Once more Captain America and Falcon found themselves in the cold interrogation room, by their side Cyclops, Jean Grey, and Wolverine. The walls were a lifeless gray, the overhead light a sterile glare casting harsh shadows over the stark metal table. Across from them, shackled at the wrists—one wrist, at least—was Clara Page, the Leper Queen.

For the first time, she sat without the bulky black armor of the Sapien League, without the face mask that had hidden her from the world, and her appearance struck harder than any words could. It did not shake Wolverine, who had seen far worse. It did not shake Captain America, who had spent a lifetime witnessing war’s cruel touch. It did not shake Cyclops, whose heart had long since been hardened by experience.

But Jean Grey and Falcon? They hesitated.

Her face was a roadmap of suffering. Burned beyond recognition. Her once-proud features had melted under the heat of a fire she had not been able to escape. Scar tissue stretched over her forehead and cheekbones, her lips reduced to thin, cracked lines barely covering yellowed teeth. Her arms, exposed for the first time, bore the aftermath of old wounds and fresh ones alike—scars upon scars, burns upon burns.

And of course—her right hand was gone.

Reduced to a seared stump, the flesh long since cauterized, a permanent reminder of the day Alamo took from her the hand that had held countless weapons, that had pulled countless triggers.

Clara Page sat stiff-backed, her remaining hand clenched into a tight fist, as if she could still feel her missing fingers curled into a phantom grip. Her jaw was locked, her scorched lips pressed into a thin, immovable line. She would not speak first. She would not give them anything.

Cyclops stepped forward, but it was Captain America who spoke first. His voice was even, commanding but measured.

"Clara Page."

The woman did not move. She barely blinked.

"Ain’t ya sayin’ somethin’, lady?" Wolverine's voice was gruff, biting, but still, there was no response.

And then, slowly, as if acknowledging them was an afterthought, her burnt, ruined face lifted ever so slightly, her scarred, sunken eyes locking onto Logan with something that almost resembled amusement—if it weren’t so cold.

"I have nothing to tell you," she said. Her voice was hoarse, rasping like old parchment, like a throat that had been screaming too long in the dark.

Logan exhaled sharply through his nose. His fingers twitched, but he didn’t move. "Oh, but ya do, lady. Ya owe us a lot."

Captain America lifted a hand, cutting off Logan before he could press further. "Logan."

Cyclops moved forward now, closing the distance between them. His arms were crossed, his posture unwavering.

"We need your help, Miss Page."

Her gaze flickered toward him, and for a moment, there was silence. Then she gave a short, sharp laugh, her scarred features twisting into something bitter.

"Mrs. Page," she corrected. Then, her voice filled with venom, she spat, "And you can shove my help deep inside your mutie ass, sweetie."

Behind Cyclops, Falcon furrowed his brow, but Cap gave a slight shake of his head, a silent command: let it go.

Cyclops exhaled, tightening his jaw. "I’m not going to play games with you, Page. I’m tired of seeing people die." He glanced at Captain America then, his voice sharpening. "I’m tired of crimes going unpunished."

Falcon’s gaze darkened at that, but he kept quiet. Cap simply sighed, arms still crossed. "It’s fine, Sam. Thank you."

Cyclops turned back to Page. "You better speak."

Clara Page lifted her chin, her burnt lips curling in a sneer. "Or what?" she hissed. "You’ll kill me? Take off my other hand so I can’t even clean myself, is that it?"

Cyclops exhaled sharply. His fingers flexed at his sides. He knew this game. He had played it before.

"She’s been through a lot, Scott," came Jean’s voice inside his mind, soft, understanding. "Try to work around it, not through it."

Scott clenched his teeth but gave a slight nod. He hated this—hated that empathy was necessary for someone like her. But Jean was right. They couldn’t strong-arm her into cooperation.

He sighed, his voice lowering. "We want to help people, Mrs. Page."

Something in her eyes flickered then—something raw, something wounded, something that had been buried beneath layers of hatred for too long.

And then—rage.

"Help?" she whispered, and then, louder, "Help?!"

She jolted in her seat, her remaining hand slamming against the table. The stub of her other arm trembled, twitching in the open air, as if her body was still trying to reach for something—something she could never have again.

"All you mutants do is destroy," she hissed. Her voice was shaking now, but not with fear. With fury. With grief. With something that had rotted inside of her long before she had ever sat in this chair.

Her breath came sharp and ragged, her ruined face twisting as her body trembled with restrained emotion.

"You destroy, you kill, you maim, you burn—that is all you do."

She lifted the stub of her right hand, shaking it in front of them like a cruel, grotesque joke.

"You take," she whispered, her voice raw. "You never give. You just take."

A heavy silence fell over the room.

Jean stepped forward. Her heart ached—not for Clara Page’s sins, but for the grief behind them.

"I sense you’re in pain, Clara."

Jean’s voice was gentle, sincere—and it was real.

"We can help you. I can help you. Please."

For a moment, Page’s face broke. It was a flicker, a flash of something fragile and exhausted, something so tired of carrying the weight of its own hatred.

And then she scoffed. The moment was gone.

Her ruined lips pulled into something mocking, bitter, jagged like broken glass.

"You want to get inside my mind, do you?" she rasped. "You think you can handle it? You think you can survive inside my head?"

Jean remained steady. "I can try," she said softly. "I can try to help you. If there are things you wish to forget—"

"Forget?"

The word came out in a whisper, and then, suddenly, a scream.

"Forget?!"

She jerked forward, the chair scraping against the floor, her breathing ragged, wild.

"I don’t want to forget!"

Tears swelled in her ruined eyes now, trailing down her scarred face like rivers carved into scorched earth.

"I want them back."

Cyclops inhaled sharply. His voice was quiet. "Who?"

Clara Page’s lips trembled. Her breathing came in uneven gasps.

Her tears burned as they fell.

Her voice was so small.

"Doesn’t matter."

She swallowed hard, shaking her head furiously. "Not to you."

Jean stepped closer, slow and careful, as if approaching a wounded animal.

"Please, Clara," she murmured. "Let me help you."

For the first time, Clara Page did not sneer. She did not curse. She did not fight.

She only breathed.

And then, in a voice so hollow it could have been a ghost’s whisper, she said, "It doesn’t matter."

She exhaled sharply, the tears still falling.

And then, her burned, scarred face lifted, and she looked Jean Grey in the eye.

"You want to see what you mutants do?"

She let out a sharp, broken breath.

"Yeah. Do it."

She tilted her head back slightly.

Her scarred lips curled into something close to a smirk.

"Do it."

Jean didn’t wait for further permission. Her fingertips pressed against Clara’s cheek, and with a soft gasp, she linked with the woman’s mind.

The flood of emotions was immediate and overwhelming. Jean’s breath hitched as the torrent of Clara’s life—her pain, her anger, her memories—rushed into her mind like a tidal wave.

"My God," Jean whispered, her voice trembling as tears spilled freely from her eyes.

----------------------------------------

Clara’s memories played out with brutal clarity, each scene searing itself into Jean’s consciousness. At first, it was mundane, even joyful. Clara’s life had been so ordinary, so human. She saw Clara as a child, growing up in a loving home with doting parents. She saw Clara’s teenage years, her first crush, her first heartbreak, her graduation. Then her job as a secretary—a young woman stepping into the world with ambition but a grounded heart.

And then she saw Peter.

Clara’s memories lingered on her husband with such vivid detail that Jean could almost feel the love emanating from her. She saw their wedding day, the way Peter looked at Clara as if she were the center of his universe. She saw them buying their first home together, struggling to make ends meet but always finding joy in the little things.

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Then she saw Lucia, their daughter, and the warmth that came with parenthood. Birthday parties. School plays. Bedtime stories. A family built on love and trust, each memory a testament to the ordinary beauty of Clara’s life.

Jean wept as she felt the love Clara had carried for her family. And then, like a thunderclap, everything shattered.

The memory shifted to that fateful day, the one Clara had tried so desperately to bury beneath her hatred.

Lucia came home from school, her voice bright and cheerful. "Mommy! This is Nat! She’s from school."

"Hello, sweetie," Clara said, her smile warm and welcoming. "I’m Clara, Lucia’s mother. This is her father, Peter."

"Hello, Nat," Peter added, his tone friendly. "Welcome to our home."

"Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Page," Nat said shyly, her hands clutching the straps of her school bag.

"Can she stay for homework, Mommy, Daddy?" Lucia asked, her voice filled with excitement.

Clara chuckled. "Sure, sweetie."

"Come on, Nat! I’ll show you my dolls!" Lucia exclaimed, grabbing her new friend’s hand and pulling her toward her room. The two girls disappeared down the hall, their giggles trailing behind them.

"I’ll cook dinner," Clara said, heading toward the kitchen.

Peter followed her, shaking his head. "Honey, don’t worry. I can order pizza."

"No, hon," Clara replied with a playful smile. "The girls need some real food. She’s a guest. She’d want home-cooked food, no?"

Peter shrugged, laughing. "Fine. But I’ll help you."

"Yes, please. Get the table ready," Clara said, her tone teasing.

The memory played out in warmth and laughter, a snapshot of a perfect family moment. But Jean could feel it—the creeping dread in Clara’s subconscious, the knowledge of what was coming.

"Thanks, honey," Clara said, brushing a strand of hair from her face as she finished setting the table. "For having my back."

"Always, Clara," Peter replied, kissing her cheek.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you too," Peter said, his voice warm and steady.

Then came the scream.

"DADDY!"

Peter froze, his face twisting with concern. "Honey, the kids—"

"Don’t worry," Clara said, her tone steady but uncertain. "I’ll see them. It’s probably nothing."

"DADDY! DADDY! NAT IS BURNING! SHE’S ON FIRE!" Lucia's voice crackled from her room, pain, fear, panic.

Jean’s breath hitched as the memory spiraled into chaos. She could feel the overwhelming anguish that Clara felt and still feels. For a brief moment their feelings intermingled, she could feel the overwhelming guilt and grief Clara feels now, but also the absolute desperation she felt at that moment, her motherly instict flaring immediately as she rushed to move after her husband.

"MR. PAGE! I’M SO SCARED!" Nat’s voice echoed through the house, high-pitched and frantic.

Peter bolted toward the hallway. In the distance Clara could see her husband rushing inside her daughter's room, smoke and flames escaping from the frame.

"HONEY, GET THE FIRE EXTINGUISHER!"

Clara’s hands fumbled as she grabbed the extinguisher, her heart pounding in her chest. The smell of smoke hit her nose, acrid and sharp, as she turned the corner.

And then she saw it.

Nat was ablaze, her small body engulfed in uncontrollable flames. The fire licked at the walls, devouring the room in seconds. Clara screamed, a blood-curdling

"MOMMY!"

"LUCIA!"

"DADDY!"

Peter tried to reach the children, his arms outstretched, but the flames surged, cutting him off. He was caught in the blaze, his body consumed in moments.

"PETER! NO! PETER!" Clara screamed, her voice raw with grief and desperation.

"DADDY!"

Clara’s hands trembled as she aimed the extinguisher at the fire, spraying frantically, but it was no use. The fire was alive, ravenous, unyielding.

"MOMMY! IT HURTS, MOMMY! IT HURTS! MOMMY, HELP ME!"

"NO, LUCIA! BABY! NO!"

Lucia’s screams echoed in Clara’s mind, the sound tearing through her like a blade. Jean could feel it too, the agony, the helplessness.

And then Lucia was gone.

Nat’s flames consumed everything—Lucia, the room, herself. The fire raged on, swallowing Clara in its merciless heat. Clara’s screams became Jean’s as the memory burned itself into her mind.

The scene ended with the sound of sirens, flashing red and blue lights illuminating the charred remains of a once-loving home. Clara, disfigured and broken, lay crumpled on the floor, her world reduced to ash.

----------------------------------------

Jean staggered back, breaking the connection, tears streaming down her face. Clara sat motionless, her eyes cold and empty.

"Now you see," Clara said, her voice hollow. "Now you understand."

Jean’s tears fell freely, each one tracing a path down her face as the weight of Clara’s memories bore down on her. She clutched her hands to her chest, as if trying to physically hold in the anguish she now shared with the scarred woman across the table. Her voice broke as she spoke, trembling under the strain of the pain she had absorbed.

"I’m so sorry…"

"Jean!"

Scott Summers was at her side immediately, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. "What did you see, Jean?" he asked, his voice soft but tinged with concern.

Jean shook her head, unable to form words. Instead, she turned into Scott’s embrace, burying her face in his chest as her sobs came in unsteady waves. He held her tightly, his jaw tightening as he glared at Clara across the table, his patience wearing thin.

"What did she see?" Logan growled, his voice low and sharp, his claws itching for release as he leaned forward, his eyes boring into Clara.

Clara remained silent for a moment, her own tears tracing the jagged scars on her ruined face. Finally, she wiped at her eyes with the fabric of her prison uniform, her expression hardening once more. "She saw the day my husband and daughter died," Clara said, her voice devoid of emotion, as if recounting someone else’s tragedy.

Logan froze, his claws retracting with a quiet Schlikt as the room fell silent again. Even Falcon, who had been standing at the back of the room, crossed his arms and looked down, his usual optimism buried under the weight of Clara’s story.

Clara’s voice broke the silence, low and bitter. "It’s easy to stand for something," she began, her tone cutting like a blade, "when that something didn’t take everything from you. It’s easy to stand for justice when your loss has nothing to do with justice. It’s easy to care when you have something to lose."

Her voice cracked, but her expression remained steely, her lips trembling as she continued. "I lost everything. My humanity… it doesn’t matter to me anymore. I lost all of my humanity that day. All I want now is to feel something, even if it’s hate. Even if it’s only hate."

"Clara," Steve said, his voice gentle but firm. "You’ve been through hell, but holding onto this hate—it’s not helping you. Let us help you."

Clara’s gaze flicked to him, cold and unyielding. "No," she said flatly. "I won’t say anything else. Don’t make me relive anything else. I just want to be left alone."

Jean lifted her head from Scott’s chest, her voice barely a whisper. "I… I could make you forget," she said, the words trembling as they left her lips. "Forget their deaths…"

Clara’s face twisted with fury, her hand slamming onto the table with a loud THUD. "No! Don’t you dare!" she snarled, her voice rising. "They were my everything—the only reason my life was worth something! Don’t take that away from me, freak!"

Jean stepped back, her hands trembling as Scott moved in front of her protectively.

"Go after Trask," Clara spat, her voice thick with venom. "Go after Creed. Go after whoever you want. It won’t make a difference. More people will show up. More people like me. Because mutants always do this. They always hurt. They always take."

Steve leaned forward, his hands resting on the table. "Clara, it doesn’t have to be like this. You don’t have to be like this. You can still make a difference."

Clara let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "Make a difference?" she repeated mockingly. "Don’t you get it, Captain? Mutants don’t understand the pain they cause. It wasn’t Magneto. It wasn’t Mystique. It wasn’t some big, bad villain. It was a little girl." Her voice cracked, and for a moment, the bitterness was replaced by raw, unfiltered grief.

Jean closed her eyes, her own tears spilling anew as the memory replayed in her mind.

"You’re a sickness," Clara said, her voice quieter now but no less venomous. "A virus. A virus doesn’t understand why it hurts people—it simply does. That’s what mutants are. They think they don’t hurt people, but they simply do. That’s their nature."

The room fell silent, the weight of Clara’s words pressing down on everyone like a physical force. Logan’s fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles white, but he didn’t speak. Falcon looked away, his jaw tight as he struggled to process the vitriol Clara had unleashed.

Steve’s voice finally broke the silence, calm and steady but filled with conviction. "Clara," he said softly, "I can’t pretend to understand your pain. I can’t pretend to know what it’s like to lose everything. But I do know one thing: this hate—it’s not who you are. It’s what’s been done to you. And if you let it, it’ll destroy whatever’s left of you."

Clara didn’t respond, her gaze fixed on the table in front of her. Her hands trembled, her steely mask cracking ever so slightly. But she didn’t lift her eyes.

Jean’s voice was barely a whisper, thick with emotion. "Clara… we just want to stop this from happening to anyone else. Please. Help us."

But Clara’s silence answered louder than any words could.

Clara Page’s scarred face remained still as her venomous words hung in the air, chilling the room with their bitterness. Her gaze fixed itself somewhere beyond the walls, distant and unreachable.

"It doesn’t matter," she said, her voice hollow but steady, each word dripping with despair. "Nothing matters. Maybe not even my vengeance matters. It can’t bring back the people I lost."

Jean flinched as she heard the words, her heart aching for the broken woman before her.

"But I did what I had to do," Clara continued, her voice gaining an eerie calm. "This isn’t a war. It’s purification. Cleansing. Mutants are the viruses festering in the world, and we’re the immune response."

Cyclops, his arms crossed and his jaw tight, broke the tense silence. "She won’t talk," he said flatly, his tone colder than usual. "She’s suffered enough. Let’s leave it."

Steve Rogers nodded solemnly, stepping back from the table. "Go, Captain," Clara spat, her voice rising slightly, though it was tinged with exhaustion rather than anger. "Go live your lies while we crawl in the mud of reality. There’s no justice in this world, no freedom in this prison we all live in."

Jean’s voice broke as she spoke, her guilt and sorrow written across her face. "I’m so sorry. I really am," she whispered, her hands trembling at her sides.

Clara’s lips twisted into something that might have been a sneer if not for the emptiness in her eyes. "Maybe you are, freak," she replied coldly. "But that doesn’t matter. It won’t make a difference. It never does."

The team slowly turned to leave, the weight of the encounter pressing heavily on their shoulders.

As they exited the interrogation room and the door clicked shut behind them, Logan was the first to break the silence. "So that was worth bull," he grumbled, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall.

Jean turned to him, her voice sharp but pained. "She’s hurt, Logan. Badly."

Logan’s expression hardened, his eyes narrowing. "We’re all hurt, Red," he said, his voice low and edged with frustration. "Doesn’t mean we go out there killin’ a buncha people."

Falcon, walking just behind the pair, glanced at Logan. His tone was even, but there was a pointed truth in his words. "Are you sure about that, Wolverine?"

Logan stopped walking for a moment, his shoulders tensing. His jaw worked as if he wanted to argue, but he said nothing. There was no point. Falcon wasn’t wrong, and everyone knew it.

Steve kept his focus ahead, his voice cutting through the tension. "We need to focus on the mission," he said, his tone firm and commanding.

Cyclops nodded, his visor catching the dim light of the hallway. "We’ll regroup and go over everything when we make back to the others in Westchester."

"Then our work here is done," Steve said, adjusting his gloves. "Let’s head back."

The team started walking down the hallway, their boots echoing faintly against the sterile walls. They passed three SHIELD agents moving briskly in the opposite direction, their faces unreadable. No one gave them more than a passing glance—except for Logan.

He slowed his pace, his head tilting slightly as he glanced over his shoulder to watch the agents disappear around a corner. Something about them didn’t sit right. His instincts, honed by years of combat and survival, screamed at him.

"This smells fishy... like fear and anxiety" Logan muttered under his breath, stopping in his tracks.

Cyclops, already a few steps ahead, turned back with a frustrated look. "Come on, Logan," he said, exasperation dripping from his voice. "We overstayed our welcome here."

Logan’s scowl deepened, his arms crossing. "welcome or not, I know shit when I can smell it, Slim," he growled.

"Logan, please," Jean said, her voice soft but insistent.

Logan looked at her, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he sighed, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "Fine, I’ll follow ya, kids." he muttered, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

The group continued walking, though Logan’s sharp eyes lingered on the corner where the SHIELD agents had vanished. He couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something was off, but for now, he stayed silent.

As they made their way toward the exit, the tension between them was palpable. Jean walked close to Scott, her hand brushing his arm occasionally as if seeking reassurance. Steve and Sam led the group, their postures straight and determined, though the weight of their decisions clearly weighed on them. Logan trailed behind, his steps heavy but his mind alert.

They turned another corner, the dim lighting casting long shadows against the walls. Logan’s nose twitched slightly as he caught a faint scent lingering in the air—something chemical, acrid, and out of place. His jaw tightened as his instincts flared again, but he said nothing, not yet.

Ahead, Steve glanced back at the group, his expression unreadable. "Once we’re back at the mansion, we’ll debrief," he said. "Denti gave us enough to start taking real steps against Trask and the Friends of Humanity. This isn’t over yet."

"Yeah," Cyclops replied, his tone clipped. "There's a lot of things to talk about."

Steve nodded. "Agreed. That’s why we need to act fast. Every second we waste gives them more time to prepare."

Logan’s eyes narrowed as they approached another hallway intersection. His gut told him something was coming, something bad. He slowed his pace again, his hand hovering near his side.

"Logan," Jean said softly, noticing his change in demeanor.

He shook his head, his voice a low growl. "Something ain’t right, Red," he muttered.

Then the lights flickered red and an alarm started wailing, an oppresive air raid like siren.

WHEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOO

"Told ya" Logan said almost yelling under the noise of the siren.

Sharon Carter ran with some agents, all of them carrying rifles.

"Sharon, SITREP" Captain ran beside her, with the others following suit.

"There has been a breach, some of our automated mandroids are attacking agents."

"We're following her." Cap said.

Falcon simply nodded, the X-Men looked at each other, hesitation passing through them before Cyclops nodded.

"We'll do it."