Hank had been right. The destruction of both the American and Soviet fleets off the coast of Cuba detonated across the globe like an earthquake, the kind that didn't just shake the ground but rattled the foundations of global power itself. Governments everywhere were thrown into chaos the moment the reports came in, and for a long time, no one even believed them.
The idea was too absurd to accept. Intelligence agencies scrambled to verify the claims, running cross-checks, demanding confirmations, and digging into every available source. Only after repeated validation did the truth finally settle in, cold and undeniable.
It was real.
There was no way around it. This was the Cold War, an era defined by a fragile balance between two superpowers—the United States and the Soviet Union. Every move either side made had consequences that rippled across the entire world. And this confrontation in Cuba, already teetering on the edge of triggering World War III, had been under constant global surveillance.
With the entire world watching so closely, how could something like this be hidden? How could two massive fleets simply vanish without explanation?
And yet, that was exactly what had happened.
The shock was universal, but even more unsettling than the destruction itself was the mystery surrounding it. Intelligence agencies across the world poured enormous resources into investigating the incident. Analysts dissected every fragment of data, operatives searched for witnesses, and experts ran endless simulations.
They found nothing.
No cause. No trace. No explanation.
It was as if both fleets had been erased from existence.
"This has to be the work of mutants!"
The voice of the Secretary of Defense cut sharply through the tense atmosphere inside the Pentagon briefing room. His tone was firm, almost forceful, as he addressed the gathered officials.
"There's no other explanation. No conventional force could wipe out both fleets like that unless we're dealing with something beyond human capability. Something monstrous."
The room fell into a heavy silence as his words settled over the assembled military and intelligence leaders.
"The fleets weren't just sunk," another senior officer added after a moment of thought, his voice low but steady. "They were obliterated before they even had the chance to go under. Reduced to fragments. No survivors."
He paused, letting the gravity of that sink in.
"There's no physical evidence left behind. No mutant signatures at the scene. We don't even know if whoever did this is still alive. Everything we're working with right now is based on inference."
"But it's a logical inference," the CIA director, Hansen, interjected calmly from the side.
"We've received credible intelligence about a mutant capable of lifting a nuclear submarine out of the ocean and into the air," Hansen continued, his eyes scanning the room. "He can manipulate metal on a massive scale. If that's true, then controlling missile systems—redirecting warheads—wouldn't be beyond him."
A quiet murmur of agreement passed through the room. It made sense. More than that, it was the only explanation that fit the scale of destruction.
"Chief Hansen," the Secretary of Defense said, narrowing his eyes slightly, "didn't your agency establish a dedicated mutant division? The team that was deployed to Cuba… they were yours, correct?"
"They… should be," Hansen replied, the hesitation in his voice immediately noticeable.
"Should be?" The Secretary's expression darkened, irritation flashing openly now. "That's the answer you're giving me? 'Should be'?"
Hansen swallowed, but he didn't back down. "The individual with metal control—I know him. He was part of the original mutant team we assembled. His abilities are well-documented. But as for the others…" He exhaled slowly. "I can't confirm their identities."
The room grew colder.
"Why not?"
"Because Agent Moira MacTaggert was suspended," Hansen admitted, forcing the words out. "And this operation in Cuba… she acted independently."
A faint, mocking smile tugged at the Secretary of Defense's lips. "And you used to call her one of your best agents."
"Well," Hansen said with a small shrug, "maybe she's not that good. But right now, she's the only one who knows what actually happened out there."
That truth hung in the air, uncomfortable and unavoidable.
"Damn it," the Secretary muttered under his breath before raising his voice again. "The moment you establish contact with her, I want to know. Immediately."
"Director Hansen," another military official cut in, his tone sharp and focused, "we need intelligence. Detailed intelligence on mutants. This isn't optional anymore."
The message was clear. Whatever had happened in Cuba had pushed mutants from a fringe concern into a global priority.
Hansen rubbed the bridge of his nose, unable to hide his discomfort. "We'll have to wait until I reach Agent Moira."
Privately, he couldn't help but feel the sting of his own oversight. The mutant team she had pushed to create had always seemed disorganized, almost experimental. He hadn't taken it seriously, and after the base was compromised, he'd dissolved the program without hesitation.
Now, that decision had come back to haunt him.
He didn't even know who had been on that team.
And the one person who did—the one person holding all the answers—was the agent he had sidelined.
…
At Xavier Mansion, the mood couldn't have been more different, yet just as heavy.
Banshee, Havok, and Darwin sat scattered along the steps, their usual energy drained. None of them spoke for a while, each lost in their own thoughts.
The place felt emptier than it should have.
After returning from Cuba, nearly half the people who had once filled the mansion were gone. The absence was impossible to ignore, and no one had quite figured out how to deal with it yet.
"Damn it… how did things end up like this?" Banshee muttered finally, his voice laced with frustration.
No one answered him.
"I just hope Charles pulls himself together soon," Darwin said quietly, glancing toward the lawn.
They all followed his gaze.
Out on the grass, Charles Xavier stood with Moira MacTaggert, the two of them talking softly. From a distance, Charles looked composed, almost calm, but everyone here knew better.
The departures of Magneto and Ryan Cross had left a mark on him, one that wasn't going to fade anytime soon.
Right now, Moira was the only one who could reach him.
"One day, the government's going to realize how lucky they are to have you on their side," Moira said, her voice sincere as she looked at Charles.
Everyone understood what was coming. After what had happened in Cuba, the relationship between mutants and ordinary humans was about to change—sharply and permanently. Lines would be drawn, and people would be forced to choose sides.
And yet, Charles hadn't wavered.
He still chose to stand with humanity.
That alone was enough to reassure Moira that she had believed in the right person. Unlike Magneto, Charles wasn't driven by anger or resentment. He thought bigger than that, beyond immediate conflict, beyond revenge.
"I'm thinking of becoming a professor," Charles said with a faint, self-deprecating smile. "Maybe I'll even go bald someday."
Moira laughed, the sound light and genuine, cutting briefly through the tension.
"I'm still with the government, Moira," Charles continued, his tone turning serious again. "We may not have an official name, but we're still working toward the same goal."
"No," Moira replied, shaking her head. "You have your own team now. Isn't that better? You're the X-Men."
Charles let out a soft chuckle, but there was weight behind his next words. "It sounds good. But right now, secrecy is our first line of defense."
He wasn't wrong.
If the truth about Cuba ever became public—if people learned what mutants were capable of—the consequences would be catastrophic. Fear would turn into hatred, and hatred into violence.
There would be no coming back from that.
"I understand," Moira said firmly. "No matter what happens, no matter who pressures me, I won't tell anyone where you are."
"I know," Charles replied gently.
He stepped closer and kissed her.
For a brief moment, everything seemed still.
Then Charles raised his hand to his temple, his expression tightening ever so slightly as he activated his ability. Invisible waves of psychic energy spread outward, reaching into Moira's mind.
One by one, he erased every memory she had of mutants.
The mission in Cuba. The team. Everything.
All of it vanished into silence.
The truth of what had happened would be buried, sealed away where no one could reach it.
Charles understood the risk. Governments around the world would suspect mutants, maybe even target them. But without proof, without concrete evidence, there would always be room to maneuver.
It wouldn't become an all-out war.
Not yet.
I just hope Eric… and Ryan Cross… don't make this worse.
"Moria… I'm sorry," Charles thought quietly, watching her with a complicated expression. "But this is the best way to protect you."
He knew the cost of what he had done. Someone would have to answer for the destruction of those fleets. The United States and the Soviet Union wouldn't let it go unanswered.
Their anger needed a target.
And mutants would inevitably become that target.
If Moira remained connected to them, she would be caught in the middle—pressured, threatened, possibly worse. Cutting that connection was the only way to keep her safe.
Even if it meant she would never remember why.
.....
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