Harry's instincts prickled like the back of his neck had its own personal alarm system. Cake-cutting duty could wait—there was something off, something watching. Years of being raised by his mother, Artemis (yes, the literal Goddess of the Hunt, no big deal), had taught him that ignoring those instincts was a one-way ticket to a very bad time.
He didn't look up right away. That'd be too obvious, and Harry wasn't in the business of tipping off predators. Instead, he leaned closer to Professor Xavier, who sat nearby, radiating calm like he was born to be unbothered. Of course, having a brain that could psychically juggle half the Eastern Seaboard probably helped.
"Professor," Harry murmured, slicing another piece of cake like he wasn't currently plotting battle strategies. "Mind doing that thing you do? I've got a feeling we're being watched. And not in the 'ooh, birthday cake!' kind of way."
Xavier turned his head slightly, his brow lifting in that very are you sure, or are you just being dramatic? way that Harry had come to expect from people who didn't grow up dodging arrows and monsters.
"You're certain?" Xavier asked, keeping his voice low.
"I'm certain enough," Harry replied, casually setting the knife down. "Something feral. And trust me, if there's one thing my mom drilled into my skull besides archery, it's to know the difference between being the hunter and being the hunted. Right now, we're looking pretty prey-like."
Xavier's expression shifted, calm but focused, like he was already scanning the mental terrain for threats. Harry kept slicing cake, mostly to avoid looking like he was two seconds away from busting out a bow and arrow. Not that he wouldn't, if it came to that.
The professor's gaze went distant for a moment, the tell-tale sign that his brain had left the chat and was currently combing through the psychic ether. Harry tried to act natural, which, for him, involved a lot of pretending to care about frosting distribution.
After a beat, Xavier returned to the moment, his calm expression hiding a sliver of tension. "You're right," he said softly. "There is someone watching. From a distance. Their thoughts are... unsettling. Predatory. Focused."
Harry let out a slow breath, the weight of confirmation settling like a stone in his gut. "Great. Just what I wanted for Jean's birthday: a guest who doesn't RSVP. You catch anything useful? Powers, motive, favorite cupcake flavor?"
"Not yet," Xavier admitted, his tone steady but cautious. "Whoever they are, they're deliberately masking their mind. I can sense them, but they're shielding themselves."
Harry's lips twitched in something that wasn't quite a smile. "Love that for us. Okay, here's the plan: keep an eye—or, you know, a brain—on them. I'll do a quiet lap, see if anyone else is feeling the creepy-crawly vibes."
Xavier nodded, but his gaze lingered on Harry. "Are you sure you don't want me to alert the others?"
Harry glanced at the cluster of kids nearby, all of them laughing and oblivious to the shadow creeping over their birthday bash. "Not yet," he said. "No need to panic everyone unless we have to. Let's keep it low-key until we know what we're dealing with. Besides"—his lips curved into a grin that was all Loki—"it's not a party until something tries to kill us, right?"
Xavier's expression remained calm, but Harry caught the faintest flicker of disapproval. Fine. So maybe joking while being potentially hunted wasn't everyone's coping mechanism. But hey, it worked for him.
As Harry moved away, his senses sharpened, that familiar tension thrumming through his veins. He wasn't just Haris Lokison, shapeshifting heir to two pantheons. He was also the kid who could smell a trap a mile away—and this? This had trap written all over it.
—
Harry slipped away from the table, his senses alive and buzzing with the kind of awareness only years of being raised by Artemis—and occasionally, his trickster father, Loki—could instill. He'd learned early on that sneaking around, observing from the shadows, and picking up on the things others missed were second nature to him. And right now, that instinct told him this wasn't just a case of someone sneaking into Jean's birthday party uninvited. No, this was something bigger, something... dangerous.
His feet barely made a sound on the floor as he moved through the crowd, his eyes scanning the room with calculated precision. He wasn't going in blind, not when he had friends like Hank and Warren who'd been around the block enough to know when something smelled off.
Harry approached the two X-Men quietly, not wanting to alert anyone to the fact that something was amiss. He leaned in close to Hank, who was hovering near the punch bowl, pretending to inspect the label. Hank's big, shaggy form was deceptively gentle, but Harry had seen the guy throw down in ways that would make the Hulk think twice.
"Hey, big guy," Harry murmured, keeping his voice low. "Got a situation. You and Warren stay sharp, okay?"
Hank's sharp eyes flicked up to meet Harry's. "You're sensing it too, aren't you?"
Harry nodded, glancing over at Warren, who was sitting a little further away, looking like he could be studying the decorative napkins but was, in reality, scanning the room. The guy had a gift for noticing things that others wouldn't, even when he was too busy being the aloof winged troublemaker.
"Yeah. Something's off," Harry said, his words precise, like he was giving a military briefing. "Professor Xavier picked up on it too—someone's watching us. Predatory vibes. So... keep an eye on the others. If something goes down, we need to be ready."
Hank's brow furrowed, but he didn't hesitate. "Understood. Warren?" He called.
The winged mutant flicked his gaze over, his wings folding behind him like some kind of avian weapon ready to spring into action at the slightest sign of trouble.
"I'm already on it," Warren replied, his voice steady, though the slight tension in his posture told Harry that he wasn't taking this lightly.
"Good," Harry said, giving them both a quick nod. "Stay low, stay calm, and don't give anything away. If anyone's watching us, we need to be as uninteresting as possible. Let me handle the rest."
Warren raised an eyebrow. "And what exactly is the 'rest'?"
Harry grinned, that cocky, mischievous grin that he'd inherited from his father, Loki. "Oh, you know. Just making sure we don't get ambushed while eating cake. Piece of cake, really."
Hank rolled his eyes but couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped. "You're impossible."
"Yeah, but you love me for it," Harry shot back. With a quick wink, he moved off, his instincts already kicking into overdrive.
Harry's mind was racing as he silently moved through the room, his eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of movement that didn't match the atmosphere of a happy birthday party. No one looked suspicious, but that didn't mean much. Whoever—or whatever—was watching them was playing the long game. Patience, Harry knew, was the key to catching someone in the act.
He slid past a few tables, weaving through guests like a shadow, until he found himself near the back door, where the cool air of the evening brushed against his skin. The instinctive pull of his senses tugged him toward the darkened corner, just out of sight of the party. It was almost too perfect. Too convenient.
"Come on, you sneaky bastard," Harry muttered under his breath, dropping into a crouch. He wasn't waiting for the predator to come to him. No, he was going to make them come. He could smell the tension in the air, and his fingers itched for something sharp. A bow, a dagger, anything. But he resisted. Not yet.
He was no stranger to being out of sight and out of mind. After all, being a shape-shifter with a knack for blending in was sort of his thing. He didn't just look like people; he became them. For now, he stayed still, his body loose and relaxed, every muscle prepared to spring into action the moment he got his confirmation.
It wasn't long before the faintest sound reached his ears—the quietest shuffle of movement, barely perceptible. There. From the far corner of the yard, a shadow detached itself from the rest of the darkened foliage. The figure didn't walk like a normal person. No, this was the kind of movement you saw in predators: fluid, calculated, each step a methodical placement.
Harry's heart rate quickened, but his face stayed neutral, calm—something his years of training had taught him well. He didn't want to tip off the stalker just yet. Instead, he took a deep breath and, in the most nonchalant way possible, reached into his pocket. His Bow/wand was ready for use.
"Game's on," Harry muttered, eyes narrowing as the figure stepped into the light, revealing enough details to send a chill down his spine.
The hunt had begun.
—
Harry's fingers curled around the familiar grip of his bow—though no one would guess it was disguised as a wand. It was a handy little trick, thanks to his father's influence, and right now, it was the perfect weapon for dealing with the hulking beast stalking toward him. He could already feel the wind shifting around the guy's massive form, making him think of a mountain that had somehow grown legs and claws.
Harry's breath steadied as the shadows shifted, a low growl vibrating through the air. His mind kicked into gear, instantly calculating the angle, trajectory, and magic needed to make this work. He'd been in enough sticky situations to trust his instincts, and right now, his instincts were screaming, This is going to hurt if you mess up.
The guy who emerged from the dark was big—like, "bodybuilder who might bench press a car" big. His eyes gleamed in the moonlight like some sort of wild animal, and his claws—ugh—made Harry's stomach turn. There was a certain kind of monster that made you wonder if you were going to have to scrape them off your boots with a spatula, and this guy was one of them.
"Not gonna lie," Harry muttered, "you're the last guy I wanted to run into tonight."
The brute grinned wider, showing way too many teeth. "And who exactly are you, kid?"
Harry smirked. "Just your average party guest. Not the fun kind, though. Trust me."
The guy's laugh rumbled through the air, like a car engine that hadn't been serviced in a while. "You've got guts. I like that. What's your name?"
"Harry." He nocked an arrow, fingers feeling the familiar tension of magic swirling around it. "And you are...?"
"Sabertooth."
Well, that was a new one. The guy was clearly overcompensating for something.
"Nice to meet you, Sabertooth. But you're making a mistake," Harry said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Big one."
Before Harry could blink, the big guy was charging. Literally. He moved so fast it was like watching a bear on roller skates. Harry didn't hesitate. He just thought arrow, and in the blink of an eye, a bolt of magic-wrought steel shot out, heading straight for the mutant's chest.
But no. Of course it wouldn't be that easy.
Sabertooth, with his freakish reflexes, swiped at the air like he was swatting a fly, and slice. The arrow was in pieces before it even had a chance to nick his fur. He looked at Harry like it was a mild inconvenience.
"Not bad, kid," he growled, flexing his claws like he was getting ready for a handshake. "You've got tricks. But not good enough."
Harry's eye twitched. Seriously? Sabertooth was clearly tougher than a dumpster full of bad decisions, but there had to be a way through. His hand dropped to his belt, fingers brushing over the keychain blades that were, frankly, a bit cooler than they had any right to be. They weren't your average pocket knives—no, these bad boys were a blend of Vibranium and Celestial Bronze. That meant they were practically indestructible. The perfect answer to Sabertooth's healing factor.
With a flick of his wrist, Harry unsheathed the blades, their curved edges catching the dim light. "Alright, you overgrown house cat. Let's see how you handle these."
Sabertooth's eyes gleamed with that manic grin, and before Harry could even blink, the beast lunged. His claws were out like he was aiming to do very bad things to Harry's face.
But Harry wasn't going to just stand there and wait to be turned into kibble.
He dodged left, quick as a shadow, his blades flashing through the air. The strike was clean, aiming for Sabertooth's arm. It was a hit—but, of course, Sabertooth didn't slow down. The wound healed before Harry even had time to finish his swing, as if it had never even happened.
"Oh, come on," Harry growled, frustration bubbling up. But Sabertooth was already coming back for round two, charging at him with the kind of speed that should've been illegal.
Harry, a little less diplomatic now, aimed another slash. It was quick, precise—and again—the wound healed almost as soon as it was made.
"Is that all you've got, kid?" Sabertooth taunted, swatting Harry away like an annoying fly. Harry stumbled backward, skidding along the grass, but he was quick to regain his balance.
"Seriously?" Harry muttered, trying to shake the dust off his dignity. "All that healing is getting real old."
From the corner of his eye, he noticed Hank, Warren, Coach Hedge, and Brunhilde springing into action. Hank was barreling through the field like a wrecking ball on steroids, knocking everything in its path like a giant, fuzzy blur. Warren, of course, had already taken to the air, his wings spread wide as he searched for the next threat. Coach Hedge's bat was spinning in his hands like he was auditioning for a role in the next Star Wars movie, and Brunhilde was moving with military precision, ready for whatever the night threw at her.
But Harry didn't have time to focus on them right now. He was still laser-focused on Sabertooth.
The mutant was smirking, clearly enjoying the challenge. "Come on, kid. Thought you were supposed to be dangerous."
Harry gritted his teeth. "Oh, trust me, you'll know when I'm dangerous."
As if on cue, Warren's voice boomed from across the yard. "Let's go, people! We've got mercs to deal with!"
Agent Zero's team had apparently decided to crash the party, mercenaries armed to the teeth and coming in hot from the back. But Hank had already spotted them, his massive, furred head snapping in their direction.
"We'll take the mercs!" Hank yelled. He was already turning back on Sabertooth, claws extended. "You've got this one?"
Harry didn't need to be asked twice. He locked eyes with Sabertooth, and then, with the kind of grin that could rival the Joker's, he charged.
"Oh yeah. Now we're just getting started."
—
Harry's grin spread across his face like a mischievous sunrise. The kind of grin that usually meant trouble—big trouble. But Harry wasn't scared of trouble. He was practically made for it. And right now, Sabertooth was about to find that out the hard way.
Now, if you've ever fought someone with claws, you'll know they're not exactly the type of thing you want to get near unless you're packing a seriously good plan. But that's where Harry's got an edge: while Sabertooth's claws were about to slice through him like paper, Harry wasn't playing by the rules anymore. Oh no. Harry had decided that today was the day he'd stop just dodging the big guy and start playing with him. And I mean playing in the most dangerous, unpredictable way possible.
When Sabertooth lunged, Harry didn't flinch. Instead, he turned his body like a liquid, flowing with the speed of Sun Wukong's teachings—dancing through the air with a grace that would've made a ballet dancer weep with envy. He used Sabertooth's momentum, like a skilled matador, spinning and twisting until he was behind the mutant, ready for the next move. One well-timed jab to the ribs sent Sabertooth stumbling. Perfect.
"Nice try, furball, but you're gonna have to be a little faster than that!" Harry shot back, voice dripping with sarcastic amusement, and Sabertooth didn't like that one bit.
And that's when it hit Harry—the power, that prickling energy he'd been holding back since that little encounter with Cyttorak. The kind of power that felt like a volcano waiting to erupt. Sabertooth might have been a tank, but Harry? He was about to become the explosion.
So, as the claws came at him, Harry didn't dodge. He stood there, feet planted, grinning like he knew something no one else did. And then, BAM. He kicked. Sabertooth went flying, and not in the way you'd expect. No, this wasn't some dramatic fight scene where the bad guy flips gracefully through the air. Sabertooth stumbled back like a bulldozer running out of gas. And then something weird happened.
Harry felt it first: a flood of energy, as if someone had just kicked open a hidden door to his power. Not just the usual stuff—no, no. This was new. The power of Praedia Bellica, Spoils of War, surged through him. Harry's eyes widened as he realized what was going on: He was siphoning Sabertooth's energy. His nails had turned into claws, and they were now sharper with each passing moment, his senses tingling, and his muscles? Oh, they were feeling real strong.
Sabertooth, on the other hand, wasn't looking so hot anymore. He staggered, his once-unshakable healing factor slowing to a crawl. It wasn't just that his claws were dulling; it was like he was aging—rapidly. Like someone was fast-forwarding his life on a VHS tape.
"What the—?" Sabertooth gasped, his once-feral eyes growing wide with confusion. He was looking less like the mutant menace and more like... well, an old man with a bad attitude.
Harry's claws flicked out—his claws now. Oh, this was good. Sabertooth was gasping for breath as the years seemed to literally fall off him. "You're about to find out what happens when you mess with someone who's got the soul of a trickster and the muscles of a god," Harry mused, flexing his fingers. "This isn't even my final form, by the way."
Sabertooth—now much older and much slower—tried to swing his claws, but they barely had the strength to scrape the air. Harry danced around him effortlessly, his movements more fluid than a breeze on a summer day. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, Harry slashed across Sabertooth's chest. The mutant's form crumpled, and with a last, strangled breath, he collapsed, the energy draining from his body as quickly as his once-immense form shriveled into something barely recognizable.
Harry stood over him, breathing lightly, his claws gleaming in the moonlight like a predator in its prime. He looked down at the fallen beast, shaking his head. "I told you not to mess with me," he muttered, half amused, half satisfied.
And as Sabertooth lay there, as old and defeated as a forgotten relic, Harry couldn't help but feel... a little too good about himself. Because here he was, a son of Loki and Artemis, the trickster and the huntress, standing victorious over a centuries-old mutant who, just moments ago, had been unbeatable.
Harry smirked, stretching his arms as if he had just finished a long, leisurely walk. "I really need to stop being so humble. Seriously, though," he added, more to himself than anyone else, "this was too easy. Maybe next time I'll go up against someone who actually puts up a fight."
Yeah, he was definitely getting used to this whole "godly powers" thing.
—
From the cozy confines of the Grey family farmhouse, where cake and chaos mingled in equal measure, Harry's showdown with Sabertooth played out like the universe's most intense pay-per-view event. The kids, a mix of demigods, mutants, and occasional troublemakers, were gathered around the window, equal parts awe-struck and entertained.
"Did you see that spin move?!" Travis Stoll exclaimed, spraying cake crumbs across the room. "That's gotta be his signature move now. We'll call it 'The Twisted Trickster.'"
"Or how about 'Don't Mess with the Monkey Claw'?" his brother Connor chimed in, snickering. "Way cooler."
Clarisse, chewing on a hunk of cake the size of a brick, rolled her eyes. "You two are such dweebs. It was just a fight. I could take him."
Luke gave her a skeptical glance. "Against Sabertooth? Sure you could. And I'm the god of hot chocolate."
"Luke!" Annabeth, always the voice of reason—or at least a voice of reason—nudged him with her elbow. "Can't you just let her dream?"
Jean Grey, the birthday girl herself, leaned casually against the wall, sipping her soda with an amused smile. Her emerald eyes were fixed on Harry as he dusted himself off after the fight. "He makes it look too easy, doesn't he?" she mused, her tone a mix of pride and exasperation.
From the kitchen, Elaine Grey called out, "Jean, stop swooning over Harry and eat some cake before your sister finishes it all!"
Jean flushed but didn't move. Sara, sitting cross-legged on the counter, smirked. "Don't worry, Mom. Jean's more interested in watching her boyfriend beat up Sabertooth than eating cake."
"I hate you," Jean shot back, her face burning as Sara giggled uncontrollably.
Meanwhile, Kitty Pryde phased through the wall, popping in with a plate of her own. "Not to ruin the fun, but Coach Hedge just speared two mercenaries with a lacrosse stick, and Brunhilde's throwing them like shot puts. Anyone else feel bad for the bad guys?"
Yelena , leaning back in a chair with her hands tucked tightly in her pockets, smirked. "Nah. They signed up for this."
Back on the battlefield, Harry finally let his claws retract, his breath evening out as Sabertooth's lifeless form dissolved into nothingness—a courtesy provided by his mutant powers, no doubt. He turned toward the farmhouse, lifting a hand in a triumphant wave, as if this had been a friendly game of Capture the Flag.
Inside, Natasha Romanoff—10-year-old daughter of Nemesis—crossed her arms and glared at the scene. "He held back this morning," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. "That little jerk held back when we sparred."
Charles Xavier—ever the voice of science—leaned closer to hear her. "And this bothers you… why exactly?"
Natasha narrowed her eyes, her expression a mix of annoyance and begrudging admiration. "Because I've never faced anyone who could beat me. Not at the Red Room, not at Camp Half-Blood, nowhere. I'm supposed to be unbeatable."
Xavier arched an eyebrow. "And now you've encountered a challenge. Perhaps this will inspire growth."
"It inspires me to kick his butt," she muttered, though the faintest blush crept across her cheeks. She didn't quite know why, but watching Harry battle like a god—literally—had stirred something in her. Not full-blown infatuation, of course; she was ten. But maybe just… the tiniest, most begrudging bit of admiration. She'd get stronger. And next time, he'd be the one on the ground.
Over by the cake, Charles Beckendorf took another bite, shrugging. "All I know is that Harry's gonna owe us all a round of sparring after this. Guy's got moves."
Jean glanced out the window one last time, her smile softening. "Yeah, he does. But don't tell him that. He's insufferable enough as it is."
In the distance, Harry strode toward the farmhouse, victorious and radiating energy, his grin as smug as ever. The chaotic blend of mutants and demigods inside? Oh, they were waiting for him. And the evening was only just getting started.
—
The battlefield was chaos, with bodies sprawled across the dirt and smoke rising from Coach Hedge's most recent explosion. Most of the mercenaries had been neutralized, groaning or unconscious, but one man remained standing: Agent Zero.
He was no ordinary opponent. His movements were cold and efficient, each step calculated, each shot precise. He moved like a ghost, firing rounds that didn't kill but forced his enemies to react, to falter, to leave themselves open for the next strike.
Brunhilde, bloodied but unbowed, stood tall, her sword gleaming with crimson. Her armor bore the dents of a dozen battles, but her gaze was as sharp as her blade. She locked eyes with Zero and pointed her sword at him like a challenge. "You think you're clever? Let's see how clever you are up close."
Zero answered with action, firing a burst of shots at her. Brunhilde moved like lightning, her blade flashing as she deflected the bullets with precision that bordered on supernatural. She charged, her footfalls shaking the ground, her sword raised to cleave him in two.
Zero didn't run. He sidestepped at the last moment, spinning with inhuman grace and slashing at her with a hidden combat knife. The blade scraped against her armor, the impact ringing out like a bell. Brunhilde countered with a vicious swing, but Zero ducked low and retaliated with a kick that sent her staggering back.
From above, Warren flapped his mighty wings, circling like a predator. "Enough of this!" he yelled, diving down with talons extended. Zero saw him coming and rolled at the last second, Warren's claws raking empty air and tearing up the ground instead.
"Missed me," Zero muttered, already aiming his pistol at Warren. The shot rang out, but Hank charged from the side, roaring as he knocked the weapon away with his claws.
"You're quick," Hank growled, his eyes narrowing, "but let's see how you handle a beast."
Zero didn't flinch. He ducked under Hank's swipe, driving an elbow into the mutant's ribs, then spun and kicked his legs out from under him. Before Hank could hit the ground, Zero was already firing again—this time at Warren, who had swooped in for another strike. Warren twisted in midair, the bullet grazing his wing but failing to stop him.
Brunhilde was back on her feet, fury radiating from her. "Enough games!" she bellowed, throwing her sword like a javelin. The blade hurtled through the air, forcing Zero to leap aside. She closed the distance in an instant, tackling him with the force of a freight train.
Zero hit the ground hard but managed to twist free, slashing at Brunhilde's arm with his knife. The blade cut through her armor and drew blood, but it only seemed to enrage her further. She grabbed his wrist, crushing it with inhuman strength, and forced the knife from his grip.
From the sidelines, Coach Hedge cackled. "This guy's slippery, but I've got just the thing!" He lit another stick of dynamite, spinning it like a baton before hurling it toward Zero.
"Coach, no—!" Hank shouted, but it was too late.
The dynamite exploded, the shockwave knocking everyone off balance. Smoke and debris filled the air, and for a moment, Zero seemed to vanish into the chaos.
But then, out of the smoke, he emerged, bloodied but still moving with deadly precision. He lunged for Brunhilde, a second knife in hand, aiming for her throat. She caught his arm mid-strike, twisting it with a bone-cracking sound that made even Hank wince.
"Yield!" Brunhilde roared, driving a knee into his chest and slamming him into the dirt.
Zero gasped for air but didn't stop fighting. He kneed her in the stomach and broke free, only to find Warren diving at him again. This time, Warren didn't miss. He slammed into Zero like a cannonball, pinning him to the ground with his talons.
"Stay down!" Warren snarled, wings flaring.
Zero twisted like a snake, nearly slipping free, but Hank was on him now, his claws flashing. He grabbed Zero by the collar and hoisted him into the air. "Enough of this," Hank growled, slamming him back down.
Before Zero could recover, Coach Hedge bounded over, laughing maniacally. "And now for the finishing touch!" The satyr charged, horns down, and rammed into Zero with enough force to leave a dent in the ground.
Zero groaned, finally lying still. Brunhilde loomed over him, her sword back in her hands and the edge pressed to his throat. "Yield, or the next thing I cut will be something you need."
For the first time, Zero's calm façade cracked. He raised his hands in surrender. "Fine," he spat. "You win."
Brunhilde smirked, lowering her blade but not taking her eyes off him. "Smart choice."
As Hank tied Zero's hands with steel cable, Warren folded his wings and scowled. "This guy was way too much trouble for one person."
Coach Hedge planted his hooves on Zero's chest and puffed out his chest. "Trouble? This was fun! What's next? More mercenaries? A dragon? I'm ready for anything!"
Brunhilde wiped the blood from her cheek, her expression grim. "Let's regroup at the farmhouse. If this guy's a warmup, the main act is going to be worse."
"And let's hope they've got something to eat," Hedge said with a grin, "I'm starving!"
—
As the group trudged back to the farmhouse, Hank carried the bound and unconscious Agent Zero slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Brunhilde kept her sword drawn, her eyes scanning the treeline for any sign of reinforcements. Warren, still favoring his wing, walked towards Katie Gardner and Kayla Knowles, both of whom were busy comforting a sobbing Bobby Drake, who was disturbed to see all of the violence. The boy's tear-streaked face was pale, his trembling hands clutching Kayla's arm like a lifeline.
Inside the farmhouse, the tension was palpable, though Coach Hedge and Harry seemed oblivious. The two were gorging themselves on the food the others had managed to scrounge up for them, the satyr tearing into a roasted chicken while Harry demolished what looked like an entire pie.
"Really?" Brunhilde muttered, watching them with thinly veiled disgust. "We just survived an ambush, and you're having a feast?"
Hedge waved a drumstick in the air. "Hey, a satyr's gotta eat! You don't want me fainting in the middle of a fight, do you?"
Harry, his mouth full, mumbled something incomprehensible that might have been agreement.
Hank set Agent Zero down none-too-gently on the floor, his keen eyes already examining the man's gear. "I don't like this," he muttered. "Zero's equipment is advanced—far beyond what we'd expect from a simple mercenary outfit. This isn't standard-issue military tech."
Charles Xavier wheeled himself closer, his face a mask of grim determination. "That's because this isn't a standard operation," he said, his voice heavy. "I suspect these men were sent for a very specific purpose. And now, we're going to find out what it is."
As the professor pressed two fingers to his temple, his psychic energy flared. Zero's body twitched slightly, but his mind resisted like a fortress surrounded by an invisible shield. Charles frowned, his brow furrowing in concentration.
"He's got some kind of telepathic block," Xavier muttered.
Hank knelt beside him, studying the faint glow emanating from a small device embedded beneath Zero's collar. "It's technological, I think. Similar to the inhibitor tech Sabretooth used when we last encountered him."
Beckendorf, busy examining another piece of Zero's gear, nodded in agreement. "Could be a neural dampener. It disrupts brainwaves, makes it harder for telepaths to get in."
"I'm getting through," Xavier said, his voice tight with strain. "But it's... difficult. Whoever designed this knew exactly how to counter my abilities."
Minutes passed in tense silence, broken only by Bobby's quiet sobs and Hedge's enthusiastic chewing. Finally, with a sharp exhale, Xavier pulled back, his face pale but triumphant.
"I've broken through," he said. "Agent Zero's mind is... fragmented, but I've managed to piece together the truth."
The room fell silent, everyone turning to look at the professor. Even Hedge put down his drumstick.
"These men work for a man named William Stryker," Xavier began, his tone grave. "He runs a black ops program called Weapon X. Its purpose is to capture and experiment on young mutants, turning them into weapons for his own purposes."
Bobby flinched at the mention of the word "mutants," curling further into Kayla's side. Katie rubbed his back soothingly, her gaze dark with anger.
Xavier continued. "They came here to kidnap Bobby Drake. Sabretooth was tracking him, intending to take him before we intervened. When we rescued Bobby, they shifted their focus to the rest of us, seeing an opportunity to capture multiple mutants at once."
Brunhilde's grip tightened on her sword. "This Stryker... where is he?"
Xavier's expression darkened. "He operates from a facility near Alkali Lake. It's heavily fortified, and he has many mutant children there, all of whom have been subjected to horrific experiments."
Warren's wings flared slightly, his face a mix of fury and determination. "We have to stop him."
Kayla, still holding Bobby, looked up with fire in her eyes. "And rescue those kids. We can't leave them there."
Xavier nodded. "Agreed. But we'll need to proceed carefully. Stryker is well-prepared, and if he knows we're coming—"
"Then we hit him before he can react," Brunhilde interrupted, her voice cold and resolute. "He wants a fight? We'll give him one."
Hank stood, his expression grim. "We'll need a plan. And more than just brute force. Stryker's not the kind of enemy you underestimate."
From the corner, Hedge grinned, brandishing a fresh stick of dynamite. "Planning's all well and good, but sometimes you just need a big enough boom."
Harry, wiping pie crumbs from his face, finally spoke. "Whatever we do, we better do it fast. That Alkali Lake place? It's going to be crawling with more of Stryker's men. And if what you're saying is true..." His green eyes darkened. "We can't let him keep doing this."
Xavier placed a hand on Bobby's shoulder, his voice soft but firm. "Bobby, you're safe now. And I promise, we'll make sure no one else suffers as you almost did."
Bobby sniffled, looking up at the professor with wide, tear-filled eyes. "You promise?"
Xavier smiled gently. "I promise."
And with that, the group began to prepare for their next battle—one that would take them straight into the heart of Weapon X.
---
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