Hela have her reason of 'Lying'
.....
'Hela. Asgard.'
Jean Grey had read almost every book humanity had managed to scribble down since they learned how to hold a quill.
Myths, legends, obscure religious texts, conspiracy theories, and even the occasional cheesy alien romance—Jean consumed them all. It was no surprise, then, that she was intimately familiar with the name "Hela."
And by 'intimately familiar,' she meant creepily so—like that one weird phase essay when she tried to prove Norse gods were actually early mutants, just to give mutantkind better PR. "See? Look! Thor was just a really buff weather manipulator with daddy issues!" It didn't catch on.
Still, Hela. Goddess of Death. Daughter of Loki and Angrboda. Sister to Fenrir the oversized doggo and Jörmungandr, the world's least cuddly noodle.
Mythology had painted her as half-dead, half-alive, which Jean figured was just another poetic way of saying, "Looks like a corpse, talks like a goth."
Yet here she was in Jean's mind, looking very much alive, very much not half-rotting, and—most annoyingly—very much not explained by any book she'd ever read.
Also, apparently, the 'Queen of Asgard' now? Since when did the underworld branch out into franchising?
But those questions could wait, because the one gnawing at Jean's brain like a caffeinated squirrel was: 'Why is the goddess of death looking for me? Am I dying? Did I forget to pay a cosmic tax or something?'
Hela, for her part, remained blissfully unaware of the soap opera unfolding in Jean's overactive mind. If she had known, she might've been grateful Jean didn't have access to the Phoenix Force yet. No one liked dealing with telekinetic meltdowns over misunderstood metaphors.
...
Outside the chaos of Jean's skull, Charles Xavier stood beneath the morning sun with all the serenity of a man trying very hard not to punch the government in the throat. Again.
He'd been thinking about the future. And mutants. And the future of mutants. Which, right now, looked about as bright as a candle in a hurricane.
Once upon a time—before bureaucracy and bad decisions got involved—he and Magneto, along with Mystique and a few other idealists, had tried to make a difference.
A small group, a big dream. It lasted until the government poked its ugly nose in and stomped the dream flat like a toddler discovering ants.
Erik had left, of course. Declared war. Started his own thing. Mutant freedom, mutant pride, mutant terrorism (depending on your favorite news outlet). Charles didn't exactly blame him, but he also didn't want to spend his life ducking missiles.
Now, most humans—who'd never met a mutant outside of their nightly news nightmare reel—hated them. Charles liked to think it was all propaganda. Maybe 99% of it. Maybe.
He'd made up his mind after saving a kid named Scott from the FBI's idea of 'hospitality.' It was time. A school. A place to teach, protect, and maybe rehabilitate mutant image before someone decided to drop a nuke just to be safe.
The X-Men. That was the dream. A superhero team that could win hearts and minds, maybe even snag a Time magazine cover that didn't involve fire or handcuffs.
His noble brainstorming session came to a screeching halt the moment Jean's distress call hit his mind like a psychic slap to the face.
Jean Grey.
The most unique mutant he'd ever met—and the most terrifying, if he was being honest with himself during therapy.
Charles didn't hesitate. He'd learned long ago that hesitation was the luxury of people without telepathic senses tingling like they just walked into a minefield made of cosmic nonsense.
Even though he couldn't feel anyone directly near Jean, something was off. Her mental signature, usually steady like a quiet lake, had started rippling like someone had just tossed in a very large dose of panic.
In a world where he saw people teleporting, phasing through walls, controlling one of the most fundamental forces of the universe, and occasionally exploding because they sneezed wrong—Charles had learned not to trust appearances.
"Scott," he called, seeing the boy lounging under a tree like this was some peaceful campus romance film. "Come with me. Something may be happening to Jean."
Scott's entire posture snapped straight, and his face went from chill student to armed soldier with a personal stake in under a second.
Charles didn't say anything, though the internal commentary was definitely there: 'Ah, yes. Teenage crush mode activated. Alert the hormones.' He was going to have to keep an eye on that one. Jean needed support, not a lovesick laser cannon hovering at her elbow, definitely not because he had some intentions.
Still, this wasn't the time for awkward mentor jealousy or a birds-and-bees mutant edition talk. As they hurried through the halls of the mansion, Charles reached out telepathically.
"Hank. Something's wrong with Jean. I'm heading to the library with Scott. Join us immediately—just in case this turns into one of those days."
Fortunately, Hank was in his lab. Bobby and Warren were out, likely doing something loud and expensive. But right now, Charles didn't care about who was absent. He cared more about Jean—she was the future of all mutants.
By the time the message reached Hank, they were nearly at the library.
Scott, of course, had rushed ahead without so much as a plan or pause to think. Not exactly the future leader of the X-Men Charles had envisioned. No strategy. No caution. Just… teenage boy energy and a crush driving his legs faster than his brain.
'He's eager,' at least, Charles thought, mildly disappointed. 'Though I was hoping for brilliant tactician, not romantic golden retriever.'
They burst into the library.
And stopped.
There was no one there.
Well—no one visible.
Jean stood alone in the center of the room, her eyes wide, her lips moving as if she were in mid-conversation. Except she was talking to air. Or maybe a ghost. Or maybe Charles was about to have to deal with another possession, and it wasn't even noon.
Scott blinked, looking as if someone had just drop-kicked his expectations.
Charles frowned. He expanded his mind carefully, peeling back the layers of the room with practiced precision.
And there it was.
Faint. Cold. Dark. A psychic presence like frost on glass—right where Jean's gaze was locked. He couldn't see it with his eyes, but with his mind, he could more or less feel something.
Someone—or something—was standing there.
And of course, Charles thought with a sigh, it had to be Jean. Because she always had those things, as if the universe wanted her life to be something extraordinary.
...
Jean's breath slowed down the moment the doors crashed open behind her. Not from fear—at least that's what she told herself—but from that sickening sense of inevitability. She didn't need to turn, knowing it must be Charles.
Although she regretted sending the message, as it might endanger him, regret was for people with time. And right now, she'd spend every second she had protecting the man who had been more of a father to her than the one who let her go—although she knew he had his reasons.
Across the room, the woman who had made death look overdressed was like a cat watching mice pretend they had a chance.
"A man with no legs and a walking flashlight," Hela said with a grin sharp enough to cut through steel. "I'm trembling."
Jean felt the sarcasm claw under her skin, but Hela's expression didn't shift. She was too calm. Unbothered. Like someone watching a low-budget horror movie, waiting for the jump scare that never came.
Jean inhaled deeply, steadying her nerves. No use flinching before the blade fell. "You said your name is Hela. Are you really the goddess of the underworld from Norse mythology? And what do you want from me?"
The smile faltered. Hela's brow creased—just slightly—but Jean noticed. She couldn't tell what she'd said wrong, but apparently, she'd committed some sort of faux pas.
"You know," Hela began, her voice as dry as a bone in a desert, "what you just did? That's what we call 'improper address.'"
Jean blinked.
"I introduced myself as Hela, Queen of Asgard, and you demote me to some underworld desk job from a half-remembered mythology book. It's rude. Like calling a queen a janitor because they both hold keys."
The silence stretched. Then Hela sighed like a teacher tired of explaining basic algebra to toddlers. "Still, as the most benevolent ruler in the Nine Realms, I'll forgive you. Ignorance is expected when you're scared."
Jean clenched her fists. She didn't feel scared. She felt insulted.
"I'll be honest, little phoenix," Hela continued, her voice slipping into something softer, more sinister, "I didn't come to harm you. You're… particular. Special. A lovely little anomaly in a boring, broken world."
Jean's blood turned cold.
"You'll understand it later. Or not. Either way, I'm curious," Hela said, flashing a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I've grown bored lately, and your future? Well, let's just say, it might be the only entertaining thing left."
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The second chapter would be coming in two to three hours, don't forget to vote, we were the number 9 in the ranking yesterday but now, we repressed to 10.