Chapter 3: Blood and Ambition
"Huh?!"
"F**k you, you psycho!" Sabretooth's roar echoed through the desolate construction site, his eyes wild with primal terror.
The massive road roller rumbled closer, its steel drum glinting under the moonlight like a guillotine. He clawed at the gravel, desperate to roll away, but his limbs were limp, the anesthetic still coursing through his veins. His curses grew frantic, his voice cracking as the drum loomed, a merciless shadow of death.
Crunch, crunch, CRUNCH!
A blood-curdling scream tore through the night, chilling enough to haunt the dreams of anyone within miles. The sickening snap of bones and the wet squelch of flesh filled the air as Sabretooth was reduced to a mangled, bloody pulp. The construction site, bathed in darkness, felt like the set of a slasher flick—gravel stained red, the air thick with the coppery stench of blood.
"Boring process, huh?" Ron said, his voice calm, almost detached, as he maneuvered the road roller back and forth, flattening the remains like dough under a rolling pin. His handsome face was a mask of indifference, his eyes glinting with a cold, Homelander-esque amusement. "Guess you weren't as tough as you thought, Victor."
To anyone else, the scene would've been a nightmare—gore splattered across the dirt, a psychopath at the controls. But to Ron, it was just Tuesday.
For a full half-hour, he drove the roller over Sabretooth's regenerating body. Each time the mutant's flesh began to knit itself back together, reforming into something vaguely human, Ron crushed it again. Over a hundred cycles of healing and destruction pushed Sabretooth's powers to their limit. Finally, the mutant's heart gave out, his body nothing but a smear on the ground. Ron cut the engine, the silence deafening, and checked his Template System.
Ability Points: +5,500.
Total: 49,000.
Sabretooth wasn't supposed to die in 1962. He was meant to clash with Wolverine for decades, maybe even join Magneto's mutant supremacy schemes. His death was a ripple in the X-Men timeline, a shift that'd earn Ron more points down the line.
"Not bad," he muttered, dusting off his leather jacket. "Almost broke even."
He glanced at the grotesque remains, a sight that'd make anyone's stomach churn, and smirked. "Time to join the big leagues."
With Sabretooth's powers—regeneration, superhuman strength, speed, and claws—Ron had his mutant ticket. The X-Men world was his playground now, and he was ready to hunt bigger game.
…
New York's streets pulsed with 1960s grit—neon signs buzzing, jazz spilling from dive bars, the distant wail of sirens blending with the clink of whiskey glasses. Ron moved through the city like a shadow, his enhanced senses drinking in every detail: the scent of cigarette smoke, the flicker of a jukebox playing The Beatles' "Love Me Do," the laughter of couples stumbling out of clubs. His new claws twitched in his fingers, a constant reminder of the power coursing through him. Sabretooth's death was just the start. The real prize was Sebastian Shaw, and Ron was ready to play dirty to get it.
He stopped outside a dimly lit bar, its faded sign reading The Rusty Anchor. Inside, cigar smoke curled through the air, and the clatter of pool balls mixed with rough laughter. Ron's sharp eyes caught two men approaching a lone figure at the bar—a man with a wild, unkempt hairstyle and a cigar clamped between his teeth. Wolverine.
"Excuse me, my name is Charles Xavier," said a young, polished man with curly brown hair and a charming smile. "And this is Erik Lehnsherr."
"Get the f**k out!" Wolverine snarled, not even turning his head. He puffed his cigar, the smoke curling around his grizzled face, and waved them off like they were stray dogs.
Charles and Erik froze, exchanging an awkward glance before retreating outside.
Ron, leaning against the alley wall, smirked. 'Logan, you're gonna regret that one day,' he thought, savoring the irony. Wolverine might've gotten the upper hand on a young Magneto today, but once Stryker's adamantium got involved, Erik would have him on a leash.
Outside, Charles threw up his hands, his Oxford-educated accent laced with exasperation. "That fellow was beyond rude. Didn't even let us get a word in!"
Erik, his face shadowed with a familiar gloom, shrugged. "Something's off with him. Let's move on."
"Maybe it's that nose of his," Ron said, stepping out from the shadows with a playful, mocking grin. "Guy's got a sniffer like a bloodhound. Probably caught your cologne mixing together and thought you two were a couple of swingers looking for a good time." His voice dripped with Homelander's sarcastic charm, his eyes glinting with mischief.
Charles and Erik spun around, startled. Charles's face flushed. "Swingers? Absolutely not!" he protested, waving his hands. "I'll have you know I was quite the ladies' man at Oxford!"
Ron chuckled, crossing his arms. "Sure, Chuck. Not yet, anyway." His tone was teasing, but his gaze was sharp, sizing them up like a predator studying its next move.
Erik's eyes narrowed, his voice low and guarded. "Who are you?"
"Ron," he said, stepping closer, his leather jacket creaking. "Just a guy who knows a thing or two about mutants." His smirk was pure —cocky, dangerous, and impossible to ignore.
Charles tilted his head, his telepathic senses brushing against Ron's mind—only to hit a wall. "Huh. I can sense you're a mutant, but I can't read you," he said, his voice tinged with astonishment. "That's… unusual."
Ron's expression hardened, his system interface flashing a notification: 100 points deducted for mental shield activation. Charles's telepathic probe had triggered an automatic defense, a perk of the Template System's versatility. "Trying to peek into my head, Chuck?" he asked, his voice low and edged with warning. "Not cool."
Charles flushed, rubbing the back of his neck. "My apologies, Ron. It's a reflex. Won't happen again." The young Professor X was far from the serene mentor he'd become, his curiosity often outweighing his manners.
Erik shot Charles a cold look. "I told you, no one likes their mind being read." His tone carried the weight of his own painful memories, his eyes dark with suppressed anger.
"Alright, alright, I'm sorry!" Charles said, raising his hands in surrender. "Let's move on. Ron, we're putting together a team to save the world. Care to join?" He flashed a winning smile, the kind that had charmed countless coeds, his voice brimming with youthful idealism. Saving the world—what could be cooler?
Ron's lips curled into a faint, calculating grin. Save the world? Please. He wasn't here for heroics. He was here to disrupt the timeline, rack up points, and claim powers that'd make Homelander look like a boy scout. But Charles and Erik were his ticket to Sebastian Shaw, the Black King of the Hellfire Club, whose ability to absorb and redirect energy was the ultimate prize.
"Sure, Chuck," Ron said, his voice smooth and dangerous. "I'm in."
…
Days later, Ron sat at the bar of a secret CIA base, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the hum of a jukebox playing The Rolling Stones' "Not Fade Away." The base was a maze of concrete corridors and sterile rooms, a far cry from the neon-soaked streets of New York. He sipped a whiskey, its burn a faint echo of the fire in his veins. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the room, landing on a group of mutants gathered by a floor-to-ceiling window.
"I'm Raven, but I'm calling myself Mystique!" a young woman declared, her voice bright and eager. Her skin shimmered under the fluorescent lights, her eyes sparkling with naive excitement. She stood with Beast—Hank, a lanky genius with oversized glasses—and a handful of other mutants, all introducing themselves like kids at a summer camp. "What're your names and powers?"
Ron shook his head, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Bunch of cocky kids, thinking this is some superhero movie," he muttered into his glass. They were clueless about the stakes—Sebastian Shaw wasn't just a villain; he was a walking apocalypse, plotting to ignite World War III with a nuclear gambit. These mutants thought they were the good guys, but Ron? He was here for the chaos, the points, and the power.
Raven caught his eye, her gaze lingering a moment too long. Her smile faltered, replaced by a curious, almost intrigued look. Ron's leather jacket hugged his broad shoulders, his handsome face radiating a dangerous allure. He raised his glass slightly, his smirk was cocky, inviting, and just a little cruel, drawing her attention despite herself. Raven's cheeks flushed, her fingers brushing her hair as she turned back to the group, her heart beating a little faster.
Interesting, Ron thought, his eyes narrowing. Mystique was no stranger to attention, but there was something about her—raw, untamed, like a storm waiting to break. She'd be useful, maybe more than useful. His faint grin deepened, a flicker of hunger in his gaze.
Ron took another sip, his mind racing. He hadn't joined Charles and Erik to save the world. He was here to burn it down and rebuild it in his image. Sabretooth was just the first step. The real prize was Sebastian Shaw, a mutant who could absorb nuclear energy and turn it into raw power. In 1962, Shaw was plotting to trigger a global war, and Ron wanted his abilities—badly. Taking down a supervillain who'd given Magneto and Professor X a run for their money? That'd net him points and power.
His system interface glowed in his mind, the numbers a constant reminder of his hunger.
Ability Points: 48,900.
Sabretooth's death had been a start, but Shaw's powers would cost a fortune. Ron leaned back, his fingers drumming on the bar, his eyes blazing with a fiery, almost carnal desire. "Shaw's coming," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. "And I'm gonna take everything he's got."
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Mystique: [Image]