Imagine if anyone really ever invented a time machine. A singular, unrepeatable, chronoreverseometer. (Don't blame me. I wept when I argued that out with Hank. I wept and I laughed. A man who looks like he belongs on Sesame Street should have more care for his dignity.) One with a finite number of journeys, of chances to correct mistakes.
(A special element, Hank says, from a unique meteor. Green and shiny, and limited in quantity. You say kryptonite, sweetheart, I say craptonite, shut up, I don't care, what does it do? He goes on and on about it, as geeks and men are wont to do. Just because I used to be a scientist too, my love, my boredom threshold is not infinite. I don't say.)
Imagine the wars that could ensue. How you'd beat your neighbour to a bloody pulp for the chance of a go. We all have things we'd like to fix: the bad choice we made. Bad, very bad, worse than bad.
Well. You see, that's the advantage of being the assistant director of a secret government agency. If you don't have too many ethical qualms, there are all kinds of perks to be had.
If you had a long, distinguished, blood-stained career of covert operations, and toppling, ah, unfriendly regimes, and internecine power struggles, what would you want to go back and fix?
My secret? I'm... kind of a bigot. You would never think it to look at me, to look at my record, my college transcript, my associations, professional affiliations, personal friendships. I'll say it low: fucking mutants.
Of course, some of my best friends... Yes. True. And isn't that half the trouble.
I didn't use to be this way. I used to be so nice. Tough, but nice. Fair-minded. I was a lovely girl, back in the day, a girl I could mother and advise, now. Mutants made me this way.
One mutant, to be precise.
Oh, Magneto, oh, my dear Erik. Watch out. I'm coming for you.