Out of Control

The black, flocculent substance was as thick as ink, sprawling wantonly across the walls, ceiling, and sofa. The fresh office filled with waves of stench as the black ink invaded.

"Damn it!" Cyclops cursed. Their conversation had become too heated, and they had let down their guard. He hurriedly looked around.

At first, the black ink in his sight had only been a few wisps squeezing through the crack beneath the door. Now, it had gathered into a stream, with more and more pouring in.

They all felt as though they had suddenly lost their sense of direction. The floor that had been beneath their feet was abruptly above their heads, while countless sounds of gunfire and artillery came from all around them, as if they had been dropped into a vast battlefield.

The wails of soldiers whose legs had been blown off by shells, the tragic grandeur of commanders drawing their sabers and leading their men into a desperate charge, the roar of machine guns, the howl of planes—these unreal scenes came so suddenly.

"Logan! It's reading your memories. Seal off your mind!" Jean looked the most pained. Professor Charles's darkened psychic entity had been searching for a weakness in her mind. Jean had to defend herself while watching the battlefield and protecting her companions. Already inferior in psychic mastery, she was struggling immensely.

"Why can't Mutants rule the world? We are noble, we are pure! We are towering peaks humanity can never climb! The Skrulls put it so well—change is sacred!" The shrill voice did not travel through the air at all. It reached their ears through psychic power so immense it had become tangible.

The tone was so unfamiliar, so cold, yet they still recognized its owner. It was Professor Charles—or rather, the negative emotions he had