Raskolian Phoenix: wrong
Hairy Gregory: wrong
This should contain at least a partial answer.
When the Professor awoke from the devious lulls of slumber, his wraithlike dreams seemed to have wafted away into the swirl of memories from whence it came. He let himself drift idyllically into the welcoming embrace of Morning coffee, the sounds of his beloved girls rushing off once again to save the day, ignoring the protective pangs of worriment common to all parents whose children may be in any remote danger. He puffed on his pipe a few times, pandiculated as he snatched up the morning paper in preparation of yet another morning sipping his mug of coffee and reading the paper for news of the new villains his precious little girls face and the inevitable subsequent victory praise.
Unfortunately for him, this morning, there would be no mug of coffee and no subsequent victory. He didn't even get a new villain.
First the fate of his cup of freshly brewed coffee was realized when, in shock, he dropped in on his lap. On the front page was an, albeit blurred, photograph of that which had appeared so crispy clear in his nightmares. His creation, his masterpiece. The Imperator of the Army.
He jumped out of his chair, knocking the plates on the table eschew as he leapt for the door. He must warn the girls. He ripped open the door and found himself staring straight into the large unfathomable black eyes, warping on infinitely like looking glass into her black heart. Although he had only seen her alive for a torturous period of time less than a half-hour, those eyes would forever be etched into his soul. His first and greatest foray into genetic science, doomed to failure.
She spoke "Boo"
He felt an interminable dead weight strike the back of his head and he fell into the darkness of her eyes. The last thing she felt before collapsing on the ground was the swish of swirling winds as she flew off into the distance.
Blossom flew towards the last site of the villain's crime spree. This persons crimes were, she thought as she recalled her targets, erratic yet structured. She targeted mostly banks with a fearsome efficiency. She had barely been roused from slumber by the ringing bell before three banks had been robbed and, she grumbled, there were only a few banks left un-hit now. Well, she'd better catch up soon. But the erratic part was thus. Although she'd attacked banks, a logical target for a criminal, other places were attacked. So far the only fatality was a poor clerk who had been killed for apparently no reason. Also she seemed to attack her own too. Two suspected drug-lords were found dead with their wares strewn around them. Who was she and was her purpose? She swooped down to the bank and sifted through the wreckage for clues. It wasn't particularly easy. One thing she noticed was her prodigious strength. The vault door had two neat holes burnt in them and then it was ripped off its hinges. She gritted her teeth as she stared as the scene. There was nothing to do here.
She called to her sisters as she prepared to leave "Come on, we each stake out at a bank. There is no way of knowing where she'll strike next"
Blossom flew off heading towards the marble columns of the bank. There, in the shadows, she waited and waited.
The Professor remembered that day so clearly. She gripped his suit lifted his face to her's. He could remember the raw fear coursing through his veins, how every miniscule sound, the beating of his pulse, the sweat beading on his forehead, all magnified to a terrifying cacophony. She casually threw him aside and resumed her wholesale destruction of the lab. He scrambled out of the door and simply fled. Only his sheer terror kept him from curling up in despair or fainting in exhaustion. Terror and fear pumped his legs, gave his mind the strength to flee. He ran until he could run no more yet fear forced him to run still. Finally he collapsed in the local bomb shelter. As his ragged breaths filled the air a massive brisance erupted drowning out all sounds and terror. He looked at his watch which proclaimed the time 1:23 am. Then it was over, or so it seemed. His life's work, his dreams. The terror. He couldn't quite believe everything was over so fast. The ruptured nuclear generator sent a massive fireball blowing out of the facility. The other Twenty-four head scientists weren't at the presentation. They must be warned. He fumbled for his phone when his hands closed around a small vial. He lifted it out, stared at the interminable darkness of the bottle. Chemical X. The rudimentary draft of his work. He wouldn't tell the world. It would mean his failure. He would never be allowed to enter a laboratory again. The other scientists couldn't exactly recreate his work. He looked at the vial once more. He would create his future anew. Little was he to know how quickly the past was to come knocking on his door.