Sebastian Shaw snapped back to reality, momentarily disoriented by the subtle shift in the room. The repositioning of the mutants caught him off guard, but his gaze immediately locked onto the girl standing near the center, her hand pressed firmly against her nose. Blood had already stained her chin, mouth, and clothes in a vivid streak of red, which she was attempting to mask with a totally unconvincing, bright little grin.
What is happening to me?
He didn't feel fine. Far from it. His internal engine, usually humming with a boundless, heavy reserve of kinetic power, felt sluggish, stuttering against some invisible drag on his biology. That strange, vicious little strike she had landed hadn't just rattled his teeth. It had rippled through his nervous system like static electricity. Every breath required a fraction more effort than it should have, a dull, aching pressure building behind his ribs that he had no name for.
Focus, Shaw. Focus.
He ruthlessly shoved the discomfort down, locking it away behind an impenetrable wall of aristocratic pride. Show weakness? To these children? Never. He tightened his posture, forcing his face into an expression of serene, absolute control while his body quietly screamed at him to catch its breath.
Under the weight of his watchful gaze, Shaw resisted the urge to use the energy he'd absorbed to form anything flashy—no glowing orbs, no absurd holographic unicorns. A waste of precious reserves, he reasoned. Whatever the case, Shaw always composed himself under pressure, his outward demeanor radiating cold, calculated ease. His eyes scanned the room, sharp before his low, dangerous drawl sliced through the silence.
"Where's the telepath?"
Azazel's voice cut through the tension like a razor. "He's not here. Seems he's gone out."
Shaw clicked his tongue, irritation lacing the sound with an almost petty exasperation. What a waste of time. He let out a disappointed sigh, almost theatrical, as though someone had swiped his last bottle of vintage whiskey, though the motion aggravated the phantom ache burning through his chest.
"Hmm," Shaw mused, his tone dripping with mock sadness, "that's unfortunate."
With an exaggerated flourish, Shaw tore off his helmet, an iconic piece that, in time, would be repurposed by none other than Magneto himself. He held it under his arm like a prized accessory, the sheer nonchalance of a model flaunting the latest in mutant fashion, despite the cold sweat prickling at the base of his neck. Shaw flashed his signature smile, the one that suggested he was on the verge of revealing some profound truth, some piece of wisdom too complex for anyone else's little brain to handle.
"Don't worry," he reassured them, his voice smooth as freshly buffed silver, masking the subtle strain humming beneath his words. "I won't hurt you."
He paused for dramatic effect, the air thick with expectation. The girl with the bloody nose didn't flinch, watching him with an eerie, unbothered composure that he couldn't quite place. Annoying little pest, he thought. Fascinating, but annoying.
"In fact…" he continued, drawing out the words with calculated precision, "you've harmed my companion here, but..." His gaze slid sideways to Riptide, whose face still bore the swollen purple imprint of vicious handiwork, looking wonderfully like an overripe tomato. Shaw's lips twitched, a barely concealed smirk forming. Given the commotion they caused, their reaction is forgivable.
Shaw stepped closer, handing the helmet to Riptide, who stood simmering with barely contained rage. The poor guy didn't even get the courtesy of an apology, just a glance that clearly communicated one message: You're handling this. And handle it he did, silently glaring with the ferocious intensity of a pressure cooker about to blow its lid. Across the room, the bloody-nosed girl offered Riptide a cheerful little wave, which only made his eye twitch harder.
Shaw thrived in the tension, basking in the discomfort he cultivated so effortlessly, ignoring the quiet, alarming thrum of resistance inside his own veins. "We," he said, emphasizing the word with a grand sweep of his hand, "are not so different, you and I." His gaze swept the room, sharp as a butcher inspecting cuts of meat. "The time for hiding is over. We've made our grand entrance, haven't we?"
A chuckle rumbled in Shaw's chest, a low, amused sound that unfortunately hitched slightly on an internal spasm of fatigue, though he covered it seamlessly. Damned girl, he thought with a flash of bitter, masked irritation. What did she actually do to me? He pushed the physical anomaly to the very back of his mind. "And when humanity realizes the threat our abilities pose to their precious dominance, we will face a choice."
He let the silence linger, delightfully suffocating, before continuing.
"Will we allow ourselves to be enslaved and hunted, or will we turn the tables and seize control of this world?"
To anyone with even a shred of common sense, his rhetoric might have sounded like madness, but Shaw delivered it with absolute, intoxicating conviction. The notion of mutants rising up against their oppressors carried a heavy, dangerous weight for these abandoned youths. Shaw watched their faces closely for any sign of affirmation. When none came immediately, his smile flickered, a tiny crack in his polished armor that he quickly smoothed over.
"Of course," he said, his tone now edged with sudden frost, "you could cower. Side with the humans who ostracize and oppress you." His voice dropped, the finality of his words hanging heavy in the air. "But make no mistake, that choice would brand you my enemy."
The word "enemy" fell like a bomb, freezing the already stifling air. Shaw leaned in, his presence overwhelming, his every movement designed to make sure no one could escape the gravity of his next words and to conceal the subtle rigidity in his stance as his body fought a war it didn't understand.
"So, choose. Submit and remain slaves, or join me and become the architects of a new world order."
Sean let out a quiet scoff. "So your answer is to become the thing people already fear?"
Shaw looked at him with open amusement. "My answer is survival."
Sean shook his head. "No. "His voice stayed calm. "That's conquest."
Shaw smiled as though Sean had only strengthened his argument.
***
I watched the scene unfold with the detached, popcorn-eating amusement of someone who had long ago grown numb to grandiose speeches from smooth-talking, power-hungry psychopaths.
Standing there listening to him, I couldn't help the mental eye-roll. Good grief, is Isaac Ray Peram Westcott moonlighting in the sixties? Seriously, the tailored suit, the insufferable aristocratic smugness, the dramatic pauses, treating global-scale terrorism like an elite corporate seminar while expecting everyone to swoon over his grand design. It was pure, unfiltered Westcott energy. The man practically radiated cheap theatricality and snake-oil philosophy, standing there looking effortlessly arrogant while dropping sweeping speeches about reshaping the world.
Men like him were all charm, no substance—predators preying on the vulnerable like moths to a flame. It was almost laughable. Almost. Not buying it, buddy, I thought, leaning against the wall and crossing my arms with a light scoff.
Not everyone shared my breezy cynicism. Across the room, Angel—winged, beautiful, and carrying her own heavy baggage—shifted in her seat, her body language betraying a swirling hurricane of inner turmoil. If my resilience had been forged in the fires of a war-torn universe, hers had been shaped in something darker. It was pain that didn't fade with time or tears. Before she had met Charles Xavier or Erik Lehnsherr, Angel had been a dancer. Not the kind of graceful ballerina people romanticized, but a performer in a high-end club where the rich and powerful could indulge their every whim. To survive, she had endured it all: the objectification, the dehumanization. It was a tragic story for anyone, but for someone with wings—unique, striking, impossible to ignore—it was even crueler. Her wings weren't just a part of her. They were a flashing neon sign screaming freak.
Honestly, I kind of feel sorry for her, I thought, narrowing my eyes slightly as I watched her tense posture. I mean, it must be hard to deal with. Look at Hank—similar issues with acceptance.
She had clung to hope when she first heard about Professor X's dream: a sanctuary for mutants, a place where her wings wouldn't be exploited or measured solely for their usefulness in a fight. But now? She must have been thinking that she was just stuck in a crumbling mansion with other outcasts, under the constant gaze of government agents who might as well have stamped Property of the U.S. Government on their clipboards. Angel's disillusionment had likely settled in slowly, the sheer exhaustion of it all wearing her down long before tonight.
Then Shaw arrived, striding onto the scene with the polished confidence of a villain who knew exactly how to command attention. His voice was smooth, rich with charm, yet edged with a predatory sharpness for those listening closely. "Or perhaps," he purred, his words dripping with smooth ambition, "you could rise above them all. A queen, maybe? Or even a princess in the new world we'll build."
Bro, your speech is getting me all wet here; I am sold. Joking aside, being here in the moment, I actually did understand her choice, to some extent.
His gaze brushed over me briefly, so fleeting it might have seemed dismissive, but there was something in it—a challenge, perhaps, or a flicker of curiosity. I just winked back at him internally. Men like him were a dime a dozen, their Westcott-esque act painfully familiar. Get lost, I thought, rolling my eyes and looking away, dismissing him as easily as a pesky telemarketer. His hand lingered in the air, a silent invitation, but this time his charm found no purchase with me.
Angel, though—poor Angel—was another story entirely. Shaw's promises of power, control, and a world where her wings wouldn't be a spectacle struck a deep, aching nerve. It was the kind of offer that could intoxicate someone who had spent their life scraping by.
Raven took one cautious step toward Angel. "You don't have to decide right now."
Angel looked at her but didn't answer.
"You can stay," Raven urged softly.
"I've stayed my whole life."
Raven opened her mouth to respond, but Angel had already turned back toward Shaw. Tentatively, her fingers brushed his hand. The hesitation was brief, like standing on the edge of a high dive, but it was enough. Then, with sudden, desperate resolve, she gripped his hand firmly. Just like that, the choice was made.
Darwin's voice cut through the tension, heavy with disbelief and hurt. "You can't be serious." The fragile bond of shared struggle between him and Angel cracked, splintering under the weight of her choice. Watching her walk toward Shaw felt like watching a trusted friend hand over their keys to a known car thief.
Angel turned to face the group, her voice steady but carrying a sharp, defensive edge. "He's right. We don't belong here. Leaving isn't weakness—it's a chance for something better." Her gaze swept the room, lingering long enough for the weight of her words to land. She didn't expect applause, but the deafening silence stung. With one last lingering glance, she turned back to Shaw, her grip tightening on his hand as they walked out together.
Azazel opened the front door without being asked, stepping aside. Angel hesitated only once before walking through. Riptide followed without looking back.
Shaw was the last to leave. He paused long enough to glance over his shoulder. "You'll remember this day." Then he walked out, radiating absolute, unapologetic arrogance as they vacated the black site on their own terms.
The silence that followed was suffocating, the kind that presses in from all sides and makes you want to scream just to break the spell. Shaw didn't need to force anyone's hand. His persuasion was a quiet pull, insidious and persistent. If not for his deep-seated bigotry and insatiable hunger for global domination, he might have made a hell of a cult leader.
Seriously, though, someone needs to check if he has an invisible spirit locked in a basement somewhere, I thought, biting back a grin as I gingerly wiped a final drop of blood from my lip. Villains like him really do think they're the main character.