[ Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, Westchester, New York ]
Daisy didn't land directly in front of Professor Charles's office—and for good reason. The last thing she wanted was to startle the world's most powerful telepath into standing up out of reflex. That'd be awkward.
She and Nick Fury appeared a little off-center on the school's playground. The moment they arrived, half a dozen kids froze mid-air—some literally. Toys clattered to the ground. A pair of twins stopped juggling blue fire between their hands, eyeing the newcomers curiously.
Nick Fury, who had been here a couple of times before, adjusted to the surroundings with practiced ease. He didn't need directions; he simply headed toward the main building like he owned the place.
Professor Charles Xavier had spent the majority of his life nestled inside these halls, untouched by war, want, or the whip of fate that lashed others—namely, his good friend Magneto. While Erik Lehnsherr was getting dragged through hell in a concentration camp, Charles was sipping vintage wine and solving theoretical genetics on an American estate.
It helped that Charles had unbeatable psychic abilities and the kind of inherited wealth that made life decisions more about passion than survival. With little left to accomplish for himself, the professor began dedicating his life to the protection and education of fellow mutants.
This school was once Xavier Manor. Now, it had morphed into a haven—a high-tech Hogwarts for kids who could level buildings with a sneeze.
Daisy surveyed the grounds as they walked. Kids were everywhere—but few looked like they were training. No drills. No simulations. Just children playing.
Too soft, Daisy thought. Too sheltered. She knew from experience that if you didn't sharpen your powers, they stayed blunt. In the original timeline, Daisy had spent too much time running around with Coulson and didn't spend any time developing her own abilities.
Take Iceman, for example. Everyone said he had omega-level potential. Able to break thermodynamics, create ice from nothing, rewrite the rules of physics—on paper. But in battle? Ice cones and chilly winds. Pathetic.
"Wow, you two came fast. The professor's waiting," Storm's voice descended with the breeze as she floated down in a gust of wind. She smiled and gestured for them to follow.
Daisy fell in step. "T'Challa's here too? I thought you two were living off-campus."
Storm didn't dodge. "We planned to. But the professor offered a room, so we stayed here."
Daisy smirked but said nothing. Clever move by Charles—invite the Wakandan prince to live in his home. Build trust. Keep a close eye. Flex mutant muscle just enough to say: don't try anything.
She imagined T'Challa seeing all the powers here and thinking, maybe vibranium isn't everything.
As she moved deeper into the manor, her eyes scanned the corridor with predatory precision. The walls boasted garish oil paintings pretending to be important, while every few meters stood a towering blue-and-white vase with the kind of overdone grace meant to intimidate clumsy students into obedience. It was less a hallway, more a silent threat draped in aesthetics.
She nearly chuckled. Charles Xavier, master manipulator in a wheelchair. The vases were likely worthless, but placed with surgical intent. The children, naïve and reverent, tiptoed past them like walking landmines. Discipline through deception. She could respect that.
There was no way a genuine blue and white porcelain vase could stand half a person tall and be casually stationed in a hallway. If such a relic had truly survived the centuries, it would be locked behind glass, not lined up like some oversized tripwire for unsuspecting students. The conclusion was obvious—most of the oil paintings were likely just as fraudulent, decorative illusions masquerading as heritage.
At the corridor's end, they found Professor Charles waiting in his wheelchair, dressed sharply in a tailored suit and tie. He looked every bit the part of a genteel scholar—if not for the fact that Daisy knew he could paralyze a crowd with a thought.
"Colonel Fury. Miss Johnson. Welcome," he said, his voice a velvet ribbon.
Daisy's scan of the room came up clean. No mind-probes, no psychic poking. Her Kunlun ring didn't twitch. Good. She preferred negotiations when her brain wasn't being dissected.
Standing silently behind Charles were two figures—one male, one female. The man was tall, clean-cut, with an angular jaw and red-tinted glasses that gave him the look of someone who didn't blink often. Cyclops. His mutation connected him to a space beyond comprehension, another dimension bleeding through his eyes. In battle, he channeled it into searing crimson beam of destruction. A loyal assistant to Professor Charles. Dangerous, disciplined. Predictable. Daisy liked that combination.
The man was more than just a field leader. He was the captain of the X-Men—and eventually, he would rise to stand at the helm of mutantkind itself.
Beside him stood a woman who didn't need introductions. Red dress, matching heels, a calm that felt anything but tame. Jean Grey—the vessel of the Phoenix Force. Even suppressed, she exuded power like a loaded weapon left on a velvet cushion. Telepathy. Telekinesis. A mind that could peel back layers without permission.
Cyclops stood with hands clasped behind his back, his gaze focused on Daisy and Fury with a flicker of skepticism. Jean, ever composed, gently guided Professor Charles' wheelchair, though the machine could move on its own. It wasn't about necessity—it was about intent.
Cyclops had that military-stiff posture, eyes hidden behind his trademark visor. Daisy recognized the signature tension of someone who lived like a coiled spring.
Jean, though outwardly demure, carried the Phoenix Force inside her. Daisy made a mental note not to say anything overly sarcastic.
Nick Fury headed in for the scheduled talk with Charles and later, with Black Panther. Daisy stopped outside the office door.
The remaining trio turned to her. "Wanna tour the school?" Storm asked.
"Lead the way," Daisy replied with a shrug. She had nothing better to do while the mind games unfolded inside.
Cyclops and Jean joined them. The mansion was vast, with staircases and wings that hinted at secret chambers and tech hiding beneath the antique charm. Still, they covered most of it in thirty minutes.
The conversation between Charles and Fury wasn't done.
"Are you interested in coming to our training room to spar?" Storm's tone was casual, but the intent behind it was clear. She had wanted a bout with Daisy for some time—this moment simply offered the right excuse.
Ah. There it was.
Daisy grinned. "Let's go then."
In a world where power dictated status, refusing would be interpreted as weakness. Daisy had no intention of stepping back. A fight was a test. And she didn't lose.
They agreed to regroup at the training room entrance. Storm left first, eager, practically glowing as she headed off to change. Cyclops hesitated, then decided to follow—quietly intrigued and not willing to be left out.
Daisy noticed Jean hadn't moved. She tilted her head, curiosity quiet but unmistakable. "Not joining?"
"I'm... not much of a fighter," Jean said, smiling politely.
Right. Said the woman who could explode planets. Daisy nodded with a knowing smirk but kept her mouth shut. She didn't want to say the wrong thing and trigger galactic annihilation.
They slipped into small talk, smooth and deflective—standard tools of a trained operative.
"Xavier's School must cost a fortune to run, no?" Daisy asked lightly.
"Yes. Mutants are growing in number… and all funded from the professor's own resources," Jean replied, her tone laced with subtle weight.
Perfect. Casual spy banter. Daisy was still an agent, after all.
Start with mundane topics. Family, logistics, burdens. The kind of conversation that lowered defenses and paved the way for something deeper.
Soon enough, Storm and Cyclops returned, activating the X-Men's signature marvel—the Danger Room. Polished, clinical, and far too advanced for a school setting. But then, this wasn't a school. Not really.
Daisy recalled the legacy of this place—the training room, will one day evolve into artificial intelligence. Professor Charles' habit of staying home wasn't about comfort; it was dangerous brilliance in disguise. He was like a modern-day sage tossing out artifacts without foresight, and the world paid for each of them eventually.
Jean kept her distance, remaining outside the battlefield. Cyclops noticed and made no move to join either—loyal to her presence over the thrill of combat.
That left only two in the arena—Daisy and Storm, facing each other in the heart of a controlled storm.
To Be Continued...
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[POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS]