3 Arc 1 - Ch 3: Fight Back

"Fuck this," Tyson mumbled under his breath. Determination filled him as he peered through the shattered windshield where Logan's body lay unconscious and unmoving on the hood of the camper. He extended his arm through the gaping hole left when Logan broke through the windshield. The tips of his fingers were able to just graze Wolverine's ear. 

It was enough. An immediate jolt of life force coursed through Tyson. He felt a rush of vitality and memories surge within him. His mind cleared from the fog of his concussion and the gash on his forehead began to knit together. He sighed in relief as the warm blood ceased dripping down his face. 

Still, Tyson's situation was dire, he was trapped. But not for long. Not with Logan's powers coursing through him. Concentrating, he felt the uncomfortable sensation of his bones reshaping. Then, with a sharp pain that faded in a moment, three bone claws erupted from his knuckles. They mirrored Wolverine's unique weapons but lacked the adamantium bonding. 

It was an alien sensation, to feel his body morph in such a way, but there was no time to dwell. His heart pounded against his ribs as he turned his new claws on his seatbelt, slicing through the tough nylon material. The strap snapped back and Tyson sucked in a breath of relief. Free at last. The acrid scent of smoke filled his nostrils indicating there wasn't much time left before the camper went up in flames.

Tyson scrambled to escape the vehicle. He squeezed himself over the console and out through the driver's side door. As he fled the flickering flames threatening to consume the vehicle, his singular focus had been on escaping the burning camper. But as he felt a gust of cold Canadian air against his face, he realized that in his scramble to escape, he had lost sight of Sabertooth.

A vicious snarl filled his ears, sending a chill down his spine, even as the heat of the car fire licked at his back. Before he could react, a monstrous clawed hand gripped his jacket, hoisting him into the air as if he weighed no more than a ragdoll. Sabertooth stood towering over him; he lifted Tyson into the air until they were face to face. 

But Tyson was far from helpless. With his newfound claws still extended, he reached up, wrapping his hands around the massive mutant's head. The moment their skin connected, an influx of energy coursed through Tyson's veins, and a shocking jolt of life force siphoned straight from Sabertooth. 

He was a young child who killed his brother over a trivial disagreement. As punishment, he was imprisoned by his father. The man would regularly remove his sharp teeth with pliers in a twisted attempt to exercise his demons. He escaped by biting off his chained arm, which later regrew. He met Logan and they were similar, but he would beat the man within an inch of his life every year on his birthday. Embroiled in their rivalry, he raped and killed the woman Logan loved. From then on, with each battle, their feud deepened, marked by hatred. Aside from these haunting memories, he had the power to regenerate from injuries in mere moments, heightened senses that made the world more vibrant and detailed, and enhanced strength and agility. The skill sets of hunting, tracking, hand-to-hand combat, and various weapon expertise coursed through his mind. Beyond the heightened senses that painted the world in a sharper, more vivid light, there was a dark thrill that bubbled up from deep within. It was a deep-rooted delight in inflicting pain, both physically and mentally. The world was a playground where the weak could be toyed with and the strong challenged. Every interaction became an opportunity to assert dominance, to relish in the fear and anguish of others. 

Sabertooth's claws shredded Tyson's jacket as if it were mere paper. Tyson felt the sharp, cruel bite of those claws digging into his skin, each slash left a trail of pain in its wake. With each violent swing, Sabertooth seemed intent on ripping him apart, his eyes glinting with a dark, sadistic satisfaction as he delivered each brutal attack. 

The wounds that Sabertooth inflicted on Tyson began to serve a dual purpose. They became points of contact, accelerating the rate at which Tyson drained Sabertooth's life force. And with the blend of his and Wolverine's regenerative abilities now in his arsenal, every gash and tear on Tyson's body began sealing almost as quickly as they appeared. The amalgamation of these two forces within him not only mended his wounds but also seemed to invigorate him, pushing him further into the fray with barely contained savagery.

Tyson could feel Sabertooth weakening in his grasp, but a new, darker urge whispered not to relent. The satisfaction of dominating his fierce adversary was tantalizing. His blood ran down his back from Sabertooth's relentless clawing, but as the pain mingled with adrenaline, it was overshadowed by the intoxicating rush of absorbing such raw power. Initially, Tyson had barely kept pace with Sabertooth's wild strength. Yet, with every passing second, the balance shifted. Tyson's muscles pulsed with an energy he had never known, his body grew to match Sabertooth's massive size, and a hint of sadistic pleasure gleamed in his eyes as he felt his power eclipsing that of the weakened Sabertooth.

As their roles reversed, Tyson's fingers flexed, his nails morphing into bone-like claws reminiscent of Sabertooth's own. Holding onto the beastly mutant, Tyson's new claws pierced Sabertooth's tough skin, securing his grip. Yet, within the fierceness of the struggle, a dark pleasure began to tinge Tyson's mind. The intensity of Sabertooth's once fierce resistance began to wane, and his struggles lessened. But Tyson, who was caught between survival and an emerging satisfaction, barely registered the diminishing fight in his adversary.

And then, a torrent of energy hit him, a tidal wave so potent it was almost physical. He felt it surge through him, a wildfire igniting every cell, every nerve in his body. It was as if a dam had burst within him, a flood of raw, uncontrolled power, instincts, and knowledge. The very essence of Sabertooth was absorbed into Tyson, the complete synthesis of his being. He was no longer drawing from Sabertooth; he had consumed him. 

The instant Sabertooth died was unmistakable. The flood of energy surged into Tyson, and then, it was gone. Just like that, the wild, untamed force ceased abruptly, leaving a deafening silence in its wake. The sudden absence was as shocking as the torrent had been. A cold realization washed over Tyson. 

He killed Sabertooth.

Automatically, Tyson's hands fell away from the man. Sabertooth's once imposing form dropped to the ground, an empty husk void of the life it once contained. 

A torrent of emotions swept over Tyson. Relief, undoubtedly, for he had survived and triumphed. But alongside this triumph, there lay a combination of remorse, regret, and a sense of loss. He had taken a life, snuffed out an existence, but somewhere in the depths of his feelings, there was a twisted glint of satisfaction.

Before Tyson could fully process the maelstrom of his feelings, a voice sliced through the silence. "Are you alright?" it asked, startling him. 

The voice was unexpectedly soft. When he turned he found it belonged to a breathtaking woman. Her skin was a flawless shade of brown contrasted by silvery white hair that cascaded around her shoulders. Her eyes were a vibrant blue, further enhancing her unique look. She was clad in a sleek, form-fitting black uniform, a silver X emblazoned over her heart. Tyson was frozen as he looked at the mesmerizing image of Storm from the X-Men. Beside her stood a man wearing a similar uniform, though his featured a ruby-quartz visor over his eyes. The visor gave away his identity as Cyclops. He walked with an air of authority, moving over to the camper to retrieve Wolverine's unconscious body from the hood. 

Storm's gaze fixed on Tyson as she said, "You should come with us." It was not a command, but there was an undeniable undertone of urgency in her voice.

Tyson was numb. The events of the day washed over him like a tidal wave. The adrenaline was wearing off, replaced with a surreal sense of reality. He looked at Storm, then glanced at Sabertooth's lifeless body, and finally at Wolverine's unconscious form in Cyclops' arms.

"I..." He started, then paused, took a deep breath, and nodded. There was nothing left for him here. Going with the X-Men would at least get him back to civilization. "Alright," he agreed, his voice barely a whisper against the falling snow.

Tyson moved toward the woman, who was the mirror image of the actress who played her in the movie. She extended a comforting hand to him. But he abruptly halted, shaking his head with a pained expression.

"You can't touch me," he said with a hoarse voice as he gestured toward Sabertooth's lifeless body. "Or what happened to him will happen to you."

Then, his gaze fell on something that momentarily distracted him from the harsh reality of his situation.

An aircraft stood exuding an air of quiet power. Sleek and jet-black, it looked like a futuristic military fighter, poised and ready to penetrate the skies. Blue lights pulsed softly from its side, adding an ethereal glow to the snow beneath. An imposing 'X' emblem was emblazoned boldly across its side, signaling it was the X-Men's famed Blackbird jet. It looked like they copied the blueprint for the SR-71 and modified it.

He followed Cyclops, who carried the unconscious Wolverine in his arms, and Storm, with her untamed white hair dancing in the chilly wind. As the jet's hatch closed behind him, his mind was a whirlwind of emotions; confusion, fear, a morbid fascination, and a hint of a thrill. But above all else, he felt a sense of isolation. The chilling realization that his gift, his curse, had put him on a path he could no longer stray from. He'd taken a life. It was a lonely thought, but as the Blackbird lifted off into the frigid Canadian skies, Tyson knew he was alone. He wouldn't be able to touch anyone without killing them. How would the other mutants respond to him now that he'd taken a life? And the most glaring question of all… How would he hide his extra-universal origins from the telepaths he'd soon be in the presence of?

~~ Rogue Replacement ~~

When the Blackbird landed, Tyson was led through corridors that seemed pulled straight from a science fiction flick, which they were. Clean, stark, and giving an impression of advanced technology. Eventually, they arrived at a small, utilitarian changing room, the gray walls interrupted only by a full-length mirror and a simple bench. His clothes were shredded remnants of their former selves. Soaked with blood and the unsightly remnants of his life-or-death battle with Sabertooth. Tyson stripped off his dirty rags and hesitantly looked toward the mirror, anticipating the transformation he was about to behold.

What stared back at him was a blend of his familiar appearance and the uncanny.

His eyes, usually a soft brown, were now an intense, predatory amber, the color of Sabertooth's. The high cheekbones and angular jawline were now highlighted by an unnatural ruggedness, a hardened edge reminiscent of Sabertooth's brutish features. His hair lengthened and changed, its previous wooly texture relaxed from an afro into a wild wavy mane. His skin was still the light brown color Tyson had grown up with. But his physique had expanded starkly. He'd been thin when he arrived, now his shape held the raw, untamed strength of Sabertooth, with the muscles to match. 

Staring intently into the mirror, Tyson felt a dissonance between the man he had been and the image staring back at him. His once emaciated build had evolved into a towering and muscular form. Subtle hints of wildness peeked through his eyes, suggesting a dangerous edge. A smirk played at the corners of his mouth as he flexed, admiring his enhanced physique. Beneath the satisfaction of his newfound strength, there lurked a dark thrill when he considered the potential damage this new form could wreak.

Just as Tyson was trying to reconcile his new reflection with his self-image, Storm called from the other side of the door. "Are you finished in there?"

Stepping out, Tyson found himself face-to-face with Storm, "My name's Ororo Munroe," she said, her voice was warm and carried an accent he couldn't place, "But most here call me Storm, or Professor Ororo. The Professor would like to see you now." Emphasizing that 'The Professor' wasn't just 'a professor' like she was.

Storm, or Ororo as she'd introduced herself, had traded her black uniform for casual attire. The simplicity of her ensemble only served to heighten her natural elegance. She wore a form-fitting charcoal gray turtleneck that highlighted her toned arms and the curve of her bust. The black skinny jeans she wore accentuated her lithe, athletic figure, and a pair of low-heeled boots completed her look, giving her an air of relaxed sophistication. Her short, white hair was styled in a way that added to her presence, and her blue eyes were captivating. He was taken aback by her striking beauty. 

Catching himself mid-stare, Tyson cleared his throat and turned his eyes back to meet Ororo's gaze. "Who's The Professor?" he asked, trying to divert his thoughts from the enchanting woman standing before him.

Ororo offered a slight, reassuring smile. "We're currently in the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning. It's a safe place for people like us. Mutants." She paused, allowing Tyson to process this before she continued.

"The Professor is Charles Xavier. He's the founder of this school. He has dedicated his life to fostering peace between humans and mutants, and providing a sanctuary for mutants to learn and grow." The sincerity in her voice was convincing, and Tyson felt a small measure of relief wash over him. 

As they ascended, Tyson couldn't help but marvel at the building around him. Every wall, floor, and ceiling of the institute was sleek, polished to a shine, and vibrantly colored. Artistic murals covered the walls. He could hear the faint echoes of distant laughter and chattering voices, suggesting a thriving, lively community. Sunlight streamed through tall, stained-glass windows, casting kaleidoscopic patterns of light on the pristine floors. As they made their way through the hallways, Tyson glimpsed what looked like classrooms, a library filled with an overwhelming number of books, and even a game room where a group of young mutants were engaged in an intense ping-pong match. The institute felt like a cross between a university and a home.

With each step, Tyson's apprehension lessened. Ororo's calming presence and the strangely welcoming atmosphere of the institute began to lull his fears into submission. Causing him to hope that perhaps he wasn't in trouble.

The door Ororo opened revealed an office that was as much a testament to the man who occupied it as it was a workspace. The room was spacious, with tall shelves lined with books on all sides. Tyson caught sight of titles varying from advanced theoretical physics to classic literature. A large mahogany desk sat at the center, with a computer screen displaying complex diagrams and figures on its surface. An antique chess set was carefully arranged in one corner. Against the backdrop of a floor-to-ceiling window, showcasing a panoramic view of the institute's grounds, sat the unmistakable figure of Professor Charles Xavier. He was in a state-of-the-art wheelchair, his fingers steepled in contemplation, eyes focused on Tyson with an expression that seemed to mix wisdom, kindness, and a hint of curiosity. 

"Tyson," he greeted, his voice carrying the gentle warmth of a teacher welcoming a new student. 

He looked much as Tyson expected. What Tyson hadn't expected was that he had a strange urge to call the man, Captain. 

Professor Xavier continued, breaking Tyson from his thoughts. "Welcome to the Xavier Institute. I'm Charles Xavier, but most of the students around here call me Professor X. I've been looking forward to meeting you."

His gaze was understanding, not invasive, yet Tyson couldn't help but feel like the man could see right through him. He didn't feel threatened, though. Instead, there was a strange sense of acceptance, like he was exactly where he was supposed to be. 

"I'm aware of your abilities, Tyson," Professor X said in a measured tone. "You have a very unique power. One that you must handle with care."

"Am I in trouble?" Tyson asked, getting straight to the point. He expected there might be consequences for killing Sabertooth. Apprehension flickered in his amber eyes as he waited for Professor X's response.

"No, Tyson. Quite the contrary," Xavier replied, holding the young man's gaze steadily. "You're not in trouble. Rather, I believe you're at a crossroads, and that's why I wanted to speak with you."

Tyson exhaled, a weight lifting from his shoulders, but his anxiety didn't lessen. The professor continued, "Your power does not merely copy another mutant's abilities. It absorbs the essence of that person, for lack of a better term. When you absorbed Sabertooth's powers, you also took in his aggressive tendencies, which compounded similar traits from Logan. It wasn't your intention, but it significantly altered your mindset."

Xavier paused, letting his words sink in and giving Tyson a chance to process this revelation. The professor's words resonated with his own recent experience and the aggression he had felt during and since the fight with Sabertooth.

"I'm truly sorry about what happened to Sabertooth," Xavier went on, the sorrow evident in his voice. "It was never my intention for such a tragedy to occur. Ororo and Scott were en route to help, but unfortunately, they arrived too late." After a moment of silence, he continued, "That's exactly why this school exists, Tyson. It's not just to protect mutants from the world, but also to help them protect themselves and others from the unforeseen consequences of their powers. We aim to guide young mutants like you in learning control, understanding their abilities, and using them responsibly."

The sincerity in Professor X's words was palpable. This was a man who had devoted his life to helping others like him. 

Tyson stared at Professor X, his gaze expectant. As the silence stretched on, the question tumbling around in his mind slipped out. "What about my past?"

The professor hesitated for a moment before responding, "Tyson, my abilities allow me to explore the minds of others in ways that most can't comprehend. However, even my abilities have limitations."

Tyson waited.

Xavier wheeled himself closer, his expression serious. "There are moments, rare ones, where certain details elude even my psychic abilities. I've encountered this phenomenon in the past, and it's always baffling. It's like trying to read a book where chapters have been torn out."

He paused for a moment, gauging Tyson's reaction. "In the case of your associate Logan, there are surprisingly large parts of his history that I cannot see. For you, I can't access anything before you woke up in that truck in Canada. Reading you is exceptionally difficult given the second set of memories floating through your mind. The second psyche overlays on top of your own gives you a significant resistance to telepathy."

Tyson's heart rose. The mystery of his past, it seemed, would remain a mystery.

"We might not be able to uncover your past, Tyson," Xavier said softly, "But we can certainly help you navigate your future." 

The silence that followed Xavier's words was potent, filling the room with a hopeful tension that wrapped itself around Tyson. He chewed his lower lip in contemplation, gaze dropping to his hands. Xavier's offer was tempting, it was a good start to acclimating to this new world. But this was a lot to take in. Finally, he raised his eyes to meet Xavier's steady gaze. Tyson nodded, signaling that he accepted the professor's offer. "What now?" he asked.

Xavier's eyes softened, a warm smile forming on his face. "Now, we try to get you settled in."

"Settled in?" Tyson echoed. 

"Yes," Xavier responded, his voice rich with reassurance. Just as the words left Xavier's mouth, a gentle knock sounded at the door, muffled by the thick wood. It cracked open and a voice, bright and full of energy, piped up, "You called for me, Professor?"

"Yes, please come in," the professor responded in a warm inviting tone.

The door swung open wider to reveal a young woman in her late teens. She was dressed in a yellow trench coat, which was left unbuttoned to reveal a pink crop top that showed off her flat stomach. Her tight blue shorts highlighted her athletic build. Her black hair was cropped short, sticking up in places, giving her an edgy look. A pair of round sunglasses rested on her forehead, casting a rosy hue on her almond-shaped eyes. Her vibrant personality seemed to radiate off her, and her confident manner, and colorful sense of style, made her the kind of girl who turned heads wherever she went. Her mouth was curled into a cheeky grin, and her complexion revealed her Asian heritage.

The professor gestured with his hand towards Tyson, "This is Tyson. He's new to our institute. Tyson, meet Jubilation Lee. We all call her Jubilee."