The Xavier Institute woke slowly, the golden morning sun creeping through the large windows of the mansion, casting warm streaks of light across the hardwood floors and the elegant, historic furniture. The air smelled of coffee, sizzling butter, and something dangerously over-seasoned, a scent wafting from the kitchen where the usual early risers had already gathered.

  The kitchen itself was a mix of modern and rustic, filled with stainless steel appliances but still holding a classic warmth, the wooden cabinetry painted a deep navy blue. The long island counter was already littered with an assortment of breakfast items—half-toasted bagels, scattered fruit, and the questionable remains of Remy’s latest "culinary masterpiece.” The old gas stove was alive with multiple pans hissing and bubbling, eggs frying, a pot of black-as-night coffee steaming on the side.

  Logan stood near the stove, arms crossed, already irritated before his coffee had even kicked in. He was wearing his usual denim jeans and a white tank top, his broad, muscular arms covered in scars that never lasted long enough to tell a story. His ever-present dog tag rested against his chest—a relic from a war that depended on which day you asked about it. It could’ve been WWII, Korea, Vietnam, or something before all of them. Logan never gave a straight answer.

  His sharp blue eyes watched Remy with suspicion as the Cajun flipped an omelet dramatically, his grin wide and cocky.

  "Cajun, if you burn the damn hashbrowns again, I swear—"

  "I don’t burn nothin’, vieux," Remy cut in smoothly, stirring something with entirely too much enthusiasm.

  Unlike Logan, Remy looked like he had walked out of an alternative rock concert. He wore fitted black skinny jeans with the knees intentionally ripped, a cropped black T-shirt featuring some obscure rock band logo, and his fingerless gloves were tucked into his back pocket. His auburn hair was messy but in an effortlessly cool way, his red-on-black eyes glimmering with mischief.

  "Don’t put the spice in there—"

  "Too late, mon ami," Remy cut in again, smug as ever. "An’ de holy trinity is comin’ to de omelet too—"

  Logan groaned, rubbing his temples. "Stop spicin’ everything, ya idiot."

  "It’s art, Wolverine. I expected ya not to appreciate it."

  Just then, the doorway creaked, and Rogue strolled in, looking half-awake but already amused by the kitchen bickering. She was dressed casually, wearing a loose pink top tucked into cut-off denim shorts, her usual brown leather jacket slung over her shoulder. Her hair was still slightly tousled from sleep, the white streaks framing her face.

  She barely got through the doorway when Scott’s calm but firm voice called to her from the hall.

  "Rogue."

  She turned, spotting Scott already stepping out of the War Room, his visor glinting under the hallway lights. He looked exactly as he always did—polished, pressed, and radiating his usual leader-energy, wearing his dark navy tactical suit, the golden "X" insignia glimmering on his chest.

  "I spoke with Warren again," he continued, his tone all business. "The evidence you gathered is solid. We need to go after Thompson as soon as possible. Go tell the others to meet me in the War Room—30 minutes max."

  "Got it, Scott."

  "And don’t forget to eat breakfast. It’s important to have energy."

  Rogue smirked, leaning against the doorframe. "Ah won’t forget. Ya?"

  "Already had breakfast—an hour ago. I’ll go back to tracking Thompson with Jean."

  "Got it."

  Scott disappeared back down the hall, leaving Rogue to wander into the kitchen battlefield.

  Hey, y’all." Rogue greeted as she walked in, sniffing the air—then immediately regretting it.

  "Rogue, cher, come 'ere," Remy called over his shoulder, flashing his signature charming-but-definitely-up-to-something smirk. "Dere’s somethin’ Gambit needs ya to check."

  Rogue narrowed her eyes, immediately suspicious. "Ah don’t like the sound o’ that—"

  "Don’t worry, cher," Remy reassured, still stirring the mystery sauce. "When it comes to ya, Gambit has only de best intentions."

  "Don’t listen to him, kid," Logan grunted, still scowling at the burning hashbrowns.

  Rogue, despite her better judgment, grabbed the spoon from Remy’s hand and took a taste of whatever ungodly concoction he had been cooking.

  Her face instantly contorted, eyes watering.

  "What in the hell is in here?" she gasped, practically choking.

  "Special Cajun Butter Garlic Sauce," Remy announced proudly.

  "Remy, that tastes like the devil’s asshole. What did ya put in here?!"

  "."

  "Love? This ain’t love—this is hatred."

  Logan burst out laughing, handing her a glass of milk.

  "Heh, told ya, kid. Don’t trust this one."

  Rogue gulped it down, glaring at Remy.

  "Remy, ah hate yer ass. Ya annoyin’ piece of—"

  "Dat’s charm, cher." He winked.

  "Eugh."

  She sat down heavily, still trying to recover from the crime against taste buds she had just experienced.

  Logan handed her a cup of coffee, and Rogue took a sip—only to grimace even harder.

  "IT’S EVEN WORSE! WHERE’S THE SUGAH IN THIS SHIT?!"

  Logan just smirked. "Don’t flip over, kid. This is how people used to drink coffee. None of these lattes and ventis or whatever they make these days."

  Rogue slammed the cup down, dramatically gagging. "Ah hate y’all. ."

  Remy grinned smugly. "Dis is de charm, non?"

  Rogue’s eyes narrowed dangerously as she grabbed him by the collar of his ridiculous crop top.

  "CHARM?! AH’LL SHOW YA CHARM, REMY LEBEAU!"

  ""

  A new voice entered the room—calm, regal, and lightly exasperated.

  Storm stood in the doorway, dressed in her usual gardening attire—a flowing white tunic, paired with loose linen pants, her silver hair cascading elegantly down her shoulders. A pair of gloves rested in one hand, dirt still dusted across her fingertips.

  "What must one do to have some peace and quiet in this house?" she sighed. "You will scare the plants and the ghosts this way."

  Remy blinked. "Dere’s ghosts here?"

  Logan scoffed. "‘Course not, ya dumbass."

  "Rogue." Storm’s tone turned lightly warning, and Rogue finally let go of Remy’s shirt, though not before giving him a small shove.

  "Stormy just wants her peace, kids. Settle down."

  Then—

  "!"

  Jubilee burst into the kitchen, Kitty following close behind, both already in full chaotic energy mode.

  "Jesus Christ," Logan muttered, rubbing his temples. "Peace an’ quiet, huh, ‘Ro?"

  "Petites, sit down to eat," Remy offered dramatically, like a host at a grand feast.

  "Where’s Bobby?" Storm asked crossing her arms.

  "Somewhere. Hard to find him these days," Kitty mused.

  Rogue cleared her throat.

  "Alright y’all, Scott said to be in the War Room in half an hour. Remy, just gimme somethin’ worth eatin’, and Ah’ll fetch the others."

  Remy winked. "."

  The War Room was a vast, dimly lit chamber deep within the Xavier Institute, its walls lined with state-of-the-art holographic displays, tactical readouts, and mission dossiers. The long metallic conference table in the center gleamed under the cool blue lighting, each chair occupied by the finest mutants Xavier had ever trained. The room carried a weight of history and responsibility, the air thick with the anticipation of what was to come next.

  Seated around the table were Cyclops, Phoenix, Beast, Storm, Wolverine, Rogue, Gambit, Jubilee, Shadowcat, and Iceman. They had gathered after a long night of missions, but today was the next step in the fight.

  Cyclops stood at the head of the table, arms crossed over his chest, his posture perfectly upright. His navy-blue uniform was crisp, the golden "X" emblem on his chest a reminder of who he was and the responsibility he carried. His visor glowed faintly, reflecting off the polished surface of the table as he spoke.

  "We’ve gathered enough information to have solid evidence on Trask’s financial ties to Carraro, but we still need more proof that he’s directly working with the Friends of Humanity." His voice was firm, unwavering, but there was an undertone of frustration in his words.

  From her seat, Rogue leaned forward, arms crossed, her gloved fingers drumming against her leather-covered forearm. Her green and white uniform was snug against her frame, the brown bomber jacket slung over the back of her chair.

  "Ain’t that ‘nuff, Scott?" she asked, arching a skeptical brow.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Cyclops sighed, adjusting his stance. "I’m afraid not, Rogue. We need more evidence to build a case so strong that it can’t be dismissed."

  Before Rogue could push further, Jubilee raised a hand, grinning mischievously.

  "Strong case? I dunno, maybe we could just—" she shot both hands forward and mimicked rapid-fire plasma blasts, clearly imitating Alamo’s stunt from the night before. "—plasma Trask and Creed away. , problem solved."

  Her antics earned her a sharp elbow from Rogue, who shot her a glare.

  "!" Jubilee winced, rubbing her ribs.

  Cyclops pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly. "Jubilation, if you want to continue attending these meetings, I expect seriousness from you."

  Jubilee shrugged, offering an apologetic grin. "Sorry, my bad, Fearless Leader. I’ll behave. I promise."

  Cyclops gave her a pointed look before continuing.

  "We’ll need a legal representative, since Dr. McCoy—despite his many qualifications—is not a barred attorney. I’ll consult with someone who can help us navigate this legally in the meantime."

  Wolverine made a face, leaning back in his chair. "Why do we need suits? Can’t we just do things the ?"

  Then, a voice cut through the discussion, a voice they all knew and respected.

  The Professor wheeled into the room, his presence immediately commanding silence. He was dressed in his signature navy-blue suit, his hands resting atop the arms of his wheelchair, his piercing blue eyes sweeping across the assembled team.

  "Because, my students," he began, his tone calm yet weighted with experience, "we must pursue this through the institutions. It is the only way to ensure that the rights we have fought so hard for are protected and upheld."

  The room remained silent as Xavier continued.

  "Unlike the Avengers, we do not have the luxury of eliminating threats so easily without a public backlash. Nor do we have the luxury of always fighting enemies that the public sees as irredeemable. The truth is, many people still support the and see us as the villains. It would not surprise me if some courts refused to accept our evidence simply because it came from the ."

  Jubilee’s expression tightened, her jaw clenching.

  "It’s so unfair," she muttered. "Cap and Iron Man come blastin’ and kickin’ doors down, and the world loves them. But when we do it, everyone hates us."

  Xavier nodded solemnly. "It is a sad reality, Jubilation. But years of damage from Erik, Sinister, and others have tainted our image in the eyes of the public. Distrust is deep-rooted, but I truly believe we are making progress."

  "After twenty years…?" Bobby muttered under his breath, only to be elbowed sharply by Kitty.

  Xavier let out a small, knowing smile. "Yes, Mr.Drake. Even after twenty years. But if today we have won the trust of a few, then perhaps, in time, we can win over most."

  Cyclops took the opportunity to redirect the discussion.

  "So, what now, Professor?" he asked.

  Xavier’s gaze sharpened, his expression serious once more.

  "We will bring down Trask, Creed, and Denti by the book. And then we will move on to other threats."

  Cyclops turned to the team.

  "Our next step is Arkansas. We need to find —the man Henderson pointed us to."

  Storm, who had been quiet until now, nodded thoughtfully.

  "We must remain vigilant," she said, her voice regal and measured. "It is entirely possible he has fled the state or has company waiting for us."

  Jean folded her arms. "I’ll try to sense his presence when we get there."

  Wolverine let out a low grunt, cracking his knuckles. "Hope this works, Red. I ain’t a fan of runnin’ in circles."

  Rogue sighed, her green eyes flickering with frustration. "Ah ain’t either."

  Cyclops furrowed his brows, his arms crossing over the golden "X" on his chest.

  "Don’t worry. I trust Jean to do the best she can. We’ll find Thompson."

  Wolverine smirked. "Well, I’ll be ready for a fight, Slim."

  Xavier’s expression turned weary. "Logan, please try to control yourself. Not everything boils down to violence."

  Logan shrugged, lighting up a cigar between his fingers. "No, Chuck. Sometimes it’s about good cigars and good whiskey."

  Jubilee grinned, kicking her feet up on the table. "And good company, which is—y’know—why we do this, right?"

  Wolverine let out a low chuckle, placing a hand on Jubilee’s shoulder.

  "Kid, if ya keep sayin’ things like that, people might start thinkin’ ya got half a brain."

  Jubilee gasped dramatically. "I have heart, old man. Which is more than your raggedy ass has."

  Wolverine laughed, crossing his arms. "I taught ya well, kiddo."

  Jubilee rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, whatever, Wolvie."

  Cyclops cut in, his tone authoritative.

  "For this mission—Storm, Rogue, Jubilee, Wolverine, you’re with me and Jean."

  Gambit perked up, grinning. "Wat ‘bout me?"

  "You’re on latrine duty."

  Jubilee burst into laughter. "!"

  Gambit’s smirk vanished. "Dis is punishment. Has to be."

  Cyclops nodded. "It is—because of last Saturday night."

  Gambit looked genuinely confused. "Wat? Wat did de Gambit do?"

  Rogue smirked. "Remy, ya got shitfaced and puked all over the couch. Ya don’t remember?"

  "Non…?"

  "That's why you're on latrine, duty, Remy. You have to take care of your image, discipline" Cyclops retorted.

  "And body" Storm added. "You're too Irresponsible"

  "Ah, great, non, just great" Remy lowered his face, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  "We get no action?" Bobby asked

  "Not for now, Iceman" Cyclops answered.

  "Not even me" Kitty added.

  "I'm afraid not, Kate."

  Cyclops turned to the team.

  "X-Men, get ready. We meet at the Blackbird in fifteen minutes."

  The Blackbird continued its flight, a steady hum reverberating through the cabin’s metal walls. The morning sunlight filtered through the narrow windows, painting soft golden streaks against the dark interior. Below them, the clouds rolled endlessly, a sea of white and blue stretching toward the horizon.

  Rogue shifted slightly in her seat, her gloved hands resting on her lap, fingers idly fidgeting with the hem of her bomber jacket. Something had been gnawing at her, a question she had been meaning to ask—but she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer.

  She glanced to her side, catching Logan leaning back in his seat, boots planted firmly on the floor, his arms crossed as he stared blankly ahead, probably already anticipating the mission ahead. His dog tag rested lightly against his chest, catching a glimmer of light with each subtle breath. He looked… calm, but that was Logan. The man could be sitting in the middle of a warzone with bullets flying past his head, and he’d still act like it was just another Tuesday.

  Taking a breath, Rogue finally spoke up.

  "Logan, can Ah ask ya somethin’, sugah?"

  Logan’s ear twitched slightly, a sign he had already heard her before she even finished her sentence. He turned his head, raising an eyebrow at her.

  "Sure, shoot it, ."

  She hesitated for half a second before finally asking:

  "Ya been alone fer a long time. Ya seen a lot of stuff. Do ya think what we’re doin’ is… right?"

  At that, Logan let out a low exhale, his lips pressing into a thin line. He adjusted slightly in his seat, the leather of his jacket creaking faintly, and tilted his head back, staring up at the ceiling.

  "Right?" he repeated, as if tasting the word in his mouth. There was a pause before he finally spoke, his voice lower, rougher than before. "Kid, I’ve lived too long to see right stay right. What’s acceptable one day is a crime the next, and vice versa. Right turns into wrong, wrong turns into right. It’s the cycle of life."

  Rogue frowned slightly, mulling over his words as he continued.

  "Now, if ya ask me if I think what we do is necessary, that’s a different question. And yeah, I do. We mutants did a lot of shit over the years… your mom especially—both of ‘em. Of course, I didn't help it either... given my... past" He dry coughed.

  At that, Rogue’s stomach twisted slightly, her expression darkening. She knew exactly what he meant. Mystique had been… well, Mystique, always playing both sides. And Destiny? She had never been innocent either.

  Logan gave her a moment before finishing.

  "Chuck’s tryin’ to set the record straight. Maybe he ain’t always right, but hell if he doesn’t have a point."

  Rogue’s green eyes lingered on him, studying his face. Logan had always been brutally honest, never one to sugarcoat things. But the way he said it—like he had been through it all, seen it all, and somehow still chose to be here—that hit differently.

  "That’s why ya stick ‘round?" she asked. "‘Cause Xavier has a point?"

  Logan’s lips curled slightly, his smirk tired but real.

  "Nah, I stick ‘round ‘cause I spent most of my life alone. And sometimes… it ain’t terrible to have folks around."

  That surprised her. She had expected some half-baked tough guy answer, but this? This was… weirdly hopeful coming from him.

  Jubilee, who had been listening quietly, suddenly grinned wide, nudging Logan with her elbow.

  "That’s surprisingly optimistic from you, Uncle Wolvie," she teased.

  Logan grunted, shaking his head as he pushed himself up from his seat.

  "Well, don’t go spillin’ it to others. I got an image to keep."

  Jubilee smirked. "Your secret’s safe with us, Uncle Wolvie."

  Logan simply chuckled before making his way toward the front of the jet, where Storm sat in the copilot’s chair, already deep in discussion with Scott and Jean.

  As Logan left, Rogue let her gaze drift back to the window, watching the way the sunlight reflected off the Blackbird’s wings, the clouds rolling far below. Her mind wandered—too much, maybe.

  "Ya think he’ll come ‘round?" she asked absently.

  Jubilee blinked beside her. "What? Who? Wolvie?"

  Rogue hesitated for a split second before shaking her head. "Course not, Jubilee. Duncan. Alamo."

  Jubilee paused, raising an eyebrow. Then a slow, mischievous grin stretched across her face.

  "Since when do you care what he thinks?" she asked, leaning in slightly.

  Rogue immediately turned her head away, suddenly very interested in the clouds outside.

  "Ah don’t," she said quickly.

  Jubilee snorted. "You’re such a , liar, Roguey. You do."

  "Oh, shut up, Ah don’t care ‘bout no pretentious office jockey with a cowboy fetish."

  Jubilee laughed outright, rocking in her seat. "Sure hell sounds like you do, Roguey."

  Rogue crossed her arms, scowling slightly. "Ah don’t."

  Jubilee giggled, her eyes glinting with amusement. "I wonder what he looks like under that chrome mask. Maybe he’s, like, super old."

  Rogue scoffed. "He don’t sound old."

  Jubilee shrugged. "Hmm… true. But maybe he looks old."

  "Or maybe," Rogue muttered, rolling her eyes, "he’s, like, your age."

  Jubilee wiggled her eyebrows. "Nah, he’s older. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be such a nerd about finance. That ain’t a young person thing, y’know. Never met an eighteen-year-old talkin’ about reports and cash flow statements."

  "Maybe he is mah age," Rogue said half-heartedly.

  Jubilee gasped dramatically, placing a hand on her chest. ", so you’ve thought about it."

  Rogue’s cheeks flushed, and she turned away sharply. "Don’t matter now. He ain’t here."

  Jubilee grinned, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Yeah, but you totally would like him to be."

  Rogue groaned, rubbing her temples. "Jubes, why don’t ya go back to yer TikToks before Ah make ya?"

  Jubilee laughed, holding up her hands in surrender.

  "Alright, alright! Chill, Roguey. You’re on edge."

  Rogue huffed, turning back to the window, staring at the sky but not really seeing it anymore. She wasn’t on edge because of the mission.

  She was on edge because Jubilee wasn’t wrong.

  The Blackbird descended through the crisp Arkansas morning air, its stealth engines humming low as it navigated through the rolling hills and dense forested terrain a few miles outside Little Rock. The landscape below was a patchwork of dirt roads, abandoned warehouses, and overgrown fields, the kind of place that made it easy for men like to disappear.

  Inside the cabin, the X-Men were already suited up, the tension palpable as Cyclops stood from the cockpit, turning toward the seated team.

  "We have arrived. Everyone, get ready." His voice was firm, composed, but there was an underlying urgency in his tone.

  His visor gleamed dimly under the overhead lights as he turned to Jean, who had been sitting with her eyes closed, her fingers pressed lightly against her temple, focusing.

  "Jean," he asked, his voice softer this time, "can you sense him?"

  Jean’s eyes fluttered open, her irises glowing faintly before fading back to green.

  "Yes, Scott—but not here. He’s definitely close… a few miles out."

  Cyclops exhaled sharply, processing the information.

  "Alright, I’ll change the How far?"

  Jean rubbed her temples, focusing again.

  "I can’t tell exactly, but it’s east."

  Cyclops immediately adjusted the flight controls, the jet shifting slightly as he prepared to maneuver toward the new location.

  "Alright, X-Men, just a few more moments, please. My apologies for that."

  From the back, groans and head shakes filled the cabin.

  "Ugh, Slim, ya ever heard of precision?" Logan grumbled, arms crossed.

  Jubilee sighed dramatically, flopping back into her seat. "Man, we coulda already been out there, doing cool stuff."

  Cyclops’ jaw tightened slightly, his arms crossing over his chest as he turned back toward the team.

  "Nobody’s perfect, team. ."

  Jubilee rolled her eyes. "Yes, sir, ."

  Logan smirked. "Just get us there, Slim. Less yappin’, more landin’."

  Cyclops shot Logan a pointed glare, but chose not to engage. Instead, he focused on the controls, shifting the Blackbird toward the east, cutting through the clouds with an almost ghost-like silence.

  The minutes stretched as the team sat in silence, feeling the shift in altitude, the slow descent as the new landing zone (LZ) came into view. Below them was a vast clearing, the tall pine trees swaying slightly under the force of the jet’s thrusters. The depot was still a few miles out, but this was as close as they could safely land without alerting whoever might be watching.

  Finally, with a subtle jolt, the Blackbird touched down, the landing gear hissing softly as it settled into place.

  Cyclops was already unbuckling, his tone brisk and commanding.

  "Blackbird landed. Let’s go, let’s go."

  The cabin erupted into movement. Wolverine was already on his feet first, stretching his arms out before cracking his knuckles, looking eager.

  "Finally," he muttered.

  Rogue swung her leather jacket over her shoulders, adjusting the gloves at her wrists. Jean and Storm shared a brief glance before rising together, their movements fluid, composed. Jubilee stretched dramatically, throwing her hands behind her head.

  "Alright, boys and girls, let’s go be," she grinned.

  The hatch hissed open, and immediately, the fresh Arkansas air swept inside, cool and earthy, carrying the faint scent of damp pine and distant rain. The moment their boots hit the ground, the team was all business—their eyes scanning the tree line, their senses already tuned to anything that felt off.

  Jean inhaled sharply, her brows furrowing.

  "He’s close," she murmured.

  Cyclops nodded, lowering his visor slightly.

  "Then let’s go find him."