Her heart thumped in her chest, blood roaring through her ears as she stalked quietly down the corridor. Her gun was drawn, held near her hip, and she could feel the cool metal as her finger brushed the trigger. Her breath came in short, sharp breaths, both from her nerves and her physical exertion.
The torch lighting the way down the dingy passage was held in her other hand, and she was grateful for the sliver of light it provided her. She'd struck out on her own this time, something she knew her superiors would kick her ass for later, but for now all that mattered was the operation.
Just a few moments before she'd been able to hear the agents on the upper and lower floors, imagining them in their hunting packs, carrying rifles like they were off to war. But now it was silent, and the only sound came from the workings of her body and the small whispers of her imagination.
Then she reached the end of the corridor, a small rusted door situated directly in front of her. She imagined what would happen next, her subconscious wild with activity. Maybe he'd be in there. Maybe not. Maybe he'd be climbing out the window, or cocking a gun of his own. Probably the latter.
She raised her gun so it was hovering by her shoulder and barged through the door.
Splinters of wood flew everywhere, her nostrils filled with sawdust. They were also filled with the stench of flesh and blood. In the corner, a dissecting table covered in splotches of blood and accompanied by a set of shimmering surgical instruments. Next to her, his desk, covered in magazine and newspaper clippings. And finally, on the far wall, were his trophies, skulls of his victims adorning the shelf above a plush leather.
Then she heard a creak. She whipped around, gun held forward, mouth opening to curse, hair flying behind her…
"And that's where it ends." Irene finished, leaning back in her chair and staring at the mousy woman in front of her.
Her long, straggly hair hung over her clipboard, thickly rimmed glasses pushed far up her nose, shoulders hunched as she inspected her patient.
"Ends? You mean you don't remember anything else after that point?" The therapist's voice was harsh and nasally.
"Well… no. No I don't. After that it's all hazy."
"Ok. And have your superiors informed you of what happened afterwards?"
Irene rolled her eyes.
"Yes."
"Agent Allen, It's my duty to inform you of our reasoning for prescribing you mandatory leave from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Keep in mind throughout this process that we are not required to give you an explanation and this is a privilege awarded to you as thanks for your many years of service with our organisation. Also keep in mind that this meeting is being recorded and anything you say may be used as evidence in a future investigation. You are not permitted to share this information with anyone outside of our division under the employee NDA you signed when you joined us in May of 1955. Do you understand and agree to these terms?"
She trained her gaze on the man in front of her. Balding, eyebrows furrowed, lips drawn in a thin line.
"I understand, sir."
The man picked up a manilla file and flicked through it, landing on a page that had been marked for him.
"Your name is Irene Allen and on the 15th of October 1961 you were involved in an incident on 83 Parkwood Street, New York State. Is that correct?"
"Yes sir."
"And if I have been informed, you are to be officially discharged next week on the 21st of November 1961?"
"That is correct."
The man's face remained blank and unchanging. "Good. You were found on the scene, passed out, by two of your colleagues. You had separated from the group, several minutes before, and made your way down a passageway. At the end there was a door, and you forced your way through it. Are these events correct, as to your recollection?"
"Yes."
"Now, you told agents on the scene that you do not remember anything after you forced your way into the room?"
"Yes, I did."
"Has this changed since then and has any new information come to mind?"
"No it has not." Irene could already feel herself growing tired of this man's line of questioning.
"I understand. Agent Allen, please prepare yourself for what I am about to tell you. When you were found, your service revolver was on the table. Two of the available rounds had been shot, one of the bullets being found in the ceiling. Opposite you was a man by the name of Arthur Murray, who had been shot once in the temple. Does this bring back any memories from that night?"
"Can you talk me through how you felt? When they told you what happened?" The voice of the therapist penetrated her skull once again.
Irene took a deep breath, closing her eyes tightly, before answering the woman.
"I'm afraid I'm not allowed to talk about that."
"Yes, I'm aware of that, however I'd like you to explain your feelings when you found out the information."
"Um, I don't know. Shock?" She could feel her patience wearing thin already. Damned federal therapists.
"Is that all? Come now, you're a very intelligent woman, I'm sure you can think of more than that."
"Scared."
"Scared of what?"
"Myself."
The rest of the therapy appointment had dragged on, and Irene was forced to suffer through an entire hour of repeating phrases. "You can open up." "I'm here to help you." Typical hippy bullshit.
They'd only brought in mandatory therapy for federal agents only a year ago, and it was Irene's shitty luck that she'd be one of the first to suffer through it.
At first she'd thought it'd be useful, maybe it'd even be a way to get herself out of 'temporary leave'. Turns out it was a complete and utter waste of time. Each week the therapist (she wasn't important enough to warrant a name) rehashed the same series of 'events', and each week Irene trudged back home with a piece of paper, her next appointment time written in bold handwriting.
More than once she'd tried to change the therapist's emotions so that she'd just give her the all clear, but as it turns out making that woman cheerful was no mean feat. And even the few times she'd succeeded it hadn't changed her opinion about her. Fat lot of help her supposed power was.
And so, as she wandered through the bustling streets of New York, she considered giving up. Maybe she could get a job at a local diner. They were always looking for dropouts to help wait tables. Although, she wasn't exactly the typical dropout.
Or maybe a bar. Bartenders were always sick fucks. Miserable. Somewhat traumatised.
Seemed like a perfect fit. She'd always had a way with alcohol.
It'd been a year since the incident. Who says she shouldn't get on with her life? Why should she wait around for the FBI to realise what they'd lost?
She was pulled from her musings, by her body suddenly colliding with something. She jumped back sharply, looking up slightly to see a man staring down at her. His eyes were shockingly blue, in a way that was almost painful to look at, and his face carried a curious, but strangely warm expression.
He had placed two fingers on his temples and now began to stare even more intensely at her.
"Shit, sorry about that. Have a nice day." Irene managed, chiding herself for being so careless. Maybe the FBI hadn't lost much after all. She strode away quickly, trying to save herself from further humiliation.
She ignored the man calling out to her as she merged in with the crowds, her slight form getting lost in the mass of people.
When she finally arrived home, Irene quickly settled into her evening routine. She always kept the main lights off in her dingy apartment, unable to bear the constant buzzing noise that came from them. Instead she switched on a few smaller lamps and the TV for a light source.
For the last year she had always avoided the news like the plague. Nothing like world events to depress you even more than you previously thought possible. She preferred something mindless, some trashy crime drama or cheesy comedy. And so she turned the volume up on the TV, taking comfort in round after round of canned laughter whilst she was cooking her dinner.
Everything was as it always was. Until the sudden knock at her door. No one knocked on her door, not for the last year. And so she was suddenly on high alert. She grabbed her old revolver from beside her (as bad as it was, she couldn't relax unless it was in arms reach) and approached the door to her apartment.
She held the gun close to her side, making her way down the hall, and she was suddenly struck with the irony of the moment. A rush of deja vu came over her and she was lost in memory again.
She could see the rusted door, picture herself barging through it. The dissecting table, the shimmering instruments, the skulls, the desk, and the chair. Murray.
Thankfully, she was dragged from her subconscious as the knock came again. This time she was closer, and could hear hushed voices. Two people? Two men. Irene closed in on the door, holding her revolver in one hand as she opened the door, careful to keep the chain in place.
She peered through, surprised to see a set of bright blue eyes staring back at her. She immediately recognised them. The guy she bumped into.
He opened his mouth to say something, but it was too late, and she slammed the door in his face.
"What do you want?!" She shouted, her back pressed against the door, gun held up.
"Listen, Irene, we just want to talk, we're not here to hurt you-"
"How do you know me?! How do you know where I live?"
She got no answer, but she heard the voices talk again. It sounded like they were arguing.
"If you let me in, I'll explain everything, but just know-" The blue-eyed-man was then cut off by his companion.
"Move Charles." He sounded fed up.
Then the door was swinging open of its own accord, the chain flying out of position. Irene stumbled back in shock. She raised her weapon, pointing it at the two men in an accusatory manner.
Yet again, the blue-eyed man (Charles?) tried to reason with her.
"Just put the gun down, we're not here to hurt you."
"I'm not putting it down until you tell me who you are. And how you know me." Irene remained firm, furrowing her brow until her eyes were narrow slits.
Charles' companion just rolled his eyes, waving his hand as the gun flew out of Irene's grasp and into his own.
Now she was silent, gaping at the two men who had forced their way into her home.
"Come on. We need to talk." The man said, authoritative as he strode down the hall.
Irene stayed silent as she followed, still trying to get to ahold of the situation in her mind.
When she re-entered the kitchen, Charles' friend was sitting at the table, inspecting her revolver.
"Your food's burning." He said. Clearly he was a man of few words.
"Yeah, no thanks to you two." Irene muttered under her breath, moving to turn off the stove, before binning the burnt remains of her meal.
When she turned back around, they were both at the table, and she made a move to sit across from them.
"It's loaded." The man remarked.
"What is?" She snapped back, already sick of his mysterious bullshit.
"Your gun."
"Yes. I find that they tend to be the most useful when they're loaded. Have you been using them to bludgeon people all this time?" She replied. The man sneered at her.
"Right, now that we've gotten that out of the way, would either of you explain how you showed up at my house? And how you know my name? Oh and how you performed that little party trick earlier?"
"Yes, of course." Unsurprisingly, the more diplomatic of the pair was the one to speak up, "My names Charles Xavier, and this is a colleague of mine, Erik Lehnsherr. We're here to ask for your help, and to find people like us."
"People like us? And what kind of people would those be?" Irene chose to play dumb. For all she knew they were from the government, trying to catch her out.
"We're not from the government, and we're not trying to catch you out. We know you have powers, and we do too. We feel you could be a great asset to us."
Irene's jaw dropped slightly, and she felt a sudden wave of understanding pass over her.
"You, you can read my mind?"
Charles nodded.
She turned to Erik, "And you, you can move things?"
"Just metal, but yes."
"Wait, so how do you know I have powers?"
"I'm telepathic Irene. I recognised it in you as soon as I bumped into you this afternoon." Charles smiled softly at her, as she fought through the rush of thoughts in her head. Until she found one standout question.
"How do you know I'll be an asset?" She asked.
"What?"
"You have no idea what my power is. It might be useless. How do you know?" She suddenly grew defensive, and Charles could feel her closing off.
Instead it was Erik who piped up.
"You're former FBI. I doubt you'd be entirely useless."
At this, Irene's expression immediately grew cold.
"So that's what you're here for. Well I've got no information for you. Sorry. Now if that's all you wanted please leave me alone."
"Irene-" Charles started, but again Erik beat him to it.
"You know that's not what I meant. Don't be a child. All I'm saying is that you have some pre-existing fighting ability."
Irene huffed, "And why do I need fighting ability?"
"That can be explained later. For now, tell us what your mutation is." Charles was clearly trying to regain control of the situation before Erik and Irene exploded at each other.
"Mutation?"
"I'll explain that later too." He grinned sheepishly, "So, what's your power?"
Irene felt herself grow slightly sick at the idea of it. Of explaining her powers. Especially to two people who had impressive and useful abilities.
"It's not very interesting, but I'm going to need a test subject to show you."
Charles and Irene both looked at Erik, and he quickly caught on.
"Does it have to be me?" He said, seeming uninterested.
"Trust me, I'm as unenthused as you are, but I'm not sure how well it'll work on Charles."
Erik sighed. "Fine."
Him and Irene both stood up, facing across from each other, whilst Charles watched curiously.
"So what do you need me to do?"
"Nothing. Just stay still."
Irene walked up to him, mustering her powers in as much strength as she could, and Erik watched as her eyes went entirely black, and blue veins shot through her face. And then she placed her hand on his shoulder, and he was overtaken with emotion.
And, much to Charles' shock, he began to sob. Hard. Streams of tears ran down his face, and he seemed to be babbling about something. His shoulders shook as he continued to cry, and Irene just stared at him sheepishly, patting his shoulder.
Charles watched as her eyes went black again, yellow veins carving through her skin as she kept her hand firmly on Erik. Suddenly, the tears stopped, and he straightened up. And he grinned. Fully smiled.
But just as quickly as the change had happened, it was gone, Irene stepping backwards as her eyes returned to normal. Erik too, returned to his usual self, face dropping and brows furrowing as he tried to work out what had happened to him.
"How-" He started.
"My powers allow me to change people's emotions." Irene shrugged, "Not super useful if you ask me."
Charles stared at her in complete shock, both from what he had just seen and from her self-deprecating attitude. "How does it work? Do you have to be touching the person?"
"No, but it's stronger that way. And easier for me to keep up. I can do more than one person at once if I really try, but the effect gets weaker the more people you include."
"And you can do any emotion?" His mind buzzed with opportunities.
"Pretty much, yeah."
Charles broke out into a grin. "Irene, I think I have the perfect opportunity for you. We'll explain on the way."
3 hours later, the group was touching down on the runway in Virginia. It'd taken roughly the first 2 hours of the flight to get her up to speed, both with the possibility of mutants (science had never been her strongest suit) and with the threat that was currently facing them.
The remaining hour of the flight had been spent in relative silence, Charles was sleeping across from her, and Erik sat reading the newspaper behind her. He hadn't uttered a word since they'd left, and Irene was fairly certain it was because of what her 'mutation' had done to him.
So when the plane finally landed at their destination, she was happy to be on land again. And she was even happier to see a familiar face.
"Moira?" She grinned, the redheaded woman looking up to see her old friend.
"Irene!" The two women came forward for a hug, laughing at the coincidence. Irene was the first to pull away, a confused expression on her face.
"Wait, why are you here? Not that I'm upset about it."
"I could ask you the same thing! I haven't seen you in a year and suddenly you turn up here!" Moira's voice took on a sudden chiding tone. She had always treated Irene as though she were her younger sister, despite the fact she was several years younger.
"Yeah," She laughed, "Sorry about that."
Charles then interrupted. "Moira, Irene here is a mutant too."
Moira's jaw dropped in shock, and Irene winced, but as she looked back at the redhead, all she saw in her eyes was admiration.
"Wait so you're not here with the bureau?"
"No, I'm on 'temporary leave'. They think I'm too unstable after the… incident." Irene responded, and Moira nodded, understanding.
"I don't mean to rush you both, but I think it'd be better to continue our conversation back at the facility." Charles interjected yet again, although not unkindly.
"Oh, yeah, of course."
At that Irene grabbed her bags and moved to put them in the boot. She was just about to ask the agent to open it for her, but Erik got there first, waving his hand and sending it flying open, almost hitting her square in the face. Luckily, she managed to jump back just in time. She turned to shoot him a glare, but he ignored her, throwing his coat in and shutting the boot again with his powers.
She sighed, wondering exactly how much she'd offended him that he could be quite so petty. Whatever the reason, she was already sick and tired of her new colleagues' attitude.