Alex Mercer's apartment reeked of bleach and worn carpet, a weak lingering scent of instant coffee from the mug he'd left sitting on the counter hours earlier. The room was plain, furnished sparingly with only the basics: a shaky desk, a beat-up laptop, and piles of notebooks scrawled with careful, illegible handwriting. He sat cross-legged on the ground, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as if waiting for the world to unfurl itself in some kind of grand revelation. At age eighteen, he ought to have been limited by the prosaic limits of reality: a high school education, an occasional job, and the unofficial expectation to slide into averageness. He felt. somewhere else, always somewhere else, looking in through the veil of normalcy like a specter observing the living.
His mind was an ongoing calculus, a rational breakdown of possibilities and contingencies. He understood the timelines, the patterns, the failings of heroes and villains. His mind was a living repository of what was and what would be—a meta-consciousness he had developed in silence, in carefulness, in the late-night years of his youth. Knowledge, he'd discovered, was power. And power, he understood, was needed to stay alive in a world that did not comprehend men like him.
Tonight, though, that calculation was disrupted by a feeling that was intimate and also foreign, creeping under his skin with the insistent delicacy of a predator circling game. A flutter at first, like the charge of static electricity, then in the depths of his bones—a hum that seemed to resonate within his marrow. Alex sat bolt upright, gray eyes contracting.
It begins.
The initial wave of agony was exquisite in its pitch. His chest heaved violently, ribs creaking as a thousand tiny hammers pounded simultaneously. His vision shattered into shards of scarlet light, and a metal taste burst on his tongue, coppery and unmistakable. He toppled onto his knees, holding the floor, as the runes blazed up and down his arms, glowing dimly at first, then with the white fire of a burning sun. The symbols were not arbitrary; they changed, reordered themselves with an intelligence that was almost palpable, a quiet dialect older than memory itself.
Alex screamed, but it was no normal scream. It was a chant out of the very bone of the earth, a resonance that writhed through his vocal cords as pain turned to ecstasy and knowledge poured in. All the rituals he had ever read about, all the forbidden books he had only caught a glance at, all the incantations of dead cultures—the knowledge flooded him with a torrent of awareness. His mind shattered and rebuilt itself at the same time, each fragment of memory intact and well-stored, each formula grasped on an intuitive level.
Blood filled his mouth. He spat on the ground, anticipating weakness, but the droplets instead glowed in the faint light of his apartment, condensing into small, intricate runes. The blood itself vibrated with energy, as if conscious, alive. Alex's body shook, but he was. prepared. The pain was over before he even knew it had come, emptying him, depleting him, but filling him with a deep sense of understanding. He had undergone something. He was no longer merely Alex Mercer, seventeen-year-old genius. He was something else altogether—reborn ritualist.
He stood up, shaking hands, eyes surveying the room. All the shadows were darker, all the surfaces more detailed. The air had an iron and ozone flavor, charged with possibilities. He needed assurance. He needed to be told where, and when, he was placed in the great pageant of the Marvel universe.
---
The First Ritual
Alex swept a circle on the floor, using chalk and salt to draw a complicated circle, weaving his own blood in among it. Every line had followed centuries of instinctual design, careful runes and sigils combining to make patterns that no human should ever understand. He breathed deeply, letting the metallic flavor cover his tongue.
"Revelare… Revelare…" he spoke, the words unknown but unerringly accurate, curling around the space like a living thing.
The circle throbbed. A mirror of chalk and blood materialized at its core, liquid but reflective. He leaned over, gazing into it, and the visions hit him like a revelation. Headlines on far-off news programs flared across the surface, momentary but accurate. He saw snippets of dialogue, moments of heroes in action, and the indistinct outlines of superhuman events to come. Iron Man revealing the armor, the X-Men relocating in secret, rumors of a worldwide initiative that would remake the planet.
Alex's mind filed away everything, cross-referencing each item with icy efficiency. I'm early. Way earlier than I was anticipating. Time is. flexible, but I have a head start. I can plan. I can make it through.
The ceremony concluded as quietly as it had started. He stood, wiping blood from his hands, and weighed the possibilities of what he now understood. The X-gene had not merely stirred power; it had brought centuries' worth of information in a moment. The world was perilous, certainly, but now, he was ready.
And yet. friends will be needed. Leadership will be needed. I am powerful, but alone I am still a child against gods.
---
Alex was aware of the initial puzzle piece. He required resources—books, artifacts, out-of-the-way parts—and someone willing to grasp the enormity of what he had become. Emma Frost, the White Queen, psychic, manipulative, cold. An ideal point of interface. She amassed talent like others amassed money, and he could play the innocent genius to reel her in.
He prepared a small ritual, one meant not to hurt but to indicate. A wavering in the local leyline, a slight energy surge, sufficient for one with the eyes and ears of a psychic to pick up. He established the circle in an open park, camouflaged under layers of everyday illusion, and waited.
She will find me. She always finds what she desires. And when she does. I will be prepared to play the role she expects.
Alex watched his own face reflected in a windowpane, tracing the bright runes etched on his arms with a finger. His gray eyes were piercing, unnervingly serene for someone whose flesh had just been ravaged by sensation. He smiled faintly, barely perceptibly. The bait is set. The hunt begins.
---
Hours went by. The city remained in ignorant bliss. Alex lingered behind, watching for the responses of passersby, the shadows of streetlight on the ritual circle. His thoughts looped through possibilities, weighing the dangers of detection against the rewards of notice.
He sensed the first pangs of excitement. A psychic such as Emma would be coming. And when she came, he would offer himself up as she anticipated: brilliant but inexperience, curious but naivety.
But beneath that veneer, Alex's brain whirred. He listed off her probable angle of attack, the manner in which she would try to infiltrate his head, the tiny tells that would give her away for trying. Each motion, each movement would be anticipated. Each statement, a trial. Each pause, an interrogation.
Make her believe she has control. Make her believe she has a grasp on the game. She does not know the rules yet. I do.
The pulse was weak at first—a ripple, a tremor running through the psychic ether, subtle but persistent. Emma Frost lounged in the corner of her personal gallery, drinking champagne with languid ease of manner one who was used to being in control. The whiteness of her outfit shone under the soft illumination, impeccable and intentional, a declaration of mastery as much as beauty. And yet, even in her own confidence, her brain flickered at the anomaly: a warp in the magical currents of Manhattan, so subtle it was almost beyond detection but not hers.
Odd… she told herself, her psychic perception snagging like the edge of a needle. She put down the glass and closed her eyes, allowing her mind to reach outward. Her mental probe was trained, disciplined—a knife slicing through veils of thought.
The first she met was… resistance. Not force, but complex, layered, and smart. A runic pattern, older than the world, stranger than anything, folded in upon itself in recursive loops. It was like trying to comb wet hair when the water in the hair was living and struggling back. Not many minds had ever defied her probe this way before, and fewer still had done so with finesse and intelligence.
Her eyes flickered open, ice-cold and piercing. This is no normal mutant. This is. something more. Something older. Something deadly.
Emma stood, her motion controlled and fluid. Her heels clicked softly on the highly polished marble floor as she followed the fine trail of power to its source. The path took her to a small park, shielded by trees and the soft light of streetlights. There, under the neglect of a broken fountain, she discovered him: tall, calm, dark and long hair, falling in great sweeps over broad shoulders. He sat cross-legged, as if in meditation, his hands smeared red with faintly glowing runes.
Emma waited, letting the tableau sink in. The trace hum of power was seductive, wringing from her the sense of familiarity and something not quite human.
Very interesting… very interesting.
---
As she walked up, her mind took stock of him with clinical objectivity. Height: six-foot-two, youth, eighteen maybe, but the way he stood tall indicated a maturity many years beyond his age. Hair: long, black, wavy, falling with lazy grace. Eyes: gray, piercing, uncomfortably perceptive, the sort of eyes that seemed to take everything in, including her. Aura: huge, Omega-level energy, and… ancient. Not the kind that comes from age alone, but the kind that accumulates knowledge, experience, and subtle mastery over the arcane.
Her psychic probe struck lightly at first, testing the weave. The boy's defenses were gracious, fastidious. A maze of blood magic wards and runes, clever, animate, and awe-inspiring in their precision. She felt the lines of her mind brush the edges of his. Few had ever tested her so effectively.
I need him. I must control him. And yet… I may not shatter him without danger. He's dangerous, yes—but the puzzle. ah, the puzzle is beautiful.
---
---
"Hello," she spoke aloud, her tone a calculated blend of warmth and command, sufficient to attract notice without expressing full purpose.
Alex's eyes flicked up, gray pools catching the dim light. A faint smile, almost bored, but controlled. "Good evening," he replied, his tone polished, cultured. "I… wasn't expecting company. I'm afraid this is… somewhat private."
He gestured at the runes beneath his hands. The faint glow pulsed in rhythm with his words, almost as if responding to his voice.
Emma's lips smiled knowingly. Yes. That's what I thought. Confidence. Awareness. But there's something more.
She tilted her head a fraction of an inch, probing. "I can see that."
Alex's smile grew sharper, politely opaque. "I'd think so. You seem like someone. practiced in observation.
Her psychic prod touched his mind softly, an exploratory caress. Instantly, it was pushed away, folded, and re-formed into intricate patterns that were meant to mislead. Emma stiffened for a beat, sensing a strange rush of challenge. Few had ever. resisted thus.
Alex's gray eyes met hers level, calm, expressionless. His internal monologue flashed by at express speed, cataloging her stance, aura, possible threat, and likely manipulation paths. She is testing me, yes—but she is underestimating. Her psychic aura is strong, accurate… but it's predictable. All probing is measured; all hesitation a clue. I can use this. Let her probe. Let her think she's testing me. She has no notion who she's up against.
---
Emma edged nearer, slow, deliberate, never taking her gaze from his. "You possess power. Raw, vast… and dangerous. But you don't realize it yet, do you?"
Alex's voice remained level, nearly self-mocking. "Power? Maybe. I know only that it… overpowers me sometimes. It is… new, unknown. I don't know how to explain it.
The play had started, he thought, noting her every inflection. She'll think she leads me. She'll not even guess the depth of my understanding. Patience. Observation. Manipulation. All needed.
Emma raised an eyebrow, fascinated. "And yet, even in your… unfamiliarity, your mastery is exquisite. The way you work the runes… the blood… you're no ordinary fledgling. There's. discipline. Knowledge. Experience. Well beyond your years."
Alex's lips twitched into a slight, courteous smile. "Discipline is. needed if one wishes to live. Knowledge. I imagine some comes naturally. The rest. I hope to polish." His speech was careful, gentle, almost obsequious—but each word was selected, calculated to please and control.
Emma's internal monologue hummed with excitement. This boy is a genius. The most fascinating mind I've seen in decades. A puzzle, indeed. but a weapon in the making. And I will shape it.
---
Emma explored again, more tactically, weaving mental threads through him, searching for vulnerabilities, searching for avenues of access. The weave responded, shining, shifting, almost mischievous. It was alive, and it fought back—not with raw power, but with cunning.
Impossible… she mused, as the runes wrapped her probe around itself. Few would be able to do this. And yet… he is young. That youth is a weakness. I can lead him, show him… manage him… eventually, possibly even mold him.
Alex inwardly itemized the resistance within her technique, observing her accuracy, the forenowledge her psychic probes, and her insidious need to control. She believes she is probing me. She is prodding herself as much as well. Let her. Each probe is a lesson for her… and for me. I can discern her patterns. Anticipate them. Endure them. Employ them.
Their dialogue went on in layered exchanges, courteous, measured, each word pondered for impact. Alex played the innocent, covertly examining each microexpression, each change in tone, each jolt of psychic aura. Emma's chilly brain danced across his thoughts like a cat, exploring, savoring, testing edges.
---
"I don't really know what is going on with me," Alex replied quietly, carefully looking aside for a moment, as if exposed. "But I… I need guidance. I need to learn. Maybe you might… assist me."
Emma's heart was racing at the hook. Yes. That is exactly what I anticipated. Modest, inquisitive, genius… he believes he is controlling the interaction, but he is exposing himself in the most beautiful manner.
She permitted herself a little smile. "I can assist. But you need to trust me. And trust… is earned."
Alex nodded slightly, as if considering deeply. Trust is something I can pay for. I will allow her to believe she dictates the exchange. It is… tactical.
"Yes. Naturally," he replied softly, voice slick, unshakeable. "I desire to learn… all that I may. And I will… obey your instruction."
Emma's inner dialogue whirled with possibilities: the influence, the training, the political ramifications within the Hellfire Club. I will shape him. I will form him. He is mine to mold—or mine to shatter.
While that is going through her mind, Alex is thinking something chillier: Step one accomplished. She thinks she has control. She thinks she knows the game. The puzzle belongs to me. Every single move is documented. Every word, every look… warehoused. And when the moment arrives, I'll move.
---
Emma turned, offering her hand formally, poised and deft. "Then let us go. I will introduce you… to the world you've just entered. But be careful: not everyone is what they appear to be, and not everyone is your friend."
Alex accepted the hand with a slight smile, rising smoothly, covering every twitch of elation, every throb of excitement. I am ready, he told himself. And they have no conception of what they are walking into.
As they left the park, city lights reflecting off wet asphalt, Emma's thoughts churned with plans and backup plans. Alex Mercer was a mutant child prodigy. He was a weapon, a puzzle piece, and a potential competitor. She would keep him close, watch him, mentor him—and soon, she would break him.
Alex, on the other hand, sensed the burden of the future bearing down on him. He had lived through his awakening. He had experimented with the first predator. And now he was entering into a den of intrigue, power, and peril. Every step was measured, every glance a calculation. The game had been played.
And in the secluded recesses of his thoughts, behind the measured calm, he permitted a sliver of expectation to bloom: I will learn. I will grow. And when the time comes… I will change everything.