Arc 1 - Ch 3: Fight Back

Chapter 3

Arc 1 - Ch 3: Fight Back

Date: Thursday, June 3, 2010.

Location: Alberta, Canada

Tyson cursed under his breath as he peered through the jagged hole in the shattered windshield. Logan's unconscious body lay sprawled across the dented hood of the camper, unmoving. Tyson stretched his arm through the gaping void left when Logan had crashed through the glass. His fingertips barely brushed the tip of Wolverine's ear.

It was enough. A jolt of vitality coursed through Tyson as he absorbed Logan's life force. Memories rushed in and his healing factor lifted the fog of concussion from his mind. The gash on his forehead knit closed, the trickle of warm blood down his face ceased, and he sighed with relief.

Still, the situation was dire.

He was trapped, but not for long. Not with Logan's powers now flowing within him.

Tyson grimaced at the uncomfortable sensation of his bones reshaping. Then, with a sharp pain that quickly faded, three bone claws erupted from his knuckles, mirroring Wolverine's. The feeling of his body morphing in such an unnatural way gave him pause, but there was no time to dwell on it. He turned his new claws on the seatbelt, slicing through the tough nylon material. The strap snapped back and he sucked in a breath, finally free. The acrid scent of fire spreading in the back of the camper filled his nostrils. There wasn't much time before the wrecked vehicle went up in flames.

Tyson scrambled out of the burning camper, launching himself over the collapsed dashboard and through the twisted open driver's side door. Cold Canadian air blasted his face as he escaped the flickering flames threatening to consume the wreck. In his frantic bid for freedom, he had momentarily lost sight of the feral mutant Sabertooth.

A vicious snarl filled Tyson's ears. Before he could react, a clawed hand gripped the back of his jacket, hoisting him effortlessly into the air as if he were no more than a ragdoll. Looming over him, Sabertooth stood nearly seven feet tall. His lips curled back exposing jagged yellow fangs as he roared directly into Tyson's face, the hot, fetid breath making him wince.

But Tyson was far from helpless now.

With Sabertooth holding him nearly face-to-face, he reached out and wrapped his hands around the hulking mutant's head. The moment their skin connected, an influx of energy coursed through Tyson as he siphoned life force directly from Sabertooth's body.

He developed powers as a child and killed his brother, Luther, over a piece of pie on Luther's birthday. He was imprisoned by his father, who would regularly remove his sharp teeth and claws, but they always grew back. He escaped by biting through his cuffed arm then proceeded to kill his parents. He left his other brother, Saul alive, but would find him every year and beat him on his birthday. One year, he found Saul dead and hunted his killer, eventually finding Logan. He realized they were similar, and he considered Logan a substitute for Saul hunting him every year on his birthday. Embroiled in their rivalry, he raped and killed the woman Logan loved. From then on, with each battle, their feud deepened, marked by hatred. He had the power to regenerate from injuries in mere moments, heightened senses that made the world more vibrant and detailed, and enhanced strength and agility. Over the years he honed his skill sets of hunting, tracking, hand-to-hand combat, and various weapon expertise. His heightened senses painted the world in sharper, more vivid detail. He held a deep-rooted delight in inflicting pain, both physically and mentally. The world was a playground where the weak could be toyed with and the strong challenged. Every interaction became an opportunity to assert his dominance, to relish in the fear and anguish of others. After Team X, he went into the Canadian wilderness and lived a feral existence. He became stronger, deadlier. His thoughts became hazy as he fell into the role of the hunter. He was found by Magneto, who gave him other targets to hunt.

Sabertooth's razor-sharp claws shredded through Tyson's jacket as if it were no more than flimsy paper. Tyson felt the claws as they tore into his flesh, leaving painful trails in their wake. With each violent swing, Sabertooth seemed intent on ripping Tyson apart.

The attacks shredded his clothes, creating additional contact between them, serving to accelerate the rate at which he drained Sabertooth's life force. And with the blend of Wolverine and Sabertooth's regenerative healing factors now coursing through his veins, the gashes and tears across Tyson's body knit closed almost as quickly as they appeared. Tyson could feel Sabertooth weakening in his grasp as he siphoned away the feral mutant's energy. But a new, darker urge whispered for him not to let go. The satisfaction of dominating this fierce mutant was addictive. Tyson's blood ran freely down his back from the relentless raking of Sabertooth's claws, but the pain was overshadowed by the intoxicating rush of absorbing such power.

Initially, Tyson had barely kept pace with Sabertooth's wild strength and animalistic brutality. Yet, with every passing second, the balance shifted.

A hint of sadistic pleasure gleamed in Tyson's eyes as he felt his power eclipse that of the weakened Sabertooth. His fingers flexed, the nails lengthening and hardening into talons that mimicked Sabertooth's own. He sank them into the feral mutant's face and scalp, using them to maintain his grip.

A perverse pleasure began to creep into Tyson's mind. Though Sabertooth had initially fought with wild strength and animalistic brutality, his struggles were weakening now, diminishing as Tyson continued to siphon his power.

But Tyson, drunk on the sadistic thrill of impending victory, barely noticed. He was lost in the savage satisfaction of domination, oblivious to everything but the intoxicating rush of absorbing the mutant's life force.

And then it hit.

A torrential flood of energy with an almost physical potency.

Tyson felt it crash through him, a wildfire igniting every cell and nerve. It was as if a dam had burst inside him, releasing a tidal wave of raw, uncontrolled power, instincts, and knowledge. Sabertooth's very essence poured into Tyson, a complete synthesis of the mutant's being.

He was no longer drawing from Sabertooth. He had consumed him fully.

The instant of Sabertooth's death was unmistakable. The flood of energy surged into Tyson, wild and untamed, and then ceased abruptly, leaving a deafening silence in its wake. The sudden absence was as shocking as the initial torrent had been.

A cold realization washed over Tyson, penetrating the dark haze of savage pleasure that had consumed him.

He had killed Sabertooth.

Tyson's hands fell away as the realization that he'd killed struck him. The once mighty mutant's body collapsed limply to the ground, now just an empty shell.

A torrent of conflicting emotions swept over Tyson in the aftermath.

There was a relief, undoubtedly, that he had survived the fight and emerged triumphant. But alongside this sense of victory lay a churning combination of remorse, regret, and even a twisted glimmer of dark satisfaction. He had taken a life, snuffed out an existence forever, yet somewhere in the murky depths of his psyche, this act of violence stirred a savage pleasure.

Before Tyson could fully process his feelings, a voice drew him back to the present. "Are you alright?" it asked gently, startling him from his thoughts.

He turned to find the voice belonged to a breathtaking woman. Her flawless brown skin contrasted strikingly with her silvery white hair and vibrant blue eyes. She was clad in a sleek, black uniform with a prominent X over her chest. Tyson recognized Ororo Munroe, otherwise known as Storm of the X-Men.

Beside Storm stood a man in a similar uniform, though his featured a distinctive ruby-quartz visor over his eyes.

Scott Summers, Cyclops.

He walked over to the battered camper, retrieving Wolverine's unconscious body from the hood.

The snow continued to fall softly around them as Storm's piercing blue eyes fixed on Tyson. "You should come with us," she said, her tone gentle yet urgent.

Tyson stood numbly, the events of the day crashing over him like a tidal wave. The adrenaline that had fueled him earlier was fading away, replaced now by a surreal sense of unreality. He glanced at Sabertooth's lifeless body, the mutant's face frozen in an expression of agony. Tyson's eyes then moved to Wolverine's unconscious form carried in Cyclops' arms.

"I..." Tyson started to reply, then paused. He took a deep breath, the frigid air stinging his lungs, and nodded slowly. There was nothing left for him here now. "Alright," he agreed finally, his voice barely above a whisper against the swirling snow.

As Tyson moved toward Storm, her features so perfectly mirroring those of the actress who had played her, she extended a slender hand toward him in comfort. But he stopped abruptly short, flinching away from her reach with a pained expression.

"You can't touch me," Tyson said hoarsely, gesturing toward Sabertooth's body. "Or what happened to him will happen to you."

A spectacular aircraft stood nearby. Sleek and jet-black, with pulsing blue lights lining its sides. An 'X' emblem was emblazoned on the aircraft's flank, marking it as the famed Blackbird jet of the X-Men. Its design appeared to be based on the SR-71 military spyplane but modified extensively. The sight momentarily distracted Tyson from the harsh reality of his situation.

Tyson followed Cyclops, who carried the unconscious Wolverine in his arms. As the Blackbird's hatch hissed closed behind them, Tyson's mind became a whirlwind of emotions.

He had taken a life today.

But above all, he felt a profound sense of isolation.

Tyson knew then that he was alone now in a way he had never been before. His deadly touch meant he could never get close to another person again without killing them. That lonely thought weighed heavily on him, even as the Blackbird's engines roared to life and lifted the jet into the bleak Canadian skies heading toward the Xavier Institute.

How would the other mutants react to him now that he had blood on his hands? And the most glaring question of all… How could he possibly hide his otherworldly origins from the telepaths he would soon be confronted by?

— Rogue Replacement —

When the Blackbird landed, Tyson was led through corridors that seemed pulled straight from a science fiction film. Clean, stark walls reflected the futuristic aesthetic of the Xavier Institute's lower levels. They made their way to a small, utilitarian changing room. Inside, the gray walls were interrupted only by a full-length mirror and a simple metal bench.

Tyson's clothes were little more than tatters after the life-or-death battle against Sabertooth. He stripped off the rags, letting them fall to the floor, and hesitantly turned toward the mirror.

What stared back at him was foreign.

His eyes, once a soft brown, now burned an intense, predatory amber. The same unnatural color as Sabertooth's. His high cheekbones were now highlighted by a rugged edge, his jawline angular and hardened. His hair had lengthened and relaxed from a short afro into a wild, wavy mane. Though his skin remained its original light brown, his physique had expanded starkly. Where before he had been thin, almost emaciated, he now held himself with the raw, untamed strength of Sabertooth. Muscles rippled beneath his skin, evidence of his enhanced physicality.

Tyson felt a dissonance between the man he had been and the reflection before him. His body had transformed into a towering, muscular form. He couldn't fight the grim smile as he admired his new physique. Beneath the passing satisfaction at his strength lurked a darker thrill, stemming from the thoughts of the damage this body could inflict if unleashed.

A knock at the door prompted Tyson to step out of the room. His eyes were instantly drawn to the woman waiting for him.

Storm wore a form-fitting charcoal gray turtleneck and black denim jeans which clung to her athletic figure. A pair of low-heeled boots completed the look. Her distinctive short white hair was styled, but it was her piercing blue eyes that truly captivated.

Tyson was momentarily transfixed by her striking beauty. Unbidden, aggressive thoughts arose, focused on how he would claim her, make her his.

The intensity startled him.

He quickly shook his head, trying to dislodge the sudden possessive, domineering impulse.

Where had that come from?

But he already knew the answer. Sabertooth.

When he had absorbed the feral mutant's powers, Tyson had not only taken on his power and portions of his appearance but also aspects of his psyche. And it was obviously affecting him in disturbing ways. He would need to be vigilant, remain aware, and guard against the influence of Sabertooth's encroaching thoughts.

Storm gazed at him expectantly, oblivious to his inner struggle. As a teacher at a school for young mutants, she was accustomed to teenage boys' wandering eyes.

"The Professor would like to see you now," she informed him, her voice warm and accented in a way he couldn't quite place.

Tyson took a breath, pushing back the unwelcome remnants of Sabertooth's consciousness to the recesses of his mind. He managed a nod. "Lead the way."

Tyson forced his gaze away from Ororo's captivating features and tried to focus his thoughts. "Who's this Professor you mentioned?" he asked. Though he already knew the answer, he was trying to divert his mind from the alluring woman before him.

Ororo's smile held a trace of understanding as she replied, "We're in the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning. It's a sanctuary for our kind. Mutants." She paused, giving Tyson a moment to absorb this information before continuing. "The Professor is Charles Xavier. He founded this school and has devoted his life to promoting peace between humans and mutants. Here, we can learn and develop our abilities in safety." Sincerity rang clear in her accented voice, and Tyson felt a small measure of the tension ebb from his shoulders.

As they ascended to the main level, Tyson couldn't help but marvel at the institute around him. The walls, floors, and ceilings exuded a level of sophistication and wealth that gave the impression that this place was more a museum than a school. Faint echoes of laughter and lively voices of instructors echoing the halls said otherwise. They passed classrooms where lessons were underway, a library brimming with books, and a game room where young mutants were engaged in an intense ping-pong match.

With each step, Tyson's apprehension lessened. Ororo's presence and the institute's welcoming atmosphere slowly soothed his concerns.

Tyson worried about his treatment, given that Ororo and Cyclops had seen him kill Sabertooth. But would they be leading him through the school if they thought him dangerous? Perhaps he wasn't in trouble after all.

Ororo led Tyson into the spacious office. He scanned the shelves lining the walls, filled with books on advanced physics, classic literature, and everything in between. In one corner sat an antique chess set, its pieces meticulously arranged on the board. A large mahogany desk commanded the center of the room. Behind it, silhouetted against the backdrop of a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the sprawling grounds beyond, sat the unmistakable figure of Professor Charles Xavier in his state-of-the-art wheelchair. His fingers steepled in contemplation as his eyes fixed on Tyson with an expression mingling wisdom, kindness, and curiosity.

"Tyson," he greeted warmly, his voice carrying the care of a teacher welcoming a new student.

Tyson stared at the man, struck by the strange urge to call him Captain. He wasn't sure where the impulse came from.

Professor Xavier's voice broke Tyson from his thoughts. "Welcome to the Xavier Institute. I'm Charles Xavier, though most students here call me Professor X. I've been looking forward to meeting you."

His face held understanding, yet Tyson couldn't help but feel the man could see right through to his core. He didn't feel threatened, though. Instead, a strange sense of acceptance washed over him, as if he was exactly where he was meant to be.

"I'm aware of your abilities, Tyson," Professor X said, "You have a very unique power. One that you must handle with great care."

"Am I in trouble?" Tyson asked, getting straight to the point. He expected there might be consequences for killing Sabertooth.

"No, Tyson," Xavier replied, "You're not in trouble. Rather, I believe you stand at a crossroads, and that's why I wanted to speak with you."

Tyson exhaled in relief, but his anxiety didn't fully abate.

The professor continued, "Your power does not merely copy another mutant's abilities. It absorbs their very essence, for lack of a better term. When you absorbed Sabertooth's powers, you also took on his aggressive tendencies, which only compounded similar, traits absorbed from Logan. Your mindset was significantly altered. You are not responsible for his death."

Xavier's sentiments mirrored Tyson's recent experiences; particularly the uncharacteristic aggression that had consumed him during the brutal fight with Sabertooth.

"I'm truly sorry for what happened to the man who attacked you," Xavier continued, sorrow evident in his gentle voice. "Storm and Cyclops were racing to your location, but unfortunately, they arrived too late." He paused, allowing a moment of mournful silence before proceeding. "That is precisely why this school exists. It is not merely a sanctuary to shield mutants from the outside world, but also a place to guide them in controlling their powers and using them responsibly, to avoid unintended consequences," the professor explained. "We aim to mentor young mutants like yourself, helping you to understand your abilities so that you may wield them in a considered, conscientious manner."

The sincerity radiating from Professor X was palpable.

Tyson stared at Professor X. Though his face was stoic, the question that had been tumbling around in his mind slipped out. "What about my past?"

The professor hesitated, folding his hands in his lap as he considered his response. After a prolonged silence, he finally spoke. "My abilities allow me to explore the minds of others in ways that most can't comprehend. However, even my psychic talents have their limitations."

Tyson waited, barely daring to breathe.

Xavier expression turned grave. "There are rare occasions where certain details manage to elude even my mental powers. I've encountered this phenomenon before, and it never fails to baffle me. It's akin to reading a book where entire chapters have been torn out, leaving gaping holes in the narrative."

He paused, gauging the young man's reaction. Tyson's face remained impassive, but his fingers dug into the arms of the chair.

"In the case of your associate Logan," the professor continued, "there are surprisingly substantial portions of his personal history that I cannot access. For you, I am unable to uncover anything prior to when you awoke in that truck in Canada. The presence of the second set of memories floating through your psyche creates a formidable psychic barrier. It provides you with a significant resistance to telepathic intrusion that I cannot easily circumvent."

His mysterious origins in this world, it seemed, would remain just that.

A mystery.

"While we may not be able to uncover the details of your former life," Xavier said gently, "we can certainly assist you in navigating the path that lies before you now."

A pregnant silence followed the professor's words. Tyson chewed his lower lip, dropping his gaze to his hands. Xavier's offer was tempting. It was precisely the kind of guidance he needed, given his uncontrollable power. But this was also a lot to take in all at once. These people were still strangers to him. He knew nothing of this school or this world, beyond what he'd seen in movies.

After a long moment of considering his options, Tyson finally raised his eyes to meet Xavier's patient gaze. He gave a single nod, signaling his acceptance of the professor's proposal. "What happens now?" he asked quietly.

Xavier's eyes crinkled at the corners, a warm smile spreading across his face. "Now, we attempt to get you settled in."

Tyson echoed the professor's words, "Settled in?" Though he tried to keep his voice even, uncertainty tinged his tone.

"Yes," Xavier responded gently.

A muffled knock sounded at the door. It cracked open and an energetic voice piped up, "You called for me, Professor?"

"Yes, please come in," Xavier invited warmly.

The door swung open wider, revealing a petite young woman who couldn't have been more than nineteen. Despite her small stature, she exuded an energetic vitality that seemed to brighten the study. Dressed in an unbuttoned yellow trench coat over a pink midriff-baring top and tight blue jean shorts, her edgy style showcased her athletic build. Choppy medium-length black hair stuck up at odd angles, framing almond-shaped eyes. Everything about her from her vibrant clothing to her confident stance radiated an eye-catching exuberance.

Xavier gestured towards Tyson. "This is Tyson. He's new to our institute. Tyson, meet Jubilation Lee. We all call her Jubilee."

— Rogue Replacement —