Chapter 62

Arc 5 - Ch 15: Hallway of Possibilities

Date: Friday, June 3, 2011.

Location: Asgard

The moment Loki ceased his relentless assault and Gungnir's beam faded, Tyson's remarkable healing factor sprang into action. Throughout the onslaught, his body had been fighting to repair itself, a desperate battle against the devastating power of the divine weapon. But the sheer intensity of the energy that had poured from Gungnir's tip had been overwhelming, inflicting damage at a rate that outpaced his incredible regenerative abilities.

As his broken, ravaged form plunged into the cold, dark waters that surrounded Asgard, the urgency to breathe was a primal, instinctual drive. But in his current state, drawing breath was impossible. One of his lungs was simply gone, obliterated by the searing beam of Gungnir's power, and without a diaphragm to control the flow of air, Tyson could do little more than sink into the abyss.

Just days earlier, swimming had been an effortless task for him, his powerful muscles propelling him through the crystal-clear waters of Monaco. But now, with half of his body reduced to nothing more than adamantium bones, the simple act of staying afloat became an insurmountable challenge.

The dense, heavy metal of his skeleton pulled him downward, dragging him deeper and deeper into the murky depths of Asgard's waters. The darkness closed in around him creating a suffocating blanket of darkness.

But even as he sank, as the icy water filled his lungs and the pressure of the depths threatened to crush his remaining organs, Tyson fought against the pull of oblivion. His survival instinct was strong, refusing to be extinguished, and he clung to that with stubborn tenacity.

Deep within the shattered remnants of his torso, Tyson's healing factor worked to repair the extensive damage wrought by Loki's attack. New cells formed at an astonishing rate, knitting together into a patchwork of fresh, pink tissue that slowly began to take shape. His heart was the first to regenerate, the vital organ reforming itself from the inside out. Muscular walls knit together, weaving a complex tapestry of cardiac muscle that gradually coalesced into a complete, beating heart. Next came his lungs, one of them entirely missing, the other a tattered ruin of charred flesh and exposed bronchi.

But even as the delicate tissues of his respiratory system began to regrow, Tyson's body was already working to rebuild the intricate network of blood vessels that would supply them with oxygen. Capillaries, veins, and arteries sprouted from the newly formed tissues like delicate tendrils, threading their way through the regenerating flesh.

As his vital organs solidified, taking on a more recognizable shape, Tyson's nervous system began to extend outward from his core, sending tendrils of electrochemical impulses racing through his body. Sensation returned to his limbs in a rush of pins and needles, a tingling burn that was almost worse than the pain of his injuries.

But even as he regained feeling in his extremities, Tyson knew that he was far from whole. His muscles barely clung to the adamantium skeleton by sparse tendons. Slowly, painfully, those muscles began to regenerate, growing outward from the tendons like new shoots from a tree.

Tyson felt a surge of hope flare to life. With each passing second, he could feel his strength returning, his body knitting itself back together with a regeneration rate that was nothing short of awe-inspiring.

But even as his physical form began to mend, Tyson knew that he was far from safe. The waters of Asgard were deep, and the weight of his adamantium skeleton dragged him down into the lightless depths of the abyss.

Tyson's body finally healed enough to allow him to begin swimming upward. The darkness of the Asgardian waters pressed in on him from all sides, but he refused to let it consume him. With powerful kicks of his legs, his muscles strained as he propelled himself towards the surface. The cold water rushed past him as he ascended, his enhanced senses picking up the subtle changes in pressure and temperature. His lungs, now fully formed and functional, burned with the need for air. But Tyson knew he couldn't take a breath until he broke the surface. He focused on the rhythmic movement of his arms and legs, pushing himself harder with each stroke.

Tyson's enhanced vision began to detect a faint glimmer of light above, giving him a renewed burst of energy. He increased his pace, his powerful muscles working in perfect harmony as he cut through the water with increasing speed.

The light grew brighter, and Tyson could make out the shimmering surface of the water above him. He was close now, so close to breaking free from the watery depths that had nearly claimed his life.

With a final, desperate push, Tyson broke through the surface of the water, his newly formed lungs gasping for air.

But even as he savored the sweet taste of air on his tongue, Tyson knew that he couldn't rest, couldn't allow himself the luxury of even a moment's respite. He had to keep moving, had to find his way back to solid ground. He struggled to breathe, each inhalation painful, burning from the water that had filled his lungs as they regenerated.

He scanned the surrounding waters, searching for any sign of land or structure that might offer him a chance at salvation. And then, a short distance away, he saw it.

A pillar rose up from the depths, supporting the Rainbow Bridge. He began to swim towards it. Each stroke, each breath, was a battle against exhaustion but Tyson refused to give up. As he drew closer to the pillar, he could feel the thrum of power that emanated from the structure. Reaching out, he grasped the pillar's base, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth, slick surface. His adamantium claws extended, digging into the dense material with ease.

Slowly, painfully, Tyson began to haul himself up the length of the pillar, his muscles screaming in protest with every inch he gained. The climb was an arduous test of will and endurance that pushed him to the very limits of his newly regenerated body. But even as his lungs burned and his vision swam with exhaustion, Tyson refused to give up. He had come too far and had endured too much to let himself fail now. And so, with a final, desperate heave, he dragged himself over the lip of the pillar and onto the shimmering expanse of the rainbow bridge.

For a long moment, he simply lay there, his chest heaving with the effort of drawing breath. The surface of the bridge was solid beneath him, a welcome respite from the waters that had nearly claimed his life. As Tyson lay there, his body slowly finished knitting itself back together.

Then, his body convulsed as he lay on the pulsating surface of the Rainbow Bridge. His newly regenerated muscles tensed and relaxed in rapid succession, each spasm bringing with it a fresh wave of discomfort. He rolled onto his side, his body instinctively curling into a fetal position.

A violent cough wracked his frame, sending shockwaves of pain through his still-tender flesh. Water spewed from his mouth in a forceful stream, splattering onto the iridescent surface of the bridge. The taste of brine lingered on his tongue. As the coughing fit subsided, Tyson found himself gasping for air once more. His lungs still struggled. Each breath was a conscious effort, his diaphragm working overtime to draw in the oxygen his body so desperately craved.

Another wave of nausea hit him, and Tyson barely had time to push himself up onto his hands and knees before his stomach rebelled. He retched violently, his body expelling what felt like gallons of water in a series of painful heaves. The acrid liquid burned his throat and nostrils.

As he vomited, Tyson could feel his body working overtime to purge itself of the seawater. His enhanced healing factor kicked into overdrive, accelerating the process of clearing his system. Water seemed to seep from every pore, his skin exuding a fine mist as his body worked to expel the excess fluid. The process was far from pleasant. Tyson's alveoli, the tiny air sacs in his lungs, contracted and expanded rapidly, forcing out the water that had filled them during his near-drowning experience. The sensation was akin to having his chest squeezed in a vice, each breath bringing with it a fresh wave of discomfort as his body fought to clear his airways.

Even his sinuses weren't spared from the ordeal. Water trickled from his nose in a steady stream, mixing with the tears that had formed in his eyes from the strain of vomiting. His enhanced senses, usually a boon, now worked against him as he became acutely aware of every drop of liquid leaving his body. Tyson's ears popped as the pressure equalized, the last remnants of water draining. The sudden clarity of sound was almost overwhelming, the hum of the rainbow bridge now seeming as loud as a roaring waterfall to his sensitive hearing.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity but was likely less than a minute, the violent expulsions ceased. Tyson collapsed onto his side, his body trembling with exhaustion. He lay there, panting heavily, as the last few droplets of water seeped from his pores.

After a few moments of recovery, Tyson steeled himself for the next inevitable step. He reached up with a trembling hand, his fingers closing around the ornate hilt of the dagger protruding grotesquely from his eye socket.

Gritting his teeth, Tyson braced himself for the excruciating pain he knew was coming. His jaw clenched tight, and the muscles in his neck stood out as he gathered his courage and his resolve. With a yell that echoed across the shimmering expanse of the rainbow bridge, he yanked the dagger out in a single motion.

The pain was intense, a white-hot agony that seemed to sear through his skull like a bolt of lightning. It was a sensation beyond description, a feeling of pure, unadulterated torment that threatened to overwhelm his senses and drag him down into the depths of unconsciousness.

Blood and other viscous fluids poured from the ruined socket in a grisly cascade. But even as the pain reached its peak, even as the world seemed to spin and tilt around him, Tyson could feel his remarkable healing factor kicking into overdrive. The regenerative process began at once, cells rapidly dividing and multiplying to repair the severe damage that had been done to his eye.

Within moments, a new orb started to form, sprouting from the optic nerve, and weaving into the delicate tapestry of Tyson's visual cortex. Muscles and ligaments took shape, anchoring the new organ firmly in place within the socket.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the process was complete. A fully functional eye, identical in every way to the one that had been so brutally taken from him, now stared out from Tyson's face.

As Tyson leaned back against the cool, solid surface of the rainbow bridge, his chest heaving with exhaustion and relief, he became aware of a presence nearby.

Looking up, he found Amora the Enchantress.

She stood over him clad in a gown of green silk that clung to her curves like a second skin. Her golden hair framed a beautiful face, but it was the expression on that face that caught Tyson's attention. There was a look of unmistakable respect and admiration that shone in Amora's eyes.

Gone was the air of superiority and confidence that Amora wore like a cloak, replaced by a softening of her features that bordered on the tender. Her posture was less imposing than usual, her shoulders relaxed and her head tilted slightly to one side as she regarded Tyson with a gentle gaze.

"Losing an eye in defense of Asgard is held in the highest regard among our people," Amora spoke, her voice filled with a reverence that Tyson had never heard from her before. "You've earned a fitting reward in return."

Tyson, still reeling from the ordeal and the lingering echoes of pain that thrummed through his skull, looked up at Amora with an expression of incredulity. For a moment, he wondered if the Enchantress had lost her mind.

But as he searched her face, Tyson saw only sincerity and conviction. Amora's expression was serious as she focused on the dagger that lay discarded on the surface of the bridge.

Her voice took on a tone of quiet awe as she spoke. "Loki's dagger," she murmured, her words almost a caress. "It's an Uru weapon. Like Mjolnir, it was forged in the heart of a dying star. Though it never trapped a powerful soul like Thor's hammer, it could have. A powerful sorcerer imbued it with the power of the Infinite Blade enchantment."

Tyson's brow furrowed as he tried to process the implications of Amora's words, his mind still foggy with the aftermath of his struggle. But as he listened, he forced himself to focus on the Enchantress's explanation.

"You can create a second blade to dual-wield while holding it," Amora continued, "And if you throw it, the dagger will reappear in your hand, with the thrown one dispersing shortly afterward."

Tyson's gaze shifted down to the ornate weapon lying discarded beside him, his fingers twitching with the sudden, irresistible urge to reach out and take it up. Holding the ornate dagger, he turned it over, inspecting the intricate carvings and jeweled hilt.

"If it can return to its owner's hand when thrown, how did I end up with it instead of Loki?" he asked, looking back up at Amora.

Amora gave an elegant shrug, the movement causing the golden bangles on her wrists to jingle softly. "I can only assume that once Odin's legendary spear was returned to his grasp, Loki felt he no longer needed a secondary weapon," she mused. "As magnificent as that dagger may be, it is no match for the power of Gungnir. With such magical items, sometimes intent and will are the most important aspects. The dagger's abilities are remarkable, but if Loki no longer wished to wield it, he could easily relinquish its bond." She paused, her emerald eyes thoughtful as she gazed at the dagger. "Perhaps the act of setting it aside was symbolic. He had set himself upon a new path, and in doing so, he left his previous life behind, the dagger discarded along with it."

Tyson ran his fingers along the flat of the blade. A weapon that could be endlessly recalled. At the least, it would make him more than a melee threat.

But Tyson's attention was drawn away from his new loot by a more pressing concern.

As he looked down at the dagger in his hands, his eyes noticed the surge of activity below him on the Rainbow Bridge. Scintillating energies streamed across the length of the bridge, pulsing and throbbing with power. The colors shifted and danced, a kaleidoscope of hues that dazzled the eye. And at the far end of the bridge, where the energy seemed to converge and concentrate, Tyson could see the Bifrost observatory, the great machine that controlled the flow of transport between the realms. It was active, its great gears turning and its mechanisms whirring with a deafening roar that echoed across the vastness of space.

At that moment, Tyson felt a sudden, overpowering sense of urgency wash over him.

Loki had activated the Bifrost.

"It's not too late," he said, his voice rough and ragged with the strain of his ordeal. "I can stop this."

With a grunt of effort, he braced himself to climb to his feet, to charge headlong into the fray.

But before he could rise, before he could take so much as a single step, Tyson felt the gentle pressure of Amora's hand on his shoulder, holding him back with a touch that was unexpectedly tender.

"I watched your battle," the Enchantress said softly, "You're no match for Loki. Not as you are now."

Tyson opened his mouth to protest, to argue that he had to try. But before he could utter a word, Amora produced her scrying mirror.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Through the mirror's enchanted glass, Tyson watched as Thor approached Loki. The two brothers locked in a tense confrontation that seemed poised on the brink of violence. He could see the anger and betrayal etched into Thor's features, and the cold, calculating glint in Loki's eyes as he regarded his sibling with a mix of contempt and malicious glee.

"Let me go," Tyson pleaded, his voice thick with desperation and urgency. "I need to help, to change the outcome of their fight. I have to prevent the destruction of the Bifrost, or at least save Thor and Loki so Odin won't have to."

But Amora's response was not what Tyson expected. Instead of arguing or trying to dissuade him, the Enchantress simply placed her hand gently on his face, her fingers softly stroking his cheek in a gesture of surprising tenderness.

Tyson's gaze dropped to Amora's hand. He realized his clothes had been shredded by the blast from Odin's spear, leaving his skin exposed where the Enchantress had held his shoulder.

But there had been no involuntary pull of her life force into his body.

Confusion flooded Tyson's mismatched eyes as he searched Amora's face. Her fingers trailed lightly across his cheek, the caress achingly tender. Tyson's breath caught at the unexpected gentleness. Longing swelled within him, warring with his bewilderment.

"How..." he started, his voice rough with emotion. But she pressed a finger to his lips, hushing him. Her hand slid to cradle his jaw as she gazed at him with an expression he couldn't name. At this moment, all pretenses had fallen away. She was unguarded, stripped of her usual defenses. And Tyson found himself leaning into her palm, savoring her touch as if it was the most precious thing in the world.

"You showed me enough that I realized how to counter your touch." Amora remarked with a hint of playfulness, "Perhaps not the wisest of moves on your part."

Her tone grew more serious then, her expression sobering as she leaned in closer, her face mere inches from Tyson's own. "I know not why you seem so certain about the outcome of a fight that has yet to come to blows. But, as I said, you're no match for Loki, not as you are now," she murmured, her breath warm and sweet against his skin. "However, you have my attention, for what you could be."

There was a weight to those words, a sense of promise and possibility that sent a thrill of excitement racing through Tyson's veins. He could feel the power that radiated from Amora, the magic that swirled around her like a cloak of shimmering energy.

And as he stared into those fathomless emerald eyes, as he lost himself in the depths of her gaze, Tyson felt a flicker of something else, a spark of connection that went beyond the physical, beyond the exchange of words and glances.

"I see you," Amora whispered, her voice low and intimate, filled with warmth. "Now you need to see… See yourself… See what you could be."

And with those cryptic words, the Enchantress leaned forward, her lips parting slightly as a stream of arcane syllables flowed from her mouth. The language was ancient and powerful, resonating with a deep magic that seemed to thrum through the very fabric of Tyson's being.

As Amora's lips met Tyson's, as the soft, sweet pressure of her kiss sent shivers of pleasure racing through his body, he felt the world around him begin to blur and shift. Colors bled together, sounds faded into a distant hum, and the solid surface of the Rainbow Bridge seemed to melt away beneath his feet.

And then, in a blinding flash of pure, radiant light, everything went white.

— Rogue Replacement —

The blinding whiteness enveloping Tyson began to dim. As the light receded, a new environment took shape around him. He found himself standing in a long, expansive hallway, its walls and floor all a stark white. Directly in front of him stood a large window that drew his attention. Tyson curiously approached the window with cautious steps, his footfalls echoing strangely in the eerie silence of the hallway.

As he peered through the glass, a sight greeted his eyes that he hadn't expected. It had been a year, but he recognized this room. Its walls and furnishings remained stark and clinical in their simplicity. There, in that room, Tyson saw the figures of Anne Marie, Rogue, and Victor Creed, Sabertooth, their forms as vivid and tangible as if they were still alive. On a nearby couch sat Jason Stryker, his posture rigid and unmoving, his eyes staring blankly ahead as if lost in his own inner world.

The White Room.

Or at least that was what Tyson dubbed it. The space was a mental construct within his own mind where the psyches of those whose life force and memories he had absorbed resided. The sight was a reminder of the unique and often burdensome power that Tyson possessed, the ability to absorb not just the memories and skills of others, but their very essence, their complete personas.

His brow furrowed as he gazed at the familiar white expanse before him. He had been desperately trying to reach this place through meditation for months, but the metaphysical door had remained stubbornly closed to him.

Yet now, somehow, he found himself here in this hallway, with a window providing a tantalizing glimpse into that unreachable space.

He had first discovered the White Room with Professor X's help during his brief time attending Psychic class at the Xavier Institute. The last time he had managed to cross the threshold into the White Room was at Alkali Lake when the Beckies… err, the Stepford Cuckoos had assisted him with their psychic abilities, granting Tyson fleeting access.

But this time, there were no powerful psychics assisting him. What had enabled him to bypass his mental blocks this time? Why was it different? This hallway and window, instead of the basketball court at the Institute where he had arrived previously.

Frustrated, Tyson released his adamantium claws with a snikt and scratched at the window, but to no avail. Not even a mark appeared on the smooth surface. It seemed that regardless of how he had arrived in this hallway, he still did not have direct access to the White Room. The window remained an impenetrable barrier, keeping the secrets of his psyche tantalizingly close yet sealed away behind an unbreakable pane.

Tyson retracted his claws, resigning himself to the fact that answers would not come easily. There had to be a reason he was here now, able to see but not enter the White Room.

Turning his attention away from the window, Tyson noticed that the hallway was lined with a series of doors. Each door was closed, with featureless surfaces, broken only by the presence of a small viewing window set at eye level.

With a sense of hesitance, Tyson approached the first door. As he peered through the window, he saw the figure of a nondescript man, clad in a plaid shirt, jeans, and a trucker hat. The man's features were unremarkable, his expression neutral, as if he were little more than a background character in the grand drama of Tyson's life.

Unsure of the man's identity or significance, Tyson moved on to the next door. As he gazed through the viewing window, a jolt of surprise ran through him, his breath catching in his throat.

Inside the room beyond, he saw the unmistakable figure of Logan, Wolverine. He was short, but his body was a compact mass of muscle. His face sported iconic mutton chops and stubble.

Stepping back from the door, Tyson felt a sense of unease wash over him. Logan should not be in this mental space.

Pushing those thoughts aside, Tyson moved on to the next door, his curiosity overriding his trepidation. As he peered through the window, he saw another familiar face, though one he had only encountered briefly. It was the man from the bar in Canada, the one he had insulted and beaten in a fistfight after his confrontation with Logan.

Moving on, Tyson came to the next door in the hallway. As he gazed through the window, he felt his breath catch in his throat once more.

Illyana.

She was as beautiful as ever, with her long platinum blonde hair and bangs, with two long strands framing her face.

But it was the object in her hand that dominated the room, that truly caught Tyson's attention.

The Soulsword.

Illyana's mystical weapon was a manifestation of her soul.

As Tyson gazed upon Illyana's face, he felt a rush of emotions sweep through him, a tangled knot of feelings that he had been studiously ignoring since their last meeting. There was affection there, but there was also a sense of uncertainty, jealousy, longing, and a host of other feelings, that Tyson forced down.

He lingered outside the door, just looking at her.

Tearing his gaze away from the window, Tyson forced himself to move on, to put those feelings aside for the moment. There would be time to unpack the complexities of his relationship with Illyana later. For now, there were other doors to explore, other facets of his own psyche to confront and understand.

As Tyson moved on to the next door, he was met with a sight that stood in stark contrast to the previous rooms. Peering through the viewing window, he found himself face-to-face with a demon. The grotesque creature could only have originated from the hellish depths of Limbo. It was a small, misshapen figure that stood barely three feet tall with sickly grayish-green skin, mottled with darker patches. The texture of its hide was rough and leathery, yet, even more unsettling in its alien wrongness. The creature's head was disproportionately large compared to its stunted body and dominated by a pair of bulbous, yellow eyes. Its mouth was a wide, gaping maw filled with jagged, razor-sharp teeth. The demon's arms were long and thin, almost spindly in their proportions, ending in clawed hands.

Shaking his head at the disturbing reminder of the horrors he had faced in Limbo, Tyson moved on to the next door. As he looked through the viewing window, he found himself staring at an even more powerful and fearsome demon, one that dwarfed its smaller counterpart in both size and sheer, terrifying presence.

This demon stood tall and imposing, easily over seven feet in height. Its form was avian, with the head of a bird of prey perched atop a thick, corded neck. The creature's beak was sharp and curved, designed for tearing and rending flesh. The demon's wings were expansive and bat-like, with membranes that were a dark gray. They flexed and stretched with a leathery rustle, while its legs were muscular and powerful, ending in taloned feet. He remembered fighting this demon; it was capable of letting out a piercing, disorienting screech.

It was then, that revelation dawned on Tyson with a clarity that was both unsettling and enlightening.

His power ran far deeper than he had previously believed. This hallway was a repository for the remnants of those he had absorbed through Rogue's abilities. Each one locked away yet preserved within the depths of his own psyche. The order of the rooms, and the entities they contained, seemed to map out a chronology of those he had encountered and absorbed, a living record of the lives he had touched and the essences he had taken into himself.

Motivated to further confirm his burgeoning understanding, Tyson moved to the next room, his steps quickening with a sense of purpose. As he peered through the viewing window, his theory was substantiated once more.

Inside, he saw a tall, lean figure exuding an air of demonic grace and power. The entity's skin was a deep, vibrant red, and its face was angular and sharply defined, with high cheekbones and a strong, chiseled jawline. The figure's eyes were yellow, seeming to contain ancient knowledge and power. A tail, long and sinuous, swayed gently behind him, its tip flicking back and forth with a hypnotic rhythm.

Tyson recognized the figure instantly. Azazel, the demonic mutant who had invaded Limbo. It was disturbing seeing Azazel seemingly alive, given the last time he had seen the demonic mutant, Illyana had blown his brains out.

As Tyson continued his journey down the corridor, each door he approached and peered through became a window into a different moment of his past, a vivid reminder of the lives he had intersected with since his arrival in this world.

There was Mystique, the shape-shifter with blue skin and yellow eyes who had lured him out of Xavier's institute.

Then came Jean Grey. Even inside his own mindscape, he could feel her immense psychic power; proof of her incredible gift.

More demons from Limbo followed. Each one was a unique and terrifying reflection of the horrors Tyson had faced during his time hunting alongside Illyana. Though he did snort at seeing the 'fart demon' again.

Bobby Drake, Iceman, appeared next. Tyson remembered the day Bobby had shook his hand on a dare, hardly able to stand his touch for a few seconds.

As Tyson progressed further down the hallway, he found himself confronted by a series of soldiers. A grim reminder of the invasion of the institute and the lives that he had forever altered, or taken during that terrible conflict. The sheer number of them was upsetting, and Tyson felt a surge of discomfort and unease as he was forced to confront the toll his actions had taken, in reality, and within his psyche.

Jubilee followed. Even here, her youthful, vibrant energy shown. It was a welcome contrast to the somber weight of the soldiers' presence.

Next came the Lizard, sharing a cell with Dr. Curt Connors. Tyson found it interesting that they appeared as separate entities within the same room. Perhaps it was representative of the duality of Connors' nature. Conversely, he noted, Illyana didn't share a space with Darkchylde, her demonic form that Tyson had recently kissed. It inferred that Illyana's Darkchylde form wasn't separate from herself, it was a part of her. That, or Darkchylde would have a room further down the hall. He'd soon find out.

A random thug from the Hand was next. Tyson recalled touching him to learn Japanese when he had been ambushed and tested by the ninjas.

Followed by Justin Hammer, Ivan Vanko, and Jasper Sitwell.

And finally, at the last two doors, were Lady Sif and Amora the Enchantress. Tyson inspected both rooms but found himself drawn to Amora, the Asgardian sorceress whose magic had both opposed him and seemingly brought him to this place deep within his own mind.

But there was something different about Amora's presence, something that set her apart from the other figures Tyson had encountered.

As he approached the door, she turned towards him, her eyes met his with a lucidity beyond what the others had demonstrated.

Amora rose to stand before the door. He knew that whatever Amora had to say, whatever role she had to play in this strange journey through the recesses of his own mind, it would be pivotal to his understanding of himself.

"Is this an illusion, enchantment, or some other trick?" Tyson asked, his voice tinged with skepticism. He had experienced Amora's power from both sides, her having used it on him, and using her own power on her in turn. It seemed only natural to question the truth of what he was experiencing.

Amora's reply came clearly through the door as if the glass separating them didn't exist. She spoke with a quiet assurance that cut through Tyson's doubts. "No," she said in a rich voice filled with a confidence that bordered on the absolute. "This is Enhancement. This is your power boosted by my magic."

Tyson's confusion was palpable, his brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of her words. "I don't understand," he admitted.

Amora's response revealed the depth of their connection. "When you used my power, combined with your illusion, you showed me everything," she explained, "I saw your past, your life, your power. The way you saw me when you absorbed my life force, was how I saw you. But there was more, including this hallway… Even if you didn't consciously know about it."

Her words held a note of reverence, a recognition of the incredible potential that lay dormant within Tyson's mind. "You didn't even realize the depths of your power," she continued, "Within you lies powers beyond Loki, beyond Thor, and perhaps even beyond Odin."

Tyson's response was one of disbelief. "Beyond Odin?" he repeated. The idea that he could possess power on such a scale was almost beyond comprehension.

But Amora's revelations continued with each word painting a picture of untapped mysteries and hidden depths within Tyson's psyche. "Beyond this hallway, and the White Room, there are two other areas that were closed off, not just to you, but to me as well," she explained, her voice carrying a tone of wonder and intrigue.

"The first, I imagine, contains the memories from before you woke up in that truck. Why those memories are locked deeper than this hallway, I am unsure." Her admission of uncertainty only served to underscore the enigmatic nature of Tyson's mind and power.

"The second is perhaps more unbelievable," Amora continued, "It holds a connection. A dormant connection, but one nonetheless." She paused as if to emphasize the gravity of her next words. "On the other end is a vast well of power, one so deep I couldn't gauge it. The only sense I receive is one of a vast well of power, a connection that felt like an all-consuming fire, capable of burning the cosmos itself…"

Tyson absorbed the enormity of her words. The description could only be one thing.

The Phoenix Force.

The idea that he might be linked to such an immense cosmic entity was less surprising to Tyson than it was to Amora.

He knew that the Phoenix Force was connected to Jean, who he'd touched multiple times previously. If he remembered right, Jean wasn't the only person who'd been a host of the Phoenix Force in the comics. The true nature of his connection, whether it was a lasting bond, an indication of future potential, or merely an echo from his encounters with Jean, remained uncertain.

For now, he decided to set those thoughts aside, to focus on the more immediate situation at hand.

Turning his attention back to Amora, Tyson posed a crucial question, "What now?" he asked.

"Now, you choose a door," Amora said, "Whichever door you open, you will gain access to that remnant for a few minutes."

"This is the power I can grant you," Amora continued, "A taste of your true potential, a glimpse into the depths of what you could become."

Tyson's mind raced with the possibilities that lay before him. Each door represented a unique set of skills, abilities, and experiences. The decision of which door to open was not one to be made lightly, but rather a strategic move that could provide him with the tools he needed to face Loki.

As if sensing his thoughts, Amora spoke again, "Oh, and remember, I boosted your power, not theirs," she said, her voice low and intense. "You won't have to worry about another psyche overriding your personality."

Her assurance was significant. He would retain his sense of self regardless of the door he chose.

"I see you and I see what you could become," she said, her voice filled with a quiet intensity. "You've seen me. Imagine what I could become with you by my side, what you could become with my help… What we could become. Together."

Her words hinted at a partnership that could transcend the boundaries of their current selves and unlock a realm of shared potential and mutual growth. It was a vision of a potential future where he was no longer alone, where he had someone who understood the depths and complexities of his power, who he could touch, who could make him greater than he imagined.

"Do not forget this moment and what I have done for you and shown you," Amora continued, her voice softening with a note of sincerity that caught Tyson off guard.

"I do not ask for compensation beyond your positive consideration in future dealings."

With that, Amora resumed her place in the room, settling back into the fabric of Tyson's psyche.

The choice, it seemed, was now his to make.

Standing in the corridor, surrounded by doors that represented echoes of his history, Tyson felt the weight of Amora's words settling over him.

Each door was a path, a possibility, a chance to become something more, if only for a short time.