Date: Thursday, July 15, 2010.

Location: Xavier Institute, Scarsdale, NY

Date: Thursday, July 15, 2010.

Location: Xavier Institute, Scarsdale, NY

Tyson took a step using Illyana’s borrowed teleportation to position himself directly behind the invading soldier. In a fluid, lethal motion, he lunged forward. Razor-sharp claws extended from each of Tyson’s fingers, and they effortlessly punctured the thick armor that the soldier wore. They dug deep, wedging between the muscles of the soldier’s back, snapping the delicate vertebrae, and slicing through the spinal cord. The soldier's body immediately went limp, a gasp escaping his lips. A rush of memories flooded into Tyson.

He grew up in a struggling neighborhood. He had been a promising athlete, but a severe injury during a high school game ended his dreams of making it big. The burden of hospital bills forced him to join the military. He served his term and was approached by a man recruiting ex-soldiers, promising money and power. He was in a mission briefing for the assault on the Xavier Institute. He and a group of mercenaries would be the first to infiltrate the institute, and silently takedown any mutants encountered. And assist the second team in retrieving specific data, materials, and any captured mutants.

The onslaught of memories slowed, and Tyson was thrust back into the present. After the initial rush, he was learning to control the flow of memories and tilt them in a direction that would help his current situation. Armed with the knowledge of the invader’s plans, he stared down at the motionless form whose life had been irrevocably altered in mere seconds. The weight of what he'd done bore down on him. He could see the remnants of the man's past, the choices that had led him to this tragic moment, playing out like a movie in his mind. He felt an overwhelming pang of guilt. He saw the soldier as a victim of circumstance, a man forced into a life of violence due to societal pressures and lack of options. Yet, there was another voice inside Tyson, a much darker and ferocious one that reveled in the hunt, the thrill of the chase, and the power. This soldier was just another prey, an enemy that had threatened their territory, and thus, deserved no mercy. The two voices clashed within him, each battling for dominance over his actions and feelings.

Shaking his head, as if trying to physically dispel the warring thoughts, Tyson hardened his feelings. The weight of his actions would remain to be digested another day. His friends needed him now. And if the soldiers came to hunt children, he had no problems hunting them in turn.

Tyson moved like a shadow, swift and deadly. Each step he took brought him to a different location, allowing him to attack from unexpected directions. The trained soldiers stood no chance against the fury that was Tyson.

She had grown up in a rough neighborhood where joining the army had seemed like her only way out. She'd wanted to make a better life for her younger siblings. They had looked up to her, their beacon of hope. Her determination and fierce loyalty to her family were traits she'd taken with her into her service.

He was a tall man with a shaved head. A smiling woman and a little girl flashed before his eyes. They were his wife and daughter. He'd joined the military out of a sense of duty, but also because it provided for his family. He'd promised his daughter he'd be back for her birthday.

He was a proud graduate, top of his class at Westpoint. Yet, deep down, he'd always harbored doubts and questions about the orders he was given and the morals behind them. He'd wanted to change the system from within.

Tyson, now filled with the memories and emotions of his victims, staggered back. The weight of their lives, dreams, and regrets bore down on him. Each story added another layer of complexity to his psyche, battling with the ferocious instincts of Sabertooth and his own inherent nature.

The battlefield was silent for a moment, save for Tyson's heavy breathing. The knowledge that these were not faceless enemies but people with dreams, families, and stories was overwhelming. The conflict within him grew even more intense, as he grappled with the consequences of his actions and the lives he'd taken. His mind was a cacophony of thoughts and memories. But one thing was shared across all the temporarily-absorbed personalities.

The ability to detach and focus on the mission.

He felt it deep in his core, an unwavering conviction that was shared among all the voices inside him. His mission was clear, defend The Institute. Nothing else mattered now but its protection.

Tyson knew he couldn’t continue as he was. The ever-increasing, conflicting psyches would eventually overwhelm him. He bent down and wrapped his hands around the hilt of a discarded rifle. The weapon felt reassuring in his grip. With all his absorbed memories, he was a highly trained soldier with several lifetimes of combat experience.

As he turned a corner, five soldiers spotted him. They aimed their guns, ready to take down the threat. But Tyson was faster. Using his teleportation ability, he blinked out of existence for a mere second, reappearing behind the first soldier. A quick shot and the man went down. The other soldiers scrambled, firing wildly in surprise, but Tyson was already gone, teleporting again.

Appearing atop a railing, he took aim and quickly dispatched the second and third soldiers with well-placed shots. The fourth, realizing he couldn’t track Tyson’s unpredictable movements, tried to backpedal in retreat. But in the blink of an eye, Tyson was in front of him, a heavy punch knocked him out cold and likely did internal damage with its force.

The final soldier, driven by fear, threw a grenade. With lightning reflexes, Tyson opened a portal to Limbo. The explosive sailed through the opening into the demon-filled dimension. A single shot rendered the man no longer a threat.

Tyson surveyed the scene. Another five soldiers down, in mere moments. But his work was far from over. No one, not even an army, could stand in his way.

With a blinding flash of blue energy, Tyson emerged atop the Institute's rooftop. The wind tousled his hair, but his focus was solely on the unfolding chaos below. Scores of uniformed soldiers approached the school. Their calculated assault seemed rehearsed as if they knew every nook and cranny of the Institute. From the vans parked outside the gates to the teams tactically navigating the yard, to using the central fountain for cover… it was an invasion. Then, the distinct sounds of helicopter blades caught his attention. In the distance, choppers loomed ominously, their dark silhouettes approaching.

The clock was ticking. He knew he only had about three minutes left with the borrowed abilities. He needed to make the biggest impact possible while he still could.

His eyes fixed on one of the helicopters. Channeling Jean’s telekinesis, he stretched out his hand, feeling the immense psychic energy envelop the aircraft. Soldiers below looked up in confusion and terror as the chopper started wobbling erratically in the air. With a forceful pull, Tyson sent the helicopter crashing down amongst the soldiers in the yard.

A massive fireball erupted from the impact site, a shockwave of heat radiating outwards. Shrapnel scattered in every direction, sending soldiers diving for cover. The explosion's sheer force knocked many off their feet, halting their progress. The fire from the explosion morphed and danced in ways fire shouldn't, twisting and turning as if it had a life of its own. To Tyson's astonishment, it formed into the menacing shape of a dragon. The creature, made entirely of flames, surged towards the soldiers, causing them to fire upon the creature. Their disciplined ranks broke as their bullets had no effect and they tried to flee the creature's fiery wrath.

Peering into the thoughts around him, a particular strand of emotion stood out. It was the gleeful, celebratory thoughts of John, the fire-controlling mutant. Tyson took a quick step, instantly appearing beside John. Without giving him a chance to react, Tyson grabbed his arm and teleported once more.

Stolen novel; please report.

They emerged at the evacuation point, where he’d left Jean and Jubilee. The sudden arrival startled the kids streaming by. But before anyone could say anything, John pulled away from Tyson's grip, his expression a mix of anger and confusion. "Why?!" he yelled, his eyes flaring with the same intensity as the flames he controlled. "I was helping!"

Tyson’s voice filled with urgency. "Help by not getting captured," he retorted. Pointing around him at all the fleeing kids. "You’re strong. You need to protect our friends. Jean and Illyana are going to be weak because they gave me so much of themselves. Don’t make me waste it fighting you too. Everyone here needs you."

John's defiance faltered under Tyson's commanding presence, but the fire in his eyes remained. Before he could argue further, Tyson took another step, vanishing from the scene and reappearing on the roof, ready to face the chaos once more.

The second chopper attempted to withdraw from the area, clearly not eager to meet the same fate as its predecessor. Tyson, however, had other plans. He reached out with his telekinesis; the force of his will wrapped around the fleeing aircraft, stopping it mid-air. The soldiers inside stared out in horror, trying to figure out why their escape had been abruptly halted.

Then, with a sudden, forceful pull, Tyson flung the helicopter like a toy, sending it crashing into one of the large vans parked just outside the institute's gates. The deafening crash echoed across the grounds, punctuated by the explosive rupture of the van's fuel tank. Flames shot into the air, casting eerie shadows against the dark backdrop of the night.

Not done, Tyson looked down at the convoy of vans attempting to deposit more troops. With a wave of his hand, two of them lifted off the ground. The soldiers beneath, seeing the massive vehicles being manipulated like they were nothing more than cardboard cutouts, tried to scatter. But Tyson was too fast. With a swift motion, he dragged the airborne vans across the lawn, sweeping under them the advancing soldiers like bugs under a broom. The force was such that those caught directly under the vans were crushed, while others were knocked aside, dazed, disoriented, disabled, or dead.

The battleground outside the institute was quickly turning into a field of destruction, all orchestrated by a single determined mutant.

Tyson felt a sharp, excruciating pain in his chest. It was like being hit with a hammer but from the inside. One, two, three. The blows registered before the sound of the bullets being discharged reached him. He looked down, disbelief clouding his vision. Massive rounds must have gone right through, leaving a gaping hole in his chest. The realization that he was missing a large section from his torso caused his world to spin. In his mind, the whispers of the personalities he housed became frantic, overlapping into a chaotic noise. Without thinking, he teleported, disappearing from the rooftop and reappearing inside his room at the institute. The familiar surroundings offered no comfort as he collapsed onto the floor, gasping. His hands went to his chest, fingers sinking into the warm, wet mess at the edge of the gaping hole. It felt like trying to hold onto a handful of thick, slippery mud.

But the gaping holes in his chest from the large caliber bullets began to close. At first, it was like watching a zipper pull flesh together. Then, as the seconds ticked by, organs reformed as the mangled tissue reformed until there was nothing left but smooth skin.

Heaving with exertion, Tyson lay there for a moment, letting the cool floor beneath him ground his senses.

Gathering his resolve, Tyson stood up. He envisioned the institute's roof. Taking a step he tried to draw on the teleportation power. The familiar pull of teleportation, the sensation of space wrapping around him, was gone. The walls of his room still enclosed him. His connection to Jean and Illyana's abilities had vanished. A pit formed in his stomach. Without those powers, his options were suddenly limited. He could hear the distant sounds of fighting and shouts of soldiers. The logical part of him knew he should head to the evacuation point, and regroup with the others. But there was a fire inside him, one that had been ignited by a presence in his mind, urging him to continue the battle. Tyson's fingers clenched and unclenched, torn between the two desires. But then an explosion from outside solidified his decision. The primal urge, the hunter in him, drove him to fight.

Tyson stepped into the hallway. He took a moment, tilting his head slightly, nostrils flaring. The air was thick with various scents. Overpowering everything was the tangy scent of fear, an almost sour smell that made his nose twitch. Beneath it, he detected the distinct smell of sweat, mixed with the sharp scent of gunpowder. But what he was searching for was the unique scent of a person, the individual cocktail of pheromones and body odor that would lead him to his next target. He followed a trail, the smell growing stronger. His heightened senses allowed him to detect the faintest traces of human scent, leading him like a compass straight to his prey.

Rounding a corner, he came face to face with a soldier, weapon raised. Before Tyson could react, a dart from a tranquilizer gun pierced his skin. Immediately, a cold sensation spread from the point of impact, making his limbs feel heavy. But it lasted only a moment, the effect ebbing away almost as quickly as it had come, his healing factor neutralizing the drug. With a roar, Tyson lunged forward, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat. His claws slashed through the soldier's armor, cutting into flesh. The soldier's eyes widened in shock, and before he could scream, his vision went black.

As Tyson moved down the hallway, a fresh scent wafted toward him, unique and tantalizing. The base note was consistent; a soft, floral aroma that felt alluring and soothing. Layered above it were individual nuances, each carrying a hint of vanilla, another with a touch of lavender, cinnamon, and honey, and the last with a slight citrusy tang. Though they differed slightly, these scents were almost harmoniously intertwined, suggesting a deep connection between their sources. The allure of these fragrances was undeniable, and Tyson felt an almost magnetic pull toward them. Following this olfactory trail, Tyson's predatory instincts kicked in, and he began to move silently, stalking the origins of the scents.

The corridor opened up into a room, and in the center stood a man. Surrounding him were five identical women, each impeccably dressed. Their blonde hair fell in perfect waves, cascading down their backs and framing their strikingly similar faces. Their icy blue eyes were sharp and intelligent, each set beneath delicately arched eyebrows. Their lips, a pale shade of pink, were set in expressions that seemed both aloof and intensely focused. These women moved with a synchronous grace, every gesture mirroring the others, giving an almost eerie sense of coordination. Their porcelain skin, flawless and almost glowing, stood out against their white dresses, creating an ethereal aura around them.

The atmosphere in the room was thick with tension as the five blondes began to speak, their voices harmonizing in a way that was both mesmerizing and unnerving.

"He's the last one," one began, her voice dripping with cold authority.

"There are no others nearby," another continued, her tone almost mocking.

"He's a hunter," the third one added, eyes sharp and assessing.

"He's killed many men," said the fourth, her gaze unwavering.

Their words were delivered with an eerie cadence, and Tyson felt like he was being surrounded by a singular entity rather than five separate individuals. It was a dance of voices, each taking a turn, leading and following, completing each other's sentences. Their synchronized movements were almost as entrancing as their combined voices. Every tilt of their heads, every blink of their eyes, seemed perfectly timed and coordinated. The five identical blondes were dressed in pristine white outfits that made them look almost angelic. Their piercing blue eyes seemed to look straight through Tyson, dissecting his every thought and emotion.

The fifth, who had been silent thus far, stepped forward, her gaze unwavering, “He's stronger than he appears but weaker than he was.” she said, her voice as cold and clinical as the rest.

Tyson tried to keep his composure, but he couldn't help but be affected by their collective presence. “Who are you?” he demanded, trying to assert some control over the situation.

“Who we are is of no consequence to you,” they replied with eerie synchronization. “What you should be worried about, is what we want.”

“Which is?” Tyson asked defiantly.

The five shared a brief, knowing glance before responding, “You.”

Tyson felt a prickle at the base of his skull like fingers tickling his mind. “I’m taken,” he growled, his hackles rising.

The fourth chuckled lightly, her voice dripping with amusement, “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that.”

The fifth and final blonde took another step closer, her eyes never leaving Tyson's. “We’ll just take what we need,” she finished, a wicked smile playing on her lips.

The eeriness of the encounter settled heavily on Tyson. As he focused on the blondes, the man in the middle broke the hypnotic chain. "Well, aren't you quite the prize?" he said with a smug grin, his eyes scanning Tyson from head to toe. "I saw my men shoot you," he continued, tapping his chest three times for emphasis. "But here you are, no worse for wear. How lucky am I that I encountered the same unique power, four times? Makes me think it’s not so unique. But you’ve got something else special in you. A temporary powerup of some kind?"

Tyson tried to make sense of the man's words, but another scent began to creep into his senses. At first, it was hidden beneath the sweet allure of the blondes, but as Tyson honed in on it, it became more distinct. It was an odor that brought to mind graveyards and decay, the chilling aroma of rotting flesh mixed with the sharp tang of cold metal. The scent was reminiscent of death, and Tyson knew instinctively it was dangerous. But, the smell was not coming from any of the people in front of him.