"Professor, how about a massage?" I asked, rubbing my hands together.
Charlene Xavier sighed heavily and shook her head in denial.
"Thank you, but no."
As usual, we met again in her office that evening. It had become something of a tradition. I've been living at the mutant school for about a week and a half. Of course, not because I secretly love lolis—there aren't many younger girls here anyway.
I've said a thousand times that mutant powers usually awaken in adolescence, so by all the standards of American education, this institution is a high school, mostly for kids aged fourteen and older. I've seen a couple of younger ones, but I have no idea how they were enrolled, so don't ask.
So why was I stuck in this kindergarten, full of noise, chaos, and teenage drama? There are, as usual, several reasons. First and foremost, I decided to take a comprehensive approach to monitoring the health of my young friend, who by sheer coincidence started transforming into a half-vampire.
I have to admit that things have been going quite predictably and steadily in that regard. Jubilation Lee transformed very successfully and quickly became something like Blade; now, they could rightfully be called sisters by blood. Although she hasn't quite reached the level of a vampire hunter, she's still a very dangerous opponent—there's no denying that.
The second reason I've mentioned before. The school is meant for learning, and I was lacking some fundamental knowledge. Of course, I had no desire to study English literature or re-learn math, but Gretta McCoy kindly agreed to give me a few personal lessons. Almost immediately, Charlene Xavier joined in.
Having two such teachers is priceless, and I was determined to make the most of it. I'm not complaining about my memory, so despite the short time spent studying, I've made significant progress in learning the basics.
"But I give amazing massages!" I say earnestly, but Charlene isn't swayed by my words.
"Oh, Kami-sama! Why are you so stubborn? I just want to help!"
"I know," she smiled. "But there's no need for that; I'm quite satisfied with the current situation."
"Admit it, you're just afraid I won't be able to control myself and absorb your powers?" I ask mischievously.
The woman didn't change her expression, just shook her head negatively again.
"You know that's not the case."
And that was true. I don't know how to explain it other than telepathy, but I really don't believe in my own suggestion, and she understands that.
After Charlene found out that Beast was giving me private lessons, she decided to get involved in the process as well. But she wasn't particularly interested in the gaps in my education, rather, she wanted personal interaction. Not in the sense that she was interested in me as a man, but more as a person.
I think, at first, she wanted to erase some of the spicy details of our first conversation from my memory. Yes, the telepath was very upset because she had planted the idea of murdering one of her colleagues for my personal benefit.
However, she held herself back... well, it's hard to be sure with telepaths, because you can never be sure your memory is intact. Maybe we raised even more sensitive topics, and what I remember was left to me as something insignificant? Nah, nonsense! If I thought that way, I might lose my mind—or become a philosopher.
What changed, then? Why didn't she want to adjust my memory? After all, that's the easiest way to get the desired result. I find it hard to believe that she was scared and believed my vague hints that I had protected myself from such manipulations. I had a plan, but calling it reliable was difficult. After all, in such a short time, I hadn't been able to fully prepare for a meeting with a telepath.
I don't like phrases like, "she saw something in me," but for now, it's the only working version. After all, besides the fact that Charlene spent an hour every evening on my education, she also had many abstract conversations with me.
It kind of reminded me of sessions with a psychologist; we had deep conversations and got to know each other better. Probably, only after a certain number of these talks did she decide to leave my memory untouched. Pleasant, I must admit!
"But this chair is completely uncomfortable! I could try to help, not sure about getting my ability to walk back, but new hair—definitely within my expertise!"
Lately, I've been pestering Charlene, wanting to diagnose her condition and help as much as I could. During one of our conversations, I learned that she was injured in a failed battle with either a demon or an alien named Lucifer.
Yes, quite a pretentious name, but he accomplished quite a bit. Taking away the ability of one of the strongest telepaths and mutants to walk is no small feat.
"I tell you, I like myself the way I am," she replied.
It's clear that her constant talks stem from something deep in her past, perhaps the result of some psychological trauma, but Xavier doesn't rush to share such intimate things with me, so it's difficult to do anything about it.
In my mind, I had already prepared another reply when Charlene suddenly tensed up and gestured for me to be quiet. She closed her eyes and listened for something for a few seconds. I didn't see any visible signs of her telepathy—maybe the pink distortion of the air in Jean Grey's forehead projection is a feature of her personal power, or maybe I don't understand something.
Finally, the woman opened her blue eyes and swiftly rolled the chair out from behind the table.
"Hey, where are you going?" I asked, surprised, as she opened the door and left her office.
"No time to explain," she waved her hand, and I jumped up from my seat.
I was curious where she was rushing off to! This smells like an adventure, and trust me, I have a sharp nose for these things!
Charlene pushed her motorized wheelchair at such speed that I could barely keep up with her! If she can do this in a regular wheelchair, I'm terrified to imagine what she's capable of behind the wheel of the Black Falcon, or whatever her super-plane is called.
Just a few minutes later, we were at the mansion's entrance and saw Ororo Munroe walking inside. She was holding a small square cardboard box, taped up with colorful tape.
"What's that?" Charlene asked, staring at the box as though a poisonous snake was inside.
"Uh, a package," Storm replied, stunned by the sudden questioning. "The courier just delivered it. What's going on?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out," Charlene muttered thoughtfully, then added louder, "Follow me!"
We were back in the principal's office. Neither I nor Ororo had any idea what was going on. Charlene didn't rush to satisfy our curiosity. She was examining the sealed cardboard box with an expression on her face as if a little imp was about to jump out, bearing the face of her worst enemy.
"Professor?" I called, when the silence became unbearable.
The woman jolted as if waking from a dream and looked at us with a slightly bewildered gaze.
"Ahem, sorry," she said. "This box... it's strange. Ororo, who did you say it came from?
Storm shrugged."
"According to the return address, it came from my homeland, but I didn't manage to read the sender's name."
After a little investigation, we discovered that it had come from the Kilimanjaro valley on the Serengeti plain in Kenya. The sender was someone named Ainet.
"Ainet's mother?" Ororo asked, surprised.
"Is it from your mother?" I asked, curious.
I remember the X-Men canon vaguely. And I couldn't possibly know the backstory of every character. Despite Storm being a key character, I don't know her biography by heart. So I was curious to hear.
"My foster mother. She taught me about justice and responsibility for my abilities after my parents died. Ainet is a shaman in the tribe my biological mother came from."
"A shaman?" Charlene asked, standing up. "That explains some of the oddities."
"Professor, can you finally explain what's going on with this package?" Ororo finally couldn't take it anymore.
"Let's first see what's inside," Charlene diplomatically dodged the question.
Perhaps Storm was used to Charlene's little quirks in communication and didn't argue, only frowning and starting to open the box. What's funny is that instead of a knife, she used miniature lightning bolts that slid off her fingers and simply burned through the colorful tape, along with the cardboard. The room started to smell like burnt cardboard. In the next moment, Storm pulled out a small figurine from the box.
It was a very detailed figurine of a woman with short white hair, dressed in colorful African attire. It seemed less like a figurine and more like a living, miniature woman. So I wasn't too surprised when she opened her eyes, turned her head toward Ororo, and spoke...