The morning sun bled through the heavy curtains of the instructor suite Max was currently living in at the mansion, splashing sunlight across his well-rested, still-ugly face.
He leaned forward in bed, the comfy blankets falling down, covering only his waist and legs while he stretched his upper body.
It had been nearly a month since he had first arrived and taken a spot at the mansion in this room already; time moved like a blur for Max.
With his assistance, the X-Men were able to manage the recruitment of several new members with significantly greater efficiency.
In the original cartoon, the shapeshifting mutant Mystique frequently undermined the X-Men's efforts, or at the very least complicated them, by impersonating X-Men team members and attempting to intimidate potential recruits, such as Rogue, into aligning with the Mutant Brotherhood instead.
Max showed complete indifference to the dangers of altering the timeline or triggering a butterfly effect, whether it stemmed from his ability to foresee events or from having already witnessed the cartoon's ending, standing in stark contrast to Han Xiao from The Legendary Mechanic.
To Max, the mutant Apocalypse was trivial compared to Han's fear of the World Tree. Furthermore, his 'Destiny' mutation granted him the extraordinary power to gaze far into the future, surpassing even the original owner and informant to the Brotherhood, Irene Adler's, capabilities. This remarkable advantage was born from his unmatched mastery of his mutations, honed automatically through his ability, [Instinct].
Max realized after playing around with his abilities that the original author of The Legendary Mechanic had gotten it right. Foreseers possessed the ability to perceive multiple potential outcomes of the future. When their visions came into conflict, it became a complex contest of perception—this scenario had been described as "I foresaw that you foresaw what I foresaw." In such encounters, victory belonged to the one whose sight could extend further into the web of possibilities.
Both Max and Irene's abilities were powerful, but between the two, Max had already outstripped her.
But more than that, Max had subtly begun to influence the story itself—albeit in small, calculated ways. His knowledge of the original cartoon's plot gave him an edge. He knew the key turning points, the moments where the narrative could veer off course, and he had already begun to nudge events to favor his side.
He had informed Charles Xavier of what was to come, not just from a strategic standpoint but from an outside-the-box perspective—knowing how the future could be bent or reshaped. Max's familiarity with the storyline allowed him to plant seeds in the present, subtly guiding certain actions or decisions to ensure the unfolding events aligned with his broader plan.
His superior foresight and understanding made him a shadowy puppeteer, able to pull strings behind the scenes, knowing exactly how the future could be altered—not just by chance, but by deliberate choice. The subtle shifts he made—small manipulations in the environment, influencing key decisions—were enough to tilt the narrative in his favor, all while Irene's visions struggled to keep pace with the shifting landscape.
In this game of recursive foresight and strategic manipulation, Max knew he was already several steps ahead—confident that, with every move, he was slowly rewriting the story, outmaneuvering even the most gifted seer.
Max decided to take the whole 'Isekai-ed into Marvel' idea and just run with it. Originally, he had just wanted to shrink away and lurk in the corners, taking advantage of his powers to gain wealth through gambling in quiet. But after the last two weeks of practicing in the Danger Room, and actually mixing it up with some of the Brotherhood of Mutants, Max was having a damn good time!
He did in fact make some money on the side—well, a LOT of money already—primarily with one 'Trifecta of the century!' at a local Irish-themed pub called McGinty's. McGinty's hosted horse racing, turning the $25 in his original wallet, still in the backpack and Porsche from when he first arrived in this world, into a fortune.
...
The pub was thick with the smell of stale lager and the desperate energy of men who viewed their rent money as 'future gambling capital. Max sat in a corner booth, his eyes fixed on the flickering CRT monitors.
Max leaned over and reached into the backpack beside him, pulling out his worn leather wallet. Inside was exactly $25—a pitiful sum he'd planned to spend on lunch back when he still thought he was heading to his shift at the comic shop back home. But with the 'Destiny' mutation, it was more than enough to take down the house.
He didn't need to reach out with magnetic fields or tip the scales of luck with Domino's power. He simply leaned back and let the strands of time weave together until he saw it: the one incoming future where a nearly washed-up grey horse named 'Ghost Catcher' ran the race of its life.
Max stood up and approached the betting window. He started by throwing away ten dollars on two separate 'losers'—horses he knew would finish mid-pack in a different race.
"Tough break, buddy," the teller muttered as the tenth horse crossed the line in fourth place.
Max let out a practiced, frustrated sigh, leaning against the counter. He caught the eye of a drunk at the next table who was snickering at his bad luck. Max turned, a beautiful grin crossing his handsome, simulated face.
"You think that's a waste of money? Watch this," Max said, raising his voice just enough for the bar to hear. "Fuck it. I'm placing every cent left in my wallet on this last race. If I'm going home broke, I'm doing it in style."
He shoved his remaining $15—the last of his original world's currency—toward the glass.
"Race eight. Straight Trifecta," Max said, his voice flat. "7, 4, and... what do you think? 12? Yeah, 12. In that exact order."
The teller paused, looking at the screen. "Kid, that's a 100-to-1, an 80-to-1, and a mule. You're better off burning that fifteen bucks for warmth, you're betting on an old horse to come in 1st, man..."
"Just print the ticket, I'm feeling lucky!" Max smirked.
He didn't even watch the race. He sat with his back to the TV, sipping a cold lemon-lime flavored soda while the pub erupted into screams of disbelief. He heard the announcer's voice crack as 'Ghost Catcher' surged from last to first, followed by two other horses no one had even bothered to circle on their programs.
The silence that followed was heavy. Then, the tote board flashed the payout: $18,500.00 for a $2 bet.
Max looked at his $15 ticket. Since a trifecta is based on units, he held 7.5 times the winning dividend. He was holding the equivalent of $138,750 in his hands!
'Okay, time to act surprised! One and done... can't win like this more than once or it'll look suspicious as hell!'
He tucked the slip into his pocket, grabbed his bag, and began to look shocked and surprised, exclaiming out loud, "Holy shit! Are you kidding me?! Hell yeah! Fuck, I guess I should hook up a round of drinks for everyone, eh?!"
Everyone in the bar cheered loudly, joining in while being influenced by the mood of this very handsome, very lucky, and now very generous young man.
Max didn't feel like filling out any forms or handing over 25% to the tax man. As he walked toward the payout cage, he felt the invisible pull of the building's electromagnetic field. It was child's play. He reached out with his mind, pinpointing the terminal's central processor and the hard-line connection to the state's gambling database.
With a surgical twitch of his thumb, he sent a microscopic magnetic pulse into the machine.
Inside the computer, the 'Tax Flag' bit for his specific ticket number didn't just flip; it vanished. To the track's software, his $15 winning ticket suddenly looked like a series of smaller, anonymous $500 winners—none of which triggered the legal requirement for a social security number or a reported ID.
The teller, a woman whose name tag read 'Bernice,' stared at the screen, then at the ticket, then back at the screen. She looked confused, her finger hovering over a 'Call Manager' button.
"Everything alright, Bernice?" Max asked, his voice smooth. He gave the machine one more gentle nudge, a low-frequency hum that only he could feel, while putting on his most charming smile.
The screen flickered, the red 'Audit Required' light turning a steady, obedient green.
"I... yeah. It says it's a cash payout," she muttered, clearly baffled by her own system. "I've never seen the machine split a trifecta dividend into cash vouchers like this, but the computer says it's clear, I guess. Haha, you're going to empty half of the money on site! Congratulations!"
"You need to get lucky once or twice in a lifetime, I suppose." Max kept the look of extreme happiness on his face; the smile was much more sincere now that he knew he was getting away with this.
She began counting out stacks of hundreds from the high-limit drawer. It took her 30 minutes. Max stuffed the bands of cash into the hidden compartment of his backpack, right next to the deck of cards he had intended to play with at work before he had been spirited away by Vespera.
"Have a most excellent day," Max said, flashing that winning grin at Bernice one more time before leaving the bar. The eyes on his back while leaving contained a mixture of gratitude for the free drinks, as well as jealousy because this new guy at the pub had won so big.
He walked out into the cool evening air, the weight of the backpack feeling more than right. The X-Men were busy playing heroes and worrying about the "sanctity of the timeline" because of him. He was out fixing the future...Max just patted his bag and smiled some more.
He had a power set that could make money extremely easily and, for the first time, more than $1,000 to his name. When his parents' assets had been lost in the past, it had drained him not only mentally, but financially as well. So this instant wealth felt really, really good right now.
As he was about to walk around the corner to where the Porsche was parked, three sets of feet could be heard, quickly catching up with him, while a deep voice called out in a not-so-friendly tone.
"Hey, kid, hold up a minute... we would like to have a chat with you..."