Chapter One

When Charles Xavier awoke that morning, the taste of sea salt on the roof of his mouth and the sun stitching its way across the shifting wooden boards, he did not have the vaguest interest in pirates. Charles had thought that the subject of swashbuckling thieves upon the high seas belonged in the same realm as faerie folk, dragons, and mermaids; tales to tell unruly children as a warning of the dangers of not going to bed.

As he was kicked in the back of the knees, legs buckling and hitting the deck of the ship with a burst of pain, Charles was thoroughly reconsidering his previous apathy towards piracy. The acrid smell of smoke and burning tar filled the air, making his eyes water. He kept his head low, heart pounding in his chest and fear clinging to his skin like blackberry thorns. From behind his curly fringe he tracked the movements of boots as the ship pulled away from the burning carcass of the merchant vessel. Bile rose in his throat at the sound of a metallic slice and someone choking on their own blood, followed by a deep splash. He shrank down into himself. That poor soul. He knew without even having to look that the waters below were steeped in red; that limp, pale hands seemed to reach out of the sapphire depths. He could see it from the eyes of several blood-thirsty monsters. Charles peeled his mind away from them and focused upon ignoring the sticky wet heat on his sleeves and the coppery taste that invaded his mouth every time he licked his swollen lip. He could sense the presence of about eight other captives around him, but the cacophony of thoughts and violence was dizzying and he hadn't the strength to delve in further.

"That's the last of the humans." A woman's voice rang out over the jeering horde. Charles could see her white lace-ups as the paced in front of him. Slow. Leisurely. Authoritative. The scraping of metal erupted as numerous weapons were sheathed.

"Excellent."

Charles heard a faint "oof" next to him and felt the brush of a familiar pair of shoulders next to his. Relief filled his body. Charles tilted his head slightly in Raven's direction and felt her hand brush tentatively against his own. He took it with what he hoped felt like a reassuring squeeze and tucked it underneath his sullied blue coat. He drew strength from her survival. No matter what happened, no matter how bad it all got, he was going to get Raven out of this mess. She was going to be the one of them to survive if it was the last thing he managed to do. His resolve was set.

A set of strong footsteps made Charles raise his head. The heaving mass of cut-throats had melted back behind the new presence and the white-shoed woman standing at his side. The realization that this man was the captain was instantaneous. It was written in his every movement, his strong shoulders and forbidding stance. His face was mostly hidden behind a strange silver helmet that reminded Charles of his Greek history studies, but the man's cold smile and icy eyes positively glowed from behind it. They filled Charles with a leaden feeling of dread. The man was clad in pristine white finery, from his boots to his breeches to his iridescent overcoat. It seemed out of place on the ship, especially with his blood soaked and filthy crew standing behind him like dogs on a chain. The captain stared them down, teeth bared grotesquely. Charles stifled an uncharacteristic shiver as he knelt in the sunlight.

"Welcome aboard the Hellfire, my friends. My name is Captain Sebastian Shaw. Do not be afraid. Your liberation and salvation has arrived." He paused, seemingly choosing his words.

"You have been chosen by fate to survive, due to your… unique skills. You are amongst friends here. We aboard this ship are like you." Charles blinked in disbelief. The man raised his right hand, conjuring from nowhere a swirling ball of… of something that radiated power in waves. The woman at his side shimmered briefly and then changed, her fine features becoming crystalline. Charles looked further back, toward the crowd of miscreants, where yet more marvels were to be witnessed; a man extending his tongue to wrap around the mast pole; hands bursting into flames, and others to ice; one man became four identical men; tornados erupted to the starboard without so much as a whisper of wind on board, disappearing just as suddenly. Charles could practically hear Raven's jaw hit the deck. We're not alone.

"We are here for the same reason as you are. All of us here have for too long been rejected, feared and reviled by those below us, forced to hide who we truly are because the masses are not ready for us. But no longer. We fight to take the seas as our own because together we are strong, and we raze all who oppose us. First the oceans, and then the lands. We will take the world for ourselves, and we will no longer be crushed under the soles of the mediocre and unworthy. We will be liberated, and we will dominate. And so I must ask you, my friends. Who amongst you will join me?" With this, the captain extended a hand.

Silence.

Charles felt Raven's hand fidgeting in his own, and he squeezed it firmly. No, he projected. This is not the life that you want, Raven. He felt her hand relax in his. The whisper of fabric came from behind him. The captain bared his teeth again and motioned for the unknown to step forward.

"Excellent! What is your name, child?"

A dark skinned youth who Charles recognized as the cabin boy apprached, jaw set.

"Armando, sir." His voice gently lilted with a Barbados accent.

"And what is it that you can do, Armando?"

"I adapt. I change, sir, to suit my environment." Charles could see the child's thin hands shaking. The captain beamed.

"Wonderful! Welcome, Armand-"

"That is not why I stood up though, sir." The captain's smile vanished.

"I stood up to respectfully tell you, sir, that I will never join you. I will never serve a man who butchers people just because they do not understand something. You wear white, sir, but it does not hide the red. You are knee deep in the blood of innocents, sir, and I can not wade in there with you." Violent whispering broke out amongst the crew, which was stilled with the raising of a single white-sleeved hand. Charles didn't need to have telepathic abilities to know what was going to happen next.

"Cover your eyes, Raven, please, look away," he hissed frantically, as the Captain reached out. He rested his hands on the boy's shoulders, and his face looked disappointed.

"Are you sure, child?" Armando nodded. He gasped, body suddenly going stiff, and with a faint orange glow the child seemed to turn to dust before their very eyes. A faint gust of wind breathed across the deck and stole the boy's remains away. Charles felt Raven's pain as she bit down on her hand to stifle a scream.

"Such a shame," said Captain Shaw, brushing his hands together distractedly. He looked up at the remaining captives.

"Let that serve as a warning to the rest of you. Until you should choose to join us in our noble cause, you will be kept in the brig. Away with them." He turned on his heel, the blonde woman following him with a faint rustle of her rather unconventional gown. A striking young man stepped forward, hand on the hilt of his sword.

"You heard the captain!" he cried, and Charles detected the faintest colouring of an accent before Raven's hand was ripped from his and she was dragged backwards with a shriek. Her blue silk dress tangled around her as she fought against the hands of some slimy braggard with too much gall.

"Let go of me! How dare you-" Charles himself was dragged to his feet from behind. He saw the filthy hands grope at his sister's corset, saw him laughing and leering, and all thought scattered under the glare of untempered fury.

"Don't you dare manhandle my sister!" He wrenched one arm free from his captor and swung, heard the surprised grunt as his elbow connected with a nose with alarming force. People always underestimated his slight frame for weakness and frailty. It was one of Charles' best qualities, as far as he was concerned. He launched himself at the fool laying his hands on Raven, heedless of his own sister's cries and the shocked exclaims from the crew behind him. Charles tackled the man to the ground, straddling his chest and snarling fiercely. He landed one good punch to the smug man's face before being hauled off him by several of the crew. He struggled against them, desperately trying to loose an arm, but he was pinned between them. The man stood up, blood running from his nose like a horse from the gate, and Charles hadn't realized how meaty the man was. He was built at the approximate size of a late adolescent rhinoceros, and his hoof-like hands were curled into fists the size of dinner plates. The man swung one straight into his gut and Charles had to fight the urge to throw up his intestines as they vacated the offending area. Lights swam in his brain. This is how I die, he thought vaguely, as the man raised his fist again.

"Stop!"

It was the young man from before. The people holding him up abruptly let go and for the second time in less than half an hour Charles' knees hit the deck, shortly followed by his hands. A set of boots entered his lurching line of vision, strong and solid and dark.

"What happened here?" Charles could all but hear the hands on the hips. They'd probably be rather curvy, curvier than a man's would normally be. A small chorus of mumbled grunts seemed to explain it sufficiently to the man, whose reply was,

"It is not up to you to decide the punishment of prisoners, Mr. Marko, and you would do well to remember that. Now get back to your posts or we will take this up with the Captain." Charles' mouth quirked up at one side and he spat a long string of blood onto the deck, manners be damned. He laughed quietly to himself and instantly regretted the movement of his torso. All of the air in his lungs was whisked away by the pain.

"I don't know why you are laughing," the man said down to him.

"I thought they were going to kill me." Charles replied when he finally had enough air again. He heard what could have been a sigh of exasperation or amusement from above, and then long-fingered hands were helping him to his feet.

"They probably still will, you know. You're probably going to get thrown overboard." Charles leant heavily against the man, and even in his battered state noticed the lean, wiry power of the man's torso, the warmth of his body against Charles.

"Oh well," he replied as casually as he could as he was led down a narrow set of wooden stairs. "At least I wouldn't need to worry about the future then. Life is hard, you know?"

There. That was legitimate amusement in the man's mind, though his face remained stony.

"You have no idea, sie wunderschone narr…" Charles would have snorted if he hadn't promptly forgotten what the man said, slipping instead into the friendly (and distinctly muscular) arms of unconsciousness.

***A.N. Comments, cheerleading and reviews keep little writers going!