… Emma Frost
Emma stayed near the side of the cabin as the tension thickened inside the Blackbird.
She'd thought she'd have more time to study the boy, but it looked like he'd hit fast-forward and now she had to keep pace or risk losing track of him entirely.
Charles, in his wheelchair beside her, was quieter than usual.
Emma wasn't.
She crossed her arms, her voice slicing through the air like fine crystal shattering.
"You know what sets him apart from you, Charles? He doesn't try to dress up his impulses with some storefront morality."
Charles turned from the central display to look at her, letting out a faint sigh.
"Ms. Frost, if you came here just to provoke, now's not the time."
"Oh, but it is", she shot back, her smile never reaching her eyes. "This is the perfect time. You've trained these kids to believe the world can be changed with speeches and polite behavior. That there'll be room for acceptance if we're just… well-mannered enough."
Logan grunted behind them.
"Here we go— another damn lecture?"
"No, Logan", she said, glancing over her shoulder. "But if you want the short version: the kid out there destroyed facilities you've spent years ignoring. He cut straight to the point, and now you're all upset because he didn't stop to ask for permission."
Hank pulled off his glasses, cleaning the lenses the way he always did when stalling for time.
"The issue, Emma, is precedent. If everyone takes that route—"
"— then maybe we'll have a less hypocritical world", Emma finished, a spark of challenge in her eyes. "You all love to say you're different. But when one of us acts like they actually understand the nature of the game, you rush to slap the leash back on."
Ororo gave her a side look, eyes narrowing slightly.
"And you really think violence solves anything?"
Emma tilted her head, almost kindly.
"No. But sometimes damage is the only language monsters understand."
The silence that followed wasn't agreement — it was discomfort.
The Blackbird slowed. The amber light of the cabin washed over them briefly as the automated voice announced they were approaching their destination: a remote facility in the middle of nowhere, somewhere outside Nevada. Supposedly decommissioned years ago, but under constant watch from civilian satellites. Underground infrastructure with shadowy financial links.
And, more importantly, the last place Trask's data trail had been traced to — at least according to what she'd managed to pick from the thoughts floating around earlier.
The hatch opened.
Dry night air swept over them.
They moved forward in silence across the cracked ground, flashlight beams skimming the dirt as the Professor guided them telepathically. Some were tense. Others — like Rogue and Jean — were just quiet, as if holding back something heavier than doubt.
And then, the first bodies.
Armed men in unmarked uniforms sprawled on the ground with bone breaks that were impossible to miss. Some unconscious, others writhing and groaning.
Kitty held her breath when she saw one with his arm bent at an impossible angle. Bobby turned away, swallowing hard.
"This wasn't a fight", Hank stated the obvious.
Logan crouched near a body.
"No kills. But… he broke every single one of them, one by one."
Ororo frowned. "Why not just kill them?"
"Because he's still Aidan", Jean murmured. "Not some bloodthirsty killer like some people seem to think."
The jab was more than obvious, and Emma hadn't expected that much fire from Jean.
The girl was growing up fast.
"He knew we'd come. He's showing us the line he's decided not to cross."
And then, ahead — atop a broken pillar beside a stairway leading down into the facility — they saw him.
Sitting with his elbows on his knees, one hand holding up his head, like he'd been waiting on a ride that promised to arrive early but didn't. Dirty, but unhurt. Those striking blue eyes half-lidded as he watched the group approach. The ground around him was littered with twisted metal shards, the remains of drones and advanced weapons tossed aside like broken toys.
Inside, the base was wrecked.
Cables ripped out, screens smashed, floors cracked. And at the center, a data station — completely empty.
Only silence. And him.
Aidan raised an eyebrow.
"Took you long enough", his voice carried the same casual tone from when Emma had first met him, but without the ever-present smile — and that was unsettling.
She stepped forward, her heels clicking against the fractured concrete.
"Well, here we are. Ready to talk about morality and justice. What are you going to do now, boy?"
"I don't see what there is to talk about", he shrugged, his gaze passing over the formidable lineup facing him without the slightest flicker of concern. "Trask got away. Guess I was too obvious."
Aidan didn't look tired. Or proud. Or even satisfied. It was as if all of it — the bodies, the wreckage, the accusing stares — were just… inevitable. Like the sunrise, or a waterfall dropping from a cliff.
A logical result.
The irony was there, but it was hollow, flavorless.
Charles was the first to speak, his hands folded in his lap, voice deep but measured — as if control could somehow contain whatever was brewing here.
"Aidan… this has to stop. We understand what happened. We understand your anger. But this isn't how we ensure safety for our own. This isn't justice."
Aidan held his gaze for a few seconds without answering. The silence between them stretched, heavy as a shadow. Emma folded her arms. He was… far too quiet.
The complete opposite of what she knew about him.
Logan broke the silence first, his voice rough and direct.
"You hit hard, kid. You can pretend you didn't, but this—" he nodded toward the field of broken soldiers "— this is a declaration of war."
Aidan smiled faintly. One of those small, cold smiles that never touched his eyes.
"Don't make it sound so grand. It's just a lesson for a bunch of pompous clowns who think they can do whatever they want without consequences."
The arrogance in his words made it clear — he didn't consider Trask or any other anti-mutant group worth much of his attention.
Jean took a step forward, eyes locked on him. Her thoughts were practically spilling out — any halfway-decent telepath could've picked them up.
Scott, on the other hand, didn't bother holding his tongue.
"You could've come to us. We could've handled this together."
"How? Sending formal letters to the people kidnapping innocent girls?" Aidan raised a brow. "Holding a diplomatic meeting with terrorists?"
Rogue let out a short laugh. "Yeah, I'm with him on this one."
Kitty, more hesitant, added, "But… there's a way to handle things without wrecking everything in sight, isn't there?"
Aidan turned to her. His eyes were calm — no anger, no denial. Just… detached from the reasons behind the question.
"Probably", he paused, like he was trying to find the right words. "But once you draw your pistol, you better be ready to put your life on the line."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I'm saying this isn't a tool you use to threatening people."
That's the line you don't cross, Emma couldn't hear his thoughts, but she could tell that's what he would've said next.
And that's when she spoke up again.
Not to him, but to Charles.
"He's not sorry."
Charles didn't respond.
Emma tilted her head slightly, eyes still on the boy who was now standing with a sigh, brushing dust off his hands.
"And he's not proud either."
She could see it in his relaxed shoulders, in the tone of his voice — no defense, no attack. The way he didn't justify himself. How he wasn't asking for approval. Or denying guilt.
"He just doesn't care."
Aidan turned to her then, his eyes meeting hers with something almost curious in his expression.
And she was right.
There was no inner conflict.
No guilt.
He didn't do it for justice. Not even for something as plain as revenge. He did it because he had to — and because he wanted to. He'd move forward, even if everyone here decided to aim their weapons — or their powers — at him.
Charles tried one more time. "If you keep going down this path… there's no coming back, Aidan."
Aidan tilted his head.
"And exactly where would I be coming back to?"
The silence settled in again.
And Emma smiled.
"Maybe we should have this conversation later", she said, glancing at the group. "Because looking around, it seems like the boy just destroyed another illusion."
She gestured toward the wreckage with her eyes.
"That the world was ever going to wait for mutants to defend themselves… the 'right' way."
She could feel some of them taking in her words, but Scott stepped forward, shoulders tight and jaw clenched. The restrained fury was almost tangible.
She had thought Charles's golden boy was smarter than this.
She was wrong.
"This isn't right, Aidan. No matter what happened. We don't decide who lives or dies. We don't judge. We don't execute. That's what makes us different from them!"
Aidan looked at him with open boredom, like he was sitting through a school lecture he'd heard a thousand times — and it hadn't worked then either.
He gave a half-smile, raising one eyebrow as if to say: Seriously? We're still doing this?
Then he let out a humorless laugh.
"You want to fight me, Scott?" he asked, arms opening as if offering himself up right there. "You want to prove you're right? That I'm the bad guy?"
He took one step forward, no real threat in it, but the gesture alone sent a shiver across everyone's shoulders. The air around them grew heavier. Not visible, but undeniably there.
"Then come on."
Aidan wasn't afraid. He was ready to take on everyone's hatred.
And if it came to it… he wouldn't hesitate.
That's when Raven stepped forward.
She moved past everyone without asking for space, without a moment's hesitation, her eyes locked on him. Her presence cracked the tension like a whip — and the mood shifted instantly.
The provocation on Aidan's face vanished. The arrogance softened into something lighter.
Like it was all just a fun game to him.
"You're here too?" he asked, voice almost gentle, head tilted slightly.
Raven crossed her arms, stopping in front of him. "Someone had to make sure you didn't do something stupid and then come crying on my shoulder about it."
Aidan smiled. One of those small smiles almost no one here had ever seen from him.
"You're always looking out for me, Raven. That's cute."
The exchange between them felt like it existed on another level. Like the rest of them were watching something they weren't supposed to fully understand.
Rogue glanced away. Jean watched silently, swallowing something bitter and confusing. Emma folded her arms, amusement in her eyes. Ororo narrowed hers. Charles stayed expressionless, but the tension in his brow betrayed him.
"So? Done taking out the trash?" Raven asked, like this was just another mission — like the bodies and destruction all around were nothing new.
"Almost", Aidan replied. "Trask got away. Looks like he learned something. Played smart this time."
Raven nodded slowly.
"Then let's go back", she said. "It's about time to wrap up your little field trip before someone here loses what little sense they've got left and tries something stupid."
Aidan looked over the group for a moment, his gaze brushing over each face.
Jean — conflicted.
Rogue — smiling.
Scott — simmering.
Ororo — unyielding.
Hank and Logan — assessing.
Kurt and Bobby — nervous.
Kitty — torn.
Charles — silent.
And her, with the faintest hint of a smile.
He looked back to Raven. Let out a slow breath, and with a light tone, no weight behind it, he simply said: "Fine, but you're making dinner."
Raven rolled her eyes, though a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
And Aidan turned, walking past them as if nothing had happened. As if the choice had always been his.
Not everyone was happy about it. Charles seemed tempted to act, Scott even more so. But… they could see the cracks.
And none of them could be sure everyone here would stand on the same side if it came to a fight against Aidan.
… Bolivar Trask
The underground lab wasn't just a facility — it was a sanctuary.
Surrounded by walls reinforced with military-grade alloys and cutting-edge security systems, the place pulsed with the hum of machinery, servers crunching data, and robotic arms working nonstop. Code scrolled across holographic panels, simulations recalculating with every new sample of mutant DNA fed into the system.
And at the center of it all — Trask.
Wearing a dark lab coat with the Control insignia subtly embroidered on the chest, he stood before a massive containment cylinder, where the first unit was nearly complete. A colossal prototype, still missing its outer armor, but with its internal structure fully assembled. The metal skeleton vaguely resembled a human shape — if a human were built for dominance instead of compassion.
Trask didn't blink.
His eyes stayed locked on the screen in front of him, where final authorizations lit up in green, one after another. The Control Council had finally caved. They'd finally understood what he'd been saying for years.
Mutants aren't evolution. They're a threat.
"Now they see", he muttered under his breath, fingers gliding with precision over the built-in keyboard. "Now, with the deaths, the explosions, the chaos... they finally see."
Aidan's silhouette appeared in the surveillance files, captured moments before the facility's destruction. A young face detached, cold and arrogant.
"You stuck your nose where it didn't belong…" Trask whispered, his voice carrying a tightly restrained anger. "You thought you were cleaning up the world. But you forgot the world learns too."
He moved to another terminal and inserted a physical key — one of the few analog redundancies he had personally insisted on. The system confirmed.
[PROTOCOL: SENTINEL ACTIVATED]
[MODEL: MK-I REAPER INITIALIZING]
The overhead lights flickered faintly. It was as if the entire lab held its breath. Inside the cylinder, the unit powered up — internal joints releasing bursts of steam, artificial eyes glowing with a dim violet light.
"You think mutants don't have weaknesses, kid? Everything can be studied. And what can be studied… can be neutralized."
He turned toward the main screen.
Aidan Quinn: Unclassified.
"You are the reason Sentinels must exist."
Trask's voice rose, almost like a vow.
"You're not a hero. Not a victim. You're a reminder that Homo sapiens have lost control. But now… we're taking it back. Every cell, every move of yours has been analyzed. You put yourself on display, kid. And that was your mistake."
He looked to the Mk-I Sentinel, now fully awake, waiting for orders.
"You attacked me first. You killed my men. You sabotaged my facilities and tried to erase me. But I'm necessary, you're not."
A new command was entered.
[PRIORITY TARGET: AIDAN QUINN]
[STATUS: ACTIVATED]
Trask smiled. Not the smile of victory, but of purpose.
"And now… the world will see what happens when we're forced to fight back."
He stepped away as the floor trembled with the Reaper's first step.
The silent war was over.
The next one would be a lot harder to miss.
… Mister Sinister
Deep inside a hidden base, buried under layers of concrete, lead, and outdated architecture, he stood before a containment structure that looked more like a gothic altar devoted to science and obsession.
The air was cold — not because of the temperature, but because of the total absence of empathy. Every blinking screen, every tube filled with genetic fluid, every bone regenerating in stasis — all of it existed for one singular purpose: genetic supremacy.
And now, he was closer than ever.
Before him, a holographic panel shaped like a double helix rotated slowly. Streams of data and DNA sequences shifted in hypnotic patterns — but to Sinister, it wasn't just code.
It was perfected potential.
"So young… so careless…" he said, his voice smooth, laced with a sick sort of pleasure, "… and already tilting the balance of power so easily. What a specimen."
The name flashed at the top of the analysis: AIDAN QUINN — ANOMALY LEVEL: 9.8
The data hadn't come from just anywhere. It came from a quiet leak during the chaos of the past few days. While the Fantastic Four scrambled to deal with the Pentagon, Trask, and the press, the Baxter Building's security protocols had dropped their guard for exactly forty-two seconds.
More than enough.
Sinister tilted his head, studying the 3D reconstruction of Aidan's internal structure. His mutation was a problem, of course — a dimensional defense layer that made functional replication nearly impossible.
But DNA… that was a different story.
"An army? No, no, no… armies are crude and predictable."
His eyes lit up with a manic gleam.
"I need… a supernova. Someone who could stand against Apocalypse. Someone who wouldn't just survive, but win."
A new command was entered: [PROTOCOL: INITIATE PHASE ONE — CLONE "PRIME"]
[STATUS: INCUBATION — 3%]
And then, the man most obsessed with genetics folded his arms before the forming tank, like a proud father admiring the masterpiece he was creating.
"Ah, En Sabah Nur… you've been a constant for far too long. But even eras have to end."
"And yours starts with me."
… Mystique (Raven Darkhölme)
The wind kicked up dust around the clearing, stirred by the still-humming turbines of the freshly landed Blackbird. In the distance, between the shadowed trees and the thick vegetation marking the edge of Xavier's estate, Mystique stood motionless — a blue specter lurking between shadow and intent.
Avalanche, Blob, Toad, and Pyro stood beside her. All silent, waiting for the worst. Or the best — depending on who told the story.
"Here they come…" Pyro muttered, spinning his lighter between his fingers.
Mystique didn't answer. Eyes half-lidded, arms crossed over her chest, she studied the scene below with the kind of calm that came from always being two steps ahead — or planning to be.
The jet's ramp opened with that annoyingly clean mechanical hiss. One by one, the X-Men stepped out.
First came Scott, shoulders stiff, like a man pretending to have control he'd already lost. Then Jean, head lowered, thoughts miles away. Ororo, elegant as ever, but this time her steps were sharp, tense. Kitty, Kurt, Bobby, Logan… all in sequence.
Even Emma, as composed and immaculate as always.
But no Aidan.
None.
Mystique narrowed her eyes. A small flicker of tension moved across her jaw. She'd anticipated many outcomes — a fight, a capture, a forced redemption attempt… but not this one.
Had they failed…?
It was a quick, silent, almost absurd thought.
That group? With all their strength, morals, and numbers… coming back without the boy who had stirred so much chaos? Who had gone up against military bases, destroyed secret labs, challenged the U.S. government, and nearly caused a diplomatic collapse?
"You want us to move?" Avalanche whispered, adjusting his metal gauntlets.
Mystique lifted a hand, signaling silence. Her eyes stayed on Jean, who walked slower than the others, clearly shaken.
"No. Not yet", she replied, her tone clipped. Her gaze never left the scene, reading every breath, every expression.
Charles Xavier appeared last, pushed by Hank. The Professor looked… tired. Defeated, maybe. Like a man watching his world crack from within and still not knowing how to stop it.
So that was it.
Mystique stepped forward, still staying out of sight, but already certain of something she didn't want to admit.
Because what she saw on those faces wasn't relief.
It was tension and strain.
She turned away, the blue fabric of her cloak shifting behind her slender frame.
"Let's go. It's not time yet. But when it is… I want us ready."
"Ready for what?" Avalanche asked.
Mystique stopped, turning her head just enough to give him a sharp look over her shoulder.
"For when he finally stops pretending to be a student… and decides to be something bigger."