Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The forest felt untouched. Wild. Silent.

The kind of place people vanished in—if they wanted it bad enough.

John Proudstar moved like the trees were an extension of him, quiet and focused, crouched beside a shallow depression in the mud. He pressed his fingers to it: small, human, barefoot.

He stood, turning back toward the rest of the team.

“They’re close. Fifteen or twenty of them. All small. Probably haven’t eaten right in days.”

Clarice narrowed her eyes at the trees. “Why hide out here?”

Marcos shrugged. “You know why. If Sentinel Services found out what they are, they wouldn’t make it to a holding cell.”

“Or maybe they already ran from something worse,” John added.

Laura crouched on a branch overhead, knees tucked to her chest, silent.

She’d seen them.

Four of them, walking with caution but not stealth. Not hunters. Not Reavers.

Still dangerous.

She dropped lightly to the forest floor, almost soundless, landing beside Rictor.

“Ellos vienen,” she said, voice flat.

"Cuantos?” Rictor asked.

Laura hesitated. “Cuatro. Uno nos está siguiendo. Al menos una es una mutante.”

Rictor frowned. “Seguro que no son centinelas?"

Laura shook her head once. “They don’t move like them. Ellos no se mueven como ellos.”

That was all she said.

That was all they needed.

“We know you're there,” John called out, voice calm, carrying.

A rustle.

Then movement.

Laura stepped out first.

Small. Wild-eyed. Mud-streaked and silent. Her arms hung loose at her sides, but every muscle in her body was braced, ready.

Clarice blinked. “She’s just a kid…”

John didn’t move. “We’re not here to hurt you.”

Laura said nothing.

Delilah and Rictor followed behind, herded slightly back—shielded by instinct more than plan. Three more kids emerged after them, all different ages, all wary.

Marcos slowly raised both hands. “We got word about mutants in this forest. Kids. We thought—if you were in trouble—we could help.”

Rictor answered, guarded: “Who told you?”

“A contact,” Lorna said. 

Laura’s eyes narrowed.

Clarice added, gently, “We’re with the Mutant Underground. We run from the same people you are.”

A long silence.

Then, Laura moved forward, one step. She looked John in the eye.

“You’re late.”

John blinked at her. Surprised. But not offended.

“Better than never.”

Laura didn’t answer. She turned her head, just slightly, toward the others.

They moved. Slowly. Toward the strangers.

Still alert. Still tense.

But not running.

And not fighting.

Marcos leaned against the crumbling wall beside the vault, muttering, “This looks more like a standoff than a rescue.”

“They’ve been hunted,” John said. “We’d do the same.”

Lorna added, “They haven't asked for anything. Haven’t eaten yet either.”

Then footsteps echoed down the stairs—light, quick, and cautious.

Lauren and Andy Strucker.

Lauren blinked at the sight of them: filthy clothes, quiet eyes, a quiet intensity she couldn’t read. Not fear. Not exhaustion. Just control. Brutal control.

“I thought we were getting five or six,” Andy whispered.

“There’s twenty,” John replied. “All unregistered. No history. No names. We think they’ve been running for months.”

Rictor stepped between the kids and the strangers. Protective. His fists clenched just enough to make the ground shift beneath his feet.

John raised a calming hand. “These are Andy and Lauren."

Laura took one step forward.

Still silent. Still watching.

Lauren held her gaze. “We don’t want anything from you. We just want to make sure you’re okay.”

No reply.

“Do they talk?” Andy asked.

“Yes,” Rictor said. “Eventually.”

One of the younger kids, a boy with faint gills on his neck, peered out from behind Laura, whispered, “You gonna lock us in the vault?”

Andy looked at him, then at the heavy, open door nearby. “No. Unless you ask.”

That got a faint exhale from Rictor—half amusement, half disbelief.

Lauren sat down on the cold floor, cross-legged. “I know you don’t trust us. You don’t have to. But I know what it’s like to be hunted.”

Laura said nothing.

Lauren added quietly, “I also know what it’s like to stop running.”

The vault smelled like old copper and wet concrete.

Steam hissed from a jerry-rigged kettle someone had hooked up to a scavenged burner in the corner. Shatter stood in the threshold like a watchman, arms crossed over a chest that shimmered faintly in the flickering light. His obsidian skin reflected every movement in the room, like a dark, cracked mirror.

Across the room, Caitlin Strucker knelt on a blanket beside a frail boy with hollow cheeks and eyes too big for his face.

“No fever,” she murmured, brushing a hand across his forehead. “But his pulse is faint. He needs protein and hydration fast.”

She glanced over her shoulder.

“Lauren, can you bring me the iron supplements?”

Lauren passed them over without a word. Her eyes kept drifting to the quiet children huddled together near the vault wall, backs pressed to stone. They didn’t speak. Didn’t move unless necessary. Even now, they looked like they were ready to bolt.

Or bite.

Caitlin moved gently from child to child—checking pupils, wounds, temperatures. She didn’t ask questions. She just looked, listened, and noted what hurt.

Then she reached the last in the row.

Laura.

The girl sat cross-legged, spine straight, hands resting calmly on her knees—but her body radiated tension, like a blade that didn’t need to be drawn to be dangerous. Her eyes didn’t follow Caitlin, but they saw her.

“May I check your vitals?” Caitlin asked quietly.

No response.

“I’m a nurse. You’re safe here. I promise.”

Nothing.

Rictor’s voice came from behind her—quiet, but firm.

“She’ll let you know if something’s wrong. She’s better at pain than the rest of us.”

Caitlin turned.

Rictor stood just inside the ring of kids, arms crossed. Protective, but not aggressive.

“I don’t doubt that,” Caitlin said gently. “But malnourishment doesn’t wait for permission.”

“I’ll watch her back,” Rictor replied.

Caitlin didn’t push. She moved on—but her eyes lingered on Laura.

There was something in her stillness that wasn’t calm. It was the absence of calm. An alertness forged in blood and silence.

The old breakroom was cluttered with makeshift benches and scavenged crates. The fluorescent light flickered overhead.

Delilah sat apart from the group, hands wrapped tightly around a rusted metal cup. Her breath hitched—too fast, too cold.

The kids glanced nervously.

Suddenly, a visible frost formed on the edges of the table.

Her breath escaped in a sharp, icy mist.

The temperature in the room dropped noticeably. Windows fogged. Frost crept over the floor.

Delilah’s hands shook.

Her eyes wide with panic.

Caitlin stood immediately.

“Delilah, it’s okay. Breathe with me.”

But Delilah’s panic grew.

Her breath puffed out again, this time thicker, colder. Ice crystals spread across the walls. The metal chairs creaked and groaned under frost’s weight.

Laura was on her feet in an instant, claws lightly extended—not to strike, but ready.

Before anyone could react further, Delilah collapsed to her knees, shivering violently, overwhelmed.

Rictor moved swiftly, lowering himself beside her.

“Delilah. It’s alright. We’re here.”

Delilah looked up, tears mixing with frost on her lashes.

“It’s too much,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I can’t stop it.”

A soft hand landed on her shoulder.

Caitlin’s voice was calm and steady.

“Delilah, you’re safe. You’re not alone.”

Slowly, Delilah’s breath began to warm. The frost receded.

The tension in the room broke like glass.

Marcos exhaled, shaking his head.

“That was close.”

John gave a low nod.

“Better here than out there.”

The lobby reeked of mold and memory. Sunlight slanted in through shattered glass, glinting off scattered coins and cracked marble. Beneath the grand rotunda, Clarice had cleared a crude training course: overturned desks, broken beams, shards swept to the side. A bank once built for wealth was now a training ground for survival.

“Alright,” Clarice called, standing on the base of an old teller window. “Let’s see how fast you can disappear.”

A group of seven kids stood silently in front of her—quiet, barefoot, watching everything. Not one of them had offered a name. A few, like Wes and Delilah, had begun following Lauren around, but no one spoke unless spoken to.

Lauren stood beside Clarice, her hand resting lightly on a rusted railing. Andy leaned on a broken desk nearby, arms crossed, smirking—until he caught Laura’s eyes. Then the smirk faded.

Clarice gestured to the floor. “This was a lobby once. Now it’s a kill box. If you can’t get from here to the rear hallway without being seen, you don’t survive. There’s no map. You find your own way.”

No one moved.

Rictor finally stepped forward. He looked at the others, then glanced at Clarice. No words—just a nod.

He took off, light on his feet, slipping behind what used to be a customer kiosk. Two others followed. Wes hesitated, then darted behind a fallen beam. They didn’t speak to each other, didn’t coordinate aloud—but they flowed like smoke.

Lauren blinked. “They're not just lucky,” she murmured. “They’ve done this before.”

“They move like scouts,” Clarice said. “Taught tactics, not instincts.”

Andy frowned. “Taught by who?”

No one answered.

Lorna stood in what used to be a private office. Filing cabinets had been pushed to the sides to clear a circle on the dusty floor. She slipped off her jacket and cracked her neck.

Across from her, Laura stepped silently into the space, barefoot, hands at her sides. She said nothing.

“No powers,” Lorna said casually. “Just testing reflexes.”

Laura gave the faintest nod.

The spar began.

Laura was fast—fast in a way that unsettled Lorna. Not sloppy-fast, but calculated, patient. She didn’t overcommit. She struck only where it would count. Her movements didn’t scream aggression—they whispered lethality.

Lorna blocked a jab, ducked a sweep, and spun Laura off-balance for a moment.

Then Laura adjusted. And Lorna found herself flat on her back, breath stolen, staring at cracked ceiling tiles.

Laura stood over her—eyes unreadable. Not triumphant. Not smug. Just… watching.

Lorna coughed. “Okay. Reminder not to spar before caffeine.”

Laura stepped back without a word.

Lorna sat up, brushing dust from her pants. “You’ve done this before. Who trained you?”

Silence.

Laura turned and left.

Later that night, Lauren found Rictor alone in the hallway, arms resting against the window frame where a small breeze flowed in through shattered glass.

She approached quietly, but he heard her.

“You were good today,” she said.

He didn’t answer.

“I saw how the others followed you. They trust you. That doesn’t come from just surviving.”

Rictor exhaled slowly. “We weren’t trying to survive,” he said. “We were trying to get somewhere.”

Lauren leaned on the wall beside him. “Where?”

He looked out at the dusk-drenched skyline.

“North,” he said. “There was supposed to be a place. Not a city. Not a hideout. A place where mutants could start over.”

Lauren’s breath caught. “Eden?”

Rictor nodded. “That’s what they called it. We had coordinates.”

Lauren’s voice softened. “You were almost there, weren’t you?”

“We were close. Then the hunters came again. We lost someone. I got the rest moving south.”

He looked her in the eyes for the first time.

“This was supposed to be the way station. Just until we could try again.”

Lauren swallowed hard. “Then we’ll make sure it still is.”

The hum of old fluorescent lights flickered above Sage’s workbench, their pale blue glow throwing angular shadows across the dusty walls. She sat hunched over a salvaged communications array built from scavenged gear and a cobbled-together satellite uplink that barely held a charge.

“John,” she called, eyes narrowing. “You’ll want to hear this.”

From the hallway, John Proudstar stepped in, still streaked with dust from reinforcing the upper floors. Lorna followed behind, arms crossed. Marcos and Caitlin drifted in moments later.

“What is it?” John asked.

Sage adjusted a dial. A burst of static crackled through the speaker, followed by a garbled voice—male, distorted, filtered through some kind of signal scrambler.

“…sector sweep complete… batch markers not visible… deploy secondary scan… retain the X-23 protocols…”

Then: more static. White noise. Silence.

Sage sat back in her chair, brow furrowed. “That’s the third time I’ve caught that voice this week.”

John, leaning in the doorway, straightened. “Another coded channel?”

“Military phrasing,” Sage said. “Short-range burst signal. They’re close.”

“‘X-23 protocols,’” Lorna repeated. “Sounds like something out of a classified doc.”

Caitlin, who’d entered moments before with her med bag slung low, looked puzzled. “Any clue what that means?”

Sage shook her head. “Not from anything I’ve seen in Sentinel logs. Might be a new directive. Off-grid.”

Marcos crossed his arms. “Who the hell uses military jargon like that and operates under the radar?”

“Someone who’s still got tech, mobility, and an objective,” Sage said. “But I don’t know what it is.”

Laura sat cross-legged in the corridor, sharpening a piece of broken metal against the wall. Her face was slightly mad, but her head tilted slightly toward the muffled conversation.

She heard everything.

Batch markers. X-23 protocols. Sector sweep complete.

Her hand stilled.

Slowly, Laura rose.

“I want watch shifts increased,” John said. “If someone’s coming, we’ll see them before they get within a mile.”

“I’ll rotate with Marcos and Clarice,” Lorna added.

Sage looked down at the still-running scanner.

“Whoever they are,” she said softly, “they know more than we do.”

The night in Atlanta was thick with humidity and tension. Rain drizzled in uneven sheets, slicking the cracked sidewalks around the condemned bank where the Mutant Underground had taken refuge. Inside, the kids tried to rest. The adults moved quietly, alert, shadows pressed against peeling walls.

Donald Pierce adjusted the fit of his trench coat, the faint hum of servos in his cybernetic arm echoing as he paced near a cluster of armed mercenaries. Their black armor glistened with rain, faces obscured beneath visored helmets.

Beside him stalked X-25 — a towering figure, pale, with sharp senses honed by genetic design. The Caliban clone’s eyes glowed faintly under the dim lights.

“Coordinates locked,” X-25 said in a low, guttural tone. His enhanced hearing picked up the faintest bio-signatures.

“Good,” Pierce replied, his lips forming s smile with a cigarette clenched between his jaw. “No mistakes tonight.”

The team huddled in the shattered lobby, Sage’s scanner flickering with erratic static.

“We’ve lost radio contact,” Sage muttered. “Something’s interfering.”

John tightened his grip on his rifle. “They’re here.”

The first gunshot shattered the rain’s rhythm—a flash of muzzle fire tearing through the cracked glass.

Transigen mercenaries poured into the street like shadows, rifles raised.

Chaos erupted.

People scattered, screams mingling with gunfire.

Chapter Text

The rain had finally slowed to a mist, the sharp scent of gunpowder still lingering in the heavy, humid air. The Mutant Underground moved quickly but carefully through the maze of darkened alleys behind the ruined bank, each step weighed down by exhaustion and adrenaline.

Inside the shattered shell of the building, the group finally came to a halt, leaning against crumbling walls or slumping onto broken crates. Marcos paced restlessly, his face tight with anger, eyes flashing with frustration.

“How the hell were we supposed to fight off Transigen if we didn’t even know they were after these kids?” Marcos spat, voice low but fierce. “We were left in the dark. You should’ve told us. We nearly lost half of them tonight!”

Lorna, John, and Clarice exchanged uneasy glances. No one had dared to mention the full scope of Transigen’s hunt—not even the existence of the ‘X-23 protocols’—because they weren’t sure if the kids themselves knew, or if it was safe to reveal.

Lauren shifted uncomfortably, but it was Rictor who stepped forward, trying to diffuse the tension. “Marcos, I get why you’re angry. But we didn’t have all the pieces. The kids’ pasts are mostly a blank slate for us—no records, no tests, no way to know if or how they’re being hunted. We’re still figuring it out.”

Marcos shook his head, voice still hard. “Figuring it out on the battlefield? That’s not good enough.”

There was a heavy silence, thick with guilt and unresolved frustration.

Rictor took a deep breath, then turned to Laura. “Laura, can you show us what Señora Lopez sent? The video might help explain.”

Laura, quiet and withdrawn, reached into her worn green backpack and pulled out a battered black phone. The screen glowed faintly—only 8% battery remaining.

She pressed the play button, and the shaky footage began.

A latina woman in a living room, nervously put her hair behind her ears, "My name is Gabriela López. I am a nurse. And for 10 years,"

The video cut to the outside of a building with barbed wire fencing,"I worked for Transigen Research in Mexico City. Transigen is owned by an American company."

The video now showed López in a closet. "What I am about to show you is illegal... in the U.S. and Canada."

She opened the door, showing the kids in white shirts and gray sweatpants, singing as they walked in a line. She scrambled to get the door closed.

"They told us we were part of a pharmaceutical study." The camera zoomed in, skimmed over Transigen files, "But, of course, that was a lie."

The video switched back to the children walking in a line, "These children were born in Transigen." It switched to Laura and other kids being locked in cells. "They were born here... and have never left."

A kid with scales jumped onto a wired door, "They have never seen the sun or the ocean..." Then switched to a toddler in a metallic crib and medical sheet as blankets, "rain or snow..." The camera switched to Jonah holding the wire door with his fingers, his eyes begging to be free, "or any of God's creatures."

A ball bounces as bricks slightly come out of the wall to keep it bouncing. "They have no birth certificates, no names," finally Rictor catches the ball, "besides the ones we have given them."

A contraption for babies is shown. "They were raised in the bellies of Mexican girls." Then bloody surgical tools and chair, "girls no-one can find anymore."

Vials are shown, varying from red to yellow, "Their fathers are semillas genetics... special seeds in bottles."

The children are singing happy birthday. A chocolate cake with candles, yellow frosting, and sprinkles is shown before revealing the singing kids. Pierce barges in, "Birthday? No birth."

Lopez films behind a door, showing Dr. Rice, an old white man who had a British accent, "María, We do not dress them up for Halloween. We do not call them 'baby' or kiss boo-boos. Don't think of them as children. Think of them as things... with patents and copyrights. Comprende?" María responds almost heartbroken, "Si, Señor."

A shot of a mysterious green liquid is given to a child in a brown pants with no shirt on. "They thought we were too poor and stupid to understand. We're poor, yes... but we are not stupid." Another clip of the children in a line.

A room with mattresses on the board with a human punching bag stand. A buff dude tells a child to "Use your powers." The child obliges by knocking over the 2 punching stands then pushes the trainer against the soft wall, a yell escaping his lips before the cameraman is crippled to the floor as well. The kid is shocked and 2 guards pin him down. 

Dr. Rice watches a door window into a room, "This is business. They are making soldiers." The kid is taken out of the room and the kid is pinned by the guard except for his legs, allowing him to move. "Killers."

A bloody Laura is shown having surgery for her claws to be coated in adamantium. "These are babies of mutantes."

The camera shows Gabriella walking up to a young Laura, cutting her arm with her claws and watching it heal. "As the children became older..."The audio from the clip is barely audible, "Laura. Laura." Snikt. "...they became more difficult." Snikt. "They could not be controlled."

"The company made their bodies into weapons. Tried to teach them to kill." A child runs trying to escape with guards and doctors following closely behind, "But they did not want to fight." The child commits suicide by jumping off the ledge of the building, "A soldier who will not fight is useless."

The exterior of Transigen is shown again, but this time it's raining. "Inside this building... they are working on something new." X-rays of a man is shown, along with medical info. Before the ID Number for the man is shown: X-24. "Something they say is without a soul." Chunks of a X-24 are in different water tanks. Dr. Rice can be heard in the background, "You can't get good sushi here. It's the Mexican equivalent of Denver, Colorado."

"They must have been successful." Nurses are scrambling to get paper files. "About a week ago, they told us to shut our program down." A girl is taken somewhere screaming. Another child is zapped with a baton with an electric thingy at the end by Pierce. "They started putting the children to sleep." Pierce drags the unconscious kid into a room, laughing. "We are going to save as many children as we can. I read about a place, up north."

Lopéz is shown again, "A place for mutants. They call it Eden." A keycard releases the children, the children run for the exit. They use their powers to escape the guards, shooting to kill. A toddler is crying, a nurse carrying them to safety. Someone shouts in  Spanish to leave.

Lopéz is shown a 3rd time but now she is in a motel room with Laura sleeping on a bed in the background, "If you are watching this... it means that I am dead. I am not sure if any other children survived. We were separated. There is no more money. That was a lie. She's not my child. But I love her. You may not love her. But she is your child. Please. I beg you... take her to safety." The video ends.

Rictor’s voice was low, heavy with the weight of what they had just heard. “Transigen isn't hunting you. They're hunting us, they want their soldiers back. X-24 was killed by Laura. We barely made it out last time.”

Marcos’s anger softened, replaced by grim resolve. “Then Eden is our only chance.”

Laura’s eyes flickered briefly—silent, but something unspoken passed between her and the group.

Lorna stepped forward, determination steel-hard. “We’ll get you there. Together.”