Sarah Across the Multiverse

General (POV)

"Is that it?" Erik asked, his gaze fixed on the roiling ocean below as the wind tugged at his hair. He stood at the open hatch beside Sarah, the tension between them charged like the stormy sea.

Sarah nodded, a hint of smug satisfaction tugging at her lips. "Yeah, you should be able to pick it up from here. Big, heavy, full of bad ideas? Definitely Shaw's ride."

Erik extended a hand toward the water, his fingers curling as if gripping an invisible thread. His brow furrowed in concentration, and moments later, his senses confirmed what Sarah's electromagnetic gut had suspected. The submarine was there—metal and menace, just waiting to be plucked from the depths.

A flicker of frustration crossed Erik's face. "It's... resisting," he admitted, his tone laced with irritation. "The ocean's pull is strong, and this much metal at that depth—it's more than I can manage alone."

Sarah's grin widened. "Good thing you've got me."

Erik raised an eyebrow, skepticism coloring his expression. "I didn't realize hydrokinesis came with your charming personality package."

Sarah stepped forward, her smirk softening into something more serious. "You'd be surprised what I can do when I go wild." She took a deep breath and raised her arms, her palms open toward the vast expanse of water.

The ocean seemed to shudder in response. A ripple spread across its surface, faint at first but growing rapidly. Waves swelled, their movements no longer dictated by nature but by Sarah's will.

The submarine, still hidden beneath the waves, was at her mercy. The water began to rise, lifting the vessel from its shadowy tomb. At first, it was slow, as if the sea were reluctant to let go, but then it surged upward with unmistakable purpose.

Erik watched in awe as the submarine broke through the surface, its gleaming hull dripping with seawater. Sarah's connection to the ocean was unlike anything he'd ever witnessed. It wasn't brute force; it was an effortless command, a conversation between her and the water.

The vessel hovered just below the surface, cradled by the undulating waves as Sarah's focus intensified. With deliberate precision, she guided it closer to the shore, the water acting as both protector and propellant.

Finally, with a smooth, almost reverent motion, Sarah let the ocean relinquish its hold entirely. The submarine settled into the shallows, its metallic sheen glinting under the daylight. The sea calmed once more, as if it had merely paused to assist her and now returned to its natural rhythm.

Lowering her arms, Sarah stepped back, a satisfied glint in her eye. "There. Gift-wrapped and ready for you, Erik."

Erik's expression was a mixture of begrudging respect and genuine surprise. "Impressive," he admitted, his voice carrying the weight of reluctant praise. "But don't expect me to call you Poseidon."

Sarah smirked, brushing past him. "No need. Just make sure you use all that pent-up metal mojo to crack this tin can open. I'm not doing all the heavy lifting here."

The now-resurfaced submarine loomed like a relic of some Bond villain's fever dream. Sarah barely spared it a glance. It was Magneto's show now, but that didn't mean she wasn't going to add a little pizzazz of her own. Fingers brushing over the cool surface of a coin in her palm, she let a smirk curl at the edges of her lips.

Her mind snapped to Riptide, the walking hurricane, and his little tornado stunt back on the sub. She imagined it: one railgun blast, submarine crippled, threat neutralized before his next wind show even started. Azazel's teleportation skills meant nobody would die in the process—and if someone did, well, Sarah wasn't losing sleep over it. These people had been ready to press the big red nuke-all-humans button not so long ago, and judging by their antics, they weren't exactly selling Girl Scout cookies now. No, mercy wasn't on the menu today.

Hovering in the storm-thick sky, Sarah felt the weight of the coin shift as she flicked it into her fingers. The metallic disc caught the light for a moment, a small, unassuming thing—until you remembered it could become a one-way ticket to destruction. Around her, the atmosphere tensed, heavy and electric.

And then the sky roared.

A jagged bolt of lightning streaked down, slamming into her like it had a vendetta. The world lit up in a blaze of white, and when the flash faded, Sarah was the storm. Eyes glowing like twin spotlights, her blonde hair floated wildly as if she were underwater. Electricity crackled and danced across her skin, flashes of neon blue punctuating the deep rumble of thunder. The coin in her hand was no longer just a piece of metal; it thrummed with energy, humming like a live wire.

The power was intoxicating. A wicked grin spread across her face as she took aim. She could already picture the satisfying precision of the strike, the burst of lightning carving through the sub like a hot knife through butter.

And then—because every dramatic moment needs a buzzkill—Charles' voice cut through the air like an overzealous referee.

"Sarah, hold on! There's another way!"

Her grin twitched. "Another way? Charles, they're a terrorist cell, not a bunch of lost kittens!" she shot back, sparks still crackling around her like impatient fireflies.

"No exceptions! We don't kill. There's always a better solution." His voice was firm, the same old song and dance.

Her eyes narrowed, the electric glow in them flickering with annoyance. Already seeing where this was going. "Batman of the Marvel Universe," Sarah muttered to herself. She let out a long, exaggerated sigh, the kind you save for clerks who insist you don't have the right coupon. The charge dissipated, and the coin slipped back into her pocket. "Fine. No murder. Happy?"

The universe, however, wasn't done testing her patience. Riptide appeared on deck, his cocky little smirk practically begging for an asterisk next to Charles' "no-kill" rule. His stance screamed ready for round two, and Sarah's instincts flared like a matchstick.

In a flash, the charge reignited, her irritation giving it a sharper edge. Before she could overthink it, a crackling lightning spear coalesced in her hand, jagged and deadly. One swift motion, and it was airborne.

The spear struck Riptide dead-on, sending him cartwheeling into the ocean with all the grace of a capsized rubber duck.

There was a long, drawn-out silence on the airwaves. Then, Charles sighed like a man whose day had gone exactly as expected but worse.

Erik, on the other hand, turned to Sarah with a barely-there smirk, the kind that spoke volumes. It said, Nice shot. Should've hit him twice.

Their brief moment of relief evaporated almost instantly. With a flicker of red and a distorted air ripple, Azazel materialized beside the drenched Riptide, teleporting him away with the same effortless grace he always managed to pull off. Riptide, looking more like a soggy rat than the poised mutant he usually was, glared at Sarah from beneath his wet, matted hair. The frustration was evident—his pride wounded more than his body.

Sarah, for her part, didn't flinch. Her lightning had been precise. A weaker strike wouldn't have taken him out of commission, and a stronger one would've crossed the line from incapacitation to full-on lethal. But Charles' voice was still ringing in her ears, reminding her of his relentless crusade for moral high ground. And even if she didn't give a damn about his ideals, she wasn't about to make an enemy of him over a single mutant—especially not when she might have to come back to this hellhole of a timeline in the future. Future Sarah would definitely prefer fewer awkward dinner table conversations with Charles.

Unfortunately, the reprieve didn't last long. With a seething grunt, Riptide pulled himself together—well, as much as you can when you've just been thrown into the ocean—and telekinetically whipped up another tornado, the wind already howling with rage. It wasn't long before it began tearing through the air again, right in the direction of the jet.

To the casual observer, Sarah's intervention might've seemed like a drop in the ocean. But, in reality, it made all the difference. The winds had shifted; the tornado Riptide was now summoning was weaker, more erratic. It couldn't touch the jet as it prepared for landing, the submarine still hovering in the air as an ominous backdrop.

The engine of the X-Jet sputtered in protest as it skimmed perilously close to the beach, barely avoiding catastrophe. With a deafening screech, the jet scraped along the sand, smoke billowing from its undercarriage, forced down by Riptide's chaotic winds.

"Boom!" The engine gave one final, pitiful cough before the jet slammed into the beach with all the grace of a drunken elephant.

Outside the wreck, Sarah held her ground, magnetism anchoring her like she was riding a mechanical bull in overdrive, sand, and debris whipping around her.

Erik, always one for efficiency, had already secured Charles, who, predictably, hadn't been strapped in for the impromptu rodeo. A sigh escaped Sarah's lips, but she said nothing. The man was insufferable with his no-kill philosophy, but at least he was consistent.

Meanwhile, the submarine had certainly not escaped unscathed. It lay on the beach, half-submerged in the sand like a beached whale, its hull battered from the aerial skirmish. Palm trees lay uprooted in its wake, crushed under the weight of the chaos that had unfolded in the wake of their messy, thunderous arrival. The aftermath was a picture of destruction—a reminder that even in victory, nothing was ever clean.

"Well," Sarah muttered, "that could've been a hell of a lot worse." She shot a glance at the submarine's wreckage, a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes. After all, it was hard to feel too bad about trashing the very people who were just a hair away from lighting off global Armageddon.

Sarah launched herself from the wreckage with the kind of fluid grace only cats possessed. Her boots sank into the wet sand with a satisfying squelch as she landed. She straightened, dusting off the once-pristine X-uniform, her lips curling into a faint smirk despite the crash.

"Well, that wasn't exactly the smoothest landing," she muttered to herself, eyes scanning the wreckage. The wind was already kicking up again as if the universe itself were in on the joke.

She barely had a chance to savor the salt-tinged air before a familiar, bone-rattling sound shattered the moment—the deafening churn of a forming cyclone. The unmistakable hum of Riptide's ego-driven storm was back, and this time, it wasn't just an inconvenience—it was personal.

The cyclone formed like some twisted dance partner, towering over the beach as sand and sea spray swirled violently in its grasp. The sheer force of it tore at everything nearby—loose debris, the surf, her hair, and the tension in the air felt like the sky was about to explode.

You Just proved my point, didn't you, Charles? She thought to herself.

"You just don't know when to quit," Sarah muttered, her voice a low growl as she watched the whirlpool of destruction approach. Her annoyance simmered, but beneath that, a quiet thrill flickered. This was her kind of chaos.

With a dismissive smirk, Sarah raised her hand toward the ocean. It immediately responded to its master's call—thick, heavy waves surged forward as if they knew exactly what to do. A massive wall of water began to rise, towering over the cyclone in both height and power. The roar of the wave was a deep, resonating growl, a mirror of the storm's fury, and the two forces—cyclone and wave—seemed destined to collide in a cataclysmic showdown.

Sarah's lips twisted into a grin as she swept her hand through the air. The wave surged, slamming directly into Riptide's cyclone. The impact was an explosion of spray and debris, a clash of nature's fury. The weight and momentum of the wave were too much, ripping apart the cyclone's carefully orchestrated rotation and throwing it into chaotic spirals.

The whirlwind faltered, its energy drained, and then—boom—it collapsed entirely. Riptide staggered, gasping and coughing, his soaked form collapsing onto the sand with a dramatic thud. For a second, he looked like a pathetic, wet rat—a far cry from the storm-bringer he'd been moments before.

"Still think you're the king of storms?" Sarah called over to him, her voice dripping with icy contempt. "Well, I go by Tempestas, what's Riptide in comparison?"

She clenched her fists, her gaze focused, and the water around Riptide began to ripple with unnatural force. With a sharp, deliberate gesture, she sent the water surging up, lifting him off the ground and encasing him in a translucent cocoon. It spun slowly, the weight of the water pressing in on him from every side, holding him captive.

Riptide struggled, but Sarah's control was unyielding. "I'd stay still if I were you. Drowning's a terrible way to go."

A crackle of blue lightning snapped across her fingertips, the energy building with every passing second. She grinned, her eyes flashing with a mix of amusement and something darker, something more dangerous. Then she unleashed a rapid-fire barrage of sharp bolts into the water cocoon.

The lightning arced through the liquid like a storm come alive, tendrils of light flickering across the beach, illuminating the scene like some twisted fireworks display. Each strike hit Riptide directly, making the water hiss and steam, and his body convulsed within the watery sphere.

"Zap zap," Sarah muttered under her breath, her voice filled with dark amusement as she sent one final, precise bolt straight into his chest. The impact knocked Riptide out cold, his body going slack and limp within the collapsing cocoon.

The water splashed back to the ground, leaving Riptide unconscious on the beach in a pathetic state. Sarah stepped back, tilting her head as she inspected her handiwork. Her eyes sparkled with an almost cruel satisfaction.

"Looks like you're grounded now," Sarah quipped, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face as the tide obediently receded behind her. Her voice carried just the right balance of smugness and amusement, like someone who had just nailed the perfect punchline to an elaborate setup.

She planted her hands on her hips, sparing a glance at Riptide's limp, soggy form sprawled on the sand. "Seems like I became your kryptonite. Don't they say the third time's the charm?" Her smirk deepened as she tilted her head in mock contemplation.

"Well, good thing I dialed back the power just in time," she continued, her tone dripping with faux concern. "You might've been looking at a permanent dirt nap… or, given your current predicament, let's call it a sand nap."

Satisfied with her verbal victory, Sarah turned on her heel, leaving the waves to wash up and frame Riptide's less-than-impressive defeat. If there was one thing she excelled at beyond wielding devastating elemental power, it was delivering a monologue that stung almost as much as the lightning.

"Excellent work, Sarah."

The words, dipped in genuine praise, floated out from Charles as he stepped out of the X-Jet's wreckage. Somehow, he managed to look composed, like crashing into hostile territory was just another Tuesday. Erik followed, his usual brooding intensity tempered by an approving nod. Coming from Magneto, it was practically a standing ovation.

Behind them, the rest of the team filtered out in various states of cautious swagger, their faces a mix of relief and renewed determination. Sarah's decisive takedown of Riptide had earned her a rare badge of approval from the crew. Not that she was fishing for compliments—though maybe a merit badge for not turning the guy into a fine mist would be nice.

A flicker of a smile crossed her face, quick enough to miss if you blinked. Compliments? Overrated. Resisting the urge to turn Riptide into a very confused puddle? That deserved a medal—or at least a drink later. Her eyes scanned the team, a chaotic patchwork of mutant powers stitched together by hope and desperation. Sure, they looked good on paper, but in reality? They were one bad move away from reenacting a disaster movie.

"Hmm," Sarah thought, her mind already dissecting the next move. Today's events were a remix of what she knew. Originally, Shaw had underestimated Erik's flair for metal origami, giving Charles the opening to outmaneuver him. But with the current team lineup—bigger, louder, messier—Shaw wouldn't make the same mistake. He'd pivot. He was smart like that. Too smart. So… where's your diamond Barbie, Shaw?

Before she could complete the thought, the smoke around them exploded with a crimson burst.

Azazel.

Because what's a fight without a devil knockoff teleporting in to ruin your day? The red-skinned menace stepped out of the haze with a predator's grin, equal parts unsettling and smug. He didn't just arrive; he made an entrance, like a villain auditioning for Broadway.

Sarah's gaze shifted past him to the figure who emerged next: tall, poised, and wrapped in a white ensemble that screamed glamorous yet deadly.

"Emma Frost."

The name slipped out as if she were reading off a well-rehearsed script. Of course, Sarah had expected her. Shaw's overconfidence was as predictable as his haircut. Her nanobots planted earlier had done their job, feeding her intel straight from the source. And if they also snagged a little extra—say, a blood sample from the diamond-clad diva—well, who was going to stop her? Certainly not the glowing red demon to her left.

"Well," Sarah muttered, a sardonic edge curling her lips. "It's about to get sparkly."

Erik's scowl deepened, a storm cloud gathering on his face. His body tensed, vibrating with tightly coiled anger. "Impossible. We ensured her imprisonment." The words came out clipped, each syllable honed to a razor's edge. His tone carried betrayal as if Shaw's antics were a personal affront to the laws of physics.

"Azazel rescued her," Charles said, his voice calm.

Of course, he did. Shaw wasn't the type to let a high-value asset like Emma Frost languish behind bars. The X-Men's weeks of training hadn't gone unnoticed. The moment Emma dropped off the radar, Shaw would've set his devil-on-call to fetch her. Azazel wasn't just a red-skinned teleportation enthusiast; he was Shaw's walking, grinning extraction plan.

But Emma Frost's reappearance wasn't just a wrinkle—it was a catastrophic tear through the X-Men's strategy. With her diamond-hard defenses and telepathic immunity, she was the ultimate counter to Charles. No mind games, no sneaky psychic maneuvers. She turned his greatest weapon into a blunt, useless stick.

Which left Sarah.

Her eyes darted between Erik, who looked ready to metal-bend Azazel into a pretzel, and Charles, who maintained his infuriating calm, the kind that screamed, This is fine when it absolutely wasn't. They had plans—neatly laid strategies meant to box Shaw in and end his reign of terror. Sarah knew better. Plans like that were paper in a world of matches.

She hated the universe's smug insistence on course correction. It was as if some cosmic referee had decided the Charles-Magneto fallout had to happen, no matter what. But not on her watch. She wasn't about to let Shaw's melodrama orchestrate an X-Men breakup album.

Erik's jaw tightened, his steely gaze darting between Azazel and Emma. His anger simmered, barely held in check, while Charles wore his usual mask of quiet calculation. It was infuriating. Maybe admirable, but mostly infuriating.

Meanwhile, Raven held position near the submarine's entrance, playing gatekeeper. The Professor stayed aboard the jet, ready to pounce on any opening in Shaw's defenses. But with Emma Frost now in play, even the most carefully laid plans suddenly felt like glass houses on a fault line.

"We're running out of time," Charles declared, his tone sharp enough to cut through the chaos. "I entered Azazel's mind briefly—horrifying, by the way—and saw Shaw absorbing energy from a nuclear reactor. He's planning to turn himself into a living atomic bomb!"

We're running out of time," Charles announced, his tone firm but carrying a hint of strain. "I managed to glimpse inside Azazel's mind, briefly. Shaw is siphoning energy from a nuclear reactor, building up for a devastating release."

The team exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of the situation sinking in like lead.

Charles continued, his voice steady despite the tension in the air. "Here's the plan: Erik, you'll locate Shaw. Alex, Sean, and Sarah focus on keeping the Hellfire Club's forces off us. We must dismantle Emma's mental interference; without it, I can stop Shaw before this escalates any further. And please," he added with a grim smile, "try not to blow anything up unnecessarily."

"Understood." Erik's response was clipped, his voice assuming a no-nonsense tone.

Alex, perhaps misunderstanding the concept of subtlety, immediately unleashed a burst of red energy aimed directly at Emma. With a fluid, almost bored motion, Emma sidestepped, her eyes gleaming with amusement as the energy blast shot past her and exploded against a nearby wall.

"Oh, darling. Was that supposed to hurt my feelings—or my hair?" Emma drawled, her voice dripping with disdain. 

"Neither," Alex muttered under his breath. "But give me a second, I'll think of something."

Charles winced, his face tight with concentration as he pushed against Emma's psychic interference. "Stay focused," he said through gritted teeth, barely managing to keep his mind from slipping.

Emma's taunting laugh echoed across the field. "Oh, Charles. You're barely holding it together, aren't you? This is almost too easy."

And then all hell broke loose.