Chapter 7: We Need Training
The New York night was heavy with the stench of ash and ruin, the CIA base reduced to a smoldering graveyard. Twisted steel beams jutted from the rubble like broken bones, and the air buzzed with the hum of cleanup crews sifting through the wreckage.
Charles, Erik, and Moira stepped off the jet, their Soviet triumph—capturing the White Queen and unraveling her mind to expose Shaw's plans—shattered by the call that had come mid-flight. The base was gone. Nearly everyone inside, slaughtered.
Charles led them through the debris, his face pale, his youthful optimism crumbling under the weight of guilt. The survivors were few: Alex, Darwin, and Havok huddled on a cracked bench, their faces etched with shock and rage. Raven sat pressed against Ron, her green eyes darting to him with a mix of relief and something deeper. Hank stood apart, his oversized glasses slipping down his nose, his massive feet shifting uncomfortably. His glances at Raven and Ron burned with a quiet, jealous ache.
Last night, in that freezing alley where Ron had left her, Raven had unraveled. Alone, surrounded by shadows, she'd been consumed by dread—certain Ron and the others were dead. When he reappeared, his leather jacket creaking, his piercing blue eyes calm amidst the chaos, she'd thrown herself into his arms, sobbing.
"Ron, you came back… You're not hurt? What about the others?" Her voice had cracked, her body trembling against his. His warmth, his unshakable presence, had anchored her. Realizing he'd saved her first—before anyone else—ignited a dangerous spark. Since then, she hadn't left his side, her hand brushing his arm, her breath catching at his every move.
Charles's voice was heavy, strained with regret. "We know what happened," he said, his eyes scanning the survivors. "I'm arranging a plane to send you all home. Including you, Ron." His gaze lingered on the blonde mutant, whose calm demeanor stood out like a blade in the wreckage. "You've done more than we could ever ask, but you're too young for this."
"You belong somewhere safe," he added, his voice soft but firm. Even knowing Ron had killed Azazel, Riptide, and—by some miracle—taken down the Black King himself, Charles couldn't bear to risk him again.
Ron tilted his head, his lips curling into a thin, sardonic smirk. Home? He almost laughed. No plane could cross the multiverse to his world. His Template System hummed in his mind, a glowing interface tracking his points:
Ability Points: 78,000.
Mutant Black King Template: 120,000.
Close, but not enough. He watched Charles, seeing the tragedy carve away his youth, forging the Professor X destined to carry the world's weight. Keep breaking, Xavier, he thought, his amusement cold. You'll get there.
"No way we're leaving!" Alex's voice cracked with fury, his fists clenched. "That bastard killed Banshee! Burned a hole right through him—right in front of us!" His eyes blazed, his plasma powers simmering beneath his skin.
Darwin's rage matched his, his voice low and guttural. "We want blood. Shaw's blood." His arms twitched, still bruised from morphing into stone hammers against the Black King.
Charles's face hardened, his jaw tight. "No. For you, this ends here."
"Wrong." Erik's voice sliced through, cold and sharp as a blade. He stepped forward, his dark eyes burning with a familiar fire. "You can't bury this, Charles. Evil doesn't vanish because you ignore it. It festers. It comes back stronger. They need revenge."
"Erik, enough!" Charles hissed, pulling him aside, his voice a tense whisper. "They're children!"
"No," Erik snapped, his gaze searing. "They were children. Last night ended that. Pain changes people. Hate changes them faster. They're not the same anymore." His words carried the weight of experience. The gunshot that killed his mother had branded him, forging him in vengeance's fire. For eighteen years, he'd hunted Shaw, chasing shadows, drowning in rage. When he finally found him, that dagger, that desperate lunge, ended with the White Queen's heel and Shaw slipping beneath the waves. Last night was his second chance—and another failure. Humiliation burned in his chest, a wound that wouldn't heal.
"Look at Ron," Erik said, gesturing to the mutant lounging on the bench, his leather jacket creaking as he shifted. "They carry power most can't comprehend. Send them away now, and Banshee's death will rot inside them. It'll turn to poison."
Charles hesitated, his certainty cracking under Erik's words. His idealism warred with the reality before him—the rubble, the blood, the haunted eyes of his young team.
Ron sat silently, his smirk faint but sharp, watching Erik work. Good, Magneto. Push him. Step into the man you're destined to be. He saw the pain in Erik's eyes, the weight of eighteen years chasing Shaw—only to lose him again. A life of revenge with no release, Ron thought, leaning back, his blue eyes glinting with cold amusement. No wonder you'll burn the world down. I'll be here when the flames rise.
Finally, Charles returned, his expression grave, his voice heavy with resolve. "We need training." The words landed like a gavel, a reluctant verdict. If they were to stay, he'd forge them into soldiers. He'd prepare them for the war Shaw had started.
Alex stood, his eyes flicking nervously to Ron. "This place isn't safe anymore. Even if we rebuild, Shaw knows it. Ron threw him into a crematorium smokestack in the suburbs. If he's alive—and he probably is—he'll come back. And it won't be pretty."
The image hit like a punch: the Black King, untouchable and elegant, hurled into a roaring crematorium, ash and flame choking his pristine suit. A humiliation deeper than any wound.
Charles, Erik, and Moira froze, their eyes snapping to Ron. The weight of his act sank in—tossing a near-invincible mutant into a furnace like he was garbage. Moira's breath caught, her CIA training failing to mask her shock. Erik's lips twitched, a flicker of grim approval. Charles's face was unreadable, torn between awe and dread.
Ron's smile was calm, dark, and unyielding, as if he'd dragged Shaw to hell's doorstep and was daring him to crawl back. His claws twitched, his body thrumming with the combined powers of Sabretooth, Azazel, Darwin, and Havok. The Template System flickered:
Mutant Black King Template: 120,000 points.
He was close, so close, to claiming Shaw's energy-absorbing power. Just a little more chaos, he thought, his amusement cold and predatory.
Raven pressed closer to him, her hand resting on his arm, her touch warm and lingering. Her green eyes searched his face, her voice soft but urgent. "You really did that? You… beat him?" Her awe was palpable, her breath catching as she leaned into him, her body brushing his. The memory of his arms around her in the alley, his unshakable calm, fueled a dangerous spark. She felt safe with him, drawn to him, like a moth to a flame.
Ron's gaze flicked to her, his smirk softening just enough to keep her hooked. "Threw him in a furnace," he said, his voice low, almost teasing. "He didn't like it much." Her cheeks flushed, her pulse racing at his casual confidence, his dangerous allure pulling her deeper.
Hank's fists clenched, his jealousy flaring as he watched Raven cling to Ron. His massive feet shifted, his glasses fogging slightly. She's supposed to look at me like that, he thought, the ache in his chest sharpening. His serum, his dream of normalcy, felt further away than ever.
Erik stepped closer to Charles, his voice low but insistent. "They need a new base. Somewhere hidden. Somewhere we can train them properly." His eyes flicked to Ron, a spark of recognition in his gaze. "Especially him. He's not like the others."
Moira nodded, her CIA instincts kicking in. "There's a facility upstate. Old, off the grid. It's defensible, secluded. We can start there."
Charles exhaled, his shoulders slumping. "Fine. But this isn't a game. If you stay, you train. You learn to fight, to survive. No more reckless stunts." His eyes lingered on Ron, a mix of caution and curiosity. "And you… no more crematoriums. Not without a plan."
Ron's smirk widened, his voice sharp with defiance. "No promises, Professor." The title slipped out, a mocking nod to the man Charles would become. Keep dreaming, Xavier. I'm not here to play hero.
The cleanup crews moved faster now, hauling debris and bodies under the flickering emergency lights. From a cracked wall speaker, a low, static-laced broadcast of emergency updates buzzed—a cold reminder of the chaos that had spread beyond the base. Alex and Darwin exchanged a glance, their anger simmering but tempered by Charles's words. They'd train. They'd fight. For Banshee, for themselves.
Raven's hand tightened on Ron's arm, her voice barely a whisper. "You'll stay, right? You won't leave us?" Her green eyes were wide, vulnerable, but laced with that dangerous spark. She didn't just want him to stay—she needed him to.
Ron looked down at her, his smile dark and knowing. "Stick around, Raven. Things are just getting interesting." His voice was a low rumble, his gaze holding hers, the air between them electric. She was his—whether she knew it yet or not. And with Hank's jealousy, Shaw's inevitable return, and the Template System humming, Ron's plans were only beginning.