# The Blackbird - Interior - Nevada Airspace
The bay doors sealed with mechanical precision that spoke to engineering budgets that exceeded most nations' defense spending, transforming howling wind and desert cold into warm, pressurized sanctuary. Harry descended the loading ramp with fluid grace that made carrying a sixteen-year-old girl in full draconic armor appear effortless, each step measured and deliberate as though he were escorting royalty rather than transporting a rescued fugitive.
Helena remained carefully positioned against his armored chest, her head resting against surfaces that hummed with barely contained cosmic energy. Through layers of mortal performance, Hela catalogued every detail with divine precision—the controlled strength in his movements, the careful attention to her comfort despite his obvious physical superiority, the way he navigated the aircraft's interior as though weightless despite armor that should have made him resemble a walking tank.
*Magnificent,* she thought while maintaining Helena's expression of exhausted relief. *Power wielded with such restraint that observers might forget they're witnessing someone who could reshape continents through force of will.*
The Blackbird's interior was a masterpiece of form meeting function—sleek lines and ergonomic design that somehow managed to accommodate both cutting-edge technology and the comfort requirements of passengers whose capabilities might include accidental electromagnetic pulses during stressful flights. Subdued lighting created an atmosphere of calm competence rather than military sterility, while the subtle hum of engines operating at velocities that would make commercial aviation weep with inadequacy provided white noise that felt reassuring rather than ominous.
Near the cockpit's forward bulkhead, Professor Charles Xavier sat in his wheelchair with patrician dignity that transformed the utilitarian aircraft interior into something approaching a diplomatic reception hall. His hands rested on armrests with casual authority while his keen eyes—those impossibly perceptive eyes that had witnessed decades of extraordinary circumstances—studied the new arrival with the focused attention of someone conducting psychological assessment and tactical evaluation simultaneously.
Beside him, Ororo Munroe stood with elemental grace that made even the confined space seem vast. Her white hair caught the cabin lighting and transformed it into something luminous, while her dark eyes held depths that suggested atmospheric pressure across several states was responding to her emotional investment in successful rescue operations. The faint scent of ozone and distant rain clung to her like personal weather systems, subtle but undeniable.
Harry reached the main passenger area and knelt with careful precision, settling Helena onto a seat specifically designed for individuals whose recent experiences might have left them shaky, exhausted, or prone to unexpected manifestations of supernatural abilities. The cushioning adjusted automatically, conforming to her frame with technology that probably cost more than most people's annual income.
"There," he said, his voice carrying warmth that could melt arctic ice caps despite the technological amplification from his helmet. "Safe, comfortable, and approximately three hundred miles from federal pursuit operations that are currently trying to explain to their supervisors how an aircraft with no registration appeared on their radar doing things that violate approximately seventeen laws of physics."
He straightened to his full height, armor gleaming under the cabin lights as his draconic helmet began its organic retraction sequence. Scales flowed backward like liquid mercury responding to conscious will, revealing features that could have launched ships or toppled kingdoms with equal facility.
Helena looked up at him with an expression that mixed genuine gratitude with carefully calculated vulnerability. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice carrying exactly the right amount of exhaustion and hope. "I thought... I thought they were going to take me somewhere I'd never come back from."
Harry's expression softened into something that would have made dark lords reconsider their life choices and angels question their commitment to remaining celestial. "Those facilities exist, unfortunately. But you'll never see the inside of one if I have anything to say about the matter."
His emerald eyes held depths that spoke to experience with institutional failures and personal commitment to ensuring others didn't suffer similar fates. "Though I should warn you—Xavier's Institute comes with its own unique challenges. Considerably more pleasant challenges than government laboratories, certainly, but challenges nonetheless."
"Such as?" Helena managed a tremulous smile that Hela had practiced for exactly this moment.
"Homework," Harry replied with aristocratic solemnity. "Distressingly thorough homework, assigned by professors who genuinely believe that understanding advanced mathematics will somehow make you a better person. Also, communal dining with teenagers who can accidentally freeze your lunch or set the table on fire during particularly animated debates about which superhero would win in theoretical combat scenarios."
Despite everything—the exhaustion, the fear, the desperate flight across hostile desert—Helena found herself laughing. The sound was slightly broken, threaded with relief and wonder in equal measure, but genuine enough to pass even telepathic scrutiny.
*Perfect,* Hela thought with satisfaction. *Laughter establishes trust more effectively than any amount of serious discussion could accomplish.*
Xavier's wheelchair moved forward with mechanical precision, though his expression carried warmth that transcended mere professional courtesy. "Helena Michaels," he said, his voice carrying that distinctive combination of authority and compassion that had convinced parliaments to reconsider legislation and parents to trust him with their gifted children. "Welcome to what I sincerely hope will prove to be a new beginning rather than simply another chapter in a difficult story."
Helena's eyes widened slightly—not with fear, but with the careful hope of someone who'd learned to be cautious about adults offering sanctuary. "You're Professor Xavier. Harry mentioned your Institute during the flight here."
"I am indeed." Xavier's smile was warm enough to make her relax fractionally, though Hela's divine senses detected the subtle telepathic probe—gentle, respectful, seeking permission rather than forcing entry. A light touch across surface thoughts designed to confirm that she represented trauma and desperation rather than hostile infiltration.
Hela allowed the contact, presenting exactly what he expected to find: exhaustion bordering on collapse, fear of capture warring with desperate hope, gratitude toward her rescuers mixed with lingering caution about adults whose promises had historically proven unreliable. The performance was flawless, each emotion carefully calibrated to paint a comprehensive picture of traumatized teenager whose abilities had manifested during circumstances that exceeded her capacity to process them healthily.
Xavier's expression shifted into something deeper, more personally invested—the look of someone who'd just confirmed that they were dealing with a genuinely desperate situation rather than calculated deception. "My dear," he said quietly, "you've been carrying far too much alone for far too long. But that changes tonight. You're safe now. Genuinely, completely safe."
Helena's laugh was slightly broken, threaded with relief that wasn't entirely feigned despite its calculated origins. "Safe. I haven't felt safe since..." She stopped, shaking her head as though the memories were too painful to articulate. "Since my parents died. Since everything changed and I became something that scared people instead of someone they wanted to protect."
*Beautiful,* Hela thought with professional appreciation for her own performance. *Vulnerability wrapped in strength, trauma acknowledged without melodrama, hope emerging despite learned caution—exactly the psychological profile that would engage Xavier's savior complex while maintaining enough dignity to be respected rather than pitied.*
Ororo moved closer with that elemental grace that made observers instinctively aware they were in the presence of forces beyond normal human parameters. She settled into the seat beside Helena with movements that suggested every molecule of air personally invested in making her appear magnificent, though her voice carried gentle warmth rather than intimidating power.
"I am Ororo Munroe," she said, her accent weaving musical threads through precise English that spoke to multilingual fluency and cultural sophistication. "Though most people call me Storm. I teach atmospheric sciences at the Institute, which is a considerably more pleasant description than 'person who occasionally threatens students with localized weather phenomena when they forget to complete homework assignments.'"
Helena blinked, then smiled despite herself. "You can control weather?"
"Among other capabilities," Ororo confirmed with serene pride. "Though I prefer to think of it as conducting rather than controlling. The winds, the rains, the electromagnetic fields that dance between earth and sky—they're partners in a cosmic symphony rather than tools requiring domination."
She reached forward, one elegant hand hovering just above Helena's knee in a gesture that suggested comfort without demanding physical contact. "Your abilities—the energy projection Harry witnessed during your flight—they feel similar. Not weather manipulation, obviously, but the same sense of partnership with forces that exist beyond conventional understanding. As though you're channeling something ancient rather than simply generating power through biological processes."
*Perceptive,* Hela thought with genuine appreciation for Storm's analytical capabilities. The observation was both accurate and dangerous—accurate because it suggested understanding that extended beyond simple mutant classification, dangerous because it came uncomfortably close to recognizing that Helena's abilities drew from sources that predated human evolution by billions of years.
But Helena Michaels wouldn't understand such sophisticated analysis. She would simply appear grateful that someone finally recognized her abilities as something beyond "dangerous manifestation requiring suppression."
"Ancient," Helena repeated softly, testing the word. "That's... yes. That feels right. Like the energy isn't coming from me, exactly, but through me. As though I'm a conduit for something that existed long before I was born and will continue existing long after I'm gone."
Her emerald eyes met Storm's with desperate hope. "Does that mean it's not my fault? When things break, when reality does... strange things around me? Because I'm not generating the power, just channeling it?"
Ororo's expression filled with maternal warmth that could have convinced abandoned children they were valued and frightened teenagers they could learn to thrive despite circumstances that seemed overwhelming. "It means you're not broken or dangerous, child. Simply untrained. There's an enormous difference between lacking control and being inherently destructive."
She glanced toward Harry, who'd been listening with that aristocratic attention that suggested he was cataloguing every word for future tactical application. "Harry demonstrated remarkable control during your rescue—armor, flight, that rather impressive display of psychological dominance that left federal agents reconsidering their career choices. But he wasn't born with such precision. He learned it through guidance, practice, and the patient mentorship of individuals who understood that power without wisdom is merely destruction waiting to happen."
Harry inclined his head with mock solemnity, though his emerald eyes sparkled with humor that suggested he found Storm's diplomatic description of his "psychological dominance" vastly understated. "Ororo makes it sound far more civilized than it actually was. The learning process involved considerably more property damage, interpersonal conflicts resolved through creative applications of overwhelming competence, and at least three occasions where various authority figures suggested that perhaps I should consider alternative career paths that involved less frequent reality manipulation."
He settled into the seat across from Helena with fluid grace that made his armor appear weightless. "The point is, every enhanced individual goes through an adjustment period where abilities exceed understanding. The question isn't whether you'll make mistakes during that process—you absolutely will, repeatedly and sometimes spectacularly. The question is whether you have guidance that helps you learn from those mistakes rather than being punished for them."
Xavier's voice carried across the cabin with that distinctive authority that could make complex philosophical concepts feel accessible. "At the Institute, Helena, we operate under a rather simple premise: that individuals with extraordinary abilities deserve extraordinary education. Not containment disguised as therapy, not suppression marketed as safety protocols, but genuine guidance provided by people who understand what it means to be different in a world designed for normal."
He gestured expansively, though the movement somehow encompassed far more than just the aircraft's interior. "Our students come from diverse backgrounds—some discovered their abilities during trauma, others manifested naturally during adolescence. Some possess capabilities that operate through biological enhancement, others channel forces that transcend conventional physics entirely. But they all share one fundamental experience: learning that being extraordinary doesn't mean being alone."
Helena looked between the three of them—Xavier with his decades of experience managing impossible situations, Storm radiating elemental grace and maternal warmth, Harry carrying cosmic enhancement with aristocratic ease—and felt something shift in her carefully constructed performance.
Not breaking character—Hela would never be so careless. But allowing genuine emotion to bleed through the manufactured vulnerability, letting the goddess's honest appreciation for their competence inform Helena's grateful relief. The combination created something more nuanced than simple deception, something that approached authentic connection despite its foundation in calculated infiltration.
"A school," she said softly, and this time the wonder in her voice carried undertones of divine curiosity carefully wrapped in mortal hope. "Where people like me—people like us—can learn to see our abilities as gifts rather than curses. Where emotional intensity becomes strength instead of being suppressed as weakness."
She met Harry's emerald gaze directly, her own eyes carrying depths that would have made casual observers uncomfortable if they'd looked too closely. "That sounds like something worth hoping for. Even if hope has historically proven to be... unreliable."
Harry's smile was devastating enough to make stars reconsider their commitment to nuclear fusion. "Hope," he said with warm certainty, "is considerably more reliable when it's backed by people who've learned that the best way to build a better future is to start with treating individuals as valuable rather than classifying them as problems requiring solutions."
The Blackbird continued its flight through the darkness, engines humming with power that carried them toward Westchester at velocities that made conventional pursuit academic rather than practical. Below, the Nevada desert gave way to mountain ranges that dissolved into agricultural plains, each mile bringing Helena closer to Xavier's Institute and whatever came next.
In the forward cockpit, autopilot systems maintained perfect flight parameters while Xavier's telepathic attention remained focused on the conversation unfolding in the passenger cabin. He'd detected the surface emotions he expected—gratitude, exhaustion, cautious hope—but there was something beneath them, something his telepathic senses couldn't quite penetrate. Not hostility, not deception exactly, but a depth that suggested more complexity than simple teenage trauma could explain.
*Interesting,* he thought while maintaining his warm, welcoming expression. *She's either remarkably self-possessed for someone experiencing such distress, or there are layers to her psychological profile that will require careful evaluation.*
But whatever mysteries Helena Michaels might carry, she was clearly in need of sanctuary and guidance. And if decades of running the Institute had taught him anything, it was that every student arrived with secrets, complications, and personal histories that exceeded initial assessment.
The question was never whether students possessed hidden depths. The question was whether those depths proved compatible with the Institute's educational mission or represented complications that would require more specialized intervention.
Time would tell which category Helena Michaels would occupy.
For now, she was a frightened teenager who'd been rescued from federal pursuit and offered sanctuary among people who understood what it meant to be extraordinary. Whatever else she might prove to be would reveal itself through patient observation and careful guidance.
Xavier allowed himself a slight smile as the Blackbird's navigation systems confirmed their approach to New York airspace. Another student saved from institutional capture. Another young person given the opportunity to discover that being different didn't mean being dangerous.
If some small part of his telepathic awareness registered that Helena's mental shields were unusually sophisticated for someone whose abilities had only recently manifested... well, talented individuals often developed remarkable psychological defenses as survival mechanisms. It wasn't necessarily cause for alarm.
Probably.
Most likely.
He would keep watch regardless. Because if centuries of experience had taught the X-Men anything, it was that the most interesting students were invariably the ones who arrived with the most complicated backstories.
And Helena Michaels, with her ancient power signatures and eyes that occasionally held depths no sixteen-year-old should possess, promised to be very interesting indeed.
—
# Xavier's Institute - Main Entrance - Evening
The Blackbird's landing was so smooth it made commercial aviation look like controlled falling, touching down on the Institute's private runway with precision that suggested either decades of pilot experience or automated systems designed by entities who'd personally negotiated with physics. The engines powered down with satisfied mechanical sighs while exterior lights painted the tarmac in shades of technological sophistication that would make airport engineers weep with professional inadequacy.
Inside the cabin, Helena Michaels—with Hela dancing in cosmic triumph behind layers of mortal exhaustion—allowed herself to be guided down the loading ramp by Harry Potter, whose armor had finally retracted entirely to reveal the sort of casual elegance that made even rescue operations appear like social events requiring appropriate attire. His hand remained at her elbow with careful courtesy, ready to provide support if her legs proved unsteady after hours of desperate flight and subsequent aerial extraction.
The night air carried the scent of manicured lawns, distant forests, and the peculiar combination of old money and new technology that characterized institutions designed to educate gifted individuals while maintaining appropriate security against entities with strong opinions about enhanced persons. Crickets provided ambient music, while security lighting created pools of warmth that made the approach to the mansion feel welcoming rather than institutional.
Near the main entrance, two figures waited with the patient attention of individuals whose evening plans had just been comprehensively disrupted by rescue operations requiring immediate debrief and probably extensive paperwork for insurance purposes.
Jean Grey stood with telekinetic grace that made even casual waiting appear choreographed, her auburn hair catching the security lighting and transforming it into copper fire. When her eyes met Harry's across the distance, the electromagnetic tension was palpable enough to require its own weather advisory, while her smile carried warmth that could melt permafrost and depths that suggested she'd been worried despite complete confidence in his capabilities.
Beside her, Scott Summers maintained his characteristic military bearing—arms crossed, posture suggesting tactical assessment combined with the sort of relief that came from confirmed successful mission parameters. His ruby quartz visor reflected the Blackbird's running lights, while his expression behind the specialized eyewear betrayed satisfaction at operations concluded without civilian casualties or international incidents requiring diplomatic intervention.
"Welcome back," Jean called out as the group approached, her voice carrying that musical quality that could make tactical debriefs sound like intimate conversation. Her gaze swept over Helena with professional assessment that mixed genuine concern with telepath's instinct for reading emotional landscapes. "I see the rescue went smoothly. Relatively speaking."
"Define 'smoothly,'" Harry replied with aristocratic amusement, though his hand remained steadying at Helena's elbow. "Federal agents frozen by encounters with capabilities exceeding their institutional preparation, helicopter pilots reconsidering career choices, and approximately seventeen violations of airspace regulations that will probably generate fascinating paperwork tomorrow morning. All things considered, I'd classify it as a triumph of diplomatic restraint."
Scott's lips twitched with what might have been humor if he'd allowed such displays of unprofessional levity. "Seventeen airspace violations. That's actually showing restraint for you, Potter."
"I thought so," Harry agreed cheerfully. "Though Logan will probably argue I should have made it an even twenty just for the aesthetic satisfaction."
Jean moved closer, her attention focusing on Helena with that combination of warmth and careful evaluation that characterized her approach to students whose circumstances remained incompletely understood. "You must be exhausted. I'm Jean Grey—I am a student here and help with student orientation. If you need anything—food, rest, someone to talk to about what just happened—please don't hesitate to ask."
Helena managed a tremulous smile that Hela had practiced for exactly this moment, her emerald eyes meeting Jean's with desperate gratitude carefully wrapped in lingering caution. "Thank you. I'm Helena Michaels. And yes, exhausted is... an accurate description. Among other things."
Before Jean could respond with what was clearly going to be either maternal reassurance or practical offers of immediate assistance, the distinctive rumble of heavy engines announced new arrivals approaching the Institute's main entrance. But these weren't the sleek purr of expensive automobiles or the mechanical precision of delivery vehicles—this was raw American diesel power combined with the particular grinding determination that characterized commercial tow trucks hauling loads that exceeded normal payload specifications.
Harry's eyebrows rose with aristocratic curiosity as he turned toward the sound. "Either we're expecting a delivery of exceptionally large textbooks, or my godfather has made another impulsive purchasing decision that will require explanation to insurance adjusters and possibly federal oversight committees."
The tow truck materialized from the darkness like some mechanical beast that had decided architecture belonged in its digestive system, its headlights painting the drive in harsh white illumination while the engine's diesel growl suggested it had been personally maintained by individuals who believed routine maintenance was for people who lacked commitment to mechanical excellence. Behind the cab, suspended on the flatbed with professional precision, sat a shape concealed beneath canvas tarp that somehow managed to radiate potential menace despite being completely invisible.
The truck shuddered to a halt with mechanical satisfaction, air brakes hissing their approval of successful load delivery. The driver's door opened, revealing Logan Howlett in all his flannel-clad, cigar-chewing glory, looking like he'd just completed a transcontinental journey that involved minimal traffic law compliance and maximum commitment to getting somewhere on time regardless of posted speed limits.
"Evening, kids," he called out with gravel-voiced satisfaction, swinging down from the cab with movements that suggested his enhanced healing factor regularly repaired damage from driving styles that would make stunt coordinators nervous. "Hope we're not interrupting anything important, because I got cargo that needs unloading before Tony's tow truck turns into a pumpkin."
From the passenger side emerged Sirius Black, whose aristocratic features somehow managed to make riding shotgun in a diesel tow truck appear like voluntary participation in authentic American cultural experiences rather than simple necessity. His dark hair was slightly disheveled from highway wind, his clothes carried the faint scent of motor oil and ambition, and his grey eyes glittered with the particular satisfaction of someone who'd just made a purchasing decision that would either prove brilliant or require extensive explanation depending on perspective.
"Logan's being dramatic," Sirius announced cheerfully, striding toward the group with that fluid Black family grace that could make even mundane arrivals feel like theatrical entrances. "The truck doesn't turn into anything. Though I suppose if we'd taken much longer, Tony might have started charging storage fees calculated in firstborn children rather than reasonable currency."
His gaze found Harry with laser precision, expression shifting into something that mixed paternal pride with barely contained excitement. "Harry, my boy, we've brought you something extraordinary. Well, potentially extraordinary. Currently, it's more accurately described as 'magnificently broken with championship bloodlines,' but I have absolute confidence that will change within the next few weeks."
Harry's expression cycled through curiosity, suspicion, and dawning recognition as he studied the tarp-covered shape on the flatbed. "Sirius. What have you done?"
"Done?" Sirius placed a hand over his heart with wounded dignity. "I've acquired your birthday present, naturally. Though I'll admit the timing is slightly premature—your actual birthday is still a month away. But I couldn't resist when Logan introduced me to his contact in Queens who specializes in automotive resurrection and creative interpretation of 'good condition' when describing vehicles that require extensive intervention before they can be classified as functional transportation."
Scott straightened with sudden interest, his body language shifting from tactical assessment into something approaching genuine enthusiasm. "You bought a project car?" His voice carried undertones that suggested he was reevaluating his entire opinion of Sirius Black's character. "What kind of project are we talking about here?"
Logan grinned around his cigar, clearly enjoying Scott's reaction. "The good kind. The kind that makes grown men weep and teenagers make spectacularly poor decisions about speed limits."
He moved toward the flatbed with proprietorial satisfaction, grabbed the edge of the tarp, and yanked it away with theatrical flair that would have made Broadway producers proud.
Beneath the canvas, midnight black and magnificent despite obvious neglect, crouched a 1969 Mustang Boss 429. Even covered in decades of dust, even clearly not operational, even surrounded by the evidence of thirty-seven years of garage imprisonment—the lines were pure automotive poetry. Aggressive, gorgeous, dangerous as a loaded weapon, every curve suggesting violence carefully restrained until someone with appropriate respect for power decided to set it free.
"Bloody hell," Harry breathed, his aristocratic composure cracking to reveal genuine wonder beneath layers of British sophistication. He moved toward the car with unconscious grace, one hand reaching out to trace the dusty hood as though touching religious artifact.
"That's a Boss 429." Scott said, his voice also reverential. "An actual, factory-original Boss 429."
"Indeed it is," Sirius confirmed with satisfaction that could have powered municipal lighting. "1969, original Big Block engine, Drag Pack competition suspension, approximately six months of active use before the original owner's wife threatened divorce proceedings over noise complaints. Parked in his garage for thirty-seven years, covered up, forgotten until his estate sale provided Logan's contact with acquisition opportunities."
Scott circled the vehicle with predatory attention, cataloguing details with enhanced senses that painted comprehensive pictures of what existed beneath the dust and neglect. "The engine's seized. Transmission's completely shot. Brakes probably haven't functioned since the Reagan administration. Interior looks like wildlife established permanent residence. Electrical system's from the stone age."
He looked up at Sirius with an expression that mixed disbelief with dawning excitement. "This is going to require complete mechanical resurrection. Months of work. Serious money. The kind of dedication that makes significant others question life choices."
"Three weeks," Sirius replied with aristocratic certainty. "Maybe four if the parts suppliers prove unreliable. But I have access to certain... unconventional restoration methodologies that should accelerate the timeline considerably."
Logan chuckled with dark satisfaction. "Translation: he's gonna magic the hell out of her. Runes, enhancement charms, probably some ritual that involves sacrificing motor oil under a full moon while chanting in languages that predate internal combustion."
"Among other techniques," Sirius agreed without shame. "Though I prefer to think of it as applying theoretical frameworks that operate beyond conventional mechanical limitations rather than simple magical intervention. The distinction is important for maintaining proper appreciation of the engineering excellence that made this vehicle legendary."
Scott had moved closer to the Mustang with the focused attention of someone conducting religious pilgrimage, his tactical bearing replaced by something approaching reverence. "They only made about thirteen hundred of these. Original examples in good condition go for six figures at auction. Restoration projects..."
He glanced at Sirius with newfound respect. "How much did you pay for this magnificent corpse?"
"Fifteen thousand," Sirius replied cheerfully. "Which I'm told represents both friendship discount and Tony's desire to reclaim valuable garage space before his wife threatened to use the Boss as particularly expensive lawn sculpture."
"Fifteen grand for a Boss 429 in any condition is basically theft," Scott said with professional appreciation. "Though I have to admit, calling this a 'project' is like calling the Titanic 'slightly damp.' You're looking at complete teardown, rebuilding every system, sourcing parts that probably don't exist anymore, and hoping the block isn't cracked from decades of sitting."
Sirius's grin turned absolutely predatory. "Which is why Harry and I will be handling the restoration together. Consider it a bonding exercise. Quality time spent covered in motor oil while learning the fundamentals of American automotive excellence and creative problem-solving."
Jean had moved beside Harry, her telekinetic senses painting pictures of mechanical complexity that exceeded her understanding of internal combustion but clearly registered as significant. "Your birthday present is... a car that doesn't work. I'm trying to decide if that's the most practical gift I've ever seen or the least."
"Both," Harry replied without looking away from the Mustang, his voice carrying undertones of genuine excitement that transcended his usual aristocratic composure. "This isn't just a car, Jean. This is American automotive history. Raw Detroit power from an era when men were men, cars were weapons, and the primary engineering question was 'how much horsepower can we possibly fit in this chassis before physics lodges formal complaints.'"
He traced one finger along the dusty fender with reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts. "When we're finished, she'll be magnificent. Loud enough to wake the dead, fast enough to make gods nervous, beautiful enough to make angels reconsider their commitment to remaining celestial."
"That's my boy," Sirius said with paternal pride. "Though I should mention that the restoration will involve certain... enhancements beyond factory specifications. Nothing obvious, nothing that would disqualify her from classic car shows, but enough magical integration to ensure she performs considerably better than Ford's original engineering team thought possible."
Logan snorted smoke around his cigar. "Translation: he's gonna turn her into the world's first half-magic Mustang. Kid's gonna be driving something that runs on premium gas and ambient mystical energy."
"Among other power sources," Sirius confirmed with aristocratic nonchalance. "But the primary fuel system will remain conventional—I'm not a barbarian. The magical enhancements are merely supplementary performance optimization."
Helena—who'd been observing this entire exchange with carefully calculated interest—allowed Hela's genuine curiosity to inform her question. "You can make machines run on magic? That's possible?"
Sirius turned toward her with warm attention, his expression shifting to include the new arrival in their conversation rather than treating her as passive observer. "Magic and technology aren't mutually exclusive, my dear. They're simply different languages describing the same fundamental relationship between consciousness and physical reality. With appropriate theoretical framework, one can create hybrid systems that operate according to principles drawn from both traditions."
His voice took on that professorial tone that suggested he'd given this particular lecture before and thoroughly enjoyed doing so. "The trick is ensuring the integration remains stable—mechanical components that respond to mystical enhancement without developing unfortunate tendencies toward sentience or developing opinions about preferred destinations. Very important to avoid creating cars that might decide to take scenic routes when you're already running late for important appointments."
Scott's expression had shifted into something approaching fascination despite obvious skepticism about magical engineering principles. "You're seriously telling me you can make a Boss 429 run better through mystical enhancement than through traditional performance modifications? Because that sounds like either the most brilliant thing I've ever heard or complete nonsense that will result in spectacular mechanical failure during the first hard acceleration."
"We'll find out together," Sirius replied with confidence that could have convinced parliaments to approve questionable defense spending. "I'll be conducting the restoration work in Tony's workshop space—he's graciously allowed me use of his facilities for the duration. But Harry will be assisting whenever his schedule permits, learning the fundamentals of both traditional automotive restoration and creative magical engineering applications."
He clapped Harry on the shoulder with paternal satisfaction. "Consider it your sixteenth birthday present and educational experience rolled into one package wrapped in midnight black paint and approximately five hundred horsepower. Assuming the restoration goes according to plan. Which it absolutely will."
"Fifteen hundred," Harry corrected absently, still studying the Mustang with the focused attention of someone mentally cataloguing required repairs. "Once we're finished, she'll produce closer to fifteen hundred horsepower. Maybe eighteen if the magical enhancement interface works as designed."
Everyone stared at him.
"Fifteen *hundred* horsepower?" Jean repeated slowly. "Harry, that's... that's not a car anymore. That's a land missile with leather seats and a radio."
"Precisely," Harry agreed with satisfaction that suggested he found this observation entirely appropriate. "Why restore a legend to merely original specifications when you can transform her into something that would make Carroll Shelby weep with professional jealousy?"
Scott made a sound somewhere between laughter and existential concern. "You're going to kill yourself. You're going to get behind the wheel of a fifteen-hundred-horsepower classic Mustang when you're sixteen years old and barely know how to drive, and you're going to die in the most spectacular single-vehicle accident in automotive history."
"Nonsense," Sirius said cheerfully. "Harry's got enhanced reflexes, cosmic-level perception capabilities, and the sort of confidence that comes from having survived things considerably more dangerous than aggressive acceleration in vintage American muscle. He'll be fine. Probably."
"Probably?" Storm had been listening to this entire exchange with the patient attention of someone watching a train approach a bridge while calculating whether the structural engineering could handle the load. "Sirius, perhaps we should discuss appropriate safety protocols before allowing Harry behind the wheel of something that could theoretically achieve velocities usually reserved for aircraft."
"Oh, absolutely," Sirius agreed with aristocratic reasonableness. "Full safety orientation, extensive practice in controlled environments, probably some sort of licensing arrangement to ensure legal compliance. All very responsible and appropriate."
Logan's grin suggested he found this entire conversation vastly entertaining. "Translation: the kid's gonna learn to drive by doing donuts in empty parking lots at three in the morning while Sirius yells encouragement and possibly defensive ward incantations when things get too exciting."
"That's not entirely inaccurate," Sirius admitted. "Though I prefer to think of it as practical education in high-performance vehicle management rather than simply 'doing donuts while yelling.' The distinction is important for maintaining proper academic credibility."
Xavier's wheelchair had approached during this exchange, his expression carrying that particular blend of paternal concern and resigned acceptance that characterized his response to discovering his charges were planning activities that would give insurance companies collective cardiac episodes.
"Sirius," he said with diplomatic precision, "while I appreciate the generosity behind this gift, perhaps we should establish some ground rules regarding appropriate use of vehicles whose capabilities exceed local speed limits by factors that would make highway patrol officers require therapeutic intervention."
"Of course, Charles," Sirius replied with perfect courtesy. "Very reasonable request. I'm thinking we establish maximum velocity restrictions—say, nothing above Mach 0.3 in residential zones?"
Xavier pinched the bridge of his nose. "Mach 0.3. You're discussing speed restrictions in terms of Mach numbers. For a car."
"Well, she won't actually achieve Mach velocities," Sirius said reassuringly. "The air resistance alone would require modifications that exceed even my creative interpretation of appropriate automotive enhancement. I was merely establishing theoretical upper boundaries for academic discussion purposes."
"This is a disaster," Jean murmured to Harry, though her tone suggested more amusement than genuine concern. "You're going to end up with a death machine disguised as a classic Mustang, and somehow you'll convince everyone that this is completely reasonable."
Harry's smile could have powered several city blocks. "Jean Grey, I've spent years convincing people that considerably less reasonable plans were perfectly sensible. Trust me when I say that restoring a legendary muscle car with mild magical enhancement falls well within the boundaries of acceptable teenage rebellion."
"Mild magical enhancement," she repeated. "Fifteen hundred horsepower is not 'mild' anything."
"Mild compared to what I could do if I really put effort into the project," Harry clarified with devastating reasonableness. "I'm showing admirable restraint by limiting myself to merely exceptional performance rather than pursuing truly ridiculous capabilities that would require explaining to federal aviation authorities why a car needed flight clearance."
Scott shook his head slowly, though his expression betrayed grudging admiration. "You know what? I'm actually looking forward to seeing this restoration. Either it's going to be the most impressive automotive project in recent history, or it's going to explode spectacularly enough to become a cautionary tale told to future generations of enhanced individuals with more ambition than sense."
"Why not both?" Logan suggested cheerfully. "Kid's got a talent for succeeding so hard it looks like catastrophic failure to casual observers."
Helena had been watching this entire exchange with carefully maintained exhaustion that barely concealed Hela's genuine fascination with the interpersonal dynamics on display. These people—enhanced individuals whose capabilities could reshape local reality through conscious will—were having casual conversation about automotive restoration as though it were the most natural thing in the world. The easy camaraderie, the gentle mockery wrapped in genuine affection, the way they balanced power with humanity and apocalyptic capabilities with teenage enthusiasm about fast cars...
*This,* she thought with satisfaction that threatened to crack her mortal performance, *is going to be absolutely delicious.*
Xavier cleared his throat with diplomatic authority that suggested he was about to impose structure on chaos that had been contentedly spiraling toward magnificent disaster. "Perhaps we might continue these discussions inside, where Helena can get proper food, rest, and orientation regarding the Institute's facilities? I suspect she's had quite enough excitement for one evening without adding automotive engineering debates to her introduction."
"Right," Harry said immediately, his attention shifting from the Mustang to Helena with concern that suggested cosmic enhancement came with built-in awareness of social priorities. "I've been completely rude, haven't I? Standing here discussing cars while you're probably ready to collapse from exhaustion and desperate need for normal conversation that doesn't involve federal pursuit or mechanical resurrection projects."
Helena managed a smile that mixed genuine gratitude with carefully calculated vulnerability. "I don't mind. It's rather nice hearing people discuss normal things after..." She gestured vaguely toward the night sky, encompassing desert flights, government operations, and everything that had led to her rescue. "Everything else."
Jean moved beside her with maternal warmth that could have convinced abandoned children they were valued. "Come on. Let's get you settled in a proper room, introduce you to the facilities, maybe find you something to eat that isn't vending machine food. Tomorrow will be soon enough for comprehensive orientation and meeting the other students."
As the group began moving toward the mansion's welcoming lights, Helena glanced back at the Boss 429 sitting on the flatbed like some mechanical deity awaiting resurrection. The car represented American automotive excellence from an era when engineers asked "why not?" instead of "should we?" Combined with magical enhancement from someone whose capabilities included casual violation of physical limitations...
It would be magnificent. Loud, fast, dangerous, and absolutely perfect for someone whose reputation included phrases like "cosmic enhancement" and "Dragon-Born" and whose approach to problems typically involved overwhelming competence applied with appropriate theatrical flair.
Hela smiled inwardly while Helena maintained her expression of exhausted gratitude.
She'd infiltrated Xavier's Institute. She'd made contact with the most intriguing enhanced individual she'd encountered in millennia. And now she'd discovered that he was planning to build a fifteen-hundred-horsepower tribute to American excess enhanced with magic that would probably violate several international treaties if applied to military applications.
*This,* she thought as they entered the mansion's warmth, *is going to exceed even my most optimistic expectations.*
The Institute's doors closed behind them with mechanical precision, sealing them into academic sanctuary and new beginning—though only some of those gathered understood exactly how new these beginnings might prove to be.
In Queens, a 1969 Mustang Boss 429 waited patiently for resurrection, unaware that it was about to become the most interesting vehicle on the eastern seaboard and possibly the most magically enhanced classic car in automotive history.
And somewhere in the mansion's secured systems, Cerebro quietly filed away interesting data about their newest student—noting her ancient power signatures, her remarkably sophisticated mental shields, and the way her presence carried undertones that didn't quite match conventional mutant classification parameters.
But those were concerns for tomorrow. Tonight was for welcome, warmth, and the beginning of whatever came next.
Even if "whatever came next" involved goddesses pretending to be teenagers, dragons building impossible vehicles, and the sort of educational experiences that would make insurance companies require extensive therapeutic intervention.
Just another evening at Xavier's Institute for Gifted Youngsters.
Where the impossible became routine, and routine invariably led to something magnificent.
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