As the regal, white-haired woman named Ororo turned her attention to them, the urgency in her eyes softened, replaced by a warmth that was like the sun breaking through clouds. A genuine, welcoming smile graced her features, and the faint, clean scent of ozone and rain that clung to her seemed to lessen.
"Welcome to the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters," she said, her voice a melodic and reassuring hum. "I am Ororo. I believe you will find a true home here."
With a final, kind nod, she turned and strode purposefully into the school, her long white hair flowing behind her, leaving Ethan to process the new information.
Ororo Munroe. Storm, his mind supplied. The name and face clicked into a framework of tactical data he'd been building. A top-tier Level 3 mutant, according to the files I've... seen. The ability to manipulate weather patterns on a localized scale. She can summon lightning, conjure storms, and generate ice. A powerhouse.
He internally reviewed the classification system he had absorbed. Five levels, with five being the domain of omega-level beings like Phoenix or reality warpers—gods, for all intents and purposes. Level one was the lowest, often a minor, uncontrollable quirk. A mutant's level was an innate measure of their potential, the ceiling they could reach, but it said nothing of their current power. A Level 3 might only exhibit the strength of a Level 2 until their abilities were honed through years of training and experience.
It was more complicated than a simple number, though. He knew combat was a messy equation of variables. A Level 3 whose gift was a support ability, like accelerated healing, could still be defeated by a Level 2 with a purely offensive power, like concussive blasts. A Level 3 office worker who had just manifested their powers would be no match for a Level 2 battlefield veteran who had used their abilities to survive for years. It was all about application, mentality, and experience. Where do I fit in? he wondered. A Saiyan isn't a mutant. My potential isn't a fixed ceiling. It's limitless.
"Piotr," Professor Xavier's voice broke his reverie. He gestured to a tall, solidly built young man with a kind face and gentle eyes who had been waiting patiently nearby. "Please take our new arrivals, Ethan, Wanda, and Pietro, and help them find rooms. Afterward, give them a tour to familiarize them with the grounds."
The school was a sprawling seven-story castle. As Piotr, whose Russian accent was soft and pleasant, led them through the grand hallways, he explained that while many rooms were classrooms, labs, or special-purpose chambers, there were more than enough dorm rooms for everyone. With only thirty-four students in the entire school, it was a luxury of space.
"So, Piotr," Ethan began, falling into step beside the larger student as Wanda and Pietro ran ahead, marveling at the portraits on the walls. "What is your ability?"
He was mining for data. The movies were a distant memory, the broad strokes clear but the fine details faded. He remembered the name 'Storm', but 'Ororo' had been a buried file. He needed to rebuild his understanding of this world, person by person.
Piotr smiled, a bashful, friendly expression that seemed at odds with his powerful frame. "It is this," he said simply. He flexed his arm, and a fascinating transformation rippled across his skin. It was not just a change of color, but a change of substance, accompanied by a low, grinding sound like shifting tectonic plates. His flesh became a seamless sheath of gleaming, organic steel, reflecting the hallway lights like polished chrome.
"Oh, that is so cool!" Pietro exclaimed, his eyes wide with awe as he ran back and tapped a finger against Piotr's metallic bicep. It made a solid tink sound. Wanda, who had been clinging to Ethan's arm, leaned forward, her curiosity piqued, and poked his arm as well.
"It gives me enhanced strength and durability," Piotr explained, his voice slightly deeper in this form. He didn't seem to mind their prodding. "Though, my dream is to be an artist. Like Picasso. I can paint your portraits sometime, if you like."
Ethan's eyes scanned Piotr's transformed body, pausing for a moment on his torso before a name surfaced from his memory. Colossus. The toughest man among the mutants. All strength and heart.
"These three rooms will be perfect," Ethan declared, pointing to a set of adjoining doors in a quiet wing of the manor. After they had dropped off their few belongings, Colossus, as Ethan now thought of him, led them on the grand tour. They saw state-of-the-art laboratories, a vast library, a sun-drenched conservatory, an olympic-sized swimming pool, and even a stable with horses and a sprawling riding field. With every new marvel, Ethan could only marvel at the sheer, mind-boggling wealth of Charles Xavier.
Meanwhile, in the oak-paneled gravity of the Headmaster's office, an emergency meeting was underway.
"The attack on the President has Erik's signature all over it," Cyclops—Scott Summers—insisted, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His voice was sharp, accusatory.
The red-haired woman next to him, Jean Grey, shook her head, her expression thoughtful. "I don't think so, Scott. It's too chaotic, too public."
"Jean is correct," Professor Xavier said from behind his large desk, his fingers steepled. "Erik may be an extremist, but he is not a fool. An act like this would only galvanize human hatred and undermine everything he claims to be fighting for. It is not his move."
Storm, standing by the window, sighed heavily. "It doesn't matter whose move it was. The Senate is already making noise. Those who want the Mutant Registration Act are using this as their primary weapon. They say we are a threat that must be cataloged and controlled."
"To understand the play, we must find the player," Xavier decided, his voice cutting through the tension. "We need to find the mutant who launched the attack. Jean, Ororo—bring him here. Discretely. Scott, you're with me. We're going to pay a visit to Erik in his prison."
Evening found them in the school cafeteria, a massive hall buzzing with the chatter of dozens of students and filled with the mingled aromas of roasted chicken, pasta, and fresh bread. Ethan stared at the long buffet line, his eyes widening as he saw students piling their plates high.
"Can I… Can I really eat whatever I want here?" he asked Colossus, a tremor of pure, unadulterated hope in his voice.
Colossus chuckled warmly and nodded. "Of course, little brother. All food, drinks, everything in the school is provided. Eat until you are full."
At that moment, the gentle giant had no idea of the cataclysmic statement he had just made.
"No, you guys go first," Ethan said, waving a hand. "I'll wait until the line dies down."
"There is no need," Colossus said, misinterpreting his hesitation as politeness born from scarcity. "The kitchen has plenty. Our head chef, Mr. Yost, has the ability to rapidly process ingredients. He always keeps enough food in storage to feed all of us for three days. There will be no shortages here."
"You don't understand," Wanda chirped, tugging on Colossus's arm. "Ethan is a big bad wolf! He can eat so, so much!" she said, stretching her arms out wide.
Ethan huffed, a playful smile on his face, and launched a tickle attack on her stomach. "Oh, so I'm the Big Bad Wolf? Then you must be Little Red Riding Hood! Be careful, or I'll eat you all up!"
Wanda dissolved into a fit of giggles.
Pietro, ever serious, nodded in agreement with his sister. "She is right," he explained to a bemused Colossus. "Ethan has a universe in his belly. I have never, ever seen him full. I think maybe that is his mutant power."
Hearing this, a wave of profound sympathy washed over the kind-hearted Colossus. He pictured this small, serious boy in war-torn Sokovia, perhaps never having known the simple comfort of a full stomach. His heart ached for him.
"Oh, you poor thing," he said, his voice full of compassion. "Come. It does not matter. You will eat your fill tonight."
And with a gentle but firm hand, he pulled the three of them into the queue, completely unaware that he was about to witness a culinary event of near-apocalyptic proportions.
POWERSTONES PLZ