-Location: Mactan Island, Cebu, Philippines-

In a quiet neighborhood, six-year-old Pearl Pangan tugs at her grandfather's hand as they walk down the street, her eyes shining with excitement.

Pearl: Grandpa, can we get ice cream? And can we meet Uncle Wally too?

Her grandfather chuckles, looking down at her fondly.

Grandfather: Ice cream, sure, kiddo. But Uncle Wally? I'm afraid he's a bit too far for that.

Pearl tilts her head, puzzled.

Pearl: Why, Grandpa? Where's Uncle Wally?

Grandfather: Well, he's all the way in the U.S., sweetheart. He's working as a freelance artist over there, and it keeps him pretty busy.

Pearl's face scrunches up as she tries to understand.

Pearl: But why is he so busy?

Grandfather chuckles again, bending down to her level.

Grandfather: I know you miss him, sweetheart. He misses you too. Maybe, when he's done with his projects, he'll come and visit us for a long time. How about we write him a letter with all the things you want to tell him?

Pearl blinks, a small smile forming.

Pearl: So, he's drawing all the time? Like, for a job?

Grandfather nods, patting her head.

Grandfather: Exactly, little fish. Just like how you love to swim, Uncle Wally loves to draw. And he's worked hard so he can do what he loves as his job.

Pearl's smile grows as she considers this.

Pearl: That's cool! So, if I get really good at swimming… maybe that could be my job?

Grandfather: Maybe one day, Pearl. And who knows maybe one day, you'll even swim all the way to visit him in the U.S.

-Location: Westchester County, New York.-

In one of the spacious art studios of the X-Mansion, Wally sits at an easel, carefully brushing the finishing touches onto a large, vibrant painting of the X-Men logo. The room is filled with the faint scent of paint, and the afternoon light filters through, casting a warm glow over the canvas. Just then, Dr. Hank McCoy better known to his friends as Beast steps in, his gentle yet powerful frame filling the doorway.

Hank: Are you almost finished with our logo, Wally?

Wally, caught up in his work, startles a little and looks over his shoulder.

Wally: Almost, Mr. Beast!

Hank raises an eyebrow, then lets out a hearty laugh.

Hank: Please, Wally, there's no need to be so formal. Call me Hank. We're friends, after all.

Wally grins, putting his brush down for a moment.

Wally: Sorry, Hank. Old habits, I guess. Just feels like I should be calling you something more official.

Hank shakes his head, still smiling as he watches Wally's progress on the logo.

Hank: Well, "Mr. Beast" makes me sound like an internet celebrity, doesn't it? I think "Hank" suits me just fine.

They both laugh, the ease of friendship making the mansion feel like home.

Wally: Alright, Hank it is. I should be done soon just a few more touches. I want it to look perfect.

Hank: Well, my friend, you've earned your place here as much as anyone else. And besides, that logo is turning out wonderfully! Quite the artist we have among us.

Wally glances back at his work, his cheeks flushing with pride.

Wally: Thanks, Hank. Just trying to do it justice!

-Later at his House-

Inside his small laboratory room, Wally West leans against his workbench, his phone pressed to his ear as he tries to explain his situation to Betty Brant.

Wally: I'm sorry, Betty. It's just… we've been hit with a wave of odd jobs that have kept me glued to this project. Freelance life, you know?

There's a pause on the other end of the line before Betty's voice cuts in, sharp and frustrated.

Betty: If you were half the man who had the guts to finish your project and your goddamn job, Wally! We've been through this so many times you promised me! I'm done with these excuses. I'm tired of waiting. Let's just end this.

Before Wally can get another word in, he hears the click of the line disconnecting. He stands there, the silence in his lab suddenly feeling heavier than before. He stares at his phone, struggling to find the right words, even if only in his thoughts.

Wally's thoughts: I needed to explain to Betty why I couldn't keep my promise… why I couldn't make it on time. And now I promised to meet her family for dinner. Guess that's over now…

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, feeling the weight of disappointment and regret settle in. Turning to the window, he watches the rain pour down in heavy sheets, the storm outside mirroring the turmoil inside him.

Wally's thoughts: Is it just me… or is there something strange about this rain?

He watches as lightning flashes across the sky, his thoughts churning as he wonders if the storm somehow reflects his own chaotic life.

-42nd Street and Madison Avenue, Manhattan, New York City-

Inside the Baxter Building, Mr. Fantastic stands by a set of high-tech control panels, his fingers gliding over the screens as he urgently assesses the situation. Nearby, Spider-Man and Luke Cage stand ready, watching him intently.

Mr. Fantastic: You both need to get out there and help evacuate the city. This storm may have caused a critical malfunction in the primary cooling system. I'm trying to shut down the particle accelerator, but so far, I haven't been able to regain control of the

Before he can finish, a deafening explosion erupts, shaking the entire building. The ground trembles beneath them as sparks fly from the control panels. A blast of smoke and debris fills the air, and Mr. Fantastic braces himself as part of the ceiling collapses.

Spider-Man: Reed!

As he watches in shock, the glass wall across the room shatters outward, and flames burst into the lab. The explosion intensifies, and pieces of the control room break apart, a section of the ceiling collapsing between them.

Luke Cage shields his face from the debris, grabbing Spider-Man and pulling him back just in time.

Luke Cage: We gotta move, Spidey! This whole place is comin' down!

But Spider-Man's gaze is locked on the flickering screens, the readings flashing wildly as the temperature spikes.

Spider-Man: Reed… what about the accelerator?

Mr. Fantastic, his form stretching as he braces against the remains of a wall, looks back at them with determination despite the chaos.

Mr. Fantastic: Forget about me. Save the people. I'll buy us time just get out there and make sure no one else gets hurt!

Spider-Man hesitates, torn, but Luke pulls him toward the exit as the room fills with smoke.

Luke Cage: You heard him, man. Let's go!

-Back to Wally-

Wally West glances around nervously as the storm outside grows more intense. The liquid in the beakers on his workbench begins to ripple, then rise, as if pulled by some unseen force. The sight triggers an old, painful memory a flashback to when he was just eleven, watching helplessly as a freak accident took his parents away.

Wally's breathing quickens, his eyes fixed on the ominous, swirling liquids. His heart pounds as he tries to shake the memory, gripping the edge of the table for grounding.

Wally: No… not again…

Suddenly, a deafening crash shatters his focus as the glass window behind him explodes inward, shards flying across the room.

''ZAP!''

A bolt of lightning tears through the opening, arcing straight into him. His body jerks, muscles seizing as electric energy courses violently through him. The sheer force throws him backward, sending him sprawling onto the floor.

He lies there, motionless, faint trails of smoke rising from his clothes, lightning still dancing along his skin. The once-familiar hum of his lab is now eerily silent, save for the crackle of residual electricity echoing in the room.

Wally lies unconscious, his mind slipping into darkness as the storm outside rages on, unaware of the transformation beginning to stir within him.

-Meanwhile Bar Sinister-

Mr. Sinister stands tall and imposing, his cape draping around him as he faces MODOK. The sinister glint in his eyes is impossible to miss as he leans forward, his voice smooth yet chilling.

Mr. Sinister: I require a fresh supply of… volunteers, shall we say. Individuals who won't be missed. I need subjects for my latest experiments human subjects.

MODOK hovers nearby, his massive head and gleaming eyes narrowing with suspicion as he processes Sinister's request.

MODOK: And what, precisely, is my incentive to indulge you in this little… project?

Mr. Sinister's lips curl into a sly smile, unfazed by MODOK's resistance.

Mr. Sinister: Consider it a mutually beneficial arrangement. You want advancements in bio-weaponry, and I have the means to bring that to life. But I need test subjects ones that won't draw attention. I trust you have no shortage of disposable assets in AIM's ranks?

MODOK studies him, unimpressed, yet clearly intrigued by the offer.

MODOK: And how do I know this isn't just your ploy for personal amusement, Sinister? You have a penchant for… shall we say, creative science.

Mr. Sinister chuckles, his gaze unwavering.

Mr. Sinister: Oh, rest assured, my dear MODOK. This will serve us both. Think of it as the evolution of power one that will put AIM a step ahead in our shared goals.

MODOK's expression shifts, considering the proposal.

MODOK: Very well, Sinister. But understand this fail to deliver, and you'll find AIM far less… accommodating.

Mr. Sinister's grin widens, a spark of dark ambition in his eyes.

Mr. Sinister: Oh, you'll get what you desire, MODOK. And more

Mr. Sinister folds his hands, a sinister smile creeping across his face as he watches MODOK with keen interest.

Mr. Sinister: Tell me, MODOK… do you know what one of my most ambitious projects entails?

MODOK's eyes narrow, his curiosity piqued but tempered with suspicion.

MODOK: Enlighten me.

Mr. Sinister leans forward, his voice low, almost a whisper.

Mr. Sinister: Clones. Perfected beings created to enhance, to transcend. I ordered Dr. John Sublime to craft a perfect clone, a specimen unlike any other. But… there's been a complication.

MODOK's mechanical features flicker with a faint trace of curiosity, his floating form shifting closer.

MODOK: And what would that problem be?

Mr. Sinister's smile widens, his eyes glinting with dark amusement.

Mr. Sinister: The genes of the father. Obtaining… compatible material has proven rather troublesome. Some genetic lines are resistant to manipulation. But once I have it… once I've unlocked that code, I'll have created the perfect weapon.

MODOK's expression shifts, now caught between fascination and skepticism.

MODOK: A challenging ambition, Sinister. But tell me who, exactly, is the father?

Mr. Sinister's grin turns even more malevolent, but he simply straightens, offering no further hint, letting the mystery linger in the room.

Mr. Sinister: Ah, but some secrets are best kept... for those who are patient. Rest assured, MODOK you'll see the results soon enough.

MODOK: Do you even know who you'll choose as the mother of these clones?

Mr. Sinister pauses, his expression briefly shifting to one of contemplation. For once, the usually meticulous geneticist seems caught off guard.

Mr. Sinister: Hm. I must admit, I hadn't quite… addressed that particular detail. I was focused on perfecting the paternal line.

MODOK's lips curl into a smirk, his tone gleefully devious.

MODOK: Then allow me to suggest… the White Queen herself.

Mr. Sinister's eyes widen, the idea clearly taking root in his mind. Slowly, a grin stretches across his face, devious and delighted.

Mr. Sinister: Emma Frost… Of course. Her genetic potential is extraordinary, and her telepathic gifts would provide the perfect complement to the father's… enhancements. Brilliant, MODOK. You may have just provided the missing piece.

MODOK chuckles, reveling in his small victory.

MODOK: Consider it a favor, Sinister. But be warned… handling the White Queen will require more than just science. She won't be so easily… recruited for this little experiment.

Mr. Sinister's grin only widens, eyes gleaming with dark anticipation.

Mr. Sinister: Leave that to me, MODOK. I have ways of persuading even the most formidable of allies.

-Back in New York Location: Hospital-

In the chaotic, fluorescent-lit hallway of the hospital, a team of doctors and nurses rushes alongside a gurney, where Wally West lies unconscious, an oxygen mask over his face. His skin is pale, and faint burns line his arms from the lightning strike.

One of the doctors falls into step with the paramedic pushing the gurney, her expression concerned.

Doctor: What happened to him?

Paramedic: He was hit by lightning!

The doctor's eyes widen in disbelief as she looks down at Wally, barely able to comprehend.

Doctor: How is he still alive?

They wheel him into a trauma room, and the team swiftly transfers him onto the hospital bed, attaching leads and setting up monitors. The room fills with the rapid, efficient movements of the medical team as they work on Wally's unresponsive body. Suddenly, one of the monitors beeps erratically, then flatlines.

Doctor: Go! No heartbeat! Get me a CBC and Chem 24.

Another nurse begins chest compressions as the doctor grabs the defibrillator paddles, urgency in her voice.

Doctor: CLEAR!