**19.00. GMT-6, 13 February 1996, Alkali Lake, CANADA**
STRYKER
William Stryker allowed himself a rare, thin smile as he observed the subject through the reinforced glass. Weapon XI. He remembered how much of a chatter and loud that boy had been before his programming began. While he had been remarkably compliant before as Stryker's blend of psychological manipulation and emotional conditioning, playing on the boy's fractured memories and desperation–an adamantium bullet through the skull enough would fix that–and childlike need for approval usually had always been enough. He always joked that the boy would be the perfect weapon if not for his loud and rebellious attitude.
The unfamiliar, unwelcome pang of something dangerously close to affection feels twinged in his chest. He had been Stryker's personal project from the start. While the others were failures, this one had been different. He is the only one that is actually capable of storing many useful mutations in his little body with little side effects. If only he could keep that mouth and heart shut.
Now, the boy was precisely what he was always meant to be, a perfect, compliant weapon.
His own personal swiss knife army.
No more questioning and witty insolence come back after this. He'll finally have his masterpieces ready.
And maybe, just maybe… a few more of his masterpieces too. Since there are other surviving siblings he had that he could shape again. If that doesn't work…
Well, he could just make more…
He just needs to pressure the cloning department to finally have a successful clone that actually lives for more than a mere seconds.
The child sat limp in the restraint chair, head lolling, eyes vacant. The cranial brace hummed softly, its lights blinking a steady, reassuring green. The chemical cocktail had done its work with remarkable efficiency.
"Vitals are stable," a technician announced, pulling Stryker from his thoughts. "The subject is stabilizing. Brain patterns are… inconsistent, but compliant enough."
Another tech added, "Remarkable. Weapon X and Subject Zero destabilized under the full rig, but he's adapting cleanly."
'Of course he is,' Stryker thought grimly. 'He got the best of both of them. The perfect soldier.'
"Prep him for the baseline obedience trial," Stryker commanded, his voice hollow in the sterile quiet. "The target is ready."
"Prep him for the baseline obedience trial," Stryker commanded. "The target is ready."
The target was a newly kidnapped mutant, a young woman strapped to a gurney in the adjacent chamber. She also got a pretty good little mutation that would be perfect for his perfect weapon. Stryker watched as the wall between them slid open with glee in his eyes.
Weapon XI's head twitched. His glazed eyes fixed on the young woman.
"Command sequence: Engage and terminate," Stryker said, his voice cool and clear.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a shudder ran through the small frame. The boy's hands clenched into fists.
Shhnikt.
Three perfect, adamantium claws slid from each knuckle. Ready to be used.
But the boy did not move toward the target.
Instead, his head slowly turned. The empty sockets that had once stared into nothing now burned with manic, unhinged intensity. A twisted grin stretched across his face, crooked and unsettling, as his eyes flickered wildly–unpredictable, feral, and fixed on Stryker through the one‑way glass.
A blaring alarm cut through the room. "Neural inhibitors failing! Psychic dampeners at zero percent!" a tech shouted. "He's overriding the system! Impossible!"
The boy's lips curled back from his teeth in a snarl that was all his father.
"Command received," the boy said, his voice laced with a mocking awareness that chilled Stryker to the core. "Terminate that obnoxious motherfucker behind the glass. Roger that."
For a heartbeat, the lab held its breath.
The restraints snapped with a metallic crack. A technician shouted, the sound swallowed by the screaming alarms. Motion became a blur. Control panels erupted in sparks. Papers swirled in a sudden, impossible wind.
"He…Help!"
Then, the blood.
SPLASSH
It hit the observation glass in a sudden red splash, then another, smearing the view of the chaos inside.
Chaos.
"Help me! Open the fucking door!"
"Please… I don't want to die!"
"Suprise motherfucker!!!"
"ARRRGGHH!"
Stryker lunged for the lockdown switch. Sparks erupted from the console before his fingers could touch it.
"Containment breach!"
The boy turned toward the window. He shouldn't have been able to see through the mirrored glass, but his gaze locked directly onto Stryker's. Calm. Direct.
He raised a single finger and tapped the barrier.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Heyya there Billy, I knew you there! Don't you forget about our little date!"
BOOM!!!
The reinforced pane quivered violently. A spiderweb of fractures exploded across its surface as the kid punched it with full, terrifying force.
"IMPOSSIBLE!" Stryker gasped, stumbling back.
The boy's grin was a wide, horrifying slash. "You didn't think you could stand me up so easily, did you? Don't be a monster." he said, his voice carrying clearly through the intercom. "Funny thing about monsters, sometimes they scream louder than the people they hurt. Wonder how loud you are after this?"
Stryker's mind, reeling from the absolute failure of a perfected procedure, reached a single, cold conclusion. The experiment was a catastrophic failure. He needed to get out. Now.
"Maximum efforts."
CRACK!
The window imploded inward in a shattering burst of silvered glass and twisted frame. Smoke and emergency light flooded the observation room. The alarms hit a deafening new pitch, then cut out entirely, plunging the scene into a ringing, half-lit silence.
When the red lights flickered back on, the chamber beyond the shattered window was a charnel house. No movement. No voices. Only the slow, ominous hiss of ruptured coolant lines.
Then, from the shadows within, a childish laugh rippled out. It was light, effortless, and utterly terrifying.
Stryker did not look back. He knew, with a certainty that froze his blood, that he would be next. He turned and fled into the depths of the facility.
Before he could do that, a searing, unimaginable pain erupted in his chest. It was so sudden, so absolute, that for a moment his mind refused to process it. He looked down.
"Arrgghh!!!"
Three gleaming, blood-slicked points of adamantium protruded from the center of his sternum.
"Oh, kinky... You really like screaming like this on our first date, huh?"
A wet, gurgling sound was all he could manage. His legs gave way, but he didn't collapse. He was held upright, impaled.
With a tremendous effort, his body screaming in protest, he managed to twist his head, looking over his shoulder.
Weapon XI stood there, his small face mere inches away, with childish glee and manic laughter.
WADE
Wade gave a slight, almost imperceptible twist of his wrist. The claws ground against bone and shredded muscle inside Stryker's chest, sending a fresh wave of white-hot agony through his nervous system.
Then, with a wet, sucking shhhlllck, the claws were wrenched free.
Stryker collapsed to the cold floor, a pool of crimson rapidly spreading beneath him. His vision tunneled, the last thing he saw the retreating back of his creation, who didn't even grant him a final glance.
"Ahh that's the shit, thats the fucking shit right there!"
Wade stood panting, his small chest heaving. The last of the lab techs and guards lay in creatively disassembled piles around him. The air smelled like blood, copper, and freedom.
(And guts. Let's not forget the guts. Very specific aroma.)
"Shut up," Wade panted, wiping a bloody sleeve across his face. "I'm having a moment."
/A moment of what? You massacaring everyone?/
"A moment of awesomeness," he corrected himself, looking at his claws. They retracted with a smooth shhnkt. "Did you see that? I was all shhh-vwoop-stab! I'm liking this new thing. Besides, we got Stryker done in one go! Unlike before when we needed like 33 chapters before we could kill him!"
(I KNOW RIGHT! SO COOL!)
/Nerds./
His gaze fell on the young mutant woman still strapped to the gurney in the adjacent chamber. She was staring at him, wide-eyed with a mixture of terror and awe.
"Right. Priorities."
He scurried over to a control panel, smearing blood on the touchscreen.
"Okay, let's see... 'Release Subject'... 'Initiate Self-Destruct'... 'Cafeteria Menu'... Ooh, nachos."
(Pick nachos!!!)
/FOCUS, YOU MORON! THE LADY!/
"Right, right!" He tapped a few buttons. The restraints on the gurney clicked open. The woman sat up slowly, rubbing her wrists.
"Th-thank you," she whispered, her voice shaky.
"Don't mention it! We kinda in the same shit after all." He gestured around the room. "The last one's already handled. I already opened all the doors in this facility, you could get away easily or do you want to go with me–huh, I guess she missed her family like me."
Wade wasn't even halfway through before the woman darted away from him.
(Rude!)
/Moron, look at us and what we did. Any sane person wouldn't want to stick with us!/
'Right, uggh, I stink, time to find some clothes and gear up."
He then started rifling through a locker, pulling out a pair of black tactical pants that were way too long and a shirt that hung on him like a tent. He rolled up the sleeves and pants legs, looking like a kid playing dress-up in his dad's gear.
(Fashion icons, we are not.)
"Function over form," he declared, buckling a utility belt. "Now, for the grand finale."
/I don't think it could function properly with our little body tho./
He ignored the voice, his attention snapping to the central command console. The screen was spiderwebbed with cracks but still functional. Freedom was one thing. But he needed answers. He needed a map. And he needed to make sure this place was erased from the Earth.
His small, blood-stained fingers, now oddly steady, danced across the keyboard. The facility's OS was a joke; he sliced through its security like it was wet paper. He wasn't hacking. He was just walking in the front door they were too stupid to lock.
He navigated to the project files. The main directory was cold, clinical. PROJECT: WEAPON XII.
A sour taste filled his mouth. So Weapon X was the old man. He was Weapon XI. Which meant Weapon XII was everything that came after him. He opened the file.
A list scrolled by, a ledger of misery. It wasn't just a list of failures; it was a graveyard of children.
X-2 through X-18: STATUS: DECEASED. REASON: TERMINATED/UNSTABLE FETUS.
X-19: STATUS: DECEASED. Termination by target resistance.
X-20: STATUS: ACTIVE.
X-21: STATUS: DECEASED. Cellular degeneration.
X-22: STATUS: DECEASED. Failed bonding procedure.
X-23: STATUS: ACTIVE.
Dozens. Most were just… gone. Redacted. Deceased. Statistics in Stryker's sick little assembly line.
But two names were still active.
X-20. X-23.
FUCK.
He then opened his own file.
X-1. DESIGNATION:WEAPON XI.
His own fucking face staring back at him. Physiological readouts, power metrics. And mission logs.
/Huh. Interesting. Records only start when we're five./
"The other kids have womb data. Even fetus graphs. Guess I missed the prenatal photoshoot."
He laughed under his breath-dry, hollow, disbelieving.
The file kept going.
Video logs. Psychological reports. Notes written by men who used words like "subject," "compliance," and "asset" instead of child.
The text was sterile, but the words screamed.
Sanction: Markov Residence. Objective: Eliminate all occupants. Result: Success. No witnesses.
Sanction: Experiment Ward 2 - Subject: X-7. Objective: Neutralize; eliminate liability. Result: Success. Subject neutralized.
Sanction: Dr. K. Rao & Associates. Objective: Recover data, eliminate personnel. Result: Success. Note: Secondary targets (minors) neutralized.
Sanction: Experiment Ward 7 - Subject: X-11. Objective: Neutralize; eliminate liability. Result: Success. Subject neutralized.
And so on.
The memories didn't come back as pretty pictures. They came as ghosts, a reminder of what he had been. The smell of gunpowder and blood. The sound of a stifled cry. The weight of a small, still form in his arms. His arms. His hands.
"WHAT THE FUCK!!!"
The lab felt colder.
(...oh. I mean I know we are not good people, but this man…)
/This was too dark, even for us… Are you sure we are not in the old DCEU?/
He had known he was a weapon. He hadn't known he was a butcher of children, family, and innocent people. He even butcher his own siblings.
/We haven't been human for a while anyway./
(Hey, on the bright side, at least, Stryker is gone now…)
"FUCK!"
The guilt was a physical blow, a nausea that had nothing to do with the gore around him. He was a monster. A broken, pathetic thing dressed up in a child's skin, haunted by memories of a life he'd slaughtered for a man in a cheap suit.
A cold, hard knot tightened in his chest, smothering the guilt. His thumb hovered. He didn't think about heroics or redemption. He thought in terms of family, twisted as it was. Stryker had made monsters. Fine. Monsters knew how to burn a garden to save whatever grew in the soil beneath it.
He pressed Enter. The sequence began to roll–lines of code, a countdown not only for death but also for erasure. The screen filled with progress bars, and the lab around him whispered and stuttered as systems winked out.
A data bomb that would crawl through networks and shred every trace of the Weapon X through Weapon XII programs, scorch the project ledger from servers and backup drives until it was a rumor and plus, it also blew up the facilities.
No one like Stryker would mess with his family again.
Outside, alarms screamed. Inside, in the small dark between heartbeats, he let himself laugh once–hard, ugly, and sorrowful.
"FUUUUCCCCKKK!!!!"