within it had changed.

It no longer felt like Hela's kingdom.

It felt like Angela's.

Or, at least, she intended for it to.

The problem was that Angela had discovered something beneath the realm.

Something Hela had apparently known about.

Something that had not disappeared when Hela did.

Angela descended alone.

Her boots struck the ancient stone as she made her way deeper beneath the palace, leaving the distant sounds of Hel behind. No attendants followed her. No Valkyries. No guards.

She had ordered them away.

There were some things a queen investigated herself.

The corridor ended at an enormous chamber.

Purple light breathed from within.

Angela stopped at the threshold.

There was a prison in the center of the room.

Not a cell.

A prison.

Its construction was unlike anything she had encountered in Asgard, Heven, or any of the realms she had known. Transparent walls rose from the floor to the ceiling, covered in symbols that seemed to shift whenever she tried to focus upon them. Chains of some unknown substance disappeared into the walls, though whether they were actually physical or something more metaphysical was impossible to determine.

Inside sat something.

Angela had never found a satisfactory word for it.

It possessed the shape of a woman, perhaps.

Long black hair spilled around its shoulders and across the floor. Pale skin was visible beneath the tangled strands, framing a face that seemed almost human until one looked into its eyes.

Those eyes were old.

Not merely old in the way gods were old.

Old in a way that made Angela instinctively wonder whether the creature remembered a universe that no longer existed.

The thing slowly raised its head.

Angela approached.

"You."

The creature's eyes followed her.

"Queen."

Angela's expression hardened.

"Do not mistake a title for an invitation."

A faint smile.

"You took the throne."

"There was no one sitting in it."

"There was."

Angela's hand drifted toward the weapon at her side.

"Hela is gone."

"Is she?"

The question lingered.

Angela stepped closer.

"I searched the realm."

"Yes."

"I searched the borders."

"Yes."

"I questioned the dead."

The creature tilted its head.

"And what did they tell you?"

"Nothing useful."

"Then perhaps you asked the wrong dead."

Angela stared through the barrier.

There was something deeply irritating about the creature.

Not because it was defiant.

Angela had dealt with defiance.

It was the certainty.

The thing spoke as though it understood Hel better than she did. As though Angela's occupation of the realm was some temporary inconvenience rather than the establishment of a new order.

"You were here when I arrived."

The creature said nothing.

"You were here before I took the throne."

Silence.

"And you knew Hela."

That finally produced a reaction.

The creature's expression became almost imperceptibly darker.

"Everyone here knew Hela."

"That wasn't my question."

Angela stepped closer.

"What happened to her?"

The creature looked at her for a long moment.

Then it glanced toward the enormous doors behind Angela.

"You really do not know."

Angela's eyes narrowed.

"Know what?"

"Why she disappeared."

"No."

"Why Hel went silent."

"No."

"Why the dead stopped crossing the western gates."

Angela's expression changed.

Only slightly.

But the creature noticed.

"You noticed that."

"I noticed everything."

"Then you noticed what else changed."

The purple vapor behind the creature began to move.

Slowly.

Like something breathing.

Angela watched it gather against the far side of the chamber.

"What is this place?"

The creature's smile disappeared.

"A cage."

Angela glanced at the walls.

"For you?"

"Perhaps."

"Who built it?"

Silence.

"Hela?"

The creature looked directly into Angela's eyes.

"You should ask yourself why the former Queen would need a prison beneath her own kingdom."

Angela's fingers tightened around her weapon.

For the first time since claiming Hel, she felt something she had not expected.

Not fear.

Suspicion.

Because she had assumed that when Hela vanished, she had left behind an empty throne.

But perhaps Hela had left behind something else.

Something that had been waiting beneath the throne all along.

Angela looked again at the creature.

"What are you?"

The creature leaned forward until its face was almost touching the barrier.

"That depends."

"On what?"

Its eyes flickered toward the sigil of Angela's new reign.

"On whether you intend to be Hela's replacement..."

A pause.

"...or discover what happened to her."

Angela said nothing.

Above them, somewhere beyond the stone, the dead continued their endless wandering through the kingdom she had claimed.

Queen of Hel.

Not because Hela had chosen her.

Not because the throne had called to her.

Not because some ancient prophecy had declared it.

Because Hela was gone, and Angela had seen a power vacuum.

She had filled it.

Now she was beginning to wonder whether she had conquered an empty kingdom...

or walked directly into the aftermath of something that had been powerful enough to make even Hela disappear.

I had faced Avengers.

I had faced monsters, supervillains, gods, cosmic entities, and people powerful enough to turn me into a smear on the pavement without breaking a sweat.

None of them had managed to make my hands shake.

I stood behind the desk at the front of my new classroom, staring at the room as though it had personally declared war on me.

The chairs were empty. Neatly arranged. Harmless.

And yet I couldn't stop looking at them.

I had arrived early. Far too early, actually. The clock on the wall had barely moved since I'd first walked in, and I had already rearranged the desks twice. Three times, if I counted the first arrangement I'd immediately decided looked too much like I was trying to establish dominance.

Of course you noticed that.

My fingers stopped against the edge of a desk.

That was the problem, wasn't it?

I noticed everything.

Who would sit closest to the door. Who would choose the back of the classroom. Which students would sit near their friends because they needed the reassurance and which ones would do it because they wanted an audience. I would know who was trying too hard to impress everyone, who was terrified of failing, who would test my boundaries within the first ten minutes.

I could walk into a room and find the cracks in people without even trying.

And for most of my life, I'd used those cracks.

Exploit them. Press on them. Find out what someone wants and make yourself the person who can give it to them. Or take it away.

My jaw tightened.

"No."

The word came out quietly.

I glanced toward the door before letting out a breath. Still empty.

Good.

That meant nobody had heard me arguing with myself before my first class.

Wonderful start, Dr. Sofen.

I turned toward the board and picked up the marker. I'd written the lesson title already.

PSYCHOLOGY OF POWER

Simple. Professional. Safe.

I stared at it for several seconds before adding a question beneath it.

WHAT DO YOU DO WHEN YOU KNOW YOU CAN GET AWAY WITH SOMETHING?

The marker hovered in my hand.

That one wasn't in the lesson plan.

I slowly lowered it.

Because that was the question, wasn't it?

Not whether someone could manipulate another person. Not whether power made it easier to control people. Not whether someone with the right words, the right pressure, and enough understanding of human behavior could make someone else do almost anything.

I knew the answers to all of those.

The real question was what I did when I had that power.

When I could see exactly which student needed approval badly enough to follow me anywhere. When I knew precisely how to make another faculty member doubt themselves. When a carefully chosen sentence could shift a room in my favor without anyone realizing I'd done anything at all.

I had been good at that.

Very good.

My expression darkened as I placed the marker down.

"And that's why you're here." I muttered to myself.

Not because anyone had forgotten what I'd done.

Not because I expected the Avengers Academy to suddenly trust me.

I'd read the looks. Heard the pauses in conversations when I walked into rooms. Some people were polite. Some weren't. A few watched me with the careful expression of someone keeping one hand near the emergency button.

I couldn't even blame them.

If Karla Sofen walked into a room, Karla Sofen wouldn't trust her either.

That was what made this so absurd.

They were going to let me teach.

Students were going to walk through that door and, at least on paper, I would be someone responsible for helping them.

The thought sent another small tremor through my stomach.

I immediately folded my arms.

"Get a grip."

I was Moonstone.

I could fly through a building. I could become intangible. I could survive things that would kill most people instantly.

And I was standing here terrified of a group of teenagers.

Teenagers who don't know me yet.

That thought was worse.

My eyes drifted back toward the desks.

They would know soon enough.

Maybe not everything. But enough.

They'd heard stories. They'd have opinions. Some would probably hate me before I ever introduced myself. Others might think having an ex-villain as a teacher was exciting. And that, somehow, worried me just as much.

Because I knew exactly how easy it would be to enjoy that.

The attention.

The influence.

The moment a student looked at me like I was someone worth listening to.

My fingers curled.

Don't.

The voice in my head was my own, and that almost made it worse.

Don't turn this into another game. Don't make them pieces on a board. Don't figure out who is easiest to influence. Don't start thinking about which ones would be useful. They're students.

I closed my eyes.

They're kids.

For a moment, I just stood there, breathing slowly.

Then I walked behind the desk and pulled out my lesson plan.

Not because I needed to look at it.

Because I needed something to do with my hands.

The sound of footsteps finally echoed from the hallway.

My head snapped toward the door.

There it was.

The panic.

Ridiculous, sharp, and immediate.

I could feel my heart beating faster.

What if I said the wrong thing?

What if someone pushed me?

What if someone insulted me, accused me, called me exactly what I used to be?

What if they were right?

And beneath all of that was the thought I hated most.

What if I'm still that person?

My hand tightened around the lesson plan.

For half a second, I considered leaving.

Not flying away dramatically. I wasn't going to give anyone that satisfaction.

Just walking out.

There were plenty of things I was good at.

This didn't have to be one of them.

But then I looked at the words on the board again.

WHAT DO YOU DO WHEN YOU KNOW YOU CAN GET AWAY WITH SOMETHING?

I stared at them.

Then, slowly, I set the lesson plan down.

"You choose not to."

The words were barely above a whisper.

I straightened my jacket, took one last breath, and forced my hands to stop shaking.

Whatever happened next, I would deal with it.

One class.

One student.

One choice at a time.

The door handle began to turn.

And for the first time in a very long time, I found myself hoping desperately that I was strong enough not to become the person I had always found so easy to be.

Natasha had learned a long time ago that memory was an unreliable witness.

People liked to imagine the mind as a filing cabinet. Every face, every smell, every mistake placed neatly into a drawer somewhere behind the eyes, waiting to be retrieved when needed. That had never been true for her. Her memories had been cut apart, rearranged, chemically softened, electrically corrected and stitched back together by people who understood that identity was only another weapon if you knew where to put the blade.

So when Natasha remembered something that could not possibly have happened, her first instinct was not fear.

It was suspicion.

She stood alone in the bathroom of her apartment with both hands braced against the sink, staring at herself in the mirror.

Three seventeen in the morning.

She had been awake for forty-eight minutes.

She knew because she had checked the clock when she woke. Then again twelve minutes later. Then again after she had searched the apartment.

No forced entry.

No listening devices she hadn't already accounted for.

No chemical residue in the vents.

No trace of sedatives in the water beside her bed.

No evidence that anyone had been there at all.

And yet there was still snow melting in her hair.

Natasha lifted one hand slowly.

Her fingers came away wet.

She stared at them.

One bead of water slipped along the groove of her palm.

Impossible.

The apartment was seventy-two degrees.

She hadn't been outside since shortly after midnight.

She looked back toward the mirror.

For less than a second, the reflection wasn't hers.

A child stood where Natasha should have been.

Perhaps twelve.

Perhaps thirteen.

Dark hair pinned badly behind her head as though she had tried doing it herself and refused to let anyone fix it. White nightdress. Bare feet.

Behind her stretched a corridor Natasha had never seen.

Marble.

Gold trim.

Portraits lining the walls.

Candles trembling in glass sconces.

The girl looked frightened.

Then someone beyond the edge of the reflection called to her.

"Ą̶̩͉̗̱͒̑̽͊͒̚n̸̰̝̬̈́̒͛͗͑̕͠ḁ̸̲̮̬͆̈́͠s̴̤̩̳̗̎͠t̸͖̬̫̮̄̽͋͠ȧ̵̱̟s̶͎͓͛͛ì̶̼͍͛̒a̶͙̱̎..."

The mirror cracked.

Natasha jerked backward.

Except it hadn't.

The glass remained whole.

Her own reflection stared back at her.

Older.

Controlled.

Angry now.

Natasha touched two fingers to the mirror.

"Who are you?"

Nothing answered.

She closed her eyes.

And somewhere beneath the floorboards of her mind, a door opened.

The room smelled of lavender.

That was the first detail.

Not the furniture.

Not the people.

Not the enormous windows overlooking snow-covered grounds.

Lavender.

Natasha knew the scent.

She didn't know why.

A brush moved through her hair.

Long strokes.

Patient.

Someone stood behind her.

A woman.

Natasha tried to turn around.

The memory resisted.

Not physically.

Something inside her simply refused to allow it.

Her perspective locked in place.

She could see herself sitting before a vanity mirror.

Except she wasn't herself.

She was younger.

Much younger.

Her hands were small.

There was a ribbon around one wrist.

Someone had tied it crooked.

The woman behind her laughed softly.

"You were told not to climb the railing."

A child's voice answered.

Her voice.

"I wasn't climbing."

"No?"

"I was balancing."

The woman stopped brushing.

"That is what you said yesterday."

"Yesterday I was climbing."

Laughter.

Warm.

Real.

Natasha felt something twist in her chest.

She knew that laugh.

She knew it with the kind of certainty that frightened her more than any weapon ever had.

The child looked toward the mirror.

The woman's face should have appeared behind her.

It didn't.

There was only a white blur where her features belonged.

Natasha tried to focus.

The blur worsened.

Static crawled across the edges of the memory.

She pushed harder.

The woman's mouth moved.

"A̴̢̯̙̾͂͒͝n̷͍̯̒͗͑̓͝a̵͙̮̒̋̅s̷̭̲̊͑͋̆t̷̯̓̍͘͝a̶͕̅͝ș̸̫͑͗͊i̵̳̐a̷͚̚..."

Pain exploded behind Natasha's eyes.

The memory buckled.

She could almost hear another sound underneath the woman's voice.

Mechanical.

Rhythmic.

A tone repeating at precise intervals.

Then another voice.

Male.

Cold.

"Again."

The lavender disappeared.

White light.

Leather restraints.

Natasha couldn't move.

She was older now.

Not a child.

Maybe sixteen.

Maybe twenty.

Age had become meaningless.

Someone stood beside a metal table.

Another man monitored a machine.

Electrodes pressed against her temples.

A photograph was held in front of her.

Family portrait.

Parents.

Children.

A boy.

Four girls.

"Do you recognize them?"

Natasha heard herself answer.

"No."

The photograph changed.

A palace.

"Do you recognize this?"

"No."

Another photograph.

A man with a beard.

"Him?"

"No."

Another.

A woman.

"Her?"

Silence.

The machine beside her clicked.

"Answer."

Natasha stared at the photograph.

Something warm surfaced beneath the drugs.

A bedroom.

A song.

Lavender.

Hands smoothing a blanket around her shoulders.

The word came from somewhere so deep it barely felt like language.

"Mama."

The machine screamed.

Electricity tore through her skull.

Natasha's back arched against the restraints.

The photograph dropped.

"Incorrect."

Again.

The woman's photograph.

"Who is this?"

Tears ran down the girl's face.

"I don't know."

"Good."

Another photograph.

A young girl.

Dark hair.

Bright eyes.

A stubborn little smile.

"Who is this?"

Natasha stared.

Her heart knew before her mind did.

Something inside her tried to speak.

"A̷̬̗̜̮͆͊̾̿͒͊͌ǹ̴͉̝̦̄̒̓͐͝ă̷͙̦̱̐̈́̿̏͐s̶̟̮̏̍͝t̶͕͍̄͋̄͝a̶̮̓͗͝s̴̬̜̐ȉ̶̥̅a̷̫͘..."

The current hit before she finished.

Again.

The photograph.

"Who is this?"

"I don't know."

Again.

"Who is this?"

"I don't know."

Again.

"Who is this?"

"I don't know."

Again.

Again.

Again.

Until the girl's face stopped meaning anything.

Until the palace became architecture.

Until the woman's photograph became a stranger.

Until "Mama" became a sound without a person attached to it.

Until the name became static.

"Who are you?"

The man leaned over her.

Natasha's lips trembled.

There had been another answer once.

She could feel the shape of it dying.

"Natalia..."

"Again."

"Natalia Alianovna Romanova."

"Again."

"Natalia Alianovna Romanova."

"Again."

The words became easier.

Safer.

"Natalia Alianovna Romanova."

The man smiled.

"Good."

Somewhere underneath that name, another little girl disappeared.

Natasha opened her eyes.

She was on the bathroom floor.

She didn't remember falling.

Blood ran from her nose.

Her hands were shaking violently now.

For several seconds she remained perfectly still.

Not frozen.

Assessing.

Cataloguing.

Protecting herself by turning terror into information.

The Red Room.

That much had been real.

The chair.

The photographs.

The conditioning.

She remembered procedures like that.

But not that one.

Not those photographs.

Natasha wiped the blood away with the back of her hand.

Her breathing became slower.

Controlled.

Four seconds in.

Four seconds out.

She stood.

The professional part of her mind began rebuilding itself immediately.

If the memory was genuine, someone had deliberately suppressed it.

If it was fabricated, someone had deliberately implanted it.

Either possibility meant the same thing.

Someone had wanted her to see this.

Or someone had once desperately wanted to ensure that she never could.

Natasha walked into the bedroom.

She crossed to the closet, removed three coats from the rail and pressed her thumb against a hidden latch.

A section of wall released with a quiet mechanical click.

Inside sat weapons.

Passports.

Currency.

Encrypted drives.

And one small black box.

Natasha stared at it.

She hadn't opened it in years.

There were things even spies avoided.

Not because they were afraid of what they might find.

Because sometimes survival required accepting that certain graves should remain closed.

Natasha opened the box.

Inside were scraps of her earliest history.

Things she had collected without understanding why.

A faded ribbon.

A tiny silver icon.

Two photographs so damaged their subjects could barely be recognized.

A coin minted before the Soviet Union existed.

And beneath everything else...

A key.

Small.

Ornate.

Imperial eagle engraved into its bow.

Natasha picked it up.

Her vision blurred immediately.

Snow.

Running footsteps.

Someone crying.

A man's voice yelling.

Doors slamming.

Gunfire.

A woman forcing something into her hand.

"Keep this."

Natasha's younger voice trembled.

"Why?"

"Because someday you may need to prove who you are."

The woman's face began dissolving.

Natasha fought it.

"Who am I?"

The memory stuttered.

The answer came.

"You are Ą̷̛͎̯̩̍̕͝n̵̜͌ḁ̷́̎̈́s̴̮̄̏t̴̗̿̊̄a̶̪̍͠š̸̙̆̈́i̶̳͝ä̵̟́."

Static swallowed the name.

Natasha tightened her grip around the key.

"Say it again."

The memory flickered.

"A̴̝̍̋n̶̮̽̿̐a̷̰̓̏̚s̷̨͑̔̈́ẗ̶̖́̑à̴̢s̷̤̓̾ȋ̷̙a̶̮͊."

"Again."

The woman was crying now.

"A̵̛̼̲̮̳͒̔͒n̶͎̎̀̿a̴̬͋͝s̵̗͛͌t̸͍̋͛̚ä̷̬́s̸͚̽i̵͖̚a̵̢͗!"

Natasha screamed.

The memory collapsed.

She found herself gripping the dresser hard enough that the wood had splintered beneath her fingers.

The key remained clenched in her other hand.

She stared at it.

The eagle.

Two heads.

A crown.

Something moved through Natasha then that she hadn't felt in years.

Not fear.

Not confusion.

Anger.

Cold, familiar anger.

The kind that had carried her through rooms filled with men who believed ownership and obedience were the same thing.

Someone had taken her memories.

That wasn't new.

Someone had rewritten her childhood.

That wasn't new either.

But this...

This was different.

They hadn't merely erased a mission.

They hadn't merely removed a name.

They had dismantled an entire human being.

Mother.

Father.

Sisters.

Brother.

Home.

Childhood.

Every time that little girl had reached toward the surface, they had hurt her until Natasha learned not to hear her.

The Black Widow had not been created from nothing.

She had been built over a grave.

And whoever lay inside that grave was beginning to knock.

Natasha crossed to her computer.

She inserted an encrypted drive.

No Avengers database.

No S.H.I.E.L.D.

No friendly intelligence channels.

Not yet.

She wanted information untouched by anyone who might recognize what she was looking for.

The first search was simple.

Romanova.

Thousands of results.

Dynasties.

Genealogies.

Imperial Russia.

Natasha narrowed it.

Romanov daughters.

Four names appeared.

Olga.

Tatiana.

Maria.

And the fourth rendered strangely.

For one impossible second, Natasha did not see letters.

She saw static.

Ȧ̷͇̀n̴͎͠a̷͕̾s̴̤͌ṫ̴̼ä̵̢́ś̸͇ǐ̷͍a̷͚͝

Natasha blinked.

The text normalized.

Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova.

Her breath stopped.

The word sat there.

Perfectly readable.

Eleven letters.

She could see them.

She could pronounce each individually.

A.

N.

A.

S.

T.

A.

S.

I.

A.

But when Natasha attempted to read the name as a whole, her mind refused.

Her eyes slid away.

Her thoughts scattered.

Pain gathered behind her temples.

She forced herself to look again.

Anastasia.

The pain sharpened.

Not a headache.

An alarm.

White light flooded the room.

The computer screen vanished beneath the image of a metal chair.

Straps tightened around her wrists.

Electrodes pressed against her skin.

Someone was saying something, but the words came through water.

"Stop."

Natasha's hand jerked away from the keyboard.

The vision disappeared.

She was back in her apartment, bent over the desk, one hand clamped against her temple.

Blood had begun to run from her nose.

She waited.

The pain did not fade.

It spread.

Down her neck.

Across her jaw.

Behind her eyes.

Every nerve in her body seemed to remember the same command.

Do not continue.

Natasha looked at the screen again.

The name was still there.

She knew what it said.

She could not make herself hold it in her mind.

The moment she tried, the room tilted.

Her stomach turned.

Her fingers went numb.

Somewhere beneath the pain, a voice began counting.

"Five."

Natasha froze.

"Four."

The voice was hers.

"Three."

She shoved the laptop away.

"Two."

The screen struck the wall and went dark.

"One."

The pain stopped.

Not gradually.

Instantly.

Natasha remained bent over the desk, breathing through her teeth.

Her body had learned the limit before she had.

Push farther, and something inside her would shut down.

Maybe for minutes.

Maybe for hours.

Maybe permanently.

She had no way of knowing.

That was the point.

Natasha wiped the blood from her mouth and stared at the ruined computer.

She had not broken anything.

Not the command.

Not the conditioning.

Not the wall around the name.

If anything, the wall had shown her what it was made of.

Pain.

Fear.

Repetition.

And a trigger buried so deeply that even recognizing it was enough to make her body attack itself.

She should have stopped there.

She knew that.

The professional answer was to destroy the drive, clean the apartment, and treat the entire episode as a hostile psychological intrusion.

Instead, Natasha opened the black box again.

The key lay inside.

She picked it up with unsteady fingers.

The moment the metal touched her palm, something surfaced.

Not a face.

Not a name.

A hallway.

Snow tracked across polished stone.

A child's hand closing around the key.

A woman's voice, urgent and breaking.

"If they ask, you never had this."

The memory vanished before Natasha could reach for it.

She was left with the smell of lavender.

The shape of a silver icon.

The impression of a locked door.

And one word she could not safely say.

Not yet.

Natasha sat on the floor with her back against the bed.

She did not try the name again.

She did not look at the computer.

She did not test the limits of the pain.

But she wrote down what remained.

Lavender.

The key.

The icon.

A hallway.

A woman.

The word "Mama."

And a fragment of a name that her mind had been trained to destroy.

It was not much.

It was not proof.

It was barely a path.

But it was more than she had possessed yesterday.

Natasha folded the paper once and slid it beneath the lining of the black box.

Then she sat in the dark until morning, refusing to say the name aloud.

Not because she had forgotten it.

Because some part of her still knew exactly what would happen if she tried.

The bells of Castle Doom had not rung in three years.

Not for war. Not for celebration. Not even for the arrival of foreign dignitaries who had learned, usually through unpleasant experience, that I did not appreciate being kept waiting.

Tonight, they rang once.

The sound rolled through the stone corridors and disappeared into the winter air beyond the castle walls. Below, Latveria slept beneath a blanket of snow, its villages glowing softly in the darkness, while the lights of the capital burned beneath the watchful gaze of statues carved in Doom's likeness.

Inside the castle, however, there was no sleep.

There was only the low mechanical hum of machinery buried somewhere beneath the ancient foundations.

And magic.

It hung in the air like an electrical charge, prickling against the skin, making every candle flame in the corridor lean toward the same impossible direction.

I stood at the end of the great hall.

My armor was immaculate. My cloak fell perfectly behind me, untouched by the cold despite the enormous doors standing open to the night. One metal hand rested against the head of my cane while the other held a small object between armored fingers.

A fragment of blackened stone.

I had found it beneath the chapel.

It should not have existed.

That alone would have been irritating.

What made it considerably worse was the fact that I had already identified the residue clinging to it.

Chaos.

Not the crude parlor tricks of hedge witches or the ceremonial magic practiced by aristocrats who liked pretending their bloodlines made them powerful.

Something older.

Something that had touched the boundaries of Latveria without crossing them.

Something that had been here for some time.

I slowly closed my fingers around the fragment.

"You have been hiding from my machines."

My voice carried through the empty hall.

There was no answer.

I tilted my head slightly.

"You have also been hiding from my soldiers."

Silence.

A faint smile touched my mouth beneath the mask.

"That was more impressive."

I turned toward the darkness.

"But you made one mistake."

The castle lights extinguished.

Every last one.

For several seconds there was nothing but darkness.

Then dozens of tiny green lights appeared throughout the hall.

Doombots.

They stood perfectly still along the balconies, beneath the arches, behind the pillars. Not attacking. Not advancing.

Watching.

I stepped forward.

"You assumed Doom was searching for you."

The fragment in my hand began to glow.

"Doom was waiting for you."

I raised my hand.

The air between us twisted.

For a moment, the hall seemed to become something else entirely. Shadows stretched in impossible directions. The stone beneath our feet briefly became transparent, revealing something vast and dark moving beneath the foundations of the castle.

Then it vanished.

I lowered my hand.

"I have spent the better part of a month determining why the protective wards surrounding Latveria have begun behaving as though they are afraid."

I looked directly toward her.

"Wards do not feel fear."

A pause.

"People do."

I took another step forward.

There was no threat in the movement.

That somehow made it worse.

"You are not a foreign sorcerer. You are not an invading mystic. You are not one of the fools who believes possessing power makes them entitled to use it."

My gaze dropped briefly toward the magical residue surrounding her.

"You are Latverian."

The word carried considerably more weight than it should have.

Not accusation.

Recognition.

"Which means you understand something the rest of them do not."

I stopped several feet away.

"This country does not belong to the world."

My voice softened.

"It belongs to us."

For once, the arrogance in my voice was not directed toward myself.

It was directed toward everyone outside those borders.

I extended my armored hand.

Not an order.

An offer.

"So."

The smallest pause.

"Tell Doom what has been happening to you."

My fingers closed slowly around the blackened stone.

"And choose your next words carefully."

The castle seemed to hold its breath.

"Because if something has awakened inside you..."

A faint pulse of magic traveled through the floor.

My eyes narrowed behind the mask.

"...Doom intends to discover whether it is a threat to Latveria."

Another pause.

Then, almost imperceptibly, my tone changed.

Less monarch.

Less scientist.

Something closer to Victor.

"Or whether Latveria has finally found another witch worth protecting."

There was something strangely comforting about being back.

Not because Earth had changed. If anything, that was the point. It hadn't.

The streets were crowded. Cars filled the intersections. People complained about traffic, argued with one another over nothing, carried coffee down sidewalks while staring at their phones. Somewhere nearby, a bus groaned to a stop and released another wave of people into the afternoon.

Normal.

After everything I'd seen out there, normal had become a luxury I didn't realize I'd missed.

I walked through the city without the uniform, without the helmet, without the glowing insignia that made people turn their heads. Just Carol Danvers. At least for a little while.

I had spent enough time in the sky lately.

There was something about walking among people that made Earth feel real again. Not a blue sphere viewed through a cockpit window. Not another mission destination. Home.

I stopped outside a little coffee shop and glanced through the window.

I could see myself reflected in the glass.

For half a second, I barely recognized the woman staring back.

Not because she looked different.

Because she looked tired.

I smiled faintly at my reflection.

"Get some sleep, Danvers."

I pushed away from the window and continued down the sidewalk.

I'd been trying to keep things simple since returning. Check in with the people I could find. Make sure the usual channels were still functioning. Figure out what had changed while I'd been away. There were plenty of questions, but nothing that demanded an immediate answer.

And maybe that was what I needed.

For once, there wasn't an alien fleet waiting above the atmosphere.

There wasn't some cosmic tyrant threatening to tear a hole through reality.

There wasn't a war.

There was just Earth.

My Earth.

I turned down a quieter street, hands slipping into the pockets of my jacket as I watched people pass around me. A mother trying to keep up with her daughter. Two construction workers arguing about something that apparently required increasingly elaborate hand gestures. An old man sitting outside a bookstore with a newspaper folded across his lap.

Little things.

Things I'd spent months, maybe years, taking for granted.

I stopped at the corner and looked up at the buildings surrounding me.

For a moment, I wondered if I could actually do this.

Be Carol.

Not Captain Marvel.

Not the soldier. Not the cosmic powerhouse. Not the woman everyone expected to show up when something went wrong.

Just Carol.

The thought almost made me laugh.

"Yeah. Right."

I started walking again.

Then I felt it.

At first, it was barely anything.

A warmth beneath my skin.

I slowed.

My brow furrowed.

It wasn't the familiar sensation of my powers responding to something I had intentionally called upon. This was different. It felt almost like static crawling through my veins.

I looked down at my hands.

Nothing.

I flexed my fingers.

The sensation disappeared.

I frowned.

"Okay..."

I kept moving.

Three more steps.

The warmth returned.

Stronger.

I stopped again.

Something was wrong.

My heartbeat suddenly hammered against my chest. I could feel energy gathering somewhere deep inside me, building with a pressure that made my muscles tense.

"No."

I looked around.

People were still walking.

Nobody seemed to notice.

I took a slow breath and tried to push the sensation down.

"Easy."

Nothing.

The pressure increased.

"I said easy."

Golden light suddenly flashed beneath my skin.

I staggered backward.

"What the hell?"

Energy erupted from my body.

The pavement beneath my feet cracked outward in a violent spiderweb. A shockwave tore down the street, throwing trash cans into parked cars and shattering several windows. The air itself seemed to buckle around me.

I threw my arms up instinctively.

"STOP!"

It didn't.

Power poured from me.

Not controlled.

Not directed.

Not mine.

I could feel it moving through my body like something had reached inside me and pulled a switch.

My feet lifted from the ground.

The glow around my hands intensified until I couldn't even see my fingers through it. Cars rocked against their suspension. Streetlights bent beneath the pressure. Concrete fractured beneath me as another pulse of energy exploded outward.

"I'M NOT DOING THIS!"

The words barely escaped my mouth before another surge ripped through the street.

I clenched my fists, trying desperately to shut it down.

Nothing.

For one terrifying second, I felt something else.

Not a voice.

Not a thought.

Something deeper.

Something pushing.

Something trying to get through.

My eyes widened.

"...What are you?"

There was no answer.

Only another surge of power.

The blast sent me crashing backward through the front of an abandoned storefront, glass and concrete exploding around me.

I hit the floor hard.

Silence.

Smoke drifted through the ruined room.

My ears rang.

Slowly, I pushed myself up onto one elbow, staring at my hands as the last traces of energy crawled across my fingers.

I hadn't activated my powers.

I hadn't even tried.

So why had they answered?

And more importantly...

What had just been trying to break its way out?

The city had a way of making every day feel like it had already gone wrong before I even got out of bed.

By eight in the morning, the coffee at the corner place tasted like someone had filtered a cigarette through it, the rain had turned the sidewalk into a slick sheet of garbage and oil, and somebody had decided that honking at the car in front of them would somehow make Manhattan move faster. It didn't. Nothing ever did. The city just kept grinding its teeth and pretending that was progress.

I sat behind the desk at Alias Investigations with my boots propped against the bottom drawer, staring at a photograph of a man who had apparently decided cheating on his wife was worth paying me three hundred dollars to prove. The photograph wasn't even interesting. Him leaving a bar. Her not being there. A hand on somebody else's waist. Evidence of a betrayal so painfully ordinary that I almost felt bad for charging money to document it.

Almost.

I dropped the photograph onto the desk.

"People are garbage."

There was nobody around to disagree.

The office hummed quietly around me. Old radiator. Flickering fluorescent light. The faint buzz of traffic somewhere below. My answering machine had three messages, two of which were probably people asking if I could find somebody who didn't want to be found, and the third was probably a bill collector who had developed a strange fascination with my voicemail.

Normal.

Normal was good.

Normal meant nobody was trying to kill me.

Nobody was asking me to save the world.

Nobody was putting on a costume and expecting me to care.

I picked up the phone and made the first call.

Then the second.

Then the third.

One client lied to me. Another forgot to mention that the guy I was supposed to be following was armed. The third couldn't afford my rate and tried to pay me in homemade cookies.

I ate one anyway.

By noon, I'd spent most of the day walking through neighborhoods that looked increasingly gray the longer I stayed in them. I followed a cheating husband across three blocks, photographed him meeting a woman outside a hotel, and then stood in the rain long enough for my hair to stick to my face while I waited for a cab that never came.

There were days when being a private investigator felt glamorous.

This wasn't one of them.

Still, it was mine.

That was the part I liked.

Mine.

I decided where I went. I decided who I talked to. I decided when a case was worth taking and when somebody could take their problems and shove them somewhere unpleasant.

Nobody told me what to do.

Nobody made choices for me.

Nobody got inside my head.

I stopped walking.

The thought had come so suddenly that it felt like I'd run into something.

Nobody got inside my head.

For a second, there was only rain.

Then I heard laughter.

Quiet.

Almost affectionate.

I turned.

Nothing.

Just pedestrians passing beneath umbrellas. A taxi crawling through traffic. Steam rising from a manhole cover.

I stared for another moment before shaking my head.

"Get a grip, Jones."

I kept walking.

By the time I got back to the office, I'd convinced myself it was nothing.

Exhaustion.

Stress.

Too much whiskey last night and not enough food today.

Easy explanations were my favorite kind.

I dumped the photographs onto my desk and started sorting them.

Evidence.

Proof.

Things people couldn't argue with.

That was the whole point of the job. You found what was true and you put it in front of people who wanted to pretend it wasn't.

I smiled faintly at that thought.

Then a voice spoke from behind me.

"That's what you call this?"

My hands stopped.

I didn't turn around.

There was something about the voice that my body recognized before my brain did.

My stomach dropped.

Slowly, I looked over my shoulder.

He was sitting in the chair across from my desk.

Purple suit.

Purple tie.

Purple hair.

That smile.

No.

My chair scraped backward as I stood.

He looked exactly the way I remembered him.

Not older.

Not changed.

Not dead.

Just him.

"Hi, Jessica."

I couldn't breathe.

For several seconds neither of us moved.

Then I blinked.

The chair was empty.

My heart was still pounding.

I stared at it.

"Not funny."

Silence.

I turned back toward the desk.

The photographs were still there.

My hands were shaking.

I pressed them flat against the wood.

"You're not real."

"Of course I'm not."

I looked up.

He was sitting on the edge of my desk now.

I hadn't seen him move.

"That's what makes this so much easier."

I swallowed.

"You aren't here."

"No."

His smile widened.

"I'm here."

I looked away.

That was the trick.

Don't engage.

Don't acknowledge it.

Don't let it become real.

I reached for another photograph.

He leaned closer.

"You know what's funny?"

I ignored him.

"You spend all day pretending this matters."

I picked up the photograph.

"You chase people. You take pictures. You make phone calls. You collect little pieces of evidence and hand them to people who are going to lie about what they mean anyway."

I slid the photograph into the file.

"You call yourself a detective."

Another photograph.

"You're not."

Another.

"You're a woman sitting alone in a filthy office, taking money from desperate people because it's the only way you've figured out how to make yourself feel useful."

My jaw tightened.

"Shut up."

"There she is."

I froze.

He smiled.

"That's better."

I kept sorting.

He kept talking.

"Do you remember how much happier you were?"

"No."

"Liar."

The word was soft.

Almost gentle.

"You were happier when you didn't have to think."

My fingers stopped.

"When you didn't have to make choices. When someone else told you what to do, where to go, what to say."

I closed my eyes.

"You're not him."

"I know."

A pause.

"But you remember him."

My eyes opened.

He was standing directly in front of me.

I stepped backward.

He didn't move.

"That's the thing about you, Jessica. Everyone keeps telling you how strong you are."

His expression softened into something almost sympathetic.

"They don't know you."

I clenched my fists.

"They see the strength. They see the woman who survived. They see the detective. The hero. The person who keeps getting back up."

He tilted his head.

"But I know better."

I stared at him.

"You're tired."

The words landed harder than they should have.

"You're angry. You're lonely. You drink too much. You push people away before they can leave you. You pretend you don't care because caring means somebody can hurt you."

I wanted to hit him.

Instead, I stood there.

"And after everything you've done, after everything you've survived, you still wake up every morning and wonder whether any of it actually made you better."

"Shut up."

"Did it?"

My throat tightened.

He stepped closer.

"Look around."

I didn't.

"Go ahead."

I looked.

The office.

The peeling paint.

The crooked blinds.

The unpaid bills.

The photographs.

The empty chair.

Everything I'd built.

Everything I'd convinced myself was enough.

"This is your life."

He gestured around the room.

"This?"

His smile returned.

"This is what you got."

I looked at the desk.

At the case files.

At the coffee I'd forgotten to finish.

At the life I'd fought so hard to make mine.

He leaned close enough that I could hear his voice beside my ear.

"And you call that freedom?"

I shut my eyes.

For a moment, I was somewhere else.

Not here.

Not now.

A voice telling me what to do.

A world where choice didn't exist because choice wasn't necessary.

A world where responsibility belonged to someone else.

A world where I didn't have to wonder whether I was making the right decision because there was only one decision.

His voice slipped into the memory.

"You were happier."

"No."

"You were."

"No."

"You didn't have to be Jessica Jones."

My eyes opened.

He was smiling.

"You didn't have to fail anybody."

My breathing became shallow.

"You didn't have to disappoint yourself."

I backed away.

"You didn't have to wake up every morning and wonder what you're supposed to do with your life."

"Stop."

"You didn't have to pretend you were strong."

"Stop."

"You didn't have to be alone."

My back hit the wall.

He stood across the room now.

Watching.

Waiting.

That same impossible smile.

"You could have just listened."

The room went silent.

I stared at him.

He stared back.

Then, very quietly:

"Wouldn't that have been easier?"

My fists curled.

Every instinct I had screamed at me to run.

Instead, I stood there in the middle of my shitty little office, staring at the monster that wasn't really there.

And for the first time in years, I couldn't tell which part scared me more.

That I could still hear him...

or that some small, ugly part of me was afraid he might be right.

The first thing anyone noticed.

There was no body.

The second was the silence.

It was not the ordinary silence of an abandoned place. There were no distant sirens, no settling groans of damaged buildings, no wind slipping through broken windows. Even the usual sounds of the city seemed to stop at the edge of the place, as though whatever had happened here had convinced the world itself to keep its distance.

The room had been torn apart.

Stone had been split down the middle. Walls were fractured in great branching lines, some of them blackened as though something impossibly hot had passed through them, others covered in strange crimson stains that had dried into the cracks. Pieces of furniture had been thrown against opposite walls. The floor had been gouged deeply enough in places that whatever force had done it had carved through stone.

And yet there was no sign of a struggle.

No footprints.

No blood trail leading away.

No discarded weapon.

No torn clothing caught on the debris.

Nothing.

Not even a single strand of hair.

Search teams had gone through the room twice before someone finally noticed what was sitting in the center of it.

Her crown.

It rested on the floor as though someone had carefully placed it there.

Not thrown.

Not crushed.

Placed.

The red metal was dulled beneath a thin layer of dust, but it was otherwise almost perfectly intact. There were a few scratches along its edges, little imperfections that caught the light whenever someone moved close enough to see them, but nothing that explained the destruction surrounding it.

The crown itself seemed almost absurdly untouched.

Around it, the floor was broken into fragments.

Beneath it, the stone remained whole.

No dust had settled across its surface.

There was a clean circle surrounding it, untouched by the destruction that had ravaged everything else.

Someone had tried to move it.

They found out very quickly that they couldn't.

The first person to reach for it stopped with their hand hovering inches above the metal.

There was no visible force preventing them.

Nothing to push against.

Nothing to resist.

And yet something in the air changed.

A pressure gathered behind the eyes, subtle at first, then sharp enough to make the person recoil. The lights overhead flickered once. Somewhere in the building, glass shattered.

The hand withdrew.

The crown remained exactly where it was.

For several minutes, nobody said anything.

Eventually, someone whispered her name.

It sounded wrong in the room.

Not because it was forbidden.

Because saying it aloud made the absence feel more real.

She had been here.

That much was certain.

The evidence was everywhere, even if none of it made sense.

There were scorch marks where there should have been none. Strange distortions in the stone that resembled ripples frozen in place. A section of wall had been turned almost perfectly smooth, as though reality itself had been erased and rewritten. Instruments brought near the room produced contradictory readings. Cameras malfunctioned. Digital recordings skipped entire seconds.

But the crown remained.

Perhaps it was the last thing she had been wearing before whatever happened here.

There were theories, of course.

There were always theories.

Some believed she had been attacked.

Others believed she had unleashed something she could not control.

A few quietly suggested that she had simply disappeared by choice.

But every theory encountered the same problem.

If she had left willingly, where were the tracks?

If she had been taken, where was her captor?

If she had fought, where was the evidence of whoever had fought her?

And if she had died...

Where was the body?

The question lingered unanswered.

Then, sometime after midnight, one of the investigators noticed something that hadn't been there before.

A single red glow beneath the crown.

It lasted less than a second.

There was no explosion.

No voice.

No apparition.

Only a brief pulse of crimson light that traveled through the metal before disappearing completely.

The room went dark.

When the emergency lights came back on, the crown was still there.

But the dust around it had changed.

There were now footprints.

One set.

Bare feet.

They began several feet behind the crown, crossed the ruined floor, and stopped directly in front of it.

There were no footprints leading into the room.

None leading away.

Only those few prints.

As if someone had walked into existence just long enough to stand before the crown.

And then vanished.

Again, there was no body.

No explanation.

Only the crown.

Waiting in the center of the ruins.

And somehow, despite everything that had happened there, it was impossible to shake the feeling that it had not been left behind.

Flying was easier when I didn't think about it.

That was probably why I liked doing it so much.

The city passed underneath me in a blur of headlights and windows, and for once I didn't have to worry about where my feet were supposed to go. I could just... go. There was something nice about that. No roads, no crowds, no having to figure out which direction everyone else was walking and hoping I wasn't the only person going the wrong way.

I probably was.

I glanced down at the street, then back at the piece of paper I'd folded into my jacket pocket.

"I'm pretty sure it was this way."

I said it out loud, mostly because there was nobody around to tell me I was wrong.

There was a pause.

"...Probably."

I laughed under my breath and kept flying.

I don't know when exactly I stopped being afraid of this part. Not the flying. The other part. The part where everything felt new. There used to be a time when I wanted someone to tell me what I was supposed to be. A good daughter. A good friend. A good... whatever it was everyone expected me to become.

Now I think I'm okay with not knowing.

It's actually kind of nice.

The light around my hands flickered as I slowed down, casting little colors across the buildings beneath me. I caught myself staring at them for a second. I still did that sometimes. I still thought they were pretty.

I used to think there was something wrong with me for being different.

Now I mostly just wish I'd gotten to find that out sooner.

I finally spotted the building I'd been looking for and lowered myself toward it, my feet barely making a sound when they touched the roof. I looked around, checking the address one more time.

"This has to be it."

I pulled out my phone.

It wasn't.

I stared at the screen.

"...Okay. Maybe I should have asked for directions."

I couldn't help smiling.

I had no idea what I was doing.

But for once, that didn't feel like a bad thing.

I had been told that arriving early was considered a positive trait.

I arrived seventeen minutes early.

According to the information I gathered, fifteen minutes was considered “responsible,” while arriving significantly earlier could be interpreted as “eager.” I am uncertain why eagerness is considered desirable in an internship. It suggests an emotional investment in the outcome. I do not possess one.

I stand outside the entrance to Stark Industries and examine the building.

It is impressive.

That is an observation, not an emotional response.

There is a difference.

I remind myself of this as I walk inside.

The lobby is considerably louder than I anticipated. Humans move around one another with very little apparent concern for efficiency. Several people are speaking simultaneously. Others are drinking beverages while walking. One employee is laughing loudly enough that three separate people turn to look at him.

I watch them for approximately two seconds.

Then I stop.

Watching people for too long is apparently considered unusual.

I continue walking.

“Good morning.”

The receptionist smiles at me.

I recognize the expression. I return it.

“Good morning.”

She looks at me for a moment.

“You're Viv, right?”

“Yes.”

“Vivian Vision?”

“Yes.”

“The internship?”

“Yes.”

There is a pause.

I wait.

She waits.

I determine that another response is expected.

“I am pleased to be here.”

The smile on her face becomes slightly larger.

“Great! We're happy to have you.”

Happy.

I know what the word means.

I also know that she is using it as a social expression rather than providing me with measurable information regarding her psychological state.

“Thank you.”

She points toward the elevators.

“Someone should be meeting you upstairs. Engineering, I think.”

“That is correct.”

“You excited?”

The question stops me.

Not because I am confused.

Because I know what the appropriate answer is.

Yes.

I should say yes.

This is supposed to be exciting. I am a teenager receiving an internship at Stark Industries. Most people my age would probably be nervous. They would probably be excited. They might even be overwhelmed.

I used to experience those things.

I remember experiencing them.

Memory remains intact.

The emotional response system does not.

“I believe excited would be an accurate description.”

The receptionist laughs.

“You believe?”

I tilt my head slightly.

“I am still learning conversational conventions.”

“Fair enough.”

She smiles again.

I smile back.

That seems to resolve the interaction.

I enter the elevator.

The doors close.

My reflection appears in the polished metal.

I study it.

No tremor in my hands. No elevated heart rate. No nervous fidgeting. No rapid breathing. No butterflies in my stomach. No anticipation.

Perfect.

This is what I wanted.

Less human.

More precise.

More efficient.

The elevator begins moving.

I open the internship materials on my tablet and review them again despite already memorizing everything.

There is a section titled “Workplace Conduct.”

Maintain professionalism.

Respect personal boundaries.

Communicate clearly.

Participate in team-building activities.

I pause.

Team-building activities.

I search the phrase.

Trust exercises. Group discussions. Social events.

I stare at the screen.

This will be inefficient.

The elevator reaches the appropriate floor.

The doors open.

I step out.

Several engineers immediately look toward me.

One whispers something to another.

I hear it.

“That's Vision's daughter, right?”

I stop.

Not because the comment hurts.

It doesn't.

There is no emotional response.

I simply dislike inaccurate terminology.

I turn toward them.

“Technically, I am not his daughter.”

Silence.

The engineer looks embarrassed.

“Right. Sorry. I didn't mean...”

“It is acceptable. The distinction is understandable.”

I turn away.

I take three steps.

Then stop again.

I realize I have failed to say the appropriate phrase.

I look back.

“Thank you for apologizing.”

The engineer gives me a confused smile.

“Uh... you're welcome.”

I continue down the hallway.

That interaction was successful.

Probably.

I adjust my tablet beneath my arm and continue toward the engineering department.

I am here to learn.

I am here to contribute.

I am here to become something better than what I was.

There is no fear attached to that thought.

No excitement.

No doubt.

Only certainty.

And if the humans around me find that unsettling...

I suppose that is another social variable I will have to study.

I'd imagined my first day at Frost Academy a lot.

More times than I probably wanted to admit.

In most of those versions, I walked through the front doors without hesitating. Maybe I'd smile at someone. Maybe I'd introduce myself. Maybe I'd even make a friend before the end of the day.

Instead, I'd been standing outside for almost five minutes.

I finally force myself to move.

The doors open, and I'm immediately hit by warmth and noise. Voices everywhere. Footsteps. Lockers opening and shutting. People talking over each other like they've known each other forever. I grip the strap of my bag a little tighter and try to stay out of everyone's way as I step inside.

I don't really know where I'm supposed to look.

So I look at the floor.

It's easier.

Students pass by me in groups, and I can't help noticing how different everyone is. Some have horns. Some have tails. Strange eyes. Strange skin. Things that would have made people stare anywhere else.

Here, nobody seems to care.

I find that strangely comforting.

For about ten seconds.

Then I notice someone looking at me.

My eyes immediately drop.

Maybe they weren't even looking at me. Maybe they were looking past me. I know that. I tell myself that.

It doesn't really help.

I can feel myself becoming conscious of everything. My clothes. My hair. My face. The way I'm standing. Even the way I'm holding my bag.

What do they know about me?

Do they know why I'm here?

Do they know what I am?

Do they think I'm weird?

I start walking before I can think about it too much, keeping close to the wall while I look for some kind of sign pointing toward the dormitories.

There.

I follow it for a little while before reaching a hallway that splits in two.

I stop.

I look left.

Then right.

...Great.

I have no idea where I'm going.

I consider turning around and pretending I never got this far. Maybe I could find someone at the front desk. Maybe I could just stand there until somebody realizes I'm lost.

That sounds worse.

Another group of students approaches, and I quickly move aside to let them through. One of them looks at me.

I don't hear what they say to their friend.

My stomach twists anyway.

I hate this.

Not the school. I haven't even seen enough of it to decide that.

I hate feeling like everyone is looking at me.

Back home, people always seemed to have some idea of what I was supposed to be. There were questions. Expectations. Things people wanted from me. Here, I don't even know what people have been told.

I don't know what I'm supposed to be.

I look down at my bag and take a slow breath.

I came here because I wanted something different.

I just hadn't considered that different would also mean unfamiliar.

I spot someone nearby and spend several seconds debating whether I should bother them.

I should.

I don't.

I should.

Finally, I make myself walk over.

"Um... excuse me?"

My voice comes out quieter than I'd like.

I clear my throat and try again.

"I'm new here. I'm trying to find the dorms, but I think I might be going the wrong way."

I give a small, nervous laugh.

"I was told this place would be easier to navigate."

I glance down the hallway again.

"It isn't."

Another awkward pause.

I realize I haven't introduced myself.

"I'm Dollhouse, by the way."

I hesitate.

"...Sorry. I probably should've said that first."

I pull my bag a little closer to myself and wait for their answer, trying not to look as nervous as I feel.

I really hope I can get through this.

I really hope I can belong here.

I'm just not sure I know how yet.

as anything other than a druid?

The laboratory had been silent for eleven minutes.

That was how long Ninetyseven had been watching the same sequence of data cycle across the main display. She stood perfectly still, arms folded behind her back, eyes moving from one column to the next as the predictive model recalculated.

Then the result appeared.

ANOMALOUS BEHAVIOR DETECTED.

Tsk.

Her tongue clicked sharply against the roof of her mouth.

"Again."

The experiment reset. Subject fourteen was presented with the same choice as before, only this time the personal cost had been increased. The rational decision remained obvious. The mathematically favorable outcome was displayed directly in front of them.

Subject fourteen chose the other option.

Tsk.

Ninetyseven leaned closer to the monitor.

"You have been given the same parameters. The same information. The same incentives."

The subject shifted uncomfortably.

"I know."

"Then why did you select the inferior outcome?"

"Because I didn't want them to get hurt."

Her expression remained unchanged.

"That is not an explanation."

"It's the reason."

Tsk.

She straightened, staring through the glass.

"No. A reason describes a causal mechanism. You have provided a preference."

"Does there need to be a difference?"

For the first time, Ninetyseven stopped.

Her eyes flicked toward the subject.

Then toward the data.

Then back again.

Tsk.

"...Apparently."

She turned away from the observation window and began entering new parameters into the terminal.

"Increase the emotional significance of the choice. Remove financial compensation entirely. Introduce a second participant with whom the subject has established familiarity."

The computer acknowledged the instructions.

She paused.

"And remove the option to remain uninvolved."

Another pause.

A faint smile touched the corner of her mouth.

"If humans insist upon behaving irrationally, I would at least like to determine the point at which they become incapable of doing otherwise."

The experiment began again.

The White Room was finally finished.

Not restored.

Not returned to what the Hellfire Club had once been.

Finished.

The five Cuckoos stood together in the central chamber, looking over everything they had built.

The White Room was never supposed to replace Xavier's School. It was not another classroom, another training facility, or another place where someone would tell young mutants what they were supposed to become.

It was something different.

A place where students could come when the mansion became too loud.

A place where someone could close a door, sit down, and breathe.

There were lounges scattered throughout the building, comfortable enough to encourage people to stay. Small discussion rooms where a handful of students could sit together without teachers hovering over them. A larger circular chamber where students could bring grievances, disagreements, fears, or ideas and actually be heard.

No grades.

No evaluations.

No teachers deciding who was right.

Just a council.

The rest of the building reflected the other half of their philosophy. Social development. Confidence. Etiquette. Debate. Leadership. Networking. Learning how to exist in a world that would inevitably judge them, without allowing that judgment to dictate who they became.

It was ambitious.

Perhaps excessively so.

But then something happened that none of them could explain.

They went to sleep.

And they woke up with the Phoenix.

All five of them.

There had been no warning.

No cosmic voice.

No celestial visitation.

No explanation.

They simply opened their eyes one morning and discovered something burning behind five sets of identical eyes.

The force was enormous.

Too enormous.

It did not feel like five separate flames. It felt like one consciousness occupying five minds simultaneously, stretching between them until there was no clear distinction between where Sophie ended and Celeste began, where Phoebe ended and Irma began, where Esme began at all.

They had no idea why it had chosen them.

They had no idea what had happened.

And they had absolutely no idea what question they were supposed to ask.

So they did what they knew how to do.

They adapted.

The first attempt at controlling the Phoenix nearly tore the White Room apart.

The second was worse.

By the third, they realized they could not contain it individually.

They had to do it together.

Five minds.

Five wills.

Five pieces of the same impossible equation.

They pushed.

The Phoenix fought.

The room shook.

Every window cracked.

The air itself seemed to ignite.

And slowly, painfully, the fire withdrew from four of them and gathered around Esme.

Esme screamed.

The others did not let go.

“Together,” Sophie gasped.

“Don't let it split,” Celeste answered.

“Keep pushing,” Phoebe snarled.

“Esme, stay with us,” Irma pleaded.

And Esme, surrounded by golden fire, finally made the choice herself.

Her body crystallized.

Diamond spread over her skin.

The Phoenix disappeared beneath it.

Silence.

Five became one.

The force was still there.

But now it was contained.

Esme remained standing in the center of the chamber, completely encased in diamond, golden fire slowly moving beneath her crystalline surface.

No one spoke for several seconds.

Finally, Phoebe broke the silence.

“So.”

She stared at Esme.

“We're keeping that.”

Celeste gave her an incredulous look.

“Until we understand what happened.”

“Obviously.”

Irma stepped closer to Esme.

“Do you know why it chose us?”

Esme's diamond head turned slightly.

“No.”

“Do you know where it came from?”

“No.”

“Do you know what it wants?”

Silence.

“No.”

Sophie looked at the others.

There were questions.

Thousands of them.

But somehow none of them felt like the right one.

That frightened them more than the Phoenix itself.

So they continued.

They opened the White Room.

They welcomed students.

They let teenagers come inside simply because they needed somewhere that wasn't a classroom.

They listened when students complained about teachers.

They mediated arguments.

They let people sit around the council table and say things they were too embarrassed, angry, or frightened to say anywhere else.

And occasionally, they would look toward the sealed chamber where Esme remained in diamond form.

Five girls had gone to sleep.

Five girls had woken up carrying a cosmic force they could not explain.

No one remembered anything being different.

No one knew that somewhere, somehow, reality itself had already been rewritten.

As far as they knew, this was simply their life now.

So they would make the best of it.

They had built the White Room for mutants who wanted to become better versions of themselves.

Now they had to figure out how to become better versions of themselves while carrying a piece of the universe inside one of their sisters.