X-Men: First Class

by GalanDun, Mrguy22594

Summary:

The fates of two men will intertwine to shape history as they explore loss, brotherhood, vengeance, and justice in this tale of people with a little extra power.

Chapter 1: Was für eine wundervolle Welt

X-Men: First Class

By Alex Shannon and Kevin Ridley

Based on X-Men: First Class by Ashley Edward Miller, Zack Stentz, Jane Goldman, Sheldon Turner, Bryan Singer, and Matthew Vaughn, and characters/stories from Marvel and DC Comics.

Argentina, 1962.

Erik Lensherr left a trail of dead Nazis in his wake almost as bloody and numerous as Captain America himself. He'd killed his first in the clutches of the German war machine, and he did not know when he would kill his last, but he knew who the last would be. His tormentor. The murderer of his family, architect of his misery. Doctor Klaus Schmidt. The man who had escaped capture during the raid. One of the few who'd remained who had.

Erik had a map in his head he'd built from information he gathered through the years. In the seventeen years since his rescue, Erik collected everything that might lead him to one of those horrible people who'd caused so much pain. Each domino that fell led him to another, and another. He knew that some day, he'd find what he needed to nail Klaus Schmidt's hide to a wall.
All roads on the map led to Argentina. Erik drew his mind map out onto a real one on occasion, this being one of them. Schmidt's trail always ended at Auschwitz, but one memory shone out in Erik's mind like a beacon of light. When Schmidt grabbed the rail, he seemed to grow younger. Was that possible? Whether it was thought to be possible was irrelevant, for it had happened. For all Erik knew, it could happen again. Who knows how long Schmidt had been aging and de-aging himself over the years with... Whatever that power of his was. Energy absorption? For how long? Doubtlessly it was a long while. If he could allow himself to age and force himself to de-age, he could blend in anywhere, for any length of time. All he'd need was a new name every few decades and he'd be virtually untraceable.
Virtually.

As Erik had learned, some things rarely change over time. Certain speech patterns rang true even through the best of vocal disguise techniques and even aging, but with as large as the world was, Erik was unlikely to hear Schmidt's voice on purpose, much less by accident. His gait could be a clue, but again, only if Erik came across him, and that was an imperfect method at the best of times. Fingerprints returned nothing, as Klaus Schmidt's records did not contain copies of that information. One thing though, one thing that Erik had, was Klaus Schmidt's signature, and various handwritten notes that had escaped destruction. Every stroke of the pen or pencil was imprinted into Erik's mind like the serial number from the camp was into his left arm. He'd know it when he saw it.

But Schmidt wasn't his only target, by any means. No, he'd take the life of anyone who'd worn that red armband willingly, and he'd revel in doing so.

The little pub in Argentina seemed unassuming, even homely from the outside. But Erik knew who was inside, and the dark secrets held in their blackened souls. They were some of the men he was looking for. Highly ranked officers of important status at the camp, who'd escaped capture by a matter of mere hours. It was time that fate caught up to them, and maybe he'd find a few clues toward his ultimate goal.

Erik entered the pub, and casually strolled through to the bar at the back of the building. He could hear a song playing on the radio. Good Luck Charm, sung by Elvis Presley.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen." He greeted the three men in the building in Spanish as he removed his sunglasses. Two were playing checkers at a table near the bar, and the other was tending bar.

"Good afternoon." The bartender replied.

"Hot out there, isn't it?" Erik asked, jovially.

"Indeed." The bartender replied.

"One beer, please." Erik requested as he took a seat at one of the bar's stools. The bartender took a pint glass and filled it from the tap. Erik glanced around the pub, until his eyes settled on something. A picture of two of the men in the pub with one who wasn't. One who he might not have recognized at first, if it wasn't for the handwriting on the lower half of the picture.

"The Caspartina on her maiden voyage. May she sail us to brotherhood, to the future, to a superior world. January 25, 1961"

Erik had seen a man who might have been that man's father, or grandfather, many years ago... But the handwriting gave it away. It was that of Doctor Klaus Schmidt. It told him who the man was, and what he looked like now. Erik felt his heart soar, but kept his emotions in check. It would do him no good to give the game away this early... But the pieces were finally coming together. The port of call on the boat told him exactly where he needed to look next. Miami.

The bartender brought him the full glass of beer.

"Ah, German beer!" Erik exclaimed.

"Of course!" The bartender replied.

"Yes, it's Bitburger! You like it?" One of the men at the table asked in German.

Erik allowed himself a small, sly grin. If he hadn't already known who they were, they'd have just given him an in. Unlike Shaw, these men hadn't been as careful with their visages. He had pictures of them in uniform.

"The best!" He replied in German, and turned to face the man. "What brings you to Argentina?"

The man shrugged. "The climate." He replied. "I am a pig farmer."

Erik chuckled, and looked at the other man expectantly.

The first man's checkers partner laughed uncomfortably. "Tailor." He said. "Since I was a boy. My father made the finest suits in Dusseldorf."

Erik put on a large grin, and rose from his seat with his glass in his hand. "My parents were from Dusseldorf!" He lied as he made to sit with the two men at their table.

"You have us at a loss." The first man said as Erik took his seat. "What do you do?"

Erik sat on the chair at the end of the table where he could see both of the men playing checkers, as well as the bartender.

"I am a soldier." Erik replied. "Just like my father was. He served in the first World War. He was a national hero, awarded the Iron Cross."

The tailor lifted his glass in salute. "To Dusseldorf, then!"

Erik and the other man raised their glasses and clinked them together. "To Dusseldorf!" They chorused.

The motion caused Erik's sleeve to ride up on his arm. One of the men caught a glimpse of something on Erik's arm, and looked down.

"What is that?" He asked.

"Ah," Erik said. "You saw my tattoo." Erik pulled up his sleeve to reveal a winged dagger with a banner reading "Who dares wins" near the tip of the blade.

"It might seem strange," Erik said with a smile as he allowed the men to ponder his tattoo. "For the son of a German hero to wind up with the British, but it helps me fulfill my boyhood dreams of travelling the world and dealing out justice to those who truly deserve punishment." He shrugged. "And it's not like that Iron Cross mattered much in the end, anyway."

Erik took a drink of his beer as the men eyed him suspiciously. Then, a new song came on the radio. Louis Armstrong, What A Wonderful World.

The bartender made to fiddle with the radio, perhaps to change the station or to turn it off, but Erik turned to him quickly.

"Do you mind leaving it?" He interjected, halting the man in his tracks. "This is my favorite song."

The bartender raised an eyebrow, but retreated from the radio.

Erik closed his eyes, and sang along to the song quietly. "I see trees of green... Red roses too. I see them bloom... For me and you... And I think to myself... What a wonderful world..." Erik trailed off, and opened his eyes to see the two men at the table staring at him, warily.

"Might I make a confession?" Erik asked with a small, sly smile. "My parents weren't actually from Dusseldorf. They were from Nuremburg." The men grew tense in response to this revelation. "I suppose it's fitting that my journey started where his would end. You could even say I had a hand in his downfall."

"Whose downfall?" The pig farmer asked.

"Hitler's." Erik replied, taking a sip of his beer. "A German soldier had Captain America square in his sights. I killed the soldier before he could make the shot."

They sat in an uncomfortable silence as Erik's smile grew larger across his face, until his teeth began to show through his lips.

"I have another tattoo." He said, smugly. "The SAS offered to cover it up with the one you've seen, but I insisted it remain intact. Would you like to see it?"

Erik slid his sleeve further up to reveal the numbers "214782" in a bold, black print, just above the winged dagger.

The pig farmer must have seen Erik's intent in his eyes, or something else, for he snapped the moment he saw the number. He drew a glowing red dagger from below the table in a move like lightning and stabbed it backhand at Erik. Erik didn't even need to manipulate the dagger to avoid being touched by the energy-charged blade. He kicked his chair out from under him and into the wall as he stepped backward as he slammed both of his forearms into the man's knife-arm, then grabbed the arm and slammed it into the table, pushing the man face-first into the checkers-board. The glow around the knife died as Erik removed the knife from the man's hand with his right.

"'Blood and honor...'" Erik read the inscription on the blade. "Well, you already lacked one of those things." He said as he ground his left palm into the man's triceps tendon. "Would you care for me to remove the other?"

"We were following orders!" The man snarled. "Good soldiers follow orders, you know that!"

Erik tucked the dagger back into the Nazi's hand with a smile.

"Then follow this one." Erik said with a sickly sweet tone. "Remove your terrible, heartless self from this beautiful world, so as not to trouble the civilized world again."

"Freeze, asshole!" The bartender screamed at Erik as he pointed his German Luger at Erik. His finger was on the trigger.

Erik shot the bartender a disdainful look, and forced the pistol to aim away from him, toward the tailor. The bartender painicked, and pried his finger off the trigger, but Erik pushed it with a thought, and a bullet fired at the tailor. The tailor made a swiping motion with one hand, sending the bullet flying toward the wall. Erik snapped the bullet around the man in a circle, and embedded the metal projectile in the man's brain, ending his life.

The two men's faces were covered in terror, but they knew there was no escape. Erik turned back to the pig farmer, and clasped the man's hand more tightly around the dagger.

"Be good little soldiers." Erik said as he rose, and took his beer from the table.

The two men struggled to save their own lives as their weapons turned against them. The blade moved toward the pig-farmer's neck as the gun pointed closer and closer to the bartender's head as Erik drank down the last of his beer, and sang along to the last lines of the song with a smile.

"And I think to myself... What a wonderful world."

Notes:

What A Wonderful World, as sung by Louis Armstrong, was originally released in 1967. As this story is set in 1962, this is an anachronism, but Alex couldn't divorce this version of the scene from that particular song.

Chapter 2: Mutant And Proud?

First of September, 1944. Westchester, New York. Xavier Residence

At the age of twelve, Charles Xavier was what one could call a perceptive young man, who hardly let any small details or thoughts slip by his… Unique mind. For the boy was not simply confined to his own, he had been able to read the minds of others not quite as long as he could remember, but damn close. His power was something he tried to keep hidden, but not something he was ashamed of. 

It was his perceptive nature which awoke him from his sleep when he sensed a distant, strange presence in the kitchen. Charles opened his eyes, pulled his covers away silently, revealing blue and white pinstriped pajamas, shifted to place his feet in their slippers which lied at the foot of his bed, and stood up, taking care not to bump his nightstand where three pictures, one of Charles Darwin, one of Hedy Lamarr, and another of Albert Einstein, sat quite close to each other, in such a way that if one toppled over, it would take the other two with it, in a clatter of wood, and potentially a shattering of glass.

Charles carefully withdrew a baseball bat from its position in a stand in the corner of his room, then exited into the hallway, taking care not to step on a squeaky floorboard just outside the room, and followed the presence down the stairs, through the house. Eventually, he found that he need not probe about with his mind, as he could hear the person the presence belonged to rummaging around in the kitchen. Charles drew the bat over his shoulder, and crept around the corner… Only to find…

“Mother?” He asked in disbelief. A middle-aged blonde woman in a red dress with a string of pearls at her neck snapped away from the fridge, closing the door quickly. His mother appeared somewhat flustered, and Charles withdrew his mental probing hastily as he approached her. “What are you-” He stammered as he allowed the bat to fall to his side. “I thought you were a burglar!”

His mother put on a smile as she leaned awkwardly against the fridge.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, darling!” She replied. “I was just getting a snack. Go back to bed” She commanded.

Charles studied “his mother” intently, without so much as a word passing his lips. Her demeanor was all wrong, and she hadn’t worn that dress in quite a while.

“What’s the matter?” “Mother” inquired. “Go on, back to bed!” She insisted again.

Charles reached back out with his mind, gently feeling around in the woman’s presence without probing directly into her brain. Everything about her was wrong, both in how she comported herself, and in her psychic presence.

His mother’s doppelganger leaned down to his height, and gave him a warm-ish, but clearly feigned, smile. “I’ll make you a hot chocolate!” She added, diplomatically.

Charles raised an eyebrow. “Who are you?” He asked incredulously. My mother has never set foot in this kitchen in her life! Charles exclaimed directly into the doppelganger's mind as he stalked forward. She retreated into the depths of the kitchen as she cowered away from his voice inside her head, seeking refuge wherever she could… But there was no hiding from Charles’s power now. She’s certainly never offered to make me hot chocolate! Not unless you count ordering the maid to do it! Who are you?

The doppelganger backed into the kitchen sink, and took a few panicked breaths.

“What have you done with my mother?” Charles whispered.

The doppelganger stared at Charles like a small, frightened child, and continued to shrink from him. Not just metaphorically, but literally. Her skin faded from his mother’s pale pinkish color to a glossy blue. His mother’s blonde hair shifted to strawberry, to blood red, and her eyes went yellow, with vertical slit pupils that reminded Charles of a cat’s eyes. Her clothes faded away entirely, replaced by the featureless blue body of a small child.

Charles’ eyebrows immediately shot up in amazement.

“You’re-”

“Disgusting?” The girl said as she fell to the floor, cutting him off. She covered her face with her hands as she huddled into a ball.

“Blue!” He exclaimed. “A magnificent, royal blue!” Charles’ mouth spread wide into a grin. “I’ve always wanted to be blue, it’s my favorite color. Quite frankly, I’m jealous.”

The girl was taken aback by his enthusiasm. “You’re not afraid of me?” She inquired, timidly.

“Good god, no!” Charles replied in a hushed whisper. I’m different too, remember? Charles thought quietly into her head. “I didn’t think I’d ever meet anyone else who was different. And here you are!” He extended his hand. “I’m Charles! Charles Xavier!”

The girl took his hand lightly, and he helped her up. She held his grasp, and shook his hand. “Raven… Just Raven.”

Charles' expression softened as he gently probed Raven’s mind. “You’re alone, aren’t you?” He asked, although he could have gleaned the answer from her reaction and expressions alone, much less what was in her mind.

Raven nodded, shyly. “Hungry, too.” She added, looking away.

Charles gently turned her head back to face him. “We’ve got lots of food. You don’t have to steal!” He said warmly. “In fact… If I have a few words with my parents, you’ll never have to steal again!”

 

Oxford, England, 1962...

In a pub named The Eagle, just outside of Oxford University, a long-haired blonde young woman leaned against the bar by her lonesome. She was clad in a beige jacket over her black, short sleeved dress, but her attire was the least interesting aspect of her appearance to anyone with a keen eye for detail, for the woman’s eyes were two different colors. One green, the other blue.

"Heterochromia..." A voice whispered from her right. She turned to the source of the voice. It belonged to a short-haired brunette man who looked to be in his thirties. The man sported a black blazer, matching pants, with a blue dress shirt underneath. His hair was kept to a medium-short length, and combed back neatly.

"A gentleman would offer to buy me a drink first." The woman replied, drolly.

The man chuckled at the woman's remark, then pressed the index and middle fingers of his right hand against his temple, and addressed the bartender. "Norman, a pint of bitters for me and a brandy for the lady, please."

Seated at the bar, to his right was another woman with long hair, but, unlike the one to the man’s left, hers was a bright blood red. She wore a black dress, cut low enough to tease some cleavage, with matching boots and a maroon scarf. The red-haired woman rolled her eyes at the man's attempts at flirting.

"How did you know that?" The blonde questioned, surprised.

"Lucky guess." The man answered with an unconvincing shrug. The redhead raised an unimpressed eyebrow in response, and scoffed as she swigged the last sip from her own drink.

"My name is Xavier. Charles Xavier. How do you do?" He introduced, extending his hand..

"Amy." The woman responded as she took his hand, out of courtesy.

"Heterochromia was in reference to your eyes.” Charles continued as he pulled up a seat next to her. “Which, I have to say, are quite stunning. One green, one blue. It's a mutation. A very groovy mutation.” Charles added, with a suggestive tone in his voice. “I've got news for you, Amy. You are a Mutant." Charles explained to the woman, with the faint hope of gaining additional interest from the woman.

"First you proposition a girl, and then you call her deformed. How is that seduction technique working for you?" She retorted.

"I'll tell you in the morning." He answered with a confident grin.

Try as she might, she couldn’t help but find his response somewhat amusing.

"No, seriously though,” he added, taking his glass from the bartender. “You mustn't knock it. Mutation took us from single-celled organisms to being the dominant form of reproductive life on this planet. Infinite forms of variations with each passing generation. all through mutation.

Impressed with how he explained the positive side of her apparent mutation, she took the drink Charles bought for her from the bartender, and raised her glass. "Then let's reclaim that word." She replied with a cheeky smile.

The redhead sighed in response, grabbed her hand bag and stood up from her seat. As she approached the two, both Charles and Amy tapped their glasses together in cheers.

"Mutant and proud." Amy said.

"Chin chin. Hey." He responded in agreement as they both took a sip of their respective drinks.

"I guess I have to buy my own drink." The redhead commented dryly as she sidled closer to Charles.

"I'm sorry.” Charles said to the redhead. He turned to the bartender and signaled with one finger. “One cola." He addressed Norman.

"Charles here was just telling me that I'm like one of the first sea creatures that grew legs." Amy explained as she turned to the woman in question.

"A tiny bit sexier." He added while gesturing with his index and middle finger. The two then shared a small laugh.

"I'm sorry.” Charles said apologetically, and gestured to the redhead. “This is my sister, Raven." Charles said by way of introduction. Although it was obvious that Raven didn't feel similar sentiments to Charles, she played along with a fake smile.

"Hi." Raven said as she shook Amy's hand.

"Amy." The other responded. "What do you study?" Amy asked.

"Waitressing." Raven answered. Amy gave a nod of understanding. In an almost imperceptible instant, before Amy noticed what color Raven’s eyes were, one of Raven’s eyes turned a bright yellow as the redhead looked into the blonde’s eyes.

"Oh, look, you have heterochromia too." Amy excitedly pointed out to Charles, who choked on his drink in response.

"Sorry, what?" He asked as he wiped his mouth and attempted to regain some composure.

"Look at her eye." She added, gesturing to Raven's now yellow eye.

Charles cleared his throat uncomfortably, and said "Right. Raven, get your coat, please." He set a five-pound bill on the counter, and walked out of the bar with Raven in tow. 

"Don't talk to me,” He chastised Raven. “You did that on purpose." Charles said, a tinge of disappointment in his voice.

"I did not!” Raven replied indignantly.

"Yes you did!" Charles exclaimed, disbelievingly.

 “Why would I do that on purpose?" She demanded. "You know I can't control it sometimes if I'm stressed or tired." Raven complained.

"You seem to be doing a good job of controlling it right now." He said with a sneer.

"'Mutant and proud.'" Raven mocked, even mimicking the woman's accent.

"What?" Charles asked, incredulous. “Are you suggesting something?”

"I’m ‘suggesting’ that only applies to pretty mutations, or invisible ones like yours!” Raven retorted. “But the second people call you a freak, you’d better hide!"

Charles took a breath and said "You're being ridiculous."

They stopped walking and Xavier looked at Raven's eyes and added "I don't mean to sound like an old fart."

"Which you are." Raven interjected.

"Sometimes." Charles admitted, before he placed his hand on Raven's shoulder and added "But we've talked about this, Raven. A small slip-up is one thing. A big one does not bear thinking about."

“I barely even remember what I used to look like before I turned blue!” Raven replied. “I have to imagine what I might’ve looked like from a fuzzy memory! It’s hard to keep everything… Stable, sometimes.”

“Oh, Raven…” Charles replied. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to stay like this if it’s a problem. You can… Ease into something easier, maybe?”

“It’s easier to remember someone real.” Raven said. “I’ve tried it before. I can hold on longer if I really know what I’m going for.”

“You can’t just copy someone we’d see around town.” Charles admonished.

“I could do it from a photograph instead.” Raven replied “Probably last longer, too. I could be anyone I want… Or anyone you want.”

Charles laughed. “Please, you don’t have to do that. We can work on some exercises tomorrow.”

Raven groaned. “Come on! What if I went around looking like Wonder Woman?"

"Raven, we both know how many eyebrows that would raise." Charles replied with a chuckle. “I don’t want Captain America kicking down our door.”

Raven sighed in defeat. "Charles, I was kidding."

"Look, we'll talk about this in the room, okay?" He suggested, and she nodded in agreement before they continued toward their shared room.

 

In the bathroom of their shared dwelling, Raven changed out of her clothes, and allowed herself to relax out of her imagined self, and into her…. Regular self, for lack of a better word.

Raven looked herself over in the mirror. Every inch of her was blue, except for her eyes, which were yellow, and her hair. Her hair was the only aspect she shared with her “normal” self.

“‘Mutant and proud.’” She repeated, sadly. She picked her toothbrush out of the cup on the side of the counter, and squirted a bit of toothpaste onto it. She brushed her teeth, showered, then changed into her bathrobe. She didn’t change out of her regular form.

Charles was seated at his desk, hard at work on his paper. He’d removed his blazer, and hung it from the coat rack.

"Would you date me?" She asked. She wasn’t sure if the question was rhetorical or not.

"Of course I would.” Charles replied without looking up from his writing. “Any young man would be lucky to have you. You're stunning."

"Even looking like this?" She questioned further, with a gesture at her current state.

"Like... What? Blue?" Charles responded while he turned to look at her. "Absolutely, if you weren’t my oldest friend." He added with a smile as he turned back to his desk. 

"I'm your only friend." She replied somberly.

"Thank you for that." He responded, bemused.

"Well, why not?" She asked. “If it’s not that-”

"I'm incapable of thinking of you that way." Charles stated as he closed his book and stood from his seat. "I'm responsible for you." He added as he walked past Raven. Once he sat down on the couch he further said "Anything else would just feel wrong." 

"What if you didn't know me?" Raven asked. “Just… Hypothetically?”

"Unfortunately, I do know you.” Charles replied as passed her on his way to the couch. “I don't know what's gotten into you, lately. You're awfully concerned with your looks." Charles reopened his notebook, and returned to writing.

Raven sighed, and walked over to the couch, where she flopped down, and rested her head against Charles’ chest. "I'm sleepy. Will you read to me?" She requested, finding comfort in her position.

"I can't!” Charles replied, somewhat aghast. “I have my thesis coming up. I have to study." Charles responded. “We’re getting a little old for this kind of thing, aren’t we?”

“Read me your thesis, then.” Raven commanded with a yawn as she closed her eyes, and nestled deeper into his arms. “You’re never too old for a bedtime story, and this kind of thing always sends me right off.”

Charles resigned himself to his fate with a small laugh, and held his notebook straight out from his eyes.

"'To Homo Neanderthalensis, his mutant cousin, Homo Sapien, was an aberration. Peaceful Cohabitation, if ever it existed, was short-lived. Records show, without exception, that the arrival of the mutated in any region was followed immediately by the extermination of their less-evolved kin.'" As Charles read, Raven drifted away to sleep, soothed by his informative, if dry, writing. He looked down at her, and he gently placed her head on a nearby pillow, before leaving the couch. "Good night, Raven." He said, then returned to his studies…

Chapter 3: Hellfire, O' Hellfire

Las Vegas, Nevada. Atomic Nightclub. CIA Agents Virgil Levene and Moira McTaggart were staked out in front of the club, where they observed the comings and goings of, more often than not, just the general public, or as general a public as could afford to enter the club… That wasn’t who they were looking for. Their mission was to spot Russian spies, foreign influences, and Communist sympathizers. Rumor had it the owner of the club, the reclusive and aristocratic Sebastian Shaw, had a secret group that met inside the casino, called the “Hellfire club” after historical Hellfire Clubs of the 1700s, notably attended by American scientist and founding father Benjamin Franklin. It was rumored that Shaw held raucous parties to curry favor with important political and business figures, and if those parties wound up being a cover for Un-American activities, Uncle Sam wanted to know about it.

So far that night, they’d counted three mafia bosses, the Italian ambassador to America, Sergio Fenoaltea, and the president of Lockheed, Dan Haughton. All five of them were grouped up near the swinging glass doors, chatting amicably, like they either didn’t know, or more likely, didn’t care who the others were, or what they did.

Levene lowered his binoculars and made a disgruntled sound.

“Looks like it’s just another day at the office.” He said. “Strip club’s a strip club, no matter how unusual the clientele.”

Moira kept her eyes glued to her pair, and continued to pan around until she caught sight of another important figure emerging from a red sports car.

“Is that Colonel Hendry?” She asked as she gestured to the balding red-haired tuxedo-clad man.

Levene raised an eyebrow, and pointed his binoculars in the man’s direction.

“The NATO guy?” He asked.

Moira nodded. “Yeah.” She replied as they both focused on the man.

“I’ll be damned, yes it is.” Levene said as Hendry made his way to the group out front, and the six men entered . “These guys can’t all be commies, can they?”

Moira shrugged. “Like you said, maybe a strip club’s just a strip club…” Moira trailed off as she spied a limo pulling up to the front door, and a number of bodacious babes dressed in incredibly tight, incredibly skimpy lingerie and dancer’s outfits emerged from the vehicle’s many doors. “But there’s only one way to find out.” She said as an idea popped into her head. I don’t look too bad in tights myself . Moira set her binoculars down on the dashboard, and began to strip.

“Uh huh.” Levene said, clearly distracted by the sight of the girls. “Woo! Hello, girls!” He said as he followed them with his binoculars. “Very nice.” He commented as Moira finished stripping to her underwear. He turned to her as she dropped her shirt to the floorboards, and was immediately shocked by the sight. “What the hell are you doing?!” He asked in dismay.

“Using some equipment the CIA didn’t give me.” She replied, matter-of-factly. “Stay put.”

Moira surreptitiously exited the car, filtered into the gaggle of gals, and attempted to blend in as well as she could, given how plain her undergarments were compared to the others. Luckily, nobody paid her any more (Or less) attention than they did the other girls. To the security at the door, she was just another hot broad in lingerie. They just waved the girls inside, where they filtered through the plush foyer, guided by the security at the door to an entryway where a generously-bosomed blonde woman in a glittery white skirt and bra, with thigh-high boots reaching from her feet to beneath her skirt, and a luscious fur cape on her back awaited them.

“Colonel Hendry?” The woman asked as the girls approached.

“Yes, ma’am.” The balding man replied.

“I’m Emma Frost, Sebastian Shaw’s associate.” She said. “Mister Shaw is indisposed at the moment, but he’s asked me to escort you at our party tonight. I trust you find our choice of entertainment enticing.” She said with a gesture at the approaching collection of scantily-clad women.

Hendry shot a sly smile at the underdressed ladies, then back at Frost. “I certainly do. Please, lead the way.” She extended a hand, he took it, and they linked arms as she led him and the others through the doors, down the stairs, past the chandeliers, onto the floor of the casino. There were tables for Blackjack, Craps, Roulette, Baccarat, Poker, Pool, just about any game one could imagine.

Moira panned her gaze around the club, taking in every detail she could, while attempting to remain inconspicuous. The guards were large, muscular men nearly three times her size, and if they got suspicious, she’d have a hard time escaping if they got in her way… So she had to be extra cautious.

The men she’d seen gathered outside, and a number of others who were already on the casino floor, were led into alcoves with rounded plush couches and large circular tables in the center, each by a different girl in lingerie. The girls each closed the curtains on the alcoves behind them once their group had filtered in. The only man who entered an alcove alone with one of the women was Hendry. Moira saw him and the woman who identified herself as Frost briefly before Frost slid the curtains shut.

Moira made her way down the steps as quickly as she could without raising suspicion, but her attire, figure, and slender, toned body attracted more attention than her path did, as she was beset by what seemed like dozens of interested customers, interested, perhaps, in procuring her services as a dancer, or otherwise.

“Hello, beautiful!” One man who was old enough to be her father cooed. “How are you?”

“Hey baby.” Another one said as he attempted to sidle up to her smoothly. “You want to find ourselves a quiet place?”

Moira shot them an apologetic, but nevertheless, somewhat nervous smile as she deftly twisted her way through the crowd.

“I’m so sorry.” She said over her shoulder. “I’ve been booked by Colonel Hendry!” She departed with a pout and a little wave.

While the statement bought her some distance, it did nothing to redirect the gazes of many interested parties, including one man who was wearing his sunglasses indoors, inexplicably.

Moira cut across the casino floor as quickly as she dared, until she was just outside of the circular alcove Frost had led Hendry into. Moira listened as carefully as she could over the din on the casino floor, but she couldn’t hear even a single word, nary a single sound from the curtained alcove.

She pulled the curtains wide, prepared to make her excuses if she found Hendry and Frost inside, only to find the alcove empty. She peered around the table and rounded couch in disbelief, searching for any trace of the pair, but quickly disappeared inside the curtains, and pulled them shut behind her, much to the chagrin of her assembled onlookers who wanted a closer glance at her assets.

 

Elsewhere, a man adorned in a velvet tuxedo dropped a needle onto a spinning record inside a glass case, and music began to play over the speakers of the lavishly-adorned private bar as he stepped away with a phony grin plastered across his aging, but still youthful face. The man’s hair was a nearly perfect brown, without a single sign of natural fading or dye, which went all but unnoticed to any but the most highly-trained of eyes. It was the same man who was in the photograph Erik Lensherr had seen at the bar in Argentina, the same man Dum Dum Dugan had “rescued” from Doctor Isabela Maru’s laboratory in Auschwitz. The man who’d identified himself as Sebastian Shaw.

Shaw took a small sniff of his glass of whiskey as he descended the stairs into the octagonal conversation pit, several yards from the bar, where a hispanic man in a silk suit lounged on a stool, facing the pit.

“Are you sure we can’t get you a refill, Bob?” Shaw asked.

Colonel Hendry shook his head. “No.” He replied.

Shaw turned an involuntary grimace into a smaller grin than before.

“So, I hear you’re blocking the proposal to position Jupiter missiles in Turkey.” Shaw said as he strode over to the tan suede couch opposite the identical one Hendry was seated upon, next to Emma Frost across the pit. Shaw sat, crossed his legs, and threw one arm across the back of the empty couch as he took a swig from his glass. “I expect you’ll reconsider.”

Hendry shook his head. “We’ve had this conversation, Sebastian. There are people opposed to this who carry more clout than I do, and they don’t share our perspective.”

Shaw scoffed. “You’re talking about Captain America and the Wonder Woman.” he said dismissively.

 

Hendry nodded. “Rogers’ friendship with Stark has garnered him an… Interesting perspective, as far as anyone can tell. One I feel may be a bit aggressive, but with whose goal, I ultimately agree with. If we put our nukes in Turkey, or anywhere that close to Russia, we’re risking all-out war.”

Shaw sighed, and lowered his glass to his knee.

“I don’t ask for favors, Colonel.” He said, allowing his face to slip into a cold smile. “I express my expectations…” Shaw allowed the words to linger in the air briefly before continuing. “So, let me say it again. I expect… You’ll reconsider.” Shaw spoke every word with the same weight as a doctor would deliver a grave diagnosis.

Hendry shook his head, and raised his coupe from the table. “At this time, the only thing I will reconsider is having another glass of this delicious champagne.” He made to down the remaining sip of champagne in the glass as Shaw gestured to the man seated behind him. The man cupped his right hand, and the air in the room began to swirl, swirling so fast in the man’s palm that the wind could be seen, until he’d kicked up an indoor tornado the size of a man. He released the wind at Hendry before the colonel could touch his lips to the goblet. The colonel glanced up in surprise, and dropped the glass as the tornado sent him flying from the pit into a nearby wall.

Hendry pulled himself to a seated position as Shaw and his compatriots surrounded him.

“What the hell did you put in my drink?” He demanded as he backed up into the wall.

Chardonnay grapes, yeast and liquor de tirage. The voice of Emma Frost sounded inside Hendry’s head. There are no tricks being played here, Colonel.

Frost crossed her arms, and raised an eyebrow as Hendry backed himself into a corner of the wall, and rubbed his forehead at the intrusion of the voice. Oh, you’re thinking of running, hiding? She scoffed mentally. There’s not a fortress in the world that can keep us out.

 

Moira McTaggart peered underneath the circular table, looking for any kind of switch, lever, or other hidden trigger that might allow egress from the intimate alcove. She found nothing, so she popped above the surface of the spiral-patterned table again, and studied it intently, until she found a seam between the ashtray in the center of the spiral and the table itself…

Hello. She thought. Ashtrays usually aren’t attached to a table like that… Moira leaned forward, and seized the crystal structure in both hands. It was firmly fixed in place, and wouldn’t move up, nor down, but when she turned it counter-clockwise, she felt a sharp CLICK! and the tray’s resistance to being pressed down vanished. She pushed the tray into the table, and immediately felt herself and the circular seat turn with a smooth mechanical whirring sound. Moira’s eyes shot wide open, and she clutched the leather seat beneath her to steady herself as the opening to the alcove circled away from the curtained entrance, and towards a new opening.

As the seat turned, the intimate glow of the club’s alcove was overwhelmed by the bright light of the study beyond the secret door.

Quickly, Moira took what cover she could behind the edge of the doorway, and listened for any movement, or sign her actions had been noticed. As soon as she was sure nobody was approaching to investigate her surreptitious movements, she peered into the office. It was a fully-furnished affair, and while somewhat plain, far more opulent in its’ appearance than its’ status as a hidden office would suggest it might have been. The desk was made of fine hardwood, and there was a tall leather armchair behind the desk. On the desk were many papers and folders, and a pair of golden pens in a display holder. There was a sitting area with two leather couches, two side tables with fine lamps, a pair of suede sitting chairs, and filled bookcases covering every wall from ceiling to floor except the one behind the desk, which had a large painting mounted on the wood-paneled wall. There were many ornate lamps, several jade statues, and even a step-ladder for reaching the top shelves of the bookshelves.

Okay, but where did they go from here ? Moira wondered as she tiptoed into the office, and crept behind the desk to poke at the documents atop the polished wood. There’s not another secret entrance to a different secret room, is there?

Moira put the questions to the side as she poked through the documents, starting with a dark brown file-folder beneath the desk's reading lamp. It contained a military dossier and full psychological evaluation of President John F. Kennedy… The next one was of Vice President Lyndon B. Johnson, and the next of Secretary of State Dean Rusk… Every member of the Kennedy cabinet up to Adlai Stevenson II, the ambassador to the UN. And there were three more folders with the bold stamp of an eagle with its’ wings spread wide inside a circle on the front. The first was labeled Rogers, Steven G. The second, Rogers, Diana P. The third, Fury, Nicholas J.

Shaw has profiles on the president, all of his men, and Fury’s Howling Commandos? Moira wondered. What the hell is he planning?

Then, she found a sheaf of papers bound by brass fasteners, not held by a folder… And the cover was in Russian. A brief glance at the document showed Moira some very cryptic communications about a secret project… She saw the Russian word for “helmet,” appear several times throughout.

“The helmet will be built to your exact specifications?” She translated from the Russian as quickly as she could. So he’s working with the Russians on some form of headgear?

Her train of thought was interrupted by the sound of something colliding with one of the bookcases. With a gasp, Moira dropped the document, and ducked behind the desk. When no other sounds followed, Moira quickly reorganized the papers on the desk into an approximation of their former state, and slinked towards the bookcase. As she approached, she saw that the case had shifted slightly… And there was a sliver of light between the two bookcases.

There’s another secret entrance. She thought bluntly as she peered through the crack. Through the obscured passage, there was yet another ornate room. With what little visibility her vantage point afforded her, Moira could see Hendry sprawled on the ground, with the blonde woman who’d identified herself as Emma Frost standing above him. Beside her… Was a middle-aged man with reddish-brown hair in a fine tuxedo. He gave Frost a nod, and her skin, her hair, even her clothing transformed into a matrix of pure, clear crystal before Moira’s, and Hendry’s, very eyes.

“Magnificent, isn’t she Bob?” The red-haired man asked rhetorically as he presented the woman as though she were a piece of fine art, and, even Moira had to admit, in the shocking crystal form, the woman might well have been. “Genetic mutation doesn’t only produce armless children, hemophilia, and polydactyly. It’s the key to the evolution of the human genome. The key to a superior future!”

He turned to Frost. “Where’s Azazel?” He asked.

Frost pursed her lips, and a high-pitched ringing whistle sounded out from her mouth, like the sound of a glass harmonica, barely even audible to human ears.

In a flash of shadow, a man who resembled popular depictions of the devil himself (For he had a black suit over top of a red silk shirt with a red pocket square, pitch-black hair, jagged pointy eyebrows, a sharp goatee, and, last but not least, a pointed tail and blood red skin) appeared next to the red-haired man.

That has to be Shaw. She thought to herself. If he’s the one giving the orders here, to this freakshow, tuxedo man has to be Shaw. Moira had never seen a picture of the man, and the CIA only had the barest of descriptions of him. As far as most people were concerned, Sebastian Shaw was a name on a piece of paper, claiming ownership over the club, its penthouse suite above them, and a number of expensive vehicles. Hardly anyone had seen him, and most didn’t believe he was real… But it had to be him.

“Ah, perfect timing!” Shaw exclaimed. “We don’t want the Colonel to be late for his meeting.”

The red man, who had to be Azazel, extended a hand to Hendry.

“Take my hand.” He commanded in a deep voice, tinged with a Caribbean accent.

Hendry appeared to hesitate, but took Azazel’s hand, and in an instant, the two of them vanished in another flash of shadow.

Moira forced herself to step back from the bookshelf as she took a ragged breath. A man who looks like the devil just disappeared with one of the nation’s most important men and I’m the only one who saw it!! She thought as she quietly rushed back to the alcove and pushed the ashtray down once more, sending the seat circling back to its’ original state. She burst through the curtains, out of the alcove, and made her way back out of the casino as quickly as she dared, much to the disappointment of her adoring onlookers.

Chapter 4: The War Room

Moira sprinted out of the doors to the casino and across the street, where she yanked open the surveillance car’s door and jumped into the seat next to a baffled Levine.

“What happened?” Levine asked as Moira snatched the car phone from the center console of the vehicle.

“I saw Shaw,” She said as she dialed the direct number for CIA Director John A. McCone. “He met with Hendry, a woman who turned to glass, a man who can throw wind, and a guy who looks like the devil.” The phone rang…

“What?!” Levine asked as his eyes shot wide. “What kinda freakshow is he runnin’ in there?”

“The devil man disappeared with Hendry.” Moira said as the line clicked.

“Director McCone’s office.” A female voice said over the phone.

“This is Special Agent MacTaggart, I have an urgent report for Director McCone.”

“I’m sorry, the director is indisposed, can-”

“No,” Moira interrupted. “I need you to connect me to the director, no matter what he’s doing! If he’s in the john, stretch the handset out and give it to him!”

“He’s currently in the Joint War Room, Agent MacTaggart, he-”

“Connect me to his secure line in the room, god-dammit, and stop wasting my time!”

---

The Pentagon, Arlington VA, approximately two-thousand and eighty miles from the Hellfire Club in Las Vegas.

In the restroom outside of the Joint War Room, Captain Steven G. Rogers adjusted his uniform as Logan took a drink of water out of a paper cup.

“Seems like they want to waste our time, makin’ us come out here in this getup just to talk about those rockets.” Logan quipped as he crushed his cup and tossed it in the trash.

“If things go well, it will be a waste of time.” Steve replied as he turned from the mirror. “The Jupiter vote is, or should be, a dead issue. We put it to bed, we can move onto something else. Something that works.”

The restroom door opened with a creak, and Steve and Logan turned to see Colonel Robert Hendry walk in, dressed in a tuxedo, not his uniform.

“Colonel Hendry!” Steve exclaimed as the under-dressed, or possibly over-dressed colonel strode past them to the sink. “I didn’t think you were going to make it today.”

Logan sniffed at the air as Hendry turned on the faucet.

“Change of plans, Captain.” Hendry said as he rolled up his sleeves and allowed water to fill his palms. He splashed a small amount of water on his face, then turned off the faucet, and grabbed a towel to dry his hands and face. “This vote is too important to miss.”

“Important enough to be out of uniform for it?” Steve inquired. “There’s no majority in favor.”

“You’ve been out of uniform for two wars running, Captain.” Hendry said as he tossed his towel onto the counter. “Formal dress for a voting session isn’t outside of the ordinary in comparison.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “That was my uniform.”

Hendry just smirked at Steve as he made for the door, but Logan placed one hand gently, but firmly against the Colonel’s chest.

“What brand of cigars do you smoke?” Logan asked suspiciously.

Hendry shrugged. “I don’t.” He said as he maneuvered around Logan’s arm and grasped the door handle.

“Funny, because you smell like brimstone.” Logan quipped as Hendry left the restroom.

Hendry stiffened, and paused at the door, but didn’t turn to face the two, and simply continued on his path.

“What the hell was that about?” Steve asked, bewildered.

“I’m gonna keep an eye on him in the room.” Logan said. “Something ain’t right.”

---

Joint War Room.

Inside the Joint War Room, Steve and Logan took their places among the other members of the Soviet Response Panel. Logan kept a keen, unsubtle eye on Hendry as the panel began. The presentation was led by a young man, a Major William Stryker Jr., who held a clipboard in his hands, along with a long pointer.

“Daddy Warbucks strikes again.” Logan muttered as they took their seats.

Steve shook his head. William Stryker Sr. was a high-ranking official in the CIA, and former US Army. It was suspected by many that he’d pulled some strings to get his son placed in such a prominent position so early in his career.

“Gentlemen of the panel,” Stryker began. “Today, one way or another, we are going to lay to rest the issue of the placement of Jupiter Missiles in close proximity to the Soviet Union. If we cannot come to a consensus in favor today, the issue will be considered moot.”

“The request to lead the argument in favor of placement today is…” Stryker looked down at his clipboard, and his eyes widened in surprise. “Colonel Robert Hendry.”

Steve tore his gaze away from Stryker and glared at Hendry in shock and horror. Every other eye in the room turned to the tuxedoed Colonel as well.

“Colonel Hendry, you have the floor.” Stryker said.

“Thank you, Major.” Hendry said as he leaned forward to speak into the microphone at his place. “Having given it some thought since our previous empanelment, I’ve reconsidered my position, as my request would suggest. Placing our missiles in Turkey and Italy sends a message loud and clear to Uncle Joe. If he tries anything funny, we can fire them off before the Russian early warning system has a chance to kick in. We can take our pick of strategic and military targets, and end any war before it begins.”

---

At his place at the table, CIA Director John A. McCone heard his emergency telephone line give off a small sound indicating he had an incoming call.

Who the hell is calling me in the middle of this?! He wondered as he picked up the phone.

“This is McCone.” He said quietly.

“Director, this is Agent McTaggart.” Moira McTaggart’s voice sounded frantically through the line.

McCone became both more relaxed and more irritated all at once.

“This better be important, McTaggart.” He hissed into the phone.

“Director, I just saw Colonel Robert Hendry at the Atomic Night Club here in Las Vegas, he met with Sebastian Shaw, and then disappeared when a red man grabbed his hand!” 

“Whoa, slow down!” McCone exclaimed under his breath. “Are you smokin’ some funny cigarettes? People don’t just disappear!”

“But he did, I saw it, I saw it with both of my eyes!”

McCone glanced across the table, where he saw Hendry seated, making an impassioned argument against his previous positions.

“Hendry is sitting across the table from me trying to start World War III, so unless he traveled over two-thousand miles in ten minutes, I suggest you stop wasting my time!”

McCone hung up the receiver as Stryker finished his argument.

“And in opposition, we have… Captain Steven G. Rogers. Captain America, you have the floor.”

“Thank you, Major Stryker.” Steve said as he leaned forward, never once breaking his gaze from Hendry. “Simply put, the Jupiter Missile is obsolete, and our intel on Russian anti-air technology is becoming quickly outdated. Placing them openly is equivalent to empty saber-rattling, and creates a rallying point for the Soviets. If we decide to place the Jupiters, we're essentially allowing the Soviets to use them as a powerful propaganda tool. There's no use in giving them something to fight back against. If we’re going to take an action, it needs to be something decisive and covert. We can’t afford to tip our hand like this.”

“With all due respect, Captain,” Hendry replied. “It sounds to me like you want to get us into another land war, and we all know how land wars in Russia go. Jupiters will be an adequate deterrent for the Soviet Union and will keep us from being overcommitted on two fronts. Open placement shows the Soviets we mean business.”

“Since when did deterrence stop them from supplying the KPA, or the Viet Cong, or anyone else?” Steve demanded.

“Gentlemen!” Stryker interjected. “We’re not here to fight amongst ourselves, we’re here to argue a position. Captain Rogers, do you have any alternative suggestions?”

Steve and Hendry both leaned back in their chairs. Steve appeared far more perturbed than Hendry, who seemed smug, and self-assured.

“Alright.” Steve said, leaning back. “We have access to smaller-scale, higher output equipment. It’s experimental, but it’s workable, and won’t raise as many eyebrows as the old Jupiters will.”

“You’re referring to weapons derived from the Tesseract?” Hendry asked.

Steve nodded coldly.

“So you want us to hand another contract to Howard Stark, who’s working on an unstable weapon that’s only useful for defense, not attack?” Hendry asked with a scoff. “He’s a genius, but we can’t hand everything to Captain America’s friends.”

Steve stared daggers into Hendry… “If you’re trying to say something-”

“And I think we should put that topic to bed.” Stryker interjected hastily. “Please stick to the facts so we can inform the vote.”

The panel discussion continued into the voting… And the vote did not end the way Steve wanted it to.

"With a majority decision, the motion passes." Stryker said. "Thank you all for your time, and dedication, gentlemen. You are dismissed.”

Hendry was the first one to rise from his spot at the table, with Steve and Logan quick to follow. Hendry made for the door quickly, but Steve stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder, which the Captain used to turn the Colonel to face him.

“What the hell was that about?” Steve asked firmly.

“Do you mind taking your hand off my jacket, captain?” Hendry asked. “It’s real silk.”

Steve gently removed his hand from Hendry’s shoulder, and crossed his arms. “You’ve flipped your position, and a few others with it. I’d just like to know why.”

Hendry chuckled under his breath as he readjusted his tuxedo.

“You know, Captain, I’m about three months younger than you are, but you couldn’t tell it by looking at us. You haven’t aged a damn day since you stepped out of that pod, and took all the attention to the European Theater. You raised some money for us, but all the attention, all the glory? That went to the Howling Commandos and their star-spangled man with a plan. We fought in the Atolls, across the islands, on the sands of Iwo Jima. We fought tooth and nail for that territory, even managed to get a surrender signed before you did. But because you punched der Fuhrer in the face, everyone remembers you, and The Wolverine, and that wife of yours, and all your friends. You went from a clown in a suit to a bigger hero than my dead friends ever could be. Speaking of The Wonder Woman, where the hell did you find her? What’s the story you gave? Some hot piece of ass in a red, yellow and blue skirt fished you out of the water on a tropical island, and got promoted to officer status inside a week, breaking every Army record on the books?” Hendry scoffed. “Makes you wonder if she’s doing something behind the scenes...”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand, sighed, and allowed his hands to drop to his sides, then reached out, and adjusted Hendry’s jacket, brushed off the Colonel’s shoulders, and straightened his bowtie, to the increasing discomfort of the Colonel.

“Next time you want to cast aspersions on my wife,” Steve said in a whisper with a smile. “Do it to her face. I think she’ll have a… Different response than I did.”

Hendry backed away slowly, and hastily made for the exit.

Logan shook his head as he and Steve filed out of the building along with the rest of the panel.

“You had him about another inch from pissing those slacks.” Logan said with a barking laugh. “You wanna head back and grab a drink?”

Steve snorted, and shrugged. “I would if I thought it would help.”

“Think they’re gonna bring us into that shit down in Vietnam?” Logan asked as they exited The Pentagon. The wild-looking man pulled a cigar from his jacket pocket, and lit it up with a silver Zippo lighter.

“If we keep making decisions like this, they’ll have to.” Steve commented, wryly.

 

Chapter 5: Finding an Expert

Las Vegas Nevada, outside the Atomic Nightclub.

“Hendry is sitting across the table from me trying to start World War III,” McCone replied tersely. “So unless he traveled over two-thousand miles in ten minutes, I suggest you stop wasting my time!”

“Sir, I-” Moira protested, but the click of the receiver on the other end of the line signaled that her protest was in vain. “Argh!” She exclaimed as she replaced her handset.

“Are you out of your mind?” Levene demanded.

“Maybe.” Moira replied dejectedly. “I hope not. There’s too much at stake.”

Levene shook his head. “Listen, I’ve known you too long to say you’re just crazy. If you say that’s what you saw, that’s what you saw. So now what?”

Moira sighed, and thought back to what Shaw had said.

“He mentioned genetic mutation.” She replied. “Said something about it being ‘the key to a superior future.’”

Levene let out a whistle in response.

“You think all of… Them , were mutants?” Levene asked.

“He sure thought so.” Moira commented. “So… I guess we need to find ourselves an expert in genetic mutation. Maybe there’s a catalog of mutations… Hell, anything. Any information is better than nothing.”

---

Oxford University, England.

Moira McTaggert had scoured every record she could find looking for any kind of in-depth information about the kind of mutations she’d seen in Las Vegas. It seemed like every path she took led to a dead end. All… Except one. A thesis, published by one Charles Francis Xavier, a prospective professor at Oxford. The presentation of his thesis seemed like it could be the last straw. If it was the same as everything else she’d found, it might amount to nothing more than a bland summary of things that were absolutely no help to her. But the title… 

Mutation and its’ Role in the Advancement of Species: The Potential of Meta-Genetics.

If the presentation lived up to its’ name, it could be the key to everything she’d been looking for. Or, it could be a waste of time.

Moira filtered through the auditorium, attempting to make herself inconspicuous in the crowd. She took a seat several rows back, towards the center, and patiently awaited the arrival of Xavier.

An elderly, bespectacled man approached the podium on the stage, and tapped the microphone lightly.

“I am pleased to present to you, a young man who is, without a doubt, the most natural genius I have seen in my life. Presenting his thesis, Mutation and its’ Role in the Advancement of Species: The Potential of Meta-Genetics , mister Charles Xavier!”

A wave of mild applause swept across the auditorium, with the loudest coming from a pretty blonde seated near the front, as the elderly man departed the stage, and a much younger man, with brown hair that was short, but not too short, approached the podium as a projector clicked, and fed a slide with the title of Xavier’s thesis into view.

“Mutation.” The man who must have been Xavier began, in a light, refined English accent. “It is the key to our evolution.” He said as he tapped a button on the podium, shifting to the next slide, this one an image of a series of creatures of increasing complexity. “It has enabled us to evolve from a single-celled organist into the dominant species on the planet. This process is slow, and normally taking thousands, and thousands of years. But, every few millennia, evolution leaps forward, creating unusual specimens, who, if they are successful, pass those… Mutated genes, on to their offspring, and them on to theirs, and so on and so forth. Mutations range from detrimental, such as when subjects are born without limbs, to benign, where a subject may develop an unusual fur pattern, or coloration, or beneficial, where a subject develops traits, or, dare I say it, abilities, which allow the subject distinct advantages above that of its’ peers. These abilities might be something as small as enhanced water retention in dry environments… Or as large as an enhanced healing factor, enhanced senses, and a series of retractable bone blades in both hands.”

Xavier tapped a button on the podium, and the slide projector clicked, changing the image once more, to an image of a wild-looking man with shaggy sideburns, posed with three white bone claws extended from the back of both of his hands.

“This is James Logan, AKA The Wolverine, one of the most extensively-documented subjects of meta-human mutation. Mister Logan has survived a great many deadly injuries in the one-hundred and thirty years he’s been alive. Yes, one-hundred and thirty. Mister Logan was born in eighteen-thirty-two, and has a documented military record dating back to eighteen-forty-eight. According to Mister Logan, he first manifested his abilities as a boy, at the age of thirteen, meaning that he was likely born with his mutations, as far back as the middle of the nineteenth century. As time has gone on, science has advanced, and allowed humanity to modify our genetic code deliberately.” He pushed the button again, and a slide of two pictures, labeled “Before” and “After” appeared on the screen. The picture on the left, the “Before” image was of a skinny, short, sickly young man. The picture on the right, the “After” image, was of a large, tall, muscular individual. “Captain Steven G. Rogers, AKA Captain America, had his genetic code altered by a combination of a classified serum, and growth-stimulating Vita-Rays. Others altered by such a serum include Germany’s own Colonel Johann Schmidt, AKA The Red Skull, America’s General Nicholas Fury, and the Soviet Red Guardian, if their statements are to be believed. Captain America, Red Skull, and Red Guardian have all demonstrated enhanced abilities above that of the everyday homosapiens, and beyond even the most advanced athletes in given fields. These modifications to the human genome only scratch the surface of what could be possible through man-made changes, much less through the progression of evolution… Every year, new mutations arise, and the rate and scale of mutations appears to be increasing.”

If the scale of mutations are increasing… Moira thought. And with documented cases like these… Who knows what else is out there? Alright, so Xavier is definitely on the right track… But how do I convince him of what I saw? If only I could just show him!

---

Charles’ presentation continued for a while, and when he was finished, a panel of old, professor-looking types disappeared briefly, and returned. The man who had introduced Xavier returned to the podium, and spoke.

“Oxford University is pleased to present to you its’ newest professor of Genetics, Charles Francis Xavier!”

The hall erupted into applause, and many handshakes were had as Xavier was congratulated by all in sundry for his achievement.

Moira McTaggert attempted to join the line of people trying to shake Xavier’s hand, and eventually managed to work her way to the front.

“Congratulations, Professor Xavier!” She exclaimed as she was shunted by the crowd. She managed to steer herself back to Xavier, and extended her hand, which he shook.

“Thank you!” He replied. “Miss?”

“McTaggart! I’d like to ask your thoughts on a hypothetical, if you have the time.”

“Certainly! As soon as possible!” Xavier replied as another member of the adoring public pushed Moira out of the way to shake Charles’ hand. “Leave a number at the front if you can’t stay!”

The crowd jostled Moira, and pushed her away, but she managed to find a spot free from the traffic, and waited until Xavier was finished shaking hands.

---

Raven sidled up to Charles as the two of them filtered out of the presentation hall.

“So, how does it feel to be a professor?” She asked coyly as she looped her arm through his.

Charles scoffed as he opened his umbrella as they exited. “Oh, don’t call me that!” He admonished. “I won’t actually be a professor until I start teaching!”

Raven clicked her tongue. “I know, but it suits you!”

Charles laughed dryly. “Don’t say that, it makes me old!”

“What would you want me to say to make you feel young?” She asked.

“Say ‘Let’s have a drink!’” He responded.

“Well, then let’s have a drink!” Raven declared.

The two of them barely noted Moira McTaggart following them out of the presentation hall to the Eagle Pub.

---

“DRINK, DRINK, DRINK!” Came the chants at the pub as Charles tilted back a yard glass of ale. He drank, and drank, until every last drop of the ale was in his stomach, with nary a drop being spilled, much to the delight of his assembled audience, including Raven.

Charles lowered the glass with a triumphant roar.

Raven threw her arms wide and pulled him in for a tight hug.

“I’m so proud of you!” She exclaimed.

“Thank you!” Charles replied after a deep breath. “Now, I believe I need another drink, and you need another cola!”

Raven sat down at their table as Charles strode back to the bar, with his yard glass in hand.

Moira saw her chance, and stepped between Xavier and the bar.

“Congratulations, Professor!” She said.

Xavier looked down at his glass, and then back up at her as he passed it between his hands.

“Thank you!” He replied. “It’s much harder than it looks, actually.”

“No,” She interjected hastily. “I meant on your presentation!”

That statement appeared to jog Xavier’s memory, as his face lit up in recognition.

“Yes! You were at my presentation!” He said. “I believe you wished to ask me something?”

“Yes, if you have a minute. I’m Moira Mctaggart, by the way.”

Xavier smirked. “”I’m Charles Xavier, but I suppose you already knew that! And for a pretty little bean with a mutated MCR1 gene? I have five!”

Moira’s face scrunched up in puzzlement as Charles gently caressed a lock of her hair, then tossed his arm around her as he led her to a table.

“I can tell by your expression my statement has left you a mite cold.” Xavier said as they sat down.

“That’s an accurate interpretation, I’d say.” Moira replied. “I have to confess, my understanding of genetic mutation is somewhat limited, which is why I’m here.”

“Well, not to worry.” He said as he leaned the glass off to one side. “I say MCR1, you’d say auburn hair.” He indicated her hair. “Quite a groovy mutation, eh?” He said with a somewhat sloppy grin as he felt the effects of the alcohol he’d ingested kick in.

“Listen, I’m not here to talk about my hair.” Moira stated. “I’d like to talk about more… Dramatic mutations. The kind you were talking about in your thesis.”

“Dramatic mutations?” Charles asked. “How dramatic do you mean?”

Moira took a deep breath, and exhaled. “More dramatic than your documented cases. Maybe more dramatic than the kinds you proposed in your thesis.”

More dramatic than my thesis? Charles wondered. More dramatic than what I know of first-hand?

Charles casually placed his free hand under his chin, and touched his index and middle fingers to his temple, and peered into Moira’s mind, searching for a hint of what she might mean.

And then, he saw, through Moira’s eyes, a woman made of diamonds, who nevertheless, moved as a person would. A red man who appeared in a flash of shadow, and disappeared again.

“Genetic mutation doesn’t only produce armless children, hemophilia, and polydactyly. It’s the key to the evolution of the human genome. The key to a superior future!” A red-haired man said proudly in her memory.

---

The distant look in Xavier’s eyes concerned Moira, especially after the amount of alcohol she’d witnessed him ingest.

“Hello?” She asked as he appeared to stare blankly at her forehead. “Professor?”

She sighed, and rolled her eyes. “Maybe we should have this discussion when you’re sober.” She suggested. “Do you have any time tomorrow?”

Suddenly, Xavier appeared to focus back to reality, as his slightly drunken expression sobered up immensely.

“Something tells me you already know the answer to your question.” He stated as he sat up on his stool. “Listen, this is very important to me, and if I can help you, I will do my utmost. And yes, I believe what you saw was real.”

Moira’s eyes widened in awe and fright.

How the hell does he know what I saw?!

Notes:

Apologies to anyone who's had to present a thesis at Oxford who may have read this chapter, neither of us are particularly familiar with the process, and we could only find some cursory examples online.

Also, the remote control Charles uses for the slide projector is supposed to be wired, but if that's an anachronism, we can always say that the Tessaract or something else is responsible for that, as Alex got about five minutes into researching 1960s slide projectors before he realized that would be a monumental waste of time to try and track down the exact model of slide projector that would've been used at Oxford at the time, if any model would've been at all, given the technology of this universe was already significantly ahead of our own back in the 1930s. A wired remote control shouldn't be that big of a stretch, right?

Chapter 6: The Consequences of My Own Actions...

Miami, Florida.

Hendry walked down the docks to the berth for a boat called Caspartina , where he was to meet Shaw.

He sorted through the berths, down the docks… Until he found a large yacht at the very end with the name across its’ stern. The Caspartina was enormous, even for a luxury vessel.

“Colonel!” Shaw said as he walked down the gangplank to meet Hendry. “Welcome to the Caspartina! Come on up!”

Shaw escorted Hendry onto the boat, and up to the top deck, where the woman in white, and the man who’d conjured the tornado were waiting. The woman in white lounged on a deck chair in a bathing suit, reading a magazine through a pair of large sunglasses.

“Care for some more champagne, Bob?” Shaw asked as he filtered behind the bar on the deck.

“I’ll pass.” Hendry declared as he placed his hat upon the edge of the bar, and placed both hands in his pockets, allowing one to settle upon the fragmentation grenade he’d brought as insurance.

Shaw’s brow furrowed as he leaned against the bar, and retrieved a cigar from the humidor.

“Okay, well, so much for the pleasantries.” He muttered as he snipped the end off of the cigar. Shaw stuck the end in his mouth, and lit it up. “Anyway, Bob, I was wondering if you’d told anyone about our little arrangement.”

Oh no, here we go. Hendry thought as he clenched the grenade in his pocket.

“Nobody.”

“He’s telling the truth.” The woman in white said without once looking up from her magazine.

“Good.” Shaw said with a smile as he puffed on his cigar. “After that confrontation with the captain and his lapdog, I was afraid we might have some kind of… Leak.”

“He called Wonder Woman a whore.” The woman in white said flatly, without looking up from her magazine.

Shaw’s eyebrows shot up from behind his sunglasses, and he lowered the frames to peer at Hendry over the lenses.

“And he’s still alive?” Shaw said, flashing a glance over at the woman in white.

“She wasn’t there.” She replied.

“Gotta say, Bob.” Shaw said with a smirk. “You’ve got some balls. Not a lot of brains, but sometimes you don’t need ‘em.”

“Can we cut to the chase, mister Shaw?” Hendry demanded as he clenched the grenade so tightly the safety handle bit into his palm.

Shaw shrugged.

“I suppose we should wrap things up, shouldn’t we?” He asked rhetorically, gesturing to the man who’d conjured the tornado earlier.

The man rose from his chair, and as quickly as he could, Hendry pulled the grenade from his pocket!

“I knew better than to trust you!” Hendry said as he hovered his hands as closely as he dared, with his left hand just barely touching the grenade pin. “Now, you let me walk out of here with my money, or I will pull this pin, and we all die!”

Shaw’s shoulders slumped in defeat, and his brow scrunched up behind his sunglasses in an expression of exasperated incredulity.

“Really?” Shaw asked, with nary a hint of fear in his voice as he set his glass down on the counter, and grabbed a towel. “I was willing to let you walk away with your payoff, and this is how you repay me?” He asked as strode around from behind the bar, wiping his hands with the towel. “You bring me a fucking grenade ?” He said as he snapped the towel back onto the bar angrily. “Well, maybe this is a sign I should pick my business partners a little more carefully.” Shaw said coldly. “Next time I’ll find someone who isn’t going to get into a war of words with Captain America at the Pentagon! So go ahead.” Shaw said smugly. “Pull the pin.”

“I will, I’ll do it!” Hendry said as the sweat of his hands made the grenade slipperier and slipperier, loosening his grip on the explosive.

Shaw rolled his eyes as he removed his sunglasses, and pocketed them.

“No, you won’t.” He said, snatching the grenade from Hendry’s sweat-soaked hands like it was a baseball. “But I will.” Shaw said coldly as he pulled the pin, and allowed the safety handly to fly off into the ocean.

Hendry attempted to dive for cover in the instant before the grenade exploded, but, in his haste, he noticed that neither the man who’d summoned the storm, nor the woman in white had made any attempts to shield themselves from the blast.

And then, it exploded in a flash of white hot light, piercing sound, and shrapnel. The flash was held in Shaw’s hands, the sound died out almost instantly and was replaced by a steady warbling, and the shrapnel melted into pure energy in his hands as Shaw’s arms appeared to ripple and contort in the heat, appearing almost as if he had multiple arms… But neither his hands, nor his clothes, appeared to burn.

Hendry looked up at Shaw’s face, and found a look of manic pleasure had crossed the man’s features as the light the explosion had produced glowed in his eyes like they were portals to the very depths of hell itself. Impossibly, Shaw’s features seemed to grow sharper, his wrinkles softer, his skin tauter, and his hair darker as the light faded…

And then, the energy winked out of existence as the last of it flowed into Shaw’s hands.

“You…” Hendry panted, panicked. “You’re one of them?!”

“Very astute of you, Colonel Hendry!” Shaw said as he clapped his hands together and rubbed them gleefully. “Care to take a guess what I can do?”

“Yo- you…” Hendry stammered. “You absorb energy!”

Shaw flashed Hendry a cheshire grin, and nodded.

“It’s what keeps me young!” Shaw exclaimed as he stalked closer to Hendry. “I’ve been around for nearly five-hundred years, and let me tell you… Most of it has been exceptionally boring! I was born too late to see the age of mutants in Egypt, too late to see the age of heroes in Greece and Rome, but just in time to see tiny little wars all over the world that rarely amounted to anything.” He shot Hendry another psychotic smile. “But that’s been changing this century. New kinds of technology, new kinds of wars, new kinds of mutants! Especially in the last few years since Truman dropped those bombs! And even before then, we had a nice little crop popping up. Times are changing, Colonel, and much like Homo sapiens replaced Homo neanderthalensis, so too, will Homo superior replace Homo sapiens. ”

Shaw cackled as he backed Hendry up against the railing of the boat.

“But, staying young isn’t the only perk of my powers.” Shaw whispered. “Let me show you the fun part!”

He tapped Hendry on the shoulder, and the Colonel’s uniform collar began to glow like the surface of the sun. Hendry tried to pull off his jacket, to back away, but the glow spread across his body and killed his scream of agony as every nerve in his body activated at once before it could be more than a squeak in his throat. Hendry tumbled off the back of the Caspartina as the light ate him alive, and he exploded in a shower of dust before he hit the water’s surface.

Shaw gazed down at the water’s surface satisfactorily.

“That may have taken more energy than he gave me,” He said. “But now, we don’t have to clean up the mess!”

Chapter 7: CIA! CIA Headquarters! Men (And Women) at a Table!

Meanwhile, at CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia…

At the end of a medium-sized table, Charles Xavier stood slightly beside, and slightly in front of a projector screen. The corded remote on the slide projector provided him with just enough space to barely be out of the way of the projection.

"As everyone present should already be aware," He began, pressing through to the first slide, a World War II propaganda poster of the Howling Commandos. "Individuals with extraordinary abilities are already among us, and some of them even work for the United States government. I assume we're all familiar with Captain Steven G. Rogers, AKA Captain America. Captain Diana P. Rogers, AKA Wonder Woman. Sergeant James H. Logan, AKA The Wolverine, Victor Creedence Logan, AKA Sabertooth, General Nicholas J. Fury, and Alexei Lebedev, AKA The Red Guardian, deceased."

Xavier turned to the bored-looking CIA staff. The one at the head of the party was Director McCone. To his left, was a man named William Stryker Sr., as his badge identified him. Behind them, was a large man in wide glasses. His badge identified him as Frederick A. Duncan.

"However," He said with a sly grin. "I didn't come here to give you a history lesson. These are merely examples to establish a baseline. Given the advent of the nuclear age, and an existing propensity for… Unusual developments in human mutation, it is entirely possible for the mutation process to have been accelerated, and exaggerated, and given the recent uptick in recorded superhuman mutations, Agent McTaggert's findings are not only within the realm of possibility, but entirely likely. Messrs Logan and Mrs. Rogers were all, apparently, born with their powers, and they're not the last to be, by any means."

Xavier flipped the slide further, to show a young man with dirty blonde hair in US Army fatigues.

"First Lieutenant Alexander Summers," Xavier continued. "United States Army. According to his file, his unit was ambushed in Vietnam while aiding flood relief workers, and Vietcong forces slaughtered the lot of them… Except for him. After the incident, Army Medics said that the only survivor of the guerrilla ambush had gone grey from the experience, and that it appeared that Summers had rained down pure havoc upon his men's murderers."

Xavier flicked to a slide of the destruction allegedly caused by Summers. An army Corporal stood beside a large tree, which appeared to have been cut cleanly, and burned in the process.

"Summers described the experience as though his very rage conjured pure plasma from his chest, and he whipped what he called the 'discs' at everywhere he saw or heard bullets come from, in the process, leveling two and a half square miles of foliage."

Xavier flipped the slides again, this time to a young man with fluffy brown hair.

"Sean Cassidy was once a promising member of his school choir, until he hit a note so loud and so high that he shattered every window on school grounds, and caused a bout of partial deafness which lasted for literally months."

Xavier flicked through pictures of the destruction, and then to a silhouetted image with a question mark superimposed over the face.

"I can continue, if you so desire, but if you find these examples adequate, feel free to ask any questions you may have."

CIA Director John A. McCone sat across the table from the projection screen where Xavier still stood. He contemplated what the professor had said… And he didn't like the conclusions he was coming to.

"Professor Xavier," McCone said as he looked over his glasses at the packet of information Xavier had handed him. "You've made some… Incredible claims, for lack of a better word. Not that they inherently lack credibility, it's just that they're difficult to believe. Despite my misgivings, your qualifications speak for themselves. When McTaggert dragged me in here, I was under the impression you were some crackpot scientist, not an accredited, published Oxford professor."

Xavier nodded in response.

"Thank you for the consideration." He replied. "I've done my utmost to only make claims based on verifiable research."

McCone took off his glasses, and nodded at Xavier, motioning for him to be quiet.

"Yes, and we appreciate your findings, Professor." McCone replied. "However, correct me if I'm wrong, but there's never been a documented case of real shape-shifting, or of a man who can… Transport himself or others in the blink of an eye, correct?"

Charles and Raven exchanged an uneasy glance.

"And," McCone continued. "If the ability to broadcast thoughts into minds was possible…" McCone hesitated, as he considered the implications of what he was about to say. "I'm certain the CIA would know about it by now."

A smile crossed Charles' face, as the details of various secret CIA programs flooded into his mind as McCone attempted not to think about them. He too, considered the implications of what he was about to say… He shot his adopted sister another look. A question was passed between the two of them, and she merely nodded in response.

"I suppose MK Ultra must be your version of a pink elephant." Charles said casually. "Try not to think about it, and even more details flood out into your mind. I don't suppose the public would be particularly happy to know that you'd brought over the people they shed blood sweat and tears to defeat to torture your own citizens, would they? I understand that the Soviets were after them as well, but did Operation Paperclip really have to result in former Nazis dosing Americans with Mescaline and attempting to broadcast mind control beams that simply melted people's brains?"

The collective eyebrows of every individual in the room, save for Raven, shot up in disbelief as Xavier rattled off facts and details that he shouldn't have known.

"I'm sorry, love." He said with a nod to Moira. "But, as you may be able to deduce, I haven't been entirely honest with you."

McCone gritted his teeth, and shook his head as Xavier leaned forward, placed one elbow on the table, and the tips of his two fingers on his temple.

Big deal. He thought. Some genetics freak is a conspiracy nut, too. So what if he thinks he knows that? I'm not going to be the one to prove-"

"Big deal. Some genetics freak is a conspiracy nut, too. So what if he thinks he knows that? I'm not going to be the one to prove him right." Xavier repeated as McCone thought the words. "I suppose you're correct about the 'freak' part, as I have… Ample mental abilities, shall we say, which allow me to read minds, yours included. Maybe I should have been more specific. I could have delved a bit deeper, looking for something that wasn't bubbling just outside the overton window. Perhaps I should have asked about the Jupiter Missiles you plan to place in Turkey instead. You know, I would have sworn there were better ideas on the table."

McCone started at the echo of his thoughts back at him from Xavier's mouth. Word for word, without pause, without even so much as a slip of a syllable.

"How the hell did you do that?" He demanded.

"Oh please." Stryker interjected. "I've seen this kind of trick before at a magic show, it's called 'mentalism.' You get good at reading a person's appearance and emotions, and if you combine that with stolen information, like the kind someone like McTaggert could get him by sweet-talkin' the right guy, you can look like you're a mind reader. It's just a couple of con-artists trying to rip off Uncle Sam, or maybe a couple of spies!"

Xavier sighed heavily, and nodded to Raven, who stood up from her chair, and, as a flicker of blue washed over her skin and clothing, transformed from her crimson-haired, feminine form, into a taller, older, more masculine form. That of Agent Stryker, who sat across the table from her.

Once more, a wave of disbelief washed over everyone at the table, save for Xavier, as the jaws of every individual in the room dropped open.

Raven, as Stryker, stepped closer to her step-brother, and transformed again. Back to herself… Or rather, her blue self, complete with her original clothing.

Charles smirked.

"How's that for a magic trick?" He asked smugly.

A large man with glasses, who'd been sitting behind McCone and Stryker up until now, unlike the others, looked earnestly impressed by Raven's shapeshifting.

"That's the best I've ever seen!" He exclaimed as a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

McCone took a slow, deep breath before speaking.

"Alright." He began. "Let's assume, for a second, that this is… Exactly as it seems, that there's nothing more here than meets the eye. What the hell am I supposed to do with you two now?! You can't just go poking around in people's heads looking for information!"

"Believe me, director, I could have gone my entire life without knowing the things you get up to on the job." Charles replied. "However, as your mind was practically leaking with secret information, I merely tapped the fullest reservoir for the quickest results. And, given your agency's propensity for violating your own nation's constitution via Operation Mockingbird, I wouldn't do any grandstanding about privacy if I were you, especially since you ordered your men to violate the Fourth Amendment in the execution of their duties."

Shit. McCone thought.

"Okay, so what the hell are we doing?" McCone asked. "Seems like you hold all the cards. Are you planning to do anything with the information you've pulled from my mind?"

Charles shrugged.

"I suppose that depends on what you mean." He replied. "I'd be stupid to say 'Oh yes, I'm going straight to the Daily Planet or The Daily Bugle with this information,' directly to your faces, but I could also simply walk out of here and leave you none the wiser that myself or my sister were ever here, or that you had an appointment with me arranged by Agent McTaggart at this time. Who's to say I haven't done that already? Who's to say we're not on the fourth, or fifth variation of this conversation already? You'd never know, and if I wanted to, they'd never know either."

That's more than a bit unsettling. McCone thought.

"Good." Xavier replied. "Now, what I'm asking for, perhaps a bit contrary to where we are, and who you are, is a bit of trust. I've lived in America for many years. My parents have made myself, my sister and my brother a home here. I have no desire for any harm to come to this great nation, and, despite the dubious nature of a great many of your actions, I know that you harbor the same desires, Director McCone. Now that you know that what Agent McTaggert said happened was possible, I'd like to open up a world of further possibilities and study."
"I have an off-site facility." The large bespectacled man interjected. "Hello, professor!" He said with a wave. "My name is Fred Duncan, but you uh, probably already knew that. With Director McCone's permission, I could offer you our resources at the facility. I already have a bright young man working there on mutant studies, a Doctor Henry P. McCoy."

"If we can get your non-disclosure in writing," McCone said, fiddling with a pen in his hands. "I suppose we can accommodate you. Now that's out of the way… You had something to prove about Sebastian Shaw."

"Indeed." Xavier replied. "Agent McTaggert had a lead on Shaw she wished to follow up on. In her mind, I saw Russian documents about some sort of… Armor, so to speak, they'd promised to provide him with. And, before you ask, she told me about the documents before I looked at them in her mind. There were also files on President Kennedy's cabinet, and the Howling Commandos, which appeared to have been taken from another agency. If he is receiving information and arms from the Kremlin, it might beseech us to point the United States Coast Guard towards his personal vessel, which my sister and I have taken the liberty of investigating. It's a yacht berthed in Miami, known as The Caspartina."

Notes:

When we were typing up this chapter, Alex accidentally spelled "Daily Bugle" as "Daily Buble." And immediately cried out "Why does Michael Bublé get his own newspaper?" then changed it.

Also, The Man in Black, who was never properly identified in X-Men First Class has been remade into the character he was somewhat based on, just for the sake of him having a name to be addressed by, Fred Duncan.

Additionally, when we were writing this chapter, Alex was just going to reference the CIA spying on Americans generally as sort of a reference to modern surveillance culture, but, as it turns out, John McCone actually carried out the orders for warrantless wiretapping in the months BEFORE the Cuban Missile Crisis IRL, so we went ahead and referenced Operation Mockingbird directly, and the rest of the dialogue in the scene sort of spun out from there, creatively.

Chapter 8: Nice boat, shame if anything were to happen to it

Elsewhere in Miami…

With nearly one and a half million people, Miami was quite a large city indeed, and Florida had a great many docks, ports, and berths, given the state of Florida’s proximity to two large bodies of water. Very few were equipped to handle a vessel of The Caspartina, and fewer still would accommodate Shaw/Schmidt the privacy someone such as him would so sorely desire… And thus, Erik’s searches grew narrower as Shaw’s options dwindled… Until he had but four left that matched the necessary criteria.

The first one was eliminated immediately, as it was on land that belonged to Howard Stark, and Stark did not sublet his berths. He needed all five for each of his… Vessels, for lack of a better method of distinction between party cruisers, weapons of war retired from previous adventures, and scientific vehicles. The second was in a sad state of disrepair, as the dock was rotten to the point of being unwalkable, and the boathouse was in dire need of demolition. Not only was it unusable, Shaw would likely not deign to berth such a vessel there.

The third one was where Erik struck his jackpot. Like with all of the others, he investigated the owners before making his approach. The dock, and the surrounding land, was owned by a company registered under “Atomic Gaming & Entertainment,” which also owned the Atomic Nightclub in Las Vegas, Nevada, which was known to be run by a reclusive aristocrat, Sebastian Shaw.

Afterwards, Erik set up a disguised surveillance station, which consisted of a painter’s easel, canvas, paints, and a long-range telescope. With the telescope, he could see the name on the ship’s prow from over a mile away, long away from where anyone, even someone as paranoid as Shaw must be, would notice him.

That’s it. He thought as he peered through the telescope at the name on the prow. It’s the only ship of that name registered in the state. Even if he is lying about what kind of vessel it is, by the looks of things.

The yacht was registered for leisure and fishing, which tracked, as Shaw wouldn’t want to arouse suspicion by flaunting an unregistered boat in Miami, especially considering relations with Cuba… But to Erik’s military-trained eye, he could tell there was a little more to the vessel. He’d have to get up close to tell, but he could’ve sworn he’d seen a hinge on the keel just below the waterline.

Erik continued his painting, until any observer would see nothing but a man who painted until the sun had set. During his time there, he saw a woman in white upon the deck of the craft, as well as a man with long black hair. Later, an older man in military dress walked down the dock, up onto the ship, and exploded. 

So Shaw not only hasn’t weakened since Germany… Erik thought to himself. But he’s not shy about using his power… Interesting. I suppose his compatriots must be of a similar mind and kind if he’s so casual about using his abilities in their presence. What might their little quirks be?

When Erik had finished with both his painting and his surveillance, he returned to his hotel room, and set the painting and easel to dry, and retrieved his equipment, which was nothing more than a wetsuit, a mouthpiece on a small oxygen tank, and a magnetic knife.

I do hope I don’t have to destroy much tonight. Erik thought as he donned his wetsuit. That yacht is quite a work of art, even if it’s owned by a bastard.

Erik deployed quite a ways away from Shaw’s dock, so as not to be spotted. His small tank of oxygen was just enough to get him from his deployment spot to right behind the ship, for now that Erik was close, he was sure the seafaring vessel was capable of housing another, smaller craft. Towards the bottom of the hull, the keel appeared subtly hinged, as he’d seen from a distance earlier. What he hadn’t realized until he was much closer, was that the keel was much larger than he’d expected even a vessel of this size to need.

Evidently, Erik thought. Whatever dealings Shaw, or Schmidt, or whatever his name actually is, he uses a submarine for. Given his proximity to Cuba, might he be in contact with the Soviet Union, or the Castro regime? Must look into this further.

Erik swam silently to the bow of the ship, discarded his empty oxygen tank (For if he was to make any retreat from this mission at all, it would not be by water), and, using his mastery of magnetism, levitated his knife up to just below the railing, out of sight of the trio atop the deck, but close enough for him to serve as a distraction, all while preparing his coups-de-grace.

Erik climbed up the side of the boat, and onto the deck. In the shadows beyond the cabin, which lay between Erik and the three figures lounging at the bow of the boat, Erik steeled his nerves for the confrontation which was to come.

After all this time… He thought. All that lies between me and that monstrous man now is a few feet. Maybe now that murderer can face his justice for all the suffering he’s caused.

Erik stood tall, and set his jaw and face steady. Then, he emerged from the shadows, to face his foe.

Shaw sat close to the blonde woman in white. They appeared to be engaged in mindless banter. Seated near them was the man with longer hair. They lounged on the boat’s seats near the brazier upon the deck, which was, at this time, nearly their only source of illumination, save for soft deck lights below their feet.

“Herr Doktor!” Erik interjected as he drew into the light. Three sets of eyes snapped in his direction, and the trio all locked him in their gaze. The long-haired man’s demeanor changed, as did the woman in white. Shaw was unflappable.

The long-haired man was first to rise from his seat, and he raised one hand in a threatening manner. The next, in quick succession, was the woman in white. Finally, but quickly as well, was Shaw, who put his hand up to stop the long-haired man.

“Stop.” He commanded as a malicious grin crossed his face. “Little Erik Lensherr…” He said in German. “You’ve come a long way to find me, haven’t you?”

“Quite a long ways.” Erik said as he slowly raised the knife from its’ sheath where he’d placed it earlier. “Went through more than a few of your current and former associates just to find you. A banker, a bartender, a tailor, and a pig farmer, to name a few.”

The woman in white looked directly at Erik, deep into his eyes.

“They’re dead.” She stated as though she knew it for a fact.

Erik smirked.

“Not all of them.” He replied. “Just most of them. Her Majesty appreciates having someone to interrogate.”

“He’s here to kill you.” The woman in white said. Again, as if she knew it for a fact, as if she’d pulled it…

Right out of my brain…

Erik looked directly at the woman in white as he levitated the knife, and aimed it at Shaw’s spine.

“I haven’t quite decided that yet, thanks.” He replied sharply. “It’s impolite to spoil the surprise, so if you’d quite wish to escape this night with your life intact, I would suggest you stop poking around in my mind!”

With that, he launched the dagger at nearly the speed of a bullet at Shaw’s back, but the woman in white… Changed. In the flickering of the firelight, her skin, hair, even clothing, became a sharp, clear crystalline structure, and she snatched the knife out of the air feet from Shaw’s back, without even turning her gaze from Erik.

In that instant, Erik’s brain flooded with images of his torture at Shaw’s hands, with the horrors of Nazi Germany, and with a sharp, piercing whine of sheer pain, like the shattering of large panes of glass or ice, that threatened to split his brain and head asunder. He dropped to the floor, clutching his head in agony as the whine grew louder, and the images more vivid. Erik gritted his teeth, but a grunt, a growl, a scream of pain emerged from his throat into the stillness of the night.

“What kind of a greeting is that,” Shaw asked, taking the knife from the crystal woman. “After all these years?”

Erik forced his eyes open, and squared his jaw as he looked up at Shaw with a fury in his eyes. Behind him, the star-spangled banner flapped in the wind. The sight helped Erik steel himself further. He shut out the whine, he shut out the images, he even shut out the pain as he rose to his feet and, with one swipe of his hand, snapped the flagpole from its mount.

Before he could make another motion to strike Shaw over the head with the pole and sweep the others from their feet in the same motion, the crystal woman spun, and kicked him in the chest, sending him tumbling over the railing, and into the water below as the flag dropped as well.

“Emma!” Shaw exclaimed, and clicked his tongue at her in reprimand. “We don’t harm our own kind!”

Emma Frost raised an eyebrow at Shaw as she transformed back from her crystalline form. Her impending question was interrupted, however, by the horn of a ship in the distance, the ignition of flares, and the beams of spotlights, panning across the gulf behind them.

The trio turned to face the ship. It was a US Coast Guard Cutter, and it had already deployed several smaller boarding craft before announcing itself.

“This is the U.S. Coast Guard!” A man said over the cutter’s loudspeaker. “Do not attempt to move your vessel. Stay where you are!”

Emma reached out to the men on the boarding craft. Each of them was merely human. Then, she reached onto the boat, and most of the people there were merely human as well. Except for one.

“They have a telepath.” She said, and flooded the area with a collection of random telepathic noise, to block out anyone who might seek to use their powers to observe her, or Shaw, or anyone else in her immediate vicinity.

Someone like Charles Xavier, who recoiled at the sparkling noise that erupted in his mind. He, Moira, and Duncan were on the top level of the ship with the crew, overlooking the operation.

“I’ve lost him!” Charles exclaimed. “I’ve lost Shaw!”

“How could you lose him?” Duncan asked, bewildered. “Isn’t he right there?”

Charles nodded.

“Yes, but there’s something… Blocking me!” He exclaimed over the wind. “Maybe someone. ” He turned to Moira. “That crystal woman, she spoke in thoughts, yes?”

Moira nodded in reply.

“She’s on the boat.” Charles said. “I’ve never had to deal with something like this before, I could actually feel her inside my mind!”

I’m equal parts impressed and frightened! Charles thought to himself. Another telepath!

“I’m very sorry,” He said to Duncan. “I’m not sure how much help I’m going to be tonight, I think we’ve lost our inside view for good.”

---

Back on The Caspartina, a sadistic smirk grew across Shaw’s face.

“Ah!” He exclaimed, clapping his hands together and rubbing them with mirth. “Now it’s a party!”

He gestured to the long-haired man, Riptide, and with a nod of acknowledgement, Riptide conjured a pair of tornadoes, and kneaded them in the air like dough. The wind rose to his command, and the cyclones whipped harder and harder in his palms, until he cast them at the boarding craft, sending the frogmen aboard tumbling into the sea as their craft upended, and soared into the sky, before crashing down nearby.

Azazel appeared at Shaw's side with a crack in a flash of burning shadow.

“Time to get underway.” Shaw told the devilish man, who nodded, and disappeared once more, returning to the helm.

---

“We need to get inside, now!” Charles exclaimed. The Coast Guard sailors on the deck led them into the cabin as the surf lashed at the deck and hull, threatening to whisk the careless and unlucky alike into the depths of the Gulf of Mexico.

---

In the water outside The Caspartina , Erik felt and heard the ship's engines start up, as the figures of the trio on the deck ran for cover, and the ship pulled its’ anchors from the ocean floor.

You're not getting away that easily, Shaw! Erik thought as he reached out through the electromagnetic spectrum, and seized one of the anchors. He fought the retraction winch with all his might. His concentration faltered briefly, and the surf threatened to consume him, but the mechanism bent to his will, and he pulled the anchor free, and sent the chain levitating into the air.

---

Shaw marveled at the sight of thousands of pounds of chain and anchor emerging from the water like the body of some terrible ancient serpent.

He grabbed a radio handset from the wall, and pushed the transmission button.

“Azazel, get everyone get to the sub, now!” He exclaimed.

In an instant, the devilish red man appeared, and whisked Shaw, Frost and Riptide away to the submarine hidden in the belly of the ship, as Erik wrapped the chain around the ship, and tightened it like a boa constrictor.

---

Charles and the others rushed into the cabin as the surf rocked and roiled like a boiling kettle. He probed the sea near the heart of the distortion, looking for a way back into Shaw’s mind, or the mind of anyone near him, when a willpower unlike any he’d ever bore witness to exploded into his mind, just outside of the heart of the sparkling interference field.

Charles froze on his way down the stairs into the belly of the cutter.

“There’s someone else out there!” He exclaimed as he placed his fingers to his temple, and probed further.

Charles felt a heart of honed clarity and raw instinct in the ocean outside, driven forward by a single thought.

“Not again!”

The man wore his heart on his sleeve, and his mental wounds had clearly been made fresh by the other telepath on board Shaw’s vessel, as images of pain and suffering at the hands of Shaw flooded into Charles’ mind, causing him to wince and stumble.

“Charles, are you-” Moira began, but Xavier cut her off as he steeled his nerves, and pushed past her and Duncan, back to the surface.

“Come on!” He said to Moira and Duncan as he led them back up to the deck.

Once they were back atop the deck, Charles was able to pinpoint the source of the thought in an instant, even without the chains that bent to the will of the man in the sea snaking their way around the boat.

“There!” He exclaimed as a loud THUNK sounded from the boat, and a set of running lights ignited below the water as the boat’s keel disengaged, and jetted through the water, just barely escaping the constricting grasp of the anchor chain.

The man in the water dropped the chain, allowing it to SLAM to the deck of the ship and water with a regretful grimace as he turned his attention to the departing sub.

He extended his hands as though to stop it with his palms… And the submarine did not stop, but barely shuddered in response as its’ engines increased their speed, torquing their way through the gulf, and pulling the man along with it.

The wake around the man grew, as he followed along behind the sub as it dove deeper into the water, pulling him down inch by inch as he struggled vainly to pull it back to shore.

“You have to let it go!” Charles exclaimed at the top of his voice as he realized what was to happen if the man in the water did not release the sub.

He can’t hear me, can he? He wondered as his thoughts flew back to days at the beach and pool with Raven and Cain. The way the water lashed at his ears when someone jumped in near him made it difficult to make out anything someone said, and the distance from him and the proximity of the lashing waves made that far worse…

Let go! He thought at the man. But there was no response. Dammit! Either he didn’t hear it or he’s too close to the interference! Charles thought as the man was driven deeper into the water at an ever-growing pace.

He turned to a nearby Guardsman.

“We have to get someone in the water with him to get his attention!” He exclaimed. “He’ll drown if we don’t!”

“He’s already gone!” The Guardsman replied, pointing to the man as his head disappeared beneath the surf.

Like hell he is! Charles thought as he tracked the man’s mind beneath the belly of the ship. He raced to the other side of the cutter as he stripped off his jacket and sweater, and jumped off the side of the boat before the man emerged. Charles dove into the water with nothing approaching the grace of a champion diver, but with enough accuracy to get the job done. In the nick of time, he grabbed the man around the shoulders, much to Erik’s surprise, and dismay.

You have to let go! Charles thought into the man’s mind as hard as he could. Please, I know what this means to you, but you’ll drown before you can stop him!

Erik turned his head to look at Charles in shock. He glanced up and down at Charles.

Calm your mind, and let go, please! Charles begged. The deeper he goes, the less you’ll be able to hold your breath, even with training! You’ll die if you don’t let go!

Erik shuddered at the strength of the thoughts Charles projected into his mind, but nodded, and let the submarine go.

With Erik’s resistance removed, the submarine gained speed, and disappeared into the darkness of the depths.

Erik was left weak by his attempt to stop the submarine. His entire body felt as though he’d attempted to stop it with muscle alone, not just his powers. He pushed himself up as hard as he could, but his arms and legs felt nearly limp in their response. Charles wrapped one arm around Erik’s chest, and used his own strength to help propel them to the surface.

When they emerged from the water, Charles and Erik let their breaths out, and Erik was finally able to swim under his own power.

“We’re over here!” Charles exclaimed between breaths, waving at the cutter as its’ searchlights panned over the gulf, then found them.

“How the hell did you do that?” Erik demanded.

“You have your tricks, I have mine.” Charles replied as the cutter deployed a rescue runabout. “Calm your mind, it’s somewhat hard to swim when you broadcast your thoughts so strongly!”

“Are you a telepath?” Erik asked as the runabout approached them.

Charles nodded as the frogmen reached down to help him and Erik.

“Indeed.” He replied. “I thought I was the only one, but apparently our mutual foe has one in his employ.”

The pair clambered into the runabout with the help of the frogmen.

“I suppose neither of us are as alone as we’d believed.” Erik said as a smile grew across his face.

He extended a wet hand to Charles.

“Erik Lensherr, Her Majesty’s Special Air Service, on loan to the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division joint Hydra task force, or S.H.I.E.L.D. as Mister Stark insists upon calling it!”

Charles shook Erik’s hand with his own, equally-drenched one.

“Professor Charles Xavier, Oxford University, consulting for CIA Division X.” He replied. “Lensherr, that means you’re German, correct?” Charles tried to sort through the thoughts he’d picked up from Erik, but did not probe the man’s mind further. “How’d you wind up with the SAS?”

“My parents were murdered in Auschwitz.” Erik said solemnly. “After my rescue, I spent what remained of my youth in England, in the guardianship of Sir Falsworth of the Howling Commandos. When I was old enough, I joined the Royal Marines, and was recruited to the SAS shortly after.”

The frogmen reconnected the cutter’s winches to the runabout, and the ship hauled it back up to the deck, along with the men inside.

“Interesting career path.” Charles replied.

“Well, I wanted nothing more than to remove whatever remained of Hitler’s following from polite society.” Erik responded. “Seemed like the logical choices to make.”

“Do the SAS know about your abilities?” Charles asked as the two of them and the frogmen returned to the deck of the ship.

“They know enough.” Erik replied. “It’s why I got this assignment.”

“Hunting Sebastian Shaw?” Charles asked.

Erik nodded.

“He used to be the head scientist at Auschwitz.” Erik said as Moira and Duncan approached the pair.

“Who the hell is this?” Duncan asked.

“Erik Lensherr, SAS on loan to SHIELD.” He said as he extended a hand to Duncan.

“Uh, Fred Duncan, CIA.” Duncan replied as he shook Erik’s hand. “You by yourself?”

Erik nodded.

“I happen to have quite a bit of first-hand knowledge of the man I’m after.” Erik said. “So despite my proximity to the situation, director Phillips insisted I was the right man for this job. You can check the details of my posting with him. What does the CIA want with Sebastian Shaw?”

“We suspect him to be collaborating with the Soviet Union to destabilize the United States.” Duncan said. “He’s apparently using… Mutants, meta-humans, whatever the hell you want to call them, to do it. That’s why we brought in Professor Xavier.”

“Interesting.” Erik replied. “At Auschwitz, he was known as Klaus Schmidt.”

Duncan looked at Moira uneasily.

“Schmidt was the only member of camp staff unaccounted for after the raid.” He muttered. “Everyone else was either captured or killed.”

Erik nodded in response.

“He was the collaborator of doctor Isabel Maru, and successor to Joseph Mengele. He’s different, much like myself, much like Charles.”

“How different?” Moira asked. “He didn’t look that different to me. What's his deal?”

“He absorbs energy.” Erik said. “He claims to be hundreds of years old, and while I was at the camp, I witnessed his youthening process. He’s never been fingerprinted in his life, which is how he manages to evade identification.”

“Hundreds of years old?” Moira asked. “He doesn’t look a day over forty, that must be some youthening process if he’s de-aging himself!”

“Oh, it is.” Erik said. “It’s quite violent.”

“Let’s get back to shore and sort things out before we share any more information, alright?” Duncan interjected.

“Feel free,” Charles said. “But it does appear he’s on the level.”

Notes:

What A Wonderful World, as sung by Louis Armstrong, was originally released in 1967. As this story is set in 1962, this is an anachronism, but Alex couldn't divorce this version of the scene from that particular song.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 6 of Marvel/DC Unification