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The girl on the phone said, "In that case, I'll transfer you to the Headmistress. Please hold." The line clicked into a transfer.
Headmistress? Professor X?
Henry was still wondering if Professor X's powers could travel down a phone line when the call was picked up—by a sharp, hostile female voice.
"What do you want?"
"And you are…?"
Click! … Beep beep beep.
Hung up. That familiar sting rose instantly.
As the saying goes: "Heaven's wheel turns; no one escapes it." Or, "Retribution isn't absent—it just hasn't arrived yet." Henry had swallowed plenty of this before. What else could he do? Call again.
This time, as soon as the line clicked open, Henry blurted out, "This is Henry Brown, I—" Click! … Beep beep beep.
Ah, yes. That flavor I know so well.
He decided to endure one more round. If they hung up again, he'd show up in person. And then—no promises about avoiding carnage.
When the line connected again, Henry spoke quickly: "Hey, don't hang up again. If you do, I'll lose it."
There was a long, rough exhale on the other end. Then: "What do you want?"
"I need a small favor. I worked my ass off for you people before—maybe no glory, but definitely blood and sweat. So you can't begrudge me a little help. Nothing violent, nothing criminal. Just… you might have to travel far. To Switzerland."
It was Mystique—the new Headmistress of the School for Gifted Youngsters. Her tone eased a little as she asked, "What for?"
"There's a lady in a coma. Her family can't agree on whether to put her on life support. I need someone with telepathy to ask her directly what she wants."
Mystique scoffed. "You're in Europe. Couldn't you just hire some Gypsy crone with a crystal ball to do the trick?"
Henry shot back, equally annoyed, "Mutant abilities may count in criminal investigations, but in civil matters they have no legal standing.
"Coming to you is already shaky enough. And you give me an even shakier idea? Just say yes or no. If no, fine—I'll tell them I can't help."
Mystique snapped, "Yes! Why wouldn't I? But remember this—you owe me."
Henry protested, "Hold on! Last time I helped you fight off aliens—that was a huge favor. Now I just need one small thing, and somehow I owe you again?"
"That last favor was only enough for me to take your call without killing you. You want me to actually do something? That's another debt."
What the—robbery, pure robbery!
Just because you're a woman raised under the Stars and Stripes, doesn't make this reasonable. Whatever. He'd just default later if needed.
With that resolve, Henry sighed, "Fine, fine. I owe you one. How soon can someone come? And preferably not Professor X.
"That guy in the wheelchair—he'd need extra care himself. Too much hassle. I remember you mutants have more than one telepath. Anyone else will do."
Mystique audibly clicked her tongue. "You think this is a fruit stall and you can pick and choose? Anyway, that fool retired long ago. I don't know where he is, and I don't care.
"I'll contact someone else—see if she's willing. If she agrees, she'll move fast. If not, tough luck. Where exactly are you?"
Her words tumbled over each other with no clear logic. Still, Henry noted she used she, not he. Was that because telepaths tended to be women?
Keeping his thoughts to himself, he answered, "I'm at Geneva University Hospital, in Switzerland."
"Wait at the main entrance. If no one shows in half an hour, then no one's coming." Click! … Beep beep beep.
Staring at the receiver, Henry felt the urge to fly straight to New York and have a "talk." Instead, he hung up gently and drew a deep breath.
Should he go back and explain the situation? After a moment, he chose instead to head for the hospital's main entrance. He didn't want to return to that suffocating atmosphere.
Even wise judges avoid family disputes. With two half-brothers involved, things could only get messier.
Sure, Henry loved to spectate, but he valued safety first. Get too close, and you could become the scapegoat.
Outside the hospital, winter nights in Geneva were bitterly cold—though not quite below freezing. His Kryptonian body didn't care about the temperature, but standing idle was still boring. He exhaled white puffs into the air and gazed upward.
Even with the city's light pollution, the faint stars were clear to his vision. To him, the heavens still looked like the Milky Way. And then—he saw something he didn't want to see.
Still time to run?
That thought had barely formed before a figure descended from the sky. It was already dark; otherwise, the scene would've caused an uproar.
It wasn't just anyone. It was Jean Grey—the Phoenix. She wore casual jeans and a flight jacket, but her long red hair floated as if stirred by invisible currents.
"Still can't control your power?" Henry asked, forcing calm into his voice.
"No. I just saw you, got pissed, and felt like punching something. That's why," Jean said, fists clenched, eyes blazing.
"If you want a fight, another time, another place. Not here." Henry wasn't afraid to make promises he'd never keep—he could always run.
Jean reined herself in. "I didn't come to fight. Where's the patient?"
"Follow me." He turned to lead the way, but after a couple steps, he stopped and looked back. "Can you change your appearance?"
"Why? Do I look that terrifying?" Jean's gaze was cold enough to erase him from reality.
Henry quickly explained, "Not terrifying—just… I'm guessing you're still on America's wanted list. This hospital has security cameras. To avoid trouble, it'd be smart to alter your looks a bit.
"You've got options. Simplest is cosmetic adjustment—shift your own features. Or use psychic suggestion so others see a different face. Or bend the air and light around you for an invisible effect.
"With your power, none of these should be difficult. Just pick whichever suits you."
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