For the first time since his arrival, the older Alex's voice carried no humor, no casual indifference. It was low, steady, and heavy with the kind of authority born from someone who had seen far too much.
"The Celestials are not enemies that can be dealt with through brute force," he said, his gaze sweeping across the chamber. "They are creators of gods and executioners of worlds. Entire civilizations have been erased because of their judgments. Even Galactus himself would hesitate before crossing them."
The air seemed to thicken with every word. Charles, who had faced countless threats in his lifetime, felt a chill trace down his spine. Erik's fingers curled slightly, metal fragments on the floor vibrating to his tension. Hank swallowed hard, his mind already racing with calculations that refused to offer any hope.
"They aren't coming with fleets," the future Alex continued, his expression grim. "They don't need armies. When they descend, even stars tremble. The arrival of one Celestial is enough to shift the balance of the entire universe."
The younger Alex clenched his fists unconsciously. He had faced gods, monsters, and Decepticons that shook the Earth—but the look in his older self's eyes made him realize this was something different. Something worse. It wasn't just strength. It was inevitability.
Charles tried to steady his voice. "Then tell us—what chance do we have?"
The elder Alex's gaze softened, almost mournful, before hardening again with resolve. "Only one. We can't fight them head-on. To strike at a Celestial is to invite annihilation. But they are not without laws, not without pride. They judge worlds on criteria older than any human history. If we can bend those laws—if we can exploit their arrogance—we may survive."
His words hung like a death sentence disguised as hope.
Emma, arms crossed, forced a smirk though her tone was sharp. "So, what you're really saying is we're going to trick gods into sparing us?"
"Not trick," the older Alex corrected, his eyes flashing with a hint of steel. "Force them to acknowledge us as something more than ants. To make them see Earth as worthy. That's the plan."
A silence followed, deeper than before. No one rushed to speak. Even Banshee, who usually couldn't resist a nervous quip, kept his mouth shut. The sheer audacity of the idea—demanding recognition from beings who could snuff out galaxies—was almost laughable. Almost.
The younger Alex's jaw tightened. He could feel the weight of it pressing on his shoulders, as if the future was daring him to collapse under it. Yet beneath the suffocating pressure, a spark flared in his chest. If his future self believed it was possible, then it wasn't madness. It was a path.
Charles leaned forward, his voice quiet but firm. "Then tell us how. Every step, every detail. If this is the only way forward, we must know it."
The elder Alex's eyes lingered on each of them in turn—Charles, Erik, Hank, Emma, and finally his younger self. What they saw in those eyes wasn't mere strategy. It was sacrifice, and the shadow of battles yet to come.
And then, with the weight of countless futures pressing down upon his shoulders, the older Alex began to lay out his plan.
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