Date: Saturday, July 17, 2010.

Location: Alkali Lake Industrial Complex, British Columbia, Canada

The room was cold, and the dim overhead lights cast eerie shadows over the concrete floor and walls. Tyson found himself in a cell, the chill he felt wasn't just from the temperature but from the air of desolation that hung thick. Along the corridor outside, other cells stretched in both directions, each a duplicate of his own. At the end of the hall, just at the edge of his vision, there was a control station surrounded by screens displaying the interiors of the cells, and beyond that, a large reinforced door, suggesting the entrance – or exit – to this prison block.

Gathering his strength, Tyson gripped the bars of his cell and pulled with all his might. To his surprise, they didn’t budge an inch. Feeling a mix of anger and desperation, he unsheathed his razor-sharp claws, attempting to slice through the metal. Sparks flew, but the bars remained unscathed.

He felt trapped, not just by the bars but by the silence and isolation. There was no sign of other prisoners, and even guards were conspicuously absent. Tyson pressed his forehead against the cold bars. The stark emptiness of the cell block and the lack of human interaction made every minute feel like an hour. With no pathway of escape and an overwhelming sense of confinement, he slowly folded himself onto the ground, adopting a cross-legged position.

He closed his eyes, trying to remember the calm tone of Professor X's voice. "Focus, Tyson," he whispered to himself, echoing the Professor's instructions from their first session. "Seek out the door in your mind."

Breathing in slowly, he pictured the expanse of his mind; a vast, dark plane illuminated by fleeting memories, thoughts, and feelings. There, in the distance, was a faint glimmer. A door. It was wooden, ornate, and glowing slightly. During their first session, Professor X had told him this door led to deeper parts of his consciousness.

Tyson took another deep breath, trying to release the tension in his muscles. He approached the door, his steps echoing in the quiet of his mind.

"You have the power within you," he recalled Professor X saying. "This door is the gateway to your true self. Beyond it lies clarity, and understanding."

As Tyson reached for the doorknob, it was as if an invisible force yanked him out of his inner sanctuary and thrust him back into the grim reality of his cell.

Tyson sighed in exasperation. While he hadn't made it to the room hidden deep within his mind, this was the closest he had come yet. He felt a twinge of hope.

Over and over, he returned to meditation, each time drawing closer to the door in his mind, only to be pulled back. But the door beckoned, promising him answers and clarity. He had to reach it. He had to know.

On his fifth attempt, as his fingertips brushed the cool surface of the door, the unmistakable sound of a slammed door echoed throughout the cell block, jolting him back to reality. Eyes narrowed, ears strained, he attempted to discern who or what was coming. The footsteps indicated that he was about to receive a visitor. The unmistakable fragrance of vanilla, with various other hints, permeated the cold, dank air of the cell block. It was an unexpected aroma in such a bleak setting, but it wasn't lost on Tyson. He tensed, eyes narrowing in anticipation from the familiar scent.

Soon enough, the figures responsible for that aroma came into view. A man with a stern face, cold eyes, and a hardened demeanor came first, Stryker. Flanking him on either side were three striking blondes, the source of the scent. Identical in appearance, they moved with an eerie synchronicity. Each wore matching outfits, their golden locks cascading in perfect waves, yet their piercing blue eyes were unsettling in their intensity.

Tyson growled, "Aren't you missing a couple?"

Stryker gave a small smile, clearly relishing the moment. "Don't mind them," he said, nodding to the three blonde women by his side. "I came to bring you some good news." Tyson narrowed his eyes. "In fact, it's more than just news," Stryker continued, his voice dripping with feigned kindness. "I'm going to give you a wonderful gift. The same gift I gave your friend Logan."

For a brief moment, confusion clouded Tyson's eyes. But then, understanding dawned on him. The adamantium bonding procedure. Sabertooth remembered Logan's agony, the disorientation, the wiping of his memory. He recalled the agonizing process Logan had undergone, the liquid metal bonded to his skeleton making him nigh indestructible but at a tremendous cost.

The anger drained from Tyson in an instant as Sabertooth's aggressiveness was cowed by the potential torture. Putting on a mock cheerful tone, Tyson replied, "From what I hear, the price of adamantium is astronomical. And honestly, you don't need to grant me such an extravagant gift. I mean, what would my girlfriend think? She might get a bit jealous." He smirked, trying to mask the genuine worry that welled up inside him.

The three blondes locked eyes with Tyson, their gaze piercing into him. They began to speak in their haunting tone, with one picking up where the other left off, their voices blending seamlessly. Simultaneously they stated, "He's afraid."

"He knows about the procedure," the middle girl stated, her voice a ghostly whisper.

"And fears the pain," the third added.

One began, "He covets its strength,"

The second finished, "but fears the weakness it brings."

Tyson clenched his jaw but said nothing, trying to shield his mind from their probing.

Stryker, clearly intrigued, leaned forward, "What weakness? Adamantium is the strongest known metal."

The blondes, still speaking in harmony, didn’t miss a beat. "Magneto. They've already fought. He was nearly killed," they finished in unison, "As was Magneto," their voices echoing throughout the chamber.

Stryker's expression tightened. It was clear that this information was new to him, or at the very least, not something he had taken into consideration.

Stryker tried to inject a note of confidence into his voice, hoping to convince both Tyson and himself. "So you were the demon that fought Magneto?" He paused to digest that information. "No matter. Magneto is in his plastic prison, and trust me, he's going nowhere. He'll stay there until he rots away."

Tyson rolled his eyes, clearly not convinced. "If you say so."

The girls began again, their voices harmonizing in that chilling manner. "He believes..." one started.

"Magneto will escape," the next continued.

"Has already escaped," the third chimed in.

For the first time, the three identical girls looked between each other, confused. They clearly didn't agree on what they were seeing in Tyson's mind. As one they spoke, "We need the others to fully understand his thoughts."

Tyson tried to divert them, shifting his thoughts to a different language. Sabertooth had imparted knowledge of several languages, and he utilized them now, silently reciting words in Russian, then French, and then German, hoping to throw off the girls' psychic probing.

However, they persevered. "He fights us," the blondes noted, their voices spoke in harmony, though each carried different notes. Anger, frustration, and genuine curiosity mixed within.

Their continued intrusion into his mind brought visible changes to each girl's demeanor. It was rare to see them display such raw emotion. This was a game, a challenge they weren't used to, and it intrigued and annoyed them in equal measure.

Stryker's eyes gleamed with a sinister light. "We'll begin the procedure soon. You're about to become even more... extraordinary."

Tyson met his gaze head-on, a dark smirk playing on his lips. "I look forward to you opening this cell."

The girls picked up on Tyson's defiant tone instantly. "He will fight..." one began, her voice echoing eerily in the metallic chamber.

"...The moment the door is opened," another continued.

Tyson chuckled, a hint of mischief in his voice, "Please, send Red my way. I wouldn't mind going a second round."

The last of the trio spoke, her voice low and dripping with warning, "Send Deathstrike too."

The echoing steps in the corridor signaled their arrival long before Tyson could see them. First, a tall, lean figure with long raven-black hair stepped into the light. Her almond-shaped eyes held a cold, blank expression. Her black leather suit clung tightly to her, highlighting every muscle and curve. Tyson knew who she was, and that her manicured nails gave a hint of the lethal weapon she hid beneath. A few steps behind her, the hulking figure of Omega Red emerged. His pallid skin and deep-set eyes made for an imposing sight. His tentacles, capable of crushing steel, were retracted, the tips peeking out near his wrist, ready for action.

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A platoon of heavily armed soldiers trailed in after them, their guns held at the ready. Without hesitation, they raised their weapons and began firing at Tyson, their bullets pounding relentlessly against his body. Before he could react, one of Omega Red's tentacles lashed out, wrapping itself around him and squeezing. As Tyson tried to fight against the constricting hold, the second tentacle snaked out, joining the first in its vice grip.

They didn't waste time. Only once they were certain Tyson was secure did the door to his cell open wider. It was clear Stryker wasn’t taking any chances; they'd learned from the first time they subdued him.

As Omega Red trudged through the dimly lit hallways, the tentacles left him immobile and suspended. He tried flexing his muscles, attempting to break free, but it was futile. Omega Red's grip was unyielding.

He was brought through a massive door into a large chamber filled with chilling machinery. The equipment looked more like medieval torture devices than anything modern. Ominous, dark stains dotted the floor.

Beside Stryker stood a balding man with a gray beard, dressed in a white lab coat stained with various chemicals. The man’s cold, analytical gaze scrutinized Tyson as Omega Red brought him closer. "I'm Dr. Cornelius," the man replied with a hint of pride in his voice. "Don't worry, I've done this plenty of times, including on both of them," he continued, gesturing toward Omega Red and Deathstrike.

Tyson had resigned himself to his fate. Instead of being impetuous, he tried to maintain some levity, smirked, and said, "No offense, but I'd prefer her package over his." The room remained tense, but the slight tilt of Dr. Cornelius' mouth indicated that even he appreciated the humor in the grim circumstances.

As Omega Red moved Tyson towards the ominous-looking machine, Stryker barked his orders with chilling precision. "Red put him in. Yuriko, secure his straps."

Deathstrike, or Yuriko as she was once known, ensured Tyson was completely immobilized. With a sinister grin, Stryker leaned in, "I'd say this won't hurt, but I'd be lying," he hissed.

Beside him, Dr. Cornelius adjusted his glasses, interjecting with a professional tone. "If it's any consolation, the procedure has been refined over the years. We've discovered that once Adamantium fuses with the bones of mutants with a healing factor, it undergoes a slight change in structure. We refer to it as Adamantium Beta. It retains the strength of its original form but allows for the natural biological processes of bone growth."

Stryker rolled his eyes, not bothering to hide his annoyance. "That's absolutely fascinating, doctor, but I'm sure our subject couldn't care in the slightest."

Tyson, despite his dire situation, couldn't resist a quip. "Actually, I like to know what's going on. Heck, I might've even applied for a job here if I'd been given a choice." Turning to Omega Red, he continued, "Hey Red, you guys offer dental benefits?"

Omega Red's eyes, piercing and cold, fixed on Tyson. In his thick Russian accent, he growled, "I hope you don't survive."

Stryker, impatient, signaled to Dr. Cornelius. "Begin the procedure," he ordered, anticipation evident in his voice.

Tightly strapped to a complex-looking table, Tyson had no idea what was happening. Above him, an intricate assembly of needles, pipes, and tanks dominated the ceiling. Each needle glistened with a foreboding metallic gleam under the harsh white lights. The hum of the machinery filled the room, an incessant drone.

Dr. Cornelius, face mostly hidden behind a surgical mask and glasses, checked the gauges on one of the tanks. The liquid inside was a dull silver, the Adamantium, held at a temperature so high it seemed to glow.

With a deep breath, the doctor said, "You're about to become something more than you've ever imagined." His tone was both clinical and cruel, belying any semblance of compassion. Stryker, standing just outside the safety glass, added with a smirk, "This will be a transformative experience, in more ways than one."

The procedure began. The needles started their slow descent towards Tyson's skin. Despite his superhuman attributes, the piercing of each needle sent searing pain throughout his body. It felt as though molten lava was being poured into his very bones. His face contorted in agony, every muscle tensed and strained against the restraints. Sweat poured down his face, his teeth gritted so hard it seemed they might shatter.

Tyson's mind raced to find an escape from the pain, memories flashing like a fast-forwarded film reel. Friends, battles, moments of joy; each one a brief respite before the pain dragged him back to the grim present.

The doctor signaled, and the next set of needles began to descend. They aimed for Tyson's skull, a particularly sensitive area. The sharp tips made contact, and Tyson's world became a blaze of pain. It was as if his brain was on fire, every neuron screaming in protest. He gritted his teeth, trying to ride out the storm, but it was overwhelming.

A moment of relief was cut short as yet another set of needles targeted his fingertips. Each prick was like a bolt of lightning, jolting him to his core. His claws, once a source of pride and strength, were now conduits for searing agony. The hot, molten adamantium filled each claw, bonding, and strengthening, but at a terrible cost.

His spine was next. The core of his body was under assault. The sensation was indescribable – a mix of burning and crushing, as if his very essence was being remade.

His growls of pain grew louder, echoing off the walls. Every drop of the liquid metal felt like it was burning him from the inside out.

Hours seemed to pass. The room was filled with the scent of sweat and metal, the hum of machines, and Tyson's tortured cries. The muted conversations around him became a distant backdrop to Tyson's pain. Each breath was a struggle, each second an eternity.

Finally, the last drop was infused, the needles withdrew, and Tyson's torture ended. He couldn't muster the will to struggle as Omega Red dragged him back to his cell.

~~ Rogue Replacement ~~

Professor Charles Xavier sat, vulnerable. Gone was his custom-built wheelchair, replaced by a nondescript, squeaky one. But what was most alarming was the high-tech band that encircled his usually calm forehead.

As consciousness returned, Xavier attempted to center himself. With every ounce of his will, he tried to extend his formidable telepathic abilities, hoping to send a beacon to his X-Men. He closed his eyes, reaching out...

But suddenly, a shrill buzz sounded. A jolt of excruciating pain shot through Xavier's mind, causing his whole body to shake violently. The headband had effectively neutralized his powers, harming him with every attempt of their use.

Laughter echoed in the stifling silence. It was cold, mocking. Xavier, still reeling from the pain, slowly turned his head to see William Stryker, grinning maliciously at him.

"Did you think I'd let you use your powers, Charles?" Stryker sneered, stepping closer. "This band? We call it the Nural Inhibitor. The more you think, the more it hurts.” Stryker tapped his head, “And it keeps you out of here."

Xavier, though weakened, managed to meet Stryker's gaze evenly. "What do you want, William?"

Stryker's eyes gleamed. "Please Xavier, don’t get up.” He smiled at his own joke and continued, “I’m sorry we couldn’t find you more comfortable quarters. My home is going through some renovations… So is yours.”

Xavier asked, "What have you done with Scott?"

Stryker chuckled again, "Oh, he’s here. With some of your students."

Xavier's calm voice stated, "There’s no need to involve them, William."

Stryker's eyes flashed with a mixture of contempt and amusement, "I’ve seen your ‘school’, Professor." He used air quotes mockingly. "With its combat training rooms and high-tech defense systems. What on Earth are you teaching those creatures?"

Xavier’s gaze remained unwavering, "To survive. To peacefully co-exist in a world that fears and hates them."

Stryker scoffed, "It doesn’t look very peaceful to me."

A touch of sadness crept into Xavier's eyes, "You approached me for help once. You wanted me to 'cure' your son, William. But mutation is not a disease."

Stryker's face twisted in a combination of pain and rage, "You’re lying, Xavier. You were more afraid of Jason than I was." His voice became more intense, a deep-seated anger bubbling up, "You know, just one year after Jason returned from your school, my wife...," Stryker paused, taking a shaky breath, "tormented by constant contact with his 'gift'. She took a power drill to her left temple in an attempt to ‘bore out’ the images he was projecting into her mind."

Xavier looked deeply pained, but he kept his voice steady, "I'm sorry for your loss, William. But using your pain to justify this..."

Stryker interrupted, bitterness seeping into every word, "My boy, the great illusionist." He let out a mirthless chuckle, "Look where that got him. And us."

Xavier's eyes sharpened, piecing together the puzzle. "You arranged the attack on the President," he surmised, a touch of anger in his otherwise calm voice.

Stryker chuckled, smugly, "And you didn’t even have to read my mind. Impressive, isn't it?" He moved closer, a predatory glint in his eyes. "You know, I’ve been working with mutants as long as you have, Xavier. And in all those years, do you know what's vexed me the most? Nobody seems to know how many mutants even exist… or how to find them." He paused for effect. "Except you."

From the depth of his coat pocket, Stryker produced a vial containing a yellowish liquid. It shimmered ominously under the low light. "Do you recognize this?" he taunted. "I distilled it from my very own son's cerebral spinal fluid. Makes others utterly susceptible to my every command. Fascinating, isn't it?"

Xavier eyed the vial warily, understanding dawning in his eyes. "So, you've been using Jason to manipulate others."

Stryker smirked, "Sharp as always. But unfortunately, this little potion won’t work on you, will it?" He leaned in, voice dripping with malice. "You’re too powerful for that. So, I thought, why not go right to the source?"

With a dramatic flair, Stryker turned and opened a door that until then had been concealed in the shadows. The sight that greeted Xavier was enough to make even the most hardened of souls shudder.

In the dim room, a shriveled, almost lifeless man sat bound to a wheelchair. His sunken eyes stared blankly, his skin a ghostly pale. Syringes protruded from his scalp, each drawing out the same yellowish fluid Stryker held earlier. Tubes ran like spider webs from the man’s head, connecting to clear containers positioned on the back of the chair, which continuously filled with the precious liquid.

Stryker looked proudly at the figure, his smile sinister, "Professor, allow me to introduce you to Mutant 143."

Xavier's eyes widened as he gazed at Mutant 143, a flood of memories rushing back. The mismatched eyes - one blue, the other green - were unmistakable. He took a shaky breath, a mixture of sorrow and disbelief coloring his features. "My God, William," Xavier whispered, his voice laden with emotion. "This is your son. Jason. What have you done to him?"

Stryker's expression remained cold, void of any fatherly affection. "My son is dead," he retorted bitterly. "And soon, the rest of you mutants will join him."

With that, Stryker slammed the door shut with a deafening clang. Mutant 143, or Jason, continued to stare vacantly, but now, directly at Xavier. Their gazes locked, and Jason's eyes pierced straight into Xavier's very soul.