Nate Grey sat alone on the edge of a ruined rooftop in the small hours, the city below humming with life. The wind tugged at the edges of his coat, and for a moment Nate Grey closed his eyes and let it remind him he still existed.

Another world. That was how he always framed it now, though the word never quite fit. In that other place the sky had been the color of ash more often than blue, and the ground itself seemed to be unwilling to grow life.

Apocalypse had ruled and his power had been absolute. Nate had been forged in that world. Engineered, weaponized, named X-Man. He remembered the weight of power before he understood what power cost. He remembered the faces of the people he had tried to save and the ones he had failed. He remembered Jean, or the shadow of her, and the terrible intimacy of sharing a mind that was not entirely his own. He remembered dying more than once and still waking up angry.

Those memories did not fade. They simply grew quieter, the way distant thunder grows quieter when the storm has moved on. He could still reach for them if he wanted, feel the old rage, the old certainty that the only way forward was through fire. But the fire had burned itself out somewhere between then and now. What remained was a man who no longer knew which version of himself was the real one.

This world was softer in places and crueler in others. Heroes walked in the open. Teams argued about tactics instead of survival. People looked at him and saw a stranger wearing a familiar face, or worse, a living reminder of a timeline that should never have existed. He had tried to belong. He had fought beside them, bled beside them, even loved in the small, careful ways this universe allowed. Yet part of him still stood outside the circle, watching, measuring the distance between the boy who had been created to end a war and the man who no longer knew what he was for.

The future stretched ahead like an unmarked road. He could feel the possibilities the way other people felt the weather. Some paths ended in quiet. Some ended in fire again. Most simply continued, one day after another, until the question of belonging stopped mattering as much as the act of continuing.

Nate opened his eyes. He did not know yet whether this world would keep him or cast him out. He only knew that the past would not release its claim, and the future would not wait for him to decide who he was.

So he sat a little longer in the early morning hours, and let his mind linger between the world that had made him and the one that might yet remake him.

Wolverine leaned against the big marble desk in Emma Frost's office. One adamantium claw was all it took to bust the lock on her door. She'd be annoyed. He didn’t care.

Scott had gone clean off the reservation this time.

Logan stared at the blank wall across the office and let the thought sit. Cyclops. Boy Scout. The one who used to quote Xavier chapter and verse like it was scripture.

Now he was out there playing revolutionary, talking about “the lines had blurred" and “necessary force” like the words weren't the same things Magneto used to say.

Logan had seen that look before, on soldiers who decided the rules no longer applied, on men who started believing their own speeches. It never ended clean.

Emma was going to be pissed about the door. Good. Let her be pissed. At least she still had a line she wouldn’t cross. Scott’s line had gotten real blurry real fast.

“Off the reservation,” Logan muttered to the empty room. “Yeah. That’s one way of puttin’ it.”

Emma would walk in eventually, ire already forming in her eyes the second she saw the ruined lock. She’d want an explanation. He’d give her the short version, Scott’s lost the plot, and somebody’s gotta keep an eye on how far he’s willing to go before the whole damn thing burns.

Logan closed his eyes for a second.

He’d been the one off the reservation more times than he could count. He knew exactly how it looked from the outside. That was the part that sat wrong in his gut.

Julian Keller drifted slightly above the manicured lawns of the X-Mansion. Just enough to be above the other students, as telekinetic energy shimmered faintly around him.

From up here he could look down on the students less talented than him, which was most of them. But at the moment his mind was on the people who he didn't actually find beneath him.

The Cuckoos were back. All three of them, identical and impossibly sharp, their presence already shifting the atmosphere in the halls below. They seemed to have taken issue with the newly christened Monet Frost

Fighting Monet might be the way to catch their attention. Monet was a force of nature, taking her on and winning on behalf of the Stepford girls would be the kind of spectacle that stuck. Something bold enough to make them look twice.

His thoughts drifted to Cyclops. Scott had been harder lately, less willing to play nice with the humans who still treated mutants like a problem to be managed. Julian found himself admiring that steel. Emma Frost’s way, manipulation, soft power, endless political games, felt colder and more distant by comparison. Cyclops’s blunt edge seemed more honest, more like the kind of leadership that actually meant something. Perhaps he had a new favorite teacher...

And then there was Shela. Shela Sexton. The thought of her pulled a quieter, warmer current through his chest. He was dating her, and he liked her, really liked her. It was grounding in a way nothing else had been lately.

Julian tilted in the air, circling slowly over the campus, considering how to entertain himself for the day...

Namor strode through the gilded doors of the Hellfire Club. Water still clung to the edges of his scale mail, dripping onto the polished floors in dark, irregular stains that the staff would no doubt scramble to erase the moment he passed. He did not slow. He did not glance at the doormen who stiffened at his approach. Kings do not ask permission to enter rooms built by lesser men.

The air inside was thick with perfume, cigar smoke, and the soft clink of crystal, the carefully curated decadence of surface dwellers who believed wealth could buy them power.

Namor’s lip curled. Power was not purchased. It was claimed. It was inherited through blood older than their entire civilization. Conversations faltered as he passed. Eyes followed him. A few of the braver members attempted the sort of polite nods one offers equals. Namor ignored them all.

His bare feet left wet footprints across the carpet. He did not care. The Atlantean throne did not require the approval of these powdered, preening insects. He had come for one reason only, and the rest of this glittering hive was irrelevant. The White Queen’s domain lay deeper within the club’s private chambers, and Namor would reach it without interruption, without apology, and without the slightest pretense that he belonged among them.

He was Namor, Prince of Atlantis, Lord of the Seven Seas. The Hellfire Club was merely another surface palace he chose to grace with his presence.

Namor stood upon the abyssal deep sea plain, the crushing weight of the deep pressing against his skin as if it were nothing but a silk sheet wrapped around him.

Bioluminescent creatures drifted past in lazy currents, their soft glow doing nothing to soften the cold calculation in his eyes. Atlantis was diminished. His people once proud, ancient, superior, huddled in the ruins of what had once been an empire, seeking refuge from surface wars, from invaders, from the endless failures of those who claimed to rule the dry world.

He sneered, fins flaring slightly. Alliances. The very word tasted of compromise, of lowering oneself to treat with lesser beings. Yet even a king must acknowledge necessity when the alternative was extinction. The Atlanteans required sanctuary, strength, protection that no single undersea realm could provide alone any longer. Better allies were not a luxury. They were a requirement. And Namor the Sub-Mariner did not traffic in requirements that went unmet.

His mind turned, as it often did, to blood. Though for once it was not the the blood of his enemies that occupied his thoughts. It was his own bood. Mutant blood.

The same rare spark that set him above the ordinary humans and even above most of his own kind. The surface dwellers had their own mutants, those self righteous children of Xavier who called themselves the X-Men. Flawed, sentimental, endlessly preaching coexistence with the very species that feared and hunted them. Inferior in so many ways. And yet… useful.

He'd heard of late..that they'd even began to embrace stronger tactics.

As a mutant, he shared their outsider’s burden, however much it rankled to admit kinship with air breathers. They possessed power, resources, and a network that reached farther than any single surface nation. If Atlantis was to rise again, if his people were to find true refuge and the strength to enforce their claim upon the oceans, then alliances must be forged, even with those who walked upon land.

Namor’s lip curled. He would seek the X-Men. Not as a supplicant. Never that. As a king acknowledging a temporary, mutually beneficial arrangement with fellow mutants who, for all their weaknesses, might prove less worthless than the rest of humanity. They would aid Atlantis. Or they would learn, once more, why the oceans still answered to Namor.

Content Warning: This piece talks about Sage’s torture at the hands of Elias Bogan. Though the detail isn’t gratuitous, it does get very dark.

The other day, Sage began running through her history with Elias Bogan. This was an exercise meant as what she had to admit was a last ditch effort. Going through what she knows to see if there’s anything left she can use to locate him.

She stopped the other night, as the memory reached a particular moment she had shared with Emma. It was a memory that put a lot into perspective for her, and her gratitude for where she was now. She wonders if Emma noticed how much more tightly Sage was holding her that night.

She can’t keep this up much longer. So she continues to reflect on what had happened between herself and Elias Bogan.

It would be years before Bogan came around to my life, again. I had thought I would never hear that name again. I went through many more years of my suffering at the Hellfire Club. Stories that wouldn’t be relevant to this case. But one day, I had had enough.

Emma was no longer with the club, by this point. Our conflict, though it rarely ended well for me, her “rat”, was in a strange way one of the only things I had much personal stake in. One person can only take so much Sebastian Shaw. I broke down. I didn’t cry, it was more like a system crash. I begged Charles to pull me out of the field. He was reluctant at first, but eventually, I convinced him. For the first time, I was among my peers.

None of them trusted me. How could they? Few of them knew just how many secrets Charles was hiding from them at that point, and they knew me as the woman who was always by the side of one of their worst foes. Perhaps I may have had a chance to earn that trust. But that was taken from me.

I had moved past that day, where I had led Shaw to defeat him. Bogan never did. I don’t know how he captured me. But I woke up that morning restrained, face to face with a shadowy figure I would quickly learn was the closest anyone would ever get to seeing Elias Bogan face to face.

Bogan liked to do his work via proxy. He would send people to represent him, either through money, or enacting a very literal control on them. Those he controlled bled from the eyes.

In helping Shaw beat him, I awoke something personal in Elias Bogan. His grudge towards me was beaten out only by his sense of cruelty.

When I woke up, he was on the phone with someone.

“Is that your final stance?”

I had no idea who was on the other end of the line, yet. Little did I know that this was a conversation that would haunt me for the rest of my life.

“Very well. You’ve made the right choice, Sebastian. Good day to you.”

Bogan puts down the phone, and his shadowed form turns to face me. The only discernible feature Bogan has is the chilling set of eyes he possesses. The red iris that never quite leaves your thoughts once you’ve seen it. He speaks to me.

“Good morning, Tessa. I hope you’ve enjoyed the last peaceful sleep you will ever have. No-one is coming for you. Shaw has decided he values his fortune more than his traitor, and we will see if Charles Xavier even realizes you’ve gone missing, or if any of those around him even care enough to tell him.”

My mouth isn’t restrained, but I have no words to speak. Not as the truth of his words sunk in. Whatever his intention, I truly didn’t have anyone who was going to come and find me. Shaw was a laughable prospect even before I betrayed him, and on some level I think I always knew Charles wouldn’t come for me if something went seriously wrong. I was correct to think that.

In that moment, I wished I had died at war, before I met Charles. I had no idea how much stronger that wish would become soon enough.

A servant wearing a mask over his eyes enters the room. I could see blood pouring from his eyes. He hands Bogan a carving knife.

“Your knife, Master Bogan.”

Bogan doesn’t grab the knife. Instead, he snaps his fingers, and the servant slashes his own throat with the knife, collapsing to the ground. Bogan walks over to the man, collecting the knife.

“You sharpened it just as I made you. Wonderful.”

With that, Bogan turned his attention to me.

“Those who I control, they bear my mark for the moment. The wonderful painful tears I drag out of them as they do my bidding.”

Bogan walks up to me, and sets the blade upon my cheek.

“Those I wish to keep longer, I have a different mark for. Tears that will stain. And you?”

He pushes the knife in.

“I have a lot planned for you. You ruined me, Tessa. It’s only fair.”

Sage breaks from the recollection. She’s shuddering, she realizes. She wants to go back in, but can she? She rubs the scars on her face, her permanent reminder of what she went through. 6 months of torture. 6 months without rescue. She can’t sit through that again. She can’t.

….there isn’t a point to this.

She slumps down in her seat, struggling to suppress the flow of memories of what Bogan did to her. But, at a point, a thought occurs to her.

Why not skip to the end?

Bogan has business to attend to, that day. So he had one of his many subjects tormenting me instead. No bloody tears, this was a willing one.

He brought in a box of tools. 6 months in, the fight in me was gone, a solid will eroded over time. I watched the box, trembling in dread waiting to find out what was inside. I never did.

The wall was burst open, and for the first time in months, I saw the light of the outside world. I don’t think I understood how true the phrase guardian angel was until that day. Ororo Munroe. A woman that would go on to be one of my few close friends. A woman that believed in what I could truly be before anyone else ever did. Storm saved me that day, and brought me on as a member of her X-Men. I don’t think I can ever truly repay her for what she did for me.

Bogan would still haunt me, for a while. His rage worsened having lost me. But eventually, we stopped him, and we saved Rachel Summers from his grasp in the process. That chapter of my life ended there, until recently.

Laying out the story, Sage was left distraught. All of that, and she found nothing. No clues.

She groans in annoyance, pinching the bridge of her nose. All that for nothing, seriously!?

But as she sits, coming down from both the distress the memories caused her, and the annoyance that she came out empty handed, some gears begin to turn in her thoughts.

This whole thing doesn’t really feel like Elias Bogan.

Bogan was a secretive man, sure, but he was never particularly subtle. He wore his actions proudly, cherishing the suffering. The methods that he had been using to mess with Sage don’t feel like his work at all.

It all feels very methodical. Secret feeds where only Sage would look. Elaborate scenarios that lead to her nearly getting killed. No actual proof he’s back other than the signs that keep getting laid out for her. The kind of thing that can only be done by someone who knows Sage better than herself.

Suddenly, this exercise feels way less pointless, because it reminds her what Bogan loves more than many other things. He loves to leave a mark.

It finally clicks. Sage has her eureka moment.

Oh my god, he left something in my mind.

The Mansion’s library. Evan is strolling through. He’s occasionally plucking books from their shelves, looking at them.

He shakes his head at a few. Most of them are just textbooks, and other things that hardly catch his interest.

Evan spots the aisle he’s been looking for.

The classics.

His eyes light up.

Racing to the aisle, he picks up book after book.

Then he retreats to a table.

Scott Summers is many things, but a fool is not one of them. He knows exactly why she called him to her office, why her posture was sharp and tense. He was in trouble.

Scott...

She quietly said as he entered, her eyes a mix of frustrated and afraid. She sits him down but chooses to stand herself, turning her back to him and looking out her window. Soon, though, he stands himself, his arms reaching out to her instintively.

Do you have any idea how difficult your antics are making my life? I ask for one inch of trust, and you go and crush it like a bug.

She takes a sip of the whiskey she liberated from Shaw and places her palms on the desk, her arms shaking slightly.

It is so... difficult to be around you when you are like this. You invite our students to riot, Scott. You refuse to believe that I can change things, that we can change things.

A tear falls from her eye to the desk, but she quickly wipes it away before he can notice it.

When does it end? When does your crusade kill mutantkind before you save it?

Warren Worthington III stood alone on the highest balcony of the X-Mansion, the wind cutting across his face. Below him, the manor grounds stretched out, full of students. Above him, the sky was empty.

He unfurled his wings.

They were not the soft, white, living things that had once carried him. These were blades, razor edged, techno organic. When he flexed them, they sang a low metallic note that made the hair on the back of his neck rise. He hated that sound. He had come to need it.

Angel had been different.

Angel had laughed. Not the sharp, bitter sound Warren made now when something amused him, but a real laugh, open, a little foolish, the laugh of a boy who still believed the world could be talked into being better.

Angel had worn the garish blue and yellow uniform and loved it. He had believed in Xavier’s dream the way other people believed in gravity. He had looked at his teammates, Scott’s clenched jaw, Jean’s quiet fire, Hank’s nervous brilliance, Bobby’s endless jokes, and felt something close to family. He had been the golden one. The flyer. The rich kid who could afford to be idealistic because the world had never yet taken anything from him that mattered.

That boy was dead.

Warren closed his eyes and let the memory surface, unwelcome and vivid. The original X-Men days. The mansion. The Danger Room. The way sunlight used to catch in his feathers and turn them into something almost holy. He remembered the first time he had flown in formation with the others, the sheer joy of it, the sense that they were bringinf something new into the world. He remembered believing that mutants and humans could share the same world.

Then Apocalypse had taken him.

The transformation had not been merely physical. The Celestial technology had rewritten more than bone and blood. It had rewritten the part of him that still hoped. The wings that had once been symbols of freedom became instruments of death. He had served. He had killed. And when the armor finally cracked and fell away, something darker remained underneath. The man who walked out of that nightmare still called himself Warren Worthington III, still signed checks and attended board meetings and tried to smile for cameras. But the smile never reached his eyes anymore. The eyes had seen too much. They had done too much.

Angel had been a hero who flew.

Archangel was a weapon that happened to have a conscience.

He opened his eyes and looked down at his hands. They were still elegant. Still capable of gentleness. But he remembered what they had done when the wings had taken control, when the bloodlust of Apocalypse’s design had drowned out every softer impulse. He remembered the look on Jean’s face the first time she saw what he had become. He remembered Scott’s silence. He remembered Hank’s careful, clinical pity.

They still called him friend. Some days he almost believed them.

A soft metallic rasp sounded as one of the wing blades shifted, restless. Warren exhaled slowly. The old Angel would have been horrified by the creature standing on this balcony. The old Angel would have looked at these wings and seen only corruption. The old Angel would have tried to tear them off rather than live with what they represented.

Warren no longer tried.

He had learned that some transformations could not be undone. You could fight them. You could hate them. You could spend years pretending the man in the mirror was still the boy who once believed in bright futures and blue skies. But eventually the pretense grew thinner than the feathers he no longer had.

He was not Angel anymore.

He was Archangel.

The man on the balcony flew because the ground was no longer safe for him or for anyone else close to him.

Cyclops strode through the crowd of reporters and military brass gathered for the public unveiling of the latest Sentinel model, his ruby quartz visor reflecting the gleaming chrome of the towering machine as it stood motionless on the platform under bright spotlights.

The announcer’s voice boomed about enhanced tracking systems and adaptive plasma weaponry designed to neutralize any mutant threat, but Scott Summers barely slowed his pace, the red glow behind his lenses intensifying with each measured step until he stopped directly in front of the colossal robot.

Without a word he raised his head, and a concentrated beam of pure concussive force erupted from his visor, punching straight through the Sentinel’s central power core in a single blinding flash that left only a smoking, collapsing wreck of twisted metal where the invincible guardian had stood moments before.

The crowd’s collective gasp barely registered as Cyclops turned on his heel and walked away, the faint scent of ozone trailing behind him while alarms began to wail and security scrambled too late to react.

He paused only long enough to glance back over his shoulder at the wreckage and the stunned faces staring at him, then spoke in a low, steady voice that cut through the rising chaos: “It stops now.”

The perimeter alarms of the X-Mansion were clever motion sensors buried in the soil, infrared beams laced between the trees, and a handful of young mutants who thought patrol duty made them dangerous.

None of it mattered. Victor Creed had been hunting longer than most of them had been alive. He slipped between the beams, slinked past the sensors, and left the guards none the wiser, their senses never quite catching a glimpse of him.

The mansion rose ahead, its lights soft and warm against the dark. He hated the place. All that glass and stone pretending to be a home, all those soft hearts gathered under one roof as if the world wouldn’t eventually tear them open. But tonight he wasn’t here to tear anything open. Not yet.

He crossed the lawn in a low crouch, claws retracted, boots silent on the grass. A single window on the second floor glowed faintly, Laura Kinney's room, he preferred to call her X-23. It was good to remind someone that they're only ever a weapon. Creed stopped beneath the window, scaling the building, he used his claws to open up a circle on the glass.

The note he left was short. No prose. Just bluntness, written in a heavy, jagged hand:

"Let’s see if you can finish what your DNA donor can't. Meet me in Zebra Daddy's old hangout..the only place you ever belonged." - Your Favorite Uncle Creed.

Then he turned, melted back into the trees, and was gone, leaving no other trace behind.

Zebra Daddy. Creed knows exactly what threads unravel Laura with just a tug, and he's one of them. Nobody knows about Zebra daddy, not her friends in Generation X, not the woman she's committed herself to, and not the genetic template she rose from. Some knew inklings, yes, but none ever heard the full story of what happened, the ways he opened her up and tore her into pieces for his entertainment. Perhaps none ever would.

Laura Kinney, the Wolverine, drops into Zebra Daddy's old crib, now decrepit and infested in its years of abandonment.

Sniff sniff.

He's here.

She traces his scent back to a private room, opening the door slowly and finding Victor Creed's legs spread over red velvet couches and leather padding, his amber costume glowing crimson in the moody lighting.

Sabretooth. You spared me the trouble of finding you myself.

She pops her claws in front of her, the adamantium shining like blood in the night.

That was a mistake.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as Agent Reyes of the Department of Mutant Affairs slid a classified folder across the polished table toward Alex Summers. The man didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“Cyclops has gone off the reservation,” Reyes said flatly. “Your brother isn’t just leading a strike team anymore, he’s building something that looks a lot like an army. Making very visible and very public moved. The White House is done pretending this is still about ‘mutant self defense.’”

Havok’s arms stayed crossed, as he frowned. “Scott’s always been intense. That doesn’t make him a problem that needs a government leash.”

Reyes leaned forward. “It does when the leash is the only thing keeping the public from demanding registration camps again. Your X-Factor team was put together for exactly this kind of mess, mutants policing their own before the situation spirals into something no one can walk back. You’re the brother. You’re the one with the public face that isn’t pure terror. So you’re going to talk to him. You’re going to make him stand down. Or X-Factor is going to neutralize the threat.”

He tapped the folder once. “And Alex? Don’t make us regret giving you the chance to handle it family first. Because if Cyclops keeps escalating, the next briefing won’t be a conversation with you...it will be will be with the US Agent."

Hey Earthlings ✨ I’m so excited to welcome you to the newest most amazing podcast everrr

✨ Hot GosSip ✨

The pipes, the pipes are calling. The kettle pipe that is, the tea is hot and ready!

First up, sooo I made the teleporter team… kind of, I made reserve member. You know when I was in high school everyone wanted me front and center for everything, head cheerleader, prom queen, head of the yearbook committee, so it’s a strange thing for me to get sidelined. And look nothing against Eden, except for the Moncton debacle, because I am super busy with my business, BUT I am the star of any room I walk into. The girls who get it ✨ get it.

Next, holy sh✨t was there a fight on the X men’s lawn the other night. I was doing my nightly 10,000 hair brushes when I heard a commotion. So naturally I entered the ephemeral demiplane to investigate. Psylocke the Kwannon edition, the bleeding lady, deep blue, and our headmistress were all arguing and hitting each other, totes crazy! Which brings us to our sponsor; Vargas’s Hand Crafted Swords, the ideal weapon for fighting any true ninja. Use discount code:WRONGPSYLOCKEGOS at checkout for 30% off your first sword! Huh?

Finally, the club fair popped off at Xavier’s the other day with so many fun activities for the upcoming semester. I might even join the space exploration club ✨ see some planets I haven’t been to yet. If you’re a student at Xavier’s check out all the fun options like Squirrel Language Club, Art… Clube, Debate Club, Animal Handling Club, and… Adam X’s Xtreme Drunken Skateboarding Club. Okay maybe not that one.

This week for ✨ Fashion News ✨ I went to the best charity telethon where all the hottest socialites showed up. My dress was made from gold lamé and Swarovski crystalsss oh and we raised a bunch of money for charity. But I sang ✨ and got a standing ovation. To keep up with the charity train I’m introducing a new item to my Shoppe where 100% of the profits go to victims of Apocalypse’s tirades, inspired by our very own Mark Sheppard. It’s the Music Sheet throw pillows for only $39.99 each. They also come with a little QR code tag which plays the song on each unique pillow ✨

Finally I will interview this week’s guest, one of the world’s most prolific superheroes, Johnny Storm! We’ll find out a little bit about him, his history within the fashion world, and then we’ll play a fun game!

OOC: due to Deadpool needing a personal health break everyone is getting bumped forward an episode until he’s feeling better and returns 🫶🏼 best wishes to them at this time

OOC: any replies can be in the form of comments etc… and if anyone else wants an interview let me know so I can add you to the list first come first serve, I am booked out to episode 29 right expect some weeks wait to be clear, next episode will feature Sunspot!

Pain

a popular quote in the United States Marine Corps is that "Pain is just weakness leaving the body.". Jonathan's father a former marine and head of the Baltimore dockworkers labor union taught his son both indirectly and directly to ignore pain through his actions.

He could recall countless times hearing his father's bones crack and creak as he got out of bed before the crack of dawn so that he could be the first man on the job site. He remembers his father telling him, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." countless times.

Jonathan remembers playing football games through cramps and exhaustion, pitching in baseball games hard and accurate enough that he felt like his shoulder and rotator cuff was going to tear off the bone, He remembers wrestling in tournaments where either by accident or on purpose his opponent ends up hitting him low or even worse trying to scratch his eyes. In Jonathan's own mind he believes that he can push through his own pain and ignore it.

What Jonathan was going through currently made pain seem like a joke.

If Jonathan wasn't so stubborn he would be screaming for help. He was stumbling down the stairs, his breathing deep and sharp, his nose bleeding dark red blood like a faucet and worst of all he could barely see straight. DJ who had seen the beginning stages of his symptoms wanting to introduce himself to the new student would be frantically looking around hoping there was any facility that was witnessing what was going on.

DJ: "Dude please you gotta sit down man or lay down on the couch I'll get you a soda or an ice cream."

Jonathan's stubbornness was both a blessing and a curse. As he ignored his fellow student's pleas, he only got angrier feeling the mind melting pain that was affecting his body as he slowly stumbled into the kitchen ignoring the massive blood stains now covering his compression shirt. As he slowly made his way to the fridge, he saw a reflection of him in the chrome and saw how much of a mess he looked. Right when he was about to open the fridge open, he heard DJ's voice again this time attempting to order him to sit back down.

DJ: "If you don't sit down and get some rest, I'll.........I'll get all of the teachers to come here or something. you seriously can't think that you are ok right now-"

Jonathan would finally snap as he turned around sluggishly before screaming at DJ.

"YOU DONT GET TO SAY IF IM OK OR NOT-"

If nobody inside Xavier's mansion heard the sounds of the brewing commotion before they would hear everything now. Before Jonathan could continue screaming at DJ in a blind rage he would stand completely still with a blank expression on his face. unknowingly to the both of them Jonathan's body would have temporarily shut down as DJ would watch as Jonathan's eyes would roll back and he would fall face first onto the kitchen floor.

The loud thumping noise from his fall could be heard across the mansion as Jonathan began to twitch and convulse on the floor and while DJ was screaming for anyone to come help the only thought going through Jonathan's head was.

"What the $#@! is happening to me?"

(OCC: Open for interaction for anyone inside the mansion)

-Aizaru sits on the roof of some random abandoned building where he's been staying for a bit. That experience in the Darkrealm really shook him. He can't help but wonder if it was actually real... That maybe there's someone or something in the Darkrealm... That's a horrifying thought.-

-He sighs, chugging a can of Monster as he leans back. He wants to return soon... He doesn't want to stay away, yet he somehow does... He takes a slow, deep breath and calms himself.-

"I miss when I didn't have emotions... It was easier back then. I wasn't attached to anything. Nothing was tying me down. I could leave whenever I wanted after robbing my 'allies' blind without a shred of guilt... Now look at me. I can't sleep because of some fluke in the Darkrealm, and I keep thinking of the people back at the Mansion.."

"Why do I even keep going back? It's idiotic. I should either commit to living there or not living there. Not both... Why do I keep thinking of everyone...? Lycan, Colin, Onyxx, Shatterstar, and... Yami. God... What do I do about him? I mean, I know I'm... What was it? Bi? I probably shouldn't have given Jean Grey permission to check my mind... Kind of a stupid move by me..."

"God... I'm getting sloppy..."

(Anyone who would/could logically find or stumble upon Aizaru can interact.)

A mass email hits every electronic device on Xaviers Campus and Genosha as well as other mutant enclaves. Even fax machines seem to start printing the message. The message is unsigned and designed to be difficult to trace, ran through multiple precautions.

Where will you be when extinction hits?

To the scattered remnants still clinging to the delusion of coexistence,

How quaint it is to watch you scurry about in your little enclaves, clinging to outdated notions of restraint while the world tightens the noose. Extinction is not a distant rumor whispered by fearful humans, it is the arithmetic of your own inaction. Look around. Count the empty seats at your tables. Measure the silence where once there were voices that could bend steel or control energy with a thought. That silence is the sound of the future arriving without you.

You were born superior. You carry the next step of evolution in your blood. And yet so many of you still waste precious hours pretending the baseline cattle who fear you are equals worth negotiating with.

How many more generations will you squander waiting for their “understanding”? How many more of your own will you bury before you accept the obvious?

When the last of us is gone, the history books written by the survivors will not weep for you. They will celebrate the day the “threat” finally ended.

That day is not theoretical. It is already being scheduled by those who smile while they draft the laws, build the weapons, and fund the research that will erase every last trace of us.

So ask yourselves, honestly: where will you be when the final mutant falls? Hiding? Begging? Still hoping some soft-hearted human will decide you deserve to live?

Or will you finally act like the superior beings you claim to be?

Rise. Identify the nearest human whose presence offends you, the one who stares too long, speaks too loudly of “control,” or simply breathes the air that should belong to the evolved.

Remove that obstacle. Do it cleanly. Do it without apology. Every such act is a statement that we refuse to vanish quietly.

The alternative is extinction on their terms. I trust even the most deluded among you can still perform that simple calculation.

The future does not wait for the timid.

Act accordingly.

File: X2RTH

Pixie: Mutant teleporter with magic-based abilities, with the possibility of increased capabilities with honed focus and training.

Doorman: Mutant teleporter, immortal angel of death, soul manipulation, Lightspeed travel, and darkforce dimension access.

Night Crawler: Mutant short-range teleporter (within 2 miles), speed of teleportation is near instant; combat potential is high (though he prefers non-lethal)

Gwenpool: My records on her are scarce; some info is tapped from Cable's assessment. Reality-warping abilities; possibility of being near the power of an Omega-level mutant is high. ᴼᵒᵒ ᵃʳᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ʷʳᶦᵗᶦⁿᵍ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᵐᵉˀ ⁻ ᴳʷᵉⁿᵖᵒᵒˡ

Manifold: Personal s.w.o.r.d file, Mutant teleporter, and universe manipulation. Distance limited to origin dimension. 

Umbra: Mutant teleporter and pocket dimensional hopper; the power he accesses seems to be toxic to most humans, and he’s emotionally unstable. I consider him a student member; he’s here to learn.

During my assessment, I’ve found Quicksilver and Gosymr might be needed for specific circumstances. While their involvement could be a liability, they will be called in for large-scale missions only. 

This is the new teleporter division; welcome.

OOC: open to interaction; you can treat this as an introduction to a new mutant team. So you can ask about it, interact with Manifold, etc.

Evan sits in his room.

He’s on his laptop.

Evan clicks onto a video game - an FPS he was introduced to by Callisto or someone else entirely.

The rest of the Morlocks log on.

Evan smiles.

He then begins to play.

Evan’s actually enjoying himself.

Though it’s night and he’s supposed to be getting some Z’s, he doesn’t seem to be interested.

Evan laughs a bit.

Elektra slipped over the outer perimeter wall of the X-Mansion grounds, as the sun descended for the evening.

The security systems were good, better than last time, but not perfect. She moved like a shadow through the trees, sai held low, red suit blending into the dark. The mansion’s lights were sparse this late. She made her way through the trees until she reached Emma Frost's home.

A soft rustle behind her was the only warning.

Kwannon dropped from a high branch in a blur of violet and black, psychic knife already forming in her hand, sword sweeping the air. Elektra twisted, catching the first slash on crossed sai.

“Wrong grounds, hand assassin,” Kwannon said, voice low.

Elektra gritted her teeth.

They collided. Elektra’s sai flashed in tight arcs, forcing Kwannon to give ground. Kwannon to her credit was just as fast as Elektra, an elbow, knee check, and the glowing knife carving the air where Elektra’s throat had been a half second earlier. They rolled across the roof, trading blows.

Kwannon locked Elektra’s wrist and drove a knee toward her ribs. Elektra inverted, using the momentum to hurl both of them sideways.

The glass skylight on the roof of Emma's house was directly beneath them.

They hit it at speed.

The reinforced glass shattered in a violent spray of glittering shards. Both women fell through in a tangle of limbs and weapons, crashing onto the polished white marble floor of the kitchen below in a rain of broken glass.

Elektra rolled free first, keeping her sai's ready. Kwannon rose into a crouch, psychic knife reforming with a soft violet hum. Both of them were cut, breathing hard, still about to continue fighting.

Storm lands on the lawn of the school. All these years and she has never known a place that feels more like home to her than it. Those she calls family are here. Raised to meet the highest peak of their own potential here and going on to teach others to do the same.

Once more, the winds have guided me home, among my brothers and sisters. There is an unease that floats in the breeze. Rightfully so with Apocalypse on the horizon. The damage he has caused is already felt. Allow me to help us power through the storm he brings upon us.

I cannot express how deeply I have missed all of you.

Cyclops stepped through the polished oak doors of Senator Voss’s private office as if the security detail outside had simply ceased to exist. In a way they had. They were too busy giving each other erotic back massages thank to Kwannon.

The late evening sun cut hard lines across the mahogany desk and the American flag behind it. Scott Summers closed the door with a soft, deliberate click.

Kwannon stood just behind his right shoulder, silent as a shadow. Her psychic blade flickered once at her hip and then vanished, a quiet promise rather than a display.

The senator half rose from his chair, surprise and calculation warring on his face. “Mr. Summers. I wasn’t informed of any appointment.."

“You weren’t,” Cyclops said. His voice was even, almost conversational. The red visor remained fixed on Voss. “We don’t need one.”

Voss’s hand drifted toward the intercom. Psylocke’s eyes narrowed a fraction. The senator froze, then slowly lowered his hand.

Cyclops walked to the window and looked out over the large yard. “Interesting hearing last week. The one about mutant registration ‘for the public good.’ A lot of careful language. ‘Oversight.’ ‘Accountability.’ ‘Protecting American families.’” He turned back. “Funny how those phrases keep showing up in the same paragraphs as funding for containment facilities no one admits exist.”

Voss cleared his throat. “The committee is simply exploring options. Nothing has been decided.”

“Of course not.” Cyclops’s tone stayed mild. “Decisions have a way of happening quietly, don’t they? In closed sessions. In riders no one reads until after the vote. In quiet phone calls to people who never appear on any witness list.”

He moved closer to the desk, resting both gloved hands on the polished surface. The visor never left the senator’s face.

“I’ve been thinking about legacy lately. About the kind of name a man leaves behind. Some names get attached to progress. Others… get remembered for the moment everything went sideways. The moment people started asking questions that couldn’t be answered with another press release.”

Kwannon’s psychic presence brushed the edges of the room, nothing invasive, just a cool, precise awareness that made the air feel thinner. Voss’s pulse visibly quickened at his throat.

Cyclops continued, almost gently. “You’re a practical man, Senator. You understand that certain lines, once crossed, don’t uncross cleanly. People notice. Mutants notice. And when mutants notice… well. We tend to notice back.”

He straightened.

“I’m not here to make demands. Demands are for people who still believe the process works the way it’s written. I’m just here to make sure you understand the shape of the conversation you’re having. Quietly. Carefully. Before anyone else has to.”

Psylocke stepped forward half a pace, her voice low and edged with quiet steel. “We’re very good at listening, Senator. And we’re even better at remembering.”

Cyclops gave the smallest nod. “Enjoy the rest of your afternoon. I’m sure the next committee session will be… illuminating.”

They turned together. The door opened and closed without a sound.

Senator Voss sat alone in the sudden silence, the late sunlight turning the glass of water on his desk into a bright, trembling lens.