Chapter 10
The room was wide, circular, and humming with quiet energy. White walls curving like a ribcage, sleek and sterile, but there was a weight to the place—something that felt like both a war room and a sanctuary. Logan leaned back against the far wall, arms crossed, cigar rolling at the corner of his mouth, watching. Always watching.
Xavier's voice cut through the silence, calm and commanding.
"Welcome. Each of you has been brought here because the world is changing… and you are part of that change. Allow me to introduce you."
The first to step forward was a tall woman with skin dark as polished bronze, hair white as snow, and eyes the color of a stormcloud about to break. She carried herself like a goddess that had wandered into the room by mistake—majestic, unshaken, but curious. Her new suit clung like a second skin, black trimmed with gold, flowing cape trailing like a thunderhead.
"This is Ororo Munroe," Xavier said, pride in his tone. "But you may call her Storm. She commands the weather itself. The skies answer to her will."
Ororo smiled faintly, her hands trailing across the fabric of her cape. "It is… wondrous," she said softly. "I have never worn such a thing."
Next came a mountain of a man, young face square and honest, with a shock of dark hair. His body looked carved from steel even before the suit formed around him—black with silver lines that mirrored his armored form. When he shifted, his skin glimmered, transforming in a ripple into organic metal.
"Piotr Nikolaievitch Rasputin," Xavier introduced. "You may call him Colossus. His body can transform into living steel. Strength and resilience beyond measure."
Piotr touched the fabric of his uniform, a grin tugging his mouth. "It fits perfectly," he said in thickly accented English, voice full of awe. "Like it was made for me."
"That is because it was," Xavier replied. "The suits are composed of adaptive molecules. They adjust to you as naturally as skin."
A ripple of laughter drifted from the next figure: tall, wiry, sandy-haired, with a roguish glint in his eye. He wore green and yellow, lines sharp and theatrical. His smile was just shy of cocky.
"Sean Cassidy, the Banshee," Xavier said. "His voice is both weapon and shield. A sonic scream that can shatter steel—or carry him through the sky."
Banshee tipped an imaginary hat. "Good to be here, Professor. Though I hope there'll be less screamin' and more drinkin' when we're off duty."
Then came a shadow where there shouldn't have been one. Small, lithe, his skin indigo blue, tail swishing lazily behind him. Two glowing yellow eyes gleamed from beneath the cowl of his suit, black and red with a priestly cut to it. He stepped forward with impossible grace, every movement too smooth, too exact, like a predator disguised as a clown.
"Kurt Wagner," Xavier said warmly. "Nightcrawler. His gift is teleportation, but do not be deceived—his agility, reflexes, and spirit are just as formidable."
Nightcrawler bowed with a flourish, smile sharp-toothed but kind. "Enchanté, meine Freunde," he said in a velvet purr. "It seems I am in excellent company."
Logan narrowed his eyes at him, and that's when it happened again. The shiver. Like claws running down his spine. His instincts flared. His vision seemed sharper, his body already adjusting, senses twitching like something just snapped into place. Reflexes—not like Wendigo's, all brute speed and muscle—but something subtler, quicker. The way the world tilted when Nightcrawler moved, how his presence demanded anticipation. Logan didn't say a word, but he filed the sensation away.
From the back, a lean man in red and white leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes sharp with disdain. His suit was crisp, almost regal, but he wore it like a burden.
"Shiro Yoshida," Xavier introduced. "Sunfire. He commands plasma and flame, his very body a furnace."
Sunfire gave a curt nod. "Do not mistake me for a servant," he said flatly. "I am here for my people, not your dream."
The last to step forward was a broad-shouldered Apache warrior, face stern and unflinching, his suit crimson and blue, with eagle motifs spread across his chest.
"John Proudstar, the Thunderbird," Xavier said. "His power is raw strength, speed, and senses honed by his people's ways. He is a warrior, through and through."
Thunderbird crossed his arms, glaring at the room. "Don't mistake me for a tame animal," he growled. "You want me here, I'll fight. But I ain't here to play dress-up."
Logan smirked around his cigar, exhaling smoke. "Kid's got bite," he muttered under his breath.
Xavier, unfazed by the sparks between them all, rolled his chair to the center. "You are all X-Men now. This is your home, your team, your family. Alone, each of you is powerful. Together, you are unstoppable."
The room was silent for a long moment, each of them weighing the words, measuring each other. Logan leaned back, watching the storm brewers, the steel giant, the sonic knight, the devil acrobat, the flame-born, the warrior—all strangers, all dangerous, all now bound by the same name.
And for the first time in a long time, he felt something stirring inside him that wasn't anger.