Chapter 11
The introductions carried on, the weight of Xavier's words still hanging in the air. Each new face was marked, catalogued by Logan's sharp eyes, each movement weighed like prey or predator. The air in the room was heavy, filled with power and suspicion in equal measure.
But one figure hadn't yet been introduced properly. The professor's gaze shifted, steady as a lighthouse, toward the man leaning lazily against the far wall.
"And this," Xavier said, "is James Logan. Known also as Wolverine."
Logan shifted, straightened just enough to look like he wasn't entirely ignoring the moment. The light caught the battered lines in his face, the wild hair, the heavy frame built of muscle and scars. His suit was different from the rest—yellow and black, cut for speed and brutality rather than flair. It looked less like a uniform and more like armor torn out of some nightmare and stitched back together for war.
"He is not simply muscle," Xavier continued. "His senses are sharper than any beast's, his healing unmatched, his claws indestructible. He has walked through battlefields and left them red behind him. But more importantly…" Xavier's eyes softened, "…he is a survivor. He will be your shield, and if needed, your sword."
Logan bit down on his cigar, smirked. "Don't expect me to babysit," he muttered. But there was no mistaking the flicker of pride that passed through his expression before he exhaled smoke and turned his eyes away.
For a beat, the group stood silent, all their powers, pride, and egos crackling against each other like dry kindling.
And then, inevitably, Thunderbird's voice cut through it.
"So what the hell are we waiting for?" John growled, arms crossed, impatience dripping from every syllable. "You pulled us from every corner of the earth, suited us up like circus performers, gave your big speech—and now what? We just stand around?"
Logan grunted. Kid's got less patience than me. Didn't think that was possible.
Xavier turned his head, calm as a man watching a storm roll over the horizon. "Patience, Thunderbird. We wait because there is one more."
"One more?" Thunderbird's eyes narrowed. "You had us all standing here for nothing? I don't like waiting, Professor. Not for games, not for secrets."
"Not a secret," Xavier said, his voice firm now. "A necessity. He was leading before you ever stepped foot in this room. Without him, you would not yet have a team."
And as if on cue, the doors at the far end hissed open.
A tall figure strode in—brown hair neatly parted, jaw set like a blade, eyes hidden behind a ruby-red visor that glowed faintly even in the bright light. His suit was blue and gold, clean, purposeful, cut for leadership rather than intimidation. Every movement carried authority, as though the ground itself made way for him.
Scott Summers. Cyclops.
The silence deepened as he took his place at the center.
"Sorry I'm late," he said, voice clipped, controlled. His visor tilted slightly toward Xavier, then toward the group assembled. "I came as soon as I could."
Xavier's hand rested lightly on his chair's armrest, the gesture enough to signal the end of waiting. "And now," he said simply, "we are complete."
Logan's eyes narrowed, a faint curl of smoke drifting from his cigar. He didn't know the man yet, but something in his gut told him this was gonna be the start of a long, sharp-edged rivalry.
The air in the room shifted. The team—still strangers, still sizing each other up—was finally whole.