"There's actually a plane here?"
George stared at the X-Jet in front of him, completely stunned.
He hadn't expected the X-Jet to still be stored in the school's basement. He'd assumed Wolverine and Professor X had taken it when they fled for their lives.
Wolverine, now back in his signature leather jacket after ditching the dress shirt, took a drag from his cigar and explained:
"Too bad I can't fly a plane. Would've saved us a lot of trouble back then."
When the Professor's mind had spiraled out of control, killing every mutant in the school, Wolverine had driven him to the hospital in a desperate bid to save him. Though the Professor's condition stabilized, they were soon hunted by waves of FBI agents.
If he'd known how to pilot the jet, they could've escaped the country—avoided the manhunt entirely.
"Well, it's good to have. We'll find a use for it eventually."
It suddenly occurred to George that Wolverine not only couldn't fly—he was also afraid of heights and prone to airsickness.
In the movies, it was usually Beast, Mystique, Storm, Cyclops, or Jean Grey who took turns piloting the X-Jet.
But that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Despite being over two decades old, this X-Jet had been modified by Beast, a genius-level scientist. It wasn't far behind S.H.I.E.L.D.'s cutting-edge Quinjets—fast, stealth-capable, and invisible to satellite surveillance.
Once someone here learned to fly it, they'd have a reliable escape route in emergencies.
Like, say, an unchecked Chitauri invasion.
"Oh, and for scouting the city, you can use this bike. Scott's favorite. Custom-modified—three times faster than the world's top production models."
After showing off the jet, Wolverine led George to a motorcycle that looked deceptively ordinary.
Wolverine, the Professor, and Caliban were too recognizable to move freely in the city without drawing government attention. They could only step in when absolutely necessary.
That meant gathering intel on Tony Stark—scouting Stark Tower in Manhattan—would fall to George alone.
"Seems Scott had good taste."
George took the bike for a spin and grinned.
With their smooth journey and the school exceeding expectations, he no longer felt rushed to expose himself to S.H.I.E.L.D. or Hydra by contacting Stark. No need to kidnap Obadiah Stane and interrogate him about Tony's Middle East whereabouts.
But he would need this bike to survey the Bronx—to gather intel on local gangs and crooked businessmen.
Because before Tony Stark made his escape, George planned to pull off one big score.
His current plan: Spend three months mastering magic.
Then, clean out every powerful Bronx gang, amass a fortune, and buy up Stark Industries stock at its lowest point.
When Tony returned and share prices rebounded, he'd cash out. Then, when Stark announced the shutdown of weapons manufacturing, he'd buy in again—securing enough wealth to support himself and the school's children indefinitely.
Of course, this was a one-time play. Targeting gangs repeatedly would draw attention from Kingpin and other underworld players.
"Trouble finds those who linger." Push too hard, and both he and the school would be exposed.
But one big strike? Vanishing afterward? In the Bronx's surveillance blind spots? Not even Sherlock Holmes could trace him.
So this job had to be big—meticulously planned.
"Yeah, he had taste. Especially in women. Hated the guy back then. Now? Kinda miss him."
Wolverine stared at the bike, lost in memory.
George immediately understood. Cyclops and Wolverine had both loved Jean Grey—but she'd chosen Scott.
"One thing—using these basement facilities means drawing power. Could that alert the government?"
"Maybe we should get generators. Less output, but safer."
After twenty-five years, the authorities had likely forgotten this castle. They wouldn't monitor its power grid. Still—better safe than sorry.
Once he mastered Muggle-Repelling Charms, they could operate freely. Even reopen the school without fear.
"Don't worry. After an… incident, Beast overhauled the basement's power grid. Separate from the main supply, heavily shielded. Even at full load, no usage traces."
Wolverine waved off the concern.
"Good."
An incident? Apocalypse's attack? Stryker's assault?
George didn't press. Either way, it didn't matter. Only safety did.
"I'll scout the outside when I can. But you and the Professor should train the kids—teach them to fight with their powers."
He proposed this last point seriously.
With the basement's combat simulators operational, the children could train under real experts—unlike the lab's brutal, amateurish methods.
He didn't expect them to become frontline fighters overnight. But basic self-defense? Essential.
Arklay Genetics would come for them. It was only a matter of time.
And next time? They might face more than Wolverine clones. Professor X, Magneto, even Cyclops replicas were possible.
Of course, George doubted the copies could match the originals.
Most mutant powers required training to reach full potential. Magneto hadn't started as a powerhouse—Professor X had honed him.
Sandor Reis' clones had the intellect of toddlers, their actions remotely controlled. No room for growth.
In the films, even William Stryker's Deadpool hybrid—packed with multiple abilities—had been decapitated by Wolverine and Sabretooth.
The lesson? Without free will, clones were just cannon fodder.
But enough fodder could still overwhelm.
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