"So, how did the high-stakes diplomacy go?"
Back at the Xavier Academy for Gifted Youngsters, Magneto watched as Charles's eyelids fluttered and finally snapped open. The tension in the room was palpable; Erik was leaning forward as much as his paralyzed lower half would allow, his face etched with a mixture of hope and cynical curiosity. "Did you manage to put the President in your pocket, or are we preparing for a nuclear strike on Westchester?"
Charles didn't answer immediately. He took a slow, deep breath, his hands gripping the armrests of his wheelchair as if anchoring himself back to reality. Then, a calm, triumphant smile spread across his face. He looked around his mahogany-paneled office—a room that suddenly felt more like a seat of power than a hiding spot.
"I had to pull a few strings, Erik. Nothing that crossed my personal ethical boundaries, of course, but just enough to ensure he saw the logic in our survival. From this moment on, I am finally a legitimate principal. This school isn't just a mansion in the woods anymore—it's an officially recognized institution."
Erik let out a sharp, genuine laugh, nodding his head in a rare show of approval. "Congratulations, Charles. I have to admit, I didn't think you had it in you to be that... efficient. Our children can finally walk through the front gates without feeling like fugitives. But let's be real—how long until the average person on the street sees that certificate and actually cares? A piece of paper doesn't erase decades of fear."
"We can't change the world in an afternoon, Erik. Expecting instant total acceptance is a fantasy," Charles replied, his voice grounded and frank. "We take the wins we can get. Right now, the most important victory is getting you out of that bed and back on your feet. And I believe I've found a way to facilitate that without us having to go back to Chinatown and beg."
Erik's expression shifted instantly. He became wary, his eyes narrowing as he recalled the humiliating ease with which Huang Wen had dismantled his powers. "Be careful, Charles. I've told you—that boy is an anomaly. Our abilities don't just fail against him; they seem to slide off him like water off a duck's back. Don't let your confidence turn into arrogance. I'd hate to see you ends up in a bed next to mine because you thought you could outsmart a force of nature."
"Don't worry, my old friend. I've learned from your mistakes," Charles said, a flicker of cunning in his eyes that he rarely showed.
"I don't need to show my face this time. I don't even need to be in the same zip code. I just need to plant the right seeds in the right minds, and the pieces will move themselves. When the situation in Chinatown gets loud enough, I'll step in as the 'mediator.' Once I save him from the trouble I've sent his way, he'll be much more inclined to listen to my requests regarding your recovery."
As the words left his lips, Charles closed his eyes again. His consciousness didn't head back to D.C. this time. Instead, it moved like a silent predator toward a high-security military installation—the heart of General "Thunderbolt" Ross's operations.
General Ross was currently in a foul mood. He had spent months, millions of dollars, and an ungodly amount of manpower hunting for Bruce Banner, yet the Hulk remained a ghost. The only "progress" he'd made was the unexpected arrival of David Banner—Bruce's father—who had practically turned himself in.
David was a lunatic, convinced that Ross had his son hidden in some basement. He had been surprisingly cooperative, even handing over samples of Bruce's blood that he'd secretly harvested years ago. Ross was currently staring at a vial of the glowing green serum, wondering if he was about to unleash a new plague or create a new god, when the air in the room suddenly felt heavy.
Beside him, his loyal adjutant suddenly stiffened. The soldier's eyes went dull, the light of personality extinguished and replaced by a cold, vacant stare. He turned slowly, fixing his gaze directly on General Ross.
Ross was a veteran of a thousand battles. He didn't scream; he simply drew his sidearm in one fluid motion, leveling it at the adjutant's head. "Adjutant! Stand down! What the hell is wrong with you?"
"General Ross, please. Lower the weapon. I'm not here to spill blood," the adjutant said, but the voice was wrong. It was too soft, too rhythmic. It was the voice of a man who had never spent a day in a trench. Even with a .45 pointed at his forehead, the adjutant didn't flinch. He was a puppet, and the puppeteer didn't care if the strings got cut.
"Whoosh!" "Whoosh!"
The doors burst open. A squad of MPs rushed in, rifles raised, safeties clicked off. They looked back and forth between their commander and the adjutant, confusion written all over their faces.
"Who are you?" Ross growled, his finger tightening on the trigger. He scanned the corners of the room, looking for a hidden speaker or a holographic projector. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't put a bullet in this man's head for daring to compromise my command."
"Who I am is a secondary concern, General. What matters is that I know exactly where Bruce Banner is hiding," the adjutant replied. The mention of the Hulk made Ross's jaw tighten. "The Hulk isn't in the desert, and he isn't in a jungle. He's in New York. Specifically, he's being housed in a small martial arts hall in Chinatown."
Ross's eyes narrowed. "Chinatown? Why would Banner hide in a crowded urban center?"
"Because the man who runs that hall is... formidable," the adjutant continued, Charles's words flowing through him like a script. "He is as strong as the Hulk and far more dangerous because he is intelligent. If you go after Banner, General, I suggest you bring everything you have. Don't underestimate the one who took him in."
The adjutant's body suddenly went limp, stumbling backward. His eyes cleared, and he looked around at the dozen guns pointed at his chest with absolute terror. "General...? What... why are you...?"
"MP! Take him to the isolation ward!" Ross shouted, his face turning a deep, angry shade of crimson. "And someone get me the top-secret communications log! I want to know who just hacked into my adjutant's brain!"
"Yes, sir!"
As the adjutant was dragged away, Ross turned to his senior analyst. "I want a full report on every major 'gifted' event in the last forty-eight hours. Now!"
It didn't take long. The intelligence community was small, and Ross had friends in high places. Within twenty minutes, he was looking at a summary of William Stryker's spectacular failure and the President's sudden "enlightenment" regarding the X-Men. The patterns were identical. The vacant eyes, the sudden cooperation, the shift in policy.
"That arrogant son of a bitch," Ross whispered, slamming his fist onto the table. "Charles Xavier. He thinks he can play god with the United States military? He thinks he can use me to clear his path in Chinatown?"
"General, what are our orders?" a subordinate asked nervously. "If the President has a deal with Xavier, we can't exactly march on his school. We'd be court-martialed before we reached the gate."
Ross paced the room like a caged tiger. He knew exactly what Charles was doing. Xavier wanted Ross to provide the "muscle" to pressure this Huang Wen, likely hoping to swoop in and play the hero afterward. It was a classic pincer move, but Charles had made one fatal mistake: he had underestimated the "Thunderbolt."
"Xavier wants me to be his attack dog?" Ross sneered, his eyes flashing with a cold, vengeful light. "He thinks he can manipulate me into doing his dirty work? Fine. We'll go to Chinatown. But we won't go in with tanks. Not yet."
He turned to the glass-walled cell where David Banner was currently pacing, muttering to himself about cellular regeneration. David was a ticking time bomb—unstable, desperate, and possessing a strange, mutated biology of his own.
"Get David Banner out of there," Ross commanded. "He wants his son back, doesn't he? We'll give him the location. Let the madman test the waters in Chinatown. If this Huang Wen is as dangerous as the 'Professor' says, let them tear each other apart while we watch from the satellites."
Ross looked at the screen showing the map of New York. "Charles wants to play chess? Fine. But he forgot that I'm the one with the board."
Inside his office back at the school, Charles withdrew his mind, a satisfied smile lingering on his face. He felt confident. He had set the pieces in motion. He truly believed that by pointing a hungry General toward a mysterious martial arts teacher, he had solved all his problems in one stroke. He didn't realize that in his rush to help his friend, he had just invited a different kind of monster to Huang Wen's doorstep.