Esdeath walked through the quiet streets of Forest Hills, hands tucked into her jacket pockets, frost occasionally forming and dissipating with each exhale.
The morning air carried a bite that normal people felt but she barely noticed. Three days had passed since the mission with Magik, and the memory lingered like a strange aftertaste—not unpleasant, just... unfamiliar.
She kicked a pebble, watching it skitter across the sidewalk. Working with someone else had been unexpectedly satisfying. The way they'd anticipated each other's movements, covered weaknesses, maximized strengths. When her ice shards had intercepted that fireball headed for Magik, something had clicked into place.
"Teamwork," she muttered to the empty street. "Who would've thought?"
A dog barked from behind a fence as she passed. Esdeath glanced at it, and the animal immediately quieted, sensing something dangerous in her gaze.
The satisfaction of cooperation was undeniable, but something else gnawed at her. Following orders, even loosely interpreted ones, felt wrong. Xavier's gentle guidance, channeled through Magik, still represented someone else calling the shots. Someone else's agenda.
She stopped at a corner, watching cars pass. In her previous life, following had been easy—the path of least resistance. But now? With these powers growing inside her?
"Not this time," she whispered.
Midtown High buzzed with typical teenage energy as Esdeath leaned against the brick exterior, observing. Peter Parker hurried past with his camera, not noticing her. Flash Thompson strutted with his basketball under one arm. Gwen Stacy chatted animatedly with her science club friends.
Normal kids. Except Peter wouldn't be normal much longer.
Her gaze drifted to a girl sitting alone, reading a book about genetics. The other students gave her a wide berth without even realizing they were doing it. Subtle mutations—barely noticeable scales along her hairline, eyes that reflected light like a cat's.
The girl looked up suddenly, sensing Esdeath's attention. Their eyes locked. The girl's expression shifted from wariness to recognition—not of Esdeath personally, but of what she was. Another mutant. She gave an almost imperceptible nod before returning to her book.
Esdeath pushed off from the wall and walked away, thoughts crystallizing. Mutants needed protection, but Xavier's way wasn't the only path. His school created dependency, positioned mutants as students rather than equals. The Brotherhood offered freedom but through violence and supremacy.
There had to be another way. Independence without isolation. Strength without cruelty.
She stopped, a cold smile spreading across her face as the idea solidified.
"My own team," she said, frost spiraling from her fingertips. "My own rules."
In her room that night, Esdeath pulled out a notebook and began writing names. Potential recruits. People with power, skill, and most importantly—the right mindset.
One name stood out immediately: Emma Frost.
Esdeath tapped her pen against the paper. Emma Frost—the White Queen. Telepathic. Able to transform her body into diamond. Ruthless when necessary, but not cruel for cruelty's sake. Independent to her core.
Perfect.
There was just one problem. In this timeline, in 2003, where was Emma Frost?
The basement of an internet café in Hell's Kitchen smelled of old coffee and cigarettes. Esdeath slid fifty dollars across the counter to the owner, who nodded toward a back room without a word.
Inside, a skinny man with tattoos crawling up his neck hunched over three monitors. He didn't look up when she entered.
"You Frost?" he asked, fingers never pausing on the keyboard.
"Yes." The lie came easily.
"Two hundred for thirty minutes. No refunds if you get caught."
She placed the cash beside his energy drink. "I won't get caught."
His fingers flew across the keyboard, accessing networks and databases that definitely weren't legal. "What're you looking for?"
"Mutant trafficking. Recent sales, auctions, holding facilities. Particularly anything involving telepaths."
He gave her a sidelong glance. "Dangerous territory."
"I can handle dangerous."
For twenty minutes, they dug through black market forums, encrypted communications, and leaked data. Esdeath memorized names, locations, patterns. The mutant underground was vast and horrifying—young powers bought and sold like commodities.
"Wait," she said, pointing to a listing. "Go back."
The hacker scrolled up to a transaction record dated three weeks earlier. A telepathic mutant sold to a private collector. Female. Seventeen years old. Blonde.
"Can you get a name?"
More typing. A firewall breached. "Just an alias. 'White Diamond.'"
Esdeath's heart raced. Emma. It had to be.
"Who bought her?"
The hacker hesitated. "That's... not information I'd mess with."
Frost formed along Esdeath's fingertips, creeping toward the keyboard. "Who?"
He swallowed. "Vincent Lavecchia. But listen, you don't want to—"
She was already moving toward the door. "Thanks for your help."
"Hey!" he called after her. "Whatever you're planning, don't. Lavecchia's connected. He's got enforcers with powers."
Esdeath paused, looking back with a smile that made him shrink in his chair.
"So do I."
Vincent Lavecchia. The name echoed in her mind as she stalked through the shadows of the meatpacking district. A mid-level crime boss with connections to both the traditional mafia and the emerging powered underground. Smart enough to stay off the radar of major heroes, ruthless enough to build an empire on human suffering.
Three nights of surveillance had given her the layout of his operation. A warehouse near the docks served as his base—legitimate business up front, trafficking ring in the back. Guards patrolled in predictable patterns, some carrying conventional weapons, others with subtle mutations that marked them as powered enforcers.
From her perch on a neighboring building, Esdeath watched through binoculars as a black SUV pulled up. Two men escorted a young woman inside—red hair, moving with the unnatural compliance of someone drugged or mentally controlled.
Another sale. Another life reduced to property.
Her hands tightened on the binoculars until frost covered the metal. Through careful cross-referencing of security footage, auction records, and whispered rumors, she'd confirmed that Emma Frost—seventeen, blonde, and dangerously powerful—had indeed been purchased by Lavecchia's organization.
But not for resale. For his personal collection.
The thought made her blood boil, ice forming in the air around her.
Esdeath lowered the binoculars, mind racing through possibilities. Emma would be kept separate from the other captives. Drugged, most likely, to suppress her telepathy. Possibly fitted with a power dampener.
She pulled out her phone, reviewing the information she'd gathered. According to the auction record, Emma had been captured after running away from her wealthy Boston family. The Hellfire Club had shown interest, but Lavecchia outbid them—paying an astronomical sum for a telepath of her potential.
"Seventeen," Esdeath whispered. Just a year older than herself. Young enough to still be finding her way, old enough to have developed formidable powers.
The Emma Frost she remembered from comics and films had been confident, controlled, devastatingly powerful. This Emma was still becoming that person—if she survived Lavecchia's "collection."
Esdeath stood, decision made. The rescue would happen tonight. No more reconnaissance, no more waiting. Every day Emma spent in captivity was another day her potential was wasted, her spirit potentially broken.
She checked her gear—simple but effective. Black tactical clothing. A knife. Burner phone. Lock picks. Nothing that would slow her down or limit her powers.
The plan was straightforward: get in, find Emma, get out. Anyone who stood in her way would learn why challenging the ice was a fatal mistake.
As darkness fell completely over the city, Esdeath moved to the edge of the rooftop, watching the guards change shifts below. Her breath fogged in the cool night air as anticipation built within her—not just for the coming fight, but for what would follow.
Emma Frost would be the first. Others would come later. A team bound not by ideology or someone else's dream, but by mutual respect and the simple desire for independence.
Esdeath smiled, cold and determined, as she prepared to descend.
"Hold on, Emma," she whispered to the night. "I'm coming."