Regenerate | X-Men/Avengers - Pt. 1

Ch. 2

20 Years Later

The rock hits the chain-link fence with a rattle and smacks back into the stiff mud. After a minute I stop listening for an alarm and confirm the gutted complex to be completely abandoned. Still, I don't stick around. My memory of this place has faded along with other things I never thought I'd forget, and I'd like to keep it that way.

I naively assumed half a century had passed here as well, yet not even a full quarter has gone by. Seeing myself in the mirror of the lake, it's painfully apparent how little I've aged—I must've been nine at the time. My past acquaintances accepted that I was an anomaly, but every planet has its own way of thinking. Walking around the water, I calculate how cold it would be now, and how long someone would have to stand in it before hypothermia set in. Swim out to the middle, maybe not even that far, and one could just sink.

Grinding my heel into the frozen dirt, I pivot to face the heartbeat that has somehow snuck up behind me. It belongs to a man, taller than me, staring at me with a disturbed expression. With a steep hill behind him and the lake behind me, I hold my ground, nostrils flared and hands at my sides. This isn't how I wanted to be reintroduced to this planet.

"Do I know you?" he asks.

I don't reply, legs itching to get away. He tilts his head back, raises an eyebrow then seems to change his mind. The cigar that's been smoldering away in his left hand goes back between his lips as he walks on by, considerately giving me a wide berth. I keep an eye on him as he goes, sniffing to catch his scent. He does the same. We snap a look at each other.

"Well," he says gruffly, "I definitely know you."

I clench my jaw and try to scrutinize his features for anything familiar; the glare in his eyes, the scruff of his hair, the veins in his hands—hands. He catches me looking.

The sound of them slices through the air. I can't suppress how relieved I am that it's someone I know, even though I can't understand it and barely remember him.

He sniffs. "And yours?"

I ball up my hands.

He retracts his claws. "How old are you?"

"How old are you?" I counter. He doesn't seem to have aged much either; not for a man who smokes. He narrows his eyes and I narrow mine right back.

I step backward.

"Where did you come from?"

"I don't know," I say.

He furrows his brow. "How long were you there?"

I suck in my lower lip.

He leans his head back again—the matte gray snow clouds fill his eyes—and takes a drag on the cigar. "You eaten?"

My stomach begs me to say no, and my mind is as unreliable as anything. I shake my head, and he looks me over again like he's still not sure what he's getting into. 

He watches me curiously as I eat. "I never got your name."

We're in a diner by the highway that smells like cleaning products and ketchup. I eat more politely. "Haven't got one."

"No kidding? What have people been calling you then?"

"Is that important?"

He raises an eyebrow and takes another drink. The alcohol bites my senses like vinegar. "So, you don't have a name. I'm going to need something to call you."

"Come up with one then." I lick each finger for traces of grease. "I don't really care what you call me."

"I'm no good at coming up with names." He pauses. "What was the last one you went by?"