Delays.
They were a natural part of life—inevitable, frustrating, and yet, undeniably necessary. Any scientist worth the title understood that progress was not measured in uninterrupted strides forward, but in the obstacles that forced one to adapt, to refine and to perfect.
Delays were not failures.
They were indicators that one was missing only a single piece of the puzzle.
Nathaniel Essex had spent centuries mastering the art of patience. He took pleasure in delays, for they signified that he was close—that answers were nearly within his grasp.
But the puzzle that was Scott Summers was proving to be the most unforeseen and infuriating delay of all.
Sinister had long since accepted unforeseen circumstances as a reality of scientific progress. The unexpected was merely another variable to be accounted for. Yet Scott was a variable that refused to be controlled.
That was unacceptable.
At first, his interest in the boy had been predictable, even expected. Scott Summers was of the Summers lineage, and the plan to produce an offspring of the Summers and Grey bloodlines had been a certainty in Sinister's long and calculated endeavors. That child, beyond any shadow of a doubt, would be the key to fulfilling his singular and most important goal.
That had been the initial interest.
But then—Sinister had met Scott in person and that focus had not lessened—no, it had expanded.
Because the boy himself was remarkable.
How often did one come across a child—barely a teenager—who survived a plane crash that left him and his younger brother orphaned? A child who had endured grievous injuries, both internal and external, yet had insisted that his brother receive medical attention first, despite Alex's injuries being superficial at best?
Not only that, but a child who had not only allowed himself to be experimented on, but had deliberately drawn attention to himself, all in a calculated effort to divert attention away from their brother?
That level of strategic self-sacrifice, of instinctive protection, was beyond what any child should have been capable of.
Then, there was the matter of his mind.
So young.
So untouched by formal training.
Yet…utterly impermeable to telepaths.
Sinister had never encountered such a phenomenon in a child so untested.
That alone had been worth studying.
So, he had chosen not to chase him down after Scott had escaped the orphanage. He had let him run, curious to see how Scott would interact with the world—how he would grow.
Scott had not disappointed.
He had endured months of starvation, extreme fatigue, and borderline hypothermia, yet had still found the strength to protect his brother against all odds.
It had been fascinating to observe.
Sinister had been tempted to retrieve him after he and Alex took refuge in Xavier's mansion. After all, Alex was of the Summers lineage. If need be, he could carry on the plan to produce a child of the Summers and Grey lineage. A bit of interference—some genetic persuasion—and Alex would be useful enough.
That would leave Scott free to be experimented on to Sinister's heart's content.
But then…
New York.
That incident had changed everything.
Scott had displayed skill and experience that made no logical sense.
He did not have the training.
He did not have the background.
There was no reason—none at all—for a boy with no formal combat education to fight with the efficiency and instincts that he had demonstrated.
However, he possessed them all the same.
No.
Sinister was far too invested to abandon this now.
Scott Summers had become more than just the means to an end. He was an anomaly, and Sinister did not tolerate unknowns.
But time was running short.
His window was closing.
He had underestimated Scott twice now. His current Marauder lineup had proven ineffective, and continued failure was not something he would tolerate.
Fortunately, Nathaniel Essex had lived far too long to lack alternatives.
He was owed many favors.
It was time to collect.
-X-
Scott sat in the back seat of the car, his fingers lightly tapping against his knee. The rhythmic motion was subtle, controlled, but beneath that carefully measured exterior, his mind was anything but calm.
He was nervous and he hated it.
It wasn't his nervousness.
No, it belonged to Cyclops—to the man whose memories, instincts, and emotions still clung to Scott like a second skin he hadn't asked for.
He had dealt with Cyclops' influence before—annoying moments where his actions and reactions felt guided by emotions that weren't his own. It was why being around Jean had been so frustrating.
But this?
As he sat watching the large estate come into view, that same weight settled in his chest.
Anticipation.
Uncertainty.
Frustration.
Cyclops' emotions were just as strong here as they were with Jean.
Scott exhaled, forcing himself to ignore the feeling.
It wasn't his.
It didn't matter.
Beside him, Charles Xavier studied him for a moment before finally speaking. "Remain silent and observe," Charles instructed. "Winston is a difficult man to deal with."
Scott gave a small nod but didn't take his eyes off the estate. "This is pointless." Charles sighed, already anticipating Scott's argument. "You've already tried once and failed," Scott continued, his tone even.
"Perhaps," Charles admitted, "but until I am certain I will fail, I will keep trying."
Scott didn't argue, but he didn't agree either.
"Emma is a young mutant," Charles went on, his voice firm. "She deserves the chance to grow and learn in an environment suited to her."
Scott kept his expression neutral, but knowing Emma she would already be in the environment best suited for her. She didn't need Xavier's mansion, not like Jean, Bobby, Hank or Warren. Emma Frost would thrive in exactly the kind of world she had been raised in.
This was her battlefield.
She had been shaped by it, and she was only going to get stronger because of it.
Xavier's school wasn't where she belonged.
Scott's gaze remained fixed outside as the car rolled to a stop in front of the Frost estate. A suited guard immediately stepped forward, pulling open the door.
Scott didn't hesitate.
He stepped out first, adjusting his stance before turning to help Charles from the car and into his wheelchair. As the doors to the Frost estate loomed in front of them, Scott took a slow breath, locking away Cyclops' emotions and focusing on what was coming next.
-X-
Emma Frost ran a silver brush through her platinum blonde hair, sighing in quiet relief as she let herself enjoy the moment. It had been a long journey home from boarding school, and while she would have preferred to stay there rather than return to the Frost estate so soon, she wasn't about to let that ruin the simple pleasures of luxury.
And luxury, at least, was something the Frost family never lacked.
She had barely set foot in her bedroom when she decided that her first order of business was a bath. The semester had barely started, and already, she had been summoned home by her father. No doubt for another pointless lecture about expectations, about duty, about whatever power games he was playing now.
'It can wait,' she thought, running the brush through her hair again, her mind already drifting to the heated marble bath waiting for her.
Then—
A knock at the door.
Emma exhaled sharply, irritation flashing through her. 'Of course. I don't even get a few minutes to myself before he calls for me.'
"Miss Frost," came the clipped voice of one of the maids. "Your father has called for you."
Emma scowled.
She looked down at herself, taking in the crisp school uniform she was still wearing. A dark navy skirt and blazer. A white blouse, her tie loosened from the journey home.
Hardly presentable.
Her father would berate her for it—call it lacking in presentation, disrespectful to his standing. Yet, if she took the time to change into something more appropriate he would berate her for being late.
Emma let out a slow, measured breath. 'Either way, he'll find something to criticize.' She would deal with whatever this was, get it over with, and then she could enjoy the luxuries of home.
She rose from her seat, smoothing her uniform down before following the maid through the mansion.
Even as she walked the familiar halls of her childhood, she felt the weight of the house pressing in around her—the sterile perfection, the suffocating order of it all. Every step, every fixture, every word spoken in this house was dictated by Winston Frost's expectations.
She reached the front parlour, the door already being opened for her by two guards standing at attention.
Emma stepped inside.
Her father was seated comfortably in the largest and most central chair in the room. Winston Frost always positioned himself in command, even when he wasn't actively reminding everyone that he was the most important person in the room.
She barely spared him a glance before her gaze flickered toward the guests seated across from him.
The first was an older bald man, seated in a wheelchair. He smiled kindly at her, an expression that set her on edge immediately.
The second was a young man.
Emma's breath hitched slightly before she immediately schooled her expression.
He was handsome, a year or two older than her, with dark hair and sharp, serious features. He had the kind of controlled presence that made a person stand out without trying.
Exactly her type.
For the briefest second, his gaze met hers then it flicked away, back toward the guards, then her father.
Emma felt her fingers twitch.
'He dismissed me?'
Not out of rudeness.
Not out of arrogance.
He simply did not care.
It was almost impressive.
Emma had spent her entire life perfecting the art of capturing attention, of bending it in her favor. Teachers, peers, instructors—it never took long for them to become enchanted, caught in the pull of her presence.
But this boy had barely looked at her before deciding she wasn't worth his attention.
That wounded her pride.
-X-
Winston Frost leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, gaze cold and calculating as he appraised his guests.
"My daughter, Emma Frost," he said smoothly, gesturing toward her with no more significance than one would offer a fine piece of furniture.
Emma gave a polite nod, though she did not speak. She knew better. Her father did not bring her here to be an active participant in this conversation. He expected her to observe, to listen, and—above all—to read.
Charles Xavier smiled warmly. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Frost. My name is Professor Charles Xavier, and this is Scott Summers—one of my students."
Scott inclined his head, but he was silent. His posture was straight, professional and detached. Emma's gaze flickered toward him, but he did not acknowledge it.
Her father did not so much as glance in her direction as he continued. "And to what do I owe this unexpected visit, Professor Xavier?"
Emma nearly rolled her eyes.
Her father was lying.
He already knew exactly why they had come. He never agreed to a meeting without fully understanding its purpose. But his game was always the same—make the other party explain themselves, force them into a position of weakness before negotiations even began and, of course, she was here to ensure he hadn't missed anything.
Subtly, she reached out with her telepathic probes, slipping toward the minds of both men.
A nudge.
Gentle and controlled.
A mental barrier pressing back against her, neither aggressive nor defensive.
"There is no need to pry, Miss Frost. I am very much like you."Charles Xavier's voice spoke directly into her mind.
Emma's eyes snapped to him, but his kind, knowing smile never wavered. She pulled her powers back instinctively, her mental walls rising in response.
She hadn't expected Xavier to be a telepath, of course. Even so, for him to notice her probes so easily and address her with such calm confidence?
It put her on edge.
Meanwhile, Xavier was already speaking aloud, his attention on Winston. "I am well aware of your daughter's gifts," he said, his voice even. "Just as you knew that I would be aware."
Winston offered a small, tight smile. "Is that so?"
"Indeed," Xavier continued. "Which is why I believe she should be given the opportunity to learn how to control and refine them in an environment suited for her growth."
Emma remained still as the conversation unfolded, but inwardly, she knew where this was going.
She was here as a topic.
A bargaining piece.
The problem was that Winston Frost never bargained—he dictated.
"Control and refinement," Winston mused. "An interesting proposition. Tell me, Professor Xavier, what exactly does this environment of yours offer?"
Xavier kept his posture relaxed. "At my school, Emma would be among peers—young mutants like herself, learning to hone their abilities under guidance and supervision."
"A fine sentiment," Winston said smoothly. "And this school of yours—it has what, exactly? Proper instructors? Medical staff? Facilities designed to train individuals with abilities that can reshape the very laws of nature?"
Xavier didn't falter. "We are still growing—"
"Growing," Winston cut in. "So your infrastructure is barely established, then."
Xavier exhaled but kept his patience. "I have every intention of expanding—"
"Not intentions, Professor," Winston interrupted sharply, his eyes like ice. "What do you have now? Not what you plan for the future. Not what you hope to establish. What exists at this very moment?"
Emma watched silently, recognizing the strategy. Her father was dismantling Xavier's position, making him acknowledge his lack of resources. He was putting him in a corner, where Xavier would be forced to admit weakness or sell an unproven vision.
At the same time, she kept her focus on Xavier's mind, her probes subtly brushing against the edges of his thoughts.
'He's shielding himself,' she noted. 'Impressive.'
Xavier, for his part, didn't allow Winston's questions to rattle him. "You misunderstand, Mr. Frost. My school is not about resources. It is about providing young mutants with guidance, something that your daughter—"
Emma ignored the rest of the conversation as she already knew how this would unfold. Instead, her attention turned to Scott Summers.
The boy had remained silent, perfectly composed, unmoved by anything being said. There was something off about him, not many would be able to remain calm as they watched a figure of respect or mentor be so harshly dismantled in the way Winston was to Xavier. Especially not one so young when men twice his age caved under her father's words.
Emma was curious.
She reached out, brushing her telepathic probes against his mind. Immediately she hit a wall. Not a shield or barrier like Xavier's, but an impregnable fortress. A mental defense so absolute, so impossibly strong, that for the first time in her life, Emma knew she wouldn't be able to break through.
She barely masked her surprise.
'What…?'
Her lips parted slightly as she studied him again, this time with genuine curiosity.
Who was this boy?
How could someone so young have mental defenses that even she couldn't crack?
Telepathically, she reached out to Xavier, her voice sharp and laced with interest.
"Who is he?"
Xavier merely smiled.
Aloud, to Winston, he reintroduced Scott. "Scott Summers is one of my students—a model example of how my school can help guide young mutants in controlling their abilities."
Emma turned to Scott fully now, her focus entirely on him and to her mild amusement, so did her father. Winston, who had been dismissing Xavier's words this entire time, had finally found something worth his attention.
Xavier opened his mouth to speak again, but Winston ignored him completely. Instead, his sharp gaze fixed directly on Scott. "And what, exactly," Winston said bluntly, "are your powers?"
-X-
The room hung heavy with tension as Winston Frost's gaze settled expectantly on Scott.
Scott, however, remained silent.
A long, deliberate pause stretched between them, the only sound the faint ticking of the ornate grandfather clock against the far wall. Charles, beside him, carefully masked his frustration at being so blatantly dismissed, his expression composed but his posture subtly more rigid. Finally, Scott spoke—calm, measured, completely unshaken.
"I'd prefer not to say."
The air shifted.
Emma blinked.
For a fraction of a second, she failed to mask her shock.
No one said no to her father.
Not like this.
She had watched countless people—businessmen, politicians, even heads of state—bend under the weight of Winston Frost's authority. His presence commanded obedience, his words were law in the circles he operated within. Yet, this boy—this Scott Summers—had just refused him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Winston's expression remained neutral, his fingers still steepled in his lap. "It is respectful," he said smoothly, "to answer when asked a question."
Scott met his gaze evenly. "It's equally respectful to stop pressing when someone has made their boundaries clear."
Emma took in a sharp breath.
The moment the words left Scott's lips, she felt the tension in the room shift—subtle, but immediate. Her eyes flickered to the guards stationed around the room, watching as their postures subtly changed—not overtly, but with a readiness that hadn't been there before. She turned back to her father just in time to catch the slightest tightening of his expression.
He was furious.
Livid at the disrespect being shown to him.
Charles seemed to recognize things were going sour and spoke, warningly, "Scott."
But before Scott could respond, Winston let out a short, sharp laugh, dismissing Charles' warning with a wave of his hand. "Now, now, Professor," Winston said, his voice rich with mock amusement, though his eyes remained cold. "Let the boy speak. I'm curious to hear his reasoning for such… blatant disregard for propriety."
Charles' mouth tightened. "This isn't necessary—"
"But I insist," Winston interrupted, tone polite, but absolute.
Emma almost felt pity for Charles. He looked resigned, as though he had already accepted that nothing good would come from letting this play out.
But she was curious too.
She turned back to Scott, watching him closely.
Another pause.
Then, finally, Scott spoke.
"Respect is a two-way street," he said, voice even, unhurried. "I'm a firm believer that respect is earned, not given."
The words were spoken so plainly, so undisturbed, that they almost didn't sound insulting—except they were.
Emma felt something unsettle in her chest.
Scott continued.
"The games you've been playing with Professor Xavier, despite already being dead set on rejecting any offer he makes? That's one strike against you."
Emma's fingers curled slightly against her skirt.
"The fact that you don't respect other people's boundaries is another," Scott went on, unfazed.
She felt the air tighten again.
"And the way you treat your own family as nothing more than tools?" Scott's head tilted slightly, his gaze sharp, unwavering. "That's the third."
Emma's heart skipped a beat.
Was he—
"Is he insane?" She asked telepathically, unable to stop herself.
Charles' voice answered in her mind, wry but cautious. "I am beginning to wonder that myself."
Across from her, Winston had gone completely still. A long beat of silence befell the room and then, Winston smiled. It was a thin, razor-edged expression, empty of real amusement.
"When one is as powerful as the Frosts," Winston said smoothly, "everyone becomes a tool."
Scott didn't so much as blink.
"Is that why the Frost name hasn't grown in the last decade?"
The words hit the room like a gunshot.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Emma sucked in a sharp breath.
Even the guards—men trained to be expressionless, detached—could not hide their shock.
As for Winston?
For the first time since this conversation started, Winston Frost's expression cracked. His control, his carefully constructed mask, fractured at the edges.
Scott, utterly unbothered, continued. "One could argue that the Frost name has actually diminished," he mused. "Perhaps because you're too set in the old ways of doing things. You refuse to adapt, to evolve with the world."His head tilted slightly, gaze still unwavering. "Which means, eventually, you'll be surpassed and forgotten."
The guards moved.
It was silent, almost imperceptible—but Emma felt it. She saw the shift in their posture as the silent order had been given.
One guard reached for his weapon.
A blinding red light flared to life.
A sharp crack echoed through the room.
The guard's wrist snapped backward, the gun clattering to the floor as the man collapsed to his knees, clutching his broken hand, a shocked, pained gasp escaping his lips.
The room fell into silence once more.
Emma couldn't breathe.
Her heart was hammering.
Even she hadn't seen the attack coming. There had been no warning, no visible sign of Scott preparing to strike.
The precision.
The timing.
It wasn't reckless.
It was intentional.
It was controlled.
She had thought he was insane.
Now?
She was absolutely certain of it.