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*****
In a cramped space black enough to swallow even light, Rakshasa huddled in a corner—as if, within that tight darkness, she occupied only the barest sliver of room—curling herself up and trembling lightly.
She had nearly forgotten who she was, what she was called, what her dreams were, and how life had once felt.
Her mind held only what had been poured into it: guilt, fear, commands, assignments.
She knew only this—when the door opened, she was Rakshasa, and she had to complete the mission.
This mission had failed, and she had been punished.
Yet, for some reason, the terror of being locked in here was far less than usual this time.
In the dark, she stretched her hands, as if she could feel something like the sun itself upon her—
Warm, bright…
She wrapped her arms around herself and, surprisingly, found she missed that feeling.
The next day, just as Erik and Clark were preparing to set out, they received a call from Charles.
"I know what you two are planning!"
Before Clark or Erik could speak, Charles jumped in.
Clark paused, then asked suddenly, "Are you alone right now?"
"Yes."
Pressing his fingers to his brow, Charles said, "Waking Jean and lulling her second personality back to sleep took a lot of time."
If Jean hadn't trusted him deeply—if she hadn't answered his call—then last night he had almost…
A flush crept over his old face.
Precisely because of what had almost happened, Jean—cheeks burning—had slipped away at first light.
But Charles knew that after such a night, their relationship could never return to the pure simplicity of teacher and student.
"Charles? Charles?"
"Ah—mm?"
He came back to himself. "What is it?"
"Ahem."
Erik cleared his throat. "Are your legs all right?"
"My legs?"
Charles frowned.
Erik and Clark exchanged a glance, then snickered. "A little… wobbly?"
"That—what the—far—k!" Charles snapped. "You're wobbly!"
"Hey, Clark, what do you call this again?"
"Powerless fury when the sore spot gets poked."
"…"
Pressing his brow with his fingers, Charles growled, "Don't talk nonsense. Nothing happened last night. I was exhausted bringing Jean back."
"Oh…"
Clark and Erik stretched the word, then chimed together, "Exhausted…"
"You two bastards, did you just skip the entire front half of that sentence?"
Charles cursed, exasperated.
Clark and Erik burst out laughing.
Charles blinked, and then he couldn't help laughing too.
It had been a long time since the three of them had bantered like this.
"Let's move."
Clark's tone went light.
Erik hesitated, then said, "Clark… brother, mutant affairs don't really concern you. You don't have to—"
Clark set a hand on Erik's shoulder. "It's not just for the mutants."
His voice turned cool and steady. "It's also for the Kent family."
"Right now, our family's become the world's number-one 'terror clan'—the household scheming to rule the globe, using mutants to do evil, stirring up war."
"I just want to show them we've got no 'plot' at all."
Because they were strong enough not to need one.
Charles and Erik nodded in silence. Clark was angry.
"This time… let's show them—fully."
A smile lifted Clark's mouth.
They wouldn't go too far—heroes didn't harm the innocent—but tearing down that thing? That they could do.
"Charles, where are you? Do you need us to come pick you up?"
Erik lowered his voice, then couldn't help adding, "Big brothers'll give you a lift."
Charles's eye twitched.
"No need. I'll fly over. It's just the next city—it won't take long."
He absolutely refused to be hauled through the sky like a baby chick. Way too undignified.
"You know where we're going?"
"Do I even need to ask?"
"Ha!"
All three broke into laughter.
Hanging up, Charles glanced at his clothes, tapped the watch on his wrist, and his outfit rippled into a sleek, tailored suit.
Satisfied, he left his hotel and headed for the nearby airport.
He might be a wanted man now, but avoiding detection with his abilities was child's play.
As he walked, his mind brushed the people around him, nudging them to overlook him, while he preemptively fried the surveillance he was about to pass.
Like a ghost, he drifted through the crowds without drawing a single stare.
He took a car to the airport, repeated the trick, boarded the fastest flight, and, after a comfortable nap in first class, reached Washington.
He'd been to this city many times—even the White House.
But thinking of what they would do today, he felt… excited.
It was like being a kid again—when the three of them went out to do good—cough, "do bad"—together. Like the first time Clark got his license and took them for a drive.
Stepping off the plane, Charles lifted his eyes to the scrubbed-blue sky and stretched lazily.
Suddenly, he saw two black specks arrowing toward him at incredible speed.
He froze, face shifting.
No way—
Whoosh!
Two figures flanked him left and right.
Charles's mouth twitched. Before he could speak, they each hooked an arm and launched skyward.
"Ahhh!"
As Charles screamed, a few suspicious hairs fluttered from the top of his head.
Moments later, the three men—in immaculate suits—appeared at a restaurant not far from the Washington Monument.
Using Charles's power to blur themselves from attention, they ordered some food.
It was decent—and promptly mocked anyway.
After they finished, Clark and Erik turned to Charles.
He dabbed a bit of broth from the corner of his mouth with a napkin, then lifted his power.
The next second, someone noticed the trio, eyes widening with terror before they shrieked and bolted for the door.
The three were wanted men now.
On the web, on TV, on every phone—
Warrants blanketed the airwaves, waves upon waves.
In seconds, people were screaming and fleeing the restaurant, quietly calling the police, or cursing the trio under their breath…
Every type of person, every type of reaction, spilled forth.
But the three simply walked out together in perfect step and strolled straight down the avenue toward the White House.
They went openly, boldly, wearing faint smiles, as if they were out for a casual wander in their own garden.
Contrasted with that calm, the onlookers seemed almost… ridiculous.
Some bolted in fear, some filmed with their phones and uploaded, some hurled curses…
And yet, to their surprise, quite a few people actually cheered for them. There were even Clark's fans who lifted their shirts to show Superman tees underneath.
The three gazed on the human tableau with cool eyes and walked on, step by steady step, toward the White House at the street's end.
Meanwhile, the White House shook, and people inside snapped into motion.
Police, the military, even the Sentinels stirred; the Avengers, notified, were also on their way.
Like a tightening snare for wild beasts, a ring formed around Clark and the others—as its center drew shut.
The three walked on as if oblivious.
Watching the live feed, faces in the White House shifted through a palette of expressions.
"What are they trying to do? Damn it!"
Staring at the overhead footage—watching the trio move, slow and inexorable—the President couldn't hold back a snarl.
In truth, he already had a guess; with every step they took, a thin thread of fear pulled tighter in his chest.
No one had dared this before. And it might happen on his watch…
"Mr. President, they're waiting."
General Ross watched the three with hard eyes.
With the children of X School safely out of harm's way, these three were like beasts uncollared and unbound—no, not beasts. Predators.
They were going to bare their fangs for all to see.
You say we're plotting?
Then watch.
You want to catch us, kill us?
We're here now. We're right here.
We've told you the target. Come stop us.
Simple. Brutal. Effective.
This was counterattack, demonstration, and deterrence.
But…
They had no choice but to answer.
This moment, countless eyes were fixed upon them.
Fail to act—show even a hint of softness—and they would be the laughingstock of the world.
The trio had left the White House no option.
And after yesterday, there were no options anyway.
A war picked by three people—against only three enemies—they had to take it on. And they had to win.
But… leaving aside whether they could win—if they did win, at what cost?
Ross mouthed a silent prayer and tasted bitterness.
He had fought the trio. He knew their power best.
Watching those still baying for the three to be annihilated, Ross swore under his breath.
Idiots! Fools! All of you!
He thought of yesterday's opportunists—those who'd used the Purification Serum to press for wiping out the "mutant threat"—and cursed again in his heart.
"We have the Purification Serum, the Sentinels, the military! The Avengers won't stand by and watch them harm innocents! We won't lose! By doing this, they're proving the intel true!"
"They have a conspiracy. They're lawless madmen. They must be eliminated!"
"We're protecting the nation, humanity, the world!"
The President's voice was cold yet rousing. He turned to Secretary of Defense Leon Cohen. "How are the Sentinels? Can they enter the fight?"
That bastard—yesterday he'd sworn they could deal with Superman, Professor X, and Magneto, and now he'd saddled him with a catastrophe.
Expressionless, the Defense Secretary accepted the charge, though a spark of savage satisfaction lit inside.
Let it burn. Let it all burn.
No matter how this ended, mutants would become the enemy of the world—seen as a threat by countless eyes.
Then would come exile—or erasure—on a global scale.
He drew a slow breath. "The Sentinels are still… lacking."
The President slammed a fist on the desk. "Then it's on you. Take them down."
If I go down, you die.
(End of chapter)