Orneeba. A Secret Base.
The heavy steel doors hissed open with a mechanical whir, and the airlock's red lights painted the dark corridor in a blood-like hue.
Footsteps echoed, slow and dragging.
A voice rang out as a steward in a finely pressed suit rounded the corner. His eyes widened in disbelief, nearly dropping the datapad he carried.
"What happened to you?!"
The man before him was almost unrecognizable.
Mister Sinister—normally the picture of cold precision and genetic perfection—was a wreck.
His once-imposing figure now hunched, skin pale to the point of translucence. Blood smeared down one side of his face, and the tattered remnants of his regal coat fluttered as he stumbled forward, barely managing to keep his footing.
A ragged cloth was all that preserved his dignity.
He looked like a man who had crawled back from hell.
The steward froze, stunned.
Who could have done this to him?
No mutant alive should've been capable of this.
His thoughts raced to the unthinkable.
Has he truly awakened?
"Stop gaping and help me inside!" Sinister growled, his voice low and venomous, barely above a whisper—but sharp enough to cut.
Snapping out of his daze, the steward hurried forward and slipped under Sinister's arm, catching him just as his knees buckled.
The lights of the hallway flickered ominously overhead as they passed.
Something had changed.
Within the base's subterranean medical bay, antiseptic light glared down from overhead panels. Machines beeped steadily, monitoring vital signs.
Sinister lay motionless, draped in sterile sheets. The room was silent—eerily so—except for the soft hum of the equipment and the occasional spark from broken nanotech nodes embedded in his shoulder.
His face was twisted not with pain, but with hatred.
A cold, festering hatred.
Minutes passed in suffocating silence, broken only when Sinister spoke.
The name dropped from his lips like a curse.
He could still see the boy's eyes in that final moment—calm, unwavering, filled not with arrogance, but with something far worse: certainty.
That was what chilled Sinister to his core.
But that look—like Alex already knew the outcome.
That he'd won the moment he walked in.
Sinister clenched his fists beneath the blanket, his teeth grinding audibly.
This had been his masterpiece.
Years of preparation.
Dozens of contingencies.
The power-suppressing collar had been one-of-a-kind, forged with knowledge from centuries of mutant research.
Alex had torn through it like wet paper.
Had the system grown beyond tech? Had it evolved?
Or was there something even more ancient hiding inside that boy?
Whatever the cause—one truth remained.
He couldn't fight Alex again.
Not without drastic changes.
Not without leveling the playing field.
Meanwhile – The Mutant Base.
The atmosphere in the war room was electric.
Screens displayed tactical readouts, blinking red markers that had once tracked Sinister's base of operations—now reduced to static.
"Sinister is DEAD? That's incredible!"
Jubilation rippled through the ranks.
The air was filled with unrestrained relief, the kind that only came after narrowly escaping years of terror.
Sinister had been a nightmare—a shapeshifting, mind-controlling, cloning madman who had outwitted the world's greatest minds.
His presence had always loomed in the background, a reminder that even with Alex on their side, victory was never guaranteed.
Alex's voice cut through the celebration like a blade.
His tone wasn't harsh.
"There's something else."
The weight of those words settled like lead in the room. The smiles faded. Everyone straightened.
"Have any of you ever wondered…"
Alex paused, his gaze sweeping across the room. From hardened soldiers to world-class mutants, not one spoke.
"Who the first mutant was?"
There was a beat of silence.
Raven furrowed her brow.
"The first mutant? That's like asking who the first human was."
It was a deflection, but not a denial.
Beside her, Hank froze.
His lips parted as the realization hit him.
"Alex… you're not saying—"
"I'm saying there's someone out there who's been alive for thousands of years."
Alex's voice was steady, each word measured and unshakable.
"The first mutant. The one they called… Apocalypse."
Silence shattered like glass.
Gasps filled the room.
"Stronger than you AND Sinister?!"
"He brings the end of the world?!"
"Like the Bible's apocalypse?!"
The name itself was a weight—a legacy written in fire and blood.
Emma, ever the calm strategist, stepped forward, arms crossed, voice cool.
"Alex… do you believe Sinister?"
Even she couldn't keep the doubt from her voice.
The idea felt too big. Too ancient.
More legend than reality.
"He had no reason to lie. And I saw the fear in his eyes. He believed it."
He turned to the central console, flicking it to standby mode.
"Which is why I need you to use Cerebro."
Emma tilted her head slightly.
"To find this Apocalypse?"
"To find someone who knows about him."
The room fell still again.
Because that—somehow—was even more terrifying.
Someone was out there.
And they remembered the beginning.
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