X-MEN
The First Class 4/10
Chapter Four: Masks and Mirrors
The White House – East Wing Lawn
Washington, D.C.
The smoke had thinned, but the White House lawn still smoldered. Scorched earth, twisted fences, and overturned vehicles marked the battleground. Cameramen clustered at the perimeter, their lenses capturing every detail, while federal agents in black suits moved briskly through the chaos, shouting orders, cataloging damage.
Beyond the cameras' reach, beneath the battered portico, the President of the United States stood ringed by Secret Service.
Professor Charles Xavier approached in his wheelchair, calm and deliberate, flanked by his young students still in their torn combat uniforms — Scott, Hank, Warren, and Bobby. Behind him, Jean Grey pushed the chair. Unlike the others, she wore her civilian clothes, the fabric neat against the backdrop of their ripped and scorched uniforms. The contrast was striking, her wide green eyes full of awe as she looked up at the White House steps.
"Mr. President," Xavier said, voice steady and courteous. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Charles Xavier. These are my students — the X-Men."
The President regarded them carefully. Exhausted, but alert. His smile was political, practiced — but it did not mask his confusion.
"You protected us," he said slowly. "But I don't understand why."
Xavier inclined his head. "Because not all mutants are like Magneto. I wanted the world to see that. You were the most visible target — and thus, the most powerful opportunity."
The President let out a dry laugh. "That's a hell of a thing to say to the President."
"I mean no disrespect," Xavier said, folding his hands. "But fear is a fire. Left unchecked, it spreads. I believe humans and mutants can live together peacefully — but only if we build trust. Mutants have been with us for generations, long before the public had a word for them. By the 1960s, the term 'mutant' entered common use for those with abilities beyond explanation. And only in recent years, through Bolivar Trask's research, has the world learned of the X-gene itself. That revelation has fueled paranoia. We would ask you, Mr. President, to help us counter it. Publicly, if you can."
The President's eyes narrowed. "You want my endorsement. Officially."
"If possible. Your voice could mean the difference between fear and cooperation. It could save lives — mutant and human alike."
The President turned away for a moment, watching agents tend to the wounded and collect evidence from the ruined lawn. The weight of office sat heavy on his shoulders.
When he looked back, his answer was careful, measured.
"It's a noble request. But I can't. Not yet. If I publicly back mutant rights legislation, I'll be torn apart from both sides of the aisle. My own party will accuse me of weakness. My opponents will brand me un-American. Every lobbyist in Washington will smell blood."
Scott's jaw tightened. Warren shifted uneasily. Even Hank looked crestfallen.
"But…" the President continued, raising a hand before they could protest. "I will say this to the press: 'Not all mutants are dangerous. Today, some risked their lives to defend the people of this country.' That, I can give you."
Charles inclined his head gravely. "Then we are grateful, Mr. President."
Behind him, Jean stood quiet, her breath fogging in the cold air. Instinctively, gently, she brushed the surface of the President's mind. She expected walls, resistance — but found none. Only fear. Genuine, heavy fear. And yet… also sincerity. He truly meant what he said.
He's afraid of us, she realized. But he's trying.
And for now, that was enough.
Jean leaned closer to Xavier as the cameras shifted focus back toward the wreckage. Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"Aren't you worried, Professor? If people find out you're a mutant—"
Xavier's calm smile didn't falter. "If someone digs deep enough, they will. But for now… I've placed a subtle block on the minds of reporters, civilians, even the agents nearby. They'll remember what happened here, but not my face. Not my name. Not yours, Jean. Only the President retains that truth. Even I've made it so they don't record us."
Jean frowned, uncertainty stirring inside her. "But will this be enough? To make a difference?"
Xavier's eyes softened, but before he could answer, a voice called from the side path.
"Charles. Always showing up fashionably late to save the day."
A tall man in a trench coat stepped from the shadows. His square jaw and streaked temples gave him a weathered, no-nonsense presence, and his sharp eyes flicked between the Professor and his students.
"Agent Fred Duncan," Xavier greeted warmly. "Still skulking in federal corners, I see. But as always, it's a pleasure to know you're well."
"Old habits die hard," Duncan said, extending a hand. Xavier shook it firmly. "You've got a good crew here. They handled themselves well."
"I'm proud of them," Xavier said with quiet sincerity.
Fred turned his attention to the group. "Duncan. FBI liaison for mutant affairs — unofficially, of course. Been working with the Professor for years, keeping tabs where I can."
"'Helping' is generous," Xavier interjected. "Without him, I might never have found half my students."
Fred leaned closer, lowering his voice. "And speaking of students… things are flaring up. Mostly New York. Energy bursts, unexplained weather spikes, property damage — all linked to, what the FBI suspects, unregistered mutants. You're going to want to look into it."
Xavier's eyes narrowed. "How many incidents?"
Fred exhaled. "Too many for comfort. I'll send you what I've got."
"Thank you, Fred."
The agent gave the Professor a firm nod. "Be careful, Charles. Things are heating up out there."
With that, Duncan melted back into the organized chaos of agents and first responders.
Jean hugged her jacket tighter as she watched him vanish into the crowd.
Heating up, she thought. That doesn't even begin to cover it.
The team moved quickly, keeping a low profile. They had stripped out of their uniforms in a restroom, switching back into civilian clothes, and now hurried through the tree-lined paths of President's Park.
The Blackbird waited cloaked beneath the canopy, its sleek frame camouflaged by stealth panels. Even hidden, the craft looked predatory, a bird of prey crouched in shadow. Behind them, the White House still loomed — its north face scorched and battered but miraculously standing.
Jean pushed Charles' wheelchair up the slope toward the ship, her boots crunching in the frosted grass.
Halfway up, she slowed.
Something tugged. A faint ripple in the back of her mind.
Charles glanced up, reading her posture at once. "Jean? What is it?"
She turned, eyes lingering on the glowing silhouette of the White House. Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"He didn't come to win."
"Magneto?"
Jean nodded, her brow furrowed. "Those four he brought — Toad, Blob, Quicksilver, Wanda — they're dangerous, sure. But not enough to topple the U.S. government. Not enough to take this place down."
Charles' gaze deepened with interest.
Jean's hands tightened on the wheelchair handles. "It felt… staged. Like he wanted cameras there. Wanted attention. This wasn't about victory."
Her eyes hardened. "It was about something else."
She resumed pushing, silent, unsettled.
---
Elsewhere — Beneath the White House
Deep under the East Wing, fluorescent lights buzzed over a steel-lined chamber. The scene was carnage. Security consoles lay smashed, safes ripped open with surgical precision. Three guards sprawled lifeless, two others groaning faintly in pools of blood.
Empty folders littered the floor. Others — classified, top-clearance only — were gone.
A lone figure picked its way across the wreckage. It wore the black-and-gray uniform of a Secret Service agent, gloves tight around a slim binder no larger than a folder. The seal stamped on the cover glistened under the flickering lights — Top Federal Security Clearance.
At the stairwell, the figure stopped.
And changed.
The body rippled, blurred. Fabric melted into flesh, flesh into new shapes. The square jaw narrowed, cheekbones sharpened. Hair lengthened, darkened, curled.
When the distortion stilled, a woman stood in the agent's place. A senator, familiar to every news broadcast in America. Her posture perfect. Her face composed.
She smoothed her jacket, adjusted her glasses, and tucked the stolen binder under her arm.
Then she ascended the steps, passed through the front entrance of the White House…
…and not a single soul stopped her.
Not a guard. Not a camera. Not even the President's closest aides.
No one saw her.
Not yet.
To Be Continued...