( 3rd POV )
The late afternoon sun filtered through the tall, arched windows of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, casting geometric patterns of golden light onto the stone-tiled floor. The campus, nestled amidst the lush, undulating hills of Westchester County, pulsed with tranquil energy and youthful exuberance.
On the expansive front lawn, laughter echoed across the open courtyard as students chased each other across the finely manicured lawns covered with snows falling from the sky, powers on playful display—telekinetic pushes, light-bending illusions, a flicker of flame dancing harmlessly through the air.
But the playfulness was suddenly interrupted by the smooth hum of an approaching engine. Heads turned collectively toward the driveway where an obsidian-colored luxury sedan cruised to a graceful halt. It gleamed like a panther in the sunlight. The doors unlocked with a discreet click, and a hush fell as a figure stepped out.
The children gasped, and a murmur spread like wildfire among the students.
"Is that—?"
"Mr. Warren?!"
"The Angel himself?!"
Indeed, it was him. Warren Worthington III, former X-Man, the head to Worthington Industries, and perhaps the most photogenic public figure among the mutant kind or as publicly knew, the Metahuman.
He stood tall and elegant, his tailored suit fitting him like a second skin. His signature white-blond hair was slicked back with a tasteful touch of style, and his radiant, white angelic wings shimmered under the sun like folded blades of divine light.
Just looking from his appearance alone, it is no wonder that his reputation extended far beyond his business empire; he had become a rare symbol of mutant/metahuman acceptance. Everyone loves an angelic looking millionaire after all.
Noticing the kid's reaction, Warren gave them a friendly smile and raised a hand. "Hey there, kids. Don't let me interrupt your fun."
"Wow, it's really him!"
"Mr. Warren, did you bring our Christmas gift?"
"Angel-san, let's make TikTok together!"
The students responded with cheers, awe-struck greetings, while others scrambled for their phones, trying to subtly capture a picture. Warren merely laughed, his voice smooth and reassuring, before ascending the familiar steps of the mansion.
Inside, the mansion's air was thick with familiar nostalgia. The high ceilings, the polished oak paneling, the lingering scent of lavender wax and ozone—nothing had changed. Yet Warren felt the subtle differences that came with time: the different arrangement of portraits, the newer additions to the Hall of Honor, the young faces peeking from corridors he once ran through.
"Sigh, home sweet home..."
"Warren?" A familiar voice called out from the corridor.
Ororo Munroe appeared from the eastern hallway, the folds of her flowing white tunic catching the light. Her snow-white hair was elegantly braided, falling over her shoulder in a thick cascade. Beside her was Alex Summers—Havok—dressed in a worn leather jacket, his demeanor more casual but alert, his eyes scanning Warren with amused curiosity.
"Ororo," Warren said, stepping forward with a bright grin. "Alex. You two haven't aged a day."
Ororo smiled, reaching out to embrace him briefly. Her eyes softened at the sight of an old comrade. "You're a terrible liar, Warren. But I'll take the compliment."
Alex chuckled and extended his hand. Warren took it firmly. "Didn't expect to see you stroll up in a Bentley today. The wings weren't enough of a dramatic entrance?"
"Had to keep up with appearances, ain't no way you'll let a millionaire like me to fly in this snowy day." Hearing his friend teasing, Warren joked. "Besides, I thought flying in might scare the freshmen."
They shared a laugh, and for a moment, it felt like the old days—the days before everything got complicated. Before losses, before wars, before the fractures in their family.
The banter drew genuine laughter from Warren, whose mood visibly lightened. His gaze softened as he glanced at the familiar hallways and faces. "I've missed this. Honestly, I have."
"It's good to see you, Warren," Ororo said more gently now. "Come on, we've got a few minutes before afternoon classes start. Walk with us."
The three of them fell into step, their footsteps echoing through the polished wooden corridors of the mansion. Each hallway they passed through was steeped in memories—snapshots of missions past, echoes of youthful debates and hard-won growth. For Warren, every creak of the floorboards felt like a whisper from a former life.
"So," Alex began, throwing Warren a sidelong glance, "what's it like these days? I saw a feature on Worthington Industries in Forbes last month. You're basically Tony Stark without the narcissism now."
Warren gave a soft chuckle. "Busy. Complicated. But mostly rewarding. The company's doing well. We've expanded into biotech, environmental engineering... and I've started some divisions focusing on mutant outreach. Scholarships, rehabilitation centers for displaced mutants, and partnerships with other companies to create safe employment channels."
Ororo raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. "That sounds incredible. I'm glad you're using your influence to make such change."
Warren nodded, his expression serious for a moment. "We've seen how hard it can be for people like us to find footing in a world that fears us. I figured it's my turn to pave some smoother roads. Also, thanks for the Chaldea speech and effort that night, the public view toward us is not as ferocious as in the past."
"Chaldea huh..." Ororo muttered, remembering their action that night. "I guess we can thank them."
"While indeed their action is helping us that night, but seriously tho, those people are way too mysterious." Alex said while frowning, "The only record of them is only their appearance that night. A lot of people on the internet starts to speculate that maybe they have a hidden agenda."
A brief but significant pause filled the room as Ororo and Warren took a moment to process the information. Unlike Alex, who actively kept himself updated by surfing the internet, the two were often uninformed about such matters.
Despite their lack of awareness regarding the ongoing discussions online, one truth remained undeniable—the Chaldea organization had indeed played a role in aiding the metahuman community, whether by intentionally or not.
"Alright, alright, let's not talk about them." Ororo said, trying to change the topic. "So, what brings you back here, Warren? I bet it's not just for reunion or a Christmas visit, right?"
Warren didn't falter in his stride, but he drew in a breath, the corner of his mouth lifting in a knowing smile. "You always see through me, Ororo. You're right. I came to see the Professor. He and I have something we need to take care of—off-campus."
Alex's brow arched in curiosity, his tone tinged with skepticism. "Off-campus? The Professor barely steps out unless it's a diplomatic meeting or an emergency. What kind of thing would pull him out without telling anyone else?"
The question lingered in the air, and it wasn't difficult to see why Alex was puzzled. Within the mansion's walls, it was common knowledge that Professor Xavier almost never departed the school grounds without first notifying the team.
His actions were always deliberate and calculated, ensuring the smooth operation of both the school and the team. Typically, in circumstances requiring attention beyond the school, the Professor would simply delegate the task to a trusted member of his circle rather than undertake the journey himself.
This anomaly only deepened Alex's concern. The Professor's uncharacteristic behavior sparked quiet unease for him and Ororo. But unfortunately for both of them, they are destined to be disappointed by Warren answer.
"That's just it," Warren replied, voice even but laced with apology. "Sorry, I can't tell you. Professor Charles asked me to keep it between us. It's a delicate matter. But you guys can rest assured that it doesn't involve the school or any risk to the students."
It was the most honest answer Warren could give without betraying the Professor's confidence. Lying to his teammates went against his principles, yet revealing Charles' request was equally out of the question. His mind briefly wandered to the conversation from just a few days earlier between them.
It had been a rare occasion when the Professor personally reached out to him. Charles had informed Warren that he needed to meet with someone, and he specifically requested Warren to act as his escort.
What struck Warren most was the secrecy—the Professor had made it abundantly clear that this arrangement was to remain confidential, even from the rest of the X-Men.
The unusual nature of the request had given Warren pause, but the earnestness in Charles' voice had ultimately convinced him. He had agreed without hesitation, understanding the immense trust the Professor placed in him. Now, he could only bite the bullet and going along with it.
Hearing his refusal to answer, Ororo studied him carefully, her eyes narrowing slightly. She wasn't suspicious—just concerned. "You know we don't keep secrets lightly here. If this affects the X-Men, or the Professor himself—"
"It doesn't," Warren assured her, pausing to look at both of them. "If it did, I wouldn't be here keeping my mouth shut. I promise you—it's just personal matter for him. I hope you guys could understand that."
There was a silence that followed—not awkward, but heavy with the weight of unspoken possibilities. Then, slowly, Ororo's expression softened.
"Sigh, alright then," she said, nodding. "We trust you. Just remember, to keep him save. If anything comes up on your side, just call us, okay?" Ororo decide to trust the Professor safety to him.
"I get it. Thanks, by the way, that means a lot." Warren gave her a warm smile, touched by her words. "And don't worry, if something happens, I could just fly away with the Professor in my hand. You know I'm the fastest in the team, right?" He said while flaunting his wing.
Alex merely rolled at his displayed. "Sure... but comparing to Kurt who can teleport, heh."
"Damn you, Summers." Warren silently cursed, annoyed by the elder Summers teasing.
Finally, the hallway opened to reveal the tall, double doors of Charles Xavier's office. The wood gleamed under the light, its surface worn in places by decades of visitors, confidences, and decisions that shaped the course of their lives.
Ororo and Alex came to a stop. Ororo placed a hand gently on Warren's forearm, the gesture full of unspoken support.
"He's expecting you. You should go in alone."
Alex checked the time on his watch and sighed. "She's right. Sigh, anyways, we've got students waiting for afternoon training. I swear, if another kid tries to teleport a sandwich into my locker, I'm going to scream."
Warren laughed after hearing his predicament. "Some things never change."
"Neither do you, Warren," Ororo said, giving him a wistful smile. "Just a bit more polished now."
"I blame the suits. See you guys later." Warren quipped, then turned to the doors, entering the Professor office alone while the other two, Alex and Ororo turned to their own classes.
.....
In the middle of nowhere...
Clank! Clank!
The sound of hammer striking steel rang through the cramped cavern, rhythmic and relentless, echoing through off the stone walls. Sparks flew in tiny bursts of orange as a figure of a man with a shiny crude device on his chest continue his work.
His hands trembling only slightly from fatigue—continued shaping the thick metal plate on the crude workbench. Sweat glistened across his brow despite the cool desert night air that barely slipped through the slitted cracks in the rocks.
The air inside the cave was thick with the mingled scents of scorched metal, oil, and sand. A faint hum came from the makeshift generator they had managed to repair, and its flickering output powered a scattered array of tools and worklights that bathed the chamber in a sickly amber glow.
Besides the hammer guy, there is another figure helping him. A bald middle-aged man wearing a glasses, monitored a set of wires running from a salvaged battery to the tools they used. He occasionally glanced toward the hammer guy, not with fear, but with a tempered hope and a deep concern that lingered in the shadows behind his spectacles.
This two people shadily working in the cave is none other than Tony Stark and his cellmates, Ho Yinsen.
"You should rest, Stark," Yinsen said gently, his voice cutting through the clatter like a soft scalpel. "You've barely eaten since morning."
The hammer guy, Tony didn't stop hammering. His voice was gruff, tight with weariness. "If I rest, we die." He said, ignoring Yinsen advise.
Yinsen had been advising him to rest several times, but this time he didn't argue. Not anymore. He had tried before. He had spoken of patience, of caution, of the narrow margin between genius and recklessness.
But over the last week, he had learned something about Tony Stark that the headlines never revealed—his mind never stopped, even under pressure. Especially under pressure.
From what he can see, the man is locked in right now. Hellbent to thwarting the terrorist reign over them, making them pay for what he has been through.
Tony paused, staring at the molten edge of the steel plate he was shaping—the left thigh of what would soon be something far more than armor.
After a round of hammering, Tony sat back with a soft grunt, letting the tools rest as he wiped a filthy sleeve across his forehead.
"Funny," he muttered, leaning his weight against the cave wall. "A week ago, I was in Vegas. Ten thousand-dollar suit, an award in one hand, and a model in the other. Now look at me. Hole in the chest while smelting iron in a cave with a guy I barely know."
Tony paused, his gaze distant as memories of the past week resurfaced. A faint chuckle escaped his lips, laced with a mix of disbelief and irony. "Heh. What a ride."
Indeed, it had been exactly a week since his life had taken an unforeseen and harrowing turn. During the military convoy after showing the successful test of his new Jericho missile, Tony had been ambushed and abducted by a shadowy organization clamming themselves as The Ten Rings.
The week that followed was nothing short of a nightmare—a relentless cycle of physical and mental torture for him. The group sought to break him, using every cruel method in their arsenal to force him into compliance. But as they finally thought that they got him, Tony himself knew that it was exactly not the case.
Despite hearing Tony mumbling, Yinsen didn't interrupt him. Tony closing his eyes briefly, continue, "They want the Jericho missile. But I'll make sure to given them nothing."
Yinsen glanced at the scribbled blueprints strewn across the worktable, their lines frantic but precise. "That's indeed not a missile. I know enough to tell. You said that it was our card to getting out of here, but what is it you're really building?"
Tony didn't speak at first. He reached down and picked up a thin metal plate, running his fingers over its warped surface. "It's a suit," he said finally. "Something to get us out of here."
It is their ticket to getting out of here. It is a weapon. Ugly. Bulky. Primitive. But powerful, enough for kicking those clowns off.
Yinsen's eyes narrowed slightly, not with doubt, but concern. "And if it doesn't work?"
"Then at least I die doing something that matters. The Stark never going down without a fight."
A heavy silence hung in the air between them—not one of doubt or hesitation, but of shared understanding and quiet solidarity. Yinsen finally broke it with a slow, knowing nod.
"You're one hell of a crazy man, Stark. But I suppose that's exactly what keeps you going," he remarked, his voice carrying a blend of admiration and wry humor.
Tony responded with his trademark smirk, the corners of his lips tugging upward as he quipped, "Isn't that part of my charm?" The playful jab drew a chuckle from Yinsen, and in that fleeting moment, the tension between them eased.
As the levity faded, Tony straightened, clapping his hands together as if to dismiss the lingering exhaustion. "Alright then, baldy. We've rested enough—it's time to get back to work," he declared with renewed determination.
Yinsen merely nodded after hearing him. Without further delay, the two returned to their laborious task. Hours blurred together as they toiled relentlessly, pouring every ounce of their energy into their work without even knowing how much time have passed outside.
.....
----------
A/N: Give me the stones, comments and reviews, I appreciate it. Thanks!