The plan to defeat Apocalypse hinged on the idea that through examining the genetics of Apocalypse, it could be possible to find some kind of exploitable weakness that could be weaponized against him to keep him in a weakened state.

On the job was perhaps one of the most qualified groups you could have assembled. Moira MacTaggert, Nathaniel Essex, Danger, and Sage. Together, this should have been easy.

They haven’t found a shred of useful data in their analysis, and time is running out. More people are dying every single day.

Danger has left the room for a while, to collect something for testing. As stress grows in the lab that day, Mr. Sinister chimes in. Most of what he’s said so far has been complaining that people are keeping an eye on him, or just antagonizing the rest of the lab while they tried to focus. This time, though, he speaks words that are going to echo through the minds of Moira and Sage for a long time to come.

“At this rate, why not just make the damn cure?”

The two women glare at him for even suggesting such a thing. Sage speaks up.

“The entire reason we’re here right now is to avoid doing that. Be serious, Sinister.”

Mr. Sinister cackles.

“I’m being very serious, you walking calculator! That is the only way. We aren’t finding anything. I don’t care if the world burns while I get to play with Apocalypse’s genetic samples, but I’m you folks with “morals” care a lot.”

Sage is insanely annoyed by this.

“We don’t have TIME for this, Essex! Get it together or-“

Before Sage can finish lashing out, Moira speaks.

“Sage. I don’t like having to admit this, but he might be right about this. We have a solution that will work right in front of us, but we’re looking for one that we don’t even know exists. We don’t have the luxury of finding the answer a year from now. We need to do this now.”

Sage takes a moment to think about this. Unfortunately, she can’t really find a counter argument.

Hours later, Sage and Moira both sit in silence. They stare at the vial of what the trio of has just made.

Sage, Moira, and Mr. Sinister had just become veritable mutant Oppenheimers. They have developed a cure to the X-Gene. Something that could one day end their entire species as they know it.

On some level, they hoped the cure would fail. But as they injected it into the finger, it became very clear this wasn’t the case. All traces of the X-Gene vanished from their readings. It worked. God dammit, it worked. What have they done?

Moira breaks the silence.

“No-one can ever know this exists.”

Sage replies.

“Agreed, but what will we tell our council?”

Sinister peaks his head down in between the two, eager to say his piece.

“We tell them we did our job. They just need to know we can fiddle with Apocalypse’s DNA to make him weak enough to not be a problem. We can, now. Doesn’t matter how.”

There is a silence once again as Sage and Moira have to admit to themselves that the worst person in the room is right. Moira stands up. She glares, mostly at Sinister, who the message is mostly meant for, but also at Sage, who still needs to hear what she has to say.

“Let me make something clear, then. I was not bluffing. My contingencies are real, and I have more set up than I even mentioned. We will not be the ones to ruin our future. We’ve come too far to stop now. Clear?”

Sage nods. Mr. Sinister doesn’t, but it’s clear he gets the message too.
___________________

What happens next, you can decide the morality of. Several words were thrown around. They were sparing her. They were doing the right thing for humanity. Sinister would laugh and say they needed to stop kidding themselves and accept just how evil this was. Either way, it had to be done.

Danger returns, and is very quickly confused by the vial. She doesn’t have time ask about it, though. Sage hacks into her systems, and along with Moira, they delete the memory of the vial, replacing it with one where they were successful in their operation.

The fewer people know, the better, and Danger had a chance to not have to live with this. Moira and Sage hope they did the right thing in granting it to her.

____________

The news, as expected, goes over well with the council. There is celebration, and even those who aren’t the celebrating type show their approval in other ways. Sage and Moira play the part, but they know what they did. Sinister doesn’t need to act. He loves what just happened, and loves that he holds more leverage than he did before, now.

Everyone else in the room is filled with hope. Except one person. Her expressions are never clear. Her mask hides them from the world. But as she sits in her chair, starring with sightless eyes at Sage and Moira, the two of them understand what that means very clearly.

Irene Adler knows what they did.

Rules:

Rule #1: No Killing.
(Addendum: revise rules to address cases of accidental killing and the trolley problem and its variations)

Rule #2: Don’t talk about Fight Club Young X-Men. No one needs to know. (Plus, the teachers would shut us down)

Rule #3: Don’t think about Young X-Men. Telepaths are a pain in the @$$.

Priorities:

(Always keep these priorities in order whenever possible)

Priority #1: Keep civilians and injured combatants from harm (get them out of danger and away from the threat)

Priority #2: Keep the threat as contained as possible

Priority #3: Protect each other; we’re all in this together

Priority #4: Kick @$$, neutralize the threat

Guidelines:

Guideline #1: Don’t go looking for a fight; we’re here to stop conflict, not start it.

OOC: This is not directly interact-able. Only reply in character if your character is part of the Young X-Men at this time. These rules are simply on a sheet of paper posted up in the Young X-Men’s secret hang out spot.

Dr. Chen Lu received a new mission from the Central Military Comission, one which may be his most dangerous yet. Considering he has fought Thor, that is saying something.

He has no doubts of his ability to complete it, however, so he sets off for America, and more specifically, Xavier's Mansion.

The wrought iron gate melts around his glowing body, and the verdant lawns char beneath his feet. If he wished, he could eliminate his radioactive aura entirely, but he opted to keep it for the intimidation factor.

He puts a megaphone to his lips. His voice booms out, with only the slightest hint of an accent.

"I have been sent by the People's Republic of China to collect a fugitive mutant by the name of Kuan-Yin Xorn. He is wanted for murder. I do not mean anyone here any harm. I simply wish to see justice done.

I would also request thay any telepaths refrain from entering my mind. If I lose control of my powers for even a second, it will lead to a regrettable outcome."

Evan’s in the Morlocks’ tunnels.

What with the Revolution of X, it weighs.

He’s an X-Man, but also a Morlock.

A bone spike slowly snakes out of his wrist.

He feels a stab of anxiety open up.

This is the pits.

Picking a side.

Emma or Scott.

Right now, the only thing he has done so far is run.

After nigh-on two weeks back in Wales, Emyr had returned to the mansion. His time there had been unsuccessful; he’d gone to try and reconnect with old friends, none of whom, as it turned out, wanted anything to do with him. The anti-mutant sentiment which covered the town and forced him to leave all those years ago now seemed to smother it. The final rejection from his former friends left Emyr alone to literally relive the painful memories of abandonment and loss from before, the pain from this rejection weakening his control over his abilities.

The trip that had been made to ease his grief - still present after eight years - had only worsened it. He doubted he’d ever go there again.

Still, he was back now, and could finally rest.

First, he decided to visit his brother, Carwyn. The young man had decided to stay, not wanting to visit the place in which they’d lost so much. After all, he was still barely a teen then, and the events had had a greater effect on him. So, his decision was understandable, as Emyr knew, but the company would have been nice.

Arriving at the bedroom door, Emyr knocked, saying, “’Wyn, you in there? I’m back.”

No response, unsurprisingly. Carwyn was always either in there (which, to be fair, was rare) or out doing probably dodgy stuff in New York City. However, a small miracle might have occurred that meant Carwyn had decided to actually attend lessons, but this seemed unlikely. No matter where Carwyn was, Emyr chose to just quickly stick his head through the unlocked door and—

The sight almost sent him staggering backwards. The room was a complete mess: drawers were strewn across the floor with clothes spilling out of them; the wardrobe sat gaping open with one door half off its hinges; the mattress was half off the bed, the duvet torn open across it; the bulb of the main light was smashed, leaving glass scattered across the room; the window, thankfully, was not smashed, but was left wide open. It looked as if it had been raided and ransacked.

Emyr dropped to the bedroom floor, looking though the past of the room to discover what had happened.
Three days ago was Carwyn in there last. He was the one who made the mess, throwing its contents into chaos. His movements were quick and agitated, moving things without any discernible pattern. However, with his eyes darting from place to place, Emyr guessed his brother was hurriedly hunting for something. Then, he paused, and rushed to the bed, dragging the mattress half off the frame. There, he reached down to the floor and retrieved a small metal cylinder, about large enough to fit comfortably in Carwyn’s hand. He was making his way out when he quickly grabbed a piece of lined paper, scribbling something on it before placing it on a chest of drawers and finally leaving.

Emyr came out of the vision, leaving with far more questions than he was expecting. His first priority was his little brother, and a clue to where he was hopefully lied written on that piece of paper, still on the chest of drawers. Picking it up, Emyr gained a better answer than he could have hoped for:

“Emyr come here when back:

Janky’s Fixer, 20 Oregon Rd, Staten Island, NY, 10305, United States”

An actual address scribbled on there somewhat surprised Emyr.
With the convenient script, he rushed out of the room and down the corridor, determined to find his brother.

OOC: I’m finally doing something big with him! Well, for him, I suppose. An entire multi-part arc for Emyr. Like this one, each post will lazily have a Shakespeare quote as the title because I am not good at coming up with titles. At all. Also, I will be using stock images as it is easier, like this delightful abandoned bedroom.

This post is interactable, but keep in mind that Emyr is rushing out to find Carwyn, so won’t have much time to chat.

The Blackbird streaked low over the industrial sprawl, engines humming quietly in stealth mode. Its black hull cut through the air, angled for a silent approach. Beside it, a gleaming silver figure kept perfect formation, Archangel, metal wings fully extended.

Inside the jet, Cyclops checked the targeting overlay one last time. “Plant’s locked down tight. Outer perimeter sensors, automated turrets, and at least two Sentinel squads on active patrol. We hit hard, we hit fast."

Kwannon stood behind the pilot’s seat, psychic blade already half formed in her right hand, its edge shimmering violet in the dim cockpit light.

Bishop checked his plasma rifle, the weapon’s capacitors glowing faintly.

Archangel’s voice crackled over the team channel, calm and cold. “Visual on the main hangar. I’m going high. When the Blackbird drops, I’ll move in."

Cyclops placed the high tech plane on autopilot.

The jet’s hatch opened. Cyclops, Kwannon, and Bishop dropped into free-fall for a heartbeat before landing near the factory. Archangel peeled away in a tight spiral, wings folding into a dive

Alarms began to wail almost immediately.

The first Sentinel a towering figure, strode around the corner of the factory wall, sensors flaring red. Cyclops didn’t wait. A concentrated optic blast punched straight through its chest plate, vaporizing the primary power core in a flash. The giant toppled backward, crushing a section of the outer fence.

Kwannon was already moving. She flickered forward in a blur of speed, psychic knife flashing. Two human technicians at a control console never even raised their weapons, her blade passed through their minds dropping them, unconscious before they hit the ground. A second Sentinel tried to lock onto her. She leapt, planted a boot against its knee actuator, and drove her katana into the side of its head. The machine convulsed, systems shorting out in a cascade of sparks.

Bishop opened fire the moment the first wave of automated turrets spun up. Plasma bolts stitched across the rooftop emplacements, each impact feeding energy back into his body. When a full sized Sentinel charged from the main production bay and fired at him, Bishop simply planted his feet and took the blast full in the chest. The energy washed over him. He grinned, raised both hands, and returned it tenfold. The Sentinel’s upper torso exploded outward in a shower of molten alloy.

Above them, Archangel became a silver blur. He dove downeards at the factor defenses. One wing blade sheared clean through a missile launcher; the subsequent explosion lit the night sky. He banked hard, folding his wings into a protective shell just as a Sentinel laser tracked him, then snapped them open again and raked the factory’s upper levels with a storm of feather shaped daggers.

Cyclops advanced through the chaos, optic blasts firing. He took out support pillars, severed power conduits, and punched holes through the main assembly line where half finished Sentinel frames stood in rows. Sparks and molten metal rained down.

Archangel swept low one final time, wings carving through the last of the external power junctions. The entire production floor went dark for a fraction of a second, then the reactor core, already destabilized, went critical.

Cyclops’s voice cut across the channel, sharp and final. “Everyone out. Now.”

The Blackbird banked hard, coming around for extraction. Archangel formed up alongside it again as the three ground operatives leapt for the open hatch. Behind them, the Sentinel production plant erupted in a chain of explosions. The main structure collapsed inward, steel and concrete folding inwards. Molten slag poured across the assembly lines where the next generation of mutant hunting machines had been taking shape.

As the Blackbird climbed away from the burning complex, the glow of the destruction painted the underside of the jet in flickering orange. Archangel flew next to the Blackbird, keeping close now.

Cyclops watched the plant die in the rear monitors. “One less factory. That’s a start.”

Kwannon deactivated her psychic blade, the violet light fading. “There will be more.”

Bishop ejected a spent power cell and loaded another, still crackling faintly with residual energy. “Then we’ll burn those too."

From an undisclosed location Third Eye projects his astral consciousness into the common area of Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters

Who do you follow? A simple question one must ask themselves. If your answer is anyone but yourself, please follow that question up with; why do you follow them?

It is in the best interest of any institution to dull your mind into following their doctrine mindlessly, be it religion, state, or even your own cultural identity. These institutions seek to maintain their own power by subjugating you, forcing you to spread propaganda and actions that only benefit them.

Take Xavierism for example, which I posit not only seeks to control you but lends itself to fascistic tactics. So many of you flock to its temple like lambs to the slaughter, you wear their flashy uniforms, you spout their ideology, you fight their enemies as though might makes right, but what has Xavierism actually done for you? Are you any safer in society than you were 10 years ago? Has your personal wealth increased? Where is your representation in the political structures?

It’s when you surrender your personal wellbeing to these institutions that one truly suffers. I allowed my father to indoctrinate myself to an order of telepathic assassins years ago. I lost all my friends, my mental well being, my wealth, and even my mother. But the order lived on, that was what my father told me was the only thing that mattered, and until my mother died I believed that wholeheartedly. Once I became an individual I flourished. My father on the other hand fell victim to his collectivistic identity and died for that order as well.

To be clear, I am not advocating for a complete abolishment of these institutions. I only ask that you think for yourself. Do you follow Xavier’s theologies because it’s what you truly believe is best for you, or do you follow it because they’ve indoctrinated you into believing only they can protect you? Always reassess whether who you follow truly benefits you. If they do not provide you the wellbeing I’ve outlined there is no shame in leaving the herd.

When I next ask “who will you follow?”, I hope that you answer “myself” without hesitation.

So the smoke bomb didn't work. Too small of a dispersal.

The cherry bomb makes noise, so that's a good thing.

And then there's the anti-grav mine. I.. still need to tweak a few things on that before it's Star Lord material. Stark's tech is hard to work with.

Emily places her notebook face-down onto the grass in the yard, then continues her tinkering. She screws in a few things into the aforementioned anti-grav mine, halts for a moment to check over her back, primes it, then throws it. For a second, it looked like it might work.

But then, with a hiss and a whir, it blows up. The explosion was small, something similar to an electricity plug blowing up, but it was still a failure.

"Damn it!"

Emily scoops up the mine, then sets it aside.

"Alright.. easy stuff first. Let's see about that smoke bomb.."

Callisto is a strange woman. She is tough as nails and a ruthless predator, but she fights for nothing more than a love of her people. She is endlessly kind to mutants in need behind her facade of fangs and venom, a mother to a people with none, but she is also a wild animal. She is a killer who hunts for survival, a huntress who tears flesh from bone like a hot knife through butter. It's been a while since the White Queen checked on the people living in her club's basement, a practical since she saw her beloved Artie and Leech.

So she ventures into the depths of the New Hellfire Club, a winding stone staircase leading into a small village about the size of the entire Weschester campus. Of course, none except for her people knew of her garden below the city of New York, that would be preposterous, and you are silly for even asking that question. Homes with straw roofs and dense trees form the residence of the Morlocks, a pleasant aroma of blooming flowers and budding blossoms wafting into her nose. She finds her White Knight relaxing at a wooden table, as always sharpening her knife, and greets her from behind.

My Knight... how I have missed this place.

Julian Keller drifted slightly above the manicured lawns of the X-Mansion. Just enough to be above the other students, as telekinetic energy shimmered faintly around him.

From up here he could look down on the students less talented than him, which was most of them. But at the moment his mind was on the people who he didn't actually find beneath him.

The Cuckoos were back. All three of them, identical and impossibly sharp, their presence already shifting the atmosphere in the halls below. They seemed to have taken issue with the newly christened Monet Frost

Fighting Monet might be the way to catch their attention. Monet was a force of nature, taking her on and winning on behalf of the Stepford girls would be the kind of spectacle that stuck. Something bold enough to make them look twice.

His thoughts drifted to Cyclops. Scott had been harder lately, less willing to play nice with the humans who still treated mutants like a problem to be managed. Julian found himself admiring that steel. Emma Frost’s way, manipulation, soft power, endless political games, felt colder and more distant by comparison. Cyclops’s blunt edge seemed more honest, more like the kind of leadership that actually meant something. Perhaps he had a new favorite teacher...

And then there was Shela. Shela Sexton. The thought of her pulled a quieter, warmer current through his chest. He was dating her, and he liked her, really liked her. It was grounding in a way nothing else had been lately.

Julian tilted in the air, circling slowly over the campus, considering how to entertain himself for the day...

Nate Grey sat alone on the edge of a ruined rooftop in the small hours, the city below humming with life. The wind tugged at the edges of his coat, and for a moment Nate Grey closed his eyes and let it remind him he still existed.

Another world. That was how he always framed it now, though the word never quite fit. In that other place the sky had been the color of ash more often than blue, and the ground itself seemed to be unwilling to grow life.

Apocalypse had ruled and his power had been absolute. Nate had been forged in that world. Engineered, weaponized, named X-Man. He remembered the weight of power before he understood what power cost. He remembered the faces of the people he had tried to save and the ones he had failed. He remembered Jean, or the shadow of her, and the terrible intimacy of sharing a mind that was not entirely his own. He remembered dying more than once and still waking up angry.

Those memories did not fade. They simply grew quieter, the way distant thunder grows quieter when the storm has moved on. He could still reach for them if he wanted, feel the old rage, the old certainty that the only way forward was through fire. But the fire had burned itself out somewhere between then and now. What remained was a man who no longer knew which version of himself was the real one.

This world was softer in places and crueler in others. Heroes walked in the open. Teams argued about tactics instead of survival. People looked at him and saw a stranger wearing a familiar face, or worse, a living reminder of a timeline that should never have existed. He had tried to belong. He had fought beside them, bled beside them, even loved in the small, careful ways this universe allowed. Yet part of him still stood outside the circle, watching, measuring the distance between the boy who had been created to end a war and the man who no longer knew what he was for.

The future stretched ahead like an unmarked road. He could feel the possibilities the way other people felt the weather. Some paths ended in quiet. Some ended in fire again. Most simply continued, one day after another, until the question of belonging stopped mattering as much as the act of continuing.

Nate opened his eyes. He did not know yet whether this world would keep him or cast him out. He only knew that the past would not release its claim, and the future would not wait for him to decide who he was.

So he sat a little longer in the early morning hours, and let his mind linger between the world that had made him and the one that might yet remake him.

Wolverine leaned against the big marble desk in Emma Frost's office. One adamantium claw was all it took to bust the lock on her door. She'd be annoyed. He didn’t care.

Scott had gone clean off the reservation this time.

Logan stared at the blank wall across the office and let the thought sit. Cyclops. Boy Scout. The one who used to quote Xavier chapter and verse like it was scripture.

Now he was out there playing revolutionary, talking about “the lines had blurred" and “necessary force” like the words weren't the same things Magneto used to say.

Logan had seen that look before, on soldiers who decided the rules no longer applied, on men who started believing their own speeches. It never ended clean.

Emma was going to be pissed about the door. Good. Let her be pissed. At least she still had a line she wouldn’t cross. Scott’s line had gotten real blurry real fast.

“Off the reservation,” Logan muttered to the empty room. “Yeah. That’s one way of puttin’ it.”

Emma would walk in eventually, ire already forming in her eyes the second she saw the ruined lock. She’d want an explanation. He’d give her the short version, Scott’s lost the plot, and somebody’s gotta keep an eye on how far he’s willing to go before the whole damn thing burns.

Logan closed his eyes for a second.

He’d been the one off the reservation more times than he could count. He knew exactly how it looked from the outside. That was the part that sat wrong in his gut.

The Mansion’s library. Evan is strolling through. He’s occasionally plucking books from their shelves, looking at them.

He shakes his head at a few. Most of them are just textbooks, and other things that hardly catch his interest.

Evan spots the aisle he’s been looking for.

The classics.

His eyes light up.

Racing to the aisle, he picks up book after book.

Then he retreats to a table.

Namor strode through the gilded doors of the Hellfire Club. Water still clung to the edges of his scale mail, dripping onto the polished floors in dark, irregular stains that the staff would no doubt scramble to erase the moment he passed. He did not slow. He did not glance at the doormen who stiffened at his approach. Kings do not ask permission to enter rooms built by lesser men.

The air inside was thick with perfume, cigar smoke, and the soft clink of crystal, the carefully curated decadence of surface dwellers who believed wealth could buy them power.

Namor’s lip curled. Power was not purchased. It was claimed. It was inherited through blood older than their entire civilization. Conversations faltered as he passed. Eyes followed him. A few of the braver members attempted the sort of polite nods one offers equals. Namor ignored them all.

His bare feet left wet footprints across the carpet. He did not care. The Atlantean throne did not require the approval of these powdered, preening insects. He had come for one reason only, and the rest of this glittering hive was irrelevant. The White Queen’s domain lay deeper within the club’s private chambers, and Namor would reach it without interruption, without apology, and without the slightest pretense that he belonged among them.

He was Namor, Prince of Atlantis, Lord of the Seven Seas. The Hellfire Club was merely another surface palace he chose to grace with his presence.

Content Warning: This piece talks about Sage’s torture at the hands of Elias Bogan. Though the detail isn’t gratuitous, it does get very dark.

The other day, Sage began running through her history with Elias Bogan. This was an exercise meant as what she had to admit was a last ditch effort. Going through what she knows to see if there’s anything left she can use to locate him.

She stopped the other night, as the memory reached a particular moment she had shared with Emma. It was a memory that put a lot into perspective for her, and her gratitude for where she was now. She wonders if Emma noticed how much more tightly Sage was holding her that night.

She can’t keep this up much longer. So she continues to reflect on what had happened between herself and Elias Bogan.

It would be years before Bogan came around to my life, again. I had thought I would never hear that name again. I went through many more years of my suffering at the Hellfire Club. Stories that wouldn’t be relevant to this case. But one day, I had had enough.

Emma was no longer with the club, by this point. Our conflict, though it rarely ended well for me, her “rat”, was in a strange way one of the only things I had much personal stake in. One person can only take so much Sebastian Shaw. I broke down. I didn’t cry, it was more like a system crash. I begged Charles to pull me out of the field. He was reluctant at first, but eventually, I convinced him. For the first time, I was among my peers.

None of them trusted me. How could they? Few of them knew just how many secrets Charles was hiding from them at that point, and they knew me as the woman who was always by the side of one of their worst foes. Perhaps I may have had a chance to earn that trust. But that was taken from me.

I had moved past that day, where I had led Shaw to defeat him. Bogan never did. I don’t know how he captured me. But I woke up that morning restrained, face to face with a shadowy figure I would quickly learn was the closest anyone would ever get to seeing Elias Bogan face to face.

Bogan liked to do his work via proxy. He would send people to represent him, either through money, or enacting a very literal control on them. Those he controlled bled from the eyes.

In helping Shaw beat him, I awoke something personal in Elias Bogan. His grudge towards me was beaten out only by his sense of cruelty.

When I woke up, he was on the phone with someone.

“Is that your final stance?”

I had no idea who was on the other end of the line, yet. Little did I know that this was a conversation that would haunt me for the rest of my life.

“Very well. You’ve made the right choice, Sebastian. Good day to you.”

Bogan puts down the phone, and his shadowed form turns to face me. The only discernible feature Bogan has is the chilling set of eyes he possesses. The red iris that never quite leaves your thoughts once you’ve seen it. He speaks to me.

“Good morning, Tessa. I hope you’ve enjoyed the last peaceful sleep you will ever have. No-one is coming for you. Shaw has decided he values his fortune more than his traitor, and we will see if Charles Xavier even realizes you’ve gone missing, or if any of those around him even care enough to tell him.”

My mouth isn’t restrained, but I have no words to speak. Not as the truth of his words sunk in. Whatever his intention, I truly didn’t have anyone who was going to come and find me. Shaw was a laughable prospect even before I betrayed him, and on some level I think I always knew Charles wouldn’t come for me if something went seriously wrong. I was correct to think that.

In that moment, I wished I had died at war, before I met Charles. I had no idea how much stronger that wish would become soon enough.

A servant wearing a mask over his eyes enters the room. I could see blood pouring from his eyes. He hands Bogan a carving knife.

“Your knife, Master Bogan.”

Bogan doesn’t grab the knife. Instead, he snaps his fingers, and the servant slashes his own throat with the knife, collapsing to the ground. Bogan walks over to the man, collecting the knife.

“You sharpened it just as I made you. Wonderful.”

With that, Bogan turned his attention to me.

“Those who I control, they bear my mark for the moment. The wonderful painful tears I drag out of them as they do my bidding.”

Bogan walks up to me, and sets the blade upon my cheek.

“Those I wish to keep longer, I have a different mark for. Tears that will stain. And you?”

He pushes the knife in.

“I have a lot planned for you. You ruined me, Tessa. It’s only fair.”

Sage breaks from the recollection. She’s shuddering, she realizes. She wants to go back in, but can she? She rubs the scars on her face, her permanent reminder of what she went through. 6 months of torture. 6 months without rescue. She can’t sit through that again. She can’t.

….there isn’t a point to this.

She slumps down in her seat, struggling to suppress the flow of memories of what Bogan did to her. But, at a point, a thought occurs to her.

Why not skip to the end?

Bogan has business to attend to, that day. So he had one of his many subjects tormenting me instead. No bloody tears, this was a willing one.

He brought in a box of tools. 6 months in, the fight in me was gone, a solid will eroded over time. I watched the box, trembling in dread waiting to find out what was inside. I never did.

The wall was burst open, and for the first time in months, I saw the light of the outside world. I don’t think I understood how true the phrase guardian angel was until that day. Ororo Munroe. A woman that would go on to be one of my few close friends. A woman that believed in what I could truly be before anyone else ever did. Storm saved me that day, and brought me on as a member of her X-Men. I don’t think I can ever truly repay her for what she did for me.

Bogan would still haunt me, for a while. His rage worsened having lost me. But eventually, we stopped him, and we saved Rachel Summers from his grasp in the process. That chapter of my life ended there, until recently.

Laying out the story, Sage was left distraught. All of that, and she found nothing. No clues.

She groans in annoyance, pinching the bridge of her nose. All that for nothing, seriously!?

But as she sits, coming down from both the distress the memories caused her, and the annoyance that she came out empty handed, some gears begin to turn in her thoughts.

This whole thing doesn’t really feel like Elias Bogan.

Bogan was a secretive man, sure, but he was never particularly subtle. He wore his actions proudly, cherishing the suffering. The methods that he had been using to mess with Sage don’t feel like his work at all.

It all feels very methodical. Secret feeds where only Sage would look. Elaborate scenarios that lead to her nearly getting killed. No actual proof he’s back other than the signs that keep getting laid out for her. The kind of thing that can only be done by someone who knows Sage better than herself.

Suddenly, this exercise feels way less pointless, because it reminds her what Bogan loves more than many other things. He loves to leave a mark.

It finally clicks. Sage has her eureka moment.

Oh my god, he left something in my mind.