Sarah Across the Multiverse

Sarah (POV)

The late-night conversation between Raven and me was interrupted by a muffled thump, followed by a scream that could only mean one thing: shit was about to hit the fan. Raven's head snapped toward the noise, her eyes wide with that familiar spark of concern—or was it fear? The answer was in her body language, too, as she wrapped her arms around me in one quick, defensive move.

I blinked. "Raven?" I asked, not sure if I should laugh or be genuinely concerned.

The tension in the air was thick. Was this fear, or something else? Raven's heartbeat thudded against my chest, and I could practically hear the gears in her brain scrambling. Annoyance, protectiveness, and maybe a bit of compassion swirled in my chest. You can do something, Sarah, I reminded myself, and you can handle it.

"I can help," I muttered, frustration creeping into my voice as I tried to pull away from her grip.

But Raven wasn't having it. She tightened her hold, the tremor in her hands betraying her calm front. That's cute, I thought bitterly. Trying to keep it together while panicking.

With a glance that could melt ice, Raven finally spoke. "What the hell is that noise?"

"Azazel," I muttered under my breath, the answer as certain as the night was dark. That muffled thump? Classic Azazel move. A teleporting monster who used gravity like a playground. Bungee jumping without the cord, I thought grimly.

Just then, the chaos outside hit a whole new level. Screams echoed, followed by the unmistakable sounds of combat. As Azazel appeared outside, kicking ass and taking names (but mostly just killing), Darwin's voice cut through the air. "It's Azazel! Let's go out and help!"

But, surprise—plot twist—the path was blocked by CIA agents. You couldn't make this stuff up. Classic tactical disaster.

"Appreciate the concern, Raven," I said, trying to keep things light, my voice dripping with dry sarcasm. "But I'm good."

A quick kiss to Raven's cheek sealed the deal, a move that was half to reassure her, half to shut down the overprotectiveness before it spiraled out of control. As I broke free, I turned my attention to the next disaster brewing—Riptide's tornado was coming right for us.

"Shit," I muttered. The winds began to churn, a telltale sign of Riptide's special brand of destruction. I barely had time to think before Raven was on my heels again, shouting my name.

"Sarah, wait! It's too dangerous out there!"

Raven sounded like a nervous parent—and it would've been hilarious if it weren't so damn tragic. I didn't even slow down. "They need us, Raven," I shot back, my voice firm, but with that edge of impatience I kept so well hidden. "We can't just sit here."

Electricity crackled around me, arcing across my body like a living storm. My skin hummed with power. They need us? Nah, I need to show them I'm a damn force of nature.

"Stay put," I called back, already charging toward the oncoming storm. "I'll handle this." Raven's voice, full of desperation, reached me one last time, but I was already gone, blending into the chaos as if I had always belonged there.

Riptide's tornado—a big, swirling, wind-powered mess—was getting closer. And I was not about to let this windbag have all the fun. Time to play with some real power. Electromagnetism, baby. My favorite flavor of disaster.

Focusing, I twisted the magnetic fields around us, pulling the earth beneath my feet. I felt it—the pull of the iron, the tug of the earth's power—and a surge of satisfaction flooded my veins. Within seconds, the ground around me erupted, forming an iron-rich cloud that swirled and shifted under my command. Riptide's tornado was heading straight for it, but I had other plans. I was about to turn the tables.

With a flick of my wrist, I guided the iron into a dense, swirling vortex of its own. Riptide's winds met my iron storm head-on, their forces colliding in a violent, crackling clash of raw power.

Riptide tried to push back, but he had no idea what he was up against. The air was thick with the sound of grinding metal and whirling wind, and my iron storm was relentless. My nanites infiltrated Riptide's body with ease, spreading through his bloodstream like an invisible plague. He was done for. All I had to do was tighten the pressure.

"Game over, wind boy," I muttered under my breath, watching as Riptide staggered under the assault of both the physical and electromagnetic forces. His wind-based tornado began to buckle, the iron vortex inching closer to his core.

And just as he was about to finally yield, something—someone—screamed. A new voice ripped through the chaos, but by then it was too late. My nanites had already done their job. Riptide was out.

A voice sliced through the air, followed by a screech that could only be described as absolutely murderous. It hit me like a sonic wave, rattling my bones and leaving my ears ringing. A flash of white-hot pain exploded in my head, and the iron sand cloud I'd meticulously crafted went berserk, spiraling into a chaotic frenzy.

"Thanks, Banshee," I said sarcastically, my voice a mixture of annoyance and disbelief. "A heads-up next time would be great."

From the corner of her eye, she saw Sean, aka Banshee, flush crimson. His intentions were noble, but the result? Not so much. His sonic blast had scattered her carefully controlled iron sand cloud like it was a toddler's toy. "Sorry!" he muttered, his voice sheepish. "Your attack was impressive, though. Tempestas, you nailed it."

"Yeah, well, I was nailing Riptide, but you know, thanks for the 'help'," I grumbled, eyeing the mess I had to clean up. My gaze flicked back to Riptide, still tangled in the chaotic mess of black iron sand and electrical light. He wasn't dead, but he sure as hell wasn't doing well. I was about to squeeze the life out of him, literally, when I caught sight of something worse—a lot worse.

Azazel.

The teleporting mutant had just finished his rampage through the courtyard, but now his cold eyes locked onto Riptide's sorry state. In the blink of an eye, Azazel disappeared, reappearing next to his comrade, and with another flash, they were both gone. I barely had time to process the escape before I noticed the faint pulse of nanites inside Riptide's body, picking up a new directive.

"Shit," I muttered under my breath, biting my lip in frustration. As if dealing with Azazel wasn't enough, Sebastian Shaw was about to enter the picture. And that was a fight I didn't want to engage in just yet—not directly, anyway.

With a quick flick of my wrist, I reined in the remaining iron sand, twisting it into a circle of jagged arrows, sharp and deadly. My nanites wove seamlessly through the iron, creating a perimeter of lethal potential. Shaw could enter, but he wasn't going to walk away unscathed. Not on my watch.

Meanwhile, Banshee's keen sense of timing had everyone on edge. Darwin's body rippled as it shifted into living rock, the scent of electricity heavy in the air as Banshee took a deep breath, his body poised for another sonic assault. Alex, ever the tactician, stood just a little too still, muscles coiled and fists clenched as if waiting for the right moment to pounce.

And then, the door creaked.

Sebastian Shaw's sharp entrance wasn't as dramatic as the others, but it was chilling in its own way. He strolled in, dressed in that meticulously tailored suit, looking every bit the villain who knew he was going to win. He didn't even flinch when my iron sand arrows erupted toward him, crackling with electricity.

Impressive, Shaw mused, his eyes glinting with amusement. He didn't even break a sweat. As the arrows hit him, he absorbed the kinetic energy and the electrical charge, his body glowing with an eerie, otherworldly light. My arrows crumbled into dust, harmlessly falling around him like a rain of ashes.

"What…" I couldn't hide my fake surprise, but I masked it quickly with a forced gasp, pretending to be completely thrown off. "Did you just… absorb my lightning?"

"Quite the display," Shaw said smoothly, the smirk never leaving his face. "Precise control. Remarkable power." He took a few more steps toward me, the smile widening, and I felt a chill crawl down my spine. This wasn't good. Not at all.

But I didn't flinch. I met his gaze head-on. "Stop," I said softly, my voice laced with intent.

And then, like the world's worst magic trick, everything stopped.

Shaw froze mid-step, his features locked in a calm, almost mocking expression. His breathing stopped. His heartbeat? Gone. Even the cellular processes that kept him alive went still. I could see the faint, glowing crimson hue around him—time, suspended.

To the others, he was just a statue. An immobile figure locked in an eternal pause.

But for me? I was watching a battle unfold on a microscopic level.

From my palm, a swarm of supercharged vibranium nanites launched like a darting cloud of malicious intent. They were fast, precise, and deadly. I watched as they infiltrated Shaw's body, bypassing every natural defense he might have had.

The nanites were merciless. One group was busy dismantling its cellular structure, causing cells to self-destruct in a chaotic process. Another set of nanites dove straight into Shaw's circulatory system, creating blockages, cutting off blood flow to critical organs. Another batch scrambled his central nervous system, sending rogue signals that scrambled his thoughts and senses.

But I wasn't done. Oh, no. Another set of nanites targeted Shaw's immune system, manipulating his body's own defenses against him, turning his immune response into a self-destructive force.

And just when Shaw's body seemed to be on the verge of complete failure, I had one last trick up my sleeve. The remaining nanites detonated within Shaw, sending shockwaves of localized energy throughout his body, compounding the damage in an explosion of molecular chaos.

On the outside? Shaw was still a statue, frozen in time. But on the inside? His body was being torn apart by invisible forces.

I smirked. "Let's see how well you absorb when your body's literally falling apart from the inside out."

For a long moment, nothing moved. Shaw remained an immobile statue, and I felt a sudden headache pulse at the back of my skull, the migraine a telltale sign that maintaining this level of control was draining me. Blood began to trickle from my nose, my body protesting against the effort, but I held the lock steady.

Finally, the time lock snapped. The world returned to motion. The nanites had done their job. Now it was just a matter of waiting for Shaw to feel the consequences.

Sebastian Shaw snapped back to reality, suddenly disoriented by a shift in the room. The people had rearranged themselves slightly, throwing him off. His eyes immediately went to me, who was pressing my hand firmly over her nose, as if I'd smelled something foul. In reality, I was trying to stop a nosebleed that had stained my mouth, chin, and clothes red. His first thought was a ridiculous one: Did I forget to shower again? He quickly dismissed the thought. Focus, Shaw. Focus.

Under my watchful gaze, Sebastian refrained from using the energy he'd absorbed to form anything flashy, like a cute little ball or a hologram of a unicorn farting rainbows. Maybe it was some weird attempt to prove me wrong. Whatever it was, Sebastian was always cool under pressure. His eyes scanned the room, and then he asked in his trademark low, dangerous drawl, "Where's the telepath?"

Azazel's voice sliced through the silence like a blade. "He's not here. Seems he's gone out."

Shaw clicked his tongue as if he'd just realized the last part of the chess game had been played without him. Ugh, what a waste of time. "Hmm, that's unfortunate," he mused, the disappointment in his voice so theatrically genuine, that you'd think someone had just stolen his last bottle of whiskey. "In that case, I don't need this helmet."

And with a flourish that could only be described as extra, Shaw dramatically ripped off his helmet. The very helmet, mind you, that would eventually become Magneto's crowning accessory—thanks to Sebastian's, let's say, creative repurposing.

Holding the helmet under his arm like a fashion accessory, Shaw gave us his signature I'm about to drop some knowledge smile. "Don't worry, I won't hurt you," he reassured them, his voice as smooth and polished as a silver spoon you'd just pulled from a fine China drawer. "In fact…," he continued, trailing off for effect. "You've harmed my companion here, but…" He glanced sideways at Riptide, whose face still wore the purple kiss of my handiwork—looking like a badly bruised tomato. "Given the… uh, commotion we caused, your reaction is understandable and forgivable."

Shaw stepped closer, handing the helmet to Riptide, who was still simmering with rage. The poor guy didn't even get the decency of an apology—just a look that screamed, You're going to deal with this, buddy. And deal he did, glaring silently, choosing to seethe quietly like a pressure cooker about to explode.

Shaw, however, wasn't bothered by the tension in the air. In fact, he was in his element. "We," he said, making an exaggerated emphasis on the word as if to remind them they were all in this together, "are not so different, you and I." His eyes swept the room, eyeing each of the mutants as if they were the finest cuts of meat at a butcher shop. "The time for hiding is over. We've made our grand entrance, haven't we?" He chuckled softly like he had just made the funniest joke in the history of jokes. "And when humanity realizes the threat our abilities pose to their precious dominance, we will face a choice."

He let that pause linger a little longer, soaking in the silent tension. He was good at this. Too good. "Will we allow ourselves to be enslaved and hunted, or will we turn the tables and take control of this world?"

Sure, to anyone with half a brain, Shaw sounded like a power-hungry megalomaniac with delusions of grandeur. But in 1962, the whole mutants rising up against their oppressors shtick had an unsettling appeal. After all, these mutants, abandoned and rejected by humanity, knew all too well what it was like to be the underdog. To not be the shiny new thing. Charles, of course, had painted Shaw as the villain, the warmonger willing to light the match that would start World War III. It was the same old story. We're not like the humans, we're better. We just need to rise up and take our rightful place.

Shaw let his words hang in the air for a beat longer, feeling the weight of his wisdom settle in. His eyes narrowed, sensing the lack of immediate applause. His smile faltered. "Of course," he said, his voice turning colder, like someone who just realized the party had died and everyone had already left for a better one. "You have the option to cower, to side with the very humans who've ostracized and oppressed you. But make no mistake, such a choice would brand you, my enemy."

He let that enemy part drop like a bomb. The tension in the room, already thick as molasses, seemed to freeze. He leaned in, just enough to make everyone feel the weight of his next words. "So, choose. Submit and remain slaves, or join me and become the architects of a new world order."

I, of course, was watching all this with the sort of detached amusement that only came from years of watching grandiose speeches from power-hungry, smooth-talking psychopaths. Shaw was good, no doubt. He had charisma in spades, and the guy could sell sand to a desert. But to me, his words were just empty promises—the kind you'd hear from some con artist looking to swindle a few more dollars before moving on to the next unsuspecting mark. I wasn't buying it. I'd seen his kind before, all charm and no substance, luring the desperate and vulnerable into their little traps. It was almost laughable. Almost.

Not everyone possessed my cynicism. Across the room, Angel—winged, beautiful, and maybe a little broken—shifted in her seat. If my strength came from the grit of surviving a war-torn universe, Angel's had been forged in something darker: the kind of hardship you can't really scrub off with a shower or a good cry. Before I'd met Charles Xavier or Erik Lehnsherr, she'd been a dancer. Well, "dancer" in the sense that she'd been a glorified hostess at some high-end club, forced to endure the lecherous whims of the rich and powerful just to scrape by. That could've been a tragic story for anyone, but it hit harder when you had wings like hers, wings that weren't just a sign of beauty—they were a flashing neon sign that screamed "freak."

She'd held onto some tiny sliver of hope when she first heard about Professor X's dream. A place for people like her. A place where no one would stare or make bets on whether her wings could hold up in a fight. But now? Now she was stuck in a rundown mansion, with all these other mutants, getting ogled by government agents who might as well have been carrying clipboards that said "Property of the U.S. Government." Angel's disillusionment was like a slow burn that kept creeping up her spine, and if you listened closely, you could hear her mental eye-roll every time the word "acceptance" came up in casual conversation.

"Rather be ogled in a bar," she'd confided to Raven once, "than be paraded around like a circus animal."

Enter Shaw. Cue the soundtrack of a charming villain doing his best impression of someone who could actually win a popularity contest. The man had a voice like butter on a hot skillet—smooth, but you could smell the burn if you weren't careful. "Or perhaps," Shaw purred, every syllable oozing with ambition, "you could rise above them all. A queen, perhaps? Or even a princess in this new world we'll build." He glanced over at me like I was just another bystander to be tossed in the garbage heap, but there was something else in his eyes. Challenge? Curiosity? Whatever it was, he was definitely trying to push my buttons.

But me? I wasn't having any of it. Not even a twitch. I'd seen enough of Shaw's type in my own world to know a snake oil salesman when I saw one. With a quiet scoff, I turned away, dismissing Shaw like he was just another ad for a bad toothpaste. Shaw's hand hung in the air, a silent plea. And for once, his charisma couldn't reel someone in.

Angel, however, poor thing, she was a different story. Shaw's sweet promises of power, control, and a life where her wings weren't just a freak show—hit her like a shot of whiskey to the face. She hadn't been offered much in her life, but this? This felt like the chance to finally grab something she deserved. Tentatively, she reached out, her fingers brushing against Shaw's. Hesitation crept in, like the first step off a cliff, but then her hand settled in his.

Darwin's disbelief cut through the room like a slap. "You can't be serious," he said, his voice thick with betrayal. The shared experiences between him and Angel had been the fragile glue holding their alliance together. Seeing her jump ship was like watching your dog run away with your favorite pair of shoes.

Angel turned back, her voice cutting through the tension like a chainsaw. "I think he's right," she said, her words steady, like she'd rehearsed them. "We don't belong here. Leaving isn't something to be ashamed of. It's a chance for something better." She looked around the room, her gaze lingering on each of them, but it was clear she wasn't expecting an applause. With a sharp nod, she turned back to Shaw, her hand tightening in his, and together they walked out. The silence that followed was thick enough to slice with a knife.

Shaw wasn't the type to force people into anything—he didn't need to. His brand of persuasion was more like a velvet rope: you couldn't see it, but it was definitely there, tugging at you. If he weren't so fundamentally racist and power-hungry, he could've been the kind of leader who made people believe in him. Instead, he was just another charming psychopath with a pretty plan. But hey, most villains have that in common, right? You wouldn't be a villain if you couldn't talk a good game.

...

Frustration gnawed at Darwin. He lunged forward, a primal urge to chase after Angel clawing at him. But Alex planted a hand on his chest, a human firewall against his well-intentioned recklessness.

"Hold on, fuzzball," Alex said, her voice firm but laced with a hint of sympathy. "She made her choice."

"But we can't just let her walk out the door with those creeps!" Darwin protested, his voice laced with a growl. "She's our teammate!"

Alex sighed. "She was our teammate," he corrected gently. "Look, even if you could reach her, what then? Did you see what happened to Tempestas? Her blasts were like throwing pebbles at a tank. Your power's bio-adaptation, right? Not exactly gonna rewrite the laws of physics and suddenly make you bulletproof."

For once, Darwin couldn't argue. Alex, sensible for once, was making a lot of sense. He glanced at Sarah, a silent plea for backup. She met his gaze with a grim nod.

"Yeah," I confirmed, my voice flat. "Shaw's whole deal seems to be sucking up energy. My lightning and electromagnetism, your adaptation, Banshee's sonic blasts – all useless against him. Straight-up brawl? Not in our favor."

Sure, we were powerful, but against a walking energy sponge, our powers felt like shooting arrows at a tank. Darwin clenched his fists, a surge of helplessness coursing through him. He was supposed to be the protector, the guy who could adapt to anything. But here, his greatest strength felt like a useless mutation.

There was nothing left to do but watch, a bitter taste settling in our mouths, as Angel walked out with Shaw. We were left behind, unable to do anything.

...

A couple of minutes later, Shaw dropped like a sack of potatoes—one minute strutting like he owned the place, the next, he was bleeding from every possible hole, collapsing faster than a poorly built IKEA shelf. If Darwin and Alex had been looking for drama, they'd just hit the jackpot. Unfortunately, they weren't present at the scene. But the real kicker? Azazel—normally cool, calm, and "I've-got-this-covered"—appeared next to Shaw with a face that screamed, "Nope, nope, nope!"

Realizing the situation was about to go from bad to worse, Azazel did the only thing a guy like him could: he teleported Shaw away like he was the world's most expensive package that needed immediate priority shipping. And Angel? Oh, Angel. She was left standing there, wings drooping, looking like the lone survivor of an emotional hurricane. Maybe she expected backup, maybe a pep talk, but all she got was the cold shoulder from her brand-new team. Shaw's "princess in the new world" had been benched, and it was awkward, to say the least.

Me? Internally, I was already composing a victory speech. Sure, I was exhausted and bleeding like someone who'd lost a bet with gravity, but watching Shaw eat dirt? Priceless. "It's true," I mused, my smirk creeping in. "Ants really can take down an elephant. Who needs a big stick when you've got a brain and a plan?"

As the chaos settled, Raven approached, her expression a mix of concern and curiosity. "Are you alright? You're bleeding."

I, ever the picture of nonchalance, wiped at my face. My hand came back red. Oops. "Oh, this?" I waved my hand dismissively. "Just a nosebleed. Happens when I get excited."

Raven's eyes narrowed, clearly not buying the act. "It looks like someone punched you in the face."

"You should've seen the other guy," I quipped, trying to play it off coolly.

Raven didn't argue. Instead, she gently took me by the arm, her voice soft but firm. "Come on. You need to rest. You're overexerting yourself."

For a moment, my walls cracked—just a hairline fracture, but it was there. "Thanks, Raven," I said quietly, returning the hug with surprising strength. It wasn't my usual sarcasm or deadpan wit. It was… real. Brief, but real.

Back in my room, I flopped onto the bed like a marionette with its strings cut. I whispered to myself, "Today was a successful mission. But stopping time? Yeah, hard pass next time. That stunt drained me faster than an iPhone with 50 apps open." I let out a slow breath, exhaustion creeping in like an unwelcome roommate. "If there's another fight…" My voice trailed off as sleep claimed me, a heavy, dreamless void where even my sharp mind couldn't keep spinning.

The primary goal of the nanites had never been to eliminate the trio of Shaw, Riptide, and Azazel. No, that was too easy. I'd gone for the long game, opting for a more calculated approach: get their blood. Study their powers. They were valuable for research, and in my mind, that was a win in itself.