In every broken corner of the world, Apocalypse found them:
A mute girl who turned to mist when scared, now able to command fog like a cloak.
A man locked in an asylum for his psychic screams, now trained to unleash telekinetic waves in focused destruction.
A homeless woman who never slept, cursed to relive others' nightmares — now able to trap enemies in living illusions.
He offered them no comfort.
Only purpose.
No mercy.
Only clarity.
And as his quiet army grew, whispering his name like a myth reborn…
So too did his legend begin to rise — not in headlines, but in whispers. In fear. In symbols carved into alley walls.
A.
He is back.
****
They built it underground.
An old subway terminal, long abandoned beneath the city's skin — forgotten by the humans, reclaimed by the children of evolution.
Now, it thrummed with life.
Once a rusted ruin, the place had been reforged under Apocalypse's eye. Metal walls gleamed like obsidian. Arches of concrete now bore strange glyphs — markings not of any known language, but of power. Mutant energy hummed through the stone, a pulse echoing from Apocalypse himself.
This was no hideout.
This was a sanctum.
A war room.
A temple.
And at its center — a long table carved from a single slab of volcanic glass, surrounded by those he had uplifted. The mutants he had found. Freed. Amplified.
They sat in silence as he entered — not out of fear, but reverence.
Apocalypse stood at the head of the table, his cloak whispering behind him, his eyes scanning each face.
He was still no towering behemoth — he didn't need to be. His presence bent the air.
"I have awakened in a world I do not recognize," he said, voice deep and commanding. "Tell me how it fell so far."
A few exchanged glances, unsure who should begin.
Finally, Ororo — Storm — stepped forward. Once wild, now sharp as lightning. She stood near him, her white hair tied high, eyes glowing faintly even in rest.
"You've been asleep for thousands of years, En Sabah Nur," she said. "The world... it evolved without you. But not in the way you might expect."
Apocalypse said nothing. He listened.
Storm continued. "Humans now dominate every corner of the planet. Cities rise into the clouds, machines control every aspect of life, and the airwaves are full of noise and lies."
"They tolerate mutants," added the steel-skinned fighter, now called Mire, "but only when they can use us. For weapons. For labor. Or for entertainment."
"Governments lie," said the boy, now known as Scorch, his voice low. "Some mutants live in hiding. Some try to live like them — blend in. But most… just try not to get noticed."
Apocalypse's brow lowered. He looked around the table — at the faces that bore scars of survival. Pain. Restraint.
"And the powerful?" he asked. "Where are the kings?"
Storm's face darkened.
"There are few," she said. "A man named Charles Xavier once dreamed of peace. Another, Magneto, dreamed of dominance. Both... compromised. One hides behind a school. The other... behind regrets."
A slow silence fell across the room.
Apocalypse closed his eyes, breathing in the energy of this new world — its noise, its fire, its buried shame.
When he opened them again, they blazed like twin stars.
"Then we will teach them," he said simply.
"Teach them what?" asked Scorch.
Apocalypse stepped forward, his voice now rich with ancient thunder.
"That evolution is not a negotiation. It is truth. And truth will not be shackled."
He placed both hands on the table — and with a flash of power, the entire hall seemed to pulse. Images danced across the surface: maps of cities, schematics of weapons, faces of known mutants and political figures.
A campaign, beginning to take shape.
"They have forgotten who we are," Apocalypse said. "So we will remind them."
He turned to Storm, eyes fierce.
"Gather the strong. The broken. The forgotten. There will be no more hiding."
She nodded once. "Yes, my lord."
"Let the weak tremble," he said. "Let the world watch."
He looked down at the table, at a glowing dot pulsing from one location.
New York.
Hellfire Club.
His lip curled into the faintest smile.
"Let the fire rise."
"But I don't think it will work," the Nightmare Woman said as she looked at all of them. Unlike the others, she lived in the nightmares of others — and more often than not, it felt like she was losing influence. Losing impact.
"Most mutants aren't angry anymore," she added as she turned her gaze to the table, where the projected image of Max flickered slightly.
"Who is this child?" Apocalypse asked, narrowing his eyes at the smirking hologram of Max.
"He's now called The World-Creator," the Nightmare Woman replied. "He created a Virtual Wolrd — a false world where people feel safe, where they can use their powers however they want, without judgment or fear."
"Some mutants go there to learn control... others just to escape. Many who once carried rage in their hearts now find peace in his illusion. They don't need us anymore."
"More than that," the Nightmare Woman continued, her voice low and distant, "they wage war inside his world — his game-world. He created entire civilizations and systems within it. Mutants lead factions, claim territory, and unleash powers unrestricted by reality. They fight… and they feel alive."
The others sat in silence, listening. Some leaned forward with growing curiosity. The illusion of Max still hovered over the center of the table, his ever-smirking image unnerving in its confidence.
"What is this place?" one mutant finally asked.
"I'd like to see this world of his," Apocalypse said, his deep voice echoing slightly in the hall. Though his expression remained hard, there was a flicker of interest in his gaze.
"It's not magic," the Nightmare Woman said, eyes glinting. "It's not even mutant power. It's technology… twisted and shaped by something deeper. He's built a universe from thought alone — and mutants are choosing to live there."
"I will go," she added, turning away. Her new power — to slip anyone into illusion or dream — resonated like a pulse inside her. "I can enter and bring others with me. We'll see this dream for ourselves… and find out if it's a gift or a prison."
Without waiting for approval, she left the chamber, her dark silhouette vanishing into the corridor. Soon, she found herself outside one of the largest VR capsule centers in the city — a monolithic complex of glass and chrome.
***
Support me at
patreon.com/boring_world
It's 22 chaps ahead