Mutants
First-Person (Silas, Civilian Mode)
The burner phone buzzed sharply against the worn wooden surface of my desk, rattling the empty glass beside it. Not my real phone—the one I kept in a steel box at home. This one was cleaner, colder: one number programmed in, no contacts, no trace. The line I used only for her.
I picked it up, the plastic too light in my hand.
"Sentinel," Detective Whitlock Harper's voice rasped through the speaker. Her words came clipped, each one weighed down by exhaustion and something darker—resentment, maybe.
"It's done. We got the twins."
I leaned back in the creaky chair, letting the cold hum of the ceiling fan fill the silence. My eyes traced the crumbling cracks snaking above me, the paint flaking like dead skin. "Names?"
"Darius and Damien Mercer," she said, voice low, burdened. "Street cop names, Lash and Muzzle. They're a pair of Detroit's nightmares: trafficking, extortion, aggravated assault—every badge on their rap sheet tells a story. And thanks to what we pulled from the harbor, this time we're burying them for good."
Her tone didn't carry any victory. I knew why before she said it.
A harsh breath rattled out of her. "When my squad arrived, that drone you left behind… it was still active. Opened fire before we could shut it down. One of my officers is in surgery, bullets lodged deep. And a civilian woman—she's dead."
She paused, the anger—and maybe something broken—seeping through.
"We managed to take it down, but more blood stained this city last night. So, spill it, Sentinel. Was turning the streets into a war zone part of your plan?"
Her words hit sharp, slicing through the thin veil of calm I'd been trying to wear. I forced a dry chuckle, trying to mask the guilt twisting in my gut.
"My bad. Slipped my mind." The lie tasted bitter.
"Slipped your…" Harper stopped herself, a bitter silence humming over the line. "You better pray the DA doesn't ask why half the city looked like a battlefield come dawn. Next time you decide to play judge, jury, and drone pilot, don't expect me—or anyone else—to clean up your mess."
The line went dead, leaving a silence that pressed down like a weight.
I set the phone down slowly. Staring at it, I muttered under my breath, "Guess flowers will have to do."
I rubbed my temples, the headache settling in. This city was never going to sleep easy, not while I walked its shadows.
Two days later, a knock rattled my dorm door.
The knock on his door came just as Silas was about to stretch out on his bed. He froze, frowning. Nobody ever knocked this late unless it was family. He opened it to find Amy standing there, shifting on her feet like she'd been rehearsing the whole walk up.
"Amy," he said flatly.
"Can I come in?"
He didn't want to. Every instinct told him to keep the door shut, but something in her face—guilt mixed with stubbornness—made him step aside.
She wandered in, looking around his room like she hadn't been there in years, though it had only been weeks. Finally, she perched at the edge of his desk chair. "I know I don't deserve to be here," she started. "But I didn't want things to end with me just… disappearing."
Silas crossed his arms, leaning on the dresser. "You already did."
That hit. She winced, then let out a shaky laugh. "Yeah. Guess I did. And I don't even know why. Devon told me off the other day—said I was acting like an idiot. He wasn't wrong."
He raised a brow. "Devon actually told you that?"
She nodded, half-smiling. "He said I didn't know what I had in front of me. And he's right. I thought I wanted… I don't even know what I thought. Maybe I just wanted to be wanted. And when some other guy showed interest, I… I thought it meant something. But it didn't. It was nothing."
Silas let her talk, but he already knew where this was going.
"I don't know what I saw in him. He wasn't you. And now I feel like I messed everything up with the only person who—"
"Stop." Silas cut her off, his tone sharp but not cruel. He straightened from the dresser, shaking his head. "Look, Devon already laid it out for me. He made me realize I wasn't being fair either. I've been distant, caught up in my own shit. And yeah, I probably made you feel like you weren't enough."
Amy's eyes flicked up at him hopefully.
"But," Silas said firmly, "that doesn't change the fact that you made your choice. And even if I wanted to rewind it all, I don't think we should. We're not… good for each other like that. Not anymore."
She bit her lip. "So that's it?"
"That's it," Silas said. His voice softened. "We can be friends. I don't hate you. I just don't want to keep pretending we can be something else."
For a long moment, Amy just sat there, silent. Then she nodded slowly, standing to leave. "You know, for what it's worth… you're a better man than you give yourself credit for."
Silas didn't reply. He opened the door for her, and after a faint, sad smile, she walked out.
When the door clicked shut, he exhaled, long and low. No heavy reflection, no dramatics—just the simple reality of closure.
'That's done. Time to move forward' Silas thought.
The news blared from my laptop as I slumped in bed, half-watching. The anchor's voice carried the weight of spectacle.
"Last night's chaos at Rivertown Harbor left dozens arrested and two major crime figures, Darius and Damien Mercer—known as Lash and Muzzle—in custody. Authorities have not confirmed reports of vigilante involvement, but eyewitness accounts describe a masked figure seen amidst the fighting."
The screen cut to shaky cell footage: me, a blur of black and shadow pulling a gunman into the dark.
The anchor continued. "For years, the Veyra twins evaded capture, their crimes spanning trafficking, weapons, and homicide. Tonight, they await arraignment. Police sources say the evidence against them is overwhelming."
I couldn't help it. A laugh slipped out. "Finally. Maybe the rats will crawl back into their holes for a while."
Click. I switched the channel.
A live protest flooded the screen—dozens of people outside a courthouse, shouting, holding signs. Not about crime. Not about corruption.
About her.
The scroll read: DETROIT ERUPTS IN FEAR AFTER "FREAK" INCIDENT DOWNTOWN.
The clip replayed: a teenage girl in rags, cornered in an alley by cops. Her face panicked, hands shaking—then a blast of fire erupted from her chest, flames rippling outward like a bomb. Cars flipped, windows shattered, people screamed. Then she bolted, vanishing into the night.
The anchor's co-host spoke, grave. "Authorities say the girl is still at large. Many call her a danger. Others whisper she may be one of those… mutants."
The other anchor frowned. "Mutants? Refresh my memory."
"Homo superior. Supposedly the next evolution of mankind. We've seen incidents in New York, Los Angeles. Organizations have risen to oppose them—Friends of Humanity, Purity Front. Some call them freaks. Some call them the future. Either way, Detroit has its first."
The clip looped again, fire lighting up the night.
I shut the laptop. My jaw tightened. She's not a freak. Just a kid.
Third-Person (Sentinel, Hero Mode)
The factory floor stank of rust, oil, and burned metal. Rows of idle machinery loomed like sleeping giants, their skeletal arms frozen mid-motion. Sentinel crouched high above on an overhead beam, cloaked in shadow, watching the scene below unfold.
The girl—no older than fifteen—was cornered near a furnace pit. Her hands shook as faint heat shimmered around her skin, the lingering afterburn of an uncontrolled burst. A ring of armed men closed in around her, twenty-five in all, boots echoing across the steel floor as they moved with military precision.
Each man carried the same weapon. Strapped to their forearms, replacing gauntlets, were matte-blue arm cannons, sleek cylinders with red-core apertures that pulsed faintly like breathing hearts. Sentinel's ARIES scan picked up condensed capacitors lined along the sides, vents for heat discharge, and magnetic coils wrapped in steel casing. Prototypes, no doubt. Each shot they fired crackled with energy—blinding flashes of condensed plasma that scorched steel beams and left smoking holes in the walls.
And their leader… he carried worse. His arm cannon was thicker, braced by a reinforced shoulder mount that snaked cabling into the backpack-like power unit strapped to him. The cannon itself was longer, with a serrated heat-vent along its length, giving it the look of a miniature artillery piece welded to his body. When it powered up, the hum rattled the walls.
The leader stepped forward, boots thudding. A grizzled man, close-cropped gray hair, scar down one cheek, dressed in olive combat fatigues. His voice carried across the factory floor, the kind that barked orders used to being obeyed.
"You hear that, freak?" His cannon arm pointed at the girl. "You think you're evolution? That you're some kind of superior race? You're nothin' but a mistake. And tonight, you're gonna be the example."
The girl whimpered, pressing against the furnace wall, sparks flickering uncontrollably from her skin. The ring of blasters tightened.
Sentinel, crouched above, exhaled through his teeth as he thought 'All of this is just fucked up'.
He blinked away.
The first man didn't even have time to scream—yanked up into the rafters by a shadow blade hooked around his throat, vanishing with his captor into the dark. When Sentinel dropped back down, he drove the man's body into two others like a wrecking ball, sending blasters clattering across the floor.
"Contact!" one soldier shouted. The factory erupted with light. Beams of scarlet energy sliced through the dark, exploding against walls and machinery.
Sentinel blurred through the chaos, teleporting in sharp bursts. He reappeared behind one soldier, twisting the man's cannon arm until it snapped at the elbow. Shadows coiled from his hand, hardening into a spear that slammed into another's chest plate, knocking him breathless against a steel drum.
The leader roared over the noise. "Hold formation! Keep the girl contained!"
Sentinel ducked behind a press machine, a blaster shot carving a molten trench inches from his face. He flicked his hand—shadow constructs rippling into twin shuriken—before teleporting above a soldier and driving both blades into the gaps of his armor. He vanished again as the body hit the floor.
The girl screamed as another man advanced on her, cannon charging. Sentinel reappeared at his side, gripping the man's wrist and slamming it into the ground. The blaster discharged point-blank into the steel floor, the explosion hurling both men apart. Sentinel rolled, rose, and blinked behind him, finishing with a vicious elbow across the skull.
The air sizzled with plasma fire. Machinery burst into flames. Sparks showered like fireworks.
Sentinel fought through the swarm, every move mixing brutal efficiency with the inhuman grace of teleportation. A soldier swung his cannon like a club—Sentinel ducked, countered with a knee strike, and shoved the man into the path of friendly fire. Another fired point-blank; Sentinel pulled him into the shot, leaving nothing but the smell of scorched cloth.
The leader raised his heavy cannon and fired. The blast tore a molten scar through the ground where Sentinel had been, vaporizing a steel beam in its path. Sentinel reappeared behind him and drove a kick to the back of his knee, but the old soldier barely flinched, swinging the cannon around like a battering ram. Sentinel blinked again—only narrowly avoiding the blast that melted a hole clean through a shipping container.
"Is that all you got?" the leader growled.
Sentinel spat blood, smirking. "You're loud for a man compensating with a big gun."
The fight was chaos. Shadows and steel. Plasma fire and explosions. Sentinel kept moving, but the numbers pressed hard.
And then the roof exploded.
A searing red beam cut down from above, blasting open a ragged hole. Dust and shards of steel rained as the Blackbird hovered above the factory, floodlights slicing through the smoke.
Through the gap dropped two figures.
Jubilee hit the ground first, hands flaring in a burst of blinding light. The soldiers staggered, shields cracking under the onslaught of her fireworks. A second later, Wolverine landed in a crouch beside her, claws unsheathed with that unmistakable metallic snikt. He tore forward, slashing through a blaster barrel like it was paper, sparks flying as the soldier screamed.
Cyclops dropped in behind them, visor glowing as he unleashed precision optic blasts, punching holes through crates and forcing the soldiers back. Storm descended in their wake, eyes white with lightning. She raised her hands and a whip of electricity lashed across the floor, shorting out half a dozen blasters at once.
Sentinel didn't pause. He blinked through the fray, cutting down soldiers on his side while the X-Men tore through theirs. The girl huddled against the wall, still collared, eyes wide as chaos erupted around her.
Logan growled, shoving a man's face into the floor. "Jubilee—get the kid!"
Jubilee sprinted, sliding beside the girl, her hands glowing faint pink. "Easy, easy, I got you." Storm swept in after, kneeling to help unclasp the inhibitor collar. The device hissed, sparking once before falling away.
The leader, seeing the tide turn, swung his heavy cannon toward them. "No! She dies!"
Before he could fire, a clean optic beam lanced across the room, slamming into his chest and knocking him back into a steel column. The cannon discharged wildly, carving a hole through the ceiling before sputtering out. He hit the floor unconscious.
Silence fell, broken only by the crackle of fire and the groan of tortured steel.
Sentinel stood among the wreckage, chest heaving, shadows coiled faintly around his hands. The girl clung to Storm, sobbing as Jubilee whispered reassurances. Logan stood guard, claws dripping. Cyclops scanned the room, visor still glowing.
And then came the voice. Calm. Deep. Certain.
"That will be enough."
Professor Xavier rolled forward from the shadows, seated in his sleek wheelchair, eyes locked on Sentinel. He projected authority without raising his voice, without even moving his hands.
Sentinel straightened, mask hiding his expression. He felt the brush—a probing weight pressing faintly at the edge of his mind. Then nothing. A wall. Silence.
Charles's eyes widened a fraction. For the first time, his composure cracked.
Sentinel tilted his head. "What's wrong, old man? Didn't get what you wanted?"
The professor studied him for a long, unreadable moment. Then simply nodded, as if acknowledging both Sentinel's strength and the barrier he couldn't pierce.
Sentinel stood still as the shadows curled around him, and in the next instant, he was gone.