Chapter 6: Passage of Time
Unknown Location – Baltic Coast, Eastern Europe
Private residence, off the record
9:46 p.m.
The sea breeze flowed through the tall windows, carrying the salty scent of the waves and the faint creak of distant pines swaying. The sky was clear, speckled with a hundred pale stars that seemed to quietly observe what was happening inside that mansion, hidden among the cliffs.
The hall was wide, decorated with polished marble, dark blue tapestries, and cold steel details. No paintings. No photos. Only a large window taking up an entire wall, revealing the abyss of the sea beyond.
In the center, atop a perfectly centered Persian rug, was a low table of dark ebony. On it, a tray with fresh fruit, a bottle of unlabeled red wine, and a metallic goblet engraved with inscriptions from no modern language.
A man held it between his long, perfectly aligned fingers. He didn't drink yet. He only looked at it, contemplative. As if he saw the past reflected in the scarlet liquid.
Erik Lehnsherr.
His eyes, gray as newly forged steel, stared into the void. His hair was slicked back with military precision. The black coat he wore seemed more a declaration than a garment.
In front of him, with one leg crossed over the other and an air of elegant disdain, sat a woman dressed completely in blue.
Her skin, a deep cobalt tone, glowed faintly beneath the chandelier. Her body was sinuous, perfectly proportioned, but tense. As if ready to rise and attack at any moment. Reddish hair fell over one shoulder, and her golden eyes watched him with a mix of complicity and irritation.
Mystique.
"So… Charles has started his project," Erik said at last, his voice soft, dragging out each word as if it weighed tons. "I thought he'd take longer."
He turned his wrist slightly. The metallic goblet lifted effortlessly, floating in the air, hypnotized by his will.
The wine didn't spill. The goblet barely vibrated as it turned toward his lips.
He drank. A measured sip.
Then he smiled with irony.
"A psychic girl… a kid with spider powers…" he murmured. "Interesting."
Mystique, sitting with her black-painted nails absentmindedly scratching the fabric of the chair, tilted her head.
"It was complicated to find information," she said, calmly. "Xavier keeps everything buried under mental layers. Protected even from other minds… except one."
Erik raised an eyebrow, curious.
"The girl?"
"The girl," she confirmed. "Jean Grey. She has no shields yet. Her thoughts slip out like steam through cracks. And someone like me… with a little help… knows where to look."
"And the other?"
"Peter Parker. New York. His aunt brought him to the mansion a week ago. Pure Gen X. Awakened by trauma like almost all… the death of his uncle."
Erik nodded slightly. The goblet floated again and landed softly on the tray.
"So, he's already gathering children…" he murmured. "Sowing seeds for his garden of hope."
He leaned back slightly. The sound of the sea hitting the distant rocks filled the silence.
Then he turned his head to the right.
There, standing by a marble column, two young people watched the scene with restrained attention.
A boy with hair as white as snow, sharp gray eyes, a nervous expression. Young, restless, with energy beneath his skin like barely contained electricity.
Next to him, a girl. Long, dark hair, pale skin. She wore black, with a long coat reaching her ankles. Her green eyes were two deep abysses that didn't blink.
"Wanda. Pietro," Erik said, his voice firm but not harsh. "Go rest."
Pietro stepped forward, fists clenched.
"But father… this concerns us too. If that Charles you always talk about is building his school, we should—"
Wanda raised a hand.
"Enough."
Pietro fell silent immediately. He didn't argue. He just clenched his jaw and looked down.
"Yes, Father," she said, calmly.
The two left through a side hallway, without looking back.
Erik watched them until they disappeared into the shadows.
Mystique crossed her legs.
"I'm still surprised you had children," she said, sarcastically. "Where did you find them?"
Erik turned to her, eyes narrowed.
"I didn't find them. They were taken from me."
Mystique tilted her head, interested.
"They were stolen from you?"
"Not exactly," Erik replied, softly. "They were born in Serbia. To a woman I once loved. I didn't know they existed until they'd already been separated. Raised by others. Hidden. Like sick dogs."
He stood up slowly. Walked to the window, hands behind his back.
"Pietro… Wanda… they're mutants. Like us. But different. Unpredictable powers. A constant duality in their minds. Volatile."
Mystique watched him.
"And what do you plan to do with them?"
"Educate them. Show them what they are. Give them something Charles could never give: a vision without chains. An identity without shame."
The window reflected his face like a soulless mask. Outside, the night devoured the horizon.
"They don't need a classroom or a desk," he continued. "They need weapons. They need to be prepared for a world that will turn its back on them. Because Charles keeps dreaming of peace… while humans sharpen their blades."
Mystique stood as well. She walked to the goblet and took it between her fingers. She examined it as if it were a strange object.
"Don't you dream, Erik?"
He didn't answer.
She looked at him intently.
"Not even of a world where your children don't have to hide?"
Silence.
Finally, Erik barely turned his head.
"I don't dream. I remember."
"Auschwitz?"
"Auschwitz. Warsaw. Dresden. Sobibor. And now… New York, London, Moscow. The names change. The hatred doesn't."
Mystique took a sip of wine. She pursed her lips.
"Strong."
"As it should be."
He slowly approached her. His steps made no sound on the carpet. He stopped in front of her.
"Tell me, Raven… do you know why you're here?"
She raised an eyebrow.
"Because you need me."
He smiled, joylessly.
"Because you, more than anyone, know what it means to pretend not to be what you are. To hide. To disguise yourself. To become a shadow to survive."
"And yet," she replied, "you walk as if the world belongs to you."
"Because one day, it will."
His words weren't arrogance. They were destiny.
Mystique moved closer. She stared at him closely, unafraid.
"And what do you want from me now?"
Erik turned to the window again. And said:
"Keep watching Charles. Find out how many more he plans to recruit. Who builds his walls. Who trains his children. I need to know everything."
"To kill them?"
"To be prepared."
"And if one of them could join you?"
Erik glanced at her.
"Then I won't recruit them… I'll set them free."
Mystique smiled.
"You're a dangerous man, Erik."
"No. I'm an awakened man."
Behind them, a figure approached silently. A young man in a gray suit, expressionless, holding a folder.
"Sir," he said neutrally. "The contact in Bulgaria has responded. The mirror girl was located. There are also unusual movements in Scandinavia. Unclassified mutations."
"Name?"
"Kurt Wagner. Teleportation. Blue. Bifid."
Erik nodded. Mystique seemed to react slightly at the name, her hand trembling for a second, but only for a moment.
"Watch him. Watch them all."
The young man left through the same door as Wanda and Pietro.
Mystique set the goblet on the table.
"So the race begins."
"No," said Erik. "The race began a long time ago. What begins now… is the war for minds."
And in his eyes, there was no doubt.
Only destiny.
⸻
Somewhere in Westchester, Peter Parker slept deeply.
Thousands of kilometers away, Erik Lehnsherr already considered him a piece on his board.
And the board had just turned.
⸻
Xavier Mansion – Graymalkin Lane, Westchester, New York
Six months later
1:12 p.m. – Early spring
The air had a new scent.
It wasn't just the pines or the faint buzz of bees dancing among the buds. It was the smell of life in transition. Of dry plaster mixed with damp earth. Of new books on freshly installed shelves. Of fresh paint on walls where workers' laughter still echoed for the last time.
The Xavier Mansion, that structure which six months earlier was little more than a promise covered in scaffolding and dust, now stood as a living school. The classrooms were ready. The dorms had clean sheets and reading lamps. The main lab buzzed with silent energy and transparent panels. Even the garden had carefully laid out paths, connecting spaces for meditation, study, and play.
But beyond bricks and wires…
Something else was growing stronger.
Them.
⸻
Peter Parker sat on a gentle hill, near the old oak tree Jean had claimed as hers since her second week. The tree's shadow formed a perfect shell over them, and the mild breeze gently rustled the grass around as if the hill breathed with them.
Jean lay on her back, arms open and legs crossed in the air. Her reddish hair spread like a sleeping flame on the grass. Her green eyes watched the sky without blinking, as if afraid to miss something if she closed her eyes even for a second.
Peter, beside her, leaned on his elbows, a mischievous smile on his face. His sleeves were rolled up and his pants' cuffs were dirt-stained. His shoes were somewhere far off in the garden, and one of his extra arms—the shyest—hung from his back, playing with a leaf.
"That one looks like a duck on a skateboard!" Jean said, pointing at a particularly long cloud.
Peter laughed.
"What kind of ducks have you seen? That's a twisted boot. Look at the tip!"
"No, no," Jean insisted, laughing too. "That's the beak. What you think is the heel is the back wheel."
"Okay, let's suppose you're right… why would a duck ride a skateboard?"
Jean turned to him, resting her cheek on her arm.
"Because the duck is radical, Peter. He lives on the edge. He hands out flyers on the evolution of flying ducks. Don't you see he's wearing invisible sunglasses?"
Peter burst out laughing, clutching his chest as if he hurt from laughing.
"God, you're worse than Professor Otto with his science jokes. Today he told me 'entropy is like his marriage: irreversible and tragic.'"
Jean laughed too, but then her smile became softer, quieter. Her eyes went back to the sky, but this time not to see shapes.
She was looking to remember.
"You know something?" she whispered. "I don't think I've ever had a friend like you."
Peter slowly turned his head to her. He blinked.
"What do you mean?"
She was silent for a few seconds.
"With Annie… it was different. She was like my sister. We'd known each other since we were five. But when my mind changed… when I started hearing thoughts that weren't mine… I drifted away. And she… she didn't know how to stay close."
Peter looked down.
"And now?"
"Now…" Jean smiled, very softly. "I have someone who isn't afraid of me. Who looks at me like I'm… normal. Even though I know I'm not."
Peter leaned in a little. His brown eyes held that autumn warmth that never quite left.
"You're not normal," he said quietly. "And that's the best thing about you."
Jean looked at him.
Both fell silent.
Only the wind, the leaves.
Peter, nervous, picked up a twig and started drawing in the dirt. A doodle. A flower. An atom symbol.
"You know which class I liked best this week?"
"Technology for Beginners with Dr. Octavius," Jean replied without hesitation. "You mention it every time you talk in your sleep."
Peter smiled, embarrassed.
"Wait, do I really talk in my sleep?!"
"The other night during our impromptu sleepover you said: 'That's not an induction coil, it's a broken promise.'"
They both laughed.
After a while, Peter sighed, looking at the sky again.
"This is nice."
"The sky?"
"No. Us. This. Sitting here, with no one asking me to hide my arms… without having to wonder if I'm a monster… not feeling like every decision could break something."
Jean nodded.
"Yes. It's like… for the first time, things aren't about to break."
Peter looked at the sky.
"Look, that cloud looks like a spider."
"Really?"
"Yes! There are the legs. And that bump is the abdomen."
Jean watched him. Then something clicked. Not the cloud. Not the shape.
Peter.
The way he spoke. The way he looked at her. The way his monsters were just a part of him… and still, he got up every morning.
She sat up, facing him.
Peter frowned, curious.
"What's wrong?"
Jean took a breath.
"Promise me something."
"What is it?"
"That we'll be… best friends. Always. For all eternity. No matter what happens… wherever you are… you'll always have me."
Peter looked at her for a long second.
Then, he raised a hand. One of his regular hands.
But also, one of his spider-limbs emerged, trembling, like a timid flower seeking the sun.
"Promise," he said, smiling.
Jean intertwined her hand with his.
"Swear it on Dave," she said, holding up the stuffed animal from her backpack.
Peter laughed.
"And I swear it on Dave too."
The wind blew. The clouds moved. The spider vanished.
But the promise… didn't.
⸻
Later that night…
Peter was writing in his diary, lying on his stomach on the bed. The lamp's light cast long shadows on the wall.
"Today, Jean made me promise something. She said we'll always be best friends. I don't know why… but I felt it was important. Like the universe was telling me, 'This matters.' And I believed it.
Maybe I don't know who I am yet. Maybe I'm scared. But I know one thing for certain…
I'll never let Jean Grey be alone."
⸻
Outside, on the hill, the solitary tree remained silent.
A gentle breeze caressed the grass.
The stars twinkled.
And the promise… still floated in the air.
Eternal.
⸻
Omaha, Nebraska
An unnamed alley. West of the city.
A few days later.
3:26 p.m. – Cloudy sky, dry wind
The city had that muted tone that drags through places where no one expects miracles. Dusty streets, gray corners, brick buildings cracked like badly set bones. Omaha, for passersby, was just another point on the map. For Scott Summers, it was a rusty cage with poorly closed bars.
His footsteps echoed on the uneven pavement. His long, thin shadow wavered like an echo.
He wore worn-out jeans, an oversized hoodie, and a frayed scarf, as if every piece was handed down from someone who was no longer there.
But what stood out most were the ruby-red glasses covering his eyes. Not stylish. Not sporty. They were… necessary.
Vital.
Once, years ago, he'd looked at his brother without them.
And he still had nightmares about the scream.
⸻
Scott walked aimlessly.
He had no destination. He just wanted to get away. From the shelter. From the woman who called him "patient." From the doctors who measured his brain as if it were a bomb. From Jack, the social worker who pretended to listen when he was really just hoping Scott wouldn't explode again.
And more than anything… he wanted to get away from himself.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw fragments.
A forest.
A light.
A fire.
A scream.
And then, always, darkness.
He had mental gaps like closed hallways. Memories without faces. Sensations without names.
But the one thing he never forgot… was fear.
⸻
He reached the outskirts of an almost empty park. There was a dry fountain, rusty benches, and a dead rose bush. The kind of place where the city forgets that children exist.
He dropped onto a bench.
Buried his head in his arms.
And for a second…
… wished he didn't exist.
Then, a gentle voice interrupted his world.
"I think you feel lost, don't you, Scott?"
Scott jerked upright as if doused in ice water.
He turned, confused. The ruby glasses hid his expression, but his lips trembled.
"What…?"
In front of him, on the cracked stone path, was a man. Not just any man.
He sat in a black wheelchair, elegant but sturdy. He wore a long, dark coat, with a gray scarf on his shoulders. His expression was calm, but his eyes… his eyes looked as if they knew everything.
Scott immediately stood, tense.
"Who… who are you? Are you following me?"
"No," the man said calmly. "I just came to find you."
"Did Jack send you? Are you from the hospital?" Scott stepped back. "Are you here to lock me up in that padded room again?"
The man shook his head.
"No, Scott. I'm not here to lock you up. I came to talk to you."
Scott clenched his fists.
"How do you know my name?"
"Because I've been looking for you for weeks. Because three days ago you blasted a lamp post in half. Because a month ago you destroyed a wall just by looking the wrong way. And because… like you… I'm different."
Scott swallowed.
"What… what are you?"
The man moved his wheelchair a little closer. Then, softly, warmly, in a voice like a whisper of trust, he said:
"I'm Charles Xavier. And I've come to offer you a way out. An opportunity. A home."
Scott let out a brief, broken laugh.
"A home? Do you know how many times I've been told that? How many times I've been given a bed, a meal, and then tossed back like garbage?"
Xavier didn't react.
"I'm not offering you a bed, Scott. I'm offering you something you've never had: understanding."
Scott took a step back.
"What do you want from me?"
"Nothing. Just to listen."
Silence.
The wind dragged an empty bag along the ground. A branch creaked in the distance.
Scott, hands in his pockets, lowered his head a little.
"What… what am I?"
Xavier didn't answer right away.
Then, in a voice that seemed to come from within Scott's own thoughts, he said:
"You are a mutant, Scott. A person born with a special gene. The X-Gene. A gift… which manifests in different ways for each of us."
"This is a gift?" Scott growled, lifting his hand toward his glasses. "This? This thing that, if I lose it, I could… I could KILL someone?"
"What you carry within you isn't evil. It's power without guidance. Fire without control. But you're not doomed, Scott."
The boy trembled, as if breaking apart inside.
"Sometimes… sometimes I just want to tear my eyes out. I want to end it. I want… I want to stop seeing."
Charles didn't move closer.
He didn't try to console him with pats on the back or empty phrases.
He simply said:
"What you feel is real. And legitimate. But also temporary."
Scott looked up at him.
"How do you know?"
Charles smiled, barely.
"Because I've felt the same. Because I've lost people for not understanding who I was. Because I was afraid my gifts would hurt people. But… I found others like me. And together… we discovered that shared pain can become a path."
Scott closed his eyes.
His hands clenched tight. His breath quickened.
And then, barely audible, he whispered:
"Can I… live without fear?"
Xavier nodded.
"With time. With help. With people who don't want to change you, but to know you."
"And you… you can teach me?"
"I can. If you want."
Scott lifted a hand. Hesitated. Put it back down.
"Where would you take me?"
"To a place in northern New York. An institute. It's still under construction. But there are already a few students. A psychic girl. A young man… with spider abilities. Both with stories like yours."
"They won't make fun of me?"
"No. Because they also feel broken."
Scott swallowed.
Then he asked:
"Can I… have a room just for me?"
"You can."
"And a door that locks from the inside?"
"Yes."
"And can I read… even at night?"
"As much as you want."
Scott fell silent.
And finally…
"Then… I'll go with you."
Charles smiled.
"Thank you, Scott. I promise you… this time, no one will send you back to any institution."
Scott looked at him.
"And if I lose control… what will you do?"
Charles rolled a little closer.
"I'll be there. And I'll help you up. I won't lock you away. I won't leave you alone."
Scott lowered his head.
For the first time in years… he felt heard.
⸻
That same night
A private jet flying above the clouds of Nebraska
Scott looked out the window, his hands resting on his knees. Jean had left him a recorded message. So had Peter. Short greetings.
At the end of the audio, a voice:
"You don't have to be perfect. Just… show up." —Jean Grey
And for the first time…
Scott Summers smiled.
Even if just a little.
⸻
The next day
Xavier Mansion – Classroom 2B (North Floor)
08:41 a.m. – Sunny day, autumn gusts
The classroom was a harmonious mix of science, history, and modern design. The walls were light gray with polished wood details, decorated with digital blackboards that could switch from classic writing to interactive screens. A row of tall windows let in warm light that stroked the floor like cotton fingers.
At the center, an oval table, with three seats occupied. Two by young mutants still getting used to calling themselves that. The third, by a woman who had spent too many years trying to understand what that really meant.
Moira MacTaggert, with her wrinkled white lab coat and her hair tied up informally, paced slowly in front of the main screen, highlighting key phrases with a digital pointer as she spoke.
But Peter Parker's and Jean Grey's eyes weren't exactly glued to the lesson.
Peter rested his chin on his hand, staring out the window with a distracted expression. His right leg bounced with nerves, his fingers drumming on the table.
Jean, next to him, chewed on her pencil, her gaze a bit lost. Her notebook was open, sure, but the last phrase she'd written was: "Will he be tall? Will he like chocolate?"
Moira, without stopping, raised an eyebrow.
"Is there something interesting outside, Mr. Parker?"
Peter blinked, realizing too late.
"Huh? No, just… the tree. It looks like… a dinosaur in a hat."
Jean let out a quick laugh, lowering her head.
"Sure, Pete. A T-Rex in a cap. I see it. Very educational."
Peter shrugged, hiding a smile.
"I'm just trying to keep my imagination active. Otto says creativity is essential for science."
Jean turned, elbow on the table.
"What's really going on is that you're so anxious to meet the new guy, you're seeing mutants even in the tree bark."
"That's not true!" Peter protested, raising his eyebrows. "I just… hope he's cultured. You know? That not everything in his life is just reading or… I don't know, football."
Jean raised an eyebrow.
"'Cultured' like knowing the difference between a quark and a boson… or 'cultured' like knowing the timeline of the Ninja Turtles comics?"
Peter tilted his head with a grimace.
"Both. Obviously."
"Uh-huh. I just hope he isn't as annoyingly into Star Wars as a certain redhead sitting next to me," Peter said, turning slowly toward her.
Jean narrowed her eyes at him.
"I let you live only because you haven't seen what I can do with the Force," she whispered, threatening.
Peter raised his hands in surrender.
"Peace, Obi-Wan."
"Silence, padawan."
"Children!" Moira interrupted, this time with a slightly firmer tone, though not harsh. "Sorry if my class can't compete with the galactic saga, but we're in the middle of a crucial topic for your understanding as mutants. I'd like at least 40% of your attention."
Both straightened up.
"Sorry, doctor," they said in unison.
Moira sighed, though she couldn't help a faint smile as she regained control of the class.
"All right. Now that the Jedis are back on Earth… let's continue."
She pressed a button on the digital controller, and the screen displayed a series of horizontal bars, each with a word and a different color.
Mutant Classification – Xavier Institute for Advanced Genetics
Epsilon Level – Gray
Delta Level – Green
Gamma Level – Blue
Beta Level – Orange
Alpha Level – Red
"What you see here," Moira explained, her voice clear, "is the classification system most widely used in our current research. It's still debated in the scientific community, but serves as a preliminary basis for understanding the magnitude and reach of mutant powers."
Peter raised his hand.
"Is this like threat levels in disaster movies? Like 'code red, everything will blow up if we don't push a button in time'?"
Jean snorted.
"You've got a natural talent for boiling everything down to movies."
"Is that my fault or capitalism's?"
Moira clicked her tongue.
"Epsilon Level," she said, passing the pointer over the gray bar. "These are mutants whose X gene is present, but inactive or practically irrelevant. Many never develop visible abilities. They may have different immune defenses, energy sensitivity, or mild resistance to disease. But it doesn't manifest as actual 'powers.'"
Jean nodded, interested.
"Could they activate later on?"
"Very unlikely, but in extreme cases, like severe trauma or exposure to certain catalysts, it's theoretically possible. Though it's uncommon."
"And what level are we?" Peter asked, tilting his head.
Moira didn't answer immediately.
"One step at a time."
"Delta Level," she continued, pointing to the green. "Mutants with minor or limited-use abilities. They might have altered physical traits—like pigment changes, enhanced senses, or minor abilities like emitting light or adjusting temperature in a short range."
Peter raised his eyebrows.
"Like a human flashlight?"
"Yes, more or less."
"Or someone who always knows if their coffee is the perfect temperature?"
"Only if you think that's useful for saving the world."
Jean barely stifled a laugh.
"Gamma Level," Moira continued, pointing to the blue. "Now we're in more serious territory. These are mutants with defined, active, and constant abilities. Often their powers affect their bodies visibly or irreversibly. They can't always 'turn off' their powers. They're powerful, but… often live with major disadvantages."
Peter looked down a little.
"Like the guy you talked about yesterday, right? One of the possible future students? The one with wings."
"Warren," Jean said.
"Exactly," Moira confirmed. "His physiology changed permanently. He can't hide what he is, even if he wanted to. He can't live as a regular human."
A moment of silence.
Then, Moira moved to the next color.
"Beta Level—orange. Here are mutants with high offensive or defensive potential. They can control their powers with practice, hide them if needed, and show no visible mutation. They can live in society without attracting attention… but their power level can be dangerous if left unchecked."
"Is that me?" Peter asked softly.
Moira looked at him.
"As I said, it's very likely you're here. We don't have a final category for you yet. Your physical abilities are elevated, but what matters most… is your self-control. And you're improving impressively."
Jean put a hand on his arm, smiling.
"You'll be Alpha in less than a year," she teased.
"That sounds like a lot of paperwork," he muttered.
Moira then paused at the last bar.
Red.
"Alpha Level," she said, her tone serious. "Mutants with abilities of massive scope. They can alter entire environments. Control energy on a large scale. Their powers can be offensive, defensive, sensory, or even abstract… but always with the potential to affect many. Most are very rare. And dangerous to others and themselves."
Peter turned to Jean.
"And you? Alpha Level?"
Jean looked away.
"According to the Professor… I'm on my way."
Moira paused.
Then projected a new line beneath the previous classifications.
Omega Level?
"There's a hypothesis," she said quietly. "Of a possible Omega Level. Not officially recognized. Only speculative. But it refers to mutants whose power is so vast it can alter not just their environment, but the planet. Or even more."
Peter frowned.
"More? Beyond the planet?"
Moira nodded.
"Mutants who could alter reality. Or time. Or the collective mind of humanity. For now, it's believed they don't exist. Or if they do, they're hidden… or sleeping."
"Do you think someone could… change the world just by thinking?" Jean asked softly.
Moira didn't answer. She just looked at the redhead with an expression mixing respect… and a touch of fear.
"Statistically, it's unlikely," she said. "But never zero."
Peter swallowed.
"I hope the new kid isn't Omega."
Jean smiled.
"As long as he's nice and doesn't want to kill us… that's enough."
They both laughed.
Moira turned off the screen.
"All right. We're done for today. Remember: your power doesn't define you. But how you use it does."
When they left the classroom, the sky was clear, and the sound of a car arriving drifted in from the yard.
Peter and Jean exchanged a look.
"Ready?" she asked.
Peter smiled, nervous.
"Whatever comes… we can handle it."
"As always," she agreed.
And together, they went down to greet Scott Summers.
Chapter 7: The New One
Xavier Mansion – Front Courtyard
Minutes after class – 9:12 a.m.
The banner read WELCOME SCOTT in big, uneven letters, painted in blue and black marker. Two lopsided stars flanked the words, along with a hastily drawn Imperial soldier helmet—and, in one corner, the unmistakable silhouette of a spider on roller skates.
Peter held it by the edges with his two human arms… and from above with two of his spider-arms, extended like stilts. In the morning light, the thin fabric of his T-shirt betrayed the faint shapes of two more folded limbs, still and waiting, as if even they were holding their breath.
Jean stood beside him, a strip of tape stuck to her thumb and tempera smudges across her cheeks. She was practically vibrating with nervous energy.
"For the record," she muttered, assessing the sign, "the stars are objectively crooked."
"They're personality stars," Peter countered proudly. "And that roller-skating spider? Conceptual art. I'm pushing the boundaries of the medium."
"You're pushing my boundaries of patience." Jean pointed to the helmet. "Was that necessary?"
"Necessary? No. Artistically inevitable? Absolutely. And admit it—you like The Empire Strikes Back even more than I do."
Jean lifted her chin, perfectly dignified.
"That's not preference. That's canon."
"Canon, she says…" Peter tried not to grin, failed miserably. "Professor's gonna dock you points for fanaticism."
"The professor docks points for other things, not for cinematic taste. And anyway, I'm not the one being evaluated today." She glanced toward the gravel path winding between the pines up to the front steps. "What if he doesn't like us?"
"Impossible. Look at this banner. It's humanly impossible to dislike people who put in this level of production value."
"You rely too much on props, Pete."
"I rely on all six arms, actually."
Jean rolled her eyes, but her smile overflowed anyway.
The breeze carried the scent of dry paint and damp earth. Somewhere in the distance, a hammer tapped lazily against metal—the mansion still breathing through its unfinished veins. Overhead, a lost—or stubborn—seagull carved a short cry into the sky and kept flying.
"There," Jean said suddenly, straightening. "He's here."
A dark sedan appeared at the end of the driveway. It moved slowly, with the kind of respect cars have when they know they're not on an ordinary street. It stopped in front of the oak doors.
A man in a white shirt and vest stepped out first—steady hands, practiced routine. He walked around the car, opened the rear door, and Professor Xavier emerged with his trademark blend of patience and precision. Morning light glinted off the metal rings of his chair and his navy-blue tie.
The attendant opened the other rear door.
The boy stepped out carefully, as if the ground itself might be testing him back. He was tall, a little taller than Peter, with the build of someone who hadn't eaten quite enough for too long. Washed-out jeans, a gray sweatshirt, a frayed scarf. And the glasses—deep, dark red, like a fire that had been beaten into silence but still burned underneath.
Peter swallowed, lowered the banner—his extra arms folded back like wings—and took three steps forward, smiling with that unguarded smile of his that always outran his brain.
"Scott!" He raised a hand. "Welcome to… well, all this. The mansion, the classes, the cafeteria, and Doctor Moira's infamous science cookies. I mean infamous in the good way. I'm Peter. Peter Parker."
Scott looked at him—not at the banner, or the mansion, or Xavier. At him. Specifically, at the spider-arms, twitching faintly like nervous antennae. There was no disgust. Just curiosity. And something close to relief, as if—for the briefest instant—the world had stopped making noise.
"Hi," he said, voice low and rough from disuse. "Scott. Scott Summers."
He held out his hand.
Peter took it in a firm, friendly shake. The two extra arms behind him retracted a few inches out of sheer courtesy.
"If they make you uncomfortable," Peter murmured, nodding toward his appendages, "I can tuck them away."
Scott shook his head slightly.
"I just… didn't know it could look like that." He said it as a fact, not judgment. "It's fine."
"Okay." Peter grinned wider. "Spoiler: they're great for holding banners. And reaching cookie jars on high shelves. Essential academic skills."
Behind him, Jean stepped forward. The air clicked into place—something subtle but definite.
Scott turned toward her.
Time stretched thin. The ruby lenses hid the exact direction of his gaze, but everything else—the alignment of his shoulders, the flicker in his lip, the caught breath—betrayed the impact.
The redhead smiled at him, open and human. Warm. No telepathic probing, no mystery—just a girl with a plush fox peeking from her backpack (Dave, ears crooked) and a house behind her.
"Hi," Jean said, her voice softer than planned. "I'm Jean. Jean Grey. Welcome, Scott."
Scott hesitated half a heartbeat too long before remembering that hands exist. He offered his, and she took it gently.
"Thanks," he said.
Behind them, Peter frowned just slightly. Not jealousy—something very Peter. A tiny internal alarm, not from his spider-sense but from his please-don't-hurt-her-universe-we've-got-enough-already sense. It lasted a second. Then he tucked it away where he kept his 4 p.m. hunger.
Professor Xavier moved his chair forward, just enough to let the moment breathe.
"Scott," he said in that way of his that made names sound like places, "these are Jean and Peter, our first students. They've been looking forward to this day with more enthusiasm than adolescence usually allows."
"I've got documentation," said Peter, lifting the banner. "Limited edition, high-production sign."
Jean cleared her throat. "And I promised not to talk about Star Wars for at least ten minutes of real conversation. I'm doing great."
"She's counting in her head," Peter added. "I know because when she does, her eyes go tic."
"They do not go 'tic.'"
"They totally go 'tic.'"
Xavier smiled as the attendant stepped back with a respectful nod.
⸻
Xavier moved his chair forward, his calm anchoring the group.
"Scott," he said, "how about a short walk? There are cookies in the common room and a few inevitable questions, but first… some air."
"Air sounds good," Scott admitted.
Jean pointed down the path, and Peter naturally fell into step beside Scott—half a pace to the side, like his body instinctively knew how to occupy the "supportive friend" position without a single word. His two extra arms held the banner a moment longer before folding completely beneath his shirt with a soft crkt.
"Mind if I ask?" Peter said, nodding at the red glasses. "If it's uncomfortable, just tell me to shut up."
Scott touched the frame with two fingers.
"Ruby quartz," he said, the tone more manual than confession. "They let me look without… opening the door. If they slip, I don't look. If they press too tight, I don't look. If I hesitate, I don't look. If I breathe wrong… I don't look."
"We've got plenty of duct tape around here," Peter said gently, humor masking care. "And a doctor with four arms who loves fine adjustments."
"Otto doesn't 'adjust things,'" Jean corrected automatically. "He designs precision interfaces. But yes—he can help with the fine-tuning. He's done it for Peter. Sleeves, anchor points—"
"And cookies," Peter added. "Man of many talents."
Scott nodded. It was a fragile gesture, the kind you make when you're grateful but don't yet know the protocol for showing it.
They passed under a wooden archway still smelling of promise and fresh varnish. The common room opened before them: sofas seemingly designed for naps-with-books, a low table with hand-painted plates (web motifs around the rim—May's handiwork from a visit), and a whiteboard scrawled with Otto's notes: "Do NOT touch red button. Yes, THAT one."
On a shelf, a blurry photo framed in silver: Peter and Jean, laughing in the garden one cold November day, wearing ridiculous hats.
Jean grabbed a plate. "Cookies. Real ones." She offered it to Scott. "Peanut butter. If you're allergic, my brain will know before you do and I'll snatch it from your hand."
"I'm not allergic," he said—and the way he said it, like a small victory, told them more about his past than any file ever could.
"Perfect." Peter slid the plate closer. "I'm emotionally hungry for you."
Scott picked up a cookie. Didn't eat. Just held it a moment, like memory had weight. Then he took a bite. His jaw trembled—not cartoonishly, just enough. A simple, honest flavor did more for him than any speech could.
"It's… good," he said, and Jean smiled as if he'd recited poetry.
Before the moment could drift away, Xavier spoke.
"Before life swallows our good intentions—logistics. Scott, your own room, door locks from the inside. House rule: no one enters anyone's mind without permission. Jean—"
"I'm not reading your mind," she interrupted softly. "Not now, not ever. If you ever want help, you can ask. If not, your head is your home."
Scott exhaled, a breath months overdue. "Thanks."
Peter clicked his tongue, dramatic as ever. "All right, the real test. When's our Star Wars marathon? Option A: tonight. Option B: right now. Option C: pretending there are other options."
"Peter," Jean warned, eyes narrowing in that 'tic'-distance way. "We said ten minutes."
"Ten emotional minutes," he countered.
"There's no such thing as emotional time, Parker."
"I just invented it. Trailblazer, that's me."
Scott looked between them—and for the first time, something bright flickered behind the red lenses.
"I saw A New Hope once. Fourteen-inch TV. Static on the antenna." A pause. "Never saw the others."
Peter clutched his head in mock agony. "You've never seen The Empire Strikes Back?!"
"And Return of the Jedi has homicidal teddy bears," Jean said solemnly.
"They're not homicidal," Peter protested. "They're tactical."
"We'll fight about this later," Jean said diplomatically. "Scott, you're coming to my common room tonight. Cushions, soda, Dave judging you from the armrest." She nodded to the plush fox poking from her backpack. "He's very demanding."
"I'll… try," Scott said.
"Don't try." Peter gave his shoulder a light tap. "Come. If you get tired, you leave. If you need quiet, say so. If the sound bugs you, we lower it. If you need to shut everything off, we shut it off." He paused. "And if those glasses ever start to slip, I'll hold your head. Or the glasses. Or both. I multitask."
Scott dropped his gaze to hide what his voice might give away. Chewed. Breathed. "Thanks."
A metallic clang echoed from the hallway—followed by an indignant "Don't touch the red button!" and laughter. Definitely Otto, wrestling with screws that believed in free will.
"I'll show you your room," Jean said, standing. "View of the oak tree. If you hear whispers, it's not your imagination—it's the wind. Or Peter practicing web shots in secret."
"I don't practice web shots in secret," Peter said. "I practice with heroic discretion."
"That's literally the same thing," Jean deadpanned.
They walked down the hall, walls still smelling of clean sawdust and newly finished wood. Jean nudged a door open with her foot.
"Here," she said. "Bed, desk, lamp. Secret drawer for chocolate—unofficial, of course. Thick curtains in case sunlight's a problem. And…" she nodded toward the wall, "a sturdy hook for hanging… whatever you want. A bag. A jacket. A new life."
Scott didn't move for a moment. He looked at the bed's edge, the lamp, the light switch. He touched the doorframe. The wood answered back: real, solid, here.
"Can I…?" he asked, gesturing toward the door.
"Go ahead," Jean smiled.
He pushed slowly. The handle turned with a soft, kind click. The door settled into place. The sound of the latch was small—but inside Scott, it was an earthquake in reverse: all his inner plates finally settling.
He opened it again, breathing properly this time.
"It works," he said, wonder slipping into his voice.
"That's the idea," Peter said, uncharacteristically serious.
Xavier waited in the doorway, not entering, not intruding.
"Scott," he said, "I'll leave you with your friends. At six, Moira will want a brief check-up and lens adjustment." He turned to Peter. "Parker, you're not exempt—hydration, meal, and recovery before the marathon." Then to Jean. "And you, volume limits after ten."
"I'll try," Jean said, with the guilty innocence of someone who already knew she'd fail by three decibels.
"That includes laughter," the professor added, leaving them with one of those looks that bless without claiming.
They stood there a moment—three silhouettes in new light. The silence wasn't awkward. It was full of messy, hopeful possibility.
"So," Peter said, rubbing his hands, "quick tour? Kitchen, training room—don't worry, nickname only: The Nest—and the garden, where we pretend to study but end up cloud-watching for ducks on skateboards."
"Radical ducks," Jean corrected.
"Right. Radical ducks."
Scott rested his palm on the doorframe, as if memorizing the feel of a living place. Then he nodded. "Tour."
They walked. Down the hall, a work-in-progress photo showed a collection of hands: Jean's holding a chalk stick, Peter's smeared with lab grease, Moira's ringed in hospital silver, Otto's gripping a screwdriver with a joke behind it, and Xavier's resting on a wheel. Together, it looked like a manifesto: Our hands, our rules.
As they rounded the staircase, Scott's foot caught on an uneven edge. Three things happened at once: the glasses slipped a millimeter, the strap gave way, and the world's stomach dropped like a bad elevator.
Peter's spider-sense buzzed like a hornet in glass. One hand shot to Scott's temple, steadying the frame. Another—arachnid, fast as thought—anchored to the railing. The other two spread wide for balance. Jean, without touching his mind, touched his shoulder instead—grounding him with the exact pressure of someone who's learned how to use strength without breaking.
"Easy," Peter said. "I've got the frame. It's not moving."
"I'm here," Jean said—and it wasn't telepathy. It was voice.
Scott held his breath, afraid a single inhale might fire the world. Then exhaled, slow. The lenses hadn't moved further. The red stayed where it belonged.
"Sorry," he whispered.
"Nothing to be sorry for," Peter said. "That's what we're here for. To hold things steady."
A clean, quiet moment hung between them. Then they walked on, slower this time, as if the hallway had just told them a secret worth keeping.
⸻
Xavier Mansion – Common Room
That night – 10:41 p.m.
The mansion's common room had turned into an improvised camp. The sofas were pushed aside to make space for a growing fortress of pillows and blankets that looked almost alive. Cushions lay scattered everywhere, lamps glowed warmly in corners, and an old TV—rescued by Otto from some dusty storage room and upgraded with his tech until it worked better than any new plasma—cast a soft blue shimmer across the walls.
The air smelled of fresh popcorn, hot chocolate, and barely contained youth. On the coffee table sat plastic cups of soda, half-open bags of chips, and an orange plush fox: Dave, Jean's faithful companion and self-appointed judge of the night.
Peter, in plaid flannel pajamas and mismatched socks (one blue, one black), sat cross-legged on the floor. Two of his extra arms held a bowl of popcorn and a blanket; the other pair twitched restlessly, as if eager to join the fun. Jean, in gray star-patterned pajamas, sprawled across the couch, head buried in a giant pillow. Scott sat on the other sofa, stiff at first, unsure how much relaxation was allowed—until Jean nudged him with her foot to make him sink a little deeper.
"Welcome to the mansion's unofficial tradition," Peter announced, gesturing toward the TV with one human arm and one spider-arm. "Pajama night and retro programming."
Jean raised an eyebrow.
"The tradition started a month ago, and it's just the two of us. Don't sell it like legend."
"Every legend starts small. Look at the pyramids—first a stone, then another stone, and boom! World history."
Scott lowered his head, hiding a tiny smile, uncertain if he had permission to show it.
The screen flickered to life with a news broadcast. A woman with over-sprayed hair spoke in serious tones:
"Two weeks ago, the Apollo-Earth XXI mission returned from low orbit with an unexpected outcome. All four astronauts exhibit unusual physiological alterations. One shows rock-like skin; another, controlled combustion; the third is invisible to sensors; and the fourth… displays previously unseen bodily elasticity."
Grainy footage showed four hooded figures leaving a medical facility.
Peter nearly dropped the popcorn bowl.
"Tell me that doesn't sound exactly like mutants! Four astronauts, each with different powers after a space trip!"
Jean sipped her hot chocolate, amused.
"Don't you remember what Otto and Moira said in class? To be a mutant, you have to be born with the X-Gene. What they have looks like… exposure. Radiation. Cosmic energy or something."
Peter sighed dramatically.
"You just love crushing my theories, Grey."
"I just love correcting them, Parker."
Scott didn't speak, but the red of his lenses caught the TV light.
"What if they're not mutants… and not accidents either?" he said finally. "What if there's something else? Something we don't know yet."
Jean blinked, surprised he'd joined the conversation.
"Like what?"
Scott shrugged.
"Space is big. Infinite. We can't be the only different ones."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy—it was full. Even Dave seemed to listen.
Peter broke it with a laugh.
"If there are aliens, I just hope they bring cookies."
Jean rolled her eyes but smiled into her cup.
The broadcast drifted into politics. Peter muted the TV, and the quiet that settled over them was comfortable—popcorn crunching, wind whispering outside.
Peter watched Scott from the corner of his eye. They'd spent hours together, but there was still a wall there—his words careful, gestures measured. When family came up, he looked away like it hurt to even stand near the thought.
Jean sensed it too—not through telepathy, just intuition—and shifted gears.
"All right," she said, sitting up, brightening the air. "Now that we're officially three, we need codenames."
Peter froze mid-popcorn bite.
"Codenames?"
"Obviously! Like in the comics." She hugged Dave to her chest like a mic. "I already call you Spidey because you're a little spider."
Peter raised an eyebrow.
"'Little spider' doesn't exactly scream intimidation."
"I think it's adorable. And accurate." Jean turned to Scott, studying him shamelessly. "You… I think Cyclops suits you."
Scott blinked.
"Cyclops?"
"One steady point. Focused. A single eye that cuts through anything. It fits."
Peter whistled.
"Cyclops. That's tough. Way cooler than Spidey, no question."
Jean puffed her chest.
"And I'll be Marvel Girl. Because, well… I'm marvelous."
A pillow hit her square in the face.
"Tone it down, Marvel Girl!" Peter laughed.
Jean flung the pillow back. The hit sparked a war. Cushions flew, blankets became improvised nets, popcorn snowed across the carpet.
"Unfair!" Peter shouted, using two spider-arms to block attacks. "Six arms means defensive advantage!"
"Cheater!" Jean yelled, smacking him in the side, laughing so hard she could barely breathe. "You're disqualified for evolutionary imbalance!"
Scott sat frozen at first, unsure whether he was really allowed to join. Then a smile. Then something else—warmth, the kind that sneaks into your chest when you stop expecting it.
A pillow thumped against him. Peter had aimed perfectly—not at his face, not at the glasses, just the chest.
"Hey!" Scott looked up, startled.
"Rule number one of pajama night," Peter declared, one arm raised in judgment. "Everybody plays!"
Jean launched another pillow at his leg. "Come on, Cyclops! Show us your fury!"
Scott caught it awkwardly. Hesitated. Then threw it back—not hard, not precise, but enough.
Peter collapsed dramatically to the floor. "The Cyclops awakens! We're doomed!"
Jean doubled over in laughter, collapsing beside Dave. Scott laughed too—a short, uneven laugh, but real.
That sound meant more than any class or test. It was the first brick in his new home.
⸻
Past midnight, the battlefield lay quiet. Pillows everywhere, blankets tangled, the TV showing an old sci-fi series with wobbly special effects. Peter snored softly. Jean fought sleep, chewing a cold popcorn kernel. Scott stared at the ceiling, the flicker of the screen reflected in his red lenses.
For the first time in a long time, he wasn't thinking about leaving.
He was thinking about staying.