Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters, Westchester County, New York

The old X-Mansion sat in quiet contrast to the bustling city life of New York, nestled in the vast greenery of Westchester County, a place of history and struggle, of battles fought and futures decided. The grand halls, the towering bookshelves in the study, the underground levels filled with technology beyond human comprehension—it all stood as a testament to what the X-Men had built and what they continued to fight for.

But at this very moment, inside one of the many common rooms, the battle being fought was one of frustration and sheer stubbornness.

Jubilee sat cross-legged on the couch, intensely focused, her hands gripping an Xbox controller like a lifeline. The screen in front of her displayed a fog-drenched battlefield, the towering figure of Radagon looming ominously over her digital warrior. The golden-red hue of his attacks flashed across the room as she dodged, rolled, and just barely survived another devastating hit.

“Jeez, they don’t play around… I’ve been stuck here for half an hour, and it’s probably gonna be a full hour!” Jubilee whined, thumbs furiously mashing the buttons as she attempted to stagger her towering foe.

On the opposite end of the room, Logan—Wolverine—sat reclined in a large, well-worn leather chair by the window. His boots were propped up on the ottoman, a glass of Buffalo Trace whiskey in one hand and a half-smoked cigar clenched between his teeth. The night beyond the window stretched endlessly, dark and cold, the faint lights of distant towns flickering like stars.

Without even glancing away from his drink, he grumbled, "Kid, can ya tone it down for a while? I’m tryin’ to have... a moment.”

Jubilee scoffed. “Uncle Wolvie, I can barely understand you with that stupid cigarette in your mouth.”

Logan exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, the scent of tobacco and oak-aged whiskey lingering in the air. “And I can barely hear ya yappin’ over these stupid magical knights on the screen. Never understood the appeal of these things ya kids play.”

Jubilee rolled her eyes, ducking under another god-sized hammer swing on-screen. “Yeah, and I never understood the appeal of suckin’ on a dry leaf.”

Wolverine chuckled lowly, shaking his head. "This is art, kid. This is an H. Upmann. Y'know, I got this back before the Embargo. Kennedy used to smoke these like—”

“Save the history lesson for Kitty, Wolvie. I’m really busy.”

“Whatever ya say, kid. Ya don’t appreciate life anyway, ya’re always buried in these stupid games.”

Jubilee smirked, barely dodging another attack. "I’ll put Jeopardy on for you, Gramps, if you stop botherin’ me."

Logan let out a low growl but didn’t argue further. Instead, he swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the dim light of the room.

Upstairs, in the quieter corridors of the mansion, Rogue stood alone in her room, staring at her reflection in the full-length mirror by the dresser. She wore a pair of Wrangler jeans and a snug-fitting green long-sleeved shirt, the sleeves slightly pushed up to her forearms. Her iconic white streak framed her face, falling over her shoulders like a ghostly reminder of everything she had been through.

But what stared back at her wasn’t just her. It was them—the pieces of people she had absorbed, the fragments of their voices still lingering in her mind.

Every so often, it came back.

The surge of memories that weren’t hers—Mar-Vell’s wisdom, her father’s voice, her mother’s disappointment, the pain of the ones she had drained,then there was those uniquely hers the haunting echoes of her time with Mystique and Destiny.

Her jaw tightened. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides.

Then—

CRACK.

The sound of wood splintering beneath her fingertips brought her back. Her hands had dug into the edges of her dresser, leaving fresh dents beside the others she had already made.

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head.

"God dang it, not again."

She lifted her fingers, looking at the new marks she had left on the worn wooden surface.

"Ah have to stop thinkin’ 'bout 'em… It’s drivin’ me insane."

She inhaled deeply, trying to refocus.

"Focus... focus."

Then, a voice—gentle, yet strong.

"Rogue."

She turned, startled for a moment.

Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, was Ororo Munroe—Storm. The tall, regal woman stood with effortless grace, dressed in a sleek, black and silver bodysuit, the large white X on her chest marking her authority as one of the X-Men’s core leaders. Her piercing blue eyes held understanding, yet a quiet sternness.

"‘Ro?" Rogue blinked, surprised. "Ah didn’t know Ah left the door open."

Storm offered a knowing smile. "Don’t worry. I didn’t aim to interrupt you at all."

Rogue sighed, shaking her head. "Oh, don’t make a fuss on it, ‘Ro. Ah’m thinkin’ is all, y’know how it goes, right?"

Storm’s gaze shifted, her eyes landing on the damaged drawer behind Rogue.

"You’re having problems with your memory again, young lady?"

Rogue hesitated. "Ah wouldn’t call it problems... more like... echoes of unwanted pasts."

Storm tilted her head slightly. "Quite poetic."

Rogue smirked faintly. "Well, Ah wasn’t thinkin’ ‘bout poetry, but yeah, Ah reckon it might be."

Storm stepped forward. "Have you worked on your compartmentalization?"

Rogue crossed her arms, leaning against the dresser. "Yeah, it’s comin’ along just fine."

Storm’s gaze didn’t waver. "Are you sure?"

Rogue forced a smile. "Oh absolutely, don’t worry ‘bout it. Ah’m peachy."

Before Storm could respond, there was a knock at the door.

Jubilee, still in her oversized hoodie, poked her head in, chewing gum like she was waiting for something entertaining to happen.

"Stormy, Roguey—One-Eye wants us in the war room in fifteen minutes. Get your uniform and badge, he says…"

Rogue raised a brow. "The costume?"

Storm sighed. "Rogue."

"What? Ah don’t recall we goin’ through the academy to get badges."

Jubilee snorted. "Technically, we kinda did, Roguey. Mine is just shinier than yours, and you’re mad about it."

Rogue rolled her eyes. "Jubes, that ain’t a badge. That’s a... symbol. Anyone smarter than a box of rocks knows ya can’t be a cop."

"Well, I’m not a cop."

"So don’t call it a badge, call it an insignia or somethin’."

"Whatever, girl, just get in your costume or whatever."

Storm sighed. "Can you two ever behave?"

Jubilee smirked. "Stormy, half of my life is annoyin’ her, bein’ badass and fun, bein’ a great gamer, dancer, host, guest—I mean, I’m very good at multitaskin’."

Rogue groaned. "Jubes, shut up."

Jubilee grinned. "Alrighty, Cranky Belle. Let’s go before Fearless Leader comes for me, Stormy."

Storm gave a knowing smirk. "I’m right behind you, Jubilation."

Jubilee threw her hands up. "Amazin'."

And with that, the night at Xavier’s continued.

As the voices faded down the hall, Rogue found herself alone once more in the quiet of her room. The air inside was still, save for the faint hum of the mansion’s heating system, the occasional creak of the wooden floors, and the muffled sounds of chatter from downstairs.

She let out a slow breath, turning toward the full-length mirror again—not to dwell on her reflection this time, but to focus. One day at a time, she told herself. That was how she dealt with it.

Reaching down, she peeled off her Wrangler jeans and slipped out of her green long-sleeve shirt, leaving them draped over the bed. The dim lamp cast a warm glow over the room, illuminating the subtle imperfections in the furniture—the small dents in the dresser, the scratches along the floorboards, all remnants of past frustrations.

She turned to her closet and pushed aside a few casual jackets before pulling out her uniform—the dark green bodysuit with white stripes running down the sides and arms. The material was sturdy but flexible, designed for both protection and movement. Embroidered on the chest was the unmistakable white X insignia, a symbol of what she represented, even when she didn’t always agree with it.

She slid into the bodysuit, zipping it up smoothly before reaching for the next piece—the brown leather jacket. A classic, broken in from years of wear, with a red-on-black X-patch sewn onto the shoulder. It was more than just a part of the uniform; it was hers, something she’d chosen to make her own.

Then came the gloves—long, fitted, matching the suit. She stretched her fingers inside them, ensuring there were no gaps. Even after all these years, she still hated wearing them, but there was no room for mistakes.

She took one last look in the mirror, adjusting the jacket over her shoulders.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"One day at a time."

With that, she grabbed her belt, secured her communicator, and stepped out into the hall, her boots clicking against the polished hardwood floor as she made her way downstairs.

As she descended, the sounds of conversation grew louder. The chatter from before had evolved into an exchange—one that had Remy LeBeau’s name written all over it.

"Say, Wolverine, what is dat ya have dere?" Gambit’s smooth, unmistakable Cajun drawl drifted through the room, laced with playful mischief.

Logan, still in his recliner, grunted as he flicked his cigar between his fingers. "That, Gumbo, is none of your business."

Gambit smirked, stepping forward in his usual long brown trench coat, his red-on-black eyes flicking toward the cigar with interest. "Is dat a Cohiba?"

Logan scowled. "It’s an H. Upmann. If ya’re gonna jaw off, jaw it right…"

"Cigarettes is where it’s at, these big sturdy—"

"Ahem."

The two men turned toward the interruption as Rogue stepped into view, crossing her arms.

Logan’s grin widened. "Great, how much of that ya got, Stripes?"

She rolled her eyes, brushing past them. "Ah don’t know what an Upmann or Cohiba is, and Ah don’t wanna know."

"Cher, maybe ya shouldn’t join us for de cigars, non?" Gambit teased, twirling a single playing card between his fingers like a magician preparing a trick.

Rogue shot him a flat look. "Remy, Ah ain’t gonna smoke with ya. Get a life."

"Why not, huh? We could be smoke partners."

She let out a sharp laugh. "Outta all things ya could invite me to, that’s yer idea of partnership, Remy?" She sighed, shaking her head before shifting the conversation. "By the way, Cyclops wants us in the War Room. Any idea what for?"

Gambit shrugged, leaning against the counter with a lazy ease. "Hmmm, maybe it’s ‘bout dat info de Texan give us."

Rogue raised a brow. "The Alamo?"

"Whatever," Gambit said, waving a dismissive hand. "Gambit don’t care ‘bout no cowboy."

Rogue rolled her eyes but couldn't help the faint smirk tugging at her lips.

"Eugh." She shook her head.

Logan, watching the interaction with a knowing look, leaned back in his chair. "Ya good, Stripes?"

She exhaled, crossing her arms. "Sure, Logan. Ah’m fine."

He studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a small nod, he grunted, "Suit yourself, darlin’."

She gave him a nod in return. "Thanks, sugah. Ah’m fine."

Then—

"Rogue! Gambit! Wolverine!"

Jubilee’s voice rang out from the hallway, loud and impatient.

"We’re goin’, Sparkles," Logan muttered, pressing his cigar against his palm before dropping it into the ashtray. He knocked back the rest of his whiskey in one go, then rose from his chair with a slow, deliberate movement.

He stretched his arms, cracking his knuckles. "Better not be another useless briefing, or I’m gonna pop a claw at Summers for wastin’ my time."

"Try not to stab our fearless leader, mon ami," Gambit quipped, slipping his hands into his coat pockets. "He still got work to do."

The three of them made their way toward the underground levels of the mansion, where the War Room was located. The long corridors were lined with artwork, bookshelves, and the occasional framed photograph of X-Men past and present. The lighting was dimmer here, softer, unlike the clinical brightness of the lower levels where the tech-heavy rooms awaited.

As they approached the reinforced metal doors of the War Room, Rogue glanced at Gambit, who was casually flipping a playing card between his fingers.

"So, ya really ain't curious 'bout the The Alamo?" she asked, amusement in her voice.

Gambit smirked. "Non, cher. Gambit just don’t like Texas much."

"Oh, Ah’m sure that’s it," she drawled.

Gambit simply winked.

The doors slid open with a soft mechanical hiss, revealing the large strategic operations center of the X-Men. The room was bathed in a blue glow from the holographic displays, casting shifting light against the metal surfaces.

And there, standing at the head of the table, arms crossed in his signature battle-ready stance, was Cyclops. His visor gleamed under the overhead lights, his expression as serious as ever.

"You’re late," he said.

Logan smirked. "Had to finish my drink, Slim."

"We got here, didn’t we?" Rogue added.

Cyclops exhaled, shaking his head. "Take a seat. We’ve got intel to go over."

The War Room was dimly lit, the soft blue glow of holographic displays casting shifting patterns over the steel walls. The large, circular table at the center was surrounded by some of the most experienced members of the X-Men—each of them battle-worn yet ever-prepared for the next challenge. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and the faint hum of electronic systems running in the background. The room smelled of mission planning, of strategy, of war.

At the head of the table stood Cyclops, his posture as rigid as always, arms crossed over his chest as he examined the briefing materials. His visor glowed faintly, the red hue reflecting off the metallic surfaces of the room.

Dr. Hank McCoy—Beast—stood by the holographic projector, one large, fur-covered hand flipping through the digital slides with calculated precision. His glasses, despite their durability, sat slightly askew on his nose, and his expression was a mix of curiosity and concern as he prepared to relay the gathered intelligence.

To Cyclops’s right sat Jean Grey, her red hair catching the faint blue light of the displays. She sat with perfect posture, arms lightly resting on the table, her gaze calm but piercing.

To the left, Storm sat in quiet regality, her white hair cascading down her back, her fingers steepled as she listened intently.

Beside her, Rogue leaned back slightly, arms crossed, eyes flicking between the projector and Scott. Her jacket was unzipped slightly, the high collar framing her face as she observed with quiet intensity.

Next to her, Jubilee twirled a pen between her fingers, bouncing her knee up and down impatiently.

Across from them, Gambit sat slouched in his chair, one arm resting lazily along the back of the seat, a playing card flipping effortlessly between his fingers.

Beast adjusted his glasses, his almost lion like face looked outworldly with the round small glasses giving the air of a sage from a fantasy book.

"I spoke with Warren," Cyclops began, his tone measured and serious. "He gave an overview of the documents we found in Arkansas after that tip we got from—"

Before he could finish, Jubilee practically shot forward in her seat, grinning.

"THE ALAMO!"

The sudden outburst made Scott close his eyes momentarily, his patience visibly thinning.

"Could you not interrupt me, Jubilation?"

Jubilee leaned back, throwing her hands up. "My bad, fearless leader."

Cyclops exhaled, shaking his head slightly before continuing.

"As I was saying, the destruction burned off some important evidence and scattered the personnel from Carraro. Some ran, others are in police custody, and we’re being blocked from interrogating them. So I’m unsure whether this Alamo has actually helped… or complicated our objectives."

Beast nodded, tapping the control panel to change the slide. The hologram shifted, revealing a digital dossier of a man in his late forties—Christopher Henderson. A lean, spectacled accountant with a rigid posture and a forced corporate smile, his image floated beside a map marking several locations.

"As of right now, Warren was able to provide us with information about an accountant named Christopher Henderson. He was working for Carraro from his firm in Detroit. If we find him, he can point us to major interest points. There are known Carraro sites in locations like Houston and Chicago, but if we don’t build a strong case against Trask, he’ll burn the bridges and simply vanish."

Jean, her eyes narrowing slightly, leaned forward. "And if that happens…"

"The Sentinel project will continue—at the hands of other factions, if not the Friends of Humanity."

The room grew heavy with that realization.

Gambit, ever the one to cut the tension, flicked his playing card into the air and caught it effortlessly.

"So, wat do we do now, boss?"

Cyclops folded his arms.

"Well, as of right now, Jean and I will coordinate from here with two teams," he said, his tone never wavering. "I want Ororo to lead an incursion to Henderson’s office. We must find what he knows and who exactly we can go after to stop the FoH and finally arrest Trask."

His gaze shifted.

"Storm, Wolverine, and Beast—you’re heading to Detroit."

Storm gave a firm nod. "Understood, Scott."

Wolverine simply grunted, arms crossed. "Bout damn time we hit somethin’ useful."

Cyclops nodded before shifting his focus.

"The second team is going to check on a depot we extracted from Alamo’s data. There’s a similar warehouse in Orlando to what we found in Arkansas. If the intel is accurate, they could be housing Sentinels and Sentinel equipment."

He turned to Rogue.

"Rogue will lead the team with Jubilee and Gambit."

That got a reaction.

Gambit’s brow raised. "Rogue? But Gambit is older and more experienced."

Before Scott could answer, Rogue smirked.

"Remy, old ain’t always better, sugah."

Scott’s visor gleamed as he turned toward Gambit.

"Gambit, your reckless behavior and attitude in prior leadership missions has stopped me from choosing you, regardless of experience. Rogue is better suited to lead this time."

Gambit let out a scoff, shaking his head. "Couyon."

Jubilee leaned back in her chair, grinning. "Don’t be sad, Remy, Ah’ll treat ya nice an’ all."

Gambit muttered something in Cajun French under his breath. "Dis some bullshit if I ever heard some."

Jubilee giggled. "Hah, Roguey leadin’? Now I gotta agree with Remy here."

Scott’s patience was visibly wearing thin.

"Jubilation."

She winced. "Sorry, Scott."

Rogue, despite her usual tough front, felt a spark of something she hadn’t felt in a while—recognition.

"Well, Ah’ll show y’all what leadership is."

Across the table, Storm smiled softly.

"That’s what we are aiming for, Rogue. You’ve proved yourself time and time again. You are strong, and we believe this is a good opportunity for improvement."

Rogue hesitated only briefly before nodding. "Much appreciated, ‘Ro."

Jean leaned forward slightly. "And we are testing new field leaders. People that can inspire new generations. Do your best, and we will take notice. But if you fail, we’ll also take notice."

Jubilee scoffed, crossing her arms.

"Remind me to not apply to be a leader."

Gambit smirked, tilting his head toward her. "Petite, ya barely got out of diapers."

Jubilee bolted up in her seat.

"I’M EIGHTEEN, YOU ASSHOLE!"

Scott rubbed his temples.

"JUBILATION."

Jubilee sank back into her chair. "Sorry, Scott."

Cyclops straightened.

"I’ll pilot the Blackbird and drop you at the possible LZs, then monitor your performance. But remember—this mission is important. Mutantkind relies on us to protect them. If we fail, all mutants lose. But I trust your capacity to handle this."

He looked at each of them.

"Now, let’s move."

And with that, the X-Men stood, ready for war.

The Blackbird was the pinnacle of advanced aircraft engineering—a sleek, modern jet with its signature black exterior, streamlined for both stealth and speed. Its windows, tinted with a faint red hue, cast a dim glow over the interior as the aircraft hummed with quiet but immense power. It was a jet designed for war, not leisure, but for the X-Men, it had become as familiar as home.

Inside, the cabin was illuminated by the soft glow of control panels, casting flickering lights against the metallic walls. The low hum of the engines thrummed beneath them, creating a steady rhythm of anticipation.

Rogue sat toward the back, her arms crossed, her gloved fingers tapping lightly against her biceps. Jubilee was settled next to her, legs tucked under herself as she leaned back in her seat, chewing a piece of gum and absentmindedly kicking her foot against the base of the chair.

Across from them, Gambit sat with his trench coat draped over the back of his seat, lazily flipping a single playing card between his fingers, letting it roll fluidly over his knuckles before making it vanish, then reappear between his fingers.

Jubilee tilted her head toward Rogue, watching her for a moment before asking,

"Are you nervous, Roguey?"

Rogue blinked, as if pulled from her thoughts.

"Nervous…?" Her green eyes flickered toward the cockpit, where Scott and Jean sat monitoring the flight systems. She exhaled, her gaze briefly unfocused. "Maybe a bit."

Jubilee grinned, nudging her playfully.

"We’re goin’ to the beaches, Roguey—maybe we can even get some Margaritas, like in that stupid Jimmy Buffett song."

Rogue’s brow lifted.

"Margaritaville?"

"Yeah! Wolvie listens to that shit sometimes."

Rogue stared at her, unblinking.

"No way Logan listens to Margaritaville."

Jubilee threw her hands up.

"I swear to God."

Rogue shook her head in disbelief.

"Jesus." Then she furrowed her brow. "Also, it’s Orlando, Jubes—there ain’t no beaches in Orlando. It’s Central Florida, not Miami."

Jubilee paused mid-chew, narrowing her eyes.

"Wait, what?"

Rogue smirked.

"Yeah, Jubes, ya silly. It ain’t Key Largo.... it's like Walt Disney World"

Jubilee let out a dramatic groan, throwing her head back.

"Noooo! I don't like Mickey Mouse! He's so creepy."

Gambit smirked, shaking his head as he continued flipping the card between his fingers.

"Settle down, petite, Gambit can’t hear his thoughts."

Jubilee huffed, slumping in her seat.

"Damn, I expected like a mini-vacation."

Rogue chuckled.

"No Jubes, no mini-vacations. Not even to EPCOT"

Jubilee exhaled dramatically.

"Damn it. Not even to the Star Wars rides?"

"Afraid not, Jubes" Rogue patted her back.

The steady hum of the jet filled the cabin, mingling with the occasional sound of buttons being pressed in the cockpit. The cabin lights flickered slightly as the aircraft adjusted altitude.

Rogue leaned her head back against the seat, staring at the ceiling. It wasn’t fear she felt—it was something else. Responsibility, maybe. Scott putting her in charge wasn’t something she had expected, and part of her still wasn’t sure if it was a mistake or not.

Jubilee, now occupying herself by blowing small pink bubbles with her gum, had curled into the seat slightly, her yellow tech wear jacket bunched around her.

The silence was broken by the voice of Cyclops, firm and authoritative.

"We are approaching Detroit. Storm, get your team ready."

Storm’s silver-white hair shimmered under the dim cabin lights as she stood smoothly, her black-and-silver uniform pristine, the X insignia displayed proudly on her chest.

She turned toward Wolverine and Beast, her voice calm yet commanding.

"Logan, Hank… with me."

Logan pushed himself up from his seat, cracking his neck with a roll of his shoulders.

"Sure, darlin’."

Beast adjusted his glasses before rising as well.

"We are with you, Ororo," he said, his deep voice as measured as ever.

The three of them moved toward the hatch, preparing for their drop zone as the jet began its descent toward Detroit.