Jean followed Charles Xavier down the hallway leading to the Danger Room floor. The underground level had a colder feel to it, not just from the temperature but the sterility of the space itself—reinforced walls, bright fluorescent lights, and the hum of machinery hidden within the structure. Unlike the rest of the mansion, which carried an air of warmth and elegance, this place was built for something else entirely.
As they reached the main entrance, Jean exhaled, steadying herself. It wasn't nerves, not exactly. More like anticipation—an eagerness to step into something new.
Charles glanced at her with a knowing smile. "Nervous?"
Jean shook her head. "Excited, actually. I want to see how much I can improve."
"That is good," Charles said as the doors slid open. "Growth begins with a willingness to push beyond one's limits."
Jean stepped inside, her eyes immediately scanning the massive training area. The Danger Room wasn't some futuristic battlefield like she had imagined—it wasn't a place where she would be dodging lasers or fighting off mechanical enemies. Instead, it was functional, a carefully structured training space designed for raw conditioning and skill-building.
To the right, a full-scale gymnasium occupied the space, with weight benches, resistance machines, and agility equipment. Further ahead, an obstacle course made up of moving platforms, rotating poles, and shifting footholds tested endurance and precision. A firing range lined one of the walls, marked by multiple targets at varying distances. And in the center of the floor, a sparring ring sat surrounded by padded mats, offering a space for direct combat training.
The room felt alive, and the students training inside brought it to life in an instant.
Warren was in the sparring ring, darting through the air, his wings flaring wildly as Logan chased after him with open claws.
"Too slow, pretty boy!" Logan growled, swiping at Warren.
"Are you trying to kill me?!" Warren snapped, frantically adjusting his flight path as Logan lunged again.
"If you can't dodge me, what are you gonna do in a real fight?" Logan smirked, slicing the air an inch from Warren's wingtip.
Warren's response was a panicked yelp as he barely avoided the attack.
Jean blinked. 'That does not look like training. That looks like attempted murder.'
To the side, Bobby was at the gymnasium, pushing through sets of weighted squats with a determined frown. Jean had to admit, she was impressed—his usual joking nature wasn't present at all.
He was focused.
Which was a strange sight to see.
Further ahead, Hank was navigating the obstacle course, flipping, dodging, and twisting his way through the constantly shifting platforms with practiced ease. His movements were surprisingly graceful for someone his size.
At the far end, Alex stood at the target range, firing off controlled blasts of energy from his hands. He gritted his teeth as each shot went wide, barely grazing the target. He muttered something under his breath, frustration clear in his body language.
Jean folded her arms. "So… are you or Logan going to be teaching me?"
Charles shook his head. "No. Logan will certainly be one of your instructors, but the person primarily responsible for your training will be Scott."
Jean's gaze snapped to him. "Scott?"
Charles nodded and gestured toward the sparring ring. Past Warren's frantic dodging, Jean spotted Scott standing near the obstacle course, his arms folded, stopwatch in hand, his focus entirely locked on Hank's movements.
He didn't even glance their way.
Jean frowned. "I mean… we're the same age. Are you sure that's a good idea?"
Charles smiled at the question, as if he had expected it. "Scott has demonstrated exceptional ability not only as a combatant but as a leader. While Logan provides direct combat instruction, it is Scott who oversees the training program for each of his teammates. His structured methods have led to remarkable growth in Bobby, Hank, and Warren. I have no doubt that you will benefit from his guidance as well."
Jean remained skeptical. "He's been avoiding me since I got here. How am I supposed to train with someone who won't even look at me?"
Her gaze flickered back to Scott who still hadn't acknowledged them. His brow was furrowed in deep thought as he watched Hank maneuver through the obstacle course, analyzing every movement with near-clinical precision.
There was no warmth in his expression. No trace of the person she had seen during their introduction three days ago.
Just cold focus.
Jean exhaled through her nose. 'This is going to be interesting.'
Jean's brow furrowed as she kept her gaze on Scott, but his focus remained elsewhere. He hadn't looked at her once since she and Charles arrived, and the longer it went on, the more it gnawed at her.
Charles, noticing her growing frustration, spoke gently. "Despite his awkwardness, I assure you, Scott is more than capable of helping you reach your full potential." Scott remained silent, still watching Hank navigate the obstacle course with laser focus. "Scott, would you agree?"
Without sparing them a glance, Scott responded flatly, "It depends entirely on how hard she's willing to work, Professor."
Jean's eyes widened slightly. "Excuse me?"
She straightened her posture, crossing her arms, irritation bubbling in her chest. She prided herself on her work ethic, on her drive to push herself beyond expectations. She had always been an overachiever, someone who tackled challenges head-on. To hear that she—of all people—had to prove herself?
Scott still didn't look at her, his attention locked on Hank as the older boy neared the final stretch of the course, powerful strides carrying him over the last sequence of shifting platforms.
"I meant no offence," Scott said, tone unreadable.
Jean narrowed her eyes. 'Could've fooled me.'
Scott pressed the stopwatch as Hank landed on the final platform. He made a small note on his clipboard, nodding slightly to himself as he jotted down a few more details. "I can only help you improve as much as you're willing to improve. If you don't work hard, you won't get very far."
Jean felt her pride flare.
She was more than willing to put in the work.
Charles, sensing her reaction, gave her a reassuring glance. "Jean will be more than willing to rise to the challenge, Scott."
Finally—finally—Scott turned to face her.
There was a brief moment of pause as his gaze settled on her, taking in her expression. Jean's simmering frustration was plain to see, though she kept her posture poised, refusing to let his bluntness completely rattle her.
Scott studied her for a second longer before nodding. "Alright." Then, without missing a beat, he said, "I apologise if my words offended you. It wasn't my intention."
Jean exhaled, her irritation still lingering, but she gave a small nod in return. "Fine," she said, though inwardly, she still couldn't shake the question that had been bothering her since she arrived. 'Why does he dismiss me like this?'
Scott seemed content with her response, already shifting gears. "What progress have you made with your powers?"
Jean blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. "What do you want to know?"
"Your current progress will determine where we start your training," he replied instantly, no hesitation, no wasted words.
Jean pressed her lips together.
There was something about the way he spoke that rubbed her the wrong way—not rude, but cold.
Detached.
She knew she was strong.
More than strong.
She was the most powerful telekinetic Charles had encountered at her age.
Wanting to see if she could finally break through Scott's indifference, she lifted her chin slightly and said, "I can lift a car with my telekinesis." She left out the part where it had nearly drained her completely, her muscles trembling for an hour afterward.
Scott didn't so much as blink.
He barely even reacted.
"Okay," he said simply.
That was it.
Jean's stomach twisted—not just in frustration, but in confusion. Most people—hell, even Charles—had been impressed when she pulled off that feat.
But Scott?
He just dismissed it like it was nothing.
Who was this guy?
Jean didn't know yet.
But now she had to find out.
Jean narrowed her eyes at Scott, still reeling from his complete dismissal of her accomplishment.
"Okay?" She crossed her arms. "That's it?"
Scott turned his head slightly but didn't fully look at her. "Is there a problem?"
Jean opened her mouth, but for once, no words came out.
Was there a problem?
Yes.
No.
Maybe.
She wasn't used to this because usually people noticed when she did something impressive, they reacted. Yet, standing here in front of Scott, it felt like she had thrown a stone into a bottomless well—no response, just silence and depth she couldn't yet see the end of.
Caught off guard, she stumbled over her words. "I—uh—no, it's nothing."
Scott was quiet for a moment, then gave a small nod before shifting gears. "Tomorrow you'll start by heading over to the gymnasium and focus on lifting numerous smaller weights in intricate movements and patterns to develop your control."
Jean blinked. "What?"
"At the same time," Scott continued, ignoring her reaction, "you'll mix in lifting heavier weights to push the limits of your power."
Jean remained silent, still unsure how to respond.
He was just moving on?
Just like that?
"When in the obstacle course you'll also focus on creating a boundary around yourself that slows down projectiles," Scott added, "as well as practicing catching projectiles mid-air using your telekinesis. Precision and reflexive control are just as important as raw power. These are your personal training exercises that you'll complete alongside the team training."
Jean just stared at him.
He had said all of that so quickly, as if he had already calculated her entire training regimen the moment he learned about her powers. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing, no wasted thought—he had just decided.
This clearly wasn't someone who guessed his way through leadership.
Scott finally turned away, scanning the room as if their conversation had already ended. Jean opened her mouth to say something—she wasn't even sure what—but the words died before they could form.
Scott, apparently unfazed, moved on. "Hank, you're sparring with Logan. Bobby, target practice. Warren, memorisation drills. Alex—"
He hesitated for only the briefest second.
"You're on the obstacle course."
The team barely reacted, already shifting toward their new assignments, but Jean found herself rooted in place, still trying to wrap her head around Scott Summers.
After a moment, she found her voice. "Why do we have both personal and team training exercises?"
Scott's eyes flickered to her briefly before returning to his clipboard. "Each member has a role to fill based on their powers."
Jean raised an eyebrow. "And what roles are those?"
Scott exhaled, his tone level and clinical. "Hank is a frontline fighter, so his personal training includes additional obstacle course runs, sparring sessions, and gym workouts to maximize his physicality."
Jean glanced toward the obstacle course, where Hank was making his way toward the sparring ring, sweat beading on his forehead.
"Warren is a scout," Scott continued. "He relies on speed and mobility, which means his training focuses on memorisation drills and refining his maneuverability in the air through the obstacle course."
Jean tilted her head, her intrigue growing.
"Bobby is a powerhouse," Scott went on. "A mid to long-range fighter. He needs target practice to refine his precision, but he also spends time researching and experimenting with his powers for creative applications. But every member of the team must also do work in the gymnasium, sparring, memorisation and the obstacle course."
Jean found herself genuinely impressed. She hadn't expected such an in-depth breakdown. His assessments weren't just general descriptions of their abilities—he had mapped out their skill sets, optimized their strengths, and structured their training to push them forward.
"And what about me?" She asked, curiosity getting the better of her. "And Alex? And you?"
Scott didn't hesitate. "You'll be a mid-range support and fighter. Your telekinesis can be used to defend teammates and help them escape danger, but it's also an offensive tool to restrain and attack opponents. Your training will reflect that."
Jean absorbed that, still trying to gauge his mindset. She wasn't sure if she liked being categorized so easily, but at the same time, she couldn't argue with his logic.
Scott looked up briefly before returning to his notes. "I'm a long-range fighter and the team leader."
"And Alex?" She pressed.
The air shifted.
Scott's entire posture stiffened—not enough to be obvious, but Jean felt the change in intensity. When he spoke, his voice was clipped. "Alex won't be filling a role on the team."
The finality in his words caught her off guard.
It wasn't just firm—it was absolute.
Jean hesitated, unsure why she suddenly felt compelled to apologize. Then, a memory surfaced.
Three days ago, when Amelia had been giving her a tour of the mansion, she had seen Alex storm past them, expression dark and shoulders tense. Scott had been standing just a few feet away, his usual controlled mask cracked—he had looked torn, hurt, like something had fractured between them.
Was that what this was about?
She almost asked.
Almost pushed for more.
But something told her that if she did, Scott wouldn't answer. So instead, she stayed quiet, watching him in a new light and wondering just how much she still had to learn about Scott Summers.
-X-
Scott stepped into his room, exhaling deeply as he shut the door behind him. His fingers lingered on the handle for a moment before he forced himself to let go, running a hand through his hair as he walked further inside.
He hadn't realized how exhausting the day had been until now—not physically, but mentally.
Jean had been around him almost constantly. He had spent so much time making sure she was properly introduced to training, answering her questions, keeping things professional. But it was never going to be easy, not with Cyclops' memories pressing down on him like a weight that refused to lift.
Spending time with her had stirred things inside him. Things that weren't his, not really.
Memories of Cyclops' love for Jean, the pain of losing her, the endless cycle of hope and heartbreak. He had no right to those emotions, but they were there—lurking, waiting for the moment his guard slipped.
Scott let out a slow breath before sitting down on his bed.
Avoiding her completely had worked before, but now?
That was no longer possible.
It was only going to get worse.
He stared up at the ceiling, closing his eyes for a brief moment, trying to push those thoughts away. He needed to focus—on training, on leading the team, on preparing for what was coming.
Then his phone buzzed.
Scott sat up immediately, pulling it from his nightstand. The number flashing across the screen was one he recognized instantly.
Callisto.
His grip tightened, and he answered without hesitation.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice already sharp with focus.
"Everything's wrong," Callisto replied, frustration lacing her tone. "Oscorp is stepping up their game. They've unveiled new weapons, more propaganda, and now they're poking around the sewers."
Scott's eyes narrowed.
"They're hunting for Spider-Man," Callisto continued, "but if they keep digging, it's only a matter of time before they find us."
Despite the severity of the situation, Scott felt himself relax—not in relief, but in clarity.
This was a problem he could solve.
His mind sharpened, shedding all the emotional noise from earlier. Gone was the turbulence that had threatened to overwhelm him—now, he was in his element.
"You're looking at this the wrong way," Scott said, his voice calm, methodical. "This isn't a disaster. It's an opportunity."
Callisto scoffed. "Opportunity? You think Oscorp breathing down our necks is an opportunity?"
"Yes."
There was a brief silence on the other end.
Scott continued. "Oscorp has gone all-in on their narrative. They've made Harry Osborn—the Green Goblin—the so-called hero of Queens and New York. The villains he fights—Vulture, Sandman, Rhino—are nothing more than products of Oscorp itself. The public eats up the spectacle, but that spectacle serves a purpose; it sells weapons."
"Tell me something I don't know," Callisto muttered.
Scott didn't slow down. "Oscorp uses those villains to prop up Harry's image, but also to showcase the capabilities of their technology to investors. That means those same 'villains'—Vulture, Sandman, the others—are expendable. They're constantly on the run, hunted by Oscorp, the authorities, and Harry himself. They don't have allies. But you can change that."
Callisto was quiet.
"You offer them a home. Aid. A place where they're not hunted, where they're protected—and in return, they become a part of the Morlocks' strength. You turn Oscorp's own discarded weapons against them."
"That's assuming they even listen to me," Callisto said flatly. "They're criminals, not freedom fighters."
"They're survivors," Scott corrected. "And you can use them to make sure your people survive."
"And in doing so, I paint a huge target on my back," Callisto shot back. "On all of our backs."
Scott's response was immediate. "The target is already there, Callisto. The question is whether or not you're strong enough to defend yourself when the time comes."
Another silence.
This one stretched longer.
Scott didn't rush her.
He knew his words had gotten through.
Eventually, the call ended without another word. Scott let the phone rest in his lap, his expression unreadable. She would think it over and she would make the right choice.
Because she had no other choice.
Right now, he needed the Morlocks to act as a buffer—to help contain Oscorp, to keep Norman Osborn and his influence locked within New York for as long as possible. If they could limit his reach, if they could keep him occupied, it would buy the X-Men time.
Because right now, they weren't ready.
Not for Oscorp.
Not when the Marauders and Mr. Sinister were still out there, watching, waiting.
Scott took a breath, exhaled, and leaned back against his bed.
Tomorrow, he would start training Jean.
But tonight, he planned.