"What can I do for you, fellas?"
Max turned back to face the three men who had followed him out of McGinty's.
He noticed all three had their eyes fixed on his backpack full of cash. Max didn't need the visual cues or common sense to know what they were after—his [Destiny] ability had already shown him the future, after all. He'd glimpsed what was coming—and he knew exactly what these greedy guys wanted.
He was just playing along, letting them think they had the upper hand, so he could mess with them a little.
The three men took a cautious step forward, but Max didn't bother to move. Instead, he relaxed, a calm confidence flowing off him.
In an instant, Max's [Domino] powers kicked in—a probability manipulation field influencing everything nearby.
His body moved with unnatural speed and precision, a blur that left the men stumbling and tripping over themselves as he casually rag-dolled them like a seasoned pro against little kids. Despite his overwhelming strength and skill, Max made sure to avoid serious injury, adjusting just enough to leave them battered but not permanently harmed or leaking too much blood.
He used his absolute physical superiority to tire them out while dodging about, just barely letting their blows pass by his face and body. They tried to throw punches and kicks, but their strikes missed or landed weakly whenever and wherever Max wanted them to.
Max's [Domino] ability subtly influenced their actions as well—causing them to trip over their own feet or stumble into bad positions, twisting an ankle on a pebble kinda thing, further disorienting them.
A few minutes later, the three men lay sprawled on the ground, bruised and battered, their energy spent. They looked up at him, panting and exhausted but still conscious.
Max, standing over them with a weird look on his face, simply said, "That's what you get for being dirty thieves, I guess." (He most certainly didn't consider the money he just took from the pub theft... Wait. Is counting cards theft?).
Despite the violence of the encounter, there was no real malice in his tone—just cool, calculated control. He knew in less than ten years he'd likely never see these guys again; this entire encounter was just a fleeting moment in his journey. But for some reason, he just didn't feel like hurting these idiots too badly.
Still, he enjoyed the feeling of knowing exactly how much to push without crossing the line—beating them like an older brother play-fighting with his much younger siblings.
Max then got into his car and simply drove away, leaving the men lying where they were as he headed back to the mansion.
This gambling/fighting incident was really the only exciting event that had happened to him in this Marvel reality so far—outside of the Danger Room training with the X-Men that started two weeks after he first got here. (Max had arrived only an hour or two after Nightcrawler and another mutant named Toad had caused it to need significant repairs, due to their petty brawl activating the Danger Room's auto-defense system. This had left the Danger Room absolutely trashed.)
During those first two weeks, while the Danger Room was being repaired, Max hung around his own room, played on the internet with a provided laptop, and fed information to Professor X on the side—helping the main plot go smoother for the X-Men.
Now that Max was comfortable, he planned to use that knowledge of the show and his own visions via [Destiny] to deal with the final boss of the series—a mutant called Apocalypse, far ahead of schedule. So he trained hard for two weeks with the other X-Men in the now-fixed Danger Room before making a bold suggestion to Professor Xavier...
...
Getting rid of Apocalypse was the first thing Max thought about while sitting in bed, stretching—well, the second thing, actually. The very first was a local comic book store he wanted to check out. He intended to use his [Destiny] ability to sniff out which booster packs had valuable 'hits' from various collectible card games.
Some of the games were exactly the same as those from the Earth he was from, while others were entirely new, like a card game simply called 'Heroes'.
This game was very similar to 'Wayne Cards' from 'The Legendary Mechanic', using real people like 'Captain America', 'Spider Man', 'Hulk' and organizations such as 'The Avengers' etc as playable characters and subject matter.
He planned to first grab breakfast--a granola bar laying on the dresser(some habits die hard...), then do a little online gambling or stock trading, and afterward hear the Professor's response to his suggestion made the night prior: preemptively dealing with an instigator named Mesmero—a mutant with telepathic powers who was primarily responsible for freeing Apocalypse in the original show.
Then he'd head off to see what a comic book store looked like in the Marvel universe.
He rose from bed and made his way to the bathroom connected to his suite, turning on the faucet and pulling back the curtain to reveal the spacious, luxurious shower. Over the last month, Max had quickly embraced the indulgence of showering whenever he pleased.
In the past, he reserved showers for evenings after work or exercise, but now he relished the freedom to let the steaming water cascade over him more often, savoring the warmth and comfort without a second thought. He was grateful for the simple pleasure that came at no cost; he didn't dread seeing what the utility bill would look like anymore.
Besides free room and board, not to mention the never-ending tank of gas in the Porsche, cost was a thing of the past. Between horse races, online betting, and stock trading, Max's interface showed a balance somewhere between $350k and $400k, rising bit by bit every day.
After the not-so-fruitful shakedown outside McGinty's, Max remembered one of the more useful functions of his interface: the ability to store any local currency and convert it if needed.
With a thought, a small flash of light had appeared around the seams of the backpack, and it felt very light once again.
Max would never again need a bank!
At random points throughout any given day, Max could be seen flashing a crooked smile randomly. He was simply looking at his 'bank' account, watching the number displayed on an interface no one but he could see.
After drying off and throwing on fresh clothes, Max checked his laptop. A few automated trades he'd set up—using [Destiny] to pick the week's 'lucky' stocks—had already gone through.
He exited his suite and headed for the Professor's study. The mansion was quiet—the usual morning chaos of teenage mutants had yet to fully erupt.
He liked this version of the X-Men, but the high school drama felt like watching a show on 0.5x speed.
He found Charles Xavier behind his desk, staring at a holographic display of the globe.
The Professor looked up, his expression a mix of paternal warmth and the lingering unease he always felt around Max's "blind spot" in the mental plane.
"Good morning, Max," Xavier said. "I've spent the night weighing your... suggestion regarding this Mesmero."
Max leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
"And? Are we going to wait for him to start kidnapping the students, or are we going to nip this in the bud? I highly advise the later."
Xavier sighed, rubbing his temples. "It is not that simple. You describe a man who, at this moment, is merely a stage hypnotist in a traveling circus. To authorize a strike based on the 'future' of another reality... it goes against everything I teach these children about responsible use of power."
Max suppressed a smirk. It was the classic 'Hero-Alignment' debuff.
"Professor, Mesmero isn't just a mutant; he's the ignition switch for Apocalypse. If you don't let me deal with him, you're not choosing peace—you're choosing a war you aren't ready for, my guy."
"I cannot allow a preemptive kidnapping, Max," Xavier said firmly, though his eyes looked unsure. "However... I've already compromised. I've sent Logan to observe this circus. If Mesmero shows even a hint of the mental coercion you've described, we will then act."
"Logan?" Max repeated, voice dropping an octave, gravely. "Professor, with all due respect, that is a stupid-ass idea. You're sending a guy whose primary power is 'berserking' against a world-class mental puppeteer? I don't even need to know the future to see how this plays out. Logan isn't immune to Mesmero's hypnotism, trust me..."
Xavier frowned, pressing his fingers and thumbs together while supporting his chin on them, covering his mouth slightly. "Logan's mind is a labyrinth of scar tissue and primal barriers. Even I find it difficult to navigate. Surely a mere hypnotist—"
"A 'mere hypnotist' who is being 'bankrolled' and boosted by an Eternal mutant," Max cut him off, stepping back toward the desk. "You're sending Wolverine into a sure-fail situation, man. Mesmero won't hide from him; he'll turn Logan into his personal weapon. Do you really want a brainwashed Wolverine tearing through Bayville because you wanted 'proof' before acting? Do you really think 'Patch' is fooling anyone? Ha! Come on, dude!"
Xavier hesitated. The logic was sound, but the moral weight of a preemptive strike still sat heavy in his gut. "I have faith in Logan's resilience. If he senses psychic intrusion, he will retreat."
Max let out a sharp, slightly frustrated breath.
"Man, can you hear yourself? Wolverine? Retreat? Alrighty then... Fine..." Max said, turning toward the door.
"...but don't say I didn't warn you when you're spending the weekend cleaning blood off the mansion walls. If you're not going to greenlight a tactical strike, I'll handle this my way."
"Max, wait—"
Max left before the Professor could finish what he wanted to say, closing the door with a gesture of his hand.
As Max pulled his car out of the mansion's long, winding driveway, he noticed a distortion in the air while passing the heavy iron gates and smiled.
High above, perched on a rocky outcropping overlooking the Xavier Institute, a scarlet figure stood wrapped in a sweeping purple cape. Magneto watched the car go, his eyes narrowed in intense concentration.
Beside him stood a hairy, massive, feral looking character. He was nearly seven feet tall, but he didn't stand straight; he hunched, a perpetual, predatory crouch that suggested he was always half a second away from a lethal spring.
"That's him, Magneto," Victor Creed, aka Sabretooth, rumbled. "The one with the odd scent. It's... it's like smelling a ghost of you, Boss."
Magneto didn't look away from the car. He could feel it—a rhythmic thrumming in the electromagnetic spectrum that shouldn't exist. It was a perfect resonance of his own power, vibrating with a frequency that suggested a mastery even he hadn't fully tapped into.
"A ghost eh? Interesting... He speaks of... Apocalypse..." Magneto murmured, his voice concerned.
'...He speaks of threats Charles is too timid to face. And he carries an electromagnetic signature that reflects my very own.'
"Want me to bring 'im in?" Sabretooth growled, flexing his claws.
"No," Magneto replied, a faint, cold smile touching his lips. "You do not 'bring in' a storm, Victor. You wait for it to break. Follow him for now. Do not attempt to contact him, I will approach him myself when the time is right."