1961
Charles Xavier stepped out of the high-end hotel and into the cool autumn evening. It was nearly sunset, and as he stepped into the cab waiting for him, Charles silently thanked the heavens that it hadn't been a hotter day.
He was wearing a dark suit on top of a crisp white shirt with a royal purple tie. With him he carried a small briefcase, but it would hardly be necessary for what he had planned.
Although it would be easier than breathing to direct his driver telepathically, Charles knew that it would be much simpler to play the part of a regular human as to not leave a trail.
"Right here, please," he said. The cab driver pulled over in front of a high end restaurant. Charles got out, not bothering to tip the cabbie before walking up the red carpeted steps.
A hostess came up to him. "A table for one?" she asked.
He shook his head. "I've a reservation for two, under the name Xavier."
She nodded looking down at her notepad. "Mr. Constantine is already here," she said. "Please follow me." Charles followed her. The restaurant was relatively full, but also quiet, yet not uncomfortably so. The small murmurs and occasional laughter created a pleasant mood, while whole place was lavishly decorated with paintings and crimson drapes. Charles trailed the hostess past a wall with several expensive paintings to a small table with a white tablecloth.
He sat down in the available seat as the hostess left.
Gerard Constantine was a handsome man of about thirty with dusky skin and dark hair to match his dark eyes. He had a lean face and a short beard. In contrast to Charles' dark attire, Constantine wore a cream white suit with a light blue shirt and a buttercup yellow ascott. To Charles, the other man looked like a pastel painter's biggest mistake.
"Mr. Xavier," he began. He had a faint Spanish accent. "What a pleasure it-"
Charles rolled his eyes and took control of the other man's mind with a brief sigh. He allowed himself to smile. The feeling of seeping his will into another person's mind was similar to slowly pouring water on one's head and feeling the coolness trickle through the hair, only better.
Keep talking, Charles ordered lazily.
Constantine's eye twitched. He must have been trained to resist telepathic orders. How interesting, Charles thought privately, yet pointless.
Charles transmitted a small glimmer of relaxation to Constantine's mind, whose shoulders slackened as his mental barriers fell. Even as Charles asserted complete control, some small part of the other man's will desperately attempted to pull a barrier back up.
"Don't insult me," Charles said. "You were saying?"
"-is to meet you at last," Constantine continued as if nothing had happened.
As the Spaniard rambled on, Charles sifted through the man's mind. Tell me, he thought, about what the Americans are planning in Spain over the next two years. The Soviets that had hired him needed to know what the Americans' battle plans were. It had needed to be handled discreetly as to not alert the US that the USSR had the upper hand.
From what he could understand from Constantine's memories, America's involvement in Spain was simply a counter for any move the Soviets would make in the mediterranean. Charles fought against the urge to jolt Constantine with pain. He knew this. The Soviets knew this. They'd known it for years.
Where will I find detailed plans?
Constantine's mind offered several safe houses and bases where American strategists were hiding out. He also gave up a list of names of Spanish officials that might know more.
Charles opened his briefcase. Apparently he was going to need to use it. He pulled out a pen and paper and jotted down the names and locations, before placing both back into the case.
A waiter came around. "Would you like anything to drink sirs? Wine?" he asked.
Charles directed the other man to answer first. "I'll have a rosé," he said.
Charles turned to the waiter. "I'll just have plain tap water."
The waiter nodded and whisked away Charles' wineglass before hurrying away to get the rosé.
Charles glanced at the menu. "Do you have any recommendations?" he asked Constantine with a small chuckle. This was going to be a good meal, especially since he had no intention of paying.
Time passed, and Charles decided that he'd wasted enough time over lunch already.
They both took a cab to the hotel where Constantine was staying, a tall white building with large windows, most of which were open to let the cool breeze brush through. On the way back, Charles buried the other man's memories and replaced them with careful conversation and the impression that Charles Xavier was a polite and pleasant young man. They had talked about science, mostly genetics and the mutant gene. Charles planted the idea that he could be useful in recruiting mutants or harnessing their powers (which he was). If he ever needed to infiltrate this particular branch of government again, he had a way in.
They dropped Constantine at the hotel, and Charles reluctantly released the man's mind, then he asked the cab to take him home.
Over the next few weeks he worked quickly and quietly, reading surface thoughts and performing the occasional abduction (although he returned them later with false memories). He made weekly reports by radio, and at the end of the month he pulled out of Spain, leaving behind nothing but payment for the hotel room.
Charles sighed as they circled the Russian landing strip. He had felt the presence of one of the many middle-men his mysterious employer used.
He walked to the front of the decommissioned DC-3 bomber. "Don't bother landing," he said flatly. "Keep circling until I say otherwise," he said to the cockpit's occupants. He didn't want to land if his employer was going to send him away immediately afterwards.
Charles felt a flicker of irritation from the pilot, but he did as he was told.
What do you want? He asked his employer's proxy. He felt a jolt of surprise as the man on the ground hurried to shield his mind. When would they learn that it was pointless? he thought to himself.
New orders, the middleman communicated. You may land. Our employer has decided you shall see him to discuss your next assignment.
Charles turned back to the pilot. "Land," he ordered, as he pulled his thick coat closer around himself. He then adjusted his scarf and pulled down the ear flaps of his ushanka to keep warm.
About half an hour later, Charles found himself in a sleek black vehicle speeding towards Moscow. It was no less cold in the car than it had been while getting off the plane. The man opposite did not speak, he was mentally fortifying himself against Charles' telepathy. Charles didn't even bother seeing what thoughts he was trying to conceal. He'd broken into the proxy's thoughts enough times to know that he knew nothing worth knowing.
Charles was curious though. His employers were careful people. As much as he scoured the minds of the various middlemen he'd encountered, he couldn't figure out who they were. The middlemen didn't actually know who they were working for. They just received letters with instructions and the money. Evidently it was one of the higher-ups in the Soviet government, but that didn't narrow it down by much at all. No one else would be able to afford his… services.
Charles wasn't technically a Soviet. He wasn't aligned with the Western Bloc either, but he found that he privately agreed with some of the Soviets' ideals. Equality. Mutants and humans treated equally. When he looked across the pond and at America at its struggling Civil Rights campaigns for African Americans and mutants, he couldn't help but feel like capitalism only created opportunities based on skill and effort and competition. But who could hope to equal a mutant?
Plus, the Americans and the British were impossible to work with. They thought they were the best, at least, until he subjected them to his will. Then they thought whatever Charles wanted them to think.
They arrived at the outskirts of Moscow soon after, and rather than going to a fancy hotel in the inner city, the driver turned down a dark alley and stopped. They got out and stepped into the frigid night air. The middleman walked around to the driver's side.
"Thanks for the ride," he said, pulling out a gun. He shot the driver in the head.
It made a loud noise, but Charles doubted that anyone would notice. They were in that kind of neighborhood. Nobody would even care, as long as no one was listening for it.
Charles' breath was like mist in the air as he followed the middleman into the shadow of an overhanging roof. He pushed open a door, and golden light spilled out onto the ground.
Charles followed the man inside. They crossed a plain, unfurnished room and down a set of stairs. They seemed to go down forever, then Charles saw a door at the bottom of the stairs.
"Go on," the man said. "He's waiting for you. The door's unlocked."
Something blazed in the telepath's eyes, and Charles gave the proxy the equivalent of a mental knee in the groin. He collapsed on the stairs. Next time, ask before you give away our position.
Charles stepped carefully over the other's body.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he paused. He hadn't felt any minds behind the door, but the man wheezing a few steps above him had told him that there was someone waiting.
Knowing what this must mean, he pushed open the door.
The brightness made him blink, which was a mistake. Immediately, hands gripped his shoulders and he was spun around into a wall. Dazed, Charles reached out an arm, which was immediately grabbed and twisted behind his back. They pulled him back around and kicked the back of his legs forcing him to the ground with a grunt.
Charles blinked several times to clear his head. He felt someone beginning to bind his hands and feet. He looked sideways at the people who had restrained him. Damn. Three of them. They also wore psion-blocking helmets. He couldn't enter their minds with those damned things on.
Without hesitation, Charles launched himself backwards, into the man behind him. He twisted in midair so that he landed face to face on top of his captor. His hands flew to the man's helmet, but before he could prise it off, hands seized his ankles and started dragging him backward. He cursed and flipped back over onto his back, twisting his ankles out of the other two attackers' hands.
He pulled himself into a squat and leapt up. He rammed his heel into the woman on his left's stomach then, as she tumbled backwards, he jerked his elbow behind him. He heard a satisfying whoopfh as he knocked the breath out of the man on his right.
With quick fingers, he gripped the winded man's helmet and pulled it off.
His eyes widened and he began to scream, "He's-!"
Then silence.
Charles began to laugh.
The other two assailants had regrouped on the far side of the room, while the helmetless one stood stock still. Then, the helmetless man threw himself at the woman, tackling her to the ground. Charles darted forward and pulled off her helmet, then stood back and watched them wrestle the helmet off the third one, which took a bit longer.
Smiling, Charles examined the room. It was plain, just like the one upstairs, but upon closer inspection there was a thick glass panel that made up an entire wall. There were curtains behind it, the exact same color as the walls on either side, which was why Charles hadn't noticed it before.
His face soured. It made him angry that he was being watched. Why did they feel the need to test him if they'd already hired him? He sighed and tried to let off a little steam. The three behind him fell to their knees clutching their heads in agony, gasping in pain.
"Well then? Do you have an assignment for me or not?" he asked the curtain.
The curtains were pulled aside dramatically, as Charles knew they would be. He approved. The Soviets were in need of good flair. They were, after all, competing with the Americans.
Through the glass, he saw a room of about the same size, but furnished for comfort. There were several squishy armchairs around a small coffee table. There was another small table behind them with an electric lamp casting warm light over the scene. Sitting in those cushy chairs, Charles recognized many high-ranking USSR government and military officials. They were all wearing helmets.
The gasps of pain became frantic screaming.
"Stop," came a magnified voice. There was a microphone sitting on the coffee table and there seemed to be a speaker in an air vent because the word seemed to come from everywhere.
Charles reluctantly lifted away the pain, although he still kept the attackers under his control.
He raised an eyebrow.
"We have a mission for you," one of the military officials said. He had a deep voice, trembling jowls and was adorned with so many medals that Charles wondered how he wasn't crushed by their weight.
Charles hoped there was a hidden microphone somewhere in the room as he asked, "How have I earned the privilege of meeting you in person, after all this time?"
"Several of our members doubted you could handle the mission we are about to assign you and required a slight proof of your skillset. Many of them believed you only to be extremely persuasive, and not...a mutant." A few of the officials looked uncomfortable. "We were watching, just now," the military man said.
Charles chuckled. The thought of five of the most powerful men in the entire Soviet Union crowding around and on top of each other to peek through a gap in the curtains was too much to hide with a straight face. "A better test would have been to reprogram a mind entirely," he said, still smirking.
Most of the officials glanced at one another. The rest of them looked at him hungrily.
"This assignment calls for something of the sort," began a different official, with a thick beard and an even thicker accent. "Our allies in Cuba have heard of a potential mutant threat. A strike team, if you will, to secure the assets we have promised to give them." He looked down at his lap, where Charles saw he was scanning notes. "We believe that the strike team has not been recruited yet, and it seems likely the head of the MRO will be the one to let this happen or begin the recruitment process. You will… convince him of certain things to make sure that this never happens. If necessary you will infiltrate this strike team and ensure it fails long before it becomes a threat to us."
Charles nodded. "I accept."
"This file contains further instructions and information," the man with the mustache said, holding up a thick folder. "In half an hour when you return to the car, you will find a copy of it under the passenger seat. You will wait here until that time is up, then you will leave."
"And these soldiers?"
The man shook his head. "Assassins. Rogues. Assassins and rogues who know too much."
With that, the lamp behind them went out and the curtains closed.
Charles turned to face the three 'assassins and rogues' with a sigh.