What's the earliest memory a person can recall?
For most, it might be the feeling of lying in a warm, soft crib, the first breath of cool air, or something else entirely.
Some people can only remember things after the age of five, some after three — but a rare few can remember things from before their first birthday.
Those long-gone memories resemble another form of reality. As time passes, people, places, even sounds and colors fade or change — yet the emotions and scars they left behind never truly disappear.
For Emma Frost, however, this was hardly a problem. Long before her mutant powers reached their peak at age twenty, she had already learned to perfectly record every detail of her life — from her first cry at birth to which foot she'd stepped out of bed with that very morning.
Such an ocean of memory would crush an ordinary mind. But Emma was one of the five most powerful telepaths in the world — one of the rare few capable of flawlessly reshaping the thoughts of others. Dissolving such burdens came easily to her.
And breaking through the mental defenses of a small-time thug? That was hardly even a challenge.
"Alright then… let's see," said Emma, stretching languidly as she adjusted the white mask over her face. "Where is the moment that left the deepest mark on you?"
She lowered her hand and glanced around.
Everything around her was pale and weightless, an expanse without form or texture — as if even time and space had lost their meaning here.
The emptiness should have been suffocating, yet paradoxically, there was a sense of immense presence, as though every faint motion, every wisp of thought, was amplified infinitely — every step, every breath, like traversing a boundless cosmos.
Many novice telepaths would lose themselves in this inner realm — the weak ones trapped forever, the stronger ones tempted to construct dream worlds of their own and drown within them.
But Emma was neither.
With a faint smile, she removed her white mask, revealing a beautiful, ageless face — the body aging, the mind eternal.
In the distance, a small glimmer flickered. Emma tilted her head slightly, and in the next instant, appeared beside the drifting light. She reached out, caught it — and in the blink of an eye, the void transformed into a dingy, dust-choked room.
The walls were cracked. Piles of cluttered junk filled the corners. The window curtain was colorless and thin, the chill wind creeping through the gaps.
Before her played a frozen tableau — a fragment from the thug's consciousness, a memory preserved at a single moment in time.
On the bed lay a woman — thin, frail, skin sallow and shriveled.
Dim light from the corner lamp revealed a boy huddled in the shadows, his face gaunt and yellowed. He sat silently, head bowed, his small frame curved beneath the weight of an unseen burden. His fingers twitched faintly — as if clinging to something lost, or to a memory he could not release.
The woman on the bed extended a trembling, bony hand toward a syringe on the nearby table. Her skin was dry and punctured with tiny holes.
Emma watched for a moment, then waved her hand. A sweep of silver light enveloped the scene, and when it faded into drifting motes, something had changed.
The syringe was still there, but the woman now reached not for it — but toward the boy in the corner.
Emma stepped closer and gently lifted the boy's chin, forcing him to see the outstretched hand.
Instantly, she felt a subtle shift within the thug's mind — a faint warmth bloomed where before there had been only numbness. He no longer saw kindness and good deeds as hypocrisy — though the warmth soon twisted into a deep, aching envy.
"Not quite enough," murmured the White Queen, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. She pinched the floating light beside her, and the scene changed again — a blur of motion like a film on fast-forward, until it froze on a narrow, dim street.
Tall buildings loomed on both sides. A dozen terrified people ran for their lives, faces contorted in panic, searching desperately for a way out.
Behind them, a gang of bikers roared in pursuit, engines growling like hunting beasts.
A slightly older version of the boy crouched behind a trash can at the street corner, watching calmly. His eyes were deep, unshaken — as if chaos had long become familiar. No fear, no horror — only a hint of envy… and pleasure?
Emma frowned and followed his gaze. A bald boy, a little older, was being lashed across the face with a metal chain by one of the bikers. Blood splattered into the air.
That bald boy — he had once helped the thug steal food when they were children. Today, he died.
Tapping a finger against her cheek, Emma thought for a moment, then released another wave of silver light. The street dissolved and reformed.
The bald boy was still struck, but this time, a biker suddenly appeared beside the trash can, grinning wickedly as he swung the heated chain toward the hiding boy. It missed — barely — searing the air inches from his nose.
That fleeting taste of death burned itself into the boy's mind. He screamed — and as he fled, he felt something shift inside him, reconciling, at last, with the bald boy's pain.
He had learned to empathize.
"Still not enough."
The light flared once more, devouring everything.
"Now it's done."
Emma opened her eyes and lowered her hand from her temple. She reached for her mask, sighed wearily, and muttered, "I can still rewrite a man's soul, but the drain is… considerable."
It felt like she had just run a marathon — but at least, she'd succeeded.
The thug lying on the floor stirred, his brow twitching as his eyes fluttered open. Fragments of memory flashed chaotically through his mind, leaving him dazed and trembling.
Then — a single emotion surfaced. Something long forgotten. His lips moved, and he whispered softly:
"Mom… I'm sorry."
Tears welled in his eyes, spilling freely down his cheeks as he lay there, unmoving.
"Some might call this cruel," came a calm voice. "But I see it as kindness — a mercy for the walking dead."
The Anti-Hulk Armor slowly unfolded, and White Night stepped out. He gazed at the sobbing thug curled on the floor and gently placed a hand on his trembling back.
"Do you feel it?" he asked softly.
"You're a good man now."
To read 30+ future chapters, head over to Patreon:
patreon.com/WhiteDevil7554