Chapter 34 – Lines in the Dark
S.H.I.E.L.D. Field Office – New York Division
The next night
The city hadn't slept since the tower fell.
Even months later, every late-night siren, every flicker of green light over the skyline still made the control rooms tense.
Phil Coulson stood in the dim glow of his office, coat draped over the back of a chair, phone pressed to his ear. The blinds were half-drawn; through them, the skyline shimmered under a wash of snow and sodium light.
He didn't speak right away. He just listened to the low hum of the line until the familiar gravel voice broke through.
Fury: "Tell me I didn't just read a report about Sparda's kid setting up shop in Manhattan."
Coulson exhaled softly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Depends which part you're asking about — the demon-hunting agency, the mutant corpses, or the part where he threatened me with a sword?"
Fury: "All of it."
"Then yes. It's accurate."
A pause. The faint scrape of a match on the other end. Fury was probably lighting another cigar.
Fury: "Hell, Coulson… I thought you were supposed to observe, not make friends with the devil's family tree."
Coulson turned toward the window, watching the snow collect on the sill. "Friend's a strong word, sir. Let's call it… professional curiosity."
Fury: "Professional curiosity doesn't get you a blade at your throat."
Coulson smirked faintly. "You'd be surprised. He didn't kill me, which, statistically, makes it one of my smoother introductions."
The humor faded as he reached for the open folder on his desk. He flipped through the photos again — the hybrids in containment pods, the mutant gene markers glowing faint blue, the Force Edge energy signature circled in red.
"Whatever's happening in North Salem, it's not isolated," Coulson said quietly. "The energy readings match the ones from the tower incident in October — demonic residue fused with mutant DNA. Someone's trying to splice power and bloodlines together."
Fury: "That's Shaw's mess, isn't it?"
"That's our best guess. But it's worse than that. He's not just experimenting on mutants — he's weaponizing them."
Fury's voice dropped, steady but heavy.
"And you think Sparda's kid is gonna help you clean it up?"
Coulson closed the folder and leaned back in his chair. "He's not exactly the type to fill out a W-9, but he's efficient. Red Hook proved that much. If he can contain this before it spreads, it saves us from a PR nightmare… and a small apocalypse."
Fury: "You're playing with fire, Coulson."
"Then it's a good thing I brought a devil with me."
There was a long silence. Then the faint crackle of the cigar.
Fury: "Keep your distance. If Sparda's kid goes rogue, I want eyes on him before he turns half the city into a crater. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
Fury: "Good. And Coulson—"
Coulson paused mid-reach for his coat. "Sir?"
Fury: "Don't die in that office. Paperwork's hell when you do."
The line clicked dead.
Coulson stared at the phone for a moment, then set it down beside the file. His eyes lingered on the final photo — the Force Edge shard glowing inside the chest of a massive mechanical frame labeled PROJECT SENTINEL INFERNAL MK-1 – PHASE ONE.
He muttered to himself, "One devil to fight another… what could possibly go wrong?"
Outside, thunder rolled over the skyline, faint but familiar — as if something old was stirring again.
Xavier Institute for Higher Learning – Late Night
The mansion was silent at this hour.
Only the hum of snow against the windows and the faint, rhythmic pulse of Cerebro filled the underground chamber.
Charles Xavier sat at the center of the vast spherical room, the metallic walls gleaming under the cool blue light of the console. His eyes were closed, fingers resting lightly on the armrest of his hoverchair as the helmet encased his head.
The machine whispered in his mind.
A thousand thoughts. A thousand voices. Some bright. Some fractured.
Help me.
Please, no—
It hurts.
Charles's brow furrowed. His breathing steadied. He had learned long ago how to separate the noise from the pattern — the random chaos from the intentional silence.
But this… this was different.
He focused, amplifying the psychic field. The world unfolded around him — cities glowing like synapses across a brain. He brushed past the coasts, the rivers, the snow-wrapped towns of the northeast — following the faintest ripple of panic.
Then he felt it.
A cluster of mutant minds — flickering, then vanishing.
Not dying. Not fading.
Erased.
Charles gasped, the sound small but sharp. He tried to reach further, pushing his consciousness through the static — but something resisted. It wasn't human, wasn't even psychic. It was wrong, like a wall made of screaming silence.
He pulled back, breathing uneven. The lights of Cerebro flickered faintly as he removed the helmet, his reflection warped in the metal walls.
From behind him, a voice carried softly through the open door.
"Professor?"
Charles turned. Ororo Munroe — Storm — stood at the threshold, her black uniform catching the dim blue light, silver lines tracing like veins of lightning.
"You felt it too," she said.
He nodded slowly. "Yes. Mutant minds are disappearing. But not the way I've ever felt before. It's as if they're being pulled somewhere I can't follow."
Storm frowned. "How many this time?"
"Seventeen. Mostly from rural towns. Some younger — their energy still unstable."
She stepped closer, concern in her voice. "Can you locate the source?"
Charles hesitated, glancing back toward the dome. "I've tried. But whatever's causing this… it doesn't register as human, mutant, or even telepathic. It's something outside my understanding."
Storm crossed her arms. "Then we send a team. We'll find it."
He nodded absently, deep in thought. "Yes… perhaps. But there's something else. Someone who's been sensing it long before I did."
Storm tilted her head. "Illyana."
Charles met her gaze. "She's been growing restless. She claims to feel… a calling. A darkness spreading just beyond the edge of our world."
Storm frowned. "You think she's connected to this?"
"I don't know," Charles admitted quietly. "Her powers are tied to another realm entirely. If this force is reaching through dimensions, she may be the only one who truly understands what it is."
"And if she's right?" Storm asked.
Charles's voice dropped lower. "Then this isn't an attack on mutants. It's something ancient—something that's been waiting for the right moment to return."
Lightning flared faintly outside, painting the walls in white.
Storm's tone softened. "Should we stop her from leaving?"
Charles looked down, his expression unreadable. "No. She's going to go whether I permit it or not. And if what she's feeling is real… she may be our only way to stop it."
He looked once more toward the dim glow of Cerebro.
For the first time in years, he felt blind.
"Gather Scott and Jean," he said softly. "Tell them to prepare the team. I'll speak with Illyana myself."
Storm nodded and turned toward the elevator, the doors closing behind her with a hiss.
Charles remained alone, the room pulsing faintly with psychic static.
In the silence that followed, he could almost hear it again — faint and rhythmic.
Xavier Institute for Higher Learning – War Room
Later that Morning
The briefing room hummed with the low static of holographic projectors and murmured conversation.
Maps and data streams glowed in blue across the circular table — energy readings, psychic graphs, and satellite footage flickering through layers of distortion.
Scott Summers leaned against the console's edge, arms crossed, the faint glow of the displays catching in his visor.
"That's not electromagnetic distortion," he said. "That's… something else."
Jean looked up from her screen. "You think it's Stryker? Maybe Weapon X resurfacing?"
Across the table, Logan grunted — a sound halfway between a growl and a sigh.
"No. This smells wrong. Whatever's out there ain't natural, bub."
Charles Xavier sat at the center, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Logan is right. This has nothing to do with Stryker or Weapon X." His voice lowered, grave and certain. "This comes from a different plane of existence."
At the edge of the room, half-hidden in the shadow between monitors, Kurt Wagner sat perfectly still.
His yellow eyes glowed faintly in the dark — calm, thoughtful, almost sorrowful. The faint scent of brimstone lingered near him, mixing with the hum of the machinery.
Even seated, he radiated quiet grace. The deep blue of his skin caught the light like polished sapphire; his tail swayed slowly, the spaded tip curling and uncurling with the rhythm of his breath. A rosary hung around his neck, its silver cross worn smooth from years of prayer.
He said nothing — simply watched, patient, listening.
Then the doors slid open.
A ripple of golden light swept through the room as Illyana Rasputina stepped inside.
Her boots echoed against the metal floor — slow, deliberate. Long blond hair framed a sharp face, and her black combat jacket shimmered faintly with gold-etched runes that pulsed when she moved. A silver crescent-moon pendant hung at her throat, catching the light — a small, fragile thing that somehow outshone the rest of her.
Her eyes — pale blue with a faint ring of gold — glowed softly in the holographic light, like reflections of two distant worlds.
Kurt's tail froze mid-sway. His breath caught before he spoke.
"Guten Morgen, meine Liebe," he said quietly, his tone softer than anyone had ever heard from him — gentle, hopeful.Good morning, my dear.
Her gaze flicked toward him — cold, unreadable.
"Kurt," she said flatly. Nothing more.
The faint smile that had crept onto his face faltered, though he hid it behind a small nod. His tail curled tighter behind his chair.
Charles watched the exchange without comment. Storm's eyes softened, but she said nothing. The air felt heavier now, the room quieter — as if everyone sensed the unspoken distance between the two.
Illyana crossed the room, sitting at the far end of the table with her arms folded and legs crossed. Colossus turned from the display, his voice gentle but firm.
"Little snowflake," he said, concern heavy in his accent. "You've barely eaten. Tell us what's wrong."
Kurt looked up at her again, worry glimmering in his eyes — the kind that said he'd spent too long caring for someone who never let him close.
Illyana finally met her brother's gaze, then swept her eyes over the rest of the team. When she spoke, her tone was low, steady, and cold enough to chill the room.
"Something is moving between worlds," she said. "It's not mutant or human — it's magic. More specifically…" her eyes narrowed, "…Hell is trying to invade. It's time I intervened before more people get hurt."
Her words echoed through the chamber, the holograms flickering like candlelight.
Kurt's throat tightened. For a heartbeat, he wanted to reach out — to ask her what she meant, to remind her she wasn't alone. But one look from her stopped him cold.
So instead, he only whispered under his breath,"Gott im Himmel, Illyana…"God in Heaven, Illyana…
She didn't turn.