Esdeath lay in bed, arm draped over her eyes as the ceiling fan spun lazily above. The room was silent except for the occasional car passing on the street below. Her mind, however, was anything but quiet.
Did I really kill them?
The image of those men encased in ice flashed behind her closed eyelids. Their expressions of shock and terror preserved perfectly in their frozen tombs. She should feel horrified. Guilty. Sick to her stomach.
But she didn't.
Why did it feel... good?
That was what truly disturbed her. Not the act itself, but her reaction to it. The surge of power that had coursed through her veins. The satisfaction of watching fear bloom in their eyes as they realized they'd chosen the wrong target. The absolute control she'd wielded over life and death.
It wasn't entirely unfamiliar. Memories that weren't quite her own bubbled to the surface—Esdeath in the dojo, fourteen years old, facing opponents twice her size. The rush when she'd flipped a boy who'd been taunting her for weeks, pinning him until he tapped out. The gleam in her instructor's eyes. "You have a gift," he'd said. "But be careful with it."
More memories followed. Tournament victories. The growing pleasure in domination. The way she'd draw out matches just to savor the moment her opponent realized they couldn't win. It wasn't about the competition—it was about the power.
"This is messed up," she whispered to the empty room, her breath forming a small cloud despite the apartment's warmth.
Esdeath sat up abruptly, rubbing her face with a sigh. The digital clock on the nightstand read 11:30 PM. School in less than six hours. A life she knew nothing about waiting for her to step into it.
"Not now," she mumbled. "Still have things to figure out."
She pushed away the uncomfortable thoughts, compartmentalizing them the way she somehow knew Esdeath would—cool, logical, repressive. There were practical matters to consider. How to control these new powers. How to navigate high school in 2003. How to avoid whoever those men were connected to.
The deeper questions about her nature, about the pleasure she'd taken in violence—those could wait. Had to wait.
Esdeath swung her legs off the bed and padded across the room to a small desk tucked in the corner. A bulky beige computer monitor sat atop it like a relic from another era. Which, to her, it was.
"Right. 2003. No smartphones. No social media. Just dial-up and google search." She grimaced, pressing the power button. The machine whirred to life with a series of clicks and electronic groans that sounded like a small animal being slowly crushed.
While waiting for it to boot up, she rummaged through the desk drawers. School notebooks. A few CDs. A half-empty pack of gum. And tucked in the back, a small leather-bound journal with a combination lock. Esdeath's diary. She set it aside for later examination.
The Windows XP welcome screen finally appeared, followed by the distinctive screech of a dial-up connection. Esdeath winced at the noise.
"Jesus, how did people live like this?"
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Where to start? Mutants seemed the obvious choice. She typed "mutant powers" into the search bar and hit enter. Most results were conspiracy theories or scientific papers discussing genetic anomalies in animals. Nothing concrete.
She refined her search: "Charles Xavier School."
This time, she found something. A discreet webpage for a "private academy for gifted youngsters" in Westchester County, New York. The site was minimalist, offering little information beyond basic contact details and vague educational philosophy statements. But it existed.
Esdeath leaned back in her chair, processing. "So Xavier's school is already operating. Quietly recruiting mutants."
She spent the next hour digging deeper. Tony Stark appeared in numerous tabloid articles—playboy antics, weapons demonstrations, charity galas. Reed Richards and Victor Von Doom had just completed their doctorates at MIT, both heralded as revolutionary geniuses.
And Norman Osborn was making headlines with Oscorp's aggressive expansion into military contracts and genetic research.
All the major players were in position. The heroes, the villains, the organizations that would shape this world—they existed, but hadn't yet become what she remembered from comics and movies.
Esdeath scribbled notes on a pad of paper as she continued her research. The pattern was becoming clear—a world on the edge of transformation. Mutants existed but remained largely hidden. The Avengers weren't a team yet. The Fantastic Four hadn't taken their fateful space flight. Spider-Man wasn't swinging through the city.
"2003," she murmured, tapping her pen against the notepad. "Pre-everything."
She leaned back, stretching her arms above her head. This wasn't just any Marvel timeline—this was ground zero. The calm before the superhero explosion. A strange mixture of dread and excitement pooled in her stomach.
"I've got time," she whispered to herself. "Time to prepare before everything goes public."
She flipped to a fresh page and wrote in bold letters: PRIORITIES.
Beneath it, she listed: 1. Master ice powers. 2. Avoid SHIELD—they're definitely watching for powered individuals. 3. Stay low profile. 4. Monitor key players: Stark, Xavier, Osborn, Doom.
Esdeath tapped the pen against her lips, considering. Knowledge was power, but it was also dangerous. If anyone discovered she knew future events, she'd become the most valuable intelligence asset on the planet—or the most dangerous threat.
"Better to be underestimated," she decided, adding another item: 5. Play dumb. Be a teenager with new powers, nothing more.
Her eyelids grew heavy as she continued browsing. A forum thread about mutant sightings in New York. A news article about Stark Industries' latest military contract. Scientific journals discussing genetic anomalies. The words began to blur together as fatigue crept in.
She fought against it, clicking through to an article about strange weather patterns in Eastern Europe—Latveria's borders, though the article didn't make the connection.
Her head nodded forward, jerking back up as she caught herself. "Just... five more minutes," she mumbled.
The next time her head dropped, it didn't come back up. Her forehead thumped gently against the keyboard, adding a string of random characters to the search bar. The blue glow of the monitor cast soft shadows across her face as her breathing deepened into sleep, the screen's light illuminating the small, cluttered room around her.
A soft knock on the door broke the morning silence.
"Hey, kiddo. Time to get ready. First day and all."
Esdeath jerked awake, disoriented by the unfamiliar voice. Her cheek was pressed against the keyboard, a perfect QWERTY imprint likely stamped on her skin. The monitor had gone to screensaver, colorful pipes snaking across the black screen.
"Ugh..." she groaned, peeling her face off the keyboard. Her neck cracked as she straightened up, back screaming in protest from hours hunched over the desk. "Coming, Uncle Frank."
The name had come automatically to her lips, pulled from Esdeath's memories. She rubbed her eyes, trying to focus on the man standing in the doorway. Tall, broad-shouldered, with salt-and-pepper hair and kind eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. There was a wariness about him too—the look of someone who'd seen too much.
"You fall asleep at your computer again?" He shook his head, smiling. "Bathroom's all yours. Breakfast in twenty."
The door closed with a soft click. Esdeath stretched, wincing at the stiffness in her shoulders. Her reflection in the darkened monitor caught her attention—tangled blue-black hair, sleepy eyes, and yes, keyboard marks on her left cheek.
"Great first impression," she muttered, gathering clean clothes from the dresser before shuffling to the bathroom.
Inside, she locked the door and turned on the shower, letting steam fill the small space. Then came the moment she'd been avoiding: undressing. Esdeath hesitated, hands at the hem of her t-shirt.
"This is ridiculous," she whispered, blushing despite being alone. "It's just a body."
She closed her eyes tight and pulled the shirt over her head in one quick motion, then shed the rest of her clothes with the same hurried efficiency.
"Still not used to this," she mumbled, stepping blindly into the shower. "Definitely not what I expected from reincarnation."
The hot water helped ease the tension in her muscles, but did little for her mental discomfort. She kept her eyes firmly shut as she washed her hair, lathered soap across unfamiliar curves, rinsed quickly.
"Just anatomy," she told herself, though the blush refused to fade. "Nothing weird about it."
When she couldn't justify staying in the shower any longer, Esdeath turned off the water and grabbed a towel, drying off with her gaze fixed determinedly on the ceiling tiles. The mirror remained fogged, offering only a blurry outline of her reflection—a small mercy she was grateful for.
Esdeath dressed quickly, grabbing the first clean items she found—faded jeans with a small tear at the knee and a navy blue hoodie that felt soft and worn from countless washes.
Comfort over style. She ran fingers through her damp hair, avoiding her reflection in the now-cleared mirror.
The backpack sitting by her desk looked well-used but sturdy. She rummaged through it, finding textbooks, notebooks, and a pencil case. Everything a normal high school student would need. Nothing to suggest the person who owned it could freeze people solid with a thought.
"Esdeath! Breakfast's getting cold!" Frank's voice called from the kitchen.
"Coming!" She slung the backpack over her shoulder and headed out.
Frank was waiting by the door, car keys jingling in his hand. "Got everything?"
"Think so." She grabbed a piece of toast from the plate he offered.
"Let's hit the road then. Don't want you late on your first day back."
The elevator ride down to the street was silent. Frank kept glancing at her, opening his mouth as if to speak, then thinking better of it. Outside, his truck sat at the curb—an old Ford with faded red paint and a dent in the passenger door.
"Sorry about the mess," he said, clearing fast food wrappers from the seat. "Been working late shifts."
Esdeath slid in, noticing the dashboard photo of a younger Frank with a woman who shared her eyes. Her mother. A strange pang of loss hit her—mourning someone she'd never actually known.
Frank started the engine, which coughed twice before rumbling to life. "So... you ready for sophomore year?"
"As ready as I'll ever be."
"You know, if you're still having trouble with those kids from last semester—"
"I can handle it," she cut in, perhaps too sharply.
Frank nodded, eyes on the road. "I know you can. Just saying I'm here if you need anything."
The rest of the drive passed with Frank making awkward attempts at conversation. The weather. A customer's bizarre request at his garage. Whether she needed new sneakers. Esdeath responded with nods and short answers, studying him from the corner of her eye.
He cared. That much was obvious. The way he kept checking if she'd eaten enough. How he'd placed a water bottle in the side pocket of her backpack without mentioning it. Small gestures that spoke volumes.
"Here we are," Frank announced, pulling up a block from the school. "Figured you wouldn't want the old man embarrassing you right at the entrance."
"Thanks." Esdeath hesitated, then added, "For everything."
Something softened in Frank's tired eyes. "Have a good day, kiddo."
She stepped out onto the sidewalk, adjusting her backpack strap over her shoulder. The morning sun cast long shadows as students streamed toward the brick building ahead. Midtown High School. The place where Peter Parker would one day roam the halls—if he wasn't already.
Esdeath took a deep breath, watching teenagers cluster in their social groups, laughing and shouting across the yard. Normal kids with normal problems.
"Here goes nothing," she muttered, and walked toward the entrance.
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Hope everyone enjoyed the Chapter please add to collections and send power stones and calming your thoughts on what I could do