1962, in a Pub
The wine glass hit the bar with a dull thud.
"Hmm... this stuff tastes terrible. Like bitter almonds."
Aron frowned at the whiskey in his glass. No matter how many times he drank it, he could never get used to the taste.
"That's because you don't know how to drink," Logan said, smiling as he roasted his cigar. "This is good whiskey."
"Tsk. Only guys like you would say that."
Aron shrugged. He and Logan had known each other for three years. When Aron first arrived in this world, Logan was the one who saved him. Since then, they'd been traveling together, watching people fall like dogs on the battlefield. Somehow, they always made it out alive—probably because the two of them weren't normal. They were stronger than most, in ways that kept them breathing when others weren't.
Two young men approached. The one with a stronger build stepped forward.
"Excuse me. My name is Erik Lehnsherr."
"And I'm Charles Xavier," said the other, looking more polished and academic.
Logan didn't even glance at them. He took a drag from his cigar and muttered, "Fuck off."
The two hesitated but turned to leave.
"Wait," Aron said, stopping them. Then he looked at Logan. "Let them talk. I think they're interesting."
Logan raised a brow. He knew what Aron meant by "interesting."
"You here for a job," Logan asked, looking them over, "or looking to fight?"
The two men paused. Aron leaned against the bar, studying them with a faint smile. He'd already figured them out before they even opened their mouths.
"So?" he asked. "What do you want?"
Charles' face turned serious. He looked at Erik and said quietly, "I... I can't sense him."
It was the first time Charles had encountered that. Aron was standing right in front of him, yet it was like he didn't exist at all.
Erik looked equally stunned. He knew how strong Charles was—his powers were how they'd tracked this place down. But now? Nothing.
"Looks like this is more than a casual chat," Aron said, nodding toward a quieter booth in the corner. "Let's talk over there."
Logan and Aron led them over.
As soon as they sat down, Erik leaned forward.
"We need help. You two might be able to give it."
To demonstrate, he raised his hand slightly—controlling the metal pendant on Aron's chest and making it float.
Aron raised an eyebrow, then calmly pressed the pendant back down with his palm.
"Nice trick. But this isn't the place for party tricks."
With a slight twitch of power, he canceled the magnetic force Erik was using. Erik blinked. He couldn't move it anymore.
Now he understood what Charles meant.
"Let's talk business," Aron said. "Our services don't come cheap."
Charles and Erik exchanged glances. If money was all these two cared about, it was easy. The CIA would cover it.
"So how much are we talking?" Charles asked.
"Depends," Aron said, "Bodyguard work is fifty grand. Combat deployment? A hundred. If you want us fighting our own kind, then we'll see."
Erik didn't hesitate. "Five hundred thousand. Each. We're going up against someone like us—someone planning a war that could burn the world."
Half a million.
That wasn't a number thrown around lightly—not in this era. Aron and Logan looked at each other. That kind of money didn't come around every day.
Aron extended his hand. "Then let's work together."
They shook on it. Deal done.
Logan and Aron went off to prepare. Charles and Erik had their own business to handle.
As they walked away, Charles kept glancing at Aron's back, frowning.
"I still can't sense him at all."
"His ability's strange," Erik agreed. "Might come in handy against Shaw."
Charles wasn't the only one who'd felt it. When Aron broke the magnetic hold, Erik felt powerless. Whoever this guy was, he could cut off mutant abilities. That made him dangerous—in a good way, if he was on their side.
Later, when the team regrouped, a woman showed up.
She was sharp and efficient. After one glance at Aron and Logan—both geared like they were heading into a warzone—she raised an eyebrow but kept her cool.
"Gentlemen. My name is Moira. According to Charles' report, the two of you are now temporary CIA operatives."
Aron gave a polite nod. "Name's Aron. That's Logan. We're hired muscle. Don't mistake us for patriots."
Moira seemed satisfied enough. She didn't care who they were—as long as they were better than the clowns she'd dealt with before.
Logan, meanwhile, was giving her that look.
Aron nudged him with an elbow. "Don't even think about it. CIA girls aren't that easy."
Logan blinked, then chuckled and took another puff of his cigar. He slapped on his sunglasses and climbed into Moira's car.
Sure, she was his type. But he knew better than to get tangled up with federal agents. Especially the ones who could get you locked in a black site and forgotten.