The sterile glow of the Xavier Institute Medbay hummed softly, contrasting sharply with the storm of tension sitting in Professor Charles Xavier's chest. Jean Grey lay motionless on the central bed, her vitals stable, her expression peaceful—too peaceful.
At her side, Dr. Hank McCoy adjusted a vitals monitor. "Physically, she's fine. More than fine, actually. Her power readings are… unusually high. Surging, even."
Xavier's eyes narrowed. "Thank you, Hank."
Hank cocked his head. "You want the room?"
Charles nodded, his voice quiet. "Please. Leave us, Hank."
Hank paused, looking between the sleeping Jean and his old friend. "Why so mysterious, Charles? Is there something else going on with her?"
Xavier gave him a soft, tired smile. "It's not time for you to know. Not yet. Not until Jean knows it herself."
Hank frowned but respected the line. "Alright. I'll check on the others."
He left without another word, the hiss of the sliding door trailing behind him. Xavier turned back to Jean. He gently placed one palm on her forehead, the other on his own temple, and closed his eyes. The world around him faded.
When he opened his eyes again, he was no longer in the medbay. He stood within Jean's mind. But it was different now. Much more chaotic than the last time he was here. That time… the last time… he had sealed her memories. Suddenly, a figure stirred behind him. Jean.
She looked small, disoriented. Her eyes were wide and frightened, her hair matted and wild, as if she'd just been dragged from a torture device. She was sobbing—and yet when she saw Charles, she staggered toward him, reaching out. He moved forward to meet her only for the ground beneath them to shatter.
A pull, sharp and sudden, like a black hole tore at their feet. They were swallowed. Then—silence. And stars. They were now in space, or some mind-construct that looked like it. A vacuum of memory, thought, and raw psychic tension.
Floating ahead of them, a massive fiery shape erupted from the shadows. A Phoenix. Blazing with solar heat, wings curled around a jagged, half-broken psychic prison that barely contained it. Its body pulsed with restrained power, its voice cut through the mindscape like thunder wrapped in velvet.
"Finally," it spoke, eyes like suns narrowed. "I wondered how long I should trap her in her own insecurities for you to come."
Jean, still in Charles' arms, shook violently. Her aura cracked and sputtered. Her mind had been tortured, looped endlessly within its own fears.
Xavier stepped forward, raising his hands. The fragmented psychic cage—the one he had once built—began to repair itself. Invisible threads of psychic will re-stitched the edges.
The phoenix screamed. "HOW DARE YOU DISRESPECT ME!"
Xavier was blasted backward by sheer force—his essence flung across the space like a ragdoll. It took everything he had just to reassert his consciousness.
He stood again, panting. "You know Jean's body was breaking," he said, teeth gritted. "You forced my hand. You latched onto her… without guidance, without consent. You left me no choice but to seal you."
The bird laughed, dark and ancient. "Ahahaha… and you think she'll thank you for it? What about the others, Charles? The ones whose memories you altered to fit your ideals? You wear peace like a crown but treat the minds of your students like your chessboard."
Xavier's voice was steel. "She needs to learn control. And until she does… I will not allow you to consume her."
The phoenix glowed brighter. For a moment, it looked ready to fight again. Then… it paused. Its wings slowly folded inward. "Fine," it hissed. "I will let you have this moment. Rebuild your little prison. Put the walls back up."
Xavier didn't wait. He reasserted the seal, strand by strand, reinforcing the psychic cage with layers of telepathic code, woven with love, guilt, and desperate responsibility.
The Phoenix's final warning echoed across the void. "But know this—when you wake, no memory trick of yours will touch my host. Not anymore. Not the last one, not the next. No illusion you cast will hide what she is now." It closed its eyes. And vanished into slumber.
Back in the real world, Charles gasped, his hand pulling away from Jean's forehead like it had been burned. A cold sweat rolled down his brow.
Jean stirred slightly. Her fingers twitched. Charles sat back in his chair, haunted. He didn't know what would happen next.
…
The wind rolled gently over Krakoa, stirring petals and golden light into a lazy dance. Perched like a smug king atop his floating cloud Zephyr, Jack Hou lounged with all the seriousness of a man sunbathing in a war zone. He leaned back, hands behind his head, swinging his legs with absentminded delight.
Around him, the STRIKE team maintained formation—rifles raised, boots tense, scanning the terrain with trained precision.
And then the petals gathered. Caught in the wind, the scattered flower petals began to shift, twist, and form—until they assembled into a humanoid shape. It was delicate and strange, built from breeze and bloom. Eyes glowing softly, Krakoa stood before the soldiers like a polite storm wearing a flower crown.
Jack grinned. "Well, officers—this is Krakoa. Krakoa, say hi to the officers."
The STRIKE team immediately pointed their weapons at the living construct.
Jack burst into laughter. "Kekekekeke! Oh, come on! There's no need for that. You're already standing on it." He gestured to the forest, the ground, the very world around them. "Shooting at him is like trying to shoot the island."
The Captain stepped forward. "Jack Hou, you need to come back with us. You'll be required for debriefing. You're part of an international incident."
Jack sat up straighter, brushing petals off his lap. "Oh no thanks. Still on my little soul-searching journey."
Then his eyes shimmered gold. His gaze sharpened—and in a second, he saw them. His expression shifted from flippant to… predatory. He scanned each soldier, pausing longer on a few. His lips curled into a dangerous smile. "Hah. Now I'm more sure I shouldn't have come with you after all."
The Captain narrowed his eyes. "Why's that?"
Jack tilted his head, grinning wide. "I'm not Heracles. It's not my job to slay a Hydra." His tone turned sharp, radiant with warning. "But maybe… maybe I should be. One head, two heads—don't tempt me to start swinging. You don't want me going on a Twelve Labors tour through your little secret organizations."
The wind shifted. Krakoa, still tilting its floral head, looked at Jack. "They… can't be trusted?"
Jack stretched. "Some of them? Maybe. But y'know what—let's just kick them all out for now."
Without warning, the ground trembled beneath the soldiers' feet. The grass buckled. The vines surged. The earth groaned. Krakoa reclaimed itself. The very terrain under the STRIKE team's boots shifted violently, tilting and dragging the twelve agents backward like ants on a stormed table. With incredible speed and no room for resistance, the soldiers were thrown toward the VTOL landing zone.
The strike team slammed into the hull and skidded against the steel, scrambling for footing. "Retreat!" the Captain barked, breathless. "We've got a full visual and sound recording on every man! If the Council wants more—they can come deal with it themselves!"
The VTOL ramp dropped with mechanical urgency. One by one, the agents boarded, weapons still raised—but none dared fire. As the transport lifted into the sky, the Captain stayed silent, but his thoughts raced.
How the fuck did he know?
He had suspected he was the only Hydra operative embedded in the STRIKE team. But Jack… Jack had said "several."
Were there others? Sent without his knowledge? Had Hydra split loyalty under his nose?
He didn't know. But he knew one thing now with absolute certainty.
Jack Hou was more dangerous than they ever anticipated. And the fact that he could see Hydra at a glance? That alone was reason enough, in the Captain's mind… To eliminate him.
…
The doors to the medbay slid open with a quiet hiss. Charles Xavier stepped out, his features calm—but only on the surface. The lines in his brow were deeper. His usual grace carried a weight, subtle but undeniable.
Waiting just outside, Hank McCoy and Moira MacTaggert looked up at once. Moira stepped forward. "How is Jean? Hank says that her vitals have remained in top condition. It's almost miraculous."
Xavier shook his head. "Her body is fine. It's her mind... she needs more time. It appears…" he hesitated, then finished, "...that she has been tortured."
Both Moira and Hank froze. "Tortured?" Hank repeated, eyes narrowing. "Charles, what do you mean? Who—how?"
Xavier exhaled slowly, the memory of fire still flickering at the edge of his thoughts. "Call Logan, John, Piotr, and Ororo. I'll explain everything… in detail."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and wheeled himself silently toward his office. Moira and Hank stood there, stunned. Moira looked toward the medbay door, then whispered, "Should I be worried?"
Hank didn't look at her when he answered. "Let's assume the worst…" he said grimly, "...so we're not too shocked when it arrives."
…
The soft hum of the secondary medbay was interrupted by the sounds of laughter, light groaning, and the occasional beep from a vitals monitor. The beds were lined with the still-recovering heroes of the mission—Scott, Alex, Petra, Bobby, and Kurt—freshly patched up by Moira and her medical team.
At one side of the room, Alex Summers was just finishing another round of Moira's team not-so-gentle muscle check when Gabriel rushed to his side. "I'm alright," Alex said with a tired smile, stretching his shoulder.
Scott, lying in the next bed, rolled his eyes dramatically. "Oh, sure, ask Alex if he's alright. I'm hurt too, you know."
Gabriel barely spared him a glance. "Because he's the one who agreed to teach me how to fly the X-Jet."
Scott gasped in mock betrayal. "Wow. So your love is transactional. This whole time it's been about aircraft lessons?"
Alex couldn't help himself—he burst out laughing. "That's what you get for gatekeeping jet secrets, brother."
Across the room, Kurt Wagner lay surrounded by Jamie Madrox, Roberto Da Costa, and Sam Guthrie, who were throwing questions at him like rapid-fire. "So what happened when Krakoa grabbed you?" "Did the island really talk?" "Did Logan actually try to fight the island?"
Kurt, clearly loving the attention, waved his hands like a stage magician. "Oh, mein Freunde, it was chaos! I teleported through vines, redirected collapsing rock, saved half the team. And Teacher John—he looked me dead in the eye and said, 'Kurt, you… you're a leader.'"
Jamie squinted. "Are you sure he didn't say, 'Kurt, you need a leader'?"
"Pfft." Kurt leaned back with a smug grin. "Details."
Toward the far end of the room, Petra was lounging on her bed, still sore but smiling, talking quietly with Anna Marie and Suzanne Chan. They shared sliced fruit and laughter, the kind of idle conversation that only comes after surviving something serious.
Not far away, Bobby Drake was trading jabs with Armando Muñoz and Remy LeBeau, who had acquired a deck of cards from somewhere and were half-playing, half-gossiping.
"You know, Bobby," Remy said, dealing a lazy card, "you keep lookin' that way, I'm gonna charge you a romantic tax."
Bobby blinked, cheeks coloring slightly. "Huh? I'm listening."
"You're not," Armando chuckled. "We've told the same joke three times, and you laughed each time like it was new."
Across the way, Anna Marie leaned closer to Petra. "Sugar, I know that look. Either you're crushin', or he's mentally projectin' charm rays at you."
Petra looked away fast. "We're just tired."
Suzanne smirked. "Mmhmm. Tired of not flirting maybe."
As the conversations rolled on, a pattern began to emerge. Bobby kept glancing at Petra. Petra kept glancing back. And every time their eyes met, they looked away just a second too late. The room caught on.
Remy stretched and stood. "Well, mes amis, I feel an urgent need to… not be the third wheel."
Armando followed suit, yawning loudly. "Sudden fatigue. Tragic."
Anna Marie winked at Petra. "I'm off before your blushing sets the medbay on fire."
Jamie stood and made finger guns. "I'm gonna go not interrupt this beautiful not-date."
Roberto added, "I'm gonna go make popcorn and pretend I didn't see anything."
Sam saluted dramatically. "Good luck, Captain Iceman."
Kurt sighed and flopped dramatically onto his side. "I feel so betrayed… where's my fanfare?"
One by one, the friends filed out, offering increasingly transparent excuses until the laughter slowly died down. The medbay lights dimmed slightly to signal the evening wind-down.
And when the room finally settled, only Bobby and Petra remained. Not speaking yet. Not quite ready to break the silence. But both are smiling.
…
The atmosphere in Professor Xavier's office was thick. The late afternoon light cut through the stained glass like judgment, casting long, broken lines across the floor.
Ororo Munroe entered last, her stride purposeful but weary. "Apologies. I had to make sure Sunfire made it safely back to Kyoto." Her brow furrowed. "Why are we all here?"
Logan, leaning against a bookshelf, arms folded, jerked a thumb toward the professor. "Chuck wanted us. Said it's something we all needed to hear."
John Proudstar, seated near the far wall, added, "Said you had to hear it too."
Ororo took the last open chair beside Colossus and crossed one leg over the other, folding her arms. Everyone's eyes shifted to Charles Xavier.
He sat quietly behind his desk in his wheelchair, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes cast downward. For a moment, he didn't speak. Then, he looked up—his gaze not the confident gleam of the world's most powerful telepath, but tired, aged. He exhaled slowly. Then he spoke.
"I've spent my life… building this place. Not just the school—but the dream. A life worth living. One where we don't just survive, but thrive. I wanted us to feel equal, safe, human. That's why I've never forced any of you to fight. I wanted a choice to define us—not violence."
His voice wavered slightly—only slightly—but enough for Logan to lift his head from the shadows. Charles turned his chair slowly to face them more directly. There was no grandeur in his movements—just a quiet kind of resolve. A man finally willing to peel back the mask.
Colossus nodded. "We fight because we know it's for us—and for those who come next."
Xavier smiled faintly. But then, the smile faded. "And I have something to confess." He inhaled again, visibly bracing himself. "I've altered your memories."
The silence was immediate. It wasn't shock like thunder. It was the kind that made the room feel cold. Still. Moira looked at him, mouth slightly open, but said nothing. Hank took off his glasses slowly, blinked, then put them back on. Logan's eyes narrowed. But he didn't speak. Not yet.
Xavier rolled forward, away from his desk, into the circle of those who followed him. His hands trembled slightly on the wheel. "Years ago… when I sensed what Jean Grey was becoming… I felt something ancient inside her. Vast. Beautiful. Terrible. I panicked. I thought if she ever learned what she held, it would consume her. And I couldn't risk that. So I went into her mind. And I sealed it."
He looked at them—looked at each of them. "But it didn't stop there. The moment I saw how it affected all of you… the fear, the division—I intervened again. I… adjusted things. Nothing drastic. Nothing loud. But enough. Enough to shift what you remembered. Enough to smooth over the rough edges of trust."
He closed his eyes. "I told myself I was protecting you. But the truth is… I was protecting my fear of losing you."
Xavier's voice lowered. He looked up—only now did his gaze meet Logan's fully. It wasn't defiant. It was exposed. "What I did was a violation. I took your trust and turned it into a leash. You trusted me to lead you. And I used that trust to shape your reality into my version of it."
Logan's jaw twitched. He said nothing, but his hands curled into fists. John looked away, unable to meet Charles' eyes. Xavier wheeled himself slightly forward.
"I know… you might feel betrayed. Or confused. Or even violated. Like I didn't trust you enough to handle the truth. And you'd be right. If I were in your place… I'd feel the same."
Ororo sat perfectly still, eyes focused on a spot just beyond him. The tension in her shoulders was visible. Colossus had leaned back, stone-faced, arms crossed tightly across his chest. Hank leaned forward, fingers interlaced under his chin.
"I should have trusted you. Not just as my students… but as my equals. I should have let you face the truth with me. I should have believed in the strength of what we'd built together. Instead, I chose control. And that was… my failure."
He looked at Moira as he said it, his eyes soft. She didn't blink, but her throat tightened.
Xavier turned slowly, wheeling back toward the desk—but not behind it. He stopped short of the barrier, still facing them directly. "Starting today, no more secrets. No more mental edits. I will restore what I took—every altered memory, every blurred line. If you feel I've lost the right to lead you… I will accept that. I will step back. Because you deserve leadership rooted in truth—not fear."
He placed his hand over his heart. "But I want to do better. And if you'll have me, I will earn that trust again. Not with ideals—but with accountability. With action."
Silence returned. But now it was a silence born of impact, not absence. No one moved.
John looked furious—but not at Xavier. At the weight of the choice now in his hands. Ororo blinked once, then turned her eyes to the window. Her voice, when it came, was quiet. "That… is a lot." Hank said nothing. He just stared, deeply, as if weighing decades in the space between breaths.
Logan finally broke the stillness, stepping forward. Not fast. Just enough. He didn't growl. Didn't snarl. He just said, "We're gonna need some fucking time, Chuck."
Xavier nodded. "I understand." He didn't try to read their minds. He didn't try to fix what was broken. He simply sat. Waiting.
**A/N**
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**A/N**