Villain Mister Sinister

Once upon a time, somewhere beneath the streets of New York City, there were tunnels that most people never knew existed.

They were called the Morlock Tunnels, and they ran deep under the city in the cold and the dark, and they were the kind of place where sound traveled strangely — where a footstep could echo three times before it faded, and where shadows gathered in corners and stayed there.

The X-Men were on patrol in those tunnels one evening, moving quietly through the stone passages, when Jean Grey felt something.

It was a feeling she had learned to trust — that particular alertness that comes when a telepath senses purposeful minds moving nearby. Not curious minds. Not frightened minds. Focused minds. Minds with a plan.

"They're coming," she told Scott Summers, her voice very low. "Three groups. All directions."

The X-Men had just enough time to take their positions before the Marauders arrived.

Now — the Marauders were not ordinary villains. They had been created by a scientist named Nathaniel Essex, a man who called himself Mister Sinister and who had studied mutant genetics for so many years that he had convinced himself he knew everything about them. He wore a long black coat and moved very quietly, and in the center of his pale forehead glowed a red diamond that never seemed to dim. He was not the sort of villain who shouted. He was the sort who waited, and planned, and believed completely that he was right about everything.

Mister Sinister had become very interested in Jean Grey and Scott Summers. He had studied their genetic profiles from a careful distance for years, and he had decided — in his cold, precise way — that together they were the most extraordinary mutants he had ever observed. He wanted more than files and data now. He wanted to meet them.

The fight in the tunnels was quick and fierce. The passages were narrow, which meant there was no room to maneuver — except Jean didn't need room. She used her telekinesis to seal passage after passage, stacking stone and rubble into walls with a BOOM and a BOOM and a BOOM, cutting off route after route, giving her teammates the space and time they needed. When two Marauders broke through, she caught them in a careful telekinetic grip and held them completely still while Storm stepped forward.

And then, at the far end of the longest tunnel, a figure appeared.

Pale skin. Black coat. Red diamond. Quiet footsteps.

Mister Sinister walked toward Jean and stopped at a respectful distance. He looked at her the way a scientist looks at something remarkable in a microscope — intensely, analytically, without malice.

"You are exceptional, Jean Grey," he said. His voice was perfectly calm. "I intend you no harm. I want only to study you. You and Scott Summers together represent something I have never quite seen before."

Jean Grey looked at Mister Sinister for a long moment.

Then she reached out with her telepathy — gently, deliberately, the way Professor Xavier had taught her — and she placed a single, clear, unmistakable thought into his mind.

Leave. And do not come back here.

It was not an angry thought. It was not a threat. It was simply a fact, stated as plainly as a closed door.

Something shifted in Mister Sinister's expression — something very small, very quick, like a flame bending in a breath of wind. Then he straightened his coat, turned, and walked away down the tunnel without another word. The remaining Marauders followed him into the dark.

The tunnel was quiet.

The X-Men made their way up and out into the cool night air of New York City. Above them, the city glittered with ten thousand lights, and Jean tipped her head back and looked up at the sky.

Scott walked beside her. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," she said. And she meant it.

She knew Mister Sinister would come back someday. He was too patient, too interested, too absolutely certain of himself to simply give up and go home. But Jean had learned something important in those tunnels: she did not need to be afraid of a villain who thought she was remarkable. She simply needed to be ready.

And she was never, ever alone.

Sleep well tonight. Some doors, when you close them, stay closed — at least for a good long while.