Marvel: Viral
Chapter 15: Of Countdowns and Clones
…
The courtroom was packed. Lawyers, reporters, grieving families, and legal representatives filled every available seat, the air thick with barely restrained emotion. The weight of expectation, of blame, of justice denied, bore down on Emma Frost's shoulders as she sat in silence at the defendant's table, her expression unreadable, her posture composed but inwardly exhausted.
This was the third hearing this week alone.
And there would be more.
Because no matter how much she wanted to make this right, no matter how much she was willing to pay, to endure, to suffer in the name of reparations, nothing could undo what Sinister had done. Nor her compliance in his schemes.
Forty children.
Forty young mutants and humans.
Each of them had been promised a second chance.
Instead, they had been reduced to lifeless husks, their bodies collapsing in the arms of their horrified guardians as Sinister's contingency plan activated the organic bombs embedded in their skulls, deep within their brain matter, wiping them out instantly.
It had happened before their parents' eyes.
Before the very people who had fought, bled, died, and sacrificed to bring them back.
And now?
Now she sat across from those same parents, their hollow eyes burning into her, their grief a living thing, seething and coiled like a serpent beneath the cold legal proceedings. Even some of the ones who understood that this wasn't directly her fault were just as devastated, there was no easy answer to this.
Emma didn't flinch under their glares.
She didn't dare.
Because no matter how much blame they threw at her, no matter how much venom, how much rage, how much heartbreak, she deserved every single bit of it.
She had stood too close to Sinister.
Had trusted too much in resurrection's promise.
Had believed, even if only for a moment, that they had taken something twisted and made it beautiful.
And instead?
They had all played directly into his hands.
The perfect trap.
Sinister had built a kingdom of false hope, letting them believe in a future where death was nothing more than a temporary inconvenience.
And when the time was right?
He had ripped the rug out from under them.
So no, Emma didn't blame them.
Didn't hate the mothers and fathers and siblings in the courtroom today who were looking at her as though she were the devil himself.
She owed them this.
"…Miss Frost?" The judge's voice pulled her from her thoughts.
Emma inhaled sharply, adjusting her posture. She straightened her white blazer, meeting the gaze of the prosecution's attorney, a man whose own brother had been among the forty slain children.
His voice was steady, but there was an undeniable tremor of barely restrained grief beneath the practiced professionalism.
"Miss Frost," he repeated, tone cold, cutting, and unforgiving, "do you or do you not take full responsibility for the role you played in the resurrection protocols that led to these children's deaths?"
Emma didn't hesitate.
"Yes. I acknowledge that I'm just as guilty as sinister in this…"
A murmur rippled through the courtroom.
The attorney blinked, as if momentarily thrown off by the lack of resistance.
Emma continued, her voice even, clear, but carrying the weight of every sin she had committed.
"I was one of the architects of resurrection. I was one of those who signed off on the contracts. I was one of those who fought to make it a reality. And for that, I take full responsibility."
The murmurs grew louder, a mixture of satisfaction, rage, and disbelief.
The attorney squared his shoulders. "Then you acknowledge that you-."
"I acknowledge all of it," Emma interrupted but her voice was already resigned to whatever verdict they would charge her with, her piercing blue gaze unwavering. "But let me be very clear, I never knew about Sinister's contingency plan. I never suspected that he had installed failsafe's to turn these children into ticking time bombs."
Her voice was steady.
Her heart was pounding.
She turned then, facing the grieving families directly.
"I am sorry, at least know that I am truly sorry." she said simply.
The words felt so small compared to the magnitude of what had happened. Compared to the blood on her hands.
A mother in the second row clenched her fists so tightly her nails drew blood.
"Sorry?" she hissed, voice cracking with grief. "You think that's enough? My sons clone who we decided to raise as our own, my son in heart and mind, died screaming in my arms! His eyes, his body, he just-" She choked on her words, her husband catching her before she collapsed into sobs.
Emma didn't look away.
Didn't dare let herself turn from the pain.
"I know," she finally said. "And I will never forgive myself for letting this happen."
The father's voice was raw, hollow. "You should be the one in the ground, not them!"
Emma's lips parted, but she had no words.
Because he was right.
The prosecution pressed forward. "Then, Miss Frost, are you prepared to answer for what comes next?"
Emma straightened. "I am."
The judge exhaled. "Then let's proceed."
And the trial continued.
The weight of forty lives pressing down on her soul.
And it would never be enough.
…
The trial had already been emotionally draining, but as the next set of documents was brought forth.
One of the prosecution's assistants approached the judge's bench with a file, whispering something low enough that the microphones didn't pick it up. The judge frowned, adjusting his glasses before leaning forward.
"There has been an update regarding additional business dealings connected to Miss Frost," the judge announced, flipping through the paperwork. "It seems there were multiple financial agreements and legal documents finalized under her name, several of them in the last two months."
Emma stiffened slightly but didn't speak yet.
The prosecution's lead attorney, still running on the momentum of the trial, stepped forward with confidence. "Yes, Your Honor, we have clear video evidence and multiple eyewitnesses confirming that Miss Frost was physically present to sign these agreements herself. This further solidifies her involvement in the structuring of the resurrection protocols."
The judge nodded. "Miss Frost, do you wish to respond?"
Emma slowly laced her fingers together and took a measured breath. "I never finalized those agreements."
There was a ripple of murmurs across the courtroom.
The unfazed attorney gestured toward the exhibit screens. "Miss Frost, we have surveillance footage of you, sitting in those meetings, speaking, negotiating, as well as sworn testimony from those in the room with you."
Emma arched a perfectly sculpted brow. "I'm telling you, that wasn't me."
The attorney narrowed his eyes. "Are you suggesting this is fabricated?"
Emma was about to respond when a voice rang out from the witness stand.
"I don't remember any of this either," Kitty Pryde said.
The murmurs in the courtroom grew louder.
All eyes turned to Kitty, who had been called as a character witness but was now caught in a mystery unfolding in real-time.
The prosecution, looking mildly annoyed, turned toward her. "Miss Pryde, you're telling us that you, who were seen with Miss Frost in these negotiations, don't recall being there?"
"I know for a fact I wasn't," Kitty said, raising an eyebrow in confusion. "Because I was in Chicago at the time of this supposed meeting."
The prosecutor took a moment to consider that as he was debating that they might be actually telling the truth in this moment, "Do you have proof of that?"
"I do," Kitty said. "A lot of it."
Before the prosecution could continue, another voice cut in.
"I wasn't there either," Ororo Munroe, Storm, spoke up from where she had been observing.
Emma turned her head sharply to meet Storm's gaze.
"I wasn't anywhere near these supposed deals," Storm said, her voice calm but carrying an edge of warning. "I was handling mutant resettlement efforts during that entire time."
The prosecution hesitated.
The judge flipped through the new documents, his expression growing darker by the second. "There's video footage of all three of you at these business meetings. However,…" His fingers tapped against his desk as his voice dropped into something more measured. "There's also verified footage of Miss Frost in New York at the same time she was supposedly across the country. And several eyewitnesses place Miss Pryde and Miss Munroe elsewhere as well."
A chill swept through Emma.
She didn't need telepathy to know that Storm and Kitty were having the same horrifying realization she was.
She met Storm's gaze. Then Kitty's.
They knew what this meant.
The implications were terrifying.
Sinister.
He had cloned them.
Again.
The prosecution faltered, exchanging glances with their team as if unsure how to proceed.
The courtroom, so filled with grief and rage only moments before, was now buzzing with confusion, with unease.
Emma exhaled sharply, her fingers tightening against the table as she kept her voice steady.
"If you have me signing contracts, and at the same time I was provably elsewhere… then what you have isn't me."
The judge was still sifting through the documents. His face darkened. "This isn't the first instance, either. There have been a string of unusual financial movements tied to Krakoan business holdings that were left over after the mutant nation fell apart, including medical research grants, and what appears to be biological patents signed in your name, Miss Frost."
Emma's jaw clenched.
Kitty was already shaking her head in disbelief.
Storm folded her arms, her expression unreadable, but her eyes burned.
It was so obvious now.
Sinister was still operating.
Even with Krakoa gone. Even after his ultimate betrayal.
The bastard had clones of them walking around, clones making deals in their names, clones forging legal ties to things none of them had ever agreed to.
"Your Honor," Emma said, swallowing the slow burn of rage rising in her throat. "I believe what we're dealing with is an ongoing case of identity fraud on a scale larger than any of us realized."
The judge adjusted his glasses again with a grave expression. "Miss Frost, are you suggesting that-?"
"I am," Emma cut in smoothly. "And we need to find out just how deep this goes."
…
The weight of the revelation hit like a tidal wave.
Emma, Kitty, and Storm wasted no time. They had barely left the courthouse when they contacted Nick Fury. The urgency in their voices left no room for questions.
By the time they arrived at the secure SHIELD headquarters, Fury was already in the middle of a crisis briefing.
A massive holographic display in the center of the room showcased multiple profiles, each one tagged with "POTENTIAL CLONE ACTIVITY – STATUS: UNCONFIRMED".
The list was far longer than anyone expected.
Nick Fury's single eye flicked to Emma as she and the others stepped into the room. His jaw was set, his expression darker than usual.
"Tell me I'm wrong," Fury said, arms crossed, "because I really don't feel like dealing with a full-scale identity infiltration crisis today."
Emma stepped forward, keeping her posture composed despite the deep, gnawing sense of unease growing in her gut. "I wish I could, Director. But this goes deeper than we thought. Sinister's clones aren't just lingering remnants of Krakoa, he's still using them. And if my identity was being used without my knowledge, then there's no telling how many others have been compromised."
Fury exhaled sharply. "Yeah. We figured that part out about an hour ago."
He gestured toward the list of names flickering on the hologram.
Kamala Khan. Steve Rogers. Logan. Daken. Several other mutants and humans, their statuses flagged as unknown, suspected but not confirmed.
Kitty sucked in a breath. "Logan? Daken? You're telling me Sinister's been replicating them?"
Fury's jaw tightened. "We don't have full confirmation yet. What we do have are several reports of anomalous behavior in the past few months, people showing up in places they shouldn't be, contradictions in their whereabouts, missing time in official records."
He turned toward another panel, pressing a button that pulled up a new case file.
"This," he said, "is how we found out just how bad this gets."
The footage that played on the screen showed security camera footage from New York City Hall.
At first, it was just the Mayor of New York, flanked by his usual security detail, making his way into a private office. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Then, chaos.
The Mayor suddenly lunged backward, narrowly dodging an attack from a perfect copy of himself, one that had somehow made it past all security measures.
A struggle broke out. The real Mayor was forced to fight his own doppelgänger, barely managing to avoid being poisoned before alerting his guards.
Two other security officers, both individuals who had worked in City Hall for months, were immediately identified as clones.
They had been planted long ago.
Storm's expression hardened as she stared at the footage. "Sinister's had this in motion for months."
Kitty crossed her arms, shaking her head. "That means he's been laying the groundwork for something. This isn't just about messing with us. He's positioning these clones strategically. Why?"
Fury pressed another button, pulling up additional reports. "We're working on figuring that out. Right now, SHIELD is coordinating with local law enforcement and government officials. We need to alert the suspected victims before they're blindsided."
Emma narrowed her eyes. "How many people don't even know they've been cloned?"
Fury's eye flicked toward her, his expression grave. "Too many."
There was a heavy pause.
Then, Logan's voice rumbled from behind them. "Then we better start tracking the real ones down before this gets even uglier."
Everyone turned.
Logan, still recovering from the events of the last few weeks, looked even more pissed than usual. His claws flexed unconsciously, his nostrils flaring.
Fury didn't argue.
Because, truth be told?
They were already running out of time.
…
Storm sat in the dimly lit chamber of the Arrako Council, her fingers steepled as she listened to the voices around her, voices that had once spoken in respect and camaraderie, now heavy with hesitation.
She knew what was coming.
"You understand why this must be done, Ororo." The voice belonged to Xilo, the ancient mutant seer of Arrako, his stone-like features impassive. "You have undergone resurrection. We cannot ignore what is happening."
Storm met his gaze, unflinching. "You believe me compromised."
"It is not a matter of belief," said Lodus Logos, his words deliberate, weighted with the political balance he sought to maintain. "It is a matter of precaution. Until we confirm that you have not been tainted by Sinister's influence, we cannot risk having you on the Council."
Storm inhaled sharply, not out of anger, but because, deep down, she had been fearing the same thing.
Sinister had left his mark on all of them.
And now, there was proof that something deeper was at play.
The resurrection degeneration sickness, a slow, insidious unraveling of those who had been brought back. Apex had theorized it weeks ago, but no one wanted to believe it. Now, with confirmed results, the truth was undeniable.
She turned her gaze to the others present, Ora Serrata, the warrior who could see truth in all things, stared at her, sorrowful but firm in resolve. Fisher King looked conflicted, his empathy warring with his pragmatism.
"They're right," he said, voice low but steady. "We don't know what Sinister did. And if there's even a chance that something is lying dormant in you… We have to act."
Storm swallowed, then nodded once. "I understand."
It was all she could say. Because what else was there?
They weren't exiling her. They weren't turning against her. But she was no longer trusted. Not until they could be sure she wasn't carrying a dormant time bomb in her very genes.
Her time on the Arrako Council was over.
For now.
And perhaps the worst part was that she didn't blame them.
…
Meanwhile, back on Earth, Apex had been keeping an eye on the final results of the investigation.
Nick Fury had pulled every available resource, working alongside Reed Richards, Sage, and even Tony Stark. What they found was horrifying.
Resurrection wasn't just flawed.
It was a death sentence.
Every mutant who had gone through the process was slowly deteriorating, not just physically, but genetically. The very essence of their mutation was breaking down over time.
Some would last years before it hit them. Others? Maybe months. And the worst part?
There was no cure.
It had been built into them from the start.
Apex exhaled as he reviewed the data. His viral crows perched around the room, watching everything, absorbing every bit of information as it was processed in real time. He tapped his fingers on the table, his mind racing.
Sinister had ensured that even after his death, even after Krakoa fell, he could still make them suffer.
The bastard had planned for every outcome.
Fury, standing across from him, crossed his arms. "We can contain the clones. We can track down whoever else Sinister made copies of. But this?" He gestured toward the screen. "This is a damn nightmare."
Apex turned his red-black gaze toward him. "It's a countdown."
Fury frowned. "To what?"
"Extinction."
Fury didn't argue.
Because, for the first time, they both knew Apex was right.
On Mars, the Arraki leaders weren't the only ones taking precautions.
A conspiracy had begun to take root.
Storm's removal from the Council was only the beginning.
Some Arraki had started questioning everything, who had truly been brought back untainted, who was really still themselves, and who was already too far gone.
The mutants of Mars had built an empire.
But now?
That empire was rotting from the inside.
And Sinister's fingerprints were all over it.
The question now wasn't whether the resurrected mutants would suffer.
It was how long they had left before everything collapsed, and what the mutants of Arrako were willing to do to stop it.
…
The laboratory was a storm of activity.
Sage paced near the main console, her eyes scanning the flood of data that streamed across the monitors faster than even she could process. Tony Stark stood nearby, arms crossed, his eyes flicking between Reed Richards and Quentin Quire, who were deep in discussion about the degenerative patterns now confirmed in every resurrected mutant's genome.
And in the center of it all?
Peter, or Apex as he was known now.
He wasn't just working. He was flooding the room with information at an inhuman speed.
A network of black and red tendrils connected him to every available interface in the lab. His fingers had long since ceased acting like human appendages, instead, each had split into dozens of razor-thin strands, each one tapping at a holographic keyboard at speeds that shouldn't have been possible.
He was typing entire books worth of data per second.
10,000 pages.
In 25 minutes.
And he wasn't stopping.
Every single line of code, every simulation of genetic breakdown, every reconstruction of mutant DNA from before the resurrection process, it was all flowing through him, his brain, no, his very DNA was a living series of quantum computers, working faster than any machine ever could.
Peter didn't even look up. His voice was steady, analytical, spoken without hesitation as he processed another simulation in real-time.
"The degradation is non-random. It's structured. A cascading effect," he stated, his tone matter-of-fact as more data filled the air around them. "Sinister encoded fail-safes in the very foundation of the resurrection process. It ensures that even if someone catches on, it's too late to reverse it."
Reed, hunched over one of the massive screens, rubbed his temples. "That explains why every attempt at stabilization has failed. The degradation is encoded at the molecular level, but the breakdown isn't linear, it's designed to accelerate unpredictably in different mutants."
Quentin Quire, sitting on the table with his arms crossed, grimaced. "That sick bastard played the long game. Even when that particular clone is dead, he's still screwing us."
Peter's tendrils shifted slightly, and the entire display across the lab updated in an instant.
A three-dimensional schematic of mutant genetic deterioration hovered in the center of the room.
A series of glowing, cascading sequences played out in a simulation, each one representing a different resurrection case, showing exactly when the breakdown would start accelerating.
One of the highlighted sections caught Tony Stark's attention.
"Hold up," Tony said, pointing to a red sequence that pulsed ominously. "Why is this pattern different? That's not random degradation. That looks like… programming."
Peter stopped typing.
For the first time in twenty minutes, he actually turned toward them.
He paused briefly then, he spoke.
"Because it is," Peter said, his red-and-black eyes narrowing as more tendrils lashed out, interfacing with another console.
A new projection appeared.
It showed two versions of the same mutant's DNA.
One before resurrection, and one after.
The difference was apparent as he cross referenced them.
Every resurrected mutant had an extra sequence, a hidden genetic marker, buried deep in their codons, one that had no reason to be there.
Reed's expression darkened. "This isn't just decay. This is… intentional sabotage."
Peter nodded slowly.
"It's not just corruption. It's a kill switch one that can be activated by a signal."
The room went dead silent.
Sage, who had been furiously cross-referencing data, froze. "Wait. If you're saying what I think you're saying… that means-."
Peter cut her off. "-That means every single mutant who has ever been resurrected is on a biological timer that he can start at any moment."
A slow, crushing realization settled over the room.
Sinister hadn't just made the resurrection process flawed.
He had made it a weapon.
A time bomb that would go off when they least expected it.
Tony gritted his teeth. "Alright, so tell me we can fix this. Tell me there's a way to undo this bullshit."
Peter was silent for a moment.
Then, he exhaled.
"There's a chance," he admitted. "But… we'd have to rewrite their genetic code from scratch. It's not just removing the fail-safes. We'd have to rebuild the parts of their DNA that have already started unraveling."
Reed's eyes widened. "That would take years of work."
Peter shook his head.
"No. It would take me… maybe a few hours to a day or two."
Everyone stared at him.
Quentin blinked. "What?"
Peter's tendrils curled slightly as he stared at the genetic code before him.
"You're all thinking in linear time, human speeds. I don't work like that anymore," he said, flexing his fingers. "My DNA is basically a hyper-advanced series of quantum-computers. Every single strand of me is a processing unit running calculations at quantum speeds."
He turned toward Reed, Tony, and Sage.
"You said it'd take years? Not for me."
Reed exchanged glances with Tony, his scientific curiosity clashing with the sheer impossibility of what Peter was suggesting.
"You're saying you can process all of this in that amount of time?" Reed asked carefully.
Peter's tendrils flared slightly, as he was already typing away with his extensions at lightning speed.
"I'm saying I already processed half of it in the last hour."
Another silence fell over the lab.
Then, Tony let out a low whistle.
"Holy shit."
…
The minutes stretched into hours, but Apex didn't stop.
He didn't pause.
He didn't hesitate.
He just kept going.
Five minutes in, he was a blur, his tendrils stretching across multiple workstations, tendril hands with too many appendages flying over keyboards, rewriting genetic sequences at speeds no living being should be capable of. The monitors flickered with his calculations, billions of lines of genetic code being run, erased, corrected, and recompiled every second.
Ten minutes in, Sage stepped back, rubbing her temples. She was fast, one of the best minds alive, but even she couldn't keep up. "This isn't just processing power," she muttered, watching Peter's tendrils slither across multiple consoles. "This is… something else entirely."
Twenty-five minutes in, Reed Richards had to reinforce the servers. The amount of data Peter was generating was threatening to overheat even the most advanced computational arrays in the Baxter Building. The liquid-cooling systems were running at full capacity, and Tony had already started remotely expanding server capacity in his own tower just to compensate.
Thirty minutes in, even Quentin Quire had given up trying to follow along. He simply stared, slack-jawed, as Apex operated like a supercomputer given flesh. His brain, if it could still even be called that, wasn't thinking in human speeds anymore.
He was reconstructing entire genetic blueprints from scratch, rewriting the mutant genome itself in real time.
Forty-five minutes in, Peter wasn't just solving the problem anymore. He was engineering a cure.
A programmable, liquid bio-solution, a synthesized genetic serum that could target two things simultaneously:
One…, The Sinister Gene, the hidden, corruptive sequence that had been embedded into resurrected mutants.
Two…, The Kill Switch, the ticking time bomb that would cause irreversible genetic decay.
But he wasn't just neutralizing them.
He was repairing the damage, sequencing an adaptive auto-correction protocol into the liquid itself, ensuring that any degradation was not only halted but actively reversed.
The serum would restore their genetic integrity.
He was rewriting fate itself.
And he still wasn't stopping.
At this point, the others had given up trying to contribute. They couldn't keep up.
Reed had started watching in quiet awe, occasionally stepping in to make minor optimizations, but even he was mostly spectating now.
Tony had long since stopped arguing, shifting instead to upgrading the power supply to prevent a catastrophic shutdown.
Sage had gone from questioning the math to just making sure Peter didn't accidentally break reality with his speed.
And Quentin?
He was staring at the data streams, his arms crossed, his face contorted into something between disbelief and existential dread.
"This should be impossible," he muttered. "This isn't just intelligence, it's evolution at work."
Peter?
Peter didn't respond.
His tendrils lashed out, typing entire sequences across six keyboards at once, his viral crows perched around the room, feeding him constant biofeedback from simulated test runs.
A test tube at the far end of the lab began to swirl.
The synthesized liquid, a programmable, self-adapting repair agent—was beginning to form.
The first step toward a cure.
And Apex was still going.
Still working.
Still rewriting what was supposed to be impossible.
…
By the time dusk settled over the city, Apex had generated an astonishing 288,000 individual genetic sequences, each one a unique solution tailored to a specific mutant's DNA.
He never stopped.
Not once.
From the moment dawn broke, his viral tendrils stretched across the lab, his biomass forming additional limbs and dexterous appendages that worked in sync at multiple workstations simultaneously. The room pulsed with the soft hum of quantum processors struggling to keep up with the data flood, the air thick with the ozone-like scent of overworked circuitry.
At first, Reed Richards, Tony Stark, Sage, and Quentin Quire had tried to keep pace—watching as Apex's calculations materialized at breakneck speeds across holographic displays. But it didn't take long for them to realize the sheer futility of it.
He wasn't working at their level.
He was beyond them.
A living quantum processor, his thoughts accelerating and branching out across thousands of possibilities at once, unraveling Sinister's genetic sabotage strand by strand.
Every 25 minutes, another 10,000 sequences compiled.
By mid-morning, the number had passed 100,000.
By afternoon, it had exceeded 200,000.
And now, as the sun dipped below the skyline, the calculations reached 288,000.
Each one, an antidote. A synthetic, programmable liquid that targeted Sinister's influence on a molecular level, dissolving his genetic tampering while repairing the degradation caused by resurrection.
And yet, Apex still wasn't done.
Tendrils curled and flexed, typing at speeds no human—or even machine—could match. The dim light of the lab cast his shifting form in eerie silhouette, his entire body adapting to the work at hand. His biomass shifted seamlessly, forming additional fingers for precise keystrokes, splitting into multiple segments to cross-reference data in real time.
The servers began to overheat.
Cooling fans spun at max speed, struggling to regulate the temperature, forcing Reed to upgrade them just to keep the system from crashing under the pressure.
But Apex kept going.
No hesitation. No exhaustion. No breaks.
Tony exhaled sharply, rubbing his face. "Okay, this is getting ridiculous. You're not even pretending to be human anymore."
Reed, despite his own genius, was simply staring. "This… this level of computation should be impossible."
Quentin, arms crossed, shook his head. "I stopped trying to understand about three hours ago."
Sage simply smirked, watching the biological supercomputer at work. "And people wonder why he runs half of New York."
Apex ignored them. His focus remained locked, his viral crows perched around the room, feeding him live feedback, cross-referencing variables, adapting in real-time.
And then, he stopped.
The last sequence compiled, blinking into existence on the final holographic display.
The work was done.
288,000 individualized cures.
Every single mutant accounted for.
And for the first time since dawn, Peter Parker, Apex, stepped back.
The lab was silent.
Even the machines seemed to acknowledge the weight of what had just been accomplished.
Peter exhaled slowly, glancing at the others, his voice calm. "I think… that should do it.
…
The test run had to be perfect. There were no second chances.
The resurrected mutants and humans who volunteered for the trial had already begun to show signs of genetic degradation, subtle at first, but worsening with time. Some had experienced weakened abilities, their mutant gifts becoming unpredictable or fading entirely. Others suffered from cellular decay, their bodies struggling to maintain cohesion, as though their very DNA was unraveling.
They needed this cure. Now.
Inside the sterilized chamber, five test subjects were seated in individual medical pods, IV lines inserted into their arms. Their vitals blinked across the monitors, sluggish heart rates, fluctuating body temperatures, unstable cellular structures.
The worst case was a woman named Jonah Kyne, a resurrected human who had unknowingly been brought back with the same flawed resurrection protocols as the mutants. She was barely holding on. Her skin had turned ashen, her hair falling out in brittle clumps, and her breath came in slow, shallow gasps.
She wasn't the only one.
A former Morlock, code-named Spires, had lost the ability to maintain his exoskeletal armor, his once-impenetrable carapace flaking off in brittle shards. A telekinetic named Marrow had begun hemorrhaging internally. Others had similar symptoms, their genetic structures collapsing faster than anyone had anticipated.
Apex stood in the observation chamber, his tendrils coiled tightly, his gaze locked on the readouts.
Reed Richards and Tony Stark monitored the serum as it flowed into the IV lines, injecting into the volunteers' bodies in a slow, controlled release. Quentin Quire and Sage observed from the side, prepared to act if anything went wrong.
And everyone else?
They waited.
There was no precedent for this. No roadmap. Only Apex's calculations and their combined expertise.
Jonah Kyne was the first to react.
Her body tensed sharply as the serum moved through her system, latching onto damaged sequences and rewriting them in real-time. Her breathing hitched, then evened out.
Marrow clutched her head, groaning as her telekinetic field snapped back into place, stabilizing.
Spires' carapace began growing back, smooth, uniform, stronger than before.
It was working.
On every monitor, cellular integrity was stabilizing, faster than anyone had predicted.
Apex exhaled, his gaze flicking between each subject. Waiting. Watching.
"Vitals are stabilizing," Reed confirmed, his voice measured but hopeful. "Genetic restructuring is holding."
Sage tapped at the console. "Mutant X-gene signatures are reinforcing, no further degradation detected."
Tony crossed his arms. "Hate to say it, but the creepy viral overlord did it."
Apex didn't react to the comment. He was watching Jonah.
Her fingers twitched, then curled into a tight fist.
Then, for the first time in months, she opened her eyes, fully alert.
"…I feel normal," she whispered, her voice raw but alive.
Everyone exhaled.
And then, the relief hit.
Quentin ran a hand through his hair, muttering, "Well… I guess we're not all screwed after all."
Logan, standing near the doorway, gave Apex a nod. A rare, quiet sign of approval.
The sooner they got this done, the better…
…
The operation was a logistical nightmare, but they had no choice. Millions of mutants and humans were at risk, and every second counted.
SHIELD, alongside the Avengers, X-Men, Fantastic Four, and various allied organizations, had set up distribution centers across the world, coordinating with local governments to ensure every single resurrected individual received the cure before Sinister's genetic countdown could reach zero.
It was a race against time.
At one of the largest distribution hubs, inside a converted SHIELD facility, Nightcrawler teleported from station to station, relaying updates with a focused determination. Magneto stood near a centralized control hub, using his abilities to manipulate and transport thousands of doses at a time, ensuring that nothing was wasted, and that the injections were being distributed at maximum efficiency. Jean Grey worked alongside Racheal Summers, both using their telepathy to maintain coordination across different locations, tracking the inoculations in real-time and keeping people calm as they underwent the procedure.
Steve Rogers rolled up his sleeve, giving Logan a look before taking the injection. No hesitation. No second thoughts. Just trust. Logan followed suit, grimacing as the serum worked its way through his body. He could already feel it fixing something inside him, something he hadn't even realized was breaking down.
Gabriella, Laura, and Daken received theirs next, each watching the readouts as the serum went to work, reversing Sinister's tampering, neutralizing the kill switch, and reinforcing their DNA to prevent further degradation.
"This is working," Jean whispered, watching as the first wave of mutants being treated started showing signs of improvement. No one was collapsing, no one was convulsing, their powers weren't misfiring or deteriorating. It was stabilizing them.
And yet… they were only ten percent in.
That wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.
Rachel stood near the medical stations, scanning the reports as she updated the records. "We're moving at full capacity, but Sinister must've sensed what we're doing. He initiated the genetic countdown. We don't know how long we have before it reaches its final stage."
Tony Stark's voice crackled over the comms, broadcasting from another distribution center. "We're keeping up on our end, but even working around the clock, it's gonna take time to hit every single one of the resurrected before they start dropping like flies."
Nightcrawler appeared beside them in a flash of blue mist, looking grim. "Then ve don't stop. Ve keep moving until every last one of them has received their dose."
Steve nodded, his jaw set in determination. "We'll get it done."
…
The week that followed was nothing short of relentless.
Across the globe, teams worked around the clock, tracking down every resurrected individual who had yet to receive the cure. SHIELD agents, X-Men, Avengers, and independent search teams combed through cities, rural towns, and the most isolated corners of the world, making sure no one was left behind.
For most, the cure arrived in time. Millions were successfully inoculated, their genetic degradation halted before it could reach the point of no return. But for some… it wasn't enough.
As reports trickled in, the true cost of Sinister's final act of cruelty became clear.
The isolated, the homeless, the forgotten, they were the ones who suffered the worst.
Some were found in time, but only barely. Search teams described finding mutants mid-seizure, their bodies wracked with tremors, bleeding from their eyes and mouths, their hair falling out in clumps. Others were already in the late stages of catastrophic organ failure, their bodies shutting down as medics scrambled to inject them, to do anything to stabilize them.
Some pulled through.
Hospitals across the world were filled with survivors, mutants and humans alike, who had received the cure at the last possible moment. They were weak, many unconscious, but they would recover.
But for 1,127 individuals, it was too late.
The cure had no effect on those whose bodies had already sustained irreversible damage. Some had simply collapsed in the streets before they could be found. Others had been discovered in shelters, abandoned buildings, or alone in their homes, their bodies already too far gone to be saved.
For those who had tried to hold on, the final moments were agonizing. The genetic collapse had reached its peak, blisters rupturing across their skin, bones weakening, muscles liquefying as their bodies fought in vain to hold themselves together. Some cried for help. Others died before they even knew what was happening.
The final toll weighed heavily on everyone involved.
In New York, Peter stood in silence, staring at the list of names displayed on the holographic screen in front of him. The 1,127 confirmed deaths burned into his vision, the weight of each one settling deep in his chest. He had done everything in his power—typed until his tendrils ached, synthesized until he pushed the limits of reality itself—and yet, it hadn't been enough.
Sinister had still won, in some small, cruel way.
Across the room, Jean, Magneto, Storm, Logan, Rachel, and the rest of the X-Men all processed the loss in their own way. Some stood quietly, fists clenched. Others turned away, unable to look at the sheer magnitude of names on the screen.
Nick Fury, arms crossed, exhaled sharply. "We did what we could."
Peter didn't look at him. He couldn't.
He just stared at the names.
No amount of work, no amount of genius, science, or power could bring them back.
And that was something he would have to live with.
…
Logan was just finishing up business at one of the SHIELD checkpoints when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He wasn't the kind of man who flinched at bad news, but something about the urgency of the call put him on edge before he even answered.
He pressed the device to his ear. "Yeah?"
"Logan," came the tight voice on the other end. "You need to get down here. Now."
It was Bishop. And he sounded pissed.
Logan exhaled sharply, already moving. "What's goin' on?"
There was a pause. "We've got a problem. A big one."
Logan's boots hit pavement hard as he made his way toward his bike. "Define big."
Bishop let out a sharp breath, clearly holding back frustration. "Your clones. We picked up a few of them after a killing spree up north. They were tearing through some labs, hunting for genetic material, Sinister's orders."
Logan's grip on the phone tightened. "How many?"
"Too many. And they're not just killing, Logan. They're retrieving." Bishop hesitated. "They think they're on a mission."
Logan swung his leg over his bike, the words making his stomach turn. "Mission?"
"Yeah," Bishop said. "And it gets worse. We managed to capture one alive after we managed to restrain him, and when we interrogated him…" Bishop trailed off before finishing, "Logan, he thinks Krakoa is still standing. He thinks he was resurrected by the Five."
Logan froze, the engine rumbling under him.
"No," he muttered. "No way."
"He doesn't know any of this is Sinister's doing," Bishop continued. "He thinks he's fighting for the mutants who 'died in the collapse.' He thinks he's saving them. He still believes in the dream, Logan. And that's exactly what Sinister wants."
Logan closed his eyes for a long moment, feeling a deep, simmering anger coil in his chest. Sinister had already played them like a goddamn fiddle, twice, and now he was twisting the knife in a way that wasn't just cruel, it was surgical.
Sinister wasn't just cloning them.
He was manipulating their memories, warping them, weaponizing them. And worst of all? He was using hope as a leash.
Logan grit his teeth. "Where is he?"
"Underground SHIELD facility," Bishop said. "We got him locked up, but Logan… he's convinced he's doing the right thing. And he's not the only one out there."
Logan opened his eyes, the cold weight of reality settling in his bones. He didn't need Bishop to spell it out for him.
This was going to get a hell of a lot worse before it got better.
"Keep him locked down," Logan said, voice low, sharp. "I'm on my way."
And with that, he tore off down the street, engine roaring, rage burning hot beneath his skin.
…
The SHIELD holding facility was cold, sterile. The kind of place that reeked of disinfectant and unspoken threats. Logan stalked down the corridor, the overhead lights buzzing faintly as he approached the containment cell.
Inside, slumped on the cot, was him.
The clone sat with his elbows on his knees, fingers tangled in his thick hair. He hadn't spoken much since they brought him in. But he didn't need to. Logan could smell it, confusion, anger, and, beneath it all, that gnawing scent of doubt.
The clone knew something was wrong.
Logan stopped outside the reinforced glass, exhaling through his nose. "Alright," he muttered. "Let's get this over with."
The door hissed as it unlocked, and Logan stepped inside.
The clone looked up, eyes sharp, wary. His nostrils flared slightly, and Logan saw the exact moment the realization hit.
"...What the hell?" the clone muttered, standing slowly. His voice was just as gruff, just as gravelly, but edged with something Logan didn't have anymore, uncertainty.
Logan didn't move, just crossed his arms. "Yeah. Figured you'd notice that real quick."
The clone took a cautious step forward, sniffing again, confusion deepening. "You smell like me," he said slowly. "But... not right." His jaw clenched. "What is this? What kind of sick trick-?"
"It ain't a trick," Logan interrupted, his tone baring the honest truth. "It's the truth. You ain't who you think you are."
The clone scowled. "Bullshit."
Logan sighed. "Yeah? Then tell me somethin'. What's the last thing you really remember?"
The clone hesitated, shoulders tensing. "Krakoa," he said, slowly. "The Quiet Council. The Five. The collapse. The war that followed. We were supposed to save the ones who-…?"
He stopped. Because even as the words left his mouth, something wasn't right.
Logan nodded grimly. "Krakoa's gone. Been gone a long time. And it wasn't no war that took it down."
The clone's fists clenched. "No. That's-, That's not possible."
Logan took a step forward. "It ain't just possible, bub. It's the truth."
The clone stared at him, breathing harder. "Then, then why was I resurrected?" His voice was rising, desperate now. "The Five, they wouldn't-."
"They didn't," Logan said flatly. "'Cause they ain't around to do it. Resurrection was always a lie. Always a damn trick."
The clone blinked, his whole body going stiff. "No!", he breathed. "No, that, That doesn't make sense!"
"You ain't resurrected," Logan continued, his voice low, steady. "You're cloned. Manufactured. Just another piece of Sinister's twisted game."
The clone shook his head violently. "No. No, I remember-."
"'Cause he wanted you to," Logan snapped. "That's the trick. He gave you those memories, but they ain't real, bub. They're just stories in your head, ones he put there. You're not who you think you are."
The clone took a shaky step back, looking at his own hands like they belonged to someone else. His breath hitched, his muscles twitching like he wanted to fight, like he needed something to lash out at.
"You're lyin'," he muttered, but Logan could see it, he didn't believe that.
Logan exhaled, stepping closer, lowering his voice. "I ain't lyin'. And deep down? You know it."
The clone's breathing was ragged, erratic. He looked at Logan, really looked at him, and in that moment, Logan saw it. The crack. The tiny, splintering moment where reality settled in.
"I..." The clone swallowed. "What the hell am I supposed to do with this?"
Logan didn't answer immediately. He just looked at him, at this other version of himself, this lost, confused wreck of a man who had just realized his whole existence was a lie.
And then, quietly, Logan said, "You decide. 'Cause you ain't gotta be what he made you."
…
Logan stepped outside, the cool night air hitting his face as he exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The past twenty minutes had been a lot, for both him and the clone he had just left behind.
He had seen many things in his lifetime, faced countless horrors, but nothing quite compared to staring at himself, at a version of him built on a lie, one that believed in a dream that had already burned to ash.
It had been too much.
So he stepped away. Gave the clone time, hell, gave himself time.
And as he leaned against the railing outside the facility, trying to shake the weight pressing against his ribs, he wasn't surprised when he felt her presence before he even saw her.
Jean.
She didn't say anything at first, just walked up beside him, her warmth a familiar comfort against the cold.
Logan let out a slow exhale, looking straight ahead. "Figured you'd be waitin'."
Jean folded her arms over her chest, leaning slightly beside him. "Figured you'd need someone to talk to."
Logan smirked, but it was tired, heavy. "Talk, huh?" He glanced at her. "You already know what's in my head."
Jean smiled softly. "That's not the same as hearing you say it."
Logan sighed, running a hand through his hair before looking back out into the night. "You know… ever since this whole mess started, since Krakoa went up in flames, I've been tellin' myself I wasn't surprised. That I always knew Sinister was playin' us."
Jean was quiet, listening.
Logan's hands clenched against the railing. "And I did. From day one, I knew that bastard was screwin' with us. We all did. But you wanna know what pisses me off?" He turned his head slightly, looking at her. "I let it happen."
Jean's brows furrowed. "Logan…"
"No," he shook his head. "I brushed it off. Told myself we'd handle it. That we'd outmaneuver him, outfight him, that we'd come out on top." He exhaled sharply. "That we'd just bring back anyone we lost."
Jean's expression softened, but she didn't interrupt. She let him speak.
"I bought into it," he admitted, voice quieter now. "Just like everyone else. Told myself it'd be fine, that resurrection was just… part of the new normal. But looking back now?" He shook his head. "All it did was make us forget how damn precious life was."
Jean blinked, surprised by the rawness in his voice.
Logan let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "Ain't that somethin'? Me, of all people, thinkin' about what it means to live."
Jean stepped closer, turning slightly to face him. "You've always valued life, Logan," she said softly. "You just don't always let yourself admit it."
Logan scoffed. "Yeah, well…" He trailed off, staring out at the darkened skyline. "Looking back at all of it… makes me think about us. About all the things we did. All the things we didn't do."
Jean's expression turned pained for a moment before she reached out, resting a gentle hand on his arm. "We can't change what happened. But we can still move forward for those that we lost."
Logan glanced down at her hand before looking back at her. "You really believe that?"
Jean's green eyes met his, filled with understanding. "Yeah," she said softly. "I do."
…
Elsewhere in a hidden location, the only source of light coming from a single projector displaying surveillance footage, data logs, and failed mission reports. The atmosphere was tense, the weight of repeated failure pressing heavily on everyone in the room.
This wasn't just a Hydra meeting.
This was bigger.
Around the table sat representatives from Hydra, Orchis, AIM, remnants of the Hand, and even several high-profile mercenary groups. The supervillain underworld had grown restless, irritated, and, above all, desperate.
The topic of discussion?
Apex. His viral-mutant hybrid family. And the fact that every attempt to extract even the smallest biological sample from him had ended in abject failure.
A masked Hydra operative tapped at the stack of mission reports in front of him. His voice was cold, measured, but there was an undercurrent of frustration. "Another twelve attempts. All unsuccessful."
One of the Orchis scientists, a man with sharp-rimmed glasses and a nervous tick, adjusted his notes. "Not only unsuccessful, catastrophic. Every agent sent into Apex's domain was either apprehended, critically injured, or neutralized. The ones who survived were all turned in, allowing Apex to collect the bounties on their heads."
A man in a dark, neatly pressed suit scoffed, shaking his head. "So now the bastard's profiting off our failures."
The scientist didn't look up from his notes. "He's been profiting for months."
There was a long silence as that fact sank in.
One of the mercenary commanders, a grizzled veteran with a deep scar running down the side of his face, exhaled sharply. "Every assassin, every operative, every expert in espionage that's been hired, none of them have even gotten close. Hell, we even tried to extract a sample from one of those damn crows last week, and that went up in smoke, too."
A cybernetically enhanced Orchis strategist, known only as Agent Reinhardt, steepled his fingers. "He knows everything that happens in New York. Every street, every rooftop, every damn alley. His crows are an extension of him, and whatever bio-echo system he's using lets him see and hear through them in real-time. There is no infiltration, no planting spies, no approaching without being detected."
The Hydra operative looked toward the man sitting at the far end of the table. "Even Doom has grown concerned."
A heavy silence followed.
Doctor Doom's presence at these meetings was rare, but even in absence, his influence was felt.
A woman, clad in a sleek black tactical suit, leaned forward. "So, what's the plan? You're all telling me what we already know. Apex has turned New York into a fortress—we can't get past his bio-network, we can't send in mercenaries, and every attempt to engage him ends with us losing resources and men."
The suited man who had spoken earlier exhaled, tapping his fingers against the table. "We have another problem," he said. "A third one."
The room stilled.
Because they all knew what he meant.
David.
The child of Apex and Rachel Summers.
The viral-mutant hybrid.
The unknown factor.
A younger scientist, an expert in bio-weaponization, spoke carefully. "David is… learning at an unprecedented rate."
An Orchis commander folded his hands. "Define 'unprecedented.'"
The scientist adjusted his notes. "It's been less than a month since his birth, and he's already processing information at the level of a high-level academic. His intelligence is…" He hesitated, clearly disturbed by what he was about to say. "Off the charts. His neural activity surpasses human limits. He's… he's evolving. Faster than anything we've seen before."
The mercenary commander grunted. "You're telling me this kid is already smarter than half the people in this room?"
The scientist didn't respond.
Because they already knew the answer.
Another agent clicked through the latest intelligence updates, pulling up a file on David's early development. Surveillance had been limited, but what little information they had gathered was alarming.
"He started kindergarten this week."
One of the assassins raised a brow. "He's already in school?"
"No," the scientist corrected, flipping through his notes. "He's already outpacing the curriculum."
The room fell silent again.
A child, a viral-mutant hybrid not even a month old, was already learning at a rate surpassing their brightest minds.
Someone muttered under their breath, "This is getting out of hand."
The Orchis strategist looked at the group of assembled figures, his tone low but carrying an edge now. "We are dealing with something unlike anything we've ever seen. Apex alone has been a problem. But with Rachel Summers now fully integrated with the virus, and with their son growing into something that defies all known limits…"
He looked across the table, his next words chilling.
"We aren't just up against a superpowered threat anymore." He exhaled slowly. "We are up against an evolutionary shift."
The room tensed.
The silence was suffocating.
Because they all knew the implications.
Apex had rewritten himself at the genetic level. Rachel had adapted seamlessly. And now? Their child was outpacing human comprehension.
And they still had no way to stop it.
For the first time, true desperation crept into their voices.
Because if New York was already a fortress, what would happen if Apex decided he didn't want to just protect his home anymore?
What if he decided to expand?
The tense silence in the room was shattered by a sharp beep from one of the encrypted terminals at the far end of the table. A high-ranking Orchis operative, a man with neatly combed gray hair and a face carved from stone, reached for the secure tablet, eyes narrowing as he skimmed through the fresh intelligence report.
Then he froze.
The blood drained from his face.
"...No."
Heads turned sharply toward him.
One of the Hydra officers leaned forward, his voice edged with suspicion. "What is it?"
The Orchis operative's fingers twitched around the tablet, his eyes darting across the screen, double-checking the data, but it didn't change.
It couldn't change.
Slowly, he exhaled, the sheer gravity of what he was about to say settling into the room like a loaded gun.
"Rachel Summers is pregnant again," he said.
A stunned pause followed before the room erupted into whispered murmurs, words overlapping in disbelief and barely contained panic.
Another one.
Another viral-mutant hybrid.
One wasn't bad enough, wasn't unprecedented enough?
Someone slammed their fist against the table, demanding clarity. "How long till the fourth one enters the world?! She just gave birth!"
The scientist swallowed hard, his voice tight. "...One week."
Dead silence.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
A week.
Just like last time.
They barely had time to comprehend David, the first one, and now, another one was on the way.
The Orchis strategist, who had been meticulously detailing plans for months on how to deal with the first child, was now gripping his pen so hard it snapped between his fingers.
"This is impossible," one of the bio-weapons specialists muttered. "There's no way, biologically, it shouldn't-!"
But it was happening.
And that was the problem.
They hadn't even figured out how to handle the first child yet, and now, Rachel was going to give birth to another viral hybrid in a matter of days.
This was spiraling.
Every plan they had, every countermeasure, every attempt to contain this nightmare, was already obsolete.
Because Apex and Rachel weren't just growing stronger.
They were multiplying.
And no one, not Hydra, not Orchis, not the world's most elite mercenaries or the most powerful supervillains, had any idea how to stop it.