Author's Note: I had a rough few days with work. The patient load was immense. That said, I opted for a more introspective approach to this chapter. Do enjoy. As always, feedback is appreciated.
VI: Ember III
The city feels alive, and so do their minds.
New York thrums with an energy that reaches deeper than the rumble of engines or the chatter of voices. It is a pulse, a living thing, each beat a brush of consciousness against my own. Thousands of minds surround me—each a light in the dark, a candle in the wind. I feel them all.
I try not to.
I have walls in my mind, built brick by brick, scar tissue over open wounds. They hold back the flood of thoughts, keep the whispers at bay, but I can feel the pressure. It gnaws at the edges, seeking cracks, testing for weakness.
I stand in the center of an intersection, and the world around me has stopped.
People line the sidewalks, a sea of faces painted with fear and fascination. Some grip their phones, capturing me through fractured screens. Others clutch their children, their hands tight and pale against small shoulders. I can feel their thoughts pricking at me—spikes of fear, waves of confusion.
Is she a mutant?
Another invasion? God, not again.
Where did she come from?
She's glowing… is that normal?
I draw a slow, deliberate breath, and the air shivers with me. My power stirs beneath my skin, a serpent waking, scales brushing against the inside of my ribcage. I press it down, force it into the dark. I can't let it out. Not here. Not now.
I raise my hands, palms open, fingers spread. A peace offering.
"I'm not here to fight."
My voice carries, a note of calm in the chaos. The words hang in the air, fragile as glass, and I see the ripples they make in the minds around me. Some fear softens, curiosity blooms, but the tension remains—a wire pulled too tight.
Some of the greatest heroes of this world stand before me, and their thoughts are louder than the rest. Their minds brush against mine, unintentional, accidental. I don't mean to listen, but their thoughts are loud, and my walls are thin.
Iron Man's mind is a storm, a hurricane of data and analysis. His thoughts move fast, faster than normal minds, a blur of calculations and contingency plans. Numbers and schematics flash through his vision, overlaying everything he sees with potential outcomes, threat assessments, tactical readouts.
His thoughts are a tapestry of contingencies, woven tight and neat, but beneath the calculations, I feel the static of his nerves.
Signature is anomalous. Radiation levels stable. No known match in Stark databases. She's not from here. Not from this dimension, maybe? Full-spectrum scan… suit integrity at 98%. Energy readings are off the charts. The suit's sensors can't keep up. Need to calibrate… No. Focus. She's talking. She said she didn't want to fight.
His emotions are buried beneath layers of technology, but I can still taste them—sharp, metallic, like biting a battery. Anxiety, held in check by cold logic. Hope, a small, stubborn ember.
Thor's mind is deeper, a river running through stone. His thoughts are slower, deliberate, each one a boulder rolled into place. His mind hums with the echoes of storms, the crash of thunder, the hiss of rain on ancient stone. His focus is on me, but it is not just suspicion—it is wonder, the kind of curiosity that gods reserve for mysteries.
She is but a girl, yet the power within her… It sings with the voice of the stars. A fire that is not fire. She bears a spark of something greater. I must be ready. If she is foe, then Mjolnir will strike true. If she is not… then she must be guided. Protected.
Beneath the caution is a softness, a warmth like sunlight breaking through clouds. He does not want to fight me. Not if he doesn't have to.
Captain Marvel's mind is a beacon, a lighthouse in the fog. Her thoughts shine with a golden light, warm and constant. She is open, her emotions flowing close to the surface—resolve, compassion, a strength that feels like a hand at my back, steadying. Her mind is a sun, burning bright but not harsh, a light that invites rather than blinds.
She's scared. She's holding back. I can see it in her stance, in the way her hands tremble. Whatever she did before, whatever happened—she doesn't want to hurt anyone. We've all been there. We can help her. We just need to reach her.
Her hope is a shield, a barrier against the fear that hangs heavy in the air. She believes in me, even if I don't.
And Doctor Strange…
His mind is a labyrinth, a spiral of thought and intention. His mental voice is not a single thread but a chorus, layers of consciousness intertwined. His surface thoughts are calm, his focus a sharp blade, but beneath that, I catch glimpses of incantations, the echo of voices from other realms, the whisper of arcane forces brushing against reality's edge.
Her aura is fractured. There is fire in her soul—an ember of something vast and ancient. The Phoenix, perhaps? No… It is not fully realized. A spark, not yet a flame. But how did she come to possess it? What being would share its essence with a mortal?
The thought hits me like a shockwave, and I nearly stagger. My mind reels, the name Phoenix burning through my thoughts, leaving trails of fire in its wake.
I know that name. Not from my world, but from this one—from the stories that bleed through the minds of those around me. The Phoenix Force. A being of creation and destruction, a cosmic entity that burns with the light of a thousand stars. It is not just power—it is purpose, the embodiment of life and death, the eternal cycle of rebirth.
And it is inside me.
I see it now—the truth behind my flames, the reason why my power feels like a living thing, why it hungers, why it whispers to me in the quiet moments. I am not just a parahuman with an uncontrolled ability. I am a vessel, a mortal shell wrapped around a sliver of the divine.
I draw a shuddering breath, and the air trembles with me. The Avengers tense, a ripple of unease moving through their thoughts, but I force the power down, lock it behind iron doors in my mind.
"I didn't know," I say, my voice a thin thread. "I didn't know it was… that. I thought it was me. I thought it was my power."
Doctor Strange steps forward, his cloak whispering against the ground. His expression is gentle, a healer's touch. "You carry a burden not meant for mortal hands. The Phoenix Force is… dangerous. Even in the best of circumstances. But if it chose you, there must be a reason."
"I didn't ask for it." My hands tremble, and I see the light beneath my skin—golden veins, molten and alive. "I just wanted to be strong. I wanted to stop hurting. But I hurt everyone. I destroyed my city. I killed—"
The words catch in my throat, sharp as glass. I feel the weight of their thoughts, their sympathy and caution and fear, but none of them move to attack. They hold their ground, a wall not of swords but of open hands.
Captain Marvel's glow fades, and she takes a step forward, her movements slow, deliberate. "We've all been where you are. Maybe not exactly, but… I've seen what happens when power goes out of control. You're not alone. You don't have to be."
And with that statement, a vision strikes me.
The world melts away, the city dissolving into a haze of light and color. I feel myself falling, tumbling through layers of reality, slipping between the threads of the universe. My senses stretch, warp, and for a moment, I am not myself.
I see fire.
A woman stands amidst the flames, her silhouette sharp against the inferno. Her hair is a copper blaze, her eyes twin suns, molten and eternal. The flames do not burn her—they are her, curling around her form, wrapping her in light.
She is beautiful, and she is terrible.
Her voice echoes, not in words but in concepts, in the language of stars and supernovas. I feel her presence wash over me, a tide of heat and light, and within her, I see the truth.
She is the Phoenix Force, the embodiment of life and death, the endless cycle of rebirth. Her flames are not just destruction—they are renewal, a cleansing fire that wipes the slate clean so life can begin again.
And she has been this before. I see flashes—moments like still frames in a film.
Her hands raised, flames curling from her fingertips. Worlds burning, galaxies smoldering in the wake of her power. But there is control, too—moments of stillness, of peace. She sits in a garden, flowers blooming beneath her touch. She cradles a child, her light gentle, warm.
And I know her name.Jean Grey.
I am not the first to hold this fire. I am not the first to be haunted by its hunger. And if she could bear it, if she could master it, then maybe… maybe I can, too.
The vision shatters, and the world rushes back in.
I am on my knees, my breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. The Avengers have stepped back, their expressions shifting from caution to concern. I feel Captain Marvel's hand on my shoulder, warm and solid, an anchor in the storm.
"Taylor? What did you see?" Doctor Strange's voice is a lifeline, his tone a careful blend of curiosity and kindness.
"Her," I whisper. "Jean Grey. She… she was like me. She had the Phoenix Force. She controlled it. I saw it. I felt it."
Iron Man's visor narrows, a flicker of data scrolling over his HUD. "If you're right, then she's the best chance we have of helping you. If anyone understands that kind of power, it's her."
Thor nods, the storm in his eyes softening. "Then let us take you to her. There is strength in wisdom, and the X-Men have long walked with fire. They will not abandon you."
Doctor Strange lifts his hands, and the air before him ripples, a ring of golden sparks spinning into life. The portal is not just a door—it is a window, a breach between places. I see the Xavier Institute through it, its sprawling grounds a world apart from the glass and steel of New York.
The Xavier Institute feels like a heartbeat, steady and grounding.
The portal closes behind me, and the city's hum fades into the soft murmur of nature. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine and fresh-cut grass. The grounds stretch out, green and vibrant, cradled by trees that whisper in a breeze only they can hear.
The mansion rises before me, a sanctuary of red brick and ivy, its tall windows glinting in the soft afternoon light. The building is both imposing and welcoming, its walls worn by time but standing strong—a testament to endurance, to a place where broken things find a chance to heal.
I step forward, and the earth beneath my feet feels solid, the gravity of this place pulling me into itself, wrapping me in its stability. It is a subtle thing, this feeling of being grounded, but I cling to it, wrap it around myself like a blanket.
The erstwhile heroes follow, their presence a shield at my back, a promise of safety. I am not alone. Not anymore.
And then I see her. Jean Grey.
She stands at the top of the mansion's steps, framed by the arched doorway, the building's shadow draped over her like a mantle. Her hair is a copper flame, each strand catching the light, a cascade of fire against the soft blue of the sky. Her green eyes hold a quiet intensity, a focus that feels like sunlight through stained glass—warm but sharp, illuminating but gentle.
Her presence reaches me before her words do.
It is not a push, not a prod, but a soft, careful touch at the edges of my mind. Her thoughts brush against mine, a whisper of feathers, a cool breeze over burning coals. I feel her there, not as an intrusion but as an invitation, a hand extended across the dark.
Her mind is a garden, vibrant and well-tended. I catch glimpses of color—flowers in full bloom, the gentle curve of leaves, the rich, dark soil that anchors it all. But beneath the surface, beneath the petals and the greenery, I sense the roots—deep, tangled, ancient. There is strength there, a resilience that goes beyond mere survival.
I take a step forward, and the mansion seems to breathe with me. The windows catch the light, and for a moment, I see reflections—children laughing, running through the halls, their faces bright with hope. I hear echoes of voices, conversations carried on the wind, the hum of life not just lived but shared.
Jean descends the steps, her movements fluid and unhurried. Each step is deliberate, the soft scrape of her shoes against the stone a rhythm that syncs with my own heartbeat. When she reaches the bottom, she stops a few paces away, giving me space—enough to feel safe, but not so much that I feel distant.
Her smile is a gentle curve, a light in the shadows. "Welcome, Taylor. You're safe here."
Her voice is warm, a note of comfort in the cool air. The sound of my name on her lips is like the first word spoken after a long silence, a reminder that I am real, that this moment is real.
I swallow, my throat tight, the words caught somewhere between my mind and my mouth. "Thank you."
Jean's expression softens, and I feel her mind reach out, a soft, invisible hand. She does not push—instead, she stands at the threshold, waiting for me to open the door.
I let her in.
The world around me fades, the mansion and the gardens dissolving into a gentle mist. I find myself standing in a space that is not a space, surrounded by light and shadow, by the soft hum of thoughts and memories.
Jean stands across from me, but not as she was. Here, in this shared mindscape, she is a flame given form, her hair a cascade of embers, her skin bathed in a soft, golden glow. Her presence is warm, but not scalding, a fire that offers heat without pain.
"This is your mind," she says, her voice a ripple through the mist. "Or perhaps it's mine. Maybe it's both. A place between places. A safe space."
I look down at myself, and I see the golden veins beneath my skin, the light that pulses through me, molten and alive. The fire that I carry, the fire that I am.
"It's beautiful," Jean murmurs, and I feel the truth in her words. She is not afraid of my flames. She sees them, and she does not flinch.
"It doesn't feel beautiful," I say. "It feels… hungry. Like it wants to burn everything. Like I can't hold it back."
Jean steps closer, the mist parting around her, tendrils of light curling in her wake. "I know that feeling. I've held the Phoenix Force before. I've been the flame and the ashes. I've burned, and I've been burned."
Images flicker around us—visions of fire, of galaxies swallowed by flame, of stars weeping light as they collapsed into the void. I see Jean standing amidst the destruction, her eyes twin suns, her expression a mask of serenity over a core of chaos.
But I see more than the destruction.
I see her heal, too. I see her touch a barren world, and life blooms beneath her fingertips. I see her cradle a child, her light gentle, a candle in the dark. The Phoenix is not just fire—it is rebirth, the promise of something new rising from the ruin.
"The Phoenix is a part of you," she says. "But it is not all of you. You are more than this power. You are Taylor Hebert. You are the choices you make, the love you carry, the hope you hold onto."
Her words sink into me, fill the empty spaces, patch the cracks in my armor.
"I don't want to hurt anyone," I whisper. "Not again."
Jean reaches out, and I feel her hand close around mine—solid, real, warm. "Then let us help you. Let us show you how to turn the fire into light. How to be the Phoenix, not its vessel."
A warmth spreads through me, not the burning heat of my power but something softer, gentler. It is the warmth of a hearth, of a hand held, of a voice that says, You are not alone.
The mist begins to fade, the mindscape unraveling into threads of light. I feel the world pulling back into focus—the stone steps, the garden, the soft rustle of leaves. But the connection remains, a tether between our minds, a promise that I do not have to walk this path alone.
I open my eyes, and Jean is still there, her hand still in mine. The Avengers stand a few paces back, their expressions a mix of hope and relief, their thoughts quieter, the sharp edges of their caution worn smooth by the moment.
"Come inside," Jean says, her voice a thread that pulls me forward. "There are others who want to meet you. The X-Men. We're a family here. And you're welcome to join us."
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I believe it. I take a step forward, and the world feels a little brighter, the shadows a little softer. For the first time, I am not just surviving. For the first time, I am living.