Guided by Abner's intel, the X-Men's jet cut silently across the night sky, gliding into the rugged heart of Mexico's Cordillera Mountains. Nestled between jagged ridges lay Stryker's hidden fortress — a mutant research facility built under the guise of legality, thanks to his deep political ties and pressure on the Mexican government.
Here, far from the scrutiny of U.S. soil, Stryker's cruelty knew no restraint. Mutants abducted across Latin America vanished behind its walls, subjected to experiments too horrific for his North American bases. Homeless locals were swept off the streets and fed into the same nightmare machinery. Mercenaries and cartels kept the blood flowing.
But now, his sanctuary had a flaw — Abner's defection.
Even though Stryker had scrambled to reinforce defenses after losing him, only the software had changed; the hardware remained untouched. And now, against him came a strike team consisting of a former operations sergeant, two highly trained Level 4 mutants, and a genius doctor with special operations experience — all under the remote guidance of Professor Charles Xavier himself, his telepathic presence magnified through Cerebro.
The jet touched down in a clearing. Abner, Scott Summers, and two others slipped into the shadows. Inside the base, human guards and automated systems fell like dominoes, Cerebro's psychic edge shattering cohesion. They advanced toward the testing and detention sectors with surgical precision.
Jue, however, had his own hunt. Instead of remaining aboard as planned, the Shinigami drifted upward, reclaiming fragments of spiritual power as he hovered above the compound. His golden-brown eyes scanned the facility from the cold, thin air — not seeking captives, but prey.
Inside, alarms blared. Colonel William Stryker arrived in the command center to a rush of confused reports. A psychic presence scraped at the edges of his mind — familiar, hated. Charles Xavier. Snarling, he activated a neural blocker, barked orders for full engagement, and fled toward an evacuation route, hands already moving to initiate data purges.
Jue waited. Time meant nothing to him in this still, predatory state.
Then — a soft thrum. A Black Hawk rose from a hidden pad atop the mountain. Its engines growled, rotors slicing the night air.
"Finally," Jue murmured. Spirit particles coalesced around him, and in a blink, he was there.
The hatch opened. Stryker emerged flanked by soldiers, clutching both classified files and a limp girl. He barely had time to register the shadow flickering between his men before it struck. Three soldiers dropped without a sound, their bodies crumpling to the platform.
Jue stepped from the darkness, his face unreadable. No speeches. No warnings. He lifted his left hand, placed his middle finger against Stryker's right eye — and flicked.
The strike was precise, brutal. Bone, nerve, and tissue ruptured in an instant. Blood and fluid streamed down Stryker's cheek as he choked back a howl. Jue collected a drop in his palm, sealing it within a spiritual container. Then, with effortless strength, he hauled Stryker by the collar and flung him into the helicopter.
He didn't stop it from leaving.
"My gift to you," Jue thought as the chopper ascended. "A constant wound. A constant reminder. Let's see how long Xavier's idealism holds against a rabid dog."
He turned his gaze toward the stars. Thanos will come. With the Soul Stone. Only a coalition of the strongest could stand against him — and Jue intended to take that Stone, more powerful than the Hōgyoku, and test the path to becoming something akin to the Soul King.
The helicopter vanished into the dark. Jue lifted the unconscious girl and returned to the jet, his presence cloaked from Xavier's mind.
Somewhere deep inside the base, Scott and the others fought on, unaware that the battlefield had already been shaped by invisible hands — hands steering Charles Xavier toward a war he never wished to fight.
Scott Summers led his team through the base's winding corridors until they reached the testing area. The moment they stepped into the lab, the stench of blood and chemicals hit them like a wall. Stainless steel tables lined the room—on each one lay a mutant, bound and broken.
Many had been disemboweled, others missing entire limbs. Their skin bore burns, lacerations, and deep punctures—marks of experiments pushed to the brink. The lab's bright white walls and spotless floor only made the crimson rivers stand out sharper, as if mocking the very idea of clinical purity.
Some had clearly tried to fight back—scorch marks from plasma bursts, gouged metal where claws had raked—but the struggle had been futile. Against the resources of a nation, even mutant powers meant nothing. Their cries had faded to hoarse whimpers before death claimed them—slowly, over ten, twenty agonizing minutes.
For Scott, it was déjà vu. In that instant, the carefully locked vault of his worst memories cracked open. Without hesitation, he slammed the limiter on his visor fully open—an incandescent beam of ruby energy roared out, sweeping across the room. The researchers, the guards, even those frantically wiping data from terminals—none survived the blast.
The testing area fell silent except for Scott's ragged breathing. His visor smoked, his knees buckled, and he clutched at his eyes as pain lanced through him.
Far away, in the mental realm, Professor Charles Xavier—amplified through Cerebro's interface—felt his own composure shatter. The psychic echoes of despair within the base clawed at his mind. Years of restraint, diplomacy, and patient advocacy seemed to crumble in that moment. Stryker's cruelty had gone beyond any political defense; it was pure butchery.
Even knowing that many human institutions experimented on mutants, Charles had never imagined this scale of horror. His mental voice, usually calm, carried an edge of wrath: This will be answered for.
Hank McCoy—ever the tactician—forced himself to focus. "Abner, Ororo—free the prisoners! I'll handle the research files." His mind already calculated which data could be used against them later.
The shockwave of Scott's assault had crippled the base's defenses. Reports of Stryker's escape and the loss of key systems spread quickly, further eroding the will to fight. Charles' subtle psychic influence only deepened the despair among the remaining soldiers.
For Ororo and her team, the path to the holding cells was almost unopposed. When the prisoners saw them, a ragged cheer rose—a chorus of desperate hope. Pale, emaciated hands stretched through bars and cracked windows, reaching for salvation.
But deeper in the cell block, a different scene unfolded. Stryker's personal guard moved with precision, carrying a drugged boy no older than fifteen. His skin was ghost-pale, needle scars running up both arms—a clear history of invasive tests.
This was Robert—a Level 5 mutant Stryker had discovered in Brazil. His abilities were classified, but the potential threat was enough that Stryker risked resources to retrieve him even during retreat.
When Ororo reached the boy's empty cell, her stomach dropped. "Where is he?"
Abner answered grimly. "They've taken him toward the eastern exit. If Stryker gets away with him, we may never see him again."
Ororo's instincts screamed to give chase, but Abner stopped her. "Stay with the prisoners. They need you now. I know this base—I can track them."
The argument was short; Professor Xavier intervened. Abner, go. I'll monitor your progress and keep mental contact.
With a quick nod, Abner slipped away, his footsteps muffled against the concrete floor. The trail was faint—Stryker's elite moved carefully, erasing evidence—but Robert's worsening condition forced them to speed up. In their haste, they left subtle traces that a trained hunter could follow.
The underground tunnels narrowed, twisting like veins beneath the earth. At last, Abner glimpsed them through the shadows—four guards, armored in advanced combat suits, carrying Robert between them.
He stayed low, moving silently from cover to cover until he was close enough to confirm the target. Professor, I see him.
I can't lock onto their minds—they're using psychic dampeners, Charles replied. You'll have to disable those devices before I can help.
Abner's eyes narrowed. Direct assault was suicide—those suits could absorb impacts that would kill normal men. Worse, they were close to the exit. If they reached the mountains, the pursuit would turn into a hunt over miles of wilderness.
Then a thought clicked into place. Psychic dampeners are expensive—there's a good chance only one of them has it.
He slowed his breathing, letting the silence of the cave wrap around him. Step by step, he closed the gap.
The lead guard reached the exit first, parting a curtain of vines. He scanned the forest outside, then gave the all-clear. The others relaxed, the tension in their movements easing.
That was the opening Abner needed. He burst from the shadows like a wolf from the brush, sprinting straight at the captain in the center of the formation.