Weapon X did indeed have a covert operating base deep in Madripoor. And while they hadn't deployed their full roster, the math was bleak: four operatives had gone out to the Winter House casino, and only two had dragged themselves back.
Wade Wilson slumped deep into the leather sofa of the Weapon X lounge. He wiggled his two freshly amputated arms, which were currently regenerating at the agonizingly slow pace of a toddler's growth spurt. "I don't even know how I'm going to get through tonight, baby," he whined, waving his tiny, baby-sized hands toward Yuriko Oyama—Lady Deathstrike—who sat impassively beside him. "I can't even reach myself. I'm so lonely. But if you could help a guy out..."
Yuriko offered a tight, terrifying smile. She raised her right hand, and with a sickening metallic snikt, five slender, razor-sharp adamantium blades extended from her fingertips. They gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights like high-end boning knives.
Wade scrambled backward, his boots slipping on the floor. "Oh! Never mind! Forget I said anything!" he yelped, tumbling hard over the armrest and crashing to the floor.
The hydraulic doors hissed open. A towering, heavily muscled bald man in a pristine white lab coat marched into the room.
"Alright, my dear weapons," Ajax said, his voice clipped and hollow. "We have to admit that today's operation was a catastrophic failure."
He pinched the bridge of his nose, scanning the remnants of his strike team. He had Wade and Daken Akihiro, who had barely survived the casino. Then he had Yuriko and Domino, who had remained at the base. Even if he threw all four of them at the target simultaneously, the tactical math didn't guarantee a win. Especially not now.
"Based on current measurement, James Howlett is going to run right back to his little mutant circus," Ajax explained, pulling up a holographic map. "With our current operational strength, we can't make a move."
Daken stood up, his jaw tight with rage. "I told you from the start. You should have bonded the Muramasa metal to my claws." He locked eyes with Ajax. "That metal is the only thing on this planet that can put that bastard in the ground. I told you so!"
"What we need is a living Weapon X, do you understand?" Ajax fired back, refusing to yield an inch to Wolverine's son. "Whether it's your specific genetic template or Deadpool's healing factor, it all derives from him. He is the prime asset! Ever since the dam incident, every viable Weapon X genetic sample we had was destroyed. I need him breathing! Do you understand?!"
Daken sneered, popping his bone claws. "If you just want his blood, I can kill him first and bleed him into a bucket for you."
Ajax stared at him, exhausted. The sheer myopia of Wolverine's rogues' gallery was staggering. It was the typical nemesis mentality—they all agreed to the mission, yet the moment they saw Logan, protocol evaporated into a selfish screaming match of 'He's mine!' You couldn't build an army with psychopaths who only wanted to turn on each other to settle personal vendettas.
"I'm going to prepare for the next phase of the operation," Ajax muttered, waving them off in disgust.
He turned on his heel, stepping into the private elevator at the back of the base. As the doors sealed shut, the car plummeted toward his underground laboratory.
Alone in the sterile light, the disguise melted away.
The muscular, bald facade of "Ajax" dissolved. The synthetic flesh shifted, shrinking and hardening into the aristocratic, chalk-white features of Nathaniel Essex. His high cheekbones and sharp chin made him look like a resurrected corpse. Dead center on his forehead sat a glowing, red diamond—the mark of Apocalypse.
The man the X-Men thought they had killed—Mister Sinister—stepped out of the elevator. He had long ago mastered the art of survival, utilizing remote-operated clone vessels and uploading his consciousness to escape death.
Infiltrating the U.S. military's Weapon X program under a false name had simply been a means to an end. He needed their infrastructure and their data to fuel his true objective: engineering the ultimate mutant weapon to combat Apocalypse when the tyrant inevitably awoke. To do that, he required Logan's pure, living genetics. But Weapon X was bogged down by idiots.
I cannot keep managing these imbeciles, Essex thought. He glided to his main terminal and punched in a highly encrypted frequency.
The massive monitor flickered. A skull-like face constructed entirely of green binary code—zeros and ones—materialized on the screen.
"Oh dear, oh dear," the Arnim Zola AI purred. "If it isn't Dr. Essex, the esteemed head of our Project Ten. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"You neglected to inform me that the X-Men were in Madripoor. My plan to acquire Weapon X failed," Essex said, his voice utterly devoid of panic. He leaned closer to the camera. "You had better send superior assets. You know exactly how critical this is to the Weapon Plus framework."
The digital face paused, processing the demand. Finally, the green code shifted into a smile.
"I will help you expand your DNA database, Dr. Essex. I believe in your talent. But please, do not forget who is funding your little endeavors. Prepare the containment bay for tomorrow morning at 10:00 AM. The asset you require will arrive."
"Hail HYDRA," Essex replied dryly, cutting the feed.
He curled his lip in distaste. Relying on new sponsors was tedious, but necessary. Essex turned his attention back to his terminal, pulling up his master gene pool. He wasn't a natural-born mutant. He had used a gene-editing device to splice various mutant abilities into his own sequence, customizing his loadout for specific threats. It had worked perfectly until the X-Men had finally overwhelmed him.
I cannot rely solely on combat modifications, Essex thought, watching the data streams cascade across the glass. If this clone body is destroyed, I need a new vessel ready. I need the genetic material of a telepath to address the consciousness-transfer degradation problem.
His pale fingers danced across the console, sorting through the vast archives of his gene bank.
Suddenly, he stopped. One eyebrow arched in genuine amusement.
A specific, highly classified sequence glowed on the screen: Jean Grey's genetic sample.
A cold, brilliant smile stretched across Essex's chalk-white face. A new sequencing run was initiated immediately. A very bold idea had just formed.