Charles was already on the phone, calling in his friends. Meanwhile Saitama stretched and asked, "So… when are we heading out?"
"Immediately. It's urgent. We don't know when Raven will make her move."
Here "Raven" naturally meant Mystique.
Beast spoke up. "Do you really think you can convince the old man to help? You know what he's like…"
"Yes. Erik is a demon whose heart is already ablaze with hatred," Charles admitted. "But I believe he still cares about Raven. He'll help us—he'll help bring her back."
"So where's the prison?" Saitama rubbed his chin.
Charles closed his eyes briefly, then said, "It was built during World War II, when steel was scarce. The structure is almost entirely concrete and sandstone, with virtually no metal. That's why Erik couldn't escape. From what I know, he's being held at level minus one hundred. Security is… extreme."
Saitama frowned. "Doesn't sound like a prison at all."
"You're right. It isn't, strictly speaking," Charles said. "It's the Pentagon. From the eightieth sublevel down, it's all detention blocks. The deeper you are, the more dangerous you're considered—and Magneto is among the deepest."
Beast sighed. "And we have no way in. Or out."
Charles hesitated, then nodded. "On our own, no. But I happen to know someone—someone Logan introduced me to—who can get into any place he wants."
At that same moment, in Bolivar's office building, the man himself strode toward his door.
"Sir, you're here so late?" his secretary asked, hurrying to keep up.
"Of course. I still have work to finish," Bolivar smiled.
He stepped into his office—and his body changed. Blue skin rippled across his frame.
Mystique.
The "Bolivar" in the hallway had been Mystique in disguise.
Once inside, she began turning the place over. She was good—one sweep of a fingertip across a surface and she'd find what she needed. In short order she'd searched every obvious spot, but her expression only grew darker.
She hadn't found what she'd come for.
Next she felt along the floor and walls; she knew the thing she wanted had to be here. Sure enough, behind a giant portrait of Bolivar she discovered a hidden door.
She slid the portrait aside.
A fingerprint scanner waited behind it.
For this era, that was top-tier security. Unfortunately for the owner, the intruder wasn't ordinary.
Mystique could shape her body into anyone's—fingerprints and irises included. Flesh-based authentication wouldn't stop her.
Her fingertip morphed—broader, shorter, matching another man's print. She pressed it to the scanner.
The door eased open.
Inside lay a cramped room, its shelves packed with files.
Mystique exhaled and stepped in. She pulled a folder and skimmed it—then her face shifted through a storm of emotions.
Bodies.
Record after record of cadavers.
Not ordinary corpses—mutants.
To study mutants, Bolivar had orchestrated clandestine hunts. The dead became his research material. After so long at it, he'd truly learned some twisted tricks.
This was why Mystique had come: to see exactly what was hidden here.
The more she read, the uglier her expression became. A few names she recognized—people she'd known.
The secretary entered the outer office just then and called, "Sir, there's a new list for the Paris conference."
Mystique instantly resumed Bolivar's form, stepped out of the hidden room, and asked, "What is it?"
"The newly added attendees, sir." The secretary handed her a sheet.
Mystique glanced over unfamiliar names. It didn't matter. She hadn't cared about the Paris conference from the start.
There was only one thing she wanted now: kill the man named Bolivar Trask. That was all.
"Print me a full itinerary. I don't want to miss anything."
"Understood…"
Elsewhere, Charles parked outside a suburban house.
Staring at the building, his expression turned complicated. He'd confirmed it—the mutant inside was at least Omega-level. He'd never approached before for a simple reason: even if he rallied every ally he had, he still wouldn't be that person's match.
He also knew Bolivar's goal was to eradicate Omega-level mutants precisely because their power was too dangerous. Ironically, the one in this house was exactly that.
But today, Charles wasn't here to fight.
He was here to ask for help.
(End of Chapter)
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