Marvel: Pay to Win Gambling 21

Chapter 21: Rage

—Megan Gwynn—

Her eyes fluttered open, vision swimming in and out of focus. Everything was a blur—but even through the haze, she could tell she was chained, suspended midair like meat in a butcher's shop.

Cold metal bit into her wrists and ankles. But it wasn’t the restraints, or even the pulsing throb at the back of her skull, that snapped her back to her senses.

“What the hell is going on?!” the man barked, his voice sharp and grating.

As her sight adjusted, she could finally make out his face—creased, panicked, and contorted with fury. He shouted again, like a man barking orders to subordinates. But there were none. Just rows of lifeless machines, as intelligent as a toaster.

He slammed his fist down on a keyboard, keys scattering like brittle teeth, and turned to the screen. Every camera feed showed static or darkness—cut off by the chain of explosions she vaguely remembered hearing before everything went dark.

“Megan…”

The voice startled her, soft and trembling. She turned her head—slow, painful—and found the boy. The same black-skinned, devil-eyed kid who'd dragged her into this mess.

“I’m sorry…” he whispered.

She should’ve hated him. Every part of her told her to hate him.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, voice cracking. His eyes were wet. Red. Haunted.

Even now, despite everything, she couldn’t bring herself to feel it. The hatred. The blame. It sat somewhere in her chest, twisted up with confusion and pity.

“I’m so sorry…”

His sobs echoed, raw and guilty. And despite being shackled beside him, despite being every bit as doomed, she felt bad for him. She didn’t understand why—but she did.

“Shut it, bastard!” the older man snarled. He ripped the keyboard from the desk and hurled it at the boy. It missed—barely—but the crash was enough to make them both flinch.

He was unhinged now. The panic in the room wasn’t from them—it was all him. Something had gone wrong. Very wrong.

“I’ll fucking kill—” he snapped, storming toward them, rage eclipsing reason. He was so consumed, he didn’t even notice the faint rumble beneath the floor, or the flicker in the lights.

She closed her eyes, bracing for the strike, for his hand to crack across her face.

But it never came.

“What the—?” His voice cracked, sharp with something new: fear.

Her eyes snapped open.

The room’s lights were stuttering—flickering in and out like some twisted Morse code. It wasn’t faulty wiring. It wasn’t a glitch.

It was something else.

Something wrong.

She couldn’t breathe. The air turned thick, heavy. Her lungs struggled. Her skin prickled with cold sweat. Something was coming.

She turned—slow, achingly slow—and saw the boy beside her doubled over in agony. The same weight crushing her bones was suffocating him too.

But the man on the floor… he screamed. Loud, raw, primal. His bones cracked, popped, snapped. His foot crushed beneath him, flattened against the concrete like meat under a boot.

She would’ve screamed if she had the strength.

And then—it walked in.

A silhouette beneath the flickering lights. Barely visible, but unmistakably human. At first.

When she saw his face, she forgot how to breathe.

A man.

Beautiful—no, striking. The kind of face girls in her class giggled about, shared on secret Instagram accounts. But now? His features were coated in grime, caked in blood and dust. His body was a mess. His arm—barely attached. Torn. Shredded.

And yet—he showed no pain. No emotion at all.

His eyes locked with hers, just for a moment. Enough to freeze her blood. Enough to paralyze the boy beside her.

Then he looked away, back to the man writhing on the floor.

“It was you,” he said, voice low and hollow. “You made the Sentinels.”

Sentinels?

She glanced at the two robots stashed in the corner. That must’ve been what he meant.

“You…” the man on the floor rasped. “Who are you?!”

No answer.

The dust-covered man stepped forward. Each step made the ground feel heavier, the air thicker.

“Stay—stay away!”

“You made those damned machines,” the bloodied man repeated, tone flat, dead. “Because of you, Ororo is in hurt. Because of you, I almost lost my arm.”

She looked at that arm—swinging from his side by threads of sinew and skin. There was no ‘almost’ about it. That arm was gone.

“And because of you…” he said, gaze darkening, “hundreds of mutants would've died.”

She didn’t know what mutants were.

But she could guess.

Him. The boy beside her. Maybe even herself—beings with strange, unnatural powers.

Mutants.

“Y-You’re freaks!” the man on the floor shrieked, his face a mess of snot, blood, and tears, crushed beneath invisible pressure. “You shouldn’t exist! Y-You should a-all die!”

The man with the torn arm said nothing. His gaze shifted toward her and the boy.

And instantly, both froze.

He raised his good arm. For a second, she thought he was going to hurt them.

But he didn’t.

A click.

The metallic clamps around their limbs unlatched. Chains loosened. And before they could fully process it, they fell—hard—onto the cold, unforgiving floor.

There was no kindness in the gesture. No soft landing. No comfort.

But he’d saved them.

She groaned, cradling her wrist—bruised from the fall. The boy beside her hissed in pain, holding his knee.

“You’re safe,” the man said. His voice was flat. Detached.

But underneath it, she felt it—boiling beneath the surface.

Rage.

It wasn’t loud or violent. It was still. Deep. The kind of fury that had bled him dry of emotion. The kind that made you forget why you ever cared in the first place.

And yet… he did care. Enough to protect them.

“Go downstairs,” he said. “A man will be waiting. Don’t be afraid. He’ll help you.”

“No!” the broken man howled. “N-No one is g-going anywh—”

An unseen force crushed him again, silencing his words mid-spit.

“Go,” the injured man said, glancing at them one last time. “You won’t want to see what happens next.”

She hesitated, just a second. Then nodded.

He was terrifying. Bloody. Barely standing.

But he was their savior.

With trembling hands and a clenched jaw, she turned to the sobbing boy.

“L-Let’s go,” she whispered. Her voice was shaking, but she didn’t fall apart.

The boy looked at her hand—extended, steady. Confused. Maybe even ashamed.

But he took it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, as they moved.

But just as they reached the door—just as the man's gaze followed them—the broken man on the floor screamed one last, desperate breath:

“SENTINELS! ACTIVATE!”

Her stomach dropped.

The room trembled.

The two machines in the corner—dormant until now—shook violently. Their eyes snapped open, burning crimson.

“Kill. Mutants.”

She felt her blood run cold.

But the injured man didn’t flinch. His back rested against the wall, his expression unreadable.

“Go,” he repeated, still calm. Still cold.

“You won’t like what you’ll see.”

She nodded, terrified. This time, she didn’t look back.

Not at first.

But just before she vanished down the hallway, she couldn’t help herself.

She turned.

He was still there—leaning against the wall, eyes locked on the machines, face carved from stone.

The man on the floor… he was laughing.

But neither he—nor she—knew it would be the last sound he’d ever make.

…

…

—Jean Elaine Grey “The Phoenix”—

She ran through the rubble, her jet having crashed just outside the building. Nothing else mattered.

“Slow down!” Hank called out behind her, but she didn’t respond. With a wave of her hand, the debris in her path shattered, clearing a rough way up to the fourth floor.

There, in the dark, she found Bobby.

He was sitting quietly, slouched against the wall, holding Ororo in his arms. Her body was limp. Bloodied. Unmoving.

Jean stopped cold.

Her heart dropped. Hands trembling, she hurried over and dropped to her knees beside them.

No. The word repeated in her head like a drumbeat. No, no, no…

Colossus and Hank caught up, both gasping at the sight.

“Bobby!”

“Ororo!”

Their voices cut through the silence, but Bobby only looked up. His face was tired. Grief-stricken. And yet, somehow, he managed a weak smile.

“She’s alive,” he said. “Daniel… Daniel saved her. He healed her just enough.”

Jean’s breath caught. A tear rolled down her cheek. Ororo wasn’t gone.

“She won’t be waking up anytime soon,” Bobby continued, his voice tight. “She went through hell. I should’ve been stronger.”

“Bobby…” Hank knelt beside them, checking Ororo’s pulse, then Bobby’s. “We need to get both of you out of here. Now.”

“Where’s Daniel?” Colossus asked.

Jean’s head snapped toward Bobby.

“A floor up,” he said. “He went up to—”

She was already moving.

She didn’t wait for the rest.

She took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the calls behind her.

“Jean!” Hank shouted. “Be careful!”

She barely heard him. She had to find Daniel. That was all that mattered.

As she reached the next floor, a heavy silence met her. Smoke hung in the air. The walls were scorched, the floor splattered with blood.

Her chest tightened.

She scanned the room, reaching out with her powers.

Come on… she pleaded in her mind. Come on, Daniel…

“Daniel!” she called out. “Where are you?!”

A faint spark answered her.

She ran toward it, stumbling over broken concrete, slicing her palms, but never slowing.

And then, in the haze, she saw him.

He was leaning against a wall, half-covered in smoke and shadow. His arm was burnt—nearly melted off—and his entire body looked battered, dust and dried blood coating him from head to toe.

She knelt beside him, voice trembling. “Daniel?”

He didn’t flinch.

She wrapped her arms around him carefully, trying not to touch the ruined arm.

“Ororo and Bobby?” he asked quietly.

“They’re okay,” she whispered. “You saved them. Now let us help you.”

He gave the smallest nod. “Thank goodness.”

And then his eyes closed, and his head leaned against her shoulder.

Jean held him tighter. Her tears blurred the wreckage around them.

She stayed there, waiting for the others to arrive.

Only then did she really look at the room.

Before, she hadn’t noticed anything beyond him. Now, it was impossible to ignore.

The floor was slick with blood.

Fragments of flesh scattered like torn fabric. Limbs. Organs. Teeth.

Two broken Sentinels lay slumped against the far wall, their heads blown apart. But in their giant hands—still clutched tightly—were pieces of a man’s face. One held the right half. The other, the left.

And beneath them, a mess of brain matter and shattered bone.

Jean didn’t move.

She couldn’t.

This was something she wouldn’t be able to forget. Not in a day. Not in a lifetime.