———————————————
patreon.com/Lonely_Translator
———————————————
"Kamehameha!"
A fierce, thunderous roar split the air, followed almost instantaneously by a blinding column of concentrated energy that surged forward from behind Wolverine. It narrowly missed his face and neatly grazed his beard before making direct contact with the hovering assault helicopter. The resulting explosion engulfed the aircraft in flames, destroying it on the spot with spectacular force.
"There's no need to wait for the future," said Mark calmly as he lowered his hands and dispelled the residual aura surrounding his body. "I am already a capable warrior."
He turned to Wolverine, who stood momentarily stunned, and met his gaze with calm assertiveness. The older mutant, despite his hardened combat experience, was visibly surprised.
Nearby, Colossus and several students who had not yet entered the concealed emergency passage stood wide-eyed and silent. Their faces reflected a mixture of awe and disbelief. Mark's mastery of the Kamehameha energy technique had conjured immediate comparisons to Cyclops, Scott Summers renowned for his own powerful and precise optic blasts.
At the same moment, high above the school in the Cerebro enhancement chamber, its reinforced ceiling now blown apart, Colonel William Stryker stood amidst the wreckage. Holding the modified Cerebro helmet in his hands, he addressed the officer beside him. His voice was clipped and authoritative.
"Sergeant, how many have we captured so far?"
The sergeant's expression turned sheepish and his voice hesitant.
"None at present, sir. We encountered two unexpectedly powerful individuals who successfully rescued all the students we had apprehended. One of our combat helicopters has also been destroyed."
Stryker's brow furrowed in visible irritation.
"Dismantle the machinery and prepare it for immediate transport back to base. Leave the remaining personnel here with instructions to capture as many mutants as possible. I want test subjects available for when we initiate the experimental trials."
The Colonel had not anticipated resistance of this magnitude. He had calculated that, with Professor Xavier and the faculty away on assignment, the school would be easily overwhelmed. However, the presence of such formidable defenders among the students had disrupted his plans.
Originally intending to secure the entire facility in a single operation, Stryker now decided to withdraw personally with the Cerebro components. With Professor Xavier in his custody, he planned to recreate the Cerebro system at his own installation. Once integrated with the abilities of his mutant son, Jason, he could exploit the Professor's telepathic powers to annihilate all mutants on Earth in a single stroke.
"Yes, Colonel," the sergeant replied crisply.
Within minutes, the well-trained special operations team disassembled the primary components of Cerebro and escorted Colonel Stryker to a waiting transport aircraft stationed on the school's outer lawn. The remaining troops, still under the sergeant's command, were ordered to continue their mission.
However, it did not take long before the situation deteriorated further. Within moments, the sergeant's radio was flooded with panicked cries, desperate shouts, and screams, clear evidence that his forces were being decimated.
Elsewhere, in the main lobby on the second floor of the school, Rogue and her two companions had just narrowly evaded a group of patrolling soldiers when they stumbled directly into the path of a much larger detachment.
"Don't move! Hands in the air!" one of the soldiers barked.
The three students froze in place, paralyzed by fear. Before them, over a dozen rifles were trained directly at their heads. Having never received combat training, the young mutants felt an instinctual terror in the presence of firearms so deep and paralyzing that they could not even muster the courage to activate their powers in self-defense.
Just as the soldiers prepared to switch to tranquilizer rounds to capture the three, two powerful shouts rang out from above:
"Die, you bastards!"
"Take this, you thugs!"
The cries belonged to none other than Wolverine and Mark. They had descended from the third-floor balcony in synchronized leaps, hurtling directly into the midst of the armed men.
Wolverine was a whirlwind of ferocity, a living weapon honed by a century of violence. His adamantium claws flashed silver, each motion precise, each strike lethal. He moved not with wild rage, but with predatory purpose, every slash calculated, every kill methodical.
A soldier raised his rifle.
Snikt!
Three claws punched clean through his chest with a wet crunch. Wolverine ripped them free with a twist, pivoted, and slashed low, opening another man's femoral artery in a spray of crimson. The next adversary didn't even have time to scream before his throat was opened from ear to ear.
Gunfire erupted.
Wolverine grunted, snatched a falling body mid-collapse, and used it as a shield. Bullets thudded into the corpse, jerking it like a grotesque marionette, while he advanced without pause. Blood dripped from his knuckles. His growl echoed down the hall.
A boot stomped down. A knee shattered. A spine snapped under the weight of his assault.
Six soldiers fell in the space of a heartbeat. Some didn't even realize they were dead until their vision failed. Wolverine was the embodiment of controlled chaos, a force of nature made flesh and metal.
And then he stopped.
His breathing was heavy but unlabored. Claws extended, arms raised, muscles still coiled for the next strike. But there was no one left to fight.
The final soldier he'd been about to kill was already unconscious, sprawled across the hallway floor with his weapon bent out of shape. Wolverine's keen senses flicked to the side he smelled ozone, smoke, and scorched metal.
Turning his head, he saw the rest of the squad, eleven soldiers in total strewn across the corridor like dolls after a hurricane.
Mark stood at the far end, Power Pole resting across his shoulder, his stance loose but alert. A faint hum of residual energy coiled in the air around him like steam rising from a battlefield.
Wolverine gave a low, throaty chuckle.
"Not bad, monkey boy,"
he said, casually brushing a corpse off his claws and retracting them with a metallic snikt. Blood still glistened on his hands, but his voice carried an edge of rare approval.
Throughout the chaos of the night, Mark had proven himself over and over. Wolverine had fought beside countless mutants, mercenaries, soldiers, and killers.
He'd seen power before, raw, volatile, overwhelming, but rarely had he seen it wielded with such poise. Mark wasn't just some kid with borrowed strength. He knew how to fight. He had technique, instincts, a killer's timing without the killer's cruelty.
The boy had darted in and out of combat like a phantom, dodging bullets, neutralizing threats, breaking limbs and cracking helmets with swift, clean movements. No wasted energy. No hesitation. Not even a moment of fear.
Wolverine's sharp eyes narrowed.
And the most remarkable thing?
He was twelve.
A damn twelve-year-old had held his own in a firefight alongside him. Not just held his own, excelled. The boy hadn't just survived. He had dominated.
Wolverine rolled his shoulders, glancing at the bodies littering the ground.
"Guess I'm not babysitting after all," he muttered under his breath.
"I told you, Logan, don't call me monkey boy," Mark said, rolling his eyes as he slid the Power Pole back into its place across his back.
He was aware that the nickname was not meant to mock him. After all, his current twelve-year-old form, complete with a tail extending from his lower back, did resemble a small monkey. Still, he had no intention of going down in X-Men history with that label.
Wolverine, Cyclops, Storm... and Monkey Boy? It simply lacked dignity.
That said, Mark had gained a deep appreciation for Wolverine's prowess. It wasn't necessarily that Logan was the most technically skilled martial artist, although he was certainly better trained than most. Rather, his strength lay in his near-immortality, his indestructible adamantium skeleton and claws, and above all, his indomitable will. Unless he faced mutants with absolute counters to his abilities, like Magneto or Professor X, very few could match his endurance in battle.
But the most formidable aspect of Wolverine wasn't physical at all. It was his accumulated combat experience, spanning nearly two centuries. Battle experience differs fundamentally from fighting technique. It equips a warrior with the ability to read a battlefield, use the environment to his advantage, and make intuitive split-second decisions that outclass even technically superior opponents.
It was like watching Jackie Chan fight in a furniture store. Everything could become a weapon.
"So what should I call you then?" Wolverine teased. "Silverback? Or maybe King Kong?"
Despite Mark's maturity, Wolverine couldn't resist poking fun at him now and then.
"Fine. Call me whatever you want," Mark sighed with a shrug. He knew it was pointless to argue. Perhaps one day, when he transformed into his giant ape form, Wolverine would realize how absurd the name Monkey Boy truly was.
"Logan!" a voice cried.
Rogue had spotted Wolverine and ran into his arms. Of all the people in her life, Logan had been her most constant protector and closest friend. It had been him, after all, who had first reached out to her when she was most alone and vulnerable.
"It's not over yet. Stay close to me and Monkey Boy. We'll get you to the secret tunnel," Logan instructed as he released her from the embrace.
However, before they could move, a massive explosion shattered the second-floor lobby windows. Three heavily armed assault helicopters now hovered outside, their weapons trained on the building.
"Monkey Boy!" Wolverine barked.
He had watched Mark take down helicopters with energy blasts earlier. He hoped the boy had enough strength left.
But this time, Mark did not rely on the Kamehameha. Instead, he reached for the Power Pole on his back.
"Power Pole, extend!"
At his command, the staff grew rapidly, shooting outward like a javelin. It pierced directly into the central helicopter, embedding itself into the aircraft's hull.
"Haaaah!"
With every muscle in his body tensed, Mark unleashed his full strength and began to swing the staff in a wide arc. To the astonishment of Rogue and the other students watching from behind, the central helicopter, under the influence of Mark's raw power smashed violently into the other two.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
All three helicopters exploded in a fiery cascade and plummeted from the sky.
Though the Kamehameha had tremendous destructive potential, it was incredibly taxing on the body's internal energy reserves. Even Son Goku, at age thirteen, could not use it recklessly or repeatedly.
"Retreat! Full retreat!" the sergeant barked into his radio, standing on the school lawn outside.
By now, most of his elite soldiers were dead, multiple helicopters had been destroyed, and his forces were down to fewer than ten men and two aircraft. If they did not withdraw now, the entire operation risked complete annihilation.
"They're pulling out!" Mark said, having just escorted Rogue and her friends into the ground floor's hidden evacuation tunnel.
He and Wolverine had been preparing for another wave of combat, only to discover that the enemy was no longer advancing. Instead, they were rapidly disengaging and preparing for departure.
By the time the two warriors reached the school's front lawn, the final two helicopters were already in the air.
"Damn," Wolverine muttered, lighting a cigar and taking a deep drag.
"Looks like those bastards got away."