Chapter 254
Snow stretched endlessly across the Alaskan wilderness, pale and untouched, reflecting the dim glow of the northern sky. The cold air bit at the skin, sharp and clean, carrying only the sound of wind and footsteps crunching softly against ice.
Two figures walked hand in hand through the snow.
The man glanced sideways, his breath fogging in the air as he smiled.
"My grandparents will be happy to see you, Reddie."
She squeezed his hand gently. "Yeah. Me too." Her voice softened. "I'm really glad you got to know them… after everything with your father."
He nodded, gaze lowering for a moment. "Yeah. I didn't know how to feel at first. Finding out I wasn't an orphan… that I had family besides my brother." A faint, uncertain laugh escaped him. "It felt unreal."
"You deserve it," she said without hesitation, tightening her grip. "All of it."
They stopped before a modest house, warm light spilling from the windows and cutting through the cold darkness. As they continued talking, he reached out and rang the doorbell.
From inside came a woman's voice.
"Coming!"
He frowned slightly. "Why are you answering?" he asked quietly.
She blinked. "I didn't say anything."
The door opened.
A woman stood there with fiery red hair, her face frozen in surprise.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke.
Three pairs of eyes stared at one another in absolute silence—each person confronting a reflection they never expected to see.
Far away, on Muir Island, fluorescent lights hummed softly inside Moira MacTaggart's laboratory. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and metal.
Moira stared at her computer screen, eyes unmoving.
Beside her stood Rachel, cradling her baby brother Nathan in her arms. The infant slept peacefully, unaware of the tension thickening the room.
Moira's expression slowly hardened. "There's no doubt anymore," she said. "Your half—" She paused, then corrected herself. "No. There's no need to say half at all."
Rachel stiffened. "What do you mean… no need?"
Moira turned toward her. "The DNA confirms it. He's your brother. Same father. Same mother."
The words hung in the air.
Before Rachel could speak, Banshee entered the lab, his brows knitting together. "How can that be?" he asked. "The child's supposed to be Scott's son with Lee Forrester."
Moira's voice was grim. "The scans say otherwise. He's the son of Scott Summers and Jean Grey."
Silence followed.
"As for how," Moira continued, "someone sick enough altered things at a biological level. Lee carried the child—but genetically, he was never hers."
Rachel looked down at Nathan's sleeping face. Her arms tightened protectively around him, sorrow and anger mixing in her eyes.
New York City bustled as it always did.
Inside a downtown bank, people came and went, the hum of conversation blending with the artificial smiles of the staff. Everything felt routine. Normal.
Too normal.
A man wearing headphones stepped out of the restroom, nodding his head to music only he could hear. A casually dressed woman entered the bank, chewing gum and blowing lazy bubbles. Nearby, a balding older man argued loudly with a teller.
Their eyes met.
Just for a second.
Then it began.
The man with the headphones tilted his head back, opened his mouth wide—and unleashed a visible echo beam straight into the ceiling. The upper structure collapsed instantly, concrete and stone crashing downward.
Screams erupted.
"Ahhh!"
"Run!"
"Get out of the way!"
People scattered in blind panic. Amid the chaos, a small boy—no more than five—was knocked away from his mother. He stumbled, falling hard as a massive slab of debris broke loose above him.
"No! My boy!" his mother screamed.
Before the stone could fall, a strange breeze swept through the bank—light, yet impossibly solid. The debris froze midair, then gently lifted away. The wind carried the trapped people and the child safely outside, setting them down beyond the collapsing structure.
In a shadowed corner of the bank, a glowing gateway shimmered into existence.
Storm, Dazzler, and Psylocke stepped through, cloaks drawn tightly around them.
"Thankfully," Storm murmured, "we made it in time."
The man with the headphones narrowed his eyes at the moving air. "We've got company," he said loudly.
The casually dressed woman slammed her hands onto the floor. Roots burst upward, twisting and snapping toward the X-Men. They dodged instantly—but the balding man grabbed whatever he could reach. Desks, chairs, chunks of stone vanished and reappeared above Dazzler's head.
Dazzler absorbed the surrounding noise instinctively, releasing a brilliant light blast that shattered the falling debris.
The fight exploded outward.
Dazzler smirked, pointing at the man with the headphones. "You. Long earlobes. Come at me."
His brow twitched. "As you wish, bitch."
Echo beams tore across the floor as she rolled and flipped away—but with every blast, her glow intensified. Light gathered around her, brighter and brighter, like stars orbiting her body.
He noticed too late. "No—what is that?!"
She smiled sweetly, forming her fingers into a pistol. "My autograph."
Her light beam collided with his echo attack, absorbing it, swelling until it smashed into him. His body was flung through the wall, leaving a human-shaped hole behind.
"Done," she said, blowing on her fingertip.
Nearby, Psylocke drifted calmly through the air as objects assaulted her from every angle.
"No use," she said coolly. "I read your mind before you act."
The man snarled and attacked from all sides at once. A moment later, his grin froze.
"Sorry," Psylocke's voice whispered behind him. "You just hit my illusion."
Her psychic bolt struck, dropping him screaming before he collapsed unconscious.
Storm hovered above the last attacker. Roots and vines twisted toward her—but froze solid before they could touch her.
"Sleep," Storm said gently.
Ice spread instantly, encasing the woman in a frozen sculpture.
The three regrouped.
"We caused quite a scene," Dazzler muttered.
Storm turned to Psylocke. "Betsy. Can you blur our presence from their memories?"
"Easy."
As fear-stricken onlookers stared, the rescued boy stepped forward. "Th-thanks," he said shyly. "Big sister."
His mother rushed over, clutching him tightly, bowing her head in gratitude before leaving.
Storm smiled faintly. "Begin."
Psylocke nodded.
--------
Madelyne Pryor's fingers trembled slightly as she pressed the phone to her ear.
No signal tone.
No ringing.
Nothing.
She pulled the phone away, stared at the screen, then tried again.
Still nothing.
Her jaw tightened. "Answer," she muttered under her breath, pacing the living room. "Just… answer."
The house felt too quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed against her ears until she became aware of her own breathing, her own heartbeat. The walls, the furniture, even the photographs felt like they were watching her—silent witnesses to a life that suddenly felt fragile.
She tried once more.
Voicemail.
Her annoyance sharpened into something colder, something that sank into her chest. She lowered the phone slowly, her thumb hovering uselessly over the screen.
Then—
"He won't answer you."
Madelyne froze.
Her breath caught in her throat.
"Now that the real one is here."
The voice was smooth. Calm. Almost amused.
Madelyne spun around.
A man sat comfortably in one of her chairs, legs crossed as though he belonged there—no, as though the house belonged to him. Pale skin. Sharp features. Red eyes that gleamed faintly in the dim light. His smile was thin, knowing.
"Who are you?" she demanded, backing away instinctively.
The man inclined his head slightly. "You may call me Mister Sinister."
Her back brushed against the edge of the table. Her grip tightened around the phone. "What did you mean," she said carefully, "that he won't answer me now?"
Sinister's smile widened just a fraction. "Literally what I said. Now that the original has appeared, there's no longer any need for the replacement."
Madelyne swallowed. "Replacement…?"
"Didn't you notice?" he continued lightly. "You've been calling. And calling. With no answer."
She bit her lip, pain grounding her. Sinister observed her silently, his eyes flicking to the phone.
Not that the dead can answer calls, he thought absently. But there's no need to burden her with that detail.
"What did you feel," Sinister asked suddenly, "when you saw her?"
Madelyne's gaze dropped to the floor.
She didn't know why she answered. Maybe because she had no one else to talk to. Maybe because the words had been clawing at her chest since that moment.
"It felt like looking into a mirror," she said quietly. "But… wrong. Like everything that connected people to me—every bond, every memory—belonged to her instead. Like I was standing in someone else's shadow."
Sinister nodded approvingly. "That's perfectly natural."
She looked up sharply. "Why?"
"Because I made you that way," he said casually. "You're just a clone."
Her breath stuttered. "What… clone?"
Sinister chuckled. "Don't tell me you never sensed anything amiss. Your memories only go back about a year, don't they? Nothing before that."
Her hands flew to her temples. "That's— that's because of the plane crash. I was a pilot. I—"
"No," Sinister interrupted smoothly. "That day was the day Jean Grey died."
The name hit her like a physical blow.
"And with her death," he continued, "what I desired could not come to fruition. So I corrected the problem."
Madelyne shook her head violently. "You're lying."
Sinister simply watched her, unblinking, a faint smile still etched onto his face.
"Then why," she whispered, her breathing growing ragged, "tell me now?"
For the first time, Sinister's expression shifted—just slightly.
"Yes," he murmured to himself. "Why now?"
His fingers tightened against the armrests of the chair. Wood cracked beneath his grip.
Why now?
Of course…
His thoughts spiraled.
Jean Grey's death forced my hand. The clone was necessary. Then, just as I arranged for Cyclops to meet her—some feral dog reached her first.
His red eyes flickered with irritation.
When I learned of his healing factor, I thought fate itself had smiled upon me. An immortal Phoenix. Perfection.
His teeth clenched.
But no matter how many simulations I ran, the genes annihilated each other. They cannot coexist. An interstellar joke.
He exhaled slowly, calming himself.
Madelyne stared at him, fear creeping into her eyes.
It doesn't matter now, he concluded coldly. The Summers' offspring has been born.
He rose from the chair.
"Now," Sinister said, stepping closer, "you have no further purpose."
Her heart hammered. "Then why are you here?"
He leaned in slightly. "Because I'm feeling generous."
Her voice barely worked. "Generous… how?"
"Do you want power?" he asked. "I can give it to you."
She stared at him.
"Power for revenge," he continued. "Against the man who stopped answering your calls once the real Jean Grey returned. Or perhaps to confront Jean Grey herself—prove that you are not her shadow."
He smiled wider.
"Or," he added softly, "to kill me. Your creator."
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. "What's in it for you?"
Sinister answered without hesitation. "Entertainment."
She looked around her home.
The empty rooms.
The unanswered phone.
The memories that only stretched back a single year.
Nothing anchored her anymore.
Slowly, trembling, Madelyne nodded.
Sinister raised his hand.
Shadows surged forward, swallowing the room whole.
------
The shadows in Madelyne Pryor's house did not fade when she vanished.
They lingered.
They pooled along the floor like spilled ink, clinging to the corners of the room, crawling beneath overturned furniture and cracked walls. The air still carried the echo of her last choice—the residue of fear, longing, and something newly awakened.
Then the shadows moved.
One by one, five figures rose from the floor itself, as if the house had birthed them.
They stood where Madelyne had been moments ago.
Three of them were unmistakably familiar.
The man with the headphones.
The casually dressed woman who chewed gum like the world bored her.
The balding uncle with the perpetually irritated face.
And behind them—
A woman holding a child's hand.
The same mother.
The same boy.
Mister Sinister turned slowly to face them, his cape whispering against the floor.
"Well?" he asked mildly. "Is it done?"
For a moment, none of them answered.
Then the child stepped forward.
Not timidly.
Not hesitantly.
He moved with confidence, chin lifted, eyes sharp—nothing like the frightened boy who had clung to his mother earlier that day.
"It went exactly as you suspected, Mister Sinister," the boy said calmly.
Sinister's lips curved upward. "I thought so."
A soft chuckle escaped him. "They tried to be clever."
At his words, the disguises peeled away.
Skin split.
Bones reshaped.
Flesh warped like melting wax.
The human forms collapsed inward, revealing what had always been beneath.
Demons.
One was tall and skeletal, its spine ridged with barbs.
Another was squat and bloated, with thick arms and a mouth that split too wide.
One sprouted curling horns, its eyes glowing with malicious amusement.
Another's limbs bent at wrong angles, its claws scraping against the floor.
The woman holding the child straightened—and grew.
Her body stretched, her skin darkening, her features sharpening into something cruel and maternal all at once. She glanced sideways at the smallest demon—the one who had played the boy.
"Well, really," she said dryly. "You imp."
She leaned forward slightly and mocked him in a high, saccharine voice:
"Th-thanks, big sister."
Her laughter echoed, harsh and grating.
The other three demons joined in immediately, howling with amusement, slapping claws against their thighs.
The smallest demon scowled, arms crossed. "Tch. That's called dedication, morons."
His eyes flicked toward Sinister, seeking approval rather than laughter.
Sinister merely sighed.
He looked at them the way a man looked at a mess he had tolerated for too long.
"Enough," he said.
The laughter died instantly.
"Begone."
The demons stiffened, annoyance flickering across their monstrous faces—but none dared protest. One by one, they dissolved back into shadow, sinking into the floor as though they had never been there at all.
Silence reclaimed the room.
Sinister stood alone once more.
He glanced at the empty space where Madelyne Pryor had vanished, his expression unreadable.
Then he turned away, already bored.