The morning light filtered lazily through the wide windows of the Xavier Institute’s kitchen, casting golden rays on the worn wooden floors and gleaming countertops. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling sausages mingled in the air, creating a familiar comfort that hung over the room like a warm blanket.
Wolverine sat alone at the far end of the long wooden kitchen table, his broad shoulders hunched forward slightly. His calloused fingers wrapped tightly around a chipped white mug filled with black coffee—no sugar, no cream. Steam rose from the mug in soft tendrils, but Logan didn’t seem to notice. His sharp, amber eyes were locked onto the yellowed pages of the New York Bulletin, the faint rustle of the paper accompanying the occasional hiss from Gambit’s frying pan nearby. The headline: “Federal Government to start senate hearings on Houston protest.”
A thick puff of smoke rose as Wolverine drew deeply from his cigar, letting the tobacco burn slow and steady. The old black radio perched precariously on the corner of the counter crackled with static. The thing looked like it hadn’t been touched since 1989—dust clung stubbornly to its edges, and the tuning knob had long since broken off, leaving it stuck on a single station.
"GOOOOD MORNIN' WESTCHESTER. YOU'RE LISTENING TO 107.8 FM, THE PEAK OF MUSIC!"
“And now for Sympathy for the Devil by The Rolling Stones,” the announcer’s voice buzzed through the radio’s speakers. The iconic opening chords filtered through the kitchen.
Wolverine glanced at the radio, his lips curling into the faintest smirk.
“Now that’s a song.” His gravelly voice carried the weight of decades, the deep timbre betraying a history few could comprehend.
Gambit, standing at the stove, turned his head with a grin. The smell of beef and veal sausages wafted through the kitchen as he flipped them expertly in the pan.
“Mon ami, is dis one o’ your Vietnam songs?” The Cajun’s red-on-black eyes gleamed with mischief, and his signature smirk played on his lips.
“Damn right it is,” Wolverine replied without missing a beat, taking another slow puff of his cigar. “Ya kids have it easy these days. Ya ain’t gettin’ hauled to a war anymore.”
“And dere he goes again,” Gambit chuckled, shaking his head as he returned his focus to the sizzling sausages. “Old man Logan with his war stories.”
Wolverine didn’t respond. His gaze returned to the newspaper, brow furrowed as he scanned the reports. The shadows under his eyes seemed deeper than usual.
Suddenly, there was a whoosh sound, and from the wall directly in front of Gambit, Kitty Pryde phased halfway through—her upper body emerging with a cheerful grin on her face.
“HOLY SHIT!” Gambit nearly jumped out of his skin, dropping the spatula onto the stovetop with a loud clatter. The sausages sizzled dangerously close to the edge of the pan.
Kitty grinned wider, unbothered by the startled reaction. Half of her body remained inside the wall as she reached out casually and snatched a sausage from the pan.
“Sorry, Mr. LeBeau.” She examined the sausage briefly, pausing mid-bite. “These are kosher, right?”
Gambit, still wide-eyed, recovered quickly, brushing off his vest. “Yeah, petite. Beef and veal sausages. Kosher as they come.”
“Thanks!” Kitty flashed a thumbs-up, grabbing another sausage for good measure. With a playful wink, she phased completely into the kitchen and strolled over to the table. On her way, she tossed one sausage toward Wolverine.
Without looking up from his paper, Wolverine’s claws snikt out in a flash, skewering the sausage cleanly in mid-air. His eyes never left the headlines.
“Thanks, kid,” he muttered, retracting the claws with a slick metallic sound as he took a bite from the still-steaming sausage.
Kitty plopped down in the chair beside him, chewing thoughtfully.
“You better get more sausages, Gumbo,” Wolverine muttered, glancing briefly at Gambit.
“It wasn’t ready yet,” Gambit grumbled, glaring at the now half-empty pan.
“It is now,” Wolverine growled back, taking another drag from his cigar.
Before Gambit could respond, a loud voice echoed through the kitchen.
“HELLOOOO X-MEN!”
Jubilee came sliding into the room atop a slick ice slide, her signature pink sunglasses glinting in the sunlight. Fireworks popped from her fingertips in a burst of colorful sparks.
Behind her, laughing and effortlessly maintaining the ice track, was Bobby Drake—Iceman—hands pointed to the ice track, smirking as he coasted along.
“See? I got plasma tricks too!” Jubilee grinned triumphantly, striking a pose mid-slide as the sparks fizzled out around her.
“Plasmoid, Jubes,” Bobby corrected with a playful grin. “Technically speaking.”
“Whatever, dork.” Jubilee stuck out her tongue as she landed gracefully next to the fridge.
Bobby rolled his eyes, opening the fridge and grabbing a carton of milk. He reached into the cupboard for chocolate syrup, juggling both in one hand.
Meanwhile, Jubilee fished a slightly crumpled box of Pop-Tarts from the fridge's side compartment.
Bobby sat down at the table beside Kitty and Wolverine, plopping a single cube of ice into a protein shaker. He squeezed a generous helping of chocolate syrup inside, topped it with milk, and shook the container vigorously.
Wolverine gave him a side glance. “Eugh. Ya drink that, kid?”
“Better than plain coffee,” Bobby replied with a shrug, taking a long sip. The cold condensation beaded along the side of the cup.
Wolverine grunted but said nothing, returning to his paper.
Jubilee turned toward the microwave triumphantly, Pop-Tart in hand, only to be intercepted by a sudden gust of wind.
FWOOOSH!
Storm entered the kitchen, her regal posture unmistakable. Clad in a flowing white robe, her silver hair cascaded down her shoulders, gleaming in the morning light. Her bare feet were dusty from the garden, and in her arms, she carried a fresh bundle of vibrant orange carrots, their leafy green tops still intact.
“NO, STORMY, NOT AGAIN!” Jubilee wailed, clutching her Pop-Tart to her chest like a precious jewel.
Storm plucked the pastry from Jubilee’s hands with effortless grace, inspecting it with mild disapproval. “These are full of chemicals and processed sugars, Jubilee.”
“But—my lil' Pop-Tart!” Jubilee pleaded dramatically, falling to her knees.
Storm handed her three carrots, freshly plucked and dirt-speckled. “I just picked these. You may eat as many of these as you’d like. Far healthier than that confection.”
Jubilee stared at the carrots in horror. “But I don’t want to eat as many carrots as I can. I want to eat ONE Pop-Tart! One!”
Storm’s calm gaze didn’t waver. “You had one yesterday already, little miss. No more Pop-Tarts this week.”
“NOOOOOOO!” Jubilee collapsed in exaggerated despair onto the kitchen floor.
Wolverine took another puff of his cigar, eyeing the scene with mild disinterest. “Jesus, kid. Tone it down.”
The room buzzed with life—the usual chaos of the X-Men’s morning routine. Gambit sighed and flipped the last few sausages onto a plate, mumbling in Cajun under his breath. Kitty snacked on her sausage, kicking her legs idly beneath the table. Bobby laughed at Jubilee’s dramatics, while Storm simply shook her head with quiet amusement.
Wolverine sipped his coffee, the familiar rhythm of the morning settling back into place. The black radio in the corner kept playing, Mick Jagger’s voice crooning through the crackling speakers:
"Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name..."
Wolverine exhaled a long stream of smoke, his gaze distant, unreadable.
The morning at the Xavier Institute continued to unfold in its usual rhythm—equal parts chaotic and comforting. The scent of fresh coffee, sizzling sausages, and garden herbs lingered in the air. Conversations overlapped, laughter echoed, and the hum of daily life in a house full of mutants resonated through the sunlit kitchen.
Then came the familiar sound of padded footsteps—steady, deliberate, with a faint rhythm that suggested both power and grace. Henry McCoy, better known as Beast, entered the kitchen with his usual air of intellectual curiosity. His blue-furred frame was as imposing as ever, yet softened by the gentle smile that played on his lips. In one hand, he held a well-worn book: Are We Smart Enough to Know How Smart Animals Are? by Frans de Waal. The edges of the pages were frayed, and several sticky notes peeked out from between chapters.
Beast paused for a moment, absorbing the scene—a kitchen alive with youthful banter and routine. He gave a small nod of approval before carefully closing the book with a soft thump and heading toward the refrigerator after he gently laid the book on the table.
Wolverine glanced up from his newspaper, the corner of his mouth twitching. "What is this, Henry?" he grunted, eyeing the book’s title.
“Oh, just a little gift from a friend,” Beast replied with a casual shrug, his deep voice carrying a warm timbre. His clawed fingers brushed along the handle of the fridge before opening it slowly.
Kitty, always curious, reached across the table and picked up the book where Beast had left it. She held it up, squinting at the cover. "Are We Smart Enough to Know How Smart Animals Are?" she read aloud, her brow furrowed. “Interesting title.”
Jubilee leaned over, peering at the book with mild disinterest. “Pfft, of course we are. We talk, animals don’t. Case closed. I’m a genius.”
Beast turned his head slightly, a bemused expression crossing his feline features. “Ah, but what if the means of communication for certain animals are non-verbal?” He gestured elegantly with one clawed hand. “What if they have developed systems of communication that do not rely on spoken language but on non-verbal cues, frequencies, or behaviors beyond our immediate comprehension?”
Jubilee blinked. “What?”
Kitty, catching on faster, leaned forward. “He means, what if they’re mute?”
“Oh…” Jubilee said, nodding slowly before pausing again. “Oh. Oh.”
Beast gave a patient smile. “A gross simplification, but yes, precisely. What if they cannot communicate through vocal means, yet possess intricate systems of conveying meaning? Perhaps chemical signals, body language, or ultrasonic frequencies?”
Jubilee furrowed her brow. “Well... then they can communicate. So... they’re not animals?”
Beast chuckled softly. “An interesting conclusion, though I must gently correct you—communication does not necessarily equate to self-awareness. The question at hand is far more nuanced. Consciousness, self-reflection, the ability to recognize oneself as an individual within the greater tapestry of existence—that is what defines intelligence on a broader spectrum.”
“I think it’s more about being conscious,” Kitty added thoughtfully. “Like… being able to know that you are you. The ability to understand that you can understand. That kind of thing.”
“Very astute, Kate,” Beast replied with a nod. “Indeed, metacognition—the awareness and understanding of one’s own thought processes—is a crucial marker.”
Jubilee tilted her head. “Uh… you lost me again.”
Bobby, sipping his chocolate milk concoction, chimed in with a grin. “He means thinking about thinking.”
“Oh...” Jubilee dragged out the word, nodding slowly but clearly still confused. “Right.”
Beast pressed on, clearly enjoying the philosophical tangent. “Consider this: are we less intelligent than a squirrel because we cannot remember the precise location of dozens of buried caches of food, essential for survival through winter?”
Jubilee pointed lazily at the fridge. “The fridge is right there.”
“That’s not what he means,” Kitty groaned, rolling her eyes.
Beast smiled indulgently. “Indeed, young Katherine. The point stands that intelligence manifests in many forms, some of which may not align with our anthropocentric definitions. Or consider the bat—are we inferior simply because most of us cannot echolocate, navigating complex environments in complete darkness with pinpoint accuracy?”
“I have no idea what half of those words mean,” Jubilee admitted with a shrug.
“I like that concept, Dr. McCoy,” Kitty said, flipping through the first few pages of the book. “It makes you think about intelligence in a totally different way.”
Beast’s eyes sparkled with approval. “I will gladly lend you the book when I’ve finished, Kate.”
“Thanks,” Kitty replied with a smile, still thumbing through the chapters.
The kitchen seemed to settle for a brief moment, the quiet broken only by the soft sizzling of the last sausages in Gambit’s pan and the rhythmic rustling of Wolverine’s newspaper. The smell of freshly tilled earth still clung faintly to Storm’s robe as she resumed tending to a potted plant near the window, her silver hair catching the morning light like strands of moonlight.
But then the atmosphere shifted.
The soft hum of a wheelchair echoed down the polished hallway, approaching the kitchen with slow, deliberate grace. Conversations quieted almost instinctively.
Professor Charles Xavier entered, his familiar presence commanding the room without a word. Behind him, walking in measured steps, were Scott Summers—Cyclops—and Jean Grey. Cyclops moved with his usual controlled demeanor, his ruby-quartz visor gleaming faintly as he pushed the professor’s wheelchair. Jean followed closely, her fiery red hair cascading over her shoulders, her serene expression betraying the faintest trace of concern.
“Good morning, all,” Xavier greeted, his voice calm and composed, resonating with authority and warmth.
The X-Men responded almost in unison, each greeting carrying its own unique tone.
“Mornin’, Chuck,” Logan grunted without looking up from his newspaper, though a respectful nod accompanied his words.
“Mornin’, professor,” Gambit added, still tending to the now perfectly browned sausages.
“Good morning, Charles,” Storm said with a soft smile, placing a freshly clipped blossom in a small vase by the window.
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“Hey, Professor X!” Jubilee waved enthusiastically, having fully recovered from her Pop-Tart tragedy.
“Professor,” Kitty said simply, nodding her head in greeting.
“Prof,” Bobby added casually, raising his cup of chocolate milk in a mock toast.
“Charles,” Beast greeted with his usual refinement, offering a slight bow of his head.
Cyclops stepped forward with Jean at his side. “Morning, everyone,” he said, his tone firm yet approachable.
“Slim. Jeannie.” Wolverine’s gravelly voice acknowledged them without fanfare, a little softer towards Jean, but no less respectful.
“Logan,” Cyclops replied, curt and respectful.
“Good morning, Scott,” Ororo said, nodding at the team’s field leader.
“Ororo,” Scott replied with a slight smile.
Professor Xavier glanced over the assembled team, his piercing blue eyes lingering on each face as if taking a silent headcount.
“There’s something I’d like to remind you all,” Xavier began, folding his hands neatly in his lap. His tone shifted, becoming more serious, drawing the attention of every mutant in the room. “Captain America and the Avengers will be arriving today.”
The room fell into a momentary hush at the mention of the Avengers.
“We will be working closely with them,” Xavier continued, “to bring Bolivar Trask to justice. This is an opportunity for cooperation, a chance to show the world that unity is possible between humans, mutants, and enhanced individuals alike.”
Xavier turned his gaze toward the younger members of the team.
“Jubilation. Bobby. I trust you will be on your best behavior?”
Jubilee puffed her cheeks and gave a dramatic salute. “Yes, fearless leader,” she said with a grin, earning a chuckle from Bobby.
“Yeah, Mr. Summers,” Bobby echoed, giving Scott a thumbs-up.
Cyclops adjusted his visor, unfazed. “Good. We’ll need everyone focused. When are they coming, Scott?” Kitty asked, glancing between the professor and the team leader.
Scott looked at his watch briefly before replying. “Soon. They should be here any moment.”
The kitchen buzzed with a new kind of energy—anticipation, readiness, and perhaps a little anxiety.
“Hey,” Bobby said, looking around, “has anyone seen Rogue?”
The question hung in the air.
Wolverine glanced up from his paper, finally folding it and setting it aside. He took one last drag from his cigar before answering in his low, rumbling voice.
“Stripes got some bread and left. God knows where she is now.”
----------------------------------------
Through the soft glow of the morning skies, a lone figure glided effortlessly—a Mississippi girl with a streak of white in her hair and a heart weighed down by memories. Rogue drifted high above the world, trailing a commercial plane for a moment, her emerald eyes reflecting the golden dawn. Then, with a playful grin, she tipped forward and dove.
The clouds parted around her like silk curtains, mist clinging to her leather jacket before vanishing in the wind. Her arms stretched wide, fingers splayed as though she could hold the whole sky. The wind tugged at her auburn hair, whipping it behind her like a banner. Up here, there was no past. No broken promises. No fears of a deadly touch. Only boundless blue, the cool rush of air, and the soft, golden light of the sun peeking over the horizon.
For Rogue, this was freedom. Pure, unshackled freedom.
Below her, the landscape of Westchester County sprawled out—rolling forests, winding roads, and rooftops glinting in the morning light. As she flew lower, the quiet town of Scarsdale came into view. Quaint houses, sleepy streets, and tiny parks gave the town a peaceful air. She hovered there for a moment, letting herself take it in.
With a soft sigh, she slipped a small, worn leather notebook from inside her jacket. Its edges were frayed from years of handling. Tucked inside its cover was a pen, silver and sleek—a gift from Jean, who had once told her that writing might help lighten the burden she carried.
Rogue perched on the edge of a low-hanging cloud, legs crossed in the air, and stared down at the town below. She clicked the pen once, twice. Then paused.
Her mind wandered—as it always did. Back to places and faces that refused to fade. She thought of the Brotherhood—those chaotic days of rebellion and uncertainty. Mystique’s cold words and colder stares. Destiny’s soft predictions of a future Rogue could never quite believe. Magneto’s grand visions. Charles Xavier’s unshakable belief that there was something good in her.
And Carrie. Sweet, tragic Aunt Carrie.
Her grip on the pen tightened.
She thought of the things she’d done. Of the people she couldn’t touch. Of the moments lost to fear. And more recently—Houston. Arkansas. Thomas Thompson. His death, so sudden, so brutal, still haunted the edges of her mind. She thought of him too—The Alamo. Duncan Nenni. His sharp words about the X-Men, his frustrating philosophy, as human as it was.
They gnawed at her. His voice still echoed in her head. His criticism, his stubborn refusal to believe in unity. In them.
But not here. Not now. Up here, she was weightless, far from all of it.
Her pen touched the paper.
And slowly, she began to write.
----------------------------------------
The sky don’t mind the troubles below,
It stretches wide, a silver flow.
The river rolls, the cotton grows,
And dreams drift soft where the red wind blows.
The road runs long from bayou to peak,
With tales to tell and hearts to seek.
A soul might wander, a soul might roam,
But the sky’ll always guide you home.
Hands may hurt, hearts may break,
But dawn still comes with the wide daybreak.
So let the earth hold its heavy stone,
The sky’s for souls who fly alone.
----------------------------------------
Simple. Honest. The words reminded her of old stories read on dusty porches back in Mississippi—Mark Twain’s river tales and Walt Whitman’s open roads. She read it over once, twice, her fingers trailing along the lines. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
This’ll do, she thought.
She slipped the notebook back into her jacket, feeling lighter for having written it. For a brief moment, the world seemed still, the past tucked away between those pages.
But then—
Her eyes caught something. A glint in the far distance. Small at first, barely noticeable against the morning haze.
Two silhouettes.
Moving fast.
Real fast.
She squinted, hovering in the air, adjusting her gloves as she leaned forward.
The first trail was long, vibrant—a streak of blazing plasma cutting through the sky with controlled precision. The second, shorter trail shimmered faintly—a sleek repulsor burst barely visible under the golden dawn. The hum of high-tech engines carried faintly on the wind.
Her eyes widened.
The Quinjet. And ahead of it—those unmistakable shapes.
“Ah’ll be damned,” she whispered to herself, brushing a strand of white hair from her face.
High above Westchester, the sky was clear and painted in the pale hues of morning. The hum of repulsors and the low thrumming of the Quinjet engines echoed across the vast expanse of air. The Alamo flew steadily alongside Iron Man, the iconic red-and-gold armor glinting in the sunlight. Behind them, the sleek Quinjet maintained a steady course toward the Xavier Institute.
Their conversation cut through the hum of the engines, casual but tinged with the weight of complicated realities.
"Since the year 2000, the insurance premiums in New York City have risen an average of 3000%," Alamo said, his Southern drawl steady, analytical. "Specifically in property and car insurance."
Tony Stark tilted his armored head slightly, glancing at him mid-flight. "And you’re telling me that’s because of superheroes?"
"Not directly," Alamo replied. "But indirectly? Absolutely. Villains see New York as the main stage. When you’ve got all the big names livin' in one place—Avengers Tower, the Baxter Building, and all the rest—it makes this city a target. Too much risk means higher premiums."
Iron Man gave a thoughtful hum. "Alright, what else does that little economic brain of yours have in that paper?"
Alamo adjusted his flight path with ease, his plasma trail flaring briefly. "Health insurance premiums doubled above inflation in the last twenty-five years. Not as bad as property insurance, though—unless you’re an ex-con."
"Let me guess," Tony said with a smirk in his voice, "five thousand percent hike?"
"Since 1985," Alamo confirmed with a nod. "Funny enough, around the time Captain America thawed out."
Tony let out a short laugh. "You’re saying Cap’s a contributing factor to insurance premiums?"
"Reckon he might be. I’d factor it in as a variable in the regression model."
Iron Man went quiet for a moment, banking slightly as the wind buffeted them. Below, the green landscape of Westchester stretched endlessly.
"So... essentially, we’re bankrupting the state and the city," Tony said at last. "Even with the Stark Foundation buying junk-status municipal bonds and HFA notes."
"Yup. Pretty much charity buying those risky bonds."
"And the government probably foots some of the bill too. Damage Control helps with the rebuilds, but it’s barely enough."
"There oughta be a better way," Alamo said.
Tony was silent for a beat. Then, his voice turned thoughtful. "What about a sovereign wealth fund?"
"A sovereign fund managed by Stark?" Duncan echoed, raising an eyebrow behind his chrome mask.
"Why not?" Tony shrugged mid-flight. "Wall Street's got funds, sure, but nothing like this—only 15% of private disaster relief is targeted at Manhattan alone."
"You could offer subsidized credit at lower rates, buy up distressed assets outright," Alamo added, his mind racing through economic models.
"You're telling me to pull a Quantitative Easing?" Tony shot back with a grin. "Wouldn't that be inflationary?"
"Not necessarily," Alamo replied, shrugging. "If the demand for money's high enough—which it usually is after crises—then inflation wouldn’t skyrocket. From 2008 to 2012, inflation barely ticked up, even with the Fed pumping out QE."
"Aha!" Tony pointed a gauntlet-clad finger at him. "But there would be price distortions."
"Yes," Alamo conceded. "That is true... Wait, I’m supposed to be the economist here."
Tony laughed. "You’re good, kid. But I’m the genius."
Alamo let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. The banter was light, but beneath it lay the kind of conversation few could have—about economics, power, and responsibility.
Then Alamo stopped mid-sentence. His red, plasma-glowing eyes under the chrome mask narrowed.
In the distance—just a speck at first—he saw a silhouette cutting through the morning light.
"Is that... Rogue?" he muttered, voice trailing off.
Tony glanced toward where Alamo was staring. "What?"
But Alamo was already gone. With a sudden burst of plasma energy, he surged forward, leaving a streak of vibrant red in the sky. His speed caught Tony off guard.
"Jeez, kid!" Tony called after him, accelerating quickly to catch up.
Rogue hovered just above Scarsdale, her leather jacket fluttering in the wind, a small smile on her face. She was lost in thought, notebook tucked away, the skies her only companion. The peaceful moment didn’t last, she smriked as she saw the fast flying silhouette approaching her.
"Alamo!" She voice called.
Her eyes widened slightly. She turned, and there he was—The Alamo—flying straight toward her, the red glow of plasma trailing behind him. He extended his hand toward her.
"Rogue," Alamo, his voice soft, softer than even he expected.
She smirked, cocking her hip in the air and crossing her arms. "Is that all, sugah? All ya got to pour?"
Without warning, she yanked his extended hand and pulled him in. The sudden motion caught him off guard, and before he could react, she wrapped him in a tight hug.
Alamo froze for a moment, stunned. He wasn’t used to warmth like this. But behind the chrome mask, he smiled. Just a small one—but a real one.
When Rogue finally let go, she floated back with a teasing grin. "What? Cat got yer tongue?"
Alamo adjusted his hat slightly, regaining his composure. "No, ma’am. Just wasn’t expectin’ that."
"Ya an Avenger now, Duncan?" she asked, her tone playful.
"No, ma’am," Alamo replied. "I hitched the ride. Flyin' with the Avengers? Can’t beat that with a stick."
Rogue laughed softly. "Ah’ll be damned. Y’all here fer the investigation?"
"Reckon that’s right."
Iron Man finally caught up, hovering beside them with an exaggerated sigh. "Rogue."
"Iron Man," Rogue replied, with a half-smile.
Tony scanned the two of them with his sensors. "Alright. You guys following me? Rogue, you leading this little convoy of ours?"
"Right here," Rogue said with a wink.
Tony rolled his eyes behind the mask, muttering lowly. "Tony Stark. Genius billionaire. Reduced to third-wheel status. Unbelievable."
As they flew together—Rogue and Alamo side by side, Iron Man trailing slightly behind—Rogue turned serious.
"Ah been thinkin’, Duncan," she said after a while, glancing at him. "’Bout what ya said in that stunt ya pulled with She-Hulk. About us bein’ dangerous."
Alamo didn’t hesitate. "I meant every word."
"Ya really think like that?" Her voice was quiet now. The teasing edge was gone.
"Yes," Alamo said, voice firm. "Things ain’t that simple. It can’t be boiled down to right or wrong. Some humans are bigots, yeah. But others? They’re scared. And can you really blame ‘em?"
Tony, listening in, cut through the conversation. "Kid’s right. People were terrified of the Hulk. Hell, I even built an armor just to take him down. Doesn’t mean I hate him, but doesn’t mean I trusted him either."
Rogue turned her gaze sharply to both of them. "So y’all think the Sentinels are entirely justified?"
The question hung heavy in the air.
Iron Man and Alamo exchanged glances.
"Somewhat," Alamo admitted.
"It’d be better," Tony added slowly, "if they were in the hands of someone who wouldn’t use ‘em to hunt down mutants."
Rogue narrowed her eyes. "Like you, Stark?"
Her voice dripped with sarcasm and disbelief.
Tony hesitated. "Yes—No? I mean—"
"Unbelievable," Rogue muttered, shaking her head with a smirk creeping onto her lips.
Alamo chuckled softly. The conversation wasn’t resolved—not by a long shot—but flying side by side like this, with the wind rushing past and the morning sun rising higher, it felt like—for now—things were moving forward.
The bright morning sun bathed the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning in a warm golden glow, casting long shadows across the well-manicured lawn. The mansion loomed large in the background, regal and timeless, standing as a symbol of hope, struggle, and resilience for so many.
A gentle breeze rustled the trees surrounding the grounds as Rogue, Alamo, and Iron Man descended from the sky, the hum of repulsors and plasma fading with their landing. Rogue touched down with her signature ease, boots gently brushing the grass. The Alamo landed beside her, his black cattleman hat still perfectly in place, his chrome mask glinting in the sun. The faint blue glow of his plasma energy faded slowly from his gloves. Iron Man landed last, repulsors hissing as he touched down with a confident stance, arms crossed as he surveyed the scene.
Awaiting them on the mansion's front lawn was the full might of the X-Men. Professor Charles Xavier sat at the forefront in his hoverchair, calm and composed as ever, his sharp blue eyes scanning the arrivals with a mixture of curiosity and guarded expectation.
Behind him stood Cyclops, straight-backed and precise as always, his ruby quartz visor gleaming. His arms were folded, and though his face remained stoic, there was a flicker of skepticism in his posture.
Jean Grey stood beside him, her red hair catching the light as a soft breeze passed. Her emerald eyes briefly flickered with warmth at the sight of Captain America, though her expression hardened when it fell on The Alamo. She knew him—knew he had opinions about the X-Men—and yet wasn’t sure what to make of him.
Storm stood tall and regal, her long white hair cascading over her shoulders. The morning light seemed to shine a little brighter around her, as though nature itself bent toward her majesty. Her serene gaze rested momentarily on Rogue and The Alamo, reading something unspoken between them before shifting toward the arriving Quinjet.
Wolverine leaned against a nearby tree, a lit cigar clenched between his teeth. His sharp gaze followed the arrivals with cautious disinterest. The smell of tobacco mixed with the fresh morning air. He gave a slight nod to Rogue when she caught his eye, but his gaze lingered longer on Alamo—curious but wary.
Beast stood next to Jubilee and Kitty Pryde. The big blue mutant wore a tailored coat, his hands folded neatly behind his back, a book still tucked under one arm. His golden eyes twinkled with curiosity.
"Ah," he murmured, adjusting his glasses, "the gathering of the decade, if not the century."
Jubilee chewed gum loudly, blowing a bright pink bubble as she elbowed Kitty Pryde.
"Yo, look at Stark. Rich guys always show off," Jubilee whispered.
Kitty snorted. "You say that like you wouldn’t fly around in that suit if you had the chance."
"Okay, fair point," Jubilee admitted with a grin.
Iceman, arms crossed and a confident smirk on his face, leaned casually on a nearby railing, his body still faintly coated in frost from a quick morning workout. He gave a playful wave toward Iron Man.
"Hey, Mr.Stark. You finally decided to come hang with the cool kids?" Bobby Drake joked.
Tony lifted his faceplate briefly, flashing his trademark grin. "Only if you stop with the ice puns, kid."
Bobby chuckled. "Ice what I can do."
Standing slightly apart from the group was Gambit, flipping a single playing card between his fingers. His red-on-black eyes gleamed as he observed Rogue’s arrival. His gaze drifted to the Quinjet, he was awaiting someone with bated breath.
The low roar of the Quinjet engines grew louder, drawing all eyes toward the sky. The sleek aircraft hovered for a moment before lowering itself onto the lawn with a practiced, controlled descent. The landing gear touched down with a metallic thud, and the rear hatch slowly lowered with a hiss of hydraulics.
From within the Quinjet, the next wave of arrivals emerged.
Captain America—Steve Rogers—stepped down first, shield strapped to his back. His steady, purposeful gait exuded confidence and quiet authority. He paused for a moment, taking in the mansion and the assembled X-Men. His sharp blue eyes were calm, yet alert. The weight of history hung between him and this place—he knew what it represented, what it stood for.
Behind him came Falcon—Sam Wilson—his wings folded neatly against his back. He wore a confident smile but stayed observant. His sharp eyes took in the various members of the X-Men, reading the room even from a distance.
Next was Wasp—Janet Van Dyne—her stylish black and red suit pristine as always. She adjusted her oversized designer sunglasses and flicked her bobbed hair back.
"And there it is," Janet whispered to She-Hulk, who followed close behind her.
Jennifer Walters—She-Hulk—towered beside her, emerald skin gleaming in the sunlight. She wore her signature white and purple bodysuit, her expression half-amused as her sharp eyes fell upon Storm.
"Ororo is always so majestic," Jennifer muttered under her breath to Janet. "What the hell."
Janet gave a knowing nod. "I swear to God, she makes it look easy."
Storm, hearing them despite the quiet tone, offered a soft smile—regal, gracious, but distant.
Professor Xavier rolled his hoverchair forward, his expression calm but warm. His voice, smooth and commanding, broke the brief silence.
"Captain."
"Professor," Steve replied with a firm nod, stepping forward to shake Xavier’s hand. "It’s good to be here."
"And it is good to have you here," Xavier responded. His words carried more weight than simple pleasantries. The history between the X-Men and the Avengers had always been complicated—sometimes allies, sometimes at odds—but this meeting carried an air of something more significant.
Cyclops stepped forward next. His gloved hand extended toward Steve Rogers, though his posture remained tense.
"Captain Rogers," Scott Summers said, his voice even but guarded.
"Summers," Steve replied, grasping the offered hand with a firm shake. Their eyes met—one behind the red visor, the other sharp and unwavering. Respect was there, but so was skepticism. Cyclops wasn’t one to trust easily, especially when it came to outsiders meddling in mutant affairs.
As the rest of the Avengers exited the Quinjet and mingled briefly with the X-Men, smaller conversations bloomed.
Jennifer Walters flashed a wide smile at Storm as she approached. "You’re looking amazing, girl."
Storm inclined her head slightly, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Thank you for the beautiful words, Jennifer. The skies have been kind this morning."
Jennifer laughed. "You are the weather goddess. I swear, you make even the sun look like it’s showing off."
Meanwhile, Tony Stark had disengaged from his nano-tech helmet, standing beside Falcon with his nano-tech sunglasses perched on his nose. "Xavier’s got style, I’ll give him that. Mansion looks as good as ever."
Falcon grinned. "Better than your penthouse."
Tony waved him off. "This is old town chic, I'm Big Tech, sleek and modern."
Steve Rogers glanced around, noting the conversations sparking up—Avengers and X-Men mingling, some easier than others. He turned back to Xavier.
"Shall we head inside?" Steve asked, gesturing toward the grand entrance of the mansion.
Xavier nodded, glancing at the assembled heroes behind him. "Yes, please. Everyone, you’re welcome at our institute."
He turned, his hoverchair gliding effortlessly toward the front doors.
Cyclops gave a nod to his team. "Let’s move."
Wolverine grunted, falling into step behind them. "Hmph. Let’s get this over with."
As the group began to move toward the entrance, Rogue glanced sideways at The Alamo. For a moment, their eyes met. She offered him a half-smile, somewhere between teasing and curious. Duncan, hidden behind his chrome mask, gave a slight nod.
No words were exchanged.
But something unspoken lingered between them.
The morning sun continued to shine brightly, illuminating the gathering of heroes as they walked toward the mansion’s towering double doors.
The stage was set. Though the morning was casual, the afternoon would be anything but.