The Submarine - Depths of the Atlantic
Adrift in the cold, churning waters of the Atlantic, Erik Lehnsherr sensed the massive metal hull of the submarine slipping away beneath the waves.
He was helpless to stop it. He roared in frustration, the sound swallowed by the howling wind, until Charles Xavier finally pulled him from the freezing water onto the Coast Guard vessel.
Under Charles's persistent, telepathic persuasion, Erik reluctantly agreed to a temporary alliance.
Miles away, deep underwater, Ernst and the others steered the Hellfire Club's custom submarine.
After cruising for dozens of kilometers to ensure they weren't tracked, the vessel came to a steady halt.
Ernst walked into the main cabin and approached Shaw.
"Father, you've witnessed Erik's strength firsthand now," Ernst remarked, pouring himself a glass of water.
"We cannot prolong this game any further. While he may not be your equal in direct combat, under specific circumstances, he poses a catastrophic threat. If he had realized what he was standing on and decided to crush the submarine's hull rather than the yacht, we would all be drowning right now."
Shaw sighed, pouring a drink of his own. He acknowledged his carelessness with a nod.
"Alright. I'll find a way to settle our differences when we meet next. Honestly, I may have been too lenient. But bringing us together to this extent... his growth rate has exceeded my expectations."
At this point, a new spark of fanaticism lit up Shaw's eyes. He gestured for Ernst to follow him.
He led his son to the deepest part of the submarine and pressed a sequence of keys on the keypad.
The heavy steel back wall hissed and opened automatically.
They stepped into a room lined completely with mirrors. In the center sat a massive, humming piece of machinery illuminated by flashing indicator tubes.
Ernst immediately recognized it. It was a Soviet nuclear energy reactor, Shaw's ultimate backup plan.
If the plan to incite the United States and the Soviet Union into a global nuclear war failed, Shaw intended to manually absorb the reactor's entire energy output.
He would transform himself into a walking nuclear bomb, detonating to release enough raw radiation to stimulate dormant mutant genes across the globe, creating his mutant empire by force.
The nuclear reactor emitted a bright, eerie blue light that refracted endlessly across the surrounding mirrors, creating a hypnotic, mysterious atmosphere.
"How is it?" Shaw asked, spreading his arms.
"It's beautiful! We are the children of the atom, Ernst. This radiation is a deadly weapon to ordinary people, but to us? It will make us gods."
Ernst looked at the reactor. While he acknowledged the aesthetic beauty of the blue glow, internally, he sneered.
To him, this plan was crude and outdated.
If Ernst wanted to mutate the globe, he could create a far more advanced, targeted biological catalyst.
But since he fundamentally disagreed with Shaw's genocidal ideology, he kept his mouth shut.
Observing his father's manic enthusiasm, Ernst offered a diplomatic response.
"It's truly beautiful. I hope your plan can be executed as splendidly as its aesthetics."
"I believe it will," Shaw replied, his chest swelling with pride.
He had invested too much time and resources to even entertain the possibility of failure.
Seeing that further persuasion was useless, Ernst ceased his arguments.
His only focus now was on preparing the necessary countermeasures to ensure his father survived the inevitable collision with fate.
"By the way, Dad, I have an errand to attend to," Ernst said, checking his watch.
"It will take a few days, but don't worry; I will return before the main phase of the plan commences."
Shaw frowned, expressing immediate concern.
"Do you want to leave now? The situation outside is incredibly tense, and your identity is unique. Every intelligence agency in the world is looking for your technology. It would be problematic if you were recognized. If they catch you, they'll lock you in a lab for the rest of your life."
"Don't worry," Ernst said with a faint smile.
"I have a way to ensure no one recognizes me."
As Ernst finished speaking, a thin layer of silver liquid rippled across his face. The nanorobots in his suit shifted upward, seamlessly altering his bone structure, skin tone, and hair color.
Within seconds, Ernst looked like a completely different, thoroughly unremarkable man.
Shaw, accustomed to Ernst's myriad abilities, was surprised but delighted. Ernst reached into his coat and handed Shaw a few transparent, gel-like masks.
"Nanite masks," Ernst explained.
"They contain programmable matter capable of nine different facial changes. Use them if you need to move openly."
Finally, Ernst pulled a small, light-emitting blue bead from his pocket and placed it securely on the console.
"This is a spatial coordinate," Ernst said.
"It allows me to sense this exact location no matter where I am. Azazel can track it as well."
Having completed his preparations, Ernst stepped back.
With a soft pop of displaced air, he used his teleportation magic and vanished completely, leaving Shaw alone in the mirror room, awestruck by the casual display of magic.
, --
Somewhere in the United States
The city streets bustled with life. Shops were open, neon signs flickered to life in the twilight, and pedestrians moved about their daily routines, completely unaware of the impending nuclear apocalypse hanging over their heads.
Ernst strolled down the sidewalk, savoring the relaxed, ordinary atmosphere.
Although he had a specific task on this outing, he wasn't in a rush.
He had already sent a message to the Red Queen to track down a specific individual.
While he waited, he casually chose a local bar, spending a few days drinking, people-watching, and occasionally engaging in light conversation with the local beauties.
A few days later, a sharp ping echoed in his mind.
"Dr. Ernst," the Red Queen's voice announced.
"The target you are looking for has been located. Transmitting spatial coordinates now."
Ernst, sitting in a booth with a glass of bourbon, immediately sobered up. He stood, left some cash on the table, and walked out into the alley behind the bar.
He cast his spell and vanished.
Ten minutes later, Ernst materialized in a secluded corner outside a completely different, far dingier bar.
He offered a wry smile, amused that he had teleported from one dive straight to another.
Sighing, Ernst pushed the heavy wooden door open and walked into the haze of cigarette smoke and stale beer.
The first thing he noticed was a burly figure sitting alone at the bar, chomping on a thick cigar.
Heavy muscles strained against the fabric of his flannel shirt, and a wild, untamed aura made it clear he wasn't someone to be trifled with.
Ernst approached the bar and smoothly took the empty stool right next to the muscular man.
He stared at the stranger's profile.
"James Howlett. Or should I just call you Logan? I want to talk to you. Please, if you have a moment, I could use your help."
The man was the future Wolverine, though he had yet to be injected with Adamantium. Logan paused, his cigar hovering inches from his mouth.
He looked at Ernst, narrowing his eyes at the sudden, overly familiar use of his real name. He had absolutely no impression of the man sitting next to him.
"I'm not interested," Logan grunted dismissively, turning back to his drink.
"You've got the wrong guy, bub."
Prepared for Logan's legendary indifference, Ernst leaned in closer.
"You were frail and sickly when you were young," Ernst stated calmly, his voice cutting through the bar's ambient noise.
"One winter, when you were just a child, your biological father killed your adoptive father. The trauma awakened your mutant abilities, bone claws extending from your knuckles, and a cellular recovery factor."
Logan's body went completely rigid.
"You escaped," Ernst continued, seemingly unaware of the sudden danger radiating from the man beside him.
"But only after unknowingly killing your biological father in retaliation. Since then, you've participated in countless wars. The First World War. The Second World War. You've spent almost your entire long life swimming in blood."
Logan slowly turned his head. He clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white.
An ominous, lethal aura radiated from his cold eyes, sending a chill through the patrons sitting a few seats away.
"Who the hell are you?" Logan growled, his tone holding a deadly edge.
"Why are you investigating me? What's your angle?"
He was a hair's breadth away from popping his claws and gutting the stranger, held back only by the crowded nature of the bar.
"My purpose is simple," Ernst explained, his voice even.
"I'm here to ask for your help. I want you to be a teacher for a while. I need someone to assist in educating a group of youngsters... well, let's call them a group of problematic children."
Logan scoffed, a harsh, humorless sound.
"Really? A teacher? I don't think I have the talent for grading homework. If you can dig up my origin so clearly, the forces behind you aren't small. Why do you need me? I don't even know what the hell I could teach."
"You don't need to be a regular teacher," Ernst responded, signaling the bartender for a drink.
"I'm looking for a special kind of mentor. Those students aren't ordinary kids. They are like you. Mutants. Teaching them requires someone who understands the beast inside. More importantly, your unique resilience will prevent them from accidentally killing you during training."
Logan was taken aback. He stared at his drink, contemplating the stranger's words.
He had expected an ambush, a government recruitment, or a bounty hunter. He hadn't expected a job offer to babysit.
"The same type of person as me, you mean..." Logan muttered.
"Yes," Ernst nodded.
"Exactly as you think. Those little devils are dangerous. Give it a try. If it doesn't work out, you can walk away anytime. I won't force you."
Logan's expression softened slightly as he weighed the truth of the offer.
Despite his tough, lone-wolf exterior, Logan was deeply lonely.
He lacked real friends because of his cursed longevity and violent nature. The fear he saw in people's eyes whenever he revealed his bone spurs had wounded him for over a century.
The idea of being around others like him, of guiding kids so they wouldn't end up as broken as he was, stirred something buried deep in his chest.
Yet, years of betrayal made him hesitate. It still felt like a trap.
Amid Logan's indecision, the bar doors swung open.
Two men walked in, scanning the room. Erik Lehnsherr and Charles Xavier.
Unaware of Ernst's presence due to his nanite-altered face, Erik and Charles walked straight up to Logan, observing the brooding mutant.
"Excuse me," Erik said smoothly.
"I'm Erik."
"And I'm Charles..." Xavier began, placing a polite smile on his face.
Before their recruitment pitch could go any further, Logan, deeply disturbed by the sudden influx of strangers bothering him, didn't even look at them.
"Go fuck yourselves," Logan snapped.
Erik and Charles blinked, taken aback by the blunt rejection.
Noting the hostility, they exchanged a glance, decided not to press their luck, and turned to leave.
But Ernst couldn't resist. He dropped his voice back to its natural, aristocratic cadence.
"Oh! Little Erik," Ernst called out, a mocking lilt in his tone.
"We are truly destined to keep bumping into each other. I didn't expect to meet again in just a few days. It seems you have a new friend. Congratulations!"
Erik froze. He spun around. He didn't recognize the face, but he immediately recognized the voice and the arrogant posture.
Always prepared for danger, Erik didn't hesitate.
He flicked his wrist, magnetically launching a heavy steel combat dagger straight at Ernst's throat.
Reacting with a sinister smile, Ernst didn't block it.
Instead, he reached out, grabbed Logan by the collar, and effortlessly yanked the heavy mutant directly into the line of fire, using him as a human shield.
THUNK.
The dagger sank deep into Logan's chest.
"GRAAAARGH!"
Logan's agonizing, furious roar reverberated through the bar, echoing out into the night street as he looked down at the blade protruding from his sternum.
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