Chapter 111
Arc 8: Avengers
Ch 3: Recycling
Sunday, November 20, 2011.
Location: Hudson River, New York/New Jersey Border
Tyson hovered over the Hudson River, the Manhattan skyline receding behind him as he made his way toward Jersey City. The crisp November air whipped around him, carrying the scent of industry. Despite all his time in New York, he'd never ventured across the river into Jersey.
He relished the freedom of flight, courtesy of Magneto's stolen powers. Commuters took the George Washington Bridge, Holland Tunnel, or Lincoln Tunnel. But he floated over the river. The ability to manipulate magnetic fields allowed him to propel himself effortlessly through the air, avoiding to the gridlock below.
As he approached Jersey City, his keen vision scanned the urban landscape. The destination soon came into view; a sprawling auto junkyard on the outskirts of town. He descended gracefully, touching down in front of a squat, weathered building that served as the junkyard's office.
The structure was unremarkable, its paint peeling and faded from years of exposure to the elements. What caught his attention was the vast expanse behind it. A high chain-link fence surrounded acres of hundreds of vehicles in various states of decay, filling the yard with a metallic labyrinth of twisted frames, crushed hoods, and dismembered parts.
He took a moment to survey the scene. Stacks of flattened cars formed precarious towers, while partially dismantled vehicles lay scattered about like discarded toys. The air was thick with the scent of rust and oil. It was a graveyard for automobiles.
Turning his attention back to the office building, he strode inside. A bell above the door jangled, announcing his presence. The interior was cluttered but organized, with filing cabinets lining the walls and a large desk dominating the center of the room. Behind the desk sat a burly man with graying hair and hands that bore the calluses of a lifetime of hard work.
The man looked up from his paperwork. "Can I help you?"
"I'm interested in buying scrap metal. Specifically, the stuff you can't sell or aren't interested in dismantling."
The man's face creased into a frown. "That's an unusual request. Most folks come here looking for specific parts. You trying to undercut my business somehow?"
"I'm not most folks," he replied with a slight smile. "And I'm willing to pay bulk price for all of it."
The owner leaned back in his chair, calloused fingers drumming against the desk as he considered the offer. After a moment, he shrugged. "Your money's as good as anyone's, I suppose. Let me grab my keys, and we'll head out to the yard."
As they stepped outside, the owner gestured broadly at the sea of metal before them. "Take your pick."
Tyson nodded, anticipation building. "I'll take it from here. You might want to stand back."
The junkyard owner gave him a puzzled look but complied, retreating to the safety of his office doorway. Something about the younger man's confidence suggested this wasn't going to be a normal transaction.
Tyson strode into the yard, feeling the latent power of Magneto's abilities. He raised his hands, palms out, and reached out with his senses. The magnetic fields surrounding every piece of metal in the yard became visible to him, a complex web of energy waiting to be manipulated.
With a deep breath, he began to exert his will. At first, nothing seemed to happen. Then, a low groan emanated from the nearest stack of crushed cars. The pile shuddered, and suddenly, sheets of metal began to peel away like the skin of an orange.
The junkyard owner's mouth fell open. Twenty-three years running this place, and he'd never seen anything like it. He fumbled for his phone. Who the hell would believe this otherwise?
Tyson moved his hands in sweeping gestures, and more metal began to respond. Doors tore free from their hinges, hoods and trunks ripped away from their bodies, and entire engine blocks lifted into the air.
As he worked, he began to sort the metal. Iron and steel coalesced into one massive, floating orb. Aluminum formed another. Copper wiring snaked through the air, weaving itself into a dense ball. Even the precious metals found in the rare catalytic converter were extracted and gathered separately.
The air filled with the cacophony of twisting metal and shattering glass. Cars that had sat undisturbed for years were suddenly dismantled in seconds. His face showed intense focus as he directed the flow of metal. As he worked his way through the yard, the floating orbs of sorted metal grew larger and larger. What had once been a chaotic jumble of wrecked vehicles slowly transformed into neatly organized blocks of raw materials with plastic bodywork left behind.
The junkyard owner watched in stunned silence. He'd heard stories of mutants with incredible powers, but seeing it firsthand was something else entirely. Part of him wanted to be afraid, but a larger part was simply amazed at the efficiency with which the man cleared his yard. Years of work done in minutes. He methodically worked his way through every corner of the yard, leaving no vehicle untouched.
Finally, Tyson lowered his hands. The massive orbs of sorted metal gently descended to the ground, settling with a series of dull thuds that reverberated through the now-empty yard.
He turned to face the junkyard owner, who had been joined by a small crowd of onlookers from neighboring businesses, all holding up phones.
"I believe that concludes our business," he said. "Shall we settle up?"
The owner nodded dumbly, still processing the transformation his junkyard had undergone. Where once stood walls of wrecked cars, now sat neatly organized piles of raw materials. The yard itself was nearly empty, save for the non-metallic components and tires scattered about.
As they headed back into the office to finalize their transaction, the owner finally found his voice. "Two decades I've been trying to clear this place," he said, shaking his head. "You just secured by retirement."
"Glad I could help."
Tyson soared over the Hudson River, the massive orbs of sorted metal trailing behind him like metallic planets in his orbit. Instead of heading directly back to Manhattan, he veered south towards Brooklyn.
As he approached his second destination, another sprawling junkyard came into view. The Brooklyn junkyard was around the same size as the one in Jersey City. Rows upon rows of rusted vehicles. He touched down at the entrance.
The owner, a portly man with a thick Brooklyn accent, observed his arrival. "What can I do for ya, Mirage?"
He explained his proposition, and after some negotiation, the owner agreed. Once again, he set to work, his hands moving in intricate patterns as he exerted his will over the metal surrounding him. He systematically dismantled the junkyard's contents. Cars dismantled, their components sorted and added to the growing spheres of metal floating above.
Onlookers gathered at the fence, their phones out to capture the incredible sight. He paid them no mind, focused entirely on his task.
When he'd finished his work in Brooklyn, Tyson set off towards Manhattan, his collection of metal orbs now twice as large as before. He crossed the East River, the Manhattan skyline growing larger with each passing moment. As he approached the island, he flew past the House of M, continuing northward. The familiar silhouette of Stark Tower loomed ahead. He couldn't help but smirk as he passed by, wondering what Tony Stark would think. As he flew on, the streets below gave way to the lush greenery of Central Park. He passed over the zoo, where visitors pointed and gaped at the unusual sight overhead. Soon, he arrived at his final destination.
643 Park Avenue, the Park Avenue Armory.
He descended slowly, carefully maneuvering his massive metal orbs to land in the open space in front of the armory.
As he touched down, Tyson took a moment to admire the building. It was a strategic acquisition, one he had made after careful consideration and discussions with everyone under his employ. The location was perfect for several reasons.
Situated between 66th and 67th streets in the Lenox Hill neighborhood, it sat approximately a mile north of Stark Tower, while the Flatiron Armory, which he'd already acquired, was about a mile south. Both buildings had connections to the Alley, the network of secret passages and chambers that ran beneath New York City.
With House of M now having strongholds both north and south of Stark Tower, they were well-positioned to create a line to hold the Chitauri when the Battle of New York kicked off.
He entered the Park Avenue Armory, the massive metal spheres trailing behind him like obedient pets. As he entered the building, the spheres flattened and elongated, transforming into serpentine streams of metal that slithered to the drill hall. The hall, once used for military exercises, now stood empty.
With a series of gestures, he directed the metal to reform into neat, uniform blocks. The air filled with the sound of shifting metal as the raw materials settled into their new shapes, forming orderly stacks along the walls of the hall.
As he worked, he became aware of the gathering crowd. Most of his outer circle was present, along with key members of his inner circle. Logan leaned against a far wall, his arms crossed and a cigar clenched between his teeth. Quentin Beck stood nearby, his mind clearly cataloging every detail of the arena's layout. Ivan Vanko, Otto Octavius, and Curt Connors huddled together, deep in animated conversation, with Max Dillon occasionally shooting off small sparks as he fidgeted in response to their discussion. Felicia Hardy perched on a stack of crates with Jessica Drew standing at their base, both women speaking with Calypso Ezili. While the Morlock representatives Gambit, Marrow, and Angel clustered together near the entrance.
Once the metal had stacked and settled, he turned to address the assembled group. "Alright, everyone," he announced. "This will be the second House of M location."
He turned his attention to the Morlock representatives. "I'll be making dormitories in the underground tunnels here, too, if anyone wants to move further north. Work, for any Morlocks, is paid, of course. Also, for anyone who can fight, I'd like to split them between the two locations."
Gambit nodded, his red eyes glowing faintly. "We'll spread the word, mon ami. Plenty of folks down below who'd appreciate a change of scenery and a steady paycheck."
"How many fighters are you looking for?" Marrow asked.
"As many as we can get," he replied. "We need to be prepared for any eventuality."
Turning to Beck, he continued, "Quentin, your team will focus on finalizing the projectors downtown. Once everything is working perfectly, you'll come up here and get set up."
Beck nodded enthusiastically, already visualizing the possibilities. "We'll need to adjust for the different architecture, but it shouldn't be a problem. The higher ceilings here actually give us more options for some of the larger-scale illusions."
"I'll split my time between both locations for shows until everything is automated," he added. "Quentin, if you need more hands, let Felicia know. She'll handle hiring."
He then turned to Vanko. "Ivan, your priority is getting Sentinel production going. We're going to need so many more to protect both locations and more."
Vanko stroked his chin thoughtfully, his engineer's mind already working through logistics. "Ve have manufacturing options. Ve can lease space in the Brooklyn Navy Yard, or ve can move everything underground into the Alley."
He considered for a moment before deciding. "Let's focus our efforts in the Alley. Then we don't have to worry about reporting or leasing, or the production facility being attacked or facing protesters."
Vanko nodded in agreement, pleased with the decision. "Good choice. We can start setting up immediately. The Alley provides natural security and plenty of space to work with."
As the group began to disperse to their various tasks, Logan approached him. The older mutant's face carried skepticism. "Quite the operation you're running here," he said, studying the transformed space. "Mind telling me what all this is really about?"
"Protection," he said, meeting Logan's probing stare directly. "For us, for the city, for everyone. Something big is coming. We need to be ready."
He gestured for Logan to follow him as he strode purposefully down toward the tunnels leading into the Alley. "Walk with me," he said in his deep, commanding voice. "It's time I told you what's really going on here."
Logan fell in step beside the tall mutant, his enhanced senses picking up the subtle tension radiating from the younger man. "You're gathering mutants and planning on building an army of sentinels," Logan said bluntly as they walked. "It's like you're preparing for war. I know it's you in control and not Magneto, but kid, you're making me nervous."
He nodded, appreciating Logan's directness. "You're right. I am preparing for war. But not the kind you think."
They reached the Alley, the air growing cooler and damper as they descended. Tyson raised his hand, and a shimmering field of energy enveloped them, creating a bubble of privacy that would shield their conversation from any electronic surveillance. As they walked, a stream of metal flowed behind them like liquid mercury. With a flick of his wrist, he shaped the metal into two comfortable chairs. He gestured for Logan to take a seat, then settled into his own chair, the metal conforming perfectly to his body.
"What I'm about to tell you is going to sound crazy, but I need you to hear me out."
Logan grunted, crossing his arms over his chest. "Kid, I've seen a lot of crazy in my time. Try me."
"In a few months, New York is going to be invaded by aliens."
Logan snorted, but the sound held less derision than he'd intended. "Sure, kid. Aliens. Why not?" But as his gaze met Tyson's, the skepticism faded. There was no hint of jest in the younger man's expression, no trace of humor. Logan sighed heavily. "Aliens," he repeated, his voice flat. "Great. Just great."
"I know it sounds insane, but it's true. They're called the Chitauri, and they're coming through a portal that will open right above Stark Tower."
The kid's certainty was unsettling. "And how exactly do you know all this?"
"I've seen it. The easiest way to explain is to say that I've seen the future. This invasion is going to happen, and we need to be ready."
Logan studied his face for any sign of deception, his enhanced senses picking up stress hormones, elevated heart rate, all the markers of someone carrying a terrible burden. Finding no trace of lie, he asked, "So all this," he gestured around them, indicating the Armory and the preparations, "it's to fight off an alien invasion?"
"Long-term, it's a mutant sanctuary, a place where our kind can be safe. But in the short term, yes, all the moves over the next few months will be to face the imminent threat. We need to protect the civilians and keep the damage contained as much as possible. That's where we come in."
"And the Sentinels?"
"They'll be our first line of defense," Tyson explained. "We can deploy them quickly, use them to evacuate civilians, and engage the Chitauri forces. They're expendable, reasonably easy to produce, and can engage in aerial combat. I'll be relying on them to keep the alien forces contained to a section of Manhattan so we're not spread too thin."
Logan's mind whirled with questions, with doubts, with the sheer enormity of what Tyson was proposing. But underneath it all was a growing recognition. This felt real. The kid's certainty, his careful planning, and the resources he was marshaling. It all pointed to someone who genuinely believed an invasion was coming.
Finally, Logan spoke. "Alright, kid. I'm in."
— Rogue Redemption —
The air hung thick with the scent of decay and preservatives in the underground chamber Tyson had come to call the Graveyard. Located deep within the Alley, not far from the tunnels leading to House of M, this macabre repository served a grim but necessary purpose. Rows of bodies lay on stone slabs, meticulously arranged and preserved through a combination of magic and science.
He stood between Agatha Harkness and Calypso, surveying the collection of corpses they had gathered. The Marauders occupied most of the space, their bodies showing various states of damage from the battle that had claimed their lives. In a separate alcove lay Kaine Parker.
Calypso moved between the stone tables. She gestured to a small workstation where various bottles, herbs, and implements were arranged. Agatha's keen gaze flicked between them, noting the subtle shift in the dynamic between Tyson and the voodoo witch. The way they positioned themselves closer to each other, and the brief moments when their eyes would meet.
"Blood is not just a physical substance," Calypso explained. "It carries de essence of life itself." She picked up a vial containing a dark red liquid. "We talked about it before. Your blood, Tyson, it be special. Rich with life magic."
He crossed his muscular arms over his chest, woolly hair pulled back from his face. "Is that why Jubilee could feed from me for so long without it killing either of us?"
"Precisely." The voodoo priestess nodded, her beaded braids clicking softly. "I believe dat is why you sustained your vampire girlfriend. If your blood did not have dis life-rich magic, it would not have worked so well."
As she spoke, Tyson felt a faint echo of her satisfaction through the connection they now shared, approval mixed with something warmer. The blood bond forged a month ago during their encounter with the necromancer had settled into a comfortable awareness, like a quiet conversation happening just beneath conscious thought.
"But vampires don't produce hemoglobin," he countered, moving closer to examine the vial she held. "That's why they feed on blood, to gain what they don't have."
Calypso tilted her head. "Maybe so. But dat's not de only thing dey need. Dey need de essence of life in de blood. Or dey're just dead."
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It makes a sort of sense."
"It's dat life energy, dat essence in your blood dat you're channeling when you use blood magic," she continued, setting down the vial and picking up a mortar and pestle. "Most practitioners spend years learning to sense what you do instinctively."
"It's also why I warned you about leaving your blood all over the place," Agatha added. "Blood contains power, and power can be exploited."
"Right." Tyson nodded. "I've been more careful since then."
Her sharp eyes caught the brief glance that passed between Tyson and Calypso. They had told her about the necromancer they encountered in Calvary Cemetery, but something else had happened that night, too. Agatha could sense it in the subtle shift of their magical signatures, the way they acted around each other.
"But we can use dat blood essence for other things besides rituals and linking to you." The mixture in the cauldron shifted from green to a deep purple as Calypso stirred. "Your blood is so rich with life dat can use de potions to transfer dat life essence into another."
Since that night, her voice carried a warmth that Agatha hadn't heard before. The change was subtle but unmistakable to someone who had lived as long as the ancient witch.
Tyson watched the mixture bubble and transform, considering her words. The implications slowly became clear. "We can use my blood to make healing potions?"
The scent of herbs, incense, and copper filled the air. "What I teach you comes from Vodou traditions passed down through generations." He watched intently as she arranged items on a small table carved with symbols. The wood itself seemed to pulse with energy beneath her touch. "In Vodou, we understand dat blood carries ashe. Life force," she explained, gesturing to the collection of materials she had gathered. "Your blood carries exceptional ashe, which makes it powerful for healing work."
On the table lay an assortment of items; bundles of dried herbs tied with red thread, small bottles filled with powders of various colors, white candles, a curved ritual knife with a bone handle, a mortar and pestle made of dark stone, and several calabash gourds.
"First, we must prepare de sacred space," the priestess instructed, taking a small pouch from her belt. She sprinkled a fine white powder in a circle around their workspace. "Dis is ground eggshell and cornmeal, to honor de lwa and invite deir blessing."
Tyson nodded. "The lwa, the spirits that serve as intermediaries between humans and the divine."
"You've been studying," she said with approval, her tone warming with the recognition of a dedicated student. "Good. De lwa must be respected when we work with life forces." She handed him a white candle. "Light dis and place it in de center."
He lit the candle and used his telekinetic ability to shift the candle into place. Tyson had found that Healer had a minor telekinesis power. Nothing combat applicable, he could only lift what a child was capable of, but it was convenient at times. He'd been practicing, seeing if it would grow as his illusions had, but so far, it hadn't improved at all.
"Now we begin de preparation," she said, selecting several herbs from her collection. "Dis is rue for protection, hibiscus for vitality, vervain for strength, and guinea pepper for power." She placed each herb into the mortar. "Crush dem together while focusing your intent on healing." He took the pestle and began grinding the herbs, their fragrances releasing into the air. "Good," she murmured, watching his technique. "Now add dis." She handed him a small vial of clear liquid. "Holy water from a spring in Haiti where de first Vodou ceremony in my lineage was performed."
He added the water to the herbs, creating a thick paste. The mixture gave off a subtle glow.
"De blood magic we work today is not about death or harm," she continued, selecting a calabash gourd and placing it before him. "It is about transferring life force, she, from one who has abundance to those who need it."
She took the ritual knife and presented it to him handle first. "De blade is called an ason. It has been purified in sacred waters and blessed by a Mambo, a Vodou priestess."
He accepted the knife, feeling its weight and the subtle vibration of power within it. The weapon felt different from any blade he'd handled, alive somehow, connected to something greater than its physical form.
"Now comes de part where your gift makes dis magic special. Most practitioners can only spare a few drops of blood without weakening demselves. But you, your body creates life essence faster dan anyone I've ever seen."
Agatha Harkness remained to the side, observing silently, but she nodded along.
"How much do you need?" he asked.
"More dan would be safe for others," the priestess admitted. "Perhaps half a gallon will suffice for several potions."
She held the calabash beneath his wrist. "Make de cut along de vein. Let de blood flow into de gourd while you focus your intent on healing, on life, on renewal."
He positioned the knife against his wrist, took a deep breath, and made a clean slice. Blood flowed freely into the calabash, rich and dark.
Agatha watched with professional interest, but her attention was drawn to something else entirely. As Tyson's blood flowed, she noticed Calypso's subtle intake of breath, the way her hand moved almost unconsciously toward her own wrist.
As the calabash filled, Tyson felt a slight lightheadedness that quickly passed as his healing factor compensated for the blood loss. The cut on his wrist sealed itself even as the last drops fell into the container.
"Now we combine de elements," the voodoo priestess said, taking the herb paste from the mortar and adding it to the blood in the calabash. She stirred the mixture with a wooden spoon carved with symbols. "As I stir, I call upon Ezili Freda, lwa of love and healing, to bless dis work."
The mixture began to change color, shifting from deep red to a rich burgundy with golden flecks that caught the candlelight.
"Now de catalysts," she continued, selecting three small bottles from her collection. "Essence of frankincense for purification, myrrh for healing, and amber for binding de energies together."
She added drops from each bottle to the mixture, which bubbled slightly with each addition though no heat was applied. The scent changed, becoming sweeter yet more complex.
"De final element comes from de earth itself," she explained, reaching for a small cloth bag. She opened it to reveal a handful of reddish-brown powder. "Dis is sacred clay from de banks of de Mississippi River, where many ancestors' blood has mixed with de earth. It carries de memory of suffering and healing."
She sprinkled the clay into the mixture, which immediately began to thicken and take on a more uniform consistency. "Now we must seal de potion with intention," the priestess said, placing her hands on either side of the calabash without touching it. "Place your hands opposite mine."
He positioned his large hands across from hers. "Close your eyes and visualize de life force in your blood flowing through dis potion and into those who will drink it," she instructed. "See deir bodies strengthening, deir wounds closing, deir vitality returning."
Tyson closed his eyes and concentrated, thinking of all the times he'd wished he could heal others the way he healed himself. He imagined his blood, infused with the life energy he had absorbed from so many powerful beings, flowing through the potion and into injured bodies, knitting flesh, purifying blood, restoring strength.
Through their bond, he felt Calypso's intent joining with his own, her will guiding and shaping his visualization. The connection they shared made the magic flow more smoothly. Between their hands, the mixture in the calabash began to pulse with light, the golden flecks growing brighter and more numerous until the entire potion glowed with a warm, silver radiance.
"De potion responds to your will," she said softly. "Your gift for life magic is strong, stronger dan I expected."
The light gradually stabilized, settling into a steady, gentle glow. She nodded with satisfaction and reached for several small glass vials.
"Now we bottle de potion while it still holds de power of our combined intention," she explained, carefully pouring the mixture into the vials. "Each dose will accelerate natural healing, strengthen de body's defenses, and restore vitality."
As she worked, Agatha approached to examine the vials. "Impressive work. This isn't merely a healing potion, it's a temporary transfer of life essence. The recipient will heal at an accelerated rate for several hours after consumption." She paused, studying the vials. "Interesting. You worked in complete harmony to create this. Such alignment usually takes years of practice together... or a very intimate magical connection." Her tone was carefully neutral, but her knowing gaze flicked between them.
Calypso didn't address Agatha's comment. "Dis is powerful medicine, not to be used lightly. It carries your essence, your ashe. Those who drink it will carry a piece of your life force within dem until de potion's work is complete."
Tyson rolled the small vial between his fingers. "Some of these ingredients I understand," he said, looking back at the collection of herbs and powders on her workstation. "Others make me feel like I'm making a cake. How much of this can be substituted?" He gestured to the various components they had used. "Cornmeal, rue, vervain, that's all manageable. But clay from the Mississippi and holy water from Haiti aren't so easy to come by." His practical nature asserted itself as he considered the implications of replicating the potion. "Does it have to be those specific ingredients?"
The priestess paused in her work of bottling the remaining potion to consider his question. "De power of Vodou comes from connection," she began, wiping her hands on a cloth and moving closer to him. "Connection to ancestors, to place, to history, to intention. When we use clay from de Mississippi, we invoke not just de physical properties of de earth, but de spiritual memory it carries. De blood, tears, and hopes of ancestors who suffered and survived along those waters."
She picked up a small pouch of the reddish clay and poured a bit into her palm. "But Vodou has always been adaptive. It survived slavery, persecution, and migration. It survived because practitioners learned to work with what dey had, to find de sacred in new places."
He nodded, understanding beginning to form. "If it has to have meaning, like the clay does because of slavery, could it be something more personal to me?" His voice grew quieter, more intense as the idea took shape. "Like, if I grabbed concrete from where Jubilee died, would that be a sufficient replacement? Would it be stronger? Or weaker?"
Through their connection, Calypso felt the sharp pain that accompanied thoughts of his lost love, the grief that still cut deep despite the time that had passed. Her own emotional response, compassion mixed with a complex blend of understanding and something that might have been jealousy, flowed back to him before she could shield it.
Agatha Harkness, who had been examining the bottled potions with a critical eye, turned her attention to their conversation. Potions were not her strongest area, and she was keenly interested in the theoretical discussion. It was as much a lesson for her as it was for Tyson.
The voodoo priestess closed her fingers around the clay in her palm, considering. "In traditional Vodou, we would say dat de power comes from both de tradition and de personal connection. De Mississippi clay carries generations of power, but your concrete would carry something else. Something perhaps more potent for you specifically."
She opened her hand again, the clay now formed into a small ball. "De most powerful magic always combines tradition with personal significance. Your concrete would carry de energy of your greatest loss, your love. For general healing potions, dis might make dem unpredictable. Infused with grief and loss as well as love and protection."
She placed the clay ball back into its pouch. "But for specific purposes, perhaps to heal someone connected to Jubilee, or to heal wounds similar to hers, such an ingredient might indeed be more powerful dan traditional components."
A distant look crossed his features, as if seeing beyond the chamber. "And what about holy water? Could it be blessed in the city I protect instead of coming from Haiti?"
"Holy water is holy because of intention and belief, not because of location. In Haiti, water becomes sacred through ceremony, through de presence of de lwa, through de faith of de community."
She moved to a small basin of water on her workstation and dipped her fingers into it. "Water from New York can become just as sacred if blessed with genuine intention. De spirits respond to sincerity, not geography. In fact, water from places you have protected might carry a special power. De gratitude of those you've saved, de energy of your victories, de commitment you've shown to dat place."
"So the ingredients aren't fixed," he concluded. "They're... flexible, as long as they serve the same… metaphorical purpose?"
"Oui," she nodded approvingly. "Vodou has never been about rigid formulas. It's about understanding de spiritual properties of things and how dey connect to de work you're doing."
She began gathering various herbs from her collection, placing small amounts into separate pouches. "De rue must be rue because its spiritual properties protect against negative energies. But de vessel for life force, de clay, can be any earth dat carries a meaningful connection to life and death."
Agatha said, "This is true of most magical traditions, though few practitioners truly understand it. The power lies not in the specific object but in what it represents, the connections it embodies. However, substitutions require deeper understanding. You must know why each component works, not just that it does. Otherwise, you risk creating something unstable or ineffective."
The priestess nodded in agreement. "Dis is why we start with tradition. It gives us de foundation. Once you understand de foundation, you can begin to adapt." She handed him several of the small pouches she had prepared. "These are de core herbs, dey should remain consistent. But de earth component, de water, even de blood can be chosen to align with your specific purpose."
He accepted the pouches, tucking them carefully into a pocket of his jacket. "So if I wanted to create a potion specifically to heal mutants, I might use earth from the Grotto? Where the Morlocks were slain, and where I protected them."
"Oui. Earth from a place where mutants have gathered in safety, have healed, have grown strong together. Dat would carry de perfect energy for such work, too."
"House of M," he said understanding the hint she'd given.
She placed a hand on his arm. "But remember, substitution is not about convenience. It's about meaningful connection. If you choose an alternative ingredient, it must truly resonate with de purpose of your work."
"I understand. It's not about taking shortcuts, it's about making the magic more personal, more connected to its purpose."
"You learn quickly," she said with approval. "Understand dat magic is not just about power, it's about relationship. Relationship with de spirits, with de elements, with your own intentions."
— Rogue Redemption —
Tyson sat across from Dr. Sofen. The office around them was tastefully decorated, but his posture told of his unease. She adjusted her position in the chair, studying him carefully. "So, how do you feel about the news?"
"I assume you're asking about Harry Osborn receiving the key to the city in his father's memory."
She nodded for him to continue.
"I'm annoyed and angry. Norman Osborn killed people. He kidnapped one of the girls I was a classmate with at Midtown and held her hostage. She's an employee at House of M now." His grey eyes flashed with barely suppressed rage. "And now they're giving his son a key to the city because his father supposedly died a 'hero'? My lawyers tell me not to speak out against it." His hands clenched into fists on his lap. "I'm angry that I didn't kill the Green Goblin when I apprehended him the first time. I was trying to be the 'hero' but look how that turned out."
Dr. Sofen tilted her head, voice calm and measured. "But Norman showed up to help you during that final battle. Your own testimony supported the claim that there was a difference between Norman Osborn and the Green Goblin. Doesn't that count for something?"
Tyson shook his head vehemently. "Yeah, he showed up. But he died before he could do any real fighting. By the time Norman arrived, the battle was already won. Or rather, it was already lost for the other side. It's not public knowledge, but Oscorp was behind that entire attack. They created the situation that killed him."
"There's no proof that Oscorp was involved with the Rhino and Scorpion," Dr. Sofen pointed out.
"They broke him out of prison," Tyson shot back. "So let me get this straight. Oscorp breaks Norman out, then miraculously 'cures' him, and then he decides to attack the very people who rescued him? You really believe that story?" His voice dripped with sarcasm. "They're painting him as the next Captain America, even though we already have a Captain America now that Steve Rogers is alive again. The whole Osborn memorial situation is beyond infuriating."
"I can see why you're frustrated, Tyson. How do you plan to handle these feelings of anger and injustice?"
Tyson exhaled slowly, broad shoulders slumping slightly. "I don't know, Doc. That's why I'm here, isn't it? To figure out how to deal with this nonsense without losing my mind or doing something I'll regret."
"What specifically about the memorial bothers you the most?"
He considered the question carefully. "It's the injustice of it all. The lives he ruined, the chaos he caused... and now his son gets to collect honors in his memory? It feels like a slap in the face to everyone who suffered because of him."
Dr. Sofen made a note on her pad. "And how does this relate to your own experiences?"
His expression flickered between anger and guilt. "I've made mistakes, Doc. I've hurt people with my powers, killed people even. But I've always tried to make amends, to do better. Norman... he was getting a free pass without any real consequences before he died. It makes me question if there's any point in trying to be good when there don't seem to be any consequences to being the bad guy... if you're smart about it."
"Do you think your anger towards the Osborns is partly directed at yourself?"
Tyson paused, something shifting in his expression. "Maybe," he admitted reluctantly. "I keep thinking about what I could have done differently. If I'd killed him, or if I hadn't given that interview with Jameson... would things be different now?"
"We can't change the past. What's important is how we move forward. How can you channel these feelings into something constructive?"
His jaw clenched. "I want to expose what really happened. Show the world who Norman Osborn really was. But my lawyers say that could backfire, that it might look like a personal vendetta against a dead man and his grieving son."
"And what do you think about that assessment?"
"Part of me knows they're right. But another part... another part wants to throw caution to the wind and do what feels right."
Dr. Sofen shifted in her chair, pen tapping lightly against her notepad. "Let's change topics a little. While the Osborns are receiving praise in the newspapers, you're receiving criticism. Harry Osborn has accused you of being the cause of Norman's death. Your hiring of mutants at the House of M shows is generating controversy. And it's public knowledge you're housing the Lizard as well, after guaranteeing during that same interview that the Lizard was finished terrorizing the city."
He shrugged when Dr. Sofen mentioned that Harry had accused him. "Harry's got no proof. His dad shouldn't have been flying around with bombs strapped to his hip. And yes, I've been housing the Lizard, but I was the one who stopped him in the first place. If I hadn't, he would've still been out there, pushing his plans forward." Voice growing more animated, he continued, "That group that attacked us captured the Lizard and used it as a distraction, drugging it and sending it on that rampage. It is my fault that it got loose, but only so far as I was the true target. The Lizard is not at fault; a chemical attack induced its rampage. The Lizard was the victim, not the aggressor."
Dr. Sofen's blue eyes studied him intently. "People aren't seeing it that way."
Tyson snorted, a sound of pure frustration. "People always see what they want to see. I've got a PR firm working on improving optics, but it is what it is." He stood up abruptly, pacing the length of the office. His large frame seemed to fill the space, making the room feel smaller.
"You know what really gets me? The hypocrisy of it all. They praise Norman Osborn's 'redemption,' but when I try to help someone like the Lizard, I'm the bad guy."
"And how does that make you feel?"
He stopped pacing, turning to face her. "Angry. Frustrated. Like I'm fighting an uphill battle. But you know what? I'm not going to stop. I know what I'm doing is right."
"Tell me more about what's happening at House of M," she prompted.
"The mutants I've hired, many of them were outcasts, feared and hated for their powers and their differences. Now they're productive members of society, using their abilities openly and publicly. And the Lizard, believe it or not... he's a brilliant scientist who made a terrible mistake. With the right support, he does so much good."
"But the public doesn't see it that way," she pointed out gently.
His jaw clenched. "No, they don't. They see a threat. They see someone taking risks with their safety." He sighed heavily, sinking back into his chair. "And I get it, I do. They're scared. But fear... fear is what leads to hate, to violence. Like Yoda said. It's what creates the very monsters they're afraid of."
"And what about the risks? The public's concerns aren't entirely unfounded."
"You're right, they're not. We have safeguards in place. Multiple layers of security, constant monitoring. We're not being reckless."
She made another note. "Let's talk about how you're managing the stress of all this. What coping mechanisms are you using?"
He settled back in his chair, considering. "Training helps, I guess. Physical exertion clears my head."
"That's good," she encouraged. "It's important to have a support system. Are there any other strategies you've found helpful? How do you balance your responsibilities with the need to address the larger issues?"
Tyson sighed. "It's a constant juggling act. I try to delegate where I can and trust my team to handle the day-to-day operations while focusing on the bigger challenges. I can't do everything, but there are things that only I can do."
"Control is important to you," she observed.
"Yeah, I guess it is. Given my powers, given what I've been through... control feels like safety."
"And yet," she pointed out, "you're willingly putting yourself in situations where you can't control everything. Where you have to trust others, take risks."
His expression showed surprise, as if he hadn't considered it that way before.
Dr. Sofen continued, "In the same vein, you mentioned that you're expanding House of M. It sounds like you've created something remarkable there."
A hint of pride crept into his voice. "It's a work in progress, but yeah, I think we're doing something important. We're giving people a chance who've never had one before."
"That must be incredibly rewarding," she said, tone warm and encouraging. "How do you select the individuals you bring into the organization?"
"Some come to us, others we seek out. We look for people with potential. We take people who need a second chance. Or a first chance, really."
"And what kind of roles do they take on? I imagine with such diverse abilities, you must have quite a range of positions available."
"We do," he confirmed. "Some work in security, others in research and development. We've got a few in entertainment, believe it or not. Powers can make for some pretty impressive performances."
"Fascinating," she murmured. Pausing, as if considering her next words carefully, she continued, "You know, Tyson, I can't help but admire the vision behind all this. It takes a special kind of person to see potential where others might only see danger."
Something shifted in his posture, wariness creeping into his expression. "Thanks, I guess."
She nodded emphatically. "Absolutely. And I imagine having someone with your... unique abilities at the helm makes a significant difference. How do you use your illusion powers in managing House of M?"
He shifted in his seat, the movement betraying his discomfort. "I try not to, actually. It's important that people trust me and know that I'm not manipulating them."
"Of course, of course," she said quickly. "I didn't mean to imply... I was just curious about how you balance your abilities with your leadership role."
He relaxed slightly, but his gaze remained wary. "My powers give me certain advantages, sure. But I try to use them responsibly."
"You know, Tyson, I've worked with many extraordinary individuals over the years. But I must say, your approach is quite unique. Have you ever considered expanding your influence beyond House of M?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well," she said, voice taking on a casual tone that didn't quite match the intensity in her eyes, "with your resources and abilities, you could make a significant impact on a larger scale. Perhaps in politics, or global initiatives?"
He shook his head firmly. "I'm not interested in that. My focus is on helping individuals, not playing games with world leaders."
She nodded, but there was a flicker of something bordering disappointment in her expression. "Of course, I understand. But surely you must see the potential for good on a larger scale?"
"I see the potential for a lot of things, Doc. Not all of them are good."
She held up her hands in a placating gesture. "I didn't mean to upset you. I'm simply trying to understand the full scope of what you're capable of. As your therapist, it's important for me to grasp all aspects of your life and potential."
"Is it? Because it feels like you're fishing for something else."
Her expression remained neutral, but there was a slight tightening around her eyes. "I assure you, my only interest is in helping you navigate the unique challenges you face. Speaking of which, how are you handling the pressure of being in such a prominent position?"
He exhaled slowly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "There's a lot of scrutiny, a lot of expectations. Sometimes it feels like I can't make a move without someone analyzing it to death."
She nodded sympathetically. "Do you have people you can confide in, truly be yourself around?"
His expression clouded. "I do now. Several, in fact. But maybe not as many as I should."
"That's where someone like me can be valuable, Tyson," she said, voice soft and understanding. "A neutral party, bound by confidentiality, who can offer support and guidance without any ulterior motives."
"Is that what you are, Doc?"
She didn't flinch under his scrutiny. "I'm here to help you, Tyson. That's my primary goal. But I won't pretend that I'm not fascinated by what you've accomplished. Your work at House of M, your unique abilities... they open up possibilities that most people can't even imagine."
He stood up abruptly, imposing frame towering over her. "And what exactly are you imagining, Doc?"
She remained seated, posture relaxed despite the tension in the room. "I'm imagining a world where people like you, people with extraordinary abilities, are able to reach their full potential without fear or prejudice. A world where your kind of vision and leadership could make a real difference."
"That sounds nice in theory, but the reality is a lot messier."
"I understand your hesitation. The world can be a messy place, and you've seen more than your fair share of that mess. But that's why someone like you is so important."
He remained standing, towering over her. "What do you mean, someone like me?"
She gestured for him to sit back down. After a moment's hesitation, he did. "Someone with your unique combination of abilities, experiences, and vision," she explained. "You've seen the darkest parts of humanity, Tyson. You've faced challenges that would break most people. And yet, here you are, still fighting to make the world a better place."
She edged forward, voice taking on a more intimate tone. "Do you know how rare that is? How valuable?"
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I'm just trying to do what's right."
"Exactly," she said, excitement creeping into her voice. "And that's what makes you so special. You have the power to reshape the world, Tyson, but you choose to use it responsibly. That's not something everyone would do." She paused, letting her words sink in before continuing. "But with that power comes a unique set of challenges. The constant scrutiny, the difficult decisions you have to make every day... It's a lot for anyone to handle alone."
His expression softened slightly. "It is," he admitted quietly.
She nodded, her expression filled with understanding. "That's where I come in, Tyson. As your therapist, I can offer you something invaluable. A safe space to process all of this. A place where you can be completely honest about your fears, your doubts, your struggles, without fear of judgment or consequences. Even if we move past the SHIELD mandate that you see me."
She settled back, posture open and inviting. "Think about it. How often do you get to truly let your guard down? To speak freely about the challenges you face, not just as a public figure or a leader, but as a person?"
"Not often," he conceded.
"Exactly. And that kind of constant pressure, always having to be 'on', always having to be strong... it takes a toll, Tyson. Even on someone as resilient as you. But here, in this room, you don't have to be strong all the time. You don't have to have all the answers. You can just be Tyson, with all your doubts and fears and hopes."
What she spoke of reminded him of his time in Limbo with Illyana.
"That does sound... nice," he admitted.
"It's more than nice, Tyson. It's necessary. Someone in your position needs an outlet, a place to decompress and process everything you're dealing with. Without that, the pressure can build up until it becomes unbearable." Her voice took on a more serious tone. "I've seen it happen before. Powerful individuals who thought they could handle everything on their own, until suddenly they couldn't. The consequences can be... severe."
"Are you trying to scare me, Doc?"
She shook her head. "Not at all. I'm trying to help you avoid a path that I've seen others go down. You're doing incredible things, Tyson. But to continue doing them, to reach your full potential, you need support. You need someone in your corner who understands the unique challenges you face." She spread her hands. "That's what I'm offering. A partnership, if you will. A chance for you to have someone you can trust completely, someone who can offer guidance and support as you navigate these complex waters."
"And you think you're the right person for that?"
She nodded confidently. "I do. I have experience working with individuals with extraordinary abilities. I understand the unique psychological challenges that come with having powers like yours. And most importantly, I'm committed to helping you achieve your goals, whatever they may be." She paused, blue eyes meeting his gray ones. "Think about it, Tyson. How much more could you accomplish if you had someone to help you process the emotional toll of your work? Someone to help you strategize, to offer a different perspective when you're faced with difficult decisions?"
"It's not that simple, Doc. The things I deal with... they're dangerous, sometimes."
She nodded, expression serious. "I understand that, Tyson. But that's all the more reason why you need someone like me in your corner. Someone who can help you navigate those complexities, who can offer a clear, objective perspective when you're in the thick of things." She moved forward, voice taking on a more urgent tone. "You're doing important work, Tyson. Work that could change the world. But to do that effectively, you need to be at your best. Mentally, emotionally, psychologically. That's what I can help you achieve."
Glancing at the clock on the wall, her expression turned regretful. "I'm afraid our time is up for today. But I look forward to continuing this conversation in our next session. In the meantime, I want you to think about what we've discussed. Consider the potential benefits of having someone like me in your corner."
"I will, Doc. Thanks for... giving me something to think about."
She rose as well, extending her hand. "It's my pleasure, Tyson. Whatever challenges you're facing, whatever doubts you're wrestling with, I'm here to help."
Dr. Sofen's hand hung in the air between them, her blue eyes warm and inviting. Tyson reached out, his larger hand engulfing hers.
Her words about political influence nagged at him. The careful probing about his abilities, the emphasis on a larger-scale impact. It sounded all too familiar, carrying echoes of conversations he'd had before. His mind drifted to Edgar Lascombe, the local HYDRA leader who'd been working against him. Mystique was deep undercover now, working her way into the man's confidence while gathering intelligence on HYDRA's broader network. But the organization had its tendrils everywhere, including SHIELD itself. Jasper Sitwell, the agent he'd met during the Thor incident in New Mexico, had been the one to initially approach him about joining HYDRA.
Dr. Sofen's grip lingered, her thumb brushing across his knuckles in what seemed meant to be a reassuring gesture. "Remember what I said, Tyson. Everyone needs someone they can trust completely."
The irony of her words crystallized his suspicions. Tyson released the control he kept on his absorption ability. Power flowed through the point of contact between their hands. The world around him blurred as memories that weren't his own cascaded through his consciousness. Images, impressions, and emotions of Karla Sofen's life flooded his mind.
She was born in California, to a weak-willed mother and an absent father who disappeared when she was barely old enough to remember his face. From her earliest memories, she watched her mother crumble under the weight of abandonment, becoming a shell of a person who could barely function without constant validation from others. Even as a small child, she felt nothing but contempt for this display of weakness. Her childhood was marked by a drive to never become like her mother. While other children played games or formed friendships, she studied the adults around her, learning to read their insecurities and desires with clinical precision. She discovered early that people were fundamentally weak, driven by predictable needs that could be manipulated by someone strong enough to exploit them. In school, she excelled academically, not out of love for learning but because excellence was power. Teachers praised her, classmates sought her help, and she learned to use both to her advantage. She cultivated an image of perfection. Beautiful, intelligent, and seemingly compassionate, while privately cataloging everyone's weaknesses for future use.
Her mother's death when she was sixteen only reinforced her worldview. The woman had wasted away from cancer, but she believed she had really died from a lifetime of weakness and dependency. Standing at the funeral, she made a silent vow that she would never allow herself to be vulnerable to anyone or anything.
College psychology courses fascinated her, not because she wanted to help people, but because they provided a framework for the manipulation techniques she had been developing instinctively. She threw herself into studying human behavior, earning her bachelor's degree summa cum laude before pursuing advanced degrees in clinical psychology and psychiatry. During her residency, she honed her skills on patients, learning to project empathy and compassion, discovering she had a natural talent for making people trust her.
Her early career was marked by rapid advancement. She specialized in treating high-functioning individuals, like politicians, executives, celebrities, and others who had achieved some measure of power but were plagued by the psychological pressures that came with it. These clients taught her valuable lessons about how power worked in the real world, and she carefully cultivated a network of influential contacts. It wasn't enough. Private practice, no matter how prestigious, still left her dependent on others for her success. She needed something bigger, something that would give her access to real power structures. When SHIELD approached her about joining their psychiatric division, she saw the opportunity she had been waiting for. Here was an organization with global reach, cutting-edge technology, and influence at the highest levels of government. As a SHIELD psychiatrist, she would have access to classified information, powerful individuals, and resources that could never be matched in civilian practice. Her role initially involved treating agents suffering from PTSD, helping operatives maintain their psychological fitness for duty, and conducting psychological evaluations for recruitment and security clearance purposes. She excelled at the work, quickly earning a reputation as one of their most effective mental health professionals.
But she was always looking for the next opportunity, the next rung on the ladder. When she learned that SHIELD occasionally worked with enhanced individuals and superheroes, she positioned herself to be assigned to those cases. These were the people with real power, the ones who could reshape the world with their abilities.
Her breakthrough came when she was assigned to provide psychological support for Tyson, the man behind the mask of Mirage, one of the most recognizable and respected, if somewhat contentious, heroes in the world. The assignment was initially routine; SHIELD wanted to ensure their ally remained mentally stable. From their first session, she recognized that Tyson was different from her usual patients. His power was vast, his influence enormous, and yet he carried himself with a humility that she found both fascinating and exploitable. Here was someone who could literally bend others to his will, and he was plagued by self-doubt over his perceived failures and moral uncertainty. She crafted her approach carefully, presenting herself as not just a therapist but as someone who truly understood the unique burdens he carried. She made herself indispensable by being the one person who could provide him with both professional insight and personal validation. Where others saw his heroic actions, she learned to see his fears and insecurities.
Tyson began to value her perspective on complex moral dilemmas and her ability to help him process the psychological toll of his heroic activities. Through her relationship with him, doors began opening that had been closed to her before. SHIELD valued her unique position with such an important hero, and she found herself invited to briefings and consultations that elevated her status within the organization. Her security clearance increased, her salary grew, and most importantly, her access to powerful people expanded exponentially. She began attending strategy meetings where global security decisions were made, providing psychological profiles of international threats, and consulting on operations that could affect millions of lives. This was the kind of power she had always craved. Not the flashy, obvious power of wealth or fame, but the subtle, pervasive influence that came from being indispensable to those who wielded real authority.
Her relationship with Tyson remained the cornerstone of her success. She had studied him thoroughly and genuinely wanted to help him. She had attached herself to one of the most powerful beings on the planet, and through him, she had gained access to the corridors of global power. His success was her success, and she'd do anything to see him further succeed. He was beginning to trust her, and she would make sure that continued, because she was genuinely starting to enjoy their sessions and speaking with him. She was exactly where she always wanted to be, where she belonged. At the center of power, and by helping Tyson grow, she was helping herself. Plus, it helped that he was easy on the eyes and had such a strong, firm grip.
Offering her hand was a calculated risk. He would see her memories, her intentions, but if anything, Tyson was pragmatic, had a hero complex, and seemingly open to other women in his life. She was beautiful and valuable, and he knew it. He'd keep her around for what she provided, or what she could PROVIDE, or maybe just because he thought he could 'save', or at least use her. After all, he'd redeemed villains, and she was far from that.
Tyson released her hand, the entire exchange having taken less than two seconds. Dr. Sofen smiled at him despite the fact that he knew she was aware of the invasion of her privacy that had just occurred.
"I'll see you next week, then?" she asked, her voice pleasant and professional.
Tyson smiled back, replying, "Sure thing, Doc."
He left her office, closing the door behind him with a soft click. In the hallway, relief washed over him. Dr. Sofen was just ambitious. Manipulative, yes. Unethical in her approach to therapy, definitely. But not part of a larger conspiracy.
Tyson walked through the Raft's lobby, nodding to the security guard as he passed. Outside, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the street. He took a deep breath of city air, letting it clear his head.
He'd been right to be suspicious of her questions about politics and leadership. Those hadn't been the innocent inquiries of a concerned therapist. They'd been fishing expeditions, attempts to gauge how far his ambitions might take him, and by extension, how useful he might be to her. But there was no HYDRA connection. No secret organization pulling her strings. Just naked ambition, a desire to attach herself to someone she perceived as ascending to power. Someone who could take her along for the ride.
In her mind, he wasn't just a patient; he was also a resource. A potential patron. Someone to be cultivated and guided toward positions of greater influence, with her firmly at his side as advisor and confidante.
Tyson walked to his motorcycle, mind still processing what he'd learned. Her interest in his powers, her probing questions about House of M, and her suggestions about expanding his influence all made sense now. She wanted to ride his coattails to power and prestige. To be the woman behind the throne, whispering in the ear of a man with extraordinary abilities.
As he slid into the driver's seat of his car, Tyson couldn't help but laugh at the irony. Here he was, worried about HYDRA infiltration, when all he'd found was garden-variety ambition. In a way, it was almost refreshing.
Pulling into traffic, Tyson wondered what to do about her.
She wasn't HYDRA. Her methods were manipulative, her ethics questionable at best. Yet she hadn't actually done anything overtly harmful.
He could simply stop seeing her and find another therapist. But that would leave her free to try her manipulations on someone else, someone who might not have his advantages when it came to detecting deception. He could report her to SHIELD. He still had Fury and Hill's ears.
Or he could continue the sessions.
She knew what she was doing.
And it was more than the manipulations. She'd genuinely been helping him, because if she sucked at her job, he wouldn't have come back after that first session. He did feel better after seeing her, maybe not immediately after, but in the days following, everything just felt lighter.
If she took things too far, he'd stop it. It wouldn't be the first time he'd turned someone's manipulations back on them.