The Blackbird hovered over the Detroit skyline, its sleek black hull blending into the night, the only evidence of its presence being the soft distortion of air beneath it. Below, the city sprawled in a tapestry of industrial grays and the occasional glint of neon reflecting off the Detroit River. The rhythmic hum of machinery and distant sounds of traffic filled the air, but above all of it, the X-Men prepared for deployment.

Inside the jet, Cyclops remained seated in the cockpit, his hands steady over the controls as he monitored their insertion point. The Icon, one of Detroit’s modern landmarks, loomed in the distance, its illuminated structure casting faint glows over the water below. The mission was surgical—get in, extract Henderson, and get out before Carraro or the Friends of Humanity could react.

But Wolverine, of course, had other ideas.

Already standing by the Blackbird’s rear exit, Logan reached out and pressed the button to lower the ramp before Scott could even issue final orders.

"Logan!" Scott’s voice carried through the comms, edged with irritation.

Wolverine didn’t bother looking back. The metallic hiss of the ramp lowering filled the space as cold night air rushed in, rustling his yellow-and-black uniform. His claws flexed slightly, not out of aggression but instinct. He loved this part.

"Don’t worry, Slim," he muttered with a smirk. "‘Ro will catch me on the fall, right, darlin’?"

"Logan—"

But before Storm could even finish her protest, he jumped.

For a brief second, there was silence.

Then a blur of black and yellow dropped like a missile toward the city below.

Jubilee and Gambit, still seated, exchanged a glance. Jubilee, halfway through chewing a piece of gum, blinked in disbelief.

"Y’all know what they say," Gambit muttered, lazily shuffling a playing card between his fingers. "The best there is."

Jubilee exhaled. "Uncle Wolvie’s gonna kill himself one of these days."

"He can’t die, petite," Gambit replied with an easy grin.

Rogue, still seated with her arms crossed, only smirked.

Before another word could be spoken, Storm was already gone—her regal figure slipping into the night like a ghost. The Blackbird’s interior suddenly felt quieter without her presence.

"Petulant little man," Storm muttered to herself as she glided effortlessly into the descent.

Meanwhile, Beast, still standing calmly in the back of the jet, adjusted his parachute with a level of refined elegance that only Hank McCoy could manage. His uniform—black and blue with a massive golden X on his chest—was crisp, perfectly fitted, as if he were attending a formal event rather than plummeting into a potential combat zone.

With a dignified nod, he turned toward Cyclops. "So uncivilized. I will return with good data, Mr. Summers."

Cyclops gave a small nod, still monitoring the descent. "I trust you, Dr. McCoy."

And with that, Beast stepped off the edge.

Jubilee leaned over slightly, watching his form flip once midair before spreading out into a textbook-perfect skydiving position.

"And there goes the Blue Lion," she muttered.

Wolverine had always loved this feeling—the wind roaring past him, the sharp sting of air against his face, the thrill of free-falling without hesitation. It was freedom. Pure, unfiltered freedom. The world blurred past him as he dropped, his sharp eyes open wide, taking in every detail below. His muscles tensed, not in fear, but in anticipation.

And then, Storm was there.

She caught him effortlessly, her power guiding their descent like a natural extension of herself. Her platinum-white hair barely moved in the wind, her cloak billowing behind her as she maneuvered them through the air with surgical precision.

"Logan, stop with these childish tricks," she chided, though there was no real malice in her voice—just that regal disappointment that only Storm could master.

Wolverine smirked, arms crossed as she carried him. "Ain’t no trick, darlin’… it’s what we used to do in the 1st Airborne."

Storm sighed, her eyes rolling just slightly. "Logan, save me the trouble of lecturing you and just please say ‘Yes, ma’am’."

He chuckled. "Alright… Yes, ma’am… whatever ya say."

As she reached their designated landing point, she lowered him with ease, his boots touching down on the rooftop of a nearby industrial building. He landed with a crouch, immediately surveying the area, his nose twitching as he caught the scents of oil, steel, and distant gunpowder.

A few seconds later, Beast landed.

Unlike Logan, his approach was calculated—controlled. The parachute unfurled only seconds before impact, and rather than the landing being harsh or jarring, he tucked himself into a graceful roll, distributing the momentum perfectly before rising smoothly to his feet. Had it been anyone else, such a fall so close to the ground would’ve broken every joint in their body.

Not Hank McCoy.

Storm landed shortly after, her feet touching the rooftop with the grace of a queen stepping onto marble.

Wolverine tilted his head toward Beast, smirking slightly.

"Couldn’t ya just jump without this parachute, Hank?"

Beast adjusted his sleeves, his expression perfectly composed. "Of course, but I prefer a landing that doesn’t vandalize the public infrastructure or stress the body over unnecessary showmanship."

Logan snorted, rolling his neck. "Yeah, whatever, just let’s go see these people…"

Storm ignored their banter, already turning toward the glowing lights in the distance. From their vantage point, they could see the Carraro-owned office building standing just a few blocks away, its windows reflecting the hazy glow of streetlamps and neon signs. It looked quiet, too quiet.

That was always a bad sign.

"The office is close by," Storm said, her voice carrying authority. "Logan, Hank… be prepared. We could find resistance."

Logan exhaled, popping his knuckles. His adamantium claws snikted out with a soft metallic whisper.

"Good," he growled, a wolfish grin stretching across his face. "Hope we do."

Beast adjusted his glasses. "Let’s at least attempt to handle this civilly before we engage in one of your usual rampages, Logan."

Logan smirked, tilting his head. "No promises, Blue."

Storm took a step forward, her piercing blue eyes narrowing as she surveyed their objective. "Then let’s move."

The trio of X-Men—Storm, Wolverine, and Beast—stood outside the modest office building, the afternoon Detroit air heavy with the faint smell of rubber and steel. The old industrial city, once the beating heart of American automotive innovation, felt like a ghost of its former self. The building in question was nondescript, a boxy brick structure with tinted windows and a faded sign that read "Henderson Accounting" in small, unimpressive lettering.

Logan sniffed the air, his enhanced senses scanning for danger. "Detroit ain’t the same it used to be," he muttered, lighting a cigar.

Storm adjusted her cloak and glanced at the building’s facade, her silver hair catching the weak sunlight. "Few companies still operate out of Detroit," she said, her voice calm yet commanding. "This location raises questions."

Beast, ever the intellectual, stroked his blue-furred chin. His leonine face was thoughtful, his posture straight as a soldier's. "A puzzling choice indeed," he remarked. "Detroit lacks the glamour of other cities and doesn’t offer the kind of anonymity one might expect. There must be a logistical reason, perhaps proximity to certain supply chains or—"

"They don’t wanna be bothered, furrball," Logan cut in gruffly, exhaling a plume of smoke. "They’re hidin’ out where no one thinks to look. It’s obvious."

"Whatever their reasoning, we must proceed with caution," Storm said. Her eyes glinted as she surveyed the area. "Our objective is clear: we need information on the Friends of Humanity’s operations. Their accountant and lieutenants will have what we need."

"Yeah, yeah, Stormy. Let’s just get this over with," Logan growled, stubbing his cigar on his boot.

The trio approached the glass doors, their footsteps echoing against the cracked pavement. Inside, the reception area was sterile and empty, save for a young woman sitting nervously behind a desk. She looked up, startled, as the imposing figures of the X-Men entered. Her eyes darted nervously between Logan’s rugged scowl, Storm’s regal demeanor, and Beast’s towering, furred frame.

"Greetings," Beast said with a polite bow, his voice a deep, rolling baritone. "My name is Dr. McCoy, and my associates and I wish to speak with Mr. Henderson and his associates."

The receptionist blinked, clearly unnerved by his articulate manner. "I-I’m sorry," she stammered, her fingers twitching toward the phone. "Mr. Henderson isn’t available right now."

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Logan growled softly, his claws itching to spring out. "Listen, darlin’. We ain’t here for you. We’re here for Henderson. So you can either let us in, or you can let us in. Your choice."

The receptionist recoiled slightly, her chair squeaking as she instinctively leaned back. Her voice trembled. "Are you… mutants?"

Beast smiled, a warm yet intimidating expression given his appearance. "Yes, my dear, we are indeed mutants," he said, his tone soothing. "But rest assured, we mean you no harm."

The woman’s face paled. "You… you should go. Please, I’ll call the police if you don’t leave."

"Please don’t do that," Storm said, stepping forward. Her voice carried a calm authority that filled the room like the first rumble of a distant storm. "We’re not here to cause trouble. We need information, and then we will leave."

"I-I don’t know anything!" the receptionist insisted, her voice cracking.

Logan had had enough. Without waiting for further discussion, he strode past the desk and pushed open the door to the inner office area. "Don’t worry, we’ll find him ourselves," he said over his shoulder.

The woman let out a panicked squeak, reaching for the phone.

"Please don’t," Storm said gently, placing a hand on the desk. Her white eyes flickered ominously as if a storm were about to manifest indoors. "We do not wish to frighten you. There is no need to call anyone."

The receptionist froze, her hand hovering over the receiver. "P-please don’t hurt me."

Beast offered her a small bow. "You have my word, dear lady. We are here to help, not to harm."

Logan’s gruff voice echoed from down the hall. "Found somethin’. Office door says Henderson, but it’s locked."

Storm and Beast exchanged glances before following him. They found Logan standing in front of a door marked "Accountant," his fists balled and his claws just beginning to emerge.

"Allow me," Beast said, pulling a small set of lockpicking tools from his belt.

"No" Logan smirked, kicking the door down before Hank could proceed with the lockpicking.

"So brutish" Dr. McCoy shook his head.

Inside, the office was modest and unassuming, with a desk covered in papers and ledgers. A faint smell of stale coffee hung in the air. Beast immediately moved to the desk, his keen eyes scanning the documents.

"What do we have?" Storm asked, standing near the door to keep watch.

Beast’s fingers moved deftly through the papers. "Ledgers, invoices, and… ah, here we are. Payment records for Trask International. It seems Mr. Henderson has been quite diligent in his accounting."

Logan snorted. "Diligent, huh? Let’s see if he’s diligent about keepin’ his teeth when we find him."

Storm frowned. "Logan, we’re not here to harm anyone unnecessarily. Our goal is information, not retribution."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," Logan muttered, crossing his arms. "But I wouldn’t mind makin’ an example outta one of these creeps."

As Beast continued sorting through the documents, a faint sound echoed from further inside the building—a soft scuffle of footsteps. The trio froze, their senses on high alert.

"Someone’s here," Logan growled, sniffing the air. "Two, maybe three of ‘em."

"Then we proceed carefully," Storm said, her voice firm. "Logan, you take point."

"Gladly," he said, unsheathing his claws with a menacing snikt.

The X-Men moved silently through the corridors, their footsteps muffled by the worn carpet. The tension in the air was palpable as they approached the source of the noise. A door at the end of the hallway was slightly ajar, light spilling out into the dim corridor.

Logan pushed the door open with one clawed hand, revealing three men huddled over a table covered in maps and schematics. They looked up in alarm, their eyes wide as they took in the sight of the mutants.

"Evenin’, boys," Logan said, his grin more feral than friendly. "We’ve got some questions for ya."

"You’re not supposed to be here," one of the men stammered, his eyes darting between Logan’s claws and the imposing figures of Storm and Beast.

"Too bad I am," Logan growled, stepping further into the room, his claws gleaming in the fluorescent light. He cracked his neck, his feral grin widening. "Now, we can do this the easy way or—"

Snikt.

"—the fun way."

The accountant, a middle-aged man in a sweat-stained shirt, immediately threw his hands up. "Look, man, no need to—"

"Talk, bub," Logan interrupted, his voice low and menacing. He stepped closer, the claws on his right hand just inches from the accountant's trembling chest. "We got questions, and you’re gonna answer ‘em. Start talkin’, now."

The accountant opened his mouth to respond, but before he could utter a word, the door to the office burst open. Several men in tactical gear, each bearing the distinct insignia of the Friends of Humanity, stormed in, weapons raised.

"X-Men!" one of them barked, his voice laced with venom. "Take them out!"

Storm’s eyes began to glow white as she raised her hands, summoning wind to disarm their attackers. "You dare bring violence into this place?" she thundered. "Then you shall face the wrath of the storm!"

The room erupted into chaos as the lieutenants of the FoH charged in. Logan didn’t wait for anyone to make the first move. With a feral roar, he launched himself at the nearest man, claws slashing through his weapon like it was paper. The lieutenant screamed as Logan tossed him across the room, sending him crashing into a stack of filing cabinets.

"Showtime," Logan muttered, diving into the fray.

Storm unleashed a gust of wind that sent two more attackers flying against the walls. The force knocked their weapons from their hands, rendering them helpless. She turned to Beast, who had already leapt into action, his massive frame moving with surprising agility.

"Hank, secure the accountant!" she commanded.

"On it!" Beast replied, bounding across the room. He reached for the cowering accountant, who was trying to slip out through a side door. With a single leap, Beast landed in front of him, blocking his escape.

"Going somewhere?" Beast asked, his voice calm but firm. He grabbed the man by the collar and hoisted him off the ground. "We have a few questions, and you’ll find it most beneficial to cooperate."

One of the lieutenants, a burly man with a shaved head, managed to recover his footing and charged at Storm with a combat knife. She turned just in time, her white eyes narrowing. With a flick of her wrist, she summoned a lightning bolt that struck the blade, sending a powerful jolt through the man’s body. He collapsed to the ground, convulsing, but alive... barely.

"Do not test me," she said coldly.

"Ororo!" Dr.McCoy exclaimed, his tone carrying a warning.

"The charge won't be enough to execute him, Doctor" Storm added.

"What if he has a pacemaker?" The blue doctor asked.

"Then he picked one hell of a career" Logan snarled.

Another lieutenant aimed a rifle at Beast, who was still holding the accountant. Before he could fire, Logan appeared behind him, claws slashing through the rifle barrel. The weapon fell to the ground in pieces.

"Don’t even think about it, bub," Logan snarled, he grabbed the man's head and slammed against the wall, teeth falling down as he did it.

"Logan!"

"Don't worry, Doc... Somewhere there is a very happy dentist." Logan smirked.

Beast set the accountant down but kept a firm grip on his shoulder. "Now then," he said, his tone almost conversational, "let’s have that chat, shall we?"

"Wait, wait!" the accountant pleaded, his voice high-pitched with fear. "I’ll talk, I’ll talk! Just don’t let him claw me!"

Logan smirked. "Start talkin’, then. Who’s funding this operation? What’s Trask’s role in all this?"

The accountant hesitated, glancing nervously at the unconscious bodies of his comrades. "Trask… Trask is using Carraro as a front. They funnel money and equipment through shell companies to avoid detection. The Everglades depot you hit was one of many. They’ve got warehouses in Michigan, Kansas, and… and Canada."

"Canada?" Storm repeated, her eyes narrowing. "What are they doing there?"

"I-I don’t know!" the accountant stammered. "I just handle the numbers, I swear! But they’re planning something big. Something involving—" Before the accountant could finish, another man showed up with a shotgun, he aimed at Storm, but Wolverine jumped as he shot hit his chest on the padded yellow fabric.

"Ya're outta luck, bub" He sprung into action taking the gun from his hand and cutting it in half with his claws. "That is no way to treat a lady. Ya're lucky I'm in a good mood" WIth that he punches the man squarely in the chin, the guard falls to the ground unconscious.

Storm turned to the accountant, her white eyes still glowing faintly. "Now," she said, her voice calm but deadly, "finish your story. What is Trask planning?"

Wolverine paced back and forth in the dimly lit office, the dull hum of fluorescent lights casting sharp shadows across the frightened accountant. His claws gleamed in the harsh light, catching every glimmer as he flexed his fingers. The man in the chair, middle-aged and dressed in a rumpled button-down, was sweating profusely, his glasses slipping down his nose. The clinking sound of Beast adjusting his reading glasses at a nearby desk offered a strange counterpoint to Logan’s menacing growl.

Storm stood by the window, arms crossed. Her presence, serene yet commanding, seemed to temper the air in the room, though the storm clouds she’d summoned outside were a clear reflection of her mood. A low rumble of thunder rolled through the sky.

“Heck if I know,” the man stammered, his voice cracking under the pressure. “I only do the accounting for Carraro... Some if... audits, third-party reviews on SEC documents. I don’t know anything about Trask!”

Logan leaned in, his claws scraping lightly against the desk, leaving deep gouges in the wood. “Don’t make me slice you, bub.”

The man’s breath hitched, and he threw up his hands in a desperate attempt to shield himself. “Jesus, don’t hurt me... I’m telling the truth! This is a Carraro office, isn’t it?”

Beast stepped forward, his voice calm yet commanding, a stark contrast to Logan’s gruff demeanor. “Well, sir, let me rephrase what my associate has asked. Have you been hiding transactions between Trask International and the Carraro Group that might link both companies to each other?”

The accountant glanced nervously between Beast and Wolverine, his eyes wide with panic. “What? Who is this guy?!” He gestured at Logan, who only smirked, baring a single sharp canine. “Look, I didn’t do that.”

Storm’s voice cut through the tension, low and cool. “Is there any connection between these two companies? Answer quickly.”

The man fumbled with his tie, loosening it as he struggled for words. “Yes, sure... Trask is a supplier for Carraro.”

“What do they supply?” Storm’s eyes narrowed, her tone demanding but not cruel.

The man hesitated, looking around the room as though an answer might materialize out of thin air. “Hell... Alright, look, I don’t know—”

Before he could finish, Logan’s claws came down with a sickening thunk, piercing the edge of the desk just inches from the man’s hand. The sound of splintering wood filled the room as the man recoiled, his chair tipping back slightly.

“Damnit! Fuck! Fuck!” the man screamed, clutching his hands to his chest. “GUNS! BLASTERS! SENTINELS!”

Logan tilted his head, his expression unreadable but for the faint twitch of a smirk. “Sentinels, huh?” His tone was mocking, as though the word was a punchline to a dark joke. “Weren’t they supposed to be restricted to government use?”

The man nodded frantically, sweat dripping from his chin. “Fuck, yeah, I think so! They have them, alright? I don’t know... I think they could be Trask’s or maybe something else. I don’t know! Look!”

Logan leaned in again, the glint of his claws catching the accountant’s panicked gaze. He let one claw graze the desk, drawing a slow, deliberate line toward the man’s trembling hand. “You sure about that? ‘Cause I’m not above takin’ this a little further.”

“NOOO!” the man shrieked, yanking his hands back as far as the chair restraints would allow. “FUCK!!! I DON’T KNOW, SHIT... GO AFTER CREED!”

Beast’s blue fur bristled slightly at the name, his keen eyes locking on the accountant. “Creed? Graydon Creed, I presume? Are you saying he’s directly involved?”

The man nodded rapidly, his head bobbing like a broken puppet. “Yes! Yeah! I swear! I don’t work for the Friends of Humanity, but I know Creed’s pulling the strings here. He’s the one you want.”

Logan stepped closer, his claw poised near the man’s face. “Where is he?”

The accountant shook his head violently. “I don’t know! I’m not with the FoH! I swear I don’t know!” He gasped for air, desperate to say something useful. “Try Thomas Thompson! He works for the Arkansas branch!”

Storm frowned, her posture stiffening. “Wasn’t it just destroyed?”

“Yes! Yes, I don’t know what else to tell you! Just leave me alone, for God’s sake!”

Logan grunted, his claws retracting with a metallic snikt as he turned to Beast and Storm. “Logan,” Storm began, her voice firm, “this is enough.”

“You’re lucky, bub,” Logan growled, his tone dripping with menace as he jabbed a finger in the man’s direction. “So lucky.”

“That's enough,” Beast added dryly, as he adjusted his glasses. “But this information may prove valuable. We need to confirm what he’s said and move quickly. Graydon Creed’s involvement is not a revelation, but this Thompson lead may be actionable.”

Storm glanced out the window at the darkening clouds. “If what he says about the Sentinels is true, Trask and Creed are closer to open warfare than we anticipated. We must act.”

Logan cracked his knuckles, his grin returning. “Good. I’ve been itchin’ for a fight.”

Beast sighed as he packed up the documents he’d gathered. “Yes, well, let’s try to prioritize strategy over mayhem, shall we?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Logan retorted, heading for the door.

Storm’s voice rang with quiet authority as she followed. “This is no game, Logan.”

Logan's eyes darkened and he scoffed. "Then why does it feel like we are losin'?"

With that, the three X-Men departed, leaving the accountant slumped in his chair, pale and trembling as the thunder outside rolled ever closer.