Chapter Text
Bill Mezger walked into his office, sensing something was off.
No, no—not the weather. He glanced outside: blue skies, white clouds, the distant sound of people laughing, children bouncing down the streets clutching mutant action figures. That big red-and-blue spider. A savage, eyesore of an unstable force that would eventually show its true nature and harm humanity. What did people call him? A hero. Well, when that monster roared and tossed their children into the air to splatter on the pavement, would anyone still remember this name? Mezger had no respect for Quentin Beck—that two-bit trickster—but Beck had gotten one thing right: exposing Spider-Man's true identity.
The only pity was that no one had seen the face beneath the mask. Otherwise, Mezger would have long since found some excuse to have the government throw Spider-Man into that super-max prison, to keep company with the rest of his freakish kind.
His secretary brought in coffee and set a stack of files on the desk. Bill's train of thought was broken by the movement; his gaze shifted from the steaming cup to the man's utterly unremarkable face—and caught a glint of something sharp slipping through his eyes.
Taking the cup lightly, Bill brought the rim to his lips, letting the bitter coffee wash over his tongue while casually asking, "How have you been lately?"
The secretary looked flattered: "Pretty good, Mr. Mezger. Oh—except for one thing?"
"What happened? Go ahead, maybe I can help. You know, the Department of Damage Control just absorbed the Hand. Those repentant lambs are eager to do something to scrub away their past deeds."
Lies. He would never let those Japanese ninjas out of this building. He needed them—as the backbone of his forces against inhuman monsters.
The coffee sloshed in the white porcelain cup, never once touching his skin.
The man smiled—in a very strange… way. Not like a man, not like a black man. His facial muscles twitched irregularly, purplish veins bulging, eyes bulging like a frog's. A name escaped from between his teeth: "Sarah."
Bill was certain his face showed confusion. He had never heard that name in the past few days.
That bizarre creature—his former secretary—continued: "About my sister. Sarah."
He lifted his head.
When Bill looked into his eyes again, all he could see was blazing fury.
The director furrowed his brow, putting on a show of deep thought, and said soothingly, "Listen! About that—I'm truly sorry…"
He looked every bit the good boss who cared about his employees—ignoring the way his body was subtly inching backward.
"No, no," the secretary shook his head. "You've never truly felt sorry. People like you never repent. Just like right now—you don't even remember her, do you?"
"Just like you don't remember V-max—the place where tortured her to death!"
No.
A blurry face surfaced in Bill's mind. Short, light blonde hair, the details of her outfit forgotten. He only recalled that the girl had been eerily docile when they pinned her down, hands cuffed behind her back, strapped into an electric chair. Then she'd started writhing in agony, letting out bloodcurdling screams—and in the later stages, those cries had devolved into something primal, a beast's whimper. He'd come to observe once, from thirty-three feet away, through the glass. Her disheveled hair plastered across her forehead, she had stared blankly at the ceiling, muttering to herself.
"What is she looking at?" Bill had asked the government scientist.
The doctor in the white coat shrugged. "No idea. Nothing important, I'm sure."
Bill didn't remember her full name, but he did remember her—as the first psychic mutant they'd captured. Her abilities were precious and powerful; her only flaw was a weak tolerance for pain.
He also recalled that this lab rat had a younger sister—their intended second specimen. But that rat had smelled the trap and fled into the gutters of Hell's Kitchen, and they'd lost her trail.
"Of course…"
Through the secretary's eyes, Jean watched the director's face turn from rosy to ashen. She did not smile; instead, a wave of fury surged through her. "She was nothing to you!"
And that person—unnoticed, unnamed—had been her entire world after their mother abandoned her.
The Department of Damage Control had taken her sister so easily, and then squandered her without a second thought.
Jean Grey's stomach churned. She hated—hated the man before her, and hated herself too. Why wasn't she stronger? Or why hadn't she gone back to an earlier time? The rage nearly clouded her mind; objects around her began vibrating internally. A crack split the teacup, coffee hovering in midair.
But the next second, a sharp, piercing pain in her skull cut everything short.
The cup crashed to the floor, shattering, coffee dripping down in splatters.
Bill seized the moment—his finger hovered over the alarm button to summon security.
But Jean was faster.
"You didn't drink the coffee, did you?" Her voice sounded dangerous, chilling. "Smart choice. Useless, though."
"If you remember my sister's abilities, you'd better remember mine as well——"
Now, they were within 33 feet.