Ash's POV – Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters
Teleportation left a familiar pressure in my lungs as the world snapped into view.
The early morning sun bathed the grand estate in soft amber light. Dew clung to the perfectly trimmed grass. Birds chattered somewhere in the distance. The place looked peaceful—almost too peaceful for what it housed.
The Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters.
Or as most people would one day know it… the X-Men's base of operations.
I adjusted my cap, the colors of my new outfit shifting slightly in the light—navy and black, with white trim and red accents.
Beside me, Pikachu stretched with a yawn and hopped onto my shoulder. Gardevoir stood to my left, her arms behind her back in a calm, almost regal posture.
"Well," I muttered, glancing at the giant oak doors of the mansion. "Let's get this over with."
We started toward the entrance.
And then it hit me.
A wave of psychic energy—subtle, like mist rolling over the mind. Not invasive, not aggressive… but probing.
I didn't flinch.
My mental shield—carefully forged over years of practice—held firm. The probe washed over and bounced off like water on glass.
Nice try, Professor.
I returned Gardevoir to her Pokeball.
I stepped up and knocked twice on the heavy doors. The wood was smooth, dark, and freshly polished. Classy. Expensive.
For a second, nothing happened. Then—click.
The door creaked open slowly. A small girl stood on the other side, maybe five or six years old. Curly brown hair. Nervous eyes. She looked up at me, gripping the edge of the door like it was her only shield.
"Hi there," I said, crouching down to her level, softening my tone. "Can you help me? I'm looking for a teacher… or Professor Xavier."
She blinked, then nodded slowly. "O-okay. Um… Miss Storm's teaching. I—I can show you."
"Thank you," I smiled, genuinely. "Lead the way."
The child turned and walked with small, careful steps, glancing over her shoulder to make sure I was following. We moved through long, polished hallways lined with portraits and lighted by sunlight streaming through stained glass. Every step echoed faintly—this place was alive, but held in reverence, like a library made of power and promise. From open doors and passing corridors, students of varying ages paused in their activities. Some whispered behind half-closed doors, eyes wide with curiosity. A few younger ones simply stopped and stared, their gazes flicking between me and Pikachu perched calmly on my shoulder. One boy tugged at his older sister's sleeve, pointing at the yellow blur with quiet awe.
Pikachu, of course, basked in the attention like he was royalty. Tail twitching, smug little grin.
I just kept walking.
We stopped at a half-open door. Voices carried through—young ones, excited, learning.
The girl peeked in and pointed. "She's there."
I stepped beside her and leaned in.
Storm.
She stood at the head of the classroom like she was born to command it—poised, graceful, the kind of presence that made the room bend around her. The kids quieted as she gestured toward a set of illustrations on a whiteboard, explaining something about weather systems.
Then her eyes shifted.
She noticed me.
A subtle pause. The barest curve of her lips.
She raised a hand and dismissed the class. The students began to pack up—some sneaking curious glances at me and Pikachu—but left in orderly lines.
Storm approached, that quiet, powerful energy surrounding her like a calm hurricane.
"Well," she said with a soft smile, "it's not every day someone just walks up to the front door unannounced."
I gave her a small grin. "Didn't think sneaking in would be polite."
"And yet," she tilted her head slightly, amused. "I felt your presence the moment you arrived. Charles tried to peek in, didn't he?"
"He did."
I tapped my temple. "Didn't get far."
Storm chuckled softly. "I figured. You're more prepared this time."
I nodded. "A lot's changed since Liberty Island."
She glanced at Pikachu, then back at me. "I can see that."
The air between us was respectful, but layered—like two generals from different armies acknowledging each other before a battle.
"You here for Charles?" she asked, finally.
"I am."
"Then come," Storm said, turning with a graceful pivot. "Let's not keep him waiting."
As we followed her deeper into the mansion, I caught one last look at the little girl peeking around the hallway corner.
She smiled at Pikachu.
He waved back.
The wooden floors were quiet under my steps, but my thoughts were anything but.
Storm—Ororo—walked just ahead of me, graceful as ever, her presence calm but firm. Pikachu was still perched on my shoulder, tail twitching, ears alert.
I kept my expression neutral, even friendly. But beneath the surface?
Yeah, I was tense.
So far, every major player I'd met in this world—Logan, Jean, Scott, Ororo herself—lined up more or less with their movie counterparts. Their decisions, their personalities, their presence. Not too much deviation.
But now… now I was walking into the lion's den. The next few minutes would determine if this really was that version of the world.
Because I was about to meet Charles Xavier.
And if this was the comic version—the one who played god with people's minds, who manipulated events behind the scenes "for the greater good"—then this visit was going to go very, very differently.
I didn't need another Stryker masquerading as a mentor.
We turned a corner and moved past the central stairway when I heard footsteps ahead. A familiar face appeared, cradling a stack of thick books like she was prepping for a semester's worth of overachieving.
Rogue.
She spotted me and her eyes lit up.
"Well, if it ain't the mystery boy," she said with a grin, slowing down just enough to fall in step with us for a moment. "Never got the chance to thank you proper for Liberty Island. You saved my life. Twice, technically."
I gave her a small smile. "You're welcome. Just didn't want anyone dying while I was around."
"Still. Thank you." She nodded at Pikachu, who chirped with a pleased little "Chaa~" and puffed up proudly. "You've got good instincts, Ash."
She gave me a parting wink and turned down another hallway, her boots clicking against the tile.
Storm glanced sideways at me. "You're already making impressions."
I shrugged. "Better than leaving a crater."
She smiled—just slightly—and finally stopped in front of a set of double doors carved from old, polished oak.
"This is it," she said. "Professor Xavier's office."
For a moment, I just stood there.
Mental shielding fully active. Breathing calm. Emotions locked down.
Then the doors opened.
"Come in," came the voice. Warm. Smooth. Inviting. But with an undertone of command that felt like it could've been a whisper or a gale.
I stepped forward.
Time to find out who this world's Charles Xavier really was.
***
The office smelled like parchment, polished wood, and aged philosophy.
It was everything I expected and more — not because it was grand or overdesigned, but because it wasn't. Simple bookshelves lined the walls, cluttered with texts in multiple languages. A globe rested beside a small bonsai tree. Behind the desk sat the man I'd come to see.
Charles Xavier.
He looked exactly like I remembered — bald, with calm blue eyes that saw too much, framed by lines carved from both age and understanding. He sat in a sleek wheelchair, posture impeccable, fingers laced loosely together as he watched me enter.
Storm moved to stand by the wall silently, her role now that of an observer.
"Ash Ketchum," Xavier said, his voice rich with warmth and quiet power. "Welcome. I've been meaning to speak with you ever since Liberty Island."
I stepped forward and nodded politely. "Professor Xavier. Thank you for seeing me."
"Please," he gestured toward the chair across from him. "You've already earned a seat at this table."
I sat, Pikachu curling quietly on my shoulder. For a moment, it was silent — the good kind. The thoughtful kind.
"You saved lives," he continued. "And not just our students. You intervened decisively, and without seeking recognition. That tells me a great deal about who you are."
"Just did what was necessary," I replied. "Didn't think it needed a parade."
He chuckled gently. "Neither do I."
There was something about him — not just his words, but the way he carried them — that put me slightly at ease. He wasn't speaking down to me. No slow, patronizing cadence. No condescending smiles. Just… respect. Measured and real.
And I appreciated that more than I expected.
"No mind games?" I asked lightly.
"I've been taught that real trust is built, not taken," Charles said. "I may be a telepath, but I do not pry where I am not invited."
I gave him a nod of approval. "Good policy."
A few seconds passed.
Then I leaned forward.
Tone shifting.
"This isn't just a social visit, Professor."
Charles didn't flinch. He folded his hands together more tightly, sensing the change. "I assumed as much."
"I need you to call your senior staff," I said. "All of them. Anyone with clearance or decision-making power. What I have to say affects everyone in this school—and maybe more."
He watched me quietly for a moment, scanning me in a way that didn't involve any powers. Just wisdom.
"You're certain?"
"Dead certain," I said. "And there's no time to waste."
His expression turned grave.
And then, without breaking eye contact, Charles raised two fingers gently to his temple.
No flashy movement. No dramatic music. Just a slow exhale and a ripple of power I could only barely feel behind my mental shields.
"They're on their way," he said.
And just like that, the real conversation was about to begin.
The quiet between me and Professor Xavier was interrupted by soft footsteps outside the office door. One by one, the senior X-Men began to arrive.
Scott Summers entered first—sharp posture, arms crossed behind his back, the red band of his visor glinting in the light. He gave me a nod as he stepped in, his expression unreadable but carrying that hint of recognition from our last encounter.
"Professor," he said, then looked at me. "Ash. It's been a while."
"Two years," I replied, keeping my voice even.
Scott's mouth twitched slightly—not quite a smile. "You look... different."
"Happens," I said with a shrug.
Jean Grey followed closely, her presence soft and composed. "Hello again, Ash," she said warmly, like I was an old friend rather than someone she'd worked with once in a crisis. There was something in her tone—genuine warmth, but also curiosity about why I was here after all this time.
"Hey," I nodded back, grateful for her tone—calm, but not patronizing. "Good to see you, Jean."
"You too. Though I have to admit, I'm curious what brings you back to us."
I caught the subtle emphasis on 'back,' the unspoken question about where I'd been and why now.
Next was Hank McCoy—Beast to the world, but clearly more at home in tweed than spandex. His blue fur was immaculately groomed, glasses perched low on his nose, a tablet already in hand.
"Ah! Our young strategist returns," he said with a smile, though I could see the analytical mind working behind his friendly demeanor. "Two years older and, I suspect, considerably more experienced. A pleasure to meet you, Ash."
"Likewise, Dr. McCoy," I replied.
He tilted his head slightly. "I trust the intervening years have been... educational?"
The way he said it made me think he suspected they'd been more than just educational. "You could say that."
Last to arrive was Logan. He didn't knock. Just opened the door, stepped in like he owned the place, and gave me a long look—the kind of look that said he was cataloging every change in the past two years. Then a grunt.
"Kid."
"Logan," I said, mirroring his flat tone.
Storm stood silently to the side, arms crossed, eyes watchful. She hadn't moved from where she'd stood earlier—her trust already earned, but never given lightly. There was something in her posture that suggested she was reassessing me, comparing the person in front of her to the one she remembered.
Professor Xavier waited until the last of them had taken their seats, then gestured toward me.
"You have the floor, Ash."
I opened my backpack, pulled out a slim black laptop, and set it gently on the desk in front of Charles and Beast. With a flick, the screen came to life.
"I got this data from someone I trust," I began, aware of how inadequate that sounded to a room full of people who'd learned to be cautious about intelligence. "Each red marker here—" I pointed as the map of North America lit up with dots "—is a confirmed or suspected facility conducting illegal experiments on Mutants. Some of them are government-affiliated. Some off-the-books. But all of them are in violation of basic human rights."
Beast leaned in immediately, his scientific curiosity warring with obvious concern. "The scope of this..." he murmured, then looked up sharply. "Source verification?"
"Encrypted intelligence. Verified through multiple cross-checks," I answered, trying to keep my voice steady. "Facility layouts. Personnel rosters. Even supply manifests."
Jean was studying the map with growing horror. "How long have these been operating?"
"Some of them? Years. The oldest traces I can find go back over a decade."
"A decade," Scott repeated quietly, his tactical mind clearly processing the implications. "And we had no idea."
"We suspected," Xavier said, his voice heavy. "There were always rumors, disappearances that followed patterns. But nothing concrete enough to act on."
Logan moved forward suddenly, arms tense. "Who's behind this?"
I clicked another folder, hesitating for just a moment. This was the part that would change everything.
A black-and-white photo appeared—William Stryker.
"Name ring any bells?" I asked, watching Logan's face carefully.
The change was immediate and dramatic. Logan's eyes locked on the screen, his whole body going rigid. His nostrils flared, and something primal and dangerous flickered behind his eyes.
"Son of a—" he muttered, turning away sharply, fists clenched.
Jean moved closer to him instinctively, her concern evident. "Logan? What is it?"
"It's him," Logan said, his voice rough with barely contained rage. "I don't know how, but it's him. This... this bastard did something to me." He looked back at the screen, then away again quickly. "I don't remember it all, but... I know."
Charles' expression had grown grave, his fingers steepled in front of him. "William Stryker. I should have suspected."
"You know him?" I asked.
"We have history," Charles said simply, but there was weight behind those words. "He's a military scientist with very particular views about mutants. I had hoped his projects had been shut down years ago."
Storm exhaled through her nose, visibly disturbed. "Apparently not."
I continued, trying to maintain momentum. "I don't want to wait until this becomes another Liberty Island situation. We raid these places—methodically. Quiet if we can, loud if we must. Maximum two days per phase. Any longer, they'll catch wind, move assets, or worse—accelerate whatever they're doing to the people inside."
Beast cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses. "That's... bold. Ambitious, even. But the logistics alone..."
"I've worked through the logistics," I said. "I've already marked which sites are lightly staffed and which ones have higher mutant prisoner counts. We hit the outer ones first to minimize alarm, then move toward the central hubs."
Charles finally spoke, his voice calm but layered with years of experience making impossible decisions.
"You speak with certainty. And urgency. But you must understand—attacking government facilities, even covert ones operating outside the law, has consequences that extend far beyond the immediate mission."
"I do understand," I said, meeting his gaze. "But what's happening inside those places? That has consequences too. For people who didn't ask for this. Kids. Families who think their children are dead."
He looked at me then—not as a child, not as a weapon, but as someone who'd made a choice to bring this to them. Someone who understood the weight of what they were asking.
"And if we strike," he said gently, "what happens afterward? Public backlash? Government retaliation? Escalation that puts our students at risk?"
"I'm not here to play politics," I said, feeling some of the old frustration creep into my voice. "I'm here to stop people from being tortured."
Jean placed a hand on the back of Charles' chair, her voice soft but firm. "He's right, Professor. If this intelligence is accurate, then waiting puts innocent lives at risk."
Logan just growled, still staring at Stryker's photo. "I say we hit them. Now."
Beast sighed deeply, clearly torn between his scientific caution and his moral convictions. "If the data holds under scrutiny... I'll need to review it thoroughly tonight. Prepare transport models, extraction protocols. We'd need a minimum three-team system for coordination."
Charles was quiet for a long moment, the weight of leadership evident in his posture. I could see him calculating not just the immediate risks, but the long-term consequences for every mutant under his protection.
Storm stepped closer to his side, her voice quiet but resolute. "We can't ignore this, Professor."
Finally, Charles looked at me once more—not with doubt, but with the gravity of someone who understood that some decisions, once made, changed everything.
"I won't dismiss your proposal," he said slowly. "But I ask you to stay. Let us study the data thoroughly. Let us plan this... together. If we're going to do this, we do it right."
I nodded, though part of me wanted to push harder, faster. "Fair enough."
But inside, I was already thinking three steps ahead, already planning for the possibility that their caution might cost lives we could have saved.
The silence stretched for several moments after Charles agreed to consider the mission. I could see them all processing, weighing the implications, but there was something else nagging at me—something I knew they wouldn't want to hear.
"There's something else we need to discuss," I said, breaking the quiet.
Scott looked up from where he'd been studying the facility map. "What kind of something else?"
I hesitated, knowing this was going to be the hard part. "The scale of this operation... it's massive. Forty-seven facilities, some with military-grade security, coordinated strikes across multiple time zones..." I paused, meeting each of their eyes. "We're going to need help."
Beast nodded thoughtfully. "Additional personnel would certainly be advantageous. Perhaps we could reach out to some of our former students? Recruit trusted allies?"
"That's one option," I said carefully. "But I was thinking we might need someone with more... specialized experience."
Storm raised an eyebrow. "What kind of specialized experience?"
I took a breath, knowing there was no good way to ease into this. "Guys, I know this may sound crazy, but... should we invite Magneto for this?"
The reaction was immediate and explosive.
"Absolutely not," Scott said, standing up so quickly his chair scraped against the floor.
Logan's claws extended with a sharp snikt. "Are you out of your damn mind, kid?"
"Erik Lehnsherr?" Beast sputtered, nearly dropping his tablet. "The man who tried to commit genocide two years ago?"
Storm's eyes had gone white for a split second before she controlled herself. "That's not help, Ash. That's suicide."
"Wait, just listen—" I started.
"No," Charles said firmly, his voice carrying an edge I rarely heard. "Erik is not an option. Not for this. Not for anything."
"But think about it logically," I pressed on, despite the wall of hostility facing me. "He has resources we don't. Connections in the underground mutant community. And more importantly, he has just as much reason to want these facilities shut down as we do."
"His reasons don't matter," Scott said, his voice tight with controlled anger. "The man is a terrorist."
"I'm not asking you to forget what he's done," I said quickly. "I'm asking you to look at what we both want right now. We want those facilities shut down and those people freed. So does he."
"He worked with us because he had no choice," Jean said, her voice still gentle but firm. "And he's spent every moment since then trying to start a war between humans and mutants."
Logan retracted his claws but his posture remained tense. "Kid, you didn't see what he did to me. To Rogue. The bastard was willing to kill a teenager to power his machine."
"I'm not saying what he did was right," I said, trying to keep my voice level. "I'm saying that right now, today, we have the same enemy. Stryker is doing to mutants exactly what Magneto has always said humans would do."
"How?" Storm interrupted. "How does that make him trustworthy? He's been saying humans are the enemy for decades."
I felt frustration building in my chest. "And maybe he's been proven right by places like this. Look, I'm not defending his methods. I'm saying we need his resources."
"Resources built on violence and extremism," Beast said, his voice unusually sharp. "The company we keep reflects who we are, Ash."
"Does it?" I asked. "You're all willing to raid government facilities and risk war with the humans. The only difference is scale."
"Because we're trying to save lives, not end them," Jean said softly, but there was steel underneath her gentle tone. "There's a fundamental difference between rescue and revenge."
Charles leaned forward, his expression serious. "Erik operates from a place of pain and anger. Those emotions, while understandable, make him unpredictable. Dangerous."
"So do all of you," I said. "Logan's angry about what Stryker did to him. Storm's angry about those children. You're all angry, but you're still planning to do this."
"There's a difference between righteous anger and Erik's... obsession," Charles said carefully. "I know him better than perhaps anyone in this room. I've seen what his pain drives him to do."
I could see I was losing them, but I pushed forward anyway. "Look, I'm not saying we make him team leader or trust him with everything," I said. "I'm saying we use his resources. His knowledge of covert operations. His ability to mobilize mutants who won't work with you but might work with him."
"What exactly do you think he brings to this operation that we can't handle ourselves?" Scott asked, his tactical mind clearly working despite his anger.
"Manpower. Equipment. Intelligence networks. And access to mutants who've gone underground—people who don't trust institutions but might trust someone who's been fighting this fight longer than any of us."
"You mean people who've been radicalized," Logan said bluntly.
"I mean people who've been hiding from exactly this kind of thing," I countered. "People who know how these shadow operations work because they've been running from them for years."
Jean shook her head, her expression pained. "Ash, I understand your frustration. I really do. But bringing Erik into this... it would change everything. Not just the mission, but us. We'd become something we're not."
"What if we're not strong enough alone? What if people die because we were too proud to accept help from someone we don't like?"
"Then we find another way," she said simply. "We always find another way."
"And if there isn't another way? If your refusal to work with him costs lives?"
Storm's voice was quiet but intense. "Then we live with the consequences of our choices. But we don't compromise who we are out of fear or desperation."
"Who you are isn't helping the kids in those facilities," I said, frustration finally bleeding through. "Your principles are admirable, but they're not getting people out of torture chambers."
"Enough," Charles said, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "This discussion is over. Erik will not be part of this mission. That is final."
"You're underestimating these people, it's a mistake" I said.
"Perhaps," he replied. "But it's our mistake to make."
I looked around the room, seeing the absolute resolve in their faces. Even Beast, who I'd hoped might see the logical argument, was shaking his head.
"Fine," I said, sitting back in my chair. "But when those people die because we didn't have enough firepower or resources to get them out... remember this conversation."
Jean's voice was soft, almost sad. "Ash, I know you think we're being naive. But there are some lines we won't cross, even to save lives. Because once you cross them, you can't go back to who you were before."
"Maybe who you were before wasn't good enough," I said quietly.
The room fell silent again, the weight of disagreement hanging heavy between us.
Charles finally spoke, his voice measured. "We will find another way to get the help we need. But not from Erik. Never from Erik."
I nodded, though I didn't agree. "Your call, Professor."
But even as I said it, I was already thinking about alternatives. About what I might have to do if their way wasn't enough.
Because at the end of the day, those people in the facilities didn't care about moral principles. This world didn't care about moral principles, if you want something in this world and protect your own you needed Strength. Conviction.
***
Some time later…
Erik Lehnsherr's POV
Time has little meaning when the world outside your cage moves without you.
They had taken everything that was metal—every rivet, bolt, wire, and hinge—and replaced it with sterile plastics, reinforced glass, and clever suspensions. Even the air vent above was filtered with polycarbonate mesh. My captors feared me that much. Or respected me that much. The line is thin between the two.
I sat alone, as I always did. Back straight. Palms open on the surface of the table like a monk awaiting enlightenment—or judgment. The silence here wasn't peaceful. It was constructed. Measured. Smothering.
Then the lights flickered.
Once. Twice.
And then, they went out completely.
The silence grew louder. And just as I tensed, bracing for some experiment or execution or interrogation...
He was there.
Not walking. Not climbing in. Just—there. Standing where empty air had been only a heartbeat ago. A boy—no, a young man. Early twenties, if I had to guess. His presence was strange, controlled, but not military. He wore travel-worn clothes and a hat that made him look more like a wanderer than a warrior. And perched on his shoulder… was something.
Yellow, small, four-limbed and rodent-like, but the power it radiated made my skin tighten. I had never felt anything like it, and I have faced gods. Static crackled faintly in the air, the scent of ozone curling around my tongue.
The boy sat down on the table with casual ease, his legs swinging a little off the side, as if this sterile glass prison were just a train station bench.
"Erik Lehnsherr," he said with the kind of familiarity I normally found insulting. But his tone wasn't arrogant—just… absolute. "We need to talk."
I didn't respond right away.
He gestured to the seat opposite. "We've got about ten minutes before someone realizes the security feed is a loop. Might as well sit."
Curious. Very curious.
I regarded him in silence for a few seconds longer. Studied the lines in his face. The set of his jaw. The complete lack of fear. Then I stood, calmly, and stepped to the seat. No guards screamed warnings. No doors opened. No sirens blared.
Interesting.
I sat. "Well," I said with a faint, tired smile. "Either I've finally gone mad in here… or something very interesting is about to happen."
The boy smirked, and for the first time, I sensed it. Behind his confidence… there was depth. Age. Not years perhaps, but weight. Burden.
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A.N. I didn't get much time to proofread this chapter because of a tight schedule, please comment if you find any inconsistencies. I probably will update this later tonight after double-checking it myself. Thanks.
GIVE ME POWER STONES!!!!!!!