The hardest part of this process should have been finding the courage to walk down the hall and open those doors. To step into that round, metal-covered room and face the memories that haunted her every moment. But somehow, in between her nerves and struggling to find her resolve, she hadn't realized what her true obstacle would be: gaining entrance.

If she existed in this world, it was not as part of the X-Men. The iris recognition scan had failed, her handprint hadn't been registered in the system, and none of her personal passcodes got her further than the initial screen prompt. Nothing worked on the surface, so she'd pried loose the main access panel and tried calling upon the psyches in her head for advice. Wires were untangled and reassigned to no available, the automated voice declaring "Access Denied" yet again. With each failure, her anxiety and frustration grew, both at war with her stubbornness to finally handle this.

Hours passed as she tried everything she could think of, two or three or four crawling by as she started to lose her grip on her emotions until finally all she could do was stalk her way back through the halls to the garage. She doesn't say anything to Knock Out as she enters, hardly even notices him as she frantically begins searching through the various tools and equipment stored there. She's determined and distracted, but there's something in the way she moves that more than hints at her general state of being as Not Okay.