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[15 Chapters in Advance on Patre.on]
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Chapter 5: Good Old Internet Comments
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It seemed, however, that the fickle bitch Lady Luck had decided to change faces.
The X-Men had found him on their own, intercepting his meticulously planned, yet inherently risky, trajectory.
His long-term strategy had involved using stolen Hydra data as a bargaining chip to contact them himself, ensuring his value and securing a place.
Now, that leverage felt secondary. The reality was stark and simple: he had no other choice.
Hydra's reach was global, their tendrils buried deep in every power structure.
His mutant power, Envy, held vast potential, but in its current state, it was a scalpel against an army.
He was better suited as support, a ghost in the machine.
His Cyberpathy had allowed him to take over the base, but it had been a patient, plodding process; too slow for a world that moved at the speed of supervillains.
As the X-Men approached, their movements were deliberately non-threatening.
Cyclops kept his visor neutral, his hands visible.
Nightcrawler stood with a sympathetic tilt to his head, his yellow eyes wide with concern.
"We mean you no harm," Cyclops began, his voice firm yet reassuring. "I'm Cyclops. This is Phoenix, Shadowcat, and Nightcrawler. You're safe now."
"How did you find me?" Adam's voice was rough from disuse, each word scraping out.
"The Professor," Jean answered gently. "Professor Xavier. He sensed you. You're in safe hands now. You can relax. We're all of the same kind, like you."
Nightcrawler, in a puff of brimstone-scented air, appeared beside him, a steadying hand on his arm. "Easy, friend. You are not well."
Adam looked down at himself, truly seeing his body for the first time since the escape began.
His torso was a roadmap of suffering. Pale, silvery scars crisscrossed his skin, a testament to years of surgical butchery.
Fresher, angrier wounds wept a clear, infected fluid. A thin trickle of blood had dried from his nose, and more speckled his lips.
He had been operating on a cocktail of pure spite, desire, and determination.
He was so accustomed to the constant background hum of pain and exhaustion that he'd failed to notice his body was actively shutting down.
The overuse of his powers, Envy, the Cyberpathic surge to trigger the base's destruction; it had all taken a catastrophic toll.
"The wounds are infected," He stated flatly, the clinical observation a shield for his own surprise.
"I removed subcutaneous trackers in an unsterile environment. Should be safe from aids, though," He'd chuckle, making fun of his own state.
However, he had to trust them, for now. He was too weak to do otherwise.
They were the good guys, after all.
But a cold, logical part of his mind, the part forged in Hydra's fire, whispered a warning.
This was the Marvel universe, a mess of infinite realities. What if the X-Men here weren't the paragons he remembered?
His vision began to tunnel, the vibrant greens of the jungle fading to grey. "I… need to… Aghh, my stupid brai..." The sentence died as his knees buckled.
He realized that he was losing consciousness even though he had felt like he could go on for hours more before.
That was the sign that he relaxed too much, without the previous sense of urgency, which is why his brain dozed off.
The last thing he felt was Nightcrawler's three-fingered grip catching him before the world went black.
Consciousness returned not with a jolt, but as a slow, gentle tide. The first thing Adam registered was the absence of pain.
Not the complete absence; a deep, pervasive ache remained; but the sharp, silent screaming agony was gone, replaced by a muffled dullness.
The second thing was the texture. The sheets against his skin were soft, clean cotton, not the starched, abrasive linen of his cell.
The air smelled of antiseptic, yes, but underneath it was a hint of lemon polish and sunlight.
He opened his eyes.
He was in a room. A real room, with walls painted a warm, calming blue. A desk stood against one wall, a simple wooden chair tucked under it.
A bookshelf, empty, waited.
And there was a window. A large, clear pane of glass through which golden, afternoon sunlight streamed, falling across his bed in a warm, comforting patch.
He slowly lifted a hand, his movements stiff, and let the sunlight play across his pale skin.
The sensation was so alien, so profoundly beautiful, that his breath hitched.
Then there was the figure sitting by the side, basked in the glow of the sun, so alien and anglic that he had to wonder.
"Am I… in heaven?" He whispered aloud, his voice a rasp.
A gentle, melodic laugh answered. "I'm afraid not. Though I'll take the compliment."
Sitting in an armchair, a book in her lap, was Jean Grey. The sunlight caught the fiery hues of her hair, creating a halo effect.
"Heaven has angels that are redheads, then?" He mused, the words slipping out before he could filter them.
He unfortunately doesn't have filters. The white cell that was his home for the past decade taught him no such thing.
Jean smiled with a genuine, warm expression. "I'm flattered, but no. You're still very much alive. You're at the Xavier Institute. You've been unconscious for three days."
Her smile softened with concern. "When you woke up just now… I sensed a flicker of regret. Most people are relieved to be alive and free."
Adam's face, which had momentarily relaxed, settled back into its neutral mask. "Life is hard, so I did feel some regret upon realizing I'm not in heaven."
This is Marvel, he thought, the knowledge a lead weight in his soul.
Living here is like being a public onahole with a line of cosmic entities, supervillains, and alternate reality versions of yourself waiting for a turn.
And there are infinite lines for infinite yous.
The dark, crude analogy was the only way his traumatized mind could frame the existential dread.
He shifted the subject, his eyes narrowing slightly. "So... You can sense regret."
He knew his emotional range had been sanded down to a few core fundamentals: rage, determination, and a deep, abiding spite. He had forgotten how to perform nuanced emotion.
"I'm a telepath," Jean explained carefully, not wanting to spook him. "And an empath. I can sense surface thoughts and emotions. Though, I have to admit, reading you is… difficult. It's like trying to grasp smoke."
Adam didn't respond. Internally, he understood.
Hollow is the answer.
He had envied the mental privacy of others, the unviolated sanctity of their own minds, something stripped from him in his first year when he'd broken so completely.
That envy had manifested as a curse that deprived the mind of any substantive emotional or psychic "flesh" to grasp.
He could, and often did, curse himself with it, a defensive blanket against the world.
His own curses were always far more potent on himself than on others.
Their conversation was interrupted as the door opened with a soft click. A regal woman with white hair and striking blue eyes entered, pushing a wheelchair.
In it sat a man whose presence filled the room without him uttering a word.
He had a calm, authoritative demeanor, and his eyes held a depth of wisdom and kindness that was almost physically palpable.
"Hello, my friend," The man in the wheelchair said, his voice a deep, resonant baritone that promised safety. "I am Charles Xavier. This is Ororo Munroe. Welcome to the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters."
Storm offered a small, welcoming smile. "It is good to see you awake."
Professor X guided his chair closer. "This is a school, first and foremost. A place for young mutants to learn, to grow, and to find a community where they are accepted for who they are."
"The X-Men, whom you have met, are a team that operates from here. We protect a world that fears and hates us. We strive for peaceful coexistence."
"I want to stress that you are safe here, and I sincerely hope you will consider joining our family."
Adam's response was immediate. He offered a small, unpracticed smile, even an ugly smile.
"I agree. I heard word of the X-Men in the labs. Given my circumstances, anywhere other than here would mean a swift and certain death. I have nowhere else to go."
Professor Xavier nodded, his expression growing more serious. "Then let me be direct, and please know you can refuse to answer any question that causes you discomfort."
"The organizations that typically prey on mutants… they have developed ways to shield themselves from my telepathic scans. I only sensed the enormous surge of your mutant power after you escaped."
"Can you tell me what happened? Were there other mutants being held where you were?"
Adam shook his head. "The facility was dedicated to the study of spacetime. My imprisonment was due to my abilities' tangential relation to that field."
"There were no other mutants. I read their logs. I made sure of it before I destroyed everything." The statement was delivered with a chilling finality.
"I see," Xavier said, his brow furrowed. "The people who did this to you… Do you know who they are? And, considering you had access to their data, did you learn anything that might help us prevent this from happening to others?"
"I don't know nearly enough," Adam admitted, his voice low. "But I have a name. Hydra. An organization seeking world domination, or so their propaganda claims."
He gestured weakly towards a duffel bag sitting on the floor in the corner. "Everything I managed to salvage is in that laptop. I didn't escape empty-handed."
Professor Xavier's eyes brightened with a keen, strategic light. This was far more than he had hoped for.
"This information could save countless lives, Adam. Thank you."
Storm stepped forward. "Welcome to your new home."
She, Jean, and the Professor then introduced themselves again, using their real names; Charles, Ororo, and Jean; a gesture of openness designed to build a bridge. To get him to open up.
"And you?" Charles asked gently. "What shall we call you?"
"Adam," Adam blinked and answered. Then, after another pause, he added a surname, plucking it from the air, a cipher for his new beginning. "Adam Cypher."
They expressed concern for his mental well-being, assuring him they were there for him, that healing took time.
They were, by all appearances, a group of genuinely good individuals.
As they left him to rest, bathed in the warm, setting sun, Adam mused that they were right to be concerned.
But not for the reasons they thought.
He had never felt better, not even in his past life. The gnawing, constant pain was a familiar companion, but the oppressive weight of absolute confinement was gone.
Even the prison that's his mind was set free. He felt it was difficult to describe his state of mind... It was somewhat eerie to him.
[I think I understand how he feels. Like, his mind must be so focused on success, and nothing else, because he vowed that the alternative would be suicide]
[So something like the vow in HxH, the will to give up all else for a single purpose]
[What's HxH?]
[Akhh, ptooey! Actual peasant. How have u not seen HxH?]
[Yoo, shush, not everyone is a loser weeb like u!]
[Oh, look, the comic nerd is speaking]
[Actual nerd V weeb, why u two teamkilling bud?]
"Hahahaha," They were interrupted by Adam's raspy laugh, "At least my imaginary friends are entertaining... Please, keep me entertained just as I will keep you entertained."
He seemingly spoke to himself, but his words sounded quite eerie to the audience.
[Is it a coincidence, or can he actually see our comments? Lol]
[Of course it's a coincidence, retard]
[Dude, I was joking, no need to be rude]
Tens, maybe hundreds of thousands of people are watching the show live, so at least thousands should be chatting at any given moment.
Adam, thus, had to wonder how [Information] chooses which comments to show him, and how does the audience keep up? All still a mystery.