Chapter 200 - 12-14

Chapter 12: Blackbird

Xavier's Mansion – Underground Hangar

07:59 a.m.

The metallic echo of the gates rolled through the mansion's underground heart as a platform slowly descended into the depths. The vibration was faint but constant, like the pulse of a mechanical heart buried beneath stone and steel.

One by one, white lights flickered to life along the tunnel walls, tracing a path toward a chamber none of the six had ever seen so clearly until now.

They descended almost unconsciously in formation—awkwardly trying to look serious, yet crackling with energy. Six figures, each different, each carrying a new kind of weight on their shoulders.

Scott Summers led the group, adjusting his red visor with a sharp, practiced motion. His jaw was set, boots striking the floor with military precision.

Beside him, Warren Worthington moved with effortless grace. His wings extended and folded in smooth, measured arcs, testing the width of the hangar before they'd even reached it. The air itself seemed to shift around him, stirred by every feathered movement.

Bobby Drake followed with a nervous grin, hands rimmed with frost. He toyed with little cubes of ice, bouncing them between his fingers like a kid hiding fear behind parlor tricks.

Hank McCoy brought up the rear, clutching a tablet filled with late-night equations and half-finished doodles. He muttered formulas under his breath—words only he could understand. His glasses slid down his nose, and he pushed them back up with the back of his hand, more out of habit than necessity.

Jean Grey walked with her chin held high, eyes faintly aglow with psionic light. Her uniform made her look older, though her steady breathing betrayed the tremor of someone about to leap into the unknown.

And beside her, Peter Parker—six arms unfurled, the spider limbs tense as springs. His human arms were crossed over his chest in a gesture of false confidence. His shadow stretched long across the metal floor, multiplied, as though he carried half a dozen invisible soldiers within him.

Peter leaned toward Bobby with a crooked smile.

"Now that, my frosty friend…" —he gestured dramatically with a spider limb— "is what you call a superhero entrance."

Bobby raised an eyebrow, forming a snowflake that melted before it hit the ground.

"Superhero entrance? Looks more like a circus freak parade."

Peter gasped in mock outrage.

"Circus or not, I'll bet you a month's worth of desserts we look amazing from any angle."

"A whole month?" Bobby chuckled, giving him a nudge. "Deal, Spider-Boy."

Their laughter, quiet but genuine, broke through the tension hanging in the air.

—

The platform stopped with a hydraulic hiss. Before them, the underground hangar opened like a cathedral of metal and light.

The arched ceiling gleamed with polished panels. Thick cables spiraled down to glowing power stations. And in the center—dominating the space like a sleeping god—rested the jet.

The Blackbird.

Even unfinished, it was magnificent. Angular wings spread like dark blades. The fuselage gleamed under the lights. The twin engines pulsed with a faint blue glow, like coals on the edge of ignition. Scaffolds and tools still surrounded it, panels open to reveal exposed circuitry, yet the craft radiated power. It was a predator at rest, waiting to be unleashed.

For a long moment, none of them moved. Awe and fear battled in their eyes.

"Wow…" Warren murmured, wings slowly folding in. "I'll admit—I'm impressed."

Hank stepped closer, eyes shining behind his glasses, every inch the scientist beholding a masterpiece.

"Hybrid vectored engines… experimental alloy plating… and—hold on—is that a luminescent cloaking array?"

"Yes, it is," said a deep voice from behind them.

They turned.

Their teachers stood at the threshold.

Otto Octavius, lab coat smudged with grease, four mechanical arms spread behind him like a restless halo, watched them with stern focus. His tentacles clicked and shifted, sealing panels as if still unwilling to trust the craft's readiness. The glint in his goggles carried something between pride and apprehension.

Beside him, Moira MacTaggert held a thick folder of reports. Her gaze moved from the students to the ship with visible doubt—were these the ones about to climb aboard? To face what waited beyond these walls?

And at the center, seated in quiet command, was Charles Xavier. Calm. Steady. His hands folded in his lap. His eyes moved over each of them, heavy with pride and sorrow intertwined.

"Welcome, X-Men," Xavier said, his voice echoing through the hangar.

The title, spoken aloud in that solemn space, felt like an oath.

⸻

Peter was the first to break the silence. He stepped forward, eyebrows raised as he stared at the jet.

"Okay… is anyone else getting the feeling we should've brought a flight manual?"

Bobby raised a hand.

"I asked for one. The bookstore was fresh out of 'Flying Experimental Jets for Dummies.'"

Scott turned sharply, the red beam of his visor catching the light as his jaw tightened.

"This isn't a joke."

"Relax, Summers," Peter shot back, raising two of his extra arms in surrender. "Just breaking the ice."

"I can break the ice," Bobby muttered, holding up a frost-covered hand. "Literally."

Warren groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"We're about to face Magneto, and you two sound like a late-night comedy duo."

"Better laughter than panic," Jean murmured, though a faint smile curved her lips.

Xavier raised his hand, and the room fell silent.

"What lies ahead is not a simulation. It is the real world. You will have to trust one another more than ever before. And while this jet symbolizes how far you've come… remember that your true strength lies not in the machine—but within you."

Otto's voice joined in, calm but clipped, as one of his mechanical arms tapped the ship's hull.

"This craft is still in prototype phase. It will fly. It will cloak. It will fight back if necessary. But it won't save you from everything. That part's on you."

Moira crossed her arms, her expression a mix of sternness and care.

"If you step onto that plane, the world won't see you as children anymore. You're ready—but it's okay to be afraid."

The silence that followed was heavy.

Jean stepped forward, eyes faintly glowing.

"We're ready."

Scott nodded, solid and certain.

"The team's prepared."

Bobby swallowed hard, raising his icy fist.

"As crazy as this sounds… I'm in."

Warren unfurled his wings with a sharp beat.

"The sky's waiting."

Hank snapped his tablet shut and slipped it into his belt.

"No more calculations to run."

And Peter, with that trademark crooked grin, looked from his friends to the Blackbird.

"Well then—time to take our shiny new supersonic taxi for a spin."

—

They moved as one, their footsteps echoing across the metal floor as they climbed the ramp. Each carried fear, pride, and uncertainty—but together, they looked larger than life.

Behind them, Otto clenched his fists, his metal arms twitching with restrained worry. Moira turned away, unable to watch them go. Xavier, however, smiled faintly—not because he felt no fear, but because he knew this moment was inevitable.

The Blackbird's doors sealed with a hydraulic hiss.

For the first time, the X-Men were flying to war.

—

Blackbird

08:07 a.m.

The hatch sealed behind them with a soft hiss. The metallic sound lingered, and then—silence. The air smelled of new steel, machine oil, and the faint electric scent of something freshly awakened.

The interior was far larger than expected. Blue lights ran in sleek strips along the ceiling, illuminating the cabin's divided sections: the command deck at the front, lined with gleaming panels and reinforced seats; the passenger bay with six cushioned harness chairs; and storage compartments along the sides, many still covered by protective tarps.

Bobby let out a long, impressed whistle.

"Okay… this isn't a jet. This is, like, the mutant edition of the Millennium Falcon."

Warren arched an eyebrow, adjusting his uniform.

"Except I don't see any charming smugglers or hairy co-pilots around here."

Peter raised one of his spider limbs like a wave.

"Give me a few years to grow a beard and we'll talk."

Jean smiled softly, her gaze fixed on the glowing cockpit.

"It's beautiful…"

And it was. Every surface gleamed with cutting-edge tech. There were no clunky buttons—only curved touchscreens, floating holograms, and hybrid controls that blended physical levers with light projections.

Suddenly, a soft hum filled the air. A blue hologram burst to life at the center console—a rotating 3D model of the Blackbird. Dozens of menus and energy readouts floated around it. A smooth, synthetic voice echoed from the speakers:

"Blackbird system online. Unregistered users detected. Initiating biometric scan."

The six tensed immediately. Jean stepped back, uncertain.

"Is it… judging us?"

Hank leaned closer, fascinated.

"No, no—just a security protocol. It's scanning vitals, temperature, cardiac rhythm… ah! Brilliant—it's recognizing mutant DNA."

Peter tilted his head, crossing his arms.

"Translation: we're getting booked like Goverment suspects."

The voice returned.

"Identities confirmed. Access granted to: Cyclops, Marvel Girl, Beast, Iceman, Angel, Spider-Man."

Silence. Hearing their codenames spoken aloud—officially logged—felt bigger than any of them had imagined.

Scott didn't waste a second. He moved toward the pilot's chair, boots ringing on the floor.

"Alright. We've got work to do."

Hank raised a brow.

"You know how to pilot a supersonic experimental jet, I presume?"

Scott hesitated only for a heartbeat before sliding into the seat. His hands hovered over the glowing controls.

"I know the basics… from the simulator. Direction, acceleration, stability. I'll learn the rest fast."

Peter chuckled under his breath.

"Translation: he's winging it—but it sounds confident."

Scott turned his head slightly.

"Want to take the helm, Parker?"

Peter lifted two of his extra arms in surrender.

"Nope. I'm perfectly happy in my corner full of shiny buttons, thanks."

Hank placed a steadying hand on the copilot's chair.

"I suggest I join you up front. Two minds—well, one and a half geniuses—think better than one."

Scott nodded.

"Agreed. You're with me."

They took their positions. The holographic interface expanded before them—flight diagrams, engine power, cloaking levels.

Behind them, Jean leaned toward Peter, who was studying a more complex secondary console divided into three sections: defense systems, shields, and communications. A floating label blinked above it: "Shared Operation: Minimum Three Operators Required."

Jean frowned.

"That looks like it needs a whole team."

Peter grinned, stretching his six arms like a proud showman.

"Lucky for us, I come with a built-in three-person crew."

He dropped into the seat, each arm moving independently. Human hands worked the primary levers while the spider limbs danced across holographic sliders. It looked chaotic—but within seconds, everything moved in smooth rhythm.

Jean watched him, half in awe.

"Sometimes I forget you're actually a genius."

He glanced at her sideways, smirking.

"You say that like being good-looking distracts from it."

Jean rolled her eyes but sat beside him.

"Alright, genius. I'll handle comms and support systems. If things get out of hand, I'll back you up."

Peter tilted his head.

"See? That's why you're always my favorite teammate."

Behind them, Bobby sighed.

"So that leaves us with…"

"Back seats," Warren finished, resigned.

They strapped in. Warren carefully folded his wings to fit the seat frame. Bobby sculpted a little ice figure in his palm to steady his nerves.

"I promise not to throw up… much."

Scott's voice cut through the banter.

"Seatbelts secure. This isn't a bike ride."

The hologram blinked.

"Systems ready. Engines on standby. Initiate takeoff sequence?"

Scott swallowed. He wasn't a man of machines—but something deep inside told him this was his call.

He glanced at Hank, who was already running stability checks.

"Ready?"

"Statistically, there's a thirty-two percent chance we'll explode," Hank said matter-of-factly. "So yes, I'm ready."

Peter twisted in his chair, grinning nervously.

"Comforting as ever, Hank."

Jean drew in a breath, palms pressed to the console.

"We're in this together."

Scott straightened.

"Alright. Initiating takeoff."

He pressed the first control.

—

The hangar trembled.

The Blackbird's twin engines roared, deep and rising, until the sound filled the world. Blue and white lights flared along the wings, washing the cabin in flashes of brilliance.

Bobby gripped his harness.

"Oh no, oh no, oh no—we're gonna crash before we even take off!"

"Quiet!" Scott barked, tightening his grip on the controls.

Energy readings climbed—20%… 40%… 60%…

Peter's arms moved like a symphony conductor, calibrating shields, syncing comms, activating countermeasures.

"Come on, come on—yes! All defensive systems in the green!"

Jean closed her eyes. She could feel everyone's fear—like a storm of minds around her. She steadied them, her telepathy smoothing the edges of panic.

"We're fine. Trust the jet. Trust yourselves."

Scott pushed the main throttle.

"Takeoff!"

—

The floor rumbled. The hangar gates slid open toward the morning sky. The platform rose, lifting the Blackbird toward the surface.

Inside, the noise was deafening but controlled. The seats vibrated; warning lights flashed in red and green.

"Altitude—two hundred meters!" Hank called out, exhilarated.

Scott's focus didn't waver.

"Hold positions."

Peter, grinning like a kid on a roller coaster, shouted over the thunder:

"Ladies and gentlemen, Spider-Man Airlines welcomes you aboard the maiden flight of the Blackbird!"

Bobby threw up his hands.

"Woooooo!"

The jet burst through the opening. Sunlight hit its sleek hull, and for a breathless moment, it looked like a shadow taking flight. The roar of the engines tore through the morning air as the Blackbird shot upward, leaving the mansion—and their innocence—far below.

For the first time, the X-Men were flying toward their destiny.

⸻

The Blackbird

08:41 a.m.

The initial roar of the engines had settled into a deep, steady hum — almost a heartbeat that pulsed through the jet's frame. Outside, the sky stretched wide and blue, clouds drifting below them in soft, white rivers.

At the controls, Scott sat focused, his eyes fixed on the horizon displayed across the panoramic screen. His hands moved with growing confidence. The trembling from earlier had faded; now his touch was sure, precise.

"Stability at ninety-four percent," Hank reported from the co-pilot seat, his voice tinged with excitement — like a scientist narrating a grand experiment in real time. "Not bad for a maiden voyage."

Scott raised an eyebrow, not taking his eyes off the display.

"Was that a compliment?"

Hank looked at him over his glasses.

"A statistical compliment. Extremely rare for me. Treasure it."

Scott's mouth curved just slightly — pride disguised as professionalism.

Behind them, the cabin had relaxed. The heavy silence of launch had given way to casual chatter and the restless energy of heroes in transit. Bobby was shuffling a deck of playing cards, each one rimmed with frost, while Warren folded one wing over his lap to use as an improvised table.

"Really?" Warren said, unimpressed. "Cards?"

Bobby smirked.

"Hey, the Blackbird doesn't come with in-flight entertainment. Mutant blackjack it is."

He flicked two ice-edged cards across the wing. One sliced the air with a faint whistle.

Warren glanced down at the frozen cards, then back up at him, half impressed.

"Hmm. Maybe you are good for something after all, Iceman."

"Told you," Bobby grinned. "Ice never lies."

At the secondary console, Peter Parker was in his element. Six arms in perfect chaos: two swiping holographic screens, one flicking a lever, another pressing switches, the human pair jotting equations into a small notebook. He was a one-man control tower.

"Check this out, Jean," he said, eyes flicking between glowing readouts. "These three controls regulate the cloaking field. Basically, it bends radar waves around us. Like magic — but, y'know, with quantum physics."

Jean smiled faintly, watching the way his hands danced across the holograms.

"Quantum physics explained as magic? That's… very you, Spidey."

He grinned, unashamed.

"I'll take that. I'm a nerd, remember?"

Jean rested her elbow on the console, studying him with soft amusement.

"You've been one since the day you arrived at the Mansion. And…" —her voice lowered— "it's always been kind of adorable."

Peter blinked, thrown off-balance.

"Adorable? I thought I was terrifying. Remember? Six arms, fangs, the whole 'monster from Queens' phase?"

Jean laughed under her breath, shaking her head.

"You weren't a monster, Peter. You were you. My Peter."

For a heartbeat, the words hung between them. Peter looked back at the holographic controls, smiling quietly — the kind of smile that hides more than it shows.

Time passed unnoticed. The engines purred, steady and strong. On the display, a green flight line curved toward the southeast coast.

Peter leaned closer, surprised.

"Wait—already?"

"Indeed," Hank replied without looking up from his readings. "The Blackbird cruises at Mach Two — twice the speed of sound."

Scott tilted his head.

"Translation, Hank."

Peter answered for him, smirking.

"Translation: what would take three hours on a commercial jet takes us… about forty minutes."

The number hit him, and his grin faltered for a second.

"Florida…" he murmured. "Aunt May and Uncle Ben went there for their thirtieth anniversary. Brought me back this ridiculous pink flamingo hat."

He chuckled softly, but there was something heavy beneath it — a quiet ache he couldn't hide.

Jean watched him for a moment. Then she leaned closer and, without warning, brushed her lips against his cheek — a brief, feather-light kiss. Her fingers touched his forehead gently.

Peter froze, stunned. He turned to look at her. Jean's green eyes glowed softly, filled with a warmth that said more than words could.

He swallowed hard, trying to play it off.

"Uh… didn't we agree mind-reading was off-limits?"

Jean smiled faintly.

"I didn't need to read your mind to know you needed that."

He opened his mouth, then just laughed quietly and turned back to the controls — though focusing on the numbers was suddenly impossible.

From the back seats, Bobby's voice cut in with exaggerated dismay.

"Am I the only one feeling like there's a soap opera happening up front that nobody invited us to?"

Warren didn't look up from his cards.

"Ignore them, Drake. Interrupt a lady and you risk your neck."

Scott sighed from the cockpit.

"Focus. We're approaching the target zone."

Peter's grin returned, softer this time, but there was strength behind it. The memory of Ben still hurt — but Jean's small act had shifted something. The pain had turned into resolve.

Outside, the engines roared steadily. Beneath them stretched the coastline — the line between sky and sea.

Florida lay below their wings.

And Magneto was waiting.

⸻

Blackbird – Skies Over Florida

09:04 a.m.

The flight had been almost too perfect. The clouds opened ahead like paths of white silk, the sun shining clear, and the jet responding smoothly to every motion of Scott's hands. It was easy—too easy.

Then the alarm hit.

A shrill metallic wail tore through the cabin. Panels flashed crimson. Warning lights flickered like frantic heartbeats.

"System alert!" Hank shouted, leaning over his console. "We're losing stability on the auxiliary engines!"

Scott's grip tightened on the controls, fighting the shuddering frame.

"Parker! What the hell's happening back there?!"

Peter was already moving—six arms in a blur of motion, fingers flying across keys and levers. Holographic panels blinked around him in frantic blues and reds.

"It's like—like something's pulling us down! Systems are collapsing, anything with metal components—"

The Blackbird groaned, dropping several meters in a violent jolt. Harnesses snapped tight across their chests.

Bobby yelled, clinging to his seat.

"Is this normal turbulence or are we about to die?!"

"This isn't turbulence, idiot!" Warren shouted back, wings flaring instinctively to steady himself.

Jean squeezed her eyes shut, extending both hands. The air vibrated with psionic pressure. The jet steadied slightly—held up by invisible hands of pure will. Her face was pale, sweat glistening across her brow.

"I'm trying… to hold us up! But it's too heavy!"

Scott turned sharply. His voice cut through the chaos.

"Warren, Bobby—get outside! See what's happening to the engines!"

Bobby's eyes went wide.

"OUTSIDE?! We're at ten thousand meters!"

"Do it!" Scott barked, forcing the controls.

Warren didn't hesitate. He grabbed Bobby by the harness and dragged him toward the service hatch.

"Come on, snowflake! If you fall, I swear I won't catch you!"

Jean's voice trembled under strain.

"Scott, I can't hold it much longer!"

Peter vaulted from his seat, clinging to the ceiling like an insect. His spider limbs gripped metal panels as he climbed toward the upper wiring.

"Jean, you take the controls—now!"

Her eyes widened, but she nodded, sliding into his place as he ripped open a maintenance panel above.

Scott shot him a look through the flickering light.

"Parker, what the hell are you doing?!"

"Whatever it takes to keep this thing from becoming a flaming meteor!" Peter shouted back, already pulling out wires and rerouting circuits with frightening speed.

Scott fought the tilting jet, the horizon spinning wildly across the windshield. The earth was far too close.

"This doesn't make sense!" Hank shouted, scanning the readings. "All the engines failing simultaneously—it's not random!"

Scott froze for half a second, realization hitting him like ice water.

His voice turned sharp, urgent.

"It's Magneto!"

Every face turned toward him.

"He's already found us!" Scott's hands clenched around the controls. "He's dragging us down like we're toys!"

The sound came next—the low, terrible groan of bending steel. The Blackbird shrieked as unseen hands squeezed its frame.

Outside, Warren and Bobby clung to the hull, buffeted by hurricane winds. Warren's wings fought to steady him, feathers torn by the gale. He pried at the ship's joints, trying to free twisted metal plates.

Beside him, Bobby skidded across the fuselage, leaving trails of frost as he sealed cracks and cooled engines on the verge of meltdown. His teeth chattered—but he still managed a grin.

"Admit it—worst double date ever!"

"Shut up and don't freeze my wings!" Warren barked.

A metallic shriek split the air. A side hatch buckled, seconds from tearing off. Warren pinned it with both wings while Bobby froze the hinges solid.

Scott's voice crackled through the comm.

"Get back inside! We can't hold much longer!"

Bobby rolled his eyes.

"And here I thought we were staying for the view!"

With a powerful beat of his wings, Warren grabbed him by the wrist and dove back through the hatch just as it slammed shut behind them.

⸻

Inside the Blackbird

The cockpit was chaos—sirens blaring, lights flashing red, panels spitting sparks.

Jean stood at the center, her power manifesting like heat in the air, her eyes glowing with psychic strain. The jet shuddered in her invisible grip.

Peter hung from the ceiling, his six arms a storm of motion. Sparks flew as he rewired the ship midair, cables arcing with blue light.

"Okay, okay, almost there! If I reroute the secondary flow to the defense core… yeah—yeah, that should absorb the—come on, work!"

Scott snarled through gritted teeth.

"Parker! Tell me this isn't another one of your 'it works in theory' plans!"

Peter's voice came back over the roar of the engines.

"Of course it's theoretical! I'm not an instruction manual, Summers!"

Hank adjusted controls beside him, lenses slipping down his nose.

"If we can stabilize the descent angle to twenty-seven degrees, we might convert this into a controlled landing instead of a freefall."

Scott stared at him, incredulous.

"And how exactly am I supposed to do that when the controls are dead?!"

"With practice, Summers!" Hank shot back, calm but intense. "Didn't you spend hours on flight simulations? Now's the time to prove it!"

Scott's jaw locked. Sweat dripped from his temple.

"Fine. Emergency landing. You guide me."

Jean gasped—her focus flickering. The Blackbird lurched again, dropping sharply.

Peter looked down from the ceiling.

"Jean! Let go!"

She shook her head, her voice trembling.

"If I do, we'll crash!"

"Trust me!" Peter yelled, his voice both sharp and gentle. "I've got the defense systems rerouted! You just have to trust me!"

For a second, their eyes met. Then Jean exhaled, trembling—and released her grip.

The jet plummeted.

Peter slammed the last circuit closed.

"Scott! Hank! You'd better make those simulations count, because we're landing—NOW!"

Panels flared from red to blue. A pulse of energy surged through the Blackbird. The defensive field flickered to life, rippling across the hull like liquid light.

Scott pulled hard on the controls, gritting his teeth.

Hank shouted coordinates over the din:

"Descent angle—twenty-three degrees! Nose two points south! Compensate rotation!"

The engines roared to life again, howling like beasts reawakened.

Bobby and Warren strapped themselves into the rear seats. Bobby raised his hands like he was on a roller coaster.

"Wooooo! Worst Disney ride ever!"

Warren closed his eyes, muttering a prayer.

"If we survive this, I'm buying conditioner for my wings."

Peter dropped from the ceiling into the seat behind Jean. She collapsed back, exhausted, and he caught her. Their foreheads touched briefly.

"Told you… trust me."

She smiled weakly, barely conscious, but didn't look away.

Scott's shout cut through everything.

"Hold on!"

The Blackbird broke through the last layer of clouds. The ocean glinted on one side, the Florida coastline on the other. The hull glowed with blue energy as the shield field absorbed the heat of reentry.

The roar was deafening. The ground rushed up to meet them.

And then—

They hit.

⸻

Abandoned Military Base – Cape Canaveral, Florida

09:07 a.m.

The sky was clear, but the air felt heavy—charged with something vast and unseen. The scent of salt and rust mixed with the ash of ruins left smoldering from the night before.

In the center of the shattered airfield stood a figure unmistakable even in silhouette.

Erik Lehnsherr. Magneto.

His cape snapped in the sea breeze, a crimson slash against the sky. The sunlight glinted off his helmet as he raised one hand toward the heavens, fingers curling around invisible strings.

Beside him stood his children—Pietro, shifting restlessly from foot to foot, and Wanda, still and focused, her eyes closed, fingers glowing red.

The wind coiled around them in lazy spirals.

Magneto's voice broke the silence. Deep. Calm. Terrible.

"Are you certain, daughter—that there are mutants aboard that craft?"

Wanda opened her eyes slowly, the green glow within them sharp and knowing.

"Yes, father," she said softly. "Six of them. Young. Our age—Pietro's and mine."

Pietro chuckled darkly.

"Seriously? Your old rival sends children to fight you?"

"They're not just children," Wanda corrected, her voice serene but firm. "Their minds burn with power. Fear, yes—but purpose, too. One of them… his thoughts are fierce. Unyielding. Like yours."

Magneto tilted his head slightly, intrigued.

"Like me?"

Wanda nodded.

"He believes he cannot stop fighting. That his power is both curse and duty. He's strong, father. Very strong."

For a heartbeat, Magneto's expression softened, as though touched by an old memory.

"So Charles has already filled their minds with his sermons of responsibility," he said with quiet bitterness. "Ever the idealist, wrapping young hearts in the illusion of peace."

Pietro crossed his arms.

"Peace? I learned at ten the world gives mutants no peace. Only persecution."

"They didn't choose this fight, Pietro," Wanda murmured. "Charles did."

Magneto lowered his hand slightly, though the invisible pull on the Blackbird didn't ease. The air hummed, heavy with magnetism.

"That's Charles' eternal flaw," he said, almost to himself. "He wants to give them childhood—but trains them as soldiers. Dresses them as heroes, then sends them to war. Tell me, daughter—isn't that the cruelest form of manipulation?"

Wanda met his gaze, her voice soft but piercing.

"And you, father—what would you do differently?"

Magneto turned toward her, the light in his eyes cold as steel.

"I would not lie to them. I would not promise coexistence in a world that will never accept them. I would teach them the truth—that they were born to be feared… and only through strength can they survive."

Pietro's grin was fierce.

"Exactly. Make them warriors. Survivors. Show the world what mutants can do."

Magneto looked skyward, his hand rising once more. The distant roar of the falling jet vibrated through the clouds.

"And yet…" his voice dropped to a near whisper, heavy with irony, "I can't help but admire him. Charles, sending his cubs to the front lines. He called me a tyrant, yet here we are—no different, in the end."

Wanda lowered her hand, her energy dimming. Her next words were quiet, but they hit like thunder.

"Different, yes. You would chain them with war. He chains them with hope."

The air stilled. For an instant, even the wind held its breath.

Magneto's eyes closed, only for a moment. When they opened again, all softness was gone. He raised both arms, and the world answered.

The ground trembled. Metal scraps rose from the ruins—steel beams, broken pipes, rusted casings—all drawn upward, swirling around him like an orbit of knives.

"Six young mutants, you say…" Magneto murmured. "Then the future Charles fears has arrived sooner than expected."

He turned to his children—Pietro vibrating with impatience, Wanda calm as the eye of a storm.

"Today, we test not our strength against humans," Magneto said, voice ringing like iron, "but against Charles Xavier's greatest illusion."

He smiled then—a smile devoid of warmth.

"They call them his X-Men."

The sky shuddered.

Chapter 13: Crash Landing

Florida Forest – 09:14 a.m.

The world became noise, fire, and darkness.

The Blackbird tore through the last line of trees like a wounded beast, its wings ripping through canopies and snapping branches like matchsticks. The fuselage screamed under an invisible pressure that refused to let go—until, at last, it did, with a metallic groan. The jet gave one final shudder and nosedived, slamming into the ground with an earth-shaking roar.

The impact sent a wave of dirt, bark, and leaves exploding outward, a thunder made of trees. Birds erupted from the forest in wild flocks, their cries slicing through the chaos.

Then—silence.

A silence broken only by the crackle of burning wood and the dying hum of the engines.

⸻

Inside the Blackbird

Scott Summers was the first to move. He was sprawled over the control panel, seatbelt still tight across his chest. He coughed, each breath carving knives into his lungs. A hand went to his visor—still intact—and slowly, he pushed himself upright.

The hit had been brutal, but not fatal. An emergency landing, yes. Not a metallic grave.

Beside him, Hank McCoy let out a low groan. His glasses were crooked, a thin cut above his brow. He staggered to his feet, adjusting his torn uniform like a scholar trying to regain composure before a pop quiz.

"Parameters…" he muttered, tapping at the cracked console in front of him. "Vibration levels stable. Fuselage… ninety percent intact. Probability of immediate explosion… minimal."

Scott let out a breath—one that nearly became relief, but didn't.

"We're alive. That'll do for now."

⸻

Passenger Cabin

Farther back, the scene was far less orderly.

Bobby Drake had been thrown against the wall, a thin trickle of blood running down his forehead and his uniform wrinkled beyond saving. When he opened his eyes, the first thing that left his mouth was:

"Ugh… I need ice. For my head this time."

He laughed at his own joke—then winced, clutching the growing lump at his temple.

Warren Worthington didn't find it nearly as funny. He stood on shaky legs, one hand gripping a seat for balance, his wings stretched at awkward angles. Several feathers were singed; others bent painfully from scraping the fuselage.

"Say one more joke, Drake," Warren rasped, voice thick with pain and frustration, "and you'll need ice for more than your head."

Bobby raised his hands in mock surrender.

"Hey, easy there. Just trying to lighten the mood."

Warren took a step forward, jaw tight—then froze as a spasm of pain ripped through his back. His wings trembled and dropped. He groaned under his breath.

"Stupid joke…"

⸻

On the opposite side of the cabin, Peter Parker and Jean Grey had fared a little better. Or rather—Jean had.

Peter had acted on instinct. His six arms had unfolded around her in an instant, forming a living shield. His spider-legs anchored into the fuselage walls, locking them in place, and his body absorbed most of the impact.

The jolt still tore a grunt from his throat, but Jean landed against him instead of cold metal.

They stayed there, breathless, hearts pounding. Peter felt hers racing against his chest.

Slowly, he loosened his hold and looked up, still gasping.

"Ow…" he muttered, rubbing his side with one of his human hands. "That's gonna hurt tomorrow."

Jean, dazed, held her head. Her red hair hung loose and wild, her face twisted in pain.

Peter brushed her cheek softly with his fingertips.

"Hey… you okay?"

Jean opened her eyes, took a shaky breath, and nodded, smiling faintly.

"Yeah… I'm fine. Thanks to you, Spidey."

Peter smiled back, wincing through the pain.

"Then it was worth it."

⸻

Just then, Scott's voice cut through the cabin—firm, commanding, ignoring his own bruises.

"Spider-Man. Beast. I need you up front. We have to assess the damage."

Peter blinked, thrown off for a second. He'd called him Spider-Man. Then it clicked—the codename. They weren't at the mansion anymore. They were in hostile territory. Real mission protocol: codenames only.

He swallowed, nodded to Jean, and stood.

"On my way."

He turned back to her with a half-smile that barely hid the tension.

"Don't move. I'm gonna check how bad our 'supersonic taxi' looks."

Jean started to protest, but instead just squeezed his hand before letting go.

Peter moved quickly toward the cockpit, his extra arms shifting restlessly like antennae. Hank was already there with Scott, surrounded by sparks, shattered screens, and the sharp stink of burnt wiring.

⸻

Cockpit

Scott didn't waste a second. He pointed at the flickering main console, its lights dying in red and black bursts.

"Navigation's dead. Hank, check if the engines survived the crash. Spider-Man, I want diagnostics on the defense systems. I need to know if this bird can still fly—or if we just dug our own grave."

Peter arched an eyebrow.

"Wow, Cyclops… and here I thought you were gonna say 'please.'"

Scott's visor flared, the red glow pulsing.

"I'm not in the mood for jokes."

Peter sighed.

"Fine, fine. Spider-Man to the rescue."

He knelt beside the scorched panels, three arms stretching out to different consoles at once. One typed across a flickering hologram, another ripped off a metal plate to reach the wiring, and a third plugged in a small sensor he'd pulled from his belt.

"Hmm…" he murmured. "Bad news. The defense grid's half dead. Shields are offline, countermeasures too. If anyone shoots at us, we're basically a metallic piñata."

Scott's jaw tightened.

"Anything not broken?"

Peter grinned wryly.

"Yeah. The air conditioning."

From the other side, Hank's deep voice carried up through the smoke.

"Auxiliary engines—damaged. Main engines… perhaps reactivatable, though I'll need at least thirty minutes to rebuild with improvised materials."

Scott exhaled, palms pressed to the console.

"Thirty minutes in enemy territory is too long."

Peter shot him a sideways look.

"Then you'd better have a plan, fearless leader."

The silence that followed was sliced apart by a distant crack. Metal groaned. The floor vibrated beneath their boots—barely, but enough to make every muscle tense.

Scott turned toward the shattered windshield. Beyond it stretched the Florida forest: lush, green, and deceptively calm. Yet something in the air felt charged, electric, like a thunderstorm waiting to break.

"Stay alert," he ordered, voice low.

And for the first time since the Blackbird had taken off, all six of them realized they'd landed in a war zone.

⸻

Florida Forest – 09:21 a.m.

The air inside the Blackbird was thick—heavy with the scent of burnt wires, sweat, and the damp earth that had crept in through the ruptured hull. Outside, the forest had gone silent again, broken only by the crack of fallen branches under the ship's weight.

Hank McCoy was half-buried in a tangle of tools and scorched cables. His massive hands moved with surgical speed, though his tone was as calm as if he were lecturing a class.

"I need to stabilize the power conduits before I attempt to relight the auxiliary core. Otherwise, this entire vessel might greet us with a spectacular explosion."

Scott Summers stood in the center of the cabin, his uniform scuffed and dusty, posture unbroken. The hit had left him aching, but he'd never admit it.

"Listen up, everyone," he said, voice cutting through the static hum.

One by one, they turned toward him. Jean sat on a side seat, eyes half-shut, sweat glistening on her brow. Warren stretched his wings gingerly, testing each feather like a musician tuning a battered instrument. Bobby pressed a makeshift ice pack to his forehead, more annoyed than hurt. Peter stood tall, his six arms folded close to his body, twitching slightly—instincts still screaming for protection.

Scott scanned them all before speaking again.

"Marvel Girl." His tone softened—barely. "Status?"

Jean took a slow breath.

"Tired… headache. But I can keep going."

Scott nodded once, then turned to Warren and Bobby.

"Angel. Iceman. You operational?"

Warren snorted, stretching his left wing until a pop made him wince.

"I've been better. But yeah—I can fly."

Bobby raised a thumb, still holding the ice to his head.

"Same here. Feels like I got hit by a freight train, though."

Peter chimed in, smirking.

"Relax, Drake. It was just an experimental jet at Mach 2. You'll walk it off."

Bobby chuckled weakly—then coughed.

Scott shifted his attention back to Jean. His tone dropped again, almost gentle.

"Marvel Girl… I need you to use your powers. Try to locate Magneto. Find out how close he is."

Jean blinked, startled.

"Scott, I just held the entire ship in midair… I don't know if—"

"Don't push her," Peter snapped before she could finish. He stepped forward, one of his human hands pointing toward Scott while the others flexed in tension.

"She already did enough. You force her now, and she'll be out of the fight before it even starts."

The air thickened instantly. Scott met his stare, his voice turning cold.

"We don't have a choice, Spider-Man. Without her, we're blind."

"And if you burn her out, we'll be blind and without a telepath," Peter shot back.

The two stood face to face, silent but charged. Warren and Bobby exchanged uneasy glances. From the floor, Hank exhaled noisily.

Jean's voice broke the tension like a whip.

"Enough! Both of you! You sound like children!"

They fell quiet. Jean clenched her fists, taking a deep breath.

"Yes, I'm tired. Yes, my head's pounding. But I'm also the only one who can do this. And I want to do it."

Peter frowned, concern still etched across his face.

"Jean…"

She met his eyes, calm but resolute.

"Trust me, Pete."

He hesitated, then let out a slow breath and lowered his arms.

"Fine. But if you feel it's too much, you stop. Got it?"

Jean nodded, grateful, and closed her eyes to focus.

⸻

Scott turned to Warren.

"Angel. I need you in the air. Circle the perimeter, find the nearest military base—or anything that looks like company."

Warren arched a brow, stretching his wings. Despite the singed feathers, they still shimmered faintly in the light spilling through the broken hull.

"Sure. A morning stroll, then."

He walked to the side hatch, pausing with a smirk before taking off.

"When I'm back, I expect a cup of tea waiting for me."

Peter rolled his eyes.

"Right, 'Lord Worthington.' Maybe we'll throw in some biscuits too."

With a powerful flap, Warren launched himself into the open air. The wind that rushed in smelled of wet soil and smoke.

⸻

Down on the floor, Hank muttered without looking up.

"I need to cool these engines before proceeding with repairs."

He looked toward Bobby, who already wore an expression of reluctant duty.

"Iceman, assist me. You know what to do."

Bobby sighed and rubbed his palms together.

"Of all the times people have said 'do your thing,' this is the least fun."

He extended both hands, releasing a rush of frost across the burning metal. Ice spread in shimmering patterns, crackling as it met the heat.

"There. Deluxe cooling system, courtesy of me."

Hank gave a small, distracted smile.

"For once, your powers prove genuinely useful to engineering."

⸻

Meanwhile, Scott turned to Peter.

The young web-slinger stood silent, his extra arms folded tightly behind him, as if he wished he could disappear into the shadows. He finally stepped forward, resting a hand on Scott's shoulder.

"Hey… for our first day on a real mission, we're not doing too bad, right?"

Scott looked at him—surprised, maybe even disarmed. The hardness in his expression softened just a little.

"I suppose not." A pause. "Try contacting the Mansion. We need to report in."

Peter nodded, activating two of his spider-legs to type across the comms panel.

"Spider-Man Airlines calling home base… let's hope the line's still open."

⸻

Jean was already reaching outward with her mind.

The forest unfolded in her thoughts like a map of light. Every tree, every insect, every heartbeat glimmered faintly. But she searched for something else—something vast.

And she found it.

A colossal presence, magnetic and unyielding. A mind like polished steel, smooth and cold. She shuddered.

"Magneto…" she whispered.

Scott's head snapped up.

"Where is he?"

"I can't pinpoint him," she strained, sweat beading at her temple. "His mind's blocked… something covers it. A helmet. I can't get through."

Still, she pushed deeper—and behind that armored mind, she felt two other presences.

One was sharp, erratic, vibrating like lightning trapped in human form. Young. Restless. A boy.

The other… heavier. Deeper. A vast ocean disguised as calm. A girl, her power immense—so much that Jean almost recoiled from the contact.

Her eyes flew open, breath trembling.

"He's not alone. There are two others with him. A boy—super speed. And a girl… powerful. Very powerful."

Scott's hands clenched into fists.

"So it's not just Magneto."

Peter moved closer, worry in his voice.

"You okay?"

Jean nodded weakly, though her eyes betrayed her exhaustion.

"Yes… but this is just the beginning."

Silence fell over the cabin again. The only sounds were the fading hum of cooling engines and the hiss of frost. Outside, Warren vanished into the trees—a white speck against the green.

And somewhere not far away, Magneto already knew they'd arrived.

⸻

Florida Sky – 09:34 a.m.

The wind lashed against Warren Worthington's face, pulling at his blond hair as his wings carved through the air in wide, gleaming arcs. Each beat sent him higher, farther—until the roar of the Blackbird was just a memory buried in the forest below.

He was flying high. So high the horizon curved faintly beneath him. Freedom—pure and intoxicating—thrummed in his chest. But he stayed tense. Alert. This wasn't a pleasure flight.

Florida, he thought with bitter amusement. When he was a boy, the Worthington family used to talk about vacationing here—sun, beaches, luxury hotels. Private clubs. Dinners overlooking the ocean. They never came. And now, here he was at last… not to relax, but to hunt a mutant who could pull battleships out of the sea with a flick of his wrist.

He tightened his wings and pushed faster. The air grew heavier, thicker. Then something caught his eye—a flash of silver darting through the trees below. Too fast for wind, too erratic for light.

"What the hell…"

He folded his wings and dove.

The blur moved fast. Unbelievably fast. But Warren was no novice; years of training in aerial combat let him track the movement from above. The silver streak zigzagged through the forest, cutting a jagged path through the green.

Then—it stopped.

Warren slowed his descent, circling high like a hawk on the hunt. Below, among the ruins of what once had been a military base, stood a figure impossible to mistake.

A cape rippled in the breeze. A polished helmet gleamed in the sun. Posture perfect, arms crossed—a living statue of control and conviction.

Magneto.

Warren's breath caught in his throat. Every instinct screamed to turn back. But he held his course, circling silently. He needed eyes on the ground.

And then he saw them.

Two others stood beside Magneto. The first, a young man with silver hair and an impatient smirk—energy coiled tight like a spring. The second, a girl. Dark hair. Eyes that shimmered with something vast and dangerous. Her presence was magnetic in its own way. There was grace there, but also a quiet storm.

Warren froze mid-flight. Beautiful. Like Jean… but colder. More mysterious.

Focus, Worthington… he chided himself.

He pulled out his communicator and pressed the channel open, keeping his voice barely above the wind.

"Cyclops, this is Angel. I have visual. Repeat, I have visual."

Static cracked, then Scott's voice came through, low and tense.

"Go ahead, Angel. What do you see?"

Warren took a steadying breath.

"Three hostiles confirmed. One's Magneto—helmet, cape, the whole supervillain package. The other two are young. A silver-haired male and a female. Both read mutant."

Silence. Then Scott again, sharper this time.

"Maintain distance. No contact. Just confirm their location."

"Understood," Warren said, shifting his wings to ride a quieter current.

He drifted lower, blending with the clouds, silent as a shadow.

Then he heard them.

⸻

"I've checked the entire perimeter, Father," said the silver-haired boy, his words firing like bullets. "Nothing. No trace of them. After that crash, they're done."

Magneto didn't answer right away. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, thoughtful, skeptical. His voice, when it came, was slow and heavy with meaning.

"You are fast, my son… but speed is not the same as certainty."

Pietro scowled. "You doubt me? I searched the whole area—every inch!"

Before Magneto could respond, the girl spoke. Her tone was calm, deliberate, and strangely unsettling.

"Something remains, Pietro."

He turned to her, irritated. "What are you talking about?"

Wanda closed her eyes, raising a hand. Crimson energy began to pulse around her fingers, warping the air itself.

"We're being watched. Someone followed you."

The words hit like thunder. Pietro blinked. "What—?"

And above them, Warren's heart nearly stopped.

"How—? No, no, I was flying high! Masked in air currents—no way she could've—"

His wings twitched nervously. He swallowed hard. He wasn't a spy anymore. He was prey.

Wanda's eyes opened—green fire glowing in her pupils. Her hand tilted upward, pointing straight at the sky. Straight at him.

"There."

The air vibrated. A scarlet orb burst to life in her palm—pure chaos condensed into light—and shot upward like a cannonball.

Warren didn't think. He reacted.

He snapped his wings tight and banked hard, diving to the side. The sphere tore past, exploding where he'd been an instant before. The shockwave hit him like a punch. Below, the blast shattered a rusted hangar into a storm of steel and dust.

"Damn it!" Warren shouted, plummeting through the smoke.

But it wasn't over.

"Persistent little spy…" Pietro sneered. His outline blurred, body humming like a coiled spring. And then—he was gone.

Warren barely caught the sound: a sonic snap slicing through the air behind him. He looked back—and there he was, a streak of silver chasing him through the trees.

"Thought you could fly away, bird-boy!?"

Warren gritted his teeth, wings spreading wide. The air screamed around him as he shot upward again, claws of wind clawing at his feathers. You're slower than him, he thought. But you own the sky.

He twisted into a spiral, cutting through the canopy. Pietro followed below, running across debris, trees, even shattered metal plates as if the world itself were his racetrack.

Warren's comm crackled with static as he gasped for breath.

"Cyclops… they spotted me! Repeat, they spotted me. One's pursuing—fast, too fast! I'm heading back to the Blackbird!"

Scott's voice, strained through interference:

"Hang on, Angel. Just hang on!"

Warren didn't answer. Every muscle burned. Every beat of his wings felt like fire. He dove between trees, branches whipping at his face, bark exploding behind him as Pietro laughed from below.

"Come on, pretty bird! That all you got!?"

The forest opened up—a clearing ahead. Through the haze, Warren glimpsed smoke in the distance. The Blackbird.

"There! Just a little more—"

Pietro's laughter grew closer, sharp as lightning.

"When I catch you, I'm plucking every feather!"

Warren's lungs felt ready to burst. He forced one last, brutal push—muscles screaming as he surged forward, wings wide as sails.

Behind him, the silver streak closed in.

"Come on, Blackbird…" he thought desperately. "Get ready… or we won't live long enough to stop Magneto."

And with one final, desperate beat of his wings, he dove toward the treeline—and home.

⸻

At the same time – Inside the Blackbird

The low hum of the Blackbird's wounded engines had become almost hypnotic. The ship was alive—barely—but thanks to Hank's improvisation and Bobby's freezing touch, it still held together.

Peter hunched over the secondary console, six arms working with mechanical rhythm: human hands typing and adjusting switches, spider-limbs flicking across holograms and stabilizers. Sweat trickled down his temple, but his crooked smile stayed put.

"And… done." He hit the final command, watching a faint pulse leave the comm array. "Message sent. Come on, Professor, Doc—please tell me someone's listening before we turn into mutant scrap metal."

The console blinked a green confirmation: Transmission sent.

Peter let out a long breath, almost laughing at his own relief.

Jean stepped up beside him, quiet. Her uniform was smudged with dirt and soot, her movements slower than usual.

"Need a hand?" she asked softly.

Peter turned toward her. Their eyes met. For a moment, the chaos around them dissolved into the hum of two hearts still beating.

"You should rest," he said. "You already did the impossible. Without you, the Blackbird would've been buried ten feet under—and us with it."

Jean frowned, about to argue, but his sincerity broke through her defenses. She crossed her arms, smiling faintly.

"Don't try flattery to shut me up, Spidey."

"Not flattery." One of his spider-legs tapped her shoulder, teasing. "Limited edition truth."

Jean rolled her eyes, but a laugh escaped.

At the rear, Bobby groaned, palms pressed against a glowing vent.

"Hank, this thing's hotter than a pizza oven at Christmas!"

"Maintain the frost, Iceman!" Hank barked, focused on his calculations. "A three-degree rise and the turbine detonates."

"Perfect," Bobby muttered through clenched teeth. "Death by freezing a toaster. That'll look great on my tombstone."

Hank ignored him, muttering formulas under his breath.

That's when Scott entered, his boots striking the floor in crisp rhythm. His face was tense, voice urgent.

"We've got a problem."

Peter looked up.

"Only one? And here I was starting a collection."

Scott didn't bite. He leaned over the consoles, visor glowing red.

"Warren. He's in trouble. He's leading an enemy straight to us."

Jean stiffened. "What?"

Scott nodded grimly.

"He was spotted. Pursued. Spider-Man, you're with me—outside, now."

Peter was already moving, arms unfolding like spring steel.

"Guess it's showtime."

Jean stepped forward. "I'm coming too."

Peter froze mid-stride, surprise flashing in his eyes.

"Jean…"

"What? You think I'm fragile? I've been vital in every Danger Room sim we've run, Pete." Her voice carried both pride and frustration.

He stared at her—not doubting, just seeing her. His tone softened, earnest.

"No. Not fragile. You're the reason we're alive. You stopped a plane from turning into a crater."

She glanced down, pulse quickening.

Peter raised one of his human hands, brushing soot from her cheek. She met his gaze, and for an instant, the world was quiet.

"But you're drained. If you push now, you could pass out—or worse. And if that happens…" His voice cracked slightly. "I couldn't forgive myself."

Her expression wavered between pride and fear.

"So what do you want me to do—sit here and wait?"

"No." Peter's smile was small but sure. "I want you to be my safety net. We'll go out there, hold the line, and if the Mansion replies, we need someone sharp to get that message. That's you."

Jean swallowed, fighting the conflict inside her.

Scott, watching the exchange, cut in flatly.

"Marvel Girl, he's right. If Xavier answers, we'll need you conscious and ready."

Jean took a breath, closing her eyes briefly. When she opened them, her resolve was steady again.

"Fine. But promise me you'll come back."

Peter leaned closer, grin flickering beneath the tension.

"Promise."

For a fleeting second, the cabin felt human again—fragile, hopeful.

Then Bobby's voice shattered it.

"Hey, lovebirds! Some of us are freezing our butts off to keep this thing from exploding, so save the flirting for later!"

Peter laughed, and even Jean cracked a smile.

Scott was already moving toward the hatch.

"Spider-Man, with me. They'll be here any second."

Peter flexed his wrists, six arms spreading like a living weapon.

"Time to roll out the welcome mat."

Jean watched them go, one hand gripping the communicator like it was a lifeline.

Outside, in the distance, the forest trembled—the sound of wind and wings and something faster than both.

Warren was racing for his life.

And two heroes waited to catch him before the storm broke.

Chapter 14: Morality

Florida Forest – 09:42 a.m.

The air was thick, heavy like invisible smoke. The treetops creaked under the damp southern wind, and shadows danced across the ground beneath the blazing sun. Through the foliage, a white streak tore across the sky like a wounded shooting star.

Warren —Angel— crashed down in front of the Blackbird.

His wings, stretched to their limit, dragged him into a clumsy landing. The feathers were singed at the tips, and every flap had cost more than the last. His boots scraped the wet earth until he finally dropped to his knees. His chest rose and fell in short, violent breaths. Sweat ran down his face, mixing with tiny drops of blood where branches had left cuts.

He pressed his hands against the ground, gasping. When he finally lifted his head, he saw it: the Blackbird, half-buried in mud, damaged but still standing. Transport. Shelter. Hope.

"I made it…" he rasped, barely audible.

But it wasn't over.

A sharp hum cut through the air. A silver blur appeared beside him in the span of a heartbeat.

Pietro Maximoff skidded to a halt so fast that dirt splashed outward in waves around him. His white hair fell across his forehead, and a cruel smile twisted his lips. His breathing was calm, relaxed—a brutal contrast to Warren's desperate panting.

"That was it?" he mocked, leaning toward him with almost careless amusement. "All that wing-span, all that holy dove act… and you still couldn't get away. Even worse…" —he kicked Warren hard in the ribs, sending him rolling through the dirt with a muffled groan— "you led me straight to your little friends' hideout!"

Pietro raised the communicator strapped to his wrist. A triumphant grin spread across his face.

"Now I just have to call Wanda and Dad. They'll come… and the game's over for you."

Warren coughed, clutching his side. Pain burned through his torso like fire, but he still laughed. A dry, almost delirious chuckle.

Pietro frowned.

"What the hell are you laughing at, broken bird? Did I hit you that hard?"

Warren lifted his head just a bit, his blue eyes gleaming with defiance.

"It'd be a problem… if you could actually make that call."

Confusion flickered across Pietro's face. He looked down at the communicator, pressing the side button—nothing. Before he could react, something hissed through the air.

THWIP!

White webs shot out, wrapping around his arm and pinning it tight to his torso in one swift, brutal motion. Pietro barely had time to grunt before a red beam exploded against his wrist. The communicator burst apart, sparking wildly before disintegrating into the mud.

"What the—?!" he managed to shout.

A second later, another web-blast hit him, slamming him backward. Pietro crashed against a tree with such force that the trunk shuddered, sending a rain of green leaves fluttering down like feathers.

A groan escaped his throat as he hit the wet ground, still glued in place by the sticky substance binding him.

The silence of the forest filled with steady footsteps.

From the shadows of the trees, two figures emerged. One tall, straight-backed, the red visor gleaming in the sunlight. The other agile, with six spider-like arms spread in a display both grotesque and magnificent.

Scott Summers. Cyclops.

Peter Parker. Spider-Man.

"Hey, Icarus," Peter said, walking up to Warren with a crooked grin as two of his mechanical arms helped him to his feet. "Don't burn those wings yet… people might think we're doing a mythological reboot."

Warren chuckled, though a cough broke the sound halfway through.

"I knew…" he panted, "I knew you'd show up with one of your dumb lines."

"And I didn't disappoint," Peter shot back, winking.

Scott didn't smile. His voice was firm, sharp.

"No time for jokes." He turned toward Pietro, who was still struggling against the webs. "This is just the beginning."

⸻

In Front of the Blackbird – 09:46 a.m.

Pietro growled, pulling hard against the webbing. His whole body trembled, every muscle tightening in a vibration that sounded like a human engine. But no matter how much he strained, the white substance refused to give.

"What the hell is this?!" he shouted furiously, spitting dirt. "Let me go! No one cages Quicksilver!"

Peter stepped forward, six arms swaying calmly.

"Oh, don't worry, Sonic the Albino Edition. That webbing can hold a car. And you—" he tilted his head with mock sympathy, "—even if you run like one, you're still more fragile than a twig."

"I'll rip your tongue out when I get free!" Pietro roared, thrashing like a trapped beast.

Scott raised his hand, cutting through the exchange.

"That's enough, Spider-Man. We're wasting time. He's not alone. His sister and Magneto must be close."

The silence that followed was thick.

Warren, still leaning on Peter, muttered,

"I saw their faces… Magneto was at the base. That girl with him. And him—" he nodded toward Pietro, "—he was their silver shadow."

Scott's jaw tightened beneath the visor.

"Then they already know where we are. This was a distraction."

Peter glanced at Pietro, still struggling.

"Yeah, but at least we cut his signal."

Scott's voice was firm.

"That buys us minutes. No more. We use them."

⸻

Pietro stopped struggling for a moment. A slow, venomous smile crept across his face.

"You really think you need minutes? Wanda already knows where you are. She feels me. Even if you silence me, tie me up… she always knows."

A chill ran through the three of them.

Warren frowned.

"What does that mean…?"

Pietro laughed, low and mocking.

"It means it doesn't matter how many wings you spread, how many webs you sling, or how many little red beams you shoot from your fancy shades… they're coming. And when they get here…" —he grinned wider— "the whole forest will be their playground."

Scott looked at him coldly, his voice steady as steel.

"Then let them come."

Peter raised an eyebrow, forcing a nervous smile.

"Sure… because facing off against a giant human magnet and a psychic witch with anger issues is exactly how I planned to spend my morning."

Scott didn't answer. He just activated the communicator on his uniform.

"Cyclops to all units. Be ready. We have confirmed contact. Repeat, confirmed contact."

A burst of static answered, followed by Jean's voice from the Blackbird, tense and sharp.

"Copy that! Stay alive!"

Peter glanced toward the open sky beyond the trees, where the sun blazed down. A sudden gust rustled the branches, carrying a metallic, electric scent. The forest trembled, as if bracing for what was coming.

And then he knew.

The real fight had just begun.

⸻

Xavier's Mansion – Communications Room

09:45 a.m.

The clock on the wall marked the passage of time with a tick-tock that seemed to grow louder with every second. The silence in the communications room was heavy—almost suffocating. The blue and green lights of the monitors flickered across the metallic surfaces and the tense faces of the adults waiting inside.

Otto Octavius paced back and forth like a caged animal. His metal tentacles arched nervously behind him, occasionally striking the floor with a dry clack. Every step was a burst of impatience.

"They should've been here by now," he growled, clenching his fists. "Florida isn't halfway across the world. With the Blackbird's speed, they should've landed fifteen minutes ago. Fifteen!"

He leaned over the main console, eyes fixed on the data feed showing the aircraft's status. The numbers didn't please him—at all.

"And to make matters worse…" his voice came out rough, strained, "the remote diagnostics show damage. Damage! We don't know if it's surface-level, structural, or catastrophic. Just—damage."

The scientist ground his teeth, slamming one human hand against the edge of the table. The metallic echo filled the room.

Standing nearby, Moira MacTaggert crossed her arms. Her face was serious, weary. Her clear eyes followed the same screen, though her reaction was far calmer. She took deep breaths, holding back the anxiety curling in her stomach.

"Otto," she finally said, voice firm but gentle, "pacing in circles and hitting tables won't bring them back."

He glared at her, his glasses glinting under the artificial light.

"And what do you suggest I do, Moira? Sit here and wait like nothing's happening while six teenagers are out there facing the most dangerous man our kind has ever produced?"

His voice cracked through the air like a whip.

Moira held his gaze, though deep down she felt the same fear.

"I suggest we keep our heads clear. They trust us. If we fall apart here—if we panic—what kind of example are we setting as mentors?"

Otto let out a bitter laugh.

"Example? They're kids! —" He turned back to the screen, pointing with an extended tentacle. "See those readings? The Blackbird's stationary. That means one of two things: either they've landed… or they've crashed."

Silence fell like a blade.

Moira swallowed hard, her lips pressed tight. She had no answer.

Then both turned toward the far side of the room—where Charles Xavier sat.

The Professor hadn't said a word in minutes. He sat upright in his chair, a folder open on his lap. His hand moved a pencil slowly across the page, as if he were taking notes in a calm lecture. His face was serene—almost too serene.

Otto exploded.

"How can you be so calm, Charles?!" he bellowed, his tentacles arching like spears ready to strike. "Our students—our children—are facing Magneto! And you… you sit there scribbling notes like you're grading an essay!"

"Otto—" Moira lifted a hand to quiet him.

But Xavier raised his eyes then. Deep, steady eyes met Otto's. There was no coldness in them, no indifference—only weight. Something more.

"I'm not calm, Otto," said Xavier, his voice deep and deliberate. "I'm just as afraid as you are."

Otto froze, caught off guard.

Charles continued, closing the folder slowly.

"Every fiber of my being fears for them—for every decision they make, every step they take. But if I let that fear consume me… if it shows on my face, my voice, my posture… then I fail them."

Moira watched him quietly, her eyes softening.

Xavier placed his hands on the arms of his chair, leaning forward slightly.

"We are their guides—their lighthouses in the storm. They need to believe there's still a path forward, even when darkness surrounds them. If we break now, we tell them that hope itself has broken. And that, Otto, would be a greater betrayal than any enemy could deliver."

The room fell silent again. Otto's jaw tightened; he swallowed the retort burning in his throat. Moira looked from one to the other, caught between two forces.

Finally, Otto sighed, defeated, though the tension still marked every line of his face.

"Charles… if something happens to them… I'll never forgive myself."

Xavier lowered his gaze briefly.

"Nor will I."

⸻

Silence returned. Only the tick-tock of the clock filled the room, and the flicker of the monitors cast blue shadows on the walls.

Then it happened.

A sharp beep pierced the air. The main console lit up at once, and a teenage voice came through—clear, though distorted by static:

"This is Jean Grey… Marvel Girl… contacting the School. Please respond."

Otto nearly lunged at the table, his tentacles clanging against the floor in excitement.

"It's her! It's Jean!"

Moira let out a shaky breath, as if she'd been holding it for hours. Her hands trembled as she hit the response channel.

Xavier, meanwhile, closed his eyes briefly—perhaps in silent gratitude—then opened them with renewed calm.

His voice was steady, warm, when he spoke into the communicator.

"This is Xavier. We hear you, Marvel Girl."

The hum of the signal lingered as the three adults waited, hearts pounding, for the next words from their students.

⸻

Moira reacted first, leaning over the console, her voice a mix of relief and worry.

"Jean, this is the Mansion. We hear you loud and clear. You're safe… aren't you?"

A brief silence followed, broken only by Jean's unsteady breathing. Finally, she replied:

"We're… we're alive. But not exactly safe."

Moira's heart clenched. Otto let out a deep, frustrated growl, bracing his metal arms against the floor as if anchoring himself. Xavier simply folded his hands in his lap, gaze fixed on the speaker as though sheer calm might travel through the signal.

"Jean," Charles said, voice deep and composed, "breathe. Take your time. Tell us what happened."

Jean obeyed. A nervous gasp, a sigh—and then her voice steadied, though tension laced every word.

"The Blackbird… sustained damage mid-flight. Magneto attacked us. We lost engine stability… and crashed in a forest near Cape Canaveral. Hank's working on repairs with Bobby's help." A metallic creak sounded faintly behind her, like the ship groaning under makeshift maintenance. "They're keeping the temperature stable, but we don't know how long it'll hold."

Otto's brow furrowed; he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else:

"Knew it wasn't ready for real conditions…"

Moira gently touched his arm, signaling for quiet.

Jean went on:

"Warren went scouting. He found Magneto's base—but also… a boy. Super-fast. So fast Warren barely escaped. With Peter and Scott's help, they caught him. He's unconscious for now, but…"

"But what, Jean?" Moira pressed, leaning closer.

The answer came in a whisper heavy with dread.

"He seems to be Magneto's son."

The silence that followed was absolute. Only the faint hum of electronics filled the space. Otto slowly turned toward Charles, eyes wide behind his glasses.

"Since when does Erik have children?" he demanded, his voice scraping like metal.

Xavier met his stare unflinchingly.

"I didn't know." His tone was firm, yet laced with sorrow. "Erik and I shared many years… many battles. He never spoke of a family."

Otto pointed at him with a coiled tentacle, accusing.

"And you never suspected? Never even guessed?"

"No," Charles replied calmly, though the tremor in his voice betrayed him. "Erik guarded his secrets fiercely. If he had children… he likely hid them to protect them from the war between us."

Moira ran a hand through her hair in disbelief.

"And now his son's on the battlefield—facing ours."

Jean's voice returned, cutting through the tension.

"Not just that." Her breathing quickened on the other end. "He has a sister. Her powers… they're strong. I felt them. It was like standing at the edge of an ocean—one that could swallow us whole."

Otto clenched his fists, his tentacles screeching in frustration.

"Perfect. So now it's not just Magneto—we've got a whole litter of baby Magnetos out there ready to kill us."

Moira shot him a glare.

"They're children, Otto! Like ours!"

"Children who could tear ours in half," he snapped back.

Jean hesitated, her voice dropping lower:

"Magneto's coming. We know it. The boy said… all he had to do was alert his sister and his father. Peter and Scott destroyed his communicator, but it won't stop them for long."

The tension in the room could have been sliced with a blade. Otto ran a trembling hand down his face, his tentacles twitching violently. Moira gripped the table's edge, breathing through her fear. Xavier remained upright, though his hands trembled faintly in his lap.

"Jean," he said at last, his voice low but resolute, "listen carefully. This isn't a simulation. It's real. Every choice you make from this moment on will decide whether you all survive."

"I know, Professor," she answered—and for the first time, her voice sounded older, steadier. "I'm scared… but I'm not alone. I've got Peter, Scott, Warren—and Hank and Bobby here with me. I trust them."

Otto slammed a hand on the table, furious.

"Charles, enough speeches! They need orders, now!"

Xavier turned toward him, his gaze hard as steel.

"No. They need faith."

Moira stepped in, trying to mediate.

"Jean, what about the Blackbird's engines? Any chance of takeoff if things get bad?"

"Maybe," Jean replied, panting. "Hank says with luck we'll have engines in a few minutes… but we don't know if Magneto will give us that long."

Otto dragged a hand down his face, desperate.

"They're trapped. Surrounded. And Magneto's on his way."

Xavier closed his eyes for a heartbeat, seeking strength deep within. When he spoke, his voice was clear, commanding.

"Jean, keep the channel open. Don't lose contact. Trust your team—as they trust you. We'll find a way to support you."

A brief pause. Then Jean's voice, trembling but strong:

"Understood, Professor. Marvel Girl, out."

The signal cut with a sharp click.

Otto let out a strangled roar, slamming a tentacle against the wall.

"This is madness. Utter madness!"

Moira pressed her lips together, fighting back tears.

"They're just kids…"

Charles leaned forward in his chair. His face was pale, but his voice carried the weight of conviction.

"They're X-Men. And now—more than ever—they must prove it."

The echo of his words filled the room, heavy as a vow.

⸻

The air outside smelled of wet earth, fresh sap, and sweat.

Between the trees, the late-morning sun filtered through in flashes, painting broken shadows across the ground. In front of the Blackbird, the clearing had become a small battlefield.

Pietro Maximoff was trapped at its center. His legs and arms quivered like deranged springs within the webbing. He never stopped moving, like a hummingbird locked inside an invisible cage. The hum of his restrained speed was a constant whine—like a motor about to burst.

"You think this'll stop me?!" Pietro shouted, his voice trembling with each desperate attempt to break free. "I'm faster than all of you combined! I'll get out! I'll smash every one of your faces in—one by one!"

The white fibers vibrated, tightening and loosening with his every struggle. Every few seconds he managed to snap one strand, and Peter had to fire another webline to reinforce the structure.

Peter was breathing hard, his mask half-lifted as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. With four mechanical spider-arms flaring out behind him and two human hands working fast, he alternated between reinforcing the web and pressing makeshift bandages against Warren's wounds.

"Hang in there, Icarus…" he muttered, using the nickname with a crooked smile that barely masked his worry. "You still owe me twenty bucks."

Warren, slumped against a rock, breathed in short bursts. His wings were half-open, feathers torn and singed. He forced a pale smile.

"You know that… Angel always pays his debts."

Scott Summers stood a few paces ahead, the red visor gleaming in the sunlight. He watched the scene with a deep frown, arms crossed. His rigid stance was a stark contrast to the chaos before him—Warren wounded, Peter multitasking, Pietro fighting like a demon.

"This won't hold much longer," Scott said dryly. "Spider-Man, we need to make sure the prisoner stays down."

Peter lifted his head while shooting another strand.

"What do you suggest? Blanket and hot cocoa? 'Cause I'm pretty sure that doesn't work on the Human Roadrunner over there."

Scott stepped forward. His shadow fell long and steady.

"Use your venom."

The world seemed to freeze.

Peter blinked, not sure he'd heard right.

"…What?"

"Your bite." Scott's tone didn't waver. "Inject him. Just enough to paralyze—not kill."

Peter froze in place—one hand holding Warren's bandage, another mid-reload on his web-shooter. His hidden fangs tingled beneath his lips, as if they'd heard the command before his brain did.

"No," he said quietly. "I'm not doing that."

Scott's jaw tightened as he stepped closer.

"Spider, listen to me. If he gets loose before Magneto and his sister arrive, we're finished. You saw what he can do. We only caught him by surprise."

Peter shook his head, agitated.

"And you want me to bite him like he's lunch? Forget it, Cyclops!"

Pietro laughed between gasps, even tangled in the web.

"Did you hear that? The kid's afraid to hurt someone better than him… pathetic."

Peter clenched his fists but stayed silent. His breathing quickened—the weight of guilt pressing on his chest like stone. He remembered the man in Queens, the first one he caught after Uncle Ben's death… and how close he'd come to killing him. The fangs were the worst part of that memory.

Scott moved closer, visor shining inches from Peter's mask.

"I'm not asking you to kill him. Just immobilize him. A controlled dose. Paralyzed, he's harmless. Free, he's a bullet with our names on it."

Peter glared at him, fear and anger warring in his eyes.

"And what if I miscalculate? What if I really hurt him? You want that on your conscience?"

Scott didn't flinch.

"I want us all to live. Not die because you hesitate."

Warren's weak voice broke through, strained but steady.

"Spider… Cyclops is right. I can't handle another chase like before. That lunatic nearly tore my wings off."

Peter turned to him, wounded by the words but unable to argue. Pietro's struggles were growing more violent by the second.

Scott lowered his voice, but not his resolve.

"Think about Jean. Think about the rest. If he gets out… when Magneto arrives, we won't stand a chance."

Peter swallowed hard. His fangs had already begun to show—instinct responding faster than thought.

"I don't like this. Not one bit."

Scott nodded.

"Neither do I. But this isn't about what we like. It's about what we have to do."

Pietro's buzzing grew louder, snapping another thick strand of web.

"Come on, come on!" he shouted. "Nothing you do will stop me!"

Peter gritted his teeth, sweat rolling down his face. He glanced at Warren, barely conscious. He thought of the Blackbird—Jean, Hank, and Bobby struggling to keep it running.

Then he looked at Pietro—still defiant, even bound.

He closed his eyes.

"God forgive me."

The spider-arms thrust forward, propelling him in a blur. In an instant, he stood before the prisoner. Pietro's eyes widened in shock.

"What—what are you gonna do, bug boy?"

Peter didn't answer. He just opened his jaw, letting his fangs gleam like ivory under the light.

Scott stood silent. Warren looked away.

Peter inhaled… and leaned in.

The forest's hum, the web's vibration, and the sound of their breath merged into one waiting silence.

⸻

The air was thick—like the forest itself was holding its breath. The web shimmered with Pietro's fury, every fiber trembling under his frantic resistance. His movements blurred from speed, but the sticky strands held him fast, living chains that refused to yield.

In front of him, Peter Parker breathed hard. His fangs had fully extended, glinting under the sunlight—grotesque, unnatural, a reminder of what he feared most about himself.

Pietro's eyes widened.

"What the hell—? You some kinda vampire?!"

Peter didn't answer. For a moment, the world around him dissolved.

The alley.

The gunshot.

Uncle Ben's body hitting the ground, eyes still open.

The killer trembling, wrapped in early webbing. Peter leaning in, fangs ready to strike.

The same dread now rose in his throat—the same hatred, the same fear of losing control.

"I'm a monster…"

But another voice echoed in his mind—warm, calm, and impossibly distant.

"With great power comes great responsibility."

Ben.

Peter's eyes snapped open. The fear was gone. Only resolve remained.

"I'm not a monster," he thought. "I won't be. Not ever."

He moved.

Pietro tried to blur away, muscles twitching in impossible speed—but too late. Peter's fangs sank into his right shoulder.

Pietro gasped.

"Aghhh—!"

His entire body went rigid. The trembling of his legs slowed… then stopped.

"Wh-what did you… do to me?" he stammered, more afraid than in pain.

Peter stepped back, wiping a streak of blood from his lips. His fangs shimmered once before retracting. His breathing was heavy but steady.

He crouched before Pietro, arms resting on his knees, the mechanical limbs spread behind him like anchors.

"I'm not gonna kill you," he said, voice low and even. "What you felt was my venom."

Pietro glared up, panic breaking through his arrogance. He tried to move—hands, legs, anything—and managed only a faint twitch of his fingers.

"C-can't… move…"

Peter nodded solemnly.

"It's like certain spider species. Doesn't kill—just paralyzes. Fine motor control first, then the big muscles. You're out for about…" —he glanced at his wrist as if timing it— "…thirty, maybe forty minutes if I'm lucky."

Pietro panted, eyes burning with fury.

"You drugged me, you freak!"

Peter held his gaze.

"I saved you from yourself."

Scott had watched in silence the whole time. His stance softened, just barely. He stepped forward, voice level.

"Good work, Spider-Man."

Peter turned toward him sharply, his tone hard.

"Don't congratulate me, Cyclops. This wasn't 'good work.' It was necessary."

Scott nodded once.

"Exactly. And as team leader, I appreciate that you did it."

The air between them hung heavy—no pride, no relief, just bitter understanding.

Warren raised his voice weakly from the rock.

"Hey…" he coughed, shifting a burnt wing. "For what it's worth, I'd rather have Silver-Head there paralyzed than running circles around us again."

Peter sighed, glancing away.

"Yeah… me too." He stood, retracting his extra arms one by one. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

Pietro, wrapped tight and trembling with paralysis, glared through the webbing.

"You idiots… You don't get it. My father's coming for you. My sister will tear you apart—especially you, bug boy. After what you did."

Peter leaned close, meeting his eyes.

"Maybe. But as long as I'm breathing, no one on this team goes down."

Pietro gave a weak, bitter laugh.

"You're a monster pretending to be a hero."

Peter clenched his fists but stayed silent.

Scott cut in, crisp and cold.

"That's enough. Bound and paralyzed—he's no threat. Spider, reinforce the web. Angel needs medical attention. If Magneto's close, we move—fast."

Peter stood tall, face set. He fired another round of webbing, wrapping Pietro into a solid cocoon. The speedster could do nothing but growl weakly inside his prison.

When it was done, Peter turned back to Warren, checking his wounds. He placed a hand on his friend's shoulder, trying for a faint smile.

"There. Don't burn those wings yet. You still owe me twenty."

Warren chuckled, every breath a wince.

"Yeah, yeah… Spider-Man Airlines never forgets a debt, right?"

Scott stood a few steps away, silent as stone. He didn't need to say it—but he knew.

Peter Parker had just crossed the line that separated a student… from an X-Man.