Max walked around the spacious, well-furnished room that would serve as his hideout for the next couple of years in the east wing of the X-Men's mansion, preparing to turn in for the night.
The night was still a blur in his mind. First kidnapped by a goddess, then transformed—his body then modified, twice, no less. He'd been transmigrated into this world and had wasted no time testing his new powers. He crossed paths with the X-Men and led them on a wild chase before heading straight to the mansion.
Max had quickly befriended Logan—also known as Wolverine—over a few beers, instead of fighting him, much to the surprise of the rest of the X-Men.
Speaking of surprising the X-Men, while flying, Max had been deep in thought, trying to figure out what to say to the mutants at the mansion—especially Charles Xavier—without arousing suspicion about his origins. Long before he reached Charles's study door, he had already devised a plausible story.
He told the truth—at least, in part. Max 'revealed' that he hailed from an alternate reality, a completely different universe, and that he possessed knowledge of what the future held. With confidence, he shared snippets of his foreknowledge about the show, carefully choosing details and future dangers that would intrigue without revealing too much about his true origins. Most importantly, he concealed the deeper truth—the astonishing fact that, in his world, they only existed as comic books and cartoon characters.
Max emphasized how relentless sentinel robots were and how savage the mutant Apocalypse would be.
He more or less explained the plot of the show, as best as he could remember—it had been a few years since he watched the cartoon.
He also conveniently explained why he led the X-Men on a chase earlier: to demonstrate his powers and make Professor Xavier believe his sincerity.
"...So I more or less have some sort of foresight ability, as well as the power to manipulate metal, which I'm guessing you're already aware of. I can't tell you why or how I was sent here, but I can help when the time is right... You all can call me Max."
"I... know. Logan informed me of his new drinking companion's name while you were opening the first cans," Professor Xavier murmured, his voice low and steady despite the slight tremor in his hand as he reached for his tea. "I need time to think, Max. If even half of what you claim is accurate, the consequences for my students... No. For the world itself... If you could just lower your barriers and trust me, let me see what you've seen..."
'Of course this guy is using everyone as a listeningdevice with his psychic power... Still wants to get inside my mind too...'
Max was grateful for his 'Blank' ability once again.
"Take all the time you need, but I prefer to not have my memories read. I'm not going anywhere for the time being and want to help you out though. That said, you guys have a room open for me? At the end of the day I can be pretty useful in a fight, and you've got a lot of things to fight pretty soon. It's a win-win if I stick around here..." Max tested the waters.
Professor Xavier looked at Max for a few moments without answering directly, before reaching into his desk drawer and pulling out a sleek, metallic wristband—the 'Image Inducer.' He slid it across the desk. "This was originally designed for Kurt, I had several made. It projects a holographic shroud... It won't hide your... unique energy, but it will allow you to walk the halls without causing a panic among the younger students."
Max smiled and picked up the device. 'If I remember correctly from the show, this tech bends light, right?' he thought, snapping it onto his wrist.
The Professor pressed a button on his desk. "Storm? Please come to my study. We have a... guest who needs a room in the East Wing—one of the instructor suites."
Thirty seconds later, the door opened and the atmosphere in the room shifted instantly.
It wasn't just movement; it was as if the very air grew lighter, charged with the ozone-crisp scent that often precedes a summer rain.
The woman stepping through the door was tall and strikingly elegant, her skin a deep, rich bronze contrasting vividly with a cascading mane of snow-white hair falling past her shoulders.
She wasn't dressed in a tactical suit or cape like the ones typically worn by the X-Men; instead, she wore a simple, sleeveless turtleneck in a muted turquoise shade and dark, tailored trousers that moved with a fluid grace.
Max's eyes, which had been focused on the stern yet kind-looking bald man seated behind the desk in his wheelchair, widened at the sight of her, ever so slightly.
Her eyes—a piercing, intelligent blue—swept over Max with a calm, discerning gaze. There was no hostility or rejection, not even a hint of disgust—only a regal composure that made Max feel as though he were being judged by the sky itself. And the sky was kind.
"You called, Charles?" she asked. Her voice was like velvet—calm and resonant.
"Ororo, thank you for coming," Professor Xavier said, regaining some of his steadiness. He gestured toward Max.
"This is Max. He will be staying with us for the time being. I've assigned him to the East Wing... I'd appreciate it if you could show him the way and ensure he has everything he needs."
She nodded gracefully toward Max. "Welcome to the Institute. I am Ororo Munroe—most here call me Storm, however. It's a pleasure to meet you, Max." She gestured toward the hallway. "If you'd follow me."
"You bet... Nice to meet you too, Ororo."
Max had just dropped a nuclear bomb of information on the world's most powerful telepath, and now he was following another real live X-Man to a five-star room.
As they exited the office, Max used his power to close the door behind them. The hallway's silence felt heavy.
Ororo noticed Max's hand hovering tentatively over the image inducer Xavier had provided—a small, high-tech watch that looked alien against his gnarled skin. "You don't have to activate that immediately if you don't wish to," she said softly.
She kept her pace measured, matching his. "At this institute, we believe your mutations—no matter how they manifest—are not a burden to be hidden. You are exactly as you are meant to be, Max. You are perfect the way you are."
Max nearly snorted inwardly. 'Perfect? I look like a radioactive monkey had a baby with a zombie.' Suppressed amusement bubbled inside him.
It was actually hilarious. If Ororo knew that, just an hour ago, he'd been a solid twelve out of ten, or that this "hideous" form was basically a cosmic prank played on him by himself, she'd probably short-circuit.
To her, this was his tragic burden; to him, it was a long-term comedy sketch with some extra GP waiting at the finish line.
He could endure a decade of being a monster if it meant eventual godhood.
"I appreciate that, Storm," Max replied, his voice a little gravelly and distorted. "But I prefer low-profile aesthetics for now."
"As you wish," she said with a graceful tilt of her head, leading him toward the East Wing. "But within these walls, no one will ask you to be anything other than yourself."
Max glanced at the watch, thinking of the "gorgeous" version he'd be again in 3,650 days.
'Just you wait, Storm. In ten years, the glow-up will be legendary.'
He thumbed the activation stud on the sleek watch. With a soft hum and a shimmer of blue light, the distorted, gnarled mass of his "ugly" features disappeared.
In its place stood the man he'd been—sharp jawline, symmetrical features, effortless athletic grace. The version of Max from just before entering this Marvel Jump, looking every bit the protagonist of his multiversal epic.
Ororo suddenly stopped, her serene, maternal mask slipping as her crystalline blue eyes widened.
She took a slow, deliberate step back, her gaze traveling from his feet up to his striking face.
The 'perfect as you are' speech now felt very far away. A surprised smile played on her lips as she crossed her arms.
"Well," she murmured, her tone dropping and sounding more playful. "I take it back. While I stand by my philosophy, I suppose I can see the utility in... a change of pace." She circled him once, her eyes lingering just a second too long on his corrected posture.
"On second thought, Max, do keep the inducer running. It's a very effective cover. Though I suspect you might find the student body—and perhaps some of the faculty—a bit more distracted than Charles intended."
'Is Storm flirting with me?'
Max grinned—the first genuine smile on his face in a while. "Just trying to blend in."
"Believe me," she said with a playful sparkle, gesturing toward the East Wing again, "You're doing anything but blending in now. Shall we?"
'She's totally flirting with me... I guess this version of the X-Men isn't so PG after all.'
As they turned the corner toward the residential hall of the East Wing, a heavy scent of cigars and worn leather preceded a man leaning against a doorway up ahead.
Logan, clad in that same flannel shirt from before, with sleeves rolled up, didn't even look up from the pocketknife he was cleaning his nails with. As Max and Ororo approached—Max still wearing his polished, holographic "true" face—Logan finally raised his head.
He gave a sharp, animalistic sniff of the air, his eyes narrowing as they flicked between the high-tech shimmer of the image inducer and Max's symmetrical features.
"Great," Logan grunted, his voice low and gravelly. "Just what this place needs. Another pretty boy clogging up the mirrors. Charles must be running a modeling agency now."
He pushed off the wall, brushing past Max's shoulder. As he passed, he muttered loud enough for both Ororo and Max to hear: "The danger room doesn't care how good your hair looks."
Max felt the urge to laugh again. He was very much looking forward to smashing things in the danger room with Wolverine and the rest of the X-Men.
Ororo sighed, a faintly amused smile still on her lips.
"Ignore him, Max. Logan considers 'hygiene' and 'politeness' optional. His room's just down the hall from yours—unfortunate, I know."
"It's okay. I've already met Logan. He's seen what I really look like, and he was pretty nice about it. He seems pretty cool, despite his terrible taste in beer."
Logan paused, looking Max up and down. Then, with a rough chuckle, he said, "Heh. Free beer tastes the best, and you know it."
He spat a stray piece of freshly finished cigar aside, smirking. "Almost had me fooled with that image inducer earlier, but the smell of your original form is still in my nose. You look like a movie star now, but you still smell like a swamp-thing's gym sock."
He walked back, clapping Max on the shoulder with a heavy hand—Max just knew that Logan was one of the few who didn't mind the "cosmetic horror" underneath.
"Better watch out, Ororo," Logan warned, casting a sidelong glance. "This guy's a shapeshifter at heart. One minute he's a nightmare, the next he's a pretty boy trying to steal your seat at the adult table. Don't let the face fool ya—he's still the same ugly bastard I was drinking with earlier."
Turning away, he tossed a wave over his shoulder. "Don't spend too much time admiring yourself in the mirror, Max. Pretty face or not, you're still buying the next round."
"Pfft. Good night, you hairy thing," Max shot back.
Logan chuckled and raised a middle finger as he walked away.
Ororo watched him go, then turned back to Max,. "He has a point. It's a very nice mask. But I think I prefer the man who can trade barbs with Logan and keep his dignity."
She reached out, pointing past the air just an inch from his holographic arm. "Your suite is right here. Get settled. I suspect your 'other-dimensional' knowledge will make tomorrow a very busy day."
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Max alone. He didn't immediately relax. Turning off the watch, he moved to stand in the center of the room, his hideous reflection in the dark window pane staring back a. With a thought, he felt the metal structure of the bed, the wiring in the walls, and the alloys of the image inducer in his hand—thinking about the day's events.
Finally, he reached into his pocket and retrieved the two small metal orbs—his new costume and helmet in their compact forms.
He couldn't wait to try them on. But that could wait until morning. Despite his high resistance to fatigue, he longed for a cold pillow more than anything.
And the ones on the bed in front of him looked especially plush.