Sarah Across the Multiverse

General (POV)

The last rays of sunlight surrendered to the encroaching night as Charles and Erik strode back into the CIA base. Their search for new mutants had borne modest fruit—Alex Summers, a young man whose mutant power had yet to fully manifest but whose fiery resolve promised much. After a brief introduction to the growing roster of recruits, Charles found his gaze seeking Raven, her familiar presence steadying in this whirlwind of change.

"Any news on Sarah?" Charles asked, his tone tinged with hope and concern.

Raven nodded, her expression softening in a way few ever saw. "Fully healed, just like she said. It's uncanny, really—like she was never injured in the first place."

Charles exhaled in relief, a genuine smile breaking through the weariness etched into his features. "That is good to hear."

But Raven's expression clouded, her earlier calm giving way to unease. "She's… different though. Withdrawn. She's spending hours honing her abilities—obsessively so. It's like she's got blinders on, focusing only on getting stronger."

Charles' smile faltered. "That's troubling. She's been through a great deal; I don't want her to feel isolated in her recovery."

"She already does," Raven said quietly. Her voice carried an edge of empathy that surprised even her. Despite Sarah's enigmatic and occasionally abrasive demeanor, Raven couldn't ignore the undercurrent of loneliness that shadowed her every move. "She could use someone to talk to."

Charles nodded thoughtfully, his frustration at his inability to read Sarah's mind bubbling beneath the surface. "I'll trust you to be that someone, Raven. You've always had a way of connecting with others. See if you can reach her—help her feel less alone."

Raven acknowledged the request with a subtle tilt of her head before slipping out, her silhouette disappearing through the door. The quiet that followed was brief, shattered by Erik's low, measured voice.

"This is a mistake, Charles."

Charles turned, his brow knitting in confusion. "What mistake, Erik?"

Erik's tone remained even, though there was a sharpness beneath the surface. "This fixation Sarah has on power—it's not something to quell. It's a driving force, and it may be exactly what she needs to become stronger. Strong enough to survive."

Charles' jaw tightened, his response immediate. "Strength without balance, Erik, is a dangerous path. I've seen it before."

"And balance without strength," Erik shot back, his steel-gray eyes unyielding, "leaves one defenseless. We don't know what fuels her obsession. You can't simply label it destructive without understanding its roots."

Charles held his friend's gaze, his voice calm but firm. "Which is why we must reach her. Left unchecked, this relentless drive for power could consume her. Isolation and ambition are a volatile mix—you of all people should know that."

The unspoken weight of Charles' words settled between them like a storm cloud. Erik's past, his journey from the boy who bent gates in a concentration camp to the man driven by vengeance, was a cautionary tale Charles hoped Sarah wouldn't echo. Erik's expression flickered for a moment, a crack in his composure before he steadied himself.

"She's not me, Charles," Erik said finally, though the conviction in his voice faltered ever so slightly. "And we're not in a position to coddle anyone. The fight ahead demands strength. If she finds hers through focus and isolation, then let her."

Charles shook his head, his voice softening. "This isn't just about the fight, Erik. It's about what comes after. Strength without connection, without understanding, leaves scars. And we both know Sarah has enough of those already."

The conversation teetered on the edge of further debate, but neither pushed it. Erik turned his gaze toward the window, his expression unreadable as he studied the encroaching night.

"We'll see, Charles," Erik murmured, almost to himself. "Time will tell what kind of strength she finds."

Charles lingered for a moment, his mind already racing through strategies for their growing team and the looming threat of Sebastian Shaw. Sarah's struggles would have to wait, though the weight of them pressed on him like an invisible hand. "First Shaw," he thought, straightening. "Then perhaps we can find the time to help her before it's too late."

...

Sarah (POV)

A metallic clink echoed through the room as I set a chunk of twisted steel on the table, brow furrowed in concentration. I flexed my fingers, sparks of electricity and magnetism flickering briefly at my fingertips before leaning back in my chair with a sigh.

The creak of the door cut through my thoughts. I glanced up sharply to find Raven peering inside, her striking blue features softened by curiosity.

"Burning the midnight oil, Sarah?" Raven's voice was a smoky murmur, her tone almost teasing. "Everything alright?"

I startled slightly, caught off guard, but quickly masked it with a hesitant smile. "Yeah. Just... thinking. Nothing to worry about."

Over the past few days, an unexpected bond had formed between us. I hadn't expected someone like Raven—enigmatic, sharp-edged, fiercely independent—to extend anything resembling kindness. But there it was, unspoken yet palpable, bridging the gap between our guarded personalities. For someone like me, loneliness had a way of clawing under my skin, and Raven's presence was a strangely welcome distraction.

Raven stepped further into the room, leaning casually against the doorframe. "You sure? Not to pry, but I've got a radar for 'not fine.' It's a gift."

I smirked faintly, shaking my head. "Really, I'm good. But thanks for checking in." My tone was light, but my guard didn't drop completely. Not with anyone. Not even Raven.

Raven studied me for a moment, her eyes flickering with a mix of curiosity and something harder to pin down. She nodded, seemingly satisfied, before turning to leave. "Alright. Just... don't forget we're around, okay?"

The door creaked shut behind her, leaving me alone again with my thoughts. My focus drifted briefly to Moira MacTaggert, Charles's CIA ally. Moira was the picture of calculated calm, every interaction layered with a subtle undertone of purpose. I didn't trust her—not completely, anyway.

CIA agents didn't just exist without ulterior motives. I knew that game well enough to play along when Moira popped in for her "chats." Maybe it was paranoia, but I had the sneaking suspicion that Moira's interest in me wasn't just friendly curiosity. The thought of being molded into a "controllable mutant asset" wasn't exactly appealing, but if Moira had any plans like that, she'd find me a tougher nut to crack than she anticipated.

I smirked at the idea, my thoughts interrupted as the door opened again, revealing Raven once more. This time, she wore an amused expression, her eyes gleaming.

"Back so soon?" I asked dryly.

Raven shrugged and sauntered into the room like she owned it. "Charles's little project just got bigger—he's recruited more mutants. They're all meeting tonight. Thought you might want to join, you know, socialize with your people."

I raised an eyebrow, caught off guard. The idea of mingling wasn't exactly my speed, but the thought of observing new mutants—and their powers—was... intriguing. My lips curved into a bright smile, too quick and too wide to feel natural. Raven caught it immediately, her head tilting slightly, an eyebrow arched as if to say, Really?

"Sure," I replied, a little too eagerly. "That sounds… fun."

Raven's smirk widened. "Uh-huh. Let's go before you overthink it."

I stood, brushing off my hands, already imagining the possibilities. New mutants meant new powers. New powers meant potential resources—blood, DNA, even a chance to pick apart their abilities. I wasn't much for meet-and-greets, but this one had the potential to be very… productive.

...

Dealing with mutants in the early 1960s was, believe it or not, like playing hide-and-seek with a blindfolded toddler: easier, but still somehow fraught with chaos. Publicly, mutants were about as real as UFOs and honest politicians. The CIA, for instance, didn't even have "mutant" in its glossary of things to freak out about—at least, not until Charles rolled in with his "Hi, I'm here to make your lives more complicated" proposal.

This blissful ignorance meant mutants spent a lot of time as the local weirdos, living in the shadows and juggling the emotional baggage of Why me? Most were isolated, weighed down by the kind of shame that came with sprouting extra limbs or sneezing laser beams. So, it wasn't exactly a shocker that these outcasts found kindred spirits when they finally stumbled upon other mutants. Misery loves company, and hey, so do superpowers. What was once an isolating burden became a shared sob story, bonding them faster than a three-legged race at summer camp.

The guest room hummed with the kind of energy that screamed group therapy, but it looked like fun. As I followed Raven inside, I braced myself for the stereotypical mutant welcome committee: moody stares, brooding in the corner, maybe someone flipping a coin menacingly. Instead, I was met with... laughter? People actually having a good time? It was as if I'd walked into a mutant comedy club during open mic night.

A blond guy, lounging on a sofa like it was a throne, decided to kick things off. "Well, look who's new! Although... aren't you a little young for the freak of the week meetup?" His tone was equal parts teasing and curious, his gaze sweeping over me like I was the first item on a mutant menu.

Raven smirked, her amusement practically lighting up the room. "Actually, Alex," she said with a raised brow, "Sarah's been here longer than most of you. Try not to let the baby face fool you."

I, not exactly thrilled to be put on the spot, forced a half-smile. "Hi, I'm Sarah Vasilissa. Feel free to insert your witty nickname here."

The room responded with an enthusiastic chorus of "Hi, Sarah!"—like a mutant AA meeting, but with fewer snacks and more powers.

I scanned the group, taking in the array of faces. It was like a Benetton ad, a rainbow of ethnicities and experiences. In a decade where a black-and-white TV was still edgy, this sight was oddly refreshing. Mutants, after all, didn't have time for racism. They were already public enemy number one, lumped into the universal "other" category before they even hit puberty. Black, white, blue, green—it didn't matter. People only saw freak.

But here, in this room, it was different. For now, anyway. Optimism hung in the air, thin and fragile, like a soap bubble that hadn't popped yet. They were still new to this, still hopeful that being together might mean something. The crushing realities of the outside world hadn't hit them in full force—not yet. Give it time, though. Pessimism always found a way to RSVP.

Still, I couldn't help but feel the warmth. For all the sass and sarcasm I carried like armor, I wasn't entirely immune to the hope in the room. Not that I'd admit it, of course. Instead, I shrugged off the feeling, leaning back against the doorframe with an easy smirk.

As the sun set, Raven, standing beside me, casually dropped what could only be described as a conversational grenade. "Since we're basically agents now, wouldn't codenames be fun?" she asked, her tone breezy enough to suggest she wasn't proposing something life-altering.

I blinked, my eyebrows knitting together in mock confusion. "Agents?" I repeated slowly, my voice carrying that razor-edged skepticism I reserved for ridiculous claims and bad diner coffee. I shot her a sidelong glance, waiting for an explanation.

Raven winced, realizing she'd skipped the preamble. "Oh, right, I didn't tell you yet." She turned to face me, her words spilling out faster than usual. "Charles and Erik are putting together a mutant squad. You know, something like The X-Force but with fewer leather fetish suits. We're affiliated with the CIA now—everyone here's on the team."

I folded my arms, my expression unreadable. "CIA agents?" I repeated, playing along. We were indeed at that point in the plot. Shouldn't Shaw attack this facility at some point? What am I going to do about that? I wondered to myself.

Raven misunderstood my silence as resistance. "Yeah, sort of," she hedged, shifting uncomfortably. She hesitated to explain further, knowing how Charles's insistence on not endangering "kids" could be a sticking point. After all, despite my insistence on being nineteen, I still looked like I should be stressing about prom dresses, not covert ops.

Before Raven could backpedal, Alex, lounging in a chair like he owned the room, chimed in with a theatrical grin. "Of course, Sarah's one of us!"

A deep, rich voice spoke up from across the room. "Exactly. Talent doesn't come with an age restriction." The speaker, a statuesque, dark-skinned man with a dancer's grace, gestured toward me like he'd just unveiled a prized work of art.

The rest of the mutants jumped on the bandwagon, cheering their approval with all the coordination of a flash mob. "She's got that mysterious vibe," one said. "She'd be perfect as an agent," another added, earning a faint smirk from me.

Raven sighed, clearly outvoted. She turned to me, holding up her hands in mock defeat. "Fine. You're an agent now."

The room erupted in cheers. If my smile seemed wider than usual, no one gave it much thought. Sure, I was flattered by the acceptance, but my grin had more to do with the gears turning in my head. Being "an agent" meant front-row seats to the chaos, not to mention the ability to adjust the script as needed.

Seeing the energy building, Raven leaned into the madness. "Alright," she said with a conspiratorial smirk, "since codenames are apparently mandatory now, I'm calling dibs on Mystique."

Recognition sparked in my eyes. So this is where it begins, I thought, filing away the moment.

"Oh, come on!" A young man sitting diagonally across from us protested, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation. "I wanted Mystique!"

"Sorry," Raven quipped, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. "Codename's claimed."

And then, in a move that could only be described as a mic drop without the mic, her skin shimmered. A cascade of electric-blue scales rippled across her body, her features shifting effortlessly until she became a perfect mirror of the man who had spoken.

The room went dead silent, jaws dropping as everyone processed what they'd just seen. A ripple of impressed murmurs spread, punctuated by a whistle of admiration.

"Okay, yeah," Alex finally said, breaking the silence. "That's a damn good codename."

Raven, still wearing her borrowed face, gave him a cheeky wink before returning to her natural form. The message was clear: Mystique isn't just a name—I own it.

Armando Muñoz, now officially christened Darwin, stepped forward with casual confidence. His codename wasn't just clever—it was genius-level branding. His ability to adapt to any environment, whether growing gills underwater or developing diamond-hard skin mid-fight, was downright unfair in a fight. I took mental notes, cataloging the potential of his abilities. If this guy ever hit his ceiling, the world better watch out. Of course, Shaw's death still loomed in my mind—a flashing neon sign warning me of a death I couldn't allow to happen.

Next up was Sean Cassidy, already beaming like a kid at a school talent show. He'd claimed the codename Banshee, a nod to his sonic scream powers. I privately thought something like Batboy might've been a sharper pick, considering how his powers involved sound and echolocation, but hey, I wasn't about to kill his buzz.

Eager to impress, Sean set his sights on a coffee cup perched on the table. "Watch this," he said, inhaling deeply. A concentrated blast of sound shot from his throat. Unfortunately, his aim was… optimistic at best. The coffee cup remained defiantly unscathed, while the large window behind it exploded into a glorious spiderweb of cracks.

The room went silent for a beat before Alex broke the tension with a snicker. "Guess we know who's not doing the dishes."

I buried my face in my hands. "Yeah, that's definitely going to get us yelled at." I nudged Raven, hoping to spark some damage control before Charles got wind of the mess.

Raven, unfazed, waved it off. "It's a window. Big deal."

I sighed. "Remind me to use that line when Charles is lecturing us about responsibility and team cohesion for the next three hours."

The next performer, Angel Salvadore, stepped forward with the easy grace of someone who knew she owned the room. Her translucent, insect-like wings shimmered in the light, a stark contrast to the fireballs she casually spat into her hand like they were party tricks. With a buzz of her wings, she hovered a few feet above the ground. Her codename? Angel. A bit on the nose, but I gave her points for simplicity.

"Fire-spitting dragonfly," I muttered under my breath. "Definitely not stealing that move."

Then came Hank McCoy—still awkwardly human-shaped but with feet that belonged in a Guinness World Records entry. Alex wasted no time giving him a nickname.

"Bigfoot," Alex declared with a smirk.

The room laughed, but Hank's face fell like someone had just kicked his puppy. I frowned. I didn't know him well yet, but I could already tell he wasn't the type to let teasing roll off his back. Luckily, Raven stepped in, offering some kind words that softened the blow.

Crisis averted, for now.

Finally, it was my turn. I'd toyed with a few names—Aurora was poetic, Dawn was pretty, but neither felt quite right. I settled on Tempestas, the Roman goddess of storms. It was unique, it had gravitas. Holding up my hand, I conjured a crackling orb of electricity the size of a beach ball, its electric blue glow lighting up the room.

"Let's just say thunderstorms aren't the best idea indoors," I quipped, dissipating the orb with a snap of my fingers.

Impressed murmurs spread across the room. No one argued the choice. Tempestas it was.

The last holdout was Alex Summers, whose codename was still up in the air. His power—hurling volatile energy discs from his body—wasn't exactly safe for indoor demonstrations. But peer pressure is a formidable beast.

"Fine," Alex grumbled. "We'll go outside."

The group followed him into the yard, where a poor, battered statue became his target. With a grunt of effort, Alex unleashed a searing disc of energy that cleaved the statue in two.

"Mission accomplished," Alex said, dusting off his hands.

"Mission property damage accomplished," I corrected, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Charles is going to have a stroke when he sees this."

The mood, however, remained light, even as my thoughts darkened. I could practically hear the next few pages of the script flipping in my head: Charles's disappointment, Erik's inevitable solo mission, the CIA's ambush under Shaw's orders, and Darwin's death.

I closed my eyes, replaying what I knew like a checklist. Darwin's death—I had already decided that wasn't going to happen on my watch.

For now, I'd stick to the script, nudging events where I could. But if Darwin's life was ever in the crosshairs, all bets were off. Shaw wouldn't know what hit him.

...

The shift in the common room's mood was palpable—equal parts house party and low-budget mutant Olympics. With intros out of the way, the group found their groove, turning the cramped space into a mutant variety show. Snacks and wine appeared as if conjured by mutant magic (or maybe just Raven with a Costco card), and the night took on a celebratory vibe.

Even I, usually content to brood in the corner like the poster child for Angsty Paranormal Monthly, couldn't resist the energy. Applause and laughter filled the air as mutant powers took center stage. Havok's plasma blasts accidentally carved a perfect replica of the Mona Lisa into the wall. Darwin, ever the chill survivalist, turned his skin into diamonds when Alex's next blast veered too close. I got roped into showing off my shadow tendrils, which earned a few cheers and more than one "creepy but cool" remark.

Of course, "camaraderie" was expensive. Exhibit A: the charred remains of the lawn statue outside, currently missing its head. Exhibit B: the common room, now sporting a live-action Jackson Pollock look, courtesy of spilled wine and overzealous laser shows. Still, amidst the chaos was a strange warmth, a sense of belonging I hadn't expected. This "parallel universe, parallel past" situation was messing with my head, but for the first time in a long while, it didn't feel completely terrible.

And then the party-crashing moment of truth hit.

A roar cut through the revelry, stopping us all mid-toast. It came from the general direction of the window—now cracked like a spiderweb of bad decisions. The room went still as all heads turned toward the noise, a collective bracing for impact. And impact arrived, framed perfectly by the shattered window.

Agent Moira MacTaggart, flanked by the King of Sass (Magneto) and the Disappointed Dad Supreme (Professor X), stood like the vengeful holy trinity of "you're all grounded." Moira's expression screamed I left you alone for FIVE MINUTES, while Erik looked mildly amused as if he'd expected this level of carnage all along. But Charles? Charles was the main event.

His face had gone beyond furious; it was dark enough to power its own solar eclipse. The professor's jaw was so tight I half-expected him to crack a tooth. This was the man who had just vouched to the CIA that his "highly trained team" was ready to take on Shaw. And now? Now he stood in the aftermath of our mutant carnival, surrounded by wine stains, shattered furniture, and a freshly bisected lawn ornament.

Raven, who knew Charles better than anyone, stiffened beside me. "Uh-oh," she muttered. "That's not the 'disappointed professor' face."

"What is it then?" I asked, genuinely intrigued despite the impending storm.

"It's the 'I'm questioning my life choices' face."

The other mutants caught on quickly, their cocky grins replaced with expressions that screamed I regret everything. Havok tried to shuffle backward into the crowd, but Darwin unhelpfully muttered, "Dude, you glow. There's no hiding." Alex swore under his breath, muttering something about regretting not blaming Banshee.

And then Charles spoke, his voice calm but packing the kind of menace that made even Erik take a step back. "May I remind all of you," he began, his tone a masterclass in passive-aggressive devastation, "that I just staked my credibility on this team's professionalism?"

There was a collective wince. Even I, who generally operated on a "do no emotional harm to myself" policy, felt a pang of guilt. I looked at the ruined common room, then at the mutants around me, who were clearly thinking the same thing: We really screwed this up.

Before the professor could launch into the full verbal equivalent of a psychic beatdown, Moira raised a hand. "Let them have their fun," she said, though her tone suggested she meant "fun" in the loosest possible terms. Erik smirked, clearly enjoying the whole spectacle.

After an exchange filled with disappointment and enough glares to power a small country, the trio left the mutants to their revelry. But the shadow of Charles's wrath lingered in the room, heavy enough to make the wine taste slightly less celebratory.

...

Sitting beside Raven, I couldn't help but notice the tension radiating off my teammate. Her usually confident demeanor had taken a nosedive—her posture stiff, her eyes darting as though she expected Professor X to telepathically scold her from halfway across the globe.

Ever the reluctant empath (or maybe just bored enough to care), I rested a hand on Raven's shoulder. "Apologize later," I said, my voice low but steady. "They were just excited—finally seeing others like them. No harm intended, right?"

Raven turned to me, the faintest flicker of gratitude crossing her face. "Thanks," she murmured, though the worry didn't entirely leave her. She glanced at the others, most of whom were still pretending to examine their shoes or suddenly finding the ceiling fascinating. "They're just… rookies. They don't know better."

I nodded. I got it. The mutants were giddy with their newfound sense of belonging, high on adrenaline and mutant-powered dopamine. A little chaos was bound to happen. Honestly, I respected the audacity. But still, the timing? Less than ideal.

And here was the kicker: Charles and Erik were already en route to the Soviet Union, probably arguing in the jet over ideological differences or whose turn it was to pick the in-flight music. By the time Professor X's veins de-popped enough for him to "understand," he'd be thousands of miles away, leaving the freshly minted X-Men to marinate in the fallout.

I leaned closer, my tone soft but sly. "Look, at least the codenames were a win. They'll cool off. Eventually. Right?"

Raven perked up at that, clearly glad for the distraction. "You're not wrong. I mean, Professor X? That's gonna stick. And Magneto? Iconic. You're welcome, Charles and Erik."

"I didn't realize you were the branding genius behind those," I quipped, my smirk widening now. "But I've gotta ask: Why the 'X'? What's the story there?"

Raven sat up straighter, grateful for the shift in conversation. "It's simple. You know Charles' last name?"

I squinted, playing dumb with an air of theatrical confusion. "Uh... Xavier? Wait. Xavier starts with an X?"

"Bingo!" Raven grinned, finally easing out of her funk. "Professor Xavier. Professor X. It's elegant, really."

I nodded, my face deadpan, but my eyes glinting with amusement. "And here I thought it stood for something deep. Like eXceptional, or eXtreme. Maybe eXistential crisis."

"You're hilarious," Raven deadpanned, though the corners of her mouth twitched.

"I try." I leaned back, satisfied with my small victory. It was the kind of trivia I wouldn't have cared about back in my old world, content to watch the movies without Googling a thing. But being in the thick of it gave me an unexpected appreciation for the behind-the-scenes stuff. And yeah, it made sense—Professor X was just shorthand for Xavier. Efficient, a little classy, very Charles.

The room had shifted into damage control mode. CIA agents swarmed the common area like irritated bees, patching up mutant-sized holes in the drywall and scrubbing suspicious scorch marks off the floor. The unfortunate statue, however, remained conspicuously absent—presumably reduced to debris or teleported to some tragic statue afterlife.

Meanwhile, Alex and Darwin, the kings of Let's Not Deal with Our Emotions, had commandeered the couch, engrossed in a video game. Judging by Alex's constant swearing and Darwin's calm, unbothered smirk, things were not going well for Havok. The rest of the crew lingered around the snack table, picking half-heartedly at chips and cookies while an awkward silence blanketed the room. The earlier buzz of celebration had long since fizzled out.

Raven and I, however, seemed blissfully unaffected. Our conversation carried on in hushed tones, the pair of us trading sarcastic quips like a tennis match while the rest of the team stewed in their collective guilt.

"You know," I said, keeping my voice low, "when Charles and Erik get back, they're either gonna lecture us for hours or give us some boot camp-style punishment. Thoughts?"

Raven's lips twitched into a conspiratorial grin. "My money's on the lecture. Erik's dramatic, but Charles? He's relentless. Probably break out some metaphor about responsibility and trust."

I mock-shuddered. "Ugh, trust metaphors. The horror."

"Hey, at least he's consistent," Raven shot back, her grin widening.

I chuckled, realizing that even in this strange, chaotic version of reality, some things—like dry humor and deflective banter—were universal constants. For now, that would have to be enough.