"Professor… we only managed to rescue this one," Scott said quietly, his fist tightening until the knuckles whitened. "By the time we got there, the others were already gone."
A year.
Barely a year since the formation of the X-Men — and Scott Summers had already stopped being surprised by how cruel the world could be.
Even so, today still hit harder than he wanted to admit.
Charles stood beside him, silent for several heavy seconds. His face didn't harden; it softened — not in weakness, but in understanding. A man who had seen this too often and still refused to accept it as normal.
"Scott," he finally said, voice steady but gentle, "you saved the life that could still be saved. That is what matters."
His eyes moved to the unconscious figure on the medical bed, then back to his student.
"According to Hank's scans, these mutants were held and tortured for over five years. Their suffering was… profound." A pause, a controlled breath. "But one of them will live because of you. Never underestimate the weight of that."
Scott's shoulders loosened a fraction. Charles could feel the shift in his thoughts. Words, when used precisely, were sometimes better than any power.
Then the figure on the bed groaned.
"Hnn? Where… where am I?"
Scott turned sharply. Charles's posture straightened.
Kevin blinked blearily, eyes adjusting to the bright overhead lights. His brain was foggy, like someone had poured cold soup into his skull and shaken it vigorously.
The last thing he remembered was… Right. Work. Depression. Same old routine. Then the notification: Armin van Buuren live at UNTOLD. Instant dopamine hit.
He'd put on his headphones, started walking home, feeling the kind of fragile happiness only a good beat could provide—
—then heard a woman scream.
Probably a hallucination, he'd thought. Wouldn't be the first time his brain played Dolby Atmos nonsense at him. But turning around cost nothing.
And that's when he saw it: A truck barreling toward him with all the enthusiasm of a long-lost relative trying to give him a fatal hug.
He didn't even get a full second to process the situation before everything went black.
So waking up now… was strange.
"…Am I not dead?" Kevin asked, confused and mildly offended at reality for not sticking to its script.
Charles and Scott exchanged a brief glance. The question, in context, wasn't unusual — most mutants rescued from torture asked something similar. Trauma rarely came with neat explanations.
"You are very much alive, young man," Charles said, tone warm, reassuring. "You're safe now, and recovering well."
Kevin nodded, still squinting. His vision was a blurry mess of shapes and colors. If he could see clearly, he'd have instantly recognized Charles Xavier and Cyclops and probably had a heart attack for a completely different reason.
He assumed the voice belonged to a doctor — unfortunately.
And then a horrifying thought struck him.
"Doctor," he croaked, "how long was I in a coma? How long am I staying? And— and this is the big one— how much is all this gonna cost? Because if the bill is over fifty dollars, I might actually prefer death."
Scott blinked. Charles tilted his head, confused.
The professor reached out telepathically. "Scott… did he lose his memory?"
Because in all his years rescuing tortured mutants, this was the first time someone woke up, stared into the void of existence, and panicked about American healthcare costs.
Fortunately, Kevin's optical recalibration was blessedly brief. His first coherent thought was a wave of profound, almost tearful gratitude. All limbs present and accounted for.
His second thought, upon spotting the room's other occupants, was less grateful and more bewildered. A bald man in a wheelchair. A younger one in ruby-quartz shades looking like he'd just been told the world's most depressing secret.
It was then that his gaze landed on the bald man in the wheelchair. The pieces clicked into place with terrifying speed.
Oh. Oh, hell.
Before he could even form the words Are you the reason I feel a sudden, overwhelming urge to join a very specific school?, a sledgehammer made of pure information slammed into his prefrontal cortex.
It felt less like a headache and more like the universe was presenting him with a cosmic invoice for all the times he'd cheated physics, and it was demanding payment now.
He was out before he hit the pillow.
Across the room, Charles's usually serene expression flickered. It was a fascinating mix of academic curiosity and unadulterated "what the hell?"
Scott saw only a man fainting. "Professor? Is he seizing? Should I get Hank?"
"No, Scott," Charles said, his voice a low murmur. "He's… upgrading."
While most humans possessed a dormant spark of psionic potential, what he was witnessing in Kevin's case was a forest fire.
This wasn't a natural awakening. This was like someone had hooked a garden hose to a nuclear reactor and blasted the 'On' switch. The fainting was just the body's polite way of saying, Reboot in progress. Do not unplug.
According to the files they'd pulled from the lab, their guest was an Alpha-level mutant codenamed Optimus.
His file was a study in terrifying utility: he could "optimize" any object to its theoretical peak.
He was the ultimate QA tester, which was precisely why the base's security, upon realizing they were losing to a bunch of teenagers, had executed their other test subjects but had orders to preserve him.
He was an asset too valuable to destroy. The ultimate corporate tool.
And now, this walking, talking miracle of efficiency had just spontaneously developed psychic potential that, in its raw, undirected form, felt… disturbingly comparable to Charles's own.
The door to the med-bay hissed open and was promptly shoved with enough force to stress the hydraulics.
Jean stood silhouetted in the doorway, her eyes flickering as she scanned the room for threats. Finding only a comatose optimist and her two bewildered teammates, the tension in her shoulders eased.
"Professor," she breathed, "I felt an unknown psychic surge. What happened?"
She, Hank, Scott, Bobby, and Warren had pulled this mission. It was supposed to be a rescue. It turned into a body recovery.
The unspoken truth between them all was suffocating: those people were dead because they had shown up.
The facility's director had chosen the most cost-effective solution: terminate the assets rather than let them be liberated.
Kevin was the sole exception — the one piece of proprietary technology you don't smash; you just try to steal back later.
She'd been giving Scott and the Professor space, feeling the maelstrom of guilt and frustration rolling off him. But a psychic explosion tended to override subtle emotional support.
Charles finally tore his gaze from Kevin, a wry smile touching his lips.
"It would seem, Jean, that our guest's abilities are not limited to inanimate objects." He gestured with his chin toward the sleeping mutant. "He appears to be… optimizing himself."
"And unless I'm very much mistaken, he just upgraded from 'Alpha-level mutant' to 'potential existential headache.'"
Charles Xavier steepled his fingers, but his mind was in turmoil. If he was right — and he usually was — this Kevin guy wasn't just a mutant. He was an Omega-level.
A walking, talking theory he only kept in two slots in his head: one for Jean Grey and one for his old pal Magneto.
In his book, Omega-level didn't just mean "powerful." It meant "no visible ceiling."
He remembered a teenage Jean, her power waking up, and feeling for the first time a mind that didn't just rival his own — it dwarfed it.
At her lowest point without him sealing her powers, he figured she could probably match him while he was using Cerebro.
As for Erik… well, Charles sent a little psychic thank-you note into the universe that his oldest frenemy was more focused on metal-based speeches than on fundamental manipulation of the entire electromagnetic spectrum.
The world really wasn't ready for a Magneto who did his homework.
Scott, being Scott, was stuck on the practicalities. As team leader, his job was to turn world-shattering revelations into a tactical checklist.
"Let me get this straight," he said, adjusting his visor out of habit. "He has two separate powers? Is that even possible?"
He couldn't help the bitter tang of envy. Most mutants got a pretty raw deal.
Wings that couldn't fly, skin that turned to rock, or in his own case, eyeballs that were basically un-aimable shotguns requiring a constant accessory to avoid losing control.
And this guy? Not only did he have a power that didn't seem to suck, but he'd apparently gotten a second one without it turning him inside out. Did fate just have a favorite?
Then, the image of a lab table and scalpels flashed in his mind. His jealousy curdled into shame. Right. Not exactly a blessed life.
Unfortunately, he was in a room with a man who could hear a squirrel's anxiety from three miles away and a woman who could feel a mood swing before you did. His emotional turmoil was basically on a billboard.
"Although it needs to be studied, he does indeed have two different powers. However, something isn't right with his mind. Whether he lost his memory, locked them unintentionally, or they were taken, I can't say yet. Either way, he needs a gentle hand."
Jean offered a small, understanding smile. She knew what Charles was really saying.
"Of course, Professor," she said, her voice calm. "I've got him."
Charles nodded. "The moment he wakes up, contact me. Let's hope he's more 'friendly neighborhood' and less... well, you know. The other kind."
(END OF THE CHAPTER)
Well, another new story.