(Hela's POV)
Looking at the real Jean Grey standing in front of me? Honestly, it's refreshing. Unfortunately, she's not my preferred edition—you know, the spicy, unhinged, cosmic-level psychopath version: Dark Phoenix.
God, I love that one.
Yeah, yeah, she's technically a villainess, but I've always had a soft spot for characters who'd burn the world for someone they love. Eren, Wanda—that sort of beautifully deranged energy. What I can't stand are martyr types like Itachi.
Oh no, I must kill everyone who loves me for peace! Boo-hoo. Cry me a river, then drown in it. If you want peace, knit a sweater—don't slaughter your clan.
I guess that young, edgy, chaos-loving part of me is still alive and kicking—or at least twitching violently. Dark Phoenix? She's all passion and apocalypse.
This Jean? She flip-flops between Logan, Scott, and Charles like she's hosting The Bachelor: Mutant Edition. I mean, pick a guy—or don't—but don't pretend you're emotionally stable while juggling three men and one world-ending telepathic crisis.
Still, I'm not judging her for what she hasn't done. I'm just here for the entertainment. And believe me, being near the X-Men is never boring. It's either world-ending missions or Monday-morning Sentinel attacks. Who needs more spice when you have mutant drama?
Wanda? She's off-limits for now—too young, and currently Hydra's favorite lab rat under Baron Strucker. I'll free her once Viper takes full control.
As for Natasha… sigh. That one interests me, but sadly, she can't see me. No fun stalking someone who doesn't know you exist. So, I guess I'll hang around Jean until the Ancient One gets bored enough to invite me over for spiritual tea and passive-aggressive riddles.
You know the type. She says one thing, means twelve others, and somehow convinces you it was your fault for not being enlightened enough to decode her metaphysical crossword puzzle.
Anyway, back to Jean. She was still glaring at me like I'd stolen her diary or something. Honestly, it was getting annoying.
"Look, girl," I said with a dramatic sigh, "I get it, you've got 'trust issues,' but could you stop being annoying? And tell your friendly floating professor to stop trying to track me down. No legs or not, he's not qualified to see me. Maybe after a few more therapy sessions."
Her face crumpled like a poorly written redemption arc. Guess she didn't like being called annoying. Which is ironic, considering she's spent the last few minutes giving me the 'Are you a ghost or my inner PTSD?' stare.
And just as she opened her mouth to snap back, the dramatic tension was sliced clean by Charles' voice floating in.
"Jean, are you alright?"
Classic timing, Charles. It's like he has a sixth sense for barging in right when you're about to drop some verbal fire.
Charles—the good, bald old man—comes in many flavors across the multiverse.
In some worlds, he's everyone's favorite wise and gentle grandfather figure. In others, he's the kind of smooth-talking, chess-playing puppet master who'd sell his own soul for a checkmate then blame Magneto for it.
But one thing remains constant: that shiny dome could reflect sunlight strong enough to blind satellites. NASA's probably mistaken him for a small moon at least twice by now.
Now, as for me, I'm in my astral form, lounging invisibly like some sarcastic poltergeist. Normally, this state lets me read emotions like an open book, all fluttering pages and raw feelings. As I've remarked in the past few days, it's like walking through a library of inner turmoil.
But Charles? Oh no. He's a different breed. Thanks to those psychic powers of his, he's managed to block his emotions entirely. That's something only top-tier beings can pull off. I don't know if he did it on purpose or if it's just Charles being Charles—either way, I'm annoyed.
Jean, on the other hand, trusts him like a duckling trusts its mother. Sweet, loyal, and completely blind.
"I'm fine, Professor", she said, her voice a little too firm, like she was trying to convince herself. "There's a woman in front of me. Can't you see her?"
Tsk. Classic case of 'Believe the bald guy over the dead chick.' Definitely not the first time that's happened.
"I can't see anyone," Charles said, his voice calm and diplomatic. "Though I do sense… a presence. Who are you speaking with?"
Yeah, yeah, the psychic-telepath connection between the two is touching. Really. Heartwarming.
Meanwhile, Cyclops—aka Scott Summers, aka Mr. Flash-Eyes—was being completely ignored, and for a brief second, I almost felt bad for him.
Almost.
Then I remembered he breathes arrogance and eats insecurity for breakfast, probably while checking his reflection in every available surface. You know the type: 'I have a tortured past, therefore I get to be an ass.'
Jean didn't answer Charles immediately. Instead, she turned toward me, and I met her gaze. We locked eyes—what some people dramatically call a "four-eyes moment," though mine were probably glowing green and hers were filled with the confusion of someone trying not to scream.
"Professor," she finally said, still staring at me, there's a woman in front of me. "She says her name is Hela, Queen of Asgard."
Ah yes. That title. You could practically hear the capital letters in her voice. Queen. Of. Asgard. A part of me cringed.
Another part of me straightened her back and mentally adjusted her imaginary crown. It's not like I want to brag, but come on—I know what the myths say. That I'm Loki's daughter, born from his weird union with… something.
I don't know. A snake? A concept? A goat with daddy issues? Whatever it was, it wasn't true. The real story was simpler: I was Odin's firstborn. The original war machine. By the time Loki even existed, I'd already finished conquering realms and being locked in magical closets.
I could've explained it all, laid out the real story like some historical PowerPoint, but explaining all that to Jean would be exhausting. And really, why waste energy convincing someone who would probably thinks Thor's hammer is powered by worthiness and not political favoritism?
That would take way too long. And honestly? I kind of enjoyed the confusion. Let them squirm a little. It builds character.
"Hela? Queen of Asgard?" Charles muttered, his tone more 'What the hell did I wake up to?' than skeptical. He looked like a man silently praying this was all a psychic-induced dream and not another Tuesday-level crisis.
Jean stayed serious, though—bless her brave little telepathic heart. "Yeah. She's right here. Floating. She can hear and see us. Just… don't say anything disrespectful, just in case."
Pragmatic. I like that in a girl. You could see it in Charles too—the old man was already calculating the odds and probably deciding that treating the supposed Queen of Asgard with a bit of courtesy might be worth the potential of not being turned into Hel.
And then, as always, Scott had to open his mouth and ruin the moment.
"Hmph," he snorted, arms crossed like a high school quarterback who just found out the new kid is hotter than him. "What Hela? What Norse mythology? It's clearly some mutant messing with us."
Ah, Scott. Walking cautionary tale. If Darwinism had a greatest hits album, you'd be track number one, titled How to Die First in a Horror Movie.
Honestly, if I weren't in astral form, I'd love to demonstrate why mocking death in front of Death is universally considered a bad life choice.
I mean, come on—rule number #1 of survival, no matter the religion, myth, or haunted cabin in the woods: Don't sass the Grim Reaper.
But nooo, Scott just had to go full atheist in front of a literal divine entity. Guy has the emotional intelligence of a brick and the survival instinct of a lemming at a cliffside party.
I floated there, smiling serenely. Not because I forgave him. Oh no. Just mentally noting where to aim first when things go sideways.
After all, death has a sense of humor too.
.....(Chapter End)
Sleepy