As they approached the mansion's main entrance—doors that belonged on Westminster Abbey rather than any reasonable educational institution—Scott cleared his throat with the measured precision of someone who'd been rehearsing this moment in his head for the past five minutes and was determined to get it absolutely right.
"Harry," he began, adjusting his ruby quartz glasses with the kind of nervous energy that suggested he was very aware of Jean's presence and trying to project an image of mature responsibility, "I should probably mention that most of the students who are here for summer session are, well, curious about new arrivals. Word travels fast around here, especially when the arrivals involve what Bobby rather dramatically described as 'interdimensional travel with a side of property damage and cosmic fire powers that make Michael Bay films look understated.'"
Harry's eyebrow arched with the kind of aristocratic precision that could have been patented by the British nobility. "Bobby, I take it, is our resident drama critic? And here I thought my entrance was positively restrained. No explosions, minimal architectural damage, and I only destroyed one plant. By Hogwarts standards, that's practically invisible."
"Bobby Drake," Jean explained, her voice carrying the warm fondness of someone describing a beloved but exasperating younger brother, though the way she unconsciously stepped half a step closer to Harry suggested her attention was rather more focused on their new arrival than she might have realized. "One of our other Omega Level students. He manipulates ice and snow, has opinions about everything, and possesses what can only be described as a supernatural gift for being in exactly the wrong place at precisely the right time to witness the most interesting disasters."
Scott's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at Jean's obvious engagement with Harry, though he covered it with what he probably thought was a casual smile. "If chaos is happening anywhere within a five-mile radius, Bobby will not only find it, he'll probably contribute to it, and then spend the next week explaining to anyone who'll listen why it was actually everyone else's fault for not appreciating his creative vision."
"Sounds like the Weasley twins with superpowers," Harry replied, his grin carrying the kind of devastating charm that had made several witches at Hogwarts walk into stationary objects. "Though I have to ask—is 'cosmic fire powers' really how people are describing what happened this morning? Because that makes me sound like I should be wearing a cape and delivering monologues about justice while posing dramatically on rooftops."
Jean laughed—a sound like silver bells being rung by angels with excellent timing—and the way her eyes crinkled at the corners made Harry's enhanced physiology suddenly feel like both a blessing and a significant tactical disadvantage. "You literally materialized wings made of pure psychic energy and started glowing like you'd been personally blessed by the sun god. If that doesn't qualify as 'cosmic fire powers,' I'm not sure what would meet Bobby's standards for dramatic supernatural phenomena."
"Fair point," Harry conceded with the kind of rueful self-awareness that suggested he was beginning to understand the scope of his transformation. "Though in my defense, last week my most impressive supernatural achievement was successfully casting a corporeal Patronus without fainting from magical exhaustion. The learning curve from 'competent teenage wizard' to 'cosmic entity's pet project' has been rather steep."
Scott leaned forward with the earnest intensity of someone who'd spent considerable time studying defensive magic and recognized an opportunity to demonstrate his knowledge to Jean. "What's a Patronus? Some kind of protective spell?"
"Defensive magic designed to repel Dementors," Harry replied, his expression growing more serious in a way that made him look older than his seventeen years. "Creatures that feed on happiness, hope, and every positive emotion you've ever experienced. They're rather like depression given physical form, wings, and the ability to perform what amounts to magical lobotomies by sucking your soul out through your mouth."
Jean's bouquet of conjured flowers trembled slightly in her grip, and Harry caught the faint scent of ozone that meant her powers were responding to emotional stimuli. "That's... that sounds absolutely terrifying. And you faced them at thirteen?"
"Not by choice, initially," Harry said with the kind of dry British understatement that made horrific experiences sound like mild inconveniences. "They had an unfortunate tendency to show up wherever I happened to be, usually at the most dramatically inappropriate moments possible. Rather like cosmic entities with poor timing and a concerning interest in teenage psychological trauma."
Scott's expression shifted to something approaching professional respect, though there was still that careful alertness around his eyes that suggested he was cataloguing everything Harry said for later analysis. "How many of these... Dementors... were you dealing with?"
"At various times? Dozens. During the final battle, several hundred," Harry replied with the casual matter-of-factness that came from having survived experiences most people couldn't imagine in their worst nightmares. "Voldemort—that's the dark wizard I mentioned—had remarkable talent for recruiting the most psychologically damaging allies possible. Dementors, werewolves, giants, various dark creatures that specialized in causing maximum trauma with minimum effort. Very efficient operation, really. Terrifying, genocidal, and completely insane, but undeniably efficient."
"Jesus," Scott muttered, his carefully composed facade slipping slightly to reveal genuine concern. "And you were expected to fight them while still in school?"
"Expected, trained, and occasionally lectured about my 'concerning tendency toward heroic stupidity' by professors who somehow managed to combine parental affection with complete bewilderment about why I kept surviving situations that should have killed me," Harry said with a smile that carried undertones of experiences that had aged him considerably beyond his chronological years. "The British approach to child safety in magical education is... rather more flexible than most people would find acceptable."
Jean's grip on her flowers tightened, and this time the scent of ozone was accompanied by a subtle shimmer in the air around her that suggested the Phoenix Force was paying attention to the conversation. "That sounds like adults who cared about you but had no idea how to protect you from things that were too big for any teenager to handle alone."
"Remarkably perceptive, Miss Grey," Harry said, his voice dropping to that warm, intimate register that made hearts flutter and rational thought become significantly more challenging. "Though I suspect you understand the particular challenges that come with having abilities that make you valuable to adults who mean well but sometimes forget that 'valuable' and 'expendable' can become uncomfortably similar concepts."
The look that passed between them carried enough electromagnetic tension to power the mansion's lighting system, and Scott's hands clenched into fists behind his back as he watched Jean's cheeks flush that particular shade of pink that he'd been trying unsuccessfully to inspire for the better part of two years.
"I—" Jean started, then paused, her green eyes searching Harry's face with the kind of intensity that suggested she was seeing something there that resonated with her own experiences. "Yes. I do understand that."
Scott cleared his throat with perhaps slightly more force than was strictly necessary, drawing their attention back to the matter at hand with the kind of determined professionalism that suggested he was working very hard to maintain social civility despite rapidly developing personal complications. "We should probably head inside. I'm sure Professor Xavier will want to know how the tour is progressing."
The mansion's front doors chose that moment to swing open with theatrical timing that would have impressed the Hogwarts house-elves, revealing a young man who looked like he'd been personally designed by someone with very specific ideas about what 'casual perfection' should look like in human form.
Bobby Drake was tall and lean with the kind of athletic build that suggested either dedicated fitness regimens or mutant abilities that included accelerated metabolism. His sandy brown hair managed to achieve that perfect balance between 'effortlessly tousled' and 'ready for a magazine cover,' while his clothes—expensive but casual, stylish but not trying too hard—suggested either natural fashion sense or a trust fund that covered personal styling consultants.
But it was his expression that caught Harry's attention: bright blue eyes dancing with mischief and intelligence, combined with the kind of easy confidence that came from someone who'd learned to find humor in chaos and had developed considerable skill at creating said chaos when life got too boring.
"Well, well, well," Bobby said, his voice carrying the smooth warmth of someone who'd perfected the art of charming his way out of trouble and occasionally into more interesting trouble, "what have we here? Scott actually engaging in voluntary social interaction during summer break—mark your calendars, people, this may never happen again. Jean looking particularly radiant while clutching what appear to be flowers that are literally glowing with their own inner light. And..."
His gaze settled on Harry with the kind of speculative appreciation that suggested he was rapidly cataloguing details and coming up with conclusions that were both accurate and potentially problematic for everyone involved.
"Someone new who either has access to the most sophisticated special effects budget in educational history, or is the interdimensional refugee with cosmic enhancement issues that's been the primary topic of mansion gossip since roughly six-thirty this morning."
Harry stepped forward with a smile that could have convinced entire governments to switch to renewable energy and probably solved several international diplomatic crises through sheer force of charm. "Bobby Drake, I presume? Harry Potter, and yes, technically interdimensional refugee, though I prefer to think of myself as an enthusiastic immigrant with unconventional travel documentation and a tendency toward property damage that I'm working very hard to keep to a minimum."
Bobby's grin widened with the kind of delighted recognition that came from meeting a kindred spirit who understood that life was considerably more interesting when approached with the right combination of humor and strategic chaos. "Oh, I like you already. Anyone who can describe cosmic displacement as 'unconventional travel documentation' clearly has the right attitude for surviving this place."
He gestured grandly at the mansion around them with the theatrical flair of someone conducting a very expensive orchestra. "Welcome to Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, where the homework occasionally achieves sentience and attempts to grade itself, the cafeteria food defies at least three laws of thermodynamics on a regular basis, and the student body includes individuals who could probably reshape continental geography if they got sufficiently motivated during finals week."
"Sounds like Hogwarts with better funding and more reasonable safety protocols," Harry replied, his tone carrying just enough dry British humor to make it clear he was being only partially serious. "Though I have to ask—does the homework actually become self-aware, or is that more of a metaphorical academic evolution?"
Scott relaxed slightly now that the conversation had shifted toward the safer territory of shared educational suffering rather than the more dangerous ground of personal backgrounds that made Jean look at Harry like he was simultaneously fascinating and heartbreaking. "Depends on the professor. Dr. McCoy's advanced biochemistry assignments have been known to achieve what can only be described as rudimentary consciousness and attempt to escape from the laboratory. Storm's atmospheric science practicals sometimes involve weather phenomena that she generates specifically for 'authentic educational experiences.' And Professor Xavier's ethics seminars regularly cause existential crises that last well into the following semester."
"Don't forget Logan's approach to combat training," Jean added, though her attention seemed rather more focused on the way Harry's jaw moved when he smiled than on the actual content of their conversation. "He has what he calls a 'practical application philosophy' that involves learning survival skills through direct exposure to situations that test those skills in real-time."
"Most students either love it or develop what the school psychologist diplomatically describes as 'enhanced survival reflexes,'" Bobby continued with obvious fondness. "Sometimes both simultaneously, which makes for very interesting parent-teacher conferences."
"Combat training through practical application," Harry mused, his green eyes brightening with genuine interest. "That actually sounds refreshingly honest. My previous education was rather heavy on theoretical knowledge and somewhat light on practical application until circumstances forced me to develop real-world skills through what could charitably be described as 'trial by fire' and less charitably described as 'criminal negligence disguised as character building.'"
Bobby's expression shifted to something more serious, though his casual demeanor remained unchanged. "Yeah, Professor Xavier mentioned something about dark wizards, actual warfare, and fighting creatures that sound like they escaped from humanity's collective unconscious after a particularly bad night of existential horror. That's quite a resume for someone who's not old enough to legally drink in most jurisdictions."
"Age becomes rather relative when you're dealing with life-or-death situations on a weekly basis," Harry replied with the kind of philosophical acceptance that suggested he'd made peace with experiences that most people would spend decades processing in therapy. "Though I have to say, the cosmic enhancement has made everything considerably easier. Having abilities that don't require external tools, specific incantations, or wands that can be disarmed by sufficiently motivated opponents is remarkably liberating."
Scott leaned forward with the earnest intensity of someone who'd spent considerable time studying tactical applications of supernatural abilities and recognized an opportunity to demonstrate his knowledge. "What kind of abilities are we talking about, exactly? Professor Xavier mentioned something about Omega Level classification, but that covers a fairly broad range of theoretical power scales."
"Show him the thing," Jean said suddenly, her eyes bright with enthusiasm that had absolutely nothing to do with academic curiosity and everything to do with wanting to see Harry's abilities again for reasons she probably wasn't entirely ready to examine too closely. "The wings thing. Bobby needs to see the wings thing."
"The wings thing?" Bobby repeated, his tone carrying the kind of interested anticipation that suggested he'd heard descriptions but wanted to see the reality for himself, preferably with enough detail to properly gossip about it later. "Because I have to say, the secondhand reports have been impressively dramatic, but I've learned to take eyewitness accounts of supernatural phenomena with several grains of salt and a healthy dose of skepticism."
Harry glanced around the mansion's entrance hall, noting the soaring ceilings, open architecture, and general absence of expensive objects that could be accidentally incinerated by cosmic fire. "Fair warning—it's somewhat theatrical. I'm still adjusting to the whole 'enhanced by cosmic entities' aesthetic, and subtlety was never my strongest suit even before I started glowing like a very attractive nuclear reactor."
"Theatrical is good," Bobby assured him with obvious delight. "We appreciate proper dramatic presentation around here. Goes with the whole 'gifted youngsters saving the world through superior education and strategically applied property damage' institutional philosophy."
"In that case," Harry said, closing his eyes and reaching for that place inside himself where the Phoenix's gift lived—not the wild, uncontrolled magic he'd grown up with, but something deeper, more magnificent, and infinitely more dangerous, "try not to be too impressed. My ego's already dangerously oversized, and I'd hate to develop delusions of adequacy to go along with my delusions of grandeur."
The transformation began with warmth spreading through his chest like liquid starlight, then flowing outward in waves that seemed to follow the rhythm of his heartbeat. The armor materialized across his skin in patterns that defied conventional understanding of how matter should behave—midnight black scales shot through with veins of molten gold and crimson fire, each one catching the mansion's interior lighting and throwing it back transformed into something that belonged in fairy tales rather than physics textbooks.
Then came the wings—vast constructs of pure psychic energy that unfurled from his shoulders with the kind of majestic presence that belonged in Renaissance paintings of archangels who'd been personally commissioned by gods with excellent taste in dramatic gestures. They weren't physical in any conventional sense, but rather crystallized thought given form, power made manifest, the kind of thing that made viewers instinctively understand they were witnessing something that existed beyond the normal boundaries of reality.
The light they cast was warm and alive, filling the entrance hall with radiance that made every surface gleam like polished gold. Harry stood there like some ancient deity of war and beauty who'd decided to pay a social call to mortals, simultaneously beautiful and terrible, utterly impossible to ignore, and absolutely devastating to anyone with functioning aesthetic appreciation.
Bobby whistled—a long, low sound that carried genuine awe mixed with professional appreciation and just a hint of competitive interest. "Okay, that is legitimately impressive. And here I thought Scott's precision laser vision was the most visually striking power demonstration in the school's recent history."
Scott's jaw tightened behind his glasses, though he maintained his polite smile with the kind of determined professionalism that suggested he was working very hard to remain gracious despite rapidly developing personal complications involving Jean's obvious fascination with their new arrival.
"They're made of pure psychic energy," Jean explained, her voice carrying breathless enthusiasm that had absolutely nothing to do with academic interest and everything to do with the way Harry looked like he'd been personally carved by Michelangelo during a particularly inspired collaboration with cosmic forces. "Not physical constructs, but crystallized thought given form. The Phoenix Force enhanced his natural mutant abilities while maintaining the essential theoretical framework of his magical education."
"Magic," Bobby said slowly, his tone suggesting he was processing concepts that didn't quite fit into his existing understanding of extraordinary abilities, no matter how broad that understanding might have been. "Actual, literal magic. Not advanced mutation, not sophisticated technology that we don't understand yet, but honest-to-God magic that operates according to rules that probably predate physics as a concept."
"Honest-to-God magic," Harry confirmed, letting the wings fold back into nothingness with the casual ease of someone adjusting a jacket, though he kept the armor because it made Jean's pupils dilate in ways that were extremely distracting and rather flattering. "Though I suspect the distinction between magic and mutation might be more academic than practical. Both involve manipulating reality through will and intent, just using different theoretical frameworks and possibly different energy sources."
Bobby's ice-blue eyes sharpened with the kind of scientific curiosity that suggested he'd spent considerable time thinking about the fundamental nature of supernatural abilities. "Can you do other magic? Besides the flower conjuring that has Jean looking like someone just handed her the Hope Diamond wrapped in personalized poetry?"
Jean's cheeks flushed that particular shade of pink that Scott had been trying unsuccessfully to inspire for two years, but her smile suggested she wasn't particularly embarrassed by Bobby's observation and might, in fact, be rather pleased by it.
Harry's grin turned decidedly mischievous—the expression of someone who'd spent years entertaining friends with abilities that operated outside conventional reality and had never quite outgrown the pleasure of seeing people's reactions to the impossible made casual. "Well, since you asked so nicely..."
He raised his hand with the kind of casual authority that belonged to someone who'd spent years making impossible things happen through sheer determination combined with properly applied magical theory. "*Aguamenti.*"
Water poured from his palm—but not the simple conjuration Bobby might have expected from someone with advanced control over molecular structures. This was water that seemed to have been personally blessed by every mountain stream that had ever existed, crystalline liquid that captured and reflected light like it had been woven from liquid diamonds by artisans who specialized in making the impossible beautiful.
The stream arced through the air in a perfect parabola that would have made mathematics professors weep with aesthetic appreciation, before splashing into one of the mansion's decorative urns with the musical sound of everything pure and clean and perfect about the natural world.
"Water conjuration," Harry explained with the kind of casual modesty that was probably more impressive than outright boasting. "Useful for everything from firefighting to staying hydrated during extended combat operations. Though the cosmic enhancement seems to have improved the aesthetic quality considerably—usually it's just regular water that tastes faintly of magic and disappears after about twenty minutes. This might actually maintain molecular cohesion for several hours."
Bobby extended his hand toward the conjured water, and frost began to form around his fingers with the kind of precision that suggested years of practice combined with natural talent for manipulating thermal dynamics. "Mind if I experiment with this? I'm curious about how my abilities interact with magically created materials."
"By all means," Harry said, his tone carrying genuine scientific interest that suggested he'd retained his intellectual curiosity despite everything that had happened to him. "I'd be fascinated to see how ice manipulation works with water that's been enhanced by cosmic forces. Could lead to some very interesting tactical applications."
Bobby's mutation took hold of Harry's conjured water, transforming it into crystalline sculptures that defied several laws of physics and at least one fundamental principle of chemistry. The ice formed intricate patterns—flowers that looked like they'd been grown in fairy tale gardens, geometric shapes that belonged in advanced mathematics textbooks, and what appeared to be miniature architectural models of buildings that should have been structurally impossible.
All of it maintained the diamond-like clarity and inner radiance of Harry's original conjuration, creating ice sculptures that seemed to glow with their own internal light.
"Fascinating," Bobby murmured, studying his creations with the kind of focused intensity that suggested he was seeing possibilities he'd never considered before. "Your magic seems to enhance the fundamental properties of the water at the molecular level. My ice is usually just frozen H2O with whatever structural modifications I can impose through thermal manipulation, but this has crystalline integrity and optical properties that shouldn't be possible with conventional ice formation."
"Magic tends to improve most materials it touches," Harry said, his tone carrying the satisfaction of someone seeing his abilities properly appreciated by individuals who understood the technical implications. "Though I have to admit, I've never seen ice manipulation quite like that. The level of fine detail control you're demonstrating suggests either remarkable natural talent or very intensive training. Possibly both."
"Years of practice with Logan," Bobby replied with the kind of casual modesty that suggested considerable skill taken for granted, "plus some rather creative interpretation of what constitutes 'practical application' of abilities during training sessions. Logan has very direct opinions about the importance of mastering your powers before they master you, and he's remarkably good at creating situations that test the limits of what you think you can do."
Scott stepped forward with the careful precision of someone trying to contribute meaningfully to a conversation that had become rather more technical than he'd anticipated. "Logan's training methods are... comprehensive. He believes in learning through direct experience rather than theoretical study, which means his students tend to develop very practical approaches to ability application."
"Practical experience is invaluable," Harry agreed, though something in his tone suggested he'd had rather more practical experience than most people would consider healthy for someone his age. "My previous education was remarkably heavy on theory and somewhat light on application until circumstances forced me to develop real-world skills through what could diplomatically be described as 'accelerated learning opportunities.'"
"Accelerated learning opportunities," Jean repeated, her voice carrying the kind of gentle understanding that suggested she'd heard enough about Harry's background to recognize understatement when it was being used to make traumatic experiences sound manageable. "That's a very British way of describing what sounds like it was probably terrifying at the time."
"Terrifying, educational, occasionally character-building, and frequently life-threatening," Harry confirmed with the kind of rueful honesty that suggested he'd developed a healthy perspective on experiences that had aged him considerably beyond his chronological years. "Though I have to say, having survived Voldemort's idea of educational curriculum makes most other challenges seem remarkably manageable by comparison."
The four young people stood there in the mansion's elegant entrance hall, surrounded by Bobby's impossible ice sculptures and the lingering radiance from Harry's demonstration, each processing the implications of abilities that operated beyond conventional understanding.
"So," Bobby said with obvious delight at the new social and supernatural dynamics, "what's the plan for the rest of the tour? Because I vote we show him the Danger Room. Nothing says 'welcome to Xavier's Institute' quite like advanced holographic combat simulations that occasionally achieve partial sentience and develop creative interpretations of training objectives."
"The Danger Room occasionally becomes self-aware?" Harry asked with the kind of interested concern that came from extensive experience with educational facilities that had their own unique hazards.
"Only during the most interesting training sessions," Scott assured him, though his slight smile suggested fond memories of near-death experiences that had ultimately proven educational. "Professor Xavier says it builds adaptability and teaches students to think creatively when faced with unexpected parameters."
"Character development through technological malfunction," Harry mused with obvious amusement. "That sounds remarkably similar to my Hogwarts experience, though considerably more sophisticated. Our approach mostly involved releasing dangerous magical creatures in controlled environments and hoping students would develop appropriate survival responses before anyone required extended medical treatment."
"Did anyone actually require extended medical treatment?" Jean asked with the kind of morbid fascination that suggested she was beginning to understand that Harry's previous educational experience had been extraordinary in ways that extended well beyond interdimensional displacement.
"Several students, a few professors, and at least two headmasters over the years," Harry replied with casual matter-of-factness that made their jaws drop. "Though most of the serious casualties were directly related to Voldemort's influence rather than standard educational hazards. Hogwarts' safety record was actually quite good, considering we were essentially running a boarding school in an active war zone while training teenagers to fight dark magic."
Bobby, Scott, and Jean exchanged glances that suggested they were rapidly recalibrating their understanding of what constituted normal academic challenges and coming up with numbers that involved considerably more danger than anyone should reasonably expect from secondary education.
"Right then," Bobby said with the kind of determined cheerfulness that suggested he was choosing to focus on the positive implications rather than the horrifying details, "Danger Room demonstration it is. Nothing like a comprehensive holographic combat simulation to properly welcome our interdimensional refugee to the wonderful world of Xavier Institute educational philosophy."
"Lead the way," Harry said, his grin suggesting he was genuinely looking forward to seeing what passed for advanced combat training in a reality where magic was replaced by mutation and government persecution came with better technology. "Though I should probably warn you that my approach to tactical situations tends to be somewhat... creatively improvisational."
"Improvisational is perfect," Scott said with genuine enthusiasm, finally relaxing as they moved toward safer conversational territory. "Around here, the ability to adapt quickly to changing parameters is considerably more valuable than following predetermined tactical frameworks. Especially when those parameters might involve time travel, telepathic manipulation, reality warping, or Bobby deciding that the simulation would be more interesting with additional dramatic elements."
"I only did that twice," Bobby protested with mock indignation, leading them deeper into the mansion with the confident stride of someone who knew exactly where the most interesting facilities were located. "And in my defense, the standard combat scenarios were boring before I added the ice dragons and the aerial combat sequences."
"Ice dragons?" Harry repeated with obvious delight, his eyes lighting up like Christmas morning. "Please tell me there's video documentation of this, because that sounds like exactly the kind of tactical creativity I can appreciate."
"Several hours of video documentation," Jean confirmed with fond exasperation, though her tone suggested she'd found Bobby's innovations considerably more entertaining than problematic. "Professor Xavier keeps them as examples of what he diplomatically describes as 'creative interpretation of training parameters' and less diplomatically describes as 'why we can't have nice things.'"
"I think I'm going to like it here," Harry declared with obvious satisfaction, letting his armor finally flow back into his skin as they walked deeper into the mansion.
After all, any educational institution that considered ice dragons a reasonable addition to combat training was clearly prepared for the kind of strategic chaos that had defined Harry Potter's academic career.
—
The abandoned warehouse in Queens had seen better decades—probably sometime around the Eisenhower administration, when the industrial complex had hummed with legitimate business instead of serving as headquarters for mutant terrorists with delusions of evolutionary superiority. Now it squatted like a concrete cancer amid the urban decay, its windows boarded over and its loading docks sealed with rust and neglect.
Inside, the Brotherhood of Mutants had created something that was equal parts command center and survivalist compound. Stolen military equipment shared space with jury-rigged electronics, while maps of major metropolitan areas covered walls that hadn't seen fresh paint since Nixon was in office. The air carried the distinctive scent of ozone, metal, and the particular kind of tension that came from dangerous individuals living in close quarters while planning activities that would make federal prosecutors weep with joy.
Mystique sat in what had once been the warehouse foreman's office, her natural blue skin rippling with the kind of restless energy that came from extended periods of enforced inactivity. Her yellow eyes tracked across multiple monitors displaying news feeds, social media streams, and government communications that the Brotherhood had learned to intercept through methods that were technically illegal but undeniably effective.
The secure phone on the desk rang with the particular tone that meant only one person—a sound that made everyone in the Brotherhood immediately pay attention whether they wanted to or not.
"Magneto," she answered, her voice carrying the professional neutrality that came from years of working with individuals whose tempers could reshape local geography when properly motivated.
"Mystique." Erik Lensherr's voice carried across the encrypted connection with the kind of magnetic authority that had convinced entire governments to take him seriously, even when they disagreed with his methods. "I trust you've been monitoring the usual channels for unusual activity?"
"Always," she replied, gesturing for Pyro and Avalanche to continue their current tasks while she focused on whatever had captured their leader's attention. "Though I should mention that 'unusual activity' covers a fairly broad spectrum in our line of work. Government weapons programs, Sentinel development, new legislation targeting mutant rights—we've got seventeen different crises developing simultaneously, as usual."
"This is something rather more immediate," Magneto continued, his tone carrying the weight of information that had strategic implications. "Mastermind contacted me an hour ago with intelligence from his surveillance around the Xavier Institute. They've acquired a new resident—someone who registered on their detection systems as Omega Level."
Mystique straightened in her chair, her attention sharpening with the kind of predatory focus that came from recognizing genuine opportunities amid the usual tactical background noise. "Omega Level? That's significant. How many does that make at Xavier's school?"
"Three, now. Grey, Drake, and this new arrival." Magneto's voice carried a note of calculation that suggested he was already seeing possibilities that extended well beyond simple intelligence gathering. "But here's what makes this particularly interesting—Mastermind says the individual appeared yesterday evening, manifesting abilities that he describes as 'unprecedented in scope and potentially reality-altering in application.'"
"Appeared?" Mystique repeated, her shapeshifting abilities responding to emotional stimuli by shifting her skin tone toward deeper shades of blue. "As in, suddenly showed up at Xavier's doorstep asking for enrollment? Or appeared as in teleportation, dimensional travel, or some other method that bypasses conventional security?"
"The latter, apparently. Witnesses describe what sounds suspiciously like interdimensional manifestation accompanied by what Mastermind's contacts are calling 'cosmic-level energy signatures' and 'pyrotechnics that made the Aurora Borealis look understated.'" There was a pause, during which Mystique could practically hear Erik's tactical mind processing implications and coming up with strategies. "I want you to investigate. Full reconnaissance—identity, abilities, background, potential weaknesses, and whether this individual represents an opportunity or a threat to our operations."
Mystique's yellow eyes narrowed as she considered the parameters of the mission. "What kind of timeline are we working with? Because infiltrating Xavier's institute requires careful preparation, especially if they've upgraded their security systems since our last intelligence gathering operation."
"As quickly as possible without compromising operational security," Magneto replied with the kind of urgency that suggested this was considerably more important than routine surveillance. "If this individual is truly Omega Level with interdimensional capabilities, they represent either a valuable potential recruit or a significant threat to everything we've worked to achieve. I need to know which category they fall into before Xavier has time to fully integrate them into his idealistic delusions about peaceful coexistence."
"Understood," Mystique said, her mind already shifting into operational planning mode. "I'll need cover identities, surveillance equipment, and probably backup extraction protocols in case this turns into something more complicated than simple observation."
"Whatever you need," Magneto confirmed. "Pyro and Avalanche are at your disposal if the situation requires additional tactical support, though I'd prefer to keep this as a reconnaissance mission rather than direct confrontation. We're not ready for open warfare with Xavier's people, especially if they've just acquired someone with potentially cosmic-level abilities."
Mystique glanced toward the warehouse floor, where Pyro was practicing precision fire control by spelling out obscene messages in controlled flame while Avalanche worked on seismic manipulation techniques that made the concrete foundations vibrate with barely contained tectonic force.
"I'll start with solo infiltration," she decided. "Pyro's idea of subtle surveillance involves incendiary devices and property damage, while Avalanche tends to announce his presence through minor earthquakes. Neither approach seems optimal for gathering intelligence without attracting attention."
"Agreed. Keep me informed of your progress, and remember—this individual could be the key to either advancing our cause or destroying everything we've worked for. Treat this mission accordingly."
The line went dead with the decisive finality that characterized all of Magneto's communications, leaving Mystique alone with tactical considerations that were rapidly becoming more complex than simple surveillance operations.
An interdimensional Omega Level mutant with cosmic enhancement capabilities, now residing at Xavier's institute and potentially being recruited into their philosophy of peaceful coexistence and moral restraint. The strategic implications were staggering—such an individual could tip the balance of power between human and mutant populations, assuming they could be properly motivated to choose the right side.
Or, if Xavier's people succeeded in converting them to their cause, they could represent an existential threat to the Brotherhood's goals that would require immediate and decisive countermeasures.
Either way, Mystique had work to do.
She reached for her secure laptop and began accessing the kind of databases that officially didn't exist, searching for any information about unusual energy manifestations, interdimensional phenomena, or government reports of reality disturbances in the New York metropolitan area over the past forty-eight hours.
Because if there was one thing Mystique had learned during her years with the Brotherhood, it was that knowledge was the most valuable weapon in any conflict—and the side that understood their enemies' capabilities first was usually the side that survived to write the history books.
Xavier's Institute was about to receive some very discrete, very professional attention.
And if this new arrival was everything Mastermind's intelligence suggested, the Brotherhood was either about to gain a powerful ally or identify a threat that would require permanent solution.
Time to find out which.
---
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