Waking up was a gentle drift back to consciousness, a stark contrast to the violent plunge that had preceded it. Ethan took a mental inventory. He flexed his fingers, feeling no tremors. He rolled his shoulders, searching for the bone-deep aches and cellular exhaustion that had plagued him after his first template use in Sokovia. There was nothing. He felt… normal. Better than normal. He felt rested.
A full day in a coma the first time, he thought, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across his face. This time, only an hour. His own training, the grueling push-ups and squats in the basement, the constant physical exertion of his new life—it was working. The stronger his base form became, the more resilient it was to the violent aftershocks of channeling a god-tier power. Soon, perhaps, there would be no side effects at all.
"Have you contacted the Professor?" he asked, sitting up. Wolverine was there, leaning against the wall. Next to him, Bobby Drake—Iceman—was idly frosting the surface of a nearby table with his breath.
"No luck," Logan grunted, his voice grim. "Can't raise him on any channel. I got a hold of Jean and Ororo, though. They're on their way back from Boston. Should be here by tomorrow." He gestured with his head toward Bobby. "Hey, kid. Earn your keep."
Bobby grinned and took the bottle of beer Logan offered him. He blew a stream of frosty air into the opening, and the bottle was instantly covered in a layer of ice, its contents chilled to perfection. Logan took it back with a satisfied nod.
The inability to contact Xavier confirmed Ethan's worst fears. The Professor wasn't just out of touch; he'd been taken. Ethan pictured it with chilling clarity: Stryker's men, using non-metallic weapons, creating a scenario to isolate Charles from his escort. A sudden trap, a tranquilizer dart, a swift abduction. For all his godlike mental power, the Professor was still just a man in a wheelchair. His greatest strength was also his most profound physical vulnerability.
He knew he should say something. He knew Stryker's entire plan, from the staged assassination attempt to the ultimate goal of turning Cerebro into a weapon of genocide. But how could he explain it? I'm sorry, how does the twelve-year-old refugee from Sokovia know the intricate, top-secret plans of a rogue US military colonel? Even asking Logan to see the Cerebro room had been a risk. Logan, bless his straightforward, non-inquisitive heart, hadn't questioned it. But Professor X, or even the sharp-minded Jean Grey, would see the impossibility of it. The questions would be endless, and he had no answers that wouldn't expose his true nature.
His fate, and Pietro's, now rested in the hands of others. The thought tasted like ash in his mouth. If Stryker succeeded, Pietro would die with the rest of the mutants, and Ethan's grand plan of using the school as a power-leveling paradise would turn to dust. If, by some twist, Magneto used this crisis to seize power and eradicate humanity… well, being a Saiyan probably wouldn't grant him an exemption.
Just then, his stomach let out a long, mournful growl that echoed in the quiet room.
Logan chuckled, the sound a low rumble. "Sounds like the engine's out of fuel." He pushed himself off the wall. "The kid's gotta rest, but he's still a kid. Don't you worry about a thing, Ethan."
The sentiment was kind, but it was the rumbling in his gut that truly commanded his attention. The one-hour battle had incinerated the mountain of food he'd consumed earlier. He was running on empty. "Is there…" he began, his voice almost shy, "anything to eat here?"
Wolverine's grin widened. "Follow me, kid. The Professor believes in being prepared."
He led Ethan to the basement of the safe-house villa. It wasn't a cellar; it was a doomsday prepper's fantasy. Floor-to-ceiling shelves were stacked high with boxes upon boxes of non-perishable food. Chocolates, chips, canned sausages, bread, sodas, energy bars—a treasure trove of high-sugar, high-fat, high-energy fuel.
"Oh, my…" Ethan breathed, his eyes shining with a holy light. "It's… heaven."
"Hell," Wolverine muttered a few minutes later, his half-drunk beer forgotten in his hand as he watched entire boxes of food vanish into the boy's mouth with a speed that defied the laws of physics. "So that's the kid Yuge was cryin' about."
The next afternoon, the distinct, low hum of the X-Jet announced the arrival of reinforcements. The sleek, black aircraft landed silently on the villa's expansive lawn. Logan was there to meet it, his posture tense. The ramp lowered, and Jean Grey emerged, her face etched with worry. Logan stepped forward and wrapped her in a brief, tight hug. Behind her, Storm descended, carrying a blue-skinned, demon-like man with a pointed tail over her shoulder.
"Had some trouble on the way," Storm explained, gesturing with her head toward the jet's interior. "We ran into some unexpected company."
Wolverine's eyes narrowed as two more figures emerged from the shadows of the ramp. One was a woman with vibrant blue skin and piercing yellow eyes, her movements fluid and silent as a cat. The other was an old man who carried himself with an aura of immense power and regal authority, his face partially obscured by a polished, deep-purple helmet.
"Erik," Logan snarled, the name a curse. The friendly greeting died on his lips, replaced by the lethal SNIKT of six adamantium claws extending from his fists. "Long time no see." All he could see was the top of the Statue of Liberty, the agonized screams of Rogue, the cold, fanatic glare of the man who would have killed her without a second thought.
"Logan, wait!" Jean said, quickly stepping between them. "They are not our enemies. Not today."
She explained quickly: after Stryker's forces had abducted the Professor, Mystique had infiltrated the plastic prison and freed Magneto. It was Magneto who had then contacted them, proposing a temporary, desperate alliance. Stryker was their common enemy.
From a second-floor window, Ethan watched the tense tableau unfold, a half-eaten Virginia sausage clutched in his hand. Magneto's goal isn't just to save mutants, he thought, taking a savage bite. It's to save them by eliminating the competition. He knew he had to be on that mission. The potential Justice Points were astronomical, but more importantly, he could not leave his survival, and the fate of the world, to a shaky alliance between sworn enemies. His own appearance had already sent ripples through the timeline; the movie plot was now nothing more than a dangerously unreliable reference.
He turned to the twins, who were watching cartoons on a large-screen TV. "Wanda, Pietro, you stay here and watch TV with Bobby and the others. I'll be right back."
He ruffled their hair and walked downstairs, entering the living room just as the tense group came inside.
"Is there any news of the Professor?" he asked, his voice deliberately pitched to sound like a worried student.
Storm turned to him, her stern expression softening instantly into one of maternal concern. "Oh, Ethan, my dear," she said, kneeling down to his level. "You must not worry. The Professor is a very powerful man. He will be fine, and we will all be back at the school soon."
She saw a new student, frightened and out of his depth.
From across the room, Logan watched the scene, a strange, bemused look on his face. He saw the warrior who had vaporized helicopters and fought alongside him like a seasoned veteran being comforted like a lost child. The disconnect was jarring, and for the first time, Logan began to wonder just who—and what—they had truly brought into their home.