Chapter 1: ARRIVAL
The semi truck's horn screamed. Too late.
Marcus Cole had one second to understand he was about to die. Metal crushed glass. The world spun. Something hot and sharp pierced his chest. His phone flew from his hand, still playing the podcast about urban planning he'd never finish.
This is stupid. Twenty-eight years old and I die because some trucker fell asleep.
Pain. Blinding, white-hot, everywhere at once.
Then nothing.
[MUTANT NATION SYSTEM ACTIVATED]
[HOST BINDING INITIATED: 0.1%]
[INTEGRATION BEGINNING]
The words burned across vision Marcus didn't have. He tried to scream—no throat, no lungs, nothing but consciousness floating in digital fire.
What—
[HOST SOUL TRANSFERRED]
[NEW BODY ALLOCATED]
[BINDING TO PHYSICAL FORM]
The pain returned. Different this time. Not impact trauma—this was cellular. Every nerve ending igniting simultaneously. Marcus sucked in air that tasted like rot and gasoline. His eyes opened.
Brick walls. Dumpster. Puddle reflecting sodium streetlight. An alley.
Marcus rolled onto his side and vomited. Nothing came up—stomach empty—but his body insisted anyway. Dry heaves that felt like they'd crack his ribs.
The text kept burning in his vision.
[BINDING PROGRESS: 0.3%]
[WARNING: DO NOT ATTEMPT STRENUOUS ACTIVITY]
[INTEGRATION WILL COMPLETE IN 47 HOURS, 52 MINUTES]
Marcus pushed himself to hands and knees. The concrete was cold. Wet. His hands looked wrong—rougher than they should be, calluses he'd never had. He grabbed the dumpster and pulled himself up.
The world tilted. He caught himself, forehead against rusted metal.
Okay. Okay. Not dead. Different body. Text in my vision. This is...
He looked down at himself. Worn jeans, too loose at the waist. Flannel shirt over a stained t-shirt. Work boots with holes in the toes. These weren't his clothes. This wasn't his body.
Marcus turned and walked—stumbled—toward the alley mouth. Each step sent fresh waves of pain through his skull. The System text pulsed with his heartbeat.
[TUTORIAL QUEST INITIATED]
[OBJECTIVE: SURVIVE 24 HOURS]
[REWARD: 50 EXP, 100 NP, BASIC INTERFACE ACCESS]
Street noise hit him. Cars. Voices. A taxi honking. Marcus leaned against the alley wall and forced himself to focus through the agony.
Signs. Fire escapes. The architecture. He knew this place—not personally, but he'd seen it in movies. Hell's Kitchen. New York City.
A newspaper box stood ten feet away. Marcus pushed off the wall and walked. His legs worked, barely. He crouched—mistake, white spots across his vision—and squinted at the paper.
NEW YORK TIMES
MARCH 16, 1987
MUTANT INCIDENT INJURES THREE IN QUEENS
The word "mutant" stared at him.
Marcus straightened slowly. The implications slotted into place with horrible clarity.
X-Men. I'm in the X-Men universe. 1987. Before everything.
[SYSTEM TUTORIAL AVAILABLE]
[WOULD YOU LIKE TO VIEW INTRODUCTION? Y/N]
Marcus thought yes and immediately regretted it. Text exploded across his vision, forcing him to close his eyes.
[GREETINGS, HOST]
[YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED AS ADMINISTRATOR FOR THE MUTANT NATION SYSTEM]
[YOUR PURPOSE: BUILD A SOVEREIGN MUTANT NATION]
[STARTING RESOURCES: NONE]
[STARTING ABILITIES: NONE]
[STARTING TERRITORY: NONE]
[CURRENT OBJECTIVE: SURVIVE]
Marcus opened his eyes. A woman walked past, giving him a wide berth. He realized he looked like every other homeless person in this city—which meant he was invisible. Good. He needed time.
Build a nation. From nothing. In a world where mutants are hunted.
The pain pulsed harder. Marcus braced himself against the newspaper box.
Why me?
[HOST SELECTION CRITERIA CLASSIFIED]
[FOCUS ON IMMEDIATE SURVIVAL]
[BINDING PROGRESS: 0.5%]
Right. Survive first. Philosophical questions later.
Marcus checked his pockets. Nothing. No wallet, no ID, no money. He was wearing someone else's used clothes in someone else's body in 1987 New York with nothing but a mysterious System in his head.
A man in a suit walked past, coffee in one hand, briefcase in the other. Morning commute. Marcus checked the sky—grey, pre-dawn light. Maybe five AM.
He needed shelter. Water. Food eventually. And he needed to not die while a System bound itself to his soul for the next forty-eight hours.
Marcus started walking. No destination—just away from where he'd woken. The streets were coming alive. Delivery trucks. Early-bird workers. A hot dog cart setting up.
His stomach twisted at the smell. When had this body last eaten?
Three blocks later, he saw it: a church with stone steps and an open door. A small sign—"Breakfast served 6-8 AM, all welcome."
Marcus climbed the steps. Each one took effort. The binding pain wasn't fading—if anything, it was intensifying. The System text pulsed warnings he couldn't read through the static.
Inside, fluorescent lights and the smell of coffee. A handful of homeless people sat at folding tables. A woman in a cardigan ladled oatmeal from a large pot.
Marcus found a seat in the corner and put his head in his hands.
Forty-eight hours. I just need to last forty-eight hours.
Someone set a bowl in front of him. Marcus looked up. The woman smiled—tired but genuine.
"Rough night?"
"Something like that."
"Eat. You look like you need it."
She moved to the next person. Marcus stared at the oatmeal. His hands shook when he picked up the spoon.
The first bite tasted like ash. The second went down easier. By the third, his body remembered it was starving.
[BINDING PROGRESS: 0.7%]
[ESTIMATE PEAK PAIN AT 50% INTEGRATION]
[RECOMMENDATION: SECURE SAFE LOCATION]
Marcus ate mechanically. Around him, other people talked in low voices about shelters, about the cold, about police who cleared them out from subway stations. He listened without appearing to.
I need information. I need to understand where I am in the timeline. And I need to survive whatever's coming at fifty percent.
The oatmeal finished, Marcus stood. His legs held. He walked out into morning light that hurt to look at.
New York City in 1987 stretched in every direction. Somewhere out there, mutants lived in hiding. Somewhere, the X-Men existed. Magneto. Xavier. Sentinels maybe, or maybe not yet.
And Marcus Cole—former project manager, former human, now transmigrator with a System he didn't understand—needed to build something from absolute zero.
[BINDING PROGRESS: 0.9%]
[PAIN INTENSIFICATION IMMINENT]
The warning proved accurate. White fire exploded behind his eyes. Marcus grabbed a lamppost and held on. Passersby gave him space—just another addict having a bad morning.
Not an addict. Something worse. Something better. Something that's going to change everything.
If I survive.
The pain receded to manageable agony. Marcus let go of the lamppost. He needed to move. Stay still and he'd draw attention. Stay moving and he was just part of the city's background noise.
He walked. Watched. Learned. Newspaper headlines told him about economic anxiety and Cold War tensions. Graffiti mentioned "muties" and worse. A TV in a shop window showed footage of a protest—humans with signs demanding "Mutant Registration Now."
Marcus stood and watched until the segment ended.
They're afraid. The humans are afraid and the mutants are hiding and everyone's waiting for something to break.
That's where I come in.
The System pulsed acknowledgment. Or maybe that was just his imagination. Hard to tell through the neural fire.
Marcus turned down another street. He had forty-seven hours left. Forty-seven hours to endure whatever the System was doing to him. Then he could start.
Then he could build.
A newspaper fluttered past his feet. The headline about mutants caught his eye again. Marcus crouched and picked it up, ignoring the pain the movement caused.
Three injured in Queens. Property damage. Police investigating. The usual fear-mongering.
But beneath it—a smaller article. "Local Shelter Closes After Mutant Incident."
An address. The Bronx.
Marcus folded the paper carefully and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Information was currency. He was bankrupt but learning fast.
The binding pain spiked again. Marcus leaned against a building and breathed through it. A woman with a toddler crossed to the other side of the street. Smart. He probably looked dangerous.
Forty-six hours and change. I can do this.
[BINDING PROGRESS: 1.2%]
[HOST VITALS: STABLE]
[CONTINUE CURRENT STRATEGY]
Marcus laughed. It came out harsh, broken. Continue current strategy. His strategy was "don't die." Apparently, the System approved.
He pushed off the wall. The sun was higher now. Real morning. The city moved around him—a machine of eight million people who had no idea their world was about to change.
Marcus walked. One foot in front of the other. Forty-six hours until he could start building.
Forty-six hours until everything began.
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