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Professor Charles Xavier's office was heavy with tension. Hank McCoy—currently in his more human guise—sat hunched at the desk, surrounded by scattered research notes and photographs he'd developed with Reed Richards. But even their promising discoveries couldn't lighten the mood.
Across from him, Xavier had just finished a call with the White House liaison. His face was grim, his hands pressed tightly together, as though he were holding back the frustration threatening to spill over.
"What did they say?" Hank asked quickly, worry sharpening his voice. "Is the President willing to open talks with us?"
Xavier shook his head. "Not promising. Their tone wasn't hostile, but it was all empty rhetoric. Diplomatic niceties. Nothing concrete."
"But we sent them proof," Hank protested. "Jean didn't lose control of her own will—she was manipulated by those aliens. The photos show the ship clear as day!"
"That isn't enough."
Hank shot up from his chair, indignant. "Not enough? What, the faxed copies weren't clear enough? Then I'll take the originals to Washington myself—" He grabbed for the photos.
"Stop." Xavier's voice cut through the room. "You don't understand. The White House isn't questioning the quality of the pictures. They're saying photographs alone don't et the burden of proof. In a court of law, you need witnesses and hard evidence. And even we know that, right now, our explanation sounds like nothing more than an excuse."
Hank's fists clenched. "Then what do they want?"
"Corpses of the aliens. A living specin, high-ranking enough to prove a wider conspiracy. Their ship in our custody. Or…" Xavier hesitated.
"Or what?!" Hank snapped. His eyes narrowed. "You can't an Jean. You wouldn't hand herm over as a lab rat, would you?"
"I never said that!" Xavier shot back, more sharply than he intended. His hands shook on the armrests of his chair. "And I never would."
Hank, flustered, blurted another thought. "Then what about Henry Brown? He claid he was an alien—give them him!"
Xavier's gaze turned ice-cold. "And how exactly do you know he's aligned with the invaders? How would you even hand him over? Most of our people have already been beaten or scattered. Our strength is fractured. Do you think the governnt could capture him if we pointed the way? If he's truly unrelated, then all we've done is provoke a powerful enemy who might have left us alone."
That silenced Hank. He knew his ideas were desperate, even foolish. But desperation was eating at him. The governnt's posture was always the biggest obstacle the mutants faced.
A friendly administration—even one that only mouthed support while allowing sabotage in the shadows—still gave mutants room to breathe. But neutrality? Indifference? That was the most dangerous of all. When Washington wouldn't pick a side, they could do anything.
And outright hostility? That was the nightmare. The Sentinel program revived, military raids, federal pressure choking mutants in every corner of the country. Even Xavier's school had been bombed once before. If a sanctuary fortified by Oga-level mutants and the X-n themselves could be attacked, what chance did ordinary mutants have?
Xavier felt the walls closing in again, the impossible balancing act he had lived for decades pressing harder on his chest. Erik faced the sa pressure, but Magneto had chosen a darker road. It was why the two of them alone bore the titles of mutant leaders. No one else carried that weight.
If Xavier had hair, he would have torn it out long ago. Instead, his fist slamd against the desk. "This won't work. We need allies inside the governnt itself."
Hank gave him a wary look. "What are you saying? That we use your powers—take control of a Senator's mind? An official in the White House?"
"No!" Xavier barked, almost offended. "If I stoop to that, then we've already lost. If it were ever exposed, we'd be hunted without rcy. No, Hank. I an soone real. Soone who is ours by choice, not coercion. Soone visible in those halls of power."
"And how do you propose we do that?" Hank's voice was edged with sarcasm now. "Run a mutant for Congress? Try to win over the voting public? Even if we emptied the coffers of the school, poured astronomical sums into that pit, it's nearly impossible. The only plausible route is convincing the governnt to establish a formal office for mutant affairs, staffed by one of our own. But even then, it would take years. And Jean doesn't have years."
"I know." Xavier's hand slamd down on the desk again. His wheelchair whirred as he spun away, turning his back on Hank and the door. "I know. Just… give a mont to think."
Hank lingered, but his friend's hunched shoulders told him the conversation was over. With a weary sigh, he slipped out. If Charles couldn't find the way forward, perhaps soone else needed to know. Soone who would be far more difficult to deal with.
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In the infirmary, life carried on in uneasy rhythms. Older students were filling in as nurses, a role Jean Grey usually commanded. Pietro Maximoff sat slouched in a chair, textbooks stacked precariously beside him—intro physics all the way up to advanced theory. He was flipping through them at superhuman speed, though his scowl suggested the science wasn't sticking.
On one of the beds lay Mystique in her natural form: blue skin, red hair, and a face carved with exhaustion. Her vitals had finally stabilized after a rough first day, and Hank's trained eye saw signs of faster recovery than expected. She was already manipulating her body to knit itself back together.
Raven had noticed Hank's presence the mont he entered, though she kept her eyes closed at first, steadying her breathing to dull the pain in her organs. Only after she'd gathered herself did she open her yellow eyes and find him standing there.
"Well?" she asked, voice husky. "Any good news?"
"You should rest, Raven," Hank said gently. "Focus on healing."
Her lips curved in a tired, ironic smile. "When I'm dead, I'll have all the ti in the world to rest. For now, just give the news."
Hank sighed. He'd expected nothing less. She never let herself off the hook.
So he told her—about the research, the evidence, the White House's empty words. About Charles's mounting frustration, and the governnt's dangerous refusal to commit.
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