"Thud-thud-thud".
The rhythmic of fists against leather filled the underground training room as I observed my four charges working through their morning drills. Sweat glistened on their foreheads under the fluorescent lights, the scent of exertion and determination thick in the air.
Clarice—ever the reluctant participant—let out an exaggerated groan as she delivered another half-hearted punch to the heavy bag. "Do we really have to do these?" Her purple bangs stuck to her forehead as she shot me a pleading look.
Melancon, ever the diligent one, didn't break rhythm. "Stop grumbling already, Clarice." Her twin clones mirrored her movements perfectly before vanishing in puffs of smoke.
"Yeah! Besides, it's fun!" Forge chirped; his enthusiasm undimmed despite the sweat soaking through his shirt. His punches were sloppy but energetic—typical of a kid who'd rather be elbow-deep in machinery.
Kwannon, of course, said nothing. Her strikes were precise, controlled, each impact sending the heavy bag swinging violently. She didn't need encouragement. She was here to improve.
I stepped forward, adjusting Clarice's stance with a gentle nudge to her elbow. "You need to learn how to defend yourself," I said, keeping my voice calm but firm.
"It's a hassle, yes. But necessary. And besides—" I tapped her stomach lightly, making her yelp. "—this keeps you healthy too."
Clarice pouted but resumed her drills with slightly more effort. "Alright~".
It had been a month since they'd come under my care, and the transformation was noticeable. The skittish, traumatized kids HYDRA had broken were slowly becoming something else—stronger, sharper, more aware. But, not hardened and skill veteran, they still retained their child-innocence and their enjoyment being a child. I wanted then to have a life of balance between training and their own life. That was the key difference between my methods and the two so-called "saviors" of mutant-kind.
I remembered their first week here—sitting them down in the common room, laying out the unfiltered reality of their existence.
"The world fears what it doesn't understand," I'd told them, projecting news footage of anti-mutant riots. And what it fears, it tries to control. Or destroy."
Melancon had clutched her knees to her chest. Forge's fingers had twitched like he wanted to build something to fix it. Kwannon's eyes had gone flat—the look of someone filing away information for later use.
Clarice, predictably, had been the one to voice what they all thought. "That's bullshit."
"Yes," I agreed. "But it's the truth. And you need to understand it if you want to survive."
I didn't sugarcoat. Didn't preach lofty ideals of coexistence or mutant supremacy. Just cold, hard facts
The Weapon X program's atrocities, The Mutant Registration Act lurking in political shadows, how even the governments, secret agencies and even the police had contingencies for "rogue" superhumans Their wide-eyed horror had slowly morphed into grim understanding. I made them truly understood that this world is no longer, sunshine and rainbow for them, they have learned that fact already, but I wanted them to be more aware that what they were going through, a lot others were experiencing the same thing that they do.
But Naturally survival and training weren't their only education. I'd walked in on Forge and Clarice screaming at Mario Kart last night, controllers clutched in white-knuckled grips. Melancon spent her free time devouring classic literature (Jane Austen, surprisingly). Kwannon... well, Kwannon still trained, but now she occasionally paused to critique action movies.
They were kids. They needed this—the laughter, the petty squabbles, the sheer normalcy of teenage life. The dichotomy was intentional. Mornings spent learning to disassemble firearms. Afternoons debating whether pineapple belonged on pizza. They weren't soldiers. They weren't weapons. They were people. Naturally, at times, I do talk to them about options, that they can still choose to go somewhere else,
"You know about the X-Men," I said one evening after training. "About Magneto's Brotherhood. If you want to join either—"
"No way!" Forge interrupted, scrunching his nose. "Xavier's kids get brainwashed, and Magneto's guys are basically terrorists."
Clarice nodded vigorously. "Besides, you're way cooler than some bald guy in a wheelchair or that helmeted grandpa."
Kwannon simply stared at me like I'd suggested volunteering for more HYDRA experiments.
Melancon's quiet voice surprised me most. "We're family now, right? Families stick together."
Something tight unclenched in my chest. "Yeah," I agreed, ruffling Forge's hair as he squawked in protest. "We do."
The punching bags continued their rhythmic sway as I watched my unlikely little family train. Xavier had his school. Magneto had his war. I had four kids who trusted me to show them the world as it was—ugly, beautiful, and worth fighting for.
The training mats were still damp with sweat when Kwannon's voice cut through the post-workout exhaustion.
"Sir."
I turned to find her standing at perfect attention, fists clenched at her sides. The others paused their stretching, sensing the shift in atmosphere.
"When will we rescue other Metas?"
The question hung in the air like a live wire. Behind her, Clarice perked up, Forge's fingers stilled mid-stretch, and Melancon's breath hitched.
I wiped my face with a towel, buying time to measure my words. "Nothing planned yet. Why?"
Kwannon's dark eyes burned with an intensity that made my chest tighten. "I want to join."
Before the others could chime in, I raised a hand. "Not yet." The immediate protest died on their lips. "These missions aren't field trips. The people we're up against?" I grabbed a training knife from the rack and drove it into the dummy's throat with a sickening "thunk". "This is how they think…. these people were there to kill you…this is not a game,"
Melancon flinched. Clarice's portal flickered nervously between her fingers.
"They are bad people, doing bad things… as of now you are not ready, you were just out of the bad experience, I know that you all felt unfair and vindictive towards these people, you wanted revenge and help other Meta's, but…again, this is a risky and dangerous operation, and as your leader and elder, I will never put you all in a dangerous position," I said to them in clear and a straight manner.
"I know it feels unfair." I pulled the blade free, watching synthetic blood ooze from the wound. "You want revenge. To help others like me. But right now?" I met each of their gazes. "You'd be walking into a slaughterhouse….and one had to be prepared for that kind of situations…"
Kwannon's jaw tightened. "Then train us harder."
Forge nodded vigorously. "Yeah! We can—"
"You are being trained." My voice softened as I placed a hand on Kwannon's head, feeling the tension coiled in her small frame. "I know that rage. That hunger to make them hurt like they hurt you." Memories of Dietrich's screams echoed in my skull. "But trust me—it eats you alive if you let it."
Clarice chewed her lip. "So what? We just sit here while others suffer?"
"No." I sheathed the knife. "When you're ready—truly ready—you'll come with me. Not just for revenge." I tapped the dummy's chest where a heart would be. "For them. The ones still trapped."
Four pairs of eyes widened.
"Wait—for real?!" Forge exploded, bouncing on his toes.
"On one condition." My smile vanished. "You follow every order. No heroics. No deviations. Understood?"
"YES, SIR!" They snapped to attention with comical synchrony, saluting like miniature soldiers. I couldn't help but laugh—the sound strange even to my own ears.
Office - 10:47 AM—
"Magina, how's Mwitter doing today?". I asked as I took seat on my chair and start my computer. The holographic globe above my desk pulsed with golden connection nodes—Mwitter's ever-expanding reach.
"One hundred million users," Magina announced as I sipped my coffee. "Trending hashtags include #MutantRights and #SecretSpyLeaks."
I smirked. The latter was our doing—carefully curated leaks exposing Hydra's lesser-known facilities who we intentionally labeled as unknown suspicious spy agency bases. SHIELD was probably having aneurysms chasing down the breadcrumbs.
"Satellite status?"
"Ten birds in low orbit." The hologram zoomed out to display the constellation of ME-owned satellites. "Full global coverage achieved. Awaiting your next project."*
I leaned back, steepling my fingers. The pieces were falling into place—digital dominance, orbital control, a growing network of empowered Metas. On the security feed, I watched my four charges huddle over textbooks in the library. Kwannon pointed at something, Clarice groaned, and Forge dramatically flopped onto the table while Melancon giggled.