Chapter 4: Predator in the Playground
The secret CIA base buzzed with the electric hum of 1960s rebellion, the recreation room a smoky haze of cigarette fumes and the wail of a jukebox blasting The Kinks' "You Really Got Me." The air was thick with the scent of cheap whiskey and youthful bravado, a stark contrast to the sterile concrete corridors outside.
A group of young mutants lounged by a floor-to-ceiling window, their laughter loud and reckless, oblivious to the storm about to break. Tonight, the Black King, Sebastian Shaw, tipped off by the White Queen, would strike—his Hellfire Club goons ready to crush Charles and Erik's fledgling team.
Ron sat at the bar, his piercing blue eyes scanning the room like a predator sizing up prey. His blonde hair caught the dim light, his leather jacket hugging his broad shoulders. He swirled a glass of whiskey, the ice clinking softly, his expression a mask of bored detachment. A group of kids pretending to be heroes, he mused, lips curling in mild amusement.
He wasn't here for their idealistic bullshit. He was here to disrupt the X-Men timeline, rack up Template System points, and claim powers that'd make his so-called father look like a cheap cape. Sabretooth's death—a bloody smear under a road roller—had been a warm-up. The real prize was Shaw, a mutant who could absorb energy and wield it like a god.
"What about you? What's your name?" Raven's voice cut through the chatter, her eyes locking onto Ron from across the room. Her skin shimmered under the fluorescents, her hair falling in soft waves. She stepped closer, her curiosity outweighing her usual caution. Mystique, she called herself now, her voice bright but laced with something deeper—a longing that mirrored Ron's own isolation.
"Ron," he said, his tone casual but edged with a dangerous charm. He leaned back, his jacket creaking, his gaze holding hers just a beat too long. Raven's cheeks flushed, and she quickly looked away, her heart stuttering. He's different, she thought, sensing a kindred spirit—someone who, like her, didn't fit in this world of fake smiles and forced camaraderie.
The other mutants—Hank, Alex, and the rest—turned to watch, their excitement palpable.
"Show us something, Ron!" Alex called, his brash voice cutting through the room. Hank adjusted his oversized glasses, his expression wary but curious.
Ron raised an eyebrow, popping a sharp, tiger-like claw from his index finger. He dragged it along the rim of his empty whiskey glass, the zzzzt of the claw slicing through like a diamond blade. With a light push, the top half of the glass fell cleanly away, landing with a soft clink on the bar. The room erupted in cheers, Alex whooping like a kid at a carnival. "Holy shit, that's like a damn panther!" he shouted, clapping wildly.
"Look at those claws," Angel said, her bug-like wings twitching. "He could rip someone's throat out without blinking."
"Hank, maybe he should be Beast," Alex teased, nudging Hank's shoulder. "Your big feet got nothing on that."
Hank's face fell, his massive, deformed feet shifting uncomfortably. He mumbled something, his eyes dropping to the floor. Ron's claws were sleek, deadly—a hunter's weapon. Hank's mutation? A clumsy deformity that made him feel like a sideshow freak. "I just want to be normal," he thought, a sharp ache in his chest as he glanced at Raven, laughing with the others. He was working on a serum to suppress his mutation, to escape the curse that set him apart. Ron's display only deepened his shame.
Ron's smirk faded slightly, catching Hank's pained look. Weak, he thought, but his pity was fleeting. His real power—Sabretooth's regeneration—wasn't something he'd flaunt for these kids. Slicing himself open for applause? Not his style.
The mutants cranked up the jukebox, the room exploding into a chaotic party. Banshee's sonic scream shattered the floor-to-ceiling window, glass raining onto the courtyard. Angel flitted through the air, her wings buzzing as she spat acid, corroding a copper statue's head outside. Alex, twisting like he was in a hula hoop contest, unleashed a dark red plasma blade that sliced through the statue's remains, the heat scorching the grass.
"Not bad," Ron mused, his eyes narrowing at Alex's display. Havok's ability to absorb cosmic energy—radiation, electromagnetism, thermal—and emit it as plasma was raw, uncontrolled, but powerful. If he could shoot that from his eyes, he'd be a budget Homelander, Ron thought, a dark chuckle escaping his lips. His father's laser eyes were iconic, and Alex's potential was tempting for the Template System.
Next was Darwin, a tall, lean Black man with a light smile. "My nickname's actually Darwin," he said, walking to a transparent fish tank. He plunged his head into the water, and three rows of gills sprouted on his face, letting him breathe underwater. He grinned through the glass, showing off his new feature.
"Oh, that's incredible!" Raven clapped, the others cheering like it was a frat party. Darwin shook off the water, his gills vanishing as he sat down.
"Decent, but weak," Ron thought, his expression blank as he set down his glass. Darwin's adaptive evolution—gills for water, armor for impacts—was versatile but limited. Unlike DC's Doomsday, who grew stronger with every death, Darwin's changes reverted once the danger passed. Useful for survival, but no game-changer, Ron noted, mentally listing it as a low-priority Template System target. In the movie, Shaw's plasma blast had killed him instantly—proof his power wasn't enough.
"Ron, your turn!" Raven said, her eyes glinting with curiosity as she pointed at him. She stepped closer, her smile both innocent and inviting.
Before he could respond, the door slammed open. Moira, a sharp-eyed CIA agent in a trench coat, stormed in with Charles and Erik. Her face was a storm of disbelief. "What the hell is going on?!" she snapped, her eyes darting from the shattered window to the melted statue. "Who trashed the courtyard?!"
The mutants froze, the jukebox cutting off with a screech. Banshee pointed at Alex. "He did it!" Alex shrugged, unapologetic. Raven and the others looked sheepish, their earlier bravado gone.
Ron leaned against the bar, silent, his whiskey glass untouched. Moira's gaze swept over him, noting his calm detachment. "At least someone isn't acting like a frat boy," she muttered, her voice sharp but approving.
Charles's face was grim, his youthful idealism cracking. "You've all disappointed me," he said, his eyes lingering on Ron, who hadn't joined the chaos. "Except you, Ron. You've got some sense." He turned and strode out, Moira and Erik following.
Erik shot Charles a look as they headed for the airfield. "Those kids are a liability. Ron's the only one who acts like he's been in a fight before."
Moira nodded. "We should bring him to the Soviet op. The White Queen's our best lead on Shaw." They'd gotten a tip about Emma Frost's location, a dangerous mission behind enemy lines.
Charles shook his head, his voice heavy. "No. He's mature, but he's still a kid. This was my mistake—dragging children into a war." His shoulders slumped as they boarded the plane, leaving the young mutants behind.
Back in the rec room, Raven sat on the couch, her earlier excitement deflated. Charles's disappointment stung, and she glanced at Ron, still at the bar, his presence magnetic even in silence. "He gets it," she thought, her heart stirring. Like her, he seemed apart from the others—alone, untamed. Her green eyes lingered on his sharp features, her pulse quickening as she imagined standing closer, his dangerous aura pulling her in.
Ron's eyes flicked to the window, now covered by electric curtains. His enhanced senses caught a faint thump from outside, a sound the others missed. His claws twitched, a predatory glint in his gaze. Shaw's here, he thought, his heart pounding with anticipation. The Black King's attack, tipped off by Emma Frost, was about to hit. Game on.
"What was that?" Raven asked, her voice tense as she noticed his shift.
The mutants opened the curtains, peering into the darkness. A body plummeted from the sky, crashing onto the courtyard with a sickening thud. Blood pooled around the corpse—a CIA guard, his neck snapped like a twig.
"Ah!" Angel screamed, stumbling back. Banshee and Alex froze, their faces pale.
Ron stood slowly, his smirk widening into something dark and dangerous. "Showtime," he murmured, his voice echoing Homelander's ruthless glee. The Black King's war had begun, and Ron was ready to carve his name into it.